Cold Blood

by Andy McNab

  Eventually we shuddered to a halt outside one, a particularly badly stained concrete monstrosity with regimented lines of very small windows barred with rusted mesh. When I’d first seen these buildings, they’d reminded me of a Soviet gulag. I was right: we were going to jail. There were no lights outside, or peeping through the mesh.

  A low but still surprisingly high-tech electronic buzz released the main door as we debussed. It swung open far enough for another man mountain to appear. Part beer-gut, part padded coat, he beckoned us in. We were herded up the gulag steps and through the entrance, where another four equally gargantuan escorts were waiting.

  It was the stench that hit me first: very strong disinfectant, then tobacco smoke so sweet and strong you could taste as well as smell it and, finally, musty undertones of decay. The concrete walls and floor of the interior glistened with streams and puddles of rancid water. Oily reflections of a single forty-watt ceiling bulb bounced along the corridor that ran away to our left. A once forbidding steel-barred gate now hung limply from a single hinge. We passed the gate and the cells along the corridor, all of which were empty.

  The place had probably seen a lot of business in its heyday, dishing out good old-fashioned Soviet punishment for murder and mayhem, for being drunk in charge of a mine shaft, or for tearing the wrapper off an Alenka bar the wrong way. But now, like the rest of the town, it was the province of the living dead.

  There might have been electricity, but there was no heat. I didn’t know if that was a good or bad sign. At least the chill kept the smell under some kind of control. Beer-gut pointed to the cell at the end of the corridor and we filed in.

  I could make out two sets of ancient steel bunkbeds in the gloom, one on each side of what the estate agent’s particulars would have described as a window, secured by wire mesh, and a bucket in the middle of the floor. As soon as we were in, the slam of the door and the buzz of its electromagnetic lock told us we weren’t going anywhere fast.

  The first thing we checked was the blanket pile. One each. No pillows. The mattresses were pitted and piss-stained, no covers, just rectangular lumps of crumbling foam. It was a far cry from our plush Dolgorukiy-class cruise ship.

  Gabriel swung his good leg onto the end of the right-hand bunk and reached up to press the mesh. ‘Nope. What now?’ The cell was so small he didn’t have to raise his voice.

  Rio had draped a blanket over his shoulders. ‘Keep warm, mate. That’s what.’

  Gabriel hopped back down, and I threw one over to him. ‘Well, at least we’re still moving. And we know where we are.’

  Rio climbed onto the opposite top bunk, and Gabriel slid into the one beneath. ‘And at least we’re on firm ground. Thank fuck for that.’

  I took the other top bunk, and fell straight through. There was next to no support. Then I heard movement outside, and the buzz of the lock. The door opened with a tired metallic rattle, which continued for a couple of seconds after it had come to a standstill.

  Beer-gut stood at the threshold with two of the still fully padded escorts. They were clearly as cold as we were. He had a very small torch in his very large paw. It threw out just enough light to identify our faces, but that was all he needed. It was mine he was after.

  The escorts dragged me to my feet and out of the cell, and told me without words that they’d fill me in if they had to. My request to take a blanket with me went unheeded. I might regret that if I was dragged away to some new place.

  I was moved along with a bit of help from a dig between my shoulder blades. We went back along the corridor, past the steel gate that could no longer stand to attention, and left, leaving the main entrance behind us.

  Not far beyond the turn was what looked like the guardroom. The bunkbeds there boasted vintage horsehair mattresses and pillows positioned so that all of them could watch the ancient box TV. It was balanced on top of a fridge, which had been parked on a flaking metal desk with a lifetime’s supply of brew rings.

  A random selection of electric convector heaters, hold-alls and washbags made it clear that this place hadn’t been used for a while. The faded calendar on the wall featured two women, with big 1980s hair, who were concentrating hard on showing each other a good time.

  Just past the guardroom door was the mains cabinet, the size of a double wardrobe. Once upon a time it would have been secure, but now it was as resigned to its fate as the steel gate. The rusted interior looked as if a family-sized pot of spaghetti had been thrown into it and left to congeal, but a new set of wires bound with insulation tape had been introduced to the chaos, probably to get the locks and lights working so we could all enjoy our stay.

