Zero Hour Part 25

5

I didn't need much high explosive to totally f.u.c.k up the silo and anyone in it. CNN and the BBC were going to end up with some great footage. Two lumps would do it: one of about a kilogram, to produce a kicking charge; and one half that size to produce a firebomb.

Picric acid is magic stuff, but a f.u.c.ker to make. To get there, I was going to have to separate the acetyl-salicylic acid in the aspirin from its bulking agent, add a couple more ingredients, and do a bit of mixing and distilling. The trouble was I only had the kit to make it in small batches. The whole process was probably going to take me all night.

I knew it better as Explosive Mix No. 7. As part of my anti-terrorism experience, I'd had to learn to be a terrorist. A lot of the time I was doing pretty much the same as they were, infiltrating a country, buying everything I needed in corner shops and pharmacies, and mixing those items with others in my basket so I wouldn't get noticed by the guy on the checkout. Then, like a terrorist, I'd go back to my hide, make and plant my device, and get out of the area before it went off.

The big difference nowadays is that we're in the age of the suicide bomber. They go in and stay with the device to make sure it goes off. Sometimes they're even wearing it. Neither of those things featured in my plans.

The first demolitions course I did when I joined the Regiment had lasted twelve weeks. I loved every minute of it. Even as a kid, I'd been fascinated by the TV footage of Fred Dibnah dropping power-station chimneys, and tower blocks imploding within their own perimeter. The princ.i.p.al task I trained for back then was to f.u.c.k up an enemy's industrial base.

Their troops might be giving us the good news at the front line, but no army can function if it can't get supplies. We might want to drop a bridge, railway line, hydroelectric power station or crude-oil refinery - or render docks useless, open floodgates, destroy military or civilian aircraft. So much damage can be done with just two pounds of plastic explosive. Why send in an air force to destroy a big industrial complex when the same result can be achieved by taking out its power source? It might be easier for a four-man team to infiltrate as civilians, do the reconnaissance, then buy ingredients over the counter to make the devices.

Destroying something doesn't necessarily involve removing it from the face of the earth. A large factory or even a small town can be neutralized by taking out an electricity substation. It might just mean making a small penetration of about half an inch with explosives into a particular piece of machinery. That might be all that's needed to disturb the momentum of the moving parts inside it. The machine then destroys itself. The skill is in identifying where the weak point is, getting in there to do it, and getting away again.

The problem is, you're not going to have a notebook in your pocket with all your formulas and bomb-a.s.sembly instructions. We'd spent the first few weeks of the demolitions course having to learn them by heart. There were nine basic mixes: nine different types of explosive for nine different types of job, from low explosive - a lifting charge if you want to make a big crater in a runway or blow up a road or vehicle going along it - to high explosives, which can be used with enough precision to cut steel if you want to destroy a power station or drop a bridge or a couple of pylons. It's horses for courses, different explosives for different attacks. High explosives were going to be perfect for me on this job.

I pressed forty aspirin tablets out of their foil and crushed them in the first of the three 5mm-thick juice gla.s.ses I'd bought in the market. I used the hard plastic spoon from the knife-fork-spoon camping set. It couldn't be metal. I was making picric acid because it's easy to detonate. The downside is that the slightest friction or percussion can set the stuff off. What's more, it attacks metal, creating salts that are just as explosive. It can only be safely in contact with wood, gla.s.s or plastic.

I opened the little tap at the bottom of the container, poured some water into the largest of the cheap aluminium pans and put it on the gas. While I waited for it to come up to the same temperature as a hot bath, I added a little water to the powder in gla.s.s number one to make a paste, then added a splash of alcohol. I stirred until it liquefied.

Only now was there time for my stab wounds to get a little TLC. I pulled my jeans down and poured some of the alcohol between the wound and towel padding. It was like my skin was on fire.

