‘This man is alive but injured,’ he said. ‘He has a bad head wound.’
Duty done, he boarded the SBS Land-Rover for the drive back to Bagram.
The American trawl team found the Afghan in Mazar hospital three days later and claimed him for interrogation. They trucked him to Bagram, but to their own side of this vast air base, and there he came to, slowly and groggily, on the floor of a makeshift cell, cold and shackled but just alive, two days after that.
On 14 January 2002 the first detainees arrived at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, from Kandahar. They were blindfolded, shackled, hungry, thirsty and soiled. Izmat Khan was one of them.
Colonel Mike Martin returned to London in the spring of 2002 to spend three years as Deputy Chief of Staff, HQ Directorate of Special Forces, Duke of York Barracks, Chelsea. He retired in December 2005 after a party at which a group of friends including Jonathan Shaw, Mark Carleton-Smith, Jim Davidson and Mike Jackson tried, and failed, to drink him under the table. In January 2006 he bought a listed barn in the Meon valley, Hampshire, and started in the late summer to restore it into a country home.
United Nations records later showed that 514 Al-Qaeda fanatics died at Qala-i-Jangi and eighty-six survived, all injured. All went to Guantanamo Bay. Sixty Uzbek guards also died. General Rashid Dostum became Defence Minister in the new Afghan government.
PART THREE
Crowbar
CHAPTER EIGHT
Operation Crowbar’s first task was to choose its cover story so that even those working inside it would not know anything about Mike Martin or even the concept of infiltrating a ringer inside Al-Qaeda.
The ‘legend’ chosen was that it would be an Anglo-American joint venture against a steadily growing opium threat coming out of the poppy fields of Afghanistan to the refinery/kitchens of the Middle East. Thence the refined heroin was infiltrating the West both to destroy lives and generate funds for further terrorism.
The ‘script’ continued to the effect that western efforts to shut off terrorism’s supply of funds at the level of the world’s banks had driven the fanatics to turn to drugs – a cash-only crime method.
And finally, even though the West already had powerful agencies like the US DEA and British Customs engaged in the fight against narcotics, Crowbar had been agreed by both governments as a specific, one-target operation prepared to use covert forces outside the niceties of diplomatic courtesy to raid and destroy any factories found in any foreign country turning a blind eye to the trade.
The modus operandi, Crowbar staff would be told as they were reassigned, involved using the highest tech known to man, both to listen and to watch, in order to identify high-ranking criminals, routes, stores, refineries, ships and aircraft that might be involved. As it happened, none of the new staff doubted a word of it.
This was just the cover story and it would remain in place until there was simply no further use for it, whenever that would be. But after the Fort Meade conference there was no way western intelligence was going to place all its eggs in the Crowbar basket. Frantic, though ultra-discreet, efforts would continue elsewhere to discover what Al-Isra could possibly refer to.
But the intelligence agencies were in a quandary. Between them they had scores of informants inside the world of Islamic fundamentalism, some willing, some under duress.
The question was: how far can we go before the real leaders realize that we know about Al-Isra? There were clear advantages to letting Al-Qaeda believe that nothing had been harvested from the laptop of the dead banker at Peshawar.
This was confirmed when the first mentions of the phrase in general conversation with Koranic scholars known to be sympathetic to extremism drew only courteous but blank responses.
Whoever knew about the real significance of the phrase, AQ had kept that circle extremely tight and it was quickly clear it did not include any western informants. So the decision was taken to match secrecy with secrecy. The West’s counter-measure would be Crowbar and only Crowbar.
The project’s second chore was to find and establish a new and remote headquarters. Both Marek Gumienny and Steve Hill agreed to get well away from London and Washington. Their second agreement was to base Crowbar somewhere in the British Isles.
After analysis of what would be needed in terms of size, lodgings, space and access the consensus came down firmly on the side of a decommissioned air base. Such places are usually well away from cities, contain mess halls, canteens, kitchens and accommodation in plenty. Add to that hangars for storage and a runway for the landing and departure of covert visitors. Unless the decommissioning had been too long ago, refurbishment back to operational requirements could be quickly accomplished by the property-maintenance division of one of the armed services – in this case the Royal Air Force.
