Andy McNab - Brute Force

Table of Contents

Andy McNab joined the infantry as a boy soldier. In 1984 he was 'badged' as a member of 22 SAS Regiment and was involved in both covert and overt special operations worldwide.During the Gulf War he commanded Bravo Two Zero, a patrol that, in the words of his commanding officer, 'will remain in regimental history for ever'. Awarded both the Distinguished Conduct Medal (DCM) and Military Medal (MM) during his military career, McNab was the British Army's most highly decorated serving soldier when he finally left the SAS in February 1993. He wrote about his experiences in three books: the phenomenal bestseller Bravo Two Zero, Immediate Action and Seven Troop. He is the author of the bestselling Nick Stone thrillers. Besides his writing work, he briefs security and intelligence agencies in both the USA and UK. He is also patron of the Help for Heroes campaign. www.rbooks.co.uk BRUTE FORCE www.rbooks.co.uk Also by Andy McNab Non-fiction
SEVEN TROOP
BRAVO TWO ZERO
IMMEDIATE ACTION Fiction
REMOTE CONTROL
CRISIS FOUR
FIREWALL
LAST LIGHT
LIBERATION DAY
DARK WINTER
DEEP BLACK
AGGRESSOR
RECOIL
CROSSFIREFor more information on Andy McNab and his books, see his website at www.rbooks.co.uk/andymcnab

BRUTE FORCE

Andy McNabThis eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.ISBN 9781407039480Version 1.0 www.randomhouse.co.uk TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS
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www.rbooks.co.uk First published in Great Britain
in 2008 by Bantam Press
an imprint of Transworld PublishersCopyright Andy McNab 2008Andy McNab has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.ISBNs 9780593055618 (cased)
9780593055625 (tpb)This electronic book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaserAddresses for Random House Group Ltd companies outside the UK can be found at: www.randomhouse.co.uk
The Random House Group Ltd Reg. No. 954009ISBN: 9781407039480Version 1.0

PART ONE

Tripoli docks
October 1987 I sat well back in my seat and listened as Colonel Gaddafi's latest day-long rant burst from the radio like an Arab Fidel Castro on speed. I pictured a big mike blocking his craggy features as he denounced Reagan, Thatcher and all things Western, so all you could see was a mad mop of black curly hair and angry flecks of spit flying in every direction.I was in the passenger seat of an old box-like Russian jeep. Africa was littered with the things, bare metal showing through the green paint where thousands of boots and hands had worn it away.I was sweating big-time, and it had nothing to do with the weather. This might be North Africa, but it was October. It was cold. The leaking was to do with the wetsuit I had on over my clothes. Apart from my sweatshirt, tracksuit bottoms and trainers, I was totally sterile: no money, no weapon. I wasn't going to need any, not even a watch. Time wasn't going to matter on this job. I had to react to events as they happened, not when the little hand hit five. I would give my cover documents to Lynn at the very last minute.Sitting back in the seat and completely still that's the secret of not being seen. The jeep looked just like any one of the ten-year-old American pimp-mobiles we were parked alongside: empty. I had my binos up, eyes on target. My main area of focus was the pair of big holes at the arse end of the ship from which six-inch-thick ropes snaked towards the quayside.The life of the docks continued around us. The quay was jammed with boats unloading TVs and white goods to feed Libya's consumer boom. This was an oil country and then some. Arabs from all over, brown and black, made up the labour force. The overseers were all ex-pats. The air was filled with German, French, British and American accents. So much for the sanctions against what the White House called the mad dog of the Middle East. All the old imperialists had their noses in the trough. Everyone was helping themselves to the huge salaries offered by this former Italian colony.The driver was listening intently, hands resting on the enormous black steel steering wheel. 'What's he on about?' I didn't even bother looking over at him.He powered down the small transistor. 'The whole world is going down the gurgler, as per usual.' The voice was softly spoken, the accent cut-glass.Although the British embassy had long since closed along with everybody else's as part of their sanctions against the Colonel for his habit of sponsoring global terrorism, everybody, Brits included, had left a couple of spooks behind. Colonel Lynn was one of them. Gaddafi remained one of the biggest threats to world peace, and his black-leather-jacketed heavies tended to come to the UK and murder anyone speaking out against the regime, so we needed people with their ear to the ground.Lynn wasn't a field operator. He was our man in Havana only in Tripoli. In his late thirties, of average build, he looked and spoke like a history teacher but his fresh-from-the-shower smell screamed officer, and his aura marked him out as a high flier. He spoke the language and knew the players. He'd probably been born here; for all I knew, his dad had been ambassador or something. Colonel Lynn I never had found out what his first name was ate, drank and breathed the place. He was what the Firm called an