by Andy McNab
I scrabbled back to the foam, making sure I could get my hand straight back into the cuff if they did come in. I checked with my tongue that the pin was still in place and started pulling down my jeans. I got them to mid-thigh, then crouched in a semi-squat with my back against the wall. I could just see the tops of the vans and movement from the top cabins. I could no longer hear the echoing footsteps. Sophie, Bruce and the Chinese suit must have reached ground level.
There was laughter as they moved towards the vehicles. I risked moving so I could see more. Two more guys in jeans and short-sleeved shirts – maybe the ones who’d done the donkey-work last night – emerged from behind the ground-level cabins. They joined the others at the van, slid the door open and powered up the roller-shutter that gave access to the compound. At first glance, they looked like two lads who enjoyed a lot of pork balls with their steamed rice. But there was something brutal in their faces and about the way they held themselves.
Sophie and Bruce shook hands with the suit. He climbed into the back of the Merc van as the two chubbies swung themselves into the cab. Sophie and Bruce stood in silence for a couple of seconds after the shutter had unwound once more, then Sophie pumped a fist in the air and did a little victory dance. She looped her arms around Bruce’s neck and they kissed. I was glad the day had been a success for somebody.
6
My next task was to sort out all the discarded plastic ties with my sausage fingers and start feeding the free end of each into the roller block of the next. It didn’t matter what colour or width they were, as long as the teeth engaged. By the time I’d finished, I had one continuous white, green and black daisy-chain about a metre and a half long, with a loop at the end, like one of those joke leads that are supposed to make passers-by think you’re walking an invisible dog. You look a complete twat when you’re holding one, but someone always smiles.
I moved back to the window to check for movement or noise. The place seemed deserted.
I pushed my head against the mesh until it ballooned.
Some of the feeling had come back into my fingers, but I still fumbled as I fed the loop of the dog lead through the left side of the fresh forehead-shaped bulge and on towards the bolt. I took a break after a while to rub the pins and needles out of my hands and realized I was totally fucking it up. My makeshift plastic lasso had dropped below the hasp, so I started pulling it back into the container with my teeth. No way was I going to let my sausage fingers drop this thing.
I gave the mesh another shove with my head, a couple of feet higher this time, and started the whole process again, about two-thirds of the way up the frame. I didn’t bother to check for movement or sound out there. I needed total focus on this job, and if they’d seen me, I’d just have to deal with it the best way I could.
The loop was more or less in range of the bolt, but I had to keep twisting it to keep it flush against the outside wall. It had to catch the handle when I finally pulled it back towards me. My neck ached with the strain of forcing my head against the mesh. I was concentrating so hard I dribbled a stream of blood-flecked saliva down the front of my shirt. I had no idea where the pin had gone. For all I knew I might have swallowed it.
Half a lifetime later, my lasso fell over the bolt head like a fairground hoop around a prize. I didn’t just jerk the lead and hope for the best. Slowly, slowly, I closed the loop, kept the tension, and pulled. There was a very satisfying metallic rasp as the bolt squeaked back. I kept pulling until it completely disengaged and the door drifted open.
I retrieved the two razor-sharp discs I’d managed to fashion out of the drink can from beneath the foam then slid outside. I released the loop and threw it back into my Portakabin before closing the door and resetting the bolt.
I quickly checked the other two cabins next to mine. They were full of boxes, banding and polystyrene moulds, whose former contents were, no doubt, on display in the newer cabins.
I half ran, half stumbled to the Toyota. My first instinct was to get the fuck out of there, but right now I had other priorities. I had to find out if Sophie and her mates really had chopped Katya into tiny pieces – and I wanted that photo back. Just one fucking happy-snap after all these years, and this shit had happened.
Besides, if I really was in the PRC, I didn’t know how far I was from the border, or which direction to go. And without docs, I’d have to pull an II stunt to get back into Hong Kong.
