Firewall

by Andy McNab

  Turning right, I started to walk to the gates. It was pointless skulking about, I just had to get on with it. The depression didn't lift when I failed to see light spilling out from under the gates as I got closer.

  As I slowly closed in on them, keeping within the right-hand tire rut, I began to see that the wall was constructed of enormous concrete blocks, maybe twenty-five yards long and at least three to fifteen feet high. There must have been a fair thickness for them to rest on top of each other like that; they looked as if they should be laid flat, end to end, to construct a runway. I still couldn't see anything that even resembled CCTV or alarms.

  The two large gates were as high as the wall itself. I was right up against them now and still couldn't hear anything on the other side.

  The gates were made of steel plate with a thick coating of dark, anti oxide paint which was smooth to the touch, without a trace of blistering or flaking. I could also see white chalk markings, the sort scored on to guide the welder. I gently pushed against them both, but they didn't move, and there were no locks or chains I could see holding them in position. They were newly made, but judging by the exposed reinforcement rods jutting out of the crumbling concrete, the wall wasn't.

  Set into the right gate was a smaller, pedestrian door. It had two locks, one a third of the way up from the bottom and another a third of the way down from the top. I gently pulled the door handle, which of course was also locked.

  The gap between gate and ground was four to six inches. Lying down slowly on my side, and using the length of the tire rut to avoid making prints in the snow either side of me, I pressed my eye against the gap.

  I could feel the frozen ground under my body as it made contact, but that no longer mattered; there was light on the other side.

  I became aware, too, of the gentle hum of machinery. I couldn't be sure, but it was probably a generator.

  I made out the shapes of two buildings about sixty yards away. The smaller one on the left had two lights shining from ground floor windows; their patterned curtains were drawn, but light still spilled onto the snow in front of the building. The noise must be a genny; there wasn't enough wattage in this country to penetrate curtains. The building was too far away for me to notice anything else about it; it was just a dark shape on a dark background.

  I studied the larger building to the right. There was a dark area in the middle front of the building, its rectangular shape, with a semicircular top, suggesting a large access. Maybe this was where they kept their vehicles. But where were the satellite dishes? Were they around the back? Or was I doing a recce on the local beet boiling factory? And where would they have locked up Tom?

  What now? I had the same problem as at Microsoft HQ: too much virgin snow and not enough time. It would have been great to have been able to do a full 360 of this place, but tough, I couldn't. I even wondered about trying to climb up the outside of the hangar funnel to get a better look around, but even if there was a climbing rail attached to it, I was likely to leave sign on the roof or on the rungs, and anyway, what would I see at that distance?

  I lay there and reminded myself that when you are short of the two most important commodities, time and knowledge, sometimes the only answer on target is P for Plenty of explosives.

  I stayed where I was, visualizing how to defeat the wall and get in on target, going through a mental checklist of the kit I'd be needing.

  Some of the stuff would have to come from Eight, because it would be impossible for me to access it on my own in the time available. If Eight couldn't get it, plan B would have to be to tie a suicide bandanna round my head and bang on the gates making really rude threats. I might as well; anything else but P for Plenty of explosives would be futile, given the time scale. The rest of the kit I would get myself to make sure it was exactly right; I hated depending on other people, but when in Chad The cold was getting to me and I was starting to freeze. I had seen all I was going to see tonight. Being careful not to disturb the snow on either side of the tire ruts, I got up, checking with my hands that I hadn't dropped anything. It was just habit, but a good one. Then I slowly checked the snow on either side of the rut as I moved back to the road, getting ready to play repair man. If any sign did need covering up I would have to collect snow from the area around the car and carry it over. Detail counts: There would be no point in picking up snow from near the repair and just creating more sign.

  I had warmed up quite a bit by the time I got back to the Lada.

  Unfortunately, the first thing I had to do after lifting the hood was take off my jacket and ram it down onto the starter motor. I didn't want Tom's new friends to hear me when I battered it with the hammer.

