Exit Wound by Andy McNab Page A

‘Just waiting for the right time.’
    ‘The right time for Spag, or for some other fucker?’
    ‘Who knows?’ He checked his watch again. ‘You OK, Nick? Seen enough?’
    ‘Yeah.’
    ‘We’ll follow the route backwards to the gold market. See where the weapons are and where Dex will lift the truck.’
    We wandered over to the cab rank. Dex jumped into the front of the first available and greeted the driver like an old cricketing companion. We headed down the ramp to meet the white Toyota, three up.

21
    We drove towards the Creek about four or five K away. The main drag really was main. Four lanes in both directions cut through the city. It was pointless checking if the Toyota was still behind us. We’d wait until we stopped, just as we did on foot. These guys weren’t complete amateurs. They must have had some training or they’d have stayed with us on the mall roof. But if they were internal security, police, whoever, why tag us? Was it because we’d been with Spag this morning? Maybe they’d been following him, seen us meet and decided to find out who we were and what we were doing.
    Whatever, I didn’t like it. The job felt compromised before we’d even begun. A big part of me wanted to get these lads to call the whole thing off, but I knew that wasn’t going to happen.
    We fell silent as we thought about the job and the Toyota. Well, maybe just Red Ken and I did. I had no idea what was going on in Dex’s head. But then neither did he.
    We drove through the tunnel and followed the Creek towards the sea. Knackered old dhows were parked five and six deep all along the harbour front while their crews unloaded fridges and all sorts straight onto the pavement.
    Dex gave the driver a tap on the shoulder. ‘We’ll stop here, chappie. Thank you very much.’
    Red Ken and I got out and left Dex to pay. The Toyota passed us and disappeared down a side turning. The lads would be jumping out any minute to keep with us. We both checked to see if any other cars were doing the same. Maybe they had a team with us, or maybe they’d split when we were all pinged together at the golf course this morning. We did the tourist bit, watching the locals work their arses off unloading and then dicing with death as they barrowed everything, including the kitchen sink, to the shops on the other side of the road.
    The sun cast long shadows as it began to bin it for the day. Lights were already on in the shops. Street signs flickered into life, and I started to feel the energy of the place. Night-time was when Dubai began to hop. Who but dickhead tourists wanted to wander around in the sun?
    Red Ken tapped my shoulder. ‘There’s the subway. Get into the toilet block and do your stuff. We’ll wait here, see if the team have pinged us yet.’
    I wandered under the road. As I emerged the other side, I passed an enclosed steel-and-glass bus shelter with an air-conditioning unit on the roof. It must have been nice and cool for all the people who never used it because they all went by car. It was almost space age compared with the place I was going.
    I could smell the flat-roofed cube from several metres away. The cars around it looked as though they’d been abandoned rather than parked. The local dudes leant against the wall and smoked.
    I went inside.
    The place was boiling hot and stank exactly like a shit-hole full of tobacco smoke should. The two sinks were cracked. The taps were broken. There were four cubicles, and only one was being used. I always thought the hole in the ground with a hosepipe to sluice your arse was a better system than ours, apart from the squatting bit. There’s quite an art in keeping your jeans and slack belt out of the firing line.
    Above my head, to the right of the entrance, was a ledge on which sat an ancient air-conditioning system, a plastic box caked in grime that probably hadn’t sparked up since this place was declared open – about twenty years ago, the same time it had last been