The Devil's Work

by Dominic Adler

  “Who would?”

  “I’ve been in this life a long time now, and I’m still alive. That’ll have to do.”

  She nodded. “Just let me know if I can help.”

  I had to remind myself she was the prime suspect for treason, the person I might have to execute in twenty-four hours. It would make sense for her to make a connection with someone like me, someone vulnerable.

  I ground my teeth and studied my boots. We spent the rest of the flight listening to the roar of engines and watching the trackless scrubland zip by below us.

  My guts churned as the Puma descended sharply, hugging the coast. The bone-white sand sped by beneath us, dotted with scrubland and rocks. Alex was fast asleep, so I nudged him with my boot. “Wake up, mate,” I said.

  “Sure,” grunted the American. He fished a sand-coloured Boonie hat from his pocket and jammed it on his head. “I was dreamin’ ‘bout my first wife and a vacation we had in Baja.”

  “Was it a good vacation?”

  “No, she stabbed me with a broken Tequila bottle and had me arrested by the Federales.”

  I left it at that.

  “Hey, let’s do this thing,” he bawled over the throb of the heli’s engine, pulling on his heavy rucksack.

  I nodded, adjusted the strap on my helmet and readied my G36.

  Steve Bacon emptied his coffee over the side of the Puma then clambered behind his door-mounted machinegun. We banked sharply left, away from the coast. In the distance I could see the sodium glow of lights on the horizon.

  “That’s the Quaani airbase,” said Easter, business-like again. We were five miles from the prison as the heli slid through the darkness, towards the desert floor.

  Bytchakov reckoned he could march there in full kit and be dug in by daybreak.

  Just as the Puma’s wheels connected with the ground, I jumped out to cover Bytchakov. Scanning threats as I sprinted clear of the heli, the patchy scrubland looked clear through my NVGs. The American hopped down, a rifle in each hand and an AT4 rocket strapped across his giant Bergen. He looked like an armoury on legs. He scurried past me with a nod and began the long tab to the prison.

  When Alex was clear, I jogged back to the heli and climbed in. “Go!” I called to Steve.

  The Puma’s engines whined as we pulled up into the night, Idris throwing the machine through one hundred and eighty degrees. I kept my NVGs on and watched Alex turn slowly into a small glowing blob. Keying the handset on the satellite radio, I shouted over the engine noise, “Charlie Seven Oscar, this is Charlie Seven Alpha, comms check, over: Alex you getting this?”

  “Hey, I guess it’s too late for a career change?”

  “I think so,” I laughed. “Good luck mate.”

  “The harder I work, the luckier I get,” he grunted.

  “Do you think he’s really as tough as the macho posturing suggests?” said Easter.

  “Tougher, I reckon. How’s the schedule for the rest of our kit?” I asked.

  “The RIB is coming in first thing. Amelia’s chasing it up.”

  “What’s Amelia’s speciality?”

  “There’s not much Amelia can’t do,” she shrugged. “She’s good with agents, can blow stuff up, survey an oilfield and she’s handy in a fight.”

  “Can she reverse a family-sized saloon into a tight parking space?”

  “Hey sexism,” she smiled, “how retro.” She looked happy that I’d cheered up, punching me playfully on the shoulder. “Look, despite it all, the team will come together when push comes to shove.”

  I didn’t suppose she’d want to admit that her technician was a drunk and her second-in-command suspected her of espionage. “I still think you got the rough end of the stick with this operation,” I said.

  “Coming from a member of The Firm, I’ll take that as a rare display of sympathy,” she replied.

  “I’m not a member of The Firm,” I said, “I’m one of its prisoners.”

  “I understand. Look, all I want to do is get Mel and the rest of my team home and salvage something positive from this mess.”

  “And what’s the plan after that, another overseas posting?”

  “Hopefully London,” she replied. “I’ve been abroad constantly, with the army or SIS, for almost nine years. I need a break.”

  We landed back at camp, the rest of the team sat on a low wall smoking and chatting in the dark. The Grey twins were working on a make-shift punch bag.

  “Alex is in,” I said, taking off my helmet.

  Easter ran a hand through her wind-tangled hair. “I’ll call an intelligence briefing in the morning, as soon as I get it. OK?”

