The Robert Finlay Trilogy

by Matt Johnson

  ‘Rupert, what’s going on?’ I asked. ‘You’re not quite who I expected to be speaking to.’

  I felt myself relaxing. The adrenaline surge at the fear of discovery began to subside as I lowered myself into the armchair. My legs felt very weak. There was no negotiator, no firearms team at the door. There was time to put right the mistakes before awkward questions were asked.

  ‘I’ll get straight to the point, Finlay. Last night, Special Branch lost a suspect carrying a bomb at Potters Bar. The man was heading north. We’re working on the assumption that the device has already been planted.’

  ‘In my house?’

  ‘Or your car. Most likely the car, based on what they’ve done so far.’

  ‘And I’m the target?’

  ‘Got it in one.’

  I took a deep breath. For some crazy reason, I felt quite calm. I guessed it was the mixture of relief that I wasn’t about to have my collar felt, coupled with the realisation that the terrorists quite possibly had my home address. The sense of foreboding disappeared; it was fear that had caused it. And now that fear had become a reality. Now I knew what I was facing. And, with a collection of weaponry sitting in my kitchen that could have seen me looking at a long prison sentence, luck had bought me some time.

  ‘OK, what do you want me to do?’ I said.

  ‘There’s a team on its way to you now. I’ll be right behind them. But first things first: have you touched your car this morning?’

  ‘No, it’s on the drive unlocked. Do you want me to check it?’ I said a silent prayer of thanks that I hadn’t already used the car.

  ‘Yes, keep the line open. You know the drill, look, don’t touch.’

  I placed the receiver gently on the table.

  In the kitchen, I quickly wrapped the MP5 in a towel and placed it in the holdall. I then ran down the garden and out into the field. A short, fifty-metre sprint and I’d reached an oak tree that had been killed by lightning several years before. I carefully levered a section of the hardened bark away with my fingertips to reveal a hide that I had hollowed out in preparation for just such an occasion. It was large enough to conceal the holdall and more. With the bark wedged back in place, the tree’s secret was superbly hidden.

  As I jogged over to the car, I checked around for any clue, such as a gate left open, a broken fence, anything to indicate unwelcome visitors. There was nothing. I didn’t really expect there would be. And the Citroen was as dirty as ever. The dust from local combine harvesters covered every outside surface at this time of year.

  Returning to the cottage, I took a small mirror from the bathroom and a torch from the kitchen. Outside, I used them to look behind the wheels and around the wheel arches. It was a stretch, but I just managed to see around the petrol tank and under the driver’s seat. Again, there was nothing.

  As I stood to pause for a moment my eyes were drawn to the sill beneath the driver’s door. There were marks in the dust. It looked as though someone had been under the car and had used the panel below the door to pull themselves out. Dust covered the whole car bar those marks. I swore.

  Rupert was waiting on the phone. ‘Find anything?’

  ‘Can’t see a device, but someone’s been under the car, finger marks left in the dust, clear as day.’

  ‘Right, I’m on my way. You’d better start evacuating the area, old chap. I’ll be with you in about half an hour.’

  ‘Not much point in evacuation, Rupert, I’m pretty isolated here, as you’ll see. Still, I’ll keep out of the way.’

  I checked the house for signs of entry. As I searched I also made sure there were no clues pointing to my own activities. The last thing I needed would be for the approaching search team to unearth something I would have the devil’s job explaining.

  Within a few minutes, a distant siren signalled their approach.

  Chapter 52

  A specialist search team arrived, along with officers from the local Hertfordshire police. I recognised our community PC, posted for the day on the local response car. Also in attendance were his Sergeant and a couple more PCs, wearing the blue shirts of the local force. They set about cordoning off the cottage with ‘POLICE LINE – DO NOT CROSS’ tape. I was ordered behind the cordon and told to wait about two hundred yards from the cottage.

