‘Initially, many at MoD treated this information with scepticism. Today, it is looked upon with serious concern. There are many tactics employed to catch a spy. Luck plays a great part, often a chance encounter seemingly unrelated and setting the hunt into focus. That’s pretty much what happened in this case.
‘RIRA has enjoyed a strong intelligence relationship with the ALG, the largest of the Algerian terrorist organisations. The ALG has its sympathisers within French government, military and intelligence services. We believe our RIRA mole communicates with his or her handler through one such ALG spy who is a member of French counter intelligence, DST . . . Don’t worry if any of this loses you. It’s only background.’
Sumners removed the black sheet from one of the boards. On it were several pictures of a dark-complexioned man in his forties, some taken with surveillance cameras, others official passport photos.
‘Serjo Henri,’ Sumners went on, indicating the pictures. ‘I won’t go into any of his details other than his appearance and VDMs, visual distinguishing marks that is, since it isn’t important to this operation, but suffice to say we believe Henri is the link between our mole and his RIRA handler. In case anyone is wondering why a RIRA mole inside our military intelligence should need to go through an Algerian spy working for French military intelligence, the simple answer is it makes it devilishly difficult to discover or intercept communications. It is safe to assume that Henri is nothing more than a go-between and knows nothing about what he delivers either to the mole or to RIRA.
We have been watching Henri for the past six months and have discovered how he receives invitations to take secret meetings. We’re certain the trigger that tells him a meeting has been called for is a code of some sort stuck on to a lamppost. It’s not uncommon to find small ads on lampposts in Paris and he obviously knows what to look for. He quickly removes the code, which he can do almost without stopping. We’ve never seen one of the codes as he’s very thorough about disposing of them. We think they indicate a prearranged location and a date and time. Henri lives and works in Paris and he takes a walking exercise along various streets in his neighbourhood several times a week. He passes dozens of lampposts, any one of which might hold the invitation, and since it isn’t possible to watch every lamppost in the centre of Paris twenty-four hours a day, every day of the year, we can’t catch them that way.’
‘Who’s been carrying out the surveillance?’ Stratton asked.
‘A couple of our embassy staff. Up until now it has not been a high enough priority to mount a full operation, and there are other reasons I’ll get to later, which will also explain why I’m briefing you lot instead of one of our own teams.’
‘Have you covered any of the actual meetings yet, sir?’ asked Doles.
‘No. The two embassy staff members have done well but they are not trained surveillance operatives.’
‘Then how do you know the lamppost triggers are for meetings?’ Doles persisted.
Sumners was a patient man and used to having questions fired at him since so much of his work was piecing together bits of a puzzle. ‘We haven’t actually covered any meetings, as I said, but we’ve housed Henri at a couple just to prove our theories. In both cases Henri picked up his trigger in the afternoon, on a lamppost as I have described, and then he went to a café the following morning. Different cafés, but in the two cases we observed he sat outside, then after a while he went inside, presumably to meet his contact. Without a proper surveillance team and technical support we wouldn’t even attempt to cover the actual meetings inside.’
Brent put up his hand. ‘Sir, so how have you tied Henri to the mole?’
‘By cross-referencing sightings with events in the past we’ve been able to make some conclusions. Obviously, one must be careful about one’s deductions, but like doing a cross-word, there are certain answers to clues on which one must depend to support others until they can support themselves. On three occasions Henri’s actions have coincided with events in Northern Ireland. An example is his movements five days before the intelligence operative was abducted in Tyrone. Henri picked up a trigger for a meeting, which he took the following morning in a café. When he left the café half an hour later he caught a taxi. One of the attachés just happened to have his car nearby and managed to follow him - to the airport, where he boarded a flight to Dublin. We had a man waiting for Henri at the other end. He followed him on a train to Dundalk where he left him.This meeting tallies with a report from RUC special branch. Four days later the detachment’s operative was snatched. We believe Henri met with our mole in the café that day and was handed information that led to that attempted kidnapping.’
