by Andy McNab
‘Maybe we should stop,’ Charlie said, laughing. ‘One of the lads might fancy making us an offer for the car.’
‘You can leave it to him in your will, you stupid old fucker.’ The lights from both the camps disappeared and we dropped into lower ground. ‘Sooner I get you back, the better.’
4
Monday, 2 May
The line of taxis outside the terminal hadn’t moved much in the hour since first light. When the odd cab did leave the front of the rank, the drivers behind didn’t start their engines to shuffle forward, they just got out, leaned back in through the window, and pushed.
I had the trigger on the terminal entrance from the other side of the road. I was past the three garden sheds, sitting on the concrete between overflowing rubbish skips and four old abandoned buses in the small, potholed car park. I blended in well; I was wearing a black woollen hat I’d found in the boot of the Lada, that smelled like it had been worn by a wet bloodhound. The big ear flaps made me look like one too, but it helped hide some of my face.
Blue-and-whites had been cruising past every few minutes, and one was static right now by the sheds. The two cops inside drank coffee and smoked.
Charlie and I had come right into the lion’s den, but there was no other way. Our only chance of retrieving the papers and tape was to get into the duty wagon. There were two fixed points where we knew it would be during flying hours – at the camp and at the airport.
We could have tried to wave it down on the road, but SOPs for military vehicles usually precluded them from stopping – and after the stunt we’d pulled yesterday, every driver would be on red alert. A hijack was out of the question; instead of dead ground, you need an open stretch of road, so you can identify the vehicle before you hit it in the dark. Our current plan wasn’t perfect, but it was the only one we had.
I checked Baby-G. It was just after eight. Charlie had hobbled into the terminal ten minutes ago to get into position. He had to take the lead; I couldn’t run the risk of being recognized.
The idea was simple: the wagon turns up to drop off or pick up; Charlie sees it through the glass; walks out, lifts it, heads into the car park behind me; I’d jump in and we’d head for the border. This time he wouldn’t just bark a whole lot of orders, but rely instead on his weapon. He had a little 9mm Makharov, the sort of thing James Bond used to tuck into his dinner jacket.
Assuming there weren’t any delays, all the international flights were gone by midday. If Bastard showed up for one of them it would be one fuck of a big bonus for us, even if the 110 didn’t show.
We had gone through dozens of what-ifs. What if he turned up before the 110? We had to hold him until it came, and use him to get the gear out. What if he turned up after the 110? Well, we would never know because we’d be gone – unless Charlie managed to find out what flight he was on.
What it boiled down to was that we would have to take the situation as it came – otherwise we’d still be out in the cuds a week on Wednesday, going through thousands of options. Fuck it, let’s just get on with it and get out of here.
My revolver was also Russian, and looked like it had seen action in the Crimea. It still had seven big 7.62 rounds in the cylinder, and that cheered me up a lot. Given that our plan stank worse than the dog blankets, it was the only thing that did.
I slumped down against a skip, sliding my legs under the one in front of me. The guys in the blue-and-white finished their brew and drove off. I craned my neck to look along the building. Two more policemen had taken up position outside the terminal. After yesterday’s nightmare, word had obviously got round.
After dumping the Lada in the city at about five this morning, we’d hidden up and waited for the place to come alive a little before approaching a taxi. Between them, Hari and Kunzru had had exactly 127 lari in their wallets – about $70, as it turned out. The taxi driver had pocketed about ten, and Charlie had custody of the rest. He was going to need it to grease a palm or two at the check-in desks to see if his best mate Jimmy Bastendorf was leaving today. Charlie wanted to arrange a birthday surprise for him when he got home and wasn’t sure when he was flying. Was it today, or maybe tomorrow? In a dirt-poor country, even loose change can get you anything.
A rust- and grime-covered yellow bus pulled up at the stop outside the terminal, its exhaust pumping out diesel fumes you could cut with a knife. Most of those disembarking looked as though they were airport workers, but there were one or two others with suitcases. The airport was coming to life.
