by Matt Johnson
We’d done our best to plan for the ‘what ifs’. If things went wrong, it was important that we both knew what to do. If we were compromised at the hotel, we ran. If we were ambushed on the road, we went to ground, kitted up and separated. If we were compromised at the farmhouse, we might have to shoot our way out or surrender. That last scenario scared me the most.
As we left the train station, the words of General Norman Schwarzkopf seemed to echo in my ears. Words he spoke before the land offensive against Iraq in 1991. They filled me with foreboding.
‘No plan ever survives contact with the enemy.’
Words that often proved to be right.
Chapter 71
‘What do you mean you lost them?’ Grahamslaw stood up angrily. His face felt hot. The veins in his temple throbbed, painfully.
Mick Parratt spoke quietly to the two Special Branch officers who now stood in front of the Commander’s desk. ‘You’d better tell us exactly what happened,’ he said.
The younger of the two men cleared his throat, clearly embarrassed by the failings of his team. ‘It was a classic move, sir. They caught a black cab. We tailed them into one of the big cab hire depots at Tottenham. They were in the back of the cab as it went in. About five minutes later seven or eight cabs came out together. They all appeared empty and we couldn’t follow all of them. The three we picked had no passengers, as we might have expected. The targets must have been in one of the others because we sent a black cab of our own into the hire garage a few minutes later. They’d gone.’
‘And have we any idea where they were heading?’
‘No.’
‘Great, just great,’ said Grahamslaw. ‘Still, if they’ve gone to such lengths to lose you they must have guessed you were there.’
‘I’d stake my life they didn’t see us. What they did was a classic anti-surveillance trick. They knew that we wouldn’t be able to follow all those cabs. They took a good chance and it worked.’
‘Clearly,’ said Parratt. The annoyance and sarcasm in his voice was evident.
With a wave of his hand, Grahamslaw dismissed the two Branch men. He sat down heavily. ‘What do we do now, Mick?’
‘Worry about your blood pressure?’
‘Be serious.’
‘I am. You’ve always had a bit of a temper, but lately … well, let’s just say that people are noticing.’
‘Noticing? Noticing what?’
‘You. Everyone here respects you, Bill, but it’s hard not to notice the number of times you seem to be losing it lately.’
Grahamslaw found himself lost for words for a moment. He stared at his old friend with his mouth open. ‘I’ve had things on my mind,’ he said at last, shaking his head.
‘Anything you want to share?’ Parratt asked.
‘Not really.’
‘How’s things with Emma?’
‘Christ, Mick. Are you bloody psychic or something?’
‘Something happened?’
‘Yes … if you must know, she wants to end it. She’s decided to settle down with hubbie and have kids. There’s no longer a place for me in her life.’
‘That a quote?’
‘Just about. She rang me a few days ago and now she’s not answering my calls. I knew it was on the cards but maybe not quite so soon. I miss her already.’
‘Your wife’s still none the wiser?’
‘That’s right … and Emma’s old man doesn’t know about it, either. At least that risk is gone now.’
‘True … look, it’s none of my business but, trust me, it’ll soon pass and it was never going to last. Emma’s still young, she’s going to want different things out of life than old bastards like us.’
Grahamslaw smiled grimly. ‘I know. You’re right.’
He swung his chair around so that Parratt couldn’t see his face, and stared out of the window for a moment. From where he sat all he could see was sky, the vast, cotton-wool cumulus clouds looking like they would be perfect to sink into for a long, untroubled sleep.
He sighed and closed his eyes, then turned his chair back with a business-like spin and laid his hands flat on the desk. ‘OK … let’s get back to what we were talking about. Tell me some good news.’
‘Well, this is their first serious attempt to lose the surveillance. So, either they were tipped off or something is on for today. I think it’s the latter. If it goes wrong, we’ll hear about it and if it goes right then they may well turn up at the Essex farmhouse.’
Grahamslaw cupped his chin in his hands as he thought. ‘The farmhouse is covered?’
