45
Present day – November 10th
Jock Smith woke up in pain, as usual. His short, rasping breathes meant he was forced to wear an oxygen mask overnight. He’d been diagnosed with emphysema two months ago and was finding it increasingly difficult to get around, to inhale. When he’d gone to the hospital for tests Jock had spoken to another patient with the same condition; someone who was much further down the line. He had described his condition as a being like a living hell. Jock had already lived through one hell, and wasn’t ready to return just yet. In a way the diagnosis had helped him prepare to carry out the plan. He had met Ian Wark through James Wright. All three shared a common bond through the armed forces. They had all suffered at the hands of their country, and for no good reason. The days of the UK as a world power had ended, in Jock’s mind, after the Second World War. But today they were still involved in international conflict. Innocent people were still dying from British bullets, and at the same time nuclear weapons remained at Faslane Naval Base. During the war Jock had applauded when the atomic blasts levelled the cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, because it meant an end to the fighting. That tens of thousands of people died didn’t seem relevant. Over time, though, he realised mankind had created its own time-bomb, and as more countries clamoured to hold the balance of power in an unwinnable war, the more it became increasingly unstable, yet still clung stubbornly to the delusion of peace. Through his ties to the communists, Jock had campaigned against the bomb, against the Westminster elite, and against what Britain had come to represent. Ultimately this was a fight he found he could not win, but through the gradual rise of nationalism Jock found a new cause to further his ambitions, and transform his native Scotland.
Today he was meeting Ian Wark for what would be that last time. Jock sat and waited in his single bed flat on Kersland Street, where he lived alone. The buzzer went. Jock looked at his watch – 11:00am, right on time.
“How you doing, Jock? Are you still good to go?” Ian said.
“That’s an insensitive choice of words, given the circumstances.”
“I’m sorry,” Ian looked sheepishly at the floor, “Are you ready for this?”
“I’m fine. Have you got everything we need?”
“Right here,” Ian swung a green army rucksack onto the kitchen table. Untying the lace at the top of the bag he pulled back the canvas. Inside, there was an assortment of hand guns, ammunition, and most importantly the plastic explosives.
“How much have we got?”
“More than enough, about eight pounds; I’ve got a contact at the airport who is involved with the extradition flights the Yanks bring into Prestwick. It’s a risky venture, but no-one suspects anyone would be bold enough to use a CIA flight to smuggle in contraband. Their work in Libya means there’s still a steady stream of bodies coming through Scotland; we’re lucky to have them. Do you still feel comfortable about this?”
Jock nodded. He took out the largest block of encased C-4, “Let’s go through this one more time.”
On Remembrance Sunday Jock woke up at 5:00am. He couldn’t sleep, and he wanted to see the sun rise one last time. In silence he sat in his living room and watched as the sun’s rays rose over the tenements, with shafts of light tapering across the roof tops, reaching down to street level. He washed himself and stood naked in front of his dressing table, assessing his decaying body in the mirror. He was an old man now, but the scars he had picked up as a boy were still visible. He had been badly wounded at Monte Cassino when a sniper’s bullet had shattered his shoulder. Later, he had been knocked flat by a shell blast, and a shard of metal had sliced him open from his stomach up to his right elbow. He had been stitched up and recovered but every time he saw his reflection he was transported back to the barren battlefields he had lived through in Italy. He hated his country for what it had done to him and to his friends. He had spent decades trying to change things but had failed – so far. He left at 9:00am. At the newsagent he picked up a copy of the Sunday Herald. The front page said support for the nationalists had dropped by 2%. The reporter suggested that if Scotland went to the polls today the ‘Better Together’ campaign would enjoy 60%+ support. Jock shook his head. There was a real chance of an alternative now and he would do what he needed to be done to point people in the right direction. On the subway people stood out of his way and offered him a seat. He was wearing his regimental cap and carrying a large red poppy wreath. They knew he was making his way to George Square to pay his respects. Jock felt quite calm, although his illness was slowing him down, and he was concerned at one point that he might not make it. At Nelson Mandela Square he stumbled and almost fell. A younger man stopped to help. He was a Major in the Royal Regiment of Scotland. Jock clung to his arm as he tried to steady himself. Despite it being November it was a reasonably warm day. The Major introduced himself as Charles Brown. Jock stopped in the street, coughing violently.
“Are you OK there, sir?” The Major was smiling; he was trying to be kind.
“I’m knackered. I’ve not got long left.”
“I’m sure that’s not true. You’re fit enough to be here aren’t you? I’m sure you’ll be around for a while yet.”
“I should have stayed at home but I’m here to lay a wreath for the Monte Cassino Society.”
“If you’re struggling, I’d be more than happy to lay it on your behalf; it would be an honour.”
“It’s very kind of you to offer.”
“It would be my pleasure. I’ll be in the Cenotaph so I won’t be able to go forward to lay the wreath until after the service. I hope that’s OK?”
“That would be perfect.”
The Major took the wreath and made a weighing motion with the tribute, “No wonder you’re struggling. This thing’s quite heavy, what’s it made of?”
“I make them myself, and always the same way, with a lead base so they don’t blow away. Thank you for taking it for me,” He hesitated a second before adding, “And I’m right sorry.”
