The man in overalls looked at his watch, then turned away slightly. As he did so, Richter quickly squatted down, below the man’s line of sight. For a moment he just listened, alert to any sound that could indicate that he’d been spotted.
He risked a quick glance around the side of the air-conditioning unit in front of him. The man in overalls hadn’t moved, so Richter did. Still in a crouch, he turned and looked back towards the workshop where he’d come in, checking for any obstructions in his path. Then, still half-bent, he retraced his steps, moving more quickly the further away he got.
At the door to the workshop he looked back, but there was no sign of pursuit, no indication that he’d been detected. Richter opened the internal door and slipped into the maintenance area.
Jackson and Watkinson were standing beside a bench on one side of the workshop, the police officer on the opposite side, both men covering the door with their weapons. As Richter appeared, Watkinson lowered his pistol and flicked on the safety catch.
‘There’s at least one Arab, or someone dressed like one, at the far end of the stand, and I saw enough explosive to bring down a big chunk of the building. I didn’t see a timer, so I guess the man himself is the trigger.’ Richter noticed Watkinson glancing at his watch. ‘How long have we got?’
‘None, practically. The race will be starting in about four minutes.’
‘Right. I can’t take this guy by myself, because I can’t get close enough to be certain of hitting him with my first shot. And if I miss, he’s not going to bother shooting back — he’ll just fire the bomb.’
‘So you need a distraction to ensure he looks the other way?’
Richter nodded. ‘Yes. In fact, I need two things. You’ll have to distract his attention — just going into the other maintenance area and opening the inside door should do that. Second, I need a better weapon.’ He glanced over at the policeman.
‘That might be difficult,’ Watkinson replied, keeping his voice low. ‘You’ve got no legal standing here. Taking a Dubai police officer’s MP5 isn’t going to help your situation.’
For a brief moment Richter just stared at him, then crossed over to the police officer.
As if choreographed, Carole-Anne Jackson moved over to the internal door. When she got there, she bent forward as if to pick something off the ground, her skirt riding high up her thighs. The police officer’s eyes widened in a mix of lust and disbelief as he watched her, and at that instant Richter moved.
He smashed his fist into the man’s stomach, just above his belt. The officer gasped and folded forward. Richter stepped back and brought the side of his hand down in a short jab to the back of his neck. The man collapsed to the floor, unconscious.
‘Nicely done, Carole.’ Richter reached down, rolled the constable on to his back and relieved him of his Heckler & Koch.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s sort this bastard out.’
Watkinson stared across the workshop, his eyes flicking between Richter, Jackson and the unconscious policeman. ‘Jesus Christ. Tact and diplomacy aren’t exactly your middle names, are they?’
‘We don’t have time to fuck about. We’ve got less than five minutes to stop these Arabs blowing this whole place straight to hell. A cop with a headache doesn’t matter. Now, you and Carole get round to the other door as quickly as you can. Call Hussein immediately and tell him there is a bomb, so he must get the Saudis out. By the time you reach the door, I should be close enough to take this guy. Just go into the workshop and make a bit of noise, bash something with a hammer, then push the interior door open. I’ll take care of it from there.’
Watkinson hurried across to the outside door, Jackson following. Richter crossed to the other one, opened it and slipped back into the void, the MP5 slung over his shoulder, cocked and ready to fire, the bolt closed.
Bashar checked his watch again. He had less than three minutes to wait before he depressed the button on the firing box. In less than two hundred seconds, the corrupt House of Saud would effectively cease to exist. And that same instant would be the culmination of his life’s ambition, when he would, in one glorious instant, leave his imperfect corporeal form behind and be immediately reborn in the divine presence of Allah.
The Prophet Muhammad and the chouriyat beckoned him. He reached down to pick up the small black box, holding it with a sense almost of wonderment. It seemed bizarre that a battery, a few ounces of plastic and a handful of electronic components could achieve so much within a single instant. With one movement of his finger he would change history, cleanse the holy land of Saudi Arabia, and ensure himself a place in paradise for all eternity. He truly was the instrument of Allah.
Richter retraced his steps through the darkness as quickly as he could. He had to be in position before Watkinson started his diversion in the workshop. It helped that this time he knew exactly where he was going. He also knew that the Arab should be in much the same place as before, preparing to detonate the charges.
Less than a minute later, Richter was again crouching behind the roaring air-conditioner. His target was plainly visible, standing amid a group of girders with packs of explosive attached. But what grabbed Richter’s attention now was what the man was holding.
It was a small black box, perhaps the size of two packs of cigarettes which, in any other context, would have looked entirely innocent. But Richter knew it was the detonator. And the fact that the terrorist was now holding it clearly meant he was ready to press the button.
Richter guessed he had seconds at best to take the Arab down.
There was a sudden roar above Bashar’s head as the spectators in the stand started yelling and shouting enthusiastically, and he instinctively looked up. That meant the World Cup race had just started, so only a minute to go. He lifted the box to chest-height and flicked the switch. Instantly the red light glowed, indicating everything was ready. All he had to do now was press the button.
‘Allahu Akbar,’ he murmured, and at that moment he heard a loud bang from somewhere nearby. It took him a moment to realize it had come from the workshop. Probably someone collecting a piece of equipment, Bashar guessed, then he smiled. Whoever it was had picked the wrong moment, as he would very soon find out.
But then the connecting door swung open, crashing back on its hinges.
Bashar reacted immediately. Ducking down, he put the box on the ground and stood up again, the Kalashnikov in his hands pointing straight at the workshop doorway.
The moment Bashar dropped out of sight, Richter ran forward, closing the distance between them. He’d covered less than five yards when the Arab stood up again, the assault rifle pointing away from him towards the sounds he had just heard.
Richter didn’t hesitate. In one fluid movement he brought the Heckler & Koch up to eye-level and squeezed the trigger.
The light was poor, Bashar was about twenty-five yards away, and Richter had never fired that particular weapon before, which explained why the first two shots of his three-round burst missed completely. But the third bullet hit home, smashing into the stock of the Kalashnikov. It splintered the wood, knocking the assault rifle to one side, and then passed clean through Bashar’s right forearm, kicking him backwards.
The big Arab howled with pain and shock, dropped the damaged weapon and clutched at his wounded arm. He stood upright for only moments, before dropping down out of sight, and Richter guessed that he was still going to try to detonate the explosives. And there wasn’t a thing he could do to stop him, because the ground between them was littered with heavy machinery. As long as the terrorist stayed low, he was invisible and invulnerable.