by Andy McNab
My reaction when I heard the name surprised me. I felt as if I’d just been told I had a fatal disease. My hard drive was spinning. Was she dead? Had she fucked up? Had she got me in trouble? Had she been lifted? I wasn’t going to show these people anything more than I had to; I tried to remain casual and unconcerned, but all I really wanted to do was ask, ‘Is she OK?’
She said, ‘You know her, I believe?’
‘Of course I know her – by that name anyway.’ I didn’t say how I knew her name, or what jobs I’d done with her. I didn’t know how much Elizabeth knew, so I just played it straight, which is always the best thing to do. In my experience, the less you say, the less drama you get yourself into. It’s good having two ears, but even better to have just one mouth.
‘Well, it seems that she has disappeared – and of her own accord.’
I looked at her, waiting for the follow-on, but she let it hang. I didn’t exactly know what she was getting at, yet she was looking at me as if I should know.
Lynn saw the problem. ‘Let me explain, Nick.’
As I turned my head towards Lynn, I caught him just finishing eye contact with Elizabeth. He was playing the peacemaker here.
He said, ‘Two years ago, Sarah Greenwood was posted to the Washington desk. You are aware of that?’
Of course I was. I always tried to keep tabs on where she was and how she was getting on, though I never kidded myself that the interest was mutual. I’d half hoped that she’d make an appearance during my debrief over last year’s fuck-up in the States, but she didn’t. I realized he was still waiting for an answer. ‘No, not really.’
There was a pause as Lynn glanced again at Elizabeth. It looked as if he needed the nod to continue; he must have got it, because he said, ‘Sarah has been UK liaison with the Counter-terrorism Center, a new intelligence cell set up by the CIA to provide warnings against potential terrorist attacks. It’s a central clearing house, if you like, for intelligence on terrorism worldwide. Here is the problem. As Elizabeth has already said, Sarah has disappeared – we know she’s still on the US mainland, but we don’t know where or why she has gone. We fear that her reliability and judgement are, how shall I say it, in doubt.’
I couldn’t help a smile. That was the standard fuck-off when what they were really saying was: ‘We don’t like you any more. You have done something wrong and you are no longer one of us.’
Now it was time for Elizabeth to join in. She said, ‘Let’s just say, since her posting in Washington she has been engaging in too many initiatives of her own.’
Still looking at Lynn, I smiled again. ‘Oh I see – too many initiatives.’ I gave her word the full five syllables.
I hated it when they beat around the bush. Why didn’t they just get on with it and tell me what the fuck was happening and what they wanted me to do about it? Before I could get an answer we were interrupted by the arrival of some punters.
‘Oi! You’re not on holiday now; give a hand with these sodding bags!’
‘All right, don’t get out yer bleedin’ pram!’
Everything stopped as we all looked over to the driver’s side of the wagon. I couldn’t see Lynn’s face, but Elizabeth’s registered disgust. Two couples were standing by a Ford Escort XR3i. While we’d been waffling away they’d turned up, opened the boot and were loading their luggage. One young couple, both in their mid-twenties, had come to pick up the other one. The girl back from holiday was wearing white cut-down jeans with half her arse hanging out to show us how brown she was, but the effect was spoiled a bit by all the exposed skin being goose bumped, what with this being Gatwick rather than Tenerife. Just in case we didn’t get the message that she’d been away, her bottled blond hair was in beads where it had been braided by a beach hustler.
Our man in the driving seat was keeping an eye on them continuously, still with the paper up, still on the same page, the skin of his massive neck hanging over his collar even more as he looked right in his wing mirror checking everything out. These boys had to be jacks of all trades, offensive and defensive drivers, as well as body guards to protect their ‘principals’ and great joke-tellers to entertain them. Maybe that was why the Serb worked for Elizabeth. She wasn’t the sort of person who understood jokes, and judging by the Serb’s expression as he tried to follow the Estuary English outside, he wasn’t up to speed on banter either. I just hoped he wasn’t learning his English from these two in the wagon – people would think that Prince Charles had been hitting the gym.
