by Andy McNab
He was walking quickly but he wasn’t aware: he was too busy waffling away on his mobile. His head was down, his shoulders hunched against the drizzle. Rain glistened on the pavements as the street-lights flickered into life.
He dodged the traffic on his way to the green area at the centre of the square. He was either going to carry on towards Oxford Street, or head for the entrance to the underground car park.
He passed a red phone box and disappeared. I followed him into the stairwell, no more than five seconds behind. I slowed down almost immediately and heard a door bang.
I ran down the first flight of concrete steps, turned on the landing, then down another. The smell of stale piss made my eyes water. I didn’t know if there were cameras down here, but I had to assume there were. I pulled one of the knives out of my pocket and held the pretend wood in my palm with the blade against my wrist. I went through the door into the basement.
The smell of exhaust fumes took over. Cars lined the concrete walls. There was movement to my left. Kleinmann was in a black jacket and matching jeans. Ahead of him, lights flashing, was a new red Volvo two-door hatchback.
‘Hey, Doc! Am I pleased to see you!’
I waved. Big smile, big surprise. I still couldn’t see any cameras
His eyes narrowed, trying to make out who I was.
‘Fancy seeing you here, Doc!’
I got nearer, looking down so my face was covered by the baseball cap.
He cocked his head to the side, trying to get a better look at me. ‘Do we—’
‘Know each other? Yeah, course we do.’ I grabbed his hand with my right one, making sure he felt the weapon dig into him, and embraced him with my left. ‘Fuck me about and I’ll cut you.’
His body shuddered as he tried to step back. I gripped him and dug deeper.
‘Please, take what you want. I won’t say a word to anyone, I promise.’
‘Shut up! Get into the car!’
He nodded, wild-eyed.
I pulled away from him, my right hand still gripping him and my left hand on his shoulder, controlling him.
He was flapping big-time.
‘Don’t look at me. Look at the floor.’
A car mounted the ramp to my half-left, its tail lights glowing red as it made its way to the exit.
‘Just stay calm, all right? Don’t do anything. You got kids? Think of them.’
He shook his head, which made him more of a dickhead. I would have said yes, to make my assailant think he had the leverage.
‘Then think of your wife. Got one of those?’
I let go as another car swung towards us. ‘Go to the driver’s side.’ I made sure I stayed level with him, the far side of his Volvo as a Prius glided past us. We got in together. I jabbed the knife against his crotch as he went to put his seatbelt on. ‘Not yet. Don’t look at me. Face the front.’
We were inches from a bare concrete wall, with his reserved parking sign drilled into it at head height. His nostrils flared as he breathed. I knew what was going through his head. He was working hard at not fucking up here. He wanted to get this nightmare over and done with.
By the look of him, he hadn’t shaved since I last saw him.
‘Give me your phone.’
I could hear a couple talking behind us. I saw them in the wing mirror. They didn’t notice us. Even if they did, they’d probably do the city avoidance thing and not want to get involved. They’d rather walk past and see if their suspicions were right when they watched the ten o’clock news.
He passed over an iPhone. I took it with my left hand, and kept the other holding the knife to his bollocks. ‘Lean forward. Head on the wheel.’
I tapped the calendar icon. He had loads of appointments today until three forty-five, and then it went blank. On Sunday evening he had a chess game. I assumed that was what it was – it just said, ‘Chess’. Maybe it was the musical. I didn’t care. There was still no indication of what or with whom. No dinner parties booked, nothing else going on.
‘Please, just take everything. I won’t say anything.’
‘Fucking shut up!’
I hit the number list. ‘Who’s Gillian? You made a call to her at ten oh eight this morning.’
‘She’s my receptionist. I was a little late and . . .’
The only other call was the one he had just made. ‘Who’s M?’ I pressed a +1 310 number, Los Angeles.
‘My mother, she doesn’t sleep so well and—’
‘Give me your wallet.’
‘Now you’ve got to let me go. I have nothing else. Take the car!’
