Above and Beyond

Chapter 6

  ‘We’ had our first meeting with the outside world in Lady S’s special ‘Coms Link’ room that evening, but before that most of the rest of the afternoon was taken up with Sherri trying to convince David and I that she was not cuckoo.

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  ‘As you have most likely guessed he is not my brother, but he is my Uncle, a couple of times removed, but unfortunately ‘my Niece’ in certain circles means ‘my bit on the side’, and my ‘great niece’ would therefore mean that I was ‘a right good go’er in bed’, so it was more socially acceptable for me to switch Daddies (and generations). It was only meant to be until Rose, his first wife, was off the scene, but it quickly became clear that it might have ‘long term prospects’. Jeremy was earmarked for bigger things, but with a little digging by ‘the team that does that sort of thing’ it became clear that she was a closet racist, and the door was starting to open. She especially didn’t like the ‘towel heads’ of the Middle East, but fortunately (for us) it turned out that she had leaked some very sensitive material to the press and so after a full, frank and meaningful discussion, that made the consequences clear to her what would happen if she interfered in politics this side of the equator, the divorce was a formality and she accepted a complete identity change and relocation to Australia, where she is now something very big on their political scene.

  ‘But why are you in Spain? David asked ‘and not in the Middle East’?

  ‘Because at this stage of the game, being based in one particular Middle Eastern Country would be seen as us being biased to some factions, Spain is sufficiently far away to level the playing field – and fortuitously it is also where you live’.

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, believe it or not, following your escapade off Somalia you came to certain people’s attention (just a few million, I thought) and you have, through your actions, then and thereafter, established a reputation amongst them as being an ‘honourable man’, in circles where ‘honour’ is considered the highest of high complements. You are also filthy rich, which carries loads of clout with another circle, and you can pull fabulous birds, which covers the ‘dirty old men brigade’, so you tick quite a few of the boxes that we need’.

  ‘Is your passport genuine? David continued.

  ‘Almost, but the Queens Messenger one is, did you get a good image of it with your little Minolta, and I hope you then did the sensible thing and stopped digging once you realised what you were getting yourself into’.

  ‘Yes’ David sheepishly said.

  ‘Don’t worry, hopefully once things have run their course you will be back on the ‘most trusted’ list, but you had to be allowed to do ‘your thing’ unhindered, to get your credibility verified as well’. We then continued with more and more probing questions but finally we were convinced, but I still had two questions which David politely excused himself from.

  ‘What does your real Christian name start with? I asked tentatively.

  ‘Don’t worry your track record is unblemished’ she said, but her fingers were crossed behind her back.

  ‘And where does this leave us? Was there ever anything between us, or is it all part of the grand scheme?’

  After a few seconds pause she quietly said ‘there are very few things that happen in a person’s life that they will remember exactly where they were, until the day they die, Kennedys assassination, the twin towers, and for me when you took on those pirates. I, along with millions of other women fell in love with you instantaneously, in that Kevlar helmet and armoured vest, the difference with me is that I have never stopped loving you, and the last few days have also joined that list as well’ (and her fingers weren’t crossed as she said it).

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  I had been in the room before, but it looked absolutely nothing like it looked now. Boxes and equipment had been moved aside to reveal a bank of screens, but most of them were still in darkness, the only ones that were active displayed the faces of Jeremy and my old friend HRH.

  ‘Good evening Andrew’ HRH said politely, ‘Mummy is still talking about the Lady S, I sometimes wish I hadn’t talked you into loaning her to us’ as an ice breaker, and then it was down to business. Sherri had brought David and I ‘up to speed’ concerning the Banquet (it was all stage managed to enable Jeremy to be recalled to England for a few months without it attracting any attention – ‘even the weather’ she had joked – but I didn’t believe that part one little bit), and then it was explained to us what parts they hoped we would play - basically they needed our reputations, and El Campo. With my agreement with the aviation authorities aircraft could fly in and out with impunity, all Chalkie had to do was give numbers on board each aircraft (for search and rescue purposes – if one crashed en-route) and my word that nothing illegal would take place; talking, to my knowledge was not illegal.

