Crossfire

by Andy McNab

  Trainers covered as Sundance took a few steps towards me, a hand in his jeans. 'What's the matter with you, son? Do you really think you're so fucking clever you can do what the fuck you want?'

  He threw something at me. The Yes Man's mobile glanced off my arm and fell to the ground. 'You thought you'd do your own thing, did you, and fuck everyone else?'

  There was no point talking to these two but I couldn't resist it. 'If this is the courtesy car, what time's the flight?'

  'Shut up, smartarse,' he snarled. 'Don't fuck me about or we'll drop you here and now. Then we'll do that fucking Pole.'

  I kept my hands up and started moving. I wanted to get out of the building as quickly as possible. They might forget about Magreb curled up in the corner.

  Sundance retrieved the mobile and came up behind me while Trainers moved towards Magreb. 'What about this fucking arse?'

  Sundance didn't even draw breath. 'Drop the cunt.'

  I swung round. 'He's just a fixer. You saw on Predator, he's no part of this.'

  Magreb's head came up, eyes pleading. Trainers jammed the short against his forehead.

  It was the last I saw of him.

  Sundance bustled me outside to where a white GMC Suburban gleamed in the starlight.

  A single shot rang out behind us.

  Moments later, Trainers closed the door tidily behind him. He swapped a glance with Sundance and they burst out laughing.

  The double doors at the back of the GMC were open and the passenger lights were on.

  Sundance gave me a prod. 'They got big plans for you, son. No quick exit like Sunny Jim back there.'

  I hesitated at the back doors. Dom was already inside the vehicle, curled up behind the rear seats.

  'Get in.'

  Mr Sheen was at the wheel. Top Lip rode shotgun. A thermal-imaging monitor from the Predator glowed in the footwell.

  Both Serbs turned and stared at me in silence. It was the kind of silence that told me we were in a bottomless pit of shit.

  I lay down next to Dom. Sundance pulled a taser from his coat, pushed it into my stomach and gave me a 100,000-volt helping of good news.

  I shuddered for two or three seconds, then blacked out.

  79

  I lay half on Dom, my cheek against his stomach, and half on the floor of the wagon. A blur of light flashed through the window as we raced past a line of shops. My head spun. My insides still shuddered. Fuck knew what lay in store. But the first chance I got to escape, I'd grab it. Then I'd come back to kill these fuckers for what they'd done to Magreb. And not just maybe.

  The GMC smelt as if it had been brought straight from the showroom. My face bounced off Dom and on to the carpet as Mr Sheen threw us into a series of sharp turns.

  I moved my hand slowly towards Dom's. He gripped it tight. I hoped it felt as good for him as it did for me.

  He tried pulling my head towards his, but he wasn't strong enough. He wanted to tell me something. I pushed down slowly on the carpet with my feet so I could get closer to him.

  'I'm sorry, Nick,' he breathed. 'I thought you were with them – the Irish guys. They're the ones that killed Pete.'

  'Sure?'

  'They dragged us out of the camp . . .' He shook his head and I felt his tears sprinkle across my neck. 'They took us out . . . and they shot him . . . right in front of me . . .'

  A voice yelled, 'Shut the fuck up,' and a fist appeared over the back seat and punched us apart.

  Occasional bursts of street-light strobed across the vehicle. There seemed to be no other traffic. The automatic gearbox stayed in fourth. We were moving with speed and purpose, and the road was long and straight.

  We slowed after fifteen minutes or so and the GMC hung a right and stopped. A gate creaked open. We rolled forward maybe a hundred across rough ground and stopped again. Mr Sheen's window powered down and there was a muted conversation with someone outside. Agate opened with a metallic creak. We rolled another few metres and stopped. Then Sundance and Trainers threw open the passenger doors and jumped out. A gust of freezing air took their place.

  The heat had been a security blanket, even for that short space of time. Cold meant shit was about to happen.

  Top Lip opened the back. It was pitch dark, but he pulled a pair of blacked-out ski goggles over my eyes for good measure. I felt my feet being gripped and then I was on the move. My hand slipped away from Dom's and I fell on to a pile of rubble.

  Sundance said goodbye with his boot.

  Two sets of hands grabbed me under the armpits, frogmarched me across a stretch of gravel, then bounced me up a couple of steps. There was no talking but plenty of grunts as they struggled to get through a doorway without letting me go.

  I knew we were inside, because the screams and pleading echoed off the walls. I was being dragged along a corridor. I listened for Dom's voice, but he wasn't doing the begging. Unless someone already had his balls in a vice and he'd suddenly become fluent in Arabic.

