The Tick Tock Man

9

The meeting was held at the new Thames House headquarters of CI5 — still more generally referred to as MI5 k-immediately following the press conference. John Nash, head of the Security Service’s Counter-Terrorism Department, was in the chair. The personal protege of Director General Clarissa Royston-Jones, he was a youthful-looking forty years old with baby-blue eyes and black hair that had yet to show signs of greying.

He greeted Harrison warmly. ‘Please to have you aboard, Major. I understand you’ve hardly been wasting your time since you arrived. I’m referring, of course, to Dukes Hotel.’

‘I was just helping out.’

‘Well, it was appreciated.’

Harrison smiled. ‘Perhaps not in all quarters, sir. But thanks anyway.’

Nash gave a knowing nod of the head, but made no further comment. ‘Now I think you know Lieutenant Colonel Trenchard and Detective Chief Superintendent Jim Maitland of the Anti Terrorist Branch…’

The SATO acknowledged the two men who were amongst a dozen gathered round the table.

‘I’ll introduce everyone else as we go,’ Nash said easily. ‘We have representatives here from Special Branch, GCHQ, SIS, the Home Office and the Northern Ireland Office, as well as others holding various watching briefs.’

‘Not Al Pritchard, though,’ Harrison pointed out.

‘Ah,’ Nash said, ‘a slightly delicate matter.’

Jim Maitland intervened. ‘As Senior Expo, Al has his work cut out right now, Tom. Besides, you have a much wider remit.

Rather than invite antagonism between you both at an early stage, we felt it best that we establish your liaison role with us. You can report back to him on this meeting. That way he starts to see your value as an independent adviser rather than develop the notion you’re muscling in to take over the Section, so to speak.’

Nash motioned everyone to sit. ‘Help yourselves to coffee,’ he invited. As the insulated pot, milk jug and sugar bowl began the ritual hand-to-hand shuttle around the table, he began. ‘Today we have one overriding concern. That is to identify the structure of PIRA’s so-called AID AN active service unit operating here on the mainland and to hunt down those concerned.

‘Now, in broad terms, I can tell you that all security elements are putting pressure on the various agents and informers that they runin Northern Ireland. I have…’ Pause for a knowing half-smile here ‘…the dubious honour of trying to co-ordinate our own efforts with those of the Field’Research Unit, E3A of RUC Special Branch, and SIS south of the border — that’s not to mention any low-grade sources run informally by the Regional Crime and Intelligence Units or the TCGs. In fact, if one lowly Provo courier blows his nose, we want to know about it.’

‘Any luck so far?’ Maitland asked.

‘Only one strong possibility so far, but it is a good one. It’s not new, but that makes the gentleman concerned a major contender. The commander of Northern Brigade, one Patrick Francis McGirl went on the gallop back in late May. There was a rumour that he flew from Shannon to Paris, but Irish Special Branch have been unable to verify this. Nevertheless he is very much the calibre of operator that PIRA would need to manage the current mainland campaign. Needless to say SIS is organising round-the-clock surveillance of his home in Bundoran — but, of course, a bit late now that the proverbial horse has bolted. And, unfortunately, he’s not one of your new men who’s likely to phone home nightly to his common-law wife.’

‘If he does we’ll be on to him,’ the representative from GCHQ stated flatly. ‘We’ve extended the code range and the NSA is cooperating fully.’

The man did not elaborate that the Government Communications Headquarters at Cheltenham was using four filial Cray computers routinely to scan all UK telephone conversations at a rate of 500 million characters per second, which was the equivalent of between 400 to 500 full-length novels. ‘Key words’, including many that might be used as open codes, would trigger automatic transcripts that would then be referred to experts at the Defence Communications Network. While the BT switching centre at Oswestry monitored line phones, American satellites thirty miles in space relayed conversations on mobiles to the US National Security Agency listening posts in York and Morwenstow in Cornwall.

‘And, Jim,’ Nash asked, ‘what particular lines of inquiry are you following?’

