by Andy McNab
I was waiting in one of the drabber ones: the consultation fees hadn’t stretched to a can or two of Dulux in the last couple of decades, and they hadn’t been chucked in the direction of the central heating either.
Apitted brass chandelier hung from a sepia moulding above my head, casting enough light over the carpet and furniture to make it painfully obvious that they could have done with a bit of a steam clean. Shabby or chic, it didn’t seem to make much difference to the bill. Whatever you were there for, you came out a few hundred quid lighter. A clock on the mantelpiece ticked away the minutes, and the pounds.
Fuck it, I wasn’t exactly spoilt for options. The NHS needed all sorts of details that I’d got out of the habit of providing, and BUPA weren’t much better. The Firm had never provided health insurance for people in my line of work, and without a bank account I was willing to divulge, I couldn’t set up my own. My credit history was non-existent. I’d slipped out of the frame years ago, when I’d left the army; I hadn’t paid tax since I’d picked up my discharge payslip. So I had to come to places like this, pay cash, and get on with it. I wasn’t complaining. The less anyone knew about Nick Stone, the better.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr Stone.’ The accent was East Coast, but it would have been equally at home in LA or Jerusalem. Dr Max Kleinmann carried a large brown folder with my name splattered all over it, but he didn’t look happy to see me.
His expression was as grim as the weather and made sterner still by his black-framed glasses. Was he suffering under the usual burdens of marriage, mortgages and school fees, or was he just pissed off not to be on Rodeo Drive?
His dark, tightly curled hair was thinning on top, and a patch of stubble sprouted from above his Adam’s apple where he’d failed to zap it with his razor. The combo made him look a bit ridiculous, and that cheered me up for some reason. Perhaps it would help me take what he was about to say to me less seriously.
‘I just wanted to be sure I was seeing what I was seeing …’ He came and sat opposite me, on my side of his desk. ‘I wish I had better news for you.’
I turned back towards the window.
‘You OK, Mr Stone? You still with me?’
Of course I was. I just didn’t know what to say. I came out with the first thing that hit what was left of my mind. ‘That’s me fucked, is it?’
He didn’t even blink. ‘This is where the hard work starts. Let me show you …’
I followed him over to a light box on the wall. He hit a switch and it flickered into life. He slid the scan under the retaining clips.
He pointed to the tiny shadow on the right side of my brain. ‘This lesion, I’m afraid, is the problem. We know it as a glioblastoma multiforme, a particularly virulent type of astrocytoma. It’s a high-grade tumour, which tends to grow quite quickly. It’s the most common type of primary malignant brain tumour in adults. I’m surprised the symptoms aren’t worse. You have headaches, nausea, drowsiness?’
‘Yeah, all that. Listen, Doc, I don’t need to know all the technical bollocks. Just - can you zap it?’
‘With treatment it can be made bearable.’ He breathed in slowly. ‘Mr Stone, have you anyone waiting for you downstairs?’
‘No, there’s no one. No one to call, no one to worry about.’
At last Kleinmann was looking a little happier. He wouldn’t have to trot out the usual bullshit, shepherding me and my loved ones through the emotional labyrinth that led from here to fuck knew where. He could just get down to business.
He pushed his glasses further up his nose and leant forward to take a closer look at the tumour, in case it had changed into something nice like a Teletubby in the last few minutes. I found myself doing the same, examining the scan as if I knew what the fuck I was looking at.
‘You say it’ll keep growing?’
It was hard to believe that something so insignificant was going to finish me off. I’d always imagined it would be something a bit bigger, something more like the diameter of an RPG, a rifle butt or at least a 7.62mm round, but this little fucker was no more than pea-sized. Checking out like this? It felt so … pedestrian …
I tried to smile. ‘I always wondered what a death warrant looked like. Does it have a use-by date?’
I turned away and went back to my chair. I didn’t need to see any more. Looking wasn’t going to change anything.
