Chapter 8: Warlord

March 1974, age 18

I spent some very dark hours at the Connaught Hospital in Freetown, Sierra Leone. By the time Dan and I arrived with our army of bodyguards, Ewan was already in theatre under general anaesthetic, his arm amputated. They told us he had agreed to the operation — it was his only chance.

I was sat at his bedside in the recovery room when he woke. What the fuck do you say to someone who had just had their arm lopped off? I stayed with him for the rest of the day, the conversation banal and prevaricative.

When at one point the doctor temporarily evicted us to do his thing, Dan gave me a private warning. “Finn, I’ve seen the emotional effects of injuries like this in the forces. Going from warrior to cripple will make a man bitterly angry at the world. Some lash out violently at those around them. Others choose suicide.”

I looked at Dan with a sinking feeling. I could easily imagine Ewan falling into depression. “You think —”

“I don’t know. I’m no expert. I just know that the army is terrible at after-care, and we MUST do better for Ewan. We all need something to live for. I thought perhaps we could try getting him focused on sport. He’s always been very fit, not to mention a good shot. Shooting is a Paralympic sport, or he could run or swim. It might help his rehabilitation. You want to suggest it?”

I considered it. “Light at the end of the tunnel.”

“Exactly.”

I did suggest it to Ewan before we left that evening. Or I may have phrased it more as an order. It went something along the lines of: “We’re all flying home tomorrow afternoon. We’ve chartered a plane with some seats taken out to have you on a stretcher, and we’ll have a doctor and nurse with you. Then you’re off to Harley Street to get checked over, followed by a physiotherapist and trainer to get you in shape. You’ve got two years to get prepped for your next mission.”

“You seriously think I’ll be any use to anyone, Finn? Get real. I’m finished.”

“Like fuck you are! Admiral Nelson lost an arm and went on to become England’s greatest hero. You’re changing roles, nothing more. Your new assignment is to train hard for Toronto, and I’m going to have a TV crew document your personal journey. You can have until we get home to wallow in self-pity, but that’s it. After that, you bloody-well do your job, or I’ll kick your arse.”

“What you on about? Toronto?”

“The Paralympics! The film crew’s going to follow you from hospital to podium. So pick a sport and get your arse in gear.”

I left Ewan with things to think about, and that was what I wanted. He might have felt some anger over my lack of sensitivity, but I could live with that. So long as he wasn’t thinking about suicide. Meanwhile, my mood was still dark. I deeply regretted that the President’s traitorous guard was dead. I would have preferred to give him a slow and agonising death.

Our original plan was to fly home Monday afternoon, but we were now staying overnight. Dan knocked on my door that evening, bringing with him one of our local guys.

“Finn, this is our head administrator out here, Zac Thompson. I thought it would be useful to use the extra time here to sit down with him for a full briefing.”

I knew what he was doing. I gave him a suitable glare, but admitted, “Well, there’s no television, and I didn’t bring a book, so I suppose I may as well do something useful.” Offering my hand to our visitor, I added, “Zac, it’s good to meet you. You’ll have to forgive my foul mood. Feel free to tell me to fuck off if I misdirect it at you. Come on in, take a seat.”

Zac must have been in his late thirties, but he looked nervous. Was I that scary? I continued, “I think what Dan’s hoping is that my mood will improve when you tell me all the wonderful thing’s you’re doing out here, so give it your best.”

“No pressure then”, Zac quipped, making me smile. “Our operations in Sierra Leone fall into four categories: mining, transportation, rural development, and urban development. Your hotels and tourist facilities don’t fall under my remit as they’re self-funding. Everything else is funded from mining income. We’ve been spending money mainly on core infrastructure. The roads in this country are appalling, and the railway is painfully slow. When you consider that the country is smaller than Scotland, it really shouldn’t take days to get from one end to the other. So our biggest current project is a brand new fifty-mile highway and railway line between Kenema and Koidu in the eastern province. Kenema is the country’s third-largest city, and Koidu is the capital of the mining region. Unfortunately, the environmentalists hate us for it because the route runs through some jungle which they consider rainforest.”

“Yes, I can see them loving that”, I snarked.

