Authors: Andy McNab
The tears just kept falling, but there was no noise from her now. Maybe she had already made enough over the years.
My heart quickened: I needed to know. ‘Do you have dreams about it – you know, like a film in your head?’
She went quite still, not even bothering to wipe away the tears. ‘You know, don’t you? You have them. I can’t stop it sometimes – even watching a TV fight will do it. You understand . . . It’s like, I replay it over and over again in my head, and it totally fucks me over. I can’t help it.’
Shit. This was more than enough. I stood up, cutting away there and then. ‘Want a brew?’
She nodded. ‘Yes, you’re right. Better shut up now before we become normal and talk about shit – you never know, the floodgates might really burst, and then we’d be totally fucked.’
She followed me into the kitchen and leant against the worktop, wiping her face with a tea-cloth as she watched me fill the kettle and fumble about for the teabags.
‘Ever since then, Nick, I’ve been the first to jump in. No task too small, Suzy’s your girl. No cheap psychology required – I survive even when I fuck up, even when I don’t deserve to. That’s why I’ll go to Berlin with you.’
I found the tea on the worktop behind her and got pouring. ‘I just need you when I get back.’
‘Think about it. It’s better for cover and, anyway, you don’t know what you’re going to find. Apart from that, of course –’ she grinned ‘– you’re fucking useless. How many times have I saved that lardy arse of yours?’
I passed her brew over and saw that scary look on her face again. Good, things were back to normal. No more talk of videos and gates bursting open. I was planning on keeping mine well shut. ‘So you’ve got a real syndrome? I just thought you were a fucking fruitcake.’
I got a laugh, but then her eyes narrowed. ‘What were you going to do if I’d said no? Kill me?’
‘I’d just have lifted you until I got Kelly.’
‘Look, I won’t lie to you. If I’m on my own and I have to make a choice between Kelly and DW, you know which I’m going to go for, don’t you?’
I nodded. ‘I’ve got two important questions.’
‘They’d better be.’
I pulled at the neck of my sweatshirt. ‘Can I use your shower and washing-machine? I’m covered in sand under here. And can you get on the phone to Air Berlin and book yourself on to my flight?’
53
The seats on the Air Berlin flight were small and cramped, but we were both so exhausted it didn’t really matter. Suzy had the window-seat and her head rolled against the side of the aircraft. The gallons of coffee we’d thrown down us all night hadn’t been enough to keep us going. It wasn’t long into the ninety-minute journey that we were both doing neck-breakers, mouths wide open, saliva dribbling down chins, much like every other early-morning passenger off for a day’s business in Berlin, except that they reeked of aftershave and sported suits and pressed shirts.
Suzy had driven us to Stansted in the runabout Geoff used when on leave, a beaten-up old Micra that chugged out of the garage and I replaced with the Vectra. It was better to be disconnected from it as I entered a new phase.
While the suits had been catching up on their beauty sleep, we’d been working out the plan for the pickup. We kicked round and round the possibility of replacing the bottles with others containing inert powder. In theory, it would be no problem to work the switch: we’d both done it enough times with weapons and equipment against other players in the past. But to do the job properly takes time, something we didn’t have. Any player worth their salt would have placed tell-tales on the bottles; maybe a small pin-hole in the foil that the replacement wouldn’t have, or maybe a taste. Rubbing ginger or a wet boiled sweet around the foil, or the cork before it was resealed, would leave a trace that could be picked up with a wet finger. But even if there were no tell-tales, what if he had the capability to test the contents? Could I afford to take that risk? The source would need to know that he had DW before he’d even think of handing over Kelly – not that I reckoned he planned to – and delivering it intact was the only way I had even the remotest chance of getting to her. Fuck the inert business. Dark Winter had to be delivered.
We had to travel on our own passports because there was no time to do otherwise. Her real name was Susan Gilligan or, at least, that was her maiden name. She’d never got round to changing her passport, even though she’d been married nearly four years now.
