Zero Option

FOURTEEN

In the morning we used our covert radios openly for the first time. I told Farrell we'd been out and bought them specially, as they'd be the only means of coordinating our operations efficiently during the Chequers shoot.

'Bloody ruinous they were, too,' I added.

'How much?' he asked.

'I wouldn't like to say.' lather than take the Granada, which somebody might have spotted the night before, we drove the dark- blue Opel lekord in which the lads had come upcountry.

As far as our prisoner knew it belonged to Stew, but in fact it had come from the pool at Llangwern. We'd given Farrell a DPM smock to wear over his sweatshirt, and because the grass would be soaked with dew we all wore rubber boots. The Haskins was in the boot, cradled in bubble-wrap alongside our makeshift target, and I'd brought one belt of twelve rounds.

We pulled out of the stinking farmyard soon after five-thirty, and by six, after a twisting up-and-down drive across the hills, we were on the ridge above the- range. It was another dull, murky morning and the light was late in coming, but my intention was that we'd get our rounds off the moment we could see properly, and clear out before any locals came looking to find out what was causing the disturbance.

I planned to walk in down the muddy track which had defeated the Granada the afternoon before, and on the map we'd pinpointed the spot at which the path came up to join the road. As we arrived I did a drive- past, to make sure nobody was hanging about.

Half a mile down the road we found a single, enormous old beech tree standing out from the upper edge of the forest, and the moment I saw it I said, 'OK, if anything happens, that's our EtkV.' With that established, I went back and parked the car out of sight of the road, in the neck of the muddy lane.

The Haskins was an awkward bastard to carry. The easiest way seemed to be to grasp it near the muzzle and hold it with the barrel slung back over my shoulder and the rest of the weapon hanging behind me. So we set off down the steep hill, Tony cuffed to Farrell and holding the target in his spare hand.

Down among the trees in the valley the light was even worse than I'd expected, but it improved marginally as we came out on to the 700-yard firing point. As I looked up the long corridor of grass with my binoculars, I saw some small brown animal standing out in the open.

'What's that?' I asked, handing Tony the glasses.

He watched for a moment and said, 'Some kind of deer. Now there are two of them.'

'Can't be deer, surely.' I took the binos back.

'They're too small. Wait a minute, though. You're right. They're muntjac. Barking deer.'

Tony began asking what in hell a barking deer was when suddenly Farrell exclaimed, 'Shoot one of the fuckers!'

'Why?'

'It's a perfect target! Four hundred yards. If you can hit that it'll show the rifle's bang on. Get down, man!

Shoot!'

I almost agreed. Then my mind skipped back to an episode on an exercise in Africa, when one of our lads had shot some small animal and the local Bushmen had gone ballistic, saying he'd angered the spirits of the mountain. Next day an SAS guy fell off the rocks while climbing and was killed, and the whole troop got so badly spooked that we couldn't get our arses out of that place fast enough.

No, I thought. I'm not going to run a risk by killing something needlessly. In any case, if we shot one of the deer we'd have a body to dispose of. Luckily, before I could argue, both animals moved offinto cover and the chance was gone.

Farrell didn't hide his disappointment. 'You'd a great chance there,' he griped. 'You were too slow by far.'

Ignoring him, I asked Tony to take the target down range. 'In fact,' I added, peering at the butt in the far distance, 'in this light, our spotter scope's not going to be a lot of use. See if you can tuck yourselves into a niche that's safe, somewhere close to the target. Then call the shots back to me on the radio.'

'Sure,' Tony agreed, then turned to Farrell. 'Come on, Danny Boy.'

As the two figures moved away side by side, I followed in their wake as far as the next firing-point. At the edge of the sloped bank a little white-painted marker post had '600' cut into it.

I made myself comfortable. As I'd expected, the grass was wet, but I paid no attention as I settled the angular stock of the Haskins into my shoulder and looked through the sight. The heavy rifle sat rock-steady on its bipod, and the light-gathering capacity of the scope was excellent. Through the lens the prospect looked far brighter, and with the magnification set on six the men came up a good size in the scope. Wait though, I told myself, they're still only half-way to the target area. I moved the sight off Farrell's back and tried the trigger with a dry pull. Click! went the action, and once again it felt good.

Through my binos I watched the pair move up towards the target bank. In the trees around me the wood pigeons were cooing — a soft, heavy sound that suited the dull morning. Not a breath of breeze stirred the forest, so wind was not a factor. Poor light tends to make you shoot high, I remembered; on the other hand, moisture in the air tends to make the bullet drop.

So today, I guessed, one circumstance should cancel the other out, and I decided to fire right at the centre of the aiming mark.

Now the men were on the bank. I saw Tony looking round for something to steady the box. He must have found a flint or a clod of earth, because in a moment he had the target standing uptight.

His voice in my earpiece asked, 'See that OK, Geordie?'

'Fine, thanks.'

'OK. There's a kind of a cave cut into the side of the hill about thirty yards back. We'll get a great view from there. I'll tell you when we're in.'

'That's good. I'm ready when you are.'

The whole point of long-range shooting is to be relaxed. The worst thing, for a sniper, is to have to react suddenly to a command like 'Standby, standby… GO!'

Far better if he can take his own time and think himself into the right frame of mind. Now, with nothing to pressure me, I concentrated on lying tight, elbows and wrists tucked in, and settling my breathing down into a steady rhythm. My technique has always been to take the shot so gently that, when it goes off, it comes almost as a surprise.

When Tony called that he was in place, I acknowledged briefly. Then I loaded one massive round into the breech, breathed down again, took up the first pressure on the trigger, and at the end of an outbreath squeezed the shot off.

BOOM!

The noise was colossal, and the report thundered away into the wooded valley; but the recoil was less than I'd expected. Although the heavy weapon pumped back into my shoulder all right, the twin shock-absorber arms had taken the meat out of the jolt.

