Текст книги "Detonator"

Автор книги: Andy McNab

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

‘I love … to swim …’

I sat him down and took out the French map and the Silva compass. After a few false starts and a bit of head scratching, I zeroed in on the Haute Savoie, then the stretch of road that seemed to match the reference points – tunnels, curve, waterfall, layby – of the killing zone. It would have taken us to Turin.

I reckoned Courchevel was fifteen Ks or so as the crow flew. But I wasn’t about to bring out the crampons and karabiners, even if I’d had some with me. So maybe three times that, if we went round the peaks instead of over them.

I was about to fold the corner of the page when the Jock voice came back into my head. ‘Never mark a map. Why tell the enemy where you’re going and what you’re doing?’ I buried the matchbook and put the map and compass back into my day sack. The passports went in there too. I looped the binoculars strap around my neck.

‘Right. We’re sorted.’ I kept it simple. ‘I’m going to get you home.’

6

I planned to tab as far as we could down the valley, then we’d make our way to Courchevel. After what had happened to his dad, I wasn’t expecting it to be a place of safety, but I needed answers to the questions that were buzzing around in my head, and I had nowhere else to start.

‘Do you think you can walk?’

Another nod.

I loaded myself up again with my day sack and his rucksack, and he reached for my free hand. His palm was cold and a little bit clammy. I gripped it and aimed us at the point where the stream looked like it exited the trees.

The gradient was still steep, but the ground was solid and we made steady progress. Every so often he grabbed a low-hanging branch to help him keep his footing.

There was a sheer drop at the edge of the treeline, but only for a couple of metres. I lowered the bags, transferred the pistol to the back of my waistband, then got down on my belt buckle and slid over the edge feet first.

He followed the same drill and wriggled after me. As soon as my Timberland boots touched the ground, I put the Sphinx back where it belonged and reached up for him.

The next stretch wasn’t pasture, exactly, but the slope was no longer forty-five degrees. We zigzagged down it, ramming our heels firmly into the turf with every step.

About two hundred further on I had a clearer view of the valley floor. I could see our stream gather momentum with a series of leaps and falls, on its way to join the river. I could see the still smoking wreckage of my wagon. And I could see blue lights flashing in the distance, making their way along the road towards it.

A cluster of farm buildings were dug into the hill another four or five hundred below us. I brought up the binos and took a closer look. Stone bases; wood cladding; shallow-raked slate roofs. Barns, cowsheds, all that sort of shit. Movement. A couple of carrot-crunchers in dungarees and wellies loading stuff on to their quad bikes.

We weren’t kitted out as hikers, and Stefan’s crocodiles looked like they’d be more at home in a five-star hotel than yomping across the hillside, so we had to stay out of sight as much as possible. I steered him to the right, towards a fold in the ground that would give us cover and allow us to skirt around them.

He stepped into a rut or a rabbit hole as he changed direction and fell heavily, twisting his foot. He immediately heaved himself up and stumbled on.

After a few paces I could see he was hurting. His teeth were gritted – he was determined to stick at it – but his cheeks and forehead had lost their colour and his eyes were starting to leak. It wasn’t just the injury: the nightmare in the Range Rover was going to fuck him up too.

I grabbed his hand again to help him along, and made encouraging noises about home, but it made no difference, so I sat him down and took a closer look at his injury. The ankle wasn’t broken, but the flesh around it was ballooning fast.

I took out my T-shirt and tore a clean four– or five-centimetre-wide strip off the bottom of it. I unlaced his trainer and bound the swelling in a figure of eight, starting under his arch and finishing halfway up his calf.

Then I carried him the rest of the way to the gully our stream had cut into the hill. It was only about a metre wide and a metre deep to start with, but enough to give us both some cover. I sat him down again, took off his trainer and shoved his injured foot in the stream. He tried to remove it almost immediately, but I didn’t let him. I knew that the water was bitingly cold, but it would reduce the swelling and ease the throbbing. I handed him the water bottle and the chocolate bar to try to take his mind off it.

As he got munching I had another look at the map. I wasn’t wrong: no shortcuts. That settled it. I couldn’t leave the kid in a stable and pretend it was Christmas. And carrying him all the way to his dad’s front door would take for ever. ‘Mate …’

Stefan looked up.

‘We need to find us some transport.’

We went into piggy-back mode again. The gully widened and deepened as we went. After a hundred metres I put him and the luggage down, crawled up on to the turf and, keeping low, eased myself forwards until I could take a closer look at the outbuildings.

A track ran through the property below me. One of the carrot-crunchers was bouncing his quad bike towards a barn that stood at the far end of it, beside a low wooden bridge spanning our gully. Beyond it, a bunch of cows grazed at the edge of the pasture, beside a stand of firs.

