His right forefinger was taking up the pressure on the trigger when a shadow fell across him and he looked up to see the last sight he would ever see. There was a woman standing over him — and, just like Bashar in the dark emptiness under the grandstand, his immediate reaction was one of fury. How dare a woman have the temerity to interfere with the work of men, or obstruct his holy mission?
And then he didn’t think anything else at all, as Carole-Anne Jackson blasted two nine-millimetre rounds through his head.
Chapter Eighteen
There were already two ambulances on standby at the racecourse, there to minister to jockeys who became separated from their mounts rather than the victims of gunshot wounds. Half a dozen others appeared within minutes.
The tally of dead and wounded was depressing, but it could have been a lot worse. Four young Saudi princes were dead, the Kalashnikov rounds fired at such close range having done horrendous damage to their bodies, and three others had been wounded, but they would probably live.
Two terrorists were dead, and nobody seemed particularly bothered about that. The third was unconscious, though it wasn’t clear if he’d ever come round. Nobody was worried about him, either.
But three innocent bystanders had been hit by stray bullets, fired by either Richter or Jackson. Although they were in no danger from their wounds, the fact that they’d been shot at all looked like being the biggest problem of the afternoon.
‘I’m going to have to kick this up a level or two,’ Watkinson warned, ‘and it’s possible you’ll face charges here in Dubai. They take a very dim view of people carrying firearms, and an even dimmer view of innocent civilians getting wounded.’
‘Oh, magic,’ Jackson muttered. ‘I’ve just remembered what I really like about Arabs — absolutely fucking nothing.’
‘I think it’s called gratitude,’ Richter said, his voice low and angry. ‘If we’d just sat around back at the hotel and left them to it, they’d be looking at a fucking great hole in the ground where the Millennium Grandstand used to be, and wondering how to explain to the people of Saudi Arabia that most of their royal family would be coming back home in boxes. Sodding ingrates. I’m going to call Simpson.’
He called Hammersmith on his Enigma phone. ‘I need to give you a SITREP,’ he explained. ‘We’ve got a few problems over here.’ Quickly he outlined what had happened.
‘You’re sure there aren’t any more of them waiting in the wings clutching Kalashnikovs or packs of Semtex?’
‘No, I’m not sure, but I doubt it. Three men travelled out to Dubai with the horse, and we’ve got two dead terrorists here and one with a really bad headache. Unless some others came by a different route, I reckon that’s it. And if there are any others, why haven’t they popped out by now, guns blazing?’
‘Right,’ Simpson sounded pleased, ‘a shame some of the local civilian population got mildly ventilated, but overall it’s a good result, and it does close the loop on what Khatid reported. Anything else?’
‘Yes. According to the local Six officer, we’re quite likely to find ourselves in court on firearms charges. Carole-Anne Jackson is authorized to carry a weapon here in the Gulf, so she’s fire-proof from that point of view, but I’ve been toting a couple of Browning Hi-Powers all day and I also borrowed an MP5 from a local cop. And both of us fired a whole bunch of shells at the last bad guy, only some of which hit him.’
Simpson was silent for a moment. ‘I know the way you operate, Richter. When you said “borrowed”, can I assume that the police officer didn’t have too much say in the matter?’
‘Not a lot, no.’
‘He is alive, though? I mean, you didn’t kill the poor sod just to take his gun off him?’
‘Of course not. He’s just got a bit of a headache.’
‘So the short version is that you were using an unlicensed firearm and a trio of local Dubai residents got wounded when you two took these terrorists down. Which of you shot these civilians?’
‘We don’t really know. Jackson fired three times, but thinks she only hit the terrorist once. I fired six rounds from the MP5, and I reckon three of those got him. So at least one of the injured civilians is down to me, but it could have been all of them.’
‘Understood. Right, it shouldn’t be too much of a problem.’
Richter ended the call and looked at Watkinson. ‘One of the few good things about working for Richard Simpson is that he always does what he says he’ll do.’
‘And he’s going to sort it out?’
Richter nodded. ‘He’ll sort it out.’
Inspector Saeed Hussein appeared beside them,flanked by three police officers, one of whom conspicuously wasn’t armed with a Heckler & Koch MP5.
‘Here,’ Richter said. He unslung the weapon, removed the magazine and ejected the loaded round from the breech. He passed the sub-machine-gun and magazine to the officer, who took them in a somewhat shamefaced manner.
‘We owe you our thanks,’ Hussein began. ‘If you hadn’t guessed what was happening, this could have been a total disaster.’
‘I’m glad we could help stop it,’ Richter said. ‘So what now?’
Hussein looked slightly embarrassed. ‘I’m afraid I must ask both of you not to leave Dubai until further notice. My superiors have issued specific instructions to me, and there may be certain legal repercussions as a result of the events of this afternoon.’
‘I think, Inspector,’ Watkinson said, ‘that your superiors may be getting a call quite soon that should clarify the situation.’
An hour later they were back in the British Embassy at Al-Seef Road, where Richter handed back the two Browning pistols, and the silenced Hi-Power that he’d taken off the terrorist. ‘Call it a souvenir, Michael,’ he said.
‘What are you going to do now?’ Watkinson asked.
‘Neither of us can leave Dubai, at least for a while, so I guess we’ll just take in some of the sights. If you need me, you’ve got my mobile number. Whatever happens, I’m going to stay out here for a few days and take it easy. I think Simpson owes me that much.’
The last casualty on the list of priorities for the ambulance crews was the sole surviving terrorist, who still lay unconscious under the grandstand.
Inspector Hussein led two of his men into the void, accompanied by a police photographer who’d been summoned to take pictures of the explosive charges before they were removed. Only after that had been completed did he allow the paramedics and mortuary staff into the building to remove the unconscious Saadi and the remains of Bashar.
He’d already received detailed instructions from an angry superior officer about the disposal of the bodies of the two dead terrorists. Both would be taken out into the desert that same evening, where a digger was already en route, and would be dumped without ceremony at the bottom of a substantial hole, into which would also be slung the carcasses of two large pigs. The pit would then be filled in and left unmarked.
In the meantime, the unconscious man was to be taken to the Al-Wasl Hospital on Oud Metha Road in Bur Dubai for emergency treatment. If he survived his injury, special plans had also been made for him.
Responding to a call for ‘Grant Hutchings’, Dawson took the lift down to the lobby, where Hussein was waiting for him, a smile on his face.
‘I have some good news for us both, Agent Hutchings. Have you heard what happened this evening at the Nad Al-Sheba racecourse?’ When the American shook his head, he continued. ‘Let me buy you a drink and I’ll explain.’