Firewall (28 page)

The drawstrings were pulled at the bottom and I was in a world of total darkness. Not even the faintest glimmer of light could penetrate. My face started to sweat up rapidly as the hood moved against my mouth and then out again as I breathed and tried to recover completely from the spray.

I heard boots on both sides of my head, followed by heavy breathing as my hands were forced together in front of me and a plasticuff was applied. The short, sharp sound of ratcheting was accompanied by the pain of the plastic tightening around my wrists.

There was more movement next to me and the rustling of clothes. The pizza boys were getting dressed. That was a good sign; they wanted them alive, and I hoped me, too. Between the sounds of muffled sobs and zips being done up I could hear, "Danke… hhtos… spasseeba … thank you." Obviously these boys didn't know the nationality of the men in white and were hedging their bets wildly, sounding off like Brussels translators.

The floorboards flexed under the pressure of bodies walking past, heading toward the door. Trailing cables and plugs dragged and clattered across the floor just past my head. Some plugs hit the steel ram in the doorway and sent out a dull ring. I presumed the computers were being lugged out. By the sounds of it, everything was being piled up outside on the deck.

The roar of engines filled my hood as vehicles drove into the compound.

The temperature inside the house had started to drop as the wind whistled through the main door. To my left, I could just make out the low mumble of voices exchanging short sentences on the deck as the vehicles approached.

They stopped and emergency brakes were pulled up on lock. Engines were left running, just like a heli on an operational sortie it never shuts down in case it doesn't start up again. Doors opened and closed and there was a flurry of boot steps around the deck. I could hear the creak and echo of what sounded like the door of an empty van; it was confirmed when I heard a sliding door lock into the open position. This area was beginning to sound like a super store's loading bay.

I tried moving my arms, as if to get comfortable, but in fact to see if we were being guarded. My answer came very quickly when a boot made contact with my ribs, the same side as my fall. I stopped moving and concentrated on the inside of my snot-lined hood as I took the pain.

I lay there waiting for the agony to subside. The sobbing and snuffling next to me got louder. The culprit was given the same sort of booted persuasion to shut him up, but it just made him worse. The boy was panicking big time, and he made me think of Tom. I was still hoping that he wasn't dead and had got away, or was he, like this boy, hyperventilating in a hood, stuck in one of those vehicles?

The floorboards still gave and plugs clattered and rattled out toward the deck. Others loaded the stuff into the wagons; I could hear their boots on the vans' metal floors.

The floorboards bent even more as the three lying next to me were hauled to their feet, amidst muffled groans and cries. The sobbing one was dragged past me and taken outside; the others followed. As the last of the three bodies passed, I heard a scream from the first one echo inside a van. I tried to convince myself they wouldn't go to all this trouble if they didn't want us alive.

As I listened to the second being manhandled after his friend, boots came for me, the creaking leather stopping just millimeters from my ear. Two pairs of large aggressive hands grabbed each side of me, under my armpits and on the arms, dragging me upright. I let my boots trail on the floor. I wanted to appear weak and slow, I wanted them to think I wasn't any sort of threat, somebody not worth worrying about, just a gray man in a bad way.

The two guys were grunting under the strain as we crossed the threshold onto the deck, my toes banged over the door ram and back down onto the wooden floor. At the same time my hands and neck were blitzed by the freezing cold, then it moved onto my face as the hood, made wet with my condensed breath, started to get cold inside.

Stumbling between my escorts down the steps from the deck, I was dragged straight ahead, then all of a sudden they stopped at the command of a gloved clap and turned right, jerking me round with them.

Perhaps they were going to separate me from the others? Would that be good or bad?

Within five seconds of being dragged in a new direction I knew I was indeed going into a different wagon. It wasn't a cold metal box; it felt like the backseat area of a 4x4. There was a climb up to get into it and it was carpeted and very warm. I was short-term pleased.

