Kate took the military field glasses Jay had provided and scanned the area carefully.
‘When are they moving the digger?’ she asked.
‘It’s on its way through the woods as we speak,’ I said. ‘They’re towing it gently by hand, a few feet at a time. Tim checked in a few minutes ago.’
‘So it’s all going well?’
‘Reasonably,’ I said, ‘too many people are out of doors because of the weather. A couple of fishermen further up the canal look set for a long stay, but we can handle them. Our own sentries are posted.’
‘Where?’
‘Lottery and his girlfriend are making love in the long grass on the edge of the cherry orchard. If any travellers start poking about there, he’s going to be pretty annoyed at being disturbed.’
‘Anyone else?’
I indicated an Ordinance Survey map of the area, which I had marked with a series of crosses and circles.
‘One couple in the reeds in the little inlet by the old lock. Another next to a tree above the Green Lane. They’re ready but I hope there won’t be any rough stuff. The main thing is to keep the party boat the centre of attention. At least it’s a nice warm night for swimming.’
‘I wish I could join them,’ Rachel said wistfully.
I grinned. ‘Afraid you’ll have to wait till we get back to the farm to get your kit off. Right now, we have work to do.’
‘What work?’ Chunk said. He was sitting on a bunk at the end of the saloon, reading a tattered copy of Xenophon’s ‘Treaty on Horsemanship.’
‘I’ve got contracts for you all to sign,’ I said, ‘Chunk and Birdy I want you to pass them out to everyone in the team.’
‘Explain please,’ Chunk said, putting down his book.
‘I’ve already briefed you on my agreement with Virginia. I’ve done my best to protect your asses but there are a couple more precautions you need to take.’
I opened a folder and took out a small sheaf of official-looking printed forms.
‘These letters set out in detail what is going on here.’
‘Don’t we sort of know what’s going on,’ Birdy said, with a grin.
‘No. I’m afraid I have to spell out for you thickos why I called you all and asked you for help.’
‘You didn’t call us,’ Birdy objected, ‘you’re too much of a fucking saint.’
‘Yes, I did,’ I insisted quietly. ‘I’m in trouble with SIS and my well-known enemy, Ray Vossler, is stirring everything up to make matters worse. I’ve asked you all to help me get back at him.
‘I’ve come to conclusion that among his many other illegal activities, Ray Vossler has begun a smuggling operation, most probably drugs. I’m making a film that will prove Vossler is a crook and so get me off the hook. You are helping me.’ I tapped the paper.
‘That ticks two boxes,’ I went on, ‘it provides you with employment as advisers to a film company which is just about acceptable in the military as an outside activity. Plus it means there is no suggestion of anti-terrorist activities. If there were, you would have no excuse for not reporting it to the authorities.’
‘Pretty thin,’ Rachel said, ‘legally speaking.’
‘I know. If this op comes off, you’ll all be heroes, if it goes tits up you could just find this little fiction saves you from the worst of the downdraft. Helping an old comrade-in-arms, even when he’s on the run from the police, is just about acceptable as military behaviour. Knowing about a possible terrorist attack and failing to report it is definitely not.
‘And one final word,’ I added looking directly at Chunk and Birdy. ‘You’re a disobedient bunch of bastards but please humour me and get everyone to sign those contracts and get them on the drug-smuggling song-sheet. It could just save a few careers.’
Birdy shrugged. ‘OK. You’re boss.’
‘You too, Rachel,’ I said.
Rachel nodded but held up her hand. ‘The other boat’s just messaged. They’re asking is it time to ramp up the party.’
Using the field comms network Jay had improvised for us, I checked with all of the men positioned in the fields and on the canal bank and made sure attention still focused on the party boat. The water polo match had come to an end and the spectators were being treated to the sight of the naked participants climbing back on deck and dressing, apparently drunkenly, in full view.
When the reports were all in, I signalled to the party boat that it was time for ‘noise blast-off.’
The sound system in the lounge on the lower deck of the party boat was already pulsing with a steady, heavy beat. Not too obtrusive yet, but insistent and undoubtedly irritating to the inhabitants of the half dozen houses in the vicinity who must have been living and sleeping for weeks with every window open. The woman who had been first to dive off the boat, apparently not sobered by the swim, was now having trouble dressing and was being cheered on by an enthusiastic little group on the deck of the boat. Having apparently given up on efforts to put on any underwear, she was struggling unsuccessfully to find the armholes of her skimpy summer dress. Her reverse strip-tease was virtually an open-air theatre performance and the audience was loving it. Meanwhile, a DJ’s deck was being brought up onto the bridge and huge amplifiers positioned on either rail. A tiny red dot glowed on my handset, to indicate that Tim was ready to speak.
I listened then said, ‘great, I’ll give the go. Give it ten minutes then start digging.’
I turned to Kate.
‘The digger’s in position. They had no trouble. Every sentient being within a mile has come to watch Sheila.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ Kate said, ‘that’s quite a party piece.’
‘She’s an army doctor,’ I said, ‘not a breed with too many inhibitions about the human body.’
