Nick Stone 1 - Remote Control.

by Andy McNab

  It saved getting caught with them in our possession. Nowadays, however, the system was obsolete; with digital cameras you can take pictures, plug in your cellular mobile, dial up the UK, and transmit.

  We continued walking around the edge of the terminal. I found the power outlet I was looking for at the end of a row of black plastic seats where two students were snoring. I pointed to the last two spaces.

  "Let's sit down here. I want to look at the laptop."

  I got it plugged in. Kelly decided she wanted something to eat.

  "Give me five minutes," I said.

  From what I'd read earlier, I understood Gibraltar was a setup, but it still didn't explain what Kev had to do with it. It soon became clearer.

  In the late 1980s the Bush administration had been under pressure from Thatcher to do something about Noraid fundraising for PIRA. With so many millions of Irish American votes on the line, however, it was a tricky call. A deal was struck: if the Brits could expose the fact that Noraid money was being used to buy drugs, it would help discredit PIRA in the USA and Bush could then take action. After all, who would complain about a US administration fighting the spread of dangerous narcotics?

  When the British intelligence service started to gather data about PIRA's drug connections with Gibraltar, it seemed to present a window of opportunity. After the events of March 6, however, the window was slammed shut. Those votes were too important.

  By the early 1990s the US had a new administration and the UK a new prime minister. In Northern Ireland, the peace process began. The US was told and the message was delivered at the highest level that unless it put pressure on PIRA to come to the peace table, the UK would ex pose what was happening to Noraid funds raised in America.

  The failure to fight the drug war in its own backyard, by a power that preached so readily to others, would be a serious embarrassment.

  Another deal was sorted out. Clinton allowed Gerry Adams into the USA in 1995, a move that was not only good for the Irish American vote but which made Clinton look like the prince of peacemakers. He also appeared to be snubbing John Major's stand against PIRA, but the British didn't mind; they knew the agenda. Behind closed doors, Gerry Adams was told that if PIRA didn't let the peace process happen, the US would come down on them like a ton of steaming shit.

  A cease fire was indeed declared. It seemed that the years of covert talks that had gone nowhere were finally at an end; it was now time to talk for real. Clinton and the British government would be seen as peace brokers, and PIRA would have a say in the way the deal was shaped.

  On February 12, 1996, however, a massive bomb exploded at London's newest business center, Canary Wharf, killing two and causing hundreds of millions of dollars of damage.

  The cease fire was broken. It was back to business as usual.

  But it didn't end there. Kev had also discovered that PIRA had been trying to blackmail certain Gibraltarian officials, with some success. It seemed Gibraltar was still the key to Europe. Spain was far too much of a risk. They had also targeted some important personalities in the US so they could continue to operate their drug business with impunity. One of the victims was high up in the DEA. Kev's problem was, he didn't know who.

  I did; I had the photograph of his boss.

  And now I knew why McGear, Fernahan, and Macauley had been in Gibraltar. Whoever the official was, they'd been there to give him a final warning and to try to blackmail him with the shipment documents and photographs to get the routes open again.

  I had to get back to the UK. I had to see Simmonds.

  At ten o'clock we went back down the escalator to international arrivals. I needed passports--British or American, I didn't care. I scanned the international flights on the monitor.

  Chances were we were going to end up with American documents rather than British, purely because of the number of families streaming back from spring vacation.

  Just like before, there were people on both sides of the railings, waiting with their cameras and flowers. Kelly and I sat on the PVC seats near the domestic carousels on the other side of the international gates. I had my arm around her as if I were cuddling her and chatting away. In fact, I was talking her through some of the finer points of theft.

  "Do you think you can do it?"

  We sat and watched the first wave of domestic arrivals come, stand around, then leave when they collected their luggage.

  I spotted a potential family.

  "That's the sort of thing we're looking for, but they're two boys." I smiled.

  "You want to be a boy for the day?"

  "No way--boys stink!"

  I put my nose into my sweatshirt. I agreed.

  "OK, we'll wait."

  A flight arrived from Frankfurt; this time we struck gold.

  The parents were late thirties, the kids were about ten or eleven, a girl and a boy; the mother was carrying a clear plastic handbag with white mesh so you could check everything was where it should be. I couldn't believe our luck.

  "See them?

  That's what we want. Let's go, shall we?"

  There was a slightly hesitant "Yeahhh." She didn't sound too keen now. Should I let her do this? I could stop it right now. As they walked toward the rest rooms I had to make a decision. Fuck it. Let's carry on and get this done.

  "She's going in with her daughter," I said.

  "Make sure no body's behind you. Remember, I'll be waiting."

