Энди МакНаб. Последний свет(engl)

     Last Light [181-142-181-4.2]
     By: Andy McNab.
     Category: fiction spies


     Synopsis:
     When Secret Intelligence Service deniable operator Nick Stone aborts an
officially  sanctioned  assassination attempt  at the  Houses of Parliament,
having realized who the target is, he is given  a  chilling ultimatum by his
bosses:  fly to  Panama and  finish  the job, or Kelly, the  eleven-year-old
orphan in his guardianship, will be killed.
     At any other stage of his life the task would have been run of the mill
for  a  man of  Stone's skills and experience.  But Stone  is on  the  edge,
struggling to pick up the pieces  of  his shattered life,  trying to come to
terms with a  heartrending decision he has had to make about Kelly's future.
By the time he arrives in Panama, he is close to breaking point.
     In the  sweltering jungle of Central  America, Stone prepares to  carry
out  his orders,  aided by Aaron and Carrie, two American  eco-scientists in
the pay of the CIA. But as  he soon discovers, nothing in  Panama  is  quite
what it  seems,  and it's not long before he  finds himself the centre  of a
lethal  conspiracy involving  Colombian guerrillas,  the US  government  and
Chinese big business.
     At stake are hundreds of innocent lives .. .
     Only Stone can  stop the killing and retrieve the West's interests, but
first there is  a  critically  injured  friend to rescue, and miles of dense
rain  forest to navigate. In the explosive  denouement at  the Panama  Canal
with everyone's true colours ultimately  revealed,  Nick Stone  is forced to
make the toughest decision of his life. 
     Last printing: 03/12/02 `<49' Also by Andy McNab
     Non-fiction
     BRAVO TWO ZERO
     IMMEDIATE ACTION
     Fiction
     REMOTE CONTROL
     CRISIS FOUR
     FIREWALL
     LAST LIGHT
     ANDY McNAB
     BANTAM PRESS
     LONDON NEW YORK TORONTO SYDNEY AUCKLAND
     TRANS WORLD PUBLISHERS
     61-63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA a division of The Random House Group
Ltd
     RANDOM HOUSE AUSTRALIA (PTY) LTD
     20  Alfred  Street,  Milsons  Point,  Sydney,  New  South  Wales  2061,
Australia
     RANDOM HOUSE NEW ZEALAND LTD
     18 Poland Road, Glenfield, Auckland 10, New Zealand
     RANDOM HOUSE SOUTH AFRICA (PTY) LTD
     Endulini, 5a Jubilee Road, Parktown 2193, South  Africa  Published 2001
by Bantam Press a division of Transworld Publishers  McNab 2001 The right of
Andy McNab to be identified as the author of  this work has been asserted in
accordance with  sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act
1988.
     All of the characters  in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance
to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
     A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
     ISBN: 0-386-593 04617X (cased)  All  rights reserved.  No part  of this
publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or  transmitted
in  any  form   or  by  any  means,  electronic,  mechanical,  photocopying,
recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
     Typeset in 11/13pt Palatine by  Falcon Oast  Graphic Art Ltd Printed in
Great Britain by Mackays of Chatham plc, Chatham, Kent
     LAST LIGHT
     Sunday, 3 September  2000 I didn't  know who we were going to kill just
that  he or she  would  be  amongst  the crowd munching  canapes and sipping
champagne on the terrace of the Houses of Parliament at 3 p.m." and that the
Yes Man would identify the target by placing his hand on their left shoulder
when he greeted them.
     I'd done some weird  stuff over the years, but this job was scaring me.
In less than ninety minutes, I was going to  be shitting on my own  doorstep
big-time. I only hoped the Firm knew what it was doing, because I wasn't too
sure that I did.
     As I looked down yet again at the  clear  plastic lunch-box on the desk
in front of me, three torch bulbs sticking out of holes I'd burnt in the lid
stared back up. None of them was illuminated;
     the three snipers were still not in position.
     Everything about this job was wrong. We'd been given the wrong weapons.
We were in the wrong place. And there just hadn't been  enough time  to plan
and prepare.
     I  stared  through  the net  curtains across the boat-filled river. The
Houses of Parliament were some 350 metres away to my half left.
     The office  I'd  broken  into was  on the top floor of County Hall, the
former Greater London Council building. Now redeveloped into offices, hotels
and tourist attractions, it overlooked the Thames from the south side. I was
feeling rather  grand sitting behind a highly polished, dark wood desk, as I
looked out at the killing ground.
     Parliament's  terrace spanned  the whole  of  its river  frontage.  Two
prefabricated pavilions with candy-striped roofs had been erected at the far
left end, for  use throughout the summer months.  Part of  the terrace,  I'd
learnt from their  website, was for Members  of the House of Lords, and part
for the House of Commons. The public were not admitted unless they were with
an MP or peer, so this was probably the nearest I was ever going to get.
     The Department of  Trade  and Industry's guests today  were  a group of
about thirty businessmen, plus staff and some family, from Central and South
America. Maybe the DTI was trying to curry a bit of  favour and sell  them a
power  station or two. Who cared?  All I knew was that  one of them would be
getting dropped somewhere between the vol-au-vents and the profiteroles.
     Directly  below  me,  and  five  storeys down,  Albert  Embankment  was
thronged with hot-dog vendors and stalls selling plastic policeman's helmets
and postcards of  Big Ben to  people  queuing for the  London  Eye, or  just
enjoying  a lazy  Sunday  afternoon. A sightseeing boat packed with tourists
passed under  Westminster  Bridge.  I could hear a  bored voice  telling the
story of Guy Fawkes over a crackly PA system.
     It was holiday season and another news-starved week, so Mr. Murdoch and
his mates were going to  be ever so pleased with what I was about to do: the
biggest  explosion  in   London  this  year,  and  right  in  the  heart  of
Westminster.  With the added bonus  of a major  shooting incident,  it would
probably  take their  ratings right  off the scale. Unfortunately, good news
for them was bad for me. SB (Special  Branch) were going to be working their
arses  off to find out who'd pressed the button, and they were  the best  in
the world at this sort of thing.
     They'd  been formed  to stop the  IRA carrying out exactly  the kind of
stunt I was about to pull.
     Three torch bulbs were still unlit. I wasn't flapping, just concerned.
     At  either  end of the row of lights was a white, rectangular bell-push
from  a  door  chime set, glued in position with Evostik,  the wires curling
into the box. The  one  on  the left was covered with the top  from a can of
shaving cream. It was the detonation press el for the device that I'd set up
as a diversion.  The device was basically a black powder charge, designed to
give  off  a  big enough  bang to  grab London's attention  but not  to kill
anyone.
     There would be some damage, there'd be the odd cut or bruise, but there
shouldn't be  any fatalities. The  shaving  cream top  was  there  because I
didn't want  to detonate  it by  accident.  The  press el on the  right  was
exposed. This was the one that would initiate the shoot.
     Next  to the box  I  had a set of binos mounted  on  a mini-tripod  and
trained on the killing ground. I was going to need them  to if watch the Yes
Man as he moved about the crowd and ID'd the target.
     The lunch-box  contained a big, green, square  lithium  battery,  and a
mess of wires and circuit boards.  I'd never tried to make things look neat;
I just wanted them  to work.  Two purple  plastic coated wire antennas stuck
out of the rear of the box, trailed along the desk, over the window-sill I'd
pushed it up against,  then dangled down the outside wall. I had the  window
closed down on them to cut out as much noise as possible.
     The loudest  sound  in  the  room was  my  breathing, which started  to
quicken as  the  witching  hour got  closer.  It  was  only  outdone  by the
occasional   scream  of  delight  from  a  tourist  at  ground  level  or  a
particularly loud PA system from the river.
     All I could do was wait. I crossed my arms  on the desk, rested my head
on them, and stared at the  bulbs that were now level with my  eyes, willing
them to start flashing.
     I was shaken out of my trance as Big Ben struck two. I knew the snipers
wouldn't move into their fire  positions until  the last moment so that they
didn't expose themselves longer than necessary, but  I really  wanted  those
lights to start flashing at me.
     For about the millionth time in the past  twenty minutes I pushed  down
on the uncovered press el resting the side of my head  on my forearm to look
inside the box, like a kid wondering what  his mum had made him for lunch. A
small  bulb,  nestled amongst  the  mass of wires,  lit up with  the current
generated by my send press  el I wished now that I'd burnt another  hole  in
the lid for the bulb inside to join the others but at the time I couldn't be
arsed. I released it and pressed again. The same thing happened.  The device
was working. But what about the other three that I'd built  for the snipers?
I'd just have to wait and see.
     The other thing I did for the millionth time  was wonder why I couldn't
just say no to  this stuff. Apart from the fact that I was soft in the head,
the answer was the  same as always: it was the only thing I knew. I knew it,
the Firm knew it. They also knew that, as always, I was  desperate for  cash
again.
     If I was truthful  with  myself,  which I found pretty  hard, there was
another, much  deeper reason. I got my  eyes  level with the bulbs once more
and  took a deep breath. I'd learnt a few  things since attending the clinic
with Kelly.
     Even  at school there  was desperation in me  to  be  part of something
whether  it was joining  a woodwork  group, or  a gang  that used to rob the
Jewish kids of the dinner  money they'd wrapped in  hankies so  we  couldn't
hear  it rattle in  their pockets as they walked past.  But it never worked.
That feeling  of belonging only happened once I joined the  army. And now? I
just couldn't seem to shake it off.
     At  last.  The  middle  bulb,  Sniper   Two's,  gave  five  deliberate,
one-second pulses.
     I put my thumb on the send press el and,  after a nanosecond to check I
wasn't about to blow up  London in my excitement, I depressed it three times
in exactly the same rhythm,  to say that I had received the signal, checking
each time that the white circuit-test bulb inside the box lit up.
     I got three flashes back  immediately from the middle  bulb. Good news.
Sniper Two  was  in position, ready to fire, and we  had com ms All I needed
now was One and Three, and I'd be cooking with gas.
     I'd put everything these snipers needed to know where to be, how to get
there, what to do  once in position,  and, more importantly for them, how to
get away afterwards with the weapons and equipment  in their individual DLBs
(dead letter boxes). All they  had to do was read the orders, check the kit,
and get on with  the  shoot.  The  three  had different fire positions, each
unknown  to  the others.  None of them had met or even seen each  other, and
they hadn't met me.  That's how  these things are  done: OP SEC (operational
security). You only know what you need to.
     I'd had an  extremely busy ten  nights of CTRs (close target recces) to
find suitable  fire positions in the hospital grounds this side of the river
and directly opposite the killing ground. Then, by  day, I'd made  the  keys
for the  snipers to  gain access to their  positions, prepared the equipment
they would need, then loaded the DLBs. Tandy, B&Q and a remote-control model
shop in Camden Town had made a fortune out  of me once I'd hit ATMs  with my
new  Royal Bank of Scotland  Visa card under my new cover for this job, Nick
Somerhurst.
     The only aspect of the business I was totally happy about was OP SEC It
was so tight that the Yes Man had briefed me personally.
