Zero Option

FIFTEEN

When Doughnut shook my shoulder and brought me a mug of tea at 0500, I couldn't believe I'd ever been asleep. I seemed to have been twisting back and forth all night in spasms of anxiety about things that might go wrong. The worst was that the PIlk would take fright and murder the hostages prematurely; the next worst, that the Prime Minister would get killed by mistake; the third worst — but still unfaceable — was that we'd go through “the whole charade, and then for some reason the lV would fail once more.

I had learned that at 58 Cumberland House specialist technicians from SO19 had completed one penetration of the party wall and successfully introduced a fibre- optic probe into the flat next door. They'd gone through the wall low down — so that there would be less risk of plaster-crumbs making a noise tumbling to the floor when the tip of the drill emerged — and by sheer bad luck it had come out behind a piece of furniture, a sideboard or a free-standing cupboard, moved there since the owner of the apartment had gone abroad. The result was that we still had no positive identification, sO the technicians had begun drilling all over again.

This I'd been told by Yorky, when I had last spoken to him just after midnight. By then he was established in the new control centre, designated Zero Charlie, inside Chequers itself, and sounding well in command of the situation.

After that, with Farrell out of the way in the bedroom, we'd held one last briefing session in the kitchen, squaring away final details: we'd run through: everybody's roles, verified map references and timings cleaned our pistols, checked magazines and made sure that our radios and mobile phones had fully-charged batteries. 'During the shoot,' I told the lads, 'the overriding factor we've got to bear in mind is this: we know we're going to be acting out a charade, but to Farrell every detail has got to seem credible.'

'Eventually, at half-one, we'd gone to get our heads down — but I, for one, couldn't drop off. Every minute that had gone by I was hoping for a call from Yorky to say that the assault on the flat had gone in, the hostages had been safely recovered, and we could stand down our, whole crazy plan. The Greenford operation, I knew, had been named 'Fruit Salad', and the codeword for a successful recovery was 'Bananas'. That would mean both Tim and Tracy were safe.

For hour after hour — or so it seemed — I had lain there thinking of a man patiently drilling through the wall of a room using an old-fashioned bit-and-brace, giving it just half a turn at a time, to make certain no sound would be heard in the flat next door. The process I had envisaged was agonizingly slow — half a turn …. wait… half a turn… wait — the wire-thin bit going in a millimetre or two at a time, the microphones listening all the time for reaction on the far side…

All night I had lain hoping that the three magic syllables — ba-na-nas — would bring our maneuvering to an abrupt end. If that happened, we'd drive Farrell straight to the back door of Chequers, hand him over to the resident security force, and call Doughnut and Stew back to base. The only faint amusement I had got was from the thought of the PIFLA helicopter pilot, sitting in some farmer's field at 0600, waiting endlessly for instructions that would never come. Farrell had let on that the operator of the Jet-P,anger they'd hired had charged them 5,000 pounds in cash, paid in advance, for the morning's run. It was c/ear that the man had realised they were up to no good, because the price was exorbitant.

But since the money probably came from Libya in the first place, 1 couldn't care less.

Now we had a bare half-hour in which to prepare for take-off. I had a wash, got a bowl of raw porridge and milk down my neck, drank a second cup of tea and sorted my kit. Stew was in charge of Farrell at that stage, and when the brute began erring and blinding about being hassled I yelled at him to get hold of himself. 'Ah, sling yourself!' I snapped. 'You can cut that out now.

Once we're in the open I don't want to hear a fucking sound out of you. Otherwise you'll screw up the whole bloody operation.' I could see he was suffering from nerves, li[: e the rest of us, but that didn't make me feel any more charitable towards him.

Outside, my spirits lifted a fraction when I saw that at last the weather had changed. The clouds had gone, leaving the sky brilliantly clear, and high over our heads a jet had spewed out a slim, white trail that reached far to the north. When I moved out of range of the dung- heap the air smelt fresh and clean, and there wasn't a breath of wind. Ifa fine day was to be taken as a sign of hope, we'd got one.

Our short drive to the drop-off point went without incident. We saw no other vehicle, and after just ten minutes all four of us were standing in the dark lay-by watching the tai Mights of the Granada disappear up the lane and into the distance.

After waiting for my eyes to acclimatize to the half light I set off along the bridleway carrying the Haskins over my shoulder. Behind me came Tony and Farrell, cuffed together by a short length of chain, and Whinger bringing up the rear. Though the sky was already bright, inside the wood the darkness hung on. Just like our morning at the range, the trees seemed to be full of wood pigeons, cooing all round us. I knew the noise should have been soothing, but somehow it annoyed me, and whenever a bird flew out from above us, disturbed by alien creatures passing underneath, its wings made a terrific, give-away clatter.

When we reached the top of the long, narrow field, I told the others to hold on while I did a quick recce to make sure the coast was clear. 'Stay here while I check the field,' I whispered. Tll be back in a moment.'

'OK,' said Tony. 'Take it easy.'

With exaggerated stealth I crept out into the open and went on fifty metres or so until I knew I was out of earshot. With Farrell left at a safe distance, I held down the pressel switch of my covert radio and said, Hello Zero Charlie, this is Green One.'

'Green One, send,' came the immediate answer.

Yorky's voice.

'On course and on schedule,' I told him.

'Zero Charlie. loger.'

If there had been any dramatic news from London, Yorky would have told me. His brief, professional response meant simply that we had to carry on.

I retraced my steps to the others and whispered, 'Can't see anything. But we'll keep right in to the side of the wood, in the lee of the trees.'

So we went steadily on, the light growing all the time but remnants of gloomy darkness lurking along the fringes of the wood. As we passed Brockwell Farm I thought of the QIF, skulking about the barns or hay lofts, and bet myself they had eyes on us. Sure enough, up into my earpiece came a Welsh voice saying, 'Black One. Geordie and his team are passing us now,' followed by Yorky's quick, 'Zero Charlie. loger.'

At the corner of the wood, fifty metres short of Point D, an extraordinary sight confronted us. Away in the distance the house was dark, but the lower half of the field between it and us was covered by mist lying in a dense white blanket. The effect was ghostly and unreal, as if Chequers had been constructed on the far shore of a milky lake.

