by David Costa
Reece had no choice but to tell her the truth and ask her to join him as one of his undercover agents. She was so sickened by recent events that she immediately agreed, waving off his attempts to tell her what risks were involved. She was already at risk and she knew that passing what information she could to Reece was far better for her soul than not doing it.
She took many risks, saving many lives over the years and as a result of the information she provided, they had recovered weapons and explosives and arrested many dangerous people.
She’d played a vital role in the Peace Process and she was one of the best agent’s he’d ever know.
SG9, Present
‘Is Democracy a code-word? Why did she use it?’ asked Fraser.
‘We give it to our agents only to be used in the case of information indicating an imminent attack on the British mainland or against a head of state which means anyone from the Prime Minister or a visiting Head of State to the Queen and senior members of the Royal Family, hence the “the ravens are in danger” call,’ Wilson replied.
‘Why is she asking for you, Reece? You left Special Branch a few years ago. Does she not have another agent handler now?’ Jim asked.
‘At the time, she was placing herself in such danger that when she said she would only ever work with me, everyone agreed. It would be like shooting the goose that laid the golden egg if we didn’t and she refused to help us – the importance of the information she was feeding us far outweighed the office politics. It was authorised that only after my death would she use a different handler. She knows I’ve been out for years so whatever she has to say now, after years of silence, it’s important.’
‘You’ll have to meet up with her tomorrow,’ said Sir Ian.
‘Yes, it’s a popular little restaurant near Grosvenor Square. I’ll find out what it’s all about. I’ll report back here at six tomorrow evening?’
‘Agreed,’ said Sir Ian, before Wilson explained that he was needed back in Northern Ireland but asked to be kept in the loop. It would also be easier for him to learn anything new about Costello that came in if he was in Belfast.
Jim looked at Reece. ‘David, I’ll have a team for tomorrow.’
‘I trust everyone here,’ he interrupted, ‘but I think until we know more, we keep this between ourselves. I’ll wear a wire so you can listen in and record everything. Then if you need to act immediately, you can.’
‘OK,’ said Sir Ian. ‘Let’s go with David’s plan and Jim can keep us all updated. I don’t fancy having this bugger Costello bumping off the Queen or one of the Royal Family on my watch. He needs to be stopped and that’s on you and your team, Jim, do not let me down.’
TUESDAY, 24 SEPTEMBER 2019
Chapter Seven
Sean Costello watched the crew on the Irish Ferry from the passenger deck as they prepared to bring the ship into the dock at the Holyhead Ferry Port at the tip of Anglesey in Wales. The two-and-a-half-hour morning crossing from Dublin had been bouncy thanks to the strong winds. He’d travelled this route many times and he couldn’t remember ever having a smooth crossing. It was as if the gales had made it so rough for a reason: to keep the Irish and British mainland apart.
Unfortunately, the rough sea swell had never been rough enough and he’d spent his adult life fighting to force the British out of his country by other means and see the United Ireland he craved become a reality.
He’d opposed the so-called Peace Process that Gerry Adams and Martin McGuinness had signed up for and regarded them both as traitors. They had betrayed the Cause and Costello knew he couldn’t live in Ireland while the British continued to have influence and rule over the north of his country.
He heard the announcement over the speaker system that all vehicle owners should return to the car deck ready for departure. He made his way to his small white Ford van. He’d driven from South Armagh that morning and the registration plates would show it belonged to a deceased farmer near Crossmaglen. He had died from natural causes and the family were willing to let Costello have the van for £200. In a hidden compartment in the back of the van, there was a Sako TRG-21 sniper rifle which he’d zeroed-in between the hills near Camlough and Forkhill.
With the rifle was a 9mm Browning pistol and ammo for both weapons along with 20lbs of Semtex explosive. All with the compliments of Colonel Omar Gaddafi and his terrorist-supporting Libyan regime.
The one good thing since the Peace Process and 9/11 was that the British Security apparatus had turned most of its resources away from Ireland and were now focussing on Islamic terrorism. Costello was aware of the random security checks at airports and docks where, if you were unlucky, you could still get pulled in for questioning and a vehicle search, but he was willing to take his chances.
As he drove off the ramp and followed the line of traffic towards the port exit, he could see the police checking cars and occasionally directing one to a large drive-through building on the left. Costello knew that even if he was pulled in, the search would be a cursory one. He held his breath as he neared the checkpoint and concentrated on the traffic in front to avoid any collision. Two minutes later, he was safely through where he turned left at the port exit and headed towards the A55. He knew this journey east well and soon he would be in the safe house. He chuckled to himself. There was nothing safe about what would be going on in that house.
In fact, his plans were anything but safe for the people of Manchester.
Chapter Eight
He heard them smash down the glass front door to the flat. A few steps into the corridor was the door to his bedroom on the left. It was dark, but he knew where his gun lay on top of the bedside cabinet. He could see the dark outline of the two men filling the doorframe, both pointing handguns towards where he lay. He reached for his own gun, found it, and pointed it at the looming figures. He could get them both if he moved quick enough. He pulled the trigger, nothing happened. Had he forgotten to slash the slide and put a round into the chamber? Had he pushed off the safety catch?