     Tucked in a very smart  leather attache case, he had a buff folder with
black boxes stamped  on  the outside for  people  to  sign and  date as they
authorized its  contents. No one had  signed any  of them, and there was  no
yellow card attached to  signify it was an accountable document. Things like
that always worried me: I knew it meant a shitload of trouble.
     As we drove along Chelsea Embankment towards Parliament  in the back of
a  Previa MPV with  darkened windows,  the Yes  Man had  pulled two pages of
printed A4  from the  folder and started to brief me. Annoyingly, I couldn't
quite read his notes from where I was sitting.
     I  didn't like the condescending wanker one  bit  as he put on his best
I-have been-to-university-but-F m-still-working-class voice to tell me I was
'special' and 'the only one capable'. Things didn't improve when he stressed
that no one in  government knew of this job, and only two  in the Firm: "C',
the  boss  of  SIS,  and  the  Director  of  Security  and  Public  Affairs,
effectively his number two.
     "And, of course," he said, with a smile, 'the three of us."
     The driver,  whose  thick blond  side-parted  hair  made  him look like
Robert Redford when he was young enough to be the
     Sundance Kid, glanced in the rearview mirror and I caught his eye for a
second  before he  concentrated  once  more  on the  traffic,  fighting  for
position around Parliament Square. Both  of them  must have  sensed I wasn't
the happiest teddy in town. The nicer people were to me, the more suspicious
of their motives became.
     But,  the  Yes  Man said,  I  wasn't to  worry.  SIS  could  carry  out
assassinations at the express request of the Foreign Secretary.
     "But you just said only five of us know about this. And this is the UK.
It's not a Foreign Office matter."
     His smile confirmed what I already knew.
     "Ah, Nick, we don't want  to  bother  anyone with minor details.  After
all, they may not really want to know."
     With  an  even bigger smile  he added  that  should  any  part  of  the
operation go wrong, no one would be held ultimately responsible. The Service
would, as  always, hide  behind the Official Secrets Act  or,  if things got
difficult, a  Public  Interest Immunity Certificate. So everything was quite
all right, and I'd be protected. I mustn't forget, he said, that I  was part
of the team. And that was when I really started to worry.
     It was blindingly obvious to  me that the reason no one knew about this
operation  was  because no one in their right mind would sanction it, and no
one in their right mind  would take the job on. Maybe that was why  I'd been
picked. Then, as now, I comforted myself with the thought  that at least the
money was good. Well, sort of. But  I was desperate for the  eighty grand on
offer,  forty  now  in  two  very  large  brown  Jiffy-bags,  and  the  rest
afterwards. That was how I justified saying yes to something I just knew was
going to be a nightmare.
     We were now on the approach road to Westminster Bridge with Big Ben and
Parliament  to my right. On the other side  of the river  I  could  see  the
County Hall building  and to  the left of  that,  the  London Eye, the wheel
turning so slowly it looked as if it wasn't moving at all.
     "You should get out here, Stone. Have a look around."
     With that, the  Sundance Kid kerbed  the Previa,  and  irate  motorists
behind hit their horns as they tried to manoeuvre around us. I slid the door
back  and stepped out  to the deafening  sounds of road  drills and  revving
engines. The Yes Man leant forward in his seat and took the door handle.
     "Call in for what you  need,  and where  you  want the other  three  to
collect their furnishings."
     With that, the door slid shut and Sundance cut up a bus to get  back in
the  traffic stream heading south across the river. A van driver gave me the
finger as  he put his  foot  down to make  up that  forty seconds he'd  been
delayed.
     As I sat at  the desk waiting for the other two bulbs to  illuminate, I
concentrated hard on that eighty grand. I didn't think I'd ever needed it so
badly. The snipers were probably getting at least  three times as  much as I
was but, then, I wasn't as  good as they were at what they did. These people
were as committed to their craft as Olympic  athletes. I'd met one or two in
the past when I, too, thought  of going that route, but decided  against it;
professional  snipers  struck  me as  weird. They  lived  on  a planet where
everything was taken  seriously,  from politics  to buying ice  cream.  They
worshipped at the church of one round, one kill. No, sniping might pay well,
but  I  didn't think  I  belonged there.  And,  besides,  I now found bullet
trajectory and  the  finer  points of wind  adjustment  pretty boring  after
talking about them for half an hour, let alone my entire life.
     From the moment the Yes Man dropped me off with my two  Jiffy-bags, I'd
started protecting myself  far more than I normally would. I knew that  if I
got caught by Special Branch  the Firm would deny me, and that was  part and
parcel of  being  a K. But there was more  to it this time. The stuff  I did
normally  didn't  happen in the UK, and no  way would anyone  in their right
mind  give  this the go. Everything felt wrong, and  the Yes Man would never
want  to be on the losing side. He'd knife  his own grandmother  if it meant
promotion; in fact, since he took over the Ks Desk from Colonel Lynn, he was
so far up C's arse he  could have flossed  his teeth. If things didn't go to
plan, and even if I did evade SB, he wouldn't hesitate to fuck me over if it
meant he could take any credit and pass on any blame.
     I needed  a  safety  blanket,  so I started by  noting  down the serial
numbers of  all three snipers' weapons before grinding them out. Then I took
Polaroids of  all  the equipment, plus the three firing positions during the
CTRs. I'd given the snipers  photographs  in their  orders, and I kept a set
myself. I had a full pictorial story  of the job, together  with photocopies
of each  set of sniper's orders.  It all went into a bag in Left  Luggage at
Waterloo  station,  along  with  everything else  I  owned: a pair of jeans,
socks, pants, washing kit and two fleece jackets.
     After loading the  three snipers'  DLBs, I should have  left them alone
but I didn't. Instead I put in an OP (observation post) on Sniper Two's dead
letter  box, which was just outside  the market town of Thetford in Norfolk.
There was  no particular reason  for picking Sniper Two's to OP, except that
it was the nearest of the three to London.
     The other two were in  the Peak District and on  Bodmin Moor. All three
had been  chosen in  uninhabited areas  so that once they'd got the weapons,
they could zero them to make sure that the optic sight was correctly aligned
to the barrel so that a round hit  the target precisely at a given distance.
The  rest -judging the wind, taking leads (aiming  ahead of  moving targets)
and working out distance is part  of the  sniper's art, but first the weapon
sight and rounds  need to be as one. How they did  that,  and where they did
that within the area, was up to them.
     They  were  getting  more  than  enough  cash to make  those  decisions
themselves.
     Inside the DLB, a 45-gallon oil drum, was a large black Puma tennis bag
that held everything needed for the shoot and was totally  sterile of me: no
fingerprints,  certainly no  DNA. Nothing from my body had made contact with
this  kit.  Dressed  like  a technician in  a chemical  warfare lab,  I  had
prepared, cleaned and wiped everything down  so many  times it was  a wonder
there was any Parkerization (protective paint) left on the barrels.
     Jammed  into  a Gore-Tex  bivi  bag  and dug in  amongst  the ferns  in
miserable drizzling rain, I waited for Sniper Two to arrive. I knew that all
three would be  extremely cautious when they made their approach to lift the
DLBs, carrying  out their  tradecraft to the letter  to ensure they  weren't
followed  or walking into a trap. That  was why I  had to keep my  distance:
sixty-nine metres to be exact, which in turn had meant  choosing a telephoto
lens on my  Nikon for  more photographic evidence of this  job, wrapped in a
sweatshirt to dampen  the rewind noise, and shoved into a bin  liner so that
just the lens and viewfinder were exposed to the drizzle.
     I  waited,  throwing Mars  bars and water down my  neck and just hoping
Sniper Two didn't choose to unload it at night.
     In the end it was  just over  thirty boring  and very wet hours  before
Sniper  Two  started  to move in  on  the DLB. At least  it was daylight.  I
watched the hooded figure  check  the immediate area around  a collection of
old, rusty farm machinery and oil drums.
     It edged  forward  like  a wet and  cautious  cat.  I  brought  up  the
telephoto lens.
     Tapered blue  jeans,  brown cross-trainers, three-quarter-length  beige
waterproof jacket. The hood had a sewn-in peak, and I could see the label on
the left  breast pocket:  LL Bean I'd never seen one of their shops  outside
the US.
     What  I'd also  never  seen  outside the US was a woman sniper. She was
maybe early  thirties, slim, average  height, with brown hair  poking out of
the sides  of the  hood.  She was  neither attractive nor unattractive, just
normal-looking,  more like  a  young  mother than a professional killer. She
reached the oil drums,  and carefully  checked inside  hers to make  sure it
wasn't  booby-trapped. I couldn't help wondering why a  woman would  take up
this line of work. What did her kids think she did for a living? Work at the
cosmetics counter in  Sears, and get dragged  away a couple of  times a year
for week-long eyeliner seminars?
     She'd been happy with what  she  saw inside  the  drum. Her  arms  went
inside very quickly and lifted  out the bag.  She  turned  in my  direction,
taking the weight of it in both hands, and threw it over her right shoulder.
I hit  the  shutter release and  the  camera whirred. Within  seconds  she'd
melted  once more into the trees and  tall ferns; like a cat, she'd probably
find a place to hide now and check out the spoils.
     Sniping  does  not simply  mean  being  a  fantastic marksman.  Just as
important  are   the   field  craft   skills  stalking,  judging   distance,
observation, camouflage and  concealment and judging by the  way  she lifted
the DLB and got back into cover, I bet she'd won gold  stars in all of those
disciplines.
     While in the Army I had spent two years as a sniper, in a Royal
     Green Jacket rifle company. I was as keen as anything: it had something
to do with being left alone just to get on with it with your sniper partner.
I  learnt a lot and was a good shot, but I didn't  have the passion required
to make it a life's vocation.
     I was  still staring  at the three bulbs, waiting for One  and Three to
sign in. A helicopter  clattered overhead,  following the  river-bank on the
north side, and I had to look  up to satisfy myself  that  it wasn't looking
for me. My paranoia was working overtime. For a moment I thought that it had
found the explosive device I'd placed on  the  roof of the Royal Horseguards
Hotel in Whitehall the night before. The hotel was just out of sight, behind
the  MoD  (Ministry of Defence) main  building  across the river to my  half
right. Seeing  the three service flags fluttering on the roof of the massive
light-coloured  stone  cube prompted me  to check  something  else  for  the
millionth time.
     Keeping the  row  of torch bulbs in my peripheral vision, I looked down
at the river to check the wind indicators.
     In urban areas the wind can move in different  directions, at different
levels, and in different strengths, depending on the buildings it has to get
around.
     Sometimes  streets  become wind  tunnels, redirecting  and  momentarily
strengthening  the  gusts. Indicators  were  therefore  needed  at different
levels round the killing area, so the snipers could  compensate by adjusting
their sights. The wind can make an immense  difference to where a round hits
because it simply blows it off course.
     Flags are really useful, and there were more around  here than at  a UN
summit. On the  water there were plenty of boats moored with pennants at the
stern. Higher up, on both ends of Westminster Bridge, there were the tourist
stalls, selling plastic Union  Jacks  and Man United streamers.  The snipers
would use all of these, and they would know where to  look because I'd keyed
them on to the maps supplied  in the DLB. The wind condition at  river level
was good, just a hint of a breeze.
