by Andy McNab
I pushed the mug away from me and nodded. ‘Too many people messing about with pipeline security?’
‘Yessir, they sure are. These Georgians are one corrupt bunch of motherfuckers.’ He beamed over my shoulder. ‘But hey, so what? What’s new, fuckheads?’ He continued smiling and nodding at the boys in leather behind me. ‘Don’t worry about those fucks, Nick. Hari and Kunzru there, they don’t understand a word. They’re so shit stupid they can’t even tie their own shoelaces. Ain’t that right, motherfuckers?’
I heard murmurs behind me. This was clearly Bastard’s version of Partnership for Peace, and it was working just the way he liked it.
He leaned forward and took another puff. ‘Yeah, damn right.’ More smoke poured from his mouth. ‘You’re a pretty smart guy, Nick. I’m sure you wanna get this sorry business over with, and get home to your loved ones.’ He clenched the cigar between his teeth and treated me to his widest grin yet. ‘And I’m with you on that one, pal. This is my last job. I got sun and sand to retire to, rolling cigars on dusky senoritas’ thighs — you understand where I’m coming from?’
He waved the cigar expansively at me. ‘You know what, Nick? I should have been more careful when I went to meet with Chuck, then we might not have found ourselves in this… predicament.’ He paused, and gave me a conspiratorial look. ‘I bet the tapes were your idea, eh? Trust Chuck to bring along another guy just as smart. You guys are killing me.’ He stood and shook his head in frank admiration.
Behind me, Hari and Kunzru shifted impatiently. I heard the rasp of a match and caught a blast of sulphur at the back of my throat.
Bastard delved around in his Gore-Tex and pulled out my dark blue passport. It was so new, the embossed gold US eagle on the cover glinted in the light of the hurricane lamp. ‘Not been a citizen long, have you?’
‘No.’
‘What’re you involved in, stateside?’
‘I used to work for a marketing company. They got me citizenship. But I was made redundant a while back, so here I am with Charlie. Can I see him?’
‘All in good time, son. How did you get caught up in this line of work? You ex-military? You tapped into that broker guy, back in the UK?’
It was pointless lying. Of course I was, or Charlie wouldn’t have hired me. ‘I knew Charlie and the broker in the army. Charlie asked me if I wanted work. I did. A dollar doesn’t go far these days, especially when you haven’t been earning for a while.’
He nodded, not believing a word of it; on that score, at least, we were even. ‘I got a problem you can help me with, Nick.’ He picked a speck of tobacco leaf from his lip and studied the wet end of the cigar a little too carefully for more stray bits. ‘You can understand I’m kinda nervous; Chuck tells me he has two tapes of the hotel meets. You were about to say the same, no?’
He didn’t give me time to answer — not that I had any intention of doing so.
‘He also says you’ve got the very thing we’ — he gestured with his hand as if we were all in this together — ‘are in this fucked-up country for…’
I did my best to look completely blank.
‘Those papers…’
What was he saying? That he didn’t have them?
‘You see, those papers… well, the people I work for really need to get their heads around whatever they contain. And those tapes? I could find myself in a very embarrassing situation if they go public… it’d kinda fuck up my retirement plan.’
I could imagine that a video showing someone handing over the kit found in Baz’s boot, and then talking about the job, would fuck up any kind of plan, let alone a retirement one.
He ramped up the smile to full megawatt capacity. If he wasn’t careful, his face was going to explode. ‘I need you guys to help me out, right? You’re just too smart for me, what can I say?’
He leaned across the table and steepled his fingers, cigar and all. That smile must have been killing him. ‘Why don’t we clear this business up tonight, and we can all be on a flight out of this goddamned shithole of a country first thing?’
Hari and Kunzru shuffled their feet again and I prepared for the worst. It must have shown.
Bastard relaxed. ‘Don’t worry about those fucks just yet, son. I’m suggesting an easier way out. What about it, Nick? What do you say?’
What I said was nothing. He was doing a good job of hiding it, but he was hurting. Fuck him, he wasn’t getting any help from me.