The entertainment was over. We all turned back to our original positions and Elizabeth carried on, physically affected by what she had just seen. Her breed found such people a terrible stain on their ordered lives. ‘We are concerned that there might be a conflict about the ethics of her employment.’
I tried not to laugh. ‘Ethics? That’s not Sarah. She’s got ethics filed under “Things to worry about when I’m dead”.’ I risked a chuckle, but either Elizabeth didn’t understand, or she got the joke and didn’t like it. The atmosphere felt so frosty I wondered if the Serb had adjusted the air-conditioning. I was slowly welcoming myself out of this wagon.
Elizabeth continued as if I still hadn’t spoken. ‘We feel that this could expose current operations and put operators’ lives in very real danger.’
That stopped me smiling. ‘How do you know Sarah might be putting operations at risk?’
‘That’, she said, ‘you don’t need to know.’ I could see she’d enjoyed saying that. ‘However, let me give you an example of the problem we face. The information that Sarah Greenwood retrieved from Syria – I understand that you were part of that operation? – the material delivered to us was in fact incorrect. It would appear that she quite deliberately distorted information she knew was important to us and the Americans.’
So they had wanted what was on the computers after all. And, as usual, I had been one of their mushrooms, kept in the dark and fed on shit.
She was on a roll now. ‘It was most unfortunate that the Source was killed – after all, that was your task: to bring him back. We still don’t know what intelligence the Syrian operation would have revealed – because you destroyed the computers on site, I believe.’
She made it sound as if I’d done all that on some kind of whim. I let her carry on, but inwardly I was ready to punch her lights out.
‘The Americans were not pleased with our efforts, and I have to say, it was hardly one of our finest hours.’
I wasn’t going to let her rev me up even more. For years we’d done jobs for the US that Congress would never sanction, or which were against the 1974 executive order prohibiting US involvement in assassination. The job had been false-flagged as an Israeli operation because the US could not be seen to be screaming into Syria and kidnapping an international financier, even if he did happen to be the right-hand man of the world’s most prolific terrorist. However, by making it look like a joint operation between the Israeli military and Mossad, everyone was a winner: America would get the Source, the UK would have the satisfaction of doing a difficult job well and Israel would reap all the kudos. Not that they knew about it when it was happening – they never did – but they would still take all the credit.
I thought back to Syria and Sarah’s frantic work on the laptop, and the fact that she had killed the Source. Sarah had certainly sounded convincing during the debrief, and after that I didn’t even think about it, it was finished. Whatever had happened since then didn’t worry me either; it wasn’t going to change my life. Well, maybe it was now.
Elizabeth continued, ‘She could have caused a major change in foreign policy, and that, I must say, would have been most detrimental to the UK’s and US’s balance of payments and influence in the region . . .’
She was talking crap. I bet the reason she was pissed off was because Clinton had recently signed a ‘lethal presidential order’ against Bin Laden. He had authorised, in advance, an aggressive operation to arrest him if the opportunity arose, at the same time recogn
izing that some of those involved might be killed. In other words, Clinton had found a way round America’s strict anti-assassination rules, and the Firm would be done out of some work. I could see that Sarah fucking about wouldn’t help matters.
I waited for the part Elizabeth had forgotten to emphasize. There are three things they like to give you at a briefing, when they eventually get round to saying what they really mean. One, the aim of the task; two, the reason why the task has to happen; and three, the incentive for the operator. I saw her eyes move fractionally up and to the left. She was lying.
‘. . . as well as putting operators at risk in the area. Which is, of course, our most important consideration.’ Not a bad incentive, I thought – even if she was talking bollocks – especially if it was me operating there.
‘As to her motives, well, that’s not for you to worry about.’
I was starting to feel uneasy about all this. I turned to Lynn. ‘If you were worried about this back then, why didn’t you just give her a bung?’
From behind me Elizabeth said, ‘A bung? A bung?’