‘Apart from the usual cooperation with Immigration we’re concentrating on the explosive mixture that was used at both Seven Dials and the flyover bombs yesterday. Huge amounts of ANS. As you know, that’s a fertiliser and icing sugar mix. The stuff had to be purchased somewhere and we’re in talks with manufacturers and suppliers to try and get a lead. But it’s going to be a long plod.’ Then he attempted to look more optimistic than he really felt. ‘We might have more luck with some of the electronic parts. We’re starting to get first forensic reports back from Fort Halstead and, again, we’ll be working back with suppliers and manufacturers in order to identify batch numbers. That’s worked before. Hopefully it’ll work again.’

Nash turned to Harrison. ‘What can you tell us about this AID AN bomb cell, Major.’

Harrison considered for a moment. ‘Well, the first time we received the AIDAN codeword in Belfast was at the tail end of March. And it wasn’t long before we realised it was different from all the rest. Not that the bombs were necessarily bigger or better than any others. It was more the methodical planning that went behind their use, always designed to create maximum disruption. There’d be no hesitation in spending time and effort on elaborate hoaxes or in changing the antihandling devices on a series of apparently identical bombs. It became like a game of cat-and mouse. As though someone was setting out to get us to lower our guard and make mistakes. The one thing we could be certain of was that there was something — real or hoax — where the warning said it would be. It became a sort of trademark. Of course, with AID AN, that was never even half the story. We soon recognised the campaign as probably the most serious we’d faced in a decade.’

‘And are we talking about the work of one active service unit?’ Nash asked.

‘Or even one bomb maker?’ Maitland suggested.

Harrison shook his head. ‘I really can’t be sure. What you’ve got to remember is that few AIDAN devices have failed to go off. Those that have, or those we’ve got to in time, offer mixed clues. Some have been fastidiously neat and precise whilst others have been a bit shoddy. One that failed to go off had poor connections. On another, I remember, the soldering on the universal counter was messy. That could mean the bomb maker was a novice or was perhaps nervous. Or old and shaky. Maybe he was wearing dirty spectacles and didn’t realise the poor job he’d done. Or he could just have sneezed in the middle of doing it. That could indicate the devices were made by the same man who’s just getting more expert as time goes on. Or, more likely, one man who supervises two or three others who do the constructing.’ Harrison gave a slight smile. ‘Either way, a splash of solder in the wrong place could have been lethal to whoever planted the bomb.’

‘That we should be so lucky,’ Nash said wistfully. ‘Unfortunately AIDAN hasn’t yet obliged us with an own goal.’

‘If it’s any consolation,’ Harrison said, ‘the more complicated a bomb becomes — like anything else — the more there is to go wrong. like any other equipment, civilian or military. For instance, compare old idiot-proof Eastern Bloc aircraft with American superfighters. Never mind the best, you know which ones are the most reliable’

As he stopped talking a brooding silence fell over the table. Nash was staring at him as though he’d seen a ghost, a half-smile frozen on his face.

‘Mr Nash?’ Harrison asked.

The MI5 man appeared to shake himself out of a trance. ‘Sorry, suddenly had a thought. Miles away. So, Major, what do you think we can expect next from our friend AID AN? Apart, that is, from the unexpected?’

‘That rather depends on what PIRA is trying to achieve…?’ He deliberately let the question hang. The talks, he meant. These goddamn secret talks that no one would mention. He’d seen all the AID AN warnings issued in Belfast and London. The Europa bomb. And now the parcel bomb sent to Abe Powers — according to Casey, the man whom the US President had at one time earmarked as a possible peace envoy to Ulster before the idea was shelved… The talks, they were the common thread. But clearly no one around this table was going to admit it in front of others. Feeling mildly irritated, he moved on: ‘All I can tell you is that most things AIDAN has tried over here have already been tried out in Ulster.’

Maitland sighed gloomily. ‘So they’ve had plenty of practice.’

The meeting ground on in tedious detail until lunch time.

