‘You took your time,’ said Abu Smadi Almussab darkly, as Faqir Rashid came through the door from the garage. The group spoke in English as the common language of Jordanians, Pakistanis, Lebanese and a Palestinian.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Rashid. It didn’t pay to argue with Almussab.
He looked over Almussab’s shoulder into the open-plan kitchen where he could smell the meal Rahan Hussein was preparing. The room filled with the aroma of lamb, warm yoghurt and spices.
‘Is it done?’ asked Almussab.
‘Yes,’ replied Rashid, turning his eyes back to Almussab’s face, ‘they will find nothing.’
They were sitting in a townhouse in a small development to the south of the city, a house rented by a female sympathizer with a name and a history which had nothing to do with the Middle East. It was a four-bedroom house on the crossroads by the entrance to an estate, giving good views of anyone approaching along the roads or on foot over the low mounds of grass. It also gave several avenues of escape.
When the van had reached the house, it had been parked in the integral garage with the doors down, was unloaded, then Rashid had driven it to a piece of wasteland ten miles into open country. There he had poured petrol into every space in the interior then, from five yards away, had thrown a lighted rag through the open side door. After the initial muted explosion, when he was sure that the flames had taken hold, he went to some bushes twenty yards away where he had hidden a motorcycle. He started it up and drove back to the townhouse, stopping about halfway through the journey to rest beside a lake just off Highway 85. He took his time, making sure that he was not being watched. He had put the licence plate from the van into an airtight sandwich box. He poured acid over it from a bottle in the pannier of the bike, sealed the box and threw it into the lake. He watched it sink out of sight, then rode the motorcycle back onto the highway.
Almussab had known Rashid now for eight months and had grown to trust his word. If Rashid said that the van was untraceable, he didn’t need to lose sleep over whether it was. He turned round to face Ibrahim Khalil.
‘When did you last speak to them?’
‘Two hours ago.’
‘Where are they?’
‘At deep anchor about eight miles off the coast of Florida.’
‘Gulf coast or Atlantic?’
‘Gulf.’
‘Call them. Say that we have the money. Give them the coordinates. We’ll meet them at midnight tomorrow.’
Khalil got up from the dining table and walked into one of the bedrooms. From under the bed he pulled a small suitcase. He opened it on the table by the window, making sure that the curtains were fully closed. He switched on the radio transmitter in the suitcase and put on the earphones. He waited patiently until he was sure the transmitter was operating and tuned to the frequency of the boat. He and the radio operator exchanged passwords, then Khalil told him they had the money and gave him a coded coordinate, confirming that they would meet at midnight the following night.
‘Is it arranged?’ asked Abu Almussab, when Khalil came back into the living room.
Khalil nodded.
‘Then,’ said Almussab, raising his voice, ‘start packing, check your equipment and get some sleep. Be ready to move out tomorrow when I tell you. We have a long drive ahead of us.’