Exit wound, p.2
Exit Wound, page 2
Tenny needn’t have worried. Dex ignored him. ‘“Bang, bang, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang . . .”’
Red Ken’s and Tenny’s shoulders heaved in unison.
Spag bellowed into his headset that nobody sang on his goddam watch.
Biggles segued straight into ‘Those Magnificent Men In Their Flying Machines’.
Odd smudges of very East German light appeared – dull and yellow, not the fairground stuff their Western mates went for a few thousand metres away. We called them nein-watt bulbs.
Red Ken cut in: ‘OK, that’s it, enough. Let’s switch on.’
3
The Dornier dropped the final couple of hundred feet. My head bounced off the steel as we hit the ground and bumped along the field.
When I sat up I could see a line of small fires through the windows. Benghazi burners – normally small pots of petrol and sand, but probably mud here. Everywhere east of the Wall was ankle-deep in the stuff. The burners would have been laid out in an L, Second-World-War SOE-style. The base of the L was the threshold; Dex needed to land as close to it as he could to ensure he had enough grass to rattle to a stop. The long stroke gave him wind direction.
Spag was already up on his knees, headphones cast aside as if he had to jump and run under fire. He struggled to keep his balance at the same time as he hugged the bag to his chest.
Red Ken waved him down. ‘The crap-hat has been watching too many war films.’
Tenny convulsed again with laughter.
Spag didn’t like it. He stayed on his knees, ready to leap out and take on all-comers.
Red Ken wasn’t finished. ‘Who does he think he is? He’s a pencil-neck CIA desk jockey, not the fucking Terminator . . .’
Tenny rested a hand on Red Ken’s shoulder. ‘Give him a break. This is his first time. And he’s American.’
After Spag’s thirty-odd years as a desk jockey, he wouldn’t be auditioning for the job of Arnie’s stunt double any time soon. He looked more like the new cartoon character I’d been watching on the American forces’ network back in Berlin, Homer Simpson.
The Dornier slowed. Dex taxied to the threshold, swung the nose round so he was facing into the wind again, and closed down the props. ‘Just like the old days, chaps – the four of us together in the middle of nowhere. At least we don’t have to start spouting Pashto.’
Spag headed straight for the exit and scrabbled to get out.
Red Ken caught his arm. ‘No rush, mate. If we’ve got a drama waiting for us out there, we’ll find out soon enough. We need to take everything slow and calm.’ He swung the door open.
My nostrils were hammered by the stench of shit.
Tenny saw my face screw up in the dull red light. ‘Human fertilizer. Nothing gets wasted round here.’
Red Ken set off towards a thin torch beam that suddenly pierced the darkness.
Vladislav’s contact appeared out of the gloom. His fresh boot-marks met Red Ken’s in the frosty dew. They’d done a lot of business during his tour, but this was their biggest deal yet. They hugged like old mates and jabbered away to each other in German while Tenny checked our comms with Dex.
I didn’t know the contact’s name and didn’t need to. Tenny and Red Ken were here to look after Spag, and my job was to look after them. I tightened my grip on the two-foot steel Maglite. There were rules to this game, and one of them was that Brixmis went unarmed. If you were caught with a gun, you got shot, simple as that.
Apart from my torch, the only kit we had with us was the radio in Tenny’s day-sack and whatever Red Ken had in his. A couple of sharp rectangular shapes jutted against the thin nylon. I didn’t know what they were and I didn’t ask. If I’d needed to know he would have told me.
Our biggest weapon was secrecy. No one knew where we were, apart from those who absolutely had to. The KGB and the Stasi had no reason to be out here, sliding around in the shit. And if they were waiting to round us up with dogs and AKs, we were sterile.
Dex stayed in the cockpit. He tended to stick out in this part of the world. He’d be pissed off that he’d had to close down the engines. It was good for security, but bad for us all if he couldn’t get them restarted. That was how he’d got caught last time. He’d ended up being traded for a couple of newspapermen caught spying for the East.
The RAF rule was that he should have taken off again and come back in when Tenny called for a pickup. But Dex didn’t like doing that. He never had. He said it made him feel like he was running away.
