by Chris Ryan
Four.
At breakfast the mood was sombre.
They'd de-bussed at SAS HQ shortly after 6 a.m. and, calling for hot coffee in his hut, Ross had debriefed Alex immediately. Alex's account had been detailed but unemotional and Ross had heard him out in near silence, only occasionally interjecting a brief question. When they were done, an hour or so later, Ross had nodded, his lean features expressionless, and sat for a moment in silence. Alex knew he had liked Don Hammond as much as any of them.
"You did well, Alex. Bloody well. All of you. Another few hours and we would have had three dead UK nationals on our hands, not to mention egg all over our faces. Bearing in mind that we were hitting a hot DZ, it was always going to be a very high-risk operation."
Alex nodded. At times like these, as both men knew, there was not a great deal to be said. Violent death was the everyday currency of their profession and there was no sense pretending otherwise.
"Just remind me of the daughter's name, Alex."
"Cathy. I think she was seven last birthday."
Ross looked tiredly down at his notes.
"Right. Thank you.
Would I like that job? Alex wondered. Would I enjoy sitting up and watching the clock as my men risked their lives? Would I be able to write the letters of condolence that David Ross always made a point of writing?
The phone at the OC's right hand buzzed. He listened for a moment, then covered the mouthpiece and turned to Alex.
"It's Hugh Gudgeon at Para HQ. The TV people are all in one piece, apparently. They want to thank the leader of the rescue team personally."
"I haven't got much to say to them, David, to be honest."
Ross nodded and looked away.
"I'm afraid that won't be possible, Hugh, nor do I want any mention made of the Regiment in connection with this business. Would your chaps very much mind taking the credit? No? Excellent. All right, then.
"Bye."
Alex had left the CO's hut to shower, shave and clear himself of leeches. This was a rather simpler process than that shown in films like Bridge Over the River Kwai. One touch of army-issue insect repellent and the fat, purple-black bloodsuckers fell off. The repellent was useless for anything else it positively attracted mosquitoes but it did have this one killer application. Stripping to the skin in the makeshift outside shower area, Alex managed to rid himself of twelve bull-leeches a personal best.
In the mess tent he joined the rest of the patrol, who had got a head start on the NAAFI baked beans, pale yolked local eggs and monkey-bananas. And beer, of course. It may only have been seven in the morning, but after a mission it was understood that you popped a few cans.
Alex helped himself to a plate of beans, one of the doughy, locally baked bread rolls and a can of Carling.
The food looked none too appetising in the tent's greenish light, but at that moment Alex could have eaten practically anything.
"Cheers, lads," he said, thumbing back the tab.
"Here's to a daring rescue!"
"Who was responsible for that, then?" asked Lance Wilford.
"The Paras," said Alex.
"Ah." Dog Kenilworth smiled.
"Fine body of men."
There was silence for a moment.
"Any news on Ricky Sutton?" asked one of the troopers from Zulu Three One patrol, who had been tasked to recce the Arsenal camp.
"Should be OK, is my guess, barring a very sore arse," said Alex.
"And Steve Dowson?" Dowson was the "D' Squadron corporal who had been hit while attempting to rescue Hammond.
"Shoulder's a mess but he'll live."
There were relieved nods, followed by another protracted silence, then Stan Clayton raised a fridge frosted beer can.
"To Don Hammond," he said loudly.
"Bloody good soldier, bloody good mate."
The others raised their own drinks and then everyone started talking at once and the mood lifted.
There was no shortage of good Don Hammond stories and it had been one hell of a successful mission.
As Alex drank and listened in silence, the elation of the successful mission faded, to be replaced by the sombre reality of his friend's death. After the third can his mood had not improved and, unwilling to spoil the others' celebrations, he slipped from the mess tent, collaring a bottle of rum as he went.
In his own tent he raised the mosquito net overhanging his camp bed, sat down and took a deep hit of rum straight from the bottle. He would say goodbye to Don alone and in his own way.
