Aggressor

by Andy McNab

  I suddenly realized that, for the first time in my life, I didn’t give a fuck about the actual money. I wanted it for Charlie and Hazel’s sake, of course, and because I never liked the idea of being turned over, but that was it. The thing I was really looking forward to was calling Silky. I needed to hear her voice again.

  But I didn’t fancy explaining to either of the girls that we’d be coming back via Hereford – that we had to see an old mate, and would therefore be a day or two later than we’d promised – so I decided to leave that bit of the conversation to Charlie.

  2

  Next time I looked at my watch it was 11.05. I was slouched over an espresso thick enough to tar a road, watching a Georgian celebrity chef do something interesting with an onion and a couple of oxen.

  The delay was beginning to worry me. Once Baz’s Audi was found with a present in the boot, the police would be swarming all over the house, trying to work out how Father Christmas had dropped by there as well. Or it could be the other way round. Whatever, it didn’t matter which way this nightmare unfolded. If there was any CCTV footage in the can, it wouldn’t be long before they were huddled round a monitor, watching the fuck-about in the yard.

  Had I left any DNA at the cemetery? It was too late to worry about it now. But I did, just a bit.

  Adrenalin and caffeine were taking their toll. I could almost feel the tension pumping round my body. At least the pain in my Adam’s apple was starting to ease.

  I took another sip of my now-tepid brew and concentrated on looking as bored as everyone else, but the bites in my swollen tongue made that easier said than done. Shit, it hurt. I wouldn’t be putting away any packets of salt and vinegar for a while.

  Five flights had been delayed so far. I heard the occasional Brit and American voice, and now and then a snatch of French and German, but most of the chat seemed to be in Russian or Paperclip.

  A hardtop 110 Land Rover was still parked outside the terminal, either waiting for a pick-up, or until the driver was sure his passenger’s flight had actually taken off. For his sake, I hoped he’d brought his thermos and a paper.

  Two men came out of the terminal, dragging their carry-ons behind them, and headed towards the sheds. They wore the international uniform of the travelling fifty-something American executive: blue blazer, button-down shirt, chinos, very shiny loafers and a laptop bag for good measure. They were clearly in a good mood, and anxious to share it. Some guys who’d been chatting in French, and switched instantly to English as they approached, were today’s lucky winners. ‘Hey, good news, fellas. The Vienna flight’s at 12.25. We gotta check in now.’

  There were sighs of relief and jokes about Georgian inefficiency as the crowd gathered their bags and headed for the terminal.

  I stood up just as Charlie emerged from the main entrance, laptop bag on his shoulder. He saw me, up and ready, and turned back.

  I was about to follow when I caught a glimpse of the latest TV news bulletin. And what I saw made my body feel so heavy, all of a sudden, I had to sit down again.

  Baz’s Audi filled the screen.

  Then the camera cut to a glistening pool of blood in the mud, directly under the boot. Some of the rubber stops must have been missing from the drainage holes.

  The reporter gobbed off, then a policeman answered a series of questions. A string of Paperclip flashed along the bottom of the screen, with what I assumed was a summary of the morning’s breaking story.

  The camera homed in on the open boot, where the Hulk lay curled up like a baby, the satchel still shoved behind his back. He was big, and a lot darker-skinned than most locals.

  It zoomed in even closer on the entry wounds. An ambulance crew stood by as forensics guys took swabs and checked for prints.

  I took a casual sip of stone-cold coffee. Third-party awareness: I couldn’t look as if I was flapping. There were still people around waiting for their flights, chatting, smoking, ignoring the TV.

  I tried to calm myself. I mean, so what? We’d be checking in any minute. In just over an hour, we’d be airborne.

  Then my heart switched to rapid fire again, and it wasn’t because of the coffee.

  With a still of the Audi filling half the screen behind him, a reporter was poking a microphone under the noses of three teenagers in multicoloured shell suits outside the graveyard. Two of them seemed to be explaining what they had seen. The third looked so out of it he wouldn’t have known if anyone had fallen on top of him anyway. The first two’s hands charted a course across their zit-filled, heroin-racked faces; I tried not to admit it to myself, but fuck it, what was the use – they were describing what I looked like.

