Payback (18 page)

And, despite his briefing, Beleshayov was planning to carry out one unauthorized action. He was going to do a visual fly-by, a final personal check that the target had been correctly identified.
There were numerous aircraft flying around the area, and Beleshayov had no intention of releasing his missiles until he was absolutely certain that he was targeting the right one.

Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

Sheikh Tala Qabandi climbed out of the Jet Ranger in the courtyard of his palace and walked over to the building’s imposing entrance. Alexander followed dutifully a
few paces behind. They’d left Al-Shahrood following further inconclusive investigation. Despite widening the search to cover the desert immediately surrounding the stables, not the slightest
trace of anyone had been found.

The police inspector had already initiated a missing-persons report on Osman bin Mahmoud and his wife – the only people Qabandi was
certain
would have been at the farmhouse –
and placed a watch order, effective throughout Saudi Arabia and all the adjoining states, for the missing Range Rover and the horse transporter. And that, as the inspector said, was about all they
could do, since there was still no proof that any crime had been committed.

Inside the palace’s cool interior, William Alexander headed straight for his office. He had a few lines of inquiry he wanted to check himself, the first of which was the most obvious. To
his surprise it produced immediate results.

The transport itinerary for the racehorse Shaf had been supplied by bin Mahmoud a few weeks earlier, and it specified the flight to Dubai, the stables booked there and the staff accommodation.
All these arrangements had been charged to the sheikh’s account and, as the horse had now vanished, they could be cancelled and refunds obtained. Alexander was used to paying close attention
to such minor details, which was one of the reasons Qabandi employed him.

But when he got through to the airline office at Riyadh to cancel the tickets, the response was not what he had anticipated.

‘I’m sorry, sir, but no refund is possible.’

‘Why not?’ Alexander demanded.

‘Because the tickets have already been used.’

‘What?’

‘According to our computer records, Osman bin Mahmoud rescheduled the flight so that the horse and stable personnel flew out to Dubai twenty-four hours earlier. Would you like the revised
flight details?’

Alexander grabbed a pen and paper. ‘Yes, please.’

Six minutes later he put down the phone and leant back in his seat. As soon as he’d finished the call to the airline he’d contacted the Dubai stables where Shaf had been booked for
the duration of the World Cup. It had turned out to be a very confused call, and difficult to say which party was the more perplexed: the stable manager who knew perfectly well that Shaf was alive
and well and eating hay in his stall, or William Alexander who was trying to work out what the hell was going on. Why would someone kidnap or maybe even kill about a dozen people, steal a
three-million-dollar horse, only to deliver it safely to the place it was supposed to go, and then walk away? It made no sense at all unless, he reflected with a slight smile, the kidnappers
happened to be Irish.

But it was progress of a sort, and he was certain that Qabandi would want to fly immediately to the UAE to check on his treasured thoroughbred. So before he told the sheikh what he had
discovered, he booked seats on the first available flight to Dubai, organized a limousine to collect them at the airport there, and confirmed their pre-booked hotel suites.

Merzifon Air Force Base, Turkey

The Turkish Air Force is one of the best-equipped units in the eastern Mediterranean, operating a wide variety of aircraft, principally of American manufacture. Because of
the country’s proximity to the old Soviet Bloc, Turkey also possesses an extensive radar network to provide early warning of aircraft or missiles approaching from the north and
north-east.

The long-range radar had detected the Cessna long before its pilot called Ruzgar and identified himself, but the slow-moving target was not assessed as a threat. Once the Turkish controllers had
established the aircraft’s identity, allocated a squawk and given the pilot permission to transit Turkish airspace, they basically forgot about it.

The Fulcrum was a different matter. The air-defence radars located at Sinop, almost the most northerly point on the Turkish mainland, detected it as Beleshayov was approaching Novorossiysk on
the Black Sea coast, and an ‘unknown’ track identifier was allocated to it. Sinop is jointly operated by the Turks and the Americans, who refer to the facility as ‘Diogenes
Station’ after the ancient Greek philosopher, who was born close by.

When the unidentified aircraft continued heading south, directly towards Turkey, and accelerated to Mach 2, the ‘unknown’ label was replaced by ‘hostile’, and scramble
orders were sent to Merzifon.

