Энди МакНаб. Последний свет(engl)
страница №2
...s new Latin friends.This had to be it. One of these was the target. I looked at their
well-fed faces as they smiled politely and shook the Yes Man's hand.
I could feel my forehead leaking sweat as I concentrated on who he was
shaking hands with, knowing that I couldn't afford to miss the target ID,
and at the same time not too sure if the Yes Man was up to the job.
I'd assumed they were all South Americans, but as one of their number
turned I saw, in profile, that he was Chinese. He was talk-show-host neat,
in his fifties, taller than the Yes Man, and with more hair. Why he was part
of a South American delegation was a mystery to me, but I wasn't going to
lose any sleep over it. I concentrated on how he was greeted. It was a
non-event, just a normal handshake. The Chinaman, who obviously spoke
English, then introduced a smaller guy to his right, who had his back to me.
The Yes Man moved towards him, and then, as they shook, he placed his left
hand on the small guy's shoulder.
I hated to admit it, but he was doing an excellent job. He even started
to swing the target round so he faced the river, pointing out the London Eye
and the bridges either side of Parliament.
The target was also part Chinese and I had to double-take because he
couldn't have been more than sixteen or seventeen years old. He was wearing
a smart blazer with a white shirt and blue tie, the sort of boy any parent
would want their daughter to date. He looked happy, exuberant even, grinning
at everyone and joining in the conversation as he turned back into the
circle with the Yes Man.
I got a feeling that I was in worse trouble than I'd thought.
FOUR
I forced myself to cut away. Fuck it, I'd worry about all that on the
flight to the States.
The conversation on the terrace carried on as the Yes Man said his
goodbyes to the group, waved at another, and moved out of my field of view.
He wouldn't be leaving yet that would be suspicious he just didn't want to
be near the boy when we dropped him.
Seconds later, I had three bulbs burning below me. The snipers were
waiting for those three command tones to buzz gently in their ear.
It didn't feel right but reflexes took over. I flicked the shaving
cream top from the box and positioned my thumbs over the two press els
I was about to press when all three lights went out within a split
second of each other.
I got back on to the binos, just with my right eye, thumbs ready over
the press els The group was moving en masse from left to right. I should
have been concentrating on the bulbs but I wanted to see. The Chinaman's arm
was around the boy's shoulders it must have been his son as they approached
a smaller group of Latinos who were attacking a table laden with food.
A bulb lit up: Sniper Three was confident of taking the shot,
aiming slightly ahead of his point of aim so that when he fired the boy
would walk into the path of the round.
The bulb stayed lit as they stopped at the table with the other group
of Latinos, getting stuck into the vol-au-vents. The boy was at the rear of
the group and I could just ping glimpses of his navy blazer through the
crowd.
Bulb three died.
I was having doubts, I didn't know why, and tried to get a grip. What
did I care? If it was a straight choice between his life and mine there'd be
no question. What was happening in my head was totally unprofessional, and
totally ridiculous.
I gave myself a good mental slapping. Any more of this shit and I'd end
up hugging trees and doing voluntary work for Oxfam.
The only thing I should be doing was focusing on the box. What was
happening on the terrace shouldn't matter to me any more but I couldn't seem
to stop myself looking at the boy through the binos.
Number Two's bulb came up. She must have found his earlobe to aim at.
Then the boy moved towards the table, breaking through the crowd. He
started to help himself to some food, looking back at his dad to check if he
wanted anything.
All three lights now burned. How could they not?
I watched him pick at the stuff on the silver trays, sniffing one
canape and deciding to give it a miss. I studied his shiny young face as he
wondered what would best complement his half-drunk glass of Coke.
All bulbs were still lit as I looked through the binos. He was exposed,
bunging peanuts down his neck.
Come on! Get on with the fucking thing!
I couldn't believe it. My thumbs just wouldn't move.
In that instant, my plan switched to screwing up the shoot and finding
something to blame it on. I couldn't stop myself.
The snipers wouldn't know who else had a sight picture, and it wasn't
as if we were all going to get together and have a debrief over coffee the
next morning.
I'd take my chances with the Yes Man.
The boy moved back into the crowd, towards his dad. I could just about
make out his shoulder through the crowd.
The three lights went out simultaneously. Then Two's came back on. This
woman wasn't giving up on her target. I guessed she wasn't a mother after
all.
Three seconds later it went out. Wrong or right, now was my time to
act.
I pushed the send press el once with my thumb, keeping my eyes glued on
the boy.
Then I pressed it again, and at the same time hit the detonation
button. The third time, I pushed just on the send press el
The explosion the other side of the Thames was like a massive,
prolonged clap of thunder. I watched the boy and everyone around him react
to the detonation instead of doing what I'd planned for him.
The shock-wave crossed the river and rattled my window. As I listened
to its last rumblings reverberate around the streets of Whitehall, the
screams of the tourists below me took over. I concentrated on the boy as his
father bustled him towards the door.
As panic broke out on the terrace, the photographer was in a frenzy to
get the shots that would pay off his mortgage. Then the Yes Man came into
view and stood beside the PR women, who were helping people back inside. He
had a concerned look on his face, which had nothing to do with the explosion
and everything to do with seeing the target alive and being dragged to
safety. The boy disappeared though the door and others followed, but the Yes
Man still didn't help. Instead he looked up and across the river at me. It
was weird. He didn't know exactly where I was in the building, but I felt as
if he was looking straight into my eyes.
