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

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 fire to myself with a Zippo!

      ‘Have you ever been arrested before?’ asks the PC, eyes still popping. What do you think?

      ‘No. Never.’

      ‘Didn’t think so somehow.’ He casts an eye over my blazer with its brass buttons of the Parachute Regiment.

      All puffed up, The Taller One pipes up, ‘We don’t want him to make any phone calls at this stage … because of the seriousness of the arrest … not until we’ve searched his house …’ What! What does this asshole think I’m going to do? Pick up the phone to some fictitious contact and say ‘The violets are red’! They really do think I’m a spy.

      The PC looks uneasy. ‘No phone call?’

      The Taller One nods, ‘… because of the serious nature of the arrest …’ Oh, you’re so bloody sure of yourself aren’t you!

      The PC looks troubled and turns to me. ‘Who would you call?’

      I shrug my shoulders. ‘Dunno.’

      ‘Well, don’t you want to phone a lawyer?’

      ‘A lawyer? I don’t know any lawyers. What do I need a lawyer for?’

      ‘Is there anyone you want to call?’

      I think – Mum? ‘Hi Mum, I’ve just been arrested by MoD Plod for being a spy … how’s the weather in Cornwall?’ Sister? She’d freak out.

      I shake my head, ‘No. No one.’

      The PC frowns again and hands me a booklet. ‘You might want to read this in the cell … your rights.’ He stresses the word, glancing at The Taller One. Something clicks – you’ve just made your second mistake, you plonker – two in less than half an hour!

      The Taller One and Pot Belly go one way, back out, and I go the other. I’m led down a linoleum-floored passage, the left-hand side punctuated by grey steel doors. The sergeant stops at the last, selects a key from the long chain on his belt, turns it in the lock and heaves open the solid door. I step into the cell.

      ‘Want anything just press this button – coffee or a light, just buzz for it.’

      The door slams heavily shut. The key turns in the lock. Silence. For the first time in my life I find myself on the wrong side of the law and the wrong side of a cell door. I feel weak and sick. My knees tremble. I’m sweating slightly. Delayed shock starts to creep over me.

      The cell stinks. Shit, piss, puke, stale smoke, disinfectant. I stare in shock at my bleak surroundings. The cell measures maybe twelve by twelve feet, painted a faded, chipped blue-grey. There are two fixed wooden benches; on top of each of them a blue plastic mattress is propped against the wall. To the left is a small alcove with a toilet – chipped and dirty porcelain, no seat, no chain.

      I sit down heavily on the right-hand bench. It’s cold and hard. Dumbly, I stare down at my leather brogues – so out of place – and then fish around in my pockets for a light. I need a cigarette. Shit. No light.

      I press the buzzer.