  Immediately after we had passed the cabinet, Beer-gut shoved me against the wall and held me there while the escorts disappeared through the next door on my right. The first emerged almost immediately, gripping a pair of legs partly covered with a torn and flapping green parka. As he backed out further I could see a pair of plasticuffed hands, a torso and then a battered and very dead face as the second escort appeared, his hands bunched beneath Cauldwell’s armpits.

  I was rammed against the wall as the two escorts moved Cauldwell past me to the main door. It buzzed open to reveal the waiting UAZ.

  I had seen what they wanted me to, and nodded at Beer-gut to let him know I’d got the message. A couple of metres or so of rust stains and puddles, then I was pushed through the next thin steel door into another rank and gloom-filled room. This wasn’t a cell. This was the gulag’s version of a conference room, but it still had only one naked forty-watt bulb dangling from the middle of the ceiling. It cast just enough light for me to make out vaguely human shapes in the shadows at the rear.

  I was guided towards a Formica-topped trestle table, which had been set up about three-quarters of the way in. It was probably the newest thing in the building. The shapes became more distinct the further we went, and the one that stepped forward needed no introduction. I was guided to a wooden, classroom-style chair, but not yet encouraged to sit.

  The Owl picked up its twin, on his side of the table, and dragged it round so he could station himself a couple of feet away.

  I didn’t know what to expect, but got the biggest and best fast-food welcome ever. ‘Hiya, Nick. How are ya?’

  Then he sat down, made himself comfortable and invited me to do the same.

  77

  He’d come forward on his own. The other two bodies were still way back in the shadows – Americans, Russians, whoever the fuck they were.

  The Owl’s appearance put another whole layer of shit on the situation. Yet at the same time it was strangely comforting to see a familiar face. He was his normal goofy smiley self, like he was thanking me for ordering the extra-large, and did I want big fries and a litre of Coke with that? To start with, he simply sat there, looking me up and down. ‘Jeez, you’ve been in the wars, Mister, and no mistake.’

  I’d been all wrong about the guy. I’d been taken in by the cartoon version he’d sold of himself. I’d had him down as the collegiate dumb-ass, but he wasn’t. It had been confidence that gave him that smile and that cosiness.

  Two large white china mugs appeared out of the gloom and were left steaming on the table top. I didn’t move. Impassive and unworried was the look I was aiming for. It had never been hard to achieve, because that was the way I always felt when I was in this kind of drama. But I was normally the only one in the shit. This time I had others to think of.

  The Owl was concerned that I wasn’t touching my brew. ‘Nick, please, take a hot one.’ He leaned across and picked up the nearest, turned the handle of the other towards me and eased it across.

  I took it, and nodded my thanks.

  ‘Hey, no problem. I’ve got to tell you, it’s no home-store brand here, my friend.’ He raised his mug in a toast. We both took a sip of very thick, sweet hot chocolate. It was more like a pudding than a drink. I wondered how many of Stalin’s granddaughters it had taken to frighten these up.

  ‘Pretty go
od, huh? Am I right?’ He beamed at me as I tried to take bigger sips, wishing I had asbestos lips. The Owl managed a couple of slurps.

  I kept the hot chocolate between my hands, wanting to keep control of it in case it was taken away from me as part of some power trip, some interrogation technique that might be gathering momentum just around the corner.

  ‘The seating plan on the inbound flight – you, next to me …’ The Owl blew across the surface of his brew.

  ‘That was on purpose, wasn’t it? You knew all along.’

  I was on the receiving end of a few more kilowatts of Greeter’s Grin. Then he returned his mug to the table and looked me straight in the eye. It was confession time. ‘You got me, Nick. I was interested in what you might know, what you might say, what you might feel – all that kinda thing.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘But you really do hate flying?’

