Zero Hour (32 page)

The factory beyond the target, where the light had come from, was as dark as everything else now.

I stopped at the rat run between the railings to check for signs of movement. Then I dropped the safe-house keys in the weeds to the right of the gap. I was on foot now, so I wanted them near to me. Sweat gathered where the Bergen rubbed against my back. I leant forward and bounced on the balls of my feet so the Bergen bounced too. At the moment the pressure on the shoulder straps was released, I pulled down and adjusted them so they were nice and tight.

I looked out for the glow of a campfire in the hollow. The junkies must have been having a quiet night in.

Bending low to ease the Bergen through the gap without having to take it off my shoulders, I wormed my way through into the wasteground.

Still there were no lights, no signs of life, just the forbidding outline of the silo in the darkness ahead.

15

I was about twenty metres short of the target. The tower dominated the night sky. I still couldn’t see any lights. There were no obvious changes since I’d last been here two nights ago.

This time, I leant against a slab of concrete instead of sitting down and cocked an ear towards the target. I heard nothing but the distant honk of a ship getting pissed off with another ship in the bay.

I tried to swallow. My throat was dry from humping all the kit. My boots were heavy with mud. I moved off. There’d be no cutting corners. I had to carry out the recce. I might be doing a lot of work for nothing.

I moved along the gable end until I reached the waterside corner. There was nothing new on the hard standing. No boats tied up alongside.

Bergen on my back, I moved slowly along the bay side of the building. I got to the metal doors. They hadn’t been tampered with. The grass and weeds were standing to attention.

There was still no light.

I reached the far gable end, passing the window to the office where I hoped the girls were being held. I turned right, and followed the wall to the door. It was still locked. I put my ear to the frame and could hear a faint noise. It was impossible to tell what was making it. I put my nose to the keyhole. It still smelt of cake shop.

I walked round to the back of the building, and carried on to do a complete 360 back to the conveyor-belt. Did anyone have eyes on me? Unlikely. Where would they be? Fuck it, so what? If it was happening, it wasn’t going to change anything I was going to do.

I climbed the Meccano as close to the silo as I could. It made for a longer climb, but I didn’t want to be struggling along the conveyor-belt with all this gear on my back. I wasn’t exactly Spiderman, but even he would have had his work cut out with pains in his arse, hip, head and hand, and the unstable weight of the Bergen with a couple of gallons of liquid moving about inside it.

I took the rusty, flaky struts one at a time, maintaining three points of contact: both feet and hands firmly gripping, then one hand up to the next strut, and then a foot. I stopped and listened every two or three bounds. I was sweating, but it certainly wasn’t from fear. I was doing what I wanted to be doing. I was having my one final kick.

And, anyway, this time I knew I was dead. I had an inkling of what it must feel like to be a suicide bomber. Like me, they had fuck-all to lose. It almost felt liberating.

I got to the last strut and hauled myself over the top. I lay flat on the rubber belt. The fuel sloshed as it levelled out. The hatch was slightly ajar, exactly as I’d found it and how I’d left it. I crawled forward. A jet took off from Schiphol in the distance and climbed quietly overhead.

The conveyor-belt creaked under my weight. To me, it felt like I was making enough noise to wake up the whole of Noord 5. It couldn’t be helped. All I could do was take my time and not fuck up by dropping anything or falling off.

I slowly pushed the hatch open, just enough to get my head through. As before, my nose filled with the smell of flour. As before, there was the faintest glimmer of light through the gap at the bottom.

I loosened the Bergen straps and lay on my side to wriggle out of them. I had to work my way through the hatch and onto the ladder feet first. It would have been a nightmare with a Bergen on my back. I wrapped a hand around one of the straps in case the thing decided to fall.

I lowered my feet and found a rung. Once I had a firm footing, I dragged the Bergen towards me and hauled it back over my shoulders. No worries about muddy boots this time.