When it came to which base, the choice fell on a former American base of which the Cold War had planted several dozen on British soil. Fifteen were listed and examined, including Chicksands, Alconbury, Lakenheath, Fairford, Molesworth, Bentwaters, Upper Heyford and Greenham Common. All were vetoed.
Some were operational, and service personnel still chatter. Others were in the hands of property developers; some had had their runways ploughed up and returned to agriculture. Two are still used as training sites for the intelligence services. Crowbar wanted a virgin site all to itself. Phillips and McDonald settled upon RAF Edzell and secured the approval of their respective superiors.
Although the sovereign ownership of Edzell base never left the RAF, it was for years leased to the US Navy, even though it is miles from the sea. It is actually situated in the Scottish county of Angus, due north of Brechin and north-west of Montrose, on the southern threshold of the Highlands.
It lies well off the main A90 highway from Forfar to Stonehaven. The village itself is one of a thinly scattered number spread over a large area of forest and heather with the North Esk flowing through it.
The base, when the two executive officers went up to visit it, served all their purposes. It was as remote from prying eyes as one could wish; it contained two good runways with control tower, and all the buildings they required for the resident staff. All they needed to do was add the golf-ball shaped white domes hiding listening antennae that could hear the click of a beetle half a world away and convert the former USN Ops block into the new communications or comms centre.
Into this complex would be diverted links to GCHQ Cheltenham and NSA Maryland; direct and secure lines to Vauxhall Cross and Langley to permit instant access to Marek Gumienny and Steve Hill; and a permanent ‘feed’ from eight more intel-gathering agencies from both nations, prime among them the yield from America’s space satellites, run by the National Reconnaissance Office in Washington.
With permission granted, the ‘works and bricks’ people from the Royal Air Force went on a ‘blitz’ assignment to bring Edzell back into commission. The good folk of Edzell village noticed that something was afoot but with much winking and tapping of the sides of noses accepted that once again it would be hush-hush, just like the good old days. The local landlord laid in some extra supplies of ale and whisky, hoping that custom might revert to the level he had enjoyed before decommissioning. Otherwise, nobody said a thing.
While the painters were running their paintbrushes over the walls of the officers’ quarters of a Scottish air base, the office of Siebart and Abercrombie, in a modest City of London street called Crutched Friars, received a visit.
Mr Ahmed Lampong had arrived by appointment following an exchange of e-mails between London and Jakarta, and was shown into the office of Mr Siebart, son of the founder. Had the London-based shipping broker known it, Lampong is simply one of the minor languages of the island of Sumatra whence his Indonesian visitor originally came. And it was an alias, though his passport would confirm the name and his passport was flawless.
So also was his English, and in response to Alex Siebart’s compliments he admitted that he had perfected it while studying for his master’s degree at the London S
chool of Economics. He was fluent, urbane and charming; more to the point, he brought the prospect of business. There was nothing to suggest he was a fanatical member of the Islamist terrorist organization Jemaat Islamiya, responsible for a wave of bombings in Bali.
His credentials as senior partner of Sumatra Trading International were in order, as were his bank references. When he asked permission to outline his problem, Mr Siebart was all ears. As a preamble Mr Lampong solemnly laid a sheet of paper in front of the British ship broker.
The sheet had a long list. It began with Alderney, one of the British Channel Islands, and continued through Anguilla, Antigua and Aruba. Those were just the ‘A’s. There were forty-three names, ending with Uruguay, Vanuatu and Western Samoa.
‘These are all tax-haven countries, Mr Siebart,’ said the Indonesian, ‘and all practise banking secrecy. Like it or not, some extremely dubious businesses, including criminal enterprises, shelter their financial secrets in places like these. And these’ – he produced a second sheet – ‘are just as dubious in their way. These are merchant shipping flags of convenience.’
