Firewall

by Andy McNab

  I pressed the release catch on the pistol grip with my right thumb and caught the magazine in my left hand as it slid from the grip. Inserting a full twenty-round mag in its place, I heard the click as it locked home, and pulled on the bottom to check it was going to stay put. I put the half-empty mag in my right pocket, along with the taped outlets. I didn't want to risk slapping a half-empty one back in if I was in the shit and had to change mags in a hurry.

  Another three or four police cars crossed the entrance, lights flashing and sirens blasting. The Nightsun was now roaming around in quick, jerky movements. The heli-watcher in the parking lot had seen enough and drove out toward the road.

  The warning buzzer sounded as I took the keys out of the ignition. My lights were still on. I looked down at Val. "Stay." I sounded as if I was talking to a dog.

  I got out of the Hilux and could hear the thud thud thud of the helo's rotor blades as it hovered in the distance. All their attention was still in the immediate vicinity of the hotel, but I knew it wouldn't last.

  The cold air scoured my face as I walked around the front of the van, cutting through the headlights, keeping my eyes on the cab, the weapon down by my side.

  More flashing lights and sirens headed up the street. This time some of the police cars started to peel off. One came down the road I'd made my approach on, brilliant blue strobes bouncing off me and the vehicles around me for a few seconds as it passed.

  My attention was focused on the main entrance. Would the next set of lights come into the parking lot? I knew there was nothing I could do about it but watch and wait, but that didn't stop my heart rate shifting up a gear or two.

  Seconds later the darkness returned. Only the sirens were left, dying in the distance. The heli noise throbbed back into earshot.

  I felt under the rear right-hand wheel arch of the Volvo with my fingers and retrieved the magnetic box that held the key. I hit the alarm and there was a comforting whoop as the doors unlocked. I inserted the key in the trunk lock and pulled it open.

  Jesse and Frank had glued thick sponge all round the framework of the luggage area, mainly so the target didn't injure himself, but also to subdue any noise if he felt like having a kick and scream while we were in transit. As an extra precaution, the light units had been taped down on the inside. The last thing we needed was for Val to pull one off, stick his hand through as we waited at a set of lights and wave to a family on their way to give granny her Christmas presents.

  They'd also lined the floor with a thick four-seasons comforter, with another on top, ready to stop him from dying of hypothermia. Sitting on top was an orange plastic ball about the size of an egg, a roll of black duct tape and several sets of plasticuffs.

  I opened the passenger door and Val looked up at me, then across at the trunk and its contents. I didn't have a clue what would happen to him once we hit St. Petersburg, and I didn't care. All I was concerned about was the $500,000 on offer, or what was left of it after Sergei got his $200,000.

  Scanning the area once more, I brought the 88 up, angled my wrist at ninety degrees and rammed the weapon into the space above his bulletproof vest, then yanked it back into its normal position so the muzzle was twisted in his shirt. I didn't need to force his head downward: He wanted to see what was happening as I placed my right index finger back on the trigger. Tilting the weapon up so the grip was near his face, I made sure he saw me remove the safety catch with my thumb and heard the click.

  I didn't need to explain the facts of life to him. After all, he hadn't got where he was today by helping old ladies across the road.

  As far as Val was concerned, this was just another day in paradise. He wasn't about to fuck about now.

  With my free hand I reached under his vest. "Up, up, up."

  There was no argument. His knees came out of the foot well and he staggered onto the pavement.

  I turned him round so the backs of his thighs were against the trunk of the Volvo and leaned forward onto him as more sirens wailed in the distance and the heli fought to keep position against the wind. He got the idea and maneuvered himself in, keeping his eyes fixed on mine.

  Still no fear in them, though; the look was more analytical now, as if he was conducting some sort of character assessment, trying to figure me out. He was in total control of himself. It was not the reaction you'd expect from the victim of a lift, and I found it unnerving.

  He ended up on his back in the trunk, knees up and hands across his stomach. Swapping over hands on the 88, I got hold of the orange plastic ball and stuffed it into his mouth. Still there was no resistance, just some snorting through his nose as I rammed the ball home.

