Soldier K: Mission to Argentina

by David Monnery

  After what seemed like half an hour, but was probably less, the APC slowed to a halt, and then reversed. The rear door opened onto a view of a wall with a door in it. The two SAS men, who had been handcuffed before getting aboard, were hustled out by two armed soldiers, and had time to glimpse a lighted street before the door closed behind them and their escort.

  They were in a house, or at least an official building, not a barracks or military detention centre. A carpeted corridor led through to what looked like the lobby, where a uniformed man sat in front of several TV screens. They were guided past a room full of desks and office equipment and up a wide staircase, also richly carpeted. A chandelier hung in the stairwell.

  Razor turned to Ben, whose face, like his own, was still covered with camouflage cream. ‘Do you think they’ll be able to lend us a couple of tuxedos?’ he asked.

  ‘Silencio,’ said one of the guards with no great conviction.

  They were prodded into an extremely spacious room on the first floor. A large polished table occupied the centre of the floor, but there were no accompanying chairs and it seemed to serve no purpose other than to support a large vase of flowers. Three ornate chairs sat beneath the three large windows, which were concealed by floor-length maroon velvet curtains with golden tassels. Razor remembered Spike Milligan’s line: ‘The curtains were drawn but the room was real.’

  Solanille was sitting at a large desk in one corner of the room, talking on the telephone. A few feet away the flames of a coal fire were dancing happily in a Victorian-style grate. Above the mantlepiece was the portrait of a general with bright-blue eyes and a mouth like a man-trap.

  ‘And the one who got away?’ Solanille was asking in Spanish. Razor tried not to give any clue that he understood what was being said.

  ‘Have you questioned the prisoner?’ Solanille asked. His face betrayed frustration at the answer he was getting. ‘Yes, yes, I understand,’ he said, ‘we have a similar problem here … yes, Luis, I will talk to you in a couple of hours.’ He put the phone down and looked at the two handcuffed SAS men.

  Razor noticed for the first time that there were three Browning High Powers sitting on the desk, presumably his, Ben’s and Wacko’s. ‘May I say something?’ he asked.

  Solanille grunted his acquiescence.

  ‘What is your name and rank?’ Razor asked.

  Solanille frowned. ‘Neither my name nor my position are of any concern to you,’ he said.

  ‘It is a courtesy usually accorded prisoners of war,’ Razor said, sure he had heard the line before, probably in some crappy war film.

  The Argentinian laughed. ‘No uniform, no declaration of war – you will be treated as the terrorists you are,’ he said. ‘Your friends in Tierra del Fuego killed nine men,’ he went on, ‘and murder carries the death penalty in Argentina.’

  Razor and Ben said nothing.

  ‘We have checked out your equipment and clothes,’ Solanille said, ‘and it is obvious that there are four of you. Where is the fourth man?’

  ‘There are only three of us,’ Razor said.

  Solanille shrugged. ‘We shall see.’

  ‘Ve have vays of making you talk, Englischer schwein,’ Razor muttered under his breath. And they probably did. He felt more than a little uneasy. In fact, he admitted to himself, he felt bloody scared.

  It was almost midnight now, but the streets of Rio Gallegos were far from deserted. ‘Friday night,’ Isabel explained, as a group of drunken oil workers lurched across the road in front of them.

  ‘Just like Peterhead,’ Docherty muttered.

  She drove slowly down Avenida Julio Roca and came to a halt outside the hotel. ‘I need to get something before we do anything else,’ she said.

  He opened his mouth to ask her whether whatever it was was really necessary, then closed it again.

  She saw his hesitation. ‘If by some miracle we can free your friends,’ she explained, ‘we can’t just head for the border by the quickest route. We wouldn’t get ten miles. So we’re going to need money, and I don’t suppose you’re carrying many spare pesos.’

  ‘No,’ Docherty admitted. ‘But I hear you’re pretty good at robbing banks.’

  She almost smiled, and reached for the door. ‘If I’m more than ten minutes,’ she said, ‘take the car.’

