Deadly Intent

by Iain Cameron

  ‘You doubt him?’

  ‘It pays to look at all the angles.’

  ‘Fair enough, but when we interviewed him, we did it by the book. He was asked control questions at the start, stuff about his personal life, his customers, and what he did in his spare time, questions he had no reason to lie about. When we switched it to the contents of the container, and asked him about guns, Irish Nationalists and taking back-handers, issues he may have wanted to lie about if he was taking money from his customer, he didn’t change his answering style.’

  ‘Maybe he’s a good liar.’

  ‘Maybe, but what are you worried about? Worst case scenario, Walker’s involved with them. Don’t forget, there’s a copper in cab with him, but I accept he might call to give them an update and, in that conversation, tell them the code word for an aborted operation or something. If so, the terrorists have two choices: set up an ambush, or scarper.’

  ‘I’m concerned about an ambush and this lot might be up for it. Back in the day, the IRA frequently targeted members of the security forces. You said so yourself.’

  ‘I know, but it was different then, and always the on the IRA’s own terms, not cornered in some industrial unit in Leicester. Sure, they might spring a surprise and shoot a few of us, but in a siege situation, we can call on the locals for back-up. They’ll bring in an armed response team, helicopter, CS gas, the whole nine yards. Unless they see themselves as martyrs for the cause, they’ll scarper before we get there.’

  ‘I don’t like either option so let’s hope Walker is the real deal.’

  Hamilton Business Park lay to the north-east of Leicester. Matt let Walker drive into the Business Park while he stopped outside and bumped the car up on the grass verge. Further down the road he could see a housing estate, but on both sides of the road their presence was shielded by trees. A lorry with a car following wouldn’t look out of place in any busy industrial park, but the people at Mediterranean Tropical Foods would be on high alert, looking for anything unusual.

  A few minutes later the Counter Terrorism officers’ car pulled in behind. Matt got out of the car to greet them, Rosie behind him.

  ‘Thanks for being here fellas,’ Matt said, as he nodded to Hillman and each of his colleagues, stretching and yawning as they got out of the car. Some took out their cigarettes and began to light up, others downing bottles of water.

  He chatted with them for several minutes, sizing them up, trying to assess their characters and some characteristics. Would they back him up in a tight situation? In his experience, a few minutes spent getting to know one another were crucial. He didn’t care if they forgot how he looked by morning, but for the next hour he wanted to make sure they wouldn’t forget his face.

  ‘Ok guys, let’s get serious,’ Matt said. ‘If we don’t want a bullet up our arses, timing is everything. Walker, the lorry driver, will phone me when he gets his marching orders from the people in the MTF warehouse. We need to be in there sharpish before they finish unloading the pallets.’

  ‘Hang on, Matt,’ one of the guys said. ‘Your rules of engagement are different from ours.’

  ‘It shouldn’t be a problem. I don’t want to shoot them any more than you do. I want to find out what they know about the other deliveries, but if one of them pulls a gun on me, I will. I’m sure you would do the same.’

  The guy shrugged, accepting the point.

  ‘I’ve only been able to look at the building on Google Maps, so I can’t be sure of the exact layout, but if possible, I’d like to sneak in there nice and quiet. I think it’s too risky shouting out a warning and walking in there cold. We don’t know if they’ve already received weapons and are armed to the teeth.’

  ‘We don’t know one way or the other,’ DI Hillman said.

  ‘Given the time the deal went down, and shipping times from Turkey, it’s likely this is the first consignment they’ve received, but we can’t be sure. As I always say, plan for the worst and hope for the best.’

  ‘Nothing else we can do.’

  ‘Okay guys, let’s get kitted up.’

  Chapter 12

  The driver from CH Hauliers, Davy Walker, phoned Matt. He told him he’d delivered the container and he’d been instructed by the customer to go off and enjoy a late lunch at the food caravan down the road, while the workers at Mediterranean Tropical Foods unloaded the container.

  The HSA agents and CTC officers made their way into the Hamilton Business Park. Matt knew the location of the unit, as Walker had the postal address and they’d pinpointed it using Rosie’s iPad. It wouldn’t be sensible to deliver a consignment of deadly weapons to the wrong place.