  Over the next few days El Campo and its staff were given a security check second to none. Three of the security team were sent on ‘routine relocation’ to other properties that I had around the globe, they thought they had won the lottery, along with four of the domestic staff. All were precautionary, their loyalty to me was not in doubt – but when David looked into ‘nationalities’ his ‘conspiracy theory’ thoughts kicked in, ‘better to be safe than sorry’, although our first two guests were, in the greater scheme of things, little fish. They were disposable assets who were sent to test the water. They arrived in separate aircraft, which taxied into an empty hangar, and they and their attendant staff (they were limited to a maximum of two - that were on a previously approved list) disembarked, stripped naked, x-rayed, and provided with appropriate clothing of the highest quality (which would then be incinerated in front of them before they left). They could bring with them only one external hard drive, that I had previously provided (and had been tamper-proofed to the enth degree) with any information that that they may require for the meeting pre-installed – but checked by David, before he plugged it into a new laptop that I provided for them (that was his primary purpose for being here). Again they would all be destroyed in front of them before they departed. It was a process that would ensure as close to a one hundred-per-cent guarantee that I could give that all information would be secure, and surprisingly, with virtually no bickering, all parties agreed, and as each ‘visit’ was limited to six hours there were no ‘overnighters’ involved. Both parties were taken to the top floor of Mi Casa by different lifts, for no other reason than to some, it was an insult to be offered rooms/offices on the left as the exited a lift or the stairs, that is why Sherri is so good at her job, it really is the little things that make all the difference. The lift to the Control Tower offered an outstanding view of El Campo, and its facilities, and the other one, in the atrium, gave the guests a glimpse at my luxurious lifestyle. At that stage all guests were to be offered a private visit ‘in better times’, although I was to have my fingers crossed on several occasions. Once they had been settled in their rooms, clearly monitored visually on CCTV by David’s team, they could liaise with Maria, via an intercom and hold ‘joint’ negotiations on the balcony overlooking the Atrium. The first round of talks were deemed an outstanding success by all concerned and over the next three weeks my aircraft (operated by the same company that had flown the Hercules during my adventure in Morocco recovering the FW 190’s, Stuka’s and my beloved Storch’s (I had ended up keeping them both – perks of the job) were kept in regular use, each round of talks with participants progressively higher up the food chain, with a few of the principles in previous meetings relegated to support staff. David was as usual not happy with that, he didn’t like repeat attendees, they knew the routine to well, so when the very first ‘principle’ to arrive on that test run, returned, as a ‘second string’ he was given more than a passing glance when he went through the screening procedure, especially as he now had a shattered arm, held together with steel pins and rods that he had sustained when a suicide bomber had blown himself up in a market close to his office: it
had been so large that it was ‘nightly news’ globally for several days. Everyone (but David) agreed that he hadn’t been the target, he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, so after a more than cursory check on his arm Mustafa was soon on his way to embark in the waiting stretch limo, that would take them to their lift.

  Up until today the principle, then his two assistants would embark, and sit on the huge rear seat, and when comfortable Sherri would climb into a jump seat facing them to conduct small talk, or answer any innocuous questions on the very short drive, but this time David, without telling anyone but Katie, changed the routine ‘he just had a feeling in his water’. Since the restaurant episode in Madrid Katie had become a permanent fixture at Sherri’s side, the same as David was at mine on these occasions, and everyone accepted this, but until now, for the short trip to Mi Casa, Katie stood on the side of the Limo, on stirrup’s, and holding on to a ‘luggage rack’ on its roof, very ‘US Presidential cavalcade’ like, but this time she followed Sherri in, pushing her gently (in a forceful way) over to the other jump seat, and Sherri, sensing the change in plan complied, just as Mustafa screamed, as he wrenched the large pin from his injured arm, which parted and a revealed a stiletto type knife, and lunged at her, but as the fog of pain cleared she wasn’t where she should have been, and this momentarily confused him, and in that instant Katie grabbed the blade and pulled it away from Sherri. As the blade swung safely away from her, Katie’s fingers starting to drop off, surgically severed by the blade, but the last two remained attached long enough for her to throw herself onto it (and Mustafa). Russell, who was watching his passengers embark in his rear view mirror, spotted the sudden movement by Mustafa and stamped on the floor, and instantly the car was filled with an immobilising gas, but unfortunately the passenger door was still open and it didn’t immobilise Mustafa instantly, he was able to force the blade into Katie before he lost consciousness.

