by James Adams
Captain David Mills RN had watched the byplay between the JOC and COBRA with fascination and frustration. Mills was a seasoned MoD warrior in the guerrilla warfare that was constantly waged in the corridors of Whitehall. He had watched and listened and understood that there were two very distinct games being played here. The first was the release of the hostages, and that could probably be accomplished by the SAS, the police or some other group who had the guts and wanted the glory. At the same time, this was a fight for visibility, a game that everyone had to play. If you were in, then the payoffs afterwards in funding and positioning at the high table could be enormous. If you got left out of an operation of this size then awkward questions would be asked about roles which could lead to cuts — and no one wanted that. So the Prime Minister’s question was perfectly timed.
“I can take that one if you like, John,” Mills said smoothly, rising to stand at the podium. “You are quite right, Prime Minister. During the building of the Tunnel a number of small vertical pipes were inserted in the roof that led out to the sea. Officially these are ventilation shafts, but in fact they can provide access from underwater.”
“Are the Navy in a position to exploit this opportunity?” Major asked.
“Unfortunately, Prime Minister, the Tunnel was designed when the Navy was planning to build two Mermaid class submersible rescue vessels and these were cancelled by the previous government.” (Get that in the minutes for after this is all over, Mills thought to himself.) “The only vessels that can access the shafts are in the United States and we are making inquiries to see if we can get one of them over here. Meanwhile, we do have HMS Campbeltown on station in the Irish Sea as the Fleet Contingency Ship and we can bring her down to the Channel just in case the vessel arrives from the States.”
“Excellent, captain,” Major replied, some enthusiasm in his voice now that he felt something was happening. “Have Campbeltown make all speed to the Channel and tell the Americans we need their help immediately. Let me know if you need me to call President Clinton to move things along. Thank you, gentlemen.”
The screen in the JOC went blank.
CHAPTER XIX
Across Whitehall, Major turned away from the screen and asked his ministers for their comments. There was a brief silence and then Douglas Hurd spoke, the distinctive voice sounding even more nasal in the confines of the briefing room.
“I had a call half an hour ago from Mr Ma Yuzhen, the Chinese ambassador in London. He told me that he understands that there are some terrorists from Hong Kong holding hostages inside the Tunnel.”
“Bloody hell, how did the little bastard know that?” exclaimed Sir Robin Butler, the Cabinet Secretary.
“We don’t know, Robin,” Hurd responded, sarcasm evident in his voice. “We assume that he has sources that are about as good as ours. Anyway, he made it crystal clear that his government would take very strong exception indeed to any deal that we might do with the terrorists. He explained that Beijing would consider any effort to give passports to more Hong Kong residents a breach of the spirit and the letter of the 1984 agreement. He said that the people are what makes Hong Kong strong, that he relies on us not to negotiate.” His voice tailed off as his right hand made a dismissive gesture. “You get the general idea. He’s not happy and he wants to make sure that we’re well aware of that fact.”
“Do you think there is any room for compromise, Douglas?” Major asked. “For that matter, do you think we should seek to negotiate?”
“Our experience of the Chinese over the past few years has been marked by their absolute determination to get as much of Hong Kong as possible, and that certainly includes the people. I think they see it as their lifeline to the future and they will do their damnedest to make sure nothing interferes with that. So I think compromise with the Chinese government is unlikely and that makes the question of whether the terrorists will negotiate a fairly moot point. Of course, we could defy the Chinese and do a deal anyway. But if we did that I can guarantee that the Chinese would leak the story and we could find ourselves in serious trouble both at home and abroad.”
“But if we don’t negotiate we face the danger of the Channel Tunnel being blown up,” pointed out the Chancellor of the Exchequer. “I don’t want to be too doom and gloom but my advisers tell me that could have a catastrophic effect on the stock market. There’s about fifteen billion pounds tied up in the Tunnel if you include all the infrastructure and if it goes down the pan — if you’ll forgive the pun — it will be the biggest single loss the City has ever experienced. Lloyd’s is only just beginning to recover from the asbestos business and I doubt they could absorb another loss like this.
“I imagine Eurotunnel will go bust and there won’t be anybody around to pick up the pieces. I cannot believe that the public will use the Tunnel after this, even if it can be repaired.”
“Well, if that’s the case we’d better prepare for a rescue operation,” said Malcolm Rifkind, the Secretary of State for Defence. “But if we’re going down that road, I really think the Army and the Navy are better equipped to work in the Tunnel than the police.”
“That’s as may be,” replied Major. “But you heard what I said to the JOC. The police are going in to do a preliminary reconnaissance and then we’ll see.” He leaned back in his chair to stretch an aching back and continued in a more soothing tone. “Look, Malcolm, you and I both know that when it comes to this kind of thing, the military are probably the best we’ve got. But we’ve poured millions into the police in recent years to give them an effective counter-terrorist capability. The Kent police are specifically trained for just this kind of operation. If we don’t use them now, then it will send a very clear signal to the police that I think they’re not up to it. It will also raise serious questions about why we invested the money in them in the first place.