He was about to neck a second swallow when a trooper ducked through the tent flap.
"Sorry, but the Boss wants you.
Again? thought Alex, pulling himself unsteadily to his feet. Bollocks. Glancing regretfully at the ruin bottle, he followed the trooper from the tent.
In the hour since their last conversation, David Ross had clearly suffered a change of mood. Irritation now etched the spare features.
"You're going home," he told Alex abruptly.
"Don't ask me why because I don't know. All I've been told is that you're wanted in London as soon as you can get there."
Alex stared at him, mystified. What the fuck was going down? Whatever, he'd had enough of this sweaty shithole.
"Can I take a couple of the lads back with me? We can jump a Hercules."
"No on both counts," said Ross testily.
"They want you quicker than that. You're being choppered to Banjul and boarded on to aBA civilian flight to Heathrow. For that reason you're taking civilian clothes and cabin luggage only."
"I didn't bring any..." Alex began.
"One of the liaison blokes is picking some stuff up now. Should be back any minute."
"Is this to do with last night's operation?" Alex ventured.
"Not unless there's some element to the whole thing that I haven't been told about."
That such a possibility even existed, Alex saw, clearly rankled bitterly with the CO.
"I'll get packing," he said.
Ross nodded.
Fifteen minutes later, dressed in a flowered bush shirt, over-tight slacks and plastic sandals from Freetown market all that the liaison guy had been able to rustle up at ten minutes' notice Alex was watching from the passenger seat of a Lynx helicopter as Kroo Bay and the curving northern sweep of Freetown fell away beneath him. The rain of the early morning had given way to sunshine and now the whole country seemed to be steaming in the heat.
Beside him, the khaki T-shirt of the special forces pilot was dark with sweat beneath the arms and where it was in contact with the plastic seat cover.
"Another hot one," said the pilot laconically over the intercom.
"Looks like it," Alex replied, settling himself back into his seat. They had the best part of two hours' flying time ahead of them. In twenty minutes they would be in Guinea airspace and in half an hour would be overflying the capital, Conakry. Thereafter they would follow the coastline northwards through Guinea-Bissau and touch down at Banjul at 9.30.
He determined to enjoy the view.
At Banjul he was the last one on to the British Airways flight.
"You must be important," said the stewardess who met him at the door of the 777.
"They've held this plane for fifteen minutes!" She looked down at his plastic sandals with a lemon sucking smile.
"Ready to walk the gauntlet?"
His appearance prompted a slow hand clap. Around him, the sea of faces was hostile. They had been waiting for him, one angry woman informed him, for over twenty-five minutes. Perhaps next time he travelled he might bring an alarm clock with him?
His seat, needless to say, was right at the back of the aircraft. Toilet class. He was shown there by the lemon-sucking stewardess, and had to endure the eye-rolling and barely disguised impatience of an almost entirely female complement of economy class passengers.
The stewardess directed him to a seat next to an amply proportioned woman, some fifty years old, who smelt strongly of coconut tanni
ng oil.
She looked him up and down.
"Well," she murmured purposefully, noting the uncomfortable tightness of his trousers.
"Aren't I the lucky one!"
Alex's spirits sank. How long was this fucking flight? Eight hours?
"Are you all.. . together?" he asked, indicating the other passengers.
"Well, it'd probably be true to say that we're all here for much the same reason," the woman said with a small smile.
"Which is?"
"To meet Gambian boys, of course. Bit of the old Shirley Valentine."
"Ah," said Alex.
"Right."
"Africans are properly appreciative of the fuller figure, you see. And they know how to woo a girl without ever mentioning DIY or football."
"Or their jobs?" ventured Alex.
"Or their jobs she agreed.
"Quite right. I'm Maureen, by the way.
"Alex."
"So what brings you to the Gambia, Alex?"
"Oh, I never talk about my job. Too boring."
"You came here for .. . work?"
Mistake. Serves me right for being a sinartarse, he thought.
"I'm in, er, travel," he explained.
"So you.. . get around a bit?"
