by Matt Johnson
At a quarter to nine the next morning, I was waiting next to the taxi rank at King’s Cross rail station.
I felt tired. After many days without intrusion, the previous night had seen vivid nightmares return to disturb my sleep. Although the news on Al McCulloch was good, the experience of treating him had, once again, triggered a series of distant memories. I found myself reliving the incident, getting things terribly wrong and then having to face the wrath of those around me.
Jenny had been great. She’d noticed me ‘chasing rabbits’ and, as I woke, she grabbed a towel from the bathroom, dried off the sweat and then cuddled up to me until I relaxed. I drifted in and out of sleep for the next couple of hours, but when the alarm finally went off, it felt like I had only just closed my eyes. My body now ached and I’d fallen asleep twice on the short train journey to King’s Cross. It was going to be a long day.
The sound of a horn close by caught my attention. Glancing across the line of waiting black taxis, I could see a small silver sports car. It was Nina. She waved to me frantically from where she was blocking the entrance to the taxi rank.
I jogged over to the passenger door, ignored the disapproving glares of the taxi drivers, and dropped heavily into the seat next to Nina. Allowing no time for me to slip on the seat belt or even mutter a ‘good morning’, she slammed the little car into gear and darted into a line of traffic, narrowly avoiding a fast-moving cyclist who was speeding up the inside of the queue.
The lights on Euston Road were at red and, with the junction blocked by a bus, it looked like it might be some time before the traffic got moving.
‘We’ll go the back way, hold on,’ Nina said, as she forced a path between the second line of cars and made a right turn away from the lights.
Moments later, the congestion of King’s Cross was fast disappearing in the rearview mirror as we headed north towards Islington.
Our appointment was at the ARV Headquarters at Old Street Police Station. Nina had telephoned ahead to arrange to see Lynn Wainwright in the canteen at ten. We found her fairly easily. Nina bought teas and I ordered a breakfast. By the time I returned to our table, they had already started work.
From her briefcase, Nina had produced several photos that she was in the process of spreading out on the canteen table. Lynn was studying the collection of pictures. Three were from police records – photographs taken as part of the fingerprint identification process in a custody suite. The remainder were from passport control, with one or two being stills from CCTV cameras.
The quality of these latter images wasn’t great and, as I glanced over Lynn’s shoulder, I wondered how anyone could be expected to pick someone out. The rest of the photos were surveillance close-ups taken by someone who clearly knew what they were doing.
One of the poor-quality pictures was of Marcus, the Romanian from the petrol station. I knew that both Nina and I were wondering whether Lynn would pick him out. Lynn turned towards me as I sat at the adjacent table, a welcoming smile on her face.
‘I hadn’t realised you were going to be here,’ she said, warmly.
‘Not a problem, is it?’
‘No … not at all. In fact, I’m pleased you came. I just wanted to say how incredible you were at the house yesterday. The paramedics said you most likely saved Al’s life.’
‘To be honest, I’ve never done anything like it before, but I knew we had to do something.’
‘That training as a medic came in handy, I guess?’ Nina interrupted, winking at me while Lynn was distracted. She was diverting the conversation, avoiding any chance of my becoming embarrassed.
‘Yes … I guess the teaching was better than I realised,’ I said.
‘Lynn was just telling me that she’s in the sin bin for the next month or so.’
Topic changed. Nice one, Nina, I thought. ‘The sin bin?’ I asked.
‘My firearms authorisation is suspended until the IPCC finish their initial investigation,’ Lynn explained. ‘That’s supposed to take twenty-eight days but the Federation rep says not to hold my breath. He’s known it take longer, particularly when it’s a fatal shooting.’
‘Were the Federation ok with you talking to us?’ asked Nina.
‘Just so long as we don’t discuss what happened. A Federation lawyer is meeting with the post-incident manager as we speak. After that I’ll follow a PIP that they’ve prepared for me.’
‘A PIP?’ I asked.
