Энди МакНаб. Удаленный контроль(engl)
REMOTE CONTROL [042-011-4.5]
By: Andy McNab
Synopsis:
Don't expect to see Andy McNab's photograph on the cover of his first
thriller, Remote Control--the former British Special Air Service agent says
both the Colombian drug cartel and the Provisional IRA still have contracts
out on him. His two nonfiction books, Bravo Two Zero and Immediate Action,
give more detail about his prolific past.
Remote Control is the fictional story of an SAS agent named Nick Stone,
who is on the case of two Irish terrorists. He follows them across the
Atlantic to Washington, D.C., but is suddenly ordered back home on the next
available flight. His old mate Kevin Brown, now with the Drug Enforcement
Agency, lives near the airport, so Nick decides to drop in. He finds a
slaughterhouse: Kev, his wife, and youngest daughter have been battered to
death, but daughter Kelly has survived in a special hideout. Prying
information from the shocked child, Nick links the killers to either the
CIA, the DEA, or his own organization--which means that he and Kelly are
virtually on their own. As Nick trundles the spunky youngster from one seedy
motel to another, stuffs her with junk food, and teaches her the rudiments
of spy craft, he also begins to piece together a picture of why Kevin and
his family were killed. There is a connection between a terrorist bomb scare
in Gibraltar in 1988, the Colombian drug cartel, and high-level
intelligence-agency skullduggery. McNab keeps dropping those shiny nuggets
of believability along the trail and winds up holding our attention until
the predictable but satisfying end.
BALLANTINE BOOKS NEW YORK Sale of this book without a front cover
may be unauthorized. If this book is coverless, it may have been reported to
the publisher as "unsold or destroyed" and neither the author nor the
publisher may have received payment for it.
A Ballantine Book Published by The Ballantine Publishing Group
Copyright 1997 by Andy McNab
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright
Conventions. Published in the United States by The Ballantine Publishing
Group, a division of Random House, Inc." New York.
Originally published in Great Britain by Bantam Press, a division of
Transworld Publishers Ltd." London.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and
incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used
fictitiously.
Ballantine and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
www. random house.com/BB/
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 9991022
ISBN 0345428064
Manufactured in the United States of America
First American Hardcover Edition: June 1999 First American Mass Market
Edition: January 2000 GIBRALTAR: SUNDAY, MARCH 6,1988
We didn't know which of the three was going to detonate the bomb. All
Simmonds had been able to tell us was that it was a big one, and that it
would be initiated remotely.
For now, though, there was nothing to do but wait. The security service
had triggers out on the checkpoints with mainland Spain. Until the players
were sighted, Pat, Kev, and I were to stay exactly where we were: sitting
outside a cafe just off Main Street, drinking coffee, looking and listening.
The spring air was crisp and clear under a blindingly blue
Mediterranean sky, the morning sun just starting to make it comfortable
enough for shirtsleeves. The trees that lined the square were packed with
birds so small I couldn't see them among the foliage, but they made enough
noise to drown out the sound of traffic going up and down the main drag,
just out of sight. It was strange to think that this small outpost, on the
tip of southern Spain, was still under British jurisdiction, a last bastion
of Empire.
Through my earpiece I heard Euan make a radio check to the operations
room. Everything he said on the net was very precise, very clear, very calm.
Euan was the tidiest man in the world. If you sat on a cushion he would puff
it up again the moment you stood up. Dedication was his middle name.
I heard a loud hiss of air brakes and looked up. A tour bus had turned
into the square and was parking about twenty yards away. The sign in the
windshield said young at heart.
I didn't pay much attention. I was bored, looking for things to do. The
laces on one of my running shoes had come undone.
I bent down to do them up and got a jab in the ribs from the hammer of
the 9mm Browning. The holster was covert, inside my jeans; that way, only
the pistol grip would be in view if I pulled open my black nylon bomber
jacket. I preferred to have my pistol at the front. A lot of the guys wore
theirs on the side, but I could never get used to it. Once you find a
position you like, you don't change; you might be in deep shit one day, go
to draw your weapon and it isn't there it's several more inches to the right
and you're dead.
I had an extended twenty-round magazine protruding from the pistol
grip. I also had three standard thirteen-round mags on my belt if fifty-nine
rounds weren't enough, I shouldn't be doing this for a living.
The senior citizens began getting off the bus. They were typical Brits
abroad, the men dressed almost identically: beige flannels, sensible
shoes, and a V-neck sweater over a shirt and tie. Most of the women were in
polyester slacks with elastic waistbands and a sewn-in crease down the
front. They all had flawless, blow-dried, jet black, white, or blue-rinsed
hair. They spotted the cafe and started to move as a herd toward us.
Pat muttered, "Fuck me, the enemy must be getting desperate They've
sent the Barry Manilow fan club. Friends of yours, grand ad He grinned at
Kev, who offered him a finger to swivel on. Whether you like it or not, you
have to quit the SAS the Special Air Service at the age of forty, and Kev
had just a year or two of his contract with the Regiment left.
The young at heart settled down at nearby tables and picked up the
menus. It was now decision time for them whether to have dessert or go for a
sandwich, because it was halfway between coffee break and lunchtime and they
didn't know which way to jump.
The waiter came out, and they started talking to him one syllable at a
time. He looked at them as if they were crazy.
On the net I heard, "Hello, all call signs, this is Alpha. Radio check,
over." Alpha, who was located in the ops room, was our controller. When we'd
flown in sixty hours ago, our team of eight SAS soldiers and support staff
had requisitioned rooms in the accommodation block at HMS Rooke, the British
naval base in the docks, and turned them into living space.
Kev responded quietly into his concealed microphone:
"Golf."
Pat: "Oscar."
I heard Euan: "November."
My turn came: "Delta."
The elderly Brits started taking pictures of themselves.
Then they were swapping cameras so they could appear in their own
photographs.
Slack Pat got up and said to one of them, "Here yare, love, want me to
take one of all of you?"
"Ooh, you're from England, are you? Isn't it nice and warm now?"
Slack was in his early thirties, blond-haired, blue-eyed, good-looking,
clever, articulate, funny; he was everything I hated. He was also six feet
two, and one of those people who naturally shit muscle. Even his hair was
well toned; I'd seen him climb into his sleeping bag with his hair looking
groomed and perfect and wake up with it in the same condition. Pat's only
saving grace, as far as I was concerned, was that when he stood up, there
was nothing where his ass should have been. We used to call him Slack
because he had lots of it.
He had just started doing a Richard Avedon when we got:
"Stand by, stand by!" on the net from one of the female triggers.
"That's a possible, a possible--Bravo One toward the town square."
Alpha came back, "Roger that. Delta, acknowledge."
I got to my feet, gave two clicks on the radio transmitter that was
wired into my jacket pocket, and started walking. It was pointless all three
of us moving at this stage.
Families on their Sunday paseo strolled across from my left. Tourists
were taking pictures of buildings, looking at maps, and scratching their
heads; locals were sitting down, enjoying the weather, walking their dogs,
playing with their grandchildren. There were two men with
comfortable-looking beer bellies, old and not giving a fuck, smoking
themselves to death. Pants with big suspenders, shirt and undershirt,
soaking up the March sun.
I wondered how many of them would survive if the bomb went off just
here.
I was just starting to get in my stride when a very fired up male
trigger shouted: "Stand by, stand by! That's also a possible Bravo Two and
Echo One at the top end of Main Street."
This got me quite excited.
I listened for Euan. His task in this operation was the same as mine:
to confirm the "possibles" with a positive ID. I imagined him sauntering
along the sidewalk like me. He was short, with an acne-scarred face and the
world's biggest motorcycle, which he could just about keep upright because
his toes only brushed the ground. I liked to take the piss out of him about
it as often as I could. I knew the guy like a brother--in fact, probably
better; I hadn't seen any of my family for more than ten years. Euan and I
had been young soldiers together; we'd passed Selection at the same time,
and we'd been working together ever since. The fucker was so unflappable I
always thought his heart must have been only barely beating. I'd been with
him in Hereford when the police arrived to tell him that his sister had been
murdered. He just said, "I think I'd better go to London then and sort
things out." It wasn't that he didn't care; he just didn't get excited
about anything. That sort of calm is contagious. It always made me feel
secure to have guys like him around me.