All at once the sky above the range was full of pigeons — black shapes going like the clappers in every direction. My ears were still tinging from the explosion, but I could tell that the chorus of cooing had come to an abrupt end.

'Great shot!' Tony was reporting. 'It's dead central, twelve o'clock, two inches above the top of the white.'

'OK,' I said, 'I'll try another. Same point of aim.'

I loaded a second round and went through the same sequenc tuck in, breathe down into a rhythm, try not to blink or flinch… take up first trigger pressure… breathe out…

BOOM!

'Same again,' came Tony's voice. 'Dead centre, two inches above your first shot. Perfect grouping.'

'I'm aiming at the centre of the white. So the MPI's six inches high. Is that right?'

'Exactly.'

'OK, then. I'm going to put the sight down three clicks and fire again. Standby.'

It took me a couple of minute to make the adjustment with the little turret on top of the scope: Then I told Tony I was ready, settled again and touched off a third round.

'Dead on,' he called. 'Now you're in the white, an inch below the top edge. You're not going to do better than that.'

I was on the point of saying we'd call it a day when

Tony came back on the air with, 'Watch it, Geordie.

Some goddamn vehicle's pulled up by that barrier. It's a Land lover. Two guys.'

Instinctively I collapsed the legs of the rifle to lower its profile, and wriggled backwards down the slope of the firing point. Then I realised that two empty cartridge cases were lying there in the grass. Leaving the weapon, I wormed forward again to grab them just in time to see two figures appear at the entrance we'd come to the previous day. They popped into view as if they'd been running, and looked wildly up and down the range. Then, spotting the target, they ran towards that.

'Tony,' I said, 'I'm going to fire a diversionary shot.

Then I'm heading for the vehicle. Get out of there when you see a chance. Make your own way up and R.V at the tree as soon as you can.'

'Poger,' he called.

I got my binos and the empty cases into the pockets of my smock, loaded a fourth round, moved into the bushes at the side of the grass, took a good grip of the rifle and fired it into the ground from a standing position. This time the recoil nearly blew me over backwards, but I kept on my feet, pushed through the cover to regain the path and started up the earth track.

For the first hundred yards or so I ran. Then lack of breath forced me down to a fast walk. Over the past few days [hadn't been able to do any training, and now the effects were coming through. What with the gradient and the weight of the rifle, I was soon gasping like a pair of bellows. All the same, I kept going fast to the crest of the hill, and when I reached the edge of the wood I paused to get my breath back.

As soon as I'd recovered I tried to call Tony, but got no answer. From the angle of the hill, I knew he must be out of my line-of-sight, and probably wouldn't come back on the net until he too had climbed out of the valley.

The Rekord was where we'd left it, with nobody in sight. In a couple of seconds I had the rifle rolled back into its protective wrapping and laid under an old blanket in the boot. I also pulled off my DPM smock and threw that in. Already I was thinking, Shit! I can't stay here now. Those guys in the Land Rover might power up to the ridge at any moment.

Rather than risk a confrontation, I started the engine and drove away northwards, back towards base. As long as nobody associated the car with the shots, it wouldn't attract attention. My plan was to turn round after a couple of minutes, make a reverse run past the big tree, and keep talking until Tony came back on the air.

But I'd only been going about thirty seconds when a police car appeared, travelling fast in the opposite direction,Even though the two guys in it hardly looked at me as they hurtled past, I didn't like the speed at which they were moving. It looked as though they were responding to a callout.

I drove on slowly, trying to read the local map as I went. Finding I couldn't see it properly, I pulled into a lay-by and took a steady look. That reassured me.

A car following the main road, as the police were, would have to go six or seven miles on a roundabout route before it could reach the rifle range. That would give Tony and Farrell at least ten minutes to get clear.

'Chill out,' I told myself. 'They'll makd it, no bother.'

I got out of the car and raised the bonnet as if I had engine problems. An old banger of a white pickup truck came from the south and went by without slowing. As the minutes passed I began to sweat. Calls on the radio produced no answer. What the hell could the other two be doing? The worst scenario was that they'd got captured. The idea was horrendous. IfFarrell fell into the hands of the police at this stage, our entire plan would be scuppered. I tried to put that possibility out of my head.

More likely, I told myself, they were stuck in the thicket above the range. During our recce the night before I'd noticed that there were few big trees on that side of the hill. It looked as though a fire or a storm had taken out the main crop, and all that was left was hawthorn, brambles and other scrub which had grown up in the vacuum. One man, crawling on hands and knees, could probably push his way along tunnels made by deer; but for two, cuffed to each other, progress would be a nightmare. I thought of the wait-a-while thorns which had torn us to pieces in the Colombian jungle, and of Farrell collapsing at the edge of the forest.

Ten minutes after seeing the police car, I turned round and made a run past the big tree, calling all the way on the radio. Nothing. Driving on, I found the road twisted downhill through another big wood, then emerged into open farmland as it dropped into a valley.

I followed it right down to a T-junction at the bottom, and there turned to come back.

Another drive-past, more calls. Still nothing.

Back at my lay-by, I pulled in again and called Whinger on the mobile.

'Bit of a fuck-up,' I went.

'Been compromised?'

'Yes and no.'

I told him what had happened. 'Anything doing your end?'

'All quiet in the shit-house, but things are moving outside.'

'How?'

'I don't know exactly. You'll have to ask Fraser. But apparently the PIRA are getting nervous. I don't know what they've seen, but they're starting to feel pressure coming on them. There's been some talk about moving the hostages.'

'Oh, God! I'll call the incident room. And listen…

Whinger?'

'Yes?'

'I'll be back there just as soon as Tony and Farre11 emerge from this fucking jungle.'

'OK, mate. We'll be waiting for you.'

I restarted, turned and headed south again. 'Hello,

Tony, hello, Tony, are you reading me? Over.'

Still nothing.

