Firewall

by Andy McNab

  Once onto my hands and knees, I slowly hauled myself to my feet, using the cinder-blocked doorway for support. I wanted to get moving, find a hotel and get warm; I could still get that train in the morning. But then, it could already be morning, I didn't have a clue.

  I had a shivering spasm. Slivers of ice had formed on my jeans as the piss on them had frozen. Feeling in my jacket pockets for my gloves was a stupid idea: they'd taken those too. I needed to get moving and generate some heat.

  Freezing air blasted my face as I walked out. The wind was blowing big time, straight off the Baltic. Jumping up and down on the spot, my hands in my pockets, I tried to wake myself up in the darkness but lost my balance. As I breathed in sharply the subzero air clawed at the back of my throat and nose. I resumed my aerobics, but it was more of a shuffle than a jump.

  The loss of my hat and gloves made me bury my head into the collar of my jacket and my hands firmly in the pockets. I started to pick my way through small piles of snow, which I soon found had gathered round lumps of concrete and twisted steel. I took my time; the last thing I wanted now was to twist an ankle, and the way my luck was going that was quite likely.

  Eventually my hands got warm enough to manipulate the zip, and with my jacket done up completely I began to feel the benefit. A car slowly trundled along the road about sixty to seventy yards to my left. Ahead of me, maybe 300 yards away, was the cloudy blue-and white glow of a gas station. I bent down, taking my time so as not to lose my balance again, and undid my boot to extract a $20 bill.

  After checking that the rest of the money was secure, I staggered and slid toward the blue glow beyond the trees. My condition was improving a little, but I knew I must still look loaded; it was certainly how I felt like the guy who believes he's in control when in fact he's slurring his words and failing to notice that matchstick he just tripped up on. Not that I really gave a shit what the people in the gas station would think of me; all I hoped was that they served hot drinks and food, and that somebody could give me directions to a hotel.

  I stumbled on, slipping and sliding on the ice, all the time keeping an eye open for my new friends, or others who might be following the fucked-up foreigner for a few more dollars.

  Putting my hand out to rest against a tree for a while, it dawned on me that it was going to be very difficult, maybe impossible, to check into a hotel. In a country like this they'd insist on passport details and possibly even visas. The Russians might have gone, but their bureaucracy would have stayed behind. I could hardly say I'd left my passport in the car. What car? There was also something else; I wouldn't know until it was too late whether the police made spot checks or the hotels had to report anything suspicious, such as a man covered in piss, with no passport, trying to pay in U.S. dollars. It depressed me, but I couldn't take that chance.

  Lurching off again toward the gas station, I was getting nearer to the road. There was virtually no traffic or noise from anywhere, just the odd set of headlights and the rumble of tires over what sounded like cobblestones and slush in the distance. Intermittent street lights illuminated snow swirling from the ground, making it look as if it was just hanging there.

  There were about thirty yards of snow and ice left to cover before I hit the road beside the gas station; I didn't know what to expect when I got inside, but it looked very much the same as a run of-the-mill Western European one. In fact, it looked almost too new and shiny to be in the middle of such a rundown area.

  I stumbled across to the road; it was indeed made of cobblestones, but not like the ones in Finland. These were old, crumbling or missing, with potholes filled with ice every few yards.

  Standing under the bright blue-lit canopy, I banged my boots to clear the snow and tried to make myself look respectable, miming as if I'd lost my glasses when I checked that it was in fact a $20 bill. I wasn't going to risk a $50 or $100; I could get fucked over again if seen with that amount of money round here.

  The wind hit the pumps with a high-pitched wail as I went through the door. I entered a new world, warm and clean, with plenty of goods laid out in exactly the way they would be in a convenience store anywhere else in Europe. I wondered if I was hallucinating. They seemed to be selling everything from motor oil to cookies and bread, but especially rows and rows of beer and a pile of crates with more liter bottles of the stuff next to the spirits. The only thing missing and which I'd been hoping for, was the smell of coffee. There was no sign of hot drinks at all.