I was going to be in a world of shit about this, and knew I had to have
a really good story for him. But not today: it was time to head for
Waterloo. My Eurostar left in an hour and five. The snipers would now be
standing at their crossover point their exit door from a contaminated area
to a decontaminated area peeling off their outer layers of clothing,
throwing them into their sports bags, but leaving their gloves on until
totally clear of the Portakabin. The weapons, binos and lunch-boxes remained
in place, as did the hide.
With speed but not haste, I leant over to the window and opened it a
fraction to retrieve the antennas. The clamour from people outside was now
much louder than the explosion had been. There were shouts of fear and
confusion from men, women and children at embankment level. Vehicles on the
bridge had braked to a halt and pedestrians were rooted to the spot as the
cloud of black smoke billowed over the rooftop of the MoD building.
I closed the window and left them to it, taking down the tripod for the
binos and packing away all my gear as quickly as I could. I needed to get
that train.
Once all the kit was back in the bag, including the shaving-foam cap, I
put the dirty coffee mug, Wayne's World coaster and telephone back exactly
where they'd been before I'd cleared the desktop to make room for the binos
and lunch-box, using the Polaroid I'd taken as a reference. I checked the
general area pictures I'd taken as soon as I broke in. Maybe the net curtain
wasn't exactly as it should have been, or a chair had been moved a foot or
so to the right. It wasn't superstition. Details like that are important.
I'd known something as simple as a mouse mat out of place leading to an
operator being compromised.
My brain started to bang against my skull. There was something strange
about what I had seen outside. I hadn't been clever enough to notice, but my
unconscious had. I had learnt the hard way that these feelings should never
be ignored.
I looked back out of the window and it hit me in an instant. Instead of
looking at the column of smoke to my right, the crowd's attention was on the
hospital to my left. They were looking towards the sniper positions,
listening to the dull thud of six or seven short, sharp, single shots ...
There were more screams below the window, mixed with the wail of fast
approaching police sirens.
I opened my window as far as it would go and pushed the net curtain
aside, sticking out my head and looking left, towards the hospital. A fleet
of police cars and vans with flashing lights had been abandoned along the
embankment, just short of the sniper positions, their doors left open. At
the same time I saw uniforms hastily organizing a cordon.
This was wrong. This was very, very wrong. The event I was witnessing
had been planned and prepared for. The frenzy of police activity down there
was far too organized to be a spur-of-the-moment reaction to an explosion a
few minutes earlier.
We had been stitched up.
Three more shots were fired, followed by a short pause, then another
two. Then, from further along the riverbank, I heard the heavy thuds of a
flash bang going off inside a building. They were hitting Number Three's
position.
Adrenaline jolted through my body. It'd be my turn soon.
I slammed the window down. My mind raced. Apart from me, the only
person who knew the exact sniper positions was the Yes Man, because he
needed to position the target well enough for it to be identified. But he
didn't know precisely where I was going to be, because I hadn't known
myself. Technically, I didn't even have to have eyes on target, I just
needed to have com ms with the snipers.
But he knew enough. Messing up the shoot was the least of my worries
now.
FIVE
Helicopters were now rattling overhead and police sirens were going ape
shit in the street as I closed the door gently behind me and moved out into
the wide, brightly lit corridor.
My Timberlands squeaked on the highly polished stone floor as I headed
towards the fire-exit door at the far end, maybe sixty metres away, forcing
myself not to quicken my pace. I had to stay in control. I couldn't afford
to make any more mistakes. There might be a time to run, but it wasn't yet.
There was a turning to the right about twenty metres further down,
which led to the stairwell that would take me to the ground floor. I reached
it, turned and froze. Between me and the stairwell was a wall of
two-metre-high black ballistic shields. Behind them were maybe a dozen
police in full black assault gear, weapon barrels pointing out at me through
the gaps in the shields, blue assault helmets and visors glinting in the
strip-lighting.
"STAND STILL! STAND STILL!"
It was time to run like the wind. I squeaked on my heels and lunged the
couple of paces back into the main corridor, heading for the fire exit, just
willing myself to hit that crossbar to freedom.
As I zeroed in on the exit door, the corridor ahead filled with more
black shields and the noise of boots on stone. They held the line like Roman
centurions. The last couple emerged from the offices on either side, their
weapons pointing at me at far too close a range for my liking.
"STAND STILL! STAND STILL NOW!"
Coming to a halt, I dropped the bag to the floor and put my hands in
the air.
"Not armed!" I yelled. 'I'm weapons free! Weapons free!"
There are times when it's an advantage just to admit to yourself that
you're in the shit, and this was one of them. I just hoped these were real
police. If I wasn't a threat, then in theory they shouldn't drop me.
I hoped, too, that my black cotton bomber jacket had ridden up enough
to show them there wasn't a pistol attached to my belt or tucked into my
jeans.
"Not armed," I yelled.
"Weapons free!"
Orders were screamed at me. I wasn't too sure what it was all too loud
and too close, a confusion of echoes along the hallway.
