by Andy McNab
I turned and walked into the mall with the big smile still fixed on my face. “That’s Romeo One and Two unsighted, stay where you are. Both stay where you are. L, acknowledge.”
Click, click.
“H, can you get a trigger on the mall entrance?”
“H already has the trigger and can see the road from the rear of the building.”
Click, click.
Both exit points from the shutter, plus both entry points back into the mall, were covered if Romeo Three moved on foot. But it was what we’d do if he went mobile that worried me.
As I bent down I took particular interest in the china shop window across from the dry-cleaner’s. Painted plates and silver cutlery gleamed under the brilliant display lights and I waited to see what the two Romeos were doing. It was just a few seconds before I caught a side view of both of them quickly passing the mall’s glass doors, going on to the junction below the camera. They had two bags now, each with a tennis racket in the side pocket. The second bag must have been inside the first to give it bulk, and now it just looked like they were two pals on their way to a friendly game.
I got back on the road, hoping that the Romeos weren’t waiting at the intersection. Tough shit if they were: I was committed now and had to get a trigger on the shutter in case Romeo Three went mobile. I needed to get a vehicle ID and direction for Lotfi and Hubba-Hubba, who would then be on their own.
I’d gotten myself out onto the other side of the mall door, looking right quickly by the camera intersection—no Romeos—then left toward the shutters, as my earpiece burst into life. “Stand by, stand by! H has a possible Romeo Three foxtrot toward the square, that’s halfway…”
He double-clicked as I shot back in through the door, past the cleaner’s and china shop, toward the café with a third-party smile. “H—stop him. He mustn’t get back to the office. Stop him!”
I got a double-click just as I followed the mall hallway right, passed the café, and headed for the other exit. If Hubba-Hubba didn’t stop him, I would have to in the hallway. As I passed the marble entrance and carpet shop, my left hand started to unzip the jacket so I had an easier draw down on the Browning. I had a hot, tingling feeling, and was sweating again. If we didn’t act fast we could lose him upstairs, maybe forever. I wanted him lifted and dropped off as quickly as possible. We couldn’t afford to wait around here: security was tighter than a duck’s ass.
Barging my shoulder against the mall door, I shot back out onto the road facing the square and the chainsaw crew. Hubba-Hubba stood on the pavement to my immediate right, with an enormous smile all over his face, just about to shake the hand of his long-lost friend, Romeo Three. There was a burst of French between them before the Arabic started. “As-salaam alaykum.”
Romeo Three looked perplexed, but went through the motions and raised a hand to Hubba-Hubba’s. “Wa alaykum as-salaam.”
Passersby took no notice as the old friends met on the street, and Hubba-Hubba initiated a bit of cheek-kissing. As I approached, the hawallada’s eyes darted nervously between the two of us. Hubba-Hubba greeted me in Arabic, all smiles, and put a very firm arm out to bring me into the group and let me know he was running this part. The hawallada’s hand was large but his shake was weak and soft. Hubba-Hubba continued babbling and gesturing toward me, accompanied by nods and smiles. Romeo Three didn’t look so happy, though. “Allah-salaam alaykum.” I reciprocated. “Wa alaykum as-salaam.” But I left the kissing business to Hubba-Hubba.
As I broke off the handshake, Hubba-Hubba embraced us both, and steered us back toward the rear of the mall, still jabbering away in Arabic and talking about the old days.
Romeo Three’s eyes betrayed a mixture of fear, puzzlement, and pleading. He was stressing big-time, but he was too scared to do anything about it, not that he had the opportunity. Hubba-Hubba kept both of us tightly in his arms as he continued to babble, smiling and nodding like a game show host. I smiled back and nodded at the hawallada. Whatever was being said was obviously doing the trick, for Romeo Three turned the corner without protest, just resignation. We stepped aside as the mail truck thundered past.
We stopped next to the shutter, and Romeo Three fumbled through his bunch of keys. With Hubba-Hubba’s help and support, he finally inserted the right one into the cylinder lock and opened the metal door. Acting the gentleman, Hubba-Hubba ushered him inside and followed a step behind.
