Zero Option

THIRTEEN

Tony and I set out at two o'clock, leaving the rest of the team to guard Farrell, close down the cottage and move up-country to whatever FMB the head-shed managed to arrange. As we drove off in the Granada, I felt a terrific relief at being away from the grotty presence of our prisoner. The man had wanted to come with us to ' collect the weapon, sure enough, but I told him we could manage the pick-up on our own.

As we headed east, my mind spun with conflicting possibilities, and in an attempt to clear my head I bounced some of them off Tony.

'I'm trying to puzzle out what the PIRA's state of mind is,' I began. 'They're so bloody devious, you can never be sure what they're up to.

'One thing we do know is that they want the Prime Minister dead. That's obvious. Also obvious: they want us to do their dirty work for them. But what do they reckon my intentions are? I suppose they think I'm so shit-scared of losing Tim that I'm simply going to do the shoot on their behalf. But what do they imagine I'll do after it's gone down? Bugger off?. Disappear? Perhaps they think I'll just be able to keep my head down and nobody will find out who did it.'

'Maybe you should tell Farrell you've got a passage booked back to Colombia,' Tony suggested. 'Let him know you've fixed yourself up with a slot there, and give the impression you're going to quit Britain immediately, taking the family with you.'

'Thanks a lot! It's still possible the PIRA have no intention of handing over the hostages, whatever we do. Maybe they don't intend I should get away at all. If they stake out Point D at Chequers, they could drop us immediately after the shoot.'

'Possible,' Tony agreed. 'But unlikely. They've been to the place. They've seen it. They know it's heaving with security. You let one round off there and the park will be like an anthill. They'd never make it out. The thought should keep them away.'

'Yeah — but if they lay on the chopper, like we've suggested…'

I drove in silence for a few minutes, then said, 'They must trust me to some extent. After all, they're letting us get our hands on one of their most valuable weapons.'

'We haven't got the damn thing yet. They could be staking out the pick-up site right now, planning to hit us when we show up.'

'I know.' I turned and grinned at him. 'That's why we've got the MP5s.'

I drove on, heading up the M4 for Reading. The site of the transit hide had been described as the side of a wood, up in the hill country near the village of Nettlebed, maybe fifteen miles overland from Chequers. The PIRA guy had described the cache as an old well on the site of a former cottage.. I was tempted to do a daylight drive-past, get a feel for the area — but I ruled it out on the grounds that if any dickers were about a passing car would be bound to alert them.

In Reading our first port of call was a general bookshop, where we bought a copy of the local 1:25,000 map. That showed some detail, but what we really needed was the relevant sheet of the six-inchestothe-mile Ordnance Survey, and we ran one to ground in a specialist map shop in London Road. Thus armed, we stoked up with some good spaghetti in an Italian restaurant, and pored over the maps while we drank our coffee.

'Roman coin hoard found here, 1953,' Tony read out, twisting the map at an angle.

'Is that right? Near where we're heading?'

'Not far off.'

'They'll have to add another line to the next edition,'

I said. 'Barrett Fifty sniper rifle found here, 2002.'

The site of the transit hide was easy enough to identify within a hundred yards or so, even though we couldn't pinpoint it. The PIRA guy had said the old well was on the southern edge of a small, triangular wood called Kate's Copse, which had its apex pointing north and its base running east and west. We found the wood all right, but we couldn't tell how far along the half-mile base the well would be.

The route given us by the PIRA would bring us in along a lane which ran one field away from the northern point of the wood. If we took that road we could park within a couple of hundred yards of our objective. I checked the route through, turn by turn, against the map, and saw that the description was painstakingly accurate: go south off the main drag on unsigned side road, three cottages on corner; 500 yards, farm on right; 500 yards, sewage works on right, ninety-degree turn left; 700 yards straight, then deciduous wood on right; 200 yards on, grass ride on right. Leave car here…

The more I looked at it, the less I fancied it. If dickers were out that was where they'd be: watching that lane, anywhere between the main road and the site. With the motivation of the PIRA so uncertain, my instinct was to keep well clear.