  Then it was back to the studio, where the anchorwoman spoke for a few moments. They flashed up a shot of the target house, with blue-and-whites all over the street, and cut to a close-up of the cameras mounted on the wall.

  A few seconds later they broadcast the pictures that killed any hope I had of boarding the 12.25 to Vienna.

  3

  A few seconds of fuzzy, black-and-white CCTV footage flashed up, at the point where I’d turned back to the house after dropping Red Eyes.

  They reran it, then freeze-framed on my face. The image was blurred, but they made up for that by cutting to an artist’s impression. It was the first drawing anyone had ever done of me, and I wished they hadn’t.

  The next CCTV clip showed us both masked up as I got into the Audi and Charlie opened the gate. So it was official. I was in the shit. It didn’t matter if they were calling me Baz’s killer, or Red Eyes, or even all three of us. They had a face and were looking for it.

  Head down, I made my way across the road to the terminal and the endless check-in queue. I found Charlie and got eye to eye. As I walked away, he followed.

  I headed for the toilets. I stood at a urinal and Charlie took the one next to me. All the cubicle doors were open; we were alone.

  ‘It’s hit the news. You’re OK, but they got my face.’

  Charlie wasn’t fazed. ‘What we going to do?’

  ‘We’re doing nothing, mate. You’re going to catch the flight. I can’t risk it – even if I make it airside, what if I get pinged? There’s TVs in there, mate. I’m better off staying landside. Maybe I’ll try for Turkey by road.’

  There was no hesitation from him. ‘I’ll hire a car. We’ll get to the border by tonight, dump the car, and walk across. Piece of piss. Let’s go.’

  He started to move but I grabbed his arm. ‘I don’t need your fucking hands disco-dancing all over the country. Besides, they even check what you look at online. For sure they’ll be checking car hire, and will be asking questions before you get the key in the door. Too risky. Take the papers, get the flight, get to Crazy Dave, and stand by. As soon as I get into Turkey I’ll give you a call and see you in H. I think we can still get you the rest of the money.’

  Charlie wasn’t listening. ‘Wait here.’ He shoved his laptop bag at me. ‘Bung the tape and papers in here. Just in case you get lifted, at least I might have something here that’ll get you out the shit. Follow me, lad.’

  He turned and walked out of the toilet, striding towards the terminal exit as I shoved everything in the bag, like a fumbling PA following in the wake of his boss.

  Why couldn’t he just do what he was told for once? I got up level with him.

  ‘Fuck it, Charlie, just get the flight. I got an idea how to get your cash, it might even get me out of the shit as well.’

  He still wasn’t listening. His eyes were fixed on the glass exit doors. ‘We’re wasting time, lad. Once we’re out of here we can worry about money. But for now, just shut the fuck up and follow.’

  We walked out of the terminal. ‘Wait here.’ Charlie carried on straight towards a young guy in a blue sweatshirt, sitting at the wheel of the 110.

  Charlie had his serious, purposeful warrant officer face on as he marched up to the vehicle. The driver, a young white guy with a crew cut, watched him all the way to his window. A green, heavy-pl
astic sleeve lay on the dash. It was the 110’s work ticket folder, a log of the hours and mileage done, and had DUTY VEHICLE stencilled across it.

  Charlie tapped on the glass and motioned him to wind it down.

  ‘Duty driver? You dropping off or picking up?’ Charlie spoke like he was giving the guy a bollocking for having done something wrong. Soldiers tend to react better to that tone of voice, because nine times out of ten they have.

  ‘Dropping off.’

  Charlie exploded. ‘Dropping off, SIR! What camp you from, son?’ He turned and pointed at me. ‘Stay where you are! I haven’t told you to go anywhere. Bring my bag here.’

  I jerked my head. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Well, bring it here, man. At least be of some use. I don’t know who I’m even handing it over to. What the fuck is wrong with this man’s army?’

