Crisis Four ns-2

by Andy McNab

  The job had been false-flagged as an Israeli operation because the

  U.S.

  could not be seen to be screaming into Syria and kidnapping an international financier, even if he did happen to be the right-hand man of the world's most prolific terrorist. However, by making it look like a joint operation between the Israeli military and Mossad, everyone was a winner:

  America would get the Source, the U.K. would have the satisfaction of doing a difficult job well and Israel would reap all the kudos. Not that they knew about it when it was happening--they never did--but they would still take all the credit.

  I thought back to Syria and Sarah's frantic work on the laptop, and the fact that she had killed the Source. Sarah had certainly sounded convincing during the debrief, and after that I didn't even think about it, it was finished.

  Whatever had happened since then didn't worry me either; it wasn't going to change my life. Well, maybe it was now.

  Elizabeth continued, "She could have caused a major change in foreign policy, and that, I must say, would have been most detrimental to the U.K."s and USs balance of payments and influence in the region ..."

  She was talking crap. I bet the reason she was pissed off was because Clinton had recently signed a "lethal presidential order" against Bin Laden. He had authorized, in advance, an aggressive operation to arrest him if the opportunity arose, at the same time recognizing that some of those involved might be killed. In other words, Clinton had found a way around America's strict anti assassination rules, and the Firm would be done out of some work. I could see that Sarah fucking about wouldn't help matters.

  I waited for the part Elizabeth had forgotten to emphasize. There are three things they like to give you at a briefing, when they eventually get around to saying what they really mean. One, the aim of the task; two, the reason why the task has to happen; and three, the incentive for the operator.

  I saw her eyes move fractionally up and to the left. She was lying.

  "... as well as putting operators at risk in the area. Which is, of course, our most important consideration." Not a bad incentive, I thought--even if she was talking bollocks--especially if it was me operating there.

  "As to her motives, well, that's not for you to worry about."

  I was starting to feel uneasy about all this. I turned to Lynn.

  "If you were worried about this back then, why didn't you just give her a bung?"

  From behind me Elizabeth said, "A bung? A bung?"

  Lynn looked over my head and said, in the voice of a queen's counsel patiently explaining a blow job to a High Court judge, "Money. No, Nick, we didn't offer her a bung. You know as well as I do that the service never bribes or pays anyone off."

  I couldn't believe he'd said that and I somehow managed to keep a straight face. Amazingly, so did he. They look after their own in the Intelligence Service. Even if the IG's been given the sack for gross misconduct, whether it's for being a pedophile and getting blackmailed for it, or for just screwing up the job, he goes into a feeder system where he gets work, and that does two things--it keeps tabs on him, but it also keeps him sweet, and, more importantly, quiet. That's what a bung is all about:

  keeping the house in order.

  I wished they would give me one. Only a few months earlier I'd been escorting an IG called Clive to a service apartment in London. These apartments are paid for, furnished and run by the Intelligence Service.

  Nobody lives in them; they're used for meetings, briefings and debriefings, and as safe houses.

  Clive had had a bit of a drama with Gordievsky, the Russian dissident who'd years ago defected to the West with a headful of secrets. The former KGB chief was briefing the Intelligence Service at one of the training establishments near the Solent on the south coast. Clive and two others refused to go to the presentation, on the grounds that Gordievsky was a traitor, and it didn't matter which side he came from. I happened to believe they were right, but they still got cut away. After all, it was very embarrassing for Her Majesty's government to have its people calling an inbound defector a scumbag. Two went quietly with a payoff and jobs supplied by the Good Lads' Club the City. Clive, however, refused to go. The best way, it seemed to the service, was to offer him a bigger wad than the other two. If that was refused, then he could have as much pain as money can buy.

