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

Curiously, he’d looked at his watch. ‘We’ll get this thing wrapped up by Christmas, so, let’s say bailed until eleven o’clock on 11 December – back here at Guildford police station.’ I was stunned. Oh, you’re confident of yourself, mate. Think you’ll get this cracked in a couple of months? You’re about to open up a real can of Balkan worms.

Before Issy left and I was handed back to the Army, she let slip two snippets of information – something about the Bosnian ambassador making a complaint and that the police had mentioned that they’d seized my diary from Bosnia, which apparently contained ‘evidence of disaffection with the West’s policies’.

After the questioning, I was led to another room where two colonels from Bracknell were waiting. One was in a suit and the other, a very tall, thin Guards officer, was in uniform. The Guards officer simply read out a typewritten statement from Bracknell to the effect that, due to the serious nature of my arrest, my vetting had been revoked and I therefore could not continue on the course. Forthwith I’d be posted to the Parachute Regiment’s headquarters in Aldershot. With that he dropped the paper into his brief-case, snapped it shut and brushed past me without so much as glancing in my direction. I felt like dirt, a leper standing there with no tie or belt.

The other colonel, Dennis Hall, was kinder. He explained that he’d been tasked to look after me. He asked me not to discuss the case with him and, with that, his driver drove us the ten miles to Farnham. It was dark and raining heavily.

My house had been taken apart. They’d removed just about anything they could lay their hands on. On the table lay a number of blue seizure of property forms. The words ‘OPERATION BRETTON’ were printed across the top of each. They had mounted an operation against me.

I’d quickly scanned the house. None of it really made sense. Why had they left that? That would have been useful to them. Why had they taken a whole pile of novels and Latin textbooks, and a sheaf of sandpaper? What possible purpose could they serve? Why had they taken that picture but left that one? Then I spotted it.

They left a Coke can in the kitchen. I don’t drink Coke at home – ever. They were drinking and eating while ransacking my house and then left their rubbish behind. A specialist search team? Nothing but a bunch of incompetents. They’re not professionals, they’re just Plod from the MoD.

I’d found a bottle of red wine in the fridge. At least they hadn’t touched that. Having opened it I then rang my mother. I had to. She was alone in Cornwall.

‘What!! Milos, I don’t believe it! After all you’ve done for them …’ Her voice was cracking and breaking over the connection. Then she got angry, ‘It’s the Muslims, Milos, the Muslims and the Americans!’

Things happen either by cock-up or by conspiracy. In my experience, usually the former. In any event the phone was probably tapped so I asked her not to jump to any conclusions and told her that a mistake had probably been made. I didn’t believe a word of it and neither did she. We agreed not to tell my sister.

Half an hour later L-P, a friend from the Army, called from a bar in London. He’d been interviewed by the MoD Police while I’d been in my cell. ‘Milos, don’t worry. I’m behind you all the way. One hundred per cent.’ He couldn’t discuss anything, certainly not over the phone. I didn’t want to know anyway. All he had to do was tell the truth. I trust him with my life. His call perked me up slightly.

As I polished off the wine I stared at what was left of my house. It wasn’t mine anymore. It was theirs now – they’d taken my life, my mementoes, dismantled my museum and carted off a large part of me. I was a squatter in my own home. I felt hollow and sick – this is what it must feel like to be violated!.

I awoke the next morning curled up in a little sweating ball. I’d had another of those vivid dreams from over there. Everything was an effort; dragging myself out of bed, shaving – I’m staring at myself in the mirror, mindlessly pulling the razor across my face. I’m staring into my eyes. I can still look at myself in the mirror, because I know the truth. But I feel like shit. I’ve got this horrible squirming, sinking feeling in my stomach. I feel weak, sweaty and queasy. I stare at myself, razor frozen in mid stroke – Traitor? No.

I smoked a couple of cigarettes. At nine-thirty Colonel Hall arrived to take me to Bracknell to clear out my room. Before we reached the car he stopped, looked around and said in a low voice, ‘Look, I’m breaking the rules by saying this … don’t feel as though you’re on your own in this. You’re not. A lot of people are backing you on this but they can’t tell you. People like Rose and Smith cast long shadows.’ It was something to cling to.

When we arrived at Bracknell the students were in a lecture. Just as well because I didn’t want to see any of them. Plod had gutted my room – laptop, printer, keyboard, monitor, books, books, books – all issued – gone. Gone also one copy of Playboy, my Service Dress jacket and my medals. They’d even unpicked my miniatures from my Mess Dress jacket.

