Stand By Stand By

by Chris Ryan

  Like a snake, I wriggled carefully up to the edge of the ride, and for fifteen minutes I lay there watching the car through binoculars. Nothing moved, and gradually I relaxed. Maybe I was being excessively cautious – but you never know.

  Emerging again, I shook the spruce needles out of my shirt collar and went on along the track. In a few minutes I came to the boundary fence – a two-metre -high barrier of squared wire – and looked cautiously out. Ahead was the slope of the open hill, falling from right to left: wide stretches of heather, patches of dead -looking grass, clumps of gorse. Unless there was somebody up on the hill itself, which seemed unlikely, I felt confident no one would see me, because the nearest farmland and houses were way down over the brow. In any case, I had done my best to dress up as a hiker or bird-watcher, in a dull-coloured windproof and thick grey Norwegian stockings pulled up to the knees over my jeans, like plus fours.

  Take it easy, though, I told myself. Don’t rush it. I gave myself a couple of minutes inside the fence, then climbed over and took another look round. Somehow I needed to mark my entry-point, for when I came back in the dark. To have tied a handkerchief to the fence would have been too obvious. Looking back into the wood, I saw a bare dead branch, stripped of its bark and nearly white. I climbed back in, threaded it into the mesh near the top of the wire at an angle, as if it had blown there, and climbed out again.

  On the move in the open, I worked my way round the contour. Only ten minutes later I stuck my head cautiously over a rise and found I could see down to the farm. A short belly-crawl brought me into a dry streambed, and that in turn led down to a clump of gorse just above the highest field. Having crept round the edge of the bushes, I cut away some of the lower branches and scraped the ground beneath them clear of prickles to make a comfortable nest. With minimum effort I’d fashioned myself a perfect OP.

  The farmhouse and its outbuildings were less than 200 metres below me. The house – to the right as I looked – was long and low, and ranged with its back to the hill, which rose in a mown grass bank immediately behind, so that the top of the bank was only a few feet from the gutter of the slate roof. House and bank were separated by a path no more than a yard wide. There were only two windows in the back of the house, and both were small – lavatories or bathrooms, I guessed. The left-hand end of the house jutted forward, away from the hill, like the foot of a blunt L, and there, in the middle of the end wall, in my full view, was the front door, with a little pitched roof over a porch.

  To me, the house was of secondary interest. Far more important was the high mesh fence which bounded the property and abutted the ends of the farm buildings, so that the entire establishment was enclosed by wire or stone; it took me a few moments to work out that the area surrounding the house was one huge dog-run. The drive came in through gates a couple of metres high on the side farthest from me. Any doubt about this being Farrell’s place was dispelled when a dog suddenly came into view, sniffing along the perimeter fence. The animal was a hefty-looking Rottweiler, no doubt the partner of the late and unlamented Buster.

  Scanning for details, I spotted a video camera on one corner of the house, covering the approach, and what looked like a security light high on the wall. At first I imagined that the light would be activated by infra-red sensors, but then I realized that if a dog was loose in the compound outside, the system would drive people crazy by popping on and off all night.

  There appeared to be nobody at home; certainly there was no car standing outside. Then, as I lay watching, I heard a cow bellow, and I realized that at least one of the barns was still in use for its original purpose. That was a surprise. From the high standard to which the outbuildings had been renovated, I’d assumed that farming had gone out of the window. Then I thought, Maybe keeping cattle is a form of cover, a pretence of normality designed to draw attention away from other activities.

  The afternoon passed slowly. At about 3.30 light rain began to fall, so I pulled on my waterproof. The temptation to doze off was strong, especially after our energetic sessions during the night. To stay awake, I kept trying to work out how I would drop Farrell if or when he came home. By far the easiest would be to get him with a G3 or a hunting rifle from up the hill, above the compound and outside it. But since I couldn’t sneak a G3 out of the warehouse (or lay my hands on a hunting rifle), I was going to have to go in close and use the Luger. Because the dog was constantly on the move around its patch, that was going to be difficult. I tried to measure the distance between the porch, where Farrell would probably get out of his car, and the nearest point of the top fence from which I’d have a clear view of him: twenty-five metres at least. I’d want to be closer than that to make sure.

