Quantum Breach

by Powell, Mark

  McCabe then wondered why the fuck had Stowe planned the rescue?

  He was MI5 not 6. MI5 was homeland. McCabe could not have known that Stowe was being groomed for MI6 work. But the hurt came from deeper within McCabe, from the fact he had not been there. Maybe, just maybe, he could have saved her.

  McCabe built a mental image of Kate lying in a dusty basement covered in blood. He didn’t pause to wonder why anyone would have wanted to harm a doctor like Kate. He knew what these fanatical groups were like; civilian life was cheap to them. Kate was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. One thing for now was very clear: McCabe wanted to hunt them down and avenge her death. This was now personal, very personal indeed.

  Stowe slammed his mug down hard on the kitchen table, which brought McCabe back to the present moment.

  ‘You with me, old chap?’ said Stowe.

  McCabe said nothing for a few seconds, his eyes staring at Stowe, the memory of Kate and the anger of his recollection still fresh in his mind.

  As it faded to a level of control, McCabe snapped himself out of it.

  ‘Yeah,’ he replied. ‘I have waited a long time for this,’ he said with anger still in his eyes. ‘When do we leave?’ McCabe was wound up and ready for a fi ght.

  ‘As soon as you can,’ Stowe said.

  McCabe pushed his chair back, scraping the stone fl oor as he stood quantum breach 290709.indd 40

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  up. ‘Right. Give me ten minutes.’

  He then headed out of the kitchen and went upstairs to the main bedroom. Entering, he went directly to the large oak wardrobe situated to one side of the spacious bedroom. Opening the doors, he hurriedly grabbed a faded green canvas rucksack and, wasting no time, proceeded to gather and stuff in a few T-shirts, socks, underwear and a pair of jeans, followed by a few basic toiletries from the bathroom.

  He then walked back over to the large built-in wardrobe and knelt down. He proceeded to lift up a loose fl oorboard with his fi ngertips, just inside the doors. Reaching down inside the opening, he pulled out a rather dirty white cloth. It contained a Sig Sauer P226 9mm pistol, McCabe’s favourite small arm. He carefully unwrapped it and tucked it into the rear waistband of his jeans, allowing it to rest nicely in the small of his back. Just before heading back downstairs, he took a framed picture of his daughter and placed it in his rucksack along with several boxes of 9mm ammo.

  When McCabe re-appeared in the kitchen, his face was alive, with something almost like a glow of excitement evident. Stowe was caught by surprise that he was ready so quickly.

  ‘Come on, let’s get to it.’ McCabe grabbed his leather jacket which was hanging on the back of his chair and headed out the door. Stowe and McCabe said nothing to each other on the walk back to the helicopter.

  Only McCabe spoke, and that was to Michelle, his estate manager, on his way out of the house.

  They boarded the Lynx and sat down, McCabe placing his rucksack between his legs. The Lynx lifted off almost immediately and started to head north. McCabe looked back down at his house, catching a glimpse of a young deer peeping out from the fi eld of sunfl owers to the southeast in the fading light. He smiled, as he loved to see the wildlife that surrounded his home.

  Kevin Wells, the rookie spook McCabe had so deftly kicked out of his kitchen, sat opposite him, glaring at him with his cold brown eyes.

  Seeing that the young spook was weighing him up, McCabe snarled quantum breach 290709.indd 41

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  back at him, ‘You wish to say something?’

  Wells just sat there looking at McCabe. He then decided that McCabe, despite his years, would make mincemeat out of him, so he wisely decided to back off.

  ‘Nothing, just looking,’ he replied, his tone now soft and respectful.

  McCabe, realising the young spook had made a wise decision not to try and fi ght it out with him, then stood up and reached over, patting him on the shoulder.

  ‘Sorry about the kicking, thought you were a wild boar sneaking about,’ he said, giving him a wink. McCabe then turned towards Stowe.

  ‘A wild boar with a boss who can’t protect him.’ McCabe had a tone of sarcasm in his voice. Stowe, realising McCabe was digging at him for not rescuing Kate, just grunted back. McCabe then sat back down, fastened his seat belt and proceeded to close his eyes and get some rest.