151 Filo, the on-alert squadron, operates General Dynamics F-16C ‘Fighting Falcon’ air-superiority fighters and, within eight minutes of the scramble call, two interceptors, equipped
with full tanks and live weapons, turned on to the end of the duty runway, paused for just seconds as they waited for take-off clearance, then accelerated hard as the burners cut in.

Once airborne, the two aircraft moved into battle-pair formation, the number two positioned behind and to the right of his leader, and then turned north-east, directly towards the incoming
MiG-29. And approaching a point some five miles above the Black Sea, where the Turkish fighter control computers had already calculated that their interceptors would meet the unknown Russian
aircraft, the Cessna 340 continued its relatively slow but steady progress towards Turkey.

Cessna 340 air ambulance, callsign Romeo Charlie Three Six

‘Romeo Charlie Three Six, Ruzgar, traffic information. You have very fast-moving traffic, five o’clock at range eighty-five, heading towards. Single contact.
No height information.’

Wilson was in the co-pilot’s seat, headset draped around his neck. When he heard the start of this message over the loudspeaker he pulled up the earphone and listened intently. ‘Just
acknowledge it,’ he instructed.

‘Three Six, Roger.’ Vassily glanced at Wilson. ‘What is it? A Russian fighter?’

‘That’s what I was expecting, but it changes nothing. Just keep going.’

‘I can increase speed – another thirty or forty knots.’

‘Don’t bother. It wouldn’t make any difference if they are going to intercept us, and it would reduce our range too much. We must have enough fuel to make Cairo.’

‘How long before we cross the border?’ Dawson asked from the cockpit doorway.

Vassily studied the GPS display in front of him, then the navigation chart. ‘Ten, maybe fifteen minutes.’ He turned to Wilson. ‘Listen, if we increase speed we
can—’

‘It wouldn’t help, and we don’t need to. There’s another factor here.’

The pilot looked sceptical. ‘What other factor? That interceptor could blow us out of the sky before we even see it.’

Wilson nodded. ‘I know it could, but it won’t happen. Just wait.’

‘For what?’

The noise from the speaker broke the sudden silence in the cockpit. ‘Romeo Charlie Three Six, Ruzgar, with additional traffic for you. Two identified high-speed contacts in your one
o’clock position range fifty-two, heading towards, level at Flight Level two eight zero. Maintain your present level and heading.’

‘For that,’ Wilson announced. ‘That’s a pair of Turkish fighters going to intercept the Russian.
That
was what I was waiting for, and that’s why
there’s no need for us to increase speed.’

MiG-29 interceptor, callsign Zero Six Eight

‘Zero Six Eight, target bears one seven five at forty-five.’

Beleshayov stared at his radar screen. The return he believed to be the Cessna was painting clearly, forty kilometres directly ahead. He pulled the MiG-29 out of afterburner. He had to start
reducing height and speed, otherwise he’d overshoot it by miles.

‘Zero Six Eight, caution, caution. Two fast-moving contacts twelve o’clock range seventy-three. Possibly Turkish interceptors, high-speed and heading towards.’

Beleshayov cursed under his breath. This was a common problem whenever Russian aircraft were conducting manoeuvres over southern Georgia or the Black Sea. Occasionally the dogfights strayed a
little too far south, and as soon as they approached close to Turkish airspace, a pair of fighters would be scrambled to intercept them.

Normally these incidents fizzled out well before the opposing aircraft got near each other, the Russian fighters retreating to the north-east, and the Turkish interceptors holding position close
to their own territorial boundary until it was obvious that the other aircraft were heading home. That, Beleshayov knew, would not happen in this case. The colonel had made it perfectly clear that
the air ambulance was to be destroyed, even if the MiG-29 was forced to tangle with Turkish fighters to achieve its objective.

The only let-out Beleshayov had was the colonel’s final, very specific instruction: if the Cessna managed to reach the coast, or even a point over the Black Sea from which the debris from
its destruction could land on Turkish soil, he was to abandon the intercept. This caveat had been explicitly included in the orders issued by FSB headquarters in Moscow.

