Ultimatum, page 22
‘I do apologize,’ replied Buckshaw. ‘An SSN is a nuclear submarine. We currently have one in the Gulf of Oman. And covert—’
‘Yes, I know what “covert” means!’ the Home Secretary snapped.
There was a rare moment of levity in the room as smiles were quietly smothered.
‘So this will be primarily a dark blue operation,’ Buckshaw continued.
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ exclaimed the exasperated Home Secretary. ‘It’s a what?’
‘Dark blue – it’s maritime. The Royal Navy has primacy on this one. So I’m going to let my oppo here take you through the plan. ACOS?’
The man sitting next to him stood up and introduced himself to the room. ‘For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Rear Admiral John Bleake and I’m ACOS Submarines. That’s Assistant Chief of Staff. I’m responsible for all our underwater operations. My staff have spent this afternoon working with the Director of Special Forces. I know that time is short so I’ll give you the plan in outline. We already have an SBS assault team inbound to theatre. They could be dropped by night into the Gulf of Oman where they’ll be picked up by Astute.’ He nodded towards the Home Secretary. ‘She’s our submarine on-station in theatre. She would then proceed, submerged, through the Strait of Hormuz to get as close as tactically possible to the Iranian coast off Bandar Abbas. Once we have the hostage’s exact location the troop will be in a position to insert below the surface by SDV – a Swimmer Delivery Vehicle – until just off the beach. Once the op is completed they’ll be extracted by the same means.’
There was a stunned silence. So this was really happening. Everyone in the COBRA meeting had been security-cleared to UK Level Secret but it was the first time they had all been privy to what this covert operation might actually involve.
‘I thought Astute was still down in Diego Garcia,’ somebody from the MoD whispered.
‘Apparently not,’ replied someone else. ‘Subs move in mysterious ways.’
‘Just one point, if I may,’ this from the Defence Secretary. Unlike the senior military men present he retained a boyish youthfulness, his brow still unfurrowed by the cares of office. Yet now he stared hard at the Chief of Defence Staff. When this meeting ended he would have to phone the PM and give the plan his recommendation, or not. His career, still on the ascendant, would now depend on him taking the right decision. ‘If I remember my geography,’ he said, ‘the Strait of Hormuz is only about twenty-five miles wide between Oman and Iran. How are we going to get our sub through that gap without it being picked up by the Iranians?’
‘That’s a fair question, Secretary of State. It’s actually just twenty miles at its narrowest point,’ the Rear Admiral corrected him, ‘and the shipping lanes are only two miles wide in each direction. But, yes, we are working up a plan for that as we speak.’
‘Which is?’ The Defence Secretary was now tapping his pen nervously on the table and casting wary glances at a woman seated four chairs down on his right. The Attorney General. Whatever plan was agreed in this room today, he would have to get her to sign it off for compliance with international law. That, he knew, would be the first question the PM fired at him.
‘We go in,’ replied the naval officer, ‘right underneath a VLCC.’ He could already see the Home Secretary’s eyes rolling towards the ceiling in exasperation so he was quick to follow up with a translation. ‘A VLCC is a very large crude carrier. What people used to call an oil tanker. The Strait of Hormuz is the world’s primary oil chokepoint with a daily average of fifteen tankers passing through it in each direction.’
‘Ingenious,’ muttered the Home Secretary, approvingly.
‘All right, but hang on,’ said the Defence Secretary, ‘how will you know which one to latch on to? Couldn’t it simply turn left and dock in Dubai?’
‘PJHQ – Permanent Joint Headquarters – are looking at exactly that issue now,’ said the Navy man. ‘They’re going through a list of all the pre-registered transits and they’ll be selecting one that’ll be hugging the Iranian coast. One that suits our purpose.’
‘Attorney General?’ All eyes in the room switched to the small, neatly dressed woman, hair tied back in a tight bun. She had a well-earned reputation for asking difficult questions, and the room held its breath as she cleared her throat.
