Jason Elliot - The Network

We belt ourselves in and H gives a thumbs up to the loadmaster, who makes sure everything is properly stowed. The aircraft winds into the air and swoops south-east. I watch the Cotswolds race past beneath us as we roar at spectacularly low altitude towards London and over a carpet of glittering lights to a heliport that I didn’t know existed. It hangs over the Thames not far from Battersea and is marked london in big illuminated white letters. I can’t imagine why anyone who already knows how to fly a helicopter to Battersea might need to be reminded of this, and H is none the wiser.

A squat and pale-faced driver meets us and whisks us along Battersea Park Road in a powerful Vauxhall. A few minutes later the towers of Legoland, bathed in orange light, loom up ahead of us. We draw to a stop alongside the building beneath a security barrier where our IDs are checked, and descend into an underground car park.

I recognise Stella, Seethrough’s secretary, who’s there to meet us. I wonder whether this timid-looking Moneypenny, whose face and manner are so very forgettable and who asks us meekly whether we’ve had a pleasant journey, has perhaps just come up from the subterranean ops room where she’s been assisting the running of some far-off minor war. I’m tempted to make a joke and ask how saving the world has been for her today, but keep silent as she leads us to a row of capsule-like doors, runs her card through the reader and admits us to the lift.

Seethrough is ready for us upstairs with a briefing list of three items. The first is the latest imagery from our Cousins, as he calls the Americans. He unrolls two poster-sized satellite photographs of astonishingly high resolution and clarity, and military topographic maps that cover the same area.

For the first time we have the thrill of studying our target: a huge, medieval-looking fort with four giant turrets, nestling in the mountains north-west of Kandahar. In its cellars are the Stinger missiles that the Cousins have paid their tribal agents so handsomely to gather together. At the going rate, a minimum of $100,000 per missile, there’s over ten million dollars’ worth of them stashed in the fort, according to the TRODPINT reports. Some have been bought from the same commanders to whom they were originally supplied, others from profiteering middlemen, and others from the Taliban themselves. A few have been smuggled into Pakistan and spirited away by the CIA, who maintain a light aircraft at Peshawar airport for this very purpose.

An Afghan TRODPINT member will be assigned to help us reach the target, explains Seethrough. More on that in a few minutes, he says. Our job, he reminds us, is to find a good enough pretext to be in the area, to OP the fort from a distance, get inside and verify the serial numbers of the missiles, and then destroy them. We will receive a notice to move when the weather is clear enough for post-strike analysis and BDA by satellite.

I can’t remember what BDA stands for.

‘Battle damage assessment,’ interjects H.

The maps will travel back to Hereford with H, who will study the terrain and draw up a list of our requirements, while I’m to work on our cover plan.

Secondly, I have a forty-eight-hour visit to the US.

‘Go and see your kids,’ says Seethrough, ‘and in your spare time you can have a chat with the ops chap from CTC, who’ll brief you on the set-up from their point of view and show you how to find the serial number on a Stinger. Your flight’s tonight.’ He hands me my travel documents and a hotel reservation in Washington. ‘They want you there at night for some reason,’ he says. Then he hands the rolled-up photographs and maps to H.

‘Want to look those over while I have a word?’ He gestures to another table. H obliges by moving across the room and Seethrough retrieves a file with multicoloured tabs poking out of it and opens it in front of me.

‘Recognise anybody?’ he asks.

It’s a shock because I had thought him dead. He looks much older in the photograph but I do recognise him. It’s Gemayel, grey-haired now but unmistakable.

‘He’s become a big fish since you last saw him,’ says Seethrough. ‘Must have cut a deal and agreed to act as a source.’ That, he explains, is how these things work. Since I last saw him, nearly ten years earlier, Gemayel has become the chief financial officer of a Middle Eastern organisation with a wide popular influence. The Americans call it a terrorist organisation, but in the British government nobody can decide whether it’s got anything to do with terrorists or not, so we maintain contact. Gemayel is now in charge of its global funding network, and has kept open a channel back to the Firm, making him ‘onside’ in Seethrough’s parlance. He’s evidently been living in South America, where for some reason most of the organisation’s funds are funnelled and then redistributed. A few years ago he resurfaced in Beirut at the highest level of the organisation’s architecture, and since then has survived two assassination attempts by the Israeli intelligence service.

‘Still with me?’ asks Seethrough.

I nod, though it’s all getting stranger by the minute.

‘Most of the chatter we’re getting about Stinger purchases is coming out of the Sudan. Gemayel has an area-wide network based in the capital Khartoum. We on the other hand have precisely one operational officer, whose identity is already declared. What we need is for Gemayel to ask his people to listen out for noises about the Stingers. That way we can at least do some eliminating. He may be onside, but we can’t do a face-to-face with one of our known people without Mossad breathing down our necks. So when you’re back from America I thought you could talk to him and rekindle the spark. You’ve got the perfect excuse of wanting to catch up after all these years.’

‘I can remind him of our happy days together.’

‘Precisely,’ says Seethrough, taking me up on the irony.

‘Let’s say he agrees. What does he get out of it?’

‘He gets to keep his head,’ says Seethrough soberly, and turns the pages in the file to an immediate-level CX report from Lebanon station. It bears the secret router indicator actor, indicating that no one outside the Firm is allowed to see it. It’s addressed to the head of the Global CT controllerate, which is Seethrough, and the security caveat reads: UK T O P S E C R E T /DELICATE SOURCE. But it’s the subject title that shocks: proposed assassination of Elias Rashid Gemayel by israeli security services.

I scan down the page. The Israelis, if the report is to be believed, are planning to kill Gemayel with an explosive charge in his mobile phone placed by one of his own security staff. They’ve managed to buy one of Gemayel’s own bodyguards, and the plan is to be carried out later this month, when Gemayel returns from Rome to Beirut and will receive a new mobile phone. In exchange for this deadly snippet of information, Seethrough is hoping that Gemayel will pass on whatever his people can find out about the Stinger purchases.

‘Fair trade, don’t you think?’ says Seethrough, pursing his lips and raising his eyebrows in his signature gesture of enquiry.

‘The Israelis won’t be too happy when you give away their plan,’ I say.

‘You win some, you lose some. Par for the course. They know that. Though I shall probably be denied that marvellous Mossad cheesecake from now on.’

There are some further details, which I struggle with because my head is spinning a bit from all this. I’m given the name of my CIA Counterterrorist Center contact and a phone number to memorise for when I’m in Washington. There’s also a backup number for use with a PIN and a code name in case I can’t use the mobile and need to call London. The rest is transparent, he says. I’m on a trip to see my children. The hotel is paid for, but any other expenses, he reminds me with a cynical glance of regret, are not deductible.