Siege: A Thriller Read online

  The thought filled her with a mix of nervousness and excitement, and she vowed to call Rod and tell him the good news as soon as she had a spare moment. Right now, though, she had to deal with a more pressing issue. Mr. Al-Jahabi.

  Mr. Al-Jahabi was one of the hotel’s regulars, a wealthy Saudi who was often in London on business and who, along with his family, usually took several of the penthouse suites for the whole of August to escape the desert heat. As such, he was a hugely valued customer as well as a very large tipper. However, he also had a sex drive that, as far as Elena could tell, was off the scale. He engaged the services of prostitutes every night his wives weren’t with him. This wasn’t a problem in and of itself. A significant minority of single male guests at the Stanhope (and at most other hotels) entertained escorts in their rooms, and any attempt to stop the practice was always going to be doomed to failure. So if things were done discreetly, a blind eye could be turned. The problem with Mr. Al-Jahabi was that prostitutes weren’t always enough. On at least three occasions over the past year he’d made passes at female employees. On one of those occasions a chambermaid had actually alleged a sexual assault, and was prepared to go to the police until Mr. Al-Jahabi paid her off with a 1,000-pound tip, or bribe, depending on how you wanted to look at it. The chambermaid, a Filipina girl, had left not long afterward. This had been six months back and since then Mr. Al-Jahabi had been behaving himself—or at least keeping matters under control.

  That was until earlier that afternoon.

  According to Colin, the duty manager on the seven A.M. to three P.M. shift, a maid had gone in to clean his room at just after one and had been confronted by a naked and aroused Mr. Al-Jahabi who’d requested something called (in Colin’s words) “a happy finish.” The maid had run from the room and immediately complained to her boss, Mohammed the maintenance manager, who’d then informed Colin. According to Colin, he’d managed to calm the maid down, made sure that she wouldn’t take things any further, said he’d sort it, and given her the rest of the day off.

  Except he hadn’t sorted it. Instead he’d made up some excuse about having to deal with a family who were refusing to leave their room, and had left it to Elena to speak to Mr. Al-Jahabi, which was typical of Colin. No one wanted to upset Mr. Al-Jahabi, for fear he’d take his extremely valuable custom elsewhere, citing them as the reason. But Elena knew she was going to have to raise the issue. She just wished she hadn’t still got the vestiges of a painful hangover from the celebrations of the previous night. Five A.M. was no time to go to sleep when you were working the next day, even if you didn’t start until three o’clock in the afternoon.

  On her way up, Elena made a quick check of the mezzanine floor to ensure that the ballroom had been cleaned properly after the three-day conference that had finished in there that morning (it had, and it looked immaculate), then slipped into the satellite kitchen behind it.

  Like all big hotels, the Stanhope had a number of satellite kitchens situated at catering points in the building where food from the main kitchens on the ground floor could be reheated before being served to guests, thus ensuring that it was piping hot when it reached the table. The kitchen behind the ballroom contained a walk-in store cupboard which was a favorite among certain members of staff for taking a sneaky nap in, because there was a crawlspace beneath the bottom shelf where a person could lie out straight and not be seen. So popular was it that a few months earlier two Bangladeshi cleaners had even come to blows over which of them should sleep there, resulting in one ending up in the hospital with a broken nose after the other had struck him with a family-sized tin of pineapple chunks. Since then there’d been talk of boarding the space up, but so far no one had got around to it, probably because pretty much everyone had put their head down there at one time or another, including Elena herself (though only once, and for barely ten minutes).

  Feeling oddly mischievous, Elena tiptoed over to the store cupboard door and gently opened it, bending down in the near-darkness so she could see inside the space, although from the sound of gentle snoring she already knew there was someone in there.

  She smiled. It was Clinton, the ancient maintenance man who’d been with the hotel for more than thirty years. He was on his back, his tool belt by his side, his ample belly inflating and deflating as he slept like a baby.