I hit Main Street and spotted Bravo One right away.
I got on the net: "Alpha, this is Delta. That's confirmed-Bravo One,
brown pinstripe on faded blue."
He always wore that brown pinstriped suit jacket; he'd had it for so
long that it sagged in the pockets, and there were constant creases in the
back from wearing it in a car. And the same old faded and threadbare jeans,
the crotch halfway down between his balls and his knees. He was walking away
from me, stocky, slight stoop, short hair, long sideburns , but I recognized
the gait. I knew it was Sean Savage.
Bomb maker number one for the Provisional Irish Republican Army--PIRA.
I followed him to a small square at the bottom end of Main Street, near
the governor's residence, where the band of the resident British infantry
battalion would fall out after the changing of the guard. It was where
Simmonds suspected the PIRA team might plant their bomb.
Alpha, the base station controlling the operation for now, repeated the
message so that everyone knew which direction Savage was walking in. I knew
that Golf and Oscar Kev and Slack Pat would soon start moving up behind me.
There were six or seven cars parked up against the wall of an old
colonial building, taking advantage of the shade. I saw Bravo One push his
hand into his jacket pocket as he headed toward them. For a split second I
thought he was going for the initiation device.
Without checking his stride, Savage focused on one vehicle in
particular and headed toward it. I moved slightly to the right so I had a
clear view of the license plate.
"Alpha, this is Delta," I said.
"That's Bravo One now at vehicle Mike Lima 174412."
I pictured Alpha with the bank of computers in front of him in the
control room. He confirmed, "Roger that, Mike Lima 174412. That's a white
Renault Five."
"It's on the right, third car from the entrance," I said.
"That's nose in." By now the keys were in Savage's hands.
"Stop, stop, stop. Bravo One at the car, he's at the car."
I was committed to passing him quite close now I couldn't just change
direction. I could see his profile; his chin and top lip were full of zits,
and I knew what that meant.
Under pressure, his acne always blew up.
Savage was still at the Renault. He turned, now with his back to me,
pretending to sort his keys out, but I knew he'd be checking the telltales.
A sliver of Scotch tape across a door, things arranged in a certain way
inside the vehicle; whatever, if they were not as he had left them. Savage
would lift off.
Kev and Slack Pat would be somewhere near the entrance to the square,
ready to "back." If I got overexposed to the target, one of them would take
over, or if I got in deep shit and had a contact, they would have to finish
it and we'd all worked together long enough for me to know that, as friends
as well as colleagues, they'd let nothing stand between them and the task.
The buildings were casting shadows across the square. I couldn't feel
any breeze, just the change in temperature as I moved out of the sunlight.
I was too close to Savage now to transmit. As I walked past the car I
could hear the keys going in and the click of the lock.
I headed for a wooden bench on the far side of the square and sat down.
There were newspapers in a trash can next to me; I picked one out and
pretended to read, watching him.
Savage made a suspicious move and I got back on the net:
"Alpha, this is Delta that's his feet outside, he's fiddling underneath
the dashboard, he's fiddling under the dashboard.
Wait..." I had my finger on the button, so I was still commanding the
net. Could he be making the final connection to the bomb?
As I was doing my ventriloquist act, an old guy wandered toward me,
pushing his bike. The fucker was on his way over for a chat. I took my
finger off the button and waited. I was deeply involved in the local
newspaper but didn't have a clue what it said. He obviously thought I did. I
didn't want to stick around and discuss the weather, but I wasn't going to
just blow him off either because he might start jumping up and down and draw
Savage's attention. The old guy stopped, one hand on his bike, the other
one flailing around. He asked me a question. I didn't understand a word he
was saying. I made a face that said I didn't know what the world was coming
to, shrugged, and looked down again at the paper. I'd obviously done the
wrong thing. He said some angry shit, then wheeled his bike away, arm still
flailing.
I got back on the radio. I couldn't exactly see what Savage was doing,
but both of his feet were still outside the Renault.
He had his ass on the driver's seat and was leaning under neath the
dash. It looked as if he was trying to get something out of the glove
compartment as if he'd forgotten some thing and gone back to get it. I
couldn't confirm what he was doing but his hands kept going into his
pockets.
Everything was closing in. I felt like a boxer I could hear the crowd,
I was listening to my seconds and the referee, I was listening for the bell,
but mostly I was focused on the boy I was fighting. Nothing else mattered.
Nothing. The only important people in the world were me and Bravo One.
Through my earpiece I could hear Euan working like a man possessed,
trying to get on top of the other two terrorists.
Kev and Slack Pat were still backing me; the other two boys in our team
were with Euan. They'd all still be satelliting, listening on the net so as
to be out of sight of the targets, but always close enough to back us if we
got in trouble.
Euan closed in on Bravo Two and Echo One. They were coming in our
direction. Everybody knew where they were; everybody would keep out of the
way so they had a clear run in.
I recognized them as soon as they turned the corner.
Bravo Two was Daniel Martin McCann. Unlike Savage, who was well
educated and an expert bomb maker, "Mad Danny" was a butcher by trade and a
butcher by nature. He'd been expelled from the movement by Gerry Adams in
1985 for threatening to initiate a campaign of murder that would have
hampered the new political strategy. It was a bit like being kicked out of
the Gestapo for cruelty. But McCann had supporters and soon got himself
reinstated. Married with two children, he had twenty-six killings linked to
his name. Ulster Loyalists had tried to whack him once, but failed. They
should have tried harder.
Echo One was Mairead Farrell. Middle class and an ex-convent
schoolgirl, she was, at thirty-one, one of the highest-ranking women in the
IRA. See her picture and you'd think, aah, an angel. But she'd served ten
years for planting a bomb in Belfast and reported back for duty as soon as
she was released. Things hadn't gone her way; a few months earlier her lover
had accidentally blown himself up. As Simmonds had said at the briefing,
that made her one very pissed off Echo One.
I knew them both well; Euan and I had been working against them for
years. I got on the net and confirmed the ID.
Everybody was in place. Alpha would be in the control room with the
senior policeman, people from the Foreign Office, people from the Home
Office, you name it, every man and his dog would be there, everybody wanting
to put in their two cents' worth, everybody with their own concerns. We
could only hope that Simmonds would be looking after ours.
I'd met the Secret Intelligence Service desk officer for Northern
Ireland only a couple of days earlier, but he certainly seemed to be running
our side of the show. His voice had the sort of confidence that was shaped
on the playing fields of Eton, and he measured his words slowly, like a
big-time attorney with the meter running.
We wanted the decision made now. But I knew there would be a big debate
going on in the ops room; you'd probably have to cut your way through the
cigarette smoke with a knife. Our liaison officer would be listening to us
on his radio and explaining everything that we were doing, confirming that
the team was in position. At crunch time, it was the police, not us, who'd
decide that we go in. Once it was handed over to the military, K.ev would
control the team.
The frustration was unendurable. I just wanted to get this over.
By now Farrell was leaning against the driver's door, the two men
standing and facing her. If I hadn't known differently I'd have said they
were trying to chat her up. I couldn't hear what they were saying but their
faces showed no sign of stress, and now and then I could hear laughter above
the traffic noise. Savage even got out a packet of mints and passed them
round.
I was still giving a running commentary when Alpha came back on the
net.
"Hello, all call signs, all call signs, I have control, I have control.
Golf, acknowledge."
Kev acknowledged. The police had handed over; it was Kev's show now.
The targets started to move away from the vehicle, so I pushed the
button four times. Golf came back: "Stand by, stand by!"
That was it; we were off.
I let them walk toward the main square, and then I got up. I knew we
wouldn't lift them here. There were far too many people around. For all we
knew, the players might want to go out in a blaze of glory and start
dropping the civilians, take them hostage, or, even worse, go into kamikaze
mode and detonate the device.
