by Chris Ryan
‘You in a car?’
‘That’s right. Why?’
‘It sounds noisy.’
‘It is. Look, I’ll speak to you soon. Sorry about this. Give Tim a hug from me.’
Everything was far from all right. I came to Red Eight, another big roundabout, and took the main road to the right. The lights stayed with me.
‘Tango Four,’ I called. ‘Passing Red Eight now.’
‘Roger,’ came the answer. ‘You’ve got Red Nine a mile ahead. Hang another right there, for New-townards. Confirm two Indians closing on your location.’
‘Roger, and thanks.’
So far I hadn’t heard the desk talking to the intercepts, who must have been on a different net. But suddenly they switched over and came through loud and clear. The first thing I heard was India One calling his location as Red One Six. I recognized the voice: it was Matt Matthews, a long, thin Yorkshireman. I couldn’t get a proper look at the map, but as far as I remembered, that was the junction in Comber, a small place five miles south of Newtownards. Then he confirmed, ‘India One mobile towards Red-One-Five.’ That was in the centre of Newtownards. They were heading straight towards me. I thought of them as a pair of cheetahs, coming up country in immense bounds.
I managed a quick glance at the map, and saw that a left turn in Newtownards would take me out towards the shore of Strangford Lough, away from civilization.
‘Tango Four to India One,’ I called. ‘I’m mobile southwards towards Red-One-Two. Proposing turn left there, on to the shore road. Can you get something planned down there soonest?’
‘India One,’ said Matt. ‘Wait out.’
‘Tango Four. Now passing Conlig. I still have the tail, but they don’t seem to be trying to close.’
‘India One. Roger. If you can, slow down. We need to get ahead of you.’
Slow down! Hell! I eased off the accelerator until I was doing only forty-five. The crazy lights came surging up behind. Reaching across with my right hand, I drew my PPK from its shoulder holster. Some guys, when driving off-duty, would sit on their pistols or keep them stuffed down between their legs. But I always thought that if I got rammed or had a crash the gun might fly forward off the seat and disappear under it or beneath the pedals. A shoulder holster was safer. With the PPK in my hand, I brought a round into the breech and slipped the pistol into the pocket on the inside of the driver’s door.
To my amazement I heard India One call, ‘Red-One-Five now.’ Jesus! I thought. He’s in Newtownards already. He must have been going like shit off a shovel. Seconds later he called, ‘Red-One-Four,’ and I knew he was safely through ahead of me, turning on to the lough road.
The lights had dropped back again. Already I could see the beginning of the town ahead.
‘Tango Four. Hitting the outskirts of Newtownards.’
‘Zero Alpha, carry on to Red-One-Four. Left there.’
‘Roger.’
The Indians and the desk began an urgent discussion — something about a parking place. I couldn’t look at the map long enough to pick up the one they were talking about. At the 30 m.p.h. limit I eased down to about thirty-five. More cars were heading north out of town than going in.
Then I saw traffic lights in the distance ahead. Shit! I did not want to stop. Timing was critical. As I approached, the lights were green; now, if I got it right, I might be able to shoot them as yellow changed to red and cut off the pursuit.
I hung back, hung back, then at the last instant slammed into second and hit the accelerator. Done it! I thought. I should have known better. From behind came a squeal of brakes and angry hooting. The lights swerved wildly, left and right, then steadied again. Bastards — they’d got across on the red.
‘Tango Four. Approaching Red-One-Four.’
‘India One. Roger. One k and a bit past it, you’ll come out beside the lough, on your right. The road’s right by the water. Another k and there’s a parking place on the right, between the road and the water. We’re complete at the far end of the parking place. Dive in here at the last minute, and give us a flash as you come in. Over.’
‘Tango Four. Roger.’
‘India One. If the baddies follow you in, drive straight through, out the other end and back on to the highway. Then we’ll follow and take them out. If they go past, all the better. We’ll take them out anyway.’
‘Roger.’
At the T-junction a left-hand filter let me through without stopping, and I accelerated away.