The door opposite was opened and hands reached over, gripping my coat and pulling me in, with grunts to match the effort. My shins scraped painfully over the door sill, and I was finally pushed down into the foot well I could feel one of the rear heating vents against my neck, blowing out hot air from under the seat; it was wonderful. Even through the hood I could smell the newness of the interior, and for some reason it made me feel a bit happier about my predicament.

The vehicle rocked as somebody jumped into the rear seat above me, their heels digging into me one by one, followed by a muzzle jabbed into the side of my face, smearing mucus back toward my ear. Nothing was said, but I got the idea: keep still. I was powerless to act anyway, so the best thing to do was just lie there and take advantage of the heat.

Our rear doors were kept open and the loading-bay activity was still audible. A few feet away I heard the telltale creak of a van door's retaining arm pushed back under pressure and then slammed shut.

There was a double tap on the side of the vehicle to let the driver know it was secure, but no one moved yet. We must be waiting to go in convoy. A few seconds later another sliding door was shut and there was silence.

There was still no talking from these people. Either they were working by hand signals or they knew exactly what to do.

The vehicle's suspension went into overtime as more bodies piled in.

All the doors closed, and it felt as if there were at least three people on the back seat. Boots were all over the place, a couple of pairs digging in their heels to keep me down. Another kicked my legs out of the way so he could rest his feet properly on the floor. I wasn't going to argue.

We seemed to be the first vehicle to move out of the compound, in low gear to handle the wheel ruts and ice, with the windshield wipers slapping side to side to counter the snow.

One of the people in the front was pressing switches on the dashboard.

There was a burst of music, some terrible Europop. It was turned off, and I heard them laugh quietly. No matter who they were and what side they were working for, at the end of the day they'd just done a job and so far it had been successful. They were releasing a little bit of tension.

I couldn't tell whether we'd reached the bend, because it was a long sweeping curve and I wouldn't feel it at this slow speed. But I soon sensed we were driving uphill; it wouldn't be far to go now before we hit the road. I was in deep, frozen shit and there wasn't a thing I could do about it.

23

We moved on for a few mare minutes and stopped. There was a clunk as the driver disengaged low gear and shifted into high, then set off again with a sharp left turn. We had to be on the gravel road, and the left turn meant that at least we wouldn't be driving past the Saab: that was further up on the right, toward the dead end. Did they already know where it was? Had they been here the night before, watching me carry out the recce, then followed me back to it? It made me worry about Tom again. Maybe they hadn't bothered to chase him too hard because they knew where he was heading. It wasn't whether he was dead or alive that worried me, it was just not knowing.

We began to accelerate gently. The front passenger seat back moved and creaked under what must have been a very large body pushing against my face. He was probably trying to get into a comfortable position with belt kit on.

The snow was now melting off the clothing of the three in the back and dripping down my neck. It wasn't the worst thing that had happened to me tonight, but it pretty much fitted in with the way my luck was going. There wasn't a lot I could do about it at the moment, apart from prepare for the ride by not tensing my body up and trying to relax as much as the three pairs of Banner boots would allow.

The front passenger suddenly bounced around in his seat with a shout of "What the fuck?"

The accent was unmistakably American. "Jesus! Russians!"

A split second later the driver hit the brakes. There was a crash of metal and glass behind us and the heavy-caliber sound of automatic fire.

The clear-cut, no-messing New England accent and the sound of rapid fire got me stressing big time. It got worse as our wagon came to a quick, sliding stop, turning sideways on the snow. The doors burst open.

"Cover them, cover them!"

The suspension bounced as everyone leaped down from the wagon, using me as a springboard. I suddenly felt very vulnerable, hooded and plasticuffed here in the foot well-a vehicle is the natural focus of fire. But I didn't care what was going on and who wanted what from whom. It was time to disappear.

Wind whistled through the open doors and the engine was still running.

The heavy automatic fire was only about fifty yards away. A series of long, uncontrolled bursts echoed off the trees. This was my opportunity.

