Detonator

by Andy McNab

  I believed her. The happiness was coming off her in waves.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll ring him on his mobile.’

  I thanked her and she thanked me, and she very much hoped I’d enjoy the rest of my day.

  Obliging was obviously her default position. But I was glad I hadn’t pushed too hard. I hadn’t wanted my call to be memorable for the wrong reasons. She hadn’t confirmed Dijani’s whereabouts, but she’d done the next best thing when I mentioned Italy. She hadn’t reacted at all.

  I dismantled the phone and lobbed the bits into the first stretch of deep water I came to, the canal that ran past the main train station.

  I didn’t have to hunt around for a cyber café here. I headed straight along the river Limmat to the one in Uraniastrasse which boasted fine food and fast Internet. It was surrounded by the solid architecture that must have been all the rage in this part of town during the nineteenth century, but had gone for the vibe of an airport departure lounge. It must have been a cool place to be, though: a bunch of very shiny, raked Harley Davidsons were parked nearby, alongside an underground car park that looked like Hitler’s bunker.

  I bought a frothy coffee and the Swiss version of a sticky bun, then selected a monitor at the end of a row with my back to a wall the colour of Hesco’s favourite brand of Fanta. I ate and sipped and played catch-up on the news channel.

  There had been another jihadist gangfuck, not in Lyon this time, in Marseille. A nightclub. Hostages. The GIGN had sorted it, but with five civilian casualties.

  An Italian security expert was being given some serious shit for warning anyone who would listen that Italy – the cradle of global Christianity – would be the next on the extremist hit list. It wasn’t just the people-traffickers who had worked out that Sicily was only a hundred and seventy Ks north of Libya.

  The French police had enlisted the support of Interpol in their search for the killer of Ukrainian billionaire Frank Timis and his missing son. A lad in a quilted jacket waffled into a big fat microphone outside the gates of Lyubova’s smouldering chateau as the police and fire crews did urgent stuff behind him. He was doing his best to report the next chapter of the unfolding family drama with the seriousness it deserved, but his eyes shone with excitement. Stories like this didn’t come by every day on the shores of Lake Konstanz.

  As a body bag on a gurney was wheeled towards the back of a waiting ambulance, he told us that Mrs Timis had not been seen since before the fire. Was it a tragic accident? The suicide of a grief-stricken widow? Or was there a more sinister link to the murder on the mountain?

  The report ended with a close-up of a black and grey circle with a very pissed-off tiger at its centre, the badge on the police combat gear. And one more question: did the presence of TIGRIS mean they suspected a terrorist involvement? No member of the elite SF team was available for comment.

  The shot of Stefan aged about five with Mr Lover Man’s disembodied hand on his shoulder filled the screen. It had gone viral, and already prompted 439 separate sightings, seventeen of which were in Bangkok.

  The kid might be trying to elbow his way into my nightmares, but this made him seem a whole lot further away.

  The bad news was that if the mum on the beach had time to catch this story between trips to the ice-cream van, she might put two and two together and make five. And since we’d been right up close, in daylight, the next e-fit had every chance of looking like me.

  I ran through the flights to Naples from Zürich and Geneva, but decided it made no sense heading into Mafia country without checking what Laffont had found out about Nettuno first.

  I clicked on the cross-box, finished my brew and stepped outside.

  I assembled another Nokia as I walked down to the river. At this rate I was going to keep the Finnish economy on the rails singlehanded.

  This time he answered.

  We hadn’t agreed an ID code, so I just said two words. ‘Russia House.’

  He didn’t reply immediately, but I could hear his breathing.

  Then: ‘Peredelkino.’

  ‘I need some information. The shipping line. Frank’s Italian villa. In Brindisi.’

  ‘I … need your help.’ It must have cost the grey man a fuck of a lot to admit that. Which meant he was severely rattled. The smooth-talking arrogance he’d displayed at our meeting had gone. ‘I’ve found something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘One of the vessels …’

  ‘Give me a name.’

