1997
1
If you work for the British intelligence service and get formally summoned to a meeting at their headquarters building on the south bank of the Thames at Vauxhall, there are three levels of interview. First is the one with coffee and biscuits, which means they’re going to give you a pat on the head. Next down the food chain is the more businesslike coffee but no biscuits, which means they’re not asking but telling you to follow orders. And finally there’s no biscuits, and no coffee either, which basically means that you’re in the shit. Since leaving the Regiment in 1993 and working as a K on deniable operations I’d had a number of interviews at every level, and I wasn’t expecting a nice frothy cappuccino to be on the cards this particular Monday. In fact, I was flapping quite severely, because things hadn’t been going too well.
As I emerged from the tube station at Vauxhall the omens weren’t exactly with me either. The March sky was dull and overcast, preparing itself for the Easter holiday; my path was blocked by roadworks, and a burst from a jackhammer sounded like the crack of a firing squad. Vauxhall Cross, home of what the press call MI6 but which is actually the Secret Intelligence Service, is about a mile upstream of the Houses of Parliament. Bizarrely shaped, like a beige and black pyramid that’s had its top cut off, with staged levels, large towers either side and a terrace bar overlooking the river, it only needs a few swirls of neon and you’d swear it was a casino. It wouldn’t look out of place in Las Vegas. I missed Century House, the old HQ building near Waterloo station. It might have been 1960s ugly, square, with loads of glass, net curtains and antennae, and not so handy for the tube, but it was much more homely.
Opposite Vauxhall Cross, and about 200 metres across the wide arterial road, is an elevated section of railway line, and beneath that are arches that have been turned into shops, two of which have been knocked through to make a massive motorbike shop. I was early, so I popped in and fantasized about which Ducati I was going to buy when I got a pay rise – which wasn’t going to be today. What the hell, the way my luck was going I’d probably go and kill myself on it.
I’d fucked up severely. I’d been sent to Saudi to encourage, then train, some Northern Iraqi Kurds to kill three leading members of the Ba’ath party. The hope was that the assassinations would spark everything up and help dismantle the regime in Baghdad.
The first part of my task was to take delivery in Saudi of some former Eastern-bloc weapons that had been smuggled in: Russian Dragunov sniper weapons, a couple of Makharov pistols, and two AK assault rifles – the parachute version with a folding stock. All serial numbers had been erased to make them deniable.
For maximum chaos, the plan was to get the Kurds to make three hits, at exactly the same time, in and around Baghdad. One was going to be a close-quarters shoot, using the Makharovs. The idea was for the two boys to walk up to the family house, knock on the door, take on whatever threat presented itself, make entry into the house, zap the target and run.
The second was going to be a sniper option. The target saw himself as a big-time fitness freak; he’d come out and have a little jog round a running track, all of about 400 metres. He emerged from his house every day in a lime-green, fluffy velour shell suit, did one lap, and that was his training for the day. The boys were going to hit him just as he started to sweat and slow down – which, by the look of him, would be after about 100 metres. I would be on this one to co-ordinate the hit so that both fired at once.
The third target was going to be taken out on his way to the ministry. Two bikes would pull up at traffic lights and give him the good news with their AK47s.
I landed up in northern Iraq without any problems, and started the build-up training. At this stage not even the Kurds knew what their task was going to be. The Dragunov sniper rifles were a heap of shit. However, the weapon is never as important as the ammunition, which in this case was even worse, Indian 7.62mm. Given a free hand, I would have wanted to use Lapua, manufactured in Finland and the best in the world for sniping because of its consistency, but Western rounds would have given the game away.
The Indian ammunition was hit and miss, mostly miss. On top of that the Dragunovs were semi-automatic rifles. Ideally, you need a bolt-action weapon, which is not only better for taking the hit, it also doesn’t leave an empty case behind because it stays in the weapon until you reload. However, it had to be Russian kit that they were zapped with and it had to be deniable.
Once all three jobs went down, the weapons were dumped in a hide and should have been destroyed. They weren’t. On the AK there is a forward leaf sight, and underneath that is scratched a serial number. I had been told that all serial numbers had been removed at source and had taken the information at face value. I didn’t check – I fucked up.
The only way to retrieve the situation as far as London was concerned was to kill the Kurd teams I’d been training. It was damage limitation on a drastic scale, but it had to be done. Detail counts. If the Iraqis could trace the weapons back, they might make the UK connection. If they then captured the Kurds, who just happened to mention the fact that they had been trained by a Westerner called Nick Stone, it wouldn’t take a mastermind to work out which country he came from. It actually pissed me off to have to kill them because I’d got to know these boys really well. To this day, I was still wearing the G Shock watch one of the snipers had given me. We’d had a bet when we were on the range, and he lost. I knew that I could beat him, but still cheated because I had to win. I’d really got to like him.
Back in the UK there had been an inquiry and everybody was covering their arse. And, because I was a K, they could land it all on me. The armourers and technicians from the intelligence service said it was my fault for not checking. What could I say? I didn’t even exist. I was bracing myself to take the hit.
I entered Vauxhall Cross via a single metal door that funnelled me towards reception. Inside, the building could be mistaken for any high-tech office block in any city: very clean, sleek and corporate. People who worked there were swiping their identity cards through electronic readers to get in, but I had to go over to the main reception desk. Two women sat behind thick bulletproof glass.
Through the intercom system I said to one of them, ‘I’m here to see Mr Lynn.’
‘Can you fill this in, please?’ She passed a ledger through a slot under the glass.
As I signed my name in two boxes she picked up a telephone. ‘Who shall I say is coming to see Mr Lynn?’
‘My name is Stamford.’
The ledger held tear-off labels. One half was going to be ripped off and put in a plastic badge-container, which I would have to pin on. My badge was blue and said, ‘ESCORTED EVERYWHERE.’
