FireWall ns-3

by Andy McNab

  All was not well at Camp Tom.

  "Seriously, you okay?"

  I wanted to sound surprised at finding him so down, but I could guess at the reason. Being so near the witching hour, reality was grabbing him by the throat.

  "I'm really worried, Nick. You know, I I " There was a big sigh from him, and I knew he was trying to get out what he really wanted to say. "I want to get home, Nick. I don't wanna do it, mate. No way am I going back inside "

  He didn't want to go back home; he just wanted reassurance that everything would be fine. I'd seen it plenty of times, men on jobs asking for one thing but really needing another, especially when they're scared. It's not a bad thing; fear is natural, and the secret is understanding that it's normal. Only then can you do the abnormal.

  "Tom, I told you, this won't get you put away. No way would I be doing anything that would get me within a thousand miles of a prison. I've done some, too, you know."

  He looked up at me with tears in his eyes. "I don't wanna go back, Nick. There were some hard boys in there, know what I mean?" His mouth quivered. "I couldn't hack it, mate."

  I knew then exactly what he was crying about. Tom might play at being Jack the Lad, but behind bars he'd been fair game for the boys locked up for a long stretch.

  I thought about my time in reform school and how much I'd hated it. If the wing daddies weren't fighting each other, they were keeping a grip on their little empires and just generally fucking up the lives of those who were within reach. The only way I'd survived, being, like Tom, one of the youngest, had been to act mad. That way the older ones, being locked up and confused about their sexuality, thought I was just a weirdo and left me to it. Because, who knew, I might try and kill them if they touched me.

  I didn't see Tom being able to act that weird and get away with not being made someone's special friend. I nodded and felt genuinely sorry for him. "Don't worry, mate. All that's finished with, I guarantee it, Tom."

  He sniffed and wiped his nose, embarrassed at his display of vulnerability.

  "Best bet is to go take a shower and get some shut-eye. We have a busy night tomorrow."

  I tapped his shoulder playfully, leaving him to sort himself out. He didn't need me there to embarrass him even more by seeing him like this. Besides, he was coming with me tomorrow night whether he liked it or not. As I headed back to my room I thought that, in addition to nails and lumps of 2x4, Liv had better get Tom a brave or stupid pill, depending on which way you looked at it.

  I started to undress and listened as Tom walked past my door, going in the direction of the living area, probably in search of a glass of water to replace all the liquid leaking down his face.

  In the shower I checked out the nice knee, shin, and back bruises I'd got from my snow jumping and went to bed. I was beat, but thoughts about the job kept me awake, going over making entry and actions-on if there was a fuckup.

  I must have been lying there for an hour, listening to the hum of the air-conditioning, when Tom shuffled past once more toward the living area. He would probably be like this all night now, but he'd live. If he was still wobbly in the morning I'd remind him again about how much money he'd soon have in his pocket. More than enough to get away from that scrubby flat and Janice. I'd already decided that I would give him the full $300,000. Why not? I wouldn't have got this far without him.

  Another half-hour hummed by. I was still thinking about tomorrow night, mentally checking that Liv's shopping list was complete, when I realized that Torn hadn't come back.

  Yawning, I put on my jeans and shirt and wandered off to have a coffee with him, maybe talk him round a bit more.

  The lights were still on in the living area, but there was no sign of Tom. I checked the kitchen. He must have gone back and I hadn't heard him. As I turned, I noticed that the door leading to Liv's side of the house was open, and I knew that she'd closed it behind her.

  Crossing the living area, I started to saunter down her hallway. The door layout was the same as our side, so she'd be in one of the two bedrooms. It wasn't hard to tell which. There was noise coming from the first door on the left. I didn't know who was doing what to whom, but the grunts and moans were unmistakably theirs.

  I turned back up the hall, leaving them to it, realizing, yet again, that I didn't have a clue when it came to women.

  19

  Tuesday. December 14,1999 By the time I got up Tom was showered and dressed, hair still wet, sitting on the sofa drinking milk. He was certainly cheerful enough.