It took me less than half an hour to pack up my room. We then drove back to Farnham in convoy. I dumped my stuff without bothering to unpack it and jumped in with Colonel Dennis. Next stop Regimental Headquarters, The Parachute Regiment in Aldershot to see my new Commanding Officer, Lieutenant Colonel Joe Poraj-Wilczynski, the Regimental Colonel. We’re old friends. He was shocked, didn’t really know what it was all about. All he’d heard was that I’d been arrested, kicked out of Staff College and that I was to be under him for welfare matters. Joe gave me a cup of coffee and Colonel Dennis returned to Bracknell saying he’d send his driver back for me. I still had to collect the motorbike.

Joe and I chatted for about an hour. He explained that, as my CO, he couldn’t be privy to any details about the case and that we’d have to confine our conversations to other matters. This was a blow. I was rapidly running out of people to talk to.

The driver took me back to Bracknell. When we arrived I discovered that I had to go and see my Divisional Colonel, Colonel Hamish Fletcher, also a Para and an old acquaintance. As I walked into his office he stood up and just stared at me. It looked as though he’d been crying, but he hadn’t – bad flu. Concern and worry were etched across his face.

‘Has someone stitched you up, Milos?’

‘Don’t know, Colonel.’ Really I didn’t.

He continued, ‘I’m not supposed to say this to you or talk to you about it but, when you were arrested we had a meeting with them and I told him in no uncertain terms. I told the spook that …’

‘Spook? Y’sure, Colonel? It was MoD Police who arrested me.’

‘No, this guy was definitely a spook and I told him, “You better make sure you’ve got this right. He’s thirty-four, last chance at Staff College, and you’ve just blown his career apart. If you’ve got this wrong he could just turn round, resign and sue the MoD!”’

I blanched. Thanks for the support, but I wish you hadn’t said that. Now they’ll be under added pressure to prove a case, to fabricate something.

‘Your posting order’s being sorted out now. I’m popping over to Aldershot this afternoon with it. Where will you be?’ I told him I’d wait in Joe’s office and with that I went, collected the bike and sped off to Aldershot.

Colonel Joe had some more unpleasant news for me. He produced a long secret signal which he’d received from someone in the MoD. It was a set of Draconian instructions detailing what I could and couldn’t do. I was forbidden from having any contact with anyone in the Services and discussing the case. If I did they’d be obliged instantly to record the details of the conversation and report them to the MoD Plod. But I was free to organise my own defence!

Colonel Hamish arrived at five with the paperwork. He told me that General Rupert Smith had phoned him from Northern Ireland and that his first question had been, ‘Has he been spying for the Serbs?’ Colonel Hamish had told him ‘no’.

‘Well, you told him right, Colonel. I haven’t been spying for the Serbs!’

Before I left for Farnham, Joe asked me if there was anything he could do for me on the welfare front. I’d thought about it long and hard in the cell and throughout the day.

‘There’s only one thing I want right now, Colonel. I want to see a doctor, and not just any doctor.’ I told him about Ian. Joe wanted to see me on Monday. Till then I was free to do my own thing.

I arrived home at five-thirty with a splitting headache. I hadn’t eaten for forty-eight hours but I wasn’t in the least bit hungry. I tried to turn the key but the front door was already unlocked. Niki was lying on the sofa with Frankie, her dog. She’d come down from London for the night. She had a christening in Camberley the next day and we’d made the arrangement the previous weekend. She smiled brightly at me. ‘I’m bored with this revision. How’s your day been?’ She had an Open University exam to sit on the following Wednesday.

I sat down heavily in the armchair, loosened my tie and just stared at her. She frowned.

‘Notice anything different about the house, Niki?’

Her frown deepened. ‘No, not really. Well, sort of cleaner, less junk. Come to think of it, have you had a clearout?’

‘Sort of …’ I closed my eyes and took a deep breath – here goes! – ‘Nix, I was arrested for espionage on Thursday … I’m on police bail …’

She stared back at me uncomprehendingly. The next four days were a nightmare, so bad that I can’t recall them.

And now I’m sitting in front of this bloke Ian, who’s asking me why I’m here. I’m staring out of the window wondering why there are no yachts out there on the sea. Must be at least a force six – perfect perfect day for a sail … Why am I here?

‘Why am I here, Ian? … I’ll tell you why. I’m here because I’ve got nothing left, nothing. That’s why I’m here.’

‘Nothing at all?’

