Failsafe Query

by Michael Jenkins

  ‘Get your fucking hands on the desk now,’ Bob shouted. Swartz sprinted through the middle of the front desks to put his hand in the guard commander’s face, pushing him back violently. The guard commander toppled over his chair and Swartz rolled him over before forcing his right arm up his back, just to the point where a click took place, which was followed by a loud cry of pain. With clinical speed all four guards were bundled up in the corner with plastic tie strips on their hands behind their backs and makeshift gags around their mouths.

  Swartz spoke in Pashto to the guard commander, who had been dragged to the other side of the room, and showed him a four-inch-thick wad of cash. ‘You won’t be killed if you cooperate with me and you’ll have enough money for the rest of the year,’ Swartz whispered, making sure that the other guards did not hear him or see the cash. ‘Take me to the white man,’ he said. Sheer speed and total brutality had allowed Swartz to get right into the very heart of the prison – with the now very compliant guards restrained and neutralised. He looked the guard commander in the eye, tugged him by his shoulder and headed for the exit.

  ‘Watch the courtyard, Dell,’ Swartz whispered. ‘Move quickly, boys, the police station is next door and I don’t want to be their next fucking guest.’ He led his team into the courtyard, along the edge of the square, and veered right into a long corridor lined with men sleeping, coughing and spluttering.

  The mud walls were cracked, the floors rutted and the entire building reeked of decay and poor sanitation. The corridor stretching before them was flooded with inmates in striped uniforms, their faces full of despair.

  Swartz nudged round the corridor, sweating hard now, his weapon at the ready in his right hand. He put his other hand across his nose to lessen the filthy stench, urging the Afghan to move quicker – it would be fatal to be caught now after their act of surprise. The guard commander stood to the side and ushered Swartz into a cell eight square metres in area where a dozen or so Afghans lived, ate and slept. ‘Jeez, this is fucking desperate,’ he said, scanning the room, where rusting bunk beds hid the walls. The floor, on which a few men slept in total squalor, was strewn with rubbish and covered in dirty blankets.

  Through a thick shroud of smoke from a dying charcoal grill, a light flickered, revealing occasional smears of excrement and mucus on the walls. A radio blasted out Afghan music.

  ‘Salaam Alaikum,’ Swartz said to the occupants, some of whom were now standing with obvious fear. Two Afghans with long beards and grey turbans began praying on their knees. Swartz looked into the far corner, where a bald, gaunt Westerner had just sat up on his bunk bed to see what the hell was going on. He approached the bed and shone a small torch straight into the Westerner’s face.

  ‘Sean, you wanker. Get bloody dressed. We have a rugby match to go and watch!’

  Chapter 10

  The Compound, Bagram Airbase, 8 April 2016

  Sean got the shock of his life when he saw his old pal Swartz standing over him after months of being incarcerated in Kabul’s most fearsome prison. It was the hell of a welcome surprise and a curious reunion as they chatted over a beer back at the compound that night. They laughed loudly at the audacity of breaking him free from one of Afghanistan’s most terrifying prisons. It was a great celebration.

  Sitting holding a bottle of beer, Sean experienced a sense of utter disbelief that he was finally free. Hurting emotionally, wounded physically, dejected at his demise, mentally on a knife edge but pleased that Swartz, an old mate, had enabled his freedom.

  Sean looked at Swartz, who was not holding back – his eyes were intense, his posture taut and his mind wanted to hear every single detail of Sean’s internment. Sean smelt like a decaying rat, but Swartz didn’t seem to give a shit. All Sean felt was a sense of euphoria, helped by the beer, as he listened to Swartz’s questions asking how he had ended up in such a hellhole.

  He struggled hard to focus his mind, relishing the effect of alcohol, and wearily began recounting, with brutal honesty, how he had fucked up a mission that had eventually led to the lowest point in his career – being arrested and incarcerated in prison for having a huge stash of heroin blocks and illegal weapons in his hotel room in Kabul. He was looking at fifteen years inside. No remission. Probably death.

  It was a relief for Sean to finally convey his pain to someone who knew him so well. He felt the physical pain subsiding. The sores didn’t feel as harsh and his cracked lips felt less damaged.

