by Chris Ryan
Taking a deep breath, I set off along the forest track between the high, dark trees. The wind was light and in my face; as far as I could tell from this distance, that meant it should be blowing from the house to the hill. That was good.
I was nearly at the forestry fence before I sensed something wrong. Suddenly I got a strong feeling I wasn’t alone. I stopped. I hadn’t heard or seen anything, but a message had reached me somehow. I stood still, the blood pounding in my ears. Sniffing the air, I smelt nothing except the clean breath of the spruce. My normal senses produced no evidence of trouble, but my sixth sense was saying ‘Look out!’ loud and clear.
I took one step closer to the edge of the ride and again stood still, invisible in the blackness, waiting to see if anything moved. The wind stirred faintly through the tops of the spruce, but that was the only sound. What the hell was wrong? Normally I never get spooked. I regard the night as a friend, not as a foe or anything to be frightened of. But here something was definitely amiss.
I gave it a couple of minutes, struggling to get hold of myself. I could pull out, obviously — but that would be pitsville, an almighty waste. All day, all week, I’d been psyching myself up to get the job over and done with, and this was my best chance. I knew that if I quit now, I’d never forgive myself.
Gradually, as I stood there, I got the feeling that there was somebody ahead of me on the ride, between me and the forest boundary. Again I had no physical evidence, just the feeling. Then I thought that maybe it was a poacher. There were probably fallow deer in the wood, and some local could easily be after them. He might have seen my car come up, and be waiting for the coast to clear. Well, if we did have a clash, it needn’t be anything serious.
Time was passing. I couldn’t hang about much longer, or Farrell would be back and safely inside before I reached my firing position. Nor could I see much future in trying to work round to my objective some other way. I hadn’t checked out the other tracks inside the forest, and if I started trying to work them out now, I might easily finish up getting lost.
I gave a shudder, half involuntary, half deliberate, as if a good shake would throw off my doubts. Then I went forward.
Fifty yards farther on, I knew too late that my instinct had been right. All at once there was somebody on the track ahead — and not one person, but two. Two dark figures, blacker than the night. For a split second I still thought they might be poachers. Then, from the way they came at me, I knew they couldn’t be.
I turned back and started to run, only to see a torch flash on ahead of me. I’d been followed as well. Cut off. There was only one way to go: sideways, downhill, straight into the trees. I dived to my right, aiming to plunge under the lowest branches and slither or crawl down the smooth carpet of needles on the ground. But it didn’t work. Immediately a branch snagged on my day-sack. Another jabbed into my left temple, ripping my skin. Behind me I heard the bark of a big, heavy dog.
I found myself in a bit of a clearing. Two more dark figures loomed in front of me. I lowered my head, charged forward and nutted the left-hand one properly, dropping him in his tracks. The second took a dive at my legs and brought me down. I kneed him in the crotch and hit out with my left fist, struggling to get at the Luger with my right hand. Then a heavy animal came crashing through the trees and a second later jaws closed on my right ankle.
Suddenly there were men all round me, hammering at me with sticks. I tried to shield my head, but took some damaging blows about the neck. My shoulders and kidneys got a battering, and I couldn’t get up because of the dog. I started to feel sick. Then a torch blazed down into my face and a voice said, ‘OK, come on out of it!’ I tried to get up and run, but somebody else crashed into me from the side, knocking me back to the ground. Next second I was face-down in the pine needles with a knee in my back and another guy sitting on my head.
For a few horrible moments I was shitting myself. I thought I’d been grabbed by the PIRA. In the gleams of torchlight I saw that my attackers were dressed darkly and wearing ski-masks. Fucking hell, I thought, Farrell’s got wind of my movements. I really thought I was going down.
Then I realized that the voices I could hear were relatively cultured. Somebody dragged my arms back and snapped a pair of cuffs round my wrists. The guy who’d sat on my head stood up and said, ‘On your feet!’ The dog had let go of me, but it was still jumping around. Then someone tied a cord to my wrists, and two of them hustled me back through the stiff lower branches of the trees to the open ride.
