by Nick Cook
‘Would you care to comment on yesterday’s reports that the terrorists and their captives have given US forces the slip?’ the reporter asked Kelso. ‘We gather you have independent corroboration.’
It sounded spontaneous, but Girling knew that the questions would have been rehearsed. Kelso had been furnished with all the answers he needed following the visit to Tech-Int.
‘Absolutely,’ Kelso said. ‘Sources within our own Ministry of Defence, which is collaborating closely with the Americans, have confirmed that the boat in which they escaped has completely disappeared.’
‘Despite the massive sea search?’ the reporter probed.
‘I’m afraid the Angels of Judgement have been one step ahead of Western intelligence all the way. It’s a political embarrassment, not to mention a tragedy.’
‘A tragedy, indeed,’ the BBC’s studio anchorman said at the conclusion of the bulletin. ‘Robert Kelso, editor of Dispatches, ending that report by Douglas Kennedy.’
Girling climbed out of bed and walked to the kitchen. Outside, it was still dark. Inside, the flat was bloody cold. He had no sooner filled the kettle than the phone rang.
‘Tom?’
Sally Gordon-Jones of Channel 4 News was quick off the mark. He saw her from time to time in the circus of press conferences, interviews and briefings that went with the job. Although a general reporter, she quite often covered science and defence-related subjects.
Girling carried the phone over to the coffee pot and tipped a spoonful of powder into a cup.
‘I just heard Dispatches’ piece about the hijackers on the radio,’ she said. ‘Was that for real?’
‘Kelso’s going to look pretty stupid if it’s not.’ He paused. ‘I’m joking, of course, Sally. Yes, it’s for real.’
‘Humour at this hour,’ she said in mock admiration. ‘Who filed the piece?’
The kettle wheezed dismally. Girling willed it to boil so he could take his coffee back to bed. ‘Stansell,’ he said. ‘Out of Cairo.’
‘The great Stansell. It has impeccable credentials, then.’
‘Sally, I’m freezing my nuts off. Please get to the point.’
‘Well, we wanted Kelso in the studio to record a piece for tonight’s news. But apparently he’s not available.’
Naturally enough, Girling thought. Today was Kelso’s big day with the board.
‘We were wondering if you’d mind substituting as the talking head, Tom.’
‘Why me?’
‘Kelso’s office said you helped put the story together.’
He thought about it. ‘What do you want to talk about?’
‘We’re getting a Middle East expert in to talk about the rise of independent terrorist groups like the Angels of Judgement. What we really need is some-one to explain how they were able to disappear into thin air. Technicalities being your forte, naturally I thought of you.’
‘Sally, like a good many people right now, I haven’t got a clue.’
‘You must have some idea how they evaded all those US Navy radar planes. Speculate a little.’
‘OK. It’s your money.’
‘Thanks, Tom. By the way, are you always this grouchy in the morning?’
‘Only when I’m standing half-naked in a cold kitchen unable to make my first cup of coffee because some strange woman is asking me to appear on TV.’
She laughed, then apologized. ‘I’ll make it up to you one of these days.’
‘Don’t tempt me.’
‘Promises, promises, Tom.’
They agreed a time and she rang off. Moments later, the kettle boiled. Girling wandered down the corridor, coffee in hand, and ran himself a bath.
As soon as the temperature was bearable, he lay back in the water and closed his eyes.
There had been a time when he thought he liked Sally a lot. They had had a few dinners together, but the one time she had returned with him to his apartment, the air between them thick with lust, she discovered Alia, sleeping blissfully under the watchful eyes of a babysitter, and fell promptly in love with his daughter instead. Sally’s maternal feelings destroyed any prospect of sex. He was not prepared for a relationship which smacked of commitment. Girling found himself making excuses about the busy day ahead and Sally left. They had managed to remain friends since.
Later, when he questioned his feelings, he grasped the answer. It wasn’t just that he was still in love with Mona. It was because his hatred for her killers would burn less brightly if he allowed anyone to get in its way.
