“Roger that. Standing down. See you there,” comes the reply.
For the next forty minutes, or so, we both sit in silence spending far more time looking at the fuel gauges than we do looking ahead.
With fifty miles to run, the Fuel Low warning lights flash on. According to the flight manual, this means we now have fifteen minutes flying time to empty tanks. By my calculation, it will take us twenty minutes to reach dry land.
I climb to five hundred feet above the sea and tell Simon to put the lights and transponder on. We are now in Cypriot Airspace and it is time for us to be seen.
I call up Search and Rescue who, I very much hope, are standing by.
“Sierra Sierra this is Golf Check.” … Silence.
After a few seconds, I try again, “Sierra Sierra this is Golf Check.” Still nothing more than a sickening silence.
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” we both say almost in harmony, causing us both to laugh nervously.
“Typical fucking ‘crabs’ probably pissing it up in the Mess with Richard,” chunters Simon.
Then comes the message like manna from heaven, “Golf Golf this is Sierra. Sorry about the delay, was on the wrong radio.”
“Roger that Sierra no problem. We have thirty-four miles to run, very low on fuel and a ditching possible in ten minutes or so. We have eight souls on board,” I say.
“Roger. Airborne now. Will tuck in behind you. Good luck.”
Our fifteen minutes flying time are up. We can see the land and the airfield four miles ahead. The Search and Rescue helicopter has taken up a position in our five o’clock. Tantalisingly close. All we can do now is wait for things to go very quiet.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Eighteen minutes and forty seconds after the Fuel Low warning lights came on, the number one engine stops. I am anticipating this and I know we are still able to fly with one engine out, but not for long. The number one engine has always run a little bit hotter and a little bit faster than the number two engine and therefore, by my reckoning, must surely use more fuel. I am confident that over the two hours and fifty minutes we have been flying, we must have at least two minutes’ fuel left in tank number two.
And one minute is all I need.
Less than a mile now to dry land. Surely if we ditch now we will be able to step out and walk to the shore hardly getting our feet wet. The engine continues to run and we land on the very first metre of concrete available. We taxi along the runway and towards the dispersal area, where there are three vehicles and a small crowd of people, including David, Mike and, of course, Richard. Before getting into the waiting people carrier, Nimbus’s family, and even the unwelcome illegal stowaways, who should by now be back in the British Embassy in Damascus, also insist on giving me not one, but two, sloppy, garlic-laden kisses, on each cheek and enthusiastic handshakes. I decide to draw the line when Simon and Richard start to approach me with puckered lips. Kisses from an ex-Royal Marine and an ex-Paratrooper, as nice as they might be, are not something that I am keen to experience!
“Bloody good job mate,” says Richard as he slaps me on the back. “The debrief can wait till tomorrow. Let’s get to the mess before the bar closes.”
We dump our weapons in our rooms, and head for the bar, where Richard is already waiting. He hasn’t ordered any drinks yet because that can’t be done without him first having an audience.
“Take a seat chaps and allow me the honour of buying you all a beverage. Three of your finest ales good man.”
“His voice has gone all weird again!”
“And for myself, a glass of fresh raspberry juice. Important that I keep myself in tip-top condition for flying tomorrow,” he says to the bewildered-looking barman.
‘Sorry sir, but we don’t have any fresh raspberry juice,” says the barman.
“Oh dear, make it a large Grouse then, with a splash of water.”
We’ve all heard it before but it makes us laugh nevertheless, probably a bit louder than necessary, but I for one can feel the tension slipping away.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
OPERATION DRUGSTORE
Richard, my close friend and fellow agent in MI6, rang me and asked if I could meet up with him without delay. He was at his house in the West Country, and I was at my Accommodation Cover Address (ACA), almost three hundred miles away in Lancaster. We could both have travelled to the flat in London and met, but neither of us fancied the tedious train journey and overnight stay. I had the helicopter with me, so I agreed to fly down and meet him in his local village of Pimperne, a mile or so, outside Blandford Forum in Dorset.
“Great,” said Richard. “There’s a bit of grass by the Farquharson Arms in the village. Let me know when you get there and I’ll treat you to dinner.”
“Hang on for a second,” I replied as I reached for my map of UK. “This bit of grass. Is it big enough to land on? Are there any tables and chairs on it? I can’t just roll up unless I know the landing site is suitable.”
“I’ve got squirrels in my loft, so I can’t get down there just yet,” he said. “Give Kevin, the landlord, a bell and he’ll make sure it’s clear for you.”
“Squirrels in my loft?” – I had not the faintest idea what that had to do with anything, and I didn’t ask. I just rang the landlord anyway.
Kevin was a Dorset man through and through. He had a very strong, slow, drawn-out accent. He had lived in Pimperne all his life, as had his parents, and probably their parents before them. He had never in his forty or so years travelled outside of the county.
“Why would I be wannin’ to go to London?” he would say. “Can’t get nothin’ ther’ that I can’t be gettin’ in Blanford.”
The conversation I had with Kevin was not easy.
“Can I land on the grass by the side of the pub later this evening?”
“Well, I suppose yer’ cud if yer’ ad an elicopter or summert.”
