Part 40 (1/2)
”Probably, yes. The Americans say it could be, if somebody's had the right training.”
”b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l!”
”Exactly.”
”This Shark he didn't give any other clue?”
”He never had a chance. He might have, but Sasha rushed in and dropped him.”
I described how the naked woman had come storming out of the changing cubicle, and how Sasha had drilled her through the back. My companions seemed quite unmoved by the saga: their only reaction was that the front-seat guy opened a briefcase and switched on the interior light to show me some mug shots.
”These are what we got off the disk from Moscow,” he told me.
”Allegedly the Chechen Mafia's first eleven.”
”Well,” I said.
”That's Shark, for a start.” The long face, hollow cheeks and heavy eyebrow were unmistakable.
”That was Shark,” I corrected.
”You can eliminate him from your inquiries.”
”What about this one?”
He showed me a photo of an even more cadaverous-looking man, but younger.
”That's the brother, Supyan Gaidar. He calls himself Barrakuda. Anna showed me that photo in Balas.h.i.+ka.”
”What about this one?”
The third villain bore a strong resemblance to Sasha, but his face was broader and shorter. I shook my head.
”Any of these guys could have been in the villa,” I said.
”If they were, I doubt if they came out alive. The only one I saw was Shark.”
”But this one,” my neighbour persisted.
”You're sure about him?”
”Definitely Barrakuda. He's pretty much like his elder brother.”
”We believe he's in the UK by now,” said the man in front.
”He was last heard of heading for London.
In camp the atmosphere was no less frenetic. Everybody from the CO down came at me saying, ”Where have they put it? How do we find Barrakuda?” They seemed to think that because I'd been in Moscow, I must be an expert on the Chechen Mafia.
They couldn't take in the fact that I knew nothing about the organisation's London dispositions.
Also, people were naturally worried about the safety of our guys still at Balas.h.i.+ka, and kept asking questions about the situation there. All I could say was that, if they stayed inside the camp, they'd be OK.
After an hour's further debrief the boss at last realised that I was out on my feet, and told me to get my head down. He saw that there was nothing further we could do until we got some definite leads. So it was that at 0030 British time, 0330 Moscow time, 0430 Grozny time, and the end of the world by my biological clock, I eventually had a hot shower, lay down in my room in the sergeants' mess and pa.s.sed out.
The next I knew, someone was shaking my shoulder.
”Get up, Geordie,” a voice was saying.
”On your feet. They've seen him.”
”Who?”
”Barrakuda.”
”Ah, Jesus! Where?”
”Central London. A police surveillance team saw him go into one of the flats they've had staked out.”
I blinked and stared at my watch: 6:15. ”What happened?” I croaked.
”He came in a taxi, carrying a small hold-all.”
”OK,” I said.
”I'm with you.”
Tired as I was, I knew I had to go, because I was the only person in England who'd set eyes on Orange.
Half an hour later I was heading back towards the capital, a member of the SP team, kit ted out to take part in yet another hit.
I knew all the other guys well enough to fit in, and as I'd recently finished commanding an SP team for nine months, we all spoke the same language.
As usual, our orders were unwritten but absolutely clear: our primary task was to recover Orange, but our scarcely less important aim was to silence Barrakuda and anyone found with him. If we got the bomb back and took out the immediate Mafia cell, the whole saga would become deniable. Anything the Chechens might say could be discredited. The operation was to be carried out as quickly as possible.
As our Range Rovers hurtled up the M4 at a steady 100 mph.” I noticed that the traffic seemed very light, and realised belatedly that this was Sunday.
In less than two hours we had reached a small warehouse in Notting Hill that had been taken over as a forward mounting base: the wagons drove straight in, out of sight, and the guys tumbled out to get their kit sorted.
By now the Firm had secured plans of the flat that Barrakuda was using. Markham Court was a small red-brick block, dating from the 1930s, in Seymour Place, north of Marble Arch. It belonged to West End Homes, a property company, and in June apartment No. 10 had been taken, fully furnished, on a three year lease by a firm based in Malta. The area was up-market residential, central and convenient, and in recent years had been heavily infiltrated by Arabs.
The building had only five storeys, and No. 10 was on the top floor. A single lift went up from inside the front door of the building, with a staircase winding round the outside of the shaft.
Lift and stairs both gave on to small landings, with two flats on each floor, to right and left. The only other access to each apartment was via a metal fire-escape, which served a back door leading out of the kitchen area.
Only five floors, I thought. The height's no problem. After our sixteen-floor epic in Moscow, this was money for jam in technical terms. The problem was going to be spectators: once explosions started cracking off, people would inevitably a.s.semble to gawp. Still, that was a matter for the police.
The a.s.sault was easily planned. There was no need for anything elaborate like an abseil drop off the roof: all we needed was for our Red and Blue teams to arrive at front and back of the building simultaneously and secure the exits. Red would commandeer the lift and at the same time clear the front stairs.
Blue would do the same at the back and go up the fire-escape.