‘How many of our people knew the operative was in the car?’ Doles asked.
‘We’ve obviously covered that route in great detail. The orders for that operation went to London a week before it took place. There are a fair number of people who could have had access to the file in the Lisburn office as well as London. An investigation in that direction would not be worthwhile for a number of reasons.’
Sumners paused for a moment to check where he was on the board. ‘Right. Let’s move on to the op. Yesterday afternoon Henri was seen picking up a trigger from a lamppost a mile from his apartment. If past habits are anything to go by he will attend a meeting somewhere in Paris tomorrow. We can only hope it will be with our mole, and if not, someone who can take us to the next step in finding him . . . Are there any questions before we get on with the operation orders?’
There were none. Sumners deferred to Jardene, who pulled the cover off the other large board to reveal a detailed map of a section of the centre of Paris. Dotted around the map were photographs of specific streets and locations in that area.
‘The ground is central Paris,’ Jardene begun. ‘Specifically a triangle formed by the Place de la Concorde, L’Opéra and the Louvre. It’s a somewhat upscale part of the city, a lot of shops, businesses, very much a tourist area. Henri lives in a small apartment over a shop, here in Rue Shebal. In the past his meetings have been within two miles of his apartment. He prefers to walk or use public transport. He likes to practise anti-surveillance techniques often but he doesn’t move very quickly and if you keep a good team formation you should have no trouble with him. Your mission is to house him at the meeting and then cover it with audio and visual recording systems.’
Hank sat listening with interest as Jardene spent the next hour going over every detail of the operation.When Jardene revealed the individual tasks Hank hoped that, despite it being a long shot, his name would be mentioned, but it was not. When Jardene got to the final phase of the orders, naming the command structure from top to bottom, Hank’s name failed again to make the list. Hank remained philosophical. There had been no chance of him going on the op from the beginning, but hoping had not done any harm.
‘Are there any questions?’ Jardene finally asked the room at the end of the briefing.
‘Sir,’ said Jackson putting his hand up. ‘Why us? I mean, we’re not as good at surveillance as the det is. Why not use them or A4?’
Jardene looked to Sumners.
‘Yes, I was going to mention that, wasn’t I?’ Sumners said. ‘Since we have no idea who the mole is - my suspicions lean more towards MI5 - we want to do this out of house.We doubt the IRA has infiltrated your lot. It wouldn’t make much sense since only a handful of SBS and SAS operatives work over the water these days and therefore spend little more than a fraction of their careers working against the IRA.’
‘Why did we spend the last few days rehearsing shooting and fast driving if we’re not going to be armed or use vehicles?’ Doles asked.
‘That was my decision,’ said Jardene. ‘It really couldn’t be helped since we had no idea what the operation was until this afternoon. All I knew was that it was RIRA related. I assumed that meant we would be going over the water and so I thought it best to brush up on some basics until I knew more. But you have all had surveillance experience and Stratton
has commanded dozens of such operations.You may be a little rusty but I have every confidence you will come up to scratch.’
‘What about the French?’ Jackson asked.
‘What about the bloody French?’ someone replied sarcastically, to a few chuckles.
‘That’s a good question actually,’ said Sumners. ‘The French will not be informed of this operation. For a number of reasons we will be keeping this strictly a UK intelligence op. For all intents and purposes you are on vacation in Paris. That’s why you will be using cell-phones only for communications. Normally you would stay in the embassy for a day to be processed and qualify for diplomatic immunity. But obviously we do not have enough time for that. Technically what we’re doing is quite illegal and would cause a diplomatic storm if it got out. There must be no risks taken. If this operation is blown the repercussions will go all the way to the top.’
‘Exactly why aren’t we telling the French?’ Doles asked.
‘We don’t trust the bastards, that’s why,’ Clemens answered.
