I took a sip of the weakest tea I’d ever tasted. ‘What’s his name again?’
‘Zurab Baz-your-father. Something like that.’
‘For fuck’s sake, you don’t even know his name. You on drugs or something?’
‘Hang on, I remember. It’s Bazgadze. But his name doesn’t matter, does it? I know where he lives and it’s not as if we’re going to see him. We do the recces today and get on with it tonight. Then we’re gone. I’ll even pick up a nice bottle of duty-free, to take home for Hazel. Do you know this country invented wine?’
I moved the map so I could stretch out, and dumped the tea on the bedside table. ‘How was she?’
‘A bit scratchy, but she knows you’re with me.’ He was all smiles again. ‘Silky was out riding with Julie.’
I realized I was smiling too. It had only been a few days, but I was missing her. I’d got used to being around her. It was certainly a lot more fun hanging out with her than with this old fucker.
Charlie had touched a nerve and he knew it. ‘If you like, you can even get back into Hazel’s good books by saying you’re dragging me back, we’re not even doing the job. What do you reckon?’ He thumbed the number into his cell. ‘Go on, give her a ring.’ He threw it on the bed. ‘I told her you’d try and talk me out of it anyway.’
I left the cell where it landed. ‘What if we can’t get in tonight? There a Plan B?’
‘Nope. Now or never. Go on, give her a call.’
He gave up his own attempts to drink the undrinkable. ‘I’m staying, lad. I’ve got no choice. She thinks we’re still in Turkey, by the way. Tell her you’re bringing me back tomorrow.’ The smile had gone. This was serious. ‘Please.’
I picked it up and hit the call button. It took an age before the ring tone started, but it got lifted after just one ring.
‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s Nick.’
‘When’s your flight? Do you want us to meet you at the airport?’
‘Tomorrow. He’s seen sense at last.’
‘Thank you so much, Nick.’ I didn’t think I’d ever heard anyone sound so relieved. ‘Thank you, thank you. When are you getting in?’
‘It’s going to depend if there’s direct flights out of Istanbul. It’s a nightmare. Is Silky there?’
I heard Hazel’s muffled reply, then Silky’s voice. ‘I’m missing you, Nick Stein. You’re coming back tomorrow?’
‘Um, listen, we’re on a cell, it’s costing a bomb. I’ll call you when we get a flight, OK?’
‘OK.’
‘And Silky?’
‘What?’
‘I miss you too, box-head.’
I cut the phone and threw it back on the bed. ‘Thank fuck this isn’t a video phone.’
‘You don’t want her to see you looking miserable?’
‘No, I don’t want her to see this jumper.’
I picked up the map. ‘Right,’ I said. ‘How the fuck are we going to crack this, then?’
7
The sky was heavy and grey and busy slicing off the tops of the hills. Cars splashed their way through puddles the size of tennis courts. The pavement glistened round the bus stop where I sat waiting for Whitewall to show up. It was going to be a horribly muggy day.
I was across the road from the hotel, keeping trigger on the entrance. The plan was that I’d give Charlie early warning of any ‘possible’ going in. The camcorder was rigged up in his room to record the handover of kit, and his replies to Charlie’s questions. The tape would become a major part of our security blanket if the wheels did come off. We’d cache it — along with anything else we’d been able to get our hands on — and make sure that Crazy Dave knew we had a few shots in the locker to keep Whitewall or whoever from fucking us about.
I was right next to the front window of a gun shop. Punters waiting for their buses could check out an almost endless display of shotguns, rifles and chrome-plated pistols to meet their every need. I had already seen a couple of guys walk past with shoulder holsters over their sweatshirts, and they weren’t using them to carry their deodorant. The sweatshirts were black, of course. In Georgia, black was the new black. The men mostly wore black leather over black. Every one of them over the age of thirty looked like he’d just spent the night standing outside Tbilisi’s answer to Spearmint Rhino, fucking people off.
The streets leading uphill from the main drag all looked like they hadn’t seen a lick of tarmac since the time of that bumper harvest. There were more potholes than there were Ladas to fall into them, and the pavements had crumbled so badly there was no longer any kerb.
Hordes of scabby-looking dogs were all set to spend the day chasing bits of swirling garbage in the wind. There was enough rubbish on the ground and enough fading plastic bags caught in the trees to form a fourth hill which would enclose the city completely.
Another ten minutes went by. Except for the gun shop and the odd mobile phone store and cafe, the main drag seemed to be lined with bookstores. As I watched the old, bunker-shaped Russian trucks jockeying for space along the boulevard with streams of brand new Volvos and Mercs, I realized there were no traffic lights. Come to think of it, we hadn’t driven through a single one all the way from the airport. Either the drivers were very polite here, or no-one would have taken a blind bit of notice.
Just before nine o’clock, a two-tone Mitsubishi Pajero 4x4, silver bottom, dark blue top, pulled up outside the hotel. It was three up. Even from this distance I could see that the passenger in the rear was the size of a small tank. He waddled out onto the pavement, opened the back door and took out a large, light-coloured bag, then disappeared through the glass doors. The driver kept the Pajero static. There had been quite a few limos and 4x4s picking people up and dropping them off, but this felt like Whitewall.
I hit my cell phone. The SOP [standard operating procedure] for this job was to leave nothing but Charlie’s number as the last call, and I was only doing that in case I forgot it. ‘Got a possible carrying two donkeys’ worth.’
I decided to dice with death while I waited for the possible Whitewall to re-emerge, and crossed the road to get a better view of the two up front. They were side on and directly in front of me as I slalomed across the final stretch. The two boys were straight from Thick Bouncers central casting. Mid-thirties, lots of black leather. Both were clean-shaven and bald-headed, and the driver had perfectly manicured hands draped over the wheel and a pair of black-framed gigs.
The plate was pressed steel, white background, black letters before the numbers 960: a local registration, not military or diplomatic. The engine was still running, so the rear passenger obviously wasn’t intending to be inside for long.
I felt the phone vibrate in my jeans pocket. I took the first option right to get me out of line of sight and hit the green.
‘He’s on his way down, lad. See you in ten.’
8
Charlie took the tape out of the camcorder. He was already gloved up.
The CTR kit was laid out on the bed, alongside a navy-blue canvas satchel the size of Imelda Marcos’s shoe bag for us to carry it all in. He needn’t have bothered improvising his own lever-lock wrenches; it looked like Whitewall had delivered one of every type ever manufactured.
‘Whitewall had two local slapheads in tow. Mafia or oil? Makes you think, doesn’t it?’
‘Might do, if I did bother to think about it. But I’m not going to, lad. It gives me a headache.’
‘Fair one.’
I took a pair of rubber gloves from the bed and started to put them on. If Whitewall or his slap-heads had
