TARGET BRITAIN: a political thriller

by Owen Bennett-Jones

  He still looked non-plussed and Natasha reached into her bag for a pen and paper. In capital letters she wrote: SORRY. FOR BEING CROSS. Smiling, but looking down, she handed it over.

  Monty read the note and then, looking at her, put his hand on hers. She put her free hand on top of his and gave it an almost imperceptible rub and then looking away, sat up straighter in her seat removing her hands as she did do.

  As they flew above Snowdonia the moonlight reflected off a dusting of snow on some of the higher peaks. The pilot and loadmaster were talking and pointing into the distance. And then the helicopter banked as it approached Dinorwig. The tone of the engine lowered and the helicopter tilted forward as the pilot slowed down looking for somewhere to land. Garratt pointed down to a rugby field and started the descent.

  As they went down, the trees around the pitch strained against the wind created by the helicopter and Monty spotted a police car making its way towards them. By the time they were on the ground, holding onto their coats to stop them flapping, the car was waiting by the touchline. Even though the blades where well above their heads both Monty and Natasha instinctively ducked as they moved towards it.

  As the helicopter took off again the noise of the engine was too great for the policeman to make himself heard so he just opened the back door of his car and pointed inside.

  He closed the door. “Good journey?”

  “Spectacular,” Monty said.

  “Any developments?” Natasha

  “The boss will see you,” the policeman replied.

  As they drove Monty opened his window to breath in the country air. It felt not only cold but also thin and he wondered how high they were. The roads were empty but the policeman still stopped at all the lights and kept to the village’s 30 mph speed limit. Probably doesn’t trust me not to shop to him, thought Monty. They can’t get MI5 up here too often. Never mind MI6. Ahead and to the right was a patch of light coming from a garage forecourt. It was open and on a roughly written placard there was an advertisement for kindling wood. The felt pen had run in the rain making the message almost illegible. There was a solitary figure in the pay booth, sitting back with his feet up on the counter.

  “He’s just here,” the policeman said. They had reached a security hut in front of which there were at least 20 people. As they opened the car doors they could see a policeman, in his late 40s and wearing an all-weather jacket issuing instructions.

  “Don’t think in terms of a perimeter. The site is just too big. Even in daylight. Go to a high point and wait and watch.”

  Trying to keep warm the security guard had stayed in his booth and was listening from there. The can of lager, open now, was by his side. Everyone else was in a semicircle taking in the briefing.

  Monty made out three distinct groups listening to him. The police officers, wearing identical, fluorescent yellow jackets, stood by their cars. The second group wore more muted colours, green and brown with woolly hats and leather hiking boots. One of the men had a coil of rope over his shoulder. They all had tightly packed rucksacks and cords around their neck holding clear plastic wallets with ordnance survey maps inside. Monty reckoned they were mountain rescue. But the third group, wearing helmets, he couldn’t place.

  So as not to disturb the briefing Monty whispered to one of the policemen. “Who are that lot?”

  “The splelogists,” he replied, and aware he’d mangled the word, “you know the ones that go into the caves.”

  Monty took another look and noticed they had lamps on their helmets and were dressed in boiler suits. One had a heavy-duty luminous watch strapped on the outside of his sleeve.

  “Why are they here?”

  “For the slate quarries. The whole place is riddled with tunnels.”

  “Helluva way to spend Christmas!”

  The policeman shrugged his shoulders. “The overtime pays for all the presents.”

  The officer had finished his briefing and walked over to Monty and Natasha.

  “Chief Superintendent Hughes,” he said extending a hand. “Welcome to Wales. And Happy Christmas!”

  “Natasha Knight and Monty Thorold. And Happy Christmas to you Chief Superintendent,” said Natasha. “Do we know if he is in the plant?”

  “No, not yet. We don’t know. ”

  “How big an area are we talking about?”

  The policeman blew out to indicate the scale of the task ahead. “The whole valley really. There’s plant all over the place. You know shafts and pipes and so on. The mountain rescue people have offered to stay on the mountain sides just to see if they see anything.”

