Exit wound ns-12

by Andy McNab

  I shook my head. ‘The room’s probably bugged.’

  ‘But I-’

  ‘You online?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Whatever I find out, I’ll let you know. What name am I looking for?’

  ‘Anna Ludmilova. Shall I spell it?’

  ‘I’ll find you.’

  I headed out of the car park, my day-sack on my back. I broke into a jog to get out of the light and make some distance. Being alone had never been a big deal for me. It was simpler than surrounding yourself with people the whole time, and I’d sometimes confused it with a kind of freedom. But I’d have given almost anything just then to have Lord Dex of Cards and his Hallowe’en torch beside me, and to be able to take the piss out of Lord Ken of t’Pit for firing up his thousandth roll-up of the day.

  This might be a crusade for Agnetha, but it was a whole lot more than that for me. I reckoned I’d already discovered enough to keep Julian happy for a day or two. I’d done what I’d been asked to do. Now I was going to find Altun and his mates again. And then I was going to kill them.

  It wouldn’t stop any missile deal; it might not even delay it. It wouldn’t get the Taliban flapping or make the world start smelling of flowers. But it would make me feel a fucking sight better.

  88

  I was pumping the Timberlands as fast as I could, but the Air France 747 overtook me with ease as it taxied down to the bottom of the strip about two hundred to my left and prepared for take-off.

  I’d kept on the Imam Khomeini International Airport approach road so that I could move faster. I was soaked with sweat, but my head was clear. The M3C terminal was on the far side of the complex. Behind me, a never-ending stream of traffic roared along the main.

  The 747 lumbered down the runway and climbed into the air. I turned off the tarmac and stumbled across a stretch of rubble-strewn sand, keeping out of the stark white light that separated the airport from the desert.

  I picked my way past a spaghetti junction of rusty metal pipes and interconnecting valves that were due to bring water into or take waste out of IKIA at some point in Majid’s glorious future. A single-track road curved around the edge of the airfield. I turned onto it and speeded up again. My throat was dry. My hair was plastered against my face. The day-sack pounded my back with every step. I felt like a squaddie again, on a tab. Switch off, head down and make distance. It’s what you do once you’re there that counts, so get there fast.

  Two more airliners took off as earthworks, bulldozers and heavy plant sprang up around me. Three hundred metres of concrete and wasteground separated me from the perimeter fence as I skirted the end of the runway.

  I stopped and got out Ali’s binos as another jet taxied down towards me. Either there wasn’t a night-flying ban in Iran, or nobody gave a shit. I focused for a moment on the taxiing jet. A line of passengers settled into their window seats and reached for their safety instructions or gazed in silent wonder at the monument to the ’79 revolution. Then I panned right until I found the M3C hangar in the semi-darkness opposite. It was around two hundred metres away.

  The Dassault was on the pan. No lights, no generator on the go. But there was a dull glow from the centre of the building. I scanned the windows, but the blinds were down.

  Still keeping to the shadows, I made my way round towards the turning circle outside the front entrance and raised the binos again. There was no visible security; no barriers, no checkpoints and no vehicles.

  I could see a darkened reception area, accessible via big glass front doors. The building straddled the perimeter fence. The only way to get airside was to go through it.

  I cut across the wasteground, past a seemingly random scattering of abandoned concrete sewage pipes, sections of rusted fencing and deep caterpillar tracks. I needed a good OP, close enough to see anyone who arrived; close enough to grip them before they had any time to react.

  I slowed. I didn’t have to gulp great lungfuls of air any more, but the sweat started to pour big-time now I was cooling down. I hated this bit. Every stitch of my clothing was starting to stick to me. I knew the sand would, too, once I’d found somewhere to hide up.

  I was about a hundred away from the M3C set-up. It was as close as I could go. There was no cover from here on in. I crawled into one of the sewage-pipe sections to sort myself out.

  I eased off the day-sack and leant my wet back against the concrete. All sorts of grit and giant spider’s webs immediately found their way down my neck and into my shirt. I took a couple of deep breaths and hoped my body heat would dry everything off before dawn.