I left the mix on the concrete floor and hobbled over to the Pa.s.sat. Brogues wasn't in complete rigor mortis yet. Everything but his eyelids was still soft and pliable. The process normally starts two to three hours after death and it can take maybe another four for all the muscles and organs to stiffen. It was cold in the loading bay, which would speed things up. The eyelids are among the first bits to go rigid, along with the jaw and neck. His eyes were no longer closed; he stared dully out of the boot. That was why the poor used to place coins over them to keep them closed.

His skin was already pale. The blood had settled in the parts of the body closest to the ground and had drained into the larger veins. The back of his head didn't look as beaten about as I'd thought it would. I pulled off his handmade brown suede shoes. I needed the matching socks.

I tried to sit down while I shoved a sock over gla.s.s number two, but my b.u.t.tock wasn't at all keen. I had to stand and lean down instead. I poured the aspirin mix into the sock sieve. Cloudy liquid trickled through. After a while I removed the sock and wrung out the dregs. I didn't want the rubbish that was left - that was just the bulking agent. What I needed was in the gla.s.s - or, rather, what was going to be left after I'd evaporated the water and alcohol out of the liquid. But that was still a few steps away.

Gla.s.s number two went into the simmering water. It was going to take about twenty minutes for the alcohol and moisture to evaporate and leave a residue of white powder.

The next stage was to add the acid. Concentrated sulphuric was a lot harder to come by, these days, because of anti-terrorist legislation. Unless you're an industrial chemist, buying it arouses suspicion. My original plan had been to drain some of the Panda's battery acid, but the Pa.s.sat was a bonus. Or so I thought. There was more of it, but it was a f.u.c.ker to get out. Everything under the bonnet was covered and sealed to make it look all nice and Gucci. n.o.body serviced these things any more: they just plugged them into diagnostic machines.

I poured out a third of the contents of each cell into one of the smaller cooking pots. Even depleted, the battery would still work. The battery acid had to be boiled until all the white fumes had disappeared. It had to be seriously concentrated.

The method for making picric acid hadn't changed for years. It was discovered in the late 1700s, and initially used as a yellow dye for silk and wool. Its explosive potential was discovered a hundred years later. The problem was, this stuff was so strong it attacked common metals like lead and copper to create even more dangerous salts, which were sensitive to shock. During the Boer War, the artillery boys threw sh.e.l.ls into their guns and blew themselves up. There were some ma.s.sive explosions in factories and ammunition s.h.i.+ps. Tin and aluminium were the only metals picric acid didn't corrode. Millions of tons of the stuff were used in bombs and grenades in the First World War. They were all coated with tin to prevent the acid contaminating the metallic sh.e.l.l. Even so, munitions factory workers were nicknamed canaries because of the way it stained their skin.

Then they discovered that picric acid was only a nightmare in powder form. Even these days, if the powder is stored in a gla.s.s or plastic bottle, you have to take enormous care not to trap grains of it in the threads of the bottle and cap. It's so volatile that just uns.c.r.e.w.i.n.g the top will make it detonate.

I was going to miss the kick of being able to get s.h.i.+t like this together and see the results. The payoff would be sitting on the flight to Russia with Anna on one side and somebody tapping away on his laptop on the other and me thinking, When you watch the news today you'll see what I've been up to.

I could see the white powder starting to settle in gla.s.s number two as the water simmered gently around it. I took the pan off the cooker and replaced it with the one holding the battery acid. It wasn't long before white haze was rising and wafting round the lock-up. Once it had stopped, I poured some of the concentrated acid into gla.s.s number three. Then, using the plastic knife, I slowly s.h.i.+fted the white powder out of gla.s.s number two and added it to the other so it became a white liquid.

All I had to do now was add a bit of pota.s.sium, before placing gla.s.s number three in the water and letting that boil down until the mixture turned a yellow-orange colour.

The final stage would be to filter it through a second sock placed over gla.s.s number four. But this time it wouldn't be the liquid I was after. I wanted what stayed behind in the sock. The yellow and - thankfully - wet lumps that remained were what this process was all about. Once dried, they would turn into one big f.u.c.k-off unstable explosive that could be detonated very easily by heat or an electric charge. For now, however, it would be stored wet in a double layer of freezer bags, twisted, folded over and fastened with the wire retainer to keep the air out and the acid wet. I would keep filling the bags until I had enough.