By then a whole load of torches were bobbing about. There seemed to be guys everywhere. When I moved my feet a couple of inches, one of them snapped, ‘If you don’t want a big clog stuck on yer, stand still.’
The next thing was a body search, expertly carried out. Two men shone torches in my face while a third ran his hands over me. He soon found the Luger and my sheath-knife; of course my day-sack wouldn’t slip off with my hands locked together, so he had to undo its straps.
Then a different man came up in front of me — some sort of boss, I guessed — and said, ‘What the hell d’you think you’re doing up here?’
From the odd glint of metal about his shoulders I got the impression that this figure was in uniform. But, not knowing who he was, I reckoned it best to keep quiet. Then, behind him, I saw something white, and a second later two fellows dragged a big bag down over my head. At the top end was a hood with an elasticated drawstring, which settled tight round my face, leaving my vision clear. The bottom end was pulled in close round my knees, with my arms and hands inside. I felt humiliated to be trussed and bundled like that, but it gave me a clue about the identity of my captors. Those white bags are what the RUC use to cocoon prisoners, so that traces of explosives or gunpowder or blood or any other tell-tale substance aren’t rubbed or washed off on the way to the station. I’d been lifted not by the PIRA, but by some arm of the security forces, probably HMSU, the Headquarters Mobile Support Unit, the RUC’s equivalent of the SAS.
‘Look,’ I said to nobody in particular. ‘I don’t know who you guys are, but I’m SAS.’
‘SAS?’ said an Ulster voice incredulously. ‘With a fucking Luger? Bollocks. Think of something better — and get moving.’
A shove in the back started me off along the ride towards where I’d left the car. A man with a torch lit the way, but on the uneven track, and with my hands behind me, it was difficult to balance, and I kept stumbling. Ahead, I saw headlights sweeping up the hard road, and by the time we reached the turning-place several vehicles had assembled, the gargle of radios burbling out of them.
At the back of a long-wheel-base Land Rover someone yanked open the door and propelled me in, telling me to lie on the floor. Two other guys climbed in and sat on the side-benches, one with his boots right in my face. The door slammed, and immediately we set off downhill.
That was one hell of a journey. I was getting my right shoulder, elbow, hip and ankle well battered on the bare steel of the floor as we went over bumps; but more agonizing was the mental torture I was suffering. In the space of a few minutes, my whole life and career had gone tits-up. That was me finished in the SAS, I felt certain — it was inevitable I’d be RTU’d. Probably that was me finished with Tracy, too. When she found I’d gone straight back on the job after promising to lay off, she might well ditch me.
Almost worse of all, that was the end of my attempt to level the score with Farrell. I couldn’t imagine I’d ever get another chance. And how in hell had these people cottoned on to me? Perhaps someone had seen the Datsun going up into the forest and reported it?
I wasn’t going to show weakness by asking more questions; in any case, I was sure nobody would answer if I did speak. I felt certain we were heading back into Belfast, and after half an hour I began to see orange street-lamps above us as I peered up through the back window. There was a good deal of stopping and starting at traffic-lights. Then we went slowly through three successive pairs of high mesh gates into what I guessed must be a police st
ation.
The driver backed fast up some sort of ramp and came to an abrupt halt. The back door was opened from outside, my two escorts scrambled out and dragged me after them. I got a quick impression of high brick walls forming a narrow cul-de-sac, before being bundled in through a door at the end.
Inside a brightly lit office an RUC sergeant was sitting at a desk.
‘I’m Sergeant West,’ announced one of the men holding me. ‘We’ve arrested this man under Section Fourteen. He was found in possession of a weapon in suspicious circumstances in the forest above Ballyconvil, suspected of being a terrorist.’
‘Fine,’ said the custody sergeant. ‘Put him in there, and get the bag off him.’
He nodded towards the first room across the corridor, which was a cell, bare but clean and smelling of disinfectant.
In there, with the door securely shut, my two attendants pulled the white bag over my head and one of them released the handcuffs. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Get your clothes off.’
