by Chris Ryan
The yard flooded with the noise of running soldiers as the rest of the team closed in. Over the radio Slater heard rapid-fire instructions as an outer cordon was set up.
A long stain of blood on the ground around the fallen figure, and beyond him a sprayed and scattered mess of tissue, bone-fragments and teeth.
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And then a man in a muddy windcheater running from the house, and a wild-eyed woman in a leather jacket screaming behind him: ' You shot my little brother, you cunt! You SAS pigfucker! He was just a . . .'
And the pair of them seized - the man speechless with shock, the woman still dementedly screaming and plasticuffed.
And the words and the events finally making some sort of sense, and the icy cold kicking in, and Slater .knowing for certain that he had shot the wrong man. . .
(l
I'Joey Delaney was twenty-four years old,' said Slater, Flowering his glass, 'but his mental age was nine. The phooter had sent him out to retrieve the weapon and deliberately lent him the coat. Sent him out as a decoy case there was an SAS hit team waiting out there. Us brother Scan, who wasn't all that switched on, lidn't realise what was going down -- he just wanted to a good volunteer, doing his bit - and he let the lad out for the weapon.'
There was a long silence. Eve glanced at Slater but ; face was blank.
| 'So what happened next?' asked Ridley. |'We plasticufFed Scan and Bridget Delaney and hit farmhouse. And there was your man, cucumber |ol, in the kitchen, unzipping his overalls. He was a guy, perhaps thirty, with receding hair, anguished looking, you might say. Certainly not run-of-the-mill PIRA triggerman.'
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'And you arrested him?' asked Eve.
'We held him. I was for doing him there and then I got as far as thumbing down the safety catch - and I know the lads would have backed me up if I'd said he'd reached for a weapon. But it would have got very complicated very quickly. I could hear the chopper landing outside -- the police were on their way. And in truth no one would believe that he would have been carrying at that moment anyway. He wouldn't have been so stupid.'
'You knew that you were going to have to let him walk away?' asked Eve.
'I knew it, and he knew it. But the truth is that there was something else going on between me and this guy. Something personal. He knew what he'd made me do by sending that boy out in his place, and he knew just from looking at me in that kitchen that it was going to do me real damage. And that pleased him. I could see it in his eyes. "Shooting me won't bring him back," he said when I brought the HK up to my shoulder. "Shooting me would only make the whole thing worse. Don't you think?"
'His accent was - how can I describe it - a kind of Irish American. Something about it said money. Something said this was the sort of guy you'd normally see in a smart suit in an expensive restaurant, and I wondered who the hell he was. He certainly wasn't on the regular list of known players -- he'd probably come over specially from the States. And he'd probably get straight on to a plane when the
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police released him, go back there, and disappear until J.-the next hit.
'And then I thought: If I can't actually kill him, I can f'at least put him out of action as a shooter. Break a few bfingers, perhaps, smash his hand up a bit. I was just |wondering about the best way to do that, given that I had the night sight attached and couldn't use the att of the HK, when about five RUC guys came earning in and took charge. A couple of minutes later Iwe were pulled off the position and choppered back to phe barracks.'
'And that was the beginning of the end as far as you id the Regiment were concerned,' said Ridley. Slater nodded. 'It was. I went off my head, basically, it post-traumatic stress or whatever you like, but I it the Darkland big-time. I became super-aggressive -- picking rights -- I gave the Regiment guys ider me a really bad time, I started drinking a lot, I'd never done before . . . and became like a lly aggressive, violent loner.
, 'And I had these nightmares. Endlessly. In which I r Joey Delaney. I saw him in crowds, I saw him in ps, I saw him in bars, I even saw him on television. 1st standing there in that oversized coat with half his ce shot away and those nine-year-old's eyes looking s.me, not understanding what was happening to him, why. And I'd try to run away but he'd always be ere, following me, as if I was the only one who could him rather than the one who was halfway >ugh killing him. And I'd have my weapon with
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me - the HK53 - and I'd threaten him, tell him to leave me alone or I'd shoot him again, and eventually I would shoot him again, and I'd go on shooting him, endlessly, but . . .'
