Unlike the Princes Gate raid, most exploits of the SAS
generally go untold. Actions by the regiment in Malaya,
Borneo, Aden and Oman have been reported. More sensitive
operations, such as those in Vietnam, have been
refuted by political sleight of tongue.

But, with a regimental motto, and a living philosophy
like 'Who Dares Wins', it is hardly surprising that other
missions have been of an even more 'deniable' classification.
And that means exactly what it says.

So have events like those that are described in this book
ever taken place? Have SAS hit-teams ever struck illegally
at PIRA terrorist camps in the Irish Republic?
Of course not. They wouldn't dare.


Terence Strong
London x98x


For Princess,

and the man from Arcadia,
but especially the lads
of the British

Army and those
long-suffering

Ulsterfolk who

have steadfastly
refused to accept
violence as any
sort of solution.

PROLOGUE


Still there was no sign of them.

In twenty minutes the soldier hadn't moved a muscle.
From his concealed position, in the small hillside meadow
overlooking the winding tarmac lane, the scene looked
deceptively peaceful. The pale, late summer sun was sinking.
Its rays scattered low under the trees in the thick,
roadside hedgerow to dapple the greenery with spots of
gold.

Its surprising warmth seeped through the material of
the soldier's camouflage smock. He felt a trickle of sweat
gather along his spine. Still he did not stir. Only his eyes,
hidden behind the brown faceveil, moved ceaselessly.

There were three other members of the captain's Sabre
team hidden in the 'bandit country' of South Armagh.

Just a few yards to his left a bee worked its way around
a cluster of buttercups, its sound clearly audible in the
absolute stillness. He grinned to himself with satisfaction.
Even at that moment the bee was hovering a few inches
in front of Corporal John Turnbull's face, totally unaware
of his presence.

Below the captain, but some fifty yards to his right, he
knew Sergeant Forbes waited in the three-quarter ton
Land Rover. But for the moment it remained concealed,
backed into the hedgerow and completely disguised by the
green and black paint and drapes of camouflage netting.
The specially-modified vehicle, with a reinforced chassis,
Hotspur armour and smoke dischargers, had lost its bizarre
desert camouflage colour that had earned its famous 'Pink
Panther' nickname.

Back along the hedgerow to the left the lane disappeared
from view beyond a thicket of blackthorn trees.


I

It was here that the fourth and last member of the
captain's team waited. Young Tom Perrot, a soft-spoken
trooper from south Dorset, perched amid the purple sloe
fruit of the lower branches, oblivious of any physical
discomfort. He had only joined Captain Jack Ducane's
team two months earlier and it was providing the most
excitement, and the biggest test, of his twenty-four years
to date.

Already Ducane was pleased with the way he was
shaping up, confident to post him as lookout for the car
that Intelligence had predicted would approach.

The captain spoke quietly into the mike of the VHF Pye
Pocketfone clipped to the front of his smock. "Anything
to report, Tom?"

"Not a dicky bird, boss." Young Tom's voice was distorted
with static in his earpiece.

"Okay. Don't nod off."

"'Boss?" Tom was too earnest to appreciate the legpull.
"Keep your eyes peeled. They'll show soon.."

Of course Int. was always getting it wrong; that was the
name of the game. You win some, you lose some. In the
end you just hoped to win more than you lost. But this
time they had seemed pretty confident.

They had been after Cochran for two years now, ever
since he'd made a daring escape from Long Kesh, leaving
the authorities with a lot of egg on their face. It had been
a skilful, professionally-executed job, of which the inmates
of wartime Colditz would have been proud. Indeed it was
a far cry from the early attempts by the Provos to dig
themselves out of the prison. They'd actually tunnelled the
wrong way into the centre of the camp. That story had spread ad nauseam through the British Army with the
speed of a forest fire. It had provided light relief amongst
the troops for weeks afterwards.

But times had changed now, Ducane reflected. As the
Army had tightened its grip and picked off its adversaries
one by one, the PIRA, losing its widespread support, found
itself with a small nucleus of hardened and experienced
active service units. The concrete jungles of the. deprived


2

urban areas had weeded out the weaklings and idiots. It
had been the survival of the fittest, and those survivors
now had a wealth of experience and knowledge on which
to draw.

More recently PIRA activity had shifted to the border
counties, particularly Armagh which was a stronghold of
Republican support. Having been eased out of the city
areas, the PIRA were fighting hard to maintain their command
of the hilly farmland where hundreds of narrow
roads and lanes provided their 'lifeline' with the south. In
this rugged and uncompromising territory, entire battalions
of regular troops might be swallowed up without
gaining any semblance of control. Save recalling the Rhine
Army, the only practical way to secure the country was
by the use of small groups of men, highly-trained in anti
guerilla warfare and able to survive independently for
weeks on end. Working themselves into the background
countryside, and into the minds of the enemy.

The Prime Minister's announcement in January of that
year that men of 22 Special Air Service Regiment were
moving into Armagh to put an end to the wave of sectarian
killings meant little to Captain Jack Ducane and his team.
They had been operating there regularly for months and;
previously to that, largely on undercover assignments in
Belfast and Londonderry.

The Provos, too, knew they were there, but that was their
misfortune. Now the world knew that an entire SAS Sabre
Squadron was moving into the area, and Ducane could not
deny he enjoyed the squealof anguish that came from the
Republicans at the very mention of the regimental name.

In fact the PIRA became the victims of their own propaganda
machine. For, in fact, in th very early days of the
latest troubles, SAS operations had been far from successful
as new techniques and lessons were learned. Despite
this fact, horror stories, generated by the Provos, had the
effect of striking terror into their own active service units
in Armagh. The sectarian killings stopped almost overnight
without the SAS teams needing to do a thing about it.
However the 'thinking bayonets' had set themselves a'


3

target of their own. Armed with five years of hard-earned
experience in Ulster, they determined to go for the ten
Provo leaders in Armagh. Although Ducane did not know
it then, the SAS were to capture four of them and send.
the other six fleeing over the border before the year was
out.

Now it should be the slippery Mr Cochran's turn. That
would no doubt delight the RUC. The men from the Royal
Ulster Constabulary were very anxious for a chat with that
gentleman about the carefully-orchestrated execution of so
many of their number. Not even dignified, properly
conducted firing squads following some form of perfunctory
trial. Just a hail of bullets in the belly as the victim
answered his front door. A merciless butchery that frequently
left wives and young children splattered in the
entrails of their husbands and fathers if they happened to
be standing too close.

Ducane swallowed hard. Unfortunately Mr Cochran
was believed to be a current member of the PIRA Army
Council itself. A real VIP who was wanted for questioning.
Well, they would have him, but the other two, thought
to be travelling with Cochran, would have to behave themselves.
They were known murderers and they would have
only one chance. Otherwise, Ducane had decided, their
time had just run out.

His eyes ran over the length of the Mark 5 Sterling sub:
machine gun in his hands, its stout barrel camouflaged with
strips of green and brown cloth. A second reversed magazine
clip was taped end-on to the first for a quick 'wrist
flip' reload. Sixty-eight 9mm rounds. This could be martyr
time.

If they showed.

And if they did, the first thing they would see would
be Big Dave Forbes manning the heavy GPMG mounted
on the Land Rover that would completely block the road.

Suddenly Ducane frowned and looked up.


Five hundred feet up the Eagle patrol clattered over the
deserted South Armagh landscape. At the controls of the


4

old Wessex 2 helicopter, Flight Lieutenant George Seivwright
felt irritable.

The unremitting glare of sunlight and the warm lager
he'd had before take-off had combined to start a headache
throbbing beneath the bulbous, white plastic helmet. The
bulky armour chest-plate was restricting and uncomfortable.

And he didn't like the Royals' chalk commander who
sat below him in the cramped fuselage with his stick of
fifteen troopers.

"I said let's go oer the route," Major Simmond's voice
repeated on the intercom.

"You sure, Major? We're supposed to await the call
sign," Seivwright reminded him testily.

He could sense the displeasure in the Royals officer's
words. "'If this is a wild goose-chase, the sooner we find out
the better."

Seivwright couldn't be bothered to argue. This was a
brown job op. anyway. As far as he understood it, they
should still have been on the ground until they heard from
the SAS men manning the ambush. Obviously the major
had his own ideas.


"Dave, get onto Blue Leader and tell him to sod off."
Ducane was furious. "Is he trying to blow the whole
.thing?"

"Ohay, Jacko,'" crackled the sergeant's reply. "Guess old
Simmonds wants in on the action.'"

"We all know that. Get on with it."

There was a pause while the sergeant began to contact
the Eagle patrol on the Land Rover's UHF radio.

Suddenly Ducane's earpiece Was alive. It was Young
Tom's voice, talking rapidly with hardly suppressed excitement. "tVe've got something, boss. A motorcycle."

Ducane frowned. Int. had said it would be a car. Was
this a farmworker returning home from the fields? Or
was he riding point for Cochran's car, inspecting the
route?

"Forget Blue Leader, Dave," he snapped. "Stand by."'


5

"'Now we have a car!'" Young Tom's voice was euphoric.
That's better, thought Ducane, he is riding scout.

"And another car! In close succession. The cyclist's seen
the chopper. He's slowing and looking around."

Shit! Was Young Tom mistaken? Panicking even?
Ducane dismissed the thought. He may be young and
relatively inexperienced, but Perrot was as cool and calm
as they come. Perhaps Int. had got it wrong after all, and
his team were waiting to carve up a convoy of luckless
civilians.

That's it. Convoy. Sweat had collected on Ducane's
forehead and was trickling down the side of his nose into
his eyes. He squeezed them hard shut and blinked rapidly.
His raised pulse receded. Of course, that was it. He glanced
at the watch on his left arm: I735. Over an hour later than
estimated.

It was explained now. He remembered the briefing two
weeks earlier, when they'd been warned of the recent new
ploy used by some PIRA gangs to distract the increasing
attention from themselves. Rather than drive furtively
down quiet roads in conspicuous single-file, they would
slip in behind an innocent vehicle, or preferably a line of
vehicles, using them as cover, especially in deserted areas.
That was why they were behind schedule; waiting for a
casual passerby. The motor-cyclist could be civilian, or a
new innovation on the technique. The Provos were getting
desperate lately. Ducane wondered if the others recalled
the warning. A dead, innocent civilian was worth hundreds
of column inches in propaganda to the Provisionals.

The clear sound of the high-revving Honda motorcycle
crackled through the quiet afternoon air, from beyond the
blackthorns.

Ducane said into the mike: "Watch it, lads, there could
be a decoy in this lot. Okay, Dave, MOVE IT!"

Immediately the powerful, super-charged V4 engine
coughed angrily to life. The heavy-duty 16inch tyres spat
earth as the Land Rover leapt forward. Sergeant Forbes
slammed on the anchors with the vehicle blocking the lane.
Heaving on the handbrake and shoving the gear into first,

6

he threw himself at the GPMG mounted on the passenger's
side.

Ducane kept his eyes on the copse of blackthorn. Now
Young Tom would be down near the telegraph pole at the
roadside. An hour before he had wrapped six coils of white
Cordtex cable around its base. The small knot would
ensure the pole came down straight across the lane.

As he came suddenly into view, the teenager on the
motor-cycle was so busy watching the hovering Wessex 2
that he didn't notice the Land Rover blocking his path.
The large, red crash helmet looked incongruous on the thin
body as it swivelled back to face the road. He saw the sergeant
manning the GPMG fifty yards ahead and grabbed
at the brakes. The rear wheels tried to overtake the front.
Caught off balance, he hit the tarmac in agonising, slow
motion.

"Evel bloody Knievel," murmured Turnbull as he
glanced at Ducane. The captain nodded.

The corporal sprang forward, through the spindly
hedgerow and onto the road. Before the youth had orientated
himself, Plasticuffs had been snapped over his wrists.
Despite his diminutive stature, Turnbull had no difficulty
in physically hoisting the dazed, gangling body into the
roadside shrubbery. As usual the soldier remained immaculate
and unruffled in spite of his sudden exertion.

The first car came round the bend at speed. It was a
blue Cortina 3, and was followed closely by a battered grey
Humber.

Ducane squinted hard. There appeared to be three men
in the Cortina. The two seated in the front looked middle
aged.

The earpiece crackled. It was Tom. "Looks like Coch
fan's in the first, boss. Just two women Oand an old bloke in
the second.'"

"Hear that, lads," Ducane said. "Let's go!"

With a squeal of brakes the Cortina slewed across the
road. It brushed the hedge for a few feet before it halted
twenty yards in front of the Land Rover. The middle-aged
woman driving the Humber had slower reactions, over7


spun her steering-wheel and clipped the rear of the Cortina
before stopping. There was a bright tinkling of plastic,
gla arid chrome as the offside light mounting shattered.

"'I-IALa" OR WE FIRE!" Forbes' voice boomed over the Land
Rover's bullhorn. He waved a Yellow Card emphatically.
'rHI$ I5 A BRITISH ARMY VEHICLE CHECK! GET OUT OF YOUR

CARS sLoWLY! HANDS ON YOUR HEADS, PLEASE!"

The doors of the Cortina swung open.

"KII IT SLOW! USE THE RIGHT-HAND DOORS ONLY."
Ducanc joined Turnbull at the roadside.

Gingerly he three men, all dressed in mud-splattered
rubber boots, and typical farmer's clothes, stepped out
onto the tarmac.

The SAS captain threw a glance at the second car. The
elderly man in the passenger seat looked startled as he
spoke to the woman driver who wore a silk headscarf. The
nun in the rear seat was leaning forward, asking something
of her relatives who were obviously treating her to an
outing.

It was the nun's thick, horn-rimmed glasses that Ducane
remembered from the identification photo sheets at the
Tac HQ briefing session.

Turnbull said: "lXlone of these, boss!"

Before Ducane could reply, the Humber's engine roared.
The gears grated in protest as the woman threw it into
reverse and stamped on the accelerator. The whine of the
straining prop-shaft was earsplitting.

Simultaneously Young Tom struck the Fuzee match and
lit the fuse cable to the telegraph pole. As he hurled himself
away, the explosion tore through the timber. The pole
hit the road three seconds before the rear wheels of the
Humber crunched into it.

Ducanc grabbed the first of the farmers by the arm.
"nownl"

Turnbull pushed the other two tight against the car's
bodywork as the Humber was forced back into first gear
and leapt towards them like an attacking bull.

The GPMG burst into a throaty roar, its shells biting
chunks out of the tarmac in front of the spe.eding car.


8

Forbes' intention was to hit the wheels in order to avoid
damaging the Provo VIP. But a fast approaching vehicle,
going under his elevation of fire, and restricted by the nearness
of the Cortina passengers and his colleagues, was a
hopeless target.

Trapped against the side of the Cortina, Ducane and
Turnbull were unable even to bring their weapons to bear
before the Humber veered suddenly to the right, through
the hedge shrubbery and climbed into the meadow, swinging
around the Land Rover. In a cloud of exhaust, flying
stones and clods of- earth, it swerved left, bouncing back
onto the lane. The body pan bottomed noisily. Feverishly
the driver corrected, the steering and punched the
accelerator. The engine squealed as a fresh burst of power
set the rear axle spinning. Gathering speed the Humber
fishtailed on the greasy tarmac.

The precaution of placing the Lazy Tongs vehicle-trap
across the road had been Turnbull's idea.

As the Humber's front tyres disintegrated, the driver
was caught totally by surprise. Under a mesh of grass
trimmings and manure, the concertina of alloy spikes was
unrecognisable.

Out of control, the Humber ploughed into the left-hand
hedgerow and mounted the embankment, lurched to a halt,
and tilted sideways. Like a helpless metal beetle, it slid
back down the slope and rocked to a standstill.

For a moment a heavy silence fell over the valley as the
noise reverberated away across the hills of Armagh. Dust
and gunsmoke hung in the still air. The Cortina passengers
climbed nervously to their feet, gawking in amazement as
Ducane and Turubull raced towards the Land Rover.

Forbes swung the GPMG rotmd to line it up on the
crashed Humber, using the body of the vehicle for cover.

Again he yelled into the bullhorn: "STAND STILL[ I AM
RADY TO ln[" Turnbull dropped down beside him, peering
over the seats through the doorless front section. Meanwhile
Ducane sped past him, up onto the meadow. He
threw himself into a clump of long grass overlooking the
Humber.


9

The driver's door of the car suddenly fell open and
the middle-aged woman emerged, the headscarf having
slipped to reveal cropped ginger hair. Using the open door
as a shield, she aimed a hand pistol quickly at Forbes and
fired twice in rapid succession. As the sergeant ducked
instinctively, the woman sprang back, racing down the lane
towards the border, taking long, ungainly strides.

Ducane grated his teeth and fired a short burst at the
centre of her back. As if carried by a terrific wind, the force
of shells thudding into her carried her forward. Arms and
legs spread in supplication, she pitched headfirst into the
road. A pair of blue Y-fronts showed above the muscular
white legs.

Now Ducane's position was known. A rain of automatic
fire broke from the Humber's passenger seat, the roar of
the assault rifle mixing with an almost musical tinkling of
glass. Swiftly Ducane rolled sideways as the sheet of steel
sliced into the earth where he had lain.

Another automatic weapon added to the firepower
coming from the car, and Ducane peered through the long
grass to see the nun firing a stubby sub-machine gun that
had been concealed in the folds of her habit. The front
seat passenger fired again at Ducane's position, then swung .
his gun around to the Land Rover.

"Run, you bloody fool," he yelled at the nun. "I'll give
you cover! Get down the road while I keep 'em busy!"

Having seen the fate of the other Provo gunman, the
nun hesitated for a second. Then, as though deciding it
was the only chance, fired a final burst from the hip in
the Land Rover's direction. Gathering up her habit, she
turned, scrambled onto the road, and began running hard
towards Eire.

Still cowering in the front seat, the passenger turned his
attention to Ducane, attempting to fire up the gradient of
the embankment. Forbes' GPMG and Turnbull's Sterling
exploded into action from the Land Rover. The Humber
disintegrated under a furious hail of fire as twenty or more
high-velocity shells hammered into the metalwork, tearing
it apart. Two shells hit just below the man's neck and, with


IO

a macabre theatrical movement, the severed head dropped
neatly out of the open window. A fountain of crimson
liquid hit the inside roof of the car, driven by the force
of the man's last few heartbeats.

Ducane quickly stood up and scanned the lane to the
border. The nun had gone.

Sheer terror had given her an unexpected burst of
energy. Some two hundred yards away, realising the
danger of staying on the tarmac, she had crossed the
shrubbery and was pacing fast up into the meadow.

Ducane lowered his Sterling and signalled Forbes not
to fire. At that range his sub-machine gun would be inaccurate
and the sergeant's GPMG just pure overkill.

He cursed silently. Major Simmonds would love this.
Glancing the other way Ducane saw young Tom Perrot
sprinting up across the meadow from his forward position
in the blackthorns. The SAS captain recognised the high
velocity rifle he was carrying. A 7-62mm sniper rifle with
a telescopic sight.

"Alive!" Ducane bawled. "I want him alivel"

Immediately Young Tom slid to a halt on his knees in
the grass, his rifle held level and steady.

Another whipcrack joined the dying echo of gunfire. The
single bullet slammed into the nun's habit around the
knees, spinning the body round like a corkscrew, the submachine
gun tossed aside in a spasm of agony.

Ducane scrambled up the slope to where Young Tom still

knelt. "Well done, lad. I just hope you've not killed him."
"I don't think so, boss."'

Ducane nodded. "Go back to the copse and keep away
any civilian traffic until we've cleared up this mess."

Shouldering his rifle, Young Tom to. rned and made his
way back down to the lane. Sergeant Forbes joined Ducane
and together they approached the groaning body of the
nun. She was roughly pulled to her feet and frog-marched
back down to the lane.

One of the Cortina passengers stepped forward, his
initial shock now giving way to anger. "Who the hell are
you and your friends?"


II

Ducane pulled away his faceveil. "British Army, sir. I'm
sorry -if you've been inconvenienced."

The man blinked as he scanned the soldier's camouflage
smock in vain for an insignia of regiment or rank. "You're
not from the Ulster Defence Force or some such? You've
no badges."

Ducane shook his head. "That's right, sir. We're on
special duties."

"Bloody killers!" interrupted one of the other passengers.
"Murdering innocent women and nuns." There
were no doubts where his loyalties lay.

"Oh, yes," Forbes said. "Our nun." He stepped forward
and, grabbing the moaning figure by the scruff of the habit,
hauled it roughly to its feet. He pulled away the hood and
stared at the grimacing face of a middle-aged man with
a day's growth of stubble on his chin. Cold blue eyes glared
back at him through the cracked lenses of a pair of heavy
horn-rimmed spectacles,

"Pleased to meet you, Sister Cochran," Ducane said.
"Bloody hell!" gasped the farmer.

Ducane nodded. "And you, gentlemen, nearly shared
their fate. They were using you as cover. How long had
they been behind you?"

"Hey, he's right!" said the third passenger, a small man
in an ill-fitting tweed jacket. "They came off a side road
about five miles back. Didn't seem to want to pass us."

"No, Sister Cochran wouldn't want to do that," Ducane
said. "If anyone was going to get shot, they intended it
would be you ..."

"Oh, come on ..." the farmer began.

Ducane laughed at his astonishment. "I won't tell you
how close it came to working. Now, what about the kid
on the bike?"
"The one in front?" the farmer asked. "Oh, he turned
up about the same time. Just joy-riding. I think he's local.
Seen him working in Claranagh."

"What'll you do to him?" the man in the tweed jacket
demanded.

"Nothing much," Ducane replied. "Just have him put


12

away for a bit ... for his own protection as much as anything."
He turned to Forbes. "You'd better call down the
chopper, Dave, before old Simmonds gives himself a
coronary."

As the sergeant moved away to the Land Rover, the
farmer asked: "What about us? Are we free to go?"

"I expect Major Simmonds would like a word with you.
To get your side of the picture and that sort of thing. After
that I'm sure you'll be at perfect liberty to go about your
business. But you must promise me you won't breathe a
word to anyone about this operation."


Meanwhile Turnbull had secured Cochran's hands, one
from the rear and one from the front, held beneath his
crotch with a pair of Plasticuffs.

"That should give Houdini something to think about,"
the corporal muttered with satisfaction.
There was no need for Forbes to radio the Eagle patrol.
The Wessex 2 swung fast across the tree tops to hover
over a flat area of the meadow. It swaggered drunkenly
downward until the large wheels hit the ground with a jolt.
Everyone turned away until the blades slowed and the
whirlwind began to subside.

Already the detachment of bare-headed Royals had
doubled out towards the lane, dropping to their knees with
weapons at the ready, in a wide semi-circle. After a few
moments the helicopter rotors came to a stop. Finally
Major Simmonds stepped down from the hatch and picked
his way carefully through the grass.

He paused at the centre of the line formed by his detachment.
The sun glinted on the Polaroid sunglasses beneath
the deep peak of his cap. He strveyed the carnage with
disdain.

Forbes gave Cochran a friendly push that sent him
sprawling uncomfortably alongside the motor-cyclist by
the roadside. "Two fresh, plucked chickens, trussed and
delivered to order, Major."

Simmonds ignored him and snapped orders briefly to
his men. Two troopers shouldered their SLRs and ad:


I3

vanced on the wrecked Humber. Carefully they picked
their way through the debris and tangled mess of glass and
metal until they found the headless body. The younger
man retched violently at the unexpected sight. The other, a veteran of twenty-one, patiently helped his mate to one
side and began a routine check of the car's contents.

Having talked to the men from the Cortina and sent his
own troops to seal off the road, away from the scene
of the ambush, Major Simmonds walked purposefully
towards Ducane, his hands behind his back.

"Well, Captain, I hope you are satisfied?" He didn't look
at the SAS officer as he spoke, but past him at some
indefinable spot in the middle-distance. His voice was crisp
and clipped with traces of a public school accent.

"I hopeyou are, Maior," Ducane returned evenly. "You
were supposed to wait at Cornoonagh Hill until we called.
Not until you thought it was time. With your chopper
flying over the area we rather lost the element of surprise.
It put my men at serious risk."

Major Simmonds' eyes darted quickly away from the
middle-distance and he looked at him coldly. The gaunt
cheeks and tight-lipped mouth added several years to the
age he shared with Ducane: they were both thirty.

"For someone at risk you seem to have conducted your
butchery with your usual efficiency," he said sharply.

"You've got two prisoners and the corpses of two men
you've been chasing for three years." He indicated the two
shapeless polythene body-bags now neatly stacked at the
side of the road.

"We are not Americans, Ducane. We don't have to keep
our body counts up to please the computer statistics." He
pulled off his Polaroid glasses. "You just couldn't bear to
follow my advice and man a full VCP. A show of totally
superior force. Those Provos would soon have seen the
sense."

Ducane looked at the fresh-faced young man clearing
the road under the direction of a bored sergeant. "And
perhaps the Provos wouldn't have seen sense. They didn't
exactly wave the white flag at us. We've lost enough young


I4

lads over here, Major. They joined an army designed to
fight other armies, and fighting terrorists is not second
nature to them." He jerked his thumb at the Cortina. "We
were nearly fooled by that decoy ... if your lads had been
involved ..." He looked Simmonds straight in the eye.
"Do you think Cochran would be alive now?"

The major paled visibly. "Don't be facetious with me,
Captain! I don't see how we could have made'a ln'gger mess.
You don't yet have a completely free rein in Armagh. And
we managed well enough before your barbarians arrived
on the scene." He glanced pointedly at the wreck of the
Humber. "You are seconded to us for your special skills
in surveillance and ambush techniques--not to act as your
own judge, jury and executioner."

Ducane swung the strap of the Sterling over his shoulder.
"Major, when the Micks are armed with battalions of T62
tanks, armoured carriers and artillery, I'll be begging for
the help of your chaps. Because that's your business. Until
that time, I'll act in the way I'm trained, qualified and
authorised to do. And that is to capture and if necessary
kill Provo thugs. Just learn to accept that our way there's
less chance of adding more of the few troops we've got
left in the British Army to the VSIL." He looked straight
in the major's eyes, now shaded beneath the deep rim of
his cap. "And if you don't like it, complain to your CO.
He, at least, understands the difference between your job
and ours."

Simmonds smarted. In the past month he'd had three
men on the Very Seriously Iniurcd List and one DD--
Discharged Dead. He said acidly: "There'll be a full
account of this conversation in.my debriefing, Ducane."

"And in mine, Major. So be sure.you've got it right."
He glanced at Forbes by his side. "And a witness for
verification."

He turned sharply, leaving the major facing the grinning
SAS sergeant. Simmonds looked quickly around. Not one
of the Royals was within earshot.

Still grinning to himself, Forbes joined the others at the
Land Rover.


15

Ducane slapped Corporal Turnbull on the back. "Your
idea of using the Lazy Tongs was excellent, John."

Young Tom, flushed with the confidence of a successful
mission, added, "Specially covering it in all that dung and
mud, Corp!"

As they climbed into the vehicle, Forbes said: "Forgot

it was your idea, Johnny old lad. Bravo." He added
pointedly: "I suppose you'd better have the privilege of
cleaning that crap of it then, eh?" "

Turnbull couldn't suppress a smile. "With mates like
you, Dave, who needs the IRA?" He got to work scraping
with his knife.

Now free to go, the three Cortina passengers watched

as the Land Rover was finally loaded up, and began edging
its way through the wreckage being'cleared by the Royals.
One or two of the younger troopers gave the occupants
a friendly wave or admiring thumbs-up sign.

"Special duties be damned," the farmer said. "To be sure
them was the SAS."

"Ruthless bastards," muttered one of his companions.

"Yes, I'll be thinkin' I wouldn't care t'get on t' wrong
side of them."

"So what y' smilin' at then, Dominic?',

"Oh, nothin' t' be sure," the farmer replied. "I was just
thinkin' them was the same lads that sorted out Rommel's

lot in North Africa. In the last war."

"They're still vicious bastards."

The farmer nodded in agreement. But as he walked
across to the Cortina, he subconsciously pulled in his
stomach. Although he was still only five feet five tall, he
could have sworn he had grown a few inches more.

I6


Part One


THE

MASTER'S MEN

CHAPTER 1


The passengers of the blue Cortina kept their collective
promise of silence for six days. Finally, it was the farmer
who could contain his urgent desire to gossip no longer.
He had been content to keep the news from his wife, who
would certainly have dismissed the matter as imagination
and exaggeration, but his weekly trip to the local was to
prove too much of a temptation.

By twelve-thirty the pub had filled with lunchtime
drinkers.

A low, white-walled building, its small windows keep
the plain plastered rooms cool on the hottest days. But this
day the late August sun was chilled by a brisk northeasterly
and the proprietors Shelagh and Patrick Brady lit
the fire in the large flagstone hearth for the first time since
the previous spring.

Early drinkers were standing with their backs to the fire
or seated in the warm pools of sunlight by the windows.
As more arrived the general drowsy hubbub of voices
increased and the air thickened with the smell of tobacco
smoke, warm bread and stout.

As with many isolated rural communities the pub forms
the focal point of the community, providing a welcome
break for the farmworkers who have usually been up since
before dawn. Already plates heavy with pie and chips and
warm, fresh bread were passing steadily across the counter.

"Hey, Shelagh, ye're forgettin' me brown sauce again!"
It was the voice of the farmer, known to all as Dominic,
who owned the blue Cortina.

Shelagh Brady waved at him to be patient and finished
pulling a pint of mild and bitter for Jim O'Nions, a grizzled
middle-aged Republican who ran a freelance delivery ser

18

vice for many of the numerous smallholdings in the area.
With him was a man she knew only as Malone. She'd seen
him several times in the company of Jim O'Nions.
Judging by the state of his overalls and fingernails he was
a mechanic of some sort. She turned her attention back
to Dominic. The man would cheerfully complain about
anything and everything if it meant the chance of a free
pint in compensation.

"Now I am sorry," she said forcefully. "But even the
best establishments run out of something sometimes ..."

Dominic washed down the pie with a heavy swill of stout
from a straight glass. He wiped his mouth with the back
of his hand and belched lightly. Already he'd decided on
a new tack. "Now listen, Shelagh, how'd you like to hear
a little first-hand gossip?" He paused for effect. "Like a
British Army secret operation I saw meself with me own
eyes just last week ..."

But Shelagh wasn't falling that easily. "Where was this
then?"

He jerked a thumb vaguely over his shoulder. "Back
there a pace. Not far from the old copper mine at Tullydonnell.
We were caught up in this ambush. Me and Pete,
and me cowman."

"Aw, get away," Shelagh said. "To be sure even I heard
about that, t'was just a roadcheck. They caught that
Drummond boy from Claranagh."

Dominic looked about with a conspiratorial air, then
beckoned Shelagh to lean closer--as much to get a better view of her bosom as to keep his conversation secret. "I
tell you it was an ambush. We were nearly at that wood
at O'Donnell's place, where the road narrows in the valley
by the meadow. There's this Army Jeep blocking the road
an' suddenly the car behind us blows up."

Shelagh was still disbelieving. "A Provo mine?"
"Bah, Provo mine be damned! The car tried to go round
t' road block, didn't it? 'Twas the Army t' be sure. Suddenly
these great big Brit lads appeared from nowhere."
"How big?"

"Bloody great giants they was," enthused the farmer.'


19

"Go on!"

Dominic banged his fist on the bar to emphasise the
point. "None of 'em under six foot if them was an inch."

Shelagh's husband, absently drying glasses, overheard.
"Were they regular squaddies then, Dominic?"

Dominic looked suddenly hurt, and thrust his empty
glass towards Shelagh. "Look, Pat, I'm no tittle-tattle. I
was sworn to secrecy."

"Who by?" Pat demanded.

The farmer waved his hand vaguely. "By these big fellas,
of course. Told me not to discuss it with no one, didn't
they?"

Satisfied it was Farmer Dominic's vivid imagination at
work, Pat said in triumph, "If it's so secret, why are you
telling us about it?" And he moved away to pull a pint
for a new arrival.

Shelagh had ignored Dominic's empty glass, unconvinced
it was worth a free pint of stout for the farmer to
finish his story.

It was Jim O'Nions who spoke. "So then, Dominic, who
were these supermen then?"

The farmer jumped, unaware that the deliveryman had
overheard him, and no less reassured by the gap-toothed
grin. Everyone had heard the rumour that the crusty old
soak had connections with the Provos.

"W-ell, I-I dont know, Jim," the farmer stuttered. "I
just know they was big fellas with no markings on them.
Secret assignment they said."

"I know," said O'Nions, and shoved the farmer's glass
towards Shelagh. "Top that up for my friend, love, will yOU."

Malone was standing close to O'Nions, peering over his
shoulder. He was a short wiry man in his mid-thirtics, with
thick black hair, sideburns and bushy eyebrows which met
above his nose. His dark cycs were bright and fierce.

Quickly the farmer shifted his gaze hack to O'Nions'
more than friendly smile. "W-ell, they shot up this car
behind us, see. Then some of the passengers tried to get
away."


20

"What people was these then?"

The beer was thrust in his hand: He looked down at it.
Perhaps things weren't so bad. Suddenly he felt more
relaxed, warming slightly to the subject. "Well, a bloke

and this nun and woman ..."

O'Nions frowned.

"Ah, but they weren't, see," the farmer added quickly.
"They was men dressed up, see? They had guns, too.
Modem automatic things. Didn't do them much good
though. These soldiers appeared out of nowhere and blew
'em to bits. Well two of 'em, anyway."

Malone spoke for the first time. His voice sounded
hostile. "Which two?"

"The one dressed as a woman. And the other passenger.
He was a nasty mess."

"And the nun?" O'Nions demanded.

"Just wounded, I think. They trussed him up like a
chicken."

Malone's dark eyes flashed sideways at O'Nions. "Coch
ran."

"That's what one soldier called the nun," Dominic confirmed,
eager to please. "Sister Cochran! I think it was a
joke."

"A pretty sick one," Malone replied. The smile vanished
from the farmer's face. "Looks like the SAS buggers got
him."

At that moment the door opened. The man who emerged
to the tinkle of a bell was tall and slim with well-groomed
fair hair. Compared with the other customers, his appearance
was almost aristocratic: sharply pressed cavalry twill
trousers and tweed jacket with a nugget-coloured silk
cravat, carefully knotted and tuked neatly into a shirt of
small pattern check.

"And the top of the momin' to you, folks!" he called
out as he approached the bar.

"Morning, sir," returned Shelagh. "Usual, is it?"

The young man nodded, leaning casually against the bar
on his elbow.

"Hi, Dominic. Nice day."


21

O'Nions and Malone exchanged glances and glared at
the newcomer with undisguised hostility.

"It was nice 'til you marched in," O'Nions grunted.
"M-Mornin', Mr Harrington," Dominic said. He was
unsure how much he should say in front of the two
Republicans.

Harrington's blue eyes flashed quickly, sizing up the
situation. He grinned warmly at O'Nions. "Come on, Jim,
you're not your usual friendly self today. Let me get you
a drink, you miserable old devil."

Malone interrupted sharply. "We don't drink with the
likes of you and yours."

Harrington ignored the outburst. He put some loose
change on the counter in exchange for the double whiskey
and soda. "Thanks my little colleen," he said to Shelagh.

He studied the dark haired man called Malone carefully.

"Who's your friend, Jim? I don't think I know him."
"Malone," O'Nions answered.
"Just Malone?"

Malone leaned forward. "To you, soldier boy, it's just
Malone!" He almost spat the words.

Harrington's eyes twinkled mischievously. "Well, Mr
Malone, I'm sorry you won't be joining us for a drink..
But O'Nions and I usually crack a bottle together, don't
we, Jim?"

"Course, he does," chimed in Shelagh, laughing. "And
usually more than one!"

The blood rushed to O'Nions cheeks. His eyes darted
from Shelagh to Harrington to Malone in quick succession.
He realised Harrington was too sharp for him to combat.
Silently he cursed Shelagh for her damned jocularity.

He said quickly: "Not today, Mr Harrington, if you
don't mind. Er, I'm with my friend."

"Come on," Malone snapped. Together they found a
small table in the corner and began their conversation with
Dominic in hushed earnest.

Cochran had been held for a week by the security forces
without any official announcement being made. Before the
day was out Malone would make sure Sinn Fein had the

confirmation of the man's recapture. You could never be
too sure what pressures might be applied to get Cochran
to talk whilst no one knew he was back in custody. Cochran's
whole new network could be in jeopardy until he was
back in a general prison, safe amongst his compatriots.
Malone would make sure the story hit the press that
evening to embarrass the authorities into making an
announcement. Allegations of torture and interrogation
would be made. A further chat with the farmer, too, could
result in some good anti-English propaganda about the
SS-style terror tactics of the British Army.

