On the Back Foot to Hell

by Roland Ladley

  Out of sight, out of mind.

  In terms of fashion then, they also outranked him.

  In his defence, today was a travel day. That meant timeworn fading black jeans, a Greenpeace - Put Earth First - t-shirt, and a heavy woollen cardigan which either his Mum had knitted, or he’d bought from a charity shop. He couldn’t remember which. Oh, and red with white banding, old-style, long-lace basketball sneakers. The ones with flat, beige tread that was good at stopping you in the gym, but hopeless on wet pavement. It had been raining in Rome when he got off the plane and he’d almost fell on his backside twice on the short route from the taxi to the tradesman’s entrance of the Embassy.

  But, he was directing effort - and the team were lapping it up. Significantly Op Peacock now had its own op code, with a budget large enough to organise a successful coup in a West African country.

  First was getting an ‘in’ on the ‘Ndràngheta Mafia. His new friends told him they had no agents in its ranks. If you believed AISE, they didn’t either. The mafia grouping had been torn apart a couple of years ago by a governmental anti-corruption effort. It had rounded up a good number of players just at the point where the ‘Ndràngheta had become rather bourgeoisie and complacent. The purge had made them rethink their structure and MOs, and the outcome was a much leaner, more efficient, and pretty impenetrable organisation. It didn’t help that Rome Station believed the ‘Ndràngheta had a number of senior policemen and intelligence operatives on their payroll. The bottom line was SIS could and would push AISE for support, but movement would be slow. Certainly slower than what everyone needed right now.

  The next approach was to press the Carabinieri on the murder of Gareth Jones. One of Frank’s team had put this in motion within half an hour of them all getting together. They were waiting for an outcome on that.

  In the meantime, and whilst Frank waited for Sam to arrive, him and one of the team who had not yet gone home, had put together a couple of white boards detailing the sum of everything they knew.

  He was staring at it now.

  Frank had purposefully placed Freddie Derwent at the centre of the main board. Something told him that is what Sam would want. The spokes from the centre of the wheel led to the ‘Ndràngheta Mafia, Andrea Placido (annotated ‘2IC of the ‘Ndràngheta’), Viktor Molnár - with a link to Andrea Placido above which Frank had scribed Villa Feradina, and the FFO and Hasan Kutnetsov - with a link back to Viktor Molnár, on which was scribbled, ‘same words’. There was a link from Andrea Placido to Astal Generali, the Italian warehouse company, with a further link leading to Abir al-Rasheed and the other three terrorists from Mersa Fatma, although no one yet knew if the woman in the team was from the village - CT police had still not managed to get anything from them. Various other links tied together Lakeland Industries and AfH International Bank, the Cayman Islands, a Mr Helvellyn, the G7 and G20 countries. The 12 countries currently chasing down potential assassination attacks on their ‘major public figures’ had been written in a different colour, and those countries which had suffered ricin attacks a different colour again. Some of the countries’ names were overwritten in two colours as they were investigating a potential assassination of a public figure, and had also been subject to a ricin attack.

  There were five separate goose eggs which had to be penned on the second board because he’d run out of room: Italy, Sweden, Switzerland (which had lines leading to Freddie Derwent and AfH International Bank), Eritrea and Libya.

  It was a mess.

  And whichever way you looked at it, it made no sense at all.

  With Jane’s authorisation Frank had refocused GCHQ. Without AISE support they were targeting Andrea Placido and other ‘Ndràngheta players known to Rome Station. Via the SIS team in Budapest, they were also working harder on Viktor Molnár’s internet presence. In conjunction with the fraud section at The Treasury, GCHQ had a team working flat out to unpick the 296 business and account links which Frank now, on a hunch, had associated with Freddie Derwent. And SIS’s Asmara team were pushing every contact to expose more potential dealings between the Eritrean government and the Calabrian shell company, Astal Generali.