'If that lot rises up a few feet we're buggered,' I whispered.

'It won't,' Farrell replied. 'It'll fall away and disperse as the air warms up. This often happens on a fine morning.'

'You'd better be right.'

'Watch it!' said Tony. 'There's something moving out in the middle.'

We stepped back into 'the trees to watch. Binos revealed the dark object as the head of a deer, which had popped up out of the. fog. I realised the animal must have been grazing with its head down, and that the top of the fog-blanket was just over the level of its back. As we stood looking, another head came up beyond the first, and the two began moving to our left.

'You hang on here,' I whispered to Whinger. 'Stay back in the wood, but keep eyes on the lodge and the drive. If you see any movement, let us know.'

'Roger,' he said softly, and we left him there.

At Point D we moved into the recess among the bushes which we'd identified during the recce. When we raised our heads we could see out over the field to our front, but if we kept down the screen of shrubs shielded us from the footpath. My plan was to stay in cover until our target appeared on the terrace, then to nip forward on to the mossy bank at the very edge of the trees and take the shot from there.

The drawback of our lying-up place was that it had no view along the footpath to right or left, and it was possible that somebody could approach without our seeing him. I therefore decided to leave the other two where they were, with the weapon, and position myself farther forward.

I pulled down the legs of the Haskins's bipod and set it on the deck, keeping the belt of ammunition in the right-hand pocket of my smock.

'What effect will the mist have on the flight of the bullet?' I asked quietly.

'Negligible,' Tony said. 'No wind, either. No lateral allowance needed. The only thing is, in half an hour the light will be pretty bright. That could cause you to shoot a touch high.'

'Agree with that?' I looked at Farrell, who nodded.

'OK. I'll bear it in mind. Sit tight here while I take a look up the footpath.'

I went back to the edge and took a scan with the binos. The two deer were clear of the mist and walking up towards the wood on my left. A light had come on in one of the first-floor windows of the house. Maybe the guy's up even earlier than usual, 1 thought. Taking advantage of a lovely morning. I looked at my watch: 0610.

I walked slowly along the edge of the wood, in the shadow of the trees, until I was seventy or eighty metres from the others. Away to the east, my right, the sun was still below the ridge, but only just, and the sky was glowing. Even as I watched I saw the fog blanket beginning to thin and break up into patches.

I was fizzing with tension, electrified. I'd already taken one dump, back at the farmhouse, but excitement brought on another, and I withdrew into the trees to deal with it. When I came out again the deer had gone, and most of the mist had vanished. Only a few wraiths still trailed across the young corn.

Suddenly Yorky's voice was in my ear again: 'Zero Chadie for Green One. Fruit Salad going down at figures zero six three zero.'

'Roger,' I answered automatically. Then the meaning of the message struck me. Jesus! It meant the guys in the Greenford operation had definitely found the hostages. It meant they were going in — and in less than fifteen minutes' time! A hit on a single-fl0or flat couldn't last more than one or two minutes. In less than half an hour from now, the whole thing should be over.

I felt my heartbeat speed up still faster with the news.

I wanted to run out into the field yelling with elation.

Thank God I kept my head, because I became aware of a noise to my left, and saw a jogger in a harlequin track suit pounding along the footpath towards me. Easing deeper into the trees as he went by, I passed a quick call along to Tony and Whinger, warning them to keep their heads down.

Now time really crawled, second by slow-moving second. Behind me the pigeons cooed relentlessly. The sun hauled itself over the eastern ridge and sent rays flashing low and long across the park. The last traces of mist vanished.

Then Whinger called, 'Discovery coming up from the right,' and the peace of the morning was spoiled by the grinding diesel engine as a routine security patrol went past. There were two coppers in the front seats, but — no doubt following orders — they were looking away from us and towards the house, rather than into the wood.

At 0626, with the Fruit Salad assault deadline four minutes off, I finally persuaded myself that we weren't going to have to fire a shot. For a moment I allowed myself the luxury of imagining the look on Farrell's face when I told him the score, and the language he would let fly. Then my little day-dream was shattered.

'Zero Charlie for Green One,' said Yorky again.

'Fruit Salad postponed. Technical problem.'

Cumberland House is a seven-storey block of flats on the south side of Ellerton load, in the West London suburb of Greenford. There are nine flats on every floor, with each of their front doors giving on to a corridor that runs the length of the building. The rooms on that side of the block — kitchens and bathrooms — are dark and gloomy because their windows give on to those internal passages.

Access to the block is by two doors, one at either end; there are two lifts, also one at either end, and two staircases, east and west, as well as an external metal fire- escape on each end wall. The numbers of the apartments start from one in the east and rise to nine in the west, and incorporate the floor number as the first digit, so no. 57 is the seventh flat from the eastern end on the fifth floor.

Behind the building, on the south side, lies a scruffy, narrow open space which passes for a garden. This is bounded on its long side by a six-foot brick wall, separating it from the next street to the south, Longfield Drive, and at the eastern end an alleyway that provides a short-cut between Ellerton load and Longfield.

(Although I wasn't present during the raid, I got the following details from Fraser and from the guys who took part. Because I'd been on similar operations as a member of the SP team, I could piece together the sequence of events in what I hope is an accurate reconstruction.)

By the afternoon of Wednesday 2 June, while Tony and I were doing our recce at Chequers, SB sources had assembled a fat file of information on the suspect flat.

The freehold belonged to an oil engineer, Ernest Wilson, but he'd gone off to work in Venezuela the previous October, letting the apartment fully furnished for a year to a mancalled Bingham. Suspicion about the tenants had hardened when a Special Branch investigator discovered that the monthly rent of 400 pounds was being paid into the local branch of Lloyds Bank in cash, and in irregular amounts (in November 1,200 pounds had arrived — the first payment in more than two months).

Because of the layout of the building it was im possible to maintain a continuous close-in watch on individual apartments. Surveillance had to be main tained mostly from outside, from vans or other build ings, because any stranger lurking about the corridors or on the stairs would immediately have attracted atten tion. One known IRA player, thirty-year-old Danny Aherne, described as a travelling salesman, had been seen to enter the building several times during the last days of May. He always went in through the eastern entrance, took the lift to the seventh floor, and dis appeared into no. 72, where he had an apparently legitimate arrangement renting a bed-sit from the family that lived there. Yet the mere fact that he was resident in Cumberland House focused the police attention sharply on the block.

