‘You’re thinking of the Arabic.’ Knox nodded. ‘Yeah, I’ve kept it up. Made some holiday visits to Cairo too, in earlier years. Although my mother’s people talk more French than Arabic… On which subject, shall we try our Arabic on each other now?’
*
At the window, Charlie saw Bob Knox emerge from the front of the building and run down the steps, vanishing into the square. He’d be on his way to Poole now — burning down the M3, no doubt. He was going to telephone at noon next day, to the Bond Street showroom; Charlie had offered him a card with the business address and telephone number, but the SBS man had produced an identical card from his own top pocket and said, ‘Snap.’ He’d certainly done his homework.
Charlie wondered whether, if he’d been putting an SAS team together for some clandestine operation that required Arabic speakers, he’d have even fleetingly considered recruiting a man who’d already once crumbled under pressure.
He was sure he would not have.
But in the SAS, of course, he‘d have had the whole Regiment from which to pick and choose. In contrast, SBS was a very small outfit, about the size of one rifle company — 100, 120 men, no more — so you’d have only a very few guys speaking Arabic, and if some of them happened to be deployed in the Gulf and couldn’t be hauled out of whatever jobs they were doing, you’d have to scratch around, scrape the barrel.
Scrapings. He nodded to himself. Dregs.
He poured himself a drink. His Arabic was flawless. That was the key to this business, explain it all. You’d get quite a few guys with a reasonable command of the language, but not many could actually pass themselves off as Arabs.
Bob Knox could manage that, all right. As well as Charlie could. So that made two of them.
Have to start weaning oneself off this stuff pretty soon, he thought. Not tonight — having had a couple already, and also he’d have to take Paula out for a meal when she showed up — but tomorrow, maybe. Except that tomorrow he’d need to be a bit jolly, entertain the big-company characters down the road. They’d accept the fact he had to take a few weeks off — for urgent family reasons, he’d tell them — but he’d have to soften them up a bit, and you wouldn’t get far with that bunch on cups of tea.
He’d give up the booze when the SBS started him on this physical training programme. That would be soon enough. For the time being, forget it.
Prowling the room, glass in hand, casting long shadows, waiting for Paula’s buzz. He wondered how he was going to break it to her that he’d be dropping out of circulation for several weeks, and not tell her where he was going. The Paulas of this world didn’t much like not being told things.
Some kind of yarn, then. Checking on outlets in Germany, to set up a supply network for importing Mercs. She’d buy that, he thought.
He wished he could tell Anne what was happening. He’d have loved Anne to know that he’d been reinstated. In his imagination he saw himself telling her about it: Charlie Swale, the old Charlie Swale, back on his feet and asking her ‘If they can give me a break, can’t you?’
He could see the answer, too. That withdrawn, icy look, eyes about as frigid as that bugger Knox’s.
He wondered where the action was to be. Knox’s last words — in Arabic — had been, ‘Better let your moustache grow, Charlie.’ He’d touched his own with a fingertip. ‘Where we’re going it’s rare to see a shaved upper lip.’
Syria, Charlie guessed. Or Albania. Those were about the only countries apart from Libya where clandestine entry would be the only way in, where you couldn’t just walk in as a tourist. Or even the Yemen… But maybe it was Libya; Knox had said it wasn’t, but that didn’t mean such a lot, Charlie reckoned.
*
The man who’d called himself Knox wasn’t on the road to Poole. He’d driven his shabby Ford Escort via Hyde Park Corner into Knightsbridge, turned left just short of Harrods and was now parking it in the NCP garage under Cadogan Square. The Ford looked shabbier than ever squeezed between a White Range Rover Vogue Efi and a scarlet Mercedes 560 SEL. He used the exit in the square’s northwest corner, into Sloane Street, crossed at the lights and walked south about a hundred metres. Then at the top of a flight of shallow, grey marble steps he faced yet another array of bell—pushes: he found the one he wanted, and waited a few seconds until a woman’s voice asked, ‘Who is it?’
‘Leo.’
‘Leo. What a joy.’
He heard the click of the lock releasing, pushed the heavy plate-glass door open and made sure it locked again behind him. Then through the foyer — past an elaborate flower arrangement and then the porter’s desk — there was no porter on duty this late – to the lift.
