Expecting no reply, or a ribald put-down, he left the door open and marched along the corridor to the main door. The four occupants gathered up towels and soap and made their way to the shower cubicles at the end of the hallway. While in the showers no one spoke. Back in the room the tallest of the four lit a cigarette and said,
“Made up your mind about extending, Spider?”
The individual addressed was slightly above medium height with the lithe muscularity of a competitive swimmer. He shrugged and threw his towel onto his bed. Rolling an elastic band round his fingers, he pulled his long fair hair into a bunch at the nape of his neck and fixed it in place.
“Miss me, will you, Lofty?” He grinned at his questioner.
“Piss off! But you do need to think about it, mate, seriously. You want your head looking at. You’ll be lost without the Regiment.”
Spider smiled but did not answer. He finished dressing, and then joined the others as they removed weapons, together with spare magazines, from the steel lockers and laid them on the trestle table. Spider stripped his Browning 9mm pistol and examined the components. The weapon was quickly reassembled, then holstered.
“Time for Oscar Charlie,” said the red-haired member of the group.
He stood aside, as the others came out of the room, then locked the door. They crossed the tarmac road to the prefabricated briefing room. Inside they gathered round the urn. After each collected a mug of tea, they took their places at the table.
Within a few minutes, the Officer Commanding entered the room.
“Morning gentlemen,” he said as he laid his map case at the head of the table. “Get me a spot of tea, Piebald, will you.”
The fourth member of the group, slim and mousy-haired stood, filled a mug and silently placed it in front of the officer.
“Right. Further to last night’s briefing... First, the summary sheet. Info is still rather skimpy I’m afraid. We know that Macaulay, a lecturer in Political Science at the University, is the object of their attention. The hit will take place at the University—we don’t know precisely where in the grounds or in which building. A couple of hours ago an RUC informant confirmed that they have brought in the Removal Man. He’s been here in Belfast for,” he paused as he squinted at his watch, “almost nine hours now. The description available remains sketchy. We do know that he is big, and well-built. Intelligence believes that he is one Declan Rath, a former denizen of Londonderry.
“We’ve been more than lucky on this one because coincidence has played a part. For some time now, Echo 4 Bravo has been placing tracking devices in the cars of selected IRA sympathizers on the off chance that the cars might be ‘borrowed’ for jobs then belatedly reported stolen. Late last night, a local businessman’s Rover saloon car parked up for the night in Whiterock, but the owner, one James McKinley, lives in the Ardoyne and is there at this moment. What we don’t know is when Rath will arrive or if he will have back-up.
“During the operation, use standard radio procedures. Roddy Ewan’s section will be providing follow-up support, if needed. They’ll be in the blue Volkswagen van. Sometime after eight o’clock this morning, we’ll ensure that the area is free of our uniformed colleagues. After completion, Roddy will handle the evacuation. Any questions?”
“Whereabouts in the University will the doctor be, most of the day?” asked Lofty.
“In the main block, where he teaches. We’ve had it and the approaches under observation. As far as we know, no one is pre-positioned from their side and we’ve made sure there’s been no entry during the night.”
“Weapons?”
“The choice is yours,” replied the OC. “But let me emphasize that Macaulay’s safety is paramount. No unnecessary risks with his well-being.”
The group at the table smiled at each other with humorous resignation.
“Not knowing for sure if Paddy will have back-up, it’s imperative that you be on the lookout for outside interference. I do not have to remind you that the Provos are well-versed in sting operations. The possibility does exist that this could be a set-up. Body armour is your own call.
“Well, that’s it. Roddy’s crew has been briefed. I recommend that you get together with him now.” With a curt nod to the group, he added, “I’ll be back in an hour to hear your plan, Stewart. Thank you.”
Despite the large map of Belfast and its environs on the wall, Lofty went to a table in the corner of the room, leafed through a pile of Ordnance sheet maps, and pulled one free.
“Sticking with the doctor without being spotted is going to be difficult. On the other hand, if we try to do it from too great a distance, we could be circling around when the action takes off.”
Spider pulled the fact sheet towards him and scanned it.
“He lives in the Malone residential area.”
The others identified the street on the map.
“He comes to town on the Malone Road. What time is he due at the University?” he wondered aloud.
“You’ve got the fact sheet, Bonehead,” said Piebald.
“Bollocks,” retorted Spider, without feeling, as he referred to the sheet again. “Normally, he’s scheduled for lectures at nine in the morning. Leaves home at about a quarter to nine.”
“What’s he drive?” asked Lofty.
Spider searched the sheet as the others gave the map their attention.
“BMW. Maroon.” He thought for a moment then suggested, “It might be better if Lofty and I were already at the University car park. As one of the staff, he’ll have reserved parking, and we can check out the immediate area.”
“Makes sense,” said a grinning Stewart, “but you’d better make sure you look like students ’cos you’re both too thick to pass for teachers!”
They discussed their plan for a further fifteen minutes, finally agreeing on the two vehicles they would use, one for Piebald and Stewart as Macaulay’s escort and the other for Spider and Lofty, who would wait for the arrival of the lecturer at the University.
