the death toll, not al-Qaeda. An act of terrorism that might have ignited a religious war in the south of Thailand had been replaced by a natural disaster that would unite the world in relief efforts. And, as always, the Americans would lead the charitable donations. It would do them no good in the long run, the Saudi knew. The Americans would always be hated for their arrogance, for the way they treated the world as if it were theirs by birthright, for the way they rode roughshod over cultures and civilisations millennia older than their own. But in the short term the news beamed round the world would show earnest American politicians pledging to do all they could to rebuild the region, American helicopters dropping supplies, American bankers offering financial aid.
The Saudi smiled wryly. He could do nothing to change what had happened. The Thais had a saying for it: Jai yen. Cool heart. Go with the flow. Nature had conspired to destroy his plans in Thailand. So be it. He couldn’t fight nature.
As he reached the gate, passengers were already lining up to board the Qantas 747. The Saudi had never understood the urge to be first on to a plane. Even the first-class cabin wasn’t an environment in which he was tempted to linger, but it was always those in Economy who seemed most eager to cram themselves into an uncomfortable seat in an aluminium tube where they would eat processed food on cue, watch poor-quality movies on a screen guaranteed to cause eyestrain, and breathe recycled air. The Saudi sat patiently until the last few passengers were boarding, then handed over his boarding card and passport to be checked and headed for the plane.
The seat next to his was empty. Most first-class passengers were seasoned travellers who would keep conversation to a minimum, but there were always exceptions and the Saudi was in no mood to make small-talk. He had a lot of thinking to do.
He was so deep in thought that he was barely aware of the huge plane powering along the runway, climbing into the sky and banking left over Bangkok as it headed south.
‘Champagne, sir?’
The Saudi jerked as if he’d been stung. A blonde stewardess, wearing too much make-up, was holding a tray of filled champagne glasses. The Saudi thanked her and took one. He sipped. It wasn’t a good vintage but, then, tastebuds lost most of their sensitivity at thirty thousand feet. The Saudi wasn’t averse to alcohol. He had tried most drugs, out of curiosity rather than need. He ate pork: his favourite dish was the famous full English breakfast, complete with bacon, sausages and black pudding, ideally served at his regular table in the Grill Room at London’s Savoy Hotel. So far as the Saudi was concerned, Islam wasn’t about food choices, or whether one enjoyed a glass of champagne or a good malt whisky. Islam was about politics. And power.
The Saudi knew the Koran by heart, and could quote passages at length, word-perfect. But he didn’t believe much of what the Holy Book contained. He didn’t believe that martyrs to the cause were rewarded with seventy-two black-eyed virgins and that places in heaven were guaranteed for them and their relatives. There was much in the Koran that the Saudi didn’t believe, in the same way that many Catholic priests did not believe in the literal truth of the Bible. The Koran was a tool for controlling people, as powerful as a gun or a bomb. The Saudi appreciated its power and he was as adept at using it as he was in the construction of bombs. So he sipped his champagne and felt not a twinge of guilt.
He listened to the couple in front of him talk about the tidal wave and the casualties. ‘Those poor people,’ said the woman, motioning for the stewardess to bring her more champagne.
‘They’re saying twenty thousand dead,’ said the husband. ‘Terrible. Thank God we weren’t there.’
‘Phuket’s always too crowded this time of year.’ The woman nodded at the stewardess as her glass was refilled. ‘It’s become too popular. Every man and his dog goes there, these days. Give me Koh Samui any day. Or the Maldives – at least there’s still some exclusivity there.’
The Saudi closed his eyes and blocked out the inane chatter. Twenty thousand dead, he thought, killed by the forces of nature. Twenty thousand dead and for nothing.
It had been his decision to go for Phuket and he was sure it had been right. He had considered attacking the Khao San Road, Bangkok’s backpacker centre, during Thai New Year, but had decided that the rich tourists of Phuket would be a more high-profile target.
