Crisis Four Part 9

He leaned over and whispered to Finbar, "I need a lawyer."

"Why's that, wee mon?" Finbar always called him that, which was strange, as the Irishman was about a foot smaller than Colin.

"I'm getting a divorce."

We were all intrigued to know what she was bringing to the party; it came as a bit of a shock when she was introduced as the civil servant we were going to protect. I had to smile. I knew what was coming next and, right on cue, Colin leaned toward me.

"Nick ..."

I ignored him, making him suffer a bit more.

"Nick ..."

I turned and gave him a big smile.

"I'll take my job back now, mate."

I slowly shook my head.

Listening intently to the briefing officer, she crossed her legs, and the rustle of the material was just about the most wonderful sound I'd ever heard. I was sure we were all paying more attention to that than to the briefing. She was now comfortable in her seat and her skirt had ridden up enough to show the darker tops of her tights. It was impossible to tell if she was doing it on purpose. She didn't turn her head or glance around to check for effect.

When she stood up to speak, her voice was low and very confident. If the Intelligence Service didn't work out for her, she could always find a job on a 1-900 number.

Sarah explained that what she wanted to do was lay her hands on and get back to the West an airworthy, Russian-built Hind ground-attack helicopter, the true capabilities of which, she said, were still not understood.

Better still, she added, she'd like a pair. She was the one who was going to strike the deal with the Afghans, and it was a simple case of "We'll scratch your back by carrying on showing you how to f.u.c.k the Russians, you scratch ours with a helicopter or two."

From day one of the two months that we were moving in and out of Pakistan to the rebels' mountain hideouts, she was a consummate professional to work with. She made life so much easier for us sometimes on jobs like this we could spend just as much time ma.s.saging the fear factor out of the poor f.u.c.ker who had to make the meet as we would preparing for it ourselves. But she was different. Maybe she wasn't scared because she had just as much of a fiery temper as the truculent rebels. That often led to delays in negotiations more so than the fact that she was a woman.

But it was obvious to me that she had the knowledge, language and background to hold her own with these people, for whom we all had the greatest respect; after all, they were fighting a superpower, and winning.

I saw that Sarah had a love and understanding of this part of the world that she couldn't have hidden, even if she'd tried. On top of that, she was switched on and didn't flap when the meets got heated. She knew I was there, and that the other three were around somewhere, watching. If the s.h.i.t had hit the fan, the Afghans wouldn't have known what had hit them unless the s.h.i.t was Russian, in which case our orders were to bail out and leave the rebels to it.

We were on a shopping trip, but with a difference. Everyone had a weapon and everyone was at war not only with the Russians, but also with each other as they fought to gain control of the country. Sarah played one group off against another to get what she wanted. It went wrong only once, when two young men discovered what was going on and confronted her. I had to do a little confrontation of my own at that point, and make sure the bodies were never found.

Another time she lost her cool when the rebels told her they wanted to sell the Hind to her, not simply hand it over. They had screamed and shouted at each other and the meet had ended with her storming off the mountainside. We drove to the border in silence, while she sat and brooded about what had happened. At length she said, "Not a good one for me, Nick. What do you think I should write in my report?"

I thought for a moment.

"PMS?".

She laughed.

"Never mind, we'll just have to come back and try again soon, but not for the next five days." It was the first time I'd seen her really laugh. As we tried to make it back to Pakistan before one of the helicopters she was so keen to get hold of found us, she was giggling like a school kid It turned into a ritual. After it happened for the third time I would just nod and say, "f.u.c.k 'em if they can't take a joke." She'd laugh, and we would then just spin the s.h.i.t until we got to the safety of Pakistan.

Later she had a report that PIRA (the Provisional IRA) were pa.s.sing technical information to the mujahedin on how to make homemade explosives and timer units. London reckoned the Afghans would be paying PIRA back with buckets of their U.S.and U.K.-sourced weapons.

She looked concerned.

"What are we going to do about it, Nick? London wants me to find out who their contact is."

I cracked up.

"You already know them."

She looked puzzled.

"I do?"

"Colin, Finbar, Simon and me."

She was now totally confused.

