Crisis Four Part 14

A light came on on the second floor. No visible movement.

A few seconds later a toilet flushed. At least there was movement inside, unless the flush was electronic and on some sort of security timer to operate every hour with the lights. I hardly thought so; in another place, yes, but not here.

I started to cast around to find somewhere to dig in before first light. I found one possible site--a bush set back a little from the tree line. It came up to about chest height and was four feet or so wide, with other, smaller bushes around it. It looked ideal, but first I'd have to check I could see the target while I was lying down in it. Anyone who has ever done OPs has horror stories of digging in under cover of darkness, only to find at first light that all they can see is mud. I got to the bush, taking care not to disturb any of the foliage, then lay down right in front and checked. I could see only the top floor, and that was no good to me.

I moved farther up the hill. The tree line curved right, bringing me no more than twenty meters from the target, which I didn't really want. I'd be Aable to hear snoring at that distance, but I also stood a good chance of being heard myself. I moved back down the hill, toward the lake.

There was one other bush, about thirty meters from the house, but this one was only about waist height. Again it was about four feet wide, but the foliage didn't seem as dense as the other one. I was running out of choices. I lay down level to where the aperture would be, and found I could see the whole shebang all three floors, the garage, the side door from the garage and the lake. I could also see the distant lights from the campsite, so I knew that in daylight I'd be able to see movement in the car park. It looked like this was going to be the one.

I got behind the bush, out of sight from the house. So far, so good. The next thing was to check that there was a mobile-phone signal. If I saw her, London would need to know. Without the mobile phone I'd have to lie concealed all day, leave at last light, and either get to a location with a decent signal or find a public call box, which would not only mean a possible compromise, but also loss of eyes on target.

I switched on the Bosch, put my hand over the backlit display and waited. I gave it a minute, keeping my eyes on the house. The toilet light had gone out now, but the first-floor one was still on. I made a tunnel over the display with my hand, pressed one of the b.u.t.tons and the backlight came on again. The display showed that I had three signal bars out of a maximum four, and that was good enough for me. I turned it off again.

I sat there for another five minutes, tuning in. Somebody crossed behind the gap in the curtain. I couldn't tell if they were male or female.

The temperature had dropped a few degrees and it was starting to feel a little bit nippy now that I'd stopped moving. Not freezing, but it felt cold where sweat had trickled down my spine and where the hair on my head was wet around the edges. My jeans were still damp and felt uncomfortable, but they would dry. I stood up slowly, feeling wet clothing make contact with skin. I turned and started to move in a line directly away from the house, and as soon as I found myself in a decent dip of dead ground, I changed direction and headed straight down to the lake.

I retrieved the bergen and bow, checked that everything was done up, and carefully ran my hand around on the ground to make sure I hadn't left anything. Then I retraced my route to the OP. By now it was just before f 1^ U t 1TI 1; 1^ M U midnight, which left me plenty of time. First light wasn't until about five o'clock in the morning.

I dropped the bergen directly behind the bush. Nothing and no one goes forward of an OP from this point on, because that's what the enemy can see.

I opened the side pocket and pulled out the pruning shears and string, hunkered down at the rear of the bush and started to cut. I felt like James pruning his roses. What I was trying to do was make a hole in the bush, as small as possible, but through which I could crawl. It's pointless just pus.h.i.+ng a bush apart and charging inside; you'll distort the shape, make noise getting in and, once inside, make yet more noise and movement, because the bush is pressing on you. If you're going to do it, do it properly. As the first branches were cut, I tied them together with one end of the string, like a bunch of flowers. I ran out a spare couple of meters of string, cut it and put the bundle to one side.

There was no need for my nice yellow gloves after all, because it wasn't a p.r.i.c.kly bush. But I was still glad I'd brought them. I'd never believed in being macho about building hides with my bare hands. Why scratch or cut yourself when even a minor injury can slow you down? If you've got a pair of gloves and you need them, use them. The object is to get into the bush, not to show how hard you are.

I was still mincing away, making progress into the bush, cutting slowly and deliberately so as to reduce noise and not f.u.c.k up. I didn't need to create too big a s.p.a.ce; all I wanted was to be able to crawl inside, get up to the front of the bush, make an aperture and observe the target. I was edging my way in, pruning it piece by piece. Anything that could just be moved out of the way and not cut, I would leave, sometimes using string to hold it back; it all added to the density of foliage around me.

