‘What about the bloody French?’ someone replied sarcastically, to a few chuckles.
‘That’s a good question actually,’ said Sumners. ‘The French will not be informed of this operation. For a number of reasons we will be keeping this strictly a UK intelligence op. For all intents and purposes you are on vacation in Paris. That’s why you will be using cell-phones only for communications. Normally you would stay in the embassy for a day to be processed and qualify for diplomatic immunity. But obviously we do not have enough time for that. Technically what we’re doing is quite illegal and would cause a diplomatic storm if it got out. There must be no risks taken. If this operation is blown the repercussions will go all the way to the top.’
‘Exactly why aren’t we telling the French?’ Doles asked.
‘We don’t trust the bastards, that’s why,’ Clemens answered.
Sumners interrupted the laughing. ‘First of all, we don’t particularly want the French to know we have a mole. And if they found out that one of their own intelligence officers was working for RIRA and the ALG they might close him down immediately to avoid any further embarrassment. Henri is our only lead. We’re prepared to take the risk to keep him operational.’
‘Any more questions?’ Jardene asked. After a moment’s silence, he continued, ‘This is not a difficult operation. I must impress upon you not to be overconfident though. If at any time you feel you have been overexposed you must pull off.’
‘I would rather lose the mouse for another day than let it know there’s a cat in the house,’ Sumners added.
‘Right then,’ Jardene said. ‘Pack any kit you will not need and leave it in building one. It’ll be taken back to Poole. You should be home by tomorrow night after a debriefing back in Poole . . . Dolesy.’
Doles took his cue and stepped forward to address everyone. ‘Okay. Stores, transport, timings. Be in building six in thirty minutes. You’ll be given cell-phones, spare batteries, hand chargers and expenses money. Brent. You’re the tech man on this one. When I’ve dished out the phones and money we’ll go through the audios and cameras. Any questions? That’s all. Oh, and the expense money is for meals and transport only, not beer, Jackson. You give back what you don’t spend, and no receipts, tough titty, you pay out of your own pocket.’
‘Jock bastard,’ someone mumbled, followed by some laughing as the men headed for the door.
‘You better believe it,’ Doles said.
‘Oh, and I suggest you clean up - wash and shave - you’re tourists not farm labourers,’ Jardene called out.
Hank waited for everyone else to file out. Sumners and Jardene remained to huddle over the map and discuss the operation further. He thought about asking Jardene what he should do with himself but decided against interrupting him and left the building.
He stepped out into the chilly night air. The stars were clear and bright as the night before. Stratton was talking with Doles at the far end of the building. Hank headed to the edge of the compound a few yards away to look out over the countryside. Doles finished his conversation with Stratton and headed away.
‘Hank,’ Stratton called out. Hank looked over at him. ‘You been to Paris?’ he asked.
Hank walked casually towards Stratton with his hands in his pockets. ‘Nope,’ he said.
‘I suppose you don’t speak French.’
‘First time anyone’s ever asked me and the first time I wish I did,’ Hank said with a smirk.
Stratton smiled thinly. ‘Always a lot of American tourists in Paris,’ he said.
There was something in Stratton’s tone that caused Hank’s hopes to skyrocket. ‘Wish I was one of them tomorrow,’ he said.
‘Maybe you should be.’
‘How would that work?’ Hank asked, remaining as matter of fact as he could.
‘You got your passport?’ Stratton asked.
Hank’s hope sunk again. ‘No,’ he said.
‘Navy ID?’
‘Sure.’
‘That’ll do. You stick with me, okay?’
‘Okay,’ Hank said.
‘Put your kit with the rest of the baggage for Poole and I’ll see you at the vehicles,’ Stratton said and walked away.
Hank could not help grinning. First thing was a quick wash and shave, then put on that clean shirt he’d brought along. He walked briskly to his basher. Things were not bad at all, he decided.
Four hours after leaving Ilustram Hank was sitting on the Eurostar and heading through the Channel Tunnel. He was boxed in between Stratton opposite, staring out of the window into the darkness, and Doles beside him, with his feet up on the seat beside Stratton.They were the only operatives in this carriage. The others were spread about the rest of the train in ones and twos. Only two civilian passengers shared the carriage and they were at a far end.
The three men had hardly said a word to each other since they left the training camp. Doles had nodded off for most of the journey in the van. Hank felt tired, but not enough to sleep just yet. He was aware Stratton had not slept either and wondered what was on the man’s mind. He had the feeling something was troubling him; perhaps it was the responsibility of the operation. Hank was tempted to start a conversation but couldn’t think of a way into it, past that invisible wall, which discouraged anyone from getting too close.
But Doles seemed to be close to Stratton. They had a connection of some kind. Hank thought about striking up a conversation with him instead. Doles had the potential to be quite the chatterbox. Hank still had difficulty understanding his Scottish accent though, and when he did found him to be quite opinionated, or perhaps it was just the forceful way he talked. The man had a habit of talking at you rather than with you. But Hank felt it would only be a positive thing to get to know him better, and indeed all of the men, including Stratton. As he pondered what he might open with, Doles beat him to it.
‘Long time since I was in France,’ he said without looking at Hank. ‘It was during the Falklands war . . . Christ, I was still a single man in those days. Seems like yesterday.’
‘You were in France during the Falklands war?’ Hank asked, curious.
‘Aye. Bastards were sending Exocets to the Argies even after that lying turd Mitterand promised Thatcher he wouldn’t send any more. And he bloody well knew it because his bloody brother was chief executive of the company that made the bloody missiles.’
‘What were you doing there, or can’t you say?’
‘Christ. It was more’n two decades ago . . . They were shipping the Exocets across France and through Italy and then loading them on to Peruvian merchant ships that would then deliver them to the Argies. We were minutes from blowing one batch of missiles to hell when Thatcher called us off. She had a change of heart about taking the war into Europe. Bastards wouldn’t even give us the frequencies of the Exocets they sold to the Argies either. As far as I’m concerned the fucking frogs sunk our ships and killed our sailors as much as the Argies did.’
Hank thought he understood most of what Doles had said. One or two more heavily accented words had escaped him but he’d got the gist of it. Hank knew very little about the Falklands conflict and even less about European politics.
‘And to think those bastards were Scotland’s allies against these Sassenachs for hundreds of years,’ Doles went on, nudging Stratton with his foot at the word ‘Sassenach’. Stratton raised an eyebrow at Doles then went back to looking into the blackness. Hank wondered if Stratton liked Doles or just put up with his familiarity. He started to wonder if Stratton had a family, brothers and sisters, and what he was like with his folks.
Doles nudged Hank.‘You Americans don’t like the French much either, ain’t that right?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know any French people myself.’
‘They were all that stood between you lot still having a Union Jack for your national flag. I don’t understand why you and the French aren’t big pals. Strange bloody lot if you ask me. Mind you, can’t expect much else from a race that’ll eat anything that bloody moves. Ain’t that right, Stratton?’ Doles said, nudging him with his foot again.