They would all wear Kevlar body armour. Three of them would carry MP5Ks, the shortened version of the Heckler and Koch sub-machine gun, with thirty-round magazines. Spider would take a Remington shotgun.
Shortly afterwards, Roddy Ewan’s back-up section joined them. Following a review of the main points of the plan, the discussion centred on radio procedures, the use of call signs, and emergency codes.
When the briefing ended, they remained in the room until the Officer Commanding returned. He sat at the head of the table then, with a curt nod, signalled to Sergeant Stewart to begin the presentation.
* * * * *
Rath walked towards the opening in the low wall that bordered the lawn fronting the main building. Macaulay’s reserved parking space was close to a narrow pathway between the lawn and the imposing edifice of the North’s premier seat of learning. He would arrive in the next few minutes to walk this path from his car.
Rath took in the cluster of students gathered at the entrance, as on most days, to smoke, discuss lecture notes or last night’s television.
A battered Ford drove past, then turned into the car park. Its occupants were engrossed in a spirited conversation but the rapid raucous clatter of a Scout helicopter drew all his attention. His scalp prickled, galvanizing a rash of goose pimples on his neck.
Why the chopper? Did they know? Think, he told himself calmly.
Worst case scenario, it could be scouring the immediate area as a final check for uniformed forces. The security people frequently did this when a covert security action was imminent. They would not want to be involved in a gunfight with their uniformed colleagues.
However, it could also be on its way to or from some other tasking somewhere else in the city. He weighed the probability of their knowing of the job and decided the chance was minimal. His people had only decided the timing of this operation late the day before yesterday. The Brigade Intelligence Officer had assured him that only he and one other, the driver of the getaway vehicle, kne
w precisely where it would take place. He scanned the area again but detected no trace of a security presence. If the helicopter made another sweep—
The arrival of another car pulling into the car park interrupted his train of thought. The occupants of the previous vehicle had climbed out, and the taller of the duo waited while the other locked the Ford. They continued to argue.
Turning his attention to the last arrival, who had left his vehicle carrying a holdall, he watched him make his way to the entrance. Rath watched intently, the bag arousing his suspicions. The obvious acceptance, displayed by smiles of greeting and mild horseplay from the cluster of students at the bottom of the steps, convinced him that the man presented no danger.
A burst of adrenalin boosted his anticipation as he saw Macaulay’s BMW pull into its allotted space. Rath walked without haste towards the main building as the doctor left his car and strode briskly along the path. The pair of students with their thermos flask and books had reached the group at the entrance, some forty yards ahead of Macaulay. They continued their animated conversation.
Two other late arrivals trailed Macaulay separately, at a distance of thirty and fifty yards respectively. The gunman noticed that the leading student had a textbook open and was mouthing the words as he walked along. Probably following the words with his finger too, he thought with a wry grin.
The group at the bottom of the steps started to break up and, in huddles of twos and threes, began to wander into the building.
* * * * *
“Did anyone see who left this?” the inspector asked.
The desk sergeant raised his head from the register and looked at the letter.
“Afraid not, sir. It was lying on the desk when I came on duty. I brought it in to you unopened and—”
“Yes, okay.” The inspector turned from the desk, then paused for a moment. “Get me the I.O. at Army H.Q. Lisburn. Put it through to my office.”
* * * * *
In the Ops Centre in Palace Barracks, the O.C. faced the I.O
“How reliable is this description?”
“I would say no worse than any other info we get from informers. The people in Montpelier Police Station think it is genuine. And anyway, it only confirms what you already know.”
“Yes, but confirmation is a commodity we so rarely have.” The O.C. thought for a few moments, then wrote briefly on a yellow memo pad. Tearing off the sheet, he crossed the room to the sergeant operating the radio.
“Get this out to the detail at Queen’s. Now!”
* * * * *
Macaulay bustled to the entrance and elbowed his way through the slower moving students. Behind him, the big man dropped his basket, threw open the duffel coat and, as he was bringing the gun to bear, called in a clear voice.
“Doctor Macaulay, a moment please!”
Macaulay turned to face him. His eyes widened and apprehension swirled into raw shock when he saw the shotgun. He dropped his briefcase. Arms windmilling, he backed away and turned simultaneously. Mouth distorted, he tried to shout, but no sound came. A riser caught his heel, and he crashed backwards onto the stone stairs. In terror, he rolled and scrambled on his hands and knees up the cold granite steps.
The Removal Man strode forward but the pit of his stomach vaulted upwards as he saw the two erstwhile students, one on each side of the fallen doctor, throw aside their books and rip open their anoraks.
The taller of the couple threw the thermos to one side, placed his foot in the small of the fallen man’s back and pushed him down. Both men screamed, “Down! Down!” Those students still outside milled and pushed in confusion.
On the entrance landing, a panicked student blocked the gunman’s view of his target but also obstructed a clear line of fire for both escorts. A second before Rath saw the weapons, he caught sight of the bulky body armour, as the anoraks were torn open.
He knew with sickening surety—they were SAS.
