Whatever It Takes

by Andy McNab

  I got a finger jabbed into my forehead by the South African. ‘Shut it.’

  No problem.

  And that was it. Caught in the act.

  Were they going to call the police?

  I hoped so.

  5

  They sandwiched me between the two of them and forced me back up the stairs. My feet caught on cables but the two of them kept me moving up and back into the sun. My sunglasses were still in the daysack and I squinted like a mole.

  They pushed me through the same gap in the fence, and a shiny black Range Rover was parked at the top of the driveway. They halted.

  ‘Hands up.’

  Anything they wanted. At least now I was in the open. The problem I had was that these two also knew that, and were never more than an arm’s length away.

  They gave my clothes the once-over and out of my shorts came my wallet and mobile, along with the few cents’ change from a coffee I’d bought on my way through town. That all went into the South African’s cargoes. He didn’t even bother opening the wallet. Was that significant? It had to be.

  I got shoved into the back of the Range Rover, which smelt straight from the showroom. It was just starting to get hot inside – I guessed the air-conditioning had been turned off when they came down to get me.

  The Brit sat to my left and the South African fired the engine as the door locks clicked closed. We rolled down the driveway. It hadn’t been at all like in the films, when they bundle you into a car and accelerate down the street with a screech of wheelspin. It got me even more worried. They knew what they were doing and where they were going. There was so much purpose.

  Maybe I’d find out what they were going to do when we got down onto the public road, which was good for me. Public meant people, and people have eyes and ears. Maybe they were just going to kick me out or drive me into town and dump me at a bus stop. Of course I was being a total optimist. As soon as the car came to the road it turned left, away from the town.

  The Brit unzipped my daysack and rummaged around inside. It was then I noticed the black-ink tattoo along his triceps, half exposed as he checked my bag and his polo-shirt sleeve rode up. It was a set of roman numerals, maybe a wife’s or a child’s birthday. On his skin, it was hard to see at first glance.

  ‘Please let me go,’ I pleaded. ‘I’m really sorry. I know I did wrong, but I was just walking past and saw the house. I was nosy, I just wanted a look. That’s all I was doing. We don’t see buildings like this in the UK. I’m so sorry, I won’t go back.’

  But clearly that wasn’t going to work.

  The Brit pulled out the laser and the notebook and gave me a look that said, Yeah, right.

  I knew I was done for when he flicked through my pages of notes, not only from today but also from last Sunday, the first time I’d gone to the house. He didn’t say a word, totally ignored me, just like the South African did up front. Their silence moved me along from so-far-so-good to concerned.

  I didn’t know why it happened. Maybe it was looking about me, trying to work out what to do when the vehicle stopped – maybe I could chance it and punch and run – but I couldn’t help noticing how perfect the two men were. Just like their car, they were showroom fresh. Pressed clothing. The South African was shaved, with immaculate short blond hair. The Brit had a buzz-cut and a perfectly groomed beard to match.

  Maybe getting these two to lower their guard, getting them to think I wasn’t going to resist, would work if I started sinking deeper into begging mode. ‘I’m so sorry. Please, tell me where we’re going.’

  The Brit didn’t look up from the daysack as he dropped the laser and notebook back inside. He pointed across my chest at the bay to our right. Parmesh’s yacht gleamed on the water. It was so sleek and low-profile it looked warlike.

  The South African turned into the yacht club and parked. He jumped out and opened my door, like I was a paying customer. The Brit nodded for me to get out. They weren’t slacking off at all.

  The South African gripped my arm and pulled me in close so his mouth was next to my ear, so close I could even smell his cleanliness. Shampoo and body wash, no tobacco, no alcohol. ‘Follow me. Don’t try to run. Don’t try to alert anyone. If you do, you’ll regret it. You understand me, don’t you?’

  Of course I did. I nodded and he released my arm.

  I followed him, the Brit behind me again, towards the jetty where a long slim white RIB was moored. The Range Rover’s locks chimed behind us as we stepped onto the wooden jetty.

