Present Danger

15

Liz had not yet been to Bangor, up the coast of Northern Ireland from Belfast, but thanks to Google Maps she was beginning to feel she knew it pretty well, at least the layout of the streets in the centre of the town, which she and Dave had pored over with A4 the day before.

Now she was in the A4 Control Room, a smaller affair than its equivalent in Thames House, though the equipment was just as comprehensive. Unlike in Thames House though, the whole set-up was sparkling clean. It looked almost unused and Liz thought she could detect a faint smell of fresh paint still hanging around. There was only one blot on the newness and that was the old saggy-bottomed armchair that was parked by the door. Liz assumed this was the small brother of the ancient leather sofa in Thames House, kept for case officers to sit on when an operation was in progress.

The Control Room was the domain of Reggie Purvis, the operational controller. Liz was one of the few whom Reggie would allow near him when an operation was in progress. He liked Liz; she kept calm whatever happened and would only intervene when asked. Now she stood carefully positioned where she could see all the monitors, but well out of Reggie’s way.

Michael Binding had proved surprisingly amenable when Liz had asked for approval for the resources for this operation. Indeed he’d been so interested in this new source and what he might have to say that for a moment Liz had worried he would insist on taking over the whole operation. Fortunately he’d been called to a meeting in Thames House, but as he’d left for the airport he’d told Liz to make sure to keep him closely informed.

Little squirms of tension were chasing each other in Liz’s stomach. Reggie’s jaws were moving rhythmically as he chomped on a wad of chewing gum. Each of the monitors in the bank in front of him was flickering like a television set tuned to a channel that has closed down for the night. Everything was ready for Operation Brown Fox to begin.

Suddenly a voice said, ‘The eleven thirteen has arrived at platform three.’ It was Mike Callaghan, sitting at a cafe table on the concourse of Bangor Railway Station, with a copy of the Belfast Telegraph and a large cappuccino.

Reggie Purvis spoke into his mouthpiece. ‘Brown Fox should be wearing a green anorak and carrying a Marks & Spencer carrier bag.’

There was silence for a minute. Then: ‘Got him. He’s heading towards the main exit.’

Suddenly on one of the monitors Liz could make out the figure of a man, walking rapidly past the concourse cafe. The image was transmitted by Callaghan, using a miniature device that looked like a standard mobile phone, but which sent at high bandwidth and resolution. The image was slightly blurred, nonetheless, and the man passed by Callaghan too quickly for Liz to see much detail. But she knew the pictures would come up nicely when Technical Ted worked his magic on them later.

‘Okay. Bravo, he’s yours now. You’ll see him in ten seconds.’ Maureen Hayes was parked in one of the short-stay bays, engine idling, as if she was waiting for an arriving passenger. ‘I have him. He’s walking up towards the roundabout.’ And then, after a short pause, ‘Brown Fox has turned left on Dufferin Avenue. He’s clean.’

‘As instructed,’ Purvis said, turning his head towards Liz. ‘So far so good.’

Liz looked down at Reggie’s desk where a laptop showed the satellite map of this small area of Bangor. They’d chosen it because it was outside Belfast, yet easily accessible by train and by car. As she stared down at Dufferin Avenue on the laptop screen, ten miles away Terry Fleming walked slowly down that road in the direction of the railway station. When he saw the man across the street walking in the other direction, he said in a voice barely louder than a whisper, ‘Brown Fox moving north. There’s no one behind him.’ The miniature microphone under the lapel of his overcoat relayed this instantly to the Control Room.

At the corner of a small residential road called Primrose Street, the target turned right. A couple sitting parked in a Mini two hundred yards down the street stopped squabbling and reported that Brown Fox had stopped at a public phone box.

Liz thought how lucky they had been to find a call box in a convenient place. Probably one of only half a dozen left in the whole of Bangor, she had remarked to Dave, wondering what on earth they were going to do for this kind of an operation when there were none left at all.

The phone on the desk in front of Reggie Purvis gave a long, low buzz. He parked his chewing gum in his cheek as he pressed the button and spoke at once in low, controlled tones. ‘Listen carefully. Walk back down Primrose Street, then continue right on Dufferin Avenue. Turn right onto Gray’s Hill and walk towards Queen’s parade and the harbour – you’ll see it ahead of you.

There’s a large car park right next to it – go in from your end, and walk towards the fountain in the middle. You’ll be contacted.’

The caller said nothing and hung up. Seconds later, Maureen Hayes reported, ‘All clear on Dufferin Avenue. We’re across from the harbour now.’ She had collected Terry Fleming and driven on another street to the car park.

‘Okay,’ said Purvis. He spoke over his shoulder to Liz. ‘It all looks quite clean, but let’s get an overview, shall we?’

He flicked a switch on the console and suddenly a phut phut phut came over the speakers. ‘Air Three, can you hear me?’

‘Loud and clear. We’ve circled the harbour and are just coming inland to turn round.’

The helicopter appeared to be searching for something off the coast, just coming slightly inland to turn around. The manoeuvre gave the pilot and his A4 passengers an unrivalled view of the network of streets that lay between the flotilla of yachts in the basin and the railway station less than half a mile away.

In the Control Room the camera positioned on the helicopter’s front right strut began transmitting to the second monitor. It was like a moving version of the satellite map, but infinitely sharper – Liz could see individuals walking on the streets below. Including a lone figure approaching the car park.

A minute later, a voice spoke over the chopper’s dense fluttering. ‘All clear on Queen’s Parade and back up Gray’s Hill Road. No sign of hostile activity.’

By then another parked car had reported that Brown Fox had entered the car park. Suddenly on the third monitor a misty view of the car park appeared, shot through the windscreen of Maureen Hayes’s vehicle. Liz watched the street-level view of a man in a green anorak walking towards the little fountain that sat in a kind of miniature garden in the middle of the car park.

Maureen zoomed her lens and the image grew sharper and closer – the target, an oldish man, in his late sixties at least, with a pinched face and grey hair cut short on the sides. Liz craned forward; he looked familiar.

The watchers in the Control Room heard the sound of a car starting up and a metallic grey saloon appeared beside Brown Fox. He must have heard it coming, as he turned and stepped to one side to allow it to pass. But as it drew alongside it slowed down sharply and stopped. Brown Fox stood still, looking startled as the passenger door opened. Then Liz heard Dave’s voice on the audio say, ‘Good morning. I’m your contact. Climb in.’