The Kremlin Device (3 page)

If I was being honest, I'd have to say I looked much the same, with the odd grey hair appearing. Worse, my eyes were so bloodshot from the centrifugal force of the spin that I looked like Count Dracula after a satisfactory attachment to some young lady's jugular.

One thing I knew for sure was that I did
not
want to get caught in the net and have to submit to prolonged interrogation. I'd been through all that six years earlier, during my first tour with the Subversive Action Wing, the most secret unit within the SAS. That first time I'd been pulled in and put through the mill. Now, as then, everyone assigned to the SAW had to be able to maintain a cover identity for up to thirty-six hours: it was an essential part of our training, especially when a delicate task like our trip to Moscow was in prospect. It wasn't that, as commander of the team, I felt I should be exempt from such indignities: just that I was tired, and the thought of answering endless questions gave me a pain in the arse.

I'd toyed with the idea of wearing shades when I came to Immigration, but I dropped it, because all they do is attract attention. Instead, I'd gone for a white baseball cap with a long peak, green on the underside, that came well forward over my face. What with that, a blue T-shirt, jeans and trainers, and a scruffy little civilian haversack on my back, I hoped I could pass for the self-employed carpenter I was claiming to be. I'd also taken the precaution of loading up with booze, like all the genuine tourists and day-trippers around me.

I found myself a seat in the forward upper lounge and settled down. All round me people were laughing and chatting, kids screaming; but I pulled the peak of my cap down and closed my eyes, which were itching and aching, and the next thing I knew a voice on the tannoy was blaring out that we would dock in five minutes' time. I'd managed to sleep the two-hour trip away.

I had time for a wash and the hundredth run-through of my own cover identity, just in case I was pulled. According to my passport I was Malcolm Barrow, aged thirty-six, from Alnwick in Northumberland. I'd been to France to visit friends who'd bought an old pub in Normandy and wanted some restoration done. I had the name of the place in my head – L'Auberge au Vieux Puits – but, conveniently for me, it was very primitive and had no telephone, so no quick checks could be made.

Our cover stories had been created by the Firm – our name for MI6 – and were adapted from our own real backgrounds. Because I'm obviously a Geordie, by my accent, my phoney address was in the correct part of the country: Castle Row, Alnwick. The first names of my parents were Derek and Mabel. The telephone number I'd use – a real one – was that of my brother, who'd been primed to tell anyone calling that Malcolm was on a job in France. Often the lads got muddled when they gave the names of imaginary parents, and, under cross-questioning, confused them with the real ones. But for me it's easier: being an orphan brought up by my Uncle Phil, I never knew any real parents, and so had no trouble remembering Derek and Mabel.

We were off the ship in short order. Normally these days there's practically no passport control at the Channel ports; but that evening immigration staff manned all the desks, probably for their own training, and certainly as part of our exercise. But as the crowd was lining up to go past the desks I got a lucky break. Immediately ahead of me was a stunning black girl in a lime-green top and skin-tight, lemon-yellow satin pants, lugging two bags of bottles in one hand and dragging a small, coffee-coloured kid along with the other. I didn't deliberately position myself behind her, you understand: she just happened to be there. The point about her was that one of her carrier bags was splitting.

‘Eh,' I went, ‘watch yourself. You're about to lose a few bottles.'

I bent down, picked up the child and held it on my hip – a boy, by the look of him.

‘What's the matter?' she said sharply. ‘I'm OK.'

Probably she thought I was trying to pick her up. Maybe she didn't fancy my fiery eyeballs.

‘No, really,' I said, ‘it's no bother.'

A second later we were side-by-side in the immigration queue, looking like any other couple coming back from a holiday. She smelt of lemon, too: lemon pants, lemon scent. Nice.

She was glaring at me and I saw that she was really
very
pretty, with a wide mouth and big hazel eyes. She looked so suspicious that I couldn't help smiling.

