by Damien Lewis
The men were bored. The Major had been through all this once already, so why the need to repeat it?
‘The bank vault remains operational,’ the Major droned on. ‘We understand that some fifty million dollars in gold bullion is held there, alongside the papers we are after. Those documents detail the financial holdings of Arab terror groups worldwide, so security will be tight. Now, as I said, I briefed you yesterday morning and asked each troop to come up with a mission plan.’
This wasn’t the first time that the men of Q Squadron had been tasked with preparing a plan for a bank raid. In fact, banks were one of the favourite theoretical objectives of The Regiment. They provided a distinct target opportunity, one where security would be tight and ease of entry for the uninvited was particularly difficult. As an exercise, a bank job tested the men’s ability to plan out an assault on a well-defended building, and get in and out again without being compromised.
On a practical level, if hostile regimes or terrorist groups had sensitive documents that they needed to keep hidden, banks were one of the commonest places of concealment. Most of them offered blanket client-confidentiality, which meant that the SAS had to be ready to physically assault and burgle them whenever necessary.
‘These are the mission plans that you came up with,’ the Major announced, waving a bundle of written papers around. ‘Now, I may be new to The Regiment, but I have many years’ military service behind me and I have never set eyes upon such an abysmal set of documents. My mother could have done better, and needless to say she is not a member of your elite fraternity. One in particular is a complete joke …’
The Major glanced around the room. Q Squadron broke down into four fighting units – One, Two, Three and Four Troop. His gaze came to rest on Lieutenant Luke Kilbride, the leader of Four Troop. The Major stared across at the Lieutenant with open hostility: this wasn’t the first time that they had crossed swords. Kilbride gazed back at him uninterestedly, his expression betraying not a hint of concern.
‘Not for the first time,’ the Major continued, ‘it is Four Troop’s plan that really takes the biscuit. I shall read it to you, shall I? It won’t take me long, that’s for certain. Oh, and I presume this is your writing, Lieutenant Kilbride, and chiefly your handiwork?’
The Major glared at Kilbride, but received no answer. Luke Kilbride was in his late twenties, and although he tried his best to hide it he was classic officer material. He was public-school-educated and came from a family with a long military pedigree. His parents were seriously wealthy, hence the nickname given him by his mates – ‘Loaded’.
In part due to his moneyed background and boyish good looks he’d gone seriously off the rails with drugs, drink and girls. He’d joined the SAS at age nineteen, as a lowly trooper, in a last-ditch effort to sort himself out. That had been nine years ago. Since then he’d been in the forefront of the toughest operations. Northern Ireland, Malaysia, Borneo, Oman, Yemen – you name it, Kilbride had been there.
He was totally in his element in The Regiment. His wild, maverick spirit had proven to be an asset, not a liability. In 1972 he’d been on a mission known as the Longest Patrol. A four-man unit had gone missing in the Malaysian jungles for seventy-two days. It had been the longest unsupported operation in special-forces history and Kilbride was one of those who had made it out alive.
His recent promotion to lieutenant had come unasked for, and Kilbride cared little for status or rank.
‘Nothing to say for yourself, Lieutenant?’ the Major sneered. ‘Very well. Your plan reads, and I quote:
Ground: Lebanon, Beirut.
Situation: documents and gold stored within bank vault; four security guards.
Mission: enter city and raid bank to liberate documents.
Execution: head into conflict zone disguised as guerrilla fighters. Set up OP in no man’s land and observe guard force. Under cover of darkness mallet both front lines with mortars, blow up bank and rob vault. Grab documents, commandeer trucks and drive out of Beirut.
Service Support: bugger-all. End of story.’
With that last phrase, ‘end of story’, a ripple of laughter went around the room. Five years earlier an Irishman called Pat Moynihan had joined Q Squadron. Moynihan hailed from County Cork, in Ireland. But at age eighteen he’d crossed the border into the North, enlisting in the Royal Irish Regiment. It was a common enough route for an Irishman who wanted to get into the British army, especially when his parents had worked in Britain and held both Irish and British passports. From there Moynihan had gone on to do SAS selection.