“Sorry for what?”
“I’m sorry to ask you to do this. I don’t mean to upset you.”
Charles Brown nodded. He looked confused, “It’s no trouble. It was nice to meet you.”
Jock said his farewells and watched as the Major joined the dignitaries behind the Cenotaph enclosure. Jock watched as he took his place out front for the service; and nodded when he saw the wreath placed behind him; it was an unexpected bonus. Jock joined the body of people waiting for the Sunday service. Looking around it was with some satisfaction that he realised that there must be several hundred people there, much higher numbers than in recent years. When the service started, thoughts drifted to old battles, lost friends, and the continuing conflict overseas. The Minister spoke of times of sacrifice and of freedom. The crowd was asked to keep the memories of the fallen forever in their minds, as without them the country would not be what it is today. Jock’s resolve grew with every word. The death and sacrifice had not been worth it. If all those fighting in the World Wars knew that the country would become what it is today he doubted they would have bothered to get out of bed. As the trumpet sounded the Last Post, flags were lowered to the ground and the crowd’s concentration drifted from the Cenotaph to personal thoughts. Jock knew this was his moment. He cursed when his illness chose that moment to slow him down. He coughed and wheezed when he knew he should be walking. His hands reached inside his overcoat pockets where he stabbed the detonator into his plastic payload; it was now ready and primed – there could be no turning back. The explosives were strapped to his torso and were weighing him down. As he stepped out of the formation he made his way slowly towards the Cenotaph. A tear came to his eye when he remembered the howls of pain his friend Bill Clements had let out through his dying moments at Monte Cassino. The memories flooded back of the years of struggle, strike, and family misfortune which had dogged him. He felt his old scar throb with a remembered agony as he moved closer to his final target. At the foot of the Cenotaph it a
ll became too much and he stumbled. No-one had been looking at him until that point, but now he saw a familiar face. The Lord Provost had seen the tears in his eyes and moved forward to help. He was within the enclosure now, surrounded by people. The Provost leaned forward and whispered, “You shouldn’t be here right now. This is not the time.”
She did not expect his response as Jock’s remorse turned quickly to anger. His fingers wrapped around the detonator and he leered at his would be Samaritan, “This is exactly the right time. This is our time. Right here, and right now – Scotland Unite.”
Major Charles Brown thought he recognised the old man but he didn’t have long enough to make the connection. Jock pushed the button and disappeared in a cloud of blood. The blast tore off the upper torso of the Provost and echoed around the enclosure, taking the lives of all those near enough to feel the full force of the blast. The explosion also triggered the C-4 packed into the red wreath which the Major had taken into the enclosure. It caused a smaller but no less deadly blast around the periphery. The force of the second explosion opened a deep crack on the head of the ceremonial granite Lion on the north side of the Cenotaph’s boundary, with the shrapnel ripping through the assembled crowd. By the time the dust had settled 14 people were dead. The whole incident had been caught on camera and within 24 hours the whole of the UK would be on a security lockdown for fear of a wave of similar attacks.
“He was very brave,” Annabelle said, moved by the story, “It makes you think that anything is possible.”
“Where he goes, we must follow. Jock started the revolution and we’ve arrived at a tipping point, Annabelle. The country has to wake up to the fact that its toxic history needs to be rewritten. If we can wake up the nation we’ll have achieved what has eluded Scotland for 300 years. We’ll have helped free the country from the dregs of an already dead empire.”
Annabelle was wary of Ian Wark’s new-found evangelism. He had always been a logical man – brutal perhaps, but always logical. She nodded her head and placed her hand over his, “We’ll be OK, Ian – together we’ll get through this, one way or the other.
46
Rosalind Ying wanted to see the cottage at Gourock first hand. Her Landrover Discovery left the main road, with the vehicle whispering through the tall grass of the overgrown driveway. The patter of rubber on tarmac gave way to a lighter whisper as the creaking vehicle rolled downhill through the tall grass. She could see that Arbogast and Guthrie were already there.
“Have you two been here all night?”
“Just arrived back for a second look,” Arbogast said.
“And?”
“And I still think I’m missing something.”
“The prints have shown up though?”
“They were here all right. We didn’t miss them by much. I’m just not sure why they would have come here. They must have known we’d find out about the cottage before long.”
Chris Guthrie was standing on the edge of the cottage garden. Beyond the bluff, a rocky outcrop dropped down about five feet. Beneath him the land opened out to a narrow strip of shingle beach. The remains of a wooden jetty could be seen jutting out from the water, with only stumps visible at high tide. Chris picked up a stone and threw it down towards the water. He missed. The clatter of rock on rock got his DCI’s attention.
“Are you not a bit old for that, Chris?”
“I was just thinking this is an odd spot to hideout. Do you think they’re leading us somewhere?”
“I’m not sure how far ahead they’re planning. The explosion seemed to be the pinnacle of their campaign. I’m not sure what else they could do.”
