John Carr. James Deegan

a small green RIB – a rigid inflatable, its shape picked out by a rubber buoyancy tube – had been bobbing in the gentle swell, a sea anchor holding it on station.

      Low profile, invisible to radar.

      The single man aboard it pushed the throttle forward, spooling up the big outboard Yamaha motor, and made his way over.

      Shishani hauled himself aboard, and then leaned out to pull the first of the women in after him.

      She struggled, at first, but when he punched her in the face she gave in. The others obeyed, meekly.

      As the other man clambered into the dinghy, Shishani turned to the women.

      ‘Lie down!’ he said.

      They did as they were told, huddling together in the bottom of the small boat. Shishani bent down, unfolded a dark tarpaulin, and spread it over the women.

      Then he crawled under and lay down alongside them, the other terrorist following him.

      Anyone looking from above would now see a small boat with – apparently – one person aboard.

      The guy at the helm turned the inflatable and headed south-east.

      Under the tarp, Argun Shishani smiled to himself.

      One of the women started crying.

28.

      TEN MINUTES LATER, the NH90 from the Juan Carlos finally caught up with the Lucky Lady.

      Aware that another aircraft had gone down in the vicinity of the yacht, its crew were wary. Being military, they were at least trained to deal with MANPADs, and their helicopter was better-equipped with counter-measures, but still they stood off some 500 metres, the sensor operator observing the vessel’s progress on his screen.

      After a few moments, he said, ‘No sign of the hostages on the rear deck. Take me to the side.’

      The NH90 had a hundred knots on the boat, so it took a matter of moments for the pilots to get alongside.

      The operator took his time, zooming in close on the yacht’s narrow, darkened windows.

      ‘Nothing,’ said the operator. ‘Front.’

      The helicopter pulled ahead, the underslung camera swivelling to keep the speeding white craft in sight.

      ‘Nothing. Other side… Nothing. They must have taken them below.’

      The pilot keyed his microphone to talk to the capitán commanding the marines in the back, who had been listening in.

      ‘You heard all that, Ramos,’ said the pilot. ‘What do you want to do?’

      Capitán Ramon Ramos thought for a moment.

      Fact was, he wasn’t sure what to do.

      His orders were to recover the three women and take the terrorists alive, if possible.

      But Ramon Ramos knew that there was no way these guys were coming quietly – he’d known from the moment he climbed aboard the aircraft that this was going to end in tears for someone.

      His best hope had always been that his blokes could see and take out the bad guys.

      But if everyone was below deck…

      ‘Ramos?’

      ‘Get back alongside, close enough so I can see the fucking thing.’

      The pilot did as requested.

      Ramos tugged on his harness and edged closer to the open door of the chopper.

      Below him, the gleaming white yacht smashed and bounced its way inexorably through the shining sea.

      He turned to the man next to him, Cabo Primero Jorge Fernández, who was sitting with his legs dangling in thin air, his Accuracy International .50 cal rifle cradled in his lap.

      ‘What do you reckon, Jorge?’ shouted Ramos, nodding at the rifle. ‘Can we stop him with that?’

      Fernández shrugged. ‘How the fuck should I know, boss?’ he shouted back. ‘If I hit the engine, yeah. But just firing blind into the damned thing – who’s to say I won’t hit the fuel lines and barbecue the lot of them?’

      Ramos keyed his mike, and got on the net to León, the HQ call sign.

      Quickly, he updated them, and listened to the response.

      Then he said, ‘We can take the entire back off it if you want, sir, but the hostages could be in living quarters directly underneath the rear deck for all we know. Meanwhile, the target will be inside Moroccan territorial waters in five minutes, I say again five minutes. Please advise whether we are free to pursue into Moroccan airspace. If not, please advise course of action, over.’

      Again, he listened.

      Then he turned to Jorge Fernández.

      ‘Fucking hell, Jorge,’ he shouted. ‘What a balls-up. The Moroccans have pulled back their ships and HQ can’t get any sense out of Rabat – it looks like they’re swerving it, they don’t want the blood of the hostages on their hands. And now HQ are swerving it, too. We’re cleared into Moroccan airspace, but the decision as to what to do is ours. Wankers.’

      As Fernandez shook his head and smiled wearily, the captain keyed his mike again.

      ‘León, we are…’ he said.

      But that was as far as he got.

      ‘What the…?’ he said. ‘Stand by, please.’

      The helicopter had banked violently right, and out of the open door Ramos could see why.

      Below them, the Lucky Lady had turned sharply inland.

      The pilot came on the net. ‘Looks like he’s heading towards Ceuta,’ he said. ‘What do we do?’

      Ramos, toying with the St Christopher’s medallion round his neck, thought for ten seconds – a long time to think, at times like this.

      Then he said, ‘In the next few minutes, they’re going to have to make a decision about where they go ashore. We’re going to follow until they disembark. Maybe we can get a clear shot then. Any reason why that’s a shit plan, Jorge?’

      ‘No. I mean, it’s not a great plan, boss, but we are where we are.’

      ‘Do we put down?’ said the pilot, over the radio.

      ‘Not unless I say. Get us within range, but watch out for fucking MANPADs, for Christ’s sake.’

      ‘Oh, I will, don’t you fucking worry about that.’

      Below them, the yacht ploughed on.

      Capitán Ramon Ramos looked ahead.

      The boat was heading directly for El Chorillo beach.

      Crowded with sunbathers.

      It was still doing close to fifty knots, and showing no sign of slowing

      And Ramos suddenly realised what was happening.

      ‘Oh, fuck,’ he shouted. ‘Fuck!’

29.

      THE FIRST TWO to die were swimmers who were run over and dismembered when the final terrorist – a short, stocky Moroccan called Khaled Benchakroun – deliberately ploughed through a bunch of people in the water.

      The next two were a pair of teenaged girls, who were smeared like strawberry jam on the sand as he drove the 190-tonne boat ashore and straight over the top of them.

      Six more people were killed when Benchakroun jumped from the stranded, heeling yacht and shot indiscriminately