by Chris Ryan
The next thing we knew, Sasha had brought out a bottle of Georgian brandy and was pouring huge slugs. His mother did not touch the spirit.
The conversation became ever wilder, with stories of army brutality.
"You know how they treat prisoners in Russian army? This soldier in Murmansk ..
"Murmansk?" yelled Rick.
"Where the f-' He stopped himself just in time and and finished up, "Where's that?"
"In Russian Arctic. Far north from Moscow. Terrible place.
This man is soldier in garrison. Very poor, like I told you no money. But he is also musician, used to moonlight. He played accordion in restaurant in the evenings to earn roubles. He went maskarad in disguise with glasses and some beard. But an officer went to the restaurant and recognised him.
"So, to punish him, they put him in a cell, with acid on the floor, deeper every day. No shoes. They wanted to leave him for a week, but after three days his hair had gone grey, so they took him out. Such tortures they make in army."
It was midnight before we reeled out. We tried to say we'd walk or get a taxi, but Sasha wouldn't hear of it and insisted on driving us back. When we went down in the lift, Lyudmila came with us to give Tigr an extra run, and as we said goodbye she kissed our hands, holding the cat against her. Rick did his best to thank her gracefully, but I felt too choked to say anything except "Spasibo! Bolshoi spasibo!"
Morning brought shock after shock to exacerbate our hangovers.
The first came on the news, when somebody heard that the Russian Foreign Minister, had been assassinated. There'd been a shoot-out on Leningradski Prospekt, the main thoroughfare running out towards the north-west. The Minister had been on his way to Sheremetyevo airport, enroute for Washington, when a car had come up alongside his Zyl limo -in spite of the police escort and gunmen had riddled it with bullets. The Zyl had run off the road at speed and crashed head-on into a concrete wall, and the bulletin didn't make clear whether he'd been killed by gunshots or by the impact. In any event, he was dead. So were the driver, two of the bodyguards and one policeman. The gunmen had got clean away, but blame had immediately been placed on 'criminal elements' in other words, the Mafia.
"Chechens, for sure," said Sasha, the moment he arrived in camp.
"And why? They make retaliation for losing their Beno. I told you."
"It's a war, going on in the middle of Moscow," I said.
"Zheordie, this war will last fifty years.
Like us, Sasha was feeling rough, and we gave him a cup of strong black coffee before starting for the ranges.
Then Toad appeared, washing his hands like crazy.
"Heard the news?" he went.
"The hit on the Foreign Minister?"
"Yeah but the stand-off it's creating."
"What are you on about?"
"It's just been on the BBC World Service. The American Ambassador was in that same car.
"Jesus!" I sat up.
"Did they kill him as well?"
"Not quite. He's in intensive care. But the United States is threatening to break off relations with Russia. Clinton's been on the hotline to the President, giving him a bollocking. He reckons the whole country's going to rat shit
"He's not far wrong," I said. I felt my gut contracting. Now we're really in it, I thought and as if to confirm my misgivings, in came another unexpected punch from a different direction.
We were on the point of leaving the building when in burst Rick, looking chuffed to bollocks.
"You'll never believe it!" he yelled.
"Irma's back!"
"Take it easy," I told him.
"Who's Irma?"
"Natasha's sister. The one who went to the States."
"What about her?"
"They've got her back!"
"Who have? For Christ's sake, explain."
"The FBI turned up at her apartment in the Bronx. They grabbed her and a few of her friends and deported them put them on a plane for Moscow.
"Ah," I said.
"This is starting to make sense. You've Tony Lopez to thank for that. He must have got his finger out."
Then suddenly I thought, Wait a minute. How does Rick know about this? He must have been talking to Natasha. Hadn't I told the prick to lay off?
I felt my face colour up and I said quietly to Sasha, "If you don't mind, we'll meet you in a couple of minutes outside the armoury."
He got the message and took himself off. The moment he'd gone, I turned on Rick.
"You stupid bastard! You realise what you've done?"
"No. What's the matter?"
"There's a very good chance you ye compromised the entire operation. Listen. How did that woman get hold of you?"
"She phoned."
"Exactly. And how did she know your number?"
"I'd given it to her."
"Exactly. Jesus Christ! Are you out of your mind? Who d'you think she's busy giving your number to now?"
"What do you mean?"
"THINK, cunt! Her sister's been in the grip of the Mafia in New York. The FBI have kicked her out, along with a bunch of other slags. They snatched the whole lot and sent them home.
But mow she's in Mafia territory again, worse than New York.
The wide boys here have access to the airlines' passenger lists.
They know she's come back to Moscow. They've got her address from before. She's probably got a Russian pimp here anyway.
"In other words, they know precisely where she is. And now, because you can't stop following your prick around, they know precisely where you are. The next thing'll be a group of four charming young men with Gepards up their jumpers coming to the gate to ask for a fucking interview!"
I wasn't exactly shouting, but I was talking a lot faster and louder than usual. From the stricken look on Rick's face, I might as well have been hitting him.
"They don't know what I'm doing here," he said defensively.
"All I told Natasha was that we were making a film."
