by David Holman
Lumberjacket, blood still pouring from his broken nose, pulled a knife and walked towards them. Holding it out in front of him, he lunged.
Seeing the shining blade, Munroe mustered some strength to spin the other man round causing the knife to enter him under the rib cage.
Lumberjacket stood dumbstruck seeing his colleague fall to the floor. Still holding the knife, he felt his wrist being twisted, as with lightning speed, Munroe took it out of his hands and pushed him into the wall.
He raised the blade to an inch away from Lumberjacket’s left eye. ‘Who sent you?’
The man’s face creased as he caught sight of the steel point at the corner of his vision.
Hennessy had also been busy. When Munroe had managed to get the man off her, she had fumbled in her bag for the gun and was now holding it. Seeing a window slightly open, she shot at the glass. The window exploded as the single shot echoed around the room. There was now a gaping hole, enough for them to escape through it. ‘Come on Phillip, let’s go, now!’
Munroe leapt towards the recently-improvised exit, joining Hennessy as she climbed through the window and jumped down onto the soft earth outside. He then stopped, and noticing her purse had fallen out of her bag, quickly snapped it up and chased after her.
Inside the toilet, Snorkel jacket, deciding things were taking too long, had entered to find his fellow Irishmen on the brick red floor of the lavatory. One was out cold, while the other lay half in, half out of a cubicle in a pool of his own blood. He would be dead in a few minutes.
The IRA man rushed out and with his remaining colleague exited the pub to catch sight of Munroe and Hennessy running in the dark along the side of the canal.
They gave chase, one reaching into his jacket to retrieve an automatic. He fired a few wild shots at the fleeing pair.
Munroe and Hennessy ran as fast as they could along the towpath hearing the shots as bullets flew above their heads, their two pursuers racing after them, determined to catch them.
Another shot rang out. Munroe turned to see Hennessy stop running. She had been hit in the back of her right thigh and began to limp.
He stopped to help her. Then, another bullet hit her in the back, spinning her around. She collapsed to the ground and thrusted the pistol into his hand. ‘Go Phillip, get out of here - look after her for me.’
Munroe hesitated, wondering what she had just said. He tried to pull her up. As he got her back on her feet, there was another shot; a splat of blood appeared at the side of her head. She jerked sideways, and with a splash, fell into the murky water of the canal.
Munroe stood for a few moments, just making out the girl’s body floating face down in the water. He then saw the two men approaching fast and holding the gun in both hands, aimed and fired. The man who had shot her went sprawling onto the path, clutching his chest.
The South African walked over and delivered a double-tap to his head, but other shots rang out as the other gunman broke his cover, firing again.
Munroe shot back, causing his attacker to dive behind a low wall. Then turning, he took one last look at the body in the canal.
Hennessy’s hair splayed out like a myriad of tentacles. She was dead, there was no doubt it.
Munroe needed to get away, it had been what she had told him to do. Under a hail of bullets from the other gunman, he ran. As he sprinted away, he remembered what she had said to him. Gaining substantial distance from his attacker, he was now out of range behind a curving wall and spying a gap between two buildings, darted for it.
Bullets ricocheted off the concrete; the man suddenly had sight of him again, but the South African had made it through.
Reaching to a spot across a road, he leapt through an opening of corrugated steel fencing, and now finding himself on wasteland, vanished into the night.
10
Inside John Stratton' s office at Thames House, his three section officers stood over a range of photographs scattered over the Head of Section' s desk.
Stratton lit a cigarette and picked up one of the images taken in the President Hotel, showing Libyan arms dealer, Sahid Ramir with a female who happened to be on the terrorist watch list, and an unidentified man, known now to have been sporting a South African accent. Also, on the table, were fresh images received from the mortuary at St Mary's Hospital. The dead girl plucked from the Regents Canal, the previous evening had been cleaned up and was clearly identifiable as that of the woman in the other pictures. Stratton placed the photo back down on the table. He was still waiting for the ballistics report, but according to the coroner's observations, the woman had been shot three times, one of the bullets entering her upper back, severing the aorta just below the left ventricle of her heart; the other, a head shot had killed her instantly. 'At least she died quickly rather than struggle with heart failure and drown in the water,' he commented. He turned to Alan Carter, 'Anymore on our mysterious South African chap?'
