Authors: John Macrae
"No, really, forget it." He backed to the edge of the pavement. "I'll just get a taxi."
"But don't you even want my name and address? I mean, what about the money?"
"No, don't worry," he babbled," Goodbye." And Grey-jacket scuttled into the gloom just as the streetlights came full on, revealing a loose black cable dangling out of the back of his jacket over his backside.
I turned to the two Police-men who were standing looking at me. I caught a glimpse of an expression on their faces I'd seen before; from James Bellingham, just before he'd left the firm, and from Harry Plummer that morning when I'd surged up over the desk, pretending to have lost my temper.
It was that same mixture of mixture of fear and watchfulness. They seemed to be looking at me as if I was some kind of dangerous animal. I wondered how I'd been briefed to the surveillance teams;
'A highly trained ex-SAS man, suspected of several killings; probably a psychopath with no moral scruples, following a mental illness; likely to attack without warning. Possibly armed. Very dangerous. Approach with caution…’
. Was that how I'd been described: as a 'most dangerous man'? I wondered if the police were armed. I'll bet they were.
I decided to have a bit of fun and give the coppers something to tell the boys when they got back. I moved closer. Interestingly, the younger one flinched slightly and took a step back, but the older Copper stood his ground, regarding me attentively, ready for anything.
"I'll bet he was listening to one of those
Walkman
things. That's probably why he didn't see me coming," I said.
"What makes you say that?" asked the older copper.
"Well, he must have been. Didn't you see the wire dangling down his back? I'll bet he had a pair of headphones on."
A ghost of a smile hung round the copper's mouth. For a veteran policeman it was the emotional equivalent of a belly laugh. He decided to join in the charade, "Yes, I did. Very careless, these young lads." He looked me square in the eye. My lad’s got one of those iPod things. Headphones in his ears all the time. Walks around like a tit in a trance most of the time.”
"Which way were you heading, Officer?"
He rocked on his toes, regarding me thoughtfully. "We were just patrolling the Embankment, sir." Crafty sod! He didn't want to be committed to going one way, while I went the other.
"You don't mind if I stroll down with you?" I asked. "I'm heading towards Westminster."
The young one started to speak, but the leader cut him off. "Not at all, sir. Always glad to chat to the public. Not enough chance of that nowadays...." There was a twinkle in his eye. "Provided that we don't allow it to interfere with our duties, of course."
"Of course," I agreed, all sincerity.
And then we began what must have been one of the most bizarre foot surveillance operations ever recorded by the Met and their Security Service colleagues. The cooperative hare strolled along with two of the hounds, making gentle conversation. We talked about politics, a bit of football, bout which I know bugger all, the merits of police houses versus a rent allowance, and home brewed beer. Bob, the older copper, had been in the Navy at one time and brought the chat round to the services. He was all for them, and so, I said, was I.
"Ex-serviceman yourself, are you?"
"Yes," I beamed back. How did you guess?"
"What mob were you with, then?" asked Bob.
"Pay Corps," I invented shamelessly, "Logistics Corps nowadays.... I was going to be an accounts clerk. I only tried it for a couple of months then they chucked me out for fallen arches. Shame, really. I quite liked all that camping and stuff in basic training."
"Oh, yeah," said Bob sarcastically, "That must've been hard." He seemed to be on the verge of laughing.
Lenny, his mate, whose efforts at conversation up to then had been half-hearted to say the least, lapsed into a stunned silence from then on,
while Bob and I wrangled peaceably about the relative merits of the Naval Discipline Act and the need for a some kind of national service training for violent young offenders. Surprisingly, he was against it.
All the time the brown Rover cruised back and forth patrolling like some nervous shark, while the big police Transit van always seemed to be about two hundred yards behind or floating around in front. And doubtless every word we said was relayed from the two coppers' surveillance radios to be followed with disbelief in the mobile control room.
At one point I stopped and waved at the Transit. "One of yours?"
Bob glanced up casually. "Yeah; it looks like the control vehicle for Cannon Row." With a flash of humour he added, "I expect they're out testing their radios. They often do that this time of night." I nodded thoughtfully, and we continued our stroll.