  At least the Luger was in good shape. When I first got it, I saw that it was old but in immaculate order, as we generally found with PIRA weapons. Someone had really looked after it – but all the same I’d stripped it down, cleaned it thoroughly and given it a good oiling. One afternoon, when a gale was blowing and the noise of the wind was enough to cover the shots, I’d managed to take it out into an old gravel pit and put twenty or thirty rounds through it, so I knew it wouldn’t let me down.

  Just after four o’clock there came a surprise. Up the drive wandered an old crone, a real bog peasant, with a black scarf round her head, an ancient overcoat nearly down to her ankles, buttoned-up boots, and smoking a pipe. The dog ran to meet her, and as she let herself in through the gates it jumped up with its paws on her shoulders. She gave it a kiss and slipped it some tit-bit, after which it went with her as she headed into the farmyard. Through the binoculars I watched her take the pipe from her mouth and put it down on what looked like an old stand for milk-churns. Then she disappeared into one of the sheds and came out with a bucket. A steel gate clanged as she went into the open -fronted barn, presumably feeding the cattle in there. Later she brought an armful of hay across the yard and dumped that in the same area. All the time the dog was at her heels, clearly glad of her company. Then she picked up her pipe and vanished round the far side of the house, where I guessed she was feeding the dog. Finally she went back out through the gates. This time I saw that they opened automatically, presumably worked by pressure pads under the road.

  Darkness fell soon after the old girl had disappeared down the hill. I wanted to move in closer, but the wind was dangerous; I could feel what there was of it eddying past me from above – and after our experience at the transit hide, I didn’t want to blow things by stirring up the dog. So I stayed where I was and waited.

  My reward arrived just after six o’clock. Headlights came blazing up the hill and a car swept in towards the gates, which opened in front of it. I saw the Rotty rush out and leap around as the car cruised forward and pulled up outside the door. On went the security light, and out got three men. I saw straight away that the driver was Farrell, but I could make nothing of the other two. The car was a Mercedes estate, and before any of the men entered the house they opened the tailgate, took out some heavy-looking suitcases, two apiece, and staggered across to the nearest outbuilding. From the way they were buckling at the knees I could tell they had a fair weight on board. When they reached the outhouse Farrell produced a bunch of keys, with which he unlocked a door. Once the suitcases were stashed inside, the men went over to the house, and soon several lights were showing as they settled down inside.

  That was enough for day one of my campaign. I’d established that the farmhouse was Farrell’s, and that he was using it. All I had to do now was devise some means of getting in close. As I walked back up the hill in the dark, my mind was already working on it.

  At the forest gate I put on my gloves again to close the padlock, once again leaving it cocked at a particular angle, so when I returned I would see if anyone else had been through.

  In bed that night we were still lying entwined, with Tracy’s back towards me, when she said, ‘Geordie, what are you doing?’

  I was half asleep, and muttered, ‘What?’

  ‘Out the
re, with that gun.’

  ‘What gun?’

  ‘The pistol. I found it under that pile of clothes.’

  ‘Oh, that. I need it for self-protection. That’s all.’

  She went quiet for a minute, then said, ‘You’re going after someone, aren’t you?’

  I tried to keep myself relaxed. If I let myself tense up, she’d be bound to feel it. I was in a real spot. If I tried to bluff it out, she’d know I was lying – she had a tremendous sense for that. And if I did start telling lies, I’d undermine our relationship right at the beginning.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘It’ll be all right.’

  ‘It’s the person who killed Kath, isn’t it?’

  ‘Trace!’ Now I did tense and pull away from her. ‘How the hell did you know that?’