  Two guys in their late teens looked up from behind the counter, then went back to studying their magazines, probably feeling ridiculous in their red-and-white striped vests and caps. They didn't look too bright this morning as they smoked and picked their noses, but then, I wasn't exactly looking like Tom Cruise.

  I wobbled around the shelves, picking up a handful of chocolate bars, then some shrink-wrapped cold cuts from the chilled compartment. I might not have been at my most alert, but I still knew it was important to get some food in me.

  They both stared at me as I dumped my goods on the counter, and it took me a while to realize that I was swaying on my feet. Resting two fingers on the counter to steady myself, I gave them a big smile.

  "Speak English?"

  The one with the zits saw my $20. "American?"

  "No, no. Australian." I always said I was from Australia, New Zealand, or Ireland; they're neutral, easygoing and well known as travelers. Tell people you're a Brit or an American and somebody somewhere is bound to be pissed with you about whatever country you've bombed recently.

  He looked at me, trying to work that one out.

  " Crocodik Dundee f I mimed strangling a croc. "G'day mate!"

  He smiled and nodded.

  Handing him the bill, I pointed at my stuff. "Can I pay you with this?"

  He studied a folder probably the exchange rates. Behind him, Camel cigarette cartons were neatly arranged around a special-offer Camel clock. I tried to focus my eyes on the hands and managed to make out that it was just after three thirty. No wonder I was freezing; I must have spent hours in that doorway. At least my nose was starting to warm up a bit in here; I could feel it starting to tingle, a good sign that the Autojet's effects were wearing off.

  He exchanged the bill without a second thought. Everybody likes hard currency. My cold fingers fumbled with the large amount of paper and coins he gave me as change; in the end, I just cupped one hand and scooped the money into it with the other. As he handed me my shopping bag I asked, "Where is the train station?"

  "Huh?"

  It was time to play Thomas the Tank Engine. I pulled the steam whistle. "Oooo! I Chug chug chug!"

  They liked that and started running at the mouth in what I guessed was Estonian. My friend with zits pointed to the right, where the road bent to the left before disappearing.

  I put my hand up in a big Australian thank-you gesture, walked out and turned right as they had directed. Right away the cold wind hit me; my nose and lungs felt as if I was inhaling tiny fragments of broken glass.

  The pavement taking me toward the bend was covered with ice the color of mud. This was so different from Finland, where sidewalks were kept scrupulously clear. Here the stuff had just been trodden down, turned to slush, then frozen. Empty cans and other lumps of litter sticking out at crazy angles made me lift my feet high to make sure I didn't trip.

  As I followed the road, looking for signs to the station, I threw chunks of very hard chocolate down my throat. I must have looked like someone walking home with take-out after a good night.

  After fifteen minutes of swaying down a dark deserted street, I came across railway tracks and followed them. Just a quarter of an hour later I was going through heavy glass doors into the dimly lit station.

  It smelled of fried food and vomit, and like any other railway station in the world it offered a full range of drunks, addicts, and homeless people.

  The interior was concrete with stone slab floors. It must have looked great on the drawing board in the seven
ties, which was when it was probably built, but now it was badly lit, neglected and falling apart, complete with fading posters and peeling paint.

  At least the place was warm. I made my way along the main concourse, looking for a place to curl up and hide. I felt as if that was all I'd been trying to do since getting on the ferry. All the good sites were already booked, but I eventually found an alcove and dropped down onto my ass.

  The smell of urine and decaying cabbage was overpowering. No wonder the space was vacant; somebody obviously ran a stall there specializing in rancid vegetables, then had a piss against the wall every evening before he went home.

  I pulled the food from my pocket. I really didn't want any more, but made myself eat the remaining two chocolate bars and the meat, then rolled over onto my right-hand side, bringing my knees up into a foetal position, with my face resting on my hands among the un swept dirt and cigarette butts. I was past caring; I just wanted to sleep.