“The existing railway line from Kenema west to Freetown uses a narrow gauge, which limits train speed on curves. So we’re building the new line to standard gauge. The plan is to close the old line section by section working westward, upgrading it to standard gauge and straightening it out where possible. Eventually, new trains will run faster, straighter and safer from one end of the country to the other, and we’ll add new branch-lines after that.”

“Sounds good”, I affirmed.

“Power and sanitation are the other infrastructure priorities. In rural areas, running water, sewage and electricity are rare. So too healthcare and schools. We aim to put a development office in every single village to change that. We started with offices where we have mines, railway stations or cocoa plantations, but we’re rapidly expanding outward. Each village has a chief and every region a paramount chief, so we go in and bribe them into letting us help their people.”

“You have to bribe them?”, I asked in disbelief. “Is this country completely corrupt?”

“It varies from tribe to tribe. On the whole, the chiefs are eager for anything that will improve living standards. When we make first contact, we always give gifts as a mark of respect, and inducements scale up from there. If we set up a school in a village, we have to persuade the chief to force his people to send their kids. It’s a cultural shift for families whose children are routinely sent out to work. The Mende tribes are very pro-education. Others not so much. Similarly their expectations for girls. We’re trying to make radical changes to these people’s lives, so if we have to bribe someone to achieve that, we do.”

“Is corruption as bad at the national level?”

He hesitated, then generalised. “This is a poor country. Everyone has their hand out.”

I turned to Dan. “Ask the President to set up an anti-corruption task force. Get London and the UN involved.”

He nodded with a knowing smile. Corruption was not to be tolerated except for the President’s Swiss bank account.

Zac chimed in, “On a related subject, are you aware that the President is ... how do I put this ... riding our coat-tails? Every time we open a new facility or launch a project, he or a senior member of his party is always there to take the credit. He’s positioning himself as the father of the nation and using us to do it.”

“Good for him”, I said, surprising Zac. “Better the devil you know. Who knows whether his successor will allow us to continue operating in this country? So long as he doesn’t turn into a maniac, let’s quietly do all we can to help him stay in power. How about sending him some political advisors?”

Dan contributed, “That’s not a bad idea. We want to steer him away from the idea of a one-party state as that would hurt tourism.”

Returning to the subject, I prompted Zac, “Anyway, you were talking about schools”.

“Yes. The majority of the country’s cocoa plantations now sell directly to us, and we’ve instituted strict rules that ban child labour. Same with the mines. But in many cases, there are no schools nearby for the kids to attend. So we have to build them and staff them ourselves. We have nearly a hundred so far, simple single-room structures with sandbag walls, edged with chicken mesh and rendered. We send in English-speaking teachers from around the world, along with a local assistant who can translate where necessary.”

“Age range?”

“Primary. Keeping adolescent kids in the classroom is very difficult. Once they enter puberty, they start tribal initiations into adulthood. Girls are routinely married at nine or ten to men three times their age and are pregnant as soon as they’re able. Government policy is against that, but it’s still common in rural areas.”

“Jesus”, Dan muttered.

Zac shrugged. “We can only do what we can do. Abolishing tribal customs isn’t on the agenda.”

I asked, “What about health?”

“Average life expectancy in this country is in the late forties. If someone reaches their fiftieth birthday, they’re doing well. Retirement benefits don’t exist because people rarely live long enough to need them. So, healthcare is a priority. Each of our partner villages now has somewhere a helicopter can land, and we’ve started a free flying doctor service. They do monthly clinics, and each development office has a radio for emergencies. Maternity and neonatal care are especially perilous. We’ve started paying the existing city hospitals to treat acute patients we transport in, but we may eventually build and run our own hospital.”

“You’ve been busy. I assume the towns are easier?”

“Different set of challenges. They have schools and attendance is better. Hospitals are there if you can afford them. But the higher population density makes the lack of sanitation a bigger problem. In some areas of Freetown, we are literally digging up the streets one by one to put in utilities from scratch.”

At least we were being ambitious. Time to blow his mind. “If I told you we are doubling your budget, what would you spend it on?”

“Seriously?” He looked excited.

“Yes. The President signed the order today to nationalise the mines we don’t already operate.”