Lynn looked over my head and said, in the voice of a QC patiently explaining a blow job to a High Court judge, ‘Money. No, Nick, we didn’t offer her a bung. You know as well as I do that the service never bribes or pays anyone off.’
I couldn’t believe he’d said that and I somehow managed to keep a straight face. Amazingly, so did he. They look after their own in the Intelligence Service. Even if the IG’s been given the sack for gross misconduct, whether it’s for being a paedophile and getting blackmailed for it, or for just screwing up the job, he goes into a feeder system where he gets work, and that does two things – it keeps tabs on him, but it also keeps him sweet, and, more importantly, quiet. That’s what a bung is all about: keeping the house in order.
I wished they would give me one. Only a few months earlier I’d been escorting an IG called Clive to a service apartment in London. These apartments are paid for, furnished and run by the Intelligence Service. Nobody lives in them; they’re used for meetings, briefings and debriefings, and as safe houses.
Clive had had a bit of a drama with Gordievsky, the Russian dissident who’d years ago defected to the West with a headful of secrets. The former KGB chief was briefing the Intelligence Service at one of the training establishments near the Solent on the south coast. Clive and two others refused to go to the presentation, on the grounds that Gordievsky was a traitor, and it didn’t matter which side he came from. I happened to believe they were right, but they still got cut away. After all, it was very embarrassing for HMG to have its people calling an inbound defector a scumbag. Two went quietly with a pay-off and jobs supplied by the Good Lads’ Club – the City. Clive, however, refused to go. The best way, it seemed to the service, was to offer him a bigger wad than the other two. If that was refused, then he could have as much pain as money can buy.
I persuaded him into a flat in Cambridge Street, Pimlico, and listened as they offered him 200 grand to shut up and fuck off to the City. Clive picked up the money, ripped it out of its plastic bank wallets, opened the window and scattered it like confetti. As the hundreds of notes fluttered down onto the corner pub on Cambridge Street, the punters must have thought Christmas had been brought forward to June. ‘You want to fuck me off?’ Clive said. ‘Then it’s going to cost you a fucking sight more than this.’
I thought it was great and wanted to join the pub crowd fighting for fifty-pound notes. To my mind the boy had done good; nobody likes a traitor, no matter what side you think you’re on. I really hoped Sarah wasn’t one, because I liked her. Actually, I liked her a lot.
I asked Elizabeth, ‘And you’re sure that she hasn’t been lifted?’
She looked at Lynn. ‘Lifted?’
It was a bit like being at Wimbledon, sitting between these two. Lynn had to interrupt again because Elizabeth seemed about as switched on to real life as Mickey Mouse.
I asked, ‘So what do you want me to do about it?’
Elizabeth kept it very simple. ‘Find her.’
I waited for the rest of the sentence. There was nothing. It was the most succinct aim I’d ever been given.
‘Do you know where she could be? I need a start point.’
She thought for a while. ‘You will start in Washington. Her apartment, I think, would be best, don’t you?’
Yes, I didn’t disagree with that. But I had another question: ‘Why don’t you get the Americans to help you? They’d have the resources to track her down much faster.’
She sighed. ‘As I thought I was making clear to you, this matter needs to be handled with the least possible amount of fuss, and speedily.’ She looked at Lynn. He cleared his throat and turned to face me. ‘We don’t really want to involve any American departments yet. Not even our embassy staff are aware of the situation. As you might imagine, it’s somewhat embarrassing to have one of our own IGs missing in the host country. Especially with Netanyahu and Arafat in the US for the Wye summit.’ He paused. ‘If you fail to find her they will have to know, and they will have to take action. This is a very grave situation, Nick. It could cause us a lot of embarrassment.’
I had been given the shortest aim ever, and now I’d also been told the clearest reason why. Lynn showed the worry on his face. ‘We need to find her quickly. No-one must know. I emphasize, no-one.’
I hated it when these people used the word ‘we’. They’re in the shit, and all of a sudden it’s ‘we’. If the job went wrong it would have no father but me.
I calmed down. ‘That’s why you want a K – it’s a deniable op?’
