FireWall ns-3

by Andy McNab

  I didn't give him time to think too much about that one. As the taxi pulled away I was feeling pretty pleased with myself, and I had a sneaking suspicion that Tom wouldn't be sharing his newfound wealth with Janice. I knew I wouldn't if I was him.

  After giving the cab driver a new drop-off point, I bought myself a blue ski jacket on Oxford Street, and went to a drugstore for some bits and pieces I'd need for the DLB (dead letter box), so I could leave our details with Liv. Before E4 spotted me at the apartment, I'd thought Liv wanting to use a DLB just to hand over some flight details was a bit paranoid. But now I knew it was essential. If E4 were on to her, I didn't want any more contact with her in the U.K. The last thing I needed was for Lynn to have a picture of that on his desk. The shit would be so high I'd never be able to dig myself out.

  I booked the flights from a phone box, and they held them in Tom's name. I'd get him to pay for them with his credit card at the airport tomorrow; now that Davidson was history, I had no choice. No one needed to know that Nick Stone was leaving the country. I wondered if Tom was still being monitored, now that he was a known subversive, but decided I'd have to take that risk. There wasn't time to do anything about it.

  With my new coat to keep me warm I decided I'd walk it to the DLB she'd given me. It wasn't that far away.

  Fighting my way through the Saturday shopping frenzy I eventually made the 200 yards or so to Oxford Circus. The BBC studios in Portland Place were in front of me on the right. I stayed on the opposite sidewalk and headed for the Langham Hilton.

  About hundred and fifty feet short of the hotel I walked under some scaffolding. Beneath it were two old-style red telephone booths.

  In the windows of each were maybe twenty calling cards, held in position by fun tac. The authorities would be around at some point today to clean them out, but they'd be restocked an hour later.

  I went into the left-hand booth and saw Susie Gee's card three quarters of the way up, facing Oxford Circus. She looked very sultry, on all fours and kissing the air. At the same time as I peeled her off the glass I got out a large black marker pen and scored a line down the window.

  Folding Susie into my pocket I moved on toward the hotel. It was a bit premature to leave the DLB loaded sign, but I wasn't expecting any problems.

  With my bag in hand I walked through the hotel's revolving doors, which had been started for me by a guy dressed in a green three-quarter length tunic and something that looked like a cross between a turban and a beret on his head. He looked a right nerd.

  The interior of the Langham was very plush, and very full of businessmen and wealthy-looking tourists. It was Indian the med with the Chukka Bar to my left as I walked into the marble reception area.

  Liv's instructions were perfect. To the right and up a few steps was the reception desk, and ahead of me was a restaurant-cum tea room. My destination, however, was the basement.

  Down below was every bit as plush as above. Temperature controlled and soft-carpeted, it housed the conference rooms and business center.

  Standing on an easel outside the George Room, a black felt board with white press-on letters announced, "Management 2000 welcomes our conference guests." Passing it and two wall phones that I would be coming back to, I headed for the rest rooms.

  Opposite the rest room doors were more phones, a cloakroom and a table rigged up with tea, coffee, and cookies. Sitting ready to serve was a black guy and a white woman talking in that shifty tone that you just know means they're dissing the management. As soon as they saw me, they gave me their corporate smiles; I smiled back and headed for the men's room.

  Sitting down in one of the stalls, I took out a little plastic pillbox from my drugstore bag, the sort that people use to hold their day's supply of vitamins, along with a pack of adhesive-backed Velcro patches. I stuck both a female and a male patch onto the pillbox just in case she'd fucked up on what side to use; it would be embarrassing if it didn't stick.

  Inside the pillbox went a small scrap of paper with my message: "Arriving 1515 12th." That was all that she needed to know.

  Putting the drugstore bag back in my pocket and checking that the two little squares of Velcro were secure, I came out of the toilet, smiled again at the two people in the cloakroom, turned right and went back to the first two telephones I'd passed.