I pivoted slowly so they could see my back and check for themselves
that I wasn't lying. As I faced the corridor junction, I heard more boots
thundering towards me from the stairwell corridor, closing the trap.
A shield moved out of the corner then slammed into position on the
floor at the corridor junction. A muzzle of an MP5 came round the side of
it, and I could see a sliver of the user's face as he took aim on me.
"Weapons free!" My voice was almost a scream.
"I'm weapons free!"
Keeping my hands in the air I stared at the single, unblinking eye
behind the weapon. He was a left-handed firer, taking advantage of the left
side of the shield for cover, and the eye didn't move from my chest.
I looked down as a red laser spot the size of a shirt button splashed
on it dead centre. It wasn't moving either. Fuck knew how many splashes
there were on my back from the fire-exit crew.
Frenzied shouts finished bouncing off the walls as a loud,
estuary-English voice took command and shouted orders that I could now
understand.
"Stand still! Stand still! Keep your -hands up ... keep them up!"
No more turning, I did what he wanted.
"Down on your knees! Get down on your knees. Now!"
Keeping my hands up, I lowered myself slowly, no longer trying for any
eye contact, just looking down. The left-handed firer in front of me
followed my every move with the laser splash.
The voice shouted more orders from behind.
"Lie down, with your arms spread out to your side. Do it now."
I did as I was told. There was total, scary silence. The cold of the
stone floor seeped through my clothes. Minute pinpricks of grit pressed into
my right cheek as I snorted up a lungful of freshly laid wax.
I found myself staring at the bottom of one of the stairwell group's
ballistic shields. It was dirty with age and chipped on the corners, so that
the layers of Kevlar that gave protection from even heavy-calibre ammunition
were peeling back like the pages of a well-thumbed book.
The silence was broken by the shuffle and squeak of rubber-soled boots
approaching me from behind. My only thought was how lucky I was to be
arrested.
The boots arrived at their destination, and heavy breathing from their
owners filled the air around me. One old black creased-leather size ten
landed by my face and my hands were gripped and pulled up in front of me. I
felt the cold, hard metal bite into my wrists as the handcuffs were
ratcheted tight. I just let them get on with it; the more I struggled the
more pain I would have to put up with. The handcuffs were the newer style,
police issue: instead of a chain between them they had a solid metal spacer.
Once these things are on, just one tap against the spacer with a baton is
enough to have you screaming in agony as the metal gives the good news to
your wrist bones.
I was in enough pain already as one man pulled at the cuffs to keep my
arms straight, and someone else's knee was forced down between my shoulder
blades. My nose got banged against the floor, making my eyes water, and all
the oxygen was forced out of my lungs.
A pair of hands, their owner's boots each side of me now that he'd
removed his knee from my back, were making their way over my body. My
wallet, containing my Eurostar ticket and my
Nick Somerhurst passport, was taken from the inside pocket of my bomber
jacket.
I felt suddenly naked.
I turned my head, trying to get as comfortable as possible during the
once-over, and rested my face on the cold stone. Through blurred vision I
made out three pairs of jeans emerging from behind the shield at the
junction and heading my way. One pair of jeans moved out of vision as they
passed me by, but the other two moved in close: a set of trainers and a pair
of light tan boots, their Caterpillar label now just inches from my nose.
I started to feel more depressed than worried about what was coming
next. Men in jeans just don't ponce about during an armed arrest.
Behind me I heard the zip of my holdall being pulled back and the
contents given a quick once-over. At the same time I felt my Leatherman
being pulled out from its pouch.
There was still no talking as hands ran down my legs to check for
concealed weapons. My face acted like a cushion for my cheekbone as I was
hauled around like a sack of spuds.
Hands forced themselves around the front of my stomach and into my
waistband, then extracted the three or four pounds' worth of change in my
jeans.
The same set of hands went under each armpit and hauled me up on to my
knees, to the accompaniment of laboured grunts and the squeak of leather
belt-kit. My cuff-holder let go and my hands dropped down by my knees as if
I was begging.
The cold stone floor was hurting my knees, but I forgot about them
instantly when I saw the face of the man wearing the Cats.
His hair wasn't looking so neat today: the Sundance Kid had been
running about a bit. Above his jeans he was wearing a green bomber jacket
and heavy blue body armour with a protective ceramic plate tucked into the
pouch over his chest. He was taking no chances with me today.
There wasn't the slightest trace of emotion in his face as he stared
down at me, probably trying to hide from the others that his part of the job
hadn't gone too well. I was still alive; he hadn't been able to make entry
into the office with the help of his new mates here and claim self-defence
as he shot me.
My documents were handed to him and they went into his back pocket. He
played with the coins in his cupped palms, chinking as they poured from one
to the other. Sundance and his mate, Trainers, were joined by the third pair
of jeans, who had my bag over his right shoulder. I kept my eyes down at
calf level now, not wishing to provoke him. It was pointless appealing to
the uniforms for help. They'd have heard it all before from drunks claiming
to be Jesus and people like me ranting that they'd been stitched.
Sundance spoke for the first time.