Slowly but surely I made my descent. By the time my boots were on the concrete and adding to the prints in the flour, my hands were caked with mud. I wiped them on my jeans. It was warm down here. I took off the Bergen and rested it against the wall. I eased my head beneath the steel shutters and into the main part of the building.

At first, everything looked exactly the same as before. The top right-hand window was the only one that had a light on. The two windows to the left of it were dark, as were the two either side of the door below into the office block. A TV flickered, but I couldn’t hear any sound or movement. A haze of cigarette smoke filled the room.

I bent down and grabbed the mallet from under the top flap of the Bergen. The mush of TV waffle reached my ears and got louder the closer I got to the door into the main entrance hallway.

16

I knelt down and checked for light the other side of it. There was a soft glow. I put my ear to the door. The TV was still going strong; I couldn’t hear anything else.

I tried the handle. It opened into a gloomy hallway

There were two doors on the left and two on the right. Ten fire extinguishers were lined up between them like sentries. At the far end of the corridor was the outside entrance. Light spilled onto it from up the stairs.

Light also seeped from under the second door on the left. I leant as close as I could to the top panel. There was a faint murmur of childlike voices. Someone was crying and being comforted. The Chubb-style key was still in the lock and a bolt - thrown back - had been newly fixed just above it.

I turned the key just enough to confirm that it was locked, then removed it to keep them contained. I could still hear nothing above the TV upstairs. I knew the voice. Horatio Caine was being
uber
-smooth in
CSI: Miami
.

The external door hadn’t been bolted. The deadlocks were on. No one was getting out unless they had the keys. There were three to undo so it would take them a while. I eased the bolts into place. Now it would also take a while for anyone to get in.

I turned left towards the stairwell. I only had one chance to make this work quickly and quietly. The light on the landing above me came from two naked fluorescent tubes. The steps were solid concrete. Their coating of red paint had faded over the years and the concrete had worn. There had once been a handrail but now only the fixing holes remained.

I clenched the mallet in my right hand. I swung my arms as I took each step, head up, sucking in deep breaths to prepare for my attack. Two neos were now at the bottom of the bay. I had no idea how many of the four I’d introduced myself to at the tile factory were up and about. But I assumed that Flynn and Bitch Tits would be looking after the shop. By the time I was halfway up I could smell cigarette smoke. The kind that makes your eyes water and takes the skin off the back of your throat. Whoever was up there wasn’t paying much attention to the government health warning.

I reached the top landing. I was in auto-mode. I felt blood surge into my hands and legs, preparing me for fight or flight.

Then, just when I needed him most, Horatio stopped waffling.

The door to my half-left was open. I had maybe one second’s advantage on whoever was in the room, no more. I could hear everyone in Miami loud and clear.

There were other doors: two to the right, three to the left. All closed. Notice boards peppered with rusty drawing pins but no paper lined the walls, punctuated by steel spikes that had once supported fire extinguishers. Faded hazard warning signs still hung above them.

I took three steps across the corridor and over the threshold. Arm raised, I was ready to take on the first part of any body that came within reach.

There was nobody in there apart from Horatio, but the last inch or so of an untipped cancer-stick still glowed in the ashtray.

A cistern flushed and the door opened at the far end of the room. Robot came out, still doing up his flies. He was dressed in the same brown overcoat he’d been wearing in Christiania.

He patted the zip into place and raised his head. There was no surprise on his face when he saw me, no shock, no fear, no hesitation. He launched himself straight at me.

I brought up the mallet. His arm chopped up and blocked it easily. His other fist punched into the side of my head and his leg kicked out. It connected with my thigh and I buckled with pain.

My head hit the floor. Stars burst in front of my eyes. Pain coursed through my body. More kicks landed. I could feel myself starting to lose it. I couldn’t let that happen. I worked hard to keep my eyes open, curling up as a knee went down onto my chest.

His face displayed the same lack of emotion as it had when he’d talked about Mr Big’s fringe benefits in the kitchen of the green house. Calmly and efficiently, he was just getting on with the job of killing me.

17

I had to pull myself together or I was dead.

