'Exactly. This isn't a good moment for me to piss off abroad.'
'I know that.' Yorky pushed back his chair and went walkabout, throwing a pencil in the air and catching it as he spoke. 'All the same, it could work out all right.
I've talked it through with the CO and the ops officer.
Also I had a word with the SB guy, Fraser, about the way he thinks things may go here. I've come to the conclusion that it's on for you.'
Missing a catch, he had to crawl under the desk to retrieve the pencil from the floor. 'The point is,' he continued as he stood again, 'this is going to be a quick job: in and out. You'll not be abroad for more than six days. Two weeks' training here, then less than a week away. To get the hostages back may take a couple of months.'
He saw me grimace, and went on, 'If anything breaks on the hostage front during the training phase you'll be here to deal with it. Your personal problem may well be cracked before the operation goes down. But even if it ain't, we can hold the fort for you while you're out of the country. Besides, you'll have Satcoms as usual, so that you won't ever be out of touch.'
I sat holding my forehead in my hands. My head felt as if it were bursting. Already, with this new deployment barely announced, the stress was piling on.
This was going to be a high-risk operation, fraught with danger — could I stand the strain of another episode likely to be as traumatic as the one in the Gulf? Could I handle it on top of my acute personal troubles?
My instinct was to stay home at all costs, to be there when the PIRA dalled. I couldn't take the thought of somebody else making a cock-up that might lead to the hostages' death. But I knew perfectly well I had no option but to go; if I refused I'd be kicked out — not only from the Regiment, but out of the Army.
At moments of this kind it's easy to let resentment build up. The Regiment is notorious for pushing its members to the limit, putting them under intense pressure without regard to their mental state. The head- shed simply assumes that all the guys are fit, physically and mentally, all the time, and ready to go.
Now, for a few seconds, I thought, Ah, sod them.
Why can't they make a few allowances? Why can't they send someone else to do their dirty work? I looked up at Yorky and said, 'Does it have to be me?'
He stopped pacing and stood beside my chair. 'You know what the Regiment's like, Geordie. They'll talk sympathetically about your family, blah, blah, blah. But in fact they couldn't give a flying monkey's, especially when a job like this comes down from Whitehall. If the Government's ordered it, it's got to happen. It doesn't matter what you do — you can go in and spout Army regulations at the adjutant if you like — but I can tell you, it won't wash. Sorry, old mate, but it's got to be you.' His tone wasn't unkind, just matter of fact.
I took a deep breath and said, 'Fair enough. I suppose it might even take my mind off my home problems, having a fastball job to do.'
'Gradely, lad. And you're not just our number-one choice for the job; you're the only choice.'
'Why's that?'
'Because you alone will recognise the target without fail.'
'You could show other guys the mug-shot.' I pointed at the photo. 'They could memorise what he looks like.'
'It's not the same thing. You've seen him several times. You know him.'
'The thing is, this mug-shot's well out of date. Even when I saw him two years ago he'd aged a good bit over what you can see here. His face had got a lot heavier and more lined.'
'All the more reason for you to be in command.'
'OK. But Tony Lopez saw him just as much.'
'I realise that. I'm hoping I can get Tony on the operation with you for that very reason. But the whole thing's so sensitive that we're waiting on clearance from the Pentagon before we can include him in the team.'
'For Christ's sake!' I exclaimed. 'Is the target in fucking Moscow or somewhere?'
'Yer daft bat! Listen, Geordie. This is a black operation. You know what that means. Nobody has heard about it — nobody. It's not to be discussed with anyone — not even your closest mates. Outside these walls, it doesn't exist. And when it does go down, it will be completely unattributable: nothing you do must leave any trace to show that the legiment was involved.'
'Yeah, yeah. OK.' I'd been given all this shit many times before. I knew Yorky had to bring it out, but even so I didn't like having it rammed down my throat.
'There's to be a team briefing here at 1600 hours,' he was saying. 'All will be revealed then.'
In the afternoon, on my way across, I checked into the incident room again. Fraser and Bates were both intent:.i on a computer monitor, which I saw was carrying …. details of the player called Danny Aherne who liked sitting down to eyeball his victims. He was thirty-two, fair-haired, unemployed, and had a weakness for the drink. He was known to have been active in London earlier in the year, but had recently gone AWOL from his last known place of residence, a bed-and-breakfast room in Acton.
'He's involved,' said Fraser with some conviction.
'I'm damn sure of that. But I don't know why he's shifted. That may mean something or it may not. But those fibres… I'll bet my boots he was there.'
In Yorky's den I found five other guys assembled.
They'd been on the Wing for some time already, and constituted one of its two standing teams. The only one I knew well was Pat Newman, a big, dark, ruddy-faced lad with snow-white teeth, one of the heaviest eaters in the business, but very quick on his feet and a useful fellow to have around if things got physical. There was an obvious reason for him being on this new job: he'd done a course in Arabic, and spoke enough of the language to communicate about everyday matters.
A less acquaintance was Billy Walker, a little Londoner known as 'Whinger' on account of the fact that he was always moaning or making snide remarks in his own debased form of Cockney rhyming slang. He had peculiarly coloured hair — very light brown, like tow — which looked so artificial that strangers suspected him of dyeing it or wearing a wig; but anyone who lived and worked with him knew that it was his own, and never changed. He also had a horrible habit of rolling his own gaspers, which stank out any room he was in. But he was a good operator nevertheless: small, skinny and tough.
Of the other three, the tallest was Fred Parry, a fair- haired beanpole from A Squadron who'd had a great time blowing up fibre-optic comms towers in Iraq during the Gulf War. Then there was Stew Stewart, a gingery fellow from Merseyside who'd come into the P,egiment from the Cheshires. Stew, sometimes known as 'Turnip', wasn't exactly a figure of fun, because he was a good, willing lad, but he did take a lot of stick because of the trouble he had keeping girlfriends. With his broad, ruddy face, he looked exactly what he was a farmer's boy — and he was perpetually worried that his head was the wrong shape, a deficiency which he tried to remedy by resorting to fancy haircuts. That left only Norman Paxford, a stocky, dark Glaswegian whose aim in life seemed to be to talk as little as possible. He might easily have been nicknamed 'Jock' because of his hellish accent, but — maybe because he spoke so rarely — he was known simply as 'Norm'. People said that it was his Mexican-style moustache, neatly clipped into an upside-down U, that clamped his mouth shut and made it difficult for him to utter. But he was never rude, and if you asked him something he'd always answer, only in the fewest possible words. If you said, 'Everything all right, then, Norm?' he'd just go, 'Aye, thanks,' and leave it at that. In spite of his taciturnity he was a terrific worker, and utterly dependable.
We had a couple of minutes' chit-chat, and I noticed that the mug-shot of our Iraqi friend was up on one of the wall-boards, with several lines of writing beneath it.
Then the ops officer and Jimmy Wells came in towing a middle-aged guy in a shiny grey suit.