Aggressor Read online

  ‘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.

&nbs
p; ‘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.’

  ‘What about the DLB? Where are we dropping the stuff?’

  He’d forgotten about the DLB, I could see it. ‘Didn’t I tell you? A cemetery, about ten minutes from the house. Whatever we find goes into a plastic bag and inside a stone bench, next to someone called Tengiz. It’s no problem, he’s buried just past the main gate.’ His look changed from silly grin to friendly smile. ‘Lighten up! Just because I’m not frowning as hard as you are, doesn’t mean I’m not working.’

  He opened up the map.

  ‘Anything else you might have forgotten to tell me, you silly old fucker? What about Plan B? You said you had two options.’

  He looked slightly sheepish. ‘Plan B doesn’t exist, lad. I thought it’d sound better if we seemed to have a few options to play with.’ He liked that one. His smile was as wide as the Mtkvari, but it was clear he was still trying to recover from his fuck-up.

  ‘Tell you what, Charlie. Why don’t I go and do my walk-past now? You can spend some time sorting yourself out with this shit.’ It was a gentle reminder that he needed to check everything on the bed was working before his walk-past. ‘We’ll RV in the cemetery and find this DLB. Then we’ll split, and come back here for the brief.’

  I nodded at the tape next to the TV. ‘What’s the plan with that? Tell you what’ – I picked up the tape and shoved it inside my jacket – ‘I’ll take it. You’ve got enough shit to carry.’

  I did up my jacket. ‘You positive you want to go through with this?’

  The smile vanished. He was going to give me a bollocking. I put my hands up. ‘I know, I know. This will be the last time, promise. I just want to make sure your senile fucking brain has taken all the risks on board.’

  He toyed with the pick set. ‘It’s got to be done.’ He tried to extract one of the picks from its retainer but seemed to find it difficult. He dumped it quickly on the bed before he thought I’d had a chance to notice.

  I turned to go, but got called back. ‘Oi, shit for brains – let’s see if anything’s rubbed off during my years of painstaking tuition. One: Whitewall couldn’t find out Baz’s date of birth – can you? And two: we need five or six towels and a couple of extinguisher inners for tonight . . .’

  I nodded and turned back towards the door.

  ‘And make sure you nick them from the penthouse floor. If there’s a fire, the posh fuckers can burn . . .’

  PART FIVE

  1

  I came out of the hotel and turned right along the main drag, checking the town map I’d got from the front desk. Everyone else on the street was either a local draped in black or a Westerner in regulation Gore-Tex jacket, polo shirt and Rohan trousers. It had certainly been dress of the day in the Marriott. The reception was full of them emerging for breakfast; the café was a sea of Outward Bound.

  I followed the main drag, paralleling the river somewhere to my right. It was 11.26 and a lot busier now as I passed the spruced-up opera house, theatres, museums and parliament. They were beautiful buildings, hailing from an era before Joe Stalin turned up with a few million truckloads of ready-mix. I couldn’t understand it: from what I’d read there were still a few statues to him left standing, and plenty of old Soviets who rated him their greatest ever leader – pretty scary considering he’d massacred a million or so of his devoted comrades.

  Above me, just before the cloud cut off the sky, was a telecoms mast the size of the Eiffel Tower, beaming out pictures of US flags and smiling Russian housewives 24/7.

  There were quite a few locals out and about at this time of the day, and I definitely wasn’t the grey man. I didn’t have the sort of skin that tanned in five seconds like theirs did, my hair wasn’t black and my eyes were blue. I was blending in like Santa in the Congo. People were looking at me as if they all had come to the conclusion that I must be a spy, or there to do any number of bad things to them.

  A police blue and white Passat cruised past. The two guys inside had AKs on the back seat. They both looked me up and down before the driver gobbed off to his mate about the weirdo. Fuck ’em, I’d be out of here soon enough. Besides, they were probably just jealous of my jumper.

  All the same, I was beginning to feel more worried about this job – or, more truthfully, about Charlie. Which probably meant I was a little worried about me, for being stupid enough to go along with him. I couldn’t quite work out how he could rattle off the kit list, yet forget about the DLB . . .

  Then I thought, fuck it, so what? I’d see this through. Charlie needed me. He was all that mattered. He might have disco hands and have difficulty remembering what the fuck he was up to, but at least he was still here. Every other friend I’d ever had, whether we’d still been at the embryonic stage or reached the point where we were wearing each other’s clothes, was dead.

  I was doing this for Charlie; he was doing it for Hazel. I couldn’t let him down. He was in the hotel at the moment, probably flapping a bit about whether or not I’d noticed that there were times when he couldn’t even pick his own nose. Maybe he was flapping big time, not knowing if he was going to be able to keep his shit together long enough to see the job through. The thing he most needed right now was to know that he could depend on me, and that made me feel good.

  Maybe I’d also be doing my bit to save a young squaddie or two on the pipeline. I’d seen what happened to a family when their much-loved son was zapped, and I realized I didn’t like it one bit.

  I had a shrewd suspicion that I was really trying to concentrate hard enough on Steven and Hazel to allow me to avoid thinking about Kelly and me, but I just didn’t have the bollocks to admit it to myself. So I thought of Silky instead and that felt much better. I knew I’d rather be on a beach with her than fucking about in a Georgian politician’s backyard.

  I crossed the road and passed an English bookshop/café/i
nternet joint. A high-pitched American female voice screeched through the open door: ‘Oh-my-God . . . that-is-sooo-cool.’ I made a note to give the place a miss.

  I felt myself smiling. The fact was: I missed Silky. Months of sitting on a psychiatrist’s couch hadn’t cleared my head anywhere near as effectively as bumming around for a few months with a freewheeling, freethinking box-head.

  Maybe I’d just get back to her and crisscross the continent in that van for years to come. Maybe this job would be my swansong as well.

  I passed the city’s newest landmark. No doubt about it, the new McDonald’s was the glossiest, brightest building on the main drag. Its brown marble walls were extra shiny this morning after their coating of rain. New converts lined up with their kids for a Georgian McBrunch.

  There weren’t too many Ladas parked up outside. Being the new thing in town, it was the domain of dark-windowed Mercs, and even a Porsche 4x4. You didn’t get cars like that by working for a living in this part of the world. Their drivers-cum-bodyguards were gathered under a nearby tree, dragging on Marlboros and pausing occasionally to flick ash off their obligatory black leather sleeves.

  An old man in an even older black suit jacket pointed at parking spaces with a small wooden truncheon, as more shiny cars full of rich kids came to stuff their faces with American imperialistic calories. I was even thinking about getting supersized myself.

  It wouldn’t be long now before I turned off the main; it was easy to tell because McD’s was featured big-time on the map. Just as well, because I couldn’t read the street names in Russian and Paperclip.

  My plan was simple. If possible, I would do a full 360 of the target house, until I’d seen as much of it as I possibly could. My priorities were defences and escape routes. That was if I didn’t get picked up by one of the VW blue-and-whites. They buzzed around the city like flies, or just sat there, lurking in lines of parked cars while their passengers watched and smoked.