The Hostage (17 page)

As Hank drifted off to sleep he wondered what Kathryn was doing and how the girls had got on with school that day. He wished he could have spoken to her and told her about the day’s events. He pulled the blanket tighter around him, feeling the chill as his body cooled. He thought about getting up to fetch an extra blanket but decided he would put up with it for the time being. He wondered what the next day might bring. He was sure that whatever it was, he would do as well as the best of these guys. It was the most confident he had felt since arriving in UK.

 

The following morning, after breakfast, the operatives were driven in the two Rovers to another part of the vast training area. Hank had expected a workout before starting the day but with breakfast at six and a six-thirty a.m. move it had not been practical. During breakfast he noticed no one else had shaved and he was also the only person in a clean shirt. Everyone seemed to be wearing the same scruffy clothes they had worn the day before. As soon as he finished his meal he went back to his locker and put on his old clothes.

As the Rovers pulled to a stop on the dirt track Hank could see Stratton waiting up ahead beside two civilian cars. Any speculation as to what this next phase of training could be was met with shrugs of ignorance. They had been told to bring nothing, other than their loaded pistols of course.

The vehicles slowed to a stop and everyone climbed out. The clouds had returned and it had rained briefly during breakfast, filling the air with the rich smell of earth. The men gravitated towards Stratton.

‘Close in,’ he said, keeping his hands in the pockets of his old leather jacket, his collar turned up against the slight breeze, which was noticeably colder than the day before. ‘I call this next phase character drills. It’s simple and straightforward. You will be in pairs, driving in this vehicle. One pair at a time will drive off from here and follow a course that has been set out for you. The car will be returned here on completion of the journey and the next pair will head off. Everyone will take part. The scenario is this: you are undercover operatives in Northern Ireland. You’re heading across country to carry out a recce.You do not have communications with headquarters or anyone else. In the car is a sketch of the route you will follow. It’s not a complicated route. Anyone who gets lost shouldn’t be in the boy scouts, never mind the SBS.’

Hank noticed the difference in the men when Stratton addressed them. No one made a comment or looked anywhere other than directly at him. Stratton had charisma for sure, but there was something else. It was not just that he was the team leader, or that he was intolerant of anyone not paying full attention. There was something about his demeanour, the way he moved and the way he looked a person in the eyes. When he spoke you listened. Hank felt there was still something else though. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but if he were pushed to describe what he felt he would have to say there was a darkness about Stratton.

‘You’ll cover a distance of approximately two miles,’ Stratton continued. ‘Drive normally, as you would without attracting undue attention to yourselves. During the journey there will be incidences. You will react to them as a member of Her Majesty’s internal security forces. At the end of the day, undercover operatives, special forces, whatever your job description, you are officers of the law and must abide by the rules that apply to every other member of the internal security force working in Northern Ireland.’ Stratton handed a sheet of paper to Brent. ‘Those are the driving pairs in the order they will follow. I don’t expect any questions because I’ve given you all the information you need. First pair will depart precisely on the half-hour . . . in eleven minutes.’

Stratton climbed into one of the Rovers and the two cars drove away up the road.

Everyone crowded around Brent to find out who they would be with.

Clemens left the huddle and joined Hank. ‘You’re with me,’ he said. ‘We’re last.’ Hank could not be sure but he thought Clemens seemed nervous.

 

The first pair was gone some forty minutes before the car returned, driven by one of the Rover drivers and otherwise empty. He parked it, turned off the engine, climbed out, leaving the keys in the ignition, and without a word walked away across an open stretch of ground towards a line of trees, through which he disappeared. Everyone noticed the car had a few extra dents on it. The next pair climbed in and drove away up the road. The three remaining pairs sat back and waited.

An hour and a half later, after another pair had gone, a different vehicle arrived, driven by the other staff driver, who dropped off four brown paper lunch bags. Clemens took one and handed another to Hank, who was sitting under a tree across the track.

‘You ever do any civvy stuff like this?’ Clemens asked as he sat down on the grass and made himself comfortable.

‘Nope,’ Hank replied as he looked inside the bag.

Clemens squinted inquisitively into his bag, took out a sandwich bound in cellophane and unravelled it. He inspected between the slices, looked unimpressed, closed them and took a big bite from it.

