by Andy McNab
I got to my feet and moved to the right of the door, away from the toilets, stressing at the prospect of taking on a guy of his size. All that stuff about the bigger they are, the harder they fall, it's a myth. The bigger they are, the harder they hit you back.
I wasn't sure how long the hallway was, but I soon found out. I'd only taken four steps when I banged into the end wall. Turning back, I faced the door, fumbling in my pocket for the other half-can, breathing deeply to oxygenate myself in preparation.
The door swung open with a metallic screech of its hinges, momentarily flooding the area with bright white light. I could hear the car whining in reverse. He had turned right, his massive back to me now as he took the first few steps toward my toilet stall.
I moved quickly as the door closed; not exactly running, because I didn't want to trip, but taking long, fast steps to get some speed and momentum, with my right arm raised. With the main door closed and car engine running, there was no way she was going to hear this.
He did, though, and when I was still a couple of feet away he started to turn.
I focused on the shape of his head as I leaped up and at him. Landing with my left foot forward, I swung my whole body to the left, my right arm crooked and the palm held open. Sometimes a really firm, heavy slap to the face can be more effective than a punch, and that's absolutely guaranteed if you're wielding a sawed off soda can with razor-sharp edges.
It hit his head hard. I didn't care where the can connected, just so long as it did. There was a loud groan. I didn't feel the can digging in, just the pressure of my arm being stopped mid swing as the rest of my body carried on swiveling.
The light danced as the florescent unit in his hand clattered to the concrete, and he started to follow it. I swung to the right with my left arm slightly bent, still focusing on his head. I hit the mark; I could feel the softness of his cheek under the left half of the can, then felt it scrape around the contour of his jaw as he fell. He moaned again, this time louder and with more anguish. By now he was on his knees.
As I brought my right hand down hard onto the top of his head, the metal edges dug deep, then hit bone, stripping back the skin as he fell. I gouged a thick furrow from his scalp; the can held for a couple more inches and then broke free.
He slumped to the ground, hands scrabbling to protect his head. For a few more frenzied seconds I continued to slash at his hands and head, then his hands fell away and he lay very still. He wasn't feigning unconsciousness: he wouldn't have risked dropping his hands and exposing himself to further attack. He had gone into shock, but he was still breathing; He wasn't dead. He was never going to get a job modeling for Gillette, but he'd live. There had been no other way out. If you're going to stop somebody, you have to do it as quickly and violently as you can.
The florescent unit threw a pool of light across the floor and onto his ski mask. The wool still looked remarkably intact, as it does when a sweater rips and the tear seems to knit itself together, unless you look at it close up. Blood was seeping through the material.
Dropping the cans, I rolled him over onto his back and, putting my knee into his face just to make things worse, I pulled out the P7 and a cell phone that was also in there. That went into my pocket.
My breathing was now very fast and shallow and just slightly louder than the engine ticking over immediately beyond the swing door. I could see the red glow from the tail lights under the door gap, and my nose was filling with exhaust fumes.
Getting to my feet, I got hold of the top of his ski mask and pulled it off. At last I saw the extent of the damage. He had some severe gouges where the can had gone right through his cheeks and flaps of skin hung across his mouth. In places I could see bone through the blood-soaked, hairy mess of his skull.
I pulled the mask over my head, trying to cut down on the chances of being recognized later. It was wet and warm. I checked his body for a radio as he whined weakly to himself. There was nothing; he'd have been planning to be sterile like the rest of them. He'd had to hang onto the P7 to sort me out.
I turned toward the door. It was the woman's turn next.
Pushing through, I moved into a cloud of red fumes and brake lights.
The vehicle was no more than three feet away, engine idling, trunk still open and waiting for me. I moved straight to the left hand side as the passenger door banged shut behind me. Bringing the pistol up into the aim, I pointed it at the woman's face, the muzzle a foot from the glass. If she opened the door, she couldn't knock the pistol out of line quickly enough to do anything about it; if she tried to drive forward, she would die first round.
