‘You must be a mind-reader.’
Leo shrugged. It had been obvious what Swale would have been thinking. Leo had thought about this question of not giving any of them any detailed information about the job, because he’d realised that from his SAS experience Charlie would have taken it for granted that all the members of a team would have been in on the planning right from scratch. He’d decided that he could take a chance on Charlie’s knowing next to nothing about SBS procedures; and if that turned out to be an incorrect assumption, OK, this was a one-off, this was how they’d decided to handle it on this particular occasion. Charlie seemed to have swallowed it, anyway. Leo was hunched behind the wheel and apparently concentrating on the road ahead but he was searching his mind for any hurdles which he might not have foreseen, in the context of pulling the wool over the eyes of Charlie Swale. He’d passed the Swindon turn-off before Charlie broke the silence with another question.
‘I was thinking, Bob — you said your parents married in 1956 — right? The year Nasser took over the Canal and we and the French invaded? Your father must have stuck his neck out with a vengeance, getting permission to marry an Egyptian girl just at that time?’
‘The Suez crisis was at the back end of the year, Charlie, wasn’t it? I think it was November when the paras went in at Port Said. And the wedding took place in the spring, you see — when Canal takeover was probably no more than a gleam in Nasser’s eye.’
‘And by the time we moved in you’d already been conceived, I dare say.’
‘I must have been, actually. But I remember now, it was July when Nasser grabbed the Canal.‘ He shrugged. ‘Oddly enough the events around that time have always been of some special interest to me.’ He smiled briefly. Thinking that drink or no drink, Swale wasn’t all that slow on the uptake. He’d remembered what Leo had said about his parents’ marriage, the date of it and the date of Leo’s alleged birth. and had noticed the incongruity of an Anglo-Egyptian romance flowering at that juncture, and he’d remembered to ask about it. Despite the smell of last night’s whisky on his breath. It might be taken as a warning, not to underestimate Charlie’s powers of observation and recollection, not to assume he’d be all that easy to fool.
He glanced at him. ‘OK, Charlie?’
‘Fine. Like me to take over for a spell?’
‘No, thanks, I‘m happy.’ He edged the van back into the left-hand lane. ‘We put in some spare gear that ought to fit you. Tracksuit and so forth.’
‘Very kind of you. And on that subject — what about equipment — weapons for instance — when we take off?’
‘It’ll be out there, waiting for us. We’ll be on a scheduled flight out of London, you see.’
‘Will we…’
He’d assumed they’d be taken out in a Charlie C130, a Hercules, to some NATO base. He was staring at Bob’s profile, astonished at this idea, an ordinary commercial flight… Bob explained, ‘It fits in, there’s no reason not to. Won’t be the first time we’ve done it this way. Depending on destination and timing and what we do or don’t have to take with us. Actually there are advantages from the security angle this way, and as I said, everything we need will be out there ahead of us, we’ll take nothing you wouldn’t have in your luggage on any Mediterranean holiday.’
‘Buckets and spades and snorkel masks?’
No smile… ‘Sailing holiday, say. Shorts, T-shirts, warmer gear for cool evenings, that kind of thing.’ A shrug. ‘Suntan oil and a disc camera, if you like.’
Echoes of the big woman’s advice, night before last, when she’d pointed out that security precautions on all the Middle Eastern air routes were likely to be more stringent following the Libyan-mounted terrorist assault on British women and children on the Akrotiri base. Unnecessary advice, he’d thought, although he’d shown no such criticism in his manner; but it had all been thrashed out in Moscow, where he’d expressed concern at the notion of ‘SBS’ personnel travelling as tourists on a scheduled commercial flight, and Vetrov’s deputy, a major named Pavluchenkov, had sneered, ‘You’d rather we hired a Hercules for you, from the Royal Air Force?’ 0r sent a Tupolev to pick you up in London?’ As for the large woman, he knew she’d only been airing her views because this was as far as her knowledge went — as far as the destination on the tickets which it was her job to buy. Beyond that point she had no information and no responsibility.
