‘—Khalifah to Heathrow,’ said William.
‘Where I assume his private jet will be waiting to fly him back to his homeland.’
‘That’s not going to be quite so easy,’ said William defiantly. ‘The plane hasn’t been serviced for over three months and, although the engineers are working flat out, it could be some time before the airport authorities will allow it to take off. Unless, of course, you’re willing to risk your leader’s life?’ he added, taking a calculated risk.
For the first time, Chalabi didn’t respond immediately.
William took advantage of the silence. ‘Once the safety regulations have been carried out, the plane will be refuelled. But we still face the problem of finding a crew who are willing to fly him to Libya. It’s not what one might call a destination of choice.’
‘Stop bluffing, Warwick,’ said Chalabi. ‘I’ll call again in an hour’s time, when I expect...’
‘I’ll need at least four hours before I can be sure everything’s in place.’
‘I’ll give you two, not a minute more. Should His Excellency fail to pick up the phone when I call his private plane in exactly two hours’ time, the executions will begin. I’ll even allow you to listen to Lady Victoria’s final words before she joins Inspector Hogan in the deep.’
The line went dead. William had bought Holbrooke an extra hour, but would it be enough?
Chapter 35
It was still broad daylight when six officers and two dozen hand-picked ratings cast off from the Cornwall in six boats, an hour before the main party were due to depart. Captain Davenport had emphasized during his final briefing that although theirs was a secondary role, it was no less vital if Operation Overboard were to succeed.
An SBS party of fourteen would set off in their RIBs an hour later, and the last to leave would be Davenport and six of his most seasoned operatives in the two helicopters. They would have to time their departure to the minute if they were to take advantage of their most powerful weapon — surprise.
Three unmarked, identical cars stood in line outside the prison gates. Mansour Khalifah sat in the back of the second car. William was in the front passenger seat of the lead vehicle. Beside him, Danny was waiting impatiently for the order to move. They had to be there in an hour and fifty-one minutes, when Chalabi would call the phone on Khalifah’s jet and expect it to be answered by his master.
Remembering Holbrooke’s words — ‘Your single purpose, Warwick, is to buy me time’ — William didn’t want to get there any earlier than necessary, but couldn’t risk being late.
‘What’s the longest it’s ever taken you to get to Heathrow?’ he asked Danny.
‘I once took an hour and a half, guv, but only because there was an accident on the motorway.’
‘Accident or no accident, if you can break that record, I’ll double your overtime.’
‘It’s getting close to rush hour,’ said Danny innocently, ‘so we’re bound to be held up. And I’ll let you into a little secret. The slowest lane out of London before you reach the motorway is always the centre lane, unless you’re approaching a roundabout, when it’s the outside lane.’
A man who normally thought nothing of taking corners at seventy, ignoring red lights or mounting a pavement during a chase, eased the gear lever into first and made his way into the centre lane. He slowed down as he approached the first traffic light and, when it turned amber, he gently touched the brakes. The black cortège made its way towards Heathrow at a funereal pace.
Three RIBs bobbed up and down in the water, waiting for the command to GO.
Davenport checked his watch once again, well aware that sending them off even a minute too early or too late could endanger the whole operation.
At last he slowly raised an arm in the air, as if he were a steward at the start of the university boat race. He waited until he had the attention of all three boat leaders before he brought it firmly down to indicate the off.
The three RIBs began to plough through the waves. The crews of two of them would attempt to board the yacht on the starboard side, seconds after the first helicopter appeared above its stern. The men on the third would have to wait, as they had the most demanding assignment of all, which was why they’d named their skipper ‘The Royal Gillie’.
When Danny finally reached the airport an hour and forty-two minutes later, he took his time locating Khalifah’s plane, despite it being surrounded by a dozen police cars, their lights flashing, with DS Adaja standing on the tarmac, clearly in command, which should have given him a clue.
Once they’d come to a halt, Khalifah remained in the back of his car until the door was opened for him. He stepped out onto the tarmac and said, ‘You couldn’t have taken much longer, Superintendent. For Lady Victoria’s sake, let’s hope Chalabi hasn’t already tried to get in touch with me.’
William knew he still had nine minutes left before Chalabi was due to call, and didn’t comment. He accompanied Khalifah across the runway to his waiting jet. He remained at the bottom of the steps while Khalifah entered the plane, feeling helpless as the door slammed in his face.
Khalifah sank into the large comfortable leather seat and checked his watch. They had used up almost every minute of their two hours.
‘When will we be taking off?’ he asked the stewardess as she poured him a glass of water.
‘They’re just finishing refuelling, sir, so it shouldn’t be too much longer,’ she said as the phone in his armrest began to ring.
The moment the three RIBs were out of sight, Captain Davenport turned and strode towards the helicopter deck, where the two pilots were carrying out their final checks before take-off. His men were pacing up and down like nervous boxers who, having put the gloves on, couldn’t wait to climb into the ring.
Davenport had already been informed that HMS Ursula was patrolling somewhere below the Lowlander, ready to release a torpedo and blow it out of the water if the mission failed. He tried not to think about it.
Davenport was the last man to climb aboard the lead helicopter, and would be the first out. Once he’d strapped himself into his seat, he waited for the second hand on his stopwatch to go twice more around the dial, before tapping the pilot firmly on the shoulder.
The rotor blades revolved faster and faster, until finally the first helicopter slowly lifted off the deck, producing a gush of wind and salt spray that had the maintenance staff shielding their eyes.
The second helicopter followed moments later, and although they would never be more than a hundred metres apart, once they reached the target area they would peel off and go their separate ways.
‘Ten minutes,’ said Davenport, breaking radio silence.
‘Can you make that eleven, sir?’ came back the response from the leader of the RIBs.
‘Wilco.’
As they approached the yacht, the sky grew darker, until the sun finally disappeared below the horizon.
If the phone on the jet wasn’t answered, Chalabi had already decided who would die first. If it was picked up and his leader confirmed that he was about to take off, and looking forward to a hero’s welcome in Tripoli, then all that was left for him to do was carry out the ‘end game’.
Hassan had been chosen to hack off an arm and a leg of the so-called protection officer before he was cast into the waves. She had promised Chalabi that the lady-in-waiting would live long enough to see her lover and join him in the water, so they could share their last few touching moments together. Hassan was looking forward to seeing which of them would drown first. Chalabi intended to make a video of their death throes, so he could enjoy pressing the replay button again and again. Once they were back in Libya, it would be repeated endlessly on Al Jamahiriya television, so the whole world could witness his achievement. A hero in his own country, a villain to the rest of the world. What more could a man ask for?