77 north, p.29
77 North, page 29
‘Well, I hope you’re not counting that one, doesn’t look like it’ll see a road anytime soon. What’s that wreck?’ She’d turned to point at a mangled old blue Ford Capri hunkered against the wall at the back, all rusted creases, front end crushed to half its size and no glass left in it.
‘You’re responsible for the state of that one. Hold this.’
I passed her the heavy envelope and walked to a car-shaped tarp, whipping it off. A dirty grey Audi RS4 estate stared back at us, the first time it’d seen light in over eighteen months.
‘Are these… bullet holes?’ asked Alice.
I realised I’d been staring at the car for a while. I blinked and shook my head to clear the images.
‘I need something fast, reliable and under the radar.’
‘Will it run?’
‘She needs new brakes, fluids, an oil change and some TLC before morning. How handy are you with a spanner?’
She frowned and put the envelope on the bonnet with a heavy thud. ‘Do you think I’m useless? It needs a number-plate too. Do you know how many automatic number-plate cameras there are these days? I presume it’s not road legal?’
I pointed to the workbench at the side, and a stack of blank plates. ‘We’ll make our own.’
‘I can do that. Tell me what to do.’
‘You know what, you can do that. Listen carefully, there’s a laptop in the study. Image search grey 2007 Audi RS4 car show and write down as many plates from the pictures as you can.’
‘Can you write that down for me?’
‘You know what, I’ll just do it.’
‘No, come on, I’m listening. 2007 Audi RS4 number plates.’
‘Then get on the DVLA car tax checker and put those plates in.’ I slapped my hand on the bonnet. ‘Find cars the same as this one that are currently taxed and MOT’d. Then put those in the DVLA MOT checker, it’ll give you the mileage between the last and most recent MOTs.’
‘You want number plates of cars that have mileages same as this one?’
‘The opposite: find cars with low mileages between tests, the ones that look like they’re hardly used. No more than a couple of thousand miles a year, chances are they’re show queens that get hibernated in garages for the winter. We clone those plates, so there’s less risk of that same car being on the road somewhere else at the same time. Boom, every ANPR camera from here to London will register a perfectly legal car.’
‘You’re wasted in this mercenary business, you know. You should have gone into bank heists or something.’
‘I’ve knocked over a few banks.’
She cocked her head. ‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’
‘They’re easy, they don’t usually shoot back.’
‘And you had the nerve to say I was wrong for wanting to make a little money.’
‘You just picked the wrong side.’
‘Let’s agree to disagree on that.’ She shook her head as she made her way out of the garage. ‘I guess I’ll go and start some car fraud.’
I picked up the envelope and walked round the Audi to the Ford Capri. Like all good Seventies cars it was now more rust than steel. I opened its boot and ripped apart the plastic envelope, pulling out my HK VP70 pistol, kindly carried through customs in a French diplomatic pouch and couriered to my hotel at Manchester Airport by a novice French agent. I placed it on the Capri’s roof and whipped a sheet out of the boot.
Several weapons were lined up on a piece of old carpet. An SA80 assault rifle, a submachine gun, a couple of bolt-action rifles, a shotgun. All gleamed dully in the garage lights, kept in good order and nicely oiled. Several boxes of varying types of ammunition were stacked along one side of the boot, as well as spare magazines for each gun. I took the submachine gun, an HK MP5SD, and cocked it, pulling the trigger with a satisfying click. I attached the collapsible buttstock and clipped on the sling, then took three magazines and slowly loaded each with Speer Gold Dot 9mm 115 grain hollow point cartridges.
I leaned over the other guns to pull away a snowboarding jacket, revealing a box of grenades and a crate of claymore mines. I dragged the box out of the way. Behind them was a rifle. A Heckler & Koch G28 Marksman, sprayed up white and grey, scratched and worn, hung with torn strips of white material, camouflage against a snowy backdrop. A weapon I’d used on a job a couple of years ago, and that I’d not picked up since. With the Schmidt & Bender scope next to it, it would be perfect for what I had in mind.
I attached the scope and cocked the rifle, holding it up snug to my shoulder, panning across the garage.
‘Sweet fucking Christ,’ exclaimed Alice.
