by Chris Ryan
We closed down the cottage and handed the key back to the neighbour, making up some excuse for leaving early. Then, from a call-box in the next village, I phoned my in-laws to warn them that we were on our way back. I didn’t try to explain that Tracy was going to take Tim to England with her – better to leave that one until we could talk it through in person. Over the phone, our decision might have sounded like an insult – as though we didn’t trust Meg to look after the boy properly.
As soon as we knew we’d got tickets on the afternoon plane, Tracy packed up Tim’s kit and stuck it out in the hall. Then we all had a cheerful lunch, with everybody in good spirits. Far from there being any tears, Tim was thrilled by the prospect of another flight, and of going back to Keeper’s Cottage. Looking at him, and thinking how like Kath he was becoming, I reckoned he had inherited something of her steady nature: as long as people were kind to him, he didn’t seem to mind who he was with. And of course Tracy had been wonderful with him from the start. It may have been wishful thinking, but I honestly felt that he was already seeing her as his mother.
With only three days of leave left, it was hardly worth my going to England. On my way to the airport I promised not to go chasing after personal enemies any more. From now on, I said, I’d just keep my head down.
It was two-thirty when we reached the terminal, for the three-fifteen flight. I helped them check in, and waved goodbye as they disappeared into the security area, with promises I’d phone that evening to make sure they were safe home.
As soon as they had gone, I hustled back to the short- term car-park. I’m afraid I’d told Tracy that I was going to turn the hire-car in and get one of the guys in the troop to come out and lift me back to camp. In fact I never went near the car-hire office. I drove the red Datsun out of the airport and headed straight for Ballyconvil.
NINE
I reached the forestry gate without incident. This was later than either of my previous visits, and by the time I’d parked the car in its usual spot dusk had thickened among the trees which didn’t worry me – if Farrell ran true to form, he wouldn’t be home for at least another hour and a half. On the way over I’d bought a big steak from a village supermarket and stopped in a lay-by to doctor it. I slit it open to form a sandwich and gave it a good filling of barbiturate powder.
I’d decided the best option was to wait for full darkness, then cut through the wire on the bank behind the house. Once into the compound, I’d lie up by the back corner of the building, within four or five yards of where the Merc should come to rest. If the wind direction made it possible, I’d leave the dog alone. If he detected my presence I’d have to throw him the meat. When I fired the shots to drop Farrell, the dog might come for me, but if necessary I could drop him too.
I just hoped that the boss didn’t come back with a whole troop of admirers. The snag about the Luger was that I only had a single magazine, holding eight rounds. Once I’d fired them, it would take maybe twenty seconds to reload. If Farrell had that bird with him it would be tough on her, but that was just too bad. With the shooting over, I’d be back through the fence and away.
If the dog came for me at that point, I could still try the meat – and if he ignored it I could whack him with a bullet.
All this was going through my head as I locked up the car and did a mental check: pistol, spare rounds, knife, torch, binoculars, wire-cutters, meat. With everything either about my person or in my day-sack, there was no reason to wait any longer. But at the last moment I realized I was shivering with excitement or anticipation, or both. I said to myself, ‘Chill out.’
Taking a deep breath, I set off along the forest track between the high, dark trees. The wind was light and in my face; as far as I could tell from this distance, that meant it should be blowing from the house to the hill. That was good.
I was nearly at the forestry fence before I sensed something wrong. Suddenly I got a strong feeling I wasn’t alone. I stopped. I hadn’t heard or seen anything, but a message had reached me somehow. I stood still, the blood pounding in my ears. Sniffing the air, I smelt nothing except the clean breath of the spruce. My normal senses produced no evidence of trouble, but my sixth sense was saying ‘Look out!’ loud and clear.
I took one step closer to the edge of the ride and again stood still, invisible in the blackness, waiting to see if anything moved. The wind stirred faintly through the tops of the spruce, but that was the only sound. What the hell was wrong? Normally I never get spooked. I regard the night as a friend, not as a foe or anything to be frightened of. But here something was definitely amiss.