  ‘It all went downhill on a stupid civilian job in Central Asia a couple of years back, after I had left the service,’ Sean began. ‘That’s why I eventually ended up in that fucking hellhole – a place of the living dead.’

  ‘Go on,’ Swartz urged. ‘It must have been bad for you to have been pensioned off by the service, or sacked, as I think we say.’

  ‘They forced my hand really – I had no choice but to leave and find contract work,’ Sean recounted. ‘I lost my vetting, so I was of no use to them. They could just toss me aside.’

  ‘Blimey – how the hell did you lose all that vetting?’

  ‘Long story, my friend – they offered me a desk job and a demotion, there was no loyalty from the bastards at all. We’re just pieces of meat to the service mate – they are ruthless in all they do.’

  ‘And the short story?’

  ‘Mmmm – a rather foolish relationship with an Iranian agent. Vetting lost. Untrustworthy. Unemployable to them at that point.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Yep – top class eh? No halfway house for me after Katy died. I just fucking plummeted.’

  ‘Went out with a bloody good bang then!’

  They laughed. For a long while. Swartz took the piss out of the indiscretions that had fouled Sean’s entire life and career.

  They both relaxed, drank a few more bottled beers and Sean continued to recount his colourful journey over the last few years of his service and his ensuing entry into the private sector, where he had fallen foul of a crime lord who was running drug-smuggling gangs with the Taliban in Helmand.

  ‘I always loved excitement, mate – it was great fun,’ Sean said. ‘I suppose my life had had an all-too-normal trajectory. Home counties schooling, middle-of-the-road university, military officer career and then into city life, working nine to five so as to settle down a bit. Get married and have kids, you know – all that good-civilian-career-and-family stuff. I didn’t figure on intelligence work, let alone being suckered into it for twenty-odd years. Katy’s death led me onto a different path altogether and it was all too much after that. Many things went wrong, leading me to finally cock it all up by working with Frazer, a bent ex-copper, and his gangs – it was definitely the lowest point of what should have been a normal life.’

  For Sean, the death of Katy was a wound that would never heal and a catalyst for the dark days and the nightmares that continued to haunt him most nights.

  ‘How did you end up working with these nutters then?’ Swartz said.

  ‘Contract work, mate. It was a couple of years back when I left the service. Intelligence collection stuff, a bit of close protection for him and his cronies, liaising with the Taliban over routes through to Iran and how to conceal stuff. And some booby-trap work he wanted me to do on guards at border posts who didn’t play ball. His companies were all very dodgy and a front for his brutal drug-running work. Fuck knows how but he won UK Government contracts for Helmand region.’

  ‘You mean he had legitimate businesses, then?’

  ‘Yep – and he had other big-money UN contracts across Iraq and Afghanistan. Probably from his corrupt contacts.’

  ‘So, they were running the heroin routes through Iran and Turkey, then?’

  ‘Exactly – and he didn’t like it when I queried his operations and when I probed too much into their backgrounds – they were pretty crap on the ground too, and didn’t care so long as they had the money coming in.’

  ‘Got it – so you pissed him off and he decided to get you?’

  ‘S
pot on, mate – fuck knows how he had it all tucked up. He had everyone in his pocket, from UK Government officials to border guards and Albanian gangs running his drugs ops in London. He spends six months of the year in Asia and the other six months at home. Wealthy as fuck but a nasty bastard who had people killed just for looking at him oddly.’ Sean fiddled with his lighter and took a break.

  ‘How did he have the smuggling routes tied up, then?’

  ‘Big money. Nasty people. The real bosses of the heroin trade – those who make the most profit along the supply chain – were Turkish Mafia living throughout Europe. He had deals with most of them and much of his wealth from heroin is now invested in legit legal businesses, like casinos and even law firms. He’s recruited Albanian crime syndicates who have taken over a lot of the heroin business as it moves its way out along various smuggling routes into Western Europe, through Greece, Albania, Kosovo and Serbia. Even Hungary. These twats are hardcore nutcases and have changed the face of London crime.’

