Authors: Chris Ryan
‘Scene of one of my greatest triumphs,’ Saunders said as he noticed Danny looking at it. ‘Angola, ’98. The government – democratically elected, mind you – was having a spot of bother with rebel militia. Claimed to have political motives but the reality was that they were raping and looting – the usual. Government couldn’t cope, so they brought us in to help out.’ He smiled at the memory. ‘The rebels used to move their troops at night. Couldn’t work out how it was that we always knew where they were. In the end they put it down to witchcraft. Thought we were communing with the great Ju-Ju up the mountain. Surrendered en masse.’
‘And really?’
‘Really, I’d bought a couple of old Russian MiGs on the black market and fitted the pilots out with NV. We were just watching the silly sods from air. Easiest five mill I ever made. Do have a seat.’
He showed Danny to an expensive-looking leather armchair, and took a seat opposite him. Between them was a scale model of a yacht, its prow white and sleek. ‘Having it built,’ Saunders said without any trace of self-consciousness. ‘Man’s got to have a hobby, eh?’ He removed his glasses, looked through them at arm’s length, then replaced them. ‘So. Syria.’
‘Syria,’ Danny repeated.
‘Absolute bloody shit sandwich,’ Saunders said. ‘We can always trust the ragheads to screw things up for themselves, eh?’
Danny didn’t offer an opinion.
‘How are you inserting. Air?’
Saunders dropped the question in with a forced nonchalance. When Danny didn’t reply, he seemed far from embarrassed. On the contrary, he looked rather pleased, almost as if Danny had passed some kind of test. ‘You’ll have sat phones with you, I assume?’
Danny nodded.
‘Good.’ Saunders stood up and walked over to his desk. From a drawer he took a sheet of A4 letterhead, which he handed to Danny. At the top it said ‘International Solutions’, below which was the same motif of shaking hands Danny had noticed on the front door. At the bottom, in much smaller writing, was a list of five names: the International Solutions board. Danny picked out Saunders’ name, and two others he recognised: Meryl Jackson and Bob Goodenough. One was a Labour MP, the other a Tory. Danny realised at once that, with board members sitting on both sides of the political divide, Saunders had a conduit to most of the decision-making going on in Whitehall. Useful, when you earn your money out of international conflict.
The rest of the sheet was empty apart from a twelve-digit telephone number. ‘Call that number when you get to Homs,’ said Saunders. ‘My men will arrange an RV.’
‘I’ll need their names,’ Danny said. ‘And
I’ll
decide the RV location.’
‘Interesting idea,’ Saunders murmured. ‘But on balance I think not.’ Danny was about to retort when Saunders held up one finger to stop him. When he spoke again, there was a little more gravitas to his voice, as though he had slipped back into his former role as a Regimental Rupert. ‘Don’t underestimate the state on the ground there, Black. It’s every bit as volatile as Iraq was a couple of years ago. You’ve every chance of being compromised before you even reach Homs and I’ve no intention of risking my men’s lives just because you get their names and location belted out of you.’ He removed his glasses again and squinted at Danny. ‘Loose lips sink ships, I’m sure you understand,’ he added, his voice returning to its normal avuncular self.
Danny kept quiet, but if Saunders felt at all uneasy with the sudden silence he didn’t show it. ‘A word to the wise,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a bloody good team of lads out there. Can’t imagine they’ll be thrilled at the prospect of a spook turning up to mark their work, if you know what I mean.’
‘That’s between you and the Firm,’ Danny said.
‘Indeed it is. Just don’t expect them to be rolling out the red carpet is all. Anyway, Black, bloody good to meet you. We should stay in touch. I’m always on the lookout for good men, so if the joys of Hereford ever start to lose their lustre, you know where to come. Money’s not quite what it was in the glory days of Blackwater, but there’s always work. Governments both side of the pond can’t operate in the Middle East without us. They make cuts to the armed forces then find themselves freelancing the work out at twice the price. Can’t see the sense in it myself, but I’m not complaining. And there’s always the chance to earn a little extra while you’re out there.’
‘What do you mean, extra?’