The circuit car returned and the staff driver climbed out and headed for the wood, again without saying a word. The last pair before Hank and Clemens put their lunch in their pockets, climbed in and drove away.

The earlier breeze had dropped off and the heavy grey clouds had made it perceptibly darker. Hank wondered if they would dump their load or move on. He tuned in to the sounds around him: the birds, the wind, the gentle rustling of small critters in the undergrowth . . . and Clemens chewing.

‘You married?’ Hank asked him.

‘Na. I’m a fag,’ Clemens said, quite seriously. He then spat out something that apparently should not have been in his sandwich and checked inside to see what it was.

Hank was unsure if this was another of Clemens’s dry witticisms. Clemens glanced at him long enough to wink. ‘Relax, Hanky boy. I’m pulling your plonker. You’ll ’ave to come round for dinner when this is over and meet the missus and kids.’

Hank nodded, feeling sure the offer was a genuine one. After all, Clemens had not said it in a Texan accent. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘How many kids you got?’

‘Two. Boy, girl. You’ve got a couple, ain’t ya?’

‘Two girls.’

‘What kind of food do you like? You one of them fussy types? I know how you Yanks are. Got to be organic and no microwave stuff and non-fat and all that.’

‘Not us. We eat just about anything, I guess,’ Hank shrugged. ‘We’re a meat and potatoes family. Barbecues. Stuff like that.’

‘I like cooking Italian. I like to think I’m a bit of a gourmet, ’ Clemens said, deliberately pronouncing the ‘t’. Any form of upper class affectation was anathema to Clemens, and that included pronouncing French correctly. He tossed the rest of his sandwich away. ‘Only pusser can cock up something as simple as a bleeding cheese sandwich,’ he said tiredly.

‘Pusser?’ Hank queried.

‘Pusser means Royal Navy.’

Hank nodded. ‘You going on this op?’ he asked.

‘Hope so,’ Clemens replied. ‘We won’t know who’s going till the brief. That’s if it’s still on by the time we’re ready to go. I’ve been on so many standby-to-go’s I’ve lost count. Two months ago we got as far as hovering over a cruise ship near Iceland, just about to leap aboard because some fuck-pig was threatening to hijack it and shoot the captain when we pulled off because the dick’eds finally noticed all the bloke had in ’is ’and was a friggin’ water-pistol . . . Knobbers.’

Hank nodded as he opened his own sandwich to inspect it. It looked like a slab of luncheon meat in margarine, made in two seconds flat. He closed it and took a bite anyway. ‘Is it up to Stratton who goes?’ he asked.

‘Na. He’ll put his suggestions to ops. I expect the ops officer’ll probably agree with ’em though.’ Clemens pulled a sausage roll from his bag and smelled it.‘I’d like to know what the op is,’ he added, biting half the roll off in one go. ‘I just hope it’s not two weeks in a fucking bush watching some farmhouse.That’s one thing about this job that bores the shit out of me. I’ve done more ops up to my nuts in kak watching sweet fuck-all for weeks at a time than I can remember.’

Hank wished he knew more about the Northern Ireland thing. From what he had gathered so far it was probably closer to police undercover drug ops in the States than anything the US military did.

‘What’s he like?’

‘Who, Stratton?’ Clemens asked. He shrugged. ‘I don’t know him all that well. I’ve never been in one of his teams before. He’s one of those who flits around a lot.’

Clemens dumped the other half of his sausage roll. ‘Who can fuck up a sausage roll?’

‘Pusser?’ Hank asked.

‘You got it, pal. It’s the hardest course in the Royal Navy, a cook’s course. You know why?’ he asked rhetorically. ‘Because no bastard has ever passed it.’ Clemens gave one of his idiotic chuckles as he dug an apple out of his bag. ‘I bet they’ve even fucked up this apple,’ he said, polishing it on his sleeve. Clemens took a huge bite and continued talking as he munched. ‘He’s probably one of the most experienced seniors we have. He’s done ops in just about every theatre. Got an OBE, MBE, BEM . . . one of them. Don’t know one from the other myself.’

‘That a medal?’

‘Yeah. He got it for some job against the Ruskies, I think. A few years ago now. Cold War stuff. Went into Russia off a sub and brought some MI6 character back. He was also at the jail break in Afghanistan, lucky bastard.’

