FIVE

My own trouble was that I couldn't seem to shake off the tension which still built steadily. Normally I find the best answer to mental stress is hard physical exercise, but this time the remedy wasn't working. I was forcing myself to run and work out every day, yet still I was unable to relax, and sometimes I thought my head was going to burst with the pressure.

My days were packed with activity; not so the nights.

Back at the cottage I had far too much time to brood.

Several times I had asked the SB guys if there was any future in making some initiative on the hostage situation ourselves, trying to put out feelers, but the answer was always, 'No. The PIRA have got to move first. Unless, one of these days, a tout picks something up, or we get an intercept that gives us a line.'

Tired as I was, I found it hard to sleep — and the nightmares started again, similar to the one I'd had after the Gulf. Usually I was travelling fast through the dark, on a strange kind of roller-coaster or maybe a bike, until suddenly something grabbed me by the left arm, so that terrific forces threatened to tear me in half, setting up the most horrendous pain, and I'd wake up in a muck sweat, yelling with fright.

Soon there were only five days left before takeoff.

So far, everything had gone well. Then we had a setback which caused aggravation and distress at the time but almost immediately bounced back to our advantage.

We'd gone on into one of our nearby training areas to try the quads fully loaded on rough terrain at night; our aim was to run through the main moves of the operation, using a range-hut as the target building.

Having ridden to within walking distance we all tabbed forward to a wire fence. Pat and I then cut our way through, leaving the rest of the guys on the barrier, two to guard the opening we'd made, two to lay diversionary charges four hundred metres to the east, in roughly the position occupied by the south gates of the Libyan camp.

The first stages all went according to plan. Pat and I made a covert approach to the building, broke in through a window, fired a couple of rounds through a Hun's-head target in one of the rooms, and then let off a stun grenade outside to indicate that things had gone noisy. As e were moving back to the fence, a big bang went off down the llne, simulating the diversionary explosion, and we all legged it to the spot designated as our ERV.

So far, so good. But by then heavy rain had come on, and as we rode away in the dark the bikes began to slither around like snakes on the greasy grass. We were only using bags of sand as weights, but we'd measured them out and made sure that we had eighty pounds on the front rack and a hundred on the back, well strapped on. The loads certainly pushed the quads down on their suspension and made the steering heavier.

Coming downhill close to the lip of a ravine, Fred Parry, our lanky explosives star, hit a rock and skidded towards the edge. The crust of heathery peat broke away beneath his left-hand rear wheel, and a second later he and the bike were rolling over and over down the steep bank towards the stream.

He might have got away with it if it weren't for the lumps of rock sticking out from the sandy bank. By sheer bad luck the quad came down on him and pinned him against a rock that had no give in it, dealing his left leg a fearsome smack. He finished up face-down in some grass with the machine on top of him and the engine still running, wheels turning.

I'd been tiding next in line, and there was just enough light for me to see him go arse over tip down the bank. In a flash I was offmy own bike and running down towards the casualty.

Fred was pinned down by a handlebar in the small of his back. His right leg was straight, but my torch-beam showed that his left leg was bent out at a diabolical angle.

I yelled, 'Don't move!' and reached under the handlebar panel to switch off his ignition. The smell of petrol was everywhere. I had visions of a sudden w00f.r and the pair of us on fire.

Fred was just moaning, 'Shit! Shit! Shit! My fucking leg!'

'Keep still,' I told him again. With a big heave I rolled the bike off him, back on to its wheels. At that moment heads appeared against the sky on the tim of the ravine above, and somebody shouted, 'Get up, wanker!'

'Bollocks!' I yelled at them. 'He got a bad break. Get on the mobile for the chopper. Tell them the casualty's got a broken leg, high up. Femur or hip.'

I knelt down beside l=red. His eyes were screwed tightly shut. 'How is it?'

'Fucking horrible.' He tried to move and gave a groan.

'Stay how you are. It'll be better if we don't try to move you. The doc's on his way. He'll be here in twenty minutes.'

The other guys came down and gathered round, making sympathetic noises now. Since we were only training, we had only a limited medical pack to hand, and so couldn't give Fred anything to ease the pain. But we wrapped him in our sweaters to keep him warm and covered him with ponchos to throw the rain off. I stayed with him while the others recced round for a place at which the chopper could put down. The ravine was too narrow for the pilot to hover, andit was obvious we'd have to carry the casualty up on to more level ground; but I reckoned it was better to wait until the doc had put a shot of morphine into him and got the leg splinted.