“Wow. That’s ... wow! We can expand roll-out in rural villages, and green-light some big projects for the towns. How radical do you want to be?”

“What d’you mean?”

He bit his lip as he considered his proposition. “Education is the silver bullet. If you really want to kick-start this country, education is the way to do it. The problem, as I said, is the 14 to 18 age range. Other than the privileged few in the cities, that group, by necessity, is part of the general workforce. If you want to be radical, we need to get them in education, by hook or by crook. How about persuading the President to introduce conscription?”

Dan erupted, “For fourteen-year-olds?! The civilised world would go nuts!”

Zac was undeterred. “Yes, except that we would use it as a sneaky means to force-feed education. First-world countries would recognise that as a means to an end. If we have these kids at cadet camps that are essentially boarding schools, they could do an hour a day of boot camp, and five hours of English, Maths, Science, History and Geography. Or, more likely, agriculture, mining, hospitality, construction and engineering. We could pay the kids a basic wage to send home to their families, and equip them with the skills that their country desperately lacks.”

I didn’t want them to get into an argument, so I put in my two-penneth. “I like the idea of paying kids to learn a trade, but I think Dan’s right about the child soldier concern. And anyway, I don’t think it’s necessary. If we recruit around the villages, offering the kids a generous wage, I think a lot of families will jump at it. Instead of military camps, package them as apprenticeship schools with good job prospects at the end. How many kids are we talking about?”

“In total, about half a million. Children form almost half of the population.”

“And where do you plan on putting them all?”

“Er ... I hadn’t got that far. We would have to build sites in phases. We could do 350 schools the size of a big British secondary. Or have a hundred larger regional centres of 5000 kids each. We could split them geographically, or by age, or by specialism —”

“So in other words, this is a huge project that needs experts to plan it properly, and none of us three qualifies. Correct?”

Dan stepped in. “That’s about the size of it. I’m all for the paid apprenticeship concept. It’s good to be radical. It’s good to overreach. But if we do it, we do it properly.” He addressed Zac: “Put together a team out here, and I’ll start the ball rolling in London. We’ll get the experts you need, and you can go from there. Okay?”

Zac started jabbering excitedly about ways this would help the country, and several other ways to spend the new money. He was evidently someone who genuinely thrived on helping people.

And, annoyingly, I found that my bad mood had gone.

Before going to bed that night, I rang Ed in London for a special task. “I need you to have someone do something a bit naughty for me. I need them to go out and hire the best looking prostitute they can find; someone who can pass as a live-in home-helper for Ewan. If you want to be really clever, figure out what sort of girls he prefers and find someone that fully services his needs. You get what I mean?”

He laughed in reply. “You are indeed a good and benevolent boss. Leave it to me.”

We got home on Tuesday evening, and on Wednesday morning I called RAF Lyneham to tell them I would be absent due to a family emergency. Instead, I headed to the office on a mission to upset some people.

I called Freya into my office with her notepad.

“Freya, take a letter please, to the Right Honourable Roy Jenkins MP, Home Secretary. Sir — I write to express my fury and disgust over the manner in which MI5, under your predecessor, has treated my company. It has become abundantly clear that the service has taken an aggressive stance to protect the British perpetrators of the terrorist bombings of my holdings last year. The identity of the perpetrators is known to me, along with that of the British corporation that funded them. I intend to wage war against that corporation using every legal measure open to me. The government of Sierra Leone, at my urging, has taken extreme punitive measures against them including nationalising their assets and deporting their staff. I strongly advise you not to interfere. New paragraph.”

I closed my eyes for a moment, thinking of Ewan and summoning the anger I needed to channel.

“Two days ago in Sierra Leone, I came under fire from a local gunman. We now know he was in the employment of the rogue British corporation in question. The attacker was shot dead, but it pains me greatly to tell you that a dear colleague was severely injured. I hold MI5 responsible for appeasing, protecting and enabling these terrorists, for the injuries suffered by my friend and the subsequent amputation of his arm. New paragraph. While I have the highest regard for you personally, sir, I cannot forgive the actions of the service now under your supervision. I have no confidence in the Director General of MI5 and must, therefore, inform you that neither my company nor I personally will have anything further to do with them. Yours sincerely, etc. Type that up for me to sign and have it couriered to the Home Office marked urgent. And don’t let Dan’s secretary know what you’re doing.”

