by Tom Benson
“This would be the car park of your new headquarters if you like what you see.”
“How many levels does the place have?”
“There are four. The top floor is no more than a walled enclosure—no roof. Next down is what you would call the main floor and conference rooms. We are on the next floor down, which is on ground-level and sea-level, which is why I think of this as the car-park. Below this is a basement.”
“Bloody hell, this is good, although it’s a bit cold.”
“We can deal with the temperature if you like what you see,” Simpson said. He reached behind his seat and lifted a large flashlight from the floor.
The pair got out of the car and Simpson shone the bright beam around the area as he explained.
“In this space, you’d have enough room for eight vehicles. In the northeast and north-west corners, are stone staircases which take you to the next levels up or down.”
“Is there anything in the rooms above?”
“Yeah, most of the rooms have old, but sturdy furniture and there are a couple of smaller storage rooms. There is one room you could use as a conference room. It must have been a briefing room at some stage.”
“What did you say was on the next level if you go up to the top?”
“Your secret weapon,” he said. “The top level is a flat and slightly damaged stone floor, which is open to the elements. It has the remnants of the four walls, but there is no roof remaining on the castle.” He grinned. “There is access through a small room on the third floor. I’m sure there will be another way up—these places always have secret passages.”
“So,” she said. “If anybody were to fly over in a helicopter it would look like there was nothing inside the place?”
He nodded and smiled. “The floors are so thick you could have a party on one floor and not hear it on the other levels.”
“Brian, this is fucking magical.” Carol dared to believe that Simpson wasn’t the simple brute he might first appear to be. “Well done.”
“Thank you,” he said, happy to take the credit for having actually sourced this place. “Would you like to see the remainder?”
“Yes, I think I would.”
“We’ll start up top, and work our way down to the dungeons.”
“Dungeons?” McGinley said. “Seriously?”
“Well, they would have been dungeons in their first use, but they’ve been improved a little. Come on up, and we’ll take a look around the area.” Simpson headed for the stone staircase.
He took McGinley to an old staircase which led up from the car park floor. They arrived in a short corridor. A maze of corridors existed in the old place, and there were many small rooms. At the end was the large conference room.
He led the way through the trap-door next to the meeting room. A gap of several feet of darkness was next, before the second trapdoor which exited onto the open top floor. Simpson explained there were two separate hatches because of the thickness of the stone floor.
For a few minutes, they stood on the partially sheltered upper level, taking in the glorious view.
“I wonder why there’s still a flagpole,” McGinley said. “If there’s no roof, why would somebody not have ripped out the bloody flagpole?”
“I think you’ll find it’s been left as a lightning rod,” Simpson ventured. He had no more idea than Carol why the thing was there, but his explanation was typical of his instant response to her questions. All queries were answered. “I thought I’d let you see the top floor so you’d be confident you’d have no unwelcome visitors.”
“It’s a good view, and as long as we stay behind the remaining parts of the wall, I doubt if anybody would see us.” She looked around and back at the mainland. “There’s the hill we stopped on after coming through the first set of gates.”
“If you look down close to the coastline you’ll see the old building we drove into.”
McGinley performed a slow three-sixty-degree turn as Simpson outlined the surrounding area.
He said, “To the right, about sixty per cent of the loch goes northeast. To the left, there is a narrow channel and the west portion of the loch. It’s not landlocked, which means it’s open to the sea.”
“If there were some sort of emergency, could we get away from here on a boat?”
“Yes, I’ve checked it out. Opposite the estuary, you are facing the Isle of Mull, and beyond it is the North Atlantic.”
The pair went down through the trapdoors down into the corridors of the central accommodation on the floor below. They inspected a few small rooms, and the conference room, before going down to the car park and the dungeons in the basement.
Simpson sensed McGinley’s delight on seeing the size and number of the modernised cells. The big man had suggested the rooms could be used to accommodate ‘friend or foe,' which caused a chuckle from the gangster's widow.
McGinley said, “Depending on who we have as guests, we either strip out a room or leave it furnished down in the dungeons.”
Simpson nodded and waited while McGinley took a second look around the chambers in the bowels of the ruin. They returned to the car and left.
And so it was, that one puppet had bluffed sufficiently to show another around the ruin.
10. Ailsa Craig
Being an ex-Royal Marine, Mike Longhurst wasn’t afraid of a fight, however dangerous. If the truth were known, the more dangerous, the better; he missed the action of his service life. Since meeting Phil and the original BTL line-up in July ’96, Mike had offered his services and his twenty-one-foot cruiser Per Mare, Per Terram.
In July, Mike had been assisted by Sinbad on a mission. The ex-Marine and the Mental Rider became friends.
Sinbad usually seized the opportunity to be involved in anything violent, or illegal. On this occasion, Sinbad escorted by Wyatt and Pedro, arrived at Mike’s workshop early in the morning. Following the incident with Snake, the bikers heeded the suggestion of going nowhere alone. In the case of the bikers, they didn’t ride together through fear, but because more of them could be involved if anything kicked off.
Sinbad parked his bike inside Mike’s motorbike workshop and rode with Pedro to Mike’s private mooring on the Clyde. Wyatt and Pedro waited until the boat had set off before they hit the road back to the clubhouse on Byres Road.