As I chit-chatted to keep up his morale, the rest tied ropes on to the stranded quad. With one guy steering it and two bikes pulling from above, they heaved it up on to the open hillside. The fuel tank had been punctured on the top, presumably by impact with a rock, but apart from a few dents and scratches the machine still seemed in remarkably good nick. The rest of the guys then got their bikes deployed in a big circle, with their headlamps shining inwards, to make a pool of light on which the chopper could put down.

The recovery went without a hitch. In twenty-two minutes from call-out the standby Puma was overhead and settling towards the lighted patch. In a few more seconds Doc Palmer and his medic were beside the injured man with their bags of tricks. Within five minutes they had him hot to trot, well doped with morphine, his left leg secured in a pneumatic splint blown up like a giant condom, which held the broken limb snugly alongside the good one in the stretcher.

While they were working we loaded the bent quad into the Puma and lashed it down. Then four of us carried Fred up out of the ravine and slid him on to the floor of the chopper. The last we saw of him, he was giving a cheerful wave as the helicopter lifted away.

On our way back to camp I felt depressed. With four days to go, we were a man down and urgently in need of a replacement. But then, as if Pat had intoned Allah tearim ('God is good') a few hundred times, I found we had one: that afternoon, clearance had at last come through from Washington for Tony Lopez to join the team.

For me this was a big breakthrough, and it gave my morale a boost. Tony was the guy I wanted more than anyone else — partly because he too would recognise the target and remove any possibility of identification error, and partly because I knew he was a ferociously effective operator, veteran of many hairy operations in Panama and elsewhere. Having spent five weeks in gaol with him, I was absolutely confident that we could rub along together. Besides, he knew more about the Arab world than the rest of us put together, because, a couple of years before the Gulf, he'd run a SEAL team job in Abu Dhabi, instructing the local forces in weapon training and close-quarter battle techniques. Like Pat, he'd done a course in Arabic, and had a smattering of the language.

Until then I'd observed the letter of the law and hadn't given him (or anybody else) the slightest hint about what I was doing. I'd had to tell Fraser that I'd be abroad at the end of the week for six or seven days, but I hadn't said what the operation was or where it would take place.

Now, with the agreement of the ops officer, I was able to put Tony in the picture.

When he heard what the deal was, he leapt up and punched the air with loud whoops of 'Great fuckin' snakes!'

'You're going to have to do the explosives,' I warned him. 'That was poor old Fred's job.'

'No sweat!' he cried. 'I've blown the shit out of more goddamn automobiles, trucks, houses, trashcans, bridges and railway lines than you could ever imagine.'

For a more thorough briefing, we decided that he should come out to the cottage and cook a celebration dinner.

The enemy, however, had other plans. At six-thirty that evening I'd just reached home when the incident room rang to say that the PIRA had called what they thought was my own number. I was to return immediately.

Having scorched back, I listened with a mixture of rage and fascination to the brief tape recording.

'I'll speak to Geordie Sharp,' said a man with a strong Belfast accent.

'I'm sorry,' replied Karen, the Streisand girl, who was on duty, 'he's working at the moment.'

'Can I call him somewhere else?'

'Afraid. not,' she said. 'He's out and about.'

'Who are you, then?'

'I'm looking after the house for him. Shall I get him to call you? Who's speaking, please?'

'Nobody he's heard of. What time will he be back?'

'What time is it now? I haven't got a watch.'

'Now? It's twenty-five past six.'

'Well… he said seven o'clock.'

'Half an hour, then?'

'That should be fine. Can I give him any message?'

'No. I'll call.'

'What name shall I tell him?'

'No name.'

'No name?'

'You can say Kevin.' And with that the man had switched off.

The call had been made from a mobile. From the way the signal came and went we were pretty sure he'd been in a car, driving around. He'd been on the air only a few seconds; Special Branch would have needed four or five minutes to DF him accurately. But at least there was now a chance of another call coming through for them to work on.

I listened to the tape three times. The twang of the accent — 'nay', almost 'nayee', for 'now' — took me straight back to Northern Ireland and the slimy, sleazy methods of the PItLA. In particular I thought of the night when, lying in a ditch a few yards from an isolated farmhouse, I could have topped Farrell as he stood there bollocking some underlings for failing to go through with a shoot. I remembered how he'd roared 'Cunts!' at them, addressing them as though they were shit. The guy had been barely thirty yards from me. My companion and I could have dropped the whole group of players — but the head-shed had forbidden us to open fire because one of them was then the most valuable tout in business.

