“Don’t worry.” Doc grinned. “I have an idea.”
15: Paola’s Holiday
When she’d joined Z5 Paola had been warned that she might end up doing some very strange jobs.
However, she’d never imagined that she might find herself babysitting bats.
But Sofia’s people in Milan had maintained a colony of trained bats ever since they proved so useful for cave mapping in an earlier operation in Siberia. And when Doc Palfrey had been looking for an ecologically friendly solution to the mosquito problem on Vancouver Island, he’d remembered the bats.
Bats love to eat mosquitoes — some estimates say about 600 mosquitoes an hour.
And there over a thousand bats in the Z5 colony.
What’s more, these bats have been specifically targeted at the fungus-bearing mosquitoes. Sofia had explained it to Paola. “Everyone knows that bats have a stupendous sense of hearing which enables their echolocation ability. But bats also have a highly developed sense of smell. They use scent to detect the presence of ripe fruit and to identify family members among the densely populated bat colonies on a cave roof. Now these bats have been given behavioural incentives to go after the infected mosquitoes. They can smell the presence of a fungal parasite carried by the female mosquitoes. And they will preferentially feed on the infected bugs.”
So Paola found herself flying to Comox Airforce Base on Vancouver Island on a Hercules carrying a container full of bats.
She stayed in Nanaimo, releasing the bats every night to hungrily begin their work.
Every dawn they’d return to their home away from home, the temporary colony in the container. And Paola would seal them in safely.
After a week, she flew back to Milan with a fresh suntan, a kilo of smoked salmon, three litres of maple syrup and some very well fed bats.
If you enjoyed reading Hard Targets by Richard Creasey you might be interested in Ocean Strike by Damien Lewis, also published by Endeavour Press.
Extract from Ocean Strike by Damien Lewis
Prologue
7th December 2007. 1300 hrs GMT. Port Louis Mauritius.
Mark Dickinson crossed the road and headed out of the bright sunlight into the cool interior of Sid’s Bar. He was sweating heavily and worried that his thin, cream linen jacket, bought at the suggestion of his mother, was starting to show the spreading patches of sweat under his arms. He ordered a beer and headed towards the back of the bar where it was darkest and more private, hoping that his contact would think this choice evidence of tradecraft.
Sitting down, he started to pick nervously at the paper label on his bottle of beer. He thought about the embassy Christmas party that evening, as he watched the customers trickle into the bar. Christmas, he reflected, wasn’t Christmas when it was this hot but still, the party should be fun and perhaps there might be a dance and maybe something more with one of the plump but sexy-looking young secretaries whose name he could never remember.
He was awaiting the arrival of a low-level customs officer that his predecessor at the British Embassy here in Mauritius had introduced him to. He had no idea why his new contact had demanded such an urgent meeting. He didn’t know what to make of Mauritius in general. He’d been there for barely a month, and while to many it was a paradise of white sandy beaches and good food, to others, it was an irrelevant banana republic in the back of beyond.
A place where agent’s careers went to die. And sometimes the agent as well.
For his predecessor, being sent to this quiet island outpost had been a reward for years of service in the recesses of the MI6 Vauxhall Cross building before his inevitable retirement. But an increase in piracy in the Indian Ocean, and the emergence of several Mauritius-based Islamist groups had raised concern in Whitehall, and so they’d called for Mark. He’d been sent to replace the ageing embassy spook, in the hope that new blood would bring in some vital intelligence. Which was all well and good, but Mark wished it wasn’t so damn hot.
He spotted his contact straight away. A tall thin man, with skin the colour of milky coffee and a head of wiry black hair. He looked uncomfortable, his eyes darting about nervously until they settled upon Mark. Mark smiled a welcome, and the man came over and took a seat opposite.
“Xavier, is it? Good to see you.”
“Monsieur.”
There was nothing so unusual in two officials meeting in a bar like this, but still Mark was cautious. Xavier, his predecessor assured him, had provided good intelligence on pirate operations in the past and this meeting, he assumed, would be no different.