  I would have expected the assassination attempt on Sherri to bring things to a screeching halt, but if anything it speeded it up. When Mustafa regained consciousness he was mortified that he had almost killed the wrong person, and after a few moments of soul searching he resignedly explained to David and his team that he had been forced into the attempt by unknown persons. He, along with his parents, wife, their two small children and four other members of his immediate family had been kidnapped shortly after he returned from his first visit to El Campo. They were all taken to an empty warehouse in shackles, and in front of his relatives he was politely ‘asked’ to kill Sherri, in the name of Allah, and when he equally politely refused, he was gagged and pinned against a wall. His father was then dragged forward and given a choice, ‘stab one of your brothers to death, or watch your wife raped and killed in front of you’. His hands were released and the old man slowly shuffled over to the table where a kitchen knife lay. He picked it up, and before any of his captors could react he quickly reversed it and plunged it into his own heart. Without a word being exchanged one of the captors moved over to his body, bent over and pulled the blade from his father’s chest, walked over to his eldest Uncle and thrust it into his throat, and dispassionately watched him slowly bleed to death, it was as though it was all going according to a sick plan. When his Uncle stopped moving the principle ‘persuader’ then went along his line of relatives, explaining to him in great detail how each one of them would die, unless he ‘willingly’ agreed to carry out the assassination. Once the gag was removed Mustafa agreed to their demand, and was then given a worthless assurance that they would all be released unharmed once Sherri was dead (although everyone in the warehouse knew differently), but if he failed to carry it out, or informed the authorities of his mission for Allah, then his men would carry out the threats. In reality the captives’ only hopes were for a quick and painless demise on Mustafa’s successful accomplishment of his task, and with resignation in his voice ‘he hoped that they had all died quickly’, after all he had tried his best. He of course had not been in the market when the bomb had exploded, the dead were just a smoke screen - collateral damage, but the injuries to his arm were genuine, they had given him a bottle of cheap whisky to self-anesthetise himself as they repeatedly used a sledge hammer on his arm, under the direction of a dispassionate surgeon, who then fitted the rods using rudimentary DIY tools, but there was no shortage of antibiotics for him on completion, they didn’t want him to die from an infection before he completed his mission. Mustafa then quite calmly forgave David, before he started, if he wished to try and extract any further information out of him, but he assured him that he knew nothing more of any use to him, and David believed him, although he also suspected that even if Mustafa did know anything, he doubted if he would give it up, just in case any of his relatives were still alive.

  That particular round of talks went exceedingly well, once the others in the team, plus Sherri and Russell had regained consciousness. The whole thing seemed to spur them on, obviously the baddies were worried, and so were they – they had passed the point of no return now so the quicker the negotiations were concluded – the better it would be for all concerned. The Principal Negotiator insisted that Mustafa accompany them back to their side of the Mediterranean, despite his need for hospitalisation for his re-opened injuries, ‘he would get the best treatment available’ he assured us, but we all reluctantly came to the same conclusion – collateral damage.

  Katie survived her ordeal, and after some miraculous re-attachment surgery she only lost the use of her little finger, ‘which’ she assured us a few days later when we visited her, ‘wasn’t of much use to her anyway, she was a size is important type of girl’.

  David of course could now walk on water; he implemented new protocols, ‘no repeat appearances’, ‘separate travel arrangements for all participants whilst they were at El Campo’, ‘no unexplained injuries’ etc. for what turned out to be the penultimate meeting. For it, I had to provide five aircraft and rooms, with an even larger table overlooking the Atrium.

  We - Sherri, David and I - always held conference calls on the Lady S, after the visits, and as things progressed, more and more of the screens became active, and several of the new faces needed no introduction (although none were given anyway) but none of them were what I would call mainstream International Negotiators, but they all seemed to be singing from the same hymn sheet fortunately, but after that penultimate round we didn’t immediately visit Lady S, they would just have to wait for us, we had a conference call all of our own, on the tarmac: apparently it was now time for David and I to put our honourability to the test. The session had lasted almost eight hours and Sherri had been in the thick of it for three of them, then in the final few minutes David and I were invited to join the table. It was obvious that decisions had been reached, as when we approached they all rose as one and politely applauded us. After we were all seated they started to congratulate us on facilitating this world changing forum, the consequences of which would save thousands, if not millions of lives they assured us, and transform their countries, and due to our selfless acts the final meeting could now take place in three days’ time.