At the bottom of the hill I stopped and called the incident room. Fraser was off duty, but Yorky was there. 'Yes,' he confirmed. 'SB have got it down to three locations. One's a semi in Sudbury, next to Wembley. One's a block of flats in Greenford, and the third's a house in Ealing. They're all under round-the-clock surveillance, but we desperately need confirmation.'

'Can't we hit all three at once?'

'It's not on, Geordie. We're not certain of any of them. Until we are sure, it's not worth the risk. If it turned out we were wrong and the hostages were somewhere else, they'd certainly get topped.'

'What's this about the PIKA moving them?'

'It's only talk so far. Nothing's happened yet.'

'Where's our team now?'

'Still on standby in Hounslow Barracks. They couldn't be better placed — only a few rriinutes from all three locations.'

I took a deep breath and asked, 'What's the position on approval for the shoot?'

'Nothing confirmed yet.'

'Ah, shit!'

'How are you doing, Geordie?' Yorky sounded quite concerned, like some old uncle.

'Slight local difficulty. But basically, we've got the weapon and done the practice shoot. Once we're out of here, we're going ahead with the recce of the park itself.'

'You'd better carry on, then. As soon as we hear anything, we'll pass it to your safe house.'

'Roger, Yorky… and thanks.'

I was about to switch off when I heard him say, 'Hello?'

'Yes?'

'The Commander's just come back in. I'll put him on.'

I waited a moment, then heard Fraser's cheerful voice. 'Geordie? How's it going?'

'So so.' I filled him in on what I'd told Yorky, and got back the same stuff about the three locations. But then Fraser added, 'From what we're hearing, the PI1LA aren't very happy with your man.'

'Don't they want him back, then?'

'Oh yes, they want him all tight. But now their aim is to top him.'

'Delightful!'

'It is,' Fraser agreed. 'Does he realise that?'

'He knows he's in the shit. But he's that arrogant, he probably thinks he can talk his way out of it. At least, that's how we read him.'

I switched off feeling very low. This thing seemed never-ending. It had dragged on so long already that I couldn't imagine it coming to any definite conclusion.

I tried to galvanise myself with the thought that it was going to have to come to a conclusion within twenty- four hours — by this time tomorrow. Either the shoot would go down as the Prime Minister walked out into his rose garden before breakfast, or the PIRA's patience would run out.

Yet again I turned, drove up the hill and past the big tree. No answer on the radio. It could still be that the curve of the hill was blocking us, even if Tony had climbed clear of the range and was struggling up through the scrub. He, if anyone, would get Farrell out of the mess safely. I trusted Tony at least as much as I trusted any of my British mates, not only for his physical strength and capability, but for his levelheadedness.

Back at the lay-by, I pulled in for the third time and sat looking at the map. I'd just tried the radio yet again when I looked in the mirror and saw a car coming up from behind.

Police. Pulling in behind me, too. Jesus! I sat tight, watching, while the two men got out and advanced on the lekord. I just had time to scramble the earpiece and throat-mike out of sight before they drew level.

I wound down the window and said, 'Good morning.'

They “returned the greeting civilly enough, but immediately began to ask questions. The boss figure was a sergeant — beefy, red-faced, with a big belly, like a rugger player gone to seed.

'Can I ask what you're doing here?'

'On my way up to Great Missenden. Had a bit of time in hand.'

'You came the other way just now.'

'That's fight. I was delivering a parcel.'

'Where to?'

'An address in Stonor.'

'Do much delivering, do you?'

I was uncomfortably aware that the second copper was walking round behind the car, giving it the close eyeball. Probably they thought I was a poacher, and had a deer in the back. Probably they were scanning for traces of blood.

'Look,' I said. 'What's the matter?'

'Nothing,' went the sergeant. 'May I have a look in the boot of your car?'

I got out and faced the guy, to find that he was a couple of inches taller than me. 'You'd much better not,' I said.

'What's in there, then?'

'Nothing to do with you.'

'We haven't been poaching, have we?'

'Certainly not.'

'So why all the secrecy?'

'I can't explain.'

The radio in the sergeant's breast pocket began honking off, and he was distracted for a moment as he dealt with the call. What could I do? It was possible that the police in the Chequers area had already been squared away and told to stand off, but the guys down here would know nothing about our operation. If I did a runner I'd be chased, and the car would be traced, and Tony would be stranded. If I refused to open up, I might be arrested for obstructing the police.

Before I could take a decision the sergeant said, 'I'm afraid I require you to open the boot.'

'Listen…' I stood between him and the back of the car. 'I'm a member of special forces, on a classified operation. Will you please get on the phone to my control room?'

Without answering, the sergeant lumbered forward and jabbed his thumb on the boot catch. Short of knocking him out of the way, there was nothing I could do to stop him. Up came the lid. With the movement of the car through the bends, the rifle had rolled over once, partially unwrapping itself, and the barrel lay there plain to see.

'What the hell…?' began the sergeant. His beefy face suddenly turned even redder as a surge of adrenalin flushed up through him until I thought he was on for vertical take-off, leaching down, he pulled away the bubble-wrap and exposed the main body of the weapon. 'What the devil is this?'

'It's a Haskins five-oh sniper rifle,' I told him in the most casual voice I could muster.

A second later I saw him reaching for his radio in a kind of automatic twitch.

'NO!' I said sharply. 'Don't put through any.report.

Not until you've spoken to my control. Here.'

I pulled out my mobile, dialled the incident room, and providentially got straight through to Fraser. 'John,'

I said. 'Geordie. I have a problem. I'm with a police sergeant. He's seen I've got a big rifle in my possession, and I need you to explain what we're at.'

'All right.' Fraser sounded imperturbable as ever.

'Where are you?'

'Out in the Chilterns, above the range I told you about.'

'Has he caught you. with the weapon?'

'Yes.'

'OK, I'll speak to him.'

I handed the phone over and stood back, watching the sergeant's face go through every conceivable expression: shock, incredulity, alarm, bewilderment. It took several minutes, but I could tell Fraser was winning the battle, because after a while the sergeant began giving details of his own head of station, along with the telephone number. In the end he said, 'Very good, sir,' and handed the phone back 1;o me.

