by Daly, Bill
Charlie inched forward onto the edge of his chair, his mouth tight. ‘You mean – during the match?’
Turnbull nodded. ‘An Ulster loyalist splinter group is going for a high-profile spectacular.’
Charlie felt the palms of his hands turn clammy. ‘How good is the information?’
‘Rock solid. The anti-terrorist boys have infiltrated a loyalist paramilitary organisation in Derry and their man managed to get a message out yesterday. Jack Craig, an explosives expert, crossed on the ferry from Larne to Stranraer last night carrying seven kilos of Semtex. He caught a train to Glasgow where he was met by a driver. Unfortunately, the unit assigned to tail them lost them in the city-centre traffic.’
Charlie held his breath as Turnbull adjusted his spectacles and referred to the sheet of paper in his hand. ‘From the information we’ve received it appears that the paramilitaries have an insider in Celtic Park. Special Branch have reason to believe he’s a contract security guard but they haven’t been able to pinpoint his identity. The plan is that Craig will turn up at Parkhead tonight with the Semtex. He’s got a rendezvous with his contact inside the ground at six o’clock and he’s going to plant the bomb in a cistern in one of the toilets underneath the main stand.’
‘Jesus wept!’
‘My first instinct was to contact the Parkhead management,’ Turnbull continued, ‘and instruct them to replace all the security guards who are scheduled to be on duty tonight. However, the first minister has told me that is not an option.’
‘Why not?’
‘Any action that shows that we’re on to them would result in the elimination of the anti-terrorist squad’s agent. It’s taken him four years to get accepted and the powers that be think he’s been told more than he needs to know about tonight’s operation as a test. If Special Branch intercept Craig, the Loyalists will realise there’s been a leak at their end and the agent would be compromised. That’s where we come in. Special Branch have asked the first minister for our support in fronting the operation. The idea is that we can justify a police presence at the ground by saying we have reason to believe drug dealers are going to be operating at Parkhead tonight.’
‘How much detail do we have of their plans?’ Charlie asked.
‘They’re going to plant the bomb around six o’clock and trigger the explosion to go off during the match. I’ve talked it through with the first minister and we’ve concluded that the only avenue open to us is to let Craig plant his device and allow him to leave the stadium unmolested before we neutralise the bomb.’
Charlie shook his head in exasperation. ‘Does the first minister realise how many lives he’s putting at risk?’
Turnbull glared over the top of his spectacles. ‘What sort of a damn fool question is that?’
‘Sorry, sir. It’s just that – my brother’s going to be at that match.’
Turnbull paused. ‘So is my son.’
Charlie’s mind was racing. ‘Can we at least arrange for someone to monitor the toilets so we know where the device has been planted?’
Turnbull shook his head. ‘We can’t run the risk of doing anything that might spook them. The best we can do is have someone in the vicinity of the toilets who’ll be able to recognise Craig and tip us the wink when he and his crony have left the area.’
‘Do we have anyone who knows what Craig looks like?’
‘No, but we’ve got some good mug shots of him, taken on the ferry last night.’ Turnbull slid a sheaf of photographs across the desk. ‘I want you to take charge of the operation at Parkhead. You’ll need someone with you to act as a lookout for Craig – someone you can trust to keep his mouth shut.’
Charlie thought quickly. ‘I’ll take Renton.’
Turnbull nodded. ‘I’ve arranged with the army to provide a bomb disposal expert and a sniffer dog,’ he continued. ‘You’ll have the support of a dozen officers but you won’t make a move until you’re sure that Craig and his accomplice have left the area – which should be around six-thirty. We need a rationale to justify our presence to the Parkhead management so the official line is that we’ve reason to suspect drug dealing is going to take place in the toilets and we need to cordon off the area. However, no one apart from you, Renton and the bomb disposal expert will know the true nature of the operation. The back-up officers will be told it’s a drugs bust.’
‘Is that really necessary?’
‘I would love to be confident that there’s not an officer on this force who would leak information to the loyalist paramilitaries – but I’m not prepared to bet an agent’s life on it.’
