by Andy McNab
I dug a hand into my jeans and dragged out four Union keys. I’d thrown away the locks themselves, in four separate bins. They weren’t the first four I’d picked up. I’d had to hunt for ones that didn’t have exaggerated variations in their peaks and valleys. These were as even along the teeth as I could find. I wanted to spend as little time as possible filing them down.
The pizza arrived. I ripped off the crust and rolled up the rest. I’d never seen the point of cutting it up with a knife and fork or one of those little wheels that flick tomato sauce all over your shirt. This method was much more efficient.
As it got darker, I pulled the plastic G-clamp from its pouch and unscrewed the adjuster until it came off completely. I was left with something more like a C than a G. I chucked the bit I didn’t need back into the Bergen.
One last check of the target front door and windows. Still no lights. I paid my sixteen-euro bill with a twenty and slung the Bergen over one shoulder. I wandered around the corner, not looking too purposeful, and up between the candle and stationery shops on Noordermarkt.
With the clamp in my hand, I pulled the second Bergen strap over my free shoulder and turned under the arch. This time I went straight up to the gate. You can’t hesitate. You have to look like you do this most days; you have a reason to be there, and it’s not just to make off with the good burghers’ flat-screen TVs. I stood in front of the lock so my body and the Bergen masked my activity, as you would if you were about to insert a key or tap in a few numbers you didn’t want anyone else to see.
I focused on the steel plate behind the keypad and worked the open end of the clamp between the wrought ironwork so that the jaws of the C looked set to take a bite out of the panel. The top pad was now poised on the inside of the plate. I scanned the wall to check I hadn’t missed a button on my recce, then eased the clamp back towards me so that the pad could make contact with the electronic lock release. There was nothing I could do now but move it back and forth and hope to connect.
I heard footsteps behind me, but passing by on the pavement, not turning in through the archway. Nobody paid me any attention. I manoeuvred the C clamp another five or six times and suddenly heard a gentle buzz. The gate was open. I pushed my way through and closed it behind me.
Sure enough, the archway opened onto the square. I walked with purpose. I was a householder returning home. I always got a bit of a spring in my step after a successful infiltration, but this one felt particularly special. In all probability, I didn’t have many more of these to go.
22
I took cover behind a group of over-sized wheelie bins and got my bearings. The area had been carved up by a good few more low walls and fences since Google Earth had taken its snapshot.
Lights shone at all different levels from the backs of some of the houses. Bodies moved around in one that looked like it had been converted into offices. There were no faces at any of the windows.
I bent down and pulled a pair of dark blue washing-up gloves from a side pocket of the Bergen. I’d ripped them out of their packaging when I’d bought them and thrown it away. I pulled them on and felt around in the Bergen for the mini toolkit. China’s finest had set me back ten euros in a hardware store and came neatly packed in a black plastic box.
The set consisted mainly of screwdrivers, but I’d been after the tiniest Leatherman rip-off on the planet. It contained every tool I needed, including a knife and a saw.
‘You’re only as sharp as your knife.’ Another instructor’s voice from way back, as clear as a bell.
I shoved all the kit I needed into my jeans pockets, then took off the nylon jacket and left it on top of the Bergen. It could hang out behind the bins for a while instead of rustling on my body.
I jumped up and down to make sure I hadn’t left any coins in my pockets, or anything that was going to rattle or fall out. I did one last check that all the other bits and pieces were good and secure in their pockets. I headed for the target, toolbox in my left hand.
I ran through the what-ifs. What if the Passat came in as I was approaching the target? What if another vehicle did? Where would it look natural for me to move to? What if it came in while I was working on the door, and caught me in its headlights?
I had no idea whether any of the doors ahead of me might suddenly fly open. There was a chance the cafe’s might. They were bound to have lads coming in and out with deliveries and bin bags. Fuck it, I didn’t really care. I was just going for it. If anything, I was upbeat. I was doing what I wanted to be doing. I got a kick out of covert entry and going in and doing things when people didn’t know you were there. I always had.
As a kid, I used to break into the local fruit and veg shop and hole up in a corner while I ate their bananas. I wasn’t hungry: it was all to do with the fact that I knew I was there and they didn’t. When I couldn’t sleep, I used to hide under the table in the kitchen. I sat listening as my mum and stepdad smoked themselves to death on Embassy Golds in front of the telly.
The target’s parking space was separated from the cafe’s by a two-metre-high wall. It was empty. The cafe’s space was chock-a-block with wheelie bins and empty crates. Ahead of me were a couple of doors. A few lads were busy knocking up even more pizzas behind steamed-up windows.
There was nothing on the ground floor of the target building except a door, and the same pattern of windows on the higher floors that I’d seen at the front. As I moved closer, I could see that the door was slightly raised. A short steel staircase led up to it. Closer still, and I saw a basement well, with maybe two metres of clearance between the house and the square. It would be my best bet for cover if I needed it.
First things first. I nailed my mindset. Plenty of people would be walking up to doors in this square every day, and that was all I was doing. I looked for somewhere convenient to stash a spare key. There wasn’t anywhere, not even a plant pot or a flat stone. It looked like the area was swept and cleaned every day. Either it was a Dutch tidiness thing, or they were ultra-cautious about security.
