by Jack Fiske
Armstrong grunted. “Bloody technology. You can never rely on it.”
The helicopter cut in again. “We’re going to gain some height. He’s near the road and he might be coming out. We’ve also got a visual on you, unit one. He’s about two hundred yards in front of you and fifty yards into the trees.”
“That’s us,” Trent said. “Keep your speed down and we should be able to spot him.”
Trent wound down the window and they could hear the sound of the bike’s engine as it raced through the woods, near to the road.
O’Hara caught a brief glimpse of the bike, running parallel to them and then it turned back, moving deeper into the trees.
“He’s on a track through the trees,” O’Hara said. “Looks like it’s heading away from the road again.”
Seconds later the helicopter cut in over the loudspeaker. “He’s stopped.”
In the woods, Bryant turned the motorbike off the main track and, letting the engine idle, he forced his way through the undergrowth to a patch of bracken which stood under the heavy branches of a horse chestnut tree. He stopped well under its canopy of leaves, switched off the engine and dismounted, pulling his helmet off as he did so. The woods were silent. Even the birds had stopped singing, frightened by the noise of the engine; silent that is apart from the quiet but steady beat of a helicopter’s rotors from somewhere overhead. Bryant wasn’t surprised. He’d been followed by a police helicopter before. They could pinpoint a man on the ground even from altitude with their cameras. They could do the same in pitch darkness using infrared. What they couldn’t do though, was to follow a man on his own, under trees – especially on a warm day. There just wasn’t enough of a heat signature. Bryant kicked the bike’s stand down and left it next to the tree, loose wires trailing over its petrol tank from the ignition switch that he’d wired earlier. Other than that, the bike wasn’t damaged. It was a good machine, its owner would be glad to get it back.
Hidden under the bracken was another bike. Not a motorbike this time, but a mountain bike. Apart from being an easy target for the helicopter, the motorbike would stand out like a sore thumb in the woods nearer to town. A push-bike on the other hand was a common sight. Bryant dragged the bike out from the undergrowth and propped it against the tree. His crash helmet disappeared into the bag that was slung across one shoulder, together with the box of electronics and was replaced by a cycle helmet. Throwing one leg over the bike, he let it freewheel downhill taking care to keep under the cover of the larger trees, until a few moments later he was on a well worn cycle track. This part of the wood was criss-crossed by paths and was regularly used by walkers, horses, and bike riders, one of whom passed him, dressed in black and yellow lycra, going in the other direction. He checked his watch. A few minutes and he would be in Cadnam.
O’Hara had stopped the car and he and Trent were listening to the running commentary coming from the loudspeaker.
“What’s happening?” Armstrong demanded.
The voice from the helicopter replied, “He’s stopped. He’s left the bike I think. Yes. I can still see him on the infrared. Shit he’s moving quickly if he’s on foot. Hell, I’ve lost him. Circle round. Circle round, I’ll try and pick him up again.”
The heat of the bike engine stood out like a beacon on the infrared, but the man himself was not that easy to pick up under the trees.”
Through the open window, Trent and O’Hara could hear the helicopter circling in the distance.
“There’s no sign of him. Wait, I think I’ve got him again. No that can’t be it’s too big. Looks like a pony.”
The helicopter circled for another ten or fifteen minutes, flying a search pattern, but eventually they had to admit that they’d lost the target completely.
“What now?” Trent asked over the phone.
Armstrong gave instructions for them to go and check the motorbike, which the helicopter could still see from its heat signature, whilst the other cars patrolled the surrounding roads, looking for any sign of its rider.
The two left the car where it was and walked into the trees. As they pushed their way through the undergrowth, a green Volkswagen passed them and carried on down the road. The car slowed slightly as one of its occupants reported to police control that they had just passed unit one and were continuing in the direction of Cadnam.
In Cadnam, Bryant cycled the length of the High Street, turned into a side road and stopped beside an inconspicuous Ford Escort. The electric window on the passenger side rolled down and Bryant bent down and spoke across the empty passenger seat to the driver. Satisfied with the reply, Bryant unslung the bag from his shoulder, took out the package that he’d picked up in the woods and leant into the car, placing it gently on the seat. The electric window wound itself shut and the Ford Escort pulled out and drove away in the direction of the M27 and its ultimate destination, some seven or eight miles away in Southampton.
Bryant reached over the front of his bike to pull a piece of twig out of the braking mechanism and then turned round to cycle back to the edge of town. Five minutes later he was handing his bag to Quinn, who opened the back of the Volvo for him, so that he could lift the bike inside. Quinn slid behind the wheel and with Bryant in the passenger seat, the two drove north, back towards Henson’s Farm.
As they left Cadnam, they passed a green Volkswagen going in the opposite direction. Its two occupants were taking their time, driving slowly and taking a particular interest in their surroundings. However, as the cars passed, they didn’t give the black Volvo a second glance.
THIRTEEN
It was just after eight on Tuesday morning and the streets around Thames House were busy. The traffic was nose to tail and people hurried along crowded pavements, rushing to start another day at the office.
