Andy mcNab
Firewall [030-011-4.3]
Category: fiction spies
Synopsis:
In his third outing (following Remote Control and Crisis Four , Nick
Stone, Andy McNab's series SAS agent, is off the Firm's regular payroll
owing to a major screw up in his last assignment that left his best friend's
family slaughtered--except for the one child who survived. Little Kelly
needs expensive treatment for the post-traumatic stress that's turned her
nearly catatonic, so Nick takes on a freelance assignment that gets him
mixed up with Russian organized crime--in particular, with an enigmatic mob
boss who has designs on some Finnish cybertechnology. When Nick realizes
it's not industrial espionage that he's involved with but military secrets,
he's caught between warring factions of the Russian Mafia and the
Anglo-American alliance of intelligence agencies. The Westerners will do
anything to keep the Echelon program out of the hands of Valentin Lebed--the
Chechnyan Mafioso who makes Nick an offer he can't refuse--and the Maliskia,
a gang of rival Russian criminals who want to derail Lebed's plans and take
over Echelon themselves. The action ranges from Helsinki to St. Petersburg
to London, the weaponry is fully detailed, and the techniques of
infiltration and retrieval carefully outlined; McNab, a former SAS commando
who, according to the author's note "is still wanted by a number of
terrorist organizations and is therefore forbidden to reveal his face or
current location," obviously remembers every ache, pain, bruise, and injury
he suffered in his life of derring-do, since they're all completely and
graphically described here, too.
Also by Andy McNab
Nmfiction
Bravo Two Zero
Immediate Action
Fiction
Remote Control Crisis Four
FirewaLL by Andy McNab
POCKET BDDKS
New York London Toronto Sydney Singapore
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents
are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is
entirely coincidental.
*
POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc. 1230 Avenue of the
Americas, New York, NY 10020
Copyright 2000 by Andy McNab
Previously published in Great Britain in 2000 by Bantam Press
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or
portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket
Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
McNab, Andy.
Firewall / Andy McNab.
p. em.
ISBN 0-7434-0626-5
1. Stone, Nick (Fictitious character)--Fiction. 2. Intelligence
officers--Fiction. 3. British--Estonia--Fiction. 4. Estonia--Fiction. 5.
Mafia--Fiction. I. Title.
PR6063.C59 F57 2001
823'.914--dc21 2001021015
First Pocket Books hardcover printing July 2001 10 987654321
POCKET BOOKS and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon &
Schuster, Inc.
Designed byjaime Put&rti Printed in the U.S.A.
HELSINKI, FINLAND
Monday, December G, 1999
The Russians were serious players. If things didn't go as planned,
Sergei said, I'd be lucky to be shot dead in the hotel lobby. If they
captured me, I'd be taken to a remote bit of wasteland and have my stomach
slit open. They'd pull my intestines out and leave me to watch them squirm
around on my chest like a bucket of freshly caught eels for the thirty
minutes it would take me to die. These things happen, he had explained, when
you mess with the main men in ROC (Russian Organized Crime). But I didn't
have a choice; I desperately needed the cash.
"What's it called again, Sergei?" I mimed the disembowelment
Eyes staring straight ahead, he gave a brief, somber smile and
muttered, "Viking's revenge."
It was just before seven p.m. and it had already been dark for three
and a half hours. The air temperature had been well below freezing all day;
it hadn't snowed for a while, but there was still a lot of the stuff about,
plowed to the sides of the roads.
The two of us had been sitting very still for the best part of an hour.
Until I'd just spoken, our breathing was the only sign of movement. We were
parked two blocks away from the Intercontinental Hotel, using the shadows
between the streetlights to conceal our presence in the dirty black Nissan
4x4. The rear seats were down flat to make it easier to hide the target
inside, complete with me
wrapped round him like a wrestler to keep him there. The 4x4 was
sterile: no prints and completely empty apart from the trauma pack lying on
the folded seats. Our boy had to be delivered across the border alive, and a
couple of liters of Ringer's solution might come in handy if this job turned
into a gang fuck Right now, it certainly had all the ingredients of one. I
found myself hoping it wouldn't be me needing the infusion.
It had been a while since I'd felt the need to pre canulate making it
quicker for me to replace any fluid from gunshot wounds, but today had just
that feel about it. I'd brought a catheter from the U.K. and it was already
inserted into a vein under my left forearm, secured by tape and protected by
an Ace bandage. Anticoagulant was preloaded inside the catheter's needle and
chamber to stop the blood that filled it from clotting. Ringer's solution
isn't as good as plasma to replace blood loss--it's only a saline mix--but I
didn't want anything plasma-based. Russian quality control was a
contradiction in terms, and money was what I wanted to return to the U.K.
with, not HIV. I'd spent enough time in Africa not treating anyone's gunshot
wounds because of the risk of infection, and I wasn't about to let it happen
now.
We sat facing Mannerheimintie, 600 feet down the hill from our
position. The boulevard was the main drag into the city center, just a
fifteen minute walk away to the right. It carried a constant stream of slow,
obedient traffic each side of the streetcar lines. Up here it was like a
different world. Low-level apartment buildings hugged each side of the quiet
street and an inverted V of white Christmas lights sparkled in almost every
window.
People walked past, straining under the weight of their purchases,
crammed into large shopping bags with pictures of holly and Santa. They
didn't notice us as they headed home to their smart apartments; they were
too busy keeping their footing on the icy sidewalks and their heads down
against the wind that howled and buffeted the 4x4.
The engine had been off all the time we'd been here, and it was like
sitting in a fridge. Our breath billowed like low cloud as we waited.
I kept visualizing how, when, and where I was going to do my stuff, and
more importantly, what I was going to do if things got fucked up. Once the
target has been selected the basic sequence of
a kidnapping is nearly always the same. First comes reconnaissance;
second, abduction; third, detention; fourth, negotiation; fifth, ransom
payment; and finally, release--though sometimes that doesn't happen. My job
was to plan and implement the first three phases; the rest of the task was
out of my hands.
Three members of the loud-tie-and-suspenders brigade from a private
bank had approached me in London. They'd been given my name by an
ex-Regiment SAS) mate who now worked for one of the big security companies,
and who'd been nice enough to recommend me when this particular commission
had been declined.
"Britain," they said to me as we sat at a window table in the roof bar
of the Hilton, looking down on to the gardens of Buckingham Palace, "is
facing an explosion in Russian mafia-organized crime. London is a
money-laundering haven. The ROC are moving as much as 20 billion through the
City each year, and up to two hundred of their senior players either live in
Britain or visit regularly."
The executives went on to say they'd discovered that millions had been
channeled through Valentin Lebed's accounts at their bank in just three
years. They didn't like that, and were none too keen on the thought of the
boys with the blue flashing lights paying him a visit and seeing the name on
all his paying-in slips. Their solution was to have Val lifted and taken to
St. Petersburg, where, I presumed, they had either made arrangements to
persuade him to move his account to a different bank, or to channel even
more through them to make the risk more acceptable. Whichever, I didn't give
a fuck so long as I got paid.
I looked over at Sergei. His eyes glinted as he stared at the traffic
below us and his Adam's apple moved as he swallowed. There wasn't anything
left to say; we'd done enough talking during the two-week buildup. It was
now time to do.
The conference of European Council members was due to start in Helsinki
in two days. Blue EU flags already lined the main roads, and large black
convoys of Eurocrats drove around with motorcycle outriders, heading from
premeeting to premeeting. The police had set up diversions to control the
flow of traffic around the city, and orange reflective cones and barriers
were springing up everywhere. I'd already had to change our escape route
twice because of it.
Like all the high-class hotels, the Intercontinental was housing the
exodus from Brussels. All the suits had been in the city since last
week, wheeling and dealing so that when the heads of state hit town,
all they'd have to do was politely refuse Tony Blair's invitation to eat
British beef at some dinner for the media, then leave. All very good, but
for me security around here was tighter than a duck's ass-everything from
sealed manholes to prevent bombs being planted to a heavy police presence on
the streets. They would certainly have contingency plans for every possible
event, especially armed attack.
Sergei had a folding-stock AK--a Russian automatic, 7.62mm short
assault rifle--under his feet. His cropped, thinning brown hair was covered
by a dark-blue woolen hat, and the old Soviet Army body armor he wore under
his down jacket made him look like the Michelin man. If Hollywood was
looking for a Russian hardhead, Sergei would win the screen test every time.
Late forties, square jaw, high cheekbones, and blue eyes that didn't just
pierce, they chopped you into tiny pieces. The only reason he would never be
a leading man was his badly pockmarked skin. Either he'd steered away from
the Clearasil in his youth or he'd been burned; I couldn't tell, and I
didn't want to ask. He was a hard, reliable man, and one I felt it was okay
to do business with, but he wasn't going to be on my Christmas-card list.
I had read about Sergei Lysenkov's freelance activities in Intelligence
Service reports. He had been a member of Spetznaz's Alpha Group, an elite of
special-forces officers within the RGB, who used to be deployed wherever
Moscow's power was under threat or there were wars of expansion. When hard
line heads of the KGB led the 1991 coup in Moscow, they ordered Alpha Group
to kill Yeltsin as he held out in the Russian White House, but Sergei and
his mates decided that enough was enough and that the politicos were all as
bad as each other. They disobeyed the order, the coup failed, and when
Yeltsin learned what had nearly happened he took them under his direct
command, cutting their power by turning them into his own bodyguards. Sergei
decided to quit and make his experience and knowledge available to the
highest bidder, and today that was me. It had been easy enough to make
contact: I just went to Moscow and asked a few security companies where I
could find him.
I needed Russians on the team because I needed to know how Russians
think, how Russians do. And when I discovered that Valentin Lebed would be
in Helsinki for twenty-four hours of R and R, and not in his fortress in St.
Petersburg, Sergei was the only one
who could organize vehicles, weapons, and the bribing of border guards
in the time available.
The people who'd briefed me on the job had done their homework well.
Valentin Lebed, they were able to tell me, had been smart during the fall of
communism. Unlike some of his gaucher colleagues, he didn't keep the
designer labels on the sleeves of his new suit to show how much it had cost.
His rise was brutal and meteoric; within two years he was one of the dozen
heads of the "mafiocracy" who had made ROC so powerful around the world.
Lebed's firm employed only ex-KGB agents overseas, using their skills and
experience to run international crime like a military operation.
Coming from dirt-poor beginnings as a farmer's son in Chechnya, he'd
fought against the Russians in the mid-nineties war. His fame was sealed
after rallying his men by making them watch Braveheart time and time again
as the Russians bombed them day after day. He even painted his face half
blue when attacking. After the war he'd had other ideas, all of them
involving U.S. dollars, and the place he'd chosen to realize them was St.
Petersburg.
Much of his money came from arms dealing, extortion, and a string of
nightclubs he owned in Moscow and elsewhere, which served as fronts for
prostitution rackets. Jewelery businesses he had "acquired" in Eastern
Europe were used as a front to fence icons stolen from churches and museums.
He also had bases in the United States, and was said to have brokered a deal
to dump hundreds of tons of American toxic waste on his motherland. In the
Far East, he'd even bought an airline just so he could ship out heroin
without administrative hassle. Within just a few years, according to the
guys who'd briefed me, such activities were said to have netted him more
than $200 million.
Three blocks on the other side of the hotel, parked in a car that would
be abandoned once this lift kicked off, were two more of the six-man team.
Carpenter and Nightmare were armed with 9mm mini-Uzi machine guns, a very
small version of the Uzi 9mm, on harnesses under their overcoats, the same
as the BGs (bodyguards) we were going up against. They were good, reliable
weapons, if a little heavy for their size. It was ironic, but Sergei had
obtained the team's Uzis and old Spanish, semiautomatic suppressed 7mm
pistols from one of Valentin's own dealers.
Carpenter and Nightmare weren't their real names, of course;
Sergei--the only one who spoke English--had told me that was how they
translated, and that was how he referred to them. Just as well, as I
couldn't have pronounced them in Russian anyway.
Nightmare was living up to his name. He certainly wasn't the sharpest
tool in Sergei's shed. Things needed to be demonstrated twenty or thirty
times before he got the idea. There was a slight flatness to his face that,
together with his constantly shifting eyes and the fact that he didn't seem
too good at keeping food in his mouth, made him look a bit scary.
Carpenter had a heroin habit that Sergei assured me would not affect
his performance, but it certainly had during the buildup. He had lips that
were constantly at work, as though he'd swallowed something and was trying
to recapture the taste. Sergei told him that if he screwed up on the ground
he would personally kill him.