  ‘I guessed it. I’ve had the whole afternoon to think about it. I reckoned, Either he’s on leave, or he isn’t. He can’t be half-working. I know you lot don’t work alone. It’s always in pairs, isn’t it?’

  I nodded. My forehead was still against the back of her head, and, although she couldn’t see me she could feel the movement.

  ‘Well? You’re trying to kill him?’

  I nodded again.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He killed Kath. That’s why.’

  ‘I don’t suppose he meant to.’

  ‘He sent the bomber to kill somebody. He’s killed plenty of others, too. He’s a murdering bastard.’

  ‘An eye for an eye.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Why not just leave him?’

  ‘Trace, this is nothing to do with you.’

  ‘Of course it is!’ She suddenly turned over to face me and said angrily, ‘If we’re going together, I’m part of everything you do.’

  I wanted to tell her gently that she couldn’t be, that my profession made any such arrangement impossible. But I sidestepped, and said I’d reconsider things when we were fresh in the morning.

  ‘The trouble with you,’ she said, ‘is that you’re a loner. You know that, don’t you? You’re always wanting to do things on your own.’

  Next day, Tuesday, the weather gave me a breathing space. A westerly gale brought in tremendous rainstorms, which continued on and off until dark, and made it no sort of a day for lying out in the open. After lunch we went for a drive up the coast and walked along part of the Giant’s Causeway. Tim loved the amazing formations of rock, like chopped-off pillars, and jumped tirelessly from one to another until another storm drove us back into the car. I suspected Tracy thought she’d won the argument – although I hadn’t made any definite promise to lay off, I didn’t seem to be taking any further action.

  In fact my mind was working full-time on the problem of how to get in close on Ballyconvil farmhouse. Wire-cutters would see to the perimeter fence all right, and if I came along the back of the house, between the grass bank and the building, I could position myself at the corner, only two or three metres from where Farrell had got out of the Merc. But what about the ruddy dog? If I bought a pound of steak, or liver, and doctored it up, there was little doubt that the Rotty would wolf it down. But if I put the dog under before Farrell returned home, he would immediately notice something was wrong if the beast didn’t run out to greet him. Worse still, it might freak out in front of the house, where he’d be bound to see it. And what if he arrived back with a couple of other guys, as he had before? Would I have to take them out as well to make my getaway?

  When Wednesday dawned fine, I decided I would have to have another go. Tracy was upset, of course, and we had our first real row; but I limited the damage by promising that I was only going on another recce – which was true up to a point. I needed to check Farrell’s movements at least once more before committing myself.

  This time I started later, and didn’t reach the forestry gates until 1600. I took a careful look at the padlock, decided it hadn’t moved since my last visit, drove through and up to the same parking place. Once again I saw nobody on my way to the OP, and I was there in time to watch the old peasant-lady going about her evening business. The dog was loose as before; it followed her about, and from the pattern of their movements I reckoned she fed it at the same place, out of my sight. That could be a problem: after its meal, it would be less hungry.

  With the clear sky, the light was hanging on for a few extra minutes, and full dark didn’t come down until after five. By then the wind had turned to the north, straight in my face, and I reckoned it was safe to move down to a position only fifty metres above the wire. There I lay down behind a solitary gorse bush, studying the farmyard with the kite-sight. The dog must have laid up somewhere, because I couldn’t see it, and in the hour that followed I had nothing to do but think. In particular I thought about the amazing contrast between being cocooned in the light and warmth of the family one minute, and lying alone on a cold, black hill the next, trying to fight the forces of darkness singlehanded. Maybe Tracy was right? Maybe I was a loner?