Charlie appeared through the fumes, lurching across the road like Long John Silver. His hand had been OK when he left me, just cut and sore, but his ankle had swollen like a balloon, even though I’d tried to strap it up with a couple of strips of blanket.
He had a newspaper in his hand. ‘Bastard’s off to Vienna, we’ve got him.’ He lobbed it in my direction and it fell between the skips as he carried on past. ‘Here’s the bad news.’
He had to do a circuit now, maybe check something out in the car park. Nobody just exits a terminal and crosses the road, only to cross straight back ten seconds later.
I crawled over to the paper, then back to where I could still keep trigger in case there was a drama. If ten blue-and-white Passats screamed up to the terminal and dragged Charlie away, I needed to know.
He’d chucked me a copy of the Georgian Times, the English-language paper. Folded inside was a large bar of chocolate. I ripped the foil off and popped a chunk into my mouth, but when I scanned the front page my throat went dry.
Most of it was covered by a grainy photograph of the yard in front of Baz’s house. The banner headline screamed: ‘SAINT’ SLAIN!
It went on in a similar vein, to bemoan the savage killing of the most honest and incorruptible public servant the country had ever seen. This wasn’t the picture Bastard had painted, but that wasn’t much of a surprise.
A force for all that was good and just has been callously cut down, it cried. Who has perpetrated this evil deed? The finger of suspicion can point in many directions, all of which this country needs to cut out like a cancer.
For weeks, the walls of St Zurab Bazgadze’s house had been daubed with warnings not to pursue his crusade against corruption at all levels of government, the journalist wrote. In our wretched country, many words spell wrongdoing – words like ‘minister’ and ‘militant’, ‘business’ and ‘privatization’, ‘pipeline’ and ‘oil’. It seemed Baz had been a thorn in the side of them all.
Charlie still hadn’t come back from his hobble-past. Blood pulsed in my neck as I read on.
The two other dead bodies found at Baz’s house had been identified as members of the militant gang behind the recent siege in Kazbegi. But who were the other two men caught on CCTV, one masked, one unmasked? Were they now in possession of the affidavit which the Saint had been due to swear in front of the cameras for 60 Minutes, exposing the rampant corruption in Georgian society?
According to a police insider, the safe in Bazgadze’s house had been found open, and the CCTV also showed one of the masked men taking a folder from the body of one of the militants. If this was indeed the affidavit that 60 Minutes claimed to have been waiting to receive, then exposure of its contents would be very embarrassing for the government, as the programme was due to be aired on the eve of President George W. Bush’s forthcoming visit.
I sat and chewed chocolate, my mind spinning. Good guy gets fucked over – nothing new there – but what had the militants been doing at Baz’s house?
It got worse. The inside pages were teeming with maps and photographs.
TRAIL OF MURDER: SAINT’S CAR FOUND IN TBILISI ALLEYWAY – GRISLY CARGO
If there hadn’t been a perfect artist’s impression of me under the headline I might have laughed.
It was followed by a shot of the Audi up the track, with the boot open. Witnesses had seen two men drive it to the cemetery and load a body into the boot. Beyond that, apparently, was only ‘murky speculation’.
I’d read enough. I refolded the paper and swallowed the last four chunks of chocolate.
That 110 couldn’t arrive a minute too soon.
5
As Charlie got back to the terminal, a two-tone Pajero, silver bottom, dark blue top, sped past the main doors, one up. It was too far away for me to be able to ID the driver, but the sheer bulk of the silhouette at the wheel made me stay with it as it continued past the garden sheds.
I scrabbled along the skips and watched it turn into the car park. The Pajero bounced over puddles and potholes, heading towards the derelict buses closer to the terminal. The nearside wing was damaged. I had a feeling I knew why.
I lost sight of it behind the buses, and I turned back to scan the front of the terminal. Still no sign of the 110.
I heard a door slam behind the buses.