Saunders smiled, and looked at Danny as if he was trying to work out if he was joking or not. But he didn’t answer the question, and instead politely indicated the door with an outstretched palm. Danny took the hint and stood up. ‘Bloody good to meet you,’ Saunders repeated as he shook Danny’s hand firmly, though perhaps this time he sounded a little less enthusiastic. Danny didn’t return the compliment – no good lying when you don’t have to, he thought as he walked to the door.
Downstairs, the PA was waiting for him rather primly. ‘Leaving us so soon?’ she asked, her lips pursed slightly with satisfaction.
‘Aye,’ Danny said. ‘Wouldn’t want to keep you from your sugar daddy.’ The young woman’s eyes narrowed at the insult. ‘I’ll let myself out, love,’ Danny added.
Out on the street, the Land Cruiser was waiting for him. He opened the rear door of the vehicle and was about to climb inside when he looked over his shoulder up at the first-floor window. The morning sun was reflecting off the glass, but he could just see the ghost of a figure, looking down at him. Watching.
Then Max Saunders disappeared and Danny got into the vehicle.
‘Brize Norton?’ the driver asked.
‘Brize Norton,’ Danny replied.
Heading to Brize Norton was like heading home. Danny had learned static line and freefall here at No. 1 Parachute Training School, and he’d lost count of the times he’d boarded a Hercules or a Globemaster on his way to whichever part of the world the Regiment needed him. The airbase was as busy today as he’d ever seen it. As his driver pulled up outside the terminal building, it was immediately clear that his arrival had coincided with a major troop movement. There were at least a hundred green army lads, with full packs and military uniform, milling around outside, some having a fag, most simply getting a few good lungfuls of Oxfordshire air before a dirty old TriStar with its best years behind it transported them to Camp Bastion. Danny respected every one of them: the older lags with their slightly grizzled faces and the new recruits who walked with a swagger but couldn’t hide the anxiety in their eyes. They had reason to feel it. If Afghanistan was their destination, there wasn’t a single man who, over the next six months, wouldn’t find himself in a contact that even the most hardened Regiment soldier would go out of his way to avoid. Soldiering had changed. The days of serving your time without ever firing a weapon in anger were long gone. Danny found himself picking out faces in the crowd, wondering if he was looking at the one or two who would almost certainly not make it back to British soil.
An anonymous white Transit pulled up behind them. Danny instantly knew that this would be the rest of his unit. As he climbed out of the Land Cruiser, Jack Ward, Greg Murray and Spud Glover debussed. Like Danny, they all wore civvies, but while this would ordinarily make them blend into the background, at Brize Norton it made them stand out. They approached the terminal building to the stares of some of the green army lads, while the Transit slipped away to load all their gear on the SF flight that would take them to Cyprus, without having to go through the usual security checks. They might have packed their bags themselves, but they sure as hell contained some offensive weapons that would make the average airport security officer shit himself.
The inside of the terminal building was even busier than the outside. Queues of young guys in camouflage gear snaked from the check-in desks, and the air smelled of fast food. It was noisy too, as young squaddies shouted good-natured army banter at each other and the Tannoy announced flight times and security warnings. ‘How was Saunders?’ Greg asked as they stepped inside the terminal.
‘Like a cat with a strawberry-flavoured arse,’ Danny replied, his attention elsewhere. The unit stopped by the main entrance and looked around.
It was Spud Glover who saw Buckingham first. ‘What the . . . ’ he said, pointing to a figure standing thirty metres away underneath a yellow gate sign. ‘Twat looks like Michael fucking Palin.’
Danny couldn’t help a smile. Hugo Buckingham was dressed to travel, but he looked more like he was planning a jaunt to the Tuscan hills than a covert insertion into a war zone. He wore a white-brimmed Panama hat with a black band, a lightweight linen jacket, and at his feet stood a small suitcase. He stuck out like a turd at a picnic.
‘Leave him to me,’ Danny said quietly. ‘Go and check in. I’ll see you at the gate.’
As he walked up to Buckingham, Danny could see he was a bit flustered. When a voice from somewhere on the concourse shouted, ‘EasyJet don’t fly from here, mate!’, the MI6 man’s forehead creased as he pretended he hadn’t heard. He didn’t appear to notice Danny until he was standing a metre from him. A look of relief crossed his face.
