‘We have a break – a piss, a coffee, some small food. Then we allocate work.’
The GangMaster turned away, and went to the open door behind him. Chairs scraped back. All of them were preening peacocks, craving status – not Nikki, had gone past that era of life. Only the twins stayed at the table. A girl had come in, a bold smile, and had started to work the coffee machine and had brought in open sandwiches on a trolley. Nikki could smell the bodies around him, and they might have smelled his; he had showered but not changed his clothing. A sign of the script-kids’ conceit that they were unconcerned about appearance, hygiene, were too important for convention. All were addicted to the excitement of the ‘break in’, and some had started to smoke and there were no ashtrays but there was the floor. The windows were closed and the smoke hung and the blinds were down, and the blast would be contained . . . if the device fired. It was a matter that he must take on trust: that it had been prepared by experts, and that the confidence of the young man who had brought it was justified. The girl acknowledged him, the only one. She handed him a mug of black coffee, and he noted that his hand was steady when he took it from her. She did not smell like the rest of them, but nice – a scent from abroad. He hoped, later, she would have gone home, or at worst been far from the room.
All the time he watched over the rucksack under his chair, as if guarding it.
Not talking, nothing to talk about.
Not proud, nothing to be proud of. Not justifying, because none of them inside the car offered criticism. Not blaming, because the decision had been taken by all of them. Not thinking of decorating the interior walls of a block of flats, or pretending to be a Teutonic knight in the castle above the Old City, or of loading the shelves of the aisles. Their minds were all locked on the image of the darkened VW Polo left behind, of a girl behind the wheel and a man beside her – and no explanation offered.
Martin drove. Toomas was beside him, Kristjan behind them. Not feeling safe; the chokepoint at Kingisepp could not be avoided. For want of an explanation, as a gas station loomed, Martin pointed to the dial. There might have been enough in the tank to get them back to Ivangorod, the bridge, and into Narva, but it was reasonable to be safe in case the dial was faulty. Not questioned, his decision to turn off the E-20 and go into the gas station. The traffic had been heavy when they had left St Petersburg and they might only have been a quarter of the way, but the road was now clearing and soon would be fast and straight and clear. The bridge, where a white-line marked the centre point, the frontier, was no more than an hour away.
Time for them to go to bed. The dogs had been out and were now settled by the dying fire. The wood was damp and spat but they didn’t mind it.
They had made one last journey outside, had gone to the barn, Marika carrying the clothing, washed, dried, pressed with an iron that heated before the fire. Carrying the shotgun, Igor had followed her. She had said he was as stupid as a sheep because his sight had almost failed and he was quite likely to hit her, or one of the dogs – or himself – if he had tried to fire at an intruder. Normally she would have been grateful if Pyotr had found the time to call and to visit. They needed more logs brought in, and more pine rings split. He had not come. It made Igor happy to sit with Pyotr and talk, talk of the evils of the armies that had come through the forest. Might have been yesterday, or the day before yesterday, but not three-quarters of a century before. Any other day she would have welcomed him, wrapped her arms around him, smacked a kiss on his cheek. He had not come and she was thankful. It was difficult to silence Igor when there were matters best left unsaid, like the sodden clothing left in the barn.
The animals had stayed quiet. Pyotr said it was because of his failing eyesight that Igor retained better hearing than most men of his age, certainly better than hers. She had found where the man had slept, loosely covered with straw; yet the beasts had stayed quiet, and the dogs in the house, and Igor had heard nothing.
She understood the habits of animals better than she knew the ways of men or women, appreciated their suspicions. Yet a man had come amongst them, had slept there, had not worried them. Igor would have told Pyotr and Pyotr served part-time in the militia. She was pleased he had not come, did not know. It was obvious to her that the stranger fought the authority which had devastated her life, and Igor’s. Not a criminal but an enemy of the authority.
