deal with it, attacking the lock on the door and then moving Tom around the house until we found what we were looking for. I replayed the footage three or four times, from leaving the car to returning to it; then I started to edit it with different versions: What if Tom and I were on the deck and the door opened? What if there were dogs in the compound? What if we were compromised in the house?
I played the different versions and stopped the film at the crisis points, thought about what I should do and then hit Replay, trying to come up with answers. It wouldn't go exactly to script, it never did.
On the ground, every situation would be different. But the film was a starting point; it meant I had a plan. From there, if the shit hit the fan, it would be a matter of adapting the plan in the one or two seconds available, so that I could react to whatever the threat was instead of standing there feeling sorry for myself.
I'd been in my room for about two hours when there was a knock on the door.
'Nick?'
Tom poked his head round the corner.
'Liv's back. You won't tell her you know, will you? It's just that? well, you know.'
I got off my bed and walked out with him, using my forefinger and thumb to mime zipping up my lips.
She was in the living room, dropping her hat and black leather coat on the sofa. There was no exchange of eye contact between them and her whole manner announced there was no time for small talk.
'Good morning,' she said briskly. 'It's been confirmed: They're now online.'
She must have been to meet her St. Petersburg friend as well this morning.
'Could you two give me assistance? There are quite a few bags.'
We followed her downstairs, where the first thing she passed me was a sheet of paper with the weather forecast printed out in Finnish. 'It says there is a possibility of snow showers in the early morning. That is good for you, no?'
Tom was busy opening the rear door of the Mere.
'What do they mean by early morning?'
She shrugged her shoulders. 'I asked the same question. I'm afraid no one could tell me exactly. Anything between two and ten.'
I handed it back to her and walked to the rear of the 4x4, not letting Tom see my concern. This was bad. Snow is good for hiding sign, but bad for making it. We had to get in and out as quickly as possible, otherwise the only footprints left on the ground at first light would be our fresh ones, not mixed in with the others I'd seen in the compound last night. Unless, that was, the shower kept falling for long enough to cover our tracks once we had left. This wasn't good at all; you just don't take that sort of risk if a job has to remain covert. But a deadline is a deadline, and I had no choice but to go in regardless.
I was stressing and hoped that God hadn't really been listening to me in Tom's apartment, just waiting to get his own back by stopping the snow the moment we got into the house.
Tom picked up a set of eighteen-inch bolt cutters from the back seat and held them out with a quizzical expression on his face.
I had lifted the tailgate and was holding an armful of bags and boxes.
'Just a bit of standby kit we might need tonight, mate. Come on, let's give her a hand.'
Tom followed me upstairs, the bolt cutters under his arm and his fists full of shopping-bag handles. He dumped it all next to the stuff I'd carried up on the wooden floor outside the kitchen and was soon sniffing around in the bags like a child on the hunt for sweets. Liv was close behind.
It was time to put the work disk into my hard drive again. 'It's pointless you two hanging around,' I said. 'Give me a couple of hours to sort myself out here, and after that I'll explain why I needed all this stuff. Make sure those daps are clean, Tom. No mud that could flake off, or grit in the soles, okay?'
He nodded.
Liv looked at him, puzzled. 'Daps?'
'The canvas shoes I've been wearing.' He had already put his new boots on.
She nodded, mouthing the new word to herself as she logged it in her memory bank and left in the direction of her room. 'I'll see you both later.'
Tom was looking at me as she disappeared down the hall and the door closed. I knew what was going on in his head. 'Don't worry, mate, not a word.'
He smiled, relieved. 'Thanks, 'cus, well, you know.' He waved to me as he walked toward our side of the house.
'Tom, is there anything you need me to do for you?'
'No thanks, mate,' he said with a sudden twinkle. 'Liv's already done it.'
He stopped, turned, and tapped his forehead with his index finger.
'Nah, seriously, everything I need is up here. Do you want me to run through it?'
'No point. I'll just concentrate on getting us in and out of there.
What are you looking for, anyway?'
He grinned. 'I won't know until I see it.'
He disappeared and I emptied the shopping bags and boxes onto the floor. I sorted the clothing first, as it was the easiest to check.
Shiny nylon down jackets were not what we needed at a time like this; all the stuff I'd asked Liv for was made of wool and thick cotton. We had to have clothes that weren't going to rustle, and they had to be dark and completely nonreflective no shiny buttons or safety tape. I cut out any Velcro holding pockets or flaps with my Leatherman: Velcro makes quite a noise when pulled apart, and I couldn't afford for that to happen on target. Anything dangling, like draw cords I also removed. Once in the house, I couldn't afford for something to get caught and be dragged onto the floor. All this might sound over the top, but people have been killed for less. I'd learned by others' mistakes, and I'd never forget seeing a mate of mine hanging from the top of a fence in Angola by the nylon cord in his combat smock. He didn't have anything to cut himself free with and had to watch as guards came, stopped to take aim just feet away, and put at least fifty rounds into him.
Liv had chosen some good woolen outer gloves for us, as well as a pair of thin cotton contact gloves, so I could manipulate the door lock or whatever without my bare hands freezing onto the metal. There was also a pair of sneakers for me to wear, from which I cut out the reflective heel piece. I hadn't ordered any for Tom; he had his daps. We would put them on just before entering the house. Heavy-soled boots make noise and drag in snow, leaving sign. The outside world needs to stay out there.
I found the bag of six-inch nails, some lengths of one-inch thick nylon webbing and a handful of metal washers. The length of wood was exactly as specified. I couldn't help laughing to myself at the thought of Liv in a hardware store. She probably hadn't even known these places existed.
There was a neat little hacksaw in a cardboard and plastic shrinkwrap.
I ripped it out of its packaging and used it to cut half a dozen six-inch lengths of wood.
Liv had done her work well; the washers went over the six-inch nails and were stopped by the nail head. I slipped two washers over each, since they would be taking quite a strain.
Fifteen minutes later, I had six fist-sized lumps of wood, each with a nail hammered through. The nail had then been bent into an acute angle about halfway along with pliers, so the whole thing looked a bit like a docker's hook. The exposed metal of the nail, apart from the bit at the bend and about half a centimeter either side of it, had then been covered with rubber bands to eliminate noise when they were used. Tom and I would use one hook in each hand and carry one each as a spare.
The dark-green two-inch webbing was meant for strapping skis to a roof rack. I cut four six-foot lengths of it, knotting together the ends of each so that I ended up with four loops. These I put to one side with the hooks, away from the chaos around me. The climbing kit was ready.
Liv had been right: The old ways sometimes are the best, and this method took a lot of beating. It was a little gem from the files of MI9, created during World War Two when they were asked to think up new ideas and design equipment so that POWs could escape from their camps and travel through occupied Europe to safety. They came up with silk maps, sandwiched between the thin layers of a playing card and sent in Red Cross parcels. They even changed the design of R.A.F uniforms to make them easily convertible into civilian clothes. This hook-and-loop device, easy to make and easy to use, was just one of the many ideas they'd come up with for scaling POW camp fences. It had worked for them; I hoped it was going to work for us.
Next I unwrapped the Polaroid camera and four packs of film. Once a film was inserted, I took a quick test