  It was now getting light, the first rays of sun appearing over the eastern horizon to announce what looked like a pleasant, sunny day. From where I stood, I could just make out the little yellow Citroen parked on the driveway. The bright colour of its paintwork contrasted strongly with the subtle shades of green and brown that dressed the surrounding countryside. The scene looked very peaceful, a pleasant watercolour that probably concealed a dreadful horror.

  Rupert Reid arrived about twenty minutes later. As he climbed out of the passenger seat of a shiny grey Range Rover, he greeted me like a long-lost friend, grabbing my hand and shaking it firmly. Easily six feet four and twenty stone, Rupert was a bear of a man. He wore a full beard and, from what could be seen poking out from the edges of his shirt, every other part of his body was covered in similar hairy growth.

  ‘Failte duibe,’ he said in Gaelic.

  I’d picked up a bit of the lingo in Ireland, just like I’d picked up a little of several languages I’d experienced in other parts of the world. It wasn’t sufficient to be confident, but enough to get by.

  ‘Welcome to you, too, Rupert,’ I answered.

  As he started to pull off his civilian clothes and change into his working kit, Rupert got straight down to business, asking me to describe the layout of the cottage and where the car was parked.

  As we were talking, the SO19 firearms officers arrived. Armour-clad policeman carrying MP5s and shotguns emerged from the rear of a white Dodge van. In a few moments, black figures were sprinting towards positions surrounding the cottage.

  I crossed my fingers and watched as Rupert’s driver helped him to dress. Soon, heavy-weight armour covered his whole body. A helmet sat on the car seat for his head and face. He saw me watching him.

  ‘Bugger all use up close, old son, but good enough at a distance.’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t blow up my car at all, Rupert.’

  ‘You’ve got another one, haven’t you?’

  ‘My wife’s got it. She’s taken our little girl to her mother’s.’

  ‘Wife indeed? Reid roared, his amusement obvious. ‘Well, well. One of the greatest charmers in the British Army married at last, never thought I’d see the day.’

  I smiled. I knew I’d had a reputation. Mostly, it wasn’t deserved. ‘She’s quite a girl. You’ll have to meet her.’

  ‘Yes, I’d like that.’

  Conversation ceased as the bomb-disposal man donned the heavy, full-face helmet. The heat of the sun would soon cause the armour to become uncomfortably warm. Many years previously, I had tried an explosive ordnance suit on, just to feel what it was like. I hadn’t enjoyed the experience, even for just the two or three minutes I had been wearing it. The helmet was hot and claustrophobic, the suit heavy and cumbersome. As Rupert trudged up the lane and onto the gravel driveway I imagined that beads of sweat would already be trickling down his forehead and neck.

  His wasn’t a job that I envied, not in the least.

  Chapter 53

  The cottage was to Rupert’s left as he approached the rear of the little Citroen. As I watched, he skirted around the car, apparently noting the hand marks in the dust that I had described. If the bomber had been under the car, chances were that was where he had put the bomb. This really was the trickiest part of the operation. Finding the device and identifying the ignition system.

  Before donning his helmet, Rupert had given his opinion on the type of device he expected to find. It could be a timer, he suggested, but that was unlikely on a car bomb, as there would be little chance of catching me in the car. Most likely was a mercury tilt switch set to go off as the car went up or down a hill. Alternatively, the detonator might be wired in to the car ign
ition or brake lights. Whatever it turned out to be, he warned me, my little car was going to end up wrecked.

  As Rupert checked under the car and in the wheel arches I could tell that the heavy suit was restricting his movements and view. Everything he did, every step he took, was slow and deliberate. The gentle breeze that had followed sunrise had now dropped. That would make the suit even warmer.

  I caught sight of Rupert’s reflection in the driver’s window of the car. It reminded me of many similar situations I had watched in a previous life. Then and now, I found myself wondering whether the bomb-disposal men asked themselves whether they were experiencing their last moments on earth. I never dared ask, it wasn’t a fair question.

