Zero Hour (2010) ns-13

by Andy McNab

  He jerked his head. ‘She speak English?’

  He was no Russian: his accent was Scouse, deep, strong and quick.

  The small guy shrugged.

  The Scouser took a seat next to his mate.

  Anna stubbed out what was left of her cigarette on the plate and frowned impatiently, wanting to get on with business. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m Santa fucking Claus. What the fuck’s it to you? Why have you come to us?’

  He wasn’t exactly cross-eyed, but they looked ever so slightly inwards. He reminded me of someone I’d known back in my battalion days. Robot was permanently AWOL. He’d always either gone to a Millwall match, or got arrested after one. His big pleasure in life was smashing up shop fronts or battering other teams’ fans with a hammer. Being in the army had messed up his social life.

  I always kept clear of Robot. He was as crazy and unpredictable as he looked. One day he walked into someone in the cookhouse by mistake. Instead of ‘Why don’t you look where you’re going?’ the guy said, ‘Why don’t you go where you’re looking?’ It cracked us up, but Robot didn’t see the funny side. The squaddie he’d collided with was in hospital for weeks with a fractured jaw.

  Anna relaxed back into her chair. ‘I want girls. I’m expanding into Italy, France, Germany. I want to pick them up from here, and do my own distribution.’

  The Scouser leant over and examined the last cigarette in the pack. With a curl of the lip he extracted a silver case from an inside pocket. He flipped it open, selected an untipped cancer stick of his own and bounced it up and down in his lips as he spoke. ‘What’s your name?’ He reached for the lighter.

  ‘Anna.’ Her tone was assured. She was going for it.

  The Scouser dipped into his coat and pulled out Lilian’s pictures, along with our mobiles. ‘What the fuck’s this shite about?’

  Anna didn’t miss a beat. ‘She is one of mine, from Moldova.’

  He smiled. ‘Not any more.’

  Anna sat back and accepted the news with a slow nod. ‘Is she upstairs?’

  ‘Not now. Those two are just perks for the lads.’ He waved an arm towards the doorway. ‘Can’t be all work, no play. Know what I mean?’

  She didn’t bother answering. ‘The hard part is getting the girls into Europe. If you can do that, why don’t I just come to you? It will make my life easier.’ She retrieved the pictures from the table and screwed them up. ‘Do you have girls for sale, or am I wasting my time?’

  ‘That depends.’

  She pointed a finger at him. ‘I want young ones. No crack whores or ugly pigs the Turks have already finished with. I want the ones you get fresh from here. No scars, no skin ink.’ She draped an arm coolly over the back of her chair.

  He put cigarette and lighter to one side. ‘Who wants them? Who sent you?’

  She laughed. ‘Why? Are you with Animal Welfare? You want to make sure they go to good homes? Now, do you have some for me to see, or what? I want a good price. If I get that, we can do business. A lot more business. But young. No more than twenty-one, twenty-two.’

  The Scouser flicked a speck of ash off his coat, then studied her through the cloud of smoke that still hung over the table. He finally shrugged and put his hands in the air. ‘Tell you what, give me a number. Maybe I’ll call you.’

  ‘No. Fuck you.’ She stood up, grabbed our mobiles and turned, ready to leave.

  He waved an arm. ‘For fuck’s sake, calm down. Sit down a minute.’ He pulled out a pen and wrote on the cigarette packet.

  She came and stood beside me. She wasn’t going to do fuck-all of what he said.

  He threw the empty packet at her. ‘Be at that address tomorrow. I’ll see what I can do. Wear one layer of clothes. That coat. And have a fucking bath, will you? You smell and look like shite.’ He pointed at me. ‘And no fucking ape.’

  She had what she wanted. She turned towards the door, confidently expecting the North Faces to part like the Red Sea.

  PART FIVE

  1

  Schiphol Airport, Amsterdam Wednesday, 17 March

  09.25 hrs

  The flight from Copenhagen only took ninety minutes and landed on time. We’d followed our new mate Robot’s advice and bought new gear and day sacks to carry it in, then gone back to the hotel for a shower. Of course Anna had kept her coat.

