Aggressor (15 page)

‘Nine years of… special reconnaissance, that's why.' He took another pull from the glass. ‘At least, that's what we called it. Hill fighting, close-quarter work, scouting, forward air control, designating guerrilla targets for our jet bombers... all in a day's work.'

Shabanov stared into his glass. ‘Some of the men went insane and there were suicides.' He snorted. ‘Not during the war, you understand. When we got back. Those fucking peaceniks. To them, special reconnaissance was rape, murder, burning, looting...' He emphasized each one by thumping his fist on the table. ‘For a while, the radical papers were full of it. I think we Afghantsi deserved better, but glasnost consigned us to the rubbish heap. Only Bitov, my senior sergeant, and I remain from my platoon of 79.' He drained his glass. ‘Glasnost has a lot to answer for.'

‘Maybe General Vorobyov hasn't retired after all,' Ulm whispered.

‘Huh?'

‘Nothing.' Ulm felt like someone had just walked over his grave.

The waitress approached with the check. Shabanov made no move to pick up the tab, but that didn't bother the American. It had been made clear to him by USSOCOM that the Russian was their guest in all matters. Judging from the figure at the bottom of the check, Shabanov wasn't looking the gift horse in the mouth. Ulm's head told him he hadn't exactly held back on the beers either.

He looked up to find Shabanov standing over the waitress, a good head taller than her, in spite of her legs. She held his gaze, as if he had her in a kind of spell. Ulm blamed the surrealism of the scene on the number of beers he had drunk, but something in her eyes made him look again, lower this time. Shabanov had pulled her skirt around her midriff and was moving his hand up the inside of her thighs towards her paper-thin panties. It was at that moment that Ulm realized that what he thought he had read as complicity in her eyes was in fact a look of horror and revulsion. Then, like an animal breaking the lock of a car headlight beam, she brought her hand up and slapped him hard round the face.

The waitress ran crying from the room and Shabanov tilted his head at Ulm, laughter rocking his body. Ulm pulled the Russian from the hotel into the rain. He hailed a taxi, ordering the driver first to the Soviet Embassy, where he deposited Shabanov, then to TERCOM, where he would spend the night.

CHAPTER 8

‘Good morning. Here are the BBC news headlines at seven o'clock...'

Girling pulled the pillow over his head to block out the news reader's voice. He could have used a week's extra sleep.

‘There has been a vital breakthrough in the hunt for the terrorists who carried out the Beirut massacre two nights ago and the simultaneous kidnapping of the US Ambassador to Saudi Arabia and nine of his staff.

The words barely registered. It was publication day. There were another seven days before the next edition of
Dispatches
hit the streets. Today he could have slept, but he had forgotten to reset the radio-alarm and it was too far away to turn off.

At the back of his mind, however, a voice told him to listen. He was no longer merely Tom Girling, Science and Technology Correspondent. Beirut was his story now.

‘According to a report in
Dispatches
, the authoritative weekly current-affairs magazine, the attack was the work of an extreme Islamic terrorist organization called the Angels of Judgement...'

Girling lifted the pillow off his head. That was their story. Stansell had called back with confirmation. He was pleased. Pleased for Stansell; and pleased for Kelso. Their editor had found his exclusive at the eleventh hour and then some.

And now the Angels of Judgement were making the lead spot on the national news. No doubt, it was enjoying similar billing with other media outlets. The wire agencies would have picked it up; Reuters, the Associated Press, Agence France Presse... all flashing the news around the world. And
Dispatches
' name was up there, too, in lights.

Girling smiled. Kelso, the survivor, had his big stick for the meeting. Lord Kyle could not possibly shut them down now, could he?

‘We have this report from Douglas Kennedy...'

Girling listened as the principal facts of the story he had written the night before from the nuggets Stansell had provided were churned out by the radio reporter. That the BBC had credited
Dispatches
so generously did not surprise him. The magazine had a very competent publicity machine that was ready to disseminate its best stories to the mass media in return for a hefty acknowledgement.

The line trotted out in the report was that the Angels of Judgement seemed to be a new breed of terror organization. Independent of larger groups like the PLO and Hizbollah, they were resourceful, dedicated, and furnished with the necessary funds to carry through a complex operation like Beirut. Worst of all, no one knew where they had come from.

It was then that Kelso himself came over the air-waves. His voice conveyed a sense of gravitas that befitted the story. Even if
Dispatches
was able only to cite ‘diplomatic sources in Cairo' as its primary informant, Kelso's deep and sombre tone gave it an unquestionable authority. The interview had been recorded over the telephone, probably late the previous night. Girling could hear the self-satisfaction in his editor's voice. Kelso was enjoying himself.

