Текст книги "Detonator"

Автор книги: Andy McNab

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

14

Hesco had the leverage and he knew it. He had me by the bollocks and could squeeze as much as he wanted. Fair one. I’d have cut the connection too. I wasn’t being ordered to the City Lounge for a kiss and a cuddle. They weren’t just going to hand over the kid and tell us to go and have a nice holiday somewhere warm. They were going to kill us both.

I moved to the parapet. Keeping close to the pillar, I looked across the street. I didn’t have to wait more than a couple of minutes before the main entrance of the Adler building swung open. A familiar figure came down the steps and out on to the pavement. He stopped and glanced at his watch. Probably counting down the minutes until I turned up at the lounge.

For a moment I thought Hesco might be waiting for reinforcements. I hoped not. But I’d deal with it if it happened. I was pretty sure he wouldn’t be picking up Stefan in full view of Adler HQ.

He clamped a cigarette between his lips. Lit it. Took a couple of drags. Then he walked five paces up the street, away from the entrance to the multi-storey, and took a couple more. Finally he launched what was left of it into the gutter and headed in my direction.

I climbed back into the Expert’s load space, eased the side door into position then reached up and turned off the light. I adjusted the Sphinx in my waistband, flexed my shoulder muscles and controlled my breathing.

I unpeeled the seal on the mug and left it within close reach.

I unhooked the cling-film rope and gripped an end in each hand.

I heard the lift open, then footsteps. A figure appeared at the mouth of the passageway. Thin. Bearded.

Not Hesco.

He turned left and out of sight. A key fob cheeped. An engine fired up. A set of headlamps swept towards me. Then screeched to a halt. Judging by the height of them, they didn’t belong to something low and sleek. They belonged to a chunky 4x4.

This wasn’t good. The wagon completely blocked my line of sight. A Land Cruiser or a Shogun, judging by the silhouette.

If he stayed where he was, I wouldn’t spot my target until he was breathing my oxygen. And my whole performance would be floodlit.

And if he was the guy Hesco had been waiting for, I was comprehensively fucked. There was no way I could exit the Expert without being seen.

He stayed where he was for another three minutes, then took off at speed. But that was all it took for Hesco to come in under the radar. I heard the squeak of boots. A shadow fell across the gap between my door and the frame.

There was another electronic chirrup, and I saw the Maserati boot open. A chunky set of shoulders moved past. Dark, tightly curled hair. An arm. A hand, carrying a suitcase. I shoved back the door and threw the cling film over his head like a skipping rope and heaved it back as my feet touched the ground.

He didn’t only have one case. He had two. A smaller one in his right hand. He dropped them both and raised his fists.

When you’re being garrotted, your natural instinct is to try to get both sets of fingers between your throat and whatever is about to stop you breathing. Hesco didn’t do that. Only his left hand went for the cling-film. He tried to destroy one of my ribs with his right elbow, then swivelled, brought his arm up and, gripping the ignition key like a bayonet, did his best to bury the metal shank in my ear, my eye, my carotid, whatever – he didn’t much care.

I turned with him, keeping him close, fending off more elbow action with my upper arm and getting another loop around his neck. He didn’t just look like a Hesco barrier, he felt like one too. He’d been filled with sand. He was carrying some surplus weight, but there was no give.

I leant back into the Expert’s load space, tightened the noose and clenched both knotted ends of it in my left hand. While Hesco was flailing, trying to win the gravity battle, my arse was firmly on the lip of the plywood floor, my knees bent, the soles of my Timberlands flat on the ground. I heard a clink as his key hit the concrete and my free hand found the ether-soaked cloth, whipped it out of the mug and clamped it on to his nose and mouth.

I kept it in place long enough for his head and neck to go limp, then the rest of him followed. I laid him out alongside my Fanta trays before retrieving his keys, overnight bag and briefcase, and hurling them into the van.

I closed and locked the door behind me, switched on the interior light and hooked my little finger through the keyring. Then I kicked the bags out of the way so I could reach him and stuff three-quarters of the cloth into his mouth. Keeping the rest over his nostrils, I wound gaffer tape around his head until I’d mummified him from the neck up, leaving only his nose and ears unbound. All I needed was for him to be able to hear and breathe.

I lifted his right hand. It was the first time I’d been able to admire his ring up close. Silver double-headed eagle on red enamel.

I fastened his wrists, ankles and neck with the cable ties. Once all eighteen were in place and Hesco was nicely spread-eagled, I listened at the door again, then jumped out and sifted through the Maserati’s boot and glovebox. Nothing more than car shit.

