Elephants can't hide forever Page 2

  Three weeks later, Colin Winn was sitting across the desk from a pretty assistant in the local Thomas Cook travel agent on Bexley High Street. Colin was booking a surprise holiday for his wife and four children and he was very pleased with himself; this was not only going to be a holiday totally out of the blue for the family, but wait till he told them it was for two weeks in Lazaretto and all inclusive. Ok, when Bones Logan, his old school mate, had told him in no uncertain terms what he needed from him, he had initially shit himself, but fuck it, half an hour’s work and he was sitting here with five large ones booking the holiday of a lifetime. Wait till I pay for this in readies, he was thinking, that will get me respect.

  Colin was a truck driver; to be specific, a ready- mix concrete truck driver, and the past four months had been like thirty others, shuttling concrete from the batching plant in Swanley to the site of the new bridge spanning the Thames, a boring monotonous job that paid well but lacked variation. That was until yesterday, and yesterday there was variation. His last run of the day took him from the batching plant via a seedy back street garage in Erith where he had been instructed to report by his recent benefactor. As the whoosh of the air brakes signalled the truck was securely parked, Bones Logan appeared from the side door with two people Colin didn’t know, and looking at them, didn’t want to either.

  “Col, were going to be adding some cargo to the concrete, we know your load won’t be tested because Dave here’s had a little word with the checker on pillar thirteen where you’re tipping, so all you got to do is make sure you get the load down the shaft, and not miss it, there’s going to be two more loads straight behind you and everyone will want to go home, now give us a hand”.

  After the mutilated, charred remains of the two car thieves from Catford had been fed into the revolving drum of Colin Winn’s cement mixer, the big guy with a false eye handed Colin his five grand with the menacing words, “You’re a lucky man, five grand to spend on those four kids, keep them safe.”

  Colin had started his engine, but before he got out of sight pulled over and spewed his stomach out over his passenger seat. He had toughed it out at the garage, but had never seen a dead body before, let alone the remains of two people who had suffered so horrifically. Eric had said to the man with one eye, “He will keep stum, no fear.” Half an hour later, the two bodies were tipped out of the mixer to fertilise the ground under the new bridge, undoubtedly not the first and not the last.

  Of course, news of the highly secret operation spread like wildfire in the pubs and clubs of South London. Eric Logan had accredited himself well, and so Eric Bones Logan found himself invited onto the team, and batting with the big boys.

  “Who else?” asked Danny.

  “Well,” replied Mouse “We’ve got Herbie Sparks on the alarms and cameras.”

  Danny knew Herbie, who had a legitimate electrical shop over the water in the borough of Chingford. He fitted security systems all over Essex, and there was no shortage of business on that manor, both to the great and good and to the not so good; the villains and the hoi-polloi all cherished their security, and Herbie had no qualms who he did business with. Furthermore, over the years had become a trusted part of several major gangs when a specialist like himself was required. “Good man,” commented Danny.

  “Yeah, invaluable” said Mouse, “And the last two are Martin Flint and John Bater.” Both these men were known as Petermen in the trade, another specialist requirement in the art of bank robbery and the like, once again a trade that, like Herbie’s, was running short of skilled personnel. As far as the general public were aware the Peterman was a safe cracker and John Illes needed two safe crackers on this job and these two were the best.

  Both men had served and learnt their trade in the Royal Army Ordinance Corps. On leaving the Army they were now experts in all major aspects of munitions, including bomb disposal. They had taken their skills to the highest bidders, starting with legitimate employment in the major oil companies, who always required such men to clear areas of the world such as demilitarised zones, in order to safely deploy their field experts in the constant search for new oil deposits. As the two mercenaries gradually moved round the world, they soon discovered their unique knowledge commanded huge rewards for the not so legitimate enterprises that were involved in the business of bombs and really anything that exploded, and that included the criminal fraternity of their home country, the United Kingdom. Both men had built a common trust with the villains of England and Scotland, and were usually the first to be contacted when the need arose; certainly when Mouse was putting his team together they were the only two names he wanted.

  “Well I don’t know these last two, Mouse” said Danny,” but I guess you wouldn’t employ monkeys.” Mouse grinned, enough said then.

  “Do you mind if I ask what my share is?” Danny enquired.

  “Fair question” said Mouse. “It’s the six of us that are going in to the warehouse who are taking the most risk, so I reckon that you’re on for five percent, which if it’s three million, that’s a hundred and fifty large ones. How does that sound?”

  “More than fair,” agreed Danny, John Illes stuck his huge hand out to Danny,

  “Sorted then. Let’s go downstairs and celebrate,” he grinned. At precisely 6.40am on the morning of November 26th 1983, six armed and highly dangerous men led by John Illes, The Mouse, walked through the front doors of the Brinks Mat warehouse, Heathrow, unaware they were about to become complicit in the crime of the century

  Chapter 3

  War in Afghanistan

  President George W Bush sat transfixed, staring at the bank of television monitors in front of him; it was the morning of September 11th 2001. He was aboard Air Force One, the presidential plane that he usually used to visit foreign countries. This morning, however, he had been performing administrative tasks in the oval office which was his sanctum within the White House, when the bright green hot phone shrilled into action. This was the line known only to six men, all heads of the various security services that jointly ensure the USA remains safe from hostile forces. This was the first occasion the phone had rung since J F Kennedy had answered it to be told the Russians were heading to Cuba with a batch of nuclear warheads back in the 1960s. The caller was John Robertson, head of National Security. John spoke calmly.

