Operation Motherland

by Scott Andrews

  We walked down the corridor and Sanders knocked on the door at the far end. The nameplate read Maj. Gen. J. G. Kennett. This was the big man. I braced myself, but when a stern voice barked "Enter!" Sanders turned and pointed to a chair in the corner.

  "Stay there," he said. "I'll only be a minute."

  I nodded, aware that my life, and the lives of my kids, rested entirely upon what this man, who I hardly knew, was going to say next.

  As Sanders opened the door, I sat down to wait. I'd only been there for a minute, twiddling my thumbs and staring at the patterns on the carpet, when a young woman brought me a cup of tea in a saucer, with biscuits.

  "There you go, Miss," she said with a smile.

  Cup and saucer, tea and biscuits. I shook my head in wonder.

  About ten minutes later, long after I'd exhausted all the entertainment possibilities of sitting on a chair in a corridor, the door to Kennett's office opened and Sanders popped his head out.

  "Jane," was all he said by way of summons.

  I felt a pang of butterflies in my tummy as I rose and entered the office of probably the most powerful man in the country. The room was plush but not opulent. Regimental photos lined the walls, and there were even a few paintings - Waterloo, the trenches of the Somme. The floor was polished wood with a huge, deep rug laid across most of it. There were old wooden filing cabinets, upholstered wooden armchairs, a sideboard with decanter and glasses. The room was old school privilege and power; comfort, security and authority embodied in the trappings of tradition and duty.

  Major General Kennett was standing in front of his desk, leaning back against it, his arms folded across his chest. He was about forty, plump, red cheeked and bald, with a strong square jaw, and was dressed plainly in green trousers and jumper. He regarded me with calculating green eyes. I was unsure whether his air of easy authority was innate or whether it was bestowed upon him by the room itself and all the cultural and social respect it represented.

  Sanders stood to one side, hands clasped behind his back. He wasn't at attention, but he was formal. I think they call it 'standing easy'.

  "Miss Crowther, welcome to Operation Motherland," said Kennett, leaning forward and offering me his hand. His voice was high and nasal, with a strong southern accent, kind of like Ken Livingstone. It didn't suit him at all.

  I took his hand and he shook it once, firmly.

  He didn't offer me a seat, so I stood there, unsure what was required of me.

  "The lieutenant has been telling me what happened at your school and on the journey here. There'll have to be an investigation, of course." He folded his arms and pursed his lips, assessing me.

  I couldn't think of anything to say, so I just said "right."

  There was a long pause.

  "I'm not entirely sure I believe everything he told me," added Kennett.

  "Sir..." began Sanders, but Kennett silenced him with a look.

  "But I've known him a long time, Miss Crowther. He's one of my most trusted officers. So I choose to believe him. And I feel sure that everything the investigation discovers will corroborate his story. Won't it, Sanders?"

  "Sir."

  "Yes," mused Kennett. "Thorough. I like that in a soldier. So I shall continue to believe him, and by extension to trust you, unless you give me reason to do otherwise. Do you think you're likely to do that, Miss Crowther?"

  "No, Sir," I said, surprised by my instinctive deference.

  "Good. In which case you are welcome to remain here while the girl in your care recuperates. After that you will escorted safely back to your school. We will, I'm afraid, have to disarm your merry band, but I'm sure you understand that's for the best."

  "Actually, Sir..." I began. But the warning in his eyes was clear and unambiguous. I fell silent again and nodded. Jesus, this really was like talking to my old headmaster.

  "Excellent." Kennet clapped his hands and smiled. Business concluded. "Sanders will find you a billet, and maybe we'll see you at our karaoke night tonight. Sanders does a very good Lemmy, I'm told." With that he turned his back on us, picked up a file and began to read.

  A second later, almost as an afterthought, he said "dismissed."

  Sanders saluted, said "Sir" and ushered me out of the door.

  "What the hell did you tell him?" I asked incredulously as we walked out of the building into the crisp air of a spring evening.

