Trusted Mole: A Soldier’s Journey into Bosnia’s Heart of Darkness. Martin Bell

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      ‘Sure, Brigadier.’ I put out my cigarette and follow him in silence. It’s slightly uncomfortable and I’m wondering why he’s saying nothing. We round the corner of one of the large unused prefabricated lecture halls. He opens the door and motions me inside. The lights are on. The place is almost empty, but not quite – two men in dark suits on the left, brief-cases open on a desk. At the far end of the hall two more men in dark suits, also with open brief-cases on a desk. They’re chatting quietly. I take a couple of paces forward and turn to the Brigadier to say, ‘We can’t talk in here. There are people here.’ But I don’t – his right hand is stretched out, palm open. There’s a strange expression in his eyes, almost apologetic.

      I walk towards the two at the far end. They’re watching me now. The one on the left is short and tubby with a pot belly hanging over his belt. The one on the right is slightly taller but not much. He is also slightly portly but not as flabby. Both men are wearing cheap, dark blue off-the-peg C&A-type suits. There’s a puffed up, officious air about the pair of them. As I approach the one on the right produces a warrant badge. Pot Belly does the same. The first one then starts reading from a piece of paper. Time stops dead.

      The Taller One produces a warrant for the search of my house with authorisation to seize just about anything they want. It’s signed off at Bow Street Magistrate’s Court. I’m forced to hand over my house keys, car keys and motorbike keys. I sign some bit of paper to that effect.

      ‘You’ll now be taken to your room where you’ll be able to change. We want to minimise any embarrassment.’ That’s kind of you! I’m not really interested in them. Spying for the Bosnian Serbs! Where has this come from? I feel faint.

      I change quickly – trousers, shoes, shirt, tie and blazer, all a bit grubby but so what. Pot Belly and The Taller One are in there with me. I’m told not to touch anything. They’re talking into their Cell phones,‘… is the car ready yet? … no! … ten minutes! … yes, that’s right, side entrance …’

      There’s time to kill. They’re not ready for whatever’s coming next. I sit on the bed and smoke a couple of cigarettes.

      The Taller One turns to Pot Belly. ‘What did the suspect say when he was arrested?’

      Pot Belly checks his notes. ‘He said quote “Mm” unquote.’

      ‘Is that with two Ms or three?’ his companion asks.

      Pot Belly looks confused.

      I rescue them. ‘It’s three “Ms”.’ Jesus! These boys really are Keystone Cops. And they’re flapping too, nervous almost. Curious.

      Eventually they’re ready. I’m bundled into the back of an unmarked car along with The Taller One. There’s a woman driving. Pot Belly follows in another car. Apparently we’re off to Guildford Police Station – quite what for I still don’t know.

      The Taller One asks what my neighbours are like and whether they’re likely to cause trouble. I tell him that they’ll all be at work. He continues asking questions about the house almost bashfully.

      ‘Is there anything we need to know about your house before we enter?’

      ‘Like what? What do you mean?’ Now he’s got me baffled.

      He says almost shyly, ‘Well you know … some people leave things in their homes, when they’re out …’

      ‘What sort of things?’ Now I’m interested.

      ‘Well … unexpected things …’

      ‘Unexpected things?’

      ‘You know … booby traps and things like that,’ he says quickly. Booby traps! Does he really think I’ve dug a bear pit in my mid-terrace two-up two-down?

      ‘No, no, don’t worry. Just turn the key. You’ll be fine,’ I reassure him.

      With nothing else to talk about he tries to engage me in idle conversation, ‘So, you’re a biker then. What type do you ride?’

      ‘Suzuki … eleven hundred,’ I reply automatically.

      ‘Eleven hundred, eh. What’s the servicing interval then?’ I’m stunned. I can’t believe this is happening. Motorbikes! Servicing intervals … who gives a shit! Here am I arrested for spying and this clown wants to know about servicing intervals.

      I make a huge effort, ‘… er … every six thousand miles …’ He nods knowledgeably and the stupid conversation continues. He’s got an accent, West Country or something. I ask him.

      ‘Devon actually.’

      ‘Oh, right.’ What next?

      ‘Have you come far?’ Now I’m doing it, asking stupid questions, ‘Do you come here often?’

      ‘From Braintree, in Essex. Early start this morning. We were up at five.’ Poor thing! Must have been terrible for you. It’s the early copper who catches a spy. Braintree? Essex? What the hell happens there? And, anyway, who are these people? The only MoD Police I’ve ever seen are those rude, unfriendly uniformed knobs who lurk at the main gates of MoD establishments. Those buggers at Shrivenham are particularly odious – gits without a civil word in their heads.

      On the outskirts of Guildford the inane conversation stops. The Taller One’s voice changes, goes up by perhaps half an octave, quicker too. ‘Right, when we get to the police station this is what will happen …’ He quickly outlines a sequence of events adding almost breathlessly,‘… I don’t want to make a mistake at this stage!’ I don’t want to make a mistake at this stage!? You’re flapping. For the first time I realise he’s nervous. You’ve just made your first mistake … never reveal a weakness.

      The car swings right through a rear entrance followed by Pot Belly. We’re out of the cars. Flanked by both suits I’m marched into a dark entrance leading to a custody suite with a long, raised counter. There’s an unshaven scruffy drunk slumped against one end of the counter. There’s a large desk sergeant and a young PC behind the counter. The Taller One approaches the PC who is partially hidden behind a computer screen. He produces him his warrant card and explains who he is. The PC looks a bit bewildered. The civilian police don’t know anything about this. They’re not expecting us.

      The Taller One starts to read out the arrest warrant. The PC taps furiously on his keyboard – ‘Hold on. Slow down. I’ve got to type all this in.’ He slows down … Official Secrets Act … Bosnian Serbs … passing information … endangering lives … blah, blah, blah … The PC glances at me. His eyes are popping out of his head. Even the drunk perks up.

      I’m told to empty my pockets of everything. Wallet is emptied, coins, an old train ticket, Zippo lighter, twenty B&H – ten left. Everything is itemised and recorded in triplicate by the sergeant. My meagre bits and pieces are stuffed into plastic bags.

      ‘Please remove your belt and tie.’ I do as I’m asked. I can’t believe this is happening!

      ‘Do you want my watch?’

      ‘No. You can keep that and your cigarettes. Not the lighter. You’ll have to buzz if you want a light.’ What the hell do they think I’m going to do? Set СКАЧАТЬ