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 Ainwick 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 all 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'mJane."
We closed on the cubicle as a pair, and the short, sandyhaired 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.