Kelso had halted, swung about, saluted. ‘Sir!’
A big man: well over six feet of hard-packed bone and muscle, heavy brows, thick moustache, close-cropped hair like a bristly cap on his rounded cranium. But for all that a surprisingly thoughtful set of features, a lot of intelligence looking out through the tough exterior. Looking down: Ockley was only five-eight.
A grin… ‘Coming along for the ride, are you, Ben?’
‘Thought I might. Have the lads all reported in?’
‘Ready to go. Except Marine Hall.’
‘What’s up with Hall?’
‘Just landed. Been windsurfing. I told him he can shift in the helo, sent him in to scoff with the rest of ’em.’
‘Eating now, are they?’ Might’ve known… ‘Helos are said to be on their way. When they arrive we load up and sit tight, wait for the word… Look, one thing — Sarbes. Make sure the batteries are all good, eh?’
SARBE was an acronym for Search and Rescue Beacon. Each man would have one slung round his neck or fixed to his drysuit; they were essential life-savers. He added, ‘I’ll check stores and weapons myself before we leave.’
‘Thought you might… Are we likely to be told what the task is, before we go?’
‘You bet. CO’ll be meeting us at Lyneham.’
He went to his own quarters, in this large base of which the SBS occupied only a minor section. The light was fading rapidly. He had to shift into uniform now, and pack the kit he needed. He’d been at home when the call had come, with Mary and the kid, Julia, who was now eighteen months old and a mini-duplicate of her mother, who was — frankly — beautiful, and who had her head screwed on well enough not to have fussed at all, not to have cried or even told him to ‘take care’ or any of those standard expressions of anxiety. In fact the opposite, she’d looked and sounded glad for him, for the chance he was being offered and which he’d been longing for. She’d clung to him for a few moments with her face hidden against his shoulder; it was all she’d needed, about fifteen seconds in which to get her act together.
*
Charles Hislop, waiting in the JOC for a ministerial decision, which he hoped to God might come accompanied by the Chief of the Defence Staff’s endorsement, avoiding yet more waste of precious time — took a call from John Bremner of MI6. Bremner was telephoning to report that checks at various Mediterranean airports had produced no results, as yet. At some places, he’d admitted, local cooperation was often not as wholehearted or efficient as one would have liked; this wasn’t new, it was about par for the course, you could be sure of results only if you had time to put your own people in; and time was the one commodity everyone was short of, right now.
Hislop said, ‘Only hope is to concentrate on Cyprus. And move now, and fast — when I’m allowed to, for Christ’s sake.’
‘Absolutely. If you’re to have any chance at all of stopping them at sea.’
‘That is the point. Because if we miss out — well…’
‘Right.’ Knowing as well as the SBS commander did that an intrusion on land would never be sanctioned… Bremner said, ‘Special Branch, incidentally, have sent out two men, to Larnaca. One’ll go north, the other’ll coordinate enquiries in the Greek half. We’ve some problems, potentially, with the Greeks, you know, wouldn’t be wise to expect much help from them. Specially in relation to Syrian affairs.’ He paused. ‘I gather your deployment hasn’t been approved yet?’
‘Waiting for it now, John. I thought this call might have been it.’
‘I’ll clear the line, then. Will you let me know, when—’
‘Someone will.’
Availability of aircraft had been confirmed. A Hercules C130 was being made ready at Lyneham now and another would be provided Akrotiri, would be ready for takeoff by the time the SBS team arrived. And Nimrod surveillance of the sea between Cyprus and Syria would be laid on — if the request was confirmed before midnight — from first light tomorrow. Also, if the decision was to go ahead, the CDS or his deputy would explain the situation to the Cousins in the hope that the Saratoga’s E-2s, little brothers of the AWACS, would be available if asked for.
Some of this information was still showing cryptically on one of the computer monitors. Impatient, and bored with seeing it there, Hislop was reminded of civil airport lounges, long waits at Heathrow and Gatwick with his wife and young sons and the seemingly unchangeable legend on the flight-departure screens: Delayed. Wait in lounge.