.
Saturday 2nd October
Dalmuir, near Clydebank
Mike and Sinbad arrived at the small and partly concealed mooring.
Jake and Rachel parked their bikes in a secure long-stay car park on the outskirts of Clydebank. Within minutes the two operatives were picked up by Ian and Eva in a black Range Rover. For the sake of registration, it was kept in Ian’s name, and parked at his rented house in Knightswood.
When the team arrived at the mooring, they unloaded the equipment, weapons, ammunition and rations into Mike’s boat. Greetings between the full-time and part-time associates were kept to nodding and smiles so they could get underway with haste.
The sun shone on the small craft as it went under the Erskine Bridge on the way to the Clyde Estuary. Sinbad dealt with the brews. Apart from Mike, Sinbad spent more time on the boat than any of the others.
“Hey Jake,” Sinbad said when they were all on the deck. “How is it looking for information on this murdering bastard?”
“We’re waiting for Intel reports from reliable sources mate,” Jake said. “Don’t worry—you guys will be kept in the loop.” He caught Rachel’s eye and raised his eyebrow. They knew to involve the bikers too early would be fatal, for all the wrong reasons.
As Mike steered the channel between Dunoon and Gourock, the boat lifted in the larger swells. There was no idle chatter as each person watched the land passing on both sides. For twenty minutes the only noise on the boat was the engine.
“What is this Ailsa Craig thing?” Sinbad asked, feeling the need for conversation.
“It’s a small uninhabited island about ten miles off the coast,” Jake said.
“The closest town on the mainland coast is Girvan, but they won’t hear what we’re up to.”
“Will you be shooting out there?”
“Yeah,” Jake said. “You won’t be left out. Mike has brought out a machine-gun to teach you how to shoot from a boat.”
“Really?” Sinbad said, turning to Mike, and for the first time sounded excited.
“Yes, mate—I think you’ll enjoy the idea.” The ex-Royal Marine grinned.
The others pretended not to notice how animated the biker had become at the mention of shooting.
Mike steered wide to sail around the island and approach from the south-west. “I’m going around the place first. It means we’ll be able to see if there’s anything else visiting, apart from seabirds. The lighthouse, compound and outbuildings are on the southeastern coast.”
After circumnavigating the small island, the boat pulled up to the short pier, and within twenty minutes would be ready to leave again. Mike had promised Sinbad some instruction on how to handle the little cruiser in open water.
Jake said. “We’ll get the gear unloaded and let you pull away from the pier, Mike.”
“Okay mate,” Mike said. “Remember to keep in touch, because we’ll be using the west coast for target practice.”
“We’ll see you guys later,” Rachel said. “I take it you intend to take the soft option and sleep on land overnight.”
“We’ll come back if you promise to make us a nice meal.” Mike smiled.
.
Ailsa Craig
The team hauled their gear to the outbuildings and stashed everything in the most secure shed. There was a small accommodation block which was ideal for organising meals, and an overnight stay.
A lunchtime meal and brew were fixed up before Jake set off to conduct a recce. He’d paid a visit once before when Mike had told him about the place, so it wasn’t new to him, but a look around was always recommended before commencing training.
He’d be looking for areas to practise rock-climbing and abseiling. The ideal location for setting up a firing range for the boat crew was on the west coastline, so he’d be liaising with Mike before live-firing. High-velocity weapons would be used from the vessel. Both high-velocity and pistol practice would be done within the compound area.
When Jake returned to the lighthouse complex, it was set up with standard four-foot targets at ten, twenty-five, and fifty yards. A pair of trestle tables was set up near the firing point, each with a Glock, Browning, Colt, and Walther. On a separate table were the two collapsible rifles preferred by Rachel since being under Annabel’s instruction.
While they had the ideal weather conditions, Jake told the team to select a weapon apiece, and practise stripping, and assembly. He took part himself, believing all practice is good. When satisfied, Jake set up a target of one foot in height at a distance of one-hundred yards so Rachel could get in practice with her Simonov self-loading carbine and the Armalite AR7.
“Don’t you need a much greater distance for this?” Eva asked.
“No,” Rachel said. “At this distance with a target so small, it represents a target of average height, which is much further away.”
“Why do you always say target instead of man?” Eva said and laughed.
“The target might not be a man,” Rachel said, without humour. “Besides, as Annabel taught me in my early days with the team, I should never think of a target as a person.”
“I’ll remember that,” Eva said.
The others watched as Rachel zeroed both of her weapons with ten rounds apiece, and when content, put them aside for cleaning later. She joined the others in handgun practice.
Rachel turned to Eva. “After the handguns, we’ll get you firing the rifles.”
Eva bit her lip like an excited child.
Jake coached each person individually on their handling and ability with each of the firearms. He proved his proficiency with a weapon as he demonstrated the most efficient techniques for firing with, or without any protective cover. All weapons were dry-cleaned and packed away. They’d be lightly oiled in the morning.
For an hour the team got physical with self-defence skills training. Disarming an opponent with a knife or gun was a lesson worth getting right.
