The Falklands Intercept (12 page)

The driver got out and ran over cursing. ‘For God's sake look out I could have killed you. F…..g idiot. Couldn't you see the light was green?'

Monica was crouched just by the railings with her right hand in her handbag looking up and down the street. There was no movement.

‘I am sorry', said Jacot. ‘I hope you are all right. Sorry. I hope your car is OK.'

‘Yeah. Yeah', said the well-dressed man. ‘Are you guys OK?'

‘Yes, thanks', they both replied.

‘Listen sweetheart', he addressed Monica, ‘your boyfriend is going to get you killed if he doesn't wake up'. With that he got back into the car and drove off.

They both leaned against the railings.

‘I saw the lights', said Monica. ‘Both green.'

‘We should ring the police and tell them', said Jacot.

‘Come off it. These things never go wrong. Let's just get into your flat. I'm not sure what's going on out here.'

They just about fell into the safety of Jacot's flat. The brandies were larger than they might have been but the Mozart was on a lower volume thanks to their jangled nerves.
Monica warmed her brandy by holding the glass in both hands and looked out of the window. The square was quiet. Jacot was listening intently to the
Marriage of Figaro
– a good antidote to the tension.

‘Daniel, it was a hit or at very least a warning. Clever technique. They must have a way of messing up the lights. Police cars can change them can't they?'

‘Yes, I believe so. There is a gadget. They, whoever they are, have probably modified it so both signals show green. It's rather clever.' He laughed. ‘But they missed'.

‘I looked up and down the street. I couldn't see anyone. The driver would not have been in on it. I will let Paris know. I have to go now.'

‘Yes I will have a word with Lady Nevinson in the morning. Take care on your way home. I will walk behind you until you are the other side of Oxford Street. You could go through the park if you want. All sorts of weirdos in there at night but difficult for you to be followed.'

‘Don't worry about me', she smiled pointing at the MAB PA-15 standard military issue pistol in her hand-bag.

‘Nice weapon. I didn't know they still made them. Eight rounds in the magazine rather than the usual six.'

Jacot hadn't turned the music off as they put on their coats. Just as they were leaving the glorious sound of Susanna and the Contessa singing their duet Sull'aria from the third act of Marriage of Figaro filled the flat. Monica stood at the door listening intently.

‘It's beautiful. I have heard it somewhere I think, not at the opera though.'

‘They used it in an American film a few years ago – that one about a prison,
The Shawshank Redemption.
'

‘I haven't watched many American films. It's a love song, yes?'

‘Yes, in a way. One of the greatest but at the same time it's a plot or, in our jargon, an operational plan to expose a husband's infidelity. All is never quite what it seems in Mozart's operas.'

‘Tell me about it', Monica laughed.

They walked towards Hyde Park. He scanned both sides of the road. It was late. There were a few people coming out of the tube station. Either no one was following them or they were very good at hiding themselves.

They reached the high railings around the park. Jacot kissed her on the lips in a rather non-committal English way. She drew her head back and smilingly kissed him on both cheeks in the French manner and then once more enthusiastically on the lips. Jacot turned her round with both his hands around her slim waist to check that his silk gloves would not slip on her coat and then lifted her onto the railings. She jumped down into the park and disappeared into the night.

Jacot felt curiously responsible and protective of Monica. She had been through a lot in a short time. But she could look after herself. Indeed, with her background, she could look after Jacot as well. He felt reassured by her presence. She was after all a clandestine
agent of French intelligence who had spent many years in deep cover. There was no
gallantry
in espionage and no sexism either. Men and women competed and co-operated on a level playing field. Come what may she would be safe in the darkness as she crossed Hyde Park. He hoped no one tried to mug her – for the mugger's sake.

The ancient RAF airbus shuddered on the descent into Mount Pleasant airport, buffeted by the strong winds regular in these latitudes. It wasn't so much due to the fact that the Antarctic Continent lay not far away to the south, more that the next landfall to the east, other than a few frozen French Islands, the Kerguelens, was Australia.

‘I think Daniel we should bring your visit to the Falklands forward by a week,' was Lady Nevinson's only comment on hearing of Jacot's adventures on the George Street pelican crossing. ‘I am increasingly nervous about the place. You say there's the off chance that this Verney business may have a Falklands connection so you can kill two birds with one stone. And it may be a good idea if you were out of town for a while. I'll have MI5 keep an eye on your flat. Oh, one more thing – I have written letters to the Governor and the Commander British Forces South Atlantic. Just putting the final touches to them now. The copies for despatch will be handed to you at Brize Norton. I think you know what's in them. They must be destroyed once read. Have a good trip.' As he turned for the door she added, ‘I hope you enjoyed dinner with your glamorous French colleague.'

Jacot half turned back towards her. She should have smiled at this point but she didn't and he was dismissed.

