And that spanner seemed to have lodged in a vital spot.
O’Carse reached his decision. “We’re getting out,” he said to the Middle East person. “I’ll call Tilbury and the depot.”
Depot? That sounded interesting to Shard, who after being handcuffed by Tack was left on the floor of the room while O’Carse did his telephoning. The thunder was rolling still and there was more lightning but the storm was moving away now. Shard caught scraps of conversation: something about marked cars and more uniformed men, and something about explosives too, but nothing that was remotely useful if he should manage to get away, nothing to put the finger on anything, any locality, any target. Explosives were nothing new: that was what he had been facing all along, something to be blown up.
O’Carse finished his telephoning and came back into the room. He nodded at Tack and said, “That’s it. No real problem. But we won’t waste time. You and Mussuq, get the stuff loaded fast as you can.”
Mussuq: that was the name Charlie Dingo’s man had mentioned just before he’d been shot down at Green Park. And Charlie’s man had said Mussuq was a brother of the Arab shot at Faslane. Well, that was interesting, like the mention of the depot, but currently it wasn’t a lot of use. Lying on the floor, Shard heard a good deal of work going on, shifting sounds and heavy breathing as feet moved in and out of the house, probably between it and the integral garage. By guesswork, it took them around half an hour. Then O’Carse, who’d gone out to give a hand, came back into the room and told Shard to get on his feet. Shard did so, staggering until O’Carse got a grip on him and steadied him. He was taken through into the garage, where an Escort van stood with its rear doors open. Inside were arms and boxes of ammunition and hessian-wrapped packages of strange shape and what looked like radio loops, or aerials. There was no room on the floor of the van: Shard was to ride on top of the cargo. He was gagged and blindfolded and then, still with the cuffs on his wrists and Tack holding a gun on him, he was lifted bodily and thrown like a sack of potatoes to lie on the load. Another of the men got in with him. He heard the other three get in, something of a squash in the front, and then the van was backed out. It stopped.
“Garage,” O’Carse said. Someone got out and secured the up-and-over door, got back in with a slam. They reversed again, swung and went ahead.
There was no sign of Beth.
*
Shortly after the van had driven away from Grays two apparent police cars, mobiles with uniformed crews, had left a warehouse in Tilbury, a relic of the liner days now used by an outfit that repaired crash damage, and had driven fast along the A126 to Purfleet where they picked up the A137 through Dagenham for West Ham and the southbound Blackwall Tunnel beneath the Thames. From here they had driven into Woolwich and had gone to ground in a disused dairy where behind a high brick wall they joined another marked police vehicle, currently empty of a crew. There was a light on in a derelict office. The four men from Tilbury crossed the yard to this office, where two men were playing cards and drinking tea. One of them looked up.
“All right, Squib?”
One of the newcomers nodded. “All correct. You got the word from Grays, did you?”
“Yep. No bother. Best get out of them uniforms.”
“Can’t wait,” the newcomer said. He and the others went across the office, through a door at the back. Here, in a larger room, mattresses were laid on the floor, a dozen or so of which seven were already occupied by sleeping forms. The men from Tilbury began stripping off the police uniforms in the light of a bare electric bulb that one of them had flicked on as he went through from the office. The two ex-army men were among those already bedded down. One of them woke, cursing the light.
“Keep your hair on. Won’t be a tick.”
The light was out again within a couple of minutes. Soon after this O’Carse came in from Grays, in the Escort van. The slower vehicle had been passed by the mobiles the other side of the river. The van was unloaded and the contents transferred into the boots of the mobiles while Shard, still cuffed but with the gag and blindfold removed, was sat in the office. There was no talking until O’Carse had finished the transfer and come into the office. Then, speaking to one of the card players, he said, “Know who this is, do you?”
“No.”
O’Carse told him. The man said, “Didn’t need the wife after all, then.”
“She’ll help too. Where is she?”
Shard felt the heavy thud of his heart, felt the blood mount to his face. The card player said, “Safe. In the caboosh.”
