by Andy McNab
I closed the door on the stifling heat and smelly plastic of the interior and started the engine, checking the fuel gauge as I did so. It was just over three-quarters full. Good skills—he’d filled up at every opportunity.
I tried to turn my head to find the closest gap to the path, but the searing pain in my chest made me think again. I couldn’t get a lungful of air. It seemed to be going into my mouth all right, in short sharp gasps, but nothing would go down. I was starting to hyperventilate.
I reached into the back of my jeans, pulled out the McDo bag, and got it over my nose and mouth. With both hands cupping it in position, I concentrated on breathing slowly in and out a few times, puckering my lips. It was a bit shuddery, but I managed to get at least half-lungfuls before holding my breath for just a second, then exhaling slowly.
Leaning forward over the steering wheel with the bag over my face, I repeated the cycle. My eyes flashed up as a red pompiers ambulance passed me on the main road. This just wasn’t happening quickly enough. I was fighting to draw oxygen, but I wasn’t getting anywhere. And then, painfully slowly, I started to succeed. The bag collapsed halfway, then filled out again. It was a big effort and took me several attempts, but at last I got things under some kind of control. That was all I could do for now; I really needed more time if I were to get my breathing back to anything like normal.
I reversed the Focus out of its space, scraping it along the Peugeot next to me, and continued backing into the gap nearest to where I’d left Goatee. The heels of my hands stung as the raw skin ran over the hot plastic of the steering wheel, smearing it with blood.
Leaving the engine idling, I got out once more, opened the tailgate, and scrambled down the bank. He’d shifted onto his side, and was curled up in pain. I got him onto my shoulders once more, and began to work my way up the bank. His weight pressed against my lungs as I moved up the hill, and I couldn’t stop coughing.
Still more sirens—in the distance, but closing in.
When I finally got on to level ground, I felt like cheering. I reached the car and tipped Goatee into the trunk just as the helicopter closed in. There was next to no resistance from him as I pushed and bent his legs to fit him in. I checked that the back tray came down flat and closed the tailgate, pushing down on whatever part of him was in the way until he moved it. Back in the driver’s seat, I got the bag over my mouth once more, trying to regulate my breathing before I made my move. My eyes were still watering, my head banged, everything was blurred.
The quickest way out of the city was north into the mountains. I turned the ignition and rolled out of the parking lot. The sun was still fairly high and to my left.
To help relieve the pain, I had to lean my body left or right rather than turn the wheel with my hands. I caught sight of my face in the rearview mirror: I was really messed up. I screwed it up further to try to keep the sweat out of my eyes as I moved into the traffic.
I continued out of the city, concentrating on the road ahead as best I could. Wiping my eyes with my sleeve didn’t seem to make much difference. Goatee found another little burst of energy, kicking out at the back and screaming, then went quiet again.
The road narrowed and we were soon climbing steeply. The pain in my chest was too bad for me to change gear, and I had to stop in a turnout to let a small convoy of cars pass before they got terminally annoyed at my snail’s pace. I used the opportunity to take controlled breaths into the bag, the paper inflating and deflating like my lungs weren’t.
I didn’t know where I was, but the sun was still to the left of me. I was definitely moving north. There was no way I was going to take the risk of driving back into the city, just to get onto the main drag that I knew led directly to Villefranche. I was going to do it cross-country.
I stayed in the turnout for maybe ten minutes, breathing into the bag. Now that I had time to do it properly, I was able to breathe back in the carbon dioxide that I needed in my blood to relieve the symptoms. Willpower alone wouldn’t have done the job: I needed the bag to break the cycle of hyperventilation. I knew I must be in shit state for this to be happening.
Breathing a lot better but still in small gulps, I thought about how I was going to get to the DOP. From here, I knew that as long as I kept the sun on my left, to the west, the coast would be behind me. I’d take a right at the first opportunity, and head east, with the sun behind me, paralleling the coast. That way I’d be able to bypass the city. When I took another right, heading south, I’d eventually hit the sea. With luck, I’d be able to figure myself out from there.
