Aggressor Read online

  I got up from the bench and started walking down the slope, past row upon row of the young smiling faces of the 1956 dead. They all looked about the same age as Steven was, when he, too, became a good lad fucked over.

  4

  The rain had stopped, and there were even a few stars pushing their way through the breaks in the cloud.

  I made my way past the opera house, taking the same route as earlier. It was my job to clear the area from the direction of the hotel; Charlie was doing the same from the other side of the Primorski.

  The streets and pavements were still busy, even half an hour before midnight. Most of the shop lights were on, and McD’s was heaving. I’d hoped Tbilisi wasn’t a city for late-night people so our life would be easier, but no such luck.

  I’d left the hotel at about 8.30, after asking the concierge for a couple of suggestions for places to eat. It sounded perfectly normal, as the hotel was jammed with the Gore-Tex version of the UN. The BP Georgia conference had ended and the restaurant and bar boasted even more European languages than polo shirts.

  Not that I was in any position to take the piss. Charlie had been in charge of buying us both some oilman kit to change into for the flight. We’d be getting wet and shitty later on, trying to make entry, so would need to smarten up a bit before we exited the country. I had a rather fetching blue sweatshirt with matching Rohan trousers and a slightly padded khaki jacket to come home to. With that on tomorrow, I should be close to invisible.

  I had checked that the screechy American had left Prospero Books, the English bookshop, café and internet place, and went and logged on with a hot chocolate and sticky bun. It seemed to be a general meeting place for Brit and US expats working on the pipeline, and at their respective embassies. Or it might just have been the only joint around that had its own generator, so when the power failed they could stay online.

  My first big question for Google was Baz’s date of birth. With luck there’d be a list of Georgian politicians somewhere, with personal information; whatever, I’d just get in among the web and find it.

  One approach to cracking the combination of a safe is to crack the psychology of the owner. Surprisingly often, combination locks are left on their factory settings – usually 100, 50, 100. I wasn’t too up on eastern bloc defaults, but Charlie would be.

  If you bin the default and choose a new combination, chances are you’ll spend the whole time flapping in case you don’t remember it; it’s the same as it is with PIN numbers. So people tend to use numbers they know, like their birthday, car registration or phone. If they choose random numbers, they are almost certain to write them down somewhere. An address book is usually a good place to start looking.

  It was easier than I could have hoped. The Georgian government had a website, and they published personal details. Baz was only forty-five; he was born on 22 October 1959. He must have had a hard life, though; his picture showed a balding man with a few wisps of grey hair, skinny as a rake. He could have done with a few of the sticky buns I was getting down my neck.

  The small sign above every PC kindly reminded users that they must not erase their history. Maybe the shop had to hand a printout to the police every twenty-four hours, or perhaps they checked it after every user. Trying to cover up my history as comprehensively as possible, I wiped it clean then had a quick look at today’s helping of doom and gloom on CNN’s website.

  Two junctions past McD’s, I took the left and headed uphill towards Barnov. The river was behind me, the big telecoms mast up to my half-left, its warning lights blinking red. The ambient glow from the main drag faded as I moved further into the residential area, and nothing much took its place apart from what spilled from behind curtains and the occasional car headlamp. Up here the street lighting wasn’t just poor, as it was around the target; it was non-existent.

  My cell vibrated in my jeans pocket as a blue-and-white cruised downhill. I pulled it out and hit green.

  ‘All clear my side, and the obvious is pretty busy.’ He had cleared the road that paralleled the target street, leading to the obvious, the Primorski club, checking there hadn’t been a murder or anything that might persuade the blue-and-whites to pile in and block off the street. He’d said he wanted to be there fifteen minutes before me; team leader and all that. It wasn’t my place to argue; he was the mechanic; I was the oily rag.