I checked the back-door lock. It was a Union pin tumbler, chrome, centre right, all very nice and shiny. Maybe they had one key for both front and back. I made my way very slowly down the steel steps into the basement well. I didn’t want my feet to jerk across a window. I didn’t know who or what was down there yet.
As my eyes adjusted to the deeper darkness, I lowered myself slowly onto my knees. I put one eye against the sash window. The glass was clean. The paintwork was pristine. The frame was wood and the panes were double-glazed.
I couldn’t see too much of the room on the other side of it, but the decor looked smart. There wasn’t any rubbish: no magazines lying about; no clothes flung over a chair; everything was in its proper place. Were the Passat team just tidy lads, or did they have a Dutch housekeeper? And, if so, was she a live-in?
I couldn’t see any motion detectors in the corners. I gave the bottom rail of the sash a shove. You never know. It didn’t budge.
I shuffled across to the next window, which looked into the same room. I tried again, with the same result. A pity, but nothing insurmountable. I needed to get in and sort out the locks. Down here in the basement was going to be my entry point when I came back.
The door alongside them was lever-locked and bolted top and bottom. It didn’t move an inch. And there wasn’t even a speck of dust down here, let alone a hiding place for a spare key.
It was time to go and deal with the back door. I pulled out the three Union keys that I’d tied together on a string. I gripped them between my teeth while I extracted the mallet from my waistband.
I headed up the stairs. I was going to be exposed, but there was nothing I could do about that. I wasn’t going to hang around for the green Passat to pull up so I could try to hijack its occupants.
I gave the dark blue door an exploratory push top and bottom; they both moved. No bolts. I’d been counting on that, because it was closest to where they’d leave the car, but I felt the tension leak out o
f my shoulder muscles nonetheless. If they’d secured the back and just gone in and out of the front, I’d have been in trouble.
A pin-tumbler lock contains a row of spring-loaded pins. When you insert the key, its peaks and valleys adjust the pins, both upwards and downwards, until the cylinder can turn. Once the operation is complete, the cylinder returns to its original position and so do the pins. It was a tried and tested system and, until a few years ago, secure. Then somebody discovered how to ‘bump’ them with a substitute key.
You insert the bump key all the way into the lock, pull it out one notch, apply pressure in the direction of the turn, and give the end of the key a sharp tap. The key bangs against the end of the lock, and the kinetic energy travels back along it. The pins jump, and because of the pressure you’re applying, the key will turn.
I shoved the first of my trio of keys into the lock, pulled it back one click, my finger and thumb applying the necessary clockwise pressure. I put an ear to the door to check for noise one last time, and gave the handle a short, sharp tap with the mallet.
Nothing.
I tried twice more.
Nothing.
I swapped keys. I tapped again, and on the second attempt my clockwise pressure turned into a full rotation.
23
I shoved the string of bump keys back into my jeans, stepped onto the mat and gently closed the door behind me. The place was in darkness. There were no winking lights on a console by this door or the one at the far end of the hall. There was no bleep of an alarm waiting for a PIN to be entered.
The house smelt as if its owner had emptied every boutique in Noordermarkt of its lemon-scented candles. I flicked on the deadlock. If someone did come back, they wouldn’t be able to get in. They’d give it a few goes, thinking the lock was jammed, and that would give me enough time to exit from the front.
I let my jaw drop open, so all the internal noises like breathing and swallowing didn’t intrude. I did nothing but listen for a minute or two. The house was completely silent. There wasn’t even the tick of a clock. All I could hear was the dull rumble of the Westerstraat traffic.
I cocked my head and listened again. I wanted to make sure no one was reacting. I’d opened a door. Even when people are asleep, their eardrums can be sensitive to minute changes in air pressure. Grannies call it sixth sense, but more likely it was caveman-survival stuff. You needed a little advance warning if a brontosaurus was coming to visit.
I waited a few seconds longer. There was still no creak of a floorboard, no sound from a radio or TV.
As my eyes adjusted, I began to make out the streamlined cabinets to my left and right. The walls were white. Rugs covered the polished wood floor all the way to the front door. A small bowl that contained change but no keys was perched on top of a glass cabinet. The two men’s winter coats hung on a rack above it. There were no handbags, purses, patterned umbrellas or a copy of the Dutch version of Hello! to suggest a female presence. Two doors were open to my left. Gentle light filtered through them from the street. There was no hint of cigarette smoke or stale cooking. All I could smell was furniture polish, lemon and more lemon.
I focused on the shape of the front door at the end of the hallway. Somewhere down there would be the staircase to the upper floors, but I wasn’t going to use it. I wasn’t going to check the rest of the house. There was no need. Everything I was interested in was downstairs. I wouldn’t be long down there, with luck no more than ten minutes. All I had to do was study the windows and door, and work out which of them I was going to leave unlocked for when I came back.
