by Andy McNab
Large canvas parasols covered makeshift stalls. I stepped under one and eyed the merchandise. Lumps of cannabis and bags of skunk were displayed on a tree trunk and a wooden barrel. I showed the stallholder Lilian’s picture and asked in English if he’d seen her. He was about her age. He was dressed in grimy old German Army gear that hadn’t been washed since Stalingrad.
As he started to answer, a skinhead with a black sweatshirt strode over from one of the braziers. ‘Fuck off!’ He yelled it straight into my face and gave me a shove. I nodded and retreated, hands raised. Too many hard faces were glaring at me to play it any other way, too many pit-bulls at their heels. So much for the Summer of Love.
My anxious sister clasped my arm and guided me away.
I tried my best to look scared, and part of me was. ‘If she’s shacked up with one of those arseholes, Anna, we could have a problem.’
6
There were hundreds of buildings in Christiania and Lilian could have been holed up in any or none of them. Almost all the businesses, shops and restaurants were located in Christiania City. A network of footpaths and bridges connected the sprawling residential sectors. North of where we were, the town gradually gave way to woods.
The main barracks had been converted into an apartment building called the Ark of Peace. It was the largest halftimbered house in northern Europe, and housed more than eighty people. Then there were another eighty-five acres of old army buildings, run-down trailers and modern self-build wood and brick cottages. Even if everyone was at home, it would take the two of us days to cover the ground.
‘We’re going to have to split up, Anna. Are you OK with that?’
‘No problem.’
I unfolded my map. ‘Why don’t you start at this vegetarian restaurant, the Morning Place, and the after-school centre, the Raisin House, and carry on down the road into the green residential area? I’ll do the bars and clubs round Pusher Street. If we get jack-shit, we RV back at the bar at last light anyway.’ I touched her face. ‘Any drama, just run.’
Anna gave me a hug and I watched her disappear down the street. Just a few yards away, two roaming dogs suddenly had a turf dispute that erupted into a full-blown fight. Their owners ran over with chains to subdue them. I was in no doubt of what kind of welcome we’d get if we did track Lilian down.
7
The Opera was a music-venue-cum-community-centre in an old brick-layered building at the top end of Pusher Street. The Café Oasis was on the ground floor. Above it was the information office.
I went inside and tried the girl at the till. ‘She might have cut her hair. She might have dyed it.’ I doubted Lilian would have spent her hard-saved cash on a visit to the stylist, but if she had fallen foul of a trafficking gang there was no telling what look they’d have opted for, and I needed to get people’s brains in gear. I scanned the other customers while I was talking. You can concentrate so hard on looking for the next person to quiz or the next bar to go into that the target could walk straight past without you noticing.
The girl shook her head.
I stuck my head inside the music venue. A high ceiling supported by tall, decorated wooden pillars and a red and white dance floor in the shape of a starburst gave it a circus feel. Sofas and armchairs were arranged living-room style along the furthest wall, in stark contrast with the shit and rugs outside. The place was deserted.
I went upstairs to the information office. I drew a blank there too, but at least the guy suggested pinning up a photocopy. I hadn’t brought any. I thanked him and said I’d come back later if I’d had no luck.
The Children’s Theatre and the Jazz Club also shared the building. Nobody was in either of them. Immediately across the road was a clothes and ethnic handicrafts store, and Marzbar, an Internet café. I visited them both, keeping my eyes skinned.
A long, three-storey grey-stone building that had once been the garrison’s arsenal now housed the music venue, Loppen – the Flea – along with a restaurant, a gallery, some hobby workshops, a youth club, and, down by the entrance, the Infocafé and the Christiania post office. It took me more than an hour to cover every option with Lilian’s picture.
Back out on Pusher Street, I went into the Sunshine Bakery, the laundry, and behind these, the community kitchen and a bar called the Monkey Grotto. Nothing. I just hoped that people would be starting to hear about the two dickheads bouncing about trying to find a girl. Maybe it would get to the gangs before we started turning up the temperature tonight.