4
Apart from the gentle whispers between Red Ken and the contact, it was quiet.
Red Ken’s German was far better than mine, but that wasn’t saying much. I was still at eighteen-year-old-squaddie level. ‘Pommes frites . . . Bier . . . Taxi . . .’ was pretty much my limit, with the occasional ‘danke’ and ‘bitte’ thrown in. If anything else I wanted wasn’t on display – so I could point at it and shout – I had to go hungry.
Spag stormed up to them, both hands still gripping the bag. ‘Shouldn’t we get moving?’
Tenny carried on checking comms. He’d send Dex a sitrep when we were at the meet, and another as we left. If we didn’t report in, it meant a drama at our end. If he didn’t acknowledge, it meant one at his.
I moved closer to the group. The contact was in his fifties. He ignored Spag. He dug in the pockets of his leather overcoat and pulled out a pack of F6.
Red Ken waved a hand. ‘Nein, nein.’ He flipped open his day-sack and dug out one of the mysterious rectangular packages, a carton of Benson & Hedges.
The contact beamed as he ran his fingers along the cellophane. When Red Ken threw in a cheap disposable lighter, his early Christmas was complete.
It was too much for Spag. ‘Jee-sus, let’s get going here! We stopping for tea and cucumber sandwiches, or what?’
Red Ken was close to decking him. ‘We’ll go when we’re good and ready.’
Tenny stepped between them. ‘We wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for this guy. If he wants to wait and smoke, that’s what we do.’
He shook the contact’s hand, triggering another stream of waffle. Tenny nodded. His German was excellent too.
‘We have to hold back a while. We have to give Vladislav time to make the RV. He wants to be there before us to check it out. And he has something he needs to discuss with Red before we move.’
Spag wasn’t having any of it. ‘Fuck him. He’ll be history when this whole pile of crap collapses.’
Red Ken offered the contact a cigarette from his own pack and they both lit up. Both drew deeply to help their creases along. The tips glowed and the smoke mingled with our breath. Red Ken glared at the American. He wasn’t playing. He showed every sign of being prepared to stand there until they’d smoked the whole carton.
Spag spun on his heel and stormed back to the aircraft.
5
I stood alongside Tenny as the other two kippered their lungs. My eyes were constantly on the move, checking for lights or other giveaways.
Tenny checked his day-sack was secure. ‘You still coming to the wedding?’
‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
Even with his hair, Tenny had managed to trap the most beautiful woman on the planet. I was sure she’d been designed in a test tube. She was smart and funny too, a teacher at the girls’ prep school in Hereford. I was more than a little jealous of the great life he had ahead of him.
‘I’ve been thinking about going back to the Green Jackets after this tour. Janice and I are going for kids ASAP. I want to see them grow up, be a proper dad instead of spending years away. What do you reckon, Nick?’
I hesitated. I might have shared food, sleeping-bags and even body lice with him, but I was the last person to ask about family stuff. ‘Don’t know, mate. Big decision. They offering a commission?’
The day-sack was secure and he hauled it back over his shoulders. ‘Yep, seems like a good deal. Stay in, but still get to be a family man. Well, as much as you can, eh?’
I nodded as if I knew. ‘I’d go for it, mate. You’ll be a general by the time I get within reach of sergeant. I’ll be your driver if you want.’
The other two finished their cigarettes. Red Ken picked up the butts and put them in a pocket of his day-sack. ‘Right, let’s get on with it.’
Tenny grabbed Spag and we crunched across the field towards the contact’s vehicle.
‘Listen in.’ Red Ken walked backwards so we could hear him clearly. ‘Stasi have been sniffing around this guy. They know something’s happening. Normally they want a kickback on the cash – or they have something to sell. They didn’t offer him anything, so let’s keep switched on.’
Spag bristled. ‘You saying we got trouble? You saying we shouldn’t even get in the vehicle with this fuck?’
Tenny cut in before Red Ken exercised any more of his diplomatic skills. ‘We’re here because of you. It’s you we’re taking to Vladislav. If you don’t want to go, that’s OK. Give us the cash and go back and wait in the plane.’
