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The Big Breach; From Top Secret to Maximum SecurityCompliments of http://www.192.comequally. The spotlight that had now fallen on the P4 job was his chanceto make a more positive mark on the office hierarchy and he attackedthe job with scattergun enthusiasm.`Sure, I've just the job for you,' he said, peering from behind hismountainous in-tray and disorganised desk. `We've got a lead that aSerbian journalist, Zoran Obradovich, might be worth an approach.'String Vest dug around on his desk and pulled out the relevant file.`He's in his mid-30s, war correspondent for the independent newspaperVreme and regular contributor to the anti-government B-92 radiostation,' String Vest continued. `He's made several liberal and antiwarremarks both publicly and to BEAVER.' BEAVER was a trusted Britishdefence journalist run by I/OPS and he had given the office severaluseful leads in the past. String Vest passed me Obradovich's file,taking care to remove and sign the tag, meaning that the safekeeping ofthe file was now my responsibility. `Get yourself a new alias, a coverstory and get yourself out to Belgrade. You'll have to make your wayoverland from a neighbouring country - there are no direct flightsbecause of the UN sanctions.'WEDNESDAY, 2 JUNE 1993DANUBE CAFE, BELGRADE8. WELL TRAINED`You know, Ben, I've had you checked out,' Obradovich dropped his eyecontact and continued in a softer voice, `with some friends . . .contacts . . . of mine in the police.' He reached for his packet ofMarlboro Lights, lost in the debris of a long and drunken lunchscattered over the stiff tablecloth, and lit one ceremoniously. Heexhaled slowly, took another drag, exhaled melodramatically, then fixedme in the eye again. `It took a while, but your credentials, your pressaccreditation . . . well, they check out OK.' Obradovich drew again onhis cigarette, studying my reaction. I reached for a glass of water ascalmly as I could, realising that he was definitely playing games withme. I needed to get out of the hotel dining-room fast - if Obradovichhad really checked me out with the Serbian secret police, he would havefound that my credentials as a freelance journalist didn't add up atall.It was my second meeting with Zoran Obradovich. Two weeks earlier I hadmade the trip from London to meet him in the same downtown Belgradecaf‚. UN sanctions against Serbia, imposed on 1 June 1992, were in fullswing and there were no direct flights to Belgrade. The only route wasto fly to Budapest and then travel the 370 kilometres to Belgrade byovernight bus. At our first meeting, Obradovich seemed promising agentmaterial. A freelancer in his 30s, of mixed Serbian and Croatianparentage, he professed to have neutral views on the civil war andstubbornly proclaimed his nationality to be `Yugoslav'. His views werepage- 91 - To purchase the original limited edition hardback version of this bookplease call 08000 192 192 or go to http://www.192.com
The Big Breach; From Top Secret to Maximum SecurityCompliments of http://www.192.comanti-war but he had access to senior military officers and politiciansin both Serbia and Croatia. He took my `consultancy fee', some 500Deutschmarks, with scarcely disguised alacrity. His podgy featuresbetrayed a taste for imported wine, good food and western cigarettes,all of which were prohibitively expensive under the sanctions, butwhich I could easily provide. All the characteristics were there -access, suitability, motivation - suggesting he might make a goodagent.Back in Century House after the first trip, String Vestenthusiastically recommended that I return as soon as possible tocontinue the cultivation. Obradovich looked like he could fill a fewgaps in the intelligence from the Belgrade station.The second trip started uneventfully. I flew to Budapest as BenPresley, a freelance journalist. In my wallet was a forged NUJ(National Union of Journalists) identity card and a Royal Bank ofScotland chequebook and credit card, but not much else to substantiatemy cover. The coach journey - packed with Serbs carrying huge suitcasesbulging with sanction-busting supplies - was quiet and gave me theopportunity to grab a few hours' sleep.The juddering of the bus as the engine was cut brought me gently out ofmy slumber. A glance at my watch showed that it was 4 a.m. I rubbed thesteam from the window. Dim fluorescent lights barely penetrated themist and darkness, but I could see that we were at the Hungarian-Yugoslav border. Every available parking space was filled with tiny butoverladen Zastava cars or flatbed lorries loaded high with goods boughtin Hungary, and despite the late hour there were long queues of Serbswaiting their turn to have their passports stamped. The coach-driverstood up and made a surly announcement, then handed round a sheet ofpaper on a clipboard, presumably for the border police. When my turncame, a glance showed that my name and passport number were required onthe manifesto. Still only half-awake, I almost signed in my real name.Hastily scribbling over the error, I re-signed in my alias. Nobodynoticed and no harm was done, but it jolted me awake.A few minutes later, a Serbian border guard clambered on to the coach,sub-machine gun strapped across the chest of his heavy, dark-bluegreat-coat, and inspected the manifesto. He grunted an order,presumably to produce our passports, and started working his way downthe bus. Sitting near the front, my turn soon came. He glanced quicklyat my passport, saw that it was British and unapologetically put it inhis coat pocket. Having worked his way to the end of the aisle, hedisembarked, taking my document. I wanted to protest, but having not aword of the language there was not much option but to remain silent andpatient. The bus-driver glared at me and said something in Serbian thatsounded caustic, so presumably he'd been told to wait until my passportwas returned. The other passengers grumbled impatiently while theminutes ticked away, but eventually the border guard returned and gaveback my passport. A quick inspection revealed that it had not beenstamped, but my details would certainly be logged in the policecomputer.The remainder of the trip to Belgrade went without hitch and afterchecking into the Intercontinental Hotel there was time for a showerand breakfast before ringing Obradovich. He wanted to meet for lunch atpage- 92 - To purchase the original limited edition hardback version of this bookplease call 08000 192 192 or go to http://www.192.com
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