  “Do they have infrared?” asked Monty.

  “Oh yes. They have that as a matter of course. And we have asked RAF search and rescue to come down from Valley. They’re on the way.”

  “It’ll make a change from lost walkers wandering around in trainers.”

  “They have light intensifying gear of some sort.”

  “And everyone else?”

  “We’re going to start off inside the mountain. Search the turbine hall first of all.”

  “How many ways in and out are there?”

  “Too many for us to cover. But they are all secure. Locked. At least they should be.” He pointed at one of the police cars. “Why don’t you come with me?”

  *****

  As she sat in the truck watching her story go out, Joan Williams struggled to contain her emotions. It had taken years. A piece on the national news. And not some rubbish about schools or hospitals either. A proper story. Real news. She looked at the engineer and wondered if he realised this was her big break. She wanted to give the impression that it was nothing unusual. Bearded and in his mid-40s, his name was Nigel.

  “What next?” she said.

  “You tell me.”

  “Will they want an update?”

  “Probably. They always do. Mind you since its Christmas, who knows? I am not sure how many bulletins they have today. ”

  Joan wondered what she was meant to do. She would much rather call London direct than go through the desk in Manchester but she didn’t know who in TV Centre to call. She thought about asking Nigel. And then the problem solved itself. Her mobile rang.

  “Hi its Charles here. On the home desk. “

  It was getting better and better.

  “Charles. Hi. Joan.”

  “There’s been a development.”

  “Right.”

  “There’s a major security operation in Snowdonia and the police are telling us there’s a connection to your story in Bradford. The News Channel wants to take you in five.”

  Excited she looked at Nigel: “Home desk. They want us in five.”

  He looked at his watch. “Sure. News channel?”

  She nodded. “But what am I meant to say?”

  “That’s your department darling. I’ll tell them you can do it and book the line. Come up as soon as you can in case they want to come to you early.”

  Nigel was already busying himself making calls and flicking switches. As he did so Joan used the truck’s wing mirror to re arrange her hair and fix her clothes.

  “Coat or no coat?”

  Nigel did not respond. But she could not remember his name.

  “Should I put a coat on?” she said more loudly.

  “No time for that. Get your earpiece in.” He moved towards her to help attach the wire to the back of her shirt collar so it would it not be visible on screen. As he did so Joan bent over so that she could feed the microphone up and under her blouse.

  As soon as she stood straight, she could hear someone talking in her ear. “We can see you. Level please.”

  “I’ll be talking at this level from here in sunny….. “

  “Fine. Hearing output?”

  A different voice – the News Channel’s presenter - came in to her earpiece. “….how long the operation…”

  “Can you hear that?” It was the engineer in London again.

  “Yes loud and clear.”
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  “More headroom please.”

  Joan was unsure what to say but Nigel, who was listening on headphones was already adjusting the camera.

  “Standby. 20 seconds.” She patted her hair again.

  “In vision in 10.”

  She put her hand down and before she knew it the presenter was introducing her.

  “… and we can go live now to our correspondent in Bradford Joan Williams. Joan, what can you tell us about the connection between the Snowdonia operation and what’s happened in Bradford?”

  For a second she thought. But she had nothing to say. Not a word.

  “Couldn’t quite catch you there. Can you repeat the question?”

  “Yes what can you tell us about the connection between the Bradford attacks and the security operation we have just been hearing about in North Wales?”

  Nigel looked at the screen showing the feed to London and raised his eyebrows. She looked like a rabbit caught in the headlights.

  “The police here in Bradford haven’t given any details yet.”

  “So what can you tell us?”

  “About the North Wales operation?”

  “Yes.” The presenter was beginning to sound slightly irritated.

  “We don’t have anything on that here.”

  “Joan Williams. Thank you.”

  As Nigel switched off the camera she looked at him her mouth agape. “How the fuck am I meant to know what’s happening in Snowdon?”