  They had at least two, maybe more, hours to go before reaching the safe house.

  Two hours later, as the Lynx started to land, McCabe woke up.

  Glancing at his watch, he realised he had been asleep for almost the entire fl ight. He could see that Stowe was wide-awake, speaking to someone on a satellite phone, his eyes studying the fl oor. The Lynx bumped down hard in a small fi eld located 20 miles north of Brighton in East Sussex.

  The door suddenly slid open and a rush of turbulent night air hit McCabe in the face as he climbed out, hunched over with the force of the rotor blade downwash. He followed Stowe and another man across the fi eld. He could feel the wet slippery grass under his feet as he walked towards a small pathway on the edge of the fi eld. The path was narrow but paved with stone steps which led upwards to a well-lit house just a few yards away, protected by what seemed to be a thick hedge.

  As they got close, Stowe led the way through a gate, down a few steps and into the magnifi cent house. McCabe, who had paused on the steps, noticed instantly that it was Tudor, dating most likely to around 1600. The clematis and ivy that cascaded over the front porch quantum breach 290709.indd 42

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  reminded him of his parents’ home, and the smell of the clematis took him momentarily back to happy summers and cool lemonade.

  Stowe then led the way into a large study which had a roaring fi re blazing in the fi replace. McCabe noticed that the house smelt of oak and brewing tea. Stowe shouted to a man who had walked in behind them to get some coffee and sandwiches on the move and fast, they were all hungry and needed the energy.

  Turning to McCabe he said, ‘We need to go over the plans, so listen up. The bastards we are going to take out are part of a cell. We are going after their logistics and planning unit, as such we are not expecting much resistance. In addition, we have been told that the main agent is also at the address.’

  Hearing this, McCabe let out a soft smile, reminded of his training when his Counter-Terrorist instructor, Bob Willet, a four-foot-short Scotsman with shocking ginger hair, had explained the fundamentals of how a terrorist cell was constructed.

  ‘Right, ladies,’ as Willet always liked to address a bunch of hardened soldiers. ‘A terrorist cell is made up of several parts. The Recon Unit. They are tasked with observing the target location, providing intelligence back to the main group. Let’s assume reconnaissance on an offi ce building. Next, the Logistics Unit. These little buggers obtain the materials needed for the attack: cars, vans, fake passports, bomb-making materials, safe-houses and so on. Next, the Attack Unit. These are the little devils that carry out the dark deed. Last of all, the Agent. The Agent is the main point of contact, the sleeper, ready to help activate the various units to form the cell. He also helps to provide a legitimate address for any foreigner coming in and is often a prominent citizen of the country in which they set up, with links to the extremist group.

  Often a doctor or a lawyer, someone who would not stand out, and could operate in the country without drawing too much attention.’

  McCabe recalled it all in detail. Stowe now sounded exactly like old Bob as he ran through the details.

  ‘So we are all clear, we’re going after the Agent. The other segments quantum breach 290709.indd 43

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  will be hit by other teams later,’ Stowe concluded.

  ‘Like I said, I’ve waited a
long time for this moment,’ McCabe responded, his eyes blazing with hatred.

  Stowe certainly knew what this meant to McCabe. He had used his MI5 resources to track down the cell. Months of undercover work and monitoring of various addresses in London had been put in. The same informer, that sophisticated woman in her late forties codenamed the Rain Angel, had again come forward on this one. Little was known about her other than the fact that both the CIA and British Intelligence used her from time to time. Stowe had been alerted to her via MI6, but he had never met her. To him, she was only a name.

  Stowe and McCabe sat around a large oak desk, the top of which was covered in green leather with gold inlay around the edges, deliberating over some blueprints of a house located in the Bayswater section of London.

  ‘How did you get these, or should I not ask?’ enquired McCabe.

  ‘The cleaner,’ Stowe replied dryly. McCabe frowned, being none the wiser.

