Читать книгу Trusted Mole: A Soldier’s Journey into Bosnia’s Heart of Darkness - Martin Bell - Страница 10

Thursday 16 October 1997 – Joint Services Command and Staff College, Bracknell, UK

‘Are you Major Stankovic?’ I catch the flash of a silver warrant badge encased in black leather and glimpse a pair of shiny handcuffs in one of the open brief-cases on the table. I nod – what the hell’s going on here?

‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector —, Ministry of Defence Police. I have a warrant for your arrest under Section 2.2b of the 1989 Official Secrets Act …’ he’s reading from the warrant, ‘… on suspicion of maintaining contact with the Bosnian Serb leadership, of passing information which might endanger the lives of British soldiers in Bosnia, of embarrassing the British government and the United Nations …’

My stomach lurches. Instinctively I cross my arms.

‘… You have the right to remain silent, but anything you say can and will be used in evidence against you. Do you understand?’

My mind is racing – say nothing. ‘Mmm’ is my only response.

The day had started normally enough. I’d spent the previous night at home in Farnham reading up on various articles and reports in preparation for the following morning’s syndicate room discussion on getting women into front-line units. Normal Staff College stuff.

The alarm wakes me at seven – quick shave, throw on the leathers, twenty minutes threading my way through solid early morning traffic on the M3. My thoughts are given up to taking a radical line – get ’em into the Paras and Marines first. I leave the Suzuki in the car park, dump the leathers in my room, climb into Barrack Dress – brown shoes, green plastic trousers, shirt, green woollen jersey – don’t forget the wretched name-tag, they’re so anal about them here. I wander over to the syndicate room and leave my bag. Still ten minutes to go. Time for a quick coffee and a smoke.

It’s 0820. I’m standing outside the Purple Hall smoking a cigarette and chatting to James Stewart – something about women sticking bayonets into people and could they do it. Brigadier Reddy Watt walks past. He catches my eye and gives me a funny look. I carry on chatting to James for another couple of minutes. The Brigadier is back again.

‘Milos, could I have a quiet word with you?’ Nothing unusual in that. Probably something to do with last Friday’s syndicate room discussion which he’d sat in on.

‘Sure, Brigadier.’ I put out my cigarette and follow him in silence. It’s slightly uncomfortable and I’m wondering why he’s saying nothing. We round the corner of one of the large unused prefabricated lecture halls. He opens the door and motions me inside. The lights are on. The place is almost empty, but not quite – two men in dark suits on the left, brief-cases open on a desk. At the far end of the hall two more men in dark suits, also with open brief-cases on a desk. They’re chatting quietly. I take a couple of paces forward and turn to the Brigadier to say, ‘We can’t talk in here. There are people here.’ But I don’t – his right hand is stretched out, palm open. There’s a strange expression in his eyes, almost apologetic.

I walk towards the two at the far end. They’re watching me now. The one on the left is short and tubby with a pot belly hanging over his belt. The one on the right is slightly taller but not much. He is also slightly portly but not as flabby. Both men are wearing cheap, dark blue off-the-peg C&A-type suits. There’s a puffed up, officious air about the pair of them. As I approach the one on the right produces a warrant badge. Pot Belly does the same. The first one then starts reading from a piece of paper. Time stops dead.

The Taller One produces a warrant for the search of my house with authorisation to seize just about anything they want. It’s signed off at Bow Street Magistrate’s Court. I’m forced to hand over my house keys, car keys and motorbike keys. I sign some bit of paper to that effect.

‘You’ll now be taken to your room where you’ll be able to change. We want to minimise any embarrassment.’ That’s kind of you! I’m not really interested in them. Spying for the Bosnian Serbs! Where has this come from? I feel faint.

I change quickly – trousers, shoes, shirt, tie and blazer, all a bit grubby but so what. Pot Belly and The Taller One are in there with me. I’m told not to touch anything. They’re talking into their Cell phones,‘… is the car ready yet? … no! … ten minutes! … yes, that’s right, side entrance …’

There’s time to kill. They’re not ready for whatever’s coming next. I sit on the bed and smoke a couple of cigarettes.

The Taller One turns to Pot Belly. ‘What did the suspect say when he was arrested?’

Pot Belly checks his notes. ‘He said quote “Mm” unquote.’

