Spears of Defiance

by David Holman

  Alerted by the laughter, he noticed it was a wedding party with the couple taking centre stage in a photo session.

  The photographer positioned himself strategically clicking away to capture the events of their happy day.

  Had Ramir have been able to view through the telephoto lens of the Canon A-1 SLR camera, he would have seen it was aimed above their shoulders at himself and his two clients.

  As the couple posed, gazing at each other and locking themselves in an embracing kiss, the camera clicked away at the faces behind them.

  Later, back at Thames House, the film would be processed and soon afterwards a set of 12x8 colour photos scattered onto Stratton’s Desk.

  From the moment the Libyan had landed, alarm bells had rung. A known arms dealer had entered the country on a false passport in the name of Hamid Aziz and surveillance teams had been dispatched, tracking him to the Savoy and then on his short journey by taxi to this white building off Russell Square. The wedding party scenario was one of the more successful pieces of tradecraft for this kind of work.

  Also, in the foyer at the far end, sat Jimmy-Boy Kerrigan’s watchers. Their coats off, they sat enjoying a drink while they discreetly observed the couple in conversation with the stranger.

  Ramir smiled as Officer Sophie Lewis, splendid in her meringue wedding dress twirled on her fabric, kitten-heeled court shoes for her individual shots. She was enjoying the moment of this assignment, hoping one day this would all be for real, though the groom was not the man she had her eyes on in her department, they were reserved for the dashing Steven Laindon, her immediate team leader in surveillance and counter surveillance, and deputy of A Section.

  The Libyan forced himself back to his meeting. ‘Mr Munroe, you understand as I am not acquainted with you, I will talk in Arabic to Miss Hennessy.

  Munroe nodded, locking eyes with the Libyan. ‘If this makes you feel more comfortable.’

  She gripped his hand giving it an appreciative squeeze and Munroe took a sip of his scotch and sat back unobtrusively in his chair to allow them to converse. Ramir continued now speaking in Arabic to the Irish woman and Munroe stared in admiration as she responded in a flawless dialect. A long spell sunning herself in a hot country and she could pass easily as one of his wives, Munroe thought.

  Ramir’s eyes smiled at hers as they talked about the arrangement for a shipment of explosives to be delivered to the port of Beira in Mozambique, one end of the supply lifeline railway to landlocked Rhodesia. He liked doing his deliveries on his native continent, it was easy to bribe the poor black countries of the south with the wealth of the oil-rich north. The port authorities would look the other way knowing their pockets would be filled with the fruits of their corruption. The Libyan agreed the sale. He opened his crocodile skin briefcase and pulled out a document laying it down in front of them. As he reached into his jacket for his jewelled ink pen, he failed to notice the bride had moved closer.

  Moving her back towards the table, Lewis pretended to trip by deliberately catching one of her heels on the pillar just in front of them, and losing momentum tumbled onto the floor to the left of the Libyan.

  Ramir being a gentleman, had acted quickly in coming to her aid. He grabbed for her arm and gently pulled her back to her feet noticing that she had hurt it in her fall. A redness was beginning to form on the skin just below her wrist. ‘It looks like that will bruise, I’m afraid,’ he informed her gazing into her green eyes.

  Lewis got back on her feet and thanked him. As she stood over the table ruffling the cascading hem of her dress, she took in the contents of the document. Her talent of possessing a photographic memory would help her provide the vital details of what she saw. It was a document she was familiar with, an end-user certificate - an arms dealer’s contract with their buyer.

  Having now finished adjusting her dress she looked down at the Libyan, thanking him again with her most apologetic of forced smiles.

  Ramir responded by glancing at both the bride and the groom and wishing them luck.

  Lewis led her partner away to the far side of the foyer and along with the photographer walked into the lift. In the room they had hired for this operation, she would be able to report her observations to the photographer. The wedding party had done their bit. Now, it would be the turn of the other team onsite to track the next journey of the Libyan and, to also consider these latest players. As the lift doors closed, Sophie Lewis had decided that following the debriefing, she would consult records to see if these two people were known faces.