“We have two days left before the deadline runs out so we need to move without delay on a number of fronts. So, Malcolm, you will make sure the Navy ship is heading for the Channel and that it takes up position above the Tunnel. You may need to speed up things on the American side as well. A call to Les Aspin might help.”
Rifkind nodded and Major turned towards the paunchy figure of the Home Secretary, Kenneth Clarke. “Kenneth, you will make sure the police go in without delay and get a report back to the JOC and to COBRA as soon as possible.
“Finally, what is the position with the IRA? Are we making any progress on that front? Time is very short and so if we are to exploit that opportunity, we must do so immediately.”
“It’s in hand, Prime Minister. As we speak the Army and the police are moving into Belfast and Derry on a sweep of the Republican areas. We are putting out that it is related to the Tunnel and so far there has been no comeback either from the Labour Party or the SDLP over there. We are also seeing what else we can do as a matter of urgency.”
Major had no wish to find out what the “else” might be. Better that he shouldn’t know and then later, if it all went wrong, he could truthfully say he did not know about it. He was sure that both Kenneth and Malcolm had taken the same precaution. All of us politicians clearing the decks for action, he reflected ruefully.
“Very well. Thank you for your time. We will reconvene in the morning or sooner if there are developments to discuss.”
There was the usual shuffling of paper as the ministers gathered their documents. Major left the room first and went straight up the stairs towards No. 10 and his own office. Hurd followed but instead of going up the stairs, he turned to the right and entered one of the secondary conference rooms that form part of COBRA.
Both Dame Mary Cheong and Jonny Turnbull were seated at a rectangular wooden table surrounded by officials from the Cabinet Office, uniformed and plainclothes policemen and other men and women who were presumably from the intelligence community.
Hurd strode across the room briefly to embrace Dame Mary. “Mary. Good to see you again. I’m so pleased you have been able to help in this terrible si
tuation.”
“Thank you, Douglas. Obviously, I’m happy to do what I can.”
She turned towards Turnbull and stretched out an arm, bringing him forward into their little group.
“Foreign Secretary, this is Jonny Turnbull from the Royal Hong Kong Police. He first alerted us to the Triad problem and he has been passing on his extraordinary knowledge of the people involved in the attack to the police and others here. I’ve not been of much use, I’m afraid.”
The two men shook hands as Hurd muttered formal bromides about “gratitude” and “significant help”.
Mary Cheong steered Hurd away from the crowd and into a comer of the room. Leaning closer to him so that he could smell a distinctive, expensive perfume, she spoke in a tone low enough so that people a few feet away could hear nothing. “I warned you something like this would happen, Douglas. I told you the people of Hong Kong are so angry that they would be bound to take action. But you refused to listen and now we have a really serious problem.”
Hurd held up a hand in protest. “Now just a minute, Mary. Certainly, you warned me but I didn’t ignore what you had to say. On the contrary, I considered it very carefully but decided that there was nothing to be done. We simply can’t change our policy at this very late stage.”
“But surely you are not going to let those hostages die and the Tunnel be blown up?”
“No, of course not. We hope that it won’t come to that.”
“Well, why not give the people of Hong Kong what they deserve by right? Then you solve the problem.”
“First, that’s not in my gift,” Hurd replied. “And even if it were, I would never agree to changing government policy under such circumstances.”
“But you must. You must,” Mary repeated, her right hand gripping his upper arm and squeezing to underline her emotion. “The people in the Tunnel will die unless you do something. And if they die, they’ll take the Tunnel down with them.”
“That’s as may be, Mary.” Hurd turned back to the room. “If I can have your attention for a moment, ladies and gentlemen. The Prime Minister has decided that we will send in a reconnaissance team tonight to see what intelligence we can gather from inside the Tunnel. Then a decision will be taken on whether or not to mount a rescue operation. There will be no concessions.”
The whispered asides and even the two tentative claps that broke out in the tension-filled room showed Hurd that he had struck the right note with his audience. He knew from past war-gaming in COBRA that after a few hours all the participants tended to become entrenched with a collective determination not to give in. This was clearly the case here.
An hour later, Jonny pushed open the door to the flat in Sloane Avenue. He glanced towards the sitting room and saw that Lisu was in exactly the same position as she had been when he left her nearly twelve hours earlier. She was sitting staring into the fireplace where there was nothing to see except an unlit fake gas fire.
He moved around in front of her. “Hey. Hey. Wake up.” He snapped his fingers in front of her face and felt a momentary frisson of panic as she did not move. Then she started out of the trance and looked up at him. Her eyes were red-rimmed and sunken into their sockets. Her cheeks were streaked with the lines of tears which must have been falling for hours.
“Christ, Lisu, what’s the matter? You look terrible.”
She felt so fragile that it would have made little difference what he said. But the fact that his voice reflected the misery and self-loathing she felt caused her to begin a fresh outbreak of weeping.
“I’m so sorry, Jonny,” she cried, the words coming out syllable by syllable as the sobs prevented her from drawing a full breath. “You shouldn’t see me like this.”
Like most men confronted with a woman crying, Jonny wanted to pat her head as he would a nervous dog. Instead, he awkwardly got down on his knees by her and took her hands in his.
