Airport - Code Red: BookShots, Page 4

  ‘I am,’ O’Leary responded wearily. He shook his head and looked from me to Chaz. ‘A week from retirement, one feckin’ week and this feckin’ happens! Come on. You heard the man. You’re spoiling for a fight, so let’s get to check-in.’

  CHAPTER 18

  IT WASN’T FAR back to the service lift. O’Leary led the way and made sure we ran along between him and Silver, who had his gun raised and ready the whole way. The doors opened and Silver punched in the code. O’Leary stabbed ‘G’ for the ground floor.

  The doors opened onto a narrow corridor. A few feet ahead stood a massive glass window rising up to Departures and the level we’d just left. We could see the outside beyond the glass, the Economy drop-off and a pedestrian walkway to the nearest car park.

  Two feet outside the lift we were caught up in a crazy rush of people, a dozen passengers stampeding past us. I spun round as a woman hurtled towards me, screaming. I hadn’t seen anyone that scared since Afghanistan. I stepped into her path and grabbed her shoulders. ‘What’s happened?’ I asked as calmly as I could.

  She stared at me, her eyes huge, put her hand to her mouth as though she was about to vomit, pulled back with surprising strength and darted away heading to the outside, the south side of the building.

  I caught sight of a younger woman. She’d dropped her bag and was spinning on her heels, left then right. ‘James?’ she cried, her face a mask of terror, the blood completely drained away. ‘JAMES?’

  I ran over and held her shoulders.

  ‘My lad . . .’ She yelled again: ‘JAMES?’

  Twisting round, I caught sight of a boy of about five on the other side of the glass window. He was sobbing.

  ‘There,’ I said and turned to the woman. ‘Go! The door to the outside is on your right.’ I nodded towards a revolving door ten metres away. She dashed off, too petrified to say a word.

  We heard machine-gun fire, the crisp bang of a smoke grenade.

  ‘This way,’ O’Leary hollered close to my ear. I pulled back and saw him wave his gun towards the main check-in hall.

  We slipped around the side of the lifts. More panicking passengers rushed headlong towards us. Above the noise, I could just make out the public announcement repeating the loop again. Then it stopped mid-message. Someone had evidently found the ‘off’ switch.

  We crossed a wide stretch of hall. I drew my Glock and saw Chaz had the Beretta in his hand. We traversed the space and stopped behind a cream-painted wall squeezed between a drinks dispenser and a public Internet booth. Then O’Leary pulled away and crept to the end of the wall. He peered round the corner, and without warning stepped forward, his gun in both hands. ‘Drop your weapon,’ I heard him shout.

  Two shots rang out and the old security guard flew through the air. He spun a half-turn and landed on his side. Two men in commando fatigues and balaclavas, each brandishing FN P90s, just about the deadliest personal defence weapons on the planet, appeared at the end of the wall. Without taking a breath, Chaz and I and the kid, Silver, all put our hands up.

  ‘Down on your knees,’ one of the men yelled. He was English and I could detect a northern accent.

  We dropped. They grabbed our weapons. ‘OK. Now get up,’ the second guy snapped. It was definitely a northern accent, I thought: Leeds? Manchester?

  We got to our feet. ‘Make one false move and you join the old bloke. Right?’

  Bradford. Definitely Bradford.

  I reached the end of the wall and saw the check-in hall had become a war zone.

  CHAPTER 19

  SMOKE DRIFTED AROUND the check-in desks like a North Sea fog on a winter’s night. The dead had been left where they had fallen. The injured had been finished off by having their throats cut; no wasted ammo that way.

  Several bodies lay on the stone floor, streaks of blood all around. One passenger was slumped over a counter and I could see from the entrance the pretty young check-in assistant who had checked my passport earlier. She had been strafed by machine-gun fire and had collapsed onto the belt that takes bags to the larger conveyor; she was jammed there, pulled back and then forward, her head banging repeatedly on the sharp edge that guides luggage.

  I heard a low moan come from Silver as he took in the scene. Chaz and I stood rigid, barely able to assimilate. There must have been four hundred, maybe five hundred people in the hall, penned in by two dozen terrorists in black fatigues, some with balaclavas, some bare-faced. At each exit stood two heavily armed men, the wires and bulges of their bomb vests clearly visible.