  They couldn’t conduct a drive-past, too risky with the people inside MTF feeling ever more twitchy with a cache of guns in front of them. The raid team stopped the vehicles about one hundred metres away from the target and, without delay, everyone got out. What any onlookers made of the team carrying guns and dressed in protective boots and helmets, he couldn’t guess. A film shoot, he hoped.

  Back at Felixstowe, Matt and Walker had discussed the likelihood of the people inside the unit closing the loading bay door. It was another of Matt’s control questions designed to see how well he knew the buyers. Walker told him any time he’d made deliveries to the same business park, many of the smaller units weren’t big enough to accommodate the lorry’s length, and they couldn’t close the door even if they wanted to. As a precaution, Matt decided that even if the unit was long enough to house the lorry, Walker would reverse it inside and leave the cab under the loading bay door.

  Looking over at the target now, Matt couldn’t fault any of the information supplied by Walker and dispelled any notion of double-dealing. The loading bay door was open and most of the cab was sticking out, lit by summer sunshine.

  The team crept up to edge of the warehouse unit, and stopped. Matt, at the front, leaned forward and listened. He could hear movement inside the container, a hollow, scraping sound, as if a pallet was being dragged across the floor, and the engine noise of a small vehicle, probably a forklift truck.

  He was about to venture a look around the corner when someone nudged him and passed him a mirror on a stick. This was better. Not only to reduce his chances of being spotted but several of the team could view the interior. The building inside was rectangular in shape, longer than the container. At the rear, a raised platform where the forklift was located and where it was depositing the removed pallets. Behind this, windows shielded by vertical blinds indicating office and staff facilities.

  He withdrew the mirror and told the other men what he had seen. ‘Rosie, take two officers and head over to the other side of the lorry. But only move into the building on my signal, okay?’

  She nodded.

  When Matt heard voices, suggesting most of the activity was taking place inside the container, he instructed Rosie to make a move. She and two CTC officers scuttled around the front of the truck and took up positions mirroring their colleagues on the other side.

  On Matt’s signal, both groups entered the warehouse, the HSA agents leading. Matt would have preferred one of the CTC guys to do it, as he was only armed with a Glock while they carried more intimidating H&K carbines.

  At the end of the container, Matt quickly took in the scene before him. A guy driving a forklift had his back to them, easing a pallet load to the ground, two guys who had obviously been working inside the container positioning the pallets for the forks were taking a fag break.

  ‘Hands in the air!’ Matt shouted. ‘Armed police!’

  The two guys took one look at him and, without hesitation, scarpered down the other side of the truck. Shocked to find Rosie and her team advancing towards them, they immediately threw their hands up in surrender. A CTC officer climbed the stairs and hauled the forklift truck driver out of the cab. After stripping the prisoners of phones and handguns, they secured their hands behind their backs with plastic ties and marched them out.

  Mindful of the place where they f
ound themselves, an industrial estate where any number of people could have a parcel cutter in their back pocket, Matt instructed two officers to guard the prisoners until it was safe to call in the Leicester cops.

  Matt glanced into the container. The armaments boxes were visible, but none had been unloaded yet. Nor had any of the boxes been opened. Good. It would take some time for the terrorists to unload all of the consignment and match the weapons to their ammunition, but if the raid team had arrived ten or twenty minutes later, who knew what devastation this could have caused?

  The raid team thumped upstairs and approached the offices at the back. Opening doors, they found toilets, a staff restroom and a small storage room. This left one unopened door, most likely leading to the office of the manager as it had a window overlooking the loading bay, the closed blinds giving no indication of what lay inside.

  Matt hoped the others realised that the walls of offices like this were made from plasterboard, or something equally thin and flimsy. Anyone hiding in the office with a gun, or God forbid an M4, could shoot them from the comfort of their chair.

  Matt turned the handle of the door leading into a small storage area, the closed door of the office directly in front of him. He pushed it open and jumped back. Bang! Bang! The door now sported two holes just where Matt’s temple would have been. Whoever was inside was aware of the flimsy walls as they’d just shot through them.