     My eyes caught movement in the killing ground. I felt my face flush and
my heart rate quicken. Shit, this shouldn't be kicking off yet.
     I  had  a  grandstand  view  of  the  terrace,  and  the   times-twelve
magnification of the binos made me feel as if I was almost standing on it. I
checked it out with  one eye  on the binos,  the other ready to pick up  any
flashes from the torch bulbs.
     A  feeling  of relief flooded through  me.  Catering  staff. They  were
streaming in and  out  of the covered  pavilions to  the left of the killing
ground,  busy  in their black and  white uniforms, laying  out ashtrays  and
placing   bowls  of   nuts  and   nibbles  on  square   wooden   tables.   A
stressed-looking older  guy in a  grey, double-breasted suit stalked  around
behind  them,  waving  his arms like  a conductor at the Last  Night  of the
Proms.
     I followed the line of the terrace and spotted a photographer on one of
the wooden benches. He had two cameras by his side and smoked contentedly as
he watched the commotion, a big smile on his face.
     I  went back to  the conductor.  He looked up at Big  Ben, checked  his
watch,  then clapped his hands. He  was  as worried about the deadline as  I
was. At  least the  weather was on our side.  Taking the shot through one of
the  pavilion windows would have made  things even more difficult than  they
already were.
     The three  sniper  positions were all on my side  of the  river;  three
Portakabins in the grounds of St. Thomas's Hospital,  directly opposite  the
killing ground.
     Three  different  positions gave  three  different angles  of fire, and
therefore three different chances of getting a round into the target.
     The  distance  between  the  first  and third sniper  was  about ninety
metres, and  they'd  be shooting over  a  distance  of  between 330  and 380
metres, depending on their position in the  line-up. Being one floor up, the
killing ground was below  them, at  an angle of about forty-five degrees. It
would  be just good enough to see  the  target from the stomach up if it was
sitting  down,  and from about thigh  up when  standing, since a stone  wall
about a  metre  high ran  the length of  the  terrace to stop MPs and  peers
falling into the Thames when they'd had a drink or two.
     The riverbank  in  front  of  their  positions  was  tree-lined,  which
provided  some  cover,  but also  obstructed their  line  of  sight into the
killing ground. These things are nearly always a matter of compromise; there
is rarely a perfect option.
     This would  be the  first time  the  snipers had ever been to the  fire
position,  and  it would also be the last. Soon  after the  shoot  they'd be
heading for  Paris, Lille or Brussels on  Eurostar trains,  which left  from
Waterloo  Station  just ten  minutes' walk away. They'd be  knocking back  a
celebratory glass of wine in the Channel tunnel  well before the full extent
of what they'd done had dawned on Special Branch and the news networks.
     TWO
     Once I'd satisfied myself that the only activity in  the killing ground
came from harassed catering staff, I got back to  watching the three  bulbs.
Snipers  One  and  Three  should have signed  on  by  now. I  was well  past
concerned, and not too far short of worried.
     I  thought about Sniper  Two. She would  have moved cautiously into the
fire position after clearing her route, employing the same tradecraft as  at
the DLB, and probably  in  a simple disguise. A wig, coat and  sunglasses do
more than people think, even if SB  racked up  hundreds of  man hours poring
over footage from hospital security, traffic and urban CCTV cameras.
     Having first put  on her surgical gloves, she  would have made entry to
her Portakabin with the key provided, closed the door, locked up, and shoved
two  grey rubber  wedges a third of the way down and a third up the frame to
prevent  anyone entering,  even with  a key.  Then,  before moving anywhere,
she'd have opened the sports bag and begun to put on her work clothes, a set
of light blue,  hooded and footed  coveralls for paint spraying from B&Q. It
was  imperative that she  didn't  contaminate  the area  or  the  weapon and
equipment that were going to be  left behind with fibres of her clothing  or
other personal sign. Her mouth would now be covered by a  protective mask to
prevent leaving even a pinprick of saliva  on the weapon as  she took aim. I
was pleased with the masks: they'd been on special offer.
     The coveralls and gloves were also there to  protect clothes  and skin.
If she was apprehended immediately after the shoot,  residue  from the round
that  she'd fired  would be  detectable on her skin and clothes. That's  why
suspects' hands are  bagged in plastic. I was also wearing  surgical gloves,
but  just as a normal precaution.  I was determined  to  leave nothing,  and
disturb nothing too.
     Once she'd got covered up, with just her eyes exposed, she'd be looking
like a forensic scientist  at a crime scene. It would then have been time to
prepare the fire position. Unlike me, she needed to be away from the window,
so she'd have  dragged  the desk about  three metres  clear. Then she'd have
pinned a net curtain into the plasterboard ceiling, letting it fall in front
of the desk before pinning it tight to the legs.
     Next,  she'd  have  pinned up the sheet of opaque black material behind
her, letting it hang to the floor. As with the netting, I had cut it to size
for  each fire position after the CTR. The  combination  of a net curtain in
front and a  dark backdrop behind creates the illusion of a room in  shadow.
It meant that  anyone  looking through the  window wouldn't see a fat  rifle
muzzle being pointed at them by a scarily dressed woman. Both sets of optics
that she'd be using,  the binos and the weapon sight, could easily penetrate
the netting, so it wouldn't affect her ability to make the shot.
     Some fifteen minutes  after  arriving, she'd  be sitting in the  green,
nylon-padded swivel  chair  behind the  desk. Her takedown  weapon  would be
assembled and  supported on the  desk by  the bipod attached to  the forward
stock. Her binos, mounted  on a mini-tripod, would also  be on the desk, and
in front of her would be her plastic lunch-box. With the weapon butt in  her
shoulder, she would have confirmed the arcs of  fire, making sure she  could
move the  weapon on its  bipod  to cover all  of the killing ground  without
being obstructed by the window-frame or trees. She'd  generally sort herself
out  and tune into her  environment, maybe even dry practise  on one  of the
catering staff as they rushed around the terrace.
     One of the  most important things she would have done before signing on
with me was check her muzzle clearance. A sniper's optic sight is mounted on
top of the  weapon.  At  very short ranges the muzzle may  be three  or four
inches below the image  the sniper  can actually see  through the sight.  It
would be  a  total fuck-up if she  fired a round after getting a good  sight
picture and it didn't even clear the room, hitting the wall or the bottom of
the window-frame instead.
     To  deaden  the  sound  of  the shot, each weapon  was  fitted  with  a
suppressor. This had the drawback of making  the  front third of  the barrel
nearly  twice the size of the  rest of it, altering its natural  balance  by
making it  top heavy. The suppressor wouldn't stop the  bullet's  supersonic
crack, but that didn't matter because the noise would be down-range and well
away from the  fire  position, and covered anyway by  the  device going off;
what it would stop was the weapon's signature being  heard by hospital staff
or Italian tourists eating their overpriced ice cream on the embankment just
a few feet below.
     The  Portakabin's  windows  had to  be slid open. Firing  through glass
would  not only  alert  the tourists,  but would  also  affect  the bullet's
accuracy.  There was  a  risk  that someone  might think  it unusual for the
window  to be  open  on  a  Sunday,  but  we had no  choice. As  it was, the
suppressor alone would degrade the round's accuracy and power, which was why
we needed supersonic rounds to make the distance. Subsonic ammunition, which
would eliminate the crack, just wouldn't make it.
     It would only be once she  was happy  with her  fire  position, and had
checked  that her commercial hearing-aid was still in place under her  hood,
that  she would sign on. Her box of tricks didn't  have lights, just a green
wire antenna that would probably be  laid along the desk then  run along the
floor. A copper coil inside the  box  emitted three low touch  tones; when I
hit my send press el they picked that up through the hearing-aid.
     There  was one other wire  coming  out of the box, leading to  a  flat,
black plastic button;  this would now be taped on to the weapon wherever she
had her support hand in position to fire.
     Hitting the press el five times, once she was ready to go, was what lit
up my number-two bulb five times.
     There was nothing left for her to do now but sit perfectly still,
     weapon rested, naturally  aligned  towards the  killing  area, observe,
wait, and maybe listen to the comings and  goings just below  her. With luck
the  other two  were going to be doing the  same  very soon. If  anyone from
hospital security attempted to be the good guy and close her window, a woman
dressed like an extra from the X-Files would be the last thing they ever saw
as she dragged them inside.
     It was  only  now that  she was in  position that her  problems  really
began. Once she'd zeroed the weapon in Thetford Forest,  it would  have been
carried as if it was fine china.  The slightest knock  could upset the optic
sight and wreck the weapon's zero. Even a tiny misalignment could affect the
round by nearly an inch, and that would be bad news.
     And it wasn't just  the possibility of the optic being knocked,  or the
suppressor affecting the round's trajectory. The weapon itself, issued to me
by the Yes Man, was 'take  down'. So, once  she had zeroed it  for that one,
all-important shot, it had to be taken apart  for concealment, before  being
reassembled at the firing point.
     Thankfully this bolt-action model  only had  to be split in  two at the
barrel, and  because they were brand new, they  wouldn't have  suffered that
much wear and  tear on  the bearing surfaces.  But there only  had  to be  a
slight difference in the assembly from  when it  was  zeroed, a knock to the
optic sight  in  transit,  for the weapon to  be inches  off  where she  was
aiming.
     This isn't a problem when an ordinary rifleman is firing at a body mass
at close range, but these boys and girls were going for a catastrophic brain
shot, one  single round  into  the brain stem or neural  motor  strips.  The
target drops like  liquid and there is no chance of survival. And that meant
they had to aim at either of  two specific  spots the tip  of an earlobe, or
the skin between the nostrils.
     She  and the other two  would need to be the most  boring and religious
snipers on earth to do that with these weapons. The Yes Man hadn't listened.
It annoyed me severely that he knew jack shit about how things worked on the
ground, and yet had been the one who decided which kit to use.
     I tried to calm  down by making myself  remember it wasn't entirely his
fault.
     There had to be  a trade-off between concealment and  accuracy, because
you  can't just wander  the streets with a  fishing-rod case or the  world's
longest flowerbox. But  fuck it, I'd  despised him  when he  was running the
support cell, and now it was worse.
     I  looked through  the window  at the distant  black and white  figures
moving around  the killing ground, and wondered  if  the  Brit  who'd  first
played about with a telescopic sight on a musket in the seventeenth  century
ever realized what drama he was bringing to the world.
     I checked  out the area  with my binos,  using just one eye so I didn't
miss  One or Three signing in. The binos were tripodded because twelve-times
magnification at this distance was so strong that the slightest judder would
make it seem like I was watching The Blair Witch Project.
     Things  had  moved on.  The  staff  were  still  being  hassled  by the
grey-suited catering bully. As guests came  through the grand arched door on
to the terrace, they'd now be greeted by trestle tables covered by brilliant
white tablecloths.
     Silver trays of fluted glasses waited to be filled as corks were pulled
from bottles of champagne.
     Things would be  kicking off soon, and all  I  had was one sniper.  Not
good; not good at all.
     I refocused the binos on the arched doorway, then went back to watching
the lights, willing them to spark up. There was nothing else I could do.
     I tried and failed to reassure  myself that the co-ordination  plan for
the shoot was so beautifully simple, it would work with only one sniper.
