by Chris Allen
CHAPTER 20
Changi International Airport, Singapore
“Patiala Airlines would like to invite passengers flying to Kuala Lumpur and London on Flight 285 to please make your way to gate lounge F34. Your aircraft will be boarding soon. Once again, we welcome passengers flying to Kuala Lumpur and London on Flight 285. Please make your way to gate lounge F34. Your aircraft will be boarding soon.”
The announcement carried throughout Terminal 2 at Changi International Airport. The tone was friendly and welcoming and it immediately mobilized most of the hundreds of passengers in the departure lounge. It was a scene that played out at every airport in the world for every flight, every day of the year and had become as routine as catching a bus. At any time of day or night there were literally thousands of planes in the air somewhere in the world. Flight 285’s only claim to being potentially more significant than most was that it was an A380 flight and was set to carry over four hundred passengers.
On the flight deck of 285, the captain and first officer were in the midst of their preflight briefings to the other crew members. The interaction between the captain and the others was pleasant but formal, a tone set by the captain, who was new to this crew, having recently come across from Etihad. He had not wanted the distraction of any unnecessary bonding with the crew, so he had remained private and reserved from the moment he’d met them a little over half an hour ago. Thankfully, most of them had responded respectfully, apart from one annoyingly obsequious chief steward who claimed he was certain he had flown with the captain previously, when the steward also worked for Etihad. The captain had been forced to play along in front of the others just enough to appear genuinely engaged but then shut the conversation down before the idiot realized that they had in fact flown together; however, that unfortunate coincidence had occurred when the captain had been flying under his own name, not the identity he had assumed today.
“Have you conducted your preflight inspection yet, first officer?” he asked, maintaining the formality.
“I was just about to, captain,” the first officer answered. “Would you care to join me; I thought we might start our respective inspections together?”
“An excellent idea,” replied the captain. The attention of the chief steward had nettled him slightly. A little fresh air would do him good. “I’ll begin on the port side and you can begin on the starboard side. We’ll meet back here.”
With the Captain and First Officer conducting their preflight checks, Flight 285 was now in the final stages of preparation for departure which, according to the captain’s watch, was scheduled for just over an hour from now.
CHAPTER 21
Singapore
Elizabeth Reigns was sitting in the foyer of the Crowne Plaza Hotel, Changi Airport, to all intents and purposes lazily flicking through a copy of Harper’s Bazaar without a care in the world. She was in a sumptuously upholstered armchair with a pot of green tea on the table beside her and a clear view of the hotel’s reception desk and elevators. There was a surveillance team on the far side of the hotel foyer. Circling the hotel were two mobile teams on standby to follow the targets if they left the area in vehicles. An SPF STAR assault team were on standby in the bowels of the hotel and an Interpol liaison officer was poised above a bank of CCTV screens in the hotel’s security operations room with Inspector Chan, the SPF STAR commander.
So far Intrepid surveillance had connected Galina “Honey” Devushka to a new target, a Patiala Airlines pilot by the name of Abdullah Rahman. Rahman was a man with a similar personal history to the one they’d pieced together on Farooq Chaudry: middle-aged, adult children, strained marriage and, apparently, generally disheartened with his life. He was perfect fodder for the honey-trap that Salazar had developed and, with Galina Devushka as the enticement, obviously perfected. The greatest concern for Intrepid was that, unlike the previously targeted flights – Katak Airlines 0712 and Chimbu Airways 376, both of which were A320 aircraft, and Patiala Airlines 550, which was a Boeing 777 – Rahman was an A380 pilot with comparatively hundreds more passengers under his control and, therefore, potentially hundreds more passengers at risk. The ramifications of another incident occurring were beyond inconceivable. It simply could not be allowed to happen.