"Sorry, there's no pie left, Mr Harrington." Shelagh's
voice distracted Lieutenant Harrington's thoughts from
the two Republicans. "Will a Scotch egg be all right?
There's some hot peas and potatoes."

"That'll be fine, thanks." He sipped on the whiskey.
"Tell me, has Roisin been in yet?"

"No, love, not yet," Shelagh replied and disappeared
into the kitchen.

Dominic, who had now returned thankfully to his place
at the bar, inclined his head in the direction of O'Nions
and Malone. "Sorry, about those two, Mr Harrington. I
don't usually pass the time o" day with that sort."

Harrington grinned and gave him a friendly tap on the
arm. "Don't you worry about me, Dominic. Or them for
that matter. You mix with who you like. It's a free
country."

Dominic swallowed some beer. "Not if those two
bastards had their way, I bet. They hate the British Army,
even more than most round here. You ought to know
they're no friends of mine!"

Harrington laughed easily. "Dominic, I seem to remember
you spend most lunchtimes telling me how much better
it would be if the Army went home. Leave Ulster to itself
to sort things out, that's what you always say."

"That's as maybe. But last week I decided perhaps your
lot was right." He swallowed the dregs of his beer. "Perhaps
we do need some protection. We're getting so many
shootings around here no one's safe. Intimidation is wid'e23


spread and bleddy indiscriminate. And as for mines, t'be
sure there's so many in the roads round here, it's not safe
for my cows to go out alone." He chuckled at his own
humour.

"How many cattle have you lost due to mines, then?"

Dominic looked dubious. "Well, none actually. But
there's still enough around and accidents can happen."

Harrington grimaced. "Not with command-controlled
mines. And that's what the Provos are using."

The farmer ierked his thumb towards O'Nions. "Half
the time silly buggers like him are drunk as newts. 'E
couldn't tell one o' your armoured Pigs from one o' my COWS["

Harrington laughed, the warmth of the whiskey and the
Irishman's friendly manner reaching him. "You can
smile," Dominic said, irritated that the soldier couldn't
tell when he was being serious. "It might be your Jeep
blown up one day."


"Well, then. I reckon the less bombs and mines and guns
around here, the best it is for all of us."

Shelagh brought in Harrington's meal. "And you think
we need the protection of these supermen do you,
Dominic?" she asked.

He nodded soberly. "Well, I admit, I was impressed."
He turned back to Harrington. "I was just tellin' her about
the ambush I saw last week down near the old copper mine.
Carved up a carload of Provos good'n'proper those SAS
lads did."

"How d'you know they were SAS?" Harrington asked.
"Don't tell me they told you?"

"No. But you could tell they was different. Very quiet--
and polite for English--but, y'know, sort of mean lookin'."

Harrington smiled. "Some lads in the Pay Corps can
look pretty mean at times."

"You know what I mean!" replied the farmer. "I was
in North Africa in Hitler's war and I saw some of the Long
Range Desert Group fellas. Had that same mean look. Cool
and mean."

24


Lieutenant Charles Harrington-Corbett continued his
conversation with the farmer and the two other passengers
from the Cortina who came into the pub later. He eno
couraged their imaginative tales about the SAS troops they
had encountered the previous week. He carefully dropped
in a few random suggestions that would add fuel to the
fire of local gossip. Soon the farmer and his friends were
considering themselves experts on SAS operations, but had
they ever stopped to recall where these ideas originated,
they would find it difficult to remember Harrington's
casual remarks and innuendoes. Their imagination fired,
the farm men actually began to believe that even while they
were drinking the SAS had infiltrated a PIRA Chiefs of
Staff meeting in Dundalk. They had laid electronic monitoring
devices throughout Armagh, and every public house
was bugged. That one caused particular concern!

But of more immediate importance Harrington had
learned that the story of Cochran's recapture was now in
circulation, and that an announcement would have to be
made promptly to short-circuit any propaganda plans the
PIRA may be making.

He did not, of course, mention that it was he who had
set up the ambush.

Meanwhile he implanted the idea that Cochran may have
sung his head off to save his hide and that two major cells
in Belfast were about to be rounded up. That could soon
lead to a quietening of operations in the city for a few
weeks. And a few interoPIRA murders with any luck, as
the members became nervous and suspicious of each
other.

Behind his back Harrington was known as 'Lord
Charles', an affectionate referefce to the famous ventriloquist's
dummy. It was a name earned by his cultured
accent, which was softened with an attractive Irish brogue
--and the fact that he frequented so many pubs.

Until the early I97os he had served full-time in the Royal
Artillery, commanding a battery of obsolete 5-sinch guns.
It was then that Ministry of Defence officials, anxiously
scouring the records for. officers and men who could

possibly offer something to the intelligence effort in Ulster,
had discovered the Irish connections of his wealthy Cumberland
family. Harringon had spent much of his childhood
in Armagh with two aged aunts, and still paid them
regular visits several times a year during his leave.

After a couple of discreet interviews, the Ministry had
been amazed at the number of friends and contacts he had
in the heart of County Armagh, despite the fact he was
a known Army officer.

On the understanding that he should have complete
discretion as to the information he passed on, Harrington
accepted the assignment as Liaison Officer to the local
battalion commander. He underwent an intensive course
in unarmed combat and signalling techniques at the Special
Air Service Regiment headquarters in Hereford, before
being sent to stay with his aunts, with the cover-story that
he had been invalided out of the Army following an
accident. He also made it wellknown that his sympathies
were with Official Sinn Fein. His support for the break

		hardline Provisionals would have been too much of

	away

	a volte-face for anyone to swallow.

The ploy had worked beautifully, largely due to Har
rington's background. He found the job much easier than
he had expected and had thoroughly enjoyed meeting his
old friends and making new ones. Whilst gathering snippets
of information, he had launched his own vigorous
campaign to win over the 'hearts and minds' of the locals
and he had met with some considerable success. He was
frequently critical of the Army's actions in Ulster, but
balanced this with well-reasoned arguments for their reluctant
presence. Only one attempt had been made on his life.
But the two gunmen who had rammed his car and opened
fire with automatic weapons had been forced into panic
stricken retreat, when he fired back. Being in civilian

- clothes they had made the dangerous assumption that he
was unarmed. That same night they had been arrested in
an RUC swoop.

Harrington had known them since he was sixteen.

26


Now he was interested to learn more about Malone. The
man had been seen in O'Nions company several times in
the past, but in recent days they had seemed inseparable.
O'Nions was a known Republican sympathiser, but
Harrington has considered him so inept, as to be best given
a full rein. So far this had paid off. By keeping in close
contact with him and plying him with liquor, Harrington
had managed to pinpoint three particularly dangerous gunmen
in the last eighteen months. Malone's presence Suggested
something new in the air although, to his knowledge,
the security forces had nothing concrete on the man
to date, except that he came from Londonderry and was an
out-of-work mechanic and a Catholic.

But as he fmisbed his meal, Shelagh Brady mentioned
something to him that had caused Harrington considerable
personal concern. She said she thought that Malone was
a friend of the McGuires. And that had a very sobering
effect. Harrington had actually come into the Brady's pub
early that lunchtime hoping to talk to Roisin McGuire.
The daughter of a local farmer, who had been killed by
an Army patrol in x969 when he was caught planting a
bomb, Harrington had known her since she was eight.
Unlike her wild brother Sean, she held no bitterness for
the incident and plainly failed to comprehend or care about
the complexities of Irish politics or religious bigotry. He
had met her again soon after his current assignment had
begun, and found himself quickly and profoundly attracted
to her. At the age of eighteen, some ten years younger than
himself, she seemed to Harrington to represent all that was
good about the country and its people.

Roisin was bright and intelligent with a superb sense
of humour which she delivered with a deliciously lilting
accent. She was goodlooking, too. In recent months, when
he had lain in his bed at his aunts' house trying to sleep,
he had found his restless mind turning more and more
frequently to thoughts of the young Irish girl. He had taken
her out several times, to dances and the cinema. On each
occasion she had displayed an uncanny, but welcome,
knack of being able to dispel all his fears about the pre


z7

carious existence he was living in Armagh. They would
talk for long, precious hours.

Her wide dark es and girlish laughter had enchanted
him completely, andyet he felt a strange reverence and
purity towards her that was alien to him. The first few:
times he asked her out, it had been to gain some backo
ground information, particularly about her brother

Their meetings had continued, Harrington scarcely realis'
ing that he no longer needed a reason to see her. In fact
his CO had noticed it first, making some dry, but not
unkindly remark. For the first time he had realised
this girl, so many years his iunior, had quietly worked her
way deep into his system. When the CO chided him,
was at first resentful and then overwhelmed by his
sense of private anguish at the thought of reducing
frequency of their meetings.

Although during that earlier period he had never
dulged in more than a light and gentlemanly kiss, he elt
he had known her more deeply than if they had lived
together for years. Yet, as the awareness of his feelings for
her slowly crystallised, he also began to fear the urge to
accelerate their relationship. What, he asked himself, ff h
found after all, that there was simply nothing there?

For Roisin, so open and happy in his Company, had never
led him to believe there was a promise of more than a
casual, occasionally flirtatious, relationship. She had
responded to his kisses spontaneously, but never with
eagerness or passion.

Two weeks earlier, Harrington had decided to win her
over into his adult world. He had attempted to show her
some of the glitter and romance that lay beyond rural
Armagh. He decided that, by swirling her into a new and
sophisticated environment, he might be able to discover
how she really felt. Persuade her that in the great world
outside things were different. For days and nights before
he imagined how it would be. He went Over the dialogue
a hundred times in his mind until he could visualise the
entire scene in the minutest detail.

He had picked up Roisin early from the farmhouse,

28

where she lived alone since her father had died and her
brother had left for the north. They set off for one of the
quiet Belfast suburbs that had been left relatively unmarked
by the troubles. The afternoon sun had scattered
its glow into the car, setting off Roisin's simple white dress
in contrast against the neat black pageboy haircut. An
inexpensive silver chain and crucifix glistened around her
throat. Her perfume had filled the car, rich and heady. As
he glanced sideways, her upturned nose and the slight pout
of her lips gave an impression of sophistication, almost
arrogance. Harrington had never seen her made up so fully
nor so immaculately. Even her hair, usually such a soft
muddle, was faultless.

He felt fraudulent. Trying to impress her with a fat
wallet. Trying to buy her favours. No better than the local
teenage casanovas, who boasted of their feats for the
Provos in the hope of some bodily reward.

But, despite his fears, it had turned out to be a delightful
evening at the little bistro that was sandwiched in a
row of bomb-damaged shops. They had spoken little, but
danced a lot. Their mood was quiet, but strangely intense.
Words didn't seen necessary.

When they were about to leave, Roisin turned to him.
"Don't expect too much of me, Charlie."

They had walked slowly back to the car through slogan
daubed streets, the pavements streaked with rain from an
earlier shower. They said nothing, not wishing to disturb
the unusual quiet of the warm, moist night. Afraid to break
the spell.

Neither had they spoken as the homeward drive began.
They had been travelling for some minutes through a
wood, with a three-quarter moon shedding its silvered light
across the landscape, when he pulled off the road. She
showed no surprise that he had stopped. Indeed she
seemed to have been expecting it.

As they made love, he knew he would remember the
words she had whispered in his ear. "I need you. I need
you more than you realise." And then she had cried out,
involuntarily.

29


Later, still cradling her in his arms, he brushed

the wisps of hair that clung to her damp forehead.
tear-filled eyes looked up at him, and she smiled.
looked very young.

He said: "There, I didn't expect too much of you, di

Her eyes closed, content; the smile still on her lips.


Memories of that night warmed Harrington as h
chatted absently to the farmer in the Brady's pub. Since
that time both he and Roisin had become very busy, their
conversation snatched during brief encounters at the pub,
Developments over Cochran had kept him fully occupied
and Roisin's heavy workload at the farm meant they had
not been able to be alone. Neither had mentioned the night
in the car, but Harrington was sure it had cemented the
growing bond between them.

He had decided he must see her, explain how he felt
and persuade her to leave the farm. Leave it all to Sen
if necessary, should he not be prepared to sell. Withina
month Harrington could complete the assignment for
which he had volunteered; he had done more than his fair
share and he knew the CO would back his decision. After
eighteen months in the field he had a considerable amount
of R and R due to him. If Roisin would only agree, they
could marry and set up home on the mainland. A small
place, perhaps near Larkhill or Lulworth.

He'd talked it over with Jacko. The tall SAS captain was

a good friend and Harrington valued his experience and
advice. If Jack Ducane said he should take his chances in
life as and when they presented themselves, then he would
do. The captain had once met Roisin briefly and said he
liked her. It could have been politeness, but at .the time
he sounded as though he meant it. He'd certainly meant it
when he agreed to be Best Man--missions permitting. But
he had added that he thought the plans were a bit premature
until Roisin had agreed.

Harrington knew she would.

It was gone two when Roisin eventually arived, evi


30

dently straight from the farm, wearing tight jeans and a
white roll-neck sweater. She glanced quickly around the
crowded bar, her eyes lighting up when she saw him. As
she made her way over, he excused himself from Dominic
and the others.

After buying her a small lager he took her to a window
seat, overlooking the narrow country road. They sat down
and he found himself grinning at her fixedly.

,'Well," she said, amused. "Cheers, Lord Charles!" Her
eyes twinkled mischievously at him over her glass.

He laughed. It was the first time she'd ever used the
locals' nickname for him.

"I'm sorry I've been so busy," he said. "I feel I've hardly
seen you since that night."

"SsshF' Her eyes were wide with mock warning. "You'll
ruin my reputation, your lordship."

"Still, I'm sorry." He was too anxious to respond to her
light-hearted mood.

She indicated the clock above the bar. "I'm sorry it's
no better today. A cow got herself caught in the wire this
morning, and old Terry doesn't exactly rush around with
activity when I'm in charge."

"Your brother's still not back then?"

Her smile dropped. "No, not yet." She sipped her drink.
"But it might not be long now."

He reached across the table, placing his hand over hers.

"When he's back, I'd like us to make some plans."

Her eyes clouded. "What sort of plans?"

He grinned. "I thought maybe it was about time Lord
Charles took himself a lady."

Again she put the glass to her lips, peering at him over
its rim thoughtfully.

Finally she said, "Would I be thinking that Was some

sort of marriage proposal?"
"You would indeed."
"Are you mad?"

"I think not. What do you say?"

She smiled hesitantly. "Thank you, I suppose."
"Not if you don't mean it."


31

"It's a surprise to be sure."

He squeezed her hand tightly. "But a nice one?"

She leaned forward, whispering: "I'm not pregnant, you know."

"A pity," he said. Too loudly for Roisin's liking.

"You know Sean won't like it."

The conversation was starting to veer in the expected
direction. Firmly Harrington said: "I'm not asking your
brother."

"He'd still be furious. There's no knowing what he'd
say. Or do."

"There's not much he could do. And he couldn't say
much more."

Roisin said: "He hates you, or so he says."

"He's always been pleasant enough," returned Harring- ton.

:She smiled. "He tolerates you, Charlie, that's all. And
then only to your face. After you've gone he calls you a
bastard Brit spy."

"He knows I'm convalescing," Harrington replied
evenly.

"For too long, as far as Sean's concerned". Her voice was
muffled by the glass as she put it to her lips: "And I didn't

find any scars the other night in the car ..."
"You were drunk." "Thank you!"

Again he squeezed her hand. "You still haven't said
yes."

She looked at him seriously. "Have you really thought

it out, Charlie? I'm eighteen, just. I'm Catholic and I come
from a staunch Republican family. By comparison you're an old man and, if you're not a spy, you certainly can't
deny you were an officer in the British Army. If you don't
see any obstacles there, then you're losing your brains as well as your hair."

He said defensively: "If you come to England with me,

all our problems are solved."

"England!" She said it so loudly that several heads in
the pub turned. In a far corner Malone and O'Nions

glowered across the smoke-filled room at them.

"Until the troubles die down," he added soothingly.
The clear skin of her forehead furrowed and she leaned
across the table until her eyes were a few inches from his.
"Don't you know what Ireland means to me? Scan and
all my relatives. The farm, my friends, my whole life. I
may only be eighteen, Charlie, but I'm not an idiot. I know
where my life is; where my roots are. They're here. In
Armagh. And, as for the troubles, if you think they'll
ever die down, you're a bigger fool than Sean says you

are."

He said, "'I love you, Roisin."

She drew back, looking at him, her head shaking gently
in disbelief. "Oh, Christ," she said quietly, turning her
head away.

He caught her hand again. "Roisin, I love you and I
need you .. You mean more to me than Ireland itself."

She looked back at him, her head still shaking, but the
dimpled clefts deepening as she started to smile. "Sean's
right. You're a fo61 Charlie. But a lovable one. And I'm
just as mad because I'm just Irish and perverse enough
to agree to marry you." She seemed to find it difficult to
believe her own words. "�hat do you suggest?"

Harrington breathed a silent sigh of relief. "Look, in
a month I'll be able to return to the mainland. rell, two
months at the outside. Obviously it'll take a while to tidy
things up. And, of course, to break the news to my aunts.
Anyway time for Sean to get used to the idea."

"Selling the farm, do you mean?" She looked hurt. "That would be up to you, but not necessarily. I've as
many friends here as in England,. I'd be pleased for you
to keep the family farm. It would be nice to visit often.

Even settle back here eventually."

"I don't know ..."

"Of course, Sean would have to spend more time at the
farm."

She looked at him thoughtfully, her eyes brightening.
"That's true. He'd have to stop ... gallavanting around
the way he does."


33

"You could be doing him the biggest favour ever ..."
"What do you mean?"

"Just that it would be best for him if he kept out of
trouble."

"You know a lot about him, don't you?"

"Yes, I'm afraid I do, Roisin."

She watched him thoughtfully, hig words confirming
what she already knew in her heart. "So Sean was right

about you." It was a statement.

Harrington nodded.

"And you've been protecting him for me?"

"Just a bit," he conceded. "But my powers are very
limited. If he gets careless and they get conclusive evidence
of his activities, anything I say would be overruled."

She nodded towards the throng of; customers around
them. "You're doing this work because you think it will
help these people, aren't you, Charlie?"

"That belief eases my conscience. But it/s my belief,
however incorrect. Violence begets violence. As a soldier
I know that's true. I couldn't inform on good people I've
known all my life. But I'd still rather it was me, who knows
them all well, than some professional, cold-blooded Intelligence
plant to whom they mean nothing."

"I believe you," she said quietly.

He looked up as he saw Malone pushing his way through.
the crowd towards them, followed by O'Nions.

The dark man stood above them, and, ignoring Harring
ton, addressed himself to the girl. "If your brother could
see you now, he'd throw a fit. Fratemisin' with this English
scum is lowerin' yourself m his level, you stupid little slut."

Harrington went to rise, but Roisin's hand restrained
him. The Irishman met his gaze, then, gathering the saliva
in his mouth, he spat squarely onto the table between them.
"An' you luck off hack to where you came from, soldier
boy!"

Malone turned on his heel and continued towards the
door. A silence had fallen over the pub, conversation dying
away; all eyes turned to the small window seat.

O'Nions shrugged his shoulders in a gesture of hopeless34


hess at the couple, then scurried after the other man. The
door closed noisily as the latch crashed home. Voices
started again, one or two at first, then others. The sudden
hubbub of rumour and speculation rose rapidly.

"I'm sorry," Harrington said, wiping aside the mess on
the table with a paper serviette.
Roisin shook her head, her face quite pale and bloodless.
"Let's not talk about things here anymore," he said.
"Meet me tonight. We'll go somewhere quiet and talk
things over."

She said quickly: "No, it can't be tonight."

"Oh? Even if I come to you?"

She looked flustered. "No, it's impossible. I've an uncle
staying over."

"For a holiday?"
"No, no, just tonight. It would not be a good idea for
you to call. To tell the truth he's a bit, well, a bit anti
English, if you know what I mean ..."

Harrington nodded, understanding: "Yes, I know. Who
is it, your Uncle Pat?"

"Oh, you don't know him. He's called William... Uncle
William."

"I see. From Belfast?"

"No, Derry." Her eyes flashed. "What is this, Charlie?
An inquisition?"

Harrington forced a smile. "No, sweetheart, I'm just
concerned about you."

She said: "Look, tomorrow would be fine. Can you
collect me from the farm at eight?"

"Sure," he replied. "We'll go somewhere less public and
talk. Perhaps you can also tell me something about
Malone?"

Her eyes flashed again. "Perhaps. I don't know much.
He's just a friend of Sean's ... I'm sorry to say."

Harrington pulled aside the curtain to be sure O'Nions'
car had gone and Malone with it. Finishing their drinks
he and Roisin stepped out into the watery sunlight, the
breeze chill but refreshing after the pub. She reached up
and kissed him lightly on the lips.


35

She said seriously: "I did ask you not to expect too much

of me. Please remember."

He smiled. "I will."

As he watched her climb into the battered grey Mini
estate he thought back over her words with increasing
anxiety. Roisin obviously did not appreciate the extent and
complexities of the Arrny's computerised intelligence network
in Ulster. Nor did she fully appreciate his own
intimate knowledge of her background and her family.

There was no Uncle Tilliam in her family. Nor was
there any close family friend who might reasonably assume
such an affectionate nickname.

Harrington waved as she reversed into the road, changed gear, and accelerated away in the direction of the farm.

There was, however, a 'Willy' Joe McNally, a PIRA
IED (Illegal Explosive Device) expert who had been a
resident in Long Kesh at Her Majesty's pleasure, until
he had managed to moonlight fou months ago. Recently
his name had been closely associated with a certain Sean
McGuire.

36


CHAPTER 2


Some sixty miles to the south of the Brady's pub and at
the same time as Harrington watched Roisin McGuire
drive away, another Mini was pulling up outside one of
the tidy semi-detached houses in a quiet hackstreet of
Sutton, a seaside resort a short distance from the centre
of Dublin. The car was a later model than its counterpart
in the north and its red paintwork gleamed immaculately,
bearing witness to the many hours of work which its driver
had lay/shed on it.

The interior of the car was also spotless and a scent of
lavender fingered after the latest application of polish to
the black leatherette upholstery. Its excellent condition did
not reflect the natural inclination of its driver, who would
prefer to spend his free time drinking heavily in the Dublin
bars. It was the car's passenger who insisted that everything
in his life was well-ordered and efficient. That
included his chauffeur, who was not asked to face much
in the way of danger or hardship in order to earn his �-o
a week.

As the ncarside door swung open and the passenger
emerged, the man reading the Irish Times in the van parked
opposite nodded gently without looking up. His radio was
tuned to the police frequency and the nod meant that the
coast was clear.

Martin McGuiness felt his shoulders relax involuntarily
beneath his smart white military-cut raincoat. Pausing for
a moment he looked up at the drawn curtains on the top
floor of the house. A distinct breeze was in the air and it
ruffled through his neatly-trimmed, thick light brown hair,
but failed to displace it. His fresh complexion belied his
thirty-five years, and his mouth, with a slightly receding


37

lower lip, had an almost girlish pout about it. But any
impression of femininity or weakness was more than coun'
tered by the alert and deep-set blue eyes. Tucking the sealskin
document case beneath his left arm, he walked briskly
through the open gate and up to the front door.

After a brief and cautious exchange with the man who
opened the door--just enough to allow his squint eyes to
examine the new arrival--McGuiness was ushered in to
wait in the parlour. Outside, the red Mini pulled away,
the driver heading towards a bar in town where he knew
he could indulge himself to excess.

Upstairs in the front bedroom, where the blinds had
been drawn to conceal the proceedings from inquisitive
eyes, an extraordinary meeting of the PIRA Army Council
was in full session. The normal bedroom furniture had
been removed to another room and a polished teak G-Plan
dining table extended to its full length to accommodate
the five men. A dim light was cast by a standard lamp in
the corner. Although no one smoked on the insistence of
the chairman the atmosphere in the small room was unpleasantly
stuffy.

Billy McKee felt his eyelids getting heavier as he listened
to the gruff monotony of the speaker's voice. As officer
commanding Belfast it was his job to chair the meeting,
but he nevertheless had to allow the 'old guard' to have
their say, regardless of their predictable views and reactions.
Always, when Joseph B. O'Hagan began, McKee
felt an inexorable weariness creep over him as he listened
to the Quartermaster drone on in his abrasive mumble,
florid cheeks quivering as he. paused in his stumbling
dialogue. It was as though he was defying anyone to
challenge his operations in organising arms and explosives
for the entire movement. Few did, even when his suspected
inefficiency became just too much to ignore. Aware that
he was no public speaker JB would place, his fists on the
table edge and glare at his fellow members, his chin jutting
in defiance, occasionally running a stubby hand nervously
through his grizzled grey hair. His old friend Seamus
Twomey, who was Chief of Staff, rescued him as usual by


38

subtly steering the conversation to another topic.

But today McKee was in no mood to tolerate JB's
defensive ramblings. He felt tired and irritable after his
long journey from Belfast to attend the emergency meeting,
and he was aware of a dull ache beginning over his eyes.

"I'm sorry to interrupt you, Quartermaster," he said
quietly, using the accepted and correct form of military
address, "but I feel that your predictions of munitions
delivery dates are not of immediate relevance to the matter

under discussion."

"But, I ..."

McKee smiled reassuringly. "I think I speak for everyone
when I say we are most pleased with your efforts in
keeping us fully-equipped and supplied."

"Oh, I see, well ..." JB blustered. Never at ease with
such fluent speakers, he suddenly realised he had the
opportunity to let someone else defend him from the chairman's
uncompromising interrogation. "Oh, well, thank
you."

Joe Cahill, Adiutan General in charge of discipline,
allowed himself an audible chuckle as he relaxed back in
his chair and casually examined his fingernails. This
earned him a disapproving glance from McKee, who had
not failed to note the gradual change that had affected
Cahill over the years. He now appeared less concerned with
the Council's affairs, happy to wallow in the glory of his
own reputation and adopt the attitude of an elder statesman,
watching activities with the bemused look of a man
apart from mundane everyday operations.

However the man seated beside Cahill welcomed the
light relief. As the man with special responsibilities for
border activities, Eamon Doherty, was pleased about anything
that would take the pressure off him. For it was over
his area of operations that this emergency meeting had been
called. Not by him, but by Martin McGuiness.

At thirty-nine Doherty was the youngest man on the
Council, the others being in their fifties, but he had been
quickly accepted into the hierarchy when his hardline
policies and cx-paratrooper's experience had been seen to


39

be working. Despite his long, unkempt curly hair, which
was a constant source of irritation to the other Council
members, he had earned considerable respect. His policies
of land-mining roads and setting booby traps in. Armagh
had been especially successful and had kept the British
Army's head down for some time. Now, just because of
some temporary setbacks, McGuiness was trying to inter�
fere in his usual know-it-all manner, calmly persuading
McKee to convene an emergency meeting as though some
monumental catastrophe was about to befall them.

"With respect, Mr Chairman, I believe the Quartermaster's
account of how we're overcoming the problems
of getting arms over the border intact is very relevant."
It was Seamus Twomey's voice, forceful and highly�
pitched, inevitably coming to JB's defence.

McKee looked across at the slight figure in the crumpled
suit as he leaned forward earnestly, his eyes wide and
bright through the tortoise shell spectacles. His scalp
glistened with perspiration where the lank hair had receded.

"Do you now, Chief of Staff?" Billy McKee asked, his
voice flat to underscore his sarcasm.

"Yes, sir, I do. Young Dohery is doing a grand job down
in Armagh and before we consider what is going wrong,
it's as well to get things in perspective and examine where
they are going right!"

McKee waited patiently for the outburst to subside.
"Thank you for your valued opinion, Chief of Staff. However
we have not called this meeting to praise the splendid
works of the Quartermaster. Nor Doherty's prowess at
blowing the legs off of Brit soldiers at which he is past
master. This meeting has been called to discuss what is
going wrong. What is not going right.

"If I wanted to discuss our successful past operations
I would hire a country club on the west coast where we
could spend the weekend fishing, reminiscing and congratulating
ourselves!"

Seamus Twomey blinked rapidly. Then he leaned back
in his chair, loosening his collar.
McKee continued: "It may have escaped your notice

40

that there are two empty seats. Cochran left Londonderry
a week ago for a meeting with me in Dundalk. He never
arrived. He was last seen in Mr Doherty's border territory.
Now either he was blown up by one of Mr Doherty's mines,
or else his disappearance has something to do with the
matter for discussion on today's agenda."

"If it was one of my mines I'd know about it," Doherty
interjected emphatically.

"Stow it," Cahill hissed, recognising that McKee was
losing patience.

He was too late to stop the chairman's retort: "I should
hope you would, Mr D0herty, or else you wouldn't be
sitting in your present privileged position. But we also
expect you to know about it when someone as important
as an Army Council member disappears into thin air on
your patch."

"There's been rumours about SAS snatch squads, but
nothing concrete," Doherty replied fiercely, realising immediately
he'd made a mistake.

McKee eyed him coldly, content to savour the moment
before he tore the man apart: "Of course there's nothing
concrete. Of course there are only rumours. If they wanted
us to know about it they'd have sent in an armoured
battalion of Guards to get Cochran!"

"And there's Willy Joe McNally," grunted JB pointedly,
pleased to see the arrogant youngster being put through
McKee's mincer.

"Oh, c'm on," Cahill said. "I know Willy's been under
great pressure in Belfast .iust recently with the Army
undercover teams, but that's hardly Doherty's fault. His
territory's along the border, not Lower Falls. Besides I
shut a couple of loose mouths last week, and they were
causing half the trouble."

The point had not been lost on Billy McKee, who was
himself commanding officer of Belfast. He cleared his
throat before speaking. "The Adjutant General is quite
correct, of course. Willy McNally's problems have nothing
to do with Mr Doherty just because he has the most
dealings with SAS groups ..." He paused deliberately,


4I

	implying that Mr Doherty should make it his business,

	"and it's unfortunate that he, too, has been unable to join

	us. At least he hasn't got lost on Mx Doherty's patch and,

	as he'll be crossing the border tomorrow, it's an ideal

	opportunity for Mr Doherty to prove just how good his

	security arrangements are."

	"He'll be okay," Doherty insisted. I'll stake my life

	on it."

	'"Your knee-caps anyway," chuckled Twomey.

	"That's enough, Chief of Staff. Sufficient to say I've a

	meeting with McNally in Dundalk the day after tomorrow

	and I expect him to keep the appointment." And he added

	with thinly disguised contempt: "That's assuming he

	doesn't find some little harlot to distract him on the way."

	The conversation was interrupted by a knock on the

	door, followed by an irritating creak of unoiled hinges as

	the man with the squint peered in.

	Fie addressed himself to no one in particular: "Beggin'

	yer pardon, gentlemen. But the Chief of Northern Com
	mand
is waitin' in the parlour." The military tone he was

	expected to adopt embarrassed him.

	Billy McKee sat upright. "Good, good. Show him up

	immediately." At last, he thought, we might get some

	original thought and action.

	Martin McGuiness was a man McKee liked. On more

	than one occasion he had turned down an offer to join the

	Army Council, preferring to keep contact with the three

	Provisional IRA Brigades, Derry, Belfast and Mid-Ulster,

	so Council members could learn what was happening

	before they read it on the front .page of the Belfast Tele
	graph.
	Although only thirty-five, McGuiness had quickly
	"

	established some reliable lines of communication with the

	PIRA, even from the old hands who liked to go their own

	way, seizing opportunities as and when they presented

	themselves, with little co-ordinated pre-planning. Re
	cently
McGuiness had been installed as Chief of Northern

	Command, a newly created post, which was as impressive

	as it sounded, In effect he had become the chief liaison


42

link between the Brigades and the Army Council. In that
time things had improved still further, with McGuiness
frequently more in touch with operations in Belfast than
McKee himself.

However McGuiness' smart appearance and sardonic
manner had not earned him much respect from Seamus
Twomey, who saw his position as Chief of Staff severely
undermined, and had endeared him even less to Eamon
D0herty, who had at one time been the up-and-coming
star of the Council.

All eyes watched as McGuiness saluted stiffly and,
placing his raincoat carefully on the hook behind the door,
took the seat at the opposite end of the table to McKee.
Opening the sealskin document case, he spread a thin
sheath of neatly-typed papers before him.

"My apologies for lateness, Mr Chairman," he began
crisply, "but the urgency of this meeting necessitated
gathering some up-to-the-minute facts which delayed me."

McKee waved the words aside expansively. "Forget it,
Chief, there is no great loss in twenty minutes. It's better
we are in full possession of the facts. You requested the
meeting, so would you care to begin?"

"Thank you, sir," returned McGuiness. He hunched
over his papers slightly, his penetrating eyes glancing up
at the members around the table. "To begin gentlemen.
It is my humble but well-informed belief that the Provisional
Irish Republican Army is facing the most dangerous,
and potentially fatal, challenge of the past eight
years. With temporary setbacks we have always held our
own in all the Brigade areas, particularly the inner Provo
strongholds. Many of us have served time, but most have
continued to give of our best when released, our methods
improving with experience. Our ceasefires and other political
manoeuvrings have all served their military purpose,
and we have given the Brit Army a good run for their taxpayers'
money.

"But, whereas a few years ago we could have counted
out active numbers in Belfast alone in many hundreds, now
we'd be pushed to call on two hundred in the whole of


43

Ulster. And the majority of them are not particularly
competent. The rest have been eroded by arrests, murders
by the Brits, injuries and plain disillusion. As the Adjutant
General will no doubt testify, disciplinary action has

never been so widespread, nor so severe."

Joe Cahill nodded soberly.

"But even this we can cope with," McGuiness continued.
"Indeed we are coping with it. I for one am trying
to make up for low numbers with better training, planning
and co-ordination. Brit Intelligence has penetrated very..
deeply and, in our inner circles, Special Air Service agents
in particular have caused us great problems. But our own
security and counter-measures are proving successful with
the smaller numbers in our ranks.

"Because we have always had freedom of movement,
most particularly across the border, vital supplies from
Europe and the United States, Libya and the Soviet bloc
have continued unabated. Recently the quality of weapons
has improved significantly."

JB grinned broadly and his eyes flickered around at the
sober faces of the others around the table. No one was
noticing him.

"But since Wilson moved in the SAS, even Armagh and
other border districts are in danger of slipping from our control.
Our life-lines with the outside world have been virtually
severed, affecting movement of men and materials alike."

Eamon Doherty sat up from hislethargic slump. "Excuse
me, Chief, but that is something of an exaggeration. We've
had setbacks, but all that eyewash by Wilson was just a
big propaganda scare. He's worse than Goebbels!" He
added pointedly: "We all know they were active months
before the public announcement about reinforcements."

"Exactly!" McGuiness exclaimed. "They've had plenty
of time to get established; get the lie of the land; permeate
throughout the fabric of society in Armagh. They've been
biding their time, Mr Doherty, and we've been too blind
to see it. Now it suits them, they are putting on the
squeeze and I think it's starting to hurt us."

"Rubbish," Doherty growled.

McGuiness' eyes flickered coldly across to the representative
from Tipperary. "Mr Doherty, a few weeks ago
I sent my own man, a Mr Malone, into your territory to
do a little independent investigation. I have a copy of his
report here."

Doherty couldn't believe his ears. "Like bloody Christ
you have!"

"Mr Doherty, be silent!" Billy McKee snapped. A
deeply religious man in his own way, he could tolerate
profanity even less than he could accept smoking, drinking
or promiscuity.

Doherty looked wild-eyed and helpless as he glanced
around at the sombre row of faces. "This upstart poking
his nose into my affairs ..."

"Keep cool," warned Cahill out of the corner of his
mouth.

McKee leaned forward. "This is the affair of all of us.
The future of Ireland is in the hands of the people in this
room, and we are all deeply concerned about the future
of our beloved country. With an all-consuming passion!
Calling The Christ or our Holy Mother in vain will not
help. But possibly the Chief's unorthodoxy will. Please
proceed, Mr McGuiness."

"Mr Chairman, my man reports that there are at least
sixteen Special Air Service detachments operating in and
around south Armagh."

"We know that!" spat Doherty.

McGuiness ignored him. "Also the Brits have some
intelligence officers who have been successfully tapping
our lines of communication for the past two years. They
know what we're about to do before we think of it ourselves.
One even spends much of his time buying one of
Doherty's men drinks in return for a constant flow of vital
information. He's even going around with the sister of one
of Willy McNally's top henchmen! But that just indicates
the scope of their operation. The really hard pill to swallow
is their activities in the past six weeks."

