by Matt Johnson
At nine-fifteen, a familiar, olive-skinned figure appeared at the top of the station escalators. His hair was short, black, and his moustache trimmed. The suit he was wearing looked expensive. Costello glanced down at his torn jeans and dirty trainers. He didn’t really like Yildrim, but work was work and payment was due.
Costello maintained his cautious watch as the Iranian walked across the concourse and onto Euston Road. Satisfied that there was no tail, Costello followed at a discreet distance. They turned west, crossed the main road and then went south, down Gower Street.
As Costello passed University College Hospital he realised that his objective was nowhere to be seen. The Irishman quickened his pace and as he reached the nurses’ home entrance a voice beckoned him from the doorway. ‘In here, in here.’
Costello turned in. He wasn’t in the mood for small talk so he got straight to the point. ‘You got the money?’ he asked.
Yildrim was surprisingly angry. ‘You stupid man, you messed up. Now you miss Finlay twice.’
‘What went wrong? That bomb was a good design, never let me down before.’
Costello was confused. He’d been careful to wire the bomb to the ignition system. The only way it could fail was if the wrong person had started up the car.
‘Oh, it went off, just blew up a bomb-disposal man instead. Finlay found it.’
Costello laughed, then immediately stifled his amusement. A young uniformed nurse shuffled past them as they stood in the doorway.
He whispered, ‘That’ll have to do, at least we killed one more.’
‘You didn’t kill him, he’s in hospital, and there won’t be another chance at Finlay,’ Yildrim hissed, his teeth and fists clenched.
‘There’s no more on the list then?’
‘A couple, yes. But it makes little difference; every policeman in the land is now looking for you.’
Costello sighed. ‘Any news of Dominic? I’ve tried to phone him but he doesn’t answer.’
‘You don’t know?’
‘Know? Know what?’ Costello was beginning to get angry. Everything was going wrong on this operation.
‘The police have your friend. He is lucky to be alive. Finlay tried to kill him but the police got to him first. He is at Paddington Green.’
‘Fuck it. Now all I’ve got left is that prat, Hewitson.’
Yildrim grinned, exposing a surprisingly good set of teeth. Costello despised the arrogance that it revealed. It was the smile of a man with knowledge, a man with power.
‘The police will, by now, have your friend Michael as well. They have been following him to get to you. It will soon be time for you to leave this country, my friend.’
‘Leave? What do you mean, leave? What about my money?’ Costello demanded.
‘My masters will not countenance full payment as you did not complete your mission, I am sorry.’
Costello exploded. ‘That fuckin’ stinks. You’ve been sat on your arses while I’ve killed three of the four men you wanted. You owe me.’ He stepped in closer to Yildrim, his stance threatening.
The Iranian raised his hands in a gesture of appeasement. ‘There is one chance … perhaps,’ he said.
‘And what might that be?’
‘I will need your help … you will need to show me where I can find Finlay.’
‘You want to give the job to someone else?’
‘No … not at all, Declan. I will take care of Finlay myself. I want you to deal with another job. Can you do that simple thing for me?’
‘Shooting or a bomb?’
‘A bomb … another car.’
‘Ok … I’ll need time to sort some Semtex, but if you can get me enough information to identify the new target, I can deal with it.’
‘I will get you the explosive you need. Have you lost your weapons as well?’
‘At the flat, yes. I just have a Browning left.’ Costello patted his jacket to indicate where the pistol sat ready should he need it. It served as a little reminder to the Iranian that he could also use it if crossed.
‘OK, that will have to do. I am truly sorry about your friends, Declan,’ said Yildrim, his voice calm and reassuring. ‘For this reason I have taken a great personal risk. I have money for you, not what you were promised but enough. If you improve your results, I’m sure there will be more.’ Yildrim reached for his inside pocket.