The colonel had been emphatic. ‘If that happens, just let it go. It won’t be our problem any more.’

Cessna 340 air ambulance, callsign Romeo Charlie Three Six

‘There they are,’ Wilson pointed through the windscreen.

Dawson and Vassily stared in the direction he was indicating, and then both men nodded as they spotted the two fast-moving aircraft heading towards them, six thousand feet above.

Vassily pulled on his headset and depressed the transmit key. ‘Ruzgar, Romeo Charlie Three Six. Contact with the traffic in our one o’clock position.’

‘Roger.’ The controller sounded somewhat harassed, and Wilson guessed he was monitoring, perhaps even controlling, the two fighters simultaneously.

‘They’re F-16s,’ Dawson muttered, as the two aircraft passed over the Cessna.

‘Now what?’ Vassily asked.

‘Not our problem,’ Wilson said. ‘Keep heading for the border and maintain your present heading and speed. Don’t forget, we’re just an air ambulance on a mission of
mercy. Whatever your lot sent up after us, I’m quite sure those two Falcons can handle it.’

MiG-29 interceptor, callsign Zero Six Eight

Beleshayov’s Fulcrum was now twenty kilometres behind the Cessna, and he’d reached a similar conclusion to Wilson. If he tangled with those two F-16s, he knew
that he’d probably come off worst.

The MiG-29 is a highly capable aircraft, and in one-to-one combat could certainly hold its own against most American air-superiority fighters – in fact, the Fulcrum was in part designed to
match the performance envelope of both the F-15 and the F-16 – but up against two Falcons it would be a very different matter. And the Turkish coastline was clearly visible below and in front
of him. It was going to be very tight.

He ran through a handful of scenarios in his mind, trying to work out the actions most likely to enable him to achieve his objective. Eventually, he settled on what seemed to offer the best
chance of success, and that might also allow him to complete the intercept without the F-16s getting involved.

‘Zero Six Eight, request situation report.’

‘Stand by.’

Beleshayov could imagine the scene back at the air-defence centre as the controllers struggled to make sense of the contacts on their radar screens. There would now be four returns, all within
about ten miles of each other, and with the very slow data-update rate – air-defence radar heads turn much more slowly than those used by Air Traffic Control units because of the need for the
maximum possible range – it would be very difficult to keep track of what was going on, even using the intercept computers. But right then he had other things on his mind. He would give the
controller an update only when he felt able to.

The MiG-29 was now subsonic, but still travelling at more than twice the speed of the Cessna, and heading directly towards the north Turkish coast. Beleshayov scanned ahead, checking the
position of his target before confirming its identity with the data-linked symbol on his radar display. Then he turned his attention to the two Falcons.

They were about two thousand feet above, heading towards him and inside five miles, and they too had reduced to subsonic. He knew they would be carrying live weapons, but he also knew that the
Turkish pilots would be very reluctant to engage him.

As the F-16s passed over his MiG-29, and began descending to follow him, Beleshayov started a gentle turn to starboard, a manoeuvre that would take him away from his target, and also away from
the coast. That might convince the Turkish pilots that he was just on some kind of training exercise, and had simply strayed a little too far south. But the turn would also allow him to get close
to the Cessna.

Beleshayov divided his attention equally between the radar display and the view from the cockpit, picking his precise moment. As he closed to less than a mile from the target, he tightened the
turn, rolling the MiG-29 further to the right until its wings were almost vertical.

He’d timed it to perfection. As the fighter banked hard, turning starboard through west so as to head away from the coast, Beleshayov looked straight down towards the Black Sea and there,
three thousand feet below him, he saw the Cessna. It was only in view for a couple of seconds before the MiG-29 accelerated away, but that was long enough.

Beleshayov, like most professional pilots, was an expert in aircraft recognition, and that brief glance was enough to identify the 340. But even if he hadn’t recognized the model, the
prominent red crosses on the wings told him all he needed to know.

Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

‘Have you informed that police inspector yet?’ Qabandi demanded.

‘Not yet,’ William Alexander replied, with a slight smile. ‘I thought you might prefer to talk to him yourself.’