“Yes Kevin, I do have a helicopter. How big is the grassed area?”
“Oh well now… that whole thing is quite big, but it’s not that big.”
“Are there any tables or chairs on it?”
“Not now there ain’t. I been cuttin’ that bloody grass all mornin’. So, I ave.”
“That’s great. Does it have much of a slope on it?”
“Well, that’s the odd thing. When I look from ere there’s not much of a slope. But when I’m cuttin’ it there be one ’ell of a slope.”
I began to feel as though I was losing the will to live.
“Thanks, Kevin’. I said as I tried to imagine what the landing site might be like. ‘I’ll be there at about six o’clock. Please don’t put any tables or chairs out.”
“Right-oh. See u tonight my lovely,” he replied cheerfully.
Grant and Trish, my ACA keepers noticed me chuckling to myself as I put my phone away.
“Sorry, but I won’t be able to hang around for dinner tonight. I’m off to deepest, darkest Dorset,” I said.
As part of my cover for my alias Bob Grayling, Grant and Trish provided me with an address at which I often stayed. Grant had once served in the Royal Marines as a commando engineer and then worked at the Heysham nuclear power station. His wife Trish was a primary school teacher. They provided the vital services of an ACA for nothing more than a desire to support their country and a few, rather expensive, meals that I would pay for each year.
They were quite used to me coming and going at short notice so they were totally relaxed about me having to leave before the barbeque, planned for later that evening, got started.
The ‘bit of grass’, really was just that. Only just big enough to land on, and the slope was at the very limit of the helicopter’s capability. It took me a little while to gently blow the tables and chairs, which Kevin had assured me would not be there, into the hedgerow. That way they couldn’t be picked up by the rotor downwash and possibly damage the aircraft – not the type of landing procedure that the Civil Aviation Authority would have been too happy about. Richard
and Kevin were standing by the window, smiling, and gave me a gentle handclap as I closed-down the engines and headed for the bar.
We did the usual Secret Agent stuff. Found a quiet table, and sat with our backs to the wall, where we could observe the entrances and the rest of the customers, but we passed on the recommended ‘agent meeting protocol’ bullshit.
Richard went on to tell me what was so important. He had been put in charge of a recently approved operation, and he had asked for me to be allocated to it as his second-in-command. The name of the operation was ‘Drugstore’, and the aim of Drugstore was to identify, and neutralise the capabilities of, an unknown nuclear scientist. The nuclear scientist was known to have established a proliferation organisation which was determined to develop what he called ‘The Islamic Bomb’. International intelligence sources indicated that he was well on his way to success.
The importance of this operation was such that we would not be subjected to the normally strict controls from our office in London, but would instead answer directly to ‘C’, the head of the Secret Intelligence Service. Most unusually, there would be no budgetary constraints, and any resources we may need would be made available to us.
The nuclear scientist was given the code name ‘Verger’. Our job was to identify Verger and disrupt his proliferation organisation. We made a solemn promise, in that quaint little corner of Dorset, that no matter what the cost, and regardless of any legal or moral niceties, he was going to be stopped – once and for all.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
A few days after our meeting in Pimperne we sat down in the flat in Pimlico, London, to read through any intelligence briefings we could lay our hands on, and consider where it might be best to start.
There were two known protagonists in the area of Islamic Nuclear Proliferation, both, highly regarded, Pakistani nuclear physicists. Bashiruddin Mahmood and Abdul Qudeer Khan were both known to actively support the development of a nuclear weapon, which would not be controlled by a nation state but held in the name of Allah. There was no doubt that either Mahmood or Khan were suitably qualified to mastermind such an undertaking.
The intelligence reports showed that A.Q. Khan was known as the ‘Father of The Islamic Bomb’, and Mahmood had recently met with Osama bin Laden who had left him in no doubt that the Taliban leader was desperate to get his hands on a nuclear weapon of any sort. It was also a very realistic possibility that the whole project was being backed by the governments of North Korea and Colonel Gaddafi’s Libya. Best guesses were that a third, as yet unknown advocate, with a much lower profile than the others, had been recruited and cultivated, to drive the enterprise forward. That third man was Verger.
On the list of many individuals who were noted as being of special interest to the intelligence services, there was one who we thought we should investigate further.
Jamil Riaz was thirty-eight-years old and hailed from Haripur, just North of Islamabad. He had gained a first-class honours degree from the University of Manchester Institute of Science and Technology and had then taken up a position at the Pakistan Atomic Energy Commission. For the past three years, nothing had been noted, other than the fact that he had, quite recently, originated some emails from an office in Dubai belonging to Global Exports Limited. GEL was also on a watch-list of companies from across the world whose activities, were considered to be worthy of suspicion.
Richard set to work establishing a company based in a hangar on the South Side of Bournemouth Airport, purporting to buy and sell aircraft spares and components from the Far and the Middle East and the UK. In the meantime, I would fly out to Dubai to take a look at the offices of Global Exports Limited.
Since we were not restricted by the normal budgetary constraints, and as a well-heeled individual and director of an international company, I thought that it would be only right and proper, to fly first-class on the Emirates flight to Dubai out of London Heathrow.
