Crisis Four Page 10

  Maybe Josh could help. I could get hold of him when he returned from the UK, and maybe he could access some databases and run some covert checks. I wondered whether I should tell him the truth, but decided against. It could land both of us in the shit.

  The thought suddenly struck me that part of me was hoping I wouldn’t find her. I felt depressed, but resolved to crack on and get it over and done with. I would go straight to her flat, meet my new mate Metal Mickey, and take it from there.

  The beer turned up and I decided to veg out for the rest of the flight. As I watched a film my mind drifted to Kelly. She was probably sitting at the table with her grandad, drawing pictures and drinking tea and trying to pull her jumper out from her jeans every time her grandmother tucked it back in. I made a mental note to call her.

  I took another swig of beer and tried my hardest to think of something else, but I couldn’t get Sarah out of my mind.

  In 1987, two years before the end of the Soviet occupation of Afghanistan, the UK and US were sending teams in-country to train Afghani rebels, the mujahedin.

  The Soviet Union had invaded Afghanistan eight years earlier. Peasant villagers got their first experience of modern technology when they were pounded by Moscow’s jets, tanks and helicopters. Three million were killed or maimed; six million others fled west into Iran or east into Pakistan. Those that were left standing took on the Russians, living on stale bread and tea, sleeping on rocky mountainsides.

  Eventually the mujahedin put out an international plea for help. The West responded with $6-billion worth of arms. Congress, however, would not give permission for the rebels to be armed with American Stinger ground-to-air missiles to take down the Russian gunships and ground-attack aircraft, so our job was to train them in how to operate the Brit Blowpipe missiles instead. The CIA reasoned that if Congress was shown that the Afghans had a piss-poor ground-to-air missile capability – which they certainly did with Blowpipe: you needed to be a brain surgeon or have two right hands to use the thing – then they would eventually be allowed to have Stingers instead. They were right. We stayed and generally trained them how to fuck the Russians over.

  Not that I knew it at the time – I was more concerned about not losing a leg on the hundreds of thousands of anti-personnel mines the Russians had dropped – but in Saudi Arabia, a few years before, a young civil-engineering graduate called Osama Bin Laden had also responded to the rebels’ plea for help, packing himself and several of his family’s bulldozers off to central Asia. An Islamic radical from an influential and enormously wealthy family, whose construction company had been involved in rebuilding the holy mosques in Mecca and Medina, Bin Laden was inspired by what he saw as the plight of Muslims in a medieval society besieged by a twentieth-century superpower.

  At first his work was political. He was one of the Saudi benefactors who spent millions supporting the Afghan guerrillas. He recruited thousands of Arab fighters in the Gulf, paid for their passage to Afghanistan and set up the main guerrilla camp to train them. Then he must have gone a bit loopy. With all that money he decided to take part in the fighting himself. I never saw him, but every other word from the mujahedin would be on the subject of how great he was. They loved him, and so did the West at that time. He sounded like a good lad, taking care of widows and orphans by creating charities to support them and their families, all that sort of stuff.

  Our team had just finished a six-month tour in the mountains north of Kabul and was cleaning up back in the UK before a two-week holiday when we got called to London for orders. It looked as if we were going back to visit our new best mates a bit quicker than we thought. Aboard the helicopter, the rumour going round was that we were needed to protect a civil servant during meets with the mujahedin. We groaned at the thought of having to nanny a sixty-year-old Foreign Office pen-pusher while he did an on-site audit of arms expenditure. Colin had been picked to be with the principal at all times when on the ground, while the rest of us would provide protection from a distance. ‘Fuck that,’ said Colin. ‘It’ll be like getting stuck in an episode of Yes, Minister.’ He promptly wriggled out of it and handed the job over to me.

  Colin, Finbar, Simon and I were part of the team. We were sitting in a briefing room in a 1960s office block on the Borough High Street, just south of London Bridge, drinking tea from a machine and gobbing off as we waited for others to arrive. A woman we didn’t recognize entered the room, and all four of us, as well as a few of the advisers and briefing personnel, did a double take. She was stunning, her body hardly disguised by a short black skirt and jacket. She nodded to people she knew and sat down, seemingly oblivious to the many pairs of male eyes burning into her back.