As I did so, India One called the desk. ‘Intercept imminent. Permission to proceed on own initiative.’
‘Zero Alpha. Roger. At your discretion. If the situation’s life-threatening, go ahead.’
In a few seconds I had the water of the lough on my right. I pushed my speed up to sixty, then to sixty-five.
‘Tango Four,’ I called. ‘Beside the water.’
‘India One. Keep coming.’
‘Estimate fifty seconds to park-place. Forty, thirty…’
‘India One, we’ve got you. And the tail. Keep coming.’
‘Tango Four. Twenty seconds. I’ve got the sign. Turning in… NOW!’
Thank God there was nothing coming the other way. At the last instant, without giving any signal or braking, I wrenched the wheel hard to the right. The Sierra heeled and slewed with a screech of tyres. Rocking and twitching, I shot into the parking area, a long strip just above the water, with a low stone wall along its outer edge.
The manoeuvre took the tail by surprise. Before the driver could react he had passed the opening. I saw his brake-lights flash for an instant, then the car speed up again. At the far end of the park two cars sat waiting. Both were dark, but I had no doubt that they were hot to trot, with engines running. Sure enough, as the tail car went by the exit, both leapt forward and out on to the highway.
Headlights blazed up as they gave chase. Oncoming drivers flashed at them in vain. Everything had happened so fast that I had never stopped, never even slowed down much. I simply put my foot down again, came back on to the road and joined the pursuit.
The dickers (or whoever they were) must have realized something was wrong. They must have known they were in the shit, because they began to drive like hell. Eighty was about the most their wagon would do, but they held that speed through some fearsome bends, and it was all I could do to keep the Sierra on the road.
The lead Indian was our big Audi Quattro, with its crab-like grip of the road transmitted through all four wheels, and its engine souped up to give it the acceleration of a Ferrari. There was no way the dickers could escape it. But equally, for the moment, there was no way it could get past them.
‘India One,’ called Matt. ‘Taking command of the intercept. We’re mobile behind the target towards Yellow Eight. We’ll grab the first chance to overtake.’
‘India Two,’ came a new voice. ‘The road widens out below the park at Mount Stewart, three ks ahead. That’s your best chance.’
‘India One. Roger. We’ll try it.’
Suddenly everything slowed dramatically. The target had come up behind another car, an innocent red Mini. Oncoming traffic was preventing anyone overtaking. Now the target was well illuminated by the Audi’s lights and sure enough, it was an old Cortina.
India One was crowding up behind it, hoping to unnerve the driver with the blaze of light. But then, as the oncoming traffic cleared, the Cortina whipped out and overtook the dawdling Mini.
‘Stand by, stand by,’ called Matt. ‘Going… NOW!’
The Cortina driver made the mistake of hanging over on the right-hand side of the road after he’d overtaken. With a fierce surge of power the Audi was past the Mini and pulling up on the left-hand side of the target. The second intercept car, a Rover, was there too, a couple of feet from the Cortina’s back bumper.
From my tail-end-Charlie position I saw it all as if in slow motion. The Audi cut in hard across the Cortina’s left front wing. The dicker driver stood on his brakes, but the big car hit his fron
t end a glancing blow that threw the vehicle sideways against a stone wall, stopping it dead. A second later the driver of the Rover deliberately rammed into the back of it, to shock the inhabitants for a couple of seconds while the team from the Audi jumped out. In an instant the road was full of our guys, all crouching behind their own cars with weapons levelled over the roofs and bonnets.
I slid the Sierra to a halt and leapt out. Somehow the red Mini had squeezed through the gap behind the Audi’s tail, but it had come to rest a hundred metres down the road, as if the driver was busy having a heart attack.
‘OUT!’ yelled Matt. ‘Out! Hands on the roof! Move!’
This was a dicey moment. If the villains had weapons, they might be desperate enough to use them. But because we didn’t know for sure that they were armed, we couldn’t open fire.
At last the passenger door of the Cortina opened, and a shaven-headed youth looked out, blinking.
