by Andy McNab
06.27 hrs
I woke up face down on the carpet. The sleeping bag was draped over me. I opened my eyes to see a pair of bare feet peeping out from under my rolled-up jeans. She leant over me, her hair frizzed almost into an Afro after sleeping on it wet. She had a brew in her hand. Her expression softened as she put the mug down beside me.
I tried to focus on my watch. At least I’d got a couple of hours in. I looked up at her groggily. ‘You OK?’
She didn’t reply. She looked even more like a waif with my clothes hanging off her.
I sat up, stiff and sore from sleeping on the floor, but I’d got used to that over the years. It’s just a matter of how you position your head and shoulders and spread your legs to distribute the weight.
I tore a blank strip off the bottom of the A4 sheet that held Lilian’s picture, grabbed one of the biros and wrote down an address.
I took a sip of the extra-sweet black tea and gave her a grin. Didn’t they have any fucking cows east of Poland?
She retrieved her brew from the sink and went and sat on the airbed. Her knees came up to her chest. Her arms went round them. Her face was expressionless once more.
I had to get this thing moving. Bradley would be here at ten. By then I needed to have dealt with her, sorted myself out, and worked out exactly what I wanted him to do for me to get this job done.
As soon as we’d finished our brews, I pulled myself to my feet. ‘Come on, let’s go.’
I draped my bomber round her shoulders and coaxed her up. I took her hand and, gently but firmly, steered her to the door.
At last there was a reaction. Her eyes were like saucers. She was scared.
I opened the door for her and shooed her out. I let her go downstairs in front of me so I could check the telltales.
She stood shivering on the pavement in her bare feet while I locked up. I didn’t replace the telltales in the door. I wasn’t going to be long, and the less time I was exposed with her on the street, the better.
We started down Papaverhoek towards the main. I almost had to drag her. We passed FilmNoord XXX. The white tarpaulins lining the market flapped and billowed in the distance. The morning traffic buzzed across the junction ahead of us.
I dug into my jeans for the wad and counted out about a hundred euros.
She looked at me blankly. I had to prise open her hand and shove the money into it. ‘Take this. You’ve got to go.’
I handed her the strip of paper and made sure she focused on what I’d written. ‘Go to the Radisson Hotel, Schiphol airport. Taxi – take a taxi, yeah?’
I ran my finger under the address and slowly repeated it.
‘Radisson Hotel. Airport – Schiphol airport. You take a taxi, yeah?’
I pointed to the road that led to the nearest taxi rank. ‘Taxi, that way . . .’
I hadn’t a clue if she totally understood me, but she got the general drift.
‘A woman . . .’ I started signing like I thought she was deaf. ‘A lady – with short blonde hair – will meet you. She will help you. Help you go home, yeah?’
Her eyes welled up. I could see she was trying not to, but she couldn’t help it. The tears eventually fell.
I took off my Timberlands and dumped them on the ground next to her feet. She didn’t move. I had to get hold of each of her ankles in turn, lift it into a boot and lace it up.
‘OK, you’ve got money and shoes – so go!’
She stood there.
‘Go – it’s time!’
‘Where am I?’ Her accent was heavy enough for her to be Brezhnev’s daughter, but her voice was clear. ‘What country is this?’ She looked and sounded like the lost child she was.
I didn’t want to hear any more. There wasn’t time. I needed to be back at the safe-house ASAP. ‘You’re in Holland. Amsterdam. You have money. Get a taxi to that hotel. The blonde woman, short hair – she’ll be there to meet you and help you.’
‘I come with you?’
‘I’m leaving tonight. I’m not staying here. The woman will help you.’
I pulled out another couple of hundred. ‘Take a taxi to the airport. And make sure nobody sees you with all this money. Just go.’
I turned away from her.
‘Thank you.’
‘It’s OK. Use it to get home.’
‘No – not for this money. For what you did. For what you did last night.’ She shuffled towards me in the Timberlands, raised herself onto the tips of her toes, and kissed me lightly on the cheek.
