Firewall (42 page)

Once there, I at last got help: a small sign told me it was right to Tudu. I turned left, now knowing that the target would be the first building on the left after one more mile.

Just after one mile a high concrete wall appeared in my headlights, about thirty feet in on the left-hand side. I drove slowly for another forty yards or so, encountering a pair of large metal gates the same height as the wall. I drove past them, and the wall continued for about another forty yards before it turned at a right angle into the darkness.

The second building, just a bit further on and maybe thirty yards in length, resembled a large hangar. It was slightly closer to the road and wasn't fenced or walled in. I waited until I'd rounded a bend and was physically out of the line of sight of the target, then I threw the Lada into a little driveway on my left, stopping after a three-foot slide. It was probably an entrance to a field or something, but it wasn't as if people were going to be working on the land for a few more months.

I closed the door quietly onto its first click, then the second, and used the wipers to secure a sheet of newspaper over the windshield. I started to walk back down the road, trying to keep warm by moving as fast as I could, and sucking to the ice that had formed on the road to keep footprints to a minimum.

I didn't have a clue what I was going to do yet.

33

After two hours of straining my eyes to see the road through a dirty, smeared windshield, it was taking a while for my night vision to kick in.

A bird screeched in the distance, but there were no other sounds apart from my own breathing and the crunch of my boots on the ice. I found I had to step quite gingerly. So much for warming up.

By the time I'd reached the target the rods in my eyes had realized there was no ambient light and they had to get to work. Not that I could miss the first building, just off the road to my right. The gap of fifteen feet or so in between them was knee-deep with snow, covering the fallen brickwork that had spilled out across the verge. It was, or had been, quite a substantial building, though most of the masonry had collapsed, exposing what I supposed was the steel frame; I could see right through it to the field beyond. It was one story, lower than the concrete wall further along, but very wide and with a low-angled pitched roof covered with a thick layer of snow. A very tall chimney, resembling a ship's funnel, soared out of the roof on the right-hand side and disappeared into the darkness.

Continuing toward the concrete wall, I crossed the thirty feet or so between the hangar and the target compound. As I approached, I began to make out the dark shape of a normal-sized door set in the concrete wall. I'd have loved to have gone and tried it, but I couldn't risk leaving tracks in the deep snow.

As I walked on toward the gates the front wall towered above me.

There was no light pushing skyward from the compound, and no noise. I tried looking for CCTV cameras or intruder devices, but it was too dark and the wall was too high and far away. If there were any, I'd soon find out. A depressing thought hit me: I hoped they hadn't changed location already. I moved the forty yards or so it took to reach the point where the compound driveway joined the road.

Turning right, I started to walk to the gates. It was pointless skulking about, I just had to get on with it. The depression didn't lift when I failed to see light spilling out from under the gates as I got closer.

As I slowly closed in on them, keeping within the right-hand tire rut, I began to see that the wall was constructed of enormous concrete blocks, maybe twenty-five yards long and at least three to fifteen feet high. There must have been a fair thickness for them to rest on top of each other like that; they looked as if they should be laid flat, end to end, to construct a runway. I still couldn't see anything that even resembled CCTV or alarms.

The two large gates were as high as the wall itself. I was right up against them now and still couldn't hear anything on the other side.

The gates were made of steel plate with a thick coating of dark, anti oxide paint which was smooth to the touch, without a trace of blistering or flaking. I could also see white chalk markings, the sort scored on to guide the welder. I gently pushed against them both, but they didn't move, and there were no locks or chains I could see holding them in position. They were newly made, but judging by the exposed reinforcement rods jutting out of the crumbling concrete, the wall wasn't.

Set into the right gate was a smaller, pedestrian door. It had two locks, one a third of the way up from the bottom and another a third of the way down from the top. I gently pulled the door handle, which of course was also locked.

The gap between gate and ground was four to six inches. Lying down slowly on my side, and using the length of the tire rut to avoid making prints in the snow either side of me, I pressed my eye against the gap.

I could feel the frozen ground under my body as it made contact, but that no longer mattered; there was light on the other side.

I became aware, too, of the gentle hum of machinery. I couldn't be sure, but it was probably a generator.

I made out the shapes of two buildings about sixty yards away. The smaller one on the left had two lights shining from ground floor windows; their patterned curtains were drawn, but light still spilled onto the snow in front of the building. The noise must be a genny; there wasn't enough wattage in this country to penetrate curtains. The building was too far away for me to notice anything else about it; it was just a dark shape on a dark background.

I studied the larger building to the right. There was a dark area in the middle front of the building, its rectangular shape, with a semicircular top, suggesting a large access. Maybe this was where they kept their vehicles. But where were the satellite dishes? Were they around the back? Or was I doing a recce on the local beet boiling factory? And where would they have locked up Tom?

What now? I had the same problem as at Microsoft HQ: too much virgin snow and not enough time. It would have been great to have been able to do a full 360 of this place, but tough, I couldn't. I even wondered about trying to climb up the outside of the hangar funnel to get a better look around, but even if there was a climbing rail attached to it, I was likely to leave sign on the roof or on the rungs, and anyway, what would I see at that distance?

I lay there and reminded myself that when you are short of the two most important commodities, time and knowledge, sometimes the only answer on target is P for Plenty of explosives.

I stayed where I was, visualizing how to defeat the wall and get in on target, going through a mental checklist of the kit I'd be needing.

