Liberation Day ns-5

by Andy McNab

  The nylon of their bergens rustled gently as they moved in for me to whisper. “He’s in there with another man and three young boys.”

  Hubba-Hubba raised his shovel-like hands in disbelief. “Boys? No women? Just boys? Young boys?”

  “Yep.”

  There was a collective Arabic mutter of disapproval. Hubba-Hubba could only just about control his breathing. “I will do it, let me kill him.”

  Chapter 4

  Lotfi wasn’t going to let that happen. “No, we have our tasks.”

  Hubba-Hubba was still in a state of disgust. “How many?”

  “For definite, two men, three boys. That’s all I’ve seen.”

  Lotfi had a change of heart. “Then I will kill the other one.”

  Hubba-Hubba agreed. I was starting to worry. “No, only the target. Just the target, okay, we’re just here for him. No one else, remember?” Doing things outside your limits of exploitation can lead to horrendous screw-ups elsewhere. We didn’t know the whole story, just this little bit. I felt pretty much the way he did, but…“Just the target, no one else.”

  Lotfi said he would lead, as the color of my eyes and skin could still be a problem for a little while longer. I caught his shoulder. “Remember. If there’s a situation—”

  He finished my sentence. “No head shots.”

  I tapped my traser. We had less than six minutes.

  I could hear Hubba-Hubba still murmuring quietly to himself about what Zeralda was up to as there was a burst of laughter from inside the room, and I remembered that his own sons were nearly as old as these boys.

  We stopped just short of the door. I could hear a little Arabic banter, then more laughter from inside the room. Then I heard a young voice, clearly pleading: whatever was going on in there, he didn’t like it. I felt a surge of anger.

  Traser told me there were four minutes left on the Parkway timer. I undid the top flap of my bergen, dug out the rubber gloves and started to put them on. Those two, and their invisible friends, had better get off their butts once we were inside: we didn’t have much time.

  Hubba-Hubba picked up a wrought-iron chair and hurled it against the windows. The noise of smashing glass was followed by startled screams from inside, and then by even louder screams of aggression as he and Lotfi kicked out the remaining glass and pushed their way through. Even Pink Floyd was no match for this pair.

  The next distinguishable sound I heard was begging, this time from the men. I didn’t want to know what was going on in there now, or how Lotfi and his pal were choosing to control the situation. I heard more breaking glass, the racket of furniture being pulled around.

  A split second later the loud crump of the devices made me duck instinctively as what looked like sheet lightning filled the sky. There was a renewed frenzy inside; more furniture being hurled around, and the screams became wails.

  All at once the boys’ cries ceased, as if a switch had been thrown.

  I checked my shemag, took the bergen in my left hand and the Makharov in my right, and poked an eye around the corner to see what was happening. The room reeked of cannabis smoke. Pink Floyd was still going for it next door.

  Both men were on the floor, being kicked and stamped on by Lotfi, who was alone in the room with them. Zeralda was about to collect a boot in the teeth.

  “Not the face,” I yelled. “Not the face!”

  Lotfi turned, his huge black eyes wide and quivering. I jumped through the French windows, my sneakers crunching on shards of broken glass. I dropped the bergen and put my gloved left hand on his shoulder, keeping a good grip on the Makharov with my right, and my thumb on the safety in case he totally lost control and I had to stop him.

  I gave his shoulder a squeeze and eased him away from the whimpering and bloodstained heap on the floor. I had to speak up to be heard over the music. “Come on, mate, remember why we’re here….”

  I understood what was disturbing him and liked him for it, but not so much that I’d let him jeopardize the job. He moved back against the wall as I looked down to check out Zeralda’s head. I caught the other one looking into my eyes. I guessed that he knew I wasn’t an Arab, that this wasn’t a GIA attack. Bad decision on my part, not waiting until Lotfi had finished and called me in. It was just one of those screw-ups that happen once on the ground. And a totally bad decision on his part, having ears and eyes: no matter what the reason for no one else being killed in the house, he would have to die.

  He seemed in control, even if his overfed face didn’t look that good; most of the blood that should have been inside his head was now on the front of his shirt.