"Good result, Sarge." His thick Glasgow accent was directed to someone
behind me, before he turned away with the other two. I watched them walk
towards the stairwell, to the sound of Velcro being ripped apart as they
started to peel off their body armour.
As they disappeared past the corridor junction I was dragged up on to
my feet by two policemen. With their strong grip under each of my armpits, I
followed them towards the stairs. We passed the shields at the corridor
junction, as the armed teams started to break ranks, and made our way down
the stone stairs. Sundance and the boys were about two floors below. I kept
catching glimpses of them as they turned on the stone and iron-railed
landings, and wondered why I hadn't been blindfolded. Maybe it was to make
sure I didn't trip on the stairs. No, it would be because they didn't care
if I saw their faces. I wasn't going to live long enough to see them again.
We exited the building via the glass and metal-framed doors I'd made
entry through earlier. At once the noise of boots on the stairs and the
policemen's laboured breathing from the effort of hauling me about was
drowned out by the confusion on the street. Sweat-stained, white-shirted
police officers were running about, their radios crackling, yelling at
pedestrians to follow their directions and clear the area. Sirens blared. A
helicopter chopped the air loudly overhead.
We were on the private entry road to the Marriott Hotel, part of the
County Hall building. To my left was its turning circle, bordered by a smart
decorative hedge. Police were preventing guests from coming out of the main
entrance as they tried to see what was happening or to run away, I wasn't
sure which.
In front of me, at the kerb side was a white Mercedes estate,
engine running, all doors open. One of the pairs of jeans was in the
driver's seat ready to go. As a hand pushed down on top of my head and I was
quickly bundled into the back, my feet connected with something in the foot
well It was my holdall, still unzipped.
The guy with the trainers sat on my left and attached one end of a pair
of handcuffs to the D ring of the centre set of seat-belts. He then flicked
the free end around the pair that gripped my wrists. I wasn't going anywhere
until these boys were good and ready.
Sundance appeared on the pavement and said his goodbyes to the
uniforms. Thanks again, lads."
I kept trying to make eye contact with the guys who had dragged me down
here, who were now standing by the entrance to the office block. Sundance
got into the front passenger seat and closed his door, obviously aware of
what I was doing.
He bent down into his foot well That isn't going to help you, boy."
Retrieving a blue light from the floor and slapping it on to the dashboard,
he plugged the lead into the cigarette-lighter socket. The light started
flashing as the car moved off.
We came out of the hotel's approach road and on to the main drag at the
south end of the bridge, directly opposite the hospital buildings. The road
was cordoned off and surrounded by every police vehicle in the Greater
London area.
The windows of the hospital were crammed with patients and nurses
trying to get a grandstand view of the commotion.
We wove around the obstacles in the road and through the cordon. Once
over the large roundabout, we passed under the Eurostar track a hundred
metres further down. I could see the slick, aerodynamic trains waiting in
the glass terminal above me, and felt sick that one of them should be
leaving soon without me on it.
Sundance removed the flashing light from the dashboard. We were heading
south towards the Elephant and Castle and, no doubt, into a world of shit.
I looked at Sundance's face in the wing mirror. He didn't return eye
contact or acknowledge me in any way. Behind the stony face he was probably
working out what he had to do next.
So was I, and started to work on him straight away. This isn't going to
work.
I've got on tape the orders you drove for and I-' There was an
explosion of pain as Trainers put all his force behind his elbow and rammed
it into my thigh, dead legging me.
Sundance turned in his seat.
"Don't wind me up, boy."
I took a deep, deep breath and kept going for it.
"I've got proof of everything that's happened. Everything."
He didn't even bother to look round this time.
"Shut it."
Trainers' hand chopped down on the spacer bar between the cuffs. The
metal jarred agonizingly on my wrists, but I knew it was nothing compared
with what would happen if I didn't buy myself some time.
"Look!" I gasped, 'it's me stitched today, it could be you lot next. No
one gives a fuck about people like us. That's why I keep records. For my own
security."
We were approaching the Elephant and Castle roundabout, passing the
pink shopping centre. I nodded to give Trainers the message that I was going
to shut up. I wasn't a fool, I knew when to shut up or talk. I wanted to
make the little I knew go a long way. I wanted them to feel I was confident
and secure, and that they would be making a big mistake if they didn't pay
attention. I just hoped it wasn't me making the mistake.
I looked in the mirror again. It was impossible to tell whether this
was having any effect on Sundance. I was just feeling that maybe I should
get in another instalment when he sparked up.
"What do you know, then, boy?"
I shrugged.
"Everything, including those three hits just now." Fuck it, I might as
well go right to the top of the bullshit stakes.
Trainers' brown, bloodshot eyes and broken nose faced me without
emotion. It was impossible to tell whether he was going to hurt me or not. I
decided to try to save my skin big-time before he made up his mind.
"I taped the briefing that you drove for." Which was a lie.
"I've got pictures of the locations." Which was true.
"And pictures and serial numbers of the weapons. I've got all the
dates, all diaried, even pictures of the snipers."
We turned down towards the Old Kent Road, and as I shifted position
slightly I glimpsed Sundance's face in the wing mirror.
He was looking dead ahead, his expression giving nothing away.
"Show me."
That was easy enough.
