LITMIR.BIZ

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depends. Partly your choice. Probably, almost certainly, Europe.’

      ‘How dangerous?’

      ‘Very.’

      The first suspicion of what it was crossed his mind. ‘Who else will be involved?’

      Nabil gave him the part of the answer that concerned him. ‘Your decision. A team job. I imagine you will decide yourself plus three or four others.’

      The suspicion was growing. ‘What conditions?’

      ‘On the team you choose? Only one condition, one of the team must be a West German.’

      ‘Why a West German?’

      ‘Because we will be making demands of the West German government.’

      He knew what it was. ‘When?’ he asked.

      ‘Ten weeks, possibly eleven.’

      The hunger strike that had started that morning, Haddad thought, knew for certain what the job was.

      ‘What is it?’ he asked at last.

      ‘A hijack,’ said Nabil.

      The first snows of the year had settled on the sides of the hills surrounding the city, laying its blanket over the valleys and moorlands where they had their secret places. The ground was already hard with frost, and the cold in the air took his breath away. He wondered what it would be like in the Brecons, in the disused quarries and the forgotten valleys where he and his men would practise their craft.

      He left home at seven thirty and began the ten minute drive to the barracks on the southern side of the city. It was his first day on duty since he had returned from Northern Ireland, it was also the first day for as long as he could remember that he would return home when he came off duty that night. He turned out of the road and began the drop into the city. Jane and the children were still on Christmas holidays, they had booked seats for the pantomime that evening. The traffic was light, he crossed the bridge over the river, turned right at the post office and began the drive along the edge of the barracks, the wire of the outer fence glistening in the cold of the sun. The man at the main gate looked into the car as he stopped. He knew what was going to happen.

      ‘It’s the bloody pin-up boy,’ the man joked. ‘Can I have your autograph?’

      ‘Sod off,’ Enderson told him.

      The barrier lifted and he drove through.

      The key number in the organisation of the Special Air Service, ever since its inception by David Stirling in the deserts of North Africa in 1941, is the number four. The regiment is divided into four active service squadrons, named Sabre squadrons. Each squadron is, in turn, divided into four troops; each troop in its turn, is divided into four patrols; each patrol is made up of four men. Each Sabre squadron is an entity in itself; there are, therefore, in principle at least, a minimum of four tours of duty in which the SAS may be engaged at any one time. Three of those are normally overseas, and in recent years the fourth has been British-based. It is the anti-terrorist duty. Other circumstances permitting, each squadron takes that duty in turn, with the in-built precaution of an over-lap period during which the outgoing squadron remains in place while the incoming squadron begins its training and familiarises itself with the places and locations in which it might be called upon to operate.

      That morning Graham Enderson’s squadron went on anti-terrorist duty.

      The briefing began at eleven, and the equipment was issued at twelve. While on the anti-terrorist duty, as well as the two-week period when the squadron which would take over from his were being trained up, Enderson would be on twenty-four-hour call. His equipment, the assault suit, the gas-mask with the built-in radio, the Heckler and Koch MP5K sub-machine gun, his small arms, the streamlights and stun grenades, as well as his body armour, would be kept in place in the special rooms in the centre of the barracks at Hereford. When the units were on red alert, he and his men would sit in the rooms fully geared; when he went home each evening, and when he came to work each day, he would carry with him a small hold-all with his personal items in it, as well as a Browning hand gun. He would also take a bleeper with him wherever he went, starting with the pantomime that night.

      By five o’clock it was dark, Enderson left the barracks and drove home. The house was warm and bright, the Christmas decorations still in place, the tea on the kitchen table.

      ‘What’s that?’ his wife asked, looking at the hold-all.

      ‘Something from work,’ he replied vaguely. ‘Where are the kids?’

      ‘Getting ready.’

      He went upstairs, locked the hold-all in the wardrobe at the foot of the bed, and changed.

      The pantomime that evening was ‘The Gingerbread Man’, the theatre was crowded; Jane did not query why he took the bleeper with him, nor did she ask again about the hold-all, assuming she would become accustomed to it. She did, however, object when the bleeper was checked at six o’clock the next morning, waking her up, groaning as Enderson told her it was routine.

      ‘Every morning at six?’ she asked incredulously.

      ‘Every morning at six,’ he confirmed.

      Walid Haddad sat in the darkness, the windows and doors closed, his shoulders hunched and his hands clasped tight in front of him.

      Leish ya’Allah a hijack? Why in the name of Allah a hijack?

      The thought crossed and re-crossed his mind. He moved his legs slightly, easing the pressure on them, and pushed himself even deeper into the chair. He had been like this, locked into himself, for the past four hours, ever since he had returned from the briefing with Abu Nabil.

      The concentration was consuming him. He eased himself forward, searched for the small lamp on the floor at the side of the chair, switched it on, and made himself coffee.

      There were hijacks, of course, often bloody, always spectacular, and there were groups who would carry them out. But they were the small groups, the fringe groups, who believed in violence for its own sake, not as a means to an end. He sat down again, leaving the light on, and placing the cup on the arm of the chair. Hijacks were no good if they made you enemies, if they lost you friends. Nabil had long seen that, used it as a criterion against which to judge every action on which he sent his men, quoted it when he had vetoed the many ideas that were placed in front of him.

      So why a hijack? he thought again.

      It was getting cold. He stood up, pulled on a sweater, and slumped back into the chair, pushing the reasons for the hijack to the back of his mind, turning his attention to the logistics and concentrating on the two basic requirements that were within his responsibility: how the hijack would take place, and where.

      The two could not be separated, he was aware, separated them anyway, studying each in turn, beginning with the second.

      Almost certainly Europe, Nabil had said. Definitely Europe, if a West German was to be in his team, Haddad thought, if the West German government was to be the target of their demands. All the big hijacks of the past had started in Europe. It was good for the publicity, the ease with which the television people could get their pictures out, the images without which the hijack would have no impact. Bad for everything else, especially the security. With the exception of Athens, most airports in Europe were tight, not water-tight, but tight. He wondered if he could turn the fact to his advantage, and began to reflect on what, in his mind, he already thought of as the Dubai factor, knowing that he would return to it, then switched his attention to the other requirement.

      Getting his team on the plane would be simple, they would have no difficulty posing as ordinary passengers, using false identities and passports. The problem was how to get their weapons and explosives on with them. Not just pistols, not just inflight perfumes and spirits splashed round the cabin in the hope they would ignite. The weapons and explosives had to be good, the best. Not only that, they would have to be seen to be the best.

      There was no sense in hoping he could pick up additional materials half

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