  Jane, who was still concerned they might be placing all their eggs in one basket, was working a series of external links, including liaising with the CIA. Unbeknown to the Eritrean government (and currently even the British Embassy in Asmara) tomorrow night the Special Reconnaissance Regiment were dropping an eight-man overwatch team a tabable distance from Mersa Fatma. They would sit a couple of kilometres back from the village in two separate locations and report anything suspicious. The CIA, who were behind the curve and not wholly sold on the Italian connection, had a team in Tunis who were, via a couple of well-placed agents, interrogating the container port where the Eritrean hijackers were known to have embarked.

  And Jane had held various late-night calls with oppos around the globe, giving them most of the British intelligence’s view of how and where NT were operating. She’d asked for support and advice … would they please get back to her.

  That’s where they were.

  Frank had fallen out the final member of the team, had made himself a cup of mint tea, had his feet up on his desk and was running the names on the boards around in his head. It was like looking at the scribblings of a three year old. Meatballs and spaghetti. Nodes and connections. And there was no sense to be made of it.

  He was shattered. He checked the time. It was 02.45. He wasn’t a natural traveller and certainly wasn’t a night owl.

  Sam had SMS’d him three-quarters of an hour ago. She had stopped for some fuel - and coffee - which she would gulp down once she’d leaked out the previous cups that had, according to her, ‘passed straight through me’. She’d be with him soon.

  ‘How soon?’ He’d tried very hard not to sound in desperate need of sleep.

  ‘An hour. Depends whether or not I fall asleep … or succumb to the cold.’

  He sighed. And stared at the board, The words and lines became one jumble of multi-coloured, dry-board marker. His eyes itched. His lids flickered.

  ‘Sir?’

  Frank’s drifting off was stopped in its tracks.

  It was the on-duty Embassy security man. Frank had met him earlier. He was huge - probably ex-Army. He had called Frank from a far-off doorway.

  Frank turned his head and smiled.

  ‘Yes, John? And Frank. Please.’

  ‘OK. I think the woman visitor you told me about has arrived. She’s at the back door.’

  ‘Thanks, John, I’m on my way.’

  Frank stood, stretched and followed John down the hallway, up a flight of stairs and into a small atrium. At the far end of the atrium was a ceiling-height, metaled fence with a single entrance: a ‘machine-that-goes-ping’ security gate.

  On the other side of the gate Frank thought he recognised Sam, although it was difficult to tell. The apparition was Sam’s height and the face under the makeshift scarf looked like Sam. But all other comparisons stopped there.

  Wellies, coveralls, a wax jacket and …

  Sam’s knees buckled under her and she fell to the floor, missing one of the metal prongs of a three-pronged rotating arm by a whisper.

  ‘Quick, John! Get her in here.’

  John pressed a button and pushed open a, previously unseen to Frank, gate that emerged from the fence. He had Sam in his arms in a second, swung the gate to with his foot and headed for the stairs.

  ‘She’s shivering and delirious. Do you know the details of the Embassy’s quack?’, John asked.

  ‘No.’ Frank was chasing after him down the stairs, taking two at a time, his tiredness gone. ‘But I know where the duty officer is. He’ll have a number, I’m sure.

  Ten minutes later, with Sam lying awkwardly on the largest chair in the office and John trying to force-feed her warm tea, Frank came back from the duty officer’s bunk.

  The sight of her lying in a heap, semi-conscious, made his own knees go weak.

  ‘How i
s she?’ He asked.

  ‘Not making much sense. And shivering like a jelly on a waterbed. What did the doc say?’

  ‘As described, he’s really worried about her. From here to Calabria on a bike in this weather, wearing inappropriate clothing … he’s pretty sure she could have hypothermia, which is no surprise. If we don’t get her warm quick, he can’t guarantee what will happen next. He’s on his way in, but it might take him half an hour. He said stick her in a warm bath or shower. Plenty of hot drinks. And sugar. Check for dilated pupils and try and keep her awake, even if she continues to be incoherent.’ He paused, touching Sam’s forehead. She’s very cold. ‘Do we have a bath - or a shower?’

  ‘In the gym. A couple of showers. Just down the hall. Are you going to do it?’

  A million things ran round Frank’s head at the same time. The duty officer was a man. John was, well, a big man. Frank was a man.

  Sam wasn’t.

  Oh, sod it.

