Chris Ryan (14 page)

big country estate on the far flank of the Derwent valley where we lived. I tried to project myself out into the sky above our home, so that I was looking down on the house. 'Yes,' I thought, 'the sun's coming up over there. That's the direction of Newcastle, and, further off, China.' That meant the sun rose in the east, and set in the west. Now we were heading into the setting sun: therefore we must be Safe Or Sorry? 187 driving west. In that case, I told myself, we couldn't be going to Baghdad. Desperately I tried to visualise the map and re�member which part of Syria Damascus was in. For the final half hour or so they kept my head wrapped up. Then darkness fell, and still we went on driving, until in the end we hit the outskirts of some town or city. By then the blindfold was off again, and I started to see signs saying DAMAS. 'Jesus,' I thought. 'Can this really be Damascus?' As I saw more and more signs saying DAMAS, I began dar�ing to hope that it was the. Syrian capital. My escorts started to smarten themselves up. They put out their cigarettes, turned off the radio, slid their ties tight, and straightened their clothes, as if preparing to meet some�body important. All that alarmed me. What were they getting ready for? Then, on a piece of waste ground, we pulled into the kerb, behind yet another Mercedes, and my front passenger got out. His place was taken by a much older guy, of maybe fifty, well dressed, and balding a little. His dark suit gave him a sombre appearance, but at least he looked cool and calm. The other two characters in my car were obviously in awe of him; as he walked towards us they stopped chattering, and more or less sat to attention, hardly daring to breathe. The new man got in, closed his door and gave one curt in�struction, hardly more than a grunt. We moved off towards the city centre. Every now and then he snapped a direction at the driver, very abrupt: 'Left . . . right,' and that was all. After about five minutes he turned round and asked in English, 'Are you OK?' I nodded and said, 'Yep.' `Won't be long now.' Then he picked up all the things they'd taken off me �watch, ID discs, bootlaces and so on � handed them back and said, 'These are yours.' I thought, 'What the hell's going on? What was the point of taking it all off me in the first place?' There'd been so many changes of mood. First there'd been the farm boy, definitely friendly. Then the driver of the truck had turned 188 The One That Got Away hostile, telling me I had no business to be in Syria. Then the policeman on duty had saved me from the mob. Next the twats inside the station had tried to steal all my kit � hostility again. Then the guy who made me write down my details seemed to be back on my side. A few minutes later my escorts were giving me apples to eat. Then it was into the mock-execution, and more sick jokes about going to Baghdad. No wonder I felt confused. Anyway, I started getting my kit back in place. I put away the maps and knife, and got the ID discs back round my neck; but by then my feet had swollen up so much that I couldn't get my boots on, so I didn't bother threading the laces. All this time we were driving through the city, and I could tell how scared the driver was of our new passenger, purely from his reactions. He kept glancing fearfully sideways, looking for new instructions, and always at the last possible instant the man would bark at him, 'Left!' or 'Right!' At last we came to a big modern building, probably ten storeys high. There were guards in green uniforms and armed with AK 47s on the gates, on the walls, everywhere: not the sort of place you could break into, or out of, in a hurry. Before I had time to wonder what it was, the gates swung open in front of us, and we drove into a courtyard. nine GUEST OF THE GOVERNMENT All my escorts got out. For a moment I was left sitting in the back. When I went to move, I found that my knees and ankles had locked solid. The older guy saw me struggling and clicked his fingers, whereupon the other two more or less lifted me out of the car, propped me up, and helped me � practically carried me � up a long flight of steps to the glass doors. They can't have enjoyed it much, because I was stinking like that three-week-old corpse I once saw and smelt in London. After a few steps my legs began to function again, more or less. We shuffled into a big reception area, where everything looked efficient and well-guarded. Sitting at the desk was a man in uniform, with a peaked cap with a red band round it, who came to attention as we entered. Then it was into a lift, up a few