  They were positioned quite low down the wall, for the convenience of users in wheelchairs. I put the bag between my legs and shuffled a chair up closer to the phone. Liv had chosen well: not too busy, no video cameras about, and a reason to be there.

  As I sat down, I got out a coin and Susie's card, picked up the phone, and dialed, wondering if Janice and Tom had done any lipstick cards for her lately. I wanted the display to show money being used up; otherwise it would look suspicious if anyone passed and saw that I'd been there a few minutes and was only pretending to make a call. It was a small detail, but they count.

  I used my right hand to keep the phone to my ear, waiting for Susie, and felt under the wooden veneer shelf below it with my left. In the far corner, there should be a large patch of Velcro that Liv had put there.

  As I fumbled about, the doors to the George Room opened behind me and out surged a stream of Management 2000 delegates.

  As I listened to the ringing tone, I watched the herd move to their grazing area by the cloakroom. A young woman in her twenties sat on the chair next to me and put a coin in the box.

  An aggressive Chinese woman answered me. "Hello?"

  I could hear my fellow caller tap out her number as I replied.

  "Susie?"

  "No, you wait."

  I waited. The woman next to me started talking about her child, who needed picking up from nursery school since she was going to be late.

  The person at the other end was obviously annoyed. "That's not fair, Mum, it's not always the same excuse and yes, of course she remembers what her own mother looks like. Kirk is home early tonight. He'll pick her up."

  A man came from behind and placed his hand on her shoulder.

  She kissed it. His Management 2000 badge said David. Not quite the conference making her late home, then.

  The noise level doubled as people talked management over coffee.

  I found what I was looking for as I heard footsteps approaching the receiver at the other end: It was female Velcro, the soft bit, just as Liv had said.

  A very husky, middle-aged voice picked up the phone. "Hello, can I help you, my love? Would you like me to run through the services?"

  I ummed and aahed as the woman named the price for spending half an hour in France, Greece, and various other countries of the world with Susie. To spin out the call I asked where Susie was based, and then for directions to the address near Paddington.

  "That's great," I said. "I'll think about it."

  I put the phone down, picked up the bag, moved the chair back, stood up, and headed back the way I'd come, leaving the woman telling her mother it absolutely would be the last time she'd have to do this.

  I turned before going through the doors, checked the box couldn't be seen from that level and went upstairs. Sinbad did his trick with the revolving doors and I was back on the street. Turning right, I headed back the way I'd come. Last light was soon; by four thirty it would be dark.

  All I had to do now was call Tom at seven and tell him the timings for tomorrow morning's flight, then go and dump my leathers in the trash and my weapon in London's biggest armory, the River Thames.

  15

  Sunday, December 12.1333 Tarn stood in a different line for immigration. I'd told him in the nicest way that he must keep away from me until we were in the arrivals lounge-security and all that. He talked too much and too loudly to sit next to in an aircraft. We'd even checked in separately. He'd agreed with his usual, "No drama, mate. Gotcha."

  On the subway to Heathrow, he'd told me that Janice was fine about him going away. "I told her I had some work with my old friend Nick in Scotland," he said. "I told her straight."


  That version was about as straight as Elton John. Janice was probably severely pissed off that he was enjoying himself north of the border for two weeks while she slaved away kissing cards for Lucy. I wondered if he'd said anything to her about the money, but didn't ask. I didn't want him sounding off about his plans for world domination in the world of IT.

  At least he hadn't wanted to drown himself in free alcohol on the way over. It seemed he didn't drink-a by-product, maybe, of serving a jail sentence. Just as well, because there would be none of that until we were back in the U.K.

  He'd made an effort and smartened himself up a bit for the journey, which was good. I wanted him to resemble an average citizen, not look like food for customs to pull to one side for a slow once-over. He was still wearing my jacket, but had swapped the flared jeans for a new, normal pair, and he was also wearing a new red sweatshirt. However, he still had the same canvas daps on, and though he'd finished off by washing and combing his hair, he hadn't shaved.

  I watched him slap his jacket as if he was doing some sort of dance.

  This was the third time since leaving London that I'd seen him think he'd mislaid his passport.