After a final check with Tim, I signalled the party launch. Even though we had all been expecting it, the effect was stunning. The sudden blast of sound could be heard not only across Sellhurst, but many villages away as well. The music was the most irritating kind, tuneless, loud enough to be near distortion and with a beat that seemed to make the whole countryside vibrate.
As though anticipating a reaction from the shore, the DJ immediately lowered the level. It was easy to imagine the relief. It was just a mistake. The noise would be acceptable after all. Then gradually, the level rose again, until it had reached a pitch that no-one could ignore. The nude swimming had grabbed the attention of every watcher. The music had now extended the net. The launch was the focus of the entire district and would clearly remain so until someone managed to persuade the party-goers to call a halt.
‘How long does Tim need?’ Kate mouthed above the din.
‘He says half an hour at most. It doesn’t need to be a deep hole.’ I tapped my ear-piece, ‘he’s begun already. No travellers so far.’
‘How long do you reckon before the protests start?’
‘Quite soon, but we should be able to stall long enough.’
In fact, it was only minutes before a small but obviously angry crowd started assembling on the canal bank. Most were middle-aged or elderly and the most vociferous was a white-haired man in his sixties who started to make signs that he wanted to speak to someone on the boat. Sheila responded first by bowing gracefully towards him, then raising her skirt and shaking the hem tantalisingly in his direction. The group on the boat cheered and the man, stared, hesitated, then made further gestures to indicate his anger at the noise.
I watched carefully, judging the level of the man’s anger and listening to reports from Tim on the progress of the digging. There wasn’t much doubt we could keep this kind of fun and games up for another half hour, even though the crowd on the bank was growing every moment.
‘It’s going to be OK,’ I said, ‘no-one’s paying any attention to Tim.’
But we had reckoned without the speed of the police. It wasn’t immediately clear whether they had been summoned or whether they had heard the noise but a police car, with full siren and lights,
appeared at high speed, heading down the towpath. Two policemen got out and the white-haired man rushed over and started talking animatedly to them. There was no need to point at the boat. It was centre-stage in every sense.
The policemen ran along the bank towards the landing stage nearest to the launch. I watched calmly then gave instructions through my headset. Two men appeared from below decks on the launch and quickly cast off the mooring ropes. The launch drifted out into the centre of the canal, came to halt defiantly, exactly between the two banks, held by subtle adjustments of the idling engine. What followed would have been a shouting match if either of the parties could have heard the other above the noise. Instead it turned into an angry pantomime, with the policeman and apparently drunken revellers mouthing arguments across the few yards of water dividing them.
The smallness of the gap between them was obviously heightening the police frustration. To be so near and yet so totally ignored and have their impotence scrutinised by watchers both on shore and in neighbouring boats was too much. One of the constables ran back to the car and returned with a loud hailer. But the laughter had started even before he had put it to his lips. His voice did just penetrate the wall of sound from the boat, but the DJ’s response was to up the level yet another notch. The dancing also became more and more frantic, but another ballet was now drawing everyone’s attention. The skipper of the launch, who was barely visible in his position inside the canvas awning of the cockpit, was now allowing it to drift closer and closer to other craft moored in the narrow canal basin. Each time he got too near, he would put the engine into reverse at the very last moment, causing the propeller to send a vigorous white wash lapping against the banks.
The police watched in despair as he averted three collisions, each one of his own making, then headed back across the basin in search of a another target.
I turned to Kate.
‘Tim’s finished the digging. He’s just got to put a cover over the hole and camouflage the surface.’
We watched as the mad water ballet continued: the music beyond deafening pitch, the launch lurching from bank to bank, narrowly avoiding boat after boat. Ten minutes later, Tim sent the signal. The work was done. The Tiger trap was dug, camouflaged and concealed and the digger was on its way back to the drainage site. I smiled and gave instructions to the launch. The boat halted and Sheila came back onto the prow. With a broad smile, she bowed towards the police, placing her hands together in a gesture of submission. At the same moment, the sound system was switched off, leaving a silence almost as striking as the noise it replaced. The skipper executed a skilful turn and the launch glided smoothly out of the basin, and headed in the direction of Maidstone.
Chapter 22
The next morning we learned the target of the planned attack. It was to be Westminster Underground Station some time on Sunday 3rd June, the day of the pageant to mark the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee. Tim called an emergency meeting and an hour later the full team assembled to assess the situation. Kate called up maps and basic information. Westminster was one of the biggest and most recently modernised underground stations in London. Delgado confirmed that his brother had no information about exactly where any device might be planted or precisely when – he had only place and date.
One immediate point emerged from Cronin and Delgado’s expert assessment: The Queen could not be part of the target. On that Sunday, the second day of a four-day holiday weekend, more than a thousand boats were due to assemble for a flotilla on the Thames. The Queen would be on the river then on a reviewing platform well away from the tube station. At no point was she likely to be in personal danger but the world-wide television audience for the pageant would be tens of millions and it would take only minutes for media attention to switch from pageantry to the terror attack.