He knew perfectly well that a decision like this couldn’t be made at the drop of a hat. But even so…
The door banged open, and the duty SF Adviser burst in. Seeing his expression, Hislop felt a surge of relief even before the SAS man told him, ‘You’re in business, Charles.’
*
Hislop’s Gazelle helicopter from the east and the two Westland Wessex bringing the SBS team up from the south were converging on Lyneham when flight CY 327 from Heathrow landed at Larnaca in southeast Cyprus. The two Special Branch inspectors, Jimmy Hayward and Ken Fellows, had brought only cabin baggage and were consequently among the first passengers to get out through Customs and Immigration. Pushing their way out through the throng they were already sweating, in suits which in England they’d thought of as lightweight. Hayward himself was about a stone overweight, and feeling it.
‘Looks like our guy there, Ken.’
Pointing — at a young man in jeans and T-shirt, but with a somewhat military style of haircut, who was holding up a square of cardboard. He spotted them too, in the same moment that Hayward got a clear sight of that board, their names on it. He led the way over.
‘I’m Hayward, and this is Inspector Fellows. You’d be from what I believe is known as the sovereign base?’
‘From Dhekeli yessir. Sergeant Ross, RCT. I’ve two cars here. I was told one of you may want to go up to Kyrenia?’
‘Me.’ Jimmy Hayward nodded. Actually he didn’t want to go there, he’d far sooner have stayed in the Dhekelia base with people who spoke his own language, but he and Fellows had tossed for it and he’d lost. ‘Do I get driven?’
‘If that’s what you’d like, sir. In that case we’ll have to go into Dhekelia first, that’s all. On the other hand, long as you’ve a valid licence—’
‘I can drive myself.‘ He wiped sweat off his forehead. ‘OK.’
Instant decision — because this was a rush job and he didn’t want to hang about. Ordinarily he’d have preferred to drive himself, anyway. Now, he almost changed his mind: he wasn’t a globe-trotter by any natural inclination, tended to find foreigners irrational as well as incomprehensible. Maybe he should have been opting for a driver, who’d know his way around. Ross had turned away, though, shouldering a path towards the exit, checking with Fellows, ‘You’ll be coming into Dhekelia with us, sir — will you?’ With him and the other driver — a private soldier who climbed out of a black Ford Escort and told Hayward its tank was about full, road-map on the seat… ‘Thirty-five kilometres to Nicosia. then near enough twenty to Kyrenia, sir. North from here into Larnaca town, then it’s sign-posted — follow your nose, can’t go wrong.’
Accepting that instruction at its face value, nodding. Later, he’d remember it. He peeled off his jacket, tossed it into the back with his ease. ‘Bloody hot here. This time of night, too?’ Easing himself under the wheel… ‘Always like this in October, is it?’
‘It was warmer last week.’
‘That’s a comfort.’ He asked the sergeant, ‘D’you know if they’ve picked up our bloke‘s tracks, or spotted his boat?’
‘Wouldn’t know, sir.’ Ross looked blank. ‘Guy on the run, is it?’
‘No matter. Thought they might’ve told you.’ He looked at Fellows. ‘Can’t be any news, Ken, there’d’ve been a message. I’ll push on.’
*
At Lyneham, Hislop left his pilot to get the Gazelle refuelled, and crossed over to the terminal building, the passenger-processing section. Lyneham is a huge establishment, acres of buildings and ser
vice roads as well as the sprawl of airfield on which tonight the only signs of activity were those surrounding three parked Hercules C130s — illuminated from their interiors, light flooding the areas around them, cargo loading or off-loading in progress. One of them would be the Hercules which he’d requisitioned for the transit to Akrotiri. The Crabs obviously wouldn’t send it out without utilising its full cargo capacity.
He must have passed through this place a hundred times, he thought, in recent years. He identified himself at the entrance and was directed through to find his men in one of the other rooms — again familiar, from countless arrivals and departures, hour upon hour of waiting. But on previous occasions this space had always been packed with Royal Marines and others, and tonight with only a dozen individuals scattered around — some on the bench: others chatting in small groups — there was an unnatural emptiness, a spooky feel about the place.
