Zero Option gs-2

by Chris Ryan

  To alter the tkV time would be the final resort.

  Anything rather than that…

  'Through there, Whinger!' I said on impulse, point ing at the cones. 'Whip through and turn round. We'll go some other way.'

  Whinger wasn't the sort to query a decision like that.

  He watched for a gap in the oncoming traffic, made the U-turn in a second and joined the stream flowing west.

  Some officious turd hooted in protest, but as I looked back in the wing-mirror I saw one or two other cars following our example.

  'If any self-righteous bastard reports us, I'll murder him,' I said. 'Now for a bit of map-reading.'

  Heading west, we came off the motorway at the next exit, and immediately entered a nightmare of suburbanised villages and towns: Spencer's Wood, Swallowfield, Finchampstead, Crowthome, Bagshot, all crawling with pottering weekenders. As I called the turns, Whinger went as fast as the van, the road and its competing users would let him, and eventually we battled our way through to Junction 3 of the M3. From there I calculated it was sixteen miles to our RV: sixteen minutes if we kept to sixty m.p.h, and met no more hang-ups. Since we had four minutes in hand, I told Whinger to pull into the forecourt of a garage, keeping well away from the pumps and the office.

  'Where are we?' Farrell wanted to know.

  'In some godforsaken arsehole of a lay-by,' I told him. 'We're going on in a minute.'

  'I need a piss,' he said.

  'You're not getting one here, with that hood on or without it. There are too many people passing. The cops have probably put out mug-shots of you all over the country. They've probably had pictures on the TV news. It only needs one person to see you and that's it.'

  Four minutes later we slipped on to the M3 and stuck with the inside lane, which was moving at just about sixty. I felt my adrenalin coming up. Our target area was practically in sight, yet still there were umpteen things that could go wrong. I kept thinking of Tim, seeing the boy so clearly that I was pretty much talking to him.

  Tracy, too: I was getting the feel and smell of her again.

  We reached the junction with the M25 in eight minutes — exactly what I'd reckoned. Eight more minutes to go. On our side of the big ring-road a solid river of traffic was flowing northwards, four lanes abreast. Again we kept in the slow lane, reaching Junction 13 in four minutes. As Yorky had predicted, the traffic there was yet more dense, all four lanes jam232 packed with vehicles, nose to tail.

  Three minutes to Exit 14, then a minute more. I looked at my watch, at Tony, at the hooded figure of Farrell. Jesus, I thought, the trouble this guy's caused me.

  'Fourteen,' announced Whinger coolly, pointing up as we passed under the blue and white board.. 'Sixty seconds to run. There's the phone, up ahead now.'

  'Just pull in gently, as if we've got engine problems.

  There — go over. now.'

  Whinger put on his left indicator and cruised in. All we need now, I thought, is an AA or IkAC van on patrol, coming to rescue us without being asked.

  I checked my watch. We were thirty seconds early.

  As yet the lkV was empty.

  As Whinger came to a halt and switched on his panic lights, I said to Farrell, 'OK. We're on site. Stand by to transfer. The drill is going to be this: they'll park fifty metres behind us, one guy will walk towards us with the hostages, Tony will go back with you. In the middle of the gap, once my people are past him, he'll release you.

  Are you with me?'

  'I am.'

  'And don't luck about. Don't start pulling or trying to run before he unlocks you, OK?'

  Farrell nodded. Through the hood I could hear him breathing fast. I knew he was hot — we all were — but was sure this panting was caused by adrenalin.

  'Pull the bonnet catch,' I told Whing'er. As soon as I heard the click, I jumped out of the passenger door and whipped round the front of the van. There in the open the traffic roar was horrendous, and a wide-bodied jet, labouring up off the runway at Heathrow, adeded its scream to the general clamour. When I dialled the incident room on my mobile, I could hardly hear the voice on the other end.

  'Zulu One on RV now!' I yelled, and I just made out a man's voice say, 'loger.'

  At least I'd confirmed that we were in position, and word would fly out over the radio to the guys deployed around us. The head-shed's intention was to go for a hard arrest on the PIIA wagon as soon after the exchange as possible. As I looked round I wondered where the hell anyone could have established an OP in this urban jungle. All about me were asphalt, brickwork, concrete walls, the blank ends of buildings, electric wires, pylons, roaring lines of traffic. Yet doubtless the guys were deployed in there somewhere, watching me.