This guy on the tape had the same sort of peremptory, domineering manner. The way he'd started in — 'I'll speak to Geordie Sharp' — immediately put a,stamp on him. There was no question of'can I…?' or 'please', just arrogance and bluster.

'Christ!' I muttered. 'Just wait till the bastard comes through again. I'll sort him.'

'Take it easy, Geordie,' said Fraser, who'd come flying back into the incident room from the digs he'd taken in town. 'Whatever your feelings, it's no good getting stroppy with these people. They're always hoping to make you lose your rag, and if you do you play into their hands.'

I settled in to wait. The girl had said I'd be back in half an hour. Kevin, whoever he was, should call again around seven. I rang Tony and told him I'd been delayed. 'Why not go on out to the cottage and make yourself at home?' I suggested. 'You know where the key is — on the hook.'

'OK,' he agreed. 'I've been to the supermarket and got the stuff to cook something real good. I'll see you later.'

As I hung around, the SB girl, Karen, began to get on my tits again. I had to admit that she'd handled the call as well as anyone could have — she'd tried to keep the guy on the line, and given nothing away — yet there was something about her that annoyed me, an air of complacency that came over more in the way she looked and acted than in anything she said. She was wearing a track suit of dark-blue velvety material, and she seemed unable to keep still. She.was forever looking at her nails, filing one of them for a second or two, bringing a mirror out of her handbag, tweaking at her eyebrows, patting her fair hair into place, all as if she was trying to attract attention. The trouble with her, I decided, is that she's too damned pleased with her looks. I also caught her staring at me a couple of times in a way that was strictly unoperational. I realised that she must have been bored to tears, sitting around day after day on her fanny with nothing happening, living in some dreary bed-and- breakfast dump away from her home, wherever that was.

I knew I should have made an effort to chat her up and be friendly, but I just had too much on my mind.

Seven o'clock came and went. Seven-thirty, eight, eight-thirty.

Fraser could see I was getting more and more steamed up. 'Relax, Geordie,' he said. This is standard practice. They do it to wind you up. Don't fall for it.

Stay cool.'

'It's OK for you,' I said. 'It isn't your kid they've got.'

'I know. But I do have a little girl about Tim's age. I can imagine what you're feeling.'

I'd been so wrapped up in my own problems that I'd never paused to think about Foxy's domestic circumstances. The news that he had a family made him seem suddenly more human. Looking at the lines on his forehead I thought, You must have started late, to have a daughter of four. And he, as if reading my mind, added, 'I didn't get married till I was thirty-seven.'

'Sorry,' I mumbled. 'I didn't mean anything personal.'

He smiled, and as he came past where I was sitting he gave me a bump on the arm with the heel of his hand.

At nine o'clock I rang Tony. 'Listen,' I said. 'The bastards haven't called. They're stringing us along.'

'Aw, shit. I've made a hell of a Mexican bean stew.'

'Go ahead and eat it, then. I don't know when I'll get back.'

‘I'll keep some warm for you anyhow.'

'Thanks, Tony.'

It was nearly eleven when the call at last came through. I was sitting by the phone, but not wanting to appear too eager I let it ring five times before I picked up the receiver. Then I just said, 'Yes?', 'Geordie Sharp?'

'Yep.'

'I'm calling about your family.'

Was this the same voice as on the tape? I didn't think so. A Belfast accent, all right, but somehow different.

The connection was brilliantly dear, as if the call was short-distance. I looked across at Fraser and raised a thumb.

'Kevin, is it?' I said.

'It is not. A friend of Kevin's.'

'Oh — right.'

'You're wanting them back.'

'Where are they?'

'I said, you're wanting them back. Are you not?'

'Of course.'

'You know what to do, then.'

'What?'

'Get our man out.'

'What man?'

'Declan Farrell.'

'Farrell?' I said. 'Who's he?'

'Look, if you want to see your little boy again, or your girlfriend, you'll not mess about.'

'Wait a minute. I don't know who you're talking about. Who is Farrell?'

'It's the man you were after murdering at Ballyconvil. You know him.'

'Bally-what? I never heard the name before. Where's this guy supposed to be?'

'The Brits have him.'

'What, in Belfast?'

'No, on the mainland.'

'What's happened?. Is he in the nick or something?'

'In gaol, so he is.'

