The Falklands Intercept

by Crispin Black

  He was expected at dinner. It would not be long before 74 despatched someone to check up but that was not going to help now. And they would come after him when they realised he was no longer in the rooms. They probably thought he was hiding there. Should he try to take them on as they came through the window after him? It was tempting but with at least two and possibly more in the team it would be wiser to run for it. The music stopped. They knew he wasn’t there.

  Jacot had scrambled round the mullioned window and was perched on top of its overhang. On the wall twenty feet away he could see the reflection of a torch dancing on the wall. They were coming through the window. Where to go? There was no obvious route for escape. No drainpipes or anything that immediately looked useful. He could go down but they would be able to shoot him easily. He had to go up. They could kill him up here and that would be that. They would not even have to shoot him. Just throw him off the roof. But up looked the better bet. He had scanned the roof outline of the college many times over the years delighting in its quirks and crenellations, but his concern had always been aesthetics rather than escape.

  A pair of buttresses ran from the top of the roof to the top of the chapel roof a further thirty feet or so high. If he could get onto the chapel roof he would be safe. His own little Fort Zinderneuf that he could defend against all comers. But he would have to ‘chimney’ in mountaineering slang – force his back against one side of the buttress and his feet against the other and shimmy up. It would be difficult. And, oh God, he didn’t have his gloves on. He went for it. One foot and one hand on the facing buttress. Back and the other hand pressed behind him. Each shimmy lifted him about eighteen inches. His hands were agony on the rough limestone – his scarred flesh felt thin and dry as he jammed his hands into any gaps or crevices he could find. He could not look down but could hear the window being opened. They would assume he had gone downwards.

  Jacot’s back was on fire but he was at the ledge leading onto the chapel roof. Something thudded next to his head and he heard the hiss of a silenced bullet. He heaved himself up and was over. Safe, for now at least. But he wasn’t going to be safe in Cambridge for long. These days it wasn’t all guns and bullets. He had to be careful they did not kill him some other way. He could see most of Cambridge from the roof of the chapel.

  They would be waiting but they could not wait long in college – not this time. Their orders would be specific – kill the target and don’t get caught. Above all, don’t hurt anyone else. But still time to get out. He looked around. There was a door to a small tower at the southwest corner but it was locked. Just as well – they would have the exits from the chapel covered. He could stay and attract attention but best to get out and get far away.

  Peering through the pierced Gothic parapet he took stock of the situation. His opponents were well concealed but with luck only expecting the obvious. If he could get off the chapel roof and across the river he would be safe.

  In reality his predicament was nowhere near as serious as his opponents supposed. The courts and chapels of Cambridge colleges were easier to climb than they looked. In the 1930s it had been a popular undergraduate pastime. In those days most of the colleges were locked at ten o’clock. The great front doors bolted as in medieval days against the dangers of the night. The academic communities turned in on themselves. College porters patrolled the obvious and easy points of access. The women’s colleges were secured even earlier. Any undergraduate out and about late at night had to have leave from his tutor and wear a college gown. They were easily spotted by the bulldogs and proctors who formed the university police – porters from the colleges and young often athletic dons who patrolled the streets of Cambridge keeping order. But human nature being what it was, there were always young men in pursuit of conviviality or female companionship who were reluctant to be locked in at night. They climbed in and out of the colleges undetected. Some of the more daring sort then developed these skills not for the pursuit of pleasure but for the thrill of climbing itself. There are no hills worth climbing nearby so what better way to keep in trim for the Alpine season than climbing the sheer faces and looming overhangs of the university’s own buildings. Most routes had been covered over the years and Jacot was comforted by the thought that there must be more than one way of the St James’ Chapel roof.

  Indeed there was: a workable route off the chapel, onto the roof of the library and then down onto the Bridge of Sorrows and then away. It was a sheer drop of some sixty feet onto the library roof. But horizontal bands of stone in the corner of the buttress would make it possible. A very chunky looking lightning conductor clamped periodically to the wall every few feet would make it easier. It was going to hurt his hands but it could be done.

  Ninety seconds later without mishap he dropped lightly onto the library roof – unseen thanks to the medieval passion for screens and tracery which concealed him from the ground. But God his hands hurt and by now they were bleeding. He kept low and crawled the final few feet to where the library roof overlooked the bridge. He could see that in order to get onto the roof of the bridge he was going to have to jump for his life. But by then he would no longer be far above the town and if he slipped the worst that would be involved would be a dunking rather than death. The drop was twenty feet but just doable if he gripped the edge of the guttering and let himself down full length. He would have to push off with all his strength to avoid two large stone gargoyles obstructing his descent. He made it just and without any injury. A twisted ankle at this stage would be disastrous. He would lie low on the roof for some minutes – enough to make the opposition nervous. And then come to earth where they wouldn’t expect him. It took only a short crouching run across the top of the bridge and a quick scramble down a nicely grooved buttress on the other side and he was once again at ground level.

  He was fit for his very late forties. Nothing dramatic like running marathons but long brisk walks in the Dorset countryside at the weekends. Some jogging and a lot of press-ups during the week. And every year, without fail – skiing in Switzerland – preferably in the shadow of the Eiger.

