Aggressor (16 page)

Jacobson's pencil scratched across the paper again. ‘Access will not be a problem. But why Qena?'

‘Because it's exactly right for our purposes.' Ulm pulled a large map of the Middle East from his attaché case and pinned it to the wall facing the table. ‘This plan will be familiar to anyone who worked on Rice Bowl. I don't make any apologies for that, because Rice Bowl was based on sound mission planning. It just got fucked up in the execution. We've learned a lot since 1980. This time, we're going to make the dice roll for us.'

His finger hovered over the Egyptian Desert for a moment, before landing on a point just north of a large bend in the River Nile, some three hundred miles south of Cairo. Wadi Qena had been the final staging post for Eagle Claw, the operational phase of Rice Bowl, itself the planning portion of the abortive rescue of their hostages in Tehran.

‘We spend around a week in training at Qena before we press the button.' Ulm slid his finger slowly northwards, until it reached the border of Southern Lebanon. ‘And by that I mean we fly a combat rescue team into the Sword's valley, knock out the Angels of Judgement and bring back our hostages.'

He would have liked it a whole lot better if the Pathfinders had been allowed to do it on their own. But that was impossible.

Ulm told Jacobson about Shabanov's idea to build a replica of the terrorist camp in the desert outside Qena to maximize the realism of their training. The mountains of Egypt's eastern desert were, apparently, similar to the terrain around the target. Mission security would not be jeopardized, because the area around Wadi Qena was deserted but for a handful of bedouin.

With approval, Ulm explained, he and his hand-picked team of Pathfinders would leave as soon as possible to reactivate Wadi Qena, which had been abandoned by the Egyptians for almost a decade. The team's equipment, including its helicopters, would arrive by C-5 Galaxy transport a day later.

‘Meanwhile, Shabanov returns to his unit at Ryazan and collects the assets he needs. He arrives at Qena by Antonov transport around the same time we get there. From then on, we train; and train hard. There's a lot of work to be done to get the Pathfinders and Spetsnaz to fight as a cohesive unit.'

Ulm outlined the method of getting the Soviets' giant An-124 transports into Egypt under cover of night without arousing undue curiosity. The Soviet aircraft would be fitted with USAF transponders and ‘squawk' on the same identification code as the C-5s, thereby fooling Egyptian radar operators into believing they were C-5s inbound from Europe. Keeping Cairo in the dark about Soviet participation was important for security reasons. There were to be no more leaks.

Both sides were to bring their own equipment, Ulm explained. Part of the training process would be given over to determining whose hardware would be best for the job. Both he and Shabanov had unshakeable faith in their own military machinery. It would be the men - and the harsh desert conditions - who would be the ultimate arbiters.

On the day of the mission, Shabanov would guide the helicopter force to the terrorist camp. In-flight refuelling would be required depending on which helicopters were used. The Pathfinders aimed to bring their Sikorsky MH-53J Pave Low Ills; the Soviets their new extended-range version of the Mil Hind, the Mi-24J.

‘My chief concern is that the Pathfinders won't know the target until the very last minute,' Ulm said. ‘I would appreciate it if you would work on General Aushev to release that information. It would certainly help in our mission planning if we were given more target data.'

‘I'll see what I can do,' Jacobson said. ‘Although I'm none too hopeful.' He turned to Shabanov. ‘Is there any influence you can exert in this matter back in Moscow, Colonel?'

Shabanov shrugged, a slight gesture. ‘These are not my orders,' he said. ‘In my opinion, there should be complete openness between us, but for some people, the build-up of trust takes time.'

They discussed the plan in greater depth until Jacobson seemed satisfied with the information he had. Then he picked up the phone and requested a car to take him to the White House. The National Security Council wanted this thing done quickly.

‘I suggest you make your preparations,' Jacobson said, getting to his feet. ‘I believe the NSC's approval will be a formality. There will be a full set of instructions for you in the jet that's waiting to take you back to Kirtland.' He paused. ‘God speed, gentlemen.'

Given the godless presence of Shabanov, Ulm couldn't help thinking that Jacobson was pissing in the wind.

Girling's desk phone was ringing its bells off when he stepped out of the lift and into the office. There was no one around to answer it. The emptiness puzzled him. It was too early in the week for news conferences. Maybe it had something to do with Kelso's board meeting. The thought of another round of redundancies gnawed at him as he lifted the receiver.