"Sniper Two is a woman, she's in her early thirties and she has brown
hair." I resisted the temptation to say more. I needed to show him I knew a
lot, but without running out of information too early.
There was silence. I got the impression that Sundance had started to
listen carefully, which I took as my chance to carry on. 'You need to tell
him," I said.
"Just think about the shit you'll be in if you don't. Frampton won't be
first in the queue for taking the blame. It'll be you lot who get that for
sure." The message had at least got through to Trainers. He was swapping
glances with Sundance in the mirror: my cue not even to look up now, but let
them get on with it.
We stopped at a set of lights, level with carloads of families swigging
from cans of Coke and doing the bored-in-the-back-seat stuff. The four of us
just sat there as if we were on our way to a funeral. It was pointless me
trying to raise the alarm with any of these people as they smoked or picked
their noses waiting for the green. I just had to depend on Sundance to make
a decision soon. If he didn't, I'd try again, and keep on until they
silenced me. I'd been trying hard not to think about that too much.
We approached a large retail park, with signs for B&Q, Halford's and
McDonald's.
Sundance pointed at the entrance sign.
"In there for five." The indicator immediately started clicking and we
cut across the traffic.
I tried not to show my elation, and let my eyes concentrate hard on the
lunchbox of tricks at the top of the sports bag as I felt the Merc lurch
over a speed bump.
We stopped near a bacon roll and stewy tea van, and Sundance
immediately got out. Trolleys filled with pot plants, paint and planks of
wood trundled past on the tarmac as he walked out of sight somewhere behind
us, dialling into a StarT ac that he'd pulled from his jacket.
The rest of us sat in silence. The driver just looked ahead through his
sunglasses and Trainers turned round in his seat to try to see what Sundance
was up to, taking care to cover my handcuffs so the DIYers couldn't see that
we weren't there for the kitchen sale.
I wasn't really thinking or worrying about anything, just idly watching
a young shell-suited couple load up their ancient XRi with boxes of wall
tiles and grout. Maybe I was trying to avoid the fact that the call he was
making meant life or death for me.
Sundance shook me out of my dreamlike state as he slumped back into the
Merc and slammed the door. The other two looked at him expectantly probably
hoping to be told to drive me down to Beachy Head and give me a helping hand
in my tragic suicide.
There was nothing from him for twenty seconds or so while he put his
seat-belt on. It was like waiting for the doctor to tell me if I had cancer
or not. He sat for a while and looked disturbed; I didn't know what to think
but took it as a good sign, without really knowing why.
Eventually, after putting the StarT ac away, he looked at the driver.
"Kennington."
I knew where Kennington was, but didn't know what it meant to them. Not
that it really mattered: I just felt a surge of relief about the change of
plan.
Whatever had been going to happen to me had been postponed.
At length Sundance muttered, "If you're fucking with me, things will
get hurtful."
I nodded into the rear-view mirror as he gave me the thousand-metre
stare. There was no need for further conversation as we drove back up the
Old Kent Road. I was going to save all that for later, for the Yes Man.
Leaning against the window to rest my arms and ease the tension of the
handcuffs on my wrists, I gazed like a child at the world passing by, the
glass steaming around my face.
Somebody turned on the radio and the soothing sound of violins filled
the Merc.
It struck me as strange; I wouldn't have expected these boys to be into
classical music any more than I was.
I knew the area we were driving through like the back of my hand. As a
ten-year old I had played there while bunking school. In those days the
place was one big mass of minging council estates, dodgy secondhand-car
dealers and old men in pubs drinking bottles of light ale. But now it looked
as if every available square metre was being gentrified. The place was
crawling with luxury developments and 911 Caireras, and all the pubs had
been converted into wine bars. I wondered where all the old men went now to
keep out of the cold.
We were approaching Elephant and Castle again. The music finished and a
female voice came on with an update on the incident that had shaken London.
There were unconfirmed reports, she said, that three people had been killed
in a gun battle with police, and that the bomb blast in Whitehall had
produced between ten and sixteen minor casualties, who were being treated in
hospital. Tony Blair had expressed his absolute outrage from his villa in
Italy, and the emergency services were on full alert as further explosions
could not be ruled out. No one as yet had claimed responsibility for the
blast.
We rounded the Elephant and Castle and headed towards Kennington,
pulling over as two police vans sirened their way past.
Sundance turned to me and shook his head in mock disapproval.
Tut-tut-rut. See you you're a menace to society, you are."
As the news finished and the music returned I continued to look out of
the window. I was a menace to myself, not society. Why couldn't I steer
clear of shit for a change, instead of heading straight for it like a
light-drunk moth?
We passed Kennington tube station, then took a right into a quiet
residential street. The street name had been ripped from its post and the
wooden backing was covered in graffiti. We turned again and the driver had
to brake as he came across six or seven kids in the middle of the road,
kicking a ball against the gable end of a turn-of-the-century terrace. They
stopped and let us through, then immediately got back to trying to demolish
the wall.