  I could smell cigarettes and kerosene. We halted, and a set of ear defenders was pulled over my head. That meant only one thing. Everything I'd heard so far, they'd wanted me to.

  I could feel rough concrete under my boots now. They'd taken me into another part of the building. It was much colder here.

  Hands pushed me to the ground, rolled me on to my back and tore off my boots and outer clothes. Something cold and hard bit into my shoulder muscles as a heel pressed against my chest and my boxers were pulled off.

  I had no idea of the size of the room I was in, but I was naked and had no control, so the space around me suddenly felt large and I felt very small.

  I was hauled back to my feet and swung round. My head slammed against a wall. But fighting back would get me nowhere. I'd only get filled in, and I needed to keep as fit as I could to get us the fuck out of here.

  They repositioned me and kicked my legs apart. Then they made me lean forward until my outstretched hands touched the brick.

  I breathed long and deeply to slow everything down. I tried to listen, but all I could hear was the sound of the blood pulsing through my head.

  My hands went numb, then pins and needles kicked in.

  I clung to the only positive thought that came within reach. At least there was a system. I wasn't being kicked to shit – not yet, anyway. I must be in a holding area. I'd probably stay there for most of the time now, between interrogations.

  I found the sensory deprivation strangely comforting. Stripped of perception, all I could do was think, and I needed to do that big-time.

  One thing was for sure. I'd been totally wrong about Sundance and Trainers. They did travel beyond the M25.

  80

  I was shivering, and not just from the cold. My muscles trembled from the effort of maintaining the stress position. I dared not move. I didn't want to find out what the punishment was. My sutured arm was aching severely. There wasn't enough blood working its way up there and I wanted to scratch it to death. The pain in my hands had passed the pins-and-needles stage. I knew they'd ballooned. There was going to be permanent damage unless I could relieve the pressure. I moved my left arm a fraction of an inch.

  But even that was too much. A massive kick swept my legs from under me. I dropped, knees first, on to the harshly ridged concrete. Pain shot through me. I could feel my skin being forced open by the sharp edges. Unseen hands hauled me up again and slammed my hands back against the wall. I gritted my teeth, tensed my body, waiting for kicks that didn't come. I could feel the blood leaking down my legs.

  Some time later they gripped me and pulled me away. They'd been waiting for the last possible moment before something went seriously wrong.

  I was dragged off the concrete and back on to a flat, tiled floor. From the smell of cigarettes and kerosene I guessed we were back in the corridor.

  We must have come to a door. One set of arms let me go, and the other shoved me between the shoulder-blades. Then both pushed down on my shoulders. My arse and bollocks hit a cold, ha
rd chair.

  This place was damp and musty. I could smell it, and feel it on my skin. The floor beneath my feet was hard and wet.

  I kept my head down and gritted my teeth. I didn't want anything loose when the punches came.

  Maybe a minute went by. They were fucking about, letting me flap.

  Then somebody grabbed a fistful of hair and jerked back my head. The goggles and ear defenders were whipped away.

  Now it would begin.

  A body shuffled behind me. He bent down and shouted, 'Look up!' He was so close I could feel his breath on my neck.

  I blinked uncontrollably. The room was lit as brightly as a TV studio. Strings of bulbs hung along the wall opposite me.

  Sundance was walking away from me. I watched his brown leather boots and the bottoms of his jeans.

  Trainers sparked up. His voice was surprisingly calm. 'You can make this hard or easy for yourself, son. The choice is yours.'

  I tilted my head. He was in the far corner of the room, arranging himself a roll-up. Big chunks of plaster had fallen out of the wall behind him. What little rendering was left was covered with grime and various shades of dried blood.

  I was sitting on a stackable plastic chair. Dark puddles had gathered across the pitted concrete floor.

  My gaze shifted as he brought out his lighter. The door was covered with a steel plate, and had a little porthole that could be opened from the outside. This was looking horribly familiar.

  I glanced up at the ceiling and saw a meat hook that hadn't been in the Yes Man's pictures.

  The two of them shared a laugh, then Sundance came right up close. 'That's right, son, you've seen this place before. You've been rendered, son. You're a fucking terrorist now, so we can do whatever we want.' He slapped my face hard. 'Never thought you'd be one of those poor fuckers, eh? Next stop Guantánamo for you, son.'

  I had more important things on my mind right now. 'Where's Dom?'

  Sundance rolled his eyes. 'Getting more of the same.'