  Charlie was carrying all the MOE kit in the satchel, over his shoulders. All he needed to complete the mature student look was a roll-up and a woolly hat. To help me blend in, I’d bought myself a black Tbilisi Dynamo basketball cap. It also covered the black ski mask that was folded on top of my head, just in case we fucked up and kicked off any of the CCTV cameras we could see, or any that we couldn’t. So confident was he that I was going to stay, Charlie had bought it for me before I’d even got there.

  I started to feel the trickle of sweat down my back once more as I made my final checks. I ran through my jeans pockets, just in case I’d inadvertently kept some loose change since leaving the bookshop, and made sure my clear rubber gloves were still there. It wasn’t as if they were going to jump ship on their own, but it made me feel better to check again that they had-n’t. Check and test, check and test; that was what this game was all about.

  I had the gloves but no change; the charity box in the bookshop had done well out of my tradecraft skills. Everything else was in the room safe, and my entry card was shoved behind the toilet next to the hotel’s restaurant. Going on a job sterile was something that always felt uncomfortable to me. Not having my passport meant not having a means of escape. But if we got caught, we lost our passports and they knew who we were. This way, if we got caught and escaped, we still had a chance of making it out of the country. I also had $400 in cash rolled up in my jeans pocket. Not for any particular reason, it just made me feel a little better.

  I made sure the mini-Maglite was in my bomber jacket’s left pocket. If I tested it any more, I’d run the battery flat. The heavy steel CO2 canister from one of the fire extinguishers was secure in my right. It was about nine inches long and as effective a truncheon as I could wish for.

  Charlie had the other one I’d extracted from the pair of fire extinguishers I’d borrowed from the top floor of the Marriott. They were our make-like-burglars kit. If we did get compromised, the ‘actions on’ would be the same as we employed over the water: fight our way out and nick something, maybe even mug the person who compromised us.

  I had a final look at my boot soles for stones, and after a quick jump up and down to check for noise and to make sure the canister wasn’t going to fall out, I was ready. I just wanted to get this over and done with and start listening to flight attendants with Australian accents as soon as possible.

  5

  The French and Chinese embassies were lit up like Christmas trees, and their guard huts leaked wailing, almost Arabic music. The odd set of headlights cruised up or down the street, but Barnov was mostly shrouded in darkness.

  The target house was coming up on my left. No lights from the top windows. No neighbour’s windows lit that overlooked the gates or yard. So far so good.

  I called Charlie. ‘Clear.’

  ‘Still clear this side. See you in two.’

  The phone went dead and this time I’d memorized his number so I deleted it before powering down. Everything was now clear on the phone, not that it would mean much if we got lifted. They could still trace numbers in and out.

  I watched the mature student coming downhill from the Primorski end. The street looked clear behind him. I had no idea what was going on behind me, but that didn’t matter. If Charlie saw a problem, he would just carry on walking when he got to the gate. Same for me. We would then do a complete circuit and come back and try again.

  He got to the gates before me, unshouldered the satchel and placed it gently on the ground. A new layer of Paperclip graffiti had been sprayed on them since we’d been there earlier. At least it covered up the rust. He did one last check round, then
dropped to his knees. I got my back against the left-hand gate and kept checking the area as I put on my rubber gloves.

  Charlie was peering through the two-inch gap at the bottom. It must have been OK the other side. The Audi obviously wasn’t there, because he pulled his home-made tension wrenches from the satchel and got to work on the lock. Maybe it made him feel better to use his own kit rather than the one-stop-shop option that Whitewall had delivered. Who cared, as long as he got us into the yard in quick time?

  There was the faintest scraping of metal against metal as he began to attack the lock. It really did feel like old times. I even had a moment of déjà vu, back to a time when we were operating over the water, doing a CTR together on a house in the Shantello estate in Derry. We were looking for a PIRA timing device that they planned to add to four pounds of Semtex and plant in a community centre on the other side of the river. A team in the Bogside, a couple of miles down the road, were watching a player and his wife who were out on the piss. Before closing time, in an hour, we had to try and get into their house, find the device and make sure it would never finish its job.

