‘Then the Hawker. I want it airworthy.’
‘Now, sir?’
‘Now. Not tomorrow, not in an hour. Now.’
The crackle of fire in the far distance brought the man in the long grass to his knees. It was the deepest dusk before complete darkness, the hour when the eyes play tricks and shadows become threats. He lifted the bicycle to its wheels, put the toolbox in the front basket, pedalled across the runway to the escarpment side and began to cycle the mile and a half to the hangars at the far end. The mechanic’s coveralls with the ‘Z’ logo of the Zeta Corporation on the back were unnoticeable in the dusk, and with a panic about to be launched, no one would remark on them for the next thirty minutes either.
The Serb turned on McBride.
‘This is where we part company, Mr McBride. I fear you will have to return to Washington by your own means. The problem here will be sorted, and I shall be getting a new head of security. You can tell Mr Devereaux I shall not renege on our deal, but for the moment I intend to kill the intervening days enjoying the hospitality of friends of mine in the Emirates.’
The garage was at the end of the basement corridor and the Mercedes was armoured. Kulac drove, his employer seated in the rear. McBride stood helplessly in the garage as the door rolled up and back, the limousine slid under it, across the gravel and out of the still opening gates in the wall.
By the time the Mercedes had rolled up to it, the hangar was ablaze with light. The small tractor was hitched to the nose-wheel assembly of the Hawker 1000 to tow it out onto the apron.
The last mechanic fastened down the last hatch on the engines, clattered down the gantry and pulled the structure away from the airframe. In the illuminated cockpit Captain Stepanovic, with his young French co-pilot beside him, was checking instruments, gauges and systems on the strength of the auxiliary power unit.
Zilic and Kulac watched from the shelter of the car. When the Hawker was out on the apron, the door opened, the steps hissed down, and the co-pilot could be seen in the opening.
Kulac left the car alone, jogged the few yards of concrete and ran up the steps into the sumptuous cabin. He glanced to his left towards the closed door of the flight deck. Two strides took him to the lavatory at the rear. He flung the door open. Empty. Returning to the top of the steps, he beckoned to his employer. The Serb left the car and ran to the steps. When he was inside, the door closed, locking them in to comfort and safety.
Outside, two men donned ear defenders. One plugged in the trolley accumulator and Captain Stepanovic started his engines. The two Pratt and Whitney 305s began to turn, then whine, then howl.
The second man stood way out front where the pilot could see him, a neon-lit bar in each hand. He guided the Hawker clear of the hangars and out to the edge of the apron.
Captain Stepanovic lined her up, tested brakes one last time, released them and powered both throttles.
The Hawker began to roll, faster and faster. To one side, miles away, the floodlights around the mansion flickered out, adding to the chaos. The nose lifted towards the sea and the north. To the left the escarpment raced by. The twinjet eased off the tarmac, the faint rumbling stopped, the cliff-edge villas went under the nose and she was out over the moonlit sea.
Captain Stepanovic brought up his undercarriage, handed over to the Frenchman and began to work out flight plan and track for a first fuel stop in the Azores. He had flown to the UAE several times, but never at thirty minutes’ notice. The Hawker tilted to starboard, moving from her northwest take-off heading towards northeast, and passed through ten thousand feet.
Like most executive jets, the Hawker 1000 has a small but luxurious lavatory, right at the back, occupying the whole hull from side to side. And like some, the rear wall is a movable partition giving access to an even smaller cubbyhole for light luggage. Kulac had checked the lavatory, but not the luggage bay.
Five minutes into the flight, the crouching man in the mechanic’s coveralls eased the partition aside and stepped into the washroom. He removed the Sig Sauer 9mm automatic from the toolbox, checked the mechanism yet again, eased off the safety catch and walked into the salon. The two men in the rawhide club chairs facing each other stared at him in silence.
‘You’ll never dare use it,’ said the Serb. ‘It will penetrate the hull and blow us all away.’
‘The slugs have been doctored,’ said Avenger evenly. ‘One quarter charge. Enough to punch a hole in you, stay inside and kill you, but never go through the hull. Tell your boy I want his piece out, finger and thumb, on the carpet.’
There was a short exchange in Serbo-Croat. His face dark with rage, the bodyguard eased out his Glock from the left armpit holster and dropped it.
‘Kick it toward me,’ said Dexter. Zilic complied.
‘And the ankle gun.’
Kulac wore a smaller back-up gun taped round his left ankle, under the sock. This was also kicked out of range. Avenger produced a pair of handcuffs and tossed them to the carpet.
‘Your pal’s left ankle. Do it yourself. In vision all the time or you lose a kneecap. And yes, I am that good.’
‘A million dollars,’ said the Serb.
‘Get on with it,’ said the American.
‘Cash, any bank you like.’
‘I’m losing patience.’
The handcuff went on.