by John Macrae
I was staggered; Alex, and James as well. Two of our best men, gone. For what? "It can't have been an accident, Tony. Can it?"
Tony remained impassive. "The police record says it was. It was a big 36 tonner. Water tanker. Mercedes artic, driven by a Baluch. He'd no form and reported it himself. The poor little sod was wetting himself by the time the UAE Security Police had finished with him. No, officially its kosher: an accident." He looked at me closely. "Are you all right?"
"Sure, sure. " But I wasn't. Captain Alex Jackson, Special Boat Section, Royal Marines, was the nearest thing to a friend -- someone you can go to if you've got trouble -- that I had: had had, I thought. Now he was gone. I'd been going to tell him all about the shitty little psychiatrist and the hospital and the dreams. It would have been a laugh. I'd never again have the chance to sit quietly bullshitting and swapping stories in the corner of the pub with square faced Alex with the broken nose, who talked out of the side of his mouth in that slightly high pitched voice. Five foot six, and very sensitive about his height. And his silly ginger hair. Alex. Now I never would. And lanky, languid ex-Etonian James Davidson was one of our best Arabists, trusted by every pro-Western Government and police force in Saudi, Kuwait and the Gulf States. It was hard to take in.
"The funeral?"
"Over: gone. Beginning of the month. In their local church. You were convalescing; it was the Director's decision not to tell you. Rosemary wanted it quiet. No regiment, no uniforms; just local. She wasn't very happy. Blames us. Not fair really. Probably easier to pass off all her feelings on to us. "
"Should I go and see her?"
"Your call: I'd recommend telephoning first. She's not a happy lady."
I sat in silence, staring out of the window. I'd really wanted to talk to Alex. He was the only guy I'd ever really been able to talk to about the serious things. Like how scared I was at parachuting - every time. And I knew that deep diving scared Alex shitless; which you don't admit to all your mates, particularly if you're a hot-shot captain in the SBS, with a pretty wife and two nice little daughters. Plum; one of them was called Plum: Victoria really. The little one was Lucy. What a … Shit. I realised I'd better call Rosemary, though she'd never been a great fan of the Regiment or Alex's friends. "Jesus. Jesus. "
Tony eyed me again. "Anyway, we've got other things to talk about. You're due to go and see the Director at 1100. We'd better have a little chat first. "
"Chat? Why?" I was wary. Tony was trying to tell me something. "What's to chat about? What's going on?"
Tony was bland, reassuring. "Oh, lot's of things. What's going to happen to you for a start."
"And what is going to happen to me? I'd assumed I was going back in there. " I gestured with my thumb back at the Special Operations Group Office. "You can't really want that Rupert on the team. He looks like a Tory MP."
Tony pulled down the corners of his mouth in a wry grin. "Actually, his father is one." he said, surprising me. "Henry's did good work in the Iraqi thing. He's good. He got an MBE..."
"Henry? Henry! Who the bloody hell is Henry? If that's what gets through selection these days, then Training Wing's up the spout. OK, so he got a medal in Basra or somewhere. We've all got bloody medals. But it's hardly Afghanistan is it? Or a Queen's Gallantry Medal? And a bloody medal doesn't necessarily fit him for the team. "
Tony remained calm. "He's your stand-in. And he's a damned sight fitter than you are. Look at yourself. Come on, be honest. Could you do the London Marathon in three hours?"
I had to be honest. "Of course not. But I will be fit again."
Tony looked to me up and down and shook his head. "Well De Court can. Look," he said, "for Christ's sake be reasonable. You're never, never going to be fit like that again. You're past it. We both are. You know that. It's time to start thinking. About the future."
"Is that what the Director wants to talk about?"
"Yes, that. And other things. "
"What other things?"
"Look," said Tony, pleading, "I can't go into it all now. I don't like what's happening. And I want you to know that my recommendation was that you stay. "
I went cold. "Stay? You mean I'm going? Tony was embarrassed. "What? Posted? I can't go back to Training Wing. No. Not again. I know I'm not in shape: but it'll come."