  I kicked Zeralda over onto his back. His face wasn’t too bad. He had a few teeth missing and blood leaking out of his mouth and nose, but not much else. His eyes were closed and his body wobbled as he, I presumed, tried to explain why I should keep him alive.

  I stepped back, raised the Makharov, and double-tapped him in the chest. After a couple of jerks, he wobbled no more.

  Zeralda’s pal’s eyes were shaking in their sockets now, just like Lotfi’s, but there was no gasp of horror or any begging from him as the music took over again, punctuated by the distant cries of the boys from somewhere else in the house.

  Hubba-Hubba came back into the room.

  “Where are the boys?”

  “Bathroom.” Hubba-Hubba pointed back the way he’d come.

  “Get them out of here before the fuel cuts us off. Give them the car. Go, mate, just get them out of here. This fucker stays, I want him to watch.”

  Lotfi had pulled the greaseball onto the bed and was yelling abuse at him. He let fly with his fist, punching him hard in the mouth for good measure.

  As Greaseball tried to separate his hair from the blood on his face, I made sure he saw me take out the butcher’s knife. He began to get the message. His brown eyes bulged and shook some more.

  I pulled Zeralda by the arm and rolled him back over onto his stomach, then sat astride him and grabbed a fistful of his hair in my left hand. I yanked it back and positioned the knife below his Adam’s apple.

  I looked up to double-check that Greaseball was watching, and then started to cut. I had prepared myself for days by telling myself that this was going to be shocking, but this wasn’t the time to be shocked. I had a job to do.

  The knife was razor sharp, and I felt little resistance once it got through the first layer of skin and I pulled back on his head to make the cutting easier. I was beginning to feel a little light-headed. Maybe it was because of the cloud of weed that still hung in the air, but I doubted it. Pink Floyd were still at full pitch, singing about the best days of our lives.

  Greaseball closed his eyes but Lotfi thrust his pistol against his ear, uttering in Arabic. His eyes opened again, just in time to see blood stream from his dead friend onto the tiles, and flow between his own feet dangling from the bed. It was too much for him; he vomited onto the bedding as he tried desperately to keep his feet off the ground, as if it were on fire.

  He started to babble in vomit-soaked Arabic to Lotfi, but halted abruptly as a blinding light burst through the haze of sweet-smelling smoke that still filled the air.

  It came from the area around the tanks. The OBIs had done their stuff. The fuel was burning fine: I could see the leaves on the trees outside, which were higher than the perimeter wall, reflecting the bright orange flames.

  I concentrated on the job at hand, working at the top of his spinal column like I was cutting a section of ox-tail.

  Lotfi had gotten fed up with his supporting role and was pistol-whipping the other pedophile. If he hadn’t before, Greaseball now got the message: he was in deep shit. He started begging, his legs and red-stained soles up by his chest, his hands down between them trying to protect himself as he lay on the bed. “Please, please, I’m a friend. I’m a friend…” something like that, anyway. His English sounded pretty good; I just couldn’t hear too clearly with the music this loud.

  I yelled at Lotfi: “Turn that fuc
king noise off, it’s doing my head in.”

  He kicked his way past the furniture that had been thrown around the room, and seconds later the music stopped, just as Greaseball tried wiping the vomit from his mouth before realizing his hands were bloodstained.

  Hubba-Hubba appeared in the doorway and for a moment looked appalled by what I had nearly finished.

  “What?”

  “Glasses,” he said.

  “What?”

  “One of the boys needs his glasses.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Fuck him, just get rid of them. We’re running out of time.”

  “He can’t. He needs them, they’re difficult to get. Really expensive to buy here.”

  He rooted around on the floor next to the bed, then pulled back the blood-soaked covers as I finished what I’d come to do.

  I grabbed the top sheet, pulled it from under Greaseball, and wrapped Zeralda’s head in it.

  Hubba-Hubba stood over the headless body. “Can you turn him over?”

  “What?”

  “Turn him over. They could be under him. You have the gloves.”

