CIA kept planes ready to go in several major airports on the east coast – the west coast, less so. The challenge at Boston Logan was that private planes, whenever grounded, had to be secured by armed guards at all times. CIA’s solution was to outsource this security to a private local contractor who mostly used ex-Spec Ops and -U.S. Army. Otherwise known as Pension Patrols.
Sharp and Novak cleared security without a hitch, thanks to Don’s fake passport. They may have lacked boarding passes, but that was what a CIA badge was for. A simple follow-up call from TSA to Langley revealed no problem, confirming SSO Walter Sharp as escort for a CIA-protected witness from Boston Logan to Amsterdam Schiphol. He might have been on administrative leave, but his booking credentials hadn’t been touched: Sharp could arrange an official CIA charter flight from and to anywhere in the world. Flying to Schiphol was the perfect ruse for Sharp, as it was the main European airport link to Africa. Just what a customs official might expect for someone apparently on his way to Djibouti.
The pilot was already doing his pre-flight checks when they reached the runway. He didn’t even know he was flying a plane for CIA. He was just a hired hand like so many other private plane pilots out there.
Novak was feeling pretty good about things as they taxied to their runway.
The brief wait with nowhere to run to or hide, or shoulder-check for a tail, brought a rare moment of peace for the two men. Novak slid down his seat a little, watching a soft sunset shimmering past Deer Island over Massachusetts Bay.
The sunset didn’t seem to hold much interest for Sharp, who tilted his seat back and closed his eyes. How easily the old habits kicked in: when at rest, extracting every second of recovery he could from it.
‘What do you think you’ll do when this is over?’ asked Novak.
Sharp kept his eyes closed when he spoke. ‘That depends if I’m still alive at the end of it. I’m as much a target as you are now.’
Novak waited to be asked reciprocally, but Sharp wasn’t interested. Forcing the issue, Novak said, ‘I think I’m going to–’
His eyes still closed, Sharp simply talked over him. ‘I had this sniper mission once – I can’t tell you where. I had to crawl through three hundred yards of marshland to set up a shot of over seven hundred yards. The target was a particularly bad son of a bitch, who had evaded capture for the last three years. He’d set himself up in a little shanty hut in the woods. Our intel said he was going to clear out the location by the end of the week, and God knows when we’d find him again, so I was damned if I was going to be the one to lose him. But the marsh had this grass, was real tall, and it waved all over the place if you so much as looked at it. It took me two days to crawl those three hundred yards. And at the end of it I executed the shot, one to the chest, and another to the head on the way down. I tell you it was a thing of beauty.’
Novak shook his head in wonder. ‘That’s some going.’
Like he had done since he was a child, Sharp ignored the compliment. He had never heard a compliment that made him a stronger person. ‘I was able to take the shot because when the time came I was ready. My old tutor at sniper school once told me, never stand when you can sit, never sit when you can lie down, and when you’re in a combat situation never stay awake when you can sleep.’ He opened his eyes and leaned a little across his armrest towards Novak. ‘It’s only going to get more dangerous now. The second we stop appreciating that, the weaker it makes us.’ He tilted his seat even further back, and shoved a pillow behind his head. ‘Worry about the future tomorrow.’
*
Some seven hours later, the pilot woke both Sharp and Novak with a message that they’d entered European airspace. Sharp had been asleep the entire flight. Novak had been restless, waking with a start what felt like every five minutes.
Sharp released his safety belt and made for the overhead compartment.
Having heard his phone call about Jeremy Webb’s rendition, Novak had an idea what was about to happen. Sharp hadn’t felt it necessary to ask Novak’s permission. It was clear: it was this way, or no way.
Sharp took down a plain black holdall and took out a pair of handcuffs and a black hood. He threw both towards Novak.
‘In front or behind the back?’ asked Novak.
‘Behind,’ Sharp answered.
‘No orange jumpsuit?’
‘We don’t do that in Europe anymore. Plain clothes now.’
