Exit wound

The day-sack was secure and he hauled it back over his shoulders. ‘Yep, seems like a good deal. Stay in, but still get to be a family man. Well, as much as you can, eh?’

I nodded as if I knew. ‘I’d go for it, mate. You’ll be a general by the time I get within reach of sergeant. I’ll be your driver if you want.’

The other two finished their cigarettes. Red Ken picked up the butts and put them in a pocket of his day-sack. ‘Right, let’s get on with it.’

Tenny grabbed Spag and we crunched across the field towards the contact’s vehicle.

‘Listen in.’ Red Ken walked backwards so we could hear him clearly. ‘Stasi have been sniffing around this guy. They know something’s happening. Normally they want a kickback on the cash – or they have something to sell. They didn’t offer him anything, so let’s keep switched on.’

Spag bristled. ‘You saying we got trouble? You saying we shouldn’t even get in the vehicle with this fuck?’

Tenny cut in before Red Ken exercised any more of his diplomatic skills. ‘We’re here because of you. It’s you we’re taking to Vladislav. If you don’t want to go, that’s OK. Give us the cash and go back and wait in the plane.’

The Americans were buying the guidance system. We were only there because the deal was happening in Brixmis TAOR (tactical area of responsibility).

Spag gripped the bag as if it was his child. ‘I’m not leaving this goddam money with anyone.’

‘So our task is still to connect you with Vladislav. If our assessment is that we get in the vehicle, we get in the vehicle.’

We’d arrived alongside the most knackered Gaz van left in the Eastern bloc. It was trying its hardest to be a VW Camper, but looked more like a flat-pack wardrobe I’d once tried to put together without the instructions.

Red Ken and the contact jumped in the front. I got in behind with Spag. Tenny took the back row.

The windows were steamed up and cracked. It actually felt colder inside than out. It smelt like the old boy kept chickens in it. I pulled my beanie down over my eyes, put my hands in my pockets, and curled up as best I could on the ripped vinyl.

The drive along the pot-holed road was as bumpy as the landing had been.

Spag blew into his cupped hands. ‘How long till we get there? What are we going to do when we arrive?’

Nobody answered.

‘Red?’

Silence.

‘I demand to know what’s happening, goddammit.’

Red Ken finally turned in his seat. His head and shoulders were wreathed in smoke. ‘Another twenty minutes.’

Spag glared out of the window. He was way beyond his comfort zone. I’d have preferred to be tucked up in his warm office in the US embassy, too.

The contact muttered something and he hit the brake.

It got the American flapping big-time. ‘Jee-sus, what the fuck-’

Red Ken raised his hand. ‘Shut up. Nick, Tenny – stand by. Spag, you’d better get your head in gear and keep your gob shut.’

Through the misted-up windscreen, all I could see was the strobe of blue lights.

Spag had his head in gear, but it was the wrong one. ‘Why are we still driving towards it? Why aren’t we in reverse?’

Red Ken ignored him. All his attention was fixed on the road ahead.

6

It wasn’t a marked police car but a bog-standard Wartburg with a blue light on its roof. The front was tilted off the ground like they’d driven up an inspection ramp. The two lads flagging us down were dressed for winter. Both had big furry Russian hats. One was in a three-quarter-length sheepskin, the other in a long leather trench coat. Their street shoes were up to the ankles in mud, which was probably why they looked so pissed off.

‘Stasi.’ The contact confirmed what I’d suspected.

I stayed sunk in my seat as the Gaz came to a halt. Tenny mumbled from behind: ‘What’s going on, mate?’

Red Ken didn’t have time to answer. Spag was flapping. ‘Don’t stop! They’ll kill us! I’m ordering you.’

Red Ken smiled through the windscreen. ‘Nick, Tenny – stand by. We’ll sort this once we’re out of the vehicle. I see two so far, no weapons.’

I gripped the Maglite in my right hand, with the shaft up my forearm. You’re better off out on your feet than sitting in a wagon. Once we were in the open air, I’d be ready the moment Red Ken kicked it off.

The closer the voices got, the tighter I gripped. My eyes strained at the tops of their sockets. The two Stasi seemed to be waving us out of the wagon, with the confidence that comes from no one ever fucking you about.

Red Ken’s fingers closed round the door handle.

The contact wound down the window. Cold air rushed into the wagon. His breath billowed as he spoke.

I heard the word ‘Zigarette’.

Then: ‘Ach so – Englische Zigarette?’

I pretended to come awake, and looked around dozily. Red Ken was sitting there, beaming friendship and goodwill.

Spag was close to hyperventilating. The knuckles gripping the bag gleamed white.