From the paucity of intelligence they’d been able to crunch over the past twenty-four hours – mostly CCTV footage, credit card statements and cellphone data – it was obvious that Salazar and his team cultivated the targeted pilots over many months, with background research occurring many months before that, which meant that Galina Devushka’s relationships with them must have overlapped. Rahman had been lured well over six months ago and by now was thoroughly besotted with “Honey.” Reigns felt her skin crawl when she considered that this young woman was sleeping with these doomed men concurrently, knowing that she was sending them and ultimately hundreds of others to their deaths. No doubt there was an origin point for Devushka’s damage somewhere in her history that they would uncover during the post-operation wrap-up. And no doubt Devushka would use that as a defense when she was eventually answering for her part in all this. At the core of all Intrepid’s responsibilities, it was this element – the what-made-people-tick part – that Reigns knew held the greatest interest for her.
Frustratingly, the intelligence was changing every day. Two days ago Intrepid knew that Helldiver was preparing to launch another attack imminently. However, the phone chatter and behavior among the recruitment team had escalated ten-fold over the past twenty-four hours, and the likelihood of the next attack was now considered immediate. Overnight something had happened at Helldiver’s residence in France. The details available to Reigns and her team were sketchy but the result was that everything had been brought forward. Clearly, Helldiver’s escalation strategy was based on ego rather than intelligent consideration. In terms of thwarting the attacks against the airlines, the counter-strategy Intrepid had adopted was to beat the plan at its source: targeting the pilot selection-and-replacement phase, or the enticement-and-radicalization phase as Reigns preferred to consider it, while Morgan would unravel the leadership end.
Right now Devushka was upstairs with Rahman. They’d been up there a number of hours so, Reigns hoped, there should be some activity very soon. They’d be cutting it very fine if Rahman – or rather, his replacement – was going to make his next scheduled flight on time. Intercepts of Devushka’s cellphone indicated she was expecting to rendezvous with Salazar at the hotel at 8pm, which was only ten minutes away. The surveillance teams were all equipped with numerous images of Salazar, Rahman and Devushka and had become intimately familiar with what the main players looked like. Based on the murder and replacement of Farooq Chaudry at the Holiday Inn, the team’s focus was confirming who, if anyone, Salazar turned up with. If it was a Rahman lookalike, they’d move in.
Like clockwork, Carlo Salazar appeared in the foyer, alone. He didn’t bother with reception, he knew where he was headed. Rahman’s room was on the eighth floor. Reigns kept reading and sipping her tea. She watched Salazar’s reflection in a glass panel as he loitered near the elevators. She saw him make a sweeping glance around the foyer, pause, then take out his cellphone and tap on the screen. Less than a minute later a man entered the foyer carrying an overnight bag. He appeared to be of Malay ethnicity, medium height, balding, with a slight paunch. Even from here she could see the obvious similarity with Rahman. He made a study of the foyer and then headed straight for Salazar. Bingo! There was an acknowledgment between the two, subtle but obvious if you were looking for it.
Following not far behind the Rahman lookalike was a young man, Slavic looking. Reigns recognized him from the CCTV footage at the Holiday Inn. This guy was the muscle. He did the heavy lifting, literally, and was most likely the one to have put a bullet in the head of Farooq Chaudry, and possibly others. He ignored Salazar and headed for the staff-only corridor. She couldn’t see if he produced a pass to gain access to the corridor but she had to presume that he did.
> Reigns’ cellphone buzzed. Rather than being a standard phone, which is what it looked like, the handset had been configured to operate on a secure radio frequency.
“That’s all three.” It was Damon, leader of the surveillance team.
“Roger,” she replied. “Stay put and keep your eyes out for any additional players. Blue?”
“I’m here. What’s the play?” asked Chan, leader of the SPF STAR team.
“We have all three heading into the elevator now. Your guys in position?”
“They’re all set. Just say the word.”
“Roger. Standby.”
Up on the eighth floor the CCTV cameras followed Salazar and the Rahman lookalike from the moment the elevator doors slid open, tracking them along the corridors until they reached Rahman’s room.
“He’s listening at the door now,” said Chan from the security operations room. Reigns had the phone pressed to her ear but kept thumbing through her magazine, occasionally sipping on the tea. “They’re waiting,” Chan continued. “Here we go. The third guy has just come out of the service elevator on eight. He’s dressed in a set of the hotel’s laundry contractor coveralls, making his way to the room. And, yes, he has a trolley.”