Nightmare was like a big brother to Carpenter and protected him when
Sergei gave him a hard time for messing up, but it seemed to me that
Nightmare would be lost without him, that they needed each other. Sergei
told me they'd been friends since they were teenagers. Nightmare's family
had looked after Carpenter when his mother went down for life for killing
her husband. She'd discovered he'd raped his own seventeen-year-old
daughter. As if that wasn't enough, Sergei was his uncle, his father's
brother. It was As the World Turns, Russian style, and the only thing I
liked about it was that it made my own family seem normal. Carpenter and
Nightmare would be in the hotel with me for the lift; perhaps I could keep
some control over them if I had them with me.
The last two on the team I'd christened the James brothers and they
were in a green Toyota 4x4. I wasn't so worried about them; unlike the other
two, they didn't have to be told what to do more than twice. They had the
trigger on the target's three black Mercedes, which were about a mile and a
half away from the hotel. They also had folding-stock AKs and AP
(armor-piercing) rounds in their mags, and, like Sergei, they wore enough
body armor to cripple a small horse.
The target was well protected in the hotel and his vehicles were
securely parked underground so that no device--explosive from his enemies or
listening or surveillance from law enforcement--could be placed. When they
finally moved out to pick him up from the hotel with the rest of his BGs,
the Jameses would follow. Carpenter
and Nightmare would then take up their positions in the hotel, along
with me. Sergei, Jesse, and Frank would take on the vehicles.
The Jameses were both ex-Alpha Group, too, but unlike Sergei they were
far too good-looking to be straight. They'd been together since their time
as young conscripts in Afghanistan, leaving after the previous Chechen war
in the mid-nineties, disillusioned with the leadership that had let them
lose against the rebels. Both were in their mid-thirties, with dyed blond
hair, very clean shaven and well groomed. If they'd wanted a change of
career they could have become catalog models. They had never been parted
during their military career. As far as I could make out, all they wanted to
do was kill Chechen rebels--and swap admiring glances.
I knew I could trust Sergei, but I still wondered about his selection
procedure. He obviously wanted to keep most of the cash I'd promised him and
had decided not to bring the A team.
It was the most unprofessional job I'd ever been on, and I'd been on a
few. Things had got so bad that I'd even taken to sleeping with my door
barred and my weapon ready. If the team wasn't complaining to him about my
planning, Sergei said, they were moaning about who was earning what and how
they might get ripped off when it came to payday. Carpenter was so
homophobic he made Hitler look like a wet liberal, and it had taken as much
effort keeping the two pairs away from each other as it had preparing for
the job. I did my best to keep out of their way and concentrated on dealing
exclusively with Sergei; he was the one I had to keep happy, because he was
the only one who could help me get the target into Russia. But they'd got me
nervous; people were going to die today, and I didn't want to be one of
them.
I was with a scary crew, against a scary target, with the whole of
Western Europe's leadership due in town, bringing along enough security to
take on China. This wasn't a good day out but, fuck it, desperation makes
people do desperate things.
I blew out another cloud of breath. The digital display on the
dashboard told me another twenty minutes had passed--time for a radio check.
Reaching into my inside jacket pocket, I felt for the send button of my very
yellow Motorola handset, the sort that parents use to keep tabs on their
kids on the ski slopes or in the shopping mall. All six of us had one, each
connected to an earpiece which was hooked in place. With so many people
using headphones
on their mobile phones, we wouldn't be conspicuous wandering around
with them in.
I pressed twice, the squelch sounding off in my ear, then checked with
Sergei. He nodded; I was sending. Jesse and Frank replied with two
squelches, then Carpenter and Nightmare followed with three. If I'd hit the
send button and there was nothing from the Jameses, Carpenter and Nightmare
would have waited thirty seconds and replied anyway. We would have no option
then but to close in on the target and wait for the Meres to arrive not
good, as it exposed us three in the hotel and messed up coordination. There
was radio silence for two reasons. One, I couldn't speak the language, and
two, EU land security would be listening in. With any luck, a few clicks
here and there wouldn't mean a thing. There were many other standby com ms I
could have used, mobile phones for instance, but everything had to be kept
pretty basic for Nightmare and Carpenter. Anything else to remember and they
would have blown up. The old principle of planning keep it simple, stupid
rang true yet again.
While Sergei had gone for the Michelin man look, I was very much the
businessman: single-breasted suit, jacket one size up, dark-gray overcoat,
black woolen scarf and thin leather gloves, and the stress to match.
Nightmare and Carpenter were dressed in the same style. All three of us were
clean shaven, hair washed, and well groomed. Detail counts; we had to move
about the hotel without anyone giving us a second glance, looking as if we
were part of the all-expenses-paid, outrageously salaried Brussels
freeloaders. Across my lap I even had today's edition of the Herald Tribune.
My overcoat was doing a good job of concealing the body armor under my
shirt. Sergei's might be as thick as the paving slabs outside the Kremlin,
but mine consisted of just twelve paper-thin sheets of Kevlar not enough to
stop one of Sergei's AP rounds, but enough to see off the mini-Uzis that
might soon be trying to hose me down. There was a pocket in the body armor
for a ceramic plate to cover my chest area, but unlike Sergei I couldn't
wear one as it was far too bulky. Carpenter had refused to wear any at all
because it wasn't manly, and Nightmare had followed suit. Fucking mad; if I
could have, I'd have covered myself from head to toe in the stuff. My feet
were in all sorts of shit; with nothing on but thin socks and a pair of
lace-up shoes, they were as cold as bags of frozen peas. I could no
longer feel anything below my ankles, and had given up moving them
around to generate heat.
I was carrying a South African Z88, which looked like a 9mm Berreta,
the sort of pistol Mel Gibson uses in the Lethal Weapon films. When the
world banned weapons exports to South Africa during apartheid, the boys just
set about making their own gear and were now exporting more assault weapons
and helicopters than the
U.K.
I had three twenty-round extended mags, which meant an extra two inches
hanging out of the pistol grip, looking as if it had partially fallen out.
The two spares went into my left-hand overcoat pocket. If things went to
plan I wouldn't even be drawing down. The lift should be--would be--silent
and take less than a minute.
The body armor was the lightest I dared wear, but even so it made it
impossible to draw or sit down with a pistol placed where I would normally
have had it: center front, tucked down the front of my jeans or pants in an
internal holster. I wasn't feeling happy about my new weapon position. Now
it had to be on the right-hand side on my pants belt. I'd had to spend the
last two weeks practicing and consciously reminding myself that the position
had changed, otherwise I might go to draw down on someone and find my hand
hitting Kevlar instead of a pistol grip. That was if I could get to it
through all the layers of clothing. To be able to flick back the top layers
quickly, I'd taped together some outlets from the set in the car and carried
them in the right-hand pockets of both my coat and jacket. It was just one
more thing making me feel uneasy. My only consolation was that this time
tomorrow it would all be over: I'd get my money and never see these lunatics
again.
There was rustling as Sergei unwrapped a chocolate bar and started to
throw it down his throat without offering me any. Not that I wanted it; I
wasn't hungry, just worried. I sat there waiting, with the sound of Sergei's
teeth mashing and jaws clicking as the wind whistled around the wagon.
I sat and thought as he sucked his teeth clean. So far, Valentin had
evaded the authorities, mainly because he had learned early on that it was
good to have friends in powerful places and officials on the payroll. Key
witnesses were routinely murdered before they could testify against him.
Just a few months earlier, Sergei said, an American journalist who'd delved
a bit too deeply into Val's business affairs was forced into hiding, with
his family, after a phone call was intercepted in which Val was heard
putting out a contract of $100,000, not just on the reporter's life, but
also on those of his wife and child.
It was for those who betrayed his trust, however, that the worst fate
was reserved. Two senior managers who oversaw his prostitution empire had
been caught skimming a bit off the top at his Moscow brothels. Even though
they'd fought alongside him in the Braveheart days and had been faithful
lieutenants ever since, Val had had them taken out and staked to the earth
on waste ground not far from Red Square, where he'd personally slit their
bellies, pulled out their intestines, and waited patiently for them to die.
The "Viking's revenge" appeared to have done the trick: Ever since then, not
a single ruble had gone astray from any of his tills.
I heard six quick squelches in my earpiece. The three pickup Meres were
mobile toward the hotel.
I replied with two squelches, then heard another two from Nightmare and
Carpenter, who should now be getting out of their car and heading for the
hotel. All six of us knew it was time to start performing.
Sergei didn't say a word, just nodded. He might speak English, but it
had to be squeezed out of him. I nodded back, checking my weapon was still
in position.
I got out of the 4x4 and left Sergei staring downhill. Pulling up my
coat collar to protect me from the wind, I headed in the opposite direction,
away from the main street. My route took me up the hill for one hundred
feet, then a right turn to the next intersection. That put me on the road
adjacent to the hotel and down to the main drag again.
I could see the large gray concrete hotel in front of me on the
left-hand side of the road. Just short of it was roadwork surrounded by
steel fencing; the cobblestones were up and the pipes were being repaired. I
didn't envy the poor bastards who had to finish the job in this weather.
The noise from the main street grew louder as I walked downhill. The
James brothers would be on it now, following the Meres. Nightmare and
Carpenter should be walking into the hotel from the opposite side and Sergei
would be positioning himself so that he'd be able to move in on the Meres at
the front of the hotel.
I crossed the road, passing the hotel's rear service and parking lot
entrance. Two white Hilux delivery vans were parked up on the red asphalt.
There was a glass door giving access to the hotel beyond the delivery bays,
but you could only get through it by buzzing reception, and I didn't want to
make myself any more conspicuous than I had to. Neither of the two loading
bays was open; it was far too cold. I continued downhill, the hotel now
obscured by a line of high conifers.
Valentin Lebed's weakest point would be tonight, in Finland, in this
hotel, before he left for the theater. He was on his way to see Romeo and
Juliet. The theater was only across the road, a few hundred feet away to the
left, but it was cold, he had always been a target for attack and he was
incredibly rich, so why walk?
About one hundred feet short of the main road I hit the driveway from
the Intercontinental's front entrance. It was a semicircle and one way. I
turned left; in front of me, halfway down the concrete and glass building,
was a large blue canopy to protect guests from the elements as they got in
and out of their cars. The ground floor walls were glass, through which I
could see the warm and cosy looking interior. Small trees lined the
driveway; they had lost their leaves and were now covered in white Christmas
lights. The snow made them look as if they'd been sprinkled with icing
sugar. I carried on past the illuminated reindeer that stood on the lawn
between the driveway and main drag, which was about one hundred feet down a
gentle slope.
The plan was simple. Nightmare and Carpenter were to kill the close BGs
that were protecting the target as he came from the elevator, then cover me
as I took the target toward the main doors. While this was happening, the
Jameses would have blocked off the rear of the Meres with their 4x4, Sergei
would block the front with the Nissan and all three would be controlling the
other BGs and drivers with their AKs.
Once outside, I'd head for the back of the Nissan, dragging the target
with me. We'd both lie under a blanket, with my pistol rammed down his
throat while Sergei drove to the DOP (vehicle drop-off point), where the
target would be switched to the trunk of a changeover vehicle enroute to the
border. Meanwhile, Jesse and Frank would be giving the area the good news
with CS gas before leaving in the Toyota, along with the other two, to their
DOP and
changing vehicles. We'd all RV (rendezvous) near the border and get
into a truck that was rigged up with hidden compartments while Sergei drove
us into Mother Russia. Then it was just a few hours to St. Petersburg and
payday. Nice work if you can get it.
I walked under the canopy and through the first set of automatic
tinted-glass and brass-effect doors. Once past the second set I was in, my
face flushed from the downward blast of the heaters above the doorway.
I knew the foyer area well. It had the air of an expensive, comfortable
club. I hadn't seen any of the rooms, but they must have been stunning.
In front of me, about one hundred feet away and behind a group of very
noisy and confused Japanese tourists surrounding a mountain of matching
suitcases, was the reception desk. In the far right-hand corner was a
hallway that led to the restaurant, rest rooms, and the all-important
elevators.
By now Nightmare and Carpenter should be at the far end of the hall,
sitting by the restaurant entrance. From there they could keep trigger on
the three elevator doors.
Immediately to my right, behind a dark wood-paneled wall, was the
Baltic Bar. To my left, efficient-looking bellboys were buzzing around a
sprinkling of sofas, chairs, and coffee tables. The lighting was subdued. I
wished I'd just dropped in for a drink.
I headed for one of the sofas, sitting down so that I was facing the
Japanese confusion at reception to my half right, with the hallway to the
right of that, and the brass-effect elevator doors in view. Like me,
Nightmare and Carpenter had placed themselves out of sight of the video
cameras that were covering the reception desk. I sat, spread out the Trib on
the coffee table, unbuttoned my overcoat and waited for the convoy of Meres
to arrive.
It was pointless worrying about anything now. There is only so much
training and planning that can be done. I used to get worried when this
feeling came over me, but now I understood it. Basically, I accepted that I
was going to die, and anything beyond that was a bonus.
2
The Japanese weren't at all happy, and they didn't care who knew it.