‘Girling,' he said sharply. He began riffling through the top drawer of his desk. The pad was still there, but-

‘It's Peter Jarrett here, Ministry of Defence.'

For a moment Girling had difficulty making the adjustment. What did the Ministry want? To give him a bollocking for the low-level flying story, no doubt. He knew there were several things in the piece the MOD wouldn't like.

‘You lodged a question with us earlier in the week,' Jarrett said.

Girling racked his brain, then remembered the 11-76 Candid at Machrihanish.

‘Well, I've got an answer for you, but I don't think you're going to like it.' He paused. ‘I'm afraid we're not prepared to comment on what you saw at Machrihanish, Tom.'

Girling was watching Mallon walking towards him. He had just left the conference room, alone. His face was ashen.

‘You're too late,' Girling said into the receiver, as if he were an automaton. ‘We closed for press last night.'

He dropped the phone onto its cradle just as Mallon was upon him.

Girling got to his feet. ‘It's not about redundancies, is it?'

‘No. Sit down, Tom.'

He saw the anxiety in Mallon's eyes, and suddenly knew what was coming.

‘I'm not going to do anything stupid, Kieran.' The calm in his voice surprised even him. ‘It's about Stansell, isn't it?'

Mallon nodded and the words tumbled out.

‘Jack Carey got a call from Sharifa, and we just had it confirmed by the Foreign Office. The Egyptian police found the front door of his apartment hanging off its hinges. There was no sign of Stansell inside, just a hand-written note. In Arabic.'

‘What did it say?'

‘That he's gone. Snatched in reprisal for our story.'

‘Who by, for Christ's sake?'

‘The Angels of Judgement.'

Girling swallowed hard. ‘I don't believe it. Kelso... What the fuck did he think he was doing?'

Girling's hand fumbled for the chair. He felt a stab of pain, but he found it and held on.

‘Was there any indication he'd been hurt?'

‘I don't know. The details are still very sketchy.' He paused. ‘The Egyptian police believe this may be a local incident. Some Cairo-based outfit getting on the bandwagon. They're very confident of finding him alive. You've got to have hope.'

‘I'm not big on hope, Kieran,' Girling said.

‘The embassy said the Egyptians are taking it seriously enough,' Mallon said, trying to sound upbeat. ‘They've put their best men onto it. No ordinary outfit, either. Our embassy spoke very highly of them.'

‘Oh, Jesus. The Mukhabarat, Egyptian internal security police. They're the outfit who investigated Mona's death. They more or less told me I'd imagined what happened to us in Asyut. A promise from them means about as much as a promise from Kelso.'

Mallon searched Girling's face. ‘What do you mean?'

Girling told him. ‘Kelso wanted his exclusive that badly. Jesus, he and Stansell go way back, yet he just sold him down the river.'

‘Steady, Tom.'

Girling waved him aside. ‘Our illustrious editor was so wrapped up in his precious magazine that he was prepared to betray a friend and colleague just like that. What the fuck have I done?'

‘For Christ's sake, Tom, this is not your fault.'

Girling shook his head. ‘I should have watched Kelso. I should have known better than to leave him alone with a story like that.'

‘Do you think this was why Stansell asked you to hold back? Did he know the Angels of Judgement would come to get him?'

‘Whether he's been taken by the Angels of Judgement or local nutters, he's dead either way. The only group in Cairo with the will to strike at someone like Stansell is the Muslim Brotherhood.'

Girling held his stomach as the pain bit deep. Mallon saw him stagger and moved round the desk. Girling clutched him by the lapels for support.

‘Oh God, it hurts,' he said looking into Mallon's eyes. ‘They say lightning never strikes twice. But look what happened to me.'

Mallon got Girling into his chair.

‘Have you got any of that whisky left? I can't let the rest of them see me like this.'

‘Don't you think they'll understand?'

‘Please, Kieran.'

Mallon scrambled over to his desk, pulled the bottle of Bushmill's from a drawer and handed it to Girling.

Five minutes later, the bottle half-empty beside him, Girling had beaten the pain. And yet his mind, turning over sluggishly after the onslaught, told him that this was not the answer.