  “Welcome to the big time darling.”

  “Was that a total disaster?”

  He paused wondering if there was any gloss he could put on it.

  “You could say that.”

  *****

  Suddenly Jaz’s view was obscured. They were in a tunnel big enough to take a lorry. Jaz knew from the internet in Chamak that there was a network of 10 miles of road inside the mountain, some of it three-quarters of a mile beneath the summit.

  “Just head down and you can’t go wrong,” the major had told him. “Head for the lowest point. That’s where the turbines are.”

  The pickup was slowing down. All he could see was the empty road they had just travelled on but he dared not look ahead for fear of being spotted. And then, as he held his face close to the tailgate, Jaz’s head smashed into the metal. Rubbing it, he looked back to see a pothole. The rattling on the tailgate was louder now and Jaz wondered if it might come loose. But why not? He could make it come loose. They’d stopped now and feeling for the latches he undid them and very slowly let down the metal flap. Pulling the rucksack behind him, he slithered out head first. He reached out for the road surface and once his hands touched the tarmac dragged himself down, ducking low beside the vehicle, and then lying down pressed himself against the side of the tunnel.

  Looking beneath the pickup Jaz saw the driver was out of the cab and moving towards a 10-foot high metal cage by the side of the road. It was protected by a combination lock and the man punched in some numbers. After a few seconds he emerged carrying a coil of blue cable so big that he could barely see in front of himself. With a grunting noise he heaved it into the back of the pickup.

  He saw the tail gate down. “Useless bloody vehicle,” he said in a heavy Welsh accent.

  He walked to the back of the pickup contemptuously kicking one of the tyres, refastened the tailgate and gripped it tight in his hand, giving it a few firm shakes to test that it not would work loose again.

  A few seconds later Jaz was on his own, watching the pickup move further down the inclined road, deeper into the mountain.

  Lifting his rucksack onto his back he ran downhill, his footsteps echoing in the tunnels. Drivers were clearly expected to use headlights because the only other illumination came from a line of dull yellow lamps attached to the highest point in the tunnel’s arch, directly above the middle of the road. Jaz repeatedly came to forks where he had to decide which way to go. Having no other method, he followed the major’s advice: always go down.

  Hearing the low rumble of machinery ahead, Jaz slowed and, sticking as close to the wall as he could, he arrived at the enormous chamber that lay at the heart of the power plant. He had seen the dimensions on paper but the reality still surprised him. The void, carved out of the mountain’s rock was 200 yards long and he looked up to see a rock ceiling 60 yards above him.

  The space was filled with six metal machines the size of upended army tanks, stretched out in a row in front of him. They were painted green and held together with chunky bolts the size of a man’s outstretched hand. Above each one a yellow pendulum with a bulbous weight at the end stood at an angle just off vertical. Each one of the six contraptions was surrounded by a tangle of walkways, metal railings and intricate pipe work studded with valves and gauges. The turbines.

  Again he looked down, seeking the lowest level. He moved onto a metal grill and there beneath him saw the massive pipes that held, above them, a column of water half a mile high.

  Suddenly a squeal of tyres echoed against the hard rock. Looking back Jaz saw a faint blue light pulse on the wall of the tunnel he had just came from.

  He took off the rucksack and was about to open it when he realised he was out of time. But the bombs were all set. He just needed to place the rucksack by the turbine. With the noise of the tyres intensifying he ripped off his coat and tied one of the sleeves to the rucksack straps. He wanted to break its fall.

  A headlight beam swung across the wall in front of him and Jaz could hear cars coming to a stop with their doors being opened and then slammed shut. Men were shouting, their heavy footsteps reverberating through the chamber.

  Not waiting to test the knot he thrust the rucksack over the side of the metal grill, holding on to the end of the other, unattached coat sleeve.

  “Oi!” A torch was on him now. Jaz dropped the rucksack and, not waiting to see exactly where it landed, ran further into the plant. No longer carrying the explosives on his back he felt light and able to move more easily, ducking and weaving between pieces of machinery.