The woman came off the phone and said, ‘There’ll be somebody coming down to pick you up.’
A young clerk appeared minutes later. ‘Mr Stamford?’
I said, ‘All right, mate, how yer going?’
He half smiled. ‘If you’d like to come with me.’ He pressed the lift button and said, ‘We’re going to the fifth floor.’
The whole building is a maze. I just followed him; I didn’t have a clue where we were going. There was little noise coming from any of the offices apart from the hum of the air-conditioning ducts, just people bent over papers or working at PCs. At the far end of one corridor we turned left into a room. Old metal filing cabinets, a couple of 6-foot tables put together, and, as in any office anywhere, the kettle and cups, jars of coffee, packets of sugar and a milk rota. None of that for me, though – in free-fall talk, I’d just stand by and accept the landing.
Lieutenant-Colonel Lynn’s office was off to one side of the larger area. When the clerk knocked on the door there was a crisp and immediate call of ‘Come!’ The boy turned the handle and ushered me past.
Lynn was standing behind his desk. In his early forties, he was of average build, height and looks, but had that aura about him that marked him out as an absolute flier. The only thing he didn’t have, I was always pleased to note, was plenty of hair. I’d known him on and off for about ten years; for the last two years his job had been liaison between the MoD and SIS.
It was only as I walked further into the room that I realized he wasn’t alone. Sitting to one side of the desk, obscured until now by the half-opened door, was Simmonds. I hadn’t seen him since Gibraltar. What a switched-on boy he’d turned out to be, sorting out the inquest and basically making sure that Euan and I didn’t exist. I felt a mixture of surprise and relief to see him here. He’d had nothing to do with the Kurd job. We might be getting the kettle out after all.
Simmonds stood up. Six feet tall, late forties, rather distinguished looking, a very polite man, I thought, as he extended his hand. He was dressed in corduroy trousers the colour of Colman’s mustard, and a shirt that looked as if he’d slept in it.
‘Delighted to see you again, Nick.’
We shook hands and Lynn said, ‘Stone, Would you like a brew?’
Things were looking up.
‘Thanks. Coffee, white, no sugar.’
We all sat down. I took a wooden chair that was on the other side of the desk and had a quick look round the office, while Lynn pressed the intercom on his desk and passed the order on to the clerk. His office was at the rear of the building and overlooked the Thames. It was a very plain, very functional, very impersonal room, apart from a framed photograph on the desk of a group which I presumed were his wife and two children. There were two Easter eggs and wrapping paper on the window sill. Mounted on a wall bracket in one corner was a television; the screen was scrolling through Ceefax world news headlines. Under the TV was the obligatory officer’s squash racquet and his jacket on a coat-stand.
Without further formalities, Lynn leaned over and said, ‘We’ve got a fastball for you.’
I looked at Simmonds.
Lynn continued, ‘Stone, you’re in the shit over the last job, and that’s just tough, but you can rectify that by going on this one. I’m not saying it’ll help, but at least you’re still working. Take it or leave it.’
I said, ‘I’ll do it.’
He’d known what I was going to say. He was already reaching for a small stack of files containing photographs and bits of paper. As a margin note on one of the sheets I could see a scribble in green ink. It could only have been written by the head of the Firm. Simmonds still hadn’t said a word.
Lynn handed me a photograph.
‘Who are they?’
‘Michael Kerr and Morgan McGear. They’re on their way to Shannon as we speak, then flying to Heathrow for a flight to Washington. They’ve booked a return flight with Virgin and they’re running on forged southern Irish passports. I want you to take them from Shannon to Heathrow and then on to Washington. See what they’re up to and who they’re meeting.’
I’d followed players out of the Republic before and could anticipate a problem. I said, ‘What happens if they don’t follow the plan? If they’re on forged passports, they might go through the motions just to get airside, then use their other passports to board another flight and fuck off to Amsterdam. It wouldn’t be the first time.’
Simmonds smiled. ‘I understand your concern and it is noted. But they will go.’
Lynn passed me a sheet of paper. ‘These are the flight details. They booked yesterday in Belfast.’
There was a knock on the door. Three coffees arrived, one in a mug showing a Tasmanian devil, one with a vintage car on and a plain white one. I got the impression Lynn and Simmonds were on their second round.
Simmonds picked up the plain one, Lynn picked up the car, and I was left with the Tasmanian devil running up a hill.
‘Who’s taking them from Belfast to Shannon?’
Simmonds said, ‘Actually, it’s Euan. He has them at the moment. He’ll hand over to you at Shannon.’
I smiled to myself at the mention of Euan’s name. I was now out of the system and basically just used as a K on deniable operations. The only reason I did it was to finance other things I wanted to do. What they were, I didn’t know yet; I was a thirty-seven-year-old man with a lot on his mind but not too much in it. Euan, however, still felt very much part of the system. He still had that sense of a moral responsibility to fight the good fight – whatever that meant – and he’d be there until the day he was kicked out.
Simmonds handed me a folder. ‘Check that off,’ he said. ‘There are thirteen pages. I want you to sign for it now and hand it over to the aircrew when you’ve finished. Good luck,’ he added, not meaning it at all.
‘Am I going now?’ I said. ‘I don’t have my passport with me – fastball isn’t the word.’
Lynn said, ‘Your passport’s in there. Have you got your other docs?’
I looked at him as if I’d been insulted.
Passport, driver’s licence, credit cards are the basic requirements for giving depth to a cover story. From there the K builds up his own cover by using the credit cards to buy things, or maybe paying direct debits for magazine subscriptions or club memberships. I had my cards with me, as always, but not my passport. The one Simmonds handed me had probably been specially produced that morning, correct even down to visas and the right degree of ageing.