Aggressor ns-8

by Andy McNab

  A rust- and grime-covered yellow bus pulled up at the stop outside the terminal, its exhaust pumping out diesel fumes you could cut with a knife. Most of those disembarking looked as though they were airport workers, but there were one or two others with suitcases. The airport was coming to life.

  Charlie appeared through the fumes, lurching across the road like Long John Silver. His hand had been OK when he left me, just cut and sore, but his ankle had swollen like a balloon, even though I’d tried to strap it up with a couple of strips of blanket.

  He had a newspaper in his hand. ‘Bastard’s off to Vienna, we’ve got him.’ He lobbed it in my direction and it fell between the skips as he carried on past. ‘Here’s the bad news.’

  He had to do a circuit now, maybe check something out in the car park. Nobody just exits a terminal and crosses the road, only to cross straight back ten seconds later.

  I crawled over to the paper, then back to where I could still keep trigger in case there was a drama. If ten blue-and-white Passats screamed up to the terminal and dragged Charlie away, I needed to know.

  He’d chucked me a copy of the Georgian Times, the English-language paper. Folded inside was a large bar of chocolate. I ripped the foil off and popped a chunk into my mouth, but when I scanned the front page my throat went dry.

  Most of it was covered by a grainy photograph of the yard in front of Baz’s house. The banner headline screamed: ‘SAINT’ SLAIN!

  It went on in a similar vein, to bemoan the savage killing of the most honest and incorruptible public servant the country had ever seen. This wasn’t the picture Bastard had painted, but that wasn’t much of a surprise.

  A force for all that was good and just has been callously cut down, it cried. Who has perpetrated this evil deed? The finger of suspicion can point in many directions, all of which this country needs to cut out like a cancer.

  For weeks, the walls of St Zurab Bazgadze’s house had been daubed with warnings not to pursue his crusade against corruption at all levels of government, the journalist wrote. In our wretched country, many words spell wrongdoing — words like ‘minister’ and ‘militant’, ‘business’ and ‘privatization’, ‘pipeline’ and ‘oil’. It seemed Baz had been a thorn in the side of them all.

  Charlie still hadn’t come back from his hobble-past. Blood pulsed in my neck as I read on.

  The two other dead bodies found at Baz’s house had been identified as members of the militant gang behind the recent siege in Kazbegi. But who were the other two men caught on CCTV, one masked, one unmasked? Were they now in possession of the affidavit which the Saint had been due to swear in front of the cameras for 60 Minutes, exposing the rampant corruption in Georgian society?

  According to a police insider, the safe in Bazgadze’s house had been found open, and the CCTV also showed one of the masked men taking a folder from the body of one of the militants. If this was indeed the affidavit that 60 Minutes claimed to have been waiting to receive, then exposure of its contents would be very embarrassing for the government, as the programme was due to be aired on the eve of President George W. Bush’s forthcoming visit.

  I sat and chewed chocolate, my mind spinning. Good guy gets fucked over — nothing new there — but what had the militants been doing at Baz’s house?

  It got worse. The inside pages were teeming with maps and photographs.

  TRAIL OF MURDER: SAINT’S CAR FOUND IN TBILISI ALLEYWAY — GRISLY CARGO

  If there hadn’t been a perfect artist’s impression of me under the headline I might have laughed.

  It was followed by a shot of the Audi up the track, with the boot open. Witnesses had seen two men drive it to the cemetery and load a body into the boot. Beyond that, apparently, was only ‘murky speculation’.

  I’d read enough. I refolded the paper and swallowed the last four chunks of chocolate.

  That 110 couldn’t arrive a minute too soon.

  5

  As Charlie got back to the terminal, a two-tone Pajero, silver bottom, dark blue top, sped past the main doors, one up. It was too far away for me to be able to ID the driver, but the sheer bulk of the silhouette at the wheel made me stay with it as it continued past the garden sheds.

  I scrabbled along the skips and watched it turn into the car park. The Pajero bounced over puddles and potholes, heading towards the derelict buses closer to the terminal. The nearside wing was damaged. I had a feeling I knew why.