‘Wait a minute…’
‘Get ‘em off. Everything except socks and pants.’ The door opened, and someone handed in a grey track suit. The sergeant who’d arrested me dropped it on to the bed, which was a raised concrete bench. ‘You can put that on afterwards.’
‘Look,’ I snapped. ‘I’m not a fucking criminal. I’m in the SAS.’
‘Yes,’ said the sergeant, equably enough. ‘And I’m the Colonel-in-Chief of the Coldstream Guards. So just do as I say, and put your clothes in there.’
He held out a black plastic bin-liner and reluctantly I started to strip off.
I saw the sergeant staring at me. ‘What happened to your face?’ he asked.
‘Nothing — why?’
‘You’ve blood all down your right side, looks like a cut on your forehead.’
I put my hand up and felt a matt surface down my cheek. Until that moment I’d felt nothing. ‘Oh, that. I ran into a tree.’
‘Nobody hit you, then?’
‘No.’ I dropped my clothes into the bag and pulled on the track suit, which stank of mothballs.
The sergeant left the bag on the floor and went out saying, ‘The Scene of Crimes Officer will be with you in a moment.’
I sat down on the bed feeling stunned. I knew I’d be deep in the shit with the Regiment. But all the same, my overwhelming desire was to get out of this gaol and back to the troop, among my own people, as soon as possible.
The door of the cell opened, and in came not the SOCO, but the custody sergeant holding a paste-board and a biro. ‘I’ve given you the custody number one-oh-two,’ he said. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Sharp. Geordie Sharp. Sergeant in 22nd SAS.’
He gave me a hard look and said, ‘Are you suffering from any illness?’
‘No.’
‘Do you need any medication?’
‘No.’
‘Are you injured in any way?’
‘Only this cut.’ I pointed at my head. ‘And I got a load of bruises. And a bite in the ankle from a dog. But I don’t think it’s serious.’
‘Do you want anyone informed of your arrest?’
‘Yes, I do.’ I gave him the name and number of Tom Dawson, the sergeant major, troop second-in-command, and asked if I could speak to him.
‘No,’ was the answer. ‘I’ll speak to him myself.’
The custody sergeant went out, and the cell door clanged shut again. Next man in was the SOCO, a thin, lugubrious-looking fellow with a ferrety face, carrying a white tray with instruments on it.
‘I need to take some samples,’ he said.
‘What for?’
‘It’s routine.’
‘Bloody hell!’
‘Nothing to worry about. Hold out your hands, one at a time.’
Like a robot, I did as I was told, watching with a mixture of fascination and revulsion as he wiped swabs of cotton wool carefully over my fingers and palms, then used a flat-ended gouge to dig out minute scrapings of dirt from under my fingernails. Finally he took a pair of scissors and cut some hair from my forelock, which was short enough anyway.
As he worked, I felt myself getting more and more steamed up. In the end I came out with, ‘This is bloody ridiculous! I haven’t done anything.’
‘I’ve heard that before,’ said the SOCO mildly. ‘None of them has ever done anything. They’re all as innocent as lambs, so they are.’
Just as he was finishing, the custody sergeant reappeared and said, ‘Right, you’re wanted for questioning.’
He took me across the corridor into an interview room, where a table was set out with one chair on the far side of it and several in front. We sat down briefly, waiting for someone. I’d already decided to say as little as possible until one of my own people turned up; but suddenly an idea occurred to me.
‘What station is this?’ I asked.
‘I’m not allowed to tell you.’
‘Does Chief Superintendent Morrison work here?’
‘Morrison?’ The sergeant was obviously surprised that I knew the name. I’d scored a point. But he said, ‘No. Not here.’
‘Well, can you get a message to him? Tell him I’m here?’
The sergeant looked at his watch. ‘He’s probably off duty now. It’s after eight.’
‘How about calling him at home, then?’
‘I don’t think he’d welcome being disturbed. He’s probably at his tea.’