We drove about forty metres further, then stopped. Sundance hit his key
fob and a graffiti-covered double garage shutter started to roll up. Left
and right of it was a pitted brown brick wall; above was a rusty metal frame
that had probably once held a neon sign. Empty drinks cans littered the
ground. Inside was completely empty. As we drove in, I saw that all around
the old brick walls were tool boards with faded, red-painted shapes of what
was supposed to be hanging there. Years ago it had probably been a one-man
garage set-up. A faded Chelsea FC team poster was pinned to a door. Judging
by the long haircuts, sideburns and very tight shorts, it was seventies
vintage.
The shutter door rattled and squeaked its way down behind me, gradually
cutting off the noise of the kids kicking the ball. The engine was cut and
the three of them started to get out.
Sundance disappeared through the football poster door, leaving it open
behind him, with luck for me to get dragged through. Anything to be out of
the car and have the pressure off my wrists. Maybe I'd even get given a
brew. I hadn't eaten or drunk anything since the night before: there'd been
too much to do and I'd simply forgotten. Just placing the bomb on the hotel
roof had taken the best part of four hours, and an Egg McMuffin had been the
last thing on my mind.
While I was watching the door swing back slowly to reveal the Chelsea
mop heads again, Trainers leant down and undid the cuffs pinning me to the
seat. Then he and the driver got hold of me and dragged me out. We headed
towards the door; I was beginning to feel that maybe I'd get away with this
after all. Then I gave myself a good mental slapping: every time I had this
feeling I came unstuck.
What was happening here meant nothing until I saw the Yes Man and told
him my piece. I decided to do my best not to annoy these boys while we
waited. They were doing their best to intimidate me; things are always more
worrying when there is no verbal contact and no information, and it was
working a little, that was for sure. Not a lot, but enough.
They dragged me through the door and into a windowless, rectangular
space with pitted, dirty whitewashed brick walls. The room was airless, hot
and humid, and to add to the mix somebody had been smoking roll-ups. A
harsh, double fluorescent unit in the ceiling gave the impression there was
nowhere to hide.
On the floor in the left-hand corner was a steam-powered TV with a
shiny new swordfish aerial hanging from a nail on the wall. It was the only
thing in the room that looked as if it hadn't been purchased from a junk
shop. Facing it was a worn-out brown velour three-piece suite. The arms were
threadbare, and the seats sagged and were dotted with cigarette burns.
Plugged into adaptors in the same socket as the TV were a green upright
plastic kettle, a toaster, and battery chargers for three mobiles. The place
reminded me of a minicab office, with old newspapers and Burger King drinks
cups providing the finishing touches.
Sundance was standing by the TV, finishing another call on his mobile.
He looked at me and gestured towards the corner.
"Keep it shut, boy."
The other two gave me a shove to help me on my way. As I slid down the
wall I tried my hardest not to push against the cuffs and ratchet them up
even tighter than they already were. I finally slumped on to the floor and
ended up facing the TV.
SIX
I guessed this place had been just a temporary set-up for the duration
of the job and the job, of course, was planning and preparing to kill me. No
doubt there was a similar set-up somewhere else in London where a whole lot
of the boys and girls had prepared themselves for the hit on the snipers.
Trainers went over to the TV as the other two headed back into the
garage. I watched as he crouched down by the brew kit, opening the kettle to
check for water. His light brown nylon jacket had ridden up to expose part
of a black leather pancake holster sitting on a leather belt, just behind
his right hip, and a green T-shirt dark with sweat. Even the back of his
belt was soaking, and had turned a much darker brown than the rest.
I could still hear the kids in the background, kicking their ball and
yelling at each other. The pitch of their voices changed as one probably
mis-kicked and was treated to squeals of derision. My hands, still stuck in
the surgical gloves, were pruning up in the heat.
Trainers lined up three not-too-healthy-looking Simpsons mugs, Bart,
Marge and Homer, which pissed me off. Maggie was missing. There obviously
wasn't going to be any brew for me. He threw a tea bag into each, splashed
milk on top, then dug a spoon into a crumpled, half-empty bag of sugar,
tipping heaps of it into two of the mugs.
A toilet flushed in the garage area, and the sound got louder then
softer as a door opened and closed. I could hear Sundance and the driver
mumbling to each other but couldn't make out what was said.
The Merc door slammed, the engine turned over, and there was more
squeaking and grinding as the shutter lifted. Thirty seconds later the car
backed out into the road and drove away. Maybe one K of the mugs was for me
after all.
| Sundance appeared at the office door, his back to us, checking |that
the shutter had fully closed. As the steel banged on to the I floor, he
walked to the settee and threw his green cotton bomber jacket on to the
armrest of the nearest chair, revealing a wet maroon polo shirt and a chunky
Sig 9mm, holstered just behind his right hip. On his left hip sat a light
brown leather mag-carrier, with three thick pieces of elastic holding a
magazine apiece. The first brass round of each glinted in the ceiling's
white light. I almost laughed: three full mags, and just for little old me.
I'd heard of overkill but this was something out of the last five minutes of
Butch Cassidy. It was obvious where this boy had got his best ideas.
He stripped off his polo shirt and used it to wipe the sweat from his
face, exposing a badly scarred back. Two indentations were clearly gunshot
wounds: I recognized them because I had one myself. Someone had also given
him the good news with a knife, some of the slashes running the whole length
of his back, with stitch marks either side. All in all, it looked quite a
lot like an aerial photo of Clapham Junction. I Trainers, who'd just
finished squeezing and fishing out the tea bags lifted up a brew for
Sundance.