Kleinmann followed me. ‘Like I said, Mr Stone, this is where the hard work starts. Chemotherapy and radiation treatment, that’s going to help, and there is—’
‘But will that nail it?’
Kleinmann sat down opposite me. ‘No.’ He flicked his coat over his legs like a woman adjusting her skirt. ‘It could keep you going for six months, possibly longer. But without any treatment? Two months, maybe. We can’t stop the pressure on the brain increasing. Of course, if you need a second opinion—’
‘Don’t worry, Doc, no second opinions. It’s there, I’ve seen it.’
‘What about the treatment? Would you like to go ahead with the chemo and radiation? The pain is going to get worse. There could be weight loss, maybe incontinence, vomiting still to come. But I will give you some drugs to help you in the short term.’
I got up and headed for the coat hooks. ‘Thanks, I’ll take whatever Smarties you’re offering. But chemo and all that gear? I don’t think so.’
Kleinmann sprang to his feet. ‘There are far more advanced treatments available in the US - or Italy, if you want to be closer to home. I could recommend some excellent clinics …’
I bet he could. With a nice little kickback if I took him up on the offer. ‘I think I’m going to handle this my own way.’
‘Let me give you some details of support groups, counselling—’
‘I don’t need any of that.’ I shrugged on my coat, then paused. ‘Out of interest, any reason I got it? Just one of those things?’
‘You have an unusual amount of tissue scarring. You appear to have taken a great deal of blunt trauma to the cerebral cortex over a number of years. Are you a boxer, maybe?’
I shook my head.
‘When the grey matter is shaken about over a sustained period of time it can cause irreparable damage - and in extreme cases provoke conditions such as yours.’
‘Thanks for that, Doc.’ I gave Kleinmann a slap on the shoulder. ‘I hope your next appointment’s a nice boob job.’
I made for the door, not knowing quite what I felt. It wasn’t fear. Fuck it, we’ve all got to die some day. It was more frustration. I didn’t want to end on a dull note. Better to burn out than fade away, I’d always thought. Better to be a tiger for a day than a sheep for a year; to die quick standing up than live for years on my knees. All the shit I’d seen on soldiers’ T-shirts the world over actually meant something today.
‘No, no - wait, Mr Stone. You’re going to need to control the pain as the symptoms worsen.’ He disappeared for a minute or two and came back with a large bottle of shiny red pills. ‘Take two of these every six hours.’
I nodded.
‘And please, take this information.’ He waved a brown A4 folder at me, stuffed with leaflets and flyers. ‘It’s all in there - treatments, support groups, help lines. Read them, think about it.’
I took the folder and stuffed it in the nearest wastepaper basket, then headed back towards my 911 waiting faithfully in the rain.
3
16.15 hrs
The storm pounded against the triple glazing.
For about the hundredth time in the last hour, I reached for the mobile, twisting and turning it in my hand before putting it back down again.
What the fuck was I going to say to her?
Did I need to say anything?
It was only six months since I’d first held Anna in my arms. Even then I’d had the feeling I’d known her all my life. We were standing among the wreckage of an aircraft full of dead men and drug dollars I’d shot down in Russia. We’d met at an arms fair press conference in Tehran two weeks earlier. I wa
s working undercover for Julian; she was investigating a corrupt Russian’s links with Ahmadinejad and the Iranian ayatollahs.
She said she wouldn’t have touched me with a ten-foot pole if she could have sorted it on her own. Then she gave me the kind of smile that makes your knees go funny. I’d first set eyes on her when she was giving the Russian a hard time in front of the world’s press. She was a dead ringer for the girl from Abba with blonde hair and high cheekbones. I’d fancied her big-time. I used to sit in the NAAFI as a sixteen-year-old boy soldier with my pint of Vimto and a steak and kidney pie, waiting for Top of the Pops to hit the screen. ‘Dancing Queen’ had already been number one for about five years, and I took my seat in front of the TV every week hoping her reign would be extended.
