Zero Option

TWELVE

During the journey back nobody spoke much: Dough nut kept the music going on the radio, and when Farrell asked me some question I pretended to have dozed off.

I knew Andy would have reported direct from the railway wagon, so that the SB guys in the incident room would already know that our meeting had taken place.

All the same, they'd be panting to hear our version of the story; but with Farrell in the car I wasn't going to start honking off about it while we were on the road.

It was after one when we reached the cottage.

Whinger and Tony had sat up waiting for us, and they got a brew on as soon as we arrived. Of course they wanted to know how things had gone, so I described the meeting a bit and said that everything had been OK.

I told them that Farrell's identity had definitely been confirmed, but I didn't mention the PI1LA orders.

When Farrell started asking about them, I said they were a load of shit and we'd deal with them in the morning. Then, after we'd all had a cup of tea, I asked Tony to put the man to bed.

'It's like looking after a goddamn baby!' he protested.

'The next thing I'll have to do is wipe his butt for him.'

'I know. But someone's got to do the job. And anyway, our baby's special. When this is all over, I'll see you're issued with a diploma, so that you can get a job as a nanny.'

As for me — I couldn't imagine going to sleep. I needed to call the incident room, but first I wanted to talk things through with the other lads. So, with Farrell safely shackled to the bed and out of earshot upstairs, we settled into a Chinese parliament in the living room.

At first the others were as incredulous about the orders as I'd been. The scheme was so monstrous they couldn't believe it. But as we went through the PIRA reports, we could see how thorough the terrorists had been in their reconnaissance and research. The documents were semi-literate in places, but neatly laid out by a word processor, and full of information.

'Listen to this,' I said, and I read out a paragraph labelled 'Political Background':

A conference for Commonwealth Heads of State will take place at Chequers on 2 and 3 June. The first of the foreign dignitaries is due to arrive there at 1100” hours on 2 June. The first full session of the meeting will start at 1430 that day.

The Prime Minister will travel down from London by car the night before, 1 June. When in the country during the summer months it is his habit to walk out into the garden before breakfast, and before any guests are up. He is a very early bird. Often out by 0630. Being a rose freak, he likes particularly to go round the rose garden on the south terrace. There is every chance that on the morning of 2 June he will be attacking the greenfly by 0700 am at the latest. This will present a sniper at Point D with an ideal opportunity…

I picked up another sheet of paper and said, 'There's no doubt they've been and cased the joint.' I read them some more:

The range from Point D to the retaining wall at the front of the south terrace is 580 yards. The security screen round the house extends no more than 200 yards. Therefore Point D lies well beyond the reach of cameras and other security devices.

'Sounds as though their intelligence is shit-hot,' I added. 'They must have people all over the place. I mean, we know they've got men in London, but it looks like they've got Swindon sewn up, they've spent a lot of time at Chequers… They can put guys in wherever they need them. The question is, how the hell do we respond?'

'We can't handle this on our own,' said Whinger.

'Got to tell the incident room and the head-shed.'

'We'll call them in a minute,' I agreed. 'Fraser's going to do his nut. He's been wittering on about a shoot in London — but wait till he hears this.'

Tony, practical as ever, asked, 'What weapon are they proposing for the shoot?'

'There's something here…' I flipped back a couple of pages and read out: '“The sniper weapon will be collected from a transit hide, details later.”'

'Gotta be some weapon, to be effective at the range they're talking about.' J

'Wait a minute,' said Whinger. 'It's not that fucking great five-oh they had in Ulster, is it?'

'Could be,' I told him. 'Could easily be. SB had wind that some big cannon was being brought over, or maybe had been brought over already.'

'A five-oh!' Tony whistled. 'That's something else.'

'We're jumping to conclusions,' I said. 'But that's what it sounds like.'

Everyone in the Regiment who'd served in Ulster knew about the fearsome rifle with which members of the security forces had been taken out in the late 264 eighties and early nineties. It was so accurate that it could hit a man at a thousand yards, so powerful that a round would go straight through a flak-jacket and blow the wearer away. The guy using the weapon had become such a menace that the SAS had twice tried to get him. They'd set up special patrols that appeared to be from the green army, in the hope of luring the.sniper to take a shot and give his position away, but by a combination of luck and guile he'd always evaded them and had never been accounted for.