He consulted the list before him. "Five safe houses
raided and a total of Isolb of explosives taken, plus twO


45

dozen rifles, including the latest American Armalites.
Twenty people arrested. Six active service unit members
shot dead whilst crossing the border at night. Two
wounded and three in custody. Those men are like phantoms.
They'll wait in a hedgerow for days on end, without
hot food or obvious communication with the outside world.
Just waiting their opportunity to pounce. And, as we well
know, SAS techniques are starting to be employed by
regular Brit battalions. So much for Wilson's eyewash!"

He stopped as the words sunk into the deathly silence.
McKee turned to Seamus Twomey. "How much of this

do we know about?"

The Chief of Staff shrugged. "Mr Doherty's reported

a couple of these incidents to me."

McGuiness said: "I've a full list of names and details

here, Mr Chairman."

"Let me see," demanded Doherty.

McGuiness gave him a copy. "Mr Doherty no doubt
hasn't reported in full, because he just doesn't know. After
all, that is why I suggested my role. So that our right hand
would know what the left is doing."

JB grunted. "It's still a pretty bad show. It's his patch

the Chief's talking about."

McKee asked: "Is there anything else, Chief?"

"Yes, Mr Chairman," McGuiness replied, happy to play

his trump card. "Just over a week ago a kid called Drummond
was picked up."

He saw Doherty blanch visibly.

"Drummond was outrider for Cochran on his border
crossing."

"No!" gasped Twomey.

"Any news of Cochran?" McKee demanded.
McGuiness shook his head. "I'm afraid not, sir. But I've
got my ear to the ground. We'll be informed as soon as
there is news."

McKee shook his head slowly. "I hope so, Chief, I hope

so. And I hope Willy McNally has better luck when he
crosses the border tomorrow ... at this rate I'll be the only
one left on the Council."

46

McGuiness coughed lightly. "Actually, sir, I've taken
some precautions. I feel that we could be in the middle
of a concentrated SAS campaign against suspected Council
members. So I'm sending my man Malone in with Mr
Doherty's men to assis in the crossing. They'll pick him
up at a safe-house and escort him over. He's a good man."

Doherty had slumped back in his chair, his head in his
hands, too defeated to reply.

"In view of this report," breathed McKee, "I think you
have acted wisely. No reflection on Mr Doherty who has
done well in the past. But the more precautions we take
at this crucial time the better."

Everyone, including Doherty, nodded in agreement. For
a moment there seemed nothing anyone could add, and
it was the timely arrival of a tray of tea and digestive
biscuits that broke the awkward silence.

As the squint-eyed man left the room, McKee said: "I
assume Chief, that you have had some thoughts about
coping with this menace."

McGuiness took a long time stirring his tea before looking
up. "As you might imagine, Mr Chairman, I have also
received strong representations from Gerry Adams and
other fellow GHQ staff to take decisive action. I have been
thinking about it hard for the past few days. And I believe
there is a solution. The question is whether we are strong
enough to put it into effect ..."

He paused just long enough to let all the Council members
know that he was about to say something of deep
significance. The older men leaned forward to catch the
quietly-spoken words.

"Of all the countries in the world, Britain has always
enjoyed more success than any 6ther in combating guerillas
and terrorists--as we know to our cost. In Aden, Malaya,
Kenya, Borneo ... always they have won. And always the
Special Air Service has played a key role. Small groups
of highly-trained men fighting the terrorists at their own
game. Even now SAS men are hired out to Oman and have
virtually wiped out the rebel resistance in a war we scarcely
hear about."

47


"What is the point you are making?" Seamus Twomey
asked, peering over the top of his spectacles.

"Just this, sir. In their role against us, the SAS are
acting like guerillas, thinking like guerillas. To all intents
and purposes they are more like terrorists than we are."

"So?" pushed Twomey. The use of the word terrorist irritated him.

McGuiness smiled gently. "I am suggesting that we set

a thief to catch a thief, so to speak."

"Ugh? What 'you talkin' about?" demanded JB, the importance of McGuiness' words lost on him.

Searnus Twomey's eyes burned fiercely through his spectacle
lenses. "Yo.u mean deliberately hunt the hunters?"

Cahill let out a long, slow whistle.

"It could be done, by using the right men," McGuiness

said firmly. "Against regular Brit units and the SAS themselves
when possible."
"Our lads couldn't." Twomey said with feeling.

"But some ex-SAS men could," returned McGuiness.
Suddenly the air became charged with expectation.
Thin, uncertain smiles began to spread across the faces
around the table. Even Doherty was leaning forward, his
chin resting thoughtfully on his folded arms.

McGuiness said: "I think Mr Doherty appreciates what

I'm saying."

"I think we all do," McKee said, ignoring JB's puzzled
expression.

"Not ex-SAS men." It was Doherty who spoke.
"Why not?" Twomey asked, warming to the idea. "They're always on the lookout for mercenary jobs. We've
seen 'em, queuing up to get shot in Angola. Or bodyguards.
They're always advertising themselves as bodyguards
for some piddling head of state in darkest Africa
or somewhere."

"Not ex-SAS," Doberty repeated.

Cahill said: "That chap Bank or Banks. The one who

did all the recruiting for the FNLA. He'd be able to get

hold of them."

"I've met Banks," Doherty said. "He didn't know who

48

I was, but I soon got the picture. Maybe he's only in it
for the money, but I think he'd shop us rather than help
us. He's trying to get himself a respectable reputation and
he won't do that with the Brit Government if he gets mixed
up with us."

All eyes had turned to the ex-paratrooper.

He sat up and looked at the Council members. "And
I suspect he's something of a cock-eyed patriot. For that
same reason we'd get short change from any ex-SAS men,
unless we picked up some screwball. Their selection and
training ensure they're never likely to be trusted with us.
Nor fighting their own kind; even their old mates. All those

who've joined us in the past turned out to be touts."
Cahill nodded vehemently.

McGuiness didn't like the way Doherty was steering
them; he couldn't be sure that the man from Tipperary
approved of his plan. "It's worth a try," he repeated
emphatically. "After all, I'm suggesting they train the
cream of our men, not fight themselves."

"It's not worth a try," sneered Doherty. "All of us here
know their sort. Don't forget we're still talking about my territory and my sphere of operations." No one countered
his statement, so he continued thoughtfully. "The Chief's
concept is good. It could just work. But it won't be cheap
and it's a sphere of operations that'll be new to our men
in the field. So let's not make light of it. If we can't
use ex-SAS men, we must look for some alternative.
Foreigners without any personal, nationalist or patriotic
hang-ups."

"Ex-Foreign Legionaires," Cahill suggested.

Doherty said: "I was thinking more of some Green
Berets from Stateside. The ones who.operated in Vietnam."

Twomey raised his hands in despair. "We can't afford
the canned beer, artillery and air force to support them."

Doherty allowed himself a smile. "I'm talking about
Green Berets, sir. The Special Forces who were conducting
a private war in 'Nam long before the club-footed
Marines splashed ashore. You won't find better, meaner
bastards."

49


McGuincss smiled, relieved.

McKee said: "JB, you spend a lot of time in the States,

don't you? Come across anyone?"

At last JB had caught up with the conversation. Although
still unsure exactly what it all meant, he said
gruffly: "I've come across several in the arms sales business.
I remember one in particular." He chuckled hoarsely
at the memory. "He was a mean devil all right. Left the
Army some time ago and is r--ying to carve a new career
for himself in international arms. Mercenary work and all.
Catholic. Irish mother, in fact. There was this man we met
when I was with him. Tried to sell the American short
on stolen grenades. As he was walking away, the American
discovered what he'd done. Threw a knife at him from
thirty paces. Stra/ght in the jugular. Didn't know what hit
him. That was the cheapest arms deal we ever got. In fact
I've a man in New York due to see the American next
week."

"Good," McKee said. "In that case I propose that we

put a proposition to this American chap to train some of
our best men to fight in Armagh. Beat the Brits at their

own game. And let's see what he has to offer."

Twomey raised his right arm. "Seconded."

As all hands were raised, Billy McKee announced:
"Motion carriedI" He scribbled a note on the paper before
him.

There was a knock on the door and the squint-eyed man
entered carrying an envelope. He handed it to McGuiness.

He read it quickly. "Gentlemen, I've just had a com
muniqu from my man Malone."

All eyes turned to the young PIRA commander.

"He reports Cochran was wounded and captured last

week in an SAS ambush. The two men with him were both
killed."

At the head of the table, McKee crossed himself. He
looked up. "The sooner we contact this American the
better. What's his name JB?"

"Er ... McClatcher. That's right. Captain Earl Lee
McClatcher."


5o

CHAPTER 3


Harrington and Captain Jack Ducane came back together
from the briefing-room at Bessbrook. Their boots cracked
in unison on the worn lino floor of the dingy corridor, its
windows long since boarded up as a precaution against a
surprise attack by the Provisionals. The two men provided
a sharp contrast: the Artillery Regiment officer dressed in
a smart pair of barrack trousers and a jersey, complete with
deep-peaked cap and brass-buckled stable belt; the Special
Air Service captain in a baggy camouflage smock, the
material streaked with a disruptive pattern in shades of
black, green and brown. It gave the appearance of adding
pounds to his already powerful build, and the fawn beret
with its winged dagger badge emphasised his height.

They could have been mistaken for brothers, but the
older man's features were tanned and weather-beaten from
years spent in the open air, often under a tropical sun; his
fair hair slightly longer than was usual for a service cut.

Harrington was saying: "I'm sorry it's all in such a rush,
Jacko, but I only got wind of it myself at lunchtime."

Ducane grinned reassuringly: "That's okay, Charlie,
I'm only sorry it's happened like this. It's not going to
be any picnic for you with Roisin at risk."

Harrington nodded soberly. "That's why I asked if your
mob could have a chance to go in first. I know you'll take
care of her. I hope you don't mind?"

"It's pushing the Best Man's duties a bit far, but I don't
mind. And I'm sure the lads will be pleased you chose
'em." Ducane added: "I think the CO was right to turn
down your request to come along."

Harrington shrugged. "I suppose so."

Ducane laughed. "You don't seem too convinced. But


5x

you and your two left feet might slow us down. Besides
the bride wouldn't thank us if you went and got a vital
bit shot off, now would she?"

Harrington halted at the door to the SAS team's billet.
He started to speak, then paused, unsure how much to say.
Ducane sensed there was something troubling the younger
man, something that must have been fairly important for
him to hesitate about sharing it.

Ducane put a hand to the other man's shoulder: "What
is it, Charlie? C'mon, spit it out. The worse they can do
is have you shot for it."

Harrington forced a smile. "Have you got a cigarette?"
"Yes, sure." Ducane rummaged in one of the enormous
pockets in his smock, pulled out a battered packet of
Players and gave one to Harrington. He took one himself
and lit them with a black plastic lighter. He noticed the
man's hand was trembling. Only just, but there was a
definite tremble.

Lord Charles, my lad, thought Ducane, you are starting
to crack. Hardly noticeable yet, but it will get worse. In
your line-of-business, once it begins that faint hairline
fracture just gets wider and wider until it swallows you
up whole. The tension of living a half-true lie for months
on end was enormous, hoping all the time the little iig-saw
pieces are always joining up to present the right picture
to the enemy. But what enemy? The hands that belonged
to those friendly smiling faces were quite capable of holding
a gun. A knock at the door one morning. The milkman
for his money? Or one of those friendly smiling faces you
know so well leering down the dark snout of a submachine
gun? Sudden death, splattered all over the walls, soaking
the carpet. It happened; all the time it happened. Switch
on the car. Click! No ignition. Just one-fifth of a second
to know what's coming next. Just one-fifth of a second to
remember that for the first time you forgot to check unde
the chassis. But an eternity in which to regret. Phoof! No,
Lord Charles, my lad, you're well off out of it. Stop pretending
you're a Mick. Forget your great-grandfather
owned half of Ulster. Remember the country lanes back


52

home, where you can drive knowing full well that the cow
pat in the middle of the road doesn't conceal a landmine
that will blow your legs and your balls off. Get out now,
Lord Charles, before it gets to you. Before you make the
one mistake they're all waiting for.

Harrington inhaled deeply. "Jacko, I didn't tell the CO
everything."

Ducane frowned, wondering what was coming next.

"It's about Roisin. She didn't tell me about William
McNally."

"But you said ..."

"I know what I said," Harrington replied evenly. He
paused, watching the blue smoke curl away from his cigarette.
At last he added: "But she didn't tell me deliberately.
It just sort of slipped out. I said I wanted to see her
tonight and she gave me some cock 'n' bull story about
some uncle staying over tonight. I know her background
well enough to know it was a pack of lies. Knowing her
brother's connections and knowing the heat's been on
McNally in Belfast, her use of his name made sense."

"No wonder you Int. boys are always screwing things
up."

Harringon pulled a half-hearted grin. "It's more than
we usually have to go on, believe me. No, I'm sure it's
William McNally. But you can see I couldn't tell the CO
I found out by accident."

Ducane studied the end of his cigarette. "I'm not so sure."

"If I told him that, she'd be in the can as well. Locked
away for two or three years at least for knowingly harbouring
a terrorist. A possible member of the PIRA Army
Council at that."

Ducane said flatly: "You've set me up nicely, Charlie."
Harringon shook his head. "There's no problem. The
CO thinks she informed to help me, and no one else in
Int. knows different. When you get there, you arrest him
and leave her. No one's to know any different. Christ,
Jacko, she's only a kid."

Ducane nodded. "Sure, Charlic, she's only a kid. And

they were only kids who used to lure the squaddies in
Belfast to make-believe parties, so their Provo boyfriends
could butcher them. Like lambs to the bloody slaughter.
And it was pretty teenage kids who used to dish out ham
sandwiches to grateful soldiers--filled with crushed
glass."

"For God's sake!" Harrington snapped. "Roisin's not
like that. Dammit, you know, you met her."

Ducane eyed him steadily. "I met a nice big-eyed bit
of crumpet just out of a gymslip for five minutes in a dark
corner of a pub, Charlie. For all I know she could have
been bloody Moira Drumm's daughter."

Harrington turned on his heel. "If that's your sodding
attitude stuff it ..."

The grip of Ducane's large hand restrained him. "I'm sorry, Charlie, but you've got to admit there is a danger."

Harrington looked at him coldly. "I've known Roisin
since she was eight. She's just not like that. What she's
doing she's doing for her brother Sean, I'm sure of that."

"I just wish she'd volunteered the information. But
thanks for telling me anyway."

Harrington said: "How could she admit to me she helps
her brother? But I think this'll be the last time she does
anything for Sean." He added: "She's agreed to marry me,
Jacko. She wants to talk it over with her brother when he
gets back."

Ducane smiled, although he found little amusement in
the situation. It was not beyond the bounds of possibility
that the girl was trying to set Charles Harrington up for
an execution squad. Drop a JuicY morsel to get him
intrigued and ... But it would be him and the rest of his
Sabre team who walked into it. There was always that
possibility. At least he was grateful that Harrington had
the courage to confess what had really happened. On
reflection he was not sure he wouldn't have done the same
had their positions been reversed.

"Okay, Charlie, let's look on the bright side. I'm sure
you're right. Let's go and give my merry men the briefing."
He paused with his fingers on the doorhandle. "I won't


54

mention anything you said. We'll just make sure they
appreciate that it could be tricky."

"Thanks," Harrington said.


Ducane's men looked up as the two entered the cramped
makeshift billet. Virtually no daylight penetrated the small,
mesh-covered window high on the outside wall. It looked
onto a bank of stacked sandbags. A single fluorescent tube
flickered its hesitating glow around the plain tobacco
stained walls, there being no way to determine the original
colour of the gloss paintwork. A double utility bunk
ran the length of each side wall, but only one was
occupied.

As junior member of the team Tom Perrot was relegated
to the lower left-hand bunk, which caught the full blast
of the chill draught that whistled under the badly-hung
door. It also guarded the large mousehole in the corner,
and it was Young Tom's job to keep the upper hand against
the wiley rodent intruders. 'Big Bert' still eluded them,
as he had eluded the previous occupiers. No one had ever
seen him, but everyone accepted his existence. Nor was
the possibility ever raised of blocking the hole; it never
entered anyone's mind. While it was there it was a challenge,
a constant topic of conversation, amusement and,
occasionally, unseen company.

Having freshly baited the traps under his bunk, Young
Tom had settled down on it to compose a letter home to
his widowed mother in Poole. He never mentioned 'Big
Bert' to her; she wouldonly worry.

Sergeant Forbes had been sitting at the table that ran
between the bunks, with his back to the door. Dressed in camouflage trousers and an open-necked khaki shirt, he
had sat hunched over a back copy of Penthouse studying
one particular picture of a girl from Bamslcy for a full five
minutes. He had planned to catch up with his Russian
studies, but had soon got bored, casting the text book aside.
Forbes held a curious, intcnsc affection for the woman in
the ccntrc spread. Only Ducanc had guessed the reason
for Big Davc's morbid fascination with the girl. They had


55

been friends a long time and he had known Dave's
estranged wife, Elaine, well. She was no great beauty; but
she had come from Barnsley.

Also at the table Corporal John Turnbull had stripped
down his 9ram Sterling 'smudge' gun and laid out each
separate part on a sheet of newspaper. Carefully he cleaned
each piece of metal until it gleamed, then lovingly re-oiled
them. Despite the messy nature of the work, there was
scarcely a trace of oil on his fingers. Even in his camouflage
smock, hardly a becoming item of bespoke tailoring., he
managed to look immaculate. It was with something approaching
awe, although thickly disguised with sarcasm,
that he had earned the name 'Action Man', being always
turned out with the newness and freshness of the popular
plastic dolls. His slight build and slim five foot seven frame
did nothing to lessen the overall effect.

But should anyone ever mistake the taciturn Liver
pudlian's appearance as a sign of weakness they would be
in for a rude awakening. The bewildering array of
precision-engineered gun parts spread before him would
become deadly and fully-loaded in seconds, as his hands
flew to re-assemble the weapon with dazzling and dexterous
speed.

Turnbull was a loner, introverted, and his degree of
independence and self-containment was his own personal
measure of success. He never allowed this private driving
force to form a barrier between his colleagues If he had,
it would be impossible to work within the Special Air
Service, where total trust, reliance and compatibility
within a Sabre team is of paramount importance. He
knew that he would never find the action he craved nor
the independence he enjoyed outside the regiment, or at
least not on the right side of the law. So he was prepared
to relent, to allow himself to tolerate the others, and to
be tolerated himself. If ever the others became mildly
irritated with him during mundane daily routine, any
rancour would quickly dissipate in combat. Turnbull
would be there, in the thick of it, covering a suddenly
exposed flank, appearing from nowhere in the nick of time,


56

thinking the enemy's thoughts before they had themselves,
with a knack that was singularly uncanny and greatly
appreciated by the team.

He was not unhappy with his 'Action Man' tag, secretly
.cherishing the respect that went behind it, confident that
he could match himself against any other man in the team.
In his own mind he knew that he could outwit and outfight
each one.


There was a sudden shuffling movement as Ducane and
Harrington entered.

"Okay, at ease, lads," Ducane said with a wave of his
hand. "Let's keep it informal. Lieutenant Harrington has
chosen us for a very special mission to rescue a distressed
damsel."

"That sounds promising, bossl" Forbes' leered, folding
his magazine and flicking it deftly on top of the pile. Young
Tom drew his legs off the bunk, and climbed to his feet,
brushing the spilled cigarette ash from his ribbed Army
sweater. A sudden series of clicks and clunks came from
Turnbull's side of the table as he went through his popular
routine of re-assembling the Sterling.

Harrington gazed in amazement as the rows of metal
parts took shape with lightning speed.

Ducane said: "Thirty-five seconds, Turnbull. You're
getting old."

"Afraid you're right, boss." He looked across at the
liaison officer as he cleared the newspaper, and added
pointedly: "Still, I expect they'd still have me in the


Harrington smiled, uncertainly. He still found it difficult
to accept the ordered informality of the SAS teams. He
found it hard to imagine the officers, blCOs and men of
his own Royal Artillery sharing quarters like this except
under the direst circumstance, and even then not without
voluminous protest. "Our standards are pretty high, Corporal,"
he ventured.

"Bah!" Forbes retorted cheerfully. "If you had men like
old 'Action Man' here you could make do with one man


57

per battery! I bet Tumbull could strip and clean a x75mm
howitzer in five minutes flat."

"No," replied Turnbull evenly. "I'd need ten at least."
Ducane spread a large scale military survey map across
the table, then sat casually on the edge.

He began slipping quickly into the standard briefing
format. "Taking part in tonight's jaunt will be ourselves,
Johnny Fraser's Sabre team and B Platoon of the Royals.
The op. will take place at the McGuire farm. We're all
familiar with the area; we've done many a Farmer's
Daughter there ..."

For once the jokey Army slang for surveillance of remote
homesteads brought an instant smile to the row of solemn
faces. Everyone remembered Roisin, and Forbes laughed
aloud. He remembered how young and fresh she'd looked,
and how he'd hogged the IWS Starlight nightsight every
summer evening when she'd been preparing for bed. From
their vantange point on the hill, his line of sight had carried
in over the net curtains that covered the lower half of the
window. He recalled her slender, pale body as she crossed
the room and the cutting remarks from Turnbull as he
had tried to focus his concentration. It was, he had decided,
one of his perks and, anyway, no one really believed he
saw all the sights he claimed. It made a change, he reflected,
from the other less pleasant sights in Ulster.

Young Tom, too, remembered the girl. It had been he
who had told them all when he first saw her undress one
evening. He had watched, fascinated, for a full three
minutes before he recovered from his good fortune and
called out to the others in a hoarse whisper. It was a move
he'd instantly regretted. Forbes had immediately taken
over, his eye glued to the viewer. After that the sergeant
had adopted the late evening watch as his own.

Ducane jabbed a finger at the map. "As you know, the
farm's land runs to about seven acres, situated between
two roads. Access is from the north, off the DrumballyGlasdrumman
road by a rough chalk track, the farm building
itself set back about three hundred yards, surrounded
by a cluster of trees. To the south the farm is bordered


58

by a lane which leads to three border crossing points. However,
travelling overland from the McGuire farm, the
border is just over a mile away.

The team members nodded as they recalled the layout
of the terrain surrounding the hilly border smallholding.

"As for Enemy Forces," Ducane continued, "Int. anticipates
a small group of Provos, exact strength unknown.
But probably they'll be fairly competent as they're acting
as escort for a VIP travelling south."

Forbes let out a long, low whistle. "Not another Council
member?"

"Getting embarrassing, isn't it?" Ducane replied with
a grin. "This time it's the elusive Mr Willy McNally, late
of the Lazy K."

"That little shit?" Forbes asked incredulously. This was
unbelievable good fortune. "The one who's been causing
the latest rumpus in Belfast?"

Ducane nodded. "Since he got out of Long Kesh he's
been giving Felix a pretty bad time." They had all heard
of the rash of vicious, booby-trapped bombs that had
claimed the lives of two men from an Explosive Ordnance
Disposal section. It had been so bad that 'Top Cat' himself,
the Chief Ammunition Technical Officer of HQ
Northern Ireland with the rank of lieutenant-colonel, had
personally taken over supervision of the spate of McNally
bombs until the defusing problems had been overcome.

For his part, rumour had it that McNally had been
promoted from the PIRA General Headquarters Staff to
the ruling Army Council itself.

"It'll be our operation," Ducane explained. "We don't
want the slightest risk of alerting the escort party. But
Johnny Fraser's mob will be deployed to the south between
the farm and the border just in case we miss them, or they
decide not to stop at the farm."

He allowed himselfa slight smile. "Now for the bad news.
I'm afraid the main part of the operation will fall to the
Royals, who'll be waiting in, two or three Wessex 2s to
the east. It seems like our friend, Major Simmonds, has
persuaded his CO that we might damage the goods." A


59

spontaneous groan went up from the men around the table.

"And, of course, guess who'll be leading them .. ?"
"Bloody gong-hunter," Forbes said.

Ducane ignored the muttering and went on to the part
they were all waiting for, details of the mission itself.
"Tonight Int. are expecting McNally's party to visit the
McGuire farm on a run south. We've been closing in on
him in Belfast, putting on the squeeze ... in fact he just escaped a raid on a safe-house a couple of days ago by a
whisker.

"With the pressure on our patch at the moment, we don't
think they'll chance using a car. Especially after our
escapade with Cochran last week. So they'll probably come
on foot. Overland by night.

"Personally I expect he'll do the journey in two short
hops. At the moment he's probably in or around Creggan.
That would allow him to slip southward along the Creggan
River valley, veering uphill to the east. And that would
keep him clear of most roads and farmhouses until he
reaches the McGuire farm.

"Our job is simply to pull out the youngster Roisin,
quick, and let Maior Simmonds sweep in and collect the
VIP ..."

"And a bloody gong!" added Forbes with feeling.
Ducane held up his hand as the look of incredulity swept
over the men's faces at the fact they were being ordered
to risk their collective neck to save a Republican sympathisermhowever
pretty she might be. The captain continued
briskly, ignoring Harrington's obvious embarrassment
and the bursting curiosity of the team.

It was twenty minutes before everything had been
covered from timing and routes to the objective, rendezvous
points, observation duties, action on arrival, signals
to be used and passwords. Finally they synchronised
watches.

Ducane raised his eyebrows. "Any questions?"

As he expected, all three soldiers began at once. Forbes
scowled at the other two. "I'm sure I don't have to remind
you, gentlemen ..."


60

Turnbull, straight-faced, bowed stiffly from the waist.
"Of course, after you, Sergeant."

Forbes sniffed, turned away, and fixed Harrington with
a penetrating stare. "This girl has been under observation
for months. Her brother's a guaranteed bona ride Provo.
We're goin' to pull her out because Int.'s been playin'
Chinese Whispers again, and has been offered something
on a plate. To a lowly NCO that sounds mighty suspect.
Can I ask you how reliable is the information we're acting
on?"

Seeing Harrington hesitate, Ducane answered. "The
information is likely to be correct as it comes from Roisin
McGuire of the McGuire farm."

Turnbull frowned. "What's so reliable about that? It's
under regular surveillance as a Provo safe-house. It's a
Republican family of long standing."

"I know that," Ducane said evenly. "But whatyou don't
know is that our liaison officer here has been courting
Roisin McGuire for some time. Now obviously it's difficult
for her to shop her own brother, but she's given the
lieutenant the nod that McNally's passing south."

His face reddening, Harrington watched the frozen expressions
of disbelief as the words sank in. An uneasy
silence fell over the billet.

Forbes broke it first. "You crafty old sod, Charlie!"
"Sergeant," Ducane chided.

The big man ignored him, climbing to his feet and
grasping Harrington's hand in a rigorous shake. "No
wonder we're beating the Provos hollow with crafty old
buggers like you working for us! Stone-a-crows, I can
hardly believe it! You of' cradle-snatcher!"

Young Tom gritted his teeth.-First Forbes with his
coarse and vulgar comments about the girl, and now Lord
Charles had been chatting her up, flirting with her, no
doubt dripping with his usual oozy syrup and his public
school accent. The bugger could charm his way into anyone's
knickers, he'd heard. And this girl, virtually the only
one he'd known in Northern Ireiandalbeit through hours
of long-distance surveillance--had to be the one Hatting-


6

ton chose to slop over. The liaison officer must be at least
ten years her senior, decided Young Tom angrily.

Not for the first time he cursed his own ineptitude with
the girls, he had known. How many times had his inhibitions
tied his well-rehearsed phrases into tongue-knotting
nonsense? Even when he had gone on leave to Bourne
mouth after joining the Parachute Regiment, resplendent
in his new uniform that brought admiring glances from
many girls, he had failed dismally to fire the sparks of
youthful lust in any of them. His old mates had assumed
his success and he had done nothing to delude them.

"No congratulations for Lieutenant Harrington then,
Tom?" Ducane's words jarred him from his seething
thoughts.

"Ah, sorry, sir, I was daydreaming." He hesitated, aware
that all eyes were on him. "Yes, of course. I wish them
all the ... er ... all the best. Sir."

Forbes chuckled. "I think Young Tom fancies the young
lady himself, boss."

Perrot's anger swelled instantly. "Piss off, Sarge, for
Chrissakes."

Ducane ignored the outburst, aware that the big sergeant
had hit a raw spot. He glanced across to John Turnbull,
who sat attentively, also without comment. He disapproves
too, thought Ducane, and I don't know that I blame him.
Different reasons from Young Tom, no doubt, but more
valid. It didn't take an expert to work out that this assignment
could backfire into a nasty mess.

Ducane said: "Miss McGuire's agreed to marry Lieutenant
Harrington shortly, and no doubt he plans to whisk
her away somewhere out of harm's way. But for tonight
we face a tight situation. She'll be hosting McNally for
her brother, and we'll have to get her out without the little
lady getting hurt."

"Couldn't she slip out before we go in?" Turnbull asked.
Harrington felt a renewed rush of blood to his cheeks
as he answered. "Unfortunately, I couldn't discuss a plan
of action with her. There was a danger of us being overheard
at the time."

62

Turnbull nodded, but he didn't look very convinced.
"How long is he stopping at the farm?" he asked quietly.

Harrington shrugged. "I've no idea. He may be planning
to rest up all tomorrow and travel on again at night. He
may just stop for an hour or two and continue. Or he may
brazen it out and just walk out at dawn and mingle with
the farmworkers. It wouldn't be difficult to just drive over
the border in a tractor from there."

There was a cutting edge to Tumbull's voice: "Your

young lady didn't tell you too much then, did she?"
Harrington flushed. "Enough for us to go on."
"Couldn't we or the Royals just nab him as he leaves
the farm, whenever that is?" Forbes suggested. "That way
the McGuire girl wouldn't get in the line of fire. Safer."

Harrington shook his head. "It's a nice idea, Sergeant,
but once you know the rat's in the trap, you don't give
him a snowball's chance of getting away. You'd have to
guarantee an undetected approach and remain in close
proximity to the farm until whatever time he decides to
leave. If they've got armed pickets out, or look-outs, you
couldn't guarantee that. No, you'll have to go in and stay


"I'd rather get Miss McGuire out sooner than later,"
stated Young Tom emphatically.

"I don't remember anyone asking you, trooper," hissed
Forbes.

"He's entitled to his opinion," Ducane said sharply.
"And anyway we are not given much choice in the matter.
We monitor the enemy's arrival, move in, neutralise any
sentries and spring young Roisin. We then send the signal
which is the sign for Major Simmonds to bring in the flying
cavalry ..."

"Oh, Christ," groaned Forbes.

Ducane continued: "He reasons that they can't afford
to let McNally slip through the netr get himself
shot." Broad smiles spread all round. "He reckons that
a sudden heli-borne assault with split-second timing would
ensure overwhelming odds, especially as we've already
picked off the look-outs. McNally would have no real


63

choice but to give himself up. I know we all think we'd
do a better job, perhaps with Johnny Fraser's Sabre team,
but unfortunately Simmonds' got the CO's car. At least
he didn't have it all his own way. Originally our Major
wanted to handle the whole op. himself."

Harrington said: "If it wasn't for Roisin, he may have
a point. Obviously I'm concerned they could use her as
a hostage, ff he's given half a chance."

Forbes lit a cigarette and studied the charred match with
deep concentration. It was going to be a tricky operation
sneaking the girl out; the odds didn't look good. The others
looked decidedly glum.

It was rare to see Forbes in such a contemplative mood.
He enjoyed projecting his naturally wild and earthy personality,
switching, when it suited him, to play the
traditional role of the unthinking and unreasonable Army
sergeant. Nothing could have been further from the truth.
Although he had little regard for authority in general,
particularly the burcaucratic type, he never questioned the
authority or traditions of the Regiment.

When not on duty he took a delight in hitting the bottle
hard---not a common trait in SAS soldiersbut had never
been known to lose the slightest grip on himself or control
of any situation, however difficult. At times his larger than
life image had caused a couple of his squadron commanders
to raise an eyebrow. But every routine I6PF psychology
test had shown him not to be harbouring any unstable or
psychotic characteristics deep within .his personality.

The truth was that Forbes was a natural born warrior.
It was like a primeval instinct, a driving force. And he had
been drawn naturally into the one regiment that was always
at war, even in peacetime, however remote or small the
conflict may be. Meanwhile his determined love of life and
ruthless disregard of orthodoxy had lost him his wife and
prevented any quick promotion.

Ducane was adding: "Of course, it may be necessary to
use a little artistic licence. We'll play it Simmonds' way,
but the action on objective may have to be played by ear.
The lieutenant knows which is Roisin's room, so we'll pay


64

her a call first. Any problems and, for safety's sake, Major

Simmonds may have to wait for his hour of triumph."
"That's the ticket," murmured a smiling Forbes.
John Turnbull's expression remained deadpan. He did
not regard Ducane as an ideal commander, prone to act
on instinct and intuition when prior brainwork may have
made many tasks less arduous. This seemed to Turnbull
to be a typical example. Luckily the captain's animal senses
usually proved correct; if they hadn't the team wouldn't
have survived so long in Armagh.

Although promotion didn't count for too much in the
SAS, as an individual's rank was inevitably lower than it
would have been in an orthodox regiment, Jack Ducane
was overdue for a majority. He had never been able, or
perhaps wanted, to shed fully the vestiges of his working
class background. Turnbull suspected that this could be
part of the reason, despite the fact that 'The Professionals'
were supposed to be a classless family nowadays. Of course,
it may be something to do with the rumour that his paperwork
wasn't up to scratch. Or his long friendship with that
renegade Sergeant Forbes. Perhaps it was a combination
of all of these.

If you screw this one, thought Turnbull bitterly, it will
be another rung kicked out of your promotional ladder,
Captain Jack Ducane. Just make sure I don't get tarred
with the same brush.

65


CHAPTER 4


"I think I've found another one," Forbes said.

They had been dropped an hour earlier from the Makrolon-armoured Land Rover which had roared down the
unmade road at great speed, until it reached the sharp
bend. There the road dipped out of sight of the surrounding
countryside, hidden by tall hedges on both sides. As the
driver hit the brakes with force, Dueane and Young Tom
leapt out through the tailgate.

Together they had landed at a crouch in the dusty track,
sprinting for cover in the shrubbery. The Land Rover had
slewed wildly in its skid, the heavy-duty tyres spinning for
a grip in the loose stones and chalk. Forbes and Turnbull
emerged from the choking cloud as the vehicle sped forward again, out of the dip and around the next bend. Briskly they
had followed the first two into the hedge.

Even to a PIRA observer, hidden in the surrounding
countryside, the sight of the madcap Army driver racing
down one of the labyrinth of twisting roads would attract
no special interest, provided he kept moving at speed. It
was a well-rehearsed procedure, and gave far less indication
of an active Army presence than the menacing clatter of a
helicopter. And, surprisingly enough, it held little danger.
The speed at which the vehicle travelled down the winding
roads made it virtually impossible for a 'snipe' to hold it in
the cross-hairs for more than a split second. Similarly it
would have taken superhuman reflexes to catch it with a
controlled landmine. Even an instant contact-fuse would
be unlikely to explode before the vehicle had passed completely
over it.

Simultaneously, a mile to the south, four men of Johrmy
Fraser's Sabre team detached themselves one by one from


66

a trudging platoon of Royals and slipped quietly into a
roadside ditch. Even the soldiers with them didn't realise
they had gone.

Meanwhile Ducane's team had found the narrow drainage
ditch that stretched up the steep hill until, at the rim,
it overlooked the McGuire farm. It was through this
sodden trench, overhung with gorse and bramble bushes,
that the four men had crawled. It took twenty .minutes to
reach the site of their old observation lair.

At that point a cluster of trees grew on both sides of the
ditch and the low shrubbery thickened considerably. A few
minutes careful hunting in the undergrowth located the
rough trestle that they had built earlier to provide a dry
platform over the ditch, without disturbing the waterflow.
It was from the edge of these trees that Forbes suddenly
announced he could see something.

Ducane, his face smeared with camouflage cream, wriggled
across the trestle to where the sergeant held the Starlight
scope. He took it, adjusting the focus marginally.

Despite the low cloud, the weird semi-negative green of
the surrounding countryside was as clear as daylight
through the viewer. In order to operate, the image-intensifying
process required just the merest trace of light,
which was magnified through a series of lenses and
electronic circuits. Only in the rare situation of absolute
absence of light was it ineffective. Normally starlight or
moonshine was a luxury.

After a few moments Ducane said: "You're right. A
slight movement below the.old elm tree. A clump of grass
swaying. Different direction to the rest."

"Out of tune with nature," Forbes mused.

"Nice job he's made though," Ducane replied. "Must
have been a devil to spot. Professional."

Forbes chuckled quietly. "Not really. Silly sod couldn't
resist a drag a moment ago. Like a little glow worm."