  After a few hours, a car pulled up outside; Stowe looked up and muttered, ‘Good; that’s our driver. He’ll drive us up to London. We move on the target tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘Fine by me,’ McCabe said

  It was 3:00 in the morning by the time they reached the fl at situated on the second fl oor of a house in Bayswater. Four other men were already there, sitting around the living room engaged in idle banter: women, beer and recounting songs from their teenage years. Such was the conversation of SAS men on standby. As McCabe entered the fl at, he immediately caught sight of a familiar face: Mooney, a small bull of a man who could walk through walls. This fellow had no neck; his head sat perched on his shoulders like a bowling ball of hard muscle. His chest was solid bedrock. Nothing short of a missile would stop this ugly lump of a man.

  Mooney and McCabe had served together in Northern Ireland quantum breach 290709.indd 44

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  whilst with 3 Para, and later in the regiment. Mooney, like Stowe, was now an MI5 fi eldwork operative. Stowe had recruited him on account of his ability to remove people from their earthly existence and still have time to brush his teeth. McCabe had once seen him dispatch a suspected terrorist with his bare hands, then turn around and proceed to fi nish his hot dog.

  ‘McCabe, you old bastard, six!’ shouted Mooney, his red cheeks beaming.

  ‘Me? You can talk—your mother slapped the doctor when you popped out, three,’ replied McCabe. The numbers were a code to identify agents. They had to add up to nine, and both Mooney and McCabe used them as a form of greeting. The smiles on both of their faces clearly showed they knew each other well.

  ‘No time for teary reunions,’ commented Stowe. He then rallied everyone around the dining room table for a ‘Chinese parliament’

  meeting, which meant that everyone had a say, regardless of rank. Stowe proceeded to replay the plan of action. McCabe was struck by how well planned it actually was. Stowe had clearly spent a good many hours on this. They would enter the house where the terrorist cell was based at 2:00 the following afternoon. The house, Number 72, was located just a few yards up the same street from where they were based themselves.

  Three points of entry were chosen: the basement, the roof and directly in through the front door.

  ‘Christ, that’s broad bloody daylight,’ proclaimed Mooney.

  ‘Yes it is, Einstein,’ replied Stowe abruptly.

  Alpha, Bravo and Charlie were the call signs to be used by each team. McCabe and Stowe would form Bravo team, going in the front door. Mooney and Smithy would form Alpha team and go in topside through a skylight in the roof, leaving Fowler and Troy, Charlie team, to enter via the basement. The plan required Stowe and McCabe to pose as pest control workmen. The local police were informed to close off the street to traffi c. Gas mains repair work was the offi cial excuse. MI5

  had surveillance on the house for some weeks. Phones were tapped and quantum breach 290709.indd 45

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  Quantum Breach

  bugs, the electronic type, had been placed in two of the main reception rooms by Aunt May.

  Aunt May was a sprightly unassuming 65-year-old lady with grey hair and a stoop, posing as a cleaner and housekeeper. She had managed to get a job at the house as a cleaner. Her former years were not actually spent cleaning houses, but bugging them for MI5.

  One of the phone taps had picked up a call to a local pest control fi rm; cockroaches were infesting the basement and kitchen. Aunt May, upon learning this, exacerbated the situation by spreading the little devils all around the house, carefully replacing the traps with lumps of sugar.

  This was the excuse Stowe needed to plan a more subtle entry.

  Ideally he wanted these bastards alive, especially one of the men.

  He knew that this house contained four Afzal Jihad terrorists, the logistics and planning unit of the larger terror cell. One of the four terrorists had been identifi ed as Bashir Alsud, the Lebanese front man, also identifi ed as the mastermind behind Kate’s abduction. He had been caught mouthing off about kidnapping a UN doctor in a Beirut café.

  Unfortunately for him, the Rain Angel, the MI6 informer, was sitting right beside him at the time. She gave him up to MI6 as a gift.

  Upon deeper investigation, it was learned that Kate’s father had operated on her husband. A mitral heart valve had been repaired, and her spouse was all the better for it, a fact she appreciated. Poetic justice was about to be served twice over.