He took a deep breath. What was done was done. It was time to move on. He already had his people in place for the next operation, and it dwarfed what he had planned for Phuket. Now he had to focus all his energy on what was to come. First Sydney. Then London. Both cities were about to discover what it was like to feel the wrath of Allah.
It was a smuggler’s night, thick clouds scudding across the sky with only glimpses of a thin sliver of moon. The sea was rougher than the captain would have liked but the schedule had been fixed and he had already banked the advance payment. Ten thousand euros. Another ten thousand on delivery. Pretty good money for one night’s work.
The stretch of water they were crossing was the busiest in the world, criss-crossed by thousands of craft every day. The captain knew it well, and that the odds on their boat being stopped were next to none. Neither the French government nor the British had the resources to check even a fraction of the boats that sailed between Britain and the Continent. The captain’s name was Bernard Pepper – ‘Bernie’ to his aged mother, ‘Skipper’ to those who sailed with him, ‘Chilli’ to his friends. He was a big man, his cheeks mottled with broken veins from his years at sea, beard greying, wiry hair all but covered with a black wool hat.
There were two other men on the bridge. Tony Corke was in his thirties and, like Pepper, was wearing a dark blue pea coat, jeans and work boots. The third member of the crew was in his forties with a bullet-shaped shaven head and a British bulldog tattoo on his right forearm. His name was Andy Mosley and he’d done seven years in the Royal Navy, latterly as a communications specialist. Now he sat at a metal desk, monitoring the regular radio traffic on a receiver that was tuned to military and government frequencies. He was also watching a radar screen that showed all the traffic in their vicinity.
Corke took a stainless-steel hip flask from the back pocket of his jeans and sipped. The neat Jameson’s whiskey slipped down his throat and spread a warming glow across his chest. He held it out to the captain.
Pepper scowled at the flask. ‘What is it?’
‘Whiskey.’
‘Scotch or Irish?’
‘Since when have you been so fussy?’ Corke started to put it back into his pocket.
Pepper let go of the wheel with his left hand and gripped Corke’s shoulder with thick fingers. ‘I didn’t say I didn’t want it. I just wanted to know its heritage,’ he growled.
Corke handed him the flask. Pepper took two big gulps, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and gave it back. ‘That’s about all the Irish are good for,’ he said. ‘Guinness and Jameson’s.’
‘What about Joyce, Wilde, Shaw, Swift?’
‘What?’ Pepper belched, and Corke caught a whiff of garlic. They’d had lunch at a small cafe near Calais and Pepper had wolfed down two plates of calamari.
‘Irish literary giants,’ said Corke. ‘Then there’s the Irish poets. William Butler Yeats. Seamus Heaney. And the music – U2, the Corrs. Film directors like Sheridan and Jordan. Not bad for a population of three million.’ He offered the flask to Mosley, who shook his head.
‘Wouldn’t have put you down as a Paddy-lover,’ said Pepper. ‘You said you were from Bristol.’
‘Used to holiday in Galway when I was a kid,’ said Corke. ‘That’s where I learned to sail.’
‘You can’t trust the Micks,’ said Pepper. ‘They’ll steal the enamel from your teeth.’
‘That’s what you said about the Armenians,’ said Corke.
‘They’re as bad as the Micks,’ said Pepper.
‘Let’s face it, you hate pretty much everyone.’
Pepper laughed harshly. ‘I met a Russian guy once and liked him. And you’re okay, Tony, for a sheep- shagger.’
‘I thought that was the Welsh.’
‘Bristol’s in Wales, innit?’
Corke shook his head. ‘I give up,’ he said. He unwrapped a stick of gum and popped it into his mouth.
‘Why don’t you check on the cargo?’ said Pepper. He swung the wheel hard to the left, keeping the prow into the waves. ‘Looks like we’re going to beat the weather.’
Corke nodded. The forecast had been for squalls and showers but the rain had held off and with any luck it would stay that way until they reached the Northumberland coast. Not that heavy weather would make much of an