As it broke up, Don Trenchard approached Harrison and Jim Maitland as they stood talking. ‘Tom, Nash has asked me to go over the list of all known bomb makers with you. Narrow the field a bit, if that’s possible?’

Harrison turned to the AntiTerrorist Branch detective. ‘Is the Section’s computer linked to Lisburn, Jim?’

‘No problem. We can do that this afternoon.’

‘Fine,’ Trenchard said, ‘then why don’t I treat you two to lunch at my club. I tell you, their spotted dick is beyond belief.’

They began walking down the corridor together.

‘One more thing,’ Trenchard added, addressing both men. ‘Nash would also like Tom to make an independent assessment of the AIDAN threat on the mainland and put forward any considered recommendations to counter that threat.’

Harrison wasn’t at all happy to hear Pritchard’s words of prophecy come true so rapidly. ‘Look, Al’s in the thick of all this and, technically at least, he’s got ten years’ more experience than I have. Shouldn’t this at least be a joint effort?’

Trenchard shook his head. ‘This comes from the very top, Tom. And when COBRA requests, it’s an order from God Almighty.’

That was hardly an exaggeration, Harrison knew. The acronym for the Cabinet Office Briefing Room referred to the most powerful co-ordinating body in the land, put in place to counter specific terrorist threats and usually chaired by the Home Secretary himself.

Jim Maitland said: ‘Look, Tom, I’m not one to speak against my own people, but we’ve got to face facts. Al doesn’t like the idea of you being here. You know what he’s like. Every change you wanted to make he’d see as a threat to undermine him. He’d subvert everything you wanted to suggest, if he hasn’t done so already. He’s a lovable, crusty old dinosaur who hates change and moving with the times. Never was happy with all the technology the army developed for Northern Ireland.’

Harrison remembered Pritchard’s dark warning to him that he’d be asked to make recommendations, but he decided not to mention it. Something else was concerning him more.

But now was not the time. He waited until they had finished lunch and Jim Maitland had returned hurriedly to New Scotland Yard. Over brandy, he said to his friend: ‘Look, Don, if I’m to prepare this risk assessment I need to know what’s really going on.’

Trenchard raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Meaning?’

‘I’m beginning to know how mushrooms feel. Kept in the dark and fed on bullshit. Now forgive me if I’m putting two and two together and making five, but I know AIDAN bomb warnings have consistently referred to, I quote, “unconstitutional talks” between London and Dublin. Then there was that bomb incident at the Europa, followed by a parcel bomb sent to Senator Powers who, I understand, is a leading figure of the Irish lobby with close connections to the Clinton administration. So what gives?’

Trenchard leaned back expansively in his chair and linked his hands together in an attitude of considered thought. ‘I’m impressed, Tom. Didn’t know you were so au fait with American politics.’

‘Don’t patronise me, Don,’ Harrison retorted. ‘This might be a game to you, but to the likes of Al and me it’s more than a job. Our lives and those of our men can be at stake, as we’ve already seen. We don’t want any more disasters like Seven Dials. And there are thousands of innocents at risk out there on the pavements of London.’

‘Okay,’ Trenchard said suddenly. He leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘Just the bare bones, right? Enough for you to judge the situation fully. But it must go no further, not even to Al. Agreed?’

Harrison nodded.

‘When President Clinton was elected on the Democratic ticket he’d made a great play about appointing a special envoy to look into the Northern Ireland situation. With some forty million voters of Irish descent, he had to really. It ruffled a lot of feathers in Whitehall, as you might imagine. We didn’t want any interference from Americans meddling in our domestic affairs. Clinton was told this, of course, but at first seemed to ignore it. This was mostly due to the fact that he was pretty miffed with the Conservatives at the time for actively assisting the Republicans — to the extent of ordering Box to try and dig some dirt on his student days at Oxford.

