Two terrorists down, six more terrorists and six bodyguards to go, Rafi thought to himself.
Along the quay, Sergy arrived at the harbour master’s office. He quietly approached the shabby front door, which was closed. His hand was tucked under his loosely fitting shirt. Concealed forty metres away, Colin noted that he was undoubtedly armed. Sergy looked around before he pushed the door open and entered the tired-looking building. He closed it behind him. A torrent of what Rafi could only imagine were Chechen swear words were picked up by the listening device.
Sergy was obviously far from pleased. He pulled out a small walkie-talkie. The bug picked up his conversation with the captain. ‘The harbour master is pissed out of his mind; sprawled out cold across his desk with an empty bottle of Scotch in his hand. I’ll sober him up and come back to the boat. Out!’
Colin listened in and pressed the red button on the small grey box in his hand. The knockout gas in what looked like a Coke can was released into the room. Six seconds later there was a resounding thump as the Chechen’s body hit the floor. Colin moved unobtrusively from his hiding place and skirted around the back of the harbour master’s office, out of the line of sight of those on Golden Sundancer. He put on a clear plastic gas mask, pulled out from his back pocket a scrunched-up flannel hat and placed it on his head. He stood there, waiting for the all-clear signal from his colleague who was observing the captain on the flybridge. As Basel Talal turned to descend the stairs to the main deck level, Colin casually walked around to the front of the harbour master’s office, and slipped quietly inside.
A minute later Sergy was trussed up like a Christmas turkey, as was the harbour master, just in case either woke up, which, given the circumstances, was highly improbable. Both men would be out for at least two hours; far longer if either of them suffered from a weak heart or asthma. Colin radioed in that the two had been tied up and, on hearing that the coast was still clear, sneaked out of the office, making sure that the door was left slightly ajar to let the fresh air in to disperse the knockout gas. He then walked around the back of the buildings to join Mark who was watching the heavies as they waited for the helicopter.
As Sergy was being tied up in the harbour master’s office, Clive and Jim received a warning through their ear pieces from Mark that Basel Talal was on his way to his cabin. He was ambushed. Not being trained in unarmed combat, he didn’t stand a chance and didn’t see what was coming. Unconscious and securely trussed up, he was left by Jim in his cabin, propped up in a chair.
Outside, on the quay, Janet and Anna were doing their best to chat up Dakka.
He was interested in them, but his training told him that there would be time later. He spotted the captain descending from the flybridge and turned to leave.
In their earpieces the two women received an order: ‘Slow him down; we don’t want him on board for a couple of minutes. Will advise when it’s safe for him to board.’
Janet called after Dakka. ‘Before you go, would you by any chance have a bottle of vodka we could borrow? Our parents are so boring; they don’t like people drinking on board. Please, please; we would make it worth your while!’
Dakka stopped and gave the two attractive women an appraising look. ‘Wait there and I’ll see what I can find.’
Janet moved alongside him and followed him towards the gangplank.
‘We need another thirty seconds – do not let him board,’ came an urgent voice over the communications link. Anna broke into a run, caught up with Janet, tripped and went flying on to the concrete quayside. She let out a howl and a series of expletives. Janet bent over her friend who was spreadeagled on the ground. ‘Sis, are you alright?’
‘Oow, I’ve really hurt my knee.’
Dakka stayed where he was.
Janet helped Anna to sit up. Blood was streaming down her leg from a nasty gash in her knee.
Dakka looked down at Anna and then in a matter-of-fact manner said, ‘I’ll fetch the first aid kit.’ He paused briefly and then added, ‘And a bottle of vodka. Wait here.’
Moments earlier Mark had given a warning to Jim and Clive that the captain was on his way below deck.
The captain sensed something was wrong as he was about to enter his cabin. As he turned to investigate, he was felled by a strong blow to the side of his neck.
‘Damn it! Clive,’ exclaimed Jim, ‘You nearly took his head off.’
‘Yep, But how was I to know he was going to turn around.’
The captain was securely bound up and dumped on his bed.
Clive and Jim waited silently and out of sight at the bottom of the stairs.
Dakka meanwhile, went to a cupboard in the stateroom and pulled out a bottle of vodka, then turned and collected the first aid box from the stern deck. He walked down the gangplank to the two women huddled on the quayside. He handed them the bottle and the box. ‘Put the box on the gangway when you’ve finished. I’m busy now. I’ll see you later for my reward.’
Meanwhile, Clive and Jim had climbed the stairs and were waiting in the stateroom. Their earpieces kept them informed as to where their target was. Dakka walked down the gangplank and through the open door into the stateroom. His sixth sense told him he wasn’t alone. He spun around to see Jim coming at him. Instinctively, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other and let fly a lethal drop kick which caught Jim just below the shoulder, knocking him backwards. Jim started to pick himself up, but was too slow: Dakka was on him, his powerful hands locked around Jim’s neck, pinning him to the floor.
There was an almighty crash. Dakka slumped unconscious across Jim’s body. The remnants of a heavy glass decanter were scattered across the carpet.
Jim struggled to regain his breath, as Clive hauled the muscled man off him. Moments later, Clive had Dakka’s arms tightly secured behind his back with reinforced plastic handcuffs.
‘Thanks,’ said Jim, as Clive carried on immobilising the terrorist.
Jim got up slowly. ‘For a heavy man, he sure moved quickly! I reckon the bastard has either broken my collarbone or dislocated my shoulder.’
‘No good asking you for a hand in getting him down below, then?’ Clive dragged Dakka across the stateroom and, with a series of loud bumps, down the stairs.
He reappeared a few moments later. ‘I’ve put him with the captain. Right, let’s have a look at you.’ Clive stood in front of Jim. ‘Lift your arm as high as you can. Is that all you can manage? Does it hurt here?’ He prodded Jim’s collarbone area.
‘Not much.’
‘Think of something nice; your girlfriend with no clothes on – got the picture?’
Jim nodded.
Clive took hold of his arm and with a quick upward motion relocated his shoulder back into place.
‘Jesus!’ screeched Jim. ‘That was painful.’
‘Come on, let’s see what you can do with your injured arm. Can you hold a gun?’
Jim nodded.
‘You will be useless in a fight unless the opposition has a blouse on,’ commented Clive.
‘Six out of six accounted for on the boat. This leaves the four minders on the quayside and five in the helicopter.’ Rafi smiled as he listened to the radio transmission.
The sheikh’s helicopter was about fifteen minutes away.
Meanwhile the Nimrod picked up the mobile phone conversation between the sheikh’s bodyguard and one of the heavies on the quayside. ‘Is everything OK? I’ve tried to ring the captain but there’s no answer.’
The heavy standing on the quayside looked across at Golden Sundancer. ‘All quiet here. The captain has gone below; probably getting ready to meet you.’
‘Good. We’ll be with you shortly.’
Rafi made a mental calculation. The operation was running about twenty minutes behind schedule. He hoped the PM and his Chancellor had sufficient material to keep on talking, then noticed that the PM was being handed a folded piece of paper.