  As he moved further away from the car, I heard Rupert’s voice on his driver’s walkie-talkie saying that he was going to use the shotgun. That wasn’t going to do the Citroen much good, I smiled. Mounted on a plate with barrel and stock sawn off, the gun would blow out the door and bonnet locks with the operator hidden at a safe distance. Rupert set the plate up to do the bonnet first. It seemed to take an age. With the gun finally lined up, he retired with the wire trigger to behind the cottage.

  A moment later, the cartridge discharged.

  A cat yowled. A furry ginger flash ran along the driveway, along the lane and past where I was standing. The shotgun sound had given it a rude awakening. I turned to watch it disappearing into the dry undergrowth nearby.

  The bonnet of the car was now up. It occurred to me that the cat may have been the cause of the marks that I had seen on the sill beneath the driver’s door of the car. If I was wrong, and no bomb was present, I could expect some ribbing from Rupert.

  He turned and walked back along the drive.

  I was talking to the bomb-squad driver as Rupert approached.

  As he pulled of his helmet and reached inside the car for a towel, I could see that he was soaked with sweat.

  ‘What’s the verdict, Rupert?’ I’d expected the worst when I heard the shotgun blast.

  ‘Bet you thought it was a false alarm,’ he said.

  ‘You mean when the cat ran out?’

  ‘Yes. It was hiding underneath the car. Is it yours?’

  ‘No, cats make me sneeze. So, what did you find?’

  ‘There’s a small cigar-box-type time-and-power unit held by magnets to the bulkhead. Below it, about half a kilo of Semtex wrapped in cellophane, with the detonator primed and ready to go. It’s wired to the starter motor. As soon as anyone turned the ignition key it would have detonated … and with that quantity of plastic, whoever planted it aimed to make a real mess.’

  ‘More than enough for me, then?’

  ‘More than enough to take out the nearest walls of the cottage, I’d wager.’

  Rupert was blunt and to the point. I felt sick. That mess was supposed to have been me. Now I’d been lucky twice.

  After drying his sweat-drenched hair, Rupert leaned back into the Range Rover. He pulled out a flask from which he poured two cups of tea.

  ‘You don’t change, Rupert.’ I smiled. I took the cup he offered. ‘This confirms one thing.’

  ‘What’s that then?’ he asked, draining the hot liquid in one gulp.

  ‘The Stoke Newington bomb. It was definitely meant for me.’

  ‘You mean you didn’t already know that? This is me you’re talking to, Finlay. Don’t take me for a complete fool. Walk up the lane a ways with me. I want to ask you something.’

  Rupert placed a disruptor under his arm. Although similar in appearance to the shotgun that I had seen him just use, the disruptor fired a highly compressed charge of water into the electrics of the bomb. Triggered from a wire remote control, its job was to separate the component parts of the bomb before an electrical current could pass from the battery to the detonator. If placed correctly it wouldn’t matter whether it was aimed at the switch or at the power source. The rapidly expanding water moved faster than an electric current and, literally, blew the bomb apart before it could explode.

  We walked side by side. About a hundred yards inside the cordon, Rupert stopped and turned to face me. ‘Lean close and adjust my helmet, Finlay.’

  I took the hint. Moving close in, I made out I was tightening the restraining straps.

  ‘We won’t be heard now,’ Reid whispered, his voice masked even further by the helmet.

  ‘What did you want to ask me?’ I leaned close as he whispered.

  ‘Ask you – nothing. Tell you: Last night, two of your chaps tried something on the terrorist hideout and bumped right into SO19.’

  I played dumb. ‘My chaps, what do you mean “my chaps”?’

  ‘SAS, Special Forces, call ’em what you will. SO13 think some of your old boys were doing a job for MI5.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Your blokes escaped. SO13 got the prisoner. A PC got shot.’

  ‘Killed?’

  ‘No, only bruised, body armour saved him.’

  As Rupert looked me in the eye I would have sworn that he saw the sense of relief I felt.

  ‘Finlay…’ Rupert paused. ‘I’m going to guess that you may know something about last night. Get a message to them before the anti-terrorist boys pull you in. And pull you in they surely will.’