  We got through immigration and customs and there was no need to wait for suitcases. I'd told him that all he needed was a bit of soap and a toothbrush, and he could wash his underwear in the bath with him at night.

  The sliding doors opened to admit us separately into the arrivals hall.

  Tom didn't know it, but no one would be there to meet us yet. We weren't on the flight that arrived at 3:15, as I'd told Liv; we were on the 1:45. I always liked to be early in order to watch who might be waiting for me. Walking into an arrivals lounge to meet people I didn't know gave me the same feeling as knocking on a strange door, not knowing who or what was on the other side.

  We met up in the hall. Tom seemed to be feeling very macho today, eyeing the women as they moved around the terminal.

  "What now, mate? Where we going?"

  "We're a bit early for our pickup. Let's get a coffee."

  We followed the signs to the coffee shop. The glass-and-steel terminal building wasn't packed, but busy enough for a Sunday, more with tourists than business traffic. I could see a dull, gray sky beyond the glass walls, with snow piled up at the roadside and ice hanging from parked vehicles.

  As we neared the cafe, Tom bouncing along at my shoulder like some younger brother, we passed two tall, blond and beautiful women at a phone booth. "Cor, check out the ass on that. I love these Nordic chicks."

  The two of them caught his drift and laughed to each other as they looked at us. I just walked on, embarrassed. They would have had him for breakfast.

  Tom seemed not to notice. "Hey, Nick, do you know there's more people up here who are on the Internet and have cell phones than anywhere else. You know, per capita."

  "That's interesting, Tom." For once he had said something that was.

  He liked that. "That's right, mate. Must be all that darkness up here. Fuck all else to do, I s'pose."

  I looked at him and smiled, even though the joke had been better first time round.

  His face beamed and his hamster cheeks nearly covered his eyes. "These people are at the cutting edge, know what I mean?" He caught up the step that separated us and whispered in my ear, his head jutting in time. "That's why the photocopier know-how is here. I'm right, aren't I?"

  I was bored but managed a reply. "It's probably the long hours of darkness. There's nothing else to do but Xerox, I suppose. Coffee, Tom?"

  "Nah, tea. Herbal or fruit if they have it."

  We were soon at a table, me with coffee, Tom with a pot of hot water and an apple-flavored tea bag wrapped in foil. Opposite was a bank of screens, obviously Internet stations. It was only a matter of time before Tom saw them, too, and I would be sitting alone, which wouldn't be a bad thing.

  His eyes lit up and sure enough he was getting to his feet. "I'm gonna have to go and check that out. You coming?"

  He did, taking his tea with him. I didn't.

  He was back very quickly, before I'd even tasted my coffee. "You haven't got any coins, have you, mate? I've got no money, well, Finnish money. Only dollars, know what I mean?"

  I fished out the change from the drinks as he grinned at his own joke.

  I decided to have a walk around to see if I could spot anything threatening. I'd shaken off E4, but Val obviously had enemies, and while I was working for him that made them my enemies, too.

  My documents always stayed with me, but there was something else I wanted from my duffel before I wandered off. Digging around for the leather zip-up organizer, I dropped both our bags at Tom's feet and headed for the departures lounge upstairs. There was nothing out of the ordinary, nobody waffling into their lapels or facing into the crowd while pretending to read a newspaper.

  I took a walk outside, but not for long, the cold biting into my face and hands. I hadn't seen anything that looked as if it was bad and intended for me.

  Back inside Arrivals and in the warm, there were a couple of boys in suits with legal-size, clear plastic folders showing the names of people they were there to collect.

  Tom was still in Internet heaven. "Look at this, Nick. Fucking cool or what? Look, virtual Helsinki."

  I was looking at a screen that displayed everything you needed to know about Helsinki, from street maps to images of hotels and booking facilities for travel or theater tickets. There was even a route plan where you actually walked down a road as if you were in a game. Still leaving the bags with him, I went and got myself another coffee, sat at the same table and watched and waited, thinking how lucky I'd been not to have had a kid brother that I'd had to drag around with me when I was growing up.

