Simpson again. ‘The fact is that he made a murderous attack upon a bound and unarmed prisoner in full view of four witnesses. If Lomas dies, I expect Richter to be charged with murder. If he survives, I expect him to be charged with causing grievous bodily harm.’
‘Expect away,’ Simpson replied coldly. ‘As I’ve said, I’ll do nothing to help you. And you should also know that any attempts to extradite Richter from Britain will not succeed. I will see to that. If you persist with this vendetta, I promise you I will produce witnesses of unimpeachable probity who’ll be prepared to swear that at the moment this attack took place Richter was actually in London.’
‘Or Paris or Berlin or Madrid, I suppose,’ Perini said bitterly.
‘Or anywhere else I choose. Exactly,’ Simpson nodded. ‘I can see you’re finally getting the hang of it.’
Inside the squadron building, Richter dropped the flick-knife into a large plastic bag, then stripped off his T- shirt, jeans and trainers and stuffed them into it as well. Then he climbed into his flying overalls, pulled on his speed jeans and flying boots, slipped on the life-saving jacket, grabbed his helmet as well as the plastic bag and ran out of the building.
A fuel bowser had just arrived beside the Agusta and the driver was looking around in a puzzled fashion, presumably wondering where its pilot had got to. Richter strode briskly across to the Harrier, his eyes roaming over the control surfaces, but the Chief had been as good as his word, and all the locks had been removed. Richter climbed nimbly up the red ladder secured to the side of the aircraft, sat down, strapped himself in and pulled on his flying helmet. He shoved the plastic bag awkwardly over to one side of the cockpit.
He rushed through the pre-flight checks – again, the Chief Petty Officer had done those that he could – and as soon as he had completed them he reached out and levered the ladder away from the side of the cockpit. As it fell with a clatter on to the concrete hardstanding, the fuel bowser driver turned round to stare curiously at the Harrier.
Richter closed the canopy and removed the last two pins that primed the ejection seat. There are five pins altogether, but the Chief had already removed and stowed the other three. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a truck and a car approaching the hardstanding along the taxiway, headlights blazing and travelling at speed, but he ignored them.
He flicked the start switch and pressed the button next to it. The Auxiliary Power Unit started to whistle, and then Richter heard the sound he’d been waiting for: the mechanical whine as the APU started the Pegasus engine turning. This whine grew louder as the turbine span ever faster and then the jet settled into a steady, comforting roar.
Richter checked all the engine instruments, then glanced up the taxiway. The truck and car were almost at the edge of the hardstanding, but he really didn’t think they were going to pose a problem – for one very simple reason.
During practice air combat, live missiles are never carried, and the Sidewinder fitted below the starboard wing of Richter’s Harrier was a dummy apart from its seeker head, but the pair of Mark 4 Aden cannon – essentially a multi-barrelled Gatling gun similar to those fitted to American tank-busting helicopters and A10 aircraft – located in pods under the belly of the aircraft were very real, and he had persuaded Commander (Air) to authorize the loading of two ammunition packs of one hundred rounds for each gun.
Normally the FA2 Sea Harrier carries only missiles in various combinations. Richter had seen no point in asking Wings to let him carry live Sidewinders or AMRAAMs, but because he had no idea what Simpson was planning for him in Italy, some kind of self-defence capability had seemed prudent. The obvious solution was the Aden cannon, and the squadron maintainers had spent some hours fitting this pair of weapons.
The truck swept onto the hardstanding and screeched to a halt almost in front of the Harrier. Armed airmen poured out of the back and pointed their assault rifles at the aircraft. Richter did nothing, because he was waiting for the car to stop. When it did, blocking the access to the taxiway, two more armed soldiers climbed out.
Then Richter acted. He increased the power setting on the Pegasus slightly and pressed down on the right rudder pedal: the Harrier swung gently to the right until the nose of the aircraft was pointing directly at the back of the parked truck. He selected the Aden cannon, sighted carefully, making sure that none of the soldiers was in the firing line, and depressed the trigger, releasing it after about a second. There was a sound like tearing calico and the back of the truck simply ceased to exist as some fifty 30mm shells smashed into it from a distance of less than twenty yards. The impact swung what was left of the vehicle around in a half-circle, and Richter found himself looking into the terrified face of the driver, who was still in the cab.
The results were immediate and exactly what Richter had expected. The soldiers scattered and, as they disappeared into whatever cover they could find, he wound on the power and the Harrier began to move again, turning directly towards the car on the taxiway. The driver suddenly decided he’d be more likely to survive if he moved his vehicle, so floored the accelerator, swinging the wheel so that the car shot onto the hard-standing, well clear of the Harrier’s path and leaving the taxiway clear.
The Italians’ second line of defence was even then being assembled: three heavy fire vehicles were being parked nose to tail across the full width of the runway. But Richter didn’t need the runway. He turned the Harrier onto the taxiway, slammed the engine to full power, and the Harrier began to roll. He hit one hundred knots in four seconds, and less than two seconds after that, with one hundred and fifty knots showing on the ASI, he rotated the nozzles to fifty degrees and the Harrier leapt into the sky.
David Elias picked at the meal on the drop-down table in front of him with preoccupied disinterest. Although it seemed a hell of a long time since breakfast, he wasn’t particularly hungry, and even the best of airline food only ever seemed barely edible to him.
But it wasn’t the food that was concerning him. Ever since the man calling himself McCready had begun that briefing in the safe house in Arlington, Elias had been wondering what the hell he was doing getting involved in this thing. Not, he reasoned, that he had been given much of a choice. His superior officer had told him to attend. Any dissent would reflect badly on Elias professionally. And, in any case, his role had seemed simple enough.
All operational matters, McCready had told them, were the sole responsibility of Krywald and Stein, with Krywald as the senior officer. Elias was simply along for the ride, and to carry out a solo dive – possibly a deep solo dive – once they reached their destination.
That, too, had been a surprise. All Elias knew about Crete was that it was a popular holiday destination in the eastern Mediterranean. As far as he was aware, the Company had no assets on, or interest in, the island, and McCready had been carefully non-specific about the purpose of the dive. Krywald, he had said, would brief Elias when the time came. For the moment, Elias didn’t need to know more.
He may not have needed to know, but Elias was certainly curious. He was also aware that the bulk of the briefing in Arlington had been completed well before his own arrival – he had been told almost nothing about the true purpose of the operation. All he did know was that some thirty years earlier an aircraft had crashed somewhere near Crete, and there were indications it had been found recently by a local diver. He presumed that the wreck was the focus of the dive he was going to have to undertake, but that was about all.
He was also puzzled by the haste involved. Less than two hours after the briefing had concluded, the three of them were sitting in the 747 out of Baltimore on a direct flight to London Heathrow – the first available aircraft across the Atlantic – and with onward connections to Crete. He’d presumed he would be given time to go back to his apartment to collect some clothes before departure, but that hadn’t been allowed. A carry-on bag filled with clothes, pyjamas and washing kit had been provided, together with five hundred euros in cash and a new credit card issued under his real name.
If the sole purpose of the operation was to look for a thirty-year-old crashed aircraft, it all seemed unnaturally hasty. There had to be more – a lot more – to this business.
As soon as the Harrier had cleared the airfield boundary, Richter pulled back on the control column and continued his climb to thirty-five thousand feet. He also, as a precaution, switched on his Guardian radar warning