Arabist.He was all right, I supposed just not the sort of guy I'd phone up and ask out for a brew and a sticky bun. A bit too keen for me; a bit too full of devotion to the cause. He probably kept a picture of the Queen under his pillow. And he was also just a bit too keen to tell me how to do my job. He didn't like people like me. There was just a hint now and again of disgust at what people like me got up to. Even though he was part of it, he was from the hands-clean side of the fence and everyone on my side was not much more than a necessary evil.'Don't forget to confirm the cargo before anything else.''OK. What if it isn't there?''It is.''So why check it?''Because I need you to tell me when you get back that you physically saw it.'The target ship was parked up between two Libyan navy patrol boats in the military section the other side of the harbour. I deliberately didn't say 'moored' because it got a rise out of Lynn. He knew about boaty stuff. I didn't know many of the technical terms and I didn't need to learn them. That was the navy's job. As far as I was concerned it was parked up, and that was fine.Lynn had a small sailing boat of his own in a marina about fifteen Ks away. I'd spent the last four days living in it while he briefed me. The sitting and eating area downstairs was full of pictures of him and his wife in the creeks of north Norfolk. Nelson country, he called it.I'd fucked up; by showing a spark of polite interest in a shot of the two of them standing outside their local, the Hero, I had opened the door to a serious history lesson, beginning with how the great man had been born a few miles up the road from their home.The Egyptian-registered Bahiti could carry up to 150 tonnes of cargo. When the chairman's wife smashed a bottle of Cairo's fizziest against its side, all the bodywork was probably a gleaming white. Twenty or so years of saltwater and neglect had streaked it with rust. A crane was mounted at the bow for loading and unloading. The rest of the topside was flat, apart from the bridge tower at the back end. It looked like a miniature oil-tanker.Lynn had his binos up too as forklifts hummed around us, laden with yet more crates and what looked like a consignment of dustbin lids. A group of dockers leant against walls smoking, waiting for the next job to come along or some German to bollock them for being Arabs.'You see the man on the gangplank now?'I nodded.'Black leather jacket? Papers in his hand?''Yeah, I've got him.''That's Mansour.'I knew plenty about Mansour from Lynn's briefing. He was in his forties and worked for Libyan intelligence. He was medium height and stocky, with brushed-back hair and a very neat moustache.'He calls me Leptis.''Leptis?''Just a name he gave me.''You two mates?''Hardly.' He dropped his binos for a moment and turned to me. 'Need-to-know, Nick and you don't need to.'He was right. I didn't need to know I didn't even want to. All this spookery was way beyond my pay scale.'You sure that's him? He looks fatter than in the pictures.''Absolutely certain. He's over-indulged the falafels, that's all. A sign of privilege. He's overpaid.'Mansour pointed and shouted, and generally seemed to take over the show as he walked up the gangplank. Two bodies emerged from the hold, headed for Mansour and started talking.'Stand by that's Two Cells.'Lynn confirmed. 'Yes, that's Lesser.'Benjamin Lesser it didn't sound quite hard-core or Republican enough to belong to PIRA's top bomb-maker. I'd only just got over the Nelson history lesson when Lynn embarked on a lengthy explanation of the origins of the name. It boiled down to the fact that Benjamin was a Celtic name as well as an Eastern European one. It meant favourite son. Benjamin was also a Catholic saint, which qualified it for a place in The PIRA Book of Baby Names. In the year 424 he was tortured by the king of Persia for preaching. Reeds were thrust under his nails and into all the tenderest parts of his body. After this torture had been repeated several times, a barbed stake was shoved up his arse as a show-stopper. PIRA still did much the same thing to its victims fifteen hundred years later, so the history lesson wasn't a total waste of time.I'd nicknamed Ben Two Cells. It suited me to think of him as stupid. It cheered me up.'I suppose need-to-know means you can't tell me who the woman is?''I don't know her, actually.' Lynn took a couple of seconds to check out the hauntingly beautiful, dark-skinned face. 'Probably one of Mansour's people checking the cargo.'Two Cells' dark brown wavy hair was a bit longer than it had been in the briefing pictures, down to his shoulders and centre-parted, but it was definitely him. He towered over the Libyan, and probably everybody else aboard. He was at least six four, and built to build. I expected a bomb-maker's hands to be like a pianist's, but Benny Boy's were the size of shovels.'Remember, you've got to make it look like an accident. And the ship must be preserved at all costs for the Spanish to capture.''Yep, I've got it.'He'd told me enough times over the last few days. This had to be the best-briefed job I'd ever been on. But all the briefing in the world wasn't going to help me drop Two Cells without it looking like exactly what it was. I might be able to channel him into the killing ground, but if anything went