  As we watched the last aircraft lifted off I absentmindedly asked Sherri what ‘selfless act’ we had done, and her answer crimped both out sphincters on the spot, ‘you have volunteered to be hostages whilst the top table meet here on Thursday – don’t you remember’.

  I remembered her dashing in in the last half hour of negotiations and asking me if I trusted her. When I said ‘yes’ she kissed me – we were still an item, despite what had gone on, and charged out again, looking for David.

  Apparently the final stumbling block was that two of the invited leaders did not wholeheartedly trust what was going on, their ‘conspiracy theories’ were that it was all a plot to get them here so the West could ‘do them in’, but both had sufficient confidence in our ‘honour’ to overcome their natural urges, at a price. When we had some colour return to our faces we visited Lady S and every screen had a face on it, some ev
en had split screens to squeeze them all in, and they were all brought up to speed by Sherri. When she reached the hostage bit, a couple half-heartedly suggested that we might reconsider, but the remainder of the faces said – ‘you do and you will be the first ones up against the wall’ – so they changed the subject - media.

  For the past few years every news bulletin contained at least one, and usually more, items on the Middle East, nuclear proliferation, chemical dumps, biological manufacturing plants, genocide - the usual stuff – but over the past few weeks it had slowly started to feature less and less, other things were hitting the headlines. Gibraltar (of course), natural disasters, International Companies being held to account for bad practices, Government Leaders ‘re-shuffling Cabinets, the odd ‘coup d’état’ or two, in fact it almost became invisible, except too David and I, as the Antonov An-12 that we were sat in the back of (or rather were going in approximately the same direction as, as with all the vibration we were ‘airborne’ long before the aircraft had even lifted off from El Campo) circled a patch of desert in the middle of it, it was its first stop on a mystery tour. Someone on the flight deck knew where we were going, but no one else had a clue (come back Air Traffic Control, all is forgiven) and the pilots eased it gently down (AKA - controlled the crash) onto a surprisingly firm bit of sand, and I was deposited ignominiously outside into the blazing sun. The aircraft (for want of a better word) then lifted off again, with David still on board, heading to ‘somewhere else’.

  Once the dust settled I wandered over to a tent, the only evidence of civilisation within a thousand kilometres, and entered it, ‘you Michael?’ the sole occupant asked.

  I could have said ‘no’, but how many Michael/Michaels’ arrive in this throbbing international hub of human mass transit, aboard four engine death traps, unannounced, but thought better of it, after all I had a shrewd suspicion that we would be spending some time together, so I said ‘yes’.

  He shouted something into a handset, put it down, took a pistol out of a briefcase, put it on his desk, took a Pepsi lite out of a cool box (that wasn’t), handed it to me and pointed to a collapsible chair, that was on the verge of collapse, and for the next nine hours I sat on it. Fortunately my bum went numb two hours into the adventure, and my bladder went on strike so I didn’t need to ask him where the outside toilet was.

  I was just about to ask my new BFF if I could borrow his pistol – to blow my ‘bored to death’ brain – to death, when his radio squawked. After a brief shouting match with the instrument he hung up, looked at me – with a hint of regret in his eyes - and re-packed his pistol in the briefcase. He then grunted ‘out’, and as we exited the tent he removed a hand grenade and tossed it back into the innocent tent, and we both ran for dear life. Half an hour later, just as it was starting to get dark, first the An-12 arrived (oops, I nearly said ‘landed’) with a very sleek Executive Jet almost up its loading ramp, its pilots obviously didn’t have a clue where they were going, and didn’t want to risk getting lost in this god forsaken country (wherever it was).

  As the dust settled I started to head towards the Antonov but my new friend/radio operator/drink dispenser/would-be-executioner shouted at me and pulled his pistol back out. I quickly gathered that I could not get back into the ‘state secret’ relic; I was to get into the crappy luxury plane, oh dear – such disappointment, but I could live with it.