  “Guys, get some zeds,” I said, looking at my wristwatch, “It’s late and the rest of the kit arrives in the morning. Briefing is at 08.00.”

  Alan Brodie wandered over. He was sipping from a mug of hot chocolate. “Captain Winter?”

  “Yes, Alan?”

  “There’s a call for you on the secure net, from your… management.”

  “Thanks,” I replied. I walked over to the HQ building, into the cramped comms room. Alan handed me a handset connected to a suitcase-size satellite radio. I waited until the GCHQ technician left the room. “Monty?”

  “Yes” he replied in his nasal whine, “SITREP, please.”

  “We’re on schedule,” I replied lightly. Now I knew Monty’s real name and what he looked like, I felt empowered. The forger’s story about the operation in Croatia fitted everything I suspected about the creepy bastard.

  “I’m not happy you’re being exposed to SIS personnel,” Monty sniffed, “any problems?”

  “No, they’re OK,” I lied. “Although I agree with you, the decision surprised me too.”

  “Well, it was imposed on me from above,” he replied carefully, not expecting me to agree. “Nobody listens. Just don’t mix with the spooks too much. Watch what you say.”

  He’d said no-one listens. I’d never heard a handler criticize the hierarchy before, except for Harry’s warning back in Spain.

  “The Fallen Eagle protocol is engaged,” he continued. “If you can’t make a voice call, send this code to the emergency number using your sat phone.”

  The code flashed up on the LED display on the radio, a short alphanumeric sequence. I scribbled it down in my notebook. “I’ve got it.”

  “Support will be basic,” he warned. “No dramatic rescue, but we’ll get assets to you in-country. Remember Winter, it’s only to be used if we are completely compromised.”

  “That’s good to know,” I replied.

  “OK,” he said, relaxing. “Keep me updated.”

  Returning to the hangar, I showered and crashed in my bunk. Pulling my camera out of its neoprene pouch, I punched in the password and opened the pictures I’d taken of Marcus’s file, the taster I’d been given as a bonus. It was an MI6 report from early 2002 about The Firm. I’d read it twice already, but kept getting drawn back to it. I had to squint to re-read it:

  DIADEM URN 00/031/908 TOP SECRET UK EYES ONLY

  Briefing note re. Independent Covert Asset 031-A20-5300

  ICA 031-A20-5300, previously known as SAWBUCK, has adopted a new cover name, apparently derived from a colloquialism used by employees to describe the organisation. This is ‘The Firm.’ Previous cover names known to DIADEM include:

  STREGA (1953-1965)

  GREY ORCHESTRA (1965-1975)

  THE BOATCLUB (1975-1986)

  PANTHEON (1986-1995)

  SAWBUCK (1995-2002)

  THE FIRM (2002 - present)

  Re-naming usually coincides with the appointment of a new executive committee (known as The Evocati, symptomatic of the sense of theatre enjoyed by founding members of the STREGA project). The Firm’s projected demand tempo since the 9/11 attacks on the Twin Towers and Pentagon prompted the latest restructuring, including renaming for OPSEC reasons. DIADEM has corroborated expansion in the operative base and utilised their services on operations: ABEMARLE, BASELINE, MACHINE and NOTIONAL
.

  DIADEM COMMENT: The last of the original ‘STREGA COMMITTEE / EVOCATI’ (see URN 00/031/1999) died in 1999. The direction taken by the organisation since the Op. PANTHEON incarnation is more profit-driven but professional. The centre(s) of gravity for 031-A20-53 remains London, Washington DC and Trieste. The Firm has hitherto aligned itself with causes broadly sympathetic to HMG interests. However, since the 2003 Iraq War, the organisation has ‘chased the dollar,’ aligning itself with state and non-state actors of whom previous Evocati would have disapproved. At the time of reporting, this is an observation rather than a concern, but the situation will require careful monitoring. Operation BODYLINE, the exit strategy from any linkage to The Firm, is the official contingency in place should this position become untenable.

  The Firm had been started in the fifties. I tried to guess how many poor bastards had been press-ganged into service since then. I knew that Strega was Italian for witch or sorceress. My mother was Italian, and the word popped up in fairy tales she’d tell me. The only other Italian link was Trieste, where Bytchakov had recently worked. I Googled the word Evocati, discovering they were Roman ex-soldiers who, having completed their service, re-enlisted voluntarily. They enjoyed favoured status as a result. Harry had been a pressed man, became a handler. Was he one of the Evocati? And once, the report suggested, The Firm had been on the side of the angels. For a second I wondered if it could be again.

