Like most of France after about seven in the evening, the villages that the convoy swept through appeared deserted, doors firmly closed, shutters secured, no lights showing. Leguevin, L’Isle-Jourdain, Gimont and Aubiet. Auch was different, simply because it was bigger, and they saw couples and small groups of people walking the streets. Then they were through the town and back on the empty country roads. St-Jean-Poutge, Vic-Fezensac and through Demu, and then an almost arrow-straight road to Manciet.
‘According to this map,’ Richter murmured, as Dekker pushed the speed up to just over one hundred and fifty kilometres an hour, ‘this is an attractive country road with spectacular views to the south over the valley of the River Douze.’
‘Fascinating,’ Dekker replied. ‘More to the point, how far have we got to go?’
‘About six kilometres to Manciet, then another two up to St Medard. Eight clicks in total, which is just about five miles.’
Fifty-five minutes after driving out of Blagnac Airport, almost on the stroke of one, the three cars swept into the village of Manciet, headlights blazing, and immediately turned hard right onto the D931, north towards Eauze. St Medard lay two kilometres in front of them.
Le Moulin au Pouchon
Like Sadoun Khamil in Saudi Arabia, Hassan Abbas had left his computer switched on, waiting for the decision from al-Qaeda. Abbas received at least thirty emails every day, and eight times since he’d sent his message to Saudi Arabia he’d rushed back into the rear bedroom when he’d heard the warning announcing the receipt of an email. He’d checked, and then deleted, them all.
The ninth message was different, not least because its apparent origin was Germany, and Abbas scanned it swiftly, looking for the tell-tale ‘corrupted’ section of text. He found it about halfway down, highlighted and copied it, then ran the decryption routine to unscramble it. The plain text appeared on the screen and Abbas leaned forward to read it, simultaneously pressing the ‘Print’ button which would send a copy of the text to the Hewlett- Packard LaserJet. He read Sadoun Khamil’s instructions, and the copy of the message from the al-Qaeda leadership, with increasing satisfaction. Then he read the whole email again, twice, just to be certain. ‘Allah be praised,’ he murmured, and stood up.
He removed the single sheet of paper from the printer and took it down the stairs and into the living room, where Jaafar Badri and Karim Ibrahim, two of his three bodyguards, were sitting watching a French game-show on the television. The fourth bodyguard – Saadi Fouad – was asleep upstairs.
‘My friends,’ Abbas said, his words ringing with the monumental significance of the announcement he was about to make, ‘tonight we will strike a blow at the infidels from which they will never recover. Our leaders have instructed me to implement
Abbas smiled in satisfaction as his companions echoed his prayer, then turned back to the stairs and the task he was going to perform.
The information from France Telecom had included a set of directions originally supplied by Abdullah Mahmoud, Abbas’ alias, when he had applied for the landline to be installed. Though somewhat ambiguous, at least in the dark and silent village streets, the directions did eventually lead Richter and Dekker to a narrow, winding road that snaked away up the hillside. In the distance they could see a single light burning, but even through the night-vision glasses it was impossible to tell if it was from an uncurtained window or was simply an exterior light some farmer had forgotten to switch off.
The last thing they wanted to do was alert their quarry, so as soon as Ross was reasonably sure that they had identified the correct road, he ordered the three Espaces parked in a layby about a quarter of a mile from the village. Everybody climbed out and gathered round Ross and Dekker, who had the laptop open again and was re- checking the directions supplied by France Telecom. ‘Any idea what the opposition strength is likely to be?’ Ross asked.
Richter shook his head. ‘At least one person, but we have to assume that there will be a team of people to support him. I’m guessing, but it could be anything from two or three to a round dozen. Obviously at least some of them, possibly all of them, will be armed.’
‘Assault tactics,’ Ross said, ‘will have to be left until we see the location itself. All we got from France Telecom was the address of the house. We have no idea whether it’s a new two-bedroom villa or a three- hundred-year-old six-bedroomed
‘What about weapons?’ Richter asked. ‘I can see the Hocklers, but have you got anything heavier in case these comedians are living in some sort of fortified manor house?’
‘We’ve got half a dozen G60 stun grenades left, plus one M79 launcher and three high-explosive grenades.’
Richter nodded. ‘Excellent. That should make short work of any French front door.’
‘The M79 is still in the car,’ Dekker said.
‘Get it, please,’ Ross said, and a trooper trotted away obediently.
Richter glanced round at the faces of the SAS troopers. ‘The weapon on the
Baker still had the connection open to the Krutaya mainframe and had been working on the system ever since Richter had left the suite. He had been alternating his efforts between trying to locate Dernowi’s backdoor code and getting into the Weapon Control module with Administrator status. Unfortunately, he had got precisely nowhere with both tasks.
Just after midnight, local time, he watched impotently as Dernowi used his backdoor code to get into the system again.
Once they had all checked their weapons and equipment, Ross divided the men into two groups and led them silently up the twisting road towards the single light they’d seen from the edge of the village. All around them the countryside was dark and totally silent, as if nature herself was holding her breath.
When they were about two hundred yards from the light, they stopped, and Ross and Dekker used their night-vision glasses to inspect the target. What they saw was an L-shaped house with a single light burning above what was presumably the main door. They could see no lights in any of the rooms, no sign of life anywhere, and the shutters over all the windows were closed. Ross murmured orders through the radio, and the troopers began an even more stealthy approach, using the cover provided by the hedges and trees that lined both sides of the road.
Colin Dekker, who was leading the first group, suddenly stopped and stood erect beside one of the two stone gateposts that guarded the entrance to the property. ‘This is the wrong house,’ he said into his radio microphone.
‘Are you sure?’ Ross asked.
‘Yup. Unless we’ve got the name wrong. According to this name plate—’ he gestured at the stone pillar in front of him and the garden of the property beyond ‘—this house is called “