wrong I'd have to contend with a good eighteen stone of seriously unsaintly Two Cells throwing one of those super-sized fists at me. If it made contact, I'd be over the side.Mansour and the woman made their way back to the quay and disappeared into the maze of warehouses as Two Cells went onto the ship and started chatting with the skipper.Liam Brian Duff was a lot more than a sailor boy. He'd been caught up in the events of Bloody Sunday, and joined the IRA the very next day. He was just sixteen. The following year, he was caught trying to bomb a government building.Sentenced to six years, he shared cells in the Maze prison with some major league Republican icons. By the time he was released, Duff was quite the rising star. He came back onto British radar when he was arrested by the French police five or six years ago. He'd been travelling with a false passport on his return from a Hezbollah training camp in Lebanon evidence of his role in fostering the international ties the IRA and Sinn Fein were building with the Middle East, and most particularly with Gaddafi's Libya.I kept my binos trained on the ship as Duff checked the crane was lowering the boxes into the hold correctly. Then Lynn gunned the engine and I put them in the foot well as he drove us out of the port and along the coast road.'Take a different route. We don't want to get stuck at another checkpoint.'Lynn nodded.We'd had a close shave on the way to the docks. Gaddafi's boys had set up a checkpoint where there hadn't been one on our dry run a few hours earlier. Our papers were good and our cover story had held we were Dutch oil-workers in transit, a couple of guys making an honest dollar in Colonel G's workers' paradise. After scrutinizing the papers and turning them round a few times, the sentry had waved us on our way, but I wasn't in a hurry to risk an action replay. We had far bigger things to worry about.He parked on a rocky headland about a K from the port. The rocks glistened in the light from the docks, and so did the plastic bottles and general crap spread across the beach. It looked more like a landfill site than a holiday destination. Perhaps that was why Club 18-30 had given it a miss this year.'Everything in place? Any questions?''Yep and no.' I clambered out of the jeep, leaving my cover docs on the seat. I grabbed the re-breather and fins from the back, and checked the karabiner was still hooked into the netting of the rope sack. All the gear I was going to use to get on board was inside.Without ceremony, Lynn was gone. He didn't want to be in the vicinity if I got lifted.I started to sort myself out on top of the landfill. I got the rebreather on my back. It was a commercial system, the sort underwater photographers use when they don't want to frighten the fish. A normal scuba tank is noisy and streams bubbles; re-breather apparatus prevents both by reusing the air you exhale.One of the small tanks on my back was pure oxygen; the other was normal air. The plastic tub between them was filled with soda lime. As I breathed out, the exhaled air was piped into the tub. The soda lime retained the carbon dioxide but let oxygen through, along with a little top-up from the oxygen bottle. It was ingenious, but that didn't mean I liked using it. If I'd wanted to fuck about underwater I'd have joined the navy.I attached my navigation aid, a 12cm luminous ball compass mounted on a hard plastic sheet. It hooked onto the re-breather harness and dangled down my chest, a bit like a map case.Fins in one hand, the sack in the other, I waded into the sea. It was freezing. The mask covered my face. I tightened the straps, dipped my head underwater and took a few breaths to make sure there was a tight seal.I put the fins on, and kicked off slowly and steadily. I'd insisted on calling them flippers in front of Lynn. At least it made me smile.I'd hooked my left arm through the net and I kept my hands down by my stomach while I finned. Its weight kept the rest of my body submerged.As I rounded the headland, I could see the lights of the docks in the distance. I lifted the plastic plate, checked the compass bearing was direct onto the boat I was after, and started to fin myself down about five metres below the surface. I took slow, normal breaths, which echoed in the silence. The soda lime gave the breathing mixture a citrus, acidic taste.I knew not to rush. If I did, the board would push upwards and I wouldn't be able to keep on-bearing. I pumped the fins methodically and kept my eyes glued to the luminous markings of the ball compass.It wasn't long before the dock lights glared overhead, and the silence was broken by a cacophony of turning screws and clanging hulls, and the demented buzz of a powerboat skimming across the harbour. I kept the ball compass up in front of me and stuck to my bearing.Even though I kept the pace slow and constant, I was starting to feel the strain now. Vast, barnacle-encrusted hulls hung in the water on either side of me. I just kept on-bearing; that was all I could do, short of popping up and checking.Two sleek, chiselled shapes rode the swell ahead of me, left and right of a larger, blunter craft.I dived under the keel of the Bahiti. Pockmarked with barnacles and swirling seaweed in sharp contrast to the patrol boats at either end it was like the roof of a sea