  "Morning, Nick. Coffee's in the pot. Liv has gone to get your stuff.

  Said she'll be back about tenish."

  I went into the kitchen, poured some coffee and checked out the food. I was dying to ask him about last night, but decided to wait and see if he said anything first. I didn't want to sound like a dickhead, and things were getting very weird. First Liv and her friend at the station, and now this. I wondered if she'd been fucking Tom for years, but immediately dismissed the thought. Once you'd had a taste of Liv, you wouldn't decide to settle down with Janice, and why bother to get me to do the job of recruiting him in the first place?

  Fixing myself a plate of crackers, cheese, and cherry jam, I dumped it all on a tray and went and sat opposite him. I put on my concerned face and asked, "How do you feel this morning, mate? Still want to quit?" I concentrated hard on spreading my jam "I'm sorry about last night, Nick. I was just worried, you know." I nodded. "These things happen to everyone at some time or other.

  Anyway, you look a lot better this morning." I gave him a grin.

  "There's nothing like a good night's sleep."

  He avoided the subject. "It is going to be okay, Nick, isn't it?" "Of course. I had a really good look at the house last night. It's just a big old mansion in the woods, trying to look like Microsoft HQ.

  No drama. Next stop, the bank-that's the beauty of it."

  I got back to my cracker, relieved that I didn't have to deliver another mammoth pep talk.

  He grinned back. "Nice one, mate. Nice one." His head had gone back into jerky chicken mode.

  I took a mouthful of coffee. "Yep, it's good we both got some sleep.

  We'll certainly be beat tomorrow morning."

  He sipped his milk, trying to hide his face in his mug.

  I couldn't resist any longer. "I heard you, you know."

  He turned bright red. "What? What are you on about?"

  "Hey, listen, good luck, mate, but keep the noise down in future, will you? Some of us old fuckers can't take too much excitement."

  He laughed nervously, embarrassed, but at the same time rather proud. I couldn't blame him.

  "What's the secret, Tom? I mean, no disrespect to Miss Nordic Myth, but warm and wonderful she isn't. Have you met in a past life?"

  He shifted in his seat as embarrassment took over. "Nah, mate. Never met the girl before. But, you know, I was out here getting a drink when she came out. She saw I was worried, and we got talking and that you know."

  I didn't, that was the problem. One minute he's asking me if I trust her, a minute later he's making the earth move for her. Well, probably the other way round. I gave myself another mental slap. Fuck it, I didn't care what was going on. I realized, with a shock, that I was jealous. I needed to sort my shit out, concentrate on making money and leave anything else that was going on well alone.

  I got up, leaned over and tapped him on the shoulder. "Just make sure you've got those daps of yours for tonight."

  "Daps?"

  "Gym shoes, whatever you call them. Make sure they're clean and dry.

  Don't wear them today, just keep your new boots on, all right?"

  With that I picked up my mug and left.

  Freshly showered, I lay on my bed and visualized once again making entry on target. I always found it easy to run the film in my head, as if my eyes were the camera lens and my ears the recording equipment I listened to what the snow sounded like as we walked to the deck, then the creak of the wooden deckin
g, working out how I would deal with it, attacking the lock on the door and then moving Tom around the house until we found what we were looking for. I replayed the footage three or four times, from leaving the car to returning to it; then I started to edit it with different versions: What if Tom and I were on the deck and the door opened? What if there were dogs in the compound? What if we were compromised in the house?

  I played the different versions and stopped the film at the crisis points, thought about what I should do and then hit Replay, trying to come up with answers. It wouldn't go exactly to script, it never did.

  On the ground, every situation would be different. But the film was a starting point; it meant I had a plan. From there, if the shit hit the fan, it would be a matter of adapting the plan in the one or two seconds available, so that I could react to whatever the threat was instead of standing there feeling sorry for myself.

  I'd been in my room for about two hours when there was a knock on the door.

  "Nick?"