She’d shown real disappointment when Leo had told them he wouldn’t be spending the night in Sloane Street, that he’d decided to move in with the mercenaries. In fact this had been well worth while, and had also provided him with the opportunity to recover the bug he’d left in their flat. Identical to the one he’d planted in Charlie Swale’s place — self-contained, sound-activated, the size of a packet of cigarettes only flatter, when anyone started talking it began its silent recording.
He’d asked the woman, in a quick follow-up to cover the embarrassment over where he did or did not sleep, ‘What about giving me the detail of those two guys’ backgrounds now?’
‘Certainly…’
‘You said—’ Smotrenko dipping his oar in again — ‘one of them was a paratrooper?’
‘That’s Tait.’ She’d nodded. ‘Sergeant in the paras. Left the Army because he had a big win on the football pools.’ She’d smiled. ‘There’s capitalism for you. He’d always dreamt of running a pub, it had been his great ambition, what he’d thought he’d do when he retired. But he’d have been a brewer’s tenant, never dreamt he’d be able to buy a place of his own. Reading between the lines I’d say it was a rotten buy — cheap. In any case it flopped, totally, and our friend lost his money.’ ‘Not so surprising.’ Leo said, ‘Impression I have from my one meeting with him is he has a face like a lump of stone. People who go into pubs want to be made welcome, not glared at. If he was the guy behind the bar you’d drink up and get out quick, I‘d guess.’
‘Anyway, he’s had work as a barman since then.’ She added, ‘Also as a delivery driver, and other jobs. But from his paratroop NCO background he’d worked as an instructor on survival courses, and from that he was recruited by an organisation called Action for Animals. You know — they attack mink farms, fox farms and so on?’ Leo had nodded; she explained, ‘Well, there’s a hardcore of thugs who spearhead the attacks. The organisation rides on the backs of people who actually care about animals, but there’s a nucleus of activists who aren’t so nice, certainly don’t give a shit for our little furry friends… Training in commando tactics is a must for them, and that was Tait’s job.’
‘Was?’
‘It wasn‘t full-time employment, and he’s not on that payroll now anyway, he’s on ours.’
‘How did you get on to him?’
‘Through — friends.’ She glanced at Smotrenko, who nodded. Back to Leo, then: ‘People who have connections with the AFA…’ She shrugged. ‘An organisation of that kind could have other uses, couldn’t it? When a group’s adept at taking out farms, laboratories, whatever — most of which are guarded now, protected electronically and so on — well, they could be switched to quite different targets, couldn’t they. Missile sites, airfields, for instance?’
Smotrenko cut in: ‘What about the other man?’
‘Denham met Tait in AFA, but before that he was a Gunner, attached to a commando brigade so he did commando training. He was discharged after a scandal involving a girl soldier, a gang-bang rape charge. In his case rape wasn’t proven, they acquitted him but they still got rid of him. He was there, you see… He was innocent, of course. But he was unemployed for a while, then in some mercenary expedition. Temporary jobs then, and he was introduced to the AFA, where he met Tait. Tait never went on any raids, only instructed the men who did, but Denham took part in some, including one where a farm employee was nearly killed. This finished him — he says he didn’t do it, but was near and saw it happen… Like the gang-bang, huh? He went back to bar-keeping, which like Tait he’d done before. It was Tait whom our contact recruited, and he i
ntroduced Pete Denham.’
‘A primary consideration was that neither should have any police record.‘ Smotrenko stared at her. ‘One presumes Denham’s rape case never came into any criminal court?’
‘Right, it didn’t. A military court cleared him. And Tait has no record at all.’
In fact they were ideal for the job, Leo thought… Changing up, with his foot hard down then as he swung the van out — he’d been boxed in, a truck overtaking another, cars speeding by on the outside — he thought about the three of them and their acceptance of him as team leader. Easing the VW back into the middle lane, shrugging mentally, knowing that his ability to deceive, manipulate, and personally to survive, float clear, lay basically in his detachment from his fellow humans, the feeling he had of being as ‘different’ from all of them as if he’d just come from Mars. And a rootlessness that matched this, which had been brought home to him recently in Moscow when General Gudyenko had made some remark about his — Leo’s — being brought ‘home’ from Damascus when his work in Syria was finished. He’d thought, Home? Other men had homes, he didn’t. Not even as a child: and he’d felt no kinship or empathy with either of his real parents.
