we think this is.’
‘How important you think this is.’
Udovich snorted. ‘It’s not going to cost the Brits any money, for Christ’s sake. And that’s all they seem to care about these days.’
‘I’ll ask them,’ Clemens repeated. ‘If that’s all…’
‘One more thing. I think their intelligence boys should run a check on this guy Wilkinson, just in case. The Guatemalans want someone they can rely on – you understand me?’
‘Yeah,’ Clemens said. ‘I get the message.’
‘And they want him vetted?’ the Prime Minister asked rhetorically. He shook his head, looking saddened by the impertinence of the American request.
‘Just informally,’ Martin Clarke said assuagingly. He was the junior minister at the Foreign Office responsible for formulating a reply to Washington’s request.
The Prime Minister shook his head again, and then squeezed the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, as if the shaking had given him a headache. He blinked and looked round the table. ‘Any comments?’ he asked.
For a moment no one seemed to have any.
‘What’s the current state of play in Guatemala?’ asked the young man with the flashy tie who was representing MI5.
‘Business as usual,’ Clarke answered drily.
‘Not quite,’ the silver-haired man from MI6 disagreed. ‘The Government claims to have won the war against the guerrillas, but the fact that they’re willing to negotiate a settlement suggests a rather different story.’
‘The negotiations are just a sop to the Americans,’ Clarke insisted.
‘That’s not what our people think,’ said the MI6 man. ‘They reckon the number of guerrillas in the mountains is at least holding steady, and may even be growing.’
‘Does it matter?’ asked Bill Warren, the Junior Defence Minister. ‘We’re only being asked for one adviser for a couple of weeks. I’m more interested in what sort of favour we can expect in return.’
‘Such as?’ the Prime Minister asked. ‘I don’t think we’ll get any better guarantees on Belize. No, I think we’d be better off treating this as nothing more than a favour to Washington.’ He paused for a moment and looked up, as if seeking divine guidance. ‘But the further we can distance the Government from the whole business, the better I’ll like it,’ he added. ‘If this SAS soldier gets caught up in some ghastly atrocity then all the human rights people will be screaming blue murder at me. I think this should be a strictly military affair – a matter of shared courtesy between armed forces. With a high security rating. “Need to know” only.’
He turned to the two junior ministers. ‘Bill, you liaise with Five in making sure Sergeant Wilkinson has a clean bill of health. Martin, you get in touch with the SAS CO and tell him what’s required. And let the Americans know we’ll be happy to oblige them.’
The PM took the bridge of his nose in the familiar pincer grip and blinked twice. ‘Now let’s get on to something important.’
Lieutenant-Colonel Barney Davies, the Commanding Officer of 22 SAS, had just re-entered his office, having returned for the Daily Mirror he had left behind, when the phone rang. He stared at it in exasperation for several seconds, and then reluctantly picked it up. ‘Davies,’ he said, more mildly than he felt. He had an important evening ahead, and hoped to God this call was not going to foul it up.
‘Good evening, Lieutenant-Colonel,’ a familiar voice said. ‘My name’s Martin Clarke. Foreign Office. I don’t believe we’ve met.’
‘No, I don’t think so,’ Davies said warily. He’d seen the bastard on TV enough times. In fact the Junior Minister had been on Question Time only the previous week, wearing a striped shirt so loud that it seemed to affect the broadcast signal.
‘We’ve had a request from the Americans,’ Clarke began, and went on to outline exactly who and what had been asked for.
Barney Davies listened patiently, liking the whole business less with each passing sentence. It wasn’t immediately apparent from Clarke’s spiel, however, whether Whitehall was asking or telling the SAS to co-operate. ‘So, you’d like me to ask Sergeant Wilkinson if he’s willing to go?’ Davies suggested optimistically.
Clarke picked up on the tone, and made good the omission. ‘Sergeant Wilkinson is a serving NCO in Her Majesty’s Armed Forces. It has been decided that he should serve his country accordingly in this particular matter. As his Commanding Officer, you are naturally being notified. If you wish, I can get you written orders from the Ministry of Defence…’
‘That will not be necessary. I will notify him, and see to the appropriate briefing…’
‘Good. I’ll see that everything we have is on your fax tomorrow morning. Wilkinson is booked on the 10 a.m. flight to Miami this Sunday,’ he added, ‘connecting with Guatemala City that afternoon.’
‘That’s…’ Davies started to say, but Clarke had hung up. The SAS CO stood for a moment holding the dead receiver, then slammed it down with what he considered appropriate violence. Then he sat seething in his chair for several moments, staring out through the office window.
Across the frosty parade ground the last of the sunlight was silhouetting the distant peaks of the Black Mountains.
‘Bastard politicians,’ he eventually murmured, and picked up the phone again.
Having ascertained from the Duty Officer that ‘Razor’ Wilkinson was on twenty-four hours’ leave, the CO left the room for the second time in fifteen minutes, wishing that he hadn’t answered Clarke’s call. The American request wouldn’t have gone away, but at least he and Razor would have had one more evening in blissful ignorance of its existence. Though come to think of it, the bastard would probably have called him at home.
Davies climbed into his BMW, turned on the ignition and pressed in the cassette. Billie Holiday’s voice filled the car with its smoky sadness.
He drove out through the sentry post and started working his way through the rush-hour traffic towards his cottage on Hereford’s western outskirts. ‘Look on the bright side,’ he told himself. A couple of years ago he would have felt much less happy about sending Wilkinson into a situation like this one. The man had always been a fine soldier, as sharp as he was brave, but until recently his leadership potential had been undermined by a stubborn refusal to grow up emotionally. Bosnia – and the wife he had found there – had seen him come of age, and Razor now seemed as complete a soldier as the SAS had to offer.
So why, Davies asked himself bitterly, put him at risk for a bunch of psychotic generals? What possible British interest could be served by identifying a guerrilla leader for people whose only claim to fame was that they had invented the death squad?
In fact, the more he thought about it the angrier Davies became. A mission like this should be offered to someone, not simply ordered. This guerrilla leader posed no more threat to the integrity of the United Kingdom than Eric Cantona, and probably considerably less. And though Davies didn’t know much about Guatemala, he was willing to bet that anyone faced with choosing between Army and guerrillas on moral grounds