I left them at Cannon Row. They said they were going into the station for a cup of tea. I said I was going to Westminster Underground as I had to meet my aged mother. We both knew we were lying. I even shook their hands when I left. Lenny avoided my eye, but Bob gave me a smile and wished me 'all the best, good luck, and don't go bumping into any more pedestrians'. I grinned back and said something about 'only the ones with softer bumpers.' We parted friends. I liked Bob.
I'll bet they use the tape re
c
ording of that walk down the Embankment as part of the Metropolitan Police Surveillance and the Security Service Training Course to this day. I laughed all the way back to the flat and slept the sleep of the righteous.
After all, I was in the clear: hadn't Lamaison said so?
*
*
*
The surveillance stayed on me to the end of the week. That puzzled me a bit.
I
'd have thought Lamaison and Mallalieu would have got the Met to pull it off by now, but it must have be
e
n taking longer than they thought. Although it wasn't too obvious, it wasn't in the same league as the high grade gang that had worked me on the Embankment. In fact, sometimes they seemed almost not to care if I clocked them.
But they never caused me any grief, so I decided not to be cheeky and mess around with the two large blokes stuck in a car outside the flat, or the courting couple who always seemed to be journeying hopefully past, but somehow never arrived. I let them all make their own peculiar contribution to London's street theatre and got on with my life. After all, I reasoned, they would be pulled off soon, so if I didn't bother them, they wouldn't bother me. And they didn't. But I was conscious of them all the time.
Back in the office I beavered away on Mallalieu's Great Russian Oil Pipeline Security Scheme. It not only looked good, it was good. We couldn't lose. Although our bid wouldn't be the lowest, no-one could match our unique blend of resources. I began to realise why the company's cover was so good for our more questionable activities - the legitimate firm was a rock solid, profitable commercial concern. The Secret Intelligence Vote had got its money's worth out of Specialist Insurance Services Ltd. all right.
Mallalieu was more relaxed than I'd ever seen him. He even took Andy and me out to lunch one day, which was highly unusual. He was an urbane, amusing host and the occasion was a great success. Not a word was said about my revelations, although I quietly offered a toast to 'Briggs in Valhalla,' to Andy's amazement and Mallalieu's spluttering amusement.
The good General Sellers came back from his Far East trip, full of plans to open a branch in Singapore now that 'money was so cheap in the Far East'
-
whatever that was supposed to mean
-
and Joy and I spent most of our evenings trying to work out how much money we'd got between us and what sort of a house we could afford. All in all, it was probably one of the most relaxed and satisfying weeks I could remember for a long time.
To my surprise, the surveillance still hadn't been pulled off by the weekend. I joked about it to Mallalieu on the Friday. He'd looked concerned and promised to do something about it for me, but it was still there on the Sunday morning, round at Joy's when I went out to get the papers. I'm an addict of the Sundays. I like to read them all, if I ever get the time. I'd left Joy warm and soft sprawled among the bedcovers, smelling very sexy and muttering sleepily something about she'd make the coffee when I got back as she fumbled to pull the duvet over her bottom. Which, I have to admit, looked very fetching, like one of those Impressionist paintings.
In a good humour, bundled into a smelly tracksuit, I set out to the shops. The minute I walked out I saw the surveillance team. Someone was certainly in an upstairs window across the road. Lace curtains twitched from a careless hand and shadows moved behind. A minute later the front door opened and a scruffy young bloke appeared clutching a man's bag, looked up and down the street, then walked in front of me on the other side of the road, towards the shops. It was like bloody amateur night, and, frankly, I was irritated. You'd think that they would have made a better fist of it against a conscious hard target like me; because presumably that's what I
was
categorized as. If they were play
i
ng silly buggers with some one like me, then they should at least take it seriously. That sort of sloppiness offended me professionally.
