by Matt Johnson
‘Yes, I’d like that.’
Conversation ceased as the bomb-disposal man donned the heavy, full-face helmet. The heat of the sun would soon cause the armour to become uncomfortably warm. Many years previously, I had tried an explosive ordnance suit on, just to feel what it was like. I hadn’t enjoyed the experience, even for just the two or three minutes I had been wearing it. The helmet was hot and claustrophobic, the suit heavy and cumbersome. As Rupert trudged up the lane and onto the gravel driveway I imagined that beads of sweat would already be trickling down his forehead and neck.
His wasn’t a job that I envied, not in the least.
Chapter 53
The cottage was to Rupert’s left as he approached the rear of the little Citroen. As I watched, he skirted around the car, apparently noting the hand marks in the dust that I had described. If the bomber had been under the car, chances were that was where he had put the bomb. This really was the trickiest part of the operation. Finding the device and identifying the ignition system.
Before donning his helmet, Rupert had given his opinion on the type of device he expected to find. It could be a timer, he suggested, but that was unlikely on a car bomb, as there would be little chance of catching me in the car. Most likely was a mercury tilt switch set to go off as the car went up or down a hill. Alternatively, the detonator might be wired in to the car ignition or brake lights. Whatever it turned out to be, he warned me, my little car was going to end up wrecked.
As Rupert checked under the car and in the wheel arches I could tell that the heavy suit was restricting his movements and view. Everything he did, every step he took, was slow and deliberate. The gentle breeze that had followed sunrise had now dropped. That would make the suit even warmer.
I caught sight of Rupert’s reflection in the driver’s window of the car. It reminded me of many similar situations I had watched in a previous life. Then and now, I found myself wondering whether the bomb-disposal men asked themselves whether they were experiencing their last moments on earth. I never dared ask, it wasn’t a fair question.
As he moved further away from the car, I heard Rupert’s voice on his driver’s walkie-talkie saying that he was going to use the shotgun. That wasn’t going to do the Citroen much good, I smiled. Mounted on a plate with barrel and stock sawn off, the gun would blow out the door and bonnet locks with the operator hidden at a safe distance. Rupert set the plate up to do the bonnet first. It seemed to take an age. With the gun finally lined up, he retired with the wire trigger to behind the cottage.
A moment later, the cartridge discharged.
A cat yowled. A furry ginger flash ran along the driveway, along the lane and past where I was standing. The shotgun sound had given it a rude awakening. I turned to watch it disappearing into the dry undergrowth nearby.
The bonnet of the car was now up. It occurred to me that the cat may have been the cause of the marks that I had seen on the sill beneath the driver’s door of the car. If I was wrong, and no bomb was present, I could expect some ribbing from Rupert.
He turned and walked back along the drive.
I was talking to the bomb-squad driver as Rupert approached.
As he pulled of his helmet and reached inside the car for a towel, I could see that he was soaked with sweat.
‘What’s the verdict, Rupert?’ I’d expected the worst when I heard the shotgun blast.
‘Bet you thought it was a false alarm,’ he said.
‘You mean when the cat ran out?’
‘Yes. It was hiding underneath the car. Is it yours?’
‘No, cats make me sneeze. So, what did you find?’
‘There’s a small cigar-box-type time-and-power unit held by magnets to the bulkhead. Below it, about half a kilo of Semtex wrapped in cellophane, with the detonator primed and ready to go. It’s wired to the starter motor. As soon as anyone turned the ignition key it would have detonated … and with that quantity of plastic, whoever planted it aimed to make a real mess.’
‘More than enough for me, then?’
‘More than enough to take out the nearest walls of the cottage, I’d wager.’
Rupert was blunt and to the point. I felt sick. That mess was supposed to have been me. Now I’d been lucky twice.
After drying his sweat-drenched hair, Rupert leaned back into the Range Rover. He pulled out a flask from which he poured two cups of tea.