I’d give him and his bags a closer look later. Right now I needed to get the fuck out of there. I had less than two hours before I should be at the meet, and had no control of what would happen when Hesco didn’t show up earlier. But, fuck it, I just had to get on with what I could control. I pressed his padlock button twice and climbed into my cab.

I didn’t try to beat the Guinness Book of Records for the time it takes to piss off out of a Swiss multi-storey car park. I needed the CCTV to show there was nothing unusual about my journey to the exit.

When I’d checked out Google Earth at the second cyber café, I’d spotted a massive expanse of forestry at the northern end of Lake Konstanz, stretching almost as far as the German frontier. It would be quiet and dark and that was all I needed.

Lights glimmered in the windows of the converted barns and farmhouses of Chatzerüti, the hamlet at the edge of the forest. A dog barked in the distance, but no one paid me the slightest attention as I drove past. I turned on to gravel tracks and doused my headlamps as soon as I was inside the treeline. The deeper I moved into the forest the quicker it would soak up the lights.

The place was probably crawling with wildlife – wild boar for certain, and possibly the odd bear – but none of them seemed to be carrying torches.

I turned down the dashboard display as low as it would go and moved forwards slowly, keeping the headlamps off.

I hung a right after about a K, and passed a wooden hut with the shutters down and a bunch of those bench-and-table combos you find at every picnic spot in Europe. This would be a great place for a Swiss sausage and a hunk of bread at the end of a day’s hiking, but last orders would have been taken well before sundown.

I kept on going another K, then pulled off the track and got out. There wasn’t much more than a glow from the moon down there. I got half a litre of mineral water down my neck and listened to the night sounds. The odd rustle in the undergrowth. The call of an owl. But I wasn’t about to go into David Attenborough mode. I just needed to be as sure as possible that none of them was human.

Locking the cab, I got into the back with Hesco, closing and locking the door behind me. He was still out for the count as I ran my fingers along his belt, wrists and calves. No weapon.

Then I had a good look through his clothes.

He wasn’t sterile. Why would he be? He hadn’t planned to spend his evening strapped to the floor of my van.

I lifted his wallet, his Adler ID and pass cards, and two mobile phones. One was a cheap Nokia with no call or text history, which must have been the twin of the one he had left on the passenger seat of the Polo. The other was an iPhone with a pass code.

I brought out my day sack and stowed all the goodies inside it. Last to go in was the iPhone, after I’d powered it down and removed its SIM card. Whoever was waiting at the City Lounge might just want to check where he was.

I unzipped his overnight bag. A couple of changes of basic kit, a spare pair of deck shoes and a washbag. So he was on his way somewhere, after he’d sorted me and the boy out, and wasn’t planning to stay long.

The briefcase was more interesting. Some routine corporate shit. A bunch of keys. A Space Pen. An unloaded SIG Sauer P226. A 9mm Elite Stainless with a walnut handle. This lad really did fancy himself. It was the perfect weapon for an arsehole who drove around town in a wagon that yelled, ‘Look at me!’

I also found two chrome-plated twenty-round mags and a suppressor, an Albanian passport and a Lufthansa boarding pass for tomorrow’s 06:30 flight from Zürich to Naples – which explained why he had already packed. And although Brindisi was on the opposite side of the southern Italian peninsula, it made me think I was some way towards finding out why Frank had been sad there on his last trip.

The best came last: a thirteen-inch HP laptop in a neoprene sleeve.

There’s no point in breaking down a door if it hasn’t been locked, so I fired it up, in case it wasn’t password protected. It was. I folded it shut, replaced the sleeve, put it down a safe distance from the Fanta zone.

I opened the tool chest, squeezed the bag and the briefcase inside it and put my day sack on top of them. As I replaced the padlock, Hesco gave a low moan from somewhere inside his binding, and seemed to be testing the wrist ties. I gave him a couple of kicks in the kidneys and got nothing in response, so maybe I was imagining it.

15

The ether had pretty much evaporated from the cloth and Hesco was starting to show signs of wakefulness.

I stood over him briefly before collapsing my weight to sit on his chest, driving out what little air was left in his lungs.

His immediate reaction was to try to arch his back and throw me off, but as long as the staples held, the cable ties made that impossible. I still didn’t say anything. He tried sucking in through his mouth but that wasn’t working. His nostrils flared with the struggle for oxygen.

I brought out my knife, unfolded the blade and slid it under the binding below his left ear. I did it slowly, so he had plenty of opportunity to feel the cold metal against his neck. It worked. He went very, very still. Maybe I was right about the scar on his nose.

