Special Deception

by Special Deception (retail) (epub)

  ‘Only that if the hostage’s whereabouts are being made known to the Brits—’

  ‘It’s not. Not unless you’d call Syria a “location”… It’s known to you — to Captain Knox of the SBS. And the former SAS officer will have no reason to doubt that the intelligence was received through official channels. Let me repeat at this point — absence of doubts of any kind in Swale’s mind is a primary and essential basis to the operation, it’s the one thing that’s truly a prerequisite. He has to believe in you and in everything you tell him, and incidentally in the other members of your team.’

  ‘May I ask what’s to be the composition of the team?’

  ‘Yourself, Swale, and two mercenaries.’

  ‘Mercenaries?’

  ‘They’ll be identified for you by the time you’re back in London. Men with military, commando backgrounds, they’re being recruited now. You’ll introduce yourself to them as Knox, and give them to understand that the operation has been sanctioned at the highest political level, but sanctioned only with the proviso that the action is officially unofficial, on no account to be attributable to British forces, SBS or any other. You alone are a serving Royal Marine, they have to know it but they’re to keep their mouths shut. Except, you’ll explain, you’re recruiting this ex-SAS officer, Arabic speaker, and he’s got to believe you’re all SBS. Part of their contract therefore is to play Royal Marines — as Marines working under cover, who’d pretend if they were caught that they were mercenaries, allowing only Swale to know the truth — that like you they’re SBS… You’ll explain Swale as the sort of guy who wouldn’t otherwise volunteer, wouldn’t want to work with mercenaries, has to be assured he’s serving Queen and Country — which he will be, you’ll point out, and you’ve got to have him, for his Arabic… Is something unclear?’

  ‘But these others will be less particular about who employs them?’

  ‘Possibly. After all, they’re mercenaries.’

  ‘And they’ve got to be hoodwinked, but also join in the pretence—’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘It seems a bit — unwieldy… Couldn’t just I and this Swale character see it through on our own, without that complication?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be realistic, might alert Swale’s suspicions. SAS, like SBS, tend to work in teams of four or multiples of four. All right, in pairs as well — which they call “bricks”, for some peculiar reason — but on a job like this one four is much more likely. There’s at least one unavoidable departure from normal patterns — the question of transport, a detail you’ll come to — and we don’t want to pile one unlikelihood on another, Leonid Ivan’ich. It does complicate the deception, I agree, but we must accept it.’

  Leo nodded… ‘May I raise one other point? A week ago I was a university lecturer, Don Campbell. Now I’m to be the same face but I have a new name and I’m an officer in the Royal Marines. Presumably I’ll have a passport in that name of Knox, but—’

  The general had raised a hand, palm-outwards, stopping him.

  ‘You’ll have your own passport, you’ll remain Donald Campbell. You’ll represent yourself as Captain Knox only to Swale and the other two. If you ran into some former acquaintance, what would it matter? You’ll be in civilian clothes, you’re the Donald Campbell they know. You could offer some excuse, if necessary, for being in England instead of at your mother’s bedside in Egypt. She died before you reached her, maybe, you just got back… But none of those three, although they’ll be travelling with you, need see your passport — or your air ticket. And you won’t be returning to the UK: on completion you’ll be taken to Damascus, and from there fly back home to us. In due course, obviously, you’ll have to return to your British residence, but when that time comes no-one will know you as Knox. Only Swale and the other two will have known you by that name. This is as it would be, incidentally; SBS personnel are highly secretive, their names are never made public. If you’re back in England in a year’s time, say, you’ll be Donald Campbell formerly of Beirut and of Stirling University, nobody will ever ask you more than—’ the general put on what was supposed to be a girl’s high-pitched voice in English — ‘Where have you been hiding from me, Donald dearest?’

  He smiled, politely. ‘But Swale and the others?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure you’ve guessed.’ The general began to cough; reaching for his glass of water, he croaked at Vetrov, ‘Tell him, anyway.’

  Vetrov’s pink face turned to Leo.