  Docherty sat watching the wide and mostly empty avenue. Pedestrians in pairs and groups wandered by, and an occasional car or taxi. The police were conspicuous by their absence. No one paid him any mind.

  Isabel reappeared, carrying one small bag. ‘I decided a change of clothing would be nice,’ she said.

  ‘I know what you mean,’ Docherty said wryly.

  She started the car. ‘How far away should we park?’ she asked.

  ‘You know the place. How does around the nearest corner sound?’

  ‘As good as anywhere.’ She slipped the car into gear and pulled out in the wake of a cruising taxi. ‘By the way,’ she added, ‘it’s opposite the city police station.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Docherty murmured.

  This time she did smile, and swung the Renault left down Calle Corrientes, across Calle Zapiola and right down Calle Libertad. In the middle of the second block she pulled up, and pointed at the house on her right. ‘It’s behind that, in the next street,’ she said. The excitement of it all was beginning to get to her, as it had always done all those years ago.

  They got out of the car, conscious of the emptiness of the street. ‘I think it might be an idea if we tried to look like we’re fond of each other,’ Docherty said, putting his arm round her shoulder.

  She hesitated for only a second before slipping an arm around his waist. ‘Christ, when did you last have a wash?’ she asked a few paces later.

  ‘About a week ago.’

  ‘As recently as that?’

  They turned into Calle Ameghino and walked the block to Calle Zapiola. The police station on the far side of the road seemed dead to the world. ‘This way,’ she whispered, leading him to the right. ‘Stop for a kiss in front of the second building.’ Docherty did what he was told, kissing her lightly on the mouth before burying her head in his shoulder, and staring across the top of her head at the building as he ran his fingers through her hair.

  ‘What can you see?’ she whispered impatiently.

  ‘A lot of curtains drawn across lighted windows,’ he said. ‘A uniform in the lobby watching screens. But there’s no way of knowing if they’re in there. Let’s move.’

  They resumed their progress, walking past a side entrance for vehicles. Docherty had a momentary glimpse of an illuminated yard, complete with surveillance camera above a lit doorway.

  They turned right again. ‘Any ideas?’ he asked.

  Isabel was remembering a very similar building in Córdoba, and a very similar problem, in the summer of 1974. ‘There’s only one way in,’ she said. ‘Through the front door.’

  ‘We just go and knock?’

  ‘Not quite. I go and look lost. Get the guard out here and … Or we could abseil in through the windows,’ she added sarcastically.

  ‘I prefer the first idea,’ Docherty said. They discussed the details for a few moments, as they embraced on the pavement beside the car. ‘Are you sure you can do this?’ Docherty asked one more time.

  Her face was expressionless. ‘Like you said, it’s the death penalty if I’m caught.’

  ‘Then let’s do it.’

  Five minutes later she was standing in front of the glass doors of the Intelligence building, using mime to persuade the guard within that she needed help with some terrible problem.

  Docherty watched from behind the porch, thinking how good she was, and wondering if her nerve would hold. He would have done it himself, but there was no way he could have got as close.

  He could not see the guard, who was looking at her, then at the screens, and then at her again. She was gorgeous, the guard thought. Her coat was open and the swell of her breasts beneath the sweater almost brought a lump t
o his throat. And she looked so lost.

  He came across to the door, and opened it a few inches.

  She pulled Docherty’s silenced Browning out of her coat pocket and shot him through the heart.

  He went down with more noise than she had expected, but no other guards appeared to investigate. The two of them slipped inside, and she closed the doors behind her while Docherty dragged the guard’s body back to the seat in front of the TV console, and propped it up as well as he could manage. The screens showed several views of the outside world, and two of the building’s inner workings. Both these latter offered a fisheye-lens view of landings, which could only be those on the two floors above them. The top landing was empty, but the one immediately above them contained two seated guards, neither wearing uniform but both armed with SMGs.

  From the screen it looked as though this landing was four-sided, like a balcony around a courtyard, and that the two guards were sitting in opposite corners, one facing the top of the stairs leading up from the lobby, the other out of sight to the rear. Killing the first man would be easy enough, but getting to the second before he raised the alarm was going to be tricky.

