The Robert Finlay Trilogy

by Matt Johnson

  Dominic returned to his task. The time and power unit finished, Costello watched as his friend placed it carefully beneath the kitchen sink.

  All that remained was to connect the battery, detonator and Semtex.

  Chapter 45

  Early the following morning, I walked the mile or so along the River Mymram to Mym Wood.

  It was an old wood, oaks, wild cherry and other natural English species, overgrown to hide a dark and secretive interior. Close enough to the cottage that I could drive to it in a few minutes, it was also off the beaten track, without bridleways or footpaths, which was exactly why I had chosen it.

  There was a local syndicate of pheasant shooters who turned up every so often during the winter in pursuit of the wild birds, and the local hunt would sometimes draw it for a fox, but most of the time it was undisturbed.

  I wasn’t alone in having a personal collection of kit. Many soldiers did it. Often, when a retired serviceman died, guns he’d kept as war mementoes would turn up when his relatives went through his personal effects. That wouldn’t happen with me: my mementos were buried, in plastic dustbins in Mym Wood.

  I had made an initial visit to the wood a few days previously. That trip had been simple reconnaissance, a check for surveillance or discovery. Even then, I had been uncertain whether I should uncover the hide or leave it where it lay. If the cache had been discovered then the ground would be disturbed or, possibly, it would be under observation. It was unlikely, but I had to be careful.

  The hide had remained intact.

  This time, I dressed as if I were taking a walk in the country. If the wood was being watched, I would look like an innocent passerby. The morning was hot and still. It was something of a relief to get away from the uncomfortable humidity of the open meadows and enter the cool cloisters of oak and hawthorn. Flies jinked in the shade under the arching tunnels of trees. In the distance I could just see my objective, a brilliantly lit clearing full of wild flowers.

  As I reached the glade, I smelled the heady scent of hot, damp vegetation. Pink mallow, willow herb, teasel and the fragile, creamy flowers of the meadowsweet complemented the still air. As a schoolboy I had little interest in plants. But on army survival courses, you soon learned their value. Some could be eaten, some would kill you, others were a natural painkiller and many could be used to make even the worst army cooking taste great.

  I breathed deeply, hands on my hips.

  The interior of the wood seldom saw a man. As I walked slowly forward a small muntjac deer started from near my feet, making me take a quick step back. It must have tucked in to hide as I had appeared in the clearing and now decided to make its escape. I watched it go. It was a young male, its tusks barely grown. As it reached the edge of the woodland it stopped and turned. Human and cervine eyes met for a moment, and then the creature was gone.

  My goal was an old gnarled oak on the north-east corner of the glade. At head height, I had cut a blaze from the bark. Now overgrown and stained, it was hardly visible, but it was there. I didn’t touch it, just observed it. If prying eyes were watching me I didn’t want to give my deliberations away. Everything had to appear casual.

  I turned and faced south-west. Seven steps ahead lay the first dustbin. I sat at the base of the oak and waited.

  After five minutes, I stood and paced seven casual steps. I bent down, untied and re-tied my shoelaces. The ground wasn’t disturbed. A flint still lay where I had placed it. To the casual eye it was just a large stone, but here in the wood it was quite out of place and could only have been put there by man. Had it been moved I would have known that someone else had been there.

  I wandered around the wood, checking through places I had already identified as being suitable observation points. Again, I kept my stroll apparently aimless and casual. It took over an hour. I was being extra careful. The ease with which Jenny had crept up on me and Kevin at the common had disturbed me. We should have been more careful. Age and lack of practice had made us sloppy. If she had been one of the terrorists, then we would have been finished.

  Deciding that I had lingered for long enough, I relaxed and returned to the oak. The coast was clear. Not only was there no observation, there was no evidence of anyone having been here at all. Everything told me that the wood was undisturbed. But I was still uncomfortable. Electronic surveillance could have developed to the extent that observation might have been undertaken from a distance. A satellite could even have been watching my every move.