Then I sliced upwards, peeled the flap of tape away from his lips, taking a strip of his designer sideburn with it, and pulled the cloth out of his mouth.

He didn’t shout. He didn’t swear. He took a huge, juddering breath, partly because air had never tasted so good, and partly because he’d want to oxygenate fully before trying to unseat me again.

‘Zac, this isn’t complicated. Where is the boy?’

The blade on his throat, a centimetre above the place where the cable ties were tautening against his Adam’s apple, reminded him that silence was a bad idea.

He went the ‘I don’t speak English’ route. I got a stream of turbo-charged Albanian waffle before he coughed up a gob full of phlegm and spat it at me with as much force as he could muster. Almost in slow motion, it smacked on to the front of my T-shirt and stuck there, like a jellyfish.

His lips opened and closed. When the words came, it was in little more than a whisper.

‘Fuck you.’

I grabbed the first Fanta bottle that came to hand and snapped off its cap.

I balled up the cloth, rammed the whole thing back in Hesco’s mouth and held my left hand over it. Then I sealed the bottle with my right thumb and gave it a good shake.

As he tried to suck in oxygen through both nostrils I pressed the neck against his upper lip and gave him as much of the foaming cherry-coloured liquid as he could snort.

16

You don’t expect to drown on dry land, in the back of a panel van, but every nerve ending tells you that’s what’s happening. You can’t see a thing. The carbonated liquid is jet-cleaning your sinuses. The sugar content is coating every membrane. This is high-octane waterboarding on wheels. And you’re starting to realize there’s no escape.

I removed my hand and pulled out the cloth.

Day-glo cherry was bubbling out of his nose and mouth, and maybe his eye sockets too.

‘Where’s the boy?’

He didn’t answer immediately.

He coughed up another load of phlegm. It wasn’t an act of defiance this time, though. It was an act of survival. The stuff dribbled from the corners of his lips and clung to his cheeks for a second or two, then gathered at the back of his collar.

When he found his voice, it came out as a low growl. ‘Fuck you …’ He paused to bring up a throatful of puke. ‘And fuck your mother.’

I threw aside the empty bottle and reached for another, taking the top off before thumbing the opening and slamming its base down on to his skull, making the drink ready to go volcanic. As he took the pain I shoved the cloth back into his mouth, covered it with my hand, and pressed the back of his skull hard against the floor before slotting the bottleneck into position and letting it discharge.

It fizzed like a firecracker.

He jerked his head from side to side, as far as my grip and the cable ties would allow, but it didn’t help him. I leant down, pushing my hands into his face. The sticky liquid sprayed over my arms and thighs of my jeans. The smell of cherry flavouring filled my nostrils.

It was pointless talking just yet. I wanted him to believe that he was going under. I wanted his sinuses to feel like they were dissolving in acid. And I wanted his imagination to do the rest.

When the last of the cherry had spilt down his cheeks and gummed up his hair, I whipped my hand off his mouth again. He tried desperately to breathe through the cloth.

I pulled it out for him, waited for him to sort himself out, then spoke very slowly. ‘WHERE – IS – THE – BOY?’

‘She didn’t … find him … He found … her …’

‘Where?’

‘The beach … She called Lyubova … I picked up the phone.’

I tightened my fingers around his throat. ‘Natasha? He thought she was on his side.’

‘Maybe … she was … once … But her world … has changed.’

‘Who changed it?’

‘Putin.’ He bared his teeth. ‘And me …’

I didn’t need to ask him again. I knew he wanted to tell me. It wasn’t only the Maserati and the sideburns that said vanity was his big weakness.

But he also wanted to make me wait. I would, if this was the way he’d tell me where the boy was. But not for long.

‘She is from the Crimea … so … in different ways … she is being fucked … by both of us.’

Through the tape, the gunk and the vomit, it looked like he was smiling.

The best way to fuck Hesco right back was by depriving him of any kind of rhythm. He’d be able to take the pain if he knew he could relax and have a nice chat straight afterwards. He’d be able to keep a grip on the passing of time. He’d know that I didn’t have all night for this. And I didn’t want that to happen.

‘You know what? I don’t give a shit who you’re fucking. Unless you’re fucking with me. Is Putin calling the shots? Did Putin order Frank’s killing?’ I couldn’t help thinking of Anna and the baby. Their safety was even more important to me than Stefan’s.

‘Putin?’ He snorted red bubbly snot. ‘Putin … would give me … a medal … for killing Timis …’

‘Did he order it?’

