by Shaun Clarke
‘Angus,’ Diane said, cutting Marty short, ‘why don’t you have a talk with that nice friend of yours on your right? The one you were talking to when I came in. He’s been dying of loneliness since you cruelly turned your back on him.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Angus looked affronted. ‘Suddenly I’m superfluous to requirements. I do beg your pardon, dears.’
When Angus huffily turned away to engage his neglected friend in conversation, Marty slipped in in front of Diane, carefully positioning his back to Angus, whom he didn’t much care for. Another poseur, he thought, then leaned close to Diane and whispered, ‘Thanks.’
She grinned, lit a cigarette and puffed a cloud of smoke. ‘I don’t think this is the place to announce that you’re a soldier,’ she said. ‘That’s not a breed they would understand.’
‘It’s not a breed Iunderstand,’ Marty said, ‘so I think you were wise.’
‘I’m the rock in your stormy sea.’
Marty smiled. ‘Your own seas are too stormy for me, Diane. Have you been here long?’
‘Don’t even think to lecture me, Marty. I knew this morning, when you phoned to say you were coming, that I couldn’t sit at home and wait for you. It was a dogday morning, believe me. I just had to get out.’
‘You could have gone for a walk in Hyde Park.’
‘I can’t stand fucking parks. Anyway, that’s why I told you to meet me here. My own place gets me down these days.’
‘I’ve noticed.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘You’re working a lot less than you used to and you drink a lot more. You drink enough to make anyone depressed and I think it’s your problem.’
‘Wise man.’ Her sarcasm was crystal clear. ‘I’m working less these days because I’m not getting the work and you and I know the reason why. Ever since I started accusing the British government of dirty tricks in Northern Ireland I’ve had nothing but problems. Now my editors are growing wary of me; they don’t want the hassle.’
‘You think they’re being harassed?’
‘If you mean are they being put under pressure from above– then, yes, I’d say that’s the case. Every story I write has to be vetted by the Ministry of Defence and those bastards aren’t letting too much through. Then, when I do manage to slip in a few home truths, someone somewhere writes a letter of complaint and I’m back in the shit. But you think I’m imagining this, don’t you?’
‘No, I don’t,’ he said. Indeed, he was painfully aware of the fact that the restrictions placed upon press reporting had increased dramatically in recent years and seemed to be increasing all the time. Even Paddy, who had close ties with Fleet Street, had told him that many of his journalist friends had been complaining about the difficulties they were having in doing their job. A Watergate scandal could not happen in Great Britain because British journalists did not have the freedom of the Washington Post. The Official Secrets Act was a mighty weapon, being used, or abused, with more abandon every year. And Margaret Thatcher, as Marty saw it, was not about to be more liberal than her predecessors. Nevertheless, the extent to which Diane was being harassed was still problematical. With her, you could never tell where reality ended and fantasy began. All Marty knew for sure is that she was growing paranoid and drinking more heavily. He was deeply disturbed by it. On the other hand, he shared many of her concerns and was inclined to believe most of what she told him. This brought him no comfort.
‘So how are things between you and Paddy?’ she asked him while indicating to the barman that she wanted the glasses topped up.
‘Fine,’ Marty replied. ‘Why shouldn’t they be?’
‘I’m not implying anything, Marty. I just thought that being involved in that organization that’s finding work for your old mates might lead to complications in your formerly perfect friendship.’
‘Why should it?’
‘You’re questioning everything I say.’
‘Well, why should it?’ In fact, having followed his lunchtime beers with the whiskies on the train and now having more, he was feeling the effects and they weren’t good. It was ironic that he should worry about Diane’s drinking when he himself was drinking more these days – not nearly as much as she was, but probably still too much – and he had noticed that increasingly the drink was making him more tired than drunk, which in turn made him easily irritated. Realizing that her remark had made him just that, he silently vowed to be careful.
‘I’m not saying it should,’ Diane replied, sounding weary. ‘I’m just asking if working through Paddy’s company has led to any complications.’
‘No. None. I don’t know why it should.’
‘Well, I know from what you’ve told me – in your cups, of course, darling – that you and Paddy have disagreed about certain small matters, such as exactly what your Association should and should not be doing.’
