NS13 Zero Hour (2010)

by Andy McNab

  Glass number two went into the simmering water. It was going to take about twenty minutes for the alcohol and moisture to evaporate and leave a residue of white powder.

  The next stage was to add the acid. Concentrated sulphuric was a lot harder to come by, these days, because of anti-terrorist legislation. Unless you’re an industrial chemist, buying it arouses suspicion. My original plan had been to drain some of the Panda’s battery acid, but the Passat was a bonus. Or so I thought. There was more of it, but it was a fucker to get out. Everything under the bonnet was covered and sealed to make it look all nice and Gucci. Nobody serviced these things any more: they just plugged them into diagnostic machines.

  I poured out a third of the contents of each cell into one of the smaller cooking pots. Even depleted, the battery would still work. The battery acid had to be boiled until all the white fumes had disappeared. It had to be seriously concentrated.

  The method for making picric acid hadn’t changed for years. It was discovered in the late 1700s, and initially used as a yellow dye for silk and wool. Its explosive potential was discovered a hundred years later. The problem was, this stuff was so strong it attacked common metals like lead and copper to create even more dangerous salts, which were sensitive to shock. During the Boer War, the artillery boys threw shells into their guns and blew themselves up. There were some massive explosions in factories and ammunition ships. Tin and aluminium were the only metals picric acid didn’t corrode. Millions of tons of the stuff were used in bombs and grenades in the First World War. They were all coated with tin to prevent the acid contaminating the metallic shell. Even so, munitions factory workers were nicknamed canaries because of the way it stained their skin.

  Then they discovered that picric acid was only a nightmare in powder form. Even these days, if the powder is stored in a glass or plastic bottle, you have to take enormous care not to trap grains of it in the threads of the bottle and cap. It’s so volatile that just unscrewing the top will make it detonate.

  I was going to miss the kick of being able to get shit like this together and see the results. The payoff would be sitting on the flight to Russia with Anna on one side and somebody tapping away on his laptop on the other and me thinking, When you watch the news today you’ll see what I’ve been up to.

  I could see the white powder starting to settle in glass number two as the water simmered gently around it. I took the pan off the cooker and replaced it with the one holding the battery acid. It wasn’t long before white haze was rising and wafting round the lock-up. Once it had stopped, I poured some of the concentrated acid into glass number three. Then, using the plastic knife, I slowly shifted the white powder out of glass number two and added it to the other so it became a white liquid.

  All I had to do now was add a bit of potassium, before placing glass number three in the water and letting that boil down until the mixture turned a yellow-orange colour.

  The final stage would be to filter it through a second sock placed over glass number four. But this time it wouldn’t be the liquid I was after. I wanted what stayed behind in the sock. The yellow and - thankfully - wet lumps that remained were what this process was all about. Once dried, they would turn into one big fuck-off unstable explosive that could be detonated very easily by heat or an electric charge. For now, however, it would be stored wet in a double layer of freezer bags, twisted, folded over and fastened with the wire retainer to keep the air out and the acid wet. I would keep filling the bags until I had enough.

  6

  Friday, 19 March

  07.20 hrs

  I’d fallen asleep in Brogues’s camel-hair coat, lying on the footwell carpets from the Passat. I’d spread them out on the floor alongside my four bags of explosive.

  I forced myself up off the concrete. There was plenty more to do.

  The first thing was to empty the water container to prepare it for its next payload. I opened the tap and let it run out on the floor. Next I got hold of the set of blister-packed halogen bulbs. The plastic packaging was so rigid I had to use the Chinese Leatherman to make any headway.

  These bulbs were just what I needed. They were small, they banged out a huge amount of instant heat, and for their size they were more robust than normal bulbs, which were increasingly hard to find anyway because of EU green legislation. These ones would probably be banned as well when the law makers found out they could be used as detonators.

  I pulled one out. It was about the size of the tip of my little finger. It had two loops of metal at the bottom for terminals.