“Drink? A beer maybe? Or maybe not,” he added, remembering the man’s avowed religion. He’d read the file, thin though it was. Junior customs officer Xavier – not his real name, of course – was a moderately strict Muslim. He leaned forward so as not to be heard. “So Xavier, why did you want to see me, and so urgently?”
“Monsieur, I come bearing information of the very gravest kind.”
Like many Mauritians of his generation, Xavier spoke in peculiarly old-fashioned English, a throwback to Colonial times. “I did not know who it was best to tell.”
Mark nodded, encouragingly. “You’ve come to the right person. Go on.”
Xavier swallowed hard then began to talk rapidly, his words running into each other so it was hard for Mark to keep up. “Yesterday a ship, the MV Al Hambra, was in Port Louis loading up with sugar to be taken to Ireland. All was fine and I was not worried because it was a normal shipment. But then my boss, he came up to me and handed me cash. Dollars. And told me to go for a walk. It was a lot of money Monsieur. I didn’t know what to say, so I took the money and went. But last night I could not sleep. I kept thinking it was too much money. Too much money for a small problem, and so I worry that there is something very bad on that ship Monsieur. Something very bad.”
Xavier stopped speaking. His eyes were wide with fear. Mark sat back and took a sip from his beer. He hadn’t heard of the MV Al Hambra, but then again there was no reason why he should.
“How big is this ship?” he asked.
“I do not know its exact size, but it is one of the largest vessels we handle in Port Louis.”
“Can you remember where it was headed exactly?”
“It was sailing for a place called Drog Head, in Ireland.”
“Drog Head?” Mark wondered for a moment where Xavier could possibly mean. Then it clicked. “Do you mean Drogheda?”
“It is on the East Coast, near Dublin, Monsieur.”
Mark was old enough for the mere mention of Ireland and suspicious activity to set off alarm bells. But there were all sorts of shipments that might cause someone to bribe a customs official. Most could be dealt with by the police, so why was Xavier so worried? There had to be more. Sure, the bribe could have been overly generous, and hence suspicious. But still, there had to be something else. Mark resolved to have Xavier followed. No point pushing him for answers now. It’d probably only cause him to clam up for good. He seemed close to petrified as it was.
Far better to follow the man and to bug him, letting him reveal his secret in his own good time. After all, any ship sailing for the east coast of Ireland would take several days to reach its destination. Time, Mark figured, was on their side.
He smiled. “You did the right thing, Xavier. Thank you. Now leave it with me and don’t worry. It’s probably nothing,” he added, as he stood up to leave. “Oh, and happy Christmas.”
Back at the embassy Mark logged onto his computer and drafted an email to his superiors at Vauxhall Cross. He had looked up Drogheda on the map. It was a small, unremarkable looking port just to the south of Dublin. As to the MV Al Hambra, there was precious little open source information available. All he could glean were the basics: she was a container ship flagged in the West African country of Liberia, and generally employed to shuttle foodstuffs from African and Indian Ocean nations to Europe.
Still, since the 9/11 terrorist attacks and those that followed in London, MI6 expected every p
iece of intelligence to be passed on and logged, no matter how small. Mark noted down the salient detail and clicked send. Then, he sat back and thought about the Christmas party. What was that secretary’s name again? Monique maybe? Or Mona? Damned if he could remember.
The email arrived in the in-box of Mark’s Section Head, and was forwarded automatically to a low level analyst, whose job it was to scan all such incoming mail. Having little else to do in the quiet before Christmas, the analyst decided to do just a little digging. He compared it to a series of pieces of intelligence lifted from sources in the Middle East, and all of which concerned allegations of a ship-borne terrorist attack.
It only took a few minutes. What he turned up with was really rather interesting.
Within an hour of the email’s arrival, a meeting was called on the third floor of Vauxhall Cross. A group of anonymous spooks – Mark’s Section Head amongst them - agreed to re-task a Nimrod spy plane, in order to find out just a little more about the Al Hambra. As a matter of course, MI5 were alerted to a potential threat, as were the Americans.