"Here and there." He shrugged.
She nodded. Taxiing into the oncoming breeze, the big 777 started its long race to take-off.
"And do you like big girls, Alex?"
Blimey, he thought. Talk about cutting to the chase.
"Did you have a good holiday, Maureen?" he asked her, with what he hoped was professional-sounding interest.
In answer she fished a polaroid photograph from her purse. It showed a young Gambian man, nude except for a pair of sunglasses. He was about seventeen, slender and leaning backwards to counterbalance his evident enthusiasm. The plane hurtled into the air, pressing them back into their seats.
"There s my answer, Alex. Now can I please have yours? Do you like big girls?"
He turned to her, took in the painfully sunburnt flesh, the hennaed hair, the small hopeful eyes.
"Maureen," he said.
"I do like them. But I've got one waiting for me at home."
"Hm," she said, unconvinced.
An hour or so after take-off, breakfast was served.
Uncertain of what was waiting for him at Heathrow, Alex ate the lot. With a bit of luck there'd be some lunch, too. Trouble, as every soldier knew, was best faced on a full stomach. And with a well-rested mind.
The adrenalin rush that accompanied violent action was invariably followed by exhaustion and Alex slipped gratefully into sleep. One of the few advantages of his present situation perhaps the only advantage was that he would be able to see Sophie again and he didn't want to appear completely knackered when he did.
For a long while, scenes from the previous night replayed themselves before his eyes. The smell of rotting mangoes and the river, the clicking of that severed windpipe, tracer scorching across the clearing, the screams of the maimed RUF men, the stillness of the Puma pilot as his aircraft danced beneath him, the Puma enfolded in flame against the sodden grey of the jungle, Don Hammond pitching forward, the smack of SLR rounds impacting into Steve Dowson's shoulder and Ricky Sutton's thigh... The images faded. They were not ready to join the longer established nightmares in the vault of Alex's memory it would be weeks and perhaps months before that happened but they had been faced. He had always tried to make horror his friend.
It showed, Sophie told him, on his face.
FIVE.
Sophie Wells was the sister of Jamie Wells, who had been an officer cadet at Sandhurst with Alex and was now a Coldstream Guards lieutenant.
Jamie and Alex had met towards the end of the course. It had been a Friday night and with his ten year-old Kaman-Ghia out of commission, Alex had been looking for a lift into London, where he had arranged to meet a mate for a few beers.
Jamie had not only been driving to London but to Chelsea, which suited Alex perfectly. Dave Constantine, the colleague in question, had recently been posted as Permanent Staff Instructor to 21 SAS and Alex had arranged to meet him at the bar in the territorial battalion's King's Road HQ. Jamie, meanwhile, was going to a party in Cadogan Mansions, behind Sloane Square.
On their arrival in London Alex stood Jamie a drink at the bar at the Duke of York's HQ, where Alex was handed a note. Dave Constantine, he discovered, had been called away at the last moment to replace one of the other PSIs on an escape and evasion exercise on the Brecon Beacons.
Jamie had suggested that the SAS man come with him to the party, which was being given by his sister.
Alex hadn't been keen; to spend the evening with a hundred braying Sloanes was very low on his wish list
"What does your sister do?" he asked doubtfully.
"You'll have to ask her." Jamie grinned.
"Right." Alex smiled grimly.
"I get it. It's a survival exercise. You've had to survive the beatings and the bollockings, so now I've got to survive the Taras and Tamaras."
Jamie returned his gaze.
"Think of it that way if you like," he said equably.
"But you might also enjoy yourself."
"Yeah, right."
"What have you got to lose?"
Alex conceded defeat.
The party was on the third floor of a nineteenth century mansion block, and seemed to be taking place on the stairs and in the lift as well. Alex had expected an uncomfortable roomful of red-faced young men in corduroys and tractor-tyre shoes; what he actually encountered was the best part of an acre of dizzyingly beautiful women.
