His ID was checked thoroughly before the official would take him seriously. The most senior members of the royal family were informed first, but that didn’t make much difference. Within seconds, it seemed, everyone in the lounge knew that there was a bomb in the building and all they wanted was to get out. Immediately.
Hussein’s armed officers ensured that the evacuation was relatively orderly, and he’d just managed to get most of them heading towards the exits when he received Watkinson’s call telling him to stop what he was doing. He did his best, and most of the Saudis responded positively, retracing their steps and resuming their seats, but one small group, led by some minor princes, absolutely refused to do anything but leave the building.
And there was nothing Hussein could do to stop them.
Richter opened the external door and looked out. The area beyond was now full of people, which was both a help and a hindrance. It meant their quarry was less likely to see them coming, but would also make it more difficult to spot him.
‘We’re a couple,’ Richter decided, ‘so walk beside me on my right. That should help shield the MP5 from view.’ Jackson linked her arm in his as they joined the edge of a moving throng. ‘Watkinson described this guy as about six feet tall, heavy black beard, white gellabbiya, red and white kaffiyeh, somewhere in front of us. He’s probably wearing a Semtex waistcoat, so we don’t just walk up and tap him on the shoulder.’
‘What do we do, then?’
‘We play it by ear. It depends on where he is and what he’s doing when we see him.’
To their left, a group of young Arabs emerged noisily around the corner of the Millennium Grandstand and began heading in roughly the same direction as Richter and Jackson.
Massood was getting concerned. Nobody resembling any member of the Saudi royal family had yet appeared. There were people surging all around him, and he still believed nobody had realized his intentions, but eventually someone was bound to wonder why he kept pacing up and down in the same spot.
And then, as he turned back again to look towards the grandstand, his face creased into a smile. It wasn’t quite the group he had been hoping for, but he recognized a number of the younger Saudi princes heading his way. Obviously the exodus from the stand was just beginning, so he had only seconds to wait. But then his face darkened, because nobody else was following them.
Suddenly Massood realized they’d failed. The authorities must have killed Bashar and Saadi, and disarmed the bomb. He was all that was left. He was the sole remaining jihadi, and upon his shoulders now rested all the responsibility of this vital Al-Qaeda operation. He had no options left. He made his decision.
He watched the loose band of young Saudi princes get closer, his whole attention focused on them. For Massood, the other people around him had ceased to exist. His left hand crept up to the neckline of his gellabbiya. His finger and thumb closed on the material of the Velcro seam. Just a few more yards and then he would act. A futile gesture, perhaps, but at the very least he would be avenging his fallen comrades.
And then the leading Saudi was directly in front of him, a bare twenty yards away. Now, Massood thought, and pulled his arm down and to the left, ripping the seam apart to reveal the Kalashnikov assault rifle hanging on its cord.
With a great bellow of ‘Allahu Akbar’, he seized the pistol grip with his right hand and swung up the barrel to point at the approaching group, his left hand grasping the fore-end to steady his aim.
‘Oh, shit,’ Richter muttered, breaking into a run. ‘There he is.’
About eighty yards away from them, a man in a white gellabbiya was levelling a weapon at a group of young Arabs directly in front of him. With a clear line of sight, Richter would have opened fire with the MP5 from where he stood, but behind the gunman were throngs of racing enthusiasts, and the risk of hitting one or more of them at that range was too great.
So Richter ran. He pulled his jacket open and grabbed the MP5, swinging it up into the firing position, but he was still too far away, and far too late.
To his right, Carole-Anne Jackson was also running, simultaneously widening the distance between them to ensure she had a clear shot, the Glock in her right hand. But she, like Richter, had no chance of preventing what was about to happen.
Massood took a moment to check his target, then squeezed the trigger of his assault rifle. His ability with the weapon was immediately apparent. Untrained troops tend to hold the trigger down, which means that almost every round except the first three or four will go high and miss the target as the barrel lifts.
Massood had been trained to use the weapon the same way all elite troops are instructed — the so-called ‘double-tap’: two shots; correct aim; then two more shots.
His first two bullets took the leading prince squarely in the chest, then Massood shifted his aim slightly, to seek out another target. The terror in his next victim’s face was palpable, and Massood exulted in that, taking a couple of steps forward. The front of the prince’s gellabbiya suddenly bloomed red and he tumbled backwards. His companions had turned and begun to run, but nobody can outrun a bullet.
Another two rounds screamed through the air, seeking out Massood’s third target. Then two more, and yet another young man slumped forwards, shot in the back, his blood staining the ground all around him.
Massood’s face wore a smile of triumph. This was what he had hoped to do, to help rid Saudi Arabia of the corruption that infested it. He had eyes only for the terrified young men fleeing in front of him, choosing each target and dispatching him with the callous efficiency of an executioner.
Richter stopped, swung up the MP5 and took careful aim. There were still far too many people behind the terrorist, but he couldn’t afford to wait any longer. With every second another innocent victim died. Collateral damage was a risk he was going to have to accept.
A few yards over to his right, Carole-Anne Jackson had obviously reached the same conclusion. At that moment she raised her Glock, took aim and squeezed the trigger.
Massood was shifting his weapon again when he suddenly became aware of the sound of two shots off to his left. A woman seemed to be aiming at him with some kind of a pistol. He hadn’t been hit, though he knew the end was near: sooner or later the police would arrive and then he would die. But that was of no consequence to him as he quickly chose his next victim.
But before he could squeeze the trigger, something slammed into his left side and he staggered backwards. He looked down to see a sudden flare of blood erupting from a tiny hole in his black shirt, just below his shoulder. But his left arm was undamaged, and he still had work to do. He ignored the pain spreading across his body and again took aim at one of the running figures.
And then another sudden stab of pain, and another, and another, and Massood fell sideways, crashing to the ground. Surely it couldn’t just be the woman, not with that pathetic little pop-gun. He raised his head and looked up. A tall man with fair hair and blue eyes was running towards him, a sub-machine-gun clutched in his hand.
Massood’s strength seemed to be ebbing, his vision clouding, and now there was a roaring in his ears. With the last of his strength he pulled the Kalashnikov across his body, aiming it at the approaching man.