by Chris Ryan
'By the time of the Gulf War, Khadduri had risen to become Saddam's chief of military intelligence. At that time he enjoyed the President's full confidence, and spent much of the run-up to war with him in Baghdad.
In the first days of the air-war he had a narrow escape from an incoming Cruise missile, which hit a building when he was in the basement, but he came through the conflict unscathed.
'Afterwards, however, he and his boss fell out. We're not clear what caused the rift, but subsequent events suggest it was a basic disagreement over policy. Saddam wanted to soft-pedal things while he rebuilt his army and kept the Western powers in play, but Khadduri developed more and more extreme right-wing views. It seems that he took Iraq's defeat by the Coalition as a personal insult, and as time went on he became ever more eager to avenge it. Things reached the point at which he was going behind Saddam's back and privately inciting other Arab states to prepare for a joint assault on Israel, as a kind of reprisal. He was for a'n all-out attack using chemical and biological weapons.
'In the end, of course, word reached Saddam - and that was too much. Early last year, in February, Khadduri was arrested. It looked like he was for the chop, but then he was let out of prison on parole. He did a runner and pitched up with his friend Moammer Gadaffi, President of Libya. There, he's continued to promote the idea of an attack on Israel. In particular, he's tried to win support from Mubarak, President of Egypt, luckily without success. Worse, from our point of view, he's become a red-hot champion of the IRA.
He seems to think that by promoting revolution in Northern Ireland he can get his own back for the humiliation the Arabs suffered in the Gulf. Also, the CIA are worried that he's started supporting the fundamentalists behind the bombs on the mainland in the States.'
'Fuckin' 'ell,' muttered Whinger, maybe a bit louder than he meant. 'What an arsehole!'
Gilbert heard him and went on without a flicker: 'Precisely. Indications are that during the past year the amount of money reaching the IRA from Libya has more than doubled. Arms the same. Remember the merchant vessel that ran aground off Cork back in October? The Sirius? She was carrying containers that held more than a thousand AK-47s and several million rounds of ammunition. The manifest listed the containers as having been loaded in Amsterdam, but we believe they came all the way from Tripoli, with Khadduri's signature on the docket.
'In other words, this man has become a severe threat to the stability of the Province. He's also a menace in the Middle East as a whole. Now that he has the ear of Gadaffi, there's no telling what he may touch off. Our friends in the CIA agree his time is up.
'Fortunately we have excellent relations with Egypt, and we can use Egyptian territory as a covert staging- post for an operation. Still more fortunate…' Gilbert's face softened into the ghost of a smile. 'As of yesterday we discovered that one of you has the big advantage of being personally acquainted with General al-Khadduri.'
I nodded, aware that the other guys were giving me the eyeball. I glanced along the line and thought I'd better explain. 'When I was in the nick in Baghdad, after the patrol got compromised, this bastard used to come along once a week and give us the third degree.
I'd recognise him a mile off in thick fog.'
'He's your man, then, Geordie,' chirped Whinger.
'Nice little solo venture. Piece of cake.'
'Fuck off, mate,' I replied equably. Then I asked Gilbert, 'What's he doing, exactly? I mean, has Gadaffi given him a job?'
'Officially he's in charge of officer training. That's why he's based at Ajdabiya, which is Libya's answer to Sandhurst. But signal intercepts show he's using the place for every kind of political and revolutionary activity. I repeat: he's regarded as the most dangerous single operator in the Middle East, Saddam Hussein not excepted.'
There was a short silence. 'Gadaffi!' exclaimed Pat contemptuously. 'That guy's mad as twenty fucking hatters.'
'That's the trouble,' Gilbert agreed.
'Can you give us any personal gen on the target?' Pat went on. 'Any clue about his movements or habits?'
'Not much, I'm afraid. He's married, with a family, and he tends to join them at a house on the coast whenever he has days off. But while he's working he lives in the commandant's quarters on the base. One point that may prove relevant: we know he's a night owl, and sits up all hours working, when everyone else
has gone to bed and things have quietefied down.'
'How do we know that?' I asked.
Gilbert hesitated, then said, 'You'll find out shortly.
Now, for details of the camp layout we're awaiting satellite intelligence from the CIA. A courier should be in London by tomorrow. I'm afraid some or all of you will have to come to London to see what he brings. The office have judged the material too sensitive for it to go outside, even here. Any more questions? No?'
He sat down, and Mac took over. 'Thanks, Gilbert,'
he said. Then he turned to us. 'I don't have to emphasize that your hit team will have to be absolutely clean. You'll wear Arab or some sort of civilian clothes, use Soviet or Chinese weapons and ammunition. None of you must carry any trace of any Western organisation.
Webbing, bergens, boots - everything's got to be checked for names or labels. If the team suffers a fatality, it will be absolutely imperative to bring the body out with you. If that proves impossible, you'll vaporise the body with a bar mine.'
'You mean we're going to take nice British bar mines with us?' Whinger said.
'No, no,' Mac assured him, 'we've got a few Chinese ones that'll come in handy.'
