by Jack Higgins
Now they were in a small, book-lined office in the Department of Antiquities. The pictures from Chance’s mobile phone had been printed out and computer-enhanced. They were spread out on the old mahogany desk that dominated the small room. Julius was examining one of them through an eyeglass. He straightened up, the eyeglass dropping into his waiting hand.
“Any ideas?” asked Chance.
“A few. None of them very useful, I’m afraid.” Julius tapped the photo he had been examining. “The design suggests it’s old. Maybe even Babylonian.”
“Valuable?” asked Rich eagerly.
“Oh yes. But not outrageously. If it’s genuine and not a later copy, then we’re talking thousands, not tens of thousands of pounds.”
“The people who wanted it went to a lot of trouble for something that’s only worth thousands of pounds,” said Chance.
“Maybe it’s more valuable to them. Some symbolic or personal value.”
“Or it’s not quite what it seems.”
Julius smiled. “Nothing is ever quite what it seems.”
“Could it be much older than you think?” asked Jade. “Would that make it more valuable?”
“It would,” Julius conceded. “But without the actual statue there’s no way of knowing. Its provenance might be important, but that would be hard to prove.”
“What do you mean?” asked Rich.
“Well, if this statue was once owned by—or even made for— Alexander the Great, then it would be worth a lot more to a collector or a museum than if it was just one of a dozen that was owned by Joe Smith. But, as I say, proving that was the case would be tricky. You’d need some accompanying documentation, or an unambiguous reference to this specific piece in some account from the period.”
“Maybe that’s what Darrow has,” said Jade. “Maybe that’s why he’s suddenly interested in the statue again after all this time, because he’s found some document that proves it’s worth millions.”
“It’s a nice looking piece,” Julius admitted. “Can I ask why you left it in the desert in the first place?”
“Too heavy to carry, simple as that.”
“Really?” Julius frowned and leafed through the pictures again. “How heavy?”
Chance shrugged. “Five kilos. Give or take.”
“It shouldn’t weigh anything like that much.” He tapped his chin with a thoughtful finger. “It was definitely ceramic rather than stone?”
“Terracotta, something like that.”
“I’ve got a bit of it here, if that helps,” said Rich.
Julius looked up from the pictures. “It certainly does.”
Rich took the beetle clicker toy from his pocket. He turned it upside down and levered up the strip of metal that made the clicking noise. Then he tipped out the sliver of material Chance had chipped off the base of the statue.
Julius examined it through his eyeglass. “Ceramic of some sort. Pottery…” He sat back in his chair. “I’ll get some tests done and let you know if we find out anything useful. But on the face of it, I have to say, it’s an interesting, but unremarkable piece.”
Ardman convened a meeting in the library of Algernon’s house. The only other people present were Jade, Rich and Chance. Alan and Pete had tracked Darrow and the helicopters for at least some of their journey.
“They have a short range capacity, so there’s not many places they could have come from or gone to,” explained Pete.
“Well, only one, realistically,” added Alan. “We’d know if they went to Kuwait. And Iran’s pretty well covered, so it’s unlikely they got in and out without us seeing them.”
“Could they be local to Iraq?” asked Ardman.
Pete shook his head. “Got the possible locations in that country under so much air surveillance we’d know if a pigeon took off or landed.”
“Which, given the range and the direction we last had them heading, leaves East Araby,” Alan told them.
“I thought that was a friendly country,” said Jade, remembering their discussions in the desert.
“It is,” said Chance. “But no one said this was any sort of official or sanctioned mission. Darrow obviously has influence, and probably money.”
“So why’s he need the statue?” asked Rich.
“Why indeed?” echoed Ardman. “Whatever is going on, we can’t afford to upset King Hassan, or allow Darrow to do anything that might sour our relations with East Araby. Especially now the elections are coming up.”
“The helicopters were military,” said Chance. “Maybe things have already gone sour. Maybe Hassan is working against us.”
“Unlikely,” said Ardman. “He’s always been very pro-US and—UK, but there are factions within the military who don’t take kindly to American nuclear weapons and Stealth Bombers being based in their country.” He turned to Alan. “Have you got a picture of Hassan?”
“There’ll be one on the web. Give us a second.”
Moments later, Alan swung one of the monitors round so they could all see the photograph it displayed. A man’s face—dark, handsome, with a neatly trimmed black beard and deep-set eyes. The man was smiling; a kindly face.
A face that Jade recognised.
“That’s King Hassan?”
“Sure is,” said Alan. “Official portrait.”
Jade was shaking her head in disbelief. “But that’s the man at the desert villa, the man who held me captive.”
“You’re sure?” asked Ardman.
Jade nodded. “He said something about his people. About how I was doing his country a great service.”
Ardman was frowning. “It sounds like we may have misjudged the situation rather badly.”
“Jade,” said Chance, “you’re absolutely sure that this is the man?”
“I’m sure.” There was no doubt in her mind. “I mean, it’s obviously an old photo, because his beard’s gone grey and he’s much older now than he is there.” She pointed at the screen.
Ardman’s frown deepened. “When was that portrait taken?”