‘Fucking OUT!’ roared Matt.
The youth struggled out. A second later he was spreadeagled over the bonnet of the Cortina, face down. A rapid body-search, and he was flat on his face in the road with a knee in his back, his driver the same. The driver had a cut on his right temple, where his head had hit the door in the crash, but it was nothing serious.
A preliminary search of the car revealed no weapons, but while it was going on I vaulted over the wall to have a look beyond. From my position behind the Cortina at the moment of the crash, I thought I’d seen a flash as something flew out of the driver’s window and over the wall. Sure enough, my foot now hit something heavy — and up came a Luger 9mm automatic. I was about to yell out that I’d found it, but a sixth sense made me hold my tongue. In that instant I realized that the weapon could come in handy. I’d already worked out that if I did manage to close in on Gary Player and drop him, I must make it look like a sectarian killing. Therefore it would be brilliant to use a weapon that was common among the players. If the forensic boys managed to establish what kind of pistol had fired the fatal round, there’d be no chance of them tracing it back to me. On the contrary, if it had been used in previous shootings, it would probably be traced back to the IRA, and the police would conclude that the latest murder was the result of internecine feuding. And so, instead of crowing about my discovery, I stuffed the Luger down inside my waistband and hopped back over the wall.
Matt was taking no chances. Through the head-shed he called out not only the RUC and the Liaison Officer, but also a flatbed truck, so that the car could be taken away for forensic examination and a thorough search. At the least it would yield fingerprints; at best, it might turn out to have secret compartments, with weapons, traces of explosive or other incriminating evidence in them. In any case, the Cortina was undrivable, as its right front wheel had buckled under the impact with the wall. The Audi, in contrast, had suffered nothing but superficial dents.
We drove back to base in a discreet, well-spaced convoy, with the Sierra in the middle and the intercept cars fore and aft. That was the last journey the Sierra would make for the troop. Now it had been blown, it would have to be binned, at any rate from Ulster. The only future for it was to be sent back to England and used as a range car. The intercept cars would probably go in for a paint job.
The entire incident had lasted less than an hour. We reached base without further trouble, but I found that in the warehouse the atmosphere wasn’t very sweet. ‘Hey, Geordie,’ one of the senior guys said as I was going to dump kit in my room, ‘you want to watch yourself. This place has been in fucking uproar since you sent the balloon up. You sure you haven’t been somewhere you had no business to be? Better get your story right, or you’ll be deep in it.’
The wash-up was pretty hostile. The sergeant major couldn’t make out how I’d been picked up. As far as anyone knew, the Sierra hadn’t been blown before I took it out. There was a strong suspicion that I’d been somewhere out of bounds, but I denied it strenuously, inventing a fictitious route round the edges of the city. I think I got away with it, but the debrief left me with the feeling that I’d almost dropped a colossal bollock. It also left me disturbed by the fact that I’d been forced into telling lies — something that I never like doing, least of all to my mates. Yet another worry was the sheer number of the enemy. The bastards seemed to be everywhere, with nothing to do but lurk about and look for targets. The one big consolation was that I hadn’t led them to my in-laws’ home. To have done that would have been a disaster of the first magnitude.
As soon as things had settled, I phoned them and got Meg.
‘I’m really sorry about that,’ I began.
‘What happened?’
‘It was just that a job came up suddenly.’
‘Well — it’s a bit late now. Tim’s asleep already.’
‘No, no — I wasn’t meaning I’d come out now. I only called to apologize. I had a present for Tim, too.’
‘You couldn’t help it, I’m sure. There’s always another day. But you ought to come and see him more often. He’s getting to be a bit of a handful.’
‘Oh, like what?’
‘He doesn’t always want to do what I tell him. He’s inclined to lose his temper, too. I’m not saying I can’t manage him, but the more he sees of his father the better it will be.’ She broke off for a moment and then added, ‘By the way, a letter came for you.’
‘Really? What is it?’
‘I don’t know. It doesn’t look very exciting. A small brown envelope, typed — that’s all.’
