Taking the Tunnel

by James Adams

  The files are stored in conventional grey filing cabinets that occupy three rooms of the six in the house. In 1991, the team bought an Apple Macintosh and now the files are cross-indexed with each other and with a new video library that was started in 1989.

  Of its kind, it is probably the most comprehensive terrorist resource in the world. Like most libraries, the vast majority of the material is never used, never even looked at once the initial entry is made. But what the cell looks for are the aberration or the signs of routine. They want the regular visit to get a haircut, the call on the tart, the Friday lunch at a club. It is those little flags that elevate an individual from the humdrum to the particular.

  Once the team brings the file forward, the reconnaissance cells operating in England and Northern Ireland get their instructions. Once again, this is a very general order for intermittent surveillance. The requirement is still information, not action, and this phase can also last several years. Often, no action is taken, but occasionally the target, the timing and the opportunity coincide and then the killers are unleashed.

  Sir Robert Sanford had been a civil servant all his life. He was a man of routine who valued the structure it provided. His career had begun in the Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food but an early promotion to the Ministry of Defence found him in his element. He had become well known not for his understanding of conventional war but for his devout Catholicism which made a strange marriage with his deep intellectual knowledge of the theory of nuclear deterrence.

  He might have remained a minor player in the conferences and corridors of the nuclear capitals had he not written a paper entitled “The Deployment of Cruise Missiles and Their Impact on the USSR”. He had argued that if the Americans deployed cruise missiles in Europe, this would force the Soviet Union into a new arms race which they would be unable to afford. The paper had been drawn to the attention of Margaret Thatcher, then Britain’s Prime Minister, and she had been convinced that Sanford had articulated a policy that held potential promise for the West. She persuaded Reagan and Cruise was deployed in the early 1980s in spite of a massive propaganda campaign by Moscow. There were many in London and Washington who believed the collapse of Communism could be directly attributed to that single decision which in the end was to bankrupt the Soviet economy.

  During the 1980s, the Thatcher star shone on Sanford. A period in the Cabinet Office was followed by promotion to Deputy Under-Secretary at the MoD and then the coveted post of Permanent Under-Secretary.

  There were few apart from his immediate family who thought Sanford a warm man — and even the MoD wags said that was unlikely. He wore dark suits, dark shoes and dark socks. His grey hair lay flat against his skull, his heavy black spectacles putting a barrier between his dark brown eyes and the rest of the world. He had a small mouth which appeared to be pursed in a perpetual moue of disapproval.

  He had been repeatedly briefed by the Security Service on the nature of the threat posed by the IRA and had learned to live with the consequences of high office. When Operation Octavian was at its height in 1989, he had an armed team of undercover police hidden in his garden shed twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. A police patrol car was within sixty seconds of his house at all times and a helicopter within a few minutes’ flying. He had been lucky. Another PUS on the hit list had no garden shed and the police had lived in his dining room.

  Sanford resented the constant intrusion in his life but had accepted the routine of checking under his car every day (his wife had even made a flat version of a church kneeler to keep his trousers clean). But the end of Octavian meant some relaxation of the rules. He still checked under his car and varied his route to and from work. But he always went to the Bath and Racquets Club in Brook’s

  Mews behind Claridge’s twice a week, on Tuesdays and Thursdays. On good days he would walk back to the Ministry of Defence, but when it was raining his driver would both drop him off and take him back to work.

  That morning one of the anonymous figures from the Security Service had turned up at his house just as he was settling down with his copy of the Daily Telegraph and a bowl of All Bran.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you at such an unearthly hour, Sir Robert,” the man had begun. “I’m afraid that we have reason to believe that you are going to be a target of the IRA sometime in the next few days.”

  He had heard this before many times and each time it had proved to be a false alarm. He continued eating and asked, between mouthfuls, “How reliable is this information?”

  “Very. We are as certain as we can be that you are the target and that the attack is imminent. What we don’t know is the precise where or when.” The man paused as if embarrassed. “As you know, Sir Robert, our policy on these occasions is to protect the prospective victim and move him or her out of sight for a while.” He coughed slightly. “However, in this case, we would like you to continue working as usual, stick to all your normal routines in the hope that we can draw the gunmen out.”

  “And just why should I agree to be the sacrificial lamb in this instance?” Sanford asked, dabbing softly at the comers of his mouth with a linen napkin.

  “We believe that the gunmen are part of the IRA unit that carried out the shootings in Winchester and who murdered Bill Royce and his family.”

  Royce had been Sanford’s man, his protégé at the MoD. He had also been a friend. His brutal murder had been a terrible blow and had brought home once again just how vulnerable they all were.

  “In fact, Sir Robert, we believe that one man was responsible for those two attacks and we think that he will be coming after you. We have a chance to get him and at the same time stop the IRA in England for a while. Will you help?”

  There had been no choice. He had volunteered in part because he owed it to Royce and in part because if he had not done so, he would have been a laughing stock in the Ministry of Defence.

  So, as usual this Thursday lunchtime, he was being driven to his club. Looking out of the window, he could see no sign of the team that he knew must be surrounding him. They were good, he thought. But then they needed to be if the bait was going to work and live to talk about it.