Antigua was again up front, with Barbuda, Bahamas, Barbados, Belize, Bermuda, Bolivia, Burma and Cambodia to follow. There were twenty-seven in this list, ending with St Vincent, Sri Lanka, Tonga and Vanuatu.
There were African hellholes like Equatorial Guinea, flyspecks on the world map like Sao Tome and Principe, the Comoros and the coral atoll Vanuatu. Among the more enchanting were Luxembourg and Mongolia, which have no coast at all. Mr Siebart was perplexed though nothing he had seen was news to him.
‘Put the two together and what do you come up with?’ asked Mr Lampong in triumph. ‘Fraud, my dear sir, fraud on a massive and increasing scale. And alas most prevalent of all in the part of the world where I and my partners trade. That is why we have decided in future to deal only with the institution renowned for its integrity. The City of London.’
‘Very kind of you,’ murmured Mr Siebart. ‘Coffee?’
‘Cargo theft, Mr Siebart. Constant and increasing. Thank you, no, I have just had breakfast. Cargos are assigned, valuable cargos, and then vanish. No trace of the ship, the charterers, the brokers, the crew, the cargo and least of all the owners. All hiding amidst this forest of different flags and banks. And far too many of them highly corrupt.’
‘Dreadful,’ agreed Siebart. ‘How can I help?’
‘My partners and I have agreed we will have no more of it. True, it will cost a bit more. But we wish to deal in future only and solely with ships of the British merchant fleet flying the Red Ensign, out of British ports under a British skipper and vouched for by a London broker.’
‘Excellent.’ Siebart beamed. ‘A wise choice, and of course we must not forget full insurance coverage for vessel and cargo by Lloyd’s of London. What cargoes do you want shipped?’
Matching freighters to cargoes and cargoes to freighters is precisely what a shipping broker does, and Siebart and Abercrombie were long-standing pillars of the City of London’s ancient partnership, the Baltic Exchange.
‘I have done my research well,’ said Mr Lampong, producing more letters of recommendation. ‘We have been in discussion with this company: importers of high-value British limousines and sports cars into Singapore. For our part, we ship fine furniture timbers like rosewood, tulipwood and padauk from Indonesia to the USA. This comes from North Borneo, but would be a part-cargo with the remainder being sea containers on deck with embroidered silks from Surabaya, Java, also bound for the USA. Here’ – he laid down a final letter – ‘are the details of our friends in Surabaya. We all agree we wish to trade British. Clearly, this would be a triangular voyage for any British freighter. Could you find us a suitable UK-registered freighter for this task? I have in mind a regular and ongoing partnership.’
Alex Siebart was confident he could find a dozen suitable Red Ensign vessels to pick up the charter. He would need to know vessel size, price and desired dates.
It was finally agreed that he would supply Mr Lampong with a ‘menu’ of vessels of the needed tonnage for the double-cargo and the charter price. Mr Lampong, when he had consulted his partners, would provide desired collection dates at the two Far Eastern ports and the US delivery port. They parted with mutual expressions of confidence and good will.
‘How nice,’ sighed Alex Siebart’s father when he told him over lunch at Rules, ‘to be dealing with old-fashioned and civilized gentlemen.’
If there was one place that Mike Martin could not show his face it was Edzell air base. Steve Hill was able to call into play the array of contacts that exists in every business called the ‘old boys’ network’.
‘I won’t be at home most of this winter,’ said his guest at lunch in the Special Forces Club. ‘I’m going to try and see a bit more of the Caribbean sun. So I suppose you could borrow the place.’
‘There will be a rent, of course,’ said Hill. ‘As much as my modest budget can afford.’
‘And you won’t knock it about?’ asked the guest. ‘All right then. When can I have it back?’
‘We hope to be there no longer than mid-February. It’s just for some instructional seminars. Tutors coming and going, that sort of thing. Nothing . . . physical.’
Martin flew from London to Aberdeen and was met by a former SAS sergeant whom he knew well. He was a tough Scot who clearly had returned to his native heather in his retirement.
