Andy McNab - Agressor

The streets leading uphill from the main drag all looked like they hadn't seen a lick of tarmac since the time of that bumper harvest. There were more potholes than there were Ladas to fall into them, and the pavements had crumbled so badly there was no longer any kerb.

Hordes of scabby-looking dogs were all set to spend the day chasing bits of swirling garbage in the wind. There was enough rubbish on the ground and enough fading plastic bags caught in the trees to form a fourth hill which would enclose the city completely.

Another ten minutes went by. Except for the gun shop and the odd mobile phone store and cafe, the main drag seemed to be lined with bookstores. As I watched the old, bunker-shaped Russian trucks jockeying for space along the boulevard with streams of brand new Volvos and Mercs, I realized there were no traffic lights. Come to think of it, we hadn't driven through a single one all the way from the airport. Either the drivers were very polite here, or no-one would have taken a blind bit of notice.

Just before nine o'clock, a two-tone Mitsubishi Pajero 4x4, silver bottom, dark blue top, pulled up outside the hotel. It was three up. Even from this distance I could see that the passenger in the rear was the size of a small tank. He waddled out onto the pavement, opened the back door and took out a large, light-coloured bag, then disappeared through the glass doors. The driver kept the Pajero static. There had been quite a few limos and 4x4s picking people up and dropping them off, but this felt like Whitewall.

I hit my cell phone. The SOP [standard operating procedure] for this job was to leave nothing but Charlie's number as the last call, and I was only doing that in case I forgot it. 'Got a possible carrying two donkeys' worth.'

I decided to dice with death while I waited for the possible Whitewall to re-emerge, and crossed the road to get a better view of the two up front. They were side on and directly in front of me as I slalomed across the final stretch. The two boys were straight from Thick Bouncers central casting. Mid-thirties, lots of black leather. Both were clean-shaven and bald-headed, and the driver had perfectly manicured hands draped over the wheel and a pair of black-framed gigs.

The plate was pressed steel, white background, black letters before the numbers 960: a local registration, not military or diplomatic. The engine was still running, so the rear passenger obviously wasn't intending to be inside for long.

I felt the phone vibrate in my jeans pocket. I took the first option right to get me out of line of sight and hit the green.

'He's on his way down, lad. See you in ten.'

Charlie took the tape out of the camcorder. He was already gloved up.

The CTR kit was laid out on the bed, alongside a navy-blue canvas satchel the size of Imelda Marcos's shoe bag for us to carry it all in. He needn't have bothered improvising his own lever-lock wrenches; it looked like Whitewall had delivered one of every type ever manufactured.

'Whitewall had two local slapheads in tow. Mafia or oil? Makes you think, doesn't it?'

'Might do, if I did bother to think about it. But I'm not going to, lad. It gives me a headache.'

'Fair one.'

I took a pair of rubber gloves from the bed and started to put them on. If Whitewall or his slap-heads had left DNA or prints on the kit, that was up to them, but I wanted it to remain sterile of Charlie and me.

'Come on then, old man. How did it go?'

'I told him I wouldn't do the job unless I knew what was happening. So he talked me through it while I gloved up and pulled out the bits of kit one by one in front of him.'

There was everything a budding burglar could wish for, from lock picks, rakes and tension wrenches to mini-Maglites, a keyring torch, and rubber door wedges, but one particular bit of kit was missing. 'Where's the weapon, mate? Every man and his dog here has got one.'

'Not needed. Like I said – in and out without leaving a fart print.'

He picked up the fibre-optic gear and worked the cable so that the end of it wriggled like a worm. 'Seems our man Baz has got his grubby little fingers in just about every pie within reach. He's in with the militants up north, and he's taking backhanders from the Russians. Both groups want to sabotage the pipeline, which not only fucks up the supply but also puts the lives of Yank and Brit construction workers at risk.

'Whitewall wants to knock all that firmly on the head, but first he needs to know what Baz has got tucked away in that safe of his – you know the sort of thing: who's on the take; who's got the Semtex hidden under their bed, and so on. Once he's got all that int in his hot little hand, he – and I guess that means the US government, meaning the oil companies, now you got me thinking – can go to the Georgians' top bollocks and bubble him. The appropriate authorities can swing into action and bingo, everyone can have a love fest.'

He turned and looked me in the eye. This time he wasn't smiling. 'Now, you happy with that? You can see the tape if you want.'

I shook my head. No need. 'Not if you believe him.'

'Makes sense to me. Not that it matters, either way. As I said, lad, I'm still going to do it. If those hairy-arsed militants start hitting the pipeline, people will get killed. The contractors know the risks; they're well paid for it. But the other poor bastards don't – the ones who'll be guarding the fucking thing…'

I remembered the fresh-faced kids from the recruiting commercial. And then I understood. 'I guess they'd be about Steven's age…'

'You're not wrong, mate. Good lads getting fucked over; it's the same in any language. Who knows? Maybe I can save some other parents from the nightmare Hazel and I have been through. It's not why I'm doing this, but it would be a fuck of a bonus.'

His face lost all expression as he thought for a moment about his boy, but he managed to cut away from the feeling almost as quickly as it had come. I knew that process all too well. I always hoped it would get better with practice.

The creases in his face returned. 'Actually, fuck the money, I should be getting a Georgian MBE for this! You want one?'

'Whatever's going,' I said. 'What's the plan?'

'Two options. Whitewall says Baz'll be out the house until Sunday morning. He's off to some national park to kiss babies, or whatever the fuck you do to win votes in this neck of the woods. So we have to go in as soon as we can tonight, and find and attack the safe. We lift whatever's inside, close up again behind us, and go and catch the morning flight.'

'What about the DLB? Where are we dropping the stuff?'

He'd forgotten about the DLB, I could see it. 'Didn't I tell you? A cemetery, about ten minutes from the house. Whatever we find goes into a plastic bag and inside a stone bench, next to someone called Tengiz. It's no problem, he's buried just past the main gate.' His look changed from silly grin to friendly smile. 'Lighten up! Just because I'm not frowning as hard as you are, doesn't mean I'm not working.'

He opened up the map.

'Anything else you might have forgotten to tell me, you silly old fucker? What about Plan B? You said you had two options.'

He looked slightly sheepish. 'Plan B doesn't exist, lad. I thought it'd sound better if we seemed to have a few options to play with.' He liked that one. His smile was as wide as the Mtkvari, but it was clear he was still trying to recover from his fuck-up.

'Tell you what, Charlie. Why don't I go and do my walk-past now? You can spend some time sorting yourself out with this shit.' It was a gentle reminder that he needed to check everything on the bed was working before his walk-past. 'We'll RV in the cemetery and find this DLB. Then we'll split, and come back here for the brief.'