There was a pause. Then he looked at me evenly. “Mr. Marcinko, please write out the Arabic on those missile cylinders you discovered aboard the Patricia Desens and show me the chart you took from the pilothouse.”
I wrote the Arabic numerals out for Robert Evers on a sheet of paper towel. Then I retrieved the damn chart, unfolded it, and laid it out on the coffee table. The water had smudged the thick, red grease-pencil lines, but not obliterated them.
The Brit spook tapped the paper towel. “Thirty-eight.”
I said, “Correct.”
“That makes them Exocet missiles,” he said. “Ship-launched.” He paused. “They stopped making the MM—for missile marin—thirty-eight in the mid-1970s. As I recall it was replaced by the MM forty, which went into service in 1993.”
Yeah—when Robert Evers was probably still in high school. He was on the money, of course—and I was an idiot for not having remembered the designator numbers.
For those of you too young to know about these things, Exocets are French manufactured, subsonic, sea-skimming missiles designed to attack large warships. They look a little bit like cruise missiles. With perfect hits—meaning right at the waterline—two Exocets would be sufficient to sink most of the ships in service today.
And Gwilliam had two of them. I unfolded the chart from the Patricia Desens and laid it atop the paper towel. My interpretation of the course depicted was that the smuggler’s boat was to rendezvous with Gwilliam’s yacht somewhere off the coast of the Punta del Este. That’s why the captain had that state-of-the-art cellular satellite phone with him.
Robert Evers listened and then looked closely at the chart. Then he drummed his fingers on the table-top for a few seconds.
“I believe you are correct in your interpretation,” he said, somewhat formally.
“Robert,” I said, “can you use your influence with the Argentines to keep what happened at the villa quiet?”
The young Brit thought about it for a few seconds. “I believe I can do that without causing any suspicions,” he said. “After all, if your supposition about who was involved is correct, the people involved will have police records. The incident can then be portrayed as a turf fight over drugs, or as a robbery gone sour.”
“Can you do it now?”
“You mean right now?”
I nodded my head in the affirmative. “It’s important.”
Robert Evers shrugged. “I suppose.” He picked up the telephone and dialed a number from memory, then had a three-minute conversation with someone he called “Jorge,” explaining the scenario I’d asked him to plant with the authorities. “Sí, Jorge—claro. Chau.”
Robert Evers hung up the phone. “It’s done,” he said. He looked at me. His expression told me loud and clear that I’d better not ask for any more favors.
But I wasn’t about to let him off the hook. Like I said, there was too much at stake. “Robert,” I said, “you’ve done a lot for us. Now, you have to help us get out of the country. We don’t have the time to play games here.”
He went silent once more. Finally, he spoke. “If it were ever to be discovered that I helped you escape,” he said to Mick, “my career would be over immediately.”
“I understand that, my boy,” Mick said. “And you’ve already done a lot for us. Despite what Dick has just said, I can’t ask you to do any more. We’ll have to deal with this situation on our own.”
“I realize that you are trying to make things easier for me, Mr. Owen,” Robert Evers said. “But you have to appreciate my position.”
“I do,” Mick said. “We all do.”
“I do not think so,” Robert Evers said, a formal tone creeping into his voice.
Mick started to say something. But there was something about the young man’s body language that made me put my hand on Mick’s arm to rein him in. “I think Robert wants to tell us something,” I said. “I think we should let him say his piece.”
The young Brit’s expression told me how grateful he was. “As I have intimated,” he began, “it gets harder and harder to do one’s job properly, given the political climate in which we work at the embassy. One is forbidden, for example, from keeping track of such people as Brendan O’Donnell. Why? Because the ambassador has specifically forbidden us from taking any actions that might cause even the vaguest possibility of any diplomatic flaps here in Buenos Aires. And one is forbidden from keeping tabs on cells of active terrorists because the ambassador has decided that neither violent Islamic fundamentalism nor narcoterrorism is a British problem. He does not want to hear that IRA splinter groups are being supplied with weapons and ordnance by Iran or the South American drug cartels; indeed, he does not want us to look into the possibility that drogistas operating in Argentina might adversely affect the Good Friday Accord.