"Think about it. Who has been fighting a terrorist war for years? We showed the Afghans what PIRA use, we showed them how to make the timer units. PIRA's stuff is easy to make, reliable and it works. It's the best improvized kit in the world. We even use it ourselves, so why not show our new best mates? That's our job, right: to help f.u.c.k up the bad boys."

The next evening in Pakistan was spent constructing a sit rep that took the p.i.s.s out of the int collator who'd thought up this little PIRA gem, and she found it as funny as I did, which was all rather nice, because I was finding that I liked the way her nose twitched when something amused her and her face creased into a big, radiant smile.

It was strange that we got on so well, because in many ways we were chalk and cheese. I had joined the Army because I was too thick to do anything else. I'd seen the adverts that said I could be a helicopter pilot serving Queen and country, and an uncle of mine, who was an ex serviceman told me that girls loved a uniform. As far as I was concerned, all you had to do to get permanently tanned and laid was saunter down to the recruiting office. To a sixteen-year-old kid who thought that the world beyond my south London housing estate was just hearsay, it was no wonder the posters sucked me in. I couldn't wait to go to Cyprus wherever that was and fly my helicopter over beaches packed with girls who were just gagging for me to land and let them play with my joystick.

Strangely, however, that wasn't quite the way things turned out. I took the entry tests, but the Army seemed to take the view that somebody who could only just about do up his own boot laces without getting confused was not about to take sole charge of a multimillion-pound Chinook. So, the infantry it was, then.

Sarah, on the other hand, was smart. Private Benjamin she wasn't. Not that I knew much about her; ironically, she was just as good as I was at not giving anything away. No, I realized later, she was better. And to be honest that p.i.s.sed me off. I wanted to know all about her strengths and weaknesses, her hopes and fears, her likes and dislikes, because armed with that information I could properly plan and carry out an attack on her expensive designer underwear. Since part of our cover while in Pakistan was that we were a couple and had to share the same hotel room much to Colin's fury I thought I might be in with a chance. At least, that was at the back of my mind at the start. I soon surprised myself by finding that, more than to get into her pants, I wanted to get inside her head. I realized I actually liked her. I liked her a lot, and I'd never felt that way about anyone before.

As time went by, however, I was making no progress. I could never get any sort of handle on who this woman really was. It was like playing a computer game and never getting past level one. It wasn't that she was aloof; she was a great mixer. She'd go out with the team, and even accepted dinner with me a couple of times. She had a way of making me feel like a puppy jumping around at her feet waiting for a doggie treat. I knew, though, that I had the dreamer's disease, and that nothing would happen between us. What the f.u.c.k would she want from someone like me, apart from my ability to rip people apart for her if they got too scary?

On that point I'd obviously acquitted myself all right, because Sarah was the one who suggested that I apply for a job with the service once I lefr the Regiment. Even now, after five years, I still didn't know if I should kiss her for that, or give her the good news with a two-pound ball hammer.

I drank more beer and tried to watch the TV screen in front of me, but really I couldn't be a.s.sed. I thought back again to the Afghanistan job. The United States and its allies gave tens of thousands of a.s.sault rifles and rocket-propelled grenades, millions of rounds of ammunition and hundreds of Stinger missiles to the mujahedin. By the time the war ended in 1989 the muj's stock of Stingers was far from exhausted, and the CIA soon had a multimillion-dollar reward operation going, in an attempt to get them back before they were sold to any terrorist group who fancied a couple to play with. As far as I knew, the offer still stood.

I turned onto my side, trying to get comfortable, and thought that maybe I should be going back to try and get some of that reward for myself.

It was about time I made some money. I didn't know where they were, but I knew an Afghan who'd got Sarah's Hinds for her, and he just might.

It's strange how things change. During that time Bin Laden was most certainly in the West's Good Lads club. Now he'd had the idea of blowing up things on the American mainland, he was public enemy number one. I wondered what sort of reward the U.S. had on his head.

The flight ended in Dulles airport, just outside of Washington, and I joined the long snake of people lining up for Immigration. It took about twenty minutes to shuffle to the desks, gradually zigzagging my way backward and forward between the ropes. It reminded me of lining up for a ride at Disneyland. The immigration personnel looked like policemen and behaved like bouncers, pushing and herding us into position.

My immigration official glared as if he were trying to spook me, maybe because he was bored. I just smiled like a d.i.c.khead tourist while he stamped the visa waiver and wearily invited me to enjoy my stay in the United States of America.