  Finally, there was nothing for it. I started digging using a small trowel that I had slipped in my pocket. Progress was slow. After about twenty minutes’ effort, I had the first plastic bin exposed. Reaching down into the darkness, the first item to emerge, which I placed in the plastic bin liner I had brought with me, was my National Plastics composite helmet. It still bore the scratches and scars of both training and live operations. Across the brow was the crease mark of a bullet that had nearly taken my head off in Armagh.

  ‘Never thought I’d see the day when I’d be digging this lot up,’ I muttered under my breath.

  Next came my integrated personal protection system. Superseded by modern improvements, it was, nevertheless, effective. All finished in black, the Nomex fire retardant boiler suit, Armourshield GPV25 body armour vest and SF10 respirator gave the wearer a sinister appearance. I’d sprayed everything with moisture repellent oil before consigning it to the ground. As a result, it all looked almost as good as new. The bin had remained airtight and dry.

  The last item to go in the plastic bag was a Davies CT100 microphone transmitter and receiver. Kevin had the same system, so at least we would be able to talk when wearing the respirators.

  At the bottom of the bin was the first item of hardware. Wrapped in a small towel was my old Beretta, the same pistol that I’d used to defend myself when attacked in Northern Ireland. It was an older version of the weapon that I’d been using on Royalty Protection duties, but just as reliable, and just as effective. As I weighed it in the palm of my hand, I felt a wave of nostalgia, as if I was being reunited with an old friend. I checked the clip and pulled back the slide. A full fifteen rounds, with one up the spout, just as I’d left it.

  The pistol was heavily greased and looked to be in good order. I wiped the bulk of the grease off with the towel. Proper cleaning would have to wait. I slipped it into the side pocket of my coat.

  Finally, I pulled out the disassembled sections of an Armalite AR-15, which I placed gently onto a hessian sack I’d laid on the grass beside me. The light in the wood was diffused but I hadn’t forgotten the art of battlefield weapon maintenance. Had I been blindfold it would have made little difference. Within a minute the parts were together and the shape of the assembled Armalite was silhouetted against the morning sky as I held the weapon up to the light to check over my work.

  The clearing remained peaceful and unmoving as the trees watched my shadowy figure load the thirty-round rifle magazine. Dustbin lid and turf replaced, I stood up.

  A gust of wind rustled through the surrounding trees as a flock of starlings settled in the nearby oaks chose that moment to launch into the air. I shivered as the noise of their beating wings filled my ears. It made me stop for a moment. There was something about the trees. It was as though the old oaks had eyes. Like ghostly sentinels, their icy stare seemed to bore into my soul. The feeling of being watched was unnerving.

  The second bin containing the heavy stuff would have to be collected later. It was now time to head home. Tomorrow I would call Kevin again and tell him I was nearly ready.

  As I trudged across the peaceful meadow, I felt the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. I stopped and listened but heard nothing. Jenny attributed such feelings to ‘guardian angels’, the spirits of departed relatives who look over us and protect us. Of course I was sceptical, but there had been many times when we had been driving along a country lane and she had suddenly warned me to slow down at a bend. Every time a fast-moving car had appeared from the opp
osite direction and by slowing down we had avoided a collision. Jenny said it was her angels and nothing to do with luck. Perhaps the sensation of being watched was those angels looking out for me?

  Perhaps I just needed to understand their warning.

  Chapter 46

  Kevin called me at eleven the next night.

  I had just arrived home from work to a disconcertingly empty house. His call was welcome, and I was able to fill him in on what I’d discovered.

  My visit to the Nightingale Estate had paid dividends. While doing the rounds of the local pirate radio stations, I learned that the topfloor flat of Rachel Point had been recently taken over by strangers to the estate. As the tower block provided a clear view of the flats where the terrorists were staying, I guessed it was now a Special Branch observation point. With a decent set of binoculars they would be able to study the windows of the target building and watch the approach to the main entrance.

