‘Well I’ve been deputised to tell you that the Saxon Network has officially assembled, whether you fucking like it or not. You don’t have any say in the matter. You didn’t ask us for help and we’re not asking permission to be here and there is nothing – repeat nothing – you can do to get rid of us. So now we’re going back to the farm for breakfast and a briefing and then we can get this show on the road.’
I stared at Tim, speechless.
Finally, I asked: ‘who’s here?’
‘Wait and see.’
Tim had left another quad bike in the trees and we set off in convoy back to the farmhouse.
As we arrived, there was no need to guess where the gang was assembled. As we parked the bikes in the yard, the smell of frying bacon wafted out from the kitchen, together with the noisy chatter of men’s voices.
Tim led the way and the first person who came into view was Tillie. She was sitting at an old wooden table, smiling the rueful smile of someone who has given up trying to control what is going on around her.
Behind her was a striking dark-haired woman who had also clearly opted for a spectator seat while at the stove stood two men, one tall, one short, both huge and both instantly recognisable even from their backs. The tall man turned, waved a frying pan in my direction.
Addressing Kate, he added, ‘welcome. This is Lottery,’ indicating the powerfully built short man beside him who was preoccupied with a huge dish of sausages. ‘I’m Jonathon, usually known as Birdy.’
‘With you in a sec,’ Lottery said over his shoulder, ‘welcome to the madhouse.’
‘And this is Rachel,’ Tillie said, ‘Chief Inspector Rachel Hunter.’
‘The sexiest policewoman in England and far too good for Tim.’ Jonathon added.
Tim went over and put his arm round her shoulder, gave her an affectionate squeeze and led her across for the introductions.
I took her offered hand and introduced Kate. Rachel was wearing workaday cotton chinos and a dark blue shirt which played down but did not conceal her beautifully shaped body. She was slim and athletic but her most striking feature was her bright, intelligent eyes. They weren’t bedroom eyes, though I’d no doubt they could be, they were interrogation room eyes, which settled on you in a way that seemed to read you at a glance.
‘Chunk’s outside,’ Jonathon said, ‘he’s gone to get some more eggs.’
He put the pan down and came over to shake Kate’s hand. He was a massive man, six feet six inches tall, with a barrel chest, powerful arms and a shock of dark curly hair. Lottery put down the sausages and joined the group. He gave Kate a friendly smile and added a slight bow of the head as he extended his hand. He was smaller than Birdy, squat and densely muscled and had an Essex accent, which he had proudly cultivated.
‘Lottery is serving SAS’, I said, ‘Birdy here is a helicopter pilot when they can find machines big enough for him to fit into.’
‘And this is Chunk,’ Birdy said, indicating the man coming through the door carrying a basket of newly laid eggs.
As always happened, it was Chunk’s appearance that caused Kate the most surprise. Birdy, Lottery and Tim all had an unmistakeable military look. Chunk was dressed in a superbly cut white linen suit with a pale lemon shirt and looked like an art dealer who had come to the farm to appraise its antiques.
Lottery and Birdy came to the table and proceeded to dish out onto plates an impressive fry-up of bacon, sausages, eggs and fried bread. It was the kind of trencherman meal that would have given a dietician a heart attack but I was sure Kate would notice that there was not a millimetre of spare flesh on any of the three men.
So, how are you enjoying life with this disreputable human being,’ Chunk said, in a quiet aristocratic drawl.’
Birdy grinned. ‘Yeah, how is my favourite traitor? Old Ghosty deep in the shit as usual.’
Tillie slapped her hand hard on the table and said, ‘Hold on just a minute,’ in a commanding voice that drew everyone’s attention.
‘Before you start all this kidding around, Kate and Rachel need some proper explanations. Someone needs to tell them the truth about this traitor business and what the Old Ghosty means. Chunk, you’d better start. You’re the sanest of the bunch, just about.’
Chunk nodded. ‘Yes, Tillie,’ he said meekly. ‘I suppose we are a bit much until you get to know us.’ He waved a fork vaguely in my direction.
‘Of course, John is not a traitor. In a long and dangerous career, he has served his country with dedication and rectitude, while never losing his respect for our Arab brothers.’
‘Don’t be so fucking pompous, Chunk,’ Birdy said. ‘Just tell them what he does.’