He fumbled with both the slide and safety catch and the magazine fell out, spilling bullets on the floor and the bed. He looked up at the face of the closest figure, which now resembled a laughing skull. The dark gun aimed at him flashed once, then twice, the noise deafening in the small room. Then came the all-consuming darkness…the sense of falling…down…never landing.
He woke in a cold sweat, his heart racing, a sickness in the pit of his stomach. That’s how it always was. The nightmares always the same. The feeling of helplessness even though protection was at hand. The dream still came, but the nights between were increasing. Reece turned on the bedside lamp. His Smith and Wesson 59 was still there on the bedside cabinet. He still checked it, as usual, every time he woke from the dream. There was a round in the chamber. The 9 mm rounds filled the magazine, which was tight and secure.
The hotel room looked like many others he’d stayed in. He always carried a small leather bag with a few changes of clothes. His bag small enough to use as cabin luggage at airports, reducing the time he’d spend booking into or leaving airports. As always, when he booked into a hotel, he made sure to pick up a bottle of his favourite Bushmills Irish Whiskey, a bit of home no matter where he went. He loved to tell people that Bushmills in Northern Ireland at 1680 was the oldest licensed distillery in the world. The emphasis is on the word licensed. There were older distilleries, but none licensed at the time and paying tax on their product.
He looked at his Casio G Shock watch. It was four thirty. The night was still dark, but the dawn wouldn’t be far off. He crossed the room and poured himself a small glass of Bush. The Pavilion Hotel in Sussex Gardens was one of his favourites when staying in London. It was excellent value for money with close-by transport links through the capital. It was elaborately decorated, and he enjoyed the fact they provided a good breakfast in his room at no extra charge. The hotel was also close to the junction with the Edgeware Road and the area was a great favourite with him.
De
spite the short walk from the hotel down the Edgeware Road to Hyde Park Corner and Oxford Street and the shopping centre of London, the immediate area provided a community feeling all of its own with a unique atmosphere. Small fruit and veg shops, old-fashioned barbers, family bakeries, and restaurants. Everything a community should have and everything in walking distance of the front door of the hotel.
After a good start to the day with a continental breakfast and leaving the hotel early, he could take his time using his anti-surveillance to make sure he had no one following him. A few stops at coffee shops along the way would also pass the time. He downed what there was of the glass of Bushmills, climbed back into the king-size bed, closed his eyes, and slept fitfully for a few more hours.
When Reece left the hotel, the morning air was fresh with a slight autumn breeze, the sun shining brightly and reflecting off the glass windows of the buildings as he passed by.
Turning right at the junction with the Edgeware Road he walked at a steady pace in the direction of Hyde Park and Oxford Street a mile away. Reece had tried to avoid the London underground since the July seventh bombings.
The nearest Tube station was where one of the suicide bombers, Mohammad Sidique Khan, had set off his bomb as the train pulled out of the station, killing six people and injuring many more.
He only used the Tube when it rained or if he needed to get across the city quickly. He never used a car in London, traffic congestion and road works made it a nightmare to travel the roads of the city in that mode of transport. It was quicker and more enjoyable to walk getting rid of the kind of stress he would have if driving. Taxi drivers knew the short-cuts and where the roadworks where, so a taxi was OK on those occasions when no other way was possible. For now, he would walk using the tradecraft surveillance skills he was taught on these very streets by MI5 many years ago.
As he walked, he thought about how the training had developed and how it had saved his life on more than one occasion. Because of the continuing terrorist campaign in Northern Ireland during the early eighties, Special Branch officers were sent on training courses in England with the SAS and MI5. Reece had attended a Surveillance and Agent Handling course in London with MI5. The instructors taught all the tradecraft of running agents in a dangerous and hostile environment and the skills of how to watch and avoid being watched through surveillance and anti-surveillance. He’d learnt how to follow someone on foot and in vehicles. The instructors always kept the trainees away from the underground for two main reasons, the difficulty of following someone in the crowded Tube stations, but, more importantly, there was no underground in Northern Ireland so that would have been a waste of valuable course time.
Walking, you could see much more going on around you. Then there were the smells, the noise, and the air that cleared his mind, helping him make better use of the senses God had gifted him.
Today is a good day to walk, Reece thought.
Before leaving the hotel, he’d strapped the holster to his belt, inserting the Smith and Wesson with a fully loaded 9 mm clip. SG9 operators were given permission from the highest level of the Prime Minister’s office to carry firearms on operational duties.
The one thing Reece would tell anyone who asked him about his undercover work was that the only person you could really trust was yourself. When he’d returned from the course in London, he’d gone to Newry on one of his rare days off. He’d taken his second wife because she’d badgered him to go to the town’s market. The market itself was inside a square walled area with an entrance at each end from the street. While his wife inspected the stalls for a bargain, he put into practice the skills he’d been taught in London. Within a few minutes, he noticed two young men standing at the exit opposite the one he’d used to enter. He saw how they were talking while discreetly trying to look at him without drawing attention to themselves. One spoke to the other, nodded, then, taking one final look towards Reece, turned and left the market. It was that final look that confirmed his suspicions. Reece knew he was about to be set up as a target. The man leaving was the final confirmation that he was on his way to get a gun or a hit team to do the job. The other man stayed to keep an eye on Reece and point him out to the gunmen when they arrived.