‘Well,’ she began, very quietly, ‘I obviously need to see if it complies with UNCLOS, the UN Convention on Laws of the Sea.’ She spoke slowly, apparently weighing each word, as if it would need to stand up in court – with notes being taken verbatim, that probably wasn’t far from the truth. ‘It’s the international treaty that makes the first twelve miles offshore part of the sovereign territorial waters of the littoral state.’
‘So I take it,’ the Defence Secretary said, turning to the Rear Admiral, ‘that our sub would pass through closer to the Omani side than the Iranian one. Do we even need to notify the Omanis?’
A formidable multi-tasker, the Attorney General was already scrolling through several pages of condensed text on her laptop. She looked up. ‘It is not possible,’ she said, in a flat monotone, ‘for any vessel to enter the Arabian Gulf without either being in Omani or Iranian territorial waters. Submarines cannot remain submerged and still exercise innocent passage. To remain submerged without permission is a very serious breach of UNCLOS principles.’
‘Right,’ said the Defence Secretary, briskly, ‘but that’s just a guideline, isn’t it? We don’t have to comply with their recommendations, do we?’
The Attorney General removed her glasses and laid them on the table before her as if they were an item of evidence. They were thin-framed and functional, rather like their owner. She looked straight at the minister as he sat, shifting uncomfortably in his seat at the head of the table. ‘If a British submarine enters the Strait of Hormuz beneath a VLCC tanker, then under the Traffic Separation Scheme the boat would be entirely in Omani territorial waters. Whether you choose to inform the Omanis of this is up to you. But it’s my job to inform you that, technically, what you plan to do is illegal.’
Chapter 59
Bandar Abbas, Iran
GEOFFREY CHAPLIN STANK. It was the reek of body odour wafting up from his armpits, a smell he hadn’t known since those days of cold showers and early-morning runs at an unforgiving Scottish boarding school. Was it really possible that a little over twenty-four hours ago he had been washing his hands with scented soap in a spotless basin at the British Ambassador’s residence in Tehran? Now look at him. After only a few hours in captivity the British Foreign Secretary knew he must make a pathetic sight for those guarding him. When all the trappings of power and office were stripped away from him, all the red boxes, the ministerial briefs, the chauffeur-driven limousines, the special advisers and the VIP departure lounges, this was all that was left. A man of late middle age who had lost control of his destiny.
At least it felt warmer wherever they were now. The overnight journey in the van had been horrific and had seemed interminable. But now it had stopped and he couldn’t tell where. Geoffrey Chaplin knew his way intimately around the Palace of Westminster, the corridors of the Cabinet Office and the shortcut from there through the passageway to Number 10. But he had only the vaguest sense of how Iran appeared on a map. It bordered on two seas, he remembered that much. There was one in the north, the Caspian, where the caviar came from, and then there was what the Americans called ‘the Persian Gulf’ down in the south where it would be warmer. That must be where he was now. Which meant what? That they were going to take him out to sea and dump him? Why keep him alive to do that? Whoever had seized him, and these people still hadn’t told him what their demands were, he doubted they would be from ISIS. This was Iran, a predominately Shia country, a nation implacably opposed to the Sunni fanatics of ISIS. That, at least, gave Chaplin some crumb of comfort.
Now the back doors of the van were being opened, the light was almost blinding him, and a large figure was climbing in. Chaplin caught only the briefest glimpse of a broad, unshaven face and close-cropped hair before the blindfold went back on. He could feel it being tied tightly at the back of his head. More discussions in Farsi, then hands grabbed his arms and they manoeuvred him roughly out of the vehicle. The moment he stood outside, in the fresh air, he sensed the change, even from behind his blindfold. For a start, he could smell the sea, that unmistakable hint of brine, and hear gulls screeching from all directions. As they pushed him along, stumbling awkwardly at times, he heard the sound of water slapping against the side of boats. There was something else too, something he remembered from sailing off the Norfolk coast with his family: it was the familiar thump of inflatable fenders striking the wall of a jetty, cushioning the side of a boat as the swell rocked it from side to side. Geoffrey Chaplin could only guess what was happening: they were moving him offshore, taking him somewhere remote where he would be harder to find. In his deepening despair, he felt his chances of rescue receding by the hour.