‘Nick, we all need to get out of this place. But if you’re gonna fuck me up the ass, there’ll be nothing I can do to stop these two doing what they do best. I can’t let that stuff be out there — you understand that, don’t you?’
I did understand. I understood he was flapping. What had Charlie done with the papers and tape? The only place I could think of would have been checked by a finger and a tube of KY. ‘Let me talk it over with Charlie, see what he thinks.’
‘He’s already told me he’ll do whatever you say. I’m trying to be reasonable with you. Fuck him, man — you gotta start thinking of yourself. You’re the one on the TV; you’re the one ID’d at the cemetery. He’s laughing.’ His throat was tightening with frustration. ‘You’re a wanted man, Nick. Every man and his dog is out there looking for you. Him? He’s got no face. He can walk…’
His gaze became still more intense, but the cracks were beginning to show. It was a bit like watching a volcano starting to erupt. ‘I’m your way out. Where can you go, what can you do, unless I help you? You got no passport, you got no goddam cash. And I’m the only one standing between you and those Georgian fucks out there looking to nail your ass. I can make it happen, Nick — either way.’
He was scraping the barrel. He’d tried the pride and ego thing; tried to be really nice with it, but now he was jumping straight into Pointing Out the Futility, to make me see all hope was lost. But the only thing I could see was Bastard moving into territory he felt more comfortable with, the land of the out-and-out arsehole.
I still didn’t answer.
‘You’re fresh out of options, guy. I can get these two to drive you to Tbilisi right now and hand you over to the fucking animals who call themselves the police in this sorry town… I can make things happen, good or bad.’
He patted the passports in his jacket. ‘You’re in a deep hole, my friend, but I’m throwing you a rope. I can get you out and back stateside. I’m running out of ways here to explain I’m the only one who can do that for you.’
Now he was trying the incentive approach, and after that there was really only one place he could go. We were running out of road.
I leaned forward and down, and tied my bootlaces. I didn’t want to lose them in the course of what I was pretty sure was about to happen. Then I looked up and nodded. ‘I’ll need to talk to Charlie.’
He jumped up and slammed his fist on the table. The flask and cups went flying. Even the guys behind me took a step back. ‘You fuck! I want those papers and tapes! Give me! Your face is on every TV screen in Georgia… You’re in deep shit… The Georgian police are screaming for your blood… Unless you do exactly what I say, I’ll hand you right over to them… You tell me where they are now, or I’ll rip your fucking heart out — you hear me, boy?’
Eyes down, I kept my jaw tight, clenched my teeth, waited for the punches. This time it was Fear Up, and it was working well, because this was what he was born for.
‘Sit up, before I make you.’ He perched his knuckles on the table like an ape, nostrils flared and whistling as his overweight body sucked in oxygen to fuel the outburst.
His gut heaved as he leaned towards me. ‘Things will get very painful, very soon, man. You’re leaving me no choice.’
‘Let me talk to Charlie, square things away.’
His reply was half-shout, half-scream. ‘You got absolutely nothing to talk about.’ His words echoed round the walls and his fists came off the table. He pointed at me with a finger the size of a sausage. ‘You’re getting me fired up, man.’
He stormed round the table and I tensed every muscle, ready to take it. He swung an openhanded slap across the side of my head. The force of it took me straight to the ground.
My head spun. Stars burst in front of my eyes. Instinctively, I curled into a ball.
I sensed him bending towards me. The gust of cigar breath told me I wasn’t wrong. ‘Give up the tapes, give up the papers. I got contacts — high-up, government contacts — that can make good things happen for you. Think about it, asshole. Think about it while I go back to Vasiani and smooth out the mess you made with the army. And you know what? It’s those contacts who are saving your ass now so you got a chance to do the right thing.’
He passed behind me on his way to the door. I relaxed, and a second later his cigar breath exploded just inches from my face. ‘Me? I’m going back to the real world tomorrow, so I gotta clean things up here one way or another.’