  The meeting was over, Munroe and Hennessy left before the Libyan, waiting outside the hotel then jumping into a taxi. Behind them in another taxi, were Kerrigan’s men, followed by the second MI5 surveillance team in a blue Rover.

  The end of the ride had brought the South African and his partner outside a small hotel, off Regents Park. When the other taxi pulled up, the driver was given a substantial fare to quiet him and the two men got out while the Rover pulled over and parked on the other side of the road. The passenger then pulled out a notepad from under the dashboard and scribbled details of time, location and descriptions of not only the people they were following, but having suddenly been alarmed at the appearance of these men, their particulars were also recorded.

  Inside the hotel, Siobhan Hennessy was first through the door of the room they had booked for the night and taking off her jacket, unzipping her boots and pulling down her jeans, she kicked them off, collapsed down onto the bed and stared at the ceiling.

  Munroe put down the key on the table, walked over and sat down beside her. ‘Long day.’ he stated, leaning over and giving her a kiss. ‘So, what happens now?’

  Hennessy rolled over onto her stomach to look at him. ‘We contact Ramir in the morning at his hotel to confirm the delivery.’ ‘

  ‘And then, you come with me to Mozambique and we meet with the ship?’

  Hennessy rose from the bed and stood staring out of the window at the park. ‘I thought we talked about this already? She turned to face him. ‘I can’t go with you, Phillip. I just can’t.’

  Munroe angrily shook his head. ‘Why not? Is it because of the brigade you’re with? This bully boy has really got you, hasn’t he, Siobhan? Snaps his fingers and you come running. I suppose you curtsey to him as well?’

  Hennessy gave him a vicious scowl. ‘That’s enough, Munroe. I’m tired and I’m hungry. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.’

  He gripped her arm. ‘Why?’

  She turned onto her side, away from him. ‘Because, there’s something else.’

  Munroe was suddenly curious. ‘What do you mean?’

  She rolled onto her back again. ‘I have a four-year old daughter, Phillip. Her name’s Claire. She lives with my parent’s in County Down.’

  Munroe’s eyes widened. ‘Christ. You are a dark horse. And, this brigade commander is using her to keep you loyal to him, I suppose? What a bastard.’

  Hennessy sat up, tears beginning to well in her eyes. ‘You see now, Phil, why I can’t just go with you?’

  Munroe decided not to push it any further. ‘So, what’s she like?’ He felt there was now a sudden hostility between them and thought talking about her daughter would lighten the mood.

  Hennessy swung herself off the bed and reaching into her handbag, pulled out a photograph of a young blonde infant poised on a pink bicycle, wearing a blue floral print smocked-dress and red Wellington boots.

  ‘She’s beautiful Siobhan.’ He then noticed something else. ‘She hasn’t got your hair though. Is her father still around?’

  She gave the photo one more look before putting it back into her bag. ‘He disappeared before she was born.’

  Munroe sensed there was more. Could this man have been an active member she had gotten too close to, and one day had gone off to accidentally score what friends in the British Parachute Regiment called an ‘own goal’? He remembered their stories of terrorists blowing themselves up when putting together or transporting
their own bombs.

  Hennessy knew he wanted to know more, but before he could be given the chance, she stood up. ‘Anyway, I’m starving. Let’s go eat, Soldier Boy.’

  Downstairs, Lumberjacket entered the phone booth to give his latest report to Kerrigan,

  informing of their meeting with the Libyan. It was only after a few moments, he knew his brigade commander was furious. The Libyan was their main contact for weapons and explosives and he was struggling to believe his bag-lady would take this stranger straight to him. ‘What was she up to?’ He hollered at a hundred decibels down the phone. ‘We need to know what is going on. You must find a chance to talk to her. Tell her I want to know, now!’ Lumberjacket heard him slam down the receiver and turned to his colleague. ‘Boss wants us to turn up the heat. He’s bloody furious they met with the Libyan.’

  They contemplated on what to do next. It looked much like the happy couple were spending the night here so that meant contacting the safe house in Maida Vale and organising a watch detail. It wouldn’t be them, they were dead on their feet having travelled all day.