Archie stepped into the relative quiet of the MI5 building and presented his pass at the desk. He’d made an effort to come in early this morning so he could go over the reports from yesterday evening. Armstrong had called a meeting for nine-thirty to brief the field agents and he wanted to be prepared.
There were relatively few people in at this time of day and the open plan office on the first floor was almost deserted. Two of his colleagues were having a discussion in the far corner and one of the cleaners was still pushing a mop unenthusiastically over the hard flooring around the drinks machine.
As he got to his desk and put his briefcase down, the phone rang.
He looked at the phone with annoyance and reached over to pick it up.
“Archie,” Armstrong’s voice said from the other end, “I’m glad you’re in. Come upstairs, I’ve got a job for you.”
So much for reading reports, Archie thought. Armstrong must have watched him arrive on the monitors. He took a moment or two to switch his computer on and check for e-mails and then hurried upstairs to see what the boss wanted.
The door to Armstrong’s office was open and Archie walked straight in. Armstrong was chatting to another of the agents assigned to the case; Andy Veitch-Moir, the man who had been running the ops room overnight. The two of them got to their feet as he came in. Andy would have been due to finish his shift at nine, but from the look on his face, Archie guessed that he’d just been told that he wasn’t.
Armstrong handed a report sheet to Archie.
“Andy’s just been on the phone to the hospital. It appears that our gunman is awake and in reasonable shape. The hospital says there’s no reason we can’t interview him if we want to.”
Archie glanced through the report, picking out the details.
“I want you and Andy to go over there and find out what he was up to last night. I’ll arrange for one of the medical team to meet you there and handle the interrogation.”
“Is he well enough for that?” Archie asked dubiously.
“Apparently,” Andy confirmed. “The guy who nailed him was a pretty good shot. He’s got a couple of broken bones and a hole through the shoulder, but the consultant says it’s nowhere near any vital organ.
They’re even asking when we want to take him away.”
“Do we want to take him away?” Archie asked.
“Depends who he is,” Armstrong answered, taking the report back. “The sooner you two get over there, the sooner we’ll find out.”
It didn’t take them long to get to the hospital, or to find their man. He was in a private room on the second floor. Two armed police sat on chairs outside and when Archie glanced through the small glass window that was set in the door, he could see there were thick bars on all of the windows.
Both identified themselves to the men outside and then, since there was no sign of a medical officer, they went in search of a cup of tea and something to eat. Andy hadn’t eaten since the night before and was complaining that he didn’t function well if he didn’t have breakfast.
After a lengthy walk down never-ending corridors, the search for food proved to be fruitless and Andy had to settle for a packet of crisps and a cereal bar from a vending machine. The same was true for the tea, although a second machine did give them two cups of a light brown liquid, which claimed to be ‘fresh leaf tea’.
As they walked back, Andy’s phone rang to tell them that their man had arrived and they quickened their pace so they didn’t keep him waiting.
On the second floor, Paul Stamford, the medical officer, was standing outside the gunman’s room deep in conversation with someone who looked like a senior doctor. The two were going through the patient’s notes and had evidently come to some agreement, as the doctor nodded reluctantly, handed the notes to Stamford and left him to get on with it.
Archie had met Stamford before. In his mid fifties, he had once been a consultant psychiatrist in the NHS and had also worked with the army for several years before getting involved with MI5. Nowadays, he had a private practice in Harley Street and only turned out for MI5 when his particular skills were required.
Stamford peered over a pair of half moon spectacles at them.
“Ah good, you’re here. Have you brought a list of questions with you?”
Andy produced a sheet of paper that he and Armstrong had worked on earlier.
“It’s a bit rough I’m afraid. We don’t know who he is at the moment.”
“That’s fine,” Stamford said, looking down the list. “We’ll soon remedy that. Why don’t you fill me in on the background and then I can decide how we should tackle it.”
The three found a quiet spot at the end of the corridor and Andy briefed Stamford with as much as they knew. Stamford nodded and made a few notes, asking an occasional question.
“Right,” Stamford said, once he had all the detail. “I’d like you two to stay out here for the time being. I’ll get started and when I’m ready I’ll call you in. You could bring my case in with you, if you would.”
Stamford had left a leather briefcase on an empty trolley that stood against the wall. He opened it and produced a white coat and a stethoscope, both of which he put on, then dug down to the bottom for a hypodermic and a small box of glass ampoules.
“Shouldn’t be long,” he said, pocketing the hypodermic and two of the ampoules.
Stamford heard the key turn in the lock behind him as he glanced around the room. It was typical of a hospital of this age. The walls had been painted an antiseptic shade of white, whilst the floor was covered in well polished blue linoleum that bore several scuff marks from the rubber wheels of passing trolleys. Apart from the bed that stood directly beneath the barred window, there was little other furniture. A cheap cabinet to the left of the bed held a jug of warm water and a plastic glass, whilst to the right, there was a brown vinyl armchair that had seen better days. Two gas bottles stood on a rack in the corner beside an unused intravenous drip and a wheeled table had been positioned across the bed, presumably for the patient to have breakfast, as there was an empty bowl and coffee cup on a tray at one end.
