by Matt Johnson
‘You could start with the truth.’ Again, her tone was sarcastic.
‘That is the truth.’
‘You’re trying to tell me that you were one of those guys in black suits? No way … no way.’
Kevin spoke again. ‘Monaghan, the man that contacted you a week or so ago? He was our Commanding Officer. Mr Finlay here was in charge of planning and logistics. I was on the entry team. Bob Bridges, the policeman that was blown up outside Selfridges. He was another one of us.’
‘So, you weren’t actually one of the men on the ropes?’ Jenny asked me.
‘No,’ I replied. ‘There were no officers on the entry team.’
Jenny turned to face the windscreen. ‘You’re telling me the truth, aren’t you? You guys really were in the SAS. I can’t believe this.’ Turning back to me she asked, ‘But why have you never told me before?’
‘I wanted to. It’s just … well, things like that are sometimes best kept secret … even from family.’
‘Any other little secrets you want to tell me?’
‘Such as?’
‘Such as why you two are here? Why this man Monaghan has suddenly appeared?’ A light seemed to switch on in Jenny’s brain. She took a deep breath. ‘You’re not here to talk funeral arrangements, I guess?’
‘Where’s your car?’ I asked. Even as I did so, I was aware of a sense of relief that my past was no longer a secret between us. Every time I’d lied about it, I had felt uncomfortable and fearful that Jenny might recognise the signs of my dishonesty. Now, due to a perverse misreading of my behaviour, my secret was exposed. And even with what we were facing, that still made me smile.
‘Over there somewhere.’ Jenny nodded in the direction of the nearest road. ‘I hid it behind a lorry so you wouldn’t see me following you.’
As I started the engine, Kevin tapped me on the shoulder. He’d decided to walk back to his car.
‘Leave you with it, boss. Call me,’ he mumbled as he climbed out into the lane. He appeared to guess this was going to be the emotional bit and that Jenny and I were probably best left alone.
I found Jenny’s car easily. She was starting to shiver so I left my engine running to get us warm.
‘I’m sorry, Bob.’ Jenny gently rubbed my thigh as she spoke.
‘For what?’
‘Not trusting you. Thinking you had another woman. The last few days have been hell. I was convinced, completely.’
‘No. It’s not another woman. I’m real sorry, Jen, but it’s far worse.’
And so I explained. Just as I had rehearsed it. The call from Monaghan. His theories about the murders. I told her about the ROSE office, about Mac, Skinner, Bridges and about the evidence that linked the attacks to missing files that were apparently in the possession of the IRA. I also told her that we now knew where the terrorists were hiding out.
Jenny nodded and blinked as she listened, but made no attempt to interrupt or question me. All the time she continued to stroke my leg. She only stopped when I reached the point about us having to consider hiding until it all blew over.
‘But how could we hide?’ she said. ‘If they can find that man in India or wherever it was, they could find us.’
‘It’s not a simple decision, Jen. I’m responsible for you and Becky.’
‘That man Monaghan is right. Someone has to kill the killers.’
‘That’s just what Kevin says. I’m just not sure I’m up to it. I’m too old, for one.’
Jenny’s stroking hand now gripped my arm. I was surprised by her determination. ‘Too old to save your family, save your friends? Too old to save yourself?’ she said.
I found it hard to believe what I was hearing. It was as if Monaghan was sitting in the seat behind us silently willing the words into Jenny’s mouth.
I took hold of her hand. ‘What if I get killed? It’s a young man’s job.’
‘And what if I get killed because you failed to protect us? What about protecting our daughter? How are we ever going to be safe unless you do what has to be done?’
‘We can run … hide,’ I said.
‘Three of us? And for how long? There’s nowhere we could hide forever. You want us all looking over our shoulders for the rest of our lives? Do you want to watch your daughter growing up never knowing when someone is going to come round the corner to kill her or me or all of us, for a job you once did? You can stop this, Finlay, you know you can, I believe you can. I want to live a full life with you and Becky, not a half life. Or do you want me to start learning how to use one of your guns in the hope I’m lucky enough to be able to shoot the bastard that finds us?’
Christ, I loved her. I reached over and we hugged. As our cheeks touched I could feel the tears on Jenny’s face. We agreed to continue our discussion at home. She got out, returned to her car and I followed her back to the cottage.
On the short journey, I thought about what had just happened. I knew she was right. I was trying to avoid the inevitable. I’d seen the effect that a life on the run can cause families. With the army, I had been in charge of protection duties at a time when we had looked after an IRA supergrass. He had informed on people who would have happily seen him dead. The kids were the worst affected. They didn’t understand the need to constantly move away from friends they had made, to change and remember new names and to get used to new surroundings. Fear and uncertainty caused rows, which would upset the kids even more. No, life on the run was not an option for me, Jenny or Becky.
My wife, the most important person in my life, was backing me every inch of the way. If it was a fight they wanted, a fight it would be.