'Is he going to speak to your boss?' I asked.

'That's right.'

'Great. I'm sure they'll sort it out between them.'

The sergeant looked shattered. 'Never heard anything like it,' he went. 'Never seen a weapon like that out here. Buggered if I have.'

'You live and learn.'

I didn't know what Fraser had told him, and I wasn't going to ask; but now that our practice shoot was partially blown, I reckoned I might as well resuscitate my covert radio.

'I got separated from a colleague,' I explained. 'I'll just see if I can raise him.'

This time the first call produced an answer.

'We're on the RV,' Tony confirmed.

'Has anyone seen or followed you?'

'No.'

'Standby, then. I'll collect you in a few minutes.'

A moment later the sergeant's radio came to life again, and he got a stream of instructions to thin out.

From the way he kept repeating, 'Yes sir, no sir, very good sir,' I knew it must be his boss. At the end he said to me, 'Well, that's it. I'm to leave you alone.'

'Thanks,' I said. 'And you won't talk about this, either?'

I made it sound like a question, but it was more or less an order — and when he said, 'no' he almost added 'sir' again.

'Cheers, then.' Without more ado I closed the boot, got back in the car, swung round and set off for the ERV.

Not knowing quite what the plods had heard, I didn't want them to see Tony come out of the undergrowth with Farrell cuffed to him, so I went back down the road at a fair bat and scorched to a halt under the big tree. Almost at once Tony emerged from the bushes behind it. Even though I was expecting him, he gave me quite a shock, because his face was covered in blood, with sweat-streaks coming down through it.

Farrell's was the same.

'Get in, get in!' I snapped, holding a back door open.

Then, when we were rolling, I asked, 'What happened?'

'Goddamn thorns!' Tony exclaimed. 'We're to bits by the bastards. We got bushed in that thicket.

Jesus Christ — I never knew you had.jungle like that over here.'

Back at the shit-house, it took us a good hour to sort ourselves out and get some breakfast down our necks.

After they'd had showers, Tony and Farrell didn't look too bad. Their faces were scratched, but only superficially, as if they'd been caught on the job by their girlfriends. As I'd anticipated, they'd had a miserable time forcing their way uphill along animal tunnels under hawthorn bushes and through brambles, while the gamekeepers, decoyed by my distraction shot, charged around in the valley below.

As if to confirm my earlier suspicions, Tony told me that Farrell had gone over the moon about the rifle. When he had seen the bullet holes opening up in the white he'nearly pissed himself with delight. Tll tell you one thing,' Tony added. 'Boy, do those rounds make a racket! It's a supersonic crack like nothing on earth. If the Prime Minister gets one of them go close past him he's going to jump a mile.'

'No he isn't,' I said. 'He's going to drop down like a sack of potatoes.'

As soon as I'd got myself together, I called the incident room again.

'I hear you've been advertising, your presence throughout the Home Counties,' said Yorky.

'Bollocks,' I told him. 'We couldn't help it. We did land up in a tight corner, though.'

'Not to worry. The Commander's got it sorted. And you've got your permission.'

'What? For the shoot?'

'Yes. A secure fax from Number Ten came in a few minutes ago.'

Jesus!'

'The Prime Minister has OK'd it. In fact, he's definitely in favour.'

'He must have balls, then.'

'He has. But he's been listening to what Special Branch had to say. They advised him that he's in a dangerously vulnerable position. The threat from the PItLA has intensified, and they can't guarantee to contain it. In other words, they were saying there's a good chance he's going to get bloody shot sooner or later. This operation you've hatched is seen as the best means of defusing the situation.'

'Got it.'

'By gum, you'd better get yourself sorted,' Yorky went on. 'If this goes wrong, it could bring the government down.'

The PM's reaction was what I'd been expecting- what I'd been wanting, really: anything to get me out of this mess. But when the go-ahead finally came through it was a shock all the same.

Yorky hadn't finished. 'So — you're on. But you still may be saved the trouble. The SP team are going ahead with plans to assault the hostage location, just as soon as we've got it pinpointed.'

'What's the latest on that?'

'I'll hand you over to the Commander. He'll fill you in.'

'Geordie?' It was Fraser.

'Hello.'

'I got your local copper straightened out.'

'Thanks. Sorry to come at you out of the blue like that.'

'Don't worry. You shouldn't get any more hassle from the law. Now, listen. As for the hostages: we're concentrating on our second alternative. The flat. It's number fifty-seven Cumberland House, on the fifth floor of a block in

Ellerton Road

, Greenford.'

'Oh, God! You think they're there?'

'There's a good chance. It's a two-bedroomed flat Quite an old block, built in the sixties. Your guys are going to do an outside recce, and meanwhile we're trying to trace the owners of the apartment. Also, we need to get the original architect's plans, so that we know the exact internal layout. The trouble is, the flats aren't standardised — quite a lot of variation from one to another. One minute…'

He paused, as if he was looking through his notes, and then continued: 'Various owners have carried out alterations, as well. The firm that designed the block has been taken over, but we're hoping to find the plans with their successors. Also, we're hoping to occupy number fifty-eight next door, to do a bit of through- the-wall surveillance.'

All at once I felt choked, and couldn't speak. The fact that so many people, all highly skilled, were working away on my behalf, doing their utmost to save Tim and

Tracy… Suddenly it seemed too much.

'Geordie? Are you there?'

I got hold of myself and said, 'Yep.'

'Take it easy, lad. You'll be all fight. Call again when you're back.'

'Will do.'

'Here's Yorky again.'

'OK.'

'What are your plans now, Geordie?'

'Tony and I are offto recce the park. I don't trust the PIRA measurements and details. I need to see for myself.'

'Fair enough. But as soon as you get back, we need a detailed breakdown of your projected movements and timings. OK?'

'Sure.'