     The snipers had the same binos as mine and would also have them focused
on the door. They'd  want to ID the  Yes Man the moment he  walked  into the
killing area, and they'd use binos first because they give  a  field of view
of about ten metres, which would make it  easier to follow him  through  the
crowd until he  made the target ID. Once that was done, they would switch to
their weapon's optic sight, and I would concentrate on the lights.
     The method I was going to use to control the snipers and tell them when
to fire had  been inspired by a wildlife  documentary I'd  seen on  TV. Four
Indian game wardens,  working  as  a team  in  total silence, had managed to
stalk and fire sedative darts into an albino tiger from very close range.
     Whenever any of the snipers had a sight  picture of the target and felt
confident  about  taking the  shot, they'd hit their  press el  and  keep it
pressed. The corresponding bulb in front of me would stay lit for as long as
they could take the shot. If they lost  their  sight picture,  they released
their press el and the bulb would go out until they acquired it again.
     Once  I'd made the decision when to  fire,  I'd push my  send press  el
three times in a one-second rhythm.
     The  first  press would  tell the firer or firers to  stop breathing so
their body movement didn't affect the aim.
     The  second would tell  them to  take  up  the  first  pressure  on the
trigger, so as not to jerk the weapon when they fired.
     As I hit the press el the second time, I'd also trigger the detonation.
The third time, the snipers would fire as the device exploded on the roof of
the hotel. If all three were up  and the  target was  sitting, that would be
perfect but it rarely happens that way.
     The  device  would not only disguise the sonic  cracks,  but  create  a
diversion on the north side  of the river while we extracted.  I just wished
the MoD building wasn't closed for the weekend: I'd have  loved to see their
faces as the blast took out a few of their windows. Never mind, with luck it
would make the Life Guards' horses on Whitehall throw off their mounts.
     None of the  snipers would know if the others had the target. The first
time they'd know the option was going  ahead was when they  heard the  three
tones  in  their ear. If  they didn't have a sight  picture themselves, they
wouldn't take a shot.
     After the  explosion,  whether they'd fired a round or not,  they would
all exit from their positions, stripping off their outer  layer of coveralls
and  leaving  the  area  casually  and  professionally  with  the protective
clothing in their bag.
     The rest of the kit, and the weapons, would be discovered at some point
by the police, but that wouldn't matter to me as I'd handed it over sterile.
It shouldn't matter to these people either, as they ought to be professional
enough  to  leave it  in the same  condition as they'd received it.  If they
didn't, that was their problem.
     I rubbed my eyes.
     Another light flashed.
     Sniper One was in position, ready to go.
     I  hit  the send press el three times, and after  a short  pause Sniper
One's bulb flashed three times in return.
     I was  feeling a little better now, with  two snipers sitting perfectly
still,  watching and  waiting as they  continued  to  tune  into the killing
ground. I could only hope that Sniper Three was close behind.
     THREE
     Big Ben struck half past the hour. Thirty minutes to go.
     I continued to stare at  the box, trying to transmit positive thoughts.
The job was going to happen with or without Sniper Three,  but what with the
weapon problems, three chances of a hit were better than two.
     My positive transmissions weren't working at all, and after ten minutes
or so my eyes were drawn to the killing ground again. Things were happening.
Different colours of clothing were moving amongst the black and white of the
catering staff like fragments in a kaleidoscope. Shit, they were early.
     I put one eye to the  binos  and checked them out,  just as One and Two
would be doing. The new arrivals  seemed to be the  advance party, maybe ten
suited  men,  all of them white. I checked that the  Yes Man wasn't  amongst
them and had fucked  up  his own  plan. He wasn't. He  would  have fitted in
nicely, though: they  didn't really seem to know what to do with themselves,
so  decided  to  mill around  the door like  sheep,  drinking champagne  and
mumbling to  each  other,  probably  about how pissed  off they were  to  be
working on a Sunday. Dark, double-breasted suits with a polyester mix seemed
to be  the order of the day.  I could see  the well worn shine and lard-arse
creases  up the backs of the jackets even from here. The jackets were mostly
undone  because of the weather or  pot  bellies,  revealing ties  that  hung
either too high or too low.
     They had to be Brit politicians and civil servants.
     The only exception  was a woman in her early thirties  with blonde hair
and rectangular glasses, who came  into view  alongside  the catering bully.
Dressed  in an immaculate black trouser suit, she seemed  to be the only one
of the new arrivals who knew what was what. With  a mobile phone in her left
hand and  a pen in her  right, she seemed to be pointing out that everything
his staff had done needed redoing.
     The  cameraman  also wandered  into my  field  of  view,  taking  light
readings, and clearly enjoying the last-minute flap. There was a flash as he
took a test shot.
     Then there was another in my peripheral vision, and I looked down.
     The third bulb. I nearly cheered.
     I left the blonde-haired PR guru to get on with it, and concentrated on
the box as I replied to the flashes. Sniper Three duly acknowledged.
     Big Ben chimed three times.
     Relief washed over me. I'd known all along that these people would only
get into position at the very  last moment, but that didn't stop me worrying
about it  while  I was waiting. Now  I just  wanted this thing over and done
with, and to slip  away on Eurostar to the Gare  du Nord, then on to Charles
de Gaulle. I should make the check-in nicely for my 9 p.m. American Airlines
flight to Baltimore, to see Kelly and finish my business with Josh.
     I got back on the binos and watched the PR guru tell the Brits, ever so
nicely and  with a great big smile, to get  the fuck away from the  door and
prepare  to mingle. They cradled  their champagne glasses and headed for the
nibbles, drifting from my field of view. I kept my focus on the doorway.
     Now  that it was clear of  bodies, I could  just  about  penetrate  the
shadows inside. It looked like a  canteen, the sort where you drag your tray
along  the counter and pay at the  end.  What a let-down: I'd been expecting
something a bit more regal.
     The door-frame was  soon filled again, by another woman  with  a mobile
phone  stuck to her  ear. This  one had a  clipboard  in her free  hand; she
stepped on to the terrace, closed down her mobile, and looked around.
     The blonde PR guru came  into view. There was lots of nodding, talking,
and pointing  around the killing area, then they both went back where they'd
come from. I felt a wave of apprehension. I wanted to get on with it and get
aboard that Eurostar.
     "One of the team," the Yes Man had said.
     One of the team, my arse.  The only  things that would help  me if this
went wrong were my security blanket and a quick exit to the States.
     Seconds later, human shapes began filling the area behind the door, and
were  soon pouring out into the killing area.  The woman  with the clipboard
appeared behind them, shepherding them with a fixed, professional smile. She
guided  them  to the glasses on the table by the door as  if they could have
missed them.
     Then  the catering staff were on  top of them like flies on  shit, with
nibbles on trays, and a whole lot more champagne.
     The South American  contingent was  easy  to  identify, not by brown or
black  skin but because they were far better dressed,  in well-cut suits and
expertly knotted ties.  Even their body language had more  style. The  group
was  predominantly male, but none  of the women with them  would have looked
out of place in a fashion magazine.
     Obligingly, Clipboard coaxed the guests away from the doorway and  into
the killing  area. They spread out  and mingled with the  advance  party. It
became clear  that everybody was going to  continue  standing up rather than
move over to the benches. I'd have preferred them to sit down like a line of
ducks at a fairground, but it wasn't going to happen. We were  going to have
to settle for a moving target.
     The Yes  Man  was due to arrive  ten minutes  after the main party. The
plan was that he'd  spend  five  minutes  by the door,  making a call, which
would give all four of us time to ping him. From there he would move off and
ID the target.
     All three  would now be  taking slow,  deep breaths  so they were fully
oxygenated.
     They  would also be constantly checking  the  wind indicators until the
last minute, in case they had to readjust their optics.
     My heart pumped  harder now.  The  snipers' hearts, however,  would  be
unaffected.
     In fact, if they'd been linked to an ECG
     machine they'd probably have registered  as clinically dead. When  they
were in  their zone, all they  could  think  about was  taking that  single,
telling shot.
     More people cut  across my field of view, then the Yes Man  appeared in
the doorway. He was five foot six tall, and not  letting me  down by wearing
the same sort of dark, badly fitting business suit as the rest of the Brits.
Under it he  had a white shirt and a scarlet tie that made  him look like  a
candidate for Old Labour.  The tie was important because it was his main VDM
(visual  distinguishing  mark).  The  rest  of  his  kit  and  his  physical
description had also been  given  to the  snipers, but he was easy enough to
identify from his  permanently blushing complexion, and  a neck that  always
seemed  to have a big  boil on the go.  On any other forty-year-old it would
have  been  unfortunate, but  as far as  I was  concerned  it  couldn't have
happened to a nicer guy.
     On his left  hand he wore a wedding ring. I'd  never  seen a picture of
his wife in  his office,  and I didn't  know if he had  children. In fact, I
really hoped he didn't or if he did, that they looked like their mother.
     Producing his mobile,  the Yes Man came off the threshold  and moved to
the  right of the doorway as he  finished dialling.  He looked up and nodded
hello  to somebody  out of  my field of  view,  then gave a wave to them and
pointed at the mobile to show his intentions.
     I watched him listen to the ringing tone,  keeping his back against the
wall so that we  could check the tie. His hair was greying, or it would have
been  if  he'd left it alone but  he'd  been at the  Grecian 2000, and I was
catching  more  than  a hint of copper. It complemented his  complexion very
well indeed. I felt myself grinning.
     A young waiter  came  up  to him with a tray of  full glasses, but  was
waved away as he continued with his call. The Yes Man didn't drink or smoke.
He was a bornagain Christian, Scientologist,  something like that, or one of
the happy-clappy  bands.  I'd never really bothered to  find out, in case he
tried to  recruit me and  I found myself saying yes. And  I didn't set  much
store by it. If the Yes Man discovered C was a Sikh, he'd turn up at work in
a turban.
     His conversation over,  the phone got shut down, and he  walked towards
the river.
     As he wove and sidestepped through the crowd he bounced slightly on the
balls  of his feet, as if trying to give himself extra height. Watching  his
progress, I gently  undid the tripod restraining clips so I could swivel the
binos and continue to follow him if I needed to.
     He passed the  two PR women, who looked pretty pleased with themselves.
Each  had   a  phone  and  a  cigarette  in   one  hand  and  a   glass   of
self-congratulatory champagne in the other. He passed the cameraman, who was
now busy taking  group shots with Big Ben in the  background  for the  Latin
folks back home. Little did he  know that he was a couple of chimes short of
a world exclusive.
     The Yes Man side-stepped the photo  session and  continued  to go left,
still towards the river. He stopped eventually by a group of maybe ten  men,
gathered in a  wide, informal circle. I  could see some of  their faces, but
not all, as they talked, drank or waited for refills from the staff  buzzing
around  them. Two were white-eyes, and I could see four or five Latino faces
turned towards the river.
     The older of the  two white-eyes  smiled  at  the Yes Man and shook his
hand warmly.
     He then began to introduce his new Latin friends.
     This had to be  it.  One  of these  was the target. I  looked at  their
well-fed faces as they smiled politely and shook the Yes Man's hand.
