Andy McNab - Brute force

From down on the floor, a hand shot up and grabbed my crotch. He squeezed so hard I nearly screamed. I punched him again, hard on the nose. The back of his head snapped back and hit the floor. He went out cold.

I hobbled over to the dark corner. Retrieving the Makarov and knife, I went to the window. Lynn was looking up expectantly, like Romeo under Juliet's balcony.

I jerked my finger. 'The window – for fuck's sake climb in!'

We carried Mansour downstairs and tied him to a chair in the kitchen with a roll of clingfilm.

I left him in Lynn's care while I went through the rest of the house.

The most useful bits of kit I recovered were a second pistol – a.38 snub-nosed revolver – from the drawer of a desk in an upstairs study, and a set of car keys in the sitting room.

I opened up the garage to find a white, top-of-the-range Audi Q7 off-roader fitted out with all the trimmings – sat nav, CD/MP4 sound system, DVD player and a nice big sunroof. Where the fuck did this disgraced ex-spy get his money?

Mansour was beginning to come round by the time I got back. He did the same as I would have done: eyes down, mouth shut, play fucked. Lynn hovered anxiously close by.

I left them to it again and ran back up to the bedroom. Mansour had been on the point of calling someone. I found the mobile and scrolled the menu. He only had a few numbers on his contact list. But there was a problem, for me anyway: the alpha-numerics were in Arabic.

I jumped down the stairs and chucked it to Lynn. 'See who he was ringing.'

Lynn went through the motions, but I could tell his mind wasn't on it. He cleared his throat. 'Your methods, Nick…' He shook his head and threw a glance at Mansour. The Libyan's chin was back on his chest, only now his body hair was flattened beneath a layer of plastic and saliva.

'He was pointing a weapon at me. What the fuck do you think I should have done? Had a civilized conversation while I waited for you to come up and mediate?'

I pointed to the mobile. 'You sorted it?'

What Lynn saw on the screen clearly focused his thinking, because I saw him do a double-take.

'What?'

He frowned and shook his head. 'Well, he only managed to dial three digits, but they're a plus and two fours…'

'UK or Northern Ireland…'

I told him to check if it corresponded with any numbers in the address book.

Nothing. And the received, missed and dialled facilities had all been wiped.

'No matter. He's soon going to tell us.' I walked towards Mansour.

Lynn moved between us, raising his free hand. 'Is this absolutely necessary?'

Mansour had started to make a UK call. What went on in the heads of lads like Lynn? 'And your suggestion is… some George Smiley shit over sherry?'

'This is a cultured man, Nick. Take a look around you. Do you see what's on those plinths?'

'Who cares? We got big problems here.'

But Lynn wasn't in the mood to be diverted.

'Both of those stone heads are priceless. Busts covering the entire period of the Roman occupation of North Africa. Mansour isn't some fundamentalist plotting a car-bomb attack on a shopping centre. He has – or at least had – rank and status in this country and we need to show him the kind of courtesy that befits it; or, trust me, we will get nothing from him.'

As if on cue, Mansour started to move his head from side to side. He opened his eyes and blinked for several seconds under the glare of the lights. When he saw Lynn, the briefest of smiles played across his lips. He opened his mouth. 'Leptis…'

I leant down and grabbed his cheeks between my thumbs and fingers and squeezed. 'Who set up the Leptis call? Who called the station? Was it you?'

'Enough!' Lynn placed his hand on my shoulder, but I shrugged it off. I knew what I was doing.

Mansour would know all about interrogation techniques and how to overcome them. I didn't want to give him time to think – only enough to tell me what he knew.

'Why are we being targeted? Who set us up?'

Lynn grabbed me by the shoulder and pulled me round to face him. He was surprisingly strong. 'I will not be a party to this.'

My eyes burned into his. 'Then leave.'

'But-'

'No buts. Listen up. He is the only person who's ever called you Leptis. That means he is connected – I want to know how. Second, I want to know who the fuck he was calling.'

My expression should have said it all, but in case it didn't, I spelled it out for him. 'Is he working for the Firm?'

Lynn held my gaze. Anger blazed in his eyes for a brief second. He shook his head. 'Please, Nick. Let's try it my way. Just once. If it doesn't work, well, I'll hand the reins back to you.'

'Fine.' I threw my hands in the air. 'Get the sherry out. But he gets to know nothing about me – understand?'

'Of course, Nick, I understand.'

Mansour watched intently as Lynn pulled up a chair and sat down in front of him.

'I need you to answer some questions, Mansour. Please make this easy on yourself. If you don't…' He paused and glanced at me.

Mansour looked at me then back at Lynn. 'Ask away, Leptis, my friend. I suspect we may be able to help each other.'

'Who were you trying to call? Who was it?'

The Libyan smiled. 'It should be abundantly clear to you.' His voice was calm, his English word perfect.

'It should? Why?'

'Why do you think? The number is yours.'

Lynn would have made a crap interrogator. Part of the job was never to react to any information given, but his cheeks flushed a deep shade of red.

Mansour's little bombshell had achieved its desired effect.

I knelt down, my eyes level with the Libyan's. 'Prove it. Tell us the number…'

Mansour was trying the oldest bluff in the book. The Libyan blinked innocently before fucking me off and shifting his eyes back to Lynn. 'I'm sorry, Leptis. You and I – we know each other of old. But your friend here. Why don't you introduce us? After all, you are both, in a sense, my guests…'

I stood up, wanting to walk away from this bad black and white movie. Where the fuck had these two been for the last twenty years?

Lynn was finally rejoining planet earth. His tone stiffened. 'You have no need to know that, Mansour.'

Mansour paused. I could see him assessing me, weighing up how the power was shared out around here. He pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes. 'Country code four-four, then two, then oh, then seven, then two one eight…' Mansour paused.

I looked at Lynn. The flushed cheeks were turning white.

The Libyan reeled off the rest of the number. Lynn gave an almost imperceptible nod. 'That was my old number at Vauxhall Cross…'

'Ah, so you are retired now, Leptis. This I didn't know. I always thought that men like you and me, we never really retired…'

'How did you know my number? I don't understand.'

'You don't? Let's see. You are Colonel Julian Francis Lynn. Born fourth of September, 1949. Son of Brigadier Robert Anthony Lynn, the great "Al-Inn" of Cairo, scourge of Nasser's young officers' movement. You had a good, solid British education at a minor public school.' He stopped for effect and smiled up at Lynn. 'Three very respectable A-levels in Latin, Greek and English literature – good enough to get you a place at Cambridge, where you studied Classics, our mutual interest, of course. We have a great deal in common, Leptis. Like me, you decided to make the army your chosen career; and, like me, you switched to intelligence – not surprising, given your father's very considerable connections.'

I half expected him to bring out a red, leather-bound book and tell Lynn he was on Tripoli's answer to This Is Your Life.

'I know, Leptis, that you understand the Arab mentality. You know very well how we work, our methods, our thinking.'