Authors: Andy McNab
Remote Control (22 page)
I went and lay on the bed, working out my options. Not that there were that many. Why didn’t I just make a run for it? I could steal passports and try my luck at an airport, but the chances of getting away with it were slim. There were less conventional routes back. I’d heard that you could get all the way from Canada to the UK by ferry and land-hopping, a route popular with students. Or I could go south, getting into Belize or Guatemala; I’d spent years in the jungle on that border and I knew how to get out. I could go to an island off Belize called San Pedro, a staging post for drug runners on their way to the east coast of Florida. From there I could get further into the Caribbean, where I’d pick up passage on a boat.
More bizarre still, one of the blokes in the Regiment had flown a single-engined Cessna from Canada to the UK. The tiny fixed-wing aircraft had no special equipment apart from an extra fuel bladder in the back. The radio wasn’t the right kind and he had to work out the antenna lengths with wire hanging from the aircraft on a brick. He wore a parachute, so that if anything went wrong he’d open the door and leap out. How I’d sort that out I didn’t know, but at least I knew it could be done.
However, there was too much risk involved in all of these schemes. I didn’t want to spend the rest of my days in a state penitentiary, but at the same time I didn’t want Kelly and me to be killed in the process of escaping. Simmonds had presented me with the best option. If I turned up in London with what he wanted, I wouldn’t exactly be home and dry, but at least I’d be home. I had to stay and tough it out.
It all boiled down to the fact that I needed to see who and what was going into and out of the building on Ball Street.
‘Kelly? You know what I’m going to say, don’t you?’
‘Without a doubt,’ she smiled. I’d obviously been forgiven for drying her hair and putting her into nice dry clothes.
‘Ten minutes, all right?’
I closed the door, listened, heard her put it on the latch, and hung the sign on the door. Further to my left was a small open area that housed the Coke and snack machines. I bought a can, then walked back past our room towards the lift. To the left was the fire escape, a concrete staircase leading up and down. I knew the safety regulations meant that there had to be an exit on to the roof; in the event of a fire down below, the rescue would be by helicopter.
I went upstairs as far as I could. Double fire doors led to the roof; push the bar and they’d open. There was no sign warning that the doors were alarmed, but I had to check. I looked around the door frame, but couldn’t see a circuit-break alarm. I pushed the bar and the door opened. No bells.
The roof was flat, its surface covered with 2-inch diameter lumps of gravel. I picked up a handful and used it to jam the doors open.
An aircraft was landing at Washington National and I could just see its lights through the drizzle. The satellite dish was on the far corner of the roof. There was also a green aluminium shed, which I guessed was the lift housing. A metre-high wall ran around the edge of the roof, hiding me from the ground, but not from the highway.
I walked across the gravel to the side facing the river. Looking down at the target building from this angle I could see the flat roof and its air ducts. It was rectangular and looked quite large. Behind it was an area of waste ground and fences that seemed to divide the area into new building plots waiting to be sold. I could just make out the Potomac beyond the tree line and the end of the runway.
I walked back, stepping over a series of thick electricity cables. I stopped at the lift housing. What I wanted now was a power source. I could use batteries to power the surveillance equipment I’d be using, but I couldn’t guarantee their life. I tried the door of the lift housing, but it was locked. I had a quick look at the lock: a pin tumbler. I’d be able to defeat that easily.
Back in the room, I got out the Yellow Pages and looked for addresses of pawnshops.
Then I went into the bathroom, sat on the edge of the bath and unloaded the .45 ammunition from the magazines into my pocket, easing the springs. It’s not something that you have to do every day, but it needs to be done. The majority of weapon stoppages are magazine-connected. I didn’t know how long it had been left loaded; I might squeeze off the first round and the second one wouldn’t feed into the chamber because the magazine spring had stuck. That’s why a revolver is sometimes far better, especially if you’re going to have a pistol lying about for ages and don’t want to service it. A revolver is just a cylinder with six rounds in it, so you could keep it loaded all year and it wouldn’t matter – as soon as you pick it up you know the thing will work. I emptied the magazines into my pocket so that I then had the ammunition, magazines and pistol all on me.
I came out of the bathroom and wrote myself a shopping list of kit that I was going to be needing, and checked how much money I had. There was enough for today. I could always get more out tomorrow.
I wasn’t worried about Kelly. She had loads of food and was half asleep anyway. I turned up the temperature dial even higher on the air-conditioner. She’d soon be drowsy.
I said, ‘I’m going to go and get you some colouring books and pencils and all that sort of stuff. Shall I bring back a Micky D’s?’
‘Can I have sweet and sour sauce with the fries? Can I come with you?’
‘The weather’s terrible. I don’t want you catching cold.’
She got up and walked to the door, ready to drop the latch without me having to ask.
I went downstairs and walked to the Metro station.
17
The Washington Metro is fast and quiet, clean and efficient, everything an underground should be. The tunnels are vast and dimly lit, somehow soothing, which is maybe why passengers seem more relaxed than in London or New York and some even exchange eye contact. It’s also about the only part of the capital where you won’t be asked by a seventeen- or seventy-seven-year-old Vietnam vet if you can spare some change.
I got out after seven or eight stops and one platform-change. The place I was looking for was just a few blocks away, but it was in a neighbourhood I bet didn’t feature in anybody’s holiday brochure. I was used to the Washington where those who had really had. This was the part of town where those who didn’t have had absolutely fuck all.
The single-storey building was set back from the road and looked more like a supermarket than a pawnshop, with frontage that was at least 50 metres long. The whole façade was glass, with bars running vertically. The window displays were piled high with everything from drum kits to surfboards and bedding. Fluorescent yellow posters promised everything from 0 per cent interest to the best gold price in town. Three armed guards controlled the doors and watched me enter.
