The Network - Jason Elliot [34]
‘Well, in that case, As-salaamu aleikum.’ His voice is low, even and has a rasping quality as if something rough is being continually ground down in his throat. I frown at him. I’ve never met an Arabic-speaking Jehovah’s Witness and wonder if they’ve sent for a specialist to check my theology. He’s going to get a run for his money.
‘Wa aleikum as-salaam.’ I return the greeting out of reflex and look at him more closely. His frame is lighter than the other man’s, and the lines on his cheeks suggest leanness. He has short sandy-coloured hair, a neat moustache like an ex-soldier’s and looks a youthful fifty. His eyes have a watchful and mischievious sparkle. But he has no documents or bag. Before I can think of anything else to say, he speaks again.
‘Ana rafiq min landan.’ I am a friend from London. He speaks Ministry of Defence Arabic. ‘I parked down the road,’ he adds, gesturing with a thumb over his shoulder. Then it sinks in.
It’s Seethrough’s man from the Regiment. The SAS has arrived.
‘Oh, Christ. Sorry. Come in.’
He smiles and his eyes dart watchfully over the hallway as he steps inside. ‘It’s H—— by the way. Friends call me H.’ The handshake is firm. ‘Late night?’ he asks with a knowing look.
‘Something like that.’
‘We’d better have some coffee.’
‘I’ve just made some.’
‘Good man.’
He sniffs the air as we go into the kitchen, puts his coat neatly over the back of a chair and sits at the table. The room’s a mess. I’m embarrassed and surreptitiously cover the ashtray in the sink with a plate as I rinse a pair of cups. I ask where he’s driven from this morning.
‘Hereford.’ That figures. Hereford is home to the Regimental HQ of 22 SAS.
I’m about to ask whether he lives there, but he answers first.
‘Settled down after I left the Regiment ten years ago, give or take.’
‘Marry a local girl?’
‘The whole nine yards. Wife, kids, cats, dogs.’
‘What have you been doing since?’
‘The security and protection circuit – rigs and pipelines, mostly. Some BGing once in a while. Sorry – bodyguarding. And the occasional special request.’
‘Isn’t it all a bit dull after the SAS?’
‘Better than sitting around in a damp hole all day.’
This is modest, coming from a member of the most elite special forces regiment in the world.
‘There’s a company that helps the blokes who want to stay active – the ones who don’t become postmen, mostly.’
‘Remind me not to tangle with the postman.’ I sit down opposite him and pour the coffee. His eyes fall on the dark red and blue bands of my watchstrap.
‘Regimental flash?’
‘Scots Guards.’
‘Alright for some.’ He grins. ‘When did you pack it in?
‘After the Gulf. Granby, wasn’t it? Stupid name for a war,’ I say. I know that military code names are chosen by computer and run alphabetically, but still.
‘Stupid war, if you think about it.’ He blows thoughtfully on his coffee. I like his irreverence.
‘Regiment did well out of it,’ I say.
‘The usual balls-up,’ he says, dismissing this. ‘Typical Regiment story. A lot of guys spread out all over the world in different theatres, and then up comes a deployment like the Gulf.’ His fingers trace a phantom squadron gathering across the tabletop. ‘All of a sudden every one of them wants a piece of the action, and a lot of jostling goes on. You get guys who’ve been training for something else doing the wrong job, and the right guys getting bumped down the line.’
‘What did London tell you?’ I ask.
‘I only get a phone call from the liaison officer with the where and when. Sounds like they’re going to leave the details to us. We’ve got a month. Should be plenty of time.’
This is a very low-key approach, and unlike anything I’ve encountered in the military. I also find it hard to reconcile the softly spoken almost boyish manner of the man in front of me with the more sensational tales told popularly about the Regiment.
‘I don’t suppose you were on the balcony at Prince’s Gate, were you?’ I’m joking, but every soldier knows how many thousands of men have claimed they were part of the spectacular hostage rescue at the Iranian embassy