Zero Option

by Chris Ryan

  When the DF vans had begun tracing PIRA mobile phone calls to the area, the janitor, Stan, had un fortunately fallen ill with a viral infection and was replaced by an SB stand-in called Tom. By dallying with his mop and bucket on the top floor corridor, the new man discovered that Aherne often left no. 72 a few minutes after arriving home from a shopping trip still carrying his supermarket bag, nipped down the stairs to the fifth floor, and slipped into no. 57.

  In the early evening of 1 June, with the PIRA deadline approaching, SB decided that it was essential to evacuate the occupants of no. 58 and take the flat over for their own purposes. Fortunately the only person at

  home was Edith Treadgold, an elderly spinster addicted to detective novels, of which she had hundreds arranged in glass-fronted bookcases. Normally she lived there with a companion, but that day the friend had gone to stay with relations. When Miss Treadgold suddenly found herself called on by a woman detective sergeant she was at first horrified, but then openly thrilled to be caught up in a real-life drama. She needed little persuasion to pack a few things into an overnight bag, surrender her keys, go down in the lift and take the waiting taxi, which bore her off to a comfortable hotel room for the night.

  One by one, a team of specialists filtered into the block, using both entrances and taking the lifts to different floors before working their way up or down to no. 58. They were surprised to find that Miss Treadgold had another addiction besides Dorothy Sayers and Agatha Christie: when they pulled back a sofa into the middle of the room to get at the party wall, they exposed a sizeable collection of magazines dedicated to bondage and flagellation.

  By chasing up the owner of the flat through Interpol contacts, the SB had established a clear picture of the layout of no. 57. Inside the front door was a central lobby, with the kitchen off it to the left, and the bathroom and a separate toilet to the right. Beyond the bathroom, having a common wall with no. 58, was the main bedroom, which had a window on the south face of the block. Next to it was a smaller bedroom, also with a south-facing window, and next to that the sitting room and dining area, which abutted the kitchen at its inner end.

  The windows were old-fashioned and made of wood, and the doors of the bedrooms opened inwards, away from the central lobby. Monitoring of the water and electricity supplies had suggested that at least four

  people were living in the flat, even though none had been seen to come out, and the only known visitor was Aherne. The regular telephone line remained unused; during the past week not a single call had gone in or out.

  At first the listening devices were frustrated by television sound, but at one point the eavesdroppers picked up the noise of a child crying and a woman shouting at him or her to be quiet. The sounds caught by the microphones strongly suggested that the hostages were being held in the main bedroom, so it was into that wall that the drill had started to bite.

  Meanwhile two six-man teams, Red and Blue, from the Regiment's counter-terrorist unit, were standing by in their holding base at Hounslow Barracks, a few minutes' drive to the south. As always in emergencies of this kind, control remained in the hands of the police, and would do so until the final moment before an assault went in. “But during the evening the CO and the ops officer flew up from Hereford by chopper to take overall command of the military element of the operation, installing themselves in a control room established in Police Headquarters at Hendon.

  Further up the chain, an open-ended meeting was in progress at COBR, the Cabinet Office Briefing Room underground in Whitehall, where the director of the SAS, a brigadier, was liaising with senior representatives of the Metropolitan Police, the Home Office and the Prime Minister's personal staff.

  In no. 58 drilling continued all night. As Yorky reported to me, the first probe, which went through at 2315, proved ineffective because its view was blocked by furniture. The second, higher up, penetrated the wall of the main bedroom by 0320, near the corner with the outer wall, but by then the room was dark and for the time being nothing could be seen. It was only at 0405, when one of the occupants got up to go to the home was Edith Treadgold, an elderly spins' to detective novels, of which she had hun in glass-fronted bookcases. Normally sleep with a companion, but that day the friend stay with relations. When Miss Tre found herself called on by a woman So she was at first horrified, but then caught up in a real-life drama. So., suasion to pack a few things surrender her keys, go down I am waiting taxi, which bore her room for the night.

  One by one, a team of block, using both entrances different floors. They were surprised, he had another addiction to Agatha Christie: whether

  middle of the room exposed a sizeable bondage and flag. By chasing contacts, the layout of no lobby, with bathroom main be of the with room inner end.

  The windows wood, and the doors of away from the central lobby and electricity supplies had sugges other equipment clank against lut on the roof, among the dish ;hafts, they sought anchor-points they could abseil down and come of no. 57. Simultaneously the quietly up the eastern staircase to along the corridor and back where they slipped silently into no.

  Snipers crawled on to the roof of a commanded a view of Cumberland ,nt. Their primary role was to report hostage fiat's windows, which had

  One (the main bedroom), Two (the and Three (the sitting room). A was to watch the windows of no. 72 for When the raid went down, the snipers as cover and take out any terrorist who e from that side of the building. Also hidden in the drive of a private house, reception van, with another six guys on board. Their job would be to and whisk everyone away from the scene the moment the assault was all these sources quick reports flowed in over net. 'Sierra One,' called the lead sniper.

