‘Shut up!’ Essa barked. ‘Another sound and I’ll slice you open.’
Essa backed away with the girl lifted a foot off the ground. She had her P90 in her right hand and was covering the space in front of her with its short muzzle. Across the floor of the hall, she could see a line of men wearing body armour and gas masks rushing towards her. One of her men, her number two, Zahoor Ashmina – who had disposed of her dangerously nervous cousin, Nadir Abdallah, back in Ealing – dived behind a check-in desk and opened fire on the advancing firearms team, winging one of them. Their return fire was brutal; the check-in desk seemed to disintegrate under a barrage of shells and Essa watched as Ashmina was ripped apart.
Essa and her prisoner reached a flight of stairs off to the west side of the check-in hall. It led up to an office overlooking the open space. She ducked and pulled the girl down with her as a stream of shells came too close for comfort. A second, much louder boom echoed around the hall and Essa felt the stairs vibrate. She reached the top and looked out at the crowd of panicking people. Hundreds of men, women and children ran this way and that. Armed police and British troops were swarming into the hall. She saw another of her men taken out and felt for the red button on its short cable, reached the plastic nub and traced it with her thumb. Essa let go of the girl. She scrambled away along a strip of carpet, grasping at the door to the office. Essa started to mount the metal banisters. She was directly above a group of people, mothers clasping young children, men shielding their wives. She was almost there.
What a surprise they will get, Essa considered. It was her last thought. A fraction of a second later, a bullet from a British Army sniper positioned high up on a crossbeam in the roof, fifty metres to the south, entered the woman’s head at the coronal suture, separating the frontal bone from the parietal. Essa had no time to squeeze the button of her bomb vest, nor time to move a muscle before the Radically Invasive Projectile, or RIP, separated into its nine component parts, turning her brain to mush.
CHAPTER 38
AS I WAS being patched up, I felt a bit of a wuss. Radi’s knife hadn’t so much as nicked a major blood vessel, and it had missed every organ only to tear a twenty-centimetre rip across my abdomen. What was all the fuss about?
Chaz sat beside me in the ambulance where it had parked on the airport periphery. The noise from the terminal had diminished; the last explosion had gone off several minutes ago. There had been no gunfire for maybe ninety seconds. We were watching events unfold live on TV using an iPad someone had handed us. I’d lost a fair bit of blood. A bag of AB negative hung on a stand close to my head. My wounds had been bandaged and the morphine was beginning to kick in.
‘Pretty slick operation,’ Chaz commented, looking towards the ravaged terminal building.
‘What did you expect, Captain America? Muskets and buckshot?’
Chaz laughed and he made me laugh too. I immediately regretted it. ‘Bugger me sideways with a fish fork!’ I gasped, panting and clutching my guts. ‘Note to self – never laugh again . . . ever.’
I pulled myself up a little and winced.
‘Take it easy, buddy,’ Chaz said. ‘You ain’t superman any more. Maybe ten years ago.’
‘Fuck off!’ I exclaimed and grinned. ‘You were starting to get a bit puffed back there.’
‘Yeah, right.’
Listen,’ I said, suddenly serious. ‘Could you ask that very pretty medic who bandaged me up if I could borrow her mobile?’
He got up and exited the back of the ambulance. A few moments later, the female army doctor popped her head around the door. ‘What do you want with my phone, Captain Bates? Or is it Mr Bates?’
‘Don’t be unkind,’ I said and flicked my eyes down to the well-padded bandage about my abdomen.
She smiled and handed it over.
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘Won’t be long.’
‘Good!’
I punched in the numbers. It rang three times, then four, five. I was just about to give up with a sigh of disappointment when the line opened and I heard a kid’s voice.
‘Hey, Tommy, my man,’ I said.
‘Dad!’
‘Hi, son. You OK?’
‘Yeah. You seen the TV? The attack on the airport?’
‘I’m watching it right now on an iPad.’
‘An iPad? You don’t have one. Didn’t know you’d even heard of them.’