  I laughed.

  There wasn’t enough water to hose out those stables.

  I punched the pillow and tried to get comfortable, but the report gnawed at my brain. The old forger, Samuels, told me that Harry’s codename was The Saint, like the old TV series. I knew that Monty was a disgraced ex-MI5 officer. The more I learnt, the less I knew. The only way to find out was to get Marcus the result he wanted, get him to give up his dead wife’s secrets.

  And to visit Zurich, prise open that safety deposit box.

  I slept fitfully until my bladder woke me. Stuffing my feet into my boots I shuffled next door, creeping through the men’s billet. There was the usual snoring and fug of bloke-odour, and the fresh air outside was a relief. I checked the luminous dial on my G10 watch: oh-three-hundred. I made for the wash block, seeing movement over by the trailers where the SIS team lived. I heard a noise and froze.

  Duclair and Easter were standing by a trailer, deep in conversation. Duclair was smoking, the amber tip of her cigarette bobbing like a firefly. Fifty metres beyond them, near the gatehouse to the camp, I saw the silhouette of a South African guard sitting behind a sandbag emplacement, rifle pointed into the wilderness beyond. Staying in the blue-grey shadow of the hangar, I broke cover from the building line and slid behind the trailers to eavesdrop.

  “Are you sure?” said Easter quietly. “I know we’ve been over it a dozen times…”

  “You’ve read the product, Juliet,” Duclair replied huskily. “The source is reliable. If he says it’s there I’m inclined to believe him, and fuck the management.”

  Easter sighed. “In any case, it’s an opportunity we should take. Chinese EW capability gets better every month.”

  “I agree,” said Duclair. “Returning home with the equipment shows something tangible for all this effort. I know how much graft you’ve put into this job.”

  “Thanks, Amelia. Are you sure we need to take Brodie, though? I’m sure Hugo can manage.”

  “Hugo could do it, I suppose,” Duclair replied, “but Brodie’s the expert. If anything went wrong they’d ask why he wasn’t there. They’ll be looking for ammo to shoot at you, why give it them?”

  “Yes, they’ll have me on health-and-bloody-safety,” laughed Easter.

  “I know you don’t like Brodie, but he’s good at his job.”

  “If I can smell a drop of booze on him, he can fuck off back to GCHQ and play with his gadgets. We’re going into a hostile environment, I’m not taking baggage.” Easter’s voice dripped venom.

  “I’ll keep an eye out,” Duclair replied. “And did you see Cal mallet those vultures earlier? It was murder-as-performance art.”

  I heard the low-pitched warble of a satellite phone.

  “It’s Vauxhall,” Easter sighed. “We’d better go back.”

  They walked away, which was a shame. I like it when attractive, intelligent women talk about me in favourable terms. At least I’d learnt from their conversation that Dancer’s tale of Chinese electronic warfare equipment seemed accurate. I went for a piss then returned to my bunk, crashing into a deep sleep.

  I was woken by the sound of a heli, a big one. The chug of heavy rotor blades rattled the tin roof of the hangar. Pulling on my fatigue trousers and a tee-shirt, I ambled outside. A colossal Mi26-T cargo heli lumbered through clouds of orange dust. It was liveried with the Red and Grey logo of BASNEFT, the Russian energy giant. Slung underneath in a cargo net, like a toy, was the 28’ long rigid inflatable we’d use on the operation. Wearing goggles, the Grey twins scurried beneath the hovering giant, releasing the fastenings on the stowage net as the pilot lowered his cargo.

  Juliet Easter strode towards me. “They’re taking food supplies to the refugee camps on the border,” she shouted above the howling engine noise, “good PR for BASNEFT and better cover for moving contraband.”

  We strode towards the heli, the men ready to unload our kit. The crew, wearing orange flying suits, opened the curved rear doors.

  Bannerman took a list from the loadmaster. “It’s in Russian!” he bawled.

