Whatever It Takes

by Andy McNab

  I had to stop thinking and get on with the job. It was the only way I could see of getting Pip, the boys and me out of this in one piece. Who knew? The money might just be real.

  The road climbed as I followed signs for somewhere called Arthur’s Point, and the higher I got the less habitation there was to be seen. The houses were concentrated on the lower ground of Speargrass Flat and around the lake.

  I pulled over onto the grass verge and the nose of the Toyota dipped down towards the dry drainage ditch, kicking up a little red dust. Sanctuary was below me now, just over three kilometres away, among the lush greenery of Speargrass.

  I fished in my daysack. I was dressed exactly the same as I had been on Sunday, the nerdy Brit walker, but this time, instead of a laser measure in my daysack, I had a pair of 25x70 Celestrons. Christmas was everywhere in Queenstown and it had felt wrong to see Santa and snowmen in shop windows while the sun was melting ice-creams. The salesman who had sold me the telescope I used to recce Dalladine’s house, but didn’t make the connection as I was dressed normally in jeans, assured me the binoculars I was treating myself to were just as good for watching kiwis at the nature park as for looking at the stars. They were expensive, but he hadn’t raised an eyebrow when I produced the card. Queenstown was a holiday town: people splashed the cash there and the locals weren’t exactly destitute.

  I powered down the passenger window and heard the breeze, then some birds chirping. I took in as much of the house as I could see through the binos, which wasn’t much. The new instant garden was doing its job and blocked quite a lot, but from what I could make out, it fitted the plans I’d seen. The light-grey concrete drive was exposed at intervals in the gaps made by the trees and shrubs, and the distance looked correct. It stopped maybe twenty metres from the front of Sanctuary and turned into a dark grey, maybe black, slabbed walkway. Any vehicle then turned left to a set of long, low, empty carports.

  The building was clad in dark-green aluminium panelling, a multi-roofed structure, stone and glass elevations, seven beds with baths, and a floor space of just over 780 square metres. Plus, there was the photo-voltaic panel array way to the west of the house. There were seventy PVs on the plans and they all seemed to be in place, looking like a farmer’s field that had been turned over to green energy. A few hours of New Zealand sun should provide enough power to keep the house running for days – if the energy was being stored, that was.

  Something that hadn’t appeared on anything I’d seen stuck out like a sore thumb: a smaller building, detached, two levels, maybe seventy or eighty metres to the west, behind the main house. According to the plans, that area was earmarked for a large water feature – a big pond or a small lake, I supposed, depending on what you’re used to. Google Maps showed the main house during its construction, and a big hole that I’d assumed was to be filled with water. Instead, there stood a five-bedroom-sized house – or, at least, a building big enough to be one, had it had any windows. I could see just two solid elevations through the Celestrons, both of the same stone as the main house.

  Between the two structures there was grass and ornamental gardens. No driveway, path or even a track worn by footfall across the grass. Clearly there were no plans to throw Granny in the outhouse. Or maybe there were, and they just didn’t like her.

  No way was I going to try to see the dead elevations, because that would mean entering the grounds – and I wouldn’t do that until I absolutely had to. There were other ways – maybe, depending on whether or not the house was occupied. But that would be up to Egbers.

  I powered up the window to let the air-con do its stuff as I drove back to Queenstown.

  15

  As I reached the lower ground I could begin to see Lake Wakatipu, which looked to me like a fat snake slinking along the floor – a very big snake, about eighty kilometres long. On, above and around it were powerboats, paragliders and billboards advertising bungee jumping, mountain biking, skiing, snowboarding, anything the adrenalin junkie needed.

  Queenstown was Adventure Central, but it looked after nerds like me too. There were walks and tours, and if I didn’t want to wakeboard behind a speedboat I could just sit in the back of a 4x4 on a photography safari or check out Hobbit Land again.

  I liked Queenstown a lot. The people were friendly and the whole place felt healthy. It was a long throw from York’s traffic jams, homelessness and drug problems.