floors, and out again. As the doors opened, we were met by a smartly-dressed, clean-shaven man in a dark-blue blazer, stripy tie and blue shirt. Beside him, hovering defe�rentially, stood another man, about the same age, but chubbier and less smart. The boss-figure was an impressive character: in his mid-forties, he had a smart haircut, looked crisp and effective, and possessed obvious authority. I hadn't a clue who he was � and he did not bother to enlighten me. Only later did I dis�cover that he was head of the Mukhabarrat, the Syrian Secret Police. For the moment I felt screwed up, unable to decide what the hell was happening. The boss smiled, reached out, took my hand, and said in English, 'Welcome to Damascus. Welcome to Syria.' The interpreter said, 'Come in, please,' and ushered me in. Where was the catch? What were these buggers up to? 190 The One That Got Away It was horrible to be so unsure. I was desperately trying to think of all my options, and bloody fast, so that I didn't get caught out. I followed them through into some kind of office and sat down on a Chesterfield. I could see the boss sniffing, and not liking what he was getting. Suddenly being in a clean en-vironment, I could see what shit order I was in: my hair was matted, my hands and face were filthy. There was brown, dried blood on my DPMs. The boss himself took off the shamag, which was still wrapped round my head, and spoke sharply to the interpreter, clearly saying, 'Get this stuff off.' Someone else helped me out of the dishdash. Another guy brought in my bag and put it under a table. Then, through the interpreter, the boss said, 'Would you like to get cleaned up?' `Yeah,' I said. 'Good idea.' `Come with me.' The interpreter's English was first-class, and he seemed very friendly. I thought, 'You'd better start playing a game, here,' and tried to appear grateful; but I still had no idea what was going on, and I expect I looked shell-shocked. Part of my mind was wondering what was going to happen, part trying not to anticipate, for fear of being disappointed. I had time to glance round the walls and noticed a gold-plated AK 47, as well as pictures of Assad, the Syrian President. A large, leather-topped desk stood in one corner, covered in ornaments and paperweights. Two or three settees were set out round a coffee-table. The whole room spoke of money and good organisation. With the boss leading the way, followed by the interpre�ter, we walked out of the office, through a living room and into the bedroom, where some exercise machines were set out. Then we went into the bathroom, which had a big corner bath, a shower, a toilet, a pedestal basin with a mirror on the wall above it, and shelves full of toiletries. Everything was clean and glitzy, in an Arab way, with gold-plated taps and cupboard handles. The boss walked around, fitting a new blade into a safety Guest Of The Government 191 razor, putting some shampoo ready. Someone turned on the bath, and through the interpreter he said, 'This is all my stuff. Just use it, please.' He went out and left me alone. There I was, in this luxury bathroom, with hot water running . . . It was then that I looked in a mirror and saw my face. Jesus Christ � what a sight! I was gaunt as a skeleton; under ten days' growth of beard my cheeks were hollow, and my eyes seemed to have sunk into their sockets. My hair was matted with every kind of filth. I felt stunned, unable to make out what was happening. One minute I'd been gearing myself for prison; now I was being cosseted in a high-class apartment. But whatever else lay ahead, there was no reason not to have a bath. I started slowly undressing, and took off my shirt. Looking in two mirrors at once (one in front, one behind), I caught sight of my back, and I could hardly believe it. My ribs and spine and hip-bones were all sticking out, as though I'd been starved for weeks. I could see every rib going round and joining my backbone. It was a shock to realise that I'd been living on my own body. In walking nearly 300 kilo-metres, and shuddering with cold for countless hours, I'd burnt away all the muscle which I'd built up during my time on the SP team. In the mirror I saw a young boy coming in holding a tape-measure, and the interpreter behind him. `What's going on now?' I demanded. `We'll just take your sizes,' said the interpreter, and the boy started measuring me, round the waist, down the leg, under the arms, with the interpreter writing down whatever he called out. `What the hell's this?' I was thinking. Tor a fucking cof�fin?' But I didn't ask � partly out of fear that I would find out something bad. Then the man who'd met me with the car also appeared, and asked what my shoe-size was. When I told him, 'Eight, eight and a half,' he said to the interpreter, `He looks like a 42.' He then left, and I didn't see him again. The boy soon legged it, and as I was getting my trousers 192 The One That Got Away off, in came another guy with a cup of Turkish coffee. I drank a mouthful of it, but it tasted like cough medicine and made me gag. 