‘It was an eye-opener,’ he replied.
‘I’m here to please,’ she quipped and then realised why Rafi had gone quiet and was staring at her. She leant across and kissed him delicately on the cheek.
‘All in good time; unfortunately, we have things to do.’
‘Queen and Country and all that,’ he mocked.
‘You’ve got it in one,’ she grinned, pulling her bathrobe closed. ‘Let’s get you bandaged up.’
Tenderly she strapped his wrist. ‘Your bruises still look very impressive. Are they painful?’
He smiled at her. ‘In comparison to your strip wax treatment, not really!’
‘Time to get dressed,’ said Kate. ‘The manager has sent up a selection of clothes for both of us. They’ve hung them in the wardrobe. Have a look and see what you think. I’ve got a bit of tidying up to do in the bathroom.’
They dressed in casual but smart new clothes. Rafi chose a white shirt, charcoal grey flannel trousers, dark blue blazer, black moccasin shoes and in case he had reason to venture outside, a smart blue wool overcoat. Kate opted for a light camel-coloured trouser suit, a creamy-white open neck shirt and a dark brown wool and cashmere overcoat. She looked stunning.
‘I hope your credit card is going to be working soon; there’s no way that mine will withstand the damage that I’ve run up since we got here!’ said Kate.
‘Don’t worry; we can sort it out mañana.’
‘It must be nice to be rich.’
‘Yes, it must be. Unfortunately, this isn’t how I normally live,’ replied Rafi.
‘Well, I’ll want to be with you when it is like this.’ Kate chuckled and winked playfully at him.
Rafi looked down at the clean dressing on his wrist. ‘And whenever I need cheering up all I have got to do is look at this bandage and think of you!’
He pointed to the old hat and stripy scarf draped over the back of the sofa. ‘Will I need these?’
‘How about these instead?’ asked Kate, pointing to a new dark blue scarf and trilby hat. ‘You know, we really must get going. Jeremy and John are waiting for us downstairs.’
Sure enough, a large unmarked police car was waiting outside.
They sped through an eerily quiet London.
‘The curfew is still in place,’ John told them. ‘Thankfully, almost everyone is keeping their heads down. The people from COBRA and the PM have been on the radio and television to try to stop people panicking and advising them to stay indoors.’
John turned left at Trafalgar Square, into Whitehall. ‘I hope you’re going to be on your best behaviour,’ he said as he turned right and stopped the car in front of the tall metal gates guarding Downing Street. John showed his police warrant card to the armed guards standing at the gate and they were let through.
‘We’ve been asked to act as your minders,’ said Jeremy. ‘Heaven only knows how long it’ll be before you get to see the Prime Minister. It must be chaos in there.’
John stopped the car in front of Number 10. Kate and Rafi were ushered in.
To Rafi’s utter surprise, they were met in the front entrance hall by the Prime Minister, with outstretched hands. He then led them through to the inner sanctum of Number 10. As they started walking he looked at Rafi. ‘I like the disguise,’ he said with a grin. ‘You’d make a good gangster.’
The PM stopped. ‘I am afraid that there is a lot going on at the moment. Kate, I need Rafi for ten minutes or so. Would you and your colleagues see how things are progressing downstairs in the COBRA meeting?’
Kate nodded.
‘Mr Palmer here will show you the way.’
A dark-suited young man beckoned Kate to follow him.
‘Rafi, I’ve arranged for you and your economics team to meet here at 7.30 to discuss your concerns. We’ll be joined by the Chancellor of the Exchequer and a couple of people from his team.’
The PM strode on, with Rafi following close behind. They arrived at his study door. The PM beckoned him into the room. They’d been in there for only a few seconds when the phone rang.
The Prime Minister took the call. ‘My apologies, Rafi. I have the Mayor of London on the line. I am likely to be some while, perhaps you could find DI Adams and catch up on what’s been happening with the terrorists? If you go next door, I’ll arrange for someone to show you the way.’
Rafi walked into the empty, adjoining office. He looked around, plumped for the comfiest chair, sat down and waited.
A few minutes later, a smart, but soberly dressed woman appeared.