  I did as I was told. The precious glasses were under his legs, one lens cracked and bloodstained.

  Hubba-Hubba picked them up between his thumb and forefinger as if he were holding a scorpion. “They can go now. I’ll put them in the car.”

  Lotfi hadn’t returned, but I knew what he was up to.

  I wiped the knife blade on the bed and put it back into the bergen, then pulled out a black garbage bag and threw in the shrouded head.

  And that was it. I’d never cut off a man’s head before, and I hadn’t been looking forward to it one bit. But after seeing Zeralda with the boys, I’d had all the incentive I needed. In fact, I felt pretty good as I turned to Greaseball.

  The roar of burning fuel now filled the night. Flames licked higher and higher, brushing against the sky. The police could only be minutes away.

  Greaseball raised himself up from the bed. “You can’t kill me, I am too important. No one but Zeralda is to be killed — you know that, don’t you? You can’t kill me, that is not your decision to make, you are just the tools.”

  I looked him straight in the eye, but said nothing, feeling angry and deflated as he spat out some vomit. Then he almost smiled. “How do you think your people knew that he would be here tonight? You cannot kill me, I’m too important. You need me. Now, stop being stupid and crawl back into your kennel until required.”

  Windows were being smashed about the house now, to feed the fire we were going to start in here. Lotfi and Hubba-Hubba would be stacking furniture for good measure. This was the bit they’d really loved during the training.

  Lotfi pulled the last of the squeeze bottles from his bergen. They’d been half-filled with boiled dishwashing liquid, then topped off with gasoline and given a good shake. He gave the bed a squirt, then saved the rest for Zeralda. One match and this place would be an inferno.

  Greaseball made a run for it into the house and Hubba-Hubba started after him.

  “Leave him. Not enough time.”

  The phone rang and we all jumped.

  It could have been anyone — maybe the police, maybe one of Zeralda’s family, or one of his pedophile pals. Whatever, Hubba-Hubba turned and gave the phone a good squirt as well.

  “Come on,” I shouted, “time to move. Let’s light up, let’s go, let’s go!”

  I shouldered my bergen, and heard the rush of fuel being ignited in the room next door. Lotfi ran past me and out into the courtyard. I followed as Hubba-Hubba transformed the bedroom into a furnace.

  There was no great plan for the next part — just run down to the boat and get out to sea for a pickup and some hot sticky black tea and a noseful of diesel fumes.

  As I ran through the perimeter door I saw the flaming fuel from the bung flowing out of the breach and down the incline, exactly like it said in the script. The sky was bright orange. After all that practicing, all that rehearsal, it looked just beautiful. I stood there for what seemed like ages, looking at the flames as the heat gently seared my skin. I was almost sorry that we wouldn’t be around to see the best part. As the flames flowed under the fuel trucks, they, too, would soon be joining in the fun, with luck just as the police arrived.

  Lotfi gave me a shove, and our shadows followed us until we got over the lip. Once we hit the sand it was simply a case of turning right and following the shoreline to the Zodiac.

  As I scrambled down the hill I felt nothing but exhilaration. At long last I’d earned my U.S. passport — and the right to a whole new life.

  Chapter 5

  FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 16, 11:56 HRS.

  I sat on the T, the smart aluminum commuter train that had brought me from Logan Airport into Boston and, after a quick change, north toward Wonderland.

  Wonderland always sounded to me like some kind of glitzy shopping mall; in fact, it was only the drop-off point for people from the northern suburbs heading into Boston. Today, though, no destination could have been better named. Carrie had been lecturing at MIT this morning, so was picking me up here instead of at the airport, then taking me to her mother’s place in Marblehead, a small town about twenty miles north along the coast. Her mother had lent us the guest annex, while she carried on with her bed-and-breakfast business in the main house. Carrie and I lived there alone now that Luz had started high school in Cambridge. To me it was home, and it was a long time since I’d felt that way about anywhere.

