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  “Have eyeball.” Snow spoke into his concealed mic.

  Snow and Fox stood. Unseen in the shadows Fox balled his fists; he’d rather use them to knock the target out than some chemical.

  Fox grunted. “Let’s do this.”

  Voloshin froze. He had seen them, two men dressed almost identically move with purpose after his contact. One turned round and their eyes met. The Belarusian fought the urge to look away and carried on walking.

  The harassed looking hotel management stood, attempting to placate angry guests as the fire brigade debussed and entered the hotel foyer. Several members of staff had been issued with clipboards and were asking guests to confirm their names and room numbers. Khalid noticed that the Chechen was no longer with him, he had expected nothing less. They could not be seen together. Not now not ever. Suddenly he felt a white hot pain in his left leg. It buckled and before he knew what was happening he collapsed to the floor, a wave of cold swept over his body. His head hit the tarmac and momentarily his vision blurred.

  Snow saw his target fall, a second later realization registered in Snow’s eyes. Their target had been shot. He turned and searched for the would be assassin and met the eyes again of the man walking no more than ten feet behind them, his own suppressed weapon raised, firing. The rounds passed millimetres from Snow’s head. Snow threw himself into the cover of the shrubbery lining the path and drew his Glock.

  Voloshin saw the speed with which both men had reacted and at once knew that they were professionals. The younger one had moved into cover quicker but the older had drawn his weapon faster and was now firing at him. Kill or be killed. Voloshin dropped heavily to the ground and removed the suppressor from his weapon. He ignored the burn this caused to his palm and returned fire. The unsuppressed sound of gunshots had the desired result as guests froze then suddenly panicked. His own escape was instantly aided by a fat woman who was dragging a much smaller man back into the hotel. Their view blocked by this unlikely coupling the men, whoever they were, would not dare shoot. Voloshin sprang to his feet and sprinted across the gardens to the exterior wall. He vaulted over it and onto the palm’s Crescent road.

  Snow pushed himself up and moved towards Khalid. Blood had pooled behind his leg. The Arab however was conscious and his eyes stared at Snow uncomprehending. Snow had no idea how bad the injury was and had no time to wait around and find out. A hotel porter tried to help. Snow looked up and shouted. “Get back, I’m a doctor.” He removed the syringe and plunged it into Khalid’s thigh. “Call an ambulance and tell these people to give me some space.”

  Fox reached Snow’s side and grabbed the Arab’s arms. “We’ve got to move.”

  Ignoring protests from onlookers Snow and Fox hauled Khalid up and dragged him away. Whatever was in the syringe had worked for there was a strange smile on the man’s face despite his gunshot wound.

  The Arab looked at his abductors. “You…” His voice trailed off and a laugh started to rise in his chest.

  It was all Fox could do to suppress his urge to throw Khalid to the ground and put a round through his skull. They turned the corner back into the shadows and were lost in the confusion.

  More sirens in the night air, this time police. The boat, a small outboard powered cruiser, was no more than fifty feet away in the shallows of the man-made ‘Royal Beach’. It had been moored there five minutes before by the other agency man. He was now long gone. Snow and Fox dragged the Arab through the light yellow sand. There were shouts from behind and Fox picked out commands in Arabic ‘Stop, halt, this is the Police.’

  “We’ve got company.”

  As they readied the boat, Snow looked back and saw officers running in their direction. He shook his head. “Lay him down and hang on.”

  As a former member of Boat Troop, Snow was more at home on the water than Fox. He started the outboard and the cruiser lurched away violently. They would have to go the entire length of the crescent before they broke free into open water. Snow throttled up to maximum and held on. The beach fell away as did the shouts. Snow looked down and switched on the GPS. The course was pre-plotted and would take them away to their rendezvous point.

  Snow frowned. “The RV’s in the middle of the sea.”

  Fox looked up; he was leaning against the gunwales. “Any where’s better than here.”

  “How’s our guest?”

  Fox shrugged. “Can’t tell, too dark, too choppy.”

  Snow frowned again. They couldn’t slow to patch him up, but if they didn’t he’d... “See what you can do.”