  If it had been anyone else, Elena would have woken them up and given them a talking to, but Clinton was a hard worker, she was in a good mood, and he looked so damn peaceful down there she couldn’t bring herself to do it. So she left him there, closing the door gently behind her.

  The Stanhope had four penthouse suites on the tenth floor, all of them with private terraces and views across the greenery of Hyde Park. They cost an average of 4,000 pounds a night—pocket change to a man like Mr. Al-Jahabi, who’d already been in the largest and most expensive of them for the past week.

  Aside from greeting him on occasion when he arrived at the hotel with his retinue, Elena had never had to talk to Mr. Al-Jahabi before, and she wasn’t looking forward to starting now. Steeling herself, she stopped outside his door, took a deep breath, and knocked.

  For a few seconds there was no answer. She was just about to knock again when the door opened a few inches and a young woman, not much older than eighteen but already with the hardening look of someone who does a job they despise, poked her head out.

  “Oh,” she said, looking Elena up and down with an expression of vague distaste, “I thought you were room service. We’ve ordered champagne.”

  Swallowing her irritation, Elena introduced herself, giving the prostitute a cold look, and asked to speak to Mr. Al-Jahabi.

  “I’ll just see if he’s available,” the girl said, returning the cold look as she closed the door.

  It was a good two minutes before it was opened again, this time revealing a portly Arab man in his fifties with a thick black mustache, wearing only a black linen gown. Knowing she couldn’t have this discussion in the hallway, even though she’d have preferred to, Elena apologized for the intrusion and told him she’d like a private word.

  He smiled, as if this was the most natural thing in the world, and ushered her into the spacious foyer. The doors to the different rooms were all closed, but Elena could hear giggling coming from the master bedroom.

  “Take a seat, Miss . . . ” he said, peering at Elena’s nametag and pointing to a leather sofa in one corner. He stepped toward her. “Is it Serenko?”

  “Yes, it is,” she answered, taking a step backward. Even with her in her heels, he still had a good couple of inches on her in height. “And I’d prefer to stand, thanks. We’ve had a serious complaint from one of our staff.”

  “Really? And what did they complain about?”

  “Apparently, you exposed yourself and made suggestive comments. You’re a very valued customer, Mr. Al-Jahabi, but the Stanhope can’t tolerate that kind of behavior toward its staff.” You dirty old bastard, she felt like adding, but didn’t. Elena could be remarkably self-controlled when she wanted to be.

  Mr. Al-Jahabi laughed, which was when Elena noticed that his eyes were a little unfocused, and that he was none too steady on his feet. It looked like the classic combination of alcohol and coke.

  God, that was all she needed.

  “She says what, exactly? That I showed her my dick? Why would I want to do that?”

  “I’m not sure, Mr. Al-Jahabi, but—”

  “I got two beautiful girls in there. I don’t need one of your maids.” He paused, eyeing her slyly through pinprick pupils. “Still, if she looked like you, I might be tempted. How would you like to earn yourself some real money, Miss See-Renko?” He reached into the pocket of the gown, produced a huge wad of cash, and leaned in close to her again.

  Elena could smell the booze on his breath and it made her feel sick. She needed to get out of here, and fast. And when she did she’d get straight on to Siobhan, the general manager, who was away on a course, and tell her that she wanted permission to thr
ow this man out of the hotel right away, however much his custom was valued.

  “I think you want to, don’t you?” he leered, so close now that the material of his gown was brushing against her trouser suit. “Maybe party with us in there for a little bit, huh? Snort some powder. You’d like that, I think.”

  He began peeling off fifty-pound notes from the wad, each one worth more than half a duty manager’s shift after tax. Nothing to a man like him. Elena could tell from the arrogant, drunken look on his face that he’d bought plenty of people in the past just by flashing a little bit of his wealth.

  Instinctively, and without a moment’s thought, she drove her knee into his groin. Hard.