'If they're talking about a range of six hundred yards,' said Tony, 'that's peanuts for a weapon of that calibre.'

'All right,' I said. Somehow, thinking about the big rifle had suddenly cleared my mind. A flash of intuition had shown me the way ahead. But all I said for now was, 'What are we going to suggest?'

'Suggest?' Whinger looked baffled. 'Who to?'

'The head-shed and.Special Branch.'

'Isn't it up to them to suggest something?'

'I mean, are we going to have a crack at this or not?'

'At what? Sorry, Geordie, I'm not with you.'

'The shoot. Why don't we go through with it? Keep the charade going. Tell the PltkA we're on-side with them for the big hit.'

The others leant back in their seats with expressions of amazement on their faces. Stew said, 'You have to be joking.'

'The bastards have me over a barrel. The only thing we can do is play for time, right up to the last second.

We know the search for the hostages is closing in, but we're not at the end of it yet. It's the only option I have.

It's the zero option.'

'Take it easy, Geordie,' said Tony. 'Don't tell me you're going through with this?'

'Of course I'm not. But I might as well pretend I'm on, just to play the PIILA along.'

This time nobody spoke. They all stared at me in silence as if I'd flipped completely.

'Listen,' I continued, 'everything's gone brilliantly so far. The whole idea of the intercept was outrageous, but we hacked it. Nobody got hurt. No security leak.

Nobody any the wiser. One van wrecked, but so what?

We've had fantastic back-up from the Regiment and the police. And from the politicians, come to that. And the Prime Minister. If we just stay cool, we can carry the process one stage farther.'

Whinger shook his head. 'I still don't get it. Unless you do drop the guy, how are you going to make the PIRA hand your family over?'

'It's all a question of timing. We buy more time by shaping to go through with the shoot. In the two days between now and the second ofJune, SB may crack the puzzle.'

'Time…' Doughnut said suddenly. 'Did Andy get a device on the PIRA car, I wonder? If he did, Special Branch may have a breakthrough already. The car may have led them to the hostage location.'

'Possible,' I agreed. 'Look. I'm going down to camp.'

'Now?' said Whinger. 'It's two o'clock on Sunday morning.'

'The incident room will be manned. They need to know about this soonest. After all, this is a national emergency — or about to become one. And the head- shed need to know that Ostrich is blown.'

'Ostrich!' exclaimed Whinger. 'What a fuck-up!'

'You didn't leave the Libyans a little present after all?'

I went. 'Like a copy of the head-shed's secret telephone directory?'

'Piss off, mate.'

For a few seconds silence prevailed. Then Stew said, 'The powers that be will never sanction a phoney shoot.

It's too dicey. They'll tell you to screw the nut on that one.'

'Why?' I challenged him. 'Hitting a guy at six hundred yards does take a bit of doing. But missing him — that's a piece of cake. If I'm holding that rifle, I can tell you, the. man'll be as safe as houses.'

'Sorry, Geordie.' Whinger shook his head. 'I still don't see how this is going to work.'

I cleared my throat and started again. 'We show Farrell these orders, right? We tell him we're prepared to go ahead. But he has to come with us on the shoot, so he can see for himself what's happening. You with me?'

'More or less.'

'Also we tell him that, immediately after the shot, things have got to happen fucking quick, or we'll be nicked in the park at Chequers. That means that he's got to give the word for the release of the hostages the moment the shoot goes down.'

'So?' Whinger still looked highly sceptical.

'The head-shed briefs the Prime Minister. On the morning he's to take a wander out on to his terrace, as per normal. By then we're in an OP, watching the house. We fire a single shot, close past him. At the crack, he drops and lies still. As soon as Farrell sees he's down, he gives the order for the hostages to be handed over at a prearranged lV.'

'How's he supposed to communicate?'

'Over my mobile.'

'And how does he think he's going.to get his own arse away out of the park?'

'We'll tell him to have his guys lay on a chopper.

They can hire one to come in and pick us up. We'll fly out together. Then, later, we ditch him. I need to think that bit through…'

Whinger shook his head again. 'They'll never buy it.'

