“It’s a precious operational resource,” he snapped. “You should be grateful.”
The temptation to tell Monty to fuck off bubbled at the back of my mouth, but I kept schtum. “Sure,” I replied.
He rang off.
Back inside, Dancer walked over. “I’m coming too. That’s one extra gun. Juliet’s team will need some muscle, and I know Zambute well.”
I slapped him on the back, “No offence, but you’re out of shape.” I liked Dancer, who’d been a formidable special operations soldier in his day. But years of working lunches and drinks parties had taken their toll.
“Bollocks,” he replied easily, patting me on the back. “I know the area, I speak passable Swahili, fluent Arabic and the locals trust me.”
“Tom…”
“Cal, I’m still a field guy, not a suit.”
“Ok, you’ve two weeks to sort yourself out,” I shrugged. “Get yourself down the gym. It’s not like I’m going to be overwhelmed with volunteers for this one.”
Dancer and I went outside for a smoke, leaving the others chatting as they pored over the maps. We walked past the barrack blocks and stood in front of the old officer’s mess. I pulled my cigar case from my pocket, “Tom, what’s the score with Juliet Easter?” I remembered how he touched her back at the office block.
“Ah, Jools,” Dancer smiled as we crossed the parade square, trailing cigar smoke. “Juliet was born in Zimbabwe, moved here as a kid. After college she joined the army, made captain in the Intelligence Corps. During the Basra fuck-up she went on secondment to SIS. They were impressed enough to offer her a permanent job.”
“What’s her speciality?”
“HUMINT and languages,” he replied. “She’s the real deal, speaks Swahili, Creole, French, Pashtun and Arabic. She even passed the army Commando course.” She sounded like one of those sickeningly epic over-achievers you meet in some of the more exotic corners of MI6. It fitted in with the pen-picture I’d been given in Marcus’s report.
“And she’s very attractive,” I shrugged, although I wasn’t going to share what it said about Easter on her profile. She was a hundred grand in debt, her tiny London flat re-mortgaged to the hilt. Her younger brother suffered from cerebral palsy and needed around-the-clock care, which she was never going to afford on a spook’s salary. “Sounds like you two are close…” I said.
Dancer treated me to a cat-who-got-the-cream grin. “She’s only human. We’ve been seeing each other on and off. It’s only a fling, nothing else.”
“Can we trust her?”
“Fuck no,” Dancer sputtered. “Cut Jools in half she’d have Secret Intelligence Service running through the middle like a stick of rock. We’ve an understanding, that’s all. It gets lonely out in Northern Kenya.”
I knew Dancer had been divorced twice. Some of the other officers in the battalion used to think he was a bit too flash, but I took the view they were jealous of his moneyed background. Easter didn’t seem his type compared to the posh, willowy blondes that hung off his arm while he skied around Switzerland or caught some rays on the Cote d’Azur.
“CORACLE can hardly help her up the greasy pole at Vauxhall Cross, can it?” I said, fishing.
“True,” Dancer shrugged. “Jools wishes she was a shooter, not an intelligence monkey. I know it when I see it, Cal. I did the same thing, gave up promotion twice to get posted back to The Regiment.”
“I always wondered what happened to your brilliant career.”
“I could have made brigadier,” he sniffed. “Jools isn’t realising her potential. And by the time she does, it’ll be too late. If she’s not careful she’ll end up a bitter, childless re-tread with a hatful of war stories she’s not allowed to talk about.”
“You old romantic,” I grunted.
“The truth hurts.”
Pissed off at how Dancer could be so flippant about a relationship with a woman like Easter, I changed the subject. “And you think this operation could work?”
“Yes, I think it could, but we need to be fast and aggressive. I want to get Mel out of there. He’s a good man, whatever mistakes he’s made.”
“That sounds like the only reason to do this job in the first place,” I said.
We finished our cigars and went back inside, to plan our nasty little war.
CHAPTER FIVE
It was just after eight in the morning when Syndicate Three arrived. I stood on the derelict parade square as they emerged from a Range Rover with tinted windows.