‘Eventually, after a few snubs, Clinton agreed to meet Prime Minister Major. Things were stiffly polite, but it was clear the old special relationship had cooled. Clinton refused to back down on the Irish issue, so a compromise was reached. Over the next few months Washington would quietly drop, or water down, its Ulster peace envoy idea. In public at least. But a secret agenda was agreed whereby the State Department would covertly and unofficially try to seek some new ground to bring an end to the troubles.’

‘And Senator Powers is the mediator?’ Harrison guessed.

‘You’ve got it, Tom. He’s been shuttling between London, Dublin and Belfast since last summer.’

‘Then maybe he’s making some progress. Let’s hope so.’

‘I don’t think Downing Street would agree with you.’

‘Why?’

‘The government is horrified at the prospect of an American solution being found to Britain’s most intractable problem. If you ask me, they rather poisoned the chalice by insisting on one condition. That no terrorist organisation should be included in Powers’ informal discussions. It’s nonsense, of course, because they are the only people in the position to deliver peace.

‘And what has Number Ten been doing in the meantime? Mounted that huge secret effort to reach a settlement of its own before Powers got his. And they didn’t hesitate to make contact with the terrorists before they announced the Downing Street Declaration.’

‘So who’s going to win the race?’

‘Well, the Declaration seems to have got nowhere fast. I think the government underestimated Abe Powers’ abilities as a negotiator. To show willing, they had to give him what he wanted from them at the start. Then he wrung a major concession out of Dublin on the strength of it. He held all the key cards before he even started talking to the smaller players.

‘And, until Christmas, he’*d managed to keep everything secret. It was then that PIRA got hold of a senior civil servant in Dublin called Sean Shevlin.’

Harrison frowned, the name was vaguely familiar. ‘I remember reading about it. Didn’t he drown in Dublin?’

His friend’s laugh was bitter. ‘Oh, he drowned all right. But when they dragged his body out of the Liffey, they found he had all his toenails missing and a bullet in the back of his head.’

‘That wasn’t in the press?’

‘No, it certainly wasn’t. Although there was considerable pressure from some elements in Whitehall to let the Yanks know, hopefully to frighten them off, although I don’t think that would have worked. The point is, the fact that Sean Shevlin was killed after interrogation suggested that PIRA were satisfied he’d told them everything he knew, and that was a lot. And you don’t float a body through central Dublin if you don’t want it to be found. It was telling everyone that PIRA knew about the talks and didn’t like what they heard. It was their first warning shot.’

Harrison drained the last of his brandy. ‘That explains a lot, Don. The time frame fits. Just a few months after Christmas and the AID AN campaign starts in the Province. And we can see now it was just a dry run for London.’

Trenchard’s eyes had become hard and intense. ‘They’re determined to do it, I can tell you that. They’ll either bomb their way to the conference table or destroy the talks completely, one way or another.’

‘I suppose they reason they’ve got nothing left to lose.’

‘Nothing at all,’ Trenchard confirmed. ‘And that means we can expect them to go for a campaign that really hurts. And this time I don’t expect they’ll be overconcerned about innocent casualties, as we’ve already seen.’

Harrison nodded. ‘If the stakes are as high as you suggest, Don, then they won’t stop until they bring London to its knees.’

‘There’s a cheerful thought,’ Trenchard said.

Even outside, as they began their walk back to the Section office, Harrison could sense the anxious air of expectation. Nothing specific, just small pointers. The July sun was bright yet there was no heart in it and it failed to warm the streets. There seemed to be few people about and those who were, walked briskly about their business. No one sauntered, no one lingered. He noticed no tourists but an increased presence of blue serge uniforms. Almost one on every corner, he thought.

Trenchard put it into words. ‘You can almost smell it, Tom. It’s a city in fear. I haven’t felt it so acutely since the mid-seventies. And I’m getting a queasy feeling of de’jd vu.’

He stopped at the news stand to buy the latest edition of the Evening Standard. The paper’s coverage of the morning’s press conference would probably set the tone of that night’s television news and the following day’s nationals.