Alpha came back on the net.
"Hello, all call signs, all call signs cancel, cancel, cancel! I do not
have control! Cancel!
Golf, acknowledge."
At once I heard Kev's not-so-formal reply: "What the fuck's going on?
Tell me what's going on?"
"Wait .. . wait ..." Alpha sounded under pressure.
There were voices in the background.
"All stations, all stations, the police need another ID, they need to
be sure.
Golf, acknowledge."
What do they want, introductions?
"Hi, I'm Danny, bomber and murderer, I enjoy traveling and working with
children."
We were in danger of losing them if we didn't act soon.
Alpha came back: "All stations, ATO is moving to check the vehicle.
Delta, we need that confirmation." The ATO is the ammunitions technical
officer.
I acknowledged. There was obviously some sweating going on in the ops
room. The boss was getting a hard time from the police; it sounded like a
chimpanzees' tea party in there.
The terrorist team would be crossing the border within minutes. Once
they were on the other side, they could detonate the bomb with immunity.
I was now on the other side of the road, and wanted at least to get
parallel to them so I could see their faces again. I had to reconfirm the
players, then stick with them.
More activity on the net. I could hear the tension in Alpha's voice
now, telephone lines ringing, people milling about.
Kev cut in: "Fuck the ops room, let's keep on top of them until someone
somewhere makes a fucking decision. Lima and Zulu, can you get forward?"
Zulu came on the net for himself and Lima, very much out of breath:
"Zulu and Lima, we... we can do that."
"Roger that, move up, tell me when you're there."
Kev wanted them beyond the health center. They were running hard to get
ahead of the targets; they didn't care who saw them as long as the players
didn't. But we still hadn't got control.
Kev came back on the net: "Alpha, this is Golf. You need to get your
finger out now we're going to lose them. What do you want us to do?"
"Golf, wait, wait.. " I could still hear noise in the background: lots
of talking, more telephones ringing, people shouting instructions.
Everything went quiet.
"Wait... wait..."
All I could hear now was the background noise of Alpha on my radio,
plus my pulse pounding in my head. Then, at last, the voice of Simmonds very
clear, a voice you wouldn't argue with. I heard him say to Alpha, "Tell the
ground commander he can continue " "All call signs, this is Alpha. I have
control. I have control.
Golf, acknowledge."
Kev got on the net, and instead of acknowledging, said, "Thank God for
that. All call signs, if they get as far as the airport, we'll lift them
there. If not on my word, on my word. Zulu and Lima, how's it going?"
They came back on the net.
"That's us static at the junction. We can take." They were at the
intersection of Main Street and Smith Dorrien Avenue, the main approach road
to the crossing into Spain. The players were moving toward them.
I could lift off soon. I'd done the job I'd been brought here to do. I
prepared myself for the han dover.
But then they stopped.
Fuck.
"Stop, stop, stop!" I said.
"That's Bravo One, Two and Echo One static."
Everybody was closing in. Come on, let's lift them here and now.
Savage split from the other two and headed back the way they'd come,
toward the town center. It was all going to rat shit. We had two groups to
control now, and we didn't know who had the detonation device.
Kev arrived to back me. On the net, I could hear the other two players
being followed toward the border by the rest of the team as I moved in to
take Savage. He turned left down an alleyway.
I was just about to get on the net when I heard a police siren,
followed by gunfire behind me.
At the same instant Euan came on the net: "Contact!
Contact!"
Then more shots.
Kev and I looked at each other. What the fuck was going on? We ran
around the corner. Savage had heard the shots, too, and turned back toward
us. Even at this distance I could see his eyes, big as plates and jerking
like he was having a seizure.
There was a female pedestrian between us. Kev shouted, "Stop, security
forces! Stop!"
With his left hand, he had to push the woman over to the side and bang
her against the wall to keep her out of the way.
She was going down, blood pouring from her head. At least she wouldn't
get up and become a target.
She began screaming. We had Kev hollering and screaming at Savage, and
all the people in the area were starting to scream. It was turning into a
gang fuck.
Kev flicked back the right side of his sport jacket to reach the
pancake holster over his kidneys. We always put a bit of weight in a pocket
a full magis good to help the jacket flick back out of the way.
But I wasn't really looking at Kev; I was looking at Savage. I could
see his hand moving to the right side of his jacket. He wasn't some
knuckle-dragging moron from the backstreets. The moment he saw us, he knew
the score. It was decision time.
Kev drew his pistol, brought it up, and prepared to fire.
Nothing.
"Stoppage! Fuck, Nick, fuck, fuck!"
Trying to clear his weapon, he dropped on one knee to make himself a
smaller target.
That was when everything seemed to go into slow motion.
Savage and I had eye-to-eye. He knew what I was going to do; he could
have stopped, he could have put his hands up.
My bomber jacket was held together with Velcro, so at times like this I
could just pull it apart and draw my pistol.
The only way a weapon can be drawn and used quickly is by breaking the
whole movement into stages. Stage one, I kept looking at the target. With my
left hand I grabbed a fistful of bomber jacket and pulled it as hard as I
could toward my chest. The Velcro ripped apart.
At the same time I was sucking in my stomach and sticking out my chest
to make the pistol grip easy to access. You get only one chance.
We still had eye contact. He started to shout, but I didn't hear. There
was too much other shouting going on, from everyone on the street and the
earpiece in my head.
Stage two, I pushed the web of my right hand down onto the pistol grip.
If I got this wrong, I wouldn't be able to aim correctly: I would miss and
die. As I felt my web push against the pistol grip, my lower three fingers
gripped hard around it.
My index finger was outside the trigger guard, parallel with the
barrel. I didn't want to pull the trigger early and kill my self. Savage was
still looking, still shouting.
Savage's hand was nearly at his pocket.
Stage three, I drew my weapon, in the same movement taking the safety
catch off with my thumb.
Our eyes were still locked. I saw that Savage knew he had lost. There
was just a curling of the lips. He knew he was going to die.
As my pistol came out I flicked it parallel with the ground.
No time to extend my arms and get into a stable firing position.
Stage four, my left hand was still pulling my jacket out of the way and
the pistol was now just by my belt buckle. There was no need to look at it;
I knew where it was and what it was pointing at. I kept my eyes on the
target, and his never left mine. I pulled the trigger.
The weapon report seemed to bring everything back into real time. The
first round hit him. I didn't know where I didn't need to. His eyes told me
all I wanted to know.
I kept on firing. There is no such thing as overkill. If he could move,
he could detonate the bomb. If it took a whole magazine to be sure I'd
stopped the threat, then that was what I'd fire. As Savage hit the ground I
could no longer see his hands. He was curled up in a ball, holding his
stomach. I moved forward and fired two shots at the head. He was no longer a
threat.
Kev ran over and was searching inside Savage's coat.
"It's not here," he said.
"No weapon, no firing device."
I looked down at Kev as he wiped the blood off his hands onto Savage's
jeans.
"One of the others must have had it," he said.
"I didn't hear the car go up, did you?"
In all the confusion I couldn't be sure.
I stood over them both. Kev's mother came from southern Spain; he
looked like a local: jet black hair, about five feet ten inches, and the
world's bluest eyes. His wife reckoned he was a dead ringer for Mel Gibson,
which he scoffed at but secretly liked. Right now his face was a picture; he
knew he owed me one. I wanted to say, "It's OK, these things happen," but it
just didn't seem like the time. Instead I said, "Fucking hell, Brown, what
do you expect if you have a name the same color as shit?"
As I spoke we put our safety catches on, and Kev and I swapped weapons.
"I'm glad I won't be at any inquest." I grinned at Kev.
"You'd better start getting your shit together."
He smiled as he got on the radio and started to send a situation
report. It was all right for him and the others, but Euan and I shouldn't
have been here. We had to vanish before the police arrived. We had been
flown in from doing undercover work in Northern Ireland with Fourteen
Intelligence Group;
it was illegal for its members to operate anywhere else. If either of
us were caught in Gibraltar, there would be a shit storm.