I dropped into another bar, Woodstock, a bit further on, and the tattooist opposite. I bought a grilled-vegetable sandwich in a small gallery and eating-place next door. I moved on to Nemoland, a café and outdoor music venue, with a bar inside and outside, bench tables and parasols, an outdoor stage, and a bistro serving Thai food. There were palm trees, Greek- and Chinese-style decorations, lots of blue bench tables, but not one sniff of recognition of Lilian from the locals.
I began to think it might be time to take another route. Plan B was double-edged. It might lead us straight to Lilian – or fuck us up so completely that we’d never get anywhere near her.
8
I headed for the RV just before last light. Noisy revellers, a lot of them already the worse for wear, were streaming into Christiania for a night of music, drink and drugs. Outside in the city, the street-lights would be burning. Here in the free town, bare bulbs hanging behind windows struggled to do the same job.
Moving as fast as I could without drawing attention to myself, I jinked down a series of lefts and rights, stopping only once to check the map. I ran into Anna on the way.
‘Anything?’
‘Nothing. But I did get a call from Moscow. He’s found out the end user.’
‘A company?’
She shook her head. ‘A country. The radar is for the Pantsyr-S1E and heading for the Iranian military. You know what an S1E is?’
‘Yeah – ground-to-air missile. Tarasov’s making the boards for the missile systems.’
We carried on towards the RV arm in arm. Guys with radio comms and roll-ups the size of RPGs lingered in the shadows, their pit-bulls snarling at their heels.
We eventually got bored with pushing our way through groups of dithering tourists and local teenagers toking their heads off and darted down a side street.
A figure stepped out from the shadows, a white guy in his early twenties in a black leather jacket and old army cargoes. His head was shaved. Even in this light I could see his eyes were bloodshot and out on stalks.
‘You want cannabis?’
‘No.’
‘Cocaine? Heroin?’
It sounded like a threat rather than an invitation to sample tonight’s special.
We didn’t break step. ‘No.’
Walking backwards just ahead of us, he gestured towards the rear of a nearby building. ‘Come with me, come down here. I can get you anything. Ice? Ket?’
I shook my head. ‘We don’t want anything.’
‘If you don’t want to buy, what are you doing here? You cops?’
Anna was just as sharp with him. ‘We don’t have money.’
He flexed his fist. ‘Yeah, right, and I don’t have a dick.’
We kept going.
He slid his right hand into his pocket. ‘I’ll cut you both. Buy some stuff or fuck off, cop.’
It wasn’t a knife he tugged from his pocket, but a radio.
Anna pulled out the picture. ‘Have you seen her?’
He didn’t even bother looking. ‘Fuck you.’
We carried straight on past him. He wasn’t going to follow us onto the main. Darkness was where he lived. ‘Fuck you, bitches – got no money. Suck my dick and I’ll give you a freebie. Hey, everybody, look out – cops.’
We were opposite the entrance to the alley that led back to Prinsessegade. We were going against the flow. People were pouring past the sign that told us we were entering the EU, three or four abreast.
9
Gandalf wa
s in the corner where we’d left him. It looked as though his glass had been refilled a good few more times. An ashtray was piled with roll-up ends. The one in his mouth had gone out and its ash had taken up residence in his beard.
He looked up blearily to see who had come into the not-so-busy bar and went straight back into waffle mode, as if he’d only finished his last sentence to us a few seconds ago. ‘Gangs. Violence. It’s the government’s fault. We used to sell the best hash in Europe here, right here in Christiania. But then the politi bust the trade. Then the gangs . . .’
Anna sat down at his table. ‘Maybe you could tell us a little more about the gangs. Where are the Russians? Do you know where we can find them?’
I sat beside her as Gandalf continued his rant. His eyes wobbled and bounced like a one-armed-bandit display but never made contact with either of us.
‘We are citizens of Denmark. We pay our taxes—’
I thought he was going to end his sentence but he started a new one instead.
