Authors: Andy McNab
I took the bike back; it cost me $150 for the damage, but I was just dismissed as another incompetent tourist. The killing, even the disappearance of the two waiters, hadn’t made it to the
New Straits Times
in the remaining four days, which probably meant that no one had come across the Lite Ace or a fly-infested body by the time we left the country. In fact, the main event in the papers was some politician’s wife being accused of
khalwat
, an offence that involved being in close proximity to a member of the opposite sex who wasn’t a relation. She had been watching television with three students from the International Islamic University when a team from the Federal Territory religious department raided the apartment following a complaint from neighbours. If found guilty, they could be fined three thousand dollars and jailed for up to two years. As Suzy said, she should count herself lucky she hadn’t been sitting with three drug-dealers watching satellite channels with an iffy Sky card.
Suzy’s revolver had been dropped off by a courier in the Firm into a dead-letter box in the women’s toilet at Starbucks. I took another sip of their coffee; globalization was a reality, these guys were getting everywhere. That one had been in the shopping mall in a good part of Georgetown, the island’s capital. The weapon and six rounds were all we’d been given, so Suzy had to make sure she did a good job. No wonder she’d acted like a lunatic, diving in through the Lite Ace’s window. She knew she couldn’t afford to waste a single shot.
It would have been better for us if the handover of the wine box had been done on the last night, so we could have carried out the task and left Penang the following day. But I was just pleased that it hadn’t happened on the first night, which wouldn’t have given us enough time to do the recces and would have exposed us on the island for a whole fortnight. We’d spent a lot of time establishing his routine: the route from his house to the restaurant, what time he started work, what time he finished, whether there was anyone else living in his house. We knew where he kept his vehicle, and we knew the best time to go and tamper with the brake light. We knew almost everything about him, except his name – but then again, it wasn’t as if I’d wanted to have coffee with him.
By the time I reached the mansion block there was still about half a paper cup of
latte
left. I walked up the six or seven steps of the large Victorian brick building, long ago converted into office space and flanked by modern concrete blocks at either side. Large glass double doors took me into the hallway and down towards a huge black guy in a white shirt and blue uniform at the front desk. I showed him my Virginia driver’s licence, as required everywhere since 9/11. I hadn’t got round to buying a car yet because I had my bike – if I could get hold of it – at Carrie’s house in Marblehead.
I glanced at the security guy’s name badge. ‘Hi, Calvin. My name’s Stone – I’m going to the third floor, Hot Black Inc.’
‘Can you sign the book, sir, please?’
I signed in while he checked the visitors’ list and gave me the once-over. DC was still quite a formal town when it came to dress codes and I was in my jeans, Caterpillar boots and brown leather bomber jacket. I placed the pen back on the desk and gave Calvin a smile. ‘It’s dress-down Friday.’
Calvin didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘Thank you, Mr Stone. The elevator is just round the corner there to the right, and you have a good day, sir.’
As I walked away I gave him the standard, ‘And you.’ I had a smile on my face: the name Hot Black Inc still made me laugh. I’d always thought it was only in
The Man from U.N.C.L.E.
that they invented weirdly named companies as fronts.
I’d been on Hot Black’s payroll for just under a year now. It was a marketing company that didn’t really have anything to market, which was just as well because I didn’t know the first thing about that. Life was good. I got paid a salary of $82,000 a year, my apartment was taken care of, and on top of that I got cash in hand after every job. It was a much better deal than working as a K for the Firm on £290 a day, all in. As a Hot Black employee I’d been given a US social-security number, and I even had to file tax returns. It gave me the chance to have a kind of real life. After George’s daughter, Carrie, had binned me, I’d even managed to have a new girlfriend for about six weeks. She was the area manager for Victoria’s Secret for DC and Virginia, and we lived in the same apartment block. It worked out quite well until her husband decided he wanted to try to make a go of their marriage. I guessed he’d been missing the free samples she brought home.
I even had a pension plan. It was one of the ways George could slip me extra cash without it being noticed in the real world: walking into a bank with $20,000 in cash, these days, would do more than just raise eyebrows. For the first time in my life I was starting to feel a bit secure.
The elevator arrived, pinged open, and I stepped in and pressed the button for the third floor.
5
I still wasn’t too sure what military or government department George worked for and therefore who paid my salary, but I wasn’t complaining. Things had been really busy for me since I’d thrown in my lot with him: in the last few months I’d been in Bombay and Greece on ‘rendering’ operations; the targets were three suspected al-Qaeda operators who, I presumed, were now shuffling around Guantanamo Bay sporting shaved heads and orange coveralls.
I finished my coffee as the elevator doors closed behind me, and turned left down the corridor towards Hot Black’s offices. It was a world of shiny black marble walls, alabaster statues in alcoves, and bright fluorescent lights set into suspended ceilings. The corridor had just been refurbished and the smell of thick new carpet was in the air. Hot Black Inc was no two-bob company.
I went through the smoked-glass double doors into the deserted reception area. A large veneered antique table served as a front desk, but it was unmanned. To the left of it, two long red velvet sofas faced each other with a low glass coffee-table between them. There wasn’t as much as a daily newspaper or a copy of
Marketing Monthly
in sight. The desk was the same, completely clear apart from a phone. Even the drinking fountain was missing its huge upturned plastic bottle; there were just six lonely crystal glasses to one side.
I carried on to the main office doors, tall, black, very shiny and substantial. When I was just a couple of paces away they were pulled open. George spun on his heel without a word of greeting and strode back towards his desk, framed by the window a good ten metres away. The cleats in his heels clunked on the maple floor. ‘You’re late. I said seven a.m.’