  Using the ambient light from the main terminal, flashing tower beacons and yet another aircraft taxiing down the runway, I got out the mobile and powered it up. It was just after 0300.

  Julian needed to know about the missile deal and the dark flares, but my finger hesitated over the keys. It didn’t want to call. Right now I was in control. If I talked to him there was a strong chance I’d have to disobey a direct order. I was a hundred per cent sure his way of dealing with this situation wasn’t going to be the same as mine. I’d fucked over enough people on this job already. I didn’t want to add him to the list.

  I started to put together a text. I didn’t want to give him the opportunity to call me in, but I needed to let him know what was happening, just in case I fucked up and joined Red Ken and Dex a whole lot earlier than I’d planned.

  SA-16 seeker has NO fault.

  It now has ANTI-DARK FLARE CAPABILITY.

  I also told him about the Taliban, M3C, Altun and their deal.

  But don’t know where the gold fits in.

  I felt a gentle breeze as I crawled out of the pipe in search of a satellite signal and a weapon. Minutes later my fingers closed around a metre-long section of steel tubing that was just what I’d had in mind.

  89

  Thursday, 7 May

  0535 hrs

  A sliver of sunlight edged above the eastern horizon. It wouldn’t be long before the rest of it burst through. Birds sparked up and punctuated the quiet moments between take-offs and landings. If Altun turned up I’d wait until he’d dropped off his new best Taliban mate, then take him and his BG on with the steel. The BG would be first: I wanted his weapon. Then I’d drop Altun with it. With any luck he’d take some time to die. If he didn’t turn up, I’d take the BG and persuade him to tell me where Altun was. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it would do. And when it came to choices, I was running on empty.

  I never thought too much about dying. My most philosophical view on the matter had always been: fuck it. If I was too slow or too unlucky today I was dead, so anything else was a bonus. It had always been that way. Maybe that was why I’d always been the one to put my hand up and volunteer. Fuck it, so what? It’ll be a laugh…

  Laughs had always been in pretty short supply where I came from, and I guess the situation I was facing right now wasn’t so funny. But I’d treat myself to a good one when Red Ken and Dex gave me the thumbs-up from whatever cloud they were hanging around on.

  There was movement at the rear of M3C. Three guys in dark blue boiler-suits headed for the Falcon and hooked up the generator. Its engine kicked in and lights flickered on inside the aircraft. A set of steps unfolded, linking the cabin to the concrete so the ground crew could jump inside and do whatever ground crews did at times like this.

  Two guys in short-sleeved white shirts and ties, each carrying a black air-crew case, strolled up to the 7X and disappeared inside. Shouldn’t be long now.

  The sun heaved itself over the horizon to my right and threw the mountains on the other side of the city into sharp relief. A pair of headlights came up the road, fast. I raised the binos. It was a Merc, trailing a dust-cloud, covering the distance in a few short minutes that I’d taken hours to cross.

  I steadied the binos. The sky was still too dark and the car too far away for me to be able to see whether or not its antenna was bent, but I knew where I was placing my money. It pulled into the turning cir
cle and the passenger door began to open.

  I pulled the steel tube from behind me.

  It was two-up in front. This was going to be hairy.

  As the vehicle stopped, the BGs jumped out. Both were in sleeveless white shirts with weapons on their belts. Tattoo had been in the passenger seat. I couldn’t be totally sure, but the driver looked like the second loadie from the Dubai airstrip. They opened a rear door each.

  Altun and the Taliban stepped out onto the concrete and fastened their jackets. They didn’t talk, or give the muscle a second glance. They headed towards the terminal. Tattoo went for the boot and his mate rushed past them to hold open one of the big glass doors. The Taliban was still dressed in last night’s suit. Altun’s was grey, and the shirt had a buttoned-down collar. They disappeared inside. Tattoo followed with two small overnight bags and a prayer mat, and the door closed behind him.

  Time to move. I gripped the steel rod and crawled out of the concrete pipe. Get to the terminal, wait to see who came out, and go for it. My head was completely clear, my heart-rate even.

