by Andy McNab
‘What now?’
‘I’ve got to make the call.’
We arrived at the T-junction. Victoria station and Pimlico were signposted left, but we didn’t want to go there. I knew a right and a left would take us past Chelsea Barracks and on to the bridge.
There was a lot of activity on the other side of the wrought-iron main gates, behind the Gore-Tex-covered, SA80-carrying MoD police guards. Trucks were lined up on the vast parade square, lights on and engines revving.
Chelsea Bridge came into view, and so did a phone box. We dug around in our pockets and between us came up with about four pounds in change. Squeezing into the box beside her, I got the Polaroid out again to phone the source. Suzy took it from me and studied it.
Three police vans packed with uniforms screamed towards us from the other side of the bridge. It was nearly midnight, maybe time for a change of shift. She handed Kelly back. ‘It’s going to be a fucking sight slower tomorrow, when everyone gets to know about this shit.’
The Cabinet Office, at number seventy Whitehall, had a suite of rooms for the use of government ministers and officials referred to as COBR, Cabinet Office Briefing Rooms. They were lettered rather than numbered, and emergency meetings tended to convene in room A. They’d be having one right now. The Chief of Defence Staff, heads of the intelligence and security services, the Met and fire service, every man and his dog, would be sitting round a table in crumpled shirts, working out what the fuck to do about these five bottles of Y. pestis on the move around the capital, while at the same time trying to keep everything looking as normal as possible for as long as they could. With Tony presiding, the Yes Man would be trying to explain his way out of the shit. That boil on his neck would be glowing nicely by now. It couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.
I dialled the number, picturing the chaos in the rooms adjoining A: phones ringing, people running around with bits of paper, others instructing the military to stand-to, but not explaining why just yet, others still trying to get the official yes or no on their actions-on for bio attack.
My phone rang three times before the source answered. I didn’t give him a chance to speak. ‘It’s me. I’m back. Where do you want it?’
He was trying to sound calm. I heard him take a breath, and made out the voice of a TV announcer. ‘Do you have all five?’
‘Yes. Do you still have what I want?’
There was another pause. The News 24 theme tune blared in my ear and the newsreader piled straight into the headlines. Not surprisingly, it was all tube-station closures and power failures. ‘Things are extremely tense at the moment, aren’t they?’
‘They know about you – they know what we’re doing.’
‘Of course. I wasn’t expecting otherwise. Go to the usual coffee shop, and call me as soon as you get there. Someone will come to meet you. Do you understand that?’
‘Yeah, I got it.’
The phone went dead.
We got out of the box and into the shelter of a small mews. As we dodged the rain in the overhang of a small garage, I opened my bumbag and pulled out the pistol. ‘Here, it’s Sundance’s.’
She opened the chamber to check it wasn’t just full of empty cases.
‘OK,’ I said, ‘I’ll go and meet Fuck-face’s man, you follow me to wherever. Chances are they’re not going to release us till they’ve dumped all this shit around the place.’
Rain flicked off her cap as she nodded. ‘That’s if they plan to let you go at all.’
I shrugged. There was nothing I could do about that until it happened. ‘Give me an hour wherever I land up. If I’m not out by then, or you hear the shit hit the fan any earlier, you come and get Kelly, DW, me – whatever’s left.’
Blue flashing lights passed silently along a nearby street. She put the revolver in her bag. ‘Right, we’d better get a vehicle, then, hadn’t we? You keep dog.’
MOE girl moved away from me and began to check the cars squeezed into the narrow mews. The older the better, that was what she’d be looking for: easier to break into, easier to wire up. She stopped by a battered V-reg Renault 5, and five minutes later we were driving south across Chelsea Bridge. At the far side we turned left, heading east towards Westminster. After Tower Bridge, we’d cross back to the north of the river, skirt the ring of steel around the City, and head for Starbucks.
58
Smithfield was a hive of activity. Vans and trucks jostled for position alongside the brightly lit market, loading and offloading everything from small boxes of whatever to halves of cow. Men in white coats, hats and wellies milled about, having a fag and rubbing their hands together to stave off the cold.