‘Putin … has nothing to do … with this … You … have much more … to fear … than Putin …’

‘Why did you throw the black guy off the balcony?’

It wasn’t the question he was expecting. And it wasn’t one he felt the need to block.

‘He was … unreliable.’ His voice was raw.

‘Because he didn’t kill the boy?’

‘Because … he didn’t obey …’

‘And who helped you do it? Who was the guy with the suede jacket and the shiny head?’

‘He … is a man … who will … kill you … if he … ever … sees you … again …’

‘What about Lyubova?’ I wanted to keep the questions coming. To keep his mouth working so I could get where I needed to be. ‘Was she unreliable too?’

He tried to gasp in more oxygen, but the sticky stuff coating his lungs kept getting in the way. He was gurgling like a blocked drain.

‘She … had her … own … agenda.’

‘Which meant helping to set up Frank, but not sitting and watching you and your mate Dijani take over his businesses?’

Maserati or not, Hesco was the monkey. That’s why he was there. But I knew he’d like me putting him up there with the organ-grinder.

‘She … thought … only of … herself …’

‘Not like you, eh? You’re a man of vision. I can see that.’

He nodded slowly. He could see it too. Even when he was blindfolded.

‘And what you’re up to is bigger than Frank’s BG or Lyubova could understand, eh? Big enough to get the GIGN worried. And TIGRIS. I thought they were after me. But they’re not, are they? They’re looking for you.’

More nodding. It wasn’t just sweat and sugar leaking from every pore now. It was satisfaction.

‘They’re looking … for both … of us …’

‘Where is the boy?’

He made an attempt at a scoff.

I gave him a third bottle, at warp speed, and followed it with another. The spray was all over the place now. Every muscle group was in meltdown. His heels were drumming against the floor. Both hands were flexing big-time too. Trying to find something to grip. Trying to find a fixed point in a world that was going to rat-shit.

His fingernails were starting to gouge crimson tracks in his own palms.

As the drink fizz died down I dropped the bottle and let him turn his head and expel what was left in the back of his throat.

‘Where is the boy?’

17

His lungs had more sticky cherry shit in them than air. The rest of it was pooled around his head, along with most of what he’d eaten and drunk in the last six hours. I reached for Fanta number five.

He reacted when he heard the clink. ‘No … wait …’

I carried on going. He recoiled when he felt the cold glass against his upper lip.

‘No …’

‘Where is the boy? Come on, Zac, you’re smarter than this.’

‘Smarter … yes …’

‘So tell me.’

‘Smarter …’

I bent forwards again and yelled in his ear. ‘FUCKING TELL ME!’

I’d meant to shock him into a response, but it didn’t work.

‘Smarter … smarter … than you.’

‘You think? So how come you’re the one who’s drowning?’

I didn’t wait for an answer.

‘Where’s Dijani, Zac? He’s in this up to his neck, isn’t he?’

All I got was a long, rasping breath.

‘Was he up on that mountain road, or were you in charge of sending me over the edge?’

‘Me … I was … in charge …’ Another happy memory. ‘We had to … split … you up …’

‘So I got a javelin through the windscreen, and Frank Timis got a double tap.’

‘We should … have put … a bullet … in you … as well … We will … soon …’

His confidence was returning. He was back on safe ground. He could talk about this all night. Good. That was the way I wanted him to feel.

‘Tell me about Italy.’

He went absolutely rigid for five seconds, then flapped around a bit, but there was no disguising it. Italy had rattled him.

‘I know about the people-trafficking, the drugs … Is that what you fuckers are up to?’

I gripped his throat again, to help him concentrate.

‘Asylum … seekers …’ He tried to launch another gobbet of phlegm at me, and failed. ‘Scum … Who cares … if they drown? You cannot escape … the judgement of … Allah …’

‘So how do you think Allah will judge you? What does it say in the Quran about shagging Ukrainian maids, or mincing around in a Maserati, or profiteering, or child abduction?’

He didn’t seem too concerned about any of that. ‘Allah … will … welcome us … to Paradise.’

‘Where’s the boy?’

He struggled to turn his head again and clear some of the shit out of his chest. I wouldn’t let him.

‘WHERE – DO – YOU – HAVE – THE – BOY?’

He tried to suck oxygen into his lungs. He sounded more like a cement mixer than a human being.

I selected another bottle and made sure he was well aware of the clinking and shaking process. He opened his mouth again before I clamped my hand on it.

‘I will …

‘… take you …

‘… to the boy …’

If he’d had a white flag, he’d have waved it. But so would I, in his position. I’d have done almost anything. Every second off the waterboard, every millimetre of distance, was an opportunity to regroup.

