‘Certainly not.’
‘So.’ She pulled the chart away. ‘Now I’ll ask Max to bring up the Uzis so you can practise with them. We won’t be so far from shore again as we are now.’
Max threw beer-cans over the side for target practice. The SBS marksmanship wasn’t impressive, Charlie thought. Smiley Tait was good, and he himself was up to about that standard once he got his eye in. Bob excused his own lousy showing on the grounds that he’d never felt at home with an Uzi, they didn’t suit him.
They were in the gulet’s stern then, in shorts and burning sun, cleaning and oiling the stubby little Israeli weapons. Bob said, ‘With luck we won’t have to use the things anyway. Just grab this guy and sneak away with him.’
Charlie was preparing one of his Havanas. Nobody else wanted one. He’d cleaned his Uzi and put it down beside him; there were still two magazines to be filled. He said, ‘Question time now, Bob. I see no reason to be kept in the dark any longer, so let’s be ready with some straight answers.’
‘I didn’t realise you felt you were in the dark. Charlie.’
Tait winked at him. Charlie nodded. ‘Yeah. Pull the other one. And try this for starters: who‘s this guy we’re hoping to extract?’
‘His name’s Stillgoe. Vernon Stillgoe. Ring a bell?’ He gave it a moment’s thought. Denham muttered, ‘Ah, that bloke…’ Charlie got it: ‘Newspaper man, kidnapped in Beirut a few months ago.’
‘Right. But he was also doing a job for MI6 or someone. He was supposed to make a contact on their behalf, meet a Syrian who had some information which London badly wanted. Whatever it was, it should still be in his head now and they still want it.’
‘Good.’ Charlie nodded. ‘Second question. Maybe Smiley and Pete already know the answer. Question of how we withdraw and get back on board this vessel once we’ve got him. Because as I mentioned before, you could get yourself greased before you’d passed on this rather valuable info, eh?’
‘I haven’t told any of you yet. Obviously would have before we landed, Charlie.’
‘No time like the present, is there.’
‘It’s very simple.’ Bob told them, ‘Fifteen miles offshore on two-seven-zero degrees from Ras el Hassan, one hundred hours after we leave the gulet. If for any reason we find we can’t make that deadline it’s postponed forty-eight hours.’
‘Why not twenty-four?’
‘Because our friends would have to hang around more or less in the same place all that day, which would be asking for trouble. With a two-day interval they can clear out and then come back.’
‘Not bad thinking.’
‘But we should make it in the hundred hours. That’s four days plus an extra four hours of darkness. So if we push off from this ship midnight tomorrow, the R/V time will be 0400 Sunday morning.’
Tait growled, ‘Still have to steam, won’t we, with only night to move in. Snatch the guy in daylight, will we?’
‘Evening of the third night. Gives us the rest of that night plus the last one for getting back to the coast and off it. We’ll be pushing it, sure, but we don’t want to be hanging around there, do we.’
‘Ras el Hasan’s marked on the chart, I suppose.’ Charlie went inside, brought it out and spread it on the deck, and the other two crowded round to see. Leo said, ‘Just north of the Tartus oil terminal… Have you got any questions, Smiley? Pete?’
‘I’m just hoping it’s a decent outboard she’s got for us.’
Tait was thinking of those fifteen miles to be covered, westward from the headland, with no kind of fallback if it turned out to be as unreliable as outboards tended to be. Denham nodded agreement: ‘Yeah, Jesus… Long way to bloody paddle.’ Charlie said — his cigar was burning now, and Tait had given it a critical glance, doubtless his mind on physical fitness — ‘I have one more to ask, Bob. Not as vital as the others, just my naturally enquiring mind… The signal — radio message these people had yesterday, day and time for the landing… Who and where might that have from?’
‘Best answer I can give you there, Charlie, is some Israeli source. I’d guess the Mossad, either from Haifa or Tel Aviv but more likely Haifa. The Mossad don’t miss many tricks, you know, you can bet your life they have ears to the ground inside Syria. There’s a lot more sense having them watch over this end of the operation than someone a couple of thousand miles away, wouldn’t you agree?’
‘I suppose. Personally, I’d rather have my own people running things.’