‘Nice hat,’ Danny said.
Buckingham’s eyes rolled upwards to the hat’s brim. He removed it and, at a prompt from Danny, handed it over. Danny crumpled it up.
For a moment, Buckingham looked angry. Here was a man whose emotions showed plainly on his face. ‘Wrong get-up?’ he asked.
‘You could say that.’
‘I’m in your hands, of course. Only ever been to Syria on embassy business. Spot of Britishness goes a long way when you’re dealing with the ambassador in Damascus . . .’ He looked down at his suitcase. ‘I’ve only got the one bag,’ he said. For the briefest of moments he seemed to expect Danny to carry it, but when the SAS man didn’t move he picked up the case himself. Danny pointed towards the check-in desk where the other three were waiting. As Buckingham walked in that direction, Danny dropped the scrunched-up hat on the concourse floor and followed him.
‘Packed your cozzie?’ Spud said as they approached. There was a slightly malicious glint in his eye, and Buckingham flushed from the neck upwards.
‘Leave it,’ Danny said. Spud grinned at his colleagues, but let it drop for now.
Buckingham’s British passport was housed in an immaculate leather case which he handed to the RAF soldier at the check-in desk before answering the routine questions. The Regiment guys flashed their military IDs – name, photograph, blood group, religion – before being waved through to the departure lounge. Jack Ward fetched them all a cup of tasteless coffee from a machine and they settled down to wait for the moment when an RAF guy would come up to them and quietly lead them to their flight. Danny could tell that Spud had one on him. He couldn’t take his eyes off Buckingham’s linen jacket, and Danny could almost hear the gears in his head grinding as he worked out his next sarky comment.
‘So Hugo, old boy,’ Spud said finally, affecting a posh accent. ‘Looking forward to a spot of sightseeing?’
Danny was about to step in, to stick up for Buckingham, who was, after all, going to be their companion for the next few days. But the MI6 man held up one hand to stop him, then turned to address Spud directly.
‘Syria,’ he said in a quiet voice. ‘Population twenty-five million. Estimated number of internally displaced people, one point five million. Estimated number of civil-war-related deaths since the beginning of the conflict, somewhere between thirty and fifty thousand, including approximately three thousand children. Current estimate of detainees and political prisoners killed under torture, about six hundred. If you imagine, Glover, that I don’t understand that we’re about to travel to one of the most dangerous parts of the world right now, let me assure you that I do. I don’t have your advantages and I don’t have your skills. Frankly, I’m bloody terrified, and I’ll thank you not to make it any worse.’
Silence.
‘I don’t know why you do this job,’ Buckingham continued. ‘See the world? Taste for adventure? That’s what soldiers usually say, isn’t it? Maybe you just like killing people, I don’t know. But I’d like to imagine that somewhere deep down you have a bit of loyalty to your country, and you think it’s worth fighting for. I do. I entered the foreign service because I wanted to serve my country. That’s what this is all about. If it means putting myself in harm’s way, so be it. I don’t like it, but I’ll do it because, surprising though it may seem, I’m the best man for this job. I’m an Arabist and a diplomat, not a soldier. I know perfectly well that I can’t do it without your help, I’m grateful to you for helping me and helping your country. But if it’s all the same to you, I could do without the inverse snobbery and sarcastic comments. This isn’t the school playground, and I have a feeling the next few days are going to be hard enough as it is.’
There was another moment of silence as Buckingham looked at each of the Regiment men in turn. Spud’s face was unreadable. He put his coffee cup on the floor, wiped the palm of his hand on his jeans, then offered it to Buckingham. The two men shook hands.‘Thank you,’ said Buckingham.
Danny could sense the men looking at the civilian with respect. In their world, standing up for yourself counted for something.
It was just as Buckingham took back his hand that the same uniformed RAF man who had checked them in approached the group. ‘Time to board, gentlemen,’ he said.
Buckingham was the first to stand. He removed his linen jacket, crumpled it up and threw it back down on his seat. ‘Present from my mum,’ he said with a grimace. ‘Always hated the bloody thing. Don’t know why I wear it really. Shall we go? I’m not much good with planes and waiting around makes me jolly nervous.’