Meltdown

by Andy McNab

  They instantly recognized the look on Albie's face. They'd seen it before and they knew better than to say anything as he passed them. They watched him head across to a greasy metal work-bench and pick up a large monkey wrench.

  He held it in his right hand and hit it against the open palm of his left hand a couple of times. Then his eyes flashed and he raised the monkey wrench above his head and smashed it down on the workbench. The bench crashed to the ground, the legs collapsing under the vicious blow as nuts and bolts and tools went flying like shrapnel in every direction.

  Albie dropped the monkey wrench on the concrete, then turned and glared at the two guys, his eyes daring them to make a comment.

  The argument in the office was still raging and Will was giving as good as he got. But there was more than twenty years of history between them to overcome.

  Teddy was the older brother by a full twelve minutes. He'd always made the major decisions and Will had gone along with them. It worked that way. It was easier. But not this time.

  'I don't like it, Teddy. We've only known the guy a couple of weeks and you want to tell him everything.'

  'But I don't. Just enough. Look, Will, we've got to face it – if Siddie Richards managed to find out about us, then there's a bloody good chance one of the other gangs might show up before too long. If that happens, I want Watts around.'

  'But we've been so careful with security. We've done everything we've been told.'

  'Maybe we let something slip. Or someone did. Maybe we're coming to the end of it, Will. We've had a great run. Maybe we need to start thinking about winding it up and moving on.'

  'That won't be popular. You know the instructions.'

  Teddy sat up in his chair. 'It's our business. We can do what we want.' He looked closely at his brother. 'Now, are you with me on this, Will? Just trust me, like you always have done.'

  Will hesitated for a moment but then sighed and nodded. 'But I don't like it, Teddy. I really don't like it.'

  Teddy smiled. 'We'll talk to Watts together. Then we'll decide on whether or not he joins us on the Barcelona trip.'

  'You mean, you'll decide.'

  'We'll decide, Will.' Teddy opened a drawer in the desk and took out a pay-as-you-go mobile phone. 'And now we'd better start organizing tonight's production meet.'

  15

  Doug was the no-questions-asked variety of truck driver, wheels and wagon for hire. He was bowling along the M60, sticking to the speed limit and driving carefully, as country rock blared from the cab's speakers. The traffic was unusually light and Doug was smiling, thinking of the wad of cash he'd pocket for this job.

  It was all going like clockwork, as it always did. He'd picked up packages from three different supply depots, then stopped as instructed at the Birch service station on the M62 to collect his passenger.

  He was there in the trailer park, sitting reading Motor Cycle News on a worn patch of grass by the bins, wearing scruffy jeans, a baggy puffa jacket and a striped scarf, iPod ear-buds in place, a rucksack at his feet. As Doug pulled in, he stood up, folded his paper and pulled on a pair of thin gloves.

  The articulated truck's hydraulic brakes hissed as Doug drew the vehicle to a standstill and then jumped from the cab to open the rear doors. Within a couple of minutes the skinny young guy was in the back of the truck and Doug was pulling back out onto the motorway, heading for the M60. Where possible, he would stick to motorways to keep the ride smooth. Today it was easy. It was going to be the M60 almost all the way.

  Doug had no idea that the young guy he'd just picked up was a highly qualified chemist who was supplementing his meagre research assistant's pay carrying out the first half of the Meltdown process in the mobile laboratory in the back of the truck. But he only had the first part of the formula.

  The whole operation was based on the way the wartime French Resistance movement operated; the way terrorist organizations still operate today. No one but the twins knew the whole story. Everyone else, from the chemists, through to drivers, loaders and security guys, only knew just what they needed to know when they needed to know it. It was brilliant. By keeping the process in two parts and mainly mobile, even if someone did blab about the location of the meet, by the time the police or security forces arrived, the DMP would be long gone.

  Eventually, Doug arrived back at the Birch services, dropped his passenger off, sent a coded text message and received a postcode and a hangar number in return. For the second time that day he pulled out onto the motorway and headed for the M60.

  The production meet was at a decommissioned airfield about an hour north of Manchester. During the Second World War it had been the base for an RAF bomber squadron, but its glory days were long gone.

  All that remained of the runways was cracked and broken stretches of concrete, with grass and weeds growing from wide, ugly fissures. The old hangars had been supplemented by newer factory units, creating a ramshackle industrial estate. It wasn't pretty and it wasn't purpose-built, but it was perfectly functional.

  The twins had taken a short lease on one of the hangars. The location was good. Ten or more other organizations used the neighbouring units. A vehicle-hire company garaged and maintained its fleet of vans in one; an electrical supplies company used another for storage. Even the police had a presence on the site: the unit next door but one was used by the force as a dog-training centre.

