I turned right, then right again. I was on Ball Street. It was the back I really needed to take a look at, but first I wanted to recon the front again. I wanted to see if there was a night watchman in there and get a mental picture of what it looked like inside.
I moved into a doorway across the way. If I was spotted, I'd pretend I was drunk and taking a piss. I was in deep shadow as I looked over at the target. I could see through the two sets of doors into the reception area; the lights were still on, giving a sheen to the wet concrete steps and the leaves of the bushes. I looked upstairs and saw light shining through the windows directly above the main entrance. That meant the corridor lights were on upstairs as well.
I waited around for fifteen minutes, watching for signs of movement. Was security sitting downstairs watching the TV?
Was he upstairs, doing his rounds? I didn't see anything.
Time to look at the rear.
I went back the way I'd come but instead of turning left went right toward the river. It was just a one-lane road with muddy mush on the sides and potholes filled with oily water that glistened in the ambient light. Using the shadows, I passed the scrap-metal yard and crossed over the railway tracks that led to the old cement depot. My footsteps
made more noise than the highway now. Fences divided all the plots, secured with old chains and padlocks. I followed the road farther, looking for a point to turn and get behind the target.
The highway lights weren't strong enough to have any effect at this distance, but I could make out the mist coming from the river. I'd reached a dead end. A fence blocked the old road, and a large, muddy turning circle had been made by cars looking for a parking space and discovering what I just had. I could also see lights from the airport, beyond the woods that sloped down to the Potomac.
There was no alternative but to walk back to the abandoned railway tracks, which years ago would have been a branch of the main line. I looked left, following the tracks;
they ran about two hundred yards to the rear of the target, and to their left were some old, rusted corrugated-iron buildings.
I started climbing over the wire gates where the trains would have gone through to the depot. The padlocked chains rattled under the strain. I got into some shadow and waited.
There were no dogs barking, and the airport was probably closed down this late at night because it was so close to the city; all I could hear was a distant siren.
I carried on along the tracks, and soon the only noises were of my feet and breath.
To my right was the scrap yard enclosed by a fence, with old cars piled on top of each other seven or eight high. After about a hundred yards the ground started to open up and I could see buildings. Fences made it clear what belonged to whom. The area had been cleared and flattened, ready for developers. One of those buildings beyond it was the rear of my target; on the other side I could see street lights on Ball Street and the highway. The drizzle gave them a misty, faded appearance.
I slowed down, had a quick look at the target, then started to walk across the 150 yards of newly leveled ground to a fence that was about 50 yards short of the target building.
Near the fence I found some bushes, stopped, and squatted down. The things that always give you away are shape, shine, shadow, silhouette, spacing, and movement. Forget about them and they'll get you killed.
Still on my haunches, I did nothing but sit and watch for the next few minutes. You have to give your senses a chance to adjust to a new environment. After a while my eyes began to adapt to the light and I could start to make things out. I could see that there were no windows in the back of the building, just a solid brick wall. There was, however, a four-flight steel staircase leading to the ground. This was the fire escape route for both the first and second floors. To the right of it at ground level were the meter boxes for the building's utilities.
I looked at the fire exits. If I had to make entry at some stage to find out what PIRA was up to, that was probably the way I'd go in. It depended whether they had external locks, and there was only one way to find out.
I scanned along the line of the six-foot chain-link fence, looking for a break. I couldn't see one. Grabbing the top edge of the wire, I pulled myself up, got a foot on the top, and clambered over. I crouched down again and stayed still, watching and listening for any reaction.
There was no need to rush; slow movement meant that not only did I reduce noise and the risk of being detected, I could also control my breathing and hear more around me. I used the shadows created by the building and trees, moving from one pool of darkness to the next, all the time keeping eyes on the target and the surrounding area.
Once I got close enough, I stopped at the base of two trees and stood against one of the trunks. Looking at the rear wall, I noticed a motion detector that had been fixed at a height and angle to cover people walking up the fire escape. I had no way of knowing what the detector triggered, whether an alarm, a light, or a camera, or maybe all three. I couldn't see any cameras.
But I could see lights, two of them, one above each fire exit. They weren't on. Were they what the motion detector would trigger? Probably, but why wasn't there also a camera covering the rear so that security could see what had triggered the light? It didn't matter; I'd treat the detector as if it triggered everything.
I noted three wooden pallets to the right of the building by the fence. I could use those.
I looked at the doors. They had sheet steel covering them, together with an extra strip that went over the frame to prevent anyone from tampering with the gap. Close up, I could see that the locks were the pin-tumbler type. Piece of cake; I could defeat them.
A quick check of the utilities boxes and dials showed me that gas, electricity, water, and telephone were all there, all exposed and ready to be played with. I was feeling better about this all the time.
I was still worried about the possibility of a night watch man. In some circumstances, it can actually be a bonus. You can try to get him to come and open the door and hey presto, you've got an unalarmed entry. However, if I had to go in, it would be covertly.
The parking lot was empty, which could be another indication that there was no one inside. I had to confirm it one way or another. I decided to be slightly drunk, walk up to the main entrance, and take a leak; while I was doing that, I could get a better look inside. If there was anybody in the foyer, he might come out and give me grief, or I might see him watching television in the back somewhere.
I followed the same route all the way back and reached Ball Street. I was quite damp now; the drizzle and wet rusty fences had done their work on my clothes.
I walked on the opposite side of the road toward the target.
As I got nearer, I started to cross at an angle that gave me more time to see the target. Head down, conscious of the camera covering the door, I started to stumble up the steps, and about three-quarters of the way up, as soon as I was able to see into the right-hand window, I turned, opened my fly, and started pissing down onto the bushes.
Almost instantly, a man's voice roared, 'Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!' and there was an explosion of movement in the shrubbery. I nearly jumped out of my skin.
I took my hand straight off my cock and onto the Sig. I tried to stop pissing but I was in full flow. My jeans took the brunt.
I went for the pistol, then realized that maybe I didn't need to pull it out yet. He might be security. Maybe I could talk my way out of this.
'Fuck you! Who do you think you are? You mothermcker!'
I could hear him but still couldn't see anything. There was rustling and all sorts of shit going on, then more 'Fuck you! Fuck you!' and I saw him appearing through the bushes.
'Fucking asshole, piss on me, you fuck. I'll show you!
Look at me! You've pissed on me!'
He was in his mid-twenties, wearing old army boots without laces and dirty, greasy black jeans. He had a hooded, parka-type jacket that was in shit shape, grimed with muck and with the elbows hanging out. When he was about ten yards away I could also see he had a straggly excuse for a beard, a big earring in one ear, and long greasy dreadlocks.
He was soaked.
The moment he saw me, his face lit up. To him I was the accidental tourist, lost at the wrong end of town. I