There must have been about twenty of them, all with video cameras round
their necks.
Three minutes later the headlights of the three Meres raked the
ground-floor windows. Jesse and Frank should have pulled up just short of
the semicircular driveway where they'd be standing by. Sergei would be
waiting to block their front.
I waited for the inside set of sliding doors to open, keeping my head
down, concentrating hard on my newspaper.
In came the BGs. Two pairs of shiny Italian shoes and expensive black
cashmere overcoats over black pants.
You always avoid eye contact, because they'll be looking for it. If
your eyes lock you're fucked; they'll know you aren't there to talk about
the beef ban.
I watched the two sets of heels make their way over to the far right of
the foyer. They paused by the brass elevator doors, now and again shielded
by the Japanese as they went in pursuit of one very hassled hotel rep.
The middle door slid open with a gentle ping. The shoes went in, and
two more sets of shoes were refused entry. The doors closed and the
indicator light stopped at the Ambassador Suite. They were going to meet up
with the other two BGs who were already with Valentin, their principal, my
target. My money.
I got up, folding the Trib into my coat pocket, and started to walk
toward the main doors. As I moved past them, toward the
leather-boothed, dark-wood Baltic Bar, I could see three very clean
black Meres on the other side of the glass, exhaust fumes condensing in the
cold air, each with a driver waiting patiently at the wheel.
The bar was half full and not very smoky, considering the number of
cigarettes I could see on the go. There were quite a few laptops open, and
there was a general hubbub as suits talked shop over a beer or into their
cell phones.
Unbuttoning my suit jacket as I walked, but keeping my overcoat on to
conceal the body armor, I made my way around tables and leather
chesterfields toward the far door.
I seated myself where I could see down the corridor to the three
elevator doors, set back slightly in the right-hand wall. Beyond them, and
just out of sight, were the reception and foyer. At the other end of the
hallway, Carpenter and Nightmare should be in position in the coffee area of
the restaurant, with a clear view all the way down to the foyer. Under the
table I pulled at my right glove and eased my index finger through the cut
in the leather.
Five long minutes went by as elevators came and went, but Val still
hadn't made an appearance. Two middle-aged couples emerged from the center
lift, dressed in furs and dinner jackets, looking as if they, too, were
going to the theater. It was now that I started to worry. The calm was over
and the storm was about to begin. My heart was pumping big time. My body
armor was wet with sweat and my shirt collar was soaking it up from the back
of my neck. Any minute now someone was going to ask me if I was ill, I was
sure of it. Mentally I was still the same, but my body was telling me
something different.
About twenty seconds later there was another pmg. The two pairs of
expensive Italian shoes emerged from the right-hand elevator and stopped in
the corridor for a second or two, each pair facing in a different direction.
The overcoat of the BG facing toward me swirled open as he turned, then both
moved toward the foyer, disappearing from view as quickly as they'd arrived.
I knew their jackets and overcoats would be like mine, open to access their
weapons.
I moved my hand into my inside jacket pocket and gave the Motorola six
clicks on the send button, hearing the squelch in my earpiece each time. Val
would be down any minute now.
Sergei, Jesse, and Frank would now know that the target and BGs were
heading toward them. The two pairs of shoes were going to secure the foyer,
probably by the main doors. It wouldn't be long
now before everything kicked off and the Japanese would really have
something to complain about.
Whatever these two BGs did, we had them covered. If they stayed inside,
it was Nightmare's and Carpenter's job to take them on once they'd sorted
out the BGs immediately around Val. Outside, it was down to the other three.
We all waited, and I sweated as people around me laughed, hit
keyboards, and talked between mouthfuls of alcohol.
There was a ping from the far-right elevator. Another two pairs of
black patent-leather shoes, dress-suit trousers complete with silk stripe
under black overcoats. They stepped out on either side of a light-gray
cashmere coat and the smartest pants of all, followed by a pair of very
long, slim, well-toned, black-stockinged calves topped off with the world's
most luxurious mink. Val's woman, keeping him warm on those long lonely
nights away from his family.
I had to be careful. There was always the possibility of someone you
overlook during surveillance--the one who looks like the brother-in-law or
secretary. Then, when you hit the target, they can prove very dangerous
indeed. But not this one; she was definitely not part of the BG setup.
They had turned right out of the elevator without hesitating. I stood
up slowly, waiting for my cue.
I caught Carpenter's scary, dancing eye as he and Nightmare crossed the
doorway, moving right to left, matching the purposeful strides of the BGs.
We'd rehearsed what was supposed to happen next so many times. It had
to work; there was no stopping this now.
I turned left out of the door and fell in behind them as they drew
their suppressed weapons.
About fifteen feet ahead of us, the backs and very wide shoulders of
the BG pair flanked Val and the woman as they moved toward the
Japanese-filled foyer. We needed to close in on them fast, while they were
still in the confines of the hallway. Once out in the foyer the rest of
Val's team would be able to see what was about to happen before the 4x4s
could get into position.
Ten more feet before we were on top of them. There was another pmg,
then a bright light from an elevator interior as the doors opened and a
middle-aged couple began to step out between us and the target.
I moved to push them back. This was a contingency I had rehearsed with
them many times. As I did so, Carpenter's right hand came up. Without taking
his eyes off Val, he fired three or four suppressed rounds into the couple
as he passed. I could hear the top slide on his weapon working back and
forth inches from my face and the dull thud of the rounds exiting the
barrel. Shit, her scream had turned the job noisy and we hadn't even taken
out the BGs.
The couple fell back into the elevator, the woman taking all the
rounds, her white silk blouse red with blood. Fuck this guy; slotting
players was one thing, but real people meant big trouble.
The two BGs turned and started to draw down their weapons, but
Carpenter and Nightmare had closed the gap and gave them both two rounds in
the head from less than a foot away. They dropped without a sound.
Nobody in the vicinity had noticed anything yet--they were too busy
doing their own stuff--but they soon would.
As the BGs dropped, Carpenter should have moved on, but he continued
firing down at the bodies. The BGs were dead. He was wasting time.
Behind me, the man in the elevator cried out as he cradled his dying
wife.
I saw Carpenter's glazed eyes. He was high on whatever it was that he
used to get through the long winters. Sergei would be busy tonight if we
stayed alive and he stuck to his promise. Fuck it, I'd kill this maniac
myself before this got out of control.
Keeping my eyes fixed on Carpenter's head as he fired yet another round
into the BG, I shoved my right hand between my jacket and shirt, toward my
88, my left palm pointing toward him, arm bent and ready to receive the
weapon that would soon be in my grip The screams from the elevator were now
muffled. I wasn't aware of anything else as I concentrated solely on
Carpenter's head as he turned to fire into the other body on the floor.
My fingers scraped against the body armor as I leaned forward slightly
from the hip and pushed my coat and jacket back as aggressively as I could.
The weight of the metal outlets helped me to expose my weapon for the second
I needed. Pushing the web of my right hand firmly down into the 88's pistol
grip, I closed my lower three fingers and thumb around it as firmly as
possible.
Drawing the weapon, I started to insert my glove-free index finger into
the trigger guard, making sure I could feel the steel of the trigger on the
first pad. I pulled down on the safety catch with my thumb just before
Carpenter fired his next round.
There was the glint of brass as the working parts ejected the spent
casing between us. As he tried to fire again, I could see the top slide
being held back by the locking lever. He had run out of rounds.
Jamming the 88 into my left hand, I punched forward and raised the
weapon up, in between my focus on his head, waiting for that nanosecond
before the 88 came into view and I acquired the sight picture.
Real life burst into my eardrums once again. It was Nightmare, shouting
into his Motorola at the 4x4s to move in on the Meres as he gripped
Carpenter's arm, dragging him toward the foyer.
I was now no more than two steps from Val. He was still looking at the
bodies on the floor, taking in what he had just seen over the last ten
seconds.
He went into survival mode, spinning round and looking back toward the
restaurant, thinking that he could make his escape. We had eye-to-eye. He
knew I was coming for him, and he knew it was too late to do much about it.
Everything went into slow motion as I focused completely on his neck.
It was pointless paying attention to anything else around me. There was
fuck-all I could do about it.
I was now only one step away. He was expecting to get shot and stood
there waiting, accepting. There was nothing he could do. He must have known
this would happen one day. I put the crook of my left arm around his neck,
still moving forward so it jammed tight against his throat. He staggered
backward as I took another step, forcing his face upward. I heard him gag.
He was only five foot seven, so quite easy to get a grip of. If it had been
his companion, I might have had to get on the balls of my feet. The woman in
the mink didn't react at all. I expected her to scream, but she just stood
off to one side, back to the wall, and watched.
With the pistol in my right hand and still moving, I pushed my right
arm behind his neck to complete the head lock, like a wrestler trying to get
a better hold of his opponent. At once he started fighting for oxygen; there
was no way he wasn't coming with me. There
was no need to check him for weapons. He didn't need one tonight; he
was a businessman on his way to the theater.
I continued on toward the foyer. Val didn't like what I was doing to
him, his back arched to try to take the weight of his body off his neck.
I was in a semi crouched position, so I could carry his weight. I could
feel the body armor he was wearing, disguised as an undershirt. I
concentrated on looking where we were going, toward the Russians shouting in
the foyer and the suddenly silent Japanese. Nothing else mattered.
Four or five more seconds had elapsed and the people inside the hotel
could not only see what had happened, but had had time for it to sink in. It
takes a while for a brain not used to processing this sort of information to
say, Yep, that's right, there are two dead men on the floor and others with
submachine guns shouting and running around the foyer. Then, once one person
starts becoming hysterical, they all do.
I turned into the foyer, heading for the exit. Nightmare came into view
by the main doors, doing his stuff to one of the BGs, shouting and screaming
in Russian and kicking his hands away from his body.
I was sixty-odd feet away from them.
The Japanese followed everyone else's example, running for cover and
hiding behind the sofas, dragging their loved ones with them. That was
great: The more they panicked the less they saw.
A two-tone alarm started to drown out the screams and I moved as fast
as I could.
Nightmare was there, checking my back as he covered the BG. Gripping
tight, I pulled Val along. He snorted like a horse, fighting for breath.
Through the windows, the blaze of headlights from the three Meres lit
Sergei's 4x4, which had the tailgate open, waiting for me and Val. Beyond
the Meres' roofs, I could see Jesse and Frank, AK butts unfolded and in the
shoulder, muzzles pointing at the ground. Val's three drivers had already
been dragged out of their seats and were face down on the pavement.
Carpenter was to the left of the convoy. He, too, had his weapon
pointing down. He must have been covering the other BG. All three were
blowing out steam like kettles.
Sergei would be in the wagon, waiting for me to get out of this lunatic
asylum.
With thirty feet to go, World War Three broke out. I heard a series of
short bursts from a 9mm, the muzzle flashes bouncing off the windows like
flashbulbs. It was Carpenter, giving the BG the best part of a mag. Then the
shots were drowned out by the screaming in the foyer. It was like the
sinking of the Titanic.
I couldn't believe it. More muzzle flashes lit up the darkness outside,
the heavier 7.62 reports from Jesse and Frank echoing through the building.
The drivers must have gone for their weapons, thinking they were next.
Nightmare was frozen to the spot, shaking with fear as he stood over the
last BG. He stared at me, waiting for direction.
I flicked a look at the BG. His eyes were switched on and waiting for a
chance to get away from this gang fuck There was nothing I could do for
Nightmare, who was starting to stress big time. He would have to sort it out
himself.
There was no way I was going out the front door with a firefight in
progress, especially as I didn't know the result. Turning back toward the
hallway, I moved Val as quickly as I could, nearly falling over the doorman
and a bellboy, who were down on the floor in the open, too paralyzed with
fear to move.
I got back to the corner of the hallway. The man was still sobbing over
his wife in the elevator. Her legs, in flesh-colored stockings and sensible
shoes, protruded into the hallway as the doors opened and closed against
them.
The woman was still there, well in control of herself. She just stood,
watching, not even bothering to wipe the dropped BG's blood and membrane off
her face.
There was more hysteria as rounds starred the safety glass around the
entrance. The BG had obviously seized his chance and got to his feet, firing
as he went for freedom. Nightmare took the burst into his unprotected trunk
and crumpled on top of two Japanese tourists, who stayed where they were,
too shocked to move.
The BG started toward me, mini-Uzi in his right hand, its strap over
his shoulder.
What was he going to do? He couldn't open up on me without hitting his
boss.
Turning Val round to face his BG and protect me, I lifted my 88. I
wasn't going to do much against his body armor, even if I could hit a moving
target at fifty feet one-handed with a pistol. I had to wait until he was
nearer.
I fired at him from about thirty feet, and kept on firing, aiming below
center mass. It was pointless aiming at his head at that range.