  I raised the bonnet of the van and propped it with the stay, pretending to tinker with the engine. A British Airways 747 came roaring over, drowning out even the traffic. I wondered where it was heading. America, maybe. I thought of the passengers settling themselves for a long flight, the stewardesses putting on their aprons to start serving breakfast.

  My watch said 0847. Already the opposition were late. Typical PIRA. I felt sure that at any moment some of their dickers would pass in some vehicle of their own — maybe two separate lots of them — and send word back over their CB radio links: 'Yeah, yeah, they're there. It looks OK. It's clear. It's on.' I tried not to stare at the drivers as they whipped past, for fear of putting the wind up one of the scouts.

  Back round the passenger side of the van, I stuck my head in through the window. The noise was less deafening inside.

  'Late!' I yelled at Farrell. 'We made it on time. Your bloody people are late.'

  'Don't worry,' he shouted. 'They'll be here.'

  Yet his composure was only skin-deep. When another minute had gone by with no sign of action, he began to fidget arid curse. I stood by the passenger door, gazing back at the unending flood of vehicles pouring up from the south. Another.jet screamed out of the airport. It looked like the control tower was launching a plane every two minutes.

  At five minutes past H-hour, Farrell started effing and blinding, abusing the underlings in the PIRA for their incompetence. 'They're swine,' he went. 'They get pissed out of their minds at night, and can't get up in the morning for wallowing in their own shite.'

  His tirade was getting on my nerves. 'Swine yourselfl' I shouted. 'It was you who got us into this mess in the first place.'

  At that instant Tony snapped, 'Look out! What's this?'

  Through the small rear windows he'd seen another vehicle pulling up behind us. The first sight of it made my heart'jump. It was an old banger of an estate car, beige-coloured, scruffy, decrepit, lop-sided, with patches of rust showing along the bottoms of the doors; exactly what I'd expect the PIRA to be driving. But a second later I realised there was something wrong. The arrangement was that the PIRA would pull up fifty yards short of us, not five. Besides, this wagon was going down fast. Steam and smoke were pouring out through the radiator grille and from the sides of the bonnet.

  The smouldering wreck wobbled to a halt about four feet from our rear bumper. The driver's door opened, and a stout, middle-aged Indian, a Sikh with a grey beard and white turban, eased himself out on to the hard shoulder. He took one despairing look at the smoke and steam, then waddled towards me.

  Shit, shit, shit! I thought. Of all the world's disasters, this is the worst that can befall us. With that thing there, nothing on earth will make the PI1KA stop.

  The Sikh came lurching up. 'Sir, I am apologising most profoundly,' he began. 'Car is overheating. You help me with rope? Yes?'

  It flashed through my mind to say, 'Do the fucking rope trick yourself, mate, car and all,' but it wasn't the moment for jokes, and I didn't want to be rude. What could I tell the poor bugger? Even if I'd drawn my pistol and ordered him to get his jalopy away from me it would have been impossible for him to obey.

  All I said was, 'Sorry, no rope.' I spread my hands, and fervently hoped that was it. But the brute had spied the m
obile sprouting from my pocket.

  'Make call, please,' he went, pointing at it.

  'Sorry, it's not working. No batteries.'

  'Sir — you are very kind gentleman. You are giving me lift to garage.'

  I felt frantic. I glanced at my watch. Six minutes past the deadline. Through the open window of our van I could hear Tony relaying events to Farrell.

  'Sorry,' I said. 'I'm broken down as well.' I pointed at the raised bonnet. 'That's why I stopped by this phone.' Then I had a brainwave. 'There's a service station a couple of miles ahead,' I said, inventing the place on the spur of the moment. 'If you go on slowly, you'll make it.'

  It was a shameless lie; I knew there was no service station for miles.

