by Andy McNab
I moved down to the water's edge, watched, listened, then slowly waded in. The bottom sloped gently to start with, but by the time I'd done four or five paces I was in up to my knees, and freezing. It was just a matter of fighting it and persuading myself that I'd be warm again soon.
I lowered the bergen into the water in front of me, and it floated with the bow just above the water. Even when fully laden, there's always enough air trapped in a bergen to make it buoyant. It had been years since I'd done anything like this. In the jungle, it always used to rain heavily. It would often take us an entire day to cross a main river, and the Regiment had lost more people doing this sort of thing during training than by any other drill.
I kept wading farther in, until the water came up to my waist, then my neck. The rain was jumping off the lake's surface and hitting my face; being so close, the splashes sounded louder than they really were. The shock of the cold took my breath away, but I knew I'd get used to it in a minute or two.
I took one of the mangled flash cards from a bergen pocket, dropped it in the lake and checked that it sank. Then, pushing the bergen in front of me and keeping parallel to the shore line, I walked toward the house, taking my time so I didn't create a visible bow wave or make any noise. At night, and at that distance, even if they were looking at the lake, the bergen would pass as a floating log. In any event, it was the only way I could get on target without triggering the alarms.
After a dozen or so steps I stopped, checked the house again, and dumped the remaining flash card as the rain pelted the taut nylon of the bergen.
I kept moving slowly toward the target, at the same time wanting to get there as quickly as possible. My balls were so cold I thought they might make a dash for my armpits. Underfoot it was rocky and a couple of times I hit an obstruction and got entangled in weed.
It was time to discard the 3C. I wouldn't be needing it anymore, because if everything worked to plan, the next time I contacted Elizabeth I'd be back in the U.K. and if it didn't and I was in the shit, Sarah would know how to extract information from it and the flash cards.
I got level with the house and turned to face it. The curtains were closed and there were still no lights on. Placing my wrist behind the bergen to shield it from the target, I pressed the backlit display on Baby-G. It was just after midnight. I started to shiver even more now that I'd stopped. I needed to get out of the water and back into some clothes.
I moved forward in a direct line toward the slipway, pushing the bergen in front of me. The boat was now dead ahead, and all I could see of it was the bow tilted down toward me.
I inched my way, eyes glued on the target; the only sound was the rain as it hit my bergen and the water. As I got closer and the floor started to rise, I forced my body lower by bending my knees and hunching down. A few meters from the end of the slipway I had to get right down on my stomach to keep as much of me in the water as possible to make a smaller profile. I had to use my hands and knees to work myself forward.
A meter from the edge the bergen hit bottom. I stopped, looked and listened.
The echoey sound of the rain hitting the fiberglass of the boat took over from the splash of it hitting the water.
Now came the wriggly bit. I had to cross open ground to get to the boat and shelter under the hull. Ideally I would have taken maybe as long as an hour to cover the five meters, but I didn't have that time to spare.
I unraveled the string attached to my wrist and, lifting myself up on my elbows and toes, I kitten-crawled forward, four inches at a time, trying to hold and control my breath and stop my teeth from chattering. I could feel stones and water moss pushing against my legs and stomach, moving with me as my trunk touched the bottom. The fact that it was cold no longer mattered; I knew I was doing it correctly from the pain in my elbows as they took my weight on the gravel. I was more interested in trying to make sure my trunk didn't scrape along the ground and make a noise. I was now at the slipway.
Lifting the bergen a fraction, I edged it forward another few inches, lowered it onto the concrete and eased myself up behind it. Then I stopped, listened and repeated the move. Inch by inch I neared the boat, in a direct line with the point where the tow bar touched the concrete slip.
As long as I moved slowly enough and kept flat, the motion detector shouldn't pick me up, and once I was in the lee of the boat I'd be completely safe. Fifteen minutes later, I was there, where I wanted to be, under the boat. The rain hammered the fiberglass. It was like being in a greenhouse in a thunderstorm.
The garage doors were still only semi closed I could see the back of the Explorer and the pitch-dark beyond.
I was staring into the darkness and contemplating my next move when a light came on to my right, spilling through the gap in the doors. It came from the rear of the garage. My heart skipped a beat, then started to pump at warp speed. If I'd been discovered, there wasn't much I could do.
I gripped myself: Stop, calm down, watch.
Almost immediately another light came on, this time on the other side of the garage. Through the gap, I could see what was happening. Someone had opened the lid of a chest freezer; the glow from the interior light showed the face of a man, as if he were shining a flashlight under his chin, like we used to at Halloween. I wasn't sure which of the targets it belonged to, just that it wasn't Sarah. He rooted around for a moment, then pulled out three or four small boxes of food, stood up and seemed about to close the lid again, but instead, he looked back inside and picked out some more stuff. With his arms full, he walked away. I could make out the lower part of his body; he was wearing trainers and checkered, knee-length shorts.
I tried to count how many cartons he had. There seemed to be five. Did that mean that five people were still awake and about to have a meal, or was it just a big snack for one very hungry man?
I heard a door close, and the light went out.