I'd emptied at least half of the twenty-round mag, not knowing whether
it was going to drop him or not, when I heard him scream and he went down,
his legs buckling. I didn't care where I'd hit him, just that I had.
Dragging Val, I passed the reception, trying to avoid the video camera,
and headed toward the store. I was going it alone now, leaving the contact
outside to sort itself out.
The Money was wrapped in my arms and I wasn't about to give it up. I
turned right down a wide hallway, heading for the rear parking lot door. I
knew where I needed to go; time in reconnaissance is seldom wasted.
Passing the conference rooms and business center, I pulled Val along
the thick pile carpet, both of us finding it difficult to breathe. Me from
fear and physical exertion, him from strangulation.
It wasn't worth checking behind me. I'd soon know if there was a drama:
I'd get shot at.
People cowered in doorways as they saw us coming. That suited me fine.
Reaching the end of the hall, I climbed four steps, then turned left
and climbed ten more. The inner parking lot door was held open by a fire
extinguisher. I hit the crossbar of the second and burst out onto the red
asphalt at the rear of the building. The cold took my breath away.
I could hear the odd shout from one or two locals crazy enough to come
out of their apartments to see what all the fuss was about.
My breath was like a racehorse's on a winter gallop. I could hear Val
moan. His nostrils were working overtime.
There was a stretch of fifty feet or so to the road. All around me
steam escaped from pipes and ventilation shafts, and generators hummed like
ships' engines. If I got one of the service vehicles, I'd turn left,
downhill to the main street, where the drone of traffic was coming from.
After about thirty feet I could see the parking lot and loading
bays. The only vehicle in sight was a small Hilux van. Fuck it, that
would have to do.
With the security lights exposing me to the spectators at their windows
in the apartments across the street, I tried the door. It was locked.
There were no passing vehicles to lift; the construction just up the
hill had seen to that. There was no choice but to drag Val up the concrete
stairs and onto the loading bay.
Inside was what looked like a rental car office, with a desk, phone,
and paperwork in piles. A woman in her mid-twenties was standing talking
hysterically in Finnish on the phone, her left hand waving in the air as if
beating off a swarm of wasps. At first she didn't recognize what was in
front of her, until I shouted and pointed the 88.
"The keys! Give me the vehicle keys. Now!"
She knew what I was saying. She dropped the phone, the other end still
talking, and pointed at the desk. I grabbed them and ran back down the
stairs to the van, Val clenching his teeth as he took the pain in his neck.
I still didn't bother checking around me. I knew I was being watched,
and worrying about it wasn't going to make it stop. By now the woman in the
rental car office would be back on the phone telling the world anyway.
I ripped off the cardboard that was keeping the windshield ice-free and
opened the passenger door using my left hand. My right was on the weapon,
and I needed to keep the exposed trigger finger from making any contact. I
might need to move my ass, but not at the expense of leaving prints.
"Get in, get in!"
He might not speak English, but with my pistol stuck into his neck, Val
got the drift.
Once I'd finished kicking him in, I climbed over on top of him, keeping
the barrel of the pistol into his neck as I moved into the driver's seat and
put the key in the ignition. Firing the engine, I threw it into gear.
The tires pounded the cobblestones as I drove downhill to the main
street, the defroster on full.
I could see the streetlights ahead, with the traffic cutting across
from both directions. I got level with the hotel drive. The Nissan was
missing. Maybe Sergei had got away. All the other vehicles were still
there.
Christmas lights had fallen off the trees and lay across the pavement,
among the scattering of empty brass cases. Bodies were strewn all over the
ground. I couldn't tell who was who from this distance, though one of them
had to be Jesse or Frank because the whole area was covered by a thin
blanket of mist: one of their CS canisters must have got hit and was still
spewing its contents into the wind.
One of the drivers had nearly got away. His suited body was slumped by
one of the small decorative trees just before the exit. Steam rose from the
blood oozing from his gunshot wounds. It looked as if their armor wasn't
designed to take AP rounds either.
I passed by, suddenly thinking about the couple in the elevator. Then,
stopping at the junction with the main drag, I focused on what to do next. I
turned right and merged with the traffic.
3
Flashing blue lights raced toward me as I headed in the direction of
the city center, nearly blinding me as they screamed past.
At the second option I turned right, up the road where Sergei and I had
waited in the Nissan. The 88 was in my right hand, still rammed into Val's
neck, forcing me to change gear with my left and hold the wheel in position
with my knees.
The target was amazingly compliant; in fact, unless I was reading it
wrong, his body language seemed to be saying, No sweat, I'll just wait and
see what happens next.
The DOP was about ten minutes away and should have marked the end of
Phase One and the beginning of Phase Two--the change of vehicles and move to
the truck service station, from where we would all RV before moving over the
border into Russia.
Plan B was in action now. In the event of a gang fuck we'd each make
our own way back to the lakeside house where we'd been based for the last
two weeks, and wait for twenty-four hours.
I was feeling very vulnerable and exposed without Sergei. I might have
the Money curled up in the foot well but without help there was no way I was
going to get it over the border. Sergei was the only one squared away with
the world's most corrupt border guards, and he had been too switched on to
tell anyone else how it was organized. I just knew that we were going in a
truck adapted to conceal us all under the floor like Us (illegal
immigrants), which Sergei would drive. That was his insurance policy, and
the reason I'd given him the least dangerous job on the operation.
The road started to bend right, heading out of the city. I had traveled
this route to the DOP, both physically and in my head, dozens of times. It
went through residential areas with snow piled neatly at the sides of the
wet roads, street lighting and Christmas decorations reflecting off the
gleaming cobblestones. From all around me came the sound of sirens, jolting
me out of my pissed off-with-all-Russians mode. Blue lights flashed across a
junction ahead of me. I took the next right; anything to get off the road
and out of sight.
I'd turned into a driveway leading to the rear of an apartment block.
There was no lighting back there as I drove over to the far side and stopped
under a covered parking space. Keeping the engine running, I sat with the
weapon stuck in Val's neck as sirens screamed from all sides. Now what? No
way was I going on foot. If spotted, the only way to escape would be to
leave him. That wasn't an option; the Money stayed with me.
Fuck it, there was nothing I could do but tough it out. The longer I
stayed there the more police would be in the area looking for the van. What
was more, they'd have time to cordon off the city before we got out.
I needed to get to the DOP as soon as possible and detach myself from
the hotel road show. Back on the road I put my foot down. It was risky, but
sometimes it's best not to think too much.
Four more minutes and I was level with the chain-link fence of the
parking lot. Over to my right, toward the hotel, a low-flying helicopter lit
up the sky with its Nightsun. The beam bounced around, searching the park
and frozen lake on the other side of the main drag from the
Intercontinental. Their reaction time had been excellent, which pissed me
off even more. If it wasn't for them being on heightened alert because of
the EU conference, they'd have taken a lot longer to get their act together.
I moved toward the parking lot entrance. The streetlights illuminated
the edge of the compound, so I could peer through the fence into the
semidarkness beyond, looking for anything unusual. Parking lots are always
the best place to lose a car; the downsides are that they're often monitored
by video cameras and there's a strong chance of finding some attendent at
the gate to take your cash. This one was free--no cameras, no staff, and not
lit up--which was why Sergei and I had decided to use it. The other four
were using a park
firewall 25
and ride about seven minutes away. At the moment, however, the
slightest suspicious sign, like cars with no lights but engines running,
would be enough to keep me driving past.
Carrying on to the intersection, I turned left, crossing streetcar
lines, and drove toward the entrance. People had stopped on the street and
store owners were standing in their doorways, looking up at the heli with
its light and noise, talking excitedly to each other.
I kept my eyes on the parking lot. It looked less than half full;
shoppers would have quit for the day, any vehicles that were left were
probably there to stay.
I indicated left, relieving Val's neck of my 88 as I needed both hands
to maneuver the Hilux across the road and into a parking space. I felt
exposed, waiting for a gap in the traffic, yet resisted the temptation to
jump across and risk hitting an oncoming car.
A gap appeared, after a while, and as I drove under a height bar it was
as if I'd entered a new world, dark and safe.
Driving a circuit to check the area, I ensured that the passenger side
of the Hilux would face the row of vehicles where the Volvo sedan was
parked. Valentin had all but disappeared into the shadow of the foot well
The heli was quartering the night sky, raking the ground with its
Nightsun.
The dark-blue Volvo sedan was parked with the trunk sticking out. I
stopped, making a T of the car and the Hilux. The only sounds were the van's
engine ticking over and the heater on full blast. Val's shoes scraped across
the ribbing of the rubber matting as he shifted position. It was almost
peaceful until more sirens erupted.
Way over on the other side of the parking lot, an interior light came
on as somebody got into his car. The engine didn't start up; he was probably
sitting in the driver's seat, watching the heli. I waited.
Now that my ears had adjusted to the new, safer environment, I could
make out the metallic rumble of a streetcar fading toward the city center.
Police sirens wailed in the distance as the Nightsun continued to scour the
lake and park.
The sirens got nearer. I sat, waited, and watched, trying to work out
where they were. Three or four police cars were following the streetcar
lines along the fence, their flashing lights throwing bursts of color across
the roofs of the parked cars.
Seconds later, two more appeared.
I looked down at Val. I could make out his face in the glow of the
dashboard. His eyes showed no fear. He was switched on enough to accept that
overreaction at this stage could result in him being killed, or perhaps
worse, seriously injured. He couldn't take that chance. From the moment he'd
realized he wasn't going to die and that capture was inevitable, he hadn't
panicked. He had to assume that I would be stressing, and that any
unexpected move on his part might provoke a reaction from me, and the
chances were it would be a bad one. The less he resisted, the less
punishment he was going to get, and the more time he'd have to watch and
wait for an opportunity to escape.
I pressed the release catch on the pistol grip with my right thumb and
caught the magazine in my left hand as it slid from the grip. Inserting a
full twenty-round mag in its place, I heard the click as it locked home, and
pulled on the bottom to check it was going to stay put. I put the half-empty
mag in my right pocket, along with the taped outlets. I didn't want to risk
slapping a half-empty one back in if I was in the shit and had to change
mags in a hurry.
Another three or four police cars crossed the entrance, lights flashing
and sirens blasting. The Nightsun was now roaming around in quick, jerky
movements. The heli-watcher in the parking lot had seen enough and drove out
toward the road.
The warning buzzer sounded as I took the keys out of the ignition. My
lights were still on. I looked down at Val. "Stay." I sounded as if I was
talking to a dog.
I got out of the Hilux and could hear the thud thud thud of the helo's
rotor blades as it hovered in the distance. All their attention was still in
the immediate vicinity of the hotel, but I knew it wouldn't last.
The cold air scoured my face as I walked around the front of the van,
cutting through the headlights, keeping my eyes on the cab, the weapon down
by my side.
More flashing lights and sirens headed up the street. This time some of
the police cars started to peel off. One came down the road I'd made my
approach on, brilliant blue strobes bouncing off me and the vehicles around
me for a few seconds as it passed.
My attention was focused on the main entrance. Would the next set of
lights come into the parking lot? I knew there was nothing I
could do about it but watch and wait, but that didn't stop my heart
rate shifting up a gear or two.
Seconds later the darkness returned. Only the sirens were left, dying
in the distance. The heli noise throbbed back into earshot.
I felt under the rear right-hand wheel arch of the Volvo with my
fingers and retrieved the magnetic box that held the key. I hit the alarm
and there was a comforting whoop as the doors unlocked. I inserted the key
in the trunk lock and pulled it open.
Jesse and Frank had glued thick sponge all round the framework of the
luggage area, mainly so the target didn't injure himself, but also to subdue
any noise if he felt like having a kick and scream while we were in transit.
As an extra precaution, the light units had been taped down on the inside.
The last thing we needed was for Val to pull one off, stick his hand through
as we waited at a set of lights and wave to a family on their way to give
granny her Christmas presents.
They'd also lined the floor with a thick four-seasons comforter, with
another on top, ready to stop him from dying of hypothermia. Sitting on top
was an orange plastic ball about the size of an egg, a roll of black duct
tape and several sets of plasticuffs.
I opened the passenger door and Val looked up at me, then across at the
trunk and its contents. I didn't have a clue what would happen to him once
we hit St. Petersburg, and I didn't care. All I was concerned about was the
$500,000 on offer, or what was left of it after Sergei got his $200,000.
Scanning the area once more, I brought the 88 up, angled my wrist at
ninety degrees and rammed the weapon into the space above his bulletproof
vest, then yanked it back into its normal position so the muzzle was twisted
in his shirt. I didn't need to force his head downward: He wanted to see
what was happening as I placed my right index finger back on the trigger.
Tilting the weapon up so the grip was near his face, I made sure he saw me
remove the safety catch with my thumb and heard the click.