  Another vehicle approached the M3C terminal from my right. It was also a Merc. These boys hadn’t spent too much time at the Paykan dealership. I eased myself back into the pipe as it pulled up alongside the first. This time no one jumped out to open the rear door. It did that by itself, and a pair of short dumpy legs appeared.

  Spag’s light cargos and blue fleece strained at the waist as he clambered out. There was no mistaking the fat fuck.

  A thousand thoughts raced through my head in a nanosecond, none of them good.

  90

  The Dassault’s engines had started to whine as soon as the second Merc had spat out its passenger and he’d waddled into the terminal.

  I wrenched the Nikon out of my day-sack. I still couldn’t believe it.

  Spag was dead – I’d seen him killed.

  No, I hadn’t. I’d just seen his body. I never actually saw him go down…

  I’d seen Red Ken and Dex go down; seen them take a whole mag each. I thought I’d seen Spag get the same treatment, but he’d never been directly in my line of vision. There had been a gap of a few metres between Red Ken’s body and his. As soon as he saw Spag run out of the arc of fire, Red Ken must have realized it was a stitch-up and tried to drop him.

  Four bodies came out of the terminal airside and headed for the Falcon.

  I rattled off a series of pictures of Altun, the Taliban and Spag sharing a joke, then some more as they walked up the aircraft steps. Tattoo’s sidekick checked the bags were on board before joining them. The stairs were sucked into the fuselage and the aircraft headed off down the runway.

  I scrolled back through the pictures. They were all in focus, and I knew without a doubt that I was looking at Spag and the second loadie, the one who had hosed Red Ken down.

  I got out the sat comm and powered it up. ‘Jules, stand by, get a pen.’

  ‘Nick, listen, I want-’

  ‘In a minute. You ready?’

  ‘Nick-’

  ‘Mate, listen to me…’

  The roar of the three engines drowned whatever he was trying to say.

  ‘That’s the Falcon, Jules. It’s just left IKIA. Altun is on board. So is the Taliban and Spag. Spicciati is alive. The fuck is part of the deal. Track it, tell me where it’s going and I’ll get there, find out what’s happening. Just find out where it’s going for me.’

  There was a pause.

  The Falcon’s engine noise faded.

  Finally Julian spoke. ‘I know.’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘I know that Spicciati is alive.’

  This was not a good day out for Julian. I could feel his pain.

  ‘I’m sorry, Nick. This is where it ends. I’ve been ordered to stand you down. It’s been taken away from us. Stand down – acknowledge that, Nick.’

  ‘You pissed or what? We don’t know if the gear is in-country yet. And if it isn’t, we don’t know where it is or how they’re getting to it. I’ll find that out, mate. Follow the plane and I’ll get there and stop this shit. What if our lads get dropped out of the sky tomorrow? That’s all right, is it?’

  ‘No, it’s not.’ Julian sounded as pissed off as I was. ‘Nick, I can do nothing here. It’s not just you being stood down. It’s both of us.’

  ‘He still CIA? You telling me it was some fucked-up Ollie North-style double-dealing CIA bullshit that got Dex and Ken killed?’

  The line stayed dead for a few seconds.

  ‘Jules! Is he?’

  ‘Roger that. He never got out. He’s been undercover for years. I’m sorry. We didn’t know. No one knew.’

  I felt like I’d been hit by a sledge-hammer. ‘You didn’t know?’

  ‘Nick, if you decide to go ahead and do whatever it is you plan to do, it’s against my direct order. I will no longer answer your calls and I will track your sat comm. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

  ‘Acknowledged, I’m stood down.’

  ‘Correct. Good luck.’

  I powered down. Fuck it. I didn’t trust our Firm. I didn’t trust the US Firm. Or any other fucker’s Firm, come to that. The whole fucking lot of them only gave a shit about one thing. Themselves. Well, not quite all of them. There was still Julian.

  I checked my watch: 06.10.

  I leapt out of the pipe and bundled my kit into my day-sack as I ran. I left the steel tube behind. I didn’t want to make too much of a mess of Tattoo. I needed clean clothes.