I rejoined the road, keeping in first gear, only shifting up into second when the engine was screaming. There was another outburst from Goatee in the trunk and I turned on the radio to drown the noise. It was monotonous, rapid dance music, but at least it was louder than he was.
Even if I got Goatee successfully to the DOP, I didn’t know what I was going to do next. There was no way I could go to a hospital. No identification, no money, no nothing—I’d be picked up in minutes. What had happened down in the industrial complex would be a massive deal, even for such a rough banlieue. The police heli was up: they’d be looking for runners. TV and radio would carry saturation coverage any minute.
I had no chance of getting out of this. The police would find my docs in the pit soon enough, and then I’d really be in the shit. I couldn’t run to the American consulate. They’d fuck me off at the door. The only chance I’d have would be to jump over the wall, giving myself up to someone inside the compound. Even then they’d probably chuck me out. I could try making a run for Italy, but I’d still be in the same boat.
I worked my way up onto the high ground, leaning on the wheel to take some of the weight off my chest. The coughing persisted, and the knifelike pain came back each time my body tensed as I tried to stop it.
The only chance I had was to get on board that warship. It didn’t matter how I did it, even if it meant posing as one of the hawallada. Only the warship guaranteed medical attention, and offered the possibility of escape.
I drove with the sun to my left for what felt like hours. I still didn’t know where I was because I’d been concentrating too much on other things. I eventually took a right turn, which led into a narrow lane with steep, rocky sides, dotted with clumps of grass and the odd stubby tree. I was heading east now; the sun half-blinded me in the rearview mirror. The dance music banged out, and the trunk tray gave a jump now and again, not quite in time with the beat. I didn’t have a clue how far inland I was, but I knew I was paralleling the sea and was some way above Nice.
I was feeling more and more exhausted. I’d gone on maybe another hour. Any road south would do me now. I found one and, with the sun to my right and getting lower, began my descent toward the coast.
The rapid breathing returned, and I had to pull in at the roadside and get the paper bag onto my face. The radio boomed, and Goatee gave the back tray another couple of kicks as I puckered my lips and kissed air.
55
I spit out some more blood and covered my mouth and nose once more with the McDonald’s bag, but it was getting wet from me dripping into it every five minutes, and wouldn’t be good for much longer.
After about fifteen minutes, the hyperventilation had eased and I threw the bag back onto the passenger seat. The road ahead swam in and out of focus. All I knew was that as long as I kept heading south, toward the sea, I could sort myself out and get to the DOP.
As darkness began to fall, I found myself on an avenue of large houses set well back from the road, at the end of which was a sign that told me Villefranche was to the left, and Nice to the right.
The volume of traffic increased, and I had to concentrate even harder as the headlights came on and the wipers failed to shift the smear of insects on my windshield. In just a few more miles I was approaching the picnic area. I stopped by the bottle banks, and levered myself slowly out of the car, letting my arms take my weight. The parking lot was empty, but I left the music on to cover
any noise Goatee might make. Opening the rear passenger door, I bent down to retrieve a full can of Coke Light from a six-pack in the footwell, and shoved it under the right-hand corner of the nearest bottle bank. My chest felt like a knife thrower had used it for target practice as I pushed myself back up.
Back behind the wheel, I felt under the dash for the brake and backup lights cutoff, pressing down on the brake so the rear of the wagon was now a blaze of red. It was in the same position as on the other two cars so that everyone knew where to find it, just like the keys. My fingers found the switch, and the gentle glow from the taillights returned in the rearview mirror.
I circled the parking lot and headed downhill, eyes peeled for the DOP driveway. If I missed it, I’d have to go into Hubba-Hubba’s old holding-up point, then make my way back uphill, and I didn’t want to do that if I could avoid it. Every movement was agony.
