by David Costa
Thinking back on the agents course Reece would laugh to himself when he remembered the room of trainees being asked by the instructor, if they looked at all the instructors on the course were there any of them they would target for recruitment? The whole room including Reece agreed on one of the MI5 Instructor’s being ideal material as he drank too much when in company and wanted to be everyone’s friend. A few weeks after the course Reece was not too surprised when he saw media reports that the same MI5 officer had been arrested and charged with trying to pass secrets to the Russians.
Reece had always lived by the only trust that really mattered, to trust no one but himself. Mary McAuley came a close second. She also fell into the only remaining type of agent. The one who had been true to their cause but then the cause she aspired to had changed, had died as far as the agent was concerned. In Mary’s case, fighting the British, fighting a war against soldiers and police who represented the oppression she’d grown up with, was a war she could put her name to. But when that war resulted in the deaths of more and more innocent men, women, and children, she’d changed. The men and women who had carried out her war had changed from patriotic Irishmen to a bunch of cruel terrorists, like Sean Costello, who killed for the fun of it. The cause was a banner they hid behind.
They didn’t bring the Brits to the Peace Table Talks because they were winning, it was more the opposite, the Provisional IRA had been beaten by the Brits mainly by their intelligence organisations. The British had worked on recruiting good agents like Mike and using high tech surveillance methods to bring the terrorist group to its knees. The Republican leadership had, in general, seen this coming. Each year the security forces had taken out more of their top people who were ending up either dead or serving long terms of imprisonment. The dregs that remained were not of the same calibre and therefore even easier for the security forces to pick off. When the talks came about, lowlifes like Sean Costello formed their own killing groups, making Costello a big fish in a small pond. This was the agent bracket Mary McAuley fell into. The agent who, despite still wanting a United Ireland in her heart and was willing to fight the forces of oppression, wasn’t willing to kill innocent fellow Irishmen and women to achieve it.
Reece had run many agents in his time and took great pride that his tradecraft training had paid off when it came to teaching his agents how to stay alive. A number of these agents had been lifted for interrogation by the Provisional IRA Nutting Squad. Reece knew of the techniques used by this brutal group to extract confessions of collusion with the security forces from its members. There were no Human Rights or Geneva Convention rules when it came to getting the answers they wanted, so the training from Reece had saved many of his agents from the inevitable hole in the back of the head. They had tortured one lad so badly and taped his so-called confession that he’d been an informer despite the fact he’d never worked for the security forces. The lad had confessed to stop the beatings he was getting and had ended up with two Armalite rounds in the back of his head, before he was dumped in a field in South Armagh. His interrogators sent his taped confession to his parents which only added to the horror and misery they were going through at the death of their son. To add to their trials, they couldn’t recognise their own son when his body was brought to the hospital because of the damage done by the Armalite rounds and the brutal beatings he’d received.
Reece understood the world his agents lived in and thought he’d left all that in the past. When he’d left Special Branch, he’d introduced his agents to their new handlers. Everyone except Mary. She’d remained steadfast in her resolve that she’d only work with him and would only stop when one of them was dead.
A long way off, thought Reece. The starter and main course had come and gone, washed down with the cool tasting Chablis, iced water, and a strong coffee. The restaurant had filled and now began to empty again.
‘I like this place,’ she said as she watched people leaving. ‘It always has good memories for me.’ Looking at Reece she said, ‘You don’t know how close I came to asking you up to my room when you walked me back the last time we dined here.’
Reece had thought about that night many times; he knew she was looking for a reaction.
‘I’ve often thought about that night too. After two bottles of wine and being in the company of a beautiful woman, the man in me would have accepted your invitation. But, being the professional and knowing you had travelled over with a party of people from Belfast, the risk of being seen together would have been too great. Now, we have to be professional again, but when this is all over, I would like to see you when we could get to know that other side of our lives outside all this, the personal you. Because, I really do like you, more than like.’