Harrison looked on, his expectation of an optimistic and upbeat story of how government and police were coping with the latest wave of terror shattered the moment he read the screaming front-page headline:

For Harrison the repercussions of the Standard article began immediately on his return to Section headquarters. He met with Al Pritchard’s stony stare the moment he and Trenchard set foot in the place.

‘Well, Tom, we all know who’s running the show now, don’t we? My phone hasn’t stopped ringing for the past hour. The Home Office, the MOD and the Branch Commander have all been on demanding to* know the source of the leak. And the Yard’s entire public relations department has had a roasting for lousy news management. Anything to say?’

‘Not really, Al. That woman put it all together herself.’

‘With a little help from you.’

‘She must have picked up all that stuff at Jock’s funeral.’

Pritchard’s eyes had become fierce slits. ‘Do you deny you spoke to her at the conference this morning? I saw you with my own eyes, dammit.’ ‘

Harrison’s jaw clenched as he checked his anger. ‘I told her nothing, just gave her marching orders.’

The Section chief almost laughed. ‘That’s a good one. The only one around here who should be getting marching orders is standing in front of me.’

‘Okay, Al, I ballsed up at the funeral, we already know that. And I’m sorry about it, truly. But I didn’t know who she was then, now I do. End of story.’

Pritchard was trying to decide if he’d drawn enough blood. ‘I’m not covering up for you any more.’

‘Don’t bother, Al. Any more calls and you can put them through direct to me. I’ll take any flak there is.’

Trenchard intervened quickly. ‘Listen, gents, far be it from me to spoil a good fight, but my boss is anxious to put together a list of any bomb makers who we think could be involved with the AID AN campaign.’

Pritchard glared once more at Harrison for good measure, before turning to the MI5 man. He sounded weary. ‘Yes, of course. Where do you want to start?’

‘Well, we do know that the AID AN cell has been set up recently for a specific purpose. Possibly an entirely new active service unit.

Maybe a new bomb maker, too. I understand there’s a marked sophistication in the devices they’ve been using. It all points to new blood, I’d have thought.’

As they entered the main administration office, Al Pritchard said: ‘In a way, you know, it’s more like a throwback to the early days in Belfast. Of course, there wasn’t the technology there is now, but nevertheless they were up to all sorts of tricks then. Developed a whole new range of antihandling devices. But then they got a little too cocksure. Scored a few own goals. We didn’t shed any tears over that, of course, but they did.’

Harrison agreed. ‘For a long time now PIRA’s devices have kept mostly standard. Quite simple and idiot-proof. Virtually factory-made on someone’s kitchen table, usually over the border. The bomb maker presets the timer, then all the man who’s planting it has to do is pull out a wooden dowel plug which activates it. He then takes the dowel back to his unit commander to prove it’s been set.’

‘So in a way these AID AN devices represent a return to the old days,’ Pritchard said.

‘It happens quite frequently in Northern Ireland nowadays,’ Harrison added. ‘As you probably know, no two men will construct a bomb the same way. The circuits will be slightly different and they’ll choose alternative component makes. One might make use of superglue or another double-sided tape. Each bomb maker has his own signature.’

Trenchard nodded; he knew little about improvised devices, but it made sense. ‘So what are you saying, Tom?’

‘Only that we’ve come across several signatures in recent years that haven’t been seen for a decade or more.’

‘Ah,’ Trenchard exclaimed, suddenly seeing the point.

Harrison said: ‘Guys are coming out of the Maze after a nine or eighteen-year stretch and going back to work.’

‘And you think AID AN might be one of them?’

‘It’s not impossible.’

The administration office, its walls lined with large-scale maps of London and the suburbs, contained the library, main computer, fax, copier and all the paraphernalia of modern communications. Les Appleyard was on the duty desk, talking to the librarian who was one of the three male administration support staff.

‘Anything happening?’ Pritchard asked.

Appleyard shook his head. ‘Just a run of false alarms. Hardly surprising after yesterday.’

‘No hoaxes?’