  He indicated to the others, now hunkered down, that he was going in. He dropped to the floor and crawled inside the storage area. Once in, he kicked the door closed behind him, shutting off the back-light, framing him as a target.

  He was in an area about two metres wide and four or five metres long, full of boxes. He didn’t have time to prod a few and see if they would stop a bullet; he’d have to assume they were empty and only for show. He crawled towards the office, hoping his low profile would fool the shooter into aiming high, as there was nothing substantial for Matt to stand behind.

  Matt reached up, turned the handle of the office door and pushed it open. Bang, bang. Two shots, still at head height. He hoped the team, not far behind him, were not standing up.

  The room was dark, the lights off and the blinds drawn. He could see the outline of a desk, filing cabinet and small drawer unit. Enough accoutrements to fool a visitor from the local council, or Inland Revenue that this was a bona fide business.

  ‘Come out with your hands showing!’ he shouted. ‘You’re outnumbered by armed police. We will shoot you if we see a weapon.’

  ‘Go fuck yourself, copper. You can come and get me.’ Bang!

  The gunman fired again. Not only did he aim high once again, into the corner of the office in the direction of Matt’s voice, Matt also saw in the faint light the movement of a hand. He reached for his torch. After a quick on-off in a position below where he’d seen the gunman’s hand, he spotted his target. A knee sticking out underneath the desk. He was kneeling behind it.

  ‘Last chance, mate!’ Matt shouted.

  ‘Fuck off.’

  Matt positioned his handgun roughly in the direction of the trailing leg. It was a small object to aim at, he needed to be quick and accurate. Lifting the torch, he cradled it in his hand and put his finger on the trigger. He switched the torch on, adjusted the gun sight a little to the right, and fired.

  ‘Ah, Mother of Jesus! You bastard, I’ve been shot!’

  Gunshot injuries were all painful, knee injuries especially so.

  ‘Throw down your weapon!’

  ‘Never,’ a weak voice said, ‘I’ll die for Ireland.’ The gunman fired again, but it was a wild shot this time and the guy was more in danger of hurting himself than his adversary.

  With the torch flashes, Matt had seen a little of the layout of the office. After ensuring no one was lurking behind the door, he ducked inside and dropped down at the opposite end of the desk from the gunman. The desk and its sides were metal, which offered some modicum of protection from the guy’s handgun, but he wasn’t in a rush to test its endurance. He was relieved to find no further shots rang out.

  Matt reached up with one hand and switched on the desk lamp. It took his eyes several seconds to adjust to the glare, but once again, his action didn’t encourage the gunman to take another pop. He could be taking a breather, or biding his time. In Matt’s opinion, he would have to be a pretty cool customer to be doing the latter, especially with a debilitating bullet wound in his leg.

  Matt eased a look around the edge of the desk. He focussed on the bottom half of the gunman’s body, looking for movement. When nothing stirred for thirty seconds, he stuck his head out. The gunman had blacked out. Matt got up and walked over. He took the gun out of his hand. It was a Beretta, a fine weapon in its own right, but not one from the Syrian consignment. He breathed a sigh of relief.

  Chapter 13

  Matt walked out of Gill’s office feeling pleased at the stilted praise offered, but apprehensive at the volume of work still needing to be done. Quoting Gill’s military terminology, which usually appeared whenever dangerous operations were discussed, he said, ‘Objective achieved, no casualties on our side, good show.’

  ‘I’ll call CTC later,’ Rosie said as they walked away. ‘Find out how the interviews with the Irishmen are progressing.’

  ‘I wouldn’t hold my breath,’ Matt replied. ‘They don’t appear to be the talkative kind.’

  Despite HSA being the lead agency in the hunt for the Syrian weapons cache, their facilities weren’t suitable for questioning multiple terrorist suspects. It was decided that CTC would conduct the interviews with HSA observing. Matt was fine with this arrangement, as he knew that most of the nationalist prisoners in the past were as garrulous in police interviews as Trappist monks. From the brief interaction he had with the captives as they were being led to police wagons in Leicester, it sounded as though they were singing from the same hymn sheet.