cave. The steamer's idling engines throbbed above me and metal clattered against metal.Two huge brass propellers glinted in the murky water ahead; they would start turning soon, to take us out of port but not just yet, I hoped.The quay was now behind me. The Bahiti's bulbous stern swept out above the waterline and I kept out of sight beneath the overhang. I unclipped the compass and let it drop.I finned up slowly, brushing my hand against the hull from time to time to steady myself. The vibration from the engines pulsed up my arm. My head broke the surface; I was still sheltered by the overhang.There was clamour and movement above me. The world was unmuffled. I took off the mask and let it hang by its tube as I undid the catches on the re-breather and sent it the same way as the compass.Finning to keep my head above water, I felt around in the net and pulled out the modified mine magnet. Well, not so much modified as minus its mine. It was about twenty centimetres by twenty, with a thin rubber cushion cemented to one side to prevent a resounding clang inside the ship as the thing grabbed onto the hull, followed by a shower of grenades from the deck.I clipped the karabiner to the steel handle I'd welded onto the other side of the magnet, where the mine had been, then hung onto the net sack and waited for the crew of the Bahiti to get their shit together.For the best part of an hour the clanking and shouting and general fucking about carried on seven or eight metres above me, then the final one of the crates the Libyans had spent the last few hours loading slid into place a few inches the other side of the hull.There were only six crewmen this rust-bucket was about cargo, not Caribbean cruises but you wouldn't have known it from the amount of hollering and swearing as the gangplank was heaved aboard. By now my fingers were wrinkled and skeletal and had lost every shred of feeling.The engines rumbled into action and the hull vibrated like a jackhammer. The back rope was released from a bollard on the quay and splashed into the water about a metre from my head before being hauled aboard.The water behind me started to churn. I didn't know if this thing was going to get towed out by a tug, or leave under its own steam. It didn't matter either way, so long as nobody came and started messing about anywhere near me.The boat moved slowly away from the quay, but my legs still came up to the surface; I'd had to keep my fins on in case I got pinged and had to swim for it. Now we were under way, I could kick them off. I didn't plan to hang around much longer. I had to get on board before Liam and his mates got up a decent head of steam.It wasn't long before the lights of the harbour were behind us. The headland emerged from the shadows on my left.The propellers were kicking up a storm. My hands and arms were numb from the cold, and the strain of holding onto the net.I fished out a one-metre pole that could extend to ten. Next came a rolled-up ten-metre caving ladder with 12.5mm tubular alloy rungs suspended on galvanized 4mm steel wire, and a spring-mounted, four-pronged hook at the top. The whole thing weighed no more than about three kilos.All I had to do now was rig the ladder onto the pole, extend it one metre section by one metre section, twisting it to lock each time. Soon it was fully stretched and vertical, scraping against the side of the ship.Spray splashed my face. With my arm still hooked into the netting I started to manoeuvre the ladder hook until it grappled onto something solid on the deck. The closest thing I could see was the housing for the mooring rope.The water buffeted against me as we gathered speed and I had to fight to keep my pole arm steady. At least I didn't have to worry about noise. My efforts were entirely focused on getting that hook to engage. There was no point worrying about the magnet; if it gave way, it gave way. Why worry about what you can't change?I just hoped that anyone on the bridge was looking straight ahead and not pissing around on the wings. Fuck it, I'd soon find out. The captain and his mate should be up there behind the steering wheel. The other four would be fucking around with the engines and whatever other stuff you needed to keep the ship afloat and pointing in the right direction. I didn't know much about life on the ocean wave, but I couldn't think why any of them would be hanging around at the stern, staring idly at the wake. That was the sort of thing I would have done.I had so much seawater in my mouth I was starting to gag. My eyes stung. I felt like I was in one of those tidal exercise pools and someone had turned the dial to max. I bounced up across the surface one second and got dragged down by the sheer weight of water the next. I had to get some better leverage. With my left hand hooked into the net, I pushed against the hull with my feet and tried to brace myself.The harbour lights faded into the distance. Isolated settlements glowed weakly along the coast.On the sixth or seventh attempt, the hook finally snagged. On what, I didn't know, but it was holding. I gave it a sharp tug, then another. It held.I released the karabiner from the magnet, let the net fall and gripped the ladder with both hands. My legs were swept from under me as I flailed in the Bahiti's wake, hoping like fuck that I wasn't going