The ignition keys were lying on the tray between the two front seats. I grabbed them and headed for the yellow junction box to the right of the shutter. I turned a big red handle to switch off the power. No one was getting in or out of here in a hurry.
My next target was the new white Portakabin complex.
7
As I got closer to the eight cabins I saw there was an identical row behind them, making the set-up a large rectangular block of sixteen. I moved round the corner to the right, where the driver and his mate had appeared earlier, and found a half-glazed entrance into the rear section. I stopped and listened, then gently pushed down on the handle with my wrist, a jagged drink-can disc in each hand.
The floor tiles were highly polished and there was a strong smell of antiseptic. Almost immediately I came to a set of white double doors. A corridor the far side of them opened onto a series of separate rooms. There weren’t any scuffmarks on the floor, not even a fingermark on a glass panel. There were noticeboards, but no notices. This place had just been lifted out of the box; it was a brand-new ghost town.
Behind the first door there was a small utility kitchen: an electric kettle and a microwave on a stainless-steel work-surface; a small table and four stacking chairs; a fridge-freezer; all the normal stuff. A couple of teabags with strings sat on a saucer next to two white mugs.
I opened another set of double doors wide enough to admit trolleys and gurneys. The operating theatre was as well equipped as anything I’d seen on Grey’s Anatomy. More stainless steel gleamed in the dim light. Even the sink was spotless, not a watermark in sight.
Further down, I came to a run of four bedrooms: fresh sheets, still in their packaging, stacked on the beds; flat-screen TV on the wall; a beaker wrapped in cellophane and a bottle of mineral water on every bedside cabinet.
I had a grudging respect for Sophie’s business plan. The international community was clamping down on hospitals performing illegal operations, and the kind of place where it might be tolerated was pretty scary for anyone who valued quality control. This place was state-of-the-art, providing the most sophisticated procedures in a highly sanitized environment. But it had to be stopped before it had the chance to start – especially if I was going to have a starring role in the opening ceremony.
Further on still, I found the ultrasound and X-ray facilities I’d already visited, and two labs for testing whatever they had to test. There were also two storerooms. The first had shelf upon shelf lined with massed ranks of disinfectant and cleaning fluid, poised and combat ready. One splash mark and they’d go on the attack. The second was crammed with varying sizes of what looked like white insulated picnic hampers, but I was pretty sure they weren’t designed for beer and sandwiches.
This was a central clearing-house for body parts. Maybe they were then exported to Hong Kong and the rest of the world. Or maybe the market for DNA, bone-marrow extraction and all the other bells and whistles was big enough here in the PRC for them not to have to leave the country.
I retraced my steps along the corridor, exited the way I’d come in and made my way towards the metal staircase. I reached the upper level and crept along the steel landing. The lights were still blazing in all four of the top Portakabins. The first was an office, with paperwork geometrically arranged on a shiny white desktop. I remembered Lena’s workspace and felt my face creasing into a grin.
I heard movement ahead of me. Then the sound of rhythmic moaning.
I stopped short of the next window, crouched low and slowly moved my head until I could see through the bottom left-hand co
rner of the glass. It was a chrome and black-leather paradise in there. Sophie’s jeans were down by her ankles as she gripped the back of a designer chair. Bruce was much the same. His buttocks glowed as he pumped into her from behind. By the sound of things, they were going to make this celebration last.
I ducked down and moved on past. The next two cabins were empty. Both of them, and the three behind, were bedrooms with en-suite shower rooms and all the trappings you’d hope for – even a stack of cans and food packages ready for the staff who were going to work below.
I left Bruce and Sophie to their fun and legged it back downstairs. A strong smell of car showroom came off the leather chairs and brand-new carpet tiles of what I took to be the main admin centre. All the right gear was on display, but not much happening with it – a bit like a front for the Mafia.
A spreadsheet glowed on a monitor the size of a small cinema screen. It looked like Sophie had been momentarily distracted from filling it in by the need to nip upstairs and celebrate. My name was at the top. A line of abbreviations ran down the left-hand column. They meant nothing to me at first, but the further I went, the more I understood.