He wondered if this detachment showed, if it puzzled these people. He’d seen no signs of it — not as he had for instance in the flat on Sloane Street, Smotrenko’s instinctive hostility, his resentment of some quality which he must have sensed. Very much like a dog‘s hackles rising…
And Swale — earlier that same evening, Swale’s wary puzzlement?
He thought that now, having had two nights and a day in which to think it over, Swale seemed to have settled, accepted him well enough. Because Swale wanted to. So that seemed to be all right — so far.
They stopped for a snack and for petrol at a Trust House Forte service station not far from the Severn Bridge. They drank fresh orange juice and ate open sandwiches, then bought newspapers. Leo took the Daily Telegraph, Tait the Sun and Denham the Daily Mail. Charlie bought only a Mars Bar, murmuring as stalked out, ‘Bugger the news, it’s always fucking awful.’ Both the mercenaries chuckled, glancing at him and then at each other, as if they’d begun to like him.
*
By early afternoon they had the tents up, on a hillside somewhere in the wilds of Wales. Leo had been to the farmhouse in the valley and made a deal, giving the farmer to understand that they were a cross-country relay team from some naval establishment near Bath, here to put in a few days’ workout prior to an inter-Services athletics meeting.
It was a well-sited camp. They had a wood behind them for shelter from the southwest wind, and a couple of hundred yards down the hill was a stream with clear, cold water in it. Eggs and milk would be available from the farm and there was plenty of fallen wood around for fuel. Sheep dotted the hillside: it wasn’t exactly lush pasture. Above the camp the incline steepened to a ridge, then fell for about a thousand metres into a dip from which the land rose to a rocky summit. Leo said, pointing uphill, ‘There’s our training ground. Or some of it. We might as well get cracking right away — the old bloke said it’s going to rain before long, and anyway this is Wednesday, so we’ve only the rest of today and Thursday/Friday, on Saturday we have to get back to the smoke. OK?’
Charlie said, ‘Suits me,’ and Denham nodded: ‘Yeah.’ Leo added, ‘But look, I have a confession to make.’
They all looked at him, waiting for it. Smiley Tait so hard-faced that if he’d been a confessor you’d know you’d never absolution. Denham’s mouth slightly open… Charlie said — enjoying himself, although he knew it was going to be hellish toiling up that hill — ‘I know what it is, Bob. You didn’t care to mention it before, but you’ve got a wooden leg.’
Denham laughed. Leo was too intent on what he was about to say, on putting it over in a way that would sound natural and credible, to show appreciation of Charlie’s humour. He told them, allowing himself to look slightly embarrassed, ‘The fact is, I’ve spent most of the past six months at a desk. One’s supposed to get out and take exercise, but — well, you get snowed under, there’s never enough time… Consequently I’m not as fit as I ought to be: so—’
‘Slobs of the world unite.’ Charlie patted his own belly. ‘You have nothing to lose but your flab.’
‘So—’ Leo told him — ‘I’m putting Smiley in charge of the training programme. I’ve told him to work us as hard as he likes.’
Tait nodded. ‘Get changed, for a start.’
Charlie shared one of the tents with Leo, who told him while they were changing into tracksuits, ‘Tait’s a sergeant and a first-class instructor.’ He added ‘Purely for information, Charlie; we don’t use ranks much operationally.’
He thought, Teach your grandmother to suck eggs. Surprised that Bob should have bothered with that explanation. One special force was very much like another in those areas. He changed the subject: ‘Back to London on Saturday, you said.’
‘Right. Get there some time in the afternoon. Drop you at your place, then I’ll have to return the VW and the tents, you see. We’ll be taking off rather early on Sunday morning.’
‘Next thing you know, you’ll be telling me where we’re going.’
‘I thought I’d mentioned it — Sunday a.m. takeoff, I mean — in the van.’
‘No. Up to now the only thing you’d mentioned was that we’re going on a civil flight.’