This answer seemed to please her. Her eyes sparkled, and her face broke into a smile. She reached across and took his hand in hers.
‘I look forward to that day, but for now, we have work to do.’
With that, she stood and bending down kissed Reece on the cheek. As she left Reece could see that same slow, purposeful cat-like sway that he’d noticed the first day he’d seen her all those years ago in Newry. He also noticed the other men and women in the restaurant watch her as she left, but he knew none of them would have the feelings he was now feeling in the pit of his stomach.
Chapter Twelve
Costello was half asleep when he heard a car pull into the drive parking up at the side of the house and the lights switching off. Underneath the chair cushion on his lap, Costello held the Browning. Slipping the safety catch off with his right thumb he pointed the pistol at the living room door. He could hear the footsteps, the key in the front door, the closing the door, and footsteps towards the living room where he sat in quiet darkness, even though it was only five fifteen the light outside had started to disappear. Mohammad entered the room and switched on the light smiling when he saw Costello.
‘Ah, Sean, my friend, why do you sit in the dark?’ He turned to close the blinds. Costello noted that Mohammad had changed little since the last time they’d met in Beirut. Arabic in looks with a small, well-trimmed beard. Costello knew he was about forty now, but he’d retained his boyhood looks and smile. Now he wore the suit of a well-heeled businessman. Costello flicked the catch back on to safe, put the pistol back in his waistband, and stood to give Mohammad a hug.
‘Good to see you too, my friend. How are you?’
‘I’m fine, Sean, just fine, and really glad to see you. You have everything you need?’
‘Yes, everything, thanks. This place is ideal. What’s our plan of action?’
‘Tonight, we rest, my friend. We have a delicious meal, maybe a glass of wine. As far as the wine goes, don’t tell my fellow Muslims. What they don’t know will never hurt them. I am devout but when I’m a soldier not so much. Tomorrow, we go into Manchester for a walkabout, so you get the real lay of the land, so to speak. In the meantime, I have a map of the target area for you to look at after dinner.’
Mohammad went to change out of his work suit into jeans and a roll-neck sweater. Costello thought how the simple change of clothes seemed to change the man himself. He was more relaxed and the conversation turned to everyday life, the weather, sport, women. He cooked a steak dinner and poured the red wine. Costello got the impression Mohammad had been nervous about today but now that day was here, he was unwinding. It was a feeling Costello had experienced many times before. You knew what you were going to do was dangerous, but life is dangerous, better not to think too much about what lay ahead.
Costello spread the map on the table after Mohammed had cleared the dishes.
It was a basic tourist map but just what Costello had asked for, the kind of map that highlights all the main points of interest for tourists. Mohammed sat back at the table, and pointing to the map he said, ‘This is where we need to look at tomorrow.’
‘When does she arrive? When do we meet?’ Costello asked.
‘She’ll arrive at Manchester Airport late this evening and w
ill contact us tomorrow for a meet-up. But tonight, we need to get some sleep; we’ll be busy over the next few days.’
Costello folded the map, topped up his glass.
‘There will be plenty of time to sleep Mohammad. I’ll stay here and go over things a few more times in my head. Like you I want this job to go well and when I pull that trigger, I want to see the surprise in the eyes of his bodyguards and his eyes as they go dark. The scope on the rifle is strong enough to do that.’
‘Inshallah, my friend, but I am tired so I will see you in the morning.’
‘Inshallah, what the fuck is that?’ asked Costello.
‘God willing, my friend, God willing.’
Chapter Thirteen
‘Control, this is Alpha One. Meeting over, all went well returning to main office, will need to speak to the Chief on return.’
‘Roger, Alpha One.’
Reece was surprised to hear Broad’s voice answer. It was rare for the Chief himself to answer from the operation room.
Reece hailed a taxi and asked to be taken to the business access drop off at London City Airport.