  Fifteen minutes later he was back with the bags. He must have run out of money. "I just e-mailed Janice and told her I definitely can't get in touch for a while-up in the hills testing kit and all that."

  I put the organizer back in my bag and finished my coffee. "We might as well make a move. They should be here by now."

  Our ride was easy to spot, smartly dressed in a gray suit and overcoat, with spiky light-brown hair and a red complexion, presenting himself to the people pushing their trolleys through the automatic doors of the customs hall. He was holding up a card with felt-tipped lettering on: "Nick and another."

  We went up and introduced ourselves. As we shook hands he virtually stood to attention and clicked his heels together, then he offered to take both our bags. Tom refused after I did.

  The short-term parking lot was opposite Arrivals. An aircraft roared overhead as we approached a silver Mere. Tom was impressed. "Nice one."

  We put the bags into the trunk and got in the back. Spike turned the engine on and the radio blared. I assumed the two presenters were running at the mouth in Finnish, but Tom looked at me. "They're speaking Latin. They're mad for it up here, mate. Dunno why, just are."

  Spike turned it off.

  I said, "How come you know so much about Finland?"

  The Mere started moving.

  "Got on the net last night and had a look, didn't I?"

  "Are you going to play the walking encyclopedia the whole week?"

  He looked at me, not knowing if it was an insult, then made up his mind and smiled. "Nah, mate, just thought you'd like to know."

  He sat back into his seat. He was wrong, I wasn't joking.

  We followed the road signs. They were in Swedish as well as Finnish, the Swedes having ruled here in the past as well as the Russians. The pavement on the road was immaculately clear of snow and ice.

  The airport was quite close to Helsinki and we were soon on the city ring road. On both sides of us were low-level industrial units and large piles of cleared snow. I had to smile as I thought of the U.K., where a couple of snowflakes bring the entire nation to a halt; here they had snow for months and the country didn't miss a beat.

  I saw a sign that said, "St. Petersburg 381km." Within three or four hours we could be out of on
e of the wealthiest and most advanced places on earth and entering a city of chaos and anarchy. But I didn't have to worry; we followed the exit and moved onto another highway, the E75, and started to head away from the built up area, such as it was.

  The small floating ball compass that was stuck on the dashboard told me we were generally heading north. Every vehicle on the highway had its lights on; it was the law.

  We cruised comfortably along the highway, passing through pine forests, snow, and impressive cuts into massive granite outcrops. I looked over at Tom, who was resting his head on the seat, his eyes closed and his Walkman earphones in. I decided to take his cue and sit back and relax, though I kept my eyes on the road signs. Lahti and Mikkeli seemed to be likely targets, and after just under an hour it was quite clear where we were heading. We took the Lahti exit.

  The town was dominated by two very tall Eiffel Tower-like structures, both painted red and white, their spires obscured by the cloud cover, and with aircraft warning lights flashing away on all sides. The place was heaving with both traffic and people. It was a winter sports town; a ski jump towered over the houses, and as we started to rumble down the cobblestones of the main shopping area, I saw that even senior citizens were using cross-country poles instead of walking sticks.

  The inhabitants of Lahti were obviously in love with concrete and steel. Instead of traditional wooden dwellings with maybe a reindeer or two parked up outside, they went for new model Saabs, 4x4s, and a blaze of Christmas decorations. We turned left by the town square and passed a brightly lit market, steam rising above the mass of canvas and nylon stall covers. Bundled up to stand in the cold all day, the traders looked more like astronauts.

  We slowed down almost immediately at a sign telling us we were at the Alexi Hotel. Cutting left, over the sidewalk, we stopped by a garage door that instantly started to open. A group of mothers with running strollers walked around the back of the Mere before bumping back up onto the walkway.

  We drove quite fast down a steep concrete ramp into a large, badly lit underground parking area. Puddles of water covered the floor where snow and ice had melted off the vehicles already here, and just about every car had skis strapped to its roof rack.