When the DF vans had begun tracing PIRA mobile phone calls to the area, the janitor, Stan, had un fortunately fallen ill with a viral infection and was replaced by an SB stand-in called Tom. By dallying with his mop and bucket on the top floor corridor, the new man discovered that Aherne often left no. 72 a few minutes after arriving home from a shopping trip still carrying his supermarket bag, nipped down the stairs to the fifth floor, and slipped into no. 57.

In the early evening of 1 June, with the PIRA deadline approaching, SB decided that it was essential to evacuate the occupants of no. 58 and take the flat over for their own purposes. Fortunately the only person at home was Edith Treadgold, an elderly spinster addicted to detective novels, of which she had hundreds arranged in glass-fronted bookcases. Normally she lived there with a companion, but that day the friend had gone to stay with relations. When Miss Treadgold suddenly found herself called on by a woman detective sergeant she was at first horrified, but then openly thrilled to be caught up in a real-life drama. She needed little persuasion to pack a few things into an overnight bag, surrender her keys, go down in the lift and take the waiting taxi, which bore her off to a comfortable hotel room for the night.

One by one, a team of specialists filtered into the block, using both entrances and taking the lifts to different floors before working their way up or down to no. 58. They were surprised to find that Miss Treadgold had another addiction besides Dorothy Sayers and Agatha Christie: when they pulled back a sofa into the middle of the room to get at the party wall, they exposed a sizeable collection of magazines dedicated to bondage and flagellation.

By chasing up the owner of the flat through Interpol contacts, the SB had established a clear picture of the layout of no. 57. Inside the front door was a central lobby, with the kitchen off it to the left, and the bathroom and a separate toilet to the right. Beyond the bathroom, having a common wall with no. 58, was the main bedroom, which had a window on the south face of the block. Next to it was a smaller bedroom, also with a south-facing window, and next to that the sitting room and dining area, which abutted the kitchen at its inner end.

The windows were old-fashioned and made of wood, and the doors of the bedrooms opened inwards, away from the central lobby. Monitoring of the water and electricity supplies had suggested that at least four people were living in the flat, even though none had been seen to come out, and the only known visitor was Aherne. The regular telephone line remained unused; during the past week not a single call had gone in or out.

At first the listening devices were frustrated by television sound, but at one point the eavesdroppers picked up the noise of a child crying and a woman shouting at him or her to be quiet. The sounds caught by the microphones strongly suggested that the hostages were being held in the main bedroom, so it was into that wall that the drill had started to bite.

Meanwhile two six-man teams, Red and Blue, from the Regiment's counter-terrorist unit, were standing by in their holding base at Hounslow Barracks, a few minutes' drive to the south. As always in emergencies of this kind, control remained in the hands of the police, and would do so until the final moment before an assault went in. “But during the evening the CO and the ops officer flew up from Hereford by chopper to take overall command of the military element of the operation, installing themselves in a control room established in Police Headquarters at Hendon.

Further up the chain, an open-ended meeting was in progress at COBR, the Cabinet Office Briefing Room underground in Whitehall, where the director of the SAS, a brigadier, was liaising with senior representatives of the Metropolitan Police, the Home Office and the Prime Minister's personal staff.

In no. 58 drilling continued all night. As Yorky reported to me, the first probe, which went through at 2315, proved ineffective because its view was blocked by furniture. The second, higher up, penetrated the wall of the main bedroom by 0320, near the corner with the outer wall, but by then the room was dark and for the time being nothing could be seen. It was only at 0405, when one of the occupants got up to go to the home was Edith Treadgold, an elderly spins' to detective novels, of which she had hun in glass-fronted bookcases. Normally sleep with a companion, but that day the friend stay with relations. When Miss Tre found herself called on by a woman So she was at first horrified, but then caught up in a real-life drama. So., suasion to pack a few things surrender her keys, go down I am waiting taxi, which bore her room for the night.

One by one, a team of block, using both entrances different floors. They were surprised, he had another addiction to Agatha Christie: whether middle of the room exposed a sizeable bondage and flag. By chasing contacts, the layout of no lobby, with bathroom main be of the with room inner end.

The windows wood, and the doors of away from the central lobby and electricity supplies had sugges other equipment clank against lut on the roof, among the dish;hafts, they sought anchor-points they could abseil down and come of no. 57. Simultaneously the quietly up the eastern staircase to along the corridor and back where they slipped silently into no.

Snipers crawled on to the roof of a commanded a view of Cumberland,nt. Their primary role was to report hostage fiat's windows, which had

One (the main bedroom), Two (the and Three (the sitting room). A was to watch the windows of no. 72 for When the raid went down, the snipers as cover and take out any terrorist who e from that side of the building. Also hidden in the drive of a private house, reception van, with another six guys on board. Their job would be to and whisk everyone away from the scene the moment the assault was all these sources quick reports flowed in over net. 'Sierra One,' called the lead sniper.

In position. All curtains drawn. No lights Zero Bravo. Wait out,' Local Control replied.

Blue Team had few preparations to make, and the leader reported, 'Blue One in position and to go.'

Again Control answered, 'loger. Wait out.'

It was the led Team who needed most time to repare. There were no easy anchor-points for their lavatory, that a light was switched on.

For the top brass, listening in to commentary from the front line, events suddenly became gripping.

'There's a bumping noise,' said the Scots voice of the fibre-optic operator. 'They're moving the furniture around. There's a bed across the door — they have to move it to get out…'

The pitch of the voice rose sharply as the man said, 'The light's on. The kid is there! It's definitely him.

He's in a camp bed. He's woken up. He's sat up and looking round. Seems to have a black eye. light eye swollen.

'The woman's gone to the bathroom. Wearing white pyjamas… now she's coming back. Two women.

One's small, stocky and fair. The other's tall and slim.

Not a redhead, though. Wait till I get a look at her face.

Yes, it's Tracy all right. But her hair's very dark. Black.

Could by dyed. Could be a wig… No — she wouldn't wear a wig at night. Her hair's been dyed. Pass that to the teams. Don't be looking for a redhead. We don't want any identities mistaken. The guard isn't much over five foot. You can't confuse the two.'