Tillie gave him a stern look. ‘Shut up, Birdy. Let Chunk have his say.’
Chunk smiled. ‘Where to begin? John first came into our lives in the first Gulf War. He was a target spotter, on the ground in place before the invasion, identifying targets that were really military in order to reduce civilian casualties.
‘Next, there was Tim’s patrol. It got ambushed and he was captured. John led a rescue mission but by the time they got to the scene, Tim had already been taken to Baghdad. John went in and got him out, flown incidentally by that madman there,’ indicating Birdy. ‘John then single-handedly sprang Tim from Saddam’s interrogation centre. No-one else could have done that. No-else would have thought of trying! He should have got backup but he knew there probably wasn’t time before they damaged the goods for ever. He just went for it.
‘In the second Gulf War John was known as the Desert Ghost. At the time, our intelligence was utter rubbish. The few good people MI6 sent in were tied up in a totally futile search for Weapons of Mass Destruction. The only game London cared about was justifying the so-called intelligence they used as the reason for going to war. The place was awash with greenhorns, either kids straight out of training school, or so-called old hands who had ties to the kind of Iraqis who fed us crap intelligence before we went in.’
He indicated me with a mock gesture of introduction.
‘And in the middle of all this is old Ghosty, the only honest man in the intelligence jungle.’
‘Boring really,’ chimed in Jonathon with a smile.
Chunk ignored him and continued to talk directly to Kate.
‘The so-called ‘Saxon network’ is made up mostly of people whose lives or careers have been saved by our Desert Ghost.’ He laughed. ‘Try to picture him appearing and disappearing in his fetching white robe and running a one man intelligence operation which provided us poor folks with the only accurate information we ever got.’
‘Sgt Salmon here,’ he pointed to Lottery, ‘was ordered to attack a supposed terrorist centre on the outskirts of Basra, based on local intelligence, to find one of the key suspects on the famous Deck of Cards listing Saddam’s most wanted associates. He was just about to start a night op, when Ghosty wandered in and said, ‘you’re walking into a trap. The man you’re after isn’t there, he’s in that village there.’
Lottery grinned. ‘Got me a medal for capturing the big guy and probably saved the lives of eight of my men in the process.’
‘It happened time after time,’ Chunk said, ‘and you can see why the brass hated him. Virtually every time he pinpointed a target or stopped our people from getting blown up or massacred, he was over-ruling intelligence provided by his own people. In a word, he made us look good and kept us safe.’
Birdy nodded, serious for the first time. ‘The greenhorns were obsessed with Ba’athist dead-enders who were no real threat. Ghosty picked out the real jihadists who were summoning mujadaheen from all over the Middle East and located the ratlines that were being used to infiltrate foreign fighters from Jordan and Syria.
Kate was already looking relieved and I knew it wouldn’t be long before she asked the big question.
‘Tell me about the guy with the machine gun. The stuff on the internet,’ she said.
‘Let me tell it,’ Birdy said, ‘Chunk is too polite. Lieuten
ant James Wilby was, and still is, a total asshole. That shooting incident was a set up for a visiting television crew who wanted some action and drama. Wilby was grandstanding, building his own sad little career. He didn’t give a flying fuck who he was firing at; he just wanted to be on Tele in hero mode. Ghosty saw what he was doing and just hauled him off the top of the APC and left him a heap in the sand, then he explained quietly to the press that there had been a ‘small misunderstanding’ and the target compound actually contained some of our most loyal allies.’
‘And now,’ Birdy added, ‘let’s eat. That’s enough praise for Ghosty for one day.’
Chunk turned to Kate.
‘Happy?’
‘Very.’ She smiled broadly and her tone said she really meant it.
‘No questions?’
‘Only one. ‘Why are you called Chunk? I presume it’s just military humour. Tough to imagine anyone less like a Chunk.’
Everyone laughed and Birdy said, ‘No, that’s his name, or at least his initials.’ He raised a wooden spoon as if conducting a choir and everyone – including Tillie – chanted, ‘please welcome Major the Right Honourable Charles Hubert Ulysses Nigel Kingsland-Manderby, DSO, MC.’
Chunk gave a half smile in acknowledgement of a well-worn routine.
‘OK, OK, Tim said. It’s your turn now John. We know a lot about what’s been going on but give us the whole picture.’
