Crisis Four (15 page)

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Authors: Andy McNab

BOOK: Crisis Four
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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 only went wrong 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 onto 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. ‘PMT?’
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 schoolkid.
It turned into a ritual. After it happened for the third time I would just nod and say, ‘Fuck ’em if they can’t take a joke.’ She’d laugh, and we would then just spin the shit until we got to the safety of Pakistan.
Later she had a report that PIRA (the Provisional IRA) were passing technical information to the mujahedin on how to make home-made explosives and timer units. London reckoned the Afghans would be paying PIRA back with buckets of their US- and UK-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 fuck up the bad boys.’
The next evening in Pakistan was spent constructing a sit rep that took the piss 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 pissed 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 drop. I knew, though, that I had the dreamer’s disease, and that nothing would happen between us. What the fuck 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 left 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 arsed. I thought back again to the Afghanistan job. The United States and its allies gave tens of thousands of assault 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 US 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 backwards and forwards between the ropes. It reminded me of queuing 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 was trying to spook me, maybe because he was bored. I just smiled like a dickhead 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 felt-tipped 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 US frequencies; there wasn’t 100 per cent coverage here yet, but it was getting better. They had completely changed the way we worked. Phones had been around for ages which could do the same job, but they weren’t available commercially. On covert ops you can only use what you can buy at the Carphone Warehouse; if not, you’d stand out like dogs’ bollocks. I hit the keys.
‘Hellooo, Michael speaking.’ The voice was camp and highly pitched, more like a game-show host than the personal assistant 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 was 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 second-hand washing machine from him, yet he was talking to me as if I was 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 stitch-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 bitch this time of day, so good luck to you. See you there, M and 23rd. Byeeee!’
I hit the ‘end’ button and shook my head. What the fuck was that all about?
6
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 Massachusetts Avenue, which more or less bisects the city from north-west to south-east, and all the embassies, missions and consulates are in the area, mainly in the north-west section.
As I filtered forward I saw the problem. The junction ahead was sealed off by DC 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 principal cut his finger. It looked as if either Netanyahu or Arafat was already in town.
The grid system in DC 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-fuck. 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 space 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 metres further 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 glass display cases were filled with Danishes and a million different muffins and sandwiches, and on the wall behind them was a coffee selection menu which went on for ever. 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 glass shopfront 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 glasses, 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, grey single-breasted suit, bright blue shirt and red tie, all set off nicely by a little bum-fluff goatee beard. He must have been about three stones overweight, but was tall with it, over six feet. His jacket had all three buttons done up and was straining to contain the load. He spotted me just as easily and came over, hand outstretched.
‘Well, hellooo. 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.

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