'How alarming,' went Whinger. 'Bloody charming.'
Mac ignored him and continued. 'Back to timing. As I said, Bright Star runs for six days. That means you've got to be in and out within this time bracket, while the cover lasts. And it commences on the seventeenth, which means you've got less than two weeks in which
to get prepped up. OK? Any questions?'
'What about weapons?' Pat asked.
'You'll draw non-attributable AK-47s from the SAW section of the main armoury. They're being delivered from London in the morning. Once you've got them you'll store them here.' He gestured to the lockers at the sides of the room. 'Anything else?'
'Why isn't Tony Lopez in on this?' asked Fred Parry.
'He was in the nick with you, Geordie, wasn't he? He must know the guy.'
'That's right, he does.' Mac answered for me.
'Tony's an obvious candidate with his special knowledge. But because of American political sensitivities we haven't yet got clearance for him to join the team. We're still hoping he'll be able to come in.'
For a final word, Mac turned to me and said, 'If there's anything you want to know, Geordie, these guys will fill you in. They're all genned up on the way the Wing works. And if there's anything you need, don't worry about asking for it. What you may not realise is that the SAW has its own budget: within reason, money's no object, and there are no restrictions on equipment. If you need civilian clothes, for instance, go and buy them. Any bits and pieces of extra kit - the same. You're in a different game now.'
With the ruperts gone, I got the lads to gather round for a minute. 'R.ight,' I said, 'we start training proper tomorrow morning. But we can begin sorting out our priorities now. First things first: wills. Have you all made out a will?' I glanced round the team. Pat, who was married, gave a nod, but the other four looked blank.
'Well, even if you don't think you've got anything to leave, I suggest you get organized. There's no guarantee that all of us will come back. Correction: there's no guarantee that any of us will come back. Jabs the same.
Get your arses up to the doc's office: see the clerk in there, and make sure you're up to date. It's no big deal.
'Now - individual responsibilities. I'll be team medic; I've got the training. Fred, you're in charge of explosives. You'll need to check out these Chinese bar
mines, make sure you read the instructi6ns, lkight?'
Fred nodded.
'Whinger, signals, OK? We're getting in some special non-attributable kit, and there's a rep coming up from the Firm to run you through it.'
'Yeah. I know most of that stuff, but a refresher wouldn't do any harm.'
'Good. Pat, how's your Arabic?'
'Shit hot!'
'Say something.'
'Aaaarrght.' he went, and then gave a kind of hiccup.
'What did that mean?'
'Fuck off.'
'Don't piss about.'
'Honest, that's what I said.'
'You did the Arabic course?'
'Yonks ago.'
'It'll come back to you. Get on the tapes in the
language lab and you'll make it.'
'Allah karim.'
I turned to Stew Stewart and said, 'You're from Mobility Troop, Stew. Go down and speak to the INTO about the quads. Get a mechanic to take you through anything we might need to know.'
'Fair enough.'
Because Norm Paxford was already a competent signaller, I told him to work with Whinger as his backup on the radios. 'Take all the sets along to the signals technician and make sure the frequencies are in line,' I said. 'The other thing is, we'll use throat-mikes rather than booms, because booms would pick up the noise of the wind and the engines.
'And wait a minute,' I went on. 'A bell's ringing.
Covert Method of Entry. Weren't you posted to the CMOE wing, Norm? Didn't you do the specialist lock- picking course?'
'That's right,' he said. 'All two years of it.'
'Great. You're our CMOE expert, then.'
In a moment of black humour I saw all the members of our team in terms of what they didn't have - the areas where, in military jargon, they'd gone deficient. I'd gone deficient in terms of family; Norm couldn't be bothered to talk; Stew was definitely deficient in the legover stakes; Pat couldn't control his appetite; Fred wasn't overburdened with brains; and Whinger didn't know when to stop cracking jokes. Still, I thought, we've all got our own strengths, and even if we're not fucking perfect we'll make out.
Back in the incident room I found Fraser still in occupation. 'Hey, Geordie,' he said. Tve got news for you.'
'What's that?'
'Farrell's back.'
'Christ, that was quick!'
'Yep. He landed at Lyneham after lunch. Maximum security all the way.'
'Where's he been taken?'
'Winson Green, Birmingham.'
He picked up a sheet of fax paper and studied it. 'The prisoner's wounds are infected, and he's suffering from septicaema. He's running quite a high fever, by the look of it.'
'I'm not surprised,' I said, 'the amount of shit there was in that jungle. Some of it's bound to have been sucked into him with the bullets. Does that mean he's in hospital?'
Again Fraser consulted his notes. 'Yep, he's in a single cell in the hospital wing. He's on fifteen-minute watch. That means one of the screws takes a look at him every quarter of an hour.'
'What about visitors?'
'He hasn't had any yet. One guy tried to see him, and a search revealed that he was carrying an escape kit inside a transistor radio. So that was the end of that.
Now the Home Secretary's imposed a ban on visitors until further notice.'
'How long can that be maintained?'