  Sean grabbed another bottle of beer, cracked it open with the edge of his lighter and smiled at the incongruity of it all.

  ‘Big Bang Frazer he’s known as. I’ll get him one day. Can’t believe I got suckered into it all, but it was good money and a good adventure when I had bugger all to live for. Then it dawned on me I needed to put things right and get the fuck out of the haze I was in.’

  ‘Sounds like you were in it too deep, mate. How the fuck did you find all this out?’

  ‘I went too far. I started delving deep into his operations. I’m surprised he didn’t have me slotted in the end. The bit that got me the most was when I learnt part of his legit business was to supply ex-coppers and bent lawyers to the Iraqi Historical Allegations Team.’

  Swartz winced. ‘Those bastards are the scourge of the earth – hounding the fuck out of us for years with no justification at all.’

  ‘Exactly – I worked with some of the investigators when they were transferred to my Afghan ops. Two of them gave me chapter and verse on how they were firmly instructed by their bosses to string the investigations out. Dragging it out, with no thought for the soldiers being investigated, meant more money. To the tune of millions. It was nothing short of racketeering and I let them know my views on that.’

  ‘So, he felt threatened then? Enough to do you over?’

  ‘I resigned and walked away. Then he found out I’d been meddling. Had me tailed and stitched up like a kipper. He was worried I’d whistle-blow, so he set me up. I was bang to rights when they tipped me off to the Afghan police, who arrested me on the spot. Frazer got me – knowing full well I’d be incarcerated for fifteen years plus.’

  ‘Maybe you’ll have the chance to get at him one day Sean. Hopefully with me in tow to sort the twat out. I retire soon, thank fuck.’

  ‘This could be the break I need, Swartz – and I’ll get him and his cronies one way or the other, make no mistake about that.’

  Sean marvelled at the irony of both their situations. Their black humour and no-nonsense lifestyles provided no measure of deep emotion – it was just hardcore get on with it, live it and fix it. ‘Hog the pain,’ as Sean would often say when the going got tough. Chuckling, they toasted each other’s futures and clinked their beer bottles.

  ‘Why the fuck did they ask us to break you out then, Sean?’

  ‘Haven’t got a clue. But one thing’s for sure, it’s not because they felt sorry for me. Looks like something pretty dodgy to me.’

  ‘Another fucking ruse,’ Swartz muttered.

  Chapter 11

  Bagram Airport, 9 April 2016

  Sean awoke the next morning to the sound of Bagram airport coming alive. The noise of a huge Galaxy C-5 air transporter taking off was a welcome relief from the screams of agony and the pitiful distress of those incarcerated in the Kabul jail.

  It had been a disturbed sleep, as it always was. His mind breaking in and out of the flashing scenes of his dank cell, and the stinking bodies of a dozen filthy men. He took a few moments to let the pleasant smell of the fresh white linen sink in, feeling the comfort of the duvet and plump pillow devour his senses. He felt fresh but sore. He lay there, not planning on getting up for a while, but quietly thinking of the events that had led to his arrest and incarceration.

  He had been watching TV in his hotel room in Kabul when he had heard the commotion outside. Seconds later the door smashed open. Two of Frazer’s steroid-laden thugs jumped on him and he felt the sensation of cold steel pressed hard against his forehead. He was handcuffed and bundled into a van, where he was beaten by the thugs.

  People cope with the shock of capture in different ways. For Sean, it was always his gut that wrenched first. Then total despair. He remembered that he had regained consciousness with a curious view. A tiny concrete room. One high window with bars and a deluge of dust gently cascading downwards, forming a mirage from the sun’s rays.

  The door creaked, and Big Bang Frazer stood above him. Ginger-haired. A huge nose. Sniffling from too much cocaine.

  ‘Well Sean, you really thought you’d get one over on me, didn’t you?’

  Sean tried to sit up but failed. ‘What do you mean?’ he said, blood spurting from his mouth, as he bent his head to get some shade from the sun’s rays.

  ‘Talking – you talk too fucking much – and don’t pay attention to how that might affect my manor. You’re a little fucking squealer aren’t you?’

