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It was strange, Rocq reflected, but he almost felt sorry for the bastard.

At half-past four, gold had dipped to $578; $129 had been wiped off its value. It was the largest single drop in the price in one day in the history of the metal. The atmosphere in Globalex was funereal. The brokers around Alex were frantically trying to bail their clients out of the gold they had so eagerly urged them into during the boom of the previous days. Rocq was the only one in the room who appeared to be unflustered in his actions.

At a quarter past five, the receptionist rang Rocq to say that Amanda was outside, waiting for him. He cursed. He had forgotten they were driving to a dinner party near Sevenoaks tonight. He buzzed on the intercom up to Elleck’s office. Elleck’s secretary answered; ‘He’s left for the day, Mr Rocq; he wasn’t feeling too well.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Rocq.

He shut his briefcase, picked up his mackintosh, and went out to greet Amanda.

It had rained heavily during the day, and now the late afternoon sun was drying the streets, sending little wisps of steam up. Suddenly, Baenhaker saw Rocq appear; in the same instant, he saw to his horror that Amanda was with him. The two of them stopped at the pavement, then crossed the road and disappeared out of his sight into the ground floor of the car park; Baenhaker heard their footsteps as they began climbing the stairs.

For a moment, he froze, then retreated further up the staircase, in case they missed the floor, which was all too easy, judging by the twenty or so people who had done so during the day. He heard them stop at the second floor; Rocq said something, and Amanda laughed. Baenhaker was seized with more emotions than he knew how to cope with; it had never occurred to him that Amanda might be accompanying Rocq.

‘Let me drive,’ he heard her say.

‘Okay — I’ll get it out the parking lot for you.’

‘Alex Rocq, I am quite capable of reversing a motor car,’ she said indignantly.

‘Okay, okay — I’ll see you out.’

‘Okay — thanks.’

Baenhaker heard the sound of the door open, then shut, then the engine turned over by the starter motor; the fuse would now have been triggered off and in less than two minutes, the car would explode. He heard her second attempt at starting, still to no avail.

‘Pump the accelerator, twice!’ he heard Rocq’s voice, shouting through the window.

Then he heard the engine fire, and the sound of a gear being engaged.

Baenhaker was shaking and sweating; his head was swimming; he couldn’t, not her. Something! He had to do something! Frantically, he pulled the Walther out from inside his jacket, sprinted down the steps; Amanda was in the middle of backing out, and Rocq was anxiously signalling with his hands.

‘Right hand down,’ he coughed, as the exhaust smoke enveloped him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a man sprinting full pelt at him, gun outstretched. He flung himself onto the floor. Baenhaker ignored Rocq, grabbed open the driver’s door. ‘Get out, get out!’ he screamed, hysterically.

‘Danny!’ she screamed in fear, staring frozen at the gun.

Baenhaker grabbed her under the arm, yanked her out of the car and flung her onto the floor; Rocq started to get up.

‘Stay down Alex, he’s got a gun!’ she screamed.

Baenhaker flung himself into the driving seat of the car, crashed the gear into first, and flattened the accelerator. He did not know where he was going, he just knew he had to get the car away from Amanda. He had never driven a Porsche before, let alone a turbo-powered one, and the acceleration took him by surprise. The tail snaked viciously across the concrete floor and he swiped the front of two parked cars, then smashed into the side wall of the exit ramp; he pulled desperately at the steering wheel, but the turbo had now cut fully in, the rear wheels gripped, and the car began to ride up the side of the wall; it crashed down onto its side, rolled onto its roof, and slid crazily down the ramp onto the next floor, slamming into a parked Rolls Royce. Baenhaker tried frantically to orient himself and disentangle himself. He scrambled for the door handle, couldn’t find it, scrabbled more desperately, found a handle, wrenched at it, and heard a smooth whirring sound as the electric motor adjusted the door mirror. Cursing wildly, he moved his hand first up, then downwards, then he found it and pulled; nothing happened. He shoved against the door, desperately; it wouldn’t move; he gave another shove.

Rocq scrambled to his feet. ‘Stay down,’ he shouted at Amanda. He ran after the Porsche then froze in his tracks as he saw it turn on its side and slide down the ramp; it crashed into the Rolls and then rocked to and fro. The figure inside was scrabbling desperately to get out. Suddenly the Porsche leapt several feet into the air; as it fell back down, a sheet of white flame engulfed it. The driver’s door tore off and smashed into the side of a car parked to the left; then the whole Porsche turned into a ball of flame. Rocq heard screams of terror from Amanda; he knelt over the edge of the parapet, and threw up into Lower Thames Street.

32

Ephraim felt relaxed; it was the first time in many days that he had done so. Lasserre was dead and Culundis was dead. He hadn’t yet had the report from Baenhaker about the two in England, but he was no longer concerned about them. He unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk and took out a white envelope, and removed the sheet of paper containing his instructions from his blackmailers. He had already sent a coded message to Joseph Brilej, commander of the 100 sailors he had despatched to Umm Al Amnah, ordering their immediate return. He took out the message he was supposed to have telexed to the leaders of the world’s nations this morning and lit it with the cigarette lighter on his desk. He then carefully mushed to pieces the charred remains. At that moment, the yellow telephone on his desk rang.

The yellow phone linked him directly to certain key members of the Knesset, together with key members of the armed forces. Very few people called him on this phone, as it was kept clear only for use in crises.

‘Ephraim,’ he said.

‘Good morning, General,’ said the unusually grim voice of Commander Yitzak Mehne, Chief of Naval Security.

‘Morning, Yitzi,’ said Ephraim, bullishly. ‘How are you keeping?’

‘Could be better,’ he replied, tersely.

‘What’s your problem?’

‘I don’t know that I have a problem — yet — but there’s something I think you ought to know about just happened in the Persian Gulf — Strait of Hormuz.’

Ephraim’s good cheer drained out of him, like air from a burst tyre. ‘Go on,’ he said.

‘An oil tanker — the Arctic Sundance, on its way up to pick up a cargo — four miles off Goat Island, just blew to smithereens. An incredible explosion — no one ever saw anything like it.’

‘Empty oil tankers often blow up, Yitzi — they get a build-up of gas — they don’t pump it out enough, get an electrical short or something — and bang. I wouldn’t worry about it.’ Ephraim was sweating profusely; he could hardly hold the telephone, his hand was so wet.

‘I agree with you about tankers, Isser, but apparently this explosion was just unbelievable.’

‘I’m not with you.’

‘No one ever saw an explosion like it.’

‘How many of them ever saw a tanker blow up before?’

‘None of them, I shouldn’t think.’

‘So what are they getting so excited about?’

‘There’s a bit of speculation it might have hit a mine, Isser — that’s what they’re getting excited about.’

‘Ridiculous.’

‘That dhow with the four Israeli sailors on it a few weeks ago — the four Israeli sailors and the eight nuclear mines? Remember? Now a tanker suddenly blows up. A lot of people are trying to put two and two together. What are those sailors you got in Amnah up to, Isser?’