This amazing woman had helped me choose furniture for the flat, and in between writing investigative pieces and flying around saving the world she’d come and stay. Only a few days at a time, mind, but for me that was almost long-term. The only thing we’d fallen out over was her smoking. She wasn’t about to be sent onto the balcony to do it.
I headed for the kitchen sink, swallowed a couple of Kleinmann’s Smarties and stuck my mouth under the designer tap. I clicked the kettle on and told myself I had to bite the bullet.
Did I really want to do this? Did I really need to do this?
I had to. I didn’t want her standing in the wreckage with me again. She deserved so much better.
I twisted and turned the mobile in my hand. Why drag her down with me?
My arse rested against the stainless-steel cooker. It would always be this shiny. I had all the toys now, but I was never going to turn into Jamie Oliver.
Finally, I stabbed a finger at the keypad and dialled.
‘Jules, mate? Count me in for Saturday.’
4
Saturday, 13 March
14.00 hrs
Chelsea were at home to West Ham. Kick-off wasn’t for another hour, but I still had to park so far from the ground I might as well have walked all the way from Docklands. I still preferred it to taking the tube, especially the way I was feeling.
I passed the Vietnamese restaurant on the corner by Fulham Broadway where Jules came to be deprived of wheat and dairy practically every night. Fuck that. I went into the station and came out again with two big frothy coffees.
I walked the last couple of hundred metres up the Fulham Road and flashed Julian’s spare season ticket at the turnstiles. The concourse was buzzing with blue-shirted fans clutching plastic pint glasses of lager, and overseas visitors taking pictures of each other eating expensive hot-dog baguettes. I made my way through them to the Block A steps. The stadium gradually came into view as I climbed. It was huge and, apart from a few bored-looking stewards in fluorescent orange jackets, virtually empty.
Julian was in his usual seat in row twelve, studying the programme with the kind of concentration he’d normally save for a PhD thesis.
‘Oi, mate …’
He turned round, all smiles. I made my way along the row and handed him his coffee.
‘Nightmare parking, as usual. If you were a true friend you’d support a team closer to my home.’
‘I don’t know why you don’t use the tube.’
‘No way, mate. After a lifetime of being poor, it’s the 911 everywhere for me, including the corner shop. You posh lads think it’s good to cycle and take public transport, and I’m glad. There aren’t enough spaces as it is.’
Jules shook his head and smiled. It was the same banter every time, but he didn’t care. On the phone, he sounded like he’d shared a school desk with David Cameron. In the flesh, his closely cropped hair, clean shave, sharp suit and glowing ebony skin made him look like he should have been out there with Drogba on the pitch, not watching from the stands.
Posh lad or not, I enjoyed his company. I certainly wasn’t here for the football. The last time I’d gone to a game more than twice in the same year, I was a twelve-year-old bunking over the fences at Millwall. I didn’t really like it even then - I just went for a laugh, a pie and a can of Fanta. But it was no picnic at Millwall: it always ended with a brawl.
I fished in my pocket for the season ticket.
He shooed it away. ‘You’ll be needing it for next time.’
This was the third time this had happened. ‘How much do these things cost?’
‘Enough to make my eyes water.’
‘Another burden on the bleeding taxpayer.’
‘When was the last time you paid tax?’ Julian flashed his perfect white teeth. ‘Come to that, when was the first time?’
I gave him a 500-watt grin, even though I suddenly had a head full of pain. I palmed two Smarties and swallowed them with a gulp of Pret A Manger’s frothiest.
We both stared out over the pitch.
‘I’ve been giving that job a bit of thought.’
Julian glanced behind us. People had started to fill the nearby seats but there was nobody within earshot. His eyebrow arched towards his immaculately sculpted hairline. ‘What about Granny’s nest egg?’
‘She always wanted me to work for a living …’
Jules pulled out his BlackBerry and hit the secure speech icon before dialling. That was a good sign. His spare hand covered the mouthpiece like he thought I’d added lip-reading to my CV.
