Authors: Chris Ryan
To Slater the whole set-up sounded unappealingly corporate. 'I'm glad it suits you,' he said. 'Personally, I'm looking forward to the freelance life.'
'You've never done BGing, before, have you?' asked Andreas, indicating Slater's empty glass to the waiter.
'Not outside of the Regiment,' admitted Slater.
'It sounds good,' said Andreas. 'You turn up at some fabulous apartment, pick up the lady of the house, have lunch, perhaps do a little shopping . . . But the truth is,
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that a switched-on guy like you will go nuts in i'minutes. You realise that you're a nanny, that fre an arse-wiper, that you're a trolley-pusher - Uy that you're a servant. And a servant for the of people you wouldn't give the time of day to. apt businessmen. Spoilt rich kids. Vulgar, iucated women who haven't done a day's honest : in their lives.'
[ the more reason to take their money,' said Slater anably. 'At least I know that at the end of the day my own man. I can say no to anything I don't y.'
fou won't last long if you do say no,' Andreas ted. 'Close protection's a service industry. It's all nt saying yes. Did Duckworth read you the poem?' ater admitted that he had.
|'He does that with all the guys. Then when they plain that some arms-dealer's wife has given them time he can quote it back at them. In fact, like a of queers, Duckworth adores rich women. He linely thinks that--' |?Did you say queers?' asked Slater. |*Yes. Didn't you figure that out? Your antennae are
to have to sharpen up, my friend.' 1*1 guess they are.'
I'Andreas, his eyes shining, leaned forward con atorially. 'Neil, junk Minerva and come and work i us. It'd be like old times, but without the beasting the bollockings and the trenchfoot. We were a at team then, we can be a great team again.'
71
10'^
I skeo xx / jofcwiodng ^�*''couA *' slater Faced fjBdrea^t^-eas's end** he vW^ , f, his resc* ^en�^ering. AndwX \^Ul ^^ �, hen a s-t^ a great taa V Wa& g 'Doia^oing wfauetoh jV And(1
�stuniC"i^urinetotiKMtertota(''^TV--;
As U-a/V^s ^he coDliiorget ^ to do?
'Th^'T^That'swhatiyo^0^ �ecia^0^cial projeat. V^\ V of a sort of mter-s^
half a pounds f a dozen i^^^ �^* ^^ aves I aaves j^. U.^^Vj^t we do is import^
have � a^ve been au.^to/e = C Vails * th\&tag!; 'W^J 'Why me? ^e an approach to f
'B08' 'Because v�U[t*?'0�\ - expertaq^penenced l�^\^ Because you
want ^,aPnt to gota.*^^ ^ F1re* .ome^m^ethmg.^^^C ^cgjmcnt you re
on. ^ .^. Someth^B4,�
sort * n^rt of life, rfbo^ < pounds though, of hving .
L J' 'Look, Ma,!^1^' ^^Y agf^ J
I ^-^ want i, eno^od/^ ^ in London a wedj
to k^ 0.0 keep rne^ ^ � ,V^ enough moncy-J
peo0o^eopleanddOBJ^^r^ to hang out ^
spor^ and r ^^^^gsj
an O a^n Open Unwif ^ c^er^. I na^ ^J opersqooperationsstnf V^6-T d�n f ' '& ButNd.4,.^^ ormal'!
\^OW
^
72
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Chris Ryan
jju call them, to go shopping with. You don't know ne to go to the rugby with, or to take to the lema. Look what happened last time you tried living the normal world -- there were corpses strewn over ree counties. The covert world is the normal world 5>r you.'
So, he knew about the school. 'We need you, Neil, and right now I think that you eed us.'
fci Join us, in other words, if you want Lark to get you it of the shit.
Looking back, Slater remembered that there had iways been this manipulative side to Andreas van jjn. He had always enjoyed power games - always ced trying to freak people out, to control them. The trouble was, although Slater was loth to admit , much of what Andreas said was true. He didn't eally know anyone outside the covert world. And acre was a side to it all - a sharp needle of excitement that he missed . . .
'I need to get on with my life, Andreas. That's all. I idsh you well, but I'm not going anywhere near your iepartment. I'm out of the system now.'
Andreas smiled. 'And you think the system's out of |you?'
He left the question hanging.
I Two days later Slater was standing on the steps of the I Hyde Park Hotel, waiting for the man he was to be -guarding for the day. In the morning, he had been
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The Hit List
told, the principal would be shopping for clothes in the SW1 area, and in the afternoon he would be watching a home game at Spurs' White Hart Lane football ground. At 7pm the principal would be attending a drinks party followed by dinner at a private house from where a car would be collecting him and driving him home.