The ops room at HMS Rooke was about fifteen minutes away on foot. I
tucked Kev's weapon inside my jeans and started walking fast.
The mood was subdued aboard the C-130 as it lifted from the tarmac at
11 p.m. that night.
Spanish police had found PIRA's car bomb in an under ground parking
garage in Marbella, thirty miles away, across the Spanish border; 145 pounds
of Semtex high explosive and an unattached timing device preset at 11:20
a.m." the time the Gibraltar guard-changing ceremony ended and the soldiers
dispersed in the square. The white Renault had been a blocking vehicle after
all.
When Simmonds came over. Pat said, "As far as we knew, they had the
means to detonate a bomb big enough to separate Gibraltar from the mainland.
All it would have taken was one press of a button. If there's going to be an
inquest, fuck it.
Better to be tried by twelve, I say, than carried by six."
Deafened suddenly by the roar of the C-130's engines, I glanced at Kev,
Pat, Euan and tried to forget what I was going back to. A house isn't a home
when there are no pictures on the walls.
Back when we were in the Persian Gulf, Pat had a battle cry: "All for
one and one for all." We'd laughed when he used it, but he was right on
target. Any one of us would put his life on the line for the others. I
cracked a smile; with these guys around me, who needed family? Without a
doubt, I thought, this was as good as it was ever going to get. NINE YEARS
LATER
If you work for the British intelligence service (also known as the
Firm) and get formally summoned to a meeting at their headquarters building
on the south bank of the River Thames at Vauxhall, there are three levels of
interview. First is the one with coffee and cookies, which means they're
going to give you a pat on the head. Next down the food chain is the more
businesslike coffee but no cookies, which means they're not asking but
telling you to follow orders. And finally there's no cookies, and no coffee,
either, which basically means that you're in deep shit. Since leaving the
SAS in 1993 and working on deniable operations, I'd had a number at every
level, and I wasn't expecting a nice frothy cappuccino this particular
Monday. In fact I was quite worried, because things hadn't been going too
well.
As I emerged from the subway station at Vauxhall the omens weren't
exactly with me, either. The March sky was dull and overcast, preparing
itself for the Easter holiday; my path was blocked by roadworks, and a burst
from a jackhammer sounded like the crack of a firing squad. Vauxhall Cross,
home of what the press call MI6 but which is actually the Secret
Intelligence Service, is about a mile upstream from the Houses of
Parliament. Bizarrely shaped like a beige and black pyramid that's had its
top cut off, with staged levels, large towers on either side, and a terrace
bar overlooking the river, it needs only a few swirls of neon and you'd
swear it was a casino. It wouldn't look out of place in Las Vegas. I missed
Century House, the old HQ building near Waterloo station. It might have been
1960s ugly, square with
IS
loads of glass, net curtains, and antennae, and not so handy to the
subway, but it was much less pretentious.
Opposite Vauxhall Cross and about two hundred yards across the wide
arterial road is an elevated section of railway line, and beneath that are
arches that have been turned into shops, two of which have been knocked
through to make a massive motorcycle shop. I was early, so I popped in and
fantasized about which Ducati I was going to buy when I got a pay
raise--which wasn't going to be today. What the hell, the way my luck was
going I'd probably go and kill myself on it.
I'd fucked up severely. I'd been sent to Saudi to encourage, then
train, some Northern Iraqi Kurds to kill three leading members of the Ba'ath
party; the hope was that the assassinations would heat everything up and
help dismantle the regime in Baghdad.
The first part of my task was to take delivery in Saudi of some former
Eastern bloc weapons that had been smuggled in--Russian Draganov sniper
weapons, a couple of Makharov pistols, and two AK assault rifles, the
parachute version with a folding stock. All serial numbers had been erased
to make them deniable.
For maximum chaos, the plan was to get the Kurds to make three hits at
exactly the same time in and around Baghdad.
One was going to be a close-quarters shoot, using the Makharovs.
The idea was for the two boys to walk up to the family house, knock on
the door, take on whatever threat presented itself, make entry into the
house, zap the target, and run.
The second was going to be a sniper option. The target saw himself as a
big-time fitness freak; he'd come out and have a little jog around a track,
all of about four hundred yards. He emerged from his house every day in a
lime green, fluffy velour tracksuit, did one lap, and that was his training
for the day. The boys were going to hit him just as he started to sweat and
slow down--which by the look of him would be after about a hundred yards. I
would be on this one to coordinate the hit so that both fired at once.
The third target was going to be taken out on his way to the ministry.
Two bikes would pull up at stoplights and give him the good news with their
AK-47s.
I landed up in Northern Iraq without any problems and started the
buildup training. At this stage not even the Kurds knew what their task was
going to be. The Draganov sniper rifles were a heap of shit. However, the
weapon is never as important as the ammunition, which in this case was even
worse, Indian 7.62mm. Given a free hand I would have wanted to use Lapier,
manufactured in Finland and the best in the world for sniping because of its
consistency, but Western rounds would have given the game away.
The Indian ammunition was hit and miss mostly miss.
On top of that the Draganovs were semiautomatic rifles. Ide ally, you
need a bolt-action weapon, which is not only better for taking the hit, it
also doesn't leave an empty case behind because it stays in the weapon until
you reload. However, it had to be Russian shit that they were zapped with,
and it had to be deniable.
Once all three jobs went down, the weapons were to be dumped and
destroyed. They weren't. On the AK there is a forward leaf sight, with a
serial number scratched underneath it. I had been told that all serial
numbers had been removed at the source, and had taken the information at
face value. I didn't check I fucked up.
The only way to save the situation as far as London was concerned was
to kill the Kurd teams I'd been training. It was damage control on a
drastic scale, but it had to be done. De tail counts. If the Iraqis could
trace the weapons, they might make the UK connection. If they then captured
the Kurds, who just happened to mention that they had been trained by a
Westerner called Nick, it wouldn't take a mastermind to figure out which
country he came from. It actually pissed me off to have to kill them,
because I'd gotten to know these guys really well. I was still wearing the G
Shock watch one of the snipers had given me. We'd had a bet when we were on
the range, and he lost. I knew that I could beat him, but still cheated
because I had to win. I'd really gotten to like him.
Back in the UK there had been an internal inquiry; every body was
covering their ass. And because I was a K, they could land it all on me. The
armorers and technicians from the intelligence service said it was my fault
for not checking.
What could I say? I didn't even exist. I was bracing myself to take the
hit.
I entered Vauxhall Cross via a single metal door that funneled me
toward reception. Inside, the building could be mistaken for any high-tech
office block in any city--very clean, sleek, and corporate. People who
worked there were swiping their identity cards through electronic readers to
get in, but I had to go over to the main reception desk. Two women sat
behind thick bulletproof glass.
Through the intercom system I said to one of them, "I'm here to see Mr.
Lynn."
"Can you fill this in, please?" She passed a ledger through a slot
under the glass.
As I signed my name in two boxes, she picked up a telephone.
"Who shall I say is coming to see Mr. Lynn?"
"My name is Stamford."
The ledger held tear-off labels. One half was going to be ripped off
and put in a plastic badge container, which I would have to pin on. My badge
was blue and said escorted
EVERYWHERE.
The woman came off the phone and said, "There'll be somebody coming
down to pick you up."
A young clerk appeared minutes later.
"Mr. Stamford? If you'd like to come with me." He pressed the elevator
button and said, "We're going to the fifth floor."
The whole building is a maze. I just followed him; I didn't have a clue
where we were going. There was little noise coming from any of the offices,
just people bent over papers or working at PCs. At the far end of one
corridor we turned left into a room. Old metal filing cabinets, a couple of
six-foot tables put together, and like in any office anywhere, the cups,
packets of coffee and sugar, and a milk roster. None of that for me,
though--in free-fall talk, I'd just stand by and accept the landing.
Lieutenant Colonel Lynn's office was off to one side of the larger
area. When the clerk knocked on the door, there was a crisp and immediate
call of "Come in!" The boy turned the handle and ushered me past him.