My head rolled with another neck-breaker that woke me up as abruptly as if I was having the falling-off-a-building-and-just-about-to-hit-the-ground nightmare. The day’s papers had slipped off my lap long ago and got ripped to pieces on the floor as we’d twisted and turned in the confined space to try to get even more uncomfortable. They were full of post-war Baghdad, America’s amber alert, which was being blamed on the Iraqi situation, and pictures of Canadians walking about in face masks to avoid contracting SARS. Nothing in the national pages about King’s Cross or King’s Lynn.
I wiped some saliva from the side of my mouth. The pre-landing announcements started in efficient German, followed by accented but perfect English. The aircraft began to lose height and we tried to find where our seat-belt buckles had hidden themselves.
I copied Suzy as she adjusted her watch to Central European time, then craned my neck to look out of her window. The sky was sunny and cloud free, and I could clearly see the Brandenburg Gate, surrounded by burgeoning high-rises. The whole of the centre of the city looked like a field ready for harvest, except that the yellow stuff wasn’t wheat, it was tower cranes.
‘Looks like a nice day for it.’ We hadn’t talked about the job itself since we entered Stansted, and wouldn’t again until we got out of the cab at the other end. We didn’t want to be overheard, and talking in whispers attracts too much attention.
Suzy had bought a guidebook at the airport, so we knew Bergmannstrasse was in the old Western part of the city, in an area called Kreuzberg, which I thought I knew from my time as a squaddie in the early eighties. The book said it had a large Turkish population, and Germans went there to escape National Service and become artists, punks or anarchists instead. That sounded about right. I wasn’t too sure about having seen any artists, but I’d spent a good few nights in West Berlin getting ripped off by Turkish bar owners and trading punches with German punks.
We landed and everybody stood up and clogged the aisle as soon as the seat-belt sign flickered off. The suits revved up their mobiles to start the day’s work. When we eventually disembarked, we were channelled towards two control booths immediately at the top of the ramp. They were manned by German Immigration police in dark-green jackets and washed-out yellow shirts, their spiky hair and stern faces making them look as if they’d be more at home sticking out the top of a tank than checking passports and watching for illegals.
Suzy made sure she had the guidebook in view as the two of us stepped forward. A guy in his late twenties, with a blond crewcut, flushed cheeks and rectangular frameless glasses, took our passports, looked at us, then snapped them shut before passing them back with a nod. We muttered thanks and entered Germany, following signs for taxis. Checkpoint Charlie was just a couple of Ks to the north of Bergmannstrasse, and a major tourist trap. It was as good a destination as any to give to a cabbie, before walking into the target area.
We stepped out into bright sunshine as I took a couple more antibiotics, not bothering to offer any to Suzy. The temperature was still a little cold as we lined up at the rank with about thirty others, mostly suits with their phones stuck to their ears. White Mercedes cabs filtered forwards to run the fares the dozen or so kilometres into town. We didn’t talk: there were still too many spare ears around.
When our turn eventually came, we climbed into a six- or seven-year-old Merc with plastic seats. The driver, an old Turk, didn’t need to speak English to understand Suzy’s ‘Checkpoint Charlie, mate.’
‘
Ja, ja
– Checkpoint Charlie, OK.’
We headed out of Tegel, straight into urban sprawl, and soon passed Spandau prison. We arrived at the older part of the city, driving along wide boulevards with cobbled pavements. I stared out at the place the wall had once cut through the heart of Berlin, at Potsdammer Platz. Brand-new buildings were springing up everywhere like crystal puffballs where the wall and its corridor of no man’s land, the Death Zone, had once stretched. This had to be the only major city on the planet with so much space for new development at its centre. Billions were being poured into its regeneration, with futuristic buildings, brand-new boulevards and landscaped open spaces everywhere you looked. The last time I’d been here all I’d seen was the wall, rolls of barbed-wire and the bricked-up entrance to the metro. Now Potsdammer station was shiny and new, and speeding passengers all over the city. I wondered if it was on the ASU’s list of targets.
