by Ted Bell
The car was plunged into semidarkness as they entered the Pont de l’Alma Tunnel at very high speed.
“Jesus Christ, man! Watch out!” Trevor shouted, grabbing the dashboard with both hands.
Diana clutched the rear of the front seat and lurched forward to see what was happening. Then she screamed.
“My God, we’re going to hit him!”
They were coming up far too fast on a white Fiat Uno. And the car was swerving right into their lane. Henri swerved hard left in order to avoid a collision. He managed to miss it, but not completely. They clipped the left side of the Fiat with their right mirror and front door.
“Dodi!” Diana cried, swinging her fist at him. “Do something!” The huge concrete pillars supporting the tunnel roof sped by in a blur, and dangerously close.
“What the hell is going on, Henri?” Dodi bellowed, leaning forward from the rear. “Are you out of your fucking mind? Slow down, for God’s sake!”
Henri Paul downshifted and braked in an effort to get the speeding car under control.
At that moment, Diana, terrified that Henri was out of control and driving dangerously, peered over Trevor’s shoulder, fearing for her life.
Something caught her eye just to the right of the Mercedes.
She saw a large blue-and-white motorcycle with two men, a squat driver and a taller man behind him on the pillion seat. As the big bike pulled abreast of them, she saw the man on the rear seat reach into the camera bag slung across his shoulders.
“I’ll lose this fucking bastard, just you watch,” Henri Paul said, accelerating once more.
“No!” Trevor shouted. “Slow down, Henri, damn you! One more stupid picture doesn’t matter. And the rest of the pack is at least a bloody mile behind us.”
Henri Paul ignored the bodyguard and downshifted, depressing the accelerator, determined not to let these mongrels overtake him and his precious cargo. He was shocked to see the motorcycle effortlessly rocket ahead of him, despite his efforts.
Suddenly the motorcycle swerved directly in front of the Mercedes, red brake lights flashing.
What the hell?
“Seat belts!” Trevor shouted again, desperately snatching his own across his chest. Diana strained forward between the two front seats, looking at the motorcycle now directly in their path, red taillights flashing, obviously braking to get a shot of their terrified faces through the windshield.
“God damn these people!” she cried out, tears coursing down her cheeks, bringing her fist down in frustration on Trevor’s massive shoulder.
Would there ever be peace for her? Ever?
She saw the man on the cycle’s rear turn around and face them, raising his camera—no, not a camera—some other kind of thing, like a strange gun, and—
A blinding flash of light exploded into Henri Paul’s and Trevor’s eyes. Inside the Mercedes, the awesome power of the Northrop ten-thousand-watt military laser gun was devastating.
Instantly blinded by the catastrophic glare, stunned, and completely disoriented, driver Henri Paul took both hands off the wheel and covered his scalded eyes. Dodi and Diana froze. They were skidding and swerving directly toward the tunnel’s massive center pillars.
“Oh, God!” Diana screamed, blinded, and fully cognizant of certain death exploding in her brain.
“Oh, dear God, we’re going to—”
In a split second the heavy Mercedes slammed headlong into the thirteenth concrete pillar at full speed. Henri never even had the chance to apply the brakes. The airbags all deployed on impact, but since none of the occupants were wearing seat belts, they afforded scant protection.
Dodi and Henri Paul died instantly. Trevor, hurled facefirst into the windshield, was knocked unconscious, the entire front of his face ripped away.
The Princess of Wales was alive.
But she had sustained a massive internal injury when the car’s arrested momentum flung her violently against the front seat. She was bleeding from the nose and ears, lodged between the backseat and Trevor’s seat. Her heart was still beating strongly.
It was pumping blood slowly but surely through the small tear in her aorta, the red tide rising steadily inside her thoracic cavity. As time passed, the invisible wound was slowly bleeding what precious little was left of her life out of her.
Horn wailing, water, steam, and smoke rising from the shattered engine of the unrecognizable Mercedes, Diana, Princess of Wales, lay in the darkened, crumpled vehicle, moaning softly, “Oh my God, oh my dear God.”