'What am I supposed to do about that?'

'Ask around. Find out where he's been put, and spring him.'

'But I'm army, not police. I don't have the contacts.

Besides, I'm working. I don't have the time.'

'I said — ask around.'

'All right. Listen, I'll do what I can. Give me a couple of days. Then I'll get back to you.'

'You will not. I'll call you in two days' time. That's

Thursday. Seven o'clock.'

'Hello?'

I was going to try and glean some scrap of information about how the hostages were, but the line had gone dead.

'Well done!' said Fraser keenly. 'That was great, the way you kept him on the air. Let's see what the boys have managed.'

A couple of minutes later we learnt that the call had been traced to a phone box in West Belfast. Of course, by the time the P, UC arrived there the caller would have gone, but there was a chance of getting some fingerprints. The fact that the PICA had rung from Northern Ireland alarmed me, as it seemed to work against Special Branch's theory that London was the most likely place for the hostages to be held. But Fraser remained unruffled, saying that, naturally, their spokesman would phone from Belfast wherever the prisoners were.

The exchange left me screwed up with a seething mixture of anger and frustration. The arrogance of the guy's manner had really pissed me off.. That was bad enough, but almost worse was my own helplessness.

What the hell could I do? If I'd lost my rag and called him a scumbag he'd merely have laughed. If I'd admitted I knew where Farrell was he'd have gone on saying, 'Get him out, then.'

Did the PIIA realise I'd been in Colombia and had been responsible for Farrell's capture? The caller had,given no sign of knowing that, but it made little difference. Somehow the terrorists had established the connection between me and their big player, and little details — like the fact he was in a high-security prison were not going to worry them.

Screw the nut, I told myself. Like Foxy says: stay cool.

It was midnight by the time I got home. I found Tony asleep on the settee in the sitting room with the TV burbling some crap about fitted wardrobes. Going in quietly I switched it off, got down behind the armchair and let out a loud yell — whereupon he leapt eight feet in the air and came down facing the door in an exaggerated crouch, as if to take on all corners.

'Great sentry you'd make,' I told him, rising into view.

'Boy!' he gasped. 'Did you give me a fright!'

'Have a drink. How about a Scotch?'

'You having one?'

'Sure. I need something after that.' While I poured two drinks I told him about the telephone contact. He brought out the remains of the bean stew he'd cooked with such care, and I ate it at the kitchen table gratefully enough, though gasping a bit at the chillies while I filled him in between mouthfuls on what had happened.

'This is driving me crazy,' I told him. 'There's no way we can get at them.'

'What are Special Branch doing?'

'Looking around and listening. Checking the movements of known players, going through their own records on the central computer. That's about all they can do. Tony — d'you think I'm crazy to go on this operation?'

'Not at all. You wouldn't achieve anything if you didn't go — except making yourself feel real bad.'

'That's true. But what if I get written off?'

'Might be the best way of getting the hostages released.'

I stared at him. 'You're joking.'

'Nope. I mean it. If you disappeared from the scene the terrorists' emotional blackmail would be at an end.

They couldn't exert anywhere near the same pressure through anyone else. They'd probably just turn Tracy and Tim loose somewhere and call it a day.'

'You think so? Do the IliA ever release hostages?'

'Sure, if they've nothing to gain by holding them any longer. I was talking to Fraser about it this morning.'

'But Tracy's seen their people. She knows several faces by now.'

'Nobody important.'

'In that case,' I said, 'next time they come through, maybe the word should be that I'm dead and they've missed the boat. Anyway… sod that. Let's talk about the operation.'

I opened out a large-scale map of north-east Africa and spread it on the table. The area for which we were heading was an extension of Egypt's Western Desert, birthplace of the Regiment during the Second World War. It was there that David Stifling had formed his Long-Range Desert Group, from which the SAS had emerged, and created havoc by blowing up aircraft far behind enemy lines. It was there also that Jack Sillito had made the most famous escape in SAS history, tabbing more than a hundred miles through the desert after he had been cut off behind the German forces.

'What the hell did he do for water?' Tony asked.

'Good question. Some people reckon he drank his own piss. Others say he managed on condensation that formed at night in old jerricans. Either way, it was some feat.'