  I persuaded him into a flat in Cambridge Street, Pimlico, and listened as they offered him 200 grand to shut up and fuck off to the City. Clive picked up the money, ripped it out of its plastic bank wallets, opened the window and scattered it like confetti. As the hundreds of notes fluttered down onto the corner pub on Cambridge Street, the punters must have thought Christmas had been brought forward to June.

  "You want to fuck me off?" Clive said.

  "Then it's going to cost you a fucking sight more than this."

  I thought it was great and wanted to join the pub crowd fighting for fifty-pound notes. To my mind the boy had done good; nobody likes a traitor, no matter what side you think you're on. I really hoped Sarah wasn't one, because I liked her. Actually, I liked her a lot.

  I asked Elizabeth, "And you're sure that she hasn't been lifted?"

  She looked at Lynn.

  "Lifted?"

  It was a bit like being at Wimbledon, sitting between these two. Lynn had to interrupt again because Elizabeth seemed about as switched on to real life as Mickey Mouse.

  I asked, "So what do you want me to do about it?"

  Elizabeth kept it very simple.

  "Find her."

  I waited for the rest of the sentence. There was nothing. It was the most succinct aim I'd ever been given.

  "Do you know where she could be? I need a start point."

  She thought for a while.

  "You will start in Washington. Her apartment, I think, would be best, don't you?"

  Yes, I didn't disagree with that. But I had another question: "Why don't you get the Americans to help you? They'd have the resources to track her down much faster."

  She sighed.

  "As I thought I was making clear to you, this matter needs to be handled with the least possible amount of fuss, and speedily." She looked at Lynn. He cleared his throat and turned to face me.

  "We don't really want to involve any American departments yet. Not even our embassy staff are aware of the situation. As you might imagine, it's somewhat embarrassing to have one of our own IGs missing in the host country.

  Especially with Netanyahu and Arafat in the U.S. for the Wye summit." He paused.

  "If you fail to find her they will have to know, and they will have to take action. This is a very grave situation, Nick. It could cause us a lot of embarrassment."

  I had been given the shortest aim ever, and now I'd also been told the clearest reason why. Lynn showed the worry on his face.

  "We need to find her quickly. No one must know. I emphasize, no one."

  I hated it when these people used the word "we." They're in the shit, and all of a sudden it's "we." If the job went wrong it would have no father but me.

  I calmed down.

  "That's why you want a K it's a deniable op?"

  He nodded.

  Why me? I said, "Isn't this a job for the security cell? They're used to investigations. This isn't my sort of work."

  "This isn't something that needs to go any farther within the service."

  There was irritation in Elizabeth's voice.

  "I particularly wanted you for the job, Mr. Stone, as I understand you know Sarah better than most."

  I looked at her, still trying not to show any emotion. She'd raised a knowing eyebrow as she said it. Shit. I tried to look puzzled.

  "I know her, if that's what you mean, and I've worked with her, but that's about it."

  She tilted her head slightly to one side. She knew I was lying.

  "Really?

  I was informed that the relationship between you was somewhat cozier.

  In fact I was told that the reason for your divorc
e after leaving the military was due entirely to your relationship with Sarah Greenwood. Am I mistaken?"

  She wasn't, and I now understood even more. They had chosen me because they thought I knew her well enough to have a chance of finding her. They were firefighting, and they were using me as Red Adair. Fuck 'em, let them sort their own shit out. I might be pissed off, but I wasn't stupid. It was excuse time.

  "It's not going to work," I said.

  "The U.S. is a big place, and what am I going to do on my own? I haven't seen her for ages and we weren't that close. What can I do? What's the use of even getting on a flight?"

  Lynn bent down to pick up my quick-move kit.

  "You will be going on the flight. You will start an investigation to find her. If not, I'm afraid you will find yourself in jail."

  I felt like saying, "Come off it, that's the sort of line I use myself when I'm threatening people. You can do better than that." But I had learned the hard way to keep my mouth shut, and it was just as well I did. Lynn had my day sack on his knees now.

  "Credit us with a little intelligence, Nick. Do you really think we don't know the full events of last year?"