He nodded.
Why me? I said, ‘Isn’t this a job for the security cell? They’re used to investigations. This isn’t my sort of work.’
‘This isn’t something that needs to go any further within the service.’ There was irritation in Elizabeth’s voice. ‘I particularly wanted you for the job, Mr Stone, as I understand you know Sarah better than most.’
I looked at her, still trying not to show any emotion. She’d raised a knowing eyebrow as she said it. Shit. I tried to look puzzled. ‘I know her, if that’s what you mean, and I’ve worked with her, but that’s about it.’
She tilted her head slightly to one side. She knew I was lying. ‘Really? I was informed that the relationship between you was somewhat cosier. In fact I was told that the reason for your divorce after leaving the military was due entirely to your relationship with Sarah Greenwood. Am I mistaken?’
She wasn’t, and I now understood even more. They had chosen me because they thought I knew her well enough to have a chance of finding her. They were fire-fighting, and they were using me as Red Adair. Fuck ’em, let them sort their own shit out. I might be pissed off, but I wasn’t stupid. It was excuse time. ‘It’s not going to work,’ I said. ‘The US is a big place, and what am I going to do on my own? I haven’t seen her for ages and we weren’t that close. What can I do? What’s the use of even getting on a flight?’
Lynn bent down to pick up my quick-move kit. ‘You will be going on the flight. You will start an investigation to find her. If not, I’m afraid you will find yourself in gaol.’
I felt like saying, ‘Come off it, that’s the sort of line I use myself when I’m threatening people. You can do better than that.’ But I had learned the hard way to keep my mouth shut, and it was just as well I did. Lynn had my daysack on his knees now.
‘Credit us with a little intelligence, Nick. Do you really think we don’t know the full events of last year?’
My stomach lurched and I knew my cheeks were starting to burn. I tried to remain calm, waiting to hear what he had to say.
‘Nick, your version of events leaves out a number of details, any of which will put you behind bars if we so choose. We haven’t investigated the money you kept, or the unlawful killings you performed.’
That sounded rich coming from a man who had sent me out routinely to ‘perform’ unlawfully. But I knew that they could stitch me up if
they wanted. It was par for the course; I’d even been part of the stitch-up sometimes. I now knew how it felt.
There was an outside chance they were bluffing. I stared at him and waited to see what else he had to say. I soon wished I hadn’t, because it gave Elizabeth another opening.
‘Mr Stone, let us consider your situation. What, for example, would happen to the child in your guardianship if you were imprisoned? Her life must be difficult enough as it is, I should have thought: new country, new school . . .’
How the fuck did they know all this? I thought I’d already been given my incentive, but obviously not. They didn’t come any less subtle than this. I had to clench my fists to control myself. I felt like kicking the shit out of both of them. They knew it, and maybe that was why Godzilla was in the driving seat. It’s always unwise to fuck with a man who has a neck bigger than your own head, especially if he probably has enough weaponry in the footwell to shoot down a jumbo jet. I took a deep breath, accepted I was in the shit and let it out again.
Elizabeth carried on as Lynn opened my daysack. ‘Having found her, report back where she is and what she’s doing. Then await further instructions.’
I turned back to Lynn. I knew she had finished and he would now give me the details I needed. I could hear the newspaper being unfolded. She was probably checking which of her horses were running tomorrow. I tried to keep my breathing under control. I felt angry and helpless, my two least favourite emotions.
Lynn was unloading the bag and handing me the items. My cover documentation, driver’s licence, passport and even an advert for books from a local paper, showed that, as from now, I lived in Derbyshire. There were three credit cards. These would have been serviced every month, and used so that I ended up with a normal bill like everyone else. The family who covered for me made sure of that; years ago we used to keep all this stuff with us all the time, but there were too many fuck-ups, with people getting corrupt and using the credit cards to pay for new cars and silk underwear for their mistresses. An audit a few years earlier had unearthed two K operators who had never even existed, and somebody somewhere was drawing off the money.