The clapped-out Renault came to a halt, and so did the windscreen wipers. They hadn’t been much help anyway. I jumped into the public phone-box we’d stopped beside, fishing in my pocket for change. I got the Polaroid out of my bumbag again, thumbed a coin into the slot and dialled. It rang several times before he answered.
‘Hello?’ He sounded as calm as though he was contemplating a walk in the park.
‘I’m nearly there.’
‘Good. A white van will meet you.’
‘I’ll be in the alley next to it.’
‘Make sure you’re facing the road. He’ll be there soon.’ The phone went dead.
Rain cascaded down the windscreen as I got back into the car. I gave Suzy the pickup point. She listened with a sad smile on her face, then leant closer and kissed me very gently on the cheek. ‘This really might be the last time.’
There wasn’t a lot I could say back. I returned her smile, then checked my documents and bumbag and climbed out. My wet tracksuit bottoms clung to my thighs as I adjusted the daysack on my back. ‘Hope not.’ I gave a little wave.
‘Me too. Maybe out of work . . . you know, I come and see you, you come and see me, that sort of thing.’ She revved the engine.
‘That’d be good. I’d like that.’
She finally found first and drove off to get a trigger on Starbucks, while I set off on foot.
There was hardly anyone around as I walked towards the coffee shop and turned into the alleyway. The whole area was shut down for the night; everything was dark apart from the street-lights that shone weakly through the downpour.
A car splashed past, and a couple of people under umbrellas hurried towards Farringdon station. I didn’t know why: you could see it was closed. I didn’t see uniforms, but they’d be under shelter somewhere.
A white Transit, as knackered as the Renault, came slowly downhill and stopped opposite me. I squinted through the rain to try to identify the driver. As he lowered his window, I stepped out of the shadows. It was Grey, still on his own, still looking benign, the ultimate smiling assassin. ‘Give me the bag, please, and get into the back.’
That wasn’t going to happen. If I controlled DW I had a better chance of seeing Kelly. ‘No way. It stays with me.’
He smiled as if he was my host for the evening, and pointed to the side door handle.
After two attempts I eventually got the thing open, and the interior light flickered on. I climbed in. The van was the same inside as out, the steel floor rusty, dented and scraped. It smelt like a spice counter. He pulled the door shut, and I got down on my knees in the darkness to keep DW stable. I leant the side of my head against the cab bulkhead and listened to him climb back in. Almost as soon as we started rolling he was gobbing off in Indian or whatever, probably telling the source that everything was all right, he’d got me.
What now? Was I going to get dropped? I’d convinced myself they wouldn’t risk it, just in case I’d switched the bottles. Surely they’d want to keep me alive until they knew what they had. I fucking hoped so, but what choice did I have? I just hoped Suzy was out there following.
Less than a minute later the van stopped. The cab door opened, and after a couple of goes so did the side door. The light came on. He’d pulled up alongside a builder’s skip, in front of a red-brick wall and boarded-up windows.
Grey’s smile told me he didn’t give a fuck. I could talk all I liked: it was all the same to him. He threw me a roll of black bin-liners and stepped in next to me, a Sainsbury’s cardboard wine carrier in his hand. ‘Undress. Please, undress.’
He hit the light switch so it stayed on when he’d closed the side door. I hadn’t noticed before how deep-set his eyes were. ‘Have you the picture of your child, please?’
It was obvious from his tone that we weren’t going anywhere until I complied. I took off the daysack and placed it on the floor, then gave him the Polaroid from the bumbag. I started to get undressed. This was a good thing. He wasn’t taking any chances that I might have some kind of surveillance device on me – and now, whatever happened to my kit, the picture and number wouldn’t be among it. It meant that only my clothes were heading for the skip – for now, anyway.
