‘I’m always on my best,’ Eddie replied with a broad grin.
Rajhi did not seem convinced, clearly knowing Eddie’s reputation, but had no choice but to accept his word. ‘Very well. I will have a helicopter take us to Mecca.’
‘Cool. I can play some bingo while I’m there.’ Both Saudis regarded him with vaguely offended bewilderment. ‘British humour,’ he told them. ‘Come on, let’s find this guy.’
The flight from Jeddah to Mecca took Eddie across the desert into the climbing sun. There was little between the two cities except sand and mountain ranges, but even from a distance of twenty miles he could pick out the grey sprawl of Islam’s most holy settlement — and its most grandiose landmark.
‘Is that the clock?’ he asked, pointing at a dark, angular shape rising from the city’s heart.
‘The Abraj Al Bait tower,’ al Farhan told him via his headphones, with distinct pride. ‘The tallest building in Saudi Arabia — and one of the tallest in the world.’
‘Your mates in Dubai have still beaten you, though,’ said Eddie, taking a small amount of pleasure in the Saudi’s annoyance at having his bubble pricked.
‘The Kingdom Tower in Jeddah will soon be taller,’ al Farhan insisted. ‘But the clock tower is still bigger than anything in America. Or England.’
‘Size isn’t everything.’
Rajhi made a muted sound of amusement. ‘I can tell you do not know our country.’
The helicopter passed over the rocky hills west of the city, heading for its centre. The Grand Mosque, to which millions of Muslims made a pilgrimage each year, was clearly visible as a roughly circular complex of buildings surrounding the Kaaba, the cube-shaped structure that was home to the Black Stone. But it was overshadowed — at certain times of day, literally — by a mammoth piece of twenty-first-century engineering.
The Abraj Al Bait was a megastructure in every sense of the word. Over six hundred metres high, it dwarfed the likes of the Empire State Building and even One World Trade Center in New York not only in height but by sheer bulk, its broad base sprouting several smaller — though still skyscraper-tall — towers. The complex was topped by the world’s largest clock, four vast gold-slathered faces displaying the time to all points of the compass. Even from miles away, Eddie could read it clearly; London’s Big Ben was a wristwatch in comparison. The whole structure was a combination of five-star hotels and vast shopping malls, a monument not so much to Allah as Mammon. Only the wealthiest pilgrims could afford to look down upon the Grand Mosque from their suites over a quarter of a mile above.
And it was the helicopter’s destination. Rajhi concluded a brisk discussion over the radio, then addressed Eddie. ‘They think Fisher is at the Fairmont Hotel, in the clock tower,’ he said. ‘They have a copy of the passport he was using, and will have CCTV waiting so that you can identify him.’
‘If you think it’s him, why don’t you just arrest him?’ Eddie asked.
The security official sucked in air through his teeth. ‘The Abraj Al Bait is owned by the government — by the royal family.’ He glanced surreptitiously at his partner. ‘The police do not want to cause a disturbance unless they are absolutely sure there is a threat.’
‘Nobody wants to kick up a stink, right?’ Eddie shook his head. ‘If it’s Fisher and he releases the gas, there really will be a stink.’ He gazed at the approaching colossus, then down to the Grand Mosque. The great courtyard was already filled with pilgrims, slowly circling the Kaaba. ‘If he’s here, why hasn’t he already done it? There are loads of people there — lots of targets. What’s he waiting for?’ He looked back at his companions. ‘What times are your prayers today?’
‘The next salat is at nine minutes past noon,’ said al Farhan.
‘I’d ask what time it is now, but, well…’ He grinned and indicated the clock face, which told him it was ten past eleven, then became more serious. ‘That’s what he’s waiting for. These guys really, really don’t like Islam, so killing a load of Muslims in the middle of praying on their pilgrimage to Mecca would be pretty big for them symbolically.’
‘That only gives us an hour to find him,’ said Rajhi. ‘But what if he has set the gas to be released on a timer?’
‘When we catch him, we will make him tell us where it is,’ al Farhan said ominously.
‘Simeon Fisher is ex-special forces,’ Eddie told him. ‘You won’t break him — not in time. But he’ll probably have the angel with him.’
‘How can you be sure?’ asked Rajhi.
‘He thinks he’s one of the Witnesses from the Book of Revelation. They were killed before the seventh trumpet sounded — and since their boss wants that to happen, they’re probably going to make it a suicide attack. They’ll go out surrounded by their enemies… and take them with them.’
The clock loomed ever larger as the helicopter swung towards a helipad atop one of the lower towers. Up close, the domineering structure was revealed as gaudy, even ugly, traditional Arabian design elements like arched windows simply enlarged and stretched to fit the enormous slab-like walls without any consideration of human scale. Eddie admitted — and had also been told on numerous occasions by his wife — that he lacked taste in matters aesthetic, but even he considered this as tacky and vulgar as the worst excesses of Las Vegas. But he decided to keep his views on architecture from his hosts.
Dust blew from the pad as the chopper touched down — even almost fifty storeys up, the desert still constantly reminded everyone of its presence — and several men ran to meet it, heads low. Al Farhan gripped Eddie’s arm before he could leave his seat. ‘You are an unbeliever in our most holy city,’ he said, eyes narrowed. ‘Do not disrespect it, or us. Remember that.’
‘How about remembering that I’m trying to stop a nutter killing thousands of people?’ Eddie shot back, pulling free.
He stepped on to the helipad, feeling brief vertigo. The clock tower’s summit was well over a thousand feet above him, more than the tallest building in London, but the sight of the surrounding horizon reminded him that he was already several hundred feet up. The disorientation passed, but all the same he fixed his eyes on the new arrivals: officers in the beige uniform and beret of the Saudi police, and two men in Western-style suits who engaged al Farhan in rapid conversation as the group headed for the building’s entrance.
‘This is Mr Essa, the hotel manager,’ Rajhi told Eddie as they filed into an elevator. Essa was the older of the two suited men, a slim, elegant figure with a neatly trimmed grey beard. ‘And Mr Nadhar, chief of security.’
Eddie greeted them. ‘Have you found Simeon Fisher?’
‘That was not the name he was using,’ said Essa. Although he was of Middle Eastern ancestry, he had a distinct French accent. ‘But he appears to be the man you are looking for. He checked in late last night. Mr Nadhar has pictures.’ The elevator started its descent.
The other well-dressed man, somewhat bulkier than his boss, handed out sheets of paper to the visitors. Eddie took a close look. One was a colour photocopy of a passport. The country of origin was Mozambique, the name Samora Costo, but even with the addition of a moustache and beard, Simeon’s face was unmistakable.
Another picture was a still from a lobby security camera. The figure at the reception desk was only small in the frame, but again Eddie recognised the Witness, the identification made easier by the bandage on his hand. ‘That’s him,’ he said.
‘Which room is he in?’ asked al Farhan.
Nadhar checked a list. ‘Room 1416.’