Текст книги "Detonator"

Автор книги: Andy McNab

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10

I reassembled the Sphinx, then bounced the TV from channel to channel until I found twenty-four-hour news. Every bulletin was about bad things happening in Syria, Iraq or the Crimea. Putin was bent on clawing back as much of the old empire as possible, and he wouldn’t stop at Ukraine. He also seemed to be picking off his least favourite oligarchs and rivals, one by one.

The Crimea report was interrupted by a breaking story. Frank’s Range Rover filled the frame, surrounded by stripy incident tape and blue and red flashing lights. I probably should have saved Stefan from having to watch this bit, but it was already too late. He stopped in mid-bite as a body bag was lifted off a gurney and slid into the back of an ambulance.

It was too early for the dead man to have been formally identified, but that didn’t stop the newshounds from speculating wildly about a connection with the still unsolved murder of Saad al-Hilli, his wife and mother-in-law in a layby near Lake Annecy in 2012. Lake Annecy was spitting distance from there.

There didn’t seem to be a mystery biker this time around; the prime suspect, as far as they were concerned, was a man in a Nissan X-Trail, who appeared to have suffered a fatal accident further down the mountain. Cue footage of more flashing lights and charred, mangled wreckage being hoisted on to a low-loader.

With his passport in my day sack, the police wouldn’t be able to ID Frank immediately. But it wouldn’t take them long. He’d kept a low profile, as far as the outside world was concerned, but you didn’t do the things that Frank did without leaving some kind of trace.

And it would also be only a matter of time before the forensics people got busy with what was left of the Nissan and discovered that there was no body inside it.

I bent and sifted through the desk drawers. None of them was locked, but that didn’t surprise me. Anything Frank wanted to keep to himself would be buried in the safe in the rock face behind me, somewhere offsite, or behind a series of passcodes on the razor-thin laptop he always kept within reach.

Always.

I stopped mid-sift and frowned.

He’d been tapping away on it last night. He’d turned the screen towards me, and shown me something.

Something important.

What then?

I hadn’t seen it in the Range Rover.

And it wasn’t here.

‘Stefan …’

He turned.

‘Your dad’s laptop. Did he have it in the car?’

Another slow nod.

So where had it gone?

I riffled through a few sheets of paper in the third drawer: a fixture list for Brindisi Football Club, an out-of-date invitation to the formal opening of some distribution depot in Albertville, a glossy estate agent’s brochure for a Swiss chateau on the shore of Lake Konstanz – the kind of place where if you had to ask the price you couldn’t afford it – and two or three printouts of the kind of puzzles and brainteasers designed to do your head in if a stripy javelin hadn’t done that already. I guessed they were what Frank did with Stefan when he wasn’t reading him Dostoevsky at bedtime.

Something prevented me pushing the drawer shut.

Puzzles …

Brainteasers …

Precision …

Most of us kept out-of-date shit for no good reason. Frank didn’t.

I needed to take another look at that invitation.

The depot was owned by a company called Adler Gesellschaft. Their logo was embossed top centre, inside the card. I rolled back my sleeve, though I didn’t need to. That eagle, with its outstretched wings and talons, was becoming a regular feature in my life. I folded the card in half and slipped it into my pocket.

I left the news rolling. The infrared had kicked in on the security monitor now that darkness had fallen. I told Stefan to keep eyes on while I nosed around. Anything else that might help fill in the blanks in my head was going to pay dividends, so I started with the picture gallery. I needed to fix the images of the key players in my mental databank.

One look and I knew I’d recognize Mr Lover Man and his mate Genghis if I saw them again. I’d spent time with them both in Moscow and Mogadishu, and some other third-world shitholes as well.

I struggled to remember whether I’d ever met Frank’s wife. I didn’t think so. I examined every shot she starred in. Long dark hair. Perfect skin. Catwalk posture. Cheekbones you could cut yourself on. The kind of symmetry that only came with a surgeon’s knife. Strikingly beautiful from a distance, but less so up close.