There was no knowing what or where the caboosh was but Shard didn’t like the sound of it. But Beth was said to be safe, and that was a lot. Meanwhile the other man was asking O’Carse if Shard had come across with anything useful. O’Carse said no, he hadn’t, but his main part was of course yet to come, and at this there was a laugh. The atmosphere was easy, relaxed. There was confidence around. Shard really hadn’t made much difference by barging in. And still there were no clues. There was some inconsequential talk and then O’Carse yawned and said it was time they all got their heads down. They felt very secure inside what was evidently the depot. Shard was led through a doorway and then told there was a mattress for him to lie on.
“No tricks,” O’Carse told him. “You’ll be guarded all the way through.”
So someone wasn’t going to get a full night’s sleep.
It was, he believed, some hours later when he woke to hear the ringing of the telephone the other side of the door.
*
In Faslane Hedge had turned in early after a good dinner and rather too much brandy but had not been able to get to sleep: there was so much on his mind, which went whirling round in circles, getting him nowhere. At any moment something might happen, a bang in the night that would obliterate half the Clyde and himself with it. He wondered why he had been sent: no-one seemed to want him. Oh, they had been very polite, of course, but there was a hint that the navy could look after itself. He was beginning to feel superfluous, which was an uneasy feeling. He could be in Scotland for months for all he knew, facing the most appalling danger minute by minute. He almost found himself wishing Detachment X would hurry up and end the terrible suspense. His nerves were playing him up very badly. In the middle of the night he got up, took an aspirin and ate two tablets of Ginseng, which he always found steadying — he was currently on a month’s course of Ginseng and had forgotten to take his ration after dinner, thanks to the brandy. Automatically he checked his bedside table: wrist-watch which he always removed at night, wallet, cheque-book, small change, torch in case the electricity failed, cigar case, lighter, Rennies. Then, on a sudden impulse, he picked up all these items and put them in the coat pockets of his suit, on a hanger in the wardrobe, so that he could save time if Detachment X should strike during the night.
Then he laid down again on the bed. He was snoring as dawn broke over the Gareloch. The peaceful, un-blown-up Gareloch, with that great black nuclear-powered submarine still at its berth.
*
In the Woolwich depot the telephone had been answered and O’Carse had been woken with urgency. When the Irishman had taken the call he was in a bitter mood. The call had been from a contact, a plant who’d grown in a propitious field. O’Carse called out some of the men from the mattresses and held a conference in the office. Shard strained his ears but couldn’t pick up anything. Not until the conference was over and the door from the office came half open. He heard the Irishman’s voice.
“Could come to a shoot-out, and then a bloody fast move. Bloody load of kids!”
That was all. It meant nothing to Shard. He fancied he might be in for another question-and-answer session but that didn’t happen and he was left in peace. A suspended copper would hardly be in any position to give up-to-date information in any case, if something fresh had come up.
He drifted off into an uneasy sleep, having nightmares about Beth. The day came up, the men woke. There was a tension in the air now, very noticeab
le to Shard, but nothing happened except that some food was brought by one of the men, prepacked sandwiches, tea from a flask. Unhungry, Shard ate just to keep his strength up. Time drifted slowly by. There was no sign of O’Carse for most of the day, but he re-appeared after dark and called another conference. The last one, Shard heard him say.
*
Behind the closed door O’Carse repeated his remark, the previous night. “Bloody load of kids … just because they might want to pee.” He’d had a bad day, trying without success to glean more information. His contact had told him the Home Office was worried about seasonal traffic problems and delays north of the Dartford Tunnel, the big bottleneck in the holiday months. It was believed the police escort would break off at the exit from the tunnel and would head back north once the coaches were clear. But what if they remained in company ahead and astern along the M25? Any police presence at that stage could be disaster. In any case, it could mean the fuzz was on to something even though they’d have got their wires crossed. If they didn’t believe they had something, why else provide an escort for a bunch of EEC kids right through from Harwich just until they were clear of the tunnel?