I tried to twist my head out of the way as the fists came down. I felt one brush my ear as it missed and carried on into the concrete. He didn’t flinch.

I bucked like a madman to present a moving target. All I could hear was a voice in my head telling me to keep him close.

I grabbed him with my arms around the back of his coat and pulled him in to me in a big bear hug. I tucked my head into his neck so he couldn’t butt me. If I kept hugging him I might be able to control him for long enough to work out what the fuck to do.

I wriggled as much as I could. I wanted to roll on top of him. I was heavier than him. Maybe that would work. But he wasn’t having any of it. He tried to expand his arms so he could break out of my grasp. His head jerked down the side of mine, right onto my ear. It popped and burnt with pain. I rolled over, but not in the direction I’d wanted. We were both side on to the ground.

He got his mouth to my ear. ‘Give up. You’re just going to die fucked.’ The Scouse was as precise and unhurried as it had been at the negotiating table.

I writhed again to try to get on top of him, but we rolled together and hit the wall.

My hands were pinned behind his back. All I had left was my head. I butted him in the temple.

His arms flailed. My hands broke free. I was going to have to be quicker than him. Or just better.

I kicked and he let me go. It was pointless running. I had to stay here. He was the target. I had to carry on.

Somehow I got to my feet, my body side-on to him, crouching, legs nice and stable, arms up.

He stood up too. Dusted off his coat. I half expected him to shoot his cuffs. We were about three metres apart. Our eyes locked.

I mirrored his pose, knees bent to protect my bollocks, arms up, head pushed down so my chin hit my chest. I stared at him, ready to grab or punch or otherwise react to whatever he did. I hated this. I’d rather a short, sharp frenzy without any controls.

Robot bounced on his boots a little, as if he was looking for an angle of attack. He was almost enjoying it. Maybe he was rehearsing his attack in his head. A lot of martial-arts lads visualize what they’re going to do before they actually do it. That’s why they stand there squaring up to each other for two minutes before there’s three seconds of action and it’s all over and done with. It’s all about pre-work. I knew that and appreciated it. I just didn’t want him to do it on me.

I kept my feet planted firmly on the ground, muscles gripped, everything tightened, ready to take the hits. I wanted him nearer. He was still out of range. But I knew he’d close in when he was ready.

In he came. A high kick flew towards my ribcage. I kept my arms up and tried to block it. It hit my left bicep. The force of it made me punch myself in the forehead.

I rocked back. Another kick to my other side. I took it on the wrist and opened up my arms. I knew another kick was coming. He launched it and I grabbed his leg with both hands. His calf was almost on my shoulder. I had hold of his thigh and could feel the kneecap through the fabric of his jeans. I pushed down, trying to control it, gripping hard with both hands. I moved into him, my hips between his legs like the foreplay was over and we were going to have sex.

With my right hand on his kneecap, I grabbed him round the top of his leg with my left, pulling him closer, trying to lift him. I kept the forward movement and almost bounced him towards the wall. He crashed against it and arched his back as he felt the fire extinguisher spike. His eyes opened wide. His muscles tensed, desperate to resist the impact of the steel rod. He tried to push me back. Flecks of spit landed on the side of my neck.

I leant into him, my legs almost at forty-five degrees as I pushed and pushed, my body weight hammering him into the spike.

His coat gave way first, then all seven layers of skin. He didn’t scream. He took it, breathing heavily but not panicking, trying to work out what the fuck he was going to do. A rib cracked under the pressure and the spike gave him its full six inches. His hands flew back against the wall like he was breaking a fall. He pushed himself off it, grunting with pain, and sank down onto his knees. He kept his eyes on me. He was going to get up. He was going to fight on.

I pivoted on the ball of my left foot and swung round, volleying a kick into his face that pushed his head back into the wall. There wasn’t much noise, just a sound like splitting wood as his skull made contact. He jerked, and then he was very still.

I felt his carotid. There was nothing. He’d gone. I collapsed beside him, my back against the wall. Next door, Horatio and his
CSI
mates cracked yet another case and the music blared.