‘Our exclusive report highlights a number of interesting points,' Kelso said pompously. ‘The ability of a hitherto unknown group of terrorists to strike with seeming impunity at innocent civilians, despite recent assurances by Western governments, is particularly alarming. Secondly, so-called experts in other sections of the media have been labouring under the misapprehension that a substantial Middle Eastern power such as Iran or Libya was behind this incident. Our report has shown this not to be the case. The Angels of Judgement are very much on their own...'

The interviewer asked Kelso to elaborate.

‘Well, from newspaper reports earlier this week -reports that were confirmed by members of my staff, by the way - we know that the US Air Force was ready to launch a punitive strike against the perpetrators of the Beirut operation - not unlike Reagan's venture against Libya in 1986. The fact they didn't was underlined by the revelation that they had no idea who they were meant to be bombing. That information was to have been obtained when special forces stormed the airliner to rescue the hostages, we understand. But, tragically, the Angels of Judgement acted before a rescue operation was given a chance.'

‘Would you care to comment on yesterday's reports that the terrorists and their captives have given US forces the slip?' the reporter asked Kelso. ‘We gather you have independent corroboration.'

It sounded spontaneous, but Girling knew that the questions would have been rehearsed. Kelso had been furnished with all the answers he needed following the visit to Tech-Int.

‘Absolutely,' Kelso said. ‘Sources within our own Ministry of Defence, which is collaborating closely with the Americans, have confirmed that the boat in which they escaped has completely disappeared.'

‘Despite the massive sea search?' the reporter probed.

‘I'm afraid the Angels of Judgement have been one step ahead of Western intelligence all the way. It's a political embarrassment, not to mention a tragedy.'

‘A tragedy, indeed,' the BBC's studio anchorman said at the conclusion of the bulletin. ‘Robert Kelso, editor of
Dispatches
, ending that report by Douglas Kennedy.'

Girling climbed out of bed and walked to the kitchen. Outside, it was still dark. Inside, the flat was bloody cold. He had no sooner filled the kettle than the phone rang.

‘Tom?'

Sally Gordon-Jones of Channel 4 News was quick off the mark. He saw her from time to time in the circus of press conferences, interviews and briefings that went with the job. Although a general reporter, she quite often covered science and defence-related subjects.

Girling carried the phone over to the coffee pot and tipped a spoonful of powder into a cup.

‘I just heard
Dispatches
' piece about the hijackers on the radio,' she said. ‘Was that for real?'

‘Kelso's going to look pretty stupid if it's not.' He paused. ‘I'm joking, of course, Sally. Yes, it's for real.'

‘Humour at this hour,' she said in mock admiration. ‘Who filed the piece?'

The kettle wheezed dismally. Girling willed it to boil so he could take his coffee back to bed. ‘Stansell,' he said. ‘Out of Cairo.'

‘The great Stansell. It has impeccable credentials, then.'

‘Sally, I'm freezing my nuts off. Please get to the point.'

‘Well, we wanted Kelso in the studio to record a piece for tonight's news. But apparently he's not available.'

Naturally enough, Girling thought. Today was Kelso's big day with the board.

‘We were wondering if you'd mind substituting as the talking head, Tom.'

‘Why me?'

‘Kelso's office said you helped put the story together.'

He thought about it. ‘What do you want to talk about?'

‘We're getting a Middle East expert in to talk about the rise of independent terrorist groups like the Angels of Judgement. What we really need is some-one to explain how they were able to disappear into thin air. Technicalities being your forte, naturally I thought of you.'

‘Sally, like a good many people right now, I haven't got a clue.'

‘You must have some idea how they evaded all those US Navy radar planes. Speculate a little.'

‘OK. It's your money.'

‘Thanks, Tom. By the way, are you always this grouchy in the morning?'

‘Only when I'm standing half-naked in a cold kitchen unable to make my first cup of coffee because some strange woman is asking me to appear on TV.'

She laughed, then apologized. ‘I'll make it up to you one of these days.'

‘Don't tempt me.'

‘Promises, promises, Tom.'

They agreed a time and she rang off. Moments later, the kettle boiled. Girling wandered down the corridor, coffee in hand, and ran himself a bath.

As soon as the temperature was bearable, he lay back in the water and closed his eyes.

There had been a time when he thought he liked Sally a lot. They had had a few dinners together, but the one time she had returned with him to his apartment, the air between them thick with lust, she discovered Alia, sleeping blissfully under the watchful eyes of a babysitter, and fell promptly in love with his daughter instead. Sally's maternal feelings destroyed any prospect of sex. He was not prepared for a relationship which smacked of commitment. Girling found himself making excuses about the busy day ahead and Sally left. They had managed to remain friends since.

