THE SAS'S EUROCOPTER Dauphin was indeed dolphin-like in shape, except in place of the dorsal fin sat a bulbous hump from which the four main blades sprouted. The agents had not spoken a word during the fifty minute journey from RAF Northolt. It was just as well the helicopter had cut more than two hours off the time it would have taken to drive.
Wilson had been glad of the peace that their silence provided, taking the opportunity to stare into the darkness of night and trickle charge his failing batteries. This assignment had been the toughest he could remember in his seventeen years with Earthguard. He was no longer the energetic and hardened soul who joined the anti-terrorist organisation at the age of thirty. But then he was hardly the man of even four months ago. It was a good change.
He glanced over to his partner and boss who keenly eyed the pilot's use of the vast array of controls. The man virtually hummed with energy. Never before had their thirteen year age gap seemed as obvious as it did at that moment.
Wilson had clearly lost Johnson's trust. But it didn't matter anymore. After this assignment, if they still had jobs, Wilson would request a new partner. After that he would request a leave of absence and spend every day of it with his daughter, Kate. She was stubborn but he could be worse. He would refuse to meet her rent payments any longer unless she went to church every day with him. Kate would have no choice and from there it would be a small step to enter into the church's family counselling program.
It comforted him to think that Julie was in a peaceful place. She had been a good woman and deserved better from him. He could make it up to her by rescuing their daughter and sharing Julie's faith that he and Kate had ridiculed. He didn't know why it all made such sense suddenly, but he knew it was all thanks to Savannah. By trying to help him without an ulterior motive, she had shown him the light. Kate was going to have a fit, but they'd get through it together.
Wilson looked down to see the lights of the helipad on the south side of RHQ Credenhill SAS barracks as they neared their landing. The surrounding unspoiled countryside was bathed in the light of an almost full moon and seemed an unlikely setting for the small band of specialist armed forces. There had been a time when he was younger, in his late teens, when such a vista would have lifted his spirits and revitalised his resolve, but not anymore, and certainly not tonight. There was too much to get through before he could appreciate the future beyond this assignment. He had hope now, but there was a way to go before hope translated into reality.
The rest of the looming site consisted of nine large, uniform, rectangular barracks adjacent to the helipad, mostly unoccupied empty fields in the centre of the site and some twenty odd further buildings to the North which included the 'H' shaped head office where they would carry out their interviews.
This was the agent's first visit to the home of the 22nd Regiment since it moved from Hereford in May 1999. As they disembarked from the sleek-lined helicopter, Wilson was once again amazed by the lack of substantial noise from the engine and blades. This smooth and stealthy bird, capable of speeds of almost 200 miles per hour, would have looked more at home on top of a corporate skyscraper than here at the headquarters of the most elite regiment of soldiers in the world. Like the peaceful countryside harboured men trained in the art of killing, so the friendly dolphin shape hid its deadly capabilities.
A cold wind had picked up and the air was damp with imminent rain. Savannah might laugh at their antiquated-style coats, but they kept the cold at bay. What he'd have given to have been blessed with a daughter like her. But girls like Savannah were one in a million and came with losers for fathers. Nature was messed up.
A staff car met the agents on the helipad, and they were greeted with great formality and zero courtesy. Their visit was not a welcome one. Even less was known publicly about Earthguard than the SAS, and when orders were issued from the very top of government to provide full disclosure to international outsiders, it didn't go down well at Credenhill. Wilson had seen it all before. Every security agency and special fighting unit in the world believed that they had earned special treatment. It went with the territory.
Four minutes and three ninety-degree turns later, Johnson and Wilson were inside the expansive head office building. Their escort departed with a salute, leaving them with the squadron leader outside his office door. Major Harris greeted the agents with a single nod, about faced and re-entered his office. The uniformed man was a couple of inches shorter than Johnson and had most of the typical army-ingrained traits: slim but solid, stiff as a board, unnaturally upright, permanently aggressive expression and not at all pleased to see them.
"I'd say welcome to you both but you'd know I was lying," Major Harris said, sitting behind his black metal desk which was clear but for a flat computer screen and wireless keyboard. A framed picture of a younger Harris meeting the Queen and Prince Philip hung behind the officer, telling Wilson that it was for the benefit of visitors rather than his own enjoyment. Wilson looked behind to see what, if anything, the Major stared at for inspiration when he wasn't planning rescue missions or assaults deep into enemy territory. The wall was bare, which probably said more about the man than any piece of art or photograph could.