I kept the vehicle lights on high beam and let the car just coast on its brakes, leaning on the wheel to relieve the pain. I turned off the radio to help me concentrate. There was no sound from the trunk.
At last I saw it. I moved into the oncoming lane, killed the lights, put the Focus into first and managed to make the sharp right turn onto the track. My chest burst into flames again, and I coughed blood onto the dash.
The rusty chain was padlocked to a wooden post at either end. I put my foot down. I hit it dead center and the Focus lunged forward, but then stopped, throwing me against the steering wheel. The engine stalled.
My chest was agony. I coughed up another mouthful of blood and mucus and reached for the soggy McDonald’s bag. When my breathing had slowed, I lowered the window, listening for vehicles. There was nothing; I moved the gearshift into reverse, checked there was no white light behind me, backed into the road, and tried again, this time with more revs.
The post ripped out and I braced myself and braked, not wanting the Focus to go all the way down the hill just yet. I turned off the engine, put the hand brake on, and pressed the trunk-release catch before stumbling outside. Shoving the wet McDonald’s bag down my sweatshirt and using the car to support myself, I waded through a river of broken boxes, empty cans, and burst garbage bags.
The light came on as I lifted the tailgate. Goatee was still out of it, just a limp bundle. I got hold of his feet and swung them out, bent down, and half-lifted, half-dragged him out onto the ground. It was just as well there was no resistance from him: I wouldn’t have been able to fight back.
I made my way back to the driver’s seat, released the hand brake, and gave the Focus as much of a push as my grating ribs would allow. It rolled slowly forward, gathered a bit of momentum, and continued down the slope until it hit a barrier of old washing machines. It hadn’t gone far, but was out of view of the road, and that was what mattered.
I turned and limped back to Goatee, got my hands under his armpits, and dragged him onto the canvas tarpaulin to the right of the driveway.
A car came downhill from the picnic area, bathing the roadside and bushes in light. I waited for the sound of its engine to die, then pulled him over onto his side to make sure he didn’t choke on his tongue. He curled up like a baby. I sat over him; I tried lying down, but it was just too painful.
Coughing out more blood, I checked traser. It was just past seven o’clock: it could be hours before we got a pickup. Goatee’s condition was a worry. I wasn’t sure he was going to make it. Come to think of it, I wasn’t too sure about myself.
I lifted the corner of the tarpaulin and covered him, trying to maintain his core temperature. I tried to get some of it over me as well, but it hurt too much to pull it any farther. I started to hyperventilate again with the effort and the McDonald’s bag finally fell apart as I tried to breathe into it again. There was nothing I could do but use my cupped hands. I rested my elbows on my knees for a moment, but that was too painful.
More vehicle lights bathed the skyline intermittently for the next hour or so, then I heard a diesel engine coming down the hill. I listened and hoped it would stop at the driveway, but no such luck. It passed and the lights disappeared. I checked traser again. Only ten minutes had passed since the last time I’d looked.
Goatee retched, and I heard a splash on the tarpaulin. He wheezed and fought for breath, then coughed again, and I felt warm liquid on the hand that I was using to support myself.
Two or three more vehicles passed in each direction as I just sat there, cross-legged, trying to keep my trunk upright, wishing my life away because I desperately needed Thackery to turn up and get us out of here. Goatee moaned gently below me; now and again his body twitched and his legs pedaled on the tarpaulin, but at least his breathing was more regular than mine.
Suddenly, soft bleeping noises filled the air. I wondered if I were hallucinating. It took me several seconds to realize they were coming from Goatee’s cell phone. He started to straighten out his legs, mumbling to himself in Arabic. I lay down next to him, feeling in the dark, finding his hand as it tried to find his pocket. I pulled it away weakly.
“Fuck you,” he grunted. There were only a few inches between our faces now and I could smell his rancid breath. Mine was probably no better.
I dug into his pants pocket with my left hand and pulled out the cell phone. It had stopped ringing, and Goatee was whining in Arabic, I thought more in anger at not being able to take the call than from the pain.