‘You don’t change, Rupert.’ I smiled. I took the cup he offered. ‘This confirms one thing.’
‘What’s that then?’ he asked, draining the hot liquid in one gulp.
‘The Stoke Newington bomb. It was definitely meant for me.’
‘You mean you didn’t already know that? This is me you’re talking to, Finlay. Don’t take me for a complete fool. Walk up the lane a ways with me. I want to ask you something.’
Rupert placed a disruptor under his arm. Although similar in appearance to the shotgun that I had seen him just use, the disruptor fired a highly compressed charge of water into the electrics of the bomb. Triggered from a wire remote control, its job was to separate the component parts of the bomb before an electrical current could pass from the battery to the detonator. If placed correctly it wouldn’t matter whether it was aimed at the switch or at the power source. The rapidly expanding water moved faster than an electric current and, literally, blew the bomb apart before it could explode.
We walked side by side. About a hundred yards inside the cordon, Rupert stopped and turned to face me. ‘Lean close and adjust my helmet, Finlay.’
I took the hint. Moving close in, I made out I was tightening the restraining straps.
‘We won’t be heard now,’ Reid whispered, his voice masked even further by the helmet.
‘What did you want to ask me?’ I leaned close as he whispered.
‘Ask you – nothing. Tell you: Last night, two of your chaps tried something on the terrorist hideout and bumped right into SO19.’
I played dumb. ‘My chaps, what do you mean “my chaps”?’
‘SAS, Special Forces, call ’em what you will. SO13 think some of your old boys were doing a job for MI5.’
‘What happened?’
‘Your blokes escaped. SO13 got the prisoner. A PC got shot.’
‘Killed?’
‘No, only bruised, body armour saved him.’
As Rupert looked me in the eye I would have sworn that he saw the sense of relief I felt.
‘Finlay…’ Rupert paused. ‘I’m going to guess that you may know something about last night. Get a message to them before the anti-terrorist boys pull you in. And pull you in they surely will.’
‘Steady Rupert, I’m long since retired…’
He cut me off mid-sentence. ‘Don’t fuck me about, boy.’ Rupert’s patience was short, his whisper hissed from behind the visor. ‘I know how you lads work, you’ll know who to speak to, just listen.’
I listened.
‘This here bomb under your car isn’t IRA work. Nor was the one in Stoke Newington, nor any of the others. These guys are mercenaries. Special Branch have worked out that this is all connected to Castlederg. The Home Secretary has now handed that enquiry over to MI5. MI5 think that someone is targeting you and the other lads but they don’t know who or why. There may even be more that we don’t yet know about. The thing is, your files should never have left MI5. Someone in MI5 sent those documents to Castlederg and now MI5 are running the enquiry.’
I took a deep breath. ‘OK, Rupert. I’m not going to lie. News has reached me about the files and I had worked out that the files weren’t meant to be in Ireland. I just have no idea why they might have been sent there.’
‘So, if you want to find out who is behind this, find out who sent them over there.’
‘I’ll make some calls. Should I mention it to Grahamslaw?’
‘He already knows. He’s sent his best man over to Ireland to look into it … and you need to be careful who you trust.’
‘What makes you say that?’
>
‘MI5 will be far more interested in finding out the “who” and the “why” than worrying about a few old soldiers getting killed. Likely as not they will use you like tethered goats to try and flush out the bad guys.’
‘Remember Monaghan?’
‘Your old CO? Could hardly forget him.’
‘He’s MI5 now. He came to warn me that this might happen. I’m ashamed to say I didn’t take him seriously. He told me that he’s now running the ROSE office.’
‘You sure?’ Rupert looked puzzled. ‘I thought he’d long since retired.’
‘Definite. He’s working on finding out about the files as well.’
‘Well, they’ve probably brought him in on account of his relevant knowledge. Are you under the ROSE umbrella, Finlay?’
‘Yes.’
‘So, what were you involved in, I wonder? ROSE doesn’t look after every former blade does it?’