  Businesses came and went on a regular basis; there was frequent traffic in and out of the site and no one asked questions. It was that kind of place.

  Doug backed his artic into the hangar, watching carefully in his wing mirrors for the signals from the pale and puffy-faced young guy with dark shadows under his eyes who always seemed to be in charge at the meet. There was a shout and his hand came up to signal a stop.

  Doug applied the parking brake and switched off. He knew he had backed up to the open tail of another artic. He knew from the sounds that the back of his trailer was being opened and people were getting in. To one side, he could see two sleek black luxury coaches parked up, but he'd decided long ago that if this was dodgy stuff, he didn't want to know about it. Just as long as he got paid, he was happy to sit in his cab, read his paper and listen to his music until he was told to go. Hear no evil, see no evil was his philosophy.

  16

  Teddy had watched the coaches pull out of the yard on their way to the meet, before he asked Fergus if he'd heard of Meltdown. Fergus shook his head.

  'It's a drug, a chemical drug. A bit like Ecstasy, but much better.'

  'Yeah, I reckoned this was about drugs.'

  'Do you have a problem with drugs?'

  Fergus smiled. 'I've had a lot of problems with drugs over the years. Specially in Colombia.'

  'I mean morally. Do you have a moral objection to drugs?'

  Fergus had mentally prepared for this conversation, knowing which way it was likely to go. 'Morality is something you leave behind when you do my sort of work. You just get on with the job. If you stopped to think about what's right and what's wrong, you'd never do it.'

  Will couldn't stop himself from interrupting. 'But you were in Colombia trying to bust the drugs cartels – we've read the stories.'

  'I was a soldier. I did what I was told.'

  'But then a better offer came along?'

  'That's right. I spent half a lifetime doing the heroic Queen and country stuff. And for what? Pisspoor pay and a medal to shove in the back of a cupboard and forget about. FARC offered me a lot of money and I grabbed it. And when I got caught, I didn't have anyone to blame but myself.'

  'So money is what motivates you now?' said Will.

  'Totally' Fergus smiled. 'For some reason they took away my army pension.'

  Will wasn't smiling. He was the one who still needed convincing; he hadn't been through the Siddie Richards experience. 'And this last job, the suicide bombings. Why you? Why did they pick you when they knew you were a traitor?'

  This was the test. Fergus knew his answer had to b
e believable, and like all the best lies it had to be based on truth. 'MI5 had tracked me down – me and Danny and his friend Elena. The guy behind the bombings was targeting teenagers, grooming them on the Internet, and Elena was brilliant with computers and the Internet, even better than Danny. My speciality is explosives, so they gave us a choice, work for them or' – he lifted his right hand, made a pistol shape and held it against his temple – 'goodnight.'

  Will still wasn't smiling. 'But why not just use their own people?'

  Fergus was calculating his physical responses as carefully as his words, and now was the moment to act as though he was getting bored and irritated with the questioning. 'You think the security services only work with the good guys? That's bollocks. They'll work with whoever can get results. And the best thing for them, with us, was that if it all went wrong, they could deny any knowledge of our involvement.'

  'And this . . . Elena – what happened to her?'

  'She's dead. There was a complete fuck-up and she got shot.' Fergus looked at Teddy. 'Just like your friend from last night.' He turned back to Will. 'But they didn't tell you that bit in the papers. And you'll understand why neither Danny nor I have any particular love for the security services or the British government.'

  Fergus pushed away his chair and stood up. It was time for the big gamble, the walkout. If it went wrong, there would be no coming back. 'Look, I don't need this. You boys just go play with your Meltdown, or whatever it is you call the stuff.'

  He headed for the door of the office, opened it and took a step outside, thinking that maybe he had blown it, when he heard Teddy's voice.

  'Mr Watts!'

  Fergus stopped and turned back. He stood in the doorway and watched as the brothers exchanged a nod before Teddy spoke.

  'We make Meltdown and sell the tablets here and in Europe. We're prepared to show you how we export the tablets but not how or where they are manufactured. Only we know the complete formula – no one else has access to that information – and we would like you to be responsible for our personal security in the immediate future; I don't want to risk another Siddie Richards situation. You'll be paid very very well. Does that appeal?'

  Both twins watched Fergus closely as he considered his reply. 'Yeah, the money appeals, but I have to consider our security – mine and Danny's. The places where you make this stuff – are they safe? You get busted and it wouldn't be good to be around.'