At 10am precisely a dark green Rover swept to the kerbside and the principal climbed out. Slater recognised Salman Rushdie immediately from the many newspaper portraits that had been published over the years. Today, the novelist was swathed in a long belted overcoat and wearing a Parisian beret.
'Mr Rushdie, I'm Neil Slater.'
Was it Lord Rushdie? Had he read somewhere that the writer had been made a life peer? Had he made a fool of himself with his first word?
But Rushdie still seemed to be smiling his oblique smile. 'I think we might start with some coffee,' he said. 'Just to fortify ourselves.'
Slater looked around. No obvious assassin had presented himself. There were no cloaked anarchists carrying bombs, no wild-eyed sword-wielding dervishes. He led Rushdie up the hotel steps, into the large, ornate foyer, and thence to the dining room. Again, the place looked safe enough.
'Why don't you sit here?' said Rushdie, pointing Slater to a window seat facing the door.
Slater sat down. From the security viewpoint the position was a sensible one.
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[^occurred to me recently,' the novelist continued, : people were to stop reading my books, I could ito the bodyguarding business myself. I've ably as much experience as anyone.' . sorry it's been necessary,' said Slater, idie nodded. The too. Me too. Now, how do t take your coffee?'
sr had never guarded a celebrity before. With Regiment he'd been assigned occasional ;tion duties, but never of a recognisable figure. | he and Rushdie made their way through Harrods i minutes later he realised just how complex his task . to be. A lot of people recognised the novelist, and iy of them stared. Some manoeuvred themselves positions from where they could take a second jk. Whether any of this attention was hostile was lost impossible to determine. Rushdie had insisted r proceeding on foot -- he liked window-shopping, \ told Slater, and he liked to see the faces of strangers se up -- and the best that Slater could do was to erpose himself between Rushdie and anyone who
it conceivably be an Islamic militant. For more than a decade the novelist had been the ject of a fatwa issued by Iran's supreme leader, the ^atollah Khomeini. This edict urged that Rushdie be led because of supposed blasphemy in one of his ^vels. A year ago, however, a less puritan Iranian Ivernment had announced it intended no harm to shdie, and for a time it had seemed as if he might sume normal life. And then a report had appeared in
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The Hit List
told, the principal would be shopping for clothes in the SW1 area, and in the afternoon he would be watching a home game at Spurs' White Hart Lane football ground. At 7pm the principal would be attending a drinks party followed by dinner at a private house from where a car would be collecting him and driving him home.
At 10am precisely a dark green Rover swept to the kerbside and the principal climbed out. Slater recognised Salman Rushdie immediately from the many newspaper portraits that had been published over the years. Today, the novelist was swathed in a long belted overcoat and wearing a Parisian beret.
'Mr Rushdie, I'm Neil Slater.1
Was it Lord Rushdie? Had he read somewhere that the writer had been made a life peer? Had he made a fool of himself with his first word?
But Rushdie still seemed to be smiling his oblique smile. 'I think we might start with some coffee,' he said. 'Just to fortify ourselves.'
Slater looked around. No obvious assassin had presented himself. There were no cloaked anarchists carrying bombs, no wild-eyed sword-wielding dervishes. He led Rushdie up the hotel steps, into the large, ornate foyer, and thence to the dining room. Again, the place looked safe enough.
'Why don't you sit here?' said Rushdie, pointing Slater to a window seat facing the door.
Slater sat down. From the security viewpoint the position was a sensible one.
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Chris Ryan
'Jit occurred to me recently,' the novelist continued, at if people were to stop reading my books, I could into the body guarding business myself. I've ably as much experience as anyone.' i*I'm sorry it's been necessary,' said Slater. BLushdie nodded. The too. Me too. Now, how do
take your coffee?' Slater had never guarded a celebrity before. With Regiment he'd been assigned occasional ction duties, but never of a recognisable figure. |!,Jie and Rushdie made their way through Harrods : minutes later he realised just how complex his task ', to be. A lot of people recognised the novelist, and of them stared. Some manoeuvred themselves positions from where they could take a second Whether any of this attention was hostile was st impossible to determine. Rushdie had insisted jceeding on foot -- he liked window-shopping, >ld Slater, and he liked to see the faces of strangers up -- and the best that Slater could do was to rose himself between Rushdie and anyone who conceivably be an Islamic militant, more than a decade the novelist had been the of a fatwa issued by Iran's supreme leader, the illah Khomeini. This edict urged that Rushdie be because of supposed blasphemy in one of his pis. A year ago, however, a less puritan Iranian iment had announced it intended no harm to ;, and for a time it had seemed as if he might le normal life. And then a report had appeared in
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The Hit List
the Iranian newspaper Kayhan that over 500 Iranians had pledged to sell their kidneys to raise money for the writer's murder. According to intelligence sources the plan was devised by Islamic militia members in the Iranian holy city of Mashad.