I ducked back into the gully and loaded myself up again. It broadened and deepened as it headed downhill. I had no idea whether the lad I hoped was about to become my new best mate was on his way to do a bit of routine maintenance or to have a chat with the livestock, but I had to start somewhere, and I figured this was our best chance of a result.

I reached the bridge before he crossed it. It was a sturdily built, slatted hardwood affair. I deposited Stefan underneath it, with his ankle back in the stream and the bags alongside him, and put a finger to my lips. His eyes were glassy and there were beads of sweat on his forehead, but he was on receive. I handed him the water bottle again and motioned for him to drink.

I stayed under the bridge with him and listened. I could no longer hear the engine, so the driver had either taken a detour or parked up. After a moment or two a hinge creaked, a can rattled and – judging by the sudden flurry of grunts and groans – some heavy-duty equipment was being moved close by.

I grabbed hold of the nearest post and hauled myself up until my eyes were level with the top of the bank. The side of the barn was about five metres away. The quad bike was parked out front. The grunting and groaning continued, but there were no bodies in sight.

I brought up the binos and had a good look along the track. When I was satisfied that no one else was approaching from the main farmyard, I scrambled into the cover of the wall, stopped and listened again. More grunts and groans and sounds of heavy lifting, then silence. I moved round to the front of the building and took up position beside the open door. It was one of a pair. The other was bolted shut. A padlock the size of a landmine hung from a staple not far from my elbow.

The quad’s engine was ticking. It was a red Honda 300 4x4 All-Terrain Vehicle. It said so on the cowling, underneath the odd splash of cow shit. It had front and rear racks and a key in the ignition. But I couldn’t just leap on to the saddle and fuck off. The owner was probably fit as a butcher’s dog and I didn’t fancy my chances of hoisting Stefan and our stuff out of the ditch and scooting into the trees before a couple of big lads in dungarees jumped on us and fucked us over. I needed to buy us some time.

Sunlight flooded through the entrance into the barn. I looked inside, as far as I could without making myself visible. From where I was standing I could see a big fuck-off workbench with a circular saw. Behind it were shelves of farm kit, fuel cans and well-maintained hand tools, rolls of gaffer tape and baling twine, all in their proper place.

The trick was going to be to gain entry without presenting a target. The only advantage to being backlit was that my face would be in shadow. I didn’t want to have it imprinted on anyone’s memory if I could avoid it.

I heard movement inside. I opened my mouth to deaden the sound of the blood pumping through my head, and listened more closely. Whatever Mr Dungarees was up to, he was doing it at the back of the building, as far as I could tell. Fuck it. I couldn’t play guessing games all day. I needed to get in there.

I gripped the Sphinx and removed it from my waistband. I didn’t want to use it unless I had to, but it would go a long way towards persuading my target to keep quiet while I constrained him. And if I had to make it go bang, it would guarantee his full attention.

I took a couple of deep breaths, flexed my knees, bent low and aimed for the shelter of the workbench. There was no sawdust anywhere near it. Either this guy was the tidiest carpenter in the universe or this was what he’d just been relocating.

I stayed in the crouch and scanned the space beyond it. The sunlight picked out some bits and pieces of agricultural machinery and a couple of galvanized-metal feeding troughs. After that, the whole place was in shadow.

I reached for a roll of tape, shoved it over my forearm, and crept past the workbench and the troughs. I didn’t have time for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, but I immediately felt safer in it. As long as I didn’t collide with anything noisy, it was the best protection I had.

I heard movement again at the back, to my half-right.

And voices.

Fuck.

With my brain not yet firing on all cylinders, getting to grips with one body was never going to be easy. Sorting out two – and without being pinged – was pretty much out of the question. That was where the Sphinx came in. I somehow knew I didn’t kill real people. I also knew that when you’re staring down a muzzle and it’s a new experience you tend to do exactly what you’re told.

Then I heard a slap and a gasp and a giggle, and some of the grunting I’d caught earlier made more sense. This lad hadn’t just been rearranging the furniture.

The giggles and gasps were coming from the far corner of the barn, but I followed the line of the wall rather than heading across the middle of the floor. The sounds got louder as I drew nearer. They were coming from a storage room, whose door wasn’t quite closed. I eased it the last couple of centimetres into its frame and quietly fastened both bolts. They were big old-fashioned cast-iron rods, and wouldn’t go anywhere in a hurry.

Whatever, I reckoned it would be a while before the lad inside got his dungarees back on, and with any luck he’d then assume that his mate was taking the piss by shutting him and his girlfriend in. Who knew? I was just pleased I didn’t have to give him the good news with the weapon, after all, and risk compromising myself. I tucked it back under my jacket and, keeping to the shadows, began to retrace my route.