  He glanced up. It looked like it was going to turn out fine after all. He could enjoy the walk back.

  CHAPTER XXVI

  Dame Mary Cheong walked forward into the dark, cavernous mouth of the Tunnel. A crowd of civilians and soldiers watched her small figure until it was swallowed up in the darkness. Behind, her progress was being watched by a battery of infra-red and thermal sensors. Each of them registered when she stopped precisely at the 500-yard mark.

  At the briefing earlier, the young army colonel had told her the limits of her mission. “We are obviously grateful for the effort you are making to resolve this peacefully, Dame Mary,” he had said. “But there is no point you going in there and becoming yet another victim. We have done our sums and reckon that if you go in 500 yards, up to the first bend, then they should be able to hear you well enough.”

  She had accepted the portable loudspeaker and set off. As the darkness closed around her, she was sure that the people inside the Tunnel would have picked up the movement and be wondering just what a single person could do against so many. She quickly became cold. The temperature was little above freezing as with each step she moved further into the Tunnel. The walls were running with water and the atmosphere was unpleasantly dank. It reminded her of some sea-water caves she had visited years ago on the east coast of Hong Kong Island. They had been beautiful, but she had hated the claustrophobia.

  Now there was neither the warmth of the sea nor the beauty of the surroundings to compensate for the feeling of being trapped.

  She knew she should turn and leave. But somehow she kept putting one foot in front of the other, her shoes making small grating sounds as the rubber soles ground down on the grit of the Tunnel floor. She knew this was a mission doomed to failure. She had agreed with those in the COBRA meeting who said that these men would never g
ive up. But she had to be here. She had to attend this last rite in the same way that a mother returns to the grave of a favourite son.

  This would be the grave of the people inside the Tunnel, both aggressors and victims. But this disaster would also bury many of her own dreams. In the past few days, she had seen so many of her hopes dashed. All the years of work, of climbing up the ladder had counted for nought. In the end, she was just another foreigner trying to persuade the British to change their ways. Looking back now, she couldn’t understand why she had ever thought in terms of success. The arrogance of the just, she thought to herself. And what a price I’ve paid.

  So now it was time for this one final, futile gesture to salve a conscience burdened by the thought that she should have done more.

  She lifted the loudspeaker, clicked the switch and heard the nervous smacking of her lips echo and re-echo down the Tunnel. She began to speak.

  The helicopter had dropped them both off. Jonny knew nothing would happen until Dame Mary’s mission was over and he wanted to watch the drama. He had been escorted into the green command truck which controlled all the police and military operations in the area.

  The colonel who had briefed Dame Mary greeted him. “Colonel Simon Douglas,” he said, shaking Jonny’s hand. “You must be Jonny Turnbull from the Hong Kong Police.”

  While they waited for Dame Mary to get into position, Jonny asked Douglas if they’d picked up any messages.

  Ten minutes ago the signals people got a short burst transmission. They’re trying to unscramble it now.”

  “Was there a bearing?” Jonny queried. “Any indication where it was coming from?”

  “All we have is the single bearing and it looks like the broadcast came from a ship in the Channel,” said Douglas. “We need the cross-bearing when they transmit again to get a proper fix and the best way to do that is from a ship at sea. That way we’ll get the widest angle. Campbeltown’s well placed and their boys are on the job. You can see for yourself when you get out there.”

  From a loudspeaker in the comer of the room came the high sing-song tones of Cantonese spoken with the slight overlay of the Hong Kong dialect. Jonny listened to Mary’s voice, trying to pick out the words. The voice sounded tinny and ill-defined as if the Tunnel and the transmission had filtered out all the emotion.

  “The British government will not negotiate,” he heard her saying. “I have fought long and hard to persuade them that your cause is just. You know that I believe in what you are doing but your struggle has become pointless. All that is left is the loss of your lives and those of the innocent people you are holding. You should give yourselves up. The struggle is lost.”

  Jonny heard the click of the loudspeaker being turned off. It was impossible to imagine that the terrorists were just going to lay down their weapons and walk out of the Tunnel. There was only going to be one way to resolve this.

  The captain’s cabin on HMS Campbeltown is one of those miracles of design that makes the maximum use of the minimum amount of space. When the ship was being built at the Cammell Laird shipyard, designers had been called in from the manufacturers of Avon caravans. They were able to show the shipbuilders how to squeeze the extra bit of comfort out of the very small amount of space available. On a good day, Jeremy Greaves had a desk and chair to himself, a folding dining table, a private bathroom and a couch that converted into a decent-sized bed. This lunchtime was one of those occasions where the real limitations became apparent, irrespective of the caravan-makers’ contribution.

  Packed into the cabin were Mike Hodder, his number two, a saturnine and untalkative second lieutenant called Jake Ellis, the PWO, the navigator and anyone else who felt they should be in on the act. The result was a crush and a meeting which should have been short and well directed by Greaves, but which had in fact kept them stuck in the stuffy cabin for forty-five minutes waiting for a reply from Northwood to his last signal. As usual, he thought, Their Lordships at the Admiralty were taking their time.