'Look at this,' I said. 'Kate's Copse is on the brow of the hill. But there's another track here, to the south of it, along the bottom of this valley. We can park down here and walk up over. Then, if anyone's watching the top lane, they'll miss us.'

'I'm with you,' Tony agreed. 'It's not much farther.

Better all round.'

Back in the car, I called Whinger's mobile. The first time it didn't connect, and I assumed that he was on the move in some low-lying area. When I tried again five minutes later he came on, patchily, but clear enough to say that they were on their way to a new safe house 'with ten miles of target', with an ETA of 2000 hours.

I didn't want to ask the place's precise location because I knew Farrell would be listening to the conversation, so I told Whinger I'd call again when they'd arrived.

The evening was dim and murky. No rain was falling but there was heavy cloud cover, and I could see that darkness was going to fall early. All the same, we had an hour in hand, and I'd been planning to stop in a quiet lane so that we could get in a few minutes' kip. But by the time we cleared the northern outskirts of 1Leading the old adrenalin was running again, and I felt too hepped up to be sleepy.

'Tell you what,' I said, 'I don't want to count any chickens, but we've got time to recce a site for the test- shoot tomorrow. Let's take another look.'

I pulled off the road on to a patch of earth under some big beeches, and we'd hardly started scrutinising the map again when Tony pointed with his forefinger and said, 'Hey! Whaddaya know? A genuine rifle range, all ready for us.'

Sure enough, in a remote, wooded valley a few miles east of our site, the 1:25,000 map showed a narrow rectangular opening in the forest, nearly half a mile long, marked white among the green, and bearing the legend 'Rifle Range'.

'I don't believe it,' I said. 'If it's like the map shows, it's got everything: six or seven hundred yard sight-line and a remote location, no houses for miles. Let's go for it. You drive, though. Those little roads could be private tracks; if we get stopped, you do the talking. We'll be American tourists, lost in the great British jungle.'

'What do I do?' said Tony in mock alarm. 'Act dumb?'

'Act yourself,' I told him, 'and that'll fool anybody.'

He gave me a look as we changed places.

Twenty minutes later, we left the main road and dived down a spectacularly steep lane. At the bottom the ground flattened out, but soon the road swung left- handed into the beginning of the secluded valley. We passed a pair of cottages on our right, then a farm on our left. Beyond the farm the surface suddenly deteriorated from tarmac into pitted gravel, and a hand-painted notice, black on white, proclaimed it a,P, lvArE P, OAD.

'Thought so,' I said. 'Keep going.'

We crawled on, lurching through potholes, with steep grass fields lifting away on either hand. A few minutes later we passed the remains of some ancient building on our left, walls smothered with ivy, standing back from the road.

'Jesus!' Tony exclaimed. 'It's the ruins of a church.

This place is getting spooky.'

Soon we were into the woods, which turned out to be dense beech, with branches hanging over the lane and turning it into a tunnel. In there the light was already so dim that I instinctively glanced at my watch to make sure we weren't running out of time. In fact we were fine, and I could see from the map that we were almost at our objective.

'lkound this next corner, it'll be on our right,' I said.

'I'll believe it when we see it.'

But see it we did. Tony swung left, and after a couple of hundred yards we came upon an opening in the trees on our right, with a red and white barrier pole across it.

We pulled off the track, got out of the car, dodged under the pole and walked throughthe gap, to find ourselves, sure enough, on a rifle range. A long, narrow strip of rough-mown grass sliced through the forest along the contours at the foot of the hill, and ended in a natural butt away to our right. There was a firing point every hundred yards, and although the place had an amateurish, partially-kept air about it, the range was clearly in use. Tyre-marks in the mud showed that quite a few vehicles came and went, the grass had been cut lately, and a couple of poles for flying danger flags had recently been repainted white.

'Incredible!' I said quietly. 'It must be the TA who use it. There's not even a range hut. They must bring everything with them when they do a shoot. But what a place! We've even got the distances marked out for us: no need to step them out.' We'd come out at the 200 yard mark, and away to our left we could see five more firing-points stretching away, giving 700 yards in all.