‘Excuse me for keeping you,’ she said with a hesitant smile. ‘I’ve been asked to show you the way to COBRA. Please come this way.’
‘Thank you,’ said Rafi, getting up a little unsteadily.
They passed through a further set of security checks and descended some sets of stairs.
Rafi looked at the woman he was following. Her cleancut, formal white shirt and black skirt were unremarkable, however her neat blonde hair was eye-catchingly beautiful.
When they arrived at the subterranean briefing room, the woman turned. ‘I will come and get you when the PM is free.’ Her businesslike face was transformed by a fleeting smile.
Rafi saw Kate chatting to a swarthy-looking man and went over to join them.
‘I was updating Kate on our progress,’ he told Rafi. ‘We are making headway, but it’s a massive large task. No doubt you want to know about the escaping terrorists? But first let me introduce myself. I’m Craig – MI5.’
The young officer looked the opposite of Jeremy: short, thickset, dark haired – and almost uncouth.
‘Golden Sundancer is currently going like a bat out of hell round the Western Isles of Scotland, averaging almost forty knots. Her rendezvous with Northern Rose, north-west of Pentland Firth, went without a hitch. We now expect her to rendezvous with Highland Bellewest of Stanton Banks, just before dawn tomorrow. Rosemarie is heading for the Straights of Dover. We estimate she’ll rendezvous with Golden Sundancer south of the Isles of Scilly, in the early hours of Sunday morning. The question is, are we right in believing that Golden Sundancer will head for Morocco?’
He fell silent for a moment, as if collecting his thoughts. ‘The Navy has checked what vessels it has between the Scilly Isles and Morocco. At Gibraltar, they have HMS Scimitar and Sabre: two sixteen-metre fast patrol boats, capable of thirty knots plus. There is nothing else in the vicinity which can get close to matching Golden Sundancer’s speed. I understand that the boffins at the Admiralty are currently hatching a plan.’
Craig paused. ‘Jameel is still in Marrakech where we’ve an agent keeping an eye on him. The sheikh’s private jet is scheduled to land there at 12.45 p.m. on Monday. He’s hired a helicopter for the afternoon and his plane is scheduled to take off again at 22.30 that evening.’
Kate nodded.
He continued. ‘We’ve looked at all the ports within range of the helicopter from Marrakech, in the time available. The Moroccan Atlantic coastline is long, but thankfully there are only three ports that we believe fit the situation: Safi, Mohammedia and Casablanca. For a number of reasons, Safi is the one our anoraks confidently predict they will use.’
‘So, how are you going to capture them?’ asked Kate.
‘The Prime Minister wants them captured alive,’ answered Craig. ‘The bosses believe that there’s a better chance of success if we seize them when they are all in one place. The plan is to have a vessel, with SBS personnel aboard, waiting for Golden Sundancer in Safi. They then overpower the terrorists and whisk them away to a waiting submarine.’
‘So quite simple, really,’ said Kate, with a grin.
‘Why aren’t they using the SAS?’ Rafi queried.
‘The special boat service, or SBS,’ replied Craig, ‘Is the Royal Navy’s special forces unit – it is every bit as formidable as the SAS, but is, in essence, the aquatic version. In many quarters they’re rated more highly! Things will have to be done quickly, which could complicate matter
s. The terrorists and their masters will probably be in our grasp for only a few hours. At Golden Sundancer’s present rate of progress, she’ll arrive in Safi early Monday afternoon, which gives us only twenty-four hours to prepare an appropriate welcoming party.’
‘How’s the plan going?’ Rafi asked.
‘Hold on a moment,’ said Craig, ‘Let me make a call.’ Several minutes later he put down the phone. ‘It seems we’ve arranged for two resourceful female Naval Lieutenants – Anna Gregson and Janet Steiner – to be flown to Gibraltar. They’re on their way as we speak, together with some special kit for our SBS friends.’