‘Well, I’m sorry, I’d meant to tell you. It’ll be a very early start, actually. In fact I might shake down in your flat on Saturday night — unless it’s inconvenient?’ He finished lacing his trainers, and stood up. ‘You ready?’
It was an easy jog up to the ridge, and then the downhill stretch was no effort. Charlie pounded along beside Tait, with Bob out to the left and Pete in front. Uphill again now, steeper than the first part and twice the distance, getting steeper a they went. Charlie saw Bob straining to keep up; feeling it himself too although he knew this was only a warm-up, a preliminary to the hard work. He was thankful he’d played squash regularly.
Slowing, stopping; stooped, hands on knees, panting, then looking up at the rock-piles towering against grey sky as Tait said cheerfully, ‘Up we go, then.’
Denham led, and Bob — face darker than ever with the sheen of sweat on it — started up behind him. Tait glanced at Charlie, jerked his chin to point upward, muttered, ‘Tomorrow you won’t stop at all, you’ll fly up…’
*
Leo said, in the tent at about 1 a.m., ‘just as well we‘ve got these few days.’
‘Yeah.’ Charlie turned out the naphtha lamp and lay back, pulled up the zip of his sleeping-bag. ‘Two more days of pure bloody agony and we’ll be tigers, huh?’
He began to snore most instantly. Leo wondered how long it might have been since he’d turned in without a load of alcohol inside him.
The tape from the recorder-bug was OK. Leo had recovered it this morning when he’d got into the flat on the pretext of needing a pee, and he’d played it in the van while the others had been carrying tents and stuff up this hill. All he’d learnt from it was that Charlie talked to himself a lot, also to the woman called Anne, the absent wife; but there’d been no dangerous calls or conversations.
Conceivably, old Charlie could have known there was a bug in position, could have done his talking elsewhere. Not likely, but — yes, conceivable…
Leo envied him his ability to just flop down and switch off like that. Particularly as they’d be turning out at 0600 to start a cross-country run at 0615. But his own brain was active, muscles still tense, thoughts crowding through his mind while his pulse drummed and wouldn’t slow despite his deliberately taking long, slow breaths, taking the beat from Charlie’s soft, continuous snoring.
Why should General Gudyenko have told him about the leak that was being set up?
It wasn’t necessary for him to know, didn’t help either him or the operation’s chances of success. It was fascinating — brilliant, actually — but in boasting of it the general had broken th
at most basic rule, the principle of ‘need to know’ on which he himself had invariably insisted. Out of pride in his own brain-child — if it had been his? If that was it, then the old man was past it, turning senile. This wasn’t borne out by any other aspect of his performance, though. As Leo had told the GRU Resident on Monday evening, Gudyenko’s brain was as sharp and all-encompassing as it had ever been.
It was tempting to see it as a compliment. If Gudyenlto of all people wanted Leo Serebryakov’s approval of his stratagem — and he must have wanted that, surely, even if only subconsciously, to have let such a special cat out of his bag… In the process, Leo recognised, the old guy had displayed a higher degree of trust in him than he’d have placed in any living human being.
Even — the thought amused him — in General Gudyenko.
Maybe the general did think of him as his personal protégé. At their final meeting, after all the detailed briefings at more junior levels and just before Leo had left for the airport and the return to London via Cairo, he’d said something to the effect that the successful completion of this task might well provide his — Leo’s — ‘pathway to the stars’. Extravagant phraseology — out of character for the man, unless he’d really meant it and had been seeking to let him know that he had great hopes for him?
Towards the end of the first briefing in Moscow, Leo had asked him, ‘Swale will be put on trial, you said, by the Syrians?’ Gudyenko, sipping water again, had left it to Vetrov to supply an answer: lamplight gleaming on Vetrov’s pale hair and pink-skinned face — ‘face like a baby’s bottom’ a junior staff officer had described it to Leo once — as he glanced up, clearing his throat… ‘Yes. For complicity in the crimes to which he’ll have testified. It will be a formality. No Western lawyers or diplomats will be allowed access to him, and at the trial’s conclusion he’ll be sentenced to death and executed immediately. No appeals or second thoughts or pseudo-legal ploys. Most essentially, no second thoughts from him on any of his own evidence.’
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