Overkill

they’re likely to be found. Tonight, we can’t. I don’t like going in blind, but in the circumstances I don’t see we’ve got the slightest option. Colin – do you disagree with that?’

‘No. We have absolutely no choice.’

‘So, we use all the firepower we’ve got and try to finish it as quickly as we can.

Le Moulin au Pouchon, St Medard, near Manciet, Midi-Pyrenees, France

Abbas walked swiftly down the stairs into the tiny hall. A nightlight was burning in a power-point, and by its dim light he was able to check that his three bodyguards were ready. ‘You are prepared?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ Karim Ibrahim replied. ‘We have checked the explosives and set the tripwires. All is correct. We have put the extra ammunition in our bags.’

Abbas nodded his approval, and glanced at his watch. ‘You are certain, sayidi?’ Badri asked. ‘You know we will be attacked?’

Abbas shook his head. ‘No, and I hope I am wrong, but the telephone line is not working and that concerns me greatly, now that we are so close to success.’ Abbas turned to Fouad. ‘Saadi, set the floodlight time-switch for three minutes, then follow me. And switch off that nightlight – there is to be no light inside the house at all.’

Abbas turned and led the way into the kitchen. Fouad opened a wall cupboard and adjusted the floodlight time-switch as Abbas had instructed, then walked over and ripped the nightlight from its socket, before turning to follow the others out of the hall.

In the kitchen, Jaafar Badri hauled back the faded red carpet to reveal the flagstone floor below. Just off- centre in the floor was an old wooden trapdoor about three feet square, which Badri lifted. Then he reached down into the opening and clicked a switch. Dim electric lighting flickered into being, revealing a rusted steel ladder which descended into a rough-hewn vertical shaft, at the base of which Abbas could just make out the gleam of a trickle of water.

This was the unique feature of the property which had made Abbas select it. The house was called ‘Le Moulin au Pouchon’, but unlike many other similarly named properties in France, the building had actually been a working mill until the end of the nineteenth century. The passageway into which Abbas was about to descend had then been the watercourse which had channelled water under the house to turn the long-vanished milling machinery.

Years ago, the stream which had supplied the water had either dried up or been diverted, but the stone- lined watercourse was still in good condition. More importantly, from Abbas’ point of view, the watercourse led away from the house and up the hill to an old stone-built outhouse, some hundred metres distant, which had originally housed the sluices.

Abbas paused for a few moments before climbing down the ladder and looked at the three men with whom he had spent the last four months of his life. He shook hands with Badri and Ibrahim, but pulled Fouad into a close embrace before releasing him.

‘Inshallah we will meet again, Saadi, my friend.’

‘Inshallah, sayidi Abbas,’ Fouad murmured respectfully.

‘We should go,’ Badri interjected. ‘We may have very little time.’

Abbas nodded, but kept his eyes fixed on Fouad. ‘Yes, you’re right. Saadi – you know how much we are depending on you.’

Fouad nodded, but seemed to swell slightly at the implied praise. Abbas clapped him on the shoulder, then handed the Samsonite case to Badri and began to climb down the steel ladder. At the bottom he stood aside to let Badri and Ibrahim join him. Badri passed Abbas the Samsonite, then moved away, up the old watercourse and towards the outhouse, torchlight dancing on the damp stone walls, his Kalashnikov in his right hand. Abbas followed and Ibrahim took up station behind him.

Behind them, the lights went out and they heard the sound of the trapdoor in the kitchen closing. Fouad would remain in the house either until whoever had cut the wires actually attacked the property or until it became clear that it had been a false alarm.

St Medard, near Manciet, Midi-Pyrenees, France

Ross had divided his men into two teams, one to hit the front of the house and the second, led by Colin Dekker, to work around to the rear of the property to try to effect an entrance there. It was comparatively slow work for the second team, because of the absence of any plans of the property or knowledge of the terrain immediately surrounding the target, and twice the troopers had to move back and approach from a different angle when they encountered impenetrable vegetation. Finally Dekker announced that they were in position.

‘Acknowledged,’ Ross murmured. ‘On my signal, we take out the front door, then get in and finish the job. As briefed, we’ll take the upstairs rooms. Colin, get through the back door as soon as you hear the grenade, and clear downstairs. Everyone, be very careful of blue-on-blue – we don’t want any more casualties. Wilson – don’t forget to aim the grenade at the stone beside the front door, not the door itself, or it’ll probably just go straight through it. Any questions, anybody not ready?’

There was silence on the net for a couple of seconds, then a blaze of light surrounded the old house as the eight exterior floodlights, installed as a precaution by Abbas almost as soon as they had moved into the property, kicked in.

‘Jesus Christ,’ someone muttered. ‘That’s fucked up my night vision good and proper.’

‘Right.’ Ross’ voice was crisp and sharp. ‘That’s a clear enough indication, I think. They definitely know we’re out here, so let’s not keep them waiting any longer. Three, two, one. M79, go.’

Le Moulin au Pouchon, St Medard, near Manciet, Midi-Pyrenees, France

Saadi Fouad had rehearsed his actions many times before, and knew precisely what he had to do. Almost immediately they had begun their occupation of the house they’d spent some time moulding plastic explosive charges, studded with pounds of ball-bearings, nails and screws as a kind of rudimentary shrapnel, around the ground-floor doors and windows, to be triggered by simple tripwires. Those, they were confident, would eliminate the first wave of any assault, leaving them plenty of time and firepower to engage the remainder of the attacking force.

As soon as the floodlights switched on, Fouad ran swiftly up the staircase and crouched in front of the locked door of the small back bedroom, looking down the stairs and into the blackness of the hall over the barrel of his Kalashnikov assault rifle.

Abbas had briefed Fouad and the others very thoroughly. He didn’t expect that the house would ever be assaulted, simply because of the security surrounding Podstava and El Sikkiyn, and he had always believed that if the French authorities ever tried to gain entrance to the house they would simply be dealing with a small group of gendarmes, effective enough at controlling traffic and handling normal French criminals, but hopelessly unprepared for the level of training, weaponry and dedication that his men possessed.

As the M79 fin-stabilized high-explosive grenade smashed into the stone wall immediately beside the door frame and virtually vaporized the front door of Le Moulin au Pouchon with a roar that shook the house to its foundations and showered him with debris, Fouad suddenly realized that in this matter Abbas had miscalculated, and very badly. Moments later he heard the flat crack as the plastic explosive around the doorframe detonated, the explosion precipitated by a section of the ruined door which had snagged on a tripwire, and flattened himself on the floor as the air filled with flying steel.

‘Arwens, now,’ Dekker called, and immediately two almost simultaneous explosions ripped through the night, tearing the rear door of Le Moulin off its hinges. As the door toppled outwards and crashed to the ground, the first troopers rushed inside the property, weapons at the ready, alert for the Arab terrorists they expected to find.

But the danger wasn’t in front of them, it was behind. The home-made booby-trap placed by Abbas and his colleagues exploded less than a second after the first five men had dashed into the kitchen. Small but lethal steel