Sitting at the back with him were a mixture of non-soldiers - sorry, non-Marines. They all wore badges bearing their names and their organisations. It had been such a rush to get into the briefing room he hadn’t had chance to work out who they all were. Listening to the major’s question there were obviously reps from CT, the Met and Border. There were at least twenty ‘suits’, so the list in his head wasn’t comprehensive.
A number of them said, ‘No.’.
Frank thought he had something to add - but couldn’t be sure. And, as SIS’s LO (liaison officer) in Dover, after a short hesitation he gave as confident a reply as he could muster.
‘Nothing from SIS.’
There is something?
After Jane had dispatched him to Dover he’d had no more than five minutes to update the MTMT with the photos from the service station of the three men from Mersa Fatma. He’d grabbed his denim jacket off the back of his chair just as he pressed ‘send’ on an email he scrambled together to his pals in The Service and CT, Vernon and Fi. The last line read: We need to find these. They’re looking for trouble.
Frank wasn’t 100% certain, but he thought it likely he’d just found three of the men. And trouble was an understatement.
So ‘nothing’ was not an accurate answer from Frank. But it would do for now. He knew where they came from and how they’d got to the UK. He didn’t think that was necessarily helpful. What the major needed to know was what were their weaknesses? What did they want? What was their MO? Stuff that would help his squadron rescue a huge ship full of scared people, at least two of whom were dead, without causing further casualties. In that respect ‘nothing’ was a perfectly adequate answer. He’d speak to someone in uniform once the briefing was finished.
The major had moved on.
‘Mission. Neutralise the terrorists in order for the ferry to be returned to port. Mission. Neutralise the terrorists in order for the ferry to be returned to port. Execution.’ A new slide. ‘Five phases …’
The major’s briefing style was clipped. Exaggerated. And incredibly clear. He exuded confidence. There was no arrogance and the whole process lacked the American bravado he’d seen in so many films. Here there were enough words at the right tempo. And given in a tone that ensured success. Frank was ready to get his kit on.
The major moved to the model. He pointed when he needed to.
‘Phase one. Prelims. Over the horizon. One-two-alpha. In the air with dogs. Circling at 22-kay. South of target.’ Frank noticed the major looking at six men sitting middle-left. They weren’t dressed as soldiers. They were wearing olive-drab coveralls. Flying suits? ‘Can you get in the air by then John?’
One of the pilots replied, ‘Sure. The Herc’s at 30 minutes.’
The major nodded.
‘One-two-bravo: in the SDV on HMS Ambush. You know the score. Deep and close. The ferry people tell me their sonar’s good for five klicks and 1000 metres depth.’ A pause for effect. ‘The rest of One Troop and all of Two Troop, 17 klicks out in the RIBs.’ The major exchanged a nod with a Marine in the front row.
‘Three troop. Airborne in two Chinooks. Seventeen klicks. But cut that if the weather allows.’ More nodding.
‘Phase two. Foothold and gather. One-two-alpha. Drop on the top deck. Dispatch the dogs. One-two-bravo. From the rear, scaling both sides. Powerplant is your baby.’ He was pointing at the model as he spoke. ‘The rest of you, move to within five klicks. One Troop: you are our eyes and ears. We’ve got an AWACs in the air from 8.00 pm this evening, and will get whatever SAR readout we can. But my bet is you’re it.’ The major was now talking to the whole room. Everyone was silent. Many were taking notes.
‘Phase three. Assault. Simultaneity is key. One Troop - you’re inside by now. You call “power down”. I want Two and Three Troop alongside and on deck exactly at that moment. We know the drill from there.’
The major paused. The room was waiting.
‘Phase four. Consolidate. Again, usual drills. All passengers and crew, including the captain, in two locations. Deck seven, family lounge. Deck eight, food court.’ More pointing. ‘If any of the terrorists are standing, they’re on deck here. Mike-three-four …’, he was looking to one of the other men in a flying suit, ‘... we’ll call you in when we’re ready.’ The man in the flying suit nodded.