  He had slipped his iPhone into his pocket before bugging out. It was off. But you could in certain circumstances be followed even if the phone was off. Jacot could not be sure. In any case if the people who were trying to kill him were who he thought they were then they had access to all kinds of electronic surveillance equipment. There might be a van somewhere in Cambridge at this very moment listening out for him. And even if he managed to slip through the electronic net his opponents might have voice recognition software – if he spoke on a mobile phone or even a landline anywhere within a few miles of Cambridge the system would alarm and very quickly they could get a fix on him and that would be that. He dropped the iPhone gently into a hedge. There was only one thing for it – get out of Cambridge and then call for help. He ran all the way across “The Backs”, slowing down only when he reached the Madingley Road. He wrapped his right hand which was oozing blood in a handkerchief, dusted himself down and took a deep breath. Sheltering in the shadowy lee of the hedge he looked carefully around checking to see that he was not being followed. There was plenty of traffic and a few people. It looked as though he had made it.

  Actually he was feeling rather pleased with himself. He had outwitted, outclimbed and outrun a group of professional ex-special forces hit-men. Two had come into his rooms. There were probably at least four more in support. Not bad for a day’s work. A few minutes later he hailed a taxi and within half an hour found himself in Ely. Celia Nevinson had given him an emergency number which he rang from a call box. It rang and rang and made some very odd noises but eventually someone picked up.

  ‘Hello. Hello.’

  ‘Daniel, are you OK?’

  Jacot was amazed – the voice at the end of the line was Monica’s.

  ‘Dan don’t explain. We have just found out. Where are you?’

  ‘Ely, outside the cathedral.’

  ‘Stay there. We are close by. Don�
��t use a mobile phone. Not even your special one. Keep out of sight. Give us half an hour. We will be in a dark blue Mercedes with diplomatic plates.’

  Jacot slipped into the cathedral. He was on the run and his initial exhilaration was giving way to fear. But entering one of England’s greatest cathedrals was still a comforting experience and its recesses would provide a safe place to hide, at least for a short period. Unfortunately it was lighter inside than he remembered. There were no shadowy spaces or vast tombs in the nave that he could shelter behind. The Lady Chapel to his left was a blaze of light and too exposed – Cromwell’s men had destroyed the stained glass in this their boss’ home town. He was fairly sure his opponents had not followed him here but he still wanted to hide. Suddenly he was in the Choir. Slipping into the back row of the choir stalls, Jacot lay down on the floor. He couldn’t be seen. The presence of others gave some safety as well. Shame there was no stained glass – it would have made it darker. Even the people he was up against would not want to kill him in broad daylight – or that’s what he hoped.

  It was a long half an hour but at last it was time to move. He took a circuitous route leaving the cathedral through a small door on the south side that led to the old monastic buildings. Meandering his way unchallenged through these he got himself into a position from which he could observe the West front. Sure enough there was a dark blue Mercedes parked a few feet away. Monica was in the back. The driver got out and walked slowly towards Jacot. A second man got out of the car and stood by the passenger door. Neither man was wearing dark glasses or an earpiece but it was clear the type of men they were.

  ‘Bonjour Mon Colonel.’ The tall Frenchman took Jacot’s arm gently. Looking round all the time, he guided Jacot to the car and handed him firmly in. They drove slowly off north picking up speed once they left the town.

  ‘Monica! Nice of you to give me a lift.’

  ‘Daniel, give me your jacket. I need to check it. And let’s look at your shoes. No mobile phone?’

  ‘No’, replied Jacot.

  She gave him his jacket back. She looked closely at each of the heels on his shoes. ‘No worries Mon Colonel, I think you are clean.’ She then noticed his hands – the thin, taut grafted skin was bruised and bleeding. ‘Look at your hands. For God’s sake what have you been doing?’

  Jacot laughed. ‘Well, Monica, I had to leave pretty quickly and not exactly by the front door.’

  ‘They look very painful, I will sort them out as soon as we get to the house.’

  The car was going very fast by now and the flat north Cambridgeshire countryside sped past. Jacot was relieved. He looked at the backs of the heads of the men in front. Their hair was cut extremely short with a square neck. They could only be French. To be specific they could only be French soldiers or French Rugby players. They were speaking to each other in broadly accented French, but not the broad twang of the south. Something different perhaps from the mountains. He had met ski guides who spoke the same way. Anyway, whoever they were or wherever they were from, he was relieved to be with them. The pair or possibly group of men who had tried to kill him in Cambridge knew what they were doing. It was the strangest feeling of all – being rescued in your own country by a group of foreigners.

  Monica cut into his thoughts, ‘Daniel you must be wondering why it is us who have come to your rescue.’

  ‘Well, I was rather. I assumed you were in London. Last time we met I thought you had just got off the train at Cambridge Station.’

  She laughed. ‘No, one of the back up team dropped me somewhere quiet and out of the way and I walked into the centre of Cambridge. For the first time. It was glorious.’

  ‘I know. I was watching you from the Pizza restaurant. But I still assumed you had come from the station. Lady Nevinson made it clear that I could have a quick get out of jail card if I needed one but I assumed the whole thing would be British – some retired spooks or some SAS men working in private security – that sort of thing. Not the French Foreign Legion.’