I lowered the rifle to see her standing in the doorway holding some printouts of number-plates.
‘You said you were meeting someone in London, not going hunting!’
I shrugged. ‘Why not both?’
Chapter Forty-five
The Peoples’ Democratic Republic of Nambutu / French Equatorial Africa
1999
The clearing at Cherub Rock was just as we’d left it. No army, no rebels, no flaming White Demon.
‘I think that should hold,’ I said, giving Elonga’s leg bandage one final pull. ‘You need to get going.’
Elonga winced, settling back into the passenger seat of the truck.
‘Take this,’ said Benjamin, pushing a joint into my hand before walking around the other side of the truck.
‘Not sure that’s a good idea.’
‘For the pain,’ he said, tapping his forehead.
‘Doesn’t hurt.’
‘It will.’ He swung up into the driver’s seat. ‘You take good care of my car.’
‘Hang on.’
I walked round the back and opened the Pajero’s boot, grabbing one of the duffel bags of cash. I carried it to the truck and pushed it into the footwell at Elonga’s boots.
‘My contribution to the cause.’
She held a fist up and smiled. I did the same then slammed her door. She leaned her arm on the open window and gestured for me to go.
I started walking back to the Mitsubishi, turning to wave.
Benjamin started the truck and wound the window down. ‘Hey, John Tyler,’ he shouted. ‘You are English?’
‘Yes, Benjamin Kayembe, why?’
‘You can get the new Mitsubishi Evo VI Tommi Makinen edition in England.’
‘We need to get going,’ said Elonga. ‘We have a long drive.’
‘It comes out at the end of this year.’
‘Drive!’ Elonga shouted.
Benjamin put the truck in gear. ‘The embargoes make it difficult but you can buy one and drive it down, yes? On the Trans Sahara Highway, I will pay.’
‘Listen,’ I shouted, ‘the next time I come to Nambutu you two will be in charge and you won’t have embargoes any more.’
Benjamin pulled the truck round in a wide circle.
Elonga hung out of her window and shouted, ‘When you get back to England, do not forget about Nambutu.’
‘I’ll get a tattoo.’
Elonga smiled. ‘Vive la mort, John Tyler!’
‘Vive la guerre!’ I said, climbing into the Mitsubishi and slamming the door.
I pressed play on my one and only Hole CD, sparked up the joint, then followed the truck up the track and out onto the road. Cranking the window down, I blew smoke out and coughed.
After ten minutes or so, we reached a junction with a highway. The truck’s hazards flashed, the horn beeped, they turned down to the left. I flicked the remains of the joint into the bushes and turned right, following a sign west for Zangaro, arm out of the window in a final wave.
I changed up and pressed the accelerator, heading towards the lowering sun over the distant peaks. The trees flanking the road grew thicker, the road grew dustier. I kept the speed down, following the road lost in thought. Several minutes after joining the highway, as I came round a corner, I saw several people in the road ahead. It looked like a crash. I slowed, glancing at the rifle propped in the passenger footwell, and changed down the gears, hoping there were no police.
The group turned as they heard me approaching, then two men detached themselves and came running towards me. My heart skipped as the first looked up and shouted.
‘Johnny!’
I pulled on the handbrake and jumped out. My brother ran and lifted me off my feet.
‘Where the hell did you go?’ he pulled away and looked me up and down. ‘What the hell happened, what…’
‘Good job you decided to turn up,’ said Walshe, taking a swig of beer from a bottle. ‘Selfish fuckers wouldn’t sell us their car. Jesus Christ, what the fuck shit happened to you?’
‘What happened to you, more like,’ I said, grabbing the hand hold and swinging up into the driver’s seat. ‘Get in.’
‘We heard shit going down so came to find you,’ said Justin, climbing into the passenger seat. ‘You’d gone.’ He picked up the AK-74M and looked at it, puzzled.
‘So you just left me there?’
Walshe climbed in. ‘Mate, you’d gone, the car had gone, everyone had gone, we had to fuckin’ bug out through the forest before the MVPD arrived.’
‘It’s the PRVN, you fucking moron,’ I said, putting the car in gear and lurching off.
‘Whatever. Hey, you don’t look so good,’ said Walshe. ‘Maybe I should drive.’