He took a slow breath, calming himself down. ‘Tapes and papers, by the time I get back. Or these two fucks will rip them out of you before you spend the rest of your fucking miserable life in a Georgian shithole jail.’
He disappeared behind me. ‘Taking a fucking military vehicle?’ He gave a hollow laugh. ‘You call that smart?’
The door opened and closed and he was gone.
He must have signalled to Hari and Kunzru on his way out. They grabbed an arm each and lifted me to my feet. One picked up a hurricane lamp and I got shoved out through a second door into an overgrown walled area at the back of the building.
We moved along a muddy path. I caught a glimpse of stars through a break in the cloud, and another building, about fifty feet away.
Hari — or Kunzru — got busy with the rusty bolt on the door. As it creaked open, I heard a wagon spark up in the distance and drive away.
I was pushed into pitch darkness. The door slammed shut behind me, and the bolt scraped back into place.
I couldn’t even see my hand in front of my face. I sat down on the hard earth, and tried to get my bearings. There wasn’t as much as a pinprick of light. I listened as Hari and Kunzru made their way back to the propane-heated room we’d just come from, finally slamming the door shut to keep out the cold that was already eating into my bones.
There was a movement beside me and I almost jumped out of my skin.
Then a voice boomed, ‘You took your time, dickhead. I hope you’ve got that three quid you owe me.’
PART NINE
1
I was so relieved to hear his voice I burst out laughing. I felt my way over on all fours, heading in the direction his voice had come from.
‘He tried everything, the fat fucker.’ He chuckled. ‘We had Ego Up, Fear Down, the whole A to Z.’
I knew Charlie felt the same way I did, really happy to be reunited, no matter how much shit we were still in. Neither of us was going to say so, of course. If he hadn’t made a joke, I would have.
‘I gave him an eight point five for his Fear Up. Suited him better, in my view.’ I parked my arse next to Charlie, and lowered my voice. ‘Where the fuck are they?’
‘HF 51 KN.’
‘What? You lost the plot?’
‘The duty wagon. I shoved the magazine under the back seat. Better to hide it and take the chance it’s still out there than hand it to Whitewall on a silver plate, eh? All we got to do now is get out of here, go and find the wagon, and use all that shit to get us home. You up for it, lad?’
‘Big-time. Especially the get out of here bit.’
He was joking, but he was right. Fuck knows what the papers said, but as Bastard had confirmed, they were important enough for every man and his dog to want control of them. I was a wanted man — and that stuff sounded as though it was just what I needed to get unwanted. The tape wouldn’t hurt our chances either, and if Bastard really did have friends in high Georgian places, and a casting vote or two at Camp Vasiani, that stuff might be our ticket out.
‘His name’s Bastendorf. Remember him from Waco? We called him Bastard. He commanded Alpha Pod.’
‘I like the name, but I had fuck all to do with the Pods. He’s hardly one to forget, though, is he? He recognize you?’
‘No, and I want to be well out of here before he does. He’s going back to the camp. If they’ve searched the wagon and found the gear, we’re good as dead. Which is the way Bastard and his mates wanted you in the first place.’
‘You notice if the twins are carrying?’
‘Not a clue. We’ve got to assume so, haven’t we?’
He rubbed his bristles. ‘What do you say we just call them to the door and take our chances? With that wagon gone, at least the head count’s down.’
I rested my head against the rough stone wall. He was right; the longer we stayed here, the more the odds were stacked against us. ‘That just leaves Hari and Kunzru watching Coronation Street… How are your hands? They strictly ballroom tonight, or up for a bit of action?’
‘Sound as a pound.’ He clapped them together, as if that proved anything.
‘So, we checking out of here, or what?’
‘Yeah, but not your way. Fucking hell, that’s Mission Impossible. Let’s check the obvious first.’
We started groping along the walls for another door, or a hastily blocked-up window. We worked our way back round to the main door without success. I gave it a shove, top and bottom. The only resistance was in the middle, but it was solid. It was going to take a few big shoulders’ worth to open it.