  We followed casually. The husband had left with the boy, perhaps to visit one of the vending machines or to wait for their bags.

  Mother and daughter went in via the ladies' entrance, chatting and giggling. The mother had the bag over her shoulder.

  We entered via the men's on the right of the handicap toilets, and immediately went into one of the large stalls.

  "I'll be in this one here, OK, Kelly?"

  "OK."

  "Remember what you have to do?"

  I got a big, positive nod.

  "Off you go then." I closed the door and held it in place.

  The stalls were large enough for a wheelchair to maneuver in.

  The slightest sound seemed to echo. The floors were wet and smelled of bleach. The time sheet on the back of the door showed the place had been cleaned only fifteen minutes ago.

  My heart was pumping so hard I could feel it underneath my shirt; I was even starting to hyperventilate. My whole future pivoted on the actions of a seven-year-old girl. She had to slip her hand under the stall, grab the handbag, put it under her coat, and walk away without looking back. Not difficult just majorly flawed. But without passports we couldn't get out of the country; it was as simple as that. I had decided there was no way I could go back to Big Al's. Besides the risk of the journey, I couldn't trust him, because I had no idea what he'd been doing since I left him. It was just too fucking complicated. We needed to get out of this country, and now.

  I was shaken from my thoughts by a sudden knock, knock, knock and a nervous "Nickkk!"

  I opened the door quickly, didn't even look, and in she ran.

  I closed and locked it, picked her up, and carried her over to the toilet.

  I put the lid down and we sat together. I smiled and whispered, "Well done!" She looked both excited and scared. I was just scared, because I knew that at any minute all hell would break loose.

  And then it came. The mother was running out of the rest room, shouting, "My bag! My bag's been stolen! Where's Louise? Louise!"

  Louise came out and started to cry.

  "Oh, Mom, what's happened?"

  I could hear both of them running off, yelling. Now was not the time to get out. People would be looking; attention would be focused. Let's just sit tight and look at the passports.

  We'd just robbed Mrs. Sarah Glazar and family. Fine, except that Mr. Glazar didn't look at all like Mr. Stone. Never mind, I could do something about that later on. But the names of both kids were entered on each of their parents' passports, and that was a problem.

 
I pulled out the cash and her reading glasses. The toilet tank was a sealed unit behind the wall. There was nowhere to hide the bag. I got up, told Kelly to stand, and listened at the door.

  The woman had found a policeman. I imagined the scene outside. A little crowd would have gathered around. The cop would be making notes, radioing Control, maybe checking the other stalls. I broke into a sweat.

  I stood at the door and waited for what seemed like an hour. Kelly tiptoed exaggeratedly toward me; I bent down and she whispered in my ear, "Is it all right yet?"

  "Almost."

  Then I heard a banging noise, and knocking. Somebody was pushing back the doors in the vacant stalls and knocking on the doors of the others. They were looking for the thief or, more likely, to see if the bag had been dumped once the money had been taken. They'd be at our stall any second.

  I didn't have time to think.

  "Kelly, you must talk if they knock. I want you to " Knock, knock, knock.

  It sounded like the slam of a cell door.

  A male voice shouted, "Hello, police anyone in there?"

  He tried to turn the handle.

  I quickly moved Kelly back to the toilet and whispered in her ear.

  "Say you will be out soon."

  She shouted, "I'll be out in a minute."

  There was no reply, just the same thing happening at the next stall. The danger had passed, or so I hoped.

  All that was left to do was dump my pistol and mags. That was easy. I slipped them into Sarah's bag and crushed it into a package that would fit in a trash can.

  It was an hour before I decided it was safe to leave. I turned to Kelly.

  "Your name is Louise now, OK? Louise Glazar."

  "OK."

  She didn't seem fussed at all.

  "Louise, when we leave here in a minute I want you to be really happy and I want you to hold my hand." With that I picked up the bag.

  "OK, we're off!"

  "To England?"

  "Of course! But first of all we've got to get on the plane. By the way, you were great--well done!"

  We got into the departures area at 11:30 a.m. Still several hours to go before the first possible flight, British Airways flight 216 to Heathrow at 5:10.

  I went to a phone and, using the numbers in the airport magazine, called each airline in turn to check seat availability.

  The British Airways flight was fully booked. So was United Airways 918 at 6:10, the BA at 6:10, and the United at 6:40. I eventually managed to find two spare seats on a flight with Virgin at 6:45, and gave all the details of Mr. Glazar, who was on his way to the airport right now. Payment was courtesy of the details for Big Al's plastic on the car rental form.

  I wandered past the Virgin desk and found it didn't open until 1:30 p.m. One and a half hours to sit and sweat.