  As I stood looking at the stranded Indian, my face twisted into a grimace of totally false goodwill, some sixth sense made me glance out into the passing traffic and there, right beside me, was a small, grey van, old and dirty. The vehicle had slowed down, causing others to concertina behind it. Somebody clapped a hand on his horn, and others responded. For a second I had direct eye contact with the driver and front-seat passenger. Both were staring sideways at me, two pale young faces concentrating in a way that could mean only one thing: this was the PIIkA wagon.

  By the time I'd made the connection it was past. For a few yards it wavered in and out, as if the driver was about to pull on to the hard shoulder, but he never did.

  A few seconds later the van straightened and carried on to the north.

  I stared after it, suddenly out of breath. Jesus, I thought: Tim was in that thing. Tracy was in it. My family had gone by within inches of me. I felt a terrific pull, as if that vehicle had been a powerful magnet.

  Ignoring the Indian, I leapt back in front of our own wagon. Using the raised bonnet as a shield to make sure Farrell couldn't hear, I redialled the incident room.

  When I heard a voice answer, I said loudly, 'Zulu One.

  The PII
  Didn't st6p. It's a grey Morris Thousand van with some black logo on the side.'

  Again I heard, 'Roger,' and that was about all.

  I slammed the bonnet shut. The Indian was still hovering, a hurt look on his face. I brushed past him, jumped aboard, closed the door and said to Whinger, 'Let's go!'

  Whinger started the engine and we eased back into the slow lane.

  'See 'em?' I asked.

  'Yep.' Whinger nodded. 'The grey “can.'

  'That's the one. Get after it! Oh, Jesus!'

  'What happened?' Farrell snarled from behind us.

  I told him in words of one syllable: 'Why the hell did they not stop?'

  'How could they, with another fucking vehicle up your arse? It might have been full of coppers or anything.'

  'It was full of big, fat Indian women in headscarves,' I told him. 'They could have seen that. What the fuck did they think they were doing? And what'll they do now? Will they wait up ahead or come back on another

  'Not a chance,' said Farrell. 'That's it for the day.

  One run, and that's it. They'll never try again at the same place.'

  'In that case, we won't either.'

  Using hand-signs I indicated that Whinger was to ignore the M4 west, our natural route for base, which was coming up fast, and carry on clockwise towards the M40.

  As he drove I was struggling to make a mental readjustment. The let-down was colossal. In spite of my attempts not to, I'd been counting chickens prematurely. I'd assumed that in about five minutes the whole drama was going to be over, that we'd be rid of Farrell and I'd have my loved ones back, that we'd all be able to go home in peace and get on with our normal lives.

  Now everything had ended in fiasco, and we were faced with the task of setting up another meeting somewhere else. The prospect was so appalling that for a few minutes my mind went blank. All I could focus on was the fact that Farrell knew the precise location of the tV. T'herefore he knew we were on the M25.

  Therefore vce needed to confuse him about the route we were taking home. My own priority was to confer with the incident room, and with Stew and Doughnut back at the cottage — but to do that I had to get out of Farrell's earshot.

  First of all we needed a pit-stop so that everyone could relie've themselves; Farrell wasn't the only one bursting for a piss. A service station would be out of the question — we couldn't march a manacled prisoner into the bog without attracting attention — so the only alternative was open country. We took the M40 west and came offatJunction 2. From there we headed south until we were in some dense woods. At last, when he'd made sure there were no giveaway signs in sight, Whinger pulled off on to a cart-track, and we all thinned out into bushes to do our business. Once again the guy who had the worst of it was Tony, chained as he was to Farrell.

  While they were busy I got in another call to the incident room, to say that we were returning to base. I told Fraser what had happened, and asked him to pass word to the cottage. His only news was that the grey van had been found abandoned within two miles of where I'd reported it. The PIRA must have had another vehicle coming along behind, and transferred personnel only a couple of minutes after the van had passed the 1KV. Sure enough, Fraser told me it had been stolen earlier thht morning in North London. There were some old cushions on the floor in the back, and forensic examination might reveal whether or not the hostages had been on board, but for the time being there was no indication. Our guys had established an OP in a factory overlooking the motorway, and although they'd watched the 1KV for a further hour, no other vehicle had stopped there.

  As we set off for base my mind was reeling with disappointment. But at the same time I couldn't stop thinking about the wretched Indian, who was probably still where we'd abandoned him. The incident must have convinced him that all Englishmen are heartless bastards, racist to the roots of their hair, and treacherous to boot.

