by Chris Ryan
'Sorry,' I mumbled. 'I didn't mean anything personal.'
He smiled, and as he came past where I was sitting he gave me a bump on the arm with the heel of his hand.
At nine o'clock I rang Tony. 'Listen,' I said. 'The bastards haven't called. They're stringing us along.'
'Aw, shit. I've made a hell of a Mexican bean stew.'
'Go ahead and eat it, then. I don't know when I'll get back.'
‘I'll keep some warm for you anyhow.'
'Thanks, Tony.'
It was nearly eleven when the call at last came through. I was sitting by the phone, but not wanting to appear too eager I let it ring five times before I picked up the receiver. Then I just said, 'Yes?', 'Geordie Sharp?'
'Yep.'
'I'm calling about your family.'
Was this the same voice as on the tape? I didn't think so. A Belfast accent, all right, but somehow different.
The connection was brilliantly dear, as if the call was short-distance. I looked across at Fraser and raised a thumb.
'Kevin, is it?' I said.
'It is not. A friend of Kevin's.'
'Oh — right.'
'You're wanting them back.'
'Where are they?'
'I said, you're wanting them back. Are you not?'
'Of course.'
'You know what to do, then.'
'What?'
'Get our man out.'
'What man?'
'Declan Farrell.'
'Farrell?' I said. 'Who's he?'
'Look, if you want to see your little boy again, or your girlfriend, you'll not mess about.'
'Wait a minute. I don't know who you're talking about. Who is Farrell?'
'It's the man you were after murdering at Ballyconvil. You know him.'
'Bally-what? I never heard the name before. Where's this guy supposed to be?'
'The Brits have him.'
'What, in Belfast?'
'No, on the mainland.'
'What's happened?. Is he in the nick or something?'
'In gaol, so he is.'
'What am I supposed to do about that?'
'Ask around. Find out where he's been put, and spring him.'
'But I'm army, not police. I don't have the contacts.
Besides, I'm working. I don't have the time.'
'I said — ask around.'
'All right. Listen, I'll do what I can. Give me a couple of days. Then I'll get back to you.'
'You will not. I'll call you in two days' time. That's
Thursday. Seven o'clock.'
'Hello?'
I was going to try and glean some scrap of information about how the hostages were, but the line had gone dead.
'Well done!' said Fraser keenly. 'That was great, the way you kept him on the air. Let's see what the boys have managed.'
A couple of minutes later we learnt that the call had been traced to a phone box in West Belfast. Of course, by the time the P, UC arrived there the caller would have gone, but there was a chance of getting some fingerprints. The fact that the PICA had rung from Northern Ireland alarmed me, as it seemed to work against Special Branch's theory that London was the most likely place for the hostages to be held. But Fraser remained unruffled, saying that, naturally, their spokesman would phone from Belfast wherever the prisoners were.
The exchange left me screwed up with a seething mixture of anger and frustration. The arrogance of the guy's manner had really pissed me off.. That was bad enough, but almost worse was my own helplessness.
What the hell could I do? If I'd lost my rag and called him a scumbag he'd merely have laughed. If I'd admitted I knew where Farrell was he'd have gone on saying, 'Get him out, then.'
Did the PIIA realise I'd been in Colombia and had been responsible for Farrell's capture? The caller had,given no sign of knowing that, but it made little difference. Somehow the terrorists had established the connection between me and their big player, and little details — like the fact he was in a high-security prison were not going to worry them.
Screw the nut, I told myself. Like Foxy says: stay cool.
It was midnight by the time I got home. I found Tony asleep on the settee in the sitting room with the TV burbling some crap about fitted wardrobes. Going in quietly I switched it off, got down behind the armchair and let out a loud yell — whereupon he leapt eight feet in the air and came down facing the door in an exaggerated crouch, as if to take on all corners.
'Great sentry you'd make,' I told him, rising into view.
'Boy!' he gasped. 'Did you give me a fright!'
'Have a drink. How about a Scotch?'
'You having one?'