The news precipitated immediate action. In the control room at Hendon the assault plan was finally ratified. Details were confirmed over the secure net to the Red and Blue teams, and to the assault commander, Captain Terry Morris, who, along with Staff Sergeant Bill Brassey, had set up a forward command post in another commandeered flat, across the street from the north front of Cumberland House. It was from there that the main surveillance had been conducted for the past three days; now closed-circuit television cameras were watching both entrances.

By 0515 both teams had been bussed to the site. One by one they infiltrated via the garden passage. The six guys in Red crept up the fire escape, taking care not to

346 let their MP 5s, axes or other equipment clank against the steel guide-rails. Out on the roof, among the dish aerials and ventilation shafts, they sought anchor-points for their ropes, so that they could abseil down and come in through the windows of no. 57. Simultaneously the six guys in Blue went quietly up the eastern staircase to the sixth floor, moved along the corridor and back down to level five, where they slipped silently into no.

Farther out, two snipers crawled on to the roof of a warehouse which commanded a view of Cumberland House's south front. Their primary role was to report any movement in the hostage fiat's windows, which had been numbered One (the main bedroom), Two (the second bedroom) and Three (the sitting room). A secondary task was to watch the windows of no. 72 for any change. When the raid went down, the snipers would also act as cover and take out any terrorist who tried to escape from that side of the building. Also waiting nearby, hidden in the drive of a private house, was the hostage reception van, with another six guys from the Regiment on board. Their job would be to scorch in and whisk everyone away from the scene hostages and soldiers alike — the moment the assault was complete.

From all these sources quick reports flowed in over the secure net. 'Sierra One,' called the lead sniper.

'We're on. In position. All curtains drawn. No lights showing.'

'Zero Bravo. Wait out,' Local Control replied.

The Blue Team had few preparations to make, and soon the leader reported, 'Blue One in position and ready to go.'

Again Control answered, 'loger. Wait out.'

It was the P,ed Team who needed most time to prepare. There were no easy anchor-points for their ropes, and as the light came up the guys felt very exposed on the bare, flat roof. 'led One,' called Fred Daniels, their leader. 'We need to get a shift on or we're going to get compromised up here. There's people on the move in the streets already.'

'Zero Bravo. Roger,' responded Terry Morris. 'Wait Out.'

As the minutes ticked past tension mounted. Danger lay in the fact that the security forces were not certain how many terrorists the flat contained. The aim, in situations of that kind, is to work out the position of every X-ray in advance, so that the teams can be certain precisely where their targets will be before they go in.

But in this case it had proven impossible. Thanks to the fibre-optic probe it was known for sure that Tracy, Tim and one PItLA woman were in the main bedroom. The pattern of mobile telephone calls had suggested that there were also two men in the flat — but whether both were sleeping in the second bedroom, or one there and one in the sitting room, nobody knew. The only option was to hit the apartment from both sides simultaneously — Red through the windows, Blue through the door.

The intention all along had been that the assault should go in before 0630, to forestall any need for the shoot at Chequers. But permission had to come down from COBR, and then at the forward control room Terry had to sign an order from the senior police officer present, taking over command of the incident.

While these formalities were being prepared, the Red Team lay flat on the roof beside their coiled ropes, to keep out of sight of passers-by or people in other buildings. By 0625 everything was in place, and Terry was about to sign the hand-over order when a man appeared, walking fast along Ellerton Road with a plastic shopping bag in his right hand. One of the cameras picked him up as he went into the eastern entrance of Cumberland House, and he was immediately identified as Danny Aherne, the tenant of no.

Where had he come from? What was he doing, heading back to his lodgings at that time of the morning? What was he carrying in the bag?

'Zero Bravo for Tango One,' said Terry, calling the reserve team into action. 'A suspect X-ray has entered the building. Move to seal both entrances immediately.'

'Tango One. Moving now,' came the answer, and then from Terry: 'All other stations, this is Zero Bravo.

Hold, hold, hold.'

Crouching at the edge of the wood I felt like I'd had a kick in the crotch, and it took me a couple of minutes to recover. I felt physically sick at the thought that something had gone wrong. At that stage I didn't know what had hhppened. I'd only heard Yorky's message, but surely the security guys couldn't have mistaken the identity of the people in no. 57. Surely they'd got the right flat…

Fighting down the disappointment, I made my way back through the trees to rejoin the others. From the way Tony looked at me I could tell that he knew how I was feeling. Through his covert earpiece he too had heard Yorky give me the bad news, and he was suffering along with me. I was grateful for that.

But all he said was, 'It's such a hell ofaxnorning, the target may come out early. Hadn't we better get ready?'

'We are ready,' I replied. 'We just have to whip forward and fire.' All the same, I withdrew the bolt from the Haskins and looked through the barrel to make sure it was clear. Then I gave the lenses of the telescopic sight their hundredth polish. I was halfway through getting up from behind the rifle when Tony, who was watching the house through binoculars, said, 'Look out! A door's been opened.'

I had my own binos up in a flash. Yes, there was movement at the back of the terrace. A man in a white shirt and black trousers had come out and was shaking something pale — maybe a rug or a tablecloth.

'It's a butler or some similar jerk,' I breathed. 'At least it shows the household's on the move.'

All three of us were kneeling in a line, Tony on the fight, then Farrell, then myself. I glanced sideways at Farrell and saw that his eyes were gleaming, his lips drawn slightly back from his teeth. Watch yourself, twat, I silently told him, you're in for a nasty surprise in a moment.

The butler figure disappeared inside again and the door closed. Now waiting became even harder. The hands on my watch barely seemed to move. By the time they had crawled to 0635 it felt like midday at least.

Temporary relief came with a short, sharp, sudden rushing noise. There, right in front of us, a buzzard was pulling out of a steep dive just above the ground.

Whether the bird had swooped at a rat or mouse and missed, I couldn't tell. After a moment he soared up again, talons still extended, his wings working furiously, and the roar of air through his pinions took me straight back to parachuting and free-falling.

All at once I was thinking of the first two training jumps I made, at Weston-on-the-Green. I remembered how somebody went past me, falling after my chute had broken out, with a load, hoarse roar, like that buzzard, only bigger…

More movement on the terrace jerked me back to the present.