There were no glittering puffballs springing up on the other side of the square just yet; there were derelict factories and warehouses instead, fenced off and surrounded by wasteland where other buildings had been demolished, awaiting their turn for an injection of chrome and spangle.
Then, just as quickly, we were driving past Porsche showrooms and Hugo Boss boutiques, and when we turned the next corner, Checkpoint Charlie was ahead of us. Now preserved as a monument, it looked much the same as I remembered it, only without the wall and its phalanx of armed soldiers. The white guardhouse in the middle of the road was still surrounded by sandbags, and they’d even kept the sign up warning that you were now entering the American sector or, on the flip side, that you were leaving it for East Berlin.
Tourists poured out of a coach and into the museum. As I paid the driver, an old American guy caught my eye, pointing things out to someone I guessed was his son. His uniform, these days, was jeans, a suit jacket and a pair of white tennis shoes, but he clearly still had a full stock of Checkpoint Charlie war stories.
The area on the eastern side was flattened and awaiting redevelopment, and seemed to be lined by Turks and Bosnians with stalls selling Russian fur hats and East German peaked caps and badges. Everything looked suspiciously new and had probably been knocked out last week in the same Chinese factory that supplied Penang with its ethnic masks.
We leant against the wall of a bar facing the museum and guardhouse so Suzy could get the map out. I grinned. ‘Two Brit tourists seeing the sights, moaning to each other in crap German accents that they can’t get a decent cup of tea – what could be more natural?’
She laughed as I checked traser. It was just after eleven a.m. She pulled her cell from her black leather jacket. ‘Better check comms.’ I got Geoff’s out of the bumbag and powered it up. After a few seconds of roaming, the displays on both said Deutsche Telekom. I tapped in the international code and her number, and her phone rang. We exchanged a few words before closing down.
‘Right, let’s keep an eye out for a chemist.’
Following the map, we headed south through former East Berlin, the monotonous brick buildings now covered in gig posters, graffiti and ‘Stop the War’ slogans.
We passed a housing estate of grey, depressing, rectangular chunks of concrete with windows, which they’d tried unsuccessfully to brighten up with murals of the sun, sand and sea. There was even one with a moth-eaten old Union Jack sticking out among the graffiti.
A Trabant passed us, handpainted in psychedelic colours, with posters in the windows advertising a cyber café.
A section of the wall nearby had been fenced off as some sort of monument.
Two policemen sat in a marked BMW police car alongside a line of shops, one of which had a large red Gothic letter A sticking out from its wall.
‘
Apotheke
.’
Suzy was pleased. ‘Perfect.’
As we got nearer, I could see that one of the officers had a big walrus moustache and more than his fair share of blubber. He reminded me of someone, and I couldn’t help but smile.
Suzy raised an eyebrow. ‘What’s up with you, Norfolk boy?’
‘I was in Berlin for a while as a squaddie. Me and a mate came here for the weekend once on the Hanover troop train. It was our first trip, we didn’t know where we were going, what we were doing – just anything to get away from the garrison for a few days. We were bumming around the bars, and got into a fight with the resident battalion. The Turks piled in as well, and the German police came and started making arrests, throwing us into the backs of vans.
‘Me and my mate – I can’t even remember his name now, Kenny, I think – landed up sitting on the benches facing each other by the rear doors. This big fat copper, just like him over there, came round and slammed them on us, but the lock didn’t engage. Kenny and I just looked at each other and, fucking right, madness not to. We pushed open the doors and started running down the road, and all we could hear was this big German trying to waddle after us, waving his truncheon, hollering and shouting for us to stop.
‘I turned round and could see him trying his hardest to catch up. No way he was going to – we were young squaddies, he looked like Hermann Goering. I don’t know why, but I stopped, turned round again, and started yelling back at him, “Wanker, lardarse!” that sort of stuff. Anyway, he was getting really pissed off. I gave him another couple of paces before I turned round to run, and bang – next thing I knew I was face down on the cobbles and Lardarse was breathing all over me. The bastard had thrown his truncheon and got me smack in the back of the head.’