  Monica exchanged a few words with one of the men in front. ‘They are not Legionnaires but Chasseurs Alpins. Mountain troops. Back last year from a tour in Afghanistan. Some of them volunteered for special duties and have ended up in the UK.’

  ‘I am not sure I understand. French soldiers wandering around England?’ He had seen some of the hardware barely concealed under the front seat. ‘Armed French soldiers wandering around England? It hasn’t happened for a thousand years or so.’

  ‘It’s a long story. The DCRI has safe houses in certain parts of England. The ones in East Anglia are used to rest and brief any agents we have in London or the Midlands. It’s convenient for both areas. Most of our people are involved with keeping track of Islamist extremists. You seem to have a lot and you have not always been so good at keeping tabs on them. Remember the jibe of “Londonistan” – it originally came from us. Anyway, the houses also act as bases for immediate back-up – immediate reaction force in the British Army jargon, I think. Obviously, such intelligence installations are not declared to your government and if any of our people were to run into trouble then we would have to rescue them on our own. We could not expect your intelligence services to become involved and we would not wish to place an additional burden on your police forces. Lady Nevinson understands our system. Something alarmed Madame La Baronesse a few days ago and you were added to our list. It’s no problem.’

  Jacot did not know what to say. He mumbled something on the lines of these arrangements being most irregular.

  Monica said, ‘Before you get English and angry Lady Nevinson will be here this evening. It’s a Friday if you have forgotten. She will explain what has been going on I hope. Let’s just get you to a safe place, sort out your hands maybe give you a drink and then I will explain what I know so far. Lady Nevinson can do the rest. And then we all need to have a serious think about what we are going to do next. We’ll be there in half an hour. Now you have got your breath back let me update you on the little plan we cooked up in the pizza restaurant.’

  The car turned down a muddy lane which seemed to go on forever. At the end was a nondescript and rather dirty looking farmhouse. Only the windows were clean. They got out and walked towards the house.

  XXVII

  DCRI Safe House

  – secret location outside Ely

  Jacot felt a depression of spirits. The prospect of being holed up in such a place was unappealing, even with alcohol and the company of the lissom Monica. But once through the peeling but stout front door the inside could not have been more different from his expectations. It was decorated like a modernised French farm-house in pastel shades. French hunting scenes hung on the wall and the furniture looked comfortable. The kitchen was a revelation – the latest equipment and a vast array of the most expensive pots and pans were piled neatly and high on smart fitted wooden shelves.

  ‘Don’t be surprised Daniel. You have a tradition of victory and discomfort. We were defeated in 1940 and humiliated. Those that fought on in France had to hide for much of the war. So we understand what it is to hide. In modern times at least we try to do it in comfort.’

  She poured him a large glass of brandy and placed a medical kit on the table. He downed it in one. And then took a couple of painkillers. His hands were hurting seriously now. It was an intense pain made worse by the remembered pain of the past.

  Taking his hands gently, she smiled. ‘You’ve managed to scrape off small pieces from your various grafts. I can sort them out here but it is going to need some stitches and it will hurt. Let the brandy and the pills take effect first.’

  It was excruciating but Monica worked quickly and the hands were not badly damaged. After a further glass of brandy Jacot lay down on the kitchen sofa and slept. When his eyes opened Monica was still sitting at the table.

  ‘You have slept a while.’

  ‘Well it’s only the third time in my life that anyone has tried to kill me’, replied Jacot laughing. Looking out of the window
he could tell he was in England. And from the short car journey of the night before, admittedly at high speed, he knew he was still near Cambridge. But inside everything looked and smelled French. An Englishman just after his failed assassination would tuck into a proper breakfast – best thing in the British Army (apart from the people of course) thought Jacot. But when under the protection of French Intelligence it looked as though it would be coffee and croissants.

  Monica poured the coffee and put a plate in front of him.

  ‘Where are we?’

  The door into the kitchen opened and out came an extremely tall Frenchman wearing a long mackintosh and carrying a weapon. He smiled at Jacot but said nothing and placed his FAMAS rifle on the sideboard. He took a cup of coffee and disappeared into the rest of the house taking his weapon with him. Jacot noticed the safety catch was on, meaning that the rifle was loaded and made ready with a round in the chamber. It looked as though they were expecting trouble. Jacot was amazed but relieved. They were being guarded by French soldiers – not in uniform but military nevertheless.

  He was still in his bath when he heard a car pull up to the front door. It must be Lady Nevinson. He hurriedly got dressed and went down the stairs into the sitting room. The fire was blazing. Both Monica and Celia Nevinson were smartly but informally dressed. They both smelt wonderful the way women do after a long lazy bath and the application of various expensive and seductive scents. A young man came in with a tray of glasses and a bottle of champagne.

  ‘I didn’t think we had anything to celebrate’, said Jacot half in jest.

  ‘We don’t, Colonel, yet. But things are not so bad that we cannot have a civilized dinner on a Friday evening while we plot our next move and while I brief you both on our last moves in which you have both been involved.’