Pulling up my plasticuffed hands, I tried to tug the mask off my face, but the drawstring got stuck on my chin. My fingers were grappling with it when I heard hysterical shouting further down the road. The one advantage of working with Sergei and his gang was that I had learned to recognize some Russian. I might not know what it meant, but I knew where it came from. This had to be the Maliskia.

If I could get the hood off, my plan was to crawl into the driver's seat, then just go for it. As I was struggling with the string I got a little reminder to keep my head down. Safety glass cracked as a round came through the rear windshield and hit the headrest above me. At almost the same instant two rounds from the same burst ricocheted off a slab of granite at the roadside and shrieked up into the air. There were more shouts, this time from American voices.

"Move!"

"Come on, let's do it! Let's do it!"

My 4x4 wasn't going anywhere, but other engines revved, doors slammed, and tires spun uselessly in the snow.

At last I got the mask off. Pulling myself up, I couldn't feel any of my pain, and had just begun to move toward the gap between the seats when I realized it wasn't an option. About fifteen feet away, at the side of the driveway behind a mound of granite, a white-clad figure was pointing an SD at my center mass. I knew, because I could see the red splash of his laser sight on my jacket. The black-covered head screamed at me above the nightmare that was happening down the road: "Freeze! Freeze! Down, down, down!"

Change of plan. With the laser on me, the only problem he had was not missing. There were more screams and shouts mixed with the heavy Russian fire. I got down as flat as possible in the rear foot well if I could have crawled under the carpet I would have.

I was feeling even more exposed now I'd seen what was happening behind me. Headlights shone in all directions, illuminating the snowfall as the Americans tried to make their escape around the van that was directly behind our 4x4. It was off to the side of the driveway, its left wing wrapped around a tree; the driver must still have been in his seat as I could hear and see the wheels spinning in a frenzied attempt to get back on the gravel.

The shadows thrown by the headlights caused even more confusion as bodies moved within the treeline. I saw the muzzle flash of the Russian fire, but coming from way behind the convoy now. They were moving back.

My cover must have seen movement in the treeline nearer us. He brought his weapon up and started to fire, putting down a series of rapid, well-aimed three-round bursts. It sounded pathetic compared with the heavier caliber opposing fire; these weapons were not designed to be used at long range. Even sixty feet was a long way for an SD.

"Stoppage!"

The boy needed to change mags. I watched as he gripped his outer glove in his teeth, keeping his eyes on me. The moment the glove was off I saw a white silk touch glove in the headlights. The empty magazine went down the front of his white smock and, producing a new mag from his belt kit he slapped it into place. He then hit the release catch, which told me these guys were the newer version of the SD-even more indication that these were official. It was all very slick; I wasn't going to escape just yet. He had a bolstered P7 and his weapons drills were so good that even with him under fire there was no way I'd have time to do anything. I kept my head down and lay still.

Vehicles screamed past me with skidding wheels, the tree-loving one in the lead, glass smashed and holes in the body work revving far too fast, trying to gain speed. Our vehicle group must have been giving covering fire while they moved out of the danger area.

The New England voice was back in earshot. "Move on, move on. Come on, let's go, let's go, let's go!"

The guy covering me got up, still pointing his weapon at me as he moved forward. He jumped into the wagon, ramming his heels down into my back and the weapon into my neck. The barrel was very hot and I could smell cordite and the oily odor of WD40. He'd probably smothered it in the stuff to protect it from the weather and it was now burning off the weapon.

The last thing I had a chance to see was him getting hold of the hood then pulling it back down over my head.

All the others were now jumping back in, making the vehicle rock with their weight. I felt the gearshift being engaged and we started to move off faster than we should, the tires slithering and sliding as we turned back on line to move up the driveway.

The doors were slammed shut and I was hit by a rush of air from above.

The electric sunroof was opening; a moment later I heard dick-thud, dick-thud, dick-thud and a yell of, "Get some, get some, get some!" as New England fired through the open aperture. I couldn't hear any reply from the Russians.