Marine I SBS

by David Monnery

  The helicopter lifted off, hovered for an instant above the tarmac, and then moved away on a course that would take it just to the south of the lesser Ararat. The crescent moon was no longer visible in the sky, but its light was still shining in the distant snowfields, and despite the cold Galloway stood for a minute or more watching the silhouette of the Sea King dwindle into a speck against the beautiful backdrop.

  It was twenty to eleven when he got back to the warmth of the radio room, and interrupted the Americans’ card game to send confirmation that the team’s transport was on the way. The Yanks good-naturedly invited him to join their game but he declined, knowing that his mind would be elsewhere. In another fifteen minutes McClure and the others would be leaving their OP on the smaller rig and going off in search of the Azeri scientist. And half an hour after that he would receive one of three messages: ‘Gold’ would mean that they and Shadmanov were on their way to Narghin; ‘Silver’ that they were heading for the island without him; ‘Bronze’ that something had gone badly wrong and they wouldn’t be able to make the rendezvous.

  In the last case Galloway would have to recall the Sea King and try again on the following night, always assuming the SBS team could reach the island by then. Not surprisingly, ‘Bronze’ wasn’t the signal he wanted to hear.

  The four-person team on B rig had spent a busy couple of hours. Soon after ten the moon had gone down behind A rig, throwing the sea beneath its twin into deep shadow, and providing Noonan and Finn with the cover they needed to reinflate and reload the two Geminis. At 23.40 hours they had received word from Galloway that the Sea King was en route, and now, with the last few seconds of the day ticking away, they sat in the dark waiting for McClure to give the green light.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he decided, jumping the gun by ten seconds.

  ‘Good luck,’ Noonan said. He was staying behind in the OP, partly to warn them of accidental encounters on the steps opposite, partly because a group of four seemed a little on the conspicuous side. And there was always the chance that the threesome would be captured, leaving Noonan to escape alone with the evidence they had already accumulated.

  According to the plan, they had ten minutes to reach Shadmanov’s room, ten to persuade him and his wife to accompany them, and ten more to retrace their steps. If by some mischance the man was not home at ten past midnight, they would use the ten minutes allotted for persuasion to return by way of the research labs, or at least by way of that area which they believed housed the research labs. If they drew a blank but had not been spotted, McClure had the option of turning the Sea King round, camping out on B rig for another day and going through the whole thing again the following night.

  The prospect of hauling all their gear back up to the fourth level was hardly an appealing one, Finn thought, as the three of them made their way down through the deserted rig to the bridge level. The walkway itself was deep in shadow, and the water lapping at the rig supports covered the slight noise of their footfalls on the metal grating. Once across, in the shadow of the unused doorway, they unrolled and put on their white lab coats.

  ‘All clear,’ Noonan’s voice sounded in their earpieces.

  McClure led the way up the steps and in through the doors on the second level. There was no one in the corridor, but once inside they could hear a loudish thumping noise somewhere up ahead. They walked on past several empty rooms – this part of the facility, which was used for tool and material storage on Tempest Alpha, was no doubt surplus to current requirements on Aliyev A.

  The next set of doors, which on the North Sea rig led out on to a catwalk above one of the refinery halls, here opened to reveal a huge chamber, empty save for some eight or ten men in the throes of an indoor game of football. White paint had been used to create goals on opposing walls and pitch markings on the concrete floor. The thumping noise they had heard was the ball bouncing off the metal walls.

  Intent on their game, the players didn’t look up as the threesome passed above them.

  Another pair of doors brought them to a junction of corridors. Following his mental map of Tempest Alpha, McClure turned left, just as a door some twenty metres in front of them swung open. A man emerged, took one look at them without breaking stride, and walked away up the corridor. So far, at least, their rough disguise was working.

  The man soon turned right and they followed him, up a short flight of steps, across a short bridge between buildings, and in through yet more double doors. The air was suddenly warmer here – they had reached a section of the rig in regular use. Voices could be heard now, and the next flight of steps brought them up to the highest level of the accommodation area.