  “Sir, I need you to listen carefully and do as I say. As I speak America is under attack from hostile but unknown forces- at 830am we took a scrambled call from a US Marshall aboard American Airlines flight 11 out of Boston. As you know sir, all US flights have unidentifiable Marshalls, well the Marshall’s call was chilling, he said the plane he was travelling on had been hijacked by a group of men who seemed very well organised and had taken over the flight deck. He deduced at least one of the hijackers was a pilot. As National Security were deciphering the Marshall’s call, a further call came in from United Airlines flight 175, also out of Boston. The US Marshall on this flight reported almost identical circumstances.”

  The President listened, a knot forming in his stomach. “Mr President, I cannot emphasise how grave the situation is” said John Robertson. “We locked onto the two aircraft as soon as we heard the news; both had changed direction and were heading for New York City.”

  “My God,” thought the president, not fully taking in what he was hearing.

  The head of National Security took a deep breath.

  “Sir, to bring you up to date, at 845 this morning, the United Airlines flight 11 crashed into the north tower of the World Trade Centre, at 905 the second plane crashed into the south tower. There are two other flights over America that we believe may also have been hijacked, destination unknown. Four F16s have been scrambled from Dulles and will, under instruction, shoot any aircraft out of the skies should we feel they are under hostile control.” The time was now 9:30 am. “Mr President, America is under attack, we will keep you up to speed as events unfold, but firstly you must issue the Presidential order that we immediately go to DEFCON 1.
”

  He paused a second to allow the ramification of these words to sink in. The USA, like most countries, has a prioritised list of alert statuses for its armed forces and other agencies, DEFCON 5 being no threat perceived and peace, escalating to DEFCON 1 which is imminent attack, requiring full mobilisation of all armed forces and major evacuation of cities under threat. The American authorities had not been in a DEFCON 1 situation since the Cuban missile crisis of 1963.

  John continued, “Further, Mr President, you are to be escorted immediately to Air Force One, with other key staff including FLOTUS (the acronym for the president’s wife: First Lady of the United States). Once Air Force One is airborne we will assess a safe destination, but at this moment in time that may have to be a friendly country.”

  As the conversation continued, the doors to the Oval Office burst open, and two fully armed Marines approached the President. War had been declared on the USA and the President had to be made safe; and so as respectfully as possible, the Marines escorted him with the utmost urgency to the waiting helicopter, which would whisk him to the safety of the Presidential 727 Jumbo. The United States was under attack, violators currently unknown.

  President Bush sat motionless, engulfed in the horror of watching US citizens leaping from the burning buildings of the World Trade Centre. Since Air Force One had lifted off, the situation had become more extreme; the pictures on the screen of the burning towers of the World Trade Centre were the stuff of nightmares, but they had now been replaced by a CNN crew who were filming live pictures from Washington. American Airlines flight 77 had crashed into the Pentagon, the President watched in abject horror as a huge plume of smoke rose from the burning building. By now the world was watching the macabre events unfolding in the greatest country in the world, the United States of America. Both the Pentagon and the White House were being evacuated with extreme haste; the terrorists had the great Satan running scared.

  10:05 am saw the south tower of the World Trade Centre collapse; like a deck of cards the massive symbol of American Capitalism slithered to the ground causing a huge cloud of rubble and dust to spread across the nearby streets.

  The National Security and US agents that surrounded POTUS, The President of The United States, were frantically gathering information from the rows of electronic wizardry that filled every nook and cranny of Air Force One. Every satellite and listening device on the earth could be fed through the aircraft; each and every member of the team knew that when the atrocities of the day released their hold on POTUS, he would want answers and expect them.

  Approximately ninety minutes into the flight of Air Force One, at 10.28am eastern seaboard time, the second tower of the World Trade Centre, which once stood tall and proud as a symbol of American prestige, came juddering ground ward. The President had watched enough. He had witnessed the unimaginable; America reduced to rubble by forces unknown. How, with all the resources America spent on its security, could this have happened, without so much as a whisper? He had just witnessed the mass murder of what must be thousands of Americans. POTUS rose from his chair and looked towards the hubbub of the personnel busy seeking and analysing the constant chatter of the surrounding machines spewing out the incoming intelligence from the world’s security services. The President stood and gazed around the room and for two minutes he said nothing, and every man and woman stopped their work and an unnatural quiet descended.

  Eventually the President spoke.

  “Who did this John?” he asked in a barely audible voice. The head of national security looked the President in the eye and said:

  “Sir our initial Intel has established that the organisation responsible for this is: Al-Qaeda.”

  “Go on” said POTUS.