  "What I needed to. I'll brief you properly later, so we can get our stories straight for the investigators. Essentially, the child traffickers killed our guys, and you killed the traffickers."

  At the bottom of the steps I stopped, took his hand, leant up and kissed him on the cheek.

  "Thank you," I said.

  He squeezed my hand and smiled. "You're welcome. Now let's get you billeted, then you can start thinking about what you're going to sing tonight!"

  "You wish! I've got a voice like a strangled cat."

  The billet was a room on the first floor of a simple barrack building. It had a single bed, wardrobe, wash basin with clean running water, a TV with DVD player and plug sockets that had power. Plus, central heating! I leant my bum against the radiator enjoying that slightly too hot feeling that I'd almost forgotten. Log fires are nice, but give me a boiling hot radiator any day of the week.

  After Sanders left me alone I went to the communal bathroom at the end of the landing, drew myself a hot bath and soaked all the aches away. Sanders had scraped together some toiletries from somewhere, so I washed my hair, soaped myself clean, shaved my legs, plucked my eyebrows, waxed my top lip, and did all those things I used to take so completely for granted. When I was all done, I lay back in the water and watched the steam rise and curl as the stitches in my cheek throbbed in the heat.

  I closed my eyes and imagined I was at home, that Gran was downstairs making tea, and that after I'd dried my hair I'd go downstairs and eat her corned beef pie with mash and we'd watch trashy telly.

  It was a nice, warm daydream.

  I felt safe for the first time in two years.

  When I woke, the water was tepid and night had fallen. The light was off so the bathroom was dark. I suppose that's why Sanders hadn't found me and dragged me off to karaoke. I looped the plug chain around my big toe and pulled it out, then I rose, pulled my towel off the hot radiator and wrapped it around me. Back in my billet I found that Sanders had left me some clean clothes, bless him, and although the short black dress he'd chosen for me was perhaps not quite what I'd have opted for, I decided to indulge him, and myself. There was fancy underwear as well - nothing crass, just good quality - and the shoes were nice. He'd almost guessed my size right in all respects.

  When I was all dolled up, I put on some slap and looked at myself in a mirror. Bathed, well dressed, made-up. Nothing out of the ordinary a few years ago, but the woman staring back at me seemed like an old stranger, someone I'd known very well once upon a time but had lost touch with. I was glad to see her again, but I knew she was only visiting briefly

  I looked like Kate.

  Well, no matter. I was about to walk into a room full of soldiers, looking pretty damn good, if I said so myself. It had been a long time since I'd turned any heads, and I was looking forward to it.

  Pulling a coat around my shoulders, I left the room, turned off the light and walked downstairs, listening to my heels clicking on the lino. Again, a sound from the past - high heels on a staircase. One small detail of a forgotten life, once commonplace now extraordinary to me.

  I opened the door and stepped outside. The camp was dark, but the roads were lit with orange sodium lights. I stopped and listened. From somewhere off in the distance I could hear a chorus of drunken voices singing Delilah. I followed the sound, enjoying the sensation of once again being able to walk alone at night without fear.

  Which is why it was such a surprise when the man dropped out of the sky on a parachute and landed on the path in front of me, and hands grabbed me from behind, muffling my shouts, dragging me into the sh
adows.

  Chapter Twelve

  I kicked and struggled, but the man holding me was too strong. I'd have bitten his fingers off if he hadn't been wearing heavy leather gloves.

  I was pulled off the path and into the bushes, where I was pushed down on to my knees and held firm.

  "If you do exactly as I say, you won't be harmed," said a soft voice in my ear. The accent was unmistakeably American, an exotic twang after two years of Kentish brogue. I felt cold metal at my throat.

  "If you cry out, I'll slit your throat, Limey bitch. Understand?"

  Limey? Who the hell called Brits 'Limeys' anymore?

  I nodded gently. He removed his hand from my mouth.

