The boy knew exactly what he was doing. He'd left a good fifteen to twenty centimetres of cord hanging before he'd attached the det, in case any moisture or shit had contaminated the end of the line. He wanted to make sure that when he was detonating, he was only detonating good HE.
I followed the ring main of det cord along the floor, down the narrow aisle between the weapons and ammunition boxes and the hull. I saw the first device straightaway.
The tin dustbin lid was flush against the hull, held in position by two wooden stakes wedged back against the cargo. The det cord disappeared into a hole drilled centre-rear, from which a bead of yellow PE extruded; I knew Two Cells would have knotted it inside the lid before feeding it back through to continue the ring main.
Twelve charges had been set around the hull. Lynn was right: this boat wasn't going to be taken alive. In fact, Lynn had been right about everything so far.
Two Cells had used a dustbin lid because its shape would do the most damage. Instead of the
brisance
– the shattering effect of the explosion – dissipating in all directions, it would be sufficiently focused to cut a dustbin-lid-sized hole through the hull.
The det cord running along to the next charge would detonate in a split second – and so would all the others.
I went back to the GPMG box and took out the cleaning wallet, a small tool roll with slots.
There was no need to follow the ring main any further than the first charge. The business end was back at the TPU.
The wallet contained a combination tool, a sort of purpose-built Leatherman used to split the weapon so you could clean out the carbon deposit that glues itself to weapons after firing.
I used the flat-head screwdriver bit to remove the four brass screws holding down the lid. Two Cells had been taking no chances. He didn't want anyone or anything getting inside to mess with the device by mistake. He was the only one going to kick this thing off.
My job was to disarm the devices while making it look like a malfunction. I also had to kill Two Cells, and make it look like an accident. As Lynn must have said to me a hundred times, the charges must not go off. The shipment must be preserved at all costs. That suited me fine. I didn't want to spend the next few days bobbing up and down in the Med.
The TPU was made out of a mechanical Parkway timer, the kind you used to be able to buy on a key ring as a parking reminder. They were made illegal when it was discovered that more of the things ended up inside TPUs than in motorists' pockets.
The Parkway was a small disc powered by a spring mechanism. You put your money in the parking meter, turned the disc to twenty minutes, say, and away it would tick. When the twenty minutes were up, the disc would hit zero and the device would start ringing. Bomb-makers didn't care about that – they just needed a small and reliable mechanical timer. Keep it simple, stupid: you didn't have to worry about anything going wrong – you just set it for any delay up to an hour and walked away.
The TPU only had four main components: the twelve-volt battery that would provide the power to initiate the det connected to the ring main; two short lengths of steel about twice the size of a sewing needle, and, of course, the Parkway timer, all Evo-stuck down to prevent anything moving that shouldn't. A thin blue wire linked the negative terminal to one of the leads from the det.
The positive lead was only partially glued down; it coiled its way to a small steel rod glued vertically on top of the Parkway's zero marker. Another wire joined the second det lead to the second rod, embedded horizontally into the wood so the two would complete the circuit when the time ran out. For the time being, a rubber pad was wedged between the two to stop the current completing its journey.
All Two Cells had to do was turn the Parkway to whatever time delay he wanted, pull out the rubber pad, and let the TPU do the rest.
7
I felt myself break into a smile. These things always worked better when they were kept simple, but you had to be really smart to put them together this competently. I'd been wrong to call him Two Cells. This boy really knew what he was doing. My smile widened. I double-checked the joints between the terminal wires and the det leads and knew exactly where he'd learnt his craft. Unless he was an Afghan, it was right here in one of the terror training camps in Libya or Algeria. Nobody else used this variation of the Chinese pigtail to join their wires.
The Chinese labourers working for the Western Union in the Wild West used it to repair downed telegraph lines. They took the two cut ends, crossed them left over right to make the first part of a reef knot, and then twisted the two ends together. They didn't finish the reef knot because it just wasn't practical. The wires hung between poles, making it close to impossible to tie the second part of the reef – and the half reef and pigtail twist both guaranteed conductivity and held the connection, even with a couple of vultures sitting on the wires, waiting for Jesse James to come by and leave them lunch.
When we went to teach the Mujahideen, we found that they flapped a whole lot more than the average Chinaman. They'd do the half-knot but forget the twist, or do the twist but forget the half-knot. So we taught them the complete reef knot, left over right, right over left, then a pigtail twist with what was left of the wire – exactly as Big Ben had done here. It wasn't long before the TPUs we taught the Muj, and the tricks we'd learnt from PIRA, were being taught in the crazy colonel's terror schools.
All I could do now was hang around and wait. I climbed back into the gap between the GPMGs and the deck. I lay there curled up, trying to listen for other noises above the steady thud of engines, my nostrils filled with the aroma of gun oil. It reminded me of every armoury I'd ever been in.
As I lay there with the rope net digging into my back, I started to worry about the amount of information I'd been given. The more I knew about a job, the more I could see that I was just a little, dispensable cog in a very large and ugly machine.
To my way of thinking, the less I knew the better. It meant I really was their last chance, they really needed me – and that therefore they weren't completely fucking me over.
Why did I have to make Big Ben's death look like an accident? And why bother saving the shipment? We were a big Firm; we had enough kit to go round; we didn't need this lot. Why not let the whole cargo go down and make sure it didn't fall into the wrong hands?
Too little air, too many questions and too much gun oil were giving me a headache. Fuck it, I just wanted to get the job done.
A shout – pure Belfast – came from the stairway. 'Ben! Come –
now.
We've got a big focking problem! A plane – flying low!'