'That big rifle's going to make one hell of a noise down in here,' said Tony, looking up at the sides of the valley all round. 'It'll sound like a cannon.'

'Won't matter. We'll just take a couple of shots and slip away. I don't fancy driving in along this bottom track, though. We could easily get trapped. There must be some way we can come in on foot.'.

Recourse to the map showed another track running steeply uphill to the north, past the far end of the range, towards a main road on the next ridge. We took it, but soon saw we'd made a mistake: rainwater had carved deep channels out of the mud, and even a four-wheel- drive vehicle would have had problems negotiating the track. Seeing that the Granada wasn't going to make it, Tony eased off and backed carefully down.

'That's our way in for tomorrow, all the same,' I said.

'Park at the top, walk down, shoot, and away on foot.

If anyone turns up we can disappear into the trees. Let's get round there now for a shufti — back the way we came, out along the valley, then up and over. All we need is to find a place where we can park in the morning.'

As I'd forecast, night came early while we were driving towards the transit hide. Full darkness had fallen by the time we reached the lane I'd earmarked. Again we parked under trees, and we hadn't gone fifty metres from the Granada before the car had vanished from sight. Our walk-in to the site was relatively short about a mile — and as we were in no hurry, I took it at a snail's pace. For camouflage purposes we'd pulled on DPM smocks over our civilian gear; we both had pistols in shoulder holsters, and each of us carried an MP 5 with spare magazines. From camp, I'd also brought a night-sight of the kind we'd used in Iraq — an image intensifier that gives really good vision in the dark. I had it slung round my neck on para-cord so that I could bring it up with a single movement. And for the first time since the intercept at Ludlow, we were wearing our covert radios.

Tony and I kept about ten metres apart as we walked uphill over a grass field beside an overgrown hedge, myself leading. Even with my eyes accustomed to the dark I could see very little — but memorised details of our route were printed in my mind.

There was practically no wind, and what there was a breath from the west — was coming from our left, through the hedge.

After four hundred metres, another hedge led off across the hill to the right at ninety degrees to the one we were following. Luckily cattle had pushed their way through it, creating gaps, so that we were able to slip through with scarcely a sound. Another five minutes brought us to the point on the brow of the hill where our guiding row of bushes came to an end. A barbed wire fence ran across our line of advance, just visible on the horizon against the cloudy sky. I beckoned Tony forward and held the top strand down taut while he went over it, to prevent the wire twanging. Then he did the same for me, and we crept on silently over the big field beyond, the last before our target wood.

Still the breeze was steady on my left cheek. I stopped. Ahead and to our left, something pale was showing. The night sight revealed it as a sheep, outlier of a large flock. Hearing Tony move up close behind me, I whispered, 'Sheep. We'll detour right so we don't panic them.'

On we went. Frequent checks with the sight showed that the sheep were aware of our presence — they had their heads up and were looking in our direction — but by skirting round them we persuaded them that we weren't a threat, and they stayed where they were.

Now the southern face of the wood loomed ahead of us like a black wall. We were coming in towards its right-hand corner. About a hundred yards out I stopped and went down on one knee for a thorough scan. The sight revealed fence posts and tree-trunks, but nothing sinister. Thinking back, I remembered the PIll's instructions about a clearing and a disused chalk-pit.

The old well, they said, was just inside the wood, close to the fence, but the clearing and the pit were behind it.

Therefore, I reckoned, I should see some sort of opening in the trees.

'Got it,' I breathed. 'I can see an open space. OK.

We're on course.'

Heading slightly left, we approached the straight boundary of the wood at an angle. Our feet were making no sound on the sheep-mown grass, and the night was so dark that anyone without special equipment would be practically blind. Nevertheless, something made me stop twenty yards out from the trees.

When I went down flat, Tony did the same a few feet behind me. For a minute we lay listening. Nothing.

