by John Macrae
I kissed her back and went off to the shower. At the door. I turned back and looked at her. She was snuggled up in the duvet, with only her face grinning like a Cheshire cat at me. A little hand wiggled at me over the top. I had the feeling that Joy had been saying her own very special kind of goodbye.
But, like she said, I'll never understand women.
CHAPTER 43
A HOLIDAY ABROAD
The rest of that day passed in a whirl.
I'd got my kit, Mallalieu's ever-efficient secretary did the administration and I concentrated on the briefings. We had to get a week's work into one day. I listened, asked questions, then went over it all again.
Mallalieu had dredged up some lunatic called Fletcher from the FCO who had apparently spent years in Afghanistan. He was a right number and I'm not surprised they left him in Kabul for eighteen years. He would have been a 'Grave Embarrassment' back at King Charles Street. Or anywhere else around Whitehall, come to that. With his dishevelled suit, flailing arms and manic eyes, he reminded me of a particular demented television personality, extolling the virtues of living rough among the 'primitive, but noble tribes' on the North West frontier.
Mind you, he knew his subject and I desperately tried to remember his advice on the tribes and their customs. Like the man said, mad moustache abristle, 'You can't afford to offend these buggers, old boy... appearances are everything... the women are the worst, you know. Don't even think of looking at their women. I know I didn't.... " Finally he left, hair flapping, arms waving, while Mallalieu rolled a sardonic eye in my direction
After lunch he was replaced by a pale, blond Staff Sergeant from the Kremlin at Hereford called Ron Marshall, whom I hadn't met before. Like most of the SAS men I've known, he was quiet and introverted. He didn't introduce himself and neither did I. I was ‘before his time’.
I had had to lean forward and listen carefully to his calm, even, briefing, explaining the routes in, contacts and RVs. It was an impressive performance, and the only hint of the tensions coiled within were his fingernails, bitten to the quick, and a slow tick wriggling like a worm beside his left eye. When he had finished, he shook my hand and wished me 'Good luck' with a final appraising stare.
At five o'clock, Mallalieu reckoned I'd had enough. He was right. My little notebook was full, and I had a lot to learn on the flight. He poured drinks and we sat back in contemplative quiet. Eventually he broke the silence. "Well - good luck to your trip." I grunted and sipped the watery whisky,
"You don't sound too happy," he went on. "What's up?"
"It's the whole thing. I've just got bad vibes, that's all."
He smiled. "Don't worry; no-one can nobble you while this op is on. You’re away doing work of national importance, I think the phrase is. And you just have to sit tight until Lamaison clears it up. We can fix all this. McKenzie will look after you." McKenzie was the Second Secretary in the Islamabad Embassy and the Six man for the region. "It'll be a doddle."
"I don't call padding into Afghanistan in the middle of a civil war between Muslim fundamentalists and Nato a doddle. Did you hear what Fletcher said about those Chinese coming across the frontier? The Afridi women cut their balls off and stuffed them in their mouths!” An image of Spicer’s balls slipped unwanted into my brain. Yuk. I shook my head.
"Ah yes, Fletcher. The wild man from Kabul...." Mallalieu shook his head, sorrowfully. "Never mind; the Taliban are out of town in that area. There'll be no Chinese where you're going, according to the Yanks.”
“Chinese . . .on the North West Frontier?” I sat, shaking my head. “I don’t get it. It’s hundreds of miles from the border. Even with Tibet.”
“You’re wrong. Don’t forget that their Xinjang Province actually has a border with Afghanistan. The Hanchu appendix.”
“You seem to know a lot about it?”
“I do, because I’ve studied the map. And so should you, before you leave. It’s wild country. Anyway, the Mujahadeen say that the PLA only comes across occasionally in hot pursuit of drug smugglers. I don't think that the Chinese want to get onto a pissing contest with the Taliban; and certainly not Nato. Not yet anyway. From what he said, I reckon your biggest worry is going to be keeping your hands from peeking under the yashmaks and sore feet from hill walking."