Farrell had predictably tried to muscle in on the recce, but I told him there was no way Tony and I would take him with us. 'Walk around the park of the Prime Minister's official country residence with you cuffed to one of us?' I had said. 'Pull the other one. You'd be back in the nick within minutes — and we'd be there with you. You're not walking round on your own, either.'

A few minutes' drive northward through the lanes had brought us within reach of Chequers. It was now 2.30 pm. The day had heated up a good deal but the sky remained overcast, and the air was muggy. I was still high on adrenalin, feeling tense and brittle, both exhausted and hyper-alert at the same time. I'd deliberately left behind the PIRA notes and instructions, but I carried them word-for-word in my mind.

Once again, in an attempt to clear my head, I was bouncing theories off Tony. 'If Fraser's squared things away properly with the local cops, I presume he's done the same with the security force at the house,' I said. 'So we shouldn't get any aggro, either today or tomorrow morning.

'I guess not,' Tony agreed. 'But presumably normal security will be operating. If the home troops see anybody acting suspiciously, they'll challenge them. I mean, they may see us walking round, but they won't know who we are.'

'That's right. We could be a couple of PIRA dickers.

But we've got to get a good look at the place. Good enough to be able to convince Farrell that we've done a proper recce.'

'Sure. Take it easy now. Only a mile to go.'

We were driving northwards along the bottom of a broad valley, farmland rising on either slope, and woods high above us to right and left. I slowed down, and a moment later To-ny pointed right, saying, 'Dirtywood Farm. Hell of a name for a house. In a minute we'll see the lodge and the park gates of Chequers right in front of US. '

There it was. The lodge turned out to be a substantial building made of brick, with pillars supporting wrought iron gates. Beyond the formal entrance the drive ran straight along an avenue of trees towards the main house, which was visible in the distance. Here the main road swung hard right, and we followed it round to the east. Three or four hundred yards on we came to another sharp bend, a left-hander this time, with a rough parking-place on the outside of it. A couple of cars were already standing there, at the point where a long-distance footpath crossed the road. Obviously it was a favourite take-offpoint for walkers setting out on a hike.

I pulled in on to the sandy verge. 'This'll do,' I said.

'We can tab it from here.'

We'd dressed as casually as possible, in check shirts and jeans, to make ourselves look like run-ofthe-mill hikers. Our binos could be just a sign of our interest in birds.

There were already a couple of other people ahead of us on the footpath, so we set off after them, through an iron kissing-gate and across a big open field of young corn. Now we were heading west, back towards the drive and the entrance lodge, with the.house sitting in its shallow valley away to our right. Immediately features began to chime in with the PIIA descriptions I'd committed to memory: the back drive coming in to the house at right angles from our right, the clumps of trees, the memorial obelisk high on a hill in the distance.

Soon we came to the avenue and the main drive.

'One camera here,' said Tony quietly.

'Got it.'

A closed-circuit camera, flanked by an infrared light, was mounted on a pole so that it could scan the outer stretch of the approach road which lay in dead ground from the house. Without looking at it overtly, we gave it a quick inspection as we went past. Then, carrying on across the drive and up the gentle slope beyond, we followed the footpath to the corner of Maple Wood.

'Point D,' we both said simultaneously.

Whoever the PIRA scout had been, he was obviously right. This was the place from which to take the shot. By now we had gained a bit of height, so that we were looking down across a wide-open field towards the south front of the house. At our back was a dense beech wood — immediate cover if we needed to disappear. Our binos could pick up any amount of detail around the house itself.” a brick wall across the front of the terrace; a little brick summerhouse with a pointed roof at each corner; low, neatly-clipped box hedges, rose beds, a big, ugly conservatory to the left, and behind it all the tall, stately building of soft red brick, with mullioned windows, high chimneys, and numerous sharply-peaked gables.

But it wasn't the architecture that grabbed our attention.

'There's a camera on a post just to the left of those two little trees,' said Tony.

'Got it. And another alongside the wall, mounted on a pole. Go further left, and you'll see three more.'

'I have them. There's also an electronic device of some kind on the third pillar along from the summerhouse. It could be a microwave, covering the walls. '

'That summerhouse,' I said. 'Go to the bottom left- hand corner of the window. There's some other device there. That looks like a microwave as well. I bet it's pushing out across-this field to pick up any movement.

Jesus! They've got the place really sewn up. You couldn't get much closer than this without being detected.'

'They must have a massive array of TV monitors somewhere,' Tony said. 'Banks of them in a control room, and a large number of guys keeping an eye on them. Watch yourself, Geordie. There's someone in an upstairs window.'

'Where?'

'See the main door? Go up to the top floor and fight.

There — the curtains moved again.'

'OK. Probably a cleaner.'

I looked to my left and saw a young couple walking towards us along the footpath. I wanted to stay where we were for a bit longer, so I sat down on the grass, took offmy right boot, and pretended to feel inside it for an offending nail until the hikers had passed.

As I retied the laces, I said, 'Even first thing in the morning there are liable to be people coming past here.

We can't hang around in the open waiting to do the shoot.'

'Lie up in back there, maybe,' said Tony, pointing into the wood.

'Yep. That's the answer. Then come down into the open at the last moment.'

Under the old beeches the forest floor was fairly clear. There were straggling elder and hfizel bushes and patches of bramble, but plenty of open spaces between- them.

'We'd have better elevation from up one of the trees,' I said.

'Yeah, but with that rifle you need the bipod on the ground. If there was the slightest movement in the branches you'd be all over the place. What's the range?'

'What they told us — six hundred. I'd say that's spot on… I've just noticed something else as well.'

'Oh yeah?'

'Those evergreen shrubs — the clipped ones on the terrace. What I'll do is put the bullet into one of them.

If we hit one of the walls, shit and corruption would fly in all directions. But that bush of box — or whatever it is — will conceal the strike. From this range, nobody will be able to see the real point of impact.'

