Free Zero Option by Chris Ryan Page A

enemy territory.

Admittedly I'd now have four wheels instead of two, and there wasn't a war on, but all the same the idea was a bit of a hurdle. To be nicked by the Libyans wouldn't be much less unpleasant than being nicked by the Iraqis especially as our presence in the country would probably be denied by the British authorities and we could easily be left to rot in one of Gadaffi's penitentiaries.

Was it imagination, or did my arm produce a couple of twinges as I powered off up a rough grass track into the hills? For months it hadn't given the slightest trouble, even when I was on the weights in the gym, but now it seemed to be aching.

I set myself to concentrate on balance, and getting the feel of the quad. With two front wheels the steering seemed much firmer than with one, but it was OK once I'd got used to it. The trick was to sit forward on the long saddle when climbing, back on the way down, and lean uphill on the cross-slopes.

Pretty soon I had got the hang of it and started enjoying myself- and in fact everybody came back well chuffed with the machines, which were comfortable, fast, sure-footed and ideal for the job. Of course, we had been riding them with front and rear racks empty, and we realised they'd be a different proposition when loaded with all the kit and stores we were going to need.

While we were out in the hills, a message had reached camp to say that our American contact had flown in from Langley,
Virginia
, and would brief us on the camp at Ajdabiya in the morning. With this in mind we stopped work and went home early.
     
    First light next day saw us piling into a Puma and whipping up to RAF Northolt on the western outskirts of London. It frustrated me to think that we were heading into the very area where Tim and Tracy might be held, and during the flight I was seized by the fantastic idea that I'd simply look down and see them being taken along a street - whereupon we'd bin our meeting with the Firm, fast-rope down on top of the prisoners' escorts, overpower them, and recover the captives.

The rest of the journey into town - by road - took so long that we reckoned we could have tabbed it faster, and it was nearly ten o'clock by the time our wagon crossed Vauxhall Bridge, slipped in through twin security gates and pulled up in the basement of the Firm's forbidding new head-shed building on the south bank of the Thames. Our friend Gilbert met us in the basement and escorted us up into the heart of the block, punching in combination numbers to open one locked door after another. Security here was so tight that it felt as if we were in a submarine, passing through a series of watertight compartments. We'd been told that this building got swept electronically at least once a day to make sure no listening bugs had been infiltrated, and we had no difficulty believing it.

We were never told the full name of the CIA agent who briefed us; Gilbert brought him into the lecture- room and introduced him merely as Gus. He was a short, stocky fellow in a navy blazer, with a pointed face, heavy suntan, close-cropped grey hair and shiny brown eyes - a combination that reminded me of a squirrel. Before he spoke, Gilbert gave us another dose of warnings about the need for total security - but here, in this alien environment, our guys were on their best behaviour, and Whinger didn't even scratch his ear.

When the American began to talk we were riveted, because the depth of his information was amazing. It took a couple of minutes to get used to his broad southern accent, but soon we were hooked. Not even his habit of saying 'OK?' after every few words could put us off.

Satellite data had been down-loaded'into his laptop, some of it enhanced into three-dimensional computer images, which he fired on to a screen, so that what we got was a series of snapshots taken from a variety of overhead angles. As we sat there watching, all the guys were impressed by the lecturer's high-tech apparatus and approach, but at the