Despite the ongoing Troubles in Northern Ireland, Moynihan had proven an instant hit in The Regiment, being blessed with a sharp Irish wit. He was a natural at demolitions work and could do just about anything with explosives. Moynihan was one of Kilbride’s Four Troop men, and in everyday conversation he concluded just about every sentence with those words – ‘end of story’. It had become something of a Regimental catchphrase.
‘Think it funny, do we?’ the Major snapped. ‘Well, why don’t you share the joke, Kilbride? Or is it your plan that’s the joke? Because you can’t really be suggesting that a plan like that would work, can you, Kilbride? Using your cunning disguise as “guerrilla fighters” you’re just going to deliberately attack both sides in the war, is that it? Then blow the bank vault without either side retaliating? And drive right out of there without anyone stopping you? Is that it? Is that really your entire plan? Or have I missed something?’
Kilbride stretched and yawned and glanced around the room. As he started speaking his voice was measured and quiet, almost bored-sounding. But there was something about it that was menacing, conveying a barely suppressed violence.
‘How long have you been with us, Marcus?’ The use of the first name was a deliberate provocation. Regardless of rank SAS soldiers addressed each other by name, but Major Thistlethwaite hated the tradition and was trying to stamp it out. ‘How long, Marcus? In The Regiment, I mean?’
‘“Sir” to you, Lieutenant Kilbride! When you address a superior officer, you do so as “sir”!’
‘Not here I don’t. Didn’t you do your SAS induction, Marcus? If you did you’ve learned nothing from it. We do things differently: it’s merit regardless of rank, Marcus, that’s what matters. Merit regardless of rank. You’ve been with us long enough to know that …’
‘I’ve been here long enough to know a piece of shit when I see it,’ the Major countered, leaving his words hanging in the air.
On the rare occasions when he was driven to real anger, Kilbride’s dark eyes turned a murderous black, which was just what they had done now. He was one of the hardest men in the Squadron to wind up, but once provoked he made a vicious adversary – as many an enemy had discovered to their cost. That, coupled with his maverick nature and innate cunning, made him an excellent SAS soldier.
‘… And let me tell you, Kilbride, that’s what your plan is,’ the Major blundered onwards. ‘Shit. An unworkable, unusable dollop of crap.’
‘You’re new here, Marcus,’ Kilbride continued evenly. ‘Six weeks – is it? – you’ve been with us. A word of advice: you don’t stand there after six weeks and tell me that my plan is shit. Not if you want to breathe easily. Not if you want to sleep well at night.’
‘Are you threatening me, Lieutenant?’ the Major spluttered. ‘Because if you are—’
‘If I am, then what? I don’t need to threaten you, Marcus. You’re the biggest threat to yourself that there ever was.’
‘You think you’re so smart, don’t you, Kilbride?’ the Major shot back at him. ‘The lean, mean SAS fighting machine. Well, let me tell you – I’m here to shake you up. Teach you a thing or two; show you some bloody discipline. That’s every man in this room, yourself first and foremost, Kilbride. You think your plan’s so clever? Well, let’s see you prove it. Let’s send you into Beirut and see how your wonderful bloody plan works then.’
Major Thistlethwaite pulled an envelope out of his p
ocket and waved it in Kilbride’s direction. ‘These are your orders. You are to deploy on a close target recce of the Imperial Bank of Beirut, keeping it under close twenty-four-hour surveillance. And let’s be absolutely certain – I don’t want anyone breaking wind in there without my knowing about it. Sergeant Jones will brief you on the details. Is that clear?’
Kilbride stared at the Major, the only sign that he had heard him being a slight inclination of the head.
‘This may be an exercise only at this stage, Kilbride, but HMG may decide at any moment that we really do want those terrorist documents. And then you’ll be forced to put your wonderful plan into action. So, God help you, you’d better be ready.’
‘Beats me what you’re getting so worked up about, Marcus. If that’s all, me and my men will be leaving.’