Jesus, I thought. This is it.

The same door had opened again but a different man had come out. The binos clearly picked out the familiar figure: smooth grey hair, slightly long; pale face, spectacles glinting. He wore a big, sloppy, light- coloured sweater nearly down to his knees, and he was carrying something in his right hand — a small canister, no doubt to blitz the bugs on the roses.

'Begod! It's himself!' Farrell exclaimed.

'Come on then!' I snatched a glance at my watch: 0645. No hope of a reprieve from London now..

I snatched up the rifle and started forward, asking quietly over the radio, 'All clear your end, Whinge?'

'All clear,' came the answer.

I reached the bank and set the Haskins down. The target was moving slowly out into the terrace garden, turning back and forth as he peered at the rosebeds. I looked through the sight and saw that, although the scope was good, it wasn't like a pair of binoculars: it gave a clear general picture but not close details.

'Now!' I stood up and faced Farrell. 'There's a slight change of'plan. It's you to shoot, not me.'

'What the luck!' His face turned deathly white. Then a red flush of anger came up from the neck. 'What's this?' he croaked incredulously. 'What the fuck is this?'

'Get down and shoot,' I told him, 'or the chance will be gone.'

'Treacherous cunt!' he said out loud, and then, almost shouting: 'Fucking treacherous bastard!'

If his right wrist hadn't been cuffed to Tony's left I'm sure he'd have taken a swing at me. Then he saw the Sig levelled at his chest and stumbled backwards, heaving for breath.

'You're the shooter here,' he gasped. 'That's the deal.'

'You have the choice,' I said. 'Shoot or die. Simple as that. There'll be few enough questions asked afterwards.'

'I can't shoot that thing.' He flicked his right foot in the direction of the rifle. 'Holy Mary, I never saw a weapon like that in my life. I couldn't hit the house, let alone the target.'

'Bollocks! It was you who shot the British soldier with it at Crossmaglen last August. It was you who killed the man long-range on the border in February. It was this very rifle, and yourself firing it. I don't know how many murders you've got on your slate, but one more's not going to make much difference:'

From the way Farrell flinched I knew I was right.

'Get down and shoot,' I repeated.

'Never,' he said. 'If you're wanting your family released it's you to shoot, and that's all.'

'I'll give you ten seconds,' I said.

He took a step towards me and made a sudden movement with his free left hand, but Tony jerked him backwards so violently that he fell over and landed on his arse. 'Unless I give the codeword they'll never be let go,' he warned. 'They'll be dead by noon.'

'I'll take a chance on that,' I said. 'I'm counting now.

Ten, nine, eight…'

At six he made a gesture with his right hand, which I took to be one of capitulation.

'Christ Almighty!' he cried. 'How will I shoot trussed up like this?'

'You'll manage. Tony'll get down alongside you.

Now shift yourself, or the target'll be gone.'

Through all this Tony had waited impassively, poised for action. I'd told him beforehand what I was planning, and he'd agreed not to intervene unless he had to.

The rifle was already in a perfect position, its bipod sunk into the moss on top of the little bank. Farrell was shaking violently as he positioned himself behind it, and the ferret stink wafted all around us. Tony went down beside him, extending his left arm to give the rifleman freedom of movement at the end of the short chain.

Farrell gave one more curse — a long-drawn-out groan of 'Ah, you bastards!' — then gathered his concentration, settled his elbows into the leaf-mould on the forest floor, aimed through the scope, opened and closed the bolt, and clicked off one dry shot. The practised ease of his movements made it plain he knew the weapon well.

The target was still meandering about the terrace, but by now he'd moved nearly to the front of it, close to the right-hand summerhouse. In the clear early light his pale sweater showed up a treat.

'Let's have a bullet, then,' Farrell snapped.

I leant over between the two men and laid one of the six-inch rounds in the breech. As Farrell slammed the bolt forward I gave three consecutive double jabs on my pressel switch to warn Yorky that the shot was imminent.

Farrell had the rifle up and aligned, but the target was moving, alking slowly across to our right.

'Wait, man, wait!' I hissed. 'Let him stop. Now! No!

Wait again.'

Once more the target had ambled on; But at last he came to a standstill with his back to us, right in front of one of the trimmed box bushes.

'There!' I said. 'Take him now!'

I put my hands flat over my ears and held my breath.

BOOM!

I saw the big bullet go. At least, I saw the grey streak of disturbance in the air along its path.-I was aware of movement at my feet as the recoil jolted Farrell backwards, but I tried to keep my binos on the target.

For what seemed an age he remained standing. Then suddenly his arms flew half up, away from his sides, as if his hands had been lifted on strings, and he pitched forward away from us in a flat dead-man's dive. Once down, he was out of sight behind the box hedges, and we could see no further movement.

Weapon like that in my life. I couldn't hit the house, let alone the target.'

'Bollocks! It was you who shot the British soldier with it at Crossmaglen last August. It was you who killed the man long-range on the border in February. It was this very rifle, and yourself firing it. I don't know how many murders you've got on your slate, but one more's not going to make much difference.'

From the way Farrell flinched I knew I was right.

'Get down and shoot,' I repeated.

'Never,' he said. 'If you're wanting your family released it's you to shoot, and that's all.'

'I'll give you ten seconds,' I said.

He took a step towards me and made a sudden movement with his free left hand, but Tony jerked him backwards so violently that he fell over and landed on his arse. 'Unless I give the codeword they'll never be let go,' he warned. 'They'll be dead by noon.'

Tll take a chance on that,' I said. Tm counting now.

Ten, nine, eight…'

At six he made a gesture with his right hand, which

I took to be one of capitulation.

'Christ Almighty!' he cried. 'How will I shoot trussed up like this?'

'You'll manage. Tony'll get down alongside you.

Now shift yourself, or the target'll be gone.'

Through all this Tony had waited impassively, poised for action. I'd told him beforehand what I was planning,

and he'd agreed not to intervene unless he had to.

The rifle was already in a perfect position, its bipod sunk into the moss on top of the little bank. Farrell was shaking violently as he positioned himself behind it, and the ferret stink wafted all around us. Tony went down beside him, extending his left arm to give the rifleman freedom of movement at the end of the short chain.