I entered the cool darkness last. There was hard concrete beneath my feet, and a strong smell of paint. Romeo Three started begging. The only word I could make out sounded like “Audi.” I pushed the door closed and hit the light switch on the left-hand side of the steel frame with my elbow. I could now see what the hawallada was babbling about. A French-plated metallic silver Audi A4 was parked and filled most of the space in here.
Hubba-Hubba stepped alongside him just as he was turning toward us and slammed his right hand over Romeo Three’s mouth. The keys slipped out of his hands and fell to the ground with a jangle. Pulling his head back, and hooking his left arm around his neck, Hubba-Hubba went down with him onto the dusty concrete, grazing the skin on his face, their clothes covered with dust.
Muffled screams escaped from the jerking body as he kicked against the side of the car in his struggle to get out from under Hubba-Hubba. The Egyptian looked like he was trying to wrestle a crocodile, and responded by forcing Romeo Three’s head more firmly into the concrete to the sound of both of them snorting for oxygen.
I was already down on my knees, opening up my fanny pack and extracting the insulin pen as the hawallada fought nonstop to free himself, and Hubba-Hubba did everything to keep his face down and his ass up.
“That’s good, mate, keep him there, keep him there.” I dug my right knee into his left thigh. His cologne filled my nostrils and I saw a gold Rolex glint on his wrist. This boy had obviously never seen what a traser could do for you.
I clamped the plastic needle cover between my teeth, and put all my weight onto his thigh, so I could get to the injection site before spitting the cover away. I could feel his wallet in the back pocket of his pants as I used my free hand to push down on his ass, trying to keep it still.
As I fumbled with the pocket button to pull his wallet out, there was a hiss of air brakes and another truck started to back into the post office loading bay.
35
I whispered urgently, “For fuck’s sake, keep him still!”
The sound of the two of them fighting for breath as they heaved about on the concrete was almost as loud as the rattle of containers and banter between the postal workers.
I threw the hawallada’s wallet onto the ground and sat on both his legs, right behind his knees so his kneecaps were pressed into the floor. It must have hurt, but he was panicking too much to notice. I stabbed the pen into the upper right quadrant of his right buttock and pushed into him hard, pressing down the trigger at the same time. There was a faint ping as the spring pushed the larger than normal insulin needle through his clothing and into the muscle mass. I held the pen there, pushing down for ten seconds as instructed, as the sound of angry, frustrated breathing fought its way through Hubba-Hubba’s hand.
We both held him down for the minute or so it took for his struggles to subside. Very soon, he was en route for the K hole.
I got to my feet. Hubba-Hubba still held him down until he’d stopped moving completely. I reloaded the pen by unscrewing it and replacing the cartridge and needle. After picking up the spat-out needle cover, I packed everything away in the fanny pack and fished out the diaper pin from my jeans as Hubba-Hubba disentangled himself and brushed himself down. The carts outside were still being filled, to the sound of a lot of French banter.
Hubba-Hubba picked up Romeo Three’s keys and talked slowly and softly to Lotfi on the net, telling him what was going on as he inspected the fob.
With the opened diaper pin in my hand, I leaned down, forced open the hawallada’s mouth, and pushed it through his bottom lip and tongue bef
ore fastening it and clicking down the pink safety cap. His muscles were completely relaxed by the ketamine, and we couldn’t risk him swallowing his tongue and suffocating. There was also the risk of him vomiting as he came around from the drug, and if that happened at the DOP with no one else there, he might choke on it. The pin would keep him safe until he reached his new home. Meanwhile Lotfi had got the news from Hubba-Hubba, and I heard him give a double-click.
Our new friend was probably having his near-death experience by now, looking down at us both and thinking what a pair of assholes we were.
The Audi’s yellow fourways flashed as Hubba-Hubba pressed the remote and the locks clunked open.
I thumbed through the wallet and found that our new pal’s name was Gumaa Ahmed Khalilzad. On the whole, I preferred Romeo Three. Pulling at his sideburns and fiddling with the diaper pin, I got no reaction. Then I put my ear to his mouth to check his breathing; it was very shallow, but that was what we’d been told to expect with this stuff.