I didn't need to explain the facts of life to him. After all, he hadn't
got where he was today by helping old ladies across the road. As far as Val
was concerned, this was just another day in paradise. He wasn't about to
fuck about now.
With my free hand I reached under his vest. "Up, up, up."
There was no argument. His knees came out of the foot well and he
staggered onto the pavement.
I turned him round so the backs of his thighs were against the trunk of
the Volvo and leaned forward onto him as more sirens wailed in the distance
and the heli fought to keep position against the wind. He got the idea and
maneuvered himself in, keeping his eyes fixed on mine. Still no fear in
them, though; the look was more analytical now, as if he was conducting some
sort of character assessment, trying to figure me out. He was in total
control of himself. It was not the reaction you'd expect from the victim of
a lift, and I found it unnerving.
He ended up on his back in the trunk, knees up and hands across his
stomach. Swapping over hands on the 88, I got hold of the orange plastic
ball and stuffed it into his mouth. Still there was no resistance, just some
snorting through his nose as I rammed the ball home.
Jesse and Frank had folded over the last four inches of the roll on the
electrical tape so I could do the next bit with just one hand. I taped round
his mouth and chin, then carried on up around his ears and eyes, leaving
just his nose uncovered.
More sirens and lights, this time moving along the side road, the same
way I had come. It wouldn't be long now before they started to check the
parking lots.
I heard the helo's engine change pitch. It was moving again, its
Nightsun now at forty-five degrees, illuminating everything in its path,
working its way toward me.
Slamming the trunk shut on Val, I jumped back into the Hilux as the
noise increased and the beam got brighter. There is no hiding place from
those beams once they spot you. If they did, I'd change my mind about the
$500,000 and just make a run for it on foot. I had my escape route worked
out: straight over the fence and into the maze of apartment buildings
opposite.
I sat and waited; there was nothing else I could do. The car and van
took a direct hit and it felt like a scene from Close Encounters as both
vehicles were flooded with light. A second or two later the engine note
changed and the heli lurched in the direction of the main route out of town.
The shadows returned as it moved away across the sky.
I drove the van into an empty space, got out and went to check on Val.
He was breathing heavily. I watched him and waited. He might have sinus
problems, a blocked nose, the flu. I didn't want
him to die; I only got paid for meat on the hoof. He snorted loudly to
clear his nose.
Headlights veered toward me, but I hadn't heard a car door slam. It
wasn't somebody from the parking lot. I leaned over Val to make it look as
if I was sorting out my packages. Our faces were close to one another and I
felt his breathing against my cheek. It was the first time I'd actually
smelled him. After my little stay with Carpenter and Nightmare, I was
expecting a combination of strong cigarettes, homemade alcohol, and armpit.
What I got was duct tape with a hint of cologne.
The problem had gone. Either the vehicle had found a parking space or
left the area, I didn't give a shit which. I stood up slowly and had a look
around, then rammed the pistol into his neck. With my other hand I got hold
of his shoulder and started to pull.
He got the drift. I wanted him on his front. The car rocked slightly
with his exertions, but it didn't matter, there was nobody around to notice.
Once he was on his stomach, I got hold of one of the plasticuffs,
looped it round his wrists and pulled it tight.
Then I wrapped the second comforter around him, still making sure he
had room to breathe.
The Volvo started on the first time. I headed left, out onto the road,
away from the hotel. I only hoped that Sergei was doing the same.
I headed east out of Helsinki, toward the highway. The RV was at
Vaalimaa, over one hundred miles away.
I hit the seek button on the radio and turned up the volume to drown
out the noise of the heater. I drove, thinking about everything and nothing.
Twice I saw the flashing lights of a heli.
Eventually I passed the Vaalimaa service station. This was truckers'
heaven, the final stop before Russia. They used it as a meeting point so
that they could move on in convoy. Hijacking was rife in the Motherland. In
among them, somewhere, was our vehicle, with welded compartments for us all
to play Us.
Vaalimaa was just a few miles from Sergei's tame checkpoint. Six miles
north of the town was the lakeside house.
I turned off the radio and reached into the glove compartment for the
digital scanner, which Sergei had tuned into the police channel. It was
about the size of a cell phone. The plan had been to use it from the time we
exited Helsinki. That was another reason I needed Sergei: He spoke Finnish.
I tried to make sense of the squelchy radio traffic, but didn't have a
clue what I was listening to. What I was hoping not to hear was, "Volvo,
Volvo, Volvo," because then it would be odds on that I had a one-way ticket
to havoc.
I checked every turnout and minor gravel road for any hint of activity.
There was nothing.
My lights hit the marker I was looking for, Mailbox 183, a red plastic
pedal bin on a white pole. I turned right, onto a deeply rutted track that
led into the forest.
It was only a few hours since we'd last driven up it. About thirty feet
in, a white-painted chain, suspended between two poles, barred the way.
Attached to it was a wooden sign saying, in Finnish, Fuck Off, Private
Property.
I left the engine running and got out of the car, checking in the
headlights for recent sign of another vehicle. The compacted ice was giving
very little away.
I looked carefully at the point where the last link of the chain was
looped over a hook screwed into the right-hand pole, but could see nothing
in the shadow cast by the Volvo's headlights. I took the weight of the chain
so the first links came loose and pulled gently. I could feel the pressure
of the cotton that still fastened it to the hook, and then the sudden
pressure release as it broke. No one had been through here who shouldn't
have.
I drove over the chain, then jumped out and replaced it. To the side,
under a pile of stones, the reel of cotton thread was just where I'd left
it. I tied the first link to the hook again, replaced the reel and got back
in the car.
The pines were so tall and close to the track it was like driving
through a tunnel. After a thousand feet the trees retreated, leaving a
stretch of open ground about the size of four football fields. I knew that
in the summer it was all grass and tree stumps because there were framed
pictures of it in the house, but now everything was covered by a
three-foot-deep blanket of snow.
The driveway dipped slightly and the two-story house was caught
in the beam of my headlights. There were no lights on inside, no
vehicles outside.
The driveway led to a wooden garage with enough room for three cars.
Both buildings were made of timber and painted dark red with white window
frames, and wouldn't have looked out of place in the Yukon during the Gold
Rush.
I drove into the garage. A huge stack of firewood filled the whole of
the back wall. A door on the far left led to the other side of the house and
the lake.
I killed the engine, and for the first time in hours there was almost
total silence. No gunfire, shouts, sirens, helos, or car heaters, just
low-volume hiss and mush as Finnish police talked Finnish police stuff on
the scanner. I didn't really want to move.
The entrance was in the gable end of the main building, and the key was
hidden in the log pile--very original. I went inside and was hit by
wonderful warmth. The heaters worked off the electrical supply and we'd left
them all on. The labor-intensive wood fire was for vacationers; besides,
chimney smoke would have advertised our presence. I threw the light switch
and went back to the car for Valentin.
The ComfortEr had kept him alive. but only just. After two hours in the
trunk he was shaking with the cold.
"Right, come on, up, up." I moved his legs over the ledge and pulled
him out by his body armor. He couldn't do much with his hands behind his
back, but he seemed to be concentrating most on not having the ball fall to
the back of his mouth and choke him. Fair one; that was why I'd used it.
I guided him inside as his legs started to come back to life and sat
him on an old green velour sofa next to a radiator. The decor was
functional, just bare wooden floors and walls, and the downstairs was one
very large open space. A stone fireplace stood opposite the door, and three
wooden pillars, each about a foot in diameter and evenly spaced, helped to
support the floor above. Most of the furniture, apart from the sofa, was
chunky pine, and the place smelled like a timber yard.
I pulled hard on the duct tape around Valentin's face. He winced as the
adhesive took neck and eyebrow hair with it. His skin was cold, the color of
a dead cod.
He spat out the ball, coughing and spluttering. I was the typical Brit
abroad: When in doubt, just keep to your own language and shout. "Stay
there." I pointed at the radiator, not that he would be going anywhere
plasticuffed up. "You'll be warm in a minute."
He looked up and nodded. A gust of wind whistled under the eaves. I
expected Vincent Price to turn up any minute.
I went back to the car and retrieved the scanner, putting it on
the kitchen table. Every fifteen seconds or so there was some traffic
on the net, but no detectable note of urgency, as there would be if they
were sending in the helicopters. There wasn't any slow, deliberate
whispering, either, so hopefully they weren't trying to sneak up on me.
Maybe, who knew?
Next priority was to make coffee. The kitchen counter stretched along
the wall behind me. I went over and checked the kettle for water. Standing
waiting for it to boil, I watched Val shivering. He was sitting close enough
to the heater to make it pregnant. He'd had a hard life, judging by the
lines on his face. But he still had his Slavic good looks: wide cheekbones,
green eyes and dark-brown hair, the gray at the temples making him look
pretty dignified for a hood.
I had to hand it to him, the boy had done well: Meres, BGs, the best
hotels, and a great-looking mistress. I was jealous: My future was looking
the same as my past.
The water boiled as I opened a package of crackers that was on the
counter. I munched on one and emptied the kettle onto ground beans in a
coffeemaker.
Val had his knees up and was trying to use his body to flick his
overcoat around him. His face was starting to regain its color and his eyes
followed my every move.
The team's kit had been piled into bags to the left of the main door.
Sergei and I had planned to return here after delivering the Money to St.
Petersburg--me to drive to Sweden and then, via ferry, to Germany; him to
clean up this place. I picked up a canvas duffel bag and threw it on the
table. Holstering the pistol, I fished inside for more plasticuffs, putting
three interlocking strips together to make one long one. Moving around the
table, I gripped Val's shoulders, then dragged him over toward the central
pillar and pushed him down on his ass against it. I plasticuffed his upper
right arm to the support, then, with the Leatherman, I cut the original
plasticuffs so that his left arm was free. He wasn't going anywhere unless
he did a Samson and took the pillar with him.
Returning to the other side of the table, I pushed the plunger down on
the coffeemaker and filled two big mugs with steaming coffee. I threw a
handful of sugar lumps into each and gave them a stir with my knife. I
didn't know how he took his, but I doubted he was going to complain. I
didn't normally take sugar myself, but today was an exception.
I walked over to him and put his mug on the floor. He gave me a brisk
nod of thanks. I couldn't tell him, but I knew what it felt like to
entertain all three of Mr. and Mrs. Death's little boys--wet, cold, and
hunger--and wouldn't wish them on anyone. Anyway, it was my job to keep him
alive, not add to his misery.
The scanner was still giving the odd burst as I settled down at the
table facing Val. I took a couple of sips and then it was time to get out of
my costume. I felt uncomfortable in it, and if I had to start performing,
the last thing I wanted to be wearing was a suit and a pair of lace-up
shoes. Lugging my duffel bag over to the table, I dug out jeans, Timberland
boots, T-shirt, sweatshirt, and a green Helly Hansen fleece.
The Chechen watched me intently as he drank coffee and I got changed. I
got the sense he was enjoying my failure to interpret the scanner traffic.
I felt much more my old self as I tucked my weapon into the front of my
jeans.
I went back to my coffee. Valentin had finished his and the empty mug
was at his feet. I brought him the coffee pot and package of crackers. He
nodded as I poured new cups for both of us.
I sat at the table and ate the last of the bananas Jesse and Frank had
left behind. The scanner continued to crackle away, and in the silences
between bursts from the operating stations, all I could hear was the
crunching of crackers.
I couldn't stop thinking about Sergei. What if he didn't turn up? I
hadn't worked that one out yet. I hadn't even wanted him to come on the
lift. It would have been better if he'd just stayed with the truck; we'd all
have RV'd with him, then been chauffeured across the border, but he insisted
on being there in case there was any shady dealing. I would probably have
done the same myself. But now what?
I had another thought. What would happen if one of Sergei's boys was
still alive? It probably wouldn't take too long for the police to get him to
talk. I stopped munching and put down my mug. Shit, we had to get out of
here.
Getting to my feet, I grabbed Carpenter's and Nightmare's bags and took
a red ski jacket and bottoms from mine. I put the 88 and the mags in the
front pockets and threw Carpenter's cold-weather gear to Val. Carpenter was
a big boy, so the fit wasn't going to be a problem.
Leaving him to figure out how he was going to put it on with his arm
still secured, I ran upstairs to get two double comforters. Once back
downstairs I pulled my weapon, cut him free, and stepped back. "Get
dressed!" I shouted, miming putting on a jacket.
He got the hint and started removing his overcoat and tuxedo. I watched
him, ready to react to any wrong move. Everything he was wearing stank of
money. His shoes were so smart I looked at the label. English, Patrick Cox.
A few pairs of those would have paid for my roof repair.
I let him keep his wallet, having checked through it and seen old
pictures of children dressed in snowsuits. I'd always avoided getting
lumbered with stuff like that myself, but understood that these things were
important to people.
