‘Muharraq,’ Carole-Anne Jackson breathed.
‘Exactly,’ Evans said. ‘Bahrain is the only Gulf State where the airport is located on an offshore island. That’s precisely why they think we’re in the firing line.’
‘Still sounds like bullshit to me,’ Richter muttered, ‘but I suppose we’ll have to go through the motions. Do you have procedures for this? Like a street-clearance plan that the local police implement?’
Evans shook his head. ‘As far as we know, they don’t have any contingency plans like that, simply because there’s never been any need for one before. All we can do — in fact what we’ve done already — is tell them what we think we know.’
‘You didn’t say where you got the information from, I hope?’
‘No way,’ said Evans with a grin. ‘We don’t want our friends to think we spend our time here reading fucking tea leaves and decoding cats’ entrails. We just told them the tip-off came from an anonymous source, and left it at that.’
‘And what are they going to do?’
‘Probably not a lot. They’ll put more police on the streets, I suppose, and they’ll check out any cars that fit the profile we’ve supplied, but realistically it’s needle-in-a-haystack time. There are cars parked all over Manama on roads that fit Holden’s description and any one of them could be the bomb vehicle. That’s always assuming this guy isn’t just yanking our chain for reasons of his own.’
‘Amen to that,’ Richter said. ‘So what do you want me to do?’
‘The same as the local plods. Caxton wants us out there on the streets, keeping our eyes open. We’ll operate in pairs — one driving, the other watching, mobile phones switched on. The local SIS — the Bahraini outfit — is involved as well, and Tariq Mazen will be here any minute to pick me up. Are you happy to partner Carole?’
‘Of course. And if we spot something?’
‘Retreat to a safe distance and call it in. There’s a bomb squad here, but I don’t know how good their people are. I suppose this is one way of finding out.’
Carole-Anne Jackson swung the BMW out of Government Avenue, heading for King Faisal Highway.
‘I’ve said it before,’ Richter remarked, ‘but I still think we’re wasting our time.’
‘So how’s Holden doing it?’ she asked. ‘From the reports I read, he definitely predicted the Syrian suicide bombing.’
‘He predicted a suicide bombing, without a doubt,’ Richter conceded, ‘but whether his prediction actually involved Damascus is another matter.’
‘Well, most of the details were pretty much on the money, and he even got the bomber’s name almost right.’
‘Yes, but Assad isn’t exactly an uncommon Arab name. I’d have been a lot more impressed if the shahid had been named Winston Churchill or something really unusual, and Holden had known that. Where are we going now, by the way?’
‘If there is a genuine car bomb, I doubt if we’ll find it in this area, but Caxton wanted all the roads covered. So we’re going to drive out to the west side of Manama, and then start working our way down through the more likely locations — meaning the streets where a car could be parked in the same spot for a couple of days without attracting too much attention.’
‘Do you have any favourite locations?’
‘You mean where would I choose to leave a car bomb if I was a nasty Arab terrorist instead of a career officer in the internationally renowned Central Intelligence Agency?’
‘You could have given me the short version but, yes, that’s exactly what I mean.’
‘Probably somewhere in the Kanoo, Fadhel or Ras Rummaan areas.’
Jackson’s mobile phone rang, and Richter answered it. Julian Caxton’s voice was perfectly clear, and there was no mistaking the urgency in his tone. ‘The Bahraini police have located a possible suspect vehicle. A large American saloon parked in Qassim Al-Mehze, near the Al-Jazira Hotel. Please investigate it and report back.’
‘Right.’ Richter said, ending the call. ‘The Al-Jazira Hotel,’ he instructed, and Jackson immediately increased speed. ‘That was Caxton,’ he explained. ‘The local plods have found a possible device in the vicinity. We’ve drawn the short straw, but at least he said “please”.’
‘He always does. He may be a bit of an old woman, but at least he’s a polite old woman.’
The suspect vehicle was in fact some distance from the Al-Jazira, near the junction of Qassim Al-Mehze with Tujjaar, but that didn’t matter because there were two Bahraini police cars parked to bracket the target, and in the process they were also blocking the road.
Jackson eased to a stop and they climbed out. She identified herself to the police officers, then beckoned Richter forward. He followed her and they stopped a few feet short of two other officers, who were peering through the windows of a cream-coloured Buick saloon.
‘That’s not the smartest move if there is an IED in that car,’ Richter observed.
‘True, but irrelevant. If it blows now, none of us would survive. Let’s just see what they’ve found and then get the hell away from here.’
Richter looked into the car. It was immediately apparent what had made the police suspicious. On the rear seat lay two closed, square cardboard boxes, and between them a coil of wire and assorted tools. Below the wire he could just make out one corner of a dry-cell battery. He looked carefully for a few seconds more, then turned to Jackson.
‘This isn’t it,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘There’s no bomb in this car. My guess is it’s owned by a part-time electrician. Those two boxes are probably full of switches or sockets or bulbs or something. What they’re absolutely not full of is explosive.’
‘How do you know? Are you sure?’
‘I know something about IEDs. I also know something about the mentality of your typical terrorist,’ Richter said. ‘If there is a car bomb here somewhere, you probably won’t be able to see it through the car window because it’ll be hidden in the boot or under a seat. And if it is in plain view it’ll be inside a box or a suitcase, something like that. You definitely won’t be able to see a battery and coils of wire.’
Jackson studied him for a few moments. ‘You’re positive?’ she asked.
‘Absolutely,’ Richter nodded. ‘I still don’t think there’s a bomb here at all, but if there is one, this thing definitely isn’t it.’
As he spoke the last word, there was a thunderous, echoing bang that seemed to shake the very ground they were standing on, and a billowing plume of dust rose from a nearby street.
‘Told you so,’ Richter said, already running back towards the BMW. ‘At least I was half right.’
On the eastern outskirts of Dubai, the three Arabs sat inside the Renault. Massood was running through the list of equipment they would need to assemble the following day.
‘We need three or four bags to carry everything. We’ll also need dark clothing — Western-style would be best. Everything black — trousers, shirts, even sports shoes. And then two rope ladders for the fence.’
‘Wouldn’t it be easier simply to cut through it?’ Bashar asked.
‘It would be easier, yes, but we dare not leave any trace of our presence there. That means we must go over the fence,’ Saadi said. ‘Now, do we have enough wire?’
‘I believe so,’ Massood replied, ‘because all the packages will be positioned so close together. We should assemble a small toolkit, though. We’ll need things like tape, sharp knives, pliers and wire-strippers.’