IN A HEAVILY WOODED AREA of the Bois de Boulogne, on a dark and empty street, Smith ordered his driver, Omar, to stop the motorcycle. He needed to stretch his legs, he said, climbing off the pillion seat and walking around to the front of the BMW.
“Dead men tell no tales,” Smith said, and, turning, plunged his stiletto straight into the man’s heart. Then he lowered the kickstand and pulled Omar’s body back to the pillion seat. After attaching Velcro straps to each of his wrists, he climbed aboard the BMW. He pulled the straps forward, fastening them around his waist.
And then he disappeared into the summer night.
THIRTY-SEVEN
COUNTY SLIGO, IRELAND
IN THE GREY DUSK OF A LATE summer evening, three men stood on a hillside in the shadows of a thick wood, gazing at a house standing at the bottom of the hill. The wind was howling dismally, with only the harsh, discordant cry of an occasional seagull rising above the wind. The tide was in and with it came a dank, iodine-tinged mist. There was an occasional rumble of thunder to the west, perhaps a storm rolling in from the sea.
The old three-story house was called the Barking Dog Inn. It seemed deserted and gave off an almost sinister appearance. All the windows were shuttered. The uncared-for gardens were a mass of unkempt weeds and desolate, overgrown flower beds. The unpainted garden gate opening onto the dirt road, a former cart track, was in need of a top hinge and swung drunkenly in the wind from the unpainted fence. A few tired trees surrounded the inn, swaying dismally in the wet wind.
Through his binoculars, Hawke saw that it was a property gradually falling to pieces through lack of attention. So far off the beaten track, it was unlikely it would ever receive any. In short, it was perfect in every way, the very ideal of an IRA safe house. Perhaps, though he doubted it, McMahon had been telling the truth after all.
“Admirable,” Ambrose Congreve remarked. “A safe house so situated is a godsend to anyone who covets his privacy.”
“Aye,” Drummond said. “I’ve lived in these parts for nigh on sixty years and I’ve never even heard of this infernal place. No one has used this place, much less this road, for years.”
“McMahon vouches for it,” Congreve said, like a man still less than convinced the house was anything it was purported to be.
“Not exactly the beehive of terrorist activity our highly paid informant described,” Alex Hawke commented. “Let’s go down and have a closer look, shall we?”
As the men started down the steep and muddy hillside, branches dripping with moisture brushed across their faces and they all turned their collars up against the evening chill. It was slippery going and they had to step carefully to avoid a sudden fall.
Hawke took the lead and was slightly annoyed at his comrades’ lack of progress. It would soon be nightfall, he thought, pausing to give Congreve and Drummond a chance to catch up. He’d no intention of an all-night stakeout in this forbidding place—especially with rain threatening at any second. Foolishly, they’d not prepared for this at all.
“What was that?” Ambrose said suddenly, gripping Drummond’s shoulder and looking round at something or other.
“Nothing,” Hawke said irritably. “What do you think it was?”
Congreve, peering fearfully into the gloom, said, “Thought I heard a creaking sound over there—as if something, or someone, were moving through the bushes. Must have been the wind, I suppose.”
“Of course it was the wind,” Drummond said. “What are you
so damn jumpy about?”
“Jumpy? I’ll damn well tell you what I’m jumpy about. And frankly, I’m surprised the notion hasn’t occurred to you as well.”
“What are you talking about?”
“A trap, Bulldog. I don’t trust this bloke McMahon a tinker’s damn. A duplicitous drunkard. Suppose he had second thoughts? Woke up in a panic? Told his IRA mates about his conversation with Hawke and me at the Pennywhistle the other night.”
Hawke said, “He’s certainly capable of that. Panic, I mean.”
Ambrose said, “Or it was premeditated. He gives us the ‘secret’ location of this Barking Dog Inn. Claims it’s an IRA safe house. And they bloody well lay a trap for us. Here. Tonight.”