  The telephone on his desk rang. He reached behind him and picked it up. “Captain.”

  “Comms here, sir. There’s a message coming over from Northwood for you. You’d better come down.”

  “On my way.”

  He left the cabin and went to the communications centre one deck below. Like many of the work spaces on the ship, this was crammed with equipment and the four people working in the small space appeared to be almost an afterthought. Along one wall there was a bank of data processors, along the other three were receiving systems and transmitters for fighting the electronic war. In the centre of the room where the four men sat were word processors and teleprinters.

  All messages are encrypted using different codes depending on the level of classification. Only three people, the captain, the operations officer and the petty officer in charge of communications are cleared to handle traffic marked Top Secret, the highest level of coding. During the Gulf War, Top Secret messages had arrived at the rate of one or two a day, but in more normal circumstances, such a message might appear once a week. Since the Walker spy case, the whole system of coding messages has been changed. Top Secret codes are changed at random but usually every day.

  As soon as Greaves entered the room, the petty officer moved to a rank of BID word processors and plugged in what is known as a Fill Gun, which is in fact a small transmitter. From the safe on the floor behind him he pulled out a six-inch-long strip of yellow paper with a series of holes punched through it. He inserted the paper in the Fill Gun and in a single smooth motion slid it through. The Gun instantly read the dots and converted them to a digitized code which was then registered by the processor. All outgoing Top Secret messages would now be encrypted by means of that code.

  Greaves moved to a small cubicle on the far side of the room. The petty officer slid into his seat and Greaves watched over his shoulder as the BAe Aroflex receiving system stood silent and watchful.

  “We got the alert about five minutes ago, sir, so the message should be coming through any time now.” The petty officer had just finished speaking when the first of the five-letter groups appeared on the screen. Ten groups filled each line and after four lines had been completed, the cursor bobbed to the bottom of the screen and a message flashed up which read: “Enciphered Message Received”.

  The petty officer inserted another Fill Gun and hit the “Execute” button. Immediately, the cursor started to convert the groups of five letters into a complete and clear signal, a process which takes about ten seconds.

  Greaves watched the first line appear. It was the usual string of letters and numbers that indicated the routing of the message. It was incomprehensible to anyone but the petty officer but it provided additional verification, if any were needed, that this was a genuine message. Then the first word appeared and with it he knew that this was the call to arms he had been waiting for. It read “Immediate”, the word that commanded instant obedience and action to carry out the order that followed. His brain absorbed the message:

  IMMEDIATE

  FM CINCFLEET

  TO CAMPBELTOWN

  TOP SECRET YOU ARE TO TAKE WHATEVER

  STEPS ARE NECESSARY TO EFFECT THE RESCUE OF

  THE HOSTAGES INSIDE THE CHANNEL TUNNEL ACKNOWLEDGE

  “Send the acknowledgement back to CINCFLEET,” he instructed the petty officer. As the man’s fingers flew across the keyboard, Greaves left the room and took the ladder up to his cabin, where he was met with the silent and expectant faces of the men on whom the success of this mission would depend.

  “Well, gentlemen, that was CINCFLEET. We have a Go.”

  There was a collective sigh, part relief and part the beginning of a deeper breath as each man drew in the oxygen to help adjust to the instant heightening of tension that the captain’s words produced.

  For each man, the waiting, the endless refining of ideas, the discussion of options, the worry about the unknown was over. Now there was only commitment and action.

  Colonel
Douglas picked up his peaked hat and headed for the door. Jonny trailed in his wake, nervous now that the action was imminent.

  They walked out towards the Tunnel mouth and the Sea King helicopter that stood off to one side silent and still on an open patch of plain white concrete.

  They had only walked a few yards when ahead of them a single figure emerged from the right-hand tunnel. Jonny stopped and watched Mary Cheong as she walked towards him, the loudspeaker dangling limply from her right hand. He noticed the scuffs on her court shoes, the water stains on the silk suit. Two strands of her dark hair had come loose from the chignon at the back of her neck. They waved and bobbed as she walked, two small signs of life in an otherwise empty and lonely traverse from the darkness to the light.

  The despair in Dame Mary’s form was obvious. Her shoulders were hunched, her step slow. It was clear that her mission had failed and that no terrorists would be following her out of the Tunnel. It was clear too that her failure, which everyone else had expected, had come as a cruel blow to the woman who had believed until the end that right would be served. As she came level with Jonny, she looked up. He expected to see tears of frustration but was surprised to see her face was perfectly clear. As their eyes met, he saw not despair, but determination, even triumph.

  She walked past Jonny without stopping and passed out of his sight. There was no time to speak to her. He felt the colonel’s hand on his arm, pulling him towards the helicopter.

  Jonny had never really understood how it was he loved helicopters yet hated normal flying. He knew it was completely illogical. After all, if a helicopter stops working a crash landing is virtually certain, while the fixed-wing pilot can glide his way to safety. He spent the ten minutes from Cheriton to the frigate enjoying the sensation and admiring the view. It seemed remarkably bereft of shipping for what some said was the busiest waterway in the world. Maybe the crisis had scared everyone off, he thought.