  I tried to control my breathing. I wanted to show I was respectful to their demands, and scared. I took a couple of deep breaths and tried to accept the situation for what it was.

  I’d been caught. Now I needed to think up a decent enough lie to get me out of what was clearly a problem.

  They didn’t have to push me into the RIB. As I leant back into the plush nylon padded seat around the station two-thirds of the way back that housed the wheel, they even made me put the seatbelt on.

  Within moments we were bouncing over the swell, thrust not by big outboard engines but an air-propulsion unit, a bit like a jet ski. The warship got bigger and bigger by the second, just as all the possibilities of the bad things that could happen to me got bigger and bigger in my head.

  6

  The propulsion unit roared and the wind blasted the South African’s perfect hair all over his face. My eyes were slits against the spray and dazzling light.

  The RIB manoeuvred alongside the steel gangway that protruded over the side of Saraswati. The yacht’s name was plainly stencilled along its bow.

  The Brit turned back to me and yelled, ‘Boots off – now!’

  I did as I was told and left them in the boat, climbing the rungs behind the South African. As my head came level with the deck I heard a loud buzzing noise behind me and ducked.

  A matt-black six-propped drone the size of a coffee-table swooped overhead, stopped and hovered about three metres above the stern of the yacht, right next to the just-as-sparkling white helicopter. It wasn’t small, by any standards. Why would it be? Two young guys waited beneath the drone in jeans and T-shirts. One had the console in front of him with a strap over his neck, like the ice-cream lady at the Odeon in York where our dad took Charlotte and me when we were kids. The second stood by the yacht’s guard rail, watching two black metallic legs with four outstretched talons at the end of each arm descend from under the drone. Just like a bird of prey, it had three forward and one at the rear to make its claws. To me the drone looked just like a matt black eagle would have done as it swooped from the sky and gripped its prey with its claws before heading back skywards, except that as it approached the rail it slowed to a stop, and the claws gently wrapped around it. The young guy waiting unhooked it from the rail, then laid it alongside another on the deck.

  The Brit led me towards the bow and through a blue glass door. It was like walking into a fridge. There was music playing over the soft whirr of the air-con. From wherever the speakers were, a woman with a guitar was singing Nirvana’s ‘Come As You Are’.

  The South African jerked his head to indicate a plush grey semi-circular settee and coffee-table. On it sat a jug of lemon juice, by its colour, and two glasses.

  I took a seat and kept my hands on my knees where they could be seen. The Brit disappeared back on deck, leaving the South African standing and staring down at me. Should I say something to the man now hovering by the door? No. I didn’t want to write more words than I had to in this exam: more words could mean more chances for bad marks. I tried to count my blessings. So far, so good.

  I hated not knowing what was happening. I was a planner. I liked stuff to be mapped out so all my focus could go on getting the details right. Even in Afghanistan, I hadn’t felt as concerned for my safety as I did now. There, I’d had control of my actions and a way to fight back. But I hadn’t experienced this feeling since primary school when I was pushed around in the playground. I’d had a KitKat, and the world and his dog wante
d a bite. The pushing and shoving had started as I tried to get the chocolate back into my pocket. That was when Charlotte came in and rescued me, two years older and, even then, taking no nonsense from anyone. She had never needed a spine to hide behind. Our parents had adopted her as a baby because Mum thought she couldn’t have kids, and then I came along. Having her was the best decision they ever made for all four of us. I just wished she’d burst through the door right now for yet another rescue. There always had been something almost other-worldly about her.

  But that wasn’t about to happen.

  I sat and tried not to make sudden movements or antagonize or look like a threat to the South African, whose short hair was now perfectly back in place since the ride in the RIB. As if I would have been a threat with my socks collapsed about my ankles and exposing the lily-white skin of my dad tan.

  I couldn’t help but notice the wealth. I could smell it. Inhale it. The interior was as new as the Range Rover’s and, probably, the helicopter’s.