Looking along one of the aisles to the rear, I saw a long glass showcase that also formed the counter. Behind it were more than a dozen assistants, all wearing a similar red polo shirt. It seemed to be the busiest department in the shop. Then I saw all the handguns and rifles behind the glass. A sign announced that customers were welcome to test fire any weapon on the range out back.
I carried on towards the camera department. In an ideal world, what I was looking for would be something like a security camera, with a long lead connecting the camera itself to a separate control box that also housed the video tape. I could put the camera in position on the roof, leave it where it was and hide the control box elsewhere, maybe inside the lift housing. That way it would be easier for me to get to it to change the tape and, if I couldn’t find mains power, the batteries, and all without having to disturb the camera.
Unfortunately I couldn’t find anything like that. But I did find something that was almost as good, and that was a Hi-8 video camera, the type favoured by a lot of freelance TV journalists. Certainly I’d be able to change the lens to give me more distance. I remembered working in Bosnia and seeing guys running around with Hi-8s glued to their eyes. They all thought they were destined for fortunes by selling the networks ‘bang bang’ footage.
I caught the eye of one of the assistants.
‘How much for the Hi-8?’ I said in my usual bad American accent.
‘It’s nearly new, hardly out of the packaging. Five hundred dollars.’
I smirked.
‘So make me an offer,’ he said.
‘Has it got a spare battery and all the attachments for external power?’
‘Of course. It’s got it all. It’s even got its own bag.’
‘Can I see it working?’
‘Of course, of course.’
‘All right – four hundred, cash.’
He did what every plumber and builder throughout the world does when discussing prices: started sucking air through his teeth. ‘I’ll tell you what, four hundred and fifty.’
‘Done. I also want a playback machine, but it mustn’t be a VCR.’
‘I have exactly what you want. Follow me.’
The machine he retrieved from the back of a shelf had a $100 price tag. It looked about a hundred years old, complete with dust. He said, ‘I’ll tell you what, save the trouble, ninety dollars and it’s yours.’
I nodded. ‘I also want some lenses.’
‘What sort are you after?’
‘At least a two hundred millimetre to go on this, preferably Nikon.’
I worked on the basis of one millimetre of lens for every metre of distance to target. For years I had been stuck in people’s roof spaces after breaking into their houses and removing one of the tiles so I could take pictures of a target, and I’d learned the hard way that it’s wasted effort unless the result is good ID-able images.
He showed me a 250mm lens.
‘How much?’
‘One hundred and fifty dollars.’ He was waiting for me to say it was too much.
‘All right, done – if you throw in two four-hour tapes and an extension lead.’
He seemed almost upset at the lack of fight. ‘What length?’
More haggling. He was gagging for it.
‘The longest one you’ve got.’
‘Twenty foot?’
‘Done.’ He was happy now. He no doubt had a 40-foot.
I came across a Walmart a couple of blocks short of the Metro. I ducked inside and wandered around looking for the items I’d need to help me set up the camera.
As I moved down the aisles I found myself doing something I always did, no matter where in the world I was: looking at cooking ingredients and cans of domestic cleaner, and working out which would go with what to make chaos. Mix this stuff and that stuff, then boil it up and stir in a bit of this, and I’d have an incendiary device. Or boil all that down and scrape off the scum from around the edge of the pot, then add some of this stuff from the bake-a-cake counter and boil that up some more until I just got a sediment at the bottom, and I’d have low explosive. Twenty minutes in Sainsbury’s would be enough to buy all the ingredients for a bomb powerful enough to blow a car in half, and you’d still have change from a tenner.
I didn’t need any of that today, however. What I was after was a 2-litre plastic bottle of Coke, a pair of scissors, a roll of bin liners, a mini Maglite torch with a range of filters, a roll of gaffer tape and a selection pack of screwdrivers and pliers – twenty-one pieces for $5, and an absolute rip-off; they’d last about five minutes, but that was all I’d need. That done, I grabbed a book of adventure stories for Kelly, some colouring books, pencils and other bits and pieces to keep her entertained. I also put a few more dollars in Mr Oreo’s pocket.
I entered the Metro and found a bench. Lights at the edge of the platform flash when a train’s approaching; until then most locals sit chatting or reading. There was nothing else to do, so I opened the Coke, had a biscuit, started a dot-to-dot picture in one of the colouring books and waited for the lights.
The rain had stopped at Pentagon City, though it was still overcast and the ground was wet. I decided to do a quick walk-past of the target while I didn’t have Kelly.
Cutting across the supermarket car park, I headed for the highway tunnel and Ball Street. I was soon on the same side of the road and level with the building. A small concrete staircase surrounded by dense shrubbery led up to the glass doors at the front. They opened into a reception area, and then another set of doors that probably led into the office complex itself. A security camera was trained on the front doors. The windows were sealed, double-glazed units. Inside, the building on both floors seemed full of PCs and noticeboards, the normal office environment.
I couldn’t see any external alarm signs, nor any signs saying that the property was guarded. Maybe the alarm was at the rear. If not, whatever detectors existed were probably connected to a telephone line linked directly to the police or a security firm.
I got to the end of the road, turned right and headed back to the hotel.
The room was like a sauna. Kelly’s hair was sticking up all over the place and she had sleep in her eyes. Her face was creased and had some crumbs stuck on it. By the looks of things she’d been halfway through a biscuit and fallen asleep.
As I dumped all the kit on the side she said, ‘Where have you been?’
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