Firewall (36 page)

I saw him drop the knife. My right hand scrabbled around on the floor in search, and closed around it. Only it wasn't a knife, but an auto jet an American one. I recognized the make and I knew what it did.

Gripping the automatic syringe in my right hand, I had four fingers clasped around the cylinder, which was about the size of a thick marker pen, and my thumb on the injection button, ready to attack the splashing feet and green rustling GoreTex behind.

Too late; the boy was right on top of me. He also had an auto jet I could feel the needle penetrate and then its contents emptying into my buttock; it was like a golf ball was growing under my skin.

I threw myself backward, crashing as hard as I could into his body, pushing him toward the urinals. The swell made us both stagger as the ferry tilted.

Once we'd banged against the white ceramic, his fists started to hit the side of my face from behind me as I kept him pinned in position.

He was even biting into my skull, but I couldn't really feel the outcome. The Autojet was having its own effect on me: rapid heartbeat, dry mouth, vision beginning to go hazy. I was sure it was mainly scopolamine, mixed with morphine. When it's injected into a body, the effect produced is a tranquilized state known as twilight sleep; this combination of drugs was formerly used in obstetrics, but was now considered far too dangerous, except when, like the British and American intelligence services, you're not too concerned about the patient's bill of rights. I'd done a few targets with this stuff, making it easier to drag them off to a 3x9. I'd never thought I would get the good news myself, but at least now I could personally endorse the product.

Everything was going into slow motion. Even his shouting against my ear was blurred as he bucked and twisted, trying to free himself from between me and a urinal.

Ramming the Autojet against the leg that was kicking out on my right, I depressed the button with my thumb. Automatically the needle sprang forward, punctured his jeans and skin, dispensing its juice. Now we were equal; it was just a case of who dropped first.

"Mother fuck!" Unmistakably American.

I couldn't get up enough strength to do anything but pin him there, using my legs to push my back against him. He dropped the Autojet, but I kept pushing him back against the urinal, my feet slipping on the wet floor as the ship bounced around, hoping that he would be the first to lose total control so I could get away. His ass was in the urinal now, and its contents were getting slopped over both of us as I fought to hold him there.

He was still trying to punch sideways at my face, and might have been doing serious damage for all I knew. The drugs had kicked in good style, depressing my central nervous system.

I bent my head down to avoid his punches as he jerked about as if he was having a fit. In front of me, in the stall, a blurred, black figure was slumped on the floor.

The toilet door must have opened. Not that I heard it-just the incomprehensible shouting as my legs started to lose the ability to hold me up in the swell.

I took a deep breath and must have sounded like a drunk as I looked round at the newcomers. "Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off!"

Even the American joined in: "Fuck yooou!"

Their hazy, shadowy figures disappeared.

The American's legs were wobbling as much as mine now. My head was still trying to bury itself into my chest as he made wild grabs at my face, hoping to get at my eyes. He wasn't shouting any more but giving off loud moans, as if he'd lost the ability to form words correctly, and pulling on my ears and hair with whatever strength he had left.

I could hear his breathing above me. I threw my hands in the direction of the sound. He released his grip on my head and slapped them down.

My legs couldn't hold him in position any more, and I fell, first to my knees, then face down into the liquid swirling around the floor.

Feeling it slurp into my mouth, I knew I was on the way out. But as the American fell to his knees to my right, splashing more liquid over my face and snorting like a wart hog I knew I wasn't the only one. He sat back on his heels, resting against the urinal, fumbling to get his jacket zip undone. I couldn't let that happen-he could have had a weapon-so taking a deep breath that took in more swill off the floor, I started to crawl up him.

His hands tried pushing me off as he growled down at me. At least his hands weren't going for his pockets any more, just my face.

I managed to get my hands around his throat, shaking his head from side to side. He made a whining noise, like a two-year-old refusing food.

If only I could press one of my thumbs into the base of his throat, at the point just above where the two collarbones met and just below his Adam's apple, I could drop him-as long as his body was still capable of registering what was going on.