She gave me an ‘are you really sure’ look, but did what she was told. Poor old Roy Jenkins. He’d only been in post a few weeks and now had this shit to deal with.

The next person summoned to my office was Sir Edward. Dan entered with him, which was an annoyance. “What would it take to rid Sierra Leone of mercenaries and idiots with AK47s under their beds?”

Ed raised an eyebrow. “A small miracle or a large army.”

I tried not to smile. “I can’t swing either of those, so try again. I’m serious. I want rid of armed men that aren’t working either for us or the army. We’re putting development teams in towns and villages across the country, so you presumably have security with them. Use that, build an intelligence picture. If you can sneak into someone’s house and nick their rifle, fine. If not, do what needs doing. Get the word out that anyone caught with a gun is liable to be shot. And make sure the army is stopping guns from coming across the border. I want Sierra Leone to be peaceful, and I don’t much care how you achieve it.”

Dan commented, “You’re playing sheriff of the wild west again”.

Ed muttered, “More like a warlord”.

I didn’t flinch. “I’m happy with either title. A peaceful country means more tourists in our hotels. And if either of you genuinely thinks it’s not also the right thing for the country, then I’ll accept your resignations.”

They exchanged a glance, Dan suggesting, “Pax Harrisona”.

Ed just grunted. I dismissed them, but neither moved. Instead, Ed brought up another touchy subject.

“You need a new bodyguard.” He handed me some files. “These are the guys currently on our payroll that best fit your needs. I’m sure you’ll want to interview them yourself. Whoever you appoint will have to be vetted and read-in on Editor. For that reason, Five have expressed an opinion that the role should be filled by a specialist on their payroll.”

“Well that isn’t happening”, I replied bluntly. Ed didn’t yet know about my letter to the Home Secretary.

“Agreed”, Dan confirmed with a glare at Ed.

Ed held his hands up and said, “I wasn’t advocating the idea. I am but a humble messenger.”

Dan snorted, and I let out a harsh laugh. Ed chose the better part of valour and kept schtum, so I asked him, “Which of these do you recommend?”

“I’d be happy with any of them. Three ex-army, one former copper and a chap that came across with me from the foreign office. Some have previous close protection experience, and those that don’t have done our course. If you want to save some time, I can tell you which you’ll end up selecting.”

“That predictable, am I?”

He smiled. “Lad called Torrin Stewart who grew up in a rough part of east London. Three A-Levels: two As and a B. Could have gone to Oxbridge but instead enlisted in the army. Started in the Royal Artillery at Woolwich where he excelled but had trouble playing nicely with others. They resented his intellect and work ethic. He did two years there, including a deployment to Germany, then transferred to the Royal Signals. There he easily picked up the technical stuff but suffered the same interpersonal problems. He was and is something of a loner. When his enlistment was up, he quit and joined us last year. We’ve moved him round a bit to see where he best fits. He did two months at the hotel in Paris and proved himself useful on a naughty job. That, plus being fit, unusually smart and an expert marksman got him onto the close protection course. He’s now 22 years old.”

I had found his file and was looking at it. “Torrin’s a good Scottish name. Shame he’s cockney.”

Ed added, “Named after his paternal grandfather, which is a sore point, as his father used to beat wife and kids till he landed up at Her Majesty’s pleasure for armed robbery. And while I remember, he’s not fond of flying.”

I laughed. “Ah, so you want me to take him up in the Tiger Moth! Try some aerobatics!”

Dan shook his head in despair, while Ed told me, “When you meet him, I just have a feeling that you two will click. The rest are all older, very capable but would look out of place taking you down the pub for a pint.”

“Okay, I’ll meet him.”

“Excellent, he’s waiting outside.”

Dan burst out laughing, probably at the shocked look on my face. Both of them got up to leave, Dan commenting: “No time like the present”.

The guy who walked in a moment later looked younger than me. He was the definition of ‘babyfaced’. He had jet-black hair, piercing blue eyes, and a cheeky bad-boy aura.