‘He was there?’ Hank asked.

‘Yeah. From what I heard they shot over four hundred Taliban.’

‘I got there the day they left,’ Hank said.

‘That right?’ Clemens asked.

‘Sure were a lotta stiffs.’

‘He’s a bit of a cold bastard.’

‘How’s that?’

‘Can’t you tell?’

‘The guys seem to like him.’

‘That’s because he’s got kills, hasn’t he? Everyone likes a man who’s had a kill.You’re a member of the club if you’ve got blood on your ’ands in this business.’

Hank could detect a bit of envy in Clemens’s voice.

‘And Stratton isn’t just a member; he’s the bloody president. Isn’t it the same with your lot?’

‘Sure,’ Hank said. ‘Everyone likes a kill on their record books.’

Clemens looked at him as if trying to read into his eyes. ‘You in the club then, Hanky boy?’ he said in the Texan accent.

Hank wondered what the accent change meant.

‘We gonna start swapping war stories now, me old janner pig?’ Hank asked, trying out the Devon accent for the first time and sounding more like a Pakistani.

Clemens gave him a blank look that Hank was unsure of.

‘I ain’t got any,’ Clemens said, taking another bite of the apple.

Hank was about to admit he did not have any kills either but decided to keep it to himself. He was aware that his comment made it seem like he had and preferred not to talk about it. If Clemens asked, Hank would tell him, and if he did not, he would let Clemens think otherwise.

They finished their lunch in silence, both men beginning to feel a little apprehensive about the upcoming mystery drive.

When the car arrived they stood up as it came to a halt in front of them. The staff driver kept to his dumb routine and trudged his familiar route towards the wood.

‘I’ll drive,’ Clemens said, climbing in. Hank got into the passenger side.‘You map read,’ Clemens ordered as he started the engine. Hank reached for the safety-belt behind him but it was all tangled up. ‘No safety belts,’ Clemens said. ‘You didn’t wear any yesterday, did you?’

Hank remembered. Clemens put the engine into gear with a crunch. ‘Piece a shit car,’ he grumbled. ‘You set?’

Hank checked the map, which was nothing more than a photocopy of a hand-drawn sketch. ‘Straight for half a mile then right at a T-junction,’ he said. ‘I guess this means a wooded area,’ he asked, showing it to Clemens.

‘Looks like it.’ Clemens revved the engine then eased his foot off the clutch and the car set off.

Clemens kept the speed at thirty miles per hour and they bumped over a cattle grid through a gap in a hedgerow and came to the T-junction.

‘Right,’ Hank said and they followed the road into a wide firebreak.

‘Keep your eyes skinned for anything and everything,’ Clemens said looking in all directions. He adjusted the rear-view mirror to check behind.

Hank’s apprehension had increased, helped on by the tension in Clemens. ‘If we get ambushed, do we return with live fire?’ he asked.

‘You do whatever you want, buddy-boy. Whatever you want. But I have a feeling that whatever happens it won’t be so realistic that you’ll have to blow someone away.’

Hank eyeballed the door handle, memorising its location and action. He moved his seat back as far as it would go to give himself maximum room to manoeuvre and jump out if need be. The road took a gentle bend to the right and the wood opened out a little more on both sides. Hank searched the darkness behind the front line of trees as Clemens maintained a steady speed.

‘We must’ve done a mile by now,’ Clemens said.

‘Something has to happen soon.’ Then seconds later he called out. ‘Up ahead, up ahead!’

Hank’s eyes snapped to the front. Clemens pushed on the brake and stopped the car.

They stared ahead in silence as the engine ticked over.

A hundred yards to their front a car was lying on its roof just off the road, with a thin wisp of smoke curling skyward from the buckled engine compartment.They turned in their seats, checking in all directions for an ambush. Hank noticed his heart rate had quickened. Clemens looked unsure what to do.

‘Something’s gonna happen,’ he said. ‘Something’s gonna happen real soon.’

They continued looking and waiting but nothing else materialised.

‘How ’bout reversing outta here?’

‘Where to?’ Clemens said, checking his rear-view mirror for the umpteenth time. ‘Stratton said follow the road and complete the circuit. That’s what we have to do.’