'*Who won't?'

'The police, for one. Can you imagine them letting a leading IRA player creep up on the Prime Minister with a bloody great five-oh rifle? The very idea'll send them fucking ballistic.' He broke offand screwed up his face in his efforts to imitate a plod on the beat: ' “Hexcuse me, sah. Before you pull that triggah, may I hinspect your firearms certificate, please?” For fuck's sake!'

'Farrell won't have the rifle,' I insisted. 'I'll have it.

That's the point. There'll be two of us with him, one to mind him, one to shoot.

'In general, if we seem to be co-operating with the PIRA, we'll keep the lid on the whole thing. There'll be no risk to anyone. On the contrary, by agreeing to go through with the shoot, we'll bring a serious threat under control. We'll take possession of a dangerous weapon, and with any luck we'll bust the London ASU in the process.'

I looked round the tired faces, and thought I saw a couple wavering. 'What if we refuse to co-operate?' I persisted. 'Number one: I don't get the hostages back; the PIRA will kill them and dump them in the river.

Number two: we're stuck with Farrell. Number three: the PIRA still have the rifle; the shoot will go down anyway, probably at some later date. The security forces will be left with the same problem. The threat may be deferred, but it'll still exist. The London ASU will remain intact, and they may easily get the Prime Minister in the end.'

'Well, whatever,' Tony began cautiously, 'you better move pretty damn fast. There's less than two days to get organised. If we pick up the weapon at all, we've got to test-fire it someplace. Farrell will insist on that.

Otherwise, how in hell are we supposed to know where it's shooting?'

'Good point. That's why I'm heading for camp right now.'

'Want me to come with you?' asked Whinger.

'Thanks, Whinge, but I'll be OK. You might be needed here. I'll probably get my head down in the sergeants' mess for a couple of hours, then come back first thing in the morning.'

'What if Farrell starts asking where you are?' Stew asked.

'Tell him I'm asleep,' I said. 'Or just don't tell him anything.'

For a quiet take-off, I rolled the Granada down the hill and started the engine by letting out the clutch in third gear when I reached the gate at the bottom of the drive.

Then, as soon as I was under way, I called the incident room on the mobile and got a duty officer strange to me.

'Geordie Sharp,' I said. 'I'm coming in. There's been a big development. I'll need to speak to Commander Fraser. Can you get hold of him?'

'Not to worry,' came the answer. 'He's here already.

I'll put him on.'

'Geordie?' came Fraser's voice. 'Where are you?'

'Heading your way. I'll be there in half an hour.'

'What's new?'

'Can't tell you from here. Any luck with that car?'

'Yes and no. Tell you when I see you.'

'OK… and listen.'

'Yes?'

'I need an urgent meeting with the ops officer.

Yorky Rose as well. Can you alert them?'

'Right away?'

'Afraid so.'

Rolling into camp at three in the morning made me feel I was back at the start of the whole drama, back to the night we had got in from Bogotfi and I found my family gone. That now seemed as though it had been light- years ago. The last two days and nights alone had been so full that I felt I hadn't seen Stirling Lines in months.

By the time I ran up the stairs to the incident room a full reception committee was there to meet me: not only the SB team, but Mac Macpherson, Yorky, and the CO. The only man anywhere near correctly dressed was Fraser, in a shirt, tie and pullover; the others had track suits or sweat tops over what looked suspiciously like pyjamas. As always, there Was a brew on the go.

We had no banter or pissing about, but went straight into an informal O-group — and you could have heard a mouse fart in the next county while I explained what had happened.

When I started to outline the programme for the Chequers shoot I was seriously worried Yorky might explode; he turned red in the face and his eyeballs rotated at high revs. In fact, such a proportion of what I said was so utterly outrageous that all of them, one after the other, soon looked close to apoplexy. I don't know who was most agitated — Fraser, when he heard that we'd met Marry Malone in the railway yard, or the CO when I told him that Operation Ostrich had been blown.

Fraser muttered, 'Marty Malone!' in a voice he might have used if he'd won a million on the pools. 'This is the guy who's been masterminding the bombing campaign on the mainland. But so far he's always operated out of West Belfast, never dared cross the water. I'll bet my trousers it was him who brought the big rifle across.'