  I've been in worse spots before, but I was completely unprepared for this. I was in the safest place in Britain, in my bloody party dress! So unfair. Anyway, I was more scared than I'd been in a long time and I momentarily lost my cool. My terror, I'm embarrassed to admit, made me compliant. I didn't make a sound.

  "Good girl," said my captor. "Now, which way to the main gate?"

  "I only got here today, I'm not sure. I can't direct you. I could probably walk you there, though."

  He tightened his grip. "Not good enough."

  He fell silent, thinking it over. As he did so the bushes rustled and another man, the parachutist, joined us. He was dressed entirely in black, almost invisible. It was only when I saw his thick leather gloves that I realised that both men had fallen out of the sky. My captors shared a brief, whispered conference.

  "All right," said the new guy, also a Yank. "Here's what we're going to do. You're gonna walk us to the gate. We'll stay in the shadows, but we'll be watching you. If you try to shout out or run, you're dead."

  To illustrate the point he pulled out a handgun and slowly screwed a silencer into the barrel.

  "Joe's a really good shot," added the man holding the knife to my throat, and I could hear the smile in his voice. "You should remember that. Now go."

  He withdrew the knife and released me. I knelt there for a moment, composing myself, then I got up and walked back to the path, brushing the dirt from my knees. So much for karaoke, I thought, as I stood in a pool of orange light, rearranging my dress and getting my bearings. I didn't doubt the ruthlessness or ability of the men who were threatening me. Plus, they'd bloody parachuted here. I'd not seen a contrail in two years, so that implied all sorts of things. I decided to play along until something clever occurred to me or an opportunity presented itself. Which it did almost immediately.

  "There you are," boomed a voice to my left. I turned to see Sanders striding towards me wearing shirt and jeans, a bottle of lager in his hand. "I wondered what was keeping you. Lost?"

  I nodded. Shit, would they just kill him? Sanders walked up to me and held out his arm. I slipped mine through his and said "let's take a walk."

  He seemed unsure, eager to get back to the singing, but his guard was down, he wasn't expecting trouble, and a woman wanted to spend time with him. He smiled. "All right," he said. "But there is no escape, sooner or later you get to hear my Ace of Spades."

  "I've already seen your ace in the hole, Sanders. It wasn't all that."

  "Hey!"

  As we began walking, I caught a tiny flash of movement out of the corner of my eye, a shift in the shadows, black on black. We were being stalked.

  I gripped his arm way too tightly and increased the pace. He gave me a curious look and I tried to signal with my eyes that something was up. But it was dark and he was slightly drunk. Sanders the soldier was off duty, this was Sanders the boozed-up Motörhead fan. I wondered how long the two Yanks would allow this to continue before they got trigger happy. I needed to stall.

  "Let's take a walk to the medical centre," I said. "I want to look in on Caroline."

  "Okay," he replied, giving my arm a squeeze of sympathy.

  "It's by the main gate, isn't it?" I asked, slightly too loud.

  "Um yeah, it's this way," he answered.

  He led the way and we walked in silence for a minute or two. I caught no hint of our pursuers. They were good, whoever they were.

  "You look beautiful," said Sanders as we passed a row of silent tanks.

  "Well, thanks for the clothes and stuff," I said, lamely.

  "You're welcome. You wear them well."

  For the love of Mike, Sanders, you dope.

  We ambled on a bit more, then I had an idea. If I pulled him into an embrace the gunmen would know I was up to something. But if he pulled me close they wouldn't be sure, and I could whisper in his ear.

  "Well," I said, as if suddenly shy, "I'm only wearing them for you." I moved my hand along his forearm and laced my fingers through his. He looked down at me, surprised, as I stroked his thumb gently with my index finger.

  "I'm honoured," he said, smiling but a little awkward.

  "You should be. It's not every day I make such an effort." Oh this was painful. I was spouting bad dialogue from a Meg Ryan movie.

  "You don't need to make an effort, Jane." Now he was at it.

  I moved fractionally closer, so our thighs brushed together as we walked.

  "Look, I can't keep calling you Sanders. What's your proper name?"

  "Neil."

