After decades fighting IRA terrorism within the United Kingdom, declared wars in the Falklands and the Gulf, a score of undeclared wars from Borneo to Oman, from Africa to Colombia, and deep-penetration missions into a dozen other “denied territories,” Britain had produced a labor pool of some of the most experienced undercover men in the world.

Many of these had left the army, or whatever other service they had been with, and parlayed their strange talents into a livelihood. The natural areas in which one could find them were bodyguard work, asset protection, industrial counter-espionage, and security consultancy.

Saul Nathanson, true to his word, had caused an untraceable deposit to be established in a British-owned off-shore bank where banking secrecy was trustworthy. Or demand by an innocent-sounding code word in a harmless telephone call, Irvine could transfer what he needed to the London branch for immediate use. Within forty-eight hours he had six younger men at his beck and call, two of them fluent in Russian.

There was something Jordan had said that intrigued Irvine, and in pursuit of this lead one of the Russian speakers flew to Moscow with a bundle of hard currency. He would not return for two weeks, but when he did his news was encouraging.

The other five were sent on errands. One of them went to America with a letter of introduction to Ralph Brooke, chairman and president of InTelCor. The remainder went looking for the various experts in a variety of arcane areas that Irvine felt would be needed. When he had them all busy on his behalf, he addressed the problem he wished to handle personally.

During World War II, fifty-five years earlier, returning to Europe after convalescence, he had been attached to the intelligence staff of General Horrocks, commanding XXX Corps as it pushed up the Nijmegen road in Holland desperately trying to relieve the British paratroopers holding the Arnhem bridgehead.

One of the regiments in XXX Corps was the Grenadier Guards. Among its youthful officers was a certain Major Peter Carrington; another, with whom Irvine had much to do, was Major Nigel Forbes.

Upon the death of his father, Major Forbes had acceded to the hereditary title of Lord Forbes, premier lord of Scotland. After a number of calls to Scotland, Irvine finally tracked him down at the Army and Navy Club in London’s Piccadilly.

“I know it’s a long shot,” he said when he had reintroduced himself, “but I need to conduct a little seminar. Rather private, really. Very private.”

“Oh, that kind of seminar.”

“Exactly. One is looking for somewhere out of the way, a bit off the beaten track, capable of hosting about a dozen people. You know the Highlands. Anywhere you can think of?”

“When would you want it?” asked the Scottish peer.

“Tomorrow.”

“Ah, like that. My own place is no good, it’s rather small. I long ago made over the castle to my lad. But I think he’s away. Let me check.”

He called back in an hour. His “lad,” son and heir Malcolm, bearing the courtesy handle Master of Forbes, was in fact fifty-three that year and had confirmed he was leaving the following day for a month in the Greek islands.

“I suppose you’d better borrow his place,” said Lord Forbes. “No rough stuff, mind.”

“Certainly not,” said Irvine. “Just lectures, slide shows, that sort of thing. Every expense will be fully covered, and more.”

“All right then. I’ll call Mrs. McGillivray and tell her you’re coming. She’ll look after you.”

With that Lord Forbes put down the phone and went back to his interrupted lunch.

It was dawn on the sixth day when the British Airways overnight from Miami touched down at Heathrow’s Terminal Four and decanted Jason Monk among four hundred other passengers into the world’s busiest airport. Even at that hour there were thousands of passengers arriving from various points on the globe and heading for passport control. Monk had been in first class and was among the earliest to reach the barrier.

“Business or pleasure, sir?” asked the passport officer.

“Tourism,” said Monk.

“Enjoy your stay.”

Monk pocketed his passport and headed for the luggage carousel. There was a ten-minute wait until the bags rolled off. His own was within the first twenty. He walk

ed through the Green Channel and was not stopped. As he emerged he glanced at the waiting crowd, many of them chauffeurs holding up cards with the names of individual passengers or companies. Nothing said “Monk.”

With people coming up behind him he had to move on. Still nothing. He moved along the twin lines of barriers that formed a passageway to the main concourse and as he emerged a voice in his ear said: “Mr. Monk?”

The speaker was about thirty, in jeans and tan leather jacket. He was short-haired and looked extremely fit.

“That’s me.”

“Your passport, sir, if you please.”

Monk produced it and the man checked his identity. He had ex-soldier written all over him, and looking at the hammer-knuckled hands holding his passport, Monk would have taken any bet the man’s military career had not been spent in the paymaster’s office. The passport was handed back.

Tags: Frederick Forsyth Thriller
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