"Still want one?" His accent was 100 per cent Belfast. If the driver
turned out to be Welsh we'd be able to put together a joke book.
"Right enough." Wiping his neck and shoulders, Sundance sat down in the
chair nearest the TV, avoiding resting his wet, bare back against the velour
by sitting upright on the edge. He took a tentative sip from Bart, the mug
without sugar.
He had been hitting the weights, but didn't have the chiselled look of
a bodybuilder. He had the physique of a con who'd been pumping iron: the
diet in prisons is so bad that when the lads take to the weights they end up
barrel-chested and bulked up, rather than well honed.
He glanced at me for the first time and caught me studying his back.
"Belfast when you was just a wee soldier-boy." He treated himself to a
little giggle, then nodded at the third Simpsons mug still on the floor by
Trainers.
"D'you want a tea, then, boy?"
Trainers held up Marge.
I nodded. Teah, I would, thanks."
There was a pause for a couple of seconds while they exchanged a look,
then both roared with laughter as Trainers did a bad Cockney accent.
"Gor blimey, guy, I would, fan ks
Trainers sat himself down on the settee with Homer, still laughing as
he took the piss.
"Strike a light, guvnor, yeah, I would, cheers. Luv a duck." At least
someone was having fun.
Trainers put his own brew on the cracked tiled floor and took off his
jacket.
He'd obviously had a tattoo removed by laser recently; there was the
faintest red scar just visible on his forearm, but the outstretched Red Hand
of Ulster was still plain to see. He had been, maybe still was, a member of
the UDA (Ulster Defence Association). Maybe they'd both pumped their iron in
one of the H blocks.
Trainers' triceps rippled under his tanned, freckled skin as he felt
behind the cushions and pulled out a packet of Drum. Resting it on his
knees, he took out some Rizlas and started to make himself a roll-up.
Sundance didn't like what he saw.
"You know he hates that -just wait."
"Right enough." The Drum packet was folded and returned beneath the
cushions.
It made me very happy indeed to hear that: the Yes Man must be on his
way. Even though I'd never smoked I'd never been a tobacco Nazi, but
Frampton certainly was.
My arse was getting numb on the hard floor so I shifted very slowly
into another position, trying not to draw attention to myself. Sundance got
up, mug in hand, walked the three paces to the TV, and hit the power button
then each of the station buttons till he got a decent picture.
Trainers sparked up, 'I like this one. It's a laugh." Sundance shuffled
backwards to his chair, eyes glued to the box. Both were now ignoring me as
they watched a woman, whose voice was straight off the Radio Four news, talk
to the show's china expert about her collection of Pekinese dog teacups.
I couldn't hear the kids any more over the TV as I waited for the Merc
to return. On the screen, the woman tried not to show how pissed off she was
when the expert told her the china was only worth fifty quid.
Whoever had christened Frampton the Yes Man was a genius: it was the
only word he said to any of his superiors. In the past this had never
worried me because I had nothing to do with him directly, but all that
changed when he was promoted to run the UK Ks Desk in SIS (Secret
Intelligence Service). The Firm used some ex-SAS people like me, in fact
anyone, probably even my new friends here, as deniable operators. The Ks
Desk had traditionally been run by an IB (member of Intelligence Branch),
the senior branch of the service. In fact the whole service is run by IBs
for IBs; these are the boys and girls we read about in the papers, recruited
from university, working from embassies and using mundane Foreign Office
appointments as cover. Their real work, however, starts at six in the
evening when the conventional diplomats begin their round of cocktail
parties, and the IBs start gathering intelligence, spreading disinformation
and recruiting sources.
That's when the low-life like me come into the picture, carrying out,
or in some cases cleaning up, the dirty work that they create while throwing
the odd crab paste sandwich and After Eight down their necks. I envied them
that, at times like this.
The Yes Man did, too. He had been to university, but not one of the
right two.
He had never been one of the elite, an IB, yet had probably always
wanted to be.
But he just wasn't made of the right stuff. His background was the
Directorate of Special Support, a branch of wild-haired technicians and
scientists working on electronics, signals, electronic surveillance and
explosive devices. He'd run the signals department of the UK Ks, but had
never been in the field.
I didn't know why the Firm had suddenly changed the system and let a
non-IB take command. Maybe with the change of government they thought they
should look a bit more meritocratic, give a tweak or two to the system to
make them look good and keep the politicians happy as they skipped back to
Whitehall, instead of interfering too much with what really goes on. So, who
better to run the Desk than someone who wasn't an IB, arse licked his way
from breakfast to dinnertime, and would do whatever he was told?
Whatever, I didn't like him and never would. He certainly wasn't on my
speed dial, that was for sure. On the one occasion that I'd had direct
contact with him, the job had fouled up because he'd supplied insufficient
com ms kit.
He'd only been in the job since Colonel Lynn had 'taken early
retirement' about seven months ago, but he'd already proved his incompetence
more than once. The only thing he was good at was issuing threats; he had
neither the personality nor the management skills to do it any other way.
Lynn might have been just as much of an arse hole but at least you knew
where you stood with him.
