they would suspect Spinks’s nerve had withered, which was not uncommon in this line of work. He could then say goodbye to the extended tour of duty he was hoping for. His three-year stint in the unit was up in two months and he wanted to stay on for another three years. Hell, he wanted to stay on for ever. There was no way he could go back to the regular military, not now, not after life in the detachment, and the thought of civilian life was unbearable.
Spinks came from the Air Force, where he was an ordinary airman, a general duties gash-hand. It was hard enough for him then, having to wear a uniform every day, and keep it clean. He had joined the RAF after he left school because he could think of nothing else in the world to do, a lost soul with no ambitions or motivations. He was sent on the detachment selection course only because his boss had received a Ministry of Defence circular asking for volunteers for ‘special duties’ and saw it as a great opportunity to get rid of the disorderly airman. Six months later Spinks was in his new life. To go back to that mundane existence after having been an undercover agent would be impossible. If he had to leave he would go outside and become a civvy, but life would no longer have purpose or meaning for him.
He decided that if there was something going on outside, if there was danger, he would wait until there was no doubt, even if that made it a bit late to do anything about it. Such was the life he had chosen.
Spinks was not a top-shelf operative. Not that there was an official ranking or ratings list. But there was an unofficial one, in the opinions of his fellow rank and file. There were many tales of daring deeds but nearly all were of operatives who had passed into history, some stories even mythical. It was the dream of most undercover agents to have at least one great event that would propel them into that exclusive club of superheroes, but few came even close. One had to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and come through it with some kind of positive result other than having just survived.The hero status thrust upon undercover operatives by the rest of the military minions by virtue of their mysterious and dangerous job was not enough for some. To be a superhero amongst heroes was the dizzy and largely unobtainable height many fantasised about.The more direct route to fame was, of course, through a kill. But one kill did not ensure fame, although it was a good start. Real fame came with multiple kills. Lucky kills didn’t count either.
They might even cause an operative to be ridiculed.
But Spinks did not share those dreams, not like that anyhow. He knew his limitations. He would not even imagine being up there with the likes of Stratton for instance, who had several kills; four official since he arrived in the province, but everyone knew about at least two others.Then there were the rumoured countless kills from Stratton’s ‘other military employment’, dozens some said, but no one in the detachment would ever learn the truth about them, not from Stratton anyhow. Spinks did dream of fame.What was unusual was that he had a plan to get himself some. He discovered that after volunteering for the first couple of more unpopular assignments, and carrying them out satisfactorily and without complaint his name was being mentioned in operations meetings and team leaders were requesting him for specific tasks, ones that no one else particularly wanted to do. He had made himself the go-to guy for the crap stake-outs. He had found himself a niche. He had carved himself a unique and positive reputation, which was more than could be said for most. Undercover agents came and went but few were remembered and even fewer talked about by later generations. If an operative was required to be up to his neck in shit to do an assignment, literally, then Spinks was your man.
Spinks suddenly realised he had not given the clear for Ed to come and drive him away. He chastised himself for being so stupid, found the prestel and whispered into his collar.
‘One three kilo, this is four two Charlie. O’Farroll is gone mobile towards south. I am clear for pick-up,’ he whispered.
Aggy pushed the concealed send button wired into the framework of the car just below her seat. ‘One three kilo, roger that. Towards your location now.’
‘Four two Charlie,’ Spinks acknowledged, releasing the prestel and trying to relax. He figured Ed should take about seven minutes. Then he sensed something, or perhaps it was more like he felt it. It seemed as if the side of the car had been gently brushed against. He tried to extend his senses to the outside of the car. It happened again, a gentle movement against the shell. Spinks hardly breathed, frozen like a rabbit with a snake peering in through the entrance to its hole.
Aggy started the car then to her surprise Ed opened his door and climbed out. ‘I’m going to ’ave a piss,’ he declared as he emptied the remnants of his cup of coffee down his throat and shook out any drops.
‘Now?’ she asked, irritated with his timing.
‘I’d better ’ave a little sprinkle before I pick up old Spinksy. Long drive back to camp,’ he said and casually walked over to the bushes undoing his fly.
‘Dick,’ she muttered to herself and left the engine running. Not that there was any rush. It was a low-key, relatively relaxed operation, a Sunday morning job in just about every way. Spinks could wait another few minutes. She was feeling short tempered with Ed simply because he annoyed her. She was impatient to be rid of him. There was nothing else on her agenda for that day. She would do her small amount of washing, clean up her tiny room that was barely large enough to take the single bed, desk and wardrobe, then perhaps fit in an aerobic session although she did not feel in the mood just yet. She could check and see if any new videos had arrived, that’s if no one else was hogging the TV room. Then she remembered, of course, it was Sunday. The blokes would be watching bloody football all afternoon. There was that long overdue letter to her mother she kept putting off. It wasn’t that she had a problem with her mother; it was the letters themselves. They were all lies and getting more and more difficult to write. It was hard for her to think of new things to invent. Aggy’s mother thought she was in Germany attached to a tank regiment but Aggy had never actually been to Germany. She could never tell her mother what she really did, not while she was still in the job. Her mother would go daft with the constant worry.
She looked at the back of Ed, who was taking his sweet time. ‘Come on, wally,’ she muttered to herself.
Spinks could now positively identify a sliding metallic noise against the body of the car. A sudden ‘clunk’ made him jerk. His breathing became shallow and rapid. Adrenaline pumped through his veins. His hand moved to his gun and he swallowed as he gripped it. His mouth was open to improve his hearing, analysing every sound as his thumb found the safety-catch.
Ed finished his pee, did up his fly with a flex of his knees, and headed back to the car. ‘I ’ope Spinsky doesn’t think I’m going to stop up the road and let ’im out of the boot and in the front. He can stay where he is, the smelly bugga.’
As Ed climbed in Aggy pulled smartly away, throwing him back into his seat and causing his flask to fall off the dash and on to his lap.
‘Steady,’ he complained. ‘Where’s the bloody race?’
In retaliation he produced a tin of tobacco, removed a pre-made roll-up, lit it and puffed on it without inhaling until the car was filled with smoke. She rolled down her window, biting her lip and counting the minutes she had left with him.
‘That’s tactically unsound, driving with your window open,’ he said dryly.
She wondered what she had done to deserve this.
Spinks heard another, louder clink.The car definitely moved. Then one of the doors opened. The car dipped a little on one side as if someone had climbed in. Another door opened the other side and the car sunk a little the other way. He knew it wasn’t Ed. Ed would never have gotten into the car or even approached it without warning him over the radio first. Spinks was trying to evaluate precisely what was happening and what he could do about it. His fingers felt the prestel sticking from his sleeve. He realised his hands were shaking. He pushed the button and was about to say something then stopped himself. Whoever was in the car might hear him. He prayed it was just a pair of thugs looking to steal something from it. They would get a shock if they managed to open the boot. He would arrest them even if the mission was blown and it would not be his fault. The bosses would understand that. He held the prestel in one hand and gun in the other, preparing himself to kick the seat in.
The engine suddenly roared to life, two doors slammed shut and Spinks was thrown back as the car screeched away. It must have driven on the grass verge for several yards because it bounced horrendously, tossing Spinks around inside as if he was shooting rapids in a barrel. The gears changed quickly as the car built up speed, returned to the road and swerved as it accelerated hard along it. Spinks lost his prestel and weapon in the turmoil.