I opened the slim brown leather folder. Besides cards, there was about £150 in crisp twenties and tens, straight from the ATM. There were no family snaps. He should at least have had a baby picture in there, even if it wasn’t his. It gives you far more chance of having your wallet returned.
His driver’s licence gave an address in Stanmore Hill in North London. The house number was followed by a B. He lived in a flat.
‘Get the keys, left hand. Turn on the engine.’
‘Just take everything.’
I pressed the knife harder into his crotch. ‘Turn on the engine.’
His left hand fished for the key and the diesel was soon ticking over. I powered down the window and smashed the phone onto the concrete. I kept his wallet. It joined the other steak knives in my pocket.
‘Now sit up, and belt up.’
Breathing heavily, he did as he was told. Sweat ran from the back of his head down the front of his face and nose, and was now trying to make its way onto his chin. He glanced across and got his first view of me as I pulled down my hood. When he saw who it was under the glasses and cap it was like the opening of a floodgate.
‘Oh, my God! They made me do it! I’m so sorry, I—’
‘Who? Who made you do it? Tresillian? Julian?’
‘Who – what? Look, I don’t know. Two guys visited with me. Heavies. They said this was your scan, and they gave me the drugs. I swear. I had no choice. Please—’
He lost it. His hands came up, pleading with me. ‘They made me! Please believe me! I don’t know anything . . .’
I pressed the knife down further. ‘Calm down.’ I pointed at his face. ‘You got no wife or kids over here? You on your own?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, whatever – you don’t know it yet, but you’re in deep shit. I can’t lose control of you until I’ve finished what I’m here to do. That means either killing you . . .’
‘No! Please!’ He was almost hyperventilating.
‘Calm down, for fuck’s sake. Or it means keeping you with me all the time, making sure you can’t tell anyone what’s just happened.’
If I was right about him, he was in as much shit as I was. He just didn’t know it.
‘Take deep breaths. Come on, that’s better.’ I took the knife away and held it up between us. ‘But don’t go mistaking kindness for weakness, all right? You tell me what you know and do what I say and you’ll get out of this car alive.’ I pointed the blade at his face. ‘OK, a couple more deep breaths and then you’re going to drive us both to Fulham.’
5
Kleinmann was a good prisoner.
We sat at a window table in TGI Friday’s. A far too cheerful waitress bounced over and announced she’d be looking after us tonight. Kleinmann was happy for me to do the ordering, as long as it was chicken.
My eyes never left the restaurant front on the other side of Fulham Broadway. Getting something to eat and keeping out of the rain were secondary. We were here for the stakeout on the Vietnamese.
Passing buses obscured the target for a couple of seconds now and again. The junction was busy. High-sided vans sometimes got stuck at the lights. Most of the footfall had their heads down, collars or brollies up, orange Sainsbury carrier bags alongside them, en route to a ready-meal for one and a bottle of wine in front of the telly.
Our food turned up, with another round of Diet Cokes. I knew Kleinmann
was scared, but he probably felt secure. If people have control, you feel safer. You’re being held for a reason, and they’re not going to do anything rash.
So far he’d done exactly what I’d told him to do. He’d shut up, driven us here, parked up, and even offered to buy dinner, which was good of him considering I had his wallet.
‘The shadow on the scan, the big red Smarties . . . It’s all bullshit, isn’t it?’
He nodded miserably.
I dunked a chip in the dish of tomato sauce. ‘Why are you mixed up with all this shit? What have you been doing to get so fucked up?’
He wiped his forehead with the paper napkin. His liquid brown eyes glistened with anguish. ‘These guys came in. They made me do it. I had no choice. I don’t know who they were. I don’t know why they wanted me to do what I did, and I don’t know why I’m sitting here. I just know I’m scared . . .’
He stared at his untouched food. I picked up another chip and poked it at him.
‘What is it they’ve got on you? Or did they simply come in and say they were going to kill you?’
