The Big Breach - Index of

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