There was a silence for about eight seconds.
“You’ve been keeping him and his family out of sight, haven’t you, Harry? That’s the only way he could have stayed hidden all this time.”
He didn’t reply to this. Again, silence for several seconds. I upped the ante.
“MI5’s been wondering how the IRA got hold of Semtex in the late eighties, but that was also through you, wasn’t it? You’re involved in this latest wave of IRA actions, aren’t you? You arranged for them to get the Semtex when you were in Libya, and some poor bastard working alongside you gets shot in the process.”
He was looking at me intently, like a master listening to a promising pupil make a speech.
“You’re also working with the Chackartis in this. You got them to steal the cars for McGreely to plant the bombs in, didn’t you? Why are the Chackarti family branching out into helping some rogue IRA offshoot?”
Nothing for ten more seconds. Ferguson sat motionless. “Where does Paul Glett fit into all this, Harry?”
He tapped his fingers on his arms but didn’t reply. I waited.
“I’m told Glett’s dirty, the Chackartis’re paying him off. Is this true?” I asked, more in sorrow than anything else.
Silence again.
“You haven’t denied anything I’ve said yet, Harry,” I said. “I mean, if I’m way off base with all this, please tell me.”
Suddenly I heard a very slight movement, and I had the immediate sensation there was someone behind me. But I was half a second too late realising this.
“Don’t move. Stay exactly where you are,” a hard Irish voice said slowly. I did.
I felt something pressing into the base of my spine. I hoped it was his fingers, but I wasn’t about to take the risk and find out.
“You know this person?” the voice asked Harry.
“Yes, I know him. He’s Special Branch,” Ferguson said. “We’re old friends, aren’t we?” He suddenly smiled.
“Are we?” I tried to sound calm.
“Really? Special Branch? Hmm.”
There was no sound or movement for the next four seconds.
“Very slowly, move over there.” He jabbed me in the base of my spine with what I was still hoping wasn’t a gun. “One wrong move, I’ll shoot.”
I slowly walked five paces across the room to the bookcase and turned around.
I was facing Adam Redlands, Joe Kirkwall, Tom Francis . . . and Cormac McGreely.
And he was holding a gun. A Sig Sauer, automatic, a P226 if I wasn’t mistaken. The favoured weapon of security services and special forces in many countries.
He looked like his profile picture but fifteen years further along. Jacqueline Chandler really had done a remarkable job in portraying what she thought he’d look like now. If I survived this I’d definitely owe her a good lunch. I’d obviously not seen him fully face-on but, from what I’d seen on the CCTV images, this was almost certainly the same man who’d pranged the Vernons’ car at Bluewater. He stared at me with something approaching total distaste for several seconds, and then he spoke again.
“If you’re Special Branch, then you’ll be armed.”
I nodded.
“Left hand only, slowly, take the weapon out, drop it onto the floor.”
I did.
I looked at his face. His eyes showed me he’d kill me if I even blinked. For a few seconds I felt very scared; my mouth was dry and I could feel my heartbeat increasing. I remembered Smitherman saying McGreely was a sociopath with no internal conflict about moral boundaries or killing. If he’d kneecap a teenage girl just for dancing with a soldier, what would he do to a Special Branch DS intent on his capture? Thoughts of Taylor smiling at me flashed through my mind.
But then my training kicked in. I’d been trained in survival tactics for situations like this. I’d had several weekends on training courses designed for security service personnel, held in the grounds of a delightful country house somewhere in the home counties, and they’d been intense and painful, but beneficial. I remembered: the starting point when a gun’s being pointed at you is always to realise it’s okay to be scared. There’s no shame in it. I remembered the ex-SAS instructor on my shooting course saying, “Anyone who isn’t scared when a gun’s pointed at them is obviously too fucking stupid to be scared.”