Slater fell silent. No one moved. Ridley studied his signet ring.
'And then I actually saw Joey Delaney in real life, when I was wide awake, walking down Bridge Street in Hereford. Same expression, same shot-away face, right there in front of me. I ended up running all the way back to the camp at Sterling Lines. Told the head shed I was having hallucinations and flashbacks, that I couldn't carry on, and that I wanted an immediate discharge.'
Slater emptied his glass, and shook his head when Ridley mimed a refill.
'And they gave me one. They'd seen people in my condition too often to doubt that I meant what I said. First, though, they sent me to the psychiatric unit at the tri-service hospital. The shrinks did the usual stuff, got me to talk the incident through and so on -- got me to put what I felt into words -- and the nightmares started coming less often.'
'Do you still get them?' asked Eve sympathetically.
'Occasionally. They came back for a time after the incident at Bolingbroke's School. I know the signs and symptoms now, though, and I know that I just have to ride the whole thing out. That in the end it'll go away.'
'And after the hospital?'
'I did a coaching course - athletics and rugby. I'd got
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it into my mind that school life might suit me. T might be able to teach young lads something a themselves on the games field.' 'And did it? Suit you, I mean?' 'In the end, no. Or not life at that particular sc] anyway. But I'm sure you know most of this aln You're not going to tell me you haven't vettec pretty thoroughly.'
Ridley smiled. 'We would have been foolish nc I think you'll agree.'
Slater turned to him. 'Can you fill in a histc detail for me?' 'I can try to.'
'The shooter at Forkhill. I know they had to re Mm, but did they ever find out anything about 1 s,Was he an American, for example, as I thought?' Ridley steepled his fingers. 'His name was J i'McGirk, and he had dual citizenship. He grew up llCatholic family in Belfast and he and his pai aved to New York State in the mid-eighties. I s remember they were both research chen ftyway, they ended up doing very well iiemselves. The young McGirk enjoyed the ication that the city of Buffalo had to offer iidied . . . oh, literature I think. Something to nth James Joyce, or am I imagining that? Anywa) iMicked it in after a couple of years, dropped 01 University of Buffalo, and joined the Ma srps.' TQuite a jump,' said Slater.
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'Indeed. He ended up going to Saudi with Desert Storm as a sniper, and after that we think he went back to Belfast to look up some of his old pals. Now up to that point, as far as anyone knows, he had no particular Republican sympathies. He was a Catholic, like I said, but the middle-class suburb he grew up in was a world away from the Falls Road.
'Somehow, though, he made PIRA connections. One theory is that one of his schoolfriends had become a member of the Army Council. And obviously it was felt that a man with his skills who was completely unknown to the security services was too good to waste. And unknown he remained - the PIRA made sure of that. Until Cropspray we didn't have a name or a face for him, just a reputation and a whole lot of conflicting rumours.
'When the RUC pulled him in they discovered he was in the Province on a false passport. The man he was claiming to be was a quad
raplegic living on Rhode Island who hadn't left the States for fifteen years. And so all the agencies started digging.' Ridley spread his hands. 'And we identified Greenfly as McGirk. If Cropspray accomplished nothing else, it accomplished that. He hasn't been back since, and I'd guess that that means that lives have been saved.'
'So what's he up to now?' asked Slater.
'He's back in the States, where as far as we know he hasn't raised his head above the parapet. I'm sure we'll hear from him one of these days, though.'
'I'd very much like to,' said Slater with feeling.
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Ridley smiled. 'I'll see what we can do to bring you together. I'm sorry you've had such a bad time - it's the occupational risk of our calling.'
Til survive,' said Slater, aware of Eve's thoughtful gaze.
'I'm sure you will. And I'd like to say how glad I am you're joining us. We're a small team, but the work we do is vitally important. As, right now, is refilling these glasses. Eve, would you be so good?'
He turned back to Slater. 'As I said before, that was a splendid fish you caught this afternoon. Very few of i my guests have managed one of that size on their first 1 visit. By, er, whatever method!'