The pain had returned in the night. His stomach ached even now from the memory of it. With the pain came the voice in his head, the plea - from a voice he did not recognize - for forgiveness. But his denials were so vehement that he had sat bolt upright in bed, terrified, his hand fumbling for the light switch.
He threw the flannel over his face and told himself he wasn’t going insane.
He could not shake Alia’s words from his mind. He had believed always that he had hidden his angst and grief from his daughter. But clearly he had failed.
He knew he had to confront the pain, if only for Alia’s sake. Dispatches was no place to hide for the rest of his useful life.
Thoughts of work reminded him to call in. Kelso’s secretary could tell her boss that he would be out for the morning; not that Kelso, his mind on loftier matters, would be that bothered.
He clambered out of the bath, dried himself and padded back to the kitchen.
Kelso’s secretary sounded as if she, too, had not had her requisite intake of caffeine. She perked up a little when she realized that he would be appearing on TV that night and asked what it was in connection with. He explained how the laurels belonged to Stansell, not him.
‘What time did his call come in last night?’ he asked.
‘There was no call,’ she said, puzzlement in her voice. ‘Were you expecting one?’
‘Bob agreed not to run the story until he heard from Stansell. It was a condition.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t know anything about that,’ she said defensively.
‘Maybe Stansell reached Bob at home,’ Girling said, trying to rationalize what he had heard on the radio. Or maybe there was another explanation altogether. He brought his hand up to his head. ‘Holy shit, no...’
His notes.
‘I beg your pardon,’ she said indignantly.
Girling never heard the voice on the other end of the phone. He had left his fucking notes in the office. Surely to God Kelso wouldn’t have...
He managed to keep his voice steady. ‘Has Kelso gone to his meeting yet?’
Yes, she replied. And it would be in progress all day.
Girling tried to dismiss the notion while he dressed, but it clung to him like a bad odour.
Finally, he picked up the phone and dialled their office in Cairo. Egypt was three hours ahead, so Stansell should have read news of his story over the wire by now or maybe heard it on the BBC World Service. Girling tried to convince himself that had Stansell been in any way troubled he would have called.
It wasn’t Stansell, but Sharifa who answered. Sharifa Fateem, Mona’s best friend, now Stansell’s editorial assistant. Stansell had hired her a few months before because he needed help and had come to know Sharifa after Mona’s death. It suited both parties well. Sharifa had wanted for a long time to break into writing and Stansell justified the appointment to Kelso because he needed someone he could trust and rely upon. And there weren’t that many people in Cairo you could say that about.
They chatted for a while, then Girling told her about his concerns.
She hadn’t seen Stansell since the previous afternoon. He rarely checked in before lunch, but just to reassure him, she promised to phone him back at the office the moment he did or if she had any news.
‘We’ve isolated the leak and it has been dealt with,’ Shabanov said. ‘The mission remains uncompromised, of that I assure you.’ Jacobson tried to take it in his stride, but Ulm could see he was shocked. Shabanov
had commenced the briefing by announcing that the Soviet Military Attache in Cairo had been caught supplying classified information about the Angels of Judgement to a British journalist. The story, naturally enough, had made the BBC’s breakfast bulletins and had spread like wildfire through the US media.
‘I thought this information was with only a very small section of your intelligence community,’ Ulm said. He tried to keep the animosity from his voice. The memory of Shabanov’s treatment of the waitress lingered.
‘That is true, Elliot. But this man was one of those who had worked closely with General Aushev in the early days. But I reiterate: it cannot happen again. He has been flown back to Moscow, where he will be punished.
‘In some ways, this leak has played into our hands. Thanks to the media, the terrorists, along with the rest of the world, believe that they have managed to escape without trace. Only a handful of people out-side these walls know the true facts. Surprise remains on our side, for the Angels of Judgement will believe that we have no idea where their hiding place is.’
‘Let’s hope you’re right,’ Jacobson said.
‘And that it stays that way,’ Ulm added. ‘Which publication broke the news?’
