Remote Control (6 page)
Authors: Andy McNab
I didn’t have time to finish my coffee. The clerk reappeared and took me downstairs. I signed for the documents in the outer office before I left; thirteen bits of paper with the information on, and I had to sign each sheet. Then I had to sign for the folder it was in. Fucking bureaucracy.
A car was waiting for me outside. I jumped in the front. When I was a kid I’d look at people being chauffeured and think, Who the fuck do they think they are? I talked shit with the driver, probably bored him rigid; he didn’t really want to talk, but it made me feel better.
A civilian Squirrel was waiting on the pad at Battersea heliport, rotors slowly turning. I had one last job to do before boarding: from a wall phone I called up the family who covered for me, people who’d vouch for me if I was ever up against it. They’d never take any action on my behalf, but if I got lifted I could say to the police, ‘That’s where I live – phone them, ask them.’
A male voice answered the phone.
‘James, it’s Nick. I’ve just been given a chance to go to the States and visit friends. I might be a week or two. If it’s more, I’ll call.’
James understood. ‘The Wilmots had a break-in next door two days ago, and we’re going to see Bob in Dorset over the Easter weekend.’
I needed to know these things because I would if I lived there all the time. They even sent the local paper to my accommodation address each week.
‘Cheers, mate. When you see that son of yours at the weekend, tell him he still owes me a night out.’
‘I will . . . Have a nice holiday.’
As we skimmed over the Irish Sea, I opened the briefing pack and thumbed through the material. I needn’t have bothered. All they knew for certain was that two boys had booked tickets to Washington and they wanted to find out why. They wanted to know who they were meeting and what was happening once they met. I knew from experience that the chances of failure were big-time. Even if they kept to the script and went to Washington, how was I going to follow them around? There were two of them and one of me; as a basic anti-surveillance drill they were sure to split up at some point. But, hey, at the end of the day, the Firm had me by the bollocks.
Judging from one of the documents, it seemed that we’d reached the time of the year when all good PIRA fund-raisers headed for the dinner circuit in Boston, New York, Washington – even down as far as Tucson, Arizona, to catch Irish-American sympathizers who’d retired to the sun. It seemed that the seizure of 10 tons of explosives and weapons during the search of a warehouse in north London in September 1996 had produced a financial crisis. PIRA weren’t exactly asking their bank for an overdraft yet, but the increase in legitimate fund-raising in Northern Ireland was an indication that they were flapping. There were also other, less public, ways of raising cash. I was sure my new friends were part of that.
Apart from that, I was still none the wiser about the job. I had no information on the players’ cover stories, or where they might be going, within or outside Washington. All I knew was who they were and what they looked like. I read that Michael Kerr had been a member of the South Armagh ASU. He’d taken part in four mortar attacks on SF bases and tens of shoots against the security forces and Prods. He’d even got wounded once, but escaped to the South. A hard boy.
The same could be said for Morgan McGear. After a career as a shooter in the border area of South Armagh, the thirty-one-year-old jobbing builder had been promoted to PIRA’s security team. His job there was to find and question informers. His favoured method of interrogation was a Black & Decker power drill.
2
The helicopter was operated by a civilian front company, so the arrivals procedure at Shannon was no different than if I’d been a horse breeder coming to check the assets at his stud farm in Tipperary, or a businessman flying in from London to fill his briefcase with EU subsidies. I walked across the tarmac into the arrivals terminal, went through Customs and followed the exit signs, heading for the taxi rank. At the last minute I doubled back into departures.
At the Aer Lingus ticket desk I picked up my ticket for Heathrow, which had been booked in the name of Nick Stamford. When choosing a cover name it’s always best to keep your own Christian name – that way you react naturally to it. It also helps if the surname begins with your real initial because the signature flows better. I’d picked Stamford after the battle of Stamford Bridge. I loved medieval history.
I headed straight to the shop to buy myself a bag. Everybody has hand luggage; I’d stick out like the balls on a bulldog if I boarded the aircraft with nothing but a can of Coke. I never travelled with luggage that had to be checked in, because then you’re in the hands of whoever it is that decides to take bags marked Tokyo and send them to Buenos Aires instead. Even if your baggage does arrive safely, if it then reaches the carousel five minutes after the target’s you’re fucked.
I bought some toothpaste and other odds and ends, all the time keeping an eye out for Euan. I knew that he’d be glued to Kerr and McGear, unless they’d already gone airside.
The departure lounge seemed full of Irish families who were going to find the Easter sun, and newly retired Americans who’d come to find their roots, wandering around with their brand-new Guinness sweatshirts, umbrellas and baseball caps, and leprechauns in tins and little pots of grow-your-own shamrock.
It was busy and the bars were doing good business. I spotted Euan at the far end of the terminal, sitting at a table in a café, having a large frothy coffee and reading a paper. I’d always found ‘Euan’ a strange name for him. It made me think of a bloke with a skirt on, running up and down a glen somewhere, swinging a claymore. In fact he was born in Bedford and his parents came from Eastbourne. They must have watched some Jock film and liked the name.
To the left was a bar. Judging by where Euan was sitting I guessed that was where the players were. I didn’t bother looking; I knew Euan would point them out. There was no rush.
As I came out of the chemist’s I looked towards the coffee shop and got eye-to-eye. I started walking towards him, big grin all over my face, as if I’d just spotted a long-lost pal, but didn’t say anything yet. If somebody was watching him, knowing he was on his own, it wouldn’t look natural for me just to come up and sit next to him and start talking. It had to look like a chance meeting, yet not such a noisy one that people noticed it. They wouldn’t think, Oh, look, there’s two spies meeting, but it registers. It might not mean anything at the time, but it could cost you later.