He took a deep breath and added, 'If all this resulted in our nicking Marty Malone — boy, would that be something! He's one of the most evil pigs in the whole organisation.'

Pemembering the lean, drawn look of the older man's face in the marshalling yard, I said, 'Maybe it was him who was down to do the shoot.'

'Possible,' Fraser agreed. 'In fact, more than possible.

The fact he's here at all means there's something really big in the offing.'

The Boss cried, 'God's boots!' Then, turning to Mac, he said, 'You haven't had wind of any leak on Libya?'

'Nothing at all.'

'Get on to the Finn immediately,' said the CO. 'See if they've heard anything.'

As Mac went next door to make the call, the Boss muttered, 'I don't believe there has been a leak. I believe the buggers are guessing, trying to bluff their way.'

'I tell you what,' I said to Fraser. 'It was that miserable girl of yours. It was her that dropped us in the shit on this one.'

'Well,' he went, 'it may have been. But I tend to agree with your commanding officer. All the PIRA heard was“ that you'd gone abroad for a few days. You could have been anywhere in the world.'

'That's right,' said ¥orky. 'They can make what they like out of what the woman said, but I'll lay a hundred pounds to a penny they haven't got a scrap of evidence to back it.'

'These PIRA orders,' said the CO. 'Where are they?'

'Here.' I opened the manila envelope and began to pull out the documents.

'Wait!' Fraser snapped. 'Prints.'

'I've handled the papers already.'

'Never mind. Forensic can try. Give them to Sergeant Alden. He'll photocopy them while we're talking.'

I handed the package over, and the tall duty sergeant took it out of the room. On the way he passed Mac, who came back in shaking his head. 'Nothing known to the Firm on Ostrich. Not the slightest suggestion of a leak. The Libyans are still blaming Mossad, and Egypt's denying all knowledge of the operation. But I've asked Gilbert to call first thing in the morning.'

'All tight,' said the CO. 'We'd better ring round to make sure everybody's ready with their denials — the FO for one.'

'I reckon you're tight about the PI1LA trying to bluff us, Boss,' I said. 'But even if you are, it doesn't make much difference. No matter how much or how little they know about Libya, they still have me over a barrel.

So what I propose is this…'

I launched into my spiel again — and the reception was much the same as in the cottage: a mixture of alarm and incredulity. At first the ruperts couldn't believe I was being serious. Yorky really thought I'd gone round the bend. He walked up and down at one hell of a pace, exclaiming, 'Eh, lad, you're in it now,' throwing up a pencil and, as often as not, missing it when it fell. His movements became so distracting that the CO told him for Christ's sake to sit down.

'As for Chequers,' I went on, 'the PIRA have really done their homework. You remember that fuss a few years back about getting a footpath diverted, so that it wouldn't pass so close to the front of the house? Well, that got done. But still the path is only five or six hundred metres from the terrace, and the PIIA have it all sussed out for a shoot from there. Everything's in those papers — distances, elevations, bearings, routes in and out, prevailing winds, security arrangements…'

As the logic of what I was saying got through to them, they all began to calm down a bit. The CO was the first to crack. 'In purely operational terms it's feasible,' he admitted. 'I can see that. I'd trust you to handle the shoot, Geordie. But we're going to have the devil's own problem selling it to Whitehall.'

'The point is, the situation hasn't changed from when we started,' I said. 'Except that now the person directly threatened is the Prime Minister himself. That makes it all the more important to go straight to the top.

He's the one at risk. It's him who'll benefit if we get these bastards sorted. If we take on the shoot ourselves, it'll increase our chances of busting the ASU.' I started going through the benefits of proceeding, as I had with the lads in the safe house: that we would hijack the PIRA's plan for the shoot, get the weapon, and so on.

'Geordie!' The CO scratched his head. 'I have to give it to you. You make everything sound dead simple.'

Now it was he who got up and went walkabout.

'What you're going to have to do is present an appreciation, in the normal way.'

'No time, Boss. If we're going to pick up the rifle, we've got to do it tomorrow night — tonight, I mean.'