It was a joke they could all share. They had long since
learned to give up smoking ata moment's notice for months
on end, especially when up against trained jungle fighters.
They had learned from the Gurkhas' survival rulebook that


67

said even chewing gum, traces of soap, toothpaste or hair
dressing would betray a soldier's presence to an expert
enemy.

"Wlatever he did to catch your eagle eye, it looks like
we've found three sentries. Shame. Four would have made

a nice round number. I just hope we haven't missed one."
"Where're the other two?"

"Turnbull spotted the one on the approach road to the
farm. I located one guarding the south road. Charlie was
probably right. Yours would have a good view towards the
river valley in the west. Keep your eyes peeled for the VIP's
arrival."

"How about knocking off the pickets now?"

Ducane shook his head. "He may be expecting a recognition
signal. Or a pre-arranged meeting. We'll wait
until he's in the box before we shut the lid."
There wasn't long to wait. By 23oo hours the night had
become inky black, the damp ground mist thickening as the
air became chiller, reducing the nightsight's range of visibility
to scarcely two hundred yards. The faint breeze
shifted the cleaving vapours, mesmerising, forming and
dissolving shapes until the backs of Ducane's eyes ached
with strain.

Forbes had closed in on his quarry, snaking forward on
his belly. Working his way along a shallow indentation in
the rough pasture, he had found himself within fifty yards
of the picket. Above and behind him. With his scope he
could see some distance across the field that fell towards the
valley.

Earlier, Turnbull had edged around the eastern flank of
the farm, probing the numerous hay bales and stacks for
any sign of the fourth sentry who would have closed the
square. He had found nothing and had crept on until he was
hidden beneath the hedge that ran alongside the main
Drnmbally-Glasdrnmman road. A hundred yards away he
distinguished the shadowy outline of thepicket on the
approach road to the farm, concealed beneath a bush. An
M6o glinted dully in the headlight glow whenever a car
passed by on the road.

68

Back at the lair a voice crackled on Ducane's Pocketfone. "Some business." It was the signal from Forbes that someone
was approaching.

Quickly Ducane tried to focus through the mist to where
he knew the sentry was waiting. Everything seemed indefinable
through the drifting shroud. Then he swept
down the crest, below the lookout point, to where the
descent to the river valley began. He peered hard through
the scope until his eyes began to water. Still nothing. Backward
sweep. Pause. No movement from the sentry.
"Time?" he hissed.

"232o, boss," came Young Tom's reply.
'And there's no movement from the farm?"
"No, boss."
"The young lady hasn't gone to bed, then?"

"Hard to tell. She drew all the curtains tonight. The only
lights appear to be downstairs. Won't please the sergeant
much."

Ducane grunted, engrossed as he scanned back over the
crest. The mist coiled and twisted in a sudden gust of wind.
Forming new shapes, then dissolving. A dark patch began
to take form, solidifying, refusing to be blown..

"Ah!" Ducane breathed. It was a figure all right. No
doubt about it. A man, stooped, waiting, cautious. Very
dark, no tell-tale flashes of pale flesh. He was down now,
leaning on one elbow, peering over the crest, down towards
the lighted windows of the farm.

Another movement, wraith-like. A second figure joined
the first. The movements were more alert, the face less-well
hidden. Nervous, jerky. This could be McNally.

A pin-prick of light stabbed briefly up to the slope
towards the old elm trees.

Probably an old Army surplus signal-lamp, Ducane
decided. Waiting for the answering flash from the sentry?
There it was. Green. One quick spot in the darkness. You
could have missed it if you weren't expecting it. A brief
pause and the two dark figures moved forward. The first
beckoned to the other to keep low as he slithered over the
crest and down towards the farm. Feeling safe in the,


69

swathes of cloying mist, they made no more attempt to
follow the contours of the land for cover. They strode
forward now in a half-hcarcd crouch in the dircction of the
haloed patches of light. If they had taken even rudimentary
precautions, reflected Ducanc, they might never have been
spotted.

He took the scope from his cyc and handed it to Young
Tom. "Keep track of them," he said, "and let me know
if you sec your girlfriend."

He caught the gleam of white teeth in the darkness.
ARcr an hour the lower lights of the farmhouse were
extinguished. For a moment the only illumination came
from some glow dccp within the building, probably the
hallway or stairs. Then one bedroom light carnc on, the
girl's bedroom, followed closely by a second at the side of the house. Ducane judged that to be the guest-room Harrington
had predicted would be used. Shortly afterwards
all the lights went out. No sign of movement came from the
farm.

It had previously been decided to wait for an hour before
closing-in. The only exception was to have been in the
unlikely event of McNaily moving over the border immediately.
Had that been the plan, Ducane reasoned, it was .
unlikely he would have bothered to stop at the McGuire
farm at all.

After the build-up of tension the long wait, until the
occupants of the farm were asleep, came as an unwelcome
anticlimax. Although it was still only late August, the wind
had developed a chilling edge and carried with it the first
traces of rain. The mist had cleared from the high ground,
leaving behind only patches clutching to sheltered gulleys
and depressions. Moisture from the damp air collected in
the leaves around the lair. Icy drips had an uncanny knack
of finding exposed flesh. A runway trickle at the wrist, and
always the neck. Like a cold, slow worm down the
back.

It was OlOO hours. Ducane breathed a sigh of relief. He
was glad of the opportunity to flex the muscles of his legs
and arms, which had stiffened during the tense period of


to
inactivity. He pressed the transmitter button on the
Pocketfone.

"Activate," he said quietly and switched off.

To the east Forbes would begin to move down the fifty
yards of slope towards the old elm tree where the sentry was
probably fighting off fatigue.

By the Drumbally-Glasdrumman road, Turnbull would
be inching his way along the drainage ditch in the shadow
of the wall towards the approach road.

Only minutes before Young Tom had slid silently out of
the lair, in the opposite direction to the farm, south to
where the third sentry guarded the lanes that wound
towards Eire.

It was time. Ducane strapped the Sterling sub-machine
gun across his back. Considered little more than a toy by
some, the weapon was still popular for close-quarters
combat in confined spaces. Its low-velocity 9mm rounds
tended to stay in the victim and not continue on to cause
accidents. Silently he eased himself out of the thicket,
moving through the grass in a leopard crawl, belly and
rump low, using knees and elbows for propulsion. There was little need to worry about leaving spoor trails of flattened
grass this night, but old habits died hard.

He hugged the edge of the ditch for five minutes until he
reached the low wall of local stone that divided two fields.
It dipped slowly down to the farm, and here progress was
quicker. His outline was concealed by the uncemented,
interlocking rocks; the only danger of detection would
come from a sudden, careless movement. There would be
no stray reflections from the SAS man's equipment.

At oi3o hours he arrived at the end of the wall, where
it butted a large wooden machine-shed, which stood a
hundred yards behind the farmhouse The breeze now
beginning to gust was heavy with the smell of wet straw and
manure. It carried the sound of cackling chickens from
somewhere on the far side of the building. Above him one
of the several elm trees which encircled the yard rustled its
leaves and sprinkled down moisture in heavy droplets.

He heard no other sound, and moved quietly along the.

7I


wall of the machine-shed, his back pressed hard against the
creosoted planking. From the outer edge he could see
clearly across the yard. The farm's one ancient tractor had
mashed the spongy ground into a complex series of crisscrossed
patterns, the deep gouges filled with rainwater. To
the left of him, set back between the machine-shed and the
rear of the house, he could distinguish the high dark shape
of the open-fronted barn. Within, the paler shades of
stacked straw bales were just discernible.

To reach Roisin's bedroom at the rear, Ducane had
already decided he would scale the low outhouse, and gain
access by the window that had, on earlier occasions,

provided Sergeant Forbes with such entertainment.

But tonight no light came from it.

Between his position beside the machine-shed and the
barn ran a worn wooden fence, in front of which stood ka
stone cattle trough. From the barn, Ducane decided, he
would not only be able to make the dash to the farm
outhouse with safety, but he would also get a clear view of
the window to McNally's room.

Crouching on all fours, he began to wriggle across the
narrow gap to the fence, the smells of the yard thick in
his nostrils. He paused at the first upright post. Nothing
stirred. He continued, easing his way through the long
grass at the edge of the yard, the lower plank of the fence
rubbing his shoulder. At the water trough he stopped
suddenly.

What was it? His ears listened to the faint howl of the
quickening wind and the rustling of the trees. There was
nothing else. Even the chickens were quiet. He peered
round the side of the trough at the silent house. Still
nothing.

Then, as he glanced over his shoulder, he saw what some
sixth sense had told him. A dewy bead of moisture glittered
in the air by his feet, suspended. Carefully, without moving
the angle of his boots more than a fraction, he twisted
around into a sitting position. He leaned forward and
inspected the thin strand of nylon wire on which the
moisture had collected. Even a few inches from his face it


72

was scarcely visible. Cautiously he located it with his
fingers, tracing it down to where it had caught around his
left boot, trapped in the deep tread of the rubber sole.

Maintaining the tension with his right hand, he traced
the wire with his left. Up and over the top of the trough.

Christ, he thought, it's a booby-trap. He felt the heavy
sweat break out on his forehead, and the unpleasant surge
of heat along his body.

Keeping his feet exactly where they were, he hoisted
himself onto one arm and peered into the trough. Two
empty tin cans were poised precariously on the rim of a
galvanised bucket. One more half-inch and the wire would
have toppled the cans into it with a clatter that would have
woken the dead.

He breathed an audible sigh of relief. Just a warning
system. Primitive but effective. Gingerly he lifted the two
cans from the edge of the bucket until he felt the wire
slacken around his foot. He placed them on the grass, and
sat with his back to the trough, breathing in the cool night
air deeply.

Wake the bloody dead, he repeated to himself, turning the
words over in his mind, examining each one. No, that
wasn't it! Tin cans in a bucket wouldn't wake the dead.
Probably not even a sleeping man. It would probably alert
a dog, but they had gone over that one at the briefing.
Roisin McGuire didn't have a dog.

But the noise would be sufficient to warn a look look-out
---even whilst he tried to keep himself awake as his body
temperature dropped to its lowest point around four in the
morning. Even at that vulnerable hour he couldn't fail to
hear the cans.

The man who had travelled with McNally. Perhaps not
professional, but one who obviously knew a few tricks, and
who was evidently responsible for his charge's unmolested
arrival.

For five full minutes Ducane scanned the farmhouse,
until he was sure there was no window from which an
unknown face could be watching; no shadow that concealed
a tell-tale flicker of movement.

73


Time was running out. Having disposed of the pickets,
the others would be stealthily closing in on the buildings,
making their wayto the barn. The captain shifted his gaze,
scanning the bales of straw that were now clearly visible,
stacked to the roof. Nothing. Just some discarded shovels
and forks, rusted with age. An earth-encrusted trailer with
a wheel missing, tilted at a careless angle. A ladder reaching
up to the small crane-hoist platform. A black plastic water
butt.

A ladder.

He squinted at the dark mass towering above him where
the roof formed its apex. A few feet below it was a deeper
shadow, marking the entrance to the hoist platform. Black
as black.

A glow came sud.denly from the window of McNally's
room. Not the main light, probably a bedside lamp.
Enough to cast the faintest smear of light through the thick
curtains to illuminate the front of the barn. For a brief
second Ducane caught the outline shape of the crouched
figure in the entrance to the hoist platform, and the blur of
flesh as the head turned towards the window. Then it drew
back into deeper shadow.

Crafty bastard. Ducane's lips formed round the silent
words.

Quickly he opened one of his belt pouches and lifted out
a coil of fishing tackle. Deftly he tied it round the lid of one
can, which he then suspended from the bottom of the
bucket. He wanted a slight noise, but not enough to disturb
anyone inside the house.

Carefully playing out the line, he left the shelter of the
water trough. Continuing his slow crawl beneath the remaining
length of fence, he found himself in the lee of the
barn. He climbed to his feet, tugging gently at the line that
ran back to the trough until it became taut.

He pulled it once, hard. The crack of metal sounded like
a clash of swords to his ears, but it was Short and sharp
enough -to have been well-muted by the wind. He ran his
hand down his right leg until his fingers found the handle
of the heavy US Marines K-Bar fighting knife. It shouldn't


74

be needed, but he released the retainer just in case as he
listened to the faint movement above him.

Seconds passed by like hours until he heard the creaking
of the ladder under weight. Soft-soled shoes. The merest
crackle of dry hay underfoot as the look-out reached the
ground.

Another endless wait before the dark shape appeared
from the edge of the barn a few feet before him. A smell of
cologne reached him, faint but discernible.
One step, two, muscles moving fast like well-greased
pistons, fluid, culminating in a rush of determined, vicious
movement. Just like the manual.

The left hand swept around from the back. The forearm
lashed tight back into the man's mouth and nose, smothering
both before a snort or gasp could be expelled. The
straight edge of the captain's right hand hit the back of the
neck with the force power of a 281b sledgehammer. As it did
so the left hand jerked sharply backwards. The bone gave
a distinctly audible snap.

This close to the objective there must be no chance of a
prisoner raising the alarm,.even if he was thoroughly bound
and gagged. There was no safe alternative to the sentry's
accidental fall from the barn.

Ducane stepped slowly back, allowing the man's feet to
trail, and dragged him unceremoniously behind the wall of
the barn. It took him a few moments to regain his breath
as he crouched in the shadow, heaving down lungfuls of
cool, pure air. The rain was refreshing against his
face.

He looked down at the crumpled body before him and
rubbed his bruised right hand before closing the lids of the
corpse's wide, accusing eyes. Oddly, the man had not let
go his double-handed grip on the rifle he had been holding
across his chest. With difficulty Ducane wrenched it free.
He released the magazine clip and tossed it into the night;

the rifle he stuffed between two straw bales.

Something odd.

He was aware of a presence behind him. He spun
quickly, pitching to one side as he did so, to throw off the


75

aim and to allow him to reach his knife as he fell. It was in
his hand before he hit the ground.

Forbes grinned widely, shaking his head in mockery. He
then nodded in the direction of the main road, and Ducane
turned to see Turnbull emerging from the hedge on the
other side of the barn.

The three men stood for a moment, saying nothing, just
studying the wall of the farmhouse. Young Tom hadn't yet
turned up, but they all welcomed the moment of relaxation
before proceeding with the next stage of the operation.

It had been decided that Ducane would first get to the
girl's room and get her out using a rope from the window.
Meanwhile Forbes would scale the drainpipe that ran
vertically a few feet to the right of McNally's window.
There he could wait in case things went wrong. If Roisin
wasn't where she was expected to be, Turnbull and Young
Tom would force an entry downstairs, check for any unexpected
residents, then proceed to the upper floor to
McNally's door. If Roisin had still not been located they
would break in. As they did so Forbes would smash the
window and roll in a paralysing stun-grenade. They nodded
in agreement to one another. There was no need for a
change of plan.

Young Tom emerged suddenly, ashen-faced, pointing to
where he had tripped over the concealed body of the lookout.
His eyes were wild, his skullcap gone and his hair awry.
A vivid red patch marked his cheek through the sticky
grease of the camouflage cream.

Growing pains, as Dave Forbes would describe such
combat injuries gained by young recruits.

Without further communication Forbes and Ducane
began their separate climbs. Although the captain's ascent
appeared easiest, the outhouse brickwork was mildewed
and crumbling, so that some of the retaining brackets of the
downpipe and guttering pulled free with a trickle of mortar.
Testing his weight, he fmaily found a point strong enough
to take his twelve stone bulk. His boots pushing against the
sill of a lower window, he sprung upwards. Straightening
his arms with a jolt, he swung his left foot onto the gutter76


ing. The slates were loose, and slippery with moss and rain.
It was with some difficulty that he finally found his balance.
He began to crawl up to the ridge tiles, his body flush to
the roof, his face pressed against the streaming slates. Once
astride the ridge, it was an easy task to propel himself along
to the window ledge of Roisin's bedroom.

The curtains were closed. The nursery pattern seemed
absurdly incongruous in the circumstances. No light came
from beyond them, and the sash-cord frame was slightly
ajar at the bottom.

It was important that he reached her before she had a
chance to awaken with a cry of alarm. Once more he was
thankful that Harrington had come clean and not pretended
that Roisin was expecting their nocturnal visit.

Carefully he pushed upwards against the frame. After a
moment's resistance it began to move, screeching slowly
on its cords.

No movement came from within. There was a smell of
perfume. Quickly he slipped the Sterling sub-machine gun
from his shoulder, and, grasping it about the trigger guard
in his right hand, swung softly through the curtains onto
the carpet.

He landed in a crouch, so as not to provide a silhouette
against the window frame.

A gentle light shed from somewhere beyond the hall,
casting an aurora around the bedroom through the small
window above the door. Swiftly his eyes went round the
room. Dressing-table littered with bottles, fancy and coloured;
a pack of tissues hairbrush. Cheap whitewood
wardrobe, stuffed to overflowing; a white cotton dress
hanging on the outside. A chair, hand-painted white,
draped with discarded jeans and a pink candlewick
dressing-gown. The bed, tousled, empty.

Ducane frowned. From his crouched position, he
shuffled over to the bed. The blankets and sheets had been
pulled back carelessly. He placed his hand on the lower
sheet. It was cold.

He spoke quickly into the Pocketfone. "Abandon A.
Activate B." Standing up he moved acrgss to the door


77

twisted the handle and allowed it to drift open under its
own weight. The landing was lit from the small window
over the door to the spare room. Farther on there were
three more doors to rooms at the front of the house. A worn
carpet muffled the creaking boards as he crossed. The
first of the three doors opened into the main bedroom. It
smelled of camphor and must. Obviously it had not been
used since Roisin McGuire's father had died. The second
door opened into Sean's room; that, too, was empty. The
third opened, onto an antiquated lavatory.

Ducane returned to the landing, now concentrating on
the door to the room where McNally was surely lying. He
became aware of faint, muffled sounds of movement and a
female voice. Just distinguishable. Small, moaning sounds.

A cold, spider-like sensation went down his spine, and
he felt perspiration break out above his upper lip. His
mouth felt suddenly very dry.

Turnbull appeared at the top of the stairs, followed
closely by Young Tom. Both looked curious at finding the
captain outside McNally's room.

Ducane nodded urgently at the door, holding two fingers
towards them. He saw the shock register on Perrot's face,
but Turnbull's expression was more of a complacent I
told-you-so.

Ducane pointed two fingers in a gunning motion at the
ceiling. If they used the usual six inches above the heads
of the target whilst the hostage was grabbed, they were
likely to blow Forbes straight offthe outside window ledge.
The others nodded, laid their Sterlings within easy reach,
and swung the secondary weapons from their shoulders:
two short-barrelled Remington pump-action shotguns
with special skeleton frame butts.

The team were about to go into one of many Close
Quarter Battle (CQB) routines that they had practised
endlessly at the Pontrilas training centre, ten miles to the
south-west of the SAS Bradbury Lines barracks. Countless
permutations of hostage rescues were tried with straw
dummies, human beings and live bullets. They knew this
bedroom layout from Harrington and detailed contingency


78

plans had been prepared and memorised.

Without a word the two men moved to positions either
side of the door, each shot-gun trained on one of the hinges.
The locks, which might have additional bolts, were ignored.

Ducane hissed into the Pocketfone. "Here we go, Dave!"
The hammers came down on the solid shot cartridges
with a double roar that shattered the stillness of the farmhouse.
Ducane's booted foot crashed into the dismembered
timber. Swiftly he followed through, diving to the left. He
threw his weight backwards, pinning the toppling door to
the inner wall with a shuddering jolt.

Simultaneously a series of spitting explosions came from
behind as Turnbull pumped in another burst from his
shotgun.

Plaster burst apart with a dull crunching thud as the
shot-holes studded the ceiling. A cloud of white dust and
debris showered down onto the bed where McNally
hunched over the girl.

There came a violent crack and snap of glass as the
window caved in behind the curtain. Ducane and Turnbull
averted their eyes as Forbes tossed in one of his 'flash
bangs'. The stun-grenade detonated with a roar, a
paralysing tonal screech that hit the middle ear, and the
room was filled with a blinding dazzle. Even through the
noise the girl's shrill and startled scream couldn't be
mistaken.

Stunned for ten vital seconds, McNally left it too late
to reach for the automatic on the floor by the bed. As he
heaved himself off Roisin and flung himself out, his outstretched
hand scrabbled for the weapon. Forbes' large
booted foot landed on his fingers. He shrieked to the
distinct sound of cracking bones.

Turnbull leapt forward, jabbing the barrel of the Sterling
sub-machine gun between the proffered naked buttocks.
"One more move, McNally, and you've lost your holli
hocks!" he hissed.

The man was scarcely in a position to argue, merely
replying with a string of obscenities through teeth clenched
in agony.


79

Roisin McGuire had slid quickly out of the sheets and
cowered in the corner, panting heavily. Her eyes were wide
with fear and bewilderment.

"Keep her covered!" snapped Turnbull. He was taking

no chances.

Young Tom stood by the door, his mouth loose, staring

at her pale nakedness, his eyes mesmerised by her small,
dark nipples and the triangle of pubic hair she tried to cover
with her hands.

Slowly the young soldier lifted his Sterling, then let it
fall again. "She's not armed, Corp," he said quietly.

In the lull that fell over the room Forbes, too, noticed the
girl, running his eyes appreciatively over her young body.
Then he noticed the bright livid bruising around her
breasts and thighs. He looked down at the sprawled naked
figure'at his feet, addressing himself to the near-bald head.
"You fuckin' rapist," he snarled. "No better than a soddin'
child molester."

His boot came down again, this time on McNally's uninjured
hand with which he was attempting to support
himself. The howl echoed around the room as he twisted
involuntarily, his legs slipping from the bed to join the rest
of his body in an ungainly heap on the floor.

"That's enough, Sergeant!" Ducane said sharply.

He turned back to the girl who was now visibly
trembling, tears beginning to stream down her cheeks. He
said: "It's okay, love, we're friends of Lieutenant Harring
ton. He's sent us to look after you."

For a second her mouth dropped in disbelief. With her
ears still ringing and spots still swimming before her eyes,
she hadn't even realised they were soldiers, friendly or
otherwise. As sudden relief flooded through her, she began
to sob. She stumbled thankfully towards Ducane, burying
her head in the chest of his camouflage smock.

"Now what have you got that I haven't?" muttered
Forbes.

Ducane put a consoling arm around the girl's slim
shoulders. He could feel the warmth of her skin beneath his
fingers, as she tried to control her involuntary trembling.


80

He glanced round, aware of his cheeks reddening.

"Don't just stand there gawking, trooper!" he addressed
himself to Young Tom. "Get the young lady some clothes.
Then take her downstairs and make her some char."

"Oh, er, yes, boss," Perrot began, shaken from his
thoughts. He picked up the nylon nightdress lying by his
feet and took a hesitating step towards her. "Er, it's all right
now, miss. If you'd like to come with me."

Ducane said, impatiently: "Well, put it .on her then."
Young Tom nodded. Gently he draped the nightdress
over her shoulders. He brought his hands away, leaving
greasy, dark marks from the camouflage cream.

"I'm-er-sorry about the mess, miss." She nodded, stepping
back from Ducane, sniffing hard to staunch the tears.
She hugged the nightdress around her, allowing Young
Tom to guide her towards the door.

Beside the bed, the naked McNally had regained some
of his composure, now in a sitting position, his hands
tucked under his arms in a vain effort to subdue the pain.

"Little bitch didn't need rapin'," he snarled. "Bloody
askin' for it, she was ..."

Forbes knee hit him in the back of the head. "Didn't ask
for your comments, you stupid Mickl"

Ducane pulled the Plasticuffs from-his pocket--a
pointed gift from Major Simmondsand tossed them on
the bed. "Put those on him, Sergeant. Then put some
trousers on him and cover up that horrible sight."

Five minutes later he went down to the lower floor. It
had been converted into one main split-level parlour
area, the stairs leading directly to the kitchen at the rear.
There was a shallow step down to the lower front area
which was poorly carpeted and furnished with worn
chintzy armchairs.

Roisin was sitting on the small sofa, wearing the candlewick
dressing-gown from her bedroom, hunched over a
mug of tea. Young Tom sat beside her, looking concerned.
The conversation seemed limited.

Ducane nodded towards the front door. "Keep an eye
outside, will you?"


8x

"If you say so, boss," replied Perrot, reluctantly picking
up his Sterling.

Ducane sat in the chair facing Roisin. When Young Tom
had gone out the door he said: "How are you now?"

She looked up at him, fondling the mug. There was
comfort in its warmth. "I'm all right, thank you," she
murmured, then glanced quickly down again. "I'm sorry--
I don't know who you are?"

"Ducane, Miss McGuire, Captain Ducane."
She looked up, surprised. "Jacko?"
He smiled. "We met before once."

Roisin nodded. Her eyes, red-rimmed, had a distant look
about them. "Yes, I remember. A long while ago. But
Charles has mentioned you several times since."

Ducane forced a smile. He paused, searching for the
right words. "Look, this business upstairs." She studied
the mug in her hands intently, saying nothing. "McNally
raped you. That means that we must call in the police now.
You understand that?"

Her head shook very slowly. Her hair, Ducane noticed,
was very soft, very pretty.

"No ... I don't want that, Captain."

He reached out his hand, squeezed her wrist reassur- .
ingly. He felt her stiffen. "Look, it may be best. If anything
happened you should prefer charges. It can't make things
much worse for McNally, and we'll see to it that you don't
suffer any more humiliation."

She repeated: "I don't want that."

"You're a Catholic?"

Roisin nodded. "I don't use anything," she whispered.
Ducane said: "Then you know there is a danger?"
She said nothing, sipping at the mug of tea. Ducane
watched her, trying to read her mind. At last he said: "You
heard what McNally said upstairs? That you were a willing
party?"

Roisin swallowed and he saw she was trying to hold
back more tears.

"I think it's important to know the truth," he said. "If
for no other reason, Charles should know the truth."

82

She averted her eyes, her words coming out in short,
painful gasps as she attempted to restrain the sobs. "It
was difficult. He told me that Sean was dead. He was
killed this morning in Belfast, by your people ... by the
Army ..." She sniffed deeply, staring vacantly at the old
fireplace. "... I was so upset... McNally comforted me...
I couldn't help it, I started to think about Charles and all
his questions ... I felt sure he was responsible for Sean
getting killed.., after what he promised.., knowing Sean
was already dead ..."

Ducane said: "I'm sure that's not true."

"... McNally ... you know, hugged me ... friendly,
telling me not to cry ... that he'd see I was all right ... I
didn't know what to do ... He started, well, kissing and
touching me ... oh God[" The torture forced its way
through her teeth in a gasp, and her shoulders shook as the
flood of tears began.

"So you didn't resist?"

She tried to regain her composure. "... I suppose not...
I don't know... I struggled, but he was so strong... I was
confused and crying ... and then, well, I started to feel

what I felt with Charles. I'm sorry, I mustn't say that..."
"Does it help?"

She looked at him, and he noticed the clearness
and colour of her eyes. "Do you believe me, it does? ...
Just before ... just before you broke into the room
... it was almost like being with Charles ... in the
dark ..."
"Shut your eyes and think of England! God, it makes me
sick["

It was Turnbull, standing at the foot of the stairs.

Ducane turned round. "Enough said, Corporal! Please
make yourself scarce for a few minutes."

Turnbull continued towards them. "It's damned obvious
she's a Provo. Little bitch. We're just being set up. It sticks
out a mile. Can't you see that?" he demanded.

"Corporal, get out of here, or I'll have you busted, so
help me["

Turnbull stopped. "Yes, boss!" Turning on his heel, he

83

went out through the kitchen door, crashing it behind him

so hard that the window panes rattled.

Ducane turned back to Roisin. "I'm sorry about that. I
hope you understand?"

She smiled thinly. "I suppose so. And I hope Charles
will understand that I don't think I'll be able to marry him .. not now."

"He might understand, but I doubt it. I should think
he'd do his utmost to persuade you. He talks of no one else.
And from what you tell me, what McNally did was as close
to rape as makes no difference."

"You don't understand, do you?" she challenged. "If I
prefer a charge of rape, it doesn't alter anything. I know
what happened. How I felt; what I did. And you think I
can go through with everything now knooing the real truth?
God, just what sort of friend are you!"

Ducane said firmly: "If there's a chance you two could

be happy, could make it work, then I think its worth the
risk."

She hesitated. "I can't believe you're a romantic."

"I try to believe there's good in people."

She drank some more of the tea. "I'll think about it,
Captain."

"I have to call up a chopper now. Once that happens
everything starts getting official."

"I understand," she said. "You must realise that Charles
has meant a lot to me. If I still marry him, it must be ...
well, honest That's important to me. I'd have to tell him
the truth. What I need is time. Just to think things over,
get them in perspective."

"So no charges against McNally?"

She shook her head.

Ducane said: "By the way, Roisin, I'm sorry to hear
about your brother." He was aware there was little sympathy
in his voice.

"So am I."

The front door suddenly burst open as though struck by

a tornado, and Young Tom came rushing in at a run,
skidding on the carpet.


84

"Car approaching, boss! Just turned off the main road!"
"Oh, my God!" Roisin gasped. "I'd clean forgotten!"
"What?" Ducane demanded.

"It went clear out of my mind." She looked frightened.
"It must be the border escort. They were coming for
McNally at two."

Leaping to his feet, Ducane swung the Sterling butt at
the overhead lamp. It shattered instantly, plunging the
lower floor into darkness. A clatter of heavy footsteps came
from the stairs as Forbes rushed down, leaping the bottom
five steps.

"What's the commotion?"

"A carload of Provos for McNally," Ducane replied.
"Where the bell's Turnbull? Never mind. Is our guest
secured?"

Forbes chuckled."Yep, I've secured him to the lavatory.
He's got a comfortable enough seat."

"Get Roisin into the corner, quick!" He shouted at
Perrot. "Make sure she keeps her head down." As he spoke
the beam of the headlamps swung into the farmyard, playing
its light across the windows.

Ducane beckoned Forbes and they crossed to the windows
in a crouching run, peering out to see the doors oftbe
car open rapidly and three men emerge. One reached back
inside to kill the lights and, for a moment, they stood
watching. Waiting.

"Playing cautious," Forbes observed. "Perhaps they're
waiting for a recognition signal. All clear."

Ducane grunted. "We'll go for their legs. There could be
a VIP amongst that lot."

The running footsteps from outside were quit.e distinct
as the gunmen turned to face the panting figure of a fourth
man. Breathless, he had started talkir/g excitedly, jabbing
a finger down the approach road.

"He's been looking for the sentry," Forbes said.
"And found Turnbull's handiwork by the look of it."
As though in confirmation, weapons started.appearing
from their concealment under the men's raincoats. One of
them, evidently the leader, waved his arms, indicating to


85

two of them to go around the sides of the farmhouse.

"Quick!" Ducane hissed. "Get 'em while they're together."

In unison the soldiers punched gun barrels through the
window-glass and opened up in a staccato thunder of fire.

A sheet of stabbing lead scythed low across the four men
as they began to disperse. Three of them had their legs cut
from under them, with a force that threw them down like
nine pins. There came a tell-tale twang and whine as shells
ricochetted over the car behind them. Immediately there
was a tremendous rushing noise and roar as petrol ignited
in a blinding flash of flame and smoke.

Glass crackled and tinkled as the front windows of the
farm collapsed under the force of the explosion, icicles of
glass whistling across the room.

"Outside!" Ducane yelled. Together he and Forbes leapt
through the shattered front windows, firing a hail of bullets
over the heads of the three men sprawled on the ground.
Two of them had been hit in the legs, a third was lying
petrified and shocked, his hair scorched and singed from
the blast of the explosion. Their weapons were kicked away
from their reach as the soldiers threw themselves onto the men.

"Behind you!" It was Turnbull.

Both soldiers threw themselves to one side as a rattling
burst of fire from the fourth Provo cut through the air,
narrowly missing the sprawled gunmen.

A muzzle flash from the trees sent the fourth man
scurrying for a door at the side of the farmhouse. As he
disappeared inside it, a returning blast of gunfire from
Turnbul! lanced into the brickwork, blowing out a cloud of
masonry.

"There goes bloody 'Action Man' again," Forbes chuckled.

Ducane said: "C'mon, let's get these guys inside before
their mate damages them!"

As if hearing him, the fourth gunman loosed off another
round from the cover of the cellar door. A spurt of wet
mud was kicked up just beside them. Hurriedly they


86

bundled the iniured and shaken men in through the farmhouse
door.

Firing from the hip, Tumbull broke from his cover in
the bushes and sprinted across the yard until the gunman's
angle of fire caused the bullets to bounce off the corner of
the building in a spray of brickdust.

"Is there another entrance to the cellar?" Ducane asked
Roisin.

"Only the outside door," she replied nervously. "But there's a coal hatch and ramp out the back."

Tumbull nodded. "Okay, I'll deal with our friend." He
slid a fresh clip of cartridges in the Sterling and moved
across the parlour and out through the kitchen door.

As Ducane and Forbes ushered the gunmen towards the
centre of the room, Young Tom helped Roisin to her feet,
brushing the dust, wood and glass splinters from her
dressing-gown.

"Holy Mother," she breathed. "This is one night I won't
forget in a hurry!" She looked out at the wrecked car, still
flaming fitfully despite the drizzle. "Is Charlie one of your
people?"

"Sort of, miss," Perrot replied.

The girl switched on the corner standard lamp and
looked at the three gunmen sitting on the edge of the split
level floor. They looked distinctly uncomfortable, hands
resting awkwardly on their heads.

"Do you know any of these men, Roisin?" Ducane asked.
"Two of them. The one with the wounded leg is called
O'Nions. He's a delivery man. And the other one, who isn't
hurt, is a friend of his called Malone."

O'Nions glowered up at her, his usually watery eyes hard
with hatred. "So they was right about you in' your boyfriend,
you double-crossing little bitdh!"

"Tut-tut," Forbes said gently, and smashed him in the
cheek with the butt of the Sterling.

Roisin looked quickly at Ducane. "Does he have to do

things like that, Captain Ducane?"
"Sergeant."
"Yes, sir."

87

"Don't do things like that."

"No, sir."

It was at that moment that all hell broke loose.

It was difficult to tell which came first, the swirling roar
of the helicopter as it swooped low over the roof of the farmhouse,
or the sudden shattering of glass panes and woodwork
as shells whined through the front door and windows,
twanging around the walls in a deadly game of pinball.

Perrot pushed Roisin roughly to the floor, throwing
himself over her body, as the withering spray of fire poured
in. Everywhere plaster was cracking and exploding in tiny
puffballs of dust as the walls punctured. Glass and china
burst in a hundred jagged fragments. Furniture just
collapsed all around them as though some powerful poltergeist
was at work. Picture frames spun, propelled from the
walls, smashing on the floor or in mid-air, adding to the
debris flying in all directions.

Ducane hit the floor with speed, but not before he felt
a searing pain in his left arm that almost wrenched it
from the socket. The fire thundered on, tearing the front of
the building apart with such ferocity that the brickwork
around the shattered windows and door was starting to
crumble away in a cloud of choking dust.

"Christ, it must be the entire sodding Provo army!"
swore Forbes, his face pressed close to the carpet.

Ducane didn't reply. Trying to keep flat, he was attempting
to pull the field-dressing pack from his smock to
staunch the flow of blood.

"You okay?" Forbes hissed, wriggling across to him.
Another belt of shells sliced into the room, this time at a
deeper angle, right across the centre of the room where the
prisoners had crouched for protection. A piercing scream
came from Jim O'Nions as his body appeared to explode
from internal combustion, pitching him into the air like a
rag doll. A bloody fore-arm flew into the hearth, clattering
amongst the pile of fallen horse-brasses, and the remainder
of his pulped body sprawled over his already dead companion.

"Roisin's hit!" Young Tom yelled above the furious row.


88

Suddenly the window in the kitchen door burst apart
under a fresh hail of fare from the rear, hurling great slithers
of glass through the air like giant transparent razor blades.
Half a dozen lengths thudded into the back of the sofa to
the sound of ripping fabric. Outside voices were heard.

"Oh, God," Ducane groaned, finally managing to get a
bandage around his arm with Forbes' help. "It's bloody
Simmonds and the 7th Cavalry!"

"Jesus wept!" Forbes cursed, picking up his submachine
gun.

As suddenly as it started, the ruing ceased. The silence was
deafening, disturbed only by the low murmur of the girl's
voice. Forbes glanced around the wrecked room littered
with prone bodies, fallen masonry and dismembered furniture.
It just couldn't be the same place he'd seen earlier.

"How's Roisin?" Ducane asked, worming his way across
to where Young Tom had her head cradled in his lap. He
was dabbing her torn cheek with cotton-wool.