He fired at the chin of the one on the right, pumped the slide action and swung the Ithaca towards the other trooper. He snapped off a shot and saw the man buffeted into the sidewall. As he pumped a third cartridge into the breech, animalistic self-preservation screeched its awareness of danger from the two who had been following the lecturer.
The sledgehammer impact of the 9mm bullets slamming into his left thigh spun him around and drenched that side of his body with a freezing numbness. He fired at the man in front but missed. The second man, however, closely following the first but to his right, dropped down heavily onto one knee.
The wounded gunman lurched towards the entrance, seeking the protection of the hallway, but dropped onto the steps. He rolled awkwardly to the nearside wall into a firing posture. The remaining trooper jumped into a wide-legged stance several feet away from the bottom step and sought his target.
The second taken by the SAS man to scan the figures above him cost him dearly as Rath’s fourth shot tore into the flesh of his lower face. The Removal Man reached above his head, caught the metal handrail and pulled himself upright. He dragged the scarf from his neck and knotted it around his thigh high against his crotch. As he pulled it tight, bile surged up through his mouth and nasal cavities.
He gripped the handrail to fight off the faintness that threatened to engulf him. Thankfully, he knew that his femur had somehow not been shattered. As he struggled against the nausea, he saw the wiring and microphone on the chest of one of the downed SAS troopers.
He spat and then, gritting his teeth, forced his head to clear. The argument and the mouthed words had been mere pantomime, to mask their radio communication. Turning, he looked down at Macaulay who crouched against the opposite wall. The frightened target put his arm across his face and cowered even more closely to the grey granite as the shotgun swung in his direction.
The fifth and final shot ripped into his huddled figure.
Pulling himself to the top of the steps, Rath pushed through the swing doors, and crabbed his way down the corridor. Thankfully, none of the students had attempted to stand or tried to stop him. As the doors swung closed behind him, he heard the screech of brakes, and knew, with chilling certainty, that more security forces had arrived.
* * * * *
After driving through several streets in the immediate area to locate the Rover saloon car, the Volkswagen van containing Ewan’s backup section turned into Upper Crescent.
With confirmation earlier that morning that the "borrowed" car was on the move, it had not been difficult to monitor its progress. The van stopped alongside the saloon car. Three of the section jumped out and walked to the front of the vehicle to detain the driver and immobilize the car.
The sound of gunfire crackled from the direction of the University. In the van, Ewan shouted at his driver.
“Go, go, go!”
The troopers barely had time to leap back into the vehicle. It lurched away with a scream of rubber and rear doors still swinging, along Upper Crescent and onto University Road.
* * * * *
Calum, the getaway driver, stared mesmerized at the departing vehicle. The shaking in his legs would not subside. Arriving with several minutes to spare before the attack was to take place, he took a casual glance in the side mirror. Shock blanched his face, and riveted his body at the sight of the trio of masked figures heading towards the car with their weapons at the ready. Unexpected warmth washed over his crotch and thighs.
Looking down at his lap, blood flooded through his neck and face as he saw that he had indeed wet himself. A trembling hand went to the ignition and started the engine. The primary urge was to get to safety as quickly as possible, but he could not control the shaking.
The ignominy of fleeing, with urine-sodden trousers, unable to give a concise report, caused his youthful face to flame even more. He struggled to master the panic, to stifle the desire to escape.
His terror faded slowly as he sucked air through his open mouth, and the trembling ebbed. Calmly, or at least slowly, he would take the Rover saloon car onc
e round the block to find out what had happened to the Removal Man. If he could not do the job and evacuate his man, he could at least try to gather some worthwhile intelligence.
Yes, that is what the hard men would do. That is what Liam would want. The great and almighty Liam would expect no less from him. Licking a bead of sweat from the soft down of his upper lip, he knew there was no choice. Calum McDermot put the car into gear, released the handbrake and made a wide U-turn.
* * * * *
Rath lunged along the corridor, brandishing the empty shotgun and roaring like a wounded animal to intimidate the watching students. He threw the gun to one side. Pulling out the pistol, he caught the blur of pale, terrified faces peering from lecture room doorways.
He barged through another swing door.
“No heroes please,” he prayed.
The pounding of rubber-soled boots along the hall behind him spurred him on. There were no hallways or passages joining this one. A large sash window set in the wall at the end of the corridor loomed ahead. Panting and groaning, he pulled the gun up in a two-handed grip and fired repeatedly at the casement panes. The glass spewed outwards and, with an extraordinary effort, he heaved himself onto the sill and toppled out, oblivious to the remaining shards.
The heavy fall onto the pavement caused him to scream noiselessly. The force of the fall robbed his tortured lungs of air. Groggily, and using the wall for support, he clawed upright. With glazing eyes, he tried to run. Through the enveloping fog of dizziness and nausea, he heard, as from a distance, a voice shouting.
“Big man! Big man! Over here, for God’s sake, over here!”
Someone grabbed his arm and pulled him towards a black car. He stifled the reflex urge to struggle. He keeled over, then felt his legs pushed up into a foetal position. Somewhere in the numbing, enveloping mist, he heard a car door slam.
The Tuzla Run Page 2
