Aggressor (13 page)

I stood up. ‘Do you know what you’re lifting?’

‘Nope. Just anything inside the safe, handwritten or printed.’

‘You know why it has to be lifted covertly? Why not just get a local lad to blow the thing up?’

‘Don’t know, don’t care. Could be one of a thousand reasons.’

‘He live alone?’

‘Yep, all on his lonesome, in that big old house. What a waste.’

‘You know what this Baz guy has done, or what he’s about to do?’

Charlie knew I’d be hitting him with questions like this for hours if he didn’t shut me up. ‘Take a breath, lad. Everything’s in hand. I’ll be finding out all I need to when old Whitewall turns up at nine. He’ll have to tell me; it’s too near the witching hour for him to fuck me about, and I won’t do the job if he doesn’t tell me the reason why.’

‘What’s he coming here for?’

‘I gave him a kit list in Istanbul.’

Charlie went through it all: fibre-optic equipment; big holdall of pick gear to cover all the safe options; all the other tiny details that never leave the expert’s mind.

Charlie was grinning like an idiot. He loved talking work stuff; it was like he’d been let out of the paddock. ‘Why the long face, lad? I know it’s about two donkeys’ worth of kit, but we need it to cover all eventualities, not to mention our arse.’

I was listening, but just now the kit was unimportant. ‘It’s your arse I’m worried about. And mine. Charlie, you know fuck all. You could land up in a world of shit, mate. You could get thrown away with the rubbish once this job’s done.’

6

‘I know it’s risky. That’s why I want you to come. I’m thinking if the wheels start to fall off you’ll be there to help put them back on. But I’ll know more about the job after nine . . .’

I didn’t answer; I wanted him to work and I wanted to know more about Whitewall and Baz, and why he needed to steal documents from a safe.

‘Look, I’ve already started to protect myself, and FedEx’d the first tape of the fat one to Hazel. I told her not to open it, just keep it safe. There’s fuck all on it, but at least it’s a start.’ He got up and headed for the brew kit above the minibar. ‘It’s all right, Nick, really.’ He pointed at the bed. ‘Park your arse and I’ll make us a nice cup of tea.’ He sounded like somebody’s granddad. Which of course he was.

I moved the map out of the way and sat down again. My face felt hot. What was I so worried about – the job, or his safety? I couldn’t work it out.

The little plastic kettle started to bubble. Charlie had his back to me. ‘So, lad. You with me?’

He ripped open a couple of sachets and dropped the teabags into two tiny coffee cups. We weren’t going to get much of a brew out of them. ‘Just like old times, eh?’

‘No, Charlie, it’s not like old times. We’re using our own passports. We don’t know what the fuck we’re heading into. We are not in control of the job.’ I stared at his back. ‘I’m not doing it unless we know more . . .’

I tailed off, exasperated. ‘What the fuck am I saying we for?’

Charlie liked that one. His shoulders shook so much it looked like he was chuckling with his whole body.

He calmed down after a minute or two and had another go at digging into the milk tubs with the back of a spoon. ‘You think I don’t know all that stuff? It’s why I need you here, lad, like I said. To ride shotgun.’

He turned and handed me the brew.

‘What do you say?’ His eyes had turned a bit liquid, and I wasn’t sure it was just because of the laughter. ‘Piece of piss if we’re two up . . .’

I took a sip of the weakest tea I’d ever tasted. ‘What’s his name again?’

‘Zurab Baz-your-father. Something like that.’

‘For fuck’s sake, you don’t even know his name. You on drugs or something?’

‘Hang on, I remember. It’s Bazgadze. But his name doesn’t matter, does it? I know where he lives and it’s not as if we’re going to see him. We do the recces today and get on with it tonight. Then we’re gone. I’ll even pick up a nice bottle of duty-free, to take home for Hazel. Do you know this country invented wine?’

I moved the map so I could stretch out, and dumped the tea on the bedside table. ‘How was she?’

‘A bit scratchy, but she knows you’re with me.’ He was all smiles again. ‘Silky was out riding with Julie.’

I realized I was smiling too. It had only been a few days, but I was missing her. I’d got used to being around her. It was certainly a lot more fun hanging out with her than with this old fucker.