  Colin would fuck the crack of dawn if he had the chance. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her. She took off her jacket, and the sleeveless top beneath showed off her shoulders. They had definition: she trained. I could sense Colin getting even more excited.

  He leaned over and whispered to Finbar, ‘I need a lawyer.’

  ‘Why’s that, wee mon?’ Finbar always called him that, which was strange, as the Irishman was about a foot smaller than Colin.

  ‘I’m getting a divorce.’

  We were all intrigued to know what she was bringing to the party; it came as a bit of a shock when she was introduced as the civil servant we were going to protect. I had to smile. I knew what was coming next and, right on cue, Colin leaned towards me. ‘Nick . . .’

  I ignored him, making him suffer a bit more. ‘Nick . . .’

  I turned and gave him a big smile.

  ‘I’ll take my job back now, mate.’

  I slowly shook my head.

  Listening intently to the briefing officer, she crossed her legs, and the rustle of the material was just about the most wonderful sound I’d ever heard. I was sure we were all paying more attention to that than to the briefing. She was now comfortable in her seat and her skirt had ridden up enough to show the darker tops of her tights. It was impossible to tell if she was doing it on purpose. She didn’t turn her head or glance around to check for effect.

  When she stood up to speak, her voice was low and very confident. If the Intelligence Service didn’t work out for her, she could always find a job on an 0898 number.

  Sarah explained that what she wanted to do was lay her hands on – and get back to the West – an airworthy, Russian-built Hind ground-attack helicopter, the true capabilities of which, she said, were still not understood. Better still, she added, she’d like a pair. She was the one who was going to strike the deal with the Afghans, and it was a simple case of, ‘we’ll scratch your back by carrying on showing you how to fuck the Russians, you scratch ours with a helicopter or two.’

  From day one of the two months that we were moving in and out of Pakistan to the rebels’ mountain hides, she was a consummate professional to work with. She made life so much easier for us – sometimes on jobs like this we could spend just as much time massaging the fear factor out of the poor fucker who had to make the meet as we would preparing for it ourselves. But she was different. Maybe she wasn’t scared because she had just as much of a fiery temper as the truculent rebels. That often led to delays in negotiations – more so than the fact that she was a woman. But it was obvious to me that she had the knowledge, language and background to hold her own with these people, for whom we all had the greatest respect; after all, they were fighting a superpower, and winning.

  I saw that Sarah had a love and understanding of this part of the world that she couldn’t have hidden, even if she’d tried. On top of that, she was switched on and didn’t flap when the meets got heated. She knew I was there, and that the other three were around somewhere, watching. If the shit had hit the fan, the Afghans wouldn’t have known what had hit them – unless the shit was Russian, in which case our orders were to bail out and leave the rebels to it.

  We were on a shopping trip, but with a difference. Everyone had a weapon and everyone was at war – not only with the Russians, but also with
each other as they fought to gain control of the country. Sarah played one group off against another to get what she wanted. It only went wrong once, when two young men discovered what was going on and confronted her. I had to do a little confrontation of my own at that point, and make sure the bodies were never found.

  Another time she lost her cool when the rebels told her they wanted to sell the Hind to her, not simply hand it over. They had screamed and shouted at each other and the meet had ended with her storming off onto the mountainside. We drove to the border in silence, while she sat and brooded about what had happened. At length she said, ‘Not a good one for me, Nick. What do you think I should write in my report?’

  I thought for a moment. ‘PMT?’

  She laughed. ‘Never mind, we’ll just have to come back and try again soon, but not for the next five days.’ It was the first time I’d seen her really laugh. As we tried to make it back to Pakistan before one of the helicopters she was so keen to get hold of found us, she was giggling like a schoolkid.

  It turned into a ritual. After it happened for the third time I would just nod and say, ‘Fuck ’em if they can’t take a joke.’ She’d laugh, and we would then just spin the shit until we got to the safety of Pakistan.