Crabs having a slack period, he thought as he walked in. A few Marines’ heads turned casually, their expressions brightening then as they recognized him and scrambled to their feet. A voice called. ‘CO, sir!’ and Ben Ockley strode over quickly to meet him.
‘Evening, sir.’
‘All set, Ben?’
‘We are, sir. Crabs aren’t hurrying any more than usual.’
In fact the loading was an intricate job that had to be done exactly right. The loadmaster’s expertise lay in positioning the weights at precisely the right points; then the cargo had to be rigidly secured. The internal layout of a Hercules for cargo and personnel was extremely flexible, every combination of loads was different from the last one; the fact was that the job could not be rushed, and Ben Ockley knew it as well as Hislop did. But it was a tradition, almost, to grouse about the Crabs; also, Hislop knew that if his SB detachment arrived in Cyprus an hour too late there’d be nothing for it but to turn them round and bring them home again. With ensuing disaster in the Middle East — ‘disaster’ being by no means too strong a word for it.
He raised his voice… ‘Gather round me, so I don’t have to yell, and I’ll give you the background to this deployment.’ Stopping in the middle of the room, clear of the benches, beckoning them in closer. Ben Ockley was beside him: he was a few inches shorter than Hislop, but — well, you could see it in his eyes and mouth, it would take twice his weight and five times his guts to stop him. Beyond him, closing in as ordered, was Geoff Hosegood: Hosegood was twenty-nine and he hadn’t been a sergeant all that long. He had — Hislop taxed his memory — two young daughters now. Close to six foot, lean, with a floppy-looking dark moustache and a somewhat humorous expression… During the Falklands war, Marine Hosegood had been one of a team who’d gone into mainland Argentina to sabotage Exocet missiles; he’d been advanced to corporal soon after his return to the UK and qualifying as SC2 — swimmer-canoeist second class — and he was now an SC1 and one of the Squadron’s most useful NCOs.
Overshadowed, of course, by Colour Sergeant Kelso, who’d just halted face to face with Hislop, at attention for a brief moment of mutual greeting but now relaxed again, that friendly look spreading across a face that was already darkening with stubble. Kelso had joined at sixteen and left in his mid-twenties when he’d been a sergeant; he’d left in the expectation of earning big money on the oilrigs, being then married to a girl who’d known how to spend every penny of his Royal Marine pay before he’d got it. He’d left the rigs when he’d seen oil prices falling and companies shedding workforce, and not being willing — then — to swallow his pride and rejoin the Corps he’d become a policeman. There, his pay vanished even faster, life became impossible in other ways as well, the marriage fell apart and John Kelso woke up to the fact that this was where is home was. Figuratively speaking: he had another as well now, and a new wife about whom he was quietly crazy.
Beside this outsize character, Sergeant Ray Wilkinson looked small, although he was a perfectly respectable five-nine. In his early days in the Corps he’d declined to allow his name to be put forward for a commission, but he’d certainly never wasted his talents. An accomplished artist, he was also a specialist in camouflage techniques; he’d earned himself a private pilot’s licence, had skied for the Navy and was a skilled photographer.
Hislop asked him, ‘How’s that small boy of yours, Sergeant?’
‘Mutinous, sir.’
Hosegood murmured, ‘Must be in the blood.’
Another sergeant here was Bert Hattry, who was to cox one of the boats. A heavily-built man with a wide face and clipped moustache, his speciality inside the Squadron was communications — radio. He was also Squadron snooker champion. The other boat’s coxswain, Corporal ‘Froggie’ Clark, was small, rather ugly, battered looking. A genius with outboard motors… Then, next to him in the circle, topping him by an inch or two, Marine ‘Romeo’ Hall. Hall was specialist in explosives and electrics, demolitions, and in the dismantling of booby-traps. Twenty-five now, he was engaged to a Bournemouth girl, but rumour had it that there was a paternity suit threatening from even nearer home. Physically he was similar to Ben Ockley: no more than average-sized but — as someone had expressed it recently about Ockley — ‘twenty-eight pounds to the stone’.
Marine Dave Judge was a Londoner born and bred, and black, so in Royal Marine logic and tradition he was therefore known as ‘Chalky’. He was twenty-four, and a skilled mechanic with an HND.
