Colonel Gray, standing nearby in the Ops Room, had arranged for its delivery only a few minutes earlier. The note read: Terrorists on boat at Safi have been captured. The helicopter with the sheikh and Jameel onboard is en route and expected to land in the next fifteen minutes. We estimate it will take sixty to seventy-five minutes to wrap things up.
At the dispatch box the Prime Minister was handed a sheet of paper. He slowly read the message – his face gave nothing away. He then turned and passed it across to his Chancellor, who read it, smiled and tapped the pile of files on his lap. The PM took a deep breath and continued. He was a professional, carrying on if his prolonged speech was the most natural thing in the world.
‘The role of our armed forces has to be reconsidered. Our military forces must be properly equipped to defend us against terrorist attacks. We have to change our strategy and start fighting – not with brute force but with minds and souls. Post Iraq we have surrendered the moral high ground. Our international image is tarnished. We must rebuild trust in ourselves and our country.’
The PM was in flowing form. ‘It is time to restore our sense of fair play and equity. Warfare has changed. It has moved from the macro level and large theatres of war, to the micro level and local operations. We need to refocus our military prowess and twin our military might with our anti-terrorist expertise. Stratford has been the wake-up call to end all wake-up calls. We have to be able to counter terrorist attacks on our own soil and have the wherewithal to deal with major calamities should they ever arise again. We must have personnel and equipment fit for purpose. I have asked the head of the armed forces and the Defence Minister to prepare a briefing note to this end for Cabinet. Part of their brief will be to consider the valuable role that the Territorial Army and former military personnel can play. In particular, they will look at the specialist skills they can offer, and will advise on how they might be appropriately rewarded for their part-time commitment to our military activities.’
On the dockside, Anna’s knee had been patched up by Janet. The two women slowly walked back to Puddle Jumper clutching the first aid box and the bottle of vodka. They had been informed via their earpieces that Dakka had been overpowered.
Anna smiled; the gash to her knee had been worthwhile.
On board Puddle Jumper, she was given a hot cup of tea with sugar by the commander’s wife.
The commander was deep in thought, looking over the charts in front of him.
‘What are you looking at?’ asked Janet.
‘I reckon it’s always a good idea to know exactly where everything is, just in case things turn interesting and one has to leave in a hurry,’ came the reply.
The sound of an approaching helicopter caught their attention and that of the four heavies.
Across on Golden Sundancer, a mobile phone started ringing in the cabin where Basel had been stowed. Clive opened the door and pulled the phone out of Basel’s trouser pocket.
It was Jameel. ‘Baz, Jamie here; we’ll be landing in a couple of minutes. The sheikh is most pleased and wants to congratulate you personally. He says he’s looking forward to the London markets reopening tomorrow. And he says by then, he’ll have jumped up the world’s rich list by umpteen places. His positions in Frankfurt and Chicago should also show fantastic profits; he’s going to close all his positions tomorrow and send the markets spiralling down. We’re all going to be fantastically rich it’ll be difficult to count the noughts! Baz, are you there?’Jameel heard the sound of a lavatory flushing and a muffled voice.
Clive hung up and smiled.
The helicopter hovered over the area, next to where the heavies were standing, preparing to land.
Clive and Jim rummaged around in the captain’s and Basel’s cupboards. Jim found a Panama hat and gaudy striped shirt. He slowly took off his top and replaced it with the loud shirt, put the hat on his head and walked up to the stateroom to join Clive, who was wearing the captain’s hat and a tight-fitting white jacket.
They pulled up two chairs and positioned them so that they were partially facing away from the open door, yet would be visible from where the helicopter was landing. They could be seen from the quayside enjoying a drink. It was as though the captain and Basel were casually waiting for their guests to arrive.
Mark and Colin, who had been patiently waiting in the shadows, spoke quietly to each other.
‘I can see my targets, but can’t get near them,’ said Colin.
‘Not much cover to help me either,’ remarked Mark.
A crisp voice from the command centre cut in. ‘If necessary take them out and move on – and provide backup for Jim and Clive. Remember, it is the sheikh and Jameel we want unharmed. If the others get in the way, so be it. Got that?’
Under the noise of the helicopter landing, the quiet pops of the silenced guns were inaudible. The two heavies who had moved back to the nearby buildings slumped to the ground with bullet holes to the chest and forehead.
Rafi winced, but told himself that the stakes were too high for niceties. It all felt a bit unreal.
Mark and Colin shifted their location to get a better line of sight. The rotors were still whirring when the two remaining heavies, with their heads held low, ran forward and opened the side doors. The two bodyguards were the first to step out; they were closely followed by Jameel and the sheikh. The group started walking towards Golden Sundancer. Jameel and the sheikh were at ease, smiling and talking to each other. They didn’t notice anything untoward, until it was too late.
Jim, with the brim of his panama hat pulled down at a jaunty angle and his bright shirt catching the light, waved energetically to Jameel, raised a glass in the air and returned to his conversation with the captain.
Anna and Janet stepped off Puddle Jumper and made their way towards Golden Sundancer with the first aid box. They arrived just before the group from the helicopter. Their flimsy flowing kaftans caught the eye of Jameel, who strolled over to say hello.
Meanwhile, the sheikh and his two bodyguards headed towards the gangway. Then, one of the bodyguards heard the spluttering of silenced gun fire and turned to see the two heavies, who had greeted them, lying on the ground by the helicopter. He let out a loud warning shout and pulled out his gun.
Over the radio came the command from Mark, the closest SAS soldier: ‘They’ve gone hostile. Take them out.’
There was more spluttering of silenced guns. The sheikh’s two bodyguards fell on the spot where they had been standing.
The helicopter pilot, sensing danger, fired up his engine, but wasn’t fast enough. Colin broke cover, sprinted across and with his gun pointing through the window, beckoned the pilot to turn the engine off. The sound from the rotor blades faded.
The sheikh lunged forward to grab his bodyguard’s gun, which was lying nearby on the ground.
‘I wouldn’t do that if I was you,’ warned Clive, who was standing on the gangway, his gun trained on the sheikh. ‘Move once and you lose your manhood; move twice and you lose your mobility!’ The sheikh froze. Clive walked towards him, slowly.
‘What do you want?’ he growled.
‘Maryam sends her best wishes. She’s set you up; her freedom for yours. She has all your account details and, with you behind bars, she gets everything,’ he said, enjoying the wind-up.
‘The devious little harlot,’ spat out the sheikh.
Clive swung him round and secured his hands tightly behind his back with plastic handcuffs. He spoke to the command centre. ‘The sheikh has been apprehended.’
Anna, meanwhile, had been standing less than three metres from Jameel when the shooting started. Jameel stood there, transfixed, watching as those around him fell. He returned his gaze to the beautiful woman standing near him. There, in the palm of her hand was a small shiny revolver.