  Jesse and Frank had folded over the last four inches of the roll on the electrical tape so I could do the next bit with just one hand. I taped round his mouth and chin, then carried on up around his ears and eyes, leaving just his nose uncovered.

  More sirens and lights, this time moving along the side road, the same way I had come. It wouldn't be long now before they started to check the parking lots.

  I heard the helo's engine change pitch. It was moving again, its Nightsun now at forty-five degrees, illuminating everything in its path, working its way toward me.

  Slamming the trunk shut on Val, I jumped back into the Hilux as the noise increased and the beam got brighter. There is no hiding place from those beams once they spot you. If they did, I'd change my mind about the $500,000 and just make a run for it on foot. I had my escape route worked out: straight over the fence and into the maze of apartment buildings opposite.

  I sat and waited; there was nothing else I could do. The car and van took a direct hit and it felt like a scene from Close Encounters as both vehicles were flooded with light. A second or two later the engine note changed and the heli lurched in the direction of the main route out of town. The shadows returned as it moved away across the sky.

  I drove the van into an empty space, got out and went to check on Val.

  He was breathing heavily. I watched him and waited. He might have sinus problems, a blocked nose, the flu. I didn't want him to die; I only got paid for meat on the hoof. He snorted loudly to clear his nose.

  Headlights veered toward me, but I hadn't heard a car door slam. It wasn't somebody from the parking lot. I leaned over Val to make it look as if I was sorting out my packages. Our faces were close to one another and I felt his breathing against my cheek. It was the first time I'd actually smelled him. After my little stay with Carpenter and Nightmare, I was expecting a combination of strong cigarettes, homemade alcohol, and armpit. What I got was duct tape with a hint of cologne.

  The problem had gone. Either the vehicle had found a parking space or left the area, I didn't give a shit which. I stood up slowly and had a look around, then rammed the pistol into his neck. With my other hand I got hold of his shoulder and started to pull.

  He got the drift. I wanted him on his front. The car rocked slightly with his exertions, but it didn't matter, there was nobody around to notice.

  Once he was on his stomach, I got hold of one of the plasticuffs, looped it round his wrists and pulled it tight.

  Then I wrapped the second comforter around him, still making sure he had room to breathe.

  The Volvo started on the first time. I headed left, out onto the road, away from the hotel. I only hoped that Sergei was doing the same.

  I headed east out of Helsinki, toward the highway. The RV was at Vaalimaa, over one hundred miles away.

  I hit the seek button on the radio and turned up the volume to drown out the noise of the heater. I drove, thinking about everything and nothing. Twice I saw the flashing lights of a heli.

  Eventually I passed the Vaalimaa service station. This was truckers' heaven, the final stop before Russia. They used it as a meeting point so that they could move on in convoy. Hijacking was rife in the Motherland. In among them, somewhere, was our vehicle, with welded compartments for us all to play Us.

  Vaalimaa was just a few miles from Sergei's tam
e checkpoint. Six miles north of the town was the lakeside house.

  I turned off the radio and reached into the glove compartment for the digital scanner, which Sergei had tuned into the police channel. It was about the size of a cell phone. The plan had been to use it from the time we exited Helsinki. That was another reason I needed Sergei: He spoke Finnish.

  I tried to make sense of the squelchy radio traffic, but didn't have a clue what I was listening to. What I was hoping not to hear was, "Volvo, Volvo, Volvo," because then it would be odds on that I had a one-way ticket to havoc.

  I checked every turnout and minor gravel road for any hint of activity.

  There was nothing.

  My lights hit the marker I was looking for, Mailbox 183, a red plastic pedal bin on a white pole. I turned right, onto a deeply rutted track that led into the forest.

  It was only a few hours since we'd last driven up it. About thirty feet in, a white-painted chain, suspended between two poles, barred the way. Attached to it was a wooden sign saying, in Finnish, Fuck Off, Private Property.