  "Neil, I want to make an effort for you. Last night was... special."

  "That's a relief. It's been a while. I was, um, married. Y'know, before. My Chrissie."

  No, this is supposed to be a seduction, you twit. Don't get drunk and maudlin.

  "Kiss me," I whispered urgently as we walked around a corner into the road that led to the medical centre. He kept walking. He hadn't heard me. Oh fuck this. I never was much of a femme fatale. I dug my fingernail into his palm, hard, and he stopped, baffled.

  "Kiss me," I whispered again. Finally the great lunk wrapped me in his arms and stuck his tongue down my throat. We were lucky - the men following us must have thought he'd done it on the spur of the moment. They held their fire. Sanders tasted of Grolsch and Marlboro, which brought back hazy memories of another life.

  As soon as I was able, I broke the liplock and hugged him hard. Then I whispered in his ear: "Two men. Silencers. Bushes. Main gate." He stiffened and then relaxed, on duty again. He disengaged, wrapped his arm around my waist, and we continued walking. He didn't seem to be looking around, but I was sure he was trying to get a bead on our stalkers.

  "Y'know, Jane, you're a piece of work," he said, slightly too loud. His acting was pitiful, I only hoped the darkness would compensate.

  "Really?"

  "Yeah, Once you turned the corner, after you left the school, I really thought you'd fall in with a bad lot."

  Ah-ha, I thought, so that's why he was never recruited by MI5. I rolled my eyes.

  "Yes, but I had you to keep me on the straight and narrow, didn't I?" I improvised. Then, as we turned the corner on to the road that led to the main gate, I fell to my left, rolling off the pavement and on to the grass verge. Sanders turned and ran to his right. I heard the soft phutt phutt of a silenced automatic, and saw a tiny muzzle flare from the spot Sanders was running towards ("rush a gun, flee a knife" said Cooper, in my head). He held out his hand as he ran, smashing his lager bottle on a lamppost and then bringing it up to use as a weapon. The gun fired once more, then Sanders vanished into the undergrowth, which rustled and shook.

  I heard a cry of "stitch this!" and a grunt.

  I leapt to my feet and ran for the main gate, forgetting that I was wearing heels. My right ankle went from under me and I sprawled on to the concrete, scraping my knees and hands. I reached down to undo the straps and as I did so the other Yank was on me, straddling me, rolling me over on to my back and bringing his knife down to my chest. I grabbed his descending arm with my right hand as my left continued to fumble with the strap on my shoe and pulled, releasing the catch. Then I grabbed the sole, brought my arm up and plunged the heel of my shoe into my attacker's ear as hard as I could.

  He toppled slowly to his right, falling into the roa
d. I got up, reached down, and pulled the shoe. It came out with a wet sucking sound. Waste of a perfectly good pair of shoes.

  The camp was quiet, no-one aware of the struggle that had taken place. I needed to raise the alarm. I looked over my shoulder, and saw that the bushes Sanders had run into were still and silent. I got my bearings - I was right outside the medical centre. There were bound to be people in there, I was about to run and start banging on the door when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I yelped and spun around, swinging my shoe as a weapon. Sanders caught it in his great paw and I sighed.

  "Sorry," I gasped.

  He shook his head as if to say "it's nothing". His other hand was holding his side, and I could see a red stain spreading through his fingers.

  "You've been shot," I exclaimed. "Let's get you inside." I wrapped my arm around his waist and tried to drag him towards the medical centre, but he resisted.

  "No," he said firmly. "It's just a flesh wound. First we search the body and find out who these guys are and how they got in here."

  He shrugged my arm away and knelt down beside the body, grunting as he did so from the pain of his wound. I knelt down beside him.

  "They're both Americans and they parachuted in," I said.

  He looked up at me sharply. "You sure?" I nodded.

  He reached down and pulled open the dead man's jacket, searching his pockets. His hand was on the man's chest when he mumbled "oh fuck" and ripped open his undershirt. Strapped to the man's bare flesh was a little metallic gizmo.