I looked at him as if I'd been insulted.
Passport, driver's license, credit cards are the basic requirements for giving depth to a cover story. From there the K builds up his own cover by using the credit cards to buy things, or maybe make direct payments for magazine subscriptions or club memberships. I had my cards with me as al ways, but not my passport. The one Simmonds handed me had probably been specially produced that morning, correct even down to visas and the right degree of aging.
I didn't have time to finish my coffee. The clerk reappeared and took me downstairs. I signed for the documents in the outer office before I left; thirteen pieces of paper with the in formation on them, and I had to sign each sheet. Then I had to sign for the folder it was in. Fucking bureaucracy.
A car was waiting for me outside. I jumped in the front;
when I was a kid I'd look at people being chauffeured and think. Who the fuck do they think they are? I talked shit with the driver, probably bored him silly; he didn't really want to talk, but it made me feel better.
A civilian Squirrel was waiting on the pad at Battersea heliport, rotors slowly turning. I had one last job to do before boarding; from a pay phone I called up the family who covered for me, people who'd vouch for me if I was ever up against it. They'd never take any action on my behalf, but if I got lifted I could say to the police, 'That's where I live-phone them, ask them.'
A male voice answered the phone.
'James, it's Nick. I've just been given a chance to go to the States and visit friends. I might be a week or two. If it's more, I'll call' James understood.
'The Wilmots next door had a break-in two days ago and we're going to see Bob in Dorset over the Easter weekend.'
I needed to know these things because I would if I lived there all the time. They even sent the local paper to my accommodation address each week.
'Cheers, mate. When you see that son of yours next weekend, tell him he still owes me a night out.'
'I will... Have a nice holiday.'
As we skimmed over the Irish Sea I opened the briefing pack and thumbed through the material. I needn't have bothered.
All they knew for certain was that two boys had booked tickets to Washington, D.C.' and they wanted to find out why.
They wanted to know who they were meeting and what was happening once they met. I knew from experience that the chances of failure were great. Even if they kept to the script and landed in D.C.' how was I going to follow them around?
There were two of them and one of me; as a basic anti surveillance drill they were sure to split up at some point. But hey, the Firm had me by the balls.
Judging from one of the documents, it seemed that we'd reached the time of the year when all good PIRA fund raisers headed for the dinner circuit in Boston, New York, Washington, D.C.--even down as far as Tucson, Arizona, to catch Irish American sympathizers who'd retired to the sun. It seemed that the seizure often tons of explosives and weapons during the search of a warehouse in north London last September had produced a financial crisis. PIRA wasn't exactly asking its bank for an overdraft yet, but the increase in legitimate fund-raising in Northern Ireland was an indication that they were sweating. There were also other, less public, ways of raising cash. I was sure my new friends were part of that.
Apart from that, I was still none the wiser about the job. I had no information on the players' cover stories, or where they might be going, inside or outside D.C. All I knew was who they were and what they looked like. I read that Michael Kerr had been a member of the South Armagh ASU (Active Service Unit). He'd taken part in four mortar attacks on Special Forces bases and in dozens of shootings against the security forces and Protestants. He'd even gotten wounded once but escaped into the South. A tough nut.
The same could be said for Morgan McGear. After a career as a shooter in the border area of South Armagh, the thirty-one-year-old subcontractor had been promoted to PIRA's security team, where his job was to find and question informers.
His favored method of interrogation was a Black & Decker power drill. The helicopter was operated by a civilian front company, so the arrival procedure at Shannon, the Irish Republic's premier airport, was no different than if I'd been a horse breeder coming to check the assets at his stud farm in Tipperary, or a businessman flying in from London to fill his briefcase with European Union subsidies. I walked across the tarmac into the arrivals terminal, went through Customs, and followed the exit signs, heading for the taxi stand. At the last minute I doubled back into departures.
At the Aer Lingus ticket desk I picked up my ticket for Heathrow, which had been booked in the name of Nick Stamford. When choosing a cover name it's always best to keep your own first name--that way you react naturally to it. It also helps if your last name begins with the real initial because the signature flows better. I'd picked Stamford after the battle of Stamford Bridge. I loved medieval history.
I headed straight to the shop to buy myself a bag. Everybody has hand luggage; I'd stick out like the balls on a bulldog if I boarded the aircraft with nothing but a can of Coke. I never traveled with luggage that had to be checked in because then you're in the hands of whoever it is who decides to take bags marked Tokyo and send them to Buenos Aires instead. Even if your baggage does arrive safely, if it reaches the carousel five minutes after the target's, you're fucked.
I bought some toothpaste and other odds and ends, all the time keeping an eye out for Euan. I knew that he'd be glued to Kerr and McGear, unless they'd already gone through the security gates.
The departures lounge seemed full of Irish families who were going to find the Easter sun, and newly retired Americans who'd come to find their roots, wandering around with their brand-new Guinness sweatshirts, umbrellas, and baseball caps, and leprechauns in tins and little pots of grow-your-own shamrock.
It was busy, and the bars were doing good business. I spotted Euan at the far end of the terminal, sitting at a table in a coffee shop, having a large frothy coffee and reading a paper. I'd always found 'Euan' a strange name for him. It always made me think of a guy with a kilt on running up and down a hill somewhere, tossing a caber. In fact, he was born in Oxford, and his parents came from Surrey.
They must have watched some Scottish movie and liked the name.
To the left was a bar. Judging by where Euan was sitting I guessed that was where the players were. I didn't bother looking; I knew Euan would point them out. There was no rush.
As I came out of the pharmacy, I looked toward the coffee shop and got eye-to-eye. I started walking toward him, big grin all over my face as if I'd just spotted a long-lost pal, but didn't say anything yet. If somebody was watching him, knowing he was on his own, it wouldn't look natural for me just to come up and sit next to him and start talking. It had to look like a chance meeting, yet not such a noisy one that people noticed it. They wouldn't think. Oh, look, there's two spies meeting, but it registers. It might not mean anything at the time, but it could cost you later.
Euan started to stand and returned my smile.
'Hello, dickhead, what are you doing here?' He gestured for me to join him.
We sat down, and since Euan was sponsoring the RV (rendezvous), he came up with the cover story.
'I've just come to see you from Belfast before you fly back to London. Old friends from schooldays.' It helps to know you both have the same story.
'Where are they?' I said, as if asking after the family.
'My half left and you've got the bar. Go right of the TV They're sitting--one's got a jean jacket on, one a black three-quarter-length suede coat. Ken is on the right-hand side. He's now called Michael Lindsay. McGear is Morgan Ashdown.'
'Have they checked in?'
'Yes. Hand luggage only.'
'For two weeks in Washington?'
'They've got suit bags.'
'And they haven't gone to any other check-in?'
'No, it looks like they're going to Heathrow.'
I walked over to the counter and bought two coffees.
They were the only Irishmen at the bar, because everybody else was wearing a Guinness polo shirt and