Craig continued explaining the plan. ‘Obviously, we don’t want to scare the terrorists’ leaders away. A fast motorboat moored in Gibraltar has been identified. We ruled out HMS Sabre, as there’s no way we can disguise her military parentage – one sight of her and the terrorists would run a mile. Furthermore, the Moroccan Authorities wouldn’t take kindly to the Royal Navy operating within their territorial waters. So we’re renting, or purchasing if we cock up, a Sunseeker Manhattan 56 called Puddle Jumper. She has a top speed of some thirty-two knots and is fast enough to get down there before them. Puddle Jumper is being given the once-over and provisioned as we speak.’
Craig paused, as if searching for an elusive word. ‘The awkward bit is that we have a hiccup or two on the resources front. SBS’s M Squadron, which deals with maritime counterterrorism, should be on standby. They’re, er… rather busy at the moment. They’re in action in the Middle East. The Air Chief Marshal has secured the services of two of their team who are cutting short their current operation and will be joining those on board Puddle Jumper. We had hoped for more, but so be it. The special forces command centre is sending SAS soldiers to Marrakech Airport and to the ports of Safi, Mohammedia and Casablanca. The last two, just in case our intelligence has ballsed up.’
A grin spread across Craig’s face, his white teeth framed by his tanned face. ‘A bright spark at the Admiralty has dreamt up a cunning plan. Our two naval officers and the two SBS operatives on board Puddle Jumper are to be joined by two retired civilians.’
Kate tilted her head to one side in surprise.
‘Yes, I know you must think that they’re off their rockers. The Navy has trawled through their records for recently retired naval officers who had seen active service and who could go along as parent figures to keep up the illusion that those on board are civilians. The retirement age for many very able officers is early fifties.’ Craig grinned. ‘They couldn’t believe their luck. They found a retired couple who are both still fleet of foot. Adrian Bell is a highly experienced commander and a master navigator, with considerable experience of active service. As a youngster, Adrian commanded one of the three HMS Scimitar class, fast training craft during the Cod War in the North Atlantic. They were at that time the fastest wet hulled military craft in the world. And it gets better: the commander’s wife, Helen, also has twenty years’ experience in the Navy. So we have two capable “parents” to look after our boisterous rabble. The two naval officers will become their daughters and the two SBS operatives will be the boyfriends.
‘Not surprisingly,’ continued Craig, ‘The husband and wife were a bit taken aback to be volunteered. They were at home in their garage, varnishing their dinghy. They’re currently packing their sailing gear. Two, twin-seat Harrier jump jets are waiting for them at the nearby Thorney Island army facility and will fly them to Gibraltar.
‘The two parents, as I call them, together with the two naval officers, will arrive in Gibraltar in the next couple of hours. Puddle Jumper should put to sea an hour after they land. The SBS officers will rendezvous with her in the next twelve hours. I understand a wet jump is planned.’
Craig paused. ‘As I was saying, the terrorists’ boat, at her current rate of progress, should make Safi by Monday early afternoon. Our team on Puddle Jumper plan to arrive under the cover of darkness, late on Sunday night.’
A frown fell across Craig’s face. ‘Getting them away is also proving difficult. It is rather embarrassing as a world power, but we seem to have all our submarines in, er… The wrong places or in dry dock for repairs, and the four new Astute class submarines are still not in service. The cutback in numbers, without the new replacements, has left the Navy decidedly short. The earliest any submarine can be off the coast of Safi is 15.40 on Monday. However, those at the Admiralty are a tad uncomfortable – well, that’s an understatement – as the only one that could get there in time is one of their Trident Class nuclear submarines with all her nuclear missiles on board. It seems that the prospect of having our terrorists on board her is beyond the Admiralty’s comfort zone. Out of the frying pan and into the fire! However, they have been won over by the PM. She’s broken off from her current manoeuvres and is sailing at full speed to be on station Monday afternoon.’
Rafi was about to ask a couple of questions, when his guide appeared at the door and beckoned him over.
‘The Prime Minister will see you now,’ said the secretary.
Rafi was ushered up the rather claustrophobic stairs to the PM’s meeting room. He wondered how Aidan and his team of five were getting on, and whether the PM and his new Chancellor of the Exchequer would tackle the impending financial problems head-on. His thoughts moved on to the huge risks now faced by the markets.