The Americans were buying the guidance system. We were only there because the deal was happening in Brixmis TAOR (tactical area of responsibility).
Spag gripped the bag as if it was his child. ‘I’m not leaving this goddam money with anyone.’
‘So our task is still to connect you with Vladislav. If our assessment is that we get in the vehicle, we get in the vehicle.’
We’d arrived alongside the most knackered Gaz van left in the Eastern bloc. It was trying its hardest to be a VW Camper, but looked more like a flat-pack wardrobe I’d once tried to put together without the instructions.
Red Ken and the contact jumped in the front. I got in behind with Spag. Tenny took the back row.
The windows were steamed up and cracked. It actually felt colder inside than out. It smelt like the old boy kept chickens in it. I pulled my beanie down over my eyes, put my hands in my pockets, and curled up as best I could on the ripped vinyl.
The drive along the pot-holed road was as bumpy as the landing had been.
Spag blew into his cupped hands. ‘How long till we get there? What are we going to do when we arrive?’
Nobody answered.
‘Red?’
Silence.
‘I demand to know what’s happening, goddammit.’
Red Ken finally turned in his seat. His head and shoulders were wreathed in smoke. ‘Another twenty minutes.’
Spag glared out of the window. He was way beyond his comfort zone. I’d have preferred to be tucked up in his warm office in the US embassy, too.
The contact muttered something and he hit the brake.
It got the American flapping big-time. ‘Jee-sus, what the fuck—’
Red Ken raised his hand. ‘Shut up. Nick, Tenny – stand by. Spag, you’d better get your head in gear and keep your gob shut.’
Through the misted-up windscreen, all I could see was the strobe of blue lights.
Spag had his head in gear, but it was the wrong one. ‘Why are we still driving towards it? Why aren’t we in reverse?’
Red Ken ignored him. All his attention was fixed on the road ahead.
6
It wasn’t a marked police car but a bog-standard Wartburg with a blue light on its roof. The front was tilted off the ground like they’d driven up an inspection ramp. The two lads flagging us down were dressed for winter. Both had big furry Russian hats. One was in a three-quarter-length sheepskin, the other in a long leather trench coat. Their street shoes were up to the ankles in mud, which was probably why they looked so pissed off.
‘Stasi.’ The contact confirmed what I’d suspected.
I stayed sunk in my seat as the Gaz came to a halt. Tenny mumbled from behind: ‘What’s going on, mate?’
Red Ken didn’t have time to answer. Spag was flapping. ‘Don’t stop! They’ll kill us! I’m ordering you.’
Red Ken smiled through the windscreen. ‘Nick, Tenny – stand by. We’ll sort this once we’re out of the vehicle. I see two so far, no weapons.’
I gripped the Maglite in my right hand, with the shaft up my forearm. You’re better off out on your feet than sitting in a wagon. Once we were in the open air, I’d be ready the moment Red Ken kicked it off.
The closer the voices got, the tighter I gripped. My eyes strained at the tops of their sockets. The two Stasi seemed to be waving us out of the wagon, with the confidence that comes from no one ever fucking you about.
Red Ken’s fingers closed round the door handle.
The contact wound down the window. Cold air rushed into the wagon. His breath billowed as he spoke.
I heard the word ‘Zigarette’.
Then: ‘Ach so – Englische Zigarette?’
I pretended to come awake, and looked around dozily. Red Ken was sitting there, beaming friendship and goodwill.
Spag was close to hyperventilating. The knuckles gripping the bag gleamed white.
The contact opened his door and got out. The Stasi in the sheepskin arched an eyebrow as he studied the cigarette in his hand, but he accepted a light. Then he spotted the cheap disposable, and his hand grabbed the contact’s wrist.
He muttered something and the contact laughed. ‘Ja, ja, natürlich.’ He handed over the entire pack, and then the lighter, before gesturing to Red Ken for the carton on the front seat. They got it – as well as the one still in his day-sack.