What I wasn’t expecting were the two thick, banded wads of hundred-dollar bills Hubba-Hubba held in each hand as he walked back from the Audi.
I took one bundle off him, and threw it down inside my jacket and sweatshirt. “A little commission he skimmed off the top?”
Hubba-Hubba nodded in agreement as he slipped his bundle down his shirt.
He looked at me expectantly. “What do we do now?”
A quick look at traser told me it was three-thirty-eight, a couple of hours or so before last light.
The banter from the postal workers ebbed and flowed as I went through the options. Hubba-Hubba knelt down and pulled out a crisply laundered white handkerchief from Gumaa’s now dirt-covered navy jacket. There was no way I could get Hubba-Hubba’s or Lotfi’s wagons in here. They wouldn’t fit in the garage, and they couldn’t just back up to load him in with people so close.
I watched as Hubba-Hubba tied the handkerchief around Gumaa’s head like a blindfold. It wasn’t to stop him seeing, but to protect his eyes. He had lost control of his eyelids as well as his tongue, and they might easily open during transportation to the DOP or during his wait there for pickup. We needed to deliver him in a reasonable condition so that the interrogation could start as soon as he came around, and not after he’d had emergency treatment to remove two inches of lollipop stick from his eyeball. We’d planned to use duct tape from our cars, but you can’t win them all.
I was going to have to drive the Audi out of Monaco with Gumaa in the trunk. There was no other way.
Hubba-Hubba looked at me expectantly. I gave him a nod and hit my pressle. “L?”
Click, click.
I could hear vehicles, and people talking around him. The chainsaw had stopped. “Are you still complete?”
Click, click.
“In the same place?”
Click, click.
“H is going mobile first to clear the DOP. I’ll then come out onto the square, turn left, and pass you in Romeo Three’s car, a silver Audi. He’ll be with me. I’ll count down to the intersection and then to you. You then back me, okay?”
Click, click.
“Good. We’ll then make our way to the drop-off, just as planned.”
Click, click.
“Remember, you are Romeo Three’s protection.”
At last he was able to come on the air. “Of course, of course.”
I nodded at Hubba-Hubba. “We’d better get him in the trunk.”
He went around to the driver’s seat and there was a clunk as the trunk opened. With me lifting his legs and Hubba-Hubba gripping him under his armpits, we lugged Gumaa over to the Audi and lifted him in. We were now vulnerable; him to getting the good news from a tail-end crash, and us to being compromised, so Lotfi would try to stay behind me, close enough to stop anyone getting between us in the traffic. As we laid Gumaa down, I took off his jacket and wrapped it around his head as a cushion, then pushed him onto his side so he could breathe better, adjusted the handkerchief, and stuck the wallet back into his pocket after wiping it free of prints. It was part of the package for the boys on the warship.
Hubba-Hubba stood there waiting for the green light. “Not yet, mate. We need to make this look like a rental car.” Fortunately there wasn’t much to rearrange, just a plastic air-freshener on the back shelf, shaped like a crown, and some French and Arabic newspapers on the seat. They all went into the trunk before it got closed down.
I looked at Hubba-Hubba. “First thing, how do I get out of here?”
He pointed at a red and a green button to the side of the shutter.
“Okay, mate, go and clear the drop-off. I’ll come in via BSM, and radio-check you to make sure everything’s clear up there.”
He nodded and walked to the door as I half-sat in the Audi, turned the key, and watched him disappear into the street, closing the door carefully behind him.
“That’s H foxtrot. L, acknowledge.”
Click, click.
The engine turned over gently and exhaust fumes filled my nostrils as I moved over to the electric doors, waiting to be cleared by Hubba-Hubba.
There were still voices outside and I could just hear the chainsaw rev up once more in the distance. It was now magnified in my earpiece as Hubba-Hubba came on the net. “N, it is all clear, it’s all clear.”
Click, click.
I hit the shutter button with my elbow and the electric motor whined. As the steel door squeaked its way up, I slipped my shades onto my nose and pulled my brim down low.