'Good thinking. And here's something else.' Tony pointed at some muddy, well-rolled wheel-marks which passed close in front of us, following the edge of the wood and parallel to the footpath. 'There's a regular vehicle patrol along here. Another reason to keep back in cover.'

As we walked on, Tony said, 'Know what? Anybody who can shoot a rifle could take out the Prime Minister from here. People talk about the special skills you'd need, blah, blah, blah — it's all baloney. Just lie down and fire one careful shot.'

'OK,' I agreed. 'But number one: you'd need a special weapon. Number two: you'd need to know when the target's going to be around. Number three: you'd need a means of getting out — unless it's a kamikaze mission. And number four: you've got to be fanatical enough, or crazy enough, to want to do it in the first place. It's just unfortunate the PIP, A's organised in all departments.'

Our next focal point was at grid reference 834055, the spot at which the PIRA had told the incoming helicopter to land for the pick-up. Again we confirmed it as a good choice because it was in a different field, behind another wood, out of sight of the house, and could be approached by a chopper coming low out of dead ground to the west, where the land fell away in a succession of steep valleys.

Back on the main path we carried on our clockwise circuit, swinging right-handed through a belt of trees and across the track beaten down by the vehicle patrol.

On either side of the official footpath were frequent notices, white on green, saying PRIVATE — KEEP OUT, shutting off side-tracks and blocks of woodland. For a while we respected them, but when we saw the mast of what was obviously a small re-broadcasting station on the bare summit of a hill, we let curiosity get the better of us. Our instinct, in any case, was to check out all the high ground near the house in the hope we could find a better vantage-point for the shoot — but a rebro station: that definitely needed investigation.

Having climbed a barbed-wire fence, we scrambled up some steep, sheep-mown turf alongside a stand of box and emerged on to a rounded summit, to find that the relay station was dug well into the ground. A flight of concrete steps led down to a steel door in a brick surround, and the short mast was anchored by guy- wires.

'This must be part of the security set-up,' I said. 'It'll be a booster station, giving radios a wider coverage.'

Closer to the house, maybe a hundred yards away, was another small summit on which young trees had been planted within a ring offence.

We'd just come up to it, and found that the view of the terrace was blocked from that angle, when Tony snapped, 'Keep down!'

I ducked instinctively. 'What is it?'

'A Land R.over Discovery heading this way on that track outside the wood, where we've just come from.

Looks like the cops. Let's get out of here.'

We quickly backed off the skyline and slithered down the steep turf. We were half-way down the edge of the box thicket when the Land Rover came back into sight, heading straight for us. Without a word we both plunged backwards into the tightly-packed stems.

Luckily for us, box has no thorns, but the intense dark- green smell of the leaves made me think of churchyards and tombstones. A couple of yards inside the thicket we were completely hidden, and we heard the vehicle come grinding uphill in low gear. Assuming the guys on board had seen us from a distance and had come out to chase us off, we lay low where we were for ten minutes or so. Then, from above us, came noises of men at work: hammering, and an electric drill screaming, as if some kind of maintenance was in progress.

We wriggled our way back into the open and slipped downhill to rejoin the footpath. 'Better stop messing about,' I said. 'There's nothing for us round this side.

Point D's the place.'.

Our next task was to recce the drop-off point that we'd already selected on the map, and to walk the route in that we'd use in the morning. That meant back tracking round our circuit and returning to the car. On the way, we could see the Discovery still at the rebro station, and the figures of a couple of workmen on the skyline.

As we passed Point D, we lingered once again to get the feel of the position. I brought out my compass and took a quick bearing on the centre of the house: 11 mils.

'What if the worst occurs and there's pea-soup fog?'

I said.

'Might not be the worst,' Tony replied. 'Might be the best. You'd have a cast-iron excuse for not carrying out the shoot, and your own guys would have that much more time to find the PIRA hide-out and hit it.'

'Yes, but the bastards might go ahead with their threat.'

Tony looked steadily at me, as if to say, 'They won't.' Then he studied the map again and said, 'Know what? Right now-, we'd do better to hike from here to the drop-offpoint and then walk back in, rather than go round by car.'

'All right. We'd better keep inside the wood, though. We don't want to walk up the field and get spotted by any more damned gamekeepers.'

Instead of heading back eastwards across the park and the main drive, we cut away to the west, along the southern edge of Maple Wood. Outside the trees, on our left, a long, narrow field ran up between the blocks of forest, and towards the far side of it stood Brockwell Farm.

'That's where our QI

At the head of the field we came across a well-used bridleway running through the wood across our front, and we turned left along it, heading gently down a shoulder. Just after we'd joined the path two fair-haired teenage girls came cantering uphill on glossy ponies, and the leader shouted 'Thanks!' as we stood out of the way to let them pass. How happy they looked, I thought, how healthy, how normal, fhow carefree. What a difference between them — an ordinary, harmless part of the country scene — and ourselves, creeping furtively about with our minds full of death and deception.

The sight of them nearly choked me again, and I knew my mental reserves were runnin.g down. When Tony said, 'Nice piece of ass, that first one,' all I could do was give him a sickly grin.

Fifteen minutes' steady tab brought us to the point where the track ran out on to a metalled lane, and there we found a muddy lay-by, big enough for a car to pull off the road, the spot conveniently marked by a sign of a rider on horseback.

'This is it, then,' I said. 'We drive in to here. Quick drop off, Doughnut carries on northwards. We walk in.

No problem.'

Our return journey took almost exactly the same time: fifteen and a half minutes to Point D. Given that in the morning one of us would be carrying the Haskins and the other would have Farrell hitched to him, I reckoned we should allow twenty minutes to get ourselves into position.

Back on the corner of Maple Wood, we took one more scan with the binos across the park to the house.

Now there were a couple of men working in the terrace garden. Although the top of the retaining wall obscured their legs from the knees down, the upper parts of their bodies were in full view. With the brilliant green of the young corn, the trees in full leaf and the mellow brickwork of the old building, the scene looked as peaceful as could be.