‘Routine disagreements,’ he corrected her, though he felt uneasy that the subject had been raised. ‘We have what in the SAS are known as “Chinese parliaments”, in which everyone can say what they think. Naturally there are bound to be disagreements, but they’re always ironed out.’
‘You never used to have disagreements at all,’ Diane insisted. ‘Certainly not with your hero and mentor, Paddy Kearney. You used to hang on his every word. The disagreements only started when you became involved with his Vigilance International. I know that. You’ve told me so.’
Pouting like an aggressive schoolgirl, she reached out for the fresh drink that had just been placed on the counter by the barman. After having a good slug of it, she banged the glass back down on the counter and inhaled on her cigarette. When she exhaled the smoke, she didn’t bother turning her head aside, deliberately letting it blow over him. He pretended not to notice, though he felt angry.
‘It’s a democratic organization,’ he insisted, ‘so we agree to disagree. I think that’s normal and healthy. But I don’t want to discuss this anymore. Can’t we change the subject? You know that Paddy’s coming here to join us for a drink, so please let’s have no bloody nonsense.’
‘Pardon me!’ Diane exclaimed, then she smiled and reached out to stroke his cheek. ‘Sorry, sweetheart. I’m just playing my wicked games. Blame it all on the drink.’
‘I do,’ Marty said, though she had touched a raw nerve, since what she had said was essentially true. He and Paddy had had disagreements over the extent to which the Association should be used and they were the first disagreements they’d ever had. It hurt Marty to accept that this was true, but he couldn’t deny it. He sighed. ‘What the hell!’
Diane picked up her glass and drank most of the whisky, then put the glass down again, inhaling and exhaling more smoke, squinting through it to see him. ‘Talk of the devil,’ she said, sounding perfectly pleasant now. ‘Paddy’s just walked in.’ She waved and cried out, ‘Over here!’
Paddy pushed his way through the crowd blocking his way to the bar. Reaching them, he kissed Diane on the cheek and affectionately squeezed Marty’s shoulder. ‘So how goes it, my loves?’
‘Fine,’ Marty replied, pleased as always to see him. ‘What would you like?’
‘Is that whisky you’re drinking?’
‘Yes.’
‘Fine.’
Marty ordered three more whiskies while Paddy, looking distinguished in his customary pinstripe suit with shirt and old-school tie, glanced curiously around the crowded bar. ‘I always imagine I’ll see some old school chums here,’ he said, ‘but most of them never make it up from Fleet Street, which is their little ghetto. Have you two been here long?’
‘Not long enough,’ Diane said.
Paddy grinned. ‘You look flushed and red-eyed,’ he said, ‘so I assume you’ve been here quite a while. A lively spot, I’ll confess. I’ve been here a few times before, but not for some time now. They’re mostly writers and media types here, I gather; not your hardbitten journalists. Present company excluded, of course.’
He bowed his head in Diane’s directio
n and she smiled and said, ‘A lot of journalists come here as well, so if you stay long enough, Paddy, you’re likely to see someone you know.’
‘I hope not,’ Paddy said. When their drinks came, he had a sip of his whisky, then said, ‘Christ, did you hear the news about Lord Mountbatten? Bloody dreadful, yes?’
‘Yes,’ Marty said.
‘Unforgivable,’ Paddy said with feeling. ‘Those bastards are beyond the pale in my book. Even for them, that was too much.’
‘That’s what the lads were saying in the Sports and Social,’ Marty told him, feeling slightly drunk and relieved to be letting it out. ‘I had a few beers with them and they were all spitting mad. They were talking about using some of our lads to take action where the authorities can’t or won’t. They were talking about neutralizing some of the swine responsible– and I think they half meant it.’
Paddy frowned in consternation. ‘What do you mean, some of ourlads?’
‘The ones working for Vigilance International,’ Marty told him, not wanting to mention the Association in front of Diane.
‘To neutralizesome of those responsible?’
Marty nodded. ‘Yep.’
‘You mean the IRA?’
