Part 22 (1/2)

I took cover behind a group of over-sized wheelie bins and got my bearings. The area had been carved up by a good few more low walls and fences since Google Earth had taken its snapshot.

Lights shone at all different levels from the backs of some of the houses. Bodies moved around in one that looked like it had been converted into offices. There were no faces at any of the windows.

I bent down and pulled a pair of dark blue was.h.i.+ng-up gloves from a side pocket of the Bergen. I'd ripped them out of their packaging when I'd bought them and thrown it away. I pulled them on and felt around in the Bergen for the mini toolkit. China's finest had set me back ten euros in a hardware store and came neatly packed in a black plastic box.

The set consisted mainly of screwdrivers, but I'd been after the tiniest Leatherman rip-off on the planet. It contained every tool I needed, including a knife and a saw.

'You're only as sharp as your knife.' Another instructor's voice from way back, as clear as a bell.

I shoved all the kit I needed into my jeans pockets, then took off the nylon jacket and left it on top of the Bergen. It could hang out behind the bins for a while instead of rustling on my body.

I jumped up and down to make sure I hadn't left any coins in my pockets, or anything that was going to rattle or fall out. I did one last check that all the other bits and pieces were good and secure in their pockets. I headed for the target, toolbox in my left hand.

I ran through the what-ifs. What if the Pa.s.sat came in as I was approaching the target? What if another vehicle did? Where would it look natural for me to move to? What if it came in while I was working on the door, and caught me in its headlights?

I had no idea whether any of the doors ahead of me might suddenly fly open. There was a chance the cafe's might. They were bound to have lads coming in and out with deliveries and bin bags. f.u.c.k it, I didn't really care. I was just going for it. If anything, I was upbeat. I was doing what I wanted to be doing. I got a kick out of covert entry and going in and doing things when people didn't know you were there. I always had.

As a kid, I used to break into the local fruit and veg shop and hole up in a corner while I ate their bananas. I wasn't hungry: it was all to do with the fact that I knew I was there and they didn't. When I couldn't sleep, I used to hide under the table in the kitchen. I sat listening as my mum and stepdad smoked themselves to death on Emba.s.sy Golds in front of the telly.

The target's parking s.p.a.ce was separated from the cafe's by a two-metre-high wall. It was empty. The cafe's s.p.a.ce was chock-a-block with wheelie bins and empty crates. Ahead of me were a couple of doors. A few lads were busy knocking up even more pizzas behind steamed-up windows.

There was nothing on the ground floor of the target building except a door, and the same pattern of windows on the higher floors that I'd seen at the front. As I moved closer, I could see that the door was slightly raised. A short steel staircase led up to it. Closer still, and I saw a bas.e.m.e.nt well, with maybe two metres of clearance between the house and the square. It would be my best bet for cover if I needed it.

First things first. I nailed my mindset. Plenty of people would be walking up to doors in this square every day, and that was all I was doing. I looked for somewhere convenient to stash a spare key. There wasn't anywhere, not even a plant pot or a flat stone. It looked like the area was swept and cleaned every day. Either it was a Dutch tidiness thing, or they were ultra-cautious about security.

I checked the back-door lock. It was a Union pin tumbler, chrome, centre right, all very nice and s.h.i.+ny. Maybe they had one key for both front and back. I made my way very slowly down the steel steps into the bas.e.m.e.nt well. I didn't want my feet to jerk across a window. I didn't know who or what was down there yet.

As my eyes adjusted to the deeper darkness, I lowered myself slowly onto my knees. I put one eye against the sash window. The gla.s.s was clean. The paintwork was pristine. The frame was wood and the panes were double-glazed.

I couldn't see too much of the room on the other side of it, but the decor looked smart. There wasn't any rubbish: no magazines lying about; no clothes flung over a chair; everything was in its proper place. Were the Pa.s.sat team just tidy lads, or did they have a Dutch housekeeper? And, if so, was she a live-in?

I couldn't see any motion detectors in the corners. I gave the bottom rail of the sash a shove. You never know. It didn't budge.

I shuffled across to the next window, which looked into the same room. I tried again, with the same result. A pity, but nothing insurmountable. I needed to get in and sort out the locks. Down here in the bas.e.m.e.nt was going to be my entry point when I came back.

The door alongside them was lever-locked and bolted top and bottom. It didn't move an inch. And there wasn't even a speck of dust down here, let alone a hiding place for a spare key.

It was time to go and deal with the back door. I pulled out the three Union keys that I'd tied together on a string. I gripped them between my teeth while I extracted the mallet from my waistband.

I headed up the stairs. I was going to be exposed, but there was nothing I could do about that. I wasn't going to hang around for the green Pa.s.sat to pull up so I could try to hijack its occupants.