The automatic doors parted and I walked into the frenzy of the arrivals lounge. Drivers were holding up name cards, families were clutching flowers and teddy bears, and they were all looking hopefully at each face that came through the sliding doors. All I wanted was a big dose of caffeine.

I wandered over to Starbucks and got myself about a pint and a half of cappuccino. Tucking myself away in the corner, I got out the 3C and the mobile and switched them both on.

I found the number I wanted and waited an age for the mobile to get a signal. The new Bosch mobiles worked on both worldwide and U.S. frequencies; there wasn't 100 percent coverage here yet, but it was getting better. They had completely changed the way we worked. Phones had been around for ages that could do the same job, but they weren't available commercially. On covert ops you can use only what you can buy at the Carphone Warehouse; if not, you'd stand out like dogs' b.o.l.l.o.c.ks. I hit the keys.

"h.e.l.looo, Michael speaking." The voice was camp and highly pitched, more like a game-show host than the personal a.s.sistant of a member of the "other Foreign Office."

"My name's Nick Snell," I said.

"Oh, yes, I've been waiting to hear from you," he said, and it was a mixture of warmth, excitement and pleasure, as if I were a long-lost friend.

"How are you?"

I was a bit taken aback. We didn't know each other, and going by the sound of his voice I wouldn't even buy a secondhand washing machine from him, yet he was talking to me as if I were his best mate from way back.

"I'm fine," I said, feeling a smile spread across my face.

"How are you?"

He came back with, "I'm just Jim Dandy!" Then he tried to switch to serious mode.

"Now then, where do you want to meet me?"

All of a sudden I wondered if I was on a radio st.i.tch-up show and started to laugh. I said, "I'll leave that to you. After all, it's your town, isn't it?"

"Oh, and what a town!" He clearly couldn't wait to share it with me.

There was a little pause, then he said, "I tell you what, I'll meet you at the Bread and Chocolate Bakery. It's a coffee shop on the corner of M and 23rd. They do fantastic mocha, and it's not far from the apartment. Now, do you know where M and 23rd is?"

I knew the area and I could read a map. I'd find it.

"I've got to pick a car up first--I'll be there in about two hours' time. Will that fit in with you?"

For reasons best known to himself, he came back with a mock-Texan drawl.

"Why, sure, Nick." He laughed.

"I'll be the beach ball with the blue shirt and the red tie; you won't be able to miss me."

I said, "I'm wearing jeans, a blue checked shirt and a blue bomber jacket."

"See you there. By the way, parking is an absolute b.i.t.c.h this time of day, so good luck to you. See you there, M and 23rd. Byeee!"

I hit the "end" b.u.t.ton and shook my head. What the f.u.c.k was that all about?

I was only two blocks away when I got held up in slow-moving traffic.

With its tall buildings and narrow roads, the area around M and 23rd reminded me of the more upscale areas of New York. Even the weather was the same as on my visits to the Big Apple: cloudy, but warm. Trust Sarah to live around here, I thought, but in fact it made sense. It wasn't far from Ma.s.sachusetts Avenue, which more or less bisects the city from northwest to southeast, and all the emba.s.sies, missions and consulates are in the area, mainly in the northwest section.

As I filtered forward I saw the problem. The junction ahead was sealed off by D.C. police bikers, and we were being rerouted to the right. As I made the turn, a fleet of black Lincolns with darkened windows screamed through the crossroads. At the rear of the convoy was a bunch of four wheel-drive Chevy escorts and two ambulances, just in case the princ.i.p.al cut his finger. It looked as if either Netanyahu or Arafat was already in town.

The grid system in D.C. works with the lettered streets running east west and the numbers north-south. I found the junction I wanted easily enough, but there was no way I could stop. The one-way circuit on M street had a mind of its own, and Metal Mickey was right, parking was a gang-f.u.c.k. The street was lined with cars that had a firm grip on their meters and weren't letting go for anyone; another three laps of the block and I finally found a Nissan pulling away from a s.p.a.ce on M, just past the junction I wanted.