Reece didn’t hang about to find out for sure. His instinct, backed by the training, told him to get out of there. He quickly found his wife and whispered in her ear that they had to go now. He could see she wasn’t happy about having to cut her shopping short, but she knew something was wrong by the way he took her arm and led her back to the car. Soon they were leaving the town far behind.
He’d trusted his instincts, and, on this occasion, he found out later, he was right to do so. Later, agents within PIRA brought in reports that the PIRA unit in Newry came close to killing an off-duty police officer they’d spotted in the town’s market. They didn’t know his name, but because he’d been spotted entering and leaving the town’s police station, his face was known to them.
On his walk through the city he was moving faster than the traffic. On at least three occasions he’d passed the same car stuck at traffic lights on red. He came to the end of Edgeware Road and turned left towards Oxford Street with Hyde Park Corner on his right.
This part of the city was always busy with people moving at different speeds for different reasons. Tourists, workers, shoppers, always the shoppers. This was Oxford Street, this was what it was famous for, people and plenty of them.
When you walked, it had to be with your head up dodging the many people coming your way. Not counting the stupid ones with their heads down looking at screens oblivious to all going on around them, not caring, making others dodge around them to avoid a collision. Reece remembered a senior intelligence spokesman once saying the biggest danger from terrorism was the fact too many people walked about with their heads down looking at screens rather than noticing what was going on in the world around them. This had the effect that the first they knew they were in the middle of a terrorist attack was when the bullets started to hit their body, or the bomb had already exploded. When it was too late to stop the attack.
Reece wanted to get off these pavements as soon as possible. Moving in crowds gave you cover but at the same time gave cover to those who may be following. He crossed the road taking one of the quieter side streets heading in the direction of Grosvenor Square. He picked up a newspaper and found a café with a seat inside at the window.
Reece hated warm milk. It always reminded him of his childhood when his mother would pour hot milk on his morning cereal. He liked good coffee and when ordering in cafés he always made sure to ask for a little cold milk on the side. The waitress brought the coffee. He poured the milk in himself keeping it strong and the way he liked it. He opened the paper and between the stories and the sips of coffee he watched the people pass in the street. He’d not spotted anything that gave him any concern, but he wouldn’t drop his guard. He would keep watching, observing. He was working now, and he would continue to take a circuitous route stopping in at least two more cafés before finally arriving at the final point where he would be able to observe from a distance the people moving in and around the restaurant where he would be meeting Mary ‘Mike’ McAuley.
Chapter Nine
Costello arrived at a service station on the M56 near Chester and made a call to a local number. When the man answered, he said, ‘It’s Paddy. I’ve arrived safely and am on my way.’
‘Your home is ready. The keys are under the flowerpot by the front door. The fridge is stocked. Make yourself at home and I’ll be there about five tonight,’ the man replied.
The line went dead. Costello read the text he’d just received giving the address and postcode of the house which he fed into the satnav then drove onto the M56 and headed to Manchester. The street in Irlam was quiet when he pulled into the driveway of the house. He retrieved the keys from under the flowerpot and opened the door to a large garage and drove the van inside. The house and the street were exactly what he’d asked for. There
were four large houses, none overlooking another, and the house where Costello was staying was the first on the street. This meant the neighbours wouldn’t notice any unusual coming and going. A street where people kept to themselves.
Costello closed the outside door of the garage staying inside with the van. He entered the house by the internal door through the utility room then into the kitchen. He checked out the rest of the house which was fully furnished and of a typical three upstairs bedrooms with a bathroom, with an open-plan living-dining room downstairs.
A small garden to the rear surrounded by a six-foot panel fence completed the picture. Costello estimated that from pulling the van into the drive into the garage and closing the garage door had been no more than a minute. Prying eyes, if there had been any, would have seen little to talk about. Costello brought two items from the van into the house: his holdall and a Browning pistol which he stuck down the waistband of his trousers, pulling the fleece down to conceal it from view. He switched on the kettle, turned the TV on to Sky News, and settled down to wait for the others.
Chapter Ten
Reece had walked the full circle around Grosvenor Square passing the old American Embassy twice. He’d walked through the park area of the square and sat on a bench near the statue of President Franklyn Roosevelt where once again he read his newspaper. He’d sampled two more coffees in nearby cafés. All his tradecraft in surveillance confirmed he was alone. At 12.30 he inserted his radio earpiece and spoke, ‘Control, this is Alpha One coming online, over.’
The voice in his ear confirmed his message, ‘Roger, Alpha One, you’re coming in loud and clear.’
Reece replied, ‘Roger Control, moving to view primary location. Will keep you updated.’
‘Roger, Alpha One.’