Marine C SBS

by David Monnery

  The seat next to Colhoun was empty.

  Jacklin looked at his watch again. ‘I have another meeting in an hour,’ he said, ‘so I think we must start . . .’

  The door behind him swung open to reveal a large, uniformed man with a mass of dark, tangled hair.

  ‘Sergeant Wynwood?’ Jacklin said. ‘At last.’

  ‘My train was half an hour late,’ Wynwood explained. ‘I blame impending privatization,’ he added mischievously.

  Jacklin had the grace to smile back. ‘Maybe we can argue about that another time. Gentlemen,’ he said, looking round the table, ‘we are here to solve a puzzle, or perhaps just get a clear idea of what the puzzle is. Each of you has one of the pieces.’ He smiled at everyone, as if expecting applause.

  Colhoun remembered the newspaper article raving over his recent performance at the party conference.

  ‘Sergeant Wynwood,’ Jacklin was saying, ‘if you could start the ball rolling by telling us what you know of the disappearance in the Turks and Caicos Islands.’

  Wynwood went through what Franklin had told him, and as he spoke Smith took minutes in an impressive-looking shorthand. Colhoun wondered when the Foreign Office would discover the cassette recorder. Perhaps as they sat there, Q was inventing one in the basement below, unaware that they were on sale down the road at Dixons.

  After Wynwood had finished, Colhoun was asked to give an appreciation of Russell. He did so, thinking that if he had been called all the way to London just for this, he would be exceedingly angry.

  Jacklin then turned to the man from MI6. ‘Eight days ago,’ Branson began, reading from a notebook, ‘a man was found murdered in his car in Florida. The car was sitting in a lay-by near Tampa Bay, and the man had been shot once through the forehead. His wallet had been stolen, and the detectives could find no identification. There was no luggage in the boot. There was, however, a novel in German in the man’s jacket pocket, and a German-English phrasebook on the seat beside him.’

  Branson looked up. ‘So, at first glance the victim looked like one more European tourist who had been robbed and killed in friendly Florida. But the police didn’t have a name for the victim, and when they tried to trace him through the car registration it turned out the plates had been stolen only the day before in Miami. So they either had a German tourist who was also a car thief, or something more mysterious. They started backtracking the dead man’s journey.’

  Branson looked around the table, just to make sure everyone was paying attention. Colhoun found that he was enjoying himself.

  ‘There was one other clue,’ Branson went on. ‘An empty milk-shake container from the Burger King chain. The police started checking out the various franchises up and down the man’s probable route, and soon got lucky. The man had stopped in a restaurant only ten miles to the north, and the woman who recognized his picture said he had told her he was a Russian. “From the other St Petersburg,” she remembered him saying. And he had been carrying a brown attaché case.

  ‘Now, since the man had eaten lunch there around noon and was travelling south, the police worked on the assumption that he had started out that morning from a point some three or four hours’ drive to the north or west, and checked out all the hotels in that area for departing guests with Russian-sounding names. There were seventeen of them to choose from, and the dead man was eventually recognized from his photograph in one of the Disneyworld hotels. The name he had registered under was Aleksandr Tretchkin. According to US Immigration he had first arrived in the US some three weeks earlier.’

  Branson paused, took a sip of water from the glass, and went back to the notebook. ‘The FBI were called in, and eventually the CIA ran a photograph of the dead man through their computer at Langley and came up with a different name – Aleksandr Solayev. Solayev, it turned out, had been a commander in the Soviet Navy, a former military attaché in Havana, and one of the top names in naval craft design at the Naval Research Academy in Murmansk. He had specialized in miniature submarine and submersible technology.’

  Hence the connection, Colhoun thought. This was getting interesting.

  ‘US Immigration had one other useful piece of information,’ Branson went on. ‘Three days after arriving in the US, Solayev had left again, on an American Airlines flight to Providenciales in the Turks and Caicos Islands. He returned to Miami ten days later.’

  Branson closed his notebook with a triumphant flourish.

  ‘And all that from a strawberry milk shake,’ Wynwood murmured.