  I joined him and handed over the bag. Charlie made a show of looking for papers in the side pocket, eventually back to the driver. ‘What camp are you from?’

  ‘Camp Vasiani, sir.’

  ‘That the only camp in this area?’

  ‘Yessir.’

  ‘That’s where we’re going then.’

  Charlie bounced back to me, still in bollocking mode. ‘Why weren’t any joining instructions sent to me?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir,’ I said. ‘I sent an email requesting—’

  ‘Not good enough.’ Charlie was in full flow now. ‘Why isn’t there anyone here to pick us up?’

  ‘I . . . I don’t know, sir.’

  ‘You don’t know, sir? Oh, is that so?’ Charlie opened the rear door, slotted in the laptop and pointed at me. ‘In!’

  I saw it now. Charlie wanted me in the front because we were going to do a bit of hijacking.

  He glowered at the driver as I got into the front passenger seat. ‘How far to camp?’

  ‘Just under an hour, sir. But I have to get permission to—’

  Charlie’s hand told him to shut up. ‘Just drive. The flights are all leaving now; you’re leaving nobody behind. We’ll sort it out on the way. Can’t your fucking officers even organize a pick-up?’

  He jumped into the back as the duty driver leaned across and flicked a switch on his radio, a small green thing tucked into the dash.

  Charlie was quick off the mark. ‘Just get going, I don’t need to talk to anyone. No-one seems to know what day of the week it is anyway.’

  The driver was flapping as he leaned back towards Charlie. ‘But, sir, I gotta call in when I leave, and I gotta tell them if I dropped off OK. It’s a standing order.’

  There was no way we could stop him; it all had to appear routine. After all, Charlie was the one moaning about inefficiency. He was hardly the sort of man who would break a standing order.

  ‘Well, get on with it then. Let’s go.’

  The driver started up the 110 and we left the airport perimeter. Charlie gave me a wink as he waited for the boy to finish speaking into the boom-mike headset.

  ‘That’s right. Two pax for our locale. But no work sheet?’

  He shrugged at whatever was being said in response.

  Charlie’s hand loomed over the driver’s shoulder. ‘Give me that.’

  He barked into the headset. ‘Who is this?’ There was a pause. ‘Well, Sergeant Jay DiRita, I did not receive any joining instructions, not even the name of the person I have come all the way from Istanbul to see!’

  Charlie listened to DiRita. ‘Oh, is that so? You don’t have any visitors scheduled for today? Well, Sergeant DiRita, now you do. We will be there soon to try to make sense of this total cock-up.’

  He passed the headset forward to the driver and sat fuming out of the window.

  I looked out at the parrot-coloured apartment blocks lining the dual carriageway, and hoped we got out in the cuds soon, so we could bin the driver and head for that border.

  I scanned the dashboard. ‘Got a map?’

  4

  We continued along the dual carriageway towards the city. I glanced from time to time at the parrot-coloured apartment blocks while the duty driver over-concentrated on the road to avoid having to catch the eye of the monster in the back.

  The map he’d handed me wasn’t much more than a commercial traveller’s guide to the main drags and towns, but at least I could see the Vasiani region, about thirty Ks north-east of the city. It looked like our current route would take us to the right, around the bottom of Tbilisi, then up towards the camp.

  ‘You haven’t got a better one, have you? I like to know where I’m going.’

  He kept his eyes on the road. ‘’Fraid not, sir. The duty wagon only ever gets to go to and from the airport, and once we’re on this road, there’s not a helluva lot of choice.’

  He took a right onto a single-carriage road. We were no longer in parrot country. A mile or two later we reached the mountains, and wove our way towards a sky filled with doom-laden clouds, massing for another downpour.

  As we made our way down the other side, I saw the glare of brake lights. There were a couple of vehicles ahead of us, both slowing. Our driver changed down through the gears until we were creeping along at walking pace.

  A hundred or so metres ahead, grey nylon sandbags had been piled into sangars each side of the road, and large concrete blocks had been positioned between them to channel the traffic.