  ‘Can you carry her to the shower please, John.’

  John didn’t blink.

  Definitely ex-Army or Marine. He knew the score. Apply heat to cold.

  Frank was on his tail. They were in the shower room in seconds. John held her tight and kept talking to her. He stopped in the middle of the room.

  He doesn’t want to put her on the cold floor?

  ‘Turn the shower on, sir. Hot, but not burning.’

  Frank did as he was asked.

  ‘What now?’ Frank had become follower.

  ‘Turn the other one on. And the taps in the sink. Let’s make this place steam. We’ll wait for a few seconds for the room to heat up.’

  Frank rushed round turning on taps.

  Thirty seconds later they were in a sauna. Frank hadn’t originally noticed, but John had brought the cup of tea with him. The liquid had been lost in transit, but he was now catching hot water from the shower, opening Sam’s mouth gently by pressing on her cheeks, and dripping in warm water. Between sips he was reassuring her. Sam made some noises that didn’t make any sense.

  ‘I’m going to take her in the shower. And keep feeding her warm water. We need to be careful. If she gets too hot too quickly her core will try to leach more heat and she could well close down. Do you have any spare clothes?’

  What? Eh ...

  ‘Oh, yeah. In my suitcase. In the office.’

  ‘Anything warm?’

  ‘Some stuff.’ Frank replied, trying to work out what would fit Sam - actually most of his stuff would work.

  ‘Wait. Take off her coat and wellies.’

  Between them they managed that, whilst John kept Sam as close to him as he could. Frank noticed his forearms were as thick as Sam’s neck.

  Then, fully clothed, and with a, ‘It’s OK, Sam, we’re just going to try and get you warm.’, John walked into the shower. He turned, moved his giant frame to one side, and let the hot water pour over Sam. Within seconds they were both soaking. Sam made a noise. Then another. And then fell silent under the torrent of hot water.

  John filled his cup and did his thing again with Sam’s mouth. She glugged it down.

  ‘I’ve got a Buffalo jacket in the security post.’ He explained where it was. ‘Go and get everything you can, including something to dry her with. Then make sure the aircon in the basement is turned up warm. There’s a control box by the far doorway. Get back here as soon as you can.’

  Frank looked at the man who had taken control. It was a sight that would take forever to leave him. A giant of a man standing steadfastly and incongruously in the shower, holding onto what, in his arms, was a slip of a woman.

  A woman in danger - but who was in safe hands.

  A woman … who I love?

  He dismissed the thought with a violent shake of his head. And then he was off. His orders clear.

  It took Frank ten minutes to sort everything he needed to. As he re-entered the shower room it was as he had left it. A large, fully-clothed man holding a wretch of a woman … in a steaming shower. He was still feeding her hot water. And still talking to her.

  He looked up.

  ‘Good, sir. We need to undress your friend now. I didn’t want to do it without you here. I think we both need to look after her, if you know what I mean - and ourselves. I’m going to hold her, and you’re going to take off her clothes. OK?’

  Frank blew a raspberry. He looked at John, and then at Sam.

  ‘Shall we tell her what we’re doing?’ Frank asked.

  ‘Good idea, sir. You talk to her.’

  ‘OK.’ Frank placed Sam’s new clothes and towel he had brought onto a white polyprop chair. He then quickly took off his shoes and socks and stepped into the line of fire.

  He paused.

  ‘Hi, Sam. It’s Frank. How are you doing?’

  She grunted.

  ‘You got very cold on the drive here. You’re …’, he thought about what to say next, ‘... getting warm at the moment. John is holding you. He’s a good guy. I’m going to get you undressed …’

  He waited for a reaction. There was another grunt.

  ‘Then we’ll get you dry, get you dressed and feed you so much tea you’ll be dying for a wee.’

  He waited again. His shirt and trousers were soaking. As he spoke, water sprayed from his mouth.

  ‘I’m taking off your very fetching coveralls now, Sam.’

  A grunt.

  Between them they carefully undressed Sam. As Frank took off her undies he noticed a recent scar on her leg. It was originally covered with blooded tissues, but, once damp, that fell onto the shower floor creating a splodge of red. The blood from the tissues snaked to the back of the pan and into the plughole.