'Water!' I croaked, and made drinking motions. I edged myself over the bath and lowered myself in care�fully, backside first, keeping my feet out of the water. Then I gradually submerged them. As the heat hit the cuts, the pain was horrendous. After a few seconds I lifted them out again, then tried to lower them back into the water. I lay there with my legs elevated as I washed myself and shampooed my hair. Soon the water was absolutely black, so I got out, pulled out the plug, and started to fill the bath again. As I was doing that, the interpreter came back, and when he saw me, he said, 'Oh excuse me. We have a shower, if you'd like to use it. `It's OK, thanks. I'm going to have another bath.' I got back into clean water, and again the pain in my feet was terrific, as if needles were being driven into them. Apart from the cuts along the sides, they were discoloured, with red and blue patches. All I could do was lie there and bite my tongue. Then the burning ache seemed to subside, and I started to enjoy the hot water. The interpreter sat down by the bath with his note-pad. `Right,' he said, 'can you tell me what happened?' `Play it like you're frightened,' I thought. 'Well,' I said, `I'm a medic. I was brought in from the TA, and I was on board a helicopter going in to retrieve � ' `The TA?' `The Territorial Army. The reserves. As I said, I was going in to retrieve a downed pilot, and something hap�pened. There was a big bang, the helicopter crashed, and I just ran for it. We came down, and I was really scared. I didn't wait for anybody else . . . `Keep it light,' I was thinking. 'Pretend to be nervous.' `How long ago?' `Three days, I think.' `Whereabouts was the crash?' `I don't know. I just ran. I had no idea where we were. I ended up with a goatherd.' Guest Of The Government 193 `What sort of helicopter was it?' `A Sea King.' `What did it look like?' `Just a helicopter . . . Single engine.' The interpreter had been watching me closely, and now he just said, 'OK,' and left the room. I had the strong im�pression that he hadn't believed a word of what I'd told him. Too bad. I climbed out of the bath and got my beard off with a couple of shaves. Without the stubble, I looked very thin and tired. My lips were cracked and broken, but no more than if I'd been in the sun too long. As I was drying myself, the boy who'd measured me brought in a set of clean white underpants and vest and laid them on the toilet seat. Also, he picked up my own stinking kit, and took it out. Spotting a pair of scales, I stood on them. At first I thought the needle had jammed, so I shook the platform about � but no: it stayed steady on 63.5 kilograms. I knew exactly what my weight was when I'd left Saudi, and I could hardly believe it. Ten days earlier I'd been 12 stone 8, or 176 lbs. Now I was 10 stone, or 140 lbs. I'd lost thirty-six pounds. I pulled on the clean underwear and walked out into the bedroom, and there � for Christ's sake � was a brand-new dark-blue pin-striped suit, together with a white shirt and a tie. By then it was 11 o'clock at night, but I realised they must have knocked up some tailor, and he'd run the suit together in half an hour. There was also a pair of black slip-on shoes. I put on the shirt and the trousers, but they were inches too big round the waist. The boss was watching me, and when he saw that something was wrong he went berserk, yelling at the young guy who'd taken the measurements. The boy was crestfallen and cowering, not daring to look up. Anyway, as I took off the trousers and handed them back, the boss noticed the state of my feet. He telephoned for a medical orderly, while I sat on the edge of the bed and waited. Soon a medic appeared. He cleaned out the cuts with a lotion that stung, and put plasters on, but he made such a mess of the job that I reckoned I could have done 194 The One That Got Away better on my own. If they'd had any zinc oxide tape, I'd have taped my feet right up, Also, I knew I needed some anti�biotics. By then my ankles as well as my feet were swollen, and the new pair of shoes wouldn't go on. By the time the medic had finished, the trousers re�appeared with the waist taken in. So I put them on, and the tie. The boss kept asking, `D'you like the tie?' and I said, `Yes, thank you. It's fine.' `I think it's great,' he said. 