‘What if something goes wrong? What if we don’t find the bomb?’ Charlie adjusted his tie knot nervously.
‘You’ll have half an hour to find the device and defuse it. If, for whatever reason, you haven’t succeeded in neutralising it by seven o’clock we’ll announce over the public address system that there’s been a bomb warning and that the stadium has to be evacuated. An hour should be sufficient time for that. We know the device won’t be triggered to go off before eight o’clock. However, if we have to resort to that course of action I wouldn’t give a monkey’s for the agent’s chances,’ Turnbull said grimly.
‘What about the houses around the ground, sir? What’s the range of seven kilos of Semtex?’
‘Not my field. Discuss that with the bomb disposal expert. If we have to clear the stadium it’ll be his decision as to whether or not we need to evacuate the surrounding area. But let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. One more thing,’ Turnbull said, referring to his briefing papers. ‘Special Branch are keen to identify the rogue security guard, so ask the Parkhead management to let us know if any of their staff go AWOL during the match. Take my mobile number,’ he said, jotting it down and handing across the slip of paper. ‘You’re reporting directly to me on this, Anderson. You can call me at any time.’
*
Darkness fell quickly, shrouding Loch Lomond in a shadowy mist. ‘Are you sure that isn’t a through road?’ Freer asked, peering at his watch through the gloom as he huddled into his jacket.
‘Of course I’m sure!’ Freer caught the tetchiness in O’Sullivan’s voice.
‘We’ve been here almost an hour,’ Freer said. ‘How much longer are we going to wait for him?’
‘What the hell can he be playing at?’ O’Sullivan rubbed the palms of his hands together to try to get his circulation moving. ‘Come on,’ he said, flinging open the driver’s door. ‘We’ll go in on foot and find up what he’s up to. It’s half a mile at most to the far end of the track and anything’s better than sitting here freezing to death.’
Moving at a brisk pace, they followed the tyre tracks up the snow-covered, rutted path until they came to a clearing in which there were several caravans. McAteer’s Volvo was the only car in sight, parked in the middle of the clearing. There was a light shining from the windows of one of the caravans.
‘This is a summer resort,’ O’Sullivan said quietly. ‘No one in their right mind comes within a mile of this place in winter.’
‘What now?’ Freer asked.
O’Sullivan stopped to consider. ‘With what you witnessed at the Harrison’s place, we’ve got enough evidence to put McAteer away – and I don’t want to risk him slipping through our fingers. It’s a long walk back to the car to call out back-up – and I certainly don’t fancy freezing to death for another hour while we wait for them to arrive. How about we get McAteer to give us a lift back to our car en route to Pitt Street?’ he said with a grin. ‘Are you up for it?’
‘You’re calling the shots, sir.’
They moved silently across the camp site towards the caravan. ‘You wait here,’ O’Sullivan whispered. ‘I’ll go inside and bring him out.’ O’Sullivan tiptoed up the five iron steps, handcuffs at the ready. He turned the handle as quietly as he could, then put his shoulder to the door and barged inside, the caravan door rebounding on its hinges and slamming closed behind him. Billy McAteer was stretched out on a be
nch seat, dozing. O’Sullivan dropped on one knee and managed to cuff McAteer’s wrists in front of him before he fully realised what was happening. ‘You’re under arrest, McAteer. Don’t try anything stupid,’ O’Sullivan warned as McAteer struggled to get to his feet. ‘I’ve got armed back-up outside.’
McAteer glowered at him. ‘If it isn’t the Fenian cunt!’ He spat in O’Sullivan’s face.
O’Sullivan brought his knee up sharply, catching McAteer full in the groin and causing him to fold at the waist with an agonised grunt. ‘That’s for the pint of beer in Tennent’s.’ Pulling him up straight, he drew back his right arm and slammed his fist into McAteer’s solar plexus. ‘And that’s for the “Fenian cunt”.’ The caravan rocked on its wheels as McAteer toppled over. O’Sullivan grabbed him by the shoulders and tugged him to his feet. ‘Let’s go.’
