Liberation Day ns-5

by Andy McNab

  “I will not leave my brother behind.”

  “We’re not leaving anybody behind. Just get in the car. We’ve got to stay calm and work out how to get him out. Come on, you know it’s the right thing to do.”

  He thought about it for a couple of seconds, then walked around the front of the Citroën and climbed in beside me. He stared at the rocky riverbed to the right, where the wall of the brocante ended. I left him to it, changed channel back to two, and listened in case Hubba-Hubba was sending. There was nothing coming over the air at all, so I switched it off and removed it from my belt as Lotfi checked chamber.

  “I cannot wait any longer, he could be dead any minute. Are you coming with me?”

  I turned to a heavy nostril-breathing Lotfi, who was trying to calm himself down as he stared into my eyes. I couldn’t make out whether he really cared if I went with him or not: he was going anyway.

  “You know this is fucked up…You don’t know how many there are, you don’t know what weapons they have, you don’t even know where the fuck they are. You are going to die, you know that, don’t you?”

  “God will decide my fate.” He turned for his door handle.

  I hated this shit. I should have just dropped it and headed for the airport back at the boulevard. Fuck it. I started to suck in my stomach so I could draw down the Browning. I tapped his arm with my spare hand to get his attention before nodding at the radio. “We can’t use these things anymore, mate. They might start scanning channels on Hubba-Hubba’s. Let’s just hope they didn’t switch to channel four and listen to us panicking on the way here, eh?”

  Lotfi turned and gave me a smile as I pulled back the hammer from half-cock and checked chamber. My head was spinning. Why was I doing this? “Thank you,” he said quietly.

  “Yeah, right. Kismet my ass. If I’m going to die I might as well make sure a couple of those fuckers come along with me — so they can get their books, whatever they’re called, weighed.”

  He finished checking that his magazines were correctly positioned on his belt carrier before looking up at me as I did the same. “Destiny — their books of destiny. You know exactly what it is called.”

  “Come on, then, let’s get—”

  Lotfi’s eyes darted beyond me and he sank back into his seat. Instinctively, I followed.

  “Lexus.”

  I heard a vehicle crunch over the gravel filling some of the potholes on the road toward the industrial complex.

  “Two up in the front.”

  I looked, but now being side-on I couldn’t see who was behind the darkened rear windows. Baldilocks was definitely driving.

  “Romeo Three, with the goatee, I saw him in the same restaurant as Greaseball the other night. I don’t know if they met or what, but…”

  The vehicle had gone past the gates and I jumped out of the Scudo, shoving away my Browning.

  “Come on, we can do this without getting killed now, we have time.”

  Lotfi ran around the vehicle to make up the distance with me as I headed toward the rusty, sagging chain-link gate that hadn’t been closed in ages. I kept to the left against the brocante wall for a little cover as I passed the gate. Lotfi had caught up with me, and he still had his pistol out. “Put it away,” I snapped. “Third party, for fuck’s sake.”

  Leaving him a few steps behind to sort himself out, I kept walking. In front of me was a ramshackle collection of buildings, at least thirty or forty years old, some of brick or stone, some of a corrugated material. Pipes that ran between the buildings had been covered and painted with tar, and held together with bits of chicken wire. Dumpsters were overflowing all over the place. Stacks of old tires had collapsed across the diesel-infected asphalt that had lost its straight edges and was starting to merge with the mud. There was even an old stone farmhouse and barns, which had long since given up the struggle against the encroaching banlieues.

  I inched forward, using the wall, trying to look as normal as I could. Then, as I reached the end of the wall of the brocante, I saw movement to my left. The rear of the Lexus was disappearing inside a tall brick building. I held out my hand behind me. “Stop, stop.”

  I leaned back against the wall, just as a train came into the station off to my right, beyond the factory complex. The screech of its braking wheels drowned out the clatter of the roller shutter as it crashed down behind the hawallada and his men.

  Chapter 49

  I took my shades off for a better look at the building and put them into the fanny pack.