  To his left he saw a sign depicting a red, hard hat: “No Entry”. It was nailed onto some horizontal wooden slats blocking the entrance to a narrow tunnel. Jaz thrust his right foot at the strips of wood. They gave way more easily than he expected and found his foot travelling into the empty space until his forward momentum was stopped by his balls jamming against one of the unbroken slats. With an involuntary short, sharp scream he recovered his right leg and crawled in.

  It was the noise that gave him away.

  A policeman pointed a powerful torch beam directly at him. For a moment, as he looked back, it blinded him and when he turned back to the tunnel he could only see black. Even as his eyes readjusted he could not see in. But he was out of options.

  Grabbing the broken wood he forced his way though. Splinters caught in his hands and one of the jagged ends cut through his shirt. The tunnel was too small for him to stand. Jaz crouched, trying to move forward.

  A dog barked behind him. “Go on boy! Go on!”

  Terrified Jaz gave up trying to move doubled up and instead hurled himself onto the ground. Crawling now, he made better progress.

  “Go on! Get in there!”

  The dog’s handler sounded angry and Jaz heard him shouting to a colleague: “He won’t bloody go in. Totally spooked!”

  Without warning the tunnel opened up and Jaz found himself in a small chamber carved out of the slate. It was so dark he couldn’t make out how big the space was but the echo told him that he had room to move and he reached into the air above him. Even standing he couldn’t touch anything. Feeling in his pocket he found the sat nav and switched it on to use the screen as a torch. He looked back down the tunnel. Nothing. Or at least, nothing yet.

  Dark pools of water reflected the yellow and red sat nav graphics. As he held the machine up above his shoulder he saw the slate had been cut into a series of geometric shapes all with hard, straight lines. Water ran down the cold, brittle slate and then dripped onto the floor.
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br />   Switching off the sat nav he ran a few paces to an opening at ground level on the other side of the chamber and crawled in.

  Back in the turbine hall the dog handler had given up trying to coax his animal and had stood to one side. But the policemen behind him didn’t seem much keener and stood uncertain what to do.

  “For fucks sake!” Natasha broke away from Monty and grabbing one the speleologists rushed toward the hole.

  “Who first? You or me?”

  The man pointed at the torch on his helmet. “That would be me,” he said climbing over the broken wood. He was in the hole now but looked back.

  “Micky,” he said

  “Natasha,” she replied shaking his extended hand.

  “Shall we?”

  Monty thought about joining them but then stopped short and turned to another of the speleologists. “I’m Monty.”

  “Moley.”

  “Where does that tunnel lead, Moley. Where does it go to?”

  The man was dressed in green boiler suit topped by a blue helmet on which were painted the words: “THE MOLE”. He rubbed his fingers up and down his ill shaven chin.

  “I was wondering that. Show us the map.”

  One of his fellow cavers, produced a piece of paper from her pocket and switched her helmet light on so that they could see it more clearly.

  The man traced his fingers up and down the diagram of tunnels trying to work out where Jaz had gone in.

  “Two-dimensional map, for a three dimensional problem,” Moley said. “Very three dimensional. Which height are we at now then?”

  The woman pointed to something on the paper and the two of them traced the black lines with their fingers. All of a sudden the man was running towards the tunnel.

  “Micky! Micky, can you hear me?”

  Natasha yelled back, “Yeah. We can.”

  “Take it steady. Just flush him out. There’s only one way out.”

  “OK!” Natasha’s voice echoed back.

  Moley grabbed a policeman by the arm. “Back to the cars. Quick!”

  The vehicles were just a few metres away. At first uncertain as to whether he should leave Natasha in the tunnel, Monty decided to join them. Just as the engine started, he opened the back door and threw himself in. By reflex the driver put on the sirens which made a piercing, ear-splitting noise in the confined space. As they drove out of the mountain towards the open air the guards heard them coming and opened the gate meaning the police car didn’t even have to slow down.