  ‘I need to see you.’

  ‘From Libya?’

  ‘No. From the east … From Odessa. I can’t say more now. I need to see you.’

  ‘Are you safe?’

  ‘I am where we met.’

  ‘With security?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then get Mrs Laffont to join you, and stay there.’

  I told him to switch off his cell phone and take out the battery and SIM card until five o’clock this evening. I’d contact him after that with instructions.

  I unzipped my day sack and took out the blueprint Frank had left for me in his Albertville safe-deposit box. It was about as useful to me as a corporate balance sheet – filled with a mass of detail that you needed a different kind of brain to understand.

  When I’d first seen it, I’d thought he was drawing my attention to Nettuno and the trafficking. Now it sounded like something more focused. What the fuck had he said to me? What was so important about this boat? He never did anything without a very good reason.

  The more closely I examined the maze of interlocking blue lines, the more it did my head in. Only one thing was now clear to me: the name of the container vessel was Minerva.

  I wasn’t the world’s leading expert on Roman mythology, but I knew that she was the goddess of all sorts of shit.

  Including war.

  23

  I went in search of a bike shop. I needed a new helmet. I found a full-face job that could have doubled as an Apollo re-entry shield.

  When I got back to Hitler’s bunker, the Harleys were still on parade outside, tipped over to the left. Some had their steering locks on, some didn’t. Zürich had to be one of the top ten places on the planet where rich men could congregate to show off their toys. Outside the US, only retired accountants and dentists seem able to fork out for one of these machines. Once the mortgage is paid and the kids have left home, forget the fact you’ve only ever ridden a moped, let’s get a Harley, why not? No wonder so many fifty-year-old European widows collected early on the life insurance.

  I wasn’t after the newest, shiniest model in the range, but the oldest. It didn’t take long to find it. The Electra Glide had seen quite a few summers. Old guys favour them because both their seats are like armchairs. You can cruise for miles with your legs stretched out.

  This one’s saddles had seen a lot of arse wear in their time, and gave mine a warm welcome. The chrome work was the metallic version of distinguished grey. There was only one bit of it that mattered to me: the ignition switch on the tank, immediately above the petrol cap. Engraved on its personalized cover were the words Live to Ride, Ride to Live.

  Strangely, the ignition key wasn’t the ignition key on the older Harleys, which was why this one was my getaway vehicle of choice. All it did was free the ignition switch.

  I pulled out my UZI and eased its tip beneath the lip of the cover, to engage the lug that locked it in position when you turned the key. I didn’t care if I broke off the lug. I didn’t even care if I broke off the switch. I could still fire it up by jamming the pen into the well and giving it a turn.

  I found the lug, then pushed and shoved with both hands until it gave way. I turned on the ignition and hit the starter switch on the right side of the handgrip. 1700 ccs of throbbing manhood was immediately drowned out by the radio speakers on each side of the pillion behind me, banging out some classical violin.

  I pulled in the clutch, kicked it into first, and headed for the open road.

  I had almost re
ached Annecy by five. I took the exit off the main to the next rest area and stopped the Harley at the end of the row of parking spaces. There was a queue for the toilet, but that wasn’t what I was there for.

  I took off my shiny new helmet, put it down on a picnic table, and rang Laffont’s number. It went straight to voicemail. I checked the Suunto: 17:03. Precision was supposed to be this lad’s middle name, but maybe he was losing his grip. When I’d called him from Zürich, his voice had been vibrating with tension.

  I gave him ten minutes before trying again. I didn’t mind that. It gave me a chance to have another look at the map and run through the options for a meet. Two or three places to the north-west of Albertville seemed promising. Out-of-the-way places he could come to with his security people that had a variety of routes in and out. Places where I’d have time to arrive first and recce the RV point.

  If he had a better suggestion, I’d listen. As long as it wasn’t on his doorstep. I’d got away with that once, and once was enough.