  The industrial complex consisted of six or seven worn-out structures spread around the edge of a large open square. The target building, which I hoped the van had driven into, was in the left-hand corner farthest away from us. It was about forty yards long and twenty-five high, and constructed of dark, grimy brick. There were no windows on the front elevation, just the rusty shutter in the left third, tall enough to take a truck. The roof was flat, with lines of triangular glass skylights sticking up in the air like a dinosaur’s fins. Two other buildings — a converted stone barn, and the old farmhouse — formed the left side of the square and met the back of the brocante. Just beyond them was the river.

  Lotfi was trying hard to control his breathing; he had his mouth closed and pulled in air heavily through his nose. The veins throbbed in his temples as his eyes stayed glued to the building. “He knows I’m coming for him,” he said. “He’s waiting for me.”

  He started to move forward and I held out my arm to stop him, looking around anxiously for third party. It was midday, people were on the move, traffic hummed up and down the main road. “I reckon nothing’s going to happen to him just yet, mate. Goatee will want to know what all this means — that’s why he’s here, it must be. We have time now to do a little planning.”

  I made an effort to get eye-to-eye with him, but he was too focused on the building. “We won’t be able to get in there anyway — look, there are no windows on this side, no possible point of entry. Just those shutters, and they’re down and locked. And even if we could get in, we haven’t got a clue how many players are in there….”

  Lotfi’s gaze was still locked on the building as he lifted his hand to cut off my objections. “None of that matters to me. God will decide the outcome. I’ve got to go.”

  “We’ll both do it. Look, if God’s going to decide what happens, let’s give him a hand here and do a recce, give him something to work with.” I managed eye contact, and he sort of smiled. “You might be in the good boys’ club with him, but I’m not sure I am.” I tilted my head to indicate the way we’d just come. “Let’s look around the back.”

  There were two elements to this now. The first was to get Hubba-Hubba out in one piece, the second was to lift the hawallada. We still had a job to do. If we did it right, maybe we could achieve both — but not if we just went for it like Lotfi wanted to.

  We turned right, passing the Scudo, and walked along the front of the brocante toward the fence line just as two happy shoppers tried to fit a couple of chairs onto the roof rack of their Nissan. I hoped we could work our way along the riverbank, passing the barn and the farmhouse, get behind the target building, and see what we could see.

  As we took a right again at the far end of the brocante, we were confronted by a dry, worn mud path that seemed to run the whole length of this side of the industrial complex. It was about four yards wide, in the space between the river and the buildings, and strewn with rubbish and dog shit. The remains of a chain-link fence ran parallel with the riverbank to our left. Old concrete posts were still standing at five- or six-yard intervals, but the wire was either rusty and pushed down, or missing altogether. About a hundred and fifty yards away on the other side of the river was the busy main drag that followed it, and a cluster of apartment buildings that looked as though they’d wanted to join the L’Ariane club, but couldn’t afford the membership fee.

  I walked slightly ahead of Lotfi, following the natural path rather than kicking through all the decayed Coca-
Cola cans, old cigarette packs and faded plastic shopping bags. About a hundred yards ahead of us was the solid brick side elevation of the target building, easily the tallest structure in the complex. We followed the path past the end of the brocante, and now had the solid stone back wall and terra-cotta-tiled barn immediately to our right and traffic screaming over the bridge behind us.

  A group of half a dozen women suddenly appeared from another path at the rear of the target building. I looked back at Lotfi to make sure he’d seen. His weapon was out again, down by his leg.

  “Put that fucking thing away, will you?”

  The group were headscarfed Arab women weighed down with overloaded plastic bags. They didn’t turn left to come down toward us, but continued straight, through the fence line. They didn’t give us as much as a second glance as they began to pick their way across the dried-up riverbed. It looked as if they were heading to the apartments on the other side of the river, and couldn’t be bothered going all the way down to the bridge.