Strangely, the Major's stiffness appeared to ease somewhat as he sat back in his chair, as though he felt more in control behind the desk. Maybe he had a gun pointed at them from under it? Nothing in this job surprised Wilson anymore. The open hostility was not new ground for the agents. As protocol dictated, Johnson spoke first, toning down his crass American accent for once.
"We appreciate your discomfort at our invasion into your privacy, Major. We will endeavour to make this whole process as quick and as unobtrusive as possible."
The Major rubbed his chin, his small predator-like eyes analysing Johnson from head to toe. He made no offer of a place for the agents to sit. "You're Johnson, the American, aren't you?" It was rhetorical and Johnson, as was typical, showed no reaction.
Johnson indicated to his partner with his right hand. "This is Agent Max Wilson. He will be interviewing you while I start on the list of those that worked or socialised most closely with our man. How many are we looking at?"
Wilson was shocked. He couldn't believe that Johnson would let him interview the Major. It was completely outside of protocol. Johnson must be feeling the pressure. This was a blatant disregard for Earthguard procedure. Did he still trust him? What was his agenda?
"I was led to believe that you, as senior agent, would be interviewing me," Major Harris said, leaning forward in his chair, stiffness returning to his body.
"And why was that?"
"Because I talked to your controller less than three hours ago."
Johnson's face hid the surprise well, but his words were less successful. "You spoke with our Controller?"
"Yes, that surprises you, doesn't it?" Harris said, sitting back again. "Would it also surprise you that I know him by name?"
It did surprise Johnson, which was a rare event indeed. It wasn't his face, which was as inscrutable as ever, but the lack of his partner's immediate response that told Wilson he was just as taken aback as he was. Neither partner had access to the identity of their controller, knowing him only by a number. In fact, given that their only voice contact was electronically disguised, they couldn't be certain that it was a man at all.
"If you have spoken to our controller, then I'm sure he has informed you that how I operate is dependent upon how I see the circumstances. It is clear to me, Major Harris, that you have an issue with my heritage, and therefore I believe that matters would be expedited if you were interviewed by a fellow countryman."
There was no argument over protocol or procedure. This was little more than a pissing contest. Playing the racist card was genius but so unlike Johnson. Earlier he'd been treating John Smith like a son in need of fatherly direction and now this. What was he playing at? Perhaps this assignment had been getting to Johnson too. He just didn't show any physical signs.
"If you have access to our controller, we can leave the room while you talk to him," continued Johnson. "I'm sure that he'll confirm that what I say is true."
Johnson was calling the Major's bluff.
The Major grumbled something into his hand.
"I'm sorry, Major. I didn't quite catch that," Johnson said, taking a step forward, giving his stream of piss a couple of extra feet.
The Major sat upright, banged his fists down hard on the desk, which undulated under the force, and snarled with his best battle face. It was a look that would have buckled a civilian's knees.
"You Yanks think you can take over anything. Well, let me tell you this. If you put one foot out of line or upset one of my men during your stay, I will personally shoot you in the head, put you over my shoulder, throw you back in the chopper, fly over the Bristol Channel and dump you."
Johnson remained calm. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that," he said. "If we start now, we can get this wrapped up before morning. May we proceed?"
Major Harris waved his hand in agreement, wiping spittle from the corners of his mouth with a white handkerchief. Wilson thought he might as well have waved it in the air.
*
Johnson departed to a nearby meeting room with a list of five names and an internal phone number to get things started. Harris let Wilson know what he really thought of his boss.
"Thinks he's tough does he? Bloody Yanks, they're all talk and no action or all action and no brains."
The Major was starting to grow on Wilson. He told it like it was, or at least how he saw it. Too many people in positions of authority communicated between the lines these days, allowing ambiguity to cloud a straightforward message. It was a survival mechanism which permitted deniability after the message was badly received. With Major Harris, you couldn't squeeze an ant's privates between the lines of his communication. It was refreshing.
Wilson was getting fed up of standing. He looked around the office for signs of available chairs. There was only one grey plastic chair in the sizeable office. It wouldn't have surprised the agent if Harris had removed the comfortable chairs before they arrived.
He gestured to the lonely seat in the corner of the room. "May I?" he said.
"Yes, pull it up." He pointed to a row of coat hooks to the left of the door. "You can hang your coat up there."
"I'm good, thanks."
"Suit yourself."
Wilson picked up the chair by its back and carried it to the desk. As he positioned the chair to face the Major, a gust of wind rattled against the window to the right of the Major's desk sending leaves and rain against the pane. Wilson looked out of the window into the adjoining car park where the only activity was the howling of wind as it propelled leaves from place to place and bent tree branches into near submission.