Farrell gave one more curse — a long-drawn-out groan of 'Ah, you bastards — then gathered his concentration, settled his elbows into the leaf-mould on the forest floor, aimed through the scope, opened and closed the bolt, and clicked off one dry shot. The practised ease of his movements made it plain he knew the weapon well.

The target was still meandering about the terrace, but by now he'd moved nearly to the front of it, close to the right-hand summerhouse. In the clear early light his pale sweater showed up a treat.

'Let's have a bullet, then,' Farrell snapped.

I leant over between the two men and laid one of the six-inch rounds in the breech. As Farrell slammed the bolt forward I gave three consecutive doublejabs on my pressel switch to warn Yorky that the shot was imminent.

Farrell had the rifle up and aligned, but the target was moving, alking slowly across to our right.

'Wait, man, wait!' I hissed. 'Let him stop. Now! No!

Wait again.'

Once more the target had ambled on; But at last he came to a standstill with his back to us, right in front of one of the trimmed box bushes.

'There!' I said. 'Take him now!'

I put my hands flat over my ears and held my breath.

BOOM.

I saw the big bullet go. At least, I saw the grey streak of disturbance in the air along its path..I was aware of movement at my feet as the recoil jolted Farrell backwards, but I tried to keep my binos on the target.

For what seemed an age he remained standing. Then suddenly his arms flew half up, away from his sides, as if his hands had been lifted on strings, and he pitched forward away from us in a flat dead-man's dive. Once down, he was out of sight behind the box hedges, and we could see no further movement.

'Fantastic!' I yelled.

'Bejaysus, I got the fucker!' cried Farrell. 'I nailed him! I fucking dropped him!' In his excitement he forgot he was linked to Tony, and tried to jump up, only to be dragged down again.

'That's his lot,' I said. 'The bullet lifted him right off his feet. Now — send that fucking codeword and we'll get out of here. Quick, they're on the move.' As Farrell stood up I handed him the mobile phone.

The shot had sent pigeons clattering out over the field; dozens of them flashed blue-grey and white in the low rays of the sun as they fled from the clap of thunder.

Away in the distance, figures were pouring out of the house. People were running back and forth, and clustering round the spot where the target had gone down. More doors opened, windows too. From somewhere to the right a police siren began to wail.

'I'll call the chopper first,' said Farrell. He punched numbers into the phone, listened and said, 'Yes. Come in now. Pick-up immediately.' As he was doing that I called Whinger to close on us. Then Farrell ended the first call and dialled again. This time his face creased into a frown. He muttered something, switched off, switched on again and punched once more. When he moved the receiver away from his ear I could hear the metallic, electronic voice saying, 'I'm sorry. It has not been possible to connect your call. Please try later.'

'What the fuck are they doing?' he cried. 'The bastards have switched off. HolyJaysus! They know the timing. They should be on the ball and waiting.'

'Come on!' I shouted. 'We can't wait. Run!'

In Greenford a breathless wait ensued as Aherne disappeared into the building. In less than a minute the reserve team had secured both entrances and fire- escapes, but there was no sign of the player. By then SP technicians had replaced the fish-eye peephole in Miss Treadgold's front door with another fibre-optic lens, which gave them a xvide view down the corridor, and enabled them to keep watch on the entrance to no. 57.

Everyone expected Aherne to show up there, but minutes passed without anyone getting eyes on him.

Had he gone up to his own flat? Was he skulking on the staircase or in the lift? If he was at large somewhere, there was a chance he might appear just as the Blue guys were taping their charge to the front door to blow it in.

'Zero Bravo for Sierra One,' called Control. 'Any change in the windows on the top floor?'

'Negative,' came the answer. 'All the same.'

At last the suspect came back into view. 'Blue One,' the Blue leader reported. 'He's walking along our corridor, west to east… He's left a shopping bag against the wall outside the door of fifty-seven. Now he's gone on to the” far end.'

Again he vanished. In forward control, Terry was left with a difficult decision. The bag might conceivably contain a bomb. More likely it held supplies for the people in the flat Should he ignore it? Should he get Blue to remove it? Should he wait or go?

At 0644 the sniper leader called, 'Sierra One, movement in window figures two. The curtains have been opened.'

'Zero Bravo,' Control answered. 'What about the others?'

'No change.'

'R oger. Wait out.'

'lked One,' came a call from the leader on the roof.

'We've definitely been compromised. There's a crowd gathering in the street out the back. They've got us marked down.'

'Zero Bravo. loger. All stations remain on listening watch.' Then a minute later came, 'All right. Ignore the bag. We're going in. I'm being handed control. All stations into position.'

The Blue leader slid out into the passage and silently taped a length of det cord down the line of the hinges on the front door of no. 57. At the same time all six members of the Red team came down the south wall on their ropes, squeezing the handles of their pretzels to descend, and then letting go so that the devices locked up when their feet were just above the fifth-floor windows. Down in the street the crowd was swelling rapidly, but it was too late for anybody there to intervene.

Both leaders reported themselves ready. Then Terry called, 'All stations, wait out… I have control…

Standby, standby… GO! GO! GO!'

The Blue leader, hanging back in the open entrance to no. 58, closed the clacker in his left hand. BOOM!

The door of no. 57 burst inwards and disintegrated.

Smoke and dust filled the corridor. The Blue team piled through the opening.

In the same couple of seconds the Red team dropped the final few feet, smashed all three windows with fire axes and piled into the rooms. The two into the main bedroom, Geoff Hope and John 1Kyle, instantly identified Tracy in a single bed against the left-hand wall, and Tim in the camp bed at its foot. Another bed had been pulled across the door, blocking it. As the female terrorist sat up in it, reaching for a cabinet beside her, a quick double-tap in the head put her flat on her back. Blood flew out over the pillows and ran down the pale wall.

While Geoffwent down on one knee to give cover, John dragged the bed away so that the door would open. 'Get down! Get down!' he yelled at Tracy.

Geoffyanked her roughly out of bed, forced her on to the carpet and knelt with a knee in her back. 'Don't look over there!' he yelled. 'Look that way!' With his other hand he grabbed Tim and flattened him on the floor as well.

