Scott Mariani
Passenger 13
CHAPTER ONE
It was a sunny June afternoon as the man walked into Selfridges via the Duke Street entrance and made his way through the bustling crowds to the restaurant and champagne bar overlooking the accessory hall.
If anyone had been paying close attention to him, they would have seen a man somewhere in his thirties or early forties, lean, neatly but unobtrusively dressed in a crisp dark suit. He had the bronzed complexion and jet-black hair of a Middle-Easterner; silk shirt, navy tie, gleaming patent leather shoes. The hand holding the calf-leather briefcase wore a large gold ring, but other than that there was nothing too ostentatious or especially noticeable about him.
It was 1.15 and the restaurant was filled with shoppers, tourists, people on lunch breaks. The man took a seat at the edge of the restaurant and slid his briefcase under the table by his feet. When the waiter came he was warm and friendly. From the lunch menu he ordered crispy baby squid with wild garlic mayonnaise, then for a main course a pan-fried fillet of Scottish salmon with kale and shrimps on the side. As he ate his lunch calmly, washing it down with a half bottle of good white wine, he watched the people come and go. A small group of Japanese tourists settled at a table to his left, surrounded by bulging shopping bags; to his right a young couple with their two small children, speaking French and scouring a London travel guide.
The man watched the little boy and girl. He smiled and went on eating. When he’d finished, he looked at his watch, picked up his case, and paid a visit to the bathroom. He was gone three minutes. When he returned, he settled his lunch bill in cash and then left.
And if anyone had been paying close attention to him, they would have seen that he’d left the gents’ without his briefcase.
The man was on the corner of North Audley Street and Green Street when he took out the mobile phone and dialled in the number that sent an electronic signal to the remote detonator. The case was packed with an expertly-prepared combination of RDX nitroamine high explosive and other substances that together were designed to produce a blast greater than a powerful car bomb.
The initial explosion engulfed the restaurant and champagne bar within one hundredth of a second. At its core, the temperature was high enough to vaporise human tissue on contact. Nothing at all would remain of the Japanese tourists, or the French couple, their little boy and girl, the bar staff or anyone else within a radius of thirty metres.
In the next three hundredths of a second the blast filled the ground floor of the department store, obliterating everything in its path. One hundred and sixty-eight shoppers were reduced to tatters of flesh and clothing; scores more were horribly maimed and burned.
The store’s ground floor windows blew out onto Duke Street and Oxford Street. Passers-by were caught in a storm of flying glass. Vehicles skidded and swerved all over the road. Broadsided by the terrible shockwave, a passing bus mounted the opposite pavement and toppled over on its side, flattening fifteen pedestrians as they stood gaping in frozen horror at the smoke pouring from the shattered department store.
In the immediate aftermath of the blast came the moments of stunned, deathly silence.
Then the mayhem began. But before the first wild screams were heard among the devastation of Oxford Street, and long before the racing convoy of emergency services units came wailing in through the panic, the man in the dark suit was already heading fast towards Grosvenor Square and his two colleagues inside the waiting car.
CHAPTER TWO
Whatever deal with God the jazz festival organisers had made to keep the rain off that year, He’d delivered in spades. The night was warm, the stars were bright, and over two thousand people were crowding the open-air gig.
Onstage, the band were delivering too: the bass and drums laid down a thundering groove as the alto saxophonist took up his instrument and blasted out a solo that scorched the air. The sax glittered red, blue, green under the lights. At the searing climax of the solo, the crowd roared its delight.
That was when Ben Hope started making his way towards the beer tent for another drink. Pretty damned impressive, he was thinking. Not quite up there with Coltrane, but pretty damned impressive.
The girl he was with didn’t seem to share his enthusiasm. Ben didn’t know much about her, except that her name was Ally, she was local, she was twenty-two, and she liked rum and Coke — a lot — was onto her fourth already.
But then, she knew even less about him. In his line of work, the less people knew the better.
In the beer tent, pressing to the front of the throng and speaking loudly to be heard, he ordered the drinks: the same sticky sweet shit for her, another whisky for himself. ‘Not that one,’ as the barman went for the blended cheap stuff. ‘The malt. That’s the one. Make it a double. No ice.’ Reaching into the back pocket of his jeans for his wallet, Ben felt the muscles in his right side cramp up and he winced sharply. It took him a second to get his breath back — the kind of pain you know your face has gone pale.
‘Been in the wars?’ the barman asked cheerfully.
‘You could say that,’ Ben replied, laying a fiver on the bar and taking a gulp of his drink. The twelve-year-old scotch burned a warm river down deep inside him. The pain was passing already. It didn’t hurt anything like the way it had when he’d taken his R&R leave three weeks ago. Considering the close-range impact of the AK-47 rifle bullet that had gouged through his side and severely cracked three of his ribs before going on to pass right through a wall, he didn’t think his recovery was going too badly.
‘Got a cigarette?’ Ally yelled over the music when she’d finished her drink. She frowned at the one he handed her. ‘What are these?’
‘They’re Greek,’ Ben said, lighting it for her, then one for himself. Lying about what he did for a living often entailed lying about where his job took him, and it was second nature now. In fact the cigarettes were Jordanian, one of the last of the packs he’d bought a few days before his SAS squadron had been dropped in the Iraqi western desert to seize key airfields.
He hadn’t had much chance to smoke them. A couple of weeks after securing the airfields as forward operating bases and pushing eastwards into the desert, supported by RAF Harriers and unmanned Predator reconnaissance spyplanes as they clashed with retreating Iraqi forces, Ben’s unit had received a report that two undercover SAS soldiers, posing as Arabs to investigate an Iraqi police captain in the Basra area suspected of passing information to Shia militiamen, had been hijacked and abducted by an armed gang. Just a few weeks earlier, six military police had been hacked to death in the same area.
Within hours of the report, an unofficial rescue mission had been greenlit deep within the corridors of Whitehall and two dozen troopers under Ben’s command were kitted up and en route to Basra on a Hercules transport plane.
SAS intelligence sources were sound on the location of the hostages, not quite as sound on the force of men holding them. Assaulting the stronghold under cover of darkness, Ben’s squad had quickly found themselves heavily outnumbered by battle-hardened militants determined not to give up their valuable hostages. In just a few minutes of furious fighting, the floor was littered with spent cartridge cases and dead men. Ben had been first through the door of the hostages’ cell, taking out three of the guards before they could react.
The fourth guard, the one with the AK, had been hiding behind a doorway. Ben hadn’t had time to react as the gunman had come leaping out with a wild scream and let rip with his rifle. The next thing Ben had known, he was waking up in the military hospital, pumped full of painkiller, his side heavily bandaged. It wasn’t the first time a bullet had found him, it wasn’t the worst, and it might not be the last. But at least the hostages had been extracted safely.