  Soon I was on the outskirts, following the main road along the lake. I looked across at Kelvin Heights, the golf course and Dalladine’s house. I could just about pick it out in the distance, but only because I knew where to look. He probably liked it down here on the lake because Kelvin Heights was so close to Frankton airport. But I wondered how he’d thought about his own piece of Paradise these past two years, knowing that he wasn’t as safe as he’d thought he’d be. I hoped it still kept him awake at night, even after, probably, renovating the whole intruder system. Or maybe he had moved, the stress just too much. I hoped so.

  For all that, as I checked out the lake once more, I felt a twinge of jealousy at the Dalladines’ lifestyle. The four kids must have been having an amazing time there. I fantasized for a moment or two about what it must be like to be in his shoes. My boys, just turned ten, would be on water skis in the summer, snow skis in the winter, and at all times of the year living in a safe place. Most importantly, they’d be happy. At the moment, they weren’t. Far from it. How could they be, with all the drama – or, more like, the lack of drama – going on between their parents?

  Pip and I had met at college and were full of dreams and aspirations. What could be out there to stop us? Three things, it turned out: the crash, and the twins, Jack and Tom, all arriving at the same time. The Afghan tour didn’t help. Six months of her being worried sick about me that turned to resentment. After all, I was doing something for me, but what about her, left at home with two babies? She had a point, though I didn’t see it that way at the time.

  It ended when I’d come home from work very late one night and was so exhausted I went straight to bed. Pip came up maybe two hours later and I was still awake. I could never shake off the worry of trying to make the business work, make ends meet. She asked me what I wanted from my life because I was nothing more than a squatter in hers.

  I didn’t blame her for packing her bags. I was consumed with trying to keep the business going – for all of us, I’d thought. Unfortunately, I hadn’t understood then that Pip also had a life and wanted to do more with it. We tried to get back together and make a go of things, but with my anger at the world and travelling to New Zealand every year to satisfy that anger, it didn’t work and we drifted apart. I couldn’t blame her for wanting to end with a clear-cut divorce.

  She was an excellent mother and let me try hard to be a good father, so maybe there would be a time when we patched things up. As the years went by, I missed her and the kids more and more. Pip was still close to Charlotte: they had clicked from the very first day they met, about a month after we had started to go out with each other. There had never been any conflict about my seeing the boys, but … it wasn’t the same as being together as a family.

  Anyway, maybe that was for later. Right now I had to get a grip, didn’t I? Once again, I had to force myself to think of real things, things that mattered, things I could do now. There was only one item on the agenda, and that was finding out how to get myself inside Sanctuary. There was no other business.

  My little Toyota suited my socks-pulled-up-to-the-knees look, but as I pulled up at the Crown Plaza next to the ranks of 4x4s and big touring cars it seemed a little out of place. The hotel was a concrete eighties-style building overlooking the lake. It was large, anonymous, perfect for me. I liked such places. The last time I’d stayed in Queenstown it had been at the holiday park on the outskirts of town, with the rest of the campers. The hotel was just as big and impersonal, but armed with a credit card and having no idea of how long I’d be there, I’d thought, Why not take the spa option?r />
  The card was a regular MasterCard with my name on it. The bank’s motif, embossed in the top right corner, was a gold pineapple with the initials SIB. I wondered what they stood for, not that it mattered. The only thing that did was that it worked.

  I locked the Toyota and slung the daysack over my shoulder to a background of shrieks coming from an adrenalin powerboat hurtling its passengers around the lake. Then, as I turned to head for Reception, I heard a pair of vehicle doors slam shut behind me.

  Egbers and the Brit were leaving the sides of a gleaming black BMW X5 and making straight for me. All the happy fantasies of skiing with the kids evaporated.

  16

  There wasn’t a lot to say to them as they came closer – nothing to say at all, really. Not yet, anyway. I could have asked them how they’d found me, but why bother? I’d just get on with what I needed to do. I had to accept they were the masters; but that wasn’t a problem for me. Just get on with the job.