Alan checked something on another screen. “The press release says it was taken in May.”
“What year?” asked Ardman impatiently.
“This year.”
Ardman nodded as if he had expected this. “That photo certainly looks like the King Hassan that I remember. He’s a relatively young man.” He turned to Jade. “Perhaps you met someone else—someone who looks like King Hassan, but older. Did he give you any clue as to who he might be?”
“He said his name was Ali. I assumed that was just a pseudonym.”
“Or maybe not.” Ardman went over to the keyboard Alan had been using and typed something in. A few seconds and several mouse clicks later, the picture changed to what looked like an older version of the same man.
“That’s him!” said Jade. “Without a doubt. That’s exactly what he looked like.”
Ardman nodded grimly. “That is Crown Prince Ali, the King’s uncle. Until the King was born, he was heir to the throne. And he is heir to the throne still, until the King has a son.”
“A throne that will have no power after the elections,” said Chance. “His nephew is in effect abdicating, and staying on only as a figurehead in the new democracy.”
“Ali is fiercely opposed to the democratisation of his country,” Ardman agreed. “He feels he was cheated of the throne nearly thirty years ago when his brother’s wife turned out to be expecting a child after King Omar died. Ali reckoned he had the top job, and then he lost out to a baby. He’s tried to influence the child ever since, but had to watch as the country’s moved closer to the West, and the US installed bases in return for aid and funding that Ali doesn’t want.”
“So he’s just a powerless would-be dictator?” said Rich.
“Not quite powerless,” said Chance. “He’s head of the country’s armed forces. So he certainly has access to helicopter gunships.”
“He also has a private palace right slap bang in the middle of the Araby Dese
rt,” Pete announced. “I’ve got some nice satellite images here. Private helipad, rooftop pool, and golden sand as far as the eye can see in every direction, except for a small private airstrip.”
“Sounds familiar,” said Jade. “And like I told you, there’s a secret laboratory too.”
Chance’s mobile rang, and he glanced at the display before answering it. The conversation was short, Chance murmuring a thank you and ending the call.
“That was Julius,” he said, “and it sounds like the answers can’t come soon enough. He’s analysed the pottery shard we gave him, and he’s managed to estimate the age of the statue.”
“It’s ancient, isn’t it?” said Rich. “Got to be. Worth millions, I bet.”
“Not exactly,” said Chance. “Julius says he can’t give an exact date, but all the tests suggest that the statue was made less than thirty years ago.”
15
With evidence from John Chance as well as Chuck and his American colleagues, Ardman had little trouble getting authorisation for the raid on the desert palace where Jade had been held. Its isolation—an advantage to Crown Prince Ali when plotting against his nephew —had now become its greatest weakness. Hidden away from view, Ardman’s team could get away with the sort of operation they’d never be permitted to stage if there was any risk of witnesses.
Ardman had rather more trouble persuading Jade and Rich that they were not going.
“I was there,” Jade pointed out. “I know the layout, I can show you where their underground lab is hidden.”
“You only found an observation gallery,” said Ardman. “There must be another way in.”
“Not that’s shown on the builders’ plans,” said Alan. “I’ve got a schematic here, and there’s no reference to a secret underground laboratory.”
“Not that we really thought there would be,” Pete added quickly. “I mean, that’s what secret means, right?”
“I’m going,” said Jade. “That’s final. These guys kept me prisoner. It’s payback time and I’m going to be there paying back.”
Ardman sighed, sensing defeat.
“And I’m going too,” said Rich. “If Jade’s going, so am I.”
“Right,” said Jade.
“She needs looking after,” Rich went on.
“Wrong!” Jade snapped.
“Really? Look what happened last time.”
“Excuse me.” Jade put her hands on her hips and stared him down. “I was the one who didn’t get caught by the people we were trying to escape from. Even if they did turn out to be the good guys. Who needs help?”
“Children,” said Chance firmly.
“Oh, come on, Dad,” insisted Rich. “Jade’s right. She needs to be there and I’m coming too.”
Chance looked from one to the other. “It’s up to Ardman,” he said. “But if he agrees you can come, and I’ll admit it will be useful to have Jade along, then you both stay in the helicopter until and unless I tell you otherwise.”
Jade hugged him. “Thanks, Dad.”
“Check with Ardman,” said Chance again.
Jade untangled herself and turned to face her dad’s superior. “Well?”
Ardman sucked in his cheeks as he considered. Finally, he said: “It’s your show, John. And they’re your children.”
Chance nodded. “Tell me about it.”
There were three helicopters in the attack. The first two carried the assault teams—the third held back. Inside were Rich and Jade, along with two scientists from the Ministry of Defence whose job it was to work out what the laboratory was for.
The third helicopter was less advanced than the others, and less well armoured. The front of the cabin was in effect a wide window, so Rich and Jade had a good view of what was happening.
The lead helicopters were so advanced they weren’t officially in service yet. Nicknamed ‘Future Lynx’ they were updated versions of the Westland Lynx, which had been in service with the British armed forces since the 1970s. These new variants were not officially due to be delivered to the MOD until 2011, and wouldn’t see active service until 2014. But ‘officially’ was different from reality.