  The Merc came up the drive at almost exactly the same time as before, just after six. Was this another delivery of weapons or whatever? Once again the dog raced out to meet the car and danced attendance as it moved up to the front door, but this time only two people got out: Farrell and a woman. Through my binoculars she looked young and smartly dressed, in a pale jacket and skirt and carrying a handbag that must have been made of patent leather, because it flashed in the security lights. This time I got a good sight of him, too. He’d put on weight since those photographs; I could see it about the jowls. There was his limp again, too – a small dip on the left foot – but still he moved quite sharply. I watched him unlock the door and hold it open for his companion. Then the house came to life as the interior lights went on one by one and the security lamps were doused.

  ‘You think you’re safe in there,’ I said quietly. I held in an imaginary pressel-switch and said, ‘Tango One, target complete in house. Permission to proceed. Over.’ Then I told myself to stop pissing about, and set off for the car.

  I was back at the cottage by eight o’clock. Tim was already asleep, and a good smell of supper filled the air. I sat down at the kitchen table, preparing to relax, but Tracy pulled me up sharp. ‘A man called to see you,’ she said.

  ‘Jesus! What sort of a man?’

  ‘I dunno. About your age. Quite scruffy.’

  ‘Irish?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘What did he want?’

  ‘He said, were you the man who’s mad after the fishing?’ She put on an Ulster accent, rather well.

  ‘Oh – right. It was that guy from the pub, then.’ I remembered I’d talked to a man in the Spanish Galleon about the possibility of going out in one of the local boats – but I hadn’t made any arrangement.

  ‘He was wearing earrings,’ Tracy said.

  ‘Not my fellow, then. Someone else.’

  ‘Don’t look so worried.’

  ‘Listen!’ I stood up. ‘We’ve got to get out of here.’

  ‘What – now?’

  ‘Yes, right away.’

  ‘Why? You keep telling me this is a safe area.’

  ‘Yes, but now the bastards have found me.’

  ‘Oh, Geordie – come on! Your imagination’s running away from you. The man was friendly enough. Relax. Sit down and have a drink.’

  I sat down again, and took a sip from the glass of red wine she’d poured for me. But I wasn’t feeling relaxed in the slightest.

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He asked how long we were staying.’

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘To the end of the week.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘He said he’d call back tomorrow.’

  ‘Hell!’

  The inquiry could have been genuine, but the conversation in the pub had been so casual it didn’t seem likely. Or was Tracy right? Was I becoming the victim of my own fantasies, seeing enemies everywhere?

  Once you’re in that stat
e of mind, getting out of it is very difficult, and I couldn’t shake it off. I did settle enough to decide we’d stay in the cottage that night, but first I took two of the wooden chairs from the kitchen and jammed one at an angle under the handle of the front door, the other at the back. I also dug the Luger out of my day-sack and kept it handy, wherever I was. Tracy thought I was overreacting, I know, but she saw how serious I was, and didn’t say much.

  After supper I said, ‘Look – I’ve got a plan. You don’t have to go along with it. It’s up to you.’

  ‘Go on, then.’

  ‘They’ve seen me here. They’ve seen you with me. Someone has. Therefore, the quicker we get you back to England, the better. In the morning we’ll pull out of here, back to Belfast, and I’ll put you on the plane.’

  She reached across the corner of the table and put her hand over mine. Her eyes were swimming.

  ‘I’m sorry, love.’ I said, ‘But that’s the safest.’

  Still she looked at me.

  ‘There’s something else,’ I went on. ‘I think you should take Tim with you. If you will.’

  That was too much. She burst into tears, head down on the table. I held on tightly to her hand.

  ‘Don’t cry. As I said, you don’t have to.’

  ‘No, no!’ she said fiercely, sitting bolt upright. ‘It isn’t that. It’s the opposite. I want to have Tim with me. But I want you too. I want all of us to be together, somewhere safe.’

  The night passed without incident, but in the morning I inspected the car with the utmost care, checking the wheels for any sign of a trigger device, and lying flat on my back in the road to wriggle underneath and scan for booby traps. When I found nothing, I wondered again whether I wasn’t creating a drama about nothing.