"It was glass, boss. A chunk the size of a bread-knife.
Caught her ear as well. Tore it a bit."

Ducane shook his head at the bloody mess. It undoubtedly
looked worse than it was. She'd have a handsome
three-inch scar. Her ear looked quite bad, but with luck she
wouldn't lose it--provided the surgeon could operate fast
enough. Luckily she was in a state of semiconsciousness.
"NOW HEAR THIS! NOW HEAR THIS!" There was no mistaking
Major Simmonds' clipped voice, even through the
distortion of the helicopter's Skyshout megaphone. "TINS IS THE ARMY! YOU ARE COMPLETELY SURROUNDED! COME OUT
WITH YOUR HANDS UP AND YOU WILL NOT GET HURT! I
REPEAT ..."

"Silly fucking sod," said Forbes.

Ducanc looked around the room at the bodies of O'Nions
and the other man.

"Trouble!" he said. "Malonc's gone!"

"I'll check upstairs," Forbes said, moving swiftly.

He was back in a few moments. McNally was still safely
secured. There was no sign of Malone.


89

"He must have got out the back before Simmonds' men

got round there,', Ducane said.

I'll get after him," Forbes offered.

Ducane shook his head. "Simmonds has got himself
enough casualties for one night. We'd better wave the white
flag before he calls up the artillery. Besides, Johnny Fraser
might pick him up."

"How's the arm, boss?" Young Tom asked.

"Bloody painful, what do you think?" Ducane returned
unkindly, making his way towards the door that now hung in
shreds at a curious angle, secured only by the upper hinge.

Outside, behind the stabbing glare of the helicopter's
Nitesun searchlamps, the vague shapes appeared to be
looming closer.

The SAS men stopped, to be joined by Turnbull who
emerged from the cellar door. They waited until they saw
the familiar striding gait of Major Sirnmonds coming
towards them. He paused, bewildered, and glanced at the
front of the house.

His voice was edged with uncertainty. "Looks like we
arrived in the nick of time."

"Something like that," Ducane replied, shielding his

eyes. "And put those damned fairy lights out, will you["
"Corporal, lights[" Simmonds barked.
Two more Nitesuns flickered on.
"Off, you idiot!"
Forbes smirked visibly.
Ducane said: "Listen, Batman, you and your boy
wonders have just killed two Provos being held for questioning,
allowed another to escape, injured a female informant,
and nearly blown off the arm of an SAS captain!"

"What?" His face remained gaunt, the eyes invisible
behind the peaked cap.

Ducane held up his arm with difficulty. "This, you Sand
hurst burk, is an arm. It belongs to me. And it's got a
bloody hole in it!"

"Watch your tongue, Captainl"

"And who the hell told you to come in?" Ducane
demanded.


90

Simmonds looked beyond them to the farmhouse. "You
were a long time, Captain. Too long. Then we saw the
explosion. Obviously the car. I realised .you were in
trouble." He turned sharply back to the SAS officer. "But
evidently not as much trouble as you're going to be in. I was
there when the CO issued his orders. You were to get the
girl, then call me in. Not try and handle the whole thing
single-handed!"

With his free hand Ducane "pulled a cigarette pack from
his top pocket, extracting one with his teeth. "Things don't
always work out as planned, Major. You were told to wait
for a signal."

A trooper, overawed by the significance of events and the
furious row, stepped forward to light Ducane's cigarette
much to Simmonds' irritation.

"We'll see about this, Captain."

"You're damned right we will, Major Simmonds. Meanwhile
I suggest you warn Captain Fraser to look out for our
lost prisoner trying to cross the border. Name of Malone.
Short, dark, mid-thirties, dark green windcheater. Hope
you can get that right!"

The major glared at Ducane as he repeated the message
tersely through clenched teeth to the radio operator behind
him.

At that moment a Land Rover emerged at speed from the
approach road, skidding to a noisy halt in the mud. The
door was flung open, and Harrington climbed out.

"Are you all right?" he asked Ducane. Then, without
waiting for a reply, he added: "Where's Roisin?"

In answer to his question the girl appeared at the front
door, helped by a stocky lance-corporal from the Royals.
She was walking unsteadily, holding a big wad of lint to her
face. For a moment she glanced up, directly at Harrington.
Her eyes seemed to look straight through him. Without
pausing, she walked on.

Ducane restrained his arm. "Leave her, Charlie. She'll
have a scar on her cheek, that's all. But she needs time to
think things over."

More bodies were being extracted from the building: the


91

man Turnbull had killed in the cellar; O'Nions; the other man.

"Christi" breathed Harrington, bewildered. "This is my
fault."

Turnbull said: "Yes, it is." Emphatic.

Major Simmonds pounced on the words. "What do you
mean?"

Turnbull, shouldering his weapon, looked close into
Simmonds' face. "I don't believe you'd ever understand,
Major." He walked away.

Simmonds shook his head. "Someone's responsible for
this mess."

"Never mind," Ducane replied. "I'm sure you can talk
your way out of it. Console yourself with a booby prize.

McNally's upstairs. Unharmed."

"Alone?"

"Where he is, Maior, there's only room for one."

CHAPTER 5


Each person was frisked thoroughly before being allowed
into the upstairs room.

As usual Billy McKee sat at the head of the table. Both
Seamus Twomey, Chief of Staff, and Eamon Doherty, the
ex-paratrooper who had special responsibility for border
activities, had drawn up chairs on either side of him.

Adjutant General, the infamous Joe Cahill, and Quartermaster
J. B. O'Hagan flanked the table, close to their
colleagues.

The remaining seats at the table were empty except for
one, where Martin McGuiness sat patiently. As usual he
was immaculately dressed. The dark blazer and trousers of
pale blue check were set offby a crisp white shirt and a nondescript
club tie.

Only McGuiness stood when the squint-eyed man
showed in the two big Americans. The others remained
seated with photocopies of the report spread before them,
studying the new arrivals cautiously.

Earl Lee McClatcher stood six foot three in his white
doeskin moccasins and the excellent cut of the grey Italian
mohair suit served to emphasise his upright bearing and
barrel chest. A gold crucifix glistened in the mass of curly
brown hair that showed at the open neck of the blue denim
shirt.

He was square-jawed and clean-shaven. The Scrub of his
clipped brown hair was only fractionally longer than the
bristles that were beginning to appear on the full jowls. It
had been a long journey across the Atlantic. His sunburnt
skin showed up the pale grey-blue eyes, lined with the tiny
crowsfeet of a man who had spent many years under a
tropical sun.


93

Winston Loveday was only fractionally taller, his equally
muscular frame dressed in a lightweight cream suit over a
bright Hawaiian shirt. He was slightly longer-faced than
McClatcher, his Negroid features disfigured by a broken
nose. His eyes, arrogant and watchful, seemed to glow
bright and menacing out of the surrounding mahogany
skin.

"I trust you had a good trip, gentlemen?" McKee said.
McClatcher nodded. "It was okay," he answered dismissively.
He jerked a thumb towards the squint-eyed man
who remained by the door, and kept his right hand concealed
in the front of his jacket. "Before we get rollin',
perhaps you'd like to get rid of yer guard dog."

McKee eyed him for a moment, then grasped his hands
together under his chin, his elbows on the table.

In his quiet drawl he said: "Captain McClatcher, you
must understand that we have to be very careful in our
position. Only our most trusted and loyal members can come
to this room without the presence of an armed guard.
We've lost two of our number in just the past two
weeks."

"I read the papers," McClatcher replied.

McKee spoke softly. "Then you will understand. Now if
you'd care to take a seat?"

Loveday and McClatcher exchanged glances. The Negro

made a sudden darting movement towards the guard. "BOO!"

The squint-eyed man jumped at the unexpected lunge,
then, realising he was the subject of ridicule, shuffled his feet
uneasily, trying to ignore the big black face grinning at him.

"Cool it, Winston," McClatcher said, taking his
place beside Martin McGuiness.

"Just a li'le fun, Cap'n," laughed Loveday, sitting down
heavily.

The members of the Army Council looked at one another
apprehensively.

"I'm sure we'll all get along," McGuiness began. He
wasn't at all sure this was a good start. McKcc was a
conservative man and proud of his achievements. He had


94

little time for anyone who attempted to belittle his
organisation.
"Let's get on with the business in hand," Billy McKee
said, opening the report before him. "Firstly, gentlemen,
may I thank you for your prompt action in preparing this
document. I trust you were given all the assistance you
required?"

McClatcher inclined his head. "Mr McGuiness gave us a

full briefin'. I don't 'collect he overlooked anything."
"No?" queried McKee.

McClatcher screwed up his eyes, an icy glare directed at
the Council chairman. "I've no changes to make now."

Billy McKee sat back, resting his elbows on the arms of his
chair, his fingers interlaced across his chest. "Well, gentlemen,
we have had time to study your proposals. Not a lot
of time, but enough ... And, well, we find them ..." He
paused, staring at the ceiling as he searched for the right
words. "... Well, to be quite frank, we find them, shall
we say, a bit ... well, a bit airy-fairy. A bit pie in the
sky."

"I think he means a loada crap," Loveday translated
affably.

McKee continued. "Let's say misguided. I realise you
are both experienced men, but you don't have the close
knowledge and expertise of our particular situation. Nor an
understanding of our organisation. You suggest the training
up of a number of our best men to--er--Green Beret
standards, as you put it. And to put them into the field,
not only against ordinary troops, but particularly against the
SAS groups. Lurin' them into killing zones with mines and
ambush situations as though this were an extension of your
Vietnam war. Well, gentlemen this-isn't the Far East. And
our men are not regular soldiers. Tliey are ordinary,
patriotic and brave men who have little formal instruction
and only a few weapons with which to fight the Brits and
their entire modem army for their cause of freedom and
justice."

"Wowee!" burst Loveday. "Man, that's some speech!"
McClatcher ignored his companion. "Listen, McKee, as


95

far as I'm concerned your Micks are a lot of brainless
morons who ain't got the guts to face an enemy in the
eyes. Their only claim to bravery is throwing a bomb fulla
nuts and bolts into bars to blow the legs and arms off
innocent civilians. You ever seen a teenage chick hobblin'
about on knee-stumps? Bet yet sweet ass you ain't. But I
sure as hell have, and I assure you it ain't a pretty sight!
Shootin' limey troops in the back is the nearest your Micks
get to seem' the whites of their eyes, but then they ain't
been too good at that lately, have they?

"Well, I'm gonna suggest you change all that. Put some
spunk and some backbone into the best of those jerks
you've got. An' do a bit of real soldierin'! 'Cos at the rate
you're goin' there ain't gorma be no civilians left when you
liberate Ulster!"

"Attamanl" whooped Loveday.

A stunned silence fell over the table. The knuckles of
McKee's hands showed white, his lips thinned in an effort
to control his rising fury. Injuries and maimings were never
discussed in front of Billy McKee. He'd pray religiously
every day for the souls of those his organisation had
destroyed, but never once did he allow himself to dwell on
the purgatory he had left those scarred broken men and
women to struggle through for the rest of their years.
They, he considered, were the lucky ones. They had
survived.

Anxious to heal the rift, Twomey said quickly: "From
what I've heard, McClatcher, your lot haven't got a record
to boast about. In Vietnam."

Say, what is this! snarled the American. "We trying to
see who can boast the most cripples? 'Cos ffwe are, buddy,
I can tell you we'llwin hands down. I'm not proud of it, but
we were fightin' a real war and ff we killed or injured
innocent gooks it's 'cos we couldn't always tell the difference!
Unlike the Vietcong I understand the British
Army can still afford uniforms."

"It's not that simple ..." Twomey began, defensively.

McKee cut in: "Forget it, Chief. These two are just
trying to provoke us. Look, McClatcher, I don't pretend

96

to like you or your friend, and I don't appreciate your
offensive tone. I find it particularly distasteful, if not
irrelevant. There are always, as you are aware, casualties
in war. We all recognise that. In particular, you've put
forward ideas for dealing with the Special Air Service
Regiment that are ridiculous in the extreme. You've
charged us a lot of money for doing it, and the cost of
putting it into operation is ... well, astronomical. Absurd
in fact."

McClatcher allowed himself a wry smile. "What's the
price of success, Mr McKee? What value do you put on the
effective elimination of the SAS teams in Ulster within a
year?"

"They'd only be replaced," Cahill observed absently.
"Only with difficulty," McClatcher replied. "Each SAS
man is worth a hundred times a normal soldier--in fighting
value and trainin' time. You can't buy experience. There are only five squadrons of eighty men in the regular SAS
Regiment. That's only around four hundred troopers in
total. My plans will get rid of fifty men before next
year's out. The Army will be forced to change its techniques.
The SAS will be discredited and you'll have your
old freedom back to cross the border when and where you
please."

"With what guarantee?" Twomey snorted.

Loveday said lyrically: "We judge ourselves by what we
feel capable of doing, while others judge us by what we've
already done."

"What?" JB asked.

McClatcher smiled. "A saying by your Longfellow.
Adopted by us at Nha Trang. With your propaganda
machine goin' full blast, I guess you'll persuade.the limeys
to pull out when we get you results like that. If not the
entire Army, at least the SAS guys."

"If it could be done," Cahill conceded, "I reckon we'd
stand a good chance of that happening."

"But at what price?" Twomey demanded, peering over
his spectacles. "A million dollars?"

"Exactly," smiled McClatcher. "Then you agree with


97

the price we put on success in this little backwater war of
yours."

Eamon Doherty had been listening, mesmerised by the
self-assurance of these two men. He had never met anyone
quite like them, even when he served in the Parachute
Regiment. With a hundred men like them, what couldn't
he achieve? Even with ten.

He ran his hand roughly through his unruly mop of hair.
"Look, just spell out again for us exactly how you'd do
it. Not all that Yankee jargon in this report. In your own
words."

Loveday smiled. They were winning through.
"First," McClateher said. "You get me your best men.
The very best, mind. None ofya backslidin' cowboys. From
what Martin here tells me of your resources, I doubt if that
means more than fifty. We'll take 'em away to a new camp
down here in Eire. Somewhere nice an' private. Then
Loveday an' me are given a free hand--a complete free
hand---to knock tim crap out of'era an' build 'em back into
real soldiers. We'll equip 'em with the best kit money can
buy. You know better'n anyone who the SAS is likely tobe
watchin', if you get my meanin'. So we can then set up our
killin' zones an' watch'm walk straight into it. Like flies
into a spider's web."

"But a million dollars!" harped JB, still wondering
where he was supposed to get the money from.

Loveday said: "Mm, you ain't seen one o' our killin'
zones. We have access to sensors and radars that'll pinpoint
every movement 'dem bastards make! We'll know
where they are; but they sure as hell won't know we're right
behind 'em. And, man, that sorta technology takes bread.
Big bread."

McClatcher added: "Since I left the Army, Mr McKe
I've been buildin' up my own li'le business. It's goin' well
an' I intend to keep it that way. If me an' Loveday here have
to put Our lives on the line, then the sky's the limit. I ain't
gorma die bust."

Anxious to keep to positive aspects of the proposals
McGuiness asked respectfully: "How are you able to

98

guarantee they'll oblige you by moving into your killing
zones?"

"Our killing zones will be fully mobile. If they don't
come to us, we will go to them."

"You'd do this in Ulster?" Doherry asked.

"Why not? Once your Micks know what the hell they're
doin', and we can be sure they know how to melt away into
the landscape. Don't forget, we know everyone the Army
should be keepin' an eye on. That'll give yer lads a head
start, d'ya see?"

Doherty chuckled. You had to hand it to these two
characters. They had the gall of the very devil.

McKee was shocked, but tried hard to keep the surprise
out of his voice: "You'll actually try and ambush the

ambushers, so to speak? Sort of hunt the hunters?"
"Got it in one."

"I don't believe our men could do it," Twomey said
emphatically. "And I don't believe the Army, particularly
the SAS, would let them get away with it."

"That," McClatcher said with a hint of triumph, "is why
you are losing this goddamn war. You don't know your
enemy."

"You'd need detailed knowledge of SAS operations.

Top secret, classified stuff," McGuiness prompted.
"We'll set 'em up," laughed Loveday.

McClatcher nodded. "We don't know the details yet, but
give us a few weeks and access to your intelligence sources.
We'll suss out a way. It's just a game. Give us time and we'll
fred the way. Martin here will help."

McKee shook his head slowly. "It's all very well, but I'm
not convinced. And certainly a million dollars for a year's
work, even taking into account the elecr onic gadgets you
talk about, is much too much. We jus don't have the
funding ..." He added with a soft smile: "After all, as you
said, we must judge you by what you've done. Not what
you think you can do."

Loveday glanced at McClatcher. The captain kept his
steely eyes firmly fixed on McKee. "Tell you what. We'll
make the initial contract for six months. It'll make things


99

more difficult, but we'll have made a good start on trainin'
by then. Enough for you to see how things are goin'. Then
you can cancel if you want."

"That's still half-a-million dollars," JB muttered,
almost to himself.

McKee said firmly: "I'd want more than that, Me
Clatcher. In six months I'd want to see the first bodies of
dead SAS men."

Loveday whooped again: "Man, you drive a mean
bargain!"

"You'll get 'emil' McClatcher promised flatly. For half
a-million dollars he'd promise the entire British Army.
"Fifty per cent up front, the remainder paid into my
Liechtenstein account. Martin has the details."

Twomey scratched his head. This would mean a couple
of big bank raids and fast. Unless Gadaffi could be persuaded
to sign a cheque. But not dear old Boris; he added
too many strings.

"Resolution proposed," McKee said.

"Seconded," Calaill murmured. At least this meeting
was less boring than most.

"Passed," McKee confirmed, scribbling on his pad.
"Out of interest," Doherty asked, "just what qualifications
do you guys have to carry out this operation?"

Martin McGuiness flashed an angry glance at Doherty,
but relaxed when he saw the American grin expansively.

"Well, I'll tell you. Me and my ex-sergeant here,
Winston, joined the Special Forces in Stateside when Kennedy raised the numbers from 2,ooo to 5,o0o men in
the early sixties. Between x962 and i965 we ran our own private party in 'Nam before the 'legs'mGIs to you--
arrived an' the whole damn' shootin'-match went sour.
Mind you, before we landed it was a mess, too. The Viet
Cong had the Diem government by the shorts. At Ap Bac just 2oo Charlies wiped out over 2,oo0 of Diem's regulars.
It looked like curtains.

"Well, we pulled together a ragtail army of some 4o,000
Yards. They were non-Vietnamese tribesmen. Rhade
Steing, Jarai, Churu and others who were happy to fight

for a few bucks. Unlike the South Vietnamese who were
better at runnin'. Well, we trained those jungle-monkeys
so damn good they even put the fear of Christ into us!"

Loveday chuckled. "They sure as damnation did, an' we
was livin' there right in with 'em. We ate Yard food, lived
in Yard huts and had Yard tail! Wowee! Some broads them
Yard broads. Still, they could scare us too, all right. Got
the VC back where they belonged in no time. They was
haulin' ass as fast as they could." He jammed his thumb
down demonstratively.

"Then Kennedy got done," McClatcher said, "an' things were never quite so good. When Johnson sent in the
'legs' it all started to change. We still went over the border
into VC country, Cambodia and Laos, but not with the
same freedom as previous. Winston was with me with
Detachment B-57, an' we had a ball."

Loveday flashed the silver talisman around his neck at
the men around the table: "My o1' padre gimme this!" It

read: Kill a Commie for Christ.

Only Doherty smiled.

"Then I went back to Fort Bragg," McClatcher continued,
"an' studied in political warfare and psychological
operations. When I returned to 'Nam it had all changed.
The 'legs' were established by that time and the US Air
Force paid our Yards better money to guard their bases. It
was a downhill run."

"In them days," Loveday interrupted in a tone verging
on heart-felt nostalgia, "we had guys from the top units
'round the Western world workin' with us on special
trainin'. Foreign Legionnaires who'd previously served in
'Nam; SAS guys brushing up on jungle trainin'; German
commandoes; Aussies ..."

"You've actually worked with the Special Air Service?"
It was Cahill.

"Sure," Loveday said. "Did a Iota ops. with 'em. Real
gentlemen compared to some. Yep, real gents!"

McClatcher cursed. By the impressed faces around him
that should have been his trump card. Still, half-a-million
bucks was enough to be getting along with.


IOI

"Right," McKee said. "I think we can thank the captain
and his friend, and leave them to liaise with Mr McGuiness..
We'll call for you at your hotel tomorrow morning."

McClatcher climbed to his feet and threw a perfunctory
salute. '"Till tomorrow, Mr McKee."

As they moved towards the door, McClatcher quickly
reached out and grabbed the arm the squint-eyed man still
kept under his jacket. His fist was like a steel vice, gripping
the guard's forearm with such power, that the man was
unable to pull the gun from his waist band holster.

"Now watchya gonna do, baby?" Loveday leered.
"Lesson Number One," McClatcher said. "If you're a
bodyguard don't let every jerk in the neighbourhood know
where you keep yer shooter."

As he released his grip the man grabbed his tortured
wrist with his free hand and massaged it as though his
depended on it.

McClatcher shook his head sadly and left the room.
"Ciao!" Loveday said, grinning.


Outside they strode together along the pavement in the
direction of Dublin centre, impervious to the chill snap
in the air.

"You crafty motherfucker," Loveday said out of the corner of his mouth. "A cool half-million, man! And all
that crap about his useless Micks. Dunno how you got away with it, goddamn you."

McClatcher tapped the side of his nose, grinning faintly.
"Psychology, man, psychology. Get 'em on the defensive,
then strike 'em where they ain't expectin' it. In the bread
basket!"

"That's all very well," Loveday said, "but we still gotta
earn that bread. Where'd hell we goin' t' find out 'bout
the limey military?" And he added: "Less, o'course, you got contacts."

McClatcher was still feeling elated and allowed himself
a tight, smug grin. "C'mon, Winston, you know me
better'n that. I've gotten contacts everywhere." He tugged
an airmail envelope from his inside jacket pocket and


I02

waved it. "From a friend in London town. He's been
makin' enquiries through two private outfits called Saladin
and KMS. They hire out ex-SAS men on consultancy
work, security, bodyguards for VIPs, etc. They've a pretty
open door to members serving in the regiment. I asked
him to look up a name for me. You'll remember it.
Ducane."

"Come again?"

"Ducane. Jacko. DU-CA-NE."

"So?"

"Ducane. Captain Ducane."

The Negro shrugged.

McClatcher clamped the sergeant affably on the arm.
"You can do better'n that, yet dumb nigger ... Ducane.
Jack Ducane. Don't it mean nothin' to you?"

Loveday frowned, thinking back over the countless
British officers he'd met through the years. "Hell, Earl,
the name rings bells, but I can't place no Cap'n--Ducane, you say?"

McClatcher raised his eyes in despair, but he was in
no mood to be angry. "Well, you must sure as hell
remember his wife, Pat. A tall blonde broad back in Hong

Kong about six years back."

"Hey, wait a minute ..."

"That party," McClatcher prompted. "The game of
strip poker with that crowd of limeys. Ducane's wife
dancin'..."

"Wowee!" Loveday beamed. "Yeah, sure, Earl, I've got
it. Never forget a pretty li'le ass like that. Jacko Ducane.
Jees, I'd forgotten his name. Shit, I oughta remember,
we did a mission with him an' a coupla others. A big guy
with a dumb broad of a wife an' .. ;"

"Just 'cos she declined yer favourite card game!"
Loveday stared at the wall. "Yeah, Elaine ... I remember.
Cold little bitch. But a nice frame. Married to the
big guy. FORBES! That was it." He nodded to himself.
"Forbes 'n' Jacko Ducane. Forbes was just a ranker then,
an' Ducane a second lieutenant."'

McClatcher waved the envelope again. "Well now,


Io3

Ducane's a captain, but Forbes ain't moved up far. An'
those two bastards were the ones that pulled in that big
fish in the Army Council."

Loveday whistled softly. "Well, can yer beat that for
coincidence!"

McClatcher returned the envelope to his pocket. "I
couldn't have hoped for a better break! I've been rackin'
my goddamn brains to find a way into the SAS." He
plucked a cigar from his top pocket, unwrapping the
cellophane expertly with one hand. "It'll guarantee us an
early success an' persuade those tight-assed jerks on the
Council to renew the contract! Man, we could be made."

Loveday stared thoughtfully ahead. "An' you reckon
o1' Jacko Ducane will tell you all about it?"

The American paused to strike a match and drew deeply
on the cigar. "Hell, no, Ducane an' I, well, there ain't
no love lost between us. But I got an idea how we might
work somethir'."

Loveday looked sideways at him, his eyes wide. "You
plannin' t' pay him a visit?"

"Well, I sure as hell ain't gonna ask him to Dublin!"
"Have yer got his address?"

"Nope, but that ain't gonna take a lifetime to find."
He studied the glowing end of the cigar. "Might even
persuade Jacko himself to come lookin' fer us. Hey, that
ain't such a dumb idea!"

"Yer mean spring it on Jacko. Christ, man, that ain't
very comradely!"

McClatcher laughed. "Nope, Winston, to be serious,

I had more in mind that li'le wife o' his. If my memory
serves me right, she had a bit of a weakness for both of

US."

Loveday read his mind like a reflex reaction. "You
thinkin' of maybe compromisin' the young lady?" He
sniggered. "Gee, she sure was a fri,sky one all right. I
reckon not much persuadin' fer her t come to the boil!"

They both laughed, recalling the wild party they had
had with some local Chinese girls and the British servicemen
and their wives before they had left for Vietnam.


IO4

It was a long time ago, but the memories had remained
vivid.

"That's a wicked trick, Earl," Loveday giggled.

"You goin' soft in yer old age, nigger. Listen, I owe
that bastard. Remember that village. We knew fer sure

it was fulla VC, but Jackostupid limey shit--had t'go'n
give 'em a chance first. Nearly cost me my Yard scout
through that!"

"He didn't wanna blast the Gook women 'n' kids!"
"Since when did that worry us? An' we survived!"
Loveday shrugged. He could never quite share Me
Clatcher's callous disregard for accidental casualties. The
question of race was never one they discussed together,
but the Negro was conscious that his own sensitivity at
the needless killing of Vietnamese civilians may have been
that his own skin wasn't white. McClatcher's one concern
had been surviving, but surviving with the biggest body
count he could muster. Loveday had seen the captain line
up women and children and drop them with a submachine
gun burst, one by one, until he got the information he
sought. It was effective all right, but it also earned him
the official request for his resignation. No one had been
able to prove anything, and everyone respected Me- Clatcher too much to offer any evidence. His methods were
cruel, but no crueller than the rest of the war. After a
while you became immune to the atrocities and debauchery,
and were just thankful to stay alive. And McClatcher
was an expert at keeping his men alive.

By contrast, Loveday remembered the British SAS
trooper handing round sweets to the village children and
doling out scarce medical supplies to those who were sick.
McClatcher had been convinced that, as soon as his patrol
passed on, they would have been used by the VCs they
were hunting. Once Ducane had let a captured VC political
officer put his case to the villagers without interruption;
and then given the other side of the story. The Gooks
just couldn't believe their eyes and ears. As one old man
had said, no one had ever bothered to explain things from
the American point of view. The VC's propaganda had


Io5

just gone unchecked, with no one ever challenging the
facts or political half-truths of convenience. They were
a simple people in the village and Loveday had often
wondered whether Ducane had made an impression on
them. Perhaps he had, because two months later the village
was decimated by the VC.

Loveday had decided that there were just too many
hearts and minds to be won in Indo-China. And not
enough time. So he had decided to stay close to Me
Clatcher, gradually adopting the other man's attitudes and
a layer of armoured skin that was impervious to the
senseless waste of human life he saw around him. As far
as he was concerned McClatcher meant life. His life. And
although his blind belief in the big American's methods
was shaken from time to time, he never allowed himself
seriously to consider the moral issues. There were enough
hippy ierks Stateside to do that for him.

His respect for McClatcher grew and did not diminish
even over the resignation incident. Many of McClatcher's
ex-colleagues in the Special Forces had disowned him.
Out of genuine disgust, or because it caused them to focus
more sharply on their own dubious deeds, Loveday could
never be sure.

But his loyalty had not gone unrewarded. In civilian
life Earl Lee McClatcher had gone about carving /new
career with the same ruthlessness and uncanny instinct
for self-survival as he had in Vietnam. He made the
transition from the iungles of Indo-China to the concrete
iungle of the big cities with consummate ease.

McClatcher was a survivor and, whilst he was, Winston
Loveday had no intention of parting company with him.

"Yes," McClatcher muttered, the cigar butt clenched
between his teeth. "Captain Jacko Ducane will do nicely,:
thank you." He quickened his pace. "C'mon, nigger, let's
hit Dublin an' see if we can't find ourselves some classy
Irish ass!"


"Daddy! Daddy!"

It seemed as though his head had only just hit the sack.

He tried squeezing out the excited call by burying his head
in the pillow. But already he was aware of the dull thud
at the back of his neck. Remembered coming home late.
Breaking open the bottles of red wine. Eating the spicey
casserole that had been kept for him in the oven. The
sweet feel of Trish as he'd buried the violence and hatred
inside her. The- pure, cleansing rush of ecstasy that had
washed it all away, removing the tarnish and bloodstains
of his tour-of-duty. Life had begun to sparkle again. The
plunging into the stiff warmth of starched sheets. Smothered
in the welcoming warmth of the bed as deep sleep
enveloped him. Peaceful, free of the recent violence
flashing through his dreams. The faint smell of lavendar.
"Daddy! Daddy!" Sarah's voice came again. A tiny hand
touched his arm.

Ducane cranked open one eye and looked out from the
crushed pillow. Four years old with long brown hair and
her mother's turned-up nose. A replica in miniature with
the same inquisitive blue eyes and stubborn pout when
she was angry or confused. Fiddling with the hem of her
cotton nightdress, and a one-eyed Paddington Bear at her
feet.

Seeing him stir, she stood still, gazing curiously.
"Hi," he said, his voice muffled by the pillow.

"Hallo!" she said suddenly. Then silence. They were
both friends and strangers.

"How's my little angel, then?"

Her eyes looked cautious, gauging his mood. They
twinkled before she said, provoking: "You didn't come
and see me last night when you came home."

He smiled. "Oh, yes I did. But who fell asleep waiting

for me?"

"No!"

"When I came up to see you, you were fast asleep."

He propped himself up on one arm. "Snoring."

"I don't snore!"

"You were last night."

She laughed suddenly, giggling. "Like Mummy!"

Ducane chuckled. "Yep. Just like Mummy." "Is Mummy snoring now?"
"I don't know. Go and see."

Sarah rushed quickly around the bottom of the bed in a
series of little iumps. She peered closely at the mass

of bubble-curls protruding from the sheet beside him.
"Are you snoring, Mummy?" Loudly.

He felt Trish stir, rubbing her long legs against his.

"Hey, come on, you'd better not disturb her. What's
the time?"

"Three and a half."

"Three-thirty? Never!" He peered at the clock on the
bedside table.

"Six-thirty, silly. Half past six. You don't believe in
wasting the day, do you, young lady?"

Trish rolled onto her back and propped herself up on
her elbows. The sheet slid from her bare shoulders, a

cascade of ringlets falling over her half-closed eyes. "What time is it?" she mumbled.

"Three and a haiti" cried Sarah defiantly.

Trish tossed her hair from her face, peering at Ducane
with those brilliant violet eyes that could see little without
the gigantic gold-rimmed glasses she wore.

"Hey," she said. "There's a man in my bed!"

"It's Daddy[" shrieked Sarah, bouncing on the foot of
the bed.

Trish laughed. "Why, so it is. Hello husband." She
reached up and kissed him on the tip of his nose.

"Hello, wife," he replied, studying her face as though
seeing it for the first time. She had high cheek bones which
had kept her skin tight and youthful, speckled with faint
freckles around her nose. Only the finely-etched lines
around her eyes suggested that she had reached thirty and
was not several years younger. Her eyes, large and long
lashed, blinked back at him, and a smile played at her
lips. He couldn't resist them, kissing her hard and full,

recapturing precious moments from the previous night.
Sarah watched, bored but curious.

He caught her stare from the corner of his eye.


IO8

"What about my other favourite girl?" he asked. "Don't
I get a kiss from her?"

Sarah giggled. "No!"

He pulled a hurt expression. "Now you've broken my
heaR. What will Paddy think of you?"

She looked down at the toy bear she was holding by the leg. With a sudden movement she started crawling
over the eiderdown, half-bouncing over Trish's body, then
his. "Paddy says all right!" she said.

Straddling his stomach, she leaned forward and looked
into his eyes closely, just as Trish had done. She pouted
her lips, her cheeks puffed in an effort to suppress a laugh,
her eyes twinkling mischievously. She shut her eyes, tight,

and plonked a large, wet and noisy kiss on his mouth.
"Hello, Daddy!" Too excited to sound like Trish.
Playing the game, he replied: "Hello, daughter." Her
eyes gleamed with delight as he gave the right answer,

and she began to ride up and down like a iockey, laughing.
"Hey, careful of Daddy's arm," Trish warned.

Sarah stopped and studied the bandage around his arm.

She pulled a face. "What's that?"
"I hurt myself," Ducane said.
"Does it hurt?"

"A bit. 'Specially when you iump on it."

She looked at it more closely, noticing the tiny brown
patches where blood had seeped through.
"Were you shot with a gun, Daddy?"
"Only by accident."

Sarah looked thoughtful for a moment. "Did you shoot
anyone?"

Feeling him tense, Trish interrupted quickly. "Do you
think Daddy has brought you a present?"

Sarah looked around at the Army:issue brown-checked
suitcases in the corner of the room, over which Ducanc's
uniform had been strewn, and then back at her father.
"Have you brought Paddy a present, Daddy?"

He frowned. He hadn't thought of that one. "It's for
you," and added: "But it's also a friend for Paddy. Why
don't you have a look in the big case. It's open."


IO9

Trish chided: "Oh, Jack, you shouldn't. She'll have
things all over the place!"

"That's all right." Sarah was already off, her foot
accidentally delivering a glancing blow to his bandaged
arm as she turned, his injury already forgotten. She slid
down the bedcovers and scampered across to start her
exploration.

Trish snuggled up to him, her cool arm around his waist,

her ringlets under his chin, tickling. Softly she kissed the
hairs on his chest.

"How long do they say the arm will take?" she asked.

He shrugged. "A few weeks. I'll be stationed back at
Hereford on training while I recover."

She turned her eyes up at him. "I hope you're not
starting to get careless, Jack. Sarah and I can't afford to
lose you. And certainly not to a silly twit like that Major
Simmonds."

"He was just doing his best, I suppose. 'Thought he
ought to rescue us."

"Huh!" She ran her hand over his chest, scratching
lightly with her fingernails. "He was quick enough to try
and get you into trouble afterwards."

Ducane smiled. "That was just to ease his conscience.

The Royals' CO was hardly likely to complain with two
Provo Council members in the bag within two weeks. And
obviously there was no sympathy from our squadron
commander."

"Then why wasn't old Simmonds reprimanded? Or
transferred or something?"

He lifted his bandaged arm. "As I was coming back
with this anyway, it .was a case of letting sleeping dogs
lie. The whisper has it Simmonds will be transferred after
a respectable time has passed. I think the Royals' CO has
had enough of him anyway."

Trish sighed. "So you think you'll go back again?"

"I can't find it!" It was Sarah.

Ducane said: "It's not over yet, love. My team's working

well together, and we know our patch well now. That
makes it safer."


II0

"Yes, so I see!" She added quietly: "It just all seems
to get more dangerous. Bloodier and more murderous."

Ducane was defensive. "They're just thugs and villains
whatever their political motives. Not worth the time of
day."

"But what with McNally and--what was the other's
name--Cochran. Well, I'd have thought you'd done

enough. 'Specially now you've been wounded."

"I tell you too much, Trish."

"I like to know what goes on. You know I don't blab
to anyone. Besides, Ireland isn't like a threat to national
security. Closer to home. You don't tell me much about
Russia, do you?"

"There's not much to tell." He hugged her closely with
his good arm. "You still know more than is good for

yOU."

She pulled away suddenly from him, the sheet slipping
from her small, round breasts. "I'm not a child, Jack,"
she said defiantly. "Of course, I like to know what's going
on. At least an outline. Think how it feels for me at home
all the time, having no idea where you are or what's
happening to you. Then every now and again you come
back on sick leave. It is worrying, and damned difficult
to cope with at times. If I know something of what happens,
I feel I can at least share part of your life while we're
apart."

"You pout beautifully, Trish."

Disarmed, she smiled at her own anger. "It can be trying
for the folk back at home too, you know?"