“OK,” said Reigns. “The moment they enter that room, they’re all yours.”
“Copy that,” Chan replied.
A tense few moments ensued as Reigns was forced to sit quietly in the foyer apparently oblivious to any real-life drama unfolding within the hotel.
“Standby,” she heard Chan say. A pause. “OK, they’re in. We are GO!”
Reigns calmly finished her tea, closed her magazine and placed them both down on the table beside her. With the phone still up to her ear, she went to the elevator. When she got in and pressed eight, an urgent voice brought the phone to life.
“Go ahead,” she said.
“This is Blue. We’re in the room. You better get up here ASAP. This guy’s saying some crazy shit.”
“On my way.”
The ascent to the eighth floor took an age and Reigns was ready to peel the doors open herself the moment the ping announced she’d arrived. She ran to the room.
As she rushed in she saw a dozen STAR officers: half with guns drawn, the others cuffing Salazar, the Rahman lookalike, the Russian muscle and Galina Davushka, aka “Honey.” Lying flat on his back on the edge of the bed wearing nothing but a sheet that had been pulled over him was the real Rahman. His eyes were shut and he wasn’t moving. The lead officer from the assault team turned when he saw Reigns.
“Is he dead?” she asked.
“No, ma’am. He’s been given some kind of sedative that’s put him out for a while but he’s not dead. I guess he was probably going to get the same treatment as the last guy, once they got him out of the room and ready for the dumpster.”
“So what’s this one been saying?” She looked at Salazar, who was face down on the floor sporting a freshly applied set of handcuffs.
“You’re not going to like it.”
“You’re too late,” Salazar said. “The real double is about to fly. You’re too late!”
Reigns’ blood ran cold. At that moment, the Interpol liaison officer and Chan ran into the room. Reigns turned to them both.
“I’m going to need whichever flight Rahman was scheduled to captain out of Changi today stalled without any fuss. Can you do that?”
“Of course,” replied the Interpol liaison officer. “As you requested, we haven’t alerted the airline yet in case the information made it to the captain, but we have all the details of the flight. It’s 285 to Kuala Lumpur then it continues on as 775 to London Heathrow. It’s due out in less than an hour.”
“Which means that right now the actual, chosen Rahman lookalike is probably sitting in the captain’s seat doing his preflight and getting ready for take-off with more than four hundred people boarding, and none of the crew would even know that he’s not the real Captain Abdullah Rahman. Jesus! OK, do whatever you have to do to stall that aircraft. The crew cannot know they’re being deliberately stalled.”
“Understood,” said the Interpol liaison officer who then disappeared from the room, tapping at his cellphone.
“Patiala Airlines has to do whatever it takes to keep that flight on the ground,” Reigns called to the retreating back. Then she turned to Chan. “How quickly can you get me to that aircraft without drawing any attention to us?”
“Fifteen minutes.”
“OK. I’m going to need these three later for interrogation,” she said. “Can you arrange for them to be held?”
Chan looked at the STAR assault team leader, who nodded in response.
“Thank you,” she said. “Let’s go!”
Reigns and Chan ran from the room, collecting Interpol liaison on the way. By the time they’d reached the SPF STAR assault vehicle in the hotel’s loading dock, Reigns had issued redeployment orders to her surveillance teams and Chan had arranged backup to make the arrest at Changi Airport. Interpol liaison was working the phones with the airline and Changi Airport administration. The moment they’d all buckled into their seats, the police driver stamped his foot to the pedal and had them racing to stop the flight.
Reigns checked her watch. Thirty minutes to take-off. She tried to imagine exactly what was happening on the flight deck of 285 right at that moment – the co-pilot briefing the captain on the preflight inspection, the flight plan, the weather ahead; while the cabin crew would be dealing with the confined chaos of boarding over four hundred souls – ensuring every passenger was seated in accordance with their allocated seating and carry-on luggage was stowed safely in the overhead compartments. Meanwhile, the man in ultimate control of their lives was at that moment preparing to destroy them all.