6

Friday, 19 March 07.20 hrs

I'd fallen asleep in Brogues's camel-hair coat, lying on the footwell carpets from the Pa.s.sat. I'd spread them out on the floor alongside my four bags of explosive.

I forced myself up off the concrete. There was plenty more to do.

The first thing was to empty the water container to prepare it for its next payload. I opened the tap and let it run out on the floor. Next I got hold of the set of blister-packed halogen bulbs. The plastic packaging was so rigid I had to use the Chinese Leatherman to make any headway.

These bulbs were just what I needed. They were small, they banged out a huge amount of instant heat, and for their size they were more robust than normal bulbs, which were increasingly hard to find anyway because of EU green legislation. These ones would probably be banned as well when the law makers found out they could be used as detonators.

I pulled one out. It was about the size of the tip of my little finger. It had two loops of metal at the bottom for terminals.

The mosque digital alarm clock was next out of Santa's Bergen. I shoved in four AA batteries, then yanked out the leads that connected the power source to the speaker at the back. I twisted the bare wires around each of the bulb loops and set the clock to 08.00. Then I set the alarm for 08.01. Bang on time, instead of me getting the muezzin's wail, the bulb lit up. After three seconds it was hot to the touch - not enough to detonate anything, but that didn't matter for now. I was going to do something else to the bulb to bring it up to speed. I turned off the alarm clock to save the batteries and put it down.

The twenty-litre container had emptied. I picked it up, together with the length of clear plastic tubing I'd bought from a shop that sold tropical fish, and headed for the Pa.s.sat.

I opened the fuel cap and shoved the tube down into the tank. With the empty container by my feet, I put the other end of the tube to my lips and sucked. My lungs filled with petrol fumes but I kept going. A few seconds later, the tube darkened. As soon as the fuel had risen to within an inch or two of the tip I slid my thumb over it and took it out of my mouth. I pointed it down into the container, pulled my thumb away and the fuel flowed.

I remembered all the times my stepdad had sent me out nicking petrol from other people's cars during the fuel shortage in the seventies. I was only about twelve. After that, he said there was a sugar shortage, so I used to get sent out to pocket the sugar shakers from cafes. There wasn't a sugar shortage, of course: it was my stepdad's way of saving a few pennies, and f.u.c.k the fact that I might get caught.

I left the tube where it was and let the siphon do its stuff. It was time for a brew. The flow would stop as soon as the fuel in the container reached the level of the tube, which was about twenty centimetres below the neck. That would be plenty.

I had a quick look at my G-Shock. Bradley was going to be here soon. I needed to have Angeles tucked away by then.

I had a quick check of the telltales on the way up to see if she'd been having a nose around. They were all in place, and so was the one behind the pigeonholes. I realized I felt nowhere near as bad as I thought I would without the Smarties. I made a mental note to stab myself in the b.u.t.tock next time I felt a headache coming on.

The moment I opened the door she leapt up from the mattress and cut across the room. 'Nick! I make tea?'

I gave her a big thumbs-up. 'Madness not to.'

I looked at the sink. The mugs had been washed. Everything was laid out neatly. The milk stains and tea circles where I'd been making brews had all been cleaned. 'You had anything to eat yet?'

'No, Nick. I wait for you.' She looked worried. 'I touch nothing.'

I let her get on with it while I dug around in the plastic bags for a piece of pitta. It had started to go hard. What little scabbing I had on my a.r.s.e had cracked with my exertions and was starting to hurt again. I leant on my good leg and gnawed on the crispy bits around the edges of the bread.

'Listen, Angeles, someone is coming to see me soon.'

She handed me my brew. She didn't look happy.

'This one must not know that you're here, OK? You understand?'

It didn't seem to register.

'He must not see you. I'll find you somewhere to hide. You've got to stay out of sight, yeah?'