Lynn was standing behind his desk. In his early forties, he was of
average build, height, and looks but had that aura about him that singled
him out as a high achiever. The only thing he didn't have, I was always
pleased to note, was plenty of hair. I'd known him on and off for about ten
years; for the last two years his job had been liaison between the Ministry
of Defense and SIS.
It was only as I walked farther into the room that I realized he wasn't
alone. Sitting to one side of the desk, obscured until now by the half-open
door, was Simmonds. I hadn't seen him since Gibraltar. What a professional
he'd turned out to be, sorting out the inquest and basically making sure
that Euan and I didn't exist. I felt a mixture of surprise and relief to see
him here. He'd had nothing to do with the Kurd job. We might be getting the
coffee after all.
Simmonds stood up. Six feet tall, late forties, rather
distinguished-looking, a very polite man, I thought, as he ex tended his
hand. He was dressed in corduroy trousers the color of Gulden's mustard, and
a shirt that looked as if he'd slept in it.
"Delighted to see you again. Nick."
We shook hands and Lynn said, "Would you like some coffee?"
Things were looking up.
"Thanks milk, no sugar."
We all sat down. I took a wooden chair that was on the other side of
the desk and had a quick look around the office while Lynn pressed the
intercom on his desk and passed the order on to the clerk. His office was at
the rear of the building and overlooked the Thames. It was a very plain,
very functional, very impersonal room save for a framed photograph on the
desk of a group I presumed were his wife and two children. There were two
Easter eggs and wrapping paper on the windowsill. Mounted on a wall bracket
in one corner was a television; the screen was scrolling through world news
headlines. Under the TV was the obligatory officers' squash racquet and his
jacket on a coatrack.
Without further formalities Lynn leaned over and said, "We've got a
fastball for you."
I looked at Simmonds.
Lynn continued, "Nick, you're in deep shit over the last job, and
that's just tough. But you can rectify that by going on this one. I'm not
saying it'll help, but at least you're still working. Take it or leave it."
I said, "I'll do it."
He'd known what I was going to say. He was already reaching for a small
stack of files containing photographs and bits of paper. As a margin note on
one of the sheets I could see a scribble in green ink. It could have been
written only by the head of the Firm. Simmonds still hadn't said a word.
Lynn handed me a photograph.
"Who are they?"
"Michael Kerr and Morgan McGear. They're on their way to Shannon as we
speak, then flying to Heathrow for a flight to Washington. They've booked a
return flight with Virgin, and they're running on forged Southern Irish
passports. I want you to take them from Shannon to Heathrow and then on to
Washington. See what they're up to and who they're meeting there."
I'd followed players out of the Irish Republic before and could
anticipate a problem. I said, "What happens if they don't follow the plan?
If they're on forged passports, they might go through the motions just to
get through the security check then use their other passports to board
another flight and fuck off to Amsterdam. It wouldn't be the first time."
Simmonds smiled.
"I understand your concern, and it is noted. But they will go."
Lynn passed me a sheet of paper.
"These are the flight de tails. They booked yesterday in Belfast."
There was a knock on the door. Three coffees arrived, one in a mug
showing the Tasmanian Devil, one with a vintage car on it, and a plain white
one. I got the impression Lynn and Simmonds were on their second round.
Simmonds picked up the plain one, Lynn picked up the car, and I was
left with the Tasmanian Devil running up a hill.
"Who's taking them from Belfast to Shannon?"
Simmonds said, "Actually, it's Euan. He has them at the moment. He'll
hand over to you at Shannon."
I smiled to myself at the mention of Euan's name. I was now out of the
system and basically just used as a K on deniable operations. The only
reason I did it was to finance the other things I wanted to do. What they
were I didn't know yet;
I was a thirty-seven-year-old man with a lot on his mind, but not too
much in it. Euan, however, still felt very much part of the system. He still
had that sense of moral responsibility to fight the good fight whatever that
meant and he'd be there until the day he was kicked out.
Simmonds handed me the folder.
"Check that off," he said.
"There are thirteen pages. I want you to sign for it now and hand it
over to the air crew when you've finished. Good luck," he added, not meaning
it at all.
"Am I going now?" I said.
"I don't have my passport with me -fastball isn't the word."
Lynn said, "Your passport's in there. Have you got your other docs?"
I looked at him as if I'd been insulted.
Passport, driver's license, credit cards are the basic requirements for
giving depth to a cover story. From there the K builds up his own cover by
using the credit cards to buy things, or maybe make direct payments for
magazine subscriptions or club memberships. I had my cards with me as al
ways, but not my passport. The one Simmonds handed me had probably been
specially produced that morning, correct even down to visas and the right
degree of aging.
I didn't have time to finish my coffee. The clerk reappeared and took
me downstairs. I signed for the documents in the outer office before I left;
thirteen pieces of paper with the in formation on them, and I had to sign
each sheet. Then I had to sign for the folder it was in. Fucking
bureaucracy.
A car was waiting for me outside. I jumped in the front;
when I was a kid I'd look at people being chauffeured and think. Who
the fuck do they think they are? I talked shit with the driver, probably
bored him silly; he didn't really want to talk, but it made me feel better.
A civilian Squirrel was waiting on the pad at Battersea heliport,
rotors slowly turning. I had one last job to do before boarding; from a pay
phone I called up the family who covered for me, people who'd vouch for me
if I was ever up against it. They'd never take any action on my behalf, but
if I got lifted I could say to the police, "That's where I live-phone them,
ask them."
A male voice answered the phone.
"James, it's Nick. I've just been given a chance to go to the States
and visit friends. I might be a week or two. If it's more, I'll call" James
understood.
"The Wilmots next door had a break-in two days ago and we're going to
see Bob in Dorset over the Easter weekend."
I needed to know these things because I would if I lived there all the
time. They even sent the local paper to my accommodation address each week.
"Cheers, mate. When you see that son of yours next weekend, tell him he
still owes me a night out."
"I will... Have a nice holiday."
As we skimmed over the Irish Sea I opened the briefing pack and thumbed
through the material. I needn't have bothered.
All they knew for certain was that two boys had booked tickets to
Washington, D.C." and they wanted to find out why.
They wanted to know who they were meeting and what was happening once
they met. I knew from experience that the chances of failure were great.
Even if they kept to the script and landed in D.C." how was I going to
follow them around?
There were two of them and one of me; as a basic anti surveillance
drill they were sure to split up at some point. But hey, the Firm had me by
the balls.
Judging from one of the documents, it seemed that we'd reached the time
of the year when all good PIRA fund raisers headed for the dinner circuit in
Boston, New York, Washington, D.C.--even down as far as Tucson, Arizona, to
catch Irish American sympathizers who'd retired to the sun. It seemed that
the seizure often tons of explosives and weapons during the search of a
warehouse in north London last September had produced a financial crisis.
PIRA wasn't exactly asking its bank for an overdraft yet, but the increase
in legitimate fund-raising in Northern Ireland was an indication that they
were sweating. There were also other, less public, ways of raising cash. I
was sure my new friends were part of that.
Apart from that, I was still none the wiser about the job. I had no
information on the players' cover stories, or where they might be going,
inside or outside D.C. All I knew was who they were and what they looked
like. I read that Michael Kerr had been a member of the South Armagh ASU
(Active Service Unit). He'd taken part in four mortar attacks on Special
Forces bases and in dozens of shootings against the security forces and
Protestants. He'd even gotten wounded once but escaped into the South. A
tough nut.
The same could be said for Morgan McGear. After a career as a shooter
in the border area of South Armagh, the thirty-one-year-old subcontractor
had been promoted to PIRA's security team, where his job was to find and
question informers.
His favored method of interrogation was a Black & Decker power drill.
The helicopter was operated by a civilian front company, so the arrival
procedure at Shannon, the Irish Republic's premier airport, was no different
than if I'd been a horse breeder coming to check the assets at his stud farm
in Tipperary, or a businessman flying in from London to fill his briefcase
with European Union subsidies. I walked across the tarmac into the arrivals
terminal, went through Customs, and followed the exit signs, heading for the
taxi stand. At the last minute I doubled back into departures.