“What on earth has brought this on?” he asked, forcing her eyes to meet his. “You’ve been really upset for a couple of days. Why don’t you tell me about it? A burden shared is a burden halved, you know,” he added with a half smile which received no acknowledgement except another bout of sobbing.
“Oh, Jonny, I’m just so miserable. It’s all so depressing.”
“But what’s making you so miserable? Just tell me and I’ll see what I can do to help.”
“It’s being here,” she cried. Her small hands formed into fists to beat her frustration into the arm of the chair.
“I want to be back in Hong Kong. I want to be back in a world I understand. I want to be with people I can trust. I want to be away from here.”
Her hand swept around to encompass the room, its contents and, Jonny thought, London as well.
“But I thought we had discussed all this,” Jonny replied. “You know that I’ve got a job to do here. That will be over soon and then we’ll be going home. Surely that’s not too long to wait?”
Lisu shook her head. “But that was before.”
“Before what?” Jonny asked.
“Oh, Jonny, you just don’t understand. You get attacked, you see people die and you just charge on. Well, I’m not like that. I don’t care if Dai Choi lives or dies. All I care about is my life and I don’t have one here.”
He wanted to shake her, to force the self pity out of her. He wanted to tell her that he still loved her, that they could build a new life together. But somehow the words just wouldn’t come. Instead he was furious that she couldn’t understand how after all these years the man who killed their son was finally in his sights. This time, he was certain he would triumph.
“Look, Lisu. I know you’re depressed but things will look much better in the morning. I’ve got to go out for a meeting about the damn Tunnel. The police are planning to move in tonight and I need to be around to help coordinate it.”
He pulled his hands from hers and stood up. His right hand gave her shoulder a small squeeze and then he walked out of the room. He left behind the fragments of his marriage and the vital intelligence on the planned operation that night.
Jonny drove the two miles to Julie Cohen’s flat in Regent’s Bridge Gardens, just over Vauxhall Bridge. The image of Lisu’s face, streaked with tears, the lips puffing and blowing with her sobs, floated before him. He felt sympathy, certainly. He even felt concern. But he remembered how he used to feel if she got upset: a constricted chest, an absolute and overwhelming determination to help; a concern so intense that he often felt like crying himself. He felt none of these things and the realization was another confirmation of just how wide the gulf between them had grown.
He pulled up at the double gates leading to the private complex formed out of an old vinegar factory. It lies behind Fentiman Road, the most burgled street in London because of the number of MPs and rich city businessmen who live there. He pressed the button for No. 36 and the small light came on over the surveillance camera. There was a slight pause and then the buzz of the gates opening.
He drove through, parked and walked the one flight up to Julie’s flat. From the outside the block looked just like one of thousands in the city: red brick outside, anonymous corridor inside and plain wooden door with a spyhole in the centre. He pressed the buzzer and could hear steps walking towards him. There was a pause as he was assessed through the spyhole and then the door opened.
“Jonny, come on in. I was just getting a drink. Like one?”
He walked into a stunning black-and-white sitting room. Two leather sofas dominated the furniture and sat on a white rug with an intricate geometric design woven into it. One wall had five Chinese wenrenhua ink paintings and facing them were three magnificent Georgia O’Keeffe prints done in her black-and-white period. The curtains, which were drawn, were heavy black moiré silk.
Julie was different too. When they had met before, she had been either formal or in a work environment. Now, on her own territory, she allowed herself a very much more relaxed image. She was wearing a simple white silk blouse with a choker o
f white pearls at the neck and a pair of black and purple striped Girbaud trousers.
The whole effect of the apartment and the casual clothes was intimate and pleasing, giving the impression of a woman with both taste and money. The only jarring note was the slight smell of ammonia which he assumed meant there was a cat hiding somewhere. Julie noticed his surprise and laughed.
“Just because I work for Beijing doesn’t mean that I have to dress in polyester suits and live in a hovel in deepest Romford,” she said. “I was lucky that Grandfather left some of his ill-gotten gains from arms dealing to me, and I earn a decent salary — enough to buy this place and furnish it, anyway.”
She finished pouring herself a glass of white wine from a newly opened bottle of Cloudy Bay. She waved the bottle in his direction and he nodded.
“So,” she continued, “what’s going on at the Tunnel?”
“A nightmare. I’ve spent the day being squeezed dry by a bunch of people who seem to think Hong Kong is on another planet. I’ve told them about Triads, the economy, weapons, tactics and people. I’ve told them just about everything I know about everything.” He slumped down into the sofa nearest the fireplace and took a deep drink of his wine.
“Ah, that’s better.” He exhaled noisily. “God, I’m wiped out. I don’t seem to have had any sleep or any rest since we came back from Newcastle.”
“And what’s new from the front?” Julie asked.
“Not a lot really,” he replied. “We’re satisfied that it’s White Lotus and not the IRA. But the police and everyone else are continuing on both fronts just in case. There’s an operation planned for tonight to try and gather some intelligence from inside the Tunnel but God knows how much that will produce. What about you? Has Lin Yung turned up anything?”
