Nick Stone 08 - Aggressor by Andy McNab

Author:Andy McNab [McNab, Andy]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9781405611688
Published: 2006-08-15T04:50:52+00:00

PART SEVEN

1

Sunday, 1 May

The terminal was heaving with passengers waiting for international flights, and every single one of them had been delayed.

It was 10.09 on a Sunday; only a matter of time before the Audi would be discovered. Even in Georgia, bloodstained seats and a shot-out window must be a curiosity.

Our flight to Vienna should have taken off at 10.30, but we weren’t even being allowed to check in. There was only one departure gate, and only enough room airside for one planeload of passengers.

We’d covered our tracks as effectively as we could, but that didn’t stop me feeling uncomfortable. Red Eyes and his mate hadn’t done us any favours when they’d ripped our masks off, and it wouldn’t take Inspector Morse to link us to Baz’s Audi and the bodies in his driveway. I just wanted to get the fuck out of here. Freedom felt so close I could spit at it, but we were still the wrong side of the glass partition.

I sat by the garden sheds across the road from the terminal. At least the benches were dry; the sun had done its stuff, and now peeped intermittently through the banks of slow-moving cloud.

A lot of us had moved out here to escape the crush, and the taxi drivers were really pissed off about it. They didn’t want to share their world with a load of foreigners. The shed owners weren’t too happy about it, either. Each of them sat behind their identical chocolate- and gum-laden counters, making it very clear that the portable black-and-white TV on the shelf behind them was a great deal more appealing than the potential customers in front.

A bored-looking anchorwoman with big black hair was presenting a news programme on all three screens. It was obviously another slow day at the network. We were treated to endless vistas of grand buildings, or lingering shots of Georgian soldiers in US BDUs, with Richard the Lionheart insignia stuck all over them, sitting purposefully in the back of trucks, or running courageously up and down hills.

We’d made it to the hotel just before four. The kit had stayed with the body in the boot. We had to walk back into the city clean, just in case a curious blue-and-white wanted to know what we were lugging about this time of the morning. Charlie’s jumper and the weapon went down an open manhole that no man or beast in their right mind would consider even going near, then we’d played a couple of drunken arseholes back from a night on the piss, jackets inside out and tied round our waists to cover the worst of the blood and mud. As it turned out, nobody raised an eyebrow. It was just another Saturday night in downtown Tbilisi.

I’d retrieved my card from behind the cistern, had a shit, shave and shower, then headed for Charlie’s room with my old clothes under my arm to spend a little quality time covering our tracks. I pulled the CTR tape from

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