to be sliced into a million little pieces by the churning propeller screws.You don't climb caving ladders the same way as you do traditional, rigid ones. You go up them side-on, using your heels, not the balls of your feet. That way you don't get tangled and fuck up.I moved one hand up a rung and the corresponding foot. Then another. And another. Then I was out of the water. The ladder flapped around in the wake as I bounced around at a forty-five degree angle.I kept on going, hand over hand, foot over foot. The only lights I could see now were on the ship itself. If the ladder came unstuck or I fell, it was going to be a long swim back.A couple of rungs from the top I could see that the ladder's hook, or at least one prong of it, was caught on the rope hole and that it was too small for me to climb through.I scrabbled to get one hand onto the bottom rail, then two, heaving myself up and onto the deck with the world's biggest chin-up. I kicked the ladder and pole away. They dropped into the boiling white foam eight metres below.I moved straight into the shadows at the rear of the bridge tower, peeled off the wetsuit and binned it over the side as well. My head and hands were still ice cold, but my body was drenched with sweat.The priority now was to get below. There were hatches all over the place. They were all tied down, but that didn't matter; I knew exactly where I was going and how to get there. As you looked towards the bow, there was a door to the right of the bridge tower. I edged my way to the corner and lay flat on the deck. I eased my head round at ground level.The door was open, just as Lynn had said it would be. Weak yellow light spilled from inside. I drew level and checked down the narrow corridor. Layers of badly painted cream gloss adorned the walls, and stairs led off to the right and left. The lino-covered floor was impregnated with grit to prevent slipping.I could hear voices on the bridge above me, muttering in Arabic-accented English, then Duff it had to be him, because he was giving orders replying. The engines thundered below. I couldn't see any sign of movement. I crossed the threshold and headed straight downstairs.The engine noise got louder with each step I took. The louder the better, as far as I was concerned. An open door to my left reminded me of watching Voyage To The Bottom Of The Sea as a kid: the Seaview's had been exactly the same.I heard voices from the engine room but I didn't check them out the door I wanted was opposite and just short of it.The cargo hold was lit, but it felt like a dungeon. Crates and alloy boxes were stacked in two sections to within a few feet of the ceiling, leaving an alleyway between them just wide enough for a man to squeeze through, and another around the sides. The whole lot was lashed down with nylon nets and ropes.The place stank of oily wood and grease. The floor seemed to be covered with wheat its normal payload, perhaps but these crates and boxes weren't going to be full of Shreddies, that was for sure. I stepped over the dark brown detonator cord that ran left and right of me then around the side of the cargo.I had to climb on top of the stack before I found a spot where the net was slack and there was a space just big enough to move around in.I unclipped the green metal retainers on the top wooden crate, and hauled up the netting so I could get the lid open. I didn't really need to check. I had spent years humping boxes exactly like these all over the world when I was in the infantry. The contents were as the stencilling described: it was a general-purpose machinegun in its transit chest. The butt and barrel had been removed and placed in receptacles cut into the interior framework. Even the GPMG's cleaning wallet, a green nylon bag, was exactly where it should have been. The whole lot was factory fresh.The 150 tonnes of weapons were bound for the Provisional IRA. I wasn't going to unload each box to make sure Lynn was right, but he'd told me there were a thousand AKs; a million rounds of ammunition; loads of GPMGs; 450 hand grenades; rocket-propelled grenade launchers and grenades; SAM ground-to-air launchers and missiles, each one capable of downing a British army helicopter; anti-tank launchers, and thousands of electric dets and fuses. There were even a couple of crates of flamethrowers, apparently, and to top it all off, two tonnes of Semtex explosive, lovingly fashioned in the old Czechoslovakia.Mansour was organizing the shipment. It was en route to the west coast of Ireland, and from there to the streets of Derry, Belfast and the UK mainland. It seemed bizarre to me that the task wasn't to sink the thing. That, it seemed, was Two Cells' job if the shipment was compromised.He wouldn't fuck about. According to Lynn, he was the best of the best when it came to making IEDs, and prepared to die for the cause. He'd even offered himself up as a suicide bomber to wrap himself around Maggie and then press the detonator button but the boyos thought he was too good to waste.The dim glow of a torch appeared at the far end of the aisle, heading my way. I flattened myself against the stack.The beam slewed across the gap between the crates and brightened with every footstep. Its owner moved closer to where I was hidden. As he came into the light from the corridor, he switched off the