I’d known he’d say that. He’d probably been up since five, gone for a run, said a prayer over his healthy bowl of granola, and left his house at precisely the time he’d planned. Not five or ten past the hour, that wasn’t precise enough, and would have meant time wasted. It was probably eleven minutes past or something like that, to get him to the office at exactly six fifty-six.
I closed the doors behind me. ‘Yes, I know, I’m sorry. There were a few delays on the metro.’
He didn’t reply. The Washington metro was never late. What had made me late was the line at Starbucks, and the not-too-bright people behind the counter.
He rounded the desk. ‘What’s that one called?’
‘A
latte
.’
The windows were triple-glazed so I could see traffic moving beyond the blinds but not hear it. The only sound, apart from our voices, was air droning through the air-conditioning ducts.
‘Doesn’t anybody just buy a cup of plain Joe any more? You’re paying over two bucks a hit just because it’s got a fancy name.’
The room was well furnished. One wall was panelled with oak and had what looked like an eighteenth-century portrait of a guy wearing a tricorne hat and a mason’s apron, with a bunch of American Indians in the background killing someone.
As George finally turned to face me I realized it really must be dress-down day in Spookville. He wasn’t wearing his normal button-down shirt and tie under his cord sports jacket but a white polo shirt. Maybe next week he’d go completely overboard and undo the top button, but I wasn’t going to hold my breath.
George sat down on a dark wooden chair, which squeaked with newness as it took his weight. There was nothing on his desk, except a phone and a dark brown briefcase. He motioned for me to take a chair, then wasted no more time. ‘So, what happened to the weapon?’
I still had the empty coffee-cup in my hand: there was nowhere to put it. ‘Suzy went jet-skiing and dumped it about three hundred metres out to sea. The cases were still in the chamber. I didn’t go with her, but she’ll have done it OK.’
George raised an eyebrow.
‘I couldn’t – I didn’t want the gravel burn on display.’
‘How is it now?’
‘Fine. I just can’t resist picking at the scabs at night.’ I raised a little smile but it had no effect on George. He was looking up at the fluorescent lighting set into the false ceiling. ‘I’m going to get some dimmers put in here. These things are a health hazard, not good for the eyes.’
I nodded, because if George said so it must be true.
He got back into the real world. ‘You and the woman . . .’
‘Suzy.’
‘Yes, you both did very well, son.’ He pulled the briefcase towards him and played with the combination locks.
I put my cup on the highly polished floorboards. ‘I was wondering, George, what was in the bottles?’
He didn’t even bother to look up. ‘That, son, you don’t need to know. Your part is done.’
The case opened and he looked up, forcing a smile. ‘Remember what I told you? Our job is to make sure these scum get to see their God earlier than expected. Period.’
I remembered.
‘Where are you headed now?’
‘Maybe away for a while, who knows?’
‘I want to know. Make sure you keep your cell with you. My beeper number is the same until the end of the month when I’ll give you my new one.’
A brown Jiffy-bag came out of the briefcase and he pushed it across the table, along with a sheet of typed paper. I leant forward to pick it up as he checked out the ceiling lights once more and glanced at his watch.
It said that I’d received $16,000 in cash from George and required my signature – maybe to stop him keeping it and buying a pony to go with his shirt. ‘I thought you said it was going to be twenty thousand?’
‘It is – but you just made a twenty per cent contribution to the welfare fund.’ He looked around at his plush surroundings and opened his arms. ‘There are old operators out there who didn’t have a marketing pension to fall back on when they were retired or got themselves all busted up. Life was different then, so I got to thinking that those old guys are entitled to share a little of our good fortune. Those guys find it hard in the real world, Nick. As I don’t need to tell you, it’s a jungle out there . . .’
I took a breath, ready to say I didn’t have a choice.
George got in before me. ‘Now you’ve settled in, this is the way it’s going to be. We all do it. Who knows? You might be calling for help yourself some day.’
I didn’t bother opening the envelope to check. All my cash would be there: George would have counted it out himself. Everything was correct with George, everything was always on time. I liked him for it.
He checked his watch again, then closed his briefcase and concentrated on the locks as he reset the combination. ‘This is where you leave, with your cup.’
I’d got to the door with cup and cash in hand when he gave his parting shot. ‘There’ll always be a place for you here, Nick. Nothing’s going to change that.’ I knew he was referring to Carrie, and turned back to see his face break into a smile. ‘Until they kill you, of course. Or I find someone better.’
I nodded and opened the doors. I wouldn’t have had it any other way. As I turned to close them again, I could see George looking up at the lights once more, probably planning a memo to the building superintendent. I hoped he had more luck with his than I did with mine.
6
Laurel, Maryland
Monday 5 May, 10:16 hrs
I sat in the back of a taxi on the way to Josh’s house, after the half-hour train ride from Central Station to Laurel. With all the messing about and waiting, I’d probably have been quicker hiring a car, but it was too late now.
We turned the corner into Josh d’Souza’s new estate of prim and proper weatherboarded houses, and I directed the driver to his cul-de-sac. My last visit had been only six weeks ago, but it was just as hard to tell the houses apart, with their neatly trimmed grass fronts, obligatory basketball hoop attached to the garage wall, and Stars and Stripes waving in the breeze. Some front windows even displayed a blown-up photograph of a young son or daughter in military uniform, virtually swamped by Old Glory. Josh’s house was 106, about half-way down on the left.
The cab pulled up at the bottom of the concrete drive. Josh’s place was set back from the road by about twenty metres, and on a slight rise, with his front lawn sloping up towards the house. A couple of bikes, a basketball and a skateboard lay outside the garage, and his black, double-cabbed Dodge gas-guzzler stood in the drive.