“Frankly,” he continued, “one is not able to operate effectively given those sorts of strictures. And so, one breaks the rules, every now and then.”
I understood that. Operating UNODIR has been my way of getting around the apparatchiks who control the Navy. I’ve done it for years now. It was good to see that my way of doing business was being carried on by the next generation of Warriors.
The young Brit continued: “I am able to go after the Green Hand Defender people here in Argentina,” he said resolutely. “I will make sure that they fail to achieve their goals—and also make sure that once they are arrested, my Argentine allies will manage to, shall we say, ‘lose’ them somewhere within the criminal justice system.”
“That could be dangerous,” Mick said. “There could be dire consequences.”
The look on Robert Evers’s face told us that he had thought about the consequences, and he was willing to live with them. “As I explained,” he said, “sometimes one has to break the rules.” Robert Evers ran a hand through his unruly hair to move it out of his eyes. “That is why I decided to assist you during your time here in Argentina. If I could not operate properly, perhaps you could. It was worth the risk. So will this be.”
“We’re grateful, Robert,” I said. “You’ve helped us considerably.”
“And now,” Evers said, “you want me to do even more rule breaking.”
There was no way of getting around it. “That’s right. If what you say is correct, my men and I will have to smuggle ourselves out of Argentina. We can’t do it without your help.”
Robert Evers said, “I know that.”
“And?”
“And I have already decided to help you. It is a blood debt that has to be paid—and I am happy to pay it.”
“A blood debt?”
Robert Evers looked past me. “Mister Owen,” he said, “if it wasn’t for you, my father would be dead.”
I turned toward Mick. “I thought you told me his father was an investment banker you knew in the army who owed you a huge bar tab at the Ritz Hotel in Paris.”
“He does,” Mick said indignantly. “He owes me two hundred quid, and I plan to collect.”
“He owes Mr. Owen a lot more than that,” Robert Evers said. “My father and Mr. Owen served together in Twenty-Two Regiment back in the 1970s. Mr. Owen saved my father’s life.”
“It was in Mirbat, on the south coast of Oman,” Mick Owen said by way of explanation. “In 1976 Colin—that’s Robert’s dad—and I were part of what we called a British Army Training Team. Ten of us—Colin and me, who were just barely lieutenants, and eight enlisteds. What Colin was doing in SAS I didn’t know. He was Harrow and Cambridge and all that rot. Already had a wife and a kid—young Robert here—in nappies.”
I looked at Mick, impressed. “I never knew you served in Oman.”
“It was a few years before we met, Dick,” the Welshman explained. “I was a kid—unblooded and naive. I’d just been badged. It was my first overseas tour.”
He stretched his big arms, then jerked his thumb toward Robert. “His dad and I were in our kips when all hell broke loose. Hundreds of Commie buggers came whooping down out of the hills. They
had mortars and heavy machine guns.” He paused. “They’d stolen two Omani armored vehicles, too. Shit—we had three jeeps, two of which were blown to bits in the first three minutes. Anyway, his dad came out of his sleeping bag like a shot, grabbed his sandals and a thirty-cal Browning machine gun, and headed for the roof. I followed him along with one of our local irregulars—firqas we called ’em; they were former guerrillas who’d come over to our side from the Commies—because we’d set up a light mortar up there, preranged toward the most probable point of attack.”
Robert Evers nodded. “Dad’s told me,” he said.
“We were both scared shitless—has he told you that?”
The young Englishman nodded. “He said it could have gotten pretty rough.”
Mick looked back in my direction. “Could have, hell. If the Commies caught us, they’d been known to skin prisoners as an example to the populace. And they didn’t like us bastard infidels much.”
