Candleburn (26 page)

“Which
you can’t have,” Asp replied. “A nuclear bomb is out. They’ve tested for it and there’s no radiation indicating its presence. If you wanted a conventional bomb blast that big, it would require so much fertilizer, or chemicals that it would set off detectors, as well as being obvious as it was taken into the zone.”

Blake tapped his foot.

“I
don’t know,” he said. “Maybe we just give up.”

51

The next fifteen minutes of the journey were spent in an uneasy silence. Blake’s mind was a jumble as he tried to think his way through the logical impasses they faced. There had to be a way around the problem – something he and Asp were missing.

He
pulled out his phone again.

“Hello?”
Ron Casabian answered.

“Ron,
it’s Blake.”

“Did
the exchange go as planned?” Ron asked. “You’re alive, so assume something went right.”

“Something,
yes,” Blake replied. “We got Nate’s family. Aarez escaped.”

A
low rumble from the other end of the phone.

“That
is unfortunate,” Ron said, deliberating over each syllable.

“We’re
now trying to think of ways the assassination could proceed,” Blake said. “Specs are tough: they’ve a 300 metre cordon, the prince has a guard detail and snipers positioned on the nearby roofs. His security has swept for radiation, so a nuclear bomb is out.”

“Why
would you need a nuke?” Ron asked with surprise.

“A
conventional bomb wouldn’t be big enough to take out the Burj Khalifa from outside the 300 metre cordon,” Blake replied. “We’re assuming the bomb isn’t inside that radius or they’d have found it.”

“Why
couldn’t you use a thermobaric?”

“Where
the hell would an Iranian get their hands on one of those?” Blake exclaimed.

“I’m
sorry,” Asp said. “What’s a thermobaric?”

“Thermobaric
is the technical name,” Blake stated. “The colloquial phrase, which describes it better, is a ‘fuel-air bomb’.”

“Thermobarics
101,” Ron said. “A normal explosive is explosive because it contains its own oxygen, enough to make it burn incredibly quickly. Speed is the key. If the combustion was slow it wouldn’t go boom, it would just burn like a flame – a fire isn’t explosive because it relies on atmospheric oxygen. Back in the 60s and 70s when they were investigating tactical nuclear weapons – what you and I would call suitcase nukes – someone hit upon an idea for making a bomb that burned using atmospheric oxygen but it it quickly so it went bang rather than fizzle. Now, if the explosive doesn’t have to contain its own oxygen, for a given amount of ‘boom’ the bomb itself could be smaller.”

“How
did they do that, if you just said they couldn’t?” Nate asked.

“The
Great Fire of London started in a bakery,” Blake said. “Flour, when it’s thrown in the air, becomes an explosive mixture. The flour is a fuel and the atmospheric oxygen is, well, the oxygen. So, if you could aerosolize a cloud of something highly combustible, like flour – only even more so, say a mixture of fine aluminium and magnesium powders – then set fire to it under pressure, you can reduce the weight and size of the bomb hugely. To give you an idea of how big a problem containing all the oxygen for an explosion is, in gunpowder only a quarter of the mass is fuel – three-quarters is oxidiser.”

“In
practice, a thermobaric is really two bombs,” Ron said. “The first is small and vaporises the fuel. The second ignites it once it’s a fine misty cloud. The result is something like a small nuclear bomb in explosive size.”

“Of
course,” Blake said, “it has major drawbacks. You can’t use it underwater because there’s no oxygen. And you can’t use it at altitude – same problem.”

“And
most importantly,” Ron added, “you can’t use it in bad weather. Rain dramatically reduces the explosion for obvious reasons: the cloud can’t form.”

“Okay,
I understand,” Asp said. “Is it feasible in this case?”

“Not
really,” Blake said. “A Thermobaric, while small relative to the size of the giant blast it produces doesn’t make a big enough bang for our purposes. The blast would be around 200 metres across. That’s well outside the limit of the cordon and, as I said, I think we have to assume the British have security in place to check inside their perimeter.”

“That’s
assuming it’s an American thermobaric,” Ron said.

“Of
course,” Blake realised. His eyes widened. “That’s why the Russian mobsters are so up to their necks in this mess. They’ve got a FOAB.”

“This
is getting really tiring, guys,” Asp said. “FOAB?”

“Father
of All Bombs,” Ron said. “Whatever we Yanks do, the Russkies have to do one better. In 2007, they made an even larger fuel-air bomb. It weighs at the top end about 10 tons and has a blast radius of something like 300-400 metres. And that’s assuming they haven’t made improvements since.”

“Imagine,”
Blake said, “everything within an 800 metre across circle, obliterated – just gone from existence. And if the blast doesn’t get you, because the bomb consumes all the atmospheric oxygen, you’d just suffocate. It’s perfect.”

“How
do we find it?” Nate asked.