It Utook the best part of an hour to tunnel my way in, and I had about six inches of movement area around me and about a foot of bush in front.

Now it was a matter of rigging up the rest of the OP.

I wriggled back out, unloaded some stuff from the bergen and pushed them into the hide. First out was the digital camera, with its small tripod and cable release. I crawled inside and rigged it up.

Next was the hunter's individual camouflage net that I'd got at Wars R Us. I got on my back, put the camouflage over the front of my chest, and tthen started to shuffle into the hide. Once in, I pushed the net gently against the bush so it snagged, tying it with string where necessary. By the time I'd finished I had created a snug little tunnel. The aim of the cam net was to give the bush more density; without it, if direct sunlight came into the bush the gap would be glaringly evident. If I hadn't found a cam net, a dark green blanket would have done just as well.

The most annoying thing about building an OP at night is that you can't check it, so it's all down to practice and experience. After my check at first light, I wouldn't be able to move from the hide, and if it hadn't been done right, there wouldn't be a second chance. I'd been doing this s.h.i.+t since 1976 when I first joined the infantry, so I'd got it down to a fine art by now. All you've got to do is have patience and know the techniques and have the apt.i.tude to lie there for days, sometimes weeks, on end, just waiting for five seconds of exposure of a target. Some people defined this apt.i.tude as self-discipline; me, I saw it as being just too idle to do anything else.

lery slowly and deliberately, trying not to take labored breaths and i make noise, I started to lift the rest of the stuff I'd be needing out of the bergen. I would normally keep everything there, but being so close to the target, I wanted to cut down movement. I placed the pizzas and the rest of the food into the side of the bush and covered them with the sandy soil to try and hide the smell from animals and insects, and to prevent the plastic wrap from reflecting s.h.i.+ne--not that there was likely to be too much of that tomorrow if this weather continued. The phone, the 3C, the pa.s.sport and any other essentials would go in my pockets if I had to run; it was just like being a soldier again and keeping belt kit on. Finally, I pushed the bergen inside the OP.

I carefully put on the Gore-Tex, then got on my knees and felt around on the ground with my hands, both to check there was nothing left lying exposed, and to smooth out any sign I had made. The final check was that my pockets were done up and the kit was secure inside them. Only then did I crawl into the hide, and start pulling in behind me the bouquet of branches that made up the bung. I was now sealed in.

For two or three minutes I lay still, listening and tuning in to my new surroundings. There was no noise from either of the houses, and the light was off in the target house; all I could hear was the lapping of water. The turtles seemed to have gone to bed. I waited for another couple of minutes, and then it was time to sort myself out, to make sure everything was in place, and make minor adjustments. Moving more stones and damp sand from under me, I built it up around my sides, slowly digging a shallow grave to conceal myself even more. Once past the first couple of wet inches, the ground was quite easy to move.

I got my wrist in front of my face and had a look at Baby-G. It was just after 2 a.m." which meant I had about three hours until first light. Whenever there's a lull in the battle, you should eat or sleep, because you never know when you'll next have a chance for either. I decided to get my head down; the light would wake me up, and so would any movement. After all, I could hear them flush the toilet from here; if I was any closer I'd be able to wipe their a.s.ses for them.

I lay on my front and closed my eyes, but it wasn't working. The only stone I hadn't moved seemed to be against my hip. I s.h.i.+fted it, only for another one to rise to the surface and replace it. I got reasonably snug inside the Gore-Tex, which was acting as a kind of sleeping bag, but the ground at this time of the morning feels like ice and you find yourself thinking, What the f.u.c.k am I doing here? And even if the weather isn't bad you still get cold. Total inactivity means your body isn't generating warmth, and you become a lizard who needs sunlight. You brood about the fact that, as well as the cold, it's bound to rain soon, otherwise it wouldn't be an OP.

Sometimes the wait pays off and you forget about all the discomfort, but I had lain in hides for days on end, wet and freezing, only to find f.u.c.k-all.

I started to laugh to myself, thinking about an operator called Lucas.

We were tasked to OP a meeting point on the Polish border with Germany.