"Let's hope you're right." I swirled my glass. "Did you really believe all that stuff about the Afridi women cutting off prisoners' balls and stuffing them in their mouths while they're still alive?"
"Yes," said Mallalieu simply.
I got up and roamed the room. "Christ. All this gives me the creeps."
"What? Afghanistan? The wild women of the mountains? Not like you."
"No, no. Not that." I waved my glass at the window. "All this. London..."
"Are you still worried about the surveillance? Hell, you'll be out in ... " he glanced at a battered gold watch with a regimental strap,... in no more than four hours.”
'What's to stop the police or the Home Office grabbing me the minute I set foot out of the door tonight? That would throw a spanner in the works."
"If you're that worried about it .... "
"I am."
"Well, if you're really that fussed, I'll take you to the airport myself. Save you a taxi. They're hardly likely to try anything with me along. Will that do you?"
"Yes." Whether he meant it or not, I would welcome the cover - and the company. "Yes - I'd feel a lot better if I had someone to see me clear."
He swirled his drink again. "What? Wouldn't you rather have your girl-friend - Joy - see you off? Or has her taste in neckties shaken your faith in women?"
"Uh-huh." I shook my head. "We've said our fond farewells."
"I'll bet." He drained his glass. "Come on, then. What time do you check in?"
"Half past seven. But as long as I'm there for eight it should be all right."
At the door he said one other thing that stuck in my mind for a long time afterwards. It was said casually, almost as a half-remembered thing to do. "Oh yes, by the way; it might be useful if you just fill me in on some of your personal admin details while you're away. You know, mortgage, rent, flat. Gas bills. Solicitor. Your bank. Stuff like that. You'll need someone to keep a discreet eye on things while you're away, won't you? You’ve got half an hour. And you can fill me in the car on the way on anything else. But I'll need to know everything. Just let me have a list. OK by you?"
I was grateful. I'd completely forgotten about personal admin in the rush. And I didn't want to come home to a pile of old papers threatening credit card letters and mail on the mat. Trust Mallalieu to look after me. He was a decent guy - and, whatever else you could say, he'd looked out for me from the beginning.
We gathered the bags and went down to the car pool where Mallalieu collected a Jaguar I didn't know we owned. As we rolled out of the garage, a couple of burly types in blazers and grey trousers moved smartly to a bronze Mercedes parked by our entrance. I watched it sit on our tail and follow us out to Heathrow. They made no pretence of concealment; glancing over my shoulder I could see the big saloon, rock solid, twenty metres back from our rear bumper. What the hell were they up to?
"It's OK," said Mallalieu, his eyes flicking to the mirror. "I've got them."
I was puzzled. "It's a bloody funny way to do car surveillance. They couldn't be more obvious if they tried."
"Don't fuss." He made a joke. "If they're following like that, they're probably just making sure you catch your plane."
"Yes - I expect you're right." Now, that was an odd remark. I fell silent to think about what he meant; there was something wrong there. Then we were at the airport with Mallalieu dropping me at the Terminal and all the muddle of luggage and goodbyes. The Merc had disappeared and so had the two men.
Mallalieu stuck his hand out. "Well, have a good trip. Got everything? Passport? Ticket?" I patted my pockets to be sure. The work passport was a new one in the name of ‘Boyd’ with a really bad photo. "OK," he went on. "I'll take care of all your
personal stuff. Thank God you don't have a complicated life. Send us an e mail through McKenzie as soon as you to Karachi , and stay in touch. Good luck." He smiled
I picked up my case as he got back into the car. An airport traffic warden and a couple of taxis began to fuss around. It was time to move. "I'll send you a postcard," I shouted.
"Yes." He laughed. "And this time no sneaking back into the country on your Belgian ID card." He was still smiling as the Jaguar pulled away, its indicator flashing as it roared into the line of traffic.
I hefted my bag into the check-in.
After the usual airport check-in aggravation, I bought a paper and sat down to wait. But I couldn't settle. There was something wrong, something out of place. I was tired and not thinking clearly. The long briefings, Fletcher, Marshall, were all pushing at the front of my mind, fogging my clarity. And then there was Joy peeking over the duvet with that silly smile, the surveillance, would it all be fixed by the twenty third? That was the date on my return ticket. And Mallalieu and Lamaison, of course....