“Hi Torrin, take a seat. You know why you’re here?”

“Not exactly”, his cockney twang sounding as boyish as he looked.

“Ah. Right, well, you’re here because my last bodyguard got shot, and you are apparently just the right fearsome warrior to take his place.”

He smirked at me. “Don’t fink I’ve ever been called a fearsome warrior before. Been called most uva names, but not that.”

“So, how do you feel about standing between me and a bullet?”

He shrugged. “People have always said I’m a bit nuts.”

“Yeah? Why?”

His face fell. “Never really fitted in.”

“And why’s that?”, I nudged.

He snapped back, “Because I ain’t average. I’m smart, I work hard, and every other fucker don’t.”

I smiled. “And me?”

“Remains to be seen.”

“And do you take that chip on your shoulder around with you everywhere?”

At first, I thought he’d say something aggressive. But after a moment, he smirked. “Mostly, yeah. So what’s a Yorkshire Tyke doing wiv an office on the firty-secon’ floor?”

“This Tyke owns the company.”

“So you can get us a pay rise then?”

“I can give you a pay rise, a company house and car, a gun and a letter from the Home Secretary authorising you to use it. How’s that?”

“Serious?”

“Maybe. Are you?”

“You’re Saint Finn, ain’t you?” The look on my face must have told him he’d fucked up, as he quickly continued, “That’s what the papers call you. Didn’t mean nuffin’ by it, guv.”

“Torrin, in all seriousness, I have newspapers attacking me, I have people shooting at me, I have people sending car-bombs to my home, and a couple of years ago my bodyguard had to shoot dead two guys that tried to abduct me. I need a new bodyguard, and you’re at the top of the list. Now, are you up to it or not? Because my life is on the line here, so I’m not pissing about.”

He didn’t answer immediately, which was probably good. “Yes, I’m up for it.”

“Good. Where are you living right now?”

“Got a flat in Hackney.”

“Girlfriend? Family you visit regularly?”

“I go see my kid bruvvas whenever I can. Mum works two jobs. Dad ain’t round no more. Lots’a girlfriends”, he finished with a twinkle in his eye.

I couldn’t help but say, “I’ve led a sheltered life, so part of your job is to take me to bars and clubs to meet girls. That okay with you?”

Rather than give a cocky answer, he used his brain. “I’ll be a good wing-man, but we’ll have to assess security first.”

I nodded with a broad smile. “Right answer. Job’s yours. Now, if you could just tell me which intelligence agency put you up to applying for a job here?”

I kept the smile on my face, but he was visibly shocked. “You what?”

“Torrin, your life story is perfect to entice me into giving you the job. It has everything. It paints you as an outsider, which I am too; abusive father, when I have a charity for abused kids; Scottish name, like me; siblings that you dote on, like me; expert in firearms, martial arts and apparently doing naughty jobs abroad, all useful. When something seems too good to be true, it usually is. Shame really, ‘cos I quite like you. Either someone went to a lot of effort to find the perfect candidate for this job, or you’re a fake with a carefully crafted identity. So, which agency? And be aware that there are five guys with guns behind you watching, so no sudden moves, eh?”

I wasn’t certain about him being a plant, and there weren’t five guys with guns. But something was fishy. He seemed genuine, but something wasn’t right.

“Guv, I swear down, I ain’t lied about anyfing. Honest. The only guy who came to see me before I joined was your man.”

That felt like someone punching me in the stomach. “My man?”

“Sir Edward.”

Crap. “And when was that?”

“A few months before I left the army, so, maybe a year and a half ago?”

“Well, there it is. You see, Sir Edward has only worked here for eight months.”

It took a few moments for that to sink in, shock crossing his face.

I continued, “Was he alone when he visited?”

“No, there was a general wiv ‘im. Civvies can’t just walk on base to recruit squaddies. I fought, wiv the General there, it must’a bin above board.”

I sighed. “From an army point of view, it was. The general was probably from Army Intelligence. You are their sleeper agent.”

He was increasingly alarmed. “They din’t ask me to spy or nuffin, honest.”

“Not yet”, I replied. “No one has ever asked you about the job you did in Paris?”

