by Chris Ryan
'Lost,' said Stew. 'Can't blame him. There must be hundreds like him in this bloody maze.'
Five more minutes crawled past. Already the PIIA were ten minutes late.
None of us had anything to say. With the windows of the Granada open, we could hear sounds of revelry from the distant pub: drunken shouts and outbursts of song. I began to think the opposition had succumbed to temptation and gone in there. I'd known it happen in Ulster. Bombers or shooters, on their way to a hit, would stop off for a quick pint to steady their nerves, and end up drinking six or seven, so that they'd be out of their minds and the operation would have to be aborted. But this was only a harmless meeting, without danger, so, surely…
'Here we are!' said Stew.
This time a pair of lights swept through the gate without hesitation and blazed in our faces. In retaliation Stew snapped his headlights on to full beam and lit up an elderly-looking red Peugeot, cruising gingerly over the potholes. I held my breath, willing the driver to keep straight on along the line of the tracks.
Our psychological reading of the site must have been spot-on, because he did just that, and came to rest within a few inches of where we wanted him. Then he doused his lights and sat waiting.
I let halfa minute tick by before declaring, 'If they're not coming, I'm going.'
I got out and walked round the front of the Granada.
By then I'd un-zipped my jacket so that I had quick access to my shoulder holster, but as I strolled across I deliberately kept my hands well away from my hips.
Out there in mid-yard I felt cold and exposed. I knew Andy was in the wagon straight ahead of me, beyond the Peugeot, and I was confident that I had more support behind me, up above, but if one of the players lost his nerve and opened fire, I'd be the first to get it.
A yard from the driver's window I stopped. The face inside the rain-spattered glass was still a blur. The flash of a torch in the fellow's eyes might be taken as a provocation, so I waited till he wound the window down by hand.
'Come to see someone?' I went.
'Where is he?'
'In the car.' I jerked my head backwards.
'Bring him over, then.'
'Not a chance. You can come and look.'
'Not fucking likely. You bring him here.'
In line of sight over the roof of the car, not ten feet away, I detected movement down among the wheels of truck 092. Jesus! I thought. Andy's not waiting. He's crawling out with his tracking device. Whatever might happen later, I had to keep the PIIA fully occupied for the next few seconds.
'Listen,' I said. 'Are you the guys who came up the M25 this morning?' As I spoke I leant forward and rested my hands on the edge of the roof, deliberately making the car rock in the hope that the movement would help cover any slight disturbance that Andy might create.
'Get yer hands off!' snapped the driver.
'I was only asking.'
'Get off anyway!'
'Was it you, then?' I stood up, letting the Peugeot rock back.
'What difference does it make?'
'You fucked up, that's all.'
Now I thought, I'm getting him well stropped up.
I'll switch on the torch anyway.
The effect was excellent. The driver twisted in his seat, rocking the car again. 'Get that thing off!' he hissed.
But I'd already recognised him. He'd been the passenger in the grey minivan that morning, the guy with whom I'd had that flash of e.ye-contact. His companion in the passenger seat was an older man with stiffgrey hair cut short, definitely not the driver on the M25. He was the one, I guessed: the player who'd come to make the identification.
I flashed my torch round the inside of the car, partly to make sure there was nobody else on board, partly to dazzle the occupants. Both of them twisted about in their seats, shielding their faces from the beam.
'I said, get that thing off,' said the driver.
'You told me there'd be three of you.'
'No, only two.'
'What happened to your mate?'
'He couldn't make it in time.'
'All right, then.' As if climbing down, I switched off the torch and said, 'Well, I'll make a compromise. We'll bring him half-way across. But that's all.'
Another main-line train trundled past, shaking the ground and filling the yard with the scream of big diesel engines as it picked up speed out of the station. Once again I caught a hint of movement under the railway wagon, and reckoned what I saw was Andy's heels going back into cover, his job done. He'd certainly had time to place a magnetic device on the petrol tank and crawl away to shelter. Stepping back ostentatiously, I turned round and walked towards the Granada.
'Get him out after all,' I told Doughnut. 'We'll take him half-way over.'
I opened the door and stood back, expecting Farrell to start creating. But he said nothing as Doughnut wriggled out crab-wise, and he followed him into the open without fuss. When the pair were on their feet I took off Farrell's blindfold and said, 'Right. We'll go twenty steps and stop.'
We walked forward three abreast to the middle of the yard, Doughnut on the right, Farrelt in the middle, myself on the left. I was stepping on the tips of my toes.
If any attempt at a snatch was going to be made, this was when it would come. And no snatch would take place, because if they tried anything, Doughnut and I would drop the pair of them.
For a few seconds there was no movement from the Peugeot. Then the passenger door opened, on the side away from us, and I knew it must be the grey-haired guy getting out.
As he advanced towards us I muttered to my two, 'Keep still. Your arms particularly.'
Behind us I heard a click, and I knew that Stew was opening the boot of the Granada so that he had immediate access to the loaded MP 5s. I could just make out that the PII
'So it is you, yer fuckin' wee cuntie,' he muttered in a quiet, menacing voice. 'Even better looking than usual, with that pout on yer.'