‘Cheeky beggar!’
Tommy laughed and I almost joined him before remembering.
‘Hey, Dad, weren’t you going to Churchill Airport today?’
‘I was, but your Uncle Chaz called last night. He can’t make it for a few weeks, so we’ve postponed the trip. Lucky, actually. Our flight was at eleven. Could have got caught up in it.’
‘Looks pretty nasty.’
‘Yep. Well, look, I just wanted to see if you were all right.’
‘Of course I am, Dad. You sound odd. Are you all right?’
‘Couldn’t be better. We still on for two weeks’ time?’ I knew Chaz and I would not be leaving for Mykonos any time soon, and we would have to reschedule.
‘I have it on my laptop appointments page.’
‘Oh, do you now, Tom? Don’t you go getting all executive on me.’
The boy laughed and I felt my stomach cramp as I joined in.
‘OK, Tommy, gotta go. Love you.’
‘Love you, Dad. And I’m so glad Uncle Chaz had to postpone.’
CHAPTER 39
Six weeks later, Mykonos
Chaz and I were sitting in our favourite beach bar, Giorgio’s. The sun was beginning its daily slide into the crystal, turquoise water, a giant crimson orb perched on the horizon. It was happy hour at Giorgio’s, three euros a beer – who could complain about that?
We were at a white plastic table close to the sand, our third round of beers ordered and on their way. Just three days into the fortnight in Greece and the layers of problems, stresses and strains were falling away like peeled onion. There were only two others in Giorgio’s, a pair of very attractive women sipping cocktails.
In the corner, close to the bar, there was an old TV. A magazine show had just started and we could see words at the foot of the screen: ‘Airport Attack: six weeks on.’
Giorgio arrived with our drinks and saw us studying the screen.
‘Quite a thing, that attack,’ he said gravely. His English was almost perfect. He’d told us on our first night that he had once owned a Greek restaurant in Hampstead.
‘Sure was,’ Chaz said.
‘They’re saying there were two guys inside the terminal, ex-military. Saved a lot of people. Can you believe that? May have even stopped the chemical bomb going off!’
‘Really?’ I said.
‘I don’t get it, though,’ Giorgio added. ‘If I’d done that, I wouldn’t . . . what’s the expression? Hide my rays under a bush.’
‘Light under a bushel,’ Chaz said.
‘Yeah, that,’ Giorgio replied, pointing at Chaz.
‘Well, maybe they didn’t want the attention. You know, all those women throwing themselves at ’em.’
Giorgio looked at me seriously for a moment, then broke into a deep belly laugh. Chaz and I laughed too and it didn’t feel like my guts were about to fall out, which was nice. ‘You guys!’ the owner said and turned back to the bar, shaking his head.
‘So, you going to go for it, or shall I?’ I said to Chaz and nodded over to the two women. The more I looked at them, the more gorgeous they became.
‘Why not both of us? Teamwork.’
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘If you think you’re up to it.’
Chaz snorted.
I led the way across the soft floor matting, the sand squeaking underfoot. We reached the bar and the women turned. I was just about to speak when a rush curtain three metres away was moved aside and two young guys, both smartly dressed up for the evening, ducked under and came in. The girls turned in unison. ‘At last,’ one of them declared. ‘We were just about ready
to give up on you two.’
Chaz and I had already turned one-eighty to head back towards our table. ‘Oh, well!’ I said with a shrug. ‘You can’t win them all.’
At the grand opening of a new luxury hotel in London, one uninvited guest plans to make this a day no one will ever forget
Read on for an extract
Mayfair, London, 2016
Welcome, friends and honoured guests, to the brand-new Tribeca Luxury Hotel, here in the heart of the world-famous Mayfair district of London. Thirty years ago, in conjunction with my esteemed business partner, Oscar Miller, I opened the very first Tribeca Luxury Hotel in New York City. My aim today remains exactly as it was those thirty years ago – to deliver the ultimate in indulgence and service, set in the most opulent and tranquil surroundings.