Jacot looked out of the window as Port Stanley passed below the aircraft. It had been nearly thirty years. As is usual in a military transport the passengers sat with their backs to the cockpit. It always seemed strange but was in fact logical – if the plane crashed for any reason more of them would survive. As they flew into Falklands airspace a pair of RAF Typhoon fighter-bombers had appeared alongside each wing tip. It was both a routine precaution and an impressive show of force. The aircraft touched down at RAF Mount Pleasant, the huge military base constructed to defend the islands opened by Prince Andrew three years after the end of the war. As the airbus slowed to a halt the escorting Typhoons roared deafeningly past, afterburners aglow and climbed almost
vertically
into the far sky. They were certainly impressive bits of kit, thought Jacot, literally able to massacre any assault on the islands by the Argentine Air Force. If just one had been available in 1982 the butcher's bill would have been halved. And they were
marvellous
to watch.

He would not be on military premises for long. Lady Nevinson appeared to be a friend of everyone's and that seemed to include the current Governor of the Falkland Islands. Too young surely to be an ex-admirer, but somewhere along the way no doubt
he had fallen under her spell or had become in some way indebted to her. Jacot was
grateful
. It meant avoiding a stay in a small barrack room, sparsely furnished by an
overstretched
budget. He had always found military bases depressing.

The governor's signature black taxi was waiting. The chauffeur grabbed his bags and they set off cheerily for Port Stanley thirty miles away by a slow cinder road. Sitting in the back, Jacot marvelled at the scenery. The rolling and sometimes jagged hills set against the stormy blue-black South Atlantic reminded him of the Western Isles but on a grander scale as if built by a Hollywood studio. He got out at Government House where he was to stay. It was an odd looking building, similar to a rather grand boarding house in a windy part of Devon. The lawn was well tended and the glass panels in its large conservatory highly polished. Jacot was ushered to a small ante-room outside the Governor's office and a matronly and most welcoming housekeeper spirited his
suitcases
away upstairs. It might be a small colony and the governor to most was more like a headmaster than an imperial representative, but the proper ceremonies were still observed, just as they had been all over the grander parts of the British Empire years before. The door opened and Jacot went in standing stiffly to attention in front of the governor's desk and calling him ‘sir'. He handed over a sealed envelope.

‘Ah, yes Colonel. I understood you had something for me.' The governor slit open the envelope and extracted a single sheet of paper which he read.

‘Good God.' He looked at Jacot. ‘Is this true?'

‘Yes, as far as we can tell, sir. We should remember that the Argentine army and navy may not have been up to much but their intelligence people put up a good show.'

‘And their air force come to that', said the governor looking at Jacot's black silk gloves.

‘Quite so. I have only two copies, one for you and one for the Commander British Forces who I am seeing shortly. Lady Nevinson would like both copies destroyed. I think the intelligence is from a particularly exposed source.'

‘And does this refer to something about to happen or what?'

‘Not today or tomorrow but sometime during the 30th anniversary year. All the necessary action has been taken upstream. What you and your military commander have to do is make sure that nothing can happen once the stuff is on or near the islands.'

‘I assume you will be discussing it in detail with the military. Let me know the outcome.'

Charming and understated in the way of foreign office officials, his Excellency the Governor gave Jacot coffee and pointed out some of the historic features of his office. Behind the desk was the large three part bookcase, famous to admiring Argentine schoolchildren as the backdrop in numerous photographs to “Mario B Menendez, General de Brigada and Gobernador Militar” of the Islas Malvinas. It's always there in the frame whatever the caption and activity of the photograph – Menendez working, Menendez planning, Menendez in conference with General Galtieri, Menendez talking
to the grateful people of the liberated Malvinas. To its left in the photographs was invariably a chalk drawing of Ernest Shackleton which Menendez curiously kept on the wall. It was still there. Restored to its rightful place in the room was a print of Annigoni's portrait of the Queen which the Argentines had taken down after the British surrender and left in the corridor. Perhaps they always suspected theirs would be a temporary occupation. The governor wished Jacot luck on his tour of inspection and looked forward to seeing a little of him over the next couple of days. And then Jacot departed, once again in the taxi, for his first appointment at the headquarters of British Forces South Atlantic Islands.

In view of the tensions over the Falklands, stoked by the re-elected president Christina Kirchner in late 2011 and early 2012, Lady Nevinson had had a mini episode of the vapours. These were thankfully rare but usually reflected a genuine inner worry
bordering
on panic. The usual signs were there – irritability with underlings, including Jacot. Drinking too many cups of coffee through the day and early evening appearances in Jacot's office where she knew his tiny fridge was stocked with salads and reasonable white Burgundy. Her deep worries about the islands had surfaced in the train on their way back from Paris and from then on the clock had been ticking on Jacot's mission. He had rather been looking forward to a trip to see the Defence Attaché and the SIS Station in Buenos Aires and had dropped a number of hints to Lady Nevinson about the importance of “getting on the ground” in Argentina, as well as the islands themselves. But, to his abiding disappointment, it would appear he could chat to them when they were in London.

Ultimately, the safety of the islands was her call and she had only been partly
reassured
by the chiefs of staff that the islands were indeed secure, for the moment at least. She seemed to agonise more over the Falklands than the other military and intelligence problems she faced every day. ‘It's British territory lived in by British people loyal to Queen and country', was her refrain. She wasn't particularly interested whether the islands could be retaken after being lost, again. Her view was that if we were negligent enough to lose them again then they might as well become Argentine. But she was very committed to making sure that everything was in place to give Her Majesty's Government the best possible warning of any hostile intent in the South Atlantic and she wanted Jacot to check up on and audit the intelligence assets involved. That an emissary of the National security Adviser should travel South to poke his nose into intelligence matters was one thing. She also wanted Jacot to have a good look at the military arrangements for defending the island.