‘Phase five. Reorg. Once we’re secure, we’ll get the stand-by crew out by Chinook and they’ll drive us in. Any questions so far?’
There was a gentle murmur around the room. But no questions.
It took the major another ten minutes to reach the end of his briefing. Frank knew what was happening - in principle - but he guessed the overwhelming confidence of those in the room grew from rehearsing scenarios like this a hundred times.
‘Finally. A reminder. Key to this is surprise. London has a small negotiating team trying to establish comms with the terrorists. That team are not aware of our timings. They will not know that we assault this evening. The terrorist will not be expecting us. They will have not slept for 36 hours. They will be fidgety. They have killed at least two pax and, now out of phone coverage, we have no idea if they’ve killed more.’
The major walked around the model. Frank thought he managed to look every one of his team in the eye as he did.
‘Let’s bring this to an end … by strength and guile.’
‘By strength and guile!’, was the chorused response.
Frank caught up with the major five minutes after the briefing. The major had a thermos in one hand, and a small mug of coffee in the other. Frank was second in line. The major was currently talking to one of the pilots. He spotted Frank, and glanced at him, raising his mug.
‘Wait one.’ The major said.
Frank nodded. It took ten seconds for the pilot to finish and he moved away.
The major extended his hand.
‘Colin Hall. How can I help …’, he looked at Frank’s badge, ‘... Frank?’
Frank shook the major’s hand.
‘Thanks. I’m not sure this is going to help. Could you put the mugshots back up?’ Frank motioned to the screen which currently displayed SBS’s logo.
The major turned and faced the screen. He played with his pointer. The slides flashed back until they stopped at the mugshots of the four men.
Frank looked. He said nothing.
The major glanced at the screen, and then back at Frank.
‘Do you know these people?’
Frank was SIS. He followed leads that led to certainty. Or not. Outside of the building he only worked in certainty. The three men’s faces were not exactly facsimiles of his men from Eritrea. But that wasn’t a surprise. They could be using original passports of a decent lookalike. Originals were always easier to use than a fake. And when you wanted to hijack a ferry, you really didn’t want to get picked up because your passport didn’t pass muster.
And, as we all know, every passport photo makes you look like a convict.
Frank answered the major’s question with a question.
‘Do you have the names of these four.’
‘Sure.’ The major walked to the front of the briefing room and accessed a keyboard. Within a second the slide had reduced in size and under it was a set of briefing notes. In the notes were four names. Frank took out his notebook and wrote them down. He didn’t recognise any of them.
‘Can you share the slide pack with me?’
‘I don’t see why not. Speak to my IO. He’ll be in the Ops Room. And, are you going to tell me whether or not you know these hoods?’
Frank was still looking at the screen.
‘I need our facial recognition programme in Vauxhall to look over all of the images to attribute a level of certainty …’ Frank started.
‘Cut the crap, Frank. I’ve got things to do.’ The major’s interjection showed neither signs of impatience nor anger. It was business like.
Frank wasn’t offended.
‘The three men come from a coastal village in Eritrea.
I know the name of one of them, the driver. He’s Abir al-Rasheed. I think I know the names of two more. I don’t recognise the woman. They travelled to the UK within the last two weeks, clearly with the intent of hijacking this ferry. It’s highly unusual … no, that’s not right. I am SIS’s lead immigrant analyst in the UK.’ He clarified. ‘We have never seen immigrants move this quickly from domicile to the UK. This is hyper-organised. A one-off.’
‘So what?’ The major asked. ‘Sorry. That’s a military term. It’s not meant to sound derogatory. So what? What do I need to know from that information? How can it help me with my mission?’
‘I have absolutely no idea at all. Sorry. But I’ll get onto that now - once I have the slides.’
Frank was about to leave - he’d taken up too much of the major’s time. But something from the briefing poked at him.