‘I’m only guessing, Charlie. I was told the signal would come to the gulet, that’s all. And as this is an Israeli crew, it seems a reasonable assumption.’
‘OK. But one more question, while we’re at it. This Stillgoe character — kidnapped in Beirut, now he’s in Syria. How come?’
‘Ah.’ Leo nodded. ‘That’s a good question. All I can tell you for sure is that Intelligence — meaning presumably SIS — got the buzz that that’s where he is. But I gathered, rather off the record this was, that he might be in the hands of some revolutionary Syrian group. In Beirut he might have been freed, you see — by Syrian troops, the peace-making force that Assad’s put in there. On that basis one might assume Stillgoe’s in Syria without Assad’s knowledge or connivance. Consequently when we snatch him back we’ll be taking him from this gang, not challenging the Syrian state as such. Which could go some way to explaining (a) why this somewhat tricky operation was authorised. (b) why it’s being run in such an offbeat way… D’you reckon?’
Charlie nodded. ‘And I’m glad I asked.’
He was thinking, as he tapped ash over the ship’s side, that that explanation really did begin to make some sort of sense.
*
In the Special Boat team’s office/ops room at Akrotiri, Geoff Hosegood snatched up the telephone.
‘Royal Marine office, Sergeant Hosegood.’
Ben Ockley and Ray Wilkinson watched him from across the room, where they had Admiralty charts spread on a trestle table.
‘Yeah, he’s here. Who wants him?’
He put his hand over the mouthpiece. Ben was on the way over. ‘Inspector Fellows, Special Branch, calling from Dhekelia.’
Ben took the receiver from him. ‘Ockley here. Inspector Fellows?’
‘That’s me. News for you, captain. The boat we’ve all been looking for left Kyrenia either not long after midnight or just before dawn this morning, and we have it identified. It’s a timber-built craft described as a gulet — that’s Turkish — and it’s something like a Greek caique only bigger. Length about sixty feet, timber construction, beamy, two masts, has sails but wouldn’t use ’em much, motors around on its diesel. Ought to be easy to spot, because although there are lots of ’em up on the Turkish mainland coast you’d hardly ever see one down here. My colleague Inspector Hayward has a picture of it — photograph on some tourist brochure — and he’s on his way south now, to Akrotiri and he’ll come asking for you — maybe you’d have ’em look out for him. He called me from the Canadian UN billet in Nicosia; he’d hoped he’d be able to fax the picture from there but they don’t have the facilities, so he rang me and I told him to get it to you, quick as possible if not faster. He ought to be with you by midday: maybe eleven thirty, I don’t know about the roads.’
‘This caique thing — gulet — left Kyrenia at dawn?’
‘That’s what the harbour master there believes. It was at anchor outside port, he’s not certain but he thinks it was there all night. Certainly was around midnight when Swale and his friends arrived by taxi from the airport — party of four, by the way, and the boat has a crew of three including a woman… But it could have sailed soon after they embarked.’
‘Anyone mention what speed it might make?’
‘No, I’m afraid not. But if Hayward’s with you by noon — well, he could call that harbour master, he should know.’
‘He’s done a good job anyway, by the sound of it. Will you be passing this to London?’
‘Yes. My next call.’
&nbs
p; ‘Fine, so I don’t need to. Thanks a lot, Inspector.’
He hung up, joggled the phone until he got the exchange. ‘Would you put me through to Flight Lieutenant Morgan, please?’
Waiting: glancing round at the others in the room, half a dozen of them. Ray Wilkinson asked him, ‘Identified the boat and it’s sailed from Kyrenia?’
