Firewall

by Andy McNab

  She followed me to the front door. As I reached for the handle she said, "One last thing, Nick."

  I turned to face her; she was so close I could smell her perfume.

  "Please do not turn your cell phone on until you are far away from here. Goodbye, Nick."

  I nodded and the door closed. I heard the locks and chain being put back into position.

  Going down in the elevator I resisted the urge to dance a jig or jump up and click my heels. I had never been one to embrace good fortune blindly I'd never had that much of it to embrace, really but Valentin's proposition sounded rather good, and what few doubts I had were dispelled by the envelope inside my jacket as long as it didn't go bang on the way home.

  The elevator slowed and the doors opened on the ground floor. The doorman was frowning at me as he tried to work out why I'd been up there so long. I pulled the ski mask from under my helmet and nodded to him. "She was wonderful," I said. By the time the sliding doors opened and I was facing the security cameras, the mask was over my head again.

  Walking up the driveway I started to pull out the chin strap on both sides of the helmet with my thumbs and forefingers. I'd just got past the gate and onto the sidewalk when I heard the noise of an approaching car. As I played with the straps I looked up and to the left to check it was okay to cross.

  A Peugeot 206 was screaming toward me at the speed of sound. It was dark maroon and dirty from the last couple of weeks of slush and road salt. Behind the wheel was a white-knuckled woman in her early thirties with a chin-length bob. I waited for her to pass, but as soon as she was about thirty feet away she slowed to a more controlled pace.

  I checked to my right. The Israeli security guy about two hundred feet away wasn't fussed about it, nor the uniformed officer, who was looking very bored and cold on the opposite side of road.

  I watched her get down to the barrier, indicating left, then join the stream of traffic. I spotted the license plate. It was a '96 registration, but there was something else that was much more interesting no sticker on the back window telling me how wonderful the dealership was. I suddenly felt I knew what she was about. Just as quickly, I threw the idea aside. Shit, I was getting as paranoid about surveillance as Val and Liv were about cell phones.

  Pulling my helmet on, I put the key into Ducati's ignition and was just starting to put my gloves on when I spotted another vehicle about forty or fifty yards further up the road a midnight-blue Golf GTi in a line of vehicles, two up, both sitting back in their seats with no conversation or movement. The side windows were steamed up but the windshield had a direct view of the gates to the apartment building. I took a mental note of their registration. Not that it mattered. Well, that was what I tried to tell myself, anyway. PI 16 something, that was all I needed to know.

  I decided that if I didn't stop being paranoid I'd end up in the clinic with Kelly and began to give myself a mental slapping. Then I remembered: Paranoia keeps people like me alive.

  I had one more look around, my helmet down as if I was checking over the machine. I couldn't see anything else that made me feel uneasy, so I straddled the bike and pushed it off its stand.

  Turning the engine over, I pushed down the gear selector with my left foot, got into first, revved it up a little, turned left and made my way down toward the main gates. If the Golf was a trigger, the team that was about to follow me would have just received a point by-point, stage-by-stage description of exactly what I was doing over the net.

  They needed a visual picture of what I looked like, what the bike looked like, its registration, and what I was doing. "That's helmet on, that's gloves on not aware now complete (on the bike).

  Keys turned, engine on, stand by, stand by. Mobile toward Kensington exit approaching. No intention (no indicators on to show which way the vehicle is going) "

  Everybody had to know exactly what I was doing and where I was to the nearest thirty feet so they could put good covert surveillance on me.

  It's not like Miami Vice, where the good guys are sitting there with hand mikes at their mouths and a big antenna stuck on the roof. All the antennas on E4 vehicles are internal, and you never see any mikes.

  All you've got to do is hit a press el a little switch placed wherever you want. My preference had always been to have it fixed internally in the gear shift. That way you can just talk, making it look as if you're having fun, or having an argument. It doesn't really matter as long as you're giving the details. Which, if I was getting triggered away from here, these two would now be doing.

  What made me still feel edgy was that the two cars were ideal for city surveillance. Both were very common models in dark, nondescript colors and they were compact, so they could zip in and out of traffic and were easy to park, or even abandon, if the target went foxtrot (on foot).

  Not all cars have the retailer's sticker in the back window; it's just that surveillance cars would tend not to have them because they could become a VDM (visual distinguishing mark).

  If they were a surveillance team they would have to be E4, the government's surveillance group that keeps tabs on everybody in the U.K. from terrorists to shady politicians. No one else would be able to stake out anything along this road. There was more security here than at Alcatraz. But why me? It didn't make sense. All I'd done was go into an apartment building.

  I got to the barrier and the guard looked out of his shed and into the cold, trying to work out if I was that guy who said he was the messenger half an hour ago.

  I turned right and merged with the traffic, which was still a nightmare. I headed the opposite way from the Peugeot, and tried to be as casual as possible. I wasn't going to scoot away like a scalded cat and show that I was aware, but I'd check to see if I was a target.

  It was starting to get dark now as I checked my mirror, expecting a surveillance bike to be up my ass in no time at all.