‘I've got a kid of my own,' I said. ‘Older than him, but much the same. It's quite a way to carry him. Maybe you can take my passport and hand it over. How's that?'

‘It's a deal.' She relented and gave a dazzlingly white smile: ‘What's your name?'

‘Malcolm. Mal.'

‘OK. I'm Jane.'

We closed on the cubicle as a pair, and the short, sandy-haired guy in occupation was so riveted by her cleavage that he scarely got his eyes on our documents or on me. In a couple of seconds we were through and waltzing through the Customs hall. Glancing back, I saw Whinger in another of the queues, still on the wrong side of the barrier.

As soon as we were clear, I said, ‘Thanks. Where would you like him taken?'

‘We're on the train.'

‘OK. This way.'

When I sneaked another glance behind me I saw that Whinger had been rumbled: the man on the desk had stopped him, poor bugger, and called in a superior.

We started walking again and I said, ‘Where are you going?'

‘London. Don't tell me – you're coming as well?'

‘Wish I was. No – I'm driving. But I'm not in any hurry. I'll see you on board.'

In the terminal a train was already standing at the platform, so I did as I'd promised and sat the child down and waved goodbye, not without a touch of regret. Lemon Jane could have been a lot of fun.

Then, as I stepped back on to the platform, I was jerked out of my reverie by the sight of a stocky, fair-haired young guy walking past. There was something familiar about his shape and gait – a bit of a roll in his walk – but at first I didn't recognise him. Then suddenly I saw that it was Rick Ellis, one of our team, wearing a blond wig. I almost called out to him but stopped myself just in time: it was still conceivable that someone was tailing him, and I didn't want either of us compromised.

Crafty sod! His disguise had carried him clean past Immigration, and it looked like he was away.

I knew that anyone captured would be taken to the Intelligence Corps headquarters at Ashford, which was running the exercise, so I dug my mobile phone out of my pack and called the Ops Room. After being passed around for a bit I heard a familiar Scottish voice – Jock Morrison, the Assistant Int Officer from Hereford, who was monitoring the interrogations.

‘How are we doing?' I asked.

‘They've got two of your guys here already, and they reckon they've just picked up a third at Folkestone.'

Whinger, I thought. But all I said was, ‘OK – I'm through, and I'm coming in.'

I knew the lads would have been taken across in blacked-out vans so that they wouldn't know where they were, and although they wouldn't get physically knocked about, they would have a hard time of it all the same, being deprived of food and sleep, and repeatedly brought back for re-interrogation throughout the night.

Having hired a Golf from the Avis desk in the terminal, I shot up the M20 and reached Ashford in under half a hour.

‘How did
you
get through?' Jock demanded when he saw me.

‘Walked,' I told him. ‘What's the crack?'

‘They're questioning two of the lads now.'

The Central Control Room had a bank of TV monitors ranged high along the front wall, each connected to one of the interrogation rooms. A couple of guys in shirtsleeves were watching them and making notes, exchanging the odd remark.

On one screen was Johnny Pearce, one of our weapons specialists, twenty-eight years old, black-haired and high-complexioned, looking even darker than usual under a couple of days' stubble. His long eyelashes gave him a deceptively gentle appearance, though in fact he was as hard as they come, and an ace at martial arts. A Scouser, he'd practised kick-boxing ever since he was a kid. He always said he'd needed it to survive in school, fights taking place every day in front of appreciative audiences, and every boy having to look after himself.

Johnny was wearing an open-necked, short-sleeved blue shirt and sitting on an upright wooden chair in the middle of the cell-like room. Facing him across a bare wooden desk sat a detective in a pale grey suit. The camera was looking straight at Johnny from somewhere behind the interrogating officer, whose head and shoulders were visible at the bottom of the screen. Johnny looked tired but calm, and whenever one of the controllers turned up the sound on his channel, his answers sounded perfectly composed.

‘You said you went to school in Worcester?'

‘That's right.'

‘How come you have a Liverpool accent, then?'

‘Born there. Never lost it.'