‘Go fuck yourself.’
‘There was another team, they ambushed the deal,’ said Justin. ‘Probably either the ALN or the ARN, it’s all gone FUBAR.’ He pointed at a road sign. ‘The Zangaro border is only ten miles away. Where did you go, what happened to your head?’
‘Shit,’ I said, one eye on the rear view mirror.
Justin turned and saw what I’d seen. An Army Land Rover was accelerating up behind us.
‘Probably not for us. We run, they’ll follow.’
‘We can lose him easily,’ I said.
‘Him maybe, but they have radios.’
‘This is why we got this car,’ I said, squinting into the distance. Another green Land Rover was pulled up on the gravel alongside the road ahead. ‘Belts on.’
Walshe turned to look behind and buckled up. I dipped the clutch and dropped it down a gear, ready to accelerate.
‘Stay cool,’ said Justin. ‘Turn down here.’ He gripped the rifle with one hand and pointed to a side road marked with a town name. I indicated, slowed, and nonchalantly turned, driving slowly so as not to attract attention. The road curved past a large building. I kept it slow, glancing in my mirror. Nothing.
‘Johnny!’
I looked back at the road and anchored on the brakes. A very sunburned man in a white short-sleeved shirt and khaki shorts stood in the centre of the road with his hand up. I noticed several soldiers kneeling in the bushes alongside us, rifles up and ready. Justin’s hand twitched on the AK. I knocked it away and took the car out of gear.
‘We’re fucked,’ said Walshe.
In the rear view mirror, the Land Rover came up behind us.
‘We’re fucked,’ said Justin.
I put my hands up above the wheel. ‘We’re fucked.’
From behind the building strode a man, tall, purposeful, dressed in a well-fitting light grey suit. The pale, sunburned skin sticking out from it matched that of the man’s in the road. The corner of his mouth curled upwards as he looked across at us, then muttered something to the first guy, who jogged to the verge. Another dark green Land Rover pulled out from behind the building, the soldiers in the bushes climbed on board.
The suit walked slowly to our Mitsubishi, stopping by my window. I wound it down.
‘Good afternoon, gentlemen,’ he said in pitch-perfect public schoolboy. ‘Would you mind awfully if I cadged a lift?’
‘We don’t pick up hitchhikers,’ said Justin. ‘All sorts of trouble.’
Suit glanced at the rifle in the footwell and smiled. ‘Yes, well, I gather you gentlemen have had a large dose already this afternoon. Could you move into the back so I can sit up front with young John here?’
‘How do you…’ I started, but he held up his hand and walked round to the passenger side.
The Land Rover pulled onto the road in front of us, boxing us in. Justin climbed out, Walshe shuffled over as he joined him in the back.
‘Now then, if you’ll just follow my colleagues,’ the man said, climbing into the passenger seat and closing the door behind him. ‘You smell terrible, by the way,’ he clicked his seatbelt on and turned to me. ‘The sky turns a wonderfully dusky shade at sunset, if we hurry we’ll catch it over the foothills.’
‘We’re in a bit of a rush, pal,’ said Walshe.
The man in the passenger seat ignored him and looked at me. His eyes flashed the way a shark’s do. ‘Drive,’ he said firmly.
The Land Rover in front started to move, I put it in gear and followed. In my mirror the second Landy behind kept pace with us.
‘Well, now, the Tyler brothers and Mr Walshe.’ The man turned to look at Walshe. ‘Nobody calls you Triple-F.’
‘Who the fuck are you?’ I asked.
‘Just follow the Land Rover.’
‘But you’re English.’
‘I’m Scottish, but for the sake of polite conversation, my name is Major Rupert Holderness.’ He turned to Walshe. ‘Everybody calls me The Major.’ He turned back to the front and looked at me. ‘And you, sunshine, are in an inordinate volume of shit.’
Chapter Forty-six
London, England
Present Day
Midweek, Charterhouse Street was busier than I’d have liked, even at this early hour. The sun, dusty through thick clouds, was still sitting below the towers of the Barbican estate. Beeping trucks reversed into the huge bays of Smithfield Market, while crowds of hi-vis jackets shouted up at cherry-pickers fastening premature Christmas lights to streetlamps.