  ‘Your turn, Brian,’ Jacklin told the MI5 man.

  Findhorn had only a crumpled sheet of paper to compete with Branson’s notebook, but in any case he hardly looked at it. ‘The address Tretchkin – Solayev – gave the authorities on Provo was Fidel Arcilla’s villa on Long Bay, so I think we can assume he had some connection with the submarine which Russell told the barman about. Our best guess is that it’s a Soviet craft which the Russian somehow or other procured for Arcilla. Afterwards, either to keep the Russian’s mouth shut or simply to avoid payment, Arcilla had him killed.’

  ‘What do we know about this man?’ Jacklin asked.

  ‘I’m coming to that. First off, he’s a British citizen, even though he was born in Cuba and lives mostly in the States. He became one in 1984, probably with the help of his friends in the Turks and Caicos government, the same ones who were implicated in the 1985 drug business . . .’

  ‘Which business was that?’ Colhoun asked. He had a vague memory of some Caribbean politicians being charged with drug smuggling, but no more than that.

  ‘In 1985,’ Findhorn said patiently, ‘three members of the then government, including the Prime Minister, were arrested during a trip to Miami by the US authorities, and charged with conspiracy to import narcotics into the United States. What they had actually done was receive payment for turning a blind eye to drug runners using the islands as a refuelling stop. A lot of minor officials had also got in on the act, and great chunks of the administration had been compromised. The big three went to jail, and another three ministers were forced to resign the following year, allegedly for various improprieties, but basically for being part of the whole crooked set-up. The islands were governed from Whitehall in all but name for a couple of years, and since then things have slowly got back to normal. The Americans wanted a tougher law-enforcement system worked out between themselves and the locals, but the islanders were still feeling a bit too sensitive for that sort of interference, so the Yanks had to make do with access to local bank records for their drug investigations. Which brings us roughly up to date.’ He looked round the table. ‘And back to Fidel Arcilla. He was undoubtedly one of those involved in the smuggling operation back in 1985, though no evidence was ever discovered against him.’

  ‘He seems to specialize in leaving no traces,’ Wynwood remarked.

  ‘He does. The only evidence was against the original three politicians, and as I said, they went to jail. We managed to get rid of a few more of their cronies by political means, but gangster-businessmen like Arcilla are only susceptible to the law. We had nothing on him, and he had spread enough money around, both in Florida and the islands, to buy himself a lot of useful friends, not to mention legal advice. A few years ago he even sued the Florida Drugs Enforcement Agency office for harassment and won.’

  ‘What’s his background?’ Colhoun asked.

  ‘We don’t know that much. He was born in Cuba in 1959, about three weeks after Castro took the place over. Which is probably why his parents named him Fidel. He left Cuba in 1980, during the Mariel boat-lift, and took up . . .’

  ‘What was the Mariel boat-lift?’ Jacklin asked.

  ‘The Americans had been demanding that Castro allow people to emigrate from Cuba, and for about six months he obliged them. He also used the opportunity to get rid of a few thousand convicts and mental patients. Arcilla was one of the convicts and, not surprisingly, it didn’t take him long to get involved in the drugs trade. Within a couple of years
he was an important player. The FBI have been sending us information on his activities during the last few years. They want us to put him away.’

  Finally Colhoun saw where this was all leading.

  ‘What it all comes down to,’ Findhorn concluded, ‘is that the Americans smell more trouble. They think Arcilla is probably putting together another major drug operation, and using British territory as a base. They want us to either get in there and sort things out, or let them do it . . .’

  ‘Needless to say, Her Majesty’s Government prefers the former option,’ Jacklin interjected.

  Like Grenada, Colhoun thought sourly, ‘I don’t suppose you have any information on this Russian submarine’s range,’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ Findhorn and Branson answered simultaneously. ‘But we have people looking into it,’ Branson said. ‘Inside Russia,’ he added, as if expecting congratulations.

  ‘Good,’ Colhoun said. ‘Because generally speaking, such craft have a very short range. Considerably shorter than five hundred miles, which, I believe, is roughly the distance between the Florida Keys and the Caicos Islands.’