I gave the dark blue door an exploratory push top and bottom; they both moved. No bolts. I'd been counting on that, because it was closest to where they'd leave the car, but I felt the tension leak out of my shoulder muscles nonetheless. If they'd secured the back and just gone in and out of the front, I'd have been in trouble.

A pin-tumbler lock contains a row of spring-loaded pins. When you insert the key, its peaks and valleys adjust the pins, both upwards and downwards, until the cylinder can turn. Once the operation is complete, the cylinder returns to its original position and so do the pins. It was a tried and tested system and, until a few years ago, secure. Then somebody discovered how to 'b.u.mp' them with a subst.i.tute key.

You insert the b.u.mp key all the way into the lock, pull it out one notch, apply pressure in the direction of the turn, and give the end of the key a sharp tap. The key bangs against the end of the lock, and the kinetic energy travels back along it. The pins jump, and because of the pressure you're applying, the key will turn.

I shoved the first of my trio of keys into the lock, pulled it back one click, my finger and thumb applying the necessary clockwise pressure. I put an ear to the door to check for noise one last time, and gave the handle a short, sharp tap with the mallet.

Nothing.

I tried twice more.

Nothing.

I swapped keys. I tapped again, and on the second attempt my clockwise pressure turned into a full rotation.

23

I shoved the string of b.u.mp keys back into my jeans, stepped onto the mat and gently closed the door behind me. The place was in darkness. There were no winking lights on a console by this door or the one at the far end of the hall. There was no bleep of an alarm waiting for a PIN to be entered.

The house smelt as if its owner had emptied every boutique in Noordermarkt of its lemon-scented candles. I flicked on the deadlock. If someone did come back, they wouldn't be able to get in. They'd give it a few goes, thinking the lock was jammed, and that would give me enough time to exit from the front.

I let my jaw drop open, so all the internal noises like breathing and swallowing didn't intrude. I did nothing but listen for a minute or two. The house was completely silent. There wasn't even the tick of a clock. All I could hear was the dull rumble of the Westerstraat traffic.

I c.o.c.ked my head and listened again. I wanted to make sure no one was reacting. I'd opened a door. Even when people are asleep, their eardrums can be sensitive to minute changes in air pressure. Grannies call it sixth sense, but more likely it was caveman-survival stuff. You needed a little advance warning if a brontosaurus was coming to visit.

I waited a few seconds longer. There was still no creak of a floorboard, no sound from a radio or TV.

As my eyes adjusted, I began to make out the streamlined cabinets to my left and right. The walls were white. Rugs covered the polished wood floor all the way to the front door. A small bowl that contained change but no keys was perched on top of a gla.s.s cabinet. The two men's winter coats hung on a rack above it. There were no handbags, purses, patterned umbrellas or a copy of the Dutch version of h.e.l.lo! h.e.l.lo! to suggest a female presence. Two doors were open to my left. Gentle light filtered through them from the street. There was no hint of cigarette smoke or stale cooking. All I could smell was furniture polish, lemon and more lemon. to suggest a female presence. Two doors were open to my left. Gentle light filtered through them from the street. There was no hint of cigarette smoke or stale cooking. All I could smell was furniture polish, lemon and more lemon.

I focused on the shape of the front door at the end of the hallway. Somewhere down there would be the staircase to the upper floors, but I wasn't going to use it. I wasn't going to check the rest of the house. There was no need. Everything I was interested in was downstairs. I wouldn't be long down there, with luck no more than ten minutes. All I had to do was study the windows and door, and work out which of them I was going to leave unlocked for when I came back.

I put down the toolbox and mallet and took off my trainers. The floor would show any grit or dirt in this show-home, and anyone as fastidious as its occupants would notice. I would also check my socks weren't leaving sweat marks. If they did, I'd give them a wipe when I did my clean-up recce on the way out.

I tied the laces together, put the trainers over my left shoulder, and picked up the little black box and the mallet. There were two doors to my right. One of them had to lead to the bas.e.m.e.nt stairs.

I was reaching for the handle of the first when it opened and light flooded into the hallway.

24

The guy had greasy black hair that reached the collar of his black s.h.i.+rt. His sleeves were rolled up. There was a mug in his hand.

He spotted me and his jaw hardened. With not so much as a shout, he hurled the mug. It missed me but the hot stuff in it didn't.

I lunged for him, but I was too slow. He was gone, legging it back into the room he'd come out of.

I followed him, cras.h.i.+ng past leather sofas and a table. On the table sat an empty plate and a small kitchen knife. He grabbed it. He had a weapon. He turned back towards me. His face was stone.