Slater, for whom anonymity was the very breath of life sympathised with Rushdie. He had seen photographs smuggled out of Iran of mass public hangings from the arms of cranes, and from Algeria of the mobile guillotines driven from village to village by Islamic fundamentalist death-squads. And in Iraq, of
course ...
'Do you mind', said Rushdie, 'if we just look in
here?'
It was the book department. Shoppers were browsing among the shelves and standing in line at the till, but no one made any sign of having registered Rushdie's entrance. In fact, Slater was certain, they had all noticed him. They just weren't so uncool as to stare. On a small, circular table close to the aisle was a display of a new John le Carre novel. On the far side of the table, facing the interior of the room rather than the aisle, was a similar display of Rushdie's new book. A visitor passing through the department would certainly see the Le Carre display, but probably not the Rushdie. Deftly, the author revolved the table through 180 degrees.
'What's the book about?' asked Slater, amused. 'Rock 'n' roll,' Rushdie answered. 'Would you like a copy?'
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Chris Ryan
'Very much,' said Slater. 'Help yourself, then. Steal one.' 'You're kidding!'
.'I dare you,' said Rushdie, with the ghost of a smile. \ 'I'm not in the daring business any more,' said Slater, alone the getting-arrested business. Apart from ling else we're on closed circuit TV. And that guy there in the blazer is a store detective.' s'How can you tell?' Slater shrugged. 'The way he stands. The way he
: actually looking at the books.' |l see what you mean. Do you think he knows what j're doing here?' feah, definitely he does.'
assistant approached them.
lave you got Geri Halliwell's autobiography?' idie asked.
i minutes later they were in the Armani shop on the iipton Road.
lat do you think?' asked Rushdie, holding up a l in heavy olive-green wool.
. not a good person to ask about clothes,' replied f, his eyes scanning the store. 'But it looks OK to
ashdie held up the same shirt in grey. 'And this
lat looks OK too.'
ich would you buy for yourself?' lie grey. I've spent half my life in dark green.'
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The Hit List
As Rushdie signed the credit-card slip, Slater held out a copy of his novel. 'While you've got your pen out,' he said, 'would you mind signing this?'
Rushdie stared at him in amazement. 'Now how the hell. . .'
'I never could resist a good book.'
With the clothes-shopping completed they had lunch in a pub in Beauchamp Place, where Rushdie questioned Slater about the Gulf War. 'What was your worst moment?' he asked.
Slater considered. 'Well, the most frightening moment was probably during an anti-Scud mission.'
'Go on,' said the novelist, forking Branston pickle on to his cheese roll.
Slater sipped at his Coke. 'Well, we'd got satellite pictures in, showing activity near a place called al Anbar, west of Baghdad. The theory from the intelligence people was that a number of missiles were being grouped there before moving them on to their mobile launchers. They didn't know how long they'd all be in one place, so the word was we had to check them out fast and if possible help knock them out.
Tour of us went in. They dropped us off by helicopter at night and got out as quickly as possible. Al-Anbar was surrounded by anti-aircraft batteries, there were tanks in the area, and there were rumours of a concealed airbase. It was also fantastically cold. We'd been expecting the Costa del Sol, but we found
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: coldest January for thirty years. Snow was expected
the wind-chill was murderous. I'We moved up on the target. Air-reconnaissance Etures had shown there was a small berm -- a kind of ked-up dugout - a couple of hundred yards from There we thought the Scuds were, and the theory was this was for the ground-crew to shelter behind Jien the missiles were fired. It was a risk, but we ided to make the berm our observation post. ^*It took a lot longer than we thought. We knew prisoners we'd interrogated that all the sentries Uuld have night sights, so we couldn't take any ices. The trouble was there was no cover, just bare t, and we were like flies on a table-top. In the end made it to the berm about an hour before dawn, at that point it began to pour with rain. By then, jugh, we'd been able to confirm via our own night its that there were definitely Scuds on the base. key were well concealed, but they were there. |'I radioed through the confirmation to the base in and we were ordered to sit tight. The air attack juld come after dark that night. Between now and en we were to dig in and observe any movement. |>'It got light. The Scuds and the trucks had been ted up for the day and were pretty much invisible. be only sign of life was two low, camouflaged tents ich we guessed housed the missile and antiaircraft 6ws. So we just hunkered down in the berm with ie man on stag and the rest trying to sleep. There was ling else to do. If any sentries had come along we'd