  McClure took a deep breath, turned the final corner, and found himself looking in through the open doorway of a large recreation room. There were about twenty people inside, all with their heads turned towards the large TV on the far side of the room.

  McClure gave Raisa a questioning look, and she did a quick survey of the heads in front of her. None of them belonged to Shadmanov, whom she knew had always hated TV. ‘No,’ she said.

  One woman had left her chair, apparently sated for the night. Raisa glanced at McClure, who gave her a slight nod, and once the woman was out in the corridor asked her in Azeri if she knew where Tamarlan Shadmanov’s room was. ‘We’re old friends from Baku,’ Raisa explained.

  The woman looked at them blankly. ‘No,’ she decided. ‘There’s a list in the office next door,’ she added, looking at Finn.

  She was a bit on the old side, the SBS man thought. Still quite sexy though.

  ‘Thanks,’ Raisa told her.

  The office was open, the list on the wall. The Shadmanovs were in 311, two levels below.

  They were still on a roll, Finn thought, as the three of them descended the stairs. The lift had been open and waiting, but McClure had decided that using it would be tempting fate. As far as he knew no special forces mission had ever ended up stuck in one, and he didn’t want to be remembered as the leader of the first.

  According to his watch two minutes remained of the first ten.

  Once his three comrades had disappeared inside the towering bulk of A rig, Noonan had been left with little to do but watch, wait and listen to McClure’s sporadic updates on the other three’s progress. About seven minutes had passed when the couple emerged from the double doors on the fourth level and started down the catwalk stairs. He didn’t pay them too much mind at first, fully expecting them to re-enter the interior, as ninety-five per cent of their colleagues had done, on the third level. When they continued on down towards the second he made ready to warn the team of the impending encounter, but still wasn’t feeling any great cause for concern. It was only when they reached the first level that he realized, with a lump in his throat, just where they were headed.

  McClure and Noonan’s discovery of the used condoms flashed through his mind, and suddenly he could see guilt in the way the two of them seemed to keep glancing over their shoulders, as if they were expecting to be followed. Crossing the bridge, they even made sure to keep in the shadows, just as the SBS team had done.

  What if they came up? What could he do?

  Then again, if they stayed on the first level they were bound to see or hear the team en route to the Geminis below.

  A growing sense of panic seemed to grip Noonan’s heart as he realized that the mission might depend on his killing these two people in cold blood. He fought it back and, with a supreme effort, managed to keep his voice steady as he reported the problem to McClure: ‘Two intruders have just crossed the bridge on to B rig. Looks like they’re in search of somewhere private to fuck.’

  The group on A rig were on the stairs between the second and third levels. Hearing Noonan’s news McClure stopped the party of three in its tracks. ‘Courting couple just crossed the bridge,’ he told Finn and Raisa. ‘Where are they now?’ he asked Noonan.

  ‘Somewhere below.’

  ‘Find them and report back,’ McClure told him. He turned to
the others: ‘OK, let’s go.’

  He led them down to the third level, and up the corridor to the room in question, inwardly praying that Shadmanov would be at home. There was no noise coming from inside, and Raisa had the sudden premonition that they would interrupt Tamarlan and his wife making love.

  McClure rapped softly on the door.

  There was a noise like a chair being moved, and an irritated male voice asked, ‘Who is it?’

  Raisa nodded yes to McClure’s unstated question. It was him.

  The door swung open. Shadmanov’s mouth dropped open when he saw Raisa, and seemed to bounce shut at the sight of those accompanying her. As rehearsed, she pushed forward, forcing him back and allowing the two SBS men to get in and close the door behind them.

  ‘What . . . ?’ Shadmanov exclaimed, his eyes moving swiftly to and fro between visitors. The open book face down on the small sofa and the half-empty glass of spirits on the adjacent table suggested he had been reading with a nightcap. The room seemed full of female clothes, but there was no sign of Farida.

