Exit Wound (2 page)

2

We swooped between two tower blocks. I knew Dex wouldn’t be able to resist whipping out his torch again. He probably wasn’t going to get another chance.

With the Cold War in its death throes, the Warsaw Pact boys were holding the mother of all closing-down sales. Every KGB agent – like the one we were about to meet – had turned into Del Boy Trotsky. They were auctioning off apartment blocks they didn’t own in Moscow and St Petersburg. Generals were using entire infantry battalions to shift heavy plant for sale at their Western borders. Some army conscripts were even being rented out as slave labour by the high command. They still had a quarter of a million troops fighting in Afghanistan, but no matter what the Soviet PR machine claimed, they were getting their arses kicked big-time over there.

Red Ken, Tenny and I had spent most of ’86 running around the mountains with the men in beards. The Regiment dropped every bridge that came within reach so the Russian armoured convoys couldn’t move around the place. Then we built IEDs to blow them to pieces if they did. Dex was busy doing supply runs for the
muj
when he wasn’t ferrying us.

Even in those days, the level of Soviet corruption had been outrageous. Dex brought back shed-loads of brand-new Russian weapons and equipment that had been sold by their high command. Most of it ended up being used against their own twenty-year-old conscripts. These kids were dropping by the hundred every day.

Now the entire Soviet bloc was in meltdown, the East Germans were going for it big-time. They were flogging as many military secrets as they could get their hands on. Even the Stasi, the state secret police, were doing a roaring trade in secret documents. Anything to bring in a few dollars before the whole system went to rat shit. The West encouraged it. Once the Wall fell, a new world order would have to be fought over – and if we didn’t grab as much technology and intelligence aswe could while the going was good, there were plenty of other buyers in the queue. We had to know what kit was about to flood the market so we could build better stuff to defend against it.

Red Ken and Tenny had been seconded to Brixmis, the British Commanders-in-Chief Mission to the Soviet forces in Germany. They’d needed another body for this particular job and had given Hereford a call to see if I was available. These two were tighter with each other than with me, but we’d always liked working together.

Brixmis was set up after the Second World War to foster good working relations between the occupying forces in the British and Soviet sectors. The French and Americans reached their own agreements with the Russians. For some reason the Brits were allowed as many liaison staff in the Soviet zone as the other two missions combined. Maybe they liked the PG Tips.

Red Ken had served twenty-two years in Para Reg and the SAS, and his face told the whole story – although his roll-up habit must have contributed something to those deep crevasses. He’d spent the last three years driving about in his matt-green Opel, taking pictures of tanks and helping defectors across the wire, but was getting out of the Regiment after this tour. He claimed he had no plans beyond sitting full-time on the terraces at Barnsley FC, but I knew he was talking bollocks.

Tenny was also from D Squadron. He was taking over from Red Ken, but for how long, nobody knew: when the Wall crumbled, so would Brixmis. He was about thirty, very smart and hard. You’d have to be, growing up with a hairdo that looked like a rusty Brillo pad. ‘Tennyson’ wasn’t a name you normally heard shouted across an inner-city playground, but his drop-dead gorgeous fiancée seemed to like it, and I guess that was all that mattered.

Tenny had always been a star. After university and a spell in the OTC, he decided he wanted to hang out with squaddie lowlife rather than do what he should have done – become a doctor or lawyer or something that lined his pocket. Tenny had been going places. He had golden balls. We all knew he was destined for better things. For me, being in the Regiment was the best I was ever going to get. For him, it was just another stepping-stone to global domination.

‘“Jol-ly boat-ing weather, /And a hay har-vest breeze, /Blade on the fea-ther, /Shade—”’

‘Shut the fuck up!’ Dex was doing Red Ken’s head in.

Dex threw the aircraft into a tight right-hander. I had to throw out an arm to stop myself sliding across the cabin.