"I know." He eased her gently towards him, feeling

the soft weight of her breasts against his side.

"I found it!" came Sarah's triumphant cry.

She brought the brown paper package over to the bed,
and began the laborious task of unwrapping the layers of
paper and sticky tape. Eventually, after several minutes
of exasperated grunts and cries, she succeeded in extracting
the national doll in its perspex box.

"It's a colleen," he said. "From Ireland. A country girl."
She thrust it towards her bear.


III

"Paddy likes her," she said emphatically.

"What do you say to Daddy, Sarah?" Trish asked.

The little girl looked round suddenly. A beaming smile.

"I love you!"

I12


CHAPTER 6


The Old Man looked out of the window across the wet
tarmac drill square to the lines of almost leafless trees and
the rows of one-storey black barrack buildings that lay
beyond. Winter was on its way, a stiff south2westerly wind
driving a fine drizzle of rain before it, filling the neatly
trimmed lanes between the huts with large puddles. As
usual the Bradbury Lines camp at Hereford was near
deserted. A specially-equipped SAS Land Rover, on a
brake test after maintenance, drove past the clock-tower
below which were listed the names of the men of the
Special Air Service who had lost their lives in action.

Considering the extent and hazardous nature of their
operations, there were very few. It was a testament to
their thorough recruitment techniques and the ruthless,
imaginative training. It was a record the Old Man was
determined to maintain with an almost evangelical dedication.

Actually, 'Old Man' was a misnomer for the colonel,
whose active career since he had joined the Irish Rangers
as a newly-commissioned officer in x95I had earned him
an OBE and ME in recognition of his services to the
military. He had fought with the SAS between z955 and
z96o in the counter-insurgency campaigns of Malaya and
Cyprus. He had won the Military Cross in 96o whilst
fighting in Oman with the SAS to assist the Sultan crush
the left-wing rebels. After pushing a pen in Berlin he
returned to the SAS as a squadron commander in the
Borneo and Saudi Arabia actions. Again he left the
regiment, until recently, when he had rejoined to lead it.

He reflected that the business in the Middle East was
almost over. For the time being at least. But there re
mained the grisly Ulster theatre, and that was plenty to be
getting on with. That and the almost regular request for
aid from "Testern governments everytime an aircraft was
hi-iacked. Still, it allowed them to keep their hand in.
Better than that spell a few years back in the late sixties
when they had virtually to become a mercenary force in
order to see the whites of anyone's eyes.

It was strange to reflect that life had become more
interesting under the Labour Government, even if the rest
of the Armed Forces had suffered. But it always amused
him when each successive Prime Minister discovered the
SAS. Everyone would be surprised at the scope of their
operations, and the depth of the 'services' they offered. It
was obvious they were impressed, but always they
attempted to give the appearance that they were quite
aware such things went on. They weren't, of course. It
must be the same for others whose activities went generally
unknown. It was quite an eye-opener to a newly
empowered politician tO learn the full extent of things that
went on in the military and the murky world of the
intelligence services. The extent of the underground defence complexes in central London; the secret regional
headquarters in case of nuclear war or invasion; the
massive UK 'listening' operation which allows intelligence
gatherers to listen to radio conversations between
tank commanders on the other side of the Soviet border;
the submarine missions to Soviet ports, and, of course, the
gentlemen in the sand-coloured berets.

It was obvious that each new Prime Minister would think
hard about the outfit and toy for weeks with all the possibilities
of this new-found instrument of power. Although
liaison was provided by the brigadier in the Ministry of
Defence, responsible for both regular and territorial
regiments, it usually wasn't long before premiers arranged
to meet the CO of 22 Regiment. Sometimes quite a close
relationship was forged. At first tentative questions would
be asked. hat could we do if this ... What could we do
if that ... All hypothetical, of course. And always the
surprise, quickly concealed, when the Old Man didn't

offer a hundred reasons why not. Unlike the Chiefs of
Staff, who could more or less be counted on to be negative
and obstructive when a PM asked for their help.

But it was always different with the Old Man and his
predecessors. Never say no. Ideas would be modified all
right, radically sometimes, but always he would be back
with counter-proposals. Better suggestions. Professional
confidant to Prime Ministers and would-be emperors on
matters most secret.

It was a position he always enjoyed, and one that was
the envy of the entire British Army, not least the Chiefs
of Staff themselves. Obviously protocol was always followed.
They would always be asked their opinion, of
course, but they would be aware that not many days
previously the Old Man had been invited for a round of
golf, a spot of supper, or an informal luncheon.

In the Officers' Mess there would be heavy odds laid
against the time it would take a newly-elected premier to
test their mettle. Chiefs of Staff usually got used- to it,
learned the tricks, and suggested the 'cloak-and-dagger
brigade' before the Prime Minister did himself. You had
to keep ahead in the game somehow ...

A sharp knock on the door disturbed his concentration.
It was the stocky orderly who stepped in smartly, his boots
cracking loudly to attention on the worn linoleum floor.
The Old Man wished he wouldn't do it, after all, this
wasn't Catterick.

"Captain Ducane, SAH!"

The Old Man turned .from his window to the paper
littered desk as the tall captain strode in and saluted, his
movements correct but somehow casual. That's better, he
mused, not too much pomp. Just the right degree of
respect.

"Ah, Ducane, do take a seat."

"Thank you, sir." As the orderly closed the door the
two men sat down. The Old Man pushed the battered gold
and onyx cigarette box across the table-top. Although each
eighty man squadron was commanded by a major, the
colonel took the trouble to talk to every one of his troops


II5

from time to time. He could actually remember most of
their names.

"Smoke?" While Ducane lit one of the hand-made pure
Virginians, he waved his old pipe in one hand, a lighter
in the other. "I'll try not to smoke you out, Captain."

Ducane relaxed. Always the same joke. Always the same
informality. Despite their super-troop status, the Old Man
was all too aware of their fallibility. He knew that they
tended to be forthright and suspicious by nature, but often
anxious and even shy. As always there followed the polite
questions, quietly probing, recormoitring the situation,
pin-pointing problems and flaws, ready for the important
thrust. Never quite what it seemed, and, just below the
surface, the edge of the voice like a glimpse of cold steel.
The razored foil in the velvet scabbard.

You bastard, Ducane thought affectionately, which way will you play it this time? Whatever, you'll have me on the
defensive in no time, but I respect you for it. All the lads
respect you for it. Can't hide anything from the Old Man,
he'll find it out, find your weak spot, unearth your most
private fear. Just as well. A chain is as strong as its
weakest link and all that. And when you're moulding a
group of individual men into a single living, breathing cell
to fight, cut-off, behind enemy lines, you can't risk discovering
the crack after you've arrived. And the men thank
you for that, Ducane mused. That was just one of the
thousand reasons they were always eager to go to hell for
you.

You'd let them, too, you old sod, but for you it's
always got to be hell and back. Any fool can get there; it
takes one of the Master's mob to get home again.

"Arm all right now?" he asked through the clouds of
smoke as he puffed the pipe alight.

Ducane lifted the arm slightly. 'Well on the mend,
thanks, Colonel."

"Good, good. I expect you enjoyed that bit of R and R
you had? You earned it."

"It was nice to get home."

The Old Man smiled, the waxed grey moustache flicking


tI6

upward. "And how's the missus? And the little girl? What's
her name, Sarah?"

"Fine thanks, sir."

"Coping okay? What with inflation and all that. 'Getting
a bit much lately. 'Had to sell my second Bentley last
week, don't you know!" Joke.

"I won't pretend it's not difficult, sir. We're managing."
The Old Man nodded, understanding. "What with
damn' Pay Codes and whatnot the Services don't seem to
be keeping up with the great world outside. 'Can't live on
patriotism alone, can we!"

You old bugger, Ducane thought. I swear to God you've
been listening to conversations between Trish and I.

The colonel made another attempt to get his pipe going.
"You've done well in Armagh. Two VIPs in the bag.
Pity it got a bit bloody. Be an improvement if things
could be tidied up a bit. I appreciate accidents happen,
but I could do with fewer corpses. Gives fuel to the old
Provisional propaganda machine, y'know." He paused.
"Oh, at your discretion, of course. You and Sergeant
Forbes have over fourteen years service between you, so
I can't afford to have you take chances. Even so, a little
less blood-letting wouldn't go amiss. Still, you're pleased
the way the team's shaping up?"

"Yes, sir. Trooper Perrot's going to be a credit to the
regiment. A bit sensitive, but he's learning fast."

The Old Man rubbed his eyebrow with the stem of his
pipe. "Yes, I gather he got in a bit of a tangle with a
Provo. Still, there's only one way to get real combat
experience. And what about the corporal? Turubull?"

Ducane's eyes darted with suspicion before he could
check them; it was unlikely the eagle eyes across the table
had missed it.

"He's very good, sir."

"Mmm," he nodded sagely. "Very much his own man,
wouldn't you say?"

"Yes," Ducane conceded. "But he works well in the
team. He'll go places in time, I'm sure of that."

"You can make a change ff you like, Ducane. We've got

a dozen good men experienced in Armagh. There would be

no problem." The very pale green eyes held his gaze.

Ducane shook his head. "No, Colonel, I'm happy for

him to stick as long as he wants to."

"He's good to have around?" Opening parry.
"Yes, sir, he is."
"Re-assuring?" Thrust.

"Yes, sir, he's independent-minded, but reliable as a

rock. Whatever he may think, he doesn't go off on his

own. He's a team worker."

"Bright, of course." A statement. Not giving up.
"He's intelligent. A good planner. Thinks things out."

"Lacks a bit of the old animal cunning, perhaps?"
Second thrust.

Ducane half-smiled. "We don't always see eye-to-eye,

sir. But I think we make a good team. Sort of complementary."

"Good. So no change then?" Satisfied.

"No, sir."

The colonel leaned forward. "You're aware Sergeant

Forbes is in the cooler today?" Not satisfied, after all.

"Yes, sir."

"Tried to visit his girlfriend in the nurses' hostel last

night and got himself caught. Bad show."

"Sir?"

"Getting caught."

"Yes. Unlike the sergeant, sir."

The Old Man nodded. "Like you, Ducane, he's not
getting any younger for this caper. Unlike you, the boozing
has taken its toll over the years. You might look forward
to another ten years at least before getting desk-bound.
Forbes may not be so lucky." He leaned back in his chair.
"And there's not a desk job in creation that could suit


"I know, sir."

"Have a word, Ducane. A friendly word. Get him to
mend his ways---or at least modify them. I don't want to
have him Returned To Unit. But if he's over the hill, then
I can't keep him on."


Ii8

"I'll speak to him, sir. I think he's a bit depressed about
his home life. Or lack of it. He hasn't really got over his
wife leaving him."

The Old Man prodded at the bowl of his pipe with a
steel letter-opener. "Strain tellin', eh?"

Ducane said quickly: "Not on operations, sir. That keeps
his mind occupied. It's just at times like this when we're
on training cadre duty ..."

The colonel interrupted. "Talking of your current
cadre, Ducane, it brings me to the immediate point of
my asking you to see me." He rummaged about in the
mess of papers before extracting a memorandum. "Oh, yes.
Now it appears that we're in the bad books of Warwickshire's
Chief Constable. Seems a bunch of your lads have
got a bit carried away. Held up a branch of Barclays Bank.
Scared the life out of the damn' cashiers and got away
with �20,000. Phoned up the police afterwards and said it
was all part of an exercise. Deep Throat or something?"

Ducane grinned. "The idea was to see how far they
could go. Behind enemy lines, that is. I've already written
to the Chief Constable and the bank, sir, to apologise. My
letter must have crossed in the post. The money's been
fully accounted for."

"Mmm, should think so too. Anyway, since when has
Warwickshire been behind enemy lines?"

"Just for the exercise, sir. They landed on the Yorkshire
coast by submarine and were heading for Manchester,

code-name 'Red City'."

"For Moscow?"

"Yes, sir. Well there was a car-chase with local police
and they had to abandon some of their gear, including the
money to pay the underground movement of Red Land.
Rather than abandon the mission, they decided to go to
the bank."

"This story is getting worse, Ducane!" The interested
sparkle in the green eyes belied the harsh tone of his voice.

"It's all in the report in your tray, sir. I'm very sorry
about the bank. And the police-chase. The men have been
severely reprimanded. It won't happen again."


II9

"Damn' pleased to hear it. You'll get Us a bad name."

He paused, giving up the idea of getting his pipe alight
without emptying the bowl completely and starting again.
As he worked he said: "Seems to me the sooner We get
you and Sergeant Forbes back to Ulster the better. At
least the police over there seem to appreciate your efforts
more than they do here. Now, what about that arm of
yours? How long does it need to mend properly? A couple
of weeks?"

Ducane said: "I finish with the training cadre in a week,

sir. And the arm feels all right now."

The Old Man re-stuffed the bowl with burnt tobacco,
thumbing in a fresh layer on top. "Fine, fine! Now I've
had a word with your Squadron Commander at Bessbrook
and he's persuaded the Royals' CO to get rid of that gun
happy major of his, you'll be pleased to know. I'm sure
they'd appreciate your help. Got a few problems at the
moment. Seems like one of our liaison lads has got himself
mixed up with a local lass. That's bad for business, so I
need to pull him out as soon as possible. Perhaps your
team can give him a hand in getting all the loose ends

sewn up until we get a replacement?"

"Desk-work, sir?"

The Old Man succeeded in lighting the pipe, filling the

office with obnoxious thick smoke. "Desk-work's good for
the soul, Ducane. Stuffthat promotion's made of. Besides,
it'll just be for a few weeks. Then we'll set you loose
again. Been a lot of speculative talk amongst the men
recently about the possibility of some of our chaps losing
their way over the border. Wanderin' into Dundalk and
Sligo. Know about it, do you?" Absently.

"I've heard the talk, sir. To hit the IRA training

camps."

"Quite so. A bit of a dodgy wicket that. The balls could
bounce a bit, if you see what I mean? Ours, too, if things
went wrong."

"Could work, sir. It would certainly upset the Provo's
apple-cart."

"Mmm." Thoughtful. "Could also set back AngloIrish


I20

relations a hundred years, wouldn't you say?" "

"Only if someone was caught, sir."
"A big if, Ducane. Of course, the PM would never
entertain such an idea. Nevertheless, I gather that in some
quarters people are a bit cheesed off with feeding titbits
to the Irish Government and finding nothing's done about
it."

Dueane raised his eyebrows. That ,oas a turn-up for the
book. It was something Forbes had been promoting loudly
for some time. Perhaps the idea hadn't landed on stoney
ground after all. Over the border. In and out before they
knew what hit them. You scheming old bastard, Colonel,
you mean you're toying with the idea, and probably promoting
it gently to the PM. Come to think of it, I heard
you went to London last week for a dinner party.

The Old Man waved aside the pungent cloud that engulfed
him. "Not that anything will come of it, but if it
does, I'd consider your team as part of the operation. No
promises, of course, but bear it in mind. Providing of
course, you can persuade your sergeant to cool things off.
That includes the booze."

Ducane grinned broadly. "That's the biggest incentive
I could give him, sir."

The Old Man nodded. "Right, well, that'll be all,
Ducane. Got to get back to me paperwork. Find out what
I've done with the In-Tray."

Ducane climbed to his feet, saluted, and turned towards
the door.

"Oh, Captain!"

"Yes, sir?"

"Did those men of yours reach Red City?"

"Yes, sir."

A twinkle came into the pale green eyes. "Carry on,
Captain."


It was a filthy night.

By the time Ducane reached the small cluster of vehicles
on the top of the hill, visibility had been cut to a few yards
by the rain that slanted out of the low, black sky like stair121


rods. As he climbed out of the Land Rover there was not
even a light to be seen in the inky void he knew to be the
Brecon Hills.

He found Forbes in the cab of a green and black Bedford
truck, hunched over a mug of soup, the rain dripping from
his waterproofs. Ducane scrambled up beside him.

"Before you say it," the sergeant grumbled, "it isn't[
It's been pee-ing down since midday. Poor little sods will
get pneumonia!"

Ducane smiled to himself at the unusual sympathy
Forbes was showing for his possible new recruits. Obviously
he was feeling sorry for himself.

"How long have they been out?"

"Fourteen hours," Forbes said into the mug.

Ducane wiped the condensation from the side window
and peered out. No sign. "Four minutes overdue. No one
in yet?"

"Just one. Took one look in- my eyes and collapsed."
"That I can understand."

"It was exhaustion," Forbes replied darkly. "Kids today
haven't got the stamina! Never been the same since they
stopped National Health orange juice."

No one in the Special Air Service ever forgot the initial
selection trek. A thirteen hour race against time across the
'Telsh mountains or Brecon Hills in the winter darkness
with only a forty-pound pack, a rifle and a compass for
company. It was just the first method of whittling down
the three hundred yearly applications to join the SAS,
always from other army units. It was rare for more than
sixty to be accepted.

The half-way point was always popular with the old
salts when they weren't away on active service. Because,
although it was only half-way, the new recruits were led
to believe it was the end of the gruelling cross-country
scramble. Just the expressions on their faces brought back
the memories of their own agonising days of initial training.

Ducane said: "I'm sorry about that business over the
nursing-hostel. I just hope she was worth it."


I22

"I didn't have time to find out, did I?" grumbled
Forbes.

"Do I know her?"

"She was at the dance. Sally someone. A third-year
nurse. Big brown eyes and big ..."

"And she invited you to ...?"

Forbes glared at him angrily. "What is this, some sort
of interrogation? We had this arrangement. Only it seems
she forgot about it."

"I remember. I thought she was iokin'."

The sergeant's smile was sour. "It seems you were
right."

"So she kicked up a fuss?"

He drained his mug of soup. "Well, wouldn't you if you
found a strange man creepin' round your bedroom in the
middle of the night?"

"I should be so lucky," Ducane chuckled, imagining the
scene. "But why didn't you get out fast?"

Forbes eyed him coldly. "Well, for one I'd had a skin

ful, hadn't I? And for two I couldn't find my boots."
"Your boots?" Incredulous.

"Yes, my bloody boots, cloth ears! I'd left 'em by the
window so I wouldn't make a noise. I wasn't that pissed.
But when she started screaming I had my trousers off, and
by the time I got 'em on again I couldn't find my sodding

boots. Now let's drop the subject, shall we?"
"And the sister caught you?"
"I said drop it!"

Ducane shook his head, not trusting himself to speak in
case he couldn't suppress the laughter.

"The. Old Man gave me a right rollickin'," Forbes
continued. "Said he had to do some fast talkin' to stop the
girl pressing charges. Silly cow. Threaiened to have me
court-martialled and this time I had the distinct feeling he
meant it."

"Stop boozin' or you're out?"

"Christ! I sometimes wonder if life's worth living, I do
really. And after that long chat we had the other week about
hitting the Sligo camps. I thought we were gettin' on well." "


i23

"That's why I've come up here."

For a moment there was alarm in Forbes' eyes. It wasn't
the first time that Ducane had seen fear in the sergeant's
eyes; but it was only ever when he thought he might be
RTU'd.

Ducane said: "He "was impressed with your suggestion.

I gather it's all in the early stages, but there's just a chance
he could get the okay."

"Stop pullin' it, Jacko!"

"It's true. And if it goes ahead, he's as good as promised

us first crack. But keep it under your hat."
"Well, I'll be ..."
"Sober," Ducane said.
"Huh?"

"That's his condition. You keep off the liquor, and we
get a crack at the job, if it comes off."

The sergeant's moody expression lightened visibly.
"You think he meant it? Not just a bit of the old behavioural
psychology."

"He meant it, I'm sure. And the fact he mentioned it
at all suggests he is pretty sure he'll get clearance for the
operation."

Forbes wiped the back of his sleeve roughly across his
mouth, removing the soup traces from his moustache. He
stared at the rain pounding on the windshield, and a large,
fat smile began to spread across his face.

The cab door swung open and a bereted corporal looked
up, his eyes squinting against the lashing rain, the water
streaming down his poncho. "Picked one up, Sarge,
hundred yards away! Shall I give him a light?"

Forbes grinned. 'Yep, put the poor devil out of his
misery. In this muck he might miss us completely and we'll have to go lookin' for him."

While the soldier flashed a torch for the new recruit,
Forbes and Ducane climbed out into the gushing torrent.
The man, a major from one of the infantryregiments, was
scrambling up the hillside with difficulty under the weight of his sodden pack, his feet slipping as the loose soil was
washed away under the soles of his boots. Progress was


I24

laboriously slow as he weaved his way to where the ground
was firmer, gradually working towards the torch beam.

Forbes stood erect as he approached, peering down over
his barrel chest at the ashen, mud-smeared face as the

officer finally crawled onto the trackway.

"Well done, sir," the sergeant said.

"God, am-I-pleased to see you!" The man gasped as
he staggered to his feet. "What a night! I lost my bearings
round by the stream. It must have added three miles."

"It must have done," returned Forbes, suppressing a
sardonic smile.

The man was too exhausted to notice. He just stood
there, panting, his legs astride, hands held limply by his
side as the rain ran off his smock in rivulets. "Now, sir,
I'd like you to turn round and go back over those hills to
where you've just come from."

Dark, hate-filled eyes burned up at him from the pale,
wet face. "What?"

"You heard right, sir. Go back."

"You must be jokin'! I thought this was the end of the

course.' '

Forbes nodded impassively. "Well, sir, in a way it is.
Look at it more as your obiective. Your military target.
But the colonel's men always have to return from .their
missions. I mean you just can't go to the nearest friendly
Russian and say I've just blown up your ball-bearing
factory, can you put me up for the night. Now can you,
sir?"

"Back?" The major turned and looked back down the
slippery slope to where another bedraggled figure was
crawling inexorably up the slope, clinging to tufts of grass
for support. "No, Sergeant, I've bad my lot.,

Forbes turned his head and called out to the corporal.
"Take the maior in, Newton. Give him some dry kit and
a big hot mug o' soup!"

As the officer trudged past, Forbes said: "Sorry you
couldn't make it, sir."

Ducane nodded towards the second recruit who was
reaching the edge of the track. "He's a little one. His pack's "


x25

as big as he is. Must be from a pigmy regiment."

"Cradle-snatching, now," Forbes muttered out of the
side of his mouth.

The young lance-corporal climbed to his weary five feet
three and pulled himself to attention. "Perkis, Sarge. Sorry
I'm late."

"So am I, boy," Forbes said.

"It was a stream, Sarge; it was swollen so I 'ad to swim
it. Current carried me away. I was lost when I got to the
other side. Then I sprained me bloody ankle."

"Never mind," consoled Forbes. "You did a good job.
Now, I'd like you to turn round and find your way back

to where you started."
"Now?"
"Now."

The lance-corporal pulled a resigned grin. "I must be
off my head." He turned, heaving the Bergen pack higher
on his slim back, and began to retrace his footsteps down
the slope.

Ducane said: "Make a note of him, Dave."

I26


CHAPTER 7


He was late.

For the fifth time in as many minutes Roisin McGuire
looked at the clock. Harrington had been late many times
before, but she thought tonight might have been something
special. Perhaps he was just proving a point. After the
weeks of her obstinate refusal to see him, she could hardly
blame him if he took the opportunity to repay her in kind.

It was not through callous disregard for him that she
had refused his calls, both during the two days she had
spent in hospital and after her return to the farm. The night
that McNally had come had shattered her life, changed
everything. Everything had lost its perspective, including
the way she felt for Harrington and the way she felt about
herself.

Carefully she had weighed the SAS captain's words in
her mind, examining them for crumbs of comfort and
truth. Sean's death had been a wicked blow and, as many
times as she remembered Jacko's assurance that Hatting
ton could have been in no way responsible, her brother's
own words kept flooding back to her.

If he had used her to get information about McNally,
why not Scan too? Had he wanted her as desperately as
he led her to believe, Roisin reasoned, it would be very
convenient to have Scan out of theway. Harrington's kind
and tolerant words in the car and in the pub could have
been a blind. After all, you don't ask a girl to marry you
in one breath, and admit you've been responsible for her
brother's death in the next.

She stood up from the new sofa and looked around the
parlour that had been part of her home for so long. The
workmen had done a good job. It was hard to believe how


I27

it had looked on that fateful night. Plaster and woodwork
had been repaired, the walls papered and the blood-soaked
carpet entirely replaced. The Army had advised her to have
bullet-proof shutters fitted discreetly to all the downstairs
windows, and she saw no "reason to ignore their advice.
Covered by the new curtains, they did not create the
prison-like atmosphere she had feared.

Not that there had ever been the merest hint of danger
or reprisals to her. On the contrary her friends and neigh
hours on nearby farms had been almost too helpful. All
had rallied round to do her shopping, bringing gifts to
replace damaged household items, and even helping with
extra labour. Even her bank manager had offered a loan
without security.

No one had actually asked about her involvement. Her
injuries had convinced everyone she was in no way in
collusion with the Brits who raided the farmhouse. It was
'Lord Charles' who had found his popularity waning
sharply, and gossip about his association with Roisin had
spread rapidly. The fact that he was no longer seen in her
company added fuel to the fire that he was an intelligence
agent for the British Army. Even the warmth of Shelagh
Brady's welcome when he entered her pub had cooled
distinctly.

Everyone had been shocked by the ferocity of the raid.
It was said that several bodies had been found, some
viciously mutilated with fancy knifework. Jim O'Nions was
mourned deeply, although few could tolerate him when
he was alive. Two of the others had been locals also. Farmer
Dominic pronounced loudly that it was the work of the
fiendish SAS, but no one knew for certain. It was a popular


Roisin crossed the kitchen area to where a full length
mirror was fixed to the wall. Not bad, she thought. Her
previously flawless complexion was distinctly marred now
by the angry bootlace scar across her cheek, but the hospital
had shown her pictures of worse injuries that had healed
over the years. Make-up helped a lot, although it would
do nothing for the disfigured ear which still caused her

I28

pain. But now that her hair was a little longer, it was hardly
noticeable.

She stepped back to admire the new tartan skirt and
waistcoat top to which she had treated herself with part
of the bank loan. It looked smart over the white sweater,
and she wondered if Harrington would like it.

She had eventually agreed to see him after being bombarded
with countless letters and a stream of phone-calls.
In the end she had been quite rude to him, although she
was thankful he did not give up. At first she had been
certain that he was the last person in the world she wanted
to marry. But as the days drifted by she found she missed
his company, her mind wandering more and more frequently
to an imaginary cottage on the English mainland.
Even dancing had lost much of its joy for her. Although
fewer asked her when they saw her face, there were still
old boyfriends who were not perturbed. Some used the
opportunity to swear vengeance on the Brit pigs in a vain
hope they would win her bodily favours.

That was one area where there was no chance of them
succeeding. Even now, as she looked back, she could hardly
believe that she'd made love with Mclqally. It was like a
horrific nightmare when she remembered, yet at the time
she had seemed powerless to resist. Almost as though
she was avenging Sean by destroying what she had with
Harrington. But she tried not to dwell on the reasons
behind it. She told herself to count her blessings. She had
had a period since, and there were no outward signs to
give her away.

Now she had agreed to see Harrington, she would have
to decide whether to keep the secret. It was going to have
been easy, just telling him she plmmed to stay and continue
as before. But her desire to see him had intensified in the
past twenty-four hours until now she could scarcely wait
to be with him again.

She promised herself that, if she agreed to marry, she
would tell him about McNally straight away.

The sound of Harrington's car pulling up outside made
her iump. Nervously she ran the tip of her tongue over


I29

her lips, and straightened her skirt. She was halfway
across the floor when the doorbell rang. Something made
her stop. It was. probably seeing the large plate of steel
that had been bolted to the back of the door as another
safety measure.

Roisin shrugged, and decided to slip the security-chain
into place before opening the door. As it rattled home, the

bell rang again.

"Charles?"

"Of course. Who else." The voice was impatient.
When she opened the door it happened. 7rith a wild cry
and a crash of metal on metal, the huge steel head f the
double-handed axe sliced through the gap, wrenching the
security-chain clean out of its mounting with an ear
rending splinter of wood. As Roisin jumped back in horror
the door burst open as though a hurricane force wind
was behind it. Before she could utter an exclamation the
two hooded gunmen were in. They grabbed her arms,
ierking them violently up behind her back. Two more
masked men pushed their way through the door. Between
them a third figure trussed and bent double in a bloodstained jacket and trousers and a sack over his head, was
bundled forward.

A fifth man closed the door. He told two others to search
upstairs. There was something familiar about the terse
Irish accent, but she couldn't place it.

"What do y-o-u w-ant?" Her voice was no more than

a whisper, her throat suddenly parched.

"Shut up, slut," returned the last man as he looked over
her shoulder for the gunmen who had gone upstairs. She
noticed they were all in black. Black ieans, black leather
ierkins and black hoods with sinister white eyeholes. They
even wore uniform black leather belts with equipment pouchcs.

She didn't hear the footsteps of the men returning down

the stairs, but they were there when she was roughly turned
around and frogmarchcd across the room.

"Take her to a back bedroom!" the Icader snappcd. "I
don't want no nosey sod noticing anything from the road."


x3o

oisin couldn't be sure, but the accent seemed to have a
nasal American twang.

Suddenly she remembered Harrington. It wasn't her
they were after, it was him.. Someone must have listened
in at the telephone exchange. Passed a message to someone.
He would walk straight into the ambush.'Like a rat in a
trap. And she was the bait.

She was bundled brutally up the stairs, her arms twisted
so far up her back they felt as though they would break
free of their sockets.

"Please d-o-n-t," she gasped. ''You're hurting me."
Her pleas were ignored and they pushed all the harder,
racing her through the door into her own bedroom, so fast
and high that her. feet didn't touch the floor.

"Get her on the bed," shouted one of them. "And get
her sodding tights off, the dirty little Brit fucker!"

The words were like an icy shock. Her belly knotted in
a sudden spasm and she felt dizzy. She shut her eyes
quickly, her mouth opening to protest as she felt herself
being flung backward onto the bed, the two men pinioning
her arms above her head.

"No- o-o-o!" Finally she found her voice---it came in
a shriek that reverberated around the empty farmhouse.
The sound was cut off midway when the fist struck her
mouth. She felt the sweetish taste of blood as an angry
hand grabbed at the tartan skirt, ripping it roughly from
her body. Fingers prodded hastily around her waist, finding
a grip. Then she felt the nylon being peeled quickly
from her legs.

Oh God, oh God, she pleaded silently, terrified to open
her mouth. It wasn't Harrington they wanted. It oas her.

"Hold her legs open!" More hands grabbed her, fingers
hard and hurting. She waited, prostrate and trembling, her
legs hooked over the bed, for the pants to be torn from
her.

Nothing happened. There was a curious clack of metal
and plastic as though someone was fiddling with a gadget.
Her chest heaving, Roisin opened her eyes.

Three of the men had removed their hoods. One of them "

Rwas patiently fitting a drill bit to a Black and Decker.

The dreaded realisation of what was to happen sank in.
She had heard about it happening. Heard of it. But never
... "For God's sake, someone, stop him." Her voice started
fading. Her stomach seemed to physically sink as she felt
the vomit rising in her throat. But no one made a move
to help her.

"Gag the bitch, Reagan! And I don't want those bloody
wide eyes staring at me!"

Her world was plunged into breathless darkness as the
pillow was stuffed hard into her face. But still she could
hear. an Irish voice droning on, harsh and bitter. "This
is what happens to dirty little sluts who inform on the IRA
A bullet will do it, but we-save this trick for the reel bastards." He spat out the word. "Not only McNally and
your own local people, but your own sodding brother. All
killed because you blabbed your fuckin', mouth to your
soldier boy lover ..."

"Okay, hold yet horses a minute." It was the American
voice again. "Bring the jerk in here."

As Roisin gasped to breathe, she heard the noise of two
more men entering the small room and the sound of someone
resisting. Suddenly she remembered the man with the
sack over his head who she had glimpsed as they had rushed
in. She had been so shocked and concerned for herself that
she had not thought about him.

"Okay, you creep," the man called Reegan said. "You.
don't care about yourself. Brave, brave stiff upper-lipped
Brit bastard. Now let's see how much you care for your
little slut."

"Leave her alone!" the voice was choked and unrecognisable
as though coming through a mouthful of soap. As
she realised that it was Harrington's voice she tried to
scream, forcing air into her lungs, but no sound came out.

The sudden high-pitched whine of the power drill filld
the room, the sound coming closer.

Strong hands gripped her right leg, forcing the sole of
her foot firmly against the floor. The whirring steel bit
touched her skin, feeling instantly like a scald shooting

sparks of pain through her nervous system. Then came the
agonising grind of indescribable torment as the hard tip
bored slowly into her kneecap, spewing a mess of blood
and gristle, flecked with chips of white bone. Involuntarily
her buttocks clenched and she thrust her pelvis forward
in a grotesque imitation of orgasm as the spasms stabbed
through her.

It was worse as the whining died and the bit was slowly
withdrawn. Her stomach muscles contracted violently as
she felt the vomit rising up through her intestines and her
bladder empty.

"There," muttered Reagan with satisfaction. "Halfway
done. It's all pretty quick. Better'n you deserve." He
chuckled. "No Special Air Service boyfriends to rescue
you this time, eh, little Brit fucker?"

The American voice was quiet, both soothing and
menacing at the same time. "Okay, now we've done the
right knee. You know if we do the left the young lady will
never get out of a wheelchair again. So, your cooperation
is again requested ..."

"Get stuffed[" This time the muffled voice was clearly
Harrington's.

There was a slight pause, then the American voice said
slowly: "Make sure he watches. Get him close enough so's
he can smell the bone burning."

The harrowing sound of the'drill began again. Roisin's
scream was muffled by the pillow, a this time she
couldn't stop the stomach-tearing retch that erupted with
the force of a geyser.


It must have been the sound of the single shot that shook
her back to consciousness, but sh did not realise at the
time. She was convinced it had all been a nightmare.

For several seconds she remained inert on her bed,
staring at the ceiling, allowing the waves of relief to wash
away the cold sweat that bathed her body. As she tried to
move her legs the terrible truth dawned on her. Feverishly,
she pulled herself up onto her elbows and looked down at
the revolting mess on the bedclothes around her shattered "

knee-caps. It needed no surgeon to tell her that she
would never walk again. They had made a very thorough
job.

She coughed and spluttered violently, clearing her
throat, but found that she was too numb to cry. Movement
was agony as she lowered herself to the floor, pulling her
lifeless calves behind her across the carpet to the door. It
seemed an age as she dragged herself to the top few stairs.
Fighting to see through the stinging tears, she peered over
the bannisters at the macabre tableau below her.

The five men in black stood in a circle around an empt
straight-backed chair. At their feet lay a tall figure curled
like a foetus, clutching at his smashed and bloody head.
A sheath of hand-written papers lay on the table and a
pocket recorder whirred discordantly. It was the end of
the tape.

"You stupid bastard, Malone," said the tallest of the
figures with the American accent. "What the hell were you
thinkin' of?"

Malone held the big revolver limply in his hand. "I told
you, sir, he tried to make a grab for me. To kill me."

"For God's sake learn not to panic," came the terse
reply. "Besides, how far d'you think he'd have got with
five of us?"

"You said yourself to never give the SAS an inch!"
Malone retorted defensively.

"Okay, okay. I've told you enough times not to underestimate
your enemy. Anyhow it's done now, I guess. At
least you've got fast reactions."

"I said I'm sorry!" Malone said. Angrily,- he kicked at
the body.
"Okay," said the leader. "Get the papers and the
recorder, and let's go." "What about the body?" asked the man called Reagan.
"It's no good to us now, he can't talk any more," replied
the American. "C'mon, move it."

Within seconds they had gone, leaving the body beside
the chair where it had fallen. The mantleshelf clock
chimed, the noise echoing loudly round the empty farm,


I34

ringing in Roisin's head like a church bell.

She pressed her head against the bannisters and began
to sob uncontrollably.


Earl Lee McClatcher, with the honorary title of Colonel,
Forward Combat Unit of the Provisional Irish Republican Army, stood on the mound of soft turf, and watched the
results of the first month's training. The Polaroid glasses
he wore against the late September sun gave his face an
expression of impassive cruelty as he waited motionless,
the chill wind tugging at the collar of his windcheater and
the deep peak of the forage cap. His hands remained
clasped behind his back, his chest inflated to its full forty
two inches.

The first batch of twenty men who came round the edge
of the hill were impressive. They had been the first arrivals:
scrawny, unkempt youths from various towns in Ulster,
recommended by the Army Council's special selection
committee as the most promising candidates for the new
crack FCU. Insolent, arrogant and frequently ill-educated,
they had presented the two Americans with ideal base
material on which to work and mould into the pattern they
had in mind. Years of experience at Fort Bragg and
the Marine training base at Parris Island had taught
McClatcher and Loveday the psychology and the routine
---the way to get certain results. McGuiness had sworn that
each had a record of'brave and courageous acts', although
the ex-Green Berets had their doubts..