  I reached into my brown-leather charity-shop bomber jacket and pulled out my passport. I’d put it into the right-hand inside pocket so I had to use my left to take it out. The action was awkward enough to remind me I was doing something unusual: that I was Nicholas Smith, not Nick Stone. Julian’s guys hadn’t exactly pushed the creative envelope there, but it fitted my alias business cover. Nick Smith was an unemployed satellite-dish engineer. He’d only ever worked for small outfits. You never used a well-known company like Sky or BT as cover. If you did and got caught, they’d go ballistic. Apart from anything else, you’d be putting their genuine personnel at risk. They could become a target for reprisals.

  In my well-worn jeans, bomber and Timberlands I was just one of the thousands of Brit workers moving in and out of Schiphol and other EU airports every day. They spilt out of the no-frills flights from Gatwick and East Midlands, day sacks and wheelies in hand so they could bypass the luggage carousels and get to work. With a couple of days’ growth, I really looked the part. Nick Smith was in good company as he approached the Immigration desks.

  Being unemployed is always good cover. You don’t have to go into detail about who you work for and risk having it checked. Chances are, you won’t be questioned going from one EU country to another, but you never know. All I needed was enough to get me through the first layer of security.

  Anna was four or five places behind me in the queue. My cover didn’t sit well with her in tow, and that was one of the reasons why we weren’t together. The other was that the meeting Robot had lined up for this morning was our best and maybe only chance of getting hold of Lilian. If for any reason we got lifted together, that chance would evaporate.

  My passport was now in my right hand. I flicked the picture page open with my thumb, ready for the scanner. The flat screens beyond the desk by the luggage carousel showed newsreels of yesterday’s suicide bombings and Taliban attacks in Kabul. The caption said the death toll had reached double figures.

  I recognized the square near the war victims’ hospital, just down the road from the Iranian embassy. It now had a massive hole in the ground where one of the car bombs had kicked off, and the buildings around it were in ruins. It was the way of things now. Back in the studio, they rounded off the piece with some new accusations that Islamabad trained and funded the Taliban, and Pakistan had refused to use US technology in their nuclear-energy systems.

  I’d been there before too - and I didn’t blame them. Word had got around after the al-Kibar adventure. President Zardari and his mates didn’t fancy the Americans tripping the kill switches at Zero Hour and making free with their airspace.

  The kill switches in the al-Kibar ground-to-air defences really did work. There was no illumination of Ra’am’s F-15s as they went into their attack profile. But the real reason the Americans approved the mission was to send the Iranians a clear message. Which had to be why they were getting their kit direct from Tarasov, these days.

  It was my turn to approach the desk. One glance at Nick Smith’s photograph and the Dutch immigration officer waved me through.

  2

  I picked up the keys for a Fiat Panda while Anna headed for the Radisson, opposite the terminal. It would be easy to park in highly congested streets, and it wouldn’t draw too much attention to itself. It would blend in even more once I’d installed the baby seat that the very tall blonde woman at the Budget desk passed over with a smile. I liked the Dutch. They spoke perfect English and even looked like us. Maybe that’s why the Costa del Clog had taken over from Spain as every self-respecting Brit villain’s hideout of choice.

  I handed her Nick Smith’s MasterCard. It had
about PS2,000 left out of its PS5,000 limit. You can’t do without credit cards. They’re uncomfortably easy to track, but you need them for things like car hire and flights. Try to pay cash and you’ll be flagged up as a possible terrorist or, in this neck of the woods, drug-dealer or criminal.

  Half an hour later, we were following the A10 north, day sacks tucked alongside the baby seat. There hadn’t been time to go to the room. All the earlier flights had been fully booked, and the clock was ticking.

