by Andy McNab
I climbed out and walked towards the Portakabin. The windows were covered with something that looked like chicken wire. It was screwed in from the outside, so was probably intended to protect the glass from passing yachties rather than stopping people like me gaining access. No one in their right mind would rob a police station or a coast guard’s – unless they were deep in the shit to start with.
A couple of minutes of ripping and tugging was all it took. I left it hanging from the frame and slid the window to one side.
I pulled myself up until my stomach was on the sill and wriggled inside. The smell of cigarettes and rubber hit me first – the place smelt like a garage. There was just enough ambient light to make sure I didn’t crash into anything.
I moved to the rack of orange dry-bags hanging neatly by the door. These Gore-Tex overall things had integral rubber boots and hoods, and gloves that you zipped on and off from the cuffs. I riffled through them until I found a suit my size and zipped it up as far as my stomach.
I looked around for the RIB keys. They wouldn’t be lying in a designer bowl. There would be a log book with them, noting who’d been on board, how much fuel was used, how long they were out, all that sort of stuff. You sign in and sign out each time you use them.
Two thick plastic folders with serial numbers stencilled on the front lay at the top right-hand corner of the desk. I flicked one open. Of course the RIBs had been filled up. Both were done at 19.00 tonight. Bean counting is the same anywhere; it doesn’t matter what language it’s in. The admin god decrees it. They’d each been out for two hours during the day. One had been topped up with sixty-eight litres, the other fifty-two. The tanks had to hold more than a hundred. They’d want to get five operational hours out of them.
The keys were in the folders too. Both had rubber covers, like jam-pot lids, to protect them from the weather when the RIBs were up and running. A yellow spiral cord clipped them to the driver, acting as a kill switch if you crashed or fell. I took both. I couldn’t find a compass, but still left the sat navs. The last thing I needed was a great big electronic arrow pointing at my exact location.
I left via the door. I bounced over the side of the first RIB I came to, slid down to the console and inserted a key. No luck. I tried the second and both Yamahas fired up. The pointer on the fuel gauge immediately showed full. A cloud of smoke belched from the exhausts. The propellers were still low in the water so, for now at least, I didn’t have to work out how to sort the hydraulics. I untied the mooring rope, hit the power lever to the right of the steering-wheel, and eased the nose gently out towards the sea.
As I emerged from the apex of the triangle a ship’s navigation lights glided past me into the canal. I left the protection of the sea wall. Wind buffeted my face. I zipped up the rest of the dry-bag and donned the hood and gloves as well.
When I’d put a bit of distance between me and the shore, I slipped the lever into neutral. I kept the engine running, but powered right down. The boat bobbed in the swell as I moved back to check the fuel lines. One 115 h.p. engine was more than enough for me to piss it to the UK. Two engines would burn twice as much.
I twisted the cut-out on what I thought was the left-hand fuel line but the right-hand one cut out instead. I found the button for the hydraulic ram and lifted it out of the water. I didn’t want any unnecessary drag.
Next priority was navigation. There was no ball compass. This boat’s direction-finding devices were all Gucci. As I came out into the sea, I was more or less heading west, so north had to be to my right. But before I went much further I was going to need Polaris.
The Pole Star is the most accurate natural guide there is in the northern hemisphere. As all the other stars appear to move from east to west as the earth rotates, this one stays stock still, directly above the Pole.
First I had to find the Plough, seven stars grouped in the shape of a long-handled saucepan. Draw a line between the two stars that form the side furthest from the handle, extend it upwards by about five times its length, and the star you get to, all on its own, is Polaris.
Once I’d found it, all I needed to do was make sure I kept it to my right until I bumped into the UK. Exactly where, I couldn’t predict.
I looked west and picked another star to aim for. I opened the throttle again and the bow lifted. The wind tugged at my hood. I sat on the cox’s seat behind the screen, glancing back and forth between my star and Polaris. I’d waver left and right; the wind and the single engine would make it impossible not to. But that didn’t matter, as long as I was going west.
I powered down until the bow dropped and I was bouncing over the surface of the water.
I thought about Robot – my mate from the battalion, not the one I’d hung on the extinguisher hook. We were posted in Gibraltar, so it wasn’t easy for him to get to Millwall on a Saturday. He came up with a plan. One Friday night, he stole a speedboat from the harbour; he reckoned that as long as he turned right and followed the coast, he’d soon reach France. Once there, he’d chuck a left to the Den. Being Robot, he had no idea how far he had to go. The boat ran out of fuel in the Bay of Biscay. He never made the game.
Shit, I was doing it again . . .
PART SEVEN
1
Spray blasted my face. My arse wound was sore from four hours of constant sitting and standing. My arms ached from gripping the wheel. I was exhausted and hungry. But soon none of that mattered. Lights twinkled three or four K ahead, some high, some low. I focused on the low ones, near the water. I didn’t want to end up steering towards a cliff. The biggest concentration was south-west of me. I turned the wheel and headed for the darkness about a K to the left of it.
The more I thought about this shit and the closer I’d got to the coast, the more worked up I’d become. I needed to control myself.
It was nearing first light. For some reason, that always made me feel even colder. But apart from my injuries I was feeling all right. Even the acid burn wasn’t that bad. The lack of Smarties hadn’t had any effect at all.
Half a K out I powered down, keeping the bow pointed towards the land. The tide was out. I’d have about three hundred metres of beach to cover.
About five short of the water’s edge I heard the Yamaha scrape along the bottom. I gave it a quick burst of reverse and then swung the wheel so it faced out to sea again. I unclipped the kill cord from my dry-bag. Making sure the engine was facing dead ahead, in line with the bow, I tied the wheel to the console with the wires from both keys.
I sat on the edge of the RIB with my legs spread and my right hand gripping the grab loop. I leant out towards the console, slapped the throttle lever and jumped. The engine revved and the bow came up. The boat roared off, back the way I’d come.
I was waist deep in water. Some had made it down the neck of the Gore-Tex but otherwise the suit had done its stuff. Daylight was breaking behind me as I waded onto the deserted sand. I moved across it as quickly as I could, heading for the cover of the dunes. I needed to wriggle out of the dry-bag before the place was crawling with early-morning dog-walkers.
As I approached the edge of the town a van came past, and then a milk float. They drove on the left and had British plates. Thank fuck they weren’t Belgian or French. Or, worse still, Norwegian. I’d read about a guy in Kent who’d bought himself a little boat. With only a road map for directions, he’d set off from a town on the river Medway, en route for Southampton. He ran out of fuel, then drifted onto a sandbank. He told the rescue team he’d been careful to keep the coast to his right. He’d ended up going round and round the Isle of Sheppey.
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 über-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 café 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 Street 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 s
tarted 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.