  ‘Maybe Arcilla has retired from the drugs business,’ Wynwood suggested. ‘Maybe he really is going after sea treasure. I should think it’s a pretty competitive field, and Arcilla doesn’t sound like a good loser. Maybe Nick Russell just saw something he wasn’t supposed to.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Jacklin said. ‘We just don’t know. So our first job is to find out.’ He looked round at them all. ‘We can’t send police down there – it would cause too much of a political stink. If we learned anything from ’85 it was that the islanders prefer their own corrupt officials to officials from London. Whoever we do send will have to be sent undercover. That might sound like a job for intelligence, but in this case we’ve decided that certain factors make this inadvisable.’ Jacklin looked straight at Colhoun. ‘Because of the submarine angle, and the probable need for qualified divers, it has been decided that the SBS should handle at least the preliminary portion of the investigation.’ He paused, as if he expected Colhoun to say something.

  The SBS man simply nodded at him.

  ‘Splendid. I would like a plan of action submitted by the end of the week if that’s possible?’

  ‘Certainly.’ You can have it tomorrow, Colhoun thought.

  ‘Your primary objective,’ Jacklin continued, ‘is to find out whether the Turks and Caicos Islands are again being used for drug-trafficking purposes. If you discover the answer to that question is yes, then we can go on from there.’

  ‘I understand,’ Colhoun said. He was already turning his mind to the question of whom to send.

  ‘I think the four of us – excluding Sergeant Wynwood here – should meet again at the same time next Monday,’ Jacklin concluded. He turned to Wynwood. ‘Sergeant, thank you for coming,’ he said, and offered his hand with what looked like genuine warmth, before disappearing out the door.

  The intelligence men followed him, skipping down the stairs side by side. Colhoun and Wynwood descended at a more leisurely pace.

  ‘You’ll probably need an SAS adviser on this trip,’ Wynwood suggested.

  Colhoun grinned at him. ‘And what sort of adviser would that be?’

  ‘Oh, you know. How to do things, when to do them. What to do once you’ve done them.’

  ‘We do all that ourselves. But I might consider buying you a drink if you’re good.’

  ‘I’m good.’

  They found a pub just past the National Gallery, in the lanes behind Leicester Square tube. Colhoun asked Wynwood about Franklin, and heard the story of their week together in the Gambia. ‘He’s a nice man, and a straight one. You remember in the old movies when they say someone’s a real white man – well, that’s Frankie, except that he’s black.’

  ‘And a good soldier.’

  ‘No doubt about that. I think becoming a good soldier was one of the few things he found easy in life.’

  ‘I’ll need his phone number on the island,’ Colhoun said, ‘but if you could call him tonight and let him know . . .’ The SBS man stopped to think for a minute, and took a sip on his pint. ‘If you told him a couple of your friends were arriving on the island in a few days, and would like to contact him, would he catch on?’

  Wynwood looked surprised for a moment, then nodded to himself, ‘I suppose the clinic lines might be bugged,’ he agreed. ‘But don’t worry, I’ll make sure he gets the message.’

  After the two men parted, Neil Colhoun walked up Long Acre to Stanfords map shop. There he purchased the best map and most comprehensive guide to the Turks and Caicos Islands he could find. It might be that official sources would come up with something better, but experience had taught Colhoun not to be optimistic in such matters. On the journey back to Poole he read the guide book and then sat watching Hampshire go by, wondering how many men to send.

  By the time the train pulled into Poole Station he had decided on two. It was off-season in the Turks and Caicos, and the resident population of Providenciales was only about five thousand. A larger group of men might be noticeable. And if it turned out that more were needed, then more could always be dispatched.

  As for the two, they more or less chose themselves. This was a far from purely military mission, and his men would be up against an enemy whose tentacles stretched through several countries. They would probably not be able to trust the local authorities. What Colhoun needed was a pair of soldier-diver-detectives, men who embodied the highest aspirations of the Special Boat Squadron. ‘Not by strength – by guile’ was the SBS motto, but sometimes both were needed in equal amounts. On land, at sea and in the deeps.