  ‘Bullshit – I’ve been doing my job. Fuck all else.’

  ‘You’ve been squealing to the locals – and digging into my business. Had a change of moral compass, have you?’

  Sean stayed quiet, quickly thinking about how he could escape.

  ‘I’m going to teach you a lesson, sunshine. One you never learnt in your cosy little spy training. A lesson you’ll keep learning because you’ll wake up to it every fucking day thinking of me.’

  ‘Listen Frazer, I don’t need any teaching. Just a fucking job. This is all bollocks.’

  ‘You really don’t know anything about me do you? I know everything. You’ve been tracing my money and delving into my fucking personal business. Looking to stich me up.’

  ‘Rubbish – I was trying to uncover a leak.’

  Frazer laughed hard. ‘Always trying to grasp onto your training, eh? Doesn’t work, sunshine. There’s nothing that makes me more pissed off than people going behind my back. It makes me itch hard. It makes me want to see you suffer.’

  Frazer lifted his leg and drove it down into Sean’s knee. He felt the patella twist and crack. ‘You’re a scumbag Sean. Enjoy your vacation. You may survive – who knows?’

  With that, Frazer was gone, and four uniformed Afghan policemen arrived an hour later to arrest Sean.

  *

  The sun burst into his small bedroom. Sean took a moment to remember where he was. The gutsy sound of a Chinook helicopter reminded him he was now free, and he took in his surroundings again. An old, steel-framed army bed. A bedside locker and a jug of water. A military sign on the door, giving instructions in the event of a mortar attack. He hated his flashbacks, shook himself to relieve the emotion, and slowly exited the bed to make his way across the small room to the clothes Swartz had appropriated for him.

  ‘Good man,’ he thought, as he spied the brand-new, sand-coloured desert shoes under the armchair. His favourite. Swartz had left him a light blue short-sleeved shirt and a pair of tan jeans, as well as a black gilet for the cold. On the table were a pair of sunglasses, a bottle of water, a packet of Rothmans cigarettes, with a Zippo lighter on top, and a small note saying, ‘Best of luck mate, see you at the next match.’ Sean opened the bottle, took two tablets to ease his pain, showered and got dressed. The peace of having time to himself was invigorating, and his thoughts switched between what was coming next, how to keep his freedom and the bastards who had stitched him up. He wondered what the ‘ruse’, as Swartz had described it, might be.

  *

  The brown leather squeaked as Sean ne
stled into his seat on the Gulfstream jet. He sat next to Jack. JJ, who was already immersed in his paperback, sat opposite them. Sean watched him start to read Fitzroy Maclean’s Eastern Approaches. The jet had four small pods consisting of four seats, each with a small table in between. Sean thought about how such jets had been used by MI6 to move terrorists around the globe as part of the CIA-led extraordinary rendition scheme. Doubtless this plane, its cargo and manifest would not show up on any official records.

  Jack began. ‘You’ll meet my boss tomorrow, but we have a critical job for you, Sean – and you’re probably the only man we have who can do it. A hunter job. Exactly why we got you out.’

  Jack was not just a loyal Crown servant, but a spy who operated best in the deserts of the Middle East, the mountains of Central Asia or with the dark gangs of the Balkans, where he knew his craft well. This time, he was on a national security mission for his new boss, Dominic Atwood.

  ‘OK, what’s it all about then?’ Sean said, leaning back into his plush seat and glancing over at Jack. ‘I’m expecting there is some sort of deal to be had here.’

  Jack smiled. ‘Indeed. That’s the gist of it. In essence, we have an intelligence officer who has gone rogue. And he’s gone missing. Possibly kidnapped. He’s a high-grade officer who was working at the National Forces Intelligence Agency based in the high-security bunkers of the Bedfordshire countryside.’

  ‘What’s he done then?’ Sean inquired, wondering what Jack’s role was in this, and about the motivation of the rogue intelligence officer.

  ‘We’re not entirely sure,’ Jack replied. ‘We only have a single source of intelligence on him at the moment. And that’s where you come in, Sean.’

  ‘Who’s the source then?’