  I tried to resist being lulled by all this opulence. As always, I had to turn it into anger. That was what I had for these people. That was why I was doing what I was doing. I took from these people because they had taken from us.

  There were voices from the stairs, coming up from below and behind me. They were deep, both American, and they were talking about seagulls, but not appreciatively. As I turned, two heads and then bodies emerged from below. One, who was doing more nodding than complaining, was in immaculate white uniform, with gold rank on his shoulders. He headed up to a higher deck, and the one who really didn’t like seagulls came towards me, and I knew exactly who he was. Homework, right?

  He was wearing a pair of flowery Bermuda shorts, and below his skinny, dark brown and hairless legs a pair of green canvas slip-ons. On top, despite being rich enough to buy Armani – and by that I don’t mean the clothes but the entire brand and empire – he wore a saggy old T-shirt. It looked like he hadn’t taken it off all week. There was a couple of days’ jet-black growth below his deep-set brown eyes, and his long hair, centre-parted and just past shoulder-length, was like all the hundreds of pictures of him online.

  Only two sorts of people could look like this: him, and the poor.

  ‘Hey, James, good morning.’

  My eyes must have been big as saucers. His expression was unreadable. Despite the upbeat greeting, I couldn’t tell if he was angry or happy. He just looked down at me like I was some kind of exotic specimen his divers had brought up from the seabed.

  He leant down, and poured two glasses of juice.

  7

  I shook my apprehensive head. ‘I’m so sorry for trespassing. It was just that I saw the house and it looked so—’

  A glass of juice appeared in front of me. Parmesh wasn’t even listening. The hand presenting the drink had perfectly manicured nails, not a callus in sight. Why would there be? His money had come from his brain – or, rather, from his brain knowing how to get the money from the rest of us.

  He sat down on the settee, uncomfortably close. ‘Please, James. There is no need to carry on with this nonsense. I know who you are. I know what you are. I know everything about you. Your family, your work, even your unit in the military. Engineers, right?’

  He tilted his glass in the direction of the South African, who was still at his station by the door. He hadn’t said what he knew yet so it could just be words, but that didn’t stop my pulse surging. They would have noticed. I would have.

  ‘We both thank you for your service.’

  I had done three years as a reservist and, of course, like most of the military, wanted to go and experience the post 9/11 wars. Mine was quite boring at first, building blast protection around the military and diplomatic areas in Kabul. But the second half of my tour was spent down in Helmand Province. There, big clearing operations were happening before the war was handed over to the Afghan National Army and we all came home. The Brits and the ANA would fight their way through valleys and the green zone with the likes of me thirty minutes behind, bringing HESCOs and armoured plant. As the infantry advanced, my team would start to construct a Forward Operating Base. We filled HESCOs, massive defences made from circular bins of galvanized-steel mesh and polypropylene, with whatever was to hand – usually sand. We then built a square fortification where the ANA would eventually fight from, and hopefully still dominate the area when we were gone.

  With the confusion and closeness to the fight and, of course, the ANA using the same weapons as the Taliban, I never knew who was shooting or firing RPGs at me. But that was now part of another life.

  I shrugged because Parmesh’s words meant nothing: it was just something Americans said because of their embarrassment at treating returning Vietnam veterans worse than the enemy.

  ‘Mr Egbers, he is a very productive person. Our little eyes in the sky were taking a look at the house last week and you were spotted, James. Looking here, measuring there. It is okay with you if I call you James?’

  He wagged his little finger at me, like a parent telling off their child, but actually having fun with it at the same time. ‘Mr Egbers said not to go and pick you up immediately but to follow you. Find out more about you first. You see, there are some people who do not have what you might call warm feelings for me – not just for what I have, but for what I think.’

  He paused and took a sip of the juice, his eyes constantly burning into me. It was eerie. I could feel it and I didn’t like it.

  ‘So, that is exactly what our eyes in the sky did. They saw where you went, saw who you talked to and, of course, Mr Egbers discovered everything about you and your family. Technology – it is amazing, do you not think?’

