Andy McNab - Dark winter

As the front door closed, Suzy reappeared, all smiles. 'Well, this is freaky here-we-go-again shit, isn't it? Though I'm not sure the boss is as pleased to see you as I am…' She reached into her back pocket and pulled out a blister pack of gum, then jumped backwards into the Yes Man's sofa, her feet up on the arm. 'OK, what do you make of all this, then?'

'I'm keeping an open mind.'

'Thanks. No need to go overboard.'

She studied me while shoving two chunks of gum into her mouth. 'Well, at least you won't die of passive smoking. I've given up.'

'Thank fuck for that.' I headed for the front door. As I turned the handle, I called back to her: 'Listen, we've got an hour before the Simon thing. I'm going to get some washing and shaving kit. See you in a bit.'

'OK…' She didn't sound convinced.

When I got back to the car and hit the cell keys the meter was just about to run out. I'd come out expecting to get a fond farewell from Sundance and Trainers, but they weren't anywhere to be seen. With their job done for the day they'd probably slunk back into their holes.

How the fuck was I going to get out of this? I didn't know yet. What I did know was that I'd better get my act together and prepare for the job, just in case I really did land up belonging to the Yes Man. It was an unsparing world. George was right – but, then, he usually was.

I got a crackly 'Hello?' Carmen must have been stuck down a well for him to have permission to answer. 'Jimmy, it's me, Nick. Listen, I-'

'Here, best I pass you over to Carmen.' The sound of the TV in their front room filled the earpiece and world order was restored.

'Hello?' It was her martyred voice.

'Sorry, Carmen, I don't know if I'll get back tonight.'

'Oh, really? What does that mean?'

'You'll need to take her to Chelsea. It's important she doesn't miss any of the sessions. Look, I'm trying to get back and take her myself. I want to see her.' I could hear the sharp intake of breath as she prepared to give me a speech, but got in before she had the chance. 'Listen, Carmen, let's cut the bullshit, I haven't enough time. It's only a few more years before she's old enough to look after herself, and then we'll never have to talk to each other again. The only reason I put up with your constant moaning is Kelly. So just talk normally, will you? Are you going to take her or not?'

She huffed and puffed. 'But we don't know how to get to this psychiatrist. Jimmy won't be able to manage the Underground.' She just couldn't stop herself.

I tried to keep my voice level. 'Carmen, don't take the Underground. I'll tell you what, book a taxi tonight – a pile of those minicab cards comes through your door every day. I'll pay. There, it's all done.'

'But what time does she have to be there? We can't just go on a wink and a nod. Taxis need a time to come and collect, you know. We just-'

'I'll give you all that stuff in a minute. Is Kelly there? Can I speak to her?'

Her tone changed again. She was rather pleased with herself. 'She's very angry with you at the moment, I can tell you. We can't get a word out of her. Whatever you said to her certainly made her very upset. But never mind, we'll get by.'

'Carmen, why can't you just cut the crap? Are you going to take her tomorrow or not?'

'I'll take her.' She had to force it out.

'That's good. Thank you very much. Oh, and I nearly forgot. I'm expecting a package in the post. It'll be arriving tomorrow or Monday. Can you just hold it for me until I can pick it up?'

'Well, I suppose so.' She made it sound as if the package was going to be the size of a small car.

'Thanks. Now, can I speak to Kelly?'

There was mumbling in the background as she got up and took the telephone out of the living room. I wished Kelly had a mobile, but hers wasn't tri-band so she'd left it in the States. The TV chatter died and there was scuffling before I could hear breathing. 'Kelly?'

'I know, you can't make it. You're working. Whatever.'

'It's not like that. I'm stuck. I'm trying to get back tonight but if not they'll take you to Dr Hughes's tomorrow and I'll try to meet you there. I'm sorry, I'm trying to get out of it, I really am.'

She'd heard it all before. 'Sure, whatever. Do you want to talk to Granny now?'

'No. I just want to talk to you.'

'What's to talk about? Maybe I'll see you tomorrow, then, eh?'

The phone went dead. I understood why, but it still pissed me off. I redialled and Carmen answered. I gave her the contact details and timings for Hughes, then hung up.

I drove out of the parking space and headed for a multi-storey, eyes skinned for the Volvo.

One carrier-bag full of washing kit and a black nylon bumbag from Superdrug later, I went into a corner shop-cum-post office and bought a pen and an A4 Jiffy-bag. In went my Nick Stone passport, wallet with Citibank credit cards, and all my other Nick Stone bits and pieces including the key to Carmen's front door. I hated it when the Firm took away my real documents: it was like losing my personality, my life; I felt exposed, undefended. This way, at least I knew where they were, and if all went well and I got binned I'd be picking them up soon anyway. I couldn't help a little smile as I addressed the bag to myself. Carmen had decided to call the bungalow the Sycamores, and got Jimmy to put up the sign – but you still had to write No. 68 or your mail never got there.

With ten minutes to spare, I buzzed up to the flat. Suzy let me in and I almost choked on Benson amp; Hedges. The windows were all double-glazed and had more locks than the Bank of England. I followed her into the bedroom and into a cloud of nicotine that even the French would have been proud of.

'I know, Nick, I know. Sorry. But I was gagging. The gum's shite.'

'Well, get some patches or something, will you?'

'I promise it's the last one, ever.'

It was obvious that the Golf Club had already been and gone – so much for coming back at six. There was an open suitcase on the bed in Suzy's room. It looked as if she was in the process of unpacking. She held up a Nokia moan-phone. 'We've got one each, one spare, three batteries and a fill gun. The rest looks like the Packet Oscars.'

I dropped my carrier-bag on the bed and noticed the wardrobe door was open. The couple of shelves on the right were full of underwear and socks, a hairdryer and a washbag. In the suitcase were two MP5 SDs, the normal Heckler and Koch MP5 machine-gun but with a very bulky barrel, together with five or six boxes of ammunition and three magazines for each weapon. For us to respond with as the situation dictated to ensure the safety of the public and ourselves.

The SDs were suppressed and not 'silenced'. There's no way of totally silencing a weapon's muzzle report. A suppressor just diminishes it with a series of rubber baffles and fine meshing inside the barrel, which dissipate the gases that propel the round. By the time the round leaves the muzzle there is just a dull thud and no flash, and the faint click of the working parts moving backwards before the return spring pushes them forward again to pick up another round and ram it into the chamber.

Both weapons were fitted with holographic sights, a small window mounted where the rear sight would normally be. When you turned it on, it was like looking at a heads-up display on a windscreen.

There were different packets for different jobs. Packet Oscar was a covert killing pack. As well as the SD, it contained the basic kit needed to make entry covertly into a building in order to kill, all rolled up in a black PVC MOE [Method of Entry] wallet.

These particular Packet Oscars had come with a few extras. I picked up one of the moan-phones as Suzy busied herself with the other two, connecting up the jack that led into the fill gun, a slim green alloy box about the size of a pound bar of chocolate.