Stamford was surprised by the man who lay in the bed. He was medium build, in his late twenties or early thirties, with pale skin and dark hair, receding slightly at the temples. If he didn’t know better, Stamford would have guessed that the man did a clerical job for a living. Dressed in striped hospital pyjamas, the man had his left shoulder bandaged and one arm strapped across his chest. Propped up by a pile of pillows, he was reading a copy of the Daily Mail that lay open on the bed-table next to the remains of his breakfast.
Stamford glanced at the notes which he’d brought in with him.
“Good morning Mr Smith. How are we feeling today?”
Smith, if that was his real name, folded the paper and put it aside.
“Oh, not bad doctor. As well as can be expected I suppose with a hole in my shoulder.”
Stamford stepped over to the bed and took hold of Smith’s free wrist with a practised hand, putting two fingers on his pulse and looking down to follow the progress of the second hand on his gold wristwatch.
“That’s fine,” Stamford said, satisfied that the pulse was regular. “Could you unbutton your top for me, I’d like to listen to your chest.”
Smith struggled slightly with the buttons, only having one free hand, but managed to undo his pyjama jacket and let it fall open. Whoever had fixed him up had done a good job. His shoulder was neatly bandaged with his arm strapped in front to immobilise the joint. There was a touch of blood on the dressing, which would need to be changed later in the day, and a large area of bruising, but bearing in mind what had happened to him, the patient was in fairly good shape.
Stamford fitted the stethoscope into his ears and placed the other end on Smith’s chest. Smith jumped slightly at the touch of the cold metal.
“Sorry,” Stamford apologised, as he tapped Smith’s chest sharply with two fingers. “I should have warmed it up.”
Smith tensed as Stamford tapped nearer to his injured shoulder and then relaxed when he took the stethoscope from his ears and let it hang loosely around his neck.
“You’ll live,” he pronounced. “Your lungs sound fine. I just want to give you a shot of antibiotic as a precaution and then I’ll leave you in peace.”
Stamford checked the man’s weight from the medical chart and then took one of the ampoules from his pocket, drawing up some of the liquid into a syringe, careful to cover the label as he did so. Smith lay there quietly whilst Stamford rolled up his sleeve for him and pressed the needle expertly into a vein.
The drug would take a few minutes to work. Until it did, Stamford chatted about nothing in particular: the weather, what Smith had been given for breakfast, the fact that there weren’t enough nurses in the NHS anymore. Smith’s eyelids started to droop and he had a slightly glazed expression. Stamford’s voice changed gradually, taking on a steady reassuring tone; one which said, ‘don’t worry I’m in charge, just do as I say and everything will be fine’.
“Are you feeling tired?” Stamford asked.
“Tired,” Smith confirmed in a heavy voice.
“I want you to relax,” Stamford continued.
“Yes, relax,” Smith agreed, his voice slurring slightly.
“Close your eyes and breathe slowly.”
Smith’s eyes obediently closed and his breathing deepened. Stamford continued the process, slowly taking his patient into a deep hypnotic state, until he was happy that he was receptive to questioning.
“Do you know who I am?” Stamford asked.
“Doctor,” Smith replied quietly.
“That’s right. You lie there and relax for a minute or two and then I’d like to ask you some questions.”
Stamford checked the man’s pulse again and then went to the door, where he caught Archie’s attention through the small glass panel and beckoned for the two of them to come in.
As they entered, Stamford put a finger to his lips, indicating that they should be quiet, took his briefcase from Archie and guided them to a position where they could watch and listen, but weren’t in the way.
Smith was breathing slowly and regularly, with the hint of a smile on his face. Stamford took
a small tape recorder from his case, turned it on and put it on the bedside table.
“Are you feeling relaxed?” Stamford asked.
“Yes,” Smith replied, in the same slurred tone as before.
Archie could detect the man’s Irish accent in that one word and waited to hear more.
“Then we’ll begin,” Stamford said.
“What day is it today?”
“Tuesday,” Smith replied.
“That’s right. Now tell me, what is your name?”
“David.”
“David what?”
“David Garrett.”
“That’s good. Now David, where do you live?”
“Belfast,” Garrett replied.
The conversation went on like this for some minutes. Stamford deliberately starting with straightforward, easy to answer questions and gradually building up to the more important matters. Every so often, he would check his watch and occasionally he would lean over the patient’s bed and check his pulse.
Stamford’s voice was hypnotic without any drug and Archie found that he had to concentrate to prevent his own eyes from closing. He was taking notes on a small pad and without that task, it would have been hard to pay attention to what was being said.
Once Stamford had covered the basics, he started taking questions from the sheet of paper that Andy had given him.
“Tell me David. Who sent you to the Eastgate Services yesterday?”
“Mr McArthur, doctor.”
“And who would Mr McArthur be?”
“McArthur’s the top man over here.”
“Yes. Of course he is,” Stamford agreed, as if he had known all along. “The top man in what David?”
“The Provos,” Garrett replied with a touch of impatience.
Stamford glanced at the others.