The golden rules when facing a gun began with remembering to keep breathing normally and focusing. Don’t do anything stupid, don’t give whoever has you in his sights any reason to shoot. Marshall your thoughts. Keep a sharp focus. Defuse the situation, stay calm and do nothing to inflame it further. Comply with all orders given, don’t make any sudden moves, but try to gauge the situation. Look at the eyes. Does the person with the gun look calm or manic? Does he look like he knows how to use a gun or is he holding it like it’s radioactive? Don’t try to wind up the person holding the gun with displays of bravado or idle threats. And, most importantly, if you see an opening, take it, but only if the likelihood of being successful is better than good.
I was still scared but, remembering these points as I looked at the man with the gun, I breathed a little easier.
“Hello, Cormac.” I tried to sound calm and in control.
He didn’t reply. He just stared at me for what felt like a very long few seconds. I was reminded of Murray Kirkwall, or rather John McGreely; he’d had his father’s eyes, cold and unfeeling. Then it struck me. Seamus Drew’s sister had said her brother had talked about someone named Johnnie. Of course: John McGreely. The McGreelys knew the Chackartis through Ferguson and Glett, which would possibly explain how they also knew the unfortunate Seamus Drew. It was all falling into place. I was hoping I lived long enough to see it through.
“Pretty sloppy bomb making, wasn’t it, exploding before the car had even parked? You’re out of practice,” I said lightly.
“Obviously a fault with the timer. I thought I’d set it for a few hours further on.”
“I hope Seamus appreciates that, wherever he is. Why’d you use Seamus Drew?”
“He was just a useful idiot.” He shrugged. “We needed a driver, he agreed to do it. Shame he died; it wasn’t intended, but, in war, people die.” His Irish accent was noticeable.
“What was the target?” I asked.
He didn’t answer.
Then, and I’m not sure why the thought came to me at this very moment, something flashed into my brain.
“Of course,” I said, “that’s how you knew who those two UVF men were who’d killed your father, and how you located them. Harry told you, didn’t he? The UVF have close links with British intelligence, so you’d have found out who killed your father that way. I’m right, aren’t I, Harry?” I looked at him.
“That’s right, he did,” McGreely agreed. Harry was nodding.
“He told you where to find them, and you did the rest,” I said.
“I had a little help,” McGreely said with a wicked smile.
“Pretty cruel what you did to them, wouldn’t you say?”
“Maybe it was, but it was no more than they deserved,” he said in a defensive tone. “Was I supposed to have just let them walk away with a slap on the wrist? What would you have done if they’d killed your da, eh?”
“So, where’s your wife and son?” I didn’t answer his question.
“In France, where we’ll be soon.” He looked at Ferguson, who I noticed had now stood up, staring at me as though I were a stranger. I briefly found myself wondering what he’d been thinking all those times we’d met and I’d picked his brains looking for information or possible leads in terrorist cases. Only a week ago I was asking him about this case. I had to admire his skills of deception.
“Is that where you’ve been these past fifteen or so years, hiding in France?”
“Some of the time. Other times we’ve been here, living under assumed names.”
“Like in Kidbrooke.”
“Yes, that’s one of them,” he agreed.
“And Harry got you out t
he country after your ingenious attempt to make us think you’d died in that crash. He provided you with all the documents you’d need. Passports, driving licences, things like that, eh, Harry?”
He didn’t get the chance to reply because, at that moment, two loud sirens were heard coming along the road. Through the window I could see two fast-moving police cars screeching to a halt outside the flat, at an angle blocking the road, and four anti-terrorist squad officers quickly emerging, plus two uniforms. McGreely saw this as well and, for two seconds, took his eyes off me to stare out the window, looking alarmed. I’d been watching his eyes and, in that first second, I quickly grabbed a hardback book from the coffee table and threw it at McGreely’s head. As he turned back to look at me, the book hit him high in the chest. This startled him, and the gun dropped from his hand. In the same movement in which I’d thrown the book I ran at McGreely, who was about twelve feet away, hitting him full on in the chest with my right shoulder. We both hit the wall, smashing the glass in one of the pictures, and then went down, grappling and throwing punches on the floor. I managed to headbutt him as we rolled over but I couldn’t put any real force into it.