His hands came up. ‘Please, I’m doing everything you say. Please don’t use those words.’ He rubbed his beard and took a shuddering breath. ‘Well, it’s kind of—’
I dropped my chip on the plate. ‘Look over there. See that restaurant – the Vietnamese? Do you know him? The black guy at the door, going in? Was he one of them? The guy now inside, taking his coat off, waiting for a seat. You see him? ’
Kleinmann adjusted his glasses. ‘Who?’
‘The black guy. Talking with the waiter now. You see him?’
‘No . . .’
‘The suit. The smart guy.’
‘Yes, I see him – but it wasn’t him. They were both white. Sounded like you – that London thing.’
Jules was shown to a table and sat with his back to the door. A waiter appeared. He didn’t bother with a menu. He was a regular. He knew what he wanted.
Kleinmann fidgeted. ‘Can I go now? I promise I won’t—’
I picked up my burger and nodded at his. ‘Better start getting that down you. We’ll be leaving soon.’
He sat there and played with a couple of chips as I cleared my plate. I asked for the bill and watched the top of Jules’s head tilt back as he helped himself to a beer.
I paid with cash from Kleinmann’s wallet, then stood up and pulled on my parka. ‘Remember, don’t mistake kindness for friendship or weakness. Just do what I say, when I say, and all will be well. OK?’
He nodded and stood up.
We turned left towards the tube station, walked about thirty metres and ducked into the doorway of a boarded-up bookshop. It was near a bus stop and a natural place to wait, especially in this weather.
I got hold of Kleinmann. I needed his full attention. ‘When he comes out, he’s going to head for the tube. We’re going to follow him. Then I’m going to make sure he comes with us to your car.’
‘Then what?’
‘Don’t worry about that. All you have to remember is that if you fuck me about I’m going to have to do you. You know that, yeah?’
He nodded.
We waited twenty or so minutes. People got on and off buses. Others huddled in doorways like us. My eyes never left the restaurant door.
I nudged Kleinmann. ‘Here we go, stand by.’
I reached into my parka pocket and grabbed the pliers. Julian was going to come with me whether he liked it or not. And then he was going to tell me what the fuck was going on.
He stood on the pavement, pulling up his collar and looking up at the rain. He turned towards the Underground, and then double-checked behind him, further down the road, away from us. As I followed his eye line, I could see a cab approaching, its bright yellow sign a beacon in the gloom.
He stuck his hand out. Minutes later he was gone.
Kleinmann took it all in but didn’t say a word. He was waiting for my reaction.
‘Back to the car. You should have eaten that burger. Like I said, it’s going to be a long night.’
6
Rain pounded on the Volvo roof. The windows were steamed up and the car stank of my farts. The burger was taking its toll. We were parked in a sixties housing estate somewhere near Baron’s Court. I didn’t know exactly where it was, but I’d seen the name on road signs. All that mattered was that it was near Fulham, and it was out of the way of mainstream roads.
I’d tied Kleinmann’s right hand to the steering-wheel with his belt. He couldn’t get his seat to recline because his arm wasn’t long enough. He’d assumed the position he had in the Cavendish Square car park, head on the wheel, but this time because he was knackered.
I was stretched out on the fully extended passenger seat. There was a slight risk in using the car. It was a known location if someone phoned the police to say Kleinmann hadn’t turned up somewhere tonight, but it was a chance I had to take. It was better for me to control him here. It was better for both of us than having a night out in this shit. He’d probably never slept rough. He’d be more of a drama out there than he was in here, and we wouldn’t look like vagrants when I moved in on Jules tomorrow.
I turned the electrics on to lower my window A couple of inches. Kleinmann was in a world of his own. Sometimes he mumbled.
I wouldn’t sleep with him moaning to himself and the rain hammering on the roof, but I turned my back to him, trying to get comfortable.
He stirred. ‘Can’t we just go back to my apartment? I’ve got food – a shower.’
‘No.’
‘Who are you guys? Drug-dealers? Mafia? What is it?’