Val was soon dressed in a pair of yellow snow pants a green ski jacket,
an orange ski hat with big dangling pom-poms, gloves, a scarf, and a pair of
cold-weather boots--all of which must have been at least three sizes too
big. He looked ready for a stint as a children's entertainer.
I pointed the pistol up and back toward the pillar. He went over
obediently. I showed him that I wanted him to hug it, an arm either side.
Then it was just a matter of making up another set of extra long
plasticuffs, doing up two ratchets so it was like a lasso, looping it over
his wrists and pulling tight.
I left him to adjust himself as I took my flashlight and went outside
into the garage for a couple of shovels, one a big trough-type one, used for
clearing pathways of snow, the other a normal building-site job. I dumped
them on the table and the flashlight went into my snow pants pocket.
Val was trying to work out what I was up to. He was looking at me in
the same way as his woman had done in the hotel, as if there was no danger
and nothing was happening that might affect him. He appeared to think he was
just a neutral observer.
I started ransacking the cupboards, looking for thermoses and food. I
was out of luck. It looked as if we'd both had our last hot drink and
cracker for a while.
I picked up my mug and downed the last of the coffee as I walked over
to him. I put his mug in his hand and indicated that he should do the same.
He was soon busy maneuvering his head around the post to meet his hands
while I took candles and matches
from the cupboard under the sink and threw them into one of the bags.
Once I'd stuffed the comforters on top and done up the zip, I cut him free,
motioning him to put the bag on his back. He knew what I meant and used the
two handles as if they were straps on a knapsack.
I put on my black woolen hat and ski gloves, then picked up the shovels
from the table and used them to guide him out of the door. I walked behind,
hitting the light switch. I left the scanner on the table. It would give our
position away to use it out there.
I held him as I got the keys from the Volvo. It was my only transport
out of here and I wanted to make sure it stayed that way. Once through the
garage door we followed the well-worn track in the snow toward the
lakeshore. It was pitch-black out here and bitterly cold. The wind was much
stronger now, swirling snow stung my cheeks as we moved forward. The helis
wouldn't be up around here in this wind.
5
A small Wooden hut housing the wood-burning sauna stood about one
hundred feet away along the frozen lakeshore. Beyond it was a wooden jetty,
which stood about three feet above the ice.
The Chechen was still ahead of me, leaning into the wind and half
turning from the waist to protect his face from the driving snow. He stopped
when he got to the sauna, perhaps expecting me to motion him inside.
Instead, I sent him round to the right. He obediently stepped out a few feet
or so along the jetty.
"Whoa. Stop there," I shouted. "Stop, stop, stop."
He turned round, and I pointed with my pistol down at the frozen lake.
He looked at me quizzically.
"Down there. On the ice, on the ice."
Very slowly, he got down and sat in the snow, then rolled over,
tentatively prodding the ice to make sure it would take his weight. I knew
it would. I'd been messing about on it for the last two weeks.
Once he was standing I got him to move out of reach while I clambered
down, in case he decided he'd had enough of this game and wanted to play
stealing cars and driving home.
Prodding him along the ice with the shovels I paralleled the lakeshore.
By taking this route we wouldn't leave any sign from the house, but it meant
we were more exposed to the wind. It was just a matter of leaning into it
until we'd covered the five hundred feet to the treeline. Once there, we
carried on for a bit before I gave him another shout.
He turned again, awaiting new instructions, his head tilted
against the wind screaming across the lake. I could hear his labored
breathing and just make out the shape of his face as I pointed at the trees
to our right. He turned toward them and started to move as the wind buffeted
the backs of our jackets.
The snow was no problem at first, no more than about two feet deep, but
soon it was up to our waists. He did all the work plowing through it; I just
followed in his wake as his boots crunched down until they met compacted
surface, lifted up and did the same thing all over again.
We moved another hundred and fifty feet about thirty feet inside the
treeline and that was enough. We were in direct line of sight of the house.
Having spent my childhood in South London projects, to me the
countryside had always been just a green place full of animals that hadn't
yet been frozen or cooked. I hadn't been into all the trapping stuff I was
taught while in the Regiment. In fact, I'd forgotten most of it. I'd never
felt the need to run around in a hat made out of freshly skinned rabbit.
Building shelters, however, was a skill I did keep tucked away somewhere in
the back of my head. I vaguely remembered that there would be spaces beneath
the spreading boughs of the evergreens at snow level.
Finding what seemed the biggest tree in the forest, I rammed the large
shovel into the snow just short of where the lowest branches disappeared.
Moving back out of the way so he couldn't hit me with it, I motioned for Val
to take off the bag. No problem from him on that one. Then I gave him the
other spade.
Val didn't need any further encouragement. The wind was blowing hard,
flattening my jacket against my body, and if we were to stay alive out here
we had to get out of it soon. The ambient temperature was low enough as it
was, but the effect of wind chill took it well below freezing. He might have
been wearing a dinner jacket earlier on and heading for a night at the
theater, but he was obviously no stranger to physical labor. You can always
tell whether someone's used to a shovel.
He worked efficiently, not tearing the ass out of it, obviously knowing
better than to let himself break out in a sweat and have it freeze on him
later. After a while he stopped digging, got on his knees and started to
scoop out snow with his gloved hands; then he disappeared into the cave. A
few minutes later, he turned and stuck
his head out. I thought I could just about make out the hint of a proud
smile from under his hat.
I waved him back inside, throwing the bag in with him. Before I joined
him I pulled back the index Finger of my right-hand glove, pushing my
trigger finger through the slit. I'd prepared this one just like the leather
pair for the buildup.
I followed him head first, with the 88 up, hitting the flashlight
button once in cover. The shelter could have taken three people kneeling;
once in, I slid round and landed up on my ass with the pistol in the aim. I
put the flashlight in my mouth.
For him, it was bondage time again. Pulling a set of plasticuffs from
my pocket, I stuck the pistol into his neck, twisting it into his skin this
time. I plasticuffed his left hand to the branch above him. Snow fell on us
as I ratcheted the plastic tight We both shook our heads, trying to get it
off our faces. With his arm now strapped above his head, Val sat there
looking like a gibbon as I got out a candle and matches. The candle provided
more light than it would normally have, thanks to the reflection from the
brilliant white walls. I crawled back to the entry point, pulled in the
shovels and used one to pile snow across the gap. It would keep out the
wind.
It was time to get everything else sorted. I emptied the contents of
the bag and started to spread out the comforters on the ground. Contact with
the snow would conduct heat away from our bodies about twenty times faster
than if we sat on the bedding.
Next, I smoothed out the sides of our hole with a gloved hand so that,
as heat rose, the melting snow didn't form drip points and fall on us like
rain. That done, I dug a small channel around the edge so that whatever did
start to melt would run down the sides and refreeze there. In situations
like this, five percent extra effort always leads to fifty percent more
comfort.
The wind was no longer the prominent noise. The rustling of nylon
clothing and both of us sniffing or coughing had taken over.
The cave was beginning to look like a steam room as our breath hung in
clouds in the confined space. Using the grip end of a shovel, I dug a small
tunnel. I needed to be able to see out toward the house, and we needed
ventilation. The candlelight wouldn't be seen directly from the house as it
was low down and in an alcove; I just had to hope the ambient glow wasn't
bright enough to be seen
either, because there was no way we could do without it. Even the small
amount of heat from a candle flame can help bring the temperature up to
freezing point.
On my knees, I looked toward the house--well, it was out there in the
darkness somewhere. Even with this amount of clothing on and some insulation
beneath me, my body was still cold because we weren't moving. I readjusted
my position so that I was comfortable and could still see outside. Val
continued to study me.
At least two very cold, boring hours must have passed with me listening
to the wind and Val constantly fidgeting to get feeling back into his arm,
when all of a sudden he said, "The Maliskia must have offered you quite a
sizable amount of money to keep me alive. I am obviously more of a threat to
them than I thought."
I spun round in amazement.
It was a very confident, clear voice. He was smiling. He obviously
liked my reaction. "Now that you are alone, I should imagine it will be
quite difficult to get me out of the country, to wherever it is the Maliskia
want you to take me." He paused. "St. Petersburg, perhaps?"
I stayed silent. He was right: I was in the shit.
"You have a name, I presume?"
I shrugged. "It's Nick."
"Ah, Nicholas. You're British?"
"Yeah, that's right." I turned back to the house.
"Tell me, Nicholas, what did the Maliskia offer you? One million U.S.?
Let me tell you, I am worth considerably more than that to them. What is one
million? It wouldn't even buy a decent apartment in London. I know, I have
three."
I carried on looking out of the hole. "I don't know who or what the
Maliskia are; they sound Russian, but I was employed in London."
He laughed. "London, New York, it doesn't matter. It was them. They
would very much like to have a meeting with me."
"Who are they?"
"The same as me, but infinitely more dangerous, I can assure you." He
got up onto his knees and a small shower of ice fell as the branch moved.
I couldn't imagine anyone being more dangerous. Russian Organizatsiya
(ROC) were spreading their operations around the world, growing faster than
any crime organization in the history of mankind. From prostitution to
blackmail, bombing hotels to buying Russian Navy submarines to smuggle
drugs, all the different gangs and splinter groups were infiltrating nearly
every country to the tune of billions of dollars. These people were making
so much money it made Gates and Turner look like welfare cases. With that
much money and power at stake, I was sure there would be the odd
disagreement between different groups.
There was silence for a while as I kept a trigger on the house, then
Val spoke again. "Nick, I have a proposition that I think will appeal to
you."
6
I didn't respond, just kept my eyes on the house.
"It's a very simple proposition: Release me, and I will reward you
handsomely. I have no idea what your plan is now. Mine, however, is to stay
alive and at liberty. I am willing to pay you for that."
I turned to look at him. "How? There's nothing in your wallet but
photographs."
He tutted, a father addressing a wayward son. "Nick, correct me if I'm
wrong, but now that your plan has failed, I imagine you would like to get
away from this country as quickly as you can. Release me, return to London
and then I will get you the money. One of my apartments is in the name of
Mr. P. P. Smith." He smiled; the name seemed to amuse him. "The address is
3A Palace Gardens, Kensington. Would you like me to repeat that?"
"No, I've got it."
I knew the area. It fitted the bill. It was full of Russians and Arabs,
people with so much money they owned apartments worth millions and only used
them once in a blue moon.
"Let's say that in two days' time, and for the next seven days after
that, from noon till four p.m." there will be somebody at that address. Go
there and you will receive one hundred thousand dollars
U.S."
A drop of melted ice hit me on the cheek. I took a handful of snow from
the tunnel and ran it over the drip point, my mood as black as the night I
was staring into. What the fuck was I doing freezing in this snow hole? I
had half a million dollars sitting here with me, from doing something the
Firm (Secret Intelligence
Service/ SIS would have paid me a couple of hundred a day for. But I
couldn't get at it. My only hope of ever seeing it was Sergei, and fuck knew
where he was.
Val knew when to talk and when to shut up and let people think, I went
back to watching the house for another hour or so, getting even more cold
and miserable.
I was slowly convincing myself that, if Sergei didn't make an
appearance, I should take my chances with Val in London. Why not? It wasn't
as if I had anything to lose, and I was desperate for the paycheck.
I could only hear the faint noise of the engine at first. It was tucked
into the trees somewhere on the track and fighting to be heard above the
wind. Then headlights appeared out of the treeline, heading toward the
house. The noise got louder as it moved along the track. It was a 4x4 in low
ratio. Sergei? It was impossible to tell if it was the Nissan from this
distance.
Val had also heard it, and was keeping still so his jacket didn't
rustle and drown out the noise.
I watched the headlights briefly illuminate the front of the house
before turning into the garage and cutting out.
I heard just one door slam and my eyes moved to the windows. I saw
nothing.
I slid over to Val. Passively, he let me check his plasticuffs. They
were secure; he wasn't going anywhere unless he happened to have a chainsaw
hidden inside his coat. All the same, I wished I'd brought some tape to
cover his mouth in case he decided to shout for help. It wasn't until I blew
out the candle, so he couldn't use it to burn the cuffs off, and started to
push my way out of the snow, that he sparked up. "Nick?"
I stopped but didn't turn. "What?"
"Think about what I have said as you go to meet your friends. My offer
is infinitely more profitable for you, and, may I say, safer."
"We'll see." I pushed myself out into the wind and was very much
thinking about it, glad that Val wasn't going to scream and shout out. He
knew what was happening. If it was Sergei at the house, Val could forget his
offer. By the morning we would be in St. Petersburg and I'd have my money
and be on my way back to London.
As I retraced my route the wind was blowing head on, making my eyes
stream. I could feel my tears turn to ice. I listened to the trees creak in
the gale. Snow, whipped into a frenzy, attacked the exposed skin around my
neck and face as I tried to focus on the house and surrounding area.