‘That’s right, nothing!’ I struggle to control my voice. ‘Look! The Army’s a great life-support machine. It provides you with all sorts of crutches … well, life-jackets really. They keep you afloat and everything looks fine to the casual observer …’

‘Life-jackets?’

‘Precisely that. The uniform is a life-jacket, so is the job. They prop you up and keep you going … you know, you stick on the uniform and the beret and bingo! You’re a company commander. But when you take off the uniform, when you get home in the evenings or at the weekend and you step through the front door – alone – you step back into the museum and the pause button on the machine in your head gets pressed. The tape starts running again, and you’re back there. You’re somebody else and you’re back there. Everything else is irrelevant because being back there is more real.’

‘Where’s there, Milos?’

‘The Dark Side, Ian. You’re back on the Dark Side. That’s what we called Serb-held territory. That’s it then, by day or during the week you’re a major, Parachute Regiment, MBE, company commander or student. But at night or during the weekends you’re somebody else, you’re Stanley again … Mike Stanley, fixer, useful tool. You won’t believe this, Ian, but people still ring me up and call me “Mike”. Geordie does all the time. And I still get letters dropping onto the carpet addressed to this person called Mike Stanley … there are still people out there who don’t know me as anything other than Mike Stanley!’

‘And now? Who are you now?’ he asks gently.

I think hard. I’m not sure of the answer. ‘I’m both, Ian. Or maybe I’m nothing … a hybrid, a monster.’

I lapse into silence. I’m fiddling with the bezel of my watch – round and round and round, click, click, click, click, click, click. Ian’s waiting for me to say something. A thought enters my head and makes me instantly furious. I look directly at Ian.

‘I still can’t believe it, really, I can’t … I mean, you can’t dream up a more tragic joke. It’s a sick joke!’

‘What is?’

‘Names, Ian. Our names! I mean, I can’t believe it. We’ve got thirty years experience in Northern Ireland, thirty years of living with the terrorist threat, thirty years of developing systems and procedures for personal security, of protecting people’s identities … and what do we do with all that experience? Do we transfer it to the Balkans … ?’ I’m gulping for air. I didn’t wait for him to answer,‘… do we hell!! D’you know what names they gave the three of us? The first two they called Abbott and Costello. Can you believe it? And then I flew out as Laurel and then they changed my name to Stanley … Abbott, Costello, Laurel and Stanley. Big joke, Ian. Very funny if it wasn’t so serious. It’s our lives they’re playing with!’ I’m breathless, furious, almost shouting.

And then quietly, ‘Ian, Abbott was blown after only three months there. The Croats found out who he was, threatened to kill him, just because he was a Serb. He was removed from theatre within twenty-four hours. He never came back.’ I lapse back into silence. Staring at my boots. Big joke.

‘Has it always been like this, Milos?’

‘Like what?’

‘This double life of yours. Has it got progressively worse or has it stayed the same? You’ve been back two-and-a-half years now …’

I’m not sure what to say. I think hard for a moment, ‘...’ 95 was quite bad, the last half of ‘95. I had a naff job with the Territorial Army up north, did a parachute refresher course, my Company Commanders Course. It sort of kept me busy, but I was back there when I wasn’t busy. 1996 was so busy, that’s when I was Company Commanding in 1 PARA – twice in the States, once in Northern Ireland, once in France, in between exercises. Just didn’t stop, I wasn’t on the Dark Side much. Thought I’d cracked it. Put all my demons in the box and locked the lid.’

‘And?’

‘And then, Ian, I went to Shrivenham. Nightmare. Suddenly you’re a student along with ninety-nine others, all on an equal footing. No responsibility, except for yourself; no soldiers to look after; no careers to manage. This year has been a nightmare. It’s just got worse and worse. More and more polarised. It’s the routine.’

‘Routine?’

‘Predictable, bloody routine. Monday morning to Friday afternoon you’re a student. Live in a room there. Work hard. Drink Diet Coke only, watch the diet and become an obsessive fitness fanatic.’

‘And then?’

‘And then, get home Friday evening. Walk through the door of the museum. Tape starts playing and I’m there again on the Dark Side. Sink a bottle of red wine, stagger up to the pub, few pints of Guinness …’

‘How many?’

‘Five or six maybe. Sometimes I get a kebab, sometimes I forget to eat all weekend. Saturday’s the same. So’s Sunday. I’m there on the Dark Side with all my friends, dead and alive. And then Monday morning I drive to Shriven ham where I’m a student again, for another four and a half days. And that was my life. You keep it all inside you.’

