'There you are!' I said. 'What did I tell you?'
'Yeah!' Tony went on, his voice loud with indignation, jabbing a forefinger at the portrait. 'We used to think he looked like Saddam Hussein, with the moustache and the beret. But then, all Iraqi officers do.
This one always seemed to be scowling. A big guy, shambling, a bit like a bear. Boy, what wouldn't I do to get my hands on that bastard!'
Jim nodded. 'OK,' he conceded. 'That does it. Now you'd better forget I asked you.'
'Wait a minute,' said Tony. 'What's he got to do with us now?'
'Nothing.' Jim stared straight at me. 'As I say, forget it. And don't mention it outside this office. You never saw the picture, and I never asked you anything.'
Of course we couldn't forget it. Tony and I obeyed orders and didn't mention the matter to anyone else, but we talked to each other about it at lunch that day, then again in the evening. Obviously the Iraqi was up to something that involved the SAS, but we couldn't figure out what it might be. We guessed Saddam Hussein might be using him to suppress the Kurds in the north of the country; but at that time the regiment had no presence in Iraq — at least, none that we knew of- and a couple of veiled enquiries drew blank. On the other hand, secret operations were our bread and butter, and when guys got involved in something really hot they were generally tight as gnats' arseholes about it.
So it seemed quite possible that some operation was brewing and nobody was talking.
Nor did the day produce any information about Tim and Tracy. Telephone engineers had re-routed the lines so that anyone calling my old number in the cottage went straight through to the incident room, where the phones were manned twenty-four hours a day, and the line was bugged, so any conversation on it would be “automatically recorded. Foxy Fraser of Special Branch, who was there in person for much of the time, decreed that the phone must be answered by men only, with instructions to be as non-committal as possible. That way, if the PltkA did come through, they might think it was me on the other end.
For several hours I sat in on the control room, listening to the check calls that came through from Special Branch in London, Birmingham, Holyhead and other places, fervently hoping that one of them would bring news of a positive lead. At first I was on edge, jumping around whenever a phone rang; but after a while boredom began to kill hope and I settled into a resigned torpor, crushed by the realisation that we were probably in for a grinding marathon of a wait.
Hanging around, flicking through old magazines, I couldn't help being aware of the Streisand look alike, Karen Terraine, with her swept-back blonde hair and big nose. There she sat, all neat and tidy in a pale blue blouse and grey skirt, taking the odd call, making notes, checking things, going through to the SB central computer for specialised information, and bringing up one list of names after another on her screen. Most of the time she looked totally demure, but twice I caught her giving me the eyeball, and I began to get irritated by her presence.
Fraser saw I was less than chuffed, but he naturally attributed my unease to the general situation and tried to cheer me up by saying, 'Don't worry, Geordie, the touts are out there. The touts are about. They're all hungry, and they're all listening. Our eyes and ears are open.' A search was on in Ulster as well, in case the party had-somehow managed to cross the water undetected; but the presumption still was that the hostages had been taken to London.
In the afternoon I went out for an eight-mile run through the lanes, but although I kept pushing myself I couldn't settle into any rhythm. I just had too much on my mind. My anxiety about Tim and Tracy prevented me from concentrating on the exercise. The result was I wasn't looking at the ground properly and I kept stumbling and jarring myself, so that running, instead of being a pleasure, became hard, uncomfortable work.
It was the same when I went to the gym and got on the weights. Nothing would go right. From my own experience — and from watching other guys who were into big lifts — I knew how essential full concentration is; without it, you're at only half strength, and liable to do yourself damage. Now I just couldn't get my timing.
After half an hour I thought, Ah, fuck it! and gave up.
As I came into camp next morning — the second day after the kidnap — I went up to the Squadron Interest loom and found a note in my pigeon-hole. I was on the point of reading it when the clerk forestalled me by saying, 'Hey, Geordie. You're to report to the ops officer, soonest.' I went upstairs wondering what this could be about.
Mac Macpherson was in his usual gracious mood.
'Lucky sod, Geordie,' he said. 'Looks like you're in for more action already.'
'What d'you mean, Boss?'
'You're to report to the OC, SAW — immediately.'
'What's on, then?'
'Don't ask me. Ask him.'
'Christ! This isn't a great moment for me to go away anywhere.'
'See what he says before you start worrying.'
Before I'd even reached the bottom of the stairs I had made the connection: this had to do with the int officer's photo.
The Subversive Action Wing was the most secret part of our organisation, the unit that took on the most sensitive jobs, often working in cahoots with MI5 or MI6. Just as the two Government agencies were known as the 'Firm', so the SAW was known simply as the 'Wing', and its operations were the most highly classified of any the SAS undertook. People trying to be clever described it as the cutting edge of the organisation — and in fact that wasn't a bad description.
Because of its connections outside the legiment, it was almost a national force.
To gain entry to the SAW's area, one had to punch a series of numbers into the pad beside the door. Not knowing the combination, I had to bang on the steel door and wait for someone to let me in.
I found the OC sitting at his desk. In his day Major Yorky lose had been a fearsome boxer and front-row forward. On his way up through the ranks he'd never bothered to shed his Yorkshire accent or drop his native expressions like 'ee bah gum' and 'you'll not get owt for nowt', and similarly he'd never given a bugger what people thought about his ferocious training regimes.
Whenever strange noises were heard emanating from his office, it was said that Yorky was practicing walking on all fours: toes and knuckles.
Now in his late thirties, he'd lost most of his dark hair, and kept what was left shaved so short that at first glance you might miss the fuzz on his scalp and think he was totally bald. He had a high, domed forehead that made his head egg-shaped, and his thick, arching eyebrows seemed to accentuate the length of his face.
Guys in the Regiment tend to age prematurely, due to the amount of effort they put into life; by the time they're thirty-five, they look like they're pushing fifty.
Yorky was no exception: he already had deep lines across his forehead and down his cheeks.
'Well, Geordie,' he began, 'I'm sorry to hear about your kid and Tracy. Any news of them?'
'Not a whisper, Yorky.'
'That's tough. I hope you get sorted soon. Mean while, I need your help. Take a seat there a minute.'
I perched on the chair at one side of his desk, pretty certain what his next step would be — and sure enough, he opened a folder, brought out a photograph, and turned it round for me to look at.
'You know this gent, I gather.'
I nodded. 'You're telling me.'
'How would you like to top him?'
'Top him?' For a second I was taken aback. But a moment later I said, 'Try and stop me.'
Yorky smiled briefly. 'As I thought.'
'Where is the bastard?'
'Last seen in Piccadilly Circus… No, you'll know soon enough. You've been selected to lead an operation to take him out. We want you to command one of the SAW patrols.'
'Jesus!'
'The timing of it, you mean?'