  In position. All curtains drawn. No lights Zero Bravo. Wait out,' Local Control replied.

  Blue Team had few preparations to make, and the leader reported, 'Blue One in position and to go.'

  Again Control answered, 'loger. Wait out.'

  It was the led Team who needed most time to repare. There were no easy anchor-points for their lavatory, that a light was switched on.

  For the top brass, listening in to commentary from

  the front line, events suddenly became gripping.

  'There's a bumping noise,' said the Scots voice of the fibre-optic operator. 'They're moving the furniture around. There's a bed across the door - they have to move it to get out…'

  The pitch of the voice rose sharply as the man said, 'The light's on. The kid is there! It's definitely him.

  He's in a camp bed. He's woken up. He's sat up and looking round. Seems to have a black eye. light eye swollen.

  'The woman's gone to the bathroom. Wearing white pyjamas . . . now she's coming back. Two women.

  One's small, stocky and fair. The other's tall and slim.

  Not a redhead, though. Wait till I get a look at her face.

  Yes, it's Tracy all right. But her hair's very dark. Black.

  Could by dyed. Could be a wig… No - she wouldn't wear a wig at night. Her hair's been dyed. Pass that to the teams. Don't be looking for a redhead. We don't want any identities mistaken. The guard isn't much over five foot. You can't confuse the two.'

  The news precipitated immediate action. In the control room at Hendon the assault plan was finally ratified. Details were confirmed over the secure net to the Red and Blue teams, and to the assault commander, Captain Terry Morris, who, along with Staff Sergeant Bill Brassey, had set up a forward command post in another commandeered flat, across the street from the north front of Cumberland House. It was from there that the main surveillance had been conducted for the past three days; now closed-circuit television cameras were watching both entrances.

  By 0515 both teams had been bussed to the site. One by one they infiltrated via the garden passage. The six guys in Red crept up the fire escape, taking care not to

  346 let their MP 5s, axes or other equipment clank against the steel guide-rails. Out on the roof, among the dish aerials and ventilation shafts, they sought anchor-points f
or their ropes, so that they could abseil down and come in through the windows of no. 57. Simultaneously the six guys in Blue went quietly up the eastern staircase to the sixth floor, moved along the corridor and back down to level five, where they slipped silently into no.

  Farther out, two snipers crawled on to the roof of a warehouse which commanded a view of Cumberland House's south front. Their primary role was to report any movement in the hostage fiat's windows, which had been numbered One (the main bedroom), Two (the second bedroom) and Three (the sitting room). A secondary task was to watch the windows of no. 72 for any change. When the raid went down, the snipers would also act as cover and take out any terrorist who tried to escape from that side of the building. Also waiting nearby, hidden in the drive of a private house, was the hostage reception van, with another six guys from the Regiment on board. Their job would be to scorch in and whisk everyone away from the scene hostages and soldiers alike - the moment the assault was complete.

  From all these sources quick reports flowed in over the secure net. 'Sierra One,' called the lead sniper.

  'We're on. In position. All curtains drawn. No lights showing.'

  'Zero Bravo. Wait out,' Local Control replied.

  The Blue Team had few preparations to make, and soon the leader reported, 'Blue One in position and ready to go.'

  Again Control answered, 'loger. Wait out.'

  It was the P,.ed Team who needed most time to prepare. There were no easy anchor-points for their ropes, and as the light came up the guys felt very exposed on the bare, flat roof. 'led One,' called Fred Daniels, their leader. 'We need to get a shift on or we're going to get compromised up here. There's people on the move in the streets already.'

  'Zero Bravo. Roger,' responded Terry Morris. 'Wait Out.'

  As the minutes ticked past tension mounted. Danger lay in the fact that the security forces were not certain how many terrorists the flat contained. The aim, in situations of that kind, is to work out the position of every X-ray in advance, so that the teams can be certain precisely where their targets will be before they go in.

  But in this case it had proven impossible. Thanks to the fibre-optic probe it was known for sure that Tracy, Tim and one PItLA woman were in the main bedroom. The pattern of mobile telephone calls had suggested that there were also two men in the flat - but whether both were sleeping in the second bedroom, or one there and one in the sitting room, nobody knew. The only option was to hit the apartment from both sides simultaneously - Red through the windows, Blue through the door.

  The intention all along had been that the assault should go in before 0630, to forestall any need for the shoot at Chequers. But permission had to come down from COBR, and then at the forward control room Terry had to sign an order from the senior police officer present, taking over command of the incident.

  While these formalities were being prepared, the Red Team lay flat on the roof beside their coiled ropes, to keep out of sight of passers-by or people in other buildings. By 0625 everything was in place, and Terry was about to sign the hand-over order when a man appeared, walking fast along Ellerton Road with a plastic shopping bag in his right hand. One of the cameras picked him up as he went into the eastern entrance of Cumberland House, and he was immediately identified as Danny Aherne, the tenant of no.

  Where had he come from? What was he doing, heading back to his lodgings at that time of the morning? What was he carrying in the bag?