  Teddy glanced at Will, who nodded his agreement for big brother to continue. 'It's been working perfectly for months and it's quite safe. That's all you need to know.'

  Fergus nodded slowly; he wasn't going to push it – he'd made the breakthrough. 'I'll look after you, and your happy pills. As long as the price is right.'

  'Oh, it will be,' said Teddy, looking hugely relieved. 'And we'd like you to join us on our next trip. To Barcelona.'

  Fergus nodded again. 'When's that?'

  'Tomorrow.'

  17

  Albie was forcing himself to concentrate as he prowled around the hangar. It wasn't easy: his brain wasn't functioning properly; he couldn't stop the rage building every time his thoughts turned to Storm walking out of the yard with that cocky little wanker, Danny.

  It didn't worry him at all when he saw Storm with Teddy or Will. They were poofs anyway, even if they didn't know it.

  Albie knew it. Everyone knew it. They just didn't mention it.

  But now Albie had to concentrate. Hard. His job was to oversee the final phase of the Meltdown operation. He never saw the first part. All he knew was that a truck would arrive with the first stage completed. The second stage took place in the other truck and then the pills were ready for transfer into the coaches. He had to make sure that it all went smoothly and that the drugs were stowed properly in the ingenious hiding places on the coaches.

  A three-inch-deep cavern extending across the entire floor area of each coach was removed in sections. More tablets would be stashed in hollowed-out blocks of the overhead storage lockers, in the steel legs of tables, in wall panels – anywhere there was a space that could be filled, even in the plush seating. The customers had no idea that they rode to Europe on Meltdown.

  If anyone local asked what they were doing, the cover story was that the coaches were being prepared for a round-trip to a top European football match – checked for any minor faults, cleaned, loaded with fresh supplies of excellent food and drink, and generally made ready for the guests paying megabucks for their expensive excursion. All of which was true. The cleaners and local delivery vans arrived during the day to do the legit work and the drugs were stowed when they were long gone.

  The twins were proud of the beautifully simple operation they had devised and developed.

  And they relied on Albie to see that it all ran smoothly. He'd got the first-stage truck away OK – that driver never caused any bother. But now Albie was struggling.

  The trouble was, Freddie Lucas was winding him up something rotten. Freddie was the second-stage chemist, and as far as Albie was concerned, he should have been minding his own business. But he wasn't.

  The tablets had emerged from Freddie's truck, each stamped on both sides with its distinctive 'M' – only visible under black light – before being sealed in protective silver foil and then bagged in polythene in batches of fifty.

  Now Freddie was watching the lads loading the pills, constantly telling them to be careful, getting in everyone's face, especially Albie's.

  The lads had nicknamed Freddie 'Fiery Fred', and it wasn't only because of his mop of flaming red hair. He watched over his Meltdown like a mother hen protecting her chicks, guarding each tablet as if it were a newly hatched egg. And if a bag of pills was dropped or split or even dirtied, he would fly into a rage.

  It was obvious that Freddie didn't like Albie. Albie didn't give a toss about that – no one liked him, but if they were wise, they kept out of his way. Freddie wasn't and he didn't.

  Albie reckoned that Freddie was just another public school prat; the type that thought that they were better than everyone else, that they knew best all the time, that people like Albie were beneath them.

  Albie didn't care about that either, but he was just longing to put his fist into Freddie's smug face. He knew he couldn't – he was already in enough trouble with the twins for previous violent outbursts and his dependence on M. He'd managed to convince them he was over that now, but if Freddie got on his case much more, Albie feared he wouldn't be able to stop himself from laying him out.

  There was a nagging ache in Albie's back – maybe it was his kidneys – and a stabbing pain in his chest. Neither would go away, and on top of that it felt as though his head was going to explode.

  He was sweating under the arc lights; he needed some more Ms. They always made him feel better. For a while. If only Freddie would piss off, he'd be able to do what he always did and slip a pack into his pocket. That way, he'd have enough for himself and plenty to sell on in one of the clubs. But Freddie wouldn't piss off. And Albie had to be so careful. If he got caught stealing the stuff, he'd be in the shit big time. But he didn't have a choice. He needed it.

  He also needed some air. He opened the metal door at the rear of the hangar. The arc lights speared through the doorway and out into the darkness, sparking up what sounded like a pack of wolves.

  It was the police dogs; some of them must have been on a sleepover instead of spending a quiet night in front of the fire with their handlers.

  A voice shouted, 'Quiet, Bruno! And you, Sasha!'

  'Shit,' breathed Albie, pulling the door shut. The last thing they needed was Plod calling round for a late-night chat.