Sumners interrupted the laughing. ‘First of all, we don’t particularly want the French to know we have a mole. And if they found out that one of their own intelligence officers was working for RIRA and the ALG they might close him down immediately to avoid any further embarrassment. Henri is our only lead. We’re prepared to take the risk to keep him operational.’
‘Any more questions?’ Jardene asked. After a moment’s silence, he continued, ‘This is not a difficult operation. I must impress upon you not to be overconfident though. If at any time you feel you have been overexposed you must pull off.’
‘I would rather lose the mouse for another day than let it know there’s a cat in the house,’ Sumners added.
‘Right then,’ Jardene said. ‘Pack any kit you will not need and leave it in building one. It’ll be taken back to Poole. You should be home by tomorrow night after a debriefing back in Poole . . . Dolesy.’
Doles took his cue and stepped forward to address everyone. ‘Okay. Stores, transport, timings. Be in building six in thirty minutes. You’ll be given cell-phones, spare batteries, hand chargers and expenses money. Brent. You’re the tech man on this one. When I’ve dished out the phones and money we’ll go through the audios and cameras. Any questions? That’s all. Oh, and the expense money is for meals and transport only, not beer, Jackson. You give back what you don’t spend, and no receipts, tough titty, you pay out of your own pocket.’
‘Jock bastard,’ someone mumbled, followed by some laughing as the men headed for the door.
‘You better believe it,’ Doles said.
‘Oh, and I suggest you clean up - wash and shave - you’re tourists not farm labourers,’ Jardene called out.
Hank waited for everyone else to file out. Sumners and Jardene remained to huddle over the map and discuss the operation further. He thought about asking Jardene what he should do with himself but decided against interrupting him and left the building.
He stepped out into the chilly night air. The stars were clear and bright as the night before. Stratton was talking with Doles at the far end of the building. Hank headed to the edge of the compound a few yards away to look out over the countryside. Doles finished his conversation with Stratton and headed away.
‘Hank,’ Stratton called out. Hank looked over at him. ‘You been to Paris?’ he asked.
Hank walked casually towards Stratton with his hands in his pockets. ‘Nope,’ he said.
‘I suppose you don’t speak French.’
‘First time anyone’s ever asked me and the first time I wish I did,’ Hank said with a smirk.
Stratton smiled thinly. ‘Always a lot of American tourists in Paris,’ he said.
There was something in Stratton’s tone that caused Hank’s hopes to skyrocket. ‘Wish I was one of them tomorrow,’ he said.
‘Maybe you should be.’
‘How would that work?’ Hank asked, remaining as matter of fact as he could.
‘You got your passport?’ Stratton asked.
Hank’s hope sunk again. ‘No,’ he said.
‘Navy ID?’
‘Sure.’
‘That’ll do. You stick with me, okay?’
‘Okay,’ Hank said.
‘Put your kit with the rest of the baggage for Poole and I’ll see you at the vehicles,’ Stratton said and walked away.
Hank could not help grinning. First thing was a quick wash and shave, then put on that clean shirt he’d brought along. He walked briskly to his basher. Things were not bad at all, he decided.
Chapter 9
Four hours after leaving Ilustram Hank was sitting on the Eurostar and heading through the Channel Tunnel. He was boxed in between Stratton opposite, staring out of the window into the darkness, and Doles beside him, with his feet up on the seat beside Stratton.They were the only operatives in this carriage. The others were spread about the rest of the train in ones and twos. Only two civilian passengers shared the carriage and they were at a far end.
The three men had hardly said a word to each other since they left the training camp. Doles had nodded off for most of the journey in the van. Hank felt tired, but not enough to sleep just yet. He was aware Stratton had not slept either and wondered what was on the man’s mind. He had the feeling something was troubling him; perhaps it was the responsibility of the operation. Hank was tempted to start a conversation but couldn’t think of a way into it, past that invisible wall, which discouraged anyone from getting too close.