'I picked it out myself.' In fact it was a horrible mess of grey and red. The jacket of the suit fitted quite well, but because I couldn't get the shoes on I stayed in stockinged feet. Then suddenly I thought: 'Jesus � I know. It's a press conference. They're dressing me up for a staged press do. I'm going to walk into a room full of lights and reporters and cameramen. They'll all be asking questions. What the hell am I going to tell them?' I hadn't a clue what was happening in Iraq. I presumed that the air-war was still in progress � but whether or not the ground-war had started I couldn't tell. I didn't even know what had become of the rest of my patrol. If! said the wrong thing now, I might blow the whole SAS operation in the Gulf. I might blow the fact that the Regiment was in Saudi. Did the Syrians realise I was in the SAS? Maybe I should tell them the truth, in the hope that they'd keep
it quiet. One way or another, I could be in trouble. Before I had time to worry too much, they ushered me back into the sitting room and the boss told the interpreter to switch on the TV. He tuned to CNN, and I soon saw that the air-war was still on � allied aircraft bombing Baghdad, and so on � but there appeared to have been no major action on the ground. Then the interpreter began to recap on what I'd told him. `So you were a medic on board a helicopter.' , `That's right.' After a bit of chit-chat he asked, 'Are you hungry?' Hungry! In the past eight days I'd eaten two packets of biscuits and two apples. 'Yes,' I said, 'I am.' `Just a minute, then.' Guest Of The Government 195 He let me watch CNN for a while, then led me through to the other lounge. I could move slowly without too much discomfort; my feet felt quite easy on the carpet, but I was sore and stiff all over. In my brief absence someone had set out a feast on a table. There were kebabs, steaks, rice, salads, bread, fruit. The interpreter kept saying, 'You must be starving,' and he heaped a pile of food on to my plate. The smell was fantastic, but when I cut into a steak and took one bite of it, it seemed to stick in my throat and I couldn't eat any more. I just sat there drinking pints of water, until the boss asked, 'Is the food bad?' `No,' I said. 'It's just that I'm not as hungry as I thought. More thirsty. I'm sorry.' The other two had been eating, but I got the impression they were only doing it to be polite, and as soon as I gave up, they did too. Back in the other room, the interpreter asked, `Well � what would you like to do now?' I knew that a British Embassy had been hastily set up in Damascus when the Gulf War looked likely to break out, and I was on the point of asking to be taken there when the interpreter suggested, 'How about seeing some Syrian night life?' `What?' I was astounded. Didn't these guys realise what a state I was in? I was making sense to them, but only just. `No thanks,' I muttered. 'I can't walk.' `Well � d'you need anything? D'you need to spend time with anybody?' It was incredible: here the interpreter was, apparently offering me a woman. By then I'd seen the hand of God, and I was in no mood to muck around. I thought, 'Go for it,' and asked, 'Can you take me to the British Embassy?' `Oh?' he seemed rather surprised. 'You want to go there?' `Yes, if it's possible.' `OK.' He began making phone calls. While he was doing that, I was led across to a table � and there was all my kit which had been taken away in the police station, and which I thought had been stolen piecemeal. 196 The One That Got Away `Well,' said the interpreter, coming over, 'is everything there?' I made a check, and found everything present � weapon, ammunition, kite-sight, even the white phos grenades. `Yeah,' I said. 'It's all there.' `This is interesting.' He picked up the kite-sight. 'What's this?' `Oh � just a thing they gave us so that we could see in the dark.' I felt sure he knew what it was, so I showed him how to turn it on, and he stood there looking out of the window with it, down into the courtyard. `Brilliant!' he said. 'I'll have everything packed away for you.' I believe they knew exactly who I was, but they were play�ing along with my story. Then the interpreter asked whether I wanted my clothes washed, but I said, 'No thanks � just put them back in the bag.' So the young guy pushed everything back in, and I sat down again. `You know,' said the interpreter keenly, 'I've always wanted to come to England for a holiday. Where do you live?' `In Newcastle,' I said. 