Tony looked hunted. "Look, I've told you all I'm supposed to. Oh Christ, you'll hear it from the Director soon enough." There was a long pause and he licked his lips. "Look, I'm sorry. It's not my fault. The Whitehall bastards want to bin you. "
"Bin me?" I tried to absorb it, feeling sick in my stomach. "Why? Why bin me? Where? Back to Regimental duty?" I grasped at a sudden straw. "Or are they posting me somewhere else? Not MOD?"
"No. You. You don't understand. It’s all to do with the Iran thing. They want you out. Number Ten: the Cabinet Office. The spin doctors. They want you away. Redundancy. Sacked. Any bloody thing. Out. There’ve been questions about you in the House."
I cannot explain how I felt at that moment. Out? Redundancy? Oh, I knew that there were cuts going on. But they weren't for people like me. Redundancy and cut backs were for fat old colonels in Base Ordnance Depots in British Army of the Rhine or sitting out their time on Salisbury Plain. Not me. Why me? What was so wrong with Kurdistan?
Tony must have picked up my thoughts. "They weren't very happy about your Kurdistan stunt. There was a hell of a row. Iranians going on the telly: al Jazeera. British provocations and deliberated attacks on Iran. Diplomatic protests, stuff in the papers, questions in Parliament; all that kind of stuff. They even raised it at the UN."
"How the hell could anyone blame Attorney on UK? We didn’t leave a trace. Anyway, we did it for the Yanks, surely? It was never down to us. "
"I'm afraid it was. The Iranians got hold of one of the Turkish guys who had been your minder out there. Some kind of Kurdish scout. Went native in the hills with the Pesh Merga after you left, then decided to take on an Iranian Air Force base single handed. Unbelievable, really. He ended up by driving a Land Rover through a couple of check points then crashing through an Air Base perimeter. Drove it down the flight line. Smashed a line of parked jets apparently. Ballsy stuff."
Nusret. Bloody Nusret.
"Where was this?"
"Tabriz, I think. Just over the border. Anyway, they got him: half dead. Better if he'd been chopped, 'cos the Iranian goons worked him over apparently and he spilled it all. Landrover, the attack on Hasak. The lot. Even mentioned you by name."
"By name?"
"Not your real name, obviously. But he knew your work handle. And the Iranians had a field day with the Rover. Big display of British and foreign equipment, aiding the Kurdish rebels, British Secret Service, the SAS, gold sovereigns, stuff like that."
Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Mind you, Sal must be laughing somewhere. Fuck.
"It was all over the papers about three months ago. You were still in hospital, I think. Undercover Britons in Secret Attacks on Saddam, etcetera. That kind of stuff. One of the awkward squad actually mentioned you by name at Prime Minister’s Questions. You’re even in Hansard.” He grinned mirthlessly. “So you can see you're not the Cabinet Office's favourite heavy. Number Ten went ballistic. PM’s personal poodles wanted to come over and give us grief directly. Demanded to see you. Personally. Chief of Staff told them to fuck off…. And I won't tell you what those pompous turds in the FCO are calling you."
Shit.
Tony's voice went on, but I was only half listening. Nusret. Poor, decent honest Nusret. He'd obviously gone for the big one. Big public revenge. 'I will revenge my brother, Sayeed': and the silly sod had blown it. "….Of course they topped him," Tony was saying, "Word is they wanted to do a show trial, but the poor bugger wasn't fit to be seen in public. So they put the Landrover on display and blamed HMG and gave the poor sod a Penkovski special.."
"A what?"
"Executed him by feeding him into a furnace. Slowly. Feet first. And filmed it as an example of what happens to e
nemies of the Great God’s regime on earth. The Ayatollah’s revenge, I think they call it. Apparently it's a bit of an Iranian speciality to keep the faithful in line nowadays. Anyway, I don't think you should plan on taking any holidays in the Tehran Hilton for a while. But there are some desk warriors in the JIC who'd probably give you a free ticket to share the entertainment. You really aren't flavour of the month, I'm afraid. Ministers have even denied your existence in the House. And you can imagine how much this bunch of control freaks enjoyed that."