Second floor. flat 9. These were serviced flats, available by the week. The door of number nine swung open as he reached it.
‘Leo, darling, how wonderful!’
He’d never set eyes on her until this moment. Yesterday when he’d spoken to her on the telephone he’d imagined her as young, slim, sexy. She was fifty-ish, a big woman, in a flowing bright kaftan that made her look even bigger — a tent effect. Hawk nose, thin mouth, eyes with a sharpness in them to match the nose, that bird-of-prey look… It would require truly enormous wings to get the bird off the ground though, he thought. She’d shut the door, and added more quietly now, ‘You’re bang on time, but our friend’s late. Want a drink?’
He shook his head. ‘OK to talk, is it?’
‘Clean as a whistle. I’m not just a pretty face.‘ She laughed; Leo didn’t. She asked him, ‘Did you contact those two?’
‘Yeah, and it’s settled. Thanks for lining them up, at such short notice.’
‘It’s been a rush, all right.’ She gestured kitchen-wards: ‘I’ve a bottle of fizz on the ice, Leo, but maybe we should wait until Eric—’
‘Personally I wouldn’t bother even then.’
‘Abstemious mystery man, eh?’
Buzzer.
‘There.’ She swept past him, out of the sitting room into the hall. ‘Swept’ was a good description of the way she shifted her bulk around. Once it was under way you wouldn’t want to be in its path, either. He looked round the large, bare room — bare despite its furnishings. Chairs and tables made no odds, it was a transient’s pad, its lack of any atmosphere or personality not in the least alleviated by the scattering of a temporary occupant’s bits an pieces. A door in the corner led to a kitchenette; two tall windows were draped in heavy green. He heard the woman’s incongruously girlish voice from the hallway: ‘Come on up, Eric my dear…’
‘Eric’ looked exactly as he had in the photograph which Leo had been shown in Moscow. His own height, near enough — 1.80 metres or maybe a fraction under that — with black wavy hair, a squarish face with laugh-lines in it, and a pleasant, humorous expression. Smartly dressed in a dark-blue suit: silk shirt, knitted—silk tie… Boris Pyotrovich Smotrenko, from the Soviet Trade Mission in Highgate.
A ladies’ man, Leo guessed, getting a whiff of some perfume — after-shave, maybe — as they shook hands.
Smotrenko began quietly, confidentially, ‘One question I have to ask, before anything else is—’
‘Yeah.’ Leo nodded. Anticipating the question wasn’t difficult. He told the GRU man. ‘On present indications, he’s hooked.’
2
‘And the other two?’
Leo nodded. There’d been a brief exchange between ‘Eric’ and the woman, a second confirmation from her that this place was clear of bugs. Which was more than could be said of Charlie Swale’s pad now. Leo told him, ‘They’ll do. Here are the descriptions, by the way…’ Glancing at the woman as he delved into a pocket: ‘I’d like that full run-down on their backgrounds now, OK?’
‘No problem.’ She went into the kitchen. Leo gave ‘Eric’ a sheet torn from a notebook, listings of the two mercenaries’ heights, estimated weights, general appearance; this information would go to Moscow in tomorrow’s diplomatic bag. Smotrenko folded the slip of ruled paper into his wallet, studying
Leo with shrewd interest. Here in London he was Leo’s control, getting his own directives from Gudyenko; and the big woman worked for him, of course. Leo told him, ‘I believe we’re OK with Swale. first because his brain’s awash with whisky, and second — as forecast — he’s over the moon at being invited to take part, and he’s not looking the gift horse in its mouth.’ He frowned. ‘At least, seems not to be doing so.’
Smotrenko still watched him, said nothing. Leo added, ‘So as of now, the signs are good.’
He couldn’t be anything like sure of Swale, yet. Tomorrow noon when he telephoned him, he’d know better. Then later the bug’s tape would reveal a little more — maybe even a warning signal to abort.
Smotrenko said, ‘It’s not just a matter of selling the project to him now, of course. It’s maintaining the deception, isn’t it. You’re aware we don’t move you out of here unless you’re a hundred per cent sure he’s fooled?’
