Pirate - Duncan Falconer [2]
After detailed questioning of the Colombian, Dinaal was satisfied that security had been maintained and that it would remain so as long as the weapon was never found in their possession and they kept it hidden until they needed it.
Finally the night of the task arrived. The seven men climbed into a van and they drove into the city. The van belonged to Dinaal, a second-hand Transit with windows at the front and in the back doors only. It was rusty in places and looked well worn but Dinaal ensured the engine was always in good condition. The Colombian was at the wheel. They kept to the highways and after a while they hit Calle 17 and headed into the much less populated agricultural area to the north-west. The traffic had been heavy in the city but as soon as they turned on to the farm road it disappeared. The surface of the road was hard-packed crushed stone that wound through small, cultivated fields. A handful of farm houses were dotted about. The land was as flat as a billiard table in every direction.
Less than a kilometre along the lane, the vehicle turned into an even narrower track and came to a stop under some trees, which provided complete cover from the moonlight. The Colombian turned off the lights and the engine.
The two Pakistani men climbed out of the back of the van and skipped into the bushes. They looked at the few houses in sight, their lights on inside. Otherwise they couldn’t see any sign of life.
Dinaal hardly took his eyes off his watch. The others waited quietly and patiently. ‘Let’s go,’ he said finally.
The double doors at the back opened and the men climbed out. Two of them were carrying a long wooden box. Dinaal and the Colombian driver joined them.
‘You have three minutes to set up,’ Dinaal said.
One of the Saudis and the Indonesian climbed over a low, wooden fence and took the box that was handed to them. Then they all hurried along the edge of a ploughed field. The ground began to slope away a little as they reached the end of the field, where they stopped. Beyond them they could see a wide trough of marshy water that reflected the moonlight.
‘One minute,’ said Dinaal.
They placed the box on the ground and opened it. Inside was the rifle, a standard 5.56mm ball Galil IMI. The Saudi who had been elected weapon preparer lifted the weapon out of the box. He was handed a magazine and he pushed it into its housing, cocked the breach that loaded the chamber and handed the weapon to the Indonesian, who was standing ready and waiting to receive it. He was short and stocky, low centre of gravity. He took it, placed the stock into his shoulder and looked directly at Dinaal.
‘That way,’ Yusef said, holding his arm out. The Indonesian adjusted his position so that he was aiming the rifle into the sky in the direction indicated.
‘Hold him,’ Dinaal hissed at the Saudi.
The man took a tight hold around the Indonesian’s waist.
‘Safety catch,’ Dinaal said.
The Indonesian removed the safety catch.
Dinaal searched the skies behind them, in the opposite direction to the aim of the rifleman.
After about fifteen seconds they could all hear the distant sound of an approaching aircraft.
The rifle pair didn’t move, they just remained focused skywards, their backs to the oncoming aircraft, while Dinaal and the others stared into the black star-covered sky.
‘There,’ said the Colombian, finding a couple of tiny, piercing lights moving together through the thousands of stars. A large, commercial passenger plane soon took shape, increasing in size as it descended directly towards