Andy McNab: Zero hour

'I fought long and hard for two years to get us in therapy. I promised to change all the things she blamed me for. I was "controlling", she said, and kept too tight a fist on the money. She couldn't do all the decorating projects she wanted, for example, because I thought they were too expensive. Hello… I was the only fucking one working to pay for this shit. But she said she was out the door. I think she was even screwing the therapist – on my dime again. She even said, "I have to get out now so I can snag a great guy while I'm still hot."

'So I said, "OK, I get it, I understand. We tried and it didn't work out. No hard feelings. Let me help. A couple of nips and tucks and you'll be ready for the world." So I carried out a procedure on her and that was the end of her…'

I sat up. 'You killed her?'

'No – I just fucked up her face a bit. Now she looks like she's sitting in a fucking wind tunnel.' He pulled back the loose skin on his face to show me. 'So the bitch divorced me and sued me for malpractice on the same fucking day. How fucking cool is that?'

Big fat tears were rolling down his cheeks. 'I came here. Used my original family name. Over there I was Klein. This country is great for locum work with hardly any checks. I worked hard to make a few dollars – I'm trying to tuck it all away before her lawyers find me. But I know they will. It's going to be a nightmare.'

'So that's what they've got on you?'

'Yeah. They came into my office one day. They told me my life story and that was it. Two white guys, nice suits.'

'They gave you the scans?'

'Yes. And the drugs.'

'What were they?'

'I haven't a clue. Nothing I'd ever come across before.'

'They might have been specially made?'

'Why not?'

'What did they say was going to happen next?'

'Nothing. They said they'd be in touch. Who gives a fuck? How could it be worse?'

I lay back down and took a breath. 'Actually, mate, it's a lot worse. You're mixed up with the intelligence service. You've seen the movies?'

He nodded slowly, taking the hit.

'That's what I'm trying to sort out. Help me tomorrow, and then you fuck off out of the UK as fast as you can. Even take your chances back in the States. These guys are a lot uglier than Marlene.'

'What about you? Why are they after you?'

'It doesn't matter. But they're never going to leave us alone unless I sort this shit out.'

Sunday, 21 March 17.55 hrs A roar went up and the clapping and cheering started – but it wasn't as loud as I was used to when Chelsea won. The crowd began to surge out of the West Stand and past the merchandise van I was leaning against. I'd intended waiting further down Fulham Broadway, until I'd noticed the hundred metres or so of steel barrier that bisected the road from the tube station to the ground. It was to stop queue-barging and congestion in the station itself. Fans wanting the tube were channelled into it by mounted police more or less as soon as they exited the ground. I had no alternative but to wait further up.

Everyone in blue had a not-so-happy face on. 'Mate, fucking one-all against Blackburn? Nightmare,' somebody yelled into his mobile. 'Who'da fucking believed it?'

I scanned the crowd and pinged him almost immediately. He came level and passed me, looking like something off the cover of a menswear catalogue in his blue wool coat and pressed blue cords. He looked straight ahead, trying, like everyone else, to avoid banging into people or getting knocked over himself. The crowd was shoulder to shoulder.

I let him pass and get five or six paces ahead before I edged my way into the flow with a big smile on my face, like I was making my way over to a mate. Nine out of ten times, if you're friendly when you tell them you're coming through, people will move aside.

As they did, I reached into my right pocket and gripped the pliers, making sure the jaws were nice and open. Jules's hands were down at his side. He couldn't have swung them even if he'd wanted to. I focused on his left hand. He probably had a watch under that coat sleeve but that didn't bother me. It would just add to the pain.

My right hand was at the same level as his left and centimetres away. I pulled the pliers from my coat, jammed them against his sleeve and squeezed hard. I grabbed his arm with my left hand so I could steer him. He reacted like he'd been stung by a bee, but he still hadn't worked out exactly what had happened. It could have been a burn from somebody's cigarette. Then his eyes widened as he saw who it was and the pain really started to register. He tried to pull away but I squeezed the pliers into his wrist and manoeuvred him with my right shoulder.

'Don't fuck about or I'll drop you here and now.'

We stayed in the flow as the crowd spilled onto Fulham Broadway and the majority turned right. Jules almost hugged me in his effort to keep the pressure off his pinched wrist. He looked like a walking heart-attack victim.

'Not the tube. Left of the barriers.'

The street was still packed but we were no longer shoulder to shoulder. There were no words from him yet, but I wasn't expecting any. If he was able to talk, his one and only concern had to be the pain.

I steered him left at the junction with Harwood Road. The crowd started to thin and most of the noise was behind us. I scanned for the Volvo down on the left. I knew it was going to be there, but I wanted to see if the driver still was.

As we approached, he opened the passenger door and pushed the seat forward for me. Still gripping Jules, I jumped into the back. I pushed the passenger seat upright again and dragged him inside with the pliers. Kleinmann's trouser belt was beside me. The loose end was already threaded into the buckle to make a loop.

No one said a word as I threw the keys to Kleinmann. Jules fought the pain through clenched teeth. Kleinmann did up Jules's seat belt like I'd told him to. I didn't want the police making a routine traffic stop just because the passenger was unbelted. Jules's face was screwed up with pain. I looped the belt over his head and around his neck and the head restraint, and pulled.

Jules's left hand dangled between the door and the seat. I'd swapped the pliers into my left hand so I could keep control directly behind him. He pushed back against the head restraint and took several deep breaths, fighting the belt that was trying to stop him. It looked like he was going to start talking.

I pulled the belt tight to keep him in place. 'Not now. You'll have plenty of chance to waffle.'

I gave Kleinmann a nod. 'Let's go.'

The Cavendish Square car park was as good a place as any to head for. The car had a reason to be there because it had a designated space. It was also Sunday, so many of the business spaces around his were going to be empty.

It took us half an hour just to get away from the area of the ground, and another thirty minutes to get up behind John Lewis. He nosy-parked in his space.

Kleinmann unfastened his seat belt and opened his door. He was more than ready to get out. He left the keys in the ignition. He knew he had to return in thirty minutes. If he did, he did. I was beyond worrying about that at the moment.

As soon as the door closed I pulled tighter on the belt. Julian gagged and writhed his hips, as if that was going to help.

'If you think that hurt, you're not going to believe what's coming next.'

I released the pliers and swapped them back into my right hand. Then, with my arse in the air, I reached over the back of his seat and clamped them onto the bridge of his nose. I squeezed until I could feel bone against the steel. He jerked his head and I squeezed harder. 'Any more pressure and it's going to burst. You know that.'

I wanted him scared. But I also wanted him to talk.