The Governor's taxi arrived at the headquarters of British Forces South Atlantic Islands where he was met by the commander, a naval commodore of the old school, who had been a junior officer on the nuclear powered hunter-killer submarine, HMS Conqueror, that had sunk the Belgrano.

‘Good morning Colonel.' Jacot saluted and then shook his hand. ‘Commodore Simon Mayne, Royal Navy. At her ladyship's service I suppose.' Mayne had a cheery grin coupled
with a distinctly Nelsonian air. Like many submariners he appeared to have no interest at all in the regulations governing naval uniforms. He looked like a character from a Pinewood Studios film about Second World War submarines – big leather jacket and big leather boots with his naval forage cap set at a jaunty angle. But he clearly knew what he was doing and Jacot noticed immediately and approvingly, that his subordinates seemed slightly nervous in his presence – definitely a good sign. In small faraway garrisons it was too easy for the military formalities to be dispensed with and a familiar and ultimately inefficient atmosphere to take hold.

Jacot handed over the envelope to him.

After reading it he seemed unperturbed. ‘Sneaky bunch, the Argies. Have to hand it to them, it's a clever wheeze. I will give the necessary instructions and thank the good Lady Nevinson for her concern. I will modify the exercise we are due to show you the day after tomorrow to take into account this intelligence. We had intended to practise what we would do if the Argentine Special Forces, the
Buzo Tactico
, managed in some way to blow up our four Typhoons; instead we will assume that they have pulled off the little scheme your signals intercept suggests and that our aircraft are immobilised through deliberately contaminated aviation fuel. In the meantime I will summon the head RAF ground wallah and tell him to tighten the checks on fuel purity. I am pretty sure they do quite a lot of checks anyway. These Typhoon fighters are amazing and the RAF
certainly
know how to fly them, but the maintenance is a bit of a nightmare I gather. I think we will also tighten physical security on our fuel supplies. I am going to enjoy bullying the RAF.'

‘I am sure that will be a good idea Commodore.'

‘Oh and Jacot I'm under no illusions who you work for and I know she is worried. I will put down the new measures on paper so you can show her.'

He had an enjoyable, if tiring, couple of days in discussions with the military and was taken through various “event scenarios” and the plans to meet them. It was clear that the J2, Joint Intelligence, staff were seriously on the ball in this part of the world. Jacot was mentally drafting his report for Lady Nevinson throughout the process and those he met clearly understood this. He hoped they didn't find him awkward, but he knew the kind of awkward and difficult questions Lady Nevinson would ask him and the kind of awkward and difficult questions the prime minister would ask her. It would be political,
reputational
and historical suicide for any British Prime Minister to lose the Falklands – again.

It had been a number of years since Jacot had carried a rifle and he was struck by just how much more potent certain weapons systems had become in recent years. The huge interactive radar map in the underground operations room at Mount Pleasant showed precisely the locations of our submarines in the South Atlantic. Most people thought of submarines as platforms on which to carry mechanical torpedoes, but they were much more than that these days. Their electronic intelligence gathering capabilities were state of the art. Their improved torpedoes couldn't miss and would send Argentine ships to
the bottom of the sea without warning, just as the
Belgrano
was tragically and reluctantly despatched all those years ago. And if push really came to shove they could launch cruise missiles at bases on the Argentine mainland – even the defence ministry or the
Casa Rosada
itself, the pink and very kitsch presidential palace in the heart of Buenos Aires, would not be safe.

He was impressed too by the young soldiers from a traditional English county
regiment
who formed the garrison. Most had served in Afghanistan, some more than once, and had the easy grace and calm unhurried efficiency of men who knew what they were doing.

But still Jacot was uneasy, as Lady Nevinson was in London. Our defence and early warning arrangements were well planned and well run but they were still designed to meet the kind of threat we expected the Argentines to pose. A seaborne attack would be
suicidal
, like jumping into a pond at the bottom of which lurked a Great White Shark in the shape of our latest submarine. Jacot noticed from the ops room that the submarine on station was the appropriately named
HMS Ambush.
An airborne attack likewise. A
commando
raid to disable the four RAF Typhoon fighters permanently based on the islands might have a chance but Mount Pleasant was ten miles from the coast – it seemed
unlikely
that commandos could land undetected. They might try a landing on remote West Falkland but with no air or sea superiority any Argentine troops who got ashore could be easily rounded up at leisure.

All this was obvious enough and within the capabilities of the British to handle. But what if the Argentines tried something different – carried out a raid that they knew would fail or started a war that they knew they would lose? It was the intelligence analyst's
ultimate
nightmare. It was exactly what the Egyptians had done in the Yom Kippur War of 1973 – as a result they came within a few hours of pulling it off. Even a lost war forced the Israelis to the negotiating table.