Brute Force ns-11 Read online

  To my way of thinking, the less I knew the better. It meant I really was their last chance, they really needed me – and that therefore they weren't completely fucking me over.

  Why did I have to make Big Ben's death look like an accident? And why bother saving the shipment? We were a big Firm; we had enough kit to go round; we didn't need this lot. Why not let the whole cargo go down and make sure it didn't fall into the wrong hands?

  Too little air, too many questions and too much gun oil were giving me a headache. Fuck it, I just wanted to get the job done.

  A shout – pure Belfast – came from the stairway. 'Ben! Come – now. We've got a big focking problem! A plane – flying low!'

  I wriggled out of my hiding place and ran like Superman to the door. I jammed my ear against the cold steel.

  'Where from?'

  'The north; so low I could see the pilot.'

  'Military?'

  'Air force.'

  'Must be from Gibraltar. The Brits, they've got us.' He was more pissed off than scared.

  Another voice joined in, this time an Arab. 'No, no, no – it's the Spanish. I can hear them on the radio. Spanish customs. They're heading straight for us.'

  'They may get us.' It was Big Ben again. 'But they're not laying a finger on this lot. Get ready to jump ship.'

  There was a blast of noise from the engine room, then a lot of hollering.

  As I clambered back up onto the GPMGs, the engines slowed to a hum.

  Lights went on in the hold and I heard movement below me.

  8

  I watched Lesser hunch over the TPU, remove a penknife from his jeans and unscrew the lid. He turned the Parkway anticlockwise, lifted out the rubber pad and dropped it and the knife onto the deck. Then he made his way back the way he had come. He was walking, not running. Good drills: he didn't want to break a leg and be stuck down here when the device kicked off. He wanted to make sure he could get upstairs before the Parkway did its bit.

  The moment he'd disappeared, I legged it towards the TPU. He'd set the Parkway to fifteen minutes. I grabbed the rubber, jammed it into place and turned the dial back down to zero.

  I picked up the knife and cut the ring main about three metres from the detonator. Whatever happened now, only three metres of det cord would ignite. It had the power to rip through human flesh, but it wasn't going to do much damage to the ship.

  I edged round beside the first dustbin lid and waited. Big Ben would be back. He was too professional and committed to just shrug his shoulders when it didn't detonate.

  I kept reminding myself that his death had to look like an accident. I imagined the frantic activity up on deck as they tried to get the boats away before it detonated.

  The fifteen minutes passed.

  He'd give it maybe another two, three at the most. I felt a sneaking admiration for him. Me, I had no commitment to anything. Maybe that was because no one had any commitment to me.

  I heard the beat of a helicopter's rotors above the ship, and then Ben's large and menacing frame filled the doorway. There could be no finesse in this. It had to be short and sharp. He mustn't get near the TPU.

  Head down, teeth clenched, I jumped out and rammed him against the stack of crates.

  My head was buried in his gut, my neck taking the strain. He bellowed like a wounded animal and his two clenched fists pile-drove down each side of my spine. I took the pain as best I could; my kidneys felt like they were exploding.

  I struggled to force up my head, trying to get my hands round the back of his so I could make contact with the fucking thing. It would be OK to damage his face. It had to be. His face was going to get the worst of it anyway.

  I could smell his stale sweat and the nicotine on his breath. His greasy hair fell over me like a clump of seaweed. Then he simply brushed me away as if I was an annoying kid.

  His entire focus was on the TPU.

  I grabbed his arm as he moved away from me and used his momentum to swing him around. He turned, and I let go. He banged his head against a stanchion and went down on his knees. I grabbed hold of the three metres of det cord still connected to the TPU, flicked it like a skipping rope over his back, whipped out the rubber pad and dived for cover.

  The det cord kicked off and the concussion wave hit me, short and sharp, as my face was sprayed with warm blood. The detonation rattled around the cargo hold.

  I jumped back up, in case he was doing the same.

  He lay on the deck. The det cord had crossed his chest and the left side of his head. The explosion had cut a deep groove in his flesh and muscle, as if someone had run a chainsaw all the way down his body. He was still alive, still kicking out to fight the pain, but not shouting. He still had a job to do. He dragged himself towards the TPU, smearing blood over the carpet of wheat grains.

  I wiped his blood from my eyes. I knelt next to him. He tried to push forwards, but it was no good. I put my right hand over his mouth and nose and my left behind what was left of his neck and pushed them together. He fought it. His hands came up but he knew it wasn't going to help him. His eyes burned with hatred and defiance.

  After thirty seconds he started to struggle furiously, with all the frenzied strength that a man draws on when he knows he's dying. But no matter what he did now, he wouldn't be getting up.

  His hands scrabbled at my face. I bobbed and weaved to avoid them, but maintained the pressure on his nose and mouth.

  Gradually at first, his frenzy subsided. Soon there was no more than a spasmodic twitching in his legs. His hands stopped grasping. Moments later, he was unconscious.