  When he failed to pick up at both my next two attempts, it looked like I no longer had a choice. After I’d passed the truck stop near Ugine where I’d pulled in with Stefan, I stopped and punched the redial button one more time. Immediate voicemail. Not good. It was more than an hour since he should have powered up his mobile.

  I swung back on to the road and carried straight on until I reached the outskirts of Albertville. The early-evening sky was the kind of blue you only see on the holiday ads, which made the plume of smoke rising from the old town difficult to miss. And the two police wagons blocking the street fifty away from the entrance to the Banque Privée pretty much confirmed that my meeting with Laffont had been cancelled.

  I turned back to the nearest parking spot and joined the crowd of rubberneckers outside the cordon. The buildings on either side of Laffont’s HQ had been evacuated, and three fire crews were doing their best to stop the flames that were leaping out of every window from spreading.

  Water jets played up and down the frontage, mostly turning to steam as they touched the superheated walls. A lad in full urban disaster kit was poised to jump off the top of his ladder as soon as he could get close enough. But, unless the fire started above ground level and the bank staff had found a way of sealing themselves into the basement vault, I doubted he’d be bringing anyone out.

  I wasn’t the only biker in the audience, so keeping my helmet on wasn’t an issue. From behind the safety of the visor, I scanned the surrounding area for anyone I recognized, and anyone whose only reason for being there was to check on the results of the explosion they had triggered.

  It took me a while, but I spotted one of each. The guy I’d pinged as the potential arsonist hadn’t given himself away by his behaviour. I spotted him because I’d seen him before. Shiny head. Sharp lapels. Getting out of a Maserati outside the front of the hotel in Aix-les-Bains about half an hour before Mr Lover Man took his dive off the balcony. And then again at the Adler construction site last night.

  He was in the mix on the far side of the blaze, where another couple of wagons were keeping onlookers at bay.

  I was scanning the place for a route through to him when I saw Laffont’s assistant about fifteen away, to my half-right. She wasn’t as crisply tailored as she had been when she showed me to his office, but she wasn’t smouldering at the edges either. She glanced towards me, but there was no hint of recognition on her face. That was partly down to the helmet, and partly because she was obviously completely shell-shocked.

  I didn’t approach her. I waited for her to decide that she’d seen enough, and extricated herself from the growing crowd. Then I peeled off too, and followed her at a discreet distance. It wasn’t difficult. There were plenty of people weaving their way towards the place we’d just left. They only had eyes for the drama behind us. She was going against the flow, staring straight ahead.

  She crossed the road, away from where I’d left the Harley, and took the next right. I had no idea where she might be aiming for, and I’m not sure she had either. She was doing a pretty good impression of an automaton. After a couple more turns she went into a café and sat down. I gave her some time to settle, and myself some time to make sure she hadn’t been tailed, then followed her inside.

  I removed my helmet as I went through the door, walked up to her table and sat down. She looked straight through me for a moment, then finally showed a spark of recognition.

  Her lips moved, almost by remote control. ‘He was waiting for you to call. Then he … I …’

  Keeping eye-to-eye and my voice low, I leant forward. Tears gathered on her mascara, toppled off and rolled down her cheeks. ‘He was definitely in there?’

  She grabbed my arm and threatened to squeeze the life out of it. She nodded and tears jumped from her cheeks on to the tablecloth. ‘He let me leave early. Stomach pains … I might have … I was only two minutes away when I heard the explosion …’

  She removed her hand and reached for a paper napkin as the waitress appeared, so I ordered two frothy coffees and let her sort herself out a bit before speaking again.

  ‘When I called him this morning, he was really worried. He’d found out something. Did he tell you what it was?’

  Her eyebrows headed north. As if. ‘Monsieur Laffont … He shared very little. But I know he was … investigating … Monsieur Timis’s Italian shipping company.’

  ‘A container vessel, maybe? Minerva?’

  She nodded again, more slowly this time, but with increasing conviction. ‘Minerva.’

