by Chris Ryan
'Bit of luck,' he began.
'What's happened?'
'I don't know whether you'd call it lateral thinking or lateral influence or what, but outside events seem to be working to our advantage. This came in from Special Branch this morning.' He picked up a sheet of fax paper and held it off the desk with both hands. At first I thought he was going to give it to me, but it seemed that he preferred to paraphrase its contents. 'Through an intercept, SB have got wind of PItkA plans for a high- level political assassination in London. They believe the target's the Prime Minister himself.'
'Charming!' I muttered. 'They're aiming high.'
'They are. The man SB overheard on the phone was talking about a special weapon they've brought over to do the shoot.'
'Not that rifle they were using in Armagh?'
'The very one. A Barrett Light Fifty - at least, we assume that's what it is. A five-oh, anyway.'
'Jesus! One hell of a weapon. That means they're planning a long-range shoot.'
'Exactly,' the CO agreed. 'That puts the police on the spot. They're organised for close-quarter protection, but they can't occupy every building in line of sight every time the Prime Minister goes somewhere.'
'No.' I thought for a moment, then said, 'What's that got to do with us?'
'Nothing directly.' The CO pushed his chair back.
'Except that SB believes the crowd they overheard are the same lot as the ones holding your people - the West London ASU. The thought is that if Plan Zulu goes ahead, you may get in among them and break up the cell.'
'You mean we can go ahead?' I nearly jumped off my chair.
The Boss gave-me a beady look and nodded his head.
'You want to watch yourself. The Director is not chuffed with you.'
'What's wrong?'
'He's had to spend the morning at an emergency meeting in the COBI, liaising with Downing Street, the Home Office and Scotland Yard. That meant he couldn't clear other things off his desk, and he reckons you've buggered his weekend.'
I thought of the big fat brigadier, huffing and puffing in the Cabinet Office Briefing loom, the underground sanctum in Central London which is activated to deal with major emergencies . . . but I didn't feel too sorry for him.
'Mind you,' the CO added, 'if you smash the West London ASU I think he'll forgive you. The security forces have been trying to bust the organisation for years, and haven't managed it. They've made a number of arrests, but never got the key players.'
'All right then,' I said thoughtfully. 'What we're going to do is set a fucking great trap, and let the PIRA walk into it.'
When I asked Yorky for someone to replace Norm on the team, he promise.d to have a quick think; but before he came back to me I had an idea of my own. Living in Hereford having recently retired from the Pegiment was a guy called 'Doughnut' Dyson,“ formerly of D Squadron. He'd had a job BG'ing some Arab sheikh, but at the moment he was out of work. I suddenly realised he would be ideal. For one thing, he was older than the rest of us, and looked it; for another, he really was ex-SAS, and if necessary could prove it by talking about his BG work. He'd add credibility to my claim that my team was a private army. Further, Doughnut was a hefty guy, and I foresaw that weight and muscle would come in handy when we were dragging Farrell around.
Doughnut was a larger version of Pat - dark, straight hair, rosy cheeks - powerfully built and into weights, but nippy with it. He was quick-minded too: when I rang him at home to brief him he picked up the situation in a flash. Above all he was cheerful, the sort of guy who fits easily into any team and is a pleasure to have around.
His real name was Eric, but he had once made the mistake of appearing for a rugby trial in a cream- colouredjersey with a red blob in the middle. He never wore the damn thing again, but from that moment he was Doughnut.
He possessed one other minor advantage: whereas the rest of us has short, scrubby haircuts, his was fairly long and had a less military appearance.
A full O-group was called for 1700 that evening. But before the forces of law and order could assemble we had a pile of things to do. My first reaction was to collect the lads and put it to them straight.
As Plan Zulu was my benefit number, none of them was obliged to take part; they were officially on leave after Ostrich, and could duck out if they wanted. The fact that nobody did gave me a big boost. Far from trying to slide off, they all came on-side with so much enthusiasm and emotion that it nearly choked me.
By the time we'd cleared the air on that one, we had three hours left before the O-group. A safe house had been found - Laurel Cottage, near lkuardean in the Forest of Dean, less than half an hour to the southeast of Hereford - so we despatched Whinger m suss the place out. Stew and Doughnut shot off down to the Llangwern Army Training Area over the Welsh border to collect a couple of the intercept cars, while Tony and I hammered away to Ludlow to recce the bypass and pick a spot for out interception.
In the MT Section in camp a dark-blue Ford Transit van, bought second-hand for cash an hour before, was being prepared for use as the ramming vehicle. Half a ton of concrete blocks were wired and bolted to the floor in the back, a heavy bar was welded to the front bumper, and an anti-roll cage fitted inside the cab.
Other people pressed ahead with the logistics of the operation, sorting out food and drink for the cottage, finding out Farrell's sizes from the prison authorities and buying civilian clothes for him, and bugging a couple of pairs of shoes.