As their vehicle reached the airport’s outer limits it was met by an SPF Airport Police Division car and they sped in convoy straight to Terminal 2. Soon the cars skidded to a halt and Reigns and the others raced to Gate F34 where 285 was set to depart. She checked her watch again. Ten minutes. Shit! All she could think about was whether or not the airline had managed to stall the plane without giving anything away to the pilot. She couldn’t guarantee it, so all she could do was get there. As she closed in on Gate F34 she saw a team of STAR officers emerge from a doorway twenty feet ahead of her. She saw the recognition on their faces when they saw Inspector Chan running with her.
“F34!” Chan called to them. They sprinted ahead. They knew what needed to happen. They all just had to get there.
She saw the illuminated F34 sign appear and watched as the STAR officers disappeared out of sight toward the plane. She sprinted after them, racing through the now empty departure lounge. The pounding of boots thundered through the space as the police hit the airbridge. Reigns could hear the high-pitched whine of the A380’s Trent 900 Rolls Royce engines as the flight deck prepared for imminent departure. You think you’re home and hosed, you bastard! Well no, you’re not! Not on my watch!
She was on the airbridge, thundering down behind the STAR team with Chan hot on her heels. The Interpol liaison was now with Airport Management, dealing with the inevitable fallout no matter which way it went – success or failure. Reigns saw the team at the door to the aircraft. It was closing, inches away from being sealed shut. She saw the first team members’ hands reaching for the edges of the door, grappling it awkwardly back from the stunned cabin crew. The door was heaved back open and the dark blue tactical uniforms of the heavily armed officers streamed into the aircraft. Reigns was just a few feet behind. There was yelling from the cockpit, shouted commands, loud in the confined space – then screaming from the cabin crew and inevitably an uproar of fear and uncertainty from the passengers who were close enough to realize there was a problem. A major problem.
Reigns ran onto the aircraft to find the STAR officers manhandling the captain from the cockpit and hurling him along the line of officers until he arrived bloodied and disheveled in front of her and Chan. She looked down at him an
d he stared defiantly into her eyes. His body was rigid with tension as two STAR officers held him tight on either side, his arms bent up high behind his back. Reigns ignored his bravado and the contempt written all over his face. That was for him to deal with. She had no time for ego. She withdrew her cell from her pocket and studied his face minutely, comparing it to the images of the real Captain Abdullah Rahman on the screen, but she knew already.
A broad, relieved, utterly satisfied smile brought her face alive from the tension of the past few days. She held his gaze steadily, unwavering in triumph.
“Good job, everybody,” she said. “This is our guy.”
CHAPTER 22
Château de la Lavande
Morgan was swimming back to shore when there was a rumble of twin 800 horsepower diesel engines close by and then a sleek blue hull flashed past him like a shark fin in the water. The Aquariva was racing back to the Château de la Lavande and as he followed its course he could just make out Helldiver standing on the edge of the pier. The man was dead still. Morgan was too far away to make out his facial expression but he could sense that it was grim. He turned in the water and looked back at the burning carcass of the tender that was billowing the last of its black smoke in a single narrow column up into the sky. The remnants of the hull that had survived the explosion were all but submerged and it was only a matter of time before it sank beneath the waves. There was no sign of the two agents. Nobody could have survived an explosion like that. He must have hit the fuel filter with those last few rounds from the Makarov. The tender would have had the capacity to carry about thirty gallons of fuel and judging by the extent of the explosion it must have been pretty close to full when it went up.
Morgan pushed off again, swimming for shore and watching with interest the events unfolding on the pier. He could make out Rodenko and one of his guys lifting Kristina Zolner’s limp body from the Aquariva. That didn’t look promising. Helldiver was looking on without a hint of movement. What was the story? Then the security guys laid Kristina down upon the pier and the three of them simply stood around looking down at her. Dead? Must be. None of them were making any attempt to revive her or even tend to her injuries. How odd that Helldiver had made no attempt even to hold her or check for himself whether she was alive or dead. After a few moments, Helldiver turned, waved a hand of command to the crewman at the helm of the Aquariva, and then wandered back up to the house alone. Rodenko and his offsider were left to deal with the body.