torch. He passed below me.I moved my head fractionally and saw Two Cells walking towards the entrance I'd just come through. His hair hung lank and greasy down the back of his neck.He closed the door behind him.I jumped down and headed over to see what he'd been up to.Not that I couldn't already guess.He'd glued the timer power unit directly to the bare steel to the right of the bow. I could still smell the Evostik.The TPU consisted of a blue wooden box about twenty centimetres square and four deep. The top was screwed down and the detonator leads emerged from a small hole in its side. The det itself, an aluminium cylinder the size of half a cigarette packed with HE, was gaffer-taped to a length of brown det cord. Essentially washing line with a high-explosive filling, it snaked away down the aisle.The boy knew exactly what he was doing. He'd left a good fifteen to twenty centimetres of cord hanging before he'd attached the det, in case any moisture or shit had contaminated the end of the line. He wanted to make sure that when he was detonating, he was only detonating good HE.I followed the ring main of det cord along the floor, down the narrow aisle between the weapons and ammunition boxes and the hull. I saw the first device straightaway.The tin dustbin lid was flush against the hull, held in position by two wooden stakes wedged back against the cargo. The det cord disappeared into a hole drilled centre-rear, from which a bead of yellow PE extruded; I knew Two Cells would have knotted it inside the lid before feeding it back through to continue the ring main.Twelve charges had been set around the hull. Lynn was right: this boat wasn't going to be taken alive. In fact, Lynn had been right about everything so far.Two Cells had used a dustbin lid because its shape would do the most damage. Instead of the brisance the shattering effect of the explosion dissipating in all directions, it would be sufficiently focused to cut a dustbin-lid-sized hole through the hull.The det cord running along to the next charge would detonate in a split second and so would all the others.I went back to the GPMG box and took out the cleaning wallet, a small tool roll with slots.There was no need to follow the ring main any further than the first charge. The business end was back at the TPU.The wallet contained a combination tool, a sort of purpose-built Leatherman used to split the weapon so you could clean out the carbon deposit that glues itself to weapons after firing.I used the flat-head screwdriver bit to remove the four brass screws holding down the lid. Two Cells had been taking no chances. He didn't want anyone or anything getting inside to mess with the device by mistake. He was the only one going to kick this thing off.My job was to disarm the devices while making it look like a malfunction. I also had to kill Two Cells, and make it look like an accident. As Lynn must have said to me a hundred times, the charges must not go off. The shipment must be preserved at all costs. That suited me fine. I didn't want to spend the next few days bobbing up and down in the Med.The TPU was made out of a mechanical Parkway timer, the kind you used to be able to buy on a key ring as a parking reminder. They were made illegal when it was discovered that more of the things ended up inside TPUs than in motorists' pockets.The Parkway was a small disc powered by a spring mechanism. You put your money in the parking meter, turned the disc to twenty minutes, say, and away it would tick. When the twenty minutes were up, the disc would hit zero and the device would start ringing. Bomb-makers didn't care about that they just needed a small and reliable mechanical timer. Keep it simple, stupid: you didn't have to worry about anything going wrong you just set it for any delay up to an hour and walked away.The TPU only had four main components: the twelve-volt battery that would provide the power to initiate the det connected to the ring main; two short lengths of steel about twice the size of a sewing needle, and, of course, the Parkway timer, all Evo-stuck down to prevent anything moving that shouldn't. A thin blue wire linked the negative terminal to one of the leads from the det.The positive lead was only partially glued down; it coiled its way to a small steel rod glued vertically on top of the Parkway's zero marker. Another wire joined the second det lead to the second rod, embedded horizontally into the wood so the two would complete the circuit when the time ran out. For the time being, a rubber pad was wedged between the two to stop the current completing its journey.All Two Cells had to do was turn the Parkway to whatever time delay he wanted, pull out the rubber pad, and let the TPU do the rest.I felt myself break into a smile. These things always worked better when they were kept simple, but you had to be really smart to put them together this competently. I'd been wrong to call him Two Cells. This boy really knew what he was doing. My smile widened. I double-checked the joints between the terminal wires and the det leads and knew exactly where he'd learnt his craft. Unless he was an Afghan, it was right here in one of the terror training camps in Libya or Algeria. Nobody else used this variation of the Chinese pigtail to join their wires.The Chinese labourers working for the Western