At the Rosyth naval base Hedge was taken to the scene. All had been cleared up now but the warehouse was in a bad way and the frigate’s starboard side plating showed dents and gashes. Hedge was asked to go aboard and gingerly he climbed to the deck, to be met by the ship’s captain. He expressed his commiseration and as a courtesy was taken round the frigate. It was quite an experience and he found it claustrophobic below decks, so many narrow passages and not much head-room, mostly taken up with huge pipes and projecting hand-wheels and any number of electric cables and nasty things underfoot to trap the unwary. Hedge gave his skull a very unwelcome crack against something hard when he negotiated a high coaming in the deck plating of an alleyway — part, he was told, of the vessel’s watertight system.
He rubbed at his head, felt a lump. It had been a nasty jolt and he had staggered groggily until given a steadying arm. “I call it dangerous,” he said huffily. No-one answered this; Hedge thought them rather off-hand but wondered why anybody went to sea and a few minutes later dropped thankfully into a vinyl-covered settee in the wardroom where he was offered gin. He appreciated the gin, though he would rather have had whisky, but was even more thankful when he was safe ashore again and in his car. He had been terrified throughout in case these demoniac people should strike again while he was aboard and the relief that they had not done so was enormous. He found he was shaking like a leaf as he sat back for the long drive to the Gareloch. They were brave fellows in the Navy; he would make a point of mentioning that when he got back to the Foreign Office. The gin had been quite a strong one and Hedge found a mellowness descending. England still had stout hearts …
When at last he reached Faslane, once again having run the gauntlet of the peace women who seemed to have grown dirtier in the interval since his last visit, he was met — he was glad to note — by Commodore Rushcroft in person. And Hocking, unfortunately. And a message. He was to ring the Permanent Under-Secretary at once.
Rushcroft said, “My regards to Pippin, Mr Hedge.”
“Yes, of course.” Hedge was taken to a security line and put through to London. There was some delay before the Permanent Under-Secretary came on the line. “Hedge speaking, Under-Secretary. From Faslane,” Hedge announced.
“Ah. There’s been a development. It could be the breakthrough.”
“Good heavens!”
“What was that?” It was a very poor line; Hedge hoped it was not being tapped — in theory at any rate security lines couldn’t be tapped, but theory was one thing and Hedge was never inclined to trust gadgetry too far. He said hoarsely, “I merely said good heavens, Under-Secretary —”
“Oh. Well now, listen carefully.” The voice exploded again in fizzes and crackles but Pippin didn’t seem much bothered about taps, more fool he Hedge thought. “Dublin’s been on the line, the Garda. Those men.”
“Phelan and —”
“Yes. They’ve broken, or rather one of them has, the man Garrity. He’s admitted being concerned in the supply of a large quantity of arms and explosives to one of Shard’s villains, the man O’Carse —”
“Good heavens!” Hedge said again, involuntarily.
“What?”
“Oh, nothing important, Under-Secretary. Was there more?”
“Yes. The supply was made from one fishing-boat to another … transferred in the Irish Sea and landed at a lonely part of the coast — or rather a lonely island just off the Welsh coast, in the Bristol Channel. Sully Island. It’s connected to the mainland by a narrow strip of land that’s under water at full tide apparently. No-one lives on the island, and a boat approaching from seaward wouldn’t be remarked upon … and the off-loaded cargo was driven to the mainland at low water, in a Land Rover.”
“Really,” Hedge said, a trifle blank. “Why Wales, Under-secretary?”
“Why not Wales?” The Under-Secretary sounded irritable. “What we don’t know, and what Garrity doesn’t know either, is where it went from there.”
“Scotland,” Hedge said, quaking a little. Through a window he could see the bows of a nuclear submarine.
“That still seems the most likely in the light of recent events, though of course we still can’t be sure. However — I’m grateful to you, Hedge, for placing yourself in what may well be the most likely place of danger. That’s appreciated.”
Just as though he’d volunteered … Hedge said, “Thank you, Under-Secretary. I shall not be found wanting I assure you.”