‘Yes … as are the approach roads.’
‘Right, so the options are simple. One, let them get into the farm house and take them there; or two, take them on the approach road.’
‘That’s about the sum of it.’
‘But if they’re not tooled up and they don’t have this Arab with them, we’re snookered.’
‘If they’ve got the Arab they will certainly be carrying,’ said Parratt.
‘So, what you’re saying is, wait until we see the Arab and then take them?’
‘I think so, yes. We will have to watch the doors of the farmhouse, see them go in and then talk them out. They’ve both got too much to lose to risk not complying.’
‘You assume that there are still only two of them involved in this? What if there’s a whole army of them? I don’t want to start a war with the SAS.’
‘There is nothing to suggest that’ll happen. Apart from the older man at Regent’s Park yesterday, we’ve only ever seen two.’
‘But we only found out about Jones yesterday, there might be more of them.’
Grahamslaw was beginning to get a bad feeling about the whole operation. He raised his hand as Parratt went to speak. ‘Sorry Mick, I think it’s more than time to go upstairs on this one. Call the Cabinet Office liaison at the Home Office. I don’t want an international incident falling in on my lap, and I don’t want a blue on blue with MI5 or the SAS.’
‘You want a COBRA meeting called?’
‘Yes, I do.’
Grahamslaw knew the game they were now in was for higher stakes than the capture of an outstanding IRA bomber. Kidnap and murder of Arab nationals spelled major repercussions. If the Arab turned out to be a diplomat, it would be much worse. He had no choice but to pass this one up the line.
COBRA, Cabinet Office Briefing Room ‘A’, was where the Prime Minister would meet with the Home Secretary, Defence Secretary and Heads from the Secret Services, along with several other senior politicians and police officers. Called out at times of major terrorist incidents the group had met after both the Selfridges attack and the shooting of PC Skinner outside his home. If Grahamslaw wanted to discover whether Finlay and Jones were part of a much larger and secret operation, he would have to ask the meeting to put pressure on the Security Services.
At seven o’clock that evening Grahamslaw was ushered through the door at 70 Whitehall, the Cabinet Office.
After surrendering his mobile telephone, a smartly suited civil servant showed him through a series of heavy oak doors and down a flight of carpeted stairs to the guest reception area. Grahamslaw headed towards the police room. Along with other similar offices used by the Armed Services and Security Services, the room housed support staff who were linked electronically to their representatives in the main briefing room.
Grahamslaw wasn’t a member of COBRA; that was the preserve of police officers at the rank of Assistant Commissioner and above. As such, he knew he would have to wait until summoned to speak. He was usually at the end of a telephone, or on a computer that provided a closed-link email where he could help feed the political appetite for information. As an operational investigator, he sometimes found this frustrating: having to meet the ever-growing political need to know what was going on. Even more irritating was the fact that the traffic seemed to be one way: the information and decisions that he needed were often slow to materialise and, when they did, they were more about pu
tting the decision-maker in a good light than furthering the progress of a police enquiry.
He was just opening the door to the police room when his pager bleeped.
‘Contact office urgent.’
Unexpectedly, the room was deserted.
He sat at an empty desk and picked up the telephone. The call was answered quickly. It was good news. A Special Branch surveillance officer had seen Finlay in the foyer of the St Pancras hotel. Surveillance and specialist firearms teams were on their way to intercept them. Grahamslaw jotted down the name of the Special Branch Detective. He fully intended to see that the man was commended. As he finished writing ‘Stuart Anderson’ on a post-it note, the door behind him closed heavily.
Grahamslaw glanced towards the sound. Two men stood between him and the door.
One he recognised: it was the Home Secretary.
Chapter 72
The foyer of the St Pancras Hotel was busy with both residents and guests as I walked up to the booking desk. A heavily built American, dressed from head to toe in white tennis gear, was arguing with the booking-in clerk.