  ‘If they tell us anything,’ he said, ‘it will be to tell us they’re minions, no one tells them anything, they won’t rat on their mates or they don’t recognise the British justice system. Take your pick.’

  ‘Could be they sent that small consignment as a test, see if we were on to them. If so, we might have been wiser to keep a lid on the story rather than letting the people of Leicester think their police force are pretty clever.’

  ‘It’s a bit late now.’

  ‘I know.’ Rosie said. ‘I should have thought of it sooner.’

  ‘No worries, I don’t think it was a test. They’ll think the authorities got lucky; collateral damage if you will. If the suspects tell us anything, hopefully it will be to say they didn’t go to the trouble of setting up Mediterranean Tropical Foods to receive one shipment. I think it’s been established to accept several. Not every gun in the consignment, mind you, as it wouldn’t be sensible to put all their eggs in the same basket.’

  ‘So, what are we talking about? Another four or five?’

  ‘Given the size of what we captured, I would guess so. Stationing the local plod at the warehouse for the next few weeks is a wise move, but it’s a detail I wouldn’t fancy being assigned.’

  ‘What, doing nothing for a week but sitting in the office at the back and drinking coffee and reading a book? They’ll have a queue of volunteers a mile long.’

  ‘Hey guys,’ Siki said walking towards them. The big man didn’t come out from behind his desk often, as it where he did his best work. Plus it wasn’t easy for someone of his bulk. ‘I got something for ya.’

  He handed a folder to Matt and one to Rosie. ‘Intel on the perps picked up at Leicester.’

  ‘That was quick,’ Matt said, ‘even by your lightning standards.’

  ‘It’s thanks to Rosie here we’ve now got ourselves a good contact at CTC. As soon as they ID’d them they sent me down the details and my mighty speedy fingers,’ he said wiggling his chunky digits in the air, ‘did the rest.’

  ‘Thanks, Siki,’ Rosie said as she walked away. ‘I’m off to give this a
good read.’

  ‘Me too,’ Matt said. ‘Cheers, Siki.’

  ‘Any time guys.’

  Matt had left his laptop and jacket at a spare hot-desk. He was glad HSA didn’t bother with permanent desks which would only seek to highlight to some pedant in the admin office what little time he spent there. He only went there to pick up research, attend meetings, and have his shooting ability assessed. The rest of the time he would be out on HSA business. A lot of their work didn’t look to most people like productive effort, sitting in cafés watching people, talking to police officers, collaring known touts and informants, but information was the key ingredient that made HSA the formidable organisation it had become.

  He opened Siki’s folder. Their formidable Chief Researcher was like a dog with a squeaky toy. Give him a sliver of data, a suspect’s name or car registration number, and he would pull it, twist it, shake it until he’d ripped everything out of it that he could. This time, it included records from the PSNI, Department of Work and Pensions and the Prison Service. The dossier on each man looked to be more comprehensive than any CV the suspects could produce themselves.

  Kieran O’Conner was aged thirty-four and from the Ardoyne, a staunchly working-class Catholic area of North Belfast that had been a hot-bed of IRA activity during the Troubles. His father had served time in Long Kesh and his uncle had been murdered by a Loyalist gang.

  Aged forty-one, Cormac Cavanagh was the only member of the team to come from the Irish Republic, Kilkenny, to the south-west of Dublin. Cavanagh had moved to Belfast after the transport company where he worked opened a branch there. He didn’t strike Matt as a dyed-in-the-wool Nationalist, and if he’d been one of his interrogators, he would have spent time probing the depth of his commitment. This looked like a weak spot which could be exploited.

  Next, Matt read the dossier on Donal Fitzpatrick. He seemed to be an idealistic young man who might turn away from the cause once the responsibility of a house, wife, and kids came along. Had he joined the movement for the buzz, the adrenaline kick that sitting in coffee bars and pubs with his mates didn’t offer? Here was a man with too much testosterone in his veins, but was he a true believer?