  The farmhouse was derelict, and graffiti-scrawled steel sheets barred anyone getting in through the windows that faced the river. Somebody had started a fire against the steel-covered doorway; black scorch marks stained the stone and the paint had blistered off the steel. We continued, trying to look as normal as possible as we negotiated the remnants of a disemboweled mattress lying across our path.

  We turned right, behind the target, and onto a track that was just as well-worn and covered in litter. Instead of a fence on my left, there was now a stone wall about ten feet high. I could see right away that there was nothing at the rear that would help us gain entry — no vents, no windows, just more unrelenting brick.

  Lotfi came up level with me. “This must be a short cut to the station.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “There’s a train station just on the other side of the buildings, at the end there. That’s where I’ve parked.”

  We continued, following the back of the building; there was still the other side elevation to check out. At the far corner, about forty yards along, I finally found something useful, a window frame set into the brickwork. Lotfi and I exchanged a look. “See? I told you it was worth it.” At last I got another smile.

  The window was metal-framed, with a single glass panel that opened outward — not that it had been opened in years. The frame was rusty, and covered with cobwebs and grime. The glass was heavy-duty, frosted, and wired, but there was a small wind-activated plastic ventilator fan, about four inches in diameter, cut into its center. The main problem was going to be the two bars on the other side that I could see casting dark vertical shadows against the glass.

  We continued the five or so paces to the end of the building, and both leaned against the wall, trying to look as if we were having a casual chat while I took a look around the corner and back into the factory complex. On this side, there was nothing but brick once more. Past the far edge of the building, I could see the gate off to the left, and beyond that, traffic buzzing along the bridge road.

  Lotfi lost patience and started walking back to the window. I followed, glancing down the track toward the station, then back at the river. “Listen, mate, nothing’s going to happen to him yet. He knows you’re coming, he’ll hold on. We’ve got to do this right.”

  He was now inspecting the window. “The only way is up,” I said. “What do you reckon? Shall we go and see what we’re up against first?”

  Lotfi wanted to go through the window. I shook my head. “It could take far too long. Better to use the time climbing up that pipe there. Maybe there’s a skylight open or something.”

  He surveyed the window once more, then the twenty-five yards of climb, before nodding reluctantly. “Let’s do it. But, please, let’s hurry.”

  “One of us at a time, okay? It’s old.”

  He checked that his weapon wasn’t going to fall out, and I did the same. I started to climb the rusty pipe, hot from the sun. It shifted as it took my weight and there was a small shower of rust flakes, but there was nothing I could do about that. I climbed with no great technique, apart from pulling down on the pipe as opposed to pulling out. I didn’t know how good the fittings were, and I was not sure I wanted to find out.

  My hands eventually got to the top and I thrust my forearms onto the flat roof. My shoulders, biceps, and fingers ached from the effort of climbing, but they needed to produce one last burst of energy. I heaved and clawed my way upward and across, until I could eventually roll onto the rooftop. It was hot tar and gravel, almost molten under the sun. It burned into my knees and the palms of my hands as I swiveled around to look down at Lotfi.

  As I leaned out, I could see beyond the industrial complex, in all directions. We were overlooked in the distance by the apartments across the river and a few houses on the high ground on this side but, apart from that, there should be no problem with third party. I hoped none of the tenants decided this was the time to test out a new pair of binoculars.

  I could see the train station — a small one — less than a hundred yards away to my right. A well-worn path led to it from the rear of the warehouse, through a gap in the fence, over the tracks, and into the parking area. I could just make out the shape of Lotfi’s Focus station wagon in a line of vehicles near the road.

  The train tracks ran parallel to the river, and there was a level crossing just past the entry point to the factory that Lotfi must have belted over before turning left and parking.

  Lotfi’s grunts became audible above the drone of traffic as he climbed. Two hands appeared at the top of the pipe and I pulled on his wrist as he gripped me. I heaved him over and we both lay on the flat roof, getting our breath back. I closed my eyes against the sun, and felt the heat of the roof burn through my sweatshirt and jeans.