As always, the clue was in the eyes, and these ones didn’t miss a trick. I saw ambition in them, but not affection. And, judging by the size of the diamonds and rubies she had decorated herself with, her ambition was working its magic.

The TV was telling me nothing I hadn’t already heard so I switched it off. I showed Stefan the remote for the security monitor and began to run through the basic programming options. ‘Look, mate, this is how you shift from camera to camera. And this is the zoom—’

He rolled his eyes and snatched it out of my hand. In case I hadn’t got the message, he went on to demonstrate a whole lot of functions I’d had no idea about. I left him to it, but turned at the door. ‘I’ll be along the corridor. Come and get me if you see anything happening, front or back.’ I gave him a grin. ‘And finish that chocolate bar, eh? Or I’ll eat it.’

From the contents of their cupboards and chests, one of the staff quarters had been set aside for a chef and another for a maid. The remaining two were empty, beds stripped, not even a half-used tube of toothpaste on the glass shelf above the basin.

But this time I spotted another empty Marlboro pack in the waste bin.

Whoever had vacated them wasn’t expecting to come back any time soon. It had been worth the second visit, though. I now knew without a shadow of a doubt who had stayed there.

Mr Lover Man, and me.

I returned to the study. Stefan still looked like you’d expect a kid to look when his favourite BG had just shot his dad. But he was taking his security job very seriously indeed. His eyes were glued to the six key screens in which absolutely nothing was happening, and he was juggling between them like he was playing on an Xbox. I let him know I was going back upstairs.

I pressed the remote and closed the steel roller shutters in the master bedroom before switching on the lamp beside the four-poster. Mr and Mrs Timis watched me from the portrait on the wall above it as I whisked through their handcrafted drawers and wardrobes. Something in her expression left me in no doubt she didn’t approve.

The very expensive contents didn’t tell me much I didn’t already know about Frank’s personal tastes, and only one thing about what might have been happening in other areas of his life. Every single item belonged to him. I found nothing that might have been hers.

The same was true of the en-suite bathroom. A lot of Frank’s man stuff, but no sign of the sort of shit women can’t live without. It wasn’t because she hadn’t popped by for dinner last night.

She’d gone.

Was that why Stefan’s face had fallen when I asked him where his mum was?

I caught sight of myself in the mirror above one of the basins. A scab had formed on my forehead, starting a couple of centimetres below my hairline and running back across my scalp. There was a smear of blood on each side. It was ugly enough to make me open the medicine cabinet, where I found shelves of Factor 60, Deep Heat, and all the things you might need to patch yourself up after a fuck-up on the piste.

I dampened one of Frank’s designer face flannels and cleaned myself up as much as possible, then applied three butterfly strips and a dressing to the crusty bit. It would stop it going septic, and made the whole thing look a bit tidier.

I rinsed the flannel under the cold tap, wrung it out and tucked it into my bomber pocket, along with some spare dressings and sticking plasters, and a blister pack of ibuprofen, a crêpe bandage and Tubigrip for Stefan. He appeared at the door in the same instant I heard the sirens whooping up the road from the centre of town.

I flicked off the light and took Frank’s triumph of Italian design and German engineering double quick down to his study. I wasn’t about to stick my head out of an upstairs window to see if we had a drama on our hands. I already knew that we did.

11

I got back to his monitor in time to see four Toyota Land Cruisers screech to a halt outside the front of the chalet. GENDARMERIE was emblazoned across their bonnets and door panels and their anti-riot grilles were tilted back. It was too dark to tell what colour the carriers were, but I knew they were midnight blue, like the Kevlar assault suits of the lads in helmets who started spilling out of them.

These guys weren’t just our friendly neighbourhood bobbies. I couldn’t see their shoulder flashes, but I could picture them: a blue circle with an open parachute, a telescopic sight, flames and a steel karabiner.

GIGN.

