Remote Control by Andy McNab Read Free Book Online Page A

his place of work, the pub, where the kids go to school, even the betting shop. I needed to know as much as I could about them, because once you’re inside your target’s mind you can second-guess every movement, even understand why they do what they do. Unfortunately, all I knew so far about McGear and Kerr was that they liked drinking Budweiser and must be gagging for a fag. So I had to start with the hotel.
    I needed to get forward of them. That shouldn’t be a problem, since Club had its own shuttle bus to get us to the terminal ahead of the herd. However, since they’d pre-booked a transfer, I’d need to grab a cab pretty sharpish if I was going to beat them to M Street. I could have booked one of my own when I spoke to Washington Flyer, but I’d tried to do that in Warsaw once in similar circumstances, only to come out and find the two drivers fighting over who to take first, me or the target. It was the taxi rank for me from then on.
    I came out of arrivals through two large automatic doors and into a horseshoe of waiting relatives and limo drivers holding up name boards, all held back by steel barriers. I carried on through the bustle, turned left and walked down a long ramp into heat and brilliant sunshine.
    There was a queue at the rank. I did a quick calculation and the number of passengers didn’t go into the limited number of cabs. I wandered towards the rear of the rank and waved a $20 bill at one of the drivers. He smiled conspiratorially and hustled me inside. A further $20 soon had me screaming along the Dulles access road towards Route 66 and Washington, DC. The airport and its surroundings reminded me of a high-tech business park, with everything green and manicured; there’d even been a lake as we exited the terminal. Suburbia started about fifteen miles from the airport, mainly ribbon development on either side of the Beltway – vast estates of very neat wooden and brick houses, many still under construction. We passed a sign for the Tyson’s Corner turn-off and I strained my neck to see if I could see Kev’s place. I couldn’t. But, as Euan would have said, executive housing all looks the same.
    We crossed the Potomac and entered the city of monuments.
    The Westin on M Street was a typically upmarket American hotel, purpose-built, slick and clean, and totally devoid of character. Walking into the lobby, I got my bearings and headed left and up a few stairs to a coffee lounge on a half-landing that overlooked the reception area and the only way in and out. I ordered a double espresso.
    A couple of refills later, Kerr and McGear came through the revolving door, looking very relaxed. They went straight to the desk. I put down my coffee, left a $5 bill under the saucer and wandered down.
    It was just a matter of getting the timing right; there was a bit of a queue at the desk, but the hotel was as efficient as it was soulless and now had more people behind the reception desk than were waiting to be served.
    I couldn’t hear what McGear and Kerr were saying, but it was obvious they were checking in. The woman looking after them was tapping a keyboard below desk level. Kerr handed over a credit card for swiping and now was the time to make my approach. It makes life far easier if you can get the required information this way rather than trying to follow them, and there was no way I was going to risk a compromise by getting in the lift with them. I only hoped they were sharing a room.
    To the right of them on the reception desk was a rack of information cards, advertising everything from restaurants to trolley-bus rides. I stood about 2 metres away, with my back to them. There was no big flap about this; it was a big, busy hotel, and they weren’t looking at me, they were doing their own stuff. I made it obvious I was flicking through the cards and didn’t need help.
    The woman said, ‘There you are, gentlemen, you’re in room 403. If you turn left just past the pillars you’ll see the