Arbogast interrupted, “They could do anything they put their minds to. He was a trained killer with experience in some of the most brutal conflicts of the last 10 years, while she knows computers. Cyber crime is big business now. I’m told it’s worth billions to the black market. If these two put their minds to it, and let’s face it there’s no reason to suppose that they won’t, who can say what they might be capable of? Maybe the explosion was just the start.”
“Yeah, but they’re mobile. How much kit could they carry?”
“How much kit do they need? I’ve got the high street on my phone these days. I could buy a car online right now if I wanted.”
“You think they’re hoping to bring down the world to a standstill from the comfort of a smart phone? Revolution’s not what it used to be,” Rosalind was laughing. It warmed Arbogast to see the gleam in her eye, and for a second he forgot where he was, “Well do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Do you think they’re going to try something online?”
“All I’m saying is that they could do a lot of damage with a phone – even more with a laptop and wifi dongle. Do we know who his internet provider is? I think we need to close down his account as a matter of urgency.”
“And hers for that matter,” Chris said. All three nodded.
“But of course,” Arbogast continued, “It’s not impossible that he has an account under an assumed name. While I doubt they’re still using their mobile phones for calls, we need to try and trace their movements. I know we’ve already checked this, but it’s possible their handsets are still live. If they get sloppy and use the phones, we’ll find them.”
“I’ll get the team onto it. It won’t take long to track them down if we can trace a signal while they’re on the move.”
“Thanks, Rose.”
“That’s DCI Ying to you DI Arbogast, and don’t forget it,” Rosalind walked back to the car and phoned in the request. Chris turned his back to the car.
“Forecast is for a frosty start today.”
“You’re a bloody comedian.”
“Don’t let her get to you. I thought she was being pretty decent.”
“Yes, I suppose that’s one way of looking at it. To be honest I don’t want to think about it.” He turned and walked down over the bluff and onto the beach. A red plastic palette was washing up on the shore. Where does this crap come from? Looking out across the Firth, Arbogast looked to try and see what Wark and Strachan would have seen. Where did you go? In the distance he could see the islands of Cumbrae and Bute with the high, jagged landscape of Arran visible in the distance. Would you have gone to an island? Was there a boat here? Turning round he could see he was being watched.
“What do you think Chris – do you think they would have risked going to one of the islands? Have we checked with Cal Mac on journeys for the last two days?”
“The security alert has gone to all airports, ferry terminals, and border control points. Cal Mac would have been told, but I doubt they’d have gone to an island. They’d have nowhere to run; it wouldn’t make sense.”
“In other words it would be the last place we’d think to look?”
Chris nodded, “I’ll put a call in. It’s worth a shot.” Ten minutes later they were back on the road.
Sarah Meechan was called into Pitt Street at 12 noon. She had been suspended after admitting to hacking the system and expected the worst. Still she felt better about coming clean and wasn’t looking to get any more involved in Ian Wark’s scheme than she already was. Sarah waited in the corridor on the top floor but she knew she wouldn’t be speaking to the Chief.
“Sarah?” She looked up and saw a tall, lean man wearing a light grey, three piece suit. She thought he had a kind face.
“I’m DI Ian Davidson. This meeting won’t take too long, but you need to be aware of what happens next.” Sarah nodded and followed the man into a room furnished only with a mahogany effect Formica table and two black padded vinyl chairs.
“Sit down, please.” Her interrogator gestured for her to take a chair, “You know why you’re here,” Sarah nodded while Ian Davidson continued his monologue, “In many ways you were wise to come forward when you did. However you are still up to your neck in it. The department does not take kindly to leaked information, and the fact that you focused on some of our top people was a stupid m
istake on your part. However you may be able to make amends.”
“I’ll do anything I can.”
“That’s good. That’s what I need to hear. You can start by telling me everything I need to know about Ian Wark. Why did you give him the information?”
Sarah shifted uncomfortably in her chair, the conversation felt like one-way traffic, “He said it would help Scots to make the right decision.”
“And what does that mean exactly?”
“We shared a passion for our politics.”
“Really so you were glad that all those people died?”
“Well no, I didn’t mean that.”
“This isn’t a game. I was down there on the day. I saw the mess that that bastard caused. There was nothing left of some of them; limbs ripped off and strewn across the enclosure. You know the Cenotaph has had to be covered over. The blood has stained the white granite. It looks like something out of a bloody horror movie. Is that something your politics allows for?”
“I didn’t know anything about that. I wouldn’t have got involved if I thought he was—”
“—if you thought he was serious?”
“If you’d maybe let me finish a sentence.”
“Do you have anything worthwhile to say?”
“He could be very persuasive. I met him a few years ago at a conference. We got talking and I was impressed by him. He spoke well. He had fought in the Middle East and he was passionate that other people shouldn’t have to follow suit.”
“Did he mention Libya?”
“Libya was a long way off. I don’t know why he got involved in that. He said he didn’t want to face any more violence.”
Davidson laughed out loud, “I can see that. He just persuades old men to do his dirty work for him. How much do you know?”
“I don’t know anything. I owed him a favour. He gave me a place to stay for a few weeks once. My partner had left me and I had nowhere to go. I had a kind of breakdown, and he was good enough to get me through it. Regardless of what he’s done to other people, he was always good to me.”
The Nationalist Page 21