Talk of this and other exploits carried us into the small hours. We also pored over the map to discuss our route to the target. From the Egyptian airfield at Siwa, a Chinook was due to lift us over the border and then due west across 300 kilometres of empty desert. The map showed the single MSP, running from Ajdabiya in the north-west to a place called AI Jawf, 800 kilometres out in the Sahara to the south-east. Once we crossed over that we'd be within striking distance of our drop- off point, and the chopper would land us only sixty kilometres short of our objective.

'Funny, having another A1 Jawfjust there,' I said.

'That was the name of the place where we had our FMB in Saudi.'

'It means “interior”,' said Tony. 'It can also mean a hole or depression, but down there I guess it's the interior. I expect there's dozens oral Jawt, if you look around. Hell of a place we're going.' He jabbed a forefinger at the map, indicating the vast empty spaces, unmarked by roads, towns or any other sign of civilisation. 'Nothing for hundreds of miles.'

'I know. But you know as well as I do: the biggest hazard's going to be wandering goatherds. If Iraq's anything to go by, the Libyan desert'll be full of the bastards too. They arrive out of nowhere, just when you least want them. And then, if they see you, you're faced with a bad decision. If you let them go they tell someone else there are nasties about; if you top them their friends come looking.'

In the incident room next morning the idea of my disappearing from the scene went down like a lead balloon. Fraser reckoned that if I vanished, the PIRA's response tnight easily be to knock the hostages off and make the bodies disappear.

'Forget that,' he said. 'What we need is a controlled release of information to keep them in play. Next time they come on the line, tell them a little bit about Farrell.

Tell them you've found out that they're right: he is in gaol, and you're trying to discover where.

'I see the point,' I agreed. 'But look, as I told you, I'm off abroad on Sunday for a week. What happens while I'm away?'

'I've been thinking about that. I'd like to find someone with a similar accent, and haee him stand in for you. We can brief him up on what to say.'

I didn't like the sound of that. Again, it would increase the chances of a cock-up. But I couldn't really hold out against it. 'Well,' I said, 'there's no shortage of Geordies in the Regiment. I can think of two others straight away.'

Then I had an inspiration. 'Listen — I know the man you want: Billy Bracewell, a staff sergeant on G Squadron. He was in command of the QRF that got us out of the jungle in Colombia. He saw Farrell when we captured him — flew back with him to the forward base, in fact. He can talk about him better than anyone.'

So Billy was roped in to impersonate me if the occasion arose.

But for the whole of Thursday and Friday my mind was in turmoil with a new idea. In the Wing, on the range, in the laundry, in the gym, in town, at the cottage… no matter where I was or what I was doing, I could think of nothing else. The first time I'd run up against Farrell, in Ulster, it had proved impossible to top him in legitimate operations, and in the end I had reached the conclusion that the only way to get him was to go after him on my own — which was what I did.

Now I'd begun to think that my only hope of recovering Tim and Tracy might lie in another extramural effort. I knew Farrell was in Winson Green. If I could discover the routine there — or, better still, find out when the prisoner was going to be moved somewhere, possibly for a court hearing — I and a few of the lads might be able to ambush the police convoy, spring him, and hand him back to the PIRA. We could buy an old banger for a couple of hundred quid cash, or even steal one, and ram the police van with it, then use one of our own cars with phoney licence plates for the getaway. The activity would be criminal, I realised but when you're growing desperate, as I was, you think up desperate measures.

I didn't want to involve Tony in such a wild scheme, because if anything went wrong it would bring his service with the SAS to an abrupt end. Pat Newman, though, was a different matter. He was eighteen months older than me, and already talking of leaving the Regiment when he'd completed ten years (in a few months' time), so he had less to lose.

That Wednesday evening I waylaid him and suggested we went for a pint at the Crooked Billet, a pub out in the country not much frequented by our lads. There we got stuck into a corner of the public bar, which contained nobody else but one typical old Herefordshire cider-head, with a face as purple as a beetroot and greasy hair half-way down his back.

I started by talking about details of our imminent operation. I noticed Pat giving me the eyeball in a peculiar way, and after a while I stopped. 'What's the matter?' I asked. 'Don't you want to hear all this?'

'Yeah, yeah,' he went. 'It's lust that Yorky asked me to keep a close eye on you, make sure you didn't try to run out.'

'For fuck's sake! Who said I was going to run out?'

'Nobody, but he wasn't sure you were really on for Libya. He.told me to chat you up about it, keep you on side.'

'Thanks, mate.'

'I didn't, though. Did I?'

'Not a word. Good on yer, Pat. But, Christ, what bastards they are! Always trying to get round your back and put pressure on from behind.'