  I rolled onto my front, my clothing pulling at me as the tar tried to make it stay where it was. After checking that my Browning was still secure, and not covered in tar and grit, I crawled on my hands and knees toward the line of six skylights in the center of the roof. Even from here I could see they weren’t frosted and wire-meshed, just clear but grimy. Some of the panes had cracked, and many were covered in pigeon shit. It didn’t matter: it was a way in.

  As I crawled, with Lotfi just behind, the hot pitch substance beneath the gravel slowly moved under the weight of my elbows, toes, and knees. Then its surface split, like the skin on old custard, and I sank a few millimeters into the black stuff.

  I noticed that my shadow was more or less under me, and a quick look at a now tar-covered traser told me it was after twelve-thirty. The sun was high, but all the same I’d have to be careful as I stuck my head over the glass that I didn’t cast the world’s biggest shadow across the floor below. Shape, shine, shadow, silhouette, spacing, and movement are always the things that give you away.

  I headed for the second skylight from the left, because there was glass missing from it. I was no more than a yard away when I heard a scream from inside, louder than the drone of the traffic and the blast of horns and air brakes.

  Lotfi heard it too, and scrambled past me to get to the missing pane.

  I put my hand up. “Slowly, slowly. Remember your shadow.”

  He nodded and moved his head up gently, trying to get his face against the hole. His nose was doing all the breathing now, and his sweat-covered face was screwed up in anger.

  I went to the left of him and, with tar-covered fingers, rubbed the grime slowly from the glass to get a better view.

  Chapter 50

  Years of pigeon shit hung from the steel roof supports like gray icicles. Then, down at ground level, among the old faded newspapers and lumps of rubble, I saw why Lotfi’s breathing was suddenly a lot more agitated. Romeo Two was on the concrete floor, naked and covered in blood, getting kicked to pieces by the two unknowns I’d seen come out of the store and walk to the rear, the ones who must have lifted Hubba-Hubba. They still had their black leather jackets over jeans. I couldn’t see any weapons on them
.

  There was movement from Romeo Two. He was trying to crawl toward the Lexus, parked next to the Merc van, which was two vehicles along, opposite the shutter at the far end of the building. Blood dripped off his mustache and mouth as the two unknowns just followed him, kicking, and having a good laugh. They pushed him down onto the ground, then kicked him again, turning him away from the vehicles. The engine revved up on the van and it drove slowly to the shutter. The passenger got out and pulled on the chain. He climbed back in and the Merc disappeared, while one of the black leather jackets lowered the shutter.

  Below us, in the middle of the building, were two vehicle-inspection pits and two sets of concrete ramps. Romeo One and Hubba-Hubba were inside one of the pits, also naked. Ripped clothes were strewn around on the concrete, probably having been checked inch by inch for tracking or listening devices. Blood had dripped from their faces onto their sweat-drenched bodies. They were kept in the pit by what looked like a heavy old iron gate from a mansion, maybe bought from the brocante next door, which had been dragged over the top of it.

  Hubba-Hubba sat cross-legged in one corner, his head down. His blood-wet hair was matted and glinted in the sunlight. I couldn’t see his face.

  Sweat dripped into my mouth as I took in the scene. Goatee stood above them on the gate, shouting and poking them with a broom handle, as if baiting a couple of pit bulls before the Big Fight.

  All the faces below me were Arab. Baldilocks was leaning against a concrete ramp in a baggy blue short-sleeved shirt and black pants. He took a long drag on a cigarette and swapped jokes with the fat van driver, who had a brown sweater stretched over his gut. I thought that he had been the one to spot Hubba-Hubba at the rear of the shop, as the Romeos prepared for loading inside. But none of this made sense. Why lift him, and why lift the Romeos?

  Lotfi was inches from me now, his eyes fixed on the pit. Hubba-Hubba’s head was still bowed. He wasn’t reacting to the blows, just rolling with them, taking the pain. Romeo One was on his knees, begging Goatee for mercy. What he got instead was another burst of good news from the broom handle.