‘Amazingly not. As well really, we’re at full stretch. In fact, I’ve had to put John and Dickie on standby.’

‘That’ll please their wives,’ Pritchard said flatly. His own marriage had ended several years previously and Appleyard sensed that he secretly resented any of his Expos who managed to hold theirs together.

Trenchard said: ‘In view of what you and Tom have been saying, I wondered if we ought to start with a look at which convicted bombers have been released from prison in the last year.’

There was a shrug from Pritchard. ‘It’s not an area that usually concerns us, but I think we have the necessary access. But I’m computer-illiterate, so you’ll have to ask “Boffin”,’ he said, nodding towards the long-haired librarian. Despite the fact that he shampooed his locks regularly and was always smartly if casually turned out, Pritchard still considered the twenty-eight-year-old graduate as being little better than a New Age traveller.

Boffin bared his teeth in an unfriendly smile. ‘My parents did give me a real name actually, chief.’

A smile almost cracked Pritchard’s thin lips. ‘Pity I can never remember it. If you had a haircut so I could see your face, it might help.’

‘Prat,’ Boffin muttered under his breath and took a seat by the terminal, deftly tapping in the password. ‘Shall I go back eighteen months, gents, just so we don’t miss anything?’

‘Good idea,’ Harrison said, standing at the librarian’s shoulder.

The list sprang onto the screen.

Names, just names. As cold and impersonal as a telephone directory; as meaningless as names on headstones to a third generation. No hint of the real man behind each, their loves and fears, their hatreds. Like the bombs they built, unfeeling mechanisms that just did what they were designed to do, mostly. That was all that concerned men like Tom Harrison and Al Pritchard. Respond, locate and assess the threat, decide on counteraction, destroy. Then go home. Only Don Trenchard habitually looked beyond the guns and the bombs to the men behind them.

‘Any name ring a bell?’ the MI5 man asked. ‘Of course, some will still be on working-out schemes or weekend release. Others might be under surveillance. I’ll go through RUC Special Branch and get a fix on each. Either way I’ll arrange to put some pressure on. See they’re paid a visit.’

Pritchard jabbed a finger at the screen. ‘I’d try McEoin, I remember him. He used to make some really tricky devices. Milk churns with a bomb within a bomb. You’d do a controlled explosion, walk up to it and then a separate secondary hidden in the base would go off. I lost two mates through him, the bastard. About 1975,1 think.’

Boffin tapped in the follow-up code and waited for McEoin’s details to swipe onto the screen.

‘There you are,’ Trenchard said. ‘Living in retirement with his dying mum in Newtownhamilton. Last Int summary in late May.’

‘Too late,’ Harrison said. ‘AIDAN was already active in Belfast by then.’

Trenchard fiddled with the brim of his fedora, feeding it through his long fingers in a circular motion. ‘We can still give him a tug. Maybe something got overlooked.’ He didn’t sound convinced.

Harrison said: “There was another name I thought I recognised.’

Obligingly Boffin returned to the menu list.

‘Dougan, H.,’ Harrison said. And even as he said the name an involuntary chill quivered down his spine. For a moment he was back there at the derelict on the Ballymurphy estate. Ten years earlier, then just a captain. Inching up the collapsing staircase, searching out the sniper’s nest. The come-on of spent cartridges. The moment’s hesitation that had saved his life. One footstep away from the pressure mat and the hidden bomb in the wall that would have cut his body in half.

‘Dougan,’ Harrison repeated dully. ‘Oh, yes, Hughie Dougan. You must remember him, Don. He’d just come out of the Maze after serving a nine. Within a week he’d done a runner to the south and was back in business.’ He.turned to Trenchard. ‘Didn’t your lads in 14 Int pick him up?’

‘Yes, we caught him crossing the border. But I’m afraid you’re barking up the wrong tree there. Hughie Dougan is dead.’

Boffin had now punched up his details:

‘Well, that’s one more bastard off the list,’ Pritchard said dispassionately.