The next column registered prices in US dollars x 1,000. I saw Kidney x 2: 140 … Liver: 130 … Lung x 2: 140 … Pancreas: 120 … Heart: 160 … Further along, the date had been inserted for Heart and Lung x 2: 8 September. They were going to Hong Kong, by the look of it. My liver had tbc in the date column, but it seemed to be staying in the PRC.
She’d already lined up a pretty impressive range of takers for the Stone harvest. I wasn’t sure how long I’d been out of it for, but I reckoned the party was due to start in about a week’s time. Maybe they had more tests to do and customers to ship in from overseas, but who gave a fuck? The eighth was the big day.
There were no dates on the big-ticket items like bone marrow, which was marked up at 23 per gram. My DNA, I guessed, would be used for something like stem-cell treatment. It had been marked up at a mere six million dollars. Sophie had hoped for nine. Maybe they were doing it on special offer.
Fuck me, if the distribution was as simple as moving bits of me from one Portakabin to another or lobbing body parts into picnic hampers and jumping on a plane, this was even better than the drugs trade. The set-up costs would be enormous, but so would the returns. I couldn’t help it: I had to take my hat off to these two. Becoming a panel-beater had been the limit of my ambitions back on my Bermondsey council estate, and Sophie’s vision sure beat the shit out of that.
They were bound to have a back-up, but I couldn’t resist deleting it. It might just put a spanner in the works.
I rifled through the drawers and fancy cabinets for some hint of Katya and my tourist pouch. A business so well run would have filed it somewhere to sell the contents on. Sophie’s enterprise was even more efficient than one of those places that turned beaks, claws and arseholes into chicken nuggets. Nothing was going to waste. They’d got it all squared away. Well, until now.
I found my iPhone and passport at the bottom of a filing cabinet, with the three belonging to the girls I had seen Sophie meet and greet at the airport. I tucked all four into the pouch and looped it back around my neck. I couldn’t find anything belonging to Katya.
I headed back to join the happy couple upstairs.
8
It sounded like the celebration was over.
I eased my right eye above the window ledge. They were still sharing the glow, but beginning to sort themselves out. Bruce had hitched his jeans around his thighs and Sophie was starting to pull hers up too.
It was now or never.
Checking that the discs were the right way up and gripped as firmly as possible in my fucked-up hands, I pushed my forearm down on the handle and barged open the door with my shoulder.
Bruce had his back to me, but must have seen Sophie’s soft smile freeze in shock a nanosecond after hearing the crash. He spun round, scrabbling at the waistband of his jeans, trying to haul them up far enough to allow him to swing into action. I rushed him, right hand raised, focusing on his head. It didn’t matter where the jagged edge of the disc made contact, as long as it did. Sophie’s scream was no more than muffled background noise as I stepped into range and swung down my arm.
Bruce was still turning, in a semi-squat, hobbled by his jeans. But his left arm flew up to block my first blow and his right fist followed with a short, sharp jab into my solar plexus.
I buckled.
The air exploded out of me. I tried to gulp some back, but it wasn’t happening. My lungs went rigid with shock. I stumbled backwards to get out of his reach and give myself a second or two to recover. But that wasn’t happening either.
His jeans were up and he came for me, spinning on one leg with a roundhouse kick to my left arm as I brought it up to protect myself. The force of the blow smashed my forearm into my head and had the same effect as if he’d made contact direct. Fighting for breath, I fell back over Sophie’s favourite leather chair and onto the floor.
I had to get up. If I stayed where I was, I could be there for ever. At least if I was on my feet I had a fighting chance.
I grabbed the chair arm and pulled myself up onto my knees, but Bruce wasn’t interested in me right now. He knew he’d got me fucked. He could take care of me whenever he liked. He had his back to me again, comforting Sophie, holding her, stroking her cheek, then caressing the back of her head.
