by Andy McNab
I passed a boatyard. A sign said, ‘Welcome to Aldeburgh’. The road became the high street. It was a typical east-coast town, with old houses painted in pastel colours and local shops trying to compete with the big chains.
A Budgens was open. I picked up a litre of milk, some crisps and Mars bars, and a couple of packs of egg-mayonnaise sandwiches. A woman was sorting the morning papers at the counter. I added a copy of the Sun and had a quick chat with her about the weather.
Back on the street with my carrier bag, I passed an old butcher sorting out his shop front. At last I found what I was after. The bus stop near the tourist information centre told me I could get a 165 to Ipswich railway station, or I could get the 164 to Saxmundham. The first to arrive would be the 6.59 to Ipswich.
I only had about ten minutes to wait. I sat on the bench in the bus shelter and munched and drank over the morning paper, as you do on your way to work. The early edition carried nothing about an exploding silo in Amsterdam.
2
Chelmsford Saturday, 20 March
11.16 hrs
Liverpool Street wouldn’t be too far now. I was at a table seat with my back to the engine. My head rested against the window. My eyes were closed and the motion of the train made it harder not to sleep.
A bunch of squaddies had got on at Colchester and taken the table across the aisle. All four were in jeans and trainers, and 2 Para sweatshirts so we knew who they were. Four regulation-issue black day sacks sat on the racks above them.
I caught snatches of banter between dozes. It sounded like they had a weekend off and were looking forward to a night on the town and a cheap room at the Victory Services Club at Marble Arch. I’d stayed there once as a Green Jacket, off to Buckingham Palace to get a medal from the Queen.
I would have been about the same age as these guys, but not half as excited. They’d got discounted tickets to the Chelsea game on Sunday from a new website just for squaddies.
I jogged myself awake. ”Scuse me, lads - Chelsea are at home, aren’t they?’
The one nearest to me answered. ‘Yeah, against Blackburn.’
‘What time’s kick-off?’
‘Four.’ He pointed at my head. ‘But you’d better leave that at home, know what I mean?’ He didn’t actually tell me I was a wanker, but I could see he was tempted.
I smiled. I had a Man U baseball cap on. It wouldn’t be the cleverest thing to wear anywhere near Stamford Bridge, but it went very nicely with the baggy brown raincoat and geeky reading glasses I’d kitted myself out with at the British Heart Foundation shop in Ipswich. They rattled against the window as I watched the scenery become more built up. The baby Paras got more excited with every passing minute. They planned to drink the city dry tonight and then shag it senseless before watching the Blues hammer Blackburn.
Until I got back to Anna, I was going to change my appearance at every bound. I’d ditched my Timberlands in favour of a pair of plastic-soled shoes that were already half dead when I’d handed over the two pounds for them.
I had to shed my skin twice a day. This country has more CCTV than the rest of the world put together. That was why I was wearing the glasses and the cap with a big brim. They’ve got facial recognition and software that can analyse the way you walk.
Once I’d got to London, I’d take on another look. And this was the last time I’d be using buses and trains. They all had cameras. I’d pay cash for everything and stay away from my flat, my car, my London life. They must know by now that I’d dropped out of sight, and that Bradley wasn’t delivering Lily on a plate. The voice-recognition gear and all the Tefalheads’ other toys at GCHQ would be whirring away looking for the shape, sound or PIN of Nick Stone.
I watched rows and rows of thirties bay-windowed houses flash by as we hit the suburbs. My head started to hurt, but only where the bite on top of it vibrated against the window.
I closed my eyes again as the Paras got even more lairy about the weekend ahead. Another four cans of Carling came out of a day sack.
3
London
13.23 hrs
I legged it the fifteen minutes or so to Brick Lane. I’d never understood why people liked Ye Olde East End, the area rubbing up against the financial centre. I’d spent my whole childhood in a shit hole like that, trying to dig my way out. But today I was glad it was so close to Liverpool Street. It had loads of charity and corner shops.