"Some night," Wilson commented, sitting down and pulling a pen and pad from inside his pocket. "Are we going to be able to fly out of here later?"
"The Eurocopter Dauphin flies in just about anything." The Major raised his eyebrows as Wilson jotted the date at the top of his pad. "I thought you Earthguard lot didn't believe in evidence?"
"I haven't slept in two days and my mind is shot. I'll take my chances." Wilson wriggled in his chair but failed to find a comfortable position. "So what can you tell me about Fisher?"
The Major's hand returned to his chin, which he massaged between thumb and forefinger as he regarded the agent through narrowed eyes. "Personally, very little. I know that he didn't fit in well at first, and he's one of the toughest soldiers we've ever put together, but that's about it."
"Any disciplinary issues?"
"Nothing official, but a lunatic in the general population can appear completely sane here. We take a man's destructive nature and give it direction. From what I hear, Fisher arrived with a mean streak longer than the Amazon."
"Anything documented?"
"No. You might get more from the other guys. Discipline tends to be instant here. Problem candidates are weeded out at the training stage and RTU'd. That's returned to unit to you civilians."
"I remember," Wilson said, immediately regretting the comment and moving on quickly. "Any problems with the other soldiers?"
Major Harris stroked his imaginary beard with real purpose as he scrutinised the Earthguard agent. Wilson realised that he'd messed up and the squadron leader was not about to let him off the hook.
"You failed the training?"
"No, I meant that I remembered the term RTU from when I visited the old barracks at Hereford, before you moved here. One of the guys from 'B' squadron was communicating with a known terrorist."
"Either you tell me, or I ask your pillock of a partner."
Wilson was back pedaling fast. "It won't do you any good," he said. "We each know nothing of the other's past employment. There is nothing he can tell you."
"I can check our records."
"Records of past employment are expunged. Our names are changed, our histories deleted, and it's like we don't exist."
Harris tapped the forefingers of both hands onto the metal surface of his desk as he pondered his next question carefully. "So you won't admit to having taken our training program?"
Wilson didn't move a muscle. This conversation was going nowhere and Johnson would not be best pleased if he left the Major's office empty handed. He couldn't risk Johnson making him the scapegoat in order to keep his own position. If only he didn't feel so damn tired.
Even though he hadn't admitted to anything, he knew if Harris mentioned the conversation to Johnson or their controller he would be put out to pasture with immediate effect. It was one thing to divulge history to Johnson, but to give details to another organisation would not be tolerated. Wilson was wealthy, the pay had always been excellent and the retirement package plentiful. Why not? He was on his way to being a new man. It was a calculated risk, and the way his mind and body begged for rest or even the luxury of a comfortable chair, retirement didn't seem like such a scary thought. Perhaps he could use the situation to his advantage.
"This goes no further than this office, agreed?"
The Major broke out in a big smile and threw himself back in his chair. "I knew it. You've got that look about you." He sat back up, elbows on the desk, hands clasped together. "Good God man, you were one of us. They could put my balls in a vice, and I wouldn't say a single word."
The thought wasn't a pretty one, but the straight-talking Major knew how to embellish a promise, and Wilson believed him. "Joined at twenty-one, and like most, I came from the Paras. Left at thirty when Earthguard made me an offer I couldn't refuse. Not much else to say."
"If Earthguard head-hunted you, then I guess it's safe to say that you saw some serious action. Am I right?"
It all seemed like a lifetime ago. "To be honest, not much until Desert Storm in ninety-one. Seemed I had a talent for thinking on my feet, and after I got back they contacted me and asked me to join. Earthguard was barely a year old at the time and I wasn't fully sure of their purpose or reach. Over time I realised that it wasn't that different to being in the SAS, except that my actions would be solely for the benefit of the UK. Fortunately for me, they kept in touch and after two years, like I said..."
"They made you an offer you couldn't refuse," Harris finished.
"Exactly."
"Somehow I get the impression that you're being modest, Soldier. But I won't press you any further, and you have my word that this won't go any further."
From that moment on the Major was cheerfully answering every question that Wilson threw at him, occasionally interjecting his own memory of battles won, lives saved and near-death experiences. At one point the Major pulled out a bottle of single malt Scotch whisky and two plastic beakers which Wilson politely declined, not out of protocol but for the effect it would have on his already-exhausted mind.
"So the only problem occurred when the rumour of cutbacks became widespread?"
The Major shook his head, looking down at his hands. The wind howled outside as if to introduce the telling of a spooky story. "Fisher apparently had his whole life worked out. He was going to stay in the squadron until he was forty-five and then emigrate with his sister, Sasha, to Australia."