'Sure. I need something after that.' While I poured two drinks I told him about the telephone contact. He brought out the remains of the bean stew he'd cooked with such care, and I ate it at the kitchen table gratefully enough, though gasping a bit at the chillies while I filled him in between mouthfuls on what had happened.
'This is driving me crazy,' I told him. 'There's no way we can get at them.'
'What are Special Branch doing?'
'Looking around and listening. Checking the movements of known players, going through their own records on the central computer. That's about all they can do. Tony — d'you think I'm crazy to go on this operation?'
'Not at all. You wouldn't achieve anything if you didn't go — except making yourself feel real bad.'
'That's true. But what if I get written off?'
'Might be the best way of getting the hostages released.'
I stared at him. 'You're joking.'
'Nope. I mean it. If you disappeared from the scene the terrorists' emotional blackmail would be at an end.
They couldn't exert anywhere near the same pressure through anyone else. They'd probably just turn Tracy and Tim loose somewhere and call it a day.'
'You think so? Do the IliA ever release hostages?'
'Sure, if they've nothing to gain by holding them any longer. I was talking to Fraser about it this morning.'
'But Tracy's seen their people. She knows several faces by now.'
'Nobody important.'
'In that case,' I said, 'next time they come through, maybe the word should be that I'm dead and they've missed the boat. Anyway… sod that. Let's talk about the operation.'
I opened out a large-scale map of north-east Africa and spread it on the table. The area for which we were heading was an extension of Egypt's Western Desert, birthplace of the Regiment during the Second World War. It was there that David Stifling had formed his Long-Range Desert Group, from which the SAS had emerged, and created havoc by blowing up aircraft far behind enemy lines. It was there also that Jack Sillito had made the most famous escape in SAS history, tabbing more than a hundred miles through the desert after he had been cut off behind the German forces.
'What the hell did he do for water?' Tony asked.
'Good question. Some people reckon he drank his own piss. Others say he managed on condensation that formed at night in old jerricans. Either way, it was some feat.'
Talk of this and other exploits carried us into the small hours. We also pored over the map to discuss our route to the target. From the Egyptian airfield at Siwa, a Chinook was due to lift us over the border and then due west across 300 kilometres of empty desert. The map showed the single MSP, running from Ajdabiya in the north-west to a place called AI Jawf, 800 kilometres out in the Sahara to the south-east. Once we crossed over that we'd be within striking distance of our drop- off point, and the chopper would land us only sixty kilometres short of our objective.
'Funny, having another A1 Jawfjust there,' I said.
'That was the name of the place where we had our FMB in Saudi.'
'It means “interior”,' said Tony. 'It can also mean a hole or depression, but down there I guess it's the interior. I expect there's dozens oral Jawt, if you look around. Hell of a place we're going.' He jabbed a forefinger at the map, indicating the vast empty spaces, unmarked by roads, towns
or any other sign of civilisation. 'Nothing for hundreds of miles.'
'I know. But you know as well as I do: the biggest hazard's going to be wandering goatherds. If Iraq's anything to go by, the Libyan desert'll be full of the bastards too. They arrive out of nowhere, just when you least want them. And then, if they see you, you're faced with a bad decision. If you let them go they tell someone else there are nasties about; if you top them their friends come looking.'
In the incident room next morning the idea of my disappearing from the scene went down like a lead balloon. Fraser reckoned that if I vanished, the PIRA's response tnight easily be to knock the hostages off and make the bodies disappear.
'Forget that,' he said. 'What we need is a controlled release of information to keep them in play. Next time they come on the line, tell them a little bit about Farrell.
Tell them you've found out that they're right: he is in gaol, and you're trying to discover where.
'I see the point,' I agreed. 'But look, as I told you, I'm off abroad on Sunday for a week. What happens while I'm away?'
'I've been thinking about that. I'd like to find someone with a similar accent, and haee him stand in for you. We can brief him up on what to say.'
I didn't like the sound of that. Again, it would increase the chances of a cock-up. But I couldn't really hold out against it. 'Well,' I said, 'there's no shortage of Geordies in the Regiment. I can think of two others straight away.'