  Raisa took the bull by the horns – another ludicrous English expression she had learnt from Finn. ‘Tamarlan,’ she said in Azeri, ‘these are English soldiers. They have come to rescue you and take you back to England.’

  He looked at her as if she was speaking gibberish. ‘But what are you . . . how did you get here?’

  ‘We flew from Turkey last night. We were dropped by parachute into the sea and spent the day hidden on the other rig.’

  ‘You were dropped by parachute?’ He couldn’t believe it, and yet he could see it in her face. It had only been a few weeks, and there was a different person behind the eyes.

  ‘I got your message – the end of the rainbow.’ She smiled, hoping to put him more at ease. ‘We don’t have a lot of time,’ she added.

  ‘But I can’t . . .’

  ‘Where is your wife?’ she asked.

  He shrugged, and gave her a glimpse of the rueful smile she remembered. ‘With her latest boyfriend, I expect.’ He looked at her hopelessly. ‘I can’t just leave, not . . .’ He shook his head.

  ‘You don’t want to do this work?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Then what holds you here?’

  ‘Nothing, I suppose.’ He tried to get a clearer grasp of what was happening, but it seemed impossible. How could he be expected to abandon the country of his birth and his wife of thirty years at five minutes’ notice.

  ‘What’s happening?’ McClure asked Raisa. She lifted a hand to ask for patience, and turned back to Shadmanov. ‘We cannot wait long,’ she said calmly. She didn’t want to threaten him, knowing from long experience that threats only forced him back into his shell. But unless he grasped what was happening in the next couple of minutes they would have to knock him out, which would suit no one. He wouldn’t enjoy the experience, and they would have to bluff their way back to B rig with an unconscious body in tow.

  ‘I can’t,’ Shadmanov said. He didn’t know why, but he just couldn’t leave Farida there.

  Raisa played her only trump. ‘Your friend Arif is dead,’ she told him. ‘He was murdered by the KGB for trying to find out what happened to you. I think you owe him something.’

  He seemed to age in front of her eyes, but before he could say anything footsteps suddenly became audible in the corridor outside.

  The door swung open to reveal his wife. ‘What a picture,’ she began with a malicious smile. ‘I . . .’ The door clicked shut, and her voice died away as she became aware of the two armed SBS men.

  Farida was wearing a man’s shirt, jeans and two-inch heels. She didn’t look like a woman in her late forties, Raisa thought as she told Shadmanov, ‘Explain the situation to her. She can come too. This is not about us,’ she added, seeing the surprised look on his face.

  Shadmanov told his wife what was happening. She listened more calmly than he had, her eyes flicking across Raisa’s face and those of the two British soldiers as surprise and disbelief gave way to calculation. The West, she thought – these people are offering us emigration to the West. The very fact of their presence here was proof enough of her husband’s importance to them. They could look forward to a good life in England or America.

  And by the same token, it seemed unlikely that such men would be sent so far to take no for an answer. Her husband was going whether he wanted to or not. If he refused they would take him by force, and then they would have to leave her behind, immobilized at best, dead at worst.

  ‘How are we going to get to England?’ she asked Raisa.

  ‘There are boats waiting to take us to an island nearby. We will be picked up by a helicopter from there in’ – she looked at her watch – ‘just over two hours. We will reach Turkey before daybreak.’

  ‘We shall come with you,’ Farida said.

  ‘Good,’ Raisa said. ‘They are coming,’ she told McClure and Finn. ‘How long have we got? They need to change.’

  McClure exhaled noisily. ‘Two minutes at most.’

  ‘You have a minute to get some warm clothes on,’ Raisa told the two Azeris. ‘You’ll need flat shoes,’ she added to Farida.

  ‘Can we bring anything?’

  ‘No.’

  A minute later they were as suitably attired as time would allow. As Shadmanov pulled on a lab coat over his jacket, his wife found time to empty her jewellery box into one of her pockets.

  ‘We’re on our way,’ McClure told Noonan.