Time for bed. She had warmed Igor with a bowl of the broth she had prepared – it had meat in it, and small dumplings. She expected the man to return because clothes had been left and they were near the river . . . Few tried to cross there, it was dangerous. Marika would cuddle Igor, and a little of the heat of his bony body would take the chill off her.
Owls called, but the animals in the barn were quiet.
She responded to the gentle knock on the door.
The Maid pushed away her plastic plate, a chilli dish from the canteen’s take-out stock . . . Not supposed to bring food into offices, nearly as much of a capital offence as smoking. The door opened. Did he fancy her? Perhaps . . . Was his concern for the mission, Copenhagen, genuine? Perhaps . . . Was he a lonely old thing, denied the pleasure of the chase? Probably. The Big Boss would have been one of a generation of young lions beating a trail of covert mayhem across the outer Soviet empire under the tutelage of the veteran Ollie Compton, a few years ahead of Boot. His inner office staff, with the exception of a duty aide – young, bright, ambitious, and outside the loop – would have gone home, but he hung about.
‘Not very good at this, never have been.’ Almost an apology.
‘Few of us are, Director,’ she answered.
‘At the waiting. Nothing through?’
‘I don’t have anything.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Not anything.’
Always correct. Could have fancied her, or could have fancied company, and was too lofty to go to the building’s small bar where his presence would have shut down the exchanges of gossip, flirtations, complaints, rants. Boot, had he been there, would have pulled out a bottle of Scotch. She could have done, but would not. He grimaced, frowned, looked to her for reassurance.
‘Forgive me asking, Marian, but is it quite a big bang?’
‘No, Director, not very – just a bit more than a gesture.’ Her sweet smile.
He said, ‘I thought it, when Boot came to me, what we had to do, take action. Can’t just scatter ordnance, if you know what I mean. Block and degrade their laptops. Ought to be on the ground, inflicting pain, drawing blood. Has to be done. The message they understand. Believe it, yes. He never gave me all the detail . . . Would have thought it better I stayed in ignorance, able to plead that defence if it fails – take the full rap himself. Why he’s such a bloody good man. I don’t know the innards of it, or the schedule.’
The Maid answered him coolly. ‘You’ll be told, as soon as there is something to tell.’
He left. She went back to the chilli dish on the plastic plate. She doubted she would sleep, any of them who were involved. A dark night ahead, and a long one, and nothing certain by the dawn.
‘Evening, Dessie. Off home?’ Arthur watched as the security card, the identification for the Director’s personal chauffeur, was slotted into the machine and the gate blinked green.
‘He’s not going anywhere.’
Roy spoke out of the side of his mouth as he scanned the traffic, and his finger nestled against the trigger guard of his weapon. ‘Second night in a row that he’s slept in. Right?’
Dessie had only to get to Raynes Park, down a line from Waterloo. A crisp wave and he was off. They had another fifteen minutes then would check their firearms and be off home themselves.
Arthur said, ‘Better believe it, going to happen, and tonight, and be a bit of an earthquake. What odds would I get? What you reckon?’
‘Could refine it,’ Roy said. ‘Because Boot’s still gone, and the totty, and they’re where it’s cold and the bollocks jangle.’
Another small surge was coming int
o the security area, a few from Middle East, some from Personnel and HR, and one or two from Archive. All passed through, all normal. Arthur reflected that he had never been in a place of confirmed danger, never fired his weapon for real, didn’t know how he’d be. Sort of shivered, and the barrel tip, where the foresight was, quivered. Be a rough old night for someone, someone far from VBX’s gate, quiet as a bloody grave here – thank the good Lord – but not for some poor beggar behind the lines.
Not an attack, but an exercise. It was explained.
Nikki bent, pulled loose the draw-string on his rucksack. The implication as he understood it, was that all of them would have been rounded up, put into lorries, then shipped into a defended military compound if it were an act of cyber war rather than an exercise. He groped with his fingers. He had practised twice during the coffee and comfort stop, but they were back at their seats, and the twins had returned to their games but played with less enthusiasm and listened.