Then there was Corporal ‘Doc’ Laker. Stocky, ginger-haired, younger looking than his twenty-five years. Andy Laker had done a medic’s course with the Royal Navy and then a period on secondment to the National Health Service, working in the casualty department of a big hospital. Public school educated, he’d wanted to become a doctor but hadn’t been able to make it academically. His uncle, a surgeon, had told him he should have arranged to have born fifty years earlier; in those days he’d have been snapped up by any of the famous teaching hospitals purely on the strength of his performance as a Rugby scrum-half.
And Marine Teal. Tall, broad-shouldered, nicknamed ‘Ducky’. Don Teal had been an apprentice jockey until at the age of eighteen he’d started growing so fast that he’d been obliged to dismount and rethink. He was twenty-three, and this would be his first operational deployment with the Squadron.
Beside Teal in the circle forming around the CO was Marine ‘Wee Willie’ Deakin, a Judo black-belt instructor, crewman in Hattry’s boat on this outing. He was twenty-four. So was the guy behind him, Frank Kenrick, although by appearances Kenrick could have been several years older. Dark, craggy-faced, an Aberdonian whose forbears had all been trawler-men.
Charles Hislop’s mild glance surveyed them all. ‘Right, then, we’ll start…’
8
Leo, in the crowd straggling towards the terminal building at Ercan — in north Cyprus, about five kilometres east of Nicosia — felt an earlier nervousness returning. Which in itself was worrying: he knew a trained observer saw the symptoms of anxiety, looked for them…
Maybe, he thought, he was reacting psychologically — superstitiously, more like — to the stroke of luck they’d had at Istanbul, where there’d been a really nasty moment or two. As if for good luck you’d have to pay sooner or later with the other kind.
Which was rubbish. The Turks wouldn’t check the same passports twice, in any case.
Light from the terminal flooded across the apron. Baggage trucks were on their way out to the aircraft from which this crowd had just disembarked, back there where converging avenues of runway lights speared southeastward into surrounding darkness. Flashing reds and greens as decoration… Warm, sticky air; Turkish soldiers fondling rifles stared balefully at the passengers trooping past them. Leo wanted to be out of this, out on the boat and clear of land where he’d be able to breathe freely, think straight; being herded like this gave him a sense of claustrophobia which exacerbated lingering anxieties — especially about Charlie, the area that hadn’t been checkable and which he’d therefore been forced to accept as an element of risk: the chance Swale hadn’t been
fooled at all, might have run straight to Special Branch last Monday night or Tuesday morning and ever since then followed their instructions.
Special Branch’s, or someone else’s.
The crowd was squeezed here, driven through the bottleneck into the building’s even muggier heat. More armed soldiers loafing, watchful and vaguely hostile.
There was a passport check ahead…
He looked round, checking on the others’ positions in what was now more or less a queue. Charlie was behind him, with two other people between them. They’d been together but — well, typical of Charlie, stopping, inviting some Turkish peasant to precede him… Leo couldn’t see Tait at the moment, but Denham was in sight not far ahead, in company with the redhead and her boyfriend — skinny, pale, giggling drunk. Pete was helping them, carrying some of their stuff as well as his own while the girl steered the lad along. Meanwhile there was a delay — the Turks were dealing with their own nationals first, that side of the mob moving along quite fast.
He put his case down, rested the Duty-Free bag against it. Watching Pete with his arm round the girl, either whispering into her ear or nibbling it.
In Istanbul, over several rounds of drinks in a taverna to which their cab driver had delivered them, Charlie had asked Leo again. ‘It is Syria — right?’
By that time they’d ‘done’ Istanbul. The driver had taken them on a guided tour — with stops for his friends to try to sell them carpets — of St Sophia, the Blue Mosque, the Topkapi Palace and the Mosque of Sultan Suleiman the Magnificent. He’d had other places of interest up his sleeve, but Charlie had dug his heels in: ‘Bob, look. I’m as keen on bloody culture as the next guy, but we don’t want to overdo it… If Mustapha here’d take us to some suitable estaminet, I’ll buy us a Coca Cola — huh?’
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