Carter shook his head. 'Afraid not, sir. It seems he's just vanished. We have the ports and airports covered though, so with the photos we have of him, we may get lucky.'
Stratton indifferently stubbed out his cigarette in a small glass ashtray. 'We really could do with finding out what this meeting was about and why a known bag lady of the Provisional IRA, happened to wind up dead in a London canal.' He looked up from the photographs. ‘We also need to find Ramir.’
Carter went to escort his team out of the room. They were about to have a busy day, and maybe even a busy night as well.
As a member of his team, Sophie Lewis was about to get up from her chair, when she was stopped in her tracks by Stratton.
‘Miss Lewis, please can you remain, I need to speak with you?’
On the other side of the Palace of Westminster in Whitehall, Alex Swan stood at the SID office window looking out at two mounted horsemen of the Household Calvary across the road. He pitied them having to sit in the late Autumn sunshine surrounded by camera-clicking tourists, some of them to the annoyance of the guards, posing with the horses.
Focussing back to the problem in his head, he sighed. It had been a long time since he had felt like this. Before the visit to Porton Down, he had been hopeful that SID would be provided with some clues as to why Baines had been killed. Now there was a void.
He turned to look at Janet' s empty desk. She was meeting with one of her old MI5 colleagues for an early lunch. All morning, she had shown her concern for her husband's dilemma, offering to contact DI Ian Morris to check if they had any more leads in the case. Unfortunately, Morris had been unavailable, but the duty sergeant promised to pass on the message.
Andrew Gable was at Scotland Yard as part of the investigation team into the shooting of Hennessy, and Swan would look forward to his report when he returned to the office.
He sat back down at his desk and picking up Baines's paperback copy of Shogun, he thumbed to the back pages to peruse over the dead man's handwriting. Once again, he read the words, Locust Rain. At least now he knew why this had appeared in the book. He looked at the other script and reading the list of Japanese to English text, hoped that something else would jump out of the pages. If Baines already spoke Japanese, then maybe there was a hidden message? Something that could allow this case to progress. He had never felt this desperate for a breakthrough in his whole career. Half an hour later, the telephone rang on his desk. It was Ian Morris returning his call. 'I was wondering if you had anything new in the Baines case?' Swan asked.
From the Honiton incident room, Morris informed him of his visit to The George Hotel in Axminster. 'I may have, Alex. On the evening of the incident, a man with what to the barman seemed a South African accent, had entered into the bar about six o'clock and had stayed until eight-thirty,'
Swan listened as Morris gave him the description,
'The barman was outside having a cigarette and saw him get picked up by a white car. He thinks it may have been a Ford Capri. There was only the driver and this man inside the vehicle when they turned out of
the car park and onto the Chard road.'
Swan wrote down all the details onto his desk pad. 'That's good work, Ian,' he praised. He replaced the receiver as Janet returned from her lunch, and seeing the smile on her husband's face, she suspected his call had been good news.
Swan informed her that they could now have a possible suspect, concluding this man had obviously got off the train with all the other passengers.
That evening, after seeing his wife to Westminster tube station, to head back to their Bayswater flat, Swan headed for the Brigand Club, an establishment frequented by gentlemen working in various departments of government.
Sitting in high-backed green armchairs and over a glass of fine single malt whisky, they discussed issues from the current political climate to the latest racing tips in The Sporting Life. Sitting alone at one of these tables was John Stratton. Browsing through the late edition of the Evening News, he spied Swan approaching him. Stratton had chosen a quiet area to discuss their particular topic for this evening.
As the waiter took Swan' s order for a Scotch on the rocks, he sat down opposite the MI5 Head of Section. 'Had a good day, John?'