     I  could feel my forehead leaking sweat as I concentrated on who he was
shaking  hands with, knowing  that  I couldn't afford to miss the target ID,
and at the same time not too sure if the Yes Man was up to the job.
     I'd assumed they  were all South Americans, but  as one of their number
turned I saw, in profile, that he was Chinese.  He was  talk-show-host neat,
in his fifties, taller than the Yes Man, and with more hair. Why he was part
of a South American  delegation  was  a mystery to me, but I wasn't going to
lose  any sleep over it.  I  concentrated on how  he was  greeted. It was  a
non-event,  just  a  normal handshake. The  Chinaman,  who  obviously  spoke
English, then introduced a smaller guy to his right, who had his back to me.
The Yes Man moved towards  him, and then, as they shook, he placed  his left
hand on the small guy's shoulder.
     I hated to admit it, but he was doing an excellent job. He even started
to swing the target round so he faced the river, pointing out the London Eye
and the bridges either side of Parliament.
     The  target was also  part  Chinese and I had to double-take because he
couldn't have been more than sixteen or seventeen years  old. He was wearing
a smart blazer with a white shirt and  blue tie,  the sort of boy any parent
would want their daughter to date. He looked happy, exuberant even, grinning
at  everyone  and joining in the conversation as  he turned  back  into  the
circle with the Yes Man.
     I got a feeling that I was in worse trouble than I'd thought.
     FOUR
     I forced myself to cut away. Fuck it, I'd  worry about all that on  the
flight to the States.
     The  conversation on  the  terrace carried  on  as the Yes Man said his
goodbyes  to the group, waved at another, and moved out of my field of view.
He wouldn't be  leaving yet that  would be suspicious he just didn't want to
be near the boy when we dropped him.
     Seconds  later,  I  had three bulbs burning below me. The snipers  were
waiting for those three command tones to buzz gently in their ear.
     It didn't feel  right  but  reflexes  took  over. I flicked the shaving
cream top from the box and positioned my thumbs over the two press els
     I  was about  to press  when all  three  lights went out within a split
second of each other.
     I got back on to the binos, just with my  right eye, thumbs ready  over
the  press els The group was moving en masse from left  to right.  I  should
have been concentrating on the bulbs but I wanted to see. The Chinaman's arm
was around the boy's  shoulders it must have been his son as they approached
a smaller group of Latinos who were attacking a table laden with food.
     A bulb lit up: Sniper Three was confident of taking the shot,
     aiming slightly ahead of his point of aim so that when he fired the boy
would walk into the path of the round.
     The bulb stayed lit  as they stopped at the table with  the other group
of Latinos, getting stuck  into the vol-au-vents. The boy was at the rear of
the  group  and I could just  ping glimpses of  his  navy blazer through the
crowd.
     Bulb three died.
     I was having doubts, I  didn't know why, and tried  to get a grip. What
did I care? If it was a straight choice between his life and mine there'd be
no question. What was happening in my head  was totally unprofessional,  and
totally ridiculous.
     I gave myself a good mental slapping. Any more of this shit and I'd end
up hugging trees and doing voluntary work for Oxfam.
     The only  thing I  should be doing was focusing  on  the  box. What was
happening on the terrace shouldn't matter to me any more but I couldn't seem
to stop myself looking at the boy through the binos.
     Number Two's bulb came up. She must have found his earlobe to aim at.
     Then the  boy  moved towards the table, breaking through  the crowd. He
started to help himself to some food, looking back at his dad to check if he
wanted anything.
     All three lights now burned. How could they not?
     I  watched  him pick at  the  stuff on the  silver trays,  sniffing one
canape and deciding to give it a  miss. I studied his shiny young face as he
wondered what would best complement his half-drunk glass of Coke.
     All bulbs were still lit as I looked through the binos. He was exposed,
bunging peanuts down his neck.
     Come on! Get on with the fucking thing!
     I couldn't believe it. My thumbs just wouldn't move.
     In that instant, my plan switched to screwing up the  shoot and finding
something to blame it on. I couldn't stop myself.
     The snipers wouldn't  know who else had a sight picture,  and it wasn't
as if we were all going to get together and have  a debrief over  coffee the
next morning.
     I'd take my chances with the Yes Man.
     The boy moved back into the crowd, towards his dad. I could  just about
make out his shoulder through the crowd.
     The three lights went out simultaneously. Then Two's came back on. This
woman  wasn't giving  up on her target. I guessed she wasn't a mother  after
all.
     Three seconds later it went  out.  Wrong or right,  now was my time  to
act.
     I pushed the send press el once with my thumb, keeping my eyes glued on
the boy.
     Then  I pressed  it  again, and  at  the  same  time hit the detonation
button. The third time, I pushed just on the send press el
     The explosion the  other  side  of  the  Thames  was  like  a  massive,
prolonged clap of thunder. I watched the boy and everyone  around him  react
to the detonation instead of doing what I'd planned for him.
     The shock-wave crossed the  river and rattled my window. As  I listened
to  its  last  rumblings  reverberate  around the streets of Whitehall,  the
screams of the tourists below me took over. I concentrated on the boy as his
father bustled him towards the door.
     As panic broke out on the terrace, the photographer was in  a frenzy to
get the shots that would  pay off  his mortgage. Then the Yes Man came  into
view and stood beside the PR  women, who were helping people back inside. He
had a concerned look on his face, which had nothing to do with the explosion
and everything  to do with  seeing the  target  alive  and being  dragged to
safety. The boy disappeared though the door and others followed, but the Yes
Man still didn't help. Instead he  looked up  and across the river at me. It
was weird. He didn't know exactly where I was in the building, but I felt as
if he was looking straight into my eyes.
     I was going to be in a world of shit about this, and knew I had to have
a  really  good story  for  him.  But  not  today: it was time  to  head for
Waterloo. My  Eurostar left in an  hour  and five. The snipers  would now be
standing at  their crossover point their exit door  from a contaminated area
to  a decontaminated  area  peeling  off  their outer  layers  of  clothing,
throwing them into their sports  bags,  but  leaving  their gloves  on until
totally clear of the Portakabin. The weapons, binos and lunch-boxes remained
in place, as did the hide.
     With speed but  not haste, I leant over to the  window and  opened it a
fraction  to retrieve the antennas. The clamour from  people outside was now
much  louder  than  the  explosion had  been. There were shouts  of fear and
confusion from  men, women and children at embankment level. Vehicles on the
bridge had braked to a halt and pedestrians were rooted to the  spot  as the
cloud of black smoke billowed over the rooftop of the MoD building.
     I closed the window and left them to it, taking down the tripod for the
binos and packing  away all my  gear as quickly as I could. I needed  to get
that train.
     Once all the kit was back in the bag, including the shaving-foam cap, I
put  the dirty coffee mug, Wayne's World coaster and telephone back  exactly
where they'd been  before I'd cleared the desktop to make room for the binos
and lunch-box,  using the Polaroid I'd  taken as a reference. I checked  the
general area pictures I'd taken as soon as I broke in. Maybe the net curtain
wasn't  exactly as it should have been, or a chair  had been moved a foot or
so to the right. It  wasn't superstition.  Details like  that are important.
I'd known something as  simple as a  mouse mat out  of  place  leading to an
operator being compromised.
     My brain  started to bang against my skull. There was something strange
about what I had seen outside. I hadn't been clever enough to notice, but my
unconscious had. I had learnt the hard way  that these feelings should never
be ignored.
     I looked back out of the window and it hit me in an instant. Instead of
looking at the column of smoke to my right, the crowd's attention was on the
hospital  to  my  left.  They were  looking  towards  the sniper  positions,
listening to the dull  thud of six  or seven short, sharp, single  shots ...
There were more  screams  below the  window,  mixed  with the  wail of  fast
approaching police sirens.
     I opened my window as far as it would go  and  pushed  the  net curtain
aside, sticking out  my head and looking left, towards the hospital. A fleet
of police  cars and vans  with flashing lights had been abandoned along  the
embankment,  just short  of  the sniper positions, their doors left open. At
the same time I saw uniforms hastily organizing a cordon.
     This was wrong. This  was very, very wrong. The event I  was witnessing
had been planned and  prepared for. The frenzy of police activity down there
was far too organized  to be a spur-of-the-moment reaction to an explosion a
few minutes earlier.
     We had been stitched up.
     Three more  shots were fired, followed  by a short pause, then  another
two.  Then, from further  along the riverbank, I  heard the heavy thuds of a
flash bang going  off inside  a  building. They were hitting Number  Three's
position.
     Adrenaline jolted through my body. It'd be my turn soon.
     I  slammed the  window  down.  My  mind raced. Apart from me, the  only
person who knew  the  exact  sniper  positions was the Yes  Man, because  he
needed to position the target  well enough for  it to be identified.  But he
didn't  know precisely  where I was going  to  be,  because  I  hadn't known
myself. Technically,  I  didn't  even  have to  have eyes on  target, I just
needed to have com ms with the snipers.
     But he knew enough.  Messing up  the shoot was the least  of my worries
now.
     FIVE
     Helicopters were now rattling overhead and police sirens were going ape
shit in the street as I closed the door gently  behind me and moved out into
the wide, brightly lit corridor.
     My Timberlands squeaked on the highly polished  stone floor as I headed
towards the fire-exit door at the far end, maybe sixty metres away,  forcing
myself not  to quicken my pace. I  had to stay in control. I couldn't afford
to make any more mistakes. There might be a time to run, but it wasn't yet.
     There  was  a turning  to  the  right about twenty metres further down,
which led to the stairwell that would take me to the ground floor. I reached
it,  turned  and  froze.  Between  me  and  the  stairwell  was  a  wall  of
two-metre-high black  ballistic  shields. Behind  them  were maybe  a  dozen
police in full black assault gear, weapon barrels pointing out at me through
the gaps  in the shields,  blue assault helmets and visors glinting  in  the
strip-lighting.
     "STAND STILL! STAND STILL!"
     It was time to run like the wind. I squeaked on my heels and lunged the
couple of paces back into the main corridor, heading for the fire exit, just
willing myself to hit that crossbar to freedom.
     As I zeroed  in on the exit door,  the corridor ahead filled with  more
black shields and the noise of boots on stone. They held the line like Roman
centurions.  The last couple  emerged from the offices on either side, their
weapons pointing at me at far too close a range for my liking.
     "STAND STILL! STAND STILL NOW!"
     Coming  to  a halt, I dropped the  bag to the floor and put my hands in
the air.
     "Not armed!" I yelled. 'I'm weapons free! Weapons free!"
     There are  times when it's  an advantage just to admit to yourself that
you're in the  shit, and  this was one of them. I just hoped these were real
police. If I wasn't a threat, then in theory they shouldn't drop me.
     I hoped, too, that my black cotton  bomber  jacket had ridden up enough
to show  them  there wasn't a  pistol attached  to my belt or tucked into my
jeans.
     "Not armed," I yelled.
     "Weapons free!"
     Orders were screamed at me. I wasn't too sure what it was all too  loud
and too close, a confusion of echoes along the hallway.
     I pivoted  slowly  so they could see my  back and check  for themselves
that I  wasn't lying.  As I faced the  corridor junction, I heard more boots
thundering towards me from the stairwell corridor, closing the trap.
