‘It was nothing,’ said Alen.
Norbert pushed open the blinds and peered outside. Tourists in swimsuits were walking along the beach. The first vendors were appearing. Stray dogs were scavenging around litter-bins. ‘I’m going outside,’ he said.
‘It’s the final day,’ said Alen. ‘We should stay indoors. We should pray and meditate on what we have to do tonight.’
‘I know what we have to do tonight,’ said Norbert. ‘I need some air.’
Alen looked as if he was about to argue. Then he waved dismissively. ‘Do as you want,’ he said. ‘Are the circuits ready?’
‘They’re fine. I’ve disconnected the switches but everything else is in place.’ He unlocked the door, slipped outside and closed it behind him.
Alen went to the picture and adjusted it, then placed a hand flat against the wall. There was no vibration.
‘It could have been a large truck passing,’ said Emir.
Alen shrugged. ‘Maybe,’ he said. The vibration had felt too intense for that, but Thailand wasn’t in an earthquake zone. Japan, maybe, but Japan was a thousand miles away.
Alen went into the bedroom. The completed circuits lay on the twin beds, one on each. He examined them but didn’t touch them. Norbert knew what he was doing. Alen had met him in Bosnia, fighting the Serbs who were killing Muslim families and burying them in mass graves while the world watched and did nothing. In recognition of their services, both men had been given Bosnian citizenship, and passports in whatever name they chose. After the peacekeepers had moved into the former Yugoslavia, Alen and Norbert had stayed on, but while the killing had stopped, the Muslims had continued to be persecuted.
Alen had been approached first, by a representative of a Saudi-funded charity who asked if he would be prepared to continue his fight against the infidel. There was no pressure; it was a simple interview to see where his loyalties lay. Alen had left the man in no doubt that he served Islam. Norbert, too, was keen to continue the struggle. They had been taken into the al-Qaeda fold, then overland to Waziristan, a mountain ous area along the Afghan border with Pakistan, where their training intensified. That was where they had met Anna and Emir. In Waziristan their training had moved to an even higher level: they were groomed to join the ranks of the shahid. Alen had no doubts about what he was going to do. He had almost died many times in Bosnia, and he would have died happily then, fighting the Serbs. He would die just as happily in Thailand, killing the infidels as they drank whiskey and partied with prostitutes.
All that was left to do was to transfer the explosive-filled cans into the two Jeeps and insert the detonators. That would have to wait until dark. Now all they could do was wait. Prepare themselves. And pray.
He showered first, then changed into clean clothes. He took a mat out of the wardrobe and spread it on the wooden floor, making sure that the top faced the direction of Mecca. Alen prayed five times each day, and washed himself before each prayer.
He faced Mecca, and raised his hands to his ears. He prayed in Arabic, the language of Allah. That was something he had been taught in Pakistan. It was not enough to recite a translation of the Koran: any translation was a poor imitation of the real thing. Arabic was the mother-tongue of the Prophet and his wives, and the wives of the Prophet were the mothers of the faithful so Arabic had to be the mother-tongue of every Muslim. Alen proclaimed his intention to worship, then lowered his hands to his knees and bent forward, head bowed. ‘Subhaana rab-biyal azeem,’ he said, three times. ‘Glory to God, the Most Grand.’
Then he straightened up. ‘Sami’al laahu liman hamidah, rab-banaa lakal hamd,’ he said. ‘Our Lord, praise be to Thee.’
Then he fell to his knees and placed his forehead, nose and palms on the mat. ‘Subhaana rab-biyal a’laa,’ he said, three times. ‘Glory to my Lord, the Most High.’
He had just finished the third recitation when there was a sudden banging on the bungalow door. Alen scrabbled over to the bed nearest him and pulled a large automatic from under the mattress. He hurried into the sitting room. Anna had grabbed a handgun from her bag and was heading for the front door. Alen gestured for her to move to the left. Emir started to go to the main bedroom, but Alen clicked his fingers and motioned for him to stay where he was. If it was the police, they’d already have surrounded the bungalow and running wouldn’t be an option.
‘Who is it?’ he called.
‘Come and look at this!’ It was Norbert.
Emir cursed and Anna exhaled through clenched teeth.
Alen opened the door but kept the security chain on. Norbert was shifting from foot to foot, head bobbing excitedly.
