Half a dozen others appeared within minutes. The tally of dead and wounded was depressing, but it could have been a lot worse. Four young Saudi princes were dead, the Kalashnikov rounds fired at such close range having done horrendous damage to their bodies, and three others had been wounded, but they would probably live. Two terrorists were dead, and nobody seemed particularly bothered about that. The third was unconscious, though it wasn’t clear if he’d ever come round. Nobody was worried about him, either. But three innocent bystanders had been hit by stray bullets, fired by either Richter or Jackson. Although they were in no danger from their wounds, the fact that they’d been shot at all looked like being the biggest problem of the afternoon. ‘I’m going to have to kick this up a level or two,’ Watkinson warned, ‘and it’s possible you’ll face charges here in Dubai. They take a very dim view of people carrying firearms, and an even dimmer view of innocent civilians getting wounded.’ ‘Oh, magic,’ Jackson muttered.