  ‘Steady Rupert, I’m long since retired…’

  He cut me off mid-sentence. ‘Don’t fuck me about, boy.’ Rupert’s patience was short, his whisper hissed from behind the visor. ‘I know how you lads work, you’ll know who to speak to, just listen.’

  I listened.

  ‘This here bomb under your car isn’t IRA work. Nor was the one in Stoke Newington, nor any of the others. These guys are mercenaries. Special Branch have worked out that this is all connected to Castlederg. The Home Secretary has now handed that enquiry over to MI5. MI5 think that someone is targeting you and the other lads but they don’t know who or why. There may even be more that we don’t yet know about. The thing is, your files should never have left MI5. Someone in MI5 sent those documents to Castlederg and now MI5 are running the enquiry.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘OK, Rupert. I’m not going to lie. News has reached me about the files and I had worked out that the files weren’t meant to be in Ireland. I just have no idea why they might have been sent there.’

  ‘So, if you want to find out who is behind this, find out who sent them over there.’

  ‘I’ll make some calls. Should I mention it to Grahamslaw?’

  ‘He already knows. He’s sent his best man over to Ireland to look into it … and you need to be careful who you trust.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘MI5 will be far more interested in finding out the “who” and the “why” than worrying about a few old soldiers getting killed. Likely as not they will use you like tethered goats to try and flush out the bad guys.’

  ‘Remember Monaghan?’

  ‘Your old CO? Could hardly forget him.’

  ‘He’s MI5 now. He came to warn me that this might happen. I’m ashamed to say I didn’t take him seriously. He told me that he’s now running the ROSE office.’

  ‘You sure?’ Rupert looked puzzled. ‘I thought he’d long since retired.’

  ‘Definite. He’s working on finding out about the files as well.’

  ‘Well, they’ve probably brought him in on account of his relevant knowledge. Are you under the ROSE umbrella, Finlay?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So, what were you involved in, I wonder? ROSE doesn’t look after every former blade does it?’

  I just smiled.

  Rupert didn’t bother to pursue the question. He knew I wouldn’t elaborate. But he did know that ROSE only looked after soldiers that had been involved in covert operations, the kind that the secret services liked to keep to themselves. It wasn’t uncommon for SAS soldiers to be involved in such ops and many of them went on to work for MI6 and MI5 full time. I wasn’t one of them.

  Putting his curiosity aside, Rupert continued up the lane
alone. I made my way back to the Range Rover.

  Just as I reached the cordon tape, there was a flash of light all around me.

  Before I had a chance to register the danger, the pressure wave hit me, pushing me hard on the back and shoulders, and knocking me to the ground, face first. The air was sucked from my lungs and the dust forced its way up my nose and into my ears and eyes. Next, came the sound, like tons of scaffolding poles crashing down around me. As awful as it was, hearing the sound of the explosion was a relief, it meant I was alive.

  I lay still for a moment, waiting for the pain to start. There was none. My chest heaved and I started to cough violently as my throat reacted to the dust. I felt my arms, then my legs. All seemed intact.

  My next thoughts were for Rupert. I staggered to my feet and ran as best I could to the cottage.

  When we parted, Rupert had been a similar distance from the Citroen as I had been from the Range Rover. With the armour, he was much slower moving, which meant he might not have reached the car. I prayed that it wasn’t something he’d done that triggered the bomb to go off.

  A great cloud of dust and smoke surrounded the cottage. It obscured my vision and choked my lungs. It was only as I reached the driveway that I saw Rupert’s crumpled figure heaped on the grass verge about thirty yards from where the car had been parked. He lay on his left side with his legs crossed, as though sleeping.

  There was nothing recognisable left of the Citroen. The smell of burning plastic filled the air. A tree was alight and flames sprouted up in random patches across the dry grass. Figures were running toward me from the distant trees. Debris lay everywhere.

  I crouched over the recumbent figure of my old friend. He was still. There was no obvious sign of injury, the front of his suit was scorched and torn but his limbs appeared intact. Blood oozed in a steady trickle from his nose.

  The big man groaned. He winced as he tried to speak.