When we opened our very first hotel, we placed our guests and the service we provided them at the very heart of everything we did. I am proud to say across our twenty-seven luxury hotels in operation around the world today, and of course in this, our twenty-eighth, that personal service remains. Every guest is treated as an individual and welcomed every time they visit as if they are returning to their very own home – the most luxurious home in the world.
In three days’ time I will fulfil a lifelong ambition of opening a luxury hotel in Mayfair. For the very first time, we are bringing our unparalleled levels of exclusive accommodation, opulence and pure indulgence to the people of London and its international visitors. We take delight in offering our guests incomparable levels of comfort, consideration and security and our brand-new forty floors of palatial rooms are our finest demonstration of this yet.
I am honoured you are able to join us today at the exclusive preview of what I believe is the finest hotel in the world. Each one of you is my personal guest and I could not be more thrilled to welcome you to the new home of luxury in London, the Tribeca Hotel.
Jackson Harlington
Chairman, Tribeca Luxury Hotels
Stanley Samson stood in the marbled lobby and watched as each VIP guest was handed a branded magazine with a welcome letter from Jackson Harlington. This wasn’t an event for ordinary travel writers. This wasn’t even an event for the bosses of travel writers. This was an event for their bosses’ bosses. When it came to the grand opening of a Tribeca Luxury Hotel, Stanley knew that everyone wanted to attend and no one wanted to be overlooked.
Browsing through the magazine, guests would find a feature on each of the group’s luxury hotels located around the world, from New York to Paris, Singapore to Beijing. But it went without saying the greatest prominence was given to this brand-new London hotel. Gatefold photographs captured the beauty of the interior and the amazing accommodation available to the richest and most famous in the world.
Stanley was aware years of preparation had gone into this day. Every exclusive suite individually styled, every room its own unique furniture, selected and purchased by the world’s most renowned interior designers. Flowers adorned the hotel, with fresh bouquets in every room. Private chefs had been appointed to every suite and individual butlers would serve every treasured guest. On the fortieth floor an oasis of calm had been created with an infinity pool offering commanding views across London and into the neighbouring royal palace gardens. No expense had been spared in preparation for the opening of the new hotel. Everyone in London was talking about it and nobody wanted to miss out.
Before it even opened its doors, the hotel was fully booked for the next two years. Fully booked – unless you were the President of the United States, a member of the royal family or a superstar of international fame. For them, Tribeca Luxury Hotels prided itself on always having a suite available.
As the assistant to the Global Head of Security for the luxury hotel group, Stanley was waiting by the express glass elevator to accompany Jackson Harlington, his family and his business partner, Oscar Miller, across the marbled lobby of the hotel to its majestic new front entrance. There, Harlington and Miller would throw open the doors and invite inside the world’s press, as they had at the grand opening of every single Tribeca Luxury Hotel for the past thirty years.
Stanley never failed to be amazed by each Tribeca hotel he visited around the world. Every one of them offered a higher level of luxury than the last. For Stanley, the hotels were beyond his wildest dreams and he appreciated every night he got to stay in one of the rooms – even if it was in a room reserved for staff guests.
Being present at the opening of a hotel in his home town made him feel particularly proud. He knew the London hotel was certain to be an enormous success and was delighted to be playing his small part in it. He looked out across the lobby, through its vast glass frontage, at the gathering crowd standing on the front lawns. Hearing the string quartet play, he watched as guests reached for their glasses of vintage champagne and foie gras canapés. For a moment he felt a slight pang of jealousy but contented himself with the thought of the freshly baked chocolate muffins being delivered to the kitchen later in the morning.
But as he closely watched events on the front lawn, Stanley had failed to notice that the express elevator had journeyed from the twenty-fifth to the thirty-eighth floor.