‘Now, now, Red – manners. You guys should like it. The music was written by a Rifle Brigade chap at the North-West Frontier. I think his name was—’

Red Ken had had enough. ‘Shut the fuck up, crap hat!’ To Para Reg, that meant anyone who didn’t wear a red beret.

These two had always been like a couple of fishwives. They bickered 24/7, but couldn’t do without each other to bicker with.

Dex’s tone suddenly changed. ‘Border crossed.’

Down below it looked like someone had taken an axe to the Christmas-tree cable. Even the navigation lights had been doused.

‘Over the sterile zone.’

A Bronx growl filled our headphones. ‘I can see that. Just tell me when we’re going to goddam land.’

Tenny kept his voice low and controlled before Red Ken had a chance to tell our American friend where he could shove the Special Relationship. ‘It’s OK, Spag. We’ll get you there, don’t worry. We can’t do anything right now apart from lie here and let Dex get on with it.’

I’d met Conrad Spicciati three days earlier and known straight away I didn’t like him. It wasn’t just because he was small and so overweight he looked like Humpty Dumpty – he didn’t know how to behave with us. For a low-grade CIA agent he had a Pentagon-sized swagger. We had to take the piss. Dex started calling him Spaghetti. Ten seconds later we’d shortened it to Spag.

It got him so worked up his porn-star moustache was in a permanent twitch. He kept stroking it with his thumb and forefinger, possibly to calm it down. I wondered if he’d grown it especially for the job. But I didn’t give it much thought. As far as I was concerned, we’d get this shit done and never see him again.

He sat with his arms locked around a black nylon sports bag in the dull red glow of the aircraft interior, gripping it like he thought we were going to mug him. I probably would have done if I’d thought I could have got away with it. The bag contained Vladislav’s twenty thousand US dollars. It didn’t sound like a lot for a bit of top-secret kit, but it would have been a life-changing sum to me.

Tenny needn’t have worried. Dex ignored him. ‘“Bang, bang, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang . . .”’

Red Ken’s and Tenny’s shoulders heaved in unison.

Spag bellowed into his headset that nobody sang on his goddam watch.

Biggles segued straight into ‘Those Magnificent Men In Their Flying Machines’.

Odd smudges of very East German light appeared – dull and yellow, not the fairground stuff their Western mates went for a few thousand metres away. We called them
nein-watt
bulbs.

Red Ken cut in: ‘OK, that’s it, enough. Let’s switch on.’

3

The Dornier dropped the final couple of hundred feet. My head bounced off the steel as we hit the ground and bumped along the field.

When I sat up I could see a line of small fires through the windows. Benghazi burners – normally small pots of petrol and sand, but probably mud here. Everywhere east of the Wall was ankle-deep in the stuff. The burners would have been laid out in an L, Second-World-War SOE-style. The base of the L was the threshold; Dex needed to land as close to it as he could to ensure he had enough grass to rattle to a stop. The long stroke gave him wind direction.

Spag was already up on his knees, headphones cast aside as if he had to jump and run under fire. He struggled to keep his balance at the same time as he hugged the bag to his chest.

Red Ken waved him down. ‘The crap-hat has been watching too many war films.’

Tenny convulsed again with laughter.

Spag didn’t like it. He stayed on his knees, ready to leap out and take on all-comers.

Red Ken wasn’t finished. ‘Who does he think he is? He’s a pencil-neck CIA desk jockey, not the fucking Terminator . . .’

Tenny rested a hand on Red Ken’s shoulder. ‘Give him a break. This is his first time. And he’s American.’

After Spag’s thirty-odd years as a desk jockey, he wouldn’t be auditioning for the job of Arnie’s stunt double any time soon. He looked more like the new cartoon character I’d been watching on the American forces’ network back in Berlin, Homer Simpson.

The Dornier slowed. Dex taxied to the threshold, swung the nose round so he was facing into the wind again, and closed down the props. ‘Just like the old days, chaps – the four of us together in the middle of nowhere. At least we don’t have to start spouting Pashto.’