He’d have to cross a hundred metres or so of open ground before he got to the terminal. A straight line would take him very close to the skips. We were going to be in the shit if the 110 turned up right now and Charlie carried on implementing Plan A. The driver would have to come with us; we couldn’t have any more of them running around the country.
No time to think. Bastard was waddling towards the terminal, dressed in the US business uniform for the over-fifties. He pulled an aluminium wheelie carry-on behind him. Whatever we had in those papers, it had got him all fired up. It would have been bad enough for him losing control of the papers Saturday night. But now? With the Istanbul and Marriott tapes out of his control as well, he definitely needed to do the same as us – just get the fuck out. I guessed he wasn’t too anxious to land a starring role on 60 Minutes.
I let him pass the back of the sheds, then crawled out from between the skips to get behind him.
Aroll of fat quivered above his shirt collar. Pulling my hat down low, I followed in step.
‘Oi, Bastendorf!’
I gave him a big happy face as I closed in, but stayed just beyond grabbing distance.
His face clouded. ‘How the fuck do you know my—’
‘I’ve got Kunzru’s weapon. I want our passports.’
He rolled his head back and laughed. Maybe he was amused by the hat.
‘Passports, I want them.’
‘Get the fuck! I shout out right now and you’re history, asshole. I’m walking. What you gonna do, pull steel and gun me down in front of the fucking terminal?’
‘Yes.’
You never make a threat that you can’t carry out, and Bastard knew it. He could see my hand over the front of my jacket.
His nostrils flared. He breathed very slowly and deeply. ‘I burned them.’ He enjoyed telling me that.
Over Bastard’s shoulder, I could see a 110 pull up in front of the terminal, its rear doors already opening. Charlie would be out any minute. He didn’t know we had the Pajero now; that there was now no need for desperate measures. All he had to do was bluff his way into the back and retrieve the gear.
Maybe Bastard had the passports on him, maybe not. We’d soon find out. I nodded over his shoulder. ‘You’re going to turn round and head for the one-ten.’
‘The what?’
‘The Land Rover. Move.’
I came up on his left, eyes peeled for Charlie. Cars and buses moved between us and the 110, temporarily blocking the view.
Bastard gobbed off far too confidently for someone this deep in the shit. ‘We going back to town? You thinking of turning yourself in, or do you just like stealing military vehicles?’
The wheels of his carry-on rumbled along behind us as we made our way to the road. Two guys stepped out of the 110, luggage in hand. Charlie would come out as soon as he saw them check in.
‘Get your arse moving. Go and tell the driver you were in the duty wagon a few days ago. Pull up the back seats, tell him you’ve lost something. I don’t give a shit what you say, just pick up what’s under there.’
He stopped in his tracks. ‘You fuck!’
I pushed him forward and carried on walking, eyes peeled for Charlie steaming through the terminal doors. ‘If you say anything to the driver or start fucking about, I’ll drop you. Understand? I’ve got nothing to lose.’
‘Fuck you.’
‘I’ll take that as a yes.’
Charlie emerged from the terminal. His gaze was fixed intently on the 110 a few metres ahead of him.
We started to cross the road and I could now see the front plate. HF 51 KN. Different driver but the same vehicle, apart from a brand new set of tyres.
Charlie was closing in on the driver’s door when he finally pinged us. I shook my head and he carried on hobbling.
Two police walked out of the terminal, one of them tapping a couple of cigarettes from a pack.
I could see Bastard weighing up his options as they came towards us, sharing a lighter. His eyes bounced between them and me.
I couldn’t turn away or try and hide my face. It would only attract their attention.
Fuck it; if they pinged me, there was nothing I could do about it.
I was on autopilot. It was the only way.
They passed us. Then we passed Charlie, who was waiting for a bus to pull out so he could cross over to the sheds.
Bastard looked at me. ‘What I’m reaching for now is my wallet, OK?’
I held back a metre or so as he approached the driver’s window. He started talking even before the guy had finished winding it down.