  This was my start line. Nothing else mattered now apart from getting to Tattoo. He was going to die first, simple as that.

  My head was crowded with images of Dex falling to the ground as Tattoo pumped rounds into him. And now he was just metres away from me. I wasn’t going to hang around.

  I sprinted past the Merc, checking that there was no one inside it. It was parked less than a couple of metres from the entrance. The keys were in the ignition.

  I pulled the peak of my ball cap down low, walked up to the door and rapped on the glass. Tattoo looked up from behind the desk, put down his drink and gave me a curl of the lip, half in sheer bloody-minded irritation, half in disdain. I wasn’t that surprised. I’d caught my reflection in the glass – a day’s stubble and filthy clothes. I wouldn’t have invited me in.

  I banged harder.

  Tattoo sprang up and powered towards me, his arms swinging like an RSM’s on the drill square. He had a holstered Makarov on his belt, along with three mags in holders.

  I turned towards the Merc, gesticulating and waving.

  He was nearly at the door.

  I kept moving towards the car, pointing to the back of it as if there wasn’t a moment to lose.

  I heard the buzz of the door-release mechanism. He started gobbing off at me in Russian.

  I gripped the mobile in my right fist like a dagger. There was no time to answer him, to look up – no time to do anything. Head down, arm bent and solid, I spun around and rammed the top end of it into his gut.

  He dropped, but only to his knees. He went for his pistol.

  I slid behind him, totally focused on the weapon. I grabbed it and wrenched it downwards.

  As it bounced off the tarmac, I lifted his chin with my left hand and jammed the top of the mobile into his throat with my right, just below the Adam’s apple. I pulled back with all my strength, trying to bury the thing in his neck.

  His hands reached up to mine, fingers scrabbling, trying to pull them away. I dragged him out of line-of-sight of the entrance to the building and dropped to my knees. He came down with me, his legs splayed out in front of him.

  I pressed my chest down on the back of his head, keeping maximum pressure on his throat. I pulled the mobile towards me as if I was trying to thrust it right through his throat and stab myself between the ribs. The more he struggled, the harder I leant against him.

  He kicked and bucked like an animal until his windpipe was finally crushed. Snot and saliva frothed at his nose and mouth
and his brain started to close down. His hands flapped weakly at my arms.

  Hypoxia had him in its grasp. He collapsed, but it wasn’t over yet. I counted off another sixty seconds before I wrenched us both to our feet and starting dragging him towards the Merc.

  I dumped him on the back seat and gave his shirt a wipe. There was no blood, but a good few nostrils-ful of snot. I pulled his coat off its hanger, checked its pockets, found what I was looking for and laid it neatly on the front passenger seat.

  I jumped in behind the wheel, twisted the key in the ignition and slipped it into drive. I rolled slowly out of the turning circle, then accelerated towards the multi-storey car park.

  91

  The car park was as empty as the last time I’d been here. It seemed more like a century ago than a couple of days. I peeled off the ramp at the second floor. I wondered whether Qasim and Adel were up on the roof, not a care in the world, getting their rocks off as another airliner took to the air.

  I opened the back door and started to undress Tattoo. He was bigger than me so there’d be no drama getting into his kit. I unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it over his shoulders. His chest and back were covered with tattoos. He’d obviously done some time. The pictures of bears shagging women and rats with numbers above them would tell anyone in the know what detention centres he’d been to, and why.

  He had stars tattoo’d onto his kneecaps. In gang language, he was going to kneel for no man.

  With Tattoo tucked safely into the boot, and none of his ID in the car, I emptied a couple of bottles of mineral water over my face and hair. I dried myself off with my own shirt before putting on his, brushed as much sand and shit off his trousers as I could, then finally slid on his jacket.

  I binned the mobile as I legged it towards the terminal.

  It was 06.45.

  Inside, it was busier than I’d expected, a lot busier than when I’d flown in. I looked up and scanned the departures board. The Moscow flight stopped off first in Astana. I headed towards the ticket-sales counter. The girl standing behind it looked as though she’d just come off the high-cheekbones-and-perfect-teeth production line.