‘Post-Incident Plan. For example, I can do you a quick statement if I happen to recognise the man that escaped, but I have to sign it Charlie Four.’
‘A cipher?’
‘Exactly. There will be an inquest and an enquiry, so my identity needs to be masked straightaway.’
‘Who’s the post-incident manager?’ Nina enquired. ‘We may need to speak to him later.’
‘Our Ops Superintendent, Ron Glover.’
‘I know him, thanks.’
Lynn had been flicking through the pictures as we spoke. She didn’t recognise anyone and, after several minutes, she admitted defeat. It was completely understandable; her view of the fleeing gunman had only been peripheral as she had concentrated on bringing down the most immediate threat to life. By the time her focus had shifted, the man had been on his toes and away down the road. The merest glance of a face from the corner of her eye wasn’t enough to identify him.
As Nina was putting the photographs back in her briefcase, she stopped and lowered her voice. ‘Woman to woman, would it help if I ran through a few things for you?’
Lynn glanced at me before replying. ‘How do you mean…?’
‘I’ve been an investigator for a lot of years, Lynn. You’re going to be interviewed as a suspect. It might help, off the record, to just hear what the Independent Complaint Commission investigator will want to cover.’
‘Won’t the Federation do that? It’s what we pay our subscription for, isn’t it?’
‘They might. But we have a few minutes here and now; I think it could help.’
Lynn looked to me again, as if seeking a second opinion. I simply grunted my approval of the offer.
‘OK … I guess I have nothing to lose.’
Lynn nodded attentively as Nina spoke. To me, it was clear that slave trafficking wasn’t my colleague’s sole field of expertise. Soon, Lynn began to open up. I listened as detective and firearms officer talked through the decision to open fire, what threat Lynn had perceived and her justification for using lethal force. Nina even asked how Lynn had been affected by the incident, whether her sleep patterns had changed; had she experienced dreams or flashbacks. Everything was covered, even the time Lynn had dragged herself out of bed, what she had to eat that day, what time she had paraded for work, where she had loaded the Glock pistol and how many rounds she had placed in the magazine.
I finished my breakfast just as Nina was bringing the chat to a close. Lynn opted to escort us down the stairs, through the radio room and out into the yard.
As we left the station yard, Nina spoke.
‘I hope you didn’t mind me saying you were a medic?’
‘Not at all. I’m pretty sure I understood the reasons.’
‘I guessed you might. What you don’t know is there is a fair bit of resentment in SO19 about what happened during Operation Hastings.’
‘Any bit in particular?’
‘Mostly centred around the fact that someone dressed up like an SAS soldier opened fire on their blokes a few weeks ago and they’ve been told not to discuss it.’
‘I hadn’t heard.’
‘About the shooting incident or that they’ve been told not to discuss it?’
‘Both.’
‘…If you say so, Finlay. Anyway …with regards to the warning, it’s in-house only. You remember I mentioned I know Ron Glover?’
‘Their Ops Superintendent?’
‘Yes. Ron was told in no uncertain terms there would be no investigation to find who the SAS lads were and that any member of SO19 who was caught t
alking about it would find themselves in front of a disciplinary board.’
‘Did he say who told him that?’
‘No … but he hinted that it came from the very top – maybe even the Home Secretary.’
‘So, Lynn Wainwright learning that I’m ex-22 might make things a bit awkward?’
‘We’ll make a detective out of you yet, Finlay.’
For the remainder of the drive back to New Scotland Yard we hardly spoke. I had a feeling that Bill Grahamslaw probably knew about the warning that had been issued to everyone in SO19, if he wasn’t behind it himself. I couldn’t see any point in asking him and, as I thought about it, I was quite pleased to hear that it had happened. Given time, the frustration the SO19 lads felt would fade and what had happened would become a story for them to tell their grandchildren. And Nina was right; it was for the best that Lynn hadn’t made the connection.
As we pulled into the car park approach at New Scotland Yard, Nina asked me if I was going to the big Regiment wedding at the weekend. She’d heard about it from her uncle. I wasn’t. ‘No Ruperts,’ I said, and she grinned.
