by Andy McNab
As I turned back towards the hall I caught a glint from a table next to one of the large armchairs. I moved closer. A bottle. And next to it a tall glass. I gave it a sniff. Scotch. More good news: the target would be sleeping a little heavier tonight.
I crept up to the front entrance and ran my fingers down the crack between the jamb and the edge of the door. There was a chain, which I removed, and two bolts, top and bottom, which I undid. If everything went to rat shit, I now had a choice of exits.
90
I climbed the stairs slowly, following the right-hand sweep. A couple of steps below the top, I stopped.
I had heard a mumble. I stopped breathing, moving.
The background noise was still there – but what I had heard had come from inside the house.
Light streamed in through a window at the top of the stairs – starlight topped up by the thin sickle of the new moon: enough to reveal another window at the end of the long corridor and the two doors leading off the top of the stairs, left and right.
I moved into the shadows by the wall and listened, the fingers of my right hand wrapped hard around the knife.
I heard it again: the rasp of a whispered order. It had been close, but wasn't getting closer. I had to go forward and find out, or we'd be standing off all night.
When I reached the top of the stairs I allowed myself to start breathing again. Through a crack in the door to my left – the door that opened onto Mansour's bedroom – I could see the flicker of a TV.
I knelt and let my hand brush the floor. It wasn't stone or marble, but at least it was parquet; better than floorboards.
I straightened and took stock. Mansour's bedroom door was to my left, a couple of metres from the top of the stairs.
The sound of his laboured breathing punctuated the waffle on the TV. Whatever he'd been watching, it was in English, because I could make out the odd word.
I stepped out onto the parquet and put my ear to the crack between the door and the frame. Mansour's breathing hadn't altered. I eased the door open. It swung soundlessly on its hinges.
Mansour's bed was against the wall to my left. Directly ahead of it, to my right, was a built-in wardrobe. One door was open to expose the screen of the TV. Mansour had been watching some eighties American cop show.
The light flickered across the bed. In the middle, propped up by several pillows, was Mansour. His head, which was turned towards me, had dropped onto his chest.
A small box with what looked like a button on top was mounted on the wall near the bedside table. An alarm bell went off inside my head.
Something wasn't right. Mansour. The way he was lying was totally unnatural. Worse, one of his hands was under the sheet where I couldn't see it.
The TV cop yelled a warning and I looked up to see that Mansour's eyes were open, fixed on mine, and as cold as ice.
91
Before I could move, Mansour threw back the sheet. He also shouted some kind of command, in a language that didn't sound like Arabic.
I wasn't going to spend a whole lot of time worrying about it.
Keeping his eyes and his pistol trained very firmly on me, Mansour brought his other arm across the bed and felt for the lamp-switch by the table. If his eyes left me for a second, I'd take him – but they didn't.
There was a click and the light came on. Because the TV was behind me, I knew Mansour's vision would light-adjust quicker than mine, so I concentrated instead on the weapon – hoping by the time I'd taken in the details, I'd have thought of something.
It was a Makarov semi-automatic, the one-time standard Soviet sidearm. Like the AK47, it was designed to be used in some of the shittiest, most hostile theatres in the world, and nearly always went bang when you wanted it to.
His finger was very much on the trigger. The safety catch, just above the pistol grip on the left-hand side, was in the down position. In other words, off. The muzzle was threaded to take a silencer, but didn't have one in place. If he needed to use it against an intruder, he wasn't going to be fussed about waking the neighbours.
Mansour was saying something; this time it sounded to me like Serb or Russian. He didn't shout, and he didn't look remotely scared. Quite the contrary, as he motioned for me to bin the knife.
Had he already gone for the panic-button on the wall? The only thing I knew was that fifteen seconds into this fuck-up he still had the advantage, and inspiration hadn't come my way.
At last he tried English. 'Who are you?'
No way was I going to let him know I understood.
He waved me back with the barrel of the Makarov and swung his legs off the bed. Then, continuing to keep his eyes on me, and with the pistol pointed squarely at my chest, he pulled open the top drawer of the bedside table and took out a mobile phone. He moved back towards the window to put some distance between us.
If he'd pushed the panic button, why would he now need a mobile?
This was the best chance I was going to get – the moment Mansour took his eyes off me, however fractionally, to dial. But the fucker must have read my mind. He started punching in numbers without once looking at the phone itself.
The press tones were the loudest thing in the room right now.
Eyes on mine, pistol aimed at my centre mass, he was still dialling when there was a loud crack on the window.
Mansour turned; I didn't.
I launched myself at him.
He brought the weapon up, but my punch landed so hard in his face that the shock made him drop it. As he fell to the ground, it clattered across the parquet and ended up somewhere in the shadows.
