Free Detonator by Andy McNab Page B

didn’t need to keep but couldn’t bring themselves to throw away. I knew this was exactly how the place was meant to look; it wasn’t just because Frank had forgotten to bring in the cleaners. Once the door had closed, there was no hint of what lay behind it.
    A dark green Volkswagen Polo stood to one side, with French plates and an up-to-date Swiss car-toll vignette in the bottom left corner of the windscreen. Nothing too flash, but solid. This wagon was designed to stay under the radar.
    There was no sign of a satnav, which suited me just fine. I’d spent the last few hours wondering where the fuck I was, and still wanted to find out how I’d got here, but I was in no doubt that I’d spent the rest of my life doing my best to remain untraceable.
    The only concession to high tech was the little black plastic box on the driver’s seat, which I guessed must power up the shutter that separated us from the outside world. The ignition key had been left beside it.
    When I put Stefan down he made for the passenger door, but I steered him to the rear hatch and told him to curl up in the boot. ‘It’s safer. No one will give a scruffy fucker on his own a second glance in a wagon like this …’ I liked the sound of that. I hoped it was true.
    He got the message and curled up without complaint on what looked and smelt like an old dog blanket, beside a folded safety triangle and a clear plastic container full of spare lightbulbs. I didn’t feel too bad about that. Despite the crocodiles crawling all over his kit, I knew he’d been in shittier places. I knew because I’d been there with him.
    Before I closed the hatch I asked him who knew about this set-up.
    ‘Just me and my dad.’
    ‘Not the black guy?’
    He shook his head.
    I sparked up the engine, threw the Polo into gear and pressed the button on the black box. Sure enough, a green light flickered and the shutter rolled open, then closed as soon as we were through.
    Immediately on my left there was a storage facility for winter grit, and a vehicle-repair yard on the right. You wouldn’t have given either a second glance as you headed up or down the mountain. And if you took the heli from Geneva to the Altiport, you’d never even know that places like this existed.
    I drove fifteen metres up the rutted track between them and turned right, away from the sign pointing towards ‘Centre Village’. I needed to go back to pick up my day sack, but right now I had to make distance from this drama and work out what the next one would be.
    I kept going until I reached Moriond – not too far from Courchevel 1850, but the kind of place that looked like you could still find a takeaway kebab instead of an over-priced three-course meal. I pulled into a parking lot outside a block of flats that was in need of a lick of paint, and turned off the engine.
    Someone had smashed the only lamp in sight, so it was nice and dark here. I wound down the front windows a fraction to stop them misting up, and watched the comings and goings on the main.
    First up, I wondered who the fuck had pressed the GIGN button. Even if someone had reported us gaining entry, those guys didn’t bother with break-ins. They were heavy-duty. National security. So who were they after? Me? Frank’s killers? Or was this only the tip of a bigger, uglier iceberg? Whatever the answer, I needed to nail it on my own terms, and not from the inside of a police interrogation room.
    Now we seemed to be out of the immediate shit, I was going to focus on finding out who had leant on Mr Lover Man forcibly enough to get him to kill his boss. Because when I knew that, I’d be a step closer to neutralizing the threat to Stefan. And the threat to me.
    The traffic was sporadic for the next hour or so. Family saloons, mostly, the odd tourist coach and local bus. That was OK by me. It gave me time to try to join some of the dots.
    I heard Stefan give a small cough and then whisper, ‘Can I come out now?’
    ‘No.’ I kept