I got my hand down the top of his jacket, probing inside with my thumb until I found the bone and then the soft spot, then I pushed in with all my strength.

At once he began to come down with me as I sank slowly to the floor. He didn't like it at all. A quick, hard jab with two straight fingers or a key into this soft point can drop someone to the ground as quickly as if he's been given an electric shock.

He hit the floor, his legs still under him, bucking to free them like some frantic insect as I lay on top of him. He was choking now.

Wheezing, gurgling noises issued from his nose and mouth.

Trying to keep focus, and some sort of coordination, I ran a hand over his jacket pockets. Nothing. I tried to unzip the jacket, but my fingers couldn't grip the tab. As I pulled down they just fell away.

Still on top of him, watching his hair soak up the spilled contents of the urinal, I started feeling around his waist, wanting to find a weapon. My hands couldn't register if he was carrying or not; they refused to send any type of message to my brain.

I lay there knowing that I must get up, sure that he was thinking the same.

The other boy behind me in the stall started moaning and coughing, his boots scuffing the floor as he tried to move. With any luck he was more worried about his dental plan for the next few years than anything else.

Dragging myself to my feet, I staggered on the spot above the American, then my knees buckled and I collapsed on his head. Blood spurted from his nose as I pulled myself up on a urinal. He curled up on the soaking floor, still trying to reach out and grab my leg.

I had to get out of there and hide up for the next twenty minutes or so until I could get off the ferry. I wasn't going to black out: They wouldn't have wanted to carry a deadweight. The drugs would just make me like the Finns in the bar and make it easier to drag me to their car.

Stumbling up the stairs, I seemed to trip on almost every one. After about six attempts at pulling the door open I was back in a hallway.

The smell of smoke, the shouts of children, and the jingle of video games were all magnified in my spinning, dazed head. I was zigging while the rest of the world zagged.

I had to find myself a little spot where I could sit down and be no problem to anybody. That wasn't easy; I'd been fighting and rolling around in piss, and must have looked in a terrible state. Maybe I'd feign seasickness.

Staggering into a seating area, I made my way into the corner, slumping against the back of a seat before falling into it. The Estonian whose big bag had had to be whipped away before I fell on it shook his head knowingly, as if this sort of thing happened to him every day. Flicking his cigarette ash onto the floor, he carried on chatting to his neighbor before they both inched away. I must have stunk of piss.

Trying to hum a tune, anything to look like a seasick drunk, I decided to take my backpack off. I must have looked stupid sitting with it on my back. Slumped forward and with the coordination of jello, I made a complete mess of it. After fighting with the straps for a while I just quit and collapsed.

Announcements were being made on the PA. My head was swimming. Were they talking about me? Were they appealing for witnesses?

The man next to me stood up and so did his friend. They started gathering together their bits and pieces. We must have arrived.

There was a sudden migration of people, all going in one direction. I just had to try and keep aware of what was going on. I moved off behind them, stumbling among the crowd. Everybody seemed to be giving me a wide berth. I didn't know where I was going, and I didn't care, as long as I got off the ferry.

My mind was in control but my body wasn't obeying orders. I bumped into a Finn and apologized in slurred English. He looked down at my wet clothes and glared aggressively. All I was focused on was staying with the herd and keeping the backpack on my back. I just wanted to get off the ferry and find somewhere to hide while all the shit in my body did what it had to do and then left me alone.

Following people with strollers and plastic bags, I lurched down a covered gateway and joined the line for immigration. The woman said nothing as she checked my passport. I swayed and smiled as she eyed me, probably in disgust, and stamped one of the pages. Picking it up at the second attempt I staggered on through to the arrivals hall, focusing really hard on making sure it went back into my inside jacket pocket.

Outside, the cold wind buffeted my jacket as I staggered across a snow-covered parking lot. The whole area was brightly lit; most of the cars had a layer of snow, and a few were having ice scraped off them as bulging plastic bags were forced inside and exhaust fumes filled the air.