  I heard Charlie shifting in his seat behind me, and knew he’d seen it too. The same thoughts must have been racing through his head: were they going to ask for passports or ID? And even if they weren’t, had they read their papers or watched the news?

  He leaned forward to give the driver another bollocking. ‘What’s the VCP for? Do we have to stop?’

  ‘Yessir. There’s checkpoints on all the approach roads to the city.’

  On the far side of the VCP, a rusty old coach leaned precariously under the uneven load of crap strapped to its roof, and a line of cars waited impatiently behind it while soldiers with body armour and AKs checked out its passengers.

  Charlie passed me the laptop bag. ‘Sort this thing out. I can’t get it to work.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ I took it and got my head down. I made a bit of a meal of opening it up and fucking about with the power button until the screen started to flicker.

  We were now the third vehicle in line. A Georgian soldier was heading towards us on the driver’s side, his weapon slung over his shoulder. A group of his mates were gathered on my side of the road, in the shadow of the sangar.

  ‘Can I have your IDs, sirs? They’ll want them alongside my work ticket.’

  ‘Unbelievable,’ Charlie fumed. ‘We’re here to help these people, and all they do is mess us around. Do we look like bloody militants?’

  The squaddie got to the vehicle in front of us. He leaned down to speak to the driver, who was ready with some kind of ID. They had a bit of a chat and the squaddie pointed to the sky and shrugged, probably moaning about the weather. He took a step back, waved the driver through, and sauntered towards us.

  I leaned even further forward, completely absorbed by the problem with the laptop.

  ‘Sir, I need—’

  ‘Fuck this.’ Charlie was out of the wagon, his back straight as a ramrod, his shoulders squared.

  ‘You!’ He jutted his jaw at the Georgian. ‘Stand up straight, man!’

  Some orders are understood by every soldier in any language. The squaddie snapped to attention.

  ‘Why are you holding us up? You think we have all day?’ Charlie was gripping him big-time now. Looking him up and down, inspecting him. This boy was back on the parade ground.

  ‘Please, sir, he can’t understand you.’ The driver was half out of his cab. ‘Please, let me . . .’ He tried to placate the angry officer, at the same time as exchanging a knowing look with his fellow squaddie.

  Charlie flicked the open map-pocket flap on the Georgian’s combat trousers. ‘What’s this, man? Get your act together! Buttons are there for a purpose; they’re not just decoration! So
rt yourself out, soldier!’

  I held my breath as Charlie got back into the vehicle. I thought he might have overdone it with his Starship Trooper impression.

  The squaddie hesitated for a moment, dark thoughts furrowing his Slavic brow. Then he reached down and fumbled with his trousers. The other guys on stag kept well out of it.

  ‘Right, let’s get this wagon moving.’

  The driver reached for the folder on the dash. I gave the laptop screen my total attention.

  He wound down his window and passed the paperwork through as Charlie prodded my shoulder and treated me to the same kind of bollocking.

  I nodded obediently and tapped the keys some more, then looked up to the skies for salvation. The Georgian hurriedly flicked open the folder and checked its contents.

  Charlie was incandescent. ‘Come on! Get a move on!’

  No way did this boy want to be treated to another helping of what Mr Angry had to offer. He scribbled a signature on the work ticket, then handed the driver his millboard for him to do the same. Almost in the same motion, he waved us through.

  We negotiated the concrete chicane and came alongside the bus. The driver looked a little concerned about my performance with the laptop, and I could hardly blame him, especially now that I packed it up and passed it back to Charlie.

  ‘I think everything is fine, sir.’ I glanced at the driver and rolled my eyes. Officers, eh?

  The driver hit the net. ‘Hello. Duty Vehicle through checkpoint Alpha. Over.’

  ‘Roger, duty vehicle. Checkpoint Alpha. Out.’

  Charlie sat there glowering. I could almost feel the heat of his anger on the back of my neck, and I knew the boy on my left could too.

  I tried a little gentle fishing. ‘What a drag for you . . . How many of these things do you have to get through?’

  ‘Just the one, sir.’ I could hear the relief in his voice. The last thing he wanted was for Charlie to get revved up for an encore.