'Forget it, anyway.'

'All right.' So I switched to talk about my new plan.

Pat's reaction was forthright. He put down his mug, stared at me incredulously, and said, 'Geordie, you're fucking mad! The strain of this thing isgetting to you.

That's the craziest idea I've ever heard. Even if we. managed to spring the guy from the convoy we'd all be nicked. There'd only be a few of us against hundreds of coppers. What are we supposed to do? Shoot our way out and leave a trail of corpses? It's not as if we're in bloody Ulster. It might be different if we could mobilise a whole army — but Christ! No: think of it. The thing would end in a pitched fucking battle, a civil war.'

'Well, if we did it at night we'd have a better chance of getting away with it.'

Pat shook his head and said, 'They don't take star prisoners to court at dead of night. Forget it, mate. I know they've got you over a barrel, and I'm sorry for you, but this is not the way out.'

'For “barrel” read “Farrell”,' I said savagely. 'I just hope the bastard's rotting in gaol. I hope his wounds have turned gangrenous. By the sound of it, they have:

I hear he's quite sick. He's got a ban on visitors too.'

'Oh? How's that?'

'Foxy Fraser told me. The first guy who went to see him got searched on the way in, like all visitors are, and they found something on him — an escape kit he was trying to smuggle in. That was the end of that.'

'So the feller never made it?'

I shook my head. But for all the cold water that Pat had poured, I couldn't abandon my idea. Maybe if I got together a few guys who'd left the Regiment recently, a few old hands… What I needed first was inside information about Winson Green — and as I thought about this problem I had a brainwave. A former member of the SAS, Jim R.oberts, whom I'd known, had joined the prison service as some kind of welfare officer. Maybe if I found out where he was, he would give me some leads.

One certain fact was that I didn't have time to get anything going before Operation Ostrich went down.

There were only two days left before take-off, and both were hectic with last-minute preparations. I therefore said no more to Pat, except that I told him not to mention my madcap scheme to anyone.

For me, the next hurdle that needed clearing was the second PIRA call, due on Thursday evening. Together with Foxy Fraser I'd worked out more or less what I was going to say. As far as he knew, the ideas I suggested were not an action plan but pure fantasy, designed to keep the PIRA interested; there was no way Foxy could tell that I was seriously considering putting my scheme into practice.

'Excellent!' he said several times when I proposed intercepting a police convoy. 'Capital. I like it.'

It seemed highly unlikely that the PIRA would meet the deadline of seven o'clock, but I got down to the incident room on time, just in case. Once again Karen was on the desk, wearing the same slinky tracksuit, and she gave me one of her flirtatious sideways looks as I came in. Also present was Billy Bracewell, fair-haired and beefy, my alter ego, who'd come to listen in to what was said and tune in to my reactions.

To everyone's amazement, my home line rang at seven-fifteen, barely quarter of an hour late. This time I waited for the caller to speak. There was a pause of several seconds before a man said, 'Hello?'

'Yep,' I went, very curt.

'Is that Geordie Sharp?'

'Yep.'

'What news?'

'You're right. Farrell's in this country.'

'Where?'

'Winson Green.'

'Where's that?'

'Birmingham.'

'Jaysus! What have they put him there for?'

'Don't ask me.'

The way the man had hesitated before asking 'Where's that?' made me certain he already knew where Farrell was. That was why I gave him the true answer: otherwise he might never have trusted me again.

Presently he went, 'Well?'

'Well what?'

'What are you doing about getting him out?'

'Listen, Kevin. Kevin, is it?'

'It is. Go on, now.'

'I've been thinking. To spring him from gaol would need a ficking army. I've got a f-ew lads lined up, but we can't muster that strength.'

'So?'

'The way to do it is to wait till he's being moved.

Wait till he's outside the gaol, on his way to court or something. He's on remand at the moment, but soon they'll have to take him to court to charge him. Then we may be able to hit the convoy and do a snatch.'

'Good. That sounds better. So when's he going to court?'

'I'm trying to find out. The preliminary hearing's bound to be soon. I can get a question to one of“ the screws who works in the prison through the father of- one of-my mates, lie's retired, but he used to be a screw as well. He's abroad at the moment, back at the weekend. I'll get news then.'

'Fair enough. Is your contact on the hospital wing?'

'I don't think so. But even if he isn't he'll know the guys who are.'

'All right. But you need to get a move on. Your family's deteriorating.'

'What d'you mean?'

