Just a few months prior to that meeting I had been summoned to the flat in London, and asked to consider the viability of inserting and extracting four-man patrols, clandestinely, onto target areas inside Iraq. The exact details of the targets were not given to me at that time, but I was instructed to work on the likelihood of there being as many as twenty, spread anywhere across the country.
The Russian designed and built Mi8 helicopter was one of the most successful helicopters in the world. Thousands had been manufactured in the old Soviet Union, and were not only used extensively throughout the Warsaw Pact countries but proved to be very popular with civilian operators. They had also been bought by no less than fifty countries around the globe and, most importantly to me, extensively used throughout Iraq.
I decided that I had to know more about the ubiquitous, and very well respected Mi8 – better known in military circles as the ‘Hip’. While I was finding out more about it, I thought it might be a good idea if I could also make myself more useful to the government by getting myself qualified to fly it.
I spotted an advertisement in Flight International magazine, a publication popular with professional pilots. ‘FOR SALE – Newly refurbished MI 8 and MI 17 helicopters’.
The Mi17 was an updated version of the Mi8, the engines and transmission had been upgraded to improve it’s ‘hot and high’ capability. Both versions of the aircraft looked almost identical, the main difference being that the tail rotors were on different sides, the Mi8 having the tail rotor on the port side, and the Mi17 having it on the starboard side.
I contacted the dealer and introduced myself as Captain Bob Meacher. This was one of my aliases which were very robust and could, therefore, be used abroad operationally. I already had in place all the documentation I would need to support my cover story of being a commercial pilot who was working on behalf of a European aviation company who would, at that time, prefer to remain anonymous. I was then invited – at my own expense, of course, to inspect the aircraft which were on an airfield in Estonia.
After my usual ‘dry cleaning’ routine, I took the appropriate tray from Sir David Stirling’s old desk and set off to the airport in my new persona, Captain Robert Meacher. I bought a business-class return ticket to Tallinn via Stockholm from the Scandinavian Airlines desk at Heathrow Airport. I paid by credit card from an account which was regularly used – paying by cash was a sure way of bringing your name to the attention of the authorities, so it was strictly taboo. I carried with me all the documentation necessary to give credibility to my newly adopted alter-ego; passport – well used and with a selection of innocuous looking entry stamps; driving and pilot licences; credit and debit cards; and an assortment of business cards, brochures and letters.
Being Bob Meacher I wore an ostentatious watch and a ring – something that Red Riley would never do. I found them to be annoying, and, of course, that is just what I wanted them to be. I wore them to help prevent Bob Meacher from perhaps signing the wrong signature or giving away wrong personal details in a moment of stress, or when too relaxed, and lacking concentration.
Whenever I travelled I would always keep a book, or a copy of the Telegraph crossword close to hand, to give myself an excuse to avoid getting engaged in any unwelcome cross-examination. Feigning sleep was always a good way to steer clear of any unsolicited overtures from fellow passengers on flights or train journeys.
On arrival at the Lennart Meri Airport in Tallinn, I was met by a middle-aged man in a grey suit and black tie, looking like he was either on his way to or had just come from, a funeral. In one hand, he was holding a small placard will the name ‘Captain Meacher’ in bold letters across it. The other hand he held up to his face while he took a long drag on his cigarette.
As I approached with my right hand extended, he quickly threw down the cigarette onto the airport floor, crushed it underfoot, and exhaled a huge plume of smoke, greeting me to Estonia with a lung full of foul-smelling nicotine.
“That’s me,” I said looking at the placard and emitting an affected cough.
“Welcome to Tallinn, my name is Alexi. Please, come with me and I will drive you to your hotel.”
After a short while, we arrived at the Park Inn in the centre of the ancient, and somewhat grubby looking, capital city.
The following morning Alexi took me to an old, disused ‘Soviet Chemistry Airfield’, about an hour’s drive from the city. There was a selection of Mi8 and Mi17 helicopters lined up outside the dilapidated aircraft hangars. I spent a little time looking at them, pretending to show the keen interest of a potential purchaser – then I told Alexi what I wanted.
“They look very good, and I am certainly interested in purchasing one, and quite possibly two,” I said.
“But first I would like to learn how to fly this type. Can you please introduce me to someone who might be able to do that?”
His eyes lit up at the prospect of a potential sale.
“Please give me a moment,” he said, reaching for his mobile phone.
I continued to play the game, of looking interested, and continued with my inspection for the next half an hour, while Alexi made a few calls.
Putting his phone into his pocket as he walked towards me with a smile on his face, he said.
“I have a very good friend who is a major in the National Reserve Air Force who is able to teach you. But first, you must pay ten thousand US dollars for ten hours flying training.”
“When can we start?” I asked, jumping down from the open tailgate.
His hand went back into his pocket. Another lengthy phone call, and then he said, “So long as you have paid me the money, then you will be able to start tomorrow.”
There was always a reasonable amount of money left in each of my alias accounts to be used as a float or to be available for a quick deployment if one should become necessary, so getting hold of the ten thousand dollars did not prove to be hugely difficult.
The following evening, I rang Alexi and told him that I had the money and I was ready to get started.
The introduction to my new flying instructor took me a little by surprise.
“This is my good friend Marion,” said Alexi, as we walked towards the waiting helicopter.
My instructor was indeed, a major in the National Guard, the military-style flying suit leaving me in do doubt whatsoever. Apart from the badges of rank displayed on each shoulder, there were also numerous formation badges and medal ribbons. I later learned that the medals had been awarded for service in Afghanistan, where a long and bloody war had been fought in the nineteen eighties when Estonia was still a part of the Soviet Union.
Marion the Major spoke good English and, picking the words carefully, in a very soft voice spoke to me, as if telling me a story.
“When I was born in 1953, my mother and father very much liked the American movie star John Wayne. You may not know, but John Wayne had the real name, Marion. And that is why they named me, their first-born son, after their hero.
The flying training was fun. Marion was a good instructor, and the Mi8 was very easy to fly.
The most difficult thing to get used to was reading the gauges and instruments in the cockpit, which were all written in Russian Cyrillic. The altitude was indicated in metres, and the airspeed in kilometres per hour, rather than feet and knots, which were the units used in, just about, every other part of the world.
After the ten hours of flying were completed my instructor and I both agreed that I was more than competent to fly and operate the aircraft unsupervised.
After pocketing the improvised Certificate of Qualification to act as captain, I slipped a bottle of Jack Daniels finest ‘firewater’ into the old cowboy’s saddlebag, as a thank you present, and watched him ride off into the sunset.
Before I left I told Alexi that I was very interested in doing a deal with him, and would contact him as soon as I got back home. I never did, of course.