After putting on the handcuffs he looked inertly at the hood sitting in his lap.
‘Um...can you help me out here?’ Novak said.
Sharp whisked the hood over Novak’s head. ‘Resist the urge to talk.’
As they landed at Schiphol, Sharp kept a lookout for the Royal Marechaussee – otherwise known as KMar, the Netherland gendarmerie that dealt with military policing – who would be waiting on the tarmac. Ordinarily the Dutch MIVD (their version of CIA or MI6) would have taken on duties coordinating with a rendition flight of a CIA prisoner, but Sharp had deliberately left his request too late for the MIVD, knowing they would double-check with Langley that everything was above board. The less experienced KMar would be glad just to come along for the ride and play at spies for the night, and wouldn’t even know what number to call for help or what to ask for if they did. They talked about CIA like they were celebrities, with much more expensive and advanced gear than KMar would ever have. It was like pulling some kid off a municipal golf course and asking them to caddy for Tiger Woods for a day.
KMar were handed an order that came direct from Langley to MIVD headquarters in Zoetermeer near The Hague, who dispatched a team from MIVD’s Amsterdam office. CIA wouldn’t realise the plane had been chartered for another week. Authorising charter flights was way below the pay scale of people like Bob Weiskopf and any other superior of Sharp’s. CIA ran somewhere around fifty flights a day in the very definition of the word “worldwide”. On the plane side, they were in the clear.
Things got a little trickier at immigration.
Sharp’s protected-witness story was fine back in Boston, but for a CIA agent to bring an American witness onto Dutch soil would require paperwork from the U.S. embassy. Paperwork Sharp didn’t have.
What Sharp knew, however, was the U.S. government had a secret agreement with the Netherlands – as well as Italy, Spain and Belgium – that meant they would never have to reveal any prisoner details in a rendition – a take-it-or-leave-it demand of a secret Congressional treaty with the EU. Immigration would simply check Sharp’s credentials with the U.S. embassy in The Hague, who would tell the Dutch he had a valid accreditation and was to be let through.
Which is exactly what happened.
Sharp walked Novak off the plane at an isolated section of Schiphol’s runway three, where indeed two KMar guards were waiting outside their van to escort Sharp and his prisoner. In flawless English they directed him to the car CIA had sent for them: a blue BMW M4.
The Dutch attitude was almost one of trying to give good customer service, rather than being put out at their country being used as a torture bus stop. All because they needed to keep the Americans happy or the crucial intelligence that kept their citizens safe would dry up very quickly. Something the Dutch government wasn’t going to take any chances with. The last thing they wanted was the same problem the Belgians now had: a large, radicalised Muslim population and no intelligence network.
Novak simply walked where he was directed, with no clue as to how beautiful the Dutch sky was that night. He would see none of the shops in tax-free selling pornography the way Walmart sold Billboard Top 100 CDs, or the array of African headdresses on display in Departure Hall 3 where Kenya Airways and Emirates operated. And the way its single-terminal structure made it feel like the world’s meeting point – possibly the centre of the world. Every conceivable nationality and race mingling under the one roof.
The M4 was a little Sharp touch. He knew Germany’s autobahns lay ahead, and the best tool for those was one of the fastest coupes on the road: 450
horse power.
‘Nice ride,’ one of the KMar guards said.
Sharp said nothing as he helped Novak into the passenger seat. He didn’t like the second guard. The one who was notably less enthusiastic than his partner.
Before Sharp got into his side he said, using what little Dutch he knew. ‘Dank u wel.’
The silent one got into his car and told his partner, ‘Something’s not right here.’
‘What’s wrong?’ asked his partner.
‘A CIA rendition with one CIA officer? I’ve seen these before and they bring four, five guys with them. Get MIVD.’
Sharp roared off towards the security gate, the M4’s distinctive exhaust sound ringing out into the night.
‘You can talk now,’ Sharp said. ‘It’s just us.’