“What?”
Damn the line. Hedge shouted a repeat at the instrument and the loud repetition made him feel foolish. A moment later the line went dead. Hedge remembered he hadn’t had any lunch, but no offer was made to provide him with it. It was well into the afternoon by this time and since it was expected of him that he would want to tour the base again, he was trudged around until his feet, in town shoes, began to feel dreadfully sore. It was quite beyond him to take in the technical detail and he found it very annoying that Hocking knew this and kept on uttering supplementary explanations in an over-loud and supercilious tone. But Hedge was pleased enough to see that Faslane’s security had been tremendously increased even beyond his last visit, which just went to show that his warnings had been properly heeded. It was he, Hedge, who had stressed Scotland and the navy should be grateful; it was more than Hocking had done. This afternoon, every other man seemed to be a security guard and there was a good deal of activity at the southern end of the Gareloch, where it met the Clyde. Extra anti-frogmen precautions were being taken. And Hedge thought about the approach to the main gate: policemen everywhere, somewhat impeded by the peace women as usual, but if and when the crunch came to Faslane the police had more than sufficient numbers to deal with turbulent women.
It had been the same at Rosyth. No peace women, of course, since Rosyth wasn’t a nuclear base even though they serviced ships carrying, for all Hedge knew, nuclear weapons. No women but plenty of police, on the watch for nobody knew what. Scotland was ready. Hedge stared out across the waters of the Gareloch, now an astonishing and very beautiful shade of purple, just like the heather.
“So peaceful,” he said. “One can quite imagine the Scotch liking it.”
A look passed between Rushcroft and Hocking but Hedge was unaware of it. From the distance he heard the sound of the pipes, wild, haunting, nostalgic across the Gareloch. Hedge believed the tune was ‘Scotland the Brave’. Well, they were going to need to be, perhaps.
All of a sudden he felt an odd weakness in his knees; and was overcome by an intense desire to be back in London. Curious sounds were coming from the berthed nuclear submarine: someone was banging, as if with a sledgehammer. Surely that was stupid? But Rushcroft didn’t seem bothered and neither did the wretched Hocking.
Hedge fought down incipient panic nobly. The Foreign Office didn’t panic.
*
The Head of Security, racked with shingles still and wincing at every sudden movement of his head and neck — even brushing his hair was agony — was in conference with Hesseltine and Hocking’s boss in Defence Ministry, Sir James Ruff, and another man from the Home Office. The Home Office was worried about the dilution of police strength. So many officers had been moved hither and yon, said the Home Office, that ordinary crime was being given a fine chance if it cared to take advantage. It hadn’t yet, but it would, it was bound to.
“National emergency,” Sir James Ruff said, in prompt support of his ministry. “Must take precedence.”
“Oh yes, I quite agree. But not for ever, you know. How long is this thing going to go on?”
“If any of us knew that,” Sir James said heavily but didn’t add anything further. The Home Office had taken the point. What, in particular, appeared to be bothering its present representative, a Mr Futlock, was, of all things, traffic control. In the view of all the others traffic control, though obviously important, had to be relegated to a very secondary position for the time being. Not so, Futlock insisted: he was a pugnacious little man with thick glasses, balding and w
ith a pot belly. And he stuck to his point. There was, he said, the question of the holiday traffic. Miles and miles of snarl-ups and tail-backs, even on the motorways, and there were going to be accidents. They all knew, for instance, what the M25 was like now, so many delays at the Dartford Tunnel bottleneck.
“That’s precisely why I’m here,” Mr Futlock said, glaring through his lenses. “There’s those coaches, remember.”
Sir James stared back. “Good heavens, Futlock, what coaches?”
“The European Parliament party —”
“Does it matter?”
“— the children, with some mothers and schoolteachers. Long delays wouldn’t be welcome … we were not able to arrange coaches with lavatory facilities and you know what children are.”
Sir James blew out a long breath. “What is all this about?”