  I felt the nozzle of a gun in my back and took two steps further into the expansive open hall with its lines of check-ins each side and groups of terrified civilians.

  ‘Stop.’

  Chaz and I immediately froze. The young security guard, Silver, was pushed away to another part of the arrivals hall.

  A hard prod in the back. ‘Sit.’

  We sat.

  One of the men came round in front of us, the short muzzle of his nasty-looking FN P90 passing from Chaz to me and back again. I gazed around, only now able to fully grasp the scale of the attack. ‘Fuck,’ I said and glanced at Chaz.

  ‘Shut up! No talking,’ our guard commanded. ‘Take off your backpack. Give it.’

  I complied, no arguments from me. He could have my boxers and deodorant and shove ’em up his arse for all I cared. He flicked the gun at Chaz. ‘You. Belt-bag.’

  Chaz unstrapped it and tossed it on top of my pack. ‘Shucks! Before I got my euros too.’

  ‘I said shut the fuck up,’ the gunman snapped, and a whole heap of crazy thoughts shot through my mind. I’d like to see if this little rat would be quite so gobby if it was just him and me, no guns, no rules.

  I analysed the scene and knew Chaz was doing the same. It was a large, open space. Even with two dozen men, the attackers were stretched to keep this many people together. But then, who wanted to be the brave dead hero? The terrorists had guns and bombs; we had nothing, and most of the people here were average folks: mums and dads with their kids, students, accountants, shop-workers. I noticed a few uniforms: two security guards, bloodied and beaten, a cleaner, a flight crew. It looked like the gunmen holding the prisoners at bay were packing serious weaponry, but none of them wore bomb vests. Makes sense, I thought. The danger of one terrorist killing a few others if something went wrong was very real. The guys at the exits stood apart, none of their mates near them.

  That’s when Chaz nudged me in the ribs. I didn’t move immediately, or too fast, but turned to the right. Above check-in E5A, a flat-screen TV was on. A reporter was talking to camera. It was impossible to hear what the woman was saying but there was a broad blue strip across the bottom of the screen. I could just about read the words: ‘TERROR ATTACK AT CHURCHILL’. Behind the reporter stood Terminal 3, the building we were in at that very moment. The reporter was positioned at least a hundred metres to our east, past the First and Business Class drop-off points. I could make out a ‘Do Not Cross’ tape. Soldiers and armed police ran by with no regard for the media.

  The sound of choppers broke over the TV. They were flying really low, six metres above the roof, I guessed: recon. There would be drones up there too, infrared cameras trained on the check-in hall.

  I noticed that, beyond the TV screen and to the left, a video camera had been set up on a tripod. In front of it, a chair. As I stared, a woman in fatigues, a Kalashnikov strap and ammo belt crossing her jacket, lowered herself into the chair. Her hair was black as soot and cut short. She had deep stress grooves in her cheeks and a notch in her lower forehead just above her nose that would take a whole shitload of Botox to bang out. She looked like someone who rarely smiled.

  At the same moment she appeared on the TV, her voice booming over the PA. I wasn’t sure how they were doing it, but they had hacked into the broadcast networks. I imagined Chaz was thinking the same thing as me: It will be on all stations simultaneously, and on the Internet.

  ‘My name is Hubab Essa. My men and I have
captured the check-in hall of Churchill Airport, Terminal Three,’ she began, her accent Bradford with a hint of what? Iraqi? Saudi? ‘I have many hostages. Each exit is covered by two of my men wearing bomb vests. What are my demands?’ She made a pathetic attempt at a cynical smile, but it was more rictus grin. ‘No demands. There is a chemical weapon somewhere in the terminal. It will go off in’ – she checked her watch – ‘thirty-one minutes. This will be my only message. Have a nice day!’ The screen went blank.

  CHAPTER 20

  I RISKED A quick glance at Chaz. We knew the same thing. The Arab guy with the suitcase must have been the last link in the chain. Christ only knew what chemical was being prepped. Sarin would be the most likely candidate, but there were others: something basic like mustard gas or phosgene – relatively easy to get or to synthesise, but unreliable and hard to deliver effectively. Besides, I thought, everything I had seen about this operation spelled sophistication – the advanced weapons, the TV hacking. Mustard gas or phosgene were ultra old-school. Sarin, Soman, VX, one of those three was the most likely agent. All of them were super fucking deadly, fast-acting and easy to deploy.

