by Andy McNab
My two handlers dragged me to the first door at ground level. They weren’t fucking around. I was propelled into a bright, sterile, air-conditioned room, whiter than white, which smelt of Elastoplast. I was manhandled into a reclining chair surrounded by more grey machines than PC World. I tried to twist onto my left side to relieve some of the pain in my hands.
Bruce reappeared with a Gurkha kukri, which glinted in the bright fluorescent light. I suddenly made the connection: he was ex-military for sure. One of my two new best mates grabbed me by the hair, forced me to lean forwards. Bruce sliced through what turned out to be a plasticuff and they strapped each of my over-inflated wrists to the chair arms.
A third guy, in green scrubs, wheeled an ultrasound machine towards me, threw a Velcro strap around my biceps and pulled a metal trolley laden with cannulas and syringes towards us. He wiped the crook of my arm with an alcohol swab and I watched the needle plunge into a vein. My blood surged into the plastic cylinder. He removed the hardware and pressed a cotton-wool pad on the site of the needle.
He ripped my shirt open, tore my pouch off my neck and pushed me back hard into the chair. I arched the small of my back and was rewarded with a smack across the head.
He ripped the lid off a tube of KY Jelly and emptied the contents onto my abdomen. He slid a cold metal disc across the surface of my skin, working his way in small circular movements towards my heart, then up and down my sides.
The routine was absolutely silent, apart from the odd internal gurgling sound through the loudspeaker. I watched fuzzy black-and-white images flicker across the monitor. I looked at the raw and bloody wounds encircling my wrists and waggled my sausage-shaped fingers. I’d need my hands to function sooner rather than later.
They undid the straps as soon as the scan was finished, grabbed both my arms and frogmarched me out of the Portakabin. Bruce choreographed the whole performance, but only with nods. I stumbled as I tried to keep up. All I could hear was laboured breathing; all I could smell was stale nicotine on the nearest guy’s breath.
I tried as best I could to remain upright. We swung left, to the next Portakabin along. This one was every bit as bright and sterile as the first, but had a lead-lined screen and control panel to the left of the door and an X-ray machine with a robotic arm in the far corner. They dragged me over to something altogether more medieval alongside it – a wooden H-shaped contraption – and spread-eagled me over it. Nylon straps were pulled tight across my arms, legs and chest.
Mr Green inserted an X-ray plate and arranged the tip of the arm a couple of inches from my chest. Everyone disappeared behind the protective screen and a low electrical hum momentarily filled the room. He emerged, inserted another plate and repositioned the arm.
All I could hear now was the squeak of this guy’s trainers on the highly polished floor; Bruce and the other two just sat tight. I started to find it hard to breathe. There was no point moaning about it: no one was going to help me. Better to use the time to recover, trying to suck in what oxygen I could.
I heard a muttered exchange, then the straps were released. I tried to put in a lengthier stride or two to get my blood circulating as we headed back towards the Toyota, but almost immediately got a toecap in the back of the knee.
We bypassed the Toyota and the two vans as Mr Green went back to his furry family in the people-carrier. We were heading towards a row of three shabby blue cabins positioned some distance away from the clean white ones, like they were the poor relations. Each had a wire-mesh-covered window and the middle one had a wooden bench beneath it. Bruce threw open the door, still gripping the kukri.
There was a stained rectangle of foam in the corner and the floor was littered with ripped cardboard and all sorts of grimy shit. They dropped me onto the foam and I was immediately enveloped by a cloud of construction dust.
Someone grabbed my left hand, brought out another plasticuff and fastened it to a heavy-duty metal ring bolted into the wall. I felt a short, sharp stab and looked down. Bruce had jabbed another auto-jet into my thigh.
Rapid heartbeat, dry mouth, vision beginning to go hazy.
I thought I heard the door slam.