Union in the Wild West used it to repair downed telegraph lines. They took the two cut ends, crossed them left over right to make the first part of a reef knot, and then twisted the two ends together. They didn't finish the reef knot because it just wasn't practical. The wires hung between poles, making it close to impossible to tie the second part of the reef and the half reef and pigtail twist both guaranteed conductivity and held the connection, even with a couple of vultures sitting on the wires, waiting for Jesse James to come by and leave them lunch.When we went to teach the Mujahideen, we found that they flapped a whole lot more than the average Chinaman. They'd do the half-knot but forget the twist, or do the twist but forget the half-knot. So we taught them the complete reef knot, left over right, right over left, then a pigtail twist with what was left of the wire exactly as Big Ben had done here. It wasn't long before the TPUs we taught the Muj, and the tricks we'd learnt from PIRA, were being taught in the crazy colonel's terror schools.All I could do now was hang around and wait. I climbed back into the gap between the GPMGs and the deck. I lay there curled up, trying to listen for other noises above the steady thud of engines, my nostrils filled with the aroma of gun oil. It reminded me of every armoury I'd ever been in.As I lay there with the rope net digging into my back, I started to worry about the amount of information I'd been given. The more I knew about a job, the more I could see that I was just a little, dispensable cog in a very large and ugly machine.To my way of thinking, the less I knew the better. It meant I really was their last chance, they really needed me and that therefore they weren't completely fucking me over.Why did I have to make Big Ben's death look like an accident? And why bother saving the shipment? We were a big Firm; we had enough kit to go round; we didn't need this lot. Why not let the whole cargo go down and make sure it didn't fall into the wrong hands?Too little air, too many questions and too much gun oil were giving me a headache. Fuck it, I just wanted to get the job done.A shout pure Belfast came from the stairway. 'Ben! Come now. We've got a big focking problem! A plane flying low!'I wriggled out of my hiding place and ran like Superman to the door. I jammed my ear against the cold steel.'Where from?''The north; so low I could see the pilot.''Military?''Air force.''Must be from Gibraltar. The Brits, they've got us.' He was more pissed off than scared.Another voice joined in, this time an Arab. 'No, no, no it's the Spanish. I can hear them on the radio. Spanish customs. They're heading straight for us.''They may get us.' It was Big Ben again. 'But they're not laying a finger on this lot. Get ready to jump ship.'There was a blast of noise from the engine room, then a lot of hollering.As I clambered back up onto the GPMGs, the engines slowed to a hum.Lights went on in the hold and I heard movement below me.I watched Lesser hunch over the TPU, remove a penknife from his jeans and unscrew the lid. He turned the Parkway anticlockwise, lifted out the rubber pad and dropped it and the knife onto the deck. Then he made his way back the way he had come. He was walking, not running. Good drills: he didn't want to break a leg and be stuck down here when the device kicked off. He wanted to make sure he could get upstairs before the Parkway did its bit.The moment he'd disappeared, I legged it towards the TPU. He'd set the Parkway to fifteen minutes. I grabbed the rubber, jammed it into place and turned the dial back down to zero.I picked up the knife and cut the ring main about three metres from the detonator. Whatever happened now, only three metres of det cord would ignite. It had the power to rip through human flesh, but it wasn't going to do much damage to the ship.I edged round beside the first dustbin lid and waited. Big Ben would be back. He was too professional and committed to just shrug his shoulders when it didn't detonate.I kept reminding myself that his death had to look like an accident. I imagined the frantic activity up on deck as they tried to get the boats away before it detonated.The fifteen minutes passed.He'd give it maybe another two, three at the most. I felt a sneaking admiration for him. Me, I had no commitment to anything. Maybe that was because no one had any commitment to me.I heard the beat of a helicopter's rotors above the ship, and then Ben's large and menacing frame filled the doorway. There could be no finesse in this. It had to be short and sharp. He mustn't get near the TPU.Head down, teeth clenched, I jumped out and rammed him against the stack of crates.My head was buried in his gut, my neck taking the strain. He bellowed like a wounded animal and his two clenched fists pile-drove down each side of my spine. I took the pain as best I could; my kidneys felt like they were exploding.I struggled to force up my head, trying to get my hands round the back of his so I could make contact with the fucking thing. It would be OK to damage his face. It had to be. His face was going to get the worst of it anyway.I could smell his stale sweat and the nicotine on his breath. His greasy hair fell over me like a clump of seaweed. Then he simply brushed me away as if I was an annoying