The Major jabbed a finger in Kilbride’s direction. ‘Correction, Lieutenant, you will not be leaving. I am not having you leading your troop into that war zone with a plan that is bound to fail. Once I have briefed the other troops I will be instructing you on a completely new plan for your Beirut bank operation. It is one that I have drawn up myself and—’
‘Sorry, Marcus,’ Kilbride cut in, ‘but you obviously haven’t been listening. Merit, regardless of rank, Marcus. Merit, regardless of rank. You don’t tell me how to do things, any more than I tell my own men. All the men in my troop came up with that plan. And if we are called upon to risk our lives for this, or any, mission, we do so on our own terms.’ Kilbride rose to leave. ‘Come on, lads, we’ve a bank raid to prepare for.’
‘Kilbride, if you step out of this room …’ the Major bellowed. His face was glowing red with a mixture of rage and embarrassment.
‘You’ll what? Report me, is that it? Think how that’ll look on your record, Marcus – that you can’t control your own men. Take my advice. I’m trying to help you. Don’t do it.’
Jimmy Jones, the squadron sergeant major, placed a restraining hand on the Major’s shoulder. ‘It’s best you let your man go. I’ll have a quiet word with him later. It’s best you get on with briefing the rest of the men.’
Keeping a bank up and running in the midst of a civil war wasn’t the easiest of tasks, but Timothy Cuthbert liked to think that he had risen to the challenge with typical British phlegm. Over the weekend four masked gunmen had stormed into his villa on the northern side of Beirut and had ransacked the place. Luckily, his prize collection of rare butterflies had survived untouched and, apart from the soreness in his ribs caused by some insistent prodding with the muzzle of one of the raiders’ automatic weapons, he and his wife were unhurt. Then, on the Wednesday evening, his driver had been polishing the bank Rolls when three heavily armed men had kidnapped him and driven the car away. Fortunately, Timothy had been able to negotiate the return of both car and driver largely unharmed.
But this morning’s goings-on had been decidedly troublesome, and he was starting to wonder for how much longer he could keep the Imperial Bank of Beirut open. First there had been the journey to work, which had proven largely uneventful until they had reached Rue Allenby. There a chunk of shrapnel from a stray shell had struck the Rolls, and Timothy had been forced to continue his journey by foot. Half an hour after arriving at work a van parked outside the bank had blown up, the explosion spraying flying glass and debris over several of his employees on the ground floor.
To cap it all he now had to receive a visitor – one of the bank’s most wealthy clients – with the lobby looking like a bombsite. Luckily, his office was on the third floor of the five-storey building, so it had been largely unaffected by the blast. Over the years Timothy Cuthbert had never been able to establish the exact source of Abdul Sali al-Misri’s immense wealth. As things presently stood this one client had one hundred million dollars’ worth of gold deposited in the bank. It made the Imperial Bank of Lebanon one of the richest in the country – far outstripping the American banks.
There was a gentle knock at the door. Timothy glanced at his watch. It was 11 a.m., and just like his client to be precisely on time.
‘Come in, come in,’ Timothy said, rising from his desk.
‘Timothy. Timothy. How are you?’ Abdul Sali greeted the bank manager in faultless English.
The two men shook hands.
‘Bang on time, I see, despite the tiresome war,’ Timothy remarked warmly. ‘Take a seat. Coffee? I’ll order some coffee. A cigar, perhaps?’
‘Ah, the war, the war, my friend,’ Abdul Sali replied, waving a hand disdainfully. ‘Coffee, black, four sugars, would be simply wonderful. And a fine Cuban cigar, if you have one.’
Timothy Cuthbert leaned across his desk and offered his visitor a fat cigar from a richly inlaid wooden box. One of the most reassuring things about his client, Timothy reflected, was his dress sense. In contrast to some of his other Arab clients, Abdul Sali was always impeccably dressed in a Western-style business suit.
‘Would you believe it, Abdul Sali – armed intruders in the villa garden, a lump of shrapnel in the Rolls engine, a truck bomb across the street – and all before coffee this morning. You’ll excuse the mess in the lobby, won’t you? Explosion broke some of the windows, you see.’
‘Of course, my friend, I understand completely. This trouble unites us all, you know, draws us all closer together.’
‘Indeed. And it won’t be affecting the bank, let me assure you. The opening times remain the same – ten until five, Monday to Friday, every week apart from holidays.’