I locked up, fed the meter and walked. Bread and Chocolate turned out to be a small coffee shop on the street level of an office and apartment building, just fifteen meters farther down on the left side of 23rd. There was another coffee shop opposite, attached to a grocery store, but this was the better of the two. The interior looked so clean I felt I should have scrubbed up before going in. Long gla.s.s display cases were filled with Danishes and a million different m.u.f.fins and sandwiches, and on the wall behind them was a coffee selection menu that went on forever. Everything looked so perfect I wondered if people were allowed to buy anything and mess up the displays.

The tables were white marble, small and round, just big enough to seat three. I sat facing the gla.s.s shop front and ordered a mocha a small one after the mother lode at the airport. The place was about a quarter full, mostly with smartly dressed office workers talking shop. I nursed my caffeine for the ten minutes that remained before our RV Right on time, in he walked, and a beach ball he certainly was. He had skin that was so clear it was virtually see-through, and black hair that was slightly thinning on top, which he'd gelled and combed back to make it look thicker. On his cheerful, chubby face he had fashionably round, black-rimmed gla.s.ses, behind which a pair of clear blue eyes were looking twice their natural size because of the thickness of the lenses. He was wearing a shiny, gray, single-breasted suit, bright blue shirt and red tie, all set off nicely by a little burn-fluff goatee beard. He must have been about forty pounds overweight, but was tall with it, over six feet. His jacket had all three b.u.t.tons done up and was straining to contain the load. He spotted me just as easily and came over, hand outstretched.

"Well, h.e.l.looo. You must be Nick."

I shook his hand, noticing his soft skin and immaculate, almost feminine, fingernails. We sat down and the waiter came over immediately maybe Metal Mickey was a regular. Pointing at my coffee, he looked up and smiled.

"I'll have one of those, please." The aroma of the mocha was no match for his aftershave.

The moment the waiter was out of earshot, he leaned forward, unnaturally close to me.

"Well then, all I've been told is to help you while Sarah's away." I was about to reply, but he was off again.

"I must say, I'm quite excited about it. I've never been involved with someone else's PV review before. Just my own, of course. Anyway, so here I am, all yours!" He finished in a grand gesture, with his hands in the air in mock surrender.

Grabbing my chance, I said, "Thanks, that certainly makes things a lot easier. Tell me, when was the last time you saw her? I'm not too sure how long she's been away."

"Oh, about three weeks ago. But what's new? She's here, there and everywhere, isn't she?"

The coffee came and Metal Mickey's head turned as he said thanks to the waiter. The light caught it just right and I could see the scarring where the plate had been inserted an area about three inches by two of slightly raised skin. I just hoped that no one on a nearby table answered their cellular phone, because he'd probably leap up and start doing the conga.

He picked up his coffee cup, got his podgy lips over the rim and sucked away at the froth. He put it down again with a big "Ah!" and smiled, then was straight back into it.

"Yes, three weeks ago was the last time. I don't worry much about her comings and goings. I just make sure things are running smoothly here." He hesitated, like a child who wants something from a parent and is trying to pluck up courage. I was almost expecting him to start playing with his fingers and shuffling his feet.

"I've been thinking, is her review because she's due to return to the U.K.? If so, it's just that I wondered ... would I have to go back, too? I mean, not that I wouldn't want that, but it's just..."

I caught his drift and cut in.

"I don't think she, or you, will be going home soon, Michael. Unless you want to." I decided not to hit him with any questions at the moment. He was too nervous, and would naturally be loyal to Sarah. Besides, I might as well get to grips with the apartment, then hit him with everything in one go.

There was visible relief in his face. I went on, in a more upbeat tone, "You have the keys for her apartment?"

"Sure do! Shall we go up there now?"

I nodded, and sucked down the rest of my coffee while he pulled some notes from a slim, tidy wallet to pay for the coffees. At the pay desk he carefully folded the receipt and tucked it away.

"Expenses," he sighed.

He carried on as we walked out onto 23rd.

"I don't know when she's coming back. Do you?" He held open the gla.s.s door for me.

I thought, Who's supposed to be asking the questions here?

"No, I'm afraid I don't. I'm just here to do the review." I thought I'd leave it at that.

I didn't know if he'd seen how a PV review was really carried out which wasn't like this--but he nodded as if he knew it was all part of the procedure.

"Did you manage to park near?"

"Just around the corner, on M."

"Well done, good boy!"