There’s a long silence. ‘That’s why I’m here, Ian. I’m here because when something like this happens, something big that explodes your fragile world, something that removes all your crutches and life-jackets …’ I can feel tears welling, that’s when you realise that all those things were nothing, that you’re still where you’ve always been – on the Dark Side … ’

‘Is that where you are now?’

I shrug, not trusting myself to speak. Not really knowing the answer.

Another long silence. Ian very quietly, ‘Do you want to come back?’

I can’t speak. I nod my head and then shake it. I really don’t know.

Ian’s scribbling something. I try to get a grip of myself.

‘How do you see the future?’ he asks quietly.

‘Sorry?’ He’s suddenly changed tack and caught me by surprise.

‘Do you see a future for yourself? I mean how do you see your future?’

‘I don’t. There isn’t one. There is no future on the Dark Side. I suppose I’ve been drifting ever since I got back. I’m still there, but I’m back. Does that make sense?’

Ian nods. We’ve been at it over an hour. Me burbling, him listening and making the occasional note.

I’m staring out at the sea again. It’s getting dark there. Winter’s definitely on its way. It’s dark, cold and lonely out there. Ian’s asking me a whole load of practical questions: sleep patterns, dreams, panic attacks? Alcohol intake, diet? How’s your libido? Sex life? Steady relationship? I answer him as best I can, but I don’t take my eyes off the sea. My answers are automatic. I know myself so well by now, I don’t even have to think about the answers.

‘If we’re to do any meaningful work we need some sort of structure to work from. When did you last see me?’ He sounds quite businesslike now.

I’m still looking at the sea. ‘November ’93 after my first year there.’

‘That’s right. I’ve got the notes somewhere, but I think it would help if you took me through it … from the beginning …’

‘The beginning?’ The beginning? When was that? Where did it begin? This century? Last century? When I was born? The recruiting office in Plymouth? It began all over the place. Where to start? Kuwait in the desert, that’s as good a place as any.

‘Milos?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where did it start? What was it like?’ What was it like?

I tear my eyes from the sea and stare at Ian. I don’t really see him. What was it like?

I’m speaking slowly now, more measured. ‘It started in Kuwait and turned into a living nightmare. It was a completely upside down world – Alice-Through-the-Looking-Glass – warped, weird, back-to-front. I can’t begin to explain what it was like.’

‘Well, why don’t you just tell me about the job? Start there.’

‘Job? Interpreter?’ I pause for a moment. Was that it? Just that? ‘Only for a short while, Ian, just at the beginning.’ I’d hated interpreting. It had given me hideous headaches and in any case I just didn’t have that computer-like brain that the job requires.

‘Well, what was your job then?’ What was it? How do you describe it? It doesn’t exist in any job description that the Army has ever heard of. What was it … in a nutshell? I’m thinking hard now and it comes, absurd though it sounds.

‘Ian, I was a fixer.’

‘A fixer?’

‘Yeah, that’s right – a fixer, a sort of go-between … for the UN, for Rose and Smith … you know “go-and-wave-your-magic-wand” stuff.’

‘That’s the job they gave you?’ He sounds incredulous.

‘No, not really. It sort of just happened by accident. It evolved I guess … by accident.’

‘Okay then, but what exactly did it involve?’ I can see he’s not getting it.

‘Involve? Just about everything. As I’ve just said: “go and wave your magic wand at the Serbs … fix this … sort that problem out … get ’em to see it this way … get the hostages released …” on and on and on. There was no job description, just sort of made it up as I went along.’

‘How?’

‘History, that’s how. By prostituting myself, not my body … but my history, my family history … I was a sort of historical prostitute. I prostituted my background and my soul to get close to those people.’

‘Which people?’

‘The Serbs. Just them. Hid it from the others, the Muslims and Croats. They’d have killed me had they found out. They tried to kill Nick Abbott. This is serious shit, Ian. You don’t fuck around with these people.’

‘Did it work? I mean, this prostitution.’

‘Did it work? Did it! Why do you think I spent two years out there? It worked all right … worked a treat. It was a sort of Barclaycard, y’know, gets you in anywhere. Gets you into their mentality and into their minds. Problem is, once you’re in you end up playing mind games with them.’

‘Mind games?’

‘That’s right. Three-D mental chess. Trouble is, once you’re in their minds, they’re in yours too … they’re still there, that lot … and you engage in this bizarre struggle of wills. Did it work? Too bloody well. It worked too well and that’s the problem. It just never ends.’

‘How do you mean too well?’

‘Too well means that you become a sort of useful tool and everyone wants a bit of you. As I said, it’s never over. It never ends.’

