Airport - Code Red: BookShots

by James Patterson

  CHAPTER 13

  THE SHADOW MORPHED into a white-robed figure in a conical hat. A massive guy. And he was wielding a huge curved sword.

  In a fraction of a second, I was past the security guards and the two men in suits. I registered the prince in my periphery, his face blank; he hadn’t yet noticed anything wrong. I sensed Chaz immediately behind me. And then I was there. I swung a leg and it made contact with the sword hand of the giant. My Doc Marten caught the guy’s ulna collateral ligament and smashed his styloid processes. I’d learned the anatomical terms in Special Forces training. It was a long time ago, but it had stuck and I knew the bastard would never swing another sword.

  The sabre slipped from the man’s hand and flew, spinning end over end, to land almost silently on the beige carpet a few yards to his right. I followed through without drawing breath. The prince’s guards were still frozen as I swung a fist into the big man’s face and heard a satisfyingly loud crack. That was his jaw fracturing.

  I saw Chaz then. He had anticipated my moves with professional precision and had taken two steps to his left. As my fist pulled back from the giant’s shattered face, Chaz landed a heavy boot into the guy’s solar plexus and he was down, a huge amoeba on the floor.

  The prince’s guards finally moved. The two with the AK-47s stepped inwards, closing ranks and shielding the Saudi royal. The leader of the prince’s guard sprang forward, his pistol at a steep angle pointed directly at the swordsman’s head.

  ‘Stop, Dirar!’ the British agent said and leapt to the guard’s side. ‘No shooting.’

  The guard turned to the MI5 escort as a trickle of sweat wove a jagged path down his cheek. He looked confused.

  ‘Get him up,’ the British guy snapped and the white-robed guards dashed forward. They took an arm each, pulled his hands back behind him and held the huge attacker between them.

  It had all happened in less than six seconds.

  The big guy had lost his hat in the fight and his curled hair was a mess. He was built like a tank. I’m six four and he was taller than me. He was conscious and wanted to speak; I saw his mouth move, but all that came out was blood and an unintelligible series of groans. He wouldn’t form real words again for a long time, I thought.

  The MI5 agent pulled out his mobile phone. ‘Delta Three. We have met with resistance.’ A pause. ‘Affirmative.’ He pocketed the phone and said to the guard: ‘Two of my men will be here in ninety seconds.’

  The prince turned to Chaz and me and dipped his head. ‘I am Prince Adil al-Salhi and this is the head of my guard, Dirar Radi. You saved my life. I am in your debt.’

  ‘All in a day’s work,’ I quipped, and Prince Adil smiled.

  ‘I shall ensure you are rewarded.’ He turned to Chaz and then back to me.

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ I said and heard Chaz sigh. I gave him a dirty look.

  ‘I’m guessing ex-military,’ the MI5 agent said, stepping up beside the prince.

  ‘Something like that,’ Chaz said.

  ‘I too am grateful. Apologies again for the earlier mistake.’

  ‘What will happen to him?’ Chaz asked, flicking a glance at the swordsman dangling between the robed guards.

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about him, gentlemen.’ The agent took in Chaz and me, then turned with a guiding hand on the prince’s arm. The prince glanced round and beamed at us.

  That’s when the shit really hit the fan.

  CHAPTER 14

  THE ROBED GUARDS had let go of their AK-47s and they hung at their sides on leather shoulder straps. The MI5 guy, Delta 3, was re-holstering his Beretta and the lead guard in the suit, Dirar Radi, had stepped a couple of paces forward away from us as Chaz and I had started to turn. Then Radi dropped his briefcase and lifted his pistol.

  Chaz and I hit the floor simultaneously. Radi began firing his Glock, the silencer producing a phat, phat, phat as the shells spat from the end of the barrel and found targets. We pulled up, crouched low and dashed out of the gunman’s sight. We were on opposite sides of the causeway; I was behind a pillar, while Chaz had ducked behind a line of chairs. He wasn’t that safe there and he knew it. He ran again, to a column mirroring mine across the corridor.

  I couldn’t see all of the scene, but I didn’t want to risk having my head blown off for a better view. Radi hit the MI5 agent first. He was the biggest threat. I saw a Glock shell smash into the man’s forehead and he was dead before he hit the floor.