By seven o’clock that evening Mark Dickinson was ordering his fifth gin and tonic, and the Al Hambra couldn’t have been further from his mind. But Vauxhall Cross was on alert, as was the MI5 headquarters at Thames House. The Nimrod aerial surveillance images had been beamed across the airwaves, and there was something about the pictures that spoke distinctly of a credible threat. Calls to contacts in the field were made in Arabic, French and several lesser known dialects of Eastern African origin, and a request had been sent to the CIA for satellite imagery. Blue prints of the MV Al Hambra were pinned to walls, and secretaries had been dispatched to get maps of submarine patrol routes that might intercept the ship.
At eleven o’clock the key players were preparing to brief COBRA (the Cabinet Office Briefing Room A) – Britain’s primary response to any credible terrorist threat. The prime minister, the foreign secretary and the defence secretary, who had all been away from Whitehall at Christmas parties or, in one case, at the theatre, had been quietly alerted to the problem and had made their excuses. They gathered around the table in the basement of Downing Street, as the head of the Joint Intelligence Committee cleared his throat and began to speak.
Meanwhile, Mark’s section Chief had been urgently trying to raise him for some time. He wanted to ask some follow-up questions of Xavier, and as soon as possible. Unfortunately, the man whose email had set off all of this activity was right now being sick into one of the bushes in the Embassy grounds. Mandy, a dusky local beauty, was doing her best to prevent his linen jacket from getting too soiled.
Once the retching had finally come to an end, she bundled him into a cab. Whatever romantic liaisons he may have had in mind earlier that evening, he was clearly incapable of delivering on them right now.
It was disappointing, but still she figured she’d better escort Mark Dickinson, special agent, home.
Chapter One
22nd December 0645 hrs. Poole.
The bacon spluttered and spat and started to curl around the edges as Mick Kilbride pushed it around the hot pan. He cracked an egg and let it bubble and blister alongside it, whilst spreading tomato ketchup thickly across two slices of white bread. Lifting the bacon out he let the fat and oil drip onto the bread, before adding the rashers. Then he slid the egg on top, opened wide, slid the greasy mess into his mouth and took a massive bite.
The night before had been the Special Boat Service (SBS) Christmas party. With many of the lads still in Afghanistan - ‘The Stan’, as they liked to call it - it had been a relatively quiet affair. Nonetheless, his pulse was pounding inside his aching head like a jackhammer, and his throat was sandpaper dry.
He was sitting in a beige-walled room at the SBS’s Poole base. It was part bar and part canteen but the SBS, in keeping with their maritime roots, preferred to call it “The Toad”. Someone had brought in a thin, sparse Christmas tree and instead of a fairy, a figure of Osama Bin Laden was perched on the top. Faded paper chains had been draped around the window in an effort to make the room feel more festive, but it was all a bit forced. A few pieces of coloured paper and sticky tape could never hope to mask the blend of antiseptic cleaner and sweat that could be found in every Naval base, in every part of Britain.
The only decorations that added any real warmth to the place were the few pictures on the wall of friends and colleagues. Rough, raw-boned men grinned out at him, all clad in a motley collection of fatigues, and holding up looted road signs, showing “Baghdad”, “Tikrit”, “Kabul” or “Kandahar”. These were the trophies of war, ones that reminded the lads of where they’d fought, and of those who had never returned from those battlegrounds. It was good to remember them.
Amongst the familiar faces on the wall, one stood out in particular, that of Mick’s father, Luke. In the photograph he was wearing a red and white Keffiayah over his forehead and lower neck and sporting a thick, dark, sand flecked beard. A wide grin broke up Luke’s face. He was clearly proud of something and he was holding a sign that read Beirut. As Mick looked at the photo he tried to forget his hangover and savoured instead the thick sludge of ketchup and egg yolk that he’d licked off his chin. It was thanks to his father that he had joined the SBS. Ever since he could remember, Mick had wanted to follow in his footsteps. Mick had thick dark curly hair like his dad and was a solid, rugged northern soul. As soon as he’d hit 16 he’d left school and headed straight to the recruitment office to sign up to the Royal Marines. He had loved being a Commando and spent the next six years of his life fighting and drinking around the world, burning every penny of his wages on women and his mates. Despite his short, tree trunk like figure, he was a good all round sportsman, and he played in several of the military teams. He had loved it all but when a senior officer invited him to try for the SBS he signed up straight away.