Leo nodded — expressionless, to hide annoyance. ‘Eric’ flexing his muscles, his power to abort the operation in some circumstances. As if one wasn’t only too sharply aware of the need to keep blinkers on Charlie Swale. It was a point that had been made at least a dozen times, for heaven’s sake. All part of Gudyenko’s fail-safe mechanism… But he could ‘Eric’s probing — because this was his first operational deployment, officially Leo Serebryakov’s training hadn’t run its full course, and this ‘Eric’ new it, was treating him as a fledgeling. Leo thought, Well, fuck it, let him… and told him quietly, even humbly, ‘first of all I suggested that I’d take him down to SBS headquarters at Poole. Then I changed my mind — on grounds of security, the chance he might be spotted visiting us and conclusions drawn.’
‘Drawn by whom?’
‘People like us, I suppose.’ He shrugged. ‘God knows. But the point is that the first intention — taking him to Poole — will seem genuine to him if he remembers it, which with any luck he will. Then with the other two—’
A cork popped in the kitchen; and the woman had said something. Eric prompted, ignoring her, ‘The other two?’
‘They believe I’m a Royal Marine captain, and I’ve told them the fourth guy will only volunteer his services if he believes we all are. This suits them, as it happens — ready-made cover for them, I dare say. But as I’ve described it to them, it’s strictly an off-the-record operation, not ever to be ascribed to the SBS. If we were caught we’d deny any official connections, we’d be mercenaries, all of us. And of course we need Swale for his own special skills, notably his Arabic. He’s fluent, by the way, I’ve tested him and I couldn’t fault him. But they’ve swallowed all that, and tomorrow I’ll have a longer session with them, teaching them how to talk like Marines — calling themselves Bootnecks, that sort of thing, and naval slang, and — well, they’re on their guard, naturally, at this stage, but they’re dazzled by the money. D’you have it, by the way?‘
‘I do.’ The woman brought glasses of champagne on a tin tray. ‘I’ll give it to you in a minute. Five thousand pounds each, other half on completion, right?’
She didn’t know, and Leo guessed Smotrenko wouldn’t either, that the mercenaries wouldn’t be calling for any second payment. He told her, ‘I’ll need some cash myself, for current expenses.’
‘Such as?’
‘I had to give those two a hundred pounds each on account. So OK, I’ll take that out of the money they get now. But also I have to hire transport, and tents, food and other things. Having given him a reason for staying away from Poole, he’ll accept that the same applies to any other Royal Marine establishment, training facilities — and he knows we’re passing ourselves off as civilians, so civvy equipment won’t surprise him. Rations, everything. But I’ve got to take them somewhere or other for some training: if I didn’t, he’d start wondering, wouldn’t he. So — cross-country work, rock-climbing, get him moderately fit.’ Leo shrugged. ‘Get myself fit, too.’
Eric handed the woman his empty glass. ‘Proshu.’ She smiled, edged into the kitchenette to get the bottle. Leo continued, ‘I thought Wales, to camp and do this running around. Swale will feel at home — it’s home ground for the SAS, it’ll make sense to him… No thanks, no more for me… Can you tell me how long we’ve got?’
‘You fly from Heathrow on Sunday. Flight BA 570, takes off 0855. Check in at least an hour before that, of course.’
Logistics as well as leg-work were her department.
‘Have you got our tickets?’
Return tickets for a fourteen-day holiday. Nobody would be returning, but she didn’t have to know this either. She said, ‘Will have. You can collect them here Saturday evening, any time after eight I’ll be here. Unless of course I hear from you or from Eric before that — if anything went wrong, or—’
‘You know my ticket’s to be in the name of Donald Campbell, and Swale travels as Christopher Sharp?’
‘Yes… You’ll need to be back Saturday night anyway, won’t you, for the early start. Your flight arrives Istanbul 1440 local time: then a few hours‘ wait for the connecting flight to Ercan. You’re advised to take a taxi from the airport; the boat’ll be waiting for you at Kyrenia and they’ll be looking out for you.’