In keeping with my image as an international businessman, I booked into the Four Points Sheraton in Bur Dubai, just a short walk from the registered offices of GEL in the Al Musalla Towers.
At the reception desk of the, rather smart, Al Musalla Towers I told the guard that I was interested in business premises to rent. There were several offices available throughout the tower block and, after waiting for a couple of minutes, a young woman who spoke perfect English, arrived to show me around. After looking at a couple of properties on the way up through the building, we arrived at the fourth floor which consisted of only two suites of offices. One suite was empty and available for rent. The other suite was occupied, and emblazoned across the double oak doors was a large sign with gold letters – ‘Global Exports Limited’. Our luck was in!
We paid for a year’s rent in advance, and we also took four rooms in the Sheraton on a rolling monthly arrangement. Most of our days were spent in our new offices watching the comings and goings of our next-door neighbours. Within a week, or so, we had good photographs of six men, all of them of Asian appearance, and all falling within the age bracket of thirty to forty years old. Dressing smartly each day with clean white shirts and ties, they all seemed to work regular hours from Sunday to Thursday, the normal working week for that part of the world. During the weekends of Friday and Saturday the offices were generally empty and locked. Access to the offices could only be gained by swiping a key card across the entry pad.
We numbered the men from one to six, thinking that numbers one and two best fitted the age of Jamil Riaz who we knew to be about thirty-eight. The old mugshots we had been given of Riaz were of little help since any of the six could quite easily have fitted the appearance.
There were only two parking spaces allocated to each office suite in the basement of Al Musalla Towers and, our numbers ‘one’ and ‘two’ parked in them regularly, indicating to us that they were likely to be the senior members of staff.
Our two prime suspects were targeted with what we called a ‘grabber’. A ‘grabber’ was a technical device, normally secreted in something like a laptop carrier, and when held within about a metre of someone could ‘grab’ the data from their mobile phone, credit cards or electronic passkeys. Once the data from any phones or cards had been harvested it was then sent back to London. GCHQ would then be able to monitor, or even control, every message or conversation on the mobile, and our technical guys in Vauxhall would be able to reproduce as many passkeys as they wanted. By standing close to the targets, usually in the lifts coming up from the basement carpark, we were easily able to grab all the data we needed.
Once passkeys had been produced, two of our ‘Techies’ joined us in Dubai. With Richard and I providing an early-warning system they carried out what we called a ‘technical attack’ on GEL’s premises.
For the following six months, the directors of Service Air, as Richard had called our company; GCHQ in Cheltenham; and our Techies back in London, were privy to every conversation, message or phone call made from the offices next to ours. We even had real-time video coverage which was being transmitted back to our home-base twenty-four hours a day.
After the six months of continuous surveillance, we were then certain that GEL was involved in the acquisition of materials necessary to produce a nuclear weapon. Hard evidence showed that Colonel Gaddafi of Libya was also directly involved. There was then no doubt at all that number ‘two’ was Jamil Raiz, there was no doubt either that Raiz was Verger, and he was going to be stopped.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Verger’s intent to produce a nuclear weapon which could, quite possibly, end up in the hands of one such as Osama bin Laden, made him one of the most significant terrorists of that era.
We read his emails confirming that he was booked onto a flight to Geneva, where he would stay in the Mandarin Oriental hotel for five nights, and then fly on to Jakarta. Verger’s wife was Indonesian and lived in Surabaya with their two children.
Richard was beginning to feel very unwell so we decided to fly to London a couple of days pri
or to Verger’s planned trip, in order for him to receive medical attention. Upon arrival, Richard went straight off to see a doctor and I met up with Roger, another of our UKD operators. Later that day we flew to Geneva and checked ourselves into the Mandarin Oriental for a week.
Standing by her trolley in the corridor the young housekeeper, smiling politely, must have had me down as some sort of dirty old man, as I sidled up to her with my laptop bag slung over my shoulder. I couldn’t tell her of course, but all I wanted to do was get close to her. Close enough for my ‘grabber’ to get inside her apron pouch. After a few seconds, my crutch started to twitch. It was the switch in my trouser pocket which was vibrating and telling me that the data from the housekeeper’s skeleton-key had been successfully collected.
As soon as we were sure that the arch bombmaker had left the hotel and was well on his way to his meeting we entered his hotel room armed with what we intended to bring about his demise with – a camera.
We took close-up pictures of all his personal belongings, especially anything he had left in the bathroom; antiperspirant spray, medication, toothbrush, toothpaste, mouthwash, razor, shaving gel, eye-drops and aftershave lotion. The pictures were then transmitted back to our headquarters in Vauxhall.
Two days later we met with an agent in Starbucks on the waterfront. The agent had brought a package for us via diplomatic bag from London. He handed us the large brown envelope which contained a wooden box, similar to one which might contain a high-quality handgun, and, in a very spook-like manner, gave us the following instructions.
“Replace this with the one he is using at the moment. Do not remove the cap. Just bend, or twist it, so that it looks as close as possible to the one you are replacing.”
Inside the box was a half-used tube of Colgate toothpaste.
Kisses From Nimbus Page 20