  Mr. Al-Jahabi’s eyes widened in total shock. Elena was shocked too. She’d never done anything like that before (aside from the time when she was nine and her older brother Kris had been trying to stuff a worm in her mouth), and for a long, surreal moment she watched as Mr. Al-Jahabi crumpled to his knees, both hands on the affected area, a low groan coming out of his mouth. Then, coming to her senses, she turned and strode rapidly out of the suite, trying to come to terms with the fact that she’d just assaulted one of the Stanhope’s highest-spending guests.

  She stopped in the corridor, trying to calm herself down. Even if she told Siobhan the truth about what had happened, she couldn’t see herself keeping her job. Al-Jahabi was rich. He had power. That was why he was able to get away with his behavior. He’d demand revenge on her, and he’d get it. She’d never get a reference from the hotel, which would mean she wouldn’t be able to get a decent job in Australia. It was so damn unfair, on what should have been one of the happiest days of her life, and it made her want to weep, but she forced herself to calm down. As her grandmother used to say, tears alone have never solved a problem.

  Instead, she took a deep breath and started toward the lifts, wondering if the day could get any worse.

  3

  15:25

  The Westfield Center in Shepherd’s Bush is London’s largest and one of its newest shopping malls. It opened for business on October 30, 2008, and contains 255 stores spread over 180,000 square yards of retail space—equivalent to thirty football fields.

  An underground parking garage with 4,500 spaces is situated directly beneath the center, and although there were still more than five weeks to go until Christmas, spaces were already few and far between as Dragon drove the white Ford Transit van onto the garage’s upper level. By a stroke of luck he managed to find a space next to the pedestrian walkway, barely 50 yards from the Waitrose Customer Collection Point, and the entrance to the elevators. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a harassed-looking woman in expensive designer clothes unload two pre-school boys from her brand-new 4 3 4, and shove them into a double-stroller. One of the boys was struggling in her grip, and the woman’s expression was one of anger and frustration as she shouted at them, although she was too far away for Dragon to hear what she was saying.

  He watched her for a moment, wondering what pleasure she derived from her material wealth. Very little, he suspected. That was the problem with these people. They led joyless, empty lives, and because they’d had it so damn easy they’d ended up becoming soft, fat, and lazy.

  In the back of the van, hidden from view behind a Tottenham Hotspur flag, were sixteen 47-kilo cylinders of propane gas piled on top of one another in groups of four. Wedged between the cylinders and the front seats of the van was a rucksack containing a specially modified mobile phone set to vibrate, a battery pack, and a 3-kilo lump of C4 plastic explosives. When a call was made to the phone, the vibrations would complete the electrical circuit, thereby setting off the detonator and igniting the C4, which in turn would ignite the propane gas, causing a huge fireball.

  Casualties wouldn’t be particularly high since the bomb would only hit those people passing by, either on their way to or coming back from the shops, and the blast wouldn’t have the force to cause any damage within the center itself. But that wasn’t the point. The point was to cause panic and chaos among the civilians in the immediate area, and to stretch and divide the resources of the security services so that they’d be less quick to react when the main operation got under way.

  Dragon watched the harassed woman as she wheeled her kids down the walkway, and he wondered if she, or they, would be among the casualties. He hoped not. He didn’t like being able to put individual faces to the names of victims. But he’d always been a believer in fate. If your number was up, then it was up, and that was just the way it was. The world wasn’t fair. It never had been, and despite the efforts of at least some of mankind, it never would be. All Dragon could do was protect himself, and he was sure he’d done that pretty effectively. The number plates on the van were false. He’d changed them en route here for another set of false plates so that the police wouldn’t be able to use the ANPR system to trace the van’s journey. He’d also changed his appearance for the numerous CCTV cameras that would be filming him as he moved through the building. His skin had turned a deep olive thanks to the tanning agent, colored contact lenses had turned his eyes from gray to dark brown, and his hair was far longer and darker than usual. To counteract the facial recognition software available to the security forces, he’d also changed the shape of his face. His nose was bigger and more crooked, thanks to the highlighted putty base that had been added to it; padding had pushed his cheeks out, making them look fatter; and a prominent, raised birthmark the size of a quarter had appeared on his upper cheek just below the left eye. If any witnesses were asked to describe him later, it would be the birthmark they would remember.