Chapter 60
Vauxhall Cross
ANGELA SCOTT SANK into the soft leather upholstery of the black Jaguar XF executive limousine and adjusted the hem of her skirt so it covered her knees. Sir Adam Keeling, Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service, took his place beside her in the back and tightened the knot of his tie. Quietly, almost imperceptibly, the chauffeur nudged the car out from beneath the Vauxhall Cross HQ, through the sliding metal gates in the wall, then into the traffic moving eastwards along Albert Embankment. This was only the second time in her career that Angela had been invited to share a ride with the Chief but the moment held little pleasure for her, or for him. It was now the morning after Chaplin’s abduction, both of them had been working through half the night and were heading for a COBRA crisis meeting in the Cabinet Office where questions would be asked to which they had no satisfactory answers.
‘Any word from Carlton?’ enquired the Chief. He turned his face away from the window as they overtook a large yellow bus taking tourists on a journey of exploration up the Thames, a snapshot of a very different world from theirs.
‘No. His phone’s switched off,’ she replied. ‘Probably trying to conserve battery.’
‘When was his last transmission?’ Keeling looked at her, one eyebrow raised, but there was no hostility in his question: he just liked to know all the facts.
‘Last night,’ Angela said. ‘Just after six p.m. our time. That’s when I got the text saying he’d found a way to get himself to Bandar Abbas.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I’m expecting to hear from him soon.’ Was now the time to bring up what was on her mind? It was unlikely to do her career any good, but there was no time like the present. She cleared her throat.
‘Chief,’ she began, ‘is there really nothing more we can do to help get him out of Iran?’
‘Get him out of Iran?’ repeated Keeling, both eyebrows now raised. ‘Angela, do you have any idea how much work it’s taken to get Carlton into that country? This isn’t just our operation, remember. It’s a tri-service operation that needed sign-off from Number Ten. We’ve got the Americans breathing down our necks wanting to ramp the whole thing up – they’ve got a second carrier battle group steaming towards the Gulf, and their finger’s on the trigger.’ His voice was stern now, and it carried a hint of disapproval. ‘Since we lost Black Run in Armenia we no longer have optics on the Iranian nuclear programme, and meanwhile there’s an ultimatum ticking on the life of our Foreign Secretary. I don’t need to remind you this is top priority and the Service has miraculously – with your help, Angela – managed to get a man into Iran. Luke Carlton is our best hope of getting eyes on the hostage. So, no, in a word, we’re not about to pull him out now, just when we need him most.’ The Chief looked away to his left, as they crossed Lambeth Bridge onto Millbank. He was clearly riled by her suggestion. ‘I’m quite sure Carlton is more than capable of looking after himself, Angela. That’s precisely why we took him on.’
She could, she thought, tell the Chief about the treatment Luke could expect if he was picked up by the Basij militia or any other arm of Iranian state security. She had read up on exactly what happened to those accused of spying and she rather wished she hadn’t. She could remind him of how this would look if it ever came up in Parliament or if the press found out that the Service had effectively abandoned its case officer to his fate. But Angela Scott held her tongue. She had already crossed swords with enough people from senior management to know she would never make it to the SIS Main Board of Directors. This was not a battle she could win.
They were coming onto Parliament Square now, passing a motley collection of protesters holding up banners that read ‘No More War’ and ‘Hands off the Gulf’.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said in a conciliatory tone. ‘I didn’t mean to be unhelpful.’
‘That’s all right, Angela. Your concern is commendable.’ For one awful moment she thought the Chief was about to pat her on the knee, but if he was, he clearly thought better of it.
They sat in silence until the driver turned to them, his earpiece still in place. ‘We’ll take the back route if you don’t mind, Chief. There are TV crews all over the Whitehall entrance.’
‘Very wise,’ Keeling observed.
Their car swept past the raised barrier at the police guard post where Horse Guards Road met the discreet rear entrance to Downing Street, the little-known route into the Cabinet Office for those who preferred not to be seen.
‘Time to get to work,’ said Keeling.