Walking back from Brick Lane towards Shoreditch, I kept my eyes open for somewhere to change into my new clothes. I found the Hoxton Hotel, a monument to glass and steel. I looked like Tracey Emin’s unmade bed, but so did many of the uber-trendy lads round here. This was jeans-hanging-round-your-thighs territory.
I went into the toilets, quickly washed my face and splashed my hair to smooth it down. I emerged wearing a green parka, brown cords, blue baseball cap, and cheap Timberland rip-offs that were so scuffed and knackered they looked the height of Hoxton chic.
I made sure the blue cap shadowed my face, dumped my train clothes in a bin and turned towards the City again. A cafe selling salt-beef sandwiches took another few quid off me. I munched as I walked and tried to work out my plan of action.
The later editions were already showing colour pictures of the burnt-out silo and blaming Muslim fundamentalists. ‘Reliable sources’ said the local Muslim population had had its fill of Amsterdam’s decadence, and Iranian-funded extremists had stepped in to take direct action. The papers said that, in response, the Brits, along with the rest of Europe and the US, had taken their own threat matrix up a level as the UK waited to see if it would be next on the attack list.
I got my salt beef down me and felt better than I had at any time since the Vietnamese with Jules.
I passed a pound shop and picked up a shrink-wrapped pack of steak knives with plastic handles pretending to be wood and the world’s biggest fuck-off pair of pliers. Back out on the main I hailed a cab.
‘Regent’s Park tube, mate.’
He was happy. It was a good fare. And I was happy because the cab had no cameras. I got my head down and pretended to sleep. We moved slowly towards the West End. We were caught in stop-start traffic on Marylebone Road.
I leant forward. ‘I tell you what, mate, quick change of plan. Can you go down Harley Street and drop me off near John Lewis?’
‘No drama.’ He looked around, both hands off the wheel, as we ground to a halt yet again. ‘I blame Ken Livingstone. Them fucking bendy buses fucking everything up.’
We turned left into Harley Street and followed the one-way system south towards Cavendish Square, Mercs and Rolls-Royces parked up every few metres with their four-ways on.
‘Some fucking money down here and no mistake.’
I looked from side to side and nodded. But I wasn’t admiring the cars or the shiny brass plates: I was scanning the street for a stakeout on the clinic. It was a known location. Being paranoid pays dividends in this business.
I wasn’t expecting to see anything as obvious as a two-up in a smoked-glass MPV or guys hanging around in Ray-Bans. If anything, it would be somebody in the building, or camera surveillance. The Firm could have requisitioned a CCTV camera a kilometre away and zoomed in on the entrance on twenty-four-hour soak.
The clinic was on the first floor of the building to my left as we carried on south. I looked up at it through my new thicker-rimmed glasses. The chandelier burnt away in the consulting room. The lights were on; I hoped somebody was at home.
We got to the bottom of Harley Street and turned left into the square.
‘Just here will be fine, mate.’
The fare was twenty-six pounds. I gave him three tens and told him to keep the change.
It looked like I’d made his day. ‘Hang about … here you go, mate. For you.’ He passed me a couple of clean receipts.
I smiled to myself as he drove away. Maybe I’d fill them in and present them to Jules as expenses.
I brought up my hood as I crossed the bottom of Harley St
reet and headed back the way we’d come. I must have looked like the guys at the Bender checkpoint. The clinic was now across the road, to my right. I’d done the drive-past, and now I was going to do the walk-past.
I hoped he was there. I hadn’t called ahead. The only time you ever make contact with the target is when you either grip him or drop him.
The sky had been threatening rain, and it finally started as I drew level with the clinic. I kept my hands in the chest-height pockets of the parka, head down but eyes up, trying to catch a glimpse of Kleinmann thrusting a fistful of leaflets at a new victim. There was no one in sight.
Unless there was an exit at the rear, he could only go left or right. There were cars parked outside, but mostly with uniformed drivers. Chances were, he’d turn left and head for Oxford Street.