Slater smiled in acceptance of the compliment. 'And without wishing to talk shop on such a ['beautiful evening, it looks as if we might be able to put I your improvisational skills to work on behalf of the i Cadre rather sooner than anticipated -- assuming, that |is, that you agree to join us.'
'Can you tell me in specific rather than general terms what it is that you do?' Slater asked. He wanted hear it put into words.
Ridley smiled, a benign amusement lighting up every weathered crease of his features. He would lake, thought Slater, a very good Father Christmas. 'We assassinate enemies of the State,' he twinkled. Slater nodded slowly. He could hardly ask for plainer speaking than that. He realised that on some evel he'd already known it. But was that really what le wanted to be - a political assassin? Did he,
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ultimately, have any choice? Wasn't he an assassin already?
'I'm informed,' said Ridley, taking Slater's silence for assent, 'that we have the beginnings of a situation.'
190
EIGHT
Over the course of the next week, things moved fast.
Slater did not return to the Highbury flat -- instead a
' van collected his furniture and possessions and he was
, re-installed in a similar-sized place in Primrose Place,
I hard by Waterloo Station.
The new flat, he discovered, had been vacated by his I'predecessor a fortnight before, and although I nondescript-looking from the outside was fitted with State-of-the-art alarms and anti-intruder devices. |There was also a scrambled landline phone to the office at Vauxhall Cross. The place was in good decorative >rder, and although he had nothing to hang on the Slater soon had it looking cheerful enough, lere was a market nearby, he discovered, where (cotic fruit and vegetables could be bought, and he etermined to expand his cooking repertoire to aclude a few curries.
Most days he walked along Lambeth Palace Road ad Albert Embankment to Vauxhall Cross. Mainline is from Waterloo stopped there, but the rail fmrney took almost as long as travelling on foot. At ^e MI6 headquarters he had been provided with
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passes, entry codes and swipe-cards. He had also inherited a Liverpool FC coffee mug from his unknown predecessor, and had been formally introduced to Ray and Debbie, the Cadre's support team. For reasons of security, Slater discovered, Cadre members were only ever referred to by their first names. To keep things simple -- especially vis-a-vis radio and communications procedures - they used the same names when operational, adding false surnames where necessary.
Ray and Debbie were both computer experts, and much of Slater's first week was spent learning secure communications procedures from one or other of them. Ray's passion, apart from obscure Arabic language websites, was the cinema of the Cold War, and he wore heavy black-framed glasses and knitted silk ties in homage to Michael Caine in The Ipcress File. Being just over five feet feet tall and prematurely balding he resembled Michael Caine in no other respect, but this deterred him not one whit. His dream, he told Slater, was to wake up one morning and discover that henceforth life was to be lived in black and white.
Debbie was the spiky-haired young woman Slater had met on his first visit to the office. Like Ray she undercut the serious and stressful nature of her work by affecting to play the clown. Some days she would report for work wearing corpse-white make-up, on others she would remove her motorcycle helmet in the atrium to reveal purple gothic hair-extensions. Debbie
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had been recruited after hacking into the MI6 database 1 while at university and planting a job application amongst the Balkan desk's top-secret files. Hearing f about this audacious approach, and needing a replace iment for her predecessor, who had left to marry a }4iplomat, the Cadre's director of operations had [snapped her up immediately.
Like Ray, Debbie was a highly competent computer igineer, and the two of them ran a small repair ivorkshop in an annexe of the office. As she explained Slater, none of Nine's computers, once used, could pounds er be repaired, serviced or disposed of outside the epartment. Even a completely smashed-up terminal amped on a skip could yield important information a good forensic engineer. When Slater had ruefully fessed to her that computers made him nervous, sbbie had smiled. 'We'll get you up to speed,' she promised him. 'And all you really have to lember is not to lose your fucking laptop!' iJThe director of operations was the smooth-jowled Slater had encountered at his last interview with Named Manderson - as a regular, non |>erational MI6 officer seconded to the Cadre, he Jt his real surname -- he was a clubbable old school who at first sight looked the exact opposite of a jtched-on intelligence operator. With his pink eks, raked-back hair and foxy smile, he looked like Wealthy stockbroker who had done a short-service lission in the guards. There was a hardness about fseyes, however, which belied this genial impression.
