Nick Stone 1 - Remote Control.

by Andy McNab

  It was the back I really needed to take a look at, but first I wanted to recon the front again. I wanted to see if there was a night watchman in there and get a mental picture of what it looked like inside.

  I moved into a doorway across the way. If I was spotted, I'd pretend I was drunk and taking a piss. I was in deep shadow as I looked over at the target. I could see through the two sets of doors into the reception area; the lights were still on, giving a sheen to the wet concrete steps and the leaves of the bushes. I looked upstairs and saw light shining through the windows directly above the main entrance. That meant the corridor lights were on upstairs as well.

  I waited around for fifteen minutes, watching for signs of movement. Was security sitting downstairs watching the TV?

  Was he upstairs, doing his rounds? I didn't see anything.

  Time to look at the rear.

  I went back the way I'd come but instead of turning left went right toward the river. It was just a one-lane road with muddy mush on the sides and potholes filled with oily water that glistened in the ambient light. Using the shadows, I passed the scrap-metal yard and crossed over the railway tracks that led to the old cement depot. My footsteps

  made more noise than the highway now. Fences divided all the plots, secured with old chains and padlocks. I followed the road farther, looking for a point to turn and get behind the target.

  The highway lights weren't strong enough to have any effect at this distance, but I could make out the mist coming from the river. I'd reached a dead end. A fence blocked the old road, and a large, muddy turning circle had been made by cars looking for a parking space and discovering what I just had. I could also see lights from the airport, beyond the woods that sloped down to the Potomac.

  There was no alternative but to walk back to the abandoned railway tracks, which years ago would have been a branch of the main line. I looked left, following the tracks;

  they ran about two hundred yards to the rear of the target, and to their left were some old, rusted corrugated-iron buildings.

  I started climbing over the wire gates where the trains would have gone through to the depot. The padlocked chains rattled under the strain. I got into some shadow and waited.

  There were no dogs barking, and the airport was probably closed down this late at night because it was so close to the city; all I could hear was a distant siren.

  I carried on along the tracks, and soon the only noises were of my feet and breath.

  To my right was the scrap yard enclosed by a fence, with old cars piled on top of each other seven or eight high. After about a hundred yards the ground started to open up and I could see buildings. Fences made it clear what belonged to whom. The area had been cleared and flattened, ready for developers. One of those buildings beyond it was the rear of my target; on the other side I could see street lights on Ball Street and the highway. The drizzle gave them a misty, faded appearance.

  I slowed down, had a quick look at the target, then started to walk across the 150 yards of newly leveled ground to a fence that was about 50 yards short of the target building.

  Near the fence I found some bushes, stopped, and squatted down. The things that always give you away are shape, shine, shadow, silhouette, spacing, and movement. Forget about them and they'll get you killed.

  Still on my haunches, I did nothing but sit and watch for the next few minutes. You have to give your senses a chance to adjust to a new environment. After a while my eyes began to adapt to the light and I could start to make things out. I could see that there were no windows in the back of the building, just a solid brick wall. There was, however, a four-flight steel staircase leading to the ground. This was the fire escape route for both the first and second floors. To the right of it at ground level were the meter boxes for the building's utilities.

  I looked at the fire exits. If I had to make entry at some stage to find out what PIRA was up to, that was probably the way I'd go in. It depended whether they had external locks, and there was only one way to find out.

  I scanned along the line of the six-foot chain-link fence, looking for a break. I couldn't see one. Grabbing the top edge of the wire, I pulled myself up, got a foot on the top, and clambered over. I crouched down again and stayed still, watching and listening for any reaction.

  There was no need to rush; slow movement meant that not only did I reduce noise and the risk of being detected, I could also control my breathing and hear more around me. I used the shadows created by the building and trees, moving from one pool of darkness to the next, all the time keeping eyes on the target and the surrounding area.

  Once I got close enough, I stopped at the base of two trees and stood against one of the trunks. Looking at the rear wall, I noticed a motion detector that had been fixed at a height and angle to cover people walking up the fire escape. I had no way of knowing what the detector triggered, whether an alarm, a light, or a camera, or maybe all three. I couldn't see any cameras.

  But I could see lights, two of them, one above each fire exit. They weren't on. Were they what the motion detector would trigger? Probably, but why wasn't there also a camera covering the rear so that security could see what had triggered the light? It didn't matter; I'd treat the detector as if it triggered everything.

  I noted three wooden pallets to the right of the building by the fence. I could use those.

  I looked at the doors. They had sheet steel covering them, together with an extra strip that went over the frame to prevent anyone from tampering with the gap. Close up, I could see that the locks were the pin-tumbler type. Piece of cake; I could defeat them.

  A quick check of the utilities boxes and dials showed me that gas, electricity, water, and telephone were all there, all exposed and ready to be played with. I was feeling better about this all the time.

  I was still worried about the possibility of a night watch man. In some circumstances, it can actually be a bonus. You can try to get him to come and open the door and hey presto, you've got an unalarmed entry. However, if I had to go in, it would be covertly.