  I gave it another thirty seconds. His chest stopped moving. Another thirty and I released him. He slumped face down in the wheat grains, grease and dirt.

  9

  Fuck knows what was happening on deck. I could hear helicopters in the hover.

  I didn't know what I was looking for, but I went through his pockets anyway. They were empty. Maybe his wallet was with the rest of his gear in a cabin or up on the bridge. I rolled him over. The edge of a bloodstained piece of card peeped from the top of his shirt pocket. I pulled it out and turned it over.

  Her face had been charred by the det cord, but she was as hauntingly beautiful in the photograph as she had been alongside Mansour on the gangplank. Thirties, maybe. Palestinian. Her piercing sea-green eyes gazed straight into the camera: passionate, obsessive, almost manic. Those eyes had burned into Lesser's with fierce love. They seemed to stare into mine with nothing but blame and reproach.

  I legged it back to the door, across the corridor, and into the engine room. The engines were idling. I killed the lights. The stench of diesel fumes and grease was overpowering.

  I tucked myself behind a couple of tool lockers.

  I could extract myself when the ship had been towed into port. If I got lifted before that, at least I would be out of sight of the crew. I took deep breaths, sucking in the diesel fumes as I tried to re-oxygenate myself. What was left of Big Ben looked exactly like it should have done. He'd been cut almost in half by the det cord. To whoever found him, he must have gone in, cut the det cord to stop the ring main going off while he sorted out whatever the problem was, and the TPU had kicked off.

  Shouts in Spanish echoed around the ship. Their search had begun. I sucked in more air and tightened myself up, as if that was going to make me smaller behind the lockers.

  The doors opened and a torch beam flicked around the engine room. The main lights came on. Two seconds later, the muzzle of a 5.56mm assault rifle was pressing into my cheek.

  I let them shout and holler. It was pointless trying to explain, even if they did speak English. I put my hands behind my head. It's always best to do that.

  They pushed me down onto the floor, and gave me a proper going over. My hands were plasticuffed behind my back. A couple of unseen hands hauled me to my feet and dragged me towards the stairs. Lads were already at work on the device. I wasn't the only one who'd been well briefed. I just hoped I was part of
their int.

  I came out of the door into brilliant sunshine. I squinted like a mole. There wasn't a cloud in the blue Mediterranean sky.

  The ship bobbed up and down in the swell. There were a couple of coastguard cutters tied up alongside. I looked down onto the deck of the first one and saw five pairs of eyes burning up at me. It didn't take a brain surgeon to work out what had happened. Duff's eyes burned the fiercest.

  The Spanish boss looked over at me too. There was lots of nodding and more shouting. He had a series of pictures on a clipboard. He bellowed something at his troops and I was pushed to my knees. Then, like a fucking idiot, he gave me a nod and carried on. That was me well and truly fucked, even if there were a couple of lads in the crew who couldn't work out what I was.

  I was helped down into the second cutter. As soon as I was aboard, the handcuffs were taken off and I was given a bowl of hot chocolate.

  'You fucking shite! We'll get you one day!' Duff yelled his farewell as we pulled away.

  He might have been right, for all I knew. But they'd have to join the queue.

  PART TWO

  10

  Dun Laoghaire, Republic of Ireland

  December 2007

  If I drank any more tea I was going to die of tannin poisoning, but how could I turn her away? Ruby was getting too much of a kick out of going up to the counter and ordering like a grown-up. Besides, it was fun watching the eight-year-old coping with the motion of the ferry as she waitressed the cups back to us.

  She waved excitedly at Tallulah and me from the queue and then grinned and pulled a face at a girl behind her who seemed to be doing a Steven Spielberg of her trip with a handheld camcorder. They both laughed and fell into the kind of animated conversation that girls of any age seem to be able to have with complete strangers.

  'How old is that girl behind Ruby? Or is she a woman? When do you start calling a girl a woman? Twenty? Thirty?'

  Tallulah looked up from her magazine and followed my gaze. 'Depends, I guess. Some are women at twenty. Some are still girls at thirty.'

  I looked out of the window. Only a few minutes ago all I could see was slate-grey sea and clear blue sky; now a frost-covered Ireland was filling it up fast. Last time I did this crossing by boat, I was a young squaddie aboard a Royal Corps of Transport ferry from Liverpool docks. The boats were flat-bottomed for beach landings, which turned the Irish Sea into a rollercoaster – and the ride usually lasted all night. Catamarans with jet engines were definitely the way to go. Stena Line's finest had whisked us here in ninety minutes flat. In fact, the crossing had taken us less time than it had to get from Tallulah and Ruby's house to the M4. The traffic leaving London had been so bad I wondered if I'd missed an announcement about an outbreak of the Ebola virus in Piccadilly.

  Ruby delivered the latest two cups with a theatrical flourish as the tannoy announced we would soon be docking at Dun Laoghaire. Would all car passengers kindly return to their vehicles?

