about it, asshole. Think about it while I go back to Vasiani and smooth out the mess you made with the army. And you know what? It’s those contacts who are saving your ass now so you got a chance to do the right thing.’
He passed behind me on his way to the door. I relaxed, and a second later his cigar breath exploded just inches from my face. ‘Me? I’m going back to the real world tomorrow, so I gotta clean things up here one way or another.’
He took a slow breath, calming himself down. ‘Tapes and papers, by the time I get back. Or these two fucks will rip them out of you before you spend the rest of your fucking miserable life in a Georgian shithole jail.’
He disappeared behind me. ‘Taking a fucking military vehicle?’ He gave a hollow laugh. ‘You call that smart?’
The door opened and closed and he was gone.
He must have signalled to Hari and Kunzru on his way out. They grabbed an arm each and lifted me to my feet. One picked up a hurricane lamp and I got shoved out through a second door into an overgrown walled area at the back of the building.
We moved along a muddy path. I caught a glimpse of stars through a break in the cloud, and another building, about fifty feet away.
Hari — or Kunzru — got busy with the rusty bolt on the door. As it creaked open, I heard a wagon spark up in the distance and drive away.
I was pushed into pitch darkness. The door slammed shut behind me, and the bolt scraped back into place.
I couldn’t even see my hand in front of my face. I sat down on the hard earth, and tried to get my bearings. There wasn’t as much as a pinprick of light. I listened as Hari and Kunzru made their way back to the propane- heated room we’d just come from, finally slamming the door shut to keep out the cold that was already eating into my bones.
There was a movement beside me and I almost jumped out of my skin.
Then a voice boomed, ‘You took your time, dickhead. I hope you’ve got that three quid you owe me.’
PART NINE
1
I was so relieved to hear his voice I burst out laughing. I felt my way over on all fours, heading in the direction his voice had come from.
‘He tried everything, the fat fucker.’ He chuckled. ‘We had Ego Up, Fear Down, the whole A to Z.’
I knew Charlie felt the same way I did, really happy to be reunited, no matter how much shit we were still in. Neither of us was going to say so, of course. If he hadn’t made a joke, I would have.
‘I gave him an eight point five for his Fear Up. Suited him better, in my view.’ I parked my arse next to Charlie, and lowered my voice. ‘Where the fuck are they?’
‘HF 51 KN.’
‘What? You lost the plot?’
‘The duty wagon. I shoved the magazine under the back seat. Better to hide it and take the chance it’s still out there than hand it to Whitewall on a silver plate, eh? All we got to do now is get out of here, go and find the wagon, and use all that shit to get us home. You up for it, lad?’
‘Big-time. Especially the get out of here bit.’
He was joking, but he was right. Fuck knows what the papers said, but as Bastard had confirmed, they were important enough for every man and his dog to want control of them. I was a wanted man — and that stuff sounded as though it was just what I needed to get unwanted. The tape wouldn’t hurt our chances either, and if Bastard really did have friends in high Georgian places, and a casting vote or two at Camp Vasiani, that stuff might be our ticket out.
‘His name’s Bastendorf. Remember him from Waco? We called him Bastard. He commanded Alpha Pod.’
‘I like the name, but I had fuck all to do with the Pods. He’s hardly one to forget, though, is he? He recognize you?’
‘No, and I want to be well out of here before he does. He’s going back to the camp. If they’ve searched the wagon and found the gear, we’re good as dead. Which is the way Bastard and his mates wanted you in the first place.’
‘You notice if the twins are carrying?’
‘Not a clue. We’ve got to assume so, haven’t we?’
He rubbed his bristles. ‘What do you say we just call them to the door and take our chances? With that wagon gone, at least the head count’s down.’
I rested my head against the rough stone wall. He was right; the longer we stayed here, the more the odds were stacked against us. ‘That just leaves Hari and Kunzru watching
‘Sound as a pound.’ He clapped them together, as if that proved anything.
‘So, we checking out of here, or what?’
‘Yeah, but not your way. Fucking hell, that’s
We started groping along the walls for another door, or a hastily blocked-up window. We worked our way back round to the main door without success. I gave it a shove, top and bottom. The only resistance was in the middle, but it was solid. It was going to take a few big shoulders’ worth to open it.
I put my ear against the wood, but heard nothing the other side. I ran my hand along the wall on either side of the frame, and it closed around a loose protruding stone. I suddenly had a thought.
I gripped Charlie’s coat. ‘Remember the Stoner in Colombia? That could be our way out.’
‘Well fucking hell, you’re not just a nice pair of buttocks, are you, lad?’
We got down on our hands and knees and felt around on the ground for more loose rocks. For this to work, we were going to need a couple each, big enough to fit in the palm of our hands.
Something the size of a brick would be the business.
2
Back in the late ’80s, Charlie and I had been part of Thatcher and Reagan’s ‘first strike’ policy in Colombia. The SAS were sent as advisers to help identify and destroy the cartels’ drug-manufacturing plants in the rainforest.
We patrolled suspected areas, putting in OPs, planning attacks. We weren’t supposed to carry out the attacks ourselves; that would have been one very hot political
Every time we gave the bad guys a slap on the wrist, they’d bring in the media and the politicians to celebrate, and we’d melt into the background and go and have a brew. The snappers were never told about an attack in advance. There was so much corruption that if you reported a sighting of a DMP, everyone on site would have evaporated in less than the time it took to snort a couple of lines of marching powder.
Even as it was, the attack helicopters would fly over the target compound, more often than not, on their way to pick us up. They didn’t stop far short of trailing a banner advising the Cali and Medellin boys to leg it.
The day Charlie and I encountered the guy we came to call the Stoner, there’d been an operation that had