Charlie had touched a nerve and he knew it. ‘If you like, you can even get back into Hazel’s good books by saying you’re dragging me back, we’re not even doing the job. What do you reckon?’ He thumbed the number into his cell. ‘Go on, give her a ring.’ He threw it on the bed. ‘I told her you’d try and talk me out of it anyway.’

I left the cell where it landed. ‘What if we can’t get in tonight? There a Plan B?’

‘Nope. Now or never. Go on, give her a call.’

He gave up his own attempts to drink the undrinkable. ‘I’m staying, lad. I’ve got no choice. She thinks we’re still in Turkey, by the way. Tell her you’re bringing me back tomorrow.’ The smile had gone. This was serious. ‘Please.’

I picked it up and hit the call button. It took an age before the ring tone started, but it got lifted after just one ring.

‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s Nick.’

‘When’s your flight? Do you want us to meet you at the airport?’

‘Tomorrow. He’s seen sense at last.’

‘Thank you so much, Nick.’ I didn’t think I’d ever heard anyone sound so relieved. ‘Thank you, thank you. When are you getting in?’

‘It’s going to depend if there’s direct flights out of Istanbul. It’s a nightmare. Is Silky there?’

I heard Hazel’s muffled reply, then Silky’s voice. ‘I’m missing you, Nick Stein. You’re coming back tomorrow?’

‘Um, listen, we’re on a cell, it’s costing a bomb. I’ll call you when we get a flight, OK?’

‘OK.’

‘And Silky?’

‘What?’

‘I miss you too, box-head.’

I cut the phone and threw it back on the bed. ‘Thank fuck this isn’t a video phone.’

‘You don’t want her to see you looking miserable?’

‘No, I don’t want her to see this jumper.’

I picked up the map. ‘Right,’ I said. ‘How the fuck are we going to crack this, then?’

7

The sky was heavy and grey and busy slicing off the tops of the hills. Cars splashed their way through puddles the size of tennis courts. The pavement glistened round the bus stop where I sat waiting for Whitewall to show up. It was going to be a horribly muggy day.

I was across the road from the hotel, keeping trigger on the entrance. The plan was that I’d give Charlie early warning of any ‘possible’ going in. The camcorder was rigged up in his room to record the handover of kit, and his replies to Charlie’s questions. The tape would become a major part of our security blanket if the wheels did come off. We’d cache it – along with anything else we’d been able to get our hands on – and make sure that Crazy Dave knew we had a few shots in the locker to keep Whitewall or whoever from fucking us about.

I was right next to the front window of a gun shop. Punters waiting for their buses could check out an almost endless display of shotguns, rifles and chrome-plated pistols to meet their every need. I had already seen a couple of guys walk past with shoulder holsters over their sweatshirts, and they weren’t using them to carry their deodorant. The sweatshirts were black, of course. In Georgia, black was the new black. The men mostly wore black leather over black. Every one of them over the age of thirty looked like he’d just spent the night standing outside Tbilisi’s answer to Spearmint Rhino, fucking people off.

The streets leading uphill from the main drag all looked like they hadn’t seen a lick of tarmac since the time of that bumper harvest. There were more potholes than there were Ladas to fall into them, and the pavements had crumbled so badly there was no longer any kerb.

Hordes of scabby-looking dogs were all set to spend the day chasing bits of swirling garbage in the wind. There was enough rubbish on the ground and enough fading plastic bags caught in the trees to form a fourth hill which would enclose the city completely.

Another ten minutes went by. Except for the gun shop and the odd mobile phone store and café, the main drag seemed to be lined with bookstores. As I watched the old, bunker-shaped Russian trucks jockeying for space along the boulevard with streams of brand new Volvos and Mercs, I realized there were no traffic lights. Come to think of it, we hadn’t driven through a single one all the way from the airport. Either the drivers were very polite here, or no-one would have taken a blind bit of notice.

Just before nine o’clock, a two-tone Mitsubishi Pajero 4x4, silver bottom, dark blue top, pulled up outside the hotel. It was three up. Even from this distance I could see that the passenger in the rear was the size of a small tank. He waddled out onto the pavement, opened the back door and took out a large, light-coloured bag, then disappeared through the glass doors. The driver kept the Pajero static. There had been quite a few limos and 4x4s picking people up and dropping them off, but this felt like Whitewall.

I hit my cell phone. The SOP [standard operating procedure] for this job was to leave nothing but Charlie’s number as the last call, and I was only doing that in case I forgot it. ‘Got a possible carrying two donkeys’ worth.’