A special-ops outfit bridging the gap between the police and the military. Whoever thought the French were cheese-eating surrender monkeys had never seen the Intervention Group up close. I had. We’d served together, back in the day. They specialized in anti-terrorist and hostage-rescue tasks. Which meant they were taking whatever they thought was happening here very seriously indeed.

They normally operated as twenty-man troops, and it looked like today was no exception. Four of them stayed out front, SIG 550 assault rifles in the aim. They’d have Manurhin MR73s – a 357 Magnum revolver that Dirty Harry wouldn’t have sneered at – in their holsters. I didn’t want to be on the receiving end of either. Or the GIAT FR-F2 sniper rifles that would have peeled off earlier, aiming for the high ground. They could throw a 7.62 round 800 metres.

While it was all very well being able to dredge up this shit, I was beginning to regret not having spent more time planning my exit routes.

The rest of the squad spread out around the sides and back. They didn’t have the pass code, but that didn’t seem to slow them down. A couple swung themselves up over the rear wall and took cover where I’d put Stefan, behind the Jacuzzi. So nipping out the way we’d come in was no longer an option.

Blasting through the garage doors and up the front drive in the Range Rover wasn’t either.

I wondered about climbing out on to the roof and launching myself at the next-door chalet.

I’d be quicker on my own.

It would mean leaving the boy.

The GIGN would guarantee him a place of safety …

But I’d be fucked.

They were top of the heap when it came to hostage rescue, but wouldn’t just give him a kiss and a cuddle. It’d take less than thirty seconds for the little fucker to tell them I was alive, put me in the same zone as the killing, and give them a full description.

I scanned the monitors. They confirmed what I already knew. Every option was going to end in a gangfuck.

The boss man with the megaphone certainly felt that way. He told us so in three languages. He was now inviting anyone inside the chalet to come out with their hands raised.

What about staying in? Was there somewhere we could conceal ourselves? I scrolled through the possibilities on the screen inside my head. It was finally beginning to work. But it didn’t give me a solution.

Inside cupboards and under beds were strictly for sitcoms.

And the attic was the first place I’d look.

Did Frank have a panic room? I hadn’t seen any sign of one.

No. Frank didn’t do panic. And neither – I now realized – did his son. Most seven-year-olds would have been flapping and crying and hiding under the bed right now. He just rolled his eyes. The kid seemed to have the same part of his brain missing as his dad.

The megaphone kicked off one last time. Same message, harsher delivery. If there was anyone inside, they had three minutes to make themselves known.

I didn’t want to make myself known. I never had. Not even to the postman.

As the assault team moved in, I went over to his chair and gripped him. ‘There must be a way out, yeah? What would your dad do right now?’

The kid got up and limped towards the left-hand end of the photograph display. He opened the storage cupboard beneath it and reached inside.

The front door burst off its hinges at the third strike of the GIGN battering ram. The speakers in Frank’s hideaway captured the moment in cinema-quality surround-sound. But even if it had been dead quiet, I doubt I would have heard the shelving unit rotate to reveal the mouth of a tunnel that had been bored into the mountain.

I took two steps towards it, then turned back to the desk and grabbed the security remote. Fuck it, this thing had more buttons and icons than an Enigma machine. I didn’t know which ones to punch.

Stefan gripped my arm and tried to pull me away. I shook him off. ‘The security cameras. They would have recorded us coming in, yeah?’

He nodded.

‘And me going through every room.’

He nodded again.

‘I need to wipe the memory.’

He treated me to something very like a smile, and more words in a single sentence than he’d given me since I’d dragged him out of the Evoque. ‘You left me in charge, remember? That was my job.’

We both heard shouted orders and boots on the ground at the far end of the corridor. As we legged it across the threshold, the room was plunged into darkness and a trail of LED lights showed the way ahead. The shelving unit closed silently behind us. There was a touchpad set into the rock for a return journey, and a screen the size of an iPad, which showed an infrared image of the place we’d just left.

Apart from our footsteps, all I could hear now was the gentle whir of the ventilation system.