At the Aer Lingus ticket desk I picked up my ticket for Heathrow, which
had been booked in the name of Nick Stamford. When choosing a cover name
it's always best to keep your own first name--that way you react naturally
to it. It also helps if your last name begins with the real initial because
the signature flows better. I'd picked Stamford after the battle of Stamford
Bridge. I loved medieval history.
I headed straight to the shop to buy myself a bag. Everybody has hand
luggage; I'd stick out like the balls on a bulldog if I boarded the aircraft
with nothing but a can of Coke. I never traveled with luggage that had to be
checked in because then you're in the hands of whoever it is who decides to
take bags marked Tokyo and send them to Buenos Aires instead. Even if your
baggage does arrive safely, if it reaches the carousel five minutes after
the target's, you're fucked.
I bought some toothpaste and other odds and ends, all the time keeping
an eye out for Euan. I knew that he'd be glued to Kerr and McGear, unless
they'd already gone through the security gates.
The departures lounge seemed full of Irish families who were going to
find the Easter sun, and newly retired Americans who'd come to find their
roots, wandering around with their brand-new Guinness sweatshirts,
umbrellas, and baseball caps, and leprechauns in tins and little pots of
grow-your-own shamrock.
It was busy, and the bars were doing good business. I spotted Euan at
the far end of the terminal, sitting at a table in a coffee shop, having a
large frothy coffee and reading a paper. I'd always found "Euan" a strange
name for him. It always made me think of a guy with a kilt on running up and
down a hill somewhere, tossing a caber. In fact, he was born in Oxford, and
his parents came from Surrey.
They must have watched some Scottish movie and liked the name.
To the left was a bar. Judging by where Euan was sitting I guessed that
was where the players were. I didn't bother looking; I knew Euan would point
them out. There was no rush.
As I came out of the pharmacy, I looked toward the coffee shop and got
eye-to-eye. I started walking toward him, big grin all over my face as if
I'd just spotted a long-lost pal, but didn't say anything yet. If somebody
was watching him, knowing he was on his own, it wouldn't look natural for me
just to come up and sit next to him and start talking. It had to look like a
chance meeting, yet not such a noisy one that people noticed it. They
wouldn't think. Oh, look, there's two spies meeting, but it registers. It
might not mean anything at the time, but it could cost you later.
Euan started to stand and returned my smile.
"Hello, dickhead, what are you doing here?" He gestured for me to join
him.
We sat down, and since Euan was sponsoring the RV (rendezvous), he came
up with the cover story.
"I've just come to see you from Belfast before you fly back to London.
Old friends from schooldays." It helps to know you both have the same story.
"Where are they?" I said, as if asking after the family.
"My half left and you've got the bar. Go right of the TV They're
sitting--one's got a jean jacket on, one a black three-quarter-length suede
coat. Ken is on the right-hand side. He's now called Michael Lindsay. McGear
is Morgan Ashdown."
"Have they checked in?"
"Yes. Hand luggage only."
"For two weeks in Washington?"
"They've got suit bags."
"And they haven't gone to any other check-in?"
"No, it looks like they're going to Heathrow."
I walked over to the counter and bought two coffees.
They were the only Irishmen at the bar, because everybody else was
wearing a Guinness polo shirt and drinking pints of the black stuff. These
two had Budweisers by the neck and were watching soccer. Both had cigarettes
and were smoking like ten men; if I'd been watching them in a bar in Derry,
I'd have taken it as nervousness, but Aer Lingus has a no-smoking policy on
its flights; it looked as if these boys were getting their big hit before
boarding.
Both were looking very much the tourist, clean-shaven, clean hair, not
overdressed as businessmen, not underdressed as slobs. Basically they were
so nondescript you wouldn't give them a second glance, which indicated that
they were quite switched on--and that was a problem for me. If they'd been
looking like a bag of shit or at all nervous, I'd have known I was up
against second or third-string players--easy job. But these boys were Major
League, a long way from hanging around the docks on kneecapping duty.
There were kids everywhere, chasing and shouting, mothers screaming
after two-year-olds who'd found their feet and were skimming across the
terminal. For us, the more noise and activity the better. I sat down with
the drinks. I wanted to get as much information as I could from Euan before
they went through security.
On cue, he said, "I picked McGear up from Deny. He went to the Sinn
Fein office on Cable Street and presumably got briefed. Then to Belfast. The
spooks tried to use the listening device but didn't have any luck. Nothing
else to report, really.
They spent the night getting drunk, then came down here.
Been here about two hours. They booked the flight by credit card, using
their cover names. Their cover's good. They've even got their Virgin luggage
tags on; they don't want anything to go wrong."
"Where are they staying?"
"I don't know. It's all very last-minute and Easter's a busy time.
There're about ten Virgin-affiliated hotels in D.C.; it's probably one of
them--we haven't had time to check."
I didn't write anything down. If you write stuff down, you can lose it.
I'd have to remember it.
"Is that all?" I asked.
"That's your lot. I don't know how they're going to transfer from the
airport, but it looks like they're off to D.C." big boy."
Subject closed, as far as Euan was concerned. It was now time to talk
shit.
"You still see a lot ofKev?"
I took a sip of coffee and nodded.
"Yeah, he's in Washington now, doing all right. The kids and Marsha are
fine. I saw them about four months ago. He's been promoted, and they've just
bought the biggest house in suburbia. It's what you'd call executive
housing." Euan grinned, looking like Santa Claus with white froth on his
top lip. His own place was a stone-walled sheep farmer's cottage in the
middle of nowhere in the Black Mountains of Wales. His nearest neighbor was
two miles away on the other side of the valley.
I said, "Marsha loves it in D.C.--no one trying to shoot holes in the
car."
Marsha, an American, was Kev's second wife. After leaving the Regiment
he'd moved to the States with her and had joined the Drug Enforcement
Administration. They had two young kids, Kelly and Aida.
"Is Slack Pat still over there?"
"I think so, but you know what he's like--one minute he's going to
learn how to build houses, and the next minute he's going to take up tree
hugging and crocheting. Fuck knows what he's doing now."
Pat had had a job for two years looking after the family of an Arab
diplomat in D.C. It worked out really well--he even got an apartment thrown
in--but eventually the children he was minding grew too old to be looked
after. They went back to Saudi, so he blew off his job and started bumming
around.
The fact was, he'd made so much money during those two years he wasn't
in a hurry.
We carried on chatting and joking, but all the time Euan's eyes
flickered toward the targets.
The players ordered another drink, so it looked as if we were going to
be sitting here for a while. We carried on spinning the social shit.
"How's year ten of the house building program?" I grinned.
"I'm still having problems with the boiler."
He'd decided that he was going to put the central heating in himself,
but it was a total screw up. He'd ended up spending twice as much money as
he would have, had he paid someone to do it.
"Apart from that, it's all squared away. You should come down some
time. I can't wait to finish this fucking tour; then I've got about two more
years and that's it."
"What are you going to do?"
"As long as it's not what you're doing, I don't care. I thought I'd
become a garbageman. I don't give a fuck, really." I laughed.
"You do! You'll be itching to stay in; you're a party man. You'll stay
in forever. You moan about it all the time, but actually you love it."
Euan checked the players, then looked back at me. I knew exactly what
he was thinking.
I said, "You're right. Don't do this job; it's shit."
"What have you been up to since your Middle Eastern adventure?"
"I've been on holiday, got some downtime in, did a bit of work for a
couple of the companies, but nothing much, and to tell you the truth it's
great. Now I'm just waiting for the out come of the inquiry. I think I'm in
deep shit unless this job gets me out."
Euan's eyes moved again.
"It looks like you're off."
The two boys must have started to sort themselves out at the bar.
I said, "I'll call you after this is finished. When are you back in the
UK?"
"I don't know. Maybe a few days."
"I'll give you a call; we can arrange something. You got yourself a
woman yet, or what?"
