Zero Option

ELEVEN

'Get on the phone,' I told Farrell the moment we were back in the cottage, 'find out what the hell happened, and fix another RV for this evening. But keep it short: we don't want anyone tracing calls to this number.'

With ill grace he started dialling his contacts in Belfast. I'd already discovered from Fraser that one of the numbers was the Pock Bar, a drinking den on the Falls Poad, which stayed open twenty-four hours a day and was frequented by most of the leading players in the Belfast Brigade. The IUC naturally had eyes on the place, and filmed all the comings and goings, but the PIIA men were so arrogant and sure of themselves that they patronised it regardless. The Falls Poad was their territory, and they weren't going to stand for any interruption of their favourite routines.

On our way back Farrell had thrown me by identify ing a piece of classical music that had blasted out of the radio as Whinger was lumping stations. We only got a few seconds of it, but our prisoner suddenly woke up and cried, 'Beethoven! Leonora number three.' The music sounded pretty dire to me, and the rest of us looked at each other with expressions of alarm, but I could see that on Farrell's part it was a spontaneous reaction, not designed to impress us. Once again I thought it very strange that a man with his record of crime and thuggery could also have genuine cultural interests.

Back at base, the only two guys on our team still functioning properly were Doughnut and Stew, who'd got their heads down while we were on the road, managing to catch up on a bit of lost sleep. The rest of us were edgy with hunger and exhaustion — and I knew that sheer tiredness could lead to somebody making a fatal mistake. Farrell himself seemed almost comatose, but still we were aware that one careless remark from any of us might arouse his suspicion. I had therefore asked Doughnut to take over as warder-nanny so as to give Tony a break, and I stood over them as they swapped the handcuffs.

Stew had had the brilliant idea of putting some potatoes to bake in the oven, and the cottage was full of the smell of them, good and crusty. I told the others to get on and eat — breakfast or lunch or whatever it was and said I'd join them as soon as we'd set up another meeting.

Farrell “finished his.call to Belfast, then dialled the mobile number, which SB had traced to West London.

'Mother of Mary!' he exclaimed after talking for a minute. 'Why ever didn't they stop?' He listened for a few more seconds then said, 'That's no way to carry on.

He'll have to be reported… What?… Of course I was. Bursting for a run-out as.well.'

I grabbed the receiver from him and said, 'Hello.

This is Geordie Sharp. Stop pissing about and fix a rendezvous tonight.'

'It was yous fellers that fucked it up,' retorted the voice.

'Bollocks, mate. We were there ahead of schedule.'

'But you never had our man with you.'

'What d'you mean? He was there in the back of the van. He just told you.'

'Why wouldn't you let us see him, then?'

'You would have seen him if you'd stopped.'

'And a second vehicle up your arse-end as well.'

'That was nothing to do with us. The guy's engine had overheated, that was all. He arrived at the last minute. If you'd bloody well been on time he wouldn't have been there.'

There was a sick laugh at the other end of the line, and the man said, 'You fucking wee bastards! That's all you are if you expected anyone to stop with that circus parked there.'

'Listen,' I said, struggling to keep my temper, 'insults aren't going to get your man back. Like I said, name another time and place for an exchange. We'll call you again in fifteen minutes.' With that I slammed the receiver down.

'Come on,' I told Farrell. 'We've got to get something down our necks.'

' At about 11.30 we had a peculiar brunch of fried cod steaks and baked spuds with plenty of butter in them, and tea to drink. It bugged me to have Farrell slurping and spluttering alongside the rest of us in the kitchen I would have liked to see the bastard starve — but I knew it was in my interest to keep him in reasonable health.

Again he surprised me, this time with the way he ate.

Considering that one hand was cuffed, his table manners were immaculate. We didn't give him a knife, but he held his fork properly, and when he'd finished he laid it down neatly on his plate. He didn't stuffhis mouth full of food and swill tea down through it; he ate first and drank afterwards. It was only his swollen tongue and lip that made him clumsy. At least, while he was eating, he didn't try to make conversation.

With food inside me, my mind came back to life. I urgendy needed to confer with the head-shed, but reckoned I'd do best to wait until we had the second RV lined up.