It was a farm complex, where weapons-grade plutonium was being traded for heroin by Russians. The plan was to f.u.c.k up the meet and get hold of the plutonium. Lucas was a keen diver, and the scheme he came up with was to get into dry bag (military slang for a waterproof diving suit) and bury himself in the mountain of horse manure by the house. He lived there for four days. The meet never took place and it took a week to get the smell off him--mainly because, instead of telling him to lift off straightaway, we left him simmering in the heap for a bonus forty-eight hours.

When I woke up it must have been just before 5 a.m." as I could just see first light coming up. As soon as I could see outside properly, it was time for me to move out and check. Not that anyone finding anything was going to say, "Oh, look, there's an OP," but if it's an attractive item, someone could come over to pick it up, then they're right on top of you and the chance of compromise is big time. I slowly pushed the bung out with my feet and, lifting myself on my elbows and toes, eased out backward.

I could see a couple of footprints left from my clean-up in the dark, so I pushed myself out a little bit more and used the bung to brush them away.

While I was doing that I looked at the bush itself. It was looking all right; I was quite proud of my handiwork.

I started to inch myself very slowly in again, feet first this time, carefully pulling the bung into the entry point. I then rolled some of the cam net around the base of the bung and tucked it in as if I were tucking a child in for the night. Then I got into the center of the little grave I'd dug, curled up and turned myself around, being careful not to create movement in the bush. I didn't know what the targets were doing; they could be up there, standing at the window, taking in the view of dawn over the lake, only to see a bush mysteriously shaking .. .

The next priority was to check the camera, since the only reason I was in this hole at all was to see if Sarah was here, and then confirm it to London photographically. Lynn and Elizabeth took nothing at face value, and they certainly weren't going to trust me.

It was now just light enough to see through the viewfinder. I made a small hole in the cam net facing the target. It didn't have to be the same size as the lens; as long as light was getting into the center of the lens it could be as small as a pencil p.r.i.c.k. I positioned the lens at the hole this was now the aperture and focused it exactly on the area around the garage and the side door. It looked the natural way in and out. If there was movement, I wouldn't have to f.u.c.k about positioning the camera, all I'd have to do was press the cable release. Not only would it cut down on movement, which would mean less noise, but I could look at whoever was moving and ID them, instead of trying to focus a lens.

Once done, I put sand and stones around the tripod to keep it stable. A final check that the cam net wasn't obstructing the lens, then I made sure that the cable release was on correctly.

It was time to have something to eat and drink before the fun started. I opened one of the mineral-water bottles and took a few gulps even though I wasn't really thirsty. I wasn't particularly hungry, either, but I munched my way through a slab of luncheon meat, all the time keeping my eyes on the target.

Once I'd finished with the plastic from the Spam, I wrapped it in a ball and covered it with soil. The last thing I wanted was a swarm of insects hovering over my OP like a big pointing hand. After eating and drinking, there were other bodily functions that might need attending to, but hopefully the Imodium was going to do its stuff.

I was lying on my stomach with the camera just above my head and to the left, staring at the target with the cable release in one hand. My hands were crossed in front of me and my chin was on my forearms, and that was it: there was nothing else to do except look and listen. I'd always found it mind-numbingly boring, but I knew that sod's law dictated that any exposure of Sarah would last for no more than five seconds, and it would be a p.i.s.ser to miss it. I had to be switched on and fight the boredom.

I looked at my watch. It was just after five thirty.

I started to think about her again. If she were here, what was she up to?

I didn't really understand what was going on, but then again, at a time like this I didn't want to know. Just as I had that thought, another took over and said I was lying. I was dying to know.

I could see the house quite clearly now. It was white weather boarded and could have done with a lick of paint. Each of the three floors had two or three windows on this side; no shutters, just two window frames that opened from the middle.

I also saw security lights with motion detectors that I had to a.s.sume would be covering all approaches. If they were powered and had covered my location, last night would have been a very bright one indeed. Building my OP would have been p.i.s.s easy.

On the first floor some French windows led out onto a small verandah overhanging the garage and facing the lake. Below it, the garage doors were still ajar, with another light and motion detector covering the entrance.

The boat, a dirty-cream four-seater with the driver's seat in the middle, looked as if it hadn't been moved since I'd bino'd it yesterday. The engine was still facing the doors and the nose of the trailer was still down on the ground at the water's edge.