Novak squirmed. ‘When can you take this shit off?’
‘KMar’s still behind us. I think one of them might be on to us.’
‘Why would they be on to us?’
‘Maybe they found it suspicious I’m here on my own with you. I was banking on them never having accompanied a rendition before.’ Sharp revved the engine while waiting for the gate to open.
‘What the hell are we in?’ asked Novak.
‘Something fast.’
The plan was to take the E30 towards Germany through Hanover, then gun it straight cross-country on Autobahn 2 to Berlin. Which would get them there around seven in the morning. Reason enough for Sharp to have been precious about his sleep back on the plane.
That was the plan, at least.
It seemed fine when they reached the outskirts of Amsterdam and the KMar van peeled off before reaching the highway. Then Sharp informed Novak they had a problem.
‘We’ve got a tail,’ he said.
He’d noticed it back in Amersfoort, a black Transit van with two men in suits in the front. If it had been casual clothes, he would have felt OK. But something about the suits seemed off for that time of night.
He slowed right down, letting the van pass.
‘MIVD,’ he said.
The KMar guard had decided to use some initiative and made a call. MIVD were frothing at the mouth to catch CIA breaking protocol on their turf, and immediately sent a van out. They had one clear instruction: follow until they reach their destination. Which wouldn’t work for Sharp. His whole plan was useless if the Dutch followed them into Germany. And if MIVD knew, there was a good chance word could reach NSA. Then their cover would really be blown.
‘What’s going on?’ asked Novak, wondering why Sharp had gone so quiet.
‘Hang on,’ he said.
Novak thought he meant as in wait a minute.
It became clear in the way Sharp took the M4 from fifty to seventy in about two seconds he meant hang on to something.
‘I would hang on if you’d take these cuffs off,’ Novak said, clinging to the left edge of his seat with both hands. Unable to see, he couldn’t anticipate the car’s movement, and so bandied around in his seat from side to side.
As soon as he accelerated the MIVD van pursued.
Like in any pursuit situation the first thing Sharp told himself was to remain calm and assess. Although MIVD had access to civilian police and roadblocks ahead were not out the question, there were no tolls ahead, traffic was light, and ultimately he was in a much faster vehicle.
The more wildly Sharp drove the more anxious Novak became.
‘Just take the hood off,’ Novak pleaded.
Sharp gunned for a gap as a car in front pulled out to overtake a truck. All the driver saw was a flash of dark blue at his left wing, as Sharp veered slightly onto the grass verge to complete the overtake. The heavier ground was under Novak’s side, and it was obvious they were not 100% on the road anymore. Sharp grimaced. ‘Hang on,’ he said.
‘I’m trying!’ Novak replied.
When the manoeuvre was over Sharp exhaled heavily, turning into a laugh. ‘You should be thankful you can’t see this.’
There was something about only being able to hear the engine revving up and down through the gears, the sudden, unexpected thumps of the clutch and accelerator, that heightened Novak’s senses.
With the MIVD van stuck behind the dawdling car that was taking forever to pass the truck, Sharp floored it and was soon up the road. By the time they reached Deventer near the German border he was satisfied they’d lost the tail. The only problem was MIVD would definitely have their plate.
On that front Sharp knew they would have to just take their chances. He couldn’t dump the car, and its speed might come in useful if they managed to safely extract Artur from Berlin.
He reached over and took off Novak’s hood.
Novak gave his head a shake, enjoying the feeling of cool air on his skin again. Sharp motioned for him to turn around, and he unlocked the cuffs. ‘I wouldn’t take this as a typical rendition experience,’ Sharp said.
Novak felt his reddened wrists. ‘I’ll be sure to point that out in my TripAdvisor review.’