Then on the wind I caught a very faint whiff.” cigarette smoke. A shiver went up my back as I thought of the moment in the Libyan desert when Whinger had smelt smoke, just as we were about to establish our LUP.

Reaching round, I snapped finger and thumb quietly, and I heard faint rustling as Tony wormed up beside me.

'Cigarette smoke,' I whispered. 'There's someone out to our left.' I raised the night sight and scanned again. 'There he is,' I said quietly. 'A man, on the corner of the wood.'

'What's he doing?'

'Standing there. He's got binoculars. Looking round.'

'He'll never pick us out — too dark.'

'No, but let's get into cover.'

We crawled forward, belly to the ground, and in a few seconds were under the bottom strand of another barbed wire fence. Inside it, out of sheep-reach, longer grass and shrubs were growing.

Leaning outwards, I took one more look at the corner. The man hadn't moved. 'You stay here,' I breathed. 'Get your arse backed into the undergrowth while I go and look for the hide. Take the sight and keep an eye on our friend. If he heads this way, warn me, and we'll lie low till he's gone past.' I lifted the cord over my head and handed the sight over.

'OK,' Tony whispered. 'Good hunting.'

In the cover of the woodland edge, it was safe to stand up, so I got to my feet and shuffled carefully forward. My mind was moving far faster than my body.

The guy on the corner could be a gamekeeper, on the look-out for poachers, but at this time of the year that seemed unlikely. More probably it was a dicker — and if it was, what was his brief? What the hell was he doing here? Was he supposed to intercept us as we came to the hide? Or pretend he'd caught us stealing the weapon, and drop us in possession of it? Did he have a colleague on the hide itself?

My sixth sense told me that the answer to the last question was no. Already I was on the edge of the clearing and very close to the hide, yet I had no feeling that anybody was near me.

I moved on, pushing each foot gently through the long grass. At the south-western edge of the clearing according to my brief- there should be an old iron hand-purrip mounted, on a brick base… I nearly bumped into it before I saw it, standing shoulder-high in front of me. This was the means by which people living in the cottage had once brought their water up out of the ground. I reached out and touched the rounded top of the pump. From the rough feel, I could tell that the cast iron was pitted with the rust of ages.

The opening of the well had been described as six feet out from the base of the pump. I dropped on to hands and knees. The temptation to use a torch was strong, but I resisted it — better to operate by feel. I was looking, or groping, for a circular wooden cover covered by sods of tuff. Pulling my Commando knife from its sheath, I began jabbing the blade vertically into the ground, and after four or five soft touches I suddenly hit something hard, which gave out a quite different sound. I reached out farther and jabbed again. This time I got a definite hollow thump.

A moment later I had located the two wooden 291 handles. Steady, I told myself. This could be booby- trapped to blow when someone moves it.

Feeling carefully about in the surrounding mulch, I picked, out the perimeter of the cover and ran my fingers round it. When I came on no wires or catches, I reckoned all was well, and lifted the cover clear.

For a moment I sat back on my heels and held down the pressel switch of my radio. 'Tony,' I said quietly.

'I'm on site. Found the hide. What's our guy doing?'

'Hasn't moved.'

'Nobody at the other corner?'

'Nope.'

'OK, then. I'll get the weapon up.'

Below ground level it was safe to use the torch, so I reached down into the cavity and switched on. The beam lit up a blue nylon rope, anchored at the top to an iron ring set into the neck of the well, and dropping ten feet into the old, brick-lined cistern. On the dry mud floor at the bottom lay a fat grey cylinder about five feet long.

Quickly I switched off, pocketed the torch and began hauling the rope up. The tube was a fair old weight thirty pounds, I guessed — but it came up hanging at an angle, so that I was able to bring it through the neck of the well without it touching the sides.

Just as I laid it in the grass Tony's voice suddenly came in my ear. 'Watch it, Geordie. The guy on the corner's heading this way. Fifty yards… forty… thirty. Ah, Jesus!'

I wriggled the MP 5 off my back and knelt silently with the weapon at the ready, watching, waiting. I kept thinking, if this were Northern Ireland we'd simply grab the guy, hand him over to the police and have him whipped away.

