Andy McNab - Dark winter

I started towards the front of the hangar, not running, trying to remain casual. People behind me were starting to mutter about something going on, and they weren't talking about the offer of the day.

The tannoy sparked up, a young man's slightly strangulated voice asking for the duty first-aider to go to the garden section.

I left the building, passing an Indian security guy in an oversized shirt collar and a peaked hat balanced on his ears. Thank fuck just one of them had come in after me. If they both had, or if I hadn't been quick enough with Sundance, it might have been a different story.

Kelly's eyes stared out at me from the Polaroid as rain pounded the tarmac and drummed on the roofs of the parked cars. It looked like the storm was back, and here to stay for the night. I was sheltering in the doorway of an expensive shoe shop just off Sloane Square, surrounded by scaffolding for the building works next door. A row of skips blocked the kerb, laden with sodden plaster and old, very wet bricks.

Traser told me it was eleven sixteen as I slipped the creased photo back into my bumbag, alongside Sundance's Brazilian Taurus.38 revolver and suppressor. I peered out towards Sloane Square tube station. It was closed. In fact all the tube stations I'd seen on the way here after about eight o'clock had had a couple of bored-looking policemen standing in front of their gated-off entrances. White marker boards told pissed-off travellers that there'd been a power failure affecting the whole system. Something to do with the wrong kind of rain. London Underground was closed until further notice.

I hoped Suzy was around here somewhere, waiting like me, standing off until the RV time. If not, my options in the next fifteen minutes were going to be limited. I'd have to try to use the fact that I didn't have her two bottles to my advantage: I'd tell the source I was only handing over three, that the other two would come when Kelly was released. Not that it would do me any good. That kind of threat only worked in Hollywood. If I was the source, I'd take my chances with the ones I'd got, and drop both of us anyway.

The foot traffic at this time of night was busier than I'd have expected, maybe because of the tube shutdown. At least the taxis were enjoying themselves. There was a never-shrinking line of umbrellas at the rank on the square.

I was dressed in tracksuit bottoms and a Fila nylon jacket to match the Fila baseball cap that was hiding my face from CCTV. The outfit was rounded off with a new pair of trainers, already wet and dirty after my trudge through the City. The DW was next to me in a Nike daysack, nestling inside my rolled-up leather bomber and jeans. I'd got a no-insurance, no-licence minicab about a quarter of a mile away from B amp;Q. The driver spoke just enough English for me to direct him south as the ancient Rover's clapped-out exhaust rattled below us. He'd dropped me off at Bethnal Green, where I'd gone shopping in the Indian discount clothes shops before hitting the tube at around the time the Yes Man must have decided the situation could no longer be contained in-house. I'd only gone two stops before we were all chucked off at Bank and the station was closed.

My eyes were glued on the bus stop, but none of the people waiting under their shiny wet umbrellas, or sheltering against Smith's windows, looked remotely like her. I checked traser again, and at twenty-six past, head down, daysack over both shoulders in case I had to do a runner, I ventured out into the rain. Two minutes later I had my back pressed against Smith's windows and the daysack between my feet, keeping under the four-inch ledge to help kid myself I was out of the rain. About thirty metres to my right, the other side of the crossing, one male and one female police constable stood outside the closed tube gates, already bored, but probably pleased to be under more cover than I was, and certainly happy about the overtime. The pair of them had a good laugh about something the woman had said. If they'd known what was really happening, there wouldn't have been any jokes.

Two men walked past from right to left, still in their office clothes, carrying briefcases and contorting themselves beneath one small fold-up umbrella. My eyes followed them towards the Kings Road, then switched to a woman coming in the opposite direction. Thank fuck for that. She might have her head down, but it was definitely Suzy.

A guy in his twenties came to share my ledge. He still had his NatWest suit on, collar up, logo on the breast pocket. He lit a cigarette: the smoke drifted the few feet between us and I smelt the alcohol on his breath.

I looked left again. Suzy had pushed her hair up into a ball cap, and her jeans jacket and baggy cream cargoes were soaked. She'd slung a large leather bag across her shoulders.

As she got closer, I lifted my head so she could see me. She was all smiles. 'Hello. How are you?' She gave me a friendly kiss on both cheeks.

'Fine. Enjoying the weather. Just on my way home.'

'I'm parked round the corner. I'll take you.'

It would have been unnatural to go back the way she'd just come, so we carried on towards the tube, taking the junction right that led south towards the river. We followed the bend in the road until we were in dead ground from the police.

About half-way towards the next T-junction, Suzy's head lifted just enough for me to see her lips move under the dripping peak. 'You seen all the closed tubes?'

I nodded. 'Got kicked off one at Bank. Power failure, my arse. It's just like when they're moving nuclear weapons along the motorways. All the junctions get closed off at three in the morning because of some mysterious accident further on, which suddenly clears as soon as the convoy has passed.'

Her lips curled into a wry smile. 'Looks like the boss had to come clean with Number Ten after all. Fair one. I wouldn't take any chances now – would you?' She gave a slightly surreal giggle. 'Bet Tony's flapping big-time. Can you imagine the spin that's going on in there?'

'They'll never keep it buttoned. It's going to be a nightmare this time tomorrow.'

She glanced quickly behind her. 'I spent the first half of the evening in the lobby of a Marble Arch hotel to keep out the way, but I got kicked out. They thought I was a hooker. So I did a quick couple of laps round the shops, got changed and here I am.'

'I almost got caught in the B amp;Q the other side of the station. Sundance? Fucker drew down on me. Anyway, we're here.'

'What now?'

'I've got to make the call.'

We arrived at the T-junction. Victoria station and Pimlico were signposted left, but we didn't want to go there. I knew a right and a left would take us past Chelsea Barracks and on to the bridge.

There was a lot of activity on the other side of the wrought-iron main gates, behind the Gore-Tex-covered, SA80-carrying MoD police guards. Trucks were lined up on the vast parade square, lights on and engines revving.

Chelsea Bridge came into view, and so did a phone box. We dug around in our pockets and between us came up with about four pounds in change. Squeezing into the box beside her, I got the Polaroid out again to phone the source. Suzy took it from me and studied it.

Three police vans packed with uniforms screamed towards us from the other side of the bridge. It was nearly midnight, maybe time for a change of shift. She handed Kelly back. 'It's going to be a fucking sight slower tomorrow, when everyone gets to know about this shit.'

The Cabinet Office, at number seventy Whitehall, had a suite of rooms for the use of government ministers and officials referred to as COBR, Cabinet Office Briefing Rooms. They were lettered rather than numbered, and emergency meetings tended to convene in room A. They'd be having one right now. The Chief of Defence Staff, heads of the intelligence and security services, the Met and fire service, every man and his dog, would be sitting round a table in crumpled shirts, working out what the fuck to do about these five bottles of Y. pestis on the move around the capital, while at the same time trying to keep everything looking as normal as possible for as long as they could. With Tony presiding, the Yes Man would be trying to explain his way out of the shit. That boil on his neck would be glowing nicely by now. It couldn't have happened to a nicer guy.