Didn’t make sense.
O’Carse didn’t like it at all, but knew he was in a cleft stick. To delay was not on, definitely. There was a rendezvous and it had to be made. The chance would not recur.
Tack tried to be reassuring. “Could be just what the bloke said: traffic problems. No more in it than that.”
“Sure. But that doesn’t help, does it? The point is, the fuzz are going to be around. And we have to pick up the artics at the A2 roundabout … at the very bloody time the coaches are coming through!”
“Last night you mentioned a shoot-out.”
“Right! If we have to, we do. I don’t want it, it could sod up the whole show. But the orders stand, we stay in business, move out 5.30 a.m. and make the rendezvous at 6.15.”
That night the tension was very much increased, the atmosphere in the dormitory almost electric, and Shard believed that most of the men were as sleepless as himself. In his case his insomniac state was largely due to the sheer frustration brought about by his helplessness.
16
“Right,” O’Carse said, standing by the leading police mobile early next morning. He was wearing his police chief inspector’s uniform; two men, the ex-army men, were in sergeant’s uniform, the rest being dressed as constables.
Shard asked, “Where’s my wife, O’Carse?” There still hadn’t been a sign of Beth.
O’Carse laughed. “Safe! She stays here. But her safety depends on you, right? I can be in instant touch with the depot all through. Any trouble, she gets it. Bear it in mind, Mr Shard.”
Shard was ordered into the lead car with O’Carse. The Irishman got in and the convoy moved off, sharp on 0530 hours. Leaving the gates Shard picked up the landmarks: high brick walls surrounding the dereliction of what had been the arsenal, farther on barracks with a wide parade ground, then the old Royal Military Academy, no longer used as such. They were in Woolwich. As they swept up a hill O’Carse told Shard that if for some reason they were stopped by genuine fuzz, then yes, he was Shard and he was under arrest. If he said a word further, Beth would suffer. O’Carse repeated what he’d already said: there would be communication with the depot throughout. They had him all ends up; and they had that use for him, so far unspecified. Shard knew that O’Carse in his chief inspector’s rig would carry the authority to retain him if there was any argument as to whose property he was. The cuffs and blindfold were no longer being used on him: if difficulties arose with the genuine police, the presence of handcuffs and a blindfold on a senior officer just might arouse a few suspicions, or so O’Carse believed. The convoy of cars moved fast; at this hour the traffic was not heavy and the only delays were at lights along the Sidcup Road and elsewhere. O’Carse kept on checking the time; they had to be as spot on as possible but it would be better were they too early than even a shade late, and you could never forecast what the traffic might do.
O’Carse was on edge now: they all were. The man in p.c.’s uniform alongside Shard in the back of the mobile was thin-lipped, taut as a drum. Shard was well covered; the man was ready for any move he might try.
A little before 0600 the cars slowed short of the roundabout where the A2 trunk road fed into the M25. No heavy vehicles approaching the roundabout from the A2 … O’Carse wasn’t worried, though the traffic was light yet. Moving slow, the phoney police cars halted on a hand signal from O’Carse. O’Carse and his mob watched out ahead and to the left, towards the exit from the Dartford Tunnel. Traffic went past, traffic came from the tunnel, still not heavy. O’Carse watched the time constantly. At any moment a police escort might come through and he wasn’t going to jump the gun. Meantime he was early so it didn’t matter; but he would move out on time and chance it. If the coaches and their escort didn’t show … well, it would obviously take a long while for four coachloads of kids, mothers, teachers and drivers to relieve themselves in the conveniences outside the tunnel. Non-appearance would be no more significant than that.
Then they came, rolling up from the distant exit. O’Carse said, “Coaches. And I reckon they’ve dropped the escort. We’re okay to go — right on time.” As the four coaches came up from the tunnel towards the roundabout free of their police escort, O’Carse waved his cars on and into the roundabout. They were all in as the coaches slowed to enter, giving way to the supposed police mobiles coming in on their right. Shard saw the loads of children, waving from the windows, all looking excited and happy.