‘Is that with two Ms or three?’ his companion asks.

Pot Belly looks confused.

I rescue them. ‘It’s three “Ms”.’ Jesus! These boys really are Keystone Cops. And they’re flapping too, nervous almost. Curious.

Eventually they’re ready. I’m bundled into the back of an unmarked car along with The Taller One. There’s a woman driving. Pot Belly follows in another car. Apparently we’re off to Guildford Police Station – quite what for I still don’t know.

The Taller One asks what my neighbours are like and whether they’re likely to cause trouble. I tell him that they’ll all be at work. He continues asking questions about the house almost bashfully.

‘Is there anything we need to know about your house before we enter?’

‘Like what? What do you mean?’ Now he’s got me baffled.

He says almost shyly, ‘Well you know … some people leave things in their homes, when they’re out …’

‘What sort of things?’ Now I’m interested.

‘Well … unexpected things …’

‘Unexpected things?’

‘You know … booby traps and things like that,’ he says quickly. Booby traps! Does he really think I’ve dug a bear pit in my mid-terrace two-up two-down?

‘No, no, don’t worry. Just turn the key. You’ll be fine,’ I reassure him.

With nothing else to talk about he tries to engage me in idle conversation, ‘So, you’re a biker then. What type do you ride?’

‘Suzuki … eleven hundred,’ I reply automatically.

‘Eleven hundred, eh. What’s the servicing interval then?’ I’m stunned. I can’t believe this is happening. Motorbikes! Servicing intervals … who gives a shit! Here am I arrested for spying and this clown wants to know about servicing intervals.

I make a huge effort, ‘… er … every six thousand miles …’ He nods knowledgeably and the stupid conversation continues. He’s got an accent, West Country or something. I ask him.

‘Devon actually.’

‘Oh, right.’ What next?

‘Have you come far?’ Now I’m doing it, asking stupid questions, ‘Do you come here often?’

‘From Braintree, in Essex. Early start this morning. We were up at five.’ Poor thing! Must have been terrible for you. It’s the early copper who catches a spy. Braintree? Essex? What the hell happens there? And, anyway, who are these people? The only MoD Police I’ve ever seen are those rude, unfriendly uniformed knobs who lurk at the main gates of MoD establishments. Those buggers at Shrivenham are particularly odious – gits without a civil word in their heads.

On the outskirts of Guildford the inane conversation stops. The Taller One’s voice changes, goes up by perhaps half an octave, quicker too. ‘Right, when we get to the police station this is what will happen …’ He quickly outlines a sequence of events adding almost breathlessly,‘… I don’t want to make a mistake at this stage!’ I don’t want to make a mistake at this stage!? You’re flapping. For the first time I realise he’s nervous. You’ve just made your first mistake … never reveal a weakness.

The car swings right through a rear entrance followed by Pot Belly. We’re out of the cars. Flanked by both suits I’m marched into a dark entrance leading to a custody suite with a long, raised counter. There’s an unshaven scruffy drunk slumped against one end of the counter. There’s a large desk sergeant and a young PC behind the counter. The Taller One approaches the PC who is partially hidden behind a computer screen. He produces him his warrant card and explains who he is. The PC looks a bit bewildered. The civilian police don’t know anything about this. They’re not expecting us.

The Taller One starts to read out the arrest warrant. The PC taps furiously on his keyboard – ‘Hold on. Slow down. I’ve got to type all this in.’ He slows down … Official Secrets Act … Bosnian Serbs … passing information … endangering lives … blah, blah, blah … The PC glances at me. His eyes are popping out of his head. Even the drunk perks up.

I’m told to empty my pockets of everything. Wallet is emptied, coins, an old train ticket, Zippo lighter, twenty B&H – ten left. Everything is itemised and recorded in triplicate by the sergeant. My meagre bits and pieces are stuffed into plastic bags.

‘Please remove your belt and tie.’ I do as I’m asked. I can’t believe this is happening!

‘Do you want my watch?’

‘No. You can keep that and your cigarettes. Not the lighter. You’ll have to buzz if you want a light.’ What the hell do they think I’m going to do? Set fire to myself with a Zippo!

‘Have you ever been arrested before?’ asks the PC, eyes still popping. What do you think?

‘No. Never.’

‘Didn’t think so somehow.’ He casts an eye over my blazer with its brass buttons of the Parachute Regiment.