My next priorities were to help myself to a pair of bungee cords off the storage shelf, then to push the ATV to the bridge before firing it up. The couple I’d locked up were already making quite a bit of noise of their own, and an extra bit of distance would help to draw less attention to mine.

As I skirted the largest of the feeding troughs I sensed movement in the darkness behind me and to my right.

I turned, but wasn’t quick enough to see whoever smashed me across the back with the world’s biggest lump of wood.

7

The roll of gaffer tape flew off my arm and skittered across the deck as I dropped to my hands and knees, fighting for breath. I toppled forward, hoping the lip of the trough would get between me and the next blow.

My kidneys felt like they’d been belted with a railway sleeper and my lungs weren’t too happy either, but by the time I hit the ground I’d got some air into them and pulled up the front of my jacket to clear the pistol grip. I stayed face down for a moment, curling my body to take the pain and free the weapon. My right hand went into autopilot and whipped it out of my belt as I rotated to face whoever had taken me down.

All I could see above me was a mass of dungarees and wellington boot. My head spun as the Sphinx swung up and into the aim, almost as if it had a mind of its own. A chunky moulded rubber sole, caked in cow shit, steamed towards me and connected with my knuckles. The Sphinx flew out of my hand, clanked against the galvanized-metal side of the trough and spun into the darkness.

I rolled and turned, then scrabbled after it. The boots were crunching in the same direction, a metre in front of me. My only option was to try to climb aboard him, try to control him before he reached the weapon. Fighting to maintain my focus, I threw my hands around his legs to slow him or bring him down. He kicked me away with one but I managed to hang on to the other.

I was a dead weight, clamped to his ankle like a ball and chain, but he was a very big lad. He took another couple of paces, dragging my body with him, and started to bend down. I glimpsed a giant paw brush the concrete ahead of me. There was nothing I could do to stop him.

I let go of his leg and made a grab for his forearm as the pistol grip disappeared into his right hand. I put every ounce of strength into trying to stop the business end of it pointing my way. It wasn’t enough. His grip was like a vice. Slowly but surely, the muzzle came round towards me.

I grabbed the barrel. He grunted as he struggled to shake me off. His knuckles turned white as his right fist tightened around the grip. His left banged down on the top of my skull, then pounded against the back of my neck. I felt something dribble down my right temple.

I jerked and twisted, and somehow managed to dodge the full weight of his blows. Then I felt the cold gunmetal pressed against my cheek and went very still indeed.

From this angle, there was a chance the round would go straight through my oral cavity, just fucking up some of my teeth, gum and upper jaw before it exited.

If I carried on jerking around, I might dislodge the muzzle, but I might also end up with a 9-mill ripping a hole in my brain.

Everything went into slow-mo.

I could hear him clear his throat.

I could smell the garlic on his breath.

I could feel the sweat dripping off his palm and running down my chin.

I could almost feel his finger squeeze the trigger.

If this was where the story ended, then fuck it: that had always been part of the deal.

The hammer reached its tipping point and rocketed the firing pin towards the round’s percussion cap.

But instead of losing a big chunk of my face, I heard the unmistakable sound of the dead man’s click.

Every second I was alive after that was a bonus.

Reaching up, I grabbed two clumps of damp and greasy hair and wrenched his face down hard on to the top of my skull. He tried to resist, so I cannoned upwards until we connected and he gave a yell. I didn’t know where I’d hit him and it didn’t really matter. I tightened my grip and butted him once more. I saw star-bursts, but I was expecting them. That’s the shit that happens.

It bought me enough time to struggle to my feet but not to aim my first kick. It didn’t matter. Finesse wasn’t the order of the day. Anything to slow him down. I went for his centre mass for starters, then moved on up. I didn’t want to permanently damage him. On the other hand, I wasn’t messing about. I needed to stop him thinking, and doing anything I didn’t want him to do.

He stayed on his feet, but started to droop.

I got a couple of blows into the side of his head and that was enough to make him come out with the white flag. He dropped like a sack of shit.

The locked door at the back of the barn was taking a hammering from the inside. The first carrot-cruncher sounded very concerned. He shouted, ‘Claude,’ once or twice, then hollered a stream of profanities. It didn’t take a UN interpreter to help me catch his drift. Fucking let me out of here, you bastard …

I didn’t mind. Nobody was going to hear. And as long as he was shouting, he wasn’t on a mobile phone to the police.

Claude wasn’t going anywhere fast. I let him lie where he’d fallen while I reclaimed the gaffer tape and the pistol from beside a pallet loaded with fence posts. The pistol went into my waistband.