Scaffolding shrouded a building in the process of renovation about sixty metres further on. A working platform had been constructed halfway up the basement well, skirted by plywood sheets to stop debris falling onto the pavement. Stacked against it were a neatly folded furry blanket and some flattened cardboard boxes. Its occupant was currently not in residence.
I jumped the railings, ducked beneath the window sill and got comfortable under the blanket. I had eyes on the target door. Sleeping rough was part of the city landscape. Passers-by wouldn’t give me a second glance. These bundles only came to life at last light; heads appeared, wary of muggers, the protection racketeers who charged them for good cover, out of the wind and the neos’ British wing who’d just fill them in for the fun of it.
It was just after half three. I kept my eyes on the target and tried hard not to fall asleep.
4
I lay there for about an hour and a half. I was getting ready to bin it and start staking out the Vietnamese when the unmistakable haircut of Max Kleinmann emerged from the doorway. He walked down the three marble steps and chucked a left towards the square. I pulled off the blanket and refolded it exactly as I’d found it.
Hood up and hands in the lower, bigger pockets of my parka, I started south again. I fingered the blister-pack, bending it over the sharp ends of the knives until they pierced the plastic. I hadn’t opened them before now, in case I got stopped and searched. An open knife is an offensive weapon. One still in its packaging is a birthday present for your mum.
He was walking quickly but he wasn’t aware: he was too busy waffling away on his mobile. His head was down, his shoulders hunched against the drizzle. Rain glistened on the pavements as the street-lights flickered into life.
He dodged the traffic on his way to the green area at the centre of the square. He was either going to carry on towards Oxford Street, or head for the entrance to the underground car park.
He passed a red phone box and disappeared. I followed him into the stairwell, no more than five seconds behind. I slowed down almost immediately and heard a door bang.
I ran down the first flight of concrete steps, turned on the landing, then down another. The smell of stale piss made my eyes water. I didn’t know if there were cameras down here, but I had to assume there were. I pulled one of the knives out of my pocket and held the pretend wood in my palm with the blade against my wrist. I went through the door into the basement.
The smell of exhaust fumes took over. Cars lined the concrete walls. There was movement to my left. Kleinmann was in a black jacket and matching jeans. Ahead of him, lights flashing, was a new red Volvo two-door hatchback.
‘Hey, Doc! Am I pleased to see you!’
I waved. Big smile, big surprise. I still couldn’t see any cameras
His eyes narrowed, trying to make out who I was.
‘Fancy seeing you here, Doc!’
I got nearer, looking down so my face was covered by the baseball cap.
He cocked his head to the side, trying to get a better look at me. ‘Do we—’
‘Know each other? Yeah, course we do.’ I grabbed his hand with my right one, making sure he felt the weapon dig into him, and embraced him with my left. ‘Fuck me about and I’ll cut you.’
His body shuddered as he tried to step back. I gripped him and dug deeper.
‘Please, take what you want. I won’t say a word to anyone, I promise.’
‘Shut up! Get into the car!’
He nodded, wild-eyed.
I pulled away from him, my right hand still gripping him and my left hand on his shoulder, controlling him.
He was flapping big-time.
‘Don’t look at me. Look at the floor.’
A car mounted the ramp to my half-left, its tail lights glowing red as it made its way to the exit.
‘Just stay calm, all right? Don’t do anything. You got kids? Think of them.’
He shook his head, which made him more of a dickhead. I would have said yes, to make my assailant think he had the leverage.
‘Then think of your wife. Got one of those?’
I let go as another car swung towards us. ‘Go to the driver’s side.’ I made sure I stayed level with him, the far side of his Volvo as a Prius glided past us. We got in together. I jabbed the knife against his crotch as he went to put his seatbelt on. ‘Not yet. Don’t look at me. Face the front.’
We were inches from a bare concrete wall, with his reserved parking sign drilled into it at head height. His nostrils flared as he breathed. I knew what was going through his head. He was working hard at not fucking up here. He wanted to get this nightmare over and done with.