First out were two lithe, good-looking guys in their mid-thirties, dressed in designer sports gear and sunglasses. Both had creamy-brown skin, high cheekbones and dark, narrow eyes. Physically, they were identical. It was the Grey Twins, Raphael and Ruben. They claimed to be Jewish-Moroccan-Turkish, by way of Romford. The scions of an East London crime family, they scarpered off to join the Royal Marines after being acquitted of murdering their father. They chose the Marines because Ruben liked the look of the Commando Dagger. Inseparable, they served together in 42 Commando and specialised as raiding craft coxswains. They earned themselves a reputation as hard men with a love of combat, either in the field, the dojo or the nightclubs of Plymouth.
“Cap’n Winter,” said Ruben cheerfully, throwing up a mock-salute, “still smoking those fuckin’ ‘orrible cigars?”
“Yes, mon ami.”
The twins spoke terrible ‘Legion French’ from their brief spell in the Légion étrangère. That ended with a shoot-out in Marseille that left the head of a drug syndicate dead. The boys had been running drugs out of Corsica in a military landing craft.
“You speak French like a frog,” Ruben replied. “I speak it like a… warrior.”
Raphael grunted his agreement.
“You see?” said Ruben, “even he agrees.”
Raphael Grey was famed for his lack of verbosity. Graveyard quiet, he rationed words like water in a legionnaire’s canteen. If I ever turned on The Firm, these two would be a good prospect to join me, as long as there was enough cash in my war chest.
Next up was their syndicate leader. Duncan Bannerman was a rangy, foul-mouthed Scotsman, coppery-red hair worn in dreadlocks. His face was mortuary-white, with a long nose and a grim slash of a mouth. All he needed were fangs and he’d look like a Caledonian version of Dracula. He wore baggy cargo pants and a Motorhead tee-shirt, a desert camouflaged Bergen on his back. Strapped to the rucksack was a hessian-wrapped object, some four feet long.
“Hello wankers!” he hollered.
“What’s that on the side of your Bergen, Duncan?” said Oz, shaking the Scotsman’s hand.
“It’s ma Claymore,” he replied proudly.
“Do you mean a fucking sword?” said Alex Bytchakov.
“Aye,” he replied, eyeing the American up and down. “Don’t I know you?”
“Yeah,” growled Bytchakov. “I kicked your skinny Scotch ass in Kabul.”
“Scotch is a drink, you ignorant Yank cunt. There were six of you meatheads, if I remember correctly,” said the Scotsman breezily, un-shouldering his rucksack. “You were working for that shower of wanky Russian pussies, the ones who think they’re the Waffen-SS, right?” He pushed his face a few inches from the American’s.
“No fighting,” I grumbled.
“Another time then,” Alex scowled.
The Scotsman was a good operator, but a gobshite. You could put him in a room on his own and he’d start a fight. Luckily, this job was all about starting fights.
“Ah, Captain Crap-Hat, MC,” Bannerman smiled, clenching my hand. “It’s good to see you.” Crap-Hat was what Paras called non-airborne soldiers who didn’t wear their beloved maroon beret.
“I suppose you’ve led a bayonet charge?” Oz replied defensively. He’d never stuck up for me before, and I wondered if it were affection for me or a dislike of Bannerman that prompted it. In any case, everybody who knew Oz rated him and respected his opinion.
The Scotsman was referring to the Military Cross I’d won
in Iraq, leading a platoon attack with bayonets fixed. I didn’t deserve it. It’s in my safe. One day I swear I’ll put the bastard thing on EBay.
“Easy, Oz,” said Bannerman. “It’s all banter.”
Duncan Bannerman had served in 2 Para before being court martialled and discharged from the army. He’d gone on a post-Afghan wrecking spree during decompression leave in Cyprus, after a gang of drunken holidaymakers from Liverpool picked a fight. Two of them were still being fed through tubes.
“Good to see you again,” I said, pointing at his dreads. “Get a fucking haircut.”
“Ma locks are like Samson’s; if you cut them off I lose all ma strength.” He slapped the glowering Bytchakov on the shoulder.
“Leave it, Duncan,” I warned, following him inside the NAAFI.
“Fucking yanks have no fucking sense of humour.”
“Give the guy a break.”
“Which arm?”