When nothing happened I asked, very low, 'What's he doing?'

No answer. That could only mean the man was extremely close. 'Is he within ten yards?' I went.

Back came one briefcase, as Tony gave his pressel a single nudge. That meant yes.

'Is he within five yards?'

Psssch.

Bloody hell! I concentrated intently on keeping still, and counted seconds to give myself an idea of how much time was passing. I'd gone past 180 — three minutes which seemed like thirty — when at last I got another beep in the earpiece.

'Moving off?' I asked.

Psssch, psssch.

'Great. Tell me when he's clear.'

I waited another whole minute. Then Tony came up with, 'OK. He's down at the other corner.'

'I'm coming out then.'

Hurryi'ng now, I brought out my knife again, cut the cradle of rope round the container, dropped the severed ends down the well, replaced the circular lid, swept the grass back and forth a couple of times to mask the edge of the cover, picked up the pipe by the webbing cradle round it, and nipped back to the fence.

Seconds later Tony and I were away across the middle of the field at a fast walk; but only when we got back to our marker hedge, out of sight and hearing of the wood, did he burst out with, 'Boy, was that a close one! The bastard was standing with his. heels three feet from my head!'

We ran the other lads to ground at the new safe house not far from Great Missenden. Whinger guided us in on the phone, calling the turns, until finally we pulled round the back of a farmyard to find a hideous modem bungalow built alongside the biggest heap of shit in Buckinghamshire — or so it seemed: there was a mountain of old straw and manure piled up right in front of the turn-around, and the air was full of the stink of cows.

'What have they done to us?' I yelled as I walked in.

'What a shower!'

'Close the door, for fuck's sake,' said Whinger. 'The only hope is to keep the smell outside.'

Cowshit apart, the place was nothing like as good for us as the cottage in the Dean. For one thing it was too close to the main road and to the farmyard; for another, it had big plate-glass windows, so that anyone passing could see in. A third defect was that the internal walls were paper-thin, so people could hear what was going on in the room next-door. And to make matters worse the telephone was insecure; there hadn't been time to instal a new one.

'Oh, well,' I said. 'At least it's in the right area, and we're not going to be here long. Nothing new from Fraser, I suppose?'

Whinger shook his head. 'All quiet on the western front, I'm afraid.'

'All fight, then. Let's suss out this damned rifle.'

In the past I'd done quite a bit of sniper work, and at one stage I'd worked as commander of the sniper detachment on the Regiment's SP team. Stew, also, had been on the team. But for that work we'd used 7.62 calibre PM rifles — far smaller, lighter weapons. The only one of us with experience of a .50 was Tony, who'd trained on it in the States.

The carrying case for this one was home-made but practical: a tube of rigid grey polythene, like a length of outsized drainpipe, with a cap on each end carefully sealed with parcel tape. Inside, we found the rifle cocooned in a jacket of bubble-wrap. As I drew it out on to the kitchen table, everyone crowded round, including Farrell, who was now cuffed to Stew.

'Are those curtains good enough?' I gestured at the window behind me. 'They look bloody thin to me.'

'No, no. They're OK,' said Whinger. 'I've checked from outside and you can't see through.'

Afterwards, I wished I'd been watching Farrell's face when the wrappings came off the weapon. As it was, I kept my eyes on the job in hand, but when the. angular grey metal flame appeared, he gave a low whistle.

'What the hell is it?' I said. 'Not a Barrett at all. No woodwork.'

'No,' said Farrell. 'It's a Haskins. I know that feller.'

'You mean you know this actual rifle?'

'Ah… I mean, no. It's the type. I've seen the type before.'

Even in the excitement of unveiling the fearsome beast I had noticed that odd hesitation, but I carried on peeling off: the layers of bubble film until the weapon lay revealed. The rifle comprised a long, thick barrel with a sound-deflector at the muzzle, a skeletal action, a bipod hinged under the fore-end, a high-grade telescopic sight on top, and, strangest of all, a short metal stock joined to the action by twin hydraulic shock-absorbers, clearly designed to soak up some of the recoil. The rifle had seen service — its metalwork was scratched here and there — but it looked beautifully clean, and when I drew the heavy bolt back it moved sweetly in its oiled bed. I noticed that there was no magazine: single shots only.