kid.His entire focus was on the TPU.I grabbed his arm as he moved away from me and used his momentum to swing him around. He turned, and I let go. He banged his head against a stanchion and went down on his knees. I grabbed hold of the three metres of det cord still connected to the TPU, flicked it like a skipping rope over his back, whipped out the rubber pad and dived for cover.The det cord kicked off and the concussion wave hit me, short and sharp, as my face was sprayed with warm blood. The detonation rattled around the cargo hold.I jumped back up, in case he was doing the same.He lay on the deck. The det cord had crossed his chest and the left side of his head. The explosion had cut a deep groove in his flesh and muscle, as if someone had run a chainsaw all the way down his body. He was still alive, still kicking out to fight the pain, but not shouting. He still had a job to do. He dragged himself towards the TPU, smearing blood over the carpet of wheat grains.I wiped his blood from my eyes. I knelt next to him. He tried to push forwards, but it was no good. I put my right hand over his mouth and nose and my left behind what was left of his neck and pushed them together. He fought it. His hands came up but he knew it wasn't going to help him. His eyes burned with hatred and defiance.After thirty seconds he started to struggle furiously, with all the frenzied strength that a man draws on when he knows he's dying. But no matter what he did now, he wouldn't be getting up.His hands scrabbled at my face. I bobbed and weaved to avoid them, but maintained the pressure on his nose and mouth.Gradually at first, his frenzy subsided. Soon there was no more than a spasmodic twitching in his legs. His hands stopped grasping. Moments later, he was unconscious.I gave it another thirty seconds. His chest stopped moving. Another thirty and I released him. He slumped face down in the wheat grains, grease and dirt.Fuck knows what was happening on deck. I could hear helicopters in the hover.I didn't know what I was looking for, but I went through his pockets anyway. They were empty. Maybe his wallet was with the rest of his gear in a cabin or up on the bridge. I rolled him over. The edge of a bloodstained piece of card peeped from the top of his shirt pocket. I pulled it out and turned it over.Her face had been charred by the det cord, but she was as hauntingly beautiful in the photograph as she had been alongside Mansour on the gangplank. Thirties, maybe. Palestinian. Her piercing sea-green eyes gazed straight into the camera: passionate, obsessive, almost manic. Those eyes had burned into Lesser's with fierce love. They seemed to stare into mine with nothing but blame and reproach.I legged it back to the door, across the corridor, and into the engine room. The engines were idling. I killed the lights. The stench of diesel fumes and grease was overpowering.I tucked myself behind a couple of tool lockers.I could extract myself when the ship had been towed into port. If I got lifted before that, at least I would be out of sight of the crew. I took deep breaths, sucking in the diesel fumes as I tried to re-oxygenate myself. What was left of Big Ben looked exactly like it should have done. He'd been cut almost in half by the det cord. To whoever found him, he must have gone in, cut the det cord to stop the ring main going off while he sorted out whatever the problem was, and the TPU had kicked off.Shouts in Spanish echoed around the ship. Their search had begun. I sucked in more air and tightened myself up, as if that was going to make me smaller behind the lockers.The doors opened and a torch beam flicked around the engine room. The main lights came on. Two seconds later, the muzzle of a 5.56mm assault rifle was pressing into my cheek.I let them shout and holler. It was pointless trying to explain, even if they did speak English. I put my hands behind my head. It's always best to do that.They pushed me down onto the floor, and gave me a proper going over. My hands were plasticuffed behind my back. A couple of unseen hands hauled me to my feet and dragged me towards the stairs. Lads were already at work on the device. I wasn't the only one who'd been well briefed. I just hoped I was part of their int.I came out of the door into brilliant sunshine. I squinted like a mole. There wasn't a cloud in the blue Mediterranean sky.The ship bobbed up and down in the swell. There were a couple of coastguard cutters tied up alongside. I looked down onto the deck of the first one and saw five pairs of eyes burning up at me. It didn't take a brain surgeon to work out what had happened. Duff's eyes burned the fiercest.The Spanish boss looked over at me too. There was lots of nodding and more shouting. He had a series of pictures on a clipboard. He bellowed something at his troops and I was pushed to my knees. Then, like a fucking idiot, he gave me a nod and carried on. That was me well and truly fucked, even if there were a couple of lads in the crew who couldn't work out what I was.I was helped down into the second cutter. As soon as I was aboard, the handcuffs were taken off and I was given a bowl of hot chocolate.'You fucking shite! We'll get you one day!' Duff yelled his farewell as we pulled away.He might have been right, for all I knew. But they'd have to join the queue.Next page