Before Tony and I set out, I needed to send a message to the PI1LA, to gear them up for action. 'How do we do this?' I asked Fraser. 'If anything goes through your channels, they'll smell a rat and realise I'm working with you:
'That's right. It's got to be a direct call. Make it from your own number, and if they bother to trace it back they'll be happy. Dial 192 and get the Sinn Fein number in Belfast from Directory Enquiries.'
With Fraser's guidance I composed a cryptic message - but when I got through I was disconcerted to find myself connected to an answerphone. I put my hand over the receiver and whispered as much to Fraser, who indicated that I should talk anyway. So off I went:
'This is Geordie Sharp speaking from Keeper's Cottage, Hereford, at 1400 hours on Thursday the twenty-seventh of May. I have a breakthrough as regards your man. He should be with me by midnight tomorrow, Friday the twenty-eighth of May. If he reaches me safely, I'll contact you again immediately to arrange a mutually convenient rendezvous, location to be proposed by you. Leave a number for quick contact.
Message ends.'
It took us only forty minutes to whip up through Leominster and on along the A49 towards Shrewsbury.
The weather had turned thundery with heavy cloud cover, and on that gloomy afternoon there was little traffic moving. As we passed a sign for Kimbolton to our right Tony said, 'Hey, I know that name! It was a USAF base during World War Two. I'm sure it was…' but he couldn't remember which squadrons had been stationed there.
Heading north, we came on to the Ludlow bypass from the wrong direction, so to speak, and drove straight to the northern end of it before slowing to check things in detail.
'OK,' I said as we hit the northern roundabout. 'The ring-road starts here. Call this Point Alpha.'
Once again Tony was taking notes and making sketches. 'What d'you call this damn thing? A circle?'
'Round about. Don't you have them in the States?'
'We may have, but I don't think I ever saw one.'
'Point Alpha, anyway. I'm going round it again. That other road leading off is the A4113 to Knighton. Get that? OK… let's time ourselves from here to the next roundabout. I'll take it steady, simulate the prison convoy.'
I headed back south at 40 m.p.h. We went over the old main road on a bridge, then under a smaller one, and reached the second roundabout in two minutes and twenty seconds. 'Point Bravo,' I told Tony. 'Signed Ludlow to the east, the A4117 to the west. I reckon this next link will be the one for us.'
I continued driving slowly, and after
a minute or so we came to a stretch where there was a wide verge on the left with a big, gently sloping grass bank behind it.
'Look at this!' I exclaimed. 'Could have been made for it. One minute twenty after Point B. Got that?'
'Sure.'
Through a cufting in the grass bank on our left, a farm or forestry track ran down a shallow ramp to join the road. Clearly it had been built as a concession to the landowner when the new road went through, to give him access to the highway. Changing down into second, I swung left off the tarmac and eased the Cavalier up the track, gravel scrunching under the tyres.
'Hear that?' I said. 'They went so far as to put down hardcore for our benefit. Even if it's raining, the van'll get up here no bother.'
At the back of the bank, out of sight of the road, we found a small turning-area, with a wooden-rail fence and gate bordering a plantation of young oaks: an ideal LUP for the rammer van.
'All we need do now is measure the distance to the centre of the highway,' I said. 'What is it? Sixty metres?'
'Seventy,' Tony suggested. 'I'll step it out.'
'OK. Stand on the edge of the tarmac, and when there's nobody coming, wave me down for a trial run.'
As he strode off down the ramp, taking deliberately long paces, I turned the car and lined it up five metres back from the lip of the bank. Then, at his signal, I started forward, gently at first, to simulate a laden van, then accelerating, before I braked hard and slewed to a halt on the shoulder of the road.
'Seven seconds,' I reported. 'They'll need to practise with the van itself, but that'll be it, near enough.'
'Sixty-eight metres,' Tony announcdd as he climbed back aboard. 'What do we call this place?'
'Impact lamp. It's a nice site for a shoot-out, too. A few bursts into the banks won't hurt anybody.' I pulled off on to the grass again for a moment.
On the other side of the main road the ground fell away into a shallow drainage ditch. 'If we can hit the prison wagon into that it'll be perfect,' I said. 'The van'll probably roll over and we can go in through the roof.'
Driving on again, we took three and a half minutes to reach the third roundabout - Point Charlie - south of Ludlow, where the old main road headed back into the town. Between Bravo and Charlie lay a three-mile stretch of road with no side turnings. That gave us bags of space: even if something went wrong on Impact Ramp, we'd have several minutes clear in which to sort ourselves out.
'We're OK,' I told Tony. 'We've hacked it. Let's head for home.'
The O-Group took place in the main lecture hall, a big room with rows of seats set out in semicircular tiers.
There was a full turn-out from the Regimental head- shed, and the outsiders included Gilbert the Filbert from the Firm, a senior representative from Special Branch in London, a leading light from Winson Green prison, and police chiefs from Warwickshire, Shropshire and Herefordshire.
The CO set the pace by announcing that, although Plan Zulu was certainly unorthodox, it had been ordered in the national interest by the highest authority.