  Later she had a report that PIRA (the Provisional IRA) were passing technical information to the mujahedin on how to make home-made explosives and timer units. London reckoned the Afghans would be paying PIRA back with buckets of their US- and UK-sourced weapons.

  She looked concerned. ‘What are we going to do about it, Nick? London wants me to find out who their contact is.’

  I cracked up. ‘You already know them.’

  She looked puzzled. ‘I do?’

  ‘Colin, Finbar, Simon and me.’

  She was now totally confused.

  ‘Think about it. Who has been fighting a terrorist war for years? We showed the Afghans what PIRA use, we showed them how to make the timer units. PIRA’s stuff is easy to make, reliable and it works. It’s the best improvized kit in the world. We even use it ourselves, so why not show our new best mates? That’s our job right: to help fuck up the bad boys.’

  The next evening in Pakistan was spent constructing a sit rep that took the piss out of the int collator who’d thought up this little PIRA gem, and she found it as funny as I did, which was all rather nice, because I was finding that I liked the way her nose twitched when something amused her and her face creased into a big, radiant smile.

  It was strange that we got on so well, because in many ways we were chalk and cheese. I had joined the Army because I was too thick to do anything else. I’d seen the adverts that said I could be a helicopter pilot serving Queen and country, and an uncle of mine, who was an ex-serviceman, told me that girls loved a uniform. As far as I was concerned, all you had to do to get permanently tanned and laid was saunter down to the recruiting office. To a sixteen-year-old kid who thought that the world beyond my south London housing estate was just hearsay, it was no wonder the posters sucked me in. I couldn’t wait to go to Cyprus – wherever that was – and fly my helicopter over beaches packed with girls who were just gagging for me to land and let them play with my joystick.

  Strangely, however, that wasn’t quite the way things turned out. I took the entry tests, but the army seemed to take the view that somebody who could only just about do up his own boot laces without getting confused was not about to take sole charge of a multimillion-pound Chinook. So, the infantry it was, then.

  Sarah, on the other hand, was smart. Private Benjamin she wasn’t. Not that I knew much about her; ironically, she was just as good as I was at not giving anything away. No, I realized later, she was better. And to be honest that pissed me off. I wanted to know all about her strengths and weaknesses, her hopes and fears, her likes and dislikes, because armed with that information I could properly plan and carry out an attack on her expensive designer underwear. Since part of our cover while in Pakistan was that we were a couple and had to share the same hotel room – much to Colin’s fury – I thought I might be in with a chance. At least, that was at the back of my mind at the start. I soon surprised myself by finding that, more than to get into her pants, I wanted to get inside her head. I realized I actually liked her. I liked her a lot, and I’d never felt that way about anyone before.

  As time went by, however, I was making no progress. I could never get any sort of handle on who this woman really was. It was like playing a computer game and never getting past level one. It wasn’t that she was aloof; she was a great mixer. She’d go out with the team, and even accepted dinner with me a couple of times. She had a way of making me feel like a puppy jumping around at her feet waiting for a doggie drop. I knew, though, that I had the dreamer’s disease, and that nothing would happen between us. What the fuck would she want from someone like me, apart from my ability to rip people apart for her if they got too scary?

  On that point I’d obviously acquitted myself all right, because Sarah was the one who suggested that I apply for a job with the service once I left the Regiment. Even now, after five years, I still didn’t know if I should kiss her for that, or give her the good news with a two-pound ball hammer.

  I drank more beer and tried to watch the TV screen in front of me, but really I couldn’t be arsed. I thought back again to the Afghanistan job. The United States and its allies gave tens of thousands of assault rifles and rocket-propelled grenades, millions of rounds of ammunition and hundreds of Stinger missiles to the mujahedin. By the time the war ended in 1989 the muj’s stock of Stingers was far from exhausted, and the CIA soon had a multimillion-dollar reward operation going, in an attempt to get them back before they were sold to any terrorist group who fancied a couple to play with. As far as I knew, the offer still stood.

  I turned onto my side, trying to get comfortable, and thought that maybe I should be going back to try and get some of that reward for myself. It was about time I made some money. I didn’t know where they were, but I knew an Afghan who’d got Sarah’s Hinds for her, and he just might.