Then I had an inspiration. 'Listen — I know the man you want: Billy Bracewell, a staff sergeant on G Squadron. He was in command of the QRF that got us out of the jungle in Colombia. He saw Farrell when we captured him — flew back with him to the forward base, in fact. He can talk about him better than anyone.'
So Billy was roped in to impersonate me if the occasion arose.
But for the whole of Thursday and Friday my mind was in turmoil with a new idea. In the Wing, on the range, in the laundry, in the gym, in town, at the cottage… no matter where I was or what I was doing, I could think of nothing else. The first time I'd run up against Farrell, in Ulster, it had proved impossible to top him in legitimate operations, and in the end I had reached the conclusion that the only way to get him was to go after him on my own — which was what I did.
Now I'd begun to think that my only hope of recovering Tim and Tracy might lie in another extramural effort. I knew Farrell was in Winson Green. If I could discover the routine there — or, better still, find out when the prisoner was going to be moved somewhere, possibly for a court hearing — I and a few of the lads might be able to ambush the police convoy, spring him, and hand him back to the PIRA. We could buy an old banger for a couple of hundred quid cash, or even steal one, and ram the police van with it, then use one of our own cars with phoney licence plates for the getaway. The activity would be criminal, I realised but when you're growing desperate, as I was, you think up desperate measures.
I didn't want to involve Tony in such a wild scheme, because if anything went wrong it would bring his service with the SAS to an abrupt end. Pat Newman, though, was a different matter. He was eighteen months older than me, and already talking of leaving the Regiment when he'd completed ten years (in a few months' time), so he had less to lose.
That Wednesday evening I waylaid him and suggested we went for a pint at the Crooked Billet, a pub out in the country not much frequented by our lads. There we got stuck into a corner of the public bar, which contained nobody else but one typical old Herefordshire cider-head, with a face as purple as a beetroot and greasy hair half-way down his back.
I started by talking about details of our imminent operation. I noticed Pat giving me the eyeball in a peculiar way, and after a while I stopped. 'What's the matter?' I asked. 'Don't you want to hear all this?'
'Yeah, yeah,' he went. 'It's lust that Yorky asked me to keep a close eye on you, make sure you didn't try to run out.'
'For fuck's sake! Who said I was going to run out?'
'Nobody, but he wasn't sure you were really on for Libya. He.told me to chat you up about it, keep you on side.'
'Thanks, mate.'
'I didn't, though. Did I?'
'Not a word. Good on yer, Pat. But, Christ, what bastards they are! Always trying to get round your back and put pressure on from behind.'
'Forget it, anyway.'
'All right.' So I switched to talk about my new plan.
Pat's reaction was forthright. He put down his mug, stared at me incredulously, and said, 'Geordie, you're fucking mad! The strain of this thing isgetting to you.
That's the craziest idea I've ever heard. Even if we. managed to spring the guy from the convoy we'd all be nicked. There'd only be a few of us against hundreds of coppers. What are we supposed to do? Shoot our way out and leave a trail of corpses? It's not as if we're in bloody Ulster. It might be different if we could mobilise a whole army — but Christ! No: think of it. The thing would end in a pitched fucking battle, a civil war.'
'Well, if we did it at night we'd have a better chance of getting away with it.'
Pat shook his head and said, 'They don't take star prisoners to court at dead of night. Forget it, mate. I know they've got you over a barrel, and I'm sorry for you, but this is not the way out.'
'For “barrel” read “Farrell”,' I said savagely. 'I just hope the bastard's rotting in gaol. I hope his wounds have turned gangrenous. By the sound of it, they have:
I hear he's quite sick. He's got a ban on visitors too.'
'Oh? How's that?'
'Foxy Fraser told me. The first guy who went to see him got searched on the way in, like all visitors are, and they found something on him — an escape kit he was trying to smuggle in. That was the end of that.'
'So the feller never made it?'