All puffed up, The Taller One pipes up, ‘We don’t want him to make any phone calls at this stage … because of the seriousness of the arrest … not until we’ve searched his house …’ What! What does this asshole think I’m going to do? Pick up the phone to some fictitious contact and say ‘The violets are red’! They really do think I’m a spy.

The PC looks uneasy. ‘No phone call?’

The Taller One nods, ‘… because of the serious nature of the arrest …’ Oh, you’re so bloody sure of yourself aren’t you!

The PC looks troubled and turns to me. ‘Who would you call?’

I shrug my shoulders. ‘Dunno.’

‘Well, don’t you want to phone a lawyer?’

‘A lawyer? I don’t know any lawyers. What do I need a lawyer for?’

‘Is there anyone you want to call?’

I think – Mum? ‘Hi Mum, I’ve just been arrested by MoD Plod for being a spy … how’s the weather in Cornwall?’ Sister? She’d freak out.

I shake my head, ‘No. No one.’

The PC frowns again and hands me a booklet. ‘You might want to read this in the cell … your rights.’ He stresses the word, glancing at The Taller One. Something clicks – you’ve just made your second mistake, you plonker – two in less than half an hour!

The Taller One and Pot Belly go one way, back out, and I go the other. I’m led down a linoleum-floored passage, the left-hand side punctuated by grey steel doors. The sergeant stops at the last, selects a key from the long chain on his belt, turns it in the lock and heaves open the solid door. I step into the cell.

‘Want anything just press this button – coffee or a light, just buzz for it.’

The door slams heavily shut. The key turns in the lock. Silence. For the first time in my life I find myself on the wrong side of the law and the wrong side of a cell door. I feel weak and sick. My knees tremble. I’m sweating slightly. Delayed shock starts to creep over me.

The cell stinks. Shit, piss, puke, stale smoke, disinfectant. I stare in shock at my bleak surroundings. The cell measures maybe twelve by twelve feet, painted a faded, chipped blue-grey. There are two fixed wooden benches; on top of each of them a blue plastic mattress is propped against the wall. To the left is a small alcove with a toilet – chipped and dirty porcelain, no seat, no chain.

I sit down heavily on the right-hand bench. It’s cold and hard. Dumbly, I stare down at my leather brogues – so out of place – and then fish around in my pockets for a light. I need a cigarette. Shit. No light.

I press the buzzer. Nothing happens. I wait a minute and buzz again. Still nothing. I’m about to try again when a little metal grate, half way up the door, scrapes open. A bored voice says, ‘Yeah. Whaddaya want?’ Whaddaya want!!! … YOU … somehow, my criminalisation is now complete.

‘… Er … do you have a light, please?’ I’m trying to be polite here.

‘… Yeah …’

As if by magic a cheap red lighter appears between fat fingers. For a second there I think it’s Pot Belly’s hand, but he’s busy ransacking my house. A dirty thumb strikes a flame. Gratefully I bend and suck in my first lungful of smoke.

‘Thanks very mu—’ The grate slams shut. Silence again. I exhale noisily and sit back down. My mind is now going bananas. What? Why? Who? When? How?

The tip of the cigarette glows angrily. I’m smoking hard. I light another one from it. What to do with the stub? I hold it in my hand and search for an ashtray. There isn’t one. Above the other bench there’s a barred, thick, frosted glass window. On its ledge there are five or six Styrofoam cups lined up like soldiers. I grab one. It’s brimming with cigarette butts. So’s the next, only these are smeared with garish red lipstick – I wonder who you were?

I sit and chainsmoke five cigarettes. Blue smoke hangs in the cell. The nervous, sinking feeling in my stomach gets worse. My bowels are churning furiously. My head is bursting. Pain straight up my neck, around my brain and down into my teeth. How did this happen?

One minute you’re a student half way through a two-year Staff Course, one of the so-called ‘elite’ top five per cent; doing well, head above water, bright future. And the next, here you are, career blown to smithereens by an arrest warrant for espionage – for spying!? … espionage? … a traitor? How the fuck did this happen? How? How? How?

Despite the pain, ache and worry I’m thinking furiously. How? Connections, seemingly unrelated snippets from the past year and a half.