A prickle went up my neck. Maybe Chief Superintendent Morrison had surfaced.
‘It can’t be anything important,’ I said casually. ‘Why not open it and tell me what it says?’
‘All right, then. Hold on while I get it.’
There was a pause. Then I heard rustling, ripping noises.
‘Well!’ said Meg in her most superior voice. ‘It’s nothing much at all. Just one typed line, in fact.’
‘What does it say?’
‘ “Your man is Declan Farrell.” ’
‘What? Say that again. At least, no — wait one while I get a pencil. Hold on.’
I was in the public phone booth outside the canteen, and had to make a dash for the ops room to borrow paper and pencil from the duty clerk. Back at the booth, I grabbed the receiver and said, ‘Hello? Yes?’
‘What’s the matter with you?’ said Meg. ‘You sound all flustered.’
‘No, no. I’m fine. Just had to grab a pencil. What’s the name again?’
She repeated it, and spelt it out.
‘Fine. Got it.’
‘Does it mean anything to you?’
‘Not a lot. But I’ll work it out. Thanks anyway.’
* * *
In the morning I phoned Morrison on his direct line to ask if I could go and see him.
‘You got my note, then?’
‘That’s right.’
‘D’you know a pub called the Old Bell, out on the Comber road?’
‘I’ll find it.’
‘Fine. It’s on your right going out. I’ll meet you there at seven-thirty tonight.’
* * *
Settled in a quiet corner, the chief could have been any old businessman having a pint on his way home after work. But what he had to say related to business far beyond most ordinary people. Basically, he was trying to warn me not to tangle with Farrell, because of the sheer nastiness of the character.
‘You’d be the better for leaving him alone,’ he said, ‘For instance, when two harmless young lads were caught trying to nick his car for joyriding, he had them brought to him, and rather than crippling them in the traditional way, using an electric drill, he had them held down while he himself used a hand drill to perforate their kneecaps. So pleased was he with this arbitrary sentence that he went straight out and gave himself a lavish dinner.’
Morrison took a swig from his pint of stout and went on in his quiet, tired voice, ‘And did you hear about the young woman they battered to death this time la
st year? You remember that one? No? Well, Farrell thought she was a Protestant informer, or working for us. So they grabbed her. Of course she couldn’t tell them anything, because she didn’t know anything. She was perfectly innocent, not involved at all. First she was raped, then they took her out behind a pub and beat her to a pulp with hammers. When they found they couldn’t kill her by stamping on her, they finished her off by hurling a breeze-block down on her head. That’s Farrell for you. There’s nothing subtle about IRA torture; it’s just the most basic and brutal thuggery.’
He went on to say that Farrell was one of the IRA’s chief extortionists, and that he raised many thousands of pounds a year from running protection rackets. ‘He’ll go to the manager of a big building site and say, “Look, if you don’t want your machinery to go missing, or you don’t want your walls to fall down, it’ll cost you a couple of hundred a week.” Security firms — that’s another racket. The IRA charge for seven or eight men to guard a factory, when in fact there are only two working. The irony is that, with the IRA on the scene, the place isn’t going to get raided anyway; one thing thieves can do without is getting kneecapped.
‘The same thing with drug-dealers. The PIRA limit the number who are allowed to operate, either on the streets or in clubs, and they take a percentage of their profits.’
Morrison stopped, giving me a steady look. ‘Your man Farrell has his finger in every fecking pie — and if anyone else tries to get a hand in, he doesn’t hesitate to cut it off.’
SEVEN
In the morning I happened to see Pink Mike crossing the warehouse on his way back from the bog. He was looking pleased with himself, as if he’d had a monumental shit. His hair was on the mend, too — it had gone a kind of rich auburn.
‘Hey,’ I called, ‘got a minute?’
‘Sure. What is it?’
‘Have you heard of a player called Declan Farrell?’
‘Christ, have I!’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘It’s like asking if I’ve heard of the Pope. He’s one of the big bastards.’
‘Really! D’you have any info about him?’
