Borisov didn’t hesitate. ‘What you say makes sense. If I could be assured that no charges would be filed, I’d be happy to pay the sum you suggest.’
‘Right,’ Litvinoff said. He picked up the pistol and the passbook and smiled for the first time. ‘I’ll see if I can find somebody who can assist you. Meanwhile, I’ll have some refreshments sent in.’
Alex O’Hagan walked out of the Al-Jazira Hotel, John Petrucci following, briefcase in hand. They’d already checked out, and their bags were waiting in the lobby. O’Hagan had explained to the desk clerk that they had a meeting to attend in Manama, and they’d be returning to collect their luggage before going to the airport.
The car park lay north of the hotel, but they headed south and stopped at the end of Al-Mutanabi. While O’Hagan conducted an entirely imaginary conversation on his mobile phone, Petrucci stood beside him, apparently idly waiting, but in reality checking the road for any cameras that could record them when they eventually parked the car.
He spotted two. One was fixed, covering the Al-Khalifa junction, and was presumably a traffic camera. The second was located on a nearby building and was mobile, pointing up the street for about two minutes at a time, before rotating to point in the opposite direction.
Three times Petrucci lifted his left arm, apparently checking his watch. In fact, he was holding a digital camera, scarcely bigger than a credit card, and each time he raised his arm he took a picture.
When they reached the car park, they didn’t immediately approach the Chevrolet. O’Hagan again made a ‘call’ on his mobile while they scanned the surrounding area, checking that nobody was watching.
O’Hagan unlocked the doors and slid behind the wheel, immediately starting the engine to get the air-conditioning working. Petrucci sat in the passenger seat, the briefcase on his lap. As the air inside the car cooled, he opened the case to make a final inspection of the weapon. O’Hagan glanced down at the deadly contents and nodded. Petrucci closed the briefcase and scrambled the combination locks.
On the back seat of the car was a holdall containing a gellabbiya and kaffiyeh for each man, a basic disguise that instantly changed their appearance from that of Western businessmen to just a couple of locals. The outfits would help to muddy the waters slightly if any cameras did manage to record their images when they positioned the vehicle. Once they’d both pulled the Arab clothing on over their suits, O’Hagan put the car into gear and drove slowly away.
On Al-Mutanabi, he manoeuvred the car into the only parking space he could find, but left the engine running. The vehicle wasn’t positioned precisely where Ahmed had requested, but it was close enough, and O’Hagan wasn’t prepared to wait for one of the spaces right outside the building to become vacant.
‘OK to arm it now?’
O’Hagan nodded. ‘I hope to Christ you’ve set the timer right.’
‘Trust me,’ Petrucci replied, but he still held his breath as he removed insulating tape from two wires that protruded from holes drilled in the side of the briefcase. He twisted the exposed strands of copper together, then pushed the briefcase under the seat until it was invisible.
O’Hagan adjusted the exterior mirror until it was pointing well above the horizontal, and carefully angled it so that he could see the motorized camera on the side of the building behind them. The camera was facing towards the Chevrolet but, as he watched, it swung round to point in the opposite direction.
He switched off the engine, climbed out and locked the car, then both men started walking away, towards Tujjaar. Directly underneath the camera mount they stopped and appeared to engage in conversation, before walking on again the instant the camera turned back to point at the Chevrolet. When they reached the end of the road, Petrucci looked back down Al-Mutanabi, just as the camera swung towards them. He couldn’t help himself. He waved, then walked on.
The Americans continued along Tujjaar until they reached the Capital Hotel, where both men headed for the toilets. When they emerged, the Arab clothing had gone, now stuffed deep into the used paper-towel basket in the lavatory. Stepping outside, they flagged down the first taxi they saw. Just a few minutes later they’d collected their luggage from the Al-Jazira and were heading towards Muharraq Island and Bahrain International Airport.
They’d travelled to the country from all over the Middle East, and the car park on the outskirts of Buraydah was their penultimate rendezvous. The town had been chosen because it was a long way from the site of the operation, and distance was important. More practically, there weren’t that many places in the area that could supply the equipment they needed, but they’d found a source on the outskirts of town, and had already made the booking.
Once they’d finished their brief discussion, the men dispersed, climbing into their dusty four-by-fours — two Mitsubishis, a Toyota Land Cruiser and a Nissan Patrol. Three of these vehicles were carrying goods in their luggage compartments. The Nissan held two bulky fabric bags, each about three feet long, which clanked metallically as the vehicle moved off. The two Mitsubishis each carried four bales of hay. These appeared normal in every respect except one — they were too heavy, and the extra weight was entirely due to the oblong package that lay concealed in the centre of each bale. The packages had been inserted very carefully, one end of each bale being cut out so as to retain its shape, and some of the hay then repacked into the cavity. Without a detailed inspection, the bales would appear completely normal.
The two Mitsubishis headed out into the desert, while the Toyota and Nissan drove towards the centre of Buraydah. All the vehicles were ultimately heading for the same destination, some two hundred kilometres to the north-east, but these two had a stop to make first.
Protected by a high chain-link fence, interrupted only by a set of wide double gates, the construction equipment yard was predominantly open space. More or less in the centre stood a single-storey office building surrounded by a couple of acres of concreted surface, upon which stood a wild profusion of machinery: diggers, bulldozers, concrete mixers, cherry-pickers and other equipment.
The driver of the Land Cruiser — the name he was using was ‘Saadi’ — stepped out of the vehicle and walked across to the office.
Inside it, three men were sitting at a long desk, a variety of maps, documents and calculators scattered in front of them, with a couple of computer terminals at one end. Saadi produced a sheet of paper which he offered to the Arab who stood up to greet him.
‘Is it ready?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’ The man scanned the paper and nodded. ‘We just have to load it on the trailer. You have brought a tow vehicle?’
Saadi nodded assent and proffered a gold credit card.
A couple of minutes later he walked outside again and backed the Toyota up to a four-wheel trailer, while a company employee drove a small digger around the building, manoeuvred it onto the trailer and secured it with chains.
Less than twenty minutes after they’d arrived at the yard, the two jeeps drove back out through the open gates, Saadi’s vehicle now hauling the trailer. They were running altogether over an hour behind the two Mitsubishis, but that didn’t matter because the others wouldn’t start until they got there.
‘This is a joke, right?’ Richter said.
‘I don’t tell jokes and I don’t make jokes, as you well know,’ Simpson snapped, turning slightly pinker. ‘You can think whatever you like about this, but the tasking came straight from our Cousins across the pond.’