He closed down and put it back in his pocket. ‘OK, you’re on. But you’ll need to give me a lift in that penis extension of yours.’ Jules got to his feet. ‘We have an audience with the top man. He’ll meet us in three hours. The Blues will have to win without us.’
‘Not a chance. West Ham will kick the shit out of them. Three-nil, I reckon.’
5
GCHQ Cheltenham
17.23 hrs
I came off the M5 at junction eleven and followed the A40 east towards Cheltenham. Just before the town, I turned off at a roundabout. Jules switched the radio to medium wave to tune into Talksport.
They were waffling about football and, of course, I’d been way off the mark. Chelsea had won 4-1.
We pulled onto Hubble Road. GCHQ had been the most secretive of Britain’s three intelligence services since way back, and I always reckoned they chose this location on the edge of a spa town in rural Gloucestershire just to add to the mystique. While MI5 and MI6 gathered human intelligence, GCHQ’s main mission was soaking up the signals equivalent, via the interception of phone calls, faxes, emails or any other electronic means. They monitored the airwaves for any vital snippet that might stop a terrorist attack in the UK or help the military in Afghanistan. They were also tasked with protecting the government’s communications against attack by enemy code-breakers.
This was Boffin Central, where some of the world’s most powerful computers played tunes for people with brains the size of a planet. I smiled to myself as I remembered the TV commercial for Tefal. A group of white-coated boffins with extra large heads hovered over a new kettle or iron, making sure it was perfect for the likes of me. They must have filmed it right here.
The man we were going to meet was Julian’s new boss. The whole of the British intelligence community’s new boss, by the sound of it. Tresillian had been made uber-chief of all three services - MI5, MI6 and GCHQ - a position that had only just been created.
‘There’s a thread of continuity at last. If GCHQ picks up a whisper, he can give the order for SIS to take immediate action. None of the old red tape.’
‘Or the old checks and balances?’
I slowed. There was a barrier across the road ahead, manned by two guys in uniform. The first layer of security. Jules flashed his pass and we were waved through.
‘Seriously new broom. Actually - new broom, old handle. His family go back to before the Domesday Book.’
I nodded. The most powerful people the world over are the ones we’ll never hear about. Like those who are so rich they make sure they never feature on Forbes’ List or the Sunday Times Richest.
‘That’s nice for him. But is he any good?’
‘Shit-fucking-hot, if he says so himself.’
I was so surprised I took my eye off the road. I’d never heard him swear.
He directed me to the car park at the front of the huge steel building. Everyone called it the Doughnut. Viewed from above, that was exactly what it looked like.
I drew level with a black BMW 5 that was three up.
Julian nodded. ‘Tresillian’s already here.’
‘Hope he’s got the kettle on.’
The driver was still behind the wheel, in weekend clothes. The engine was running. He was watching a DVD on a windscreen-mounted player. The two in the back were in suits that looked just a little too small for them. They were waiting for their principal to finish his meeting with us so they could take him home.
The driver’s window came down and Jules said hello.
As I got out, I recognized a scene from The Transporter. I nodded. ‘Great movie.’
I got no reply. The window slid back up.
A sign by the main doors said cameras, mobile phones and recording equipment or similar electronic devices were forbidden in the main building.
Jules handed the woman at Reception some ID that looked like a credit card and she swiped it through a reader. ‘Good evening, Mr Drogba.’ She passed him a form to sign, checked it, and passed me a red badge. ‘If you could hand that back in when you leave, Mr Lampard?’ She didn’t bat an eyelid.
We hadn’t even got past the main reception area before we hit another layer of security. This time it included the electronic equivalent of a full body search. We carried on and followed a circular walkway that ran inside the building. Everyone called it the Street. It felt a bit like being in an airport terminal, with open-plan offices leading off both sides. Glass cases displayed exhibits from GCHQ’s history, including the radio set used by the Portland spy ring to send messages back to Russia in the fifties and sixties.
‘I don’t know what the layout was before, Nick, but now the linguists and analysts work on the upper floor. They’ve had to squash up to accommodate CSOC.’