  Another tear gathered and dropped.

  ‘It wasn’t an accident, was it, Monsieur?’

  ‘No.’ There was no point in bullshitting her. ‘So tomorrow you need to go and talk to the police. And right now, you need to go somewhere safe …’

  ‘My boyfriend?’

  I told her to stay right there and call him. Get him to pick her up. And not to mention me to the police unless she really had to.

  ‘Oh, one more thing. Do you know the address of Frank Timis’s house near Brindisi?’

  ‘Of course. I processed the paperwork.’ She gave me the details. ‘In fact, it is closer to a place called Ostuni …’

  I didn’t wait for the coffee to arrive. Maybe her boyfriend would get there in time to enjoy it.

  I paid at the bar on my way out.

  PART THREE

  1

  I ditched the weapons and the Laguiole knife before I got anywhere near the outskirts of Milan, dumped the Harley in the middle of town and swapped the helmet for my baseball cap.

  I had bought a clean set of clothes in Albertville, from boxers outwards, so I didn’t look like I’d been living on the streets for a month. I changed before catching a cab to Malpensa airport and arrived in the departures hall of Terminal 2 just before three in the morning. The first available flight to Naples wasn’t until 09:40.

  Since there wasn’t a single chair in sight, I found a cubicle in the toilets. I hung my day sack on the back of the door, lowered my arse on to the plastic seat and unfolded the Minerva blueprint yet again. I spread it on my knees, hoping it would trigger any kind of memory of my briefing with Frank. Had he told me why the fuck it was so important? Had he let me know where it was going to dock and when?

  I could picture him talking to me, and pointing at something. I could see his lips moving, but I hadn’t a clue what he was saying. It was like watching a silent film, or having him under surveillance from across the street without any sound coming through my earpiece.

  I decided to get my head down. With my shoulder wedged in the corner of the partition and a guy banging around with a mop outside, I’d had better nights. But I’d done nine hours on the bike since leaving Zürich, and I didn’t fancy another nine.

  I cranked myself up at 06:00. My eyeballs and tongue felt like sandpaper, and my back and neck ached. I banged some euros into a wall-mounted chew-ball dispenser and gave my teeth a clean, then filled a basin with cold water, splashed my face with it and
felt halfway human again.

  I couldn’t see or feel any swelling on my head, so I peeled off the dressing and took a closer look. The wound still wasn’t pretty, but it wasn’t going to leak any more blood unless someone gave it another hammering. Until that happened, the baseball cap was all I needed.

  As the departures hall swung into action I bought a plane ticket and found a copy of Il Diavolo on one of the newsstands. I flicked through it over a brew and four or five slices of pizza, followed by a marmalade brioche.

  Luca Cazale had two major pieces in this edition. The first explored the Mafia’s role in the people-trafficking business. Swarms of refugees – from Ukraine, Syria, North Africa and as far off as Indonesia and the Philippines – handed over everything they had to be lifted out of their own local gangfucks, and were then left pretty much to fend for themselves.

  The Italian government had kicked off Operation Mare Nostrum – their attempt to rescue the victims from drowning in international waters – in late 2013, but had had to cut it back the following year. It had been costing them nine million euros a month. I could only guess what kind of cash the traffickers were making.

  Luca’s second article was on the Islamic State doing shit in Mosul and Syria. I’d kept a close watch on the Middle East since getting fucked over in Iraq during the First Gulf War, and this guy really delivered. His mugshot said he wasn’t going to take any prisoners, and his journalism kept the promise.

  I called his office from a payphone, mentioned Pasha’s name, and fixed a meet.

  2

  Despite the cloud cover, Vesuvius, the volcano that fucked up Pompeii, dominated the skyline to the south-west as we came in to land. Nothing was spilling out of it right now, but it still looked angry.

  There was only ten metres of tarmac between the bottom of the aircraft steps and the terminal, but it was enough to raise some sweat. The temperature must have been thirty plus, and the humidity was outrageous.