If Farrell had been free, I'm sure he'd have hit the guy. As t was, he just said, 'Holy Mary! It's Marty Malone.'
There was a moment's silence, as if both men were getting over the shock of seeing each other. Then Farrell said, 'Jaysus, but I never thought I'd see you this side of the water.'
'Maybe you didn't. But you've seen me now. Which of these turds is Geordie Sharp?'
'I am,' I said, 'and watch yourself.'
Tm watching, and I don't like what I'm seeing. So it's the mighty assassin I have before me is it? Here.' He held out the manila envelope. 'Take this. It contains your orders.'
'Orders for what?'
'You'll see. If you go murdering our allies overseas, it's only fair you do something for us in return.'
A shiver of alarm ran up my back, but I had the presence of mind to come straight out with, Tm not with you. What are you on about?'
'Come on! We know you've been abroad.'
'What d'you mean? I've been nowhere.'
'Oh no? Not even to north Africa.'
I shook my head.
'Libya?' queried the man in a horrible, taunting voice. 'Ajdabiya camp?'
'Sorry, mate. Your wires are crossed somewhere.
Those names mean nothing to me.'
The temptation to drop the guy was fearsome. From Farrell's reaction I knew he must be some big player.
We could smack him and his driver in about five seconds. But if we did, that would be the end of Tim and Tracy.
The man shone his torch in my face again and said, 'You wouldn't be lying to me, would you, Sergeant?'
'Listen, I told you. I've never heard those names. I don't know what the hell you're on about.'
'General al-Khadduri was very important to us. We didn't like losing him.'
'General who?'
'The man you shot.'
'Look,' I said, 'piss off, and stop all this rubbish. Now that you've seen your man, you'd better get going before the law arrives to break up the party.' I made a half-turn to the right and said to my lot, 'OK. Let's go.'
As we walked away, the PIRA guy stood looking after us until we were nearly at the car. Then he too turned and went back to his vehicle.
'Let them thin out first,' I told Stew. Internally, I was seething. Jesus Christ! an inner voice was shouting.
How in God's name did they find out about Libya? Or do they really know about it? Are they just guessing that the SAS was involved? Then suddenly I realised: it was Karen, that bitch of a policewoman, telling them I was abroad when they called. That's what they'd cottoned on to. They can't have any proof, I told myself, they've simply put two and two together… and made about ten.
The worst thing was that I couldn't utter a syllable of these violent thoughts, or Farrell would have been on to it in a flash. I just sat there in the dark with my mind racing as we waited for the opposition to clear. After a minute it became clear that they were doing just the same, and I said to Stew, 'Ah, luck it, let's go. Fast, as well. '
Our back tires spun on the cinders as he put in a scorching take-off. In a second we were through the gate and burning up the hill. Behind us I saw lights come on as the Peugeot also got going. From its speed down the yard, I reckoned the party was going to try and tail us.
'Take the first left you can!' I snapped. 'They're going to play funny buggers.'
Though not quite in the Whinger class, Stew was no slouch as a driver. Before the Peugeot had even gained the top of the hill and come into sight, he'd dived left- handed into a residential street, pulled into the kerb between two parked cars and doused his lights. Looking out through the rear window, we saw the Peugeot hurtle past along the main drag.
'Great!' I said. 'Now we can take it easy. Give it a minute, and we'll slide out the way we came.' Then, as though it were a casual afterthought, I added, 'What the hell was that guy on about — Libya and all that?'
'Ask me another,' said Stew.
'Any idea, Doughnut?'
'Not a clue.'
'Nor me. Sounds as if they lost a key player or something. Some Arab, by the name… whatever it was. Tell you what, I could do with something to eat.'
The too,' said Stew. 'There's a good few takeaways about. I was eye-bailing them on the way in.'
My mind was very much on the contents of the buff envelope, but instinct told me to play that down as well.
So for the time being I left the package on the floor behind my feet. Five minutes later, with no further manifestation of the red Peugeot, we drove back on to the highway, and at the fifty-seventh roundabout (or thereabouts) we found a Chinese takeaway still open.
Chicken and chips all round put us back in good heart; we ate sitting in a lay-by, and didn't hood Farrell up until we were ready to set off for home.
Then, as Stew pulled out on to the Cirencester road, I picked up the envelope and switched on the map- reading light to examine its contents. The first thing I saw was an Ordnance Survey map, a sheet of the 1:25,000 series, two and a half inches to the mile, covering part of the Chiltern Hills. Next I came on a page of what looked like instructions, typed in short, numbered paragraphs. Only when I unfolded it and looked at the head of the page did I realise that it was addressed to me. And when I read it, my breath seemed to lock up in my chest.
With the motion of the car and the feeble light, I couldn't take in every word. But the gist of the document was all too clear. Because I had been personally responsible for the murder of a leading financial supporter, it said, I was now ordered to carry out an operation for the IRA. To secure the release of my family, I not only had to hand Farrell over, I was also required to shoot the Prime Minister on the terrace of Chequers, his official country house in Buckinghamshire, on the morning of Thursday 2 June — two days' time. If I failed, the hostages would be killed and their weighted bodies would be dropped into the Thames.
