I was, too once I'd started.
"Khuyevo dye lo I said to myself.
"Shit, shit, shit!" and then I was on my way.
With a safety rope round my waist and belayed on to the guy next in line, I crawled forward, each knee on one sharp-edged rung at a time, hands clutching the side-rails with a grip like a Scotsman's on a five-pound note. The ladder swayed horribly as gusts of wind hit me. I tried not to look down, but far below and away to my left I couldn't help catching glimpses of cars that looked like toys. Half-way across I decided it was better to keep my eyes shut.
Even without seeing I could tell how far I'd got from the bend in the ladder. It flexed most when I was in the middle. Russian ladder, I kept thinking. Russian aluminium. I hope to hell it doesn't break.
At last it began to stiffen again as I drew near to the far side. I opened my eyes and saw that I had only feet to go. A few more seconds and I was safe on the roof of Block B. As I scrambled on to the rough asphalt I was appalled to find that the ladder's overlap was more like a foot than a metre. The blocks were obviously slightly farther apart than the architects had prescribed. I watched, fascinated, as I saw the end of the ladder creeping in and out, and realised that the high buildings were swaying in the wind.
Igor came across next, and made it with no fuss. So did Nikolai, who hadn't even bothered with a safety rope. It was Misha who got into trouble. Exactly what happened, I'll never know. All the rest of us saw, as we crouched shoulder-to shoulder in the gale, was that he stopped half-way across the bridge. Whinger came up in my earpiece saying, "Blue got a hold-up. Oh, for fuck's sake..." and then, "Get on, yer twit."
Obviously Whinger didn't shout. Even if he could have been heard it would probably have been counter-productive, because in that situation, if someone loses his nerve, yelling only intensifies the fright. But seconds were ticking away. From exchanges on the radio I knew that Black team were starting their final approach to the front of the building. We couldn't afford to lose time.
Another dark figure started crawling out on to the ladder.
With a double weight on it, the aluminium sagged horribly. The second man reached the feet of the stationary Misha, who was frozen in a face-down attitude. The back-up guy began talking, first in a low voice, then louder. When bollockings had no effect, the newcomer turned physical. From the blurred movements it looked as though he had started thumping Misha with his fist on the backs of his knees.
Still there was no reaction.
The wind and rain were hitting our faces so hard that, even from close range, it was impossible to tell exactly what happened next. It looked to me as though the second guy had tried to crawl over Misha's prostrate body. He was right on top of him when there came a sudden eruption of movement. I saw a flurry of limbs, much faster than men crawling, as if the two were wrestling.
An instant later one of them was falling. Without a sound he dropped away into the dark.
Jesus! I thought. Too low for his chute. But of course he had no chute.
He went straight down, 150 feet on to concrete.
I grabbed the press el of my radio and hissed, "Red leader. Wehave a casualty. One guy's fallen."
"Roger," came Anna's unemotional voice. She said something else in Russian. Then, "Can you recover him?"
"Not a chance. He's gone right to the ground."
"Proceed, then."
"Roger."
The guy who'd survived the mid-ladder encounter reached us.
Not Misha. It was Volodya from the Blue team. Misha was written off Peering over the edge of the roof, I could just make out a little dark heap splat ted on the deck. At least the controllers knew what had happened. It was up to them whether or not they made any move to help him. I was pretty certain there'd be no point. No way could he have survived that impact, especially with the weight of the weapon on his back, the ammunition in his pouches and all his other gear. All I could think, selfishly, was, I hope to hell nobody saw him go past their window.
The rest of Blue team quickly came across, Whinger last. He gave me a strained look, but never said a word about the setback just a quick "Idyomr to his guys, and they were gone, round the end of the lift-housing to the point where the emergency stairs reached the roof.
I led the two surviving members of Red team along the roof to the far end and round the corner, until we were positioned above the target windows. There we quickly laid out our ropes. We found ideal anchor-points in the form of a strong metal rail that skirted the raised top of the lift shaft, and in a couple of minutes we were ready to descend.
