The single incongruous note was the fact that they didn’t look like writers. Both men were tall, just over six feet, and broad with the solid bulk that comes from hard exercise. Their moustaches and comparatively long hair softened the image, but despite that, the impression they created was unmistakably military, or at least ex-military.
They both walked round to the back of the vehicle. Nabov and his companion, Boris Devenko, climbed down from the cab and followed them. Devenko released the padlock and pulled one of the rear doors open. The atmosphere was tense, the two pairs of men watching each other very carefully.
Dawson and Nabov climbed inside and Devenko pushed the door closed behind them. Without saying a word they removed the screws that secured the wooden lid of a large crate, and began emptying it. Some of the tools and equipment it contained were light enough to be lifted by hand, but for others they had to use straps and the roof-mounted chain hoist.
The last thing they removed was a battered wooden box, inside which was a bulky aluminium case, similar to those used to hold photographic equipment. Nabov unsnapped the two catches holding its lid closed.
The device inside was exactly what Dawson had been expecting, but he still checked it carefully, ensuring that all its components were properly attached. On the inside of the lid were instructions in multiple languages, including English, explaining precisely how the weapon was to be armed.
Dawson read these carefully, and even powered up the timing circuit — his actions observed with increasing alarm by the Russian — just to check that the battery was charged and the logic circuits intact, then he used the master switch to shut everything down. Fifteen minutes later they’d repacked the crate and refitted the lid.
The moment the Russian turned away, heading for the rear doors, Edward Dawson acted in a blur of lethally targeted aggression.
During his previous employment with the CIA, Alex O’Hagan had spent two years in Bahrain so he knew the country well and, more importantly, he still had his contacts there.
He and Petrucci were sitting in the back of a Mercedes cab driving down Sheikh Isa Avenue. An observer might have wondered at the route the vehicle was following, the driver making seemingly random turns, but the Americans had no interest in where they were going. The driver was one of O’Hagan’s contacts and a member of an Arab terrorist group called Sharaf, and their whole attention was concentrated on what he was saying.
‘The car’s no problem,’ he said, in fluent English. ‘But the other things will take a little more time.’
‘But you can get them?’ Petrucci insisted.
The driver, whose work name was ‘Ahmed’, glanced round. ‘Yes, I can get them, but I need something else from you.’
‘More money?’
‘No, I’m happy with what we agreed. What’s important is the positioning of the device.’
‘We thought maybe Government Avenue or Al-Khalifa,’ O’Hagan suggested.
The driver turned into Al-Sulmaniya. ‘We would prefer one of the smaller roads,’ he said. ‘In fact, we’ve already selected the best street — the best for us, that is.’
‘Which is where?’ Petrucci demanded.
‘Al-Mutanabi Avenue,’ Ahmed replied, ‘between Al-Khalifa and Tujjaar.’
‘You have some particular reason for choosing that location?’ O’Hagan asked.
‘Yes, but it’s not necessary for you to know what it is.’
Petrucci stirred uncomfortably. ‘I don’t like the sound of this. We need to be sure about what’s going on here. Why that road?’
Ahmed glanced back at the American. ‘You don’t need to know, Mr Petrucci,’ he said firmly. ‘You’ve come to us for help with your plan, about which we know nothing, and we’re prepared to assist you. In exchange, all we’re requesting is that the device be positioned in a particular location and we feel that’s not too much to ask. If you’re unhappy with this arrangement, you’re perfectly free to obtain what you need elsewhere.’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ O’Hagan said, raising his hand in a calming gesture. ‘We’ll take what you’re offering, no questions asked. Cool it, John. Remember, Ahmed and I go back a long way, and we understand each other real well. Right, Ahmed?’
‘Right,’ the driver agreed.
‘When can we collect the stuff?’ O’Hagan asked, after a pause.
The Arab considered for a moment. ‘This afternoon,’ he said. ‘Come to Municipality Square at three-fifteen. I’ll pick you up in this same cab again.’
‘And then where do we go?’ Petrucci asked, his tone still slightly belligerent.
‘We’ll go to the place where the car you need will be parked. That’s all you have to know. Do not,’ Ahmed added, ‘forget to bring the money.’
During and after the Second World War, an amazing variety of assassination devices were manufactured by the intelligence services of both East and West. These included single-shot pistols concealed in cigars, pens and even belt-buckles; poison-gas weapons hidden inside cigarette packets or wallets — a favourite with the KGB — and delayed-action devices like the microscopic ricin-filled pellet fired from a modified umbrella that was used by the Bulgarian Darzhavna Sigurnost to kill the dissident Georgi Markov in London in 1978.
For this operation, Wilson and Dawson had decided to adopt the ‘KISS Principle’ — keep it simple, stupid — and had chosen the most basic possible method.
Dawson shook his right hand and then dropped his arm straight down, allowing the ten-inch lead-filled cosh concealed up his sleeve to fall into his hand, its descent stopped by the security loop. As his fingers closed about its leather-covered fibre shaft, he swung the weapon with all his strength at the back of Nabov’s head.
But the Russian must have heard or sensed something, and half-turned back, reaching inside his jacket for his pistol. It didn’t help. The end of the cosh smashed into the left side of his skull and knocked him unconscious. It wasn’t a lethal blow, because he’d moved further and faster than Dawson had expected. Nabov fell heavily to the steel floor, landing with a crash that the American knew would have been heard clearly outside the three-tonner.
Beside the truck, Boris Devenko immediately tensed and reached for his Makarov. Wilson eyed him carefully, his own weapon within easy reach, wondering if he should react. Then he relaxed as Dawson’s voice echoed from inside the vehicle.
‘Be careful with that, you fool. Use the hoist.’
Devenko dropped his hand from his weapon, and glanced at Wilson and the man who’d arrived in the car — Yuri Borisov, a senior PO Start administrator. ‘Alexei is strong but he’s always been clumsy,’ he said, as a kind of explanation.
Inside the van, Dawson straddled the unconscious technician, grasped both sides of his jacket collar firmly and pressed inwards with his knuckles, closing off the blood flow through the carotid artery to the Russian’s brain.
‘That’s better,’ he called out, maintaining the pressure on the man’s neck, his voice pitched lower but still audible, he hoped, outside the truck. Then he relaxed his grip, checked for a pulse, found nothing and stood up.
‘Screw the lid back on,’ he said, tucking the cosh back up his sleeve and now talking to a corpse. ‘Wait a moment. I’ll get Boris to help you.’ He stepped across to the rear door and rapped on it with his knuckles.
Wilson opened it and looked up at his partner.
‘Could you just help Alexei with the lid?’ Dawson asked Devenko. ‘Then I think we’re done here.’
The Russian nodded agreement, grasped the bar on the right-hand side of the door opening and hauled himself up. He was two paces inside the cargo bay before he spotted Nabov’s body, but by then it was too late.