3
I awoke in a semi-daze, my nose half blocked by the grime and dust. There was a sudden pain between my legs but I couldn’t work out why. I thought I must have been dreaming. Then it was obvious I wasn’t. I looked down; a clear plastic catheter was being pulled out of my cock. Seconds later, Bruce walked out with a sample bag half filled with yellow liquid. The door closed and a bolt was thrown.
I raised my legs and used my free hand to try to drag my jeans and boxers back up. I managed to tug them about halfway up my thighs, then gave up. It was like I had extra-thick gloves on: I still couldn’t feel my fingers. I checked my left hand, as if a miracle might have happened, but it was still firmly attached to the ring. Looking at it closely I realized that it had probably been bolted into the wall of this shit-hole just for me. I relieved the pain a fraction by moving as close to the wall as I could then supporting my elbow to take the pressure off my cuffed wrist. Now I just needed time to sort out my head.
I had no idea how long I’d been unconscious. My brain was still semi-submerged. My vision was blurred. Everything was running at half speed. The auto-jets had probably mostly contained scopolamine, with a morphine chaser. The combo induced a state known as twilight sleep. Once used for obstetrics, it was now considered far too dangerous – except when, like the British and American intelligence services, you’re not too concerned about a call from InjuryLawyers4U.
I opened my eyes again. Lying next to me was a drinks can covered with Chinese writing and pink and orange motifs, and half a dozen bite-sized cakes in a clear plastic container. The rest of the floor was littered with the remains of cardboard boxes – some intact and neatly folded, others just torn and discarded – and plastic parcel-ties of varying widths, colours and sizes.
I reached out as far as I could with my free arm, working it like a dredger as I scooped up the food and drink and dragged them across the steel floor towards me.
I tore at the cellophane cake packaging with my teeth, smearing the greasy, sugary film on the inside of it across my cheek. I had no idea when I was next going to be able to eat or drink, so I got the contents down my neck as quickly as possible, eating them straight out of the box, like a dog.
I tried and failed to open the ring-pull on the can with my index finger and ended up using my front teeth. I drank the sweet, fizzy orange all in one go, in case I didn’t get the chance to pick the can up again, or dropped it when I did. Then I shoved it under the foam, away from prying eyes.
I lay down, covered with greasy crumbs. My left hand felt like it was about to explode, but I managed to close my eyes. I had no idea how long I stayed like that, drifting in and out of my twilight daze, but I began to feel better. Maybe the sugar rush was working its magic.
My hands were still swollen but my fingers started to sting, which was a good sign. I lifted the corner of the foam and fished out the can. Gripping it in my secured hand, I squeezed its sides between the thumb and forefinger of my free one until they touched in the middle. I bent top and bottom together, then apart, then together, then apart, until the thin metal cracked and I was able to tear it into separate pieces.
I gripped the base section in my secured hand and looked for the best place to start peeling the sides like an orange. I found what I wanted and started to pick and tear. My fingers slipped a couple of times, slicing themselves open on the razor-sharp alloy. But there wasn’t time to worry about that: the pain was nothing compared to what they’d inflict on me if I didn’t get away.
I aimed to keep peeling until I had about five millimetres of serrated blade at the base of the can. That would be enough to wound, but not so much that it would buckle when it made contact with flesh and bone.
4
Using a combination of hands and teeth, I finally sorted the bottom of the can and slid it back under the fo
am.
Before starting the same process with the top, I bit a chunk out of the foam to give my fingers some sort of protection. Then I ripped off strips of the metal with my teeth, slicing the inside of my bottom lip in the process. I tasted blood. I spat the next couple of pieces onto the foam, where they sat in a nest of pink saliva. Finally I had what I needed: an aluminium tool that was going to free me from this fucking plasticuff.
I heard the whirr of a roller shutter. Light and sound spilled through the mesh as a vehicle entered the compound and engine noise bounced off the Portakabin walls.
I brushed all the fragments of can under the foam, then bent and picked up the best-shaped sliver of metal with my tongue. I worked it between my gum and the inside of my cheek, in case they found the rest of my handiwork.