  “Aye.” Fox looked down. Khalid’s eyes were open but glazed; the drug induced smile was still there. A limp arm came up to hit Fox, he grabbed it like a child’s and carried on with the assessment. Khalid was unable to fight. The first and only round to hit had smashed the left fibula lodging itself in the tibia. Most of the blood on the Arab’s green Polo shirt had come from the lacerations to his head. “Looks like, he’ll live.”

  They reached the end of the sea wall and turned north out into the Arabian Gulf. According to the GPS their RV point was a further three nautical miles away. Fox, who had now made sure that Khalid’s arms and legs were bound, joined Snow at the controls. “I could murder a beer.”

  “The shooter was white, European or American.” Snow directed his words at Fox but kept his gaze fixed on the horizon.

  “You still going with this Russian theory then?”

  “You got a better one?”

  “Aliens.”

  The adrenaline had started to ebb away but they could not yet relax. Snow cut the power to idle as they neared the RV. With nothing but blackness in front, stars above and the lights of Dubai on the horizon behind, they stood in the open boat. In the darkness there was the faint noise of what seemed to be an electric motor. Then, the sound of something breaking the water. In front of them a large dark shape slowly rose. The conning tower of a submarine. Unseen by Snow and Fox, NVG goggles checked them out.

  Fox whispered to Snow. “Aliens.”

  Jumeirah Beach Hotel, Dubai

  The hotel had been a long-time favourite with Russians, as such Voloshin felt that hiding in public, he would have less chance of being noticed. He would stay there for a couple of days until he could safely return to his villa on the Palm and retire. He sat in the corner of the hotel bar and took a shot of Vodka. He had sent a secure email to the KGB handler’s address in Minsk. It read:

  ‘Contact taken by opposition. What are my orders?’

  In Minsk Sverov had read the document, he was to send in reply, more than once and was still shocked by its content. Although safe in his apartment he was sick with fear. Killing a traitor was one thing, kidnapping British businessmen had pushed him to his limit but this new task was definitely beyond comprehension. Shakily he clicked ‘send’, an encrypted file was immediately sent to Voloshin’s modified Smartphone.

  Sverov stood and grabbed his coat. He had to get out, get away. He’d get his car and leave the city go to the woods. The fresh air and cold would clear his head; perhaps even cleanse him in some way?

  The Russian prostitute he’d had before at the bar was attempting to make eye contact. Voloshin closed his eyes. Why did the Russians love this chunk of sand so much? His phone vibrated before he opened his eyes and noticed that the woman was now with a fat man in a tight shirt. Easy come, easy go. He removed the handset from his trouser pocket and read the message. He took another shot of Vodka from the extortionately priced bottle and re-read his orders. No he hadn’t been mistaken.

  CIA Interrogation Centre, Undisclosed location, Arabian Peninsular

  “I’ve never read the Koran, personally, but then I have no desire to.” The American pronounced the word ‘Koo-ran’, his lazy Southern drawl making the Holy Book seem all the more alien in his infidel hands.

  Khalid sat motionless, ankles and wrists shackled to the metal chair, and stared into the American’s eyes. He had not spoken, not given them the chance to hear his perfect Oxford En
glish. The accent that his family had paid so much for him to have.

  The American continued. “The one biggest cause of suffering in this world is….Religion. Pure and simple. Christians fighting Jews, Jews fighting Muslims, Muslims fighting Christians, Muslims fighting Muslims….you get the picture. I personally do not have a religion. I do not worship an idol or an ‘all mighty’ and that makes me a free man.” The interrogator paused, Khalid still stared back emotionless. The interrogator smiled. “Now I ain’t no dummy l know you can understand me so I’ll just continue….”

  Khalid remained impassive. Thus far they, ‘the Americans’ had not asked him a single question apart from his name, which of course he had not answered. He had no idea where he was or how long he had been held. He guessed that the infidel who sat in front of him was from the CIA but he had not introduced himself, as though Khalid cared.