Some of the stuff would have to come from Eight, because it would be impossible for me to access it on my own in the time available. If Eight couldn't get it, plan B would have to be to tie a suicide bandanna round my head and bang on the gates making really rude threats. I might as well; anything else but P for Plenty of explosives would be futile, given the time scale. The rest of the kit I would get myself to make sure it was exactly right; I hated depending on other people, but when in Chad… The cold was getting to me and I was starting to freeze. I had seen all I was going to see tonight. Being careful not to disturb the snow on either side of the tire ruts, I got up, checking with my hands that I hadn't dropped anything. It was just habit, but a good one. Then I slowly checked the snow on either side of the rut as I moved back to the road, getting ready to play repair man. If any sign did need covering up I would have to collect snow from the area around the car and carry it over. Detail counts: There would be no point in picking up snow from near the repair and just creating more sign.

I had warmed up quite a bit by the time I got back to the Lada.

Unfortunately, the first thing I had to do after lifting the hood was take off my jacket and ram it down onto the starter motor. I didn't want Tom's new friends to hear me when I battered it with the hammer.

Ripping the newspaper from behind the windshield wipers I got into the driver's seat quicker than last time, now knowing how to play the door lock. The engine fired third time. Keeping the revs low I drove away, not going past the target this time, but taking a few lefts instead to try and box round and get back on the main road to Narva. I got lost a couple of times, but eventually found it and rejoined the death race.

34

I parked once more in the border-crossing parking lot. It was 9:24, according to Lion King. There was no way I was going to drive straight to Eight's place; I wanted to check out the area first, just in case Carpenter had returned. If so, I would have to spend the night hanging around, waiting for him to leave again.

I locked the car and headed back to the baar, hands in pockets, head down. Approaching from the direction of the burned-out shed, I could see the BM hadn't returned, and only two of the other vehicles were still there, both now covered in thick ice.

It was one of the Cherokee jeeps that was missing. What did that mean?

Fuck it, I had no time to mess about. When would be the right time to enter the house? I'd just take my chances and go for it. All I wanted was to get the kit together and make some money as soon as possible.

I pressed the intercom button and waited, but got no answer. I pressed it again. A crackling male voice answered, not the same one as before, but just as rough. I knew the routine now and even a little Russian.

"Vorsim. Vorsim."

The static stopped, but I knew to wait, even moving out of the way after a minute or two for the main door to open. Soon bolts were being pulled on the inside.

The door swung open and there stood Eight, still in his red sweatshirt.

As he unlocked the grill, he peered anxiously out into the parking lot.

"My wheels?"

I walked in and waited as he locked up behind, still frantically scanning the parking lot.

"The car's fine. Is the guy with the BMW coming back?"

He shrugged his shoulders as I started to climb the stairs behind him.

"You'll need a pen and paper, Vorsim."

"But what about my wheels?"

I still hadn't answered when we entered the third-floor room. With no natural light the TV room was much darker, but it still smelled the same, heavy with cigarette smoke. No one was here. Nothing had changed apart from the fact that next to the plastic coated playing cards on the table, there was now a lamp, dimly glinting on the Johnnie Walker bottle, which was three-quarters empty. Three ashtrays were full and spilling butts on the once highly polished table. The TV was still on, throwing bursts of light around the other side of the room.

Through a snow lens I could see Kirk Douglas playing a cowboy with the volume down low; I could just hear the dialogue.

"Yo, Nick. The table."

He pointed at several cheap pens and sheets of lined paper scattered amongst the crap. Some had tally marks on.

I sat down and started to write a list, wondering if the marks were card-game scores or a record of today's deals.

Eight pulled up a chair opposite me. "Come on, you play. Where's the car, man?"

"Down the road."

He searched my face. "It's okay?"

"Yeah, yeah. Just let me finish this." I wanted this kit organized and to get the fuck out of there as quickly as I could. "Where is everybody?"

He moved his arms around like a break dancer on fast forward.

"Business. You know, my man, business."

I finished writing and pushed the sheet of paper over to him. He looked at it and didn't appear fazed. I was expecting lots of sucking through teeth, but the only question I got was, "Eight kilos?"

"Yeah, eight kilos." They certainly weren't the sort of kilos he normally dealt with.

"Eight kilos of what, Nikolai?" His shoulders went up and his face went down. It was obvious he didn't understand anything I'd written apart from 8kg. He'd learned to speak English from the TV, but he couldn't read it. Maybe he should have spent more time watching Sesame Street and a bit less watching NYPD Blue.

"Shall I just say what I need and you write it down?" I didn't want to embarrass him, and besides, anything to speed this up.

He smiled now there was a way out. "Telling me would be cool, yeah."

Halfway through dictating the list I had to explain what a detonator was. A few minutes later, when he'd stopped holding the pen in his fist like a child and his tongue was back in his mouth, he looked very pleased with himself.

"Okay. Cool." He jumped out of his seat, studying his handiwork and feeling very important. "Wait here, Nikolai, my man." He disappeared through the door near the fireplace.

A few seconds later I heard a much older voice roaring with laughter. I wasn't sure if that was good or bad. I didn't try to see who it was; if it was the older voice who decided whether I could have it, then spying on him while he made that decision wasn't going to change anything, apart from pissing him off and making my life more difficult than it already was.

The sound of footsteps echoed from the stairwell, accompanied by volleys of quick, aggressive talking, slowly getting louder as people came up the stairs. I told myself not to worry, even though my heartbeat quickened as I listened for Carpenter.

As the voices got louder I still couldn't work out whether they were angry or that was just the way they talked.

The door burst open and I watched as the Good Fellas came in one by one, ready to grip Johnnie Walker and use him over someone's head.

There was no Carpenter. It was the same four card players, taking off their leather jackets and hats. The old one, shopping bag in hand, kept on his silver-gray fur Cossack-style number.

I stayed put, my heart beating even quicker with relief as I crumbled up the first list and put it in my pocket.

They crossed the room toward me without any acknowledgment, except from the fur-hatted older one, who shouted and waved the back of his hand at me to get the fuck out of his chair and away from the table. I got up and moved; no skin off my nose, I was there for other things, not to get macho.