I waited a few minutes for everything, including me, to calm down, then crawled the length of the boat until I reached the stern. I looked up. As I'd hoped, I was well hidden from the sensor and directly under the first-floor landing. The sensor might not even be linked to an alarm, it might just have been a helpful detector to switch on lights as people neared the garage. Whatever, I was this side of it and that was what mattered.
The garage doors were less than a foot away from me. I moved to the right of them, still under the landing and out of the way of the sensor and the rain. The priority was to get some clothes on and get warm, but if you're moving, you're making noise. The more slowly and deliberately I did it, the less noise I was going to generate. At least the downpour gave me some cover.
Gently unclipping the bergen, I lifted the flap, got hold of the toggle that held the drawstrings together, pressed the button in and opened it up, all the time looking and listening, and checking to see if anything was happening in the house next door.
I lifted the Gore-Tex bundle from inside the bergen. It was soaking wet on the outside, but my knots had worked. Wet clothes would make noise and leave sign, so I took off my underpants and slowly put on my dry stuff. It had been worth getting so cold just to feel the sensation of dry socks.
I checked that the Tazer was still in the right-hand pocket of the jacket, and that everything else was where it should be. Then I dug out the gardening gloves and put them on. I might get lifted when I tried to get out of the country, and I didn't want the police to be able to make a connection with something as stupid and basic as fingerprints at a crime scene. I couldn't guard against every shred of forensic evidence, but I could do my best to minimize the damage. Last of all, I ruffled my hair with my fingers, trying to get off as much water as possible so that a stray drop didn't blur my vision at a vital moment. I was ready to go.
I picked up the bergen and weapon, and edged my way around to the doors. I had a quick look at the gap in case they'd rigged a trip.
It was totally dark inside.
The space between the rear of the Explorer and the garage doo
r was going to be a bit of a tight squeeze. I pushed the bergen and bow through and placed them on the floor to the right, then got myself side on, breathed out and squirmed through.
he sound of the rain was immediately muffled, as if a switch had been thrown. I became aware of a different ambient noise, coming from above me. I stopped by the 4x4, opened my mouth, looked up and listened; there was a vague mumbling, which at first I took to be talking, then I heard a shout, gunfire and a burst of music. They were watching TV I stayed where I was, just past the tailgate of the Explorer, and continued to tune in. The mumbling went on, then there was a metallic rattling within the garage as the freezer motor kicked in, followed by a low buzz.
A floorboard creaked above me, over to the right. Maybe someone getting up from their chair. The noise didn't move anywhere; he must have sat down again.
Baby-G told me it was one thirty-one. This wasn't good; I had just one and a half hours left in which to do what I needed to. I got the miniMaglite out of my jacket, held it in my left hand and twisted the head to turn it on. The beam shone through my fingers. I could now see that the Explorer was the only vehicle in the garage; it was jutting out only because there wasn't enough room to drive it all the way in.
I stepped over the bergen and checked along the wagon. All its windows were closed and there wasn't a key in the ignition. I slowly tried the driver's door; it was locked. No chance of using the vehicle for a quick exit. In a drama, the boat would have to get me to my car.
As well as a washing machine and the freezer, the garage was packed with gardening tools, canoes standing on end, bikes on racks, and rusty old bits and pieces that had accumulated over the years, and it had a smell to match. At least it was dry and quite warm.
Moving farther along the side of the 4x4,1 shone the flashlight over its hood. In the far-left corner I saw the side door I'd been watching from the OP. At right angles to it was another door; the staircase behind it was boxed in, and the shape of it went up to the next floor. There were more piles of clutter underneath.
I could still hear the vague mumble of the TV above me and the creaking of floorboards as people upstairs shifted in their chairs. That was fine by me; the only thing I didn't want to hear was excited shouts or rapid movement to signal they knew I was there.
I picked up the bergen with both hands to control the noise, and with the flashlight in my mouth I made my way over to the staircase doors. The beam shone on plastic bags under the staircase containing the world's largest collection of empty Kraft ready-made dinner containers. They weren't putting the rubbish out; they were hiding it. They were taking no chances. Nor was I; I took the bow from the bergen and laid it down so that as I picked it up with my left hand the cable would be facing me, and the arrows were ready to access.
There wasn't any light shining through the gaps around the staircase door. I put my ear to the wood and listened. The voices on the TV were louder, but still indistinct. There was more shooting and police sirens, and a fairly constant murmuring, which I could distinguish from the TV;
it 1seemed as if the household was having a long night of telly, munchies and chat.
An inspection of the lock told me it was an ordinary lever type. I gently pushed on the area of the door by the lock, then pulled it forward, to see if there was any give. There was about half an inch. Then, with my hands down at the bottom of the door and still on the same side as the lock, I pushed hard and slow to see if it had been bolted. It gave way an inch, then moved back into position. I did the same to the top of the door. That also gave way, this time just over half an inch, and I gently eased it back into position. It seemed that there were no bolts on the other side, just the one lever lock to deal with.
Holding my breath, I slowly twisted the handle to check that the door was locked. You could spend hours picking the lock only to find the thing was already open; best to take your time and check the obvious. I'd always found that holding my breath gave me more control over slow movements, and it made it easier to hear if there was any reaction to what I was doing.