I patted her awkwardly on the shoulder and headed off in the direction of the larger of the two roundabouts, not wanting to look back.
Chucking a left, I walked for maybe two hundred metres until I spotted a phone box. Anna answered immediately. It was as if she was on stag. Her iPhone only rang once.
‘Listen – one of the girls from the building is heading to you right now, in a cab.’
‘Does she have a name?’
‘Probably. This has to be quick, I have to get back. She’s got dyed blonde hair and no eyebrows. Maybe call Lena and see what she can do for her. I need you able to move at a moment’s notice in case the shit hits the fan.’ I didn’t tell her that it already had.
‘Are you planning on bringing them out one by one?’
It was a half-arsed attempt at humour but it made me laugh anyway.
‘Nicholas?’
‘What?’
‘Be careful.’
17
From where I stood in the shadows by the middle office window, I had a good view of the front door and along about ten metres of road back towards the main. I’d be able to see Bradley coming – and anybody who was behind him.
My watch told me he should be here within the next ten minutes. I’d showered and shaved. I’d been to the market and bought everything I was after – for now, at least. I had new jeans, a ready-faded pair like the ones I’d seen the East European lads sporting in Moldova club land. The sweatshirt was so cheap it felt like a carrier bag, and my brown padded nylon coat wouldn’t be on the catwalks any time soon. The trainers I’d selected to replace my Timberlands didn’t even have a name, but fifteen euros wasn’t going to take me all the way to Niketown.
The sky was grey. The sun occasionally made it through the clouds, but never for more than a few seconds. I tried to concentrate on the street below but I couldn’t get the girl out of my head. That wasn’t good. I hoped things would turn out OK for her, but this wasn’t helping me with my next task. I was writing a mental list of gear I’d need to put the silo on CNN and the BBC – and how to divvy up that list with Bradley. There were a few things I could ask him to get for me, but one or two others I really had to get hold of myself.
I tried to cover all the options. Best-case scenario was that the girls would be kept in the silo until they were due to be moved. Would the Scousers accelerate the process because their neo mates had been given a malleting and a piece of merchandise had done a runner? These lads were in a tough business. They’d be looking over their shoulders big-time, but I doubted they’d flap every time there was a bit of a drama. And I doubted they’d call the police to report an assault. The burst of lights and siren had puzzled me last night, but now I wondered if the boys in blue had just thought the neos were dossers and given them a quick blast to move them on.
As for the lads in the Passat – fuck knows what was going on there. Fuck knows what Tresillian was up to either. Why destroy the building? Bricks don’t talk. If it was just a plain search-and-destroy job I’d probably have binned it now and done a runner with Anna. But the girls – I couldn’t leave those poor fuckers. Which meant I had two days and two nights left to get the job done.
Bradley saved me from my thoughts. He strolled into view, hands in his pockets, dressed exactly the same as yesterday. He reached the door and I heard the buzzer. I looked as far along the street as I could to make sure no one else was with him.
I headed downstairs in time to watch him step inside.
‘Morni
ng, Mr Smith.’ He gave my new clothes the once-over. ‘I’ve got you a present.’ He undid his jacket to reveal a box of Yorkshire Tea. ‘It’s a great shop. Even sells baked beans.’
His smile disappeared. ‘I have some news. There’s been a change of plan.’
I turned for the stairs. ‘No rush, mate. I know. Tresillian told me last night. We’ll talk in a minute.’
Sometimes people can get so sparked up about putting the information across that they get ahead of themselves. Better a trickle than a torrent.
He went straight to the sink when we reached the top floor. He couldn’t have missed the mountain of aspirin packets on the draining-board. I’d bought three packs from each of four shops. But he eyed the mallet.
I shrugged. ‘It fell down last night.’
He filled the kettle and I ripped the cellophane off the tea.
‘The guy you took the video of? He’s called Michael Flynn.’
‘Who is he?’