“What are you saying?”
I could hear slurping as he opened and closed his mouth a couple of times before muttering, “My wife.”
I opened up the phone and a dull blue display glowed in the dark. “Tough shit.” With the blood-and tar-covered thumb of my right hand I tapped in the digits 001, then the rest of the Massachusetts number.
It would be afternoon in Marblehead, and she should be home. She had to be—it was her day to look after the bed-and-breakfast.
It rang three or four times, then I heard her voice. “Hello?”
“Carrie, it’s me. Please don’t hang up.”
“Oh.”
“I need help.”
“I’ve been telling you that for months.” Her tone changed. “So, Nick, where do we go from here?”
“Listen, I really need your help.” I tried to stop myself coughing.
“Are you okay, Nick? You sound…have you got somebody with you?”
“Yes, I have.” I hesitated, then realized I had no choice. “Look, I’m still working for George.” I moved the phone away from my mouth, and this time coughed up some more blood.
“Nick?”
“I’m all right. I need you to call your dad for me. Tell him I’m coming in with today’s collection, and the collection is ready now. Tell him we both need medical attention, and quickly. Can you do that? Can you contact him?”
“Sure, his pager. But—”
“Please, just make the call.”
“Of course.”
“Please do it now—it’s important.”
“Nick?”
“I’ve got to go—just do it now, please.” I hit the off button, but kept the power on in case the phone had an access code.
Goatee coughed and cleared his mouth before speaking. “Your wife?” He lay there waiting for a reply.
“You’re dying. People are going to pick us up soon and try to save you, but that’s only because they want you alive. They want to know what you know. After that, I don’t know what happens, but it’s not going to be good.”
There was a pause. He didn’t say anything, but I could hear his head moving up and down on the canvas and the smell of his breath came and went in waves.
“Me, I’m going home. That’s the end of it, apart from the fact that somebody screwed both of us. Those two you lifted in the shop, they were the real collectors.” I could hear his head move again. “We were there to follow them, to get to you—and then do exactly what I’m doing with you now. So my job is done, but my two friends are dead. And so are yours, and chances are you’ll never talk with your wife a
gain. Tell me who you saw in Juan-les-Pins Wednesday night, and what they said.” I let it sink in a little before continuing. “Look, you’re fucked, but I can do something for both of us.”
A vehicle passed by, up on the road, so I let my words sink in a little more. “You’ve got nothing to lose, you’ve lost it already.”
He gave what sounded like a sob, then made an effort to pull himself together. He turned his head toward me, and the rancid smell returned. “He said he knew that the collection was taking place today…. He said the collectors were not the real guys. They were coming to steal the money, but they were coming with the correct code. He also told me that there would be other guys out there following them as protection.”
“What did this man look like? Was he white? Black?”
“Arab.”
“With long, graying hair?”
“No, no. Greased back.” He coughed, and I heard liquid in his throat. “I had to do what I did. Surely you understand that? Just tell me your price and let me go. I’ll pay you money, more than you can imagine. No one will know what happened. You can say I escaped. How much do you want?”
My mind was on other things. I’d heard all that crap a million times before, over the years. I thought about the first time I’d been to Greaseball’s flat. He hadn’t been expecting me, and that was why he’d tried to hide the tennis bags. I’d thought he was trying to stop me seeing the syringes when he kicked them under the bed, but that wasn’t it at all: he was going to collect the money in them. There were even a couple of rackets out on the landing. Their plan couldn’t have been simpler: they were even prepared to sacrifice this collection so they could hang on to the other two, Monaco and Cannes.
I opened up the cell phone once more, mentally reciting the pager number. The first four numbers toned out from the phone, then I stopped. What if they were still in the harbor, or anywhere near real people? I couldn’t do that. I had to stop the money movement, but it was my anger dialing, not the job. I could get something organized from the warship. After all, they had enough technology on board to find anything, anywhere.