As I'd assumed, the door was locked.
The next move was to check all the likely places where a spare key might be hidden. Why spend time attacking a lock if a key is hidden only feet away? Some people leave theirs dangling on a string on the other side of the letterbox, or on the inside of a cat flap. Others leave it under a dustbin or just behind a little pile of rocks by the door. If a key is going to be left, it will nearly always be somewhere on the normal approach to the door. I checked the shelving above the washing machine, under the old rusting paint tins by the door, and along the top of the door frame and all the obvious places. Nothing. I would have to work on the lock.
I got down on my knees, listening all the time to the TV show, and looked through the keyhole. I could still see nothing but darkness. I shone the flashlight through and had another look. There was a glint of metal. I smiled; piece of piss. They'd left the key in the lock.
The glow from Baby-G in this darkness was outrageous, but it told me it was now nearly 2 a.m. I'd give it just another thirty minutes, and maybe by then these fuckers would be in bed. Meanwhile, if they came downstairs for more munchies, I'd need to know, so I sat on the floor with my ear to the door listening to the rain and the TV The police cars were still screaming and the shooting had become more intense. A floorboard creaked above me, then another. I looked up and followed the sound, trying to picture where he was. The movement continued across the floor to more or less directly over my head.
Picking up the bow, I turned and looked through the keyhole to see if he was going to turn the light on and come downstairs. The key obscured most of my vision, but I'd be able to see light, as the teeth were still up in the wards of the lock. There was a faint glimmer, but it was ambient light from quite a distance away, maybe way up at the top of the stairs. No one was coming down. The light disappeared. There were more creaks above me, then the muffled talking started again. The commercials must be coming on.
There was nothing to do but wait while the minutes ticked away. All I knew was that I had to get in there and do it at two thirty, no matter what.
How, I didn't know; I'd just play it by ear. I sat down again and got back to listening to the TV and the rain.
I was quite thirsty after the exertions of the night. The chest freezer started to rattle again; I tiptoed over and lifted the lid very slowly. The light came on. I had a quick look at all the goodies. There were boxes of Kraft dinners, macaroni and microwave fries. It was obvious that nobody had been giving a lot of thought to the culinary side of this trip, which I bet Sarah didn't like, and none of it was any good to me. Then I found something I could munch: a Magnum bar. I closed the freezer, took off the wrapper and put it in my pocket, sat back down by the door, put my ear against it and started eating as I joined in the film.
It was now two twenty. This was cutting it really close to the bone.
I finished the ice cream, and the stick joined the wrapper in my pocket.
I looked at my watch yet again. Two twenty-five. I couldn't afford to wait any longer.
With the Maglite in my mouth, I opened the screwdriver part of the Leatherman and worked it into the keyhole. When it had a firm purchase I started to turn the key along its natural line to unlock the door, at the same time pulling the door toward me to release the pressure on the bolt as it lay in the door frame. The key turned until it hit the lock; it would need a lot more pressure now to open it, but that would make noise. I waited. Whoever was pissing off the cops would be doing it again, really soon. Thirty seconds later, it happened: shouting, gunfire and sirens. I gave the key the final necessary twists and switched off the flashlight.
With the door ajar a couple of inches I could hear the TV much more clearly. Going by the intensity of the shooting, screaming and shouting, the whole state police force was out trying to get the bad guys.
There was no distinct light shining down from above, just a faint glow.
I picke
d up the bow and prepared an arrow. Keeping it in place with my left hand, I got my right hand on the door handle, ready to go. I was going to have a rolling start line: remain covert for as long as possible, and only go noisy if they did. It wasn't much of a plan, but it was enough. If you worry too much about these things, you never get down to starting the job;
just get on with it and half the battle is won. Then hope that experience, knowledge and training will get you through the rest.
I checked that nothing was about to fall out of my pockets, then gently pulled the door open toward me, ready to stop at the slightest creak, holding my breath so I could hear it happen. There wasn't a sound from the people upstairs. It must be a good show.
I was facing a flight of worn, bare wooden stairs that climbed directly to the first floor. There was a wall on either side; on the left it was the external wall of the house, and on the right it was plasterboard, which sealed the stairs from the garage, then became a bannister on the right-hand side where the first floor began. Anyone standing up there could easily look down and see me.
Beyond the top of the staircase, and facing me, was another wall, and just off to the right-hand side was a door that was closed. Apart from that, all I could see were flickering images, composed of different tones of light from the TV screen as they flashed on the wall and the closed door facing me. I was happy about that; if the TV was facing the top of the stairs, it meant that the fuckers would have their backs to me as I went up.
The smell had changed. The mustiness of the garage had given way to a more domestic odor: spray polish and cigarettes, the smell of good housekeeping, heavily overlain with nicotine. They must be having a Camel-fest up there; I'd have to be quick about this or I'd be going down with lung cancer.
Drawing the cable half back, focusing my eyes and the weapon on the top of the stairs, I placed my left foot very carefully on the bottom step, then my right. I stopped and listened.