  I lost sight of it behind the buses, and I turned back to scan the front of the terminal. Still no sign of the 110.

  I heard a door slam behind the buses.

  He’d have to cross a hundred metres or so of open ground before he got to the terminal. A straight line would take him very close to the skips. We were going to be in the shit if the 110 turned up right now and Charlie carried on implementing Plan A. The driver would have to come with us; we couldn’t have any more of them running around the country.

  No time to think. Bastard was waddling towards the terminal, dressed in the US business uniform for the over-fifties. He pulled an aluminium wheelie carry-on behind him. Whatever we had in those papers, it had got him all fired up. It would have been bad enough for him losing control of the papers Saturday night. But now? With the Istanbul and Marriott tapes out of his control as well, he definitely needed to do the same as us — just get the fuck out. I guessed he wasn’t too anxious to land a starring role on 60 Minutes.

  I let him pass the back of the sheds, then crawled out from between the skips to get behind him.

  Aroll of fat quivered above his shirt collar. Pulling my hat down low, I followed in step.

  ‘Oi, Bastendorf!’

  I gave him a big happy face as I closed in, but stayed just beyond grabbing distance.

  His face clouded. ‘How the fuck do you know my—’

  ‘I’ve got Kunzru’s weapon. I want our passports.’

  He rolled his head back and laughed. Maybe he was amused by the hat.

  ‘Passports, I want them.’

  ‘Get the fuck! I shout out right now and you’re history, asshole. I’m walking. What you gonna do, pull steel and gun me down in front of the fucking terminal?’

  ‘Yes.’

  You never make a threat that you can’t carry out, and Bastard knew it. He could see my hand over the front of my jacket.

  His nostrils flared. He breathed very slowly and deeply. ‘I burned them.’ He enjoyed telling me that.

  Over Bastard’s shoulder, I could see a 110 pull up in front of the terminal, its rear doors already opening. Charlie would be out any minute. He didn’t know we had the Pajero now; that there was now no need for desperate measures. All he had to do was bluff his way into the back and retrieve the gear.

  Maybe Bastard had the passports on him, maybe not. We’d soon find out. I nodded over his shoulder. ‘You’re going to turn round and head for the one-ten.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The Land Rover. Move.’

  I came up on his left, eyes peeled for Charlie. Cars and buses moved between us and the 110, temporarily blocking the view.

  Bastard gobbed off far too confidently for someone this deep in the shit. ‘We going back to town? You thinking of turning yourself in, or do you just like stealing military vehicles?’

  The wheels of his carry-on rumbled along behind us as we made our way to the road. Two guys stepped out of the 110, luggage in hand. Charlie would come out as soon as he saw them check in.

  ‘Get your arse moving. Go and tell the driver you were in the duty wagon a few days ago. Pull up the back seats, tell him you’ve lost something. I don’t give a shit what you say, just pick up what’s under there.’

  He stopped in his tracks. ‘You fuck!’

  I pushed him forward and carried on walking, eyes peeled for Charlie steaming through the terminal doors. ‘If you say anything to the driver or start fucking about, I’ll drop you. Understand? I’ve got nothing to lose.’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  ‘I’ll
take that as a yes.’

  Charlie emerged from the terminal. His gaze was fixed intently on the 110 a few metres ahead of him.

  We started to cross the road and I could now see the front plate. HF 51 KN. Different driver but the same vehicle, apart from a brand new set of tyres.

  Charlie was closing in on the driver’s door when he finally pinged us. I shook my head and he carried on hobbling.

  Two police walked out of the terminal, one of them tapping a couple of cigarettes from a pack.

  I could see Bastard weighing up his options as they came towards us, sharing a lighter. His eyes bounced between them and me.

  I couldn’t turn away or try and hide my face. It would only attract their attention.

  Fuck it; if they pinged me, there was nothing I could do about it.

  I was on autopilot. It was the only way.

  They passed us. Then we passed Charlie, who was waiting for a bus to pull out so he could cross over to the sheds.

  Bastard looked at me. ‘What I’m reaching for now is my wallet, OK?’