Trying as best I could to hold up my jeans, I managed to lever myself onto my knees, then, painfully slowly, to my feet. I was still stooped like an ape-man because of the plasticuff, and blood and saliva dribbled from my mouth as I tried and failed to reach the window. All I could see from below it was the top floor of the white Portakabins on my far left, the roof of the Toyota and, as I continued to watch, the roof of one of the dark blue Merc vans. I couldn’t see the second.
I heard doors being slid open and the welcoming, happy-to-be-here lilt of Sophie’s voice. I couldn’t make out what she was saying at first, but the volume steadily increased. Then I heard, ‘Yes, he’s in excellent condition. We should have everything coordinated by the start of next week. I’m confident of it. Don’t worry, we take great pride in everything we do.’
I sank back down on the foam and played fucked as two heads appeared from beneath the mesh-covered window. They must have stepped up onto the bench. Sophie was on the left, all teeth and hair.
The older Chinese face beside her only came up to her ear. Slick grey hair, a side parting, collar and tie, the shoulders and lapels of what I assumed was a grey business suit. They both looked down at me like I was the runt of the litter.
‘Well, this is Nick. Nick has been a very naughty boy, telling me he was a customer when he wasn’t.’ She turned to her new mate. ‘Nonetheless, I can assure you that he is the perfect candidate.’
She turned back in my direction. Her smile was still in place, but her eyes told a different story.
She glanced down to her right as the bolt was thrown and Bruce appeared with a Velcro strap and a sterile, shrink-wrapped syringe pack.
His English was almost public schoolboy. ‘Stay where you are. Stay calm and I won’t harm you.’
He wrapped the Velcro round my free arm, snapped on a set of rubber gloves, then tore open the sterile pack and started to set it up. I kept my hands squeezed to hide the cuts.
Sophie continued with the sales pitch. ‘The X-rays, ultrasounds and blood tests demonstrate he’s in excellent health, just like I said. There’s no sign of nicotine, drug or alcohol abuse.’
As the needle punctured my vein I swallowed another gob of blood and saliva to prevent them seeing the condition of my mouth. So far, he hadn’t noticed the can was missing.
The moment the syringe was full, Bruce plunged it into a vial, which he then poked through the mesh. The Chinese guy checked the seal and slipped it into his top pocket.
Bruce undid the Velcro, leaving the puncture to bleed down my arm and onto the foam.
Sophie nodded for Bruce to leave. ‘You’ve seen that the blood matches the other samples and that everything is in order. There were some residual traces of sedative, but nothing else remotely abnormal in the preliminary tests. I think you will be very, very pleased with what we have here.’
The door slammed shut and the bolt was thrown again. Both heads disappeared from the window frame, then Sophie’s bobbed up once more. ‘Why don’t you both go to the office and I’ll be with you in a minute?’
I couldn’t be arsed to get a lecture from her, so I jumped in straight away. ‘Where’s Katya?’
‘Nowhere you’d expect, Nick.’
‘She still alive?’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘Does Anna really have CKD?’
‘Did your husband?’
She beamed. ‘It seems we both like telling stories.’
I swallowed another mouthful of blood and saliva, wedging my tongue against the sliver of aluminium to make sure I didn’t lose it.
She shrugged. ‘But it doesn’t really matter now, does it?’
I straightened my back against the wall. ‘Now you’re going to cut me up? Kidney, heart, liver? Make a few thousand dollars out of me.’
She gave the sort of patronizing laugh my bitch aunties did when I asked a question they thought was stupid. ‘Nick, you’re so last century. I’ve told you, we’re on the cutting edge here – if you’ll forgive the pun.’ She tilted her head. ‘Vital organs no longer have the greatest value. Do you know how much bone marrow you have in that body of yours?’ I did, actually, but she didn’t wait for my answer. ‘Someone of your age and build will have about two point six kilos. We’re going to sell that at twenty-three thousand US per gram. We won’t be able to suck it all out, but that still makes you worth fifty-seven million US, even before we auction off the other goodies.’