The two policemen had stopped by the terminal entrance and were leaning against the wall, enjoying their smoke break.
Bastard thrust his ID in the driver’s face. I could tell he was talking from the way the roll of fat wobbled against his collar.
I concentrated on the driver’s face. Young, Latino. Most importantly, betraying no sign that Bastard was telling him the truth.
Bastard moved around to the rear doors of the 110. The Latino turned and leaned across to help him lift the seats.
Bastard emerged with the magazine in his hand and tapped a goodbye on the window. We turned and headed back the way we had come. The policemen hadn’t moved, but they had stopped chatting and seemed to be watching Bastard closely.
I held out my hand for the magazine.
Bastard hesitated. ‘Do I get my flight now? Hey, I was going to let you go if you came up with the goods.’
‘Keep walking. We’ve got plans for you.’
I heard laughter and out of the corner of my eye I saw one of the policemen pinch a fold of skin on his neck and give it a good wobble.
A second or two later, it started to rain.
6
Nobody talked as I drove the Pajero away from the airport perimeter. You could cut the atmosphere with a gollock. I drove; Bastard was next to me in the passenger seat. He knew I had a pistol tucked between my legs out of his reach but within mine, and that Charlie had another behind him, but there was no knowing what he might do if he saw an opportunity to escape. If I was him, I’d be gone the first chance I got.
I pushed the heater to full blast, to get rid of the condensation. It had only been a short walk back to the 4x4, but we’d all got drenched.
I’d given Bastard a physical search when we got in, but he didn’t have the passports on him. Charlie was emptying his carry-on across the back seat.
I flicked the wipers from steady to rapid and threw Charlie a map from the side pocket. ‘Which way?’
He opened it out. ‘This is a fucking sight better than the one in the one-ten. Looks like just over two hundred Ks to the Turkish border.’
‘Four or five hours, maybe, as long as we don’t have to go off-road?’
He shook his head. ‘As the crow flies. But I reckon the best route’s south until we hit the pipeline, then follow it south-west.’
It was good thinking. What could be more normal than three Westerners mooching along that route – especially with official government accreditation in Mr Bastendorf’s wallet? It looked like someone had gone mad with a rubber stamp, then added, in Paperclip
and English, that he was a welcome guest in their country, and should be given every assistance in carrying out his important work for the government. The added bonus was the $450 he had tucked away to go supersize when he hit Vienna airport.
I felt safer now I was in a vehicle, but I knew it was an illusion. If we hit a checkpoint we’d still have to bluff it big-time and bank on Bastard getting us through. Our two pistols should help persuade him to do that. Besides, he might be the world’s biggest arsehole, but he wasn’t a fool. He was a survivor.
Bastard coughed up a mouthful of phlegm, and started unwinding his window. He gobbed it out through the two-inch gap.
‘I don’t remember saying you could do that.’ My hand reached for the pistol. ‘Don’t make another move unless I say so, you understand?’
Bastard scoffed. ‘You think that’s scaring me? My mama done better.’
I concentrated on the road, barely visible through a near-solid curtain of rain.
My guess was, Bastard wasn’t in the FBI any more – or at least, he certainly didn’t carry any ID to say he was.
Charlie finished checking the carry-on. ‘No mobile here either.’
Bastard stared straight ahead. ‘I said I didn’t have one. Why the fuck would I need one now? The local things don’t work stateside, do they?’
‘Heading home, were you? What happened to the dream of the dusky señoritas?’
‘Go fuck.’
Even dog-legging it, we’d probably still get to the border well before last light, which would give us time to find a decent crossing point. I wasn’t going to tell him yet, but Bastard was coming with us. Georgia was in the good lads’ club with the USA these days, and probably had all sorts of pooling arrangements between police forces. Following Bush’s ‘If you’re not with us, you’re against us’ doctrine, any enemy of Georgia’s would be an enemy of America’s, and right now I seemed to be top of Tbilisi’s Most Wanted.