‘Right. Type known in Turkey as a gulet, resembles a large caique, runs on diesel although it has masts and sails. So it might make — it’s a heavy, beamy craft apparently — say anything from five to ten knots… Try this on the chart, Ray — departure from Kyrenia 0500, or alternatively four hours earlier, 0100. On the speed question let’s split the difference, call it seven and a half knots. Try all the permutations, see where the thing could’ve got to — bearing in mind its target’s on that section of coast. And that they’d want to get there after dark.’ He took his palm off the mouthpiece. ‘Morgan, listen. We’ve identified the boat, and a photo of it’s on the way to me by road from Kyrenia. That’s the first thing — the guy bringing it is a Special Branch officer, Inspector Hayward, he’ll be here by noon or earlier, asking for me by name. Would you see he’s met by someone who’ll steer him this way? Thanks. Second point: I don’t want to stray far from this telephone or from the Hercules, but I could describe the boat to your off-duty Nimrod pilot before he takes off. Any chance you could persuade him to come over? You will? Well, listen, what time’s he due to take off? Yeah. If you’d find out. I’d like to get this picture copied when it arrives — you’d have the facilities, I suppose. Right, fine. And the pilots had better have a copy each, obviously — or copies, plural. How many crew does a Nimrod — hell, that many? But right away, lacking the photo as yet, I could give the one who’s on the ground a good idea of what he’ll be looking for, so—’
Listening again, to Morgan’s slightly singsong tones… He nodded: ‘That’s terrific. Yeah. I’ll be down there waiting.’ He hung up. Sticks Kelso was in the doorway, filling it, and Hosegood had been giving him the news. Ben told him, ‘Swale’s with three other guys, plus the boat’s crew which numbers three and includes a woman.’ He glanced over at the chart table, where Ray Wilkinson was laying off courses and radius rings, driving himself nuts with so many alternatives. Ben said, ‘Morgan’s coming for me, on wheels, we’re going to the control tower so I can talk to the Nimrod that’s on patrol and tell its pilot what he’s looking for… Sticks, if the balloon goes up, get ’em out to the Herc and I’ll meet you there.’ Kelso nodded. Ben, at the door, looked back at Hosegood: ‘Geoff, tell the rest of the lads what the form is, will you. They might as well know some fucking thing’s happening.’
10
Then nothing was happening. By midday on Tuesday it was looking more and more likely that they’d missed out, that Swale and company had to be in Syria by this time. Ben wasn’t saying so, or consciously allowing his gloom to show, but according to the Special Branch man’s information the gulet would by now have been at sea for thirty, maybe thirty-six hours.
If she’d left Kyrenia around midnight Sunday, she’d have been off Cape Andreas at about the time the first Nimrod had been starting its patrol sixty miles to the south. He studied the chart, asking himself how he’d have handled it if he’d been skippering that thing.
You’d use the hours of darkness in which to get as far east as possible. But when the light came — and since obviously you’d intend making your landing in Syria after dark — you’d round that Cape Apostolos Andreas in a hairpin turn to the southwest. In no kind of hurry, at that stage. Hug the Cyprus coast, drift around — maybe with the sails up, even if they were flapping like washing on a line; you’d present a picture of innocence while the Nimrods were burning up taxpayers’ money watching the international maritime boundary, not the inshore holiday cruising grounds. The gulet would have cruised around in that bay, using all the daylight hours of yesterday to drift about forty miles southwest, and with darkness you’d have turned her east, slipped across — somehow without being picked up by the Nimrod — and dropped Swale and his buddies off, probably in an inflatable, not far from the edge of Syrian territorial waters. Thirty-five miles was no great distance, if you had a decent outboard. The gulet would have started her run eastward — sails down, diesel churning out maximum revs — at about the latitude of Famagusta, which as it happened was right opposite the probable Syrian landing zone.
It made depressingly good sense, to Ben Ockley.
Kelso muttered, joining him at the chart, ‘Reckon they got by us, do you?’
‘No.’ Outside, jets screamed off the tarmac. ‘I reckon they’re hiding out somewhere. Christ knows what for, but—’ he checked himself — ‘look, another possibility is they could’ve gone westabout. So they’d be passing south of us here — could’ve rounded Cape Gata maybe a couple of hours ago. Aiming to be off Cape Greko at dusk.’ He showed them. ‘See? Sixty miles from there to a drop-off in inshore waters around midnight, thereabouts… But no, do not think they could’ve got by us, Sticks. We need faith, bags of it, right?’
Ray Wilkinson had just come up the stairs, and joined them. Using a towel, having been limbering up outside on the tarmac, sprints and press-ups, with some of the others. Filling in time, as much as staying fit. He’d caught Ben’s last comment, and agreed, ‘Sooner or later they’ll show. No call for alarm— Except I was wondering, Ben — might we get some Yank assistance on the recce job, if they’re so willing?’