  It’s strange how things change. During that time Bin Laden was most certainly in the West’s Good Lads’ club. Now he’d had the idea of blowing up things on the American mainland, he was public enemy number one. I wondered what sort of reward the US had on his head.

  The flight ended in Dulles airport, just outside of Washington, and I joined the long snake of people lining up for Immigration. It took about twenty minutes to shuffle to the desks, gradually zigzagging my way backwards and forwards between the ropes. It reminded me of queuing for a ride at Disneyland. The immigration personnel looked like policemen and behaved like bouncers, pushing and herding us into position.

  My immigration official glared as if he was trying to spook me, maybe because he was bored. I just smiled like a dickhead tourist while he stamped the visa waiver and wearily invited me to enjoy my stay in the United States of America.

  The automatic doors parted and I walked into the frenzy of the arrivals lounge. Drivers were holding up felt-tipped cards, families were clutching flowers and teddy bears, and they were all looking hopefully at each face that came through the sliding doors. All I wanted was a big dose of caffeine.

  I wandered over to Starbucks and got myself about a pint and a half of cappuccino. Tucking myself away in the corner, I got out the 3C and the mobile and switched them both on.

  I found the number I wanted and waited an age for the mobile to get a signal. The new Bosch mobiles worked on both worldwide and US frequencies; there wasn’t 100 per cent coverage here yet, but it was getting better. They had completely changed the way we worked. Phones had been around for ages which could do the same job, but they weren’t available commercially. On covert ops you can only use what you can buy at the Carphone Warehouse; if not, you’d stand out like dogs’ bollocks. I hit the keys.

  ‘Hellooo, Michael speaking.’ The voice was camp and highly pitched, more like a game-show host than the personal assistant of a member of the ‘other Forei
gn Office’.

  ‘My name’s Nick Snell,’ I said.

  ‘Oh yes, I’ve been waiting to hear from you,’ he said, and it was a mixture of warmth, excitement and pleasure, as if I was a long-lost friend. ‘How are you?’

  I was a bit taken aback. We didn’t know each other, and going by the sound of his voice I wouldn’t even buy a second-hand washing machine from him, yet he was talking to me as if I was his best mate from way back. ‘I’m fine,’ I said, feeling a smile spread across my face. ‘How are you?’

  He came back with, ‘I’m just Jim Dandy!’ Then he tried to switch to serious mode. ‘Now then, where do you want to meet me?’

  All of a sudden I wondered if I was on a radio stitch-up show and started to laugh. I said, ‘I’ll leave that to you. After all, it’s your town, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh and what a town!’ He clearly couldn’t wait to share it with me. There was a little pause, then he said, ‘I tell you what, I’ll meet you at the Bread and Chocolate Bakery. It’s a coffee shop on the corner of M and 23rd. They do fantastic mocha, and it’s not far from the apartment. Now, do you know where M and 23rd is?’

  I knew the area and I could read a map. I’d find it. ‘I’ve got to pick a car up first – I’ll be there in about two hours’ time. Will that fit in with you?’

  For reasons best known to himself, he came back with a mock-Texan drawl. ‘Why sure, Nick.’ He laughed. ‘I’ll be the beach ball with the blue shirt and the red tie; you won’t be able to miss me.’

  I said, ‘I’m wearing jeans, a blue checked shirt and a blue bomber jacket.’

  ‘See you there. By the way, parking is an absolute bitch this time of day, so good luck to you. See you there, M and 23rd. Byeeee!’

  I hit the ‘end’ button and shook my head. What the fuck was that all about?

  6

  I was only two blocks away when I got held up in slow-moving traffic. With its tall buildings and narrow roads, the area around M and 23rd reminded me of the more upscale areas of New York. Even the weather was the same as on my visits to the Big Apple: cloudy, but warm. Trust Sarah to live around here, I thought, but in fact it made sense. It wasn’t far from Massachusetts Avenue, which more or less bisects the city from north-west to south-east, and all the embassies, missions and consulates are in the area, mainly in the north-west section.