  Or, in our case, Avis's vehicle: a supercharged Mercedes C Class estate, with all the bells and whistles. They were so proud of it when I collected it from the Mayfair office, I didn't like to trouble them with the news that I was taking it out of the UK.

  'So what were you plotting and scheming with your new best friend up there?'

  'She's nice. I said about the surprise. I said me and Tally don't even know where we're going for our holiday!'

  'What did she say to that?'

  'She said have a happy Christmas.'

  'And that's exactly what we will do.'

  'Where?'

  I pretended to start spilling the beans but caught myself just in time. 'Nearly got me!'

  'That's lovely! The whole family. Come on, Ruby, say cheese!' Up close I could see that Ruby's new friend looked more Eastern European than Irish, but the accent was pure Belfast.

  Ruby turned and started waving at the lens.

  I stood up and smiled apologetically. 'Just off to the toilet.' Old habits died hard; I just never felt comfortable in front of a camera.

  'What's your mammy and daddy's names then?'

  Tallulah wasn't impressed. 'Sorry, I feel uncomfortable about you filming my daughter. Please stop.'

  By the time I'd got back Tallulah had gathered up the dozen or so magazines she'd bought at various motorway service stations yesterday and Miss Spielberg had gone.

  Tallulah was on edge. 'I just don't like it. You never know where the footage could end up. There are some weird people out there.'

  I wasn't about to disagree. Ruby's dad Pete had caught me on film not so long ago in Iraq, and when he was killed I'd ended up on a nationwide TV tribute to the guy. I was only on screen for a nanosecond, and I doubted I'd have featured in Gary Glitter's personal collection, but I didn't like it one bit.

  11

  I'd forgotten what it was like to travel with an eight-year-old. Ruby had a bladder the size of a walnut and we'd had to stop at almost every service station on the way to the ferry yesterday. Every time we did, Tallulah had found another couple of magazines she needed. I kind of understood, but couldn't help feeling that Heat and Grazia weren't going to fill the void left by Pete's death; it was the size of the Grand Canyon. I felt it too, and I'd only known him for about five minutes.

  This had been a bit of a last-minute affair, so we hadn't been able to fly; every seat had been booked on every plane out of the UK since about September, and so had every hotel room from Land's End to the tip of Jockland. I'd only phoned Tallulah a few days ago to see how she and Ruby were doing, and discovered that actually neither of them was doing very well at all. Tallulah couldn't bear the thought of their first festive season alone without Pete, so I'd offered to take them away. Luckily for us, the cottage was still available, and since Brits were wary of the Irish Sea in winter there was space on the ferry.

  Tallulah stood up. She was tall, and her long wavy blonde hair made her seem even taller. She looked and dressed like a Notting Hill trust-fund hippie, but nothing could have been further from the truth. She and Pete had worked hard for everything.

  The car deck was freezing and stank of diesel fumes. Coats and bags were stuffed into impossibly small spaces and doors and tailgates slammed before the wacky races to get out of the docks and onto the motorway began.

  We squeezed between a couple of trucks to get to our gleaming Merc. It had cost a fortune to hire – even though I hadn't bothered with the insurance waivers – but I couldn't just cram these two into a budget hatchback after all that they'd been through in the last few months.

  The car was packed to the gunwales with towels and duvets and brightly coloured suitcases. Somewhere underneath it all was my stuff: toothbrush – one; pants, socks, T-shirts – three: one on, one clean, one in the wash. Including their present, it fitted into a small holdall.

  I pointed at the pile of bedding. 'You think I'd take you guys to a place with bare mattresses?'

  Tallulah shifted in her seat. 'Just in case.' She shrugged. 'I'm a worrier.'

  I gave her a smile and touched her lightly on the shoulder. She was doing her best, but I could see the tension in her face, and feel it in her shoulder muscles. She was finding her feet again, expanding her comfort zone inch by inch. It was painful to watch. She had a house to look after all on her own now, and, more importantly, her dead partner's child. I knew how she felt. I'd found myself in a similar position a few years ago, and fucked up big-time.

  'Ruby!'

  I looked across the deck. A few cars away, the girl with the camcorder was making her way towards us. Squeezed into the front passenger seat of the BMW behind her was a big, muscular guy with dark skin and a black leather jacket who glowered at me like a jealous boyfriend.

  The girl beamed at Tallulah. 'I'm so sorry I bothered you. I spend so much time with a camera in my hand, I seem to end up filming everyone and everything.' She held out her hand. 'Mairead O'Connell.'

  'Tallulah. Are you with a TV station?'

  Mairead laughed. 'Nothin
g so glamorous. I'm Richard Isham's press secretary. Half my job is recording who he meets and what they talk about.'

  12

  We rolled off the ramp and into a bright sharp day. Exhaust fumes misted the air.

  'Who's Richard Isham?' Tallulah said. 'Should I know?'

  'Not really. Another one of these Irish politicos who's desperate to show that he's a fully paid-up member of the Good Lads' Club.'

  Ruby tapped me on the back. 'What's that say? I can't read those words.'