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
Poor little Nusret. So that was where his Intiquam had led him. If ever a man deserved revenge on his enemies, it was Nusret. And it was all my fault. I'd given him the bloody tools to do it. Shit. If ever a man deserved revenging, it was Nusret. 'My brother,' I'd called him. What a bloody farce.
"Are you all right?" said Tony.
"Yup. I'm fine. Shit happens."
"Right. Glad you haven't lost your sense of proportion. I didn't know how you'd take it. We've been pretty worried about you, you know."
Sure you have, Tony. Bastards. Worried enough to try to get rid of me as an embarrassment. Me. After all I've done for them. They're worried about me; so, remove the source of their worry. Very logical. Very MOD. I'd give them something to bloody worry about.
"Let's go and see the Director. We don't want to be late. I expect he's got a way out. He's good at this kind of stuff. It's not as bad as it seems, you know. I think you'll find the system will take care of you."
Sure, Tony, sure. Poor bloody Nusret. Burnt alive. And they’re trying to kick me out, that's taking care, is it? Alex dead. James dead. My mates. What the hell was going on? I couldn't take it all in.
No wonder I'd always hated coming back from leave.
You always come back to trouble.
* * *
The interview with the Director went nothing like I expected it to go. Brigadier Peters stood up as we went in, lean, rangy and with the sandy hair going grey. With his pin stripe suit and gold watch chain he looked more like a successful banker than the Director, Special Forces. He seemed older and greyer than the last time I'd seen him. Tireder, too.
He looked me over carefully and then shook my hand. "You're going grey," he said unexpectedly. "And you've lost weight. You'd better take a chair. How’s your health? You’ve had a bad time, I know.”
I muttered something about being alright.
He humphed and looked at me sharply. “You aren't going to like this much."
He sat down opposite me at the comfy armchair end of the office. Tony found himself a hard chair and moved it.
"I expect Tony's told you what this is all about?" He noted my assent, and went on. "This is probably one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. Believe me. Whitehall wanted to hang you out to dry. They had to find someone to blame for all the fuss. The Board of Enquiry dumped everything on you. If they could have got a bunch of Air Marshals to call it 'pilot error' they couldn't have been more obvious.”
"Why? What's all the fuss? I really don't understand. I thought I did a good job”
"Oh, you did. In the States Langley and the National Security Agency are cooing like doves over the communications stuff you brought back: they are drooling over it. Director GCHQ has even been thanked by the Foreign Secretary personally, " he added dryly.
"GCHQ? Cheltenham? What did they have to do with it?"
Peters smiled; "It's the old thing isn't it? Everyone likes to take the credit - but nobody's around to take the blame."
"So I flog my guts out---literally---across the border inside Iran to get classified signals stuff and Cheltenham's chairwallahs take the credit? And leave me to take all the blame? I can’t believe it. It wasn't even their op. I don't understand it."
He looked at me sympathetically. "No. I don't expect you do." He looked at Tony. "Didn't Tony tell you the story?"
I muttered something about embarrassment in the Cabinet Office. Peters grinned. "Embarrassment? That's an understatement. After the questions in Parliament, some of the suits wanted to bring charges against you. The Attorney General even wrote to the Minister, demanding that some action be taken against you. And the Sigint boys couldn't exactly stand up and say, 'It's all right, he's really a hero because he's given us the key to read all Iran’s tactical codes and ciphers, can they? No, you've got to disappear for a bit, until the fuss dies down. You do understand that, don't you?"
I nodded, dumbly. He went on.
"The bottom line is that the MOD, under pressure from those media freaks and pooftahs in Number Ten wants you fired. Now. Mainly because they're being squeezed in the media over deniable operations, and HMG's image does not include deniable operations nowadays. Especially ones for our American friends. Bad for the PM’s image. After that Libyan fuck up the PM is a bit sensitive, apparently. Something to do with our supposedly ethical foreign policy, apparently. Whatever that may be," he added dryly. "The rumour is that the PM has even had to lie to the media about you, and he is mightily pissed off. Especially as the press know bloody well what went on – or think they do. Something to do with his squeaky clean image, I am given to understand by those who deal in these exalted matters. And what with these Five and Six narks spreading their revelations all over the Internet, and the press still sniffing around for the big story that will prove that the government are a bunch of corrupt chancers playing poodle to the White House, you can see that we are none of us Whitehall's favourite organisation. And you are most certainly not their favourite son. By a long chalk."
