Detonator (2 page)

I manage to hang on, but my hands are on fire. As they slide down the branch, pulled by the weight of my body, needles and splinters of bark tear into my flesh. I search for some kind of purchase with my toecaps but that just makes things worse. From the waist down I’m hanging into space.

I tighten my grip. Work my way back towards the trunk, hand over hand. It’s not just my palms that are burning now. My shoulder muscles are too. I somehow manage to swing one knee on to firm ground, then pull up the other.

The dull crump of an explosion echoes across the valley. The wagon’s fuel tank must have ruptured as it bounced off the rock face. The first spark would have ignited the fumes.

I don’t look down. I can’t.

The world’s biggest fireworks display sparks up inside my head. A wave of molten lava forces its way up from the pit of my stomach, setting my chest on fire as it goes.

A jet of weapons-grade vomit spews out of my mouth.

I can’t remember the last time I vomited.

I can feel myself frowning as I look at the sticky, brightly coloured stream that seems to be connecting my face to the bed of brown needles below it.

Then the pool of vomit rises up and smacks me between the eyes and the darkness rushes in again.

I don’t know how long I lay there.

I thought I was drowning, to start with. Drowning in a mountain lake. No. Drowning in a pool of vomit. My own vomit.

‘Nick …’

A man’s voice.

Clipped. Precise. Eastern European.

‘I need your help, Nick …’

You need
my
help?

That can’t be right. I can’t even help myself.

‘I need your help … I don’t know who else I can trust …

‘Don’t know who else I can trust …

‘Can trust …

‘Can trust …’

My head was an echo chamber.

Somewhere deep inside what was left of my brain, a drumbeat sounded.

Pounding.

Insistent.

‘This is not a drill …’

More drums. A guitar, maybe.

‘This shit is for real …’

I raised my head.

Fuck, my face stank. It was coated with puke. I was lying beside some trees, fir trees, on a bed of dank brown and yellow pine needles. I grabbed a fistful of them and wiped away as much of the puke as I could.

Then something made me rake over the needles so that there was no trace of it on show there either, and cover my tracks as I scrambled beneath the trees.

I felt my right arm jerk back. The strap of my day sack was looped around a low-hanging branch. I unhooked the thing and deposited it on the far side of the largest trunk I could reach, then crawled after it.

Took a couple of slow, deep breaths. A couple more.

I rolled over and lay on my back. Struggled to slow everything down. I knew I was in the shit. Physically and mentally. But I had no idea why.

I shut my eyes tight, opened them and looked up through the trees. Brown. Green. Little diamonds of blue. Sky, maybe? Fragments of colour, like fragments of memory. They seemed to make sense for a moment, until I lost my grip on them again.

To try to get my thinking straight, I decided to count backwards from a hundred. I was vaguely aware that that was what a doctor would ask me to do. What I would ask someone to do if I thought they’d taken a blow to the head and lost a few marbles.

Did that mean I was a doctor?

I knew I’d given my brain stem enough of a rattle to fuck up my short-term memory.

And I knew some other medical shit.

Morphine syrettes …

Field dressings …

Tourniquets …

I knew that when you took a round in the thigh you sometimes had to dig around and grip the soggy end of your femoral artery between thumb and forefinger to stop yourself bleeding out.

I filled my lungs with air and began.

‘One hundred …

‘Ninety-nine …

‘Ninety-eight …

‘One hundred …

‘Ninety-nine …’

I was getting nowhere fast.

I didn’t think I’d forgotten how to count. I just kept forgetting where I was in the sequence.

Maybe because questions kept echoing inside my head.

The same questions, probably.

Who am I?

Where am I?

‘I need your help, Nick …’

I’m not a doctor. So not that kind of help.

No. I’m on a task.

I’d been briefed. By a man in a room. I couldn’t remember who. But the room was green. A green room. A green room without windows.

‘
Nick …
’

I’m Nick. I must be. I’ve heard that name before. People keep calling that name.

I patted the front of my bomber. Then felt inside. A wallet. Battered brown leather. I rifled through it. Euros. Not pounds. Not dollars. Not roubles. Euros. Hundreds. Fifties. Twenties. And a bunch of Swiss francs. A plain black card with no markings, just a magnetic strip on the back. And that was it.