I just smiled.
Rupert didn’t bother to pursue the question. He knew I wouldn’t elaborate. But he did know that ROSE only looked after soldiers that had been involved in covert operations, the kind that the secret services liked to keep to themselves. It wasn’t uncommon for SAS soldiers to be involved in such ops and many of them went on to work for MI6 and MI5 full time. I wasn’t one of them.
Putting his curiosity aside, Rupert continued up the lane alone. I made my way back to the Range Rover.
Just as I reached the cordon tape, there was a flash of light all around me.
Before I had a chance to register the danger, the pressure wave hit me, pushing me hard on the back and shoulders, and knocking me to the ground, face first. The air was sucked from my lungs and the dust forced its way up my nose and into my ears and eyes. Next, came the sound, like tons of scaffolding poles crashing down around me. As awful as it was, hearing the sound of the explosion was a relief, it meant I was alive.
I lay still for a moment, waiting for the pain to start. There was none. My chest heaved and I started to cough violently as my throat reacted to the dust. I felt my arms, then my legs. All seemed intact.
My next thoughts were for Rupert. I staggered to my feet and ran as best I could to the cottage.
When we parted, Rupert had been a similar distance from the Citroen as I had been from the Range Rover. With the armour, he was much slower moving, which meant he might not have reached the car. I prayed that it wasn’t something he’d done that triggered the bomb to go off.
A great cloud of dust and smoke surrounded the cottage. It obscured my vision and choked my lungs. It was only as I reached the driveway that I saw Rupert’s crumpled figure heaped on the grass verge about thirty yards from where the car had been parked. He lay on his left side with his legs crossed, as though sleeping.
There was nothing recognisable left of the Citroen. The smell of burning plastic filled the air. A tree was alight and flames sprouted up in random patches across the dry grass. Figures were running toward me from the distant trees. Debris lay everywhere.
I crouched over the recumbent figure of my old friend. He was still. There was no obvious sign of injury, the front of his suit was scorched and torn but his limbs appeared intact. Blood oozed in a steady trickle from his nose.
The big man groaned. He winced as he tried to speak.
I did my best to keep him still. ‘Steady, Rupert, ambulance is on its way.’
Rupert groaned again and then slipped into unconsciousness, his head on my lap
I remembered his words, and prayed they weren’t his last.
Chapter 54
The journey in the ambulance seemed to last an eternity.
New PCs are often sent with the paramedic crew to help and in case the victim should die. When I’d first joined the Met, I was no exception. With the extra lessons the army had given me, every now and then I’d been asked to help the occasional ambulance crew. With one paramedic driving, the other would often struggle. They were sometimes glad of the extra pair of hands.
This time, with my old friend on the stretcher, the paramedic told me to sit still and leave it to him. Rupert’s breathing was shallow. Although he’d been unconscious, he looked in a lot of pain. I found out later it was due to four broken ribs, but at the time I was panicked at the thought that his lungs were filling with blood.
When we got to the hospital they put me in a special room for relatives and brought me some sweet tea. I caught sight of myself in the mirror. I looked a wreck. I was covered in dust and had huge, grey bags under my eyes. My hair was matted with dirt and I needed a shave. I headed for the nearest toilets where I did my best to clean myself up and look less scary.
I often talk to myself in the privacy of the bathroom mirror. It’s like having a twin brother as your advisor. I ask myself questions, run through ideas and use my ‘twin’ to help me make decisions. On this day my twin looked pretty sad. I asked him what the hell he thought he was doing. He told me that I looked like an old man who had been up all night doing things that were more suited to those younger and fitter. We agreed on one other thing: I needed my brain testing.
Over the next three hours I read more women’s magazines than I knew existed. In one there was an ‘Are you suffering from stress?’ questionnaire. My score was nearly off the scale. It was no wonder I looked so ill.