  I moved my wrist slowly and could just read the time. It was 9.46. The bomb would go off at 10.17. I studied the immediate proximity. Our guard, a tall, wiry streak of piss, was enjoying himself. He’d pulled off his balaclava and was giving us a smug smile. I could tell he was longing to have an excuse to pump us full of P90 shells. The only time to wind up this bastard would be when Chaz and I were absolutely ready to make a move and not a second sooner. The next nearest gunman was six metres away towards the east side of the hall. He was watching a group of a dozen passengers. They were silent, petrified. He walked around them menacingly, jabbing a passenger with the muzzle of his gun, shouting at them if he heard a word or a heavy sigh of terror.

  After her short message, the bitch with the cropped hair, Essa, was now striding imperiously across the shiny floor.

  For a second, I thought she was coming to our little party. But then why would she? She slowed as she approached a large group, some forty civilians packed into a tight square on the floor, each cross-legged, hands on their heads. A squat, flat-faced man stood over them, his P90 at the ready, dark eyes concentrated on the hostages. He looked a bit jumpy to me. Towards the back of the block of passengers sat three tourists: mum, dad and son. The kid looked about ten, Tommy’s age. As Essa approached, they each kept their eyes to the floor. I was reminded of old black-and-white war movies where the Nazi commander of the POW camp struts around and stops to inspect the captured soldiers. We’d all seen those films. Essa probably had too. She stopped beside the family.

  From far off I heard a baby cry, then a few raised voices that quickly fell quiet. The baby kept crying. I heard a mother hushing – soothing, but desperate.

  ‘Passports,’ Essa said, her voice completely robotic. She kicked the father in the back. ‘Passports.’

  The wife handed them to her husband. He started to stand.

  ‘Stay!

  He handed them over. I could see they were American passports. Shit! I thought. Not a good time to be a Yank, or a Brit come to that.

  Essa glanced at the passports. ‘Dr Graham Steiner and Muriel Steiner travelling with’ – she opened the third passport – ‘little Mikey. Cute.’ She tossed back the passports. ‘Mikey.’ Essa seemed to find it hard to say the name. ‘Get up.’

  The boy looked at his mum and dad. They stared back, ashen-faced.

  ‘What do you want?’ Muriel Steiner asked, her voice trembling.

  ‘Was I talking to you, Muriel?’ Essa said. ‘No. I was talking to Mikey. Get up, Mikey, and come here.’

  The dad nodded to the boy and the kid stood shakily. He stepped behind his parents and walked slowly towards Essa. The hall was horribly quiet.

  Mikey was less than a metre from Essa and slowing. She grabbed his arm and yanked him towards her, forced him to his knees facing his mum and dad. He started to cry. Muriel Steiner went to stand, but her husband gripped her arm. I could see Dr Steiner’s face. He held Essa’s eyes with a look of pure hatred.

  ‘American spawn,’ Essa said, looking down at Mikey Steiner. ‘One of the next generation who will bomb our people and destroy our countries. Best put to death now, I think.’ She whipped her right hand round and had the Walther in her palm; the one she had used to kill the student, James Dalton. Muriel Steiner screamed as Essa pushed the gun hard into the boy’s temple, making him yelp. Tears streamed down the kid’s face.

  Essa pulled the trigger and nothing happened. Just a click. The squat guard standing beside his commander laughed and Essa produced the magazine in her left hand. ‘Oh! Forgot this,’ she said coldly, and slotted it into the gun with a click.

  That was when Dr Graham Steiner snapped. He sprang up, his face etched with fury, eyes ablaze. ‘You fucking bitch!’ he spat, and almost reached Essa before she lifted the Walther and fired a single bullet into the centre of his forehead. Blood erupted and Muriel’s scream cut through me like sharpened steel. A sudden burst of sound echoed around the vast open space, bouncing from the walls and the glass ceiling many yards overhead. It was the sound of hundreds of terrified people all fearful for their lives and the lives of their loved ones. I guessed that less than a quarter of the hostages had actually witnessed the murder, but the noise of the gun was horrendous.