  Tom poked his head round the corner.

  "Liv's back. You won't tell her you know, will you? It's just that well, you know."

  I got off my bed and walked out with him, using my forefinger and thumb to mime zipping up my lips.

  She was in the living room, dropping her hat and black leather coat on the sofa. There was no exchange of eye contact between them and her whole manner announced there was no time for small talk.

  "Good morning," she said briskly. "It's been confirmed: They're now online."

  She must have been to meet her St. Petersburg friend as well this morning.

  "Could you two give me assistance? There are quite a few bags."

  We followed her downstairs, where the first thing she passed me was a sheet of paper with the weather forecast printed out in Finnish. "It says there is a possibility of snow showers in the early morning. That is good for you, no?"

  Tom was busy opening the rear door of the Mere.

  "What do they mean by early morning?"

  She shrugged her shoulders. "I asked the same question. I'm afraid no one could tell me exactly. Anything between two and ten."

  I handed it back to her and walked to the rear of the 4x4, not letting Tom see my concern. This was bad. Snow is good for hiding sign, but bad for making it. We had to get in and out as quickly as possible, otherwise the only footprints left on the ground at first light would be our fresh ones, not mixed in with the others I'd seen in the compound last night. Unless, that was, the shower kept falling for long enough to cover our tracks once we had left. This wasn't good at all; you just don't take that sort of risk if a job has to remain covert. But a deadline is a deadline, and I had no choice but to go in regardless.

  I was stressing and hoped that God hadn't really been listening to me in Tom's apartment, just waiting to get his own back by stopping the snow the moment we got into the house.

  Tom picked up a set of eighteen-inch bolt cutters from the back seat and held them out with a quizzical expression on his face.

  I had lifted the tailgate and was holding an armful of bags and boxes.

  "Just a bit of standby kit we might need tonight, mate. Come on, let's give her a hand."

  Tom followed me upstairs, the bolt cutters under his arm and his fists full of shopping-bag handles. He dumped it all next to the stuff I'd carried up on the wooden floor outside the kitchen and was soon sniffing around in the bags like a child on the hunt for sweets. Liv was close behind.

  It was time to put the work disk into my hard drive again. "It's pointless you two hanging around," I said. "Give me a couple of hours to sort myself out here, and after that I'll explain why I needed all this stuff. Make sure those daps are clean, Tom. No mud that could flake off, or grit in the soles, okay?"

  He nodded.

  Liv looked at him, puzzled. "Daps?"

  "The canvas shoes I've been wearing." He had already put his new boots on.

  She nodded, mouthing the new word to herself as she logged it in her memory bank and left in the direction of her room. "I'll see you both later."

  Tom was looking at me as she disappeared down the hall and the door closed. I knew what was going on in his head. "Don't worry, mate, not a word."

  He smiled, relieved. "Thanks, 'cus, well, you know." He waved to me as he walked toward our side of the house.

  "Tom, is there anything you need me to do for you?"

  "No thanks, mate," he said with a sudden twinkle. "Liv's already done it."

  He stopped, turned, and tapped his forehead with his index finger.

  "Nah, seriously, everything I need is up here. Do you want me to run through it?"

  "No point. I'll just concentrate on getting us in and out of there.

  What are you looking for, anyway?"

  He grinned. "I won't know until I see it."

  He disappeared and I emptied the shopping bags and boxes onto the floor. I sorted the clothing first, as it was the easiest to check.

  Shiny nylon down jackets were not what we needed at a time like this; all the stuff I'd asked Liv for was made of wool and thick cotton. We had to have clothes that weren't going to rustle, and they had to be dark and completely nonreflective no shiny buttons or safety tape. I cut out any Velcro holding pockets or flaps with my Leatherman: Velcro makes quite a noise when pulled apart, and I couldn't afford for that to happen on target. Anything dangling, like draw cords I also removed. Once in the house, I couldn't afford for something to get caught and be dragged onto the floor. All this might sound over the top, but people have been killed for less. I'd learned by others' mistakes, and I'd never forget seeing a mate of mine hanging from the top of a fence in Angola by the nylon cord in his combat smock. He didn't have anything to cut himself free with and had to watch as guards came, stopped to take aim just feet away, and put at least fifty rounds into him.