  'Zero Bravo for Tango One,' said Terry, calling the reserve team into action. 'A suspect X-ray has entered the building. Move to seal both entrances immediately.'

  'Tango One. Moving now,' came the answer, and then from Terry: 'All other stations, this is Zero Bravo.

  Hold, hold, hold.'

  Crouching at the edge of the wood I felt like I'd had a kick in the crotch, and it took me a couple of minutes to recover. I felt physically sick at the thought that something had gone wrong. At that stage I didn't know what had hhppened. I'd only heard Yorky's message, but surely the security guys couldn't have mistaken the identity of the people in no. 57. Surely they'd got the right flat…

  Fighting down the disappointment, I made my way back through the trees to rejoin the others. From the way Tony looked at me I could tell that he knew how I was feeling. Through his covert earpiece he too had heard Yorky give me the bad news, and he was suffering along with me. I was grateful for that.

  But all he said was, 'It's such a hell ofaxnorning, the target may come out early. Hadn't we better get ready?'

  'We are ready,' I replied. 'We just have to whip forward and fire.' All the same, I withdrew the bolt from the Haskins and looked through the barrel to make sure it was clear. Then I gave the lenses of the telescopic sight their hundredth polish. I was halfway through getting up from behind the rifle when Tony, who was watching the house through binoculars, said, 'Look out! A door's been opened.'

  I had my own binos up in a flash. Yes, there was movement at the back of the terrace. A man in a white shirt and black trousers had come out and was shaking something pale - maybe a rug or a tablecloth.

  'It's a butler or some similar jerk,' I breathed. 'At least it shows the household's on the move.'

  All three of us were kneeling in a line, Tony on the fight, then Farrell, then myself. I glanced sideways at Farrell and saw that his eyes were gleaming, his lips drawn slightly back from his teeth. Watch yourself, twat, I silently told him, you're in for a nasty surprise in a moment.

  The butler figure disappeared inside again and the door closed. Now waiting became even harder. The hands on my watch barely seemed to move. By the time they had crawled to 0635 it felt like midday at least.

  Temporary relief came with a short, sharp, sudden rushing noise. There, right in front of us, a buzzard was pulling out of a steep dive just above the ground.

  Whether the bird had swooped at a rat or mouse and missed, I couldn't tell. After a moment he soared up again, talons still extended, his wings working furiously, and the roar of air through his pinions took me straight back to parachuting and free-falling.

  All at once I was thinking of the first two training jumps I made, at Weston-on-the-Green. I remembered how somebody went past me, falling after my chute had broken out, with a load, hoarse roar, like that buzzard, only bigger…

  More movement on the terrace jerked me back to the present.

  Jesus, I thought. This is it.

  The same door had opened again but a different man had come out. The binos clearly picked out the familiar figure: smooth grey hair, slightly long; pale face,

  spectacles glinting. He wore a big, sloppy, light- coloured sweater nearly down to his knees, and he was carrying something in his right hand - a small canister, no doubt to blitz the bugs on the roses.

  'Begod! It's himself!' Farrell exclaimed.

  'Come on then!' I snatched a glance at my watch: 0645. No hope of a reprieve from London now..

  I snatched up the rifle and started forward, asking quietly over the radio, 'All clear your end, Whinge?'

  'All clear,' came the answer.

  I reached the bank and set the Haskins down. The target was moving slowly out into the terrace garden, turning back and forth as he peered at the rosebeds. I looked through the sight and saw that, although the scope was good, it wasn't like a pair of binoculars: it gave a clear general picture but not close details.

  'Now!' I stood up and faced Farrell. 'There's a slight change of'plan. It's you to shoot, not me.'

  'What the luck!' His face turned deathly white. Then a red flush of anger came up from the neck. 'What's this?' he croaked incredulously. 'What the fuck is this?'

  'Get down and shoot,' I told him, 'or the chance will be gone.'

  'Treacherous cunt!' he said out loud, and then, almost shouting: 'Fucking treacherous bastard!'

  If his right wrist hadn't been cuffed to Tony's left I'm sure he'd have taken a swing at me. Then he saw the Sig levelled at his chest and stumbled backwards, heaving for breath.

  '
You're the shooter here,' he gasped. 'That's the deal.'

  'You have the choice,' I said. 'Shoot or die. Simple as that. There'll be few enough questions asked afterwards.'

  'I can't shoot that thing.' He flicked his right foot in the direction of the rifle. 'Holy Mary, I never saw a

  weapon like that in my life. I couldn't hit the house, let alone the target.'

  'Bollocks! It was you who shot the British soldier with it at Crossmaglen last August. It was you who killed the man long-range on the border in February. It was this very rifle, and yourself firing it. I don't know how many murders you've got on your slate, but one more's not going to make much difference:'

  From the way Farrell flinched I knew I was right.

  'Get down and shoot,' I repeated.

  'Never,' he said. 'If you're wanting your family released it's you to shoot, and that's all.'