I shook my head. But for all the cold water that Pat had poured, I couldn't abandon my idea. Maybe if I got together a few guys who'd left the Regiment recently, a few old hands… What I needed first was inside information about Winson Green — and as I thought about this problem I had a brainwave. A former member of the SAS, Jim R.oberts, whom I'd known, had joined the prison service as some kind of welfare officer. Maybe if I found out where he was, he would give me some leads.
One certain fact was that I didn't have time to get anything going before Operation Ostrich went down.
There were only two days left before take-off, and both were hectic with last-minute preparations. I therefore said no more to Pat, except that I told him not to mention my madcap scheme to anyone.
For me, the next hurdle that needed clearing was the second PIRA call, due on Thursday evening. Together with Foxy Fraser I'd worked out more or less what I was going to say. As far as he knew, the ideas I suggested were not an action plan but pure fantasy, designed to keep the PIRA interested; there was no way Foxy could tell that I was seriously considering putting my scheme into practice.
'Excellent!' he said several times when I proposed intercepting a police convoy. 'Capital. I like it.'
It seemed highly unlikely that the PIRA would meet the deadline of seven o'clock, but I got down to the incident room on time, just in case. Once again Karen was on the desk, wearing the same slinky tracksuit, and she gave me one of her flirtatious sideways looks as I came in. Also present was Billy Bracewell, fair-haired and beefy, my alter ego, who'd come to listen in to what was said and tune in to my reactions.
To everyone's amazement, my home line rang at seven-fifteen, barely quarter of an hour late. This time I waited for the caller to speak. There was a pause of several seconds before a man said, 'Hello?'
'Yep,' I went, very curt.
'Is that Geordie Sharp?'
'Yep.'
'What news?'
'You're right. Farrell's in this country.'
'Where?'
'Winson Green.'
'Where's that?'
'Birmingham.'
'Jaysus! What have they put him there for?'
'Don't ask me.'
The way the man had hesitate
d before asking 'Where's that?' made me certain he already knew where Farrell was. That was why I gave him the true answer: otherwise he might never have trusted me again.
Presently he went, 'Well?'
'Well what?'
'What are you doing about getting him out?'
'Listen, Kevin. Kevin, is it?'
'It is. Go on, now.'
'I've been thinking. To spring him from gaol would need a ficking army. I've got a f-ew lads lined up, but we can't muster that strength.'
'So?'
'The way to do it is to wait till he's being moved.
Wait till he's outside the gaol, on his way to court or something. He's on remand at the moment, but soon they'll have to take him to court to charge him. Then we may be able to hit the convoy and do a snatch.'
'Good. That sounds better. So when's he going to court?'
'I'm trying to find out. The preliminary hearing's bound to be soon. I can get a question to one of“ the screws who works in the prison through the father of- one of-my mates, lie's retired, but he used to be a screw as well. He's abroad at the moment, back at the weekend. I'll get news then.'
'Fair enough. Is your contact on the hospital wing?'
'I don't think so. But even if he isn't he'll know the guys who are.'
'All right. But you need to get a move on. Your family's deteriorating.'
'What d'you mean?'
'They're missing you. Listen to this.'
I heard a couple of clicks, then a hissing noise. I realised the guy had turned on a small tape recorder and was holding the mouthpiece to the loudspeaker.
Suddenly I heard Tracy's voice, shaky and peculiar: 'Geordie,' she said, 'for God's sake do something to get us out. For God's sake…' Then came more hissing, and suddenly Tim's voice: 'Daddy, I don't like it here.
I want to come home.'
That was all he said, but it nearly cracked me up.
'Hello!' I called loudly. 'Tim! Hello!'
'Seven o'clock-on Monday, then,' said the Belfast voice.
Suddenly everything was too much. 'Hey, cuntt.' I shouted. 'Give me my kid backt.'
The line had gone dead. 'FUCKING AtLSE- HOLES!' I yelled. I crashed the receiver down so hard that it split the cradle of the phone clean in half. The whole instrument disintegrated in an explosion of grey plastic. In a surge of frustration I hurled over the table and sent a shower of files cascading to the floor.