The new recruits received their biggest shock thirty
minutes after their arrival at the old friary on a remote
peninsula in Galway, when each was wheeled into the
temporary barber's shop and shorn like a lamb. until just
a thin fuzz of hair remained. They were then paraded
shirtless before the mound where McClatcher now stood.
He had surveyed them 'in cold silence for a full minute,
before he began to speak. Despite the fact that the bitter
wind snatched away much of what he was saying, the effect
was not lost on the small band Of men who looked up at
him, as they shivered and shook. There was no doubt what


I35

they were in for; no doubt that their lives were about to.
be changed radically and permanently.

Loveday had brought them to attention. "Right, you
fucking jug-ears! Get to attention when I give the word!
Not before. Not after, but on the command! And then you
won't move a fucking inch until the Colonel has finished
with you. As far as I'm concerned you are FINISD

"Don't sway in the breeze! Don't fidget! Don't play with
yourselves! Just listen! And if your snotty noses run in the
cold--LEAVE THEM ALONE! GOT IT!

"Right, then ... HAT-TENTION!!"

McClatcher surveyed the two uneven ranks with thinly
disguised disgust as they attempted to obey Lovcday's
bawling command.

He began: "My name is McClatcher. You will address
me as Colonel--but only when spoken to. The master�
sergeant is Loveday. But I assure you, you won't love the
day you set eyes on his ugly face, because he is going to
knock you spineless Micks into something resembling
fighting men!

"Personally, I don't think he stands a chance. I think
you're a load of FUCKING WANKERS[ I've never seen such
skinny, gutless morons in my life.

"Now, I've been given the unenviable task of turning
you into something called a Forward Combat Unit. That's
all very fine 'n' dandy, but from where I stand you stand
more chance of killin' British soldiers by makin' 'em die
laughin'. That's because Sergeant Loveday and me are Green Berets."

Loveday's voice cracked like a pistol shot: "Take that
smirk off your face, turd!" The man in question froze
immediately.

McClatcher continued: "Now Green Berets are toughter
than any Marines in the US Army, and ff you don't think
that's significant, you'll soon find out just how wrong you
are[ Because for the next two months you fuckin' Micks
are goin' to become men that the Green Berets might even
tolerate in their ranks! GOT IT? Me and the master-sergeant
are gonna eat with you, sleep with you, and watch you

I36

sweat off your asses until you drop dead or keep runnin'!
Here you're A HUNDRED MILES FROM NOWHERE! And your
mammas ain't gonna come visitin' you, and you ain't
gettin' no postcards or chow from home. You're here on
this peninsula until you become what we want you to be--
or else you die trying!

"So get it straight! You volunteered for a one-way ticket,
and believe me that's exactly what you've got. There's only
one way out of this camp, and that's in a coffin! Those
armed guards aren't to keep people out, they're to keep
you civilian shits in until you become soldiers. Not just
soldiers, but GREEN BERETS. Arid Green Berets don't sweat.
They don't get cold! They don't get tired! They never
stop running! They ain't never scared! They're the best
marksmen! They're the best hand-to-hand fighters! And
they never say no! You worthless shits are going to
be McClatcher's Green Berets. You're going' to be
McClatcher's private army. You're goin' to put the
fear of Christ up the asses of British soldiers, or me
and Loveday will put the fear of the fuckin' Devil up you!"

He paused momentarily, watching the slightly swaying
rows of bewildered, frightened faces. "Some of you
have got silly titles given you by those ierks in the Army
Council. Forget it! You're all just privates from now on.
MCCLATCHER'$ PRIVATES. The best fighting men in Ireland! GOT IT?"

There was a silence.
"GOT IT?" Lovcday bawled.

There was a mumble of incoherent voices. "LOUDER, YOU FUCKING MICK$!" Voices rose in a iumble of answers.

"YEs, SIR, W'VE COT IT, COLOL!" shrieked Loveday.
"Yes, sir, we've got it, Colonel." "LOUDER, YOU TURDS!"

Together. "YES, SIR, WE'VE GOT IT, COLONEL!"

McClatcher nodded to Loveday. You will have, my
friends, believe me, you will have.

I37


That had been four weeks ago, and as McClatcher
watched now from his vantage point, he found it hard to
believe that they were the same men pounding towards him
at the double in perfect time, growling angrily as they ran
so that they sounded like a hundred strong.

In those twenty-eight days, the thin ones had added
pounds to their weight; the fat ones had experienced the
slow tightening of muscles they'd forgotten they possessed.
It was a gradual process like the skilful tuning of a guitar
string until the perfect note was reached.

A putaishing schedule had been vigorously maintained
that made no allowance for the worsening weather or minor
illness amongst the recruits. Now the breathless had rediscovered
their lungs and the weak learned that sheer
determination and will-to-win could overcome a body. that
was already beyond the limits of normal pain and exertion.
Loveday was even more hated than McClatcher, his
'TWEITXt-FIVE PSH-OPS!' being issued at the drop of a hat
or the careless shuffle of a foot. Just the suspicion of insolence or arrogance, even if it was only in the Negro's
imagination, was enough to get the victim on all fours.

Everyone moved 'at the double' wherever they went,
from when they were called at 6am to when they fell
exhausted into their canvas camp beds at Iopm. The first
week had combined hours of drilling and physical exercise
with the study of rudimentary infantry techniques and
weapons training. Once their bodies had become more
accustomed to constant strain and effort, the second week
saw even more vigorous bodily demands. Twenty mile
cross-country runs and an assault course combined to test
stamina, co-ordination and balance to breaking-point.

During the final two weeks, fieldcraft, advanced infantry
techniques, weapons training and unarmed combat had
come to the fore. It was certainly a crammed course, but
it had been more successful than McClatcher had dared
dream possible. Three ex-Marine NCOs had been hired for specialist training, and this had eased the management
problems as the second twenty-men draft arrived to be put
through 'McClatcher's mincing machine'.

I38

There had only been two casualties; one who broke an
arm in self-defence training with Loveday, and another
who drowned. Driven by desperation, he had attempted
to swim the icy waters of the lough, rather than slip through
the line of armed pickets who guarded the base of the
peninsula. As McClatcher had pointed out, in another two
weeks the drowned man would have been good enough to
wriggle across the open parade ground in front of Buckingham
Palace without being spotted by the sentry.

Three electronics engineers from the first two intakes
had been selected for special training on the sensor equipment
that was being smuggled in from the United States.
Most of it had come from the extensive Igloo White
operations in Vietnam in the early seventies, originally
purloined by servicemen. They had realised there would
be ready money for the equipment on the black market
and that a few malfunctioning sensors, out of the thousands
in the US Army inventory, would not be missed.

Shortly the men would begin putting their theory into
practice by mbnitoring the recruits' infiltration exercise all
over the peninsula. McClatcher was confident- that he
would soon be able to field an active ten man combat unit,
selected from the best of the intake. In another six weeks,
he considered he would probably be able to increase that
number to nearer thirty. The remainder would be good,
but not quite good enough to operate with the necessary
impunity. There would, however, be plenty of supporting
roles for them to fulfil.

Shortly, McClatcher mused, the Provisional Irish Republican
Army would have a group of men worthy of the
term. It would be a surprise that the British Army could
not easily overcome. McGuinss had meanwhile been
working hard at co-ordinating intelligence efforts to build
up a complete and reliable picture of Army operations in
the border counties. The spasmodic turnouts and inspired
guesses of the past were gradually being replaced by a
steady stream of related facts and figures, which were
checked and double-checked before being accepted. From
these, patterns were .gradually becoming clear. It was now


I39

possible to identify foot and vehicle patrols, roadblocks and
surveillance operations, the dates when the routes were
likely to be changed or modified.

At McClatchcr's suggestion, the PIRA's own surveillance was improved and the importance of patience
stressed, so that now something was even starting to be
known about the movements of the Special Air Service
combat teams. The American had suggested the sort of
techniques they were likely to use, the sort of ground they
preferred. By themselves watching people they knew to be
involved with the PIRA, the Republicans were more likely
to discover clandestine Army surveillance operations. Hints
were given at detecting trails: carelessly crushed grass,
freshly snapped twigs. How to scan suspected hideout
areas in repeated sweeps rather than the square box
method. Many farm dogs were being replaced by similar
looking animals trained to track and sniff out humans.
Occasionally a hired aircraft would fly over the border
territory in the early morning. Areas usually free from
pedestrian traffic, but near to Republican safe-houses,
were trampled more frequently by young couples out for
romantic walks.

All I need is for this contract to be renewed for another
year, thought McClatcher, and I'll have the border country
buttoned-up so tightly that even the SAS will think twice
before venturing out.

At that moment Loveday called out to him as he came
jogging across the turf in long, easy strides from the old
friary on the flat-topped hill.

"They're ready," he announced, pounding to a standstill
beside McClatcher.

The American nodded at the twenty men now disappearing
towards the lough at a steady, rhythmic trot, their angry

growl no longer audible above the wind.

"Not bad, eh, Winston?"

The big Negro shrugged. "Not bad for a bunch o' half
baked Micks. Give me a while more, an' I'll let yer have
somethin' you can be proud of. Still, I guess that fer four
weeks 'tain't too bad."


14o

McClatcher gave Loveday a hard but playful thud in
the ribs with his balled fist. "Yer black bastard, I do believe
your standards are higher than mine. Now, let's go see
these goddamn new arrivals."

Together they strode back up the hill to the old stone
building.

"An' how was last night's trip over the border?" Love
day asked.

McClatcher gave a slow smile. "Like clockwork, well
almost. I've got an hour-long tape--I'll play it over to you.

Packed full of stuff, detailed."

"Reliable?"

"I reckon. We've done-some double checks an' it all
tallies so far. He sang like a nightingale."

Loveday frowned. "Without the extra persuasion?"
McClatcher said tersely. "No, he wouldn't say a thing
until we used the girl. He'd have said more if Malone
hadn't panicked when he tried something."

"Shit, man, you shoulda let me come, like I said. Some
o' these guys are still trigger-happy."

"No, Malone's shapin' up well really. And that guy
Reagan's a mean bastard." He glanced sideways at the
Negro. "Besides, you wouldn't have liked what we had to do.'"

"Don't talk shit, man. I ain't forgotten 'Nam. I know
circumstances dictate the actions. Jest don't count me out
again, huh?"

As they reached the friary entrance, McClatcher turned.
"Listen, Winston, how does this sound--a trip with me

to a young lady in o1' London town."

"Pattie Dueane?"

"An' we'll be there tomorrow afte.rnoon."

I4I


CHAPTER 8


"Sarah! Don't do that, darling!"

Trish put down the iron and looked across the kitchen

to where her daughter was bouncing on the freshly ironed
sheets stacked in the plastic laundry basket. Exasperated,
she ran a hand through her hair.

"Bouncy, bouncy!" cried Sarah, who was bored at not
being able to venture outside--it had been raining relentlessly
all day.

"I'll smack your bottom if you do that again." Trish
strode over to Sarah and jerked her none too gently from
the basket. "Oh, God, look at the time, I've got to be at
work in half an hour. I haven't even made the beds yet."

Sarah looked up, wide-eyed, not sure how it was all her
fault.

"Well, I'm not going to re-do those sheets. There's not enough
time. I'd better change. Come on, we'll get your

coat on. I've got to drop you at Mrs Andrews."

"I warma stay here," pouted Sarah.

Trish scooped her up in her arms and ran up the stairs

to the bedroom. Quickly she changed her dress then sat
in front of the mirror, running a comb rapidly through
her curls while Sarah tried clumsily to cope with the
buttons on her red plastic mackintosh. Pat Ducane, she
said to herself, you look a wreck. Much more of this and
you'll start looking like an old hag.

She had just massaged in some face make-up when the

door-bell rang.

"Oh, hell!"

"Who is it, mummy?"

"How should I know. It's probably the milkman. I
didn't pay him last week."


142

She slipped on an off-white, military-style trench coat
then pulled the sou'wester over Sarah's head before she

led her down the stairs.

	Bing-bong, bing-bong.

"All right, I'm coming," she called angrily. She helped
her daughter down the last few steps and threw open the
door.

	"Hi, Pat! Long time no see."

She stared in amazement at the two large men standing
on the step, their collars turned up against the rain. For
a moment she recognised neither of them, aware only that
one was black.

"I'd never.have known yet, Pat baby," McClatcher said.
"What with yet hair 'n' all. Used t'be straight as an arrow!"

."Real putty though," grinned Loveday. "Wowee!
Yessir."

Trish shook her head, bewildered. "I-I'm sorry, I'm
afraid I don't think .I know you gentlemen ..."

"Honey, how could you ever forget us?" McClatcher
asked, his voice feigning hurt.

"Who is it, mummy?" demanded Sarah, struggling to
look round the door.

	"Try Hong Kong, Pat?"
	"Huh?"

Loveday began singing. "I coulda danced all night ..." Her hand went to her mouth. "Oh, my goodness, it's
Earl! Oh" dear, do forgive me! I never recognised you. I
mean, heavens, it's been so long! And ..."

"Winston, ma'am," prompted the Negro. "At your
service."

	She laughed. "

		Oh, of course. Winston. Earl and

Winston! Goodness, how did ybu find us?".

"Courtesy of your wonderful Post Office," McClatcher
answered.

"What are you doing here? Are you still in the Army?"
"Hell, no, Pat. Left a few years back now. We're over
here on a business trip, y'know. So we thought we'd look
up you an' yet husband. Fer oi' times sake."

	"I'm afraid Jack's back at the regiment now. If only

you'd called last week. He was home on leave."
McClatcher looked disappointed.

"Never mind, ma'am," Loveday said. "Jest seem' you's
a sight fer sore eyes!"

She smiled, her eyes dancing at the compliment. "Look,
you mustn't think I'm rude, but I'm late for work. I was
just rushing out with Sarah ..."

"Oh, that's okay," McClatcher said.

Loveday was peerint/over her shoulder into the hallway
where Sarah was still struggling to get past her mother.
"That must be yer li'le girl!"

Trish turned. "Oh, yes, that's Sarah."

"My, oh my," Loveday crooned, peering into the house.

"Ain't she jest a li'l-e o1' angel. Like a picture of her room!"
"She's a little devil at times!"
"May I?" Loveday asked.

Trish shrugged, worried about the time. "Oh, of
course."

Loveclay brushed close to her as he went into the hall.
He went down on his haunches.

Addressing himself to Sarah: "Well, hello there, li'le
lady. An' how are you?"

Sarah's eyes flashed at him, then to Tfish and back again,
her hand nervously in her mouth.

"It's all fight, Sarah," said her mother. "Winston's an
old friend of mummy and daddy."

Sarah stared for a moment, mesmefised by the big dark
face a few inches in front of her's and by the gleaming white
teeth.

"He's a black man," she said.

"Oh, Sarah... I"

Loveday chuckled throatily. "That's fight, li'le girl. Do
you think it would rub off if I scrubbed hard enough?"

"Oh, Winston, don't..." began Trish, but the question
was being given great concentration by Sarah.

"Yes!" she said suddenly, confident she was right.
The two men roared with laughter and Sarah beamed
around at them. Loveday reached in his pocket and pulled
out a boiled sweet. "Well now, Sarah, let's you 'n' me be


144

friends. How 'bout this candy. All the way from America."
"Cowboy," said Sarah, aiming to please.

He handed her the sweet which she grabbed eagerly,
fumbling with the wrapper: "I guess it's okay?" he asked,
looking up at Trish.

She shrugged, defeated, smiling. "It won't hurt, I
suppose."

The interlude had given McClatcher a chance to weigh
things up in his mind. He said: "Look, Pat, why don't you
let me 'n' Winston here take you out tonight. For o1' times
sake. A nice restaurant in your West End..."

Trish was surprised. "Oh, gosh, Earl, that would be

lovely, but I'm afraid with Sarah it's all a bit awkward..."
"No neighbours?"

"Well, not at such short notice. I don't like to impose
on people..." She hesitated, wondering whether Mrs
Andrews would oblige.

"I tell you what," McClatcher said. "Why don't we
bring round a meal to you, huh? Maybe some chicken, or
some Chink grub. I've seen plenty o' places round here.
And plenty o' hootch, of course!"

Trish suddenly remembered the party in Hong Kong.
Her dance. Stark naked. She felt her cheeks flush. The
way McClatcher had emphasised the 'hootch' rang a small
warning bell at the back of her mind, but nevertheless she
suddenly felt happier at the thoughts of a break from the
lonely hours watching television.

"Oh, really, Earl, you shouldn't..."

"Nonsense!" he waved aside her protest. "It'll be swell.
A nice o1' reunion. Candlelight supper ... You have got
some candles, Pat?"

She laughed, the idea appealing. '.'I can get some."
"Fine, fine. An' you wear a nice pretty dress to go with
yer pretty hair!" He smiled expansively. "An' I might even
persuade o1' Winston here to scrub up his skin some!"

They all laughed, including Sarah who didn't understand
much of the conversation, except that her mother
didn't seem in such a bad temper now.

"Eight?" McClatcher asked.


I45

"Fine."

"Right, ciao!" The two men trotted down the steps and
set off briskly along the wet pavement, leaving Trish dazed
and bewildered. When she followed with Sarah a few
moments later, her gait was light, almost a skip, despite
the rain that continued to pour.


"So Jacko's goin' back to Ulster?" Earl asked casually.
"Yes, soon now, I expect," Trish replied. It was the
third bottle of champagne they'd consumed and her head
was feeling distinctly muzzy. She had protested loudly
when they had produced them triumphantly from the bag.
But McClatcher had ignored her words, insisting that the
bottles be put in the refrigerator until they collected the
meal an hour later.

Winston had spent half-an-hour telling Sarah, who had
lost all desire for sleep, how he'd started life as a white
prince and how a wicked witch had put a spell on him,
turning him black until he found the right girl to marry.
He obviously enjoyed the story, told with passion and in
detail, and the inference wasn't lost on Sarah. After
promising to wait until she was old enough, he finally
managed to get her to drift off to sleep.

Earl had busied himself in the kitchen, preparing the
meal they'd brought, Trish being banished to the lounge
to listen to records until the work was done. She'd been
eased into a big armchair and a large glass of Scotch placed
in her hand.

With her feet up on the coffee table, Trish couldn't
remember the last time she'd relaxed so much. She felt
a welcome feeling of light-headedness at the lifted weight
of routine and responsibility, as the men clowned their way
through an amusing double-act. Although she had spent
some time deciding what to wear, she was pleased she had
chosen the long black evening dress with the .square neck
and buttons down the front. It wasn't revealing but had
a slinky, sensuous feel to it which, she thought, was
appropriately alluring without being provocative.

She learned that the two men had started up in business


146

since leaving the US Army, and had set up a firm of
military advisors available to governments around the
world, particularly emerging third world nations who were
prepared to pay good money for advice and experience.
They dismissed the idea that they recruited mercenaries
with roaring laughter, and explained that their work was
restricted to supplying equipment and training instructors.
They had had enough of killing and fighting in Viemam
to last them several lifetimes.

Trish was amazed how gentle they had become. At first
she had found it difficult to remember the weeks that she
and Jack had known them in Hong Kong. But then she
recalled their skylarking together in the luxurious hotel
swimming pools, the good-natured riots they would cause
in the restaurants, and their incessant gambling. The old
double-act, she recalled, hadn't changed. But all those
years ago there had been something else. A feeling that
primeval aggression lay just below the surface. They ,had
both exuded such power and magnetism, that it was not
difficult to imagine them in the thick of combat in the
vicious jungle war of South-East Asia. They played hard,
and she assumed they must have fought even harder.
Courageous but ruthless. She remembered how she had
experienced a thrill like electricity at the anticipation of
danger and excitement when in their company; yet she had
always felt safe in their protection. And the wild times they
had shared with Jack and Dave did little to convince her
that her imagination was playing games.

It was as though domesticity had now permeated into
their lives,, although neither said they had been married,
and the thought seemed incongruous to her, especially as
their bawdiness had not diminidhed over the years.

"I'm surprised old Jacko ain't left the Service yet," Earl
said, pouring himself another, champagne. "He coulda
made himself a killin' in our game. Ain't that so, Winston?"

"Yes, man! I fought with yer husband and he knew his
stuff, did o1' Gentleman Jack."

Trish tried to focus on him. "Who?" She pushed the
large, gold-rimmed spectacles up to the bridge of her nose.


I47

"Our pet name," Earl explained. "He didn't always
agree with some of our methods. But he knew his stuff
okay. Yessir, reckon he'd do okay in our business."

She frowned, trying to concentrate on the conversation.
"You really think so?"

"Why sure I do. What'ya say, Winston? Could even be
a place for Gentleman Jack in our outfit."

Loveday was leaning forward, elbows on the table,
fondling the glass in his big hands. "Yeah, I guess we'd
have a lots a use for your o1' man, Pat. I mean it could bring
in a deal of bread."

She was aware her words were slurred, but the idea was
worth the effort to follow. "A lot of money? You meann
ermJack could work with you and get more'n he'd earn
in the Army?"

Earl laughed. "Sure's hell, yes, Pat! More'n a week than
he'd earn in a month or two. An', as I said, at the moment
business is goin' great for us."

She looked around at the pile of empty plates that had
been filled with the most exotic Chinese food she'd ever
seen, and nodded slowly, a length of curled hair falling
over her face. "It must 'ave cost a fortune, Earl, an absolute
fortune. Things must be goin' well."

"Fer you, pretty lady, it was worth it! Every last cent!"
Trish reached across the table and squeezed his hand.
It was big and warm, strong under her slender fingers.
"Thank you, Earl. It's been a wonderful evening. And you,
Winston. You really shouldn't have. I haven't enjoyed
myself so much..." ,

Her eyes focused on the flickering candle flame, mesmerised.
"... Oh ... for so long ... I can't remember ...
'Seems like a million years. We don't manage to get ...
well, I can't remember the last time we went out... Jack's always away ... money always short." Trish shook her
head suddenly, unsure she was making sense. She-realised
her hand was still clasping Earl's; she withdrew it quickly.
"Oh, Earl ... I'm sorry, what must you think of me ...
I think I'm a little tipsy."

"That's okay, sweetheart," he said softly.


I48

"You deserve a li'le relaxation, beautiful baby," Winston
added with feeling.

Trish sat upright in her chair, placing her hands on the
edge of the table to steady her balance. She said: "I want
Jack to get out. Leave ... you know ... out of the Army
... do somethin' else ... I don't know ... he could earn
better money ... move from this place."

Winston looked around the room. "Hey, honey, it's no
palace. But it sure is homely. Small by US standards but
it's homely. Guess it's your touch makes it that."

Trish was looking straight ahead. "Jack won't ... he
loves the bloody Army too much.., hasn't got the.., won't
try life outside..."

Earl murmured consolingly: "I can understand that, Pat.
As an ex-fightin' man. Life could be hell in the wrong job.
That's why he oughta be in our line. Goddamit, it's what
he knows. And there's no danger. No more front-line


"Plus a big bagful o' bread at the end of the month,"
added Winston. "'Course it rather depends on what he's
bin doin' since we last saw him."

"Yeah," interrupted Earl quickly. "If he's bin doin'
active service like you say, well, there's a good possibility
we could make room fer him."

Trish shook her head avidly, and more ringlets tumbled
over her face. "Oh, he has! He's been doing very well..."

"I heard some guys from his regiment recently caught
an IRA bigwig... ?"

She grinned, sipping more champagne. "Mmm, that was
Jack! Two of them ... IRA, watchacall 'em... ?" Giggle.

"Bigwigs!"

"No!"

"Yes, Jack was very pleased ... thins it might help his
promotion ... it's been a long time..." She stopped
abruptly, puttinff her hand to her mouth. "I'm sorry, I
shouldn't say things like that ... It's all very secret..."

Earl laughed disarmingly, patting her forearm. "Don't
you worry, honey! You're talkin' to a couple pros. We keep
strictly buttoned, don't we, Winston?"


x49

The Negro nodded. "If we don't know what Jack's bin
up to we can't decide whether t' offer him a job wi' us,
now can we?"

"I mean," Earl elaborated, "pure soldierin's one thing,
but our clients like t' have men with some experience in
intelligence. I don't suppose Jack does' any of that?"

Her vision was clouding again, the American's words
ringing around her head. She couldn't remember ff she
had already said that Jack was soon going to be doing just
that. "Jack did a lot of that ... undercover work ... in
Londonderry ... he was after two..." She giggled again.
"... two of your bigwigs ... well, not-quitesuch-big
wigs..."

"Who was that then ... ?"

Something deep in the back of her brain told her she
had said enough; wondered why these old friends needed
to know so much. She shrugged.

Earl patted her arm again. "Pat, sweetheart, we'd like
to help Jack. Fer of' times sake. But we must be in the
picture, baby. We'd like you to find out all you can about
his current operations. Quiet and discreet like, so's we can
make a full evaluation."

"I can't ... You must ask Jack..."

"Jack ain't here, sweetheart."

Winston added: "An" we'll be back Stateside before he's
on leave again."

"The names, honeychild?"

Trish shut her eyes, feeling Earl's hand stroking her
forearm. Too tired, helpless to resist. "I can't remember,
Earl ... Honestly. Oh, God, I need some coffee..."

She made a move, stumbling as she climbed from the
chair, falling against Winston. She felt the large hands on
her buttocks, warm through the material, supporting her.
"Careful, honeychild," he said gently. "Let o1' Earl get
the coffee. You c'mon sit down. Relax a li'le."

Trish looked down at the concern on the big black face.
She watched, fascinated, as the candle-light played across
the skin, highlighting its rough texture with a dull sheen,
showing up the whiteness of his smile.


I5O

She nodded, her head forward, as she felt his arms shift
their powerful grip to her waist, as he helped her across
to the settee. He sat down, steadying her as she lowered
herself next to him. His arm slid around her shoulders,
easing her head against his. Gently he kissed the mass of
ringlets.

"There, honeychild, ain't that better?" he whispered.
"Now you put yet feet up, an' let o1' Earl do some work
fer a change. Go'n now, kick yer shoes off."

She murmured quietly, almost to herself, her voice
distorted to a muffle by the closeness of his body. "I'm
sorry ... didn't mean to collapse ... on you ... not used
to all this drink ... I'm sorry..."

"That's okay, honeychild. You jest hang loose, li'le
baby."

"Oh, Winston..." Half-giggling. "That's an awful expression."

"Mebbe. But ain't that iest how yet feel?" His voice was
slow, soothing, masterful. "Lettin' it a-l-1 hang loose...
yeh."

She laughed quietly, let her arm rest around his waist,
hardly aware that her finger was drawing small circular
patterns against his shirt. "You must think I was ... well,

being ... rude ... or ... evasive."

"Huh, honeychild?"

"About Jack ... in Londonderry ... They're all just
names to me ... It's difficult ... so many names..."

"Sure, sure, baby. I know you'd tell us if yet could. You
ain't the sorta dame to hold her husband back from a good job ."

Her palm was pressing, rubbing against his side, feeling
the hardened muscles. She wasn't conscious .of the movement.
"Is it really ... that important?"

In the kitchen the kettle was beginning its low gurgle
as the water began to heat.

Earl motioned silently to "Vinston from the doorway,
nodding vehemently.

"Gee, baby, it's hard to say," �inston said, his lips to
her head, his eyes on Earl. "We wouldn't want yet to think


ISI

we're pryin'. It's jest that we have contacts. We in the
military business stick together. What is jest a name to you
often means more to us. Gives us an idea of exactly how
much the Army values Jacko. I mean Fred Smith may jest
be some goddamn Mick terrorist to you. To us he may
be a company commander. See, it all helps us evaluate ...
We gotta evaluate before we shelve out dough ... even on
an o1' buddy."

"Oh, course..." she muttered, trying to concentrate.
The kisses to her head were lingering, warm. They were
distracting. "Does Raymond Duffy mean anything to
you?"

"Nope."

"Oh. I think perhaps ... yes, I'm sure that was one..."
"Who, honeychild?" His fingers traced a line down her
cheek, scarcely touching the tiny invisible hairs. She closed
her eyes.

"I think that's who Jack was after ,.. in Londonderry
that time... Perhaps Robert... I'm sure Duffy... I can't
remember the other ... Still, if it means nothing..."

"It does to me, Pat, sweetheart." It was Earl. She didn't
open her eyes but heard the gentle rattle of china as he
crossed the room and felt the settee dip as he sat by her
feet.
"I'll have to check," he continued, "with some of my
friends in London. But I'm sure someone called Duffy was


Winston frowned at him, questioning. Earl merely

shrugged. Obviously the name meant nothing to him.
"How d'ya like yer coffee, sweetheart?"

She opened her eyes, struggling into a half-reclining
position. Winston didn't relax his grip, but just let his arm

slip from her shoulders to around her waist.

"Black, please."

"Like of' lover boy here["

Trish looked into Winston's face, smiling at her, a few
inches from her own. She could feel the affection reflected
in his dark eyes, and for a moment she felt a sudden urge
to kiss the thick, proud mouth. Instead she looked quickly


I52

away, accepting the offered cup, drinking quickly, feeling
the hot, bitter-sweet liquid burn its way down.

Earl had noticed the framed photograph on the coffee
table for the first time. "Say, how recent is that?"

It was a family shot of Trish, Jack and Sarah with Big
Dave taken two years earlier on a beach near Bournemouth.
It had only been a long Bank Holiday weekend, but it had
been the last holiday they'd had, and they had made the
most of it.

"Oh ... Mudeford ... on the south coast ... it's lovely
there ... About two years ago..."

"Jacko ain't aged much," commented Winston. "But
with a dame like you, that ain't hardly surprisin'."
"Thank you, you lovely man... You must come again."
"Feelin' better?" Earl asked.

She nodded. "Not sick now ... Just ... mmm ... oh,
deliciously relaxed." Then she became vaguely aware of
Winston gently removing her spectacles.

Earl was saying: "Well, Pat, sweetheart, I'm sure we can
fix o1' Jacko up from what you say. Maybe pretty damn
quick too..."

"Really? You ... mean that?" She could hardly believe
her ears.

"Sure, sweetheart, but don't say anything yet. Many a
slip between cup 'n' lip, y'know. He'd be earning ... hell,
what's it in English money ... three hundred pounds a
week ... as soon as he can join us."

Trish felt a glow of contentment sweep through her. Sh
felt sure Jack would be delighted. An opportunity like this,
out of the blue, was almost too good to believe. A chance
encounter. Fate playing its cards across so many years to
give them the perfect break. At last safety, and financial
security, and a job she felt sure Jackcould feel happy in.
A chance to give Sarah so many of the things she herself had had to go without.

She said: "It may take a while ... for Jack to get out
... you can't just leave, you know..."

Earl was reassuring: "We'll make all the necessary
money available ... pull some strings..."

"And he's just going.., back on a special assignment..."
"Oh, yeh?" Winston asked. His large hands were around
her waist. She felt his fingertips gently kneading the flesh
of her belly through the thin material of her dress. His
teeth nibbled persistently at her ear, his tongue flicking
around the lobe, tantalising. She felt her muscles contract
involuntarily, and a wave of warmth flooded through her
body with a suddenness she found alarming.

Another wave of nerve-tingling sensation welled deep

inside her, swirling round the tops of her legs.

Dammit, show them your disinterest!

She began talking quickly, her words more coherent, but
nervous: "Jack won't be free for a while. A new assignment.
Intelligence work. Like you were saying. One of their
operators is being pulled out. lg/inston, what do you think
you're doing!"

He had moved his hand down across her belly and she
could feel the pressure of his fingers through her dress:

"Nuthin', honeychild," he replied, but his hand didn't
move. Resting still.

Earl said: "Sweetheart, who's being pulled out?"
Trish's eyes were now wide open, trying hard to focus
on the white blur at her feet at the end of the settee. She
tried to sound matter-of-fact. "One of their people got
involved with a local farmgirl. You know, fell for her.
Apparently she gave information. So they could catch one
of the top Provisionals recently. It's all complicated, but
a potential disaster. You can imagine..."

Earl nodded. "Sure can." He exchanged glances with
Loveday.

Trish said firmly: "Now, I really think we ought to call

it a day. I'm very tired and it's getting late."

She could barely make out the smile spread across Earl's

face. "Sure, sweetheart. We'll just have one for the road,

an' put on a last record. Fair?"

Trish subsided, smiling, feeling the apprehension flow

out of her. She was being silly, she told herself. There
was no rancour in Earl's voice, no threat. Just gentle
reassurance,

"Get comfortable, honeychild." Winston's whisper in
her ear was rich and throaty against the background of the
soft jazz on the record.

Obediently she slid down, stretching her bare legs,
enjoying the cooler air where the hem of her dress had
ridden to her knees. The throbbing music filled the room;
long, slow and haunting notes that washed her tired mind
slowly back and forth like a tide. As she closed her eyes
again, she felt Winston's lips brushing the lids, feather
like.

She murmured sleepily: "'Just this record, then I must
go to bed ... see Sarah's all fight...'"

A clink of glass as Earl poured a drink, sat down again
by her feet. She allowed the music to swallow her thoughts,
to sap her concentration and her strength. God, she was
so, so tired. Pleasantly, happily tired.

Earl rested his hand on her knee. She jerked in surprise,
the softness of his touch and the effect of it reaching
through the soporific clouds of her mind. She felt the ebb
rising again, a mixture of lrm and sensual pleasure. It
rippled up her thighs like a low-tension charge jangling
along her nerve-ends until it exploded in a dull ache
between her legs.

She opened her mouth to speak. For a second words
would not come. Then Winston's mouth came down on
hers, muffling her sounds with a deep, penetrating kiss that
sent a shock-wave through her body.

Trish knew the signs. Suddenly she saw with clarity that
her low-resistance point had been reached. Frantically she
tried to move her mouth away from Winston's but already
his tongue was probing her mouth, her'teeth, seeking her
tongue. As Earl's hands traced long,, slow movements
along her calves, she felt her sudden surge of resistance
crumbling. Shame washed over her, wrenching a low
animal moan from her throat, as she found herself sucking
eagerly at the Negro's tongue.

She forced her eyes open, averting her head, seeing the
white blur of Earl's face as he leaned forward to run a trail
of kisses over her calves and knees.


I55

"Sweet, sweet honeychild." Winston's voice was almost
a moan, close to her ear as he leaned over the ringlets
cradled in his lap. "Relax ... my sweet white baby." She
felt her pillow stirring, harden.

Trish had scarcely noticed the strong, black hands working
with a gentleness and subtlety that did not seem
possible for a man of his size, as they plucked the buttons

of her dress. It began to open, almost in a bursting effect,
in a long vee as the black material parted to reveal the full
length of her slender body. The dying traces of a summer
.tan gave her skin a shade of honey in the candlelight. Her
legs shifted languidly.

She clenched her fists, holding them to her mouth which
opened soundlessly, her eyes closing against the thrilling
tremor that hit her like the note of a tuning fork. Earl's
mouth trailed along her upper thighs until he reached the
white scrap of her pants.

Her calves started to tremble, the muscles in her
buttocks contracting involuntarily in a vulgar motion of
eagerness. "?inston rolled her nipples in his hand, teasing
until they became like hard, tight buttons, puckered
in automatic response that caused Trish to groan in
humiliation.

As her body began to squirm under the urgent, exploring
hands, she felt her last garment pulled away and her knees
open in an act of supplication she was unable to resist. Her
head dropped violently onto the settee as Winston climbed
to his knees above her head. His hands clasped her breasts
hard, restraining them as she tossed from side to side.

As Earl entered her, the shock and realisation jolted her,
causing her buttocks to thrust forward to meet him. Her
stomach contracted in quick, hard movements as the gust
of fire burned inside her.

"No, no, no!" she heard her own voice cry, but she knew
she did not mean it.


Trish felt sick, disgusted with herself.

Even before she was properly awake, memories of the
previous night crowded in on her, adding to the nausea


I56

that swilled around the pit of her stomach. She could
remember the men coming up to the bedroom, but not
clearly. After her first bout of orga.anic delirium, they bad
gently insisted that she bad more drink, talking quietly
and persuasively, touching her body. She remembered encouraging them, joining them as they drank straight
from the bottle, the flat champagne trickling in streams
down her naked body until her skin glistened. Then she'd
thrown her arms around them, each in turn, groping them
crudely, mouthing giggling obscenities at them she hardly
realised she knew.

Then more. Exploding in orgam after orgasm in a way
she had never known before, ever dreamed was possible.
She had performed and debased herself like a lust-crazed
animal. She had tended their every whim and allowed the
excruciating, endless torrent within her to flow and flow
until she was like a discarded, sodden rag. Their stamina
bad been unbelievable. She wouldn't bare believed it, but
she knew it had happened.