There was something important niggling at my mind , but the more I turned it over, the harder it was to place. It was something Mallalieu had said; something about the two men not doing surveillance, but 'seeing I caught the plane'. The more I thought about it, the more it worried me.
Then I thought of phoning Joy. She'd be back at her own place by now. A picture of her popped into my mind's eye. She'd been standing by the French window of our little hotel that weekend in Ullswater, wearing a lime green dress. The sun was pouring in behind her, making the thin cotton half transparent, outlining her form and halo-ing her hair. She'd looked beautiful and I'd said so. She had turned and kissed me. It was the first time I'd told her that I thought I loved her. Suddenly I was missing her. Suddenly I didn't want to go away; suddenly I wanted just to go to Joy, to bury my head between her breasts and forget about the killing and the guns and all the hassle and violence of what my life had become. Time to be normal.
Suddenly, I'd had enough. I couldn't go on.
I made a big decision. I reached into my pocket, took out the mobile and tried to dial Joy’s number. Nothing. It didn’t work. I tried to phone the network provider but even that didn’t work. Bloody things. And at a time like this too. I fumbled for some change and stood up to go to the public telephone. As I did, three things happened.
First, to my horror, I saw the two burly guys in blazers standing by the entrance to the departure lounge. I froze. They were the heavies from the bronze Merc. They reminded me irresistibly of bodyguards, not surveillance men. Their solid stance, watchful eyes and carefully folded hands across the groin smacked of minders, not surveillance operators. The two were blatantly watching me.
My stomach contracted and the coins for the telephone dug into my clenched fist. I stared wordlessly at the two, not twenty feet away. Then one of them looked over the crowd at me and shook his head staring me straight in the eye. There could be no doubt about it. He'd seen me stand up and had shaken his head. Like a hammer blow the truth burst in on me. I wasn't being followed; I was being guarded, watched over by a pair of heavies. The bigger minder shook his head and mimed a throat cut across his throat as I reached for the phone. He wagged a disapproving finger and shook his head quite openly at me. But who?
All the wind driven out of me, I looked round desperately, then slumped back on the seat. The minder who'd caught my eye nodded approvingly and returned to his slow scanning of the departure lounge, now nearly full of passengers.
My brain was in a whirl, I tried to pull all the questions together. None of it made sense. Who were these guys? The police and CIT interrogation? Mallalieu and Lamaison offering to help and see me safely on my way? And why hadn't the surveillance team been pulled off after Lamaison said it was OK? Who had turned over my garage so obviously? I'd been meant to find that out. Obviously. Why? To frighten me? To make me run? And wasn't it all a bit convenient, suddenly a nice sneaky-beaky job, out of the way in Afghanistan? Not too hard, not too easy, just tempting enough for me to jump at. What had Mallalieu said about the car that followed us; 'they're probably only making sure you catch the plane'? My head was spinning and for a second my brain seemed to slip sideways inside my skull.
I looked up, to catch the minder's watchful eye again. The lounge seemed oppressively hot and stuffy, and smelt of vinyl and baby sick. The clamour and chatter of the other passengers buzzed in my ears, growing like some roaring tide of noise. I could hardly breathe. My head felt tight and I was conscious of a terrible realisation bursting in on me, through a pent-up dam of horror. Then it roared over as clear and sharp as a breaking wave. The second thing. . . the second thing. I knew. I suddenly knew. I'd been stitched up: big time.
Mallalieu had said, laughing as he drove away, 'And no sneaking back into the country on your Belgian ID card'. But I had never, ever, mentioned that to a living soul. No-one but me knew I had a stolen Belgian ID bought from a scruffy Moroccan in a Brussels bar eight years ago. It was one of my biggest secrets and was professionally concealed between a picture and its backing on my living room wall. I had only used it once. No-one but me had ever known that that was how I'd checked through immigration at Dover that night to get Spicer. SO HOW HAD MALLALIEU KNOWN?