  The prince was petrified and utterly confounded. His hands shot up as he stared at his trusted employee, a man he had considered a friend, a friend who had volunteered to go with him into hiding and exile. He looked from Radi’s face to the gun in the man’s hand. The traitor fired three shots into the prince’s chest, blowing great holes out of his back. I felt a surge of fury rush through me. What the fuck was going on? I shot a glance over to Chaz. I had no way of telling how much he had seen from his position.

  One of the guards in white robes managed to reach his assault rifle. The swordsman tipped forwards, just keeping his balance, grabbed the AK-47 with his one good hand and yanked it. The second guard ducked and went for his weapon. Radi fired at him, missed, and a pair of bullets hit the edge of the column two inches from my nose. I pulled back, heard the rat-tat-tat of a Kalashnikov’s shells and dared to peep at the scene. The swordsman had shot a guard with his own gun. The second guard had gone down on one knee and had his AK-47 in both hands. He was raising it when Radi shot him.

  I felt stomach acid burning in my throat. We were defenceless and something told me we wouldn’t be popular with Radi, even less so with the injured swordsman we had taken down. I saw Chaz again, and this time he was looking across at me. He flicked a glance to the causeway behind us indicating that our best hope was to make a dash for it away from the two killers. I knew we had little choice, but it was a dangerous move. I really didn’t fancy our chances.

  But then things got even stranger.

  CHAPTER 15

  THE BIG GUY, with the guard’s AK-47 in his one good hand, the strap over his healthy shoulder, was peering our way. He was a mess, but a very dangerous mess with the assault rifle between him and us. And he had backup, the treacherous bastard, Dirar Radi – I could barely see him behind the swordsman’s sheer bulk.

  I didn’t register the pops, just saw the swordsman straighten, adding another couple of inches to his giant frame. The red stain took a second to show in the fabric of his robe. But then it spread fast. He turned towards Radi with the AK-47 level. Radi fired twice more, head shots that brought the giant to his knees. Like a felled elephant, he just tipped forward, face first, and slammed to the ground.

  I saw movement on the floor. It was one of the robed guards; the one the swordsman had shot. He rolled over, found his buddy’s gun and reached for the trigger. Radi caught the movement in his peripheral vision and brought his gun down, fired, and the guard died before he could loose a round.

  Radi saw me. He had straightened and lifted the gun. I had lost count of the shots he’d fired. He was using a Glock 19. It carried fifteen shells. How many had he peeled off? At least a dozen. I couldn’t risk it. Besides, he might have replaced the cartridge when I wasn’t looking; he could even have had a second gun.

  I clocked Chaz move and Radi shift position. He turned his pistol towards my friend and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. He was out. But the bastard was also good, a real pro. He had one of the AK-47s in his hands before Chaz or I could even decide what to do. Straightening, Radi sprayed the column I was behind and then pumped more shells Chaz’s way.

  I could just see him now through a narrow gap between the column and the wall. His gun was pointed at us as he crouched. He grasped the handle of the briefcase he had dropped and started to back up. Reaching a bend in the causeway, he swept the path ahead with the Kalashnikov, spun on his heel and sprinted away.

  I left it a few seconds and then pulled out from behind the column, every nerve fired up, every sense 100 pe
r cent alert.

  We reached the scene of carnage. They were all dead. The carpet was soaked with blood, the bodies twisted and contorted like something from a horror movie.

  I heard a voice. Chaz caught it at the same moment. He stepped forward, crouched and lifted the MI5 agent’s phone. ‘Delta Three. Delta Three. Respond.’

  Chaz lifted the phone. ‘Hi, buddy.’

  Silence at the other end for two beats. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘Delta Three is dead.’

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Oh, fuck!’ Chaz handed the phone to me. ‘You speak English. Talk to ’em!’

  I took the phone. ‘There’s been an attack. Everyone here’s been killed – Prince al-Salhi, his guards, your man.’

  Silence again. I saw Chaz pick up Delta 3’s Beretta and walk over to the wall. There was a glass-fronted box. I could just make out a large round red button inside. Chaz smashed the glass with the handle of the pistol and leaned on the button. A light at the top of the box lit up crimson and a wailing sound reverberated along the causeway. It was a general panic button. The siren and more lights would be going off all over the airport.