I saw a black ash and chrome cabinet by the wall to my left. A varnished wooden plinth took pride of place on it. Bruce’s very smart kukri sat on two small steel pins that jutted from the base, above an engraved brass plaque. There was going to be no finessing this – I’d just have to hurl the thing in his direction and hope the sharp end made contact. At least it might slow him down as I followed it in.
Bruce was still in soothing mode. He kissed her forehead.
I focused on the handle of the kukri as I stumbled towards it.
‘Bruce!’ Sophie’s scream filled the room.
Without looking back, I gripped the handle as hard as I could. Every hint of pain disappeared from my fingers as adrenalin surged through my body.
Bruce pushed Sophie out of the way as I turned. He knew what was going to happen. He finished his own turn and catapulted himself at me. I focused on his centre mass and let the kukri go as if I was throwing a boomerang. I leaped up onto the leather chair and launched myself over the top of it in an attempt to give myself a bit of height and momentum. My head smashed into his; my vision went dark for a split second, then the stars burst. We both tumbled onto the carpet with me half on top of him, half not.
Somewhere above me, Sophie was still screaming. But it wasn’t because of the fight. It was because the kukri blade was stuck in his gut and blood was pulsing out of him in synch with his short, sharp breaths.
9
I grabbed the handle and pulled, and Bruce gave a muffled gasp. The next sound I heard made me swing my head. Tears spilling down her contorted face, Sophie stood above me. She held a snub-nosed .38 in her shaking hands, its muzzle aimed at my head. It had come out of the massive handbag that now sat crumpled at her feet.
‘Put it down, Sophie.’ I chucked the kukri back towards the cabinet to show I wasn’t a threat. ‘It’s a fucker, but I can help him now. I can keep him alive.’
I was far enough from Bruce for her to shoot me, but she wasn’t going to: I could see it in her eyes. She might trade in misery and death second-hand, but she didn’t have it in her to do it this way.
I heaved myself up. ‘Put it down and we can both help keep him alive.’
I wasn’t sure she was getting the message: her eyes were glazed. She might not have the will to shoot – the hammer wasn’t even cocked – but it still had a chamber full of shiny brass-jacketed rounds either side of the barrel, and a panicky finger could accidentally squeeze one off.
‘Sophie …’
I took a step towards her. Not so fast it confused her, but not slowly either.
�
��Sophie, we have to stop wasting time. He’s bleeding. He needs our help.’
She took a half-step back, the weapon still clutched in her trembling hands. I had to keep moving towards her. I couldn’t afford to be there all day. I had no idea where that second Merc van had gone or when it was coming back. And though the shutter would slow them down, it wouldn’t do so for ever.
‘Sophie, look at me, please. I’m not going to hurt you … Let’s all get out of this alive, yeah?’
I took another step. Now I was within reach of her. I slammed the .38 with my left hand and grabbed it with my right, yanking it out of her grasp. It wasn’t difficult. She didn’t really want it there in the first place.
I pushed her back into the leather chair she’d been moaning against a few minutes ago and shoved the weapon into the waistband of my jeans.
Bruce was curled up in a ball of pain. Blood, dark and deoxygenated, oozed out of him. Sophie sprang out of the chair and crawled over to him. She stroked his hair, as if that was going to do any good.
I knelt beside them. ‘He needs more than that.’
She lifted her head. Her eyes were swollen with fear and grief, her hair stuck to her cheeks.
‘All three of us are going back to the New Territories, Sophie. I’ll keep him alive until we get there. Then we find the nearest hospital.’
Her jaw hardened. ‘They’ll be back … and then—’
I yelled in her face. ‘Shut the fuck up!’ I needed her full attention. She was right. Those lads could be back at any moment.
‘Listen. Don’t worry about who’s turning up, because they aren’t going to save him. And if fucking about with his hair is all you can do, I’m the only one here who can keep him alive.’
I moved back to give her space to think. Bruce tried to turn over and curl up again. The front of his shirt glistened red in the fluorescent light.
‘It’s OK, let him. He might as well die in comfort if we’re not going south.’