  A very attractive air-person directed me up the steps, where I was greeted by the pilot, and escorted to a scrumptiously soft swivel, rocker arm chair which was identical to the one that David was sound asleep in, and the pilot whispered that he was mortified that David was not awake to greet me, but he would have been soundly whipped on his return if his landing had woken him up, so I kicked him (David, not the pilot).

  David slowly came too, lazily stretched and said ‘how did yours go, you know they even gave me the pick of the harem to bathe and massage me, what do you think of the togs?’ - he was dressed from head to foot in the finest Arab garb - under a finely embroidered bisht (cloak), (obviously of a quality usually reserved for royalty), he wore a long flowing thawb, not the course ones of the peasants, but again of the finest quality. At either end of his oiled and pampered body he had handmade Najdi sandals on his feet and a fine Egyptian cotton keffiyeh headdress, held in place by thick black rope, heavily inlaid with gold. Once the dust-storm created by the departing Antonov cleared sufficiently the pilot begged David’s permission to take off (obviously the Sat Nav could get us home from here), who graciously waved his approval, and I thought a reality check would soon be in order.

  As we lifted off from the sand coloured runway, just off to one side I saw a lone figure stood beside a four by four, cradling ‘I would hazard a guess’, a snipers rifle, and although his face was hidden by a grubby keffiyeh I suddenly felt my sphincter relax for the first time in several days. I wonder how close the assassin had come to losing the top of his head when he re-directed me to this jet, perhaps a few ounces of Charlie’s finger pressure, if that.

  Following my gaze David said ‘you don’t really think I would let you get into harm’s way do you, and sorry about that thing with the pilot, it was expected of me’.

  ‘I understand’ I said, ‘just like it will be expected of me to let Caroline know how much you enjoyed your bath and massage at the hands of the best of the best – if a single word of this ever gets out’.

  ‘Exactly’ he said, and we both burst into fits of uncontrolled laughter, although it had nothing to do with the lame joke. Despite what he had said we had both been closer to ‘harm’s way’ than anyone should ever be, and come through it unharmed, but the laughter did our ‘street cred’ the world of good; the pilot reported back that we were ‘fearless’, and joked in the face of danger.

  When we landed we didn’t go to Lady S’s ‘Com link’ room, it was now just a ‘junk’ room again, all we got were hugs and kisses, hot baths - especially David - Caroline said that he smelled like a Persian brothel (how does she know what a brothel smells like, Persian or otherwise?) and a good night’s sleep, and then, over the next few days we watched the Middle East start to hit the headlines again – but good headlines this time. An unscheduled G-20 (+ a few more) was convened – although it was surprisingly well organised for such short notice, and Presidents and Prime-Ministers started to pull agreements and accords out of hats of every conceivable shape and size, and before very long an inspection team was heading out to verify destruction of some nuclear bits, (headed by someone that I recognised from one of Lady S’s TV screens), then a chemical weapons team was on its way, again headed by a star of Lady S TV, and the ‘World Leaders’ proudly (or was it pompously) stood in front of the cameras and told us how they had pulled the world back from the brink of disaster – surrounded in the background by yet more familiar faces – and as the world became safer with each news bulletin I whispered to Sherri, we were alone but it seemed more appropriate to whisper, ‘when do we get a mention in all of this?’

  ‘Never, we are diplomats. We facilitate the ‘opportunities’ for the politicians to take advantage of’.

  ‘I hope you are not including me in that we’ I said, not realising that it had been deliberately ‘planted’ in the reply.

  ‘Why - would it be too much of a ‘life style’ change’ she said, and six weeks to the day that I had climbed that hill in the rain, towards the Embassy, I watched an unmarked ‘executive jet’ lift off, taking my Mata Hari off to adventures new.

  ‘Six weeks/six months – at least my track record was not totally trashed’ I thought, ‘after all there is a six in it, and at least the world will be a safer place for the next few years’, and then three smoke trails spiralled up to intercept the aircraft. Flares confused the first one, a violent manoeuvre sent the second one harmlessly out over the sea, but unfortunately straight into the path of the third, and as the debris started to fall to the ground I thought ‘or perhaps not’.

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