driver turned off the engine and remained seated, discreet and silent. ‘Shall we?’ Carrington said. These were the first two words the old fart had spoken to Buckingham for the entire journey from London.
‘Righto,’ Buckingham replied. He exited the car, then walked round the back to open the other rear door. Carrington climbed out without a word, removed a leather attaché case from the back seat, dusted the lapels of his suit and walked towards the building, where a simple brass plaque bore the inscription ‘22 SAS HQ’.
As the two visitors reached the door, a couple of soldiers were coming out of the building. Their hair was longer than the average soldier’s, and although they were in camouflage gear, they looked very casual – sleeves rolled up, no berets, unconventional Salomon Quest boots. Like they were wearing uniform but not really . Army, but not really army. One of them held the door open. Carrington, in one movement, pointed at the soldier, winked and made a friendly clicking noise with the side of his tongue as he entered. Hugo cringed and felt himself offering the soldier an apologetic look that evidently only compounded the offence. He hurried to keep up with Carrington as he walked deeper into the building.
The older spook knew where he was going. He strode purposefully along anonymous corridors, past doors indicating RSM, Adjutant, Training Adjutant, Training Officer, Ops Officer. Finally they stopped outside one marked ‘Lieutenant-Colonel J. Cartwright, Commanding Officer’. Carrington knocked three times and entered without waiting for a response. Buckingham followed rather more diffidently, and closed the door behind him. He found himself in a plain room, about five metres by five, furnished with just a desk and three chairs. On one of the walls hung old photographs, some black and white, of men wearing berets bearing the familiar winged dagger. On another was a large, laminated map of the world. Behind the desk sat a man so tall and broad of shoulder that the desk looked comically small. He didn’t stand, but nodded respectfully at Carrington. ‘Oliver,’ he said. He had a rasping voice, as if he was recovering from laryngitis.
‘Johnny. How goes it?’
‘Badly, since you ask.’ He had a posh voice, not unlike Carrington’s. ‘These bloody cuts are hitting us hard. I’m bleeding guys left, right and centre to the private sector, and most of the kids putting themselves up for selection wouldn’t make it round The Krypton Factor .’
‘I’m sure your training wing haven’t lost the knack of applying boot to arse, Johnny.’
The CO shrugged, then, looking in Buckingham’s direction, raised an enquiring eyebrow. ‘Who’s this? Hugh Grant?’
‘Hu g o Buckingham,’ Carrington said. ‘Buckingham, this is Johnny Cartwright, Commanding Officer of 22 SAS. Johnny, Hugo here’s the chap I told you about. Had a desk at our Saudi station until a couple of weeks ago. Went to the Other Place, I’m afraid, but we try not to hold that against him.’
Cartwright blinked. ‘The Other Place?’
‘Harrow.’ Carrington mouthed it silently like it was a dirty word. Cartwright gave Buckingham an uninterested nod. Buckingham tried to return it with a smile, but flushed when he realised Cartwright’s attention was already back on his senior colleague.
Carrington placed his attaché case on the CO’s desk, opened it and removed four green foolscap files. ‘Sit down, Hugo,’ he said as he did so. ‘This concerns you rather intimately, after all.’ He handed the files to Cartwright. ‘These are the men we’ve selected. Personal vetting has in each case come up positive.’
‘I hope GCHQ haven’t been tapping my men’s phones again?’
‘Your men. Their wives and girlfriends. Their parents. Their bank managers . . .’
The CO held up his palm. ‘I don’t want to know, Oliver,’ he said. Cartwright flicked through the files, reciting the name of the Regiment member to
‘Righto,’ Buckingham replied. He exited the car, then walked round the back to open the other rear door. Carrington climbed out without a word, removed a leather attaché case from the back seat, dusted the lapels of his suit and walked towards the building, where a simple brass plaque bore the inscription ‘22 SAS HQ’.
As the two visitors reached the door, a couple of soldiers were coming out of the building. Their hair was longer than the average soldier’s, and although they were in camouflage gear, they looked very casual – sleeves rolled up, no berets, unconventional Salomon Quest boots. Like they were wearing uniform but not really . Army, but not really army. One of them held the door open. Carrington, in one movement, pointed at the soldier, winked and made a friendly clicking noise with the side of his tongue as he entered. Hugo cringed and felt himself offering the soldier an apologetic look that evidently only compounded the offence. He hurried to keep up with Carrington as he walked deeper into the building.
The older spook knew where he was going. He strode purposefully along anonymous corridors, past doors indicating RSM, Adjutant, Training Adjutant, Training Officer, Ops Officer. Finally they stopped outside one marked ‘Lieutenant-Colonel J. Cartwright, Commanding Officer’. Carrington knocked three times and entered without waiting for a response. Buckingham followed rather more diffidently, and closed the door behind him. He found himself in a plain room, about five metres by five, furnished with just a desk and three chairs. On one of the walls hung old photographs, some black and white, of men wearing berets bearing the familiar winged dagger. On another was a large, laminated map of the world. Behind the desk sat a man so tall and broad of shoulder that the desk looked comically small. He didn’t stand, but nodded respectfully at Carrington. ‘Oliver,’ he said. He had a rasping voice, as if he was recovering from laryngitis.
‘Johnny. How goes it?’
‘Badly, since you ask.’ He had a posh voice, not unlike Carrington’s. ‘These bloody cuts are hitting us hard. I’m bleeding guys left, right and centre to the private sector, and most of the kids putting themselves up for selection wouldn’t make it round The Krypton Factor .’
‘I’m sure your training wing haven’t lost the knack of applying boot to arse, Johnny.’
The CO shrugged, then, looking in Buckingham’s direction, raised an enquiring eyebrow. ‘Who’s this? Hugh Grant?’
‘Hu g o Buckingham,’ Carrington said. ‘Buckingham, this is Johnny Cartwright, Commanding Officer of 22 SAS. Johnny, Hugo here’s the chap I told you about. Had a desk at our Saudi station until a couple of weeks ago. Went to the Other Place, I’m afraid, but we try not to hold that against him.’
Cartwright blinked. ‘The Other Place?’
‘Harrow.’ Carrington mouthed it silently like it was a dirty word. Cartwright gave Buckingham an uninterested nod. Buckingham tried to return it with a smile, but flushed when he realised Cartwright’s attention was already back on his senior colleague.
Carrington placed his attaché case on the CO’s desk, opened it and removed four green foolscap files. ‘Sit down, Hugo,’ he said as he did so. ‘This concerns you rather intimately, after all.’ He handed the files to Cartwright. ‘These are the men we’ve selected. Personal vetting has in each case come up positive.’
‘I hope GCHQ haven’t been tapping my men’s phones again?’
‘Your men. Their wives and girlfriends. Their parents. Their bank managers . . .’
The CO held up his palm. ‘I don’t want to know, Oliver,’ he said. Cartwright flicked through the files, reciting the name of the Regiment member to
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