I stood back while the young girl made arrangements for the man’s luggage to be collected from a taxi outside. As he gruffly departed, she greeted me with a smile. Truly a professional, she showed not a hint of annoyance.
‘I understand that you have a Mr Yildrim staying with you?’ I returned the smile in the hope that good manners might get me the help I needed.
‘We have sir, would you like me to telephone him? Is Mr Yildrim expecting you?’
‘No. I wonder if you could tell him that Mr James from SIS is here to see him.’
‘One moment, sir.’
The clerk telephoned the Arab’s room. It was answered, much to my relief. After a brief conversation the clerk came back to me.
‘Mr Yildrim says that he doesn’t know you, sir.’
I’d anticipated such a response and had an idea that I hoped would appeal to the Arab’s curiosity. ‘Could you tell him it’s about the white doves?’
The booking clerk did as I asked and after a moment she replaced the telephone. ‘Mr Yildrim says he will speak to you, sir. You can use the telephone on the other side of the foyer.’
She pointed to a small booth. It was discreet and private. I had hoped that Yildrim would come straight down but this was going to have to do. ‘No plan survives,’ I thought.
I thanked the girl and then made my way slowly to the revolving-door exit. Kevin sat at the wheel of a taxi in the rank opposite, the engine running. I looked left and right and went back inside the hotel. It was the signal we’d agreed. The Arab was at home and a meet was on.
After indicating to the clerk to put the call through to the booth, I picked up the telephone.
‘Mr Yildrim?’
‘Speaking.’
‘Stephen James, British Intelligence.’
‘I wondered when you intended making contact, Mr James.’ The accent was heavy and laboured, the speech slow. I remembered that it was a common trick to pretend lack of familiarity with a language when, in fact, you were fluent. You never knew when good understanding of an opponent’s language was going to be useful.
‘I … I’m very sorry sir, I … I’ve been asked to accompany you to see my seniors. I didn’t realise you were expecting me.’ I deliberately stammered. Until Yildrim was in the back of the taxi I wanted him to believe that he was dealing with a simple messenger.
The Arab was curt. The tone he adopted told me that he might be taking the bait. ‘Not really expecting you, Mr James, your people have been watching me. I know this. Today, I see no one. I am wondering why when I receive your call. Now I know why. What do your seniors want with me?’
I kept up the pretence. ‘I … I’m sorry sir, I was just asked to bring you to a meeting. I wasn’t told why. I was told to tell you that, while this is an invitation to a chat, your … your refusal to attend is not an option.’
‘And if I do refuse to accompany you Mr James, what then?’
‘I … I don’t know sir, I would guess there is some means to ensure that you do attend.’
‘Am I a prisoner?’
‘No, sir. I was instructed to tell you not to try and escape, though. There were rather a lot of men sent with me and they are all on the doors and outside. I will be outside your room in a few moments.’
‘It seems I have little choice.’
‘Sir, it was suggested that you may have a weapon. I have been asked to tell you to leave any firearms behind and that they will be taken care of for you.’
I was playing the simple errand boy part quite well and, if I’d played it right, then Yildrim was thinking I was a low-level, expendable operative. British Intelligence wouldn’t risk anyone of any value in case he should be killed. He should have worked out that if the intention was to kill him then that could have already have been done. He should also have realised there was no point in trying to escape. His passive compliance would be the key to just two of us gaining control of him.
I climbed the stairs to the third floor, followed the signs and then knocked at the door of Room 301.
There was a voice from inside. ‘You have a car?’
‘Outside. If you would follow me?’ I answered.
I didn’t have long to wait. Barely a minute passed before the Arab appeared. He was medium height, slim and wore a good-quality, cream, single-breasted suit. I studied the suit outline for any indication of a concealed weapon. There was none.
White Dove, alias Selahattin Yildrim, alias many other names, didn’t even look at me as we walked towards the lift. It was there that I would search him.