  Either the Peugeot driver was a loony and couldn't drive the thing, or she was a new or very useless member of E4. Val would have fitted very nicely into their portfolio, as would quite a few of the residents in this area. I could just be a new face that needed a picture for the surveillance log and general buildup of intelligence on the building.

  If I was right, she was trying to make a photo- or video-run on me and had fucked up the timing. It's very hard to make these runs as you only have one chance and the pressure is always on, but this one was especially incompetent.

  The car could be rigged with both video and stills cameras, hidden behind the radiator grill or part of the headlight setup, or little bits of the body work cut out in the rear so there was just enough light for the lens. The cameras are activated electronically by the driver as they pass the target. The camera takes the whole reel of film at a very fast shutter speed. That's why the timing's so important: hit the button too soon and the film could be finished by the time you're on top of the target, or the target might have walked behind a parked car as you begin your run, producing nothing more for your efforts than a nice picture of a Ford Fiesta, and a hard time from your bosses at the debriefing.

  The video camera is a much safer option, but all it takes on the move is a few bumpy seconds of the target walking. This time around, all they would have was a visual of a biker with a ski mask on. That made me feel a lot better. I had no idea where those pictures would turn up, but I knew Lynn wouldn't be in the best of moods if they found their way to him.

  I looked down at my mirror. Right on cue I saw the reflection of a bike's headlight. It wasn't necessarily a surveillance operator, but I had ways of checking.

  I was riding like one of those forty-something losers. The family are all grown up, the house is virtually paid for, so now they want the motorbike their mom would never let them have. It tends to be the biggest, fattest touring bike their platinum Amex card can handle, and they ride to and from work without ever getting within spitting distance of a speed limit. Except I wasn't scared to open up the throttle. I wanted to see if the single light behind me would do the
same.

  It didn't.

  He shot past me at speed on an eight-year-old greasy Honda 500 with a battered old blue plastic box on the back held down by bun gees He was wearing well-used leathers and Wellington boots, and turned to look at me through his visor, all beard and disgust. I knew just how he felt.

  There were other bikes behind me, weaving in and out of the traffic. I moved into the middle of the road and twisted the throttle to jump a couple of cars, then swung back into the stream, crawling along behind a rusting van. I let a few more bikes and mopeds pass me, and even a bicycle, and after a couple more sets of lights it was obvious I had another weekend rider behind me, about two cars back.

  I turned left at the next intersection, and he followed me.

  Looking for a natural stop, I pulled in at a newsstand. Resting the bike on its side stand, I went through the charade of undoing my helmet and gloves, as an Yamaha VFR came past, probably waffling on the net, telling everybody where I was. "Stop! Stop! Stop! Charlie one (the bike) static on the left. At the newsstand, Bravo one (me) still complete (on the bike)."

  I took the helmet off but kept the mask on once he'd gone, then got off the bike and walked into the shop. I couldn't just ride straight off again, because that would show I was aware.

  The young woman behind the counter looked alarmed because I hadn't taken my mask off. There was a sign politely asking me to do just that. If she'd asked I would have told her no-in my tear-the-ass out of it cockney accent-and to fuck off because I was cold. I didn't want the team to come and requisition the security video tape with yours truly on it. She wasn't going to argue; why should she care if I was there to steal the money? It could be dangerous for her.

  I went back to the bike clutching a copy of the evening newspaper. If I was right, there'd probably be a bike at either end of the road by now. The net would be in chaos as cars hit their horns at the dickhead drivers who had suddenly decided to throw up (turn 180) in the traffic, all out of sight to me, trying to get in position for the stakeout. A static short-term target is always a dangerous time for a surveillance team. Everyone has to get in position, so that next time the target goes mobile they've covered every possible option. That way, the target moves to the team, instead of the team crowding the target. But where was the trigger? I couldn't be bothered to look; I'd find out soon enough.

  I pushed the Ducati down into first gear and carried on in the same direction I'd been heading before, towards South Kensington subway station, about half a mile away. Parking up in the bike row on the north side, I walked into the packed station, looking as though I was unbuckling my helmet, though I didn't. Instead, I walked straight through and crossed the road, still with my helmet on. The south side of the station had a large, busy, and very confusing intersection, with a big triangular island housing a flower stall. Their propane gas heaters not only blasted out heat as I went by, but also a very comforting bright red light in the gathering darkness.

  I moved with a crowd of pedestrians to the far side of the intersection, past a row of shops along the Old Brompton Road.

  About fifty yards further along, I went into the pub on the corner, took off my helmet and mask, and settled on a bar stool just back from the window.

  The pub was packed with shoppers wanting to get out of the cold and office workers having a drink with friends.

  I saw the Golf within minutes, but without the passenger. He or she was probably foxtrot, scurrying around in the subway station looking for me.

  Then I saw the VFR and its black-leather-clad rider. They would have found the Ducati now, and the whole team maybe four cars and two bikes would be bomb-bursting about, fighting the traffic, calling in the areas they'd covered so their control could try and direct them elsewhere in some kind of coherent pattern. I almost felt sorry for them. They'd lost their target and they were in the shit. I'd been there a thousand times myself.