He had also expected to look out of place; in fact, although some of the handful of men present were expensively dressed, most looked as if they had bought their gear off an Isle of Dogs market trader.
The look was as fake as their cockney accents and movie-gangster rhyming slang, but Alex reckoned that his cropped military haircut, Essex Stock Cars T-shirt and old Levis would probably pass muster among them.
Alex's first hint of Sophie Wells's existence was when a gold and turquoise whirlwind blew past him trailing scent, silk and male admirers. She came to rest briefly in front of Jamie for just long enough, in fact, to present her brother with a kiss and an introduction to a dewy-faced teenager in a chiffon micro-skirt 'she's the new "face" of Prada, so I want you to make absolutely sure she's in bed by 10.30!" then was suddenly right there in front of him.
"So." She smiled.
"It's Alex, isn't it? A friend of Jamie's from Sandhurst? How lovely of you to come!"
For a moment Alex gazed at her, taking in the short chestnut crop, the cool grey-green eyes, the Italian silks, the flimsy and very visible lingerie beneath.
Where did you begin with a creature like this?
"I'm Sophie," she continued encouragingly, swiping a couple of glasses of champagne from a passing waiter's tray and handing one to Alex.
"And these dreadful people' she gestured vaguely around her 'are my friends. Aren't they ghastly?"
Alex managed a smile.
"You should see mine," he said.
"Is this party to celebrate anything?"
"My twenty-sixth birthday," said Sophie.
"My entry into middle age."
"You look well on it," said Alex, wishing he could have found something cleverer to say.
"Do I? God, I don't deserve to. You look.. ." She hesitated.
"How old are you?"
"Thirty-four."
"I was going to say that you look older than this lot' she waved vaguely at the people around them 'but you don't. You just look... different.~ She held his gaze, Alex noticed, rather than darting her eyes about the room in search of the next flirtation, the next conversational fix. So steady was her regard so intimate, somehow that they might have been alone together.
"Well, there probably aren't too many other soldiers here."
She laughed.
"That's certainly true. But I've met a few s
oldiers in my time and they didn't have what you've got that sort of wary look behind the eyes."
She dropped her voice to an enquiring murmur.
"How did that get there?"
Alex looked away, momentarily uncomfortable, breaking the cocoon that they had briefly spun about themselves. Sophie watched him patiently.
"Jamie wouldn't tell me what you do," he said eventually.
"I'm supposed to ask you in person."
She shrugged.
"Oh, I'm a fashion PR. I get column inches in the glossies for designers."
"I bet some of those designers are grateful for a few inches," said Alex.
"Alex!" shrieked Sophie in mock outrage. She turned to a man in a canary-yellow biker's outfit and Alex, taking his cue, drifted away. By one of the windows he saw Jamie, glass in hand, talking to the Prada girl. Alex caught his eye and winked, and Jamie flushed a slightly deeper shade of pink than usual.
These are nice enough people, thought Alex, but what the fuck am I doing here, precisely?
He wandered into a large kitchen, fitted out with tiny laser-like spotlights and vast brushed-aluminium units and appliances.
The placed looked like a safe depository he'd once guarded. Opening the walk-in fridge, he found himself a cold Mexican beer. The champagne went down the sink.
At one end of the room was a large picture window, looking out over Sloane Street. For several minutes Alex stood there in unmoving silence, watching the northward crawl of red taillights towards Knightsbridge. At that moment, it seemed that he was disconnected from everything and everyone that he knew. His SAS career had separated him from his family, promotion had lifted him out of the orbit of his fellow NCOs, and he guessed that both age and background would set him apart from most of his brother officers. He didn't particularly regret any of this except possibly the distance that had grown between himself and his family. This was as much a matter of logistics as anything else: Hereford was a long way away from the Essex coast and London stood between them. He just didn't make it down there often enough.
Nor had he ever been married. He'd had lots of girlfriends over the years but had always held back from proposing to them. There was plenty of time for family life, he'd always reckoned, when he wasn't being yo-yoed around the world by the Regiment.