Richter started to run, leaping over pipes and dodging around the humming and roaring equipment, his entire attention concentrated on finding a position from which he could kill the man he’d just wounded. But, even as he began to move he realized that nothing short of a miracle would prevent the terrorist from triggering the bomb.
Bashar was not the most intelligent of people, but he was a slow and reliable worker, within his limitations. This was why Saadi had selected him to detonate the explosives, rather than position him somewhere outside the stand with an assault rifle.
For a second or two, Bashar squatted on his haunches, trying to comprehend what had just happened. He’d heard a noise from the workshop but the shots had come from his left, from within the void, which meant there were at least two opponents after him. He assumed they were the Dubai police.
He dragged his eyes away from his shattered right arm, blood pumping from the wound, and looked at the Kalashnikov lying on the ground beside him. The stock was ruined, the wood splintered and its rear section severed, but because the AK47 has a pistol grip it could still be fired. And beyond the assault rifle lay the plastic box, the light still glowing, so he knew he could complete his task. He glanced at his watch. He had less than thirty seconds before the time Saadi had told him to fire the explosives.
To his left, even over the noise of the machinery around him, he could hear the sound of running footsteps. Bashar reached down with his left hand and picked up the Kalashnikov by the pistol grip. It was awkward to handle: the heavy weapon was designed to be fired two-handed, and its natural balance had now been destroyed. Gritting his teeth with the pain, he aimed in the direction where he’d heard the footsteps, raised his arm slightly and pulled the trigger, sending a long burst of 7.62 millimetre bullets screaming across the top of the machinery beside him and deep into the void.
Richter saw the Kalashnikov the moment Bashar raised it, and immediately threw himself flat on the ground, rolling to one side and into the cover provided by a solid chunk of machinery. He had hoped his bullet might have wrecked the assault rifle, but that clearly hadn’t happened. But at least the terrorist hadn’t pressed the button to fire the explosives. Yet.
Bashar hadn’t expected his shots to hit any of his attackers, but he guessed that they would now approach him more slowly and cautiously. He dropped the Kalashnikov and scrambled across towards the black plastic box.
His right arm was a throbbing, bloody mess, but all he needed to do was press the button, and that he could manage in an instant. He reached out. His finger was less than six inches away when he was suddenly aware of movement to his right.
He glanced up. Subconsciously he’d been expecting to see a Dubai police officer, but the figure in front of him was a woman. Not only that, but a woman wearing Western-style civilian clothes. The sight was so unexpected that he paused, stopping the movement of his left hand, and stared up at her. Then he registered two other things: she was smiling slightly, and the black object she was pointing at him was a pistol.
For the briefest instant, time seemed to stand still and then, with a sudden grunt of rage, Bashar lunged for the box.
Chapter Seventeen
A hundred yards from the stand, Saadi took his eyes off the track, where the horses competing in the World Cup race were thundering towards him, and glanced down at his watch. Less than ten seconds to go. He turned away and began pushing through the crowd towards the stand, his left hand in the pocket of his gellabbiya supporting the Kalashnikov so that he could walk more easily.
He needed to be sufficiently far away from the blast that he wouldn’t get hit by flying debris, but close enough to have only a short distance to run before he could start using his assault rifle. He stopped about sixty yards from the stand, and waited. Twenty yards to his right, Massood also stood ready. Behind them, the roar of the crowd grew in intensity as the horses raced towards the finish line. As the second hand of his watch swept round, the two men braced themselves.
The moment Bashar’s fusillade ceased, Richter started moving. He glanced over the air-conditioner, then ran towards his target, taking advantage of every scrap of cover. He stopped about fifteen feet short of his objective and took in the scene before him.
Carole-Anne Jackson was standing a few feet inside the void, the workshop door open, her legs apart, both arms outstretched in front of her, aiming her Glock straight at the man on the floor. The terrorist seemed to be frozen in place but, even as Richter stepped forward, he suddenly shouted and lunged. Jackson didn’t hesitate for a moment, squeezing the trigger three times in quick succession, just as Richter fired the MP5 on full auto.
Caught in the crossfire, Bashar never stood a chance. Jackson’s first two nine-millimetre bullets smashed into the right side of his chest, tumbling him sideways. The Glock’s muzzle had lifted with each shot, and her third bullet missed the target. But that didn’t make any difference. Richter’s five-round burst caught the Arab in the head and back as he fell sideways, away from the plastic box, and he was dead even before he stopped moving.
Jackson stood still, her pistol still pointing at the motionless and untidy heap of flesh and bone that until two seconds earlier had been a living human being, but she was looking everywhere except at the body.
‘Any more of these bastards in here, you reckon?’ she called out, her voice steady.
‘No,’ Richter replied, trotting forward to confirm that Bashar was as dead as he looked. ‘He was the trigger-man, just in here to press the button. Three people arrived in Dubai with Shaf, so there’ll be a couple of shooters outside, ready to finish the job, but there was only a single shahid.’
As Richter bent over the fallen man, Jackson lowered her pistol until it pointed at the ground. Then she spun round as she heard a faint noise behind and slightly to her left, bringing the pistol up again. Simultaneously, Richter stepped away from Bashar’s body and brought the MP5 to bear.
Saadi waited expectantly, then tensed as, over the roar of the crowd, he heard several sharp but muted bangs. They were difficult to hear clearly, but to Saadi — who had considerable experience in the field — the noises sounded remarkably like sub-machine-gun fire. And that, he guessed immediately, meant something had gone wrong.
He glanced over at Massood, who was eyeing him with a peculiar intensity, then moved across to join him.
‘Something’s wrong,’ Massood said softly, confirming what Saadi was thinking.
‘I know.’ Saadi looked again at his watch. ‘He should have triggered the weapon by now. The police or security guards must have discovered him.’
‘He had his weapon. He could have killed his attackers.’
‘He could, but I doubt it. If he was still able, he would have fired the charges by now. I think he’s been captured or killed.’
‘Can’t we launch our attack immediately?’
Saadi looked at him, then pointed at the stand towering above them. ‘Even if we both fired our weapons, the most we’d achieve would be to break a few windows. No, whatever happens we must trigger that device. That’s the only sure way of completing our mission. You wait here and prepare yourself. I will go inside and fire the charges. I will not be coming out again. In’shallah.’
‘Ma’assalama, Saadi,’ Massood murmured, as his companion strode away.