Costello trusted no one. Sensing a double-cross, he reached for Yildrim’s arm, stopping it withdrawing from the inside of the suit jacket. He reached into the Iranian’s pocket and pulled out the envelope inside. There was no gun. He opened the envelope and pulled out the fifty-pound notes and a photograph of a man. Costello flicked through the cash. There was just about a thousand pounds. Small compensation for the shit this job had caused him, he thought.
‘Is this the lot?’ Costello glanced out into the street, then stuffed the notes into his sock.
‘There is a name and address on the back of the photograph. He is your next target. Kill him soon. I will have to find another way to deal with Finlay. Complete your mission and there will be a further payment.’
‘You won’t get another go at Finlay. By now he’ll be in witness protection.’
‘To be sure, Declan.’
Costello scowled at the poor attempt to mimic his accent. Although tempted to register the fact that he wasn’t amused, he thought better of it, turned on his heel and jogged into the night. It was the first time the Iranian had shown any sense of humour. Why now, he wondered?
He was just about to turn the corner onto Euston Road when, from behind came the sound of a car screeching to a halt. It sounded like an impending collision. Curiosity made him stop jogging and turn to look.
It was a police car, an armed-response vehicle. It had pulled up outside the very building where he and the Iranian had been talking not thirty seconds earlier. Two cops were approaching the entrance. Both had MP5 rifles levelled at the doorway.
Costello didn’t need to think about his next move. Quickly, he turned and headed for the nearby tube station. It was time to get off the street.
Chapter 56
I hated going sick with stress. Even the simple act of uttering the words made me feel uncomfortable. There were too many who abused it, took time off at the slightest excuse. In my view, stress was just another word for skive.
Thing was, I had no choice and, in truth, I was stressed; one look in that hospital mirror had confirmed it. With the things that I had to do, I didn’t need the distraction of work.
Chief Superintendent Sinclair called me about an hour after I phoned in. He wasn’t surprised at my decision. Not every copper had to put up with his car and home being blown up by terrorists. He scrubbed my sick report, gave me three weeks compassionate leave and suggested, very firmly, that I allow SO13 to put my family into the witness-protection programme. I thanked him and promised to give it serious consideration.
I spent the first morning after the attack with the Yellow Pages, trying to find a builder. With the dry weather, they were all fully booked. After two hours of phone calls, I struck lucky and found one who had just had a major job cancelled at the last minute. They started the following day.
Over the next few days, Grahamslaw phoned me several times. He wasn’t impressed, calling me a belligerent fool. He agreed with Iain Sinclair that I should allow the police to place my family in a safe house.
By day, I pottered around making cups of tea for the builders and hoping they would be finished before Jenny saw the damage. I hired a car to replace the Citroen and bought a new mobile phone. At night, I slept in the spare bedroom.
The nightmares were back. Same scenario, repeated night after sweaty night. I was back at the scene of the ambush in Northern Ireland. I’d be lying on the ground, wounded and unable to move. A hooded terrorist, gun in hand, stood over me. I would watch, powerless to save myself as he pulled the trigger. Once again, I went through the nightly routine of placing a towel on the bed sheet to soak up the swea
t.
The loss adjustor the insurance company sent round was sympathetic, if a little surprised. Insurance men weren’t used to dealing with bomb-damage claims. Still, he assured me that everything would be fine and they would settle up direct with the builder.
To my amazement, repairs to the house were complete inside a few days. The rendering was freshly painted and the door replaced. It looked better than new. The little Citroen had been taken away on a police low-loader to be forensically examined.
I delayed telling Jenny, although I knew I would have to in the end. The attack had been kept out of the press so far, but the locals knew about it, so it was only a question of time before everyone else would. As luck would have it, Jenny hadn’t been expecting to hear from me. If everything had gone to plan, Kevin and I should have been holed up in the Essex countryside with a terrorist to interrogate. With that in mind, I’d warned her not to anticipate any calls.