I think we were nearly in Cirencester, a dozen miles down the road, before I fully took in what I was reading. The idea was so outrageous that at first I thought it was some grisly joke. Assassinate the Prime Minister? They couldn't be serious. Then I saw the notes that somebody had made after a recce of the park at Chequers, with bearings and distances, and details of the security arrangements protecting the house, and I realised that the plan was in deadly earnest.
Stew must have seen that I was shaken, because he glanced sideways at me and said, 'Everything OK, Geordie?'
'Yeah, yeah.' I switched off the map light and tried to sound flippant. 'Just the usual bloody nonsense. We'll sort it out when we get back.' But everything was far from OK. I felt the whole world was coming down on top of me.
TWELVE
During the journey back nobody spoke much: Dough nut kept the music going on the radio, and when Farrell asked me some question I pretended to have dozed off.
I knew Andy would have reported direct from the railway wagon, so that the SB guys in the incident room would already know that our meeting had taken place.
All the same, they'd be panting to hear our version of the story; but with Farrell in the car I wasn't going to start honking off about it while we were on the road.
It was after one when we reached the cottage.
Whinger and Tony had sat up waiting for us, and they got a brew on as soon as we arrived. Of course they wanted to know how things had gone, so I described the meeting a bit and said that everything had been OK.
I told them that Farrell's identity had definitely been confirmed, but I didn't mention the PI1LA orders.
When Farrell started asking about them, I said they were a load of shit and we'd deal with them in the morning. Then, after we'd all had a cup of tea, I asked Tony to put the man to bed.
'It's like looking after a goddamn baby!' he protested.
'The next thing I'll have to do is wipe his butt for him.'
'I know. But someone's got to do the job. And anyway, our baby's special. When this is all over, I'll see you're issued with a diploma, so that you can get a job as a nanny.'
As for me — I couldn't imagine going to sleep. I needed to call the incident room, but first I wanted to talk things through with the other lads. So, with Farrell safely shackled to the bed and out of earshot upstairs, we settled into a Chinese parliament in the living room.
At first the others were as incredulous about the orders as I'd been. The scheme was so monstrous they couldn't believe it. But as we went through the PIRA reports, we could see how thorough the terrorists had been in their reconnaissance and research. The documents were semi-literate in places, but neatly laid out by a word processor, and full of information.
'Listen to this,' I said, and I read out a paragraph labelled 'Political Background':
A conference for Commonwealth Heads of State will take place at Chequers on 2 and 3 June. The first of the foreign dignitaries is due to arrive there at 1100” hours on 2 June. The first full session of the meeting will start at 1430 that day.
The Prime Minister will travel down from London by car the night before, 1 June. When in the country during the summer months it is his habit to walk out into the garden before breakfast, and before any guests are up. He is a very early bird. Often out by 0630. Being a rose freak, he likes particularly to go round the rose garden on the south terrace. There is every chance that on the morning of 2 June he will be attacking the greenfly by 0700 am at the latest. This will present a sniper at Point D with an ideal opportunity…
I picked up another sheet of paper and said, 'There's no doubt they've been and cased the joint.' I read them some more:
The range from Point D to the retaining wall at the front of the south terrace is 580 yards. The security screen round the house extends no more than 200 yards. Therefo
re Point D lies well beyond the reach of cameras and other security devices.
'Sounds as though their intelligence is shit-hot,' I added. 'They must have people all over the place. I mean, we know they've got men in London, but it looks like they've got Swindon sewn up, they've spent a lot of time at Chequers… They can put guys in wherever they need them. The question is, how the hell do we respond?'
'We can't handle this on our own,' said Whinger.
'Got to tell the incident room and the head-shed.'
'We'll call them in a minute,' I agreed. 'Fraser's going to do his nut. He's been wittering on about a shoot in London — but wait till he hears this.'
Tony, practical as ever, asked, 'What weapon are they proposing for the shoot?'
'There's something here…' I flipped back a couple of pages and read out: '“The sniper weapon will be collected from a transit hide, details later.”'
'Gotta be some weapon, to be effective at the range they're talking about.' J
'Wait a minute,' said Whinger. 'It's not that fucking great five-oh they had in Ulster, is it?'
'Could be,' I told him. 'Could easily be. SB had wind that some big cannon was being brought over, or maybe had been brought over already.'
'A five-oh!' Tony whistled. 'That's something else.'
'We're jumping to conclusions,' I said. 'But that's what it sounds like.'
Everyone in the Regiment who'd served in Ulster knew about the fearsome rifle with which members of the security forces had been taken out in the late 264 eighties and early nineties. It was so accurate that it could hit a man at a thousand yards, so powerful that a round would go straight through a flak-jacket and blow the wearer away. The guy using the weapon had become such a menace that the SAS had twice tried to get him. They'd set up special patrols that appeared to be from the green army, in the hope of luring the.sniper to take a shot and give his position away, but by a combination of luck and guile he'd always evaded them and had never been accounted for.
'If they're talking about a range of six hundred yards,' said Tony, 'that's peanuts for a weapon of that calibre.'
