by Andy McNab
The problem came when I tried to eat and drink; my tooth was killing me and these places didn't sell Ibuprofen. My last four aspirins had gone hours ago.
I'd kept Carpenter's weapon on me, and the.38 special was in the glove compartment. Neither of them had spare rounds.
Now, sliding slowly along the single-lane road, my headlights picked up the concrete wall of the target on my left. Nothing appeared to have changed; there were still no lights or movement and the gates were still closed. Parking in the same driveway as before, I turned off the engine and sat for a while in the rapidly cooling car, running through the plan one last time. It didn't take long, because there wasn't really much of a plan.
Forcing myself out into the cold, now wearing the old guy's gloves and bloodstained fur hat, I covered the driver's side of the windshield with newspaper before taking the charges out of the trunk. The tow rope wrapped around them made a handy shoulder strap. Finally I hid the key under the rear right wheel. If I got caught by the Maliskia, then at least they wouldn't have my keys if I managed to escape. What was more, I could tell Tom if I linked up with him, and he would also have a means of escape if I didn't make it to the car.
I wasn't going to kill him. I owed him that much after what he'd done by the fence at the Finns' house. What was more, I didn't want his death on my conscience, as well as Kelly's illness. At first I'd put my change of heart down to the fact that I wasn't thinking of saving Tom's skin as much as my own. He would be the only one who could back up my story to Lynn if this whole thing went completely to rat shit.
And why shouldn't it? Everything else had so far. But then, much as I hated the idea, I had to admit to myself that I'd come to like the chubby-cheeked fucker. He might not be the sort of guy I was used to associating with, and we certainly wouldn't be seeing each other for coffee mornings, but he was all right and he needed a break as much as I did. I'd been toying with the idea since I lay in my cheap hotel room in Helsinki. That was why I'd brought his passport with me, just in case I decided.
It was as cold as ever, but as I walked along the road I tied up my new fur hat earflaps so I could listen. Drawing level with the hangar and its funnel, I still couldn't hear any noise from inside the compound.
I reached the driveway leading to the large steel-plate gates, turned and took a few paces toward them. Then I stopped and listened. Now that I knew it was there, I could just make out the generator churning away in the distance. Apart from that I could hear nothing.
I tested the gates, but they weren't open. I tried the small door set into the larger right-hand one, but again they were still locked. I wasn't expecting it to be that easy, but I'd have felt like a real dickhead if I'd gone to all the trouble of climbing over the wall when all I had to do was stroll in through the front gate.
Lying down in the right-hand tire rut, with the charges behind me, I pressed my eye to the gap beneath. Nothing that side of the gate had changed; there were still two lights on the ground floor and the larger building to the right was just as dark. I wasn't sure if what I was looking at was good or bad; not that it mattered that much, I was still going to get among it and destroy the place, and hopefully find Tom.
Once on my feet again, with the Boy Scout knapsack reshouldered, I started back in the direction of the car, but about seventy or eighty yards past the hangar I stepped left off the road and into the high snow. My aim was to walk out into the fields, turn left and approach the hangar from the rear. I couldn't prevent leaving a trail in the snow, but at least I could try to keep most of it out of sight of the road.
The snow had a thin layer of ice on top and varied in depth from calf to thigh height. As I pressed my foot down on the not-so deep stuff, there was initial resistance, then my weight pushed through it. In the deeper drifts I felt like an icebreaker in the Baltic.
I labored on, my jeans soaking and my legs starting to freeze. At least there wasn't much cloud and my night vision was adjusting to the starlight.
The rear of the hangar loomed in front of me and I climbed inside. The floor was concrete and the steel structure supported what looked like corrugated asbestos. Moving slowly and carefully toward the wall of the compound, after about twenty paces I began to make out the dark shape of the doorway. When I reached the edge of the hangar, I stood still and listened. Not a sound, just the gentle moan of the wind.
Wading across the eight or nine feet of snow between the two buildings, I realized as soon as I reached the door that I was going to be disappointed. The metal was a lot older than the front gates and was flaking with rust. The door itself was solid, with no hinges or locks this side of it. I pushed, but there wasn't a hint of movement.
Turning right, I followed the wall and waded fifteen yards further away from the road. Hopefully I was now facing the gable end of the larger building on the other side of the concrete.
Placing the charges on the snow, I unraveled the rope attached to the plank with the brick at the end. With just two or three feet of slack, I started swinging it around me like a hammer thrower, finally letting go with upward momentum to make the plank clear the wall.
I'd never make the Olympics. The whole lot fell back down in front of me. I was just sorting out the rope for another try when vehicle lights raked the wall of the compound.
I dropped to my knees, ready to bury myself in the snow. Then I realized that on my knees I was buried in it.
The lights got stronger, disappearing for half a second as the vehicle dipped in the road, only to light up the sky before settling down again. As it got closer the inside of the hangar was lit up and moving shadows were cast by the steel supports.
The ponderous chug of a big diesel told me that a tractor was heading in my direction. I felt good about that: if the Maliskia were coming for me, I doubted they'd be riding a John Deere.