12

There was obviously nothing wrong with Stefan’s mind, apart from it being a pint-size replica of his dad’s, but his ankle stopped working again after another fifty. I picked him up and kept on going.

I soon lost track of how far we’d walked, but I didn’t care. It was all about making distance, and a steadily downward slope really helped. I had no idea whether we’d emerge in Bulgari Land or out in the wild. I stopped every so often and listened for any sign of pursuit. Unless the boys in blue had found their way through Frank’s secret escape hatch and changed into the world’s quietest brothel-creepers, there was none.

Eventually a shiny steel door appeared out of the gloom in front of us. A spyhole glinted at head height. I peered through it into what looked like a neon-lit lock-up. I pressed the button that opened the door and moved from a spotless designer planet into the one I was more used to – the one with dirt under its fingernails, sweat on its bollocks and oil stains on its floor.

A couple of old bicycles hung from the ceiling. The shelves that lined the walls were loaded with all sorts of shit that even real people didn’t need to keep but couldn’t bring themselves to throw away. I knew this was exactly how the place was meant to look; it wasn’t just because Frank had forgotten to bring in the cleaners. Once the door had closed, there was no hint of what lay behind it.

A dark green Volkswagen Polo stood to one side, with French plates and an up-to-date Swiss car-toll vignette in the bottom left corner of the windscreen. Nothing too flash, but solid. This wagon was designed to stay under the radar.

There was no sign of a satnav, which suited me just fine. I’d spent the last few hours wondering where the fuck I was, and still wanted to find out how I’d got here, but I was in no doubt that I’d spent the rest of my life doing my best to remain untraceable.

The only concession to high tech was the little black plastic box on the driver’s seat, which I guessed must power up the shutter that separated us from the outside world. The ignition key had been left beside it.

When I put Stefan down he made for the passenger door, but I steered him to the rear hatch and told him to curl up in the boot. ‘It’s safer. No one will give a scruffy fucker on his own a second glance in a wagon like this …’ I liked the sound of that. I hoped it was true.

He got the message and curled up without complaint on what looked and smelt like an old dog blanket, beside a folded safety triangle and a clear plastic container full of spare lightbulbs. I didn’t feel too bad about that. Despite the crocodiles crawling all over his kit, I knew he’d been in shittier places. I knew because I’d been there with him.

Before I closed the hatch I asked him who knew about this set-up.

‘Just me and my dad.’

‘Not the black guy?’

He shook his head.

I sparked up the engine, threw the Polo into gear and pressed the button on the black box. Sure enough, a green light flickered and the shutter rolled open, then closed as soon as we were through.

Immediately on my left there was a storage facility for winter grit, and a vehicle-repair yard on the right. You wouldn’t have given either a second glance as you headed up or down the mountain. And if you took the heli from Geneva to the Altiport, you’d never even know that places like this existed.

I drove fifteen metres up the rutted track between them and turned right, away from the sign pointing towards ‘Centre Village’. I needed to go back to pick up my day sack, but right now I had to make distance from this drama and work out what the next one would be.

I kept going until I reached Moriond – not too far from Courchevel 1850, but the kind of place that looked like you could still find a takeaway kebab instead of an over-priced three-course meal. I pulled into a parking lot outside a block of flats that was in need of a lick of paint, and turned off the engine.

Someone had smashed the only lamp in sight, so it was nice and dark here. I wound down the front windows a fraction to stop them misting up, and watched the comings and goings on the main.

First up, I wondered who the fuck had pressed the GIGN button. Even if someone had reported us gaining entry, those guys didn’t bother with break-ins. They were heavy-duty. National security. So who were they after? Me? Frank’s killers? Or was this only the tip of a bigger, uglier iceberg? Whatever the answer, I needed to nail it on my own terms, and not from the inside of a police interrogation room.

