items: a battery, a cable, six detonators, a soldering iron, a
roll of black insulating tape and a battery-powered seven-day timer.
‘And the other stuff?’ O’Hagan asked.
‘In the bag on the back seat,’ Ahmed said, lowering the boot lid slightly and pointing through the car’s rear window.
‘Good. What is it – Semtex?’
‘Yes. It’s the easiest to get hold of, and it’s very reliable.’
He was right on both counts. Semtex was invented in the village of Semtin – which inspired its name – in East Bohemia by a chemist named Stanislav Brebera in 1966. It was stable,
odourless and had an indefinite shelf life. Unfortunately, terrorists immediately realized that Semtex was an ideal weapon for their purposes, as it passed with consummate ease through airport
metal detectors, and could not be identified by sniffer dogs. Brebera recognized the danger, and later incorporated metallic compounds and chemicals within the explosive, but these measures were
too little and too late.
Pan American flight 103 was brought down over Lockerbie in Scotland by twelve ounces of Semtex hidden inside a Toshiba cassette recorder, killing 270 people, and it was also the weapon used in
the 1998 attack on the American Embassy in Nairobi, Kenya.
The manufacturing company, Explosia, has exported over 900 tons of Semtex to Libya, and about the same quantity to a handful of other hostile or unstable nations, including Iran, Iraq, North
Korea and Syria. Altogether, it has been estimated that the world stockpile of Semtex is in excess of 40,000 tons.
‘What’s the total weight of the charge?’ O’Hagan asked.
‘Four kilos,’ Ahmed said.
The American reached down to pick up one of the detonators, a slim aluminium tube about two inches long with a pair of silver-coloured wires emerging from one end. The wires, he noted with
satisfaction, were twisted together. If they’re left separate there’s a possibility that they can act as antennae and, if a mobile phone or other radio device is used in the vicinity,
they can spontaneously detonate.
Ahmed noticed O’Hagan’s almost imperceptible nod of approval. ‘We know our business here,’ he added.
‘I know you do, Ahmed, but it never hurts to check, particularly where this kind of stuff is concerned.’
‘You’re satisfied?’
O’Hagan replaced the detonator in the box. ‘Thank you, yes.’
Petrucci spun the wheels of the combination locks on the briefcase, aligned the numbers and snapped the catches open. He lifted the lid, pulled out a bundle of banknotes and handed them over to
Ahmed.
‘As we agreed,’ O’Hagan said. ‘Please check the amount’s correct.’
The Arab passed the money to Omar, who immediately began counting it. ‘ I trust you, my friend, and I’m sure it’s right. Omar, on the other hand, does not trust
you, and he’ll no doubt let us know if there’s any discrepancy.’
As Petrucci slammed the boot lid shut, Omar nodded towards Ahmed and tucked the bundle of notes into his pocket. The Arab handed the car keys to O’Hagan.
‘Remember our arrangement. Leave the car on Al-Mutanabi Avenue, between Al-Khalifa and Tujjaar, at the location we requested.’ Ahmed extended his hand, and O’Hagan shook it.
‘It was good to do business with you again.’
British Embassy, Government Avenue, Manama, Bahrain
William Ewart Evans – whose initials, emblazoned in gold leaf on his cases, had been the cause of prolonged merriment on his arrival as a spotty schoolboy at Harrow
– was thirty-nine years old, tall, thin, fair-haired and a third secretary in the consular section at the British Embassy. His appointment was recorded in the Diplomatic List, and anybody
enquiring by telephone for that particular third secretary would eventually find themselves talking to Evans. Despite this, he actually worked elsewhere in the large building on Government Avenue,
and any callers genuinely seeking the help of the consular section would be
Learning to Kill: Stories