'OK. That leaves the morning. I vote we all get our heads down for a couple of hours. Sleep on the problem, then have another brief. How about that, Commander?'

'Fine by me,' said Fraser. 'Just bear in mind that none of this caper may be necessary. There's a chance that we'll get to the hostages first. That car your fellows bugged has narrowed the field a bit.'

'Oh, great!' I said. 'Where did it go?'

'We followed it to Earl's Court. It's there now, parked in a stack off

Oldbury Road

We've put round- the-clock surveillance on it. Unfortunately we couldn't keep tabs on the occupants, but as soon as they come back we'll get a tail on them.'

'You mean you lost them?' Suddenly I saw red. 'For fuck's sake! How did you manage that?'

'Take it easy, Geordie. It wasn't that simple.'

'Bloody hell, though! After we'd been to all that trouble to get a device on the car…'

'I know. But listen: the guy in the passenger seat got out and jumped straight on to a bus a couple of blocks short of the park. Then, at the barrier on the entrance to the stack, the driver swapped places with someone else, who put the car away.'

'Couldn't your guys keep on him, though?'

'He was gone like a rat down a bloody drain.'

'Ah, hell!'

I saw Fraser giving me a wary look and half getting up from his chair, as if he expected me to throw another track and start smashing the place up again.

'Chill out, Geordie,' Yorky said. 'Everyone's doing their best.'

As I felt the rush of anger draining away, I let out a deep breath and said, 'Sorry I shouted. All this is getting to me.'

'No sweat,' Fraser replied evenly. 'They're cunning bastards, they really are. All the hints we've been picking up from intercepts have suggested an assassination attempt was being planned for July, and in London — when Clinton's due to visit. Now it looks as though all that was cover, a blind.'

'Typical,' I said. 'At least we know what the real plan is. But we've got to budget for the worst. These telephone calls Farrell's making — aren't they leading anywhere?'

'We tried following up the last mobile number, but it's gone off the air. They're using quite a few different phones.'

The sergeant reappeared with a sheaf of photostats, and the ruperts started passing them round. The detail in the papers made them gripe and groan, and had the effect of reinforcing my presentation.

'Curses!' went the CO. 'I see what you mean. You'd better leave the originals with the Commander, for the forensic boys.'

'That's fine. Copies will do for Farrell. He doesn't even know whatthe envelope contained. What about the map, though?'

'We'll get another in the morning.'

The meeting was about to break up when Fraser said, 'This Farrell — what's he like?'

'A pain in the arse. We're keeping him cuffed to one or other of us all the time. It's like having a bloody bear or something in the house.'

'Has he tried to do a runner?'

'No. Physically, he's in fairly poor shape. The bullet wound in his flank hasn't healed properly. He's on antibiotics, and that's dragging him down a bit. The brush-off he got from his pals in Belfast knocked him back a bit too. But we're not taking any chances.'

'Quite right,' said Fraser. 'We picked up some good stuff in an intercept yesterday. The boyos are after him for laundering funds from Colombia. They think he's filtered oht seven or eight million dollars.'

'Ah — so float's what it is.' Suddenly those peculiar reactions made sense. If Farrell had been creaming off cocaine money, and had been rumbled, no wonder he was getting nervous. 'Maybe, in the end, they won't want him back,' I said.

'On the contrary,' said Fraser. 'They'll want him all the more, so they can give him a going-over. Also to stop him spilling any secrets.'

'Perhaps he won't want to go, then… On the other hand, he's arrogant enough to think he.can talk himself out of it.'

'It can't be very comfortable, being cooped up with him,' suggested the CO.

'Could be worse. I'm having as little to do with him as I can. I don't want to get drawn into conversation, in case I give anything away. I tell you one thing, though.'

'What's that?'

'He's into classical music. Beethoven.'

'How d'you know?'

I told them about the episode with the music on the car radio, and when I said the piece was something called Leonora number three the Boss got it immediately.

'I know,' he said. 'Beethoven wrote three different overtures for his opera Fidelio. Couldn't decide which to use. There's one called Leonora number three. Great stuff. Come on, now. If the guy's into that, he can't be all bad.'

'He is,' I insisted. 'He's shit from head to toe.'