My burner phone buzzed in my pocket. I switched my cardboard cuppa into my other hand to fish it out. A single text message from an unknown number, which I knew was Abi.
In position
I typed a reply, We’re on, then pushed it down into my pocket.
The early go-getters were bustling for their offices, wrapped in scarves, steaming takeaway cups clasped in cold hands. The only thing marking me out as any different was the lack of an overcoat over my suit jacket; five degrees centigrade in a shirt and tie is pretty comfortable compared to where I’d been.
Amongst the bankers and lawyers one man stood out, not difficult since he stood taller than most and had a large head, like a sniper’s wet dream. I took a sip of tea through the lid, fixating on the back of his huge bald head poking up from a camel coat as he bobbed through the crowds.
The hairs on the back of my neck prickled. I turned but nothing stood out. Nothing except the one guy in the dark suit who’d turned at the same time and was now looking at a restaurant menu. I couldn’t make out his face, and chalked it up to paranoia.
Into the narrow canyon between shops and offices, past Charterhouse Square and the Christmas Fair being constructed beneath its skeletal trees, the bald man turned right. I followed and watched him enter a small supermarket, then turned to scan the street again, senses on fire. The man in the dark suit was nowhere to be seen.
I retraced my steps into a narrow gated alleyway next to a shop. Taking one last swig of lukewarm, malbrewed tea, I tipped it into the gutter and took off my rucksack, pulling out a blanket. I sat down, pulling the excess blanket over my suit and head, leaving only my face gazing down. I stood the empty cup in front of me and waited, all the time watching the crowds carefully.
I’d accrued fifty pence by the time my mark reappeared, which was fifty pence more than I’d expected. As he approached, he didn’t give me a glance.
‘Spare change, mate?’ I said, in my very best Van-Dyke Cockney.
‘Fuck off, smackhead,’ he replied without breaking stride.
‘Arsehole,’ I muttered.
His shiny patent leather-soled shoes skidded on the paving stones. ‘What the fuck did you say?’
I kept my head down as he backed up, head already glowing brighter than the Belisha beacons on the crossing behind it.
He kicked the cup over, scattering coins across the pavement. ‘Don’t you fucking talk to me, dirty little bastard.’
‘Or what?’
He stamped on the cup and swept a ten pence piece off into the gutter.
‘Or what,’ I repeated, ‘Jim Walshe?’
His eyes went wide: first, as he saw the grim hollow of a suppressor poking out from the blanket; second, as he realised who he was talking to.
‘You!’ was all he could splutter.
‘Yes. So you know I’ll pull this trigger if you move.’
The blood drained back out of his face just as quickly.
‘That centrally heated office is too good for you, you’ve got fat.’
His lip trembled as he spoke. ‘What… what do you want?’
I pulled the gun back under the blanket but left the tell-tale bulge of its barrel pointing at him. ‘First, I want you to understand I won’t hesitate to put this whole magazine into you and leave you here in the street. How long have we known each other?’
‘About twenty years?’
‘Twenty-four years, so you know I’ll do it. And you know nobody will do fuck-all about it, since I’m dead.’
A couple elbowed past him, tutting. His hands trembled at his sides. He dropped his Tesco bag on the ground as his fingers involuntarily opened and closed.
‘We’re gonna go for a quick chat. If you do, you’ll enjoy Christmas.’
‘You gonna kill me?’ His voice wavered as he said it.
‘Walshe, I could have killed you at any point in the last twenty years, neatly and without fuss. What makes you think I’ve chosen today to do it?’
‘I don’t know. But…’
‘But nothing. I just want to talk, come with me and I give you my word I won’t harm you.’
I stood carefully, letting the blanket drape across my shoulders as I slid the pistol into the shoulder holster under my suit jacket. ‘Listen, you’re old and fat, with your fucking croissants and your giant festive Dairy Milk that you pretend is a present but really you’re just gonna stuff your face before dinner time. I could sit you on your arse before you knew what was happening. You’ve got like, what, five or six stone on me? I bet you can’t run fifty metres any more without sweating and falling over. Doesn’t matter anyway, you can’t outrun a bullet. Step back.’