  A couple of bums immediately started solving the world's problems with loud, slurred voices. I opened one eye to check on them, just as a bag lady wandered over to join their debate. They all had grimy old faces, cut and bruised where they'd been either beaten up or had got so drunk they'd fallen over and damaged themselves. All three were now lying on the floor, surrounded by a rampart of bulging plastic shopping bags tied together with string. Each had a can in their hand that no doubt contained the local equivalent of Colt 45.

  Another drunk shuffled over to my alcove, maybe attracted by my earlier banquet. He started jumping up and down on the spot, grunting and waving his arms. The best way to deal with these situations is to appear just as mad and drunk as them-and more. I sat up and hollered, "Hubba-hubba hubba-hubba!" not bothering to try to make my eyes look scary; they probably already did. Picking up a can, I yelled at it for a few seconds, then threw it at him, growling like a wounded animal. He shuffled away, muttering and moaning. That was the only productive lesson I learned in reform school, apart from the fact that I never wanted to go back.

  I lay down again and fell into a semi daze with what seemed like ten minutes' sleep here and five minutes there, waking every time there was a noise or movement. I didn't fancy being mugged a second time.

  I was jolted awake by a hard kick in the ribs. My head was still aching badly, but at least my eyes were focusing a lot better. I saw a frenzy of men in black, looking just like an American police SWAT team, with black combat pants tucked into their boots, black baseball caps, and nylon bomber jackets festooned with badges and logos. In their belt kit they carried canisters, which were almost certainly full of mace. They were shouting and screaming, hitting vagrants indiscriminately with black foot-long nightsticks. For the homeless population of Tallinn, this was obviously their wake-up call. It was certainly similar to some morning calls I'd had in basic training.

  Taking the hint, I started to pull myself up onto my feet. My whole body hurt. I must have looked like a ninety-year-old as I shambled out of the station with the rest of them, hoping it wouldn't take too long before my muscles warmed up and relieved some of the pain.

  The cold early morning air gripped my face and lungs. It was still pitch-black, but I could hear a lot more movement than when I'd arrived. To my right I could see the main drag, with intermittent traffic. A solitary streetlight was glimmering, but so weakly it needn't have bothered. Parked in a row were five black, very clean and large 4x4s, possibly Land Cruisers. Each vehicle carried a white triangular logo, the same as the largest one on the back of the team's bomber jackets. There was still plenty of screaming and arguing going on, and I saw my three debating-society friends being thrown bodily into one of the wagons. Maybe that was where the cut faces came from.

  I moved out of the way, round to the other side of the station. There was life of sorts going on here. I hadn't noticed it on the way in, but the building obviously doubled as a bus station. There was a large open area with shelters and fleets of dilapidated buses, covered in mud. Plumes of early morning exhaust fumes rose from the rear of some of them. People at the back of the lines were shouting at the ones in front, probably telling them to board before they froze to death. Bags were being placed into the luggage holds, along with wooden crates and cardboard boxes tied up with string. Most of the passengers seemed to be old women in heavy overcoats, with knitted hats and huge felt boots with zips up the front.

  The only proper light came from the railway station and the bus headlights reflecting off the icy ground. A streetcar appeared from nowhere and moved across the foreground.

  The station had windows missing in the offices above platform level, and it was covered by decades of grime. It wasn't just this building, the whole place looked in deep decay. The main street was badly potholed and entire areas of blacktop had broken up like ice floes to create different levels for vehicles to negotiate.

  The men in black had finished their task. Some of the street people wandered across the road in a group, maybe heading for the next refuge point, others started to beg by the buses. When they stood next to the passengers it was hard to tell who looked worse off.

  Everybody seemed to be holding shopping bags, not just the homeless, but the people boarding the buses as well. Not a single one was laughing or smiling. I felt sorry for them-freed from Communism, but not from poverty.