I gave it a couple of minutes, struggling to get hold of myself. I could pull out, obviously – but that would be pitsville, an almighty waste. All day, all week, I’d been psyching myself up to get the job over and done with, and this was my best chance. I knew that if I quit now, I’d never forgive myself.
Gradually, as I stood there, I got the feeling that there was somebody ahead of me on the ride, between me and the forest boundary. Again I had no physical evidence, just the feeling. Then I thought that maybe it was a poacher. There were probably fallow deer in the wood, and some local could easily be after them. He might have seen my car come up, and be waiting for the coast to clear. Well, if we did have a clash, it needn’t be anything serious.
Time was passing. I couldn’t hang about much longer, or Farrell would be back and safely inside before I reached my firing position. Nor could I see much future in trying to work round to my objective some other way. I hadn’t checked out the other tracks inside the forest, and if I started trying to work them out now, I might easily finish up getting lost.
I gave a shudder, half involuntary, half deliberate, as if a good shake would throw off my doubts. Then I went forward.
Fifty yards farther on, I knew too late that my instinct had been right. All at once there was somebody on the track ahead – and not one person, but two. Two dark figures, blacker than the night. For a split second I still thought they might be poachers. Then, from the way they came at me, I knew they couldn’t be.
I turned back and started to run, only to see a torch flash on ahead of me. I’d been followed as well. Cut off. There was only one way to go: sideways, downhill, straight into the trees. I dived to my right, aiming to plunge under the lowest branches and slither or crawl down the smooth carpet of needles on the ground. But it didn’t work. Immediately a branch snagged on my day-sack. Another jabbed into my left temple, ripping my skin. Behind me I heard the bark of a big, heavy dog.
I found myself in a bit of a clearing. Two more dark figures loomed in front of me. I lowered my head, charged forward and nutted the left-hand one properly, dropping him in his tracks. The second took a dive at my legs and brought me down. I kneed him in the crotch and hit out with my left fist, struggling to get at the Luger with my right hand. Then a heavy animal came crashing through the trees and a second later jaws closed on my right ankle.
Suddenly there were men all round me, hammering at me with sticks. I tried to shield my head, but took some damaging blows about the neck. My shoulders and kidneys got a battering, and I couldn’t get up because of the dog. I started to feel sick. Then a torch blazed down into my face and a voice said, ‘OK, come on out of it!’ I tried to get up and run, but somebody else crashed into me from the side, knocking me back to the ground. Next second I was face-down in the pine needles with a knee in my back and another guy sitting on my head.
For a few horrible moments I was shitting myself. I thought I’d been grabbed by the PIRA. In the gleams of torchlight I saw that my attackers were dressed darkly and wearing ski-masks. Fucking hell, I thought, Farrell’s got wind of my movements. I really thought I was going down.
Then I realized that the voices I could hear were relatively cultured. Somebody dragged my arms back and snapped a pair of cuffs round my wrists. The guy who’d sat on my head stood up and said, ‘On your feet!’ The dog had let go of me, but it was still jumping around. Then someone tied a cor
d to my wrists, and two of them hustled me back through the stiff lower branches of the trees to the open ride.
By then a whole load of torches were bobbing about. There seemed to be guys everywhere. When I moved my feet a couple of inches, one of them snapped, ‘If you don’t want a big clog stuck on yer, stand still.’
The next thing was a body search, expertly carried out. Two men shone torches in my face while a third ran his hands over me. He soon found the Luger and my sheath-knife; of course my day-sack wouldn’t slip off with my hands locked together, so he had to undo its straps.
Then a different man came up in front of me – some sort of boss, I guessed – and said, ‘What the hell d’you think you’re doing up here?’