  I left the engine running and got out of the car, checking in the headlights for recent sign of another vehicle. The compacted ice was giving very little away.

  I looked carefully at the point where the last link of the chain was looped over a hook screwed into the right-hand pole, but could see nothing in the shadow cast by the Volvo's headlights. I took the weight of the chain so the first links came loose and pulled gently. I could feel the pressure of the cotton that still fastened it to the hook, and then the sudden pressure release as it broke. No one had been through here who shouldn't have.

  I drove over the chain, then jumped out and replaced it. To the side, under a pile of stones, the reel of cotton thread was just where I'd left it. I tied the first link to the hook again, replaced the reel and got back in the car.

  The pines were so tall and close to the track it was like driving through a tunnel. After a thousand feet the trees retreated, leaving a stretch of open ground about the size of four football fields. I knew that in the summer it was all grass and tree stumps because there were framed pictures of it in the house, but now everything was covered by a three-foot-deep blanket of snow.

  The driveway dipped slightly and the two-story house was caught in the beam of my headlights. There were no lights on inside, no vehicles outside.

  The driveway led to a wooden garage with enough room for three cars.

  Both buildings were made of timber and painted dark red with white window frames, and wouldn't have looked out of place in the Yukon during the Gold Rush.

  I drove into the garage. A huge stack of firewood filled the whole of the back wall. A door on the far left led to the other side of the house and the lake.

  I killed the engine, and for the first time in hours there was almost total silence. No gunfire, shouts, sirens, helos, or car heaters, just low-volume hiss and mush as Finnish police talked Finnish police stuff on the scanner. I didn't really want to move.

  The entrance was in the gable end of the main building, and the key was hidden in the log pile-very original. I went inside and was hit by wonderful warmth. The heaters worked off the electrical supply and we'd left them all on. The labor-intensive wood fire was for vacationers; besides, chimney smoke would have advertised our presence.

  I threw the light switch and went back to the car for Valentin.

  The ComfortEr had kept him alive. but only just. After two hours in the trunk he was shaking with the cold.

  "Right, come on, up, up." I moved his legs over the ledge and pulled him out by his body armor. He couldn't do much with his hands behind his back, but he seemed to be concentrating most on not having the ball fall to the back of his mouth and choke him. Fair one; that was why I'd used it.

  I guided him inside as his legs started to come back to life and sat him on an old green velour sofa next to a radiator. The decor was functional, just bare wooden floors and walls, and the downstairs was one very large open space. A stone fireplace stood opposite the door, and three wooden pillars, each about a foot in diameter and evenly spaced, helped to support the floor above. Most of the furniture, apart from the sofa, was chunky pine, and the place smelled like a timber yard.

  I pulled hard on the duct tape around Valentin's face. He winced as the adhesive took neck and eyebrow hair with it. His skin was cold, the color of a dead cod.

  He spat out the ball, coughing and spluttering. I was the typical Brit abroad: When in doubt, just keep to your own language and shout. "Stay there." I pointed at the radiator, not that he would be going anywhere plasticuffed up. "You'll be warm in a minute."

  He looked up and nodded. A gust of wind whistled under the eaves. I expected Vincent Price to turn up any minute.

  I went back to the car and retrieved the scanner, putting it on the kitchen table. Every fifteen seconds or so there was some traffic on the net, but no detectable note of urgency, as there would be if they were sending in the helicopters. There wasn't any slow, deliberate whispering, either, so hopefully they weren't trying to sneak up on me. Maybe, who knew?

  Next priority was to make coffee. The kitchen counter stretched along the wall behind me. I went over and checked the kettle for water.

  Standing waiting for it to boil, I watched Val shivering. He was sitting close enough to the heater to make it pregnant. He'd had a hard life, judging by the lines on his face. But he still had his Slavic good looks: wide cheekbones, green eyes and dark-brown hair, the gray at the temples making him look pretty dignified for a hood.

  I had to hand it to him, the boy had done well: Meres, BGs, the best hotels, and a great-looking mistress. I was jealous: My future was looking the same as my past.

