Keeping the tension in the rope, I slowly lowered myself over, twisting my right foot round the rope as my hips got to the edge of the wall.
Then I let the rope take my weight and climbed down as quickly as I could.
I piled snow on top of the charges so the weight of the plank didn't pull it down the other side, taking everything with it. It was important to keep the rope in place while I went off and did a quick recce; for now, it was my only escape route.
The hum of the generator was louder at ground level, more than enough to drown the crunch of my feet on virgin snow and ice as I moved toward the rusty side door. I took the flashlight from my pocket and switched it on. Just a tiny pinprick of light emerged; I'd taped over most of the reflector, leaving just a small hole.
There was work to be done on the door. It's all well and good getting on to a target, but it's just as important getting away. If I didn't have a better escape route organized than just climbing up a rope, I'd be in deep shit if I was compromised. Working with the flashlight in my mouth, I could see that the door was secured by a large bolt, maybe two feet long, set in the middle, covered in rust, and looking as if it hadn't been opened for years. I began to work on the lever with both hands, gently lifting it up and down as I pulled it back and forth, making a little progress with each movement until the thing finally gave. Pulling the door toward me about three or four inches to confirm that it would open, I then pushed it back into position. Job done, I stopped and listened: no noise but the generator.
There was no point in risking the rope being spotted now that I had an alternative escape route, so I untied it and let it go.
Shouldering the charges, I crunched along the front of the larger building, trying to keep as close to it as possible to minimize sign.
Now I could see that it was built of chalk-colored bricks that were way past their prime. If the target house was built of the same stuff, it wasn't going to be difficult to make entry.
The generator noise increased as I reached the large opening. A mass of tire tracks led in the same direction. Going inside, I moved off to the right so I wasn't silhouetted in the entrance, and stood still in the darkness, listening to the genny noise to my far left. It felt warmer in here, but I knew it wasn't really, it was just more sheltered.
Taking the flashlight out of my pocket, I pulled off the tape but kept two fingers over the lens to control its brightness. A quick shine around the cavernous interior revealed three vehicles: a Mercedes box van, with its nose pointing out, and two sedans haphazardly parked at different angles, pointing in. The floor was concrete, covered in several years' supply of frozen mud, lumps of wood and old crates.
The flashlight was too weak to reach the generator itself, but thirty paces took me right up to it. The machinery was standing on a new section of concrete floor, about two feet above ground level to keep it well out of the shit. Beyond it was the fuel tank, a large, heavy plastic cylinder supported on cinder blocks. Seeing it gave me an idea for later on.
Jutting from the front of the generator was a power cable a good three inches thick; it ran through the gable wall, where three or four bricks had been knocked out to accommodate it, and toward the target house.
I dumped my kit at the back of the generator, turned off the flashlight, and went back to the large opening and out into the compound.
Following the many footprints that had been made between this building and the target about fifteen yards away, I made my way toward the main door. Directly ahead I saw the triangle of darkness that stretched from directly below the ground-floor windowsill to about three feet out into the snow, where the light hit the ground.
I checked my weapon was properly placed in my jacket pocket so that, if needed, I could bite off my glove and draw down with ease.
Checking before passing the six-foot gap between the two buildings to my right, I could see where the generator cable came out of the barn wall and went into the target's. I also saw plenty of footprints from the path I was on, branching off between the two buildings and toward the rear of the target. People must be in and out of here all the time.
Bending down, I edged my way under the first window, as close as possible to the wall. The glass above me was protected by steel bars.
A television was on. The voices were English, and it didn't take me long to work out the channel was MTV. This got weirder by the minute.
With my back to the wall, I looked and listened. The light above me was shining through yellow floral curtains, though the material was too thick to see through. I couldn't hear any talking, just Ricky Martin singing. Putting my ear to the wall I listened again. I didn't have to try hard. Bursting in with the chorus was a heavy Eastern European accent trying to give Ricky a hand.
40
ThE target building seemed to consist of a concrete frame filled with red clay brickwork with air holes and serrated sides. Whoever had put it together had never heard of a plumb line, and too many bad winters had taken their toll on the bricks; they looked as crumbly as the one I'd tied to the plank.
With Ricky Martin reaching the end of his song, I moved up the two concrete steps to the main door. It was the same arrangement as the baar in Narva, except the other way round, with the steel grill on the outside and the wooden door set back about six inches further into the frame. I needed to find out if it was locked. It wasn't my chosen point of entry, but if the charges didn't work and the door happened to be open, at least I'd have options. More to the point, if I fucked up inside, I had an extra escape route.
The grill wasn't locked. I moved it gently backward an inch and it made no noise, so I pulled it toward me a couple of inches, returned it an inch and pulled another two, controlling the quiet squeaks as it gradually opened. Eventually the grill was open enough to squeeze my arm past and try the door. There were no sounds apart from MTV and the generator as I pushed the door handle down gently and gave a small push. It was locked.
I stood and listened, hoping to hear Tom's voice. Something was being fried, and the smell was wafting under the door. From upstairs came a shout, muffled by the sound of the TV, but it wasn't Tom's voice.
Then I realized the shouting wasn't shouting, it was meant to be singing. My friend the Ricky Martin impressionist was on his way back downstairs.
Moving out of the doorway, I pulled my glove off with my teeth and gripped my weapon. If he came out, I'd be stepping over his dead body and going straight in with so much speed, aggression, and surprise that I'd scare even myself.
His voice got louder as he reached the ground floor. A chorus of other voices bellowed from the rear of the building, maybe in Russian, but definitely telling him to shut the fuck up.
He had reached the hallway and was only feet from the door, shouting back, along with at least two other voices from the TV room. It was banter, nothing more.
The singer went back into the room and the MTV show died down to a slightly quieter level as the door was closed.
I moved back to the front door and listened. Nothing now but the sound of more music being played. Replacing my weapon, I slowly closed the grill the same way as I'd opened it.
Moving back down the steps, I followed the tracks toward the far end of the target, ducking under the left- hand window and into its dark triangle. Even with my ear to the wet, cold wall, I could hear no sound from inside. The windows were steamed up behind the steel bars; maybe this was the kitchen?
I reached the corner of the building and cleared it. There were no windows this side, but plenty of footprints in the snow leading to the rear. What could easily be seen, however, even in this light, was a large satellite dish, slightly jutting out to the left of the building and pointing upward at about forty-five degrees. I felt as if I was having a Microsoft HQ flashback, and hoped the NSA didn't arrive to complete the story. At the same time I was pleased I'd seen it. The dish was my only confirmation that this really was the target.
I counted the paces as I moved toward it, in preparation for laying the charges. Seventeen one-yard steps took me to the rear of the building.
I cleared the corner and the generator gained a decibel or two. Light was shining through curtains from both of the upstairs windows, just enough to cast a dim glow over the satellite dish's two friends. All three were about the same size as those at Microsoft HQ, but made of solid plastic, not mesh. They pointed skyward in different