From the odd glint of metal about his shoulders I got the impression that this figure was in uniform. But, not knowing who he was, I reckoned it best to keep quiet. Then, behind him, I saw something white, and a second later two fellows dragged a big bag down over my head. At the top end was a hood with an elasticated drawstring, which settled tight round my face, leaving my vision clear. The bottom end was pulled in close round my knees, with my arms and hands inside. I felt humiliated to be trussed and bundled like that, but it gave me a clue about the identity of my captors. Those white bags are what the RUC use to cocoon prisoners, so that traces of explosives or gunpowder or blood or any other tell-tale substance aren’t rubbed or washed off on the way to the station. I’d been lifted not by the PIRA, but by some arm of the security forces, probably HMSU, the Headquarters Mobile Support Unit, the RUC’s equivalent of the SAS.
‘Look,’ I said to nobody in particular. ‘I don’t know who you guys are, but I’m SAS.’
‘SAS?’ said an Ulster voice incredulously. ‘With a fucking Luger? Bollocks. Think of something better – and get moving.’
A shove in the back started me off along the ride towards where I’d left the car. A man with a torch lit the way, but on the uneven track, and with my hands behind me, it was difficult to balance, and I kept stumbling. Ahead, I saw headlights sweeping up the hard road, and by the time we reached the turning-place several vehicles had assembled, the gargle of radios burbling out of them.
At the back of a long-wheel-base Land Rover someone yanked open the door and propelled me in, telling me to lie on the floor. Two other guys climbed in and sat on the side-benches, one with his boots right in my face. The door slammed, and immediately we set off downhill.
That was one hell of a journey. I was getting my right shoulder, elbow, hip and ankle well battered on the bare steel of the floor as we went over bumps; but more agonizing was the mental torture I was suffering. In the space of a few minutes, my whole life and career had gone tits-up. That was me finished in the SAS, I felt certain – it was inevitable I’d be RTU’d. Probably that was me finished with Tracy, too. When she found I’d gone straight back on the job after promising to lay off, she might well ditch me.
Almost worse of all, that was the end of my attempt to level the score with Farrell. I couldn’t imagine I’d ever get another chance. And how in hell had these people cottoned on to me? Perhaps someone had seen the Datsun going up into the forest and reported it?
I wasn’t going to show weakness by asking more questions; in any case, I was sure nobody would answer if I did speak. I felt certain we were heading back into Belfast, and after half an hour I began to see orange street-lamps above us as I peered up through the back window. There was a good deal of stopping and starting at traffic-lights. Then we went slowly through three successive pairs of high mesh gates into what I guessed must be a police station.
The driver backed fast up some sort of ramp and came to an abrupt halt. The back door was opened from outside, my two escorts scrambled out and dragged me after them. I got a quick impression of high brick walls forming a narrow cul-de-sac, before being bundled in through a door at the end.
Inside a brightly lit office an RUC sergeant was sitting at a desk.
‘I’m Sergeant West,’ announced one of the men holding me. ‘We’ve arrested this man under Section Fourteen. He was found in possession of a weapon in suspicious circumstances in the forest above Ballyconvil, suspected of being a terrorist.’
‘Fine,’ said the custody sergeant. ‘Put him in there, and get the bag off him.’
He nodded towards the first room across the corridor, which was a cell, bare but clean and smelling of disinfectant.
In there, with the door securely shut, my two attendants pulled the white bag over my head and one of them released the handcuffs. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Get your clothes off.’
‘Wait a minute . . .’
‘Get ‘em off. Everything except socks and pants.’ The door opened, and someone handed in a grey track suit. The sergeant who’d arrested me dropped it on to the bed, which was a raised concrete bench. ‘You can put that on afterwards.’
‘Look,’ I snapped. ‘I’m not a fucking criminal. I’m in the SAS.’
‘Yes,’ said the sergeant, equably enough. ‘And I’m the Colonel-in-Chief of the Coldstream Guards. So just do as I say, and put your clothes in there.’
He held out a black plastic bin-liner and reluctantly I started to strip off.
I saw the sergeant staring at me. ‘What happened to your face?’ he asked.
‘Nothing – why?’
‘You’ve blood all down your right side, looks like a cut on your forehead.’
I put my hand up and felt a matt surface down my cheek. Until that moment I’d felt nothing. ‘Oh, that. I ran into a tree.’
‘Nobody hit you, then?’
‘No.’ I dropped my clothes into the bag and pulled on the track suit, which stank of mothballs.