     A shield moved out  of  the  corner then slammed  into position  on the
floor at the  corridor  junction. A muzzle of an MP5 came round the  side of
it, and I could see a sliver of the user's face as he took aim on me.
     "Weapons free!" My voice was almost a scream.
     "I'm weapons free!"
     Keeping  my hands  in the air I  stared  at the single, unblinking  eye
behind the weapon. He was a left-handed firer,  taking advantage of the left
side of the shield for cover, and the eye didn't move from my chest.
     I looked down as a red  laser  spot the size of a shirt button splashed
on it dead centre.  It wasn't  moving either.  Fuck knew how  many  splashes
there were on my back from the fire-exit crew.
     Frenzied   shouts   finished  bouncing  off  the  walls   as   a  loud,
estuary-English  voice took  command  and shouted orders  that  I  could now
understand.
     "Stand still! Stand still! Keep your -hands up ... keep them up!"
     No more turning, I did what he wanted.
     "Down on your knees! Get down on your knees. Now!"
     Keeping my hands up, I  lowered myself slowly, no longer trying for any
eye  contact,  just looking  down.  The  left-handed firer  in front  of  me
followed my every move with the laser splash.
     The voice shouted more orders from behind.
     "Lie down, with your arms spread out to your side. Do it now."
     I  did as I  was told. There was total, scary silence. The cold of  the
stone floor seeped through my clothes. Minute pinpricks of grit pressed into
my right cheek as I snorted up a lungful of freshly laid wax.
     I found myself staring  at  the bottom of one of the  stairwell group's
ballistic shields. It was dirty with age and chipped on the corners, so that
the layers of Kevlar that gave protection from even heavy-calibre ammunition
were peeling back like the pages of a well-thumbed book.
     The silence was broken by  the shuffle and squeak of rubber-soled boots
approaching  me  from  behind. My only thought  was how lucky  I  was to  be
arrested.
     The boots arrived at  their destination, and heavy breathing from their
owners filled  the air around me.  One  old  black  creased-leather size ten
landed by my face and my hands  were gripped and pulled up in front of me. I
felt the  cold,  hard  metal bite  into  my  wrists  as the  handcuffs  were
ratcheted tight. I  just let them get  on  with it; the more I struggled the
more pain I would have to put  up with. The handcuffs were the  newer style,
police issue: instead of a chain between them they had a solid metal spacer.
Once these things are  on,  just one tap against the spacer  with a baton is
enough to have  you screaming in agony as the metal gives  the  good news to
your wrist bones.
     I was in enough pain already as one  man pulled at the cuffs to keep my
arms straight, and someone else's  knee was forced  down between my shoulder
blades. My nose got banged against the floor, making my eyes  water, and all
the oxygen was forced out of my lungs.
     A  pair of hands,  their  owner's boots each side of  me now that  he'd
removed his knee  from  my  back, were  making their way  over  my body.  My
wallet, containing my Eurostar ticket and my
     Nick Somerhurst passport, was taken from the inside pocket of my bomber
jacket.
     I felt suddenly naked.
     I turned my head, trying  to  get as comfortable as possible during the
once-over, and rested my  face on  the cold stone. Through blurred  vision I
made out  three  pairs  of jeans emerging  from  behind  the  shield at  the
junction and heading  my way.  One pair of jeans moved out of vision as they
passed me by, but the other two moved in close: a set of trainers and a pair
of light tan boots, their Caterpillar label now just inches from my nose.
     I started  to  feel  more depressed than worried about what  was coming
next. Men in jeans just don't ponce about during an armed arrest.
     Behind  me  I heard  the  zip of  my holdall being  pulled back and the
contents given  a  quick once-over. At the same time  I felt  my  Leatherman
being pulled out from its pouch.
     There  was still  no talking as hands ran down  my  legs  to check  for
concealed  weapons. My face acted like  a cushion  for my cheekbone as I was
hauled around like a sack of spuds.
     Hands  forced themselves  around  the front of my stomach  and into  my
waistband, then  extracted  the three or  four pounds' worth of change in my
jeans.
     The same set  of hands went under each armpit and hauled me up on to my
knees, to the accompaniment of laboured  grunts  and the  squeak  of leather
belt-kit. My cuff-holder let go and my hands  dropped down by my knees as if
I was begging.
     The cold  stone  floor was hurting  my knees,  but I  forgot about them
instantly when I saw the face of the man wearing the Cats.
     His hair  wasn't  looking so  neat  today:  the  Sundance Kid had  been
running about  a bit.  Above his jeans he was wearing a  green bomber jacket
and heavy blue body armour with a protective  ceramic plate tucked into  the
pouch over his chest. He was taking no chances with me today.
     There wasn't  the slightest trace of  emotion in his  face as he stared
down at me, probably trying to hide from the others that his part of the job
hadn't gone too well.  I was still alive;  he hadn't been able to make entry
into the  office with the help of his new mates here  and claim self-defence
as he shot me.
     My documents were handed to him and they went into his back  pocket. He
played with the  coins in his cupped palms, chinking as they poured from one
to the other. Sundance and his mate, Trainers, were joined by the third pair
of jeans, who  had my  bag  over his right shoulder. I kept  my eyes down at
calf level  now, not wishing to provoke him. It  was  pointless appealing to
the uniforms for help.  They'd have heard it all before from drunks claiming
to be Jesus and people like me ranting that they'd been stitched.
     Sundance spoke for the first time.
     "Good result, Sarge."  His thick Glasgow accent was directed to someone
behind  me, before he  turned away with the other  two. I watched them  walk
towards the  stairwell,  to the  sound  of Velcro being ripped apart as they
started to peel off their body armour.
     As  they disappeared past the corridor junction I was dragged up  on to
my feet by two policemen. With their strong grip under each of my armpits, I
followed them  towards  the  stairs. We  passed  the shields at the corridor
junction, as the armed teams started  to break ranks, and made  our way down
the stone stairs. Sundance and the  boys were about two floors below. I kept
catching  glimpses of  them  as  they turned  on  the stone  and iron-railed
landings, and wondered why  I hadn't been  blindfolded. Maybe it was to make
sure I didn't trip on the stairs.  No,  it would be because they didn't care
if I saw their faces. I wasn't going to live long enough to see them again.
     We exited the  building via the glass and metal-framed doors  I'd  made
entry  through  earlier.  At once the noise of  boots on the stairs and  the
policemen's  laboured breathing from  the  effort of  hauling me  about  was
drowned out  by the confusion  on the street.  Sweat-stained,  white-shirted
police  officers  were  running  about, their  radios crackling,  yelling at
pedestrians to follow their  directions and clear the area. Sirens blared. A
helicopter chopped the air loudly overhead.
     We were  on  the private entry road to the  Marriott Hotel, part of the
County Hall building. To my left was its turning circle, bordered by a smart
decorative  hedge. Police were preventing guests from coming out of the main
entrance as they tried to see  what was happening or to run  away, I  wasn't
sure which.
     In front of me, at the kerb side was a white Mercedes estate,
     engine running, all  doors open. One of the pairs of  jeans was in  the
driver's seat ready to go. As a hand pushed down on top of my head and I was
quickly bundled into the back, my feet connected with something in the  foot
well It was my holdall, still unzipped.
     The guy with the trainers sat on my left and attached one end of a pair
of handcuffs to the D ring of the centre set of seat-belts. He then  flicked
the free end around the pair that gripped my wrists. I wasn't going anywhere
until these boys were good and ready.
     Sundance  appeared  on  the  pavement and  said  his  goodbyes  to  the
uniforms. Thanks again, lads."
     I kept trying to make eye contact with the guys who had dragged me down
here, who were now standing by the entrance  to  the office block.  Sundance
got into the  front  passenger seat and closed his  door, obviously aware of
what I was doing.
     He  bent down into his  foot  well That isn't going to help you,  boy."
Retrieving a blue light from the floor and slapping  it on to the dashboard,
he plugged  the lead into  the  cigarette-lighter  socket. The light started
flashing as the car moved off.
     We came out of the hotel's approach road and on to the main drag at the
south end of the bridge, directly  opposite the hospital buildings. The road
was cordoned  off  and surrounded  by  every police vehicle  in  the Greater
London area.
     The  windows  of  the  hospital were crammed with  patients and  nurses
trying to get a grandstand view of the commotion.
     We wove around the obstacles in  the road and through the cordon.  Once
over the large  roundabout,  we passed  under the  Eurostar track a  hundred
metres  further down.  I could  see the slick, aerodynamic trains waiting in
the glass terminal above  me,  and  felt  sick that one of  them  should  be
leaving soon without me on it.
     Sundance removed the flashing light from the dashboard. We were heading
south towards the Elephant and Castle and, no doubt, into a world of shit.
     I  looked at Sundance's face  in the wing mirror.  He didn't return eye
contact or acknowledge me in any way. Behind  the stony face he was probably
working out what he had to do next.
     So was I, and started to work on him straight away. This isn't going to
work.
     I've  got  on  tape the orders  you  drove  for  and I-'  There  was an
explosion of pain as Trainers put all his  force behind his elbow and rammed
it into my thigh, dead legging me.
     Sundance turned in his seat.
     "Don't wind me up, boy."
     I took a deep, deep breath and kept going for it.
     "I've got proof of everything that's happened. Everything."
     He didn't even bother to look round this time.
     "Shut it."
     Trainers' hand chopped  down on the spacer bar  between  the cuffs. The
metal  jarred agonizingly on my wrists, but  I knew it  was nothing compared
with what would happen if I didn't buy myself some time.
     "Look!" I gasped, 'it's me stitched today, it could be you lot next. No
one gives a fuck about people like us. That's why I keep records. For my own
security."
     We were  approaching the Elephant  and Castle roundabout,  passing  the
pink shopping centre. I nodded to give Trainers the message that I was going
to shut up. I  wasn't  a fool, I knew when  to shut up  or talk. I wanted to
make the little I  knew go a long way. I wanted them to feel I was confident
and secure, and that they would  be making a big mistake if  they didn't pay
attention. I just hoped it wasn't me making the mistake.
     I  looked  in the mirror again. It was  impossible to tell whether this
was  having any effect on  Sundance. I was  just feeling that maybe I should
get in another instalment when he sparked up.
     "What do you know, then, boy?"
     I shrugged.
     "Everything, including those three hits just now." Fuck it,  I might as
well go right to the top of the bullshit stakes.
     Trainers'  brown, bloodshot  eyes  and broken  nose  faced  me  without
emotion. It was impossible to tell whether he was going to hurt me or not. I
decided to try to save my skin big-time before he made up his mind.
     "I taped the briefing that you drove for." Which was a lie.
     "I've got pictures of the locations." Which was true.
     "And pictures and serial  numbers  of  the weapons.  I've  got all  the
dates, all diaried, even pictures of the snipers."
     We  turned  down  towards the Old Kent Road, and as I shifted  position
slightly I glimpsed Sundance's face in the wing mirror.
     He was looking dead ahead, his expression giving nothing away.
     "Show me."
     That was easy enough.
     "Sniper Two  is a woman,  she's in her early thirties and she has brown
hair." I resisted the temptation to say  more. I needed to show him I knew a
lot, but without running out of information too early.