  Christian Glazar was a little older than me, and his shoulder-length hair was starting to go gray. My hair was just below the ear, and brown. Thankfully, his passport was four years old.

  To the delight of Kelly and the terminal's barbershop owner, I

  underwent a number one crew cut, coming out looking like a US Marine.

  We then went into the travel store and bought a pack of painkillers that claimed to be the answer to female pains.

  Judging by the list of ingredients, they were certainly the answer for me.

  All the time, I kept hoping that the police had assumed the motive for the theft was money and had left it to the Glazars to report the cards and passports missing rather than pursuing the matter further. I didn't want to turn up at the ticket sales desk and be jumped on by several hundred pounds of cop.

  Still thirty minutes to go before we could check in. One more thing to do.

  "Kelly, we have to go to the bathroom up here for a while."

  "I don't need to go."

  "It's for me to get into my disguise. Come and see."

  We went to the handicap toilet in departures and closed the door. I took out Sarah's glasses. They were gold-framed and had lenses as thick as the bottom of Coke bottles. I tried them on. The frames weren't big enough but they looked OK.. I turned to Kelly and crossed my eyes. Then I had to stop her laughing.

  I took the painkillers out of the duffel.

  "I'm going to swallow these and they're going to make me ill. But it's for a reason, OK?"

  She wasn't quite sure.

  I took six capsules and waited. The hot flashes started, then the cold sweats. I put my hands up to show it was OK as the contents of my stomach flew out of my mouth into the toilet bowl.

  Kelly watched in amazement as I rinsed out my mouth in the basin. I looked at myself in the mirror. Just as I'd hoped, I looked as pale and clammy as I felt. I took two more.

  There were few customers at the long line of check-in desks and only one woman on duty at Virgin Atlantic ticket sales.

  She was writing something so her head was down as we approached.

  She was in her mid-twenties and beautiful, with relaxed hair pulled

  back in a bun.

  "Hello, the name's Glazar." Because of the vomiting my voice was lower and coarse.

  "There should be two tickets for me." I tried to look disorganized and flustered.

  "Hopefully, my brother-in-law has booked them?" My eyes looked to the sky in hope.

  "Sure, do you have a reference number?"

  "Sorry, he didn't give me one. Just Glazar, Christian Glazar" She tapped that out and said, "That's fine, Mr. Glazar, two tickets for you and Louise. How many bags are you checking in?"

  I had the laptop on my shoulder and the duffel in my hand.

  I dithered, as if working out if I'd need the laptop on the flight.

  "Just this one." I put the bag on the scale. It didn't weigh much, but it was bulked up respectably with the blanket.

  "Could I see your passport, please?"

  I looked in all my pockets without apparent success. I didn't want to produce Glazar's documents right away.

  "Look, I know we were lucky to get seats at all, but is it possible to make sure we're sitting together?" I leaned a little closer and half-whispered, "Louise hates flying."

  Kelly and I exchanged glances.

  "Everything's going to be OK.," I told her. My voice dropped again.

  "We're on a bit of a mercy mission."

  I looked down at Kelly and back at the woman, my face pained.

  "Her grandmother^ ..." I let it hang, as if the rest of the sentence would be too terrible for a little girl's ears.

  "I'll see what I can do, sir."

  She was hitting the keys other PC at such a speed it looked as if she were bluffing. I put the passport on top of the counter. She looked up and smiled.

  "No problem, Mr.

  Glazar;' "That's marvelous" But I still wanted to keep the conversation going.

  "I wonder, would it be possible for us to use one of your lounges? It's just that, after my chemotherapy, I tire very easily. We've been rushing around today and I don't feel too good. I only have to knock myself and I start bleeding " She looked at my scabs and pale complexion and under stood. There was a pause, then she said, "My mother went through chemo for cancer of the liver. The therapy worked;

  after all that pain she came through "

  I thanked her for her concern and her message of support.

  Now just get me into the lounge, out of the fucking way!

  "Let me find out." Smiling at Kelly, she picked up the phone and spoke. After several seconds of weird airline vocabulary she looked at me and nodded.

  "That's fine, sir. We share facilities with United. I'll fill out an invitation."

  I thanked her as she reached for the passport. I hoped that by now she knew me so well it was just a formality. She flicked it open; I turned away and talked to Kelly, telling her how exciting it was going to be, flying to see Grandma.

  I heard, "You'll be boarding at about five-thirty." I looked up, all smiles.

  "Go to Gate C. A shuttle will take you to th
e lounge. You both have a pleasant flight."

  "Thank you so much. Come on then, Louise, we've got a plane to catch!" I let Kelly walk on a few steps, then turned and said, "I just hope Grandma can wait for us." She nodded knowingly.