Andy McNab - Crossfire

I was feeling quite pleased with myself, until I walked out on to the main road and looked down to see my boots still covered with the two flowery shower caps.

St Stephen's Green 0908 hrs At least it had stopped raining.

You could smell the money round St Stephen's Green. Not as strongly as down Ballsbridge way, but it was getting there. The park was beautifully kept and dotted with memorials to the great and good. There wasn't a statue to celebrate EU subsidies yet, but it was only a matter of time.

I came out at the northern edge of the square and counted down the numbers to the one on the letter. It was an elegant Georgian townhouse. The big black door looked just like the one at 10 Downing Street, even down to the large fanlight and thickly glossed white columns. Black railings lined the stone steps.

I carried on past with my takeaway latte in one hand and a big map in the other, then parked my arse on a doorstep a couple down and played the dickhead tourist. Leaning against my Bergen, I spread the map on my lap and got very interested in orienting it with the street.

A guy in painter's overalls came out of the black door and fetched some brushes and rollers from a Transit. He went back in.

The Yes Man mightn't have thought it worth checking this place out, but I did, for two reasons: Pete had filmed there and Finbar lived there. And it looked like I'd been vindicated. I'd been expecting a junkie's squat, but it was smart enough to be the Saudi embassy.

The two windows on the top floor, the third storey, were open. The guy in overalls eventually appeared behind the one to the right.

None of the windows at the front had curtains or blinds. The ceilings had no lights hanging. Just like the flat being decorated, no one was living there. Was the whole place being made ready to go on the market?

There were four buttons on the polished brass entryphone. I pressed number four.

'Hello there?' He sounded much older than the guy in overalls, and a forty-a-day man.

'I'm a friend of Finbar's, number four – can you let me in?'

He didn't answer but the door buzzed. I pushed it open. There was a strong smell of fresh paint.

'Up to the top.' A head came over the banister. 'Hope you got oxygen.' He chuckled to himself and disappeared.

The four pigeonholes held nothing but flyers for pizzas and taxis.

I headed up. The building had been gutted and rebuilt. New deep-pile carpet was laid on York stone. I reached the top floor, where the smell and gleam of fresh white gloss nearly overpowered me.

The head turned out to belong to the older of two guys. His overalls looked like a Jackson Pollock painting. Not much of an ad for his decorating skills. I followed him through the open door. Dustsheets covered the floor. A third guy clutched the top of a very tall ladder and worked his brush over an elaborate ceiling rose.

'This Finbar lad is very popular. You're the second one to come looking for him in as many days.'

'Who was the first?'

'His mum. Well, she said she was. She took his post.'

'We were supposed to meet up today.'

He winked. 'Who? You and his mum?'

'Finbar. Young lad – twentyish?'

'Never seen him.'

'Who gave you the job – his mum?'

'No. All the places we do belong to one of these fancy London property companies. We finished this building a few months ago. Got the call to come and redo this flat before the whole thing's sold.'

'Oh… I thought he owned it.'

He shook his head. 'Like I said, it's a developer.'

'So you never saw Finbar… You don't know where he's gone?'

'Not a clue. I didn't even know anyone was living here until his mum came round.'

'Thanks anyway. If he turns up, can you tell him Chris called?'

My mobile rang as I headed down the stairs. I knew the Yes Man had been wrong not to go down this route. I tried not to crow. 'The house is going cheap and the stepson lived in a flat that-'

'Stop wasting time. We know this. Once you do your job we can do ours. We traced the email.'

'Afghanistan?'

For once, the Yes Man was silent.

'It's the only place I know that's four and a half ahead.'

'Quite so. The email was sent from Kabul.'

'Is it Dom?'

'Possibly. They claim to be from him, and there have been a number of exchanges. If so, they're using him to negotiate with his wife.'

'I want to see them.'

I hit the street and headed for the main. 'Any idea why he went to Afghanistan?'

'Heroin? Looking after his interests? He was probably lifted by the local Islamafia or one of the bounty-hunter groups – they know he has cash. I'm trying to discover which group may have him.'

'OK, I need you to make sure this mobile works over there. I need a visa, a cover story, and a laptop with Internet access. I want to be able to read any more emails coming through while I'm there. Also, as much mapping and photography as you can lay your hands on.'

I waved down a cab. 'I can't talk. I'll be coming into City airport. I'll call to confirm.'

I threw my Bergen on to the back seat and jumped in.

Arrivals buzzed with City boys and girls flying in from Europe with a few more zeroes on their annual bonuses. Most were being met by men in grey suits who held up name cards. It made the Yes Man easy to spot. He'd taken off his jacket and tie, and was in a checked business shirt with gold cufflinks, suit trousers and shiny black shoes.

I aimed for the coffee shop. 'I've been up all night. You want one?'

'No, thank you.'

I asked for the large latte-and-muffin deal, and was just about to organize a mortgage to pay for it when he got his money out.

We didn't exchange another word until we were through the automatic doors and walking past the lines of cabs and buses. The airport was slap in the middle of Docklands. Blocks of new million-pound apartments stood uncomfortably alongside estates built to house dockers after the Blitz.

'You get all the gear I asked for?'

The Yes Man clenched his jaw. Maybe he wasn't used to meeting in public. He certainly wasn't happy taking orders from his underlings. 'Yes, and I have the emails. You're right, by the by. He launders money via a property company here in the City. We knew that. We had it covered.' The Yes Man pulled an A4 sheet from his pocket. 'There have been three emails from Dominik, starting last Sunday. All originate from the same location in Kabul. The ransom is eight million US.'

I gave him a frown. 'If he's the big-time drugs baron, why the need to sell the house?'

He was getting annoyed now. 'He has the cash, believe me. He probably wants it to look as if they're giving up everything, just to keep the price down. Back to the matter in hand…'

I read the page. Dom's emails were basically messages of love and hope. Siobhan's were about progress in raising funds.

We've got a buyer at 6.5 [she wrote]. Please beg them to hold on, I will get the rest. It will take time.

She'd spoken to Patrick, she said. I presumed he was their money man. Patrick was trying his best to liquidate their portfolio. I've told him we've gone broke. I will get the money, Dommy, I will. Please tell them I need time. I don't know how long. Explain to them it might have to be in instalments. The house money very soon, they can have that, then the rest. Please show me again that it's you. Please tell me what colour the sofas are in the living room.

I was right: it hadn't been the flu making her sniffy and red-eyed in the kitchen last night. Maybe she didn't normally drink or smoke. Whatever her state of mind, she was on the ball enough to ask for proof of life each time. Last time, she must have asked him about a suit, because Dom's email started: My Paul Smith is grey and it came back from the cleaners with double creases in the trousers. I was upset because I was going to wear it for dinner at the Mermaid the night before I left.