When he had surfed on it, he’d read that the colonel – one eye and one arm and decorated, beyond suspicion and with the freedom of the Wolf’s Lair – had had difficulty arming it, had had to shut himself inside a toilet. This device, the man had said, and had shown him, was simple, just pressure on a button. He had asked, ‘Irreversible?’ A shrug, not an answer . . . and ‘The timing, exact? To the minute?’ Another shrug, another grimace and the implication that nothing in a wonderful world was without a factor of error, and a murmur for an answer, ‘Give yourself space, that good enough?’ Good enough. Nikki had liked the man, had believed enough in him to have given him his sister.
One of the ‘suits’ from the annex spoke. The GangMaster had fixed an eye on Nikki as if fiddling on the floor with his rucksack showed lack of respect, but he had carried on, had needed to open the laptop enough for his fingers to reach the button between the keyboard and the screen’s hinge. They were told that at any time, without provocation, no warning, a strike could be launched against their country. Many government agencies worked at great capacity to discover when such an aggression might come . . . A pre-emptive nuclear strike could not be countenanced, not ‘first use’. Defence planners believed in an alternative. He ignored the glowering stare of the GangMaster and his finger rested on the button, and in the effort his face was on the table, his cheek against its surface, and he heard the hiss of annoyance, as if he was insulting the speaker.
A button the size of a fingernail. He pressed it.
No reason for Nikki to peer into the rucksack, look for a glowing light, feel a vibration, hear a connection run like water in an emptied pipe. There would be no indication that he had triggered it. He straightened, ducked his head as if in apology. Stupid . . . when, if ever, did a script-kid apologise? Regret? Not in the fucking vocabulary of the Black Hat high performers. The spots on his chin itched, should have taken his medication but had forgotten. He scratched, might have drawn blood . . . Four different pods and each would be assigned a different task: utilities, food distribution, Defence Ministry communications, banks and benefit payments. Just an exercise . . . Justified.
Nikki saw a clock. Hands moving. Could have been the one in the flat where his mother had lived after his father’s death. Another was in the classroom for computer sciences where he had starred, and one at the university where he had been for a year, a solitary one: unwanted and uncared for and when he had walked out it was probably not noticed. And the GangMaster, standing across the table from him in his shirtsleeves, displayed a Breitling on his wrist. All the clocks in his life were working, the hands moving.
How far would they go? A question mumbled from the tall boy, hard to hear and he was made to repeat it. ‘Not show out, that far.’ Withdraw or leave it in place? From the smart kid who wore the casuals that would have come from the French-stocked shop in the Galeria Mall, and there had been a Porsche parked outside and a girl asleep in the driving seat. ‘Best if – no show out – it stays in place in case an aggression is mounted by them, and is present and can be activated as retaliation.’ Put in place it had the potential to disrupt or the potential to destroy, what level was wanted? A high, squeaky voice from the boy brought by his father who sat in an ante-room off the ground-floor lobby, with the twins’ mother. ‘A maximum effect, darkening, closing down.’
Where were the targets?
The rucksack was snug against Nikki’s leg. The lesson, as he had learned it from the Wolf’s Lair, was control of its position. His own watch was cheap, an unimportant gift from his sister. Time moved on. He estimated how much of it was left, how long the device would run before the built-in timing hit the trigger.
Were the targets all in Europe? Going into the USA? Asia? Just Europe?
Now they were interested. Had targets, were challenged, and questions came too fast for the official who had emerged from the annex.
The officer from FSB, brought in by the colleague who had the roof for the GangMaster, gave protection and took the cut, had not anticipated the grilling and was uncertain how far to trust the young men and teenagers in front of him. Most of the kids who piped the questions would have been younger than the officer’s own children, and if one of them had been brought home to the dacha, a weekend guest for the swimming pool and the barbecue, then security would have chucked him out on his arse.