Chapter 61
COBRA, Whitehall
THE PM WAS in the chair, the heads of all three intelligence agencies present, along with the National Security Adviser, the Chief of Defence Staff, the Metropolitan Police Commissioner, and Jane Haslett, Head of the Diplomatic Service. Geoffrey Chaplin, himself a familiar presence at previous COBRA meetings, had now been missing for just over eighteen hours.
Angela Scott took her place next to Sir Adam Keeling. On her other side sat a grizzled detective from the Met’s Hostage and Crisis Negotiation Unit. She remembered him from the Iraq hostage crisis of 2007 when four of the five kidnapped Britons had been murdered. Hostage-taking in the Middle East was a particularly grim business, and since on principle Britain didn’t pay ransoms to terrorists, Whitehall’s track record of getting them out alive was distinctly mixed.
The PM called the meeting to order and addressed the Chief of Defence Staff. ‘Sir Jeremy. Bring us up to speed, will you?’
Sir Jeremy Buckshaw stood up and removed his spectacles. They were gold-framed and seemed out of place on the bull-chested, no-nonsense figure, with his impressive rows of operational medals. ‘Thank you, Prime Minister. So, things are moving fast down in the Gulf. The US Navy’s 5th Fleet, headquartered in Bahrain, is at full operational readiness. Their second carrier group is due to arrive on-station within twenty-four hours. The USS George H.W. Bush has been launching CAPS off the deck – launching combat air patrols – right up to the edge of Iran’s maritime border. There was a near-miss overnight that you probably heard about. Three Iranian missile boats got to within three hundred metres of a US destroyer in the Strait of Hormuz and only backed off when they were fired on.’
Angela was only half listening. She knew that any minute now the PM would turn to her Chief to ask him for an intelligence update. She also knew that he was going to hand over the question to her. She went over her notes for the third time that morning as the Chief of Defence Staff rounded off his briefing.
‘Turning to our own forces,’ he continued, ‘we’ve deployed a squadron of Typhoons to Minhad airbase in the UAE in support of the Americans. We have all four Royal Navy minesweepers out on patrol around Hormuz in case the Iranians mine the strait. And we’ve forward-deployed the SBS standby squadron from Poole.’
‘Excellent,’ commented the PM. ‘And where is that squadron now, precisely?’
‘It’s currently in the Gulf region,’ the General replied cryptically. Even with everyone in the COBRA meeting having been security-cleared, he had decided this was not a piece of information that needed to be widely shared. The PM appeared to get the message and didn’t press him.
‘Jane?’ He turned to the Head of the Diplomatic Service. ‘What have you got from your side?’
Jane Haslett got to her feet as the Defence Chief sat down. Angela regarded her from across the table with curiosity. The FCO mandarin had chosen today of all days to wear a cherry-pink jacket with an outsize silver brooch pinned to the lapel. It was the sort of outfit, Angela mused, that one might wear to a Buckingham Palace garden party, not a Whitehall crisis meeting.
‘I spoke to Iran’s Foreign Minister just under an hour ago,’ Jane told the room. ‘He remains adamant that his government has nothing to do with Geoffrey’s abduction. He’s offered us his “sincere and profound apologies” for what’s happened.’ At this there were a few sarcastic scoffs. ‘But I have to say that the rhetoric coming out of other parts of the establishment there is getting pretty bellicose. You may have seen,’ she continued, ‘the speech from the Supreme Leader.’ She picked up a page of text and read it out loud. ‘He’s saying, “Iran will not allow the sanctity of its territory to be defiled by the forces or agents of foreign powers.”’ She put down the paper and looked at the PM. ‘Which I would take as a direct warning to us – and the Americans, for that matter – not to attempt a rescue mission of our own.’
There was a grunt from the National Security Adviser. ‘Well, he would say that, wouldn’t he? But as far as we can see, the Iranians have made bugger-all progress – excuse my French – in locating Geoffrey. They don’t even seem to know who’s taken him. Discounting, of course, all the usual guff about Israeli agents and what-not.’
The PM nodded, apparently in agreement, and looked down the table towards where Angela and the MI6 Chief were sitting. ‘Sir Adam? I realize you’re somewhat constrained in what you can say at this stage but tell us what you can, will you?’