I could hear someone banging on the front door quite insistently as I attempted to subdue McGreely. McGreely was shouting something to Ferguson which sounded like, Shoot the bastard, for God’s sake. In that second I realised I was a wide open target because my gun was on the floor by the coffee table, and tried to turn McGreely around so he was between Ferguson and me.
McGreely attempted to manoeuvre me into a position whereby he could knee me in the groin, but I was too strong for him to turn, and his knee caught my thigh. I was trying to move him so I could pin his arms, but he broke my grip and lashed out, catching my left ear with a wild punch. I grabbed his shirt, rolled him over me and threw him off. I rolled over, scrambled to my feet and, as he tried to grab me, I threw a punch which caught his nose full on, and I saw a pleasing amount of blood.
The next second there was an intense pain at the base of my skull and the lights went out.
*
When I came to, I was lying on a stretcher bed in the back of a stationary ambulance, staring up at the ceiling. I blinked a few times, looking at the interior lighting, and tried to focus my vision. After a couple of seconds I could see the shape of the light clearly and realised I didn’t have blurred or double vision, which was a positive. I instinctively rubbed the back of my head and could feel a sore spot and a small swelling, but the skin hadn’t been broken. A dark-haired thirty-something female medic with a smiling face and green overalls was sitting next to me, welcoming me back to life. I was feeling dazed and the back of my head was throbbing but, otherwise, I was compos mentis. I think. I glanced at my watch; nothing blurry. I’d been out for about twelve minutes.
“We’re just gonna take you in and X-ray you, make sure there’s no damage inside the head, no internal injuries, no subdural or intercranial bleeding, that kind of thing. Your pulse rate’s strong, so we’re not too worried; it’s just a routine precaution with head injuries.”
“What happened back there?” I tried sitting up. She put her hand on my chest and shook her head, telling me to lie flat and keep my head on the pillow.
“I’ve no idea. My concern was with the two injured persons.”
“Two? Who’s the other one?”
“The man police led away had a broken nose. I had to reset it before he could leave.”
I lay back and smiled.
*
At St John’s hospital I was prodded, poked and X-rayed, detained for a couple of hours and eventually given the all-clear. There was no internal damage, just an external lump on the back of the head, and I hadn’t got concussion. The headache was subsiding but I was still given a couple of painkillers. I was told by the nurse I’d been hit hard by something metallic, and I knew what. Ferguson had clocked me with the butt of my own gun, and he knew just where to hit to cause unconsciousness.
But why hadn’t he shot me? He’d had the chance as, for several seconds, I’d been an open target. I was going to ask him this when I saw him in custody. Or that’s what I thought.
It was just past 6.40 pm by the time I was released from hospital. What with the plaster still on my knife-tweaked nose, a sore left ear and now a lump growing on the back of my head to accompany the fading bruise under my right eye, which I could now open completely, it’d been quite a day. The nurse told me I was to take things easy for the next day or so, nothing too strenuous. Smitherman had told me the same thing when he’d phoned after hearing I’d been taken to hospital. I’d said I was alright and I felt fine, but he’d absolutely insisted I go home and rest (“That’s not a recommendation or a suggestion, DS McGraw; it’s an order”), and he said he’d bring me up to date when I next came into the office. I couldn’t put my finger on why I thought this, but it sounded to me like Smitherman had bad news to impart.
I decided to take his advice and go back to the flat.
I was waiting by the side of the busy road, wondering whether to grab a taxi or take the bus back to Battersea, when my mobile sounded. I answered.
“McGraw, oh my God, mate, you’re a bloody hero.” It was a gushing Sally Taylor, sounding very excited.
Huh? “What do you mean?”
“It’s all over the news. A top IRA man who’s believed to have been dead for fifteen years, and suspected of being behind those car bombs last week, has been captured, and it says an operation involving anti-terrorist police and a Special Branch detective apprehended him. He’s been arrested and is now in custody. You’re a hero, McGraw.”