     There  was silence. I got the impression that  Sundance had started  to
listen carefully, which I took as my chance  to carry on. 'You  need to tell
him," I said.
     "Just think about the shit you'll be in if you don't. Frampton won't be
first in  the queue for taking the blame. It'll be you lot who get  that for
sure." The  message had  at least got through  to Trainers.  He was swapping
glances with Sundance in the mirror: my cue not even to look up now, but let
them get on with it.
     We stopped at a set of lights, level with carloads of families swigging
from cans of Coke and doing the bored-in-the-back-seat stuff. The four of us
just sat there as if we were on  our  way to a funeral.  It was pointless me
trying to raise the alarm with any of these  people as they smoked or picked
their noses waiting for the green. I  just had to depend on Sundance to make
a  decision soon.  If  he  didn't, I'd  try again, and  keep  on until  they
silenced me. I'd been trying hard not to think about that too much.
     We approached a large  retail  park, with signs for  B&Q, Halford's and
McDonald's.
     Sundance pointed at the entrance sign.
     "In there for five." The  indicator immediately started clicking and we
cut across the traffic.
     I tried not to show my elation, and let my eyes concentrate hard on the
lunchbox of  tricks at the top of  the sports bag as I felt  the Merc  lurch
over a speed bump.
     We  stopped  near  a  bacon  roll  and  stewy  tea  van,  and  Sundance
immediately got out. Trolleys filled with  pot plants, paint and  planks  of
wood trundled past on the  tarmac as he walked out of sight somewhere behind
us, dialling into a StarT ac that he'd pulled from his jacket.
     The rest of us sat in silence. The driver just looked ahead through his
sunglasses and Trainers turned round in his seat to try to see what Sundance
was up to, taking care to cover my handcuffs so the DIYers couldn't see that
we weren't there for the kitchen sale.
     I wasn't really thinking or worrying about anything, just idly watching
a young  shell-suited  couple load up their ancient XRi  with boxes  of wall
tiles  and grout. Maybe I was trying to avoid the fact that the call he  was
making meant life or death for me.
     Sundance shook me out of my dreamlike state as he slumped back into the
Merc and slammed the  door. The other two looked at him expectantly probably
hoping to be told to drive me down to Beachy Head and give me a helping hand
in my tragic suicide.
     There was nothing from him  for twenty  seconds or so while he put  his
seat-belt on. It was like waiting for the doctor to tell me if  I had cancer
or not. He sat for a while and looked disturbed; I didn't know what to think
but took it as a good sign, without really knowing why.
     Eventually, after putting the StarT ac away, he looked at the driver.
     "Kennington."
     I knew where Kennington was, but didn't know what it meant to them. Not
that it  really mattered: I just felt a surge of relief about the change  of
plan.
     Whatever had been going to happen to me had been postponed.
     At  length Sundance muttered,  "If you're fucking with me, things  will
get hurtful."
     I nodded  into  the rear-view mirror as he  gave me  the thousand-metre
stare.  There was no need for further conversation as we drove  back up  the
Old Kent Road.  I was going to save  all  that for  later, for the Yes  Man.
Leaning  against  the window to rest my  arms and ease  the tension  of  the
handcuffs  on my wrists, I gazed  like a child at the world passing by,  the
glass steaming around my face.
     Somebody turned on the radio and  the  soothing sound of violins filled
the Merc.
     It struck me as strange; I wouldn't have expected these boys to be into
classical music any more than I was.
     I knew the area we were driving through like the back of my  hand. As a
ten-year old  I  had played  there  while  bunking school. In those days the
place  was  one  big mass  of minging council estates,  dodgy secondhand-car
dealers and old men in pubs drinking bottles of light ale. But now it looked
as if  every available  square  metre was  being  gentrified. The  place was
crawling with  luxury developments and 911  Caireras, and all  the  pubs had
been converted into wine bars. I wondered where all the  old men went now to
keep out of the cold.
     We were approaching Elephant and Castle again. The music finished and a
female voice came on with an update  on the incident that had shaken London.
There were  unconfirmed reports, she said, that three people had been killed
in  a  gun  battle with  police,  and that the  bomb  blast in Whitehall had
produced between ten and sixteen minor casualties, who were being treated in
hospital. Tony Blair had expressed  his  absolute outrage from his  villa in
Italy, and the emergency  services were  on full alert as further explosions
could  not be  ruled out. No one as yet  had claimed responsibility  for the
blast.
     We  rounded  the  Elephant  and  Castle and headed towards  Kennington,
pulling over as two police vans sirened their way past.
     Sundance  turned  to  me  and  shook  his  head  in  mock  disapproval.
Tut-tut-rut. See you you're a menace to society, you are."
     As the  news finished and the music returned I continued to look out of
the window.  I was  a  menace to  myself, not society. Why couldn't  I steer
clear of  shit for  a change, instead of  heading  straight  for  it like  a
light-drunk moth?
     We  passed Kennington tube station,  then  took a right  into  a  quiet
residential street. The street name had been ripped  from  its post and  the
wooden  backing was covered in graffiti. We  turned again and the driver had
to  brake as he came  across six or  seven kids  in the  middle of the road,
kicking a ball  against the gable end of a turn-of-the-century terrace. They
stopped and let  us through, then immediately got back to trying to demolish
the wall.
     We drove about forty metres further, then stopped. Sundance hit his key
fob and a graffiti-covered  double garage shutter  started to roll up.  Left
and right of it was a pitted brown brick wall; above was a rusty metal frame
that had  probably  once held a  neon  sign.  Empty drinks cans littered the
ground.  Inside was completely empty. As we  drove in, I saw that all around
the old brick walls were  tool boards with faded, red-painted shapes of what
was  supposed to  be hanging there. Years ago it had probably been a one-man
garage set-up.  A faded Chelsea FC team poster was pinned to a door. Judging
by  the long haircuts, sideburns  and very tight  shorts,  it  was seventies
vintage.
     The shutter door rattled and squeaked its way down behind me, gradually
cutting  off the noise of the kids kicking the ball.  The engine was cut and
the three of them started to get out.
     Sundance disappeared through the football poster door,  leaving it open
behind him, with luck for me to get dragged through. Anything to be  out  of
the car  and have the pressure  off my wrists.  Maybe I'd even  get  given a
brew.  I hadn't eaten or drunk anything since the night before: there'd been
too much to  do and I'd simply forgotten. Just placing the bomb on the hotel
roof had taken the best part of four hours, and an Egg McMuffin had been the
last thing on my mind.
     While  I was watching the door swing  back slowly to reveal the Chelsea
mop  heads again, Trainers leant down and undid the cuffs  pinning me to the
seat. Then he and the  driver got  hold  of me and dragged me out. We headed
towards  the door; I was beginning to feel that maybe I'd get away with this
after all.  Then I gave myself a good mental slapping: every time I had this
feeling I came unstuck.
     What was happening here meant nothing until I saw the Yes Man and  told
him my piece. I  decided to do my best  not  to  annoy  these boys while  we
waited. They were doing their  best to intimidate me; things are always more
worrying  when  there  is no verbal contact  and  no information, and it was
working a little, that was for sure. Not a lot, but enough.
     They  dragged me  through the  door and  into a windowless, rectangular
space with pitted,  dirty whitewashed brick walls. The room was airless, hot
and  humid,  and  to add to  the  mix somebody had been  smoking roll-ups. A
harsh, double fluorescent unit in the ceiling gave the impression  there was
nowhere to hide.
     On  the floor in  the left-hand corner was  a steam-powered  TV  with a
shiny new swordfish aerial hanging  from a nail on the wall. It was the only
thing  in the room that looked  as  if it hadn't been purchased from a  junk
shop. Facing it was a worn-out brown velour three-piece suite. The arms were
threadbare,  and  the  seats sagged and  were dotted  with  cigarette burns.
Plugged  into adaptors in the same socket  as  the  TV were a  green upright
plastic kettle, a toaster, and battery chargers for three mobiles. The place
reminded me of a minicab office, with  old newspapers and Burger King drinks
cups providing the finishing touches.
     Sundance was standing by the TV, finishing another call  on his mobile.
He looked at me and gestured towards the corner.
     "Keep it shut, boy."
     The other two gave me a shove to help me  on my way. As I slid down the
wall I  tried my hardest not to  push  against the cuffs and ratchet them up
even tighter than they already were.  I  finally slumped on to the floor and
ended up facing the TV.
     SIX
     I guessed this place had been just a  temporary set-up for the duration
of the job and the job, of course, was planning and preparing to kill me. No
doubt there was a similar set-up somewhere else in London where a whole  lot
of the boys and girls had prepared themselves for the hit on the snipers.
     Trainers went  over to the  TV  as  the  other two headed back into the
garage. I watched as he crouched down by the brew kit, opening the kettle to
check for water. His light brown nylon jacket  had ridden up  to expose part
of a black leather pancake holster  sitting  on a  leather belt, just behind
his  right  hip, and a green T-shirt dark with  sweat. Even  the back of his
belt was soaking, and had turned a much darker brown than the rest.
     I could still hear the kids in the  background, kicking their  ball and
yelling at each other. The  pitch of their  voices  changed as one  probably
mis-kicked and was treated to squeals of derision. My hands, still  stuck in
the surgical gloves, were pruning up in the heat.
     Trainers lined  up three  not-too-healthy-looking Simpsons mugs,  Bart,
Marge  and Homer,  which pissed me off. Maggie  was missing. There obviously
wasn't going to be  any brew for me. He threw a  tea bag into each, splashed
milk on  top,  then dug a spoon into  a  crumpled, half-empty  bag of sugar,
tipping heaps of it into two of the mugs.
     A  toilet flushed  in  the garage area,  and  the sound got louder then
softer as a  door opened  and closed. I could hear  Sundance and the  driver
mumbling to each other but couldn't make out what was said.
     The Merc door  slammed,  the engine  turned over,  and there  was  more
squeaking and grinding as  the shutter lifted. Thirty seconds  later the car
backed out  into the road and drove away. Maybe one K of the mugs was for me
after all.
     | Sundance appeared at  the office door, his back to us, checking |that
the  shutter had fully  closed. As the  steel banged on to  the I  floor, he
walked  to the  settee  and threw  his green cotton  bomber jacket on to the
armrest of the nearest chair, revealing a wet maroon polo shirt and a chunky
Sig 9mm,  holstered just behind his right hip. On  his left  hip sat a light
brown  leather mag-carrier, with  three  thick pieces  of  elastic holding a
magazine apiece.  The  first brass  round of each glinted  in  the ceiling's
white light. I almost laughed: three full mags, and just for little  old me.
I'd heard of overkill but this was something out of the last five minutes of
Butch Cassidy. It was obvious where this boy had got his best ideas.
     He stripped off  his polo shirt and used  it to wipe the sweat from his
face, exposing  a badly scarred back. Two indentations were  clearly gunshot
wounds: I recognized them because I had one myself.  Someone  had also given
him the good news with a knife, some of the slashes running the whole length
of his back,  with stitch marks either  side. All in  all, it looked quite a
lot  like  an aerial  photo  of  Clapham  Junction.  I  Trainers, who'd just
finished  squeezing  and  fishing  out the  tea  bags lifted  up a  brew for
Sundance.