‘Dogs? You mentioned a team … and dogs.’
The major was gathering some things.
‘Yes. They drop in with the freefall team. Strapped to their chests. We’ve been using them for almost a decade.’
‘Are they attack dogs?’ Frank was amazed.
The major laughed.
‘They’re spaniels, Frank. They would piss on you before they bit you. No, they carry a pack of sensors. Visual, IR, comms. They’re trained to get inside the boat and trot about. The squadron gets immediate feedback. If the power’s off, the dogs will have given us a really good set of infrared images of the passenger decks within five minutes of landing. They’re special.’
I bet they are.
52°31'56.8"N 3°12'48.3"E, North Sea
Toffer was struggling to keep the girls quiet. There was a woman with a gun in the centre of the bar now. She wasn’t demanding silence like the original man. So far she hadn’t fired her weapon. And thankfully no one else was dead.
Both girls were sniffing. He held them in the crooks of his arms. Tight, but not suffocating. Over the past five hours he’d tried to make sense of it all to them. Not that it made any sense to him.
‘These people probably have a grievance. They want or need something in their own country which they can’t get.’ He whispered. ‘And sometimes, they think the only way to get what they want is to hurt people. Random people. By getting the world to notice.’
‘But why ...’ sniff, ‘... us. Daddy?’ Amy had whispered back. She was still crying. He was surprised she had any tears left.
‘I don’t know, darling, I really don’t’
They’d spent the first half an hour being reorganised by the man with the gun. Toffer reckoned there were about 100 of them in the bar room to begin with. By the time the man with the gun had finished there were more like 500. They were tightly packed around the edge of the large three-quarter windowed room, with the central area and the bar frontage empty. He and the girls were squashed tightly between a couple of lorry driver types and an extended Eastern European family. Sat on the floor in front of them were a bunch of kids and, he guessed, some teachers. There were arms and legs everywhere. And there was a dreadful smell of sweat - and urine.
The two bodies, both women, had been dragged to the foot of the bar by passengers, under orders of the man with the gun. They had been abandoned unceremoniously in the middle, one of their faces looking towards the crowd. The other corpse had its back to them. Initially the partner of one hadn’t been able to let go of the body. It had been pathetic to watch. The two male passengers who were lifting and carrying, gently pleaded with the man who was being asked to let go of the woman he loved. Everyone else turned away. There was more sobbing. But the man couldn’t let go. A few seconds later he had no choice. The man with a gun put a foot on his shoulder and jabbed the weapon’s barrel into his face. He let go of the corpse at that point.
Early on an elderly woman to his left had stuck up her hand and asked ‘to go to the lavatory, please’. The man with the gun didn’t understand - the word lavatory was probably new to him. ‘Toilet. Please.’ The woman had added.
‘No. Nobody moves.’
There had been an immediate outbreak of discontent.
The man with the gun’s response had been to fire in the air. The huge noise, even louder than Toffer had remembered from the first dreadful bursts, caused everyone to cower. Amy and Sophie, who at that point had their arms around his chest, squeezed him so tightly he struggled to catch his breath.
‘Daddy …’, a whisper from Sophie.
‘Shhh, darling, shhh.’ She had lifted her head. He looked at her. She pointed downwards. There was a wet patch on the floor.
Grief almost overtook him. He lifted his chin and stared ahead, holding both girls with as big a hug as he could. And then a tear made itself known from the corner of his left eye. Just one. He could feel it. It dribbled down his cheek, hung on his chin, and then dropped to his jeans.
‘Shhh, darling. Please.’
Since then four hours had passed. And those who couldn’t hold on, hadn’t.
Whilst the woman terrorist had ignored the room as it filled with whispered conversations, she hadn’t allowed anyone to move.
A loud snore broke through the quiet melee. Nervous laughter followed. Then near silence.
The original man with a gun returned. Toffer felt the room wince. He was accompanied by an elderly man in a ship’s uniform. Blue trousers, white shirt and a tie. The new man was carrying a large bundle of keys. He looked petrified.