When we reached the sanctuary of the SO13 offices, I rang Kevin and asked him if he was still intending to go. He was. I couldn’t help thinking the trip might create an opportunity. Tom Cochrane had suggested Kevin talk to some of the older hands who may have known Skinner, Bridges and some of the others who had left the Regiment to work abroad. Kevin agreed, and promised to try and find out what Bob Bridges had been doing when I saw him in Cyprus, apparently on his way home from the Far East. It might give us an indication whether the Arabic documents were of any significance. He would also try and find out if there had been any other house searches.
Kevin also suggested, rightly, that we needed to find out what Armstrong, the translator, had to say. That could tell us why somebody else might be looking for the document.
It occurred to me to ask Toni Fellowes about the searches. She was in charge of the enquiry into the attacks on the ex-Regiment lads, after all. But I ditched the idea when Kevin pointed out it might actually be Toni who was behind them.
As I hung up the phone, a familiar shiver ran up my spine. It was a sense of foreboding I’d paid insufficient heed to in the recent past. Abstract and lacking substance, it troubled me … but I now knew not to ignore it.
Chapter 66
The next morning, Toni arrived for work early.
A day at home, away from the workplace, had recharged her batteries. It had been a last-minute decision. She needed time alone, time to think, and to read.
After getting up late and spending the day lazing around her flat, the weakening winter-afternoon light saw her reaching for the light switch in order to explore the real reason for her absence from the office: to take a proper look at Cyclone.
Howard Green had described Collins’ book as both revealing and fantasy. Not many books were the subject of Security Service analyst reports, and not many authors found themselves targeted for interview in order to identify their sources. But there was something about the not-too-friendly warning from Howard to leave Collins to MI6, and, preceding that, his opinion that the book wasn’t really worth reading that had triggered her instincts; there might be more to the book than was apparent in the analyst’s report. She had a feeling that somewhere in the content would be the clue to locating the author.
She had therefore pulled Cyclone from her briefcase, initially with the intention of scanning it for an hour or so over a cup of tea.
Chapter 1, ‘The Great Game’ – The continuing rivalry and conflict between the British and Russian Governments for control of Central Asia.
For decades the British have perceived that India, their jewel in the Crown, has been under threat from Russian invasion through Afghanistan…
As Toni read, she learned, and the maximum one-hour she’d promise herself was soon exceeded. From before the time of the British Raj in India, the strategic importance of Afghanistan was recognised by both the British and the Russians. ‘The Great Game’ was coined in the nineteenth century to describe the manoeuvrings – political and military – played out by the competing states as they sought to establish advantage and influence, with India the prize.
The British, it seemed, had seen Afghanistan as a buffer state, one which, so long as it remained independent of Russia, would deter any invasion of India. As the twentieth century moved on, instead of competing for control over geographical areas and trade, pipelines, tanker routes, petroleum consortia and contracts became the new prizes in ‘The Great Game’. The ruthless pursuit of influence remained.
All this was interesting, but as the book moved to modern times it mentioned dates that really grabbed Toni’s attention. She noted with increasing interest how events the author described corresponded with gaps in the records of the soldiers listed in the Hastings file. The covert activities of the CIA in Afghanistan caused her to check, and then recheck her notes from Nell. And then, in Chapter 6, she learned about Increment, and the hairs on her neck stood up.
The author described them as ‘A force of semi-retired SAS soldiers recruited by MI6 to help the CIA move weapons into the area so that the Mujahideen could fight the Russians. The Americans supplied the weapons, the Brits taught the locals how to use them.’
The soldiers had been given false identities in case they should be killed or captured in enemy territory.
In Chapter 8, Collins described a falling-out amongst the soldiers that had resulted in one of them being killed. The argument had, apparently, been over something valuable. He called the precious thing ‘Al Anfal’, the same name that Massoud had used in the YouTube video. The reference was vague – an artefact of some kind, possibly some form of treasure. Whatever it was, it seemed to have been important enough to result in a death.