"To hell with that. Listen, Rick. You know the score. We're on a military telephone exchange, for fuck's sake. One look at the number must have told them where we are.
To ease my feelings I started walking up and down.
"Things aren't looking good for you," I said.
"This is the third time you've screwed up. I told you before and that was a last warning. I've got a feeling you're on your way home. And if this doesn't end in your getting RTU'd I'll be bloody amazed."
He started to say something, but I cut him short.
"Don't bloody well argue! There'll be time for that back in the UK. Get down to the armoury and tell Sasha I'm not coming out with the team this morning. I'm going to have to stay here and sort this mess out. In fact, you can ask Sasha to put am hour's delay on the start today. If any of our lads are down there already, bring them back. Tell them I'm holding a meeting immediately."
He'd hardly disappeared before I made up my mind. Yes he'd have to go. He'd already done serious damage, and was too great a liability.
I called the Embassy, asked for the Charge, and got put through to Kate, the red-headed secretary.
"Is David there?" I asked.
"Not yet. He had to pick something up on his way in."
"Could you do us a favour, then?"
"I can try."
"Thanks. It's just that we need to get someone back to UK soonest. I want him on a plane today. Could you be an angel and book a ticket?"
"Return?"
"No one way.
"What's the passenger's name?"
"Ellis. Richard Ellis."
"What flight shall I go for?"
"Any flight the earliest he can catch. He'll have to get from here to the airport, that's all."
"All right, then. I'll call you back."
I urgently needed to speak to the CO in Hereford, but the time there was still only 6:30 a.m." so I decided to wait until he came into his office.
When Kate rang back, she gave me another jolt.
"I'm sorry, she said, "I can't get through to any of the airlines. The reservation lines are all jammed."
"Is that normal?"
"Certainly not. I phoned a friend in the Lufthansa cargo department, and she says there's some sort of a panic on. People are trying to get out of Moscow in a hurry. There are no seats available before next Thursday."
"Jesus! It must be this thing about the American Ambassador."
"That's right. There's a lot of really nervous talk coming out of the FCO."
"Like what?"
"The international situation deteriorating, that sort of thing' "Well, listen. I really need this guy on a plane as soon as possible. Can you keep trying?"
"Of course.
Ten minutes later she rang again and said, "I got through in the end, but no luck. I tried BA, Aeroflot and Lufthansa, and they're all fully booked. There are no seats available before next week. The only chance is to send him first class. Lufthansa may have a seat at 1520 this afternoon, but it's via Berlin, I'm afraid."
"That'll do," I said.
"Take it." Privately I was thinking, I don't care if he goes via Timbucfuckingtoo, as long as I get him off my hands. The idea of Rick sipping champagne in a first-class seat gave me a royal pain in the arse. But then I consoled myself by thinking, If he's getting binned, back to the Green Army, it's the last time he'll be travelling like that for a while.
"I'll charge it to the Embassy for now," Kate was saying.
"Then we'll send the bill to Hereford. He'll have to collect the ticket from the Lufthansa desk at the airport. He needs to be there by 1400 at the latest."
"No bother. I'm very grateful to you. Has David appeared yet?"
"Just this moment. D'you want a word?"
"Yes please.
I hung on, then heard AlIway say, "Good morning."
"Good morning," I went.
"Can you fill me in on what's happening?"
"The situation's pretty confused at the moment."
"What's causing the panic?"
"Clinton said something about Russia being on the point of becoming ungovernable."
"Don't you feel that's exaggerated?"
"Personally, yes.
"So what line's London taking?"
"No special line yet. But Washington is advising Americans to leave unless they have urgent business here. Are you people all right out at Balashika?"
"For the time being. Everything's been going fine. I don't know how this will affect things, though."
"No," AlIway said cryptically.
"I get the impression that your team may be off home fairly soon.
"Oh, really?" I went.
"We'll have to wait and see.
I rang off, and called Hereford on the secure satellite link. By good luck the CO was already at his desk, and sounding cheerful.
"Hi, Geordie," he went.
"How are things?"
"Rough. You've heard the news?"
"Yes. It sounds a bit dicey. How does it feel at that end?"
"Can't tell yet. But listen, Boss. That's not what I'm calling about. It's Rick Ellis. I'm sending him home."
"Oh God!" he said.
"What's happened?"
I told him in short, sharp sentences. He didn't query my decision, and I was glad of that. He saw my point. I summed up by saying, "He's dropped us right in it. At the very least, the Mafia know there's a Brit presence in the barracks here. That means there's a threat to our lads, quite apart from the potential disruption of Operation Nimrod."
"Are you going to need a replacement?"
"Not worth it. We can manage as we are.
"OK, then. I'll see Rick as soon as he gets back."
"Do you need a report immediately?"
"It can wait. I'm sure you've got plenty on your hands. You can give me a full statement when you get back."
"Will do."
"What's the state of play with the operation?"
"Apple's in place, as you know. We've got a site for Orange, and we're just waiting for a chance to do the insertion."
"Sooner the better," said the CO sharply.
"If the situation gets much worse we may have to pull you out.
"Roger. But Boss?"
"Yes?"
