Andy McNab - Dark winter

Suzy did the same, stopping now and then to take a sip of brew. 'So, tell me, what is it with you and the boss? Really.'

I started to load my second mag.

'I mean, it's obvious you two aren't exactly on each other's Christmas-card list.'

The fishing rod was well and truly out but, fuck it, what did it matter?

'I used to be a K until just over a year ago, but then got offered a better job somewhere else. Maybe he just can't live without me.'

'Somewhere else?'

'In the US.'

'Oh.' She smiled as she held up a magazine to the light. I had no idea why. 'Why are you back here now?'

I picked up my third mag and began the process all over again, but all I could think of was the look on Kelly's face when I found her among the boxes. 'It seemed like a good idea at the time.'

I pushed the third magazine into the pistol grip and slid it home until it clicked into place. I never slammed them in the Mel Gibson way: it just damages the mag, and that's going to give you stoppages.

With the grip of the weapon jammed firmly in the web of my right hand, I pulled back sharply on the top slide with my left, releasing it so that the slide sprang back into position on its own. As it did so, the working parts picked up a round and fed it into the chamber. Then, turning the weapon to the left and exposing the ejection opening, I pulled back just a little on the top slide again to make sure that a round was bedded.

Because I found it difficult to use the safety catch, I always half cocked these things if there wasn't an extension. I put the little finger of my left hand in front of the hammer, and gently squeezed the trigger. The hammer swung forward and bit into my knuckle, then I pulled it back until it stopped half-way. It wasn't going anywhere now, even if I squeezed the trigger. If I had to draw down, I'd pull the hammer all the way back, so that it clicked into its full-cocked position, then I'd fire.

There were two thick black nylon pancake holsters in the suitcase, but I wasn't interested. My pistol went down the front of my jeans. It was too late in the game for me to change now: actions need to be instinctive – my hand had to go straight to the weapon.

Suzy, however, was going by the rule book, cocking her weapon, checking chamber and struggling like I would to apply the safety catch and picking up a pancake holster to feed into her belt. As she unbuckled it I tightened mine, so the Browning was nice and secure.

'You're not worried about the family jewels, then?'

'No. But I'd hate to get gun oil on my nice new boxers.'

Her pancake went over her right kidney. She checked her safety catch once more and holstered her weapon.

I pulled off my gloves and flicked one at Suzy before we put them back into the suitcase, zipped it up and shoved it under the bed. As hiding places went, it was about as inventive as the phone codes.

I went and got my bumbag from the front room, threading the straps through the belt loops of my jeans so they wouldn't get in the way if I had to draw down the Browning. Then we carried out SOPs [standard operating procedures] on leaving the flat – checking windows, unplugging electrics – before we switched back into boyfriend and girlfriend mode by the open door in the hallway.

I punched the code into the alarm as if we were a happy couple leaving for our weekly trip to Tesco. It didn't make any noise – the last thing the Firm wanted was for the police to turn up and sort through a safe-house – and was linked directly to the QRF [quick reaction force]. The door was reinforced with a steel liner to prevent access, and every room had a panic button in case you got bored and wanted to piss off the QRF as they settled down to tea and biccies. An armed four-man team would respond immediately, whether we were taking the piss, the place was being burgled or there was a drama during one of the many 'interviews' that were held in flats like these.

The door closed behind us and I double-locked it. We walked out of the square and turned right to get to the main. After about five minutes we managed to flag down a black cab and Suzy adopted the tone she reserved especially for cab drivers from Penang to London. 'Farringdon, darling.'

'Whereabouts do you want, love?'

'By the tube station will be fine.'

We hit the Embankment and were soon passing the new ring of concrete designed to stop suicide bombers driving into the Houses of Parliament. We listened to a radio talk-show piece about the heightened state of alert. Some dickhead from the mayor's office said that the security measures should reassure tourists, not deter them. The cabbie cracked up. 'I've heard of spin, but is this boy taking the piss or what?'

I looked at traser. It was six forty-five, and the meet was at eight, which gave us enough time to do a recce and sort ourselves out once we got there.

We turned off the Embankment at Blackfriars and headed up towards Farringdon, stopping at a set of lights. I noticed a Ford Mondeo parked up on the left, with a motorbike so close to the driver's door that the rider's helmet was nearly through his window. The car was two-up, man and woman. She was leaning over from the passenger seat to join in the conversation as another bike drew up. I glanced at Suzy, and she'd seen it too. There was a big surveillance team on a serial [surveillance task], and either they were staking something out or they'd lost the target and were trying to decide what to do next. They were probably E4, the government's surveillance group, which keeps tabs on everybody from terrorists to dodgy politicians.

The lights changed and the bikes peeled away in different directions as we passed, then the Mondeo pulled a U-turn that brought the traffic to a standstill. The cabbie saw the commotion in his rear-view mirror. 'Some people'll do anything to avoid the congestion charge.' He laughed at his own joke as Suzy nodded thoughtfully and settled back in her seat.

Within ten minutes we were confronted by a checkpoint, part of the ring of steel around the City. Armed police stood beside two cars with flashing lights. The taxi driver leant his head back. 'Don't worry, we're turning off here. But it's all go, innit? Wonder what's happening?'

Suzy shook her head. 'Not a clue, darling. Like this all the time, is it?'

'Sometimes it is, sometimes it ain't. Bit of a bleedin' lottery these days. I blame that Bin Liner nutter myself, know what I mean?'

The driver chuckled as he made a turn into Cowcross Street, and I could see Farringdon tube station up ahead. Clerkenwell was the place to be, these days. Every old storage building had been turned into loft-living for City types, just a short walk from their offices in the Square Mile, and every other shopfront was a bar.

We paid off the cab outside the tube station. Starbucks was around here somewhere.

'The source will be wearing a blue suit over a white shirt, and carrying a copy of the Evening Standard in his right hand,' the Yes Man had told us. 'He'll also have a black overcoat on his left arm.'

Suzy was sponsoring the meet. She'd be sitting inside Starbucks having a coffee; on the table in front of her would be a folded copy of the Independent. The source was to approach her and ask if she knew the way to the Golden Lane estate. Suzy would reply that she didn't, but she had an A-Z. Once she had made contact, she would get on the cell and tell me to come in.

Farringdon station was an old Victorian building with a little stall outside selling newspapers, porn mags, Private Eye, that sort of stuff. I waited while Suzy got herself an Independent. Cowcross went slightly uphill and was quite narrow, built for horses and carts. It was still busy, mostly with bond traders not wanting to go home. Among the fashionable facades there was a scattering of corner shops, Indian takeaways, sandwich joints and hairdressers, like bad teeth in an otherwise perfect set, all waiting for the landlords to put their rents up so high they'd no longer be able to stand their ground.