Kicking on about sixty feet, I checked the house again. The upstairs
lights were on now, but there was still no movement inside. Moving off once
more, I tried not to get too euphoric about the prospect of Sergei being
there, but the feeling that this job could soon be over made the wind seem
marginally less powerful.
Once below the sauna, on the lake, I pulled my trigger finger from its
glove and pulled out the 88. It was far too dark to see with the naked eye,
so I checked chamber with my exposed finger and ensured the mag was on
tight, then climbed up onto the bank and moved forward in a semi crouch
until I got to the garage entrance.
I was eager to make contact with Sergei, but had to take things slowly.
Only when I actually saw him would I feel safe.
I stood and listened at the garage door, not hearing anything apart
from the sound of the wind bouncing it backward against the lock.
Keeping to the right of the frame, I pulled the metal handle down and
the wind did the rest, forcing it inward. Fortunately, the bottom scraped
along the ground, preventing it from crashing into the woodpile.
On my hands and knees in the snow, I eased my head round the bottom of
the door frame.
The Nissan was parked the other side of the Volvo, the light from the
ground-floor window reflecting off its roof. Things were looking up, but I'd
have to wait a while before jumping with joy.
I moved into the garage and checked that no one was still in the
Nissan. Then I pushed the door to, feeling warmer out of the wind.
The entrance to the house was closed, but the warm glow from the window
was enough for me to be seen if anyone came out of it.
I moved to the right of the frame, pushing my ear against the door. I
couldn't hear a thing. I moved to the other side of the Nissan and looked in
through the window. There was no need to get right up to the glass to see
in; it's always best to stay back and use the available cover.
My heart sank. Carpenter. Still dressed in his suit, but now without a
tie or overcoat, he was taking pills from a small tin and swallowing them,
shaking his head violently to force them down. His mini-Uzi was exposed,
rigged up over his jacket and dangling under his right arm, with the harness
strap bunching up the material where it crossed his back.
He moved about the room with no apparent purpose, sometimes out of
view. Then I saw he had Val's duct tape and ball gag wrapped in his massive
hand. He brought them up to his face for a moment, and, realizing their
significance, hurled them to the ground. Then he started lifting chairs and
smashing them against the walls, kicking our overcoats about the room like a
two-year-old in a tantrum.
It wasn't hard to work out what was going through his mind. He'd
decided that I had left with Val for the border, leaving him in the lurch.
Fair one; I'd think the same. No wonder he was chucking his toys out of the
stroller.
The table followed the chairs as the combination of narcotics and rage
started to fuck with his head. There was no reason to consider my options;
he had just made up my mind for me. Moving back to the outer door, I left
him to it.
Checking back every thirty feet as I crossed the frozen lake, after
several minutes I saw headlights in the darkness, heading away from the
house and back toward the treeline. What the fuck was Carpenter up to? He
probably didn't even know himself.
With legs apart and slightly bent to keep myself stable in the gusts, I
stood and watched until the lights disappeared into the night. It was very
tempting to go back and wait in the house, but Carpenter might return and
complicate matters, and anyway, there was still the police to worry about.
Turning parallel to the shore, I carried on toward the snow hole.
Once in the treeline I could see the whole of the side of the house.
Carpenter had left the lights on, but through the downstairs windows things
didn't look right. It took me a second or two to work out what was
happening.
Not bothering about leaving sign, I moved as fast as I could in a
direct line toward the building, stumbling over in snow that sometimes came
up to my chest. I was trying so hard to get there quickly that it didn't
feel as if I was making any progress. It felt like one of the recurring
dreams I'd had as a kid--running to someone, but never as fast as I needed
to.
As I got closer I could see flames flickering in the room and
smoke spewing out through a broken pane. A thick layer was gathering
two or three feet deep on the ceiling and looking for more places to escape
from. Fuck the house, it was the Volvo I was worried about.
By the time I reached the garage I could already hear the crackling of
badly seasoned wood and the screams from the smoke alarms going ape shit The
door to the house was open. Smoke was pouring out from the top of the frame.
Either Carpenter had been switched on enough to know that he had to feed the
fire with oxygen, or he just didn't give a shit. It didn't matter which, the
fact was that it had taken hold big time.
I reached the car, the heat searing my back even through my ski jacket.
The inside of the house was a furnace.
As I put the key in the lock there was a sound like shotgun rounds
being fired. Spray cans of something were exploding in the heat.
I reversed slowly out of the garage. It would have been pointless
screaming out like a loony, only to get stuck in the snow. I just wanted to
get clear enough so the Volvo wasn't incinerated. After a three-point turn I
drove 150 feet up the track and killed the engine. Jumping out with the
keys, I stumbled back into the cover of the treeline, feeling as if I was
back in that dream again.
By the time I neared the hide I could make out my shadow quite clearly
against the snow. The flames were well and truly taking over from the smoke.
Sliding into the snow hole, I pulled out my Leatherman, felt for the
plasticuffs and started to cut Val free, letting him sort himself out as I
scrambled out again into the wind. He soon followed and we both stared at
the burning building. Bizarrely, he started to try and comfort me. "It's all
right, I knew you weren't abandoning me. I am worth too much to you, no?
Particularly now. May I suggest that we leave here, and as soon as possible.
Like you, I do not want to encounter the authorities. It would be most
inconvenient." What was it with this guy? Did his pulse rate ever go above
ten beats per minute?
He knew that whatever had happened out here it had stopped me from
meeting up with any of the team; he didn't have to convince me any more to
let him go. He knew it was my only sensible option now.
The Volvo could easily be seen in the flames. They hadn't penetrated
the walls yet, but they were licking out hungrily from the windows.
I stopped him short of the car, handed him my Leatherman and carried on
to open the trunk, shouting at him to cut the cord in his jacket. Even at
this distance, I felt the heat on my face.
He looked about him, found the nylon cord that could be adjusted to
tighten around his waist, and began cutting. There were loud cracks as the
frame of the house was attacked by the flames.
Val looked at the fire as he heard the trunk open. "Please, Nick, this
time inside the car. It's very cold in there." It was a request rather than
a demand. "And, of course, I'd prefer your company to that of the spare
tire."
Responding to my nod, he settled in the Volvo's rear foot well giving
me back the Leatherman and offering his hands. I tied them around the base
of the emergency brake with the cord, where I could see them.
We drove out, leaving the fire to do what it had to do. Maybe it wasn't
such a bad thing; at least there wouldn't be any evidence of me ever having
been there.
There was no sign of Carpenter or anyone else as we bumped our way up
to the chain gate. I left it on the ground where I found it, as a warning to
Sergei. There was still a chance that he'd got away. There'd been two
Hiluxes in the hotel parking lot; maybe he'd swiped the other one. It was
too late now to hope that he might get us over the border, but I still
didn't want him to get caught. He was a good guy, but fuck it, I was on a
new phase now, and one that had nothing to do with any of them.
I had lost, I had to accept it. Now I had to take my chances with Val.
"I'll drop you off at a train station," I said as we headed toward
Vaalimaa. "You can deal from there."
"Of course. My people will extricate me quite swiftly." There was no
emotion in his voice. He sounded like a Russian version of Jeeves. "May I
give you some advice?"
"Why not?"
My eyes were fixed on the road, heading for the highway past the town,
seeing nothing but piled-up snow on either side of me. The wind buffeted the
side of the car enough for me to have to keep adjusting the steering. It was
like having a heavy arctic drive past on a highway.
"You will obviously want to leave the country quickly, Nick. May I
suggest Estonia? From there you can get a flight to Europe fairly
easily, or even a ferry to Germany. After what has happened at the hotel,
only a fool would try to leave Helsinki by air, or cross into Sweden." I
didn't reply, just stared at the snow in the headlights.
Just over two hours later we were approaching Puistola, one of the
Helsinki suburbs. Not that I could see any of it: first light wasn't for
another four hours. People would soon be waking up to their cheese and
meatballs and listening to the radio accounts of last night's gunfight at
the O.K. Corral.
I looked for signs to the train station. The morning rush hour, if
there was one, would start in an hour or two.
Pulling into the parking lot, I cut Val free of the emergency brake. He
knew to stay still and wait for me to tell him when to move. He was so close
to freedom, why jeopardize things now?
I got out and stood away from the car, my pistol in the pocket of my
down jacket. He crawled out and we both stood in a line of frozen-over cars,
in the dark, as he sorted himself out, tucking in his clothes and running
his hands through his hair. Still looking ridiculous in Carpenter's snow
pants and ski jacket, he clapped his gloved hands together to get some
circulation going, eventually extending one of them to me. The only shaking
I did was with my head; he understood why and nodded. "Nick, thank you. You
will receive your reward for releasing me. P. P. Smith. Remember the rest?"
Of course I did. My eyes were fixed on his. I considered telling him
that if he was lying to me, I'd find him and kill him, but it would have
been a bit like telling Genghis Khan to watch himself.
He smiled. He'd read my mind again. "Don't worry, you will see that I
am a man of my word." He turned and walked toward the station.
I watched him crunch along in the snow, breath trailing behind him.
After about a dozen or so paces he stopped and turned. "Nick, a request.
Please do not bring a cell phone or pager with you to Kensington, or any
other electronic device. It's not the way we conduct business. Again, I
thank you. I promise that you won't regret any of this."
I made sure that he was out of the way, then got back into the car.
7
Norfolk ENGLAND Friday, December 10,1999
The bedside clock burst into wake-up mode dead on seven, sounding more
like a burglar alarm. As I rolled over it took me three attempts before I
managed to hit the off button with my hand still inside the sleeping bag.
The instant I poked my head out I could tell the boiler had stopped
working again. My house was a bit warmer than a Finnish snow hole, but not
much. It was yet another thing I needed to straighten out, along with some
bedding and a bed frame to go with the mattress I was lying on.
I slept in a pair of Ronhill running bottoms and sweatshirt. This
wasn't the first time the boiler had broken down. I wrapped the unzipped bag
around me and pushed my feet into my sneakers with the heels squashed down.
I headed downstairs, the bag dragging along the floor. I'd spent most
of my life being wet, cold, and hungry for a living, so I hated doing it on
my own time. This was the first place I'd ever owned, and in winter the
mornings felt much the same to me as waking up in the brush in South Armagh.
It wasn't supposed to work like that.
The place was in the same state as I'd left it before I went away just
over two weeks ago, to RV with Sergei at the lake house, except that the
tarp had blown off the hole in the roof, and the "For Sale" sign had been
flattened by the wind. If it had stayed there any longer it
would have taken root anyway. There wasn't enough time to sort any of
that out today. I had three vitally important meetings in London in a few
hours' time, and they wouldn't wait for the boiler man.
The trip back to the U.K. had taken three days. I'd decided to find my
own way rather than take Val's advice to get out of Finland via Estonia. It
wasn't as if we were sharing toothbrushes or anything, so I wasn't in the
mood to trust everything he had to say. I drove to Kristians and in southern
Norway, and from there I took the ferry to Newcastle. It was full of
Norwegian students. While they got loaded I watched Sky News on the snowy
screens. There was footage of the Intercontinental, with police apparently
doing a search for forensic evidence, then came pictures of the dead, among
them Sergei. A Finnish government spokeswoman gave a news conference,
declaring that it was the worst incident of its type their country had
witnessed since the 1950s, but declining to confirm whether it was a ROC
shooting, and stressing there was no connection with, or risk to, the EU
conference. As far as they were concerned, this was an unrelated matter. I
made my way down the bare wooden staircase, trying not to snag the sleeping
bag on the gripper tack strip that had been left behind when I'd ripped up
the carpet.
The house was a disaster zone. It had been ever since I'd bought it
after bringing Kelly back from the States in '97. In theory it was idyllic,
up on the Norfolk coast in the middle of nowhere. There was a small corner
store, and three fishing boats worked out of the tiny harbor. The highlight
of the day was when the local senior citizens took the free bus to the super
store eight miles away to do their big shop.
The real estate agent must have rubbed his hands when he saw me coming.
A 1930s, three-bed roomed mess of stone, just six hundred feet from the
windy beach, it had been empty for several years after the previous owners
had died, probably of hypothermia. The details said, "Some renovation
required, but with magnificent potential." In other words, a shit load of
work was needed. My plan was to gut the place and rebuild it. The ripping
out was okay; in fact, I'd enjoyed it. But after a succession of builders
had sucked through their teeth when giving me their quotes, and I'd gotten
pissed off with them and decided to do it myself, I'd lost interest. So now
the house was all bare boards, studwork, and entrails of wiring that I
didn't understand sticking out of the walls.
Now that I was responsible for Kelly, it had seemed the right time to
fulfill the fantasy of having a real home. But no sooner had I exchanged
contracts than it had started to make me feel confined.