Also in the pack were two short belts of rounds, twelve in each, every cartridge six or seven inches long, as big and menacing as an anti-tank shell.

'Bloody hell!' said Whinger. 'That thing would kill a fucking elephant.'

'So it would,' said Farrell. 'And leave a big hole in the bastard, too.'

I picked the rifle up — it weighed at least twenty pounds — and flicked down the legs of the bipod to set the weapon up on the floor. Then I lay down behind it, brought the stock into my shoulder and shuffled myself into an easy position. Of course I couldn't see much through the sight, because it was out of focus, pointing straight at a wall about five feet away, but I liked the look of the reticle: crossed bars, thick at the edges, thin in the middle. I imagined it centred on the distant figure of a man, probably wearing a loose, woolly dumper.

Altogether the rifle felt comfortable and solid. I opened and closed the bolt to cock the mechanism and applied the first pressure on the trigger. At the second pressure it went off crisp and clean, giving a loud click, with a pull I estimated to be four pounds.

When Tony also got down for a trial, I told him, 'Don't touch the sight. It's suppose to be set at six hundred yards, which is dust right. We'll try it in the morning.'

'No sweat,' he grunted. He too took a couple of dry pulls on the trigger and said, 'Yeah — it feels quite nice.

I could hit something with that.'

I lifted the rifle back on to the table, and over a brew we all got talking about long-range shoots, not least the effect of wind on the bullet.

'The thing is,' said Tony, 'even if there's no wind at the firing point, there can be some farther out. You need to watch for that — anything like leaves or grass moving near the target.'

'Yes,' Farrell said, 'and you have to look out for mirage, too.'

'Mirage?' said Whinger. 'What the hell's that?'

'You know when you get a heat-haze, and see the air kind of boiling? If there's no wind the air will be rising vertically, and you get what's known as a boiling mirage. Lateral movement — what you might call drift looks like a stream of clear water rippling over a bed of pebbles. That canaffect the bullet quite badly, so you've to learn how to judge it.'

'OK,' I said, 'but we're not going to get that in the early morning, are we?'

'Probably not,' Farrell agreed. 'But then term perature's going to be a factor. A high temperature will increase your muzzle velocity and throw your bullet high.'

'Yeah. But again, early morning's likely to be cool.'

'Sure, so you may need to aim fractionally high.

Humidity's another thing. If you get a mist, that means the air's more dense. Your bullet meets greater resistance and drops — so again, you need to give it more elevation.'

'Light,' said Tony. 'That's important. If it's dull and cloudy like today, you're liable to shoot high. Dunno why, but that's how it seems to work.'

'It probably will be like that at seven in the morning,'

I said. 'Anyway, we can try it tomorrow.'

'Have you got somewhere lined up for a practice shoot?' Whinger asked.

'Yep. We found a place.' Because Farrell was with us I didn't describe the little range in the woods. I turned to him. 'It's amazing how your people find the sites for hides. I mean, the one where we collected the rifle — it was miles from anywhere. How the hell would they know about a place like that?'

'Easy,' Farrell replied. 'Some Paddy gets a job working on the farm. Maybe he does a bit of pigeon- shooting or something. Gets to know the woods, finds the old well. Next thing he's in the pub, blathering about it, and there's a man listening. Or maybe the Paddy falls out with the farmer. Maybe he gets the sack and thinks, I'll luck this fellow up a bit. Use his property without him knowing.'

'Is that how guys get drawn into the organisation? As simple as that?'

'Sometimes, yes.'

I stared at our prisoner, with his heavy but still handsome face and his thick, wiry black hair. The swelling on his lip had gone down, and his eyes were back to normal, so that he looked quite presentable again.

'Don't you ever feel guilty about some of the things you do?' I asked.