Futlock said, “The arranged party. A kind of treat, a tour of Britain. All the Common Market countries, but confined to children of MEPs. And, as I said, some mothers. Do you mean to tell me you’ve not been informed?” He was aghast.
The Head of Security came in on that. “We’ve all had other things on our minds, Mr Futlock. It’s the first I’ve heard of it. Sir James — Hesseltine?”
Result negative. But Hesseltine said, “It’s not my concern, of course, traffic’s B Division, but Mr Futlock does have a point, though I think he’s exaggerating the problem. The constabularies involved can’t be that short of mobiles. They’ll be got through.”
“But not without delays,” Futlock said firmly.
“Well-no.”
Futlock compressed his lips. Sir James asked, “What’s the route? Do we know?”
“Of course we do,” Futlock said. “They’re coming in by sea, four coaches from the Hook to Harwich, an early arrival. The day after tomorrow. They’re not taking in London at that stage, that’ll come on the return journey. They go first to Chartwell and then along the south coast to Portsmouth and Southampton …” He outlined the remainder of the tour, then went back closer to its start. They would leave Harwich by the A604, taking the A12 at Colchester to join the M25 motorway at Junction 28. “The big delay, you see … the Dartford Tunnel. And being the holiday season the roads’ll be packed all the way through to there as well. What we in the Home Office would like to see is a police escort and traffic held back where possible to let them through. All those children, you can just imagine — and no service areas unless they deviate. You understand?” Futlock gave a cough. “If any of them haven’t been — you know — before disembarking, and if they’ve drunk bottles of pop and so on, Coca Cola, and coffee in the case of the mothers … well, you can imagine, surely?”
There were nods, impatient ones. Futlock said earnestly, “It’s not just the natural functions, it’s really not. It’s the fact that Britain’s organising this and it’s got to be a success. Our Common Market partners. It’s very important, or I think it is anyway — very important — that we do our best and impress them, give them an insight into this country and its achievements and so on, make them want to see more, improve relations within the European Community …”
Futlock was known to have always been a keen and convinced Marketeer, right from the start, one of Heath’s pioneers. And, all things considered, it was a small enough point. As Hesseltine had remarked already, the police were not that stretched. There was agreement that Futlock should have his way. But when the conference broke up, Hesseltine stayed behind for a word with the Head of Security. He had something on his mind, was looking thoughtful and came out with it straight.
“Dartford Tunnel,” he said. “What does that suggest?”
“As Futlock said — delays, tail-backs.”
“Yes. And — a confined space. Automatic tamping.”
There was an indrawn breath: the Head of Security had got there. “Of an explosion, d’you mean?”
Hesseltine nodded. “I’m only using my imagination, of course.”
“Detachment X? They’re not out for that sort of thing!”
“Probably not. Just a thought. On the other hand … the Common Market. NATO. There are links. Destruction on our soil of our partners in the EEC. It wouldn’t help, would it? And there’s another point that looks like a possible link. Something came through just before I left the Yard. I didn’t mention it at the conference because … well, our Mr Futlock for one. He’s a gasbag — never disloyal, of course, but can be indiscreet in a normally harmless way.”
“Well?”
Hesseltine said, “You’ll remember that Arab, dead at Faslane. We’ve never identified the body, but Garrity in Dublin apparently came out with some further bits of information, extra to the Garda’s latest report about the landing of explosives. They put on pressure, real pressure because they knew he was holding back. Well, that Arab, who’d always got away with it until he tried Faslane, was a fringe member of the Baader-Meinhof gang and responsible for the assassinations of Jacques van der Bergh, Egon Knudsen, Roger Poujade and Gerhard Schmidt. Belgium, Denmark, France, Germany. All those men —”
“Keen marketeers and the assassinations never nailed on anyone … yes, I remember. But I don’t see —”
“That Arab was in cahoots with Detachment X — right? We never did believe the bit about the holocaust. That was cover.” Hesseltine added, “It’s worth bearing in mind.”
“Well, perhaps. It’s a long shot, Hesseltine.”
“Yes, it is. But in my opinion it’s vital those coaches do have a police escort, at any rate from Harwich until they’re through the Dartford Tunnel. Just in case.”