I wriggled out of my hiding place and ran like Superman to the door. I jammed my ear against the cold steel.
'Where from?'
'The north; so low I could see the pilot.'
'Military?'
'Air force.'
'Must be from Gibraltar. The Brits, they've got us.' He was more pissed off than scared.
Another voice joined in, this time an Arab. 'No, no, no – it's the Spanish. I can hear them on the radio. Spanish customs. They're heading straight for us.'
'They may get us.' It was Big Ben again. 'But they're not laying a finger on this lot. Get ready to jump ship.'
There was a blast of noise from the engine room, then a lot of hollering.
As I clambered back up onto the GPMGs, the engines slowed to a hum.
Lights went on in the hold and I heard movement below me.
8
I watched Lesser hunch over the TPU, remove a penknife from his jeans and unscrew the lid. He turned the Parkway anticlockwise, lifted out the rubber pad and dropped it and the knife onto the deck. Then he made his way back the way he had come. He was walking, not running. Good drills: he didn't want to break a leg and be stuck down here when the device kicked off. He wanted to make sure he could get upstairs before the Parkway did its bit.
The moment he'd disappeared, I legged it towards the TPU. He'd set the Parkway to fifteen minutes. I grabbed the rubber, jammed it into place and turned the dial back down to zero.
I picked up the knife and cut the ring main about three metres from the detonator. Whatever happened now, only three metres of det cord would ignite. It had the power to rip through human flesh, but it wasn't going to do much damage to the ship.
I edged round beside the first dustbin lid and waited. Big Ben would be back. He was too professional and committed to just shrug his shoulders when it didn't detonate.
I kept reminding myself that his death had to look like an accident. I imagined the frantic activity up on deck as they tried to get the boats away before it detonated.
The fifteen minutes passed.
He'd give it maybe another two, three at the most. I felt a sneaking admiration for him. Me, I had no commitment to anything. Maybe that was because no one had any commitment to me.
I heard the beat of a helicopter's rotors above the ship, and then Ben's large and menacing frame filled the doorway. There could be no finesse in this. It had to be short and sharp. He mustn't get near the TPU.
Head down, teeth clenched, I jumped out and rammed him against the stack of crates.
My head was buried in his gut, my neck taking the strain. He bellowed like a wounded animal and his two clenched fists pile-drove down each side of my spine. I took the pain as best I could; my kidneys felt like they were exploding.
I struggled to force up my head, trying to get my hands round the back of his so I could make contact with the fucking thing. It would be OK to damage his face. It had to be. His face was going to get the worst of it anyway.
I could smell his stale sweat and the nicotine on his breath. His greasy hair fell over me like a clump of seaweed. Then he simply brushed me away as if I was an annoying kid.
His entire focus was on the TPU.
I grabbed his arm as he moved away from me and used his momentum to swing him around. He turned, and I let go. He banged his head against a stanchion and went down on his knees. I grabbed hold of the three metres of det cord still connected to the TPU, flicked it like a skipping rope over his back, whipped out the rubber pad and dived for cover.
The det cord kicked off and the concussion wave hit me, short and sharp, as my face was sprayed with warm blood. The detonation rattled around the cargo hold.
I jumped back up, in case he was doing the same.
He lay on the deck. The det cord had crossed his chest and the left side of his head. The explosion had cut a deep groove in his flesh and muscle, as if someone had run a chainsaw all the way down his body. He was still alive, still kicking out to fight the pain, but not shouting. He still had a job to do. He dragged himself towards the TPU, smearing blood over the carpet of wheat grains.
I wiped his blood from my eyes. I knelt next to him. He tried to push forwards, but it was no good. I put my right hand over his mouth and nose and my left behind what was left of his neck and pushed them together. He fought it. His hands came up but he knew it wasn't going to help him. His eyes burned with hatred and defiance.
After thirty seconds he started to struggle furiously, with all the frenzied strength that a man draws on when he knows he's dying. But no matter what he did now, he wouldn't be getting up.
His hands scrabbled at my face. I bobbed and weaved to avoid them, but maintained the pressure on his nose and mouth.
Gradually at first, his frenzy subsided. Soon there was no more than a spasmodic twitching in his legs. His hands stopped grasping. Moments later, he was unconscious.
I gave it another thirty seconds. His chest stopped moving. Another thirty and I released him. He slumped face down in the wheat grains, grease and dirt.
9
Fuck knows what was happening on deck. I could hear helicopters in the hover.
I didn't know what I was looking for, but I went through his pockets anyway. They were empty. Maybe his wallet was with the rest of his gear in a cabin or up on the bridge. I rolled him over. The edge of a bloodstained piece of card peeped from the top of his shirt pocket. I pulled it out and turned it over.
Her face had been charred by the det cord, but she was as hauntingly beautiful in the photograph as she had been alongside Mansour on the gangplank. Thirties, maybe. Palestinian. Her piercing sea-green eyes gazed straight into the camera: passionate, obsessive, almost manic. Those eyes had burned into Lesser's with fierce love. They seemed to stare into mine with nothing but blame and reproach.
I legged it back to the door, across the corridor, and into the engine room. The engines were idling. I killed the lights. The stench of diesel fumes and grease was overpowering.
I tucked myself behind a couple of tool lockers.
I could extract myself when the ship had been towed into port. If I got lifted before that, at least I would be out of sight of the crew. I took deep breaths, sucking in the diesel fumes as I tried to re-oxygenate myself. What was left of Big Ben looked exactly like it should have done. He'd been cut almost in half by the det cord. To whoever found him, he must have gone in, cut the det cord to stop the ring main going off while he sorted out whatever the problem was, and the TPU had kicked off.