Sheepskin stuck his head into the cab. ‘Brixmis? Brixmis, ja?’
Red Ken shrugged and gave him some waffle. He sounded very authoritative, which got Sheepskin sort of nodding. The other one walked all the way round the van, peering in through the windows.
A local. Brixmis. The pieces were coming together in Sheepskin’s head. He shouted down at the contact.
Red Ken shook his head and answered for him in English: ‘We have no money – no money.’
Sheepskin drew down his pistol. His mate Leatherman was a split second behind. He pointed the barrel at the contact and screamed into his face.
Spag shat himself as Red Ken screamed right back: ‘No fucking money, we got no money.’
Leatherman came round and joined Sheepskin. They were getting angrier and more agitated. A very bad combination. They both pointed their weapons into the van.
Red Ken was calm. ‘Just stay in the wagon. If we get out now, they’ll shoot.’
Spag sparked up. ‘I’ve got money. I’ve got money.’ He held the bag up high.
Sheepskin pushed the contact aside and lunged into the cab. He leant over the driver’s seat and grabbed the holdall. Leatherman kept one eye on us and the other on the bag. Both were very happy with what they saw inside it.
They turned and shouted at the contact. Fingers were pointed at their vehicle and then at us.
Red Ken opened his door. ‘Nick, Tenny – out. Leave everything in the wagon. Don’t piss them off. I’ll tell you when.’
7
As we walked up to their vehicle I saw what the problem was. The antlers of a huge stag stuck out from under the front bumper.
Sheepskin stood on the road with the cash while his mate took the wheel.
The four of us slipped and slid in the mud at the back as the driver hung out of the window shouting orders. The exhaust fumes caught at the back of my throat and made my eyes stream.
Red Ken was in the middle. ‘Nick – the driver. We’ll take the money. On my word . . .’
One final push and the front wheels rolled over the carcass and reconnected with the tarmac. The engine revved as we stamped shit off our boots.
As Sheepskin headed past us for the passenger door, Red Ken yelled, ‘Go!’ He and Tenny lunged at him. I moved to the left of the car as the contact made a run for it. Leatherman poked his head out to see what was happening. The middle three fingers of my left hand fought their way into his mouth and twisted sideways, like I’d hooked a fish. I gripped his head with my right and pulled hard, as if I was trying to land him through the window. I couldn’t see his weapon.
He screamed at me. My fingers were soaked in his saliva. His hands came up to try to grab mine and he ended up wedged in the gap. Seconds later, Tenny arrived and gave him a couple of boots to the neck. Leatherman shrieked. I kept hold of him as Tenny opened the door and grabbed a weapon from the passenger seat.
I let go. Leatherman’s head hit the top of the window frame. He fell forward onto his hands and knees, trying to cough his Adam’s apple back into place. Tenny kicked him down into the mud.
Red Ken had Sheepskin on the ground with a weapon in his neck. He shouted to the contact to retrieve the cash.
The blue light beat into the darkness.
He turned to us two. ‘Get them in the boot. If they fuck about, drop them. Tenny, cut the blues and follow.’
We did what we were told, pushing, kicking, shouting, pointing their pistols at them. Seconds later we were back in the Gaz, Tenny in the Wartburg behind us.
Red Ken was breathing hard. I knew he was angry. He tried to control himself, but it wasn’t happening. He turned and jabbed a finger at Spag. ‘All you had to do was sit tight and shut the fuck up.’
Spag took a breath but decided not to answer.
Good move.
The muddy bag was back on his lap.
We drove in silence for another quarter of an hour before turning down a farm track. A collection of barns stood off to the right, rough old things knocked up out of concrete blocks and corrugated iron. One or two bits of rusted machinery had been abandoned to the elements.
The contact followed the track round to the back, stopped and killed the lights. Tenny pulled up beside us.
Red Ken went over to him as the rest of us clambered out. ‘Hold these fuckers here. We do the deal and we leave. They’ll find their own way out of the boot.’
Tenny shook his head. ‘Better let them breathe. The exhaust is cracked and the fumes are getting everywhere. It’ll kill them.’