I put my ear against the wood, but heard nothing the other side. I ran my hand along the wall on either side of the frame, and it closed around a loose protruding stone. I suddenly had a thought.
I gripped Charlie’s coat. ‘Remember the Stoner in Colombia? That could be our way out.’
‘Well fucking hell, you’re not just a nice pair of buttocks, are you, lad?’
We got down on our hands and knees and felt around on the ground for more loose rocks. For this to work, we were going to need a couple each, big enough to fit in the palm of our hands.
Something the size of a brick would be the business.
2
Back in the late ’80s, Charlie and I had been part of Thatcher and Reagan’s ‘first strike’ policy in Colombia. The SAS were sent as advisers to help identify and destroy the cartels’ drug-manufacturing plants in the rainforest.
We patrolled suspected areas, putting in OPs, planning attacks. We weren’t supposed to carry out the attacks ourselves; that would have been one very hot political patata. We were there to aid and guide, usually one of us to every ten local anti-narcotics police.
Every time we gave the bad guys a slap on the wrist, they’d bring in the media and the politicians to celebrate, and we’d melt into the background and go and have a brew. The snappers were never told about an attack in advance. There was so much corruption that if you reported a sighting of a DMP, everyone on site would have evaporated in less than the time it took to snort a couple of lines of marching powder.
Even as it was, the attack helicopters would fly over the target compound, more often than not, on their way to pick us up. They didn’t stop far short of trailing a banner advising the Cali and Medellin boys to leg it.
The day Charlie and I encountered the guy we came to call the Stoner, there’d been an operation that had gone as chaotically as normal. Most of the police had been chewing on coca leaves wrapped around a sugar cube, flapping big-time because they didn’t want to get shot at. Half of them were only good for barking at the moon by the time the attack went in.
We didn’t normally end up with too many prisoners during these attacks. The players stood and fought, and eventually got dropped, which suited us just fine. But this particular time one literally fell into our hands, because he’d been helping himself a bit too liberally to the merchandise. He was so out of it he didn’t know if he was in the jungle or on the first manned flight to Mars.
While we waited for the circus to arrive, we put him into one of the ‘factories’, lo
ng sheds made of wood and sheets of wriggly tin, with long, low-troughed channels where the coca was laid out and made into paste. It wasn’t exactly watertight as a detention centre. The one Charlie and I were in now was better.
Stoned out of his brain, he was still sharp enough to grab a rock in each hand. Arms wind-milling frantically, he made a run from the hut to the treeline, taking down anyone who came within range.
The four of us from the Regiment had been sitting around, making a brew; watching the police do a bit of foraging in the generator-run fridges and dead men’s wallets.
The cokehead had three guys down with severe lacerations to the skull before they gave up trying to arrest him and stopped him permanently with 7.62mm. The mixture of surprise and aggression worked well for him, and if his brain hadn’t been so fried he might have got away.
We scrabbled around for a moment or two, but didn’t have to look far. The walls were in bad shape, and the mortar was loose in places. It wasn’t long before we had a couple of big flinty stones each. I felt my way to the door and tested the side opposite the hinges, trying to visualize myself ramming it. Just thinking about it made my shoulder hurt.
Charlie stationed himself to my left.
‘I’ll try first, old man.’ I reached out in the dark, to move him back a little further. ‘I’ll give it three or four goes, then it’s your turn. Once we’re out into that courtyard and we’re not stopped, it’s got to be over the wall and take it from there. If we get split, let’s be outside the Marriott every evening, somewhere within reach of that bus stop. Wait an hour between nine and ten. If we don’t meet up after three days, we’re on our own. OK?’
‘Done,’ he said. ‘Now stop waffling and get on with it.’
‘Listen…’ I knew I was in danger of going soft in the head, but I wanted the stupid old fool to be sure of something. ‘Before it all goes ballistic I just have to say… thanks for coming with me. You were a fucking idiot not to catch that flight, but thanks anyway.’