*
The first report went to Hesseltine in Scotland Yard and he rang through at once to the security section in the Foreign Office.
“Through the tunnel,” he said. “All safe.”
It was Detective Inspector Orwin who had answered. “Nothing happened, sir?”
“Not a thing, thank God. We were on a bum steer after all.”
“Back to square one, sir.” Orwin paused. “Shall I inform Mr Hedge at Faslane?”
Hesseltine said, “No, leave him to me.” When he’d cut the call he sat back for a moment, frowning. Back to square one was right, everything just as it was before he’d gone overboard for the Dartford Tunnel theory. The defence establishments were still at risk and there was no knowing when or where Detachment X would strike. Or it could still be a civilian target … he took up his security line again and called Faslane. It was early, but Hedge could be dragged from bed. The dragging took some time and Hedge sounded peeved: he’d just managed to get to sleep, he said. And what did Hesseltine want?
“Dartford Tunnel —”
“Yes?”
“Coaches through and clear. No blow-up.”
There was a snort. “I never did think there would be, my dear fellow. Never! A stupid theory all along.”
“But one that had to be covered, Hedge, once it had been considered. I’m sorry.”
“Well, so I should think! I trust you’ll be getting those mobiles back where they belong — watching over the military targets. So much time wasted, so many policemen diverted —”
“Just two cars, Hedge, that’s all.”
“That’s as maybe. Have you any word of Shard?”
“No.”
“It’s all very suspicious,” Hedge said. Hesseltine rang off without comment and Hedge put the handset down with a bang, bad-temperedly. He gave a sudden shiver, as though he’d suffered a premonition: it was all back to Faplane again, he thought. No evidence, just a feeling, but a nasty one. Faslane was such a prime target, along with Greenham Common the very nub of the nuclear defence system. But perhaps they would hit at Greenham Common after all. And Hesseltine was a fool, a fool who had talked everyone into co-operating with his stupid ideas about children from the EEC. Of course, as Hesseltine had said, it was a case of only two mobiles … but it had got everyone into a fruitless way of thought.
*
Once O’Carse had entered the roundabout he
saw the two articulated lorries coming up as expected to the junction from the direction of the Medway towns. They were coming up fast and came into the roundabout ahead of three of the coaches, following out along the M25 behind O’Carse and the leading coach, which had nipped in. The other fake mobiles, recognising the vehicles, which were being driven by the HGV drivers who had attended a session in the Grays house, slowed and let them through, holding the three rear coaches back. It was some nasty driving but police cars could get away with it. O’Carse, once out of the roundabout again, increased speed. Behind him the driver of the leading coach did likewise, following the apparent police car. All the drivers were Belgians: they had not been told to expect another escort after the Dartford Tunnel; but here was one and it was to be presumed there was some good reason for it. The leading driver had Britain’s problems with terrorists in mind: he had believed, although it had never been said, that the first escort had had to do with possible threats to his EEC passengers. Falling in as it were behind the mobile, he shrugged: he must of course obey the British police. Immediately behind him was one of the lorries. Behind that, the second coach put on speed to pass the second HGV and keep behind his leader. Then came the third coach, and behind it the second lorry. Behind that, the driver’s mirror told him, were two more police mobiles, one of them coming out to overtake. Lastly came the fourth coach.
*
Sitting next to O’Carse Blakey said, “They’re coming with us. The coaches.”
“Too right they are,” O’Carse said, quite calm.
“Extricate ’em?”
O’Carse grinned. “We bloody don’t! Too late to muck about now, traffic’s building up.” It was; the lanes were busy in both directions as they all swept down fast for Junction 3, closely bunched. “Played right into our hands, Blakey, just where we want ’em. Something fortuitous we didn’t expect … concentrate the mind of the brass even more.”
Shard at Bay Page 17