'Guilty?' He gave a kind of snort. 'What about? It was those stupid fuckers of ancient Greeks who invented the idea of guilt. They thought there were creatures called the Furies who came after you if you did something bad. They called them the Eumenides, the Kindly Ones, to try and make them seem less frightening. It was all a load ofbollocks, of course — but people 5have been foolish enough to go on believing it ever since.'

'Some people call it conscience,' Ton7# said drily.

It was on the tip of my tongue to ask why the dickers had been out, watching the approaches to the hide, but instead I said, 'How does someone like you get into the PIP, A? I mean, you went to university. You're an educated guy. You could have a good job and a settled life. If you'd gone straight you could be making a good living by now.'

'Making a living!' Again Farrell gave that derisive snort. 'What d'you think you'd be like if you'd been brought up in Belfast? You'd be the worst fucking killer of the lot. I know. That's all you army fellers are, anyway — trained killers. Are you not? A tribe of murdering bastards.'

As Farrell glared at me and I glared back at him, I suddenly realised that we'd all started chatting over the weapon and listening to his advice as if he were one of us. The way he'd been talking, he could have been a sniper instructor. Obviously he was hot on the subject; but not only that — it had sounded as if he'd had training from Americans. Some of the phrases he'd used were out of American text books.

In a flash it occurred to me that maybe it was he who had done all that damage in Ulster. Maybe he was the mysterious long-range assassin who'd harassed the security forces so badly. To my disgust I realised I'd been drawn into discussion with him in a way I'd vowed I would avoid. It was bad enough that for a few minutes I'd been treating him as an ordinary human being; far worse was the fact that I'd talked things over as though speaking with an acknowledged expert.

Once again I felt that he was casting some sort of spell over me. To break it I stood up and said, 'There's one thing certain. Once this is over, if I ever come across you again, make no mistake, you'll be going down.'

'The same yourself,'. Farrell spat back. 'If you ever set eyes on me again you'll need to start saying your prayers.'

I took a deep breath and moved away. 'Let's spruce up the barrel,' I said. 'We need a target, too.'

The PIRA had included a cleaning kit within the tube: a springy steel rod with a jag on the end, and a roll of white flannel four inches wide, marked off by red lines every two inches. For smaller calibres, like 7.62mm or 9mm, a single piece of four-by-two is enough to make a tight fit in the bael; but for this cannon I cut a double piece, a four-by-four, and wrapped it round the jag. Even that lump went through the barrel without too much friction, and when it came out at the other end it was perfectly clean. With the bolt out, I held the rifle up and looked straight through the barrel towards a lamp. The swirl of the rifling gleamed in the light, and I could see that the PIRA had taken good care of their prized weapon. I also had a close look at the telescopic sight, a high-quality optic with magnification variable up to the power of nine.

While I worked, watched by Farrell, Doughnut and Tony sorted out a target. The best option was a shallow cardboard box, eighteen inches wide and three feet long, in which some groceries had come up from the cottage. The bottom of the box was unmarked, and in the middle of it they stuck a piece of white paper six inches square, using paste made out of flour and water as glue. The result was a good aiming-mark in the middle of a target about the width of a man's torso. For zeroing purposes we could have done with a broader background. Although above and below the bull there was at least a foot to spare, if the first shot went more than nine or ten inches wide of centre we'd probably never see its point of impact.

Once again we were in for a short night. It was close to one in the morning before we stopped fiddling about, and I'd already set reveille for 0500.

'What about you?' I said to Farrell as Tony was about to chain him to his bed. 'You coming with us in the morning?'

'Sure I am. I need to know the rifle's in order. I wouldn't want to rely on what you fellers might tell me.'

'OK, then. Five o'clock it is.'

I'd known the answer to those questions before I asked them. Tony's prediction about Farrell wanting to witness the practice shoot was spot-on. Even though we seemed to have conned the bastard properly about our intentions, he wanted proof that we'd be able to hit the target.

'He's fired this thing himself,' I said quietly to Tony when we were alone again. 'This actual rifle. I'm sure he has.'