  Docherty thought for a moment, then outlined a plan.

  ‘OK,’ Isabel nodded.

  He put his hand out for the Browning, and she reluctantly handed it back. Then it occurred to her to remove the dead guard’s handgun from his leather police holster.

  ‘Only as a last resort,’ he told her.

  She concealed it in her coat pocket and gave him a withering ‘what kind of a fool do you take me for?’ look. He shrugged an apology. They moved down a short corridor, and started up the long staircase, Isabel in the lead, hands grasped behind her back. Docherty brought up the rear, holding the gun on her.

  They were about sixteen steps from the top when the first guard’s head appeared in view. He stared first at her, and then at Docherty, with the same questioning look.

  ‘She is an accomplice of the English spies,’ Docherty told him abruptly, as if he was generously providing more explanation than the guard was due.

  They were only ten steps from the top now, and the second guard would be coming into Docherty’s possible line of fire.

  ‘I have not …’ the first guard started to say, and Docherty put a double tap through his forehead, whirling almost in the same instant in search of the other target.

  The second guard was still standing open-mouthed when two bullets in the upper trunk punched him back into the chair he had just vacated.

  A loud thump announced the first guard’s meeting with the floor. There were sounds in the room behind him, first of a voice, then of footsteps. Docherty and Isabel stepped swiftly forward, reaching either side of the door just as it opened.

  A man stepped out, gun in hand. He had time for one surprised qué? before Docherty shot him through the head.

  The SAS man stepped through the door, his Browning seeking out more targets. A man behind a desk sat perfectly still, another man’s gun hit the floor as his hands reached up, and Docherty’s two SAS partners grinned from ear to ear.

  ‘What you been doing, boss – sightseeing?’ Razor complained. He suddenly noticed Isabel standing behind Docherty. ‘Don’t answer that. We understand completely.’

  ‘Where’s Wacko?’ Docherty asked. He noticed the two men were handcuffed. ‘And where are the keys for those?’

  ‘The keys are in his pocket,’ Ben said, indicating the guard with his hands up. ‘But we don’t know where Wacko is. He took two bullets when we were captured. They say they took him off to hospital.’

  ‘He was in bad shape, boss,’ Razor said. ‘There’s no way he could travel.’

  ‘He is being treated at the airbase you have been spying on,’ Solanille told them, ingratiatingly. He became conscious that the woman was staring at him.

  ‘Do you remember me, Señor Solanille?’ she asked, walking slowly towards him.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I do not have the habit of associating with traitors.’

  She picked up one of the three silenced Brownings lying on the desk.

  ‘What’s going on, boss?’ Razor asked Docherty.

  The PC shook his head. ‘It’s her business,’ he said. And unless she jeopardized their safety he had no intention of interfering.

  ‘You sent me to the Naval Mechanical School,’ Isabel was telling Solanille in a voice that sent a shiver down Docherty’s spine.

  The Argentinian’s face expressed sudden recognition.

  Isabel rammed the Browning’s barrel into his genitals.

  He cried out once in shock, and then looked up her with pleading eyes as her finger tightened on the trigger. ‘No,’ he whimpered. ‘I never …’

  ‘You never dirtied your own hands,’ she said, held his eyes for what must been the longest seconds of his life, and then suddenly lifted the gun and whipped it fast and hard across his face, drawing a cascade of blood from his nose. She turned abruptly on her heel and told Docherty: ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  ‘Take it easy,’ he said gently, and watched her take a deep breath. ‘We’ll be gone as soon as we can.’ He turned to Razor and Ben. ‘Should we kill these two?’

  The two troopers said nothing.

  ‘If it was for the sake of the mission, I’d say yes,’ Docherty said. ‘But since we’d only be killing them to increase our chances of getting away …’ He looked at the other two. ‘I’d rather we just took our chances.’

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ Ben said.

  Razor agreed.

  ‘Tie them up, then. The curtain cords will do.’ Docherty walked over to where Isabel was standing by the door. ‘Any sign of life?’

  ‘None,’ she said.

  ‘Which direction should we take?’ he asked.