  I followed them, a couple of steps behind, as they approached the automatic glass doors into Reception.

  I’d been racking my brain but still had no idea why Parmesh had chosen me for this instead of using these two, or all the other resources he no doubt had at his fingertips.

  I didn’t like the negativity that the two Templars brewed up inside me. What happened when I had delivered the ledger? Why would they need me alive? Maybe that was why I’d been chosen: because I was expendable. But why take the chance of me failing? Why not use someone much more skilled at this stuff? There was nothing I could do but hope that Parmesh really did have a reason, a non-expendable reason, for picking me.

  Almost in the same breath, I had to tell myself it wasn’t worth thinking about. Knowing my fate wouldn’t change anything.

  We rode the lift in silence and they didn’t so much as look at me. It wasn’t until we got to my room and I had opened the door for Egbers to enter first and the Brit to come in behind me that the South African started talking – even before I’d been able to place my daysack on the bed.

  ‘How long will it take?’

  I was hoping for a question I could answer. ‘It’s impossible to say yet. I need more information. I’ve looked at all the planning, all the surveys, and I’ve been trying to find a way to—’

  Egbers wasn’t interested. ‘What is it you want?’

  He took in the view of the lake beyond the glass sliding doors and small balcony, and the Brit had perched himself on the edge of the settee.

  ‘First off, is the house occupied? Does Castro live there?’

  Egbers didn’t bother to turn and face me but kept his gaze on the lake. ‘It’s unoccupied.’

  ‘Do you have any details on intruder systems?’

  ‘No. You’ll know as soon as we do.’

  ‘What about the ledger? You know where it’s kept and how?’

  ‘No. You’ll know as soon as we do.’

  ‘You don’t know much, do you? How am I supposed to give you a time frame when—’

  The Brit’s mobile buzzed. Egbers turned back to the room and thrust his hand up, like a traffic cop, for me to stop. He pointed to the bed. ‘Sit. This might help.’

  I complied.

  Directly opposite me, the Brit spoke into his mobile. ‘We’ve got him. You ready?’

  Egbers moved close to me and bent at the hip, his hands on his thighs, his face right into mine. ‘Ask what you need to know. Do not say anything about the ledger. Just ask about the house. Do not ask over-complicated questions.’

  The Brit held up his phone screen to me and I saw what looked like a wide passport version of a man, South East Asian, maybe.

  But this was no passport picture.

  His face was bloodied, bruised, his lips swollen. One of his cheeks was split. He was crying.

  The Brit turned up the volume to make sure I heard his sobs and gasps as he tried to breathe through the mucus and red saliva streaming from his nose and mouth. ‘He can’t see you. Ask him what you need to know.’

  I could see this guy’s pain, hear his fear and sheer desperation as he whimpered, totally dominated and defeated.

  My eyes flicked between the two of them as they checked me out for a reaction.

  It wasn’t the first time I had seen pain. It might have come from someone who’d been shot, blown up, or was under fire, but the look in their eyes was always the same.

  Egbers was impatient. ‘Ask him.’

  I took a breath and thought about what was important. ‘Is there a safe? A strongroom? Anywhere that valuables would be kept?’

  A voice in front of the Asian, belonging to whoever’s hand was holding the smartphone, translated. Sharp. Aggressive. I didn’t know the language, but the shouted commands made the man wince, trying to protect his face with every syllable blasted at him.

  He hesitated. It was obvious to me that he was thinking, not trying to avoid.

  More shouts flew at him from the translator, angrier, more threatening.

  The man spoke, blood-stained spittle flying from his swollen lips to hit the camera eye. I couldn’t understand what he said, but it was clear to me he was begging. His shoulders trembled.

  The smartphone holder translated what we had heard. ‘He doesn’t know anything about a safe. He was brought in with the rest of the Filipino crew to work on the underground construction, the basement.’

  The poor man was now in full flow, but the tone was still begging, desperate to please.