She stared wide-eyed at the barrel from under her multicolored ski hat.
In the glow from the instrument panel I could see her trying to make sense of what her eyes were telling her. It wouldn't take her long; my blood-soaked touch gloves and the Wasp's mask would soon give her a clue.
With my left hand I motioned for her to get out. I was supposed to be Russian; I wasn't going to open my mouth unless I had to.
She kept staring, transfixed. She was bluffing; she'd drop me at the first opportunity.
Moving further back as the door inched open, I decided to put on a heavy Slavic accent. Well, what I thought sounded like one. "Gun, gun!"
She stared up at me with frightened eyes and said in a little-girl voice, "Please don't hurt me. Please don't hurt me."
Then she opened her legs to show me a P7 nestled between her jeaned thighs. They were definitely traveling sterile, otherwise they would have had conventional weapons for this phase.
I motioned for her to drop it in the foot well She moved her hand very slowly downward to comply.
The moment she'd dropped it I moved in, grabbing her by her shoulder-length, dark-brown hair and heaving her out of the car and onto all fours. With the P7 jammed into her neck I felt for a cell phone. It seemed I had the only one. Moving back three paces, I pointed at the far wall, where the car had originally been parked, and she got up and started walking. I didn't care what she did now that she was disarmed. All their radios would have been stashed, I had the cell phone and there was no one left that she could turn to for help.
I got into the warm car, a Ford, threw it into first gear and screamed toward the closed shutter. She was probably in the hallway by now to find out what had happened to her friend the Wasp.
Stopping alongside the four vans and the shot-out 4x4,1 got out with a P7 in hand and splashed through the small puddles made by melting snow from the vehicles, ready to shoot out some tires. You don't just go up and fire straight at rubber: There's too high a chance of the round ricocheting back. You use the engine block to protect you, lean round the door and then do it.
The P7's signature thud was nothing to the high-pitched dmgggg that echoed round the hangar as the round hit metal. Then there was a hiss as air escaped under pressure.
I took a look behind me; there was nothing happening from the hallway yet.
Once all vehicles were taken care of, I jumped back into the driver's seat and aimed for the garage doors, though this time in reverse, so the headlights were pointed at the swing door. If she came for me, I wanted to see.
I braked, threw the gearbox into neutral and leaped out. The ice-cold metal chains burned my hands even through the touch gloves as I pulled down in a frenzy to open the shutters. Raising them just enough to get the car out, I clambered back in and reversed out into the snowfall, pointing the vehicle in the direction everyone else had gone.
I left the hangar behind, not knowing whether to feel sorry for the Wasp, relieved at still being alive, or angry with Val and Liv. I checked the fuel tank; it was nearly full, as I would have expected.
The cell phone went out the window and buried itself in the snow. No way was such a fantastic tracking device going to stay with me.
The snow was falling heavily. I didn't have a clue where I was, but that didn't really matter as long as I got away. Pulling at the mask, I felt the Wasp's blood smear across
my face. It finally came off, and I threw it into the foot well along with the other P7.
Hitting the in tenor light, I took a look in the mirror. There was so much red stuff on me I looked like a beet. There was no way I could drive after first light or in a builtup area looking like this.
The steering wheel, too, was smeared with blood from the touch gloves.
I'd have to sort myself out. After maybe an hour I pulled off the road, and had a quick wash in the freezing snow. Then, with a cleaned-up body and car, and the blood-soaked gear buried in a snow drift, I drove through the night, looking for signs that would steer me to Helsinki.
The more I thought about it, the more severely pissed I became.
Whether Liv and Val knew about the Americans wanting to join in the fun, I wasn't sure, but I intended to find out.
25
Wednesday, December 15.1999 I set an the flam next to a red star in the corner of the station, facing the row of telephone booths that displayed the DLB loaded sign.