     "Still want one?" His  accent was 100 per  cent Belfast.  If the driver
turned out to be Welsh we'd be able to put together a joke book.
     "Right enough." Wiping his neck and shoulders, Sundance sat down in the
chair nearest the TV, avoiding resting his wet, bare back against the velour
by  sitting upright on the edge. He took a tentative sip from Bart, the  mug
without sugar.
     He had been hitting the weights,  but didn't have the chiselled look of
a bodybuilder.  He had the physique  of  a con who'd  been pumping iron: the
diet in prisons is so bad that when the lads take to the weights they end up
barrel-chested and bulked up, rather than well honed.
     He glanced at me for the first time and caught me studying his back.
     "Belfast when you was just a wee soldier-boy." He treated himself  to a
little giggle, then nodded at  the third Simpsons mug still on  the floor by
Trainers.
     "D'you want a tea, then, boy?"
     Trainers held up Marge.
     I nodded. Teah, I would, thanks."
     There was a pause for a couple of seconds  while they exchanged a look,
then both roared with laughter as Trainers did a bad Cockney accent.
     "Gor blimey, guy, I would, fan ks
     Trainers  sat himself down on the settee with Homer, still laughing  as
he took the piss.
     "Strike  a light, guvnor, yeah,  I would, cheers. Luv a duck." At least
someone was having fun.
     Trainers put his own brew  on the cracked tiled floor and took  off his
jacket.
     He'd obviously had a tattoo removed  by  laser recently; there  was the
faintest red scar just visible on his forearm, but the outstretched Red Hand
of Ulster was still plain to see. He  had been, maybe still was, a member of
the UDA (Ulster Defence Association). Maybe they'd both pumped their iron in
one of the H blocks.
     Trainers' triceps rippled under his  tanned,  freckled skin as  he felt
behind the  cushions  and pulled out  a  packet of  Drum.  Resting it on his
knees, he took out some Rizlas and started to make himself a roll-up.
     Sundance didn't like what he saw.
     "You know he hates that -just wait."
     "Right enough."  The Drum packet was folded  and  returned beneath  the
cushions.
     It made me very happy indeed to hear that:  the Yes  Man must be on his
way.  Even though  I'd  never  smoked I'd  never  been  a tobacco  Nazi, but
Frampton certainly was.
     My  arse was getting numb  on the hard  floor so I  shifted very slowly
into another position,  trying not to draw attention to myself. Sundance got
up, mug in hand, walked the three paces to the TV, and hit the  power button
then each of the station buttons till he got a decent picture.
     Trainers sparked up, 'I like this one. It's a laugh." Sundance shuffled
backwards to his chair,  eyes glued to the box. Both were now ignoring me as
they watched a woman, whose voice was straight off the Radio Four news, talk
to the show's china expert about her collection of Pekinese dog teacups.
     I couldn't hear  the kids any more over the TV as I waited for the Merc
to return. On the screen, the woman tried not to show how pissed off she was
when the expert told her the china was only worth fifty quid.
     Whoever had christened  Frampton the  Yes  Man was a genius: it was the
only  word  he said  to any of  his  superiors. In  the  past this had never
worried me  because I had nothing  to  do  with  him directly,  but all that
changed  when  he  was  promoted  to run  the  UK  Ks  Desk  in SIS  (Secret
Intelligence  Service). The  Firm  used some ex-SAS people like  me, in fact
anyone, probably  even my new  friends here, as  deniable operators. The  Ks
Desk had traditionally  been  run by an IB  (member of Intelligence Branch),
the senior  branch of the service.  In fact the whole  service is run by IBs
for IBs; these are the boys and girls we read about in the papers, recruited
from university, working from embassies  and  using  mundane Foreign  Office
appointments  as  cover. Their real  work,  however, starts  at  six  in the
evening  when the  conventional  diplomats  begin  their  round  of cocktail
parties, and the IBs start gathering intelligence, spreading  disinformation
and recruiting sources.
     That's  when the low-life like me come into the picture, carrying  out,
or in some cases cleaning up, the dirty work that they create while throwing
the odd crab paste sandwich and After Eight down their necks. I  envied them
that, at times like this.
     The Yes  Man did, too.  He  had been to university, but not one of  the
right two.
     He  had never  been one of  the elite, an IB, yet  had probably  always
wanted to be.
     But  he  just wasn't  made  of the right stuff. His background was  the
Directorate of Special  Support,  a  branch of  wild-haired technicians  and
scientists working  on  electronics,  signals,  electronic surveillance  and
explosive devices. He'd run the signals  department of  the UK  Ks, but  had
never been in the field.
     I didn't know  why the Firm had suddenly  changed the system and let  a
non-IB  take command.  Maybe with the change of government they thought they
should look a bit more meritocratic, give  a tweak or two to the  system  to
make them look good and keep  the politicians happy as they skipped back  to
Whitehall, instead of interfering too much with what really goes on. So, who
better to  run the Desk than someone  who wasn't an IB,  arse licked his way
from breakfast to dinnertime, and would do whatever he was told?
     Whatever, I  didn't like him and never would. He certainly wasn't on my
speed  dial,  that  was for  sure. On the one  occasion that I'd had  direct
contact with him, the job had fouled up  because he'd  supplied insufficient
com ms kit.
     He'd  only  been in  the  job  since  Colonel  Lynn  had  'taken  early
retirement' about seven months ago, but he'd already proved his incompetence
more than  once.  The only  thing he was good at was issuing threats; he had
neither  the personality nor the management skills to do it any  other  way.
Lynn  might have been just  as  much of an  arse hole  but at least you knew
where you stood with him.
     I was  adjusting my position some  more when the shutter  rattled and I
heard an engine rev outside.
     They both  stood up and put their wet shirts  back  on. Sundance walked
over to turn off the  TV.  Neither of  them bothered to look  at me. It  was
still as if I wasn't there.
     The engine  noise got  louder. Doors slammed and the  shutter came down
again.
     The Yes Man  appeared at  the  door,  still in  his  suit  and  looking
severely  pissed off.  Trainers slipped  dutifully out of the room, like the
family Labrador.
     I wouldn't have thought it possible but the Yes  Man's face was an even
brighter  red than usual. He was under  pressure. Yet again, C and his mates
weren't too pleased with their non-IB experiment.
     He stopped just three or four feet away from me, looking like  an irate
schoolteacher, legs apart, hands on hips.
     "What happened, Stone?" he shouted.
     "Can't you get anything right?"
     What was he on about? Only two hours ago he'd wanted me killed, and now
he was telling me off like a naughty schoolboy. But it wasn't  the moment to
point this out. It was the moment to creep big-time.
     "I  just don't know, Mr. Frampton. As soon as I  had three  lights up I
sent  the fire commands.  I  don't know what happened after that. It  should
have worked, all four of us had com ms up until then but-' "But nothing!" he
exploded.
     "The task was a complete failure." His voice jumped an octave.
     "I'm holding you personally responsible, you do know that, don't you?"
     I did now. But what was new?
     He took a deep breath.
     "You don't  understand the importance of this operation that  you  have
completely scuppered, do you?"
     Scuppered? I tried not to smile but couldn't help it.
     "Fucked up' was how Lynn would have put it.
     The Yes  Man  was still playing  the school-teacher. There's nothing to
smile about, Stone. Who, in heaven's name, do you think you are?"
     It was time for a bit of damage limitation.
     "Just someone trying to  keep alive," I said.  That's  why I taped  our
conversation, Mr. Frampton."
     He was silent for a few seconds  while that sank in, breathing heavily,
eyes bulging. Ah, yes, the  tape and pictures. He must  have just remembered
why I  was  still alive and he was here. But not for  long; his brain switch
was set to  Transmit rather  than Receive.  'You've  no  idea of the  damage
you've done. The Americans were adamant that  this had to be  done today.  I
gave  my word  to them, and  others, that it would." He was starting to feel
sorry for himself.
     "I can't believe I had so much confidence in you."
     So it was an American job. No wonder  he was flapping. The senior Brits
had been trying to heal a number of rifts in their relationship with the USA
for quite a while now especially as some of the US agencies just saw the  UK
as a route to extend its reach into Europe,  and not as any sort of partner.
The 'special relationship' was, in effect, history.
     But the big picture wasn't exactly top of my agenda right now. I didn't
care  what had been  scuppered. I didn't even care who had sponsored the job
and why it  had had to happen. I just wanted  to get out of this room in one
piece.
     "As I said,  Mr. Frampton, the lights were up and I  ordered the shoot.
Maybe if the three snipers were debriefed they could ..."
     He looked at my lips but my words seemed not to register.
     "You  have let a serious problem develop  in Central America, Stone. Do
you not realize the implications?"
     "No, sir' he always liked that.
     "I don't, sir."
     His right hand came off his hip and he stared at the face of his watch.
     "No, sir,  that's  right,  you  don't, sir.  Because  of you,  we,  the
Service, are not influencing events in a direction favourable to Britain."
     He  was starting  to sound like a party political broadcast. I couldn't
have cared  less what was happening in Central America.  All I  was  worried
about was now, here.
     The  Yes Man  sighed as  he loosened his  scarlet tie  and  opened  his
collar. Some beads  of sweat dribbled down the side of his  flushed face. He
thumbed behind him in the direction of Sundance.
     "Now, go with  this man to collect the tape and all  the other material
that you claim to have on this operation,  and I'll see about trying to save
your backside."
     "I can't do that, sir!"
     He stiffened. He was starting to lose it.
     "Can't do that, sir?"
     I'd have thought it  was perfectly  obvious, but I didn't want to sound
disrespectful.
     "I'm sorry,  Mr.  Frampton,  but  I need to make sure  you don't have a
change of heart about me." I chanced a smile.
     "I  like  being  alive. I understand the  reasons why the  snipers were
killed. I just don't want to join them."
     The Yes Man crouched down so that his eyes were level with mine. He was
struggling to control a rage that was threatening to burst out of his face.
     "Let  me  tell  you  something,   Stone.  Things  are  changing  in  my
department. A new permanent cadre is being  installed, and very soon all the
dead wood will be cleared away. People like you will cease to exist." He was
nearly shaking  with  anger. He knew I had  him  by  the bollocks, for  now.
Fighting his rage, he kept his voice very low.
     "You've always been nothing but trouble, haven't you?"
     I was averting my gaze, trying to  look frightened and I was a bit. But
unfortunately I  caught sight  of a  large,  freshly squeezed zit below  his
collar line. He didn't like that. He stood up abruptly, and stormed from the
room.
     Sundance shot me a threatening glare and followed him.
     I  tried to listen to the mumbling going on between the four of them in
the  garage, but with no luck.  A few seconds later  car  doors slammed, the
shutter  went up,  and the car reversed out.  The shutter hit the floor once
more, and then everything went quiet.
     Except in my head.  One half was  telling me  everything was OK. No way
would  he chance the job being exposed. The other was telling  me that maybe
he really  didn't care what I was saying. I tried to make myself feel better
by running through what had happened, convincing myself  that  I'd said  the
right things in the right way at the right time. Then I threw my hand in. It
was too late now to worry about it. I'd just have to wait and see.
     Trainers and  Sundance reap