  ‘That’s all he did. One room and a toilet. But they were sent home before they finished it.’

  The translator wasn’t satisfied with the last piece of information. It didn’t make sense to him.

  The Filipino pleaded, looking not at the camera but at whoever was holding it.

  The smartphone holder’s free hand, dark-skinned, swung into shot with a sharp slap to the side of the man’s face. He fell off his chair, his imploring magnified tenfold over the speakers, and collapsed onto pitted concrete, wherever in the world he was.

  This was getting out of hand. The state of him was enough for me to grasp that he would have told us by now if he knew anything.

  I turned to Egbers, who was still close so he could also see the screen. ‘Tell him to stop. He’s telling the truth. The guy doesn’t know anything else – he’s not meant to. I believe him. Just let me talk to him.’

  Egbers and the Brit looked at each other and the Brit gave instructions. ‘Get him seated.’

  We all watched as the hand pulled at the blood-stained grey shirt to get him back onto a wooden dining chair.

  His head was pulled back, with what was obviously a sharp instruction to look straight ahead at the camera lens.

  Tears mixed with mucus and saliva dribbled from his face onto his shirt.

  I spoke into the mic. ‘Ask him if he knows anything about the other building – the one behind the main house.’

  The translation was almost simultaneous. A reply came back, eager. Anything to stop the pain. He kept saying the same thing, trying hard to impress, show that he was helping.

  The translation came back over the speaker. ‘He says he wasn’t there when they worked on anything above the ground. All he worked on was below.’

  ‘Okay. Ask him what he didn’t finish building. Maybe the drainage. What was left to be done below ground before the house was built?’

  The translation began and the tears and begging intensified with each of his answers. The translator got angrier, demanding he talk more. It felt things were about to get out of control again.

  ‘Just back off the guy and let him talk.’

  The Filipino stared into the lens at me. I didn’t need an interpreter to tell me he was pleading with me to believe him.

  What I finally heard confirmed I was right.

  ‘He says they just laid the concrete for the basement. He says all that was left to build was the basement wall at the back of the house. He doesn’t know why – they were told not to ask questions or they wouldn’t ge
t paid.’

  I turned to Egbers. ‘That’s all I need.’

  The Brit closed down and sat back to relax in the settee. Egbers went over to join him. Once he was seated, he continued talking about the ledger as if the past few minutes had never happened.

  ‘Do not open it, do not record it, do not ask what is in it. You will enter and exit the house covertly. There has to be a long delay before anyone discovers that the ledger has gone. You understand?’

  I shrugged. It was what I would have expected. ‘Castro? What about him? Is he a wanker-banker, then? I’d just like to know what might happen to me if I get caught in there.’

  The Brit laughed as he dug inside his leather jacket. He threw a large plastic Jiffy-bag at me, big enough to take a box folder.

  Egbers had started to kick off his boots and socks to reveal that both feet had been burnt. The creamy white and hairless skin stopped at his ankles. He pointed down at them as he tried to wiggle his toes. Maybe six or seven moved. ‘I worked for him as a young man. I was loyal. He thought I had stolen a pair of his new four-hundred-dollar sneakers. So I was held down and he used acid to make sure that when I was finally able to wear them they would be out of fashion. That answer your question?’

  I nodded as he put his socks back on. The move to Parmesh with the ledger intelligence made sense. Revenge. But now he was a fully paid-up member of the Parmesh family.

  ‘Completely.’

  Egbers could see my confusion as I held up the envelope. ‘The ledger will be sealed in that before you leave the house with it.’

  I dropped it on the bed, wondering what there was to stop me checking it out, maybe even copying the pages of whatever was so important.

  Egbers was ahead of me.

  ‘Don’t even think about it. We’ll be with you all the way.’

  ‘I need your help to recce Sanctuary.’

  ‘Depends.’

  ‘Can I use the drones? Then I could look at the house, particularly the outbuilding. I still don’t know if the grounds have alarms – if I walk in there and set something off …’