The gellabbiya completely covers whatever is worn underneath it, but another advantage is that it also enables quite large objects to be concealed about the person. Saadi had no doubt that, when they left the stand, what he and Massood would be carrying would be completely invisible.
Each gellabbiya had an embroidered seam running down the front, from the neckline to the bottom hem, and inside this were strips of Velcro. One firm tug would rip the seam in two, turning the gellabbiya into a cloak with sleeves. More importantly, this action would allow its wearer unrestricted access to whatever was concealed underneath.
Saadi removed his gellabbiya and handed it to Bashar, then lifted up the Kalashnikov, dropped the cord over his head and allowed the weapon to hang,muzzle-down, in front of him. Walking would be a little difficult, with the assault rifle banging against his legs, but Saadi wasn’t planning on walking very far. Massood mirrored his actions and within minutes both men were ready.
Saadi pulled a racing programme from his pocket, checked his watch and did a quick calculation. ‘Detonate the device in exactly eighteen minutes from now,’ he instructed, ‘no sooner, and no later.’
Bashar looked at his own watch and nodded agreement. For a brief instant none of the three spoke or moved, then both Saadi and Massood stepped forward, one after the other, and embraced him.
‘Assalamu alaikum wa barakatuhu wa rahmatulahi, Bas-har,’ Saadi murmured, his voice barely audible.
‘Walaikum assalam, my friends,’ Bashar replied equally quietly. ‘Ma’assalama.’ Go in peace.
Richter and Watkinson arrived at the grandstand only about two minutes after Saadi and Massood had emerged from the maintenance area and vanished into the crowds. ‘Where will the Saudi royals be?’ Richter asked.
‘At the far end, I imagine, in the Del Mar Lounge on the fourth floor.’
‘We’re running out of time — the race starts in about fifteen minutes. We’d better split up. Take the police officer and check the front for an access door to the void under the stand. Carole and I will check the back and meet you in, what, five minutes?’ Watkinson nodded. ‘If you do find a door, don’t open it.’
It didn’t take them long to discover that there were two doors in the rear of the stand, one at each end, bearing notices in English and Arabic. The English said ‘No admittance — maintenance staff only’, and Richter guessed that the Arabic script said pretty much the same thing.
As they reached the far end, Watkinson reappeared with the policeman, both panting slightly in the hot, humid and essentially motionless air. ‘Nothing at the front.’
‘There are two doors in the back wall which may lead into the space under the stand.’ Richter glanced at his watch. ‘You said the Saudis would be watching the race from this end, so my guess is that’s where the bomb will be. And if it is, the one thing we definitely shouldn’t do is kick down that door over there.’ Richter gestured behind him. ‘That would pretty much guarantee that anyone lurking inside will do the Guy Fawkes bit immediately.’
Unsurprisingly, the other door was locked, but they were in no mood to go looking for keys. Richter stood squarely in front of it, waited as the noise of the crowd in the stand above rose to a roar, then raised his right leg.
There’s a technique to breaking down doors, and what you don’t do is charge at it, hitting it with your shoulder. Do that and you’ll just bounce off, at least the first few times, because the whole door will give slightly, dissipating the force of the blow. You need to kick it, hard and focused, and right beside the lock. That way, all the energy of the blow will be concentrated where the door is weakest — the lock itself. On most doors, about half the thickness of the wood is removed to accommodate the lock, severely degrading its structural integrity.
On the first attempt, Richter felt the door give slightly. As his second kick landed, the wood around the lock splintered and the door swung open, crashing back against the interior wall of the maintenance area beyond.
Richter and Watkinson moved forward cautiously, pulling the Brownings from their holsters as they stepped inside. Behind them, the policeman and Jackson followed.
The area was empty, apart from tools and equipment stored in racks and on benches. But at the rear was another door. Richter stepped across, turned the handle and pushed gently. It opened immediately and he glanced into the space beyond, before closing the door again.
‘That leads to the void,’ Richter explained, keeping his voice down. ‘Michael, can you stay here with Carole and Hussein’s man while I look around?’
Watkinson nodded and began speaking in rapid Arabic to the police constable.
Richter opened the door again, just wide enough for him to slip through the gap, and closed it behind him.
For a few moments he paused, letting his eyes become accustomed to the gloom and working out the layout. Vertical girders formed a virtual forest of steel, with struts and cross-braces extending like branches above his head. Cables and pipes ran in all directions, snaking across the floor and up the girders and interior walls of the massive structure. Equipment and machinery squatted on the floor, some silent, but mostly running. Richter guessed these were air-conditioning units because of the massive pipes emerging from them. The constant noise would be a definite help: there was no way anyone inside would hear him moving around, so all he had to do was keep out of sight.
Chambering a round in the Browning, but leaving the safety catch on, he stepped forward cautiously, conscious that somewhere in the echoing space around him one or more terrorists were probably waiting, armed and alert.
Richter moved with infinite care, checking the ground before he took each step to ensure he didn’t trip over anything, but mainly concentrating on the view in front. Every few steps he paused to scan the surrounding girders for packs of explosive or wires.
He saw nothing significant until he almost reached the far end, and even then didn’t see anyone, simply because Bashar was lying prostrate on the ground, hidden from view by some machinery, facing in the direction of Mecca and saying his last, silent prayers. What Richter saw instead was nothing more than a thin red lead that appeared to terminate in a grey-coloured object taped to one of the uprights.
He stopped dead, crouched down and scanned the area carefully. Within a minute he’d spotted three more similar grey lumps. For a moment he didn’t move, then took one cautious step forward before freezing into immobility again.
Directly below the first object he’d spotted, a man suddenly rose into view as if he’d just erupted from the ground. Though he was wearing an overall, Richter didn’t think for a moment that he was an employee of the racecourse.
The human eye is particularly well adapted to detect movement — a hangover from the days when early man shared his world with cave bears and sabre-toothed cats — and so Richter remained precisely where he was. The man didn’t so much as glance in his direction, but looked towards a door in the rear wall. Richter realized immediately that the terrorists had got inside that way.
Richter had the Browning in his hand, but didn’t even consider firing it. The distance between them was at least thirty yards, far too great a distance for pistol shooting. With a rifle Richter could have dropped him in an instant, and would have done without a second thought. For a moment he regretted not asking Watkinson to bring along one of the deer rifles from the embassy, but it was too late for that now.