From down on the floor, a hand shot up and grabbed my crotch. He squeezed so hard I nearly screamed. I punched him again, hard on the nose. The back of his head snapped back and hit the floor. He went out cold.
I hobbled over to the dark corner. Retrieving the Makarov and knife, I went to the window. Lynn was looking up expectantly, like Romeo under Juliet's balcony.
I jerked my finger. 'The window – for fuck's sake climb in!'
92
We carried Mansour downstairs and tied him to a chair in the kitchen with a roll of clingfilm.
I left him in Lynn's care while I went through the rest of the house.
The most useful bits of kit I recovered were a second pistol – a .38 snub-nosed revolver – from the drawer of a desk in an upstairs study, and a set of car keys in the sitting room.
I opened up the garage to find a white, top-of-the-range Audi Q7 off-roader fitted out with all the trimmings – sat nav, CD/MP4 sound system, DVD player and a nice big sunroof. Where the fuck did this disgraced ex-spy get his money?
Mansour was beginning to come round by the time I got back. He did the same as I would have done: eyes down, mouth shut, play fucked. Lynn hovered anxiously close by.
I left them to it again and ran back up to the bedroom. Mansour had been on the point of calling someone. I found the mobile and scrolled the menu. He only had a few numbers on his contact list. But there was a problem, for me anyway: the alpha-numerics were in Arabic.
I jumped down the stairs and chucked it to Lynn. 'See who he was ringing.'
Lynn went through the motions, but I could tell his mind wasn't on it. He cleared his throat. 'Your methods, Nick . . .' He shook his head and threw a glance at Mansour. The Libyan's chin was back on his chest, only now his body hair was flattened beneath a layer of plastic and saliva.
'He was pointing a weapon at me. What the fuck do you think I should have done? Had a civilized conversation while I waited for you to come up and mediate?'
I pointed to the mobile. 'You sorted it?'
What Lynn saw on the screen clearly focused his thinking, because I saw him do a double-take.
'What?'
He frowned and shook his head. 'Well, he only managed to dial three digits, but they're a plus and two fours . . .'
'UK or Northern Ireland . . .'
I told him to check if it corresponded with any numbers in the address
book.
Nothing. And the received, missed and dialled facilities had all been wiped.
'No matter. He's soon going to tell us.' I walked towards Mansour.
Lynn moved between us, raising his free hand. 'Is this absolutely necessary?'
Mansour had started to make a UK call. What went on in the heads of lads like Lynn? 'And your suggestion is . . . some George Smiley shit over sherry?'
'This is a cultured man, Nick. Take a look around you. Do you see what's on those plinths?'
'Who cares? We got big problems here.'
But Lynn wasn't in the mood to be diverted.
'Both of those stone heads are priceless. Busts covering the entire period of the Roman occupation of North Africa. Mansour isn't some fundamentalist plotting a car-bomb attack on a shopping centre. He has – or at least had – rank and status in this country and we need to show him the kind of courtesy that befits it; or, trust me, we will get nothing from him.'
As if on cue, Mansour started to move his head from side to side. He opened his eyes and blinked for several seconds under the glare of the lights. When he saw Lynn, the briefest of smiles played across his lips. He opened his mouth. 'Leptis . . .'
I leant down and grabbed his cheeks between my thumbs and fingers and squeezed. 'Who set up the Leptis call? Who called the station? Was it you?'
'Enough!' Lynn placed his hand on my shoulder, but I shrugged it off. I knew what I was doing.
Mansour would know all about interrogation techniques and how to overcome them. I didn't want to give him time to think – only enough to tell me what he knew.
'Why are we being targeted? Who set us up?'
Lynn grabbed me by the shoulder and pulled me round to face him. He was surprisingly strong. 'I will not be a party to this.'
My eyes burned into his. 'Then leave.'
'But—'
'No buts. Listen up. He is the only person who's ever called you Leptis. That means he is connected – I want to know how. Second, I want to know who the fuck he was calling.'
My expression should have said it all, but in case it didn't, I spelled it out for him. 'Is he working for the Firm?'
Lynn held my gaze. Anger blazed in his eyes for a brief second. He shook his head. 'Please, Nick. Let's try it my way. Just once. If it doesn't work, well, I'll hand the reins back to you.'
'Fine.' I threw my hands in the air. 'Get the sherry out. But he gets to know nothing about me – understand?'
'Of course, Nick, I understand.'
Mansour watched intently as Lynn pulled up a chair and sat down in front of him.
'I need you to answer some questions, Mansour. Please make this easy on yourself. If you don't . . .' He paused and glanced at me.
Mansour looked at me then back at Lynn. 'Ask away, Leptis, my friend. I suspect we may be able to help each other.'
'Who were you trying to call? Who was it?'
The Libyan smiled. 'It should be abundantly clear to you.' His voice was calm, his English word perfect.