I told him that was all well and good, but I still needed him to convince me he meant it. I told him I wanted a sign of commitment.

‘What’s the password, Zac? The password for the laptop.’

‘What … the fuck—’

I sat more heavily on his chest as I emptied the foaming Fanta into the mug and put it beside the door. Then I picked up the HP, tucked it under my chin, removed it from its sleeve and placed it on the floor far enough from Hesco’s head to keep it away from the red liquid flood. That was easier said than done: the stuff was even dripping from the ceiling now. It stank so badly of cherry-flavoured E-numbers in here I could taste it.

I flipped open the brushed aluminium lid. ‘I need something from you. I need to know that you’ve got skin in the game.’

‘Skin?’

‘Something that shows me you’re serious.’

I eased the pressure long enough for him to nod, and pressed the power button. The start-up tone seemed to fill the space around us. A log-in box appeared at the centre of a screen-saver shot of a distant galaxy.

‘So give me the fucking password.’

‘Paradise …’ He barely breathed it.

Still gripping his throat, I tapped in all eight letters, beginning with a capital P, then the return key.

The box quivered and went blank.

It didn’t react well to a lower-case p either.

‘Don’t fuck with me …’

I tried Jannah instead. I wasn’t an expert on the Quran, but a few of the most important words had stuck. And Jannah was the place all good Muslims were aiming for.

Same result.

‘You … must go … through … the correct gate …’ The fucker listened to my increasingly staccato tapping. He was still wanting to play.

I allowed my mind to wander for a moment.

Back to the Iraqi desert.

The land of flaming oil wells and missile emplacements and storm drains.

And endless exchanges in interrogation centres during the dark hours as we took Frank’s advice and tried to get to know our enemy. There were eight gates to Jannah. The second was for those who had fought the Holy War. I was fucked if I could remember what it was called.

Then I did.

I hit the keys. Baab.al.Jihad …

More quivering.

Baab al-jihad …

The security software didn’t like that version either. But I wasn’t going to give Hesco the satisfaction of asking him for another clue.

baabal_jihad …

Was I going to be timed out?

baabaljihad

Bullseye.

A selfie with a palm tree and his Maserati filled the desktop, and was instantly peppered with icons.

I was in. I’d take a closer look at the contents later.

I shut down the HP and replaced the sleeve. ‘So, where’s the boy?’

‘First, you will cut me free …’ He strained against the cable ties.

I shook my head, not that he could see it. ‘No.’

Switching off the light, I pulled back the door and emptied the mug.

When I’d retrieved the map book and the torch from the cab, I let him know that I was ready for directions. He told me to find the E41 between Schaffhausen and Winterthur, and take the Zürich exit.

I traced the route with the LED beam.

If I turned right after fifteen Ks, before we got to Berg, then left, I’d find three construction sites. Stefan was being held at the one in the middle.

‘So that’s where your foot soldiers will be waiting to welcome me with pickaxes and shovels and power drills and fuck knows what else.’

He shook his head. ‘It will be … deserted … until seven … tomorrow morning. Three … Portakabins. One … security guard. Gated … I have … a key.’

Every word was still half drowned in Fanta, and he was not about to forget what he’d just been through. But I’d believe it when I saw it.

I poured him another mugful of ether, dipped the cloth in it and, as he was starting to relax, took him back to square one. I smacked it over his nose and mouth, held it in place until he went limp again, and forced three-quarters of it into his oral cavity.

I wrapped a metre of gaffer tape around his mouth and neck and, after making sure that his nostrils could still function, I picked up the map book, climbed out and slid the door shut behind me.

The night air was cool and fresh and I breathed in a couple of massive lungfuls. I realized only now that the cocktail of ether, vomit and sugary cherry had been making my head pound. No wonder Hesco was out of it.

Back in the cab, I took out Hesco’s SIG, flicked on the torch again and dismantled its working parts. I didn’t think it would have been anything less than fully functional, but I didn’t want to risk a dead man’s click at any point during the next couple of hours.

Once I was satisfied, I clipped in one of the mags, fed a round into the breech, positioned it under my thigh, and put the spare mag and the suppressor in my pocket. The Sphinx stayed where it was. The law of increasing firepower says that two pistols will defeat one, and a rifle will defeat two pistols. And no matter what he claimed, I needed all the help I could get.

Easing the van back on to the logging trail, I stopped long enough at the edge of the forest to take one more look at the map, set my sights on the E41, and put my foot down.