Randy asked, “Howja handle it?”
“There was no doubt our position would be overrun,” Mick said. But half a klik away, he continued, there was an old fort manned by Omani troops that would give the Brits a lot more effective cover than the ramshackle mud brick and straw structure they were in. They broke the mortar down, carried it off the roof, grabbed their weapons, and started down a long wadi toward the fort, covering their retreat with suppressive fire as best they could. Which is when Mister Murphy kicked in and Colin Evers took a bullet through the throat. “Severed a fuckin’ artery, it did,” Mick said, his face grim.
Robert Evers broke in. “My dad passed out. But Mr. Owen carried him the whole way, keeping pressure on the wound, which kept him alive.”
“Your dad wasn’t all that heavy,” Mick said. He cracked a wry smile. “But that damn mortar got real tiresome after the first half hour.”
Now, I am second to no man when it comes to listening to war stories, but there had to be a point to all of this history, and I asked what it might have been. After all, we had tangos to go after, a situation that was being compounded by the fact that the authorities were out and about looking for us.
Robert Evers greeted my interruption with obvious impatience. “There is significant history here, Captain,” he said. “It has to be understood.”
“I realize what you’re saying, Robert. But frankly, we have to get moving—and soon.”
“And you will, Captain. But you must first understand the relationship that my assistance is based on. Mister Owen saved my father’s life—and the fact that he did something so selfless has always been very significant and motivating to me—”
“Dick.” Mick interrupted the young Brit. “Robert here,” he explained, “has never been in the military. Colin and Jane sent him to the good public schools. He went to Harrow and Cambridge, y’know, just like his dad. Robert’s quite the toff. Always knows which knife and fork to use. These days, he works on his own most of the time—out and about all alone. So he never got to understand how tight you can become to someone in a brick, or when you’re sharing a kip and a shit in some Fifth World Garden of Eden.”
Message received. Mick was right, of course. Young men like Robert Evers don’t understand that there is no experience in the world that brings people closer than having been under fire together as a part of a military unit in combat. The concept of dying for your buddy is quite foreign to most young people today. Today’s kids seldom get to meet people who are actually willing to lay down their lives for their teammates. But this isn’t the time or place to start a monologue on the sorry state of our national condition.
“Mr. Owen, I simply want you to understand my motivation,” Robert Evers said.
“Your motivation?” Mick was now obviously confused.
“I can’t ever fight alongside you the way my father did,” Robert Evers said. “But I can fight alongside you in my own way.”
Now, it was all becoming clear. Mick’s expression softened. “I understand, boy—believe me, I do.”
Robert Evers sighed in relief. “Good. Then please take these—with my father’s and my compliments—and use them well.” Evers removed half a dozen French passports from the inside pockets of his suit coat and laid the documents on the table.
I picked the top one up and examined it carefully. It was made out in the name of Martin Troisgros. Boomerang’s color portrait—one of the five-bucks-for-five-pictures photographs Evers had asked us to give him—was professionally laminated and stamped with a holographic Republique Française seal that was as close to the real thing as I’d ever seen. Whoever’d done the work was as good at his work as our own CIA document maven, Freddie the Forger, because it was an excellent job, right down to the computerized European Community scanner code bar laminated inside the passport’s front cover, and the magnetic strip that allowed the passport to be read like a credit card. I was speechless. I flipped through the pile until I found my own passport. I’d become a Frog named Max Bertaud. Mick Owen was Serge Iver. The rest of the men were also under alias. There were valid Argentine tourist cards in each passport.
“My dad said to tell you the champagne’s on him the next time you’re passing through Paris.”
Mick was actually caught speechless. Finally, he found his tongue. “Colin did this? How could he have done it in such a short time?”