I put down the toolbox and mallet and took off my trainers. The floor would show any grit or dirt in this show-home, and anyone as fastidious as its occupants would notice. I would also check my socks weren’t leaving sweat marks. If they did, I’d give them a wipe when I did my clean-up recce on the way out.
I tied the laces together, put the trainers over my left shoulder, and picked up the little black box and the mallet. There were two doors to my right. One of them had to lead to the basement stairs.
I was reaching for the handle of the first when it opened and light flooded into the hallway.
24
The guy had greasy black hair that reached the collar of his black shirt. His sleeves were rolled up. There was a mug in his hand.
He spotted me and his jaw hardened. With not so much as a shout, he hurled the mug. It missed me but the hot stuff in it didn’t.
I lunged for him, but I was too slow. He was gone, legging it back into the room he’d come out of.
I followed him, crashing past leather sofas and a table. On the table sat an empty plate and a small kitchen knife. He grabbed it. He had a weapon. He turned back towards me. His face was stone.
I spun and tried to dodge the stab but he was too fast. I felt a punch to my buttock. At first there was no pain at all. A split second later, there was a dull throbbing at the site. Then a burning sensation permeated outwards and turned into intense pain. My leg buckled under me. As I crashed to the floor, I vomited. A trainer smashed into the top of my head. A pissed-off voice screamed down at me in a language I didn’t understand.
He kicked out at me again and I jerked back my head. My face slid in my own puke. I brought my arms up to protect my head. The top of my right leg felt like there was a blowtorch playing on it.
He yelled something, either to me or to someone else in the house.
I brought my knees up to protect myself, trying to get into some kind of foetal position, but the pain in my leg prevented me. I had to jerk my right leg out to keep it straight, and curl up the left one as best I could. I got a kick to the stomach for my trouble. Thank fuck they were trainers not boots, but it still hurt. I was going down here.
My left eye was blurred. I tried to wipe it on the side of my arm. He walked around me and kicked me in the back. I took a deep breath. I felt his hands and knees pushing against my back, then his hands digging into my pockets. He dragged the cash out of the front of the jeans and I knew I’d never see it again. I hoped he’d count it - anything to give me some time to recover.
The pressure left my back. I watched as the trainers moved round to face me. He carried on to the door, and closed it to contain us both. The next thing I heard was the bleep of numbers being punched into a mobile phone. He was breathing like a porn star, but when he spoke, his voice was calm.
There was a pause.
I opened my eyes. The tattoos running up his forearms were tribal. They looked like the Pizza Express logo, and were very dark and new. He closed down and the phone went back into his pocket. He walked past me and disappeared to the other side of the room. Then he came back over and I sensed rather than saw him reach out. Pain shot through me. I realized the knife was still sticking into me, and he was sawing it backwards and forwards.
He leant down and shouted words I didn’t understand. He played with the knife some more. All I could do was take the pain.
I gritted my teeth as the knife came out. My right buttock was on fire.
He screamed it down into me, jamming it back in.
He had to push a cushion over my face to muffle my yells.
25
The cushion came off and the kicks rained in.
I curled up. I flexed my leg even though I could feel the blade still stuck in my buttock.
There was nothing I could do. Sometimes you’ve got to accept you’re in the shit and ride it out. He wasn’t going to kill me. He was waiting for someone. I was still in with a chance.
The kicking continued until he finally lost his breath and beads of sweat poured down his face. Then there was silence. I heard window blinds being opened and closed, and the slam of vehicle doors outside. Black Shirt grunted something as he fought for breath. For all I knew he was talking to himself.
The back door rattled. Not once but twice. That was supposed to be my signal to leg it out the front. Black Shirt took a long, hard look at me and decided I wasn’t going anywhere fast.
He whipped along the corridor and did the business with the latch.
I heard another voice, deeper, stronger. He didn’t like what he found. He started yelling. A pair of legs edged around the vomit. I saw immaculate jeans over smart brown brogues.
My arms were still protecting my face. The blue rubber gloves were covered with vomit. I lifted my elbow. He, too, had black hair and a dark complexion. He had his hands in the pockets of a short camel-hair coat. He bowed from the waist to try and get some perspective on my face. I smelt a mixture of cologne and cigars.
He straightened up and turned to Black Shirt. His hands swung between me and the pool of sick.
Black Shirt hung his head. It looked like Brogues was his boss, and he’d let him down badly. And, going by the concern on his face, Brogues didn’t dish out that many second chances.
Brogues shouted as hard as he pointed. My body screamed at me in pain, but the longer his rant, the longer I had to recover.
Black Shirt muttered something and tossed him the container of Smarties.
Brogues threw up both his hands. It clattered to the floor. He didn’t want his prints on it. He leant down to me and shouted a question in my ear. I moaned and groaned as if I was out of it on drugs. I wished right now that I was. At least it would dull the pain.
Brogues didn’t bother asking again. He looked up and down the hallway, rubbing the designer stubble on his face and then the back of his head.
He pointed at Black Shirt like an inquisitor, his tone lower, more threatening. I still couldn’t understand a word he was saying, but was pretty sure he was asking him to solve a problem, and that problem was me.