I could see the top half of the ferry behind me, beyond the terminal, and could hear the metallic rumbling of cars and trucks leaving the ship. In front of me was darkness, then, in what seemed the far distance, some very blurred lighting. That was where I needed to go. I needed to find a hotel.

Reeling against a line of vehicles, I got to the end of the parking lot and hit dark, snow-covered waste ground.

There were a number of well-worn tracks heading in the direction of the lights in the distance. Way over to my right, a convoy of headlamps trailing back to the ferry were heading the same way. I started following a track and immediately fell down, not really feeling anything.

Carrying on as best I could, I was soon in darkness and walking through trees. To my left was a large vacant warehouse. Stopping to rest against a tree, I fixed my eyes on the lights ahead and could hear the faint noises of cars and music in the distance. Things were looking up. I pushed myself off the tree trunk and staggered on.

I didn't even see where the boys came from.

All I felt was two lots of arms grabbing me and dragging me toward the decaying building. I couldn't see their faces in the darkness, just the glow from a cigarette stuck in one of their mouths. My feet were dragging along the ground as my attackers crunched their way through the lumpy snow. I tried to resist but put up the fight of a five-year-old.

Fuck, next stop a 3x9.

They threw me against a doorway which had been filled in with cinderblocks. I managed to turn so I hit it with my back, but it knocked the wind out of me as I slid down onto my ass.

The kicks started to rain in. All I could do was curl up and take it.

At least I was aware enough to know that I'd be too slow to escape or retaliate. I'd have to wait until they'd finished the softening-up process, then see what I could do. No way was I going to let these fuckers take me away if I could help it.

My hands were up around my head to protect it, knees up by my chest.

Each time a boot connected my whole body jerked. The drugging was an advantage as I couldn't feel the pain, at least for now. Tomorrow I'd be suffering.

Maybe I could get hold of one of their weapons? At this range, even in my condition, I couldn't miss, so long as I could manipulate the thing once I'd got it. You never know until you try, and I'd rather go down trying than not try at all.

The attack stopped as suddenly as it had started.

The next thing I felt was the backpack being pulled off my back, and even if I'd wanted them to, my arms couldn't have resisted being pulled back as the straps dragged down them.

I was pulled over, exposing my front, and one of them leaned over me and started to unzip my jacket. His own was open; now was the time to react.

Lunging forward, I pushed my hands deep inside his coat. But there was no weapon; he didn't even have one in his hand.

Hands, elbows, I didn't know what they were, hammered into me, pushing me back against the wall, and there was nothing I could do to help myself. I was back at square one.

They both started laughing. Then it was a few more kicks and some cursing in Russian or Estonian. That quickly stopped as they pulled my arms out of the way and finished undoing my jacket.

I was lying in slush and could feel the freezing wetness soaking through my jeans as if the piss wasn't enough. The jacket was pulled open and I felt their hands going in, pulling up my sweatshirt and sweater, feeling around my stomach, going into the pockets. These were strange places to be searching for a weapon, and it took a while for it to dawn on me. I wasn't being weapons cleared, I was being mugged.

From that moment on I relaxed. Fuck it, let them get on with it. I'd be as passive as I could. There was no need to mess with these people.

I had more important things to do than fight muggers. Besides, in my condition I would lose.

They were pretty slick for street thieves, checking around my stomach for a tourist's money belt, with fast whispers between them in whatever language as they did their work. The cigarette still burned in front of my face as they hovered over me. Finally, ripping Baby G from my wrist, they were off, their footsteps crunching in the snow.

I lay there for several minutes, feeling relieved they hadn't been American.

A truck stopped on the other side of the building, its engine idling.

There was a loud hiss of air brakes and the engine revved as it drove on. In the silence I heard more music. Then I just lay there, totally out of it, wishing I was in that bar or wherever it was coming from.