5
Who was I trying to kid?
I knew I had to save old Disco Hands from himself, otherwise why would I be here?
But I wasn’t going to tell the old f*cker yet. He’d have to work for it.
I had a few concerns. It felt like too much of a rush. I would have preferred time to tune in to this place, but that wasn’t going to happen. And besides, it was why Charlie was getting paid big bucks.
He’d have to think on his feet. And if they started to wobble, I’d be there to hold him up.
Five minutes later I dried myself, watching what had to be the best recruiting ad for any army in the known universe. It took me a moment to realize it wasn’t a Colgate commercial. Every trooper in sight had the sort of clean-cut, sharply chiselled smile your average Georgian mum would die for; quite a few of them were busy swooning in the audience as the parade moved past them. I was expecting to see the bellboy any minute.
The music oozed serenity as the camera lingered on envious younger brothers who couldn’t wait to join up, and older sisters who only had eyes for their older brothers’ new mates. And all the while, Richard the Lionheart’s flag fluttered alongside the Stars and Stripes, the two occasionally entwining in the breeze.
It was all very moving. I had half a mind to sign up myself. And as Charlie often used to say, that was all you needed . . .
Leaving the defenders of the motherland saluting the flags, I headed downstairs with money, passport, phone and wet hair.
I needed a brief. After that, our plan was to be seen together in public as little as we could. We’d do our own recces, only get together for the job, whatever that was, then leave separately for the airport the next day.
Our return flight to Istanbul was at 10 a.m., but it didn’t matter if we missed it. There were flights within the following couple of hours to Vienna or Moscow. That at least guaranteed an exit from Georgia, and once we were clear, we could sort ourselves out for a plane back to Australia.
I could see if Silky was still talking to me, and he could go and die.
Room 106 had a Do Not Disturb sign on the door handle, in Russian, English and Paperclip. I gave a knock and stepped back so the silly old f*cker could see me through the spyhole.
The door opened and a very smiley Charlie let me in. He’d gone for the oilman look, complete with a scuffed-up pair of US desert combat boots. The only thing missing was the green flowery logo.
He looked me up and down. ‘Making an effort to blend in, I see? You look like those blocks of flats on the way in.’
The curtains were drawn; all the lights were on. The laptop was rigged up on the small desk by the window. A town map was spread out on the bed, unmarked. Alongside was a collection of improvised picks and tension wrenches. I sat on the edge of the mattress and picked up one of the lengths of coat-hanger wire. It had a two-inch shaft, then a right-angle bend; the other end had been twisted into a circle.
‘You already done the locks recce for this little job of yours?’
‘I could see everything from the video.’ He went and sat in front of the laptop and pushed the memory stick into the USB port. ‘Have a look.’ He freeze-framed on a shot of the large double steel gates. ‘See? Piece of piss. It’ll take me about ten seconds.’
He was right. It was just a lever lock. It would be easy to defeat, even without a recce. At least that would get us into the yard and out of view.
‘What happens when you’re inside? You still haven’t told me.’
He flipped down the screen and looked at me. ‘It’s a covert CTR [close target recce]. I – hopefully we – have to open a safe and nick whatever documents are there, lock everything up again, and drop the stuff in a dead letter box. Old Baz will never know; we’ll be in and out without leaving a fart print.’
He paused.
‘It’ll be like being over the water again, eh?’
True; we’d done enough covert CTRs of PIRA houses, looking for weapons or explosives, or putting in listening devices, to fill the housebreaker’s handbook. But this was different. ‘It sounds like a lot of cash for just a bit of nicking. You know where – and what sort – the safe is?’
Charlie couldn’t help smiling. ‘Nope, and it doesn’t matter. Even a dickhead like you knows that locks are designed to be opened. Besides, why do you think I’m being paid so much?’
I stood up. ‘Do you know what you’re lifting?’
‘Nope. Just anything inside the safe, handwritten or printed.’
‘You know why it has to be lifted covertly? Why not just get a local lad to blow the thing up?’
‘Don’t know, don’t care. Could be one of a thousand reasons.’
‘He live alone?’
‘Yep, all on his lonesome, in that big old house. What a waste.’
‘You know what this Baz guy has done, or what he’s about to do?’
Charlie knew I’d be hitting him with questions like this for hours if he didn’t shut me up. ‘Take a breath, lad. Everything’s in hand. I’ll be finding out all I need to when old Whitewall turns up at nine. He’ll have to tell me; it’s too near the witching hour for him to f*ck me about, and I won’t do the job if he doesn’t tell me the reason why.’
‘What’s he coming here for?’
‘I gave him a kit list in Istanbul.’
Charlie went through it all: fibre-optic equipment; big holdall of pick gear to cover all the safe options; all the other tiny details that never leave the expert’s mind.
Charlie was grinning like an idiot. He loved talking work stuff; it was like he’d been let out of the paddock. ‘Why the long face, lad? I know it’s about two donkeys’ worth of kit, but we need it to cover all eventualities, not to mention our arse.’
I was listening, but just now the kit was unimportant. ‘It’s your arse I’m worried about. And mine. Charlie, you know f*ck all. You could land up in a world of shit, mate. You could get thrown away with the rubbish once this job’s done.’