Eventually I phoned her at her mother’s. I was nervous as the receiver started to ring. Although I’d always got on quite well with Jenny’s parents, after her father had died her mother had tried to get more involved in our lives. It was understandable in the circumstances, especially after Becky was born. But there were times when I wondered just whose child Becky was. At times I would find myself resenting the intrusion and the constant advice. That had led to arguments, with Jenny stuck in the middle. Now my relationship with her mum was strained and the bruising to Jenny’s face could only have made things worse. I hoped, therefore, that my mother-in-law wouldn’t answer the phone. Jenny couldn’t tell her the real reason for her staying there, so her mother was bound to conclude the worst. It had to look like we had separated. I could expect the cold shoulder.
I was in luck, however. Jenny answered. It was wonderful to hear her voice. I think I told her I loved her more in those first five minutes than I had when we’d first fallen for each other. As we hadn’t spoken for some days, she had been worried. I did my best to apologise and then, as quickly as I dared, I steered the conversation onto Becky. The news was good. Our daughter was fine and seemed to be taking the upheaval in her stride. Jenny said she was missing her dad. That hurt. I missed her, too, missed having her tiny arms wrapped around my neck and her legs around my waist as I carried her to bed. I missed kissing her goodnight and then sneaking into her room to stare at her while she slept. Children are so peaceful when they sleep and Becky was the prettiest sleeper I had ever seen. But then she was mine, and that made her special.
I knew that I wasn’t going to be able to stall much longer, so I broke the news about the house. Jenny went quiet. I probed for some reaction.
‘Jen, are you OK? Say something,’ I said, as I tried to end the silence.
‘Like what, Bob? Like, I’m glad you’re OK, I’m sorry about the bomb-disposal man, like what, like what?’ She began to cry, the words turning to sobs.
I felt completely impotent. I wanted to hold her and reassure her, but what could I do on the end of a telephone line? Nothing. There was no choice, I would have to go and see her. I hung up before she could try to persuade me otherwise.
It was nearly midnight as I pulled into the drive. Jenny answered the door, her mother having gone to bed. We hugged, the embrace was warm and lingering, the kiss that followed passionate and reassuring. We were going to be OK. No matter what life threw at us.
The first thing Jenny did was take my hand and lead me up the stairs. There in the small bedroom lay Becky, fast asleep. She looked a picture. Her arms were wrapped around a tiny teddy bear. As I stood there in the half-light she stirred and then opened her eyes. It was one of those wonderful moments that will stay with me for all time. As she recognised me, she reached out. I sat down on the bed and held her hand. Jenny was standing behind me and as I glanced around I saw that she was crying again.
‘I’m sorry this all had to happen, Jenny,’ I whispered. ‘Sorry I never told you about my past and sorry that it’s all gone bent. I’m just so very, very sorry.’ A lump was forming in my throat that made the words hard to get out.
Jenny sat next to me on the bed. She put her arms around me. ‘Look at your daughter, Bob. Just look at her. She needs her dad. I need her dad. You can’t begin to imagine what it’s been like, sitting here worrying what is happening to you, fending off my mother’s accusations, trying to put on a brave face. If you want to quit now, I’ll understand. I know I said fight back. Now I’m not so sure. It’s easy for you, you’ve been trained for this. I’m not sure I can take it anymore.’
‘We need to talk,’ I said.
‘Not here. Let’s go for a drive.’
Becky fell asleep the moment I rested her hand on the sheet.
Jenny and I drove out into the countryside. I knew a quiet car park that overlooked Harrow on the Hill. Known locally as ‘Old Reading’, it was deserted. As we pulled in and parked, it reminded me of days when, as a teenager, I had brought girls to this very spot. That seemed like a previous life now.
Jenny had been quiet for the whole journey. I figured I would wait until we were parked up before we spoke. I needed to reassure her and I needed her counsel. In the event, we didn’t talk much. We kissed, cuddled and held hands. I did a lot of apologising; Jenny was very understanding. I was right about her mum – she had assumed we’d separated and Jenny had been unable to convince her otherwise. I described the damage to the cottage and how the builders had now fixed it. That was when emotions got the better of her again. She wanted to see the house. And she wanted to see it straight away. I pleaded with her to wait, I emphasised the danger. I had no hope, she’d made up her mind. I gave in.