He assumed the clock worked, had no reason not to.
‘And now?’ She threw her cigarette butt out of the window, and the wind caught it, and the rain would soon douse the glow on the tip.
‘We wait.’
‘Wait for what?’
It might have been tiredness, might have been the weight of fast food in his stomach, it might have been her hostility. Might have been that she had not been factored into the business. Irritation squirmed in him. ‘Wait for what happens.’
‘And do nothing?’
Merc was outside familiar areas. Beyond a perimeter fence, on the convoys and the security duties, and even when a fire fight at a Forward Operating Base became critical, his opinion was not questioned. ‘We wait. It unfolds, happens, then we react.’
‘We sit here?’
‘There is nowhere else to sit.’ In Merc’s world, men hunkered down on their haunches and scribbled notes to women, or had a crossword book, or turned the pages of a magazine – he had AutoTrader or Exchange and Mart – and would not have recalled a word of text or even the photographs. A few called up their God. All would have been too sensitive to the common mood for picking and scratching at what was known.
‘You have nothing better for us than to wait?’
‘Nothing. Not anything we can do. He is the player. Not us.’
He had smacked the palm of his hand across the backside of the girl, Cinar, because her head was too high above the parapet. He could not turn in his seat and slap the face of Kat, Nikki’s sister and tell her to shut her mouth because she helped nobody with her prattle, and he recognised her fear.
‘You, who have come so far, are you better than the goons you brought with you?’
Merc could have straightened, probably hitting his head on the Polo’s ceiling in the process, and could have spoken with emphasis. ‘I am not them, they are not me. I have come to bring you out, and will achieve that . . .’ Nobody who’d done close protection or rode the convoys or led a Fire Force Unit in a salient would have been so pompous.
‘I do what I can.’
‘And them? They walk out on you, abandon . . . You chose them?’
‘Not important. Bitching at it will not help.’
He heard her snort. A mixture of frustration, impatience, and the helplessness that was always the most potent in the cocktail . . . and he realised a truth. He fielded her anger but her hand was warm in his fist. He did not know how he would get her across, how it would be for himself, and the rain would have raised the river level and increased the current’s force. One step at a bloody time . . . He held her hand and she clung to him – and understood.
‘Were you the best they could send
?’
Merc could have said something sarcastic, did not. ‘I’m what was available.’
‘Have you done anything before? Anything special?’
‘Just minded my own business.’
‘Do you know what it is like to face danger, be threatened? In your life has that been possible, not to know of danger, threat?’
‘I know, Kat, about very little. Believe it, accept it.’
‘Why did they choose you?’
‘Just sitting around, cleaning my nails, washing my socks. Someone had to, must have been my turn.’
‘Are you able to do what you promise? Fuck you, because I am afraid. Bad fear. Like in a cell. Where they put me. You know about fear? Tell me what you know . . .’
He saw the wide eyes and the glistening lines where there had been tears, and her chin was pushed out. Where he came from, men did not talk fear, would have shunned it because of contagion, believed it was viral; could spread and destroy. A driver had – very deliberately, as the convoy had formed up and was in echelon and ready to pull out of a guarded compound – switched off the engine, cut the choking fumes spitting from the exhaust, had picked up his rifle and his jacket and the grenade sack, and had jumped down from the cab and had gone to the office, and had chucked it in. Would have been on the night flight out, and never spoken of again – that was the defence against the infection of fear. How to silence her? All outside his experience. One of the guys who did escort on Route Irish had gone off – not a word beforehand – to the sandbagged pit where the weapons were cleared and made safe, and had put the barrel into his mouth. It had been dished up to the company pen-pushers as a sniping victim on the road. That way a widow or a girlfriend or a mother would get a better payout. His room had been cleared that afternoon, the paperwork done that night, the corpse sent home and a a rider put on the box that the coffin was better not opened. Never mentioned again.
A Damned Serious Business Page 28