Stratton folded the newspaper. 'As a matter of fact, I have, Alex.' Stratton then informed the SID man of the results of the surveillance on Ramir. 'Seems our little Provo lady met with him prior to her demise in the canal. Trouble is, she wasn't alone. We also have another man in the game, whatever it is.'
Swan gave a puzzled look as he was presented his scotch from the waiter and paused to allow him to leave them again. 'Any ideas as to who this could be. One of her own clan, perhaps?'
Stratton sipped on his Scotch. 'Shouldn't think so, Alex. Considering this chap spoke with a South African twang.' Stratton suddenly noticed his friend's face go pale. 'I say, are you okay, Alex?'
Swan lifted his glass. 'Yes, I was just thinking about what DI Morris had discovered on the Baines case.' He told him about the South African seen in the Axminster hotel.
'And you think there could be a connection to this man seen in yesterday's surveillance operation?'
Swan shook his head. 'That depends, John. What does this chap look like?'
Stratton recalled the photographs and described the profile, and Swan nodded.
'Then by the sounds of it, I think we may well have the same man.'
Stratton gasped. 'Could this mean the IRA are importing mercenaries?'
Swan leaned forward. 'So, do we have any idea where he could be now?'
Stratton shrugged. 'Not a clue, I'm afraid. After last night's shooting, he seems to have disappeared. We have the ports and airports covered and we have a photo. Whoever he is, he can't get far.' Stratton then had a thought. 'First thing in the morning, I will fax the photo to our friends in the NIS in Pretoria. They might be able to tell us if he is a known player. Mind you, I think they still may have their hands full searching for some stolen missiles.'
Swan did a double-take. 'What stolen missiles?'
Stratton stooped to lift his glass. 'Oh, we received a nod of a communique from our embassy to Century House. Seems that two French-built air to surface missiles were taken from an airbase by thieves dressed as SAAF personnel. Professional job by the sounds of things. Had the right sort of transport as well.'
‘Dear Lord. So, are there any ideas as to what's happened to them?'
Stratton shifted in his chair. 'None whatsoever.' All a bit sloppy, if you ask me. Mind you, could be anyone's guess who's got them, considering all those different factions operating in that part of Africa.'
Swan sat in silence, thinking.
' Looks like you have a theory.'
‘You say they were French air to surface missiles?'
Stratton nodded, 'that's right. AS-30s, to be precise. Used on their strike aircraft. He just remembered something else, ‘don’t they have Buccaneers?'
Swan took on a serious tone. 'I think they have, John. I remember Sir Alistair telling me at the time of the Silver Angel affair, how the First Sea Lord managed to persuade them to take it instead of the Rapier.'
They both suddenly fell in silence, realising who they were talking about had been recently assassinated by the IRA while on a fishing trip in his boat.
Swan sank into his chair. All this sudden talk about this aircraft had finally forced him to probe his friend about Barnett' s letter. 'While we're on the subject of the Buccaneer, there's something I have been meaning to ask you about.'
Stratton finished his Scotch and then lit a cigarette. 'What' s that then, Alex?'
Swan took a breath. 'I was wondering if you could enlighten me on Operation Butterfly?'
Stratton almost choked on his tobacco smoke. He looked around the room, annoyed the old nemesis had come back to haunt him. How could Swan know about this?
He gave his friend a cold stare as he waved smoke away from his face. 'Not here, Alex. Why don't you come over to Thames House tomorrow morning and we can talk about it then?'
*
Next morning, Swan drove Janet to Wellesley Mews then, renegotiating Parliament Square, he wound his car through the morning rush hour traffic to Thames House.
At the barrier to the underground car park, he showed his warrant card to the security guard. As he parked his car, he wondered how forthcoming John Stratton would be regarding Operation Butterfly.
Stratton was in his office nursing a cup of coffee. Behind him resting on a tray, a half full coffee pot, a small jug of milk and one extra cup lay in wait for his guest. He had got there early to give himself enough time to check through the old Butterfly file; the file he thought he would never have to retrieve again from the catacombs of the archive office, was now on his desk ready to use as part of his meeting with Swan. The Chief Investigations Officer for SID was shown in by Stratton’s PA, Hayley Thomas. She had been with him since he took over from Alex Swan as Head of Department. She also knew Swan well and remained a good friend of Janet, having also attended their wedding.