  The cut started to bleed.

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘What?’ John asked. Water dripped from his eyelids, and off his cheeks. He glanced down.

  ‘She’s got a wound on her inner thigh. It will need steristripping at the very least.’ Frank said, water spraying from his lips with every word.

  ‘There’s a first aid kit in the security post. I’m a bit uncomfortable about being in here on my own …’

  Frank didn’t wait for John to finish his sentence. He shouted, ‘Don’t be!’, as he dashed out of the door.

  It took the pair of them 15 minutes to dress Sam’s wound, dry her (‘dabbing, not rubbing’, according to John from previous first aid training. It was about not forcing more blood to the surface), overdress her in Frank and John’s stuff, and then carry her to the basement office - which was now getting nicely warm. As they left the shower, Frank leading - still wet through, and John carrying Sam at arm’s length so he didn’t get her dry clothes wet, she opened her eyes.

  ‘Who’s the big fella?’

  It was a whisper. Frank stopped in his tracks and turned. John shuddered to a halt.

  Sam, who now had colour in her cheeks, raised her eyes upwards to show that she was talking about John.

  Frank could have cried.

  But not in front of the Army.

  ‘His name’s John. he’s just rescued you from hypothermia - we think.’

  Sam closed her eyes.

  ‘Thanks, John.’ Another whisper.

  ‘All in a day’s work.’ He replied.

  Probably not, John.

  Sam woke. Slowly. That was a new experience for her. Things came at her in a dribble.

  I’m hot.

  I’ve seen this room before.

  There’s Frank, asleep on a chair opposite.

  Why are there a load of chocolate bar wrappers on the table next to me?

  Then quicker.

  What am I wearing?

  I recognise the words on those boards.

  Last night ...

  It all came back to her, her dreams finding their place in her wakefulness.

  Her shoulders dropped. Tiredness enveloped her. She closed her eyes. And she couldn’t stop herself from crying. Small, female bleats. A sniff; she was careful not to wipe away the mucus with, she guessed, Frank�
��s clothes.

  My cut?

  It was sore. She felt for it.

  That’s strange.

  It had been closed with some steristrips.

  Frank must have done that. And … what’s his … John? That’s it. He was the big man carrying her.

  They had cared for her. Looked after her. Maybe saved her from ...?

  More tears came. She had to use something to wipe away the tears. She looked around. Nothing. Sod it, the Buffalo she was wearing (surely not Frank’s?) would have to do. It did.

  She sniffed. Frank stirred, but didn’t wake.

  She looked across at the board. In her state it was a mumble of words and lines, the wetness in her eyes distorting her middle-distance vision. She wiped the tears away again, the olive green of the Buffalo turning dark green in widening ovals.

  She looked again.

  No. She couldn’t focus.

  Come on.

  Again.

  OK. She had it now. It was titled Op Peacock. Who on earth thought of that name?

  And it made sense. Frank, she assumed it was Frank, had done a good job.

  She studied it. Played it over in her head. Ran along the lines. Joined a couple more.

  F Derwent. She could handle ‘F’. On its own. Just the initial. Not the complete word; not the whole name.

  But his surname wasn’t Derwent. She was sure of it,. The board made that point. It shouted at her.

  ‘Frank.’ She was hoarse. It came out like a strangled croak.

  ‘Frank!’ Louder this time. If he didn’t wake she’d have to get up and give him a kick. She didn’t think she had the energy for that.

  He moved. And moaned.

  ‘Frank!’

  ‘What? What!’ He was up now. Awake but not alive. His eyes were open but they weren’t sending messages to his brain. She waited. He blinked. And yawned. And settled for some more sleep.

  Sam checked her watch for the first time. It was 6.45 am. The office was empty. There were maybe ten desks. As many screens. There were three windows, but they were at ceiling height. She snorted. The Embassy loved Rome Station so much they’d banished it to the cellar. SIS were the unruly cousins. A cardamom pod in a mild curry. Necessary but unpalatable.

  ‘Frank. Wake up.’ Softer this time. But firmer.