  Back in his office he asked for the service files of Captain Callum Marker and Lieutenant Robert Cafell, albeit more from a desire to be thorough than from any real need. Colhoun knew all his men’s military records off by heart, and as much about their personal lives as a commanding officer needed to, given that his was the responsibility for sending them out on such dangerous missions.

  The Poole classroom that was used for the film test was, as intended, overheated and lacking any compensatory ventilation. Even Callum Marker was having trouble staying awake, and he, unlike the twenty or so Marines with their eyes glued to the screen, wasn’t struggling into the fourth day of the SBS pre-selection course.

  On the screen an open lorry was being loaded with green oil drums by three men, while a fourth man sat on the wall to one side, smoking a cigarette. A selection of red, green, yellow and black drums were gathered in the road in front of him. Once the greens were loaded the idle man joined one of the others in beginning to unload them again, while two men rested on the wall. One of these then joined the two workers to load up the red and yellow drums. This accomplished the yellows were removed by all four men and replaced with a mixture of blacks and greens by three of them.

  And so on. The suspense was hardly killing, but there was no doubt the film offered a good test, not only of the applicant’s powers of observation and concentration, but also of his determination to succeed. These men were midway through their fourteen-day nightmare, and had already yomped through most of Dorset with fifty-five-pound bergens on their backs, spent nights under piles of wet leaves which lacked a Michelin rating, and enjoyed long, kit-encumbered night swims in the waters of Poole Bay. Before entering this classroom none of them had slept for forty-eight hours.

  Those who got through the fourteen days would be given a further fifteen weeks of assorted tortures to endure. The lucky ones who graduated would move on to eleven weeks of ‘trade’ training, which included all the advanced techniques and skills required of a fully-fledged SBS Marine. He would learn signal skills, beach reconnaissance, demolition and sabotage, anti-terrorist drills. He would parachute into Arctic seas. His diving, canoeing and weapon-handling skills would be further honed. And at the end of it all he would graduate as a Swimmer-Canoeist Third Class, and be graciously granted leave to serve an eighteen-month probationary period as a membe
r of the SBS.

  After that he would be expected to go for Swimmer-Canoeist Second Class, and then First Class, and then the Senior Command Course.

  It was a hell of a long climb, Marker thought, as he watched the sea of blinking eyes and yawning mouths in front of him. Thirteen years earlier he had sat in this same room, watching this same dumb film. A lot had happened in the intervening years, including his ascent of the SBS totem pole. The Falklands, the North Sea oil rigs, Hong Kong. He must have seen a thousand movies. He had met and loved and lost Penny.

  He closed his eyes for a second, and heard the rattle of the ancient projector change gear. The film was over. He got up, turned on the lights, and started handing out the question papers.

  ‘I was waiting for the naked lady to leap out of the drum,’ a tired voice complained.

  Marker smiled. ‘I’m sure most of you will spend your lives waiting for a naked lady,’ he said sympathetically. He placed the last question paper on the last desk and walked back to the front of the classroom. ‘You have fifteen minutes,’ he said. ‘And remember to put your names on the paper.’

  At the end of the allotted time he had to nudge three of the examinees awake. Most of the collected papers were covered with barely legible scrawls.

  Marker unloaded the projector as the Marines filed out, en route to a shorter rest period than the one they were expecting. Only about a quarter of these men would be accepted for further training, but there was certainly no shame in not being one of them. Marker remembered a visitor from the SEALs – America’s SBS equivalent – who had watched the training programmes slack-jawed in awe.

  Maybe they were too hard. Marker himself thought so, and having passed them all he felt able to say so. Good men were having good days and all the luck they needed, while better men were making one mistake and failing.

  He locked up the projector in the cupboard, and wondered yet again whether to press for something truly revolutionary like a VCR. But you could hardly move around Poole these days without someone moaning about how tight money was, so it probably wasn’t worth the hassle. He reluctantly picked up the pile of exam papers and headed for the door.