The sound of the caravan toilet being flushed caused O’Sullivan to spin round and in the same instant McAteer let out a roar and flung his cuffed arms over O’Sullivan’s head and yanked his body towards him in a bear hug. Lifting O’Sullivan clean off his feet he crushed the breath from his lungs and held him suspended in mid-air for several seconds before hammering his body downwards and driving his kneecap into O’Sullivan’s coccyx.
As O’Sullivan lay moaning on the floor, McAteer pulled a flick knife from his jacket pocket and held the blade to O’Sullivan’s throat. ‘Undo the cuffs, Paddy,’ he commanded.
‘I didn’t bring the keys with me,’ O’Sullivan croaked.
McAteer stabbed the point of the blade into O’Sullivan’s throat, drawing blood. ‘The keys, you smart-arsed bastard, or it’s your jugular next.’
O’Sullivan reached slowly into his trouser pocket and produced the handcuff keys. McAteer thrust his hands forward, the tip of the blade still pressing into O’Sullivan’s throat. ‘Open them,’ he demanded. When O’Sullivan had unlocked both cuffs McAteer twisted him onto his face, yanked his arms behind his back and snapped the cuffs closed around his wrists. He shoved the keys into his pocket and dragged O’Sullivan to his feet, spinning him round to face him. There was a wild look of triumph in McAteer’s eye as he smashed his forehead into the bridge of O’Sullivan’s nose, the sharp, cracking sound ringing round the enclosed space. ‘That’s us quits, you fucking Papist bastard,’ he panted. O’Sullivan dropped to his knees, blood from his broken nose spurting down his jacket.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ A squat, dark-haired figure came striding out of the toilet, buckling his belt.
‘It’s the filth.’ McAteer gestured towards O’Sullivan. ‘He must’ve followed me out here.’
‘Shite! That’s all I need! Is he on his own?’
‘He says he’s got armed back-up outside.’
‘Fucking hell!’
‘He’s probably bluffing. Come on.’ McAteer picked up his car keys from the table and lobbed them across. ‘You drive, Jack. I’ll take care of this one.’ Jack Craig caught the keys, then lifted his anorak and his heavy briefcase from the bed.
McAteer dragged O’Sullivan to his feet and held him in front of him. He kicked open the caravan door, the knife blade pressed hard against O’Sullivan’s throat, drawing more blood.
‘Whoever’s out there,’ he yelled. ‘Back off, or Paddy cops his lot!’
Tom Freer stepped back silently into the shadow of the trees. McAteer moved down the caravan steps slowly, giving his eye time to adjust to the gloom, Jack Craig following close behind. They made their way across to the Volvo, McAteer’s blade pressed against O’Sullivan’s windpipe. He opened the passenger door and got inside, forcing O’Sullivan to sit on the door sill. Craig placed his briefcase carefully on the back seat, then slipped in behind the steering wheel. Firing the ignition, he depressed the clutch and nudged the car into gear. McAteer locked his elbow around O’Sullivan’s throat as the car inched forward, O’Sullivan’s heels dragging a rutted track through the snow. When they started to gather pace McAteer pushed O’Sullivan’s body clear of the car and slammed the door.
Just after half-past five Charlie and Colin Renton walked into the office they’d been allocated, adjacent to the Parkhead hospitality suite. They were greeted by two Celtic directors. A police sergeant and a dozen uniformed officers, most of whom Charlie recognised, were waiting in the office.
‘This is a large-scale operation,’ Charlie announced to the assembled company. ‘We have reason to believe that several hundred thousand pounds’ worth of drugs will be changing hands in the west toilets underneath the main stand in about an hour’s time.’
‘Why would anyone choose to deal in drugs here, Inspector?’ one of the directors enquired.
‘Our information is that two dealers, posing as Dynamo Zagreb supporters, have brought a large quantity of heroin into the country and they’ve set up a rendezvous with their contacts at six-thirty in the toilets to sell it on. When you’re given the signal to move in,’ Charlie said, turning to the sergeant, ‘assign two of your men to cordon off the area and direct anyone trying to approach the toilets to the loos at the other end of the stand. The rest of your team will body search everyone coming out of the west toilets. What we’re looking for is serious quantities of heroin and large sums of money.’