I made sure I could still feel the aluminium against my cheek after my next swallow.
‘Even your antibodies could be worth up to about seven million. And your DNA – we might get as much as nine million for that. Which brings us back to your organs: perhaps another million? So you know what, Nick? When you wake up and say you feel like a million dollars, that should really be seventy-four million. And if that doesn’t give you a good enough feeling, think of all the other people you’re going to make happy. I feel sorry for you, really I do – you fucked up, you got caught. But look on the bright side. You’re not going to be wasted.’
‘So why are you fucking about with livers and kidneys?’
She shrugged again. ‘That’s what we do. But, as you’ve seen, our new business is almost ready to roll. It’s taken us three years to set up, to develop the know-how, to attract the right people, the backing. And now you’re going to be the guest of honour at our grand opening!’
And her head disappeared from the frame.
5
I moved the aluminium sliver up between my front teeth with my tongue and spent about ten minutes rolling it tight.
Plasticuffs are made of polycarbon resin. They’re a grown-up version of the used plastic ties that littered the floor, operated by a roller-block retention system, a little square buckle at one end that locks onto the teeth of the cuff itself and holds it in place. Normally the only way to get out of these things is by cutting them off, like Bruce had done with his kukri.
I manoeuvred my tightly rolled aluminium pin between the roller block and the teeth of the cuff and pushed. The pin slipped. At my second attempt I put pressure on the cuff with my secured hand to expose more of the area where the cuff went into the roller block, worked the pin back into position using my mouth and my free hand, and bit down hard. The block disengaged and the cuff started to come undone.
I widened the loop but didn’t undo it totally. If they came back, I’d need to look like I was still their prisoner. I squeezed my swollen hand out of the cuff, popped the pin back into my mouth and stood up.
I pulled up my boxers and jeans. I didn’t button them or fasten the belt because that wasn’t how they’d expect to find me, but at least they were over my arse and the zip held them in place.
Keeping well away from the window, I scanned what I could of the warehouse. I saw the Toyota and a left-hand-drive Merc van with PRC plates. Fuck knows where the other had gone – and, more importantly, for how long – but this was a good sign. Absent vehicles meant absent people.
I couldn’t see any sign of a camera in my cabin, but these things were so small I couldn’t be sure. But if there was one on the roof, looking down at the door and window, I’d soon know.
The installation was a new-build. There weren’t any t
yre marks on the polished concrete floor. It had the feel of a council leisure centre: white concrete blocks about two-thirds of the way up the walls, then pressed steel. The whole area was roughly the size of half a football pitch – plenty big enough to house a bunch of Portakabins.
A steel landing ran from the top of the steps that Sophie had climbed when we arrived, along the front of all four cabins. There were lights on at the top level, but I couldn’t see any movement. There wasn’t any down below either.
I moved to the door and started to push – first at the top third, then at the lower third, trying to work out where the bolt was. I was sure I’d heard only one being thrown. Both top and bottom gave a little, so it was probably in the middle.
I crawled beneath the window and rose to my feet to its left. The mesh was chain-link with a plastic covering, anchored by steel bars on the outside of the frame. It gave a little when pressed, but unless I suddenly found a pair of bolt-cutters under the foam, this wasn’t my way out.
I pushed my head against the mesh to stretch it as far as I could. It budged just a centimetre or so, but enough for me to see the far side of the door and, most importantly, what was keeping it shut. The bolt was just over a metre away. It was a rusty old thing, about eight inches long. All I had to do now was find a way of pulling the fucking thing open.
I eased myself back down, checking above me and along the walls in case I’d missed a hatch. I hadn’t. Either I was going to open the door and get out covertly, or it would be opened for me and I’d have to fight my way out. The first option was favourite, because it gave me some element of control. The second was a lottery at best – and at worst a gangfuck.
I heard the sound of footfall on the steel walkway, then voices. Maybe there was a camera after all.