The Nationalist

by Campbell Hart

  “Were you shagging him?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said—”

  “—I heard what you said. I just can’t believe what I’m hearing. What does sex have to do with anything? It wasn’t like that. We were just friends. He was always gentle with me but he had changed of late. He phoned me up and asked me to get some emails for him. He said there was a lot of back-handed work going on at Police Scotland and that the people needed to know. He said if they knew they might start asking questions – that it might help to build momentum for a ‘Yes’ vote in the referendum.”

  “And you believed him?”

  “Every word.”

  “Then you’re more of a fool than you look.”

  The nearest ferry terminal was in Gourock. Arbogast and Guthrie spent the best part of an hour trying to get the attention of the ferry master, Gerry McLean, but the constant grind of arrivals and departures meant their host was hard to pin down. Eventually they were told that all terminals had already been contacted by head office and the on-board CCTV was being made available to try and identify any suspect behaviour. All west coast terminals had been operating a reduced service the day before due to a national strike. He said that the ferries had only been running between 19:00 and 20:00 and only then to make sure they kept the locals onside, to make sure they could at least leave the island or get back on.

  “That’ll help with the ID. But can you remember anyone acting suspiciously yesterday?”

  “We only had four crossings so it was extremely busy but I can’t say anything springs to mind. There was a bunch of drunk guys, but I knew them, and I know they’re not involved in anything. They’re only boys.”

  Arbogast noted down the name and addresses of the boys that Gerry could remember off hand, and phoned them into Pitt Street. A background tone from his handset told him someone was trying to reach him. It was Ian Davidson.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Gourock. I’ve got a couple of names for a group of guys in Dunoon; probably nothing, but worth checking. I’ll get local Police to interview them rather than making the trip. It’ll save time.”

  “Good idea, but not just yet, I’ve another long shot I want you try.”

  Arbogast felt his heart sink. He knew his colleague would be hell bent on trying to make his life a misery, but this didn’t seem to be the time for a personal vendetta. “I’ve just been speaking to Sarah Meechan.”

  “Lucky you,”

  “She’s cooperating. She mentioned a possible link that might be worth checking out; mentioned Ian Wark talked about an outwards bound course he used to take work at on Cumbrae.”

  “An outward bound course?”

  “Bear with me. It was a good 15 years ago, but he seemed to talk about it quite a lot. Before he was in the army he was a member of the Sea Cadets. Seems they used a place in Cumbrae a few miles out of the main town. I’ve checked and it’s not open at the moment but it would make for a good cover.”

  “It seems unlikely.”

  “I’ve just spoken to Ying too. She mentioned Chris Guthrie’s theory that we might be getting led on a deliberate path. He might be right. Maybe Wark has a reason for things he’s doing. I’m giving you an opportunity to follow the bread crumbs.”

  Arbogast felt like he was being set up for something, but he wasn’t sure what. 45 minutes later Chris Guthrie drove onto the last ferry of the evening. As the gangplank drew up behind them, they both knew they were facing a long night.

  Annabelle looked into the pantry and saw a sea of spam. “We’re going to have to move on soon, Ian. I can’t survive on this for much longer.”

  “We’ll be gone soon. It’ll just have to do for now.” The pantry was part of the kitchen, at the very back of the building, furthest away from the road. Outside they heard the distant rumble of an approaching car. The noise stopped and the curling beam of headlights illuminated the inside of the building as the vehicle pulled-up outside.

  Ian looked rattled, “Put the light off now. We’ve got company.”

  47

  The gate to the complex swung open and Arbogast nudged the car forward. Chris Guthrie followed behind on foot. There were two buildings in the complex. Arbogast parked at the front of what he assumed was the dormitory. It was pitch-black outside, so he left the motor running and kept the headlights on full beam. In the distance he could see Chris’ torch illuminate the darkness, the light probing at windows, searching for signs of life. It didn’t look like there was anyone home; another dead end. Arbogast reached back and felt around for the second torch behind his seat. By the time he got out Chris had disappeared round the back.

  “Can you see anything?” Arbogast shouted against the cold wind which was coming in off the Firth. In the distance a light sea mist hovered back around the shore line. Looking around he could see the distant lights of Largs and Rothesay twinkle in the moonlight. But Chris hadn’t answered his call; he must be out of earshot. Arbogast knew that they had both wasted their time and they were now stranded on the island until the first ferry tomorrow.

  As soon as he heard the engine Ian Wark turned off the lights. In the smallest room at the back of the canteen, Annabelle had improvised using the thin mattresses from the dormitory block for bedding. The curtains were closed and Annabelle was hunched down underneath the window ledge. Ian was in the main room, where he could see out.

  “What’s happening?”

  “Someone’s stopped. Looks like two men. They’ve both got torches. They’re searching for something.”

  Annabelle crawled forward, she was careful to stay out of sight, “Are they here for us?”

  “They’re systematic. It could be Police,” Ian’s training had kicked in; he felt prepared. Behind the main door they watched the long handle wave up and down as their visitor tested the security. It was locked. Ian’s breathing was shallow and controlled. He was armed with a Glock handgun, but he knew this wasn’t the time to draw attention to themselves; not unless they absolutely had to.