Euan half got to his feet and reciprocated my smile. ‘Hello, dickhead, what are you doing here?’ He gestured for me to join him.
We sat down, and since Euan was sponsoring the RV he came up with the cover story. ‘I’ve just come to see you from Belfast before you fly back to London. Old friends from school days.’ It helps to know you both have the same story.
‘Where are they?’ I said, as if asking after the family.
‘My half left and you’ve got the bar. Go right of the TV. They’re sitting – one’s got a jean jacket on, one a black three-quarter-length suede coat. Kerr is on the right-hand side. He’s now called Michael Lindsay. McGear is Morgan Ashdown.’
‘Have they checked in?’
‘Yes. Hand luggage only.’
‘For two weeks in Washington?’
‘Suit-carriers.’
‘And they haven’t gone to any other check-in?’
‘No, it looks like they’re going to Heathrow.’
I walked over to the counter and bought two coffees.
I could tell they were the only Irishmen at the bar, because everybody else was wearing Guinness polo shirts and drinking pints of the black stuff. These two were on Budweiser by the neck and watching the football. Both had cigarettes on the go and were smoking like ten men; if I’d been watching them in a bar in Derry I’d have taken it as nervousness, but Aer Lingus have a no-smoking policy on their flights and it looked as if these boys were getting their big hit before boarding.
Both were looking very much the tourist, clean-shaven, clean hair, not overdressed as businessmen, not underdressed as slobs. Basically, they were so nondescript you wouldn’t give them a second glance, which indicated that they were quite switched on – and that was a problem for me. If they’d been looking a bag of bollocks or at all nervous, I’d have known I was up against second- or third-division players – easy job. But these boys were Premier League, a long way from hanging around the Bogside on kneecapping duty.
There were kids everywhere, chasing and shouting, mothers screaming after two-year-olds who’d found their feet and were skimming across the terminal. For us, the more noise and activity the better. I sat down with the drinks. I wanted to get as much information as I could from Euan before they went airside.
On cue, he said, ‘I picked McGear up from Derry. He went to the Sinn Féin office in Cable Street and presumably got the brief, then to Belfast. The spooks tried to use the listening device but didn’t have any luck. Nothing else to report, really. They spent the night on the piss, then came down here. Been here about two hours. They booked the flight by credit card in their cover names. Their cover’s good. They’ve even got their Virgin cabin-luggage tags on, they don’t want anything to go wrong.’
‘Where are they staying?’
‘I don’t know. It’s all very last-minute and Easter’s a busy time. There are about ten Virgin-affiliated hotels in Washington and it’s probably one of them – we haven’t had time to check.’
‘Is that all?’ I said.
‘That’s your lot. I don’t know how they’re going to transfer from the airport, but it looks like they’re off to DC, big boy.’ Subject closed, as far as Euan was concerned. It was now time to talk shit. ‘You still see a lot of Kev?’
I took a mouthful of coffee and nodded. ‘Yeah, he’s in Washington now; he’s doing all right. The kids and Marsha are fine. I saw them about four months ago. He’s been promoted and they’ve just bought a plastic mansion on this naff estate. It’s what you’d call executive housing.’
Euan grinned, looking like Father Christmas with white froth on his top lip. His own place was a stone-walled sheep-farmer’s house in the middle of nowhere on the Black Mountains in Wales. His nearest neighbour was 2 miles away on the other side of the valley.
I said, ‘Marsha loves it in Washington – no-one trying to shoot holes in the car.’
Marsha, an American, was Kev’s second wife. After leaving the Regiment he’d moved to the States with her and had joined the DEA. He had three grown-up kids from his first marriage and two from this one, Kelly and Aida.
‘Is Slack Pat still over there?’
‘I think so, but you know what he’s like: one minute he’s going to learn how to housebuild and the next minute he’s going to take up tree-hugging and crocheting. Fuck knows what he’s doing now.’
Pat had had a job for two years looking after the family of an Arab diplomat in DC. It worked out really well – he even got an apartment thrown in – but eventually the children he was minding grew too old to be looked after. They were off back to Saudi, so he binned his job and started bumming around. The fact was, he’d made so much money during those two years he wasn’t in a hurry.
We carried on chatting and joking, but all the time Euan’s eyes flickered towards the targets.
The players ordered another drink, so it looked as if we were going to be sat there for a while. We carried on spinning the social shit.
‘How’s year ten of the housebuilding programme?’ I grinned.
‘I’m still having problems with the boiler.’
He’d decided that he was going to put in the central heating himself, but it was a total balls-up. He’d ended up spending twice as much money as if he’d got someone in.
‘Apart from that, it’s all squared away. You should come down some time. I can’t wait to finish this fucking tour, then I’ve got about two more years and that’s me out.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘As long as it’s not what you’re doing, I don’t care. I thought I’d become a dustman. I don’t give a fuck really.’
I laughed. ‘You do! You’ll be scratching to stay in, you’re a party man. You’ll stay in for ever. You moan about it all the time, but actually you love it.’
Euan checked the players, then looked back at me. I knew exactly what he was thinking.
I said, ‘You’re right. Don’t do this job, it’s shit.’
‘What have you been up to since your little Middle Eastern adventure?’
‘I’ve been on holiday, got some free-fall in, did a bit of work for a couple of the companies, but actually not much, and to tell you the truth it’s great. Now I’m just waiting for the outcome of the inquiry. I think I’m in the shit – unless this job gets me out.’
Euan’s eyes moved again. ‘It looks like you’re off.’
The two boys must have started to sort themselves out at the bar.
I said, ‘I’ll give you a ring after this is finished. When are you back in the UK?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe a few days.’
‘I’ll give you a call, we can arrange something. You got yourself a woman yet, or what?’
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