'This time,' I told Farrell, Tm talking to your man myself.'

'Please yourself. You've got the number.'

When I dialled, the phone was answered instantly, as if the guy had been waiting for the call.

'All right,' I began. 'Where's it to be?'

'No exchange,' went the voice.

'No exchange? Why not?'

'We're not satisfied with the identity of your hostage.'

'What the hell d'you mean? You know bloody well who he is.'

'We know who you say he is. But we've no proof that it's him.'

'Jesus!' I took a deep breath and put my hand over the mouthpiece. 'They don't believe it's you,' I told Farrell. He flipped his left hand up and back in a gesture of disgust, and I talked into the phone again. 'He's spoken to people he knows in Belfast. They must have recognised his voice.'

'That's the point, exactly. They said it didn't sound like him at all.'

'He's got a split tongue and lip, that's why. He hit his face when we rammed the prison van and got his teeth smacked together. He can't use his tongue properly.

That's why he sounds peculiar.'

'We need to get a proper look at him. We need to see it's himself.'

'Ah, bollocks! Like I said, you would have seen him if you'd been on time this morning.'

'We need to see him, or there's no del.'

The way the man kept repeating himself, like a zombie, really got to me. I put my hand over the mouth piece again and exclaimed. 'This is shite!' Opening up again, I said, 'Wait one.'

With my hand back in position I asked Farrell, 'D'you know this guy?'

'Not at all.'

'Well, speak to him anyway. He doesn't believe you're yoO.'

'Holy Fucking Jesus!' Farrell grabbed the phone and blasted off, bollocking the fellow to kingdom come. But for all his obscenities he made little progress; the man at the other end was like a brick wall. In the end Farrell yelled, 'All right, then! I'm going to call one or two of my friends in West Belfast and get them to put a fucking bomb under you.' He would have rung off if I hadn't signalled him urgently to give me back the phone.

'So wht are you proposing?' I asked.

'Come to the Great Western marshalling yard at Swindon 9t eleven tonight.'

'Wait one, I need to write this down.'

I looked round for a pen and paper, but it took a hell of a searcla before we dug out a pencil from a drawer.

The only thing we could find to write on was the opened-oat packet which had held the cod steaks. At last I was ceady. 'Carry on,' I said.

'Go down

Brunel Road to the bottom, past the station…'

'OK.'

Brunel, I repeated,

'At the bottom, don't turn left where the main road swings roond, but carry straight on through a gateway.

There's wire mesh gates across it. They may be closed, but even if they are they aren't locked, you can push them opera. Are you with me?'

'I am.'

'There's two brick pillars at the entrance, holding the gates. Pass between them and you're in the old yard.'

'Got it. Eleven o'clock, you said?'

'Eleven, so it is. Farrell and two. No more.'

I said. 'One to drive and two to look atier your man.

'All riglt. Three. In that case there'll be three of us as well.'

The line went dead.

Farrell's face was- dark with anger. 'What a shower of cunts!' he snapped. 'They've got some bloody cheek, demanding to see me. Wait now while I get the bastards sorted.' He started to dial Belfast numbers again, but things quickly went yet further downhill. One after another, his cronies gave him the brush-off. Either they refused to speak to him and let their side-kicks take the call, or they told him to get stuffed and stick to the plan already made. With every call I could see him growing more rattled; it was clear that he couldn't understand why the players in Belfast were behaving as they were.

It didn't make sense to him. Something had changed.

Gradually his bluster abated, and by the end of his calls he was looking really scared.

'What's the problem?' I asked. 'They don't sound very happy.'

'Fucked-ifI know.' He shook his head in a mixture of disbelief and alarm, muttering, 'They've all gone round the twist.'

I tried to draw him out, but he wouldn't say any more — and as I knew the telephone conversation had been recorded I didn't press very hard. We could check it out later.

As if to change the subject, Farrell suddenly said, 'I need a shower.'

Since he was smelling like the ferrets my Uncle Phil used to keep at the bottom of the garden. I said, 'Good idea,' and suggested that after he'd had a clean-up we should all get our heads down.

