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Saudi knew the Koran by heart, and could quote passages at length, word-perfect. But he didn’t believe much of what the Holy Book contained. He didn’t believe that martyrs to the cause were rewarded with seventy-two black-eyed virgins and that places in heaven were guaranteed for them and their relatives. There was much in the Koran that the Saudi didn’t believe, in the same way that many Catholic priests did not believe in the literal truth of the Bible. The Koran was a tool for controlling people, as powerful as a gun or a bomb. The Saudi appreciated its power and he was as adept at using it as he was in the construction of bombs. So he sipped his champagne and felt not a twinge of guilt.
    He listened to the couple in front of him talk about the tidal wave and the casualties. ‘Those poor people,’ said the woman, motioning for the stewardess to bring her more champagne.
    ‘They’re saying twenty thousand dead,’ said the husband. ‘Terrible. Thank God we weren’t there.’
    ‘Phuket’s always too crowded this time of year.’ The woman nodded at the stewardess as her glass was refilled. ‘It’s become too popular. Every man and his dog goes there, these days. Give me Koh Samui any day. Or the Maldives – at least there’s still some exclusivity there.’
    The Saudi closed his eyes and blocked out the inane chatter. Twenty thousand dead, he thought, killed by the forces of nature. Twenty thousand dead and for nothing.
    It had been his decision to go for Phuket and he was sure it had been right. He had considered attacking the Khao San Road, Bangkok’s backpacker centre, during Thai New Year, but had decided that the rich tourists of Phuket would be a more high-profile target.
    He took a deep breath. What was done was done. It was time to move on. He already had his people in place for the next operation, and it dwarfed what he had planned for Phuket. Now he had to focus all his energy on what was to come. First Sydney. Then London. Both cities were about to discover what it was like to feel the wrath of Allah.
    It was a smuggler’s night, thick clouds scudding across the sky with only glimpses of a thin sliver of moon. The sea was rougher than the captain would have liked but the schedule had been fixed and he had already banked the advance payment. Ten thousand euros. Another ten thousand on delivery. Pretty good money for one night’s work.
    The stretch of water they were crossing was the busiest in the world, criss-crossed by thousands of craft every day. The captain knew it well, and that the odds on their boat being stopped were next to none. Neither the French government nor the British had the resources to check even a fraction of the boats that sailed between Britain and the Continent. The captain’s name was Bernard Pepper – ‘Bernie’ to his aged mother, ‘Skipper’ to those who sailed with him, ‘Chilli’ to his friends. He was a big man, his cheeks mottled with broken veins from his years at sea, beard greying, wiry hair all but covered with a black wool hat.
    There were two other men on the bridge. Tony Corke was in his thirties and, like Pepper, was wearing a dark blue pea coat, jeans and work boots. The third member of the crew was in his forties with a bullet-shaped shaven head and a British bulldog tattoo on his right forearm. His name was Andy Mosley and he’d done seven years in the Royal Navy, latterly as a communications specialist. Now he sat at a metal desk, monitoring the regular radio traffic on a receiver that was tuned to military and government frequencies. He was also watching a radar screen that showed all the traffic in their vicinity.
    Corke took a stainless-steel hip flask from the back pocket of his jeans and sipped. The neat Jameson’s whiskey slipped down his throat and spread a warming glow across his chest. He held it out to the captain.
    Pepper scowled at the flask. ‘What is it?’
    ‘Whiskey.’
    ‘Scotch or Irish?’
    ‘Since when have you been so