  We got in through a back window, and the first objective was to clear all the rooms to make sure they hadn’t left kids asleep upstairs, or someone in the front room with headphones on listening to music.

  We finally got to the attic landing. I climbed onto Charlie’s shoulders, lifted the trapdoor, and heaved myself into the loft space. His job was to pass up a Maglite so I could have a good look around before I committed myself to the search.

  I dangled my hand ready to receive, but nothing happened. I leaned down further, in case he couldn’t reach, and then a little more, to the point where I was nearly falling out of the hatch. I looked down to see what the problem was, and realized he was moving the Maglite lower and lower, just for the hell of it.

  Charlie had to block his mouth with both hands to stop himself snorting with laughter. At least he thought it was funny. In the end, like with most CTRs, we found fuck all. The pubs closed and we had ten minutes to get out and leave everything exactly as we’d found it.

  Charlie was taking for ever. A lever lock is very basic; even with improvised gear, it should have taken no more than thirty seconds to open. I took my eyes off the road and gave him a gentle kick. ‘For fuck’s sake, get on with it, you senile fucker.’

  His shoulders rocked with silent laughter just as headlights came downhill from our left. I broke away and started walking up the road towards the Primorski. I knew that Charlie would be getting to his feet and following suit, hands in his pockets, as I had, to hide the gloves. We’d both do a circuit.

  The vehicle, a big Merc, hung a right, down towards the Primorski, just as I made the same turn. It pulled up at the kerb, and three girls in their early twenties got out, followed by a man of fifty something. The girls were dressed in spangly gear that sparkled and dazzled in the pink and blue neon. Maybe that was why Grandpa still had his sunglasses on. Wafts of high-octane perfume and cigar smoke filled the air as I walked past. The club’s black doors were held open for them by security and I heard a low rumble of talk, music and laughter.

  I turned left to carry on with the circuit. I was worried about Charlie. It had been taking him far too long to open the gate. I sparked up the phone. If he’d remembered, he would have done the same. ‘Listen, are we going to get in there, or what? Get your finger out and get on with it.’

  A car passed him as he replied, but I swore I heard him laugh. ‘Let’s give wisdom and experience one more go, then bull-headed youth can have its chance.’

  The phone went dead but I kept it in my hand. A couple more cars bounced and splashed their way across the potholes. I eventually got back onto Barnov.

  I called Charlie. ‘That’s me back on the main.’

  He’d have been making his circuit on the other side of the street so we didn’t pass each other too closely. Sure enough, I could soon see him in front of me, crossing the road so that he was on the target side. A Lada rumbled past from behind me, missing the club junction and heading uphill.

  Charlie wasted no time as we reached the gate again. Down on his knees, he kept the satchel over his shoulder this time. I looked down and saw he was fighting two battles, one with the locks and the other with his hands. I gave him a nudge in the leg. ‘For fuck’s sake, get on stag. I’ll have a go.’

  He looked up and shrugged. We swapped places. ‘Fucking hell,’ I muttered as I got to work. ‘This lock’s nearly as old as you are.’

  The tension wrench was still in place. I felt the pressure of the lever against it at the top of the lock before it turned, then the gate was open. I pulled out the pick and handed it to Charlie.

  I slipped off my baseball cap, rolled the ski mask over my face and put the cap back on. Charlie did the same. I didn’t worry about anything else; that was his job. If he saw anything untoward, he’d deal with it.

  I pushed the left gate inwards very gently, just enough to squeeze myself through the gap. There was no telling how sensitively the motion detectors had been calibrated, or what their range was. I inched my way along the right-hand gate, heading for the wall. As long as you’re far enough away from the sensor and against a solid background, nine out of ten times you can get away with it.

  Once I hit the wall, I stayed flat and waited for Charlie. He moved his head and shoulders back against the gate and pushed it gently to, without locking or bolting it. This was our only known escape route, and we wanted to keep it that way.