I was momentarily bemused. “How’d you know I was involved?”
She paused for a moment. I could hear something. Was she sniggering?
“Because, by not denying it, and responding as you did, you’ve just admitted it.” She laughed. “It’s a standard trick us journos use to trick someone into saying something they might not intend to. We get most of our best stories tripping people up like that. I’ve gotta train you to be a bit more media-savvy, mate. God, I love you even more now, McGraw. I got the front page with this story.”
“You’re covering this story?” I was really pleased for her. “Oh yeah.” She was buzzing. “It came over the wire a little while back, and my editor told me to write it up. I did a quick bit of checking facts about what’d gone down with the police press office, they filled in a few blanks for us and the editor then changed the front page headlines to put this story in, so the final editions, which came out just now, ran with this on the front page.”
“Was my name mentioned?” I’d be concerned if it had been.
“No, don’t worry, you’ve not been named, no one in security ever is. Your secret identity’s safe with me, Batman.” She laughed again, sounding very happy. “It’s been a good day for us, McGraw. We should go out somewhere nice tonight.”
*
We did just that, going to the little Italian restaurant next to South Kensington tube station we both liked, and had a delightful evening. She showed me her front-page article and then grilled me on what had gone down during the day. I told her a few things, as she’d said the paper would be running a more detailed report pertaining to the arrest of Cormac McGreely tomorrow, but I omitted certain other salient points. I said nothing about Glett, other than that he’d been stabbed, which she already knew about as it’d been a separate story in the paper, and I didn’t mention that I’d had a gun pointed at me. For the moment I didn’t mention the Chackartis either. Taylor was still bouncing because of her front-page byline, and how a story like this was bound to raise her stock at the paper even higher.
She then told me about her interview with Ian Mulvehill, which had gone extremely well. She’d managed to get some good quotes and observations from him and her article was going to be run on Wednesday. When the interview had concluded, she’d told Mulvehill she knew me, and evidently he’d remembered me fondly. She was so happy. It was great seeing her like this and,
having had Cormac McGreely pointing a gun at me a few hours ago, just looking at her was even more pleasurable. She’d insisted dinner was her treat. Who was I to object?
Back in the flat, I was in the kitchen and about to open a beer when she took the bottle from my hand and slid her arms around me.
“I wanna know what it feels like having sex with a hero,” she whispered softly. Her eyes were seducing me, and she then kissed me in a way which was so magnificently perfect that not only was I elevated into a state of transcendental euphoria; if she’d told me to put a bullet between my mother’s eyes, I would have complied unhesitatingly.
She found out what it felt like. I could only hope it lived up to her expectations of heroes. But, whatever, my headache had gone afterwards.
T W E LV E
Tuesday
THE CAPTURE of Cormac McGreely had made the lead headline on television news last night, and this morning it dominated the front pages of most newspapers: all except for a couple of downmarket tabloids, which led with some celebrity couple splitting up for the second time. Reference was made to the involvement of Special Branch, but no names were mentioned in any paper.
What worried me, though, was the fact the only arrest referred to was that of Cormac McGreely, the man suspected of planting the bombs in London last week. The press reported McGreely was currently being held at Paddington Green police station and being questioned by officers from the anti-terrorist squad. Nothing was mentioned, either on the news or in the papers, about Harry Ferguson or the other two members of McGreely’s family. Was Ferguson’s arrest and the fact he was ex-MI5 being kept out of the public domain on national security grounds?
I’d been told not to arrive at work until early afternoon, so I did just that. Smitherman told me that, after a head injury, albeit a relatively minor one, I was entitled to take the next two days off to recuperate, but I told him, apart from a lump on the back of my head, I was fine. He reluctantly assigned me to reviewing cold cases for the next two days, saying if the doctor gave me the all-clear on Thursday afternoon, I could resume normal duties Friday. I then asked him to fill me in on what had happened after I’d been clocked on the head.
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