Wilson stopped scribbling in his note pad and looked up. "Sister? We never saw anything on file about a sister."
"It's not a nice family history. Both mother and father were registered drug addicts, living in a council flat in Norwich. Fisher's father beat his mother and sexually abused both him and his sister."
"How old were they?"
"It's not certain when it started, but his sister is two years older than him and was sixteen when she became pregnant."
"By the father?"
"Yes. Eventually she was removed by the local authority after it was proved that her pregnancy was incestuous. Sasha Fisher was given a new identity and relocated to York after the foetus was aborted. By all accounts, the abuse of Gregory Fisher continued until he was sixteen when one drug-addled evening his father beat his mother to death with his bare hands and then stuck his head in a gas oven."
Domestic violence was no different from terrorism. It boiled down to anger and disappointment in yourself, or more usually, others. Both ended in needless destruction of lives and, left to fester in a warped mind, often resulted in the loss of innocent lives. Wilson was well aware that his view was simplistic and that there were so many other factors to consider, but in his profession there was no time for convoluted discussion: you killed someone or you didn't - there was no time for a chat.
While he worked solely in the terrorism business, he despised the perpetrators of violence against women and children every bit as much. Fisher's life had been tainted by his childhood, yet he had still carved out an envious career in the SAS, got his life together and put the past behind him. He couldn't be disappointed in himself, so who was he mad at?
"So the list you gave to Johnson, there's no one else?"
"Not to my knowledge."
"What did he do with his spare time, go and visit his sister?"
"No idea. He was a very private person by all accounts. I've spoken to a couple of the men on the list, and all I discovered was that he wasn't one for a night out with the lads, and wherever he went, he never talked about it."
"Can you tell me about the incident?"
"You mean the stolen papers?"
"Yes, do you know what they were?"
"No, well above my pay grade, so I'm told. I know Fisher was looking for confirmation of the cutbacks and whether he would be affected. The Major General has an office here, and as most of his work is done in Whitehall, there was no reason to suspect that anything of great importance was held in there."
"But there was?"
"I'm told that highly classified papers were taken. The MG didn't notice until after Fisher had been released back into Civvie Street."
"When were the papers taken?" Wilson asked.
"We don't know exactly. All we know is that when the MG visited two weeks ago, the shit hit the fan. The documents were placed in the cabinet seven weeks ago and Fisher was discharged five weeks ago, giving him a two week window of opportunity."
"Johnson said you told him over the phone it was a DNA match?"
"Yes, our investigators found a single hair and matched it to our personal DNA database."
"The one the men don't know about?"
"Exactly. Doesn't your agency do the same?"
"That one's above my pay grade, but it wouldn't surprise me." The thought of Earthguard filing away his DNA records didn't bother Wilson. "Did you try and track him down?"
"We notified the police that we were looking for him, and we checked out the address we had for him. Turned out that he'd sold his house in Hereford and was nowhere to be found."
"Did you try his sister?"
"I contacted her, but she said that she hadn't seen him in six months, and the last time she had spoken with him was while he was still enrolled with us."
"Did you believe her?"
"I had no reason not to, but I'm no investigator. It might be worthwhile you paying her a visit. I'll have someone make you a copy of our file which will give you her details along with other addresses and numbers that were checked out."
"I appreciate it," said Wilson, meaning it. He knew that this was most definitely not standard procedure. "Tell me, Major Harris, have you any idea what this guy is up to?"
The Major rubbed his chin against the back of his hand, keeping his eyes on Wilson as he pondered the question. "If I had to guess, then I'd say he wants payback for losing his living five years early. How he plans to do that, I have no idea."
"I thought you'd say that. Do you sympathise?"
"Off the record?"
"I don't keep records and this goes no further."
"The idiots at Whitehall deserve a good kick up the arse. They take some of our most experienced men and throw them on the scrap heap without a single thought how that might damage our ability to deal with the growing number of terrorist threats. It's insanity."
"Please answer the question."
"Provided he directs his anger at them, and not here, then good luck to him."
"Even if he takes innocent lives?"
The Major shot forward stretching his body across his desk. Instinctively, Wilson's hand reached inside his jacket for his gun. "Jesus, Wilson. What the hell has Fisher got hold of that makes him so dangerous?"
Wilson returned his hand to the pad on his knee, heart pumping fast but expression unchanged. "Nothing yet. Is there anywhere I can make a private call?"
