The Network - Jason Elliot [1]
When I stop for petrol on the outskirts of Hereford, where H, between frequent trips to seldom-heard-of African republics, teaches these and related skills to his Regimental apprentices, I suspect nothing. I’m tired after having spent the night on a freezing hillside in the Black Mountains, and not feeling at my sharpest. Even after all our sessions devoted to security, which is H’s business, it hasn’t occurred to me to check whether I’m being followed, which explains my surprise and anger when a black Range Rover parks neatly in front of my car just as I’m getting out.
The driver stays in the vehicle but from the rear doors emerge two short-haired and mustachioed men in casual clothes, one of whom addresses me in a neutral accent by my own name and requests that I accompany him. They’re not hostile but speak with the muted ambition of people whose agenda is fairly clear to themselves.
‘Are you arresting me?’ I ask.
‘Nothing like that, sir.’
‘So it’s social, is it? You’re not behaving very socially.’
‘If you’d just like to come with us please, sir.’ They look fit and have the poised restraint of men who turn readily to physical exertion. I have no wish to tangle with them. They don’t behave like men from the Regiment, who tend to have a better sense of humour. I wonder what the worst thing is that can happen. This is England. I cannot be held against my will. Perhaps Seethrough, with all his love of cloak-and-dagger, has arranged to have me escorted to a classified location. I wonder if it’s Pontrilas or some subterranean comms facility nearby.
To buy time, I protest indignantly that I can’t leave my car on a garage forecourt, thinking that from the safety of the car I’ll call Seethrough before going anywhere with these purposeful-looking strangers.
‘We’ll take care of that, sir,’ says one of them. I am not sure if the ‘sir’ is an expression of genuine or artificial deference until my head is pushed down in the manner of a prisoner as we enter the Range Rover, and the two of them squeeze in on either side of me and request that I empty my pockets. It definitely doesn’t feel very social, but perhaps it’s a security requirement like having to surrender your mobile phone inside the Firm’s headquarters at Vauxhall Cross. As I’m complying the driver gets out, reverses my car, parks it at the edge of the forecourt and returns. My possessions, including my watch, are put in a ziplock freezer bag, to which my car keys are now added, and stowed in a seat pouch. There’s a squawk of static from a discreet two-way radio on the driver’s belt, which he adjusts without looking down. We pull out from the garage.
‘If you wouldn’t mind leaning forward, sir,’ says one of the men next to me. I’m forced to fold my arms over my knees and can’t keep my head up to keep track of the route. We drive for sixteen minutes, during which nobody speaks, and I count the minutes on my fingers, folding them into my palm in turn. Judging from the frequency of turns and stops, we’re sticking to country roads. Then a mobile phone rings from inside the bag in the seat pouch. It’s mine, and they’ve forgotten to turn it off. After a moment’s thought, the man to my left extracts it and looks at the screen.
‘Lili Marlene. Who’s Lili Marlene?’ I feel his body turn slightly towards the other man, as if he’s consulting him.
‘It’s my girlfriend,’ I say, which is a calculated risk. ‘She’s wondering why I haven’t called her back.’ I can’t see his face, but I can sense that he’s deciding whether he should pass me the phone or not. ‘I’m supposed to be meeting