  The parking lot was empty, which could be another indication that there was no one inside. I had to confirm it one way or another. I decided to be slightly drunk, walk up to the main entrance, and take a leak; while I was doing that, I could get a better look inside. If there was anybody in the foyer, he might come out and give me grief, or I might see him watching television in the back somewhere. I followed the same route all the way back and reached Ball Street. I was quite damp now; the drizzle and wet rusty fences had done their work on my clothes.

  I walked on the opposite side of the road toward the target.

  As I got nearer, I started to cross at an angle that gave me more time to see the target. Head down, conscious of the camera covering the door, I started to stumble up the steps, and about three-quarters of the way up, as soon as I was able to see into the right-hand window, I turned, opened my fly, and started pissing down onto the bushes.

  Almost instantly, a man's voice roared, "Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!" and there was an explosion of movement in the shrubbery. I nearly jumped out of my skin.

  I took my hand straight off my cock and onto the Sig. I tried to stop pissing but I was in full flow. My jeans took the brunt.

  I went for the pistol, then realized that maybe I didn't need to pull it out yet. He might be security. Maybe I could talk my way out of this.

  "Fuck you! Who do you think you are? You mothermcker!"

  I could hear him but still couldn't see anything. There was rustling and all sorts of shit going on, then more "Fuck you! Fuck you!" and I saw him appearing through the bushes.

  "Fucking asshole, piss on me, you fuck. I'll show you!

  Look at me! You've pissed on me!"

  He was in his mid-twenties, wearing old army boots without laces and dirty, greasy black jeans. He had a hooded, parka-type jacket that was in shit shape, grimed with muck and with the elbows hanging out. When he was about ten yards away I could also see he had
a straggly excuse for a beard, a big earring in one ear, and long greasy dreadlocks.

  He was soaked.

  The moment he saw me, his face lit up. To him I was the accidental tourist, lost at the wrong end of town. I could almost see the cogs turning; he thought he'd cracked it here, he was going to get some easy money out of this greenhorn.

  "Fuck you, asshole, you owe me a new sleeping bag! Look at my clothes you've pissed all over me, you fucking animal! Give me some money, man!"

  He was certainly going for an Oscar.

  "Do you know who I am? Fucking piss on me, man, I'll fucking kick your ass!"

  I needed to take advantage of this. I went up to the window and started banging hard. If there was security, he should come investigate. I'd just play the innocent needing protection from this madman.

  I banged so hard I thought the glass would break, making sure all the time that I had my back to the camera. It sparked up the homeless guy even more because he thought I was panicking.

  He started to come up the stairs. I kept on looking inside the building. There were no used ashtrays in sight, no magazines lying open on chairs, no TV on; the furniture was well arranged, the chair by the reception area was neatly under the desk. There was nothing to show that anyone was around.

  Nearly on top of me now, I heard, "Fucking asshole!"

  I turned, opened my jacket, and put my hand on the pistol.

  He saw it and stopped in his tracks.

  "Ah, for fuck's sake!

  Fucking hell!" He backed off, started to retreat down the stairs, his eyes fixed on the pistol.

  "Fucking cops," he muttered.

  I had to try hard not to laugh.

  "Fucking cops, piss on me every fucking which way!"

  I waited for him to disappear. The guy thought he had problems this was the second time in two days that I'd had piss all over me. I felt sorry for him, though; I thought about the amount of time he'd probably spent finding himself a snug little retreat, well concealed from predators and nicely warmed by the air-conditioning outlets and other machinery tucked underneath. Then some dickhead comes and empties his bladder all over the house.

  It took me fifteen minutes to get back to the hotel. I opened the door nice and quiet. Kelly was in kid heaven, not having had to take a bath or clean up her mess, just falling asleep surrounded by candy and cookies.

  I got undressed, took a shower and shaved, then stuffed the clothes into the hotel laundry bag. The duffel was getting pretty full now with dirty and bloodstained clothes. I was down to my last change. I got dressed again, tucked the pistol into my waistband, put my coat on, and set the alarm for 5:30.

  I was half-awake anyway when the alarm went. I'd been tossing and turning all night, and now I couldn't really be bothered to get up. People must feel like this when they go to a job they really hate.

  I finally got myself to my feet, went over to the window, and opened the curtains. We were just below eye level with the highway and almost in its shadow. Headlights lumbered silently toward me from out of the gloom; in the other lanes, taillights disappeared back into the darkness like slow-moving tracers. It wasn't time yet.

  I let the curtain fall and turned down the heat, got the coffee machine gurgling, and went into the bathroom.

  As I took a leak I looked at myself in the mirror. I looked like a scarecrow with creases on my face where I'd been lying on some crayons. I took my jacket off, turned the collar in on my polo shirt, and splashed my face in the sink.

  I went back to the bedroom. The brew wasn't ready yet, and my mouth felt as if a gorilla had dumped in it. He'd certainly been in the room while we were both asleep, throwing soda cans and food everywhere. I picked up an already opened can of Mountain Dew and took a couple of flat, warm sips.