He waited for an answer. He didn’t get one.
‘It’s drugs, isn’t it? You guys fighting over drugs?’
I shook my head. ‘Tell you what, you tell me how they got you to work and I’ll tell you what’s happening.’
He looked out of the window and rubbed his hair. ‘I had a practice. Cosmetic surgery. Fat asses, droopy chins. Marlene was cool. Ten years younger than me, but I had everything she wanted.
‘Then three years ago, when she was about to turn thirty-five, she had an affair with a twenty-year-old cowboy.’ He shook his head like he still couldn’t believe it. ‘She went to an all-woman, arm-and-a-leg fancy dude-ranch retreat – on my dime. I say all women – except the young cowboys who were there to run the place. She spreads them for this kid and decides he’s her soul-mate.
‘The affair went on for a few months. Marlene started “volunteering” at this ranch and then she told me, immediately after our tenth wedding anniversary, she wanted out. Know why the tenth anniversary is significant? Because in fucking sunny California, without a pre-nup, a spouse gets half of everything for life if the couple are married ten years.
‘I fought long and hard for two years to get us in therapy. I promised to change all the things she blamed me for. I was “controlling”, she said, and kept too tight a fist on the money. She couldn't do all the decorating projects she wanted, for example, because I thought they were too expensive. Hello . . . I was the only fucking one working to pay for this shit. But she said she was out the door. I think she was even screwing the therapist – on my dime again. She even said, “I have to get out now so I can snag a great guy while I’m still hot.”
‘So I said, “OK, I get it, I understand. We tried and it didn’t work out. No hard feelings. Let me help. A couple of nips and tucks and you’ll be ready for the world.” So I carried out a procedure on her and that was the end of her . . .’
I sat up. ‘You killed her?’
‘No – I just fucked up her face a bit. Now she looks like she’s sitting in a fucking wind tunnel.’ He pulled back the loose skin on his face to show me. ‘So the bitch divorced me and sued me for malpractice on the same fucking day. How fucking cool is that?’
Big fat tears were rolling down his cheeks. ‘I came here. Used my original family name. Over there I was Klein. This country is great for locum work with hardly any checks. I worked hard
to make a few dollars – I’m trying to tuck it all away before her lawyers find me. But I know they will. It’s going to be a nightmare.’
‘So that’s what they’ve got on you?’
‘Yeah. They came into my office one day. They told me my life story and that was it. Two white guys, nice suits.’
‘They gave you the scans?’
‘Yes. And the drugs.’
‘What were they?’
‘I haven’t a clue. Nothing I’d ever come across before.’
‘They might have been specially made?’
‘Why not?’
‘What did they say was going to happen next?’
‘Nothing. They said they’d be in touch. Who gives a fuck? How could it be worse?’
I lay back down and took a breath. ‘Actually, mate, it’s a lot worse. You’re mixed up with the intelligence service. You’ve seen the movies?’
He nodded slowly, taking the hit.
‘That’s what I’m trying to sort out. Help me tomorrow, and then you fuck off out of the UK as fast as you can. Even take your chances back in the States. These guys are a lot uglier than Marlene.’
‘What about you? Why are they after you?’
‘It doesn’t matter. But they’re never going to leave us alone unless I sort this shit out.’
7
Sunday, 21 March
17.55 hrs
A roar went up and the clapping and cheering started – but it wasn’t as loud as I was used to when Chelsea won. The crowd began to surge out of the West Stand and past the merchandise van I was leaning against. I’d intended waiting further down Fulham Broadway, until I’d noticed the hundred metres or so of steel barrier that bisected the road from the tube station to the ground. It was to stop queue-barging and congestion in the station itself. Fans wanting the tube were channelled into it by mounted police more or less as soon as they exited the ground. I had no alternative but to wait further up.
Everyone in blue had a not-so-happy face on. ‘Mate, fucking one–all against Blackburn? Nightmare,’ somebody yelled into his mobile. ‘Who’da fucking believed it?’