  The mosque digital alarm clock was next out of Santa’s Bergen. I shoved in four AA batteries, then yanked out the leads that connected the power source to the speaker at the back. I twisted the bare wires around each of the bulb loops and set the clock to 08.00. Then I set the alarm for 08.01. Bang on time, instead of me getting the muezzin’s wail, the bulb lit up. After three seconds it was hot to the touch - not enough to detonate anything, but that didn’t matter for now. I was going to do something else to the bulb to bring it up to speed. I turned off the alarm clock to save the batteries and put it down.

  The twenty-litre container had emptied. I picked it up, together with the length of clear plastic tubing I’d bought from a shop that sold tropical fish, and headed for the Passat.

  I opened the fuel cap and shoved the tube down into the tank. With the empty container by my feet, I put the other end of the tube to my lips and sucked. My lungs filled with petrol fumes but I kept going. A few seconds later, the tube darkened. As soon as the fuel had risen to within an inch or two of the tip I slid my thumb over it and took it out of my mouth. I pointed it down into the container, pulled my thumb away and the fuel flowed.

  I remembered all the times my stepdad had sent me out nicking petrol from other people’s cars during the fuel shortage in the seventies. I was only about twelve. After that, he said there was a sugar shortage, so I used to get sent out to pocket the sugar shakers from cafes. There wasn’t a sugar shortage, of course: it was my stepdad’s way of saving a few pennies, and fuck the fact that I might get caught.

  I left the tube where it was and let the siphon do its stuff. It was time for a brew. The flow would stop as soon as the fuel in the container reached the level of the tube, which was about twenty centimetres below the neck. That would be plenty.

  I had a quick look at my G-Shock. Bradley was going to be here soon. I needed to have Angeles tucked away by then.

  I had a quick check of the telltales on the way up to see if she’d been having a nose around. They were all in place, and so was the one behind the pigeonholes. I realized I felt nowhere near as bad as I thought I would without the Smarties. I made a mental note to stab myself in the buttock next time I felt a headache coming on.

  The moment I opened the door she leapt up from the mattress and cut across the room. ‘Nick! I make tea?’

  I gave her a big thumbs-up. ‘Madness not to.’

  I looked at the sink. The mugs had been washed. Everything was laid out neatly. The milk stains and tea circles where I’d been making brews had all been cleaned. ‘You had anything to eat yet?’

  ‘No, Nick. I wait for you.’ She looked worried. ‘I touch nothing.’

  I let her get on with it while I dug around in the plastic bags for a piece of pitta. It had started to go hard. What little scabbing I had on my arse had cracked with my exertions and was starting to hurt again. I leant on my good leg and gnawed on the crispy bits around the edges of the bread.

  ‘Listen, Angeles, someone is coming to see me soon.’

  She handed me my brew. She didn’t look happy.

  ‘This one must not know that you’re here, OK? You understand?’

  It didn’t seem to register.

  ‘He must not see you. I’ll find you somewhere to hide. You’ve got to stay out of sight, yeah?’

  She seemed to like the thought of not being seen. Maybe it meant she wouldn’t be moved on.

  ‘Stay hidden until I tell you
to come out. You’ve got to be quiet. He’s going to get really pissed off if you’re here. He’s only let me use this place because he thinks I’m on my own. If he thinks anyone else is here he’ll be very angry with me. You understand?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, yes, Nick. We still leave tonight?’

  ‘No drama. Tonight. We’ll meet the friend I told you about and she will ask her friends in Moldova if what the Ukrainian men said was true.’

  I dunked my bread in the tea to soften it.

  She almost skipped back to the sink to pick up her brew.

  7

  I had an even better vantage-point from the shadows beside the window of the middle office. I could see the front door as well as back along the road towards the main.

  I checked my watch and gulped down my last couple of aspirin. They weren’t helping much with the pain in my arse, but I thought I’d try one more dose just in case. The sky was still overcast. The sun hadn’t quite given up trying to fight its way through the clouds, but it must have been tempted.