Finally, news filtered through that Rupert was OK. He’d been admitted into a private ward and had regained consciousness. There was an armed guard on him and, no matter how much I argued with the two PCs, I was not allowed in. As I was heading off to call a cab, the casualty doctor came out to reassure me that Rupert’s injuries weren’t life threatening. Broken ribs, internal bruising and concussion meant he would be back on his feet in a few days.
It was great news.
I took a cab back to the cottage. The driver was a chatty beggar. When I told him where I wanted to go, he warned me that I wouldn’t be able to get through to the village. ‘Place is crawling with coppers. Say it’s a gas explosion they do. I reckon it’s an old wartime bomb,’ he said, as we waited at the roadblock.
He was right, we couldn’t get through. Not even when it was my car and my home.
After running the gauntlet of cordons and regular checks to see if it was OK for me to proceed, I made it back to the cottage just before midday. The search teams were just finishing in the garden. Anti-terrorist forensics had taped off the driveway and what remained of the car. There wasn’t much left of the little Citroen. Its mangled and scorched remains lay on one side, the twisted metal testament to the power of plastic explosive.
A search of the field backing on to the house was just being brought to a conclusion. Nothing had been found. That was lucky for me.
As I approached the blue-and-white taped cordon, Commander Grahamslaw emerged from the broken door to my home.
‘Hello, Finlay.’
He was stony faced, his walk slow and deliberate. If he knew anything, he wasn’t giving it away easily.
‘Sir.’ I wasn’t sure if the Commander meant to reassure me or arrest me. I knew I looked tired. I wondered if he would also be able to see the fear. Was the stupid game all over?
I looked around at the broken windows of the cottage. The rendering was torn and gouged where flying metal had struck the walls. The paint on the woodwork was scorched and blistered. It was a real state. Jenny was not going to be impressed.
Grahamslaw seemed to read my thoughts. ‘Bit of a mess I’m afraid, good job we got to you in time.’
He smiled, although it looked contrived. I guess he was wary of my reaction. I decided to play it cool.
‘Yes. I’m in your debt,’ I answered. I didn’t return the smile, though.
‘Would you mind telling me where you were last night?’ Grahamslaw’s eyes now watched me carefully.
I knew I was going to have to be cautious. The Commander was a seasoned campaigner, an expert interviewer. I knew he was looking for any change in my body language or indication that might give something away. I resolved
to make sure there was none.
‘After late turn, I came straight home,’ I said. ‘Watched some telly and turned in.’
‘You didn’t go anywhere else after work?’
‘Nowhere.’
‘Your neighbours are reporting they saw a helicopter overhead here last night. Know anything about that?’
I forced a laugh. ‘Not a thing, I was out for the count. Did something happen?’
‘You could say that. Two men who looked like they’d dropped straight off the back of the Iranian Embassy building tried to knock off a terrorist cell last night. I wondered if you might know something about it?’
‘Not a thing, sir.’ I kept my voice strong and respectful. ‘You said “tried”?’
‘Yes, they were compromised by an SO19 firearms team. One of the SO19 boys got shot for his trouble.’
‘Was he hurt?’ I asked.
‘Yes … he was killed. Family, three kids.’
That did it. I hesitated. Fatally. I’d tripped and wasn’t able to conceal my stumble. Rupert had told me the lad was OK. I’d expected Grahamslaw to say the same. He’d tricked me and seen the moment of confusion on my face. It was the clue he’d been hoping for and I’d given it him. He now knew that I was in this deeper than I’d let on. From now on, if Grahamslaw didn’t arrest me, he would be watching me closely.
Out of the frying pan…
Chapter 55
Costello waited patiently.
Yildrim, the Iranian, had said to meet on the Euston station concourse. He was late. Costello stood in the shadows facing the glass wall of the platform area. He watched as suited city commuters rushed for delayed trains, prostitutes touted for business and vagrants begged for the price of their next drink. He scrutinised all that he saw, looking for signs that they were watching him, checking to see if one particular commuter walked past twice, any clue as to possible surveillance. There was none.