Backing out, I had to stop parallel with the truck to close the shutter, before heading for the square. Hubba-Hubba was on his way to the drop-off. “H is mobile. L, acknowledge.”
“Roger that, N is mobile.”
The Audi was an automatic, so it was quite easy to keep my right hand on the pressle.
“That’s approaching the left-hand bend…at the bend toward the square…halfway…approaching.” I hit the intersection. “Stop, stop, stop. Silver car.”
“L has, L has.”
The black Ford Focus was up the road to my left, just past the entrance to the parking lot and facing away from me. There was no need to continue on with the countdown: he had me. I turned left and Lotfi slotted in behind.
We wound our way back to the casino, down the hill toward the harbor. Traffic was heavy but steady as people began to head home from offices and banks, clouds of cigarette smoke and bad music billowing out of their open windows. Higher up, much bigger clouds, dark and brooding, gathered in the mountains.
We crawled around the harbor, with Lotfi protecting the rear of the Audi from impatient commuters.
Motorcycle police were directing traffic at a four-way intersection not far from the tunnels. A truck in front of me eventually got the wave and turned right. I followed as Lotfi hit the net. “No, no, no, no, no!”
As the message sank in I saw Lotfi in my side mirror, heading straight on, not right. There was a series of short, sharp whistle blasts from one of the policemen now behind me. He was wearing high-leg riding boots and a sidearm, and was waving me to a halt. Another policeman kicked up the stand on his bike, and my mind raced through the options. It didn’t take long; I didn’t really have any. I had to bluff it.
If I put my foot down I probably wouldn’t even make it past the other side of the tunnel. I took a deep breath, accepting my big-time fuck-up, checked my Browning was covered, and pulled over as a few trucks moved out into the center of the road to pass the jerk who didn’t know where he was going. The policeman approached and I pressed the down button on the window, looking up at him, my face one big apology. He still had his helmet on, a BMW lid, the sort where you can pull up the face. He said something in French and pointed back to the junction. His tone was more exasperated than aggressive.
I stammered, “I’m sorry, officer, I…”
The bags under his eyes drooped as he looked down at me with an expression of unutterable weariness. “Where are you going?” Perfect English.
His expression told me he’d been dealing with idiot Brits for years. With a resigned nod, he walked back toward the intersection and beckoned me to back up. A dozen horns were leaned on as he held up the traffic with a leather-gloved hand and pointed me in the direction Lotfi had gone. I gave him a wave of thanks and tried to avoid the angry glares of the other drivers.
As I pulled away I saw Lotfi on foot to my left, coming uphill toward the intersection. His arms were crossed and inside his jacket, which meant only one thing. He had drawn down in case he had to get me out of the shit the hard way. He spotted me and turned on his heel as I got on the net. “L, where are you parked? Where are you parked?”
The roar of the traffic filled his mike. “On the right, not far. Down on the right.”
“Okay, I’ll wait for you, I’ll wait for you.”
Click, click.
I drove down the hill, looking for the Focus. It felt really strange knowing that someone had actually been coming to help. Nobody had done that for me since I left the Regiment.
I saw his car in a small turnout in front of some stores. I pulled in about four cars back, and waited for him to get back behind the wheel. I watched him approach in my rearview mirror, and felt a surge of gratitude that I realized was close to friendship. It had been my fuck-up; he didn’t have to come back and help, but he had been prepared to put his own life at risk to do so.
He walked past me, not giving the Audi a second glance, and as he waited for a line of cars to pass before opening his door, I wrote myself a mental Post-it to find a way of thanking him.
36
T he Audi and the Focus merged with the traffic as we flicked on our lights to drive through the tunnel. Two Legoland police and three more in riding boots, astride their machines, were on duty at the traffic circle on the other side, checking vehicle tax and insurance discs as the traffic filtered past them. The flow speeded up now, as most of the traffic turned up to the A8, wanting to get straight home rather than waste time winding along the coast. I was trying to think what to do now that there was an extra vehicle in the plan.