‘What’s “a large sum of money”, sir?’ one of the officers asked.
‘Twenty quid, if you’re on my salary,’ someone chipped in, to the accompaniment of whistles and hoots of derision.
Charlie waited for the banter to die away before continuing. ‘Use your common sense. Wads of notes in brown envelopes would be a good starting point. And talking of using your common sense, we need to do everything we can to ensure cooperation for the body searches, so make it clear that you’re not interested in personal use stuff. If anyone refuses to cooperate, cuff them and take them to the Black Maria that’s parked outside the South Stand. It’s important that we do this with the minimum of fuss and aggro,’ Charlie stated. ‘We don’t want rowdy arguments going on outside the toilets in case that spooks the dealers into flushing the evidence down the pan. Any questions?’
There was a sharp rap on the office door and a girl popped her head round. ‘There’s someone from the drugs squad here to see you, Inspector.’
‘Send him in,’ Charlie said. ‘If there are no questions,’ he said, looking round the room. ‘I need to brief this guy.’
As the police officers and the directors were filing out of the room, a diminutive figure in jeans and a polo-necked sweater walked in. He had a large rucksack strapped to his back and he was holding a jet-black Labrador on a leash.
‘Warrant Officer Pete McIntyre, Inspector,’ he announced, taking a firm grip of Charlie’s proffered hand. He acknowledged Renton’s presence with a wave. ‘Ammunitions Technical Officer to the army cognoscenti,’ he said with a toothy smile. ‘One-man bomb disposal squad to the rest of the world.’ McIntyre had the wiry frame of a jockey. There wasn’t an ounce of spare flesh on his angular features and his tousled brown hair flopped down over his forehead.
‘Am I glad to see you,’ said Charlie.
‘What’s the situation?’
‘How much have you been told?’
‘Only that I’m here to disarm an explosive device and that you two are the only people I’m allowed to discuss it with. As far as everyone else is concerned I’m with the drugs squad.’
Charlie nodded. ‘We’ve reason to believe that a bomb is going to be planted in the toilets downstairs in about half an hour’s time – Semtex, about seven kilos of the stuff. What sort of damage would we be looking at if that went off?’
‘It all depends where the device is positioned. To put it into perspective, a few grams of high explosive packed into a radio cassette player was enough to bring down the Lockerbie plane, whereas when the IRA tried to take out Thatcher and her cabinet in Brighton in the nineteen eighties we reckon they used about nine kilos of gelignite. Seven kilos of Semtex, expertly placed, could make one hell of a mess of the stadium.’
&n
bsp; ‘What about the surrounding area?’
‘The nearest houses are on the other side of London Road?’
‘That’s right.’
McIntyre shook his head. ‘The blast might take out a few windows, but nothing more by way of collateral damage. Anyway,’ he added, ‘that’s all theoretical. It’s my job to make sure the device doesn’t go pop.’
‘I must say I find your confidence reassuring. We should be able to have the toilets cordoned off by about six-thirty. How do you want to play it?’
‘How many searchers do we have?’
‘You’re looking at us.’
‘I assume there’s no problem with me using my dog?’
‘As long as you con it into believing it’s looking for drugs. You’re not allowed to tell it about the Semtex.’
‘I’ll try,’ he whispered, tapping the side of his nose. ‘But Sheena’s nobody’s fool.’ McIntyre’s top teeth stuck out when he grinned. ‘In which case I suggest you leave the search activity to me and the two of you concentrate on keeping any nosy parkers at bay. There isn’t a better sniffer dog in Scotland than Sheena, but we can’t rely on her. One of the reasons Semtex is so popular with terrorists is that it has only a faint signature odour and the dogs have a problem with it. But I’ve got my bag of tricks.’ He shrugged off his heavy rucksack. ‘I’ve got a trace detector to take air samples and that’ll pick up just about any explosive material in the vicinity, including Semtex, and if the bomb’s been placed somewhere inaccessible I’ve got a robot that will let me have a close-up look at the device before I decide how I’m going to disarm it.’
‘Anything in particular we should be doing?’ Charlie asked.