He opened the daysack while I got my kit off, and the bottles clinked as he unrolled them gently from my old clothes. He lifted each one up to the light and examined it carefully, then peeled back the corner of the label with a thumbnail, and checked again. If there’d been tell-tales, maybe a scratch on the glass, he would have found them.
I was down to my boxers and socks. It was a cold enough night, and being wet didn’t help. He waved at my shivering body. ‘Everything, please. Undress.’
I did as I was told and threw them into a bin-liner, along with my bumbag, documents and traser.
‘Move back, please.’ He motioned for me to get further inside the van, and delved into his pocket. Out came a pair of surgical gloves and a tube of KY jelly. I knew exactly what was coming. I’d had it done to me enough times. Devices have to be small to stay up there, but even so, they can have a few hours’ battery life.
Without needing to be told, I bent over and touched my toes. The rubber glove snapped on behind me, then came the KY. The inspection only took a couple of seconds. When he’d finished, he slid the door open, picked up the bin-liner and threw it into the skip. The gloves followed.
That was it: I was completely naked, no kit, just five bottles of DW sitting in a box on the floor with labels hanging off them.
The door slid closed again, but at least the light stayed on. Then off we went, Grey gobbing off on the cell, even laughing from time to time. I didn’t know what he found the funniest: the KY-jelly trick, or me flapping about getting dropped.
We stopped at lights, slowed at junctions, turned right and left. Pedestrians splashed past in the rain. Sometimes I could hear car radios, or vehicles ticking over next to us. I tried to ignore the cold and my plucked-chicken skin, and just kept a tight grip on DW. I had no idea how far we’d gone – for all I knew he could have been circling two blocks continuously, trying to disorientate me.
We came to a standstill again, but this time the cab door opened and I heard a chain rattling, and the creak of gates. The van rolled forward, then the engine died and all I could hear was the endless drumming of the rain. Wherever we’d been going, I got the feeling we’d arrived.
The side door opened. We were in a yard. Two steps in front of me was a wall of brown, wet, grimy bricks. Set into it was an open door that led into a very small, grungy hallway. There was another door a few steps inside, and some stairs to the left of it.
‘Come, come!’ Grey ushered me in as if I’d just arrived for a dinner party. I stepped out on to the cold wet tarmac. DW was in my right hand. I couldn’t see anything but high brick walls and the shiny slate roofs of neighbouring houses. We couldn’t have been driving for more than half an hour, so we must still have been in London. I didn’t have a clue where, though. I just hoped Suzy did.
59
A couple of paces got me into the hallway. I could smell mildew and spicy cooking. The staircase was steep, narrow, and covered with greasy carpet that led up into the darkness. Grey stood behind me and pushed open the interior door. We were in a derelict restaurant kitchen. There was no direct light, just whatever sneaked through the square of glass in each of the two swing doors the far side of the room. It was strange that it still smelt: nobody could have cooked here for years.
He curled his finger in front of my face and whispered, ‘Come, come.’ We moved past a series of old pots and pans and all sorts of other kitchen stuff that still sat on the oven and worktops. The floor tiles were freezing under my bare feet.
He stopped just short of the doors and turned to face me. I could just about see his eyes in the quarter-light, and the finger that went up to his lips. ‘Look.’ He pointed at the window. ‘Look.’
I put my nose against the glass, still keeping a firm grip on the bottles. Most of the furniture in the old restaurant was stacked against the walls, but Kelly was sitting on a chair in the middle of the room. She had her back to me, facing the street.
Navy stood over her. One of the unstacked tables had a little lamp on it, illuminating his face and the knife in his hand. I wondered if it was the same blade that had dealt with Carmen and Jimmy.
Even if she’d been facing the other way Kelly wouldn’t have seen me. She was blindfolded, her hands and feet tied, still wearing her Old Navy T-shirt, her hair a knotted mess.
I took a deep breath. I wanted to call out to let her know I was there and she was safe. But I knew I had to stay calm. She was alive, and we were in the same place. That would have to do for now.