  “To me your religion seems ‘made up’. A ‘fantasy’. Let me explain. Five times a day you have to kneel, on the floor and praise Allah, saying how great ‘He’ is an’ all. Oh mighty Allah, oh great Allah, oh humble Allah… My question to you is why? Why if ‘He’ is so mighty, so great, so humble would you have to tell him? Surely ‘He’ knows? I mean to say if ‘He’ is god and created the world and all why would you personally have to remind him five times a day? I can understand you thanking him, once in a while, if you believe that he is responsible for the world but surely constantly thanking him makes you a sycophant? He must get tired of it? Millions of sycophants every day saying, hey Allah, you’re great! Great job, we love you!”

  Khalid tried to remain composed, tried to block out these blasphemous words but they were making him boil inside. His right hand twitched involuntarily, a movement that was not missed by the American who was pacing around the small metal walled cell.

  “Pork.” The American spun and pointed like a quiz show host. “You Muslims can’t eat pork. Hey that’s fine by me, you and the Jews together on one thing at least and the Hindus with the Sacred Cow and all that? All a matter of taste, but here’s where it gets a bit peculiar again for my liking. Alcohol. Now according to the Koo-ran, what I’ve been told - remember I’ve never read it, you Muslims can’t use drugs or stimulants – correct? Now as far as I believe when the Koran was written the full effect of Caffeine, Tannin and Nicotine on the body were not known? Of course now we know that these are stimulants, drugs – if you like. So my question to you is: surely the Koran must be revised – a second edition if you like – to reflect this new knowledge? As a Muslim is it not wrong for you to pollute your sacred body with such things?”

  Khalid’s mind tried not to agree with the logic of his interrogator.

  The American smiled sincerely and continued. “An, I don’t understand your Holy Martyrs. Now let me see if I’ve got this straight, and please by all means correct me if I’m wrong. To kill another human being, a non-believer , in the name of Allah is glorious, again it’s a way of saying ‘thank you’ for being so great an’ all? But then if the, let’s call them ‘Holy Warriors’, get killed in the process they become Martyrs. They go to Paradise where they are pleasured by Virgins. Now I’m no party pooper – hey I’ve had my share of virgins in the past, but it seems to me that Allah is running a brothel and the cover charge is what, your life?”

  Khalid’s hand twitched more and was joined by a clenching of the jaw.

  The American saw this and sat. “Seems to me like your Allah and me would get on just fine, long as we could come to some financial agreement over the cover charge.” Another pause.

  “Now just a question. What about the martyrs that are women? Do they get pleasured in paradise by men? If so, are they also virgins? Cos no woman wants a man that doesn’t know what to do with it, or do they get pleasured by women, kind of a lesbian arrangement?” The American sat back in his chair and raised his hands behind his back. “You’ll have to excuse me, I’m just thinking about all them lesbians. Sure would make a darn good porno movie. I’ve never had me a Saudi, but I’d sure love to try. Do you have any sisters or perhaps a wife?”

  Both hands trembled and Khalid shut his eyes. This man would die and burn for eternity. The American looked at Khalid who had steadied himself once more. The American placed his hands on the metal table. “That’s my take on the Muslim faith. I have views on a lot of things, it’s a darn pity that we don’t have the time for a real debate, an exchange of views but we don’t. It’s now time that you answer a few questions for us.” The American smiled, Khalid stared back defiantly. “Hey, I know you are a man of strong beliefs and would rather die than give up any information on your ‘Muslim brothers’ if you had the choice. But you don’t. In fact you’ll be singing like Britney Spears, ‘oops I did it again’, but it won’t be your fault. You won’t be able to control yourself. So please don’t feel bad, Allah or whoever will forgive you.”

  The door opened and a thick set man, with a metal attaché case entered the room. Khalid sneered. He had endured torture at the hands of the Russians, what could these feeble fat men do to him? Inside his head he prepared himself for the pain that would surely follow but he would not speak, he would die and so would his secrets. He would be a martyr.

  The case was placed on the table and the man opened it. The fat man removed a syringe and then a bottle that he plunged into the top, drawing up a greenish liquid. He tapped the syringe and the let the bubbles out via the needle. Khalid’s eyes widened slightly.

  “Like I said you won’t be able to stop yourself.” The interrogator tied a leather strap around Khalid’s left arm tight until he could see the vein bulge. “Don’t tell anyone about this, it’s against the Genève Convention.”