  ‘There’ll be no British hostage at that location. Only a camp of refugees, old folk and children and cripples, victims of Israeli barbarism. These innocents will be massacred, shot down by the submachine-guns of the SBS. You’ll be equipped with Uzis, by the way, Israeli weapons, and you’ll have landed from an Israeli boat. So Swale will believe… So, in fury at discovering they’ve come all that way for nothing, the bird either flown or never been there — well, as I say.’ Vetrov pantomimed the blaze of machine—gun fire. ‘You yourself will take part in the atrocity and Swale must see you doing so. He’s to be left behind, having seen his three companions go berserk and murder these wretched people… A firefight will then develop, Syrian troops rushing to the scene. Swale will be shot in his legs but left alive, kept alive, to bear witness to the crime and to the fact it was perpetrated by a team of the Special Boat Squadron of the Royal Marines — with whom he was himself serving. He’ll describe his recruitment by a man called Knox; the British will deny the existence of any such person, but (a) they would, would they not, they’d fudge their records however they wanted, and (b) what’s a false name or two, in these clandestine games? You see why it is so important that he should believe you are an SBS officer. He has to know you were all three SBS, so he’ll be ready to swear to it at his trial in Damascus.’

  Gudyenko came back into the briefing.

  ‘Assad will be forced out of his dreams. Deposed, if necessary. He’ll be our guest in Moscow at the time, so…’ shrugged. ‘The entire Arab world, even hitherto pro-Western states, will turn their backs on Britain and her American friends.’

  Leo sat motionless, holding the general’s black stare, thinking it out. Initial concern — a quick visual appreciation of the physical problems of stage-managing an atrocity of that size — faded into the broader perspective, the inevitable tidal wave of world reaction.

  He let his breath go. ‘It’s — huge…’

  ‘Sure it is.’ Gudyenko raised a forefinger. ‘And an extra dividend now — with the need to move fast, as I was saying, to carry out the operation within the next couple of weeks — you’ll have been reading your English newspapers, the trial of the Jordanian, Nezar Hindawi?’

  Leo nodded. ‘Tricked an Irish girl into carrying a bomb for him, to sabotage an El Al flight from Heathrow.’

  ‘The trial hasn’t far to go. Three weeks or so, we’re told.’ Gudyenko frowned. ‘We’re also advised that there’s almost a certainty of conviction. Regrettably, involving the Syrian ambassador personally, and several of his former staff. With this outcome, it’s predicted that there’ll be at least a withdrawal of ambassadors, possibly a complete closure of embassies, with of course considerable damage to the Syrian reputation worldwide. To an extent, of course, there’s a mitigating factor from our own angle, it should fix Assad’s flirtatious tendencies — even with the French, much as they want his money. Want anyone’s money… But still the damage would be enormous, particularly in the Arab world but also in all the non-aligned areas. And we’re speaking of our close ally, so it rubs off on us and our own best interests, naturally. But this operation should counter all such effects. The world will see the British and their SBS as terrorists of the most unpleasant kind: they’ll ask Who are these people to accuse others of terrorist activity? D’you follow? Evidence will be convincing and horrifying. Photographs — you can imagine. And this fellow Swale, you see — his having taken an in the atrocity, then his public testimony — well, it won’t be just allegation, it’ll be solid fact.’

&nb
sp; 3

  On the Tuesday night Charlie was alone when he let himself into the flat. He and Paula had dined early at an Italian restaurant, after which he’d driven her to her own pad in Battersea and kissed her goodbye. She hadn’t been too happy, unfortunately. She’d spent last night here with him, and she’d wanted to do the same tonight — to make up, she’d said, for the fact he was swanning off somewhere or other. She’d obviously had doubts of his story of a business trip to Germany, and he’d had the SBS business on his mind, hadn’t been able to hide his elation, excitement, well enough to concentrate on her and her disbelief, persuade her that he wasn’t taking some other woman off somewhere or other.