It's surprising what three hours' sleep can do for you, especially if you're running on adrenalin. When I finally got my head down in my room in the sergeants' mess it was nearly four o'clock, and once again I felt I was back at the beginning of the nightmare, on the first night after the kidnap.

But come seven o'clock, and a good breakfast, I felt a new man.

By 0745 the cast from the night before had reassembled in the incident room. The CO kicked off with, 'light then, Geordie, what have you got for us?'

I'd already jotted down a few headings in my notebook, in the hope of making things reasonably clear, but I was glad to find that one of the int office's gofers was present with his laptop to make a proper written record.

'Mission,' I began. 'The mission is obviously to recover the hostages held by the Provisional IRA. To give Special Branch and the other security forces more time, we propose to simulate our willingness to carry out a shoot on the Prime Minister at Chequers…'

I ran through place, date and time as if this were a normal operation, and then listed the steps that I expected to take:

1. Contact PIP, A, agree to carry out shoot.

2. Peceive instructions for collecting weapon.

3. Collect weapon.

4. Move up to Forward Mounting Base in vicinity of target location.

5. Test-fire and zero weapon.

6. Negotiate with PIRA to set final R.V site for exchange of Farrell and hostages. Deal will be that Farrell will authorise release of hostages by mobile phone soon as he sees the target is down.

7. Make Farrell arrange escape from P,V site: helicopter to be hired by PIPA.

8. Carry out early-morning shoot as detailed, in Farrell's presence.

9. Fly out of target area. Land at intermediate IV, switch to vehicle, drive to final PV.

10. Exchange prisoners.

11. Security forces follow up tracking devices, recapture Farrell and accomplices.

The CO was at his sharpest, challenging each point as I brought it up, probing for weaknesses in the plan and scouting for problems.

'What have you got in mind for an FMB?' he demanded.

'We need another holiday cottage. The one we're in now has been perfect for down here, but it's going to be too far from the job. We need something on the edge of the Chilterns, within a few miles of Chequers.

Not too close.'

'Not so easy up there,' he said. 'We don't have any tame house-owners in that area.'

After a pause he asked, 'What's the point of zeroing the rifle, if you're not trying to hit the target anyway?'

'Farrell will insist on it. He'll want to come with us when we do it — he's that sort of guy, very practical.'

'Where will you do it, then?'

'Depends where our safe house is. When we know where we've landed, we can pick an out-of the-way spot in the country and go out there with a target at first light. I've been looking at the map: there are plenty of big, deserted valleys up there.'

The CO had adopted his favourite thinking attitude, forehead in hands, ears sticking out well to either side, and elbows on the desk. 'The PIRA will know when the shoot's going to take place,' he said. 'On the morning, they may send dickers to stake out the park.'

'I thought of that. We're going to need back-up on site. There's a farm just behind Point D. Here.' I twisted the map round so that the Boss could see it fight way up. 'Brockwell Farm. It would be ideal if we could get some of the lads in there under cover of darkness the night before. Then, if Farrell did try to do a runner, or if anyone tried to lift him, we'd still be covered…'

Mac, the ops officer, was his usual sarcastic self. 'Of course, all this may be so much moonshine,' he said. 'If SB find the hostages first you can forget all this fancy caper.'

'Christi' I exclaimed. 'If that happened, nobody would be happier than me. I'd be over the bloody moon. If I never saw Farrell again — if I didn't have to go back and meet the bastard again now — I'd be chuffed to bollocks.'

So it went on. The CO was pretty sceptical at first, but, as usual, he fancied having a go at something outrageous. When I left camp at 0830, I had his permission to carry on planning for the time being, and the promise that once again he would take things to the highest level in Whitehall.

Back at the cottage, I gave Farrell short shrift. When he asked where I'd been I told him to mind his own business. Then I brought out the PIRA orders. While I read out the main points, he listened with a variety of expressions passing across his face. Sometimes he looked amused, sometimes contemptuous, sometimes interested — but he never seemed particularly surprised.

'Last night you told me this was all shit,' he said.

'At first I thought it was.'

'But now you'll go along with it?'

'Have to,' I replied. 'I don't see I've any alternative.