‘We have a procedure,’ said Alen. ‘The code.’
‘Screw the code,’ said Norbert. ‘You have to see this. Come on.’
Alen glared at Norbert, but removed the chain and went outside after him. Emir and Anna began to follow him but he waved them back. ‘Stay there,’ he said, ‘and lock the door.’
Norbert was walking quickly towards the beach. Alen hurried after him. A sunburnt middle-aged couple were ahead, the man fumbling with a video camera. Other tourists were standing on the sand, gazing out to sea.
‘Norbert, what the hell are you doing?’ hissed Alen. ‘You know how important today is. We have to stay inside.’ His bare feet slipped in the sand as he walked.
Norbert stopped in the middle of the beach and pointed. ‘Have you ever seen anything like it?’ asked Norbert. ‘It’s just gone. The sea has gone.’
Where water should have been lapping at the beach, wet sand glistened under the early morning sun. Fish, large and small, were flapping about. Three old Thai men were scurrying to pick them up, putting them into plastic carrier-bags.
‘It’s a tide,’ said Alen. ‘That’s all. The sea is out there – you can see it.’
Norbert shaded his eyes with a hand and peered at the horizon. There was blue water in the distance. ‘The tide doesn’t go that far out,’ he said.
‘How would you know?’ said Alen. ‘You’re from Luxembourg. There’s no sea there.’
‘I’m just saying, the tide wouldn’t go out more than thirty metres or so, at most.’
Alen looked out over the wet sand. It was hard to judge distance without landmarks and the seabed was flat to the horizon. More Thais hurried on to the beach to gather up the dying fish.
‘We should go inside,’ said Alen. ‘All these tourists with their video cameras – it’s dangerous.’ He took his sunglasses from his top pocket and put them on.
Norbert shrugged and turned. The two men started to walk back to their bungalow.
‘You are prepared?’ asked Alen.
‘Everything is ready,’ said Norbert. ‘You know that.’
‘I mean in yourself. You, personally?’
‘Of course,’ said Norbert, defensively.
Alen looked at him over the top of his sunglasses. ‘You are stronger than Emir, you know that. If he has doubts closer to the time…’
‘I can handle Emir.’
Alen patted him on the back. ‘Of course you can. But you must watch him. As I must watch Anna.’
‘We’re all willing to do what we have to do,’ said Norbert.
Alen trusted Norbert. He had been trained by the best – by the Mujahideen in Afghanistan, by al-Qaeda in Pakistan. He was a late convert to Islam but he was physically and mentally prepared to die for Allah. As was Alen. Norbert would die first, with Emir. Their bomb would kill dozens and start a panic. Tourists would run away from the carnage, towards the sea, and that was when Alen and Anna would die, and with them hundreds of infidels.
A woman shouted somewhere behind them. Both men stopped. There were more shouts. Men and women. Thai, English and German voices. They turned.
A wave was heading towards the shore, a big one, bigger than any Alen had ever seen before. The shouts turned to screams. The Thais dropped their fish and ran across the wet sand. Most of the tourists stood where they were, frozen in terror, their video cameras still trained on the approaching wave.
‘Run!’ yelled Alen, but Norbert was already sprinting across the sand, arms pumping furiously.
Alen could hear the wave now, a low, rumbling roar. The screams behind him intensified, then the roar drowned them and the water slammed into him. His legs were swept from under him and he fell backwards, spluttering salty water. He flailed, felt sand beneath his feet and kicked himself upright. He saw Norbert, caught in the surf, gasping for breath. Then Alen disappeared under the water again. He slammed into the sand and the impact forced the air out of his lungs. He tried to claw his way to the surface but the strength had gone from his arms. He took an involuntary breath and his lungs filled with water. His eyes were stinging and there was a burning pain in his chest. He broke through into the air again, coughing and spitting. He spun round in the raging torrent and saw Norbert slam into the trunk of a palm tree, like a broken doll, then disappear under the water.
Alen fought to hold his breath, but then his head banged on a hard surface. It was the road. The Tarmac ripped the skin from his left cheek and his eye popped out of its socket. He screamed and water flooded into his mouth. He burst into the air and saw, first, through his good eye, the clear blue sky, then a car that had been turned on to its side by the force of the water. He tried to kick round the car, but he was moving too fast and his head banged into the rear axle. His neck snapped and he died instantly.