  Liv had chosen some good woolen outer gloves for us, as well as a pair of thin cotton contact gloves, so I could manipulate the door lock or whatever without my bare hands freezing onto the metal. There was also a pair of sneakers for me to wear, from which I cut out the reflective heel piece. I hadn't ordered any for Tom; he had his daps. We would put them on just before entering the house. Heavy-soled boots make noise and drag in snow, leaving sign. The outside world needs to stay out there.

  I found the bag of six-inch nails, some lengths of one-inch thick nylon webbing and a handful of metal washers. The length of wood was exactly as specified. I couldn't help laughing to myself at the thought of Liv in a hardware store. She probably hadn't even known these places existed.

  There was a neat little hacksaw in a cardboard and plastic shrinkwrap.

  I ripped it out of its packaging and used it to cut half a dozen six-inch lengths of wood.

  Liv had done her work well; the washers went over the six-inch nails and were stopped by the nail head. I slipped two washers over each, since they would be taking quite a strain.

  Fifteen minutes later, I had six fist-sized lumps of wood, each with a nail hammered through. The nail had then been bent into an acute angle about halfway along with pliers, so the whole thing looked a bit like a docker's hook. The exposed metal of the nail, apart from the bit at the bend and about half a centimeter either side of it, had then been covered with rubber bands to eliminate noise when they were used. Tom and I would use one hook in each hand and carry one each as a spare.

  The dark-green two-inch webbing was meant for strapping skis to a roof rack. I cut four six-foot lengths of it, knotting together the ends of each so that I ended up with four loops. These I put to one side with the hooks, away from the chaos around me. The climbing kit was ready.

  Liv had been right: The old ways sometimes are the best, and this method took a lot of beating. It was a little gem from the files of MI9, created during World War Two when they were asked to think up new ideas and design equipment so that POWs could escape from their camps and travel through occupied Europe to safety. They came up with silk maps, sandwiched between
the thin layers of a playing card and sent in Red Cross parcels. They even changed the design of R.A.F uniforms to make them easily convertible into civilian clothes. This hook-and-loop device, easy to make and easy to use, was just one of the many ideas they'd come up with for scaling POW camp fences. It had worked for them; I hoped it was going to work for us.

  Next I unwrapped the Polaroid camera and four packs of film. Once a film was inserted, I took a quick test shot of my foot. The camera was working fine. I stripped the other three films of their wrapping. Each cartridge of film contained its own battery power source, but batteries tend to get sluggish in cold weather, and I couldn't afford for that to happen. To keep them warm I'd make sure I kept them close to my body.

  Once we'd put on our sneakers and I'd made entry, I would take pictures of wherever we were on target, camera noise and flash permitting. On a covert operation, everything has to be left exactly as you find it.

  People notice straightaway when something is not precisely where it should be. It could be something obvious, like a folded rug that has suddenly been laid flat, but more often it's something almost indefinable that compromises the job; they just feel instinctively that something is wrong. Maybe their pen isn't in the position they always leave it, even by as little as half an inch; or the morning sunlight isn't shining through the blinds exactly how it normally does, lighting up half the desk; or some dust has been disturbed. We might not consciously notice these things, but our subconscious does; it takes in every detail and tries to tell us. We aren't always clever enough to understand, but we feel that something isn't right. A switched-on target will know that even an out-of-place paper clip constitutes a drama, and will take whatever action he feels is called for.

  The fact that people would be on target gave this job a high chance of compromise, but I couldn't let it affect the way I thought about what I needed to do, just the way I planned it. I'd been successful on similar jobs in the past, so why should this one be any different?

  Thinking about making entry reminded me to charge up the electric toothbrush. I went into my bathroom and plugged it into the outlet.