The garage walls were made from white trellis work fixed against the stilts, with hardboard backing. Facing me and set into the wall was the side door that seemed to go into the garage. A rotary was.h.i.+ng line stood to its left, but there was no was.h.i.+ng on it, which wasn't particularly strange, given the weather. There was no condensation on the windows from people asleep inside.

There weren't even any visible rubbish bins I could take a look at later tonight to see if she was here. A person's eyes may be the windows to their soul, but their dustbins are the windows to a f.u.c.k of a lot else. It never ceased to amaze me that even the most switched-on people seem to think that once stuff they have discarded is out of their house, it's safe. Reporters find vast amounts of information by sifting through people's bins.

In some Southeast Asian countries, all the rubbish from hotels with international guests is routinely picked through by the intelligence services.

Sarah wouldn't be that careless, but I knew, for example, that she didn't eat any processed food unless she had to: if there were organic food wrappers in the refuse, it might be a significant indicator.

The birds were well into their morning chorus. There was a slight wind, causing a bit of rustling in the trees, but that was welcome only if you were hiding in an OP because it hid noise. The main problem was that, where there was wind, rain would surely follow. In the meantime, as long as the rain kept off it would be almost idyllic.

An hour or so later I heard the first man-made noise of the day, the gentle chug of a small outboard. The big-game fishermen were on the lake, chasing the early fish. I couldn't see anything, but I could just hear it behind me somewhere near the entrance to the creek.

In the background the putt-putt got louder then stopped, and I heard the splash of an anchor. The fishermen were close by. I could even hear mumbles now and again on the breeze.

A curtain twitched on the first floor. I guessed they were checking out the fishermen, but if you were up and about and you could hear it, why not just throw them back and have a proper look? This was significant; maybe no trip back to D.C. after all. My finger tensed on the cable release in case a door opened.

There were shouts from across the lake. Maybe someone had had a bite. But still no one moved the curtains to see what it was all about.

At about eight o'clock the front door opened and two men came out.

I had just four or five seconds in which to act. I couldn't wait for perfect poses because they mustn't be allowed time to get acclimatized to the outside environment. In the first few seconds after leaving the house they'd still be tuned in to whatever was going on indoors, maybe the sound of a was.h.i.+ng machine or the television, mixed with their own walking and talking. Once they'd been outside for anything more than four or five seconds they would be listening to the noise of the trees rustling and the movement of water on the lake. Before that happened, I had to act, then keep very still again, so the only things that were moving would be my eyes. I squeezed the cable release, taking about five or six pictures.

Thanks to the digital camera, I didn't have to worry about the noise of the rewind and shutter.

That done, I had time to study the two men with my own eyes. It was obvious they hadn't been awake that long. One of them had a pair of leather boots on, laces undone and a rumpled blue sweats.h.i.+rt that hung out over creased, faded blue denim jeans. It looked as if they were the clothes he'd been sleeping in. His jet-black hair was sticking up, and he had a few days' growth on his face. He was in his thirties and didn't look too much of a threat: he was only about five feet five inches, and very slim. As Josh would have said, he was too slight to fight, too thin to win.

The most striking thing about him was that his features were distinctly Middle Eastern.

The other guy had the same skin tone, but was just over six feet and broader in the shoulders. He was wearing trainers, a Men In Black T-s.h.i.+rt under a dark-green fleece jacket and a pair of black tracksuit bottoms.

He, too, seemed the worse for wear, with a cigarette in his mouth which flopped down the left-hand side of his face. He had a string of prayer beads, which looked very much like a Catholic rosary, looped over the middle and index fingers of his right hand. He was flicking them so that they closed around his fingers, then flicking them again to unwind them.

They stood by the door looking out at the lake, and there was mumbling between them as the taller one put his right hand down the front of his tracksuit and started to scratch. The inflection and cadence of the mumbling sounded Arabic to me. They sauntered outside, closing the door and walking past the was.h.i.+ng line toward me.

I froze, allowing myself just short, shallow breaths. Their footsteps sounded like G.o.dzilla's.

They gazed out at the lake as they walked, probably watching the fishermen. They weren't aware, but I had to accept that I could be in the s.h.i.+t. I was sure the f.u.c.kers would see me; I looked to my right, where the bow was lying no more than four inches away from my hand. No movement; calm down and wait.