Collins claimed to have joined Increment after the death of that soldier. He described his trip to London to be interviewed for the job. The name of the company doing the evaluation was Black Suit Travel. An MI6 officer had been his recruiter, a man called Howard Graham. Toni wondered at the name. Could this be Green? Was this the real reason he was looking for Collins?
Toni dropped her handbag to the side of her desk. Nell had left a post-it note stuck to the PC screen telling Toni to check her email. She switched on the computer and then went to make tea. The quiet hour before the others arrived would allow time to catch up on developments, make a couple of calls and bring herself up to speed with Nell’s research.
The report from Nell was long. Never one to pad her prose, Nell had nevertheless written fourteen pages, crammed with the detail of her and Stuart’s enquiries and with links to internet sites, plus pictures and document scans, and references to outside data sources.
Toni decided to postpone reading it to allow time to do some research prompted by Cyclone. First, she searched on the Security Service database for Howard Graham. There was no reference; it was a false name, no doubt. But the notion that MI6 could have been responsible for putting men on the ground fitted with Collins’ claims.
In fact, if Finlay and Jones were taken out of the equation, it all fitted. The dead soldiers were all absent from the UK at the key time. And they had all worked for Black Suit Travel.
She wondered what the statistical probability was that all the men listed would have died, either through natural causes or even as a result of their paramilitary work. Unlikely, she figured. What seemed more likely was that they had all been in Afghanistan. And it looked likely that Black Suit Travel was an MI6 front company to recruit soldiers into the Increment team.
She moved on. Bridges and Skinner had been killed in London. Iain Blackwood had been taken out by a random suicide bomber. She wondered whether Blackwood had been targeted as well. Brian McNeil was still working in Iraq. Quickly, she word-searched Nell’s report. Of Chris Grady there was still no trace, still no record.
Nell had created an annex on the life-insurance claims for the soldiers recruited by Black Suit Travel
. Two were killed in car accidents, one in a fall whilst climbing. The remainder had been killed undertaking contractor protection work in various countries in the Middle East. None had died of natural causes.
To the notes she was making, Toni jotted down a simple, yet alarming fact that she had discussed with Nell. Including the first man mentioned in the book, ten former soldiers were prematurely deceased. Were they looking at evidence of a falling-out amongst thieves? Had a dispute over the ‘Al Anfal’ treasure resulted in so many deaths? Was Collins right?
Finally, it was time to go through Nell’s report. Toni made herself another large mug of tea, stirred in a spoon of sugar and settled down, ready for a long read. An hour later, the office door opened. A very wet Stuart Anderson dropped his umbrella on the floor and then swore under his breath.
‘Morning,’ he said, as he removed his jacket to shake the rain off.
Toni held up her hand, her gaze remaining on the screen. It was not so much a hint as an order: no conversation. She was busy.
Nell arrived a few minutes later to a similar response. Toni cast a quick glance over her shoulder, gave her a nod, and saw a huge smile crossing Nell’s lips.
The word coincidence didn’t seem at all sufficient to describe the common factors Nell had found, linking the dead soldiers, Increment and Operation Cyclone.
Testing her researcher’s theories, Toni again tapped the names of Chris Grady and Brian McNeil into the Security Service internal search engine as well as into Google. She also tried the term ‘Al Anfal’. With her higher security clearance, she hoped it might produce something Nell had been unable to access. The result was the same as she had experienced earlier. There was one other possibility – personnel records.
A telephone call to MI5 HQ at Thames House produced an answer. Rod Skinner, Bob Bridges, Mac Blackwood, Brian McNeil and Chris Grady were all on a twelve-strong team that had been deployed on overseas operations during the early 1980s. Ten of that team were now dead: Skinner, Bridges and Blackwood amongst them. McNeil was understood to be working in Iraq as a bodyguard to visiting journalists. Again, there was no record of anyone called Chris Grady.
