Remote Control (7 page)

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Authors: Andy McNab

BOOK: Remote Control
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‘You’ve got to be pissed! I was going out with someone from the London office for a while, but she wanted to make me all nice and fluffy. She was starting to do my washing and all sorts of shit. I really didn’t get into it.’
‘You mean she didn’t iron a crease in the front of your jeans?’
Euan shrugged. ‘She didn’t do things my way.’
Nobody did. He was the kind of guy who folded his socks instead of putting them inside each other, and stacked his coins in their denominations. Since his divorce he’d turned into Mr I’m-going-to-have-the-best-of-everything. People even started to call him Mr Habitat – you name it, spotlights, three-piece suite, the lot. The inside of his sheep-shagger’s house was like a showroom.
I could tell Euan was watching the two players pick up their kit and walk from the bar.
I took my time, no need to get right up their arse. Euan would tell me when to move.
‘Do a one eighty,’ he said. ‘Look half right, just approaching the newsagent’s.’
I casually got to my feet. It had been great to see him. Maybe this job would turn out to be a waste of time, but at least I’d seen my bestest mate. We shook hands and I walked away. Then I turned, looked half right, and pinged them, suit-carriers over their arms.
The departures lounge looked like an Irish craft fair. I was starting to feel out of place; I should have got myself a Guinness hat.
What was I going to do once I got to Washington? I didn’t know if somebody was going to pick them up, whether they were taking a cab or the bus, or, if they’d managed to get a hotel, whether it included a transfer. If they started moving around the city, that would be fun, too. I knew Washington a bit, but not in any great detail.
They were still smoking like beagles in a lab. I sat in the lounge and picked up a paper from the seat. McGear started scrabbling about in his pocket for change as they talked to each other standing at the bar. He was suddenly looking purposeful; he was going to either the fruit machines or the telephone.
He got out a note and leaned over to the barman, and I could see him asking for change. I was sitting more or less directly behind them and about 20 feet back, so even if they turned their heads 45 degrees either side I still wouldn’t be in their peripheral vision.
McGear walked towards the fruit machines, but carried on past. It must be the telephone.
I got up and wandered over to the newsagent’s, pretending to check the spinning rack of paperbacks outside.
He picked up the phone, put a couple of pound coins in and dialled. He got the number from a piece of paper, so it wasn’t one that was well known to him. I looked at my G Shock; it was 16:16. The display was still on dual time; if there were any Iraqis in the lounge needing to know the time in Baghdad, I was their man.
I checked my pockets for coins: I had about two and a half quid; I would need more for what I was going to do, so I went in and bought a newspaper with a £20 note. The woman behind the counter looked well impressed.
McGear finished his call and went back to the bar. These boys weren’t going anywhere; they ordered another beer, opened their papers and lit another fag.
I gave it a couple of minutes, then strolled over to the phone McGear had been using. I picked up the receiver, threw in a couple of pound coins and looked for a number on the set. I couldn’t find one; not to worry, it would just take a bit longer.
I dialled a London number and a woman’s voice said, ‘Good afternoon. Your PIN number, please?’
‘2422.’ The digits were etched into my memory; they were the first half of the army number that I’d had since I was sixteen.
She said, ‘Do you have a number?’
‘No. This line, please.’
‘Wait.’
I heard a click, then nothing. I kept my eyes on the players and fed the phone. Within a minute she was back.
‘What times are you interested in?’
‘I’d like to book it from 1613 up till now.’
‘That’s fine. Do you want me to call you or will you call back?’
‘I’ll call back. Ten minutes?’
‘Fine. Goodbye.’
And that was it. No matter where you are in the world, you can dial in and the Firm will run a trace.
I phoned back 10 minutes later. We went through the same PIN-number routine, then she said, ‘Nothing until 1610 hours. A Washington, DC number, 703 661 8230. Washington Flyer Taxis, USA.’
I jotted down the number, hung up and immediately dialled it.
‘Good morning, Washington Flyer Taxis, Gerry speaking. How may I be of assistance today?’
‘Yes, I wonder if a Mr Ashdown or Lindsay has booked a taxi? I just want to check they’re going to get to a meeting on time.’
‘Oh, yes, sir, we’ve just had the booking. Collect from Dulles, arriving on flight number—’
I cut in. ‘Are you going to drop them off at the hotel, or are they coming straight to me at Tyson’s Corner?’
‘Let me see, sir . . . they’re booked for the Westin on M Street.’
‘All right, that’s fine. Thank you.’
Now all I had to do was try to get to the Westin before them. Everything seemed to be going to plan. Either that, or the fuckers had pinged me and were putting in a deception.
The flight to London Heathrow was getting ready to board. I watched them get up, find their passes and walk. I followed.
On something like this you always travel Club Class, so you’re at the front of the aircraft. Then you can choose either to sit down and watch people boarding, or let them through ahead of you and come in later on. At the destination, you can wait for the target to come off the aircraft and naturally file in behind, or get out of the way beforehand so that you’re ready to do the pick-up once you’re out of arrivals.
I thought about a drink, but decided against; I might have to start performing as soon as we got to the other side. These boys seemed switched on and professional, so chances were they weren’t going to be doing any work after all the Bud they’d been putting away. But, still, no drink for me.
As I settled into my seat I started to think about Kev and his family. I’d been there when he’d first met Marsha, I was best man at their wedding and was even godfather to Aida, their second child. I took the job seriously, even though I didn’t really know what I was supposed to do on the God front.
I knew I’d never have any of my own kids; I’d be too busy running around doing shit jobs like this. Kev and Marsha knew that and really tried to make me feel part of their set-up. I’d grown up with this fantasy of the perfect family and as far as I was concerned Kev had it. The first marriage went a bit dodgy, but this one seemed absolutely right. His job with the DEA was now mostly desk-bound in Washington. He loved it.