Girling put his hand on Mallon's shoulder and pulled himself to his feet. In the far corner the rest of the staff had begun to file back into the newsroom.

‘Thanks, Kieran. You're a pal.'

He had to go back, not just for Stansell. He had to go back for Alia. For Mona. He had to go back for himself.

He headed for the lift.

‘Where are you going?' Mallon shouted after him.

The lift arrived and Girling stepped inside. ‘To a board meeting,' he said, just before the doors closed.

He never bothered to knock on the door that led to the office managed by Lord Kyle's secretary. The personal assistant to the proprietor stammered as Girling breezed past her.

‘Excuse me, you can't go in there. There's a planning session in progress. You'll have to wait. Mr -?'

But Girling swept on.

He threw open the door, pausing for only a moment to absorb the scene before his eyes. Lord Kyle, owner of the world's second-largest publishing empire, gaped at the intruder who stood framed in the doorway. Either side of the proprietor's seat at the large conference table, two other main board directors whom Girling recognized, but whose names he'd forgotten, looked on in amazement. The heads of senior publishing executives ranged along the nearest side of the table twisted in their sumptuous chairs to look at the intruder. Behind him, Girling was aware of the fussing secretary, who was trying to get past to blurt her apologies.

Girling surveyed the faces. Then he found the one that had brought him there.

As he strode towards Kelso, whose face seemed to redden with every pace that he took, Girling was aware of the cacophony breaking out around him.

Lord Kyle demanded an explanation, while the secretary bleated for her master's absolution.

With the din at its height, Girling leant over and whispered in Kelso's ear. ‘I'm going to make a short announcement here, after which you are going to follow me very quietly from this room so we can talk. Just the two of us.'

‘This is outrageous, Tom. That's Lord Kyle over there.'

‘Bob, I'm sure the noble lord will be fascinated to hear me brand you a murderer in front of all his friends here. It's a statement I am fully prepared to justify, unless you decide to come with me.'

‘I haven't the first idea what you're talking about,' Kelso blustered.

‘You will.'

Girling turned to the assembled company.

‘Gentlemen, our scoop has caused such a stir that I'm afraid Mr Kelso's presence is badly needed downstairs. A small administrative matter.'

He leaned over and whispered again. ‘Now step outside.'

Girling saw the resignation on Kelso's face as he struggled to his feet, mumbling apologies to the board. Girling held Kelso firmly by the arm and frog marched him along the corridor and into the toilets reserved for the board.

Kelso could contain his rage no longer. ‘I'll have your hide for this. I have never been so humiliated in my entire life. You barge in like you own the place, smelling like a fucking tramp...'

‘That's because I've been drinking.'

‘What on earth is wrong with you? What was all that crap back there?'

‘Stansell's been kidnapped.'

‘What?'

‘He's been kidnapped, because you decided to have your exclusive, whatever the cost. He's been taken by our old friends the Angels of Judgement, or someone operating in their name.'

‘I don't believe you.'

‘It's true. And you as good as pointed the finger.'

‘Look, there must have been some misunderstanding - '

‘Bullshit! I know about the notepad. You knew full well what you were doing.' Girling jabbed a finger in the direction of the board room.

‘What am I going to tell them? They've just voted
Dispatches
another five million.'

‘Here's how you're going to start spending it. You're going to send me to Cairo. Make me Middle East bureau chief in Stansell's absence.'

‘You must be mad. Egypt was the reason you gave up reporting.'

‘I'm not going there to report for you.' Girling looked at him levelly. ‘I'm going there to find Stansell.'

‘You? What can you do that the police can't?'

‘You just don't understand, do you? You're so busy currying favour with your friends down the corridor that you've lost touch with the real world. The reality is that the Angels of Judgement have killed over a hundred people inside a week. And to compound an already dismal situation, the outfit that has been tasked with finding Stansell is just about the most corrupt and incompetent collection of policemen that ever walked this planet. Why do you think they've asked for news of Stansell's kidnapping to be suppressed? Because it helps his case?' He shook his head. ‘It's because they know they haven't a hope in hell of finding him. By keeping the lid on news, of his abduction, they minimize their incompetent efforts at finding him. I know, because as you correctly pointed out the other day, I am close to this story - maybe too close. I've been through it before.'