  Anna was navigating with the map Budget had given us. The place was heaving with blue motorway signs and glass-fronted office blocks - we could have been driving along the M4 into London. I even passed a service station with signs for BP and a Wild Bean coffee shop.

  Anna told me we had a while before we hit the city exit. ‘Do you know Amsterdam? Do you know where this—’

  ‘Used to. When I was a young soldier in Germany, I used to go to the Dutch camp to buy stuff because everything was cheaper. A tank unit was billeted there - good lads. We played football with them and went downtown as a gang, that sort of thing. We even went on a couple of trips to Amsterdam with them, doing what young soldiers do. We out-drank them, of course.’ I gave her a grin. ‘But only just.’

  ‘What is it with soldiers?’ She wasn’t impressed. But she probably knew I was trying to keep her mind off the meeting and what went along with it.

  I suddenly realized I had a bit of a lump in my throat. That sort of carry-on had stopped years ago, but until the day I’d walked into Kleinmann’s consulting rooms the memories of those times had always brought a smile to my face. Thinking about them now just made me miserable. Not the events themselves, but the thinking about them. Was this what happened when you knew the clock was ticking?

  The sun was bright, even though it was starting to spit a little with rain. I pulled the visor down to protect my eyes and Anna handed over a couple of Smarties.

  As I swallowed them, something weird happened. I started to think about the people I’d fucked over. Not work people, but the real ones - women mostly, who I’d messed around through naivety, stupidity, or just not giving a shit. What had happened to them all? Did they think of me? What did they think of me? I didn’t even know where my ex-wives lived, let alone anyone else, but should I go and say sorry, like an alcoholic starting out on the Twelve Steps?

  Was I good or bad, all things considered? Was there a heaven and a hell? If there was, I knew which of the two I’d be heading for.

  For the first time ever, I found myself thinking about what happens when you die. Maybe you discover all the secrets of the universe in a nano-second. Or maybe an old man with a long white beard presses your off button and then there’s oblivion. Part of me wanted there to be something that went on afterwards - even if it was in a place where you had to meet all the people you’d fucked over and try to be best mates with them. I rather liked that idea. There were a few times I should have been a better person and done the right thing, rather than what I was getting paid to do. Actually, more than a few.

  I was starting to scare myself here. Fuck this. I made myself cut away. I’d always preferred action to thought. Maybe that was why I’d wanted this job: it was the one thing that could stop me thinking about that kind of shit. The fact was: I was going to die. Getting shot at, you know you stand a chance of getting killed - but you don’t know it for sure. And every second you were still alive was a bonus. I was on Death Row now, with the date of my execution pretty much in the firing squad’s diary.

  I closed my eyes for a second, as if that was going to block everything. I turned the radio on, but the Dutch presenter sounded like he was clearing his throat after every syllable.

  Anna had been busy with her iPhone. She was inputting the meeting place so her sat-nav app could tell us the best route.

  ‘This is our exit.’

  I peeled off the motorway, thankful that I had to start changing gear and going round roundabouts, anything to keep the weird stuff at bay. The architecture changed from glass and steel extravagance to boring two-storey rectangles.

  The coalition government had just collapsed and it was election time. Huge billboards had been erected so the competing parties had somewhere to slap their posters. The only face I recognized was the smiling blond-haired right-winger, Geert Wilders, whose anti-Islamic views had barred him from the UK.

  They had the same arguments over here as we did about the war in Afghanistan, but ours hadn’t yet brought down a government. The Dutch had about 2,500 troops over there and had taken a lot of casualties. Now it looked like they were all coming home. Their mums would be pleased, but I wasn’t sure the boys themselves would be: they were good lads and wouldn’t want to leave the job half finished.

  The iPhone’s GPS was up and running.

  ‘Another thirty minutes, depending on traffic.’

  The address Robot had given her was a cafe on Herengracht, one of the three main canals. It was close to the city centre, and deep in Van der Valk country.

  3

  We crossed a bridge and turned left onto Herengracht. The houses looked too large for families to live in. A lot of them were offices for banks, lawyers and architects.