I’m trying to connect. Random telephone calls. A mysterious major from MoD security. Taped conversations. Jamie’s telling me that people don’t trust me. I voice my concerns. Nothing happens. No one gets back to me.

And then there are the watchers, followers. Horrible, uncomfortable feeling that I’m being watched, followed … for a long time. Eighteen months perhaps. I’ve seen them occasionally – just faces, out of place, people doing nothing, with no reason to be there. Who were they? Croats? Bosnians? Serbs? Someone is watching me. Paranoia? I know I’m being watched. Who’s doing it? Why?

The cell door crashes open, severing my train of thought. I leap to my feet not quite knowing what to expect. It’s the young PC. He’s looking at me, uncertainly, almost sympathetically.

‘We’re not happy about this. I’ve been upstairs to see the Inspector. He agrees with me. We think your civil rights have been abused. You’re entitled to make a phone call. It was obvious to me that you had no one in mind when I asked you who you’d like to call, so, who do you want to call?’

I’m stunned. I can’t believe it. Good on him for doing his job properly.

‘Dunno. Don’t know anyone,’ I stammer.

He’s adamant. ‘Look, it’s only advice, but you do need a lawyer. Really you do.’

‘But I don’t know any lawy—’

He cuts me short. ‘We’ll call you a duty lawyer if you like.’ I nod. He disappears and the door clangs shut. I glance at my watch. Over two hours since I was booked in. Bloody heavy-handed MoD Plod – GUILTY, now let’s prove the case!

Ten minutes later the PC is back. ‘We’ve got you a lawyer. She’s on the phone right now … come on!’ I’m led from the cell and shown to a phone hanging off a wall. The handset’s almost touching the floor. I pick it up and put it to my ear.

‘Hello, I’m Issy White from Tanner and Taylor in Farnborough. I understand you need help …’ Help. What can you do for me?

‘Yes, I suppose I do.’

‘What can you tell me?’ What can I tell you? What should I tell her? How much? All of it? Some of it? Which bits to leave out?

‘Er … well … it’s all very sensitive … I can’t … well, not on the phone …’

‘I’ll be round shortly.’ She’s curt.

I’m pathetically grateful that someone, anyone, has shown interest. Face to face she’s as brusque as she was on the phone. In three hours she has my story, all but the really sensitive stuff. She doesn’t need to know about that at the moment. I tell her about my time out there, about the List, the gong, the phone calls, about everything that matters. She scribbles furiously throughout.

‘Does all this sound unbelievable to you, Issy?’

She looks up and quite matter of factly says, ‘No. It all sounds true. I can spot a liar a mile off.’ She’s very serious.

‘No. I don’t really mean “unbelievable”, I suppose I mean “weird”.’

‘Weird? …’ She pauses, ‘… I’ve never heard anything like it.’

‘Yeah, well, it’s all true, every word of it …’ I feel tired ‘… It’s all true. It happened.’

Issy promises to get me some more cigarettes. She thinks they’ll be finished with my house by two o’clock. She leaves and tells me she’ll be back for ‘question time’.

Back in the cell I’ve got nothing to do except mull over the same old thoughts. Two o’clock comes and goes. Nothing. Three o’clock. Still nothing. I’m dog tired but still thinking, sick and churning but still thinking. What should I tell them? All of it? That would implicate Rose and Smith. Keep it from them. Tell them the minimum. I know what this is about. It’s about phone calls. It’s about a lot more than that. But for now, it’s about phone calls. I’m not about to bubble away Rose, Smith and the others. Not yet anyway. Keep the List out of it.

I’m sitting there staring at my shoes again, my elbows on my knees, head in my hands. I’ve smoked my last cigarette. There’s nothing else to think about. There’s nothing left anymore. Staff College and all that’s happened in the last two and a half years – a dream, a lifetime ago. And now they’re utterly irrelevant to me. Reality is where the illusion is strongest. This is where it’s strongest. Reality is this cell. Nothing else exists and I’m so tired, so, so tired. I have to sleep. Get some strength. Must sleep.

I take off my blazer and lie down on the bench. I can’t be bothered with the mattress. I cover my head with the blazer. It’s all so cold and dark, just like it was then, a thousand years ago – cold, dark, unknown and terrifying. I close my eyes. The tape starts playing and I’m back there. Reality. I can hear the shouts and screams, feel the cold, the panic and the terror. I’m there again.