Martin Bell - Trusted Mole - A Soldier’s Journey into Bosnia’s Heart of Darkness

I blanched. Thanks for the support, but I wish you hadn’t said that. Now they’ll be under added pressure to prove a case, to fabricate something.

‘Your posting order’s being sorted out now. I’m popping over to Aldershot this afternoon with it. Where will you be?’ I told him I’d wait in Joe’s office and with that I went, collected the bike and sped off to Aldershot.

Colonel Joe had some more unpleasant news for me. He produced a long secret signal which he’d received from someone in the MoD. It was a set of Draconian instructions detailing what I could and couldn’t do. I was forbidden from having any contact with anyone in the Services and discussing the case. If I did they’d be obliged instantly to record the details of the conversation and report them to the MoD Plod. But I was free to organise my own defence!

Colonel Hamish arrived at five with the paperwork. He told me that General Rupert Smith had phoned him from Northern Ireland and that his first question had been, ‘Has he been spying for the Serbs?’ Colonel Hamish had told him ‘no’.

‘Well, you told him right, Colonel. I haven’t been spying for the Serbs!’

Before I left for Farnham, Joe asked me if there was anything he could do for me on the welfare front. I’d thought about it long and hard in the cell and throughout the day.

‘There’s only one thing I want right now, Colonel. I want to see a doctor, and not just any doctor.’ I told him about Ian. Joe wanted to see me on Monday. Till then I was free to do my own thing.

I arrived home at five-thirty with a splitting headache. I hadn’t eaten for forty-eight hours but I wasn’t in the least bit hungry. I tried to turn the key but the front door was already unlocked. Niki was lying on the sofa with Frankie, her dog. She’d come down from London for the night. She had a christening in Camberley the next day and we’d made the arrangement the previous weekend. She smiled brightly at me. ‘I’m bored with this revision. How’s your day been?’ She had an Open University exam to sit on the following Wednesday.

I sat down heavily in the armchair, loosened my tie and just stared at her. She frowned.

‘Notice anything different about the house, Niki?’

Her frown deepened. ‘No, not really. Well, sort of cleaner, less junk. Come to think of it, have you had a clearout?’

‘Sort of …’ I closed my eyes and took a deep breath – here goes! – ‘Nix, I was arrested for espionage on Thursday … I’m on police bail …’

She stared back at me uncomprehendingly. The next four days were a nightmare, so bad that I can’t recall them.

And now I’m sitting in front of this bloke Ian, who’s asking me why I’m here. I’m staring out of the window wondering why there are no yachts out there on the sea. Must be at least a force six – perfect perfect day for a sail … Why am I here?

‘Why am I here, Ian? … I’ll tell you why. I’m here because I’ve got nothing left, nothing. That’s why I’m here.’

‘Nothing at all?’

‘That’s right, nothing!’ I struggle to control my voice. ‘Look! The Army’s a great life-support machine. It provides you with all sorts of crutches … well, life-jackets really. They keep you afloat and everything looks fine to the casual observer …’

‘Life-jackets?’

‘Precisely that. The uniform is a life-jacket, so is the job. They prop you up and keep you going … you know, you stick on the uniform and the beret and bingo! You’re a company commander. But when you take off the uniform, when you get home in the evenings or at the weekend and you step through the front door – alone – you step back into the museum and the pause button on the machine in your head gets pressed. The tape starts running again, and you’re back there. You’re somebody else and you’re back there. Everything else is irrelevant because being back there is more real.’

‘Where’s there, Milos?’

‘The Dark Side, Ian. You’re back on the Dark Side. That’s what we called Serb-held territory. That’s it then, by day or during the week you’re a major, Parachute Regiment, MBE, company commander or student. But at night or during the weekends you’re somebody else, you’re Stanley again … Mike Stanley, fixer, useful tool. You won’t believe this, Ian, but people still ring me up and call me “Mike”. Geordie does all the time. And I still get letters dropping onto the carpet addressed to this person called Mike Stanley … there are still people out there who don’t know me as anything other than Mike Stanley!’

‘And now? Who are you now?’ he asks gently.

I think hard. I’m not sure of the answer. ‘I’m both, Ian. Or maybe I’m nothing … a hybrid, a monster.’

I lapse into silence. I’m fiddling with the bezel of my watch – round and round and round, click, click, click, click, click, click. Ian’s waiting for me to say something. A thought enters my head and makes me instantly furious. I look directly at Ian.

‘I still can’t believe it, really, I can’t … I mean, you can’t dream up a more tragic joke. It’s a sick joke!’

‘What is?’

‘Names, Ian. Our names! I mean, I can’t believe it. We’ve got thirty years experience in Northern Ireland, thirty years of living with the terrorist threat, thirty years of developing systems and procedures for personal security, of protecting people’s identities … and what do we do with all that experience? Do we transfer it to the Balkans … ?’ I’m gulping for air. I didn’t wait for him to answer,‘… do we hell!! D’you know what names they gave the three of us? The first two they called Abbott and Costello. Can you believe it? And then I flew out as Laurel and then they changed my name to Stanley … Abbott, Costello, Laurel and Stanley. Big joke, Ian. Very funny if it wasn’t so serious. It’s our lives they’re playing with!’ I’m breathless, furious, almost shouting.

And then quietly, ‘Ian, Abbott was blown after only three months there. The Croats found out who he was, threatened to kill him, just because he was a Serb. He was removed from theatre within twenty-four hours. He never came back.’ I lapse back into silence. Staring at my boots. Big joke.

‘Has it always been like this, Milos?’

‘Like what?’

‘This double life of yours. Has it got progressively worse or has it stayed the same? You’ve been back two-and-a-half years now …’

I’m not sure what to say. I think hard for a moment, ‘...’ 95 was quite bad, the last half of ‘95. I had a naff job with the Territorial Army up north, did a parachute refresher course, my Company Commanders Course. It sort of kept me busy, but I was back there when I wasn’t busy. 1996 was so busy, that’s when I was Company Commanding in 1 PARA – twice in the States, once in Northern Ireland, once in France, in between exercises. Just didn’t stop, I wasn’t on the Dark Side much. Thought I’d cracked it. Put all my demons in the box and locked the lid.’

‘And?’

‘And then, Ian, I went to Shrivenham. Nightmare. Suddenly you’re a student along with ninety-nine others, all on an equal footing. No responsibility, except for yourself; no soldiers to look after; no careers to manage. This year has been a nightmare. It’s just got worse and worse. More and more polarised. It’s the routine.’

‘Routine?’

‘Predictable, bloody routine. Monday morning to Friday afternoon you’re a student. Live in a room there. Work hard. Drink Diet Coke only, watch the diet and become an obsessive fitness fanatic.’

‘And then?’

‘And then, get home Friday evening. Walk through the door of the museum. Tape starts playing and I’m there again on the Dark Side. Sink a bottle of red wine, stagger up to the pub, few pints of Guinness …’