Reece sat in the back, his thoughts on his lunch with Mike. Now he was thinking of her as the agent and not the woman. For now, he was happy that he had all the information he could get out of her, and he’d locked her words in his memory ready for the cross examination he knew was coming.
Still, he remembered the words. He could see her face, her smile, hear her laugh, remember the colour of her hair, her eyes, the shape of her lips and her body as she moved. He made a promise to himself that no matter what happened he would see her again.
On arrival at SG9, Reece was directed by Broad’s secretary to the Ops centre conference briefing room. When he got there, he could see Broad sitting at the large desk used for the spreading of maps and files at the briefings for operations. Sitting beside him was a man Reece only knew from media photographs, Sir Martin Bryant. Bryant stood as Broad made the introductions.
‘David, let me introduce the Chairman of the Joint Intelligence Committee, Sir Martin Bryant.’ The men shook hands. Reece noted the strong grip.
‘Nice to meet you, Mr Reece.’
‘You too, sir, and it’s David.’
‘Sir Martin,’ Jim said, ‘as you probably know, is the PM’s eyes and ears in all matters pertaining to the intelligence community and one of the very few people cleared in knowing who and what SG9 is all about. He is here at the request of the Prime Minister, to hear your briefing from the horse’s mouth so to speak and to save time when answering the questions needing clarification. Questions he knows the PM would ask if he were here himself, so you can speak without any worry about security. Now let’s get down to business. How did your meeting go? What have you got to tell us?’
Reece knew something of Bryant’s background. He was a career civil servant, tall, lean, and fit for his fifty-two years. He was a close friend of the Prime Minister, not just his ear in the intelligence community. He had a reputation for being a straight talker who didn’t suffer fools easily. His dark brown hair starting to go grey at the side complimented his square strong jaw line.
Today he wore his regular three-piece blue pinstriped suit with a pocket watch and chain finished off with a blue striped tie with matching pocket hanky.
Reece thought of him as the consummate city banker. He knew that even though he couldn’t see his shoes from where he sat, they would be a pair of black shiny Oxford Brogues. Reece also knew that despite the appearance of the city banker, Sir Martin Bryant was a man of steel which many men who crossed his path had found out to their cost. Reece noticed his clear blue eyes were watching him with interest. Watching and listening for what was to come.
‘What I’ve heard has me worried on a number of fronts. Mainly that extreme Irish Republican elements are now working on this operation with extreme Islamic terrorists.’
Reece then told them the details and the fact that whatever the terrorists were cooking up was so big that two opposing ideologies were willing to work together in a common cause to ensure the kind of spectacular success they craved.
It was Sir Martin who spoke first when Reece stopped talking. As Reece spoke, he’d been making notes marking them as bullet points on the yellow writing pad in front of him.
‘Point one: It’s a spectacular involving two well-known terrorist groups. Point two: It has to be something so big the result would be catastrophic for this country, maybe even the West as a whole. Point three: The first week of October seems to be important to them.’
‘Gentlemen, can I remind you the first week of October covers the Conservative Party Conference taking place in Manchester. A Conference attended by the British Prime Minister,’ said Bryant.
Looks of understanding fell over the men in the room.
‘I’m deeply concerned at the involvement of Sharon Lyndsey, the White Widow. She didn’t only earn that name because of the martyrdom of her husband, it’s also attributed to the large number of widows she’s created through her terrorist actions across the world.’
‘Mr Reece, I’ll waste no time in briefing the Prime Minister. I’ll also put the resources of the police and Intelligence Services at your disposal. As SG9 is a Black Ops organisation, people will be told you’re working directly for me and the PM’s office and for this work, you and Jim here will always have direct and secure access to me. I’ll brief Sir Ian Fraser accordingly.’