“Well,
we know what we’re looking for now,” Blake replied. “It would have to have been put in place weeks ago to avoid suspicion and be outside the cordon – but close enough to it to destroy the target. We need an Iranian owned business outside 300 metres away from the Burj Khalifa, but inside 400 metres.”

“That’s
easy,” Asp said.

“What?”
Blake and Ron exclaimed in unison.

“It’s
the headquarters of Rasoul Kaskhar,” Asp said. “I was there yesterday.”

“If
the British won’t raid his office because they don’t think there’s a threat,” Blake said, “Ron, could you lean on the Dubai police or the Ceebies to search it?”

“Are
you kidding?” Ron asked. “He’s in the top ten most powerful non-Emerati businessmen in the country and you want to see if I can get someone to kick in the door to his office based on no evidence? Let’s just file that idea under ‘things that aren’t going to happen’.”

“Then
it’ll have to be your own men you send, Ron,” Asp stated. “We’re talking international incident here. That’s got to be worthy of your resources.”

“Again,”
Ron said, “no way. Kaskhar is a renowned businessman. He’s worth $150 million or more. I see no reason to think he’d allow – or even plan – a terrorist act to kill members of the British Royal family.”

“You
think it’s thin?” Asp said.

“I
don’t think,” Ron replied. “It is thin. You two go poking around there, see what you can find. You see something that looks like a ten-ton bomb, you let me know. Then I’ll act.”

“By
then it may be too late,” Blake said. “When’s the signing of this historic deal?”

“It’s
at one this afternoon.”

“Four
hours? That leaves things tight if we do find a weapon,” Blake said. “I may have many skills – and I’m sure Nate has some too – but disarming superbombs isn’t on the list.”

“Call
me if you find evidence,” Ron said.

“One
last thing, Ron,” Blake added. “Do you have enough swing to get us through the security perimeter around the Burj Khalifa? My Audi’s pretty shot up and on this schedule, we don’t have time to hire something different or pick up another from Asp’s house.”

“I
won’t be able to get you into the Burj complex itself,” Ron said. “That’s controlled by the locals and the British; we’re not exactly on good terms with one another at the moment. The wider cordon at 300 metres... I can probably swing that – if you’re going to Kaskhar’s office, you can probably use the Al Manzil Hotel, so say you’re checking in there. I’ll make arrangements.”

The
steady tone of a dead line buzzed through the phone speakers.

“Everyone’s
hanging up on us today,” Asp said.

“Welcome
to the world of journalism,” Blake replied.

“So,
what’s next?” Alexandria asked from the back of the car.

“Next?”
Blake said. “Next, Nate will call whoever is still left alive in his office and get them to swing by your house and pick up passports for you and the kids. We’ll drive you to the airport and as soon as he arrives with your documents, you’ll buy a ticket for you and the kids to the first destination you can in Europe. From there, you’ll fly to London.”

“I
know I want to leave the country but this all seems a little fast,” Alexandria said.

“I
don’t want you here if that bomb goes off,” Nate said. “And if it doesn’t, I’m going to have to skip the country anyway because of the mounting body count. I suspect Blake will be hightailing it out of here too.”

“Exactly,”
Blake agreed. “And who knows what this town will be like a few hours from now if a bomb really does go off. For all we know this is the opening move on an Iranian invasion.”

52

In Dubai all cars are spotlessly clean.

It
is a social faux-pas to drive a vehicle with anything more than a light coat of dust on it. As Asp pulled up to the road block on the ring of streets near the Burj Khalifa, he could feel the stares of disapproval from the policeman manning the checkpoint.

The
Yemeni stared disdainfully from behind his mirrored sunglasses as he walked around the front of the Audi, then to the sides and finally around the back. He stopped by the smashed driver’s side window and smirked. His eyes fell on the broken glass that littered the floor like freshly cut diamonds.

Before
he could speak, Asp quickly said:

“As-salamu
alaykum.”

Roughly
translated as ‘peace be upon you’, it was more accurately described as ‘hello’ in Gulf countries. It was the most important of seven handshake phrases that even if you didn’t speak Arabic you could use to smooth your path over in difficult situations. Such was the power of making just this small effort at learning their language, and so strong the generosity that Emiratis bestowed on Westerners that displayed even modest attempts at indicating deference to their culture, that its use could mean the difference between getting a speeding ticket and being let off with a warning.

The
policeman’s smirk extended into a smile.

“Wa
‘alakyum assalam,” he replied.

He
then said something very fast that Asp didn’t catch. Usually it was something to the effect of ‘are you having a good day?’

Asp
replied with his second catch all phrase.

“Alhamdulillah,
Alhamdulillah.”

The
Yemeni laughed.

“I
asked you why your car is full of what look like bullet holes,” he said. “So I’m afraid your response doesn’t work this time.”

