5
As Charlie got back to the terminal, a two-tone Pajero, silver bottom, dark blue top, sped past the main doors, one up. It was too far away for me to be able to ID the driver, but the sheer bulk of the silhouette at the wheel made me stay with it as it continued past the garden sheds.
I scrabbled along the skips and watched it turn into the car park. The Pajero bounced over puddles and potholes, heading towards the derelict buses closer to the terminal. The nearside wing was damaged. I had a feeling I knew why.
I lost sight of it behind the buses, and I turned back to scan the front of the terminal. Still no sign of the 110.
I heard a door slam behind the buses.
He’d have to cross a hundred metres or so of open ground before he got to the terminal. A straight line would take him very close to the skips. We were going to be in the shit if the 110 turned up right now and Charlie carried on implementing Plan A. The driver would have to come with us; we couldn’t have any more of them running around the country.
No time to think. Bastard was waddling towards the terminal, dressed in the US business uniform for the over-fifties. He pulled an aluminium wheelie carry-on behind him. Whatever we had in those papers, it had got him all fired up. It would have been bad enough for him losing control of the papers Saturday night. But now? With the Istanbul and Marriott tapes out of his control as well, he definitely needed to do the same as us – just get the f*ck out. I guessed he wasn’t too anxious to land a starring role on 60 Minutes.
I let him pass the back of the sheds, then crawled out from between the skips to get behind him.
Aroll of fat quivered above his shirt collar. Pulling my hat down low, I followed in step.
‘Oi, Bastendorf!’
I gave him a big happy face as I closed in, but stayed just beyond grabbing distance.
His face clouded. ‘How the f*ck do you know my—’
‘I’ve got Kunzru’s weapon. I want our passports.’
He rolled his head back and laughed. Maybe he was amused by the hat.
‘Passports, I want them.’
‘Get the f*ck! I shout out right now and you’re history, a*shole. I’m walking. What you gonna do, pull steel and gun me down in front of the f*cking terminal?’
‘Yes.’
You never make a threat that you can’t carry out, and Bastard knew it. He could see my hand over the front of my jacket.
His nostrils flared. He breathed very slowly and deeply. ‘I burned them.’ He enjoyed telling me that.
Over Bastard’s shoulder, I could see a 110 pull up in front of the terminal, its rear doors already opening. Charlie would be out any minute. He didn’t know we had the Pajero now; that there was now no need for desperate measures. All he had to do was bluff his way into the back and retrieve the gear.
Maybe Bastard had the passports on him, maybe not. We’d soon find out. I nodded over his shoulder. ‘You’re going to turn round and head for the one-ten.’
‘The what?’
‘The Land Rover. Move.’
I came up on his left, eyes peeled for Charlie. Cars and buses moved between us and the 110, temporarily blocking the view.
Bastard gobbed off far too confidently for someone this deep in the shit. ‘We going back to town? You thinking of turning yourself in, or do you just like stealing military vehicles?’
The wheels of his carry-on rumbled along behind us as we made our way to the road. Two guys stepped out of the 110, luggage in hand. Charlie would come out as soon as he saw them check in.
‘Get your arse moving. Go and tell the driver you were in the duty wagon a few days ago. Pull up the back seats, tell him you’ve lost something. I don’t give a shit what you say, just pick up what’s under there.’
He stopped in his tracks. ‘You f*ck!’
I pushed him forward and carried on walking, eyes peeled for Charlie steaming through the terminal doors. ‘If you say anything to the driver or start f*cking about, I’ll drop you. Understand? I’ve got nothing to lose.’
‘F*ck you.’
‘I’ll take that as a yes.’
Charlie emerged from the terminal. His gaze was fixed intently on the 110 a few metres ahead of him.
We started to cross the road and I could now see the front plate. HF 51 KN. Different driver but the same vehicle, apart from a brand new set of tyres.
Charlie was closing in on the driver’s door when he finally pinged us. I shook my head and he carried on hobbling.
Two police walked out of the terminal, one of them tapping a couple of cigarettes from a pack.
I could see Bastard weighing up his options as they came towards us, sharing a lighter. His eyes bounced between them and me.
I couldn’t turn away or try and hide my face. It would only attract their attention.
F*ck it; if they pinged me, there was nothing I could do about it.
I was on autopilot. It was the only way.
They passed us. Then we passed Charlie, who was waiting for a bus to pull out so he could cross over to the sheds.
Bastard looked at me. ‘What I’m reaching for now is my wallet, OK?’
I held back a metre or so as he approached the driver’s window. He started talking even before the guy had finished winding it down.
The two policemen had stopped by the terminal entrance and were leaning against the wall, enjoying their smoke break.
Bastard thrust his ID in the driver’s face. I could tell he was talking from the way the roll of fat wobbled against his collar.
I concentrated on the driver’s face. Young, Latino. Most importantly, betraying no sign that Bastard was telling him the truth.
Bastard moved around to the rear doors of the 110. The Latino turned and leaned across to help him lift the seats.
Bastard emerged with the magazine in his hand and tapped a goodbye on the window. We turned and headed back the way we had come. The policemen hadn’t moved, but they had stopped chatting and seemed to be watching Bastard closely.
I held out my hand for the magazine.
Bastard hesitated. ‘Do I get my flight now? Hey, I was going to let you go if you came up with the goods.’
‘Keep walking. We’ve got plans for you.’
I heard laughter and out of the corner of my eye I saw one of the policemen pinch a fold of skin on his neck and give it a good wobble.
A second or two later, it started to rain.