  In vans and in the open, there were workmen ‘repairing’ telephone lines, lifting manhole covers, cutting grass and trimming shrubs. Most, I figured, were from the Met SO11 Surveillance teams. I felt sorry for them. On the day I called by it was hot. Anyone stuck in the back of an observation van would have been finding it particularly uncomfortable.

  I was careful not to enter Alma House, the address that Monaghan had given us. However, the other blocks were laid out in the same way, so I was able to confirm that Costello’s flat was on the very top floor. That was a blessing. Once we had abseiled on to the roof we would only have to negotiate two flights of stairs before we would reach the door.

  As I ran through my ideas with Kevin, I predicted that we would be in and out in minutes.

  He approved.

  Planning was my forte, as Kevin rightly pointed out. He was the sharp-end blade; the man that would get things done. I was the behind-the-scenes thinker. And now it seemed my initial plan was starting to gather some substance. What had begun as a simple proposal was looking like it could actually work. We just needed a little help and some luck.

  The following morning, we were due to meet up with Monaghan. For some reason he had picked Regent’s Park. I ended the call with Kevin, replaced the phone and opened the fridge. It was a warm, still evening and I felt in need of a cold beer.

  The house felt unwanted; I would even describe it as bleak. No toys were spread across the floor; there was no smell of supper and no music. Nothing was as it should have been. Feeling lonely, I decided to go outside.

  As I opened the back door of the cottage and stared upwards, there was scarcely a cloud in the moonlit sky. I strolled out into the small garden. It was quiet, very quiet; so different from the noisy, concrete-dominated place where I worked. The city buzzed with traffic noise, music and voices. Here at the cottage, all that was forgotten.

  It had been a long time since I had known total silence. Even as I stood there in the serene darkness, the moon and the kitchen window giving the only light, I could hear a slight hissing noise in the background. Gunfire and minor explosions had left me with mild tinnitus. At work, with voices and activity all around, it was easily forgotten, but at night, in the quiet of the bedroom or, like now, in the garden, that hiss was always there.

  About a mile away across the valley I could see lights from the local farm. There was the faint echo of the farmer’s spaniel as it howled its song to the moon. It reminded me of a time when a farm dog had so very nearly been the end of me.

  One night, on an observation in Northern Ireland, I had to hide in a cesspit to throw a nosy sheepdog off my scent. When the target came out of his house to investigate the cause of the barking, both owner and dog had actually stood on the manhole cover beneath which I was concealed. The smell of the cesspit had overpowered my body scent and thrown the dog off its quarry. I had been lucky. Even after twenty years I could still recall the smell of that cesspit.

  I was under no illusions as to the problems that Kevin and I now faced. We were about to enter a very dangerous game. Not only did we need to stop the terrorists in their tracks but we had to find out who had our files. Then there would be more questions to answer. We had to try and find out who had seen them and whether they had been copied. I still had no real idea just how much data was stored on a ROSE file, how much our enemies now knew about us. And I didn’t know if they had passed any details on. Hopefully, Monaghan would be able to give us some answers.

  And there were still other questions. How had our files come to be at Castlederg in the first place? Monaghan hadn’t come up with a reason. Those files should have been safe, either at Hereford or with MI5. Why had they been stored in a Northern Ireland Special Branch office of all places?

  Following a different track, I knew that it would be crucial to hear from Grahamslaw when he found out what had become of the Arab from the embassy siege. I had often wondered what became of that young terrorist. There had been rumours that he had been repatriated to Iran where they had executed him.

  It was also pretty certain that we were going to have to kill some people before they got to us first. That prospect really did trouble me. Jenny was right to say that we should fight, but if caught by the very authorities of which we were members, Kevin and I could expect little sympathy.

  I had to get my mind-set sorted out. With over sixteen years in the police, I had softened. I’d put soldiering behind me and was no longer trained to fight. As I drained the beer, I wondered if, when it came to it, I’d have the nerve.

  As I returned to the cottage, a wood pigeon reacted to my presence by clattering noisily into the dark sky. Returning to the kitchen I threw the empty beer bottle in the bin, took another from the fridge and then opened the under-sink cupboard. The bag containing my kit sat there, hidden behind the cleaning chemicals and old towels.