  He placed his hands between his thighs, and hunched his shoulders, probably to keep warm. His face was a picture of anxious concern as he leaned towards me. ‘Do I fucking hate flying! Sweet Jesus … bouncing up, bouncing down, up and down, up and down.’ He released his hands and gave me a double thumbs-up. ‘I’ve got to thank you for your help. That breathing thing, it really helps. I’m sure going to use that trick again.’

  I kept my focus on the liquid Alenka. ‘Well, you might have your weaknesses, but you’re no backroom boy, are you?’

  His hands went back between his legs. ‘Oh, but I am, Nick. I wouldn’t lie to you! This thing is far too important for us to play about with lies. People like me – us backroom boys – we’re needed because we’re fighting a backroom kind of war.’

  He opened his legs and his hands gripped the front edge of the seat so he could shuffle and drag himself a couple of feet closer. I could smell the chocolate on his breath. I moved my head back a little so I could down the last dregs of mine.

  He gave me his happy face. So close, it almost looked insincere, but his tone told me it wasn’t. ‘You see, this war, Nick, both sides would like to win. But to have the whole thing – and apologies for the pun – blow up like this, and become something that’s out there, in the real world, for real, you know, that’s kind of scary, and neither side wants it to happen. Once all that starts, it escalates, and … No, we don’t want that. No, siree. And you don’t want that, do you?’

  I shook my head. ‘Maybe you should play the whole thing online. That way no one gets hurt.’

  He liked that. ‘D’you know? That would be such a great idea. I might even suggest it when I get home. A real good idea.’ He slapped his thigh in delight. ‘No need even for drones. Thank you, my friend.’

  The smile stayed, but the tone didn’t. ‘For now, though, we are fighting the new Cold War. Sometimes things happen that mean desperate actions are taken. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that, Nick. You, of all people. And this is one of them.’

  ‘Just like the Kursk was?’

  He moved his hand from side to side, as if he was rolling a ball or deciding what coffee to buy.

  ‘Those were a couple of scary weeks. No one knew how that one would play out.’ He ran a meaty finger back and forth below his bottom lip. ‘And, y’know, this one … Well, this one is kinda just as bad.’

  He gave the words a couple of seconds to hang about and establish their significance before he kicked back in. ‘Look, Nick, we had ourselves a situation. The Russians have these gizmos that are … hmm, far more advanced than what we have. So of course we want them.

  ‘But, hey, the Russians prefer us not to have them. So stuff happens. And you’ve seen for yourself how shit like that can get out of control. You’ve got to remember, the Russians respond very differently to problems like this. You know that, don’t you, Nick? Russians, eh? What can you do?’ He raised his hands as if to God, and maybe God would give him an answer. He wasn’t going to get one out of me. ‘Crazy world, crazy war, but there you have it.’

  He wasn’t wrong about that. We’d been delivered to him by the very people he was unwilling to trust. ‘So why are you here? You’re the enemy, aren’t you?’

  He sat back as I put my mug on the table alongside his. The only difference was, he’d left his three-quarters full. I picked it up and started to drink.

  ‘I guess … And these guys,’ he waved a hand behind him into the gloom, ‘I don’t even know them. But I think they don’t like me that much.’

  He got back into focus. ‘Anyways, I’m here to calm everything down. Us, the Russians, everyone. Oil on troubled waters.’

  He didn’t apologize for that one.

  ‘It could have been the other way round, and that’s the way we play things.’

  I was concentrating on his mug. ‘Just like the Chechens. They cleaned up the mess?’

  ‘Nick, you’re catching my drift! I knew you would.’ He pointed his finger and bounced it around, in time with his words, like he was conducting a kids’ orchestra. ‘I clean up. I calm everything down. Before the real world knows what’s going on, and we have our so-called leaders getting all excited and wanting to go to war. No one will find the icebreaker, or anyone connected to it, including your friends. I’m sorry about that. The whole world’s been looking for that missing Malaysian Airlines aircraft for over two years. We know it existed, but …’

  The chocolate had cooled, so I could take bigger gulps. I felt it furring my teeth. ‘Well, did you get the gizmos?’

