Better still, she added, she'd like a pair. She was the one who was going to strike the deal with the Afghans, and it was a simple case of 'We'll scratch your back by carrying on showing you how to fuck the Russians, you scratch ours with a helicopter or two.'
From day one of the two months that we were moving in and out of Pakistan to the rebels' mountain hideouts, she was a consummate professional to work with. She made life so much easier for us sometimes on jobs like this we could spend just as much time massaging the fear factor out of the poor fucker who had to make the meet as we would preparing for it ourselves. But she was different. Maybe she wasn't scared because she had just as much of a fiery temper as the truculent rebels. That often led to delays in negotiations more so than the fact that she was a woman.
But it was obvious to me that she had the knowledge, language and background to hold her own with these people, for whom we all had the greatest respect; after all, they were fighting a superpower, and winning.
I saw that Sarah had a love and understanding of this part of the world that she couldn't have hidden, even if she'd tried. On top of that, she was switched on and didn't flap when the meets got heated. She knew I was there, and that the other three were around somewhere, watching. If the shit had hit the fan, the Afghans wouldn't have known what had hit them unless the shit was Russian, in which case our orders were to bail out and leave the rebels to it.
We were on a shopping trip, but with a difference. Everyone had a weapon and everyone was at war not only with the Russians, but also with each other as they fought to gain control of the country. Sarah played one group off against another to get what she wanted. It went wrong only once, when two young men discovered what was going on and confronted her. I had to do a little confrontation of my own at that point, and make sure the bodies were never found.
Another time she lost her cool when the rebels told her they wanted to sell the Hind to her, not simply hand it over. They had screamed and shouted at each other and the meet had ended with her storming off the mountainside. We drove to the border in silence, while she sat and brooded about what had happened. At length she said, 'Not a good one for me, Nick. What do you think I should write in my report?'
I thought for a moment.
'PMS?'
She laughed.
'Never mind, we'll just have to come back and try again soon, but not for the next five days.' It was the first time I'd seen her really laugh. As we tried to make it back to Pakistan before one of the helicopters she was so keen to get hold of found us, she was giggling like a school kid
It turned into a ritual. After it happened for the third time I would just nod and say, 'Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke.' She'd laugh, and we would then just spin the shit until we got to the safety of Pakistan.
Later she had a report that PIRA (the Provisional IRA) were passing technical information to the mujahedin on how to make homemade explosives and timer units. London reckoned the Afghans would be paying PIRA back with buckets of their U.S.and U.K.-sourced weapons.
She looked concerned.
'What are we going to do about it, Nick? London wants me to find out who their contact is.'
I cracked up.
'You already know them.'
She looked puzzled.
'I do?'
'Colin, Finbar, Simon and me.'
She was now totally confused.
'Think about it. Who has been fighting a terrorist war for years? We showed the Afghans what PIRA use, we showed them how to make the timer units. PIRA's stuff is easy to make, reliable and it works. It's the best improvized kit in the world. We even use it ourselves, so why not show our new best mates? That's our job, right: to help fuck up the bad boys.'
The next evening in Pakistan was spent constructing a sit rep that took the piss out of the int collator who'd thought up this little PIRA gem, and she found it as funny as I did, which was all rather nice, because I was finding that I liked the way her nose twitched when something amused her and her face creased into a big, radiant smile.
It was strange that we got on so well, because in many ways we were chalk and cheese. I had joined the Army because I was too thick to do anything else. I'd seen the adverts that said I could be a helicopter pilot serving Queen and country, and an uncle of mine, who was an ex serviceman told me that girls loved a uniform. As far as I was concerned, all you had to do to get permanently tanned and laid was saunter down to the recruiting office. To a sixteen-year-old kid who thought that the world beyond my south London housing estate was just hearsay, it was no wonder the posters sucked me in. I couldn't wait to go to Cyprus wherever that was and fly my helicopter over beaches packed with girls who were just gagging for me to land and let them play with my joystick.
Strangely, however, that wasn't quite the way things turned out. I took the entry tests, but the Army seemed to take the view that somebody who could only just about do up his own boot laces without getting confused was not about to take sole charge of a multimillion-pound Chinook. So, the infantry it was, then.
Sarah, on the other hand, was smart. Private Benjamin she wasn't. Not that I knew much about her; ironically, she was just as good as I was at not giving anything away. No, I realized later, she was better. And to be honest that pissed me off. I wanted to know all about her strengths and weaknesses, her hopes and fears, her likes and dislikes, because armed with that information I could properly plan and carry out an attack on her expensive designer underwear. Since part of our cover while in Pakistan was that we were a couple and had to share the same hotel room much to Colin's fury I thought I might be in with a chance. At least, that was at the back of my mind at the start. I soon surprised myself by finding that, more than to get into her pants, I wanted to get inside her head. I realized I actually liked her. I liked her a lot, and I'd never felt that way about anyone before.
As time went by, however, I was making no progress. I could never get any sort of handle on who this woman really was. It was like playing a computer game and never getting past level one. It wasn't that she was aloof; she was a great mixer. She'd go out with the team, and even accepted dinner with me a couple of times. She had a way of making me feel like a puppy jumping around at her feet waiting for a doggie treat. I knew, though, that I had the dreamer's disease, and that nothing would happen between us. What the fuck would she want from someone like me, apart from my ability to rip people apart for her if they got too scary?
On that point I'd obviously acquitted myself all right, because Sarah was the one who suggested that I apply for a job with the service once I lefr the Regiment. Even now, after five years, I still didn't know if I should kiss her for that, or give her the good news with a two-pound ball hammer.
I drank more beer and tried to watch the TV screen in front of me, but really I couldn't be assed. I thought back again to the Afghanistan job. The United States and its allies gave tens of thousands of assault rifles and rocket-propelled grenades, millions of rounds of ammunition and hundreds of Stinger missiles to the mujahedin. By the time the war ended in 1989 the muj's stock of Stingers was far from exhausted, and the CIA soon had a multimillion-dollar reward operation going, in an attempt to get them back before they were sold to any terrorist group who fancied a couple to play with. As far as I knew, the offer still stood.
I turned onto my side, trying to get comfortable, and thought that maybe I should be going back to try and get some of that reward for myself.
It was about time I made some money. I didn't know where they were, but I knew an Afghan who'd got Sarah's Hinds for her, and he just might.
It's strange how things change. During that time Bin Laden was most certainly in the West's Good Lads club. Now he'd had the idea of blowing up things on the American mainland, he was public enemy number one. I wondered what sort of reward the U.S. had on his head.
The flight ended in Dulles airport, just outside of Washington, and I joined the long snake of people lining up for Immigration. It took about twenty minutes to shuffle to the desks, gradually zigzagging my way backward and forward between the ropes. It reminded me of lining up for a ride at Disneyland. The immigration personnel looked like policemen and behaved like bouncers, pushing and herding us into position.
My immigration official glared as if he were trying to spook me, maybe because he was bored. I just smiled like a dickhead tourist while he stamped the visa waiver and wearily invited me to enjoy my stay in the United States of America.