Marty shook his head from side to side. ‘Nope. On the assumption that they probably couldn’t get at the terrorists without official sanction and help, they thought it might be better to start with the arms dealers, who have a much higher public profile. So, you know, they’d be easier to find. That’s what the lads were talking about doing.’
‘And when they find the arms dealers?’ Paddy asked, still frowning.
Marty shrugged. ‘Put out their lights.’
Paddy glanced at Diane. She just smiled and raised her hands in the air, as if offering a prayer.
‘I take it this was a drunken conversation,’ Paddy said.
‘Not that drunk, Paddy. We just had a couple of pints.’
‘I trust you quenched their enthusiasm,’ Paddy said, sounding serious.
‘I did,’ Marty said. ‘But I have to confess that the more I thought about it on the train, the more I was convinced it’s a sound idea. I mean, what the hell? Someone has to do something about it and who better than our men? A few covert strikes here and there and the world would be a better place.’
‘I take it that you’re drunk,’ Paddy said, ‘and just making a poor joke.’
‘Not necessarily. I may be a little drunk, but I know what I feel. And after what those bastards did this morning, I wouldn’t mind taking out the other bastards who supplied them with weapons.’
‘Damned right,’ Diane said, exhaling another cloud of smoke. ‘The worst bastards of all are the arms dealers who trade with all sides. The government condemns the terrorists even while fêting the men who sell them weapons. So if you put a stop to that filthy trade, you’ll put a stop to the terrorists.’
‘Right,’ Marty said, feeling exultant and nervous at once, aware that his friend, Paddy, was glaring at him.
‘I hold no truck with the arms dealers,’ Paddy said, clearly trying to contain his anger, ‘but the very suggestion that our men should covertly do something about them is not one I’ll agree with. And that you, Marty, drunk or sober, should say you approve of the idea absolutely disgusts me. Let’s hear no more of it.’
‘It was just a thought,’ Marty said, resenting the way Paddy was talking to him.
‘You’ve had thoughts like that before, Marty, and I don’t care to know about them. They’re unhealthy and possibly based on paranoia, so please let’s drop the subject.’
‘Everyone’s dropping subjects today,’ Diane said in a droll manner, then raised her glass to her lips and had another sip of her whisky.
‘I’m leaving,’ Paddy said. ‘I’ve had enough of this. It isn’t even a joke.’
‘It was just a thought,’ Marty repeated.
‘You think too much, Marty. Particularly when you’ve been drinking. I trust that when next we meet you’ll be more sober in thought and deed. I’ll call you next week.’ He nodded at Diane, not smiling, then he turned away and walked out.
Marty watched him leave, pushing his way through the packed drinkers, disappearing through the doorway as if dissolving in the clouds of smoke that hung above the bobbing heads in the crowded pub. When he had gone, Marty turned back to Diane and said, ‘Well, you were right. We disagree a lot more these days.’
‘He was really angry this time.’
‘Yes, I guess so.’
At that moment, the silvery-haired Angus lurched away from the bar, leaving his whisky-stained copy of the Evening Standard lying on the counter. Staring down at the headline on the front page, Marty was shocked for the second time that day. Picking up the paper to read the lead story, he learned that the British Army had just had its worst day in living memory at the hands of the IRA. Following the bombing of Lord Mountbatten’s boat, an IRA bomb containing more than half a ton of explosives hidden in a hay cart had exploded at Warrenpoint in County Down as an army convoy drove past, killing fifteen soldiers and seriously injuring eight others. A helicopter trying to casevac the wounded was damaged in another explosion and a gun battle had ensued between troops and IRA men across a nearby loch. The death toll was the worst suffered by the army in a single incident.
‘Jesus Christ!’ Marty exclaimed, disgustedly throwing the newspaper down in front of Diane. ‘I don’t give a damn what Paddy says. We should take those bastards out. And if we can’t get at them personally, we should go for the bastards who sell them arms. Damned right, we should!’
‘Think about it when you’re sober,’ Diane said.
‘I will,’ Marty said.