‘We are going to lock the doors. On both sides.’ The man with the gun used his head to indicate both sides of the bar where double doors lead to corridors running down the side of the ship. ‘The door in the bar will be locked as well.’ The uniformed man was nervously nodding his head. ‘You will stay here. You will not try to escape. We will be on the other side of the door. We will shoot.’
The man with the gun stared at them all.
They got the message.
‘Do it.’ He said to the uniformed man.
The elderly man jogged off to the right of the bar and locked the double doors. The woman followed him and checked his work by shaking them. He did the same to the door behind the bar. The woman checked again.
The three of them then left the room, closing … and locking the double doors behind them which shook, making a rattling noise. The woman was probably checking again.
Silence.
And then …
… bang!
…
Thud.
The noise was slightly quieter than the gunshots in the room, but no less horrific.
Toffer could only imagine one explanation. An elderly, uniformed man lying in a pool of blood. A bundle of keys still in his hand.
The room broke out into uproar.
Toffer sat still - dumbfounded. As hysteria caught on all around him, he pulled his girls to him, tighter still.
Chapter 9
Fővárosi Büntetés-végrehajtási Intézet Jail, Budapest, Hungary
‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re playing at?’ The man from the British Embassy was pacing around the small cell - shouting at Sam as if she were an errant child. ‘And how in the name of God did you get that black eye?’
Any more questions?
Sam didn’t want to answer the shouty-embassy man. She just wanted to get the hell out of the tiny room in which she was incarcerated: her, a bed, a metal sink, a pot, four walls and the shouty man from the Embassy. She didn’t do small spaces. Not since Berlin. Not since she and Wolfgang had spent 48 hours in a freezing cold shipping container on the edge of death.
Her current cell was different, in that there was a barred window which she could reach with her hand if she outstretched her arm. The walls weren’t closing in. She could imagine life outside. But it was still four walls and not enough room to swing a cat. And a shouty man from the Embassy.
He was wearing a city suit and decent shoes. But his shirt needed an iron and his tie didn’t quite reach his top button. And there was an odour. The sweat of frustration. A long day in the office an
d then an unwelcome trip to the cells.
‘The Ambassador has made some calls. And I’m expecting you to be released at any moment. But mark my word, you’re on the first plane home, that’s for sure.’
Sam was staring at the floor. Her feet were tapping and she was picking away at the wick of her thumb. The man’s noise was just that. It washed over her; didn’t penetrate. Like an annoying fly you couldn’t swat. Her containment didn’t help. Everything was amplified. Annoyances became grievances. A loud voice became a shout. Her Mum wouldn’t be proud.
Whatever - she’d deal with it all once she’d got out of the cell - and had some paracetamol. Her head was throbbing as if her eye had been plucked from its socket, twisted around its optical nerve, and stuck back in again.
The TEK were a blunt instrument. They wanted to know why an ex-British spy had come to their country to undermine their prime minister. How did they know? Her latest FSB helper must have got on the phone. That’s gratitude for you. You can’t trust anyone. Sam had applied SIS interrogation training and said nothing - then something … just enough to keep them from pulling out her fingernails. But that hadn’t stopped them from smacking her about a bit. It was nothing fatal, but it hurt like hell.
‘I just … I just can’t believe we’re having to bail out an ex-spy.’ Shouty-embassy man was venting again. ‘You’re PNG, you know that. Your record makes that clear. “Services no longer required”. If I had my way I’d leave you in here to rot.’
Persona non grata? Really?
After all she’d done for SIS.
Typical.
Shouty-embassy man was a senior diplomat of some description. He was her way out of here. Unfortunately, he was also beginning to wear her down. She didn’t want the red mist to descend. She couldn’t afford to thump the man responsible for securing her freedom.
Clunk. Clunk.
Saved by the bell.
On the Back Foot to Hell Page 18