  Bradley came into view, still in exactly the same clothes, but this time gripping a heavy and expensive-looking leather overnight bag in his right hand. I watched him to the door, then headed for the stairs.

  By the time I’d got down to the fire escape on the first landing and turned to look down to the front door, he was inside and beginning to lock up.

  ‘I have everything you asked for.’

  ‘That’s great, mate. Thanks.’ I went down to meet him. ‘Half the job’s already done.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He followed me up the steps to the fire door and into the loading bay. His head bounced around the place, taking in the smell of vomit and petrol and the mess of pans and sock-covered glasses in my preparation area. The last of the sulphuric acid was still in its glass. But mostly his eyes darted between me and the Passat.

  He was desperate to know what was going on but didn’t want to ask.

  ‘He’s in the boot.’

  ‘In there? You’re sure it’s him?’

  ‘You tell me. Whoever it is, I got his sidekick as well. Don’t ask.’

  I fished out the key fob from my pocket and pressed the button. The bodies had hardened up completely. They were both curled up like Pompeii victims. Their puke- and bloodstained white shrouds only half covered them.

  I went and picked up Brogues’s camel-hair coat and extracted a slim crocodile-skin wallet. I produced a credit card with an unpronounceable name on it and tried to pass it to Bradley.

  ‘Very good.’ He didn’t want to touch it. ‘How did you do it?’

  ‘Like I said, don’t ask. That’s my job. I’m more interested in what you’ve been up to. You get the cartridges?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ He put the bag down and started to unzip it.

  I talked to the top of his gelled-back hair. ‘Have you spoken to Mission Control since we met up yesterday, last night, whenever?’

  ‘No, not at all. Why do you ask?’

  He was still hunched down by his bag, his eyes on the cooker. Mine were on the boxes of shotgun cartridges.

  ‘How many did you get?’

  ‘Twenty. When are you going to the silo?’

  ‘Tonight.’

  He nodded slowly as if the message had to sink in. ‘I think I need to know what time you will be leaving here. I need to be ready to pick up the girl.’

  ‘I’ll drop her here as soon as I’ve got her, and then I’m heading straight off. I’ll gaffer tape her up so she won’t go anywhere.’

  ‘What about the Passat?’

  ‘Like I said, everything here will be clear. I don’t know what time - nine, ten, eleven o’clock - but it’ll definitely be clear tonight and the girl will be waiting.’

  He knelt down to unload the cartridges. ‘Excellent.’

  He picked up the empty bag and we headed for the fire door.

  ‘I suppose I’ll never meet you again, will I, Mr Smith?’

  ‘No, mate, never.’

  If only he knew the real reason. Both of us would be dead really soon. I was coming to terms with that myself, but I almost felt sorry for him. He was a two-timing little shit, but all in the name of queen and country. Sadly for him, people like Bradley didn’t realize that his queen had no idea he even existed, and his country didn’t give a shit in return.

  We went back down to the front entrance. Bradley stretched out his hand. ‘Good luck, Nick.’

  ‘Thanks, mate. And you.’

  I unlocked the door and he stepped onto the road. Empty bag in hand, he carried on walking without looking back.

  8

  Back in the office, I threw open the cabinet doors. She was curled up like another Pompeii victim. Her face was creased with concern. It wasn’t about being tucked into a filing cupboard and doing her own little Anne Frank, it was more to do with winning approval. ‘I was quiet, yes? You did not hear me?’

  ‘Yep, you were quiet. Now I have to go and work, so you have to stay up here again, OK? Go back to the airbed, rest, keep warm.’

  ‘OK, Nick.’

  I followed her into the back room. ‘Not long now. We’ll go out and buy you some real clothes for when we go to see my friend. I’ll stay with you, don’t worry, and we’ll get some more food, OK?’

  She nodded.

  ‘You stay here.’