‘But you’ve been back a while now, Milos. Surely it’s over.’

‘It’s never over. You know, you come back. No one bothers to debrief you. No one grabs you and tells you it’s over. So, you drift along never really sure whether you’re going back or not. No one tells you a thing. You just don’t know.’

‘But surely you’d started a new job, done your courses. Surely that’s enough?’ This is getting exasperating. He’s just not getting it.

‘No it isn’t. Listen,’ I can feel the anger rising again, ‘I come back and guess what? Two months later I’m at this wedding. Mark Etherington’s marrying Chelsea Renton, the MP’s daughter. I’m at this wedding, this is mid-June 1995, and General Mike Jackson comes up to me, he’s the bloke I delivered all those parcels for, on behalf of his au pair …’

‘What parcels?’

‘I was Postman Pat out there, but I’ll tell you about that later. I even fixed up a meeting for him with Mladic once, but anyway, so he comes up to me at the wedding and slaps me on the back and says, “Ah, Milos, well done, good to see you back ... done more than anyone could have asked of you … no need for you to go back … got a good career to crack on with … get yourself to Staff College etc etc etc …” and then what?’

‘Go on.’

‘Six and a half months later, on 2 January 1996, on the day that I’ve taken over command of A Company 1 PARA in Aldershot, I get this phone call. It’s Will Buckley, the Regimental Adjutant, and he says to me, “General Jackson’s been pinged to be the IFOR Commander Multinational Division South West in Bosnia and has asked for you to go out with him.” Can you believe it? One minute it’s one thing and the next it’s quite another. So, you see, it’s never really over. You just don’t know … ’

‘Why didn’t you go back out?’

‘Simple. The Muslims would have killed me. Jackson’s not the only one. Three months after that we get a new second-in-command in 1 PARA – Paul, who has just come from a staff job in the MoD and he tells me that, at the same time Jackson was asking for me, his boss, who is also pinged to deploy his HQ into Sarajevo also asks for me – “let’s get Stanley out. He’ll give us the inside track on the Serbs.” See what I mean …’ I’m shouting at him again, ‘… which is it? I mean, what do these people want? One minute they give you an MBE for your work out there. The next they arrest you as a spy! Who’s mad here? Me or them?’ I lapse into silence, exhausted.

We stare at each other. ‘No, Ian – that’s the way we did that. Historical prostitute … funny if it wasn’t so tragic, being a prostitute.’

Ian’s picked up his board again. He doesn’t bother writing while I’m raving at him. He’s talking softly now, ‘Let’s forget about Bosnia for a moment. Why don’t you tell me about your family? Let’s start with that, shall we. That seems to be the root of all this.’ His voice is very soothing, compelling, almost narcotic.

‘My family! Have you got all night? There’s more history here than anyone can cope with. Sure you’re up to it?’

‘Only if you are.’

‘We’ve been at it for most of the century. All over the place. Even the Army can’t figure out what I’m supposed to be. On my PAMPUS computer record they’ve got me down as “BRIT NAT/FOREIGN” for my nationality at birth and current nationality. What’s that supposed to mean? “FOREIGN”?’

Ian just shrugs. There’s no answer to that sort of question.

‘I suppose it’s their way of labelling someone if they can’t work out where they’re really from. You’ve got to sympathise with them to a certain extent. It’s a nightmare trying to work out what’s what in our family this century.’

‘So, tell me about it.’

‘Okay. Best place to start is with my maternal grandmother, Jessie Constance Millar Rowan. A Scot. I suppose that’s what the Army means by “FOREIGN”. She was from a wealthy Ayrshire family who were shipping-line owners in the last century. Of course, she had the best schooling – Paris and Cheltenham Ladies – and pretty much did nothing other than look after a menagerie at home and drive around Scotland. She was somewhat eccentric, though. She had no brothers, so in a peculiar sort of way became the son her father never had. She’d sit there with him after dinner, at the age of fifteen, smoking cigars and drinking port. She also wore a monocle for some reason. When the Great War broke out she nursed with the VADs in France and then in Malta during the Gallipoli campaign. After that she had a brief but disastrous driving job in London with the War Office from which she was sacked for being rude to an American general whom she’d accused of coming into the war three years too late. That wasn’t the end of her driving career, though. She ended up as a Scottish Women’s Hospital ambulance driver on the Salonika front in the Balkans where the British, French and Serbs were holding the line in the Macedonian mountains. There she met her future husband, a Serbian officer called Vladimir Ilija Dusmanic.