I suddenly realised that Director Special Forces was risking his neck for me. If what he was saying was true, then many another senior officer would have washed his hands of me. Senior service officers with an eye on the future were notoriously disloyal - except to their own careers. You only had to look at some of the creeps who made it to the Army Board.
He went on; "…Most of Whitehall would just like to drop you down a big hole and pretend that you never existed. The only thing that's keeping them back is the knowledge that I have insisted that you are given a fair hearing; and that means publicity. They don't like that." His gaze ran to the window and the little puffy white clouds high up. "Not even the Attorney General. A court martial would attract publicity. And they aren't keen on publicity; it's the wrong kind, apparently. And we still have some friends in the media who would kill to get their hands on a story about the SAS doing stuff off the record for spin-doctors inside Number Ten who’re really running the country on behalf of the CIA."
He snapped back to reality. "Anyway, while they're sorting that out we've got to do something with you. I've refused to suspend you, but you can't be seen to be on Group's posted strength for a bit. I’ve told the Minister that you’re going to disappear for a bit until Whitehall’s got some other media fuck up to worry about. That seems the wisest course. So we've got a little job for you to do." He eyed me doubtfully. "Provided that you're up to it, of course."
"I'm up to it, Sir. What is it?"
Tony snorted behind me, and even Peters smiled. "Well, it won't be round here, that's for sure. Let's see what Mr Henderson, or whatever he calls himself, has got to say shall we?" He nodded to Tony who went to the door. I raised my eyebrows. "Who's Mr Henderson?"
"He's a senior civil servant who's come with a request for Group's assistance." Peters flashed me a warning glance, then stood up and greeted a tall, grey haired man in a grey suit who came in with Tony.
"I'm Henderson," announced the newcomer, taking the seat that the Director waved him to after we had shaken hands. He was about fifty, I reckoned, with a slight stoop and a gloomy lined face. Like a heron, I thought. "I'm from – ah - let us say another government department that can, perhaps better appreciate your particular talents. I've asked your Director if the SAS could help us with a little problem we've got. Your Director has told us all about you. Suggested you might be the very man. In the circumstances." He stared at me thoughtfully, then nodded slowly. "Yes. I
think you'll do us very well."
I looked blank.
"You don't mind – ah - assisting us, do you? He enquired anxiously. I glanced at the Brigadier, who nodded imperceptibly.
"No, not at all. But what.....?"
"You look a little puzzled. That's hardly surprising. Well, to put it bluntly, we'd like you to –ah - acquire a book for us. It's not a very big book. Unfortunately it's a little - ah - inaccessible, shall we say? Do you think that you could do that for us?”
I stared at him blankly. “Where is this book, then?”
“It’s in Italy. It belongs to man calling himself Heinemann. We need that book. And we’d like you to teach him a little lesson.”
CHAPTER 6
Pesaro, North East Italy
It’s funny how real crooks and hoods just look so ordinary.
I don't think that anyone looking at Carlo Romero Heinemann would ever have guessed that he was one of the most dangerous men involved in the mess that had once been Yugoslavia. Even for an Italian he was too obvious, too distinguished-looking, too ... well, flashy.
From his raven-glossy hair to his hand-made shoes he was the picture of conspicuous prosperity, slickness, charm and good old fashioned capitalist success. No-one was ever going to accuse Carlo Romero of being a 'little grey man'. Carlo was a 'Personality' and he wanted everyone to know it.
I watched him pat the side of the white Pontiac Parisienne convertible with pride as he pushed the door to. I knew it was one of his three cars. I also knew he was six feet two inches tall, fifty-nine years old, that his father had been a German Standartenfuhrer in the SS, that he invariably carried a Heckler-Koch 7.65 millimetre pistol in his waistband, that he was on his third wife and that he was uncircumcised. Thanks to Mr Henderson of the Cabinet Office, I knew a great deal about Carlo Romero Heinemann.