  I closed all the doors behind me and headed back to the loading bay.

  There were twenty cartridges in each of the twenty boxes, which was more than enough. In fact, it meant I could make my devices a bit bigger and a lot better.

  Laying out my ingredients as before, I got back to work. The gaffer tape was a standard two-centimetre roll. I pulled out about two metres and placed a pan on each end so it didn’t curl.

  I opened the knife bit of the Chinese Leatherman and cut the top off the first cartridge. They were old. The red waxed-cardboard body cut far too easily, and the small pellets that dropped out were lead. They’ve been steel for years now.

  After the front two-thirds of the cartridge was empty, I dug out the cotton wad that separated the shot from the propellant. I tipped the grains of propellant onto one end of the gaffer tape and an inch or two along it. I was doing pretty much the same as my stepdad used to do when he rolled his own fags, only this one packed a bit more of a punch than Gold Leaf did.

  It took just over an hour to cut and pour the full two metres. I needed to make sure that whatever propellant was touching the tape was actually stuck to the adhesive. That way, there would be continuity in the burning even if there was a break here and there among the loose stuff if the fuse got bent. Once I’d done all that, I rolled the gaffer tape nice and tight until I had two metres of fuse half a centimetre thick. I put it to one side with the picric acid, well away from where I was working.

  The next job was to make sure my bulb detonator was going to do its stuff. With the pliers part of the Chinese Leatherman, I crimped off the glass nipple to expose the insides of the bulb. I poured in propellant from one of the sixty-odd cartridges I had left over. Then I turned on the clock, set the alarm for one minute’s time, and waited. The element lit up. Within three seconds the propellant ignited in a burst of bright flame. A small cloud of cordite was left hanging in the air.

  I shook the residue off the bulb and reset the clock. I tried it again, this time without the propellant, and the light came on. I now knew the wire connections to the two terminals of the bulb were good, and the bulb itself was still working. Why use a new bulb and run the risk it was a dud?

  I moved the assembly away from everything else. The clock was the initiation device, and the bulb was the detonator. Now that they were joined, I had to make sure they didn’t do their jobs until I wanted them to. I took the batteries out and laid them to the side.

  There was just one more manufacturing task, and that was to pour the remaining propellant into two of the freezer bags, one for each charge. It took me just over an hour. When I’d finished, the bags we
nt alongside the picric acid and the fuse.

  I was almost done. All that was left was to retrieve the bags of damp picric. I cut them open and spread the yellow, claylike substance on plastic to dry. Then, making one final check that Brogues’s coat, credit cards and wallet were back in the boot of the Passat, I headed up the stairs.

  The market would be open now, and we both needed clothes for our exfil. I needed to look as clean leaving the country as I had when I came in. And Angeles, well, she just needed to look dressed.

  9

  The food stalls were piled with all kinds of products you’d normally find in a souk, from dates and spices to bags of rice and pistachios. The next one along sold nothing but second-hand clothing. Both of us blended in well. Angeles didn’t get a second glance in her gear from the House of Bling.

  I was going to keep her with me now, regardless. No way was I was going to let her stay in the safe-house with the Moldovans downstairs and a roomful of volatile explosive mixes. If she nosed around and found the bodies she might lose it completely. If she found the mix and fucked about with it she could take down the building. Only by controlling her at all times could I be sure that I knew where she was.

  The first priority was a coat each, not only to keep us warm and dry, but also to cover our existing clothes if we had to do a runner before we bought anything else. All the voices around us were Dutch, Arabic and Turkish, so I did my normal grunt and point. Next came a couple of sets each of trainers, jeans and sweatshirts. I also bought her a hairbrush to sort out the bird’s nest on her head.

  I was pissed off that I was still going to be in-country when the place went up. The timer had to be set for two or three hours at most. That way, the batteries had a good chance of staying charged. Once I left the silo, I had no control over the device. I wanted it to be exposed for the least possible time, yet still able to give me enough to get out of the area.