At the crossroads my obvious front tail crossed over and headed towards the shops. When I got to the corner I dived off to the right and dashed into a bushy garden to see what would happen. Sure enough, twenty seconds later he appeared back at the corner, looking flustered and puzzled. He stared blankly down the side turnings. From behind my hedge I watched him run past me to the next crossroads and look anxiously both ways again, obviously puzzled. Then he began to talk urgently into the little handbag he was carrying, before disappearing down the hill, looking like a man running for the bus.
I counted twenty, heaved myself out the privet, and went back to the crossroads, to amble slowly back my original destination, the newsagents. By the time I got out with my paper, the street was alive. For this time on Sunday it was like rush hour. At least six people, all total strangers to the area, were on the move, including a young couple who stopped to stare intently at the hand-written advertisements in the paper shop window looking for good homes for young cats and old prams.
I caught their eye; they looked away quickly. I was tempted to say 'Looking for something?' but I didn't. I just removed a stray privet leaf from my sweater and walked back to the flat and Joy.
Thank God she'd made the coffee; the whole thing was beginning to give me the creeps.
The buggers were still keeping an eye on me. But why?
SURROUNDED?
First thing on Monday, I tried to find out why I was still being tailed.
I had to see Mallalieu. I tried to talk to him first thing, but he was out for most of the morning. When he came in, he sent for me immediately.
"Nice tie," he grunted sarcastically. I had the grace to look embarrassed. Joy'
s little gift from Tie Rack was
, frankly, a bit flashy for my taste. Well, I ask you:
little Dumbo elephants on a bright red background. St
i
ll, Joy liked it, and said it would brighten up my 'dull old insurance office.' I'd said it was a good job that I didn't smoke cigars like Bill Clinton, because then she could have given me a special cigar to take to the office, and the whole thing had degenerated.
"It was a present," I explained to Mallalieu, who only raised his eyebrows and said, "You'll be wearing knitted cardigans soon the way you're going on."
He ran a hand over his hair.
"Look;
I don't know how to put this," he began. I tried to tell him that the surveillance hadn't gone away and I was worried, but he wouldn't listen and waved me to a chair. "We're having a bit of a problem with the Home Office."
"Don't I know it," I replied. “
The buggers are staked out everywhere. They're beginning to ruin my social life."
"Yes. It's not been easy. The fact is, they're very reluctant to call it off. They still want to talk to you."
"Why? I thought you and Lamaison had sorted it all out.'
"We're trying to." Mallalieu looked evasive, "But it's not working out as we hoped."
"Not working out? What do you mean?"
"We can't seem to...ah ... call the dogs off..."
I was appalled. If those two couldn't call off the dogs, then who the hell could? I was back to square one. "But isn't there anything you can do?"
"We're trying. If it's any help, your case is with the Home Secretary at present."
"Jesus. As high as that?"
"As high as that." Mallalieu looked grim. "And it may go even higher."
"I don't see how it can."
He looked at me from under his eyebrows. "Think about it."
I thought. "The Prime Minister?" I found it hard to believe. And he probably wouldn't be soft on my particular crimes. In fact he
certainly
wouldn't. That would ruin his nice 'Mr Squeaky' image. Suddenly my idyllic life was beginning to fall apart.
"And that's not all," Mallalieu went on, plucking a piece of red-bordered paper from his trays. "The CIT have asked to question you formally, on Wednesday. Under caution. "
For a moment I was stunned. My voice sounded strained to my own ears when I spoke. "Question me? Under police caution? The Combined Interrogation Team? Formally? What the hell does that mean?"
"Interrogate," supplied Mallalieu gently. "They want to officially interrogate you, on behalf of the Police and the Security Service. Take statements. You know what
that
means."
I cupped my head in my hands. The office was quiet, except for the clock ticking. I remembered other times in that room; drinking coffee with Mallalieu after I came back from Paris; taking that nice, rather plump little typist into the corner after last year's office party and feeling under her skirt while she giggled, ‘
someome’ll
come in!’ as she wriggled her hips against me… collecting the Venus gun before the Roberts job; and the savage secret pleasure in crushing the bugging device with needle-nose pliers that lunchtime. Now the room suddenly seemed like a trap. I felt caught,
enmeshed
in a sticky web of the past, the present and an uncertain future. I looked up. Mallalieu was standing by his desk looking down at me with an odd expression on his face; if I didn't know him better, I'd have called it compassion.