The black marker strike down the side of the right-hand booth was clearly visible from the bus station doors immediately to my right. I had a copy of the International Herald Tribune, an empty coffee cup and, in my right pocket, a P7 with a full seven-round unit. Detached from its pistol grip in my left-hand pocket was the other unit, containing three remaining rounds.
As soon as the shops opened that morning I'd bought a complete set of clothes to replace the cold, wet ones I was wearing. I was now in a dark-beige ski jacket, gloves, and a blue fleece pointed hat. I didn't care if I looked dorky; it covered up my head and most of my face. My pulled-up jacket collar did the rest.
Pain lanced across my left shoulder as I adjusted my position. The bruising probably looked horrendous. There was nothing I could do about it but moan to myself and be thankful I hadn't fallen on anything sharp.
I'd dumped the car off at a suburban railway station just after eight o'clock that morning and took the train into the city. The snow was still falling, so the vehicle would be covered by now and the plates would be un checkable On arrival at Helsinki I'd pulled off the left-luggage ticket from under locker number eleven and collected my bag, cash, passports, and credit cards. I also checked for Tom's, ticket under number ten. It was still wrapped in its plastic and taped under the locker.
I'd been thinking about him a lot. If the Americans or the Maliskia hadn't killed him last night, the weather would have. Tom had skills, but playing at Grizzly Adams wasn't one of them.
I felt pissed, but not too sure if that was for him or me. It was then that I wrote him off. There has to be a stage when that happens, so your mind can be free to concentrate on more important things, and I wasn't short of those.
I left his bag ticket where it was. It would be an emergency supply of money and a new passport, once I'd tampered with it, in case what I was about to do went to rat shit.
Despite my best efforts, I found I couldn't help feeling sorry for Tom as I sat and watched a constant flow of travelers moving through the doors. It was my lies and promises that had got him where he was now, face down in the snow or bundled up somewhere in an American body bag.
The thing that made me feel even guiltier was that I knew I was just as pissed about not making any money as I was about his death.
Cutting away from that, I buried my hands deeper into my pockets, wrapping them round the P7 barrels. I was getting even more annoyed because I'd dumped the bag and blanket that could now be keeping my ass warm and comfortable, and because I knew that Tom's death would become yet another of those niggling little glitches that would surface in the hours before daybreak while I tried to sleep.
The station was packed. Santa Claus had already done two circuits, collecting money for neglected reindeer or whatever. People had been dragging in the snowfall on their footwear and, thanks to the large Victorian-style radiators, puddles had formed around the door area and gradually spread further into the station.
I looked at Baby G. It was 2:17 and I'd been here over four hours already. I was dying for another coffee, but needed to keep an eye on the doors; besides, once I drank I would inevitably need the bathroom at some stage, and I couldn't afford to miss Liv when and if she arrived.
It was going to be a long food- and coffee-free day, and maybe night.
From the point of view of third-party awareness, it's not too bad hanging around a railway station; you can get away with it for quite a long time.
I adjusted my numb, cold ass again, deciding not to waste time speculating about what the fuck had happened at the Microsoft house.
The facts were, I had made no money, Tom was dead and I could be in a world of shit with the Americans and a universe of shit with the Firm.
If my involvement was discovered, I'd end up helping to prop up an arch in a concrete pillar somewhere along the new Eurotunnel high-speed link. I'd never been too worried about dying, but to be killed by my own people would be a bit depressing.
The longer I'd thought about what had happened on the drive last night, the more I'd boiled over with hostility toward Liv and Val. I had to come up with a plan that still got me what I needed and not waste time and energy trying to work out how to get even. Apart from anything else, that wouldn't pay any clinic bills. Plan B was taking shape in my head. The Maliskia's money would pay for Kelly when I lifted Val and offered him to them for cash. My life had been up for grabs for years, and for a lot less money.