  Parmesh took another mouthful of juice but mine stayed cupped in my hand on my knees. ‘So, James, how does it feel to be followed by the kind of advanced technology not even the US military have yet? The cameras are so good that lip readers could even interpret what you were saying to your fellow campers.

  ‘And let me tell you, it was so boring. Asking where to eat breakfast in town because the campsite kitchen was too busy? Not what I, or Mr Egbers, was expecting, for sure.’

  His free hand gestured to my glass while he gave himself enough time to smile for effect. ‘Please, drink. You must have a dry throat. Nerves.’

  I did as he suggested, wanting to show I was compliant and not a threat. So far, all that had happened was words, and that was how I needed it to stay. Egbers looked as if he had other ideas.

  ‘So you see, James, I know this is the second time you have been to the house, maybe more – only you know that.’ He tilted his head to the side and studied me a few seconds. ‘You are here to steal from me, are you not, just like you did in Queenstown?’

  He pushed his glass towards me rather than an accusing finger, but at least it was with a smile. There was none coming from Egbers.

  ‘Come on, James, now is not the time for modesty. Marcus Dalladine told me what happened. It had to be you, right?’

  I kept staring at his face, trying to avoid the deep-set dark brown eyes, clear, penetrating, confident in every word he said.

  My silence confirmed what he already knew. He wasn’t worried if I replied or not. He moved in closer. He was enjoying this but, strangely, not in a hostile or even malicious way. He was leaving that to Egbers. Maybe I was the first real person he had ever met.

  ‘You see, James, there are not too many of us down here. The cognitive elite, it is quite exclusive.’

  He waited for me to ask, but I didn’t need to.

  ‘I know.’

  Parmesh was impressed, but his expression suddenly clouded. Was it because I’d said it with such contempt? He jumped up and jerked his thumb towards Egbers and the door.

  I jumped up as well, bracing myself for the fight.

  Egbers came forward, his eyes dull and focused on mine. This was going to be painful but, fuck it, what else could I do?

  At that moment, white-clad crew members rushed past, shouti
ng and wildly clapping their hands. This wasn’t about me: it was about the gulls.

  I couldn’t help but smile as I extended my arms, my fingers spread out as I sat down again. ‘It’s okay, my mistake, my mistake.’

  Parmesh kept his eyes on the scene outside as he addressed Egbers, who was clearly disappointed I was back on my arse. ‘We need to find someone who can sort this out. Maybe design a high-frequency device that we cannot hear but irritates the life out of them. There has to be something.’

  Egbers gave a firm nod and Parmesh was content. He, too, sat down again and attended to me with a reassuring smile. Egbers returned to his spot, clearly disappointed that nothing had come of it.

  ‘I am sorry to startle you, James. But the gulls, the mess they leave – I should have brought a grey one, that is all I am saying.’ He held up his arms to the sky. ‘They give me nightmares. Arrgh!’

  I gave a smile and nodded, inwardly very happy for the gulls.

  ‘Word gets around from people like Marcus. He gets angry because he would sell his soul for a shiny stone, so when even a little pebble is stolen from him, well, he takes it personally.’

  He wasn’t looking at me any more: this was aimed at the South African by the door behind me. I knew he was still there as his voice swept over my shoulders.

  ‘No soul, Mr Mani. No principle, just a husk.’

  Parmesh was in total agreement, as was I. Parmesh soon returned his attention to me, now with a smile.

  ‘During Mr Egbers’s research, you have been coming to New Zealand every year for the last seven. Walking holidays, were they?’ He gave a little smile and looked up at Egbers, who took a step or two deeper into the room so I could see him smile back. A perfect white-teeth South African smile. His focus then moved to me, and the combination meant only one thing as far as I was concerned. He had plans for me.

  Parmesh continued: ‘The problem with Marcus is, he is greedy. What you took would not even cover his mineral-water bill. But he cannot see beyond his greed. There are many like him, you know.’