Spag headed straight for the exit and scrabbled to get out.

Red Ken caught his arm. ‘No rush, mate. If we’ve got a drama waiting for us out there, we’ll find out soon enough. We need to take everything slow and calm.’ He swung the door open.

My nostrils were hammered by the stench of shit.

Tenny saw my face screw up in the dull red light. ‘Human fertilizer. Nothing gets wasted round here.’

Red Ken set off towards a thin torch beam that suddenly pierced the darkness.

Vladislav’s contact appeared out of the gloom. His fresh boot-marks met Red Ken’s in the frosty dew. They’d done a lot of business during his tour, but this was their biggest deal yet. They hugged like old mates and jabbered away to each other in German while Tenny checked our comms with Dex.

I didn’t know the contact’s name and didn’t need to. Tenny and Red Ken were here to look after Spag, and my job was to look after them. I tightened my grip on the two-foot steel Maglite. There were rules to this game, and one of them was that Brixmis went unarmed. If you were caught with a gun, you got shot, simple as that.

Apart from my torch, the only kit we had with us was the radio in Tenny’s day-sack and whatever Red Ken had in his. A couple of sharp rectangular shapes jutted against the thin nylon. I didn’t know what they were and I didn’t ask. If I’d needed to know he would have told me.

Our biggest weapon was secrecy. No one knew where we were, apart from those who absolutely had to. The KGB and the Stasi had no reason to be out here, sliding around in the shit. And if they were waiting to round us up with dogs and AKs, we were sterile.

Dex stayed in the cockpit. He tended to stick out in this part of the world. He’d be pissed off that he’d had to close down the engines. It was good for security, but bad for us all if he couldn’t get them restarted. That was how he’d got caught last time. He’d ended up being traded for a couple of newspapermen caught spying for the East.

The RAF rule was that he should have taken off again and come back in when Tenny called for a pickup. But Dex didn’t like doing that. He never had. He said it made him feel like he was running away.

4

Apart from the gentle whispers between Red Ken and the contact, it was quiet.

Red Ken’s German was far better than mine, but that wasn’t saying much. I was still at eighteen-year-old-squaddie level. ‘
Pommes frites . . . Bier . . .
Taxi . . .’ was pretty much my limit, with the occasional ‘
danke
’ and ‘
bitte
’ thrown in. If anything else I wanted wasn’t on display – so I could point at it and shout – I had to go hungry.

Spag stormed up to them, both hands still gripping the bag. ‘Shouldn’t we get moving?’

Tenny carried on checking comms. He’d send Dex a sitrep when we were at the meet, and another as we left. If we didn’t report in, it meant a drama at our end. If he didn’t acknowledge, it meant one at his.

I moved closer to the group. The contact was in his fifties. He ignored Spag. He dug in the pockets of his leather overcoat and pulled out a pack of F6.

Red Ken waved a hand. ‘
Nein, nein
.’ He flipped open his day-sack and dug out one of the mysterious rectangular packages, a carton of Benson & Hedges.

The contact beamed as he ran his fingers along the cellophane. When Red Ken threw in a cheap disposable lighter, his early Christmas was complete.

It was too much for Spag. ‘Jee-sus, let’s get going here! We stopping for tea and cucumber sandwiches, or what?’

Red Ken was close to decking him. ‘We’ll go when we’re good and ready.’

Tenny stepped between them. ‘We wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for this guy. If he wants to wait and smoke, that’s what we do.’

He shook the contact’s hand, triggering another stream of waffle. Tenny nodded. His German was excellent too.

‘We have to hold back a while. We have to give Vladislav time to make the RV. He wants to be there before us to check it out. And he has something he needs to discuss with Red before we move.’

Spag wasn’t having any of it. ‘Fuck him. He’ll be history when this whole pile of crap collapses.’

Red Ken offered the contact a cigarette from his own pack and they both lit up. Both drew deeply to help their creases along. The tips glowed and the smoke mingled with our breath. Red Ken glared at the American. He wasn’t playing. He showed every sign of being prepared to stand there until they’d smoked the whole carton.