‘Our music halls and art galleries have contributed to Denmark’s culture and commerce. We have a free health clinic. We shelter and look after addicts, alcoholics, even homeless . . .’ He raised a nicotine-stained index finger to make sure we understood the full weight of the next category. ‘. . . and madmen. The cops still do nothing but hassle us. But do they do anything to the gangs? No! We are used by them – what can we do?’
Anna pulled out a pack of Camels and offered him one. ‘Do you know where the Russians are?’ She pulled out Lilian’s picture again. ‘Where can we find them?’
He refused the cigarette. ‘Why do you think I would know? I know nothing.’ He was angry or scared, it was hard to work out which.
His fist went down hard on the table; hard enough to make the glass rattle. ‘Nothing.’
His head went down again. Tears rolled from his eyes. ‘I just cannot take any more . . .’
We left him to it, and ordered coffees and open salmon sandwiches at the bar. Money upfront, of course.
‘I think we’re going to get a big fuck-all tonight. She may already be drugged up and fucked up, but we won’t find her on the street. Those lads out there on Pusher, they’re the low end of the market. They’re not catering for the kind of customer who’s looking to drop his Armani trousers, and they’re not traffickers. We won’t get near the Russians via them. We’ll just rub them up the wrong way and find ourselves on the receiving end of a pit-bull.’
Anna was waiting to see where this was going. ‘So?’
‘So, get your mobile out.’ I closed my eyes, trying to visualize the international number on Slobo’s call register.
‘Check the code for Demark. Is it four five?’
Her thumbs clicked away as I got my head in gear. It wasn’t exactly instant recall, but it didn’t need to be. I tended to remember the shapes of numbers rather than the numbers themselves.
‘Yes – plus four five.’
‘Slobo had one international number on his mobile. It began with four five.’
‘Couldn’t Jules have traced it?’
Our brews arrived and I waited for the bartender to put some distance between my mouth and his ears.
‘Anna, Jules has given me the all-singing, all-dancing BlackBerry, but it doesn’t mean I want to get in touch with him and Tresillian every time I need Directory Enquiries.’
I buttoned my lip as the sandwiches appeared.
‘The other thing you should know is that I think Jules is a good guy – but I don’t know Tresillian well enough to trust him, so until I find out what this shit is really about, I’d rather tell them both as little as possible.’
I reached for Anna’s iPhone as she started to eat and tapped out the number on her keypad until its rhythm felt right in my head.
‘This call could fuck up Lilian for good. I don’t know for sure what we’ll find at the other end. But I do know that we’ve already rattled a few bars on a few cages – and maybe one in particular.’
‘Do it.’
I dialled and waited for the ring tone. It sparked up a few seconds later.
Nothing for three rings.
Anna raised a hand. ‘Hang up.’
I did as she asked. I knew she’d have a good reason.
‘Now dial again.’
I dialled and she waited until the ring tone sounded in my ear, then pulled the phone away. The nineties Nokia ring tone fired up across the room. This time it woke Gandalf up enough for him to reach into his pocket.
‘Hej?’
I closed down. He gave his mobile a shake, had another listen, then shoved it back into his coat.
Then he looked up and saw us both staring at him from the bar, Anna’s iPhone still in my hand.
He knew he’d fucked up. He got to his feet and headed for the door.
Anna made to follow but I held her back. ‘He won’t get far. We don’t run. We walk.’
The dim lighting in the street was still effective enough for a quick scan to reveal Gandalf’s whereabouts. He might have thought he was doing a Usain Bolt, but his ageing legs and pissed-up brain were letting him down.
He took the corner as we started to push our way through the crowds. It took no time to catch up and push him onto a muddy patch between two barrack blocks.
I pulled him up from the shit by his arms.
‘Please, please . . . Kill me – yes, please kill me. I cannot take any more guilt. They make me do it . . . Kill me, please. I beg you, end it . . .’
I shoved him against a rotting wooden panel, which shut him up long enough for Anna to start questioning him.