We'd taken the precaution of screwing the bathroom window shut, so that it presented no security risk, and I reckoned it was safe to unshackle Farrell while he washed, provided there were two of us present when he came out again.

'You can let him go,' I told Doughnut. 'But he's to get undressed in the passage and leave his clothes outside.'

The ablutions went according to plan. When Farrell stripped off, I saw that he was indeed well built, with powerful shoulders, but running to fat around the midriff. When he went into the shower I stepped outside and walked round the back of the cottage to keep an eye on the bathroom window, lust in case he tried anything funny. For a few minutes I stood there, enjoying the sunshine, listening to the birds, and fervently wishing that we could bring this horrible nightmare to an end, so that life could return to normal.

We'd bought Farrell shaving kit, toothbrush and so on before the intercept, and when he emerged ten minutes later, he was looking a lot more spruce. The wound dressings had got wet, so I peeled them off and put new ones on. The inflammation seemed to have gone down a bit, but as a precaution I made Farrell take a couple more of the white tablets. As soon as we had him shackled to the bed again, wrist and ankle, everyone felt more relaxed.

I was all for getting my head down as well, but first I had to take another walk into the wood. Halfway down the hill a grey squirrel ran across the track in front of me and raced up the beech tree I was proposing to stand under. For a moment it sat on a horizontal branch with its tail fluffed up behind it, but when it saw me coming in close to the trunk, it whipped up into the greenery above. Saucy little bastard, I thought. It's all right for you. You don't have much to worry about.

'We're OK so far,' I told Yorky over the mobile.

'Did you pick all that up — the details of our rendezvous for tonight?' I confirmed the arrangements, such as they were, and asked him to get surveillance on the site as soon as possible. 'The PItLA are bound to send in dickers,' I said. 'But probably they won't turn up until evening. It would be great if we could get eyes in there first.'

'No problem,' Yorky replied. 'There's two guys on their way already. I sent them off as soon as I heard the plan. The other thing we need to do is stick a tracking device on the PIRA car. This should give us a great chance. As soon as we've got an idea of the topography, we'll work something out — the optimum placing of your vehicle and all.'

'Thanks, Yorky. We're going to need some backup, too. It's possible the PIPA will try to lift Farrell. We could do with a Q1LF somewhere close.'

'That's no problem either. Again, we'll suss out the site and make arrangements. Geordie, you sound tired.'

'I am. I'm fucking knackered. We've been on the go since five this morning. Didn't get much sleep, either.'

'Why not get your head down, then?'

'I'm going to. There’s not a lot we can do between now and then. Er… Yorky?'

'What's that?'

'Any more news about PIRA safe houses? Any news at all?'

'Yes. They're concentrating on two flats in Acton.

Our 1Led Team's moved up to Hounslow Barracks.

They're on standby there. Twenty guys, all their vehicles and kit. The police have a team from SO19 standing by as well. In fact, the commander ofSO19 has just been here, going through various options with the head-shed.'

'So there is some movement?'

'Definitely.'

'Thanks, Yorky. That sounds great.'

'Don't worry, lad. Everything's in hand at this end.

Listen — your prisoner doesn't sound a very nice guy.'

'What d'you mean?'

'The RUC faxed us his dossier. The things he's been suspected of but never got for: three murders, GBH, arson, extortion.'

'Didn't I tell you?'

'You did,' Yorky admitted. 'But when you see it written down… Keep a good grip on him, anyway.'

'Will do. But the bastard doesn't seem very happy.

Something in those last calls pissed him off.'

'I know,' Yorky suddenly sounded quite chuffed.

'I've been listening to the tapes. His people seem to have turned against him, for whatever reason. They were giving him two fingers. One of them was talking about putting a CAT team on to investigate him.'

'No wonder he's shitting himself, then. I don't know what he's done, but obviously he's dropped a bollock somewhere. Since those last conversations he's really gone down.'

'That's fight.'

'The sooner the miserable sod's off my hands, the better,' I said. 'Listen, Yorky, I'll call in again at four o'clock to check the form. OK?'