'They're missing you. Listen to this.'

I heard a couple of clicks, then a hissing noise. I realised the guy had turned on a small tape recorder and was holding the mouthpiece to the loudspeaker.

Suddenly I heard Tracy's voice, shaky and peculiar: 'Geordie,' she said, 'for God's sake do something to get us out. For God's sake…' Then came more hissing, and suddenly Tim's voice: 'Daddy, I don't like it here.

I want to come home.'

That was all he said, but it nearly cracked me up.

'Hello!' I called loudly. 'Tim! Hello!'

'Seven o'clock-on Monday, then,' said the Belfast voice.

Suddenly everything was too much. 'Hey, cuntt.' I shouted. 'Give me my kid backt.'

The line had gone dead. 'FUCKING AtLSE- HOLES!' I yelled. I crashed the receiver down so hard that it split the cradle of the phone clean in half. The whole instrument disintegrated in an explosion of grey plastic. In a surge of frustration I hurled over the table and sent a shower of files cascading to the floor.

Fraser and Bates were standing back against one wall, both looking shocked by the violence of my outburst.

Fraser was speaking into another phone, and I heard him saying urgently, 'Mobile, moving around in the Ealing area of West London.'

Bates came forward and laid a hand on my shoulder, mutteringe 'Take it easy, Geordie.'

I fought down a wild instinct to belt him one, so furious did I feel. I shook offhis hand and said, 'Ah, get away!' Then I took a grip of myself and apologised.

'That's all right,' Bates said gently. 'I know how you feel.'

When I recovered I found SB much encouraged, as though they'd got a breakthrough. The fact that the call had come from the area they'd been predicting raised everyone's hopes.

People filtered away into the room next door, and as I sat there on a kind of bar-stool in frorit of a counter, still feeling stunned, I became aware that Karen had come up close and was standing right behind me.

'You look creased,' she said quietly. 'Would you like me to come out and cook supper for you? Or you could come to my place…'

I tensed myself, unwilling to believe my ears. The woman was making a proposition. I nearly spun round and belted her away with the back of my hand, but I held myself in check and grunted, 'Thanks, but I'm all right.'

'Sure? I'd really like to. You could stay the night if you wanted. There's a spare room. Or, as I said, I could cook supper at the cottage.' As she spoke she leant forward to pick up the telephone, deliberately brushing her breasts against my shoulder blades.

I should have stood up and walked away; I knew what she was after, and wanted nothing to do with her.

But I was in such a low state that I sat tight and said, 'All right, then. Maybe I would be glad of company. Let's go to the cottage. There's plenty of food in the freezer.'

'I'll get something fresh on the way out of town,' she said. 'Half an hour?'

Everything went fine at first. Karen drove her Fiesta back to her digs and changed into a white frock with blue polka dots on it, which made her look very feminine. Then she dived into the supermarket and came out with a couple of steaks and some stir-fry vegetables. Having showered and changed while she was on the way, I dug out a bottle of red wine from the cupboard under the stairs and sat at the kitchen table chatting while she cooked.

We ate, and it was all harmless enough. She seemed genuinely sympathetic, and when she asked about my family background I found it a relief to describe how, after getting wounded and captured in Iraq, I'd found it impossible to settle back in with Kath, how I'd hit the bottle, and become so difficult to live with that a trial separation seemed the only answer.

'The worst thing of all was that she'd agreed to come back,' I said. 'I was on the up again. When I rang and suggested we got back together it was all she wanted to do. Another week, and she'd have come… Then that bastard Farrell sent his young feller with the bomb.'

'Tough,' Karefi agreed. 'Really tough. But what's so special about Tracy?'

At that point I should have scented danger. But the words weren't said in an aggressive tone, and I took them at face value.

'Well, she was fantastic. She just took over the house and became a foster-mother to Tim.'

'Right away?'

'No… after a decent interval.'

'How did you meet her?'

'She'd been around for ages. She was working as one of the receptionists in the Med Centre.'

'Obviously you fancied her.'

'What d'you mean? Everyone fancied her. Guys positively looked forward to reporting sick with some minor ailment, just so they could chat her up.'

'But what is it about her?'

I wasn't going to say that her gloriously long legs turned me on, or that she did wild things in bed. I just told her, 'She's a gassy person. Always full of jokes.

She's great at making stupid remarks that crack me up.'

'So you're planning to get married?'

'That's on the cards.' I wasn't going to mention the baby to this inquisitive cow.