“And we should check the tunnel itself?”
Hesseltine said, “Yes. Minutely — as soon as possible, and from then on it’ll be watched. Discreetly. We’ll try to nab our villains rather than scare them off. Scare them off, and they’ll still be around to try something else.”
“Yes.” The Head of Security wagged a finger. “But don’t put too many eggs into the Dartford basket, my dear chap. I say again, it’s a long shot and I’m certainly not convinced.”
After Hesseltine had left for the Yard, the Head of Security reviewed the state of their knowledge, which was not a lot even now. He had a shrewd idea that the Permanent Undersecretary didn’t wholly believe Faslane was at further risk but thought poor Hedge was better out of the way. There was something in that, of course. Faslane had had its warning and was now one hundred per cent awake, no easy target. Hedge was something of an incubus … and there was another point as well: Detachment X would probably know by now that Hedge was back in the Gareloch and from this might well deduce that Whitehall was concentrating on points north.
Well — leave Hedge in Scotland, then. It might be worth the Head’s own while — he thought — to go to Dublin, though he didn’t relish the idea, not with shingles. It might in fact be better to leave Garrity to the Garda: Hedge had only been allowed to listen in and not actually interview. That chap Futlock — he’d started something in Hesseltine’s mind and that had overflowed. Children, the innocents to be used as unsuspecting pawns, to be blown to little pieces as an explosion rocked and ripped and split the confined carriageways, in red-lit darkness and smoke and screaming panic?
What would be the point?
There was a fast answer to that one: there would be a demand, as yet unspecified, the children and the mothers would be hostages. Plus Shard’s wife for good measure? And perhaps this was why they had wanted Shard originally. Even the bribery, those payments … a defected Shard joined up with the villains … the mind boggled. One thing would be certain: those coaches wouldn’t be blown straight away. There would be a breathing space before the end came, the holocaust in the Dartford tunnel.
But it was all conjecture.
14
Shard left the strip joint a little after nine p.m. He left alone, although Flambardier had offered the services of a strong-arm mob, a small mob of two men. Shard had declined with thanks. Flambardier had given him the men’s names, and Shard knew th
em by reputation. They’d both been on the Moor and in Parkhurst and Pentonville: GBH, years ago, and then murder. Shard was in bad odour as it was and he didn’t want to make matters worse. This had to be his show. He believed Flambardier had simply made a gesture and was relieved it hadn’t been taken up.
Shard made his way to Fenchurch Street main line station and took a stopping train to Tilbury, where the liners of P. & O. and the Orient Line used to berth. Since then the Orient Line had been swallowed whole by P. & O. and the whole caboosh had shifted to Southampton, leaving Tilbury derelict from a seaman’s point of view, a useless leviathan of docks and warehouses and customs sheds and platforms where the boat trains used to come and go. The rail journey was a deadly one. City backs, slums, open spaces and patchy re-development, not worth looking at even in daylight. In Shard’s carriage was a couple who appeared high, probably on glue. They intertwined and squirmed and felt. If they had a car it might well bear in the back window the legend, COMMUTERS DO IT IN RAILWAY CARRIAGES.
The train halted at Grays, last station before Tilbury. Shard got out; the glue-sniffing couple fell rather than got out, picked themselves up and staggered to a bench on the platform and carried on where they had left off.
Shard walked out of the station. He had never been in Grays before, nothing to take him there, but Guts Flambardier had provided a street map and he knew where to go.
It was a warm, clear night. There was a moon. That didn’t help anyone’s anonymity but it had to be put up with. It was quite a walk from the station and Shard took it fast, thinking, as he had thought all day, of Beth. He was convinced he would find her in the house he was aiming for, though Charlie Dingo’s man hadn’t said anything about that — he might have got around to it if he hadn’t been killed first. Or he might not have known: there hadn’t been much time, certainly, since Beth had been hooked away from home. It would have had to have been a very fast grapevine, even for Charlie Dingo.
Shard at Bay Page 15