'With my parents.' `Oh, I'd love to come there. Can you give me your tele�phone number and address? Maybe you could show us the sights and return our hospitality sometime? Could I give you a ring?' I made up a number, giving the Rowlands Gill code with changed digits, and a dicky address. I thought, 'Jesus �you're digging yourself in deep here. If he asks you to repeat that number, you're going to be in the shit.' But once again, they didn't seem to question what I said. `By the way,' the interpreter added, as we were waiting. Did you see anyone as you crossed the border? Did anyone meet you?' That made me think they must have had people out on their own side of the frontier, watching, and waiting to re�ceive escapers. But I replied, 'No. I didn't see anybody.' `So you found the police station yourself?' Guest Of The Government 197 `That's right.' I told them more or less what had hap�pened at the farmhouse. `And this young boy who took you in � where was his house?' I tried to describe the location, and the boss promised to send someone to thank the people there. Then he said, `How was your journey after that?' I thought, 'If I start saying what the bastards did to me in the desert, he may keep me here for days, until he's had the guys dragged in.' So I just said, 'Oh, it was fine, thanks. No problem.' There was a knock at the door, and in came the driver of the car, actually cowering, dry-washing his hands in front of him, with his head hanging down. Until then, I'd only seen orientals do that, and it made me wonder, 'Who is this boss guy? What does he do to people to make them behave like that?' The interpreter gave me a piece of paper with a telephone number on it, and said, 'If you have any problems in Damas�cus, ring this number and ask to speak to me.' I put the note in my pocket and tucked my new shoes under one arm. Then I shook hands with the boss, who patted me on the back. 'The car will take you to the British Embassy,' he said, `and staff of the Embassy will meet you there.' I limped downstairs and found a Mercedes waiting. In we climbed, and the driver set off. The Embassy was a disappointment. Instead of the grand house in a walled garden which I'd visualised, thinking of Abu Dhabi, it turned out to be an undistinguished office building in a row on a street, with guards on duty in pillar boxes along the pavements. There seemed to be a heavy presence of men with weapons, dotted all over the place in ones and twos. As we pulled up, I grabbed my bag, thanked the driver and got out. A young man was standing on the steps, waiting to meet me. He introduced himself as the Second Secretary, and I soon saw that he was a switched-on lad � tall, dark-haired, 198 The One That Got Away wearing glasses, in his early thirties, and quite smart-look�ing. With him was the Defence Attach�older, clearly a Rupert of sorts, and a bit of a stuffed shirt � fortyish, short, dark-haired as well. `Who are you?' he asked. `Sergeant Ryan from 22 SAS,' I told him. `OK � upstairs.' I dragged myself up one flight and sat down in a room. What with the state of my hands, and blood oozing out of my stockinged feet, you might have thought the DA would dis-pense with formalities. Not at all. `Right,' he said, 'I'm just going to ask you a few questions, to verify who you are � make sure you're not a plant. What's your parent unit? Who's the commanding officer?' I stared at the guy and said, 'Listen � don't start this fuck�ing shit with me. I'm from 22 SAS, and I've been on the run for eight days. Just get a message back to High Wycombe.' That woke him up. He gave a kind of choke, and the Second Secretary told him, 'Look, cool it.' The DA seemed to have no inkling of what had been going on behind the scenes in Iraq, but I got the impression that the Second Secretary had a pretty acute idea. `There's nobody else come out, then?' I asked. The DA stared at me. `No � you're the first we've seen.' By then it was 1 a.m. I gathered that the diplomats were living in a hotel just down the road, and that they'd been out at some function, but had been recalled by a message from the secret police. The Second Secretary asked, 'Can you tell us what hap�pened?' So I gave them a broad outline of the story: how the patrol had been deployed and had a contact, how we'd legged it through the desert, split up, lost Vince, moved to here, had another contact, and so on. The DA seemed amazed that anyone should have walked out into Syria. 'Nobody had told us you were anywhere near the border,' he said. But then he let on that, a few days before, he'd had a visit from two British guys doing some