  ELEVEN

  'Get on the phone,' I told Farrell the moment we were back in the cottage, 'find out what the hell happened, and fix another RV for this evening. But keep it short: we don't want anyone tracing calls to this number.'

  With ill grace he started dialling his contacts in Belfast. I'd already discovered from Fraser that one of the numbers was the Pock Bar, a drinking den on the Falls Poad, which stayed open twenty-four hours a day and was frequented by most of the leading players in the Belfast Brigade. The IUC naturally had eyes on the place, and filmed all the comings and goings, but the PIIA men were so arrogant and sure of themselves that they patronised it regardless. The Falls Poad was their territory, and they weren't going to stand for any interruption of their favourite routines.

  On our way back Farrell had thrown me by identify ing a piece of classical music that had blasted out of the radio as Whinger was lumping stations. We only got a few seconds of it, but our prisoner suddenly woke up and cried, 'Beethoven! Leonora number three.' The music sounded pretty dire to me, and the rest of us looked at each other with expressions of alarm, but I could see that on Farrell's part it was a spontaneous reaction, not designed to impress us. Once again I thought it very strange that a man with his record of crime and thuggery could also have genuine cultural interests.

  Back at base, the only two guys on our team still functioning properly were Doughnut and Stew, who'd got their heads down while we were on the road, managing to catch up on a bit of lost sleep. The rest of us were edgy with hunger and exhaustion — and I knew that sheer tiredness could lead to somebody making a fatal mistake. Farrell himself seemed almost comatose, but still we were aware that one careless remark from any of us might arouse his suspicion. I had therefore asked Doughnut to take over as warder-nanny so as to give Tony a break, and I stood over them as they swapped the handcuffs.

  Stew had had the brilliant idea of putting some potatoes to bake in the oven, and the cottage was full of the smell of them, good and crusty. I told the others to get on and eat — breakfast or lunch or whatever it was and said I'd join them as soon as we'd s
et up another meeting.

  Farrell “finished his.call to Belfast, then dialled the mobile number, which SB had traced to West London.

  'Mother of Mary!' he exclaimed after talking for a minute. 'Why ever didn't they stop?' He listened for a few more seconds then said, 'That's no way to carry on.

  He'll have to be reported… What?… Of course I was. Bursting for a run-out as.well.'

  I grabbed the receiver from him and said, 'Hello.

  This is Geordie Sharp. Stop pissing about and fix a rendezvous tonight.'

  'It was yous fellers that fucked it up,' retorted the voice.

  'Bollocks, mate. We were there ahead of schedule.'

  'But you never had our man with you.'

  'What d'you mean? He was there in the back of the van. He just told you.'

  'Why wouldn't you let us see him, then?'

  'You would have seen him if you'd stopped.'

  'And a second vehicle up your arse-end as well.'

  'That was nothing to do with us. The guy's engine had overheated, that was all. He arrived at the last minute. If you'd bloody well been on time he wouldn't have been there.'

  There was a sick laugh at the other end of the line, and the man said, 'You fucking wee bastards! That's all you are if you expected anyone to stop with that circus parked there.'

  'Listen,' I said, struggling to keep my temper, 'insults aren't going to get your man back. Like I said, name another time and place for an exchange. We'll call you again in fifteen minutes.' With that I slammed the receiver down.

  'Come on,' I told Farrell. 'We've got to get something down our necks.'

  ' At about 11.30 we had a peculiar brunch of fried cod steaks and baked spuds with plenty of butter in them, and tea to drink. It bugged me to have Farrell slurping and spluttering alongside the rest of us in the kitchen I would have liked to see the bastard starve — but I knew it was in my interest to keep him in reasonable health.

  Again he surprised me, this time with the way he ate.

  Considering that one hand was cuffed, his table manners were immaculate. We didn't give him a knife, but he held his fork properly, and when he'd finished he laid it down neatly on his plate. He didn't stuffhis mouth full of food and swill tea down through it; he ate first and drank afterwards. It was only his swollen tongue and lip that made him clumsy. At least, while he was eating, he didn't try to make conversation.