“It pays to be efficient in tackling somebody who’s threatening you with a knife,” Jake said. “If you haven’t got a handgun or a knife, you need to use their weapon against them. Always remember, it’s you or the other guy—no mercy.”
They cleaned up and enjoyed a snack.
While there was sufficient natural light, the latter part of the evening was spent working with explosives, detonators and lengths of det-cord.
“We’ll cover practical demonstrations tomorrow morning,” Jake said. “This island may be uninhabited by humans, but it’s a bird sanctuary, so we’ll have to be selective about what we blow up.”
Mike waited until dusk before bringing his small cruiser around from the west side of the island. He moored the boat, and both he and Sinbad went ashore to spend the night on land to have an evening meal outdoors with the team.
It gave them a chance to catch up with what the others had been doing. Mike took the opportunity to make detailed notes with Jake regarding the next day.
.
Sunday 3rd October
After breakfast, Mike and Sinbad set off in the Per Mare, Per Terram.
“We’ll get a couple of miles west, out to sea,” Mike said. “My idea is to drop a few floats as targets, and I’ll be able to demonstrate how to shoot from a boat.”
Sinbad liked Mike’s relaxed manner and his irreverent humour. The jokes and one-liners Mike used appealed to the biker.
“Which sort of weapon, will we be using?” Sinbad asked as they skipped gently over the moderate waves.
“It’s in the wooden case over there if you’d like to lift it out for a look.” Mike nodded to the large green box stacked against the inner starboard side of the boat.
“Fucking hell,” Sinbad said as he lifted the large weapon from the case. “I vaguely remember training on one of these in my short naval career. What’s the name of it?”
“It’s classed as a Light Machine Gun, or LMG,” Mike said. “The model is a BREN L4A5, which fires one-hundred and twenty rounds per minute. It has a chrome-lined barrel, and this model was at one time the issue for the Royal Navy.”
“I have to say, it looks old but feels like a beast. By my calculation, two rounds per second from this thing would cause a lot of damage.”
“You might think a little over one-hundred rounds per minute isn’t impressive these days, but they are 7.62mm which means they have serious stopping power. If you fire the weapon with any accuracy, you don’t need a lot of hits on target.”
“Shit,” Sinbad said, inspecting one of the live rounds. “A few of these babies on target would be the end of the road.”
“Here we are,” Mike said when satisfied. “We’re far enough from any land or other shipping. You can throw a few of those orange floats overboard, and we’ll use them as targets.”
Sinbad dropped the floats into the water, and as they hit the surface, they bobbed around. He looked back at them as Mike steered the boat a distance away. The biker watched while the skipper flipped up two short, hollow pipes into a vertical position. The tubes were spaced four feet apart.
“What are they used for usually?” Sinbad said. “I’ve never noticed them before.”
“If anybody asks, they’re for helping to support deep sea fishing rods, but you’re about to see the proper use.” Mike lifted two metal poles and slotted them into the tubes. He turned and grinned at Sinbad.
Mike fastened a heavy-duty canvas strap between hooks on the vertical poles before he hoisted the BREN to rest on top. The strap sagged with the weight of the weapon. In a smooth, practised movement, Mike folded the bipod back along the big gun, then he lifted a little, and pulled back, so the folded bipod legs gripped the strap. Mike held the butt hard against his right sh
oulder, and the heavy gun settled in position on the sagging belt. He turned to the biker.
“If you’d like to pass me one of those big curved magazines, I’ll show you how this gun performs in a sling.” Mike flipped the top cover open. He accepted the magazine and clipped it into position. In a rapid movement, he forced the butt into his shoulder by holding the narrow section with his left hand. He used his right hand to pull back sharply on the cocking handle.
“Cans on.” Mike lowered his headphone-style ear defenders.
Sinbad dropped his cans over his ears and grinned as he watched a man who had obviously done this many times.
“I’ll set the sights on three-hundred for now and see how it goes,” Mike called as he flipped up the sights, made a rapid adjustment and took aim. “I’ll aim for the float to the far left. I’ve loaded the first magazine with alternate tracer rounds, which means you’ll see them clearly.”
Sinbad steadied himself and raised the binoculars he had draped around his neck.
The boat lifted easily in the gentle swells as Mike positioned his feet to keep his balance, and take the pressure of the recoil. There were four deep thuds from the big machine gun when Mike squeezed the trigger.
“Splashes appeared in front of the first float, and I saw the three tracers,” Sinbad shouted.
“Close,” Mike called back. “You’ll have noticed you don’t need the binoculars to see the tracer rounds, but it’s good practice for you. Now I’ll try bursts of five, and we’ll see how the swell affects aiming.” Again, there were loud and rapid thuds from the weapon.
“Two hits,” Sinbad cried. “Two fucking hits Mike.”
“Take the binoculars off and get over here mate,” Mike said as he lifted his cans from his ears. “It’s time for you to fire a proper weapon.”
Two minutes later, Sinbad balanced on the shifting boat, and not for the first time, recalled his short period of service with the Royal Navy. He pulled the machine gun tight into his shoulder. Mike stood close by and gave final instructions before lifting the binoculars to watch what happened out at sea.