The noise got louder and the light even stronger until the tractor burst into view in the gap between the compound wall and the hangar. It looked like some old relic from a Soviet collective, with far more silhouettes in the cab than the thing was designed for. Maybe the local karaoke fanatics were heading down to the Hammer and Sickle for a few pints of vodka.
The lights and noise gradually faded and I got on with my task. It took me two more tries, but I eventually got the plank to sail over the wall, the charge end firmly anchored in my hands. The rope jerked as the plank finished its flight, probably ending up dangling about three or four feet over the target side. Gently, I started pulling it back, waiting for the bit of resistance that would tell me that the point where the rope was wrapped around the plank had connected with the far top edge of the wall. The way this thing worked was that the counterweight of the brick made the top of the plank anchor itself against an angled wall. It's one of the reasons why prisons have a large oval shape made of smooth metal on top of their walls, so that contraptions like this don't have anything to bite into. MI9 had done it again.
Maintaining the tension in the rope, and half expecting the plank to come plummeting back down onto my head at any second, I slowly let it take my whole body weight. The cheap nylon rope stretched and protested but held secure. With my feet against the wall, and using the pitted sections as toeholds and knots I'd placed along the rope, I started to climb.
It didn't take long to reach the top, and I scrambled up and rested along its three-foot width. The large building blocked most of my view of the target beyond; all I could see was the light from the windows, where it hit the snow. The generator now provided a constant rumble in the foreground.
Snow and ice cascaded from the wall as I swiveled round on my stomach, turning to face the way I'd come. With my legs now dangling down the target side, I began to pull the charges carefully up the wall. It wasn't the noise I was worried about, I didn't want to damage them.
When I'd finally got the charges up on top with me, I swiveled round again and lowered them gently down the target side. It was now simply a question of moving the plank to the other edge in order to reverse
the climbing process.
Keeping the tension in the rope, I slowly lowered myself over, twisting my right foot round the rope as my hips got to the edge of the wall.
Then I let the rope take my weight and climbed down as quickly as I could.
I piled snow on top of the charges so the weight of the plank didn't pull it down the other side, taking everything with it. It was important to keep the rope in place while I went off and did a quick recce; for now, it was my only escape route.
The hum of the generator was louder at ground level, more than enough to drown the crunch of my feet on virgin snow and ice as I moved toward the rusty side door. I took the flashlight from my pocket and switched it on. Just a tiny pinprick of light emerged; I'd taped over most of the reflector, leaving just a small hole.
There was work to be done on the door. It's all well and good getting on to a target, but it's just as important getting away. If I didn't have a better escape route organized than just climbing up a rope, I'd be in deep shit if I was compromised. Working with the flashlight in my mouth, I could see that the door was secured by a large bolt, maybe two feet long, set in the middle, covered in rust, and looking as if it hadn't been opened for years. I began to work on the lever with both hands, gently lifting it up and down as I pulled it back and forth, making a little progress with each movement until the thing finally gave. Pulling the door toward me about three or four inches to confirm that it would open, I then pushed it back into position. Job done, I stopped and listened: no noise but the generator.
There was no point in risking the rope being spotted now that I had an alternative escape route, so I untied it and let it go.
Shouldering the charges, I crunched along the front of the larger building, trying to keep as close to it as possible to minimize sign.
Now I could see that it was built of chalk-colored bricks that were way past their prime. If the target house was built of the same stuff, it wasn't going to be difficult to make entry.
The generator noise increased as I reached the large opening. A mass of tire tracks led in the same direction. Going inside, I moved off to the right so I wasn't silhouetted in the entrance, and stood still in the darkness, listening to the genny noise to my far left. It felt warmer in here, but I knew it wasn't really, it was just more sheltered.
Taking the flashlight out of my pocket, I pulled off the tape but kept two fingers over the lens to control its brightness. A quick shine around the cavernous interior revealed three vehicles: a Mercedes box van, with its nose pointing out, and two sedans haphazardly parked at different angles, pointing in. The floor was concrete, covered in several years' supply of frozen mud, lumps of wood and old crates.
The flashlight was too weak to reach the generator itself, but thirty paces took me right up to it. The machinery was standing on a new section of concrete floor, about two feet above ground level to keep it well out of the shit. Beyond it was the fuel tank, a large, heavy plastic cylinder supported on cinder blocks. Seeing it gave me an idea for later on.
Jutting from the front of the generator was a power cable a good three inches thick; it ran through the gable wall, where three or four bricks had been knocked out to accommodate it, and toward the target house.
I dumped my kit at the back of the generator, turned off the flashlight, and went back to the large opening and out into the compound.
Following the many footprints that had been made between this building and the target about fifteen yards away, I made my way toward the main door. Directly ahead I saw the triangle of darkness that stretched from directly below the ground-floor windowsill to about three feet out into the snow, where the light hit the ground.
I checked my weapon was properly placed in my jacket pocket so that, if needed, I could bite off my glove and draw down with ease.
Checking before passing the six-foot gap between the two buildings to my right, I could see where the generator cable came out of the barn wall and went into the target's. I also saw plenty of footprints from the path I was on, branching off between the two buildings and toward the rear of the target. People must be in and out of here all the time.