Now I understood why Farrell had become so agitated. The Civil Administration Teams are the PIIA's notorious means of enforcing discipline within the ranks. If someone gets a call saying, 'We need to come round and have a talk,' he knows he's for it — at the very least a few cold baths and some beatings to make him produce information, at worst a kneecapping or even an execution.

For three and a half hours I was dead to the world, and I awoke with the unpleasant but familiar sensation of not knowing where I was. Staggering up, I found Tony in the kitchen, heating up some soup.

'Get to sleep?' he asked.

'Yeah. How about you?'

'Sure did. Couple of hours. I feel a whole heap better. Like some soup?'

'Great. In a minute, though.

Again I slipped out, down the track and into the wood.

'Yer daft bat,' said Yorky straight away. 'Where've you been?'

'Kipping it deadly,' I told him.

'Well done, lad. I was hoping you'd come on. We have two guys in an old railway wagon right alongside the IV site — Andy Peake and Terry Mason, from the SP team.'

'Fabulous,' I said. 'What wagon is it?'

'It's a closed freight car with the serial number zero nine two painted in big white numbers on the side. The sides are fairly intact, but part of the floor's gone, so they've got easy access to the track. They've a good view ofthff yard, and they're pretty sure no PIRA have shown yet.'

'All right. So what do we do?'

'You'll need to decoy the PIRA car as close to that wagon as you can. Then, while the players are concentrating on you and Farrell, somebody will slip out from between the wheels with a little goodwill package…' Yorky explained that the yard was a couple of hundred metres long but only fifty wide. Our best tactic, he said, would be to drive in along the left-hand side, close to the rails, and then at the end do a U turn, so that we came to rest facing back towards the entrance gate, with our left-hand doors close to the high wall that bounded the yard on the road side. Parked there we'd be opposite the occupied railway wagon, and the logical place for the PIIA to pull up would be right beside it, across the yard from us.

'Sounds good,' I said. 'What about backup?'

'There'll be two cars, each with four, in the road above. There's a pub up there, the Railway Arms, so there should be enough people coming and going to create a bit of a distraction. But our guys won't do anything or show themselves unless the PIRA start messing about. They'll only intervene if there's an attempt at a snatch.'

'Fair enough. Will you brief the police to stand off?.'

'C)fcourse. What vehicle will you be in?'

'The Granada. And I'm not taking any chances on this one. We're going to be there early.'

We set out in good time, with Farrell blindfolded once again. To give Whinger and Tony a break I had left them to house-sit, taking Stew to drive and Doughnut to act as principal minder. Another belt of wet weather had moved up from the south-west, and a soft rain was falling — no bad thing, as it would reduce visibility at the RV site. In another conversation with Yorky and Fraser I'd learned that, sure enough, two young fellows with every appearance of being PIRA dickers had appeared outside the Railway Arms at about half-past four and walked along the road that ran above the marshalling yard. They'd made one pass out and another back, and were presumably based in a car parked up there on the high ground. Without doubt they'd report our arrival to colleagues over a mobile phone or CB radio.

Whether or not Farrell had any ink.ling about where the safe house was, I couldn't be sure. On our way out to the rendezvous in the morning we'd made one diversionary detour off the M4 and driven through a few of the roundabouts on the outslirts of Swindon, purely to confuse him and give the innpression that we weren't doing a sustained motorway run. Next, back on the M4, we'd come on the block at Reading and had to turn round, which providentially added to his disorientation. Then on the way horre we'd come via the M40 and Oxford, so that once again there hadn't been any long stretch at high speed. All in all, it seemed to me that he'd have to be a bloody genius to work out the location of the cottage.

This time, as a further variation, we went north- about through Gloucester and across country to Cirencester, so that we came into Swindon from the north-west. By the time we hit the outskirts it was almost fully dark, and under the sodium lamps the streets were glistening with rain.

It may be that some other town in Britain has more roundabouts per square kilometre, but if it does I don't know where it is. We went through dozens of the bastards, some single, some double, and many of them practically touching each other.

'The town planners went fucking mad here,' I said as we missed a turn and had to circle yet again to pick up the fight road.

'Too fight,' Doughnut agreed.

We found Brunel Road with fifteen minutes in hand, so we decided on-a drive-past.