I pulled up my right sleeve. A watch. Green face. Black LCD display. Multifunction Suunto Vector.

Time: 11:16.

Altitude: 1,987 metres. 1,987 metres? Shit …

Compass? South was the way to oblivion. I needed to go north.

Barometric pressure? I’d never understood barometric pressure.

A load of information. But nothing to help me ID the owner.

I reached into the neck of my T-shirt. No dog tags.

Look at my fingers, one by one. No rings. No bling.

I’m sterile.

What was I expecting?

‘
Nicholas …
’

The Russian girl again.

Fuck, my head hurt.

Other voices.

Faraway voices.

Maybe I was imagining them as well.

No, I wasn’t. They were coming closer.

That was why I was lying up. That was why I’d brushed over my tracks.

I rolled on to my belt buckle, raised my head and scanned my immediate surroundings. I was at the lower edge of a stretch of densely planted firs. I couldn’t tell how far they ran uphill. To my immediate left there was a break: a path or track through the trees.

I grabbed the day sack and crawled deeper into cover. I lifted the waistband of my bomber jacket and reached for my pistol. It wasn’t there.

Had I dropped the fucker?

A mag in my pocket, but no weapon in my belt.

Concentrate, for fuck’s sake.

No, relax.

Breathe.

And don’t lose control.

I peeled back the zipper of the day sack and slid my hand inside. It came out holding a matt black compact Sphinx 9mm. The Swiss might be neutral, but they knew a thing or two about stuff that goes bang. I pulled the top slide back along its rails until it locked. Next came the mag. I checked that the rounds were correctly bedded and slid it slowly into the pistol grip until I heard a gentle click.

I needed to keep noise to a minimum, so instead of allowing the top-slide spring to snap into place I released it with the side lever and eased the working parts over the mag. Then I pulled it back a couple of mills. The glint of brass in the ejection opening told me a round was in the chamber. I examined it closely, wondering why I knew this shit, then pushed it home again.

The weapon was ready. I hoped I was. For what, I hadn’t a clue. These guys might have been coming to admire the view, but if there was a drama, I didn’t want to take any chances.

The voices were louder now. I could also hear footsteps. Two voices. Two sets of boots on the ground. Getting closer.

I had no idea what they were saying to each other. Their waffle was low and guttural, one of those languages that makes even kids having fun in the playground sound like they’re pissed off with each other.

Something else stirred in the depths of my mental databank. Then it was gone.

My eyes followed two pairs of legs coming down the track. One in shiny black tracksuit bottoms. One in khaki combats. They slowed to a halt some distance from the edge of the mountain. Turned towards me.

Acid attacked my sinuses as I lowered my nose into the pine litter. Unless you’ve caked it with cam cream, the shape of your face can give you away, and skin shines in the dark. If I knew stuff like that, maybe I wasn’t completely fucked.

I felt my gut heave and vomit flooded over my tongue. To me, it sounded like an earthquake. Had it to them? I tightened my hold on the pistol grip. Fought to swallow as I slowly raised my head.

But they didn’t move in. They bent to examine a trail of torn branches and scarred bark.

Were those lads on my side? Had they come to see if I was OK?

I kept eyes on them, hoping to catch sight of anything distinctive that might trigger some form of recognition. All I got to start with was footwear – hiking boots beneath the khaki, gleaming red and white trainers beneath the tracksuit. Then the occasional hand. The ones closest to me the colour of ebony. The furthest away tanned, white, a mat of dark hair sprouting from the backs of them, all the way down to the knuckles.

Nothing above the waist.

I followed the hands, looking out for a distinctive watch, a ring, a bracelet, a wristband … Though fuck knew how I’d hang on to the information if I did. No matter how hard I tried to focus on incoming sights and sounds, I could still feel them disappearing through the cracks in my brain.

No luck with the hands. These lads were bling free.

Then they stepped into the sunlight and looked over the precipice. I could see now that the shiny black tracksuit bottoms were topped off with a sleeveless Puffa jacket that matched the red of the trainers. The khaki combats went with a khaki shirt.