“Why forfeit the money? A big sum. He hasn’t collected it yet.”
“Bulldog, we sent him to prison for twenty years. Innocent, he says. He wants revenge. And this place seems too—undisturbed—it doesn’t feel right.”
Hawke surprised Congreve by readily agreeing with him. He reached into his rucksack and pulled out a lightweight 9mm Heckler & Koch machine gun with a folding stock. He also retrieved a pair of night-vision goggles and hung them by the strap around his neck.
“I think you make a strong point, Constable. This is an ideal setup for an ambush. Isolated. Rigged with IEDs for all we know. I say we take cover in the underbrush on that ledge overlooking the house. It’s going to be spitting rain shortly and we’ll have good protection under those trees overhead. We’ll sit tight, give it an hour or so. If nothing happens, we’ll climb back up the hill to the Land Rover.”
“And if something happens?” Drummond said.
“No action. We’ll take note of it. Assess the situation. Then come back with a good deal more firepower and manpower. I can arrange for a British Army tactical unit to accompany us.”
“Excellent idea,” Congreve said, much relieved, wrapping his waxed Barbour jacket tight around his body. “Rain’s coming. Let’s get moving.”
Nearly an hour later, wet and hungry, they heard the rattle of a laboring engine. They saw a misty pair of doused headlights spiking through the trees lining the old cart track. A few moments later an ancient truck came to a halt at the front gate of the Barking Dog Inn. The engine was switched off, then the headlamps.
Two men, one thickset, both armed with short, stubby machine guns, climbed out of the cab and did a quick surveillance of the road and the immediate area around the house. They were dressed in black with balaclavas over their heads. Satisfied they were unobserved, one of them went to the rear of the truck and unlocked and lifted the canvas flap.
The other entered the house, and soon lights could be seen through cracks in the shutters, upstairs and down.
Six men emerged from beneath the tarp at the rear. All armed and wearing camo from head to foot, they dropped to the muddy ground. Men still inside the truck began offloading wooden crates, heavy enough to require two men to carry. The rain was pouring now, and they slogged their way up the front walk, getting whatever equipment they had out of the weather as quickly as possible.
When the job was completed, the two men in black left the six others behind inside the house and climbed back up into the cab. The old truck started up and rumbled away, back toward the river and the bridge. It was clearly an important delivery, Hawke saw, but a delivery of what?
“Seen enough, gents?” Hawke asked, pushing the NVG goggles up on his forehead.
“Indeed,” Congreve said. “Let’s get back up to the road as quickly as possible. They may well send sentries out. I would.”
At that moment, two men emerged from the shadows at the rear of the house, both obviously carrying automatic weapons. They separated instantly, one heading toward the river, the other heading for the hillside where the three spies crouched in the undergrowth a hundred feet above.
“Move out,” Hawke whispered.
Half an hour later, all three were safe and warm inside a late-model black Range Rover, Drummond at the wheel. He had “requisitioned” the vehicle from the Knight of Glin. They were speeding down a twisting snake of narrow road, hemmed in by tall hedge-rows, headed back to the town and the small establishment where they were boarding.
“Nice car,” Congreve said as they sped along through the thick countryside. “How long have we got the use of it?”
“The Knight’s got a bloody fleet of them,” Drummond told Ambrose. “He’d hardly miss just one for a few days.”
Hawke said, “Bulldog, when we get to town, if you don’t mind dropping me at the British Army HQ, I’ll have a word with my contact there, after speaking with Sahira Karim at MI5. Tell them about what we’ve seen. Prepare a plan of action. I should be back in the pub for a pint and a bite to eat at nine.”
THE BRITISH ARMY SENT THREE scouts and a sniper out to the safe house that very evening. After a wet, sleepless night, they’d been lying concealed in the woods all day long. IRA soldiers in camo and balaclavas had been coming and going since daybreak. More trucks had arrived, delivering what looked to be heavy weapons.