The decision was made.
Chapter 43
Our conversation continued when we reached home.
It turned out that Jenny had taken Becky to her mother’s and then waited near the police station in her car for me to head home from work. She had then followed me. I was horrified that I hadn’t spotted her.
She’d also been going through my coat pockets, where I had left some receipts and a cash-dispenser slip. It had been for £30. When she’d checked the date it had been for the previous Sunday, a day when I had been late home. I’d been catching up on paperwork, but to Jenny it was another clue.
When I’d stopped leaving my phone on the work surface in the kitchen, ready for the next day, that had rang alarm bells. On one occasion, when I’d been in the shower, she had found it in my trouser pocket. I had set it to ‘silent’ mode. Jenny had been unable to resist rooting through my messages, and that was when she found the ‘Call me, we need to talk’ text from Kevin.
The next day she’d again gone looking for my phone as I slept. After creeping quietly into our bedroom, she found it in the bedside drawer. It was still set to silent and this time it was showing two missed calls.
As far as she was concerned, it all added up to one thing.
And she’d been right – it just wasn’t the ‘thing’ she expected.
We started by making plans to move Jenny to join Becky at her mother’s. As she was going to be there for some time, packing took longer than it would for a simple holiday. I wasn’t much help. My mind kept wandering off into a void of hopelessness. I hated the situation we were in, a state of affairs that I had caused. As I stared at the suitcases waiting to be closed, I kept wondering if there was some way this could have been avoided.
Jenny seemed more focussed. My concerns that she would be angry or feel betrayed were unfounded. She was seeing me in a new light and she asked a lot of questions. We chatted as she packed. She asked, and I explained about SAS training, the embassy and operations I’d been on. It was a relief to be able to talk after having been so secretive for so long.
When we got onto the subject of our current danger, Jenny came into her own. She acted out a role as facilitator. She probed me, questioned me, and challenged me to come up with options and ideas. And she wrote things down. Putting my thoughts on paper seemed to help me to focus. She knew I had the ability to solve this problem if only
I could apply my former skills. Even though I felt overwhelmed, she at least appeared to trust me to get things sorted.
Jenny’s face was going to be our first problem. Where Kevin’s fist had struck, her cheek was now swollen and bruised. No matter what she said, arriving home at her mum’s, bags packed and with a black eye was only going to imply one thing.
We tried ice to reduce the swelling and make-up to cover the mark. Nothing worked. In the event, we resigned ourselves to the inevitable.
The following morning, Jenny loaded the bags into the Audi and settled Becky into her safety seat. I did my best to appear cheerful. As I waved goodbye, my mind was already preparing for what lay ahead.
It was time to dig up some old friends.
Chapter 44
Costello tapped three times on the door to the flat, rang the bell twice and then knocked twice more.
They changed the sequence daily. The previous day, he had forgotten it and had walked straight into the barrel of Dominic’s Browning.
The door opened. Dominic led the way through to the living room, where he leaned over the table and returned to the construction job he had been working on, his hands moving slowly and methodically as he soldered wires to a mercury tilt switch.
On the table sat the working components for another car bomb. Timer activated, it would go live about an hour after being planted. Then, when the car went up a steep enough incline, the mercury in the small glass tube would roll onto the electrical contacts and bang, off she’d go, leaving the car and everyone in it in pieces.
Costello watched Dominic in silence for a spell, but couldn’t contain his foul mood. ‘We fucked up big time, Dom,’ he said in a flat voice.
‘How’s that?’ Dominic didn’t look up.
‘The bomb meant for Finlay, it hit the wrong bloke. Finlay wasn’t at work.’
Dominic stopped working and stood up. Now Costello had his attention. ‘But their control said he was the Duty Inspector that night.’
‘Well, he fuckin’ wasn’t’
‘You’re feckin’ joking.
‘Nope. And now the brief is to have another go at him.’
‘You don’t get two chances at a copper,’ Dominic scoffed. ‘He’ll be waitin’ fer us.’ Costello understood his friend’s concern. He didn’t much like targeting policemen either. But, although every cop in London would be looking for them, they had a job to do.
‘You’re not chickening out on me, are ya, fella?’ Costello slowed his voice, adopting the deliberate and sinister tone he employed when he wanted to instil fear.
Dominic, however, had heard it before. ‘No, but tell that Iranian that his information had better be good this time. I’ve only enough plastic for two more bombs.’
‘I think this is the last one,’ said Costello. ‘He’s gonna try and get us the cop’s home address. That little package on the table will go under his car.’
‘When you meeting him?’ asked Dominic.
‘In a few days, near Euston. I’ll stay at Michael’s tomorrow night before I deliver this package, then I’ll hole up in Kilburn for a couple of days.’
Dominic nodded. ‘And when do we get what we’re owed?’ he demanded.
‘Soon enough. For now, we just do the job and then get home. Now get on and finish the bomb.’
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 d
arkness, 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.