  He wished he could have convinced her. He was very fond of her, genuinely so, and the last thing he wanted was to hurt her. He’d have liked to have had her with him now, too, in any other circumstances. But Bob Knox had telephoned on the stroke of noon to say he’d pick him up at the street entrance to his flat at 0600 Wednesday morning. Knox would be driving a white minibus and he’d have the other two members of the SBS team with him, also camping gear; they’d be spending the next few days in Wales, tuning up.

  ‘Did you settle your business affairs, Charlie?’

  ‘Sure. No problem.’

  He’d even clinched the deal for the pale-blue Rolls. It was being brought down from Manchester, reputedly spotless and with only just over 7000 miles — ‘genuine’ miles — on its clock. The Saudi kid was going to have to dig deeply into his oily pocket but he’d be getting what he’d asked for. In more ways than one, Charlie guessed.

  Knox was telling him, ‘We’re grateful, Charlie, I was told to pass this on to you. You’re exactly the right guy for the job and we know we’re lucky that you’re willing to help us out. The question of pay, incidentally, is being referred to MOD, and with any luck—’

  ‘It doesn’t bother me.’

  ‘It has to be settled, all the same… Listen, about equipment — d’you have any gear of your own that you could use in Wales?’

  ‘I’d say so, yeah.’

  ‘Boots, particularly?’

  ‘Boots, definitely.’

  ‘That’s fine. I’ll have some gear for you anyway, but I’d anticipated getting you down here so we could have kitted you out on the spot, but — well, as I explained—’

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘0600, then.’

  This had come as a relief. He’d been half expecting a let-down, imagining Knox having reported back to his SB Squadron’s CO at Poole and being talked out of including Charlie Swale in his team. Knox would have had to admit that Charlie had sunk several strong whiskies in the short time they’d been together, that he was obviously a heavy drinker and therefore unreliable. And maybe the report on him from the Regiment might not have been all that warm. The Colonel was a hell of a good guy, but facts were facts and they were all on record. And surely the SBS would have been able to dig out some other Arabic speaker, even if it had meant recalling someone temporarily from the Gulf.

  So hanging up after Knox’s call he’d felt — jubilant.

  But it wouldn’t do to have Paula with him when they came by in the morning. OK, so he’d wake to the alarm and he could have been downstairs, leaving her tucked up, but they could be early, Knox might buzz and ask to be let in, or she might insist in coming down and see him off. Checking that it was not some girl he was taking off with. Then she’d have seen three SBS men and a van loaded with camping equipment and there’d have been a lot of explaining and lying to do.

  He’d told her, ‘I have some paperwork to fix before I turn in, and then I want to sleep. Know what I mean? Seriously, this deal‘s important, I hope it’ll produce a lot of business.

  Paula wanted to be married, he knew that. She was in her late twenties, she was no career girl and she was worried about not staying irresistible for ever; and he was presentable enough, he supposed, and making money, and they got on well both in and out of bed. There was also something Anne had told him once — that he liked women, didn’t only want them, and that they sensed this and found it reassuring.

  The existence of Anne, of course, was the one factor that put the idea of marriage to anyone else right out of court. He might have to spell this out to Paula some time. But one of the snags with liking women was that you were averse to hurting them.

  And that was a joke. If you liked black humour.

  Maybe Anne — maybe after this business was over, if he could tell her about it—

  Cloud cuckoo land. Anne wouldn’t even speak to him when he called her on the telephone. He’d tried three or four times, since she’d moved up to London from her parents’ house — she had a flat just off the King’s Road now, which he guessed her father must have bought her — because when she’d been living down in Wiltshire she’d been closely guarded by the parents, who were nice enough people but seemed to regard their former son-in-law as some kind of wild beast, and when she’d moved up to London he’d thought he might have a chance.

  He’d soon discovered that that had been wishful thinking: and he knew it now, had to live with the fact that he’d put himself beyond the pale. He topped up his glass.