‘Dispatches,’ Jacobson said. ‘They’ve been sniffing around this story from the beginning. We stopped them over the F-15E business, but this one slipped through the net. It may be we should take action to prevent further compromise.’ He jotted some notes onto a pad.
‘Whatever you’ve got in mind, the last place we need another security leak right now is in Cairo,’ Ulm said. ‘Shabanov and I have decided that we’re going to need Wadi Qena. Will TERCOM be able to fix access to Qena, Jacobson?’
Jacobson’s pencil scratched across the paper again. ‘Access will not be a problem. But why Qena?’
‘Because it’s exactly right for our purposes.’ Ulm pulled a large map of the Middle East from his attaché case and pinned it to the wall facing the table. ‘This plan will be familiar to anyone who worked on Rice Bowl. I don’t make any apologies for that, because Rice Bowl was based on sound mission planning. It just got fucked up in the execution. We’ve learned a lot since 1980. This time, we’re going to make the dice roll for us.’
His finger hovered over the Egyptian Desert for a moment, before landing on a point just north of a large bend in the River Nile, some three hundred miles south of Cairo. Wadi Qena had been the final staging post for Eagle Claw, the operational phase of Rice Bowl, itself the planning portion of the abortive rescue of their hostages in Tehran.
‘We spend around a week in training at Qena before we press the button.’ Ulm slid his finger slowly northwards, until it reached the border of Southern Lebanon. ‘And by that I mean we fly a combat rescue team into the Sword’s valley, knock out the Angels of Judgement and bring back our hostages.’
He would have liked it a whole lot better if the Pathfinders had been allowed to do it on their own. But that was impossible.
Ulm told Jacobson about Shabanov’s idea to build a replica of the terrorist camp in the desert outside Qena to maximize the realism of their training. The mountains of Egypt’s eastern desert were, apparently, similar to the terrain around the target. Mission security would not be jeopardized, because the area around Wadi Qena was deserted but for a handful of bedouin.
With approval, Ulm explained, he and his hand-picked team of Pathfinders would leave as soon as possible to reactivate Wadi Qena, which had been abandoned by the Egyptians for almost a decade. The team’s equipment, including its helicopters, would arrive by C-5 Galaxy transport a day later.
‘Meanwhile, Shabanov returns to his unit at Ryazan and collects the assets he needs. He arrives at Qena by Antonov transport around the same time we get there. From then on, we train; and train hard. There’s a lot of work to be done to get the Pathfinders and Spetsnaz to fight as a cohesive unit.’
Ulm outlined the method of getting the Soviets’ giant An-124 transports into Egypt under cover of night without arousing undue curiosity. The Soviet aircraft would be fitted with USAF transponders and ‘squawk’ on the same identification code as the C-5s, thereby fooling Egyptian radar operators into believing they were C-5s inbound from Europe. Keeping Cairo in the dark about Soviet participation was important for security reasons. There were to be no more leaks.
Both sides were to bring their own equipment, Ulm explained. Part of the training process would be given over to determining whose hardware would be best for the job. Both he and Shabanov had unshakeable faith in their own military machinery. It would be the men - and the harsh desert conditions - who would be the ultimate arbiters.
On the day of the mission, Shabanov would guide the helicopter force to the terrorist camp. In-flight refuelling would be required depending on which helicopters were used. The Pathfinders aimed to bring their Sikorsky MH-53J Pave Low Ills; the Soviets their new extended-range version of the Mil Hind, the Mi-24J.
‘My chief concern is that the Pathfinders won’t know the target until the very last minute,’ Ulm said. ‘I would appreciate it if you would work on General Aushev to release that information. It would certainly help in our mission planning if we were given more target data.’
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Jacobson said. ‘Although I’m none too hopeful.’ He turned to Shabanov. ‘Is there any influence you can exert in this matter back in Moscow, Colonel?’
Shabanov shrugged, a slight gesture. ‘These are not my orders,’ he said. ‘In my opinion, there should be complete openness between us, but for some people, the build-up of trust takes time.’