  Ripping the newspaper from behind the windshield wipers I got into the driver's seat quicker than last time, now knowing how to play the door lock. The engine fired third time. Keeping the revs low I drove away, not going past the target this time, but taking a few lefts instead to try and box round and get back on the main road to Narva. I got lost a couple of times, but eventually found it and rejoined the death race.

  * * *

  34

  I parked once more in the border-crossing parking lot. It was 9:24, according to Lion King. There was no way I was going to drive straight to Eight's place; I wanted to check out the area first, just in case Carpenter had returned. If so, I would have to spend the night hanging around, waiting for him to leave again.

  I locked the car and headed back to the baar, hands in pockets, head down. Approaching from the direction of the burned-out shed, I could see the BM hadn't returned, and only two of the other vehicles were still there, both now covered in thick ice.

  It was one of the Cherokee jeeps that was missing. What did that mean?

  Fuck it, I had no time to mess about. When would be the right time to enter the house? I'd just take my chances and go for it. All I wanted was to get the kit together and make some money as soon as possible.

  I pressed the intercom button and waited, but got no answer. I pressed it again. A crackling male voice answered, not the same one as before, but just as rough. I knew the routine now and even a little Russian.

  "Vorsim. Vorsim."

  The static stopped, but I knew to wait, even moving out of the way after a minute or two for the main door to open. Soon bolts were being pulled on the inside.

  The door swung open and there stood Eight, still in his red sweatshirt.

  As he unlocked the grill, he peered anxiously out into the parking lot.

  "My wheels?"

  I walked in and waited as he locked up behind, still frantically scanning the parking lot.

  "The car's fine. Is the guy with the BMW coming back?"

  He shrugged his shoulders as I started to climb the stairs behind him.

  "You'll need a pen and paper, Vorsim."

  "But what about my wheels?"

  I still hadn't answered when we entered the third-floor room. With no natural light the TV room was much darker, but it still smelled the same, heavy with cigarette smoke. No one was here. Nothing had changed apart from the fact that next to the plastic coated playing cards on the table, there was now a lamp, dimly glinting on the Johnnie Walker bottle, which was three-quarters empty. Three ashtrays were full and spilling butts on the once highly polished table. The TV was still on, throwing bursts of light around the other side of the room.

  Through a snow lens I could see Kirk Douglas playing a cowboy with the volume down low; I could just hear the dialogue.

  "Yo, Nick. The table."

  He pointed at several cheap pens and sheets of lined paper scattered amongst the crap. Some had tally marks on.

  I sat down and started to write a list, wondering if the marks were card-game scores or a record of today's deals.

  Eight pulled up a chair opposite me. "Come on, you play. Where's the car, man?"

  "Down the road."

  He searched my face. "It's okay?"

  "Yeah, yeah. Just let me finish this." I wanted this kit org
anized and to get the fuck out of there as quickly as I could. "Where is everybody?"

  He moved his arms around like a break dancer on fast forward.

  "Business. You know, my man, business."

  I finished writing and pushed the sheet of paper over to him. He looked at it and didn't appear fazed. I was expecting lots of sucking through teeth, but the only question I got was, "Eight kilos?"

  "Yeah, eight kilos." They certainly weren't the sort of kilos he normally dealt with.

  "Eight kilos of what, Nikolai?" His shoulders went up and his face went down. It was obvious he didn't understand anything I'd written apart from 8kg. He'd learned to speak English from the TV, but he couldn't read it. Maybe he should have spent more time watching Sesame Street and a bit less watching NYPD Blue.

  "Shall I just say what I need and you write it down?" I didn't want to embarrass him, and besides, anything to speed this up.

  He smiled now there was a way out. "Telling me would be cool, yeah."

  Halfway through dictating the list I had to explain what a detonator was. A few minutes later, when he'd stopped holding the pen in his fist like a child and his tongue was back in his mouth, he looked very pleased with himself.