  Panic struck Khalid as the realisation hit him of what the American had meant. That whatever he did he would not be able to keep his secrets, he would shame his men and his God. Allah forgive him!

  The thick set man plunged the needle into Khalid’s arm. “Good evening.” He said jovially.

  His job done Casey left the room and headed towards the mess. He had lied about the Koran, he had read it, all be it an English language translation. Although he had been brought up an atheist, Casey felt dirty after insulting a Muslim and his ‘maker’. He hated ridiculing the ‘beliefs’ of others but if it was not he who carried this out, others would. Casey ducked through a door and into the mess.

  “What type of sub is this?” Fox asked.

  “I can’t tell you.” Replied Casey, with a smile.

  “Classified?”

  Casey shook his head. “No. I can’t tell you because I don’t know. I’m not into subs.”

  “Whatever it is it’s ‘rendition class’” Snow said with irony.

  “Ah, that British sense of humour.” Casey reached inside his jacket and pulled out a hip flask. He opened it and poured a measure of rum into three metal mugs. “Naval ration, something you Brits invented.”

  They drank.

  Casey pulled a face. “I’m a bourbon man, this stuff is too goddamn sweet.”

  Snow looked into his mug. Waves of fatigue had started to hit him. It was over.

  Fox grunted. “Where are we headed?”

  “Classified but we’ll drop you off. You’ll be back in London by tomorrow night.”

  “And laughing boy?” Fox was referring to Khalid.

  “He’ll be telling me a whole load more funny stories you can bet.”

  Riyadh, Kingdom of Saudi Arabia

  Despite security concerns raised by The Russian Embassy to the Saudis the ‘state visit’ had been completed without a hitch. The press stood a respectable distance back from the red carpet. The President of Chechnya waved cordially, as he proceeded towards the Russian Aeroflot plane. He had been the guest of the Saudi King and as such had brought a message directly from the Russian President. During the years of unrest Chechnya had been viewed as a front line by Islamic militants waging jihad against Russian forces. Thousands of the faithful Jihadi had poured into the region to continue their fight a
gainst the godless Russians, who were preventing Chechnya from becoming an independent Muslim state. Many of these fighters were battled hardened from years of guerrilla warfare against the mighty Soviet Union in Afghanistan. Eventually and after two separate wars, a full and lasting ceasefire was declared. Parliamentary elections were held and the Moscow backed candidate Ramzan Shamil was announced President.

  Shamil had been a Grozny warlord but had seen the wisdom of entering the political ring. He, like all real Chechens wanted true independence, but knew that without further unimaginable loss of life that would not be possible. However there were those who wanted to fight on at any cost, those who would pursue ruthlessly the goal of an Islamic state in the Caucuses. Those who would seek to oust Shamil. These included the men, Saudi believers, who had fought in Chechnya. The visit to the place of the birth of Islam therefore was significant. Shamil had to gain the support of Saudi Arabia and its King if he was to prove himself a worthy leader of the Chechen people. He had to make them see that Chechnya was already a Muslim state and respected abroad.

  During his four day trip the Chechen leader had visited the Holy city of Mecca to perform the ‘Umrah’, a pilgrimage recommended to all devout Muslims and second only to the ‘Hajj’ in importance. He had become also the first ever ‘Russian’ to take part in the traditional ceremony of the washing of the ‘Kaaba’, the cube-like black shrine which Muslims face in daily prayers. In short, as a devout Muslim, Ramzan Shamil had acted as though on a pilgrimage and not a diplomatic mission. His association with the Saudi royals had given him validation with his countrymen. His high wire act had, in effect, become much easier.

  He reached the steps and turned to wave once more before he entered the plane and the door was shut. The privately chartered Aeroflot plane began to ready itself for take-off.

  Voloshin lay still on the roof top covered with a dark tarpaulin, the American manufactured stinger missile at his side. The Russian airliner lifted off of the runway and started to bank away from the airport. Voloshin said a quiet prayer, for superstitious rather than religious purposes, and stood up hoisting the stinger onto his shoulder. The fat outline of the airliner gave an all too easy acquisition target for the surface to air missile and almost immediately the reticule of the launcher alerted Voloshin that the missile was locked on. He took one deep breath then depressed the trigger switch.