The Network (13 page)

Now I understand why H has chosen the route. It embraces a series of rewards and punishments – upward and downward gradients of varying degrees, from the painfully acute to the luxuriously gentle. You reap the pleasure of the gentle slopes to fight the steep ones. On a long tab there are strong arguments for stopping and others for going forward, and both spin out silently in your head. Bad weather magnifies the pleasures and the pains. The longer the route, the less seriously you take the clamour of these voices, which settle down into a kind of background grumble, while you drag your mind repeatedly back to something more concrete: the rhythm of your pace or breath.

On the final portion of the return climb, just before we re-emerge on the ridge by the Obelisk, I can feel my thigh muscles wobble in protest. The big blisters on my heels are now at the final stage of fattening up before bursting. But we’ve kept up a decent pace. Six hours later we’re back at the car. I’m freezing and tired. H asks how I’m feeling.

‘Never better.’

‘Good man.’

I throw the soaking Bergen into the back of the car, and H retrieves a Thermos of deliciously hot coffee. We drive back to his house, change into dry clothes, and H fries up a late lunch. I light a fire at his request from a neat pile of logs stacked by the fireplace. We eat as we warm our feet by the flames. As dusk falls, H pours two generous whiskies, and we talk over the scope of the operation ahead of us, wondering when we’ll get the go-ahead from London.

‘Ironic, isn’t it?’ says H. ‘We get sent to Afghanistan to train them how to use our kit, and then get sent back ten years later to tell them they can’t have it any more.’

‘Blowback,’ I say. ‘That’s what the CIA call it.’

‘Blow job, more like. Anyway. Best not to talk about any of this from now on.’ Then he leaves the room and returns a minute later with a boyish look of mischief on his face.

‘When was the last time you saw one of these?’

His right arm swings up, and with it the barrel of an AK-47 assault rifle. This is an unaccustomed sight in rural England, and I splutter a reply through a mouthful of whisky.

‘It’s been a while.’

‘Know how to use it?’

‘Never really had to.’

‘Well, if you do ever have to, you might as well know how. Let’s sit on the floor.’

He takes two cloth bundles from the map pockets of his trousers and puts them on a small table. Then he sinks nimbly to the floor on his knees and rests the weapon like an offering across the open palms of his hands.

‘AK-47. Gas-operated assault rifle with selective fire, 7.62 calibre.’ He waves a hand up and down its length. The blueing on the metal glitters darkly in the light thrown from the fire. ‘Most successful assault rifle in the world. Any Soviet weapon with a K in its name means a variant of the Kalashnikov. There’s an AKM and an AKS, both modified versions of the AK-47, a PK light machine gun, and the smaller-calibre AK-74. The Soviets designed the rifle and its ammo so that, in theory, their invading army could use captured Western weapons, but not the other way round. Pretty simple weapon, really, and that’s its virtue. It’s an assault weapon, so you wouldn’t want to use it much over 300 metres, though it’ll send a round much further. If anyone’s firing at you with an AK from further than 300 metres, you shouldn’t be too bothered.’ A wry smile suggests he doesn’t mean this too literally.

He bounces it gently in his hands as if to weigh it. Perhaps he’s reminiscing. Then he squeezes the serrated edges of the rear sight and slides the range selector back and forth on its rail.

‘The sights are adjustable from 100 to 800 metres. Anything up to 300, just use the battle sights. Remember it fires high and right.’ He taps the muzzle. ‘Later models have a different-shaped muzzle to compensate. Looks like the tip of a Bowie knife.’ I’ve seen these in Afghanistan. ‘Some have a bayonet on a hinge under the barrel. You can stick this in the ground to stabilise the weapon if you want.’

His finger moves to the selector lever.

‘All the way up – safety on.’ He pulls on the silvery lug of the operating handle to show that the weapon can’t be cocked. ‘It inhibits the mechanism.’ Then there’s a loud metallic click as he slides the lever down. ‘One click down for automatic fire. When you’re in a hurry and you need it. Good for scaring crows.’

He wrinkles his nose as if automatic fire is only for films and books.

