Andy McNab - Exit wound

Before I did anything, I had to finish getting some more bread and water down my neck – instead of down my burqa . I didn’t know how long I was going to have to be up there, or the next time I’d get a chance to eat or drink.

I was finally done. I brushed the crumbs off the black material and moved onto the pavement, day-sack over one shoulder. I blended in pretty well, I thought, apart from being a foot taller than the rest of the girls. I just hoped my size-ten Timberlands wouldn’t stick out too much, and that nobody stopped me to sympathize about how badly the diet was going.

I went back into the square and followed the other students down to the right of the target, trying to avoid taking long paces or looking like I was about to enter a boxing ring. Paralleling the road that led to the university via the construction site, I lost eyes on target. I wouldn’t have it again until I got into my OP, but it was worth the risk. If I stayed at ground level I wouldn’t see jack.

A hundred metres or so past the square, the students were starting to bunch. By two hundred, they were crossing the road and coming in from all directions, bottlenecking at what I assumed must be the entrance. I joined the mob.

We surged through the gates into a big, brightly lit open space with marble flooring. A mosque reared up on the far side, another couple of hundred metres away. Its huge square facade and minarets towered above us, floodlit from the ground like something from Cape Canaveral. The spotlights were harsh enough to make God blink.

The square was humming with chat and ring tones. The girls laughed, glanced at their homework and munched peanuts or other stuff out of bags. It could have been almost any university campus, almost anywhere in the world.

I worked my way to the right of the mosque, where a tree-lined border had been planted to give the square some shade. I kept moving, making sure I didn’t bump into anybody or anything and draw attention to myself. It was easier said than done, when the hole I had to look through was smaller than a Warrior’s letterbox. I wanted to move through this lot like oil, not giving a single person cause to stop, stare and wonder what class the big bird was in.

I headed beyond the trees and into the stretch of shadow where the floodlights between the old and the new part of the campus didn’t meet. I picked my way over mounds of earth and rubble for about twenty metres until I was in total darkness. I took off the burqa , folded it up and shoved it into my day-sack. I’d need it again to get out.

As my eyes adjusted to the ambient light, blurred shapes slowly took on recognizable outlines. I picked my way past a cement mixer, and piles of wood, concrete blocks and steel. Soon I could see the bubble of orange light from the campfire and hear the mush of the TV they were shouting at.

As I moved closer to the carcass of the new mosque I could see the drivers from earlier quite clearly. The TV was side-on to me but I caught the odd bit of frenzy. ‘ Rooney … Giggs … Rooney, Rooney …’ They suddenly roared at the screen, rose as one from their blankets, then sank back, disappointed. I knew that feeling all too well.

The old man in the hat offered round cigarettes to console them. Then they got back to the job in hand. Tin plates glinted in the firelight as they scooped more rice and sauce from pots over the fire.

I half crept, half crawled to the opening that would one day house the tall white mosque doors. I slipped inside as the truckers threw down their plates and sparked up again about something involving Ronaldo.

Windows had already been fitted into the walls, but the stars shone through a big empty hole in the central dome forty metres above me. I picked my way carefully around endless piles of cement bags, wheelbarrows and scaffold towers that reached skywards towards nothing in particular. I headed for the far left-hand corner, the minaret closest to the target.

A cool breeze blew down the spiral stairwell as I started to climb. Twenty steps up, I passed a narrow slit window – the kind Robin Hood’s mates fired arrows from in Crusader castles. It looked out over the back of the mosque. I had a bird’s-eye view of the lads and Man U. The noise from the TV gradually faded. When I reached the muezzin’s chamber, it was like entering the Tardis. The room was wider than I’d expected – the concrete floor was eight to ten metres across – and perfectly circular.

The smell of cement filled my nostrils. On the far side, just visible in the half-light, were stacks of boxes, concrete blocks and a pile of sand. Stark white light flooded in from four narrow, dust-coated windows that extended from waist-level to the roof. A door led out to the muezzin’s balcony. It would bristle with loudspeakers by the time the thing was finished.

I tried the handle, but it was locked. No problem. I still had a good field of view down into the target from the window to its left. It was a bit fuzzy because of the shit on the glass but I could see the lights were still on. I checked my watch. It was coming up to nine.

The panoramic view was even better than my hotel room’s. The square directly below was a big dark patch, but to my right, the floodlighting around the university mosque picked out hundreds of ant-like students milling about in the courtyard. I was prepared to bet that every one of them would be sporting a green wristband. A few blocks away to the left, traffic streamed along the main.

I moved closer to the window overlooking the target and wiped a bit of cement dust off the glass with my shirt-sleeve. Binos are an excellent night viewing-aid when there’s ambient light. I raised one of Ali’s lenses to it, scanned along the second storey, then focused on the still-lit window.

I could now see a wooden floor, a white leather settee and, next to it, a small rectangular glass side-table holding a tray of half-eaten meat and rice. Only one plate, one glass and a half-empty water jug. The room on the ground floor to the left of the building’s entrance was clearly a kitchen. The arched gateway was the only way in or out of the courtyard. The double glass doors at the front opened into a reception area. The target was some kind of business premises.

Movement at the top window caught my eye.

I swept the binos upwards with one hand and tried to undo the flap on my day-sack to get at my Nikon with the other. A picture would make Julian a happy boy.

Tattoo was in mid-bend. As he picked up a tray, his heavily inked biceps slid out of his short-sleeved white shirt. He stood with his back to the window, treating me to a grandstand view of the artwork on his neck as he talked in the direction of the dead ground on the other side of the room. His body language was respectful. He was almost standing to attention, tray held out in front of him. He nodded, turned and disappeared.

Whoever was also in there would move at some stage. I didn’t know if I’d get a picture from here in this light but, fuck it, I’d try. Why not? I had the kit.

As I straightened up with the Nikon, I spotted another freshly cleared patch of window, directly under mine. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t seen it before.

I put the camera down slowly on the day-sack and stood up, my full attention still on the window. Then I turned and launched myself into the dead ground behind the building shit on the other side of the room.

The shadowy figure shifted on its hands and knees, trying to scuttle for cover. I kicked hard into the centre of the mass. There was a dull scream. The figure surged towards me, arms straight out like battering rams, and thrust me back against the wall. Then it kicked and punched like a mad thing before breaking away and running for the stairs.