As we ate, I told them the whole story, starting with the confrontation with Virginia at the airport when I had landed the Tiger Moth. I described the Selection Board, the sparring with Colonel Rance, the newsroom fight, my flight to HMS Belfast, and Kate’s help with the speedboat. There was some mild teasing when I admitted what a cock-up I had made in allowing myself to be followed, but everyone was still listening intently as I went on with the Willesden Green episode, the meeting at the church and the second confrontation with Virginia, the escape and the Tiger Club’s help in getting me to Norfolk. I told them carefully every detail of Cronin’s story and mentioned Kate’s help with my children. I ended up with an account of how we had found Spring House, the travellers and the people we had seen at the pool.
I talked for almost twenty minutes. Finally, Tim said. ‘OK, Tasks. John, I’m taking command for the rest of the day. After that you’ll be in charge. Before I hand over to you, I need to secure our base. It would have been better if we could have been at Home Farm. John is known by the people around there and they know not to talk.’
‘I’ve spoken to Mary, by the way,’ Tillie interrupted. ‘Your Mum is worried sick about your career, but I convinced her you had to do this.’ Tillie laughed. ‘I told her you weren’t ready yet for a cottage with roses round the door.’
‘Thank Christ for that,’ Rachel said.
‘Thanks Gran,’ Tim went on, ‘first, we need to take precautions here. We can’t have too many people at the farm itself. Too much activity and there’ll be gossip in the village.’
Tim turned to Birdy. ‘Any luck with the helicopter.’
‘Yes. I’ve got access to a four-seater Bell JetRanger for as long as we need it. Belongs to a Navy Pal. Lives about twenty miles away. I can stay with him and be on call.’
‘Great.’
Tim went over to a sideboard and brought back a plan of the farm. He pointed to a cottage on the southern edge.
‘Lottery. You’d best settle there. Girlfriend still coming?’
‘Arrives tonight.’
‘Good, officially you’ll both be B & B guests.’
Tim turned to me. ‘By tomorrow, there’ll be ten of us – including six blades.’
‘Blades? Kate said.
‘Sorry. A blade is a fighting member of the SAS, as opposed to support staff.’ He grinned. ‘We count Birdy as a blade, even though he’s only seconded to the SAS – probably to get him out of the Navy’s hair.’
Birdy gave Tim a friendly finger. He ignored it and carried on.
‘Lottery, I’ll give you a list of arrivals. You’ll be in charge of accommodation. I’ve marked the cottages on the map where there are rooms available. I’ll give you a stock of safe mobile phones. No-one is to use their own phone and no credit cards to be used at all, and that includes girlfriends. Cash only. If anyone runs short, there’ll be money here at the farm.
‘Finally, no firearms. If anyone brings a weapon, it’s to be stocked here.’
‘That’s a good move,’ Rachel said, ‘if a single shot gets fired anywhere, you’ll have the heavy mob on your backs, the Met, Special Branch, the lot. Every unexplained firearm incident is treated as potential terrorism.’
‘Rachel is going back to London tonight. She’s at the Old Bailey tomorrow,’ Tim said, ‘she’ll come and go as the trial allows. Lottery, I want you to contact Jay Wilkinson. He’s on standby. We need him right away.’
‘Not a name I know,’ I said.
‘Electronic surveillance expert. The best.’
Chunk sighed. ‘I suppose I’d better be the one to deal with John’s reputation. My family know Wilby’s. I’ll sort him out. I’ll also pop over to Headcorn and have a word with your friend Clive. We can’t have your pilot buddies believing you’re a traitor.’
Finally, Tim turned to me. ‘‘Can you and Kate go back to your BBC people to find out more about what Jabbar Massoud has been up to in recent years.’
I smiled. ‘Is that a polite way of keeping us out of the way?’
‘For the moment, it’s best you stay put. When everything’s ready, you’ll be Boss. OK?’
‘OK.’
‘Any questions.’
There were none. I glanced across at Kate and saw that the military style of the briefing had been her final reassurance. For myself, I could barely contain my relief. An hour before, I had felt as isolated as I had ever been. Now suddenly I was surrounded by the men I would most want beside me in a tight corner.
‘Before I go, I’m going to have a quick swim in the pond,’ Rachel said, ‘anyone want to join me?’