I was adjusting my position some more when the shutter rattled and I
heard an engine rev outside.
They both stood up and put their wet shirts back on. Sundance walked
over to turn off the TV. Neither of them bothered to look at me. It was
still as if I wasn't there.
The engine noise got louder. Doors slammed and the shutter came down
again.
The Yes Man appeared at the door, still in his suit and looking
severely pissed off. Trainers slipped dutifully out of the room, like the
family Labrador.
I wouldn't have thought it possible but the Yes Man's face was an even
brighter red than usual. He was under pressure. Yet again, C and his mates
weren't too pleased with their non-IB experiment.
He stopped just three or four feet away from me, looking like an irate
schoolteacher, legs apart, hands on hips.
"What happened, Stone?" he shouted.
"Can't you get anything right?"
What was he on about? Only two hours ago he'd wanted me killed, and now
he was telling me off like a naughty schoolboy. But it wasn't the moment to
point this out. It was the moment to creep big-time.
"I just don't know, Mr. Frampton. As soon as I had three lights up I
sent the fire commands. I don't know what happened after that. It should
have worked, all four of us had com ms up until then but-' "But nothing!" he
exploded.
"The task was a complete failure." His voice jumped an octave.
"I'm holding you personally responsible, you do know that, don't you?"
I did now. But what was new?
He took a deep breath.
"You don't understand the importance of this operation that you have
completely scuppered, do you?"
Scuppered? I tried not to smile but couldn't help it.
"Fucked up' was how Lynn would have put it.
The Yes Man was still playing the school-teacher. There's nothing to
smile about, Stone. Who, in heaven's name, do you think you are?"
It was time for a bit of damage limitation.
"Just someone trying to keep alive," I said. That's why I taped our
conversation, Mr. Frampton."
He was silent for a few seconds while that sank in, breathing heavily,
eyes bulging. Ah, yes, the tape and pictures. He must have just remembered
why I was still alive and he was here. But not for long; his brain switch
was set to Transmit rather than Receive. 'You've no idea of the damage
you've done. The Americans were adamant that this had to be done today. I
gave my word to them, and others, that it would." He was starting to feel
sorry for himself.
"I can't believe I had so much confidence in you."
So it was an American job. No wonder he was flapping. The senior Brits
had been trying to heal a number of rifts in their relationship with the USA
for quite a while now especially as some of the US agencies just saw the UK
as a route to extend its reach into Europe, and not as any sort of partner.
The 'special relationship' was, in effect, history.
But the big picture wasn't exactly top of my agenda right now. I didn't
care what had been scuppered. I didn't even care who had sponsored the job
and why it had had to happen. I just wanted to get out of this room in one
piece.
"As I said, Mr. Frampton, the lights were up and I ordered the shoot.
Maybe if the three snipers were debriefed they could ..."
He looked at my lips but my words seemed not to register.
"You have let a serious problem develop in Central America, Stone. Do
you not realize the implications?"
"No, sir' he always liked that.
"I don't, sir."
His right hand came off his hip and he stared at the face of his watch.
"No, sir, that's right, you don't, sir. Because of you, we, the
Service, are not influencing events in a direction favourable to Britain."
He was starting to sound like a party political broadcast. I couldn't
have cared less what was happening in Central America. All I was worried
about was now, here.
The Yes Man sighed as he loosened his scarlet tie and opened his
collar. Some beads of sweat dribbled down the side of his flushed face. He
thumbed behind him in the direction of Sundance.
"Now, go with this man to collect the tape and all the other material
that you claim to have on this operation, and I'll see about trying to save
your backside."
"I can't do that, sir!"
He stiffened. He was starting to lose it.
"Can't do that, sir?"
I'd have thought it was perfectly obvious, but I didn't want to sound
disrespectful.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Frampton, but I need to make sure you don't have a
change of heart about me." I chanced a smile.
"I like being alive. I understand the reasons why the snipers were
killed. I just don't want to join them."
The Yes Man crouched down so that his eyes were level with mine. He was
struggling to control a rage that was threatening to burst out of his face.
"Let me tell you something, Stone. Things are changing in my
department. A new permanent cadre is being installed, and very soon all the
dead wood will be cleared away. People like you will cease to exist." He was
nearly shaking with anger. He knew I had him by the bollocks, for now.
Fighting his rage, he kept his voice very low.
"You've always been nothing but trouble, haven't you?"
I was averting my gaze, trying to look frightened and I was a bit. But
unfortunately I caught sight of a large, freshly squeezed zit below his
collar line. He didn't like that. He stood up abruptly, and stormed from the
room.
Sundance shot me a threatening glare and followed him.
I tried to listen to the mumbling going on between the four of them in
the garage, but with no luck. A few seconds later car doors slammed, the
shutter went up, and the car reversed out. The shutter hit the floor once
more, and then everything went quiet.
Except in my head. One half was telling me everything was OK. No way
would he chance the job being exposed. The other was telling me that maybe
he really didn't care what I was saying. I tried to make myself feel better
by running through what had happened, convincing myself that I'd said the
right things in the right way at the right time. Then I threw my hand in. It
was too late now to worry about it. I'd just have to wait and see.
Trainers and Sundance r...