Novak had never been to Germany by car before, and couldn’t believe how simple it was to cross the border. There were more security procedures in place in most multi-storey car parks. As member states of the European Union had agreed, there would be no border controls – only at the border where the EU itself ended. There was just a blue sign by the side of the autobahn which read, “Bundes-republik Deutschland” inside a circle of EU stars. There wasn’t so much as a stop sign, or a toll for the most cursory of ID checks.
Once you were in the EU, you had access to all of it.
It was a myth that the German autobahn network didn’t have speed limits. The polizei only cared if you were driving dangerously. For cars there was simply an ‘advisory’ limit, but it wasn’t legally enforceable. Sharp had spent enough time in Germany over the years to know this, which meant he could keep his foot on the floor for most of the night.
Holland Villas Road, London – Wednesday, 9.12pm
Stella walked tentatively towards the front gate of number 402, checking her position against the map on her phone. It matched up perfectly with the details Rebecca had left on the drive: a quiet residential street, filled with expensive, old Georgian houses. The cheapest of which would fetch mid seven-figures.
Before Stella reached the front gate she could hear a man’s voice directing what sounded like small children.
When she reached the gate she saw a man in a suit with his tie pulled loose – like he’d come straight from work – heaving luggage into the boot of a red Lexus. Beside it: a black Mercedes 4x4, registration 273D101.
A soft light from the hall glowed out onto the driveway, not bright enough for Stella to make out the man’s face – he was backlit. His hair was dishevelled, his movements quick and nervy.
‘Jonathan Gale,’ Stella called out from behind the gate.
The man peered towards her. ‘Who is it?’ He was American.
He shoved a holdall into the boot of the car, while a young girl, no more than five, danced around the front steps, singing to herself. Gale recognised Stella as he approached the gate. He checked down either side of the street.
‘I was wondering how long it would take you to find me,’ he said.
Stella asked, ‘That was you in the car yesterday?’
‘My driver. He has some experience with conflict zones.’
‘Thank you for that.’
Gale nodded, distracted. ‘I was relieved to hear you got away but I’m really very busy–’
‘Are you going on holiday? Strange time of night to take off.’
‘Miss Mitchell. I don’t know who you think you’re dealing with here. I’m not risking my life or my family’s life one more day.’
‘You have diplomatic immunity,’ Stella said. ‘You’ve no reason to fear the police. Who are you so afraid of?’
‘Who else would it be?’ Gale looked at her in disbelief. ‘Goldcastle, of course.’
Gale’s daughter called out to him from the car. ‘Daddy, I’m tired. Whe
n will we get to the hotel?’
‘Go back inside, honey,’ he called back. He waited until she was gone before continuing. ‘They’re the ones in the black Audi. Not in the car, at least. But they work for Goldcastle.’
‘But they’re election strategists,’ said Stella. ‘Data miners. What are they doing mixed up in all this?’
Gale laughed desperately. ‘They took Simon Ali from the backbenches to Downing Street in less than four years. You don’t do that unless you have considerable power. Look around you, Stella. That’s all this town is: money and power.’
Stella said, ‘Goldcastle will do anything to get Abbie Bishop’s laptop. Right?’
‘Right.’
‘So if you want to protect your family, tell me where it is.’
Gale was taken aback. ‘Do you not get it? They’re going to kill you as soon as they know you have it. Due respect: they’ve killed far more important people than you or Tom Novak.’
‘I’ll take my chances,’ she replied, unmoved by Gale’s dire warning. Feeling like time was running out, she pushed the boat out. An old trick she’d been taught by her first editor: throw two questions at someone one after the other. Chances are they’ll give more away than if you asked one at a time. ‘I know Abbie Bishop was stealing user data from GCHQ. Why was she stealing it? And what were you doing in Moreton House on Sunday night?’
Gale checked down the street again – not a car in sight (everyone had private garages on Holland Villas Road, their cars too expensive to leave in the street).
‘Abbie was hired by Goldcastle a long time ago. Long before those payments came through. No one could progress so quickly through GCHQ without their kind of...attention.’
Official Secrets Page 30