  "Okay. Cool." He jumped out of his seat, studying his handiwork and feeling very important. "Wait here, Nikolai, my man." He disappeared through the door near the fireplace.

  A few seconds later I heard a much older voice roaring with laughter. I wasn't sure if that was good or bad. I didn't try to see who it was; if it was the older voice who decided whether I could have it, then spying on him while he made that decision wasn't going to change anything, apart from pissing him off and making my life more difficult than it already was.

  The sound of footsteps echoed from the stairwell, accompanied by volleys of quick, aggressive talking, slowly getting louder as people came up the stairs. I told myself not to worry, even though my heartbeat quickened as I listened for Carpenter.

  As the voices got louder I still couldn't work out whether they were angry or that was just the way they talked.

  The door burst open and I watched as the Good Fellas came in one by one, ready to grip Johnnie Walker and use him over someone's head.

  There was no Carpenter. It was the same four card players, taking off their leather jackets and hats. The old one, shopping bag in hand, kept on his silver-gray fur Cossack-style number.

  I stayed put, my heart beating even quicker with relief as I crumbled up the first list and put it in my pocket.

  They crossed the room toward me without any acknowledgment, except from the fur-hatted older one, who shouted and waved the back of his hand at me to get the fuck out of his chair and away from the table. I got up and moved; no skin off my nose, I was there for other things, not to get macho.

  From the window I watched the traffic lining up at the checkpoint. It looked even more like a movie scene now that floodlights were soaking the area in a brilliant white glow. The same couldn't be said for the lighting this side of the river.

  All four now sat at the table, pouring the last of the whiskey and lighting up. There was a lot of talk from them, which drowned out the low-volume gunfight Kirk was winning on the opposite side of the room.

  The old guy pulled packets of sausage and dark rye bread from the shopping bag and threw them onto the table, while the others tore open the plastic protection around the sliced meat and ripped off lumps of bread.

  I watched, feeling a bit hungry myself, but I didn't imagine I'd be on the guest list.

  It became obvious, as heads nodded in my direction, mixed with quick glances, that I was the subject of conversation. One of the boys said something and they all looked over. There was a little joke said and a few snickers. Then it all got serious again as they got back to eating.

  I kept pretending to look out of the window and be unaware of what was going on behind me.

  A chair scraped on the bare wooden floor and shoes echoed on the boards as one of them came toward me. I turned and smiled at the old guy in his hat, watching as the TV shone on him in the gloom when he passed the screen. He was facing me, but talking back to the others, looking very serious. This wasn't another leg pulling. An index finger started pointing at me as he got closer, as if to reinforce whatever he was jabbering off about. I looked down in submission and slightly turned back toward the window.

  From less than a foot away he began to poke me in the back, shouting very close to my head. I turned and looked at him, confused and frightened, then looked down, just like Tom would have. I smelled garlic and alcohol, and as he continued to rant and poke, flecks of sausage hit my face. His face, creased and leathered and showing a day's stubble, was now no more than a few inches away as the fur from his hat brushed against my forehead. He bellowed at me again.

  I wasn't going to react by moving or wiping away his shit from my face; it might antagonize him even more. I just stood and let him get on with it, just like I'd done at school when teachers went ballistic.

  I was never scared; I knew they would finish or get bored with it quickly, so fuck 'em, let them get on with their fun so I could skip school straight afterward. It was one of the attitudes that had fucked up my life.

  I moved my left hand to the window and supported myself, as I was getting the four-finger poke now, my body jerking back with each jab.

  Glancing across, I could see the other three at the table, their cigarettes glowing in the semidarkness, enjoying the cabaret.

  The shouting and bad breath continued.

  Sounding as frightened as I could I stammered, "I am here for Eight er Vv-vorsim."

  He mocked me. "V-v-v-orsim." Turning toward the table, he mimed injecting his arm, laughing along with the other three.