  I held back a metre or so as he approached the driver’s window. He started talking even before the guy had finished winding it down.

  The two policemen had stopped by the terminal entrance and were leaning against the wall, enjoying their smoke break.

  Bastard thrust his ID in the driver’s face. I could tell he was talking from the way the roll of fat wobbled against his collar.

  I concentrated on the driver’s face. Young, Latino. Most importantly, betraying no sign that Bastard was telling him the truth.

  Bastard moved around to the rear doors of the 110. The Latino turned and leaned across to help him lift the seats.

  Bastard emerged with the magazine in his hand and tapped a goodbye on the window. We turned and headed back the way we had come. The policemen hadn’t moved, but they had stopped chatting and seemed to be watching Bastard closely.

  I held out my hand for the magazine.

  Bastard hesitated. ‘Do I get my flight now? Hey, I was going to let you go if you came up with the goods.’

  ‘Keep walking. We’ve got plans for you.’

  I heard laughter and out of the corner of my eye I saw one of the policemen pinch a fold of skin on his neck and give it a good wobble.

  A second or two later, it started to rain.

  6

  Nobody talked as I drove the Pajero away from the airport perimeter. You could cut the atmosphere with a gollock. I drove; Bastard was next to me in the passenger seat. He knew I had a pistol tucked between my legs out of his reach but within mine, and that Charlie had another behind him, but there was no knowing what he might do if he saw an opportunity to escape. If I was him, I’d be gone the first chance I got.

  I pushed the heater to full blast, to get rid of the condensation. It had only been a short walk back to the 4x4, but we’d all got drenched.

  I’d given Bastard a physical search when we got in, but he didn’t have the passports on him. Charlie was emptying his carry-on across the back seat.

  I flicked the wipers from steady to rapid and threw Charlie a map from the side pocket. ‘Which way?’

  He opened it out. ‘This is a fucking sight better than the one in the one-ten. Looks like just over two hundred Ks to the Turkish border.’

  ‘Four or five hours, maybe, as long as we don’t have to go off-road?’

  He shook his head. ‘As the crow flies. But I reckon the best route’s south until we hit the pipeline, then follow it south-west.’

  It was good thinking. What could be more normal than three Westerners mooching along that route — especially with official government accreditation in Mr Bastendorf’s wallet? It looked like someone had gone mad with a rubber stamp, then added, in Paperclip and English, that he was a welcome guest in their country, and should be given every assistance in carrying out his important work for the government. The added bonus was the $450 he had tucked away to go supersize when he hit Vienna airport.

  I felt safer now I was in a vehicle, but I knew it was an illusion. If we hit a checkpoint we’d still have to bluff it big-time and bank on Bastard getting us through. Our two pistols should help persuade him to do that. Besides, he might be the world’s biggest arsehole, but he wasn’t a fool. He was a survivor.

  Bastard coughed up a mouthful of phlegm, and started unwinding his window. He gobbed it out through the two-inch gap.

  ‘I don’t remember saying you could do that.’ My hand reached for the pistol. ‘Don’t make another move unless I say so, you understand?’

  Bastard scoffed. ‘You think that’s scaring me? My mama done better.’

  I concentrated on the road, barely visible through a near-solid curtain of rain.

  My guess was, Bastard wasn’t in the FBI any more — or at least, he certainly didn’t carry any ID to say he was.

  Charlie finished checking the carry-on. ‘No mobile here either.’

  Bastard stared straight ahead. ‘I said I didn’t have one. Why the fuck would I need one now? The local things don’t work stateside, do they?’

  ‘Heading home, were you? What happened to the dream of the dusky señoritas?’

  ‘Go fuck.’

  Even dog-legging it, we’d probably still get to the border well before last light, which would give us time to find a decent crossing point. I wasn’t going to tell him yet, but Bastard was coming with us. Georgia was in the good lads’ club with the USA these days, and probably had all sorts of pooling arrangements between police forces. Following Bush’s ‘If you’re not with us, you’re against us’ doctrine, any enemy of Georgia’s would be an enemy of America’s, and right now I seemed to be top of Tbilisi’s Most Wanted.

