Most of the guys ignored the manuals that came with the bikes, but a couple of them gave short, satirical readings from the printed instructions. Whinger started honking off in a pseudo-Japanese voice: '“Always check for obstacles before operating in a new area.”' He gave a short, sardonic laugh. 'Thanks, mate. Just send us a load of large-scale maps of eastern Libya, all five thousands sheets! “Always obey local off-road riding laws and regulations.” Phone the Libyan Embassy, Geordie, and ask for a copy of the desert off-highway code. “Never go fast over the top of a hill.” For fuck's sake! If Gadaffi's nasties come after us I'll be going like shit off a shovel, I can tell you, even if I'm right on the summit of the biggest bloody mountain in North Africa.'
That afternoon we loaded into a four-tonner and drove away to the Brecon Beacons for practice over rough terrain — through mud and water, up, down and across steep grass“ slopes. For. me, this was another psycho logical hang-up to be overcome. It was a motorbike accident which had led to my getting captured in Iraq: as the squadron had been moving up to a new location in the desert I'd dropped into a hole and smashed my left arm — and then, as an American casevac team was lifting me out along with other wounded, the chopper had been shot down. Now, once again, I was going to be riding a bike behind the lines in enemy territory.
Admittedly I'd now have four wheels instead of two, and there wasn't a war on, but all the same the idea was a bit of a hurdle. To be nicked by the Libyans wouldn't be much less unpleasant than being nicked by the Iraqis especially as our presence in the country would probably be denied by the British authorities and we could easily be left to rot in one of Gadaffi's penitentiaries.
Was it imagination, or did my arm produce a couple of twinges as I powered off up a rough grass track into the hills? For months it hadn't given the slightest trouble, even when I was on the weights in the gym, but now it seemed to be aching.
I set myself to concentrate on balance, and getting the feel of the quad. With two front wheels the steering seemed much firmer than with one, but it was OK once I'd got used to it. The trick was to sit forward on the long saddle when climbing, back on the way down, and lean uphill on the cross-slopes.
Pretty soon I had got the hang of it and started enjoying myself- and in fact everybody came back well chuffed with the machines, which were comfortable, fast, sure-footed and ideal for the job. Of course, we had been riding them with front and rear racks empty, and we realised they'd be a different proposition when loaded with all the kit and stores we were going to need.
While we were out in the hills, a message had reached camp to say that our American contact had flown in from Langley, Virginia, and would brief us on the camp at Ajdabiya in the morning. With this in mind we stopped work and went home early.
First light next day saw us piling into a Puma and whipping up to RAF Northolt on the western outskirts of London. It frustrated me to think that we were heading into the very area where Tim and Tracy might be held, and during the flight I was seized by the fantastic idea that I'd simply look down and see them being taken along a street — whereupon we'd bin our meeting with the Firm, fast-rope down on top of the prisoners' escorts, overpower them, and recover the captives.
The rest of the journey into town — by road — took so long that we reckoned we could have tabbed it faster, and it was nearly ten o'clock by the time our wagon crossed Vauxhall Bridge, slipped in through twin security gates and pulled up in the basement of the Firm's forbidding new head-shed building on the south bank of the Thames. Our friend Gilbert met us in the basement and escorted us up into the heart of the block, punching in combination numbers to open one locked door after another. Security here was so tight that it felt as if we were in a submarine, passing through a series of watertight compartments. We'd been told that this building got swept electronically at least once a day to make sure no listening bugs had been infiltrated, and we had no difficulty believing it.
We were never told the full name of the CIA agent who briefed us; Gilbert brought him into the lecture- room and introduced him merely as Gus. He was a short, stocky fellow in a navy blazer, with a pointed face, heavy suntan, close-cropped grey hair and shiny brown eyes — a combination that reminded me of a squirrel. Before he spoke, Gilbert gave us another dose of warnings about the need for total security — but here, in this alien environment, our guys were on their best behaviour, and Whinger didn't even scratch his ear.
When the American began to talk we were riveted, because the depth of his information was amazing. It took a couple of minutes to get used to his broad southern accent, but soon we were hooked. Not even his habit of saying 'OK?' after every few words could put us off.
Satellite data had been down-loaded'into his laptop, some of it enhanced into three-dimensional computer images, which he fired on to a screen, so that what we got was a series of snapshots taken from a variety of overhead angles. As we sat there watching, all the guys were impressed by the lecturer's high-tech apparatus and approach, but at the same time I couldn't help thinking how typical it was that, although the Yanks could see a fly twiddling its legs on the far side of the world, when they wanted guys to go in and shoot somebody unpleasant, it was the Brits whom they got to do the job.
First Gus showed us the extent of the military camp.
It was roughly rectangular, with the sides extending about two kilometres and the main approach road coming down to it from the north. Using a propelling pencil as a pointer, he picked out points of interest.
'The perimeter fence is weldmesh,' he told us. 'OK?
Ten feet high, with a two-foot extension tilted outwards on top. Four strands of barbed wire — dannart, you call it? — on angle irons I don't know whether you'll want to go through that or over it — through it, I guess. On the whole, we believe that security on the base is fairly primitive. The locals reckon the camp's protected by its location, with nothing but desert to the south. We can't tell from the satellite imagery whether or not the watch-towers are manned, but we think not.'
'Excuse me,' I broke in. 'Is it all right to make notes?'
'Go fight ahead — so long as you don't write down names, or anything that would identify the place to outsiders. OK?'
'Sure.'
'So far as we can see, the fence isn't alarmed. No electric current in it, either — no sensors. Now, I'll just quickly show you the main areas of the camp. These are the accommodation blocks. Cookhouse, here. Mosque here — very important. Parade ground. Headquarter building, with a communications tower above it.
Transport compound — you can see all the trucks lined up — and a few armoured vehicles here. Gasoline tanks in circular bunds. Gas filling point here. Two fifty-yard ranges; the main ranges are out in the training areas to the east. Ammunition bunkers way out on their own. here. Armoury here. That's one thing about the Arabs: they can't stand having weapons around the camp. Everything has to be locked away — that is, except for the guns carried by the guards. This is the recreational area: football fields, volleyball court. OK?'
'What are all those round things?' Pat asked.
'These?' Gus pointed to two or three small dark blobs. 'Palm trees. Remember, you're looking at them from right overhead. Now, the building you're interested in is this one. Bottom left-hand corner, as God and our satellites see it. On your left if you approach out of the desert from the south.'
The tip of the pencil-shadow trembled slightly as it hovered over an L-shaped structure set a little inside the angle of the perimeter fence. 'This seems to be a combination of office and residential accommodation.