  * * *

  12

  I sat and watched as the Golf, with a dark-haired male at the wheel, came back round the one-way circuit and pulled in to pick up a short, brown-haired woman. They were off again before her door was even closed. They'd done all they could; now it was a question of waiting to see if the target returned to his bike.

  It wouldn't have been a big deal to them when I became temporarily unsighted. This always happens for short periods. But the fact that it had happened at the subway station was a big problem for them. Once they'd failed to pick me up again, their next move would be to stake out the bike. Then some of the team would have checked out known target locations. There were only two: one was the apartment block, and they would be checking with the porter which apartment I'd gone to, for sure. The other was the address where the bike was registered-a PO box just a few shops down from where it was parked. It was an office suppliers, and instead of having a box number I had a suite number, because I wanted to make it sound like an expensive apartment block. No doubt that was what the woman was checking out.

  Nick Davidson was the registered owner of the bike and Suite 26 was where he supposedly lived. The real Davidson was going to be incredibly pissed if he ever came back from Australia, because I'd taken over his life in the U.K. He was going to get a hard time from customs, immigration, and Special Branch (serious crime and antiterrorist division) if he ever stepped off a plane now that this had happened. He'd be listed.

  It also meant that having Nick Davidson as my safety-blanket cover ID was now history, and that pissed me off. It had taken painstaking months to get a social security number, passport, bank account, all the things that bring a character to life, and now I had to lose him. Worse still, I'd have to lose the bike. There'd certainly be a trigger on it for the next few hours, depending on how important they thought I was.

  An electronic device might even be attached to it. The only thing that cheered me up was the thought of what would happen to the person who'd eventually steal it after seeing it standing there for a few days.

  They wouldn't know what had hit them when the E4 team closed in.

  I'd nursed a Coke while keeping watch through the large Victorian windows. My glass was nearly empty, and if I didn't want to look out of place I'd need to get a refill. Fighting my way to the bar, I ordered a pint of orange juice and lemonade, and went and sat in the corner. No need to look outside now. I knew a team was on me. I just had to sit it out, keeping my eyes on the doors in case they started to check out the pubs. In an hour's time it would be the end of the working day. I'd wait until then and lose myself in the darkness and commuter traffic.

  As I sipped my drink, I thought about Tom Mancini. His name was certainly familiar. One of my first jobs as a K in '93 had been to drive him from North Yorkshire, where he worked, down to a Royal Navy facility near Gosport, Hampshire. I was told to scare him so much that he'd beg to be handed over to the Firm's people, who I was delivering him to. It didn't take that much, just a few slaps, a stern face and me telling him that if he fucked me about the only thing left ticking on his body would be his watch.

  Once we'd got him down in one of the "forts" built along the coast, he wasn't even given time to clean himself up before the Firm's interrogation team explained the facts of life.

  A technician at Menwith Hill listening station, he'd been detected trying to obtain classified information. I wasn't allowed in on the interrogation, but I knew they told him Special Branch would be arresting him the next day for offenses against the Official Secrets Act. They couldn't stop that. However, if he didn't get smart, that would be just the start of his problems.

  He would shut up in court about what he'd really been tampering with.

  Whatever that was, it seemed the Firm didn't want anyone to know about it, even Special Branch, for the charge would be for a lesser offence. He would tell them who he was getting the information for, and, of course, he'd have no recollection of this "meeting" ever taking place. He'd serve a short sentence and that would be the end of it. If he ever uttered a word to anyone about the deal
, however, someone like me would come and pay him a visit.

  Tom had been fucking about with the big boys. I knew that R.A.F Menwith Hill, on the moors near Harrogate in Yorkshire, was one of the largest intelligence-gathering stations on earth. Its massive golf ball-shaped "radomes" monitored Europe's and Russia's airwaves. It might be a British base, but in reality it was a little piece of the U.S.A. on British soil, run by their all-powerful NSA (National Security Agency). It was manned by about 1,400 American engineers, physicists, mathematicians, linguists, and computer scientists. The staff was complemented by 300 Brits, which meant that there were as many people working at Menwith Hill as there were for the Firm.

  Menwith Hill operated in close tandem with GCHQ (Government Communications Headquarters) at Cheltenham, gathering electronic information from as far afield as eastern Russia. GCHQ did not, however, have automatic access to the intelligence gathered at Menwith Hill. All information went directly to the NSA at Fort Meade in Maryland. From there, information collected on terrorism that might, for example, affect the U.K." was redistributed to the security service, Special Branch or Scotland Yard. Britain's contract with the U.S. is that we can only buy American nuclear weapons on the condition that bases like Menwith are allowed to operate on British soil, and that the U.S. has access to all British intelligence operations. Sad but true: They are big brother. Britain is just one of the little runt siblings.

  From what I could remember, Tom was full of shit. He came on all brash and confident like a Jack the Lad cockney trader, which was rather strange, because he came from Milton Keynes and was about as boring as his zip code. By the end of the drive south, however, he had been like a small child, curled up on the back seat.

  It worried me yhat Val knew I had met Tom, that he had access to details about a twenty-four-hour period of my life that I'd all but forgotten about, but I was in it for the money, nothing else, and so I cut that thought away, just in case it made me change my mind.