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Slater met him on his second morning, when Manderson hurried into the office to collect some reconnaissance photographs. Introduced by Debbie, Manderson shook Slater's hand, held up the photographs - 'Ingushetiya. Fucking awful place!' - and raced out. He returned in time to take Slater out for a pint and a sandwich at a cheerless pub near the Oval cricket ground. He apologised for the fact that Slater had not yet been introduced to the rest of the Cadre, but explained that they had all been tied up with the aftermath of a long surveillance operation relating to Eastern European money-laundering. He should, however, be meeting them all in a day or two, as there was 'something biggish bumping down the pipeline'.
In the meanwhile, Manderson suggested, he should spend a day on the range and in the killing house down at Warlingham, in Surrey. When they were not operational he usually suggested that Cadre members spend at least a half-day a week at Warlingham working on their sniping and close-quarter battle skills.
Slater heard him out expressionlessly. He knew the smooth, power-hungry Manderson type only too well from the army. Secure in the knowledge that they would never have to face such horrors themselves, they invariably made liberal use of gung-ho phrases like 'hard contact' and 'close-quarter battle'. He was certainly a clever man -- no fool could have advanced to Manderson's level of seniority - but Slater suspected that his greatest skills were those he deployed on behalf of his own career.
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Returning to the office, and with a mixture of anticipation and apprehension, Slater booked himself in for a session at Warlingham the following morning. He arrived on the range to find a face that he knew: >a wiry old ex-Scots Guards armourer named Jock MacLennan who'd been seconded to the Regiment |for several years. MacLennan watched in silence as [Slater put himself through his pa
ces on the range. He ;je-acclimatised himself with a variety of weapons, and ^discovered to his relief that he was not quite as rusty as je had feared he might be. With hand-arms, in particular, his accuracy and reaction times were pretty mch as good as ever.
The two men had a bite of lunch at the South jndon Aero Club, and then returned to the killing juse, where they were joined by a Cadre membre led Terry. Terry was a pale, doughy-featured sex-boy with a straggly goatee, and to Slater's eye aked seriously unfit. For the purpose of the firearms Kercise he was dressed in a pair of blue garage (rorker's overalls.
MacLennan loaded up the Heckler and Koch MP5s Slater set up the killing room. The weapons had en rigged to fire paint-rounds, but in every other spect behaved like normal MP5s. Slater and Terry ced each other through various set-ups for a couple f hours, and Slater's fears were swiftly confirmed: the 1 was no combat soldier. He was slow on his feet, and aked awkward behind a weapon. Slater, on the other id, had not enjoyed himself so much for ages. The
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old instincts were still in place, and the blood sang in his veins as he went to work. Needless to say he splattered his overweight opponent every time.
'I'm sorry, guys,' Terry said eventually, his overalls dripping with yellow marker-paint. 'I'm crap with guns - they're just not my thing.' He turned exhaustedly to Slater. 'Any advice you can give us, mate . . .'
Slater nodded and smiled encouragingly. Inwardly he was wondering what the hell kind of outfit he'd committed himself to. This fat lad was a waste of space, for a kickoff.
At 7.30 on the fifth morning, Ray called Slater on the scrambled landline. There would be an important departmental briefing in one hour, and his presence was required.
It was a cold, overcast day -- a promising May had become an indifferent June - and Slater made his way down Albert Embankment with a sharp prickle of anticipation.
He arrived in the office to find Eve in close conference with Andreas and a slightly built black man of about thirty in jeans and a leather jacket whom the others introduced as Leon. An air of urgency prevailed and for once even Debbie looked comparatively subdued. As the newest recruit to the outfit Slater decided to keep the lowest possible profile. Raising a quick hand in greeting to Ray and Terry he buried himself behind his terminal and went through the