  Arbogast tried the door, but had no joy. Locked, he thought, unsurprised.

  “Did anyone at Pitt Street find the owners to try and get someone out here?”

  “Not so far. I’ll try again, but I’m not sure if this place is managed by someone on the island.”

  “Someone must have access.”

  Looking around Chris thought this was the last place he would come for a holiday, “Why would anyone even bother? There’s nothing here; not even trees.”

  Above them the clouds moved quickly, pushed on by strong winds, the atmospheric landscape changed minute by minute. For a moment the camp compound was illuminated by moonlight, as a gap in the grey skies opened up. They saw that the sea mist had moved further inland and that visibility was getting worse.

  “What’s that?”

  “Where?”

  Arbogast ran across to the canteen block. They hadn’t seen it at first but there was another access road at the back. It ran for about 20 metres, the length of the building, and seemed to lead into a closed courtyard which was hemmed in by a high wall. Out of sight of the road was an old Vauxhall Astra. “Take a note of the registration Chris. I think we might have company.”

  In the darkness behind them they heard a scraping noise as metal dragged across the ground.

  “Who’s there?” Chris was first to move. Shining his torch back up the driveway, he could see their path had been blocked by a high gate. Behind him Arbogast had taken the safety off his gun, and had left the torch behind.

  “Put the light off, Chris, you’re a sitting target.”

  The two men were left in darkness. Arbogast pulled at the gate but it was obvious someone didn’t want them to leave. In the background they heard an engine start.

  “They’re taking the car; quick – over the fence.” Arbogast cupped his hand and Chris used the foothold to climb the gate, disappearing from view when he dropped across to the other side. He heard a dull thud as his breathless colleag
ue landed with a grunt, “You alright, Chris?” Arbogast slipped the gun into his waistband and jumped up to grab the top of the gate. As he hauled himself up, feet scrabbling to find purchase on the wood, he heard a high revving engine, then the sounds of a car skidding on gravel. When he was on top of the fence he saw his own car career out of the courtyard, smashing through the gates. It turned left, onto the open road. Fuck.

  He found Chris unconscious on the ground, but he could see he was still breathing. Another burst of moonlight and he saw his colleague had been hit on the head; there was a lot of blood although the injury didn’t look too deep. He knew the ferry was off so calling an ambulance was out of the question. The Police radio was in the car, so that was another option gone. He knew there had to be a phone somewhere inside. In the hall he saw a grey BT public phone which looked about 30 years old. A small white card under a plastic cover gave the number of the local doctor. He dialled that number first and then contacted HQ. This time they weren’t going to lose out. This time there was nowhere left to run.

  ***

  Al Coulter was nervous; he’d been pacing up and down his living room all day. Due to start his night shift in three hours, by the end of it he would have met with Ian Wark, and there would be nothing more to do. He bit at the end of his finger but there was no more nail to bite. The stubs of his fingers were dry, with white brittle skin peeling in waves along the tips. He looked at the mantlepiece clock – it was two minutes after the last time he’d checked. This is not a good idea. A conversation he had had with Wark kept playing back in his head.

  “This is a golden opportunity, Al.”

  “I know, but it’s not you that’s taking the risks.”

  “I’m taking all the risks; I’m putting everything on this.”

  “But I might lose my job.”

  “You’ll get another job.”

  “I like this one.”

  “I can’t believe I’m hearing this. What about the bigger picture? What about me?”

  “You won’t be around to see what happens.”

  “I don’t need to see, I already know what will happen. We’ll be free.”

  Al still had his doubts. He had met Ian Wark at a nationalist convention. He had been running a stall at a fringe event where he’d been on his soap box about extradition flights running through Scotland. Al Coulter had been ground staff at the airport for 15 years. He knew when the flights came in. He had guided them in for refuelling, but was told not to ask any questions. He never saw anyone come off the flights but they all knew what went on – suspected terrorists, en-route for interrogation. For a while they were heading to Cuba, to be ‘debriefed’ at Guantanamo. But eventually the public caught on and they didn’t like what they heard. The reality was, though, that the West still needed information, and the people they got it from were not locals. Now suspects or ‘detainees’ were ferried around the world – Egypt, Libya, and Iraq – all played a part in the global merry-go-round. Al didn’t approve. He was a socialist, and the thought of torture was against his ideology. That was why he talked to Wark. To see if something could really be done. He seemed so passionate, and that was unusual these days. Initially he thought his information might be useful as background. Wark told him about his Newsnational site. He said that sources were kept quiet; that no-one needed to know, that they had an audience and their message would be heard. The more he talked, the more sense he made. Over the next few months they met often and talked a lot. Ian had been interested in finding out more about the way the airport worked. He was interested in social justice, and was convincing when he spoke of the violence and misery he had been subjected to during his time in the Army. When the civil war broke out in Libya, Ian Wark went out to fight. He said he wanted to find out more about what the UK was involved with. He said the arms trade from Britain was huge and that civilians were being killed, using bombs and ammunition made in Britain. They both agreed it wasn’t right. That something had to change.