  Essa yanked the boy to his feet and pushed him forward. He tripped on his father’s corpse and landed in his mother’s arms. She was hysterical, clutching the boy and scrambling on her knees towards her dead husband.

  ‘Back,’ Hubab Essa hissed. Muriel Steiner ignored her. ‘Back, Muriel, or little Mikey will be an orphan.’ Essa levelled her pistol at the woman and she stopped moving, just gripped her son so tightly that her fingers turned white as the pair sobbed into each other’s shoulders.

  CHAPTER 21

  ‘WE HAVE TO get out of here,’ I whispered to Chaz as our guard was momentarily distracted by the slaughter off to our right. ‘I reckon we have twenty-nine minutes, max.’ Chaz nodded as our handler turned his gaze back to us. The skinny runt had a fleck of blood just below his left eye.

  We each knew there was only one way out. But even trying that would require some sort of diversion. For some reason, I felt confident that one would come along. The place was a powder keg ready to blow at any moment – a vigilante with a streak of narcissism would do something rash; some nut who’d seen too many Rambo movies would try to be a hero. But actually, when it came, the diversion was nothing like that.

  Essa stepped closer. She glanced directly at me and I looked away to stare down at the shiny floor. I saw her boots. She paused, then moved on. I looked up and saw her walk away north towards the causeway in front of the entrance to Departures. There were four men there, bomb vests over their chests. They stood like armed police, legs slightly apart, P90s held diagonally across their vests.

  Another large group of passengers was bunched up on the floor directly ahead. There must have been fifty of them with two guards watching their every move, parading their guns while the captives kept their heads down. I could see the two men straighten as their leader, Hubab Essa, paced towards them.

  She stopped at the back of the group of hostages, studying them with cold, dark eyes. I followed her gaze. She was considering a Middle Eastern couple huddled together, their arms folded, a bag in front of them. She stepped between the seated figures and stopped to stare down at them.

  ‘Stand.’

  They stood slowly, eyes averted. The woman was wearing a scarf, the man was heavily bearded. He looked up to meet Essa’s eyes. He was putting on a brave face, but I could see he was as frightened as the rest of the hostages.

  ‘Passports.’

  The man handed them over.

  Essa scanned them. ‘Iraqi. What are you doing here?’

  ‘Visiting relatives,’ the man said. The woman in the scarf kept her eyes to the floor and let the man do all the talking.


  ‘Where do you live’ – Essa glanced at the top passport – ‘Yazid? Yazid Hussein. A good Sunni name.’

  ‘We live in a small village close to Tikrit.’

  ‘Tikrit,’ Essa repeated. ‘That is good. Very good.’ She eyed the man, then flicked a look at the woman. ‘Ubah. Pretty name. “Flower”. ’ Essa placed two fingers under the woman’s chin and lifted her head. The woman forced a brief smile. ‘Not much of one, though,’ Essa said with a smirk.

  A few people were daring to turn slightly to see what was happening. In the silence, Essa’s voice carried. It had a shrillness about it. I guessed even she was feeling stressed. ‘You may go,’ she said.

  The man said nothing, just gave the terrorist a grateful look. Ubah peered up voluntarily for the first time, put her hands together and gave Essa a tiny bow.

  Essa glanced at one of the men standing guard over the group. ‘Escort them.’

  Yazid Hussein bent down to lift the single bag the couple had with them. His shirt collar was open. A crucifix on a silver chain tumbled out.

  CHAPTER 22

  YAZID HUSSEIN TRIED desperately to grab it, but it was too late. Essa and the guard had seen it. Hussein straightened, the colour draining from his cheeks. His wife looked confused, then realised; terror scurried across her features.

  I turned to Chaz. He’d seen everything and knew this was the moment. We had an almost telepathic connection.

  ‘Apostate,’ Essa said without expression.

  I felt every muscle tense, and a nerve started twitching high up in my right cheek. Essa saw one of her men a dozen yards away and beckoned him over.

  ‘You know the punishment for apostasy?’ Essa spat, glaring at the Iraqi couple. ‘You know. Of course you know. Your false prophet supposedly died that way.’ She turned to the man who had just reached her. ‘Parizad. You and Cemal take them.’