Chapter Twelve
Marty had spent most of the past few years dividing his time between theoretical planning with the green slime of the Kremlin – the intelligence section of Regimental HQ – and leading his SAS troopers in CRW exercises that often took place in the CQB House, or ‘Killing House’, of the Counter Revolutionary Warfare Wing in Bradbury Lines in Hereford. There, wearing their allblack CRW overalls and respirator masks, the men had to make their way through the six ‘killing rooms’ of the mock-up house, firing double taps from the Browning High Power handgun and short bursts from their Ingram submachine guns, at various popup ‘figure eleven’ targets. They were also armed with real Brocks Pyrotechnics stun grenades and had to use these, even more dangerously, in certain unexpected situations recreated in one of the six rooms.
The CQB house was dubbed the ‘killing house’ for two good reasons. First, its purpose was to train men to kill at close quarters. Second, real ammunition was always used and at least one SAS trooper had been killed accidentally while training with it. Prior to exercises in the killing house, the men were trained to enter captured buildings by a variety of means, including abseiling with ropes from the roof, sometimes firing their handguns as they clung to the rope with their free hand. The killing house training was, however, essentially to prepare them for what they would meet in a hostage-rescue operation and make them skilled in distinguishing between terrorist and hostage. This was done with the aid of pictures on the walls and dummies – the figure-eleven targets– that were moved from place to place or popped out suddenly from behind artificial walls or up from the lower frame of windows.
As an indication of the changing times, the figureeleven targets had once been made to look like Soviet troops; now they were dummy men wearing anoraks and balaclava helmets.
While hitting the terrorists quickly and accurately was one of the main points of the exercises, the more important one was teaching the men how to avoid hitting a hostage when they had only mere seconds to distinguish between the two. They also had to be careful to avoid the worst possibility of all: an ‘own goal’, or shooting one of their own comrades by accident.
Training in the killing house was claustrophobic and nerve-racking, with a high fallout rate for those who applied. Those who managed to survive the course went on to spend many mont
hs overseas, learning an even wider variety of hostage-rescue skills from West Germany’s GSG-9 border police and France’s Groupment d’Intervention de la Gendarmerie Nationale (GIGN) paramilitary units, the Bizondere Bystand Eenheid (BBE) counter-terrorist arm of the Royal Netherlands Marine Corps, Italy’s Nucleo Operativo Centrale di Sicurezza(NOCS), Spain’s Grupo Especial de Operaciones (GEO), and the US 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment, created specially for CRW operations.
The overseas training placed a special emphasis on physical stamina, endurance and marksmanship, including practice at indoor firing with live ammunition in other kinds of ‘killing houses’ such as mock-up aircraft, ships and public streets; abseiling and parachuting onto rooftops, parked aircraft and boats; hostage rescue in a variety of circumstances (with cross-over training in mountaineering, skiing and scuba diving); and the handling of CS gas canisters and stun (flash-bang) fire-and-smoke grenades. By the end of all this, if they managed to survive it, they were as well trained as any soldiers could possibly be for counterterrorist (CT) work.
Marty was well pleased with the work he was doing in the CRW Wing, though dissatisfied by the lack of opportunities he’d had to put it into practice. Even the Spaghetti House restaurant siege of 1975 and the Balcombe Street siege, two months later, which the SAS could have handled superbly, had been dealt with by the Metropolitan Police.
He was therefore both shocked and excited when, on the afternoon of 30 April 1980, he received an urgent phone call from his CO, Lieutenant-Colonel William Osborne, informing him that earlier that morning a group of six armed terrorists, members of the Revolutionary Movement for the Liberation of Arabistan, had taken over the Iranian Embassy at 16 Princes Gate in London and were holding captive nineteen Iranian nationals and four British citizens.
‘We might be called in for this,’ Osborne told Marty, ‘so I think you’d better get over here.’
During the subsequent briefing, which took place in a room filled with members of the green slime and regimental NCOs, Marty learned that the six terrorists holding the embassy had already been identified and were known to have been trained in Iraq, to have entered the country with Iraqi passports, and to have been supplied with weapons brought in by diplomatic bag from Baghdad. Those weapons included two Skorpion W263 Polish submachine guns, three Browning self-loading pistols, one .38 Astra revolver, five Russian RGD5 hand grenades and, as far as could be ascertained, lots of ammunition.