Grey started pulling on my shoulder. ‘Come, come.’ He was sounding even more excited. Maybe he wasn’t taking me to dinner after all; maybe we were going to a fucking funfair.
I followed him back to the bottom of the stairs. This time, light was coming from the landing above. The outside door was still open, letting in the rain. He invited me up the narrow steps. ‘This way, this way, please.’
When I was about half-way up, the source appeared on the landing. Without acknowledging me, he switched off the light, then went back into a long, narrow lounge. I paused in the doorway. The red velour curtains were closed, but there was no mistaking the TV, which still had BBC News 24 on mute, and the line of ornaments. I’d had a picture of them in my bumbag for the last couple of days. The rest of the room was new to me. A green three-piece was arranged around the TV, and his raincoat hung over the back of the nearest armchair. Against the wall, to the right, was a small dark-wood table with two chairs.
The fireplace was decorated with grey 1930s tiles, and an equally ancient gas fire was fitted in the grate. It wasn’t on. Arranged along the mantelpiece were more ornaments like the ones on the TV, chunky brass or glass replicas of mosques. Hanging above them was a picture of Mecca during the Haj, along with family photos: a silver-haired couple and a marriage in traditional dress. Two other doors leading from the room were closed.
‘Come in. Your child is OK, yes?’ The source was on the settee, watching the silent TV. A cell phone rested next to him on the arm. He still wore his suit jacket, but he’d taken off his tie and left the top shirt button done up. The fourth sports bag was lying at his feet.
Ken Livingstone was live, his hair soaked, dozens of mikes shoved in his face. The caption told us: ‘Mayor has no information of attack, all efforts directed at restoring power to tube’.
The next caption was a news update. Unnamed Foreign Office official informs BBC of imminent biological attack on tube system. Government withholding information about public safety. Government spokesman says report unfounded, calls for public to stay calm.
The Yes Man must have let Simon out on Sunday, thinking the job was done. Maybe Simon had too, until he heard about the tube closures.
It wouldn’t be long before Sundance and Trainers found him. Sundance would have his arm in a sling, but that wouldn’t hold him back. He’d nearly kicked me to death two years ago; Simon wouldn’t last long. Sad, but I did warn him.
I waited in the doorway, using the opportunity to check below me. The wh
ite-painted door from the kitchen was just opening. Shadows fell on the bottom of the stairs. ‘Please . . . please let me go.’
They were carrying her out to the van.
Fuck ’em, I might never see her again.
‘Kelly!’
The box went down on the carpet and I jumped down the stairs.
‘Nick! Nick!’
I virtually fell into them in the hallway. My hands grabbed at her blindfold as she thrashed about, her hands and legs still tied. ‘It’s OK, I’m here. Everything’s OK.’
Her blindfold came down as a pair of massive hands closed round my neck, forcing me to my knees. I glimpsed her petrified face as she was picked up again by Grey and Navy. Tears streamed down her cheeks. ‘Sorry, Nick, I’m sorry . . . no Disneyland . . .’
I couldn’t answer. I couldn’t even breathe.
Navy’s hand went over her mouth, and all I could see was her eyes, jumping about with fear. A second or two later, she was gone. The door closed and the hands released me. I lay on the floor, fighting for air.
The source stood over me as I recovered.
I looked up. ‘Why can’t she stay with me here?’
‘She’s not going far. Why are you so stupid? You need to stay calm, for her sake. I have stopped them killing her. Those are their orders. If you wanted to talk to your child, you should have just asked. Come, come with me.’
I followed him upstairs, coughing up stuff and trying to breathe. I had to keep calm. He was right. Sparking up wasn’t going to help her.
He picked up the bottles and went into the lounge but I stalled in the doorway again, listening for the van.
Shit, how long before Suzy gets here?
He waved a hand at the family shots above the fireplace. ‘She is going to the son’s house, the son of our hosts here. I just wanted you to see her, to let you know she is still worth saving. Your actions have proved I was right to keep you two apart. It should ensure there is no more irrational behaviour while we wait.’