“No one except my boss at the time, and he was the one who sent me.”

“Shame. That would have been simpler.”

“How d’you mean?”

“Hang on. When exactly was the Paris job?”

“Late September last year. Can’t remember the exact date.”

“Leverage.” I shook my head sadly. Poor guy was up to his ears in shit, and he didn’t even know it.

“Huh?”

“I would be willing to bet that the Paris job wasn’t sanctioned. I don’t know what it was, and I don’t want to know. But I’d bet that you didn’t get in and out cleanly. They will have sent someone to photograph you or get some sort of evidence to incriminate you. Leverage.”

Panic had now set in, his face devoid of colour. “They’ll force me to spy on you?”

“At the very least.”

“Please, you gotta help me, guv! I’m beggin’ ya! If Paris was a fit-up, I could be put away for life.”

“I’ll do what I can. I need to figure out the best way forward. For now, I need to hide you so nobody can ask you questions.” After a moment’s thought, the best I could come up with was to stash him in the penthouse. So we both stood and shook hands for the benefit of anyone watching us through the glass wall, leaving my keycard for the lift in his palm.

It was mid-afternoon when Sir Edward returned to my office to ask, “Did someone get out of the wrong side of bed this morning?”

I assumed he was talking about the letter, but I replied, “What, you think putting a million pound bounty on your head was too much?”

It was nice to catch him by surprise. “Why on earth would you want me dead?”

“Because I don’t take betrayal very well. As far as I’m concerned, traitors should get what’s coming to them.”

“Ah. Might I assume that this is about Torrin?”

I raised an eyebrow. “Well, at least you admit it. Yes, and the meeting you had with him along with a certain general from Army Intelligence. Not to mention using the Paris job to fit him up for leverage, and then trying to push him on me as my bodyguard. You obviously don’t credit me with much intelligence if you thought I wouldn’t figure it out.”

“On the contrary”, he smiled. “The game is more fun when your partner has a sharp mind. Your conclusions are partially correct, but you may want to hold off on having me killed. Do you not recall our conversation on the night we first met? Did I not tell you that I was doing what was necessary to keep Army Intelligence off your back?”

“I remember perfectly.”

“I’m so glad. Recruiting Torrin fell into that category. The General has dirt on him from his youth and now believes Torrin can be used as an agent should the need arise. So you’re wrong about Paris. That was genuine and fully sanctioned.”

“And pushing him on me?”

“As you previously noted, my getting clearance to work here was due in large part to the General wanting me as his man on the inside. I have to keep up appearances and insinuating Torrin as your bodyguard was a small price to pay. Not telling you was simply an attempt to shield the boy. He is legitimately the best candidate, and it would be a great shame if you squandered his potential a loyal sidekick.”

I gave a noncommittal ‘hmm’ and changed the subject. “So the Home Office isn’t a happy place today?”

“No. And that would have been best avoided. There has been a lot of yelling over there, with more than one MI5 officer suspended. There will be an enquiry and a blood-letting, needlessly creating enemies. The only positive point to note is that the officers in question were not party to Operation Editor, which perhaps explains their willingness to side against you. There has been a delicate enquiry as to whether you think this schism might be healed for the sake of Editor?”

“There is no Editor as long as MI5 oversees it.”

I let him draw his own conclusions.

Friday was my 19th birthday, the first I’d spent working. But there are worse ways to spend a birthday than flying an airliner at 30,000 feet.

There was post waiting for me when I got home: several birthday cards, a letter from Grandpa (which I set aside for later), and a card from that shit Anatoly. The latter contained an odd instruction. He wanted me to leave the top drawer of my office desk unlocked on Monday and the spare key inside. I puzzled that for a moment until it came to me: the KGB wanted to use it as a dead-drop. They must have someone working inside the building who could access my office.

I discretely passed the card to Dan. He read it, then led me to the study. “You know what that’s about?”

I hedged, “Means of communication I assume”.

“Exactly. I’ve been wondering how they’d achieve that. You’re unusual in that your security restricts free movement, so regular hand-offs or meets would have been hard. This idea of theirs is good, if a little disturbing. It creates a discreet and secure means to exchange notes and intel.”