  We skirted the city to the west and soon swapped the shiny new dual carriageway for a more familiar, knackered metalled road. Old guys sat behind tables at the verge, sheltering from the rain under trees and bits of plastic, trying to sell jugs and bottles of ancient engine oil.

  Bastard scoffed. ‘Fucking stuff’s been through every truck in sight about sixteen times.’

  Charlie and I didn’t respond. Bastard was trying to draw us in. He’d tried aggression, and now he was trying to lighten the mood and get all chummy.

  The road ahead was flanked by giant cubes of grey concrete. Rusting steel skeletons jutted through their flaking skin. There had been no pink or orange facelift around here. Washing hung from the windows, getting a second rinse.

  Bastard tried again. ‘I guess this particular boulevard didn’t make it onto the presidential route.’

  We continued to ignore him. If he thought we were going to be sharing toothbrushes by the end of this trip, he was receiving on the wrong frequency.

  I zigzagged round puddles for a kilometre or two, then we hit a sign for Borjomi, 151 km.

  That cheered me up; the pipeline ran through Borjomi.

  Dark cloud blanketed the high ground and I flicked on the lights. We weren’t the only vehicle on the road, and we were all competing in the giant pothole slalom. It could only be a matter of time before there was a pile-up in the gloom.

  Puddles the size of bomb craters had claimed a couple of dilapidated Ladas. They still had exposed spark plugs, Charlie Clever Bollocks had explained to me, and flaked out nineteen to the dozen once they encountered a bit of moisture.

  I glanced back at Charlie again. He seemed all right, no shakes, just sitting there, staring out of the window. Four or five hours from now, I could get him and his disco hands on a plane home.

  7

  The air con was still doing its stuff to keep the windscreen clear on the inside. We were well out of the suburbs, up in the high ground and shrouded in mist, when the tarmac stopped abruptly and we hit a wide gravel track.

  Charlie sparked up from the back. ‘How are Hari and Kunzru?’

  Bastard shrugged. ‘How the fuck should I know? I got the call; at least one of them was still breathing. I was heading back there when I saw you guys on the road. Anyway, fuck ’em.
Welfare ain’t my responsibility.’

  The mist cleared as we wound down the side of the mountain. A wide, fast-flowing river sparkled in the sunlight below us. Apart from the vivid brown scar that cut across the lush green of the valley floor, we were back in Sound of Music country.

  Bastard jerked his thumb towards the point at which the line of freshly turned earth cut back towards us and started to run level with the road. ‘There’s your pipeline.’

  ‘Where’s the metalwork?’ I’d been expecting to see something above ground, as I had in the Middle East.

  ‘They’ve buried it. Makes it a whole lot tougher to blow up.’

  Charlie leaned between us. ‘Our old mates the militants?’

  ‘Militants, Kurdish separatists, Muslim extremists, Russian assholes, you name it. They all either want a piece of the action, or to use the thing as a bargaining counter.

  ‘The Kurds wanna split from the Turks: you give us our country, we don’t fuck with your pipeline.

  ‘The Russians, well, they just want to fuck the pipeline up, period. Perestroika, my ass; the cold war never ended for those guys.

  ‘And closer to home, there’s the Georgian politicos, doing side deals with whoever comes within reach — and charging the oil companies a fucking fortune to give the pipeline house room in the first place.’

  Charlie nodded. ‘And we have a few bits of paper tucked away explaining where our late lamented friend Mr Bazgadze fitted into all this.’

  Bastard glowered at him. ‘Don’t count on it, asshole.’

  The rain started again. I flicked the wipers back into overdrive, but still had to press my face against the windscreen to see where we were going.

  Bastard squinted through the curtain of water ahead of us. ‘But who gives a shit? My job was just making sure things ran real smooth.’

  ‘Fucked up there then, didn’t you?’ Charlie tapped the package in his jacket pocket. He’d wrapped the camcorder tape and the documents from Baz’s safe in a plastic bag he’d found in Bastard’s carry-on. ‘And I’m no expert here, but the local media seem to be painting a rather different picture than the one you gave us…’