There’d been a call last night from the Special Forces Adviser in the JOC, to say that the Americans were ready to help if called upon, the 6th Fleet had been given orders to that effect, from Washington. But a later signal from the Task Group Commander on board the carrier Saratoga had qualified this. Every effort would be made to comply with any request that might be made, but the Saratoga’s E-2Cs, Hawkeyes, were certain to be fully employed in the next few days, not only with routine surveillance commitments but also in tracking a Soviet Black Sea Fleet squadron now deploying southward from the Dardanelles.
Wilkinson evidently hadn’t seen that message. Ben told him, ‘Soviets have a Cresta and two Krivaks transiting south towards the Kaso Strait. This end of Crete. That Task Group’s been told to keep tabs on them, as well as whatever else they’re into.’
Sticks commented, ‘Hawkeyes is all we’d fucking want, right?’
‘What we fucking want, Sticks, is patience.’
‘Ah. well.’ The colour sergeant winked at Wilkinson. ‘You got loads of that, Ben.’
*
Geoff Hosegood announced during lunch — the Marines all ate together at one end of the mess room — ‘My guess is zero hour’ll be 1600.’ He looked round at them all. ‘How about a sweepstake? Quid a go, fifteen-minute intervals, nearest takes the pot?’
‘Neat idea, Geoff.’ Bert Hattry pushed half an orange into his mouth, dabbed at his moustache. ‘Local time or Zulu?’
‘Local, bloody hell. Be dark here, 1600 Zulu!’
‘Zulu’ meant UK time; operationally, once they got off the ground it was the time they’d keep. If they got off the ground… But even 1600 local time would be getting a bit close to the end of the daylight hours. The scene of projected action was at least two degrees of longitude to the east of Akrotiri, so they’d be flying into the dusk, into a night-time interception. A lot better than no interception, but it would mean taking on problems one could more happily have done without. Ideally you’d hope for a daylight sighting, well outside Syrian waters.
‘Geoff, if you’re running this sweepstake, you’d better be clear whether “zero hour“ means receipt of a sighting report, or time of origin of the report, or the time the Herc takes off. I’d suggest takeoff, then there’s no argument, you’d have a dozen witnesses to it.’
‘Yeah. Right. Herc’s wheels leaving the ground.’
They’d all brightened. Everyone wanted in on the sweepstake, convincing themselves in the process that the question was ‘when’, not ‘whether’.
*
Ben was out near the parked Hercules, in mid-afternoon, when he heard and then saw a Nimrod take off from the other side of the field and circle away, climbing, to fly east. Checking the time, he saw it was 1530. That would be 8 Kilo 6, to whose skipper — Doug McPhaill — he’d talked from the control tower yesterday. 8 Kilo 6 would be taking over from Foxtrot 2 Bravo at 1600; the flight to and from their beat took them only twenty minutes each way but they were allowing thirty and working four-hour watches round the clock. Although the standard Nimrod patrol plus transit periods would have been six hours, Morgan had said. In fact there was a spare crew — or spare crew members, including pilots — so at intervals they were getting longer breaks as well.
He jogged back to the transit block, and found most of the team in the office-cum-ops room. There was continuing interest in the sweepstake, the list which Geoff Hosegood had pinned up with names and times on it, a name at each fifteen-minute interval from 1400 — long gone, now — to 2215. It would have been bad luck to take it beyond that time, Hosegood had reckoned, and he’d extended it that far only because it would give each punter three chances. For instance the first slot, 1400, had been allocated to Tony Hall: ‘Romeo’ Hall, as his friends called him, would get his next chance at 1645 and a third maybe at 1930.
Hosegood wasn’t present to see his time expire, he was taking a turn of guard-duty on the Hercules, in company with Frank Kenrick. Whose own chances came alive at 1622 when Corporal Froggie Clark’s expired. At about that time Ben happened to be at the window when Foxtrot 2 Bravo roared in to land; and twenty minutes later Russell Haig, the Nimrod’s skipper, dropped in.
‘Still hanging around then, Ben.’
‘Regrettably. Since you didn’t find our gulet yet.’
Special Deception Page 19