“I
am most humbly sorry,” Asp said. “My Arabic is too poor.”

The
policeman nodded.

“Never
mind that; what happened?”

“They
are not bullet holes,” Asp replied. “We took the car wadi-bashing. It was a bad choice of vehicle.”

The
policeman considered the situation sceptically. It was clear that he’d merely been told to set up a checkpoint. He’d not been informed as to the purpose of the road closure. That was not unusual. The true exclusion zone was further around the ring road. There the security would be rigorous.

“These
streets are closed today,” the policeman commented. “You’ll have to find a different route.”

“We
are booking into the Al Manzil hotel,” Asp said, pointing just down the road. “It is outside your main cordon for the conference in the Burj; however, we need to come through to park our car there. If you ask your superior officer, arrangements should have been made to let us inside.”

The
policeman looked again at Asp and then Blake’s face.

Blake
was fast asleep and snoring.

Fortunately,
the blood of his wounds was no longer visible. Alexandria had fitted two bandages during the journey into the city and he’d changed into his last set of clean clothes.

Normally,
there was considerable leeway given to British, German and American expats in Dubai. With crime rates low and a good portion of the state’s economy run by those three groups, it made little sense to target the three nationalities unless there was a strong reason.

“Just
to the Al Manzil?”

“Just
to the Al Manzil,” Nate said. “Have you been there? They have an excellent restaurant.”

The
policeman nodded and waved them through.

***

Blake was still groggy when they walked up the marble steps to the headquarters of Kaskhar Industries. He put his hands to the glass double panelled sliding doors that marked the entrance.

It
was dark inside.

“It’s
a work day,” he said. “Where is everyone?”

“Supposedly,
Kashkar gave everyone the day off for his wedding anniversary,” Asp replied. “It’s nice to think that employer-employee loyalty at Kaskhar includes warning your staff so you don’t blow them up.”

Asp
looked down at the flight bag containing the P90 in Blake’s hand.

“You
still have enough rounds for that thing?”

“Two
clips left, with 50 bullets each,” Blake replied. “If we need more than 100 slugs, we’ll probably be in worse trouble than simply not having enough ammo. Are you sure you don’t want the pistol? It still has a few shots left.”

“I
don’t really do violence,” Asp said. “Threats of violence, yes. In the worst case – I had Zain to protect me. I certainly don’t do guns.”

“Could
have fooled me, slugger,” Blake said, smiling and lifting a hand to his cheek. “Now, how do we get in?”

Asp
stood back and examined the door itself. It was a standard corporate design – pane of glass, a gap of around two metres, and then a second pane. There was a pass card panel attached to the wall.

“I
wish I’d known I was going to be coming back here,” he commented. “I’d have grabbed a key. We could look for a fire exit?”

Blake
checked over his shoulder. There were too many people around to simply smash the glass and waltz through. He glanced back at the door and then checked the angle of the stairs.

“That’s
okay,” Blake said. “I’ve an idea. You’ll have to hold the flight bag for a minute. Whatever happens, keep walking as though nothing out of the ordinary occurred. Come with me.”

They
turned and began slowly down the stone steps.

Blake
put his hands in his outside jacket pocket and fumbled for a few seconds.

Three
pops – no louder than a champagne cork being sloppily released from a bottle. The sound of shattering. Blake and Asp continued nonchalantly down the staircase. Of the twenty or so people on the street, no more than five scanned to see where the noise had come from.

With
everyone moving blithely on their way, even those who were alerted quickly returned to their business.

“Amazing,”
Asp said as they reached the bottom of the stairs. “The human brain is a marvel.”

“It has to be primed to notice anything out of the ordinary,” Blake replied. “You’ve heard of the ‘did you spot the gorilla’ experiment?”

“The
one where they show footage of a basketball game to people and ask them to count how many times the players in white pass the ball?” Asp asked.

“That’s
the one,” Blake said. “Then they walk a man in a gorilla costume through and when the footage is over, they ask people if they saw anything abnormal – and only half ever do. The rest are too focused on counting.”

“It
was a real eye opener for me,” Asp said. “And you’re saying that’s why no-one on the street noticed you shoot backwards from your pocket and destroy a glass-fronted door – because their Stone Age brains weren’t primed for it?”

At
the bottom of the stairs, Blake turned to Asp and raised a finger. He pantomimed forgetting to take something from his office. Asp acted surprised and gestured back up the steps. They began the return journey to the now open building.

“I’m
saying more than that,” Blake replied. “The people out here may not be primed but those inside the building are. The sound of glass door breaking is likely to attract their attention. Now, there’s one bullet left in the pistol. Are you sure you don’t want it?”

Asp
rubbed his beard as they walked across the broken glass into the foyer.

“It’s
a kind offer,” he said. “I think I’ll save it for later.”