‘Two clicks for single shot. The only problem with the safety on an AK is it’s bloody noisy, so don’t do it unless you mean business. There’s no bolt-stop device, so the bolt moves back into the chamber after the last round’s been fired. You have to re-cock when you change mags.’

Then he tucks the wooden butt under his armpit as if to fire. ‘If someone has the weapon on you, try to get sight of the selector. There may be dust or dirt around it. A lot of blokes carry AKs for the prestige and they’re not really ready to use them. Check the position of the lever. If it’s all the way up, it might give you a bit more time. Right, let’s have a look inside.’

He takes the smaller bundle from the table and unfolds a triangular piece of cloth over the carpet. Then he removes the magazine, cocks the weapon to clear the breech, and pulls the trigger.

‘If you have a piece of cloth with you, you can spread the pieces over it in order, then gather them up in reverse. A
shemagh
is perfect.’

‘The Afghans use something called a
pattu
,’ I say, and describe a few of the near-universal applications of the Afghan woollen shawl, without which life in Afghanistan would be unmanageable.

‘We’ll pretend it’s a
pattu
then. This is the top cover.’ He taps the uppermost metal surface of the weapon, then pushes in the serrated catch at its rear and slides it off, exposing the innards. A long and snake-like recoil spring emerges. Then comes the bolt, sliding back into the receiver track with a clattering sound like a miniature train crossing a junction. At its far end is a long silver rod. ‘That’s the piston. It’s attached to the bolt carrier.’ He points out the curved surface, called the camway, on which the bolt rotates, and then the firing pin and the extractor attached to the bolt itself. Then he detaches the forward section of the wooden handguard to reveal the gas chamber. There’s also an easily removable rod beneath the barrel for clearing jammed rounds. But that’s it. Mr Kalashnikov’s brainchild, laid bare.

‘I’m amazed how simple it really is,’ I say.

‘That’s the secret of its success. Makes it less accurate than other rifles, but the clearances give it a lot of tolerance. When it really starts to fill up with rubbish, the mechanism won’t return fast enough and you get a second round coming up and jamming. That’s why you keep your weapon clean. Best way is to dump the whole thing in a pan of avgas.’

‘Aviation fuel?’

He nods. ‘But petrol will do. It cleans the dirt out and leaves the surfaces dry. Issue cleaning fluid usually comes in a fiddly little bottle, but a switched-on soldier will usually have something like this.’ He reaches over to the bundle, pulls out a green plastic insecticide bottle, and mimics spraying the rifle’s insides. Then he takes the head of an inch-wide paintbrush and waves it across the metal. A pull-through, stored in the butt, is used to clean the barrel. He drops it into the breech and gives a tug on the oiled strip of cloth from the other end, then closes an eye and peers into the muzzle. ‘If you put your thumb in the breech, it’ll catch enough light for you to see what’s going on. Want to have a go?’

He reassembles the parts, then reminds me of the golden rule. ‘Before you hand a weapon to anyone, clear it.’ He takes off the magazine and pulls back the bolt to make sure the chamber is clear.

I strip the weapon in the manner he’s shown, lining up the different parts, then fit them back in reverse order.

‘Right,’ says H, ‘now have another go.’

I repeat the process.

‘Again,’ he says.

And again, as my hands grow in confidence.

‘Now do it in the dark,’ he says, and instructs me to close my eyes. After several repeats, he says we’ve come far enough for the moment, and I put the weapon aside, resting it against the table.

‘That’s another thing,’ says H, reaching out for it. ‘Don’t ever prop the weapon anywhere where it can fall over. Always lie it down within reach of you, breech side up, so you don’t get dirt in it.’

Suddenly I remember a question I’ve been wanting to ask him.

‘You know those documentaries where you see American servicemen tapping the magazines of their weapons on their helmets before locking them onto their M16s? Why do they always do that?’

‘I don’t know,’ he says thoughtfully. ‘I’ve never worn a helmet.’

We move on. He unwraps the remaining bundle on the table to reveal a 9-millimetre Makarov pistol with five-pointed Soviet star on the grip panels. He releases the magazine, which slips into his palm.

‘You’ve seen one of these. It’s like the AK. A bit primitive, but effective and reliable. They say it’s based on the Walther PPK. Double action, so you can cock it either with the hammer or by pulling back the slide. The trigger pull’s a bit heavy in double-action mode. Good stopping power though.’