Tim, Chunk and Lottery all said no. Rachel looked at Kate.
‘How about you?’
‘Sorry I haven’t got a costume;’
Tillie laughed. ‘This lot don’t go in for costumes. Don’t worry, nobody bothers around here.’
Kate hesitated for a long moment then she said, ‘perhaps later. I need to talk to John about a few things first.’
I read her hesitancy and picked up her cue.
‘We’ll go upstairs for a while. We’ll be down later.’
I think everyone assumed we wanted to be alone to have some quick sex but no-one commented and the group dispersed.
When we got to the room, Kate said, ‘How did Lottery get his name?’
‘He’s one of the bravest soldiers I’ve ever met, but every time he gets pinned down in a fire fight or in some other crap situation, he starts grumbling and muttering ‘if I ever win the lottery, I’m going to give all this up!’
‘And Birdy?’
I laughed ‘Jonathon started out as a Navy pilot. Not long after training, he flew too low while trying to impress a girlfriend and hit a treetop. When the CO asked him what had happened he said ‘Bird strike sir.’
‘The CO didn’t believe a word, of course, but he played along and said ‘what altitude was this bird’ and his answer ‘it was in its nest, Sir.’
Kate laughed. ‘He was lucky to get away with it.’
‘The CO saw his potential. He’s a tremendous pilot. Also he’s ninth generation Navy. There are six admirals in the family, two of them current.’
‘Chunk is fascinating too,’ she said.
‘Chunk is one of a long line of aristocratic, scholarly thugs that have been a mainstay of the SAS since its foundation. They are usually wealthy, sporty, Oxbridge educated, usually in the classics, and they’re as adept at violence as any tearaway in inner London.’
I smiled. ‘But you didn’t get me up here to ask me about nicknames and military CVs. What’s the matter? Do you st
ill have doubts about the traitor business.’
‘No, absolutely none.’
‘What then?’
Kate stood looking out of the window. At first she didn’t answer then slowly she turned and said, ‘wait a moment,’ and went into the adjacent bathroom.
When she came back, she was naked except for a pair of navy blue briefs.
‘This is why I didn’t want to swim,’ she said.
From under her left breast a livid scar ran down almost to her groin. The breast itself was badly marked and there was a blotchy lump just under the nipple.
‘A hawser came loose,’ she said, ‘nearly cut me in half. I was very lucky. I’m having more plastic surgery later but this is all they can do for now.’
‘It’s not as big a deal as you think,’ I said carefully.
‘That’s a man talking. Scars are nothing on a man, they can all be written off to the macho image. But imagine if you picked up some disfigurement that wasn’t macho. Suddenly, every time you take your kit off in front of a new woman you have to think, how will she react? Will it put her off? You wouldn’t like it, would you?’
‘We’re talking about sex?’
‘Yes, mostly. After the accident, I encouraged a guy I didn’t really feel all that close too, because I wanted to see if it would be OK and, of course, it wasn’t.’
I decided to take a gamble.
‘Can an honorary woman try? One who isn’t a traitor.’
Kate held out her arms. ‘The honorary woman thing wasn’t supposed to work for long anyway.’
I knew there was no time to think about how to approach her. It was a make-or-break moment and I had to rely on instinct. To my surprise, I got it right from the first kiss. My hands and lips seemed to know which surfaces to caress and which to avoid without making the moves artificial. It was made easier by Kate, who, once she was over the first fears of rejection, proved to be a simple and natural lover.
We made love for over an hour, then Kate went to the bathroom and I lay on my back and found myself thinking about Marie-Helene. The contrast was stunning. For Marie-Helene, sex was a production for which she carefully constructed set pieces. She would cook or order the perfect pre-sex dinner, not exactly choosing aphrodisiac foods, but with everything in just the right quantities, nothing indigestible, nothing to make you drowsy or sluggish, and perfectly matched wines but never too much alcohol. The bedroom was also prepared with minute care with crisp sheets and flowers. Her body was lean and gym-toned, her underwear exquisite. Early on in our relationship, she had said to me: ‘you won’t be disappointed,’ putting me on notice, almost formally, that she was sure of her technique and she expected me to be up to the mark. By comparison, Kate was pure rough and tumble. Once the inhibition about the scar was over, she was like a young animal, beautifully naughty but not in the contrived Marie-Helene way.
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