'It just shows how much tourists miss,' I said with a touch of bitterness. 'Thousands of them must walk along this path every year. They come and gawp at the place and think how beautiful it all is. But they only see the surface, and they haven't the first fucking clue about what's going on underneath.'

At 1700 I walked out of the shit-house and round the back of the farm to call Fraser on the mobile.

His first words were, 'We've taken possession of number fifty-eight Cumberland House.'

'Oh — great! Any luck?'

'Yes. We've got echo-phones on the walls, and we can hear next door fairly well. They've got the telly on a lot of the time, probably to mask voices, but we're listening. SO19 will be there any minute now with a drill. We're going to bore through the party wall and see if we can get a fibre-optic probe in place.'

He paused, then said, 'That's the good news. The bad is that the PII: kA have put in another death threat.

The final one, they call it.'

I said nothing, waiting in dread for him to go on.

'If the shoot on the Prime Minister doesn't go through, or if the Prime Minister escapes, they say they'll kill the hostages at nine tomorrow morning.'

'Oh, Jesus! Can't you hit them before that?'

'We're trying to, of course. But as things stand we're not hopeful of going in before ten, at the earliest.'

'In that case, it's just as well we've got this mock shoot lined up. Can you put me on to Yorky, please?'

'With pleasure.'

A moment later Yorky came on, and I said, 'Listen, this is what I've fixed with Farrell.'

'Fire away.'

'Our sniper party will be dropped off at 0530. The drop-offpoint's at 838045, where the bridleway leaves the lane. We'll proceed on foot to the PIPe's Point D, 839052. I estimate the walk in will take twenty minutes.

So we'll be in position before 0600. We'll conceal ourselves in the wood and wait for the PM to appear, presumably any time after six-thirty.'

'Roger,' said Yorky. He was obviously looking at the 1:25,000 map, because he said, 'Which side of that narrow field will you go down?'

'North side,' I told him.

'OK. Part of our QRF will be in that farm — Brockwell Farm. They'll probably see you go by. Just so they know what to expect, how many 6fyou will there be?'

'Four. Myself with the rifle, Tony with Farrell, and Whinger for back-up.

Doughnut's going to drive the

Granada, and Stew will bring the Rekord in later.'

'OK. And what about after the shoot?'

'If the target goes down, Farrell will use my mobile to phone through the authorisation for the hostages to be released. He guarantees they'll be driven to our final lkV point, on the M25 between Junctions fourteen and fifteen.'

'That was where you had the aborted R.V the other day, wasn't it?'

'Yep, but that was northbound. This one's heading south. The first emergency phone past Junction fifteen.'

'Trust those bastards to hold it somewhere we can't have a chopper overhead.'

'I know. But we'll make sure Farrell's wearing his magic shoes. Also, as soon as the handover's been done I can put the make and number of the PllkA vehicle out over the radio.'

'OK. Go back a bit, though. How do you get out of the park at Chequers?'

'The chopper's laid on to be standing by from 0630.

The idea is that the pilot will put down somewhere out of sight a mile or so to the west. The moment Farrell calls him, he'll come straight in to pick us up from 834055. That's in a field west of Whorley Wood.'

'Got it. Looks as if it's out of sight of the house.'

'It is.'

'Then what?'

'We fly south for two or three minutes, then west, and put down in a field, just east of Junction Six on the M40. Doughnut will be waiting there with the Granada. We pile into that, and away towards London.

Off at the next exit, number five, where Stew's waiting with the lkekord. Switch into that, and on to the M25.'

'R.ight, right. Got all that. I'll go back through it with you.' Yorky ticked offthe points, one by one, then said, 'What if there are more PIRA on board the aircraft?

What if they try something funny?'

'They can't. A Jet-Ranger can only take four passengers. There'll be me, Farrell, Tony and Whinger.

That's it. Anyway, we'll all have pistols and knives.'

'All right.' Yorky paused. 'Now — d'you want to hear my side of it?'

'Of course.'

'So. We've established a forward control room in Chequers itself. I'm heading up there myself in half an hour, to direct operations from now on.'

'Great!' I said. 'That's really good.'

'We're putting a comms centre into the house as well. Did you see the rebro station on the hill to the west of the house?'

'Yeah, we went up and had a look at it.'

'Our signallers stuck up an auxiliary mast this afternoon. That'll give us secure comms over the whole area.'

'Wait a minute!' Suddenly I had twigged the identity of the vehicle which gave us such a fright. 'Was that them in a police Land Rover? About four o'clock?'

'Sounds like it.'

'Christ! They scared the shit out of us. We were up there when they started heading for the site.'

'That was your bloody fault, for pissing about. The net's up and running, anyway. The signallers have stayed put, and we're bringing up a team of medics. The Qt

Black Two and Black Three — in that order. Got that?'

'Sure.'

'You'll be Green One, the Granada Green Two, the R-ekord Green Three. Our local head-shed will be Zero Charlie. Got all that?'

'Yeah, yeah. I'm making notes. It sounds as if half the Regiment's getting seconded to this operation.'

'It is. And of course we're liaising with the Prime Minister's own close protection squad. So you'd better not drop a bollock, Geordie.'

'No way. I'm going to play it straight down the line.

I take it the Prime Minister's been briefed on the shoot itself?'

'Absolutely.'

'You'd better warn him about the noise. According to Tony, the sound of a five-oh round going past is like the crack of fucking doom.'

'OK. I'll see he's told that. Now… what's the time?

I should be up there for half-eleven. D'you want to call me again then for an update?'

'Sure. What's the number?'

Yorky gave it, and I rang off feeling relieved that at least the situation in the country would be well contained. As for London — I could only hope. I kept saying to myself, 'Find them! Find them!'

The whole evening seemed to consist of briefing sessions. No sooner had I finished with Yorky than I had to run through everything again with Farrell. Of course, many of the points were the same — our drop-off, walk in, and selection of firing position and I had to be careful not to say anything that would betray the fact I'd just been in touch with the security forces.

