At first, it looked as if Bashar had simply walked away, leaving the device ready to be detonated, but Saadi knew that couldn’t have happened. Like the other jihadis selected for this vital mission, Bashar was dedicated and totally committed. He would never abandon his place of duty.
That meant Bashar had been captured or was lying dead somewhere nearby. Perhaps, Saadi suddenly thought, the man he’d seen emerging was some kind of undercover agent who’d killed Bashar and gone for help in dismantling the bomb. That simple explanation covered the facts as he now saw them, but alternatively there might be groups of armed men waiting in the gloom, ready to shoot him down the moment he approached.
But Saadi had no option: he had to try, had to make the attempt. He took a firm hold of the pistol grip of the Kalashnikov, looked carefully all around him, and began inching his way forward, heading for the firing box, its red light like a beacon, drawing him in.
Richter watched the other man’s careful approach. His target was obviously very alert, head and eyes in constant motion, the Kalashnikov swinging in an arc to cover the maximum area in front of him. Richter knew that as soon as he stood up, as he would have to for a clear shot, he’d be seen immediately and dragged into a fire-fight. Better to wait until his quarry got closer, when he would reach the firing box and see what was left of Bashar.
Saadi stopped moving as he reached the edge of the relatively open area where they’d prepared the charges. Huddled on one side was a dark, unmoving shape, a Kalashnikov with half its stock missing lying close by, and Saadi knew without doubt that Bashar had not run, had not left his post. He’d been cut down before he could complete his mission.
No matter. The wires were still in place, the firing box just an arm’s length away. It would be the work of a moment to both avenge Bashar and topple the House of Saud.
With a muttered prayer, and almost without conscious thought, Saadi leant the Kalashnikov against a pillar and reached out for the box. He quickly checked that the wires were securely attached, looked up at the explosive charges taped to the girders, and rested his finger on the button.
He bowed his head and mouthed ‘B’ism-Illah-ir-Rachmani-ir-Rachim’, then took a last look around him. He glanced down at the plastic box, called out ‘Abdubaha’ in a voice that was almost a shout, closed his eyes and pressed the button.
Nothing happened for a couple of seconds, then a quiet voice from directly behind him said ‘Bang’. Just as Saadi started to turn, a huge weight seemed to crash into the top of his skull and blackness supervened.
Richter checked the unconscious man in front of him, removed the Browning pistol from his waistband and put it into his own pocket. Then he stepped across to where Saadi had placed the Kalashnikov, picked it up and moved it well out of the way.
Carole-Anne Jackson watched him. She’d emerged from the workshop as soon as Saadi had shouted out, but by the time she stepped into the darkness, the Arab was already unconscious, the iron bar Richter had found ensuring instant and prolonged oblivion.
He went back to his victim and checked the Arab’s pulse.
‘Will he live?’ Jackson asked.
‘Maybe, but I don’t much care either way. Right, that’s two down, one to go.’
To one side of the Millennium Grandstand, Massood watched and waited. He didn’t know how long it would take Saadi to trigger the bomb, but he was already worried. Above him he could see the unmistakable signs of a controlled evacuation. Uniformed police officers and racecourse officials were clearly visible, leading people away from the windows. As long as Saadi could detonate the explosives within two or three minutes, they might still achieve their objective, but if he delayed any longer, their principal targets would almost certainly escape.
Again he checked his watch, then made a decision. He would have to act independently. He moved away, heading for a point behind and to one side of the Millennium Grandstand, where anyone leaving the building would have to pass.
‘Right,’ Richter said. ‘I’ll sort out this bastard, then we’ll wrap this up.’
He pulled down one of the wires still connecting the firing box and the plastic explosive, heaved Saadi on to his front and lashed his wrists together. Then he tied the unconscious man’s legs to a thick steel pipe so that, even if he woke up, he wasn’t going anywhere. He removed the magazine from each of the Kalashnikovs, emptied the shells into his pocket and cleared the breeches on both weapons. He took off his light jacket, slung the MP5 with its stock folded over his right shoulder, then pulled the jacket back on. The small submachine gun created a bulge in the fabric, but no part of it was actually visible.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s go outside and finish this.’
Unnoticed by Massood, Michael Watkinson stood beside a group of people in Western dress about seventy yards away and watched him. The lone Arab met most of the criteria Richter had told him to watch out for: the frequent glances at his watch and his constant study of the grandstand, and he was walking in a peculiar, stiff-legged way that suggested he had something concealed under his gellabbiya. Watkinson pulled out his mobile and pressed a speed-dial code.
Richter’s phone was on vibrate and silent, and immediately he felt the tremor in his pocket he pulled it out.
‘I’ve spotted one character who doesn’t look like he belongs,’ Watkinson said, and then described the man.
‘That could be contestant number three,’ Richter said. ‘Where is he now?’
‘Hanging around at the rear of the stand.’
‘He’s probably guessed their bomb isn’t going to blow, so he’s going to gun down the Saudis as they leave. Contact Hussein and tell him to stop the evacuation. We’ve disarmed the bomb, so now they’re safer inside the stand than out of it.’
‘What about this man?’
‘Don’t worry. Carole and I will take care of him.’
Massood glanced around, alert for trouble, but saw nobody who caused him any concern. Anyone wanting to leave the Millennium Grandstand would have to pass within fifty yards of where he was standing. At that range, with a fully loaded Kalashnikov and two spare magazines, he could do a lot of damage.
‘We’re going to do what?’ Jackson demanded, as Richter ended the call.
‘We’ll go outside, find this Arab and take him down.’
‘I don’t think your Mr Watkinson is all that sharp at this kind of thing. Are you sure he’s identified the right man?’
‘No, but he’s the best lead we’ve got. The racecourse is full of people, so we can’t go charging out there waving assault rifles. You’ve reloaded your pistol?’
Jackson stared at him. ‘Basic handgun one oh one. Of course I’ve reloaded it. What do you think I am — some kind of fucking amateur?’
‘Just checking.’ Richter smiled apologetically.
Inspector Hussein wasn’t having an easy time. Simply getting inside the Millennium Grandstand was tricky, because the staff, used to local police officers waving their identity cards as a way to avoid the inconvenience and expense of buying tickets, initially refused him admittance. Not having time to argue, he overcame that hurdle by simply drawing his pistol and marching straight past, followed by his group of armed officers.
All the members of the Saudi royal family at the meeting were watching the racing from the Del Mar Lounge, which had been reserved for their personal use. Hussein again found his way barred, but this time by a group of bodyguards, and he had to wait until a palace official was found before he could explain his mission.