Andy McNab - Zero hour

We started down Papaverhoek towards the main. I almost had to drag her. We passed FilmNoord XXX. The white tarpaulins lining the market flapped and billowed in the distance. The morning traffic buzzed across the junction ahead of us.

I dug into my jeans for the wad and counted out about a hundred euros.

She looked at me blankly. I had to prise open her hand and shove the money into it. 'Take this. You've got to go.'

I handed her the strip of paper and made sure she focused on what I'd written. 'Go to the Radisson Hotel, Schiphol airport. Taxi – take a taxi, yeah?'

I ran my finger under the address and slowly repeated it.

'Radisson Hotel. Airport – Schiphol airport. You take a taxi, yeah?'

I pointed to the road that led to the nearest taxi rank. 'Taxi, that way…'

I hadn't a clue if she totally understood me, but she got the general drift.

'A woman…' I started signing like I thought she was deaf. 'A lady – with short blonde hair – will meet you. She will help you. Help you go home, yeah?'

Her eyes welled up. I could see she was trying not to, but she couldn't help it. The tears eventually fell.

I took off my Timberlands and dumped them on the ground next to her feet. She didn't move. I had to get hold of each of her ankles in turn, lift it into a boot and lace it up.

'OK, you've got money and shoes – so go!'

She stood there.

'Go – it's time!'

'Where am I?' Her accent was heavy enough for her to be Brezhnev's daughter, but her voice was clear. 'What country is this?' She looked and sounded like the lost child she was.

I didn't want to hear any more. There wasn't time. I needed to be back at the safe-house ASAP. 'You're in Holland. Amsterdam. You have money. Get a taxi to that hotel. The blonde woman, short hair – she'll be there to meet you and help you.'

'I come with you?'

'I'm leaving tonight. I'm not staying here. The woman will help you.'

I pulled out another couple of hundred. 'Take a taxi to the airport. And make sure nobody sees you with all this money. Just go.'

I turned away from her.

'Thank you.'

'It's OK. Use it to get home.'

'No – not for this money. For what you did. For what you did last night.' She shuffled towards me in the Timberlands, raised herself onto the tips of her toes, and kissed me lightly on the cheek.

I patted her awkwardly on the shoulder and headed off in the direction of the larger of the two roundabouts, not wanting to look back.

Chucking a left, I walked for maybe two hundred metres until I spotted a phone box. Anna answered immediately. It was as if she was on stag. Her iPhone only rang once.

'Listen – one of the girls from the building is heading to you right now, in a cab.'

'Does she have a name?'

'Probably. This has to be quick, I have to get back. She's got dyed blonde hair and no eyebrows. Maybe call Lena and see what she can do for her. I need you able to move at a moment's notice in case the shit hits the fan.' I didn't tell her that it already had.

'Are you planning on bringing them out one by one?'

It was a half-arsed attempt at humour but it made me laugh anyway.

'Nicholas?'

'What?'

'Be careful.'

From where I stood in the shadows by the middle office window, I had a good view of the front door and along about ten metres of road back towards the main. I'd be able to see Bradley coming – and anybody who was behind him.

My watch told me he should be here within the next ten minutes. I'd showered and shaved. I'd been to the market and bought everything I was after – for now, at least. I had new jeans, a ready-faded pair like the ones I'd seen the East European lads sporting in Moldova club land. The sweatshirt was so cheap it felt like a carrier bag, and my brown padded nylon coat wouldn't be on the catwalks any time soon. The trainers I'd selected to replace my Timberlands didn't even have a name, but fifteen euros wasn't going to take me all the way to Niketown.

The sky was grey. The sun occasionally made it through the clouds, but never for more than a few seconds. I tried to concentrate on the street below but I couldn't get the girl out of my head. That wasn't good. I hoped things would turn out OK for her, but this wasn't helping me with my next task. I was writing a mental list of gear I'd need to put the silo on CNN and the BBC – and how to divvy up that list with Bradley. There were a few things I could ask him to get for me, but one or two others I really had to get hold of myself.

I tried to cover all the options. Best-case scenario was that the girls would be kept in the silo until they were due to be moved. Would the Scousers accelerate the process because their neo mates had been given a malleting and a piece of merchandise had done a runner? These lads were in a tough business. They'd be looking over their shoulders big-time, but I doubted they'd flap every time there was a bit of a drama. And I doubted they'd call the police to report an assault. The burst of lights and siren had puzzled me last night, but now I wondered if the boys in blue had just thought the neos were dossers and given them a quick blast to move them on.

As for the lads in the Passat – fuck knows what was going on there. Fuck knows what Tresillian was up to either. Why destroy the building? Bricks don't talk. If it was just a plain search-and-destroy job I'd probably have binned it now and done a runner with Anna. But the girls – I couldn't leave those poor fuckers. Which meant I had two days and two nights left to get the job done.

Bradley saved me from my thoughts. He strolled into view, hands in his pockets, dressed exactly the same as yesterday. He reached the door and I heard the buzzer. I looked as far along the street as I could to make sure no one else was with him.

I headed downstairs in time to watch him step inside.

'Morning, Mr Smith.' He gave my new clothes the once-over. 'I've got you a present.' He undid his jacket to reveal a box of Yorkshire Tea. 'It's a great shop. Even sells baked beans.'

His smile disappeared. 'I have some news. There's been a change of plan.'

I turned for the stairs. 'No rush, mate. I know. Tresillian told me last night. We'll talk in a minute.'

Sometimes people can get so sparked up about putting the information across that they get ahead of themselves. Better a trickle than a torrent.

He went straight to the sink when we reached the top floor. He couldn't have missed the mountain of aspirin packets on the draining-board. I'd bought three packs from each of four shops. But he eyed the mallet.

I shrugged. 'It fell down last night.'

He filled the kettle and I ripped the cellophane off the tea.

'The guy you took the video of? He's called Michael Flynn.'

'Who is he?'

Bradley showed me a black-and-white printout on a sheet of A4. I could see this really was a family business. The Flynn gene pool hadn't been blessed. Both sons had the same fucked-up eyes as their father. Robot looked a year or two older than Bitch Tits, who had put on a few pounds since this was taken.

Bradley stuck a finger on each of the boys' heads in turn to indicate. 'Mick Flynn has two sons – Jimmy, the elder, and Ray. Jimmy moves these girls on to the UK and all over mainland Europe. He's a major player on the drugs scene as well.' He hesitated.

'Very nasty people, the Flynns. The police found two girls in a rubbish skip three years ago. They'd been beaten and burnt so badly it took months just to discover who they were. Mick and Jimmy are rumoured to have tortured them for trying to escape from one of their holding houses. It was Ray who'd let them go. He took such a beating from his father that he was in hospital for weeks.'

'So where's the complication?'