‘At least he could authenticate who I am…’
The door opened, and in came a chief superintendent, a small, neat, sandy-haired man, who sat down on the far side of the table and said, ‘Now, I need to ask you a few questions.’
He was quietly spoken and courteous, but I knew that every word I said was being recorded, so I said as few as possible. I tried to give away nothing beyond my name, rank and number, and kept repeating that I was a member of the SAS. But when the chief asked, ‘Are you saying that you were taking part in some official operation?’ I had to answer, ‘No.’
‘What were you doing, then?’
‘I can’t say.’
‘Where did you get the Luger?’
‘Pass.’
‘It’s not one of your unit’s normal weapons.’
‘No.’
All the time my mind was in the warehouse, in the ops room. I kept thinking of the consternation that news of my arrest must be causing, the acute embarrassment at having one of the guys go off his trolley. I hoped to hell that someone was already on his way across to rescue me. Further, I hoped it would be Tom, rather than Peter Ailles, the troop boss, whom I hardly knew. That wasn’t his fault; it was just that he spent so much time at TCG, liaising, that the guys in the troop saw very little of him.
After a while the chief ran out of questions, so I asked a couple myself.
‘What’s happened to the hire-car?’
‘Don’t worry. It’ll be taken care of.’
‘The keys were in the pocket of my windproof.’
‘Yes. We found them.’
‘Have you informed my people that I’m here?’
He picked up a telephone and spoke briefly. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘they know. There’s someone on the way over. Meanwhile, we’ll get the doctor to clean up that cut. When did you last have anything to eat?’
I stared at him. Was he offering me food? What was this place? A fucking hotel with cells? I had to think back. Of course — we’d had lunch with my in-laws. ‘About one o’clock.’
‘Do you want something now?’
I shook my head. I couldn’t have eaten a thing. ‘No, thanks.’
The custody sergeant took me along to the medical room, where a doctor cleaned the rip on my temple, declared that it didn’t need stitching, sprayed it with disinfectant, and put a dressing over it. He also took a look at the puncture-marks on my ankle and gave them similar treatment.
‘I don’t think you’ll get rabies,’ he said, ‘but you’d better have an anti-tet.’ When he saw the bruises on my shoulders he s
aid, ‘You may be glad to know that you’ve got one broken police nose to your credit.’
Back in the cell, I sat on the bed with my mind spinning. There was no way I could start telling lies within the Regiment. The only thing to do would be to admit the truth. But, Jesus — the humiliation of it! Not only had I broken all the rules and tried to take out a target on my own, but I’d failed to carry out the operation efficiently. I’d failed to recce the ground properly, failed to notice that I was under surveillance, failed in everything.
The minutes crawled past, and I felt sick with remorse. Nine o’clock. Tracy would be home by now. Suddenly I wanted contact with her. I’d promised to call.
I pressed the button beside the door, to sound the buzzer. Presently the hatch opened and a face appeared outside the grille.
‘Is it possible to make a telephone call?’
‘Afraid not.’
‘Can you make a call on my behalf?’
‘Only to inform someone that you’re in custody.’
Bloody hell! That was the last thing I wanted her to hear. So I said, ‘Forget it, then,’ and tried to settle down.
At last, about 9.30, there was a stir out in the corridor, and I heard several pairs of boots on the floor. The door of the cell swung open, and my heart jumped. There was Tom, a bit haggard and drawn, but big and reassuring all the same. I could have embraced the old bugger, I was so glad to see him.
‘Is this him?’ asked the custody sergeant.
‘It is.’
‘D’you want to have a word with him?’
‘Sure.’
They ushered Tom into the cell and closed the door. For a few seconds he stood looking at me as if I was a ghost. Then he said, ‘For fuck’s sake, Geordie, what’s this about?’
I glanced round the shiny yellow walls. ‘Tom, I can’t talk in here. I’m sure the place is bugged. For Christ’s sake get me out.’
‘Yes, but what the bloody hell have you been doing? You’ve dropped a king-sized bollock, I can tell you. The shit’s hit the fan in a big way. You’re a fucking disgrace to the Regiment.’