She seemed to like the thought of not being seen. Maybe it meant she wouldn't be moved on.

'Stay hidden until I tell you to come out. You've got to be quiet. He's going to get really p.i.s.sed off if you're here. He's only let me use this place because he thinks I'm on my own. If he thinks anyone else is here he'll be very angry with me. You understand?'

She nodded. 'Yes, yes, Nick. We still leave tonight?'

'No drama. Tonight. We'll meet the friend I told you about and she will ask her friends in Moldova if what the Ukrainian men said was true.'

I dunked my bread in the tea to soften it.

She almost skipped back to the sink to pick up her brew.

7

I had an even better vantage-point from the shadows beside the window of the middle office. I could see the front door as well as back along the road towards the main.

I checked my watch and gulped down my last couple of aspirin. They weren't helping much with the pain in my a.r.s.e, but I thought I'd try one more dose just in case. The sky was still overcast. The sun hadn't quite given up trying to fight its way through the clouds, but it must have been tempted.

Bradley came into view, still in exactly the same clothes, but this time gripping a heavy and expensive-looking leather overnight bag in his right hand. I watched him to the door, then headed for the stairs.

By the time I'd got down to the fire escape on the first landing and turned to look down to the front door, he was inside and beginning to lock up.

'I have everything you asked for.'

'That's great, mate. Thanks.' I went down to meet him. 'Half the job's already done.'

'What do you mean?'

He followed me up the steps to the fire door and into the loading bay. His head bounced around the place, taking in the smell of vomit and petrol and the mess of pans and sock-covered gla.s.ses in my preparation area. The last of the sulphuric acid was still in its gla.s.s. But mostly his eyes darted between me and the Pa.s.sat.

He was desperate to know what was going on but didn't want to ask.

'He's in the boot.'

'In there? You're sure it's him?'

'You tell me. Whoever it is, I got his sidekick as well. Don't ask.'

I fished out the key fob from my pocket and pressed the b.u.t.ton. The bodies had hardened up completely. They were both curled up like Pompeii victims. Their puke- and bloodstained white shrouds only half covered them.

I went and picked up Brogues's camel-hair coat and extracted a slim crocodile-skin wallet. I produced a credit card with an unp.r.o.nounceable name on it and tried to pa.s.s it to Bradley.

'Very good.' He didn't want to touch it. 'How did you do it?'

'Like I said, don't ask. That's my job. I'm more interested in what you've been up to. You get the cartridges?'

'Yes, of course.' He put the bag down and started to unzip it.

I talked to the top of his gelled-back hair. 'Have you spoken to Mission Control since we met up yesterday, last night, whenever?'

'No, not at all. Why do you ask?'

He was still hunched down by his bag, his eyes on the cooker. Mine were on the boxes of shotgun cartridges.

'How many did you get?'

'Twenty. When are you going to the silo?'

'Tonight.'

He nodded slowly as if the message had to sink in. 'I think I need to know what time you will be leaving here. I need to be ready to pick up the girl.'

'I'll drop her here as soon as I've got her, and then I'm heading straight off. I'll gaffer tape her up so she won't go anywhere.'

'What about the Pa.s.sat?'

'Like I said, everything here will be clear. I don't know what time - nine, ten, eleven o'clock - but it'll definitely be clear tonight and the girl will be waiting.'

He knelt down to unload the cartridges. 'Excellent.'

He picked up the empty bag and we headed for the fire door.

'I suppose I'll never meet you again, will I, Mr Smith?'

'No, mate, never.'

If only he knew the real reason. Both of us would be dead really soon. I was coming to terms with that myself, but I almost felt sorry for him. He was a two-timing little s.h.i.+t, but all in the name of queen and country. Sadly for him, people like Bradley didn't realize that his queen had no idea he even existed, and his country didn't give a s.h.i.+t in return.

We went back down to the front entrance. Bradley stretched out his hand. 'Good luck, Nick.'

'Thanks, mate. And you.'

I unlocked the door and he stepped onto the road. Empty bag in hand, he carried on walking without looking back.