‘Question one,’ I said when I took over the briefing, ‘does this make any difference to our plans? Do we warn the authorities in advance?’
The unanimous view was that we should not. Rachel wanted to find some back channel for feeding a tip-off to the Met but she was over-ruled.
‘In a way, the date helps us,’ Chunk said. ‘The garden party is exactly seven days before the Jubilee. It gives us one week’s grace if the Tiger Trap plan goes tits up. If we try to tip off the Met or anyone else now, the chance of word getting back to Vossler is high. If either John or Bob goes to their old employers, it’s game over. They have zero credibility and the very best we can hope for is to make enough fuss so that they step up security at Westminster which will tip Vossler off.’
‘And allow him to change the target,’ Tim added.
‘However,’ Chunk added seriously, voicing all our concerns, ‘if we do fail on Saturday then we have no choice. We pass everything we have to the most reliable people we know in the Security Services and the Military.’
‘That’s understood,’ I said. ‘The deal I’ve made is that I give myself up whatever the outcome on Sunday.’
‘So let’s not fuck up,’ Tim said cheerily. ‘This is one we simply cannot lose.’
We turned then to operational details and I discovered that Kate had been plotting with Birdy and Jay. I had braced myself for a serious confrontation with her over the garden party. Even with her new smart professional disguise, I was sure someone in the crowd would recognise her but I knew persuading her to stay at the farm while the whole team was operational at the air show was going to be one hell of a task. Kate had, of course, anticipated the problem and had quietly persuaded Birdy to let her be in charge of the airborne command and control centre we were planning to run from the helicopter. Birdy was always susceptible to female charm but he was also a serious professional and he had not agreed until Jay had given Kate a full briefing on the comms system and both men were satisfied she could use it competently.
At the early morning briefing, they both reported that she had completely mastered the system. Birdy confirmed that she would be dressed in a flying suit with goggles available if necessary and added his personal guarantee that he would protect her anonymity. I didn’t even attempt to argue. With only a few hours to go, there were still several key issues to be resolved.
The most important one was a ground base for the team at Danton. Clive had a good friend with a house right on the perimeter of the airfield who was reliable enough to be asked, but he was concerned that there would inevitably be a lot of comings and goings as many of the pilots made use of the house throughout the day.
As an alternative, Clive had suggested another pilot who had a house on the far side of the field, well away from the mainstream activities. He said he was confident the man could be trusted but wanted us to check him out before making a commitment. Lottery had already been sent over to see him and the mood lightened immediately when he called from the airfield to report.
‘Looking good,’ Lottery said and we could all hear the laughter in his voice, ‘the house will make a perfect command post. This guy, Mike Weatherby, describes himself as a freelance test pilot. Freelance garden gnome is more like it. Wait till you see him. He’s a pretty odd looking cove.’
‘Never mind what he looks like,’ I said, ‘can we trust him?’
‘I’d say yes, especially with Clive vouching for him. He’s agreed to everything you asked, and I don’t think he’s the devious type. Definitely worth a punt, I’d say, given the alternatives. I’ve arranged for you to meet at three o’clock today.’
I wound up the briefing and spent a couple of hours going over details before driving with Kate and Tim and Birdy to meet Weatherby and inspect the house. Danton airstrip was already decorated with flags and bunting and catering trucks were delivering supplies to large marquee erected near the museum building. Weatherby’s home was a small white-washed cottage on the eastern edge of the airfield which turned out to be much more roomy inside than it appeared from the road. The original cottage windows had been replaced by a picture window which gave a panoramic view of the main flight path and landing strip and was double-
glazed to reduce the noise.
Given Lottery’s build-up, it proved hard not to smile during the introductions. Weatherby was indeed as gnome-like as it was possible to get, without being a total caricature. He was short and square, with red hair and a small red beard which appeared to have been grown to partially cover some deep facial scars which I guessed were burns.
‘Come in, come in,’ he said, ‘I’m looking forward to all this. Clive tells me you’re film-makers. He says I’m to believe everything you tell me, ask no questions and do everything you want.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘It must be very interesting work and it seems to keep you all jolly fit. I expect carrying those heavy tripod things around builds up the muscles.’
I made an instant decision. I would trust the gnome.
‘The ‘believing everything we say’ thing is mainly for everyone’s protection,’ I said, ‘there’s a sort of ‘official’ hymn sheet we’re all reading from for legal and other reasons.’
‘You mean what I don’t know can’t hurt me in court?’ Weatherby said cheerfully, ‘Clive said you were my sort of folks. It sounds as though you plan to liven up an otherwise sedate garden party, which can’t be a bad thing. Take a seat and tell me this ‘official’ version.’
Weatherby made coffee, then sat down opposite us and waited expectantly. I gave a careful version of the scenario we had worked out. One of the planes coming to the air show was suspected of being used in a large-scale drug-smuggling operation. We were expecting the drugs to be offloaded onto a vehicle for transfer across country to a house in Kent. The film crew was planning to keep tabs on all the players during the garden party, monitor the transfer and try to stop the vehicle en route and film the merchandise.
The Saxon Network Page 20