We settled, the men dumping bags and lighting cigarettes while Oz fixed us all a brew. Shaking my head, I explained the job, to groans and jokes about suicide missions. Then I let them loose on the maps and the CORACLE file. Finally Tom Dancer arrived, looking every inch the ex-army officer in claret jeans, suede brogues and a salmon pink shirt.
I made the introductions, the table now littered with maps, photographs and notes. “We’ve a big shopping list,” I said.
“I’ll speak to my contact in Poole,” Dancer replied. “You’ll want a boat, too, I presume?” Poole was where the SBS were based. I presumed Dancer knew a friendly quartermaster from his Special Forces days.
Oz smiled. “Yeah, I’m thinking of a RIB, I’m sure they won’t miss one.”
The Grey twins nodded in unison when he suggested a Rigid Inflatable. Between them and Oz I knew that we’d get to the beach nearest the prison undetected. All three ex-marines were maritime operations experts and trained landing craft coxswains.
“A Pacific 22 would work,” said Ruben. “It’s got three hundred nautical miles range and it’s a piece of piss to sling under a heli. A bit noisy, but the beach looks like it’s in the arse-end of nowhere. I used to run ‘Luca from Tangiers to Gib in a 22.”
“Luca?” said Dancer quizzically.
“It’s rhyming slang, innit? Gianluca Vialli – Charlie,” said Ruben, looking genuinely surprised. “As in fucking Coke, White, Colombian Marching Powder, Chisel… don’t you speak English, Major?”
“I thought I did,” Dancer replied drily.
“Fucking Ruperts,” Ruben laughed, using the derogatory expression for posh army officers.
Raphael Grey sniggered, dark eyes roaming up and down Dancer like he was figuring out where to stick a knife.
I sucked on my cigar and made notes. “What’s the tide looking like?”
“No dramas,” said Ruben, returning to leafing through nautical charts. He showed them to Raphael, who simply nodded. “The sea’s pancake flat in East Africa this time of year. It’s a smuggler’s dream.”
We studied the plans of the prison. We’d looked at the geography and decided against a helicopter assault dropping straight onto or near the target – the plot was covered with machinegun towers. They’d also stretched steel cabling over the exercise yard to deter helicopter rescues. The terrain directly in front of the fort was a killing zone with no obvious natural cover.
“We’re gonna need antitank,” said Alex, tracing a finger across the satellite imagery. “That’s a BMP-2. Then we’ll need wall-breaching equipment for dynamic entry.”
“Agreed,” I said. “I’d go for the wall nearest the cliff: it’s furthest from the guard towers.”
We could easily tab the kilometre from the beach, using the trees for cover. I looked at the grainy satellite image of the AFV. The BMP was a small tracked vehicle, resembling a tank that had shrunk in the wash. It was Soviet-era kit, equipped with cannon and rocket launchers.
“I reckon we should site an OP in there first, mebbe up on this hill.” Alex pointed to a lonely stretch of high ground southwest of the prison.
“That only leaves five of us to assault,” said Oz.
Bannerman lit a cigarette and took a deep drag, ash tumbling onto the map. “Granted, but the Yank has a point. A guy on that wee hill with a light fifty, a machinegun and a couple of rockets could cause a lot of trouble. I can take any sentries on the headland over the beach with a suppressed rifle. I’d like a VSS, if we can get one.”
The VSS was a near-silent 9mm Russian rifle. I’d used one before but didn’t like the way the weapon was configured, thinking it back-heavy. But Bannerman was a better sniper than me, and we all chose our own tools for the job.
“Shouldn’t be a problem,” Dancer nodded. “I’ve yet to find a weapons system we can’t get hold of in the region, for the right price.”
“That’s settled then,” I nodded. “Dancer, tell us more about the plan for the airfield.”
The ex-SAS officer cleared his throat. “We’ve got an agreement with the rebels, the FZA. When we give the signal, they’ll attack the airfield in company strength, at least eighty or ninety men. Their assault will provide a distraction.”
“How good are they?” asked Oz, scribbling in a notebook.
“Good enough to keep the airbase buttoned up for a couple of hours,” he replied. “When the attack starts, the guard force will seek to reinforce the airfield. That just leaves the warders.”
“That could work,” said Bytchakov warily, “as long as the guards take the bait.”
