Stella Rimington: Dead Line

When she’d first asked him, he had been unwilling and suspicious – drugs, he had thought. With all this security around, it just wasn’t worth it. But Jana’s flattery – I know you are a strong man of stamina – had been working on him from the start.

Not to mention the money. £500 she had promised to pay him. He didn’t believe her at first, but she’d shoved the roll of notes under his nose, riffling their edges with her thumb like a deck of cards. His father had died the previous year, and his mother was doing her best to bring up his two younger brothers back in Ronda. If he could send her even half this money, it would make a huge difference.

So he’d squashed his doubts, and as he marched up the hillside, avoiding the clumps of fading purple heather, pushing his way through the high grass, he was thinking of what the money would buy. He was glad he’d worn jeans and not shorts as he brushed against a thistle hidden in the grass. The wind was picking up, and when the low cloud blotted out the sun, it was cold. In Ronda he would be sweating from this walk; here he was glad of his pullover.

He had asked Jana what this strange mission was about, but she’d said from the start that there were two rules: he would get half the money up front, half when he’d completed the task; and he wasn’t allowed to ask any questions. He’d insisted on asking one, though – could he get into trouble with the law? Jana had been emphatic: No, only if he insisted on knowing more about it.

In ignorance lay innocence, then, and any qualms Mateo had still felt had been assuaged when Jana had put half the roll of bills into his shirt pocket. And by the kiss she’d given him (he could still feel her lips on his) and by her murmur that he could have ‘the rest’ – and he didn’t think for a moment she was talking about £250 – after he’d done this for her.

He saw the pile of stones as soon as he reached the crest of the hill, and quickened his pace until he was almost running downhill. The ground levelled off and he slowed down as he entered the small patch of woodland, peering now in the gloom as the sun disappeared behind the thick foliage of the trees. He stopped, waiting until his eyes had adjusted to the dark, and walked slowly, counting. Four, five… fifteen… twenty… thirty… and before he reached thirty-five he saw the ash tree. Smooth-barked with horizontal branches, bearing leaves rather than needles. As instructed, he looked up and there, on the second branch, perhaps a dozen feet above the forest floor, he saw the package. A long black case, like a thin sports bag, tied to the branch by a carefully spun cocoon of dark green rope. Clever, he thought. You had to look hard to spot it.

He took a deep breath, then lifted himself up in one great heave onto the lowest branch, balancing carefully. Reaching up and feeling with his fingers, he found the knot securing the rope around the case. He used both hands then, teetering for a moment until, managing to steady himself, he undid the knot and pulled the rope slowly as it unwound, slithering around the case until it dangled like a snake from the higher branch. He reached up and grabbed the case by its handle, sliding it carefully off the thick branch. It was so unexpectedly light that he almost lost his balance, but gathering it to him, he half slid, half climbed down onto the soft earth below.

When he emerged on the far side of the wood clutching his prize, he was half blinded by the rising sun to his left, and he stopped to wait for a moment until his eyes had readjusted. But oddly they didn’t, and as he blinked, he realised that there was another source of light. It was then he heard the helicopter, as it suddenly appeared over the next hill, low and hovering, with a soldier in its open side door swivelling a mounted gun barrel in his direction and a spotlight shining from its undercarriage with amazing intensity.

Instinctively he turned away from the light and it was then he saw the soldiers – a dozen or more, crouched down along the edge of the wood, their weapons pointing towards him. They were close – maybe a hundred feet away – and coming closer fast, so he didn’t even think of running, but raised his hands high in the air, letting the case fall onto the pocket of grass, and wondering if Jana had been betrayed as well.

It took Liz no more than five minutes to break through the Spaniard’s resistance. He was being held in a caravan set up on the outer edge of the King’s Course for the sentries’ breaks. By the time she arrived, the platoon leader, a lieutenant named Dawson, had already questioned him. Fruitlessly.

Faced by Liz, the boy at first stuck to his story. His name was Mateo Garcia, he worked in the kitchens of the hotel, and he had been out for a walk in the hills when he’d been swooped on by a helicopter and surrounded by armed soldiers. What was he doing carrying a rifle case? asked Liz. He’d found it in the woods; he shouldn’t have taken it, he knew, but he had. No, there had been no rifle there. Sorry, he told Liz contritely, but there wasn’t anything else to say.

This was no time for subtlety. ‘I don’t believe a word you say,’ she said sharply. ‘It will be much the worse for you if you don’t tell me the truth now. Do you understand?’ Lieutenant Dawson, who was standing close beside his prisoner, moved forward threateningly.

The boy sat back in his chair nervously, unsettled by the ferocity of her tone and the implicit threat from Dawson. He gave a slight nod. Good, thought Liz, knowing that even that small affirmative was a step forward. She went straight on. Holding out a copy of Kollek’s photograph, she said, ‘I want to know when you last saw this man. And what it was he asked you to do.’

Reluctantly, Mateo reached out for the picture. As he examined it, Liz watched his face carefully for any flicker of recognition, but there was none – Mateo just looked scared.

‘I have never seen this man,’ he said as if he were swearing an oath. ‘I don’t know who he is.’ Either Mateo was a gifted actor, or he genuinely didn’t know Kollek. Liz’s instincts told her that the Spanish boy was telling the truth. Yet she didn’t believe for a moment that he had gone into the hills for a walk. So what had he been doing? Why was the rifle case empty and where was the gun?

There was very little time to think – in half an hour the Syrian delegation would be enjoying the hospitality of their long-standing enemies, the Israelis. ‘I believe you,’ Liz said. Mateo looked relieved. There was only one other possible angle Liz could try. ‘But,’ she added, ‘your friend Jana knew this man. She was working for him, wasn’t she?’

The boy’s face froze, and Liz knew she was onto something. ‘Didn’t she tell you?’ she demanded, letting her voice rise.

He shook his head feebly. Liz pressed on. ‘What did she tell you that you were doing, out there in the hills? What was it all supposed to be about?’

Panic filled his eyes, and Liz thought for a moment he was going to cry, but then he seemed to pull himself together. She pressed on quickly, keeping up the pressure. ‘We know how she was involved,’ she declared, all too conscious she was bluffing. ‘But how much do you know? I warn you, you’re walking on very thin ice. If you don’t cooperate with me and quickly, you’ll be on a plane tomorrow to Spain -you’ll never set foot in this country again and you’ll be spending some interesting time with the Guardia Civil.’

She hated dishing out threats she knew she couldn’t carry out, but she needed him to talk and this was the only way. I hope he doesn’t know too much about his rights, she thought.

The boy was clearly terrified now, but was he scared of her or of someone else? She could sense him wavering, trying to make up his mind what to do. Then, to her great relief, he seemed to decide that she was the bigger threat. His voice cracked as he said, ‘I didn’t know why she asked me to go there, except what she said, to collect a package. I know nothing about this man; you must believe me. I trusted her when she said I wasn’t to ask any questions.’