‘Where is she? Where did she go?’
He looked at me, wild-eyed. ‘I don’t know. They took her. I don’t know where she’ll be now.’
‘Who took her? Who?’
More tears fell. He clasped his hands together in prayer. ‘It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I just meet the girls, that’s all. I meet them and escort them. They make me do it. I have no choice. Please, I can’t take any more. Kill me now . . .’ His hands parted and he brought them up to cover his face.
Anna moved in closer. ‘Who are they?’
‘Russians.’
‘Where do you take them?’
‘To the green house – the house near Loppen.’
I grabbed Anna’s arm. ‘I know it. Let’s go, fuck him.’
He fell to his knees and grabbed me as I turned. His arms tight around my legs, he sobbed into my jeans. ‘All those young girls. The lost, the hiding. They sell them. They fill them with drugs and they sell them.’ His shoulders heaved.
I pushed him off me and he fell back into the mud.
‘I have nowhere to go. They would throw me out of Christiania. I wanted to tell the politi, but what would they do? I had to do what they told me.’ He looked up at me, still pleading. ‘Please, please, kill me. I am dead now anyway. I am so tired. Those girls, those poor girls . . .’
He curled into the foetal position. I bent down and rolled him onto his back.
Anna tried dragging me away. ‘Nick, no – don’t!’
I shook myself free, wrenched aside his beard and gripped his neck. My hands started to tighten.
‘Thank . . . you . . . I am so . . . sorry . . .’ His voice rasped, but there was relief in his eyes.
I leant closer, my mouth alongside his ear. ‘Fuck you. You’re living. You can remember every girl you’ve handed over to those arseholes. You had a choice, and you took the easy way out. But not this time.’ I fished in his pocket for his mobile before letting go of him. Then I took Anna’s hand and headed back out into the street.
10
I followed Anna up the flight of broken wooden steps and onto the veranda of the house with flaking green paint, keeping a few paces behind her as a good BG would. I’d quizzed the call register on Gandalf’s phone before binning it, not expecting anything much. He was either more switched on than he looked, or – more likely – his trafficker mates weren’t taking any chan
ces.
The house was long past being a home. A rusty fridge sat discarded by the front door. The wood under the peeling paint was rotten. The place looked more like a crack den than the HQ of an international business enterprise.
I stayed close as Anna banged on the glass panel in the top half of the door. Light filtered weakly through the minging net curtains that hung behind it.
Footsteps echoed on bare boards. The curtains twitched and the door opened just enough to show a chin unevenly coated with bum fluff. Its owner nodded at whatever Anna said, but still went to close the door on us. Anna’s foot shot into the gap. She bollocked him in fast, aggressive Russian. The runt gave up. He nodded and closed the door.
Anna waited, not looking back at me as more footsteps thundered towards us. I could hear voices, then saw movement and shadows through the netting. She had told me that these guys were greedy. That, above all, they were businessmen. A sale was a sale. We were about to find out if she was right.
The door opened. Two, maybe three, bodies filled the hallway. The first one’s hands reached out. Anna tried to duck out of the way but was too slow. He grabbed her by the hair and dragged her in, a pistol jammed into her neck. There was nothing I could do now, except follow.
She stumbled through the entrance. The runt already had a weapon on me. A second body reached out and gripped my coat. He shoved the muzzle of a weapon into my neck and pushed me down onto the floorboards as the door slammed shut behind me.
All three extra bodies were well into their thirties and wore black North Face parkas with fur-lined hoods. Anna went ballistic at them and they couldn’t give a fuck. I heard the rustle of nylon as they went about their checks Russian-style. She kept up the bollocking, as you would if you were in the business. I tried to look completely unconcerned as my jeans pockets were pulled out and the BlackBerry was lifted.
There was an old wooden staircase dead ahead, uncarpeted, dimly lit by a bulb with no shade. A dank smell filled the air, strong and sickly, as if the house hadn’t been aired for years.