  He turned back and gave me one last shove against the window. I took it and then steadied myself as he headed back for more garlic sausage.

  He was obviously talking about me as he pretended to take a line from his index finger, to the accompaniment of further laughter. Let them think it; the drama was over. Now where the fuck was Eight?

  I looked out of the window again, slowly wiping all the shit off my face as the floorboards echoed toward me once more. He was coming back for seconds.

  He got right up on me again and gave me a push with both hands. He was fucking with me; he was having some fun, maybe taking out some frustration. The others laughed as I rode the pushes and tried to lean against the window frame, still showing no resistance, looking forlornly at the floor to appear even less of a threat.

  He got more serious with each push and I began to get pissed. After one particularly hard one I stumbled backward toward the television.

  He followed me, the pushes now punctuated with the odd slap round the head. I kept my face down, not wanting him to see in my eyes what I was really thinking. He kept repeating the same word over and over, then he started gesturing, rubbing fingers and pointing at my boots.

  Did he want my money and Timberlands? Money I could understand, but boots?

  This was getting out of control. If I was right he would be getting a lot more than he bargained for if my boots came off. I couldn't let that happen.

  I held my hands up in submission. "Stop! Stop! Stop!"

  He did, and waited for his cash.

  I slowly reached into the inside pocket of the jacket and pulled out the insurance policy, still inside its protection. He looked at the condom and then at me, his eyes narrowing.

  Untying the knot at the end, I probed inside with two fingers.

  He barked a question at me, then, shouting something at the others, he grabbed the condom and roughly fished inside. Opening the thin paper and partly tearing it in the process, he turned to the table and waved it at them, as if sharing the lucky prediction in a fortune cookie.

  Bending down into the light given off by Kirk on his horse, he pushed the note in front of the screen. His laughter subsided as he started to read. Then it stopped completely. Whatever the bit of paper said, it w
as doing the business.

  He walked over to the others, looking extremely pissed as he muttered, "Ignaty. Ignaty."

  I hadn't a clue what that meant and I didn't really care. They all had a read, and it had the same effect on everyone. They slowly turned their heads and stared at me across the room. I brought my hands together in front of me, not wanting to appear a threat. It was good the policy had worked, but it meant I might have to put up with their loss of face. Some people have the fuck-it factor when this sort of thing happens, and regardless of the possible fallout they'll still retaliate because their pride has been hurt. I couldn't afford to fuel that by appearing at all cocky; I still wasn't out of the woods.

  Walking over to the table, my face full of respect, I put out my left hand, making sure that Lion King wasn't exposed. It wouldn't exactly help me maintain my new standing. I nodded at the sheet of paper.

  "Please."

  He may not have understood the word, but he knew what it meant. He handed it back, hating every second of it, and I folded it carefully and put it in my pocket. Now wasn't the time to start putting it back into a condom. "Thank you." I gave a little bow of the head and, with my heart pumping as hard as if it was forcing crude oil through my arteries, I turned my back to them and walked to the TV.

  Sitting as casually as I could in the chair facing the screen, I watched Kirk still taming the Wild West, leaning forward to hear what was happening out there in the desert. My pulse was louder than the TV.

  I could tell that once I was out of earshot there was going to be some very loud shouting, but for now there was just low, disgruntled murmuring behind me. Where the fuck was Eight? Not wanting to turn or look in any other direction than the screen, I sat like a child who thinks he can't be seen at bedtime if he just concentrates hard and doesn't move.

  They carried on mumbling as glasses were banged with the neck of the whiskey bottle to drown their anger. My eyes were on the screen and my ears were on them.

  Five minutes later, just as Kirk was about to save the girl, Eight came back into the room. I didn't understand what he was saying as he fought with the zip on his leatherette jacket, but by the look of it, we were leaving. Muttering a silent prayer of thanks, I got to my feet and tried not to show my relief.