Now we seemed to be out of the immediate shit, I was going to focus on finding out who had leant on Mr Lover Man forcibly enough to get him to kill his boss. Because when I knew that, I’d be a step closer to neutralizing the threat to Stefan. And the threat to me.

The traffic was sporadic for the next hour or so. Family saloons, mostly, the odd tourist coach and local bus. That was OK by me. It gave me time to try to join some of the dots.

I heard Stefan give a small cough and then whisper, ‘Can I come out now?’

‘No.’ I kept eyes on the main. ‘But while you’re there, you can tell me some stuff. Question one: how long had you and your dad been at the chalet?’

A couple of boy racers with Day-glo decals on their wings roared up the hill, then stood on their brakes as a GIGN Land Cruiser sped past in the opposite direction. It was four up and without blues and twos, so I guessed the sniper team had been stood down. Three more came by at intervals.

‘Two days.’

Then a command unit, then nothing.

‘And your BG?’

‘BG?’

His voice was muffled, but it was clear he had no idea what I was talking about.

‘Yeah, you know, your bodyguard …’

‘He was always there. Except maybe once.’

‘When?’

‘Last night … While you were with my …’

‘Dad?’

He gave the smallest of whimpers.

‘Did he talk to anyone? Meet anyone? Anyone you didn’t know?’

‘Oh, Nick …’ He sounded like he was in pain. ‘He was my friend. I didn’t spy on him …’

‘My meeting with your dad, in the green room—’

‘You were in there for … ages.’

Ages … So it had been more than a heads-up and a swift espresso.

‘He was worried about something. Do you have any idea what?’

‘No …’ He let out the world’s biggest sigh. ‘I just knew he was … He thought he kept it hidden, but I knew.’

Time for a break. The whimper and the sigh told me I was pushing too hard. And it was getting cold.

I shut the windows and started the engine.

Fifteen minutes and a few hairpin bends later I was in the heart of the resort. The twin cables from the Verdons lift station stretched up the valley to my right. A female cop was directing traffic at the roundabout, but she’d gone by the time I’d repeated the circuit. I parked up in a space outside the cinema. There was no sign of any more of her Special Forces mates.

The piste map beneath the stationary line of bubbles told me where I was, and where I had to go. I got back in the Polo and wound my way through Courchevel’s answer to Rodeo Drive, past the kind of hotels where they warm your toilet seats as well as your ski boots, on to the high ground.

I drove a hundred past Le Strato, pulled into the next layby and waited another half-hour before getting out of the wagon and circling back to my hiding place. I didn’t trip over anyone en route, and everything seemed to have gone quiet at Oligarch Central.

My day sack was where I’d left it. The ATV was too. I wrenched off its registration plates and chucked them into the middle of a big clump of bushes on my way to the road. It wouldn’t take for ever for someone to find and then identify Claude’s Honda, but I didn’t want to make it too easy. The more time passed without them being able to make the connection, the better.

I dumped the day sack in the passenger foot well of the Polo and tucked the Sphinx under my right thigh. Mr Lover Man would know it was fuck-all use, but it might stop anyone who didn’t getting too close. And I could always throw it at them if the shit hit the fan.

I drove on through the one-way system, avoiding the heart of the village, and took a right towards Le Praz, past a floodlit ski jump that seemed to be its social centre even when there was no snow anywhere near it. A handful of people milled around outside a bunch of all-weather tepees that lined the base of the landing strip.

I was still searching my jumbled memory for something significant Frank might have said. It didn’t get me anywhere. All I knew for sure was that I hadn’t been able to save him, and he hadn’t been able to save himself.

I pulled off the road and tugged the map book out of my day sack. A bunch of euro notes came with it, and fluttered into the foot well. I leant over to gather them up.

I paused, midway.

Money …

Mexican drug money …

Frank had laundered it, then fed my share into the bank in Zürich that had supplied me with my magic debit card.

I grabbed one of the Nokia bodies and slotted in a battery and a SIM card. ‘Mate, I’m just getting out of the car again. But I won’t be far away. Stay right where you are.’