At the army HQ, an assault unit spent the day arming and preparing plans for an attack on the safe house. It would occur in the predawn hours of the following morning. The Regiment had conducted six tours in Northern Ireland over the years, taking heavy casualties in Derry and in the terrorist-plagued countryside of South Armagh.
Then came the Good Friday peace accords and the violence was finally and mercifully quelled.
But this new enemy had tired of peace recently and wanted war. These battle-tested army soldiers were more than prepared to give it to them. Their mission was to take out the leadership of the New IRA before they were able to ignite a new cycle of violence.
IT WAS NOW NEARLY THREE o’clock in the morning. Pitch-black, no moon, no stars. The house, which was dark, was completely surrounded by a team of elite British Army soldiers. When Hawke first arrived, he learned that mortars had been placed on the hillside above the house. Hawke, with the backing of MI5, had convinced the commanding officer not to use them. He argued that there might well be valuable intelligence, laptops, maps, and so on, located inside and to risk destroying such cache was unwise.
One hour before daybreak, at 0457, the British commando attack would commence. The troops would storm the house. It was estimated that there were at least twenty heavily armed men inside. Some of the crates off-loaded from the trucks had been identified as containing Russian-made RPGs, rocket-propelled grenades, and mortar rounds.
HAWKE HAD A DIFFICULT TIME with Congreve and Drummond. Both men had to be persuaded to remain up on the same bluff overlooking the house where they’d spent a cold damp hour the evening before. They wanted front-row seats and were determined to get them.
“I knew I should have left you two in town,” Hawke finally said in frustration. “Damn it, you’re both being completely unreasonable. And, frankly, unprofessional.”
“This is our fight too,” Congreve said, slipping his hand into the pocket of his tweed jacket and feeling the butt of his small Walther .380. “We don’t want to be stuck up here on the hill in the cheap seats. Especially since you’re going to be down there in the thick of it.”
“This is not even remotely your fight, Ambrose,” Hawke said. “And, frankly, I can’t even believe we’re having this discussion. This is a fight for a commando team. Highly trained professionals. Men who actually do this for a living. They wear Kevlar, not tweeds, to a firefight. They are using weapons you wouldn’t know how to load, much less aim and fire. A lot of those boys down there are battle-tested veterans of Iraq, men who’ve done house-to-house fighting in places like Basra and Fallujah, under the worst possible conditions.”
Congreve was silent, chewing on the stem of his pipe, keeping his own counsel. Finally, he looked at Hawke and spoke.
“And yet you yourself are going to participate.”
“No, I am most likely not. Not at this point, at any rate.”
“You’re certainly dressed an
d armed for it.”
“I’m simply prepared should I get the chance. I am trained to do this. If I can be of help, I will. You will recall my solemn promise to the Prince of Wales about finding his godfather’s murderer. He may well be inside that very house.”
“My apologies, Alex. Silly idea of mine. No one is any better than you at this type of warfare. You certainly should not be wasted sitting up here and watching the whole shooting match with Bulldog and me.”
“No, I should not. But unless someone thinks I can help, I’m unfortunately going to be in the armored personnel carrier with the commanding officer. A fate worse than death from what little I know of the man.”
“Who is he?” Drummond asked. “I’ve dealt with most of ’em over the years.”
“Masterman,” Hawke said.
“Major Milo Masterman?”
“The very same.”
“God save you, Alex. You’re better off walking into a barrage of live fire than sitting it out with that nasty bastard. They should have put him in front of a firing squad years ago, simply for being a flaming arsehole.”
“Yes. At any rate, wish me luck.”
With that, Hawke was up and away into the darkness, moving swiftly down through the woods toward the cart track on the far side of the hill. This is where Masterman had ordered his APC command post positioned, camouflaged heavily with brush.
As Hawke ran, he was thinking of every possible argument he could give to the assault team leader as to why he should be allowed into this fight. His blood was up. And when it was, there was scant use trying to stop him. But stepping on toes when someone else’s men’s lives were at stake was something he’d always tried to avoid. He wouldn’t want it done to him, so he never did it to anyone else.