By the look of him, he hadn’t shaved since I last saw him.
‘Give me your phone.’
I could hear a couple talking behind us. I saw them in the wing mirror. They didn’t notice us. Even if they did, they’d probably do the city avoidance thing and not want to get involved. They’d rather walk past and see if their suspicions were right when they watched the ten o’clock news.
He passed over an iPhone. I took it with my left hand, and kept the other holding the knife to his bollocks. ‘Lean forward. Head on the wheel.’
I tapped the calendar icon. He had loads of appointments today until three forty-five, and then it went blank. On Sunday evening he had a chess game. I assumed that was what it was - it just said, ‘Chess’. Maybe it was the musical. I didn’t care. There was still no indication of what or with whom. No dinner parties booked, nothing else going on.
‘Please, just take everything. I won’t say anything.’
‘Fucking shut up!’
I hit the number list. ‘Who’s Gillian? You made a call to her at ten oh eight this morning.’
‘She’s my receptionist. I was a little late and …’
The only other call was the one he had just made. ‘Who’s M?’ I pressed a +1 310 number, Los Angeles.
‘My mother, she doesn’t sleep so well and—’
‘Give me your wallet.’
‘Now you’ve got to let me go. I have nothing else. Take the car!’
I opened the slim brown leather folder. Besides cards, there was about PS150 in crisp twenties and tens, straight from the ATM. There were no family snaps. He should at least have had a baby picture in there, even if it wasn’t his. It gives you far more chance of having your wallet returned.
His driver’s licence gave an address in Stanmore Hill in North London. The house number was followed by a B. He lived in a flat.
‘Get the keys, left hand. Turn on the engine.’
‘Just take everything.’
I pressed the knife harder into his crotch. ‘Turn on the engine.’
His left hand fished for the key and the diesel was soon ticking over. I powered down the window and smashed the phone onto the concrete. I kept his wallet. It joined the other steak knives in my pocket.
‘Now sit up, and belt up.’
Breathing heavily, he did as he was told. Sweat ran from the back of his head down the front of his face and nose, and was now trying to make its way onto his chin. He glanced across and got his first view of me as I pulled down my hood. When he saw who it was under the g
lasses and cap it was like the opening of a floodgate.
‘Oh, my God! They made me do it! I’m so sorry, I—’
‘Who? Who made you do it? Tresillian? Julian?’
‘Who - what? Look, I don’t know. Two guys visited with me. Heavies. They said this was your scan, and they gave me the drugs. I swear. I had no choice. Please—’
He lost it. His hands came up, pleading with me. ‘They made me! Please believe me! I don’t know anything …’
I pressed the knife down further. ‘Calm down.’ I pointed at his face. ‘You got no wife or kids over here? You on your own?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, whatever - you don’t know it yet, but you’re in deep shit. I can’t lose control of you until I’ve finished what I’m here to do. That means either killing you …’
‘No! Please!’ He was almost hyperventilating.
‘Calm down, for fuck’s sake. Or it means keeping you with me all the time, making sure you can’t tell anyone what’s just happened.’
If I was right about him, he was in as much shit as I was. He just didn’t know it.
‘Take deep breaths. Come on, that’s better.’ I took the knife away and held it up between us. ‘But don’t go mistaking kindness for weakness, all right? You tell me what you know and do what I say and you’ll get out of this car alive.’ I pointed the blade at his face. ‘OK, a couple more deep breaths and then you’re going to drive us both to Fulham.’
5
Kleinmann was a good prisoner.
We sat at a window table in TGI Friday’s. A far too cheerful waitress bounced over and announced she’d be looking after us tonight. Kleinmann was happy for me to do the ordering, as long as it was chicken.
My eyes never left the restaurant front on the other side of Fulham Broadway. Getting something to eat and keeping out of the rain were secondary. We were here for the stakeout on the Vietnamese.