"You've got to be drunk! I was going out with someone from the London
office for a while, but she wanted to make me all nice and fluffy. She was
starting to do my washing and all sorts of shit. I really didn't get into
it."
"You mean she didn't iron a crease in the front of your jeans?"
Euan shrugged.
"She didn't do things my way."
Nobody did. He was the sort of guy who folded his socks instead of
putting them inside each other, and stacked his coins in their
denominations. Since his divorce he'd become Mr.
I'm-going-to-have-the-best-of-everything. People even started to call him
Mr. Ikea--you name it, track lights, entertainment center, the whole nine
yards. The inside of his house was like a showroom.
I could tell Euan was watching the two players pick up their gear and
walk away from the bar.
I took my time; no need to get right up their ass. Euan would tell me
when to move.
"Do a one-eighty," he said.
"Look to the right, just approaching the newsstand."
I casually got to my feet. It had been great to see him.
Maybe this job would turn out to be a waste of time, but at least I'd
seen my closest friend. We shook hands, and I walked away. Then I turned,
looked ninety degrees to the right, and spotted them, suit bags over their
arms.
The departures lounge looked like an Irish craft fair. I was starting
to feel out of place; I should have gotten myself a Guinness hat.
What was I going to do once I got to D.C.? I didn't know if somebody
was going to pick them up, whether they were taking a cab or the bus, or, if
they'd managed to get a hotel, whether transport was included. If they
started moving around the city, that would be fun, too. I knew Washington a
bit but not in any great detail.
They were still smoking like fiends. I sat in the lounge and picked up
a paper from the seat. McGear started scrabbling about for change in his
pocket as they talked to each other, standing at the bar. He was suddenly
looking purposeful; he was either going to go to the slot machines or the
telephone.
He got a note out and leaned over to the bartender; I could see him
asking for change. I was sitting more or less directly behind them and about
twenty feet back, so even if they turned their heads forty-five degrees to
either side, I still wouldn't be in even their peripheral vision.
McGear walked toward the slot machines but continued on past. It must
be the telephone.
I got up and wandered over to the newsstand, pretending to check the
spinning rack of newspapers outside.
He picked up the phone, put a couple of pound coins in, and dialed. He
got the number from a piece of paper, so it wasn't one that was well known
to him. I looked at my G Shock; it was 4:16 p.m. The display was still on
dual time; if there were any Iraqis in the lounge needing to know the time
in Baghdad, I was their man.
I checked my pockets for coins; I had about two and a half quid; I
would need more for what I was going to do, so I went in and bought a
newspaper with a twenty-pound note.
McGear finished his call and went back to the bar. Those boys weren't
going anywhere; they ordered more beer, opened their papers, lit another
cigarette.
I gave it a couple of minutes, then strolled over to the phone McGear
had been using. I picked up the receiver, threw in a couple of pound coins,
and looked for a number on the set. I couldn't find one; not to worry, it
would just take a bit longer.
I dialed a London number and a woman's voice said, "Good afternoon,
your PIN number, please?"
"Two-four-two-two." The digits were etched into my memory; they were
the first half of the army number that I'd had since I was sixteen.
She said, "Do you have a number?"
"No. This line please."
"Wait."
I heard a click, then nothing. I kept my eyes on the players and fed
the phone. Within a minute she was back.
"What times are you interested in?"
"I'd like to book it from four-thirteen up till now."
"That's fine. Do you want me to call you, or will you call back?"
"I'll call back. Ten minutes?"
"Fine. Goodbye."
And that was it. No matter where you are in the world, you can dial in
and the Firm will run a trace.
I phoned back ten minutes later. We went through the same PIN number
routine, then she said, "Nothing until four-ten. A Washington, D.C." number.
Washington Flyer Taxis, USA."
As she recited the number, I jotted it down, hung up, and immediately
dialed.
"Good morning, Washington Flyer Taxis, Gerry speaking.
How may I be of assistance today?"
"Yes, I wonder if a Mr. Ashdown or a Mr. Lindsay has booked a taxi. I
just want to make sure they're going to get to a meeting on time."
"Oh yes, sir, we've just had the booking. Collect from Dulles, arriving
on flight number--" I cut in.
"Are you going to drop them off at the hotel or are they coming
straight to me at Tyson's Corner?"
"Let me see, sir ... They're booked for the Westin on M Street,
Northwest."
"All right, that's fine. Thank you."
Now all I had to do was try to get to the Westin before them. Things
were looking OK.. Either that, or the fuckers had spotted me and were
playing a deception.
The flight to London Heathrow was getting ready to board. I watched
them get up, find their tickets, and walk. I followed.
On something like this you always travel club class so you're at the
front of the aircraft. You can then choose either to sit down and watch
people boarding or let them through ahead of you and come in later on. At
the destination, you can wait for the target to come off the aircraft and
naturally file in behind--or get out of the way beforehand so that you're
ready to make the pickup once you're out of arrivals.
I thought about a drink but decided against it; I might have to start
performing as soon as we got to the other side. These guys seemed very
professional, so chances were they weren't going to be doing any work after
all the Bud they'd been putting away. But still, no drink for me.
I settled into my seat and started to think about Kev and his family.
I'd been there when he first met Marsha; I was best man at their wedding and
was even godfather to Aida, their second child. I took the job seriously,
though I didn't really know what I was supposed to do on the God front.
I knew I'd never have any of my own kids; I'd be too busy running
around doing shit jobs like this one. Kev and Marsha knew that, and really
tried to make me feel part of their setup.
I'd grown up with this fantasy of the perfect family, and as far as I
was concerned Kev had it. The first marriage fell apart, but this one seemed
absolutely right. His job with the DEA was now mostly deskbound in D.C. He
loved it.
"More time with the kids, mate," he'd say.
"Yeah, so you can be one!" I'd reply. Lucidly Marsha was the mature and
sensible one; when it came to the family, they complemented each other
really well. Their home at Tyson's Corner was a healthy, loving environment,
but after three or four days it would get too much for me and I'd have to
move on. They'd make a joke of it; they knew I loved them but somehow
couldn't handle people showing so much affection. I guessed that was why I'd
always felt more comfortable with Euan. We were both made from the same
mold.
As for Slack Pat, he was completely off the scale. Half the world
seemed to be his best friend, and he was still working on the others. Even
when he opened the fridge door and the light came on he'd have to launch
into some sort of chat-up routine. When he started the bodyguard job in
Washington, a real estate agent took him to look at an apartment in
Georgetown, by the university. The way he told the story, he saw a building
with people coming in and out.
"What's that then?" he asked.
"One of the best restaurants in Washington," she said.
"Half of Congress seems to go there."
"Right, I'll take it," he said. The moon was in a new quarter or some
shit like that and I thought for a while he reckoned he'd turned into Donald
Trump. He told me he used to eat there every day and knew every waitress by
name. He'd even started going out with one of them. Maybe it was her who got
him into drugs. I hadn't seen it myself, but I'd heard he had a problem. It
made me sad. We'd all seen the results of addiction during our time in
Colombia. Pat had called them losers.
Now it seemed he was one himself. Hopefully it was just one of his
phases. The transfer at Heathrow had been easy. The boys didn't get stopped
at the security checks probably because Special Branch had been informed and
the flight to Dulles had taken off on time.
I hoped McGear and Kerr were going straight to the hotel.
I hoped they'd be playing the good tourists and wouldn't blow it by not
checking in. If I ever lost a target, I'd look in all the places where he
might be his place of work, the pub, where the kids go to school, where he
lived, or even the bookie's. 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. Un fortunately, all I
knew so far about McGear and Kerr was that they liked drinking Budweiser and
must be dying for a smoke. So I had to start with the hotel.
I needed to get in front of them. That shouldn't be a problem, since
club class had its own shuttle 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 PDQ 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 stand for me from
then on.
I came out of arrivals through two large automatic doors and into a
horseshoe of waiting relatives held back by steel barriers, and limo drivers
holding up name boards. I carried on through the bustle, turned left, and
walked down a long ramp into heat and brilliant sunshine.
