Andy McNab - Exit wound

Two more airliners took off as earthworks, bulldozers and heavy plant sprang up around me. Three hundred metres of concrete and wasteground separated me from the perimeter fence as I skirted the end of the runway.

I stopped and got out Ali’s binos as another jet taxied down towards me. Either there wasn’t a night-flying ban in Iran, or nobody gave a shit. I focused for a moment on the taxiing jet. A line of passengers settled into their window seats and reached for their safety instructions or gazed in silent wonder at the monument to the ’79 revolution. Then I panned right until I found the M3C hangar in the semi-darkness opposite. It was around two hundred metres away.

The Dassault was on the pan. No lights, no generator on the go. But there was a dull glow from the centre of the building. I scanned the windows, but the blinds were down.

Still keeping to the shadows, I made my way round towards the turning circle outside the front entrance and raised the binos again. There was no visible security; no barriers, no checkpoints and no vehicles.

I could see a darkened reception area, accessible via big glass front doors. The building straddled the perimeter fence. The only way to get airside was to go through it.

I cut across the wasteground, past a seemingly random scattering of abandoned concrete sewage pipes, sections of rusted fencing and deep caterpillar tracks. I needed a good OP, close enough to see anyone who arrived; close enough to grip them before they had any time to react.

I slowed. I didn’t have to gulp great lungfuls of air any more, but the sweat started to pour big-time now I was cooling down. I hated this bit. Every stitch of my clothing was starting to stick to me. I knew the sand would, too, once I’d found somewhere to hide up.

I was about a hundred away from the M3C set-up. It was as close as I could go. There was no cover from here on in. I crawled into one of the sewage-pipe sections to sort myself out.

I eased off the day-sack and leant my wet back against the concrete. All sorts of grit and giant spider’s webs immediately found their way down my neck and into my shirt. I took a couple of deep breaths and hoped my body heat would dry everything off before dawn.

Using the ambient light from the main terminal, flashing tower beacons and yet another aircraft taxiing down the runway, I got out the mobile and powered it up. It was just after 0300.

Julian needed to know about the missile deal and the dark flares, but my finger hesitated over the keys. It didn’t want to call. Right now I was in control. If I talked to him there was a strong chance I’d have to disobey a direct order. I was a hundred per cent sure his way of dealing with this situation wasn’t going to be the same as mine. I’d fucked over enough people on this job already. I didn’t want to add him to the list.

I started to put together a text. I didn’t want to give him the opportunity to call me in, but I needed to let him know what was happening, just in case I fucked up and joined Red Ken and Dex a whole lot earlier than I’d planned.

SA-16 seeker has NO fault.

It now has ANTI-DARK FLARE CAPABILITY.

I also told him about the Taliban, M3C, Altun and their deal.

But don’t know where the gold fits in.

I felt a gentle breeze as I crawled out of the pipe in search of a satellite signal and a weapon. Minutes later my fingers closed around a metre-long section of steel tubing that was just what I’d had in mind.

Thursday, 7 May

0535 hrs

A sliver of sunlight edged above the eastern horizon. It wouldn’t be long before the rest of it burst through. Birds sparked up and punctuated the quiet moments between take-offs and landings. If Altun turned up I’d wait until he’d dropped off his new best Taliban mate, then take him and his BG on with the steel. The BG would be first: I wanted his weapon. Then I’d drop Altun with it. With any luck he’d take some time to die. If he didn’t turn up, I’d take the BG and persuade him to tell me where Altun was. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it would do. And when it came to choices, I was running on empty.

I never thought too much about dying. My most philosophical view on the matter had always been: fuck it. If I was too slow or too unlucky today I was dead, so anything else was a bonus. It had always been that way. Maybe that was why I’d always been the one to put my hand up and volunteer. Fuck it, so what? It’ll be a laugh…

Laughs had always been in pretty short supply where I came from, and I guess the situation I was facing right now wasn’t so funny. But I’d treat myself to a good one when Red Ken and Dex gave me the thumbs-up from whatever cloud they were hanging around on.

There was movement at the rear of M3C. Three guys in dark blue boiler-suits headed for the Falcon and hooked up the generator. Its engine kicked in and lights flickered on inside the aircraft. A set of steps unfolded, linking the cabin to the concrete so the ground crew could jump inside and do whatever ground crews did at times like this.

Two guys in short-sleeved white shirts and ties, each carrying a black air-crew case, strolled up to the 7X and disappeared inside. Shouldn’t be long now.

The sun heaved itself over the horizon to my right and threw the mountains on the other side of the city into sharp relief. A pair of headlights came up the road, fast. I raised the binos. It was a Merc, trailing a dust-cloud, covering the distance in a few short minutes that I’d taken hours to cross.

I steadied the binos. The sky was still too dark and the car too far away for me to be able to see whether or not its antenna was bent, but I knew where I was placing my money. It pulled into the turning circle and the passenger door began to open.

I pulled the steel tube from behind me.

It was two-up in front. This was going to be hairy.

As the vehicle stopped, the BGs jumped out. Both were in sleeveless white shirts with weapons on their belts. Tattoo had been in the passenger seat. I couldn’t be totally sure, but the driver looked like the second loadie from the Dubai airstrip. They opened a rear door each.

Altun and the Taliban stepped out onto the concrete and fastened their jackets. They didn’t talk, or give the muscle a second glance. They headed towards the terminal. Tattoo went for the boot and his mate rushed past them to hold open one of the big glass doors. The Taliban was still dressed in last night’s suit. Altun’s was grey, and the shirt had a buttoned-down collar. They disappeared inside. Tattoo followed with two small overnight bags and a prayer mat, and the door closed behind him.

Time to move. I gripped the steel rod and crawled out of the concrete pipe. Get to the terminal, wait to see who came out, and go for it. My head was completely clear, my heart-rate even.

Another vehicle approached the M3C terminal from my right. It was also a Merc. These boys hadn’t spent too much time at the Paykan dealership. I eased myself back into the pipe as it pulled up alongside the first. This time no one jumped out to open the rear door. It did that by itself, and a pair of short dumpy legs appeared.

Spag’s light cargos and blue fleece strained at the waist as he clambered out. There was no mistaking the fat fuck.

A thousand thoughts raced through my head in a nanosecond, none of them good.

The Dassault’s engines had started to whine as soon as the second Merc had spat out its passenger and he’d waddled into the terminal.

I wrenched the Nikon out of my day-sack. I still couldn’t believe it.

Spag was dead – I’d seen him killed.

No, I hadn’t. I’d just seen his body. I never actually saw him go down…