  Stowe explained that he and McCabe would try and enter the house under their disguised identity. If it worked, they would ensure Bashir was neutralised before they called in the back-up. A full breach was too risky as Bashir was not beyond taking his own life. No way would he allow himself to be captured. Each member of the team had been shown a picture of Bashir, just in case.

  Mooney was looking at McCabe, who was placing fl ash bangs in his bag. ‘Great fl ash bangs,’ shouted Mooney. He loved them. Mooney was known for his ability to sit in a room with only basic earplugs for quantum breach 290709.indd 46

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  protection, have two of these things roll in and just sit there, calm as you like, as if sitting on the toilet. He held the regiment record for withstanding the effects of these fun devices.

  ‘You are barking mad, but then again, there’s not too much in that bone of yours to get damaged,’ said Smithy. Mooney just smiled and raised a collegial middle fi nger.

  They agreed that, upon entry, Stowe would request that all of the occupants move into one room so as to avoid the fumigation gas. It was a tall order to expect them to buy it, but the best chance they had of corralling all the terrorists in one place.

  The next day, Napier Street Bayswater was quiet with only the odd car passing by as the workmen began to cordon off one end of the street with their orange and white cones. A ginger cat now stood in the middle of the road, not understanding where the normal death threats had gone. Just before 1:30 p.m., the nerves of each team member began to tingle; McCabe was rubbing his index fi nger, which Stowe spotted instantly, making him smile.

  No matter how many times they had done this, fear was always your best friend. In silence, the six men kitted up, each carrying a Sig Sauer P226 9mm pistol holstered on his right hip. Heckler and Koch MP5

  machine guns hung across their chests, and there were plenty of G60

  fl ash bang grenades. Mooney and Troy each carried another piece of joy, a Remington 870 shotgun loaded with Hatton shells. These particular types of shotgun shell were designed for breaching door hinges. The Remy hung neatly at their sides on a bit of bungee chord. This weapon would be used to breach the basement door and skylight. They each ran a radio check to ensure they could hear each other.

  ‘This is Alpha. Charlie, come in. Over.’

  ‘Roger that, Alpha. Clear. Charlie out.’

  McCabe and Stowe stood in front of the team for
the fi nal briefi ng.

  ‘Okay, gentlemen, this is it. Let’s make it count, no men down today, please,’ Stowe said in an almost caring voice. ‘Okay, let’s get into position. Move out!’ he commanded.

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  With that, Bravo and Charlie teams moved out through the front door of the house just a few doors up from the target, carefully pacing down the now closed-off street, each man carefully following the other whilst scanning the road, rooftops and surrounding houses. A timely wrong number phone call was being placed to at least draw any attention away from the main living room windows.

  Once at Number 72 Napier Street, Charlie moved swiftly down a set of steps leading to the basement door. Alpha Team had gone up through the house in which the team had been based and out onto the rooftop. The houses in Bayswater were all Georgian-style fl at tops, each one being attached. This made it easy for Alpha team to transverse the rooftop like a pair of fat ballerinas and reach the skylight of Number 72.

  McCabe and Stowe were now outside the front door. They could hear in their earpieces that Alpha and Charlie were now in position.

  ‘Roger that standby,’ Stowe softly replied.

  Stowe had given the squad 20 minutes to get in and out only if he issued the ‘Go’ signal. If not, the teams were to assume that he and McCabe had managed to complete the mission or it was a no go! Alpha and Charlie would only breach once Stowe gave the ‘Go’ order; that was the only signal they would react to. Each team was responsible for clearing its assigned fl oor.

  Alpha would have to clear the top two levels of the house, given they were going in like Santa Claus and his elves. Mooney sat perched like a fat pigeon, poised and ready on the rooftop, staring out through the round eyeglass of his thick rubber respirator, his breathing now heavy.

  Stowe stepped up to the door, McCabe at his shoulder. He pressed the intercom button, which buzzed loudly.

  ‘PestoKill here. Hello,’ said Stowe.

  ‘Standby, standby,’ McCabe whispered into the microphone of his communication set.