  I went over and read it. Everything was in order: explosives, wall-breaching kit, a battering ram, spare radios with batteries, NVGs and enough to medical kit to equip a field hospital. The loadie nodded as I gave him thumbs up, and he disappeared back up into the belly of the aircraft. They weren’t hanging about, the giant turbo-shafts increasing in volume as the pilot prepared for take-off. I went to step off the ramp at the rear of airframe when the loadie waved at me to join him.

  “Here,” said the Russian crewman. He passed me a box marked GRENADE, RGD-5 x20 in Cyrillic lettering. “This is for you.”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “Hey, don’t look at me,” smiled the loadie, “this is from a friend of yours, on the quiet. You understand?”

  “No,” I said. “I don’t.”

  “The fat Scottish guy sends his regards,” said the Russian.

  “OK, thanks,” I replied, taking the box. Whatever it was Marcus wanted me to have, I doubted it was grenades.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The evening air was warm, dirt-grey clouds scudding across the darkening sky. In the shadow of the Puma, I paced around the line of armed men. I felt like a camouflaged quarterback in my body armour and Crye Precision helmet. The only insignia I wore was a Velcro blood-group patch on my armour. Luckily, I had too much to think about to be scared. As per my promise to Easter, I hadn’t touched a drink. My fists were clenched, to stop them trembling. I had to survive this job. There was unfinished business to take care of.

  The Dornier sat on the neighbouring landing strip. The SIS officers sat by their equipment, Easter and Duclair checking their weapons while Hugo and Brodie sat drinking coffee. All of them looked calm and relaxed, like the mission was no big deal. I wouldn’t look down on spies again, at least not the people they sent into the field.

  It was just a shame one of them was a traitor.

  “OK, double-check for any operationally insecure items: no phones and no ID,” I ordered.

  “I’m an operationally insecure object,” Bannerman protested. “Ma life-story is tattooed all over my beautiful body, Cal.”

  “He’s a fucking criminal,” Ruben grinned, jerking a thumb at Bannerman. “Nobody would be surprised to find him wrapped up in wrongness like this.”

  “The wee Cockney bastard’s got a point,” the Scotsman laughed.

  In the army they’d have called Bannerman ally, which means looking effortlessly cool. The ex-Para wore a faded Denison parachute smock over pea-dot camouflaged fatigues and ar
mour, fiery red dreadlocks flowing from the back of his AirFrame helmet. The MG4 was across his chest, a Claymore sheathed in a camouflaged scabbard on his back. A black fighting knife and a Walther were strapped to a drop-thigh holster. On his smock were para wings and a dark blue rectangle, the Landing Zone flash for 2 PARA. “I got those inked on my arms too,” he shrugged, “plus, they’re good luck.”

  Oz and the Grey twins double-checked their weapons and inspected each other’s lightweight life vests in case we ditched at sea. The three ex-marines were small, wiry men, all wearing identical German army camouflage fatigues and chest rigs, without adornment or affectation. They’d swapped out every item they could to make room for extra water, grenades, explosives and ammunition.

  Steve Bacon, a cigarette smouldering at the corner of his mouth, inspected the rigging for the cargo nets. The Rigid Inflatable lay nearby like a beached dolphin. The heli now had machineguns mounted on the side doors.

  “OK,” I said, “mount up.”

  Dancer, wearing old-style British desert camouflage, held his thumb up and started stashing the AT4 antitank rockets in cargo nets inside the fuselage. His only concession to combat fashion was a silk scarf, worn to stop his body armour chafing his throat.

  “That’s a rare blood group, Dancer,” I said, pointing to the blood patch on his armour. It read AB NEG.

  “That’s OK, I don’t intend on losing any,” he replied smoothly.

  Easter strode over, eyes narrowed, “Cal,” she said quietly, “for Christ’s sake, just in-and-out OK? I’ll have Vauxhall wanting updates every ten seconds as it is.”

  “Agreed,” I said, offering my hand.

  She grabbed my arm and kissed my cheek. “Thanks for not having a drink,” she whispered into my ear, “I need this. I appreciate what you’re doing.”

  “We’ll be fine,” I replied. Glancing over her shoulder I saw Duclair looking straight at me, head cocked slightly.

  Her look said, don’t get taken in.

  Finally, we were ready. Alex Bytchakov, in his dusty OP, gave the order. “It’s a go,” he croaked over the satellite radio, a hundred and thirty miles away.