  Anna put her phone down. ‘It’s down towards the other end. On the junction with Bergstraat.’

  ‘Got it.’

  ‘As soon as we get there we turn left.’ She checked her watch. ‘We’ve still got twenty minutes. All good.’

  ‘I’m going to try to park on the side road. You need to be set up and waiting for him. If anything spooks you, get up and walk. Don’t take any chances. Last night was bad enough.’

  Her eyes stayed on the road.

  ‘Any fuck-ups and we get separated, we meet back at the hotel. No one knows about it. It’s just ours.’

  ‘There - up on the left, by the junction.’

  I slowed down, which made a couple of cyclists very happy, but really because I wanted to give us better eyes on the cafe. It was bang on the junction.

  Five or six people were braving the chill to eat their breakfast at tables outside. The canal was less than ten metres away on the other side of the road.

  I took the left up Bergstraat. The street was much narrower, with houses on both sides. It was bollarded all along. There was no parking. Behind a window in one of the houses, a woman sat on a stool in her underwear. I looked at the next house. Her neighbour was in the same line of business.

  I drove the fifty metres to the end of the street and turned left. I found a pay-and-display space. I did a three-point turn so I’d be facing her.

  I wanted to make sure that what I’d said had registered. ‘You must keep your back to the canal, OK?’

  She nodded.

  ‘If anything doesn’t feel right, you get up and walk.’

  I got no response.

  ‘Don’t fuck about, Anna. We don’t know what we’re up against. Anything dodgy, just walk away and we’ll sort it out some other way.’

  She nodded again.

  ‘Make sure he takes a seat facing the canal so I can get a good look at him.’

  She tucked her phone into the glove compartment and got out of the car.

  I gave her a couple of seconds, then went off and bought a ticket. The guy at the bureau de change hadn’t been happy to change so many of my kroner into euro coins, but I’d insisted. I crossed the road and walked along the canal. I stopped to admire the view. I could see Anna was already at a table. She’d taken the one right on the end by the pavement. She had her cigarettes out and a waitress had already pounced on her.

  I strolled to one of the seats by the canal, about seventy metres from Anna’s back.

  The street was full of young mums with their kids. Even the dogs had shiny hair. Everything was pleasant and ordered. The air smelt of coffee and grilled cheese.

  Anna’s brew turned up and she smoked, drank and waited. As I soaked up the atmosphere, I checked for anyone else doing the same, staking out the meeting place before Robot’s m
ate turned up.

  I sat and waited for another ten minutes. A bald head in jeans appeared from the direction of the bridge we’d crossed. He looked like a bouncer or a Russian billionaire. He wasn’t fat, but he could have done with losing a stone. Beneath his black-leather bomber jacket his gut strained against his shirt. He spotted Anna and went straight over. She gestured at the bench opposite her but he wanted to sit alongside.

  He was going to search her.

  Not a drama, but I’d wanted him facing me so I could do a walk-past, maybe grab a picture or some video footage with the BlackBerry for Jules. I would now either have to get up and walk straight towards them, or wander down Herengracht and then come back. Either way, I’d stick out like a sore thumb.

  I could still walk past, then do a full 360 round the block, but I wasn’t going to leave Anna unprotected for that long. It was better to stay put and give up on the photo. Maybe there’d be a chance to follow him after the meet.

  They spoke with their faces inches apart. Both of them smoked. He refused a drink when the girl appeared.

  After two or three minutes he got out his mobile. He said something to Anna and she nodded. Then she stubbed out the rest of her cigarette.

  My view was suddenly blocked by a crimson Lexus 4x4 with darkened windows that had emerged from Bergstraat and pulled up right next to them. I got to my feet and walked towards them.

  I crossed the road in time to see her blonde hair and the bald head ducking into the back of the wagon. I couldn’t see if she was doing it voluntarily or under duress.

  I was close enough now to hear the door shut, even see my own reflection in the side windows as the Lexus made a left.