‘Fuckin’ A, man.’
They ambled off as if they owned the place, got back in the Humvee and drove away.
Dima, tired, hungry, sore, scorched and stinking of gas, found himself in a place beyond rage, beyond swearing. He glanced at his watch, now with a big crack across the face but still functioning. Twenty-four hours had passed since he had taken off with a hundred plus men, two helicopters and two cars. And here he was twenty-four hours later, in a hole in the ground, all but four of his men gone, both choppers lost, no car and no nuke to show for it. As bad days went, this took some beating.
30
The doors were too big to breach. Besides, there weren’t enough of them to go in with a bang, guns blazing. Stealth was the only option.
‘Every chain has its weak link,’ said Blackburn.
‘Every dog has its day.’
‘Black didn’t make Sergeant by being no dog.’
They found the weak link. Someone had added a fire escape to the rear of the building. The lower half of it had been shot away but a vent tube ran up close beside it. Blackburn went first, reached for the lowest rung and caught it just as he let go of the vent. The ladder stopped at a window that was frosted. Blackburn prised it open: a toilet. He put one foot on the top of the cistern and the other on the seat. He peered over the stalls, there were at least five. None seemed occupied. He jumped down and checked each stall: all open. He leaned out of the window and beckoned the other two.
Matkovic was next, Blackburn guiding his feet, then Montes. Campo’s foot caught the handle of the cistern. They froze as it flushed, the sound bursting the silence like a shell. None of them moved. There were footsteps outside. Blackburn pointed at his gun and shook his head: no shooting. Quick to right his mistake, Campo ran to the door and stood behind it, knife in hand. An officer — judging by his uniform — stood facing them, his eyes widening. He felt for his holster, about to shoot when Campo reached round, covered his face with one hand and sank his knife into his chest. There was a muffled protest and the body slumped to the floor.
Black was through the door and into the corridor.
‘Let’s find this vault.’
The lift doors were jammed half open. The car had stalled, leaving a two-foot gap.
‘Must be stairs nearby.’
They opened the stairwell door, heard voices coming up from the floor below.
Black pulled them into a huddle.
‘We go the quick way. If we rappel down, those guys on the floor below won’t know we came past them.’
There was a short silence while they digested this. They didn’t look keen.
‘Do I look like I’m joking?’
Black went first, slipping into the aperture between the floor of the car and the bottom step of the doorway. They were three floors up but there was no way of knowing how many basement levels there were. As he rappelled down he counted five floors in all. It was pitch dark at the bottom. The lowest doors were jammed shut. He listened hard for any sound from the other side. Nothing. He signalled the others down with his torch. All four of them worked their fingers into the gap between the two doors and eased them open wide enough to slip through.
The doors opened into an antechamber and beyond that was the vault.
Black trained his torch on the huge foot-thick polished metal door. It was wide open.
‘Looks like our lucky day.’
They stepped in. It was the size of at least two containers. Safety deposit boxes lined one wall. Several were missing, some were on the floor. A few were wide open.
Black moved further in.
Campo started peering into the drawers.
‘I always wanted to rob a bank, y’know, real professional, inside man, tunnel from under.’
Black raised his hand. ‘Shut up, Campo.’
He trained his torch over the opposite wall.
‘Hey, look: maps,’ said Montes. ‘This is Al Bashir’s command bunker, ain’t it? These guys always end up in bunkers, just like Hitler.’
Campo peered at one.
‘Uh-oh, planning his world domination, more like.’ He moved closer. ‘Hmm. Let me see, what’s it to be? Looks like he’s narrowed it down to. . Paris.’
‘Or New York. Tough call. Me, I’d go for the one where they speak English.’
‘He doesn’t speak English, jerkwad.’
Black stepped forward. Circled on the Paris map in a thick black marker was Place de la Bourse, the Stock Exchange. And on the other, Times Square. He raised a hand for silence then waved them back so he could conduct a more methodical search. There were signs of recent occupation: a plate, on it the remains of some nan bread, a tomato and the leaves of a vegetable he didn’t recognise. The air was stale with tobacco smoke and an ashtray had fallen off a small folding table. Butts spread out across the floor.
‘They left in a hurry all right.’
Campo pointed at a case in the far corner.
‘Check that out.’
It was an aluminium container. ‘What’s that stuff on the side, them numbers? Farsi?’
‘That’s Russian.’
‘Well no surprise there, these dudes got lots of Russian shit.’
‘Yeah, but check that symbol. Nothing Russian about that.’
They all stared at the label: a yellow triangle with three cake slice shapes in black arranged round a central dot.
‘Shit. .’
‘Jeez, it could be primed.’
Black moved towards it. ‘If it is, there’s nothing we can do.’
‘We should call it in.’
‘I’m gonna lift the lid.’
As the others drew back, Blackburn stepped forward and reached down. There were two catches on the lid, both unclipped. He raised it and looked in. Within a thick lining, there were three compartments. Two were empty.
One wasn’t.
A single green light flashed frantically. Each of them turned away from the device, instinctively. The power had come back on. A dull yellow light glowed from a cavity in the ceiling.
‘Jesus, fuck.’
‘Back up lamp. Power must have come back. Maybe the lift’s working.’
Montes laughed nervously. ‘Anyone else thought that was the big one?’
‘I’m calling this in.’ Black adjusted his mike. ‘
‘
‘
‘Hey, up there!’ They all looked at the corner where Campo was pointing. A split-screen monitor showed four views. One appeared to be the lobby.
Two figures, carrying what looked like American M4s, were on their way out, one pulling a wheeled case.
‘Fuck! That’s our HVT! That’s Bashir!’
There was nothing from the radio. Blackburn repeated his message.
‘