  His happy face was suddenly overtaken by his sad face, and he slowly shook his head. ‘Nope. Maybe they’re at the bottom of the sea. And if they are, we’re never going to get them because the Russians will keep a sub down there twenty-four/seven, just to make sure. And if they got them back? Pah, they got them back. Tomorrow is another day.’

  It sounded quite reasonable to me. ‘So it’s all sorted, then? Job done, war carries on. Time to shake hands and go our separate ways?’

  The Owl would have made a great politician. He oozed another barrel of charm. ‘I’m so glad you asked me that. That’s a really important question. As soon as I got the Lisandro news, I wanted to get our people back – the ones who’d survived. Munnelly …’ He switched back from happy to sad. The man was a walking emoji. ‘He was a good man, a moral man.’

  He stopped and looked at me, square on. ‘But, unfortunately, I got you four instead.’ The smile was still there, but his eyes broadcast disappointment.

  I hadn’t seen that emoji before.

  I wanted to keep him away from Munnelly, the crew, the monitors. I wanted him to concentrate on us. ‘Look, we’re just a bunch of ex-soldiers heading for the Pole. I didn’t know what Cauldwell was up to. But I know now we were used as a cover for this heap of shit.’

  He was nodding and agreeing with every word. ‘Yup. It took a while, the background searches, more footwork, help for Mr Cauldwell …’ He tilted his head in the general direction of his temporary morgue. ‘Look, sorry, but he had to go. Part of the clean-up. A quite important part.’

  He leaned forward again. ‘Did you know that it’s against the law to bury people here? Crazy? No. It’s the permafrost. Keeps ’em all preserved. Anyhoo …’

  Anyone who’d had any connection with any American, anytime, anywhere, knew that when you heard that, you were getting to the point.

  ‘Anyhoo … You four present quite a problem. Real people in our world. Normally that kind of thing is dealt with, if you take my meaning. Car accident. Suicide.’ He tried a little smile as if he’d just come up with some drunken innuendo.

  ‘Nick, I just wanted my people back. To do that, I had to jump up and down, scream and shout like a two-year-old, you get what I’m saying? So I’ve got to continue. Show some dominance here. Follow through with my demands.’ He clenched his fists and jabbed away in a very bad Muhammad Ali impression. He paused to let that sink in. ‘After all, we are at war. We don’t want to be. But sometimes it can’t be helped.’

  He paused again.

  I nodded. ‘Yup, I get it.
’

  ‘So, I need to get you guys out of my hair. But how do I convince the Russians you won’t go tell on them? I kinda also need to know that for myself. You grasp my problem?’

  I tilted my head back to get the last of his hot chocolate down my throat. ‘I don’t see it as a problem. I don’t see it as a problem at all.’ I’d never sounded so helpful in my life. ‘There’s going to be nothing coming out of our mouths. We’ve seen what you lot are capable of. We’ll do anything that’s required to get our lives back. Whatever keeps you breathing, right?’

  The Owl reached over and slapped my leg. ‘Thank you for that, Nick. You’re very … understanding.’ Then he straightened. ‘Say, I’ve got to go talk to my guys back there. How about you go talk with yours?’

  He stood up and gripped his chair so he could take it back around the table. He tucked it nice and gently under the Formica top, remained where he was for a moment, then leaned across conspiratorially. ‘You’re not the only guys who’ve gotta stay here until we’ve sorted out this problem of ours. They won’t let me leave either.’

  His brow creased as my four-man escort came and indicated it was time to go back to my cell. ‘I’m sure they don’t like me.’

  We passed the guardroom. At least the two girls were still having a good time.

  78

  All three of them were lying on their bunks.

  ‘You’re OK.’ Jack was the first to sit up after the usual clank, rattle and buzz. ‘Thank fuck for that.’

  ‘Yup. All good.’

  I kicked the still empty bucket out of the way and stood between the two sets of bunkbeds and told them what had just happened – leaving out the bit about Cauldwell. I’d work out what to do about that later.