Robert Evers’s eyes crinkled. “I guess you could call that a family secret,” he said cryptically. “My dad said for me to tell you, quote, ‘Just take yes for an answer you tatty old sod.’” Immediately, the young man’s face flushed. “Those were his words, Mister Owen, not mine—and he instructed me to—”
“I understand, Robert, I understand,” Mick said, the passport in his hand, his head still wagging in disbelief at the enormity of what had just been done for us. And then his expression changed. He’d just realized that his old mate Colin Evers was not simply a high-living investment banker with a big flat off the Champs Élysées, but was probably a very senior-grade NOC (for Non-Official Cover) intelligence officer in SIS, the British Secret Intelligence Service also known as MI6; and that Robert had followed his father into the family’s chosen profession.
But no one was going to say a word about it. Not here and not now and not ever. No one’s cover would be compromised by us.
Robert Evers broke the silence. “My suggestion to you all,” he said, “is that you catch the hydrofoil to Montevideo. You can pick up Uruguayan visas when you land. KLM flies to Amsterdam through Brazil. Plunca, which is Uruguay’s national carrier, flies to Madrid with a stop in Rio de Janeiro. Either way, you’ll be back in London in sixty hours or less, without anyone knowing a thing. From there on, Mr. Owen, you’re on your own.”
Part Three
SUFFERING
16
0919. WE GOT TO MONTEVIDEO AND PASSED THROUGH Customs and Immigration sans incident. So we knew the documents worked. But I didn’t want to head for London immediately, because there was still some unfinished business to attend to in this part of the world. The first thing we did was check into a hotel called La Cima in the old section of the city. It was a run-down, two-star place with hot and cold running hookers in the lobby, sticky carpets, rooms that stank from cigarette smoke, and old-fashioned rotary dial telephones, circa 1966. I tried to reach Nod on his cell phone. But obviously, Mister Murphy had managed to stay with us, because I wasn’t able to make contact. All I heard in my ear was a fuzzy recorded message that the cell phone user I was calling either had his phone turned off or was in a dead zone and unable to receive a call. I hung up and dialed Gunny Jarriel.
The Gunny was relieved to hear I’d made it out of Argentina safely. But he warned me I’d better keep my head down, even in Montevideo. “There are a lot of folks out there looking for you right now, Dick, and I don’t think they’ll stop at the border.”
I understood that. But it didn’t matter—not with Gwilliam and Gerry on the loose and the fucking clock ticking so loudly in my head. So, I thanked the Gunny for his care
and his concern, and got on with the business at hand. First, I sit-repped him on what we’d found at Gwilliam’s villa, and what we’d done to make sure it would never be used against AMEMBASSY Buenos Aires. Since I couldn’t discount a second attempt on the embassy, I wanted the Gunny to take active countermeasures to secure the place against possible missile attacks—and keep his eyes open for Colombians and other narcoterrorists.
“I’ll order TOW screens,” Gunny Jarriel said. He was talking about something that looks like a two-layer chain-link fence. The TOW can penetrate the fencing material, but the missile’s guidance wires get hung up and torn by the broken chain links. It is effective, keep-it-simple-stupid protection.
And why hadn’t it been deployed before? I’ll let the Gunny explain.
“I was hampered making those sorts of plans,” he told me. “The ambassador and your old friend Mel didn’t want me putting up anything that might make it appear as if we’d gone into fortress mode. But I’ll be able to go proactive now.” And, the Gunny added, because of the information I’d given him, he’d be able to work quietly with his counterparts in the Argentine government to put a new security op plan together—quicken the reaction time and provide a less structured, formulaic security strategy—without having to go through the ambassador or Mel Putz.
Finally, Gunny said he’d also use a backchannel to reach out to the professionals at the Bureau of Diplomatic Security, and request an MST—an eight-man unit of DS shoot-and-looters known as a Mobile Security Team—to retrain the locals, carry out a new threat assessment, and then implement an upgraded embassy security plan. A formal MST eval would take both el Putz and the ambassador out of the loop for a while, and allow the Gunny and his people to make changes for the better.
Detachment Bravo Page 23