‘Certainly – your bank has a most excellent reputation for reliability, Timothy.’
‘Glad to hear it. So what exactly did you want to discuss? I trust the coffee’s to your liking …’
‘Delicious.’ Abdul Sali paused for a second. He took a sip of his coffee, and a luxuriating pull on the cigar. ‘It’s security. I wanted to discuss the delicate matter of the bank’s security. Of course, the Imperial Bank has an impeccable reputation. But with the war worsening I wanted you to put my mind at rest on the sensitive issue of security.’
‘We’ve never had an incident yet, not in thirty years of operation.’
‘I know, I know. But we have rarely had such sustained fighting. And with such a large amount of funds deposited with you, I sought to be reassured.’
‘Abdul Sali, you and I have known each other for, what, ten years is it now? You will remember the run on the Beirut banks, back in the late 1960s. For forty-eight hours we were besieged by customers seeking to withdraw their funds. You will remember how we reacted. We held our nerve.’
‘Indeed, Timothy, you did.’
‘And you, you held your nerve alongside us. You didn’t withdraw even one ounce of gold. And by the end of that week the same customers who had left were once again besieging the bank, only this time trying to pay their money back in. The Imperial Bank does not lose its nerve. Not when there’s a run on the bank, nor in the midst of a civil war.’
‘That is most reassuring to hear, my friend. But—’
‘And one more thing. It should be no secret amongst our most treasured clients that the Imperial Bank holds the funds of all parties to the war. The Christian forces bank with us, just as the Muslims and Palestinians do. Even the Druze militia holds funds in our vaults. So who in their right mind would ever want to attack us? In this we have been very astute, I think you’ll agree. We hold the money of all the factions and that constitutes the ultimate insurance policy. Do you see?’
‘Aha, my friend! Now this brings a smile to my face. This is what I was looking to hear from you, Timothy. You English are smart, we know – always the diplomats, always playing to all sides. I suspected this, but I just wanted to hear it from you directly.’
‘I trust I’ve put your mind at rest? And if it helps, I’ll also double the guard contingent on the bank vault … Now, I’d like to move on to more pleasant matters if I may – like the social gathering Fiona and I are having at the villa this Sunday. Drinks on the lawn from two o’clock onwards, everyone who’s any
one invited.’
The SAS’s makeshift Cyprus base occupied one end of RAF Akrotiri, which itself was part of the British Sovereign Base on Cyprus. It was made up of little more than a cluster of canvas tents, with a series of shipping containers providing a weatherproof storage area and armoury. Following his heated confrontation with the Major, Kilbride and his team had retired to the mess tent. Due to injuries, Kilbride’s troop was down to nine men which meant that they were under strength. But Kilbride wasn’t unduly concerned: a smaller unit might be better suited to a covert mission like the Beirut bank job.
Over a brew he and his men had a good moan about Major Thistlethwaite and placed bets on how much longer he would last in The Regiment. The maximum anyone gave him was another couple of months. Either one of the lads would end up punching out his living daylights, or the Commanding Officer of The Regiment would find a way to remove him.
Kilbride steered the conversation away from their hated squadron commander and onto the task ahead. However much personal enmity he might feel towards the Major, they now had a bona fide mission to prepare for. That mission would have been passed down from SAS headquarters in Hereford, and would have emanated from somewhere deep within Whitehall. Kilbride was first and foremost a professional soldier and a leader of his men. If, as it seemed, he was about to take them into the heart of the vicious Beirut civil war, he wanted them going in doubly well prepared.
At present there was woefully little intelligence on which to base those preparations. All Kilbride did know for certain was that they were scheduled to depart for Beirut in a little over forty-eight hours’ time. HMS Spartan, a British Swiftsure-class nuclear submarine, would leave its temporary berth off Cyprus and take his men to within striking distance of the Lebanese shoreline. They would be dropped at sea and make their way towards the coast under cover of darkness, or at least so Kilbride presumed.
‘Right, heads up, lads,’ Kilbride announced as he drained his mug of tea. ‘Forget the Major – he’ll never last. Let’s focus on the mission. We pull this one off and we’ll prove the Major wrong, which’ll be one more nail in his coffin …’