‘More time with the kids, mate,’ he’d say.
‘Yeah, so you can be one!’ I’d reply.
Luckily Marsha was the mature and sensible one; when it came to the family, they complemented each other really well. Their house at Tyson’s Corner was a healthy, loving environment, but after three or four days it would get too much for me and I’d have to move on. They’d make a joke of it; they knew I loved them, but somehow couldn’t handle people showing so much affection. I guessed that was why I’d always felt more comfortable with Euan. We were both from the same job lot.
As for Slack Pat, he was completely off the scale. Half the world seemed to be his best friend, and he was still working on the rest. Even when he opened the fridge door and the light came on he’d have to launch into some sort of chat-up routine.
When he started the BG job in Washington, a real-estate agent took him out to look at an apartment in Georgetown, by the university. The way he told the story, he saw a building with people coming in and out.
‘What’s that, then?’ he asked.
‘One of the best restaurants in Washington,’ she said. ‘Half of Congress seems to go there.’
‘Right, I’ll take it,’ he said. The moon was in a new quarter or some shit like that, and I thought for a while that he reckoned he’d turned into Terence Conran. He told me he used to eat there every day and knew every waitress by name. He’d even started going out with one of them. Maybe it was her that got him into drugs. I hadn’t seen it myself but I’d heard he had a problem. It made me feel sad. We’d all seen the results of addiction during our time in Colombia. Pat had called them losers, now it seemed he was one himself. Hopefully it was just one of his phases.
3
The transfer at Heathrow had been easy. The boys didn’t get stopped at the security checks – probably because Special Branch had been informed – and the flight to Washington had taken off on time.
Now, as we started the approach, I put on my belt, made the seat upright and looked out of the window at America. The view always made me feel good. There’s such a sense of opportunity and space, of all things being possible, and it’s contagious.
I hoped McGear and Kerr were going straight to the hotel. I hoped they’d be playing the good tourist boys and wouldn’t blow it by not booking in. If I ever lost a target, I’d look in all the places where he might be – his place of work, the pub, where the kids go to school, even the betting shop. I needed to know as much as I could about them, because once you’re inside your target’s mind you can second-guess every movement, even understand why they do what they do. Unfortunately, all I knew so far about McGear and Kerr was that they liked drinking Budweiser and must be gagging for a fag. So I had to start with the hotel.
I needed to get forward of them. That shouldn’t be a problem, since Club had its own shuttle bus to get us to the terminal ahead of the herd. However, since they’d pre-booked a transfer, I’d need to grab a cab pretty sharpish if I was going to beat them to M Street. I could have booked one of my own when I spoke to Washington Flyer, but I’d tried to do that in Warsaw once in similar circumstances, only to come out and find the two drivers fighting over who to take first, me or the target. It was the taxi rank for me from then on.
I came out of arrivals through two large automatic doors and into a horseshoe of waiting relatives and limo drivers holding up name boards, all held back by steel barriers. I carried on through the bustle, turned left and walked down a long ramp into heat and brilliant sunshine.
There was a queue at the rank. I did a quick calculation and the number of passengers didn’t go into the limited number of cabs. I wandered towards the rear of the rank and waved a $20 bill at one of the drivers. He smiled conspiratorially and hustled me inside. A further $20 soon had me screaming along the Dulles access road towards Route 66 and Washington, DC. The airport and its surroundings reminded me of a high-tech business park, with everything green and manicured; there’d even been a lake as we exited the terminal. Suburbia started about fifteen miles from the airport, mainly ribbon development on either side of the Beltway – vast estates of very neat wooden and brick houses, many still under construction. We passed a sign for the Tyson’s Corner turn-off and I strained my neck to see if I could see Kev’s place. I couldn’t. But, as Euan would have said, executive housing all looks the same.
We crossed the Potomac and entered the city of monuments.
The Westin on M Street was a typically upmarket American hotel, purpose-built, slick and clean, and totally devoid of character. Walking into the lobby, I got my bearings and headed left and up a few stairs to a coffee lounge on a half-landing that overlooked the reception area and the only way in and out. I ordered a double espresso.
A couple of refills later, Kerr and McGear came through the revolving door, looking very relaxed. They went straight to the desk. I put down my coffee, left a $5 bill under the saucer and wandered down.
It was just a matter of getting the timing right; there was a bit of a queue at the desk, but the hotel was as efficient as it was soulless and now had more people behind the reception desk than were waiting to be served.
I couldn’t hear what McGear and Kerr were saying, but it was obvious they were checking in. The woman looking after them was tapping a keyboard below desk level. Kerr handed over a credit card for swiping and now was the time to make my approach. It makes life far easier if you can get the required information this way rather than trying to follow them, and there was no way I was going to risk a compromise by getting in the lift with them. I only hoped they were sharing a room.
To the right of them on the reception desk was a rack of information cards, advertising everything from restaurants to trolley-bus rides. I stood about 2 metres away, with my back to them. There was no big flap about this; it was a big, busy hotel, and they weren’t looking at me, they were doing their own stuff. I made it obvious I was flicking through the cards and didn’t need help.
The woman said, ‘There you are, gentlemen, you’re in room 403. If you turn left just past the pillars you’ll see the elevator. Have a nice day!’
All I had to do now was listen to their conversations while they were in their room, and to make that happen I went to the bank of payphones in the lobby and dialled the Firm.

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