The immediate aim was to recover the hostages, but the wider strategy was to flush out as many players as possible in the West London ASU, and to break the power of an organisation which was posing a serious threat to the government. He therefore hoped everyone would give of their best in making the plan work.
In fact, most people seemed only too willing to co operate. The only big-wig who caused any trouble was the guy from the gaol, a frowning superscrew with a pock-marked face, who started in whingeing about his responsibility for the prisoner's health and safety. 'You don't seem to realise that the man is still recovering from gunshot wounds,' he said, when asked for his comments. 'If he gets thrown about in a crash it may lead to serious complications.'
'He'll have to take his chance,' said the CO firmly.
'Your responsibility for him will cease when he leaves Winson Green, so his continuing health won't be your concern.'
That ended the complaints, and by cracking on in such positive fashion the CO got everything Squared away within the hour, so that the meeting broke up soon after six.
The arrangement was that the intercept would go down the following night: Friday 28 May. The police would close all three roundabouts on the Ludlow bypass at 2215 and divert traffic, on the grounds that the road had been blocked by an accident. The convoy, consisting of a van with unmarked police cars fore and aft, would reach Point Alpha as close to 2225 as the drivers could manage.
By then our intercept cars would be parked nose-to- nose at an angle across the road half a mile south of Point Bravo, their panic lights flashing as if they'd had a crash. Our rammer van would be waiting in the turning space above the road. When the convoy approached, the lead driver would slow down as he saw the stranded cars ahead and report a blockage over his radio. At that moment our van would start its run down the ramp, aiming to hit the front of the meat wagon…
By 1830 I was feeling pretty knacketed. It was five nights since I'd had a proper sleep and I was keen to get nay head down for more than two or three hours at a stretch. All the same, Whinger and I were determined to call on Pat in hospital, because we knew he'd be fretting about his chances of regaining full fitness, and we reckoned he could do with a bit of moral support.
Besides, once Plan Zulu went down, it might be days before we got another chance to see him.
After a quick bite to eat I phoned Pat's wife, Jenny, to see if there was anything she'd like us to take along, but it turned out she wasn't feeling very sympathetic.
'Take him a bottle of arsenic pills,' she said. 'That'll sort him.'
'OK, I get the message.'
I turned to Whinger and said, 'Cow,' then I called
the hospital to make sure they'd let us in. There was the usual palaver about 'no visitors', but I bluffed our way with the sister in charge by telling her that we were special mates of Pat's, and got her to agree that we could spend a few minutes with him.
On the M4, Whinger gave me details of the safe house, which sounded pretty good. Laurel Cottage, he said, was made of brick and solidly built. It was small, with three rooms (including the bathroom) downstairs and three above, but it had been modernised recently and had a new kitchen and a Calor-gas hot water and heating system. The windows were adequate if not great - lockable, but not double-glazed. Whinger had been through all the drawers in the kitchen and removed a couple of receipted bills which gave the names of local tradesmen. He'd also checked the immediate area for estate agents' signs with giveaway phone numbers on them. The house was in a secure position, isolated as it was up a lane on the side of a hill, and there was a tumbledown wooden garage about thirty metres from the door. The place wasn't overlooked, and there were no other buildings in sight.
The only slight worry was one other house, which stood beside the lane where it joined the main road; anyone there would be in a good position to monitor comings and goings. But enquiries had revealed that this second building was also let intermittently, and at present unoccupied.
Comms wise, the cottage was well placed - not in a hole where radios and mobile phones wouldn't function. Whinger had taken along with him a technician from Box, who'd installed a special phone containing an encrypting device and a chip that prevented anyone tracing a call back. Tests had shown that all forms of communication functioned welt.
As we drove, I tried to imagine myself in Pat's position. When I got my arm smashed in the Gulf War I'd been in a fairly bad state myself, but I never thought that the wound was serious enough to threaten my career and basic fitness. A shattered femur was something else, and I knew how daunting it must be. At least he was in good hands. I knew that Army and ILAF surgeons train to deal with bullet wounds by operating on pigs anaesthetised and shot at the secret defence establishment at Porton Down.
I'd maple several visits to Wroughton before, to have my arm checked while the bones were re-knitting, and as we drove up the long approach road to the old airfield on top of the downs I thought on
ce again how strange it was that a service hospital should have so little security. There was no fence, no barrier, no guardroom; anybody could proceed straight to the front entrance.
Mind you, you needed to be fit to find the person you were looking for, because the building was about halfa mile long, with wards leading offcentral corridors on its two floors, and it was a fearsome hike from one end to the other.
Hospitals bug me. The gleaming surfaces, the smell of disinfectant, the bright lights, the impersonal passages and doors . . . the whole environment seems alien, exactly the sort of world you spend your life trying to avoid.
After a marathon tab, we eventually came on Pat in one of the high-dependency units - a small side-ward with an tLAF police corporal sitting guard outside the door. I'd had the sense to conceal my flask-shaped half- bottle of Johnny Walker against my stomach inside my loose shirt, so we got past the guard and the sister without hassle.