  The door crashed open and Mr Sheen and Top Lip thrust themselves into the room. Top Lip had his hair tied back, ready for business. Sweat glistened on his forehead. I wondered if he'd been practising on Dom. He reeked of lemon-scented cologne.

  He brought in a wooden stool. I admired the scars on his outstretched forearm as he shoved it down in front of me. He had the look of a man who was about to treat himself to a really good workout.

  Mr Sheen was holding a device like a matt grey starship. It had three legs and a speaker suspended in the centre. A lead trailed behind him. It looked like somebody was about to make a conference call.

  81

  One thing was for sure. The Serbs and the Paddies weren't speaking to each other. Mr Sheen gave Sundance and Trainers a look that said fuck off in any language. Perhaps they didn't like smoking in the workplace.

  The Irish both took an extra long drag of their roll-ups.

  Mr Sheen put the starship on the stool and hit a button. A small red light blinked on.

  The Serbs exchanged a glance and stood back, facing me, with their arms crossed.

  We all waited. The smoke was making my eyes water.

  After a minute or so the Yes Man's voice boomed out from the speaker. 'Why didn't you do as you were told, Stone? Do you really think I'd just let you wander off and do your own thing?'

  'You kept the Predator tasked?'

  He would have watched our two glowing bodies stumble down the hill and easily followed the Hiace across the valley.

  'I've known you for too long not to. Now, consider your answer very carefully. Where is the film?'

  I looked at the four of them and shrugged. 'I don't know.'

  They were pleased. This conversation wasn't going to end with the call.

  'I will ask you again, Stone. Where is the film? I want every copy.'

  'What film? I haven't a clue what you're on about.'

  'What did Condratowicz say to you on the way there?'

  'Nothing. The fucker could hardly breathe. I think he was trying to say thanks, that's all.'

  He sighed. 'Stone, I have a very low boredom threshold. I want to know where the film is. If you can't supply that information, then tell me where he's been hiding in Kabul. Who has he met, and why? You're his friend. He would tell you what's going on.'

  'He's told me nothing.'

  There was a longer sigh this time. 'I'm going to ask you just one more time. After that, I hand you over to the gentlemen in front of you. You've seen the photographs, you know the form.'

  Of course I did. And I was scared. But I wasn't going to show it. I'd hide it for as long as possible.

  I leant towards the machine. 'I don't know about any film and I don't know where he's been. I just came and found him, as you asked.'

  'Have it your way, Stone. I can hold you both indefinitely. You're the one who told me to think of a reason to task Predator. The official view of Mr Condratowicz is that he's been helping the enemy by buying their drugs. That makes him a terrorist. And you're aiding and abetting. So now – final chance – I want to know.'

  I stared down at the wet, crumbling concrete beneath my feet. 'Why would he tell me? It would have been Pete he told, if anyone. He was his mate. He was the one who—'

  The Yes Man sighed. 'That's it, Stone. We've reached it – my threshold. You've insulted my intelligence long enough.

  'I authorize Phase One.' He wasn't talking to me any more.

  I stared at the conference phone. The red light died.

  Sundance and Trainers headed for the door. 'We'll go see how your mate's new bruises are colouring up.'

  Mr Sheen's desert boots squeaked towards me. He stood to my right, ready to beat the shit out of me if I moved. Fuck that, I wouldn't give him the pleasure. The only thought in my head was that Phase One sounded better than Phase Five and a whole lot better than Phase Ten.

  He gobbed off in Serbo-Croat. Top Lip moved behind me and grabbed my wrists for Mr Sheen to plasticuff together. They continued chatting, as if they'd suddenly got some spare time on their hands, and couldn't quite make up their minds how best to use it.

  The mouthful of saliva that hit my cheek took me totally by surprise. They reached down, pulled me off the chair and rotated me 180 degrees. I opened my eyes, but I didn't need to. I'd already seen the Yes Man's happy snap.

  A tabletop with the legs removed had been bolted to an oil drum to make what looked like a party-size see-saw. Two buckets of water stood next to it, beneath a tap set into the wall. A huge roll of clingfilm lay on a pile of empty hessian sandbags.

  The only difference between this and the picture was that a sack was already soaking in one of the buckets, ready for action.

  82

  I knew all too well how this worked. The gag reflex was an automatic reaction. I knew there was nothing I could do to stop it. All I could hope was that they knew what they were doing. That they'd take me to the edge, not push me right over it.

  They shoved me, face up, on to the tabletop, my plasticuffed hands beneath me. They threw a thick webbing strap over my waist and pulled tight. My legs were clamped.