'There's the entrance,' I said as we came towards the left-hand bend. The big mesh gates were shut, as predicted, and we only caught glimpses of the yard beyond.

'Pretty damn dark in there,' said Stew.

'Yep,' I agreed. 'But that's to our advantage.'

Again we were caught up in an insane network of roundabouts and one-way streets, with the result that it was nearly 2255 by the time we made our second run.- This time I jumped out, slid back a bar-catch and pushed the right-hand gate open. Its base scraped over a rough surface — earth or cinders — but I forced it back, left it wide open and nipped into the car again.

'Now,' I said. 'Just take a swing round and park.

Anywhere will do.'

Stew knew that my last remarks were cover. I'd briefed him on the exact procedure that Yorky and I had worked out.

There were the old railway wagons, on a line right beside the yard. They looked very tall, because there was no raised platform at that point and we were down on the same level as the tracks. Farrell was still hooded, so as we came level with number 092 I pointed at it silently, and Stew nodded. He drove past, then swung right-handed into a U-turn, brought the Granada to rest about three feet from the high wall, switched off the engine and doused the lights.

'OK.' I turned to Farrell. 'We're there. Now it's up to them.'

He only grunted in reply. I think he felt as nervous as we did, and I don't blame him. If anyone did attempt a snatch a fire-fight would erupt within seconds, and he'd be in the middle of it.

The only light in the yard was a feeble spill-over from street-lamps along the road above. Under the wall, we were in deep shadow. The floor was uneven and pock-marked with holes. I presumed it must once have been covered with railway tracks, and now pools of water glistened in the depressions left behind where the sleepers had been ripped out. The whole place looked black as coal, and whenever a train went by on the main line, only a few yards away, the noise sent my mind back to the steam engine which used to pull a few tourist carriages up and down a branch line near where I was brought up, in the north.

I wished to hell we could use our covert radios. I was a good friend of Andy Peake, one of the guys hidden in 092, and I longed to chat him up. Had he seen the dickers any more? Had they come down and sussed out the yard? Had any other car made an approach? Were our own guys in position up top? Andy would be listening in on the net, and would know the score exactly. M1 we could do was hope that the lads had everything under control.

Once again the deadline came and went. To cover my anxiety, I began mentally rehearsing possible moves.

'When they arrive,' I told Farrell, 'you're going to stay put. You're not getting out. If they want a good look at you, they'll have to come up close and take a shufti through the window.'

'We'll see,' he said. 'I can't vouch for what cunts like that may do.'

Suddenly I found myself thinking of the hot, clear nights in the Libyan desert, a world away from this soft English rain. I thought of the moment when Norm had found he'd left his Magellan behind, and the crazy, blaring crackle of the muezzin's first call to prayer as dawn was about to break. Once again I saw our target in his death throes, and heard his slippered feet going slap, slap, slap against the wall.

'Watch yourselves!' Stew's voice jerked me back to the present. 'There's a car trying to turn in at the gate.'

The driver had his right-hand indicator on, waiting for a couple of oncoming vehicles to pass. But when the road cleared, all he did was drive into the yard, swing straight round and out again.

'Lost,' said Stew. 'Can't blame him. There must be hundreds like him in this bloody maze.'

Five more minutes crawled past. Already the PIIA were ten minutes late.

None of us had anything to say. With the windows of the Granada open, we could hear sounds of revelry from the distant pub: drunken shouts and outbursts of song. I began to think the opposition had succumbed to temptation and gone in there. I'd known it happen in Ulster. Bombers or shooters, on their way to a hit, would stop off for a quick pint to steady their nerves, and end up drinking six or seven, so that they'd be out of their minds and the operation would have to be aborted. But this was only a harmless meeting, without danger, so, surely…

'Here we are!' said Stew.

This time a pair of lights swept through the gate without hesitation and blazed in our faces. In retaliation Stew snapped his headlights on to full beam and lit up an elderly-looking red Peugeot, cruising gingerly over the potholes. I held my breath, willing the driver to keep straight on along the line of the tracks.

Our psychological reading of the site must have been spot-on, because he did just that, and came to rest within a few inches of where we wanted him. Then he doused his lights and sat waiting.