"There's no chance the Yanks are going to start playing funny buggers and press the button on Apple?"
"Don't be silly, Geordie. Things aren't that bad." Then suddenly he switched mode and made what seemed to me a lousy joke.
"But if they were, you'd be the last people to know anything about it."
"Ha ha," I said.
"Sorry, Geordie." He realised he'd pissed me off.
"Seriously, things look OK from this end."
"They don't from here, I can tell you. People are pouring out of Moscow like fucking lemmings."
"Is that right?"
I told him about the airlines, then said, "What I'm saying is this. Isn't that exactly what these bloody devices are for to use as blackmail if things get tense, to bring the buggers to their senses in an emergency?"
"Precisely. But we're nowhere near the stage of using them yet.
"I hope to hell you're right. Once Orange is underground we're going to be in the killing zone ourselves, never mind any radiation that might drift this way from Apple."
"Take it easy, Geordie. Your imagination's running away with you."
"I hope you're bloody well right."
The lads reassembled, looking rather surprised. Having sent Rick away to his own room, I got everyone sat down and went straight into it.
"I'm sorry to say that there's a high probability Operation Nimrod's been compromised."
Everyone sat very still. Several seconds passed before Whinger said, "For Christ's sake, what's happened? Have they found the bomb?"
"I hope not. But next worst: Rick's sent the Mafia a message saying the SAS is in town."
"Don't be stupid!" went Whinger.
"I'm not," I told him.
"I exaggerated slightly, but only a little."
I explained what had happened. Mal careful, steady Mal surprised me by starting to stand up for Rick.
"If he stuck to the cover story about the film, we don't need to worry.
"We bloody do! That woman's obviously in the hands of some pimp or other. It'll take the guy about ten seconds to recognise the number Rick gave her. I bet you the Mafia have got us pinpointed already."
"Eh!" said Johnny
"Let's fuck off out of here while the going's good."
"That's what Rick's going to do," I said.
"I'm sending him home right away. The lucky bastard's flying first class because there are no other seats. And Toad I want you to take him to the airport. OK?"
Nobody put up any good reason for keeping Rick on the team.
Mal saw the point of what I was saying and finally agreed that Rick should go. The only argument was about his share of the Mafia dollars and in the end we voted that he should still get it, provided he kept his mouth shut about the whole episode when he reached home.
So the day's training got under way an hour late. I stayed in barracks, fighting to catch up with paperwork mainly the course reports on the students, which we were supposed to be continuously updating.
All morning I kept remembering how, at the climax of the siege of the Libyan Embassy in London, the police negotiators had kept the terrorists in play by telling them direct lies: that the Libyan Ambassador was on his way, that a coach was coming to take them to Heathrow, and so on. Even Trevor Lock, the policeman trapped inside the building, couldn't get any straight answers from the police. Several times he asked for an assurance that the building wasn't going to be assaulted and at the very moment when the SAS men were laying out their abseil ropes on the roof, the cops promised him blind that all they were trying to arrange was the villains' getaway.
Now we seemed to be in an unpleasantly similar situation.
The boss would go on saying, "No, no, Geordie, everything's
fine," until the very moment when Clinton or some other jerk in Washington pressed the button. The CO was bound to toe the line. But for us poor sods at the sharp end it was different.
Maybe we'd see a brilliant white flash. Maybe we wouldn't.
At midday I called the Charge again and heard that the American Ambassador had died from his wounds. All US flights into Moscow had been suspended, and American citizens advised not to travel to Russia by any means. More and more I
was needled by apprehension that this whole train of events had been set off by us by our participation in the hit on the apartment. Then I told myself that if we hadn't gone along with it the result of the shoot-out might have been much the same, with a few more casualties to the forces of law and order but still the feelings of guilt were building up.
Before Toad left I took him aside and asked, "Is there any way you can disable Apple?"
"Not unless we go back down the tunnel," he replied.
"Now it's live, it's live."
TWELVE.
We seemed to have two options. One was to call in an R.A.F aircraft and lift the whole team out, taking Orange with us, on the grounds that the situation was too dangerous to stay. That definitely went against the grain: it would be unprofessional and would smell of panic. If we quit, we'd have failed in one of our main objectives.
The second option was to carry out our task and get Orange into place as soon as possible after which we could assess the position again, and decide whether to carry on with the training course or leave immediately.
To reach a decision we held a Chinese parliament out in the open, in the middle of the assault course, well away from any bugs. Toad, as usual, remained silent, but the rest of the lads were emphatically for Option Two. The only disagreement was about what we should do once we'd buried Orange in the old air-raid shelter.
Whinger, croaking through his laryngitis, was all for playing it straight.
"We might as well see the course through. Nobody's going to push any button.
They wouldn't fucking well dare."
Johnny and Pavarotti agreed with him. But Mal, who'd done a two-year tour attached to the US Marines, had a low opinion of American decision taking in general, and reckoned somebody in a key position in Washington might easily lose his cool under pressure. Dusty and Pete tended to go along with that, and so did I. That meant that three of us were for remaining on the team task, and four for opting out: the narrowest possible majority. In the end we agreed to debate the matter again once Orange had gone down.