'Let's get things straight,' I said. 'If the shoot goes down, you'll use my phone to give the codeword for releasing the hostages. Right?'

'I will.'

'What is the codeword?'

'You'll hear soon enough.'

'So we make for the helicopter pick-up point.'

'We do.'

'And the chopper lands us here, by junction six on the M40.'

'Agreed,' said Farrell. 'He's going to fly south first and disappear through the valleys, to confuse anyone who might see us-take off. Then he'll turn east and head for the motorway.'

'Fair enough. Then, at the pick-up point, Doughnut's waiting with the Granada. By the way, you'll need to put your spare kit into the car before we start in the morning: dry socks and shoes and so on. Wear wellies for the shoot. The grass'll be full of dew. Keep the trainers for later… As I say, Doughnut collects us and drives us to the next exit. Stew's there with the lekord.

We switch cars and carry on to the final tkV on the M25.'

'Correct.'

'What about the rifle?' I asked. 'What d'you want done with that?'

'Jaysus, man. That's coming with me. I wouldn't be leaving such an asset behind, would I?'

'OK. You take it. And the spare ammunition. Next, how do fie correlate timings? I mean, where will your lot be coming from?'

'They've a shorter distance to travel than we have,' said Farrell cryptically. 'Once we're on the road, we'll call them to set a time.'

'Well…' I pretended to measure distances on the map, although I'd thought them through already.

'They'll have to shift, because it won't take us long.

From our pick-up point to the motorway interchange is only twenty miles. Say twenty minutes if we take it easy, twenty-five including the switch from one car to the other. But when we hit the M25 it may be a different matter.'

'What d'you mean?'

'It's going to be the rush-hour. Any time between about seven and nine-thirty the motorway can seize solid along that section.'

'It's no problem. We'll be in touch with the boyos on the mobiles. If we get late, we'll tell them to hold back a bit.'

'All right,' I said, 'but this time I don't want any fuck-up at the RV.'

'And neither do I. I'm wanting out, I tell you. I've had enough of being chained to some stinking turd of a Brit or a Yank day and night.'

'It's OK for you.' I glared at him, deliberately not rising to the insult. 'If anything goes wrong, the worst that can happen to you is that you land back in the nick.

For me, it's a matter of life and death.'

'Come on, now. Nobody's threatening you.'

'Not me, but they're threatening my family. What's going to happen if we can't carry out the shoot for any reason? What if the Prime Minister doesn't appear?'

'He'll appear,' said Farrell heavily. 'He's always at his filthy roses.'

'He might not come out tomorrow. He might feel under the weather or something. He might just be late.

How long do we wait, for God's sake? If it gets to midmorning and we haven't seen him…'

'So what?' said Farrell calmly.

'There'll be people about by then. Hikers all over the place, coming along that footpath. We saw quite a few today.'

'They'll not bother us. We'll keep back inside the wood until the right moment, so we will.'

'And the chopper. What about him? He can't sit around half the day in somebody's field.'

'I can always call him up and tell him to pull offuntil

I give him a new deadline. Ach, don't bother yourself.

We'll be away and gone by seven o'clock, I'm certain of it.'

Farrell sounded confident enough, but I could sense that under his veneer of calm he was nearly as tense as I was. Thank God, he seemed to have no inkling that a huge net was being spread to capture him and the leading lights of the London ASU.

At least, so I thought, until he started talking again.

'And yourself, now. What are you going to do if you get your people back?'

'Collapse with relief, I should think.'

'Yes, but on the ground — in the flesh, I mean.'

'Drive home, I suppose. I've hardly dared think about it yet.'

'Yes, but your unit…'

'The Regiment? What about them?'

'How will you account for the hostages being let go?'

'I won't know anything about the reason. I'll only know there's been a phone call telling me to get to the

'How will the Legiment contact you to pass on the details?'

'They've got my mobile number.'

'Where do they think you are now?'

'They don't know. I could be anywhere. I'm on leave — they haven't been in touch for days.'

Farrell gave a non-committal grunt. 'And afterwards?'

'As long as your chopper pilot performs properly, we'll make a clean getaway. The murder will be put down to the PIRA, and that'll be that. There'll be nothing to connect it with me. After all, I don't happen to own a five-oh rifle.'

'This house, though… and the other one.'

'We took them in false names, and paid cash.'

'The cars?'

'We changed the plates for the duration of the exercise.'

'All right, so you've done well.'

For the first time in my life I saw Farrell smile. But when he put in a final check-call to one of his mobile numbers, the temperature fell sharply once more.

'They're suspicious,' he said, holding his palm over the receiver. 'They think you're acting in concert with the security forces, and with the military.'

'Ah, bollocks!' I went. 'If the legiment knew what I'm doing, they'd kill me. I've told you, these guys are just friends. Let me speak to him.'

I reached for the phone, but Farrell lifted it back to his ear. 'Sharp wants to talk to you… No? Fair enough.' He covered the mouthpiece again and said, 'He'll speak to another one. Not yourself'

'All right, then. Tony. You talk to him.'

'Not Tony,' Farrell snapped. 'They know about the Yank.'

'Doughnut, then,' I said. 'For fuck's sake, tell him what you do.'

Doughnut was brilliant, very cool and laconic. He'd been waiting for this. 'Yeah, yeah,' he went. 'BGing. Yeah. Bodyguarding… An Arab sheikh… No, I'm not allowed to say which… Only when he's in London… Now? He's in South Africa, on holiday.

That lets me out… He comes here on business, but that's in quotes. It's really to procure women. Bloody amazing they are, too: Zanzibar, Morocco — you name it, he has them…' On he went, mainly about the colossal amounts of money the Arabs threw around.

When he said that the sheikh had twenty-four cars including three lollers and a pre-war Lagonda — in his London garage, the guy on the other end capitulated.

'There you are,' I said to Farrell. 'What did I tell you?

Now, for God's sake, let's all go to bed.'