I decided to dice with death while I waited for the possible Whitewall to re-emerge, and crossed the road to get a better view of the two up front. They were side on and directly in front of me as I slalomed across the final stretch. The two boys were straight from Thick Bouncers central casting. Mid-thirties, lots of black leather. Both were clean-shaven and bald-headed, and the driver had perfectly manicured hands draped over the wheel and a pair of black-framed gigs.

The plate was pressed steel, white background, black letters before the numbers 960: a local registration, not military or diplomatic. The engine was still running, so the rear passenger obviously wasn’t intending to be inside for long.

I felt the phone vibrate in my jeans pocket. I took the first option right to get me out of line of sight and hit the green.

‘He’s on his way down, lad. See you in ten.’

8

Charlie took the tape out of the camcorder. He was already gloved up.

The CTR kit was laid out on the bed, alongside a navy-blue canvas satchel the size of Imelda Marcos’s shoe bag for us to carry it all in. He needn’t have bothered improvising his own lever-lock wrenches; it looked like Whitewall had delivered one of every type ever manufactured.

‘Whitewall had two local slapheads in tow. Mafia or oil? Makes you think, doesn’t it?’

‘Might do, if I did bother to think about it. But I’m not going to, lad. It gives me a headache.’

‘Fair one.’

I took a pair of rubber gloves from the bed and started to put them on. If Whitewall or his slap-heads had left DNA or prints on the kit, that was up to them, but I wanted it to remain sterile of Charlie and me.

‘Come on then, old man. How did it go?’

‘I told him I wouldn’t do the job unless I knew what was happening. So he talked me through it while I gloved up and pulled out the bits of kit one by one in front of him.’

There was everything a budding burglar could wish for, from lock picks, rakes and tension wrenches to mini-Maglites, a keyring torch, and rubber door wedges, but one particular bit of kit was missing. ‘Where’s the weapon, mate? Every man and his dog here has got one.’

‘Not needed. Like I said – in and out without leaving a fart print.’

He picked up the fibre-optic gear and worked the cable so that the end of it wriggled like a worm. ‘Seems our man Baz has got his grubby little fingers in just about every pie within reach. He’s in with the militants up north, and he’s taking backhanders from the Russians. Both groups want to sabotage the pipeline, which not only fucks up the supply but also puts the lives of Yank and Brit construction workers at risk.

‘Whitewall wants to knock all that firmly on the head, but first he needs to know what Baz has got tucked away in that safe of his – you know the sort of thing: who’s on the take; who’s got the Semtex hidden under their bed, and so on. Once he’s got all that int in his hot little hand, he – and I guess that means the US government, meaning the oil companies, now you got me thinking – can go to the Georgians’ top bollocks and bubble him. The appropriate authorities can swing into action and bingo, everyone can have a love fest.’

He turned and looked me in the eye. This time he wasn’t smiling. ‘Now, you happy with that? You can see the tape if you want.’

I shook my head. No need. ‘Not if you believe him.’

‘Makes sense to me. Not that it matters, either way. As I said, lad, I’m still going to do it. If those hairy-arsed militants start hitting the pipeline, people will get killed. The contractors know the risks; they’re well paid for it. But the other poor bastards don’t – the ones who’ll be guarding the fucking thing . . .’

I remembered the fresh-faced kids from the recruiting commercial. And then I understood. ‘I guess they’d be about Steven’s age . . .’

‘You’re not wrong, mate. Good lads getting fucked over; it’s the same in any language. Who knows? Maybe I can save some other parents from the nightmare Hazel and I have been through. It’s not why I’m doing this, but it would be a fuck of a bonus.’

His face lost all expression as he thought for a moment about his boy, but he managed to cut away from the feeling almost as quickly as it had come. I knew that process all too well. I always hoped it would get better with practice.

The creases in his face returned. ‘Actually, fuck the money, I should be getting a Georgian MBE for this! You want one?’

‘Whatever’s going,’ I said. ‘What’s the plan?’

‘Two options. Whitewall says Baz’ll be out the house until Sunday morning. He’s off to some national park to kiss babies, or whatever the fuck you do to win votes in this neck of the woods. So we have to go in as soon as we can tonight, and find and attack the safe. We lift whatever’s inside, close up again behind us, and go and catch the morning flight.’