"Red leader," I called.
"Can I have a sniper report on the windows? Are all curtains drawn?"
Anna instantly passed the request. I heard Green come in: "Da, da. Vsyo," and in a second I got, "Yes, all curtains closed."
My watch said 9:24. "Red leader," I reported.
"Starting descent now."
Abseiing down a building in the dark is never a picnic. Still less is it easy in a high wind. The longer your rope, the more you swing about, and the greater the danger of accidentally bumping against a window. But it was no good pissing about. I stuck my arse into space, walked backwards over the edge of the roof, and started down.
Luckily the shape of the building was kind to us. All the doors and windows were set back about a metre inside the balconies, so that as we came past each floor there was very little chance of any accidental contact with the inner wall of the building.
Inches at a time I tip-toed down the wall and dangled in space above the top half of the first balcony. On down past the metal rails. Sixteen done. Fifteen the same. Slowly on past fourteen.
My two guys were doing OK, to the right and left of me.
Between fourteen and thirteen a terrific gust of wind swung us so violently that all three of us bumped against each other.
Luckily the windows were closed and curtains drawn all the way down, courtesy of the wild night.
My boots touched the top rail of the twelfth-floor balcony. I eased myself down gently until my backside was on the rail, then got my feet on the floor of the balcony itself. I'd landed in front of Window Two. The greenish curtains were drawn tight, but light was shining out round the edges.
The second I was out of my ropes I turned to guide Igor in.
By 9:28 all three of us were in our prearranged positions: myself crouching beside the door, Nikolai on my right, Igor on my left. Even in the relative shelter of the balcony the wind was blustering loudly, and there was no need to keep my voice down when I reported in.
"Red leader, on target. Blue, report your state."
"Blue, preparing charge," came Whinger's voice.
"Wait out."
"Red, roger." My heart was going like a hammer. I imagined Whinger deftly taping a length of det cord down the centre of the door. I glanced either way at the dark, helmeted faces beside me and gave a reassuring twitch of my head. The lads had heard Whinger in their earpieces, but naturally hadn't understood what he said, so I made taping motions round our own doorway. Both got it, grinned back and nodded.
But I was wrong. Suddenly I heard Whinger say, "Blue. We have a problem. I can see through a glass panel in the fire-escape door. There are two guards sitting outside the apartment, in the corridor. Wait one."
I made an instant decision.
"Red. You'll have to drop them.
I'll use your shots as the signal to go."
"OK," said Whinger softly.
"Ready when you are.
"Red. Roger. Control is Black on schedule?"
"Da, da. Chyornii goto vi came Anna's voice. I could tell that the excitement was getting to her as well because for a moment she forgot to translate. Then she said, "Yes. Black ready."
"Red. Starting countdown now. Sixty, fifty, forty .. ." I imagined the Black team wagon speeding towards the Mafia entrance, silenced weapons at the ready. The gale was certainly going to help mask any noise they made.
"Twenty.. . ten.
Jesus, I was thinking, I hope this goes our way, because we shouldn't be anywhere near here.
"Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five... Stand by, stand by. GO!"
The hammer of rounds going down in the corridor came clearly through to us. With my charge held flat to the glassed upper half of the door, I knelt with my head tucked down, away from the blast, and squeezed my clacker.
BOOM! The blast made the inner wall shudder. I raised my head. The entire glass panel had vanished. Through the hole I lobbed a stun grenade and ducked again, eyes averted.
BANG! A sharper, louder explosion. I came upright again.
Pieces of glass were tinkling down. The lights in the room had gone out.
"Poshli!" I shouted at Igor.
"Go!"
In he went with a wild yell, head-first through the gap. I heard a thud as he hit the floor and scrabbling noises as he scuttled sideways. Then Nikolai was at the opening, hammering long bursts into the room with his Gepard. He was screaming obscenities too.
Hardly had he opened up when there came a second explosion as Whinger blew the door from the corridor. More rounds started going down inside the flat bursts of seven or eight. Too long to be properly selective.