For Ardman’s mission, they were ideal. Since the advanced prototypes did not officially exist, no one could trace them back to the British. And for the development team working with the AgustaWestland company, the chance of a real battlefield test mission was too good to miss.
Another advantage was that the Lynx was the fastest helicopter in the world, and the new variants were even quicker than the originals. They screamed across the desert, accelerating to over 300 kilometres an hour as they approached their target, leaving Rich and Jade’s helicopter far behind.
The disadvantage was they only had room inside for three people. This was why the SAS team was braced to the helicopters’ specially reinforced skids. As the aircraft neared their target, they slowed. The dark-clad SAS men dropped on ropes so that they were hanging beneath the Lynxes—four from each helicopter.
Missiles ripped out from the two helicopters. Precisely targeted, they tore into the side of the palace. Windows exploded in fragments of glass. Two of the SAS men on each helicopter dropped further on their ropes. As the helicopters powered over the palace, they let go and were hurled in through the gaping holes left by the missiles.
Above the palace, the Lynxes slowed again, allowing the other four men to drop to the roof. Then the helicopters sped up to take position well out of range of any counter measures or gunfire. They hovered behind the palace like deadly dark insects in the startlingly blue sky.
The windows of the palace were lit orange as the assault team checked each room. Any resistance and a stun grenade soon stopped it.
Through their headsets, Rich and Jade could hear the terse communication between the soldiers.
“Area three—clear.”
“Roof area—four down. Now clear.”
“Area five—clear. Three down.”
Smoke was rising from the holes in the front of the palace. A dark cloud staining the azure sky.
“Kitchens—secure. Staff contained.”
Finally, they heard their dad’s satisfied tone: “All areas secure. Objective secured.”
The scientist sitting behind Rich looked more like a police forensics officer in his white coverall. He leaned forward as he spoke into a microphone.
“Have you found the lab?”
“Affirmative,” Chance’s voice came back through the headphones. “No sign of scientists or staff. Place looks abandoned, but we haven’t gone inside, we’ll wait for you.”
The scientist nodded to his colleague. “On our way.” He gave the helicopter pilot a thumbs-up, and the aircraft dipped its nose and powered forwards.
Chance was waiting for them on the rooftop helicopter pad, a machinegun slung over his shoulder.
“Looks like you stayed in a good hotel,” Rich told Jade as they made their way past the pool. The scientists followed them, each carrying a large metal briefcase of equipment.
A black-clad soldier was dragging an unconscious gunman from the water as they passed.
“Thirsty work, sir,” he said to Chance as he heaved the man on to the side and removed his gun from the holster. The guard hadn’t even had time to draw it as the SAS stormed in.
“This is a dry country,” Chance told him.
“You should tell this guy.”
Rich was surprised how much cooler it became as soon as they were inside. Smoke drifted through the palace. There was dust and debris everywhere from the SAS attack. They passed several unhappy looking men in combat gear handcuffed to banisters or heavy furniture. Others lay face down in rooms reduced to rubble. Rich didn’t look too closely.
Chance led Rich, Jade and the two scientists down a wide stone staircase to an entrance hall. From here they went along a wide passageway to a metal door. There was a charred hole in the door where the lock had been blown out.
“This is as far as we got,” Chance told the scientists.
“It’s up to you now.”
He pushed open the door and gestured for them to go inside. Rich saw that both the men had pulled on breathing masks attached to small oxygen cylinders on their backs.
“Not taking any chances, then,” he said to Jade.
Through the door was a small entrance lobby that ended at another door, this one made of glass. Beyond that was a second glass door—an airlock.
“Sterile atmosphere,” said one of the scientists, his voice filtered and distorted by the mask.
Rich, Jade and Chance watched the scientists make their way through the two glass doors.
“It looks abandoned,” said Jade. “When I was here a couple of days ago, there were people working. It was very busy.”
“They couldn’t have known we were coming,” said Chance. “So we have to assume they finished whatever they were doing.”
One of the scientists was checking a device strapped to his wrist. He showed it to his colleague, and they both nodded. Then the first scientist pulled off his mask. Rich could see him sniffing the air hesitantly.
“Looks OK,” said Chance. “But you two stay here until we’re absolutely sure.”
The outer airlock door opened with a slight hiss, and Chance went through. As soon as the door was sealed behind him, he pressed the button to open the inner door. There was a pause while the filters checked the air between the two doors for contamination.
Just as the inner door started to open, there was movement from deeper inside the lab. A dark figure was silhouetted against the pale wall as he stood up, raising a machine gun.
One of the scientists saw the gunman, and pushed the other to one side, before diving to the floor.
The inner door was swinging slowly open. The gunman opened fire—not at the scientists, but at Chance.
The front of the airlock door crazed over in a mass of cracks as the bullets impacted. Before the gunman could fire again, Chance was gone —through the half-open door, and rolling across the floor. He sprang to his feet metres away from where the gunman was aiming. A single controlled burst of gunfire slammed the gunman back into the wall.
