Frederick Forsyth - The Afghan

His credentials as senior partner in Sumatra Trading International were in order, as were his bank references. When he asked permission to outline his problem, Mr. Siebart was all ears. As a preamble, Mr. Lampong solemnly laid a sheet of paper in front of the British ship broker. The sheet had a long list. It began with Alderney, one of the British Channel Islands, and continued through Anguilla, Antigua and Aruba. Those were just the As. There were forty-three names, ending with Uruguay, Vanuatu and Western Samoa.

“These are all tax-haven countries, Mr. Siebart,” said the Indonesian, “and all practice banking secrecy. Like it or not, some extremely dubious businesses, including criminal enterprises, shelter their financial secrets in places like these. And these”-he produced a second sheet-“are just as dubious in their way. These are merchant shipping flags of convenience.” Antigua was again up front, with Barbuda, Bahamas, Barbados, Belize, Bermuda, Bolivia and Burma to follow. There were twenty-seven in this list, ending with St. Vincent, Sri Lanka, Tonga and Vanuatu.

There were African hellholes like Equatorial Guinea, flyspecks on the world map like Sao Tome and Principe, the Comoros and the coral atoll Vanuatu. Among the more enchanting were Luxembourg, Mongolia and Cambodia, which have no coast at all. Mr. Siebart was perplexed, though nothing he had seen was news to him. “Put the two together and what do you come up with?” asked Mr. Lampong in triumph. “Fraud, my dear sir, fraud on a massive and increasing scale. And, alas, most prevalent of all in the part of the world where I and my partners trade. That is why we have decided only in future to deal with the institution renowned for its integrity. The City of London.” “Very kind of you,” murmured Mr. Siebart. “Coffee?” “Cargo theft, Mr. Siebart. Constant and increasing. Thank you, no, 1 have just had breakfast. Cargoes are assigned-valuable cargoes-and then vanish. No trace of the ship, the charterers, the brokers, the crew, the cargo-and, least of all, the owners. All hiding among this forest of different flags and banks. And far too many of them highly corrupt.”

“Dreadful,” agreed Siebart. “How can I help?”

“My partners and I have agreed we will have no more of it. True, it will cost a bit more. But we wish to deal in future only and solely with ships of the British merchant fleet flying the Red Ensign, out of British ports under a British skipper and vouched for by a London broker.” “Excellent.” Siebart beamed. “A wise choice, and of course we must not forget full insurance coverage for vessel and cargo by Lloyd’s of London. What cargoes do you want shipped?”

Matching freighters to cargoes and cargoes to freighters is precisely what a shipping broker does, and Siebart and Abercrombie were long-standing pillars of the City of London ’s ancient partnership, the Baltic Exchange. “I have done my research well,” said Mr. Lampong, producing more letters of recommendation. “We have been in discussion with this company; importers of high-value British limousines and sports cars into Singapore. For our part, we ship fine furniture timbers like rosewood, tulipwood and padauk from Indonesia to the USA. This comes from North Borneo, but would be a part cargo, with the remainder being sea containers on deck with embroidered silks from Surabaya, Java, also bound for the USA. Here”-he laid down a final letter-“are the details of our friends in Surabaya. We all agree we wish to trade British. Clearly, this would be a triangular voyage for any British freighter. Could you find us a suitable UK-registered freighter for this task? I have in mind a regular and ongoing partnership.”

Alex Siebart was confident he could find a dozen suitable Red Ensign vessels to pick up the charter. He would need to know vessel size, price and desired dates. It was finally agreed that he would supply Mr. Lampong with a “menu” of vessels of the needed tonnage for the double cargo and the charter price. Mr. Lampong, when he had consulted his partners, would provide desired collection dates at the two Far Eastern ports and the U.S. delivery port. They parted with mutual expressions of confidence and goodwill.

“How nice,” sighed Alex Siebart’s father when he told him over lunch at Rules, “to be dealing with old-fashioned and civilized gentlemen.” If there was one place that Mike Martin could not show his face, it was Edzell air base. Steve Hill was able to call into play that array of contacts that exists in every business, “the old boys’ network.” “I won’t be at home most of this winter,” said his guest at lunch in the Special Forces Club. “I’m going to try to see a bit more of the Caribbean sun. So I suppose you could borrow the place.”

“There will be a rent, of course,” said Hill. “As much as my modest budget can afford.”

“And you won’t knock it about?” asked the guest. “All right, then. When can I have it back?”

“We hope to be there no longer than mid-February. It’s just for some seminars.

Tutors coming and going, that sort of thing. Nothing… physical.” Martin flew from London to Aberdeen, and was met by a former SAS sergeant whom he knew well. He was a tough Scot who clearly had returned to his native heather in his retirement.

“How are you keeping, boss?” he asked, employing the old jargon for SAS men talking to an officer. He hefted Martin’s kit bag into the rear, and eased out of the airport car park. He turned north at the outskirts of Aberdeen, and took the A96 road in the direction of Inverness. The mountains of the Scottish Highlands enveloped them within a few miles. Seven miles after the turn, he pulled left off the main road.

The signpost said simply: KEMNAY. They went through the village of Monymusk and hit the Aberdeen-Alford road. Three miles later, the Land Rover turned right, ran though Whitehouse and headed for Keig. There was a river beside the road;

Martin wondered whether it contained salmon or trout, or neither. Just before Keig, a side road turned across the river and up a long, winding private drive. Round two bends, the stone bulk of an ancient castle sat on a slight eminence looking out over a stunning vista of wild hills and glens. Two men emerged from the main entrance, came forward and introduced themselves. “Gordon Phillips. Michael McDonald. Welcome to Castle Forbes, family seat of Lord Forbes. Good trip, Colonel?”

“It’s Mike, and you were expecting me. How? Angus here made no phone call.” “Well, actually, we had a man on the airplane. Just to be on the safe side,” said Phillips.

Mike Martin grunted. He had not spotted the tail. He was clearly out of practice.

“Not a problem, Mike,” said the CIA man McDonald. “You’re here. Now a range of tutors have your undivided attention for eighteen weeks. Why not freshen up, and after lunch we’ll start the first briefing.”

During the Cold War, the CIA maintained a chain of safe houses right across the USA. Some were inner-city apartments for the holding of discreet conferences whose participants were better not seen at the head office. Others were rural retreats such as renovated farmhouses, where agents back from a stressful mission could have a relaxed vacation while also being debriefed, detail by detail, on their time abroad.

And there were some chosen for their obscurity, where a Soviet defector could be held in the kindliest of detention while checks were made on his authenticity, and where a vengeful KGB, working out of the Soviet Embassy or consulate, could not get at him.

Agency veterans still wince at the memory of Colonel Yurchenko, who defected in Rome, and was amazingly allowed to dine out in Georgetown with his debriefing officer. He went to the men’s room and never came back. In fact, he had been contacted by the KGB, who reminded him of his family back in Moscow. Full of remorse, he was daft enough to believe the promises of amnesty and redefected. He was never heard of again.