  7

  The next morning, Siobhan Hennessy rose early to make her contact with Ramir. She quickly got dressed, leaving Munroe in bed and reached into her handbag to find the number for the Savoy Hotel. As she pulled it out, the photograph of her daughter came as well. She stared at it again for a few seconds then turned her head towards the bed to look at the man soundly sleeping there. She gave a sigh, kissed the face on the picture and taking out her purse, slid it inside. She then grabbed her bag and quietly left the room.

  Ramir was soon on the line regarding the delivery, but Hennessy noticed his tone had changed since their meeting. He then informed her of another call he had just received. It had come from Londonderry. Hennessy listened as the Libyan explained what Kerrigan had said about not sanctioning this order for the Semtex. She realised she had some explaining to do. It also meant they were being watched. As she spoke to Ramir, he began to argue, telling her he was concerned the explosives were going to be used for some political gain in Southern Africa. He did not want to bring his country into something such as the Bush War in Rhodesia or involvement in the movement against Apartied in South Africa. The deal was off.

  Hennessy resigned the receiver. Still holding it while she gathered her thoughts, she turned and looked around the foyer. An elderly couple were at the reception desk checking out.

  Over the far side, a cleaner was mopping the tiled floor. Then, her survey caught a man in a brown leather jacket. He was sitting on one of the lounge chairs with a cup of coffee reading a newspaper.

  She stared at him for a few seconds. He flicked to a new page and as he did so, glanced up in her direction. His eyes then flickered quickly back to the paper.

  Hennessy bit her tongue. She had been right. They were being watched.

  Back in the room, Munroe stirred as the door opened. Turning towards it, he smiled at her. ‘Morning, you’re up early.’

  She didn’t answer.

  The South African sensed something wrong and jumped out of the bed. ‘What is it?’ He watched her move to the window and pulling the curtain she peered out at the side.

  ‘We’ve got company. Ramir spoke with Kerrigan this morning. The deal’s off.’

  Munroe winced. ‘That’s not good. Especially for you.’

  Hennessy nodded. ‘I know.’ She paused needing to think through the situation. ‘We need to get out of here. Kerrigan’s men could come in at any minute.’

  Munroe agreed. ‘I’ll get dressed. Maybe we can just go walkabout in the crowds today, see some sights. Keep ourselves safe?’

  Hennessy nodded. ‘Okay.’ She walked over to her handbag, reached in and pulling out a small .22 pistol, checked the magazine. ‘We may be needing this if things turn nasty.’

  Munroe gave her a beaming smile. ‘You always were the cautious type, Siobhan.’

  Outside the Savoy, Sophie Lewis, no longer in her wedding dress and blonde wig bunched up in flowers, sat in a silver Ford Granada tucking into a bacon roll with the man who had been her groom the previous day.

  Behind them was the officer who had been the photographer. They were part of the MI5 day team surveillance for their target.

  Half an hour later, Ramir was at reception checking out while Lewis sat alone at a table drinking a cup of coffee while reading a magazine she had retrieved from a rack on the wall.

  She watched the back of the Libyan as he grabbed for his briefcase and turn towards the entrance. She then noticed another man leave the desk almost at the same time. Coincidence? She watched attentively, as the two men filed towards the exit.

  The two other members of her team still sat in the car. The idea was to relieve Lewis after half an hour taking turns to sit in the foyer. But now seeing the target walking towards the rotary door, they expected her to be following. There was something else. Two other men were standing just outside. Could Ramir have company?

  Lewis remained seated until Ramir paced behind him.

  At the same time, a bellboy was approaching him. He was pushing a trolley with a tall pile of suitcases and noticing the gentleman coming towards him, manoeuvred the obstacle out of his way. With his vision partially obscured by the stack of luggage, and slightly distracted in apologising to the man in front of him, he failed to notice the girl.

  Lewis suddenly found herself knocked to the floor and Ramir heard him call out and turned to see a young woman dressed in a brown jacket and black jeans had been knocked over.