  My stomach lurched and I knew my cheeks were starting to burn. I tried to remain calm, waiting to hear what he had to say.

  "Nick, your version of events leaves out a number of details, any of which will put you behind bars if we so choose. We haven't investigated the money you kept, or the unlawful killings you performed."

  That sounded rich coming from a man who had sent me out routinely to "perform" unlawfully. But I knew that they could stitch me up if they wanted. It was par for the course; I'd even been part of the stitch-up sometimes.

  I now knew how it felt.

  There was an outside chance they were bluffing. I stared at him and waited to see what else he had to say. I soon wished I hadn't, because it gave Elizabeth another opening.

  "Mr. Stone, let us consider your situation. What, for example, would happen to the child in your guardianship if you were imprisoned? Her life must be difficult enough as it is, I should have thought: new country, new school..."

  How the fuck did they know all this? I thought I'd already been given my incentive, but obviously not. They didn't come any less subtle than this. I had to clench my fists to control myself. I felt like kicking the shit out of both of them. They knew it, and maybe that was why Godzilla was in the driver's seat. It's always unwise to fuck with a man who has a neck bigger than your own head, especially if he probably has enough weaponry in the foot well to shoot down a jumbo jet. I took a deep breath, accepted I was in the shit and let it out again.

  Elizabeth carried on as Lynn opened my day sack

  "Having found her, report back where she is and what she's doing. Then await further instructions."

  I turned back to Lynn. I knew she had finished and he would now give me the details I needed. I could hear the newspaper being unfolded. She was probably checking which of her horses were running tomorrow. I tried to keep my breathing under control. I felt angry and helpless, my two least favorite emotions.

  Lynn was unloading the bag and handing me the items. My cover documentation, driver's license, passport and even an advert for books from a local paper, showed that, as from now, I lived in Derbyshire. There were three credit cards. These would have been serviced every month, and used so that I ended up with a normal bill like everyone else. The family who covered for me made sure of that; years ago we used to keep all this stuff with us all the time, but there were too many fuckups, with people getting corrupt and using the credit cards to pay for new cars and silk underwear for their mistresses. An audit a few years earlier had unearthed two K operators who had never even existed, and somebody somewhere was drawing off the money.

  Lynn said, "There's the photography kit to Mac anything down to us."

  I Xhad a quick look inside. From the way that Lynn said it, I knew he'd just got the briefing on this kit, and it sounded all exciting and sexy. I nodded.

  "Great, thanks."

  "Here are your flight details and here are your tickets." As he got them out of the bag he checked the details and said, "Oh, so you're Nick Snell now?"

  "Yep, that's me." It had been for quite a while now, ever since I became operational again after ... well, after what I'd thought I'd got away with.

  Then he produced two flash cards from envelopes and handed them to me.

  "Your codes. Do you want to check them?"

  "Of course." He passed the bag to me. I took out the Psion 3C personal organizer and turned it on. I'd been trying to get the new 5 Series out of the service, but unless the funds were for building squash courts, it was like trying to get blood from a stone. All the Ks would have to put up with the 3Cs they'd bought two years ago--and the thing I had was one of the early ones, which didn't even have the backlit display. The service's attitude to kit was the same as that of a thrifty mother who buys you a school uniform several sizes too big, only in reverse.

  I put the cards into both of the ports. It would be no good getting on the ground and finding that these things didn't work. I opened up each one in turn and checked the screen. One had just a series of five number sequences;

  I closed that down and took it out. The other had rows of words with groups of numbers next to each word. All was in order.

  "The contact number is ..." Lynn started to reel off a London number.