We go over the details of the mechanism, how to check the chamber and make safe. The pistol can be stripped by pulling down on the trigger guard, allowing the slide to be eased off from the rear. The barrel is fixed. I practise loading and unloading, thinking all the while about the expression ‘stopping power’. It’s a term as removed from the reality it describes as collateral damage or intelligence interrogation – death and torture respectively. Herein, I reflect, lies the terrible contradiction between two of the most momentous experiences in the life of a man: the near-irresistible thrill of conflict and the horror it produces.

Our session has a final stage. H leaves the room again and returns with what looks like a book and yet another weapon. On the dark blue cover of the book
defense intelligence agency
is printed in silver letters. Several yellow Post-its protrude from between the pages. The weapon in his hand is an FN HP, better known as the Browning High Power. It was originally manufactured in Belgium by the famous Fabrique Nationale, but has been copied all over the world. I’d learned how to use it in the army, where it was also known as the L9A1. I’d also killed a man with the same weapon.

‘Personal favourite,’ says H, as he clears it, then clicks the magazine gently back into place. The Browning has been the army’s sidearm of choice for decades, and compared to the latest automatics using plastic and ceramic parts, it’s starting to look old-fashioned. The Swiss-made SIG is the most recent sidearm of choice for the Regiment, he says, but the Browning’s reliability and high-capacity magazine make it popular with armed forces in so many countries, it’s going to be around for a while longer.

‘It’d be nice to have a couple to take with us,’ says H with a grin as he weighs the pistol in his hand. This one’s a recent DA model, he says, a double-action version of the original that incorporates a few modifications. The magazine can hold fourteen rounds, making fifteen with one in the chamber; the shape of the trigger guard has been changed to improve the grip when firing with two hands; and instead of a manual safety catch, there’s now an ambidextrous de-cocking lever mounted on the frame. There’s an internal firing pin safety mechanism and another safety to prevent firing if the slide isn’t all the way back.

As he points out the weapon’s features, his fingers move lightly over its surfaces with the swift dexterity of a conjuror, and the dark metal seems suddenly alive to his touch, ready to spring into action. He draws back the slide, presses the de-cocking lever, takes the magazine out and replaces it, and flips the pistol between his hands.

‘I used to sit for hours playing with one of these,’ he says as he slides it behind his back in a single fluid motion and presents to me his open palms. Then with the same effortless gesture the pistol reappears in his hand, supported by the other in a firing grip.

‘Get the feel of it,’ he says, and passes it to me.

I like the feel of the ambidextrous design, which means I can reach the de-cocking lever by lifting my thumb over the hammer without having to loosen my grip.

‘Do what comes naturally,’ says H. ‘Remember the mechanism stays open after the final round’s been fired. When you put in a fresh mag, push down the slide stop to send a new round forward, and you can keep firing without having to re-cock. You can also change the mag release button so that it goes on the other side, if you want.’

He puts his hands over mine to demonstrate the correct grip when firing over the sights, and the
en garde
position for what he calls instinctive shooting with the arms straight and both eyes open, when the target is up to fifteen feet away. It’s a style of shooting that the regular army doesn’t teach: two rounds in rapid succession to the head of the target. The Regiment has an expression for it: double tap.

‘Take them all with you,’ says H, waving a hand over the AK and the pistols, ‘and practise with all three. If you can strip them in the dark, so much the better. We’ll test-fire them next week after you’ve had a chance to play with them.’ Between the running, I’m thinking. I ask where we’ll do the test-firing. ‘We could go down to the Fort, I suppose. Good range, but it’s a bit of a hike.’ He’s talking about Fort Monckton in Portsmouth, where young spooks go for their early training in firearms. ‘But it’ll be easier to get up early and have a go in the hills somewhere. By the time anyone’s got out of their pyjamas to investigate, we’ll be long gone.’ He picks up the sinister-looking book from the table and fans its pages. ‘I’ve marked a few other weapons you might want to look at. You can compare with the Beretta and the SIG and the HK. Let’s hope we don’t have to use any of them, but you never know.’