  I waited while the black teams climbed into their wagons and moved off, then I wandered back into the station. The place didn't smell any better now it was cleared, but at least it was warm. I thought I'd better clean myself up. I eventually found a rest room, though I didn't know if it was for men or women. It was just a set of stalls and a couple of sinks. A solitary bulb flickered in the ceiling and the place absolutely stank of piss, shit, and vomit. Once at the sinks I found out where all these smells seemed to come from.

  Deciding to skip the wash, I inspected myself in the mirror. My face wasn't cut or bruised, but my hair was sticking out at all angles. I wet my hands under the tap and ran my fingers through it, then got out of there quickly before I was sick myself.

  Wandering around the station, I tried to find out train times. There was plenty of information, all in Estonian or Russian. The ticket office was closed, but a handwritten notice on a piece of cardboard taped to the inside of the glass screen explained that there was something happening at 0700, which I took to be the opening time. I couldn't see if there was a clock in the office as it was cut from view by a faded yellow curtain.

  Sheets of paper stuck to the glass also carried various destination names, in lettering I recognized, as well as Cyrillic. I saw Narva and the numbers 707. It seemed there was just seven minutes between the office opening and my train leaving.

  My next priority was to get a coffee and find out the time. Nothing was open in the station, but with any luck there was some kind of facility outside for the bus passengers. Where there are people, there will be traders.

  I found a row of aluminum kiosks, with no unity or theme to what any of them sold; each of them just sold stuff, everything from coffee to hair bands, but mostly cigarettes and alcohol.

  I couldn't remember what the currency was-things were still blurry-but I managed to get a paper cup of coffee for a small coin that was probably worth two cents. From the same kiosk I also treated myself to a new watch, a bright orange thing with the Lion King grinning out at me from a face that lit up at the press of a but ton.

  His paws rested on a digital display, which the old woman running the kiosk corrected to 0615.

  I stood in between two kiosks with my coffee and watched the trams deliver and pickup passengers. Apart from those yelling at each other in line, there was very little talk from anybody. These were depressed people, and the whole ambience of the place reflected their state of mind. Even the coffee was horrible.

  I started to notice people huddled here and there in small groups, passing bottles among themselves. One group of young men in a bus shelter, wearing old coats over shiny shell-suit pants, were drinking from half-liter bo
ttles of beer and smoking.

  In a strange way the place reminded me of Africa; everything, even the plastic toys and combs in the kiosk window displays, was faded and warped. It looked as if the West had dumped its trash and it had washed up with these people. As in Africa, they had stuff buses, trains, TVs, even cans of Coke but nothing really worked together.

  Basically it felt as if the whole country was Made in Chad. When I was operating there, the republic used to be the byword for things that looked okay but fell apart in ten minutes.

  I thought some more about the ferry attack. The guys in the toilets must have been NSA, but the only way I could have been spotted was by them checking the ticketing, then taking and checking out this guy called Davies. Once my passport had been swiped they'd cracked it: Davidson was on board. The two who'd attacked me would be out of commission, but would others soon be on my trail?

  I bought another coffee to get more heat inside me, as well as another bar of chocolate and a bottle of twenty-four aspirin to clear my head and help with the body pain, then I wandered around the kiosks looking for maps as I washed down the first four tabs with crap coffee. I found a Narva town map, but not one for the northeast of the country.

  Glancing at Lion King as I paid for it, I realized I had to get a move on.

  On the way to the ticket office I brushed the worst of the dirt from my jeans. My body heat was drying them out slowly, so I hoped I didn't smell too much. For all I knew they might have a rule about not selling tickets to hobos.

  I was first in a line of three when the grubby bit of curtain got moved away from the little window to reveal an iron grill behind thick glass, with a small wooden scoop at the bottom where money and tickets were exchanged. A woman in her midfifties glowered at me from behind the fortifications. She was wearing a sweater and, of course, a woolen hat. She was also probably resting her feet on a bulging shopping bag.