I had no idea how I was going to do it yet; I'd have to hit the ground running. But the first phase would be to let Liv think I had the Think Pad with the downloaded information on it, and, because of last night's fuckup, I'd only deal with Val now, and only in Finland. Who knows?
If Val turned up with the money, I could just take that and save myself the hassle.
But that wasn't the message I'd left in the plastic box I'd placed in the DLB. It was empty, just there so that when she came to get it there was something to unload, so as not to arouse suspicion.
Everything needed to be as it should be. As she left the station I would grab her and tell her in person, so she made no mistake about what I wanted.
I'd been sitting there for another twenty minutes when a large group of schoolkids on an excursion tried to get through the bus station doors all at once, juggling bags, skis, and Big Macs as they tried to walk, talk, and listen to Walkmans at the same time.
Less than thirty seconds later I saw Liv come through and walk straight past the loaded sign without even turning her head. But I knew she would have seen it. Her long black coat, Tibetan hat, and light-brown boots were easy to spot among the crowd as she moved through the hall, brushing snow from a shoulder with one hand and carrying two large paper Stockmann bags in the other.
She carried on past the kiosks and rest rooms, maneuvering through the schoolkids, who were now waiting for one of their teachers to sort his shit out with the tickets. I kept my eye on the peak of Liv's hat.
I had a good check to make sure she hadn't been followed in, just in case she'd brought any protection with her, or worse, in case the Wasp had a few of the party faithful on her tail.
The hat disappeared as she turned left into the ticketing and metro hallway. There was no rush, I knew where she was heading.
Once on my feet and past the school trip I spotted her again, just about to sit on top of the DLB, next to some more kids. The street pre former was in his normal spot, knocking out some old Finn favorite on his accordion. The noise mixed nicely with the ruckus from a group of drunks on the other side of the benches. They were having an argument with Santa Claus, much to the amusement of those passing.
Liv sat down as Santa poked the chest of one of the drunks. Staff began to step in to separate them. I watched Liv bend down and pretend to mess around with her bags. Her hand moved to pick up the DLB. The empty container was pulled from the Velcro and dropped into one of the bags; it wouldn't get read here.
I waited for her to leave, positioning myself in a corner so that w
hatever door she decided to head for I wouldn't be in her line of sight. A few minutes passed before she stood up, looking toward the ticketing area and smiling broadly. Her arms went out as the man from St. Petersburg emerged, smiling, from the crowd. They embraced and kissed, then sat down together, talking in that smiley, hand-in-hand, nice-to-see-you way, their noses only inches apart. He was dressed in the same long camel-hair coat, this time with a dark maroon turtleneck sticking out of the top. Today he also carried a light-brown leather briefcase.
Making sure I wasn't in line of sight of the platform doors, I checked the departures and arrivals board high on the wall. The St.
Petersburg train, going on to Moscow, was leaving from Platform 8 at 3:34 just over half an hour's time.
They talked for another ten minutes and then both stood up. Liv's contact picked up her bags in one hand, his briefcase in another, and they walked toward the platform doors.
Alarm bells started to ring in my head. Why had he picked up her bags?
My heart started to pound even harder when they both went through the doors and out onto the snow-covered platform. Shit, was she going with him? Maybe the courier had just given her the news about what had happened at Microsoft HQ and Liv was bailing out while she could.
I counted to ten and pushed my way out into the cold. Platform 8 was to the right of me as I headed toward the luggage lockers. The snow was falling gently and there wasn't a breath of wind. I walked with my head down, hands in pockets. Glancing sideways across the tracks, I saw they were heading for the cars about midway along the train. I walked slowly toward the left-luggage room, watching until they got on board. Then, checking my watch as if I'd just remembered something, I turned on my heels. There were about seventeen minutes to go before they left for St. Petersburg, and it looked like I'd have to go with them.
I went past two of the Russian train staff, standing in the guard's van at the rear of the train, their high-peaked, Nazi-officer-style caps pushed onto the backs of their heads as they glumly took a swig of whatever was in their bottle.