She crawled over the sheets, giddiness sweeping over
her as she tried to stand, her knees collapsing under her
weight. God, how she ached.

Again she tried to stand, her legs trembling. Slowly she
made her way, fumbling, to the dressing-table. Unable to
find her spectacles, she tottered naked to the bathroom,
balf-feeling her way.

"Mummy! Mummy!" Sarah's voice was edged with
irritation.

It must be late. "In a. minute, darling. Mnmmy's
coming."

Trish hurriedly stepped into the bath, switching on the
hand-shower, and let the flow of warm, welcome water
wash her clean.

The men bad vanished. They must bare left much
earlier, having first tidied the downstairs room and stacked
the dirty crockery neatly on the draining board. An
envelope bad been left pinned to the cork-tile panel by the
telephone. She opened it and sqninted at the note:

I57


"With fond memories of Hong Kong

and beyond.

You are great baby!

Love and ... Earl and Winston."


Something else fell from the envelope and fluttered to
the floor. Puzzled, Trish stooped and picked it up. As her
eyes focused on the clear Polaroid photograph fear grabbed
at her stomach like a steel claw. Suddenly she remembered
the series of flashing lights amid the swirling alcoholic haze
of the previous night. Vaguely she recalled posing in her
lovemaking with squeals of drunken 'laughter.

She frowned, the sudden vision of a hypodermic needle

forming in her mind's eye. Had she dreamt that bit?
"What's that, Mummy?"
"Oh, oh, nothing, darling."
"Has Uncle Winston gone?"

She nodded, hardly thinking. "Yes, they both have.
They're busy men."

Sarah scowled. "Did they have breakfast before they
went?"

"No, darling, I don't think so."

"I'm hungry, Mummy."


By the afternoon Trish's aching thighs hurt less and the
taste of bile in her mouth had almost gone. She drifted
through the hours in a curious hypnotic state like an automaton,
her memory full of the previous night. Visions of
the Americans kept flashing through her mind, interspersed
with pictures of her husband. As soon as she got
home she decided she must phone him.

He was surprised but obviously pleased to receive her
call.

Immediately he remembered Earl Lee McClatcher and
Winston Loveday. Only the slightly hollow ring to his
voice suggested any disapproval.

She wondered whether to mention the prospects of the job , but decided against it. Her nagging worries about the
Polaroid photograph were growing and she now had severe

doubts about their offer-even if it was genuine. After all,
they hadn't even left an address. She blew Ducanc a final
kiss down the mouthpiece.

As she hung up she noticed for the first time that the
family snapshot had gone from its frame. She felt strangely
flattered and, again, her thoughts drifted back to the
previous night. Despiteherself she felt a dull kind of ache
begin to throb at her loins.

The sudden shrill call of the telephone ioltcd her back
to reality.

"Pattie?"

"Earl?"

"Hi, honey." There was no mistaking the American's
voice.

"Thank God you've phoned," she gasped. "The photograph..."

"Sure, honey, I know ... Now listen, there's no need
to worry."

"But..."

"But nothin'. You promised last night you'd find out

as much as you can about Jacko's operations in Ireland."
"Uh?" She was puzzled. "I did?"
"Yes. D'ya want me to play the tape?"

She was incredulous. "You taped it? Christ, what the
hell are you playing at?'"

"Insurance, baby. I told you we need to know."
blow she was sure. Suddenly her fear gave way to anger.
"What the hell d'you take me for? All that rubbish about
a job for Jack. God, you filthy bastards."

"Don't call me names, sweethearts" snapped McClat
cher. Not after your tricks last night. Now I don't give
a shit if you believe what we told you--but I promise you
no harm will come t'yer husband."

She shut her eyes and took a deep breath. "Earl, I'm
confused ... Look, whatever you say there's no way I can
find out what you want to know..."

"Correct, lady," McClatcher hissed. "But you will find a way, an' quickly. Two dozen Polaroids and a tape say
you will..."

I59


"You wouldn't!"

"I don't play games, Pattie." She could feel the steel
in his voice. "I want results and I want them fast. And
I don't care how you get them. We'll be keepin' an eye
on you and as soon as you get an opportunity we'll know
about it. An' don't get no ideas about tellin' yer husband--
that way everybody gets hurt, startin' with him. Just play
along an' it'll be our li'le secret. No one gets hurt an' your--
er--indiscretions needn't ruin what marriage you'd have
left after we've finished with you. Right ... we'll be in
touch."

"But..."

"'Oh, and by the way," McClatcher added, his voice now
sounding mild and over-friendly. "Winston sends his
regards to young Sarah. And so do I..."

The strident tone rang in her ear as the American hung
up. Very slowly she replaced the receiver.

I6o


Part Two


KILLING GROUND

CHAPTER 9


"'I'm afraid," said the colonel, "that there have been some
unexpected developments."

Although the ancient central heating system was operating
to its noisy, maximum efficiency, Ducane felt a
distinct chill in the air at the Old Man's words. In fact
he had known that something was wrong as soon as he
got the message to report. The team had already been
briefed the previous day as to the intelligence duties they
would be expected to carry out on their return to Ulster,
and Dueane had been in the middle of preparing their kit
when the orderly arrived. Forbes had been as surprised
as he when it was made clear they were both wanted.

The colonel was seated behind his paper-strewn desk,
and he was passing his unlit pipe thoughtfully from one
hand to the other as he chose his words carefully. "'I believe
Lieutenant Harrington was a good friend of yours?"

Ducane flinched. Forbes shot him a sideways glance. "'Sir.'" His voice was hoarse.

The Old Man frowned, studying the bowl of his pipe
with intense interest. "'I'm afraid he's dead. Murdered by
the Provos.'"

"Where, sir?" Empty.

"At a place known as McGuire's farm. I believe you

know the pub run by the Bradys?"

The captain nodded.

"It happened when he was leaving there three nights
ago. Apparently to visit his fiancee, Roisin McGuire. They
got him in the car-park. It was dark and no one saw what
happened. Must have been jumped by a group of them.
Judging by damage to nearby cars and the bloodstains
foundnot his group, you understand---he put up one


I62

helluva fight. I think we'd have been proud of him."

"Then they took him to the farm?" Ducane askeds
tasting the bile at the back of his mouth.

"'Yes, where he was obviously subjected to severe ino
terrogation. He was then shot in the head."

Forbes had said norhlng; he just stared gr/mly towards
the window unng, his jaw set in a tense, determined
line.

The Old Man continued: "'I'm afraid the tragedy doesn't
end there. Obviously he wouldn't talk so they assaulted
his fiancee in front of him."

Ducane shut his eyes momentarily. "'ICflled too?" "'Knee-capped. Used a power-drill, I'm told ... Crippled
for good. She was virtually unconscious for forty
eight hours until her farm hand luckily discovered her."

"Bastards!" spat Forbes, turning his head suddenly to
Ducane, his eyes blazing. He snapped his jaw firmly shut
in an effort to control his fury.

"'Please, Sergeant," said the colonel softly, "let's not
make matters worse."

Ducane found his eyes smarting as he remembered the
slender young girl in the farmhouse, pale and frightened,
but full of serf-determination and courage.

"I'm so sorry to have to break this bad news to you both.
But bad as it is, I'm afraid it could be the start of something
even more serious. More fundamentally dngerous
to our operations in Armagh. Let me explain." He opened
a pink cardboard wallet on his desk, and glanced over the
neatly-typed script. "Over the past week or so we've heard
rumours about a new branch of the PIRA being formed.
It's been referred to as the FCU or Forward Combat Unit.
It was mentioned by a young Provo we picked up in
Duntmnnon. 'Gather the chap was on his way to start
training. There was another oblique reference to it in some
papers RUC Special Branch intercepted in Newry. One
or two stories have also been flying around in the Lazy


Ducane asked: "What's so special about this unit, sir?"

The Old Man sat back in his chair. "Bit of a cheek, really.


t63

It appears it's been specifically formed to knock off our
chaps ..." He paused, allowing the significance of his
words to sink in. As the two soldiers before him exchanged
glances, he continued. "... As I say, it sounds a bit
ambitious, but rumour has it they've set up a new first-class
training camp. Not the usual sites. But somewhere over
the border. Looks as though we've really got old Paddy
worried lately. Our operations in Armagh have been standing
on his windpipe. So he's taking to desperate measures."

"He must be desperate, all right," Forbes said. "I'd.like
to give these new heroes five minutes on my own. 'Don't
care if they bring their training manuals with them!"

The Old Man stuffed a thumbful of tobacco into his
pipe. "That's as maybe, Sergeant, but our information
indicates we shouldn't take the threat lightly. They've
already had a go at one of our surveillance teams. Two
of them badly wounded. And they massacred a VCP patrol,
including Major Simmonds of. the Royals.

"Apparently they've got hold of some chaps who know
our methods. Familiar with the way we work. Procedures,
etc. Now they intend to turn it against us. Sort of Chindits
of Armagh." He chuckled but without burnout.

Ducane said: "I find it hard to believe any of our old
Regiment members would do such a thing."

"Probably not. But there have been one or two undesirables
we've RTU'd or kicked out of the Army.
altogether. Anyway, we're having all ex-members checked
on by Special Branch, just in case there's a bad apple. It's
not impossible."

He made an attempt to light his pipe. "Apparently
Paddy's been withdrawin his best men from all over the
province. The fit young 'uns mostly, which could explain
why things have gone a bit quiet over the last month or
so. 'Fraid it won't last, of course. If we're right, the real
trouble could have already started."

Ducane frowned. "Not Charlie Harrington?"

The Old Man exhaled a billowing cloud of smoke,
watching it rise to the ceiling. "It looks very much like
it. For once G1 Intelligence and I are in complete agree

I64

ment. I gather everything pointed to an operation by this
new PIRA cell.'"

"'If they got Charlie," Ducane said, "perhaps they're as
good as they say they are."

The colonel leaned forward on his elbows. "'I'm taking this new unit as a serious threat, Dueane. I can't afford
to do otherwise. If half these rumours are true this unit's
going to make a right nuisance of itself. And if I get an
itch, I scratch it. Hard."

Forbes asked: 'qChere is this new base, sir?"
"Haven't the foggiest notion. We gather it's not in Sligo
or Dundalk, or any of the other known camps, but far away,
out of harm's reach. Somewhere where the Irish Government
can't or won't touch it. And that's what I need to
find out. And fast."

"'Any ideas, sir?" Ducane asked.

"I'm making the Bessbrook contingent up to full troop
strength. Your team will rejoin Johnny Fraser's and we'll
draft in two more of our most experienced Ulster teams.
Not sure which, yet, but preferably chaps you've worked


"You'll be in operational command, but I'm sending
down an MIO from GI Intelligence Army HQ--I believe
you know Major Bill Harper?--he'll be in overall charge
of Int. and liaison for the operation.

"I have in mind that the three teams, operating as
individuals ff necessary, will stake out or investigate in
response to Int. reports. Your team will act as reserve,
operating with Harper at a special Ops. centre to maximise
security; until we get the lead we need.

"Basically it'll be an anti-anti-guerilla exercise---all
damnably confusin', but that's what it amounts to. With
any luck we'll actually latch onto some of these Paddies
going south. That's where Sergeant Forbes' plans come


"Over the border?" Ducane was surprised.

"'Let's just say Eire won't necessarily be out of bounds.
Nor will Outer Mongolia if that's where they've got it.
I'm off to London tomorrow for a spot oflunch. I don't

65

need to tell you who with, but I believe my host may feel
as concerned as I do about this new development." His
pipe had gone out, and he tapped the contents of the
bowl noisily into the old tin ashtray. "It puts a new como
plexion on your job tidying up Harrington's operation;
With Maior Harper's help I want you to put everything
under the microscope, and turn every stone. Bill will show you the ropes and all that. But your team's personal
experience of the people and the area will be invaluable.
And you may come up with a clue as to the whereabouts
of that base, or the next planned attack by these FCU
Paddies."

The colonel's words finished on a high and dramatic
note. Ducane never ceased to be fascinated by his abiliw
to instil excitement and get the adrenalin flowing. It was
like a call to arms. Every bit as stimulating as a bugle-call
or roll of drums, yet spoken in a quiet, matter-of-fact tone
that only barely raised its pitch to emphasise that the gloves
were coming off.

"When do we leave, sir?"

"You can grab 48 hours leave whilst I get the necessary
clearance and while Johnny Fraser starts things rolling at
Bessbrook." The Old Man smiled briefly. "Make the most
of it, it could be the last leave you have for a spell. That'll
be all, gentlemen. Thank you."

As the door shut the colonel sat back in his chair, resting
his hands on the edge of the desk, and closed his eyes.
This was going to be tricky.

Even if the PM agreed to the proposed operation, the
smallest hint of their plan outside of strict DI6, the overseas
intelligence agency formerly known as MI6, and SAS
Intelligence circles in Northern Ireland could lead to
disaster. The old rivalry between DI6 and DIs, previously
MIs, which traditionally had responsibility for Northern
Ireland, was far from dead, and D I5 retained close contacts
with Eire's Garda Special Branch, via Ulster's RUC
Special Branch. News of a deep, cross-border penetration
raid would be more than political dynamite. It would be a positive thermo-nuclear blast.


I66

The colonel picked up the buff folder marked CHRISTOPHER
ROBIN. Slowly he flicked through the pages.
The dates began in x973, in his predecessor's time, when
it had been recognised that the Ulster conflict was going
to drag on for years. It had been decided then to take a
very long-term view and plant 'sleepers' in the Republican
community. The aim was to achieve really deep penetration.
There had been thirteen volunteers, nine of them SAS
soldiers and the rest from other regiments. All had genuine
Irish ancestry. Three were pulled out after a year when
they could no longer take the incessant mental strain; five
were withdrawn once it became obvious that the PIRA
had become suspicious of their activities; three more were
unsuccessful in making any kind of 'contact' with the
enemy. In I974 the last two disappeared, one of them an
SAS member.

The proiect had been cancelled. Then, after a silence
of eighteen months, a high-speed Morse message had been
picked up by Government Communications Headquarters
at Cheltenham. There had just been one transmission
lasting under twenty seconds.

The colonel looked at the deciphered transcript: ARRIVED. AM IN WITH A CHANCE. LISTEN OUT. CHRISTOPHER
ROBIN.

From that day to this there had been short irregular
transmissions, each more intriguing than the last. At first
the information had been sketchy, gradually increasing in
importance until, in the past six months, it had become
clear that Christopher Robin had penetrated the upper
echelons of the PIRA.

It was frustrating that, as planned, there was no way
to make contact with their ma in the field, to ask
questions, or to request clarification. But he was in deep
and absolutely nothing would be allowed to upset their
mole's delicate and deadly position.

The original lead that had enabled Harrington to set up
the trap for Cochran. Then a trail to half a dozen major
arms caches. And now the real source of information about
the PIRA's new Forward Combat Unit.

I67

He flicked back the pages and looked again at the faded
photograph. IlTOz Michael Cooan. SAS seroice commenced
June 1967. Formerly the Royal Irish Raners.

The colonel felt a lump forming at his throat. Quickly
he closed the folder. "Good luck, lad, wherever you are."

He knew that Christopher Robin's chances of survival
were negligible. Not for the first time he felt himself wish
he'd never heard the Regimental motto.


The smell of bacon sizzling in the pan wafted through
the small Fulbam house, and Ducane was more than ready
when the call to breakfast came. It was a scene he dreamed
about so much when he was away that, now it was actually
happening, it didn't seem real. Breakfast at home in the
kitchen, with a plate piled high with egg, bacon and
sausages. Trish looking pretty and reassuringly domesticated,
and Sarah spreading her meal liberally all over her
face.

To Ducane the picture seemed so profound, yet he
wondered ff most men gave it a second thought. Privation
heightened appreciation, and he found that living close to
danger always honed a fine edge to his perception. It was the same watching Trish climb from the bed in the morning.
The picture of her long, easy strides across to the
wardrobe; her slender naked back; the way she tossed her
hair; the little self-conscious smile she gave him as she
perched the large gold-r/mrrted spectacles on her nose. All
these things were indelibly etched on his mind, stored and
remembered for use during the loneliest moments--when
home and normality not only seemed, but sometimes were,
a thousand miles away.

"I'm sorry it's only streaky bacon," Trish said with a
smile. "Times is hard!"

Ducane demolished a large sausage. "'But you're managing
okay?"

"Scraping by." Trish left her meal to help Sarah in her

chair. "It just isn't getting any better."

"'Even with the job?"

"Don't know how I managed before at all."

I68

"You must let me know if you need more money," he
said.

She looked at him quizzically. "And what would you
do?"
He shrugged, concentrating on the remaining sausage
with savage intensity. "We'd think of something. There
must be some cutbacks possible."

"Mr Andrews started work for a mini-cab firm last
month. Mrs Andrews reckons he's coining it in. It was

a hundred and fifty pounds last week with tips."
Ducane frowned. "You can't drive."

Trish looked exasperated. "Not for me, Jack. For you.
You said you'd leave the Forces if a promotion didn't come
through. Or at least revert to the Paras. You could probably
go back as maior."

He pushed aside his plate. "I said I'd think about it."
Trish studied him over the rim of her spectacles. "Well,
I think you ought to think about it some more. We can't
go on for ever like this."

Ducane was defensive: "We could always move into
married quarters, you know that."

"I don't want Sarah to grow up in a bloody barracks,"
Trish replied with feeling.

"What's barracks?" Sarah asked with a mouthful of
food.

"Never mind," Trish snapped.

"It's not like a barracks," Ducane said. "You know the
army estates. They're quite pleasant. And you'd have
plenty in common with the other girls." Unlike the rest
of the Army the SAS took particular care to break down
class barriers between wives.

"No thank you, Jack. I don't want to spend my days
gossiping and complaining about my husband's pay and
the Army! Look what it did for Dave Forbes and Elaine."

He helped himself to more tea from the pot on the table.
"You know Dave and Elaine had other problems. He's
always been a bit of a wild lad and she just couldn't cope
with it. He was hitting the bottle pretty hard." He used
the introduction of the sergeant's name to steer the con169


versation in a different direction. "'Talking of Dave, he
may call round this evening to see us.'"

"Oh, Jack, not this evening! You've only just come
home."

Another mistake, Ducane thought grimly. "I thought
you'd be pleased to see him."

Trish tossed the curls from her face. She was fond of
Dave Forbes, attracted by his animal magnetism and his
broad, muscular frame. There was a brooding violence
lingering so near to the surface that she found it thrilling
and frightening at the same time. His eyes sometimes
burned with a passionate fierceness as he looked at her.
Somehow you could look at Dave Forbes and sense the
rogue in him immediately. He could so easily have been
an Elizabethan pirate or a highwayman; it was as though
he'd been born in the wrong age, when the world had grown
too small to hold him.

She had once felt that same strange spark of excitement
with Ducane. The electricity she felt at being close to him,
absorbing the scent of violence that always simmered just
below the quiet surface. Time had changed that. Time and
responsibility had mellowed Jack, she thought. Particularly
since Sarah had been born. But Dave Forbes remained
untamed, a wild beast at large in a civilised society,
not prepared to be chained for any reason or, as Elaine
had found to her cost, for any woman.

But since the visit by McClatcher and Loveday, even
her instinctive interest at the mention of his name caused
a rising disgust with herself.

She said: "You know I like Dave, but I thought we
might be alone again tonight. That's one thing I like about
hardly ever seeing you--we have some great reunions.'"

He laughed. "'I'll make sure he leaves early. Tonight
could be the last time for a while, and I want to enjoy
it too. But we need to talk over our plans for the operation."

"What operation?" She almost blurted the words. Me
Clatcher's insistent voice seemed to be ringing in her ear.


170

After lunch they went to the park, kicking their way
through the carpet of brown leaves towards the lake where
Sarah threw bread at the ducks.

Trish said: "It's so quiet. Not like at weekends."

"Sarah's creating enough noise to make up for it," he
laughed.

Trish tightened the knot of her headscarf. "Funny to
think it's in the middle of London."

He nodded, then stooped to help Sarah break up the
bread.

She glanced down at her husband, choosing her moment.
"Don't you miss all this? Sarah. Me. Walks in the
park like this."

"Yes. I must be getting old. When I'm home with you
and the little monkey it seems like a different world."

It was a long shot, but if she could persuade him to quit
now there was a chance McClatcher would leave her alone.

She said quietly: "Give it up, Jack. Forget about the
Army. You'll never get any thanks for what you're doing.
Sarah and I would like you home."

He squinted at the far side of the lake. "It's all I know,
Trish. Without the Army I'd be lost. I don't think I could

ever be a mini-cab driver."

"There are other jobs."

He breathed in a deep ltmgful of air. It was rich damp.
How could he explain to her? How could he make her
understand that the smell and colours of the park didn't
compare with County Armagh? Or with the superb hues
of the Dhofar desert at. dusk. Or the vivid greens and
yellows of the Brunei iungle. Or even the frosty blue-white
wilderness of northern Norway.

How could he tell her how it felt to be called into the
Old Man's office at Bradbury Lines? The sense of anticipation
and challenge as you waited for him to get to the
point of the assignment. Anything, anywhere. At the drop
of a hat. A short hop by helicopter to the airfield. The
old Hercules waiting, its engines turning, ready to go. Anywhere
within its four thousand miles range. The other side
of the world before, at home, Trish had even begun to


I7I

stir from her sleep. As the inscription at the headquarters
read:

"'IVe are the pilgrims, Master, toe shall go

,4ltoays a little further. It may be
Beyond that last blue mountain barr'd toith snow,

,4cross that angry or glimmering sea.'"

How did you explain to a woman as loving and sensual

as Trish that this peaceful, domestic interlude was just one
small part of your life? One day it would be more, but
only when you were past your prime. The day when you
knew the killer instinct had left you. The day you hung
up the sand-coloured beret with the winged dagger
emblem for the last time.

And how did you explain the animal fear and elation

as you chased the most difficult quarry of all? A beast with
more cunning and audacity than any animal. When you
pitted your wits and instincts against his, moving and
counter-moving until one of you cracked. When you went
beyond the point that any training could prepare you for.
The moment of frightening realisation that it was your will
against the enemy's. The ultimate personal confrontation
and challenge. Your life or his.

No, it was not something he could even attempt to tell
Trish without the words sounding hollow and clumsy.
Thankless and self-indulgent.

"I could make major this year."

"With that Royals CO in Ireland making a complaint
about you to Hereford?"

He half-smiled. "That's the Army way. Your chaps are
using too much muscle. Must toethe line, old boy. Don't
let it happen again. Back at Hereford, our colonel congratulates
us. It's just the Army way."

"If you Returned to Unit, at least it woudn't be so
dangerous."

Ducane grimmaced. "I'm not so sure. Simmonds is
dead. A Provo ambush."

Trish looked shocked. She went to say something, then
stopped.


I72

He looked at Trish, smiling. She was trying hard. 'I'll
think about it, love. Really. And if I don't get a crown
up this year, I'll think seriously about mini-cabbing, or
something."

"Promise?"
He kissed her forehead lightly. But she knew it would
be no solution to the immediate problem that was closing
round her like a steel trap. McClatcher's voice whispered
in her ear like an evil psalm.

Dave Forbes arrived just after dark in the late afternoon.
He received his normal rapturous welcome from Sarah,
but he instinctively noticed Trish's coolness to his usual
flirtatious approach. He quickly decided that there'd been
a row and he'd do his best to keep well clear of it.

He settled down with Ducane to a bottle of Scotch and
to discuss the details he had been thinking over at his
brother's home in North London.

Forbes had refined the initial plan they had developed
on the train to London. As usual, nothing committed to
paper would leave Bradbury Lines. Like the habitual
re-folding of a map, so that it was impossible to tell which
page had been studied, it had become second nature.
Mentally the sergeant had turned the list of equipment and
methods needed for the cross-border operation over and
over in his mind.

He had largely ignored the preliminary organisation of
the operation, preferring Ducane to sort out the aspects
of intelligence-gathering and collation, and deployment.
Final details would be confirmed in the 'Quiet Room' back
at Hereford, where intricate planning would be plotted and
written up.

Ducane asked Forbes several penetrating questiors and
quickly pin-pointed the shortcomings which were then
thoroughly discussed and amended. Two minds were
better than one, and the captain appreciated his friend's
ferocious enthusiasm and ingenious way of solving seemingly
insuperable practical problems. They came to the
end of the planning at the same time as they reached the
bottom of the whiskey bottle.


173

As Trish opened the kitchen hatch and slid in a tray

of coffee, cheese and biscuits, Ducane said: "Dave certainly
believes in taking thebattle to the enemy."

"So does the Old Man," Forbes returned. "Recommended
my proposed course of action." He turned round
and took the tray from the hatch.

Ducane laughed. "Suitably modified, of course."

"Of COUrSe."

Trish came through the door. "Well, if it goes ahead,

I just hope Jack keeps well clear of any trouble. If his
promotion doesn't come through, I want him in one piece
for Civvy Street."

Forbes was sUrprised. "You're not telling me old Jacko's

pulling out of the service? Not hanging up his bayonet?"
Ducane drank his coffee. "It's a possibility."

"But he's one of the best. He's got more experience and
skill than the rest of the troop put together. You're not
serious?"

Trish looked sideways at her husband. "I don't know
how serious he is. But he's also married with a daughter."

Forbes looked decidedly astounded, staring first at Trish
and then at the captain for confirmation or denial.

Ducane said: "Things have changed, Dave. I'm not
getting any younger and my promotion prospects haven't
looked too rosy recently. If I am going to leave the Forces,
the sooner I start a new career, the better." He inclined
his head towards Trish. "Civvy Street's got a lot going
for it, you know."

That was some.thing Forbes could not deny. In similar
circumstances Trish Ducane might conceivably persuade
him t.o step out of his uniform for good. He wasn't sUre
he would ever be happy about it, but at least Ducane
seemed to enjoy a domesticated bliss he had never been
able to share with Elaine. And you needed something
worthwhile to persuade you to go back to Civvy Street.

He said: "But we've all had good times in the Army,
Trish. Remember when we were based in Hong Kong,
before going to the Jungle Training School in Singapore.
We had a ball." He shook his head, recalling. "And those


174

Yanks we met up with ... The ones Jacko said called the
other day."

"Oh, God!" She'd missed the cup as she poured another
coffee.

The men smiled at her in sympathy and then continued
their conversation.

Half an hour later, when Ducane saw the sergeant to
the door, Trish stacked the used coffee cups onto the tray,
which she then took through to the kitchen, placing it on
the worktop by the serving hatch to the lounge. She
listened for a moment until she was sure she could hear
the men still talking.

She opened the biscuit tin and took out the small battery
operated Hanimex tape-recorder. Quickly she extracted
the cassette and slipped it into the pocket of her apron.

I75


CHAPTER 10


When Ducane's team arrived back at Tac HQ Bessbrook
they found that a small and cheerless operations room had
already been commandeered for them. It was the first sign
they had that the resourceful MIO, Bill Harper, a stocky
Welsh major, had preceded them and was already in
control.

With a mind like a laser-beam, a persuasive charm and
an infuriating constant chuckle, Harper had already organised
a bank of telephones, complete with scramblers, which
had been patched into direct links with the G1 Intelligence
Army HQ in Belfast, SAS Bradbury Lines and the
Regiment's Liaison Officer at the Ministry of Defence in
Whitehall. Several large-scale maps of the area were
pinned to the yellowing walls and covered with perspex

sheets to take the markings of chinagraph pencils; an old'
wooden filing cabinet had been loaned from the Royals'
CO, and a large blackboard and easel stood in one corner.
His prime acquisition was the installation of their own Int.
cell VDU terminal and printer to the Army's central computer
that kept details of everyone ever suspected or
detained over the past five years, all cross-referenced with
car registration numbers, addresses, known associates,
and much more besides.

"I hope you'll forgive me for making a start, Captain,','
chuckled the major as the four men trudged in. "We've
nearly got everything ready. An electric kettle's on its way
with a positive mountain of coffee tins. So no need to wait for the char wallah. And I've got my eye on a very pretty
little WRAC to come and do our typing for us." He held
up two pudgy hands. "I'm afraid I've a two-finger
handicap when it comes to secretarial work!"


I76

Ducane glanced around the room. It looked like a scene
from an operations centre at New Scotland Yard.

The wisdom of the Old Man in selecting Harper from
G1 was self-evident--he had spent most of his time in the
SAS Intelligence unit known colloquially as 'The Kremlin'.

"I couldn't have done better myself, Major."

The Welshman laughed, his thick neck quivering.
"Pleased to hear it, Captain. I don't like to let the grass
grow, you know." His eyes looked suddenly cold.
"Especially when we're after little rats like the lot we're
chasing. I've managed to persuade the Royals' CO to get
every available man out at VCPs, screening as many cars
as possible, and making house-to-house searches. We've
also got a direct line with the RUC, but of course we're
keeping them in the dark about this particular op. The
results of all interviews will be fed straight to us here, as
soon as they're available. Either typed or phoned in and
taped. That's why I want our own little WRAC. To type
them out immediately." He jabbed a thumb in the direction
of the easel. "That's the first batch of Int. Summaries.
We can go through them as soon as you've had a cuppa
and some chow."

Ducane said: "Fine, fine." Amazed by the complexity
of the operation the little Welshman had established so
speedily.

"I'm just co-ordinating Lieutenant Harrington's files.
Matching up ID reports and photographs. It won't be
long, but like so many of us, his book-keeping was a little
lax!"


By the time the wintry dawn light had begun to rise the
initial report was already completed in long-hand, written
out laboriously by Young Tom who, it was decided
unanimously and conveniently, had the only decipherable
style. The room was stale and airless, clouded with layers
of tobacco smoke, and the table piled high with cups.
Despite the weariness of the men, Bill Harper had kept
them going at a cracking pace throughout the night apar

The maior involved everyone in discussions over each
point of interest and detail of every report, fiercely pro
rooting ideas and theories, however outlandish, for examination.

A statement attributed to Roisin McGuire had made
particularly nauseating reading, but it contained the first
raention of two names. One was Reagan, the other Malone
--who was thought to have been over the border since the
farmhouse raid. Bill Harper had spent hours on the telephone,
badgering and bullying every Int. unit in Ulster
he knew, for a grain of information on the men. He spared
the unlucky recipients no quarter, not hesitating to call two colonels out of bed, and insisting that office-staff be
ecalled in the small hours to answer his questions. He
was relentless and determined, asking about one related
subject after another, until Ducane's team felt sure they
would succeed at nothing but causing fury at Harper's
countless probings, many of which seemed decidedly trivial.

At o4oo hours an interesting break had come. A man
called Malone, a-9. swering the description of the man
known to Roisin McGuire, had appeared in a routine RUC
Special Branch report I8 months previously, after he had
been seen in the company of ex-Lazy K prisoners under
surveillance. The central computer revealed that he had
previously emigrated to Australia in x965, several years
before the latest troubles had started. There was no official
record of him returning to Ulster.

However he had quickly disappeared, this time before
he could be brought in for questioning. No further police
or intelligence service contact had bden made with him,
although the name did crop up from time to time in reports
from informers.

Surprisingly there was absolutely nothing at all on
Reagan. A thorough checking of the late Lieutenant
Harrington's private papers revealed a renewed contact
with Malone just a few days previously, although any
enquiries he may have made were not official. Certainly
nothing was recorded in writing.


x78

"Looks like both of them were late starters," commented
Bill Harper. "But they've certainly made up for lost time.
This Int. Sum reports Malone being seen in regular corn-.
pany with none other than Martin McGuiness."

"You mean a sort of bodyguard?" Young Tom suggested.

The Welshman shrugged. "Could well be. When you
get to the top of the PIRA you" can't help but make a few
enemies. Stands to reason."

"Makes sense,'" Forbes agreed, half to himself. "But
doesn't that suggest that McGuiness himself is taking a
pretty keen interest in the McGui're business?"

Harper sucked his cheeks thoughtfully. "It would,
wouldn't it? But then with two VIPs snatched on this patch
recently, it's hardly surprising. He's been very much the
blue-eyed boy from what we can gather. Bit of a troubleshooter."

"Perhaps," Young Tom said, "this whole FCU idea is
his brainchild.''

Harper nodded. "It's a daring enough idea. And if
Harrington's murder and the business with the girl was
one of the operations, it looks fairly well coordinated.
Professional. The McGuiness touch."

Forbes climbed to his feet. "Well, I'll leave you intellectuals
an' o1' boyo here to discuss your fancy notions.
I'm goin' to get some kip. If we get into a fire fight later,
one of us ought to be awake!"

As he ambled towards the door, Young Tom stood up.
"Okay if I turn in, boss?"

Ducane nodded. He was feeling the strain himself and
there was nothing more they could do until the latest
reports came in from the night patrols and checkpoints.

Young Tom hesitated at thedoor, his Bergen pack slung
casually over one shoulder. "Er, does anyone happen to
know which hospital Roisin McGuire's in?"

The captain frowned. "Royal Victoria, I think. Why?
'You planning on sending a get-well-soon card?"

The soldier paled, his lips pinched with anger. "I don't
think she will get well, sir."

"Of course not. I'm sorry."

"I was thinking more of a visit. If that would be all right,
sir?"

Ducane rubbed his eyes. They were red and sore and
his mouth tasted dry and bitter. There was no denying
it would be a nice gesture; he was not unaware that their
involvement had contributed to her predicament. But they
were also on instant standby. "I'd like to let you go, Tom.

But I can't justify it under the circumstances."

"I see, sir."

Bill Harper glanced across at both men, weighing the
problem quickly in his mind. "Look, Captain, I know you
can't justify the lad going. But if it would help, I can. I'm
quite justified in having the young lady interviewed again
and I'm sure this soldier would be as good as anyone in
the team."

"I'm sure he would," Turnbull mumbled in disgust.
The Welshman looked at his watch. "I'll wangle a
chopper ride for you. Be to Belfast and back before lunch.
'Course, means you'll be dead on your feet. Still, how does
that sound.;"

Ducane reluctantly agreed. "Okay, Tom, get ready and
report back here in fifteen minutes. But remember I want
a full statement from her." Then he added quietly: "And
don't go getting involved. The kid's got enough problems
without some lovesick private mooning over her."

Young Tom nodded, saluted hastily and left the room,
whilst Turnbull shook his head in disbelief.

After a quick telephone call, Bill Harper managed to
delay the next helicopter shuttle for twenty minutes.
Ducane noticed that his manner had become less jovial.

Perhaps it was just the strain of the long night.
"What's up, Bill?"

The major shook his head, hesitating. "I don't know, Jacko, something doesn't seem right. Nothing concrete,
y'know. A feeling in the water. Wish I could put my finger
on it."


I8O

He waited two hours before the sister came to tell him
he could see her.

"She's still under sedation," she said. "So I doubt you'll
find her talkative. Just a few minutes will be enough,
anyway."

The bunch of flowers in Perrot's hand had wilted visibly
during the long wait, and he felt foolish as he followed
the sister down the corridor, to the obvious amusement
of other uniformed soldiers on guard duty. He held the
posy behind his back as he was shown into the small private
room. Immediately he detected the all-pervading smell of
disinfectant.

As they entered a nurse was adjusting the pillows behind
Roisin's head, but she left quickly when she saw them.

"We have a visitor for you, Miss McGuire," the sister
announced. Then quietly to Young Tom: "Remember,
five minutes only. And try not to cause her any distress."

The door closed and Perrot found himself standing
awkwardly at the foot of the bed, watching the small ashen
face fringed with short black hair. It wasn't the face he
remembered. The was a mass of blue and yellow bruising,
so extensive that the bootlace scar on her cheek was scarcely
noticeable. Her lips were puffed and cut, and as she opened
her mouth to speak he noticed one of her front teeth was
missing.

"'Who is it?" The voice was no more than a whisper,
apprehensive. She screwed up her eyes to focus, but the
flesh around the sockets was red and swollen. Whether by
tears or bruising was hard to tell.

He took a hesitant step forward. "It's Trooper Perrot,
miss ... Tom Perrot."

She closed her eyes in an expression of resignation. "Do you mind if I sit down?"

Roisin shook her head, turning it to the pillow.

He pulled out the chair, knocking it clumsily against the
paraphernalia of the drip-feed trolley. He said: "I've
brought you these. They've drooped a bit, I'm afraid.
It's very hot in here."

She made no effort to turn her head towards him.

x8x

"Won't you look?

Slowly her head turned, until she faced him. "What do

you want with me?"

He flushed. Damn Ducane, how in God's name could

he take down a statement? "Don't you remember me? I

sat with you that night at the farm."

Her head hurