by Andy McNab
I headed for the sliding patio doors, which were open just enough for one person to pass through. It would have made a nice spot for dinner, but now it was a smoking area. A scattering of couples chatted over a glass of something and a cigarette. Three or four women sat on their own, each with a thick layer of make-up and weapons-grade hairspray. They weren’t there for the repartee. They cast an eye over me: I was alone and not about to join the natives in Marlboro Country. I had to be a foreigner and a potential punter.
For all the glitz, teak flooring and shiny chairs and tables the terrace had to offer, it had one glaring design flaw. The air-conditioning units that fed the rooms above were busy sucking up the smoke and dribbling condensation onto the deck in return, but nobody seemed to mind.
I moved back inside, past the bright red velvet curtains and migraine-triggering wallpaper, following the sound of loud voices and laughter.
Diminetz and his entourage sat around a small cluster of low tables piled with nuts and bottles in the bar area; six of them, in leather bucket chairs. He held court with a glass of something expensive in his hand, telling some joke by the look of it; everyone was very attentive apart from the two BG in black suits who seemed much more interested in whichever stockinged thigh was nearest to them.
I perched on a stool at the far end of the bar, ordered a Coke and busied myself with a bowl of pistachios. It was easy enough to keep eyes on the group. The wall behind the optics was mirrored. Diminetz faced away from me. His hair was a bit longer than it had been in the picture and he’d put on a bit of weight. He looked like any other dickhead in his early thirties with a big gob and too much money. His girlfriend wasn’t the normal pick-up for the night, though. She was in severe need of a few plates of chips. The rings around her eyes matched her frizzy dark-brown hair and her shoulder-blades stuck out from her strapless blue dress like shelf brackets. You could have fitted a wedding ring around her arms. Her look was more underfed whippet than heroin chic. She wouldn’t have stood a chance against the competition on the terrace.
Diminetz dominated the room. The other customers did their best to ignore the noise as he gobbed off at a hundred miles an hour. I stole a glance at the BG. They were older, forties maybe; efficient haircut with a touch of grey at the temples. They’d seen a bit, judging by the state of their noses, but were now monstrously overweight. This was probably the best job they’d ever had: money, drink and women. What more could they ask for? Looking after a total dickhead just went with the turf.
Diminetz sparked up a cigar the size of a broom handle. The smoking area was clearly only for law-abiding morons. A haze of blue smoke billowed above his head and drifted round the room. The barman was unimpressed. He turned and walked to where his boss was standing. Both wore little red waistcoats, white shirts and bow-ties. The barman waffled away in an urgent whisper, but his boss just shrugged. What the fuck could they do?
7
23.56 hrs
I sat in a gilt and green velvet chair in Reception with my latest cup of coffee, the remains of a club sandwich and another bowl of pistachios on a table in front of me. I flicked through the last of the pile of magazines I’d worked hard at looking engrossed in.
I’d been there for about an hour, drinking, snacking and paying in cash while Diminetz and his entourage continued smoking, hollering, laughing, shouting and drinking too much. He didn’t look the gangster, organ-trafficking kind of guy, just a dickhead. But that’s the problem with people: you can never tell. I thought I saw the odd recreational item getting popped as well, but maybe they kept some ready-shelled pistachios in their pockets.
I’d had to leave the bar after an hour or so: there’s only so long you can hang around with a Diet Coke. Staying in Reception was fine because, unless they had a rush of blood to the head and relocated to the terrace, they couldn’t go anywhere without passing me.
The shrieks and laughs got louder as the evening wore on. My biggest problem now was boredom. I’d read every article singing Moldova’s praises as a wonderful holiday destination and focus for investment.
My iPhone started to vibrate and spin on the half-nutshell I had balanced it on to pass the time. I’d texted Anna an hour ago: Saw L. Boy OK?
Her reply was: Boy good.
I deleted the message so the phone stayed sterile. She wouldn’t contact me again until I contacted her – she was far too switched on. But I still needed to know how Anna and my boy were doing.
The young woman at Reception was getting ready for the long night ahead. She’d retreated to the back office, behind a frosted-glass screen. I could hear the gentle jabbering of a TV through the half-opened door. To the right of it hung two cardholders on blue lanyards. They were some distance away from the card-enabling machine behind the counter, so they had to be the admin keys.
The noise from the bar suddenly got louder. The group was on the move. As they squeaked their way across the glossy brown floor tiles, the whole entourage looked very much the worse for wear. There was a little bit of staggering as they swivelled towards the stairs, and a few giggles as they anticipated the fun and games ahead.
Diminetz was in the middle and having to bend down a little to get his hand on where the whippet’s arse should have been. His two BG were having more success: they were deep in conversation with the other girls, or possibly just nibbling their ears; one’s fingers brushed his girl’s hip, the other was going straight for the bra straps. All this lot were interested in now was shagging. That was what I hoped, anyway.
I waited until they’d turned on the landing and headed for the second flight, then got to my feet. I followed the noise up the plush Oriental carpet.
As I reached the first floor, I raised my head slowly to see them splitting off to their rooms either side of the dimly lit corridor. Diminetz and his woman carried on all the way down to the end and turned right, out of sight. The other two had a couple of goes at getting their cards into the slots of the Onity locks and finally fell into their rooms.
I legged it down the corridor, stopping short of the turn, in case Diminetz had his hand up the whippet’s skirt in his doorway or was still concentrating hard on his key card.
I eased around the corner to find that the corridor was empty. There was only one entrance, about four or five metres down, to the Presidential Suite. No surprises there, then. I shoved an ear to the door and heard muffled giggles. There would probably be a maze of different rooms in the suite, and they could be in any of them.
I pushed down gently on the handle, but of course it was locked.
I moved back towards the staircase and eventually found the cleaners’ store, and three carts loaded with bedding, towels, Aveda products, pencils and pads ready for the next day. I squeezed past them and closed the door behind me. I checked the pinnies and the contents of a couple of lockers, then the carts themselves, in case a master key card had been tucked into one of the pockets. But there was nothing.
I pulled the scrap of paper from my sock and texted the number: OK for tonight? Maybe in an hour?
8
29 August 2011
01.15 hrs
I lay facing the door with a rolled-up bath towel as a pillow, munching on the complimentary chocolate wafers that went with the sachets of Lipton’s tea. They seemed to follow me everywhere. I kept one eye in line with the gap at the bottom in case anyone passed. If Diminetz left early, I’d have to follow or intercept.
I checked the time display on my iPhone. If it didn’t happen now, it never would. I got up onto my arse and took off my Timberlands, tucking them neatly under the front cart. I had no idea why, I just felt like it. Then I put the wooden doorstop that the cleaners used while moving the carts in and out alongside them.
I eased the door open a fraction, checked up and down the corridor and moved swiftly to the stairs. My socks left a few sweat marks behind me on the lobby’s polished tiles as I got a bit of a stride on towards the desk, but I wasn’t really bothered: they’d soon evaporate. I fo
cused instead on what needed to happen when I got to the desk.
The brain has two orbs. One processes numbers and analyses information, the other is the creative bit, where we visualize things – and if you visualize situations, you can usually work out how to deal with them in advance. The more you visualize, the better you’ll do so. It might sound like something from a tree-huggers’ workshop, but it does the business.
I moved through an archway, my mind fixed on what I was going to do, when and how I was going to do it – and, more importantly still, how I was going to react if things went to rat-shit. I realized immediately there was something that might fuck it all up; I undid the steel buckle of my belt, pulled it out of my jeans, and left it on the chair I’d used earlier. The highly polished wooden top of the reception desk was the barrier between me and my target.
The TV was still jabbering in the office and I could just about make out the back of the black-haired woman’s head. It was tilted to the right, as if she was asleep, or well on the way. I put my hands on the desktop, stood on the tips of my toes and pulled myself up onto my stomach. I went rigid so I could stretch further, and my fingertips brushed the cardholders hanging by their lanyards from a row of pegs. A couple more lunges and I managed to grab one.
I padded back into the hallway, retrieved my belt and headed back up the stairs.
These things are easy to do once you get yourself into the right mind-set. You don’t faff around and write a 6,000-word thesis in your head. You just have to plan, visualize, then get on with it.
9
Timberlands back on, I shoved the wedge down the front of my jeans and headed for the Presidential Suite, picking up a laminated Do Not Disturb sign from one of the door handles on the way. I carried my belt in my left hand.
As I passed the two BG’s rooms, I gave them both a quick ear to the door. There was no noise from the first one, and the sound of music mixed with lots of grunts and moans and cries of ‘Schön! Schön!’ from the next. Either they’d suddenly become fluent in German or the porn channel on the TV was getting a good seeing-to.
I turned right, transferring my wallet from my back pocket to the more secure front. I listened for a moment at Diminetz’s door. I couldn’t hear a thing. I slid the master-card into the lock. It gave a weak bleep and a dull green LED sparked up. Keeping the belt in my left hand, I slowly pulled down the handle. The door opened about fifteen centimetres, then stopped. Diminetz had flicked on the safety bar.
Pulling it back about five centimetres, I pushed the end of the Do Not Disturb sign against the bar. The card was flexible but the plastic lamination kept it more or less rigid. That was exactly what I wanted. Like most hotel safety latches, this one consisted of a long steel U, hinged at the end attached to the frame, which fitted over a bulbous steel thumb on the back of the door. I now had to close the door as far as possible so the base of the U was as near as it could be to the end of the thumb, and therefore to disengaging. When the door was virtually shut, I pushed and jiggled the card until the catch popped.
I stepped carefully into the dim hallway and was immediately smothered by the stench of alcohol and cigars. The suite was designed like a large apartment. There were three doors in front of me, all open. A mirror-light had been left on in the bathroom, allowing me to make out shapes but not colours.
I stood and listened as I closed the door quietly behind me. I held my breath, tuning in to the new environment. There was no rush. They were asleep; if they weren’t, they would have heard me by now, or I would have heard them. The only sound was the gentle hum of the air-con.
I put the U of the latch back over the thumb, then retrieved the wooden doorstop from my jeans. I wedged it under the door as hard as I could, about three-quarters of the way along from the hinged end. Then I sat on my arse, braced both hands on the floor behind me, and pushed it in even further with the heel of my boot. I fed the end of my belt through its buckle to make a noose and got back to my feet.
The thick-pile carpet and Oriental rugs muted my movement towards the bedroom. The smells were stronger here, and a flowery perfume joined the blend. I moved to the right as I entered the room, to avoid creating a silhouette in the doorway. I three-quarters closed the door with my shoulder, and looked across a floor strewn with clothes to a bed the size of a third-world nation. Two bodies lay back to back in the middle of it, asleep, now the deal had been done, among a mess of crumpled sheets, covers, pillows and cushions.
The larger shape on the right was wheezing gently. The closer I got, the louder it became. I wrapped my right fist around the free end of the belt, keeping the noose as big as it could be. The cabinet on his side was covered with glasses and empty bottles from the minibar. He’d drowned a cigar in one of the glasses.
I spread my left hand and eased it under his head. He murmured appreciatively. He’d be thinking he was in Never Never Land, bless him, and this was just part of the fun.
But the fun wasn’t going to last long.
10
I slipped the noose over his head, stepped back and heaved the belt with both hands until it was tight around his neck. He gave a long-drawn-out groan and started to struggle, not trying to escape, just wanting to work out what was going on, and how the fuck he could breathe. By the time his brain had worked out that this was real life he was bucking and snorting like a horse.