My body was tensed, ready to react. But how would I get myself out of this? Fight--that was the only answer. I could hardly just smile and claim to be lost. If I was quick enough, and didn't get entangled in the cam net, I could threaten them with the bow. No, that wouldn't work. I would just make a run for it and hope they weren't carrying. I mentally checked that all the important stuff was in my pockets.

They stopped. They exchanged a few more words, then Men In Black took a last drag on his cigarette, dropped it on the ground near his feet and stubbed it out with the toe of his trainer. He obviously hadn't read the signs asking him to leave only footprints.

They turned right about ten meters short of my position, moving uphill toward the track. They were taking the easy route as the ground right next to the house was steeper. Too Thin To Win led the way.

They walked up onto the track, and I realized that they were checking the ground. They were looking to see if there was any sign left by anyone during the night. They moved off the track and downhill, but stopped short of the house and didn't move any closer to it. I wondered why, and then I realized: there must be proximity alarms. As well as the motion detectors, which would trigger the lights, there must be sensors that informed them of movement outside. Judging by the route the two of them took, I worked out that the proximity alarms were probably covering an area about twelve to fifteen meters out from the house.

MIB lit up again as they went back onto the track, then disappeared behind the house, still playing with his beads. I used the time to check the cam, the bung behind me and that my pockets were done up.

After four minutes I watched them emerge from the opposite side of the house, the lake side, and walk toward the boat on the trailer. They clambered aboard and started up the engine, revving it until I could see the blue two-stroke smoke pumping out of the exhaust. Then, just as suddenly, they killed it, and jumped out with lots of talking as they disappeared through the gap between the garage doors. I heard the wagon start up. It wasn't going anywhere because the boat was in the way. It meant these boys were good: they were checking everything, including their getaways, in the event of a drama.

The vehicle engine cut and there was silence. They didn't reemerge.

I now knew there were at least two in the house, and I also knew that there must be access to the house from the garage.

That was it for another couple of hours. I just lay there, watching, resting one eye at a time. Now and again I could hear a putt-putt on the lake, and a couple of times the sound of a toilet flus.h.i.+ng. Occasionally there was the far-off screaming of kids, possibly in a boat or playing in the water, but otherwise nothing unusual.

At ten fifteen I watched as Mom, Dad and kids from the other house started to push another boat toward the lake; that was probably them out of it for the day. Well, until it rained anyway.

After that, nothing at all happened. It was pizza and Mars bar time.

At about eleven thirty I started to get movement from the garage doors.

Still nibbling at the last bit of my third Mars bar, I moved my thumb over the cable release.

MIB came out. I watched him and slowly swirled the camera to the right, wis.h.i.+ng I had a wider lens. He walked to the front of the trailer and stopped near the hook-up point. He seemed to be waiting; sure enough the wagon sparked up.

Sarah walked out. Gotcha! She was wearing blue jeans and a blue sweats.h.i.+rt with the Quiksilver logo on the back. I knew her gait, I even recognized her walking boots. She stopped to look at the sky. Yes, it was going to rain. I hit the cable release and hoped I'd got her. If so, the job was just about over. It felt so strange, seeing her after so long, and in this way. She still looked just like the picture in her apartment, but without the smile. It gave me a strange sense of power over her by being hidden, watching.

As the boat was in the way, the garage doors couldn't open fully. She and MIB twisted the boat so that it was parallel to the water, then they opened the garage doors fully and out came a black Ford Explorer. One up. It was Too Thin To Win, and going by what I could see of his top half, he'd smartened himself up probably had a s.h.i.+t, shower and shave.

The engine revved as he came screaming toward me then uphill toward the track. I craned my head in an attempt to catch the registration. I couldn't get any detail, but it definitely had a North Carolina plate with the "First In Flight" slogan and a picture of the Wright Brothers' aircraft on a white background.

My eyes jumped back to Sarah. She was helping to turn the boat around so that it faced the water again, ready to go. This was an escape route, for sure. Once they had done that, they went inside and the garage doors were closed fully behind them.

Very weird s.h.i.+t. It seemed that London was right to worry about her after all.

slowly got out the 3C and slid open one of the ports, inserted a flash card from my jeans pocket and turned it on.