"What am I going to do?" I asked.
"There is an answer, and it's one that the CIT and the Home Office can't do a damned thing about." He thought hard. "If you're not in the country, they can't touch you."
"But I can't just do a runner. Like a fugitive or something. No. "
"No-one's asking you to run away. But if you're away doing a job then they can't touch you."
"Until I get back. They'll just be waiting for me."
"Not at all. If you're away for two to three weeks, that'll give us a better opportunity to square things. By the time you got back, it would all be over. It's just a question of time, of keeping you out of the way for a bit until we can sort out a proper answer with the Whitehall machine."
“But where can I go? We've no jobs on that I know of."
"Ah well, it just so happens that I might be able to help you. You see, the minute I knew that this police nonsense was continuing, I had a word with William Lamaison. He's been extremely helpful." I'll bet, I thought. "Well, there is one little job ... "
"Where?"
"It's hot and dry - east of Suez; your part of the world ... "
"I'll take it," I interrupted. "Kurdistan again, eh?"
"It's not Kurdistan. But that's all I can tell you until I know your decision. Do you want to do it?”
"Too bloody right! For how long?"
He looked thoughtful. "At least thee weeks - possibly a little longer."
I thought hard about it. I'd miss Joy; but survival was more important at this stage than a month's separation, I calculated.
"Great. I'm your man, Colonel. What's the job? When can I leave?"
"Well, I'm not going into all the details now." He went over to his security container and took out a grey security box. I watched in s
ilence as he spun the
co
m
bination lock through its three digit sequence to open it and reveal a red file with a yellow cross on the cover. He flung it onto my lap. "Just read that."
The file contained only three pieces of paper. The first was an American signal in grey printer text, covered with red stamps and code words I'd never seen before. I had to read it twice before it made any sense. American signals jargon seems designed to obscure, not illuminate.
"Afghanistan?"'
"That's right." Mallalieu's manner was brisk. "That's a CIA request to do a job. Helping a friendly government; well, the lesser of two evils, I suppose. It's straightforward enough, but it needs to be done by a Brit.
A Yank would be too vulnerable and obvious in the Pakistan border regions. It appears that you made a big hit with the Yanks after Iran. In fact, one of their Regional Controllers asked for you by name."
I looked at the signal again. Sal. Good old Sal. It had to be him. He had sworn he was
DIA
,
not CIA... Slippery sod.
“Right. It needs someone to go in, meet up with a cache of arms, run them forward to the official customers at an RV, collect a package, then come out.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Straightforward stuff for you. It's a five night stand, at most. The aim is to give discreet support to the regime against the Taliban… …"
"What sort of arms?"
"Mixed batch. Mainly handheld anti-
bunker
missiles... God knows what they want those for…"
"How many ?"
Two hundred." I whistled in disbelief. "Don't worry; there'll be a company of mountain porters to move them for you. I don’t think that they expect you to back-pack them one at a time," he smiled, a tight, mocking smile.
I was uneasy. "Why can't the Afghan regime just collect them themselves? Why do we have to provide somebody? Surely CIA are all over Pakistan?"
"Because they don't know where the cache is, that's why; and it's important that the arms are seen to be a discreet gift from the West, but not any...official....delivery. It's very political, I'm afraid. They'll probably sell them for hard cash, anyway. Secondly, we must have a trustworthy white face to meet their Head Man and take their next order." He made it sound like a Chinese restaurant.
I pointed to a flaw. "But I don't speak Afghan... "
"
Pashto
," corrected Mallalieu. He looked down at a bit of paper. "You don't need to. Your background is perfect. You've got conversational Farsi from your Kurd training. That's understood well enough there. Your guides will be English-speaking Pakistanis and Baluchis. And the man you're going to meet probably speaks better English than you do: he's got a second in PPE from New College, Oxford. Was some sort of
junior
minister before the
Taliban
took over
.