  Until first light, there wasn't that much to do. I was used to this; so much of my life had been hurry up and wait. I put the chair by the window and opened the curtains again. Looking at the highway, I couldn't make out whether it was still raining or if it was just vehicle spray in the headlights that made it look that way.

  By the end of a quarter hour I could begin to make out the shape of the cars as well as their headlights. It was time.

  There was no need to wake Kelly; the more she slept, the easier my life would be. I checked that I had the key card and moved up to the roof.

  Rain danced on the metal roof of the elevator housing. I pulled myself up and lay there getting soaked front and back as I pressed the Play button on the camera and tested the flashing light. I checked to see that I still had the correct site picture and that the lens hadn't misted up. It had. I cursed at myself because I should have put on another plastic bag to keep the moisture from getting in overnight. I started to wipe the moisture off with my cuff and suddenly felt as if I were between two worlds. Behind me roared the early morning traffic, yet to my front, toward the river, I could just about hear birds giving their early morning song. I was almost enjoying it. The moment was soon shattered when the first air craft of the day took off and disappeared into low cloud.

  Lens dry, I rechecked the camera position, made sure it was recording, and closed the trash bags.

  It was now nearly 6 a.m. I went back to the room and my chair by the window, coffee in hand. I smiled as I watched a couple come out of the room next door, hand in hand. Some thing about them didn't quite match up. I made a bet with my self that they'd leave in separate cars.

  For the hundredth time, my mind drifted to the telephone call I'd had with Kev. Pat had said that if it was PIRA, there could be a connection with drugs, Gibraltar, and the Americans. My hard drive went into free wheel because something about the Gibraltar job had always puzzled me.

  The year 1987 had been PIRA's annus horribilis, and as Detachment operators in Northern Ireland, Euan and I had done our fair share to fuck them over. At the beginning of the year they'd promised their faithful "tangible success in the war of national liberation," but it hadn't taken long for that to turn to rat shit. In February, PIRA fielded twenty-seven Sinn Fein candidates in the Irish general election, but they man aged to scrape only about a thousand votes each. Few people in the South gave a damn about reunification with Northern Ireland; they were far more concerned with other issues like unemployment and the crippling level of taxation. It showed how out of touch PIRA was, and how successful the Anglo Irish accord was proving. Ordinary people really did believe that London and Dublin could work together to bring about a long-term solution to the Troubles.

  PIRA couldn't take that lying down and must have decided they needed a morale booster. Their knee-jerk reaction was the murder, on Saturday, April 25, of Lord Justice Maurice Gibson, one of the province's most senior judges. Euan and I saw firsthand the celebrations in some of PIRA's illegal drinking dens that weekend. We even had a few drinks ourselves as we hung around. The players loved what had happened.

  Not only had they gotten rid of one of their worst enemies, but recriminations were flying left, right, and center between London and Dublin. The Anglo-Irish accord, which had done so much to undermine PIRA's power base, was itself now in question.

  However, barely had the hangovers gone away than PIRA had another disaster. Two weeks later, at Loughall in County Armagh, guys from the Regiment ambushed PIRA's East Tyrone Brigade while they were attempting to bomb a police station. From a force of 1,000 hard-core players in 1980, PIRA's strength had dwindled to fewer than 250, of which maybe 50 were members of active service units. Our successes had further cut this to 40, which meant that the operation at Loughall had wiped out one-fifth of PIRA's hard liners at a stroke. It was their biggest loss in a single action since 1921. If this continued, all of PIRA would soon be riding around in the same taxi.

  The massive defeat at Loughall was followed soon afterward by a disastrous showing by Gerry Adams in the British general election. Sinn Fein's vote plummeted, with the Catholic vote switching to the moderate SDLP. Then, on October 31, during Sinn Fein's annual conference in Dublin, French
Customs seized a small freighter called the Eksund off the coast of Brittany. On board was an early Christmas present to PIRA from Colonel Gaddafi--hundreds ofAK47s, tons of Semtex, several ground-to-air missiles, and so much ammunition it was a miracle that the ship stayed afloat.

  The humiliation was complete. No wonder Gerry Adams and PIRA wanted revenge and some sort of publicity coup to show people like Gaddafi and those Irish Americans who contributed to Noraid that they hadn't completely lost their grip.

  On November 8, Remembrance Day, they planted a thirty-pound bomb with a timer at the town memorial in Enniskillen in County Fermanagh, Northern Ireland. Eleven civilians were killed in the explosion, and more than sixty were seriously injured. Outrage at the atrocity was instant and worldwide.

  In Dublin, thousands lined up to sign a book of condolence. In Moscow, not a place well known for its compassion, the TASS news agency denounced what it called "barbaric murders." But worst of all for PIRA, even the Irish Americans appeared to have had enough. PIRA had fucked up big-time. It had thought the bombing would be hailed as a victory in its struggle against an occupying power, but all it had done was show it up for what it really was. It might be one thing to kill "legitimate" targets like judges, policemen, and members of the security forces, but murdering innocent civilians while they were honoring their dead at a Remembrance Day service?