  *

  He was out of bed at five, had a hot bath followed by a cold shower, and dressed in old khaki drill pants, khaki shirt, sweater and training shoes, threw a few other items into a grip before he fried some eggs and bacon and made more coffee than he needed so as to take the rest along in a thermos. He’d given the drink problem a lot of thought while in the bath — at night it never seemed to be a problem — and he reckoned if he kept drinking tea and coffee it might save off his longings for the hard stuff.

  He thought it would be easy enough once they’d embarked on the operation itself. Although he didn’t recall a time in his adult life when he hadn’t enjoyed a drink or two, he’d never missed it when he’d been in the field. Obviously he was deeper into the habit now than he’d been before, but he hoped the same thing might apply.

  Mightn’t be too easy in a tent in bloody Wales, though. Particularly with a rain-belt moving in from the west. End of the weeks of Indian summer, finally.

  Door-buzzer. Ten minutes early, for Christ’s sake…

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Bob Knox, Charlie. Can I come up a minute?’

  It turned out that Bob wanted a pee. Charlie, glad he’d had the sense not to have Paula here, suppressed the natural comment of ‘Should have gone before you left home’ and said instead, ‘You’re a bit early, Bob. Luckily I’m ready.’ Then they went down into the cold early-morning air, dew dripping from the trees, a white C-registered VW minibus parked there with two men in its rear seats.

  ‘Charlie Swale — Pete Denham — Smiley Tait…’

  Tait was smallish, dark, harsh-looking. A tough egg, Charlie thought. About thirty-two, thirty-four maybe. Charlie wondered whether that total lack of expression was defence or hostility. Neither, probably. Or both. The other Marine was younger by about five years, also dark-haired, but pale-faced and of heavier build. Bob Knox climbed into the driving-seat; Charlie slung his grip up and the heavy-set younger man grabbed it, tossed it into the back. Then Charlie was in and shut the door, leant back to shake hands with the Marines as the VW rocked away from the kerb. His own hand felt soft as the others grasped it in turn: it was a reminder of his civilian status, the soft year he’d spent. Denham’s expression was friendly: ‘Welcome aboard, Charlie.’ West Country accent. The other one had nodded, with no change of expression: he muttered, ‘Likewise.’ Charlie asked them, ‘Driven up from Poole this morning?’

  ‘Not much on the roads this time of day.’ Knox shifted gear. He and the others were dressed much as Charlie was — drill trousers or jeans, sweaters… ‘And with luck we’ll make good time down the M4 now. Might even be in camp by lunchtime.’

  *

  Small-talk had petered out soon enough. It was too early for conversation, and Tait was asleep — anyway had his eyes shut — within minutes. There’d been n
o word spoken from the Hyde Park Corner underpass all the way to Windsor, where the castle looked beautiful in the sun’s first light. Knox was driving at a steady seventy-five to eighty miles an hour.

  Charlie turned from admiring the castle as it fell astern. ‘Tell me, Bob. Do these two blokes know where we’re going and what for?’

  ‘Going to Wales.‘ Pete Denham answered the question. He’d been leaning forward with his chin resting on his forearms on the back of the front seat, between them. He added ‘To run up and down some fucking mountain. Right, Bob?’

  ‘About right.’

  Charlie began, ‘I meant—’

  ‘The answer’s negative, Charlie, they do not. They know as much as you do — Middle East, extract a guy, bring him home. No one has to know any more than that until we’re a lot closer to the target than we are now.’

  ‘All right. You’re the guv’nor.’

  It surprised him though. If that was true and they weren’t just keeping him in the dark. It would be quite understandable: he thought that in Bob Knox’s place he wouldn’t trust Charlie Swale any farther than he had to. But he’d have guessed the Marines would know it all, that they’d have worked out a plan and discussed it between them in all its detail. If you couldn’t trust your own guys to keep their mouths shut, for Christ‘s sake—

  ‘It’s not a matter of trust or distrust, Charlie. Only that the job’s quite straightforward as far as we can see from here, there’s no detailed planning that anyone can do — apart from logistics, which are well in hand — until we’re out there and we can see the lie of the land. So there’d be no advantage in discussing it.’