Empty cases cascaded on to the floor of the balcony beside me. Nikolai threw down an empty magazine, smacked home a full one and continued to fire. For a moment I felt a bit of a prick, lying there against the safety of the wall while guys were risking their lives inside.
Then the bursts of fire died away. Single shots cracked out one, two, three, four. I knew what they meant: the assaulters were using their pistols to pop rounds into the heads of their victims, making certain they were dead.
One more single shot, then silence except for the wind.
"Boris!" I shouted.
"Yestj?"
"Da, da."
"Khorosho!"
I held in my press el and called, "Red to Blue all secure at your end?"
"Blue," came Whinger's voice.
"Affirmative. All inner rooms secure.
"Red. Roger. This side secure also. You can come on through."
Standing up, I walked in through the shattered window-door.
The air in the living room was hot as hell and thick with cigarette smoke, shot through with the sharp reek of cordite. Something had caught fire, ignited by the stun grenade. The blaze wasn't serious -just enough to give flickering illumination and light up the gory scene. The lights had gone down and for the time being I let it burn.
The Mafiosi must have been in conference round a rectangular table. Now, overturned chairs and five bodies lay all round it. Igor, crouched in the left-hand outer corner of the room, was still covering Nikolai as he scuffled round checking each one. The door into the hallway was closed, so I went straight over and called through it, "Whinge?"
"Yeah, yeah. We're here."
"OK. I'm opening up." I turned the handle and pulled, to find the door was locked. Peering down, I saw the key was in the lock, spun it and pulled the door towards me. The two teams -were safely reunited.
"Red leader to Control," I called.
"Target secure.
"Vas pony al went Anna.
"Roger."
"Piece of cake!" said Whinger.
"What's the Russian for that?"
"I don't know. How many have your guys taken out?"
"Four. The bodyguards. Two in the passage, two more watching TV in the end bedroom. We got them as they came out the door." He flashed his torch into the bedroom doorway, and I saw two bodies lying across each other on the floor.
"No casualties on your team?"
Whinger shook his head.
"The stupid bastards never got a round off The two outside were asleep on their chairs, and the others had left their main weapons in the hallway. There." He shone the beam on a little stack of sub-machine guns in a corner.
"Didn't even have time to draw their pistols."
I found myself shaking with reaction.
"Jesus!" I said.
"What happens now?"
After a hit of that kind in the UK, the assault teams would be instantly spirited away from the scene in a hostage reception van, and any prisoners would travel with them, to get the whole lot clear before any journalists or TV crew turned up. Then a quick reaction force would move in and take over. The most important guy in the aftermath would be the SOCO, the scene-of-crimes officer, from the police. Until he arrived, the key rule was that nothing must be touched or moved.
Not so in Moscow. Satisfied that all the villains were dead, Igor got up, walked over and kicked one of the bodies contemptuously, rolling it over.
"Stop!" I called, waving my hands about to tell him to lay off But that was the limit of my Russian, and he probably thought I was crazy.
Somebody found the electricity control panel. A trip switch had been thrown by the blasts, and once it was flipped back up enough of the lights went on for us to survey the wreckage.
It looked as though four of the sitting-room victims had been gunned down where they sat at the table. They were all flabby looking middle-aged men with bellies bulging out into their shirts and their sleeves rolled up. Their faces had probably never been pretty, and they certainly weren't now, because Nikolai had gone round and popped each one with a bullet through the head.
One had an eye out on a stall; another had spewed out half his teeth. Pools of blood were spreading over the pale carpet.
Their jackets, still hanging over the backs of their chairs, had been riddled by bullets. The fifth guy, a younger man in a dark blue polo shirt, had got half-way to the door before being dropped. On the right-hand wall, looking from the windows, water was dripping from the shattered remains of a glass fish tank and the wretched occupant was flapping its last in a puddle at the bottom. Another victim was an old tabby cat, which lay in a corner without a mark on it and seemed to have died of fright.