‘How are you keeping, boss?’ he asked, employing the old jargon for SAS men talking to an officer. He hefted Martin’s kitbag into the rear and eased out of the airport car park. He turned north at the outskirts of Aberdeen and took the A96 road in the direction of Inverness. The mountains of the Scottish Highlands enveloped them within a few miles. Seven miles after the turn he pulled left off the main road.
The signpost said simply: ‘Kemnay’. They went through the village of Monymusk and hit the Aberdeen–Alford road. Three miles later the Land-Rover turned right, ran through Whitehouse and headed for Keig. There was a river beside the road; Martin wondered whether it contained salmon or trout or neither.
Just before Keig the off-road turned across the river and up a long, winding private drive. Round two bends the stone bulk of an ancient castle sat on a slight eminence looking out over a stunning vista of wild hills and glens.
Two men emerged from the main entrance, came forward and introduced themselves.
‘Gordon Phillips. Michael McDonald. Welcome to Castle Forbes, family seat of Lord Forbes. Good trip, Colonel?’
‘It’s Mike, and you were expecting me. How? Angus here made no phone call.’
‘Well, actually we had a man on the plane. Just to be on the safe side,’ said Phillips.
Mike Martin grunted. He had not spotted the tail. He was clearly out of practice.
‘Not a problem, Mike,’ said the CIA man McDonald. ‘You’re here. Now a range of tutors have your undivided attention for eighteen weeks. Why not freshen up and after lunch we’ll start the first briefing.’
During the Cold War the CIA maintained a chain of ‘safe houses’ right across the USA. Some were inner-city apartments for the holding of discreet conferences whose participants were better not seen at head office. Others were rural retreats such as renovated farmhouses where agents back from a stressful mission could have a relaxed vacation while also being debriefed detail by detail on the time abroad.
And there were some chosen for their obscurity where a Soviet defector could be held in the kindliest of detention while checks were made on his authenticity, and where a vengeful KGB, working out of the Soviet Embassy or Consulate, could not get at him.
Agency veterans still wince at the memory of Colonel Yurchenko who defected in Rome and was amazingly allowed to dine out in Georgetown with his debriefing officer. He went to the men’s room and never came back. In fact he had been contacted by the KGB who reminded him of his family back in Moscow. Full of remorse, he was daft enough to believe the promises of amnesty and redefected. He was nev
er heard of again.
Marek Gumienny had one simple question for the small office inside Langley that runs and maintains the safe houses: ‘What is the most remote, obscure and hard-to-get-into-or-out-of facility that we have?’
The answer from his real-estate colleague took no time at all.
‘We call it the Cabin. It is lost to the human race, somewhere up in the Pasayten Wilderness of the Cascades Range.’
Gumienny asked for every detail and every picture available. Within thirty minutes of receiving the file he had made his choice and given his orders.
East of Seattle, in the wilds of Washington State, is the range of steep, forested and, in winter, snow-clothed mountains known as the Cascades. Inside the borders of the Cascades are three zones: the National Park, the logging forest and the Pasayten Wilderness. The first two have access roads and some habitations.
Hundreds of thousands of visitors go to the Park every year while it is open, and it is riddled with tracks and trails; the former viable for rugged vehicles, the latter for hikers or horses. And the wardens know every inch of it.
The logging forest is off limits to the public for safety reasons, but it too has a network of tracks along which snarling trucks habitually haul the felled tree trunks to the delivery points for the sawmills. In deep winter both have to close down because the snow makes most movement almost impossible.
But east of them both, running up to the Canadian border, is the Wilderness. Here there are no tracks, one or two trails and only in the far south of the terrain, near Hart’s Pass, a few log cabins.
Winter and summer the Wilderness teems with wildlife and game; the few cabin owners tend to summer in the Wilderness, then disconnect all systems, lock up and withdraw to their city mansions. There is probably nowhere in the USA as bleak or remote in winter, with the possible exception of the area of northern Vermont known simply as ‘the Kingdom’, where a man may vanish and be found rock-solid in the spring thaw.