The sergeant left the bag on the floor and went out saying, ‘The Scene of Crimes Officer will be with you in a moment.’
I sat down on the bed feeling stunned. I knew I’d be deep in the shit with the Regiment. But all the same, my overwhelming desire was to get out of this gaol and back to the troop, among my own people, as soon as possible.
The door of the cell opened, and in came not the SOCO, but the custody sergeant holding a paste-board and a biro. ‘I’ve given you the custody number one-oh-two,’ he said. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Sharp. Geordie Sharp. Sergeant in 22nd SAS.’
He gave me a hard look and said, ‘Are you suffering from any illness?’
‘No.’
‘Do you need any medication?’
‘No.’
‘Are you injured in any way?’
‘Only this cut.’ I pointed at my head. ‘And I got a load of bruises. And a bite in the ankle from a dog. But I don’t think it’s serious.’
‘Do you want anyone informed of your arrest?’
‘Yes, I do.’ I gave him the name and number of Tom Dawson, the sergeant major, troop second-in-command, and asked if I could speak to him.
‘No,’ was the answer. ‘I’ll speak to him myself.’
The custody sergeant went out, and the cell door clanged shut again. Next man in was the SOCO, a thin, lugubrious-looking fellow with a ferrety face, carrying a white tray with instruments on it.
‘I need to take some samples,’ he said.
‘What for?’
‘It’s routine.’
‘Bloody hell!’
‘Nothing to worry about. Hold out your hands, one at a time.’
Like a robot, I did as I was told, watching with a mixture of fascination and revulsion as he wiped swabs of cotton wool carefully over my fingers and palms, then used a flat-ended gouge to dig out minute scrapings of dirt from under my fingernails. Finally he took a pair of scissors and cut some hair from my forelock, which was short enough anyway.
As he worked, I felt myself getting more and more steamed up. In the end I came out with, ‘This is bloody ridiculous! I haven’t done anything.’
‘I’ve heard that before,’ said the SOCO mildly. ‘None of them has ever done anything. They’re all as innocent as lambs, so they are.’
Just as he was finishing, the custody sergeant reappeared and said, ‘Right, you’re wanted for questioning.’
He took me across the corridor into an interview room, where a table was set out with one chair on the far side of it and several in front. We sat down briefly, waiting for someone. I’d already decided to say as little as possible until one of my own people turned up; but suddenly an idea occurred to me.
‘What station is this?’ I asked.
‘I’m not allowed to tell you.’
‘Does Chief Superintendent Morrison work here?’
‘Morrison?’ The sergeant was obviously surprised that I knew the name. I’d scored a point. But he said, ‘No. Not here.’
‘Well, can you get a message to him? Tell him I’m here?’
The sergeant looked at his watch. ‘He’s probably off duty now. It’s after eight.’
‘How about calling him at home, then?’
‘I don’t think he’d welcome being disturbed. He’s probably at his tea.’
‘At least he could authenticate who I am . . .’
The door opened, and in came a chief superintendent, a small, neat, sandy-haired man, who sat down on the far side of the table and said, ‘Now, I need to ask you a few questions.’
He was quietly spoken and courteous, but I knew that every word I said was being recorded, so I said as few as possible. I tried to give away nothing beyond my name, rank and number, and kept repeating that I was a member of the SAS. But when the chief asked, ‘Are you saying that you were taking part in some official operation?’ I had to answer, ‘No.’
‘What were you doing, then?’
‘I can’t say.’
‘Where did you get the Luger?’
‘Pass.’
‘It’s not one of your unit’s normal weapons.’
‘No.’
All the time my mind was in the warehouse, in the ops room. I kept thinking of the consternation that news of my arrest must be causing, the acute embarrassment at having one of the guys go off his trolley. I hoped to hell that someone was already on his way across to rescue me. Further, I hoped it would be Tom, rather than Peter Ailles, the troop boss, whom I hardly knew. That wasn’t his fault; it was just that he spent so much time at TCG, liaising, that the guys in the troop saw very little of him.