They discussed the plan in greater depth until Jacobson seemed satisfied with the information he had. Then he picked up the phone and requested a car to take him to the White House. The National Security Council wanted this thing done quickly.
‘I suggest you make your preparations,’ Jacobson said, getting to his feet. ‘I believe the NSC’s approval will be a formality. There will be a full set of instructions for you in the jet that’s waiting to take you back to Kirtland.’ He paused. ‘God speed, gentlemen.’
Given the godless presence of Shabanov, Ulm couldn’t help thinking that Jacobson was pissing in the wind.
Girling’s desk phone was ringing its bells off when he stepped out of the lift and into the office. There was no one around to answer it. The emptiness puzzled him. It was too early in the week for news conferences. Maybe it had something to do with Kelso’s board meeting. The thought of another round of redundancies gnawed at him as he lifted the receiver.
‘Girling,’ he said sharply. He began riffling through the top drawer of his desk. The pad was still there, but-
‘It’s Peter Jarrett here, Ministry of Defence.’
For a moment Girling had difficulty making the adjustment. What did the Ministry want? To give him a bollocking for the low-level flying story, no doubt. He knew there were several things in the piece the MOD wouldn’t like.
‘You lodged a question with us earlier in the week,’ Jarrett said.
Girling racked his brain, then remembered the 11-76 Candid at Machrihanish.
‘Well, I’ve got an answer for you, but I don’t think you’re going to like it.’ He paused. ‘I’m afraid we’re not prepared to comment on what you saw at Machrihanish, Tom.’
Girling was watching Mallon walking towards him. He had just left the conference room, alone. His face was ashen.
‘You’re too late,’ Girling said into the receiver, as if he were an automaton. ‘We closed for press last night.’
He dropped the phone onto its cradle just as Mallon was upon him.
Girling got to his feet. ‘It’s not about redundancies, is it?’
‘No. Sit down, Tom.’
He saw the anxiety in Mallon’s eyes, and suddenly knew what was coming.
‘I’m not going to do anything stupid, Kieran.’ The calm in his voice surprised even him. ‘It’s about Stansell, isn’t it?’
Mallon nodded and the words tumbled out.
‘Jack Carey got a call from Sharifa, and we just had it confirmed by the Foreign Office. The Egyptian police found the front door of his apartment hanging off its hinges. There was no sign of Stansell inside, just a hand-written note. In Arabic.’
‘What did it say?’
‘That he’s gone. Snatched in reprisal for our story.’
‘Who by, for Christ’s sake?’
‘The Angels of Judgement.’
Girling swallowed hard. ‘I don’t believe it. Kelso... What the fuck did he think he was doing?’
Girling’s hand fumbled for the chair. He felt a stab of pain, but he found it and held on.
‘Was there any indication he’d been hurt?’
‘I don’t know. The details are still very sketchy.’ He paused. ‘The Egyptian police believe this may be a local incident. Some Cairo-based outfit getting on the bandwagon. They’re very confident of finding him alive. You’ve got to have hope.’
‘I’m not big on hope, Kieran,’ Girling said.
‘The embassy said the Egyptians are taking it seriously enough,’ Mallon said, trying to sound upbeat. ‘They’ve put their best men onto it. No ordinary outfit, either. Our embassy spoke very highly of them.’
‘Oh, Jesus. The Mukhabarat, Egyptian internal security police. They’re the outfit who investigated Mona’s death. They more or less told me I’d imagined what happened to us in Asyut. A promise from them means about as much as a promise from Kelso.’
Mallon searched Girling’s face. ‘What do you mean?’
Girling told him. ‘Kelso wanted his exclusive that badly. Jesus, he and Stansell go way back, yet he just sold him down the river.’
‘Steady, Tom.’
Girling waved him aside. ‘Our illustrious editor was so wrapped up in his precious magazine that he was prepared to betray a friend and colleague just like that. What the fuck have I done?’