A flash card stores information in much the same way as a floppy disk does for a PC. What came up on the screen from this one was a selection of about 200 words or phrases, each with a five-figure sequence of numbers beside it. The letters of the alphabet were also encoded, so that uncommon words could be spelled out. To compose my message, all I had to do was scroll through to the word or phrase I wanted and write down the corresponding five-figure group on my notepad with a pencil. I preferred pencils to pens because you can write with them in the rain. I always used one that was sharpened at both ends, so that if one lead broke I could still use the other.

The first parts of the message I was going to send were standard and didn't need the codes. My PIN was 2442, but since the numbers had to be in groups of five for the code to work, I made it 02442.1 followed this with the time/ date groups: 02604 (April 26th). I had a look at Baby-G and wrote down 01156 (1156 hrs; times are always local). It was then just a matter of scrolling through the codes to make up the message.

The first I looked for was "tgt loc. 6 fig grid." I gave the map sheet details, plus the six-figure grid reference of the target. Just to make it clear, I told them that it was the eastern most building of the two.

My message continued: "echo one (Sarah) located with two bravos (males) middle eastern. are aware. no weapons. mac down. waiting FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS.".

I ended the message with my pin again 02442 and that was it. It worked out that I had twenty-one groups of numbers.

I put the second flash card into Port B, took out A and put it back in my jeans pocket. I could run the Psion with both cards in, but I didn't like doing it; if there was a drama and I was caught, it meant the whole system would be accessible all at once. At least with them separated I had the chance to hide or destroy a key part of it.

The second card held a series of numbers, also in groups of five, called the "one-time pad." Devised by the German diplomatic service during the 1920s, the OTP is a simple encoding method consisting of a random key used only once. There are a few variations on the OTP theme. The Brits first started using it in 1943. Still widely used by the intelligence services of all countries, it is the only code system that is unbreakable, both in theory and in practice.

I started by writing down in my notebook the first group from the OTP under the first group of the message, my PIN. I carried on until all twenty-one groups had another set of numbers from the one-time pad under them.

What I had to do then was subtract 14735, the first group of the OTP, from 02442, my identification code, and came up with 98717 not because my math was s.h.i.+t, but because in spy land sums, you don't carry the ten over, you lose it. b.l.o.o.d.y typical.

At the London end, they knew the message would start with my PIN, and groups are always used in the order they are laid out in. It would be easy for them to add the groups on their corresponding OTP from the groups that I'd transmitted, and they'd come up with the original set of numbers again, because they would also do spy land sums. Referring these back to the code book, they'd produce my intended word or phrase. Once used, those groups would never be issued again.

I did my spy-type sums one more time to confirm my arithmetic, and was ready to send. I turned on the phone, tapped in the PIN code and waited for a signal. I tapped out "Kay's" on the Psion to retrieve Elizabeth's number; I hadn't got around to learning it after all. After two rings a recorded message from a synthesized but happy-sounding female voice said, "Please leave your message after the tone." Two seconds later, there was a beep.

I tapped out the message of twenty-one groups on the number pad, then pressed Pound and listened for the auto-acknowledgment.

"Thank you for your" there was a pause, then a different electronic voice "twenty-one group" then the original voice "message." It cut off and so did I. I put the flash cards back in their separate jeans pockets. I wrapped the piece of paper up in a sheet of plastic wrap and tucked it under a branch in the mud. I didn't want to get rid of it yet, because I didn't know if I was going to need it. If London came back and told me they couldn't work out my message, it might be because I'd f.u.c.ked up the encoding or spy sums. The system can be time-consuming, but used properly it works.

The next part of the job was to "Mac down" the pictures. I plugged the lead into the phone, clipped it into the receiver end of the camera and clicked on its internal modem. I dialed the same London number and got the same recorded message. I pressed Send on the camera; the telephone was taking the information from the digital camera and bouncing it off a satellite up there somewhere. Pictures would come up on an Apple Mac screen at the other end and hard copies would be made. Within minutes Elizabeth and Lynn would have my nice holiday snaps of Sarah and her two playmates on their desks.

After transmission, I switched off the phone to save the battery. It was pointless leaving it on; they weren't going to get back to me straightaway.

If they did, the phone's message service would intercept the call anyway, so no problems. I was in no rush; even if they said, "End-ex," I couldn't come out of here until nightfall.