I've drawn the zero option.'

'The boyos have changed their minds, then.'

'What about?'

'The plan for the shoot. They were going to have it in London. This looks more like business. Better than trying to drop a mortar into the garden of Number Ten Downing Street, anyway.'

'What have you fellows got against the Prime Minister?el demanded. 'He seems a harmless enough guy to me.'

'Harmless!' Farrell nearly shouted. 'Harmless, begod!

He's the head of the British Government, is he not? It's him who's the architect of repression in Northern Ireland. The number of murders that fucker's got on his hands — Holy Mary, they can never be avenged. A bullet's too good for him!'

'If we hack this,' I said, 'and the shoot goes down, I don't want your people crowing about how they got an SAS man to do their dirty work for them. You get me?'

Farrell nodded.

'The Regiment would deny it anyway,' I told him.

'They'd rubbish any story that came out. But publicity's the last thing I want.'

'Don't kid yourself,' said Farrell scornfully. 'If the job gets done, the PIRA will claim a major success. They're not going to give the credit to some prat in the Brit FORCES

'All right, then. Find out our RV for collecting the weapon. We need to go for that tonight.'

Using my mobile, he went through to Belfast and started one of his usual hectoring exchanges. The prospect of action seemed to have put new life into him; he was half-way back to his former aggressive self, as though he were taking charge of the whole operation.

The upshot of the conversation was that we would get our instructions for the pick-up through an intermediary in Ulster. We were not to call the PIRA on the mainland any more — we were only to ring Belfast.

'They're getting jumpy,' I said to Whinger when we were alone in the kitchen.

'Don't blame them,' he answered. 'I am too.'

'This fucker Farrell,' I said. 'He's starting to give me the shits. I've got a horrible feeling that he's invincible, and that somehow he'll get the better of us in the end.'

'Come on, Geordie,' said Whinger. 'Pigs might fly.'

From exposure to countless previous Whingerisms I knew that meant 'Never say die', so I just said, 'Good on yer, mate,' and put an extra spoonful of sugar into my tea.

As I sipped the piping-hot drink, I couldn't stop thinking about an account I'd read in a magazine of the murder of Grigory Rasputin, the peasant monk who bewitched the Russian royal family in the years before revolution. Rasputin had an amazing hold over the Empress, Alexandra. Some people said he was secretly screwing her, others that he was the only person who could comfort her son Alexei, who was mortally ill.

Anyway, when the army officers tried to murder the monk they found they couldn't do it. First they gave him enough potassium cyanide to kill an elephant, and it had practically no effect. Then they shot him through the heart with a revolver from point-blank range, and still the bastard wouldn't die. One moment he was stretched out on the flag-stones of the palace like a corpse, the next he was up, roaring, and attacking them with his hands, so violently that he tore an epaulette offone of their tunics.

When he staggered to his feet and ran out through the courtyard towards the street, they couldn't believe it.

Again they gunned him down, and finally they dumped his trussed body into the river through a hole in the ice.

But the performance had left them shattered. They thought their victim was the devil incarnate, and they were terrified he'd return to haunt them.

Stupid as it sounds, I was beginning to feel that Farrell was another 1Kasputin, an evil and indestructible force. The magazine article had carried pictures of the peasant, with his wild black beard and staring eyes. I started to think I could see likenesses in Farrell's swarthy features, and I felt I was in the grip of some malign influence, which was driving events forward in a way I couldn't cl)ntrol. It was easy to believe that, whatever I did, I would never get the better of him…

Deep down, of course, I knew I was suffering from cumulative lack of sleep and letting my imagination run away with me. And the best way to control my anxieties was to concentrate on the practical details of the task ahead.

When we went back through to Belfast I took over the call myself, so that I could make sure I understood everything properly. With a man dictating and myself checking back, I wrote down a grid reference for the transit hide somewhere in Oxfordshire, and a series of detailed instructions: a road junction, a lane, woods, fields, paths, a clearing on the edge of the forest, an old well with a cast-iron water pump. On paper, the notes meant practically nothing, and I could only hope they'd relate accurately to features on the ground.

At the end the contact said, 'That's all. The weapon is there, and can be collected any time after dark tonight.'