With a ski mask pulled tightly down across his face, an uninvited guest was dragging his petrified hostage down the hall on the thirty-eighth floor towards the Presidential Suite. The hostage had been pistol-whipped by his captor and was drifting in and out of consciousness. As the captor clicked open the door to the lavish suite, his hostage began to stir and became aware of his surroundings.
The captor didn’t care.
His hostage’s arms were tied at his wrists and his legs bound at his ankles. He threw the man face down onto the suite’s super king bed, made up with the world’s finest Egyptian cotton sheets. The hostage struggled to try to turn himself over. But as he rolled himself breathlessly onto his side, he was greeted by the sight of his captor standing over him. Picking up a heavy-duty rope from beside the bed, he was tying a hangman’s noose.
Panic flooded across his body. Trapped and tied, he was physically defenceless. He knew his only hope was to talk to his captor.
‘Tell me what you want. If it’s money I will get whatever you ask for. I’m a wealthy man. I can get you anything. Absolutely anything. Just tell me what it is you want.’
In silence the captor continued to tie the noose.
The hostage sat himself upright on the bed.
‘I can get you cash here today. Or I can put you on a plane to anywhere. Anywhere in the world. You hear me? I’ve more money than you could ever dream of!’
The captor tightened the noose.
‘I said, did you hear me?’ screamed the hostage. ‘I have more money than you could ever dream of.’
The captor walked to the bed and struck his hostage on the side of the head, throwing him back down.
The noose was tied.
‘Tell me what you want! You must want something? Make demands. Make them now. I can pay you. I’ll pay you anything!’
But the captor had slipped the noose over his head and was dragging him to his feet. The hostage cried for help but it was hopeless. With the exception of the invited guests gathering thirty-eight floors below, the hotel was empty.
Being pulled like a dog, with the noose choking his airway, the hostage followed his captor out onto the balcony of the Presidential Suite.
Thirty-eight floors below, standing on the carefully manicured lawns, the gathering luminaries were being served the finest caviar, flown in from Russia that morning. Savouring every mouthful, their enjoyment was suddenly interrupted by an ear-splitting crash. Looking skywards, they saw shards of glass falling like ice towards the ground.
Standing on the edge of the balcony was a masked man with a hostage tied in a noose. Slowly, the man raised his knife and ripped through the shirt of his captive. In the gardens below, guests began to scream.
Forcing his hostage to his knees, his arms above his head, the captor tied his wrists tigh
tly to the iron frame – all that remained of the Presidential balcony.
He secured the noose.
Then, with one kick, he pushed his hostage off the edge of the balcony, leaving the man hanging thirty-eight floors above the ground.
ON THE HOTEL lawns below, cameras and smartphones turned upwards as the man swung from side to side. Stripped to his waist, his overfed figure exposed to the watching audience, he had no defence. Any attempt to escape now seemed futile, as he screamed in desperation at the crowd below.
Not wanting to keep his audience waiting, the masked man stepped forward and knelt closely beside his suspended hostage.
He was ready to continue the performance.
He raised his knife, its sharp blade glittering in the spring sun. The crowd gasped as, slowly, he pressed the knife against the man’s face, letting it delicately cut his cheek as he edged it down towards his throat.
‘Don’t do this, don’t do this,’ gasped the hostage. ‘It isn’t too late. However much money you want I’ll get it for you. Anything, absolutely anything. You can have it all. Do you hear me? Anything.’
The captor let the cold knife press deeper into his hostage’s cheek before pushing his hidden mouth into his ear.
In a barely audible whisper, filled with hate, he spoke.
‘That’s a greedy gut, isn’t it?’
He twisted the knife, dropping it down, cutting into the tight skin covering his hostage’s obese stomach.
The hostage shrieked in pain as his captor rose up on his knees, reached skywards and showed the bloodied knife to the screaming crowd below.
It was time for the final act.
The captor pressed the knife against the rope that tied his hostage’s wrists to the balcony frame. One cut of that rope and the man would be left hanging by the noose, thirty-eight floors above the ground.
Airport - Code Red: BookShots Page 8