Claude stirred when I got back alongside him. Maybe he’d heard the rasp as I pulled a length of tape off the roll. Maybe the door banging and his mate yelling had forced its way into the depths of his consciousness. Whatever, I had to kick into him a couple more times. I didn’t know if I was hurting him and I didn’t care. I needed him to be in no doubt that I was the top dog round here at the moment, so I could secure him. That boy could pack a punch, and if he regained control there was no telling what he might do.

The profanity kept echoing around the back of the barn as I rolled Claude on to his stomach, pulled his wrists together behind his back and wrapped the tape around them. I made it tight, very tight, so his hands would soon start to swell. I wanted him to focus on the pain instead of raising the alarm.

I tugged off his wellies and did the same to his ankles, then bent his legs back so I could connect the two sets of binding. He lay with his cheek on the floor, eyes closed, even when I plastered the sticky stuff across his mouth and looped it twice around the back of his neck. I wasn’t sure if he was unconscious by then or in denial. It didn’t matter much either way.

Finally, I fastened him to one of the legs of the feeding trough.

I stepped over the fence post he’d dropped me with and grabbed the bungee cords off the shelf on my way out. I padlocked the main door for good measure and threw away the key.

There was no need to push the Honda anywhere now. The shouts had mostly turned into whines, and as soon as I hit the starter button the engine noise drowned them out completely. I pulled up beside the bridge and clambered into the gully.

Stefan had finished the chocolate and most of the water by the time I got back to him. Other than that he hadn’t moved an inch. Either he trusted me completely, or he was still so traumatized he was frozen to the spot. His foot was obviously giving him some grief, but he’d kept it in the stream. As for the rest, only time would tell.

He took one look at me, opened his mouth and pointed at my temple. I touched it with my fingertips, still hoping that Claude might just have gobbed on me. They came away sticky and crimson.

I shrugged. ‘No time now. I’ll sort it later.’

He still didn’t say anything, but I saw a ghost of a smile when I carried him up the bank and he spotted the Honda. I settled him on the front of the saddle and strapped our bags to the rear rack with the bungee cords. I didn’t bother refilling the water bottle. Now that we had wheels, dying of thirst wasn’t an issue.

I climbed on behind him, and told him to hang on to my arms. When I turned the ignition key, even the cows took no notice. I aimed the machine directly across the slope towards the trees. The incline wasn’t too steep, but I didn’t go into Red Bull Extreme mode. Rolling it would really fuck us up.

Once we were twenty metres or so in cover I spotted a track, which was probably a ski run in the winter. I turned on to it and opened up the throttle whenever the gradient allowed. I knew this wasn’t the first time today I’d travelled downhill at speed through trees, but now I could see our route stretching ahead of us, and the further we got, the more confident I became that we weren’t going to launch ourselves into space.

I stopped every so often to scan the open ground below us, and to check the compass and the map. I wasn’t worried about taking a wrong turning: I needed to keep fixing the bearings of our journey in my head. It wasn’t leaking so badly now.

Shit from my past had started to bubble up through my brain. Maybe the drama in the barn had triggered something way beneath the waterline.

I knew I was ex-Special Forces.

I knew Frank Timis was a Ukrainian oligarch.

I knew I’d rescued his son in Somalia, back in the day.

I knew he had needed my help again.

I knew that whoever had killed him wanted me dead too.

But I didn’t know why. Maybe the Timis house in Courchevel would give me some answers.

The mountain air made everything ahead of me pin sharp. I was still a long way short of total recall, but the breeze against my face seemed to be blowing away some of my confusion. It was also drying off the bomber nicely.

Once we’d got well away from the body on the mountain and the flashing lights around what was left of my wagon, I brought the ATV to a halt. I lifted Stefan off and told him to take a piss while I unhooked the bungees and took my stained T-shirt out of my day sack, emptied the rest of the water bottle on to it and dabbed as much of the blood off my head as I could manage. There was fuck-all I could do about the wound itself right now, but at least I’d look a bit tidier.

Then I had a closer look at the contents of his rucksack. Under the hand towel and washbag there was a paperback the size of a small breezeblock. ‘You’re kidding me, right?’ My Russian wasn’t anything to shout about, but I recognized Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment when I saw it. Fuck, he was only seven. I hadn’t even managed Jack and Jill by the time I was his age.

He gave me the kind of look that suddenly reminded me of his dad. No, he wasn’t kidding.

I carried my bloodstained T-shirt and his Brindisi strip ten metres in from the track, scraped back some loose earth and leaf litter behind a tree and buried it. Being caught with Frank’s son would compromise me big-time. Having the dead man’s blood on my clothing and his would be even more difficult to explain.