  ‘You get caught with this lot, old son, and you’ll really have some explaining to do,’ I said to myself.

  To ease the sense of loneliness, I hummed a tune as I unloaded the contents of the black canvas holdall onto the kitchen table. It was time to clean them, to make them ready for use. I did a quick stock count. There was my Beretta, a 9mm hi-power Browning pistol with two magazines, a sawn-off Remington pump-action shotgun, and finally, the Armalite.

  I had just started removing the grease from the Beretta when the phone rang again. It was Jenny.

  ‘When I get home I’m gonna shag the arse off you, Robert.’

  I laughed. Jenny laughed.

  It was great moment. Here I was, sitting at the kitchen table, getting ready to commit murder, and in an instant the tension I felt was gone. I’d always loved Jenny’s sense of humour and her timing was just perfect.

  We chatted about Becky, her mother, the house. Everything except what was really going on. I’d insisted on it before she left. It was in case someone had thought to listen in on my telephone line. If I was Grahamslaw, that’s what I would have done, so I’d warned Jenny to be careful.

  It was good to know that the two people I loved most in the world were now safe. It was up to me to make that safety permanent. As Jenny hung up, once again there were tears in my eyes. I was afraid. Not of dying, I had come to terms with my own mortality years before. Now, I was afraid of letting them down. I wanted to be there for them, to grow old with them and to love them. I wanted to see Becky grow up.

  I was afraid … of failing them.

  As I worked, I remembered a speech that Monaghan had made to the lads of B squadron when the police had, finally, signed the authority for military action at the Iranian Embassy. He had talked of fear, of how all brave men felt fear, it was only the ability to triumph over fear that defined courage.

  Now it was my time to start demonstrating that ability.

  Chapter 47

  Monaghan was waiting for us. As we reached the centre of Regent’s Park, he was on the footpath adjacent to London Zoo. It was drizzling, the gentle rain clearing the dusty London grime from the air.

  The park was surprisingly peaceful. Given
that we were within a short distance of London’s traffic, in all directions, the city generated no more than a background drone. In the zoo, an elephant was roaring its frustration to the world, as parakeets screeched their high-pitched replies. I now understood why Monaghan had picked the spot. The animal calls from the zoo meant nobody with a normal hearing range would be able to hear what we were saying to each other.

  Monaghan had his hands stuffed into the pockets of a gabardine Mackintosh. He looked the stereotypical MI5 man as he stood gazing into the wolf enclosure. Only two of the bedraggled beasts could be seen. Listless and dull coated, they wandered about their pen, scratching at the earth in the vain hope of locating an extra morsel of food.

  As Kevin and I approached, Monaghan turned to greet us. ‘Sad, isn’t it?’ he said.

  I noticed that his face looked tired and drawn. I wondered if, like me, he had been suffering a lack of quality sleep.

  ‘What’s that, boss?’ Kevin asked.

  ‘The zoo. They’re running out of cash, selling the animals, laying off keepers, and all the while other people squander money like there’s no tomorrow. That’s sad to my mind.’

  ‘I see your point. Never went much on zoos myself, prefer to see them out in the wild.’

  ‘True enough. Still, we didn’t come here to debate the pros and cons of London Zoo, did we? I understand you need a helicopter.’

  It was my turn to speak. ‘We do … and someone to fly it, of course. We’ve set our minds on a silent set-down onto the roof, abseil down onto the top floor, open up the roof-space door, grab the target and spirit him away. Chances are they’ll have night-vision equipment, but we think it unlikely they’ll be watching the roof.’

  ‘You want the heli to fly high up, so it’s not heard on the ground?’ Monaghan asked.

  ‘That’s the general idea, we’ll use a grabbit hook to clip the winch cable to the roof of the flats, I should imagine we’ll need the pilot to hover for about five minutes, then we return to the cable, tie ourselves on and away we go.’