  A loud, male Paperclip monologue fired up close by in the street. I couldn’t hear a reply; he was probably mad, drunk, or on the phone.

  I looked to our right. We were about three or four metres from the outbuildings that were going to cover us while we tuned in to the target and carried out final checks before making entry.

  Hugging the wall, I started moving. Slowly, really slowly.

  The band in the Primorski struck up with Boney M’s ‘Brown Girl In The Ring’. The audience’s polite applause was followed a few seconds later by a volley of raucous cheers. The Vegas girls must have made it onstage.

  Aminute or two later we were safely behind the outbuildings and Charlie’s mouth was against my ear. ‘I like this one. It’s Hazel’s and my song.’ His shoulders did a little jig. ‘Brings back a few memories.’

  I stifled a laugh. ‘I’m very happy for you both. But let’s not have those hands of yours doing all the moves.’

  He was probably grinning like an idiot under his ski mask, but I knew he must be as worried as I was about his condition.

  He turned his head and spoke gently through the fabric. ‘We’ll give it just a bit longer, then go and have a decent look at that door lock, eh?’ Charlie had always tried to make ops like this sound like nothing more than a bit of DIY, but he was overdoing the nonchalance now.

  He retrieved the binos from the satchel and peered round the corner of the brick sheds. He passed them to me. They weren’t NVGs [night-viewing goggles], but they certainly helped my night vision. I checked out the CCTV first, then the door. Nothing had changed.

  The band segued from Boney M to Sinatra. A group of three or four highly excited male voices moved past the gates. Maybe they were looking forward to dislodging a feather or two, or maybe they just thought New York was their kind of town.

  We checked yet again that our phones were off and nothing was going to fall out of the satchel, and Charlie put his mouth back up to my ear. ‘’Eh oop, lad, we might as well get on with it, mightn’t we?’

  PART SIX

  1

  So far, we seemed to have been right about the light-and-camera motion detectors, if that was what they were; they covered the front of the house and the courtyard area between it and the gate. The two on each corner of the building swept the narrow alleyways between the house and the perimeter wall. We hoped we wouldn’t need to check out the set-up at the rear.

  Only one aspect of the security arrangements didn’t make sense. The wal
l the far side of the courtyard, facing us as we came through the gate, didn’t seem to be covered at all. It didn’t take us long to decide it was our best route to the front door.

  We edged along, Charlie ahead of me, our backs against the decaying brick wall. It was still very muggy, and the inside of my ski mask was soon clammy with sweat and condensed breath.

  The only sounds up until now had come from the club and the occasional passing nutcase, but there was a sudden flurry of footsteps on the pavement by the front wall. There were at least two people out there; one of them was coughing and sniffing his way towards us.

  He stopped just the other side of the gates for a good old spit; I could see the silhouette of his shoes at the centre of the two-inch gap beneath them. I hoped he didn’t decide to pop inside for a piss. I edged further back into the shadows. There was a burst of raucous French mockery from his companion. I didn’t speak much French, but enough to know that our throat-clearing friend had left a trail of snot down the front of his shirt.

  They moved on, and so did we, working our way round to the corner of the house. The camera focused on the gate was mounted on the wall above us, with the motion detector immediately beneath it. We had to assume that it was angled towards the porch, so the light would go on when Baz went into or came out of the house. We’d have to make it think we were part of the floor this time, rather than the wall.

  As we eased ourselves downwards, the Primorski band switched into Johnny Cash tribute mode, which must have put a big smile on the faces of the men in black. While they walked the line, we started to kitten-crawl the last four or five metres. Hugging the ground, we pushed ourselves up, as slowly as possible, on our elbows and toes, just enough to move forward, an inch or two at a time, along the cracked wet concrete path. We moved our eyes, not our heads, to see what lay in front of us; mine were already aching from the strain of keeping them right at the top of their sockets.