From there on, he’d be on his own, except for orders that would come by radio. Orders might have reached the crew, in fact, before he and his team arrive on board. The crew would be a freelance team originally with Fatah-Abu Mussa’s crowd, the people who split with Yasser Arafat in 1983 when Arafat had begun to talk in terms of moderation and the Syrians and others turned against him. They were to speak French and English and carry Israeli papers, and the boat would be registered in Tel Aviv, or would appear to be.
The big woman said, ‘I suppose you must know where you’re going then. I don’t, I’m not even looking at maps, in case I guess… But make sure there’s nothing compromising in your luggage. Yachtsmen taking a holiday cruise don’t need more than shorts, towels and suntan oil… Incidentally, you’re going to say you’ll be cruising north into Turkish waters, right? Well, you’ll be glad to hear the boat’s a Turkish type, known as a gulet, built in Turkey at a place called Bodrum.’
‘And does the tour company have a name?’
‘Bluewater Cruises. Israeli, new business just starting up. Agent here in London—’ she curtsied, massively — ‘is little me, but head office is in Jaffa. I’m having brochures printed, should have some for you when you come for your tickets. You answered a holiday ad in the Sunday Times, by the way. That’s how you got on to it — same with the others. eh?’
‘Was there an advertisement?’
‘Sure was.’ Emptying the bottle, splitting what was left between her own glass and Smotrenko’s. ‘Don’t despair, Eric, there‘s another…’
*
‘General Gudyenko’s in good shape, I hope?‘
Leo nodded. ‘He’s in excellent health. And his mind — the combination of range and capacity for detail—’
‘Must have a high opinion of you. to have put this mission in your hands.’ The GRU controller paused, inviting comment. He added when none came. ‘Kicking you straight into the deep end, huh?’
‘My training‘s virtually complete. OK, I’d’ve been left to hang around for another year maybe, then the examining board — which to all intents and purposes is the general — but I wouldn’t have gained much. Also, it happens that my training, languages, preliminary field experience — everything, this far — could’ve been designed to fit me for this job.’ His cold eyes held the older man’s. ‘The general will have given it some thought, you now.’
‘You don’t say.’ The smile was perfunctory. Leo put in quickly, ‘I’m sorry if that sounded — well, precocious.’
‘A little.’ Smotrenko’s smile was genuine, this time. He asked, ‘You’re what, about thirty?’
‘Right. But if I’d been much older I couldn’t have played this particular role, you see.’
The role of an SBS captain, he meant.
‘And—’ the
woman joined them, having eased the cork out of a second bottle — ‘with those looks, you must be a Georgian. Would I be right?‘ Her smile clung to him. ‘Georgians make the best lovers in the world. So I’ve heard. I hasten to add, I wouldn’t swear it from my own very limited experience, unfortunately.’
‘Eric’ laughed. Leo’s imagination boggled, at the implication that he might do anything to broaden her experience. Like coupling with a hippo… He’d thought of dossing in this flat for the night, but with her bulgy eyes glistening at him he was having second thoughts. A good — and very practical — alternative would be to go back to where the two mercenaries were holed up in Clapham, drop in on them unexpectedly and use a couch there, spend the whole morning with them, preparing them for the charade, their impersonation of SBS Royal Marines.
It would be the best possible use of his time. The big woman leant over with the bottle: ‘Georgian — is my guess right?’
He nodded. Covering his glass with his palm. ‘I was born in Tbilisi.’
Between the Black and Caspian seas in the summer of 1957 Leonid Ivanovich Serebryakov had first opened baby-blue eyes on the lush, exotic landscape. Even as a toddler he’d shown signs of being exceptionally bright — to the surprise of his railwayman father, less to that of his mother who was a computer technician from Krasdodar. The schoolboy revealed a particular flair for languages and was also something of an athlete, which pleased his father who’d been a sprinter in his own youth, and when the time came for military service Leo was picked for Spetsnaz special-force training. He was good at it and enjoyed it, but he had his sights set higher than on soldiering, even the Spetsnaz kind of soldiering, and with some string-pulling from his mother’s family — a favourite uncle had recently been promoted major-general — he found himself inducted to the Military-Diplomatic Academy.
Special Deception Page 2