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ came a voice from the end of the line. ‘What’s that alarm?’

  I pulled the phone from my ear, switched it off and tossed it to the floor.

  ‘Delta Three’s buddies will be here in a few seconds,’ Chaz said, pacing quickly back towards me. ‘I really don’t wanna be caught here with guns in our hands.’

  ‘Me neither. I’ve been looking forward to Mykonos all year.’

  I pocketed a Glock and then we were off, running at breakneck speed the way Radi had gone, the sirens blaring all around us.

  CHAPTER 16

  DIRAR RADI BOLTED along the corridor, spinning every dozen steps and sweeping his gun. Things were not going to plan, but he would pull it back together. Fuck those arseholes, he thought. Who could have imagined running into a couple of shit-kicking ex-military? It was a test from Allah, he was sure of it.

  It should have been easy. The warrior, Qanni – how many strong, enemy soldiers had the oaf slain? His had not been a tough job. He was just to rush out and behead the prince. What could have been simpler? But no. What was it the Infidel said? The best-laid plans of mice and men . . .

  He slowed and hid his weapon as he approached a service lift. He knew the code; it changed each day. He tapped it in. A few moments later, the doors opened onto B3, the lowest level.

  He crept out. No one around. If all else had gone according to the carefully worked-out plans then the team should be in place down here. Radi pulled up with his back to the wall, his gun in his right hand, briefcase in his left. He took a deep breath, then ran, fast, along the concrete corridor, the rubber soles of his shoes cushioning his footfall. Approaching the corner, he slowed and pulled back again.

  He ran to the opposite wall, swinging his gun to cover the corridor ahead. A dead man lay propped up against the left wall. Radi slipped past him. He reached a left turn. He could hear sounds ahead – an electric crackle and the churning low beat of a set of gigantic boilers. Along with the rest of his team, he had studied the schematics, talked it all through with recon who had been here weeks ago, and he had rehearsed the mission. He suddenly felt a surge of confidence. Allah was with him. Allah was with this mission. They could not fail.

  Ahead, a pair of doors. He slunk between them. Another body. An airport security officer in a blue uniform lay on his back, motionless.

  From the schematics, Radi knew this was the boiler room, a vast space packed with gigantic tanks and cylinders, machinery, massive pipes and grinding pumps. It reminded him of a film about the Titanic he had seen as a kid. It looked like the engine room of a gargantuan ship. The place stank of oil and grease. He pressed on, knowing exactly where he was going. He hung a left, then a right, slowed and approached the rendezvous point.

  They saw him first – his three lieutenants – Lutfullah, Jaan and Pir. Jaan had his gun thrust forward as Radi emerged from a dark, narrow gangway between boilers. Recognising his leader, he lowered his M1 Garand.

  Radi stepped forward briskly. No time for pleasantries, just a nod. ‘Has it gone smoothly?’ he asked. ‘I was delayed. But have it.’ He lifted the briefcase.

  ‘We’re ready,’ Pir replied. ‘Just waiting for this . . .’

  Radi gave him a nasty look.

  ‘Once we have the agent, it will take no more than thirty minutes to prepare,’ Pir added quickly.

  Radi pocketed his weapon, lowered the case to the floor, spun the small barrels of the combo lock and flicked open the catches. The four men gazed down at the canister containing a colourless liquid. ‘The traitor prince had no idea I had the final piece of our jigsaw on his plane.’ Radi lifted the cylinder from the foam padding of the case. ‘Behold. Soman, a nerve agent twice as toxic as sarin and far faster-acting. Enough to wipe out a small city in minutes. And we are positioned at the epicentre of a small city, my friends. Churchill Airport.’

  CHAPTER 17

  ‘LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,’ the voice came over the PA. ‘We would ask you to please remain calm. There has been an incident far from the main concourses. The alarm is an automatic precaution. Please remain where you are. Repeat: please remain where you are.’ The message began again on auto-repeat.

  Chaz and I reached the edge of the sectioned-off private jet area and saw no one. Radi had vanished.