As if matters couldn’t be any worse, there was a power cut when we arrived. I rootled around and found some candles and a small torch in a cupboard under the sink. The flickering candlelight gave the cottage an eerie, ghost-like quality that did nothing to help my attempts at reassurance.
But Jenny clearly wanted something other than reassurance. As I followed her around the cottage, I was talking about the way the cottage looked as good as new in the daylight, about Grahamslaw’s suspicions, about the disaster at Alma House and about the option we had to cut and run. It was only when we reached our bedroom and I put the candle down, and Jenny started to unbutton my shirt, that I realised she had other ideas. For a second, I resisted. She sensed my reluctance and held my face in her hands. She looked me straight in the eye.
‘I feel better now. Just being with you was what I needed. You’re going to win this battle, Bob Finlay. And before you do, I just want to remind you what you’re fighting for.’
Chapter 57
Sitting by the pond in the centre of Harlow Common would normally have been a relaxing experience. I watched quietly as young moorhens followed their mum across the water and dragonflies darted here and there in the gentle breeze. Hardly a sound reached my ears.
However, I was waiting for Kevin. We had plans to discuss and my mind was awash with thoughts.
After the Alma House debacle, Kevin had gone straight back to work. I admired his front. One night we were abseiling from a helicopter in a failed attempt to snatch a terrorist, the next morning he was driving a panda car around the streets of Hornchurch.
We agreed before splitting up that we would refrain from contact for a few days. If either one of us had been compromised by the Anti-Terrorist Squad, we figured it might be best for the other if we didn’t communicate.
Like me, Kevin had left the army a few years after the Iranian Embassy operation. He’d been married for two years at that time and hadn’t seen his wife for more than a total of six months. After missing the birth of his son and the celebration of his first birthday, he’d started to question his priorities.
At the embassy, Kevin had killed the youngest Arab terrorist. He had been with Trooper Billy Hart when they had located the boy hiding in a third-floor toilet. Billy had taken out the door lock with his shotgun and then dropped a stun grenade through the hole where the lock had been. As
it exploded, a young man had screamed behind the door. At the operation debrief, Billy had explained how the boy had been crouched on the toilet, his arms wrapped around his head shielding his face. He was whimpering. Kevin had hesitated for a moment before firing. It was a lesson to us all and the reason that the CO had asked him to mention it. The reason was that the boy looked so young, maybe fifteen; sixteen tops. Kevin’s moment of hesitation could have cost both his and Billy’s lives. In the terrorist’s right hand, he was holding something metal, with an aerial. To Billy, it looked for all the world like a transmitter.
The boy had held his hands up. Only then had Kevin opened fire. His first two rounds had shattered the boy’s hand and wrecked the radio he held up so pathetically. The next burst tore through the boy’s face and spread blood, bone and brain tissue across the cistern and wall behind. Only afterwards did it occur to Kevin that the young boy may have been trying to surrender. But, as the CO correctly pointed out, if it had been a detonator in his hand, the result of the operation might have been very different.
During the debrief we found out the young Arab’s name. It was Abdul Farik. As a way of reassuring Kevin, the intelligence officer who interviewed the entry teams suggested that Abdul had feared capture and ridicule more than he feared death. He had been told that if caught he would be tortured and put on display. Abdul had probably held up the transistor radio he had bought in Selfridges so Kevin would think it was a bomb and shoot him. Kevin had granted his wish.
Kevin had asked to be excused at that point. When he hadn’t returned to the debrief after ten minutes, I had been sent to find him. I found him locked in the toilet. He was curled in a ball, his arms wrapped around his head, exactly as Abdul Farik had been.
About a week later, I was called in to see the regimental Sergeant Major to discuss some problems that Kevin had been having. Apparently he hadn’t been sleeping well and had experienced nightmares about shooting Farik. The RSM also mentioned how Kevin could be having a normal conversation one moment and the next, for no apparent reason, he would launch into an argument with one of the other lads.