'You must have made advances,' she said abruptly.

That did jar, and I retorted, 'What's that got to do with you?'

Karen didn't answer but stood up, Walked across to her handbag and brought out a cigarette, which she lit.- That pissed me offas well. I don't like people smoking in my house, especially without asking.

'Is there any more wine?' she asked.

'Sorry, that's it. I just had the one bottle.'

'How about a Scotch, then?'

'You oughtn't to; you've got to drive back.'

'Oh, one won't hurt. Not after all that food.'

'Help yourself, then.'

'What about you?'

'No, thanks.'

She moved across to the dresser, took down a glass and the bottle of Haig, and poured herself a measure. I wasn't chuffed with that, either. She did it with her back to me, trying to conceal the amount she was taking, but I sneaked a glimpse and saw that it was three fingers at least. Then she ran some water into the glass and came back to the table.

Instead of livening her up, the spirit made her morose. I tried to draw her out about her own background, but she seemed reluctant to discuss it and, beyond the facts that she was twenty-six and came from Norwich, I learnt practically nothing. It sounded as though she had no steady boyfriend, and never kept one for long. 'My career,' she kept saying. 'It's all down to my career.'

By eleven o'clock she wasn't making much sense, but still she needled away about my relationship with Tracy. I kept my cool and fended her off with non committal remarks, until suddenly I'd had enough. At that point I stood up and said, 'Look, Karen, thanks for coming. I'm grateful to you for keeping me company, but it's time to break up the party. You can't drive back in that state. You'd better get your head down in Susan's room and go back to town in the morning.'

'Shushan?' she said. 'Who's that?'

'The friend who's been sharing the house with Tracy.'

'Another of these smashing red-heads, I suppose.'

'Don't be stupid. Come on, now.'

'Washing up,' she slurred.

'It can wait. Leave it. I'll find you a towel.'

I ran up the stairs three at a time, and saw her clawing at the banisters as she came up behind me. On the landing I switched on the light in the spare room and said, 'Here you are. The bed's made up. The bath room's next door — there. It's all yours.'

I half expected her to make a grab at me because she'd previously shown such obvious signs of sexual frustration. But she simply said, 'Good night then, and thanks,' and went into the room, closing the door behind her.

Five minutes later I locked my own bedroom door and crashed out, so exhausted that I went straight to sleep. The next thing I knew, somebody was knocking on the door. For a moment I couldn't think who the hell it was. Then I struggled up on one elbow and called, 'What's the matter?'

'It's me — Karen.'

'What's the problem?'

'Thero: s water dripping.'

'For Christ's sake! Forget it. I expect the roof tank's filling up.'

'No, this is coming through the ceiling somewhere.'

Ah, hell, I thought. But I said, 'OK. Wait one, I'll have a look.'

I pulled on a bath-robe and opened the door. As I went to step out on to the landing I walked straight into Karen. She was standing in the doorway stark naked. In an instant one arm was round my neck and the other hand going for my crotch. Instinctively I brought up a knee and bumped her in the groin, whereupon she gave a scream and threw herself at me like a lunatic. I don't know if you've ever been attacked in the dark by a naked, sex-starved female — but it's quite an experience, I can tell you. Half the time I was trying not to get myself ripped and scratched, and the rest I was trying not to hurt her; but inevitably, as we wrestled, I kept getting a handful of this and that, with the result that she became still more desperate.

On me, the effect was anything but arousing. All I could think of were those terrible women brought into escape and evasion exercises to humiliate students who get captured, stripped and interrogated. When a guy's naked and at his lowest ebb, one of these old slappers comes in and starts insulting him with remarks like, 'Is that an acorn you've got stuck between your legs? I can hardly see it.' That was how I felt when I was pushing Karen around. She had a firm, meaty body, and in easier circumstances might have been a great lay — I could feel that all right — but she turned me on about as much as did the idea of Farrell and the IILA.

Things finished up with me getting her in a double half-Nelson and giving her a couple of slaps on the rump, whereupon she burst into tears.

'For Christ's sake!' I said. 'Go back to bed or go home, I don't care which. If the cops get you on the way, that's your lookout. But just stop bothering me.'

Those were the last words we had. I re-locked my door and eventually fell asleep again, and at about half- past six I heard her car start up outside. When I went to shave and looked at myself in the mirror, I saw I had a couple of scratches down one temple, and straight away I began to think of a way of explaining them to the lads.

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