Before the door was open, two more double-taps cracked off in the other bedroom. When John burst into the hall he found it full of smoke, with his two black-clad mates from P, ed team down on one knee, covering the guys from Blue. Two terrorists lay dead in the small bedroom, one on the floor, one sprawled across a bed. It took just seconds more for the lads to rip open the cupboards, turn over the beds and sofa and case the bathroom and kitchen to make sure there were no more PIRA in residence.

'Zero Bravo for all stations,' called Control. 'Secure?'

'Blue One,' replied the Blue leader. 'We have three dead X-rays on the location. Two men, one woman.

The flat is now secure.'

'Red One,' said Fred Daniels. 'Confirm flat secure.'

'Tango One,' said the boss of the reserve team. 'One suspected X-ray detained in hard arrest. He tried to do a runner when he heard the explosion. We got him on the stairs.'

'Zero Alpha. Roger,' replied the main Control, cutting in. 'All stations, evacuate the building.'

John set Tim on his feet, seized a blanket, rolled him in it and picked him up in his arms. 'Come on, love,' he said to Tracy. 'We've got to go.'

Later he told me she'd gone into shock at this point and didn't seem able to move. When Geoff had lifted her to her feet she nearly fell straight back over, so rigid had she become. Then she appeared to wake up; still without making a sound, she snatched up a dressing gown, stepped into a pair of slippers and ran out on to the landing, with John and Tim following close behind her.

Already the corridor was full of people from the 357 other flats, some excited, most angry, demanding to know what in God's name was going on. The assault had been so swift that no policeman had yet reached the fifth floor.

One of the Blue team had grabbed the lift and was holding the door open. While John, Tim and Tracy rode down, the rest took the stairs at a run. At ground level the hostage reception wagon was already outside the door. Within seconds, rescued and rescuers were packed into it with all their equipment, and heading clear of the scene.

Running with the Haskins was no joke. The rifle was not only heavy, but awkward too. Farrell was in no shape to run far, either- and being cuffed to Tony didn't help him. Whinger caught up with us after a hundred yards and offered to take the rifle, but I panted that I was OK. Nevertheless, the temptation to head out on to the. edge of the open field was strong — the going would be far better along the footpath. But it would strike an obvious false note with Farrell if we revealed ourselves prematurely, and to keep our RV and complete the exchange we positively needed to get away.

We struggled on as best we could, dodging between trees, scrambling over fallen trunks, ripping through brambles, until at last we reached the northern point of the wood. Now we had no option but to break cover; we were on the edge of the field in which the chopper was due to put down. As we paused to recover our breath I could hear the thudding beat of its rotor in the distance.

By now several sirens were wailing from the direction of the house, and my earpiece was full of rapid exchanges, most of them calls for the police to seal off the surrounding roads.

I pushed out through the screen of leaves and scanned up the sloping grass field that rose gently to our left. The ground was clear. The chopper was still out of sight behind the nearest hill, but the sound of its engine was growing rapidly.

'You two carry on,' I said to Tony.' 'We'll cover you till the chopper's in. Go for it!'

I launched the pair with a flick of the hand and watched them run out awkwardly, Farrell dipping on his lame left leg. I'd intended that Whinger and I should follow them after a few seconds, but at the moment I scrambled to my feet I realised that I was getting something different in my earpiece.

'Zero Charlie for Green One,' Yorky was saying.

'Bananas. I say again — bananas.'

Of course it was what I'd been dying to hear. But I'd been so engrossed in our own scenario that my mind was entirely at Chequers.

The mssage made me stop dead. I hit my pressel and said, 'Green One. Confirm that.'

'Zero Charlie,' Yorky repeated. 'Bananas. All good.'

I let out an almighty yell — no words, just a con tinuous noise so loud that it made Whingerjump. Tony heard it, too. He looked round for an instant and stumbled.

Before I could get myself back together I heard the abrupt reports of small-arms fire. Jesus Christ! Rounds were going down across the field in front of me. The helicopter was in sight now, a blue,and-white Jet- Ranger, lifting over the skyline and heading our way.

But also in sight a little posse of men had appeared suddenly out of a dip, and were running towards our pair. I saw by their irregular DPM overalls and lack of headgear that they were PIRA. The one in the lead was carrying a pistol; the other two had sub-machine guns and were firing from the hip as they ran. They were already within thirty or forty yards of their target.

Instantly I hit my pressel and called, 'Green One.

Three armed X-rays on helicopter pick-up point. tl.equest immediate backup.'

As I spoke, Tony and Farrell suddenly went down.

They didn't lust fall over, they were hammered to the ground, and one of them let out an almighty roar. Jesus!

Had Tony been shot? I yelled out, but it was not enough to distract the leading PIRA guy, who bore down on the struggling heap, obviously intent on finishing off the man he'd wounded.

There wasn't time to get the cumbersome Haskins loaded and aligned. As an instant deterrent I whipped out my Sig and began spraying rounds at the leader. But the action was taking place more than a hundred yards off, and at that distance the shots were all over the place.

In any case I had to keep high, for fear of hitting one of my own men. The leader ducked but continued towards the two on the deck, using them as cover.

Whinger was firing now, but the guy kept advancing.

By the time my magazine ran out he was within a few feet of the fallen couple. He stopped and deliberately extended his right arm, the pistol canted downwards at point-blank range.

By then I'd thrown myself down on the turf outside the wood and got a fresh round into the breech of the Haskins. Feverishly I flicked the bipod into position.

The range was barely a hundred metres. Aim low, aim low! I told myself. But before I could bring the sight to bear I heard two shots from the PIRA man's pistol crack out, and with a surge of dismay I thought I'd lost my closest, staunchest friend.

The PIRA gunman was still rooted a couple of yards from the fallen pair. Holding my breath, I brought the cross-hairs of the sight on to his torso and, without waiting another instant, fired. I didn't even notice the recoil.

But — Jesus! I-'d missed. Then instantly I remembered: I'd fiddled the sight to make certain Farrell couldn't hit the Prime Minister.

Amazingly, the PIKA guy was standing on the same spot, now looking my way. In a second I had another round up the spout and aimed one body's width to his left. This time the five-oh bullet blew the man away.

The impact lifted him backwards off his feet and threw his body on to the ground as if it were made of rags and cardboard.