  The other passengers looked at me as if I’d just escaped from the local nuthouse. After two days of traveling back from Egypt, my skin was greasy, my eyes stung, and my socks, armpits, and breath stank. As some kind of damage limitation before I saw Carrie, I was brushing my teeth and swallowing the foaming paste as I looked out of the window. It wasn’t going to transform me into Brad Pitt on Oscar night, but it was the best I could do.

  I picked up the nylon duffel bag near my feet and put it on the empty seat beside me. I needed to check just one more time that the bag was sterile of anything that could link me to the job before she picked me up. My hand passed over the smooth, rounded shape of the Pyramids snowstorm shaker I’d bought her at the Cairo airport, and the hard edge of the small photo album she’d lent me for my weeks away. “If you don’t look at it and think nice things about me every day, Nick Stone,” she’d said, “don’t even think about coming back.”

  I opened it and felt a grin spreading across my face, as it did every time I saw her. She was standing outside Abbot Hall in Washington Square, Marblehead, on the start of what she’d called my U.S. Heritage Induction Tour. Abbot Hall was the home of The Spirit of ’76, the famous portrait of a fife and drum at the head of an infantry column during the Revolutionary War. She wanted me to see it because she said it embodied the spirit of America — and if I were going to become a U.S. citizen one day, it was my solemn duty to damned well admire and be moved by it. I said I thought it looked more like a cartoon than a masterpiece, and she pushed me outside.

  Her short brown hair was being buffeted by the wind blasting off the Atlantic as I pressed the shutter. She looked like GI Jane in green fatigue cargos and a baggy gray sweater. She certainly didn’t look in her late thirties, even though a certain sadness in her smile, and a few small creases at the corners of her mouth and eyes, told anybody who was paying attention that the last couple of years had not been easy on her. “Nothing Photoshop can’t handle,” she said, “once I’ve scanned them into the PC.”

  It was rare to see her expression so relaxed, even when she was sleeping. Normally it was much more animated, most often frowning, questioning, or registering disgust at Corporate America’s latest outrage. She had good reason to look weighed down. It had been hard for her and Luz since the two of them had come back from Panama, one without a husband, the other without the man who’d become her father. Since Aaron’s death there hadn’t been a day when he didn’t come into her conversation. I still tended to cut away from s
tuff like this, but the way she saw it, he’d been her husband for fifteen years and dead for only a little over one.

  In the whole of my life as a Special Forces soldier, and later, as a “K” working on deniable operations for the Intelligence Service, I’d always tried to turn my back on the guilt, remorse, and self-doubt that always followed a job; what was done was done. But watching her trying to deal with it moved me more than I’d thought possible.

  I’d been sent to Panama in September 2000 to coerce a local drugs racketeer into helping the West. Carrie and Aaron had been my local contacts; they’d been environmental scientists running a research station near the Colombian border, and on the CIA payroll as low-level intelligence gatherers. I was staying at their house when the racketeer’s boys came looking for me, and Aaron had paid the price.

  There hadn’t been many days since when I didn’t wonder if there’d been something more I could have done to save him.

  There was another photograph of Carrie taken in her mother’s kitchen at Marblehead. She was cooking clam chowder. Just to one side of her was a framed black-and-white portrait of her with her father, George, a handsome, square-jawed all-American in a uniform, probably taken in the early sixties.

  I gazed at the one of her standing outside her college. Carrie had been encouraging me to give the place a try; I’d always loved medieval history, and had been reading quite a lot about the Crusades lately. I’d told her I wasn’t sure the whole mature-student thing was me, working in Starbucks, being bossed by an eighteen-year-old manager. I hadn’t quite gotten around to telling her that my formal education had ended when I was fifteen, so the college was unlikely to take me on as a janitor, let alone enroll me in one of its courses.

  I guessed there was quite a lot of stuff, one way or another, that I hadn’t told Carrie. There was my trip to Algeria, for a start. It wasn’t the job itself; I wouldn’t have said a word about that anyway. It was the fact that I’d promised her I’d never get involved in dirty work again. The carrot George had dangled in front of me was irresistible; with American citizenship papers in my pocket, I’d be free to work at whatever I wanted. But I wasn’t sure Carrie would appreciate the method behind the madness.