Bradley showed me a black-and-white printout on a sheet of A4. I could see this really was a family business. The Flynn gene pool hadn’t been blessed. Both sons had the same fucked-up eyes as their father. Robot looked a year or two older than Bitch Tits, who had put on a few pounds since this was taken.
Bradley stuck a finger on each of the boys’ heads in turn to indicate. ‘Mick Flynn has two sons – Jimmy, the elder, and Ray. Jimmy moves these girls on to the UK and all over mainland Europe. He’s a major player on the drugs scene as well.’ He hesitated.
‘Very nasty people, the Flynns. The police found two girls in a rubbish skip three years ago. They’d been beaten and burnt so badly it took months just to discover who they were. Mick and Jimmy are rumoured to have tortured them for trying to escape from one of their holding houses. It was Ray who’d let them go. He took such a beating from his father that he was in hospital for weeks.’
‘So where’s the complication?’
‘You may not be surprised to hear he’s not the only game in town. Some new boys want in. Moldovans. If they succeed, things could get very messy for us. And for you.’
‘Why? I’m not here to fuck about with some tin-pot gang war.’
He pursed his lips. ‘I’m way down the food chain – but I think Mission Control is worried that they might hit the silo before you do.’
‘What can you give me on these fucking Moldovans?’
‘I have an address.’ He turned back to the kettle. ‘You’ll need to write it down. The names here are as long as the roads.’
I pulled a Bart Simpson notebook out of Bradley’s goodie bag.
I wasn’t surprised he hadn’t written it down for me. He wouldn’t be leaving anything to link him to the job. If I was in his shoes I’d be making me do the writing as well.
‘It’s on W-e-s-t-e-r-s-t-r-a-a-t, number 118. It’s just short of the junction with Noordermarkt, in the western part of the city. It’s quite a smart area. There’s a café with striped canopies on the junction.’
‘You know anything about the house? Is it alarmed? How many occupants?’
He handed me a brew. ‘We know the main man drives a smart green—’
‘Passat?’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because my nan’s Gipsy Rose Lee. What does he want doing to, this Moldovan?’
‘Killed, Nick. That was all he would say.’
‘I’d rather be doing the Flynns.’
‘Mr Tresillian didn’t say anything about the Flynns.’
‘Yeah, anyway. Any idea where he parks the Passat?’
‘That’s all I was told. I thought you knew how to find out stuff like that.’
Fair one. He was sounding more like Tresillian by the minute.
‘So I take care of things in Westerstraat before they make a play for Lilian and her mates, then turn the silo into a hole in the ground?’
He nodded. ‘Life never ends well, does it?’
‘What?’
‘No matter who we are or what we do, we all die.’
‘Tell you what, I need you to get me some gear.’ I walked towards the door. ‘I’ve got to get a move on.’
He fell in behind me as I headed for the stairs.
‘Can you get me shotgun cartridges?’
’Yes.’
‘Birdshot, solid shot, whatever. I need at least two hundred rounds.’
We reached the bottom of the stairs.
‘No need for receipts.’ I grinned and held out my hand. ‘Lock up, so real people still think the place is empty.’
We agreed that he’d come back at the same time tomorrow, and I headed back up the stairs. I waited by the first exit onto the fire escape until I heard his key in the top lock, then legged it three at a time to the top floor. I grabbed the mallet, ran to the mailroom and scrambled up the ladder. I twatted the bolts and lifted the roof hatch.
I’d wanted my new best friend on foot today not just because of security but also because I wanted to start finding out what the fuck this guy was all about. Making him walk was a way of slowing him down. It might give me the chance to see what he did next.
I kept low to minimize exposure as I headed towards the top of the vacant office block.
Yesterday Bradley had claimed he didn’t know what was going on – and didn’t want to know. Yet this morning it seemed like he knew everything. He claimed he didn’t have comms, yet he’d been talking with Tresillian. It was all a bit too foggy for me. And having comms didn’t mean they ‘had you’. That was bollocks. If it were true, I’d have dumped my comms on day one. No one will ever call when you’re not expecting them to: it could compromise the job. The only danger lies in passing on mixed messages – like this fucker had been doing. Maybe he’d made the mistake of thinking I was a knuckle-dragging gorilla from London who should be kept in the dark. And maybe Tresillian had too.