I could still see only bits of them, and from behind, but I could tell they liked whatever it was they saw. There was a lot of nodding and grunting and one clapping the other between the shoulder blades.

Wait a second …

A glint of silver. Khaki Combats did have a ring. A silver device in a red setting. A double eagle, maybe, but I couldn’t be sure. Albania is the land of the eagles. Why did I know that? An Albanian eagle?

I began to make out the odd word among the grunts. It wasn’t tourist chat. It was satisfaction at a job well done. It was how you reacted when you’d pushed a guy off a mountain, then confirmed the kill.

The lad closest to me – with the flash trainers and Puffa – was a very big unit. He was the one with hands the colour of ebony. And a headful of dreads.

A chunky gold bracelet slid out of his sleeve and hung around his wrist as they gave each other a huge high-five.

I could almost hear the cogs whirring inside my skull. I’d seen that boy in action before. But the where, when and how remained beyond my reach.

His mate was shorter and squarer. Not just dressed like a Hesco barrier. Built like one too. Something about his body language said he was the boss. He brought out his mobile, jabbed the speed dial and waffled into the mouthpiece. Either he was ordering himself a takeaway or he was sharing the good news.

Then, out of nowhere, words I recognized.

‘Yeah. You’re right. Fuck him. He got what he deserved.’

He cut the call, waved an arm then they both turned and tabbed back up the slope.

I never saw their faces.

As soon as they were out of sight I opened my mouth and listened. I needed to make sure they were well clear before I carried on trying to work out how the fuck I’d got into this shit.

I didn’t count backwards again. I couldn’t be arsed. When I could no longer hear voices and footsteps I started counting forwards instead. Much easier. And it helped me measure time and distance. I couldn’t move on until they were well gone.

I got to thirty. I was pretty sure I hadn’t missed any numbers out.

I moved on to sixty. It was slow work, but I was ridiculously pleased with myself. I felt a stupid smile spread across my cheeks.

I reached a ton and felt like cheering. I wasn’t firing on every single cylinder yet, but maybe my brain wasn’t terminally fucked after all.

I grabbed the day sack to check out what else was in there. Had I done that before? Probably. But there was only one way of finding out. I was about to put the Sphinx on the ground beside me when I heard another of those voices. ‘Pistols are always attached, you knob-head. On the body, or in the hand. You must keep control …’ No Russian accent. Jock, maybe. An instructor somewhere.

Control. Fuck. If that voice could see me now …

I hauled myself to my feet and tucked the barrel of the weapon into the front of my jeans, polymer grip within easy reach in case I had to draw down. These things don’t have a safety any more. They’re double action, so unless I did something really fucking stupid I wasn’t going to lose my bollocks as well as my marbles.

I peeled off my bomber jacket, spread it out on the ground and emptied the contents of the day sack on to the lining.

Clean shirt and boxers. Socks.

Compact Pentax 10x50 binoculars on a strap.

Titanium pen. UZI stamped on the barrel. It looked like you could use it to hijack an aircraft or fire it from a Rarden cannon. The top end, above the clip, had been designed to punch holes through toughened glass.

Disposable lighter.

Clear plastic Silva compass. Not a bombproof prismatic number with folding sights, one that you could put flat on a map.

Small bottle of mineral water.

A couple of second-hand Nokia mobiles, ten SIM cards and four battery packs.

But no ID.

I was getting the strong impression I was the Invisible Man, but this was fucking outrageous. Even if I was on the holiday of a lifetime, I’d need ID.

And if I was on the holiday of a lifetime, I wouldn’t need a 9mm Sphinx and a spare mag.

I gave the day sack a good shake, then felt around in the lining and found a zipped compartment. Tucked inside was a wad of euros, a UK passport and photocard driving licence, both in the name of Nicholas Head. The Nick bit made sense. The Head bit made me frown. Nickhead. Was that my real name or some kind of joke?

I unscrewed the top of the mineral water. Got the lot down my neck. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d rehydrated. And the inside of my mouth needed all the help it could get.