'It should? Why?'
'Why do you think? The number is yours.'
93
Lynn would have made a crap interrogator. Part of the job was never to react to any information given, but his cheeks flushed a deep shade of red.
Mansour's little bombshell had achieved its desired effect.
I knelt down, my eyes level with the Libyan's. 'Prove it. Tell us the number . . .'
Mansour was trying the oldest bluff in the book. The Libyan blinked innocently before fucking me off and shifting his eyes back to Lynn. 'I'm sorry, Leptis. You and I – we know each other of old. But your friend here. Why don't you introduce us? After all, you are both, in a sense, my guests . . .'
I stood up, wanting to walk away from this bad black and white movie. Where the fuck had these two been for the last twenty years?
Lynn was finally rejoining planet earth. His tone stiffened. 'You have no need to know that, Mansour.'
Mansour paused. I could see him assessing me, weighing up how the power was shared out around here. He pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes. 'Country code four-four, then two, then oh, then seven, then two one eight . . .' Mansour paused.
I looked at Lynn. The flushed cheeks were turning white.
The Libyan reeled off the rest of the number. Lynn gave an almost imperceptible nod. 'That was my old number at Vauxhall Cross . . .'
'Ah, so you are retired now, Leptis. This I didn't know. I always thought that men like you and me, we never really retired . . .'
'How did you know my number? I don't understand.'
'You don't? Let's see. You are Colonel Julian Francis Lynn. Born fourth of September, 1949. Son of Brigadier Robert Anthony Lynn, the great "Al-Inn" of Cairo, scourge of Nasser's young officers' movement. You had a good, solid British education at a minor public school.' He stopped for effect and smiled up at Lynn. 'Three very respectable A-levels in Latin, Greek and English literature – good enough to get you a place at Cambridge, where you studied Classics, our mutual interest, of course. We have a great deal in common, Leptis. Like me, you decided to make the army your chosen career; and, like me, you switched to intelligence – not surprising, given your father's very considerable connections.'
I half expected him to bring out a red, leather-bound book and tell Lynn he was on Tripoli's answer to This Is Your Life.
'I know, Leptis, that you understand the Arab mentality. You know very well how we work, our methods, our thinking.'
He glanced at me now with the same look my school teachers used to give me. 'Not all of us are the dumb goatherds or fanatical hijackers portrayed in the Western media. There are many shades to us, just as there are many shades to you.'
He didn't seem to get that he was the one in the clingfilm. Ignoring me, he turned back to Lynn. His tone was softer as he addressed a fellow gentleman.
'Of course, I'm not telling you anything you don't already know, Leptis. You know that I spent many years in custody at the pleasure of our Supreme Leader because of what happened that night. It was a stupid mistake. I should never have let it happen. Just as I should never have allowed my . . . feelings . . . to get the better of me in London when I was sent by our Great Guide as his special envoy over Lockerbie . . .'
Mansour paused to study his bindings. He raised his head to me and spoke in a voice people normally reserve for the waiter. 'Do you think I might have a glass of water? All this talking . . .'
I didn't move. It was Lynn who turned to the fridge.
A moment later, he lifted a bottle of Evian to Mansour's lips and the Libyan took a couple of gulps. He thanked Lynn, held his gaze and continued.
'I have no proof, Leptis, but I am sure that it was you who called off the dogs – or should I say the wolves – after that regrettable little incident.
'This, I believe, is what the new détente is all about. We were the best of enemies. But that is all in the past. I do not know what it is that has brought you to Libya – only that it is somehow meant. Men like you and me, Al-Inn, we live complicated lives. If you trust me, if the answers you seek are in Libya, then I can help.'
So, Lynn was the great 'Al-Inn' now. Nice touch. Flattery usually got you somewhere. But it wasn't going any further.
'A few days ago, I found an explosive device under my car. It had a very distinctive signature – the same as the devices on the Bahiti. Ben Lesser – that name ring a bell?'
'Of course . . .'
'That same day, someone left a phone message for me at a TV station in Dublin. Words to the effect that Leptis had the answers and I should go and see him. The only person who ever called Lynn Leptis was you. So I'm going to ask you again: did you set up that call?'
'No.'
'OK, then – who was Lesser's mentor?'
Mansour's brow furrowed. 'Mentor?'
'The person who trained him.'
'Ah!' A light went on somewhere in Mansour's head. He turned and looked at Lynn. 'After the failure of the Bahiti operation,
so soon after the Eksund, there was a lot of . . . well, I guess you would call it soul-searching. People wanted to know what had gone wrong. These efforts to understand were led by the Supreme Leader himself. In the interests of self-correction – so that Libya could learn from its mistakes – I told them everything. Why shouldn't I? If it helped my country . . .'