I reached the next-door building and moved to the edge. I poked my head slowly over the parapet and looked down onto Papaverhoek. Bradley was almost level with me, hands in his pockets, heading for the main.
I slid back, took a bit of a run-up and jumped towards the higher roof. I managed to hook my hands over the raised brickwork at its edge and scrabbled with the tips of my fifteen-euro trainers to continue my upward momentum. One elbow followed, then the other, then my right knee as I swung my legs to the side like a pendulum. Ten seconds later I was lying on my stomach on the tar-and-gravel surface. I got to my feet and ran past the entrance to the central stairwell to the far side of the block.
Bradley had a BlackBerry in his hand. He was taking too much time just to dial. The fucker was waiting for secure comms. He finally raised it to his ear. I watched his back as he walked down towards the junction. His free hand was cupped around the phone. Whatever Tresillian was saying, he had Bradley’s full attention. His head was down, and he kept close to the wall, as if it was giving him a bit of protection, and preventing him from being overheard.
So he had comms after all, and he was bullshitting. I’d been correct not to trust him, and not to say a word about the girl.
I watched him veer right at the junction and disappear. There was a gap through which I could see the main drag between the big and small roundabouts. I waited for a while, in case he came back into view.
If I’d had more time I might have followed Bradley to see what the little shit got up to, but I had more important things to do. I gave it another ten minutes.
18
I sheltered under the little ferry’s glass canopy and watched the city grow slowly bigger as we crossed the bay. It looked more like a Second World War landing craft than anything a tourist would leap onto. But, then, who in their right mind would want to visit the decaying docks and warehouses of Noord 5?
The other seven passengers all had bicycles. A couple in workmen’s overalls munched their lunchtime sandwiches. The rest were in jeans and trainers, like me. They all had day sacks.
On the other side of the scratched glass, boats of all sizes zigzagged bet
ween the big cargo vessels nudging their way east along the waterway into Europe or west out towards the North Sea. High in the air, and so far away it was scarcely visible, I could just about make out the pinprick of a helicopter. Not many people would have noticed it. Even fewer would have known the reason it was static. There was probably a surveillance operation on. More than likely, it would be something to do with drugs.
I could picture what was going on up there. Somebody would be sitting in the co-pilot’s seat with the world’s most sophisticated optics at their disposal. The heli was an eye in the sky. These things could hover kilometres from the target area and still get a grandstand view.
Even back in the nineties, when I was doing surveillance in places like Belfast and Derry, the gear was phenomenal. I once lost the target in a crowd in the Segments, a shopping area protected by turnstiles and security fences. I didn’t have to panic. The boy was obsessive about his trainers and bunged them in the washing machine most nights with a scoop or two of Daz. The optics were so good I could just rattle around looking at feet rather than bodies, waiting for a pair of spotless white trainers to appear – which they did.
Nowadays helicopters were used to track vehicles that have had small GPS devices hidden on them, or to support covert police surveillance teams on the ground. The eye in the sky means the surveillance team don’t have to be right up the target’s arse all the time; they can go where the heli operator tells them to, only closing in when they’re about to be unsighted. If he goes into a building, they can stay back: they don’t have to have the trigger on the house because the helicopter can do that.
My walk from the safe-house to the ferry had taken me past the tile warehouse. I had the mallet with me. It always felt better having a weapon. The parking spaces were filled with shiny but battered Transits – Distelweg’s factory units were doing a roaring trade. Almost every one of the bays was full. I’d kept my hands in my pockets as I mooched past the flour silo, head tucked down inside my new nylon padded jacket but eyes up. The gates were still chained and padlocked.
I’d passed the hole in the fence without giving it a second glance. The oil tanker that had been parked up yesterday had gone. The lads waiting for the ferry leant against their bikes, smoking or chatting on their mobile phones.