I'd called the place in Hampstead, where she was being looked after, as
soon as I'd got back last night. They said she was much the same as when I'd
last seen her. I was glad she was sleeping; it meant I didn't have to speak
to her. I did want to, but just never knew what the fuck to say. I'd gone to
see her the day before leaving for Finland. She'd seemed all right, not
crying or anything, just quiet and strangely helpless.
The kitchen was in just as bad a state as the rest of the place. I'd
kept the old, yellow Formica counter, circa 1962. They'd do for now. I put
the kettle on the burner, readjusting the sleeping bag around my shoulders,
and went out into the porch to check for mail. It hadn't been stacked up on
the kitchen counter as I'd expected. I also wondered why the tarp hadn't
been replaced in my absence.
I hadn't got a mailbox yet, but a blue trash can did just as well. Very
Finnish, I thought. There were four envelopes--three bills and a card. The
handwriting told me who the card was from, and I knew before I read it that
I was about to get fucked off.
Caroline had started coming here to look in on things now and again, to
collect the mail and check the walls hadn't collapsed while I was away
working as a traveling salesman. She was in her thirties and lived in the
village. Her husband no longer lived with her--it seemed he took too much
whiskey with his soda. Things were going great between us; she was kind and
attractive, and whenever I was here we would link up for an afternoon or
two. But a couple of months earlier she had started to want more of a
relationship than I felt able to offer.
I opened the card. I was right: no more visits or mail collection. It
was a shame; I liked her a lot, but it was probably for the best. Things
were getting complicated. A gunshot wound in the stomach, a reconstructed
earlobe, and dog-tooth scars along a forearm are hard to explain, whatever
you're trying to sell.
Making a lumpy coffee with powdered milk, I went upstairs to Kelly's
room. I hesitated before I opened the door, and it wasn't because of the
hole in the roof tiles. There were things in there that I'd done for
her--not as much as I'd have liked, but they had a habit of reminding me how
our lives should have been.
I turned the handle. There had probably been more wind than rain in my
absence, as the stain on the ceiling wasn't wet. The blue two-man tent in
the middle of the floor was still holding out. I'd put nails in the
floorboards instead of tent pegs and they were rusty now, but I still
couldn't bring myself to take it down.
On the mantel were two photos in cheap wooden picture frames, which I'd
promised to bring down to her on my next visit. One was of her with her
family--her parents Kev, Marsha; and her sister Aida-all smiles around a
smoking barbecue. It was taken about a month before I'd found them hosed
down in their home in the spring of '97. I bet she missed this picture; it
was the only decent one she had.
The other was of Josh and his kids. This was a recent one, as Josh was
carrying a face scar that any neo-Nazi would be proud of. It was of the
family standing outside the Special Operations Training Section of the
American Secret Service at Laurel, Maryland. Josh's dark-pink gunshot wound
ran all the way up the right-hand side of his cheek to his ear, like a
clown's smile. I hadn't had any contact with him since my stupidity got his
face rearranged in June '98.
He and I still administered what was left of Kelly's trust fund, though
as her legal guardian, I'd found myself shouldering more and more of the
financial responsibility. Josh was aware of her problem, but it was just
done via letters now. He was the last real friend I had, and I hoped that
maybe one day he would forgive me for nearly getting him and his kids
killed. It was too early to go in and apologize--at least that was what I
told myself. But I had woken up late at night more than once, knowing the
real reason: I just couldn't face all that sorrow and guilt stuff at the
same time. I wanted to, I just wasn't any good at it.
As I picked up Kelly's photos, I realized why I didn't have any myself.
They just made me think about the people in them.
I cut away from all that, promising myself that reestablishing contact
with Josh would be one of the first things I got done next year.
I went into the bathroom opposite, and ran the buttercup-colored bath.
I had a bit of a soft spot for the foam tiles, now light brown with age,
that lined the ceiling. I remembered my stepdad putting some up when I was a
kid. "These'll keep the heat in," he'd said, then his hand slipped and his
thumb left a dent. Every Sunday night, when I had a bath, I threw the soap
at the ceiling to add to the pattern.
Returning to my bedroom, I put Kelly's photos on the mattress
to make sure I didn't forget them. I finished my coffee, then dug into
one of the cardboard boxes, looking for my leather pants.
I checked the bath and it was time to jump in, after hitting the small
radio on the floor, which was permanently tuned to Radio 4. The shooting was
still high on the agenda. An "expert" on ROC declared to listeners of the
morning program that it had all the hallmarks of an inter faction shooting.
He went on to say that he had known this was going to happen and, of course,
he knew the group responsible. He could not, however, name them. He had
their trust. The interviewer sounded as unimpressed as I was.
I lay in the bath and glanced at Baby G. Another ten minutes and I had
to get moving.
The order of the day was first, the doctor's office at 11:30 to talk
about Kelly's progress, then lie to the clinic's accounts department about
why I couldn't pay the new invoice just yet. I didn't think they would
completely understand if I told them everything would have been fine if a
mad Russian called Carpenter hadn't fucked up my cash flow.
My next visit would be to Colonel Lynn at the Firm. I wasn't looking
forward to that conversation, either. I hated having to plead.
The third stop on my agenda was Apartment 3A Palace Gardens in
Kensington. What the hell, I was desperate. I didn't see the Maliskia
solving my financial problems.
My foray into the freelance market had only reinforced my reluctant
dependence on the Firm. I had been weapons-free from the Firm since the
fuckup in Washington with Josh eighteen months before. Lynn was right, of
course, when he'd said I should feel lucky that I wasn't locked up in some
American jail. As for the Brits, I reckoned they were still trying to decide
what to do with me give me a knighthood or make me disappear. At least I was
getting paid two grand a month in cash while they scratched their heads. It
was enough to cover Kelly's treatment for about seventy-two hours.
Lynn made it clear that in no way did the retainer mean any change in
my status; he didn't say it in so many words, but I knew from the look in
his eyes that I was still lowlife, a K spy, a deniable operator carrying out
shit jobs that no one else wanted to do. Nothing would change unless I could
get Lynn to put my name forward for permanent cadre, and time was running
out. He was taking early retirement to his mushroom farm in Wales when he
finished running the desk in
February. I didn't have a clue who was taking over. Contacting the
message service last night, I'd heard Lynn would see me at 1:30.
If I ever got back into the boys' club, pay would be increased to 290
pounds a day for ops, 190 pounds for training, but in the meantime I was in
the shit. The chances of selling this house were zero; it was in a worse
state than when I'd moved in. I'd bought it for cash, but I couldn't get a
loan against it because I couldn't prove my income. Since leaving the army
it had been cash in envelopes, rather than a regular paycheck.
Getting out of the warm bath into the cold bathroom, I dried myself
quickly and got into my leathers.
From inside the paneling that contained the cistern I retrieved my 9mm
HK Universal Self-Loading Pistol (Heckler & Koch universal self-loading
pistol), a chunky, square-edged semiautomatic 9mm, and two thirteen-round
mags. Its holster was my usual one, which could be shoved down the front of
my jeans or leathers.
Sitting on the toilet lid, I bit open the plastic bag protecting it and
loaded the loose rounds. I always eased the mag's springs when the weapon
wasn't needed. Most stoppages occur because of a misfeed from the magazine,
either because the mag's not fully home in the pistol grip or because the
mag spring has been under tension for so long that it doesn't do its job
when required. When the first round is fired it might not push the next up
into the breech.
I loaded the weapon, inserting a mag into the pistol grip and ensured
it was fully home. To make the weapon ready, I pulled back on the top slide
with my forefinger and thumb and let go. The working parts moved forward
under their own steam and rammed the top round of the mag into the chamber.
I had three Universal Self Loading Pistols in the house, two hidden
downstairs when I was here, and one under my bed--a little trick I'd learned
from Kelly's dad years ago.
I checked chamber by pushing back slightly on the top slide and put the
weapon and spare mag in my pocket, slung the backpack over my shoulder and
locked up the house.
Waiting for me outside was the bike of my dreams, a red Ducati 966 that
I'd treated myself to at the same time as the house. It lived in the garage,
another stone marvel of 1930s architecture, and there were times when I
reckoned the sound of its engine bursting into life was the only thing that
kept me from total despair.
8
The London traffic was chaos. There were plenty of shopping days left
till Christmas, but you wouldn't have thought so from the number of cars.
As I rode down from Norfolk it had been cold, overcast, and dull, but
at least it was dry. Compared with Finland it was almost tropical. I got to
Marble Arch in just under three hours, but progress was going to be slow
going from now on. Weaving my way around stationary vehicles, I looked down
Oxford Street, where the decorations blazed and twinkled. The season of
goodwill was everywhere, it seemed, except behind the steering wheels of
gridlocked vehicles and inside my head.
I was dreading this. The house I called in Hampstead last night was
staffed by two nurses who, under the psychiatrist's supervision, were
looking after Kelly twenty-four hours a day. They took her to a clinic in
Chelsea several times a week, where Dr. Hughes had her consulting rooms.
Kelly's round-the-clock attention was costing me just over four grand a
week. Most of the 300,000 I'd stolen from the drug cartels in '97, together
with her trust fund, had been spent on her education, the house, and now her
treatment. There was nothing left.
It had all started about nine months ago. Her grades since coming to
England had been poor; she was an intelligent nine-year-old, but she was
like a big bucket with holes in it--everything was going in, but then it
just dripped out again. Apart from that, she'd shown no visible aftereffects
from the trauma. She was slightly nervous
around adults, but okay with her own age group. Then, at boarding
school, she'd started to complain about pains, but could never be more
specific or explain exactly where they were. After several false alarms,
including the school nurse wondering if she was starting her periods early,
her teachers concluded that she was just attention seeking. Then it slowly
got worse; Kelly gradually withdrew from her friends, her teachers, her
grandparents, and me. She wouldn't talk or play any more; she just watched
TV, sat in a sulk, or sobbed. I didn't pay that much attention at first; I
was worried about the future and was too busy feeling pissed at not having
worked since the previous summer while I waited for Lynn to make up his
mind.
My usual response to her sobbing bouts had been to go and get ice
cream. I knew this wasn't the answer, but I didn't know what was. It got to
the point where I even started to get annoyed with her for not appreciating
my efforts. What an asshole I felt now.
About five months ago she'd been with me in Norfolk for the weekend.
She was distant and detached, and nothing I did seemed to engage her. I felt
like a school kid jumping around a fight in the playground, not really
knowing what to do: join in, stop it, or just run away. I tried playing at
camping with her, putting up the tent in her bedroom. That night she woke
with terrible nightmares. Her screaming lasted all night. I tried to calm
her, but she just lashed out at me as if she was having a fit. The next
morning, I made a few phone calls and found out there was a six-month
waiting list for a public hospital appointment, and even then I'd be lucky
if it helped. I made more calls and later the same day took her to see Dr.
Hughes, a London psychiatrist who specialized in child trauma and who
accepted private patients.
Kelly was admitted to the clinic at once for a temporary assessment,
and I'd had to leave her there to go on my first St. Petersburg recce, and
to recruit Sergei. I wanted to believe that everything would be fine soon,
but knew deep down that it wouldn't, not for a long time. My worst fears
were confirmed when the doctor told me that besides regular treatment at the
clinic, she'd need the sort of constant care that only the unit in Hampstead
could provide.
I'd been to visit her there a total of four times now. We usually just
sat together and watched TV for the afternoon. I wanted to cuddle her, but
didn't know how. All my attempts at displaying affection
seemed awkward and forced, and in the end I left feeling more fucked up
than she was.
I swung right into Hyde Park. The mounted soldiers were out exercising
their horses before perching on them for hours outside some building or
other for the tourists. I rode past the memorial stone to the ones who were
blown up by PIRA in 1982 while doing the same thing.
I had some understanding of Kelly's condition, but only some. I'd known
men who'd suffered with PTSD (posttraumatic stress disorder) but they were
big boys who'd been to war. I wanted to know more about its effects on
children. Hughes told me it was natural for a child to go through a grieving
process after a loss; but sometimes, after a sudden traumatic event, the
feelings can surface weeks, months, or even years later. This delayed
reaction is PTSD, and the symptoms are similar to those associated with
depression and anxiety: emotional numbness; feelings of helplessness,
hopelessness and despair; and reliving the traumatic experience in
nightmares. It rang so true; I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen
Kelly smile, let alone heard her laugh.
"The symptoms vary in intensity from case to case," Hughes had
explained, "but can last for years if untreated. They certainly won't just
go away on their own."
I'd felt almost physically sick when I realized that if only I'd acted
sooner, Kelly might have been on the mend by now. It must be how real
fathers feel, and it was probably the first time in my life that I'd
experienced such emotions.
The road through the park ended and I was forced back onto the main
drag. Traffic was virtually at a standstill. Delivery vans were stopping
exactly where they wanted and hitting their flashers. Motorcycle messengers
screamed through impossible gaps, taking bigger chances than I was prepared
to. I slowly worked my way in and out of it all, heading