Fought the Russians in the eighties, and came back into power when the Taliban were kicked out…
doesn't intend to hand it all over again to some raggy arsed bunch of fundamentalist extremists. The NATO people love him, according to this."
Silent, I returned to the file. The second enclosure was a photocopy
of a short letter from the Coo
rdinator, ordering Lamaison and SP(E) to take on the American request, using ' a suitably qualified individual'. The third was a terse memo from Mallalieu acknowledging the job and ending, 'the task will be carried out by a member of the Special Operations Group.' I probed the job for more flaws.
"Surely this is a straight SAS job?"
“Uh-uh: this is
not
for the Regiment. They're too well known nowadays. Ministers want no SAS or official MOD involvement.
T
he SAS is blown nowadays. There've been too many silly books, too much publicity. Everyone in the SAS is working on their next book or claiming that they really were a member of Twenty Two to con a publisher. And since that Libyan fiasco . . . No, the SAS has got silly. The Press is even paying narks living in the houses outside their barracks a weekly retainer now to report on every vehicle going in and out. No, this has
really
got to be deniable."
"What about opposition?"
He shrugged. "What about it? They can't seal a border like that. As far as the regime is concerned, it's a thousand mile flank; and an open one at that. By day the government and the Peacekeeping Force clatter around in helicopters and drive along the roads in their APCs. At night all the gollies huddle in the mosques and lecture each other from the Koran. But the countryside in the North West is open house for the dissidents after dark." He sounded convincing. It bore out what I'd read both in the press and in the DIS's summaries. "Well?" He looked questioningly. "Do you want to take it on or don't you?"
I rubbed my chin. It was a bit out of my line, but anything that got me out of the country had to be good at present. "How far do we have to go? In Afghanistan, I mean?"
"About eighty miles, I understand. Forty in, forty out. You'll need your hiking boots, once you're taken up from Kabul. It's a bit hilly. We'll fly you out to Pakistan
business
class; you can shuttle into Kabul from there. After that it’s
Landrover
and your feet." Again a flicker of a smile.
Frankly, the whole thing sounded dodgy. but what choice did I have? Stay here and take my chance with the Combined Interrogation Team and the Metropolitan Police with the wind up their kilts? No bloody chance. That was a no-win option whichever way you looked at it. And even if it did all go sour, and the worst came to the worst, at least I would be out of the country.
At least I could trust Mallalieu to keep me out for as long as it took. I had friends in Hong Kong and I knew people in the Gulf and Australia if I had to run. Hell, it was obvious. I had no option. I had to do it. "OK, I'll do it. When do I leave?"
"Tomorrow. You'll fly out from Gatwick at nine o'clock tomorrow night."
"
Tomorrow?
That's a bit quick." I was wondering what I was going to say to Joy.
"Do you really want to be around on Wednesday morning when the Met stops by for a cosy chat?" I shook my head. He had a persuasive way with words, did Colonel Tom Mallalieu. "Well then," he went on. "You turn over your desk to Andy today, then get your kit sorted out tonight. I'll brief you properly at eleven o'clock tomorrow."
What kit do I need? What about my cover?"
"Standard Iran-type stuff. You'll be staying at the Islamabad Hilton until you go in. If anyone asks, you're an insurance risks assessor. Treat it Standard Operating Procedure, absolutely normal. Straightforward civvy kit for the hotel, hill walking kit for the trek."
"Money?"
"No problem. Jan and Doreen will do all your tickets and stuff this end. You'll be on standard expenses throughout. Morgan Stanley and Citibank no limit gold cards. US registered. You’ll take a spare US passport. Can’t remember the name. Bottom of your bag job.” He smiled. “The Americans are not the only ones who can play at deniable ops, eh? Plan on being away for three weeks and we'll extend by e-mail if necessary. Now, stop fussing and get yourself sorted out. We'll go into all the details at the briefing tomorrow."
I went to the door. "What will you tell the CIT? On Wednesday, I mean."