The plane taxied to a halt and my pulse started beating faster. My body was telling me it was time to rest. My mind was telling me to stay hyper-alert. I stretched my legs out, fully enjoying the luxury of space in First Class. SAS soldiers come in all shapes and sizes. I come in the extra-large variety.
Off the plane and our footsteps echoed down endless gleaming corridors. We tried not to quicken our pace, though the temptation was great. I gripped the handle of the briefcase a bit harder, though what good that would do with a villain’s Beretta poking me in the mouth and threatening to give me some urgent dental treatment I’m not sure.
We reached the main concourse and were hit with a cacophony of sound. It was as if it was purpose-built to maximize the volume. Indoor palm trees reached up to high, vaulted ceilings. Glass, marble and stainless steel everywhere. Bright lights and booming loudspeakers. Cafés, restaurants, currency exchange kiosks and glittering shops jostled against each other. A hubbub of humanity scurrying about like ants. The din, the confusion, the late hour, stacks of suitcases – any one of which could be rammed into our legs to force us to the ground. If you had to invent a worst-case security scenario this was it. The very things that made this a palace of delights for the average passenger combined to make it a hazardfilled madhouse for the travel-weary close protection operative.
Tak whispered an urgent, ‘Take a left here.’ He’d done a reconnaissance run prior to the real thing. He knew the ropes. He knew every corridor, every door. Before I knew it, we were in the haven of the VIP lounge. Processed in no time at all by hushed and discreet officials, we headed for a nondescript exit on the side of the building.
I took a deep breath and stepped out into the hot night-time air. The heat and humidity clutched at my already-tense chest. The adrenaline was pumping overtime. As any seasoned traveller will know, those first few moments after leaving the airport terminal are the point of maximum disorientation. Jet lag, culture shock, climate differences, and the lack of familiar bearings all combine to play havoc with your internal guidance system. Maximum disorientation means maximum vulnerability. Mercifully, a limo and driver were waiting. Well done, Tak. Going like clockwork so far. Already drenched in sweat due to the extreme humidity, I threw myself into the front seat and stashed the briefcase underneath and out of sight. We quickly locked the doors and glided away.
No sign of a tail, but I wasn’t about to lower my guard. Because of the darkness, I’d have to use Plan B and carry out standard antisurveillance tactics en route to where we staying. I reeled off the instructions to the driver. Stop frequently and suddenly. Speed up then slow down. Jump a red light to see if anyone else does. At a junction, indicate to turn left then move off to the right. On the motorway, come off at an exit and immediately rejoin by the same slip road. Make three turns to box three sides of a square. For the next one I looked for the right place. There it was, a large roundabout with nothing growing on it to obstruct my vision. I instructed the driver to drive twice round the roundabout, two 360-degree manoeuvres. As we went round for the second time, I had a good look across the central reservation. The roundabout was deserted. So was the road that hit the roundabout from the airport. We were lucky. It was late at night and the roads were quiet. We couldn’t have chosen a better time.
So far so good. I was more or less satisfied that we were not being followed. But not quite. I decided to carry out one last manoeuvre for final confirmation. I checked the road ahead for a suitable spot. As we came round a sharp bend I saw the ideal place. ‘Pull in,’ I shouted. The driver acknowledged and pulled sharply into the approaching lay-by. There was a grating sound and a small cloud of dust as the tyres bit into the gravel. Everything was still. We waited. The occupants of any car tailing us would not see us until the last moment as they came round the steep bend. The only option open to them would be to overtake. We waited some more. Nothing. The minutes ticked by, the road was empty. ‘Drive on,’ I instructed. By this time, our driver must have been really dizzy. He must have thought he’d picked up three madmen from the airport. That’s enough anti-surveillance, I decided. Let’s get to the hotel.
We pulled up outside the Sheraton Utama and hit the pavement, moving fast. I felt switched-on, alert. We were exposed here. I was ready for trouble. As we approached the doorman in his smart uniform I checked out his body language. I looked for the usual signs. It was a sixth sense you develop through years of dealing with dangerous men. This guy might be a trigger. He was ideally placed to report back to any waiting gang. The key thing I was looking for was his eye-line. Was he looking at us or did he have laser eyes zapping into the briefcases to ID them? Nothing. Just the usual smiling face and white-gloved hand holding the door open. No problems here. He was looking for dollars, not diamonds. He was only after a tip.
We headed for the reception desk where it quickly became obvious that we were expected. We were given the full VIP treatment with an express check-in, and in a matter of minutes we were whooshing up to our floor in the lift accompanied by an exquisite Malayan girl who was in possession of our room keys. That’s good, I thought, she’s going to escort us to our rooms. No confusion when we emerge from the lift, no working out whether to go right or left, no potentially fatal hesitation in the lift lobby area where someone might – just might – be waiting.
The girl took us straight to our wing of the hotel. She opened the doors, let us in and handed me the keys. We had two suites side by side – Tak and myself sharing one, our client in the other. The rooms were connected by an internal door. Excellent! That was a real asset. It would simplify liaison and planning of each day’s tasks. The ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign went immediately onto the outside of the door and stayed on for the whole of the five days we were there. Tak briefed me. He wanted me to do three things – familiarize myself with the fire arrangements, find out the location of the hotel doctor, and get the phone number of the head of security. As I checked out the fire escape door, memories of Ward 11 and the visit to the Mirbat gun came flooding back. With my tasks done, I reported back to Tak, ordered room service, and then settled down for the night in what was one of the top suites in the hotel. I soaked up the luxury that surrounded me and broke into a smile. All memories of Ward 11 had disappeared.
Istana Nural Iman, located on a hillside just a few miles from the city centre, is not only the largest residential palace in the world, but the largest residence of any type in the world. The statistics are bewildering – over two million square feet of floor space, nearly two thousand rooms, and a banqueting hall bigger than Wembley stadium. Tak stood in the centre of the suite with the briefcases at his feet, briefing me on the layout like a Fijian property developer. For a development that size, we couldn’t take it for granted that even once inside the gates the threat level would be zero.
We weren’t taking any chances. The drill was that Tak and our client would go over to the palace each day, taking different samples of the jewellery in one bag, and I would stay behind guarding the rest. This would be the order of the day until the deal was concluded. Divide and rule – always a good principle.
The phone rang. The Sultan’s limousine had arrived. Our client wandered in wearing an ultra-sharp Savile Row suit and looking every inch the diamond merchant. He glanced at his watch. ‘Let’s go.’ Tak picked up his briefcase and the two of them disappeared off down the hotel corridor. I closed the door behind them, secured the safety chain and sat down to wait. And wait. The next few days passed by without incident. This was getting more like life in the Regiment all the time. Ninety-nine per cent monotonous routine, one per cent adrenaline-fuelled action.