I let go with my left hand, picked up one of the tumblers and brought it down on the side of his head a couple of times to reinforce his sense of reality.
I wrenched again with my entire body weight to try to get him off the bed. It was like trying to shift an elephant. I heard him slurp and retch as his Adam’s apple went into overtime. He’d lost the ability to swallow. If he wasn’t fully conscious by now, too bad. The mixture of sleep and alcohol wasn’t making his reactions any sharper but as his head bounced over the edge his arms flailed to break his fall.
I kicked out as soon as he hit the carpet. I wanted to come on like a savage, like I was out of control. I kept stamping and pulling, hammering my boots into his body. I got one between his legs and he curled up with a strangled grunt and grabbed onto his bollocks. The pain would be as horrendous in the pit of his stomach as it was between his legs.
The whippet stirred from her drunken sleep. Pulling on the belt with my right hand, I leaned over and grabbed a fistful of her mad hair with my left. I gave it a couple of twists and yanked her towards me. She cried out and brought up her hands. I didn’t know what she was saying but I didn’t need to. I tried to sound as gentle as possible as I pulled her towards me.
‘Sssh …’
I planted a boot firmly on Diminetz’s face and kept the pressure on the belt to make sure that was where his hands stayed. It’s a natural instinct to fight against the thing you think is going to kill you, and in this case the thing was round his neck, stopping his body getting oxygen. I wasn’t aiming for total restriction. Twenty per cent of your oxygen is needed to service your brain, and his brain was what I was there to probe.
The skin prickled on my back as the moisture broke cover. I pulled the whippet up close and treated Diminetz to another couple of kicks before slamming my boot back down on his face.
‘Sssh …’
I waited for them both to calm down. They couldn’t see much of me in the gloom but I hoped they’d feel at least the noise was comforting.
As Diminetz continued to fight for breath, the whippet was flat out, belly down, head over the edge of the bed, a few centimetres from the top of my boot. I twisted her head round, bent towards her and whispered, ‘You speak English?’
She tried shaking her head as she mumbled away in local but the pain got in the way.
I looked down at what I could see of her face and gave her another reassuring sssh. I let go of her and pulled out my iPhone. Her skeletal shoulders heaved as she, too, tried to fill her lungs.
Lena answered after three rings: ‘You have him?’
‘Yep. Tell this woman he’s with that, i
f she stays calm, she won’t get—’
I heard a rustle below me.
Shit!
The whippet was on her feet and sprinting for the door like I’d just fired a starting pistol. Her feet snagged in the kit they’d tossed on the floor and she stumbled, but not for long. I followed her, dragging Diminetz with me as fast as I could, but she’d made it to the main door by the time I exited the bedroom.
She pulled and jerked frantically at the handle, breaking into sobs of fear and frustration as she realized it wasn’t going to open. Dragging Diminetz with me, I caught up with her. The doorstop had lived up to its name – but she didn’t even seem to have noticed I’d swung the security latch back into place.
I grabbed another handful of hair and yanked her down, then turned and dragged them both back towards the bed like a psychopath in a cheap horror movie.
I tied the free end of the belt as tightly as I could to the in-pipe of the nearest radiator. If Diminetz struggled, he’d choke.
‘Nick?’ Lena’s voice was coming from my jacket pocket.
11
Everything had calmed down. The dim light was helping; it was for me, anyway. Like the other two, I was taking big gulps of air by now, trying to get my breathing back to normal after this little bit of excitement. Sweat dripped down my back.
Diminetz was more switched on than I’d thought he’d be after seeing him in action down at the bar. He wasn’t flapping: he seemed to be conserving his energy as best he could while trying to get into a comfortable position to work out what the fuck to do next. He leaned back to get the most out of the couple of milli metres’ play in the belt. He wanted to get his brain working as much as I did.
‘Nick? You OK? You OK?’