A Hostile State Adrian Magson (reading e books txt) 📖

What the hell was going on? First the attack on me near Yammoune, in Lebanon, followed by the Agusta dusting down the olive grove with some serious gunfire. Now this. Launching an attack inside a British RAF base where there would have been armed security demonstrated a serious level of determination or desperation. Or maybe the attackers had had no real idea of what they were up against.

I sent a note back.

Have you ID’d the first two?

Not that it helped me to know much either way but it would show me they were on top of the situation.

Fifteen minutes later there was another text.

One name possible. Checking sources.

Well that was something. If they had a line on one of the gunmen it might lead to others and eventually give them some idea of where he’d come from … and maybe who was his employer. Like every other aspect of intel work it was a process: identify, confirm and connect, working along the line to check known associates, background and history to see who was pulling the strings, who had given the orders. And why.

I couldn’t answer that so I focussed on watching the terminal hall around the main entrance. Passengers and greeters were hurrying by in a steady stream, each in his or her own world, pushing baggage carts, dragging kids, carrying overnight bags or clutching flight documents. A familiar sight the world over.

Then I spotted two men who’d pushed through the main entrance and stopped just inside. They were getting in the way of other arrivals but they didn’t move, oblivious of everyone else. One was checking his phone while the other stood close by, scanning the hall.

On first sight they looked fairly normal: average faces, dark hair, somewhere in their late thirties or early forties. Medium height, a couple of guys on down-time, wearing jeans, windcheaters and soft boots. Not US military, though, which was common around here.

Yet there was something about them that struck me as odd. Then it hit me: where other travellers were stopping to peer up at the flight schedule boards, clutching their flight documents in the excited or edgy manner of all travellers, these two did none of that. Here to meet someone, perhaps? My gut feel said not.

Then the man with the cellphone said something to his companion and looked up.

He was looking right at the area where I was sitting.

I grabbed my backpack and slid out of my seat, moving slowly because sudden movements stood out, even here in this maelstrom of people.

I headed for the washrooms which lay at the far end of the hall. I kept my head down, walking nice and easy, not looking back and using other passengers as cover. It should have worked but didn’t. As I passed a tinted window in the side of a store I caught the men’s reflection.

They’d spotted me and were heading my way.

TWENTY-TWO

The entrance corridor to the nearest washrooms in the terminal where I was sitting was blocked by a no-entry sign and a large janitor’s trolley, with two mops propped against the walls further along to reinforce the message. There was a powerful smell of bleach in the air and something else not quite nice. Vomit. The floor to one side was covered with a clutch of sodden paper towels and cleaning rags, and the air-con here didn’t seem to be working, which meant the smell had got trapped in the corridor with nowhere to go.

Unfortunately the plan I had in mind to deal with this latest problem didn’t allow me to go looking for another washroom. And the fact that this one was out of use served my purposes very well. I checked out the trolley. It held an array of tissues, paper towels and cleaning products, along with pale, two-litre plastic containers of what I guessed was liquid soap. Hooking my backpack over my shoulder I grabbed one of the containers and one of the mops as I passed by. I unscrewed the top of the container as I pushed through the door, hoping the cleaner was on a break.

The interior of the washroom was panelled, tiled and bright as day under the ceiling lights. It was also empty. The combined smell of vomit and bleach in here was even stronger, enough to close the throat and water the eyes. Whoever had been ill out in the corridor had continued being ill in here. I upended the container, pouring the gloop out onto the floor across the doorway a couple of paces inside, then stamped on the mop’s wooden handle and broke off the head.

I’d never practiced kendo or stick-fighting but it looked as if I was about to find out if I could.

I heard the men’s footsteps as they came hurrying down the corridor. They were probably intent on a quick take-down to complete their assignment and get out of here.

The door was kicked open, slamming it back on its hinges, revealing one man. He was big across the shoulders, confident and steaming for a fight. He saw me standing halfway across the room and walked quickly forward, eyes locked on mine, an attack-dog on two feet.

He was holding something slim and dark grey in colour down by his leg, and I recognized the outline of a knife. This guy had decided not to bring a gun into a security-washed area like Frankfurt Airport and I was betting he’d settled for a ceramic blade instead. Although not guaranteed there was less chance of being pinged by metal detectors and it would be extremely sharp for maximum effect.

I glanced at his feet. He was a half-step away from the first pool of liquid soap and I wanted him to keep coming with his eyes fixed on me. I waved the mop handle in the air, swishing it around to catch and retain his attention.

Then I fumbled and dropped it. Deliberately.

His expression showed he couldn’t believe his luck. As I scrabbled to