Bending down, I edged my way under the first window, as close as possible to the wall. The glass above me was protected by steel bars.
A television was on. The voices were English, and it didn't take me long to work out the channel was MTV. This got weirder by the minute.
With my back to the wall, I looked and listened. The light above me was shining through yellow floral curtains, though the material was too thick to see through. I couldn't hear any talking, just Ricky Martin singing. Putting my ear to the wall I listened again. I didn't have to try hard. Bursting in with the chorus was a heavy Eastern European accent trying to give Ricky a hand.
* * *
40
ThE target building seemed to consist of a concrete frame filled with red clay brickwork with air holes and serrated sides. Whoever had put it together had never heard of a plumb line, and too many bad winters had taken their toll on the bricks; they looked as crumbly as the one I'd tied to the plank.
With Ricky Martin reaching the end of his song, I moved up the two concrete steps to the main door. It was the same arrangement as the baar in Narva, except the other way round, with the steel grill on the outside and the wooden door set back about six inches further into the frame. I needed to find out if it was locked. It wasn't my chosen point of entry, but if the charges didn't work and the door happened to be open, at least I'd have options. More to the point, if I fucked up inside, I had an extra escape route.
The grill wasn't locked. I moved it gently backward an inch and it made no noise, so I pulled it toward me a couple of inches, returned it an inch and pulled another two, controlling the quiet squeaks as it gradually opened. Eventually the grill was open enough to squeeze my arm past and try the door. There were no sounds apart from MTV and the generator as I pushed the door handle down gently and gave a small push. It was locked.
I stood and listened, hoping to hear Tom's voice. Something was being fried, and the smell was wafting under the door. From upstairs came a shout, muffled by the sound of the TV, but it wasn't Tom's voice.
Then I realized the shouting wasn't shouting, it was meant to be singing. My friend the Ricky Martin impressionist was on his way back downstairs.
Moving out of the doorway, I pulled my glove off with my teeth and gripped my weapon. If he came out, I'd be stepping over his dead body and going straight in with so much speed, aggression, and surprise that I'd scare even myself.
His voice got louder as he reached the ground floor. A chorus of other voices bellowed from the rear of the building, maybe in Russian, but definitely telling him to shut the fuck up.
He had reached the hallway and was only feet from the door, shouting back, along with at least two other voices from the TV room. It was banter, nothing more.
The singer went back into the room and the MTV show died down to a slightly quieter level as the door was closed.
I moved back to the front door and listened. Nothing now but the sound of more music being played. Replacing my weapon, I slowly closed the grill the same way as I'd opened it.
Moving back down the steps, I followed the tracks toward the far end of the target, ducking under the left-hand window and into its dark triangle. Even with my ear to the wet, cold wall, I could hear no sound from inside. The windows were steamed up behind the steel bars; maybe this was the kitchen?
I reached the corner of the building and cleared it. There were no windows this side, but plenty of footprints in the snow leading to the rear. What could easily be seen, however, even in this light, was a large satellite dish, slightly jutting out to the left of the building and pointing upward at about forty-five degrees. I felt as if I was having a Microsoft HQ flashback, and hoped the NSA didn't arrive to complete the story. At the same time I was pleased I'd seen it. The dish was my only confirmation that this really was the target.
I counted the
paces as I moved toward it, in preparation for laying the charges. Seventeen one-yard steps took me to the rear of the building.
I cleared the corner and the generator gained a decibel or two. Light was shining through curtains from both of the upstairs windows, just enough to cast a dim glow over the satellite dish's two friends. All three were about the same size as those at Microsoft HQ, but made of solid plastic, not mesh. They pointed skyward in different directions.
They weren't static, dug-in dishes, but on stands, with ice-covered sandbags over the legs to keep them in position. Like the Finnish ones, they, too, were clear of snow and ice, and the whole area around them was trampled down. Beyond them, maybe forty yards away, was the dark shape of the rear compound wall.
I turned the corner and realized that hidden in the shadow of the top windows' dark triangles were two more windows on the ground floor, without light. All four mirrored the ones on the front of the target.
To get under the first window took five paces, making it twenty two in total so far. I crouched by three thick, snow-covered satellite feeds which came out of the snow and disappeared into a hole in the brickwork directly beneath the first ground-floor window. The gap around the cabling was roughly refilled with concrete.
The downstairs windows on this side were also barred. I could now see chinks of light around the edges of the frame I was crouching beneath.
Lifting my eyes to the sill for a closer look, I saw that the glass was boarded over from the inside.
I heard a humming noise coming from the other side of the boards, high-pitched and electrical, unlike the throbbing diesel further along in the other building. No human voices, but I knew they were there somewhere. I never thought I'd find myself longing to hear Tom asking for a cup of herbal tea "My body's a temple, know what I mean, Nick?" but it didn't happen.
Stepping over the cables, it took me another nine slow and careful paces to the next window to add to the twenty-two. I'd soon know how much det cord I'd need to take off the reel.