Stratton waited for Thomas to return to her desk before continuing, starting with the pleasantries of the coffee. A few minutes later, the two men both sat at the desk lighting cigarettes.
Swan then gazed down at the manila file. ‘So, this is it then?’ He noticed the front cover had even been given an unrelated title. Emblazoned across it was the title ‘Service File 88.’
Stratton referred to it. ‘I expect you can see by this obscure filename, how sensitive this is, Alex. My question is, how comes you know about it?’
Exhaling smoke, Swan explained about the letter from the late Howard Barnett. Stratton was already aware from a statement in the file, Barnett had been at the test airfield waiting for the aircraft to show up.
‘I expect, from the look on his son’s face, HB went to his grave still annoyed about the cover-up,’ Swan remarked.
Stratton opened the file to the first page and having expected his guest’s reaction to the list of names of the enquiry, was not disappointed as Swan displayed a surprised look when noticing who was on the list.
‘Good grief, Sir Alistair Higgins was on this enquiry?’
Stratton smirked. ‘Thought that might raise an eyebrow or two to see your best man on there. We needed a spokesperson for the RAF and seeing prior to his retirement, he supervised the transition of the Buccaneer from the Navy, following the decommissioning of HMS Victorious, I thought he could be our technical expert on the aircraft itself.’
Swan shook his head. ‘He never said anything about it.’
‘Of course, he wouldn’t of. This is ‘Need to Know’ only, Alex. Strictly need to know. Can you imagine if this ever got out? We would be the laughing stock of NATO!’ Stratton passed over the file to Swan. ‘Anyway, I thought it best if you looked at what we had, rather bombarding me with a salvo of your questions.’
Swan nodded. ‘I appreciate this, John.’
Stratton left him to peruse through the file while he went track down his PA for another cup of coffee. Swan leaned over the table, scrutinisin
g each report and surveying over the map of the route normally taken by the trailer party.
After twenty minutes, Stratton had returned and Swan closed the file pushing it back to his friend. ‘Interesting reading, John.’
Stratton nodded. ‘Isn’t it just? And with no leads, you can guess why it had to be covered up?’
Swan lit another cigarette. ‘So, with all possible buildings on route checked by the RAF Police, the only possibility would be it had been placed into some sort of transport and whisked away somewhere. Perhaps, shipped out overseas?’
Stratton agreed this could well have been what happened to the aircraft. ‘We checked with shipping records at Lloyd’s and found nothing suspicious. A few freighters went out that week from Hull, but the port authorities worked closely with us to monitor the cargo.’
‘Just as it states in the conclusive report.’
Stratton nodded. ‘The damn thing just disappeared, just as our appropriate name for the operation suggests. Fluttered away like a butterfly.’
Swan gave a sigh. That’s that then. It’s just as HB put it in his letter - one of our aircraft is missing!’
Stratton kept a straight face as Swan leapt up, having an idea. ‘Can I have a photocopy of these shipping records?’
‘I don’t think that will be problem.’ Stratton was curious. ‘What I haven’t asked is why do you suddenly have an interest in Butterfly?’
Swan dabbed out his cigarette in the glass ashtray on the desk. ‘Because I cannot believe SID wasn’t included in this enquiry. After all, isn’t it things like this that normally cross my desk?’
Stratton nodded. ‘Yes, it is, Alex. But if you want my opinion, I think the MOD wanted to bury this as soon as they could, therefore the least who knew, the better chances of that happening, especially the old Weasel of MI5. Besides, weren’t you and Andrew in Vienna at the time, following your lead on the Waterloo Bridge incident?’
Swan calmed himself. He hadn’t heard his old nickname for years. ‘Just let me have the shipping reports and I will get Andrew to do some groundwork.’