Rafi stopped outside the meeting room – he felt apprehensive. What if they’d reached mental overload and wanted none of his bad news? The future would be bleak.
As he entered, he was greeted by the sight of fourteen tired and slightly dishevelled-looking people. Aidan and his team were sitting along one side of the table. There was an unoccupied chair next to Aidan, to which Rafi was shown.
The PM stood up to greet Rafi. He looked pale and in need of some well-earned rest. On one side he was flanked by his private secretary, the head of press communications and the Defence Secretary, and on the other side, by his Chancellor and three people from his Treasury team. The PM did the introductions.
Rafi, meanwhile, looked around the shiny, dark wooden table. There was a grim feel to the room. His eyes caught those of Saara’s. They exchanged brief smiles – she seemed at ease in the exalted company. Aidan and his team’s faces looked strained, as if they were expecting a hard time.
The PM called the meeting to order. He was forthright. ‘Gentlemen, we are here at the request of Mr Khan. Yesterday he asked me to consider the risk our weakened financial markets are now facing and, if we agree with his predictions, he has asked that we listen to a strategy to stop our markets going into meltdown when they reopen on Tuesday. Mr Khan advises me that the main item on the terrorists’ agenda is not the physical disruption of our energy supplies, but rather financial chaos.’
The PM turned to his Chancellor. ‘I appreciate that it is only a few months since you took up your post. The final decision as to how we proceed rests with you. I shall back your judgement and the proposals you put before the Cabinet tomorrow, in advance of our statements to the Commons on Monday afternoon.’
The PM paused. ‘Before we start, I must reiterate that we are here as a group seeking to work as a team.’ He paused. ‘If Mr Khan is correct, the challenge that faces us is gargantuan. He has made it clear to me that the terrorists expect us to hesitate and to drag our feet before we react. If we do, Mr Khan has in no uncertain terms advised me that we may not regain control of the financial markets. We have to consider whether Mr Khan’s hypothesis has substance. We must not shirk our duty, even if it means that we get bad press for taking a robust approach when others are unable to see the dangers facing us.’
The mood of the room was sombre. ‘Before we start,’ said the PM, ‘I should like to thank Mr Khan for his foresightedness and Mr Gilchrist and his team from the City and academia for their Herculean efforts. You have been able to focus on the financial problems at hand without being overwhelmed by the practical and human issues that we face as politicians. Gentlemen, the stakes are high.�
�� He turned to his Chancellor. ‘Is there anything you would like to add before we listen to Aidan and his team’s concerns and recommendations?’
‘Not at the moment, thank you.’
‘What then, please, are your proposals?’
Aidan spent a few moments detailing the expertise of those sitting next to him and turned to Rafi’s former boss, Donald, to make the presentation.
Donald stood up and walked over to a whiteboard which had been set up at the end of the room. He was confident, without being arrogant.
‘Our objective, gentlemen, in these uncertain times, is to provide the financial markets with a sense of certainty and confidence. We are facing two problems. Firstly, the terrorists have created a black hole in the Government’s finances and, secondly, Aidan has proved beyond all doubt that if the markets fall sharply when they reopen, the terrorists will make massive profits from their investments in derivatives. When I say massive, I mean tens of billions of pounds… And this will depress the markets even further.’
Donald paused and turned to the Chancellor. ‘Put this on top of the vast sums that the Government has to raise for the foreseeable future to balance its books, add in widespread blackouts, a stock market crash and large scale disruption to the UK economy… Quite simply, international investors will go elsewhere in their droves. Already there has been a significant shift in sentiment, as reflected by the currency markets where sterling is taking a hammering… To put it bluntly, I have major doubts as to whether the extra money required post Stratford can be borrowed in the markets. This would mean going cap in hand to the International Monetary Fund, and even they might not have sufficient funds to solve our problems…’
Night was closing in on Golden Sundancer. She was making good headway against the swell. The captain, Basel Talal and Sergy Kowshaya, the Cruden Bay terrorist, were on the bridge. They were in an upbeat mood.
Sergy looked out of the window at the spray coming over the bow. ‘We make port by midday Monday, yes?’
LATENT HAZARD: On the Edge Page 28