I let halfa minute tick by before declaring, 'If they're not coming, I'm going.'

I got out and walked round the front of the Granada.

By then I'd un-zipped my jacket so that I had quick access to my shoulder holster, but as I strolled across I deliberately kept my hands well away from my hips.

Out there in mid-yard I felt cold and exposed. I knew Andy was in the wagon straight ahead of me, beyond the Peugeot, and I was confident that I had more support behind me, up above, but if one of the players lost his nerve and opened fire, I'd be the first to get it.

A yard from the driver's window I stopped. The face inside the rain-spattered glass was still a blur. The flash of a torch in the fellow's eyes might be taken as a provocation, so I waited till he wound the window down by hand.

'Come to see someone?' I went.

'Where is he?'

'In the car.' I jerked my head backwards.

'Bring him over, then.'

'Not a chance. You can come and look.'

'Not fucking likely. You bring him here.'

In line of sight over the roof of the car, not ten feet away, I detected movement down among the wheels of truck 092. Jesus! I thought. Andy's not waiting. He's crawling out with his tracking device. Whatever might happen later, I had to keep the PIIA fully occupied for the next few seconds.

'Listen,' I said. 'Are you the guys who came up the M25 this morning?' As I spoke I leant forward and rested my hands on the edge of the roof, deliberately making the car rock in the hope that the movement would help cover any slight disturbance that Andy might create.

'Get yer hands off!' snapped the driver.

'I was only asking.'

'Get off anyway!'

'Was it you, then?' I stood up, letting the Peugeot rock back.

'What difference does it make?'

'You fucked up, that's all.'

Now I thought, I'm getting him well stropped up.

I'll switch on the torch anyway.

The effect was excellent. The driver twisted in his seat, rocking the car again. 'Get that thing off!' he hissed.

But I'd already recognised him. He'd been the passenger in the grey minivan that morning, the guy with whom I'd had that flash of e.ye-contact. His companion in the passenger seat was an older man with stiffgrey hair cut short, definitely not the driver on the M25. He was the one, I guessed: the player who'd come to make the identification.

I flashed my torch round the inside of the car, partly to make sure there was nobody else on board, partly to dazzle the occupants. Both of them twisted about in their seats, shielding their faces from the beam.

'I said, get that thing off,' said the driver.

'You told me there'd be three of you.'

'No, only two.'

'What happened to your mate?'

'He couldn't make it in time.'

'All right, then.' As if climbing down, I switched off the torch and said, 'Well, I'll make a compromise. We'll bring him half-way across. But that's all.'

Another main-line train trundled past, shaking the ground and filling the yard with the scream of big diesel engines as it picked up speed out of the station. Once again I caught a hint of movement under the railway wagon, and reckoned what I saw was Andy's heels going back into cover, his job done. He'd certainly had time to place a magnetic device on the petrol tank and crawl away to shelter. Stepping back ostentatiously, I turned round and walked towards the Granada.

'Get him out after all,' I told Doughnut. 'We'll take him half-way over.'

I opened the door and stood back, expecting Farrell to start creating. But he said nothing as Doughnut wriggled out crab-wise, and he followed him into the open without fuss. When the pair were on their feet I took off Farrell's blindfold and said, 'Right. We'll go twenty steps and stop.'

We walked forward three abreast to the middle of the yard, Doughnut on the right, Farrelt in the middle, myself on the left. I was stepping on the tips of my toes.

If any attempt at a snatch was going to be made, this was when it would come. And no snatch would take place, because if they tried anything, Doughnut and I would drop the pair of them.

For a few seconds there was no movement from the Peugeot. Then the passenger door opened, on the side away from us, and I knew it must be the grey-haired guy getting out.

As he advanced towards us I muttered to my two, 'Keep still. Your arms particularly.'

Behind us I heard a click, and I knew that Stew was opening the boot of the Granada so that he had immediate access to the loaded MP 5s. I could just make out that the PII

'So it is you, yer fuckin' wee cuntie,' he muttered in a quiet, menacing voice. 'Even better looking than usual, with that pout on yer.'