Reece was surprised at this. His previous experience of career civil servants was that in cases where decisions of life and death had to be made, they quickly passed responsibility on to someone down the ladder. If things went wrong, they had their scapegoat for the blame. If things went well, they took the plaudits as they would let it be known they’d chosen the person to lead the plan. In Sir Martin, Reece could already see someone he could work with. Someone who was used to taking responsibility and leading from the front, someone, who wouldn’t ask from his people something he wasn’t prepared to do himself.
‘Mr Reece, do you think you’ll be able to get any more information from your agent?’
‘Yes, she’ll get back to me as soon as she has anything, and I can contact her anytime.’
‘Good, do you know this Costello personally? Do you know what he looks like and how he operates?’
‘The closest I ever got to him was in a shoot-out when I was hit by shrapnel in the shoulder. He was masked then, but I know how he moves under pressure. He won’t give up easily, he has nothing to lose and will shoot anyone who gets in his way. He’s a vicious bastard who lives to inflict pain and death on others. He uses the United Ireland cause as his excuse to kill. He doesn’t have many friends. We now know even his old IRA chums are only too happy to inform on him. To them he’s a dinosaur, lost in the past, and they believe he needs to be taken down.’
‘We will take him down, Mr Reece, I can assure you of that. The where and when is to be decided. But we’ll take him down. I want you to keep in touch with your agent and keep me updated. I also want you to take the SG9 team to Manchester to find Costello and the White Widow and if you find them, kill them both. I don’t want these people arrested on our soil to become prison heroes at the expense of the British public, or, to have their so-called human rights dragged through the courts all the way to Strasburg so that unelected judges can make us the laughingstock of the world.
‘Did you know that a Mossad analyst once calculated, one terrorist cost as much as a hundred expensively trained men to capture him or her? This is a cost this country can’t afford. The decision was made some time ago that SG9 would be our main arm of defence against the people who want to hurt us. We have tried diplomacy, we’ve tried talking, and financial blackmail and, too many times, we’ve given in to their demands, yet they still plot to kill us. Have you ever heard of the word Kidon?’
Reece looked at Broad who nodded his head to answer.
‘Yes, it’s the Israeli unit of Mossad specifically set up to kill its enemies.
’
‘Correct, Mr Reece. Ehud Barak, a past Prime Minister of Israel, and also a past member of Kidon, once quoted the reason for the existence of such a unit in words I believe could be attributed to our SG9, he said, the intention was to strike terror, to break the will of those who remained alive until there were none of them left.’
‘Simply put, these people don’t want to negotiate with us they just want to kill us, they want to destroy us in whatever way they can. So, we must find them and kill them first. Do you have any problem with that?’
Reece took time to reply. Did this make him a killer, a murderer, an assassin?
‘No, I’ve seen enough of what they do up close. I have no problem with that.’
Reece knew that Sir Martin not only had the ear of the PM but when he spoke and gave directions, it was the Prime Minister who spoke.
‘Good, now let’s get ahead of this. I’ll inform the PM that your team has full control of this operation. Whatever you need, it’s yours.’
Standing, Bryant looked both men in the eyes. ‘Good luck and good hunting.’
After Bryant left, it was Jim Broad who spoke first.
‘Right, well, there you have it, David, a direct order from the top. This is why SG9 was formed. What do you need?’
‘A four-man team, sorry, one of which should be a woman. With me as lead, that’s three more. Everyone should be good with firearms and surveillance. One should also be a locksmith in case we need quiet access. Where can we run secure comms from?’
‘Here, and I’ll move a camp bed into my office until this is over. We will need a simple code name for the operation, have you anything in mind?’
‘As it seems this is developing into an assassination attempt on the Prime Minister, let’s call it Long Shot, it’s the same for Costello and us, a real long shot if we’re to be successful.’
‘All right, I’ll let the Gold Commander on the ground for the Conference know you’re coming. Five, Six, and GCHQ will all be told to keep their eyes and ears to the ground, especially with the Islamic Jihad input. I’ll funnel all incoming information through here and keep you updated. Anything else?’