  ‘If we get out of here without being seen, then south. We can be at the border in two hours.’

  ‘Good. This Naval Mechanical School – what was it?’ Docherty asked.

  ‘It was a torture chamber,’ she said.

  ‘I thought it might …’ he started to say, but Razor’s warning shout had him stepping to the right and bringing up the Browning as his eyes sought the threat. He saw the automatic in Solanille’s hand at the moment of detonation, and as the echoes of the crack merged into a cry of pain from Isabel he put a bullet through the Argentinian’s left eye.

  The surviving guard threw himself on the floor.

  ‘No need to tie him up now,’ Razor said, looking down at Solanille.

  Docherty was examining Isabel’s wound, and cursing himself for not being more careful. Her presence was not helping his concentration, he realized, and it was she who had paid the price. Why the fuck had he not thought to use the handcuffs?

  ‘Just handcuff and gag the guard,’ Docherty told Ben. Talk about locking the stable door after the horse has bolted.

  ‘How is she, boss?’ Razor asked, kneeling down beside them. He was the patrol’s specialist medic, but Docherty had had almost as much medical training.

  ‘I’ll live,’ she said, trying to prop herself up on one elbow. ‘The moral of this story is don’t threaten to shoot off a soldier’s dick,’ she said weakly.

  ‘We are kind of attached to them,’ Razor murmured. ‘But you stay put for a moment,’ he added, gently pushing her back down. He used his knife to cut away the blood-soaked section of her dress between breast and shoulder,. The bullet had gone clean through, and he doubted whether there was any severe damage, but she was losing a lot of blood.

  ‘Trouble, boss,’ Ben said from the window. Docherty went across to join him. Two uniformed men were standing on the steps of the police station across the street, staring in the direction of the building they were in.

  ‘They must have heard the shot,’ Ben said. As he said it another man came out and the three of them started walking across the street.

  ‘Shit,’ Docherty said emphatically. Take the top of the stairs, Ben,’ he said, and walked swiftly across to where the surviving gua
rd was still lying face down, handcuffed, on the carpet. ‘Is there a back way out of here?’ Docherty asked him in Spanish.

  The man looked up at him with an expression half-terrified, half-defiant.

  ‘A bargain,’ Docherty said, ‘your life for a back way out.’ He tried to look as if he did not much care what the answer was.

  The man swallowed once. ‘Sí,’ he said, ‘I will show you.’ Docherty pulled the man to his feet, and saw that Razor had got Isabel to hers. She looked deadly pale, and her face seemed pinched with the effort required to stay conscious.

  ‘You’d better carry her,’ Docherty told Razor. ‘Let’s go,’ he said to the guard.

  They emerged onto the landing just as Ben opened up with his silenced Browning. In the stairwell there was the sound of someone either jumping or falling back down the stairs, and a few choice Spanish epithets. Presumably the discovery of the dead guard at the console had already resulted in a general alarm.

  Fools rush in, but you can’t make them drink, Razor thought to himself, as the guard led them down a short corridor towards the rear of the building, and down a wrought-iron spiral staircase to a back door.

  Ben opened it gingerly, and poked an eye round the corner. He could see and hear nothing.

  They all emerged into a back yard. Across a six-foot wall two large houses were silhouetted against the night sky. It was topped by lines of razor wire, and Docherty was wondering how the fuck they were going to get Isabel across, when Ben announced the discovery of a gate.

  ‘The escape gate,’ the guard explained helpfully.

  Ben had already shot away the padlock. The open gate revealed a narrow passage running between the two houses.

  ‘Go!’ Docherty told Ben and Razor. He turned to the guard, whose face seemed about to break up in fear. ‘Muchas gracias, señor,’ Docherty told him, and closed the door in his face.

  He ran down the passage in pursuit of the others, catching them at the opening onto the street. The Renault was still standing where they had left it, only 20 yards away.

  ‘That’s what I call planning, boss,’ Razor said admiringly. He helped Isabel into the back seat and climbed in beside her. Docherty told Ben to drive. ‘Just get us a few streets away,’ he said.