  The Psion held the names and addresses of everyone from the bank manager to the local pizza shop, as you would have as part of your cover. I hit the data icon, and tapped the telephone number straight in, adding, as I always did, the address "Kay's sweet shop," I could sense Elizabeth's eyes burning into the back of my head and I turned around. She was looking disapprovingly at me over the top of her paper, clearly put out that I was entering her contact number in the 3C. But there was no way I'd remember it that quickly; I'd need to go away and look at it, and once I had it in my head I'd wipe it off. I'd never been clever enough to remember strings of telephone numbers or map coordinates as they were given to me.

  Lynn carried on with the details.

  "Once in D.C." make contact with Michael Warner ." He gave me a contact number, which I also tapped in.

  "He's a good man, used to work in communications, but had a car accident and needed to have steel plates in his head."

  I closed down the Psion.

  "What's he do now?"

  Elizabeth had finished with the racing section and turned to the share prices. The driver still hadn't turned a page. Either he was learning the recipe of the day by heart or he'd gone into a trance.

  Lynn said, "He's Sarah's PA. He'll let you into her apartment."

  I nodded.

  "What's the cover story?"

  Lynn looked impatiently at his watch; maybe he had another squash game to get to.

  "He knows nothing, apart from the fact that London needs to check out her security while she's away on business. It's time for her PV review."

  Personal vetting is carried out every few years to make sure you aren't becoming a target for blackmail, or sleeping with the Chinese defense attache--unless you've been asked to by Her Majesty's government--or that you, your mother, or your great aunt haven't chucked in your lot with the Monster Raving Loony Party. Not that that would have meant that much in the past. Once you were "in" as an IG things seemed to flow along without much in the way of monitoring, unless you were at the lower end of the food chain my end where it was a completely different story.

  "He is a bit strange at times; you may have to be patient." Lynn started to smile.

  "He had to leave the com ms cell because his steel plate picked up certain frequencies and he used to get terrible head pain. He's good at his job, though." The smile faded as he added pointedly, "And more important, he's loyal."

  I shrugged.

  "Fine." Chances were that Metal Mickey was loyal because he couldn't get a job anywhere else, apart from as a relay station for Cellnet.


  I was packing everything back into the bag. I couldn't wait to get into the fresh air; I was fed up with being scrutinized and fucked over by these people. But Lynn hadn't finished. He had one more item, which he shoved right under my nose. It was a sheet of white paper, requiring a signature for the codes. I used Lynn's pen to scribble mine and handed it back. No matter what happens, you've still got to sign for every single thing. Everyone needs to cover their ass.

  I pushed open the door and slid it back, picking up the day sack When my feet were on the concrete I turned and said, "What if I can't find her?"

  Elizabeth lowered the paper and gave me the sort of look she'd given our friends in the Ford Escort.

  Lynn glanced at Elizabeth, then back at me.

  "Get yourself a good barrister."

  I picked up the day sack turned away and started to walk toward the elevator. I heard the door slide closed, and moments later the Previa moved off.

  I walked toward the elevator trying not to get myself into a rage. I didn't know what had brought it back on--the fact that the Firm knew about both Sarah and Kelly, or the fact that I'd been stupid enough to think they didn't. I tried to calm down by telling myself that, in their shoes, I would have done exactly the same, would have used it as a lever to make me do the job. It was a fair one, but that didn't make me any happier about being on the receiving end.

  I got to the elevator and jabbed the button. I looked at the red digital display above the door. Nothing was moving. An elderly couple arrived, having an argument about the way their bags were stacked on the trolley.

  We all waited.

  The elevator stopped at every floor but ours. I stabbed at the button six times in rapid succession and the elderly couple shut up and moved to the other side of their trolley to keep out of my way.

  Maybe it was Sarah I was pissed off with, or maybe I was just pissed off with myself for letting her under my guard. Elizabeth was spot on, she had been responsible for my divorce.

  The wait for the elevator was starting to turn into a joke. More people had arrived with trolleys and were milling about. I took the stairs. Two levels down, I followed the signs to departures across the skywalk, fighting my way against a stream of pedestrian traffic with suntans. Several charter flights must have come in at once.