The first lift to arrive was occupied. I held the Yildrim’s arm to stop him from taking the ride. ‘We’ll catch the next one.’
For the first time, Yildrim turned to face me. His arrogant expression disappeared to be replaced by one of surprise. It lasted just a fraction of a second before he regained his composure. In that same second I noticed something else. His eyes were blue. In the photographs I’d seen, he’d had brown eyes.
The next lift was empty. Once inside, Yildrim faced the door as I searched him. I worked from behind. There was no weapon that I could find but I’d noticed something else. His hands were now shaking. Yildrim was seriously scared. I wondered if he had realised from how I searched that I knew what I was doing, if he was beginning to realise that I was more than a simple errand boy.
As we reached the foyer and approached the exit, I rested a hand on the Browning in my belt. I only checked it for reassurance but Yildrim saw the movement and once again I saw fear in his blue eyes. He had the look of a man about to run. As we went through the revolving door I made sure we shared a compartment.
The lead cab on the rank opposite pulled out and did a tight U-turn in front of us. Yildrim went to move forward but I checked him. Kevin then swung his cab out from the queue and pulled alongside the first cab. I held the Arab’s arm and gestured him towards our cab. As we passed the front of the first cab, the driver leapt out. He was a fat, balding man in his late fifties. His green taxi-driver’s badge swung on a cord over a sweaty, short-sleeved polo shirt. He looked angry.
‘Oi,’ he shouted at Kevin, as he approached our cab. ‘What the ’ell are you playin’ at pal? That’s my fare you’re nickin’.’
I steered Yildrim away from him and towards where Kevin was standing with our cab door open. But the angry cabby wasn’t finished. He stepped forward and grabbed hold of the door that Kevin was holding.
Next moment, there was a loud bang. I wasn’t sure if it was a shot or a car backfiring. In the same instant Yildrim jumped sideways over the bonnet of the first cab and back towards the hotel entrance. I dived after him. The cabby was still shouting at Kevin. Christ knows what he thought the bang was or if he’d even heard it.
Falling to the ground, I was just in time to see the Arab diving back through the door to the hotel. It was now too late to recapture him.
I yelled to Ke
vin. ‘Let’s go.’
Kevin jumped back into the driving seat and edged the cab forward a yard, to clear the back door for me to jump in. The angry cabbie seemed to have been stunned into silence. I winked at him through the glass as I slammed the door closed. Kevin gunned the engine and we raced off towards Euston Road.
‘The Arab?’ Kevin shouted back through the glass screen as he expertly negotiated the heavy London traffic.
I turned to check behind us. ‘Gone … into the hotel.’
‘Shit…’
Chapter 73
My initial belief that Kevin had sworn in response to us losing the Arab was very quickly put right. As I turned to look away from the hotel, I saw, ahead of our cab, figures in black uniforms jumping out of two white vans and a Range Rover. I didn’t need to see the firearms to know who they were.
Kevin hit the brakes. ‘I don’t fuckin’ believe this. It’s an ambush.’
It wasn’t a trap. Not quite. The way that the SO19 boys piled out of their vehicles, their haphazard positions, the shouting at the public to get down and get out of the way told me they’d been caught on the hop and weren’t ready for us. That gave us an edge.
‘Put your hood on and then drive through them,’ I shouted. ‘Not fast, just at normal speed. This is a crowded street. They won’t shoot. Once you’re clear, hit the gas.’
I hoped I was right. These guys had done the same courses I had attended when I was on Royalty Protection. I knew their instructions. They weren’t to shoot unless there was immediate danger to life. They also had to take into account what would happen if bullets passed through or missed their intended target. With crowds of frightened people darting everywhere, only someone reckless would risk a shot. Nobody had seen the guns in our cab so if we drove slowly around the unprepared policemen, there would be no immediate danger and they shouldn’t shoot. Standard procedure would be to deploy a dog to take out a pedestrian or a Stinger spike strip to take out the tyres of a car. There wasn’t time for either option.