'Only a few days. You can bet that a fellow like Farrell will know his rights down to the last letter.'
'And if the ban's lifted?'
'He'll be able to have one fifteen-minute visit a day, but only in a closed environment with prison officers present. That is, if he's graded Category A - which I've no doubt he will be.'
'And who was the guy who tried to visit?'
Fraser checked his notes and said, 'He identified himself with a driving licence in the name of Peter Smithies - but of course it turned out the licence had been stolen.'
'So the PIPA know where Farrell is anyway?'
'Oh yes. They know.'
That evening, for a change, I ran home. It was a good distance - about my usual eight miles - and I'd sussed out a route through the lanes that was almost entirely free of traffic. But again I had trouble with my rhythm.
Even more now I was feeling the pressure, and I was so needled by the contradictory thoughts chasing through my head that I couldn't settle to a steady pace.
I was pleased now that Operation Ostrich was going down, as it promised genuine action to distract me, and the chance of doing a hard job well. Besides, I positively looked forward to topping al-Khadduri. At the same time, I was apprehensive about leaving the UK with my own affairs in such a mess. On the one hand it seemed there was nothing to be gained by hanging around at Hereford. If or when the PIRA came on the air there would be plenty of trained negotiators on hand to deal with them; in any case, I was fairly sure that if I did demur about going, the legiment would order me to.
Yorky Pose had admitted as much. On the other hand, Hereford was the last place I'd seen Tim and Tracy, and my natural inclination was to cling to any trace of them that I had. iF i went overseas and someone made a cock- up in my absence, I might never see them again; my whole life would go to ratshit. Similarly, if I went under in a foreign country, Tim would never remember his father, we would never get to know each other properly. What sort of a person would he grow up to be without me to guide him? What would Tracy do, left without support?
Trying to think everything through, I realised that although I'd already made a will I might need to make some adjustments. As things stood I'd arranged to leave a small amount of money for Tim, who'd get it when he was eighteen, and the house to Tracy. She and I had talked all this through before, and she'd agreed that if I died she would adopt the boy. But now - to face the worst - there was a chance that she might not outlive me. I decided that in the morning I'd better go into town to visit my solicitor, the owlish Mr Higgins.
As for Farrell - I couldn't help feeling nervous about the situation. At least the bastard hadn't escaped. I'd half expected the Colombians to let him out, through corruption or sheer incompetence. Now he was behind bars in Birmingham, and it sounded as if he was too ill to cause trouble for the time being.
But sooner or later he'd start to agitate, and when he did he'd stir more trouble than all the turds in China.
FOUR
I was at the solicitor's office by nine o'clock. 'Thos C.
Higgins & Partners' said the highly-polished brass plate beside the door. I had no appointment, but I knew Higgins kept the first half-hour of the morning free and was confident he'd see me. In fact he walked up to the front door at the same moment as I did, and greeted me like an old pal, spectacles flashing.
His office smelt of lavender furniture polish, and the handsome grandfather clock was ticking away as steadily as ever in a corner. Since he knew my affairs well, there wasn't much explaining to do, and I soon put him in the *picture.
'I don't know if it makes any difference,' I said, 'but Tracy's pregnant.'
'Is she?' he exclaimed. 'Congratulations!'
'Well, it's only two months so far.'
'You mean you would like to make the child a beneficiary of your will?'
'That's what I was wondering.'
'I think it's hardly possible. I mean, if she were, God forbid, to be killed during the next few weeks, the child could not survive.' He paused for a moment, then said, 'Is there no one else you could name as a residuary legatee?'
I shook my head. 'As you know, I'm an orphan. I don't have anybody.' Then suddenly an idea came to me, and I said, 'I know. Yes. I'd like to nominate a colleague: Tony Lopez.'
'Is that his full name? Tony?'
'No, it's Antonio. He's American, Puerto Rican by origin. If Tracy and I are both written off, I'd like him to get everything. But the most important thing is that I'd like him to be the guardian for Tim.'
'Very well,' replied Mr Higgins cautiously. 'I'm sure that can be arranged. I shall need Mr Lopez to complete certain documents, of course.'
'Sergeant Lopez,' I said.
'Sergeant. I'm sorry.'
Mr Lopez! Just thinking about it creased me up.
Tony was so much the professional soldier that the very idea of him being a civilian seemed ridiculous; I knew he'd bust his butt (as he would put it) laughing about it.
The morning's highlight was the arrival of the quads.
Seven brand-new Honda Big Reds - one for each member of the team, one spare - were decanted from a truck into the tender loving care of the MT section, which at once set about destroying their glamour and making them look as nondescript as possible. By the time our lads went down to take delivery of the bikes their appearance had changed completely. Not only had every trace of scarlet paint been scraped, rubbed or grit- blasted off and replaced by a drab sand-colour, but the engine numbers had also been ground .off the crank cases with emery wheels and the serial numbers scraped off the frames. The ignition keys had been stripped of their numbers so that no identification remained, and the engineers had cut different numbers of notches in their rims, one to seven, so that they could still be matched to the right bikes.