  The water boiled as I opened a package of crackers that was on the counter. I munched on one and emptied the kettle onto ground beans in a coffeemaker.

  Val had his knees up and was trying to use his body to flick his overcoat around him. His face was starting to regain its color and his eyes followed my every move.

  The team's kit had been piled into bags to the left of the main door.

  Sergei and I had planned to return here after delivering the Money to St. Petersburg-me to drive to Sweden and then, via ferry, to Germany; him to clean up this place. I picked up a canvas duffel bag and threw it on the table. Holstering the pistol, I fished inside for more plasticuffs, putting three interlocking strips together to make one long one. Moving around the table, I gripped Val's shoulders, then dragged him over toward the central pillar and pushed him down on his ass against it. I plasticuffed his upper right arm to the support, then, with the Leatherman, I cut the original plasticuffs so that his left arm was free. He wasn't going anywhere unless he did a Samson and took the pillar with him.

  Returning to the other side of the table, I pushed the plunger down on the coffeemaker and filled two big mugs with steaming coffee. I threw a handful of sugar lumps into each and gave them a stir with my knife.

  I didn't know how he took his, but I doubted he was going to complain.

  I didn't normally take sugar myself, but today was an exception.

  I walked over to him and put his mug on the floor. He gave me a brisk nod of thanks. I couldn't tell him, but I knew what it felt like to entertain all three of Mr. and Mrs. Death's little boys-wet, cold, and hunger-and wouldn't wish them on anyone. Anyway, it was my job to keep him alive, not add to his misery.

  The scanner was still giving the odd burst as I settled down at the table facing Val. I took a couple of sips and then it was time to get out of my costume. I felt uncomfortable in it, and if I had to start performing, the last thing I wanted to be wearing was a suit and a pair of lace-up shoes. Lugging my duffel bag over to the table, I dug out jeans, Timberland boots, T-shirt, sweatshirt, and a green Helly Hansen fleece.

  The Chechen watched me intently as he drank coffee and I got changed. I got the sense he was enjoying my failure to interpret the scanner traffic.

  I felt much more my old self as I tuc
ked my weapon into the front of my jeans.

  I went back to my coffee. Valentin had finished his and the empty mug was at his feet. I brought him the coffee pot and package of crackers.

  He nodded as I poured new cups for both of us.

  I sat at the table and ate the last of the bananas Jesse and Frank had left behind. The scanner continued to crackle away, and in the silences between bursts from the operating stations, all I could hear was the crunching of crackers.

  I couldn't stop thinking about Sergei. What if he didn't turn up? I hadn't worked that one out yet. I hadn't even wanted him to come on the lift. It would have been better if he'd just stayed with the truck; we'd all have RV'd with him, then been chauffeured across the border, but he insisted on being there in case there was any shady dealing. I would probably have done the same myself. But now what?

  I had another thought. What would happen if one of Sergei's boys was still alive? It probably wouldn't take too long for the police to get him to talk. I stopped munching and put down my mug. Shit, we had to get out of here.

  Getting to my feet, I grabbed Carpenter's and Nightmare's bags and took a red ski jacket and bottoms from mine. I put the 88 and the mags in the front pockets and threw Carpenter's cold-weather gear to Val.

  Carpenter was a big boy, so the fit wasn't going to be a problem.

  Leaving him to figure out how he was going to put it on with his arm still secured, I ran upstairs to get two double comforters. Once back downstairs I pulled my weapon, cut him free, and stepped back. "Get dressed!" I shouted, miming putting on a jacket.

  He got the hint and started removing his overcoat and tuxedo. I watched him, ready to react to any wrong move. Everything he was wearing stank of money. His shoes were so smart I looked at the label.

  English, Patrick Cox. A few pairs of those would have paid for my roof repair.

  I let him keep his wallet, having checked through it and seen old pictures of children dressed in snowsuits. I'd always avoided getting lumbered with stuff like that myself, but understood that these things were important to people.