  Ian kept in touch by Skype. He told Al about corruption, about how most people would do what they needed for a price. He had a contact at Tripoli International Airport with links to the revolution. He told Al he was sending home evidence of atrocities the UK Government would have to answer to. Files he couldn’t send by post, or bring home personally. He had arranged for a small crate to be loaded onto one of the ‘special’ flights. So while a member of the Gaddafi regime was taken away for questioning on terror charges, the crate of munitions made its way quietly to Scotland in the hold of a flight that no-one would think to check. Al retrieved the package when the plane landed for refuelling and no-one was any the wiser. He had left the package by the wire perimeter fence at the North side of the airport, which was made up of a series of hangers and sat away from the main terminal. He didn’t ask any questions and the next time he looked the package was gone.

  And then a month ago, Ian had come back to say he needed access to the airport itself, that he needed a plane. Other than access to the hangers, he said he wasn’t asking for help. Ian had no licence but had experience flying from his days in Libya.

  Al Coulter trusted his mentor implicitly, but tonight he was convinced he had gone too far. He had seen the press coverage in the last couple of days, and the whole world seemed to be looking for him. The Police had already been in touch to ask if he had made contact. He had said no, and asked why they were speaking to him. They said they needed to speak to anyone who might be able to help and their investigations indicated the two men knew each other. Al was beginning to think he might not know his friend as well as he thought. He was 100% committed to the movement but they had never discussed using violence to reach their aims. He stood and stared at his reflection in the mirror which hung behind the front door. He didn’t recognise the man that looked back. Something in him had changed. He scooped his car keys from the rack by the door and left the house.

  Ian Wark slowed down when he arrived in the town limits, dropping from fifth to fourth. He knew Millport well, but couldn’t remember where the turn-off was. It was difficult to see much in the dark, something that wasn’t helped by the streetlights which weren’t working; the road was in darkness.

  “We need to dump the car, and get off the island.”

  “Who were you on the phone to earlier?”

  “It was our contact. Tonight’s the night, but we don’t have much time.”

  “Do you have a boat here?”

  “I know where we can get one.” He turned right and parked the car down an alley between two rows of terraced houses. The quayside was less than two minutes walk. They didn’t speak. Ian was walking quickly, too quickly for Annabelle, who was almost breaking into a jog. From the main street she could see a row of boats bobbing at high tide off a jetty. The promenade was fenced off by a Victorian railing which stopped at an old stone slipway. Ian split off and jumped down onto a narrow strip of sand. There were about half a dozen small boats berthed in the harbour. Ian stepped into a wooden row boat and reached back with his hand held outstretched, “Come on,” Annabelle followed, her legs unsteady as the boat shook in the water. Ian untied the mooring and looked around for a paddle.

  “How are we going to move without an oar?”

  “We’re not taking this one.” He went to the back of the boat and picked up the rope which tethered a powerboat in the middle of the harbour in deeper water. All the boats were tied to large iron rings attached to the sea wall. Ian hung overboard and pulled at the mooring rope. The row boat started to glide silently out across the water. Annabelle watched as the boat drew closer. The back was covered with a thick canvas which was tied down right round. The name on the hull identified the boat as the Star Sailor. Then from above them in the harbour, they heard voices.

  “Get down,” Ian said, pushing Annabelle out of sight. It was eleven o’clock and the town was quiet. The George Hotel was directly opposite. A young couple appeared on the corner and started to kiss, pressed back against the sea wall. Wark cursed; there’s
no time for this. Above them the couple were interrupted by the sudden blast of a horn. The lovers left in a taxi, disappearing from view down Stuart Street.

  20 minutes later the cover had been removed and Ian had jump started the engine. The boat purred softly in the night as Ian guided the Star Sailor out to sea and back to the mainland.

  ***

  Arbogast had been asked to wait. Davidson was coming to the island by Police Helicopter. Chris Guthrie had regained consciousness; his injuries didn’t seem as bad as Arbogast had first feared, but there had been a lot of blood.

  “That’s head wounds for you,” Chris said.

  “Glad to see you’ve still got your sense of humour.”

  “It could have been a lot worse, John.” Arbogast nodded. In the distance they could see a piercing shaft of light sweeping across the Firth of Clyde. The helicopter would be here in a couple of minutes. Arbogast sat with the two torches and held them skywards, guiding their ride home down to ground level. The roar of the blades grew deafening as the helicopter landed. Inside, Ian Davidson gave them the thumbs up. What a fucking idiot. Arbogast didn’t appreciate having to be grateful to Davidson for helping him out but he knew he owed him. The engine cut out and a few minutes later the three of them stood in conference, with the pilot still on board.

  Davidson spoke first, “I think we’ve got him.”

  “Where is he?”

  “We’re pretty sure he’s heading to Prestwick Airport. We should have him tonight. I think he’s planning to escape.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I spoke to the hacker – the Meechan woman. She said Wark had contacts at the airport. She gave us a name and we’ve paid him a visit. Just in time, it would seem.”