But Doles seemed to be close to Stratton. They had a connection of some kind. Hank thought about striking up a conversation with him instead. Doles had the potential to be quite the chatterbox. Hank still had difficulty understanding his Scottish accent though, and when he did found him to be quite opinionated, or perhaps it was just the forceful way he talked. The man had a habit of talking at you rather than with you. But Hank felt it would only be a positive thing to get to know him better, and indeed all of the men, including Stratton. As he pondered what he might open with, Doles beat him to it.
‘Long time since I was in France,’ he said without looking at Hank. ‘It was during the Falklands war . . . Christ, I was still a single man in those days. Seems like yesterday.’
‘You were in France during the Falklands war?’ Hank asked, curious.
‘Aye. Bastards were sending Exocets to the Argies even after that lying turd Mitterand promised Thatcher he wouldn’t send any more. And he bloody well knew it because his bloody brother was chief executive of the company that made the bloody missiles.’
‘What were you doing there, or can’t you say?’
‘Christ. It was more’n two decades ago . . . They were shipping the Exocets across France and through Italy and then loading them on to Peruvian merchant ships that would then deliver them to the Argies. We were minutes from blowing one batch of missiles to hell when Thatcher called us off. She had a change of heart about taking the war into Europe. Bastards wouldn’t even give us the frequencies of the Exocets they sold to the Argies either. As far as I’m concerned the fucking frogs sunk our ships and killed our sailors as much as the Argies did.’
Hank thought he understood most of what Doles had said. One or two more heavily accented words had escaped him but he’d got the gist of it. Hank knew very little about the Falklands conflict and even less about European politics.
‘And to think those bastards were Scotland’s allies against these Sassenachs for hundreds of years,’ Doles went on, nudging Stratton with his foot at the word ‘Sassenach’. Stratton raised an eyebrow at Doles then went back to looking into the blackness. Hank wondered if Stratton liked Doles or just put up with his familiarity. He started to wonder if Stratton had a family, brothers and sisters, and what he was like with his folks.
Doles nudged Hank.‘You Americans don’t like the French much either, ain’t that right?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know any French people myself.’
‘They were all that stood between
you lot still having a Union Jack for your national flag. I don’t understand why you and the French aren’t big pals. Strange bloody lot if you ask me. Mind you, can’t expect much else from a race that’ll eat anything that bloody moves. Ain’t that right, Stratton?’ Doles said, nudging him with his foot again. Stratton’s only indication that he heard Doles was a slight smile.
Doles mellowed as his thoughts drifted to another time and place. ‘My first girlfriend was French. I met her a week before my SBS selection course. She was an au pair for a Rupert and his wife on the officers’ married patch just across the field from the camp. I met her on Hamworthy beach. She was absolutely, staggeringly fucking gorgeous. A bloody ten if there ever was one.’ Doles smiled as he pictured her lying there.
‘What happened to her?’ Hank asked.
‘A couple weeks after passing selection they sent me to play games in Central America. I was gone six months. I couldn’t write to her of course. It wasn’t cool to write to a girlfriend while on ops . . . When I got back to Poole she was gone. The officer she worked for had got a draft to 45 commando up in Arbroath and took his family with him. She didn’t go with them. I heard she waited around in Poole for a couple of months. She would go to the guardhouse about once a week and ask to speak to me. I don’t know if she even knew I was out of the country. Maybe she thought I didn’t want to speak to her . . . Anyway, then she left town and went back to France, I suppose.’
‘You never saw her again?’ Hank asked.
‘Yes,’ Doles said. ‘Once. About ten years after. I was walking up the steps into the pictures in Bournemouth with the missus and our two wee boys. She was coming out with some bloke. She recognised me right away and smiled, just a little . . . Great smile she had . . . No one else noticed but me and her. I looked back at her as she walked up the road, and she looked back at me.’
Doles drifted into silence.
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