  He rushed over and helped her back onto her feet. ‘Are you alright?’ he asked, concerned.

  She tried to avert his gaze, shrugging off his help. ‘Yes, thank you,’ she replied, quickly choosing a poor Scottish brogue to disguise her own voice.

  He smiled, still holding onto her arm, then looking down at her wrist, stared wildly into her eyes. ‘You are not wearing your wedding dress, this morning.’ Picking up his briefcase, he turned and rushed for the exit.

  Sophie Roberts also looked at her wrist, but as much as she wanted to say the ‘S’ word, right now, she just couldn’t manage to find her voice. She also knew that Steven Laindon would probably not speak to her for the rest of the day, let alone what John Stratton might have to say.

  Watching the Libyan march outside, she noticed the man who had walked out behind him was now standing just inside the doors and was also watching him. It wasn’t a coincidence. There was something else going on? Could he have come with bodyguards?

  Outside, one of the two men, walked to the kerb and put out his arm. As if from nowhere, a black taxi swung in front of the team’s car.

  The Libyan climbed in, but before he could shut the rear door, the man who had followed him out of the building also jumped inside, quickly joined by the other two men. The taxi pulled out again to quickly join the busy traffic in the Strand.

  *

  Although labelled on the map as an airbase, Vandaverk, situated in the northern Transvaal province in South Africa had no runways. Instead, the area was littered with a series of half-submerged bunkers. There was only one entrance into the complex where a uniformed guard greeted and checked visitors entering the base, while on the far side perimeter, a barrack block housed an armed response unit. Other buildings were for the technicians and administration staff that worked at the base.

  It was almost sunset, when two SAAF trucks entered through the gates and showing their passes to the single guard manning the small sentry box.

  They drove through and headed towards the blistery mounds housing the bombs and missiles. The guard was used to these early evening transits to bases such as Waterkloof, Ysterplaat and Swartkop. All three were classed as Rapid Reaction Sites, should any threat come to the country from the unstable north, the planes were fully armed and could be in the air within minutes, their crews on an eight-hour rota.

  On arrival at the stores, eight men dismounted and made their way to Ordnance Block 3 where the two metal sliding doors we
re opened by a couple of weapons technicians. Using the tractor and attached trailer crane, two French manufactured Aerospatiale AS-30 Surface to Air missiles were loaded and transported to the first truck.

  One of the technicians suddenly thought it strange that only two missiles were being taken, as opposed to the usual consignment. Why was the other truck needed? His answer came as heavily armed men clambered down from it to help with the loading. He remembered a briefing about terrorist bandits hijacking vehicles on the northern roads.

  As the men picked up their guns again, he assured himself the missiles were in safe hands. Satisfied the cargo was secure, the men clambered back into the trucks and drove back towards the gate. The guard walked up to the first truck and leant inside the window. ‘That’s was quicker work than normal, guys. You must be in a hurry this evening.’

  The driver smiled at him. He gestured to his passenger. ‘It’s Craig’s birthday. We want to get back to Waterkloof with this lot in time to have a few beers.’

  The guard nodded and reached inside to shake hands ‘Happy Birthday, Craig.’ He then left them, and lifting the barrier, waved them through. As he watched them leave, he suddenly fancied a beer or two himself. He looked at the clock mounted inside his little green sentry box and knew it wouldn’t be long before he was relieved from duty.

  On the road, the two trucks had driven eight miles from the base until they had come to a crossroads. At this point, they stopped. Two men then climbed out of one truck and into the other. With only the driver remaining inside one vehicle, both trucks started up again swinging around on the crossroads as the solitary occupant in the second truck headed in another direction.

  After beeping his horn, it headed up the valley with its cargo of the two missiles, passing a signpost for the Kruger National Park.

  Back at Vandaverk Air Force Base, the guard answered a ringing phone. When the trucks had left, he had made the normal procedural call to confirm the missiles had been dispatched. It had then taken another forty-eight minutes for a confused member of the administration team, to check this with their destination and get back to him, only to inform him no such consignment had been arranged.