He passed the gruelling Selection course first time and was sent for continuation training. To his surprise he passed this with flying colours, and became part of the SBS, which brought him new mates and new responsibilities. His natural leadership qualities had made him stand out, and he hoped that his father, who was now living in Africa, was proud of him.
As he thought all this over the door to The Toad flew open, and the SBS Company Sergeant Major (CSM), Pete Dyer, hurried in. His salt and pepper hair was a mess, his brow was furrowed and his eyes were bleary. He looked like he’d just woken up from a dark nightmare. Outside, the wind was starting to pick up and whip around the building, rattling the windows.
“Thank God you’re bloody here,” he grunted, as he spotted Mick.
“Morning, Pete. You look like shite. What’s up?” Mick was on his feet, face to face with the CSM.
“I’m far from being all-bloody-right,” Dyer retorted. “Get your shit together, Mick. We’ve just been ordered to get ready for a Direct Action Assault against a terrorist target. A ship. Steaming towards the Irish Sea right now she is, and stuffed full of God only knows what nasty shite.”
“Bloody hell. It’s Christmas n’all. Got time to finish me bacon sandwich?”
Mick regretted the flippant comment just as soon as he’d made it. “I’m deadly serious, son,” the CSM grated. “Just got the call from Whitehall. Al Qaeda ain’t going to put a hold on things just because it’s December 22nd. And from what I’ve been told, this one’ll make 9/11 look like a picnic if it’s successful. This’ll be their Christmas bloody bonus.”
The CSM was a hard man who loved the SBS and had served it in more places than anyone could care to remember. To many of the lads he was something of a father figure. But when the shit hit the fan he could be a tough and ruthless bastard if he needed to be. Under normal circumstances nothing fazed the CSM, so to see him this rattled had to mean something very, very serious was happening.
Mick swallowed the last of his sarnie in one gulp. “Right, what can I do?”
“Get on the blower. We need a team in here and sharpish, and any of the other lads you can get
. I don’t care who they are or where they are. I don’t even care if they’ve forgotten how to fire a bloody rifle - we need who ever we can get. ‘Cause what’ve we’ve got around here at the moment? You, me, the cleaner and the Regimental cat. And we ain’t going to stop Al Qaeda’s terror ship with that, are we.”
“How long have we got?”
“It’s more n’ likely going to kick off tonight.”
“Holy shit! Tonight? Tonight? How many of the lads do we need?”
The CSM shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine, lad. This is what I know. It’s a cargo ship. Called the Al Hambra. She’s heading up the Irish Sea. Spooks thinking she’s making for Sellafied. And it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to work out what that means.”
Mick swore an oath under his breath. Sellafield was the nuclear repossessing facility in Cumbria on the North West coast of Britain. If terrorists hit Sellafield, hundreds of thousands could be exposed to deadly nuclear radiation. It would be a modern-day Chernobyl, only this time it would be a terrorist-made disaster, and thousands, if not millions, would likely perish. Some would die quickly in the initial blast, but many, many more would a face slow, agonizing death from the fallout.
“Satellites show there’s a crew of twenty four or so, bad guys included. Work out who you need and get on it.”
“Right. I’m on it,” Mick confirmed.
“That’s the spirit, lad. And whilst you’re at it, I’ll be breaking out the stores. We’ll be needing some serious hardware if we’re going to stop this lot.”
“What do you reckon the chances are of the mission getting the green light?” Mick asked.
“From what I’ve been hearing, I’d say we’re ninety per cent on already. Make no mistake, son – this one’s going down.”
Chapter Two
Hard Targets: A Doc Palfrey Omnibus Page 24