“I can’t see why they wouldn’t,” said Dancer. “Then we heli in the SIS team, they do their bit and we all bugger off sharpish.”
I had to admit that the mission was looking more feasible.
“OK,” said Dancer, an impatient note in his voice. “Your requests will be passed on.”
“Will the kit we ask for be the kit we’ll get?” I said. We’d all been on jobs where the kit promised never appeared. In my case it was called ‘The British Army in Iraq.’
“Yes,” said Dancer. “I’m not going to pretend that there aren’t issues, but weapons and equipment isn’t one of them.”
“Amen,” said Bannerman. “The last PSC I worked for sent us out with fucking Elastoplast and cough sweets, but saying that, I’m nae too fussy about kit. The prime components of warfare are ammo, Mars Bars and water. Anything else is for schoolgirls and Americans.”
Alex raised an eyebrow. “You talk big, Bannerman. It’ll be interestin’ to see how you walk the walk in the field.”
“Whatever,” the Scotsman shrugged. “I’ve no need to impress you, wee man. I’ve got a blue Drop Zone flash that tells you everything you need to know about me.”
The American’s eyes narrowed. “Cal, you gonna ask this asshole to develop some manners, or am I gonna teach him?”
“Save your aggression for the mission,” I snapped, “both of you.”
“My money’s on the Yank,” Ruben Grey guffawed.
“So much for loyalty,” Bannerman replied, “Cockney wanker.”
Dancer’s secure phone suddenly chirruped inside its ballistic case. He picked up the rubberized handset, nodding occasionally as a scratchy voice spoke to him. “OK, I’ll get back to you in the hour.” He slammed the receiver down.
“Anything we need to know?” I asked.
Dancer checked his Rolex. “They’re moving Mel Murray next Sunday evening. He’s being taken to Marsajir for a show trial, which means we’ll never get him back. Fall in gents, we fly tomorrow.”
I shook my head. “That gives us just over a week.”
“Good,” said Bannerman. “The less time we’re over there the better.”
“I’ve got things to do,” said Dancer, striding towards the door. “I’ll be in early tomorrow with an update.”
I heard a car idling outside. Looking out of the window I saw him get into a Volkswagen driven by Juliet Easter. Despite myself, I felt a pang of jealousy.
Grow up, Winter.
The s
ix of us talked some more, kicking the plan about. Then we chalked out a plan of the prison on the parade square and spent the afternoon doing walk-throughs and actions-on. I turned in early with a brew to study the maps and diagrams of the area. Zipping myself into my doss-bag, I thought about the remaining suspects on Marcus’s list, both in Africa. Having met both Hugo and Juliet, neither of them struck me as obvious wrong ‘uns. I hoped the two remaining spies would seem better prospects - I’d read their files but wanted to meet them in person before drawing any conclusions.
Eventually I slept. My dream about Sam morphed into a nightmare. It gripped my heart like a claw, and I woke clammy and gasping for air. My hand fluttered to the Maker’s Mark, which I gulped from the bottle. Staggering to the shower block, I stood under freezing water, teeth chattering.
I couldn’t go on like this. I’d resolved to rescue Murray, but I was damned if I wasn’t going to find a way to get out, screw over Monty and The Firm. The need to strike back was like any other addiction I’d suffered, all-consuming and destructive. And if that meant Operation CORACLE collapsed messily, leaving a load of spooks and politicians with egg on their faces?
I could live with that.
CHAPTER SIX
Waking early, I showered and dressed in my linen suit, artfully crumpled and very un-soldierly. Breakfast was black coffee and ibuprofen, although I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted to add bourbon to my Gold Blend. I took a deep breath and chose not to, feeling an itch of despair as I left the bottle behind.
I was going to find Harry’s contact in London, the man called Samuels. I imagined him as the guy at the end of the Yellow Brick Road, the dude who knew what lurked behind the curtain. Why else would Harry send me his way? His cryptic offer was too tempting to resist. It was like heroin, booze and violence, all the things I enjoyed but shouldn’t. The Firm’s secrets hooked me like the cotton-wool embrace of heroin, like the first glass of my second bottle of vodka. And, if I’m honest, like the feeling I get when I pull the trigger on some bastard who deserves it.
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