There were lots of people waiting for taxis. I did a quick calculation;
the number of passengers didn't go into the limited number of cabs. I
wandered toward the rear of the rank and waved a twenty-dollar bill at one
of the drivers. He smiled conspiratorially and hustled me inside. Another
twenty soon had me screaming along the Dulles access road toward Route 66
and Washington, D.C. 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--very neat wooden and brick houses, many still under construction.
We passed a sign for the Tyson's Corner turnoff 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 typical upscale hotel, slick and clean,
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 landing that
overlooked the reception area; it was 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 five-dollar bill under the saucer, and wandered down.
It was just a matter of getting the timing right; there was a bit of a
line 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; 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 elevator with them. I
only hoped they were sharing a room.
To the right of them at the reception desk was a rack of postcards
advertising everything from restaurants to bus tours. I stood about two
yards away, with my back to them.
There was no big deal about this; it was a big, busy hotel-they weren't
looking at me, they were doing their own stuff. I made it obvious I was
flicking through the postcards and didn't need help.
The woman said, "There you are, gentlemen, you're in room
four-oh-three. If you turn left just past the pillars, you'll see the
elevator. Have a nice day!"
All I had to do now was listen to their conversations while they were
in their room, and to make that happen I went to the bank of pay phones in
the lobby and dialed the Firm.
A woman's voice asked me for my PIN number.
"Two-four two-two."
"Go ahead."
"I'd like a room, please. The Westin on M Street, Washington,
D.C.--four-oh-one or four-oh-five, or three-oh-three or five-oh-three."
"Have you a contact number?" "No, I'll call back in half an hour."
They would now telephone the hotel using the name of a front company
and request one of the rooms I'd specified. It didn't really matter whether
the room was above, beside, or below the targets', as long as we could get
in and plant surveillance devices.
I went back to the raised lounge area and read a few of the leaflets
and postcards I'd picked up, all the time watching the exit onto M Street.
I ran through a mental checklist of surveillance equipment to ask for.
I'd fit the first wave of gear myself: wall-mounted listening devices,
phone-line devices, both voice and modem, and cables that fed into the TV in
my room to relay pictures.
They'd take me only about three hours to rig up once the Firm had
dropped them off.
The second wave, once McGear and Kerr had vacated their room for the
day, would be fitted by technicians from the Firm. In their expert hands, a
hotel-room TV could become a camera, and the telephone a microphone.
Half an hour later I called the contact number and again gave my PIN
number. There was a bit of clicking, then the strains of a string quartet.
About five seconds later the woman came back again.
"You are to lift off and return today. Please acknowledge."
I thought I'd misheard her. There was a conference at the hotel given
by the Norwegian board of trade, and all the dele gates were exiting for
coffee.
"Can you repeat, please?"
"You are to lift off. Please acknowledge."
"Yes, I understand, I am to lift off and return today."
The phone went dead.
I put the phone down. Strange. There had even been a memo in green ink
from the head of the service about this the fastball job that had now come
to a sudden halt. It wasn't unusual to get lifted off, but not so quickly.
Maybe Simmonds had decided these people weren't that important after all.
Then I thought, So what, who gives a fuck? They wanted me to do the
job; I've done it. I called the travel agency and tried to get a flight out
of Dulles The only one I could get on was the British Airways at
nine-thirty-five, which was hours away. Kev and Marsha were only an hour
down the road toward the airport, so why not?
I dialed another number, and Kev answered. His voice was wary, until he
recognized mine.
"Nick! How's it going?" He sounded really happy to hear me.
"Not too bad. I'm in Washington."
"What are you doing? Nah, I don't want to know! You coming to see us?"
"If you're not busy. I'm leaving tonight, back to the UK.
It'll be a quick stop and hello, OK?"
"Any chance of you getting your ass up here right away?
I've just got the ball rolling on something, but I'd be interested to
know what you think. You'll really like this one!"
"No problem, mate. I'll hire a car at the hotel and head straight
over."
"Marsha will want to go into cordon bleu overdrive. I'll tell her when
she gets back with the kids. Have a meal with us, then you can go on to the
airport. You won't believe the stuff I've got here. Your friends over the
water are busy."
"I can't wait."
"Nick, there's one other thing."
"What's that, mate?"
"You owe your goddaughter a birthday present--you forgot again,
dickhead."
Driving west along the freeway, I kept wondering what Kev could want to
talk to me about. Friends over the water? Kev had no connection with PIRA
that I knew of. He was in the DEA, not the CIA or any antiterrorist
department. Besides, I knew that his job was far more administrative than
fieldwork now. I guessed he probably just needed some background
information.
I thought again about Slack Pat and made a mental note to ask Kev if he
had a contact address for the ass less one.
I got on the interstate. Tyson's Corner was the junction I had to get
off at--well, not really; I wanted the one before but I could never remember
it. The moment I left the freeway I was in leafy suburbia. Large houses
lined the road, and just about every one seemed to have a seven-seat minivan
in the drive and a basketball hoop fixed over the garage.
I followed my nose to Kev's subdivision and turned into their road.
Hunting Bear Path. I continued on for about a quarter of a mile until I
reached a small parade of shops arranged in an open square with parking
spaces, mainly little delis and boutiques specializing in candles and soap.
I bought candy for Aida and Kelly that I knew Marsha wouldn't let them have,
and a couple of other presents.
Facing the shops was a stretch of vacant ground that looked as if it
had been earmarked as the next phase of the development.
On and around the churned-up ground were trailers, big stockpiles of
girders and other building materials, and two or three bulldozers.
Far up on the right-hand side among the sprawling houses I could just
about make out the rear of Kev and Marsha's "deluxe colonial." As I drove
closer I could see their Ford Windstar, the thing she threw the kids into to
go screaming to school. It had a big furry Garfield stuck to the rear
window.
I couldn't see Kev's company car, a Caprice Classic that bristled with
antennae. They were so ugly only government agents used them. Kev normally
kept his in the garage, safely out of sight of predators.
I was looking forward to seeing the Browns again even though I knew
that by the end of the day I'd be more exhausted than the kids. I got to the
driveway and turned in.
There was nobody waiting. The houses were quite a distance apart, so I
didn't see any neighbors, either, but I wasn't surprised D.C."s bedroom
suburbs were quite dead during weekdays.
I braced myself; on past form, I'd get ambushed as soon as the car
pulled up. The kids would jump out at me, with Marsha and Kev close behind.
I always made it look as if I didn't like it, but actually I did. The kids
would know I had presents. I'd bought a little Tweety-Pie watch for Aida,
and Kelly's was the Goosebumps kids' horror books numbers thirty-one to
forty I knew she already had the first thirty. I wouldn't say anything to
Aida about forgetting her birthday;
hopefully she'd have forgotten.
I got out of the car and walked toward the front door. Still no ambush.
So far, so good.
The front door was open about two inches. I thought, Here we go, what
they want me to do is walk into the hallway like Inspector Clouseau, and
there's going to be a Kato-type am bush. I pushed the door wide open and
called out, "Hello?
Hello? Anyone home?"
Any minute now the kids would be attacking a leg each.
But nothing happened.
Maybe they had a new plan and were all hidden away somewhere in the
house, waiting, trying to muffle their giggles.
Inside the front door there was a little corridor that opened up into a
large rectangular hallway with doors leading off to the different downstairs
rooms. In the kitchen to my right I heard the sound of a female voice
singing a station jingle.
Still no kids. I started tiptoeing toward the noise in the kitchen. In
a loud stage whisper! said, "Well, well, well I'll have to leave ... seeing
as nobody's here ... What a shame, because I've got two presents for two
little girls..."
To my left was the door to the living room, open about a foot or so. I
didn't look in as I walked past, but I saw something in my peripheral vision
that at first didn't register. Or maybe it did; maybe my brain processed the
information and rejected it as too horrible to be true.
It took a second for it to sink in, and when it did my whole body
stiffened.
I turned my head slowly, trying to make sense of what was in front of
me.
It was Kev. He was lying on his side on the floor, and his head had
been battered to shit by