  14

  Some fifteen minutes earlier Noonan had started down through B rig’s four levels, ears straining for sounds of the intruders. He heard nothing until he reached the second floor, and then it was a giggle from further below. They were in the worst possible place, between the SBS and their transport home.

  He sought for a better fix on their position, waiting until he heard a slight human noise above the lapping sea and then moving towards it, careful not to make any noise of his own. Finally he could see them through the metal grating floor, standing arm in arm against the railing at the farthest point from the bridge, the open sea behind them.

  Actually, only the man was standing. Her legs were off the ground, her body arched backwards across the top railing, riding the rhythmic thrusts he was making inside her.

  It might well be an adulterous fuck, Finn thought, but somehow the two lovers, their shadowy figures rocking to and fro above the black waters, seemed the picture of innocence. Watching the two of them filled Noonan with a longing for Julie, and he felt absurdly reluctant to interrupt, let alone end their lives.

  As this thought passed through his brain the woman’s back suddenly arched in spasm, and a low groan shook the man’s frame. For a few seconds they seemed almost to leave the ground, and then she was limply clinging on to him, and he was muttering something, hopefully an endearment, in whatever language it was they spoke.

  There was no way he could shoot them, none at all, but they showed no sign of leaving voluntarily. He looked at his watch, discovered that he had less than ten minutes, then laughed to himself at the obvious solution. Their presence below suggested their love was illicit, so what better incentive to move could he offer than the fear of discovery? He had been trying to keep quiet when noise was all that was required.

  Noonan retreated to the ladder which led up to the third level, climbed a couple of rungs and then let himself down with a slight bang. Then he walked heavily across the metal floor, talking to an imaginary partner in a language that he invented on the spot. With any luck the Azeris would assume it was Iraqi, or, if they were Iraqis, Azeri. Or something.

  After twenty or so seconds he stopped talking, and heard whispers below. They were not by the rail any more, but they seemed to be moving towards the bridge. A few seconds later he could see them, crossing the bridge with anxious glances over their shoulders.

  Noonan climbed back up towards the OP, a huge sense of relief flooding his being. He was on the last ladder when McClure came through the earpiece to
tell him they were starting back. ‘It’s all clear,’ he replied. ‘The love-birds have left.’

  They reached the door without meeting anyone, crossed over the narrow bridge between buildings and started down the corridor on which they had seen the man emerging from a room. This time it was empty.

  But once through the next double doors they could hear the game of football still underway, despite the lateness of the hour. ‘Maybe it’s Azerbaijan’s World Cup Squad,’ Finn murmured to himself.

  The group emerged on to the walkway above the refinery hall just as two uniformed men came through the opposite doors some forty metres away. ‘Start talking to me in Azeri,’ McClure murmured to Raisa, and she obliged, launching into a monologue about the first thing which came to mind – the cat she had owned as a child.

  The distance between the two parties narrowed to about twenty metres when one of the security men remembered why he was being paid. ‘You can’t go out this way,’ he shouted.

  ‘He says we can’t go out this way,’ Raisa translated.

  McClure’s mind whirled, taking in all the relevant data: the lack of an alternative route which didn’t involve a long and dangerous detour back through the accommodation block, the security men’s holstered side-arms, the Browning he was holding in the lab coat pocket, the potential witnesses playing football beneath their feet.

  What he didn’t expect was input from Farida, who was now angrily arguing with the two security men. ‘We always go this way,’ she was claiming, ‘and what difference does it make to anyone? We only want some fresh air!’

  McClure didn’t understand a word she was saying, but he could see the effect – the man who had spoken was now beginning to shrug his acquiescence.

  His partner, though, seemed increasingly interested in their faces, and as he murmured something to the other man his hand was fiddling with the fastening on the leather holster.

  There was no more time to argue, no bluff left to call. ‘Take them out,’ McClure snapped, sliding his Browning free of the pocket, bracing his legs and taking two-handed aim. The silenced gun coughed twice and the security man slumped to his knees. A split-second later Finn opened fire, hurling the other man backwards with three shots to the chest.