Spag spun on his heel and stormed back to the aircraft.

5

I stood alongside Tenny as the other two kippered their lungs. My eyes were constantly on the move, checking for lights or other giveaways.

Tenny checked his day-sack was secure. ‘You still coming to the wedding?’

‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

Even with his hair, Tenny had managed to trap the most beautiful woman on the planet. I was sure she’d been designed in a test tube. She was smart and funny too, a teacher at the girls’ prep school in Hereford. I was more than a little jealous of the great life he had ahead of him.

‘I’ve been thinking about going back to the Green Jackets after this tour. Janice and I are going for kids ASAP. I want to see them grow up, be a proper dad instead of spending years away. What do you reckon, Nick?’

I hesitated. I might have shared food, sleeping-bags and even body lice with him, but I was the last person to ask about family stuff. ‘Don’t know, mate. Big decision. They offering a commission?’

The day-sack was secure and he hauled it back over his shoulders. ‘Yep, seems like a good deal. Stay in, but still get to be a family man. Well, as much as you can, eh?’

I nodded as if I knew. ‘I’d go for it, mate. You’ll be a general by the time I get within reach of sergeant. I’ll be your driver if you want.’

The other two finished their cigarettes. Red Ken picked up the butts and put them in a pocket of his day-sack. ‘Right, let’s get on with it.’

Tenny grabbed Spag and we crunched across the field towards the contact’s vehicle.

‘Listen in.’ Red Ken walked backwards so we could hear him clearly. ‘Stasi have been sniffing around this guy. They know something’s happening. Normally they want a kickback on the cash – or they have something to sell. They didn’t offer him anything, so let’s keep switched on.’

Spag bristled. ‘You saying we got trouble? You saying we shouldn’t even get in the vehicle with this fuck?’

Tenny cut in before Red Ken exercised any more of his diplomatic skills. ‘We’re here because of you. It’s you we’re taking to Vladislav. If you don’t want to go, that’s OK. Give us the cash and go back and wait in the plane.’

The Americans were buying the guidance system. We were only there because the deal was happening in Brixmis TAOR (tactical area of responsibility).

Spag gripped the bag as if it was his child. ‘I’m not leaving this goddam money with anyone.’

‘So our task is still to connect you with Vladislav. If our assessment is that we get in the vehicle, we get in the vehicle.’

We’d arrived alongside the most knackered Gaz van left in the Eastern bloc. It was trying its hardest to be a VW Camper, but looked more like a flat-pack wardrobe I’d once tried to put together without the instructions.

Red Ken and the contact jumped in the front. I got in behind with Spag. Tenny took the back row.

The windows were steamed up and cracked. It actually felt colder inside than out. It smelt like the old boy kept chickens in it. I pulled my beanie down over my eyes, put my hands in my pockets, and curled up as best I could on the ripped vinyl.

The drive along the pot-holed road was as bumpy as the landing had been.

Spag blew into his cupped hands. ‘How long till we get there? What are we going to do when we arrive?’

Nobody answered.

‘Red?’

Silence.

‘I demand to know what’s happening, goddammit.’

Red Ken finally turned in his seat. His head and shoulders were wreathed in smoke. ‘Another twenty minutes.’

Spag glared out of the window. He was way beyond his comfort zone. I’d have preferred to be tucked up in his warm office in the US embassy, too.

The contact muttered something and he hit the brake.

It got the American flapping big-time. ‘Jee-sus, what the fuck—’

Red Ken raised his hand. ‘Shut up. Nick, Tenny – stand by. Spag, you’d better get your head in gear and keep your gob shut.’

Through the misted-up windscreen, all I could see was the strobe of blue lights.

Spag had his head in gear, but it was the wrong one. ‘Why are we still driving towards it? Why aren’t we in reverse?’

Red Ken ignored him. All his attention was fixed on the road ahead.