‘All right. What was the name of the school again?'

‘Hadlow Comprehensive.'

‘Address?'

‘It's on Kidderminster Road.'

‘Does it have its own sports fields?'

‘Yes.'

‘Where are they?'

‘Right behind it.'

‘Swimming pool?'

‘I dunno about now, but it didn't then.'

‘What dates did you say you were there?'

‘Let's see.' Johnny paused. ‘I must have gone there in eighty-three, left in ninety-one.'

‘That's funny.' The detective's voice remained level and polite. ‘We've checked the records, and they don't mention anyone called Martin Turner attending between those dates.'

‘Really?' Johnny raised his eyebrows and looked coolly at the man opposite. ‘You know they had a big fire the year after I left, in the spring? I think a lot of records got burnt.'

‘Well, we'd better check again . . .'

Good on yer, Johnny, I was thinking. Great stuff! I knew his cover story nearly as well as he did, and I could see that he was sticking to it. The home team was probably bluffing: Johnny certainly was, and he seemed sure they were. Since this was Saturday, and in the school holidays, how could they have checked the school records?

‘Good!' said one of the supervisors in the control room. ‘He's doing well. I like that.'

Next door, things weren't going so well. Pete Pascoe, a Cornishman, was letting his temper get the better of him. His reddish hair and moustache hinted at his Celtic origins: he could be a fiery devil and needed to watch himself.

His interrogator seemed to have realised this. ‘Your family,' he said. ‘Your brother's how old?'

‘Twenty-four.'

‘And he's a mechanic?'

‘That's right.'

‘What's his address?'

‘Twenty-eight . . . twenty-eight Northcourt Avenue, Reading.'

‘That's where you said your
sister
lives.'

‘It is. She does. Simon lodges with her.'

‘He's not married, then?'

‘No.'

‘But she is?'

‘Of course. I told you.'

‘And her married name?'

‘Jenkins.' Suddenly Pete's patience ran out. ‘For Christ's sake!' he snapped. ‘We've been through all this before. Have you got nothing better to ask?'

‘Just checking,' said the detective smoothly. On the monitor I could see Pete's nostrils working in and out – a sure sign that he was getting steamed up. Beside me, one of the supervisors made a grimace and wrote something on his notepad.

I watched for a while longer, but then I thought, To hell with this. It was amusing to see the guys getting grilled, but I decided the time could be better spent: we still had a long way to go in preparing for our Russian trip, and not many days in which to get everything done.

I looked at my watch: 9.35. The exercise had gone on long enough. That sort of thing's OK if there's no big deal in prospect, but we had a hell of a team job to tackle. What we should all have been doing was learning Russian, not pissing about with cover stories in pissy Ashford. It was time we went back to Hereford and got stuck into our final training.

A guy from Spetznaz, the Russian special forces unit, was due in on Monday, coming to have a look at our set-up and give us advice on kit. On Thursday our advance party would fly to Balashika, the base outside Moscow, to suss out the accommodation and facilities, with the main party following within two weeks.

I slipped out of the control room and found Jock Morrison. ‘Listen,' I said, ‘do we have to go through with this?'

‘What's the matter?'

‘I want to stop it. For one thing, they've only caught three of our guys. I'm through, and I know Rick Ellis is too – I saw him boarding a train. I bet the other three are clear as well. And anyway, we've got more important things to do than sit around here playing games.'

‘Well . . .' Jock looked doubtful. ‘It's not my decision.'

‘I know. It's down to me. Tell you what – we'll give it another hour and see how things are going then. I'm going to call the Feathers and find out who's made it.'

The Feathers Hotel, on the old London road, was the RV for anyone who'd passed through the screen. We'd got rooms booked, but it was a sure bet that the lads would be in the bar, so I had my call put through there.

‘Have you got a Mr Terry Johnson there?' I asked, using Rick's cover name.

‘One minute,' the guy replied. There was a pause, during which I could hear the buzz of conversation, then Rick came on the line.