Later, when he questioned his feelings, he grasped the answer. It wasn't just that he was still in love with Mona. It was because his hatred for her killers would burn less brightly if he allowed anyone to get in its way.

The pain had returned in the night. His stomach ached even now from the memory of it. With the pain came the voice in his head, the plea - from a voice he did not recognize - for forgiveness. But his denials were so vehement that he had sat bolt upright in bed, terrified, his hand fumbling for the light switch.

He threw the flannel over his face and told himself he wasn't going insane.

He could not shake Alia's words from his mind. He had believed always that he had hidden his angst and grief from his daughter. But clearly he had failed.

He knew he had to confront the pain, if only for Alia's sake.
Dispatches
was no place to hide for the rest of his useful life.

Thoughts of work reminded him to call in. Kelso's secretary could tell her boss that he would be out for the morning; not that Kelso, his mind on loftier matters, would be that bothered.

He clambered out of the bath, dried himself and padded back to the kitchen.

Kelso's secretary sounded as if she, too, had not had her requisite intake of caffeine. She perked up a little when she realized that he would be appearing on TV that night and asked what it was in connection with. He explained how the laurels belonged to Stansell, not him.

‘What time did his call come in last night?' he asked.

‘There was no call,' she said, puzzlement in her voice. ‘Were you expecting one?'

‘Bob agreed not to run the story until he heard from Stansell. It was a condition.'

‘Oh, I wouldn't know anything about that,' she said defensively.

‘Maybe Stansell reached Bob at home,' Girling said, trying to rationalize what he had heard on the radio. Or maybe there was another explanation altogether. He brought his hand up to his head. ‘Holy shit, no...'

His notes.

‘I beg your pardon,' she said indignantly.

Girling never heard the voice on the other end of the phone. He had left his fucking notes in the office. Surely to God Kelso wouldn't have...

He managed to keep his voice steady. ‘Has Kelso gone to his meeting yet?'

Yes, she replied. And it would be in progress all day.

Girling tried to dismiss the notion while he dressed, but it clung to him like a bad odour.

Finally, he picked up the phone and dialled their office in Cairo. Egypt was three hours ahead, so Stansell should have read news of his story over the wire by now or maybe heard it on the BBC World Service. Girling tried to convince himself that had Stansell been in any way troubled he would have called.

It wasn't Stansell, but Sharifa who answered. Sharifa Fateem, Mona's best friend, now Stansell's editorial assistant. Stansell had hired her a few months before because he needed help and had come to know Sharifa after Mona's death. It suited both parties well. Sharifa had wanted for a long time to break into writing and Stansell justified the appointment to Kelso because he needed someone he could trust and rely upon. And there weren't that many people in Cairo you could say that about.

They chatted for a while, then Girling told her about his concerns.

She hadn't seen Stansell since the previous afternoon. He rarely checked in before lunch, but just to reassure him, she promised to phone him back at the office the moment he did or if she had any news.

‘We've isolated the leak and it has been dealt with,' Shabanov said. ‘The mission remains uncompromised, of that I assure you.' Jacobson tried to take it in his stride, but Ulm could see he was shocked. Shabanov had commenced the briefing by announcing that the Soviet Military Attache in Cairo had been caught supplying classified information about the Angels of Judgement to a British journalist. The story, naturally enough, had made the BBC's breakfast bulletins and had spread like wildfire through the US media.

‘I thought this information was with only a very small section of your intelligence community,' Ulm said. He tried to keep the animosity from his voice. The memory of Shabanov's treatment of the waitress lingered.

‘That is true, Elliot. But this man was one of those who had worked closely with General Aushev in the early days. But I reiterate: it cannot happen again. He has been flown back to Moscow, where he will be punished.

‘In some ways, this leak has played into our hands. Thanks to the media, the terrorists, along with the rest of the world, believe that they have managed to escape without trace. Only a handful of people out-side these walls know the true facts. Surprise remains on our side, for the Angels of Judgement will believe that we have no idea where their hiding place is.'

‘Let's hope you're right,' Jacobson said.

‘And that it stays that way,' Ulm added. ‘Which publication broke the news?'

‘
Dispatches
,' Jacobson said. ‘They've been sniffing around this story from the beginning. We stopped them over the F-15E business, but this one slipped through the net. It may be we should take action to prevent further compromise.' He jotted some notes onto a pad.

‘Whatever you've got in mind, the last place we need another security leak right now is in Cairo,' Ulm said. ‘Shabanov and I have decided that we're going to need Wadi Qena. Will TERCOM be able to fix access to Qena, Jacobson?'