  ‘Need to alert security,’ Chaz said as we paused for a second. ‘Christ only knows what he had in that case.’

  ‘Agreed.’ I hitched my backpack into a more comfortable position and we sped off towards the public areas where all routes led to the main arrivals hub. We took a right and found a bank of service lifts.

  ‘Any idea where security HQ would be?’ Chaz asked.

  I shrugged and then saw a map on the wall across from the lifts. ‘I’d guess it would be on the periphery. Let’s hope it’s this end of the terminal.’

  We studied the map for a few seconds and at the same moment we spotted the symbol for the security headquarters. ‘Not far. Up one level.’

  We moved fast and reached Level 1. My heart was racing and I suspected that Chaz was feeling pretty crap after a transatlantic flight. He had left the military soon after me, but had done a whole lot better for himself. He had his own security consultancy firm. I would have been over the pond like a shot to work for him if it wasn’t for my son Tommy.

  We hit the first public area on Level 1 and sensed the fear immediately. It was so heavy in the air you could almost smell it. Everyone has the jitters in airports. It lurks just beneath the surface. It’s either nerves about flying, the fear of authority pinning you like a bug to flypaper at security, or the possibility of a terror attack. People feel vulnerable in airports, on their guard.

  The same warning message spilled again from the PA. The alarms stopped ringing and with a knee-jerk reaction people clammed up immediately. The quiet was eerie, the spell only broken when a baby suddenly started to cry.

  There was a large crowd in Arrivals. Chaz and I could see it from a mezzanine level on the landside of passport control and baggage collection. Through a wall of glass we saw people in groups and small family units milling around.

  ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘It’s up ahead, on this floor – left then right.’

  We reached the corner and almost smashed into two security guards. They had their guns drawn, big Walther P99s. The younger of the two looked terrified. They stopped us.

  ‘What the . . .?’ the older guard yelled. He had a Dublin accent thick as Irish mud.

  ‘The incident happened at Gate Zero. That way,’ Chaz said.

  ‘And you know this how?’ A voice was coming over the guard’s radio, addressing him as O’Leary, but he ignored it.

  ‘We were there,’ I said. I reached for my passport. The young guard panicked and lifted his gun.

  ‘Whoa!’ Chaz exclaimed. ‘Chill, buddy.’
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  O’Leary put his hand on the kid’s gun, lowered it and gave him a condescending look.

  ‘I think you gentlemen should come with us, back this way.’

  ‘O’Leary. Where are you?’ The Irish guard pushed down a button on the radio at his shoulder. ‘Control. Me and Silver have two suspects in Causeway Five.’

  ‘We’re not suspects!’ I snapped. ‘There was a guy. Arab. He was escorting a VIP at Gate Zero.’ I nodded the way we had come. ‘He had a case. He killed everyone.’

  ‘And you got away?’

  I reached for my passport again. ‘If you would just . . .’

  I removed the document and handed it over. The young guard shifted his gaze between Chaz and me. He was perspiring: the underarms of his shirt were wet and darkened with sweat. I thought he was going to piss himself at any moment, and that made me nervous: he had a gun.

  O’Leary gazed at my passport. ‘Captain Matthew Bates.’

  ‘Ex-SAS,’ I said. It was not something I advertised, but I thought on this occasion it might be useful.

  O’Leary tried not to look impressed.

  ‘This is my friend, Chaz Shoeman. Just in from JFK.’

  O’Leary turned to Chaz. ‘Military too, I suppose?’ He clocked my friend’s ripped physique.

  Chaz just nodded.

  ‘How do we know you’re not terrorists?’ the kid said, beads of perspiration visible on his forehead.

  ‘You don’t,’ Chaz shot back. ‘But every second we waste here on this shit, a heavily armed Middle Eastern guy with a briefcase is closer to achieving whatever it is he has planned.’

  ‘O’Leary?’ the voice over his radio repeated.

  ‘Yeah, yeah. OK, Spencer! Feck! I’m on my way back to the office.’ He clicked off the radio. ‘Where you guys headed?’ O’Leary gave me a hard look.

  ‘To try to stop the killer.’

  The young guard’s radio burst into life. ‘Silver. Get your arse to check-in. Is O’Leary still with you?’