*
The air was turbulent and buffeted the Eurocopter Dauphin from all sides. Sheets of water crashed into the windows like waves against a boat, and it seemed at times like they were not airborne but afloat on a choppy sea. Johnson kept his eyes on the pilot. Only a sign of nervousness on his part was the signal to begin explaining matters to God. He wouldn't make a deal that he couldn't keep in exchange for survival, but he might let God know why he had done the things he had done. It would be a last ditch attempt to sway the decision as to where he would spend the rest of eternity. Johnson was not a believer, but he knew how to hedge his bets - he wasn't stupid.
Johnson put on the supplied headphones to dull the storm's noise and focussed his thoughts on the recent interviews. It was better than trying to talk to Wilson, who would have got nothing out of the Major.
In the fifty minutes it had taken Wilson to interview the Major, Johnson had laid into five of Fisher's closest cohorts. They were tough, battle-hardened cookies all right, but their minds were no match for his. One every ten minutes - he was pretty impressed with himself. The cold hard truth was that nobody here knew Fisher that well and, other than his love of his sister and the hate he harboured for the bureaucrats who axed him, he had learnt nothing.
Nobody seemed to bother Fisher, and Fisher didn't bother anybody else. True, these were fiercely loyal men who closed ranks when one of their own was threatened, but it was clear in each interview that they didn't see Fisher as part of their club. He was too introverted, too different. He was trusted when out in the field where he excelled at explosives and hand to hand combat. But he was quiet and odd, and no matter where you worked, in an office or in the middle of Afghanistan, odd did not include you in the ring of loyalty.
As they opened the helicopter doors moments after touching down at RAF Northolt, the cold air greeted Johnson. It was uncannily nippy for late September, but at least the rain had passed and the wind had lost its ferocity. He paced away from the downward air of the blades and waited for Wilson to catch up. The older man didn't look so good.
"Some flight eh?" Johnson said, turning up his thick coat's collar.
Wilson didn't say a word, his face pale and drawn.
"We've been up in worse, Max. Is it something the Major said?"
Wilson walked past his boss with a file under his arm, heading towards the rental car they had arrived in. The VIP car park, used mostly by high-flying military types, was right next to the airfield. The pea green Ford Mondeo sat alone in the unlit area, its colour revealing itself beneath the moonlight. It was no Mercedes, but it was virtually new, and it would do until their new one arrived. John Smith was sharp. He had known Wilson for a couple of days and spotted that the man was steadily unravelling. Johnson caught up with his partner at the Mondeo.
"If you're gonna puke then make sure it's on the outside of the car where no one will notice."
The rare joke from the tall agent didn't have the desired effect. Johnson thumbed the key which released the door locks and lit up the interior. "Get in. We'll talk about it on the way to the hotel. We've got a busy day ahead, and we need to grab a few hours' sleep."
Without further discussion, both men got in the vehicle. Johnson started the engine and turned to his partner.
"Something I should know?"
Wilson snapped his seatbelt into position, faced Johnson and shrugged his shoulders. "Fisher's pissed off at losing his job. If he goes after Whitehall, what do we care?"
"Can you hear yourself?"
His partner shrugged again. "What?"
"It's our job to protect people from terrorists. Do you think letting some disgruntled soldier steal a nuclear-powered weapon and exact revenge is doing our job?"
"Maybe there are higher powers at work?"
Johnson reversed the Mondeo, wheels screeching, mirroring the stress his face refused to accommodate. He wasn't sure how much more of Wilson he could take.
"Your job is to protect Smith and Jones and take down Fisher. If you're not up to it, then tell me now and I'll find someone else in the private sector to protect your precious Savannah."
"I'm good," Wilson said.
"I thought so." Johnson shook his head. He doubted very much that Wilson was good. He wondered if their controller would sanction Wilson's demise or whether he'd have to carry out his first unauthorised kill.
*
Back at the prestigious hotel, Wilson sat on his bed and opened the folder on Fisher. Put it away, he told himself. Lie down and go to sleep. But a stronger voice was guiding him. He shuffled through papers until he found what he was looking for. There was still time to change his mind. He held the page and stared at it, caught between conflicting loyalties for the first time in his career.
There was no such thing as coincidence. There was no change there. He had always believed that. Too many signs were rearing their heads today for it to mean anything but a divine hand at work. He understood and wished he could have believed when Julie was alive. He had a chance to make a difference by doing the work of God. Picking up the hotel phone, he obtained an outside line and dialled. A tired voice answered on the seventh ring.
"Yes?"
Last chance, Wilson, last chance. He cleared his throat.
"Sasha Fisher?"
"Yes."
"I have a message for your brother. Get a pen."