His mates checked and looked around for a moment, uncertain where the shots had come from. Then the threat of that fearsome firepower evidently became too much for them, and they turned tail and began running back across the field. I loaded a third round, swivelled to my left and touched offanother shot at the higher of the two. A burst of chalk and flint chips exploded from the ground above his.right shoulder. A second later, before I could load again, he'd vanished into dead ground over a ridge.

The Jet-Ranger had been in a hover — the pilot evidently not fancying what was going on below him and when he saw the contact erupt he had started to climb. By the time I'd fired my last shot he'd banked hard and was pulling off to a safe distance. I was getting so carried away that I almost loaded another round and let drive at him too. I was sure the Haskins was capable of bringing the chopper down. But within seconds another helicopter was on the scene — a Puma, drab military olive in colour, which swept over the wood from our left, swung round to the far side of the hilly field, hovering just beyond the skyline, and disgorged a shower of black-clad guys who fast-roped down out of our sight. The ensuing crackle of small-arms fire told me they'd caught the two fleeing PIKA operatives in the open. Moments later a voice came on the net saying, 'Black Three. Two X-rays dead in vicinity of pick-up point. Area secure.'

By now I'd loaded a full magazine into my pistol. I left the Haskins on the edge of the wood and sprinted forward to the tangle of bodies in the middle of the field. Both were lying face down. Expecting the worst, I pulled Tony over first. He gave a groan. He was very much alive.

It was Farrell who'd got a double-tap through the temple. As I rolled him on to his back I saw that the whole left-hand side of his skull had been opened up.

The mess of blood and brains took me straight back to the corridor in Libya.

Farrell — dead! I could hardly take it in.

Tony was pale and in severe pain. It was he who'd gone down first, with a bullet through the left upper arm. Once both of them were on the deck, Farrell, struggling to break free of his shackle, had yanked the wounded limb all over the place. There was a lot of blood sprayed about the grass. My first action was to get a tourniquet on to Tony's arm above the wound.

Then I called over the radio for urgent casevac.

'Green One. We have two more dead X-rays on the same field, with me. No live X-rays seen. One of our guys is wounded. Get that Puma here soonest. We're only about four hundred metres east of where the QR.F landed.'

'Let's have these fucking cuffs off you,' I said to Tony. 'Where's the key?'

Without speaking he patted the breast pocket of his smock with his right hand. I felt inside, brought the key out, unlocked the cuffs and gently took them off his wrist. I knew I shouldn't move Farrell's body before the scene of crimes officer arrived to make his assessment, but I couldn't help straightening out the cuffed arm.

'Better,' Tony muttered, with an attempt at a smile.

'What happened? Did the guy try to top you and hit Farrell by mistake?'

'No way. He went straight for Farrell like a lunatic.

Put the muzzle of the pistol right on him.'

'What a bunch ofarseholes!' I said. 'Only death can stop them feuding. OK, Tony. Hang on. That chopper will be here any second. Stay with him, Whinger.'

I stood up unsteadily and moved a couple of steps to look at the other dead terrorist. Immediately I recognised the short, grizzled grey hair. 'Christ! It's that bugger from the railway yard. Marty Malone. Old Foxy'l] be chuffed to bollocks. This was the one he wanted most.'

The man was wearing a DPM smock. The huge round had gone straight through his right arm and on through his torso, and his pistol had fallen to the ground. Instinctively I bent to pick it up, but then thought, No, the SOCO will want it left where it fell.

Looking at the far side of the body I saw that the exit wound was as big as a saucer. The left back ribs gaped open, and blood, scraps of lung and pieces of bone had been sprayed ten metres on to the grass beyond.

In my earpiece Yorky was saying, 'Zero Charlie for Green One. Geordie, the med team's on its way to you.

Who's hurt?'

'It's Tony. Bullet through the upper arm. I've contained the bleeding. He could be worse.'

'OK. The guys will be with you in seconds. What's happened to Farrell? Is he still with you?'

'Affirmative. But he's dead.'

I looked down at Tony and said, 'Hear that? The chopper's on its way.'

His eyes were shut, but he nodded.

I knelt beside him, feeling stunned now that the situation was over. When I turned my head sideways I realised that the sun was shining on my cheek. The warmth seemed to bring me back to reality.

'Yorky,' I called. 'Is the Prime Minister OK?'

'The Prime Minister's in roaring form. He's ordered champagne for breakfast, and he's invited you to join him.'

'Don't be stupid.'

'He has. I mean it.'

'Christ, I can't. I've got to see Tim.'

'I know. We've said as much, and he understands.

I'm sure he'll ask you again.'

'He put on a bloody good act, anyway.'

'Come on, lad!' Yorky sounded delighted. 'You didn't think that was him, did you?'

'Who was it, then?', 'Scrubber Jenkins, wearing a poncy wig and two flak jackets, one on top of the other. He was shitting himself too. '

'Why?'

'You might have hit him by mistake.'

'It wasn't me on the rifle, Yorky. It was Farrell.'

'Farrell! Jesus! How the heck did that come about?'

'I told him he had to do the shoot or I'd top him.'

'God almighty! Yer daft bat! He might have killed the PM.'

'Not a chance. I twisted the sight off twenty clicks to the right during the night.'

'Jesus, Geordie… I didn't hear that. Never mention it again or you'll be up to your neck in shit.' And with that Yorky went off the air.

The seconds ticked slowly past. My mind was full of puzzles, and after another minute I called in again.

'It was another PIRA guy who topped Farrell,' I said.

'What the hell were they up to?'

'Drug money, as we thought,' Yorky replied. 'I heard Fraser talking about a bank account the Firm discovered in the Cayman Islands. Farrell had eight million dollars in it.'

'Eight million!'

'Yeah. He'd been creaming off coke deals for years.

If he'd escaped today he'd have done a runner.'

'Where to?'

'Three guesses.'

'Colombia?'

'You got it. He was planning to cut out and make a fresh start there.'

'So the PIRA never really wanted him back?'

'Only to top him.'

'In that case, I've been a pawn to their game all the way through.'

'More or less.'

'Fucking hell! The devious, twisting bastards.'

'Never mind, Geordie. If you're talking chess, it's checkmate to you. You've cleared the bloody board.

King, quen, bishops — the lot.'