It was then that I realised what was going on. They must have turned over my flat. And the lock up garage with the guns and the tools. They knew. They had known. When?? Mallalieu must have known what was going on. At some stage they'd found out and had kept quiet until they could get me out of the way. I'd been set up.
The surveillance, the minders: they weren't collecting evidence on me: they were keeping tabs on me to make sure that I was got out of the country. Without any fuss or embarrassment. That's why Mallalieu scribbled down all those details about my mortgage and the bank and gas. Including the letter 'to whom it may concern' sitting quietly at the lawyers. Christ! I'd been so stupid...
I can remember standing there like a zombie when all of a sudden the public address system burst into its metallic quack-speak as some disembodied Miss Prim urged us all to the final boarding gate.
Suddenly everyone else surged to their feet and flooded past me, bearing me backwards towards the door and the aeroplane. For a few seconds I struggled against them, while curious white faces looked up at me, and plastic bags, briefcases and babies were borne past to the boarding gate. Over the heads of the crowd I could see the two minders, now alert, watching my attempt to swim against the tide, their hands poised over their waists.
They'd got their orders all right.
And I knew what they were. 'Make sure he gets on the plane and no fuss.' Well, they'd find they had got a little problem now. I wasn't going. And I was going to make one hell of a fuss. I'd been used, played like a fool: the bastards had exploited me. I expect that's why Mallalieu had offered to drive me to the airport. He’d been told to get me out of the way - personally. Christ, I'd been blind! But suddenly I could see it all. Now I knew. They’d stitched me up.
I dug my shoulder firmly into a surprised passenger’s body and began to move against the press of people heading back towards the airport, away from the plane.
And then the third thing hit me.
I saw him. Standing behind the heavy glass door between the departure lounge and the rest of the airport, was a familiar figure, flanked by two uniformed policeman wearing flak jackets and toting Heckler Koch MP5s. Arms folded, watching me grim-faced, stood an unmistakable figure solidly barring my way, a barrier to freedom and to hope. Harry Plummer. Staring openly, and without a flicker of recognition, straight at me.
Harry Plummer. It was then I realised that I hadn't got a chance. I gave in, helpless, and let the flood of humanity bear me backwards, unresisting, washed out of the glass walled lounge with its sick-green plastic seats, washed out of the UK to a hopeless future. You see, they must have known for a long time. Mallalieu had known from the beginning.
He'd tricked me. All along. No wonder they'd used me f
or Roberts and Briggs. I'd been set up - used. Lamaison had tricked me too. And Joy? What would they do to her? What had I done to her?
"Sorry, sir?" said the air hostess, taking my boarding card.
"Nothing, love - I didn't say anything. It doesn't matter."
She exchanged glances with her male steward companion on the aircraft door. I expect she was worried that I was going to be the type of difficult passenger they'd warned her about at the Stewardess Smile School. But she needn't have worried.
You see, I had nowhere else to go. And no-one to talk to.
No-one.
CHAPTER 44
THE CONSCIENCE OF THE PRESS, Wapping
“So this is what he told you. Right?”
The News Editor reached out a nicotine-stained forefinger and switched off the tape recorder. "That's it?" He looked up at his reporter, who nodded, searching his boss's lined face for a reaction.
Bill Robertson pulled the corners of his mouth down and looked out of the window. The open space of Docklands provided a magnificent view, and on depressingly rare occasions, inspiration as well. "You've checked it out?"
Again the reporter nodded.
Vivid patches of peeling sunburn on his nose and forehead clashed with dangling strips of white skin. It must have been bloody hot out there in Kabul, Robertson reflected. Mike Fielder had obviously not spent all his time in the hotel bar making it up - but this ... He shook his head and lit the inevitable cigarette. Since he'd become News Editor, he'd pushed the smoking up to well over forty a day. He must cut back. At least he had the privilege of making his own office a smoking zone, whatever the bloody law said.
"Let me get this right, Mike. You're out there on your second night and you meet this bloke in the bar." The Belfast accent was still there, after nearly thirty years in London. "You thought he was military ...”