  Success, he knew, could only come through intensive planning. They’d planned this whole thing down to the last detail, and Dragon was experiencing a heady mixture of confidence and excitement that was all too rare these days as he got out of the van and joined the thin but steady stream of shoppers heading into retail nirvana.

  4

  Nothing ever prepares you for it. The moment the specialist walks into the room and closes the door quietly behind him, and you see that look on his face. The grim resignation as he prepares to give you the news you’ve been waiting for, ever since he did the tests. And you know the news is bad. It’s as if it’s stalked, uninvited, into the room with him.

  You pray to God Almighty. Just as you have done every night these past two weeks. Even though you haven’t believed in years. Because before you’ve never had to think about death. It’s always been an abstract, distant thing. Something that happens to other people. And it’s not fair. It’s not fucking fair, for Christ’s sake. You’re forty-five. Young, almost. You haven’t smoked in years; you probably drink too much, but no worse than anyone else you know; you eat OK—too many take-out meals, sure, but then who doesn’t these days?—and you’re definitely not overweight. If anything, you’re too thin. You still go to the gym at least once, sometimes twice, occasionally even three times per week. You’re fit. You’re healthy.

  But you’re not. Because the consultant’s face is still grim. He takes the deep breath, steadies himself, and—

  “I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do, Mr. Dalston. Your particular cancer is inoperable.”

  Strangely, you don’t react. You just sit there, and now that the words have been spoken, you feel a sense of bleak calm. There is, at least, no more suspense.

  The specialist, a dapper little Asian man called Farouk who always wears brightly colored bow ties, starts talking about chemotherapy and the opportunity it provides to prolong life, but you’re not really listening. You only ask one question. The obvious one. The one we’d all ask straight away.

  “How long?”

  With chemotherapy, as long as two years, although Dr. Farouk is quick to point out there are no guarantees, and that it might be considerably shorter. Possibly a year. But again, no guarantees.

  “And without chemotherapy?”

  He answers immediately. “In my opinion, an absolute maximum of six months.”

  “A
nd there’s no hope?” You have to ask, even though you know that Dr. Farouk is one of the UK’s foremost cancer experts, a man whose opinion you have paid serious money for, precisely because his word can be trusted. It’s the survival instinct in you. Looking for that tiny chink of light.

  “No,” he says quietly. “I’m afraid not.”

  And that’s it. The death sentence has been passed.

  In the end, Martin Dalston had decided against chemotherapy. He didn’t see the point, mainly because the end result was always going to be the same. It felt too much like prolonging the agony. When he’d told his ex-wife and their son, who at seventeen was old enough to understand the consequences of his decision, they’d both tried to persuade him to reconsider. “You never know, they might find a cure in that time,” had been Sue’s rather optimistic argument. But Martin had read up enough about advanced liver cancer to know that that wasn’t going to happen any time soon. He wanted to enjoy his last days, he told them, even though the words had sounded empty as soon as he’d spoken them. Sue had been remarried for two years, so those last days weren’t really going to involve her, and though she’d been very sympathetic, Martin had the feeling she wouldn’t spend too long mourning his passing.

  Robert was different. Until he’d become a teenager, he and his father had been very close. They’d grown apart as the marriage had descended into its death spiral, with Robert regularly siding with his mother in their arguments, or ignoring both of them, and at times it had felt to Martin like he’d been at war with both his wife and son, while all the time trying to keep his business afloat. But the news of his cancer had brought them back together. They’d taken a week out to go to Spain, a fishing trip to the Ebro River, where they’d bonded over good food, good wine, and good conversation. The break had been so successful that Martin had even started looking into the two of them doing a three-week road trip in Australia, taking in the Barrier Reef, the Outback, and the Great Ocean Road.