  “Al-Qaeda, Sir” said John Robertson to the President. The President’s assembled people sat or stood in total silence. He continued: “Al-Qaeda is an Islamist group founded sometime between 1988 and 1989. We have known of their existence since its inception when several senior leaders from the Islamic Jihad organisation joined forces with a wealthy Saudi extremist. Since then they’ve gone off the radar. Although several suicide bombings have been attributed to these people nothing has ever been proven and, unusually, nothing claimed.”

  The President pondered for a moment, you could hear a pin drop and John Robertson knew the President’s next question, which he duly delivered.

  “Who, John, is the leader of this organisation?”

  “Osama Bin Laden Sir, is the Saudi benefactor,” came the reply.

  “And where might we find him?” demanded the President, at last re-capturing some of his fighting spirit.

  “Afghanistan, Sir” came the reply.

  The World entered a new phase.

  Sixteen days later on the 7th October 2001, American forces invaded Afghanistan under the brief Operation Enduring Freedom. The aim was to bring Bin Laden and other high ranking members of Al-Qaeda to trial, destroy the entire organization and remove the existing rulers of Afghanistan, the Taliban.

  Thirty two days later Major Mike Tobin, known as Nine Fingers to his comrades in the British SAS, was readying himself to answer the President’s request.

  Chapter 4

  Nangarhar province, eastern Afghanistan

  Gandamak is a village in eastern Afghanistan situated between the country’s capital and the Pakistani town of Peshawa; a cold inhospitable settlement. Its only claim to fame, if you could call it fame, was that a hundred and fifty nine years previously, the First Afghan war was concluded there. On the afternoon of January 13th 1842, the British troops, who were retreating to India through the mountain passes having been overwhelmed in Kabul, made their last stand against the Afghan hordes in Gandamak. They were cut to ribbons; what with the cruel Afghan winter and cowardly British Officers they never stood a chance, and that was about the sum total of Gandamak’s claim to fame.

  Gandamak lies relatively close to the Tora Bora mountainous region of Afghanistan. The Tora Bora, or White Mountains, lie in the District of Nangarhar, only 50 kilometres west of the Khyber Pass, which joins Afghanistan to Pakistan.

  The English and American press in the furore of post September 11th had all claimed that the mountains of Tora Bora contained a hotel -like bunker, where Osama Bin Laden and up to two thousand followers were holed up. The idea that the perpetrators of the horrific attacks on America were hiding in caves in the middle of Asia embedded itself into the American public. They wanted retribution, and George W Bush was not silly enough to deny them their bloodlust, indeed it was he who led the rallying cry for the heads of those responsible for the recent attacks. So it transpired, whether through fact or fiction no one will ever know, that a report from the Secretary of Defence USA was leaked to the American press, stating that immediately post September 11th (or 9/11 as it was now referred to), Bin Laden had been picked up by a British AWAC (Airborne Early Warning and Control) spy plane, leaving Kabul, on a donkey no less, and heading for the impenetrable fortress of the Tora Bora mountains.

  Like a recalcitrant child who can’t get his own way and lashes out at the nearest thing, POTUS decided, probably carried along by the American groundswell that Bin Laden must perish in his mountain hideaway. He ordered a great force of bombers to systematically reduce the Tora Bora mountain range to dust, and those hiding underneath as well; even if Bin Laden wasn’t there the World would see the full might of American anger when aroused and the good folks of the USA might start to feel good about themselves again.

  Mike Tobin, British SAS Captain and his three comrades sat outside the café, in Sher Poor Square Gandamak.

  They listened to the constant thunder of the B 52s dropping their deadly ordinance payload as they reshaped the landscape of the Tora Bora Mountains. Their mission was to destroy the members of Al-Qaeda hiding beneath.

  It struck the four SAS troopers with great irony that this entire division of America’s finest airborne was in fact wasting their time, as the quarry they so desperately sought to bl
ast into eternity was, in fact, holed up in a house fifty metres from where they sat.

  For fifteen days they had been sitting outside the café and at first they had attracted some minor attention. Dressed as Afghan farmers, and fully covered up for protection against the cold winter, they soon blended in with the indigenous population. Many Afghan farmers now resorted to spending the majority of their days doing likewise, ever since the great Satan, the USA, had systematically destroyed their crops and income from the poppy fields.

  The four members of the SAS snatch squad had walked into Gandamak from the Pakistan town of Peshawar, crossing the border at nightfall; little attention was paid to them in this remote and hostile environment. There was a constant stream of human flotsam crossing into and out of Pakistan. Whilst sitting outside the café, whiling away the time, they had kept a constant eye on the alleyway running off at right angles to the road they sat by. Nothing unusual had been observed; in fact to these highly trained individuals the very fact that nothing moved up or down this alleyway was in itself an indication that there was something unusual occurring, and that unusual occurrence was the fact that, providing GCHQ had not fucked up, Osama Bin Laden was sitting in the back room of the fourth house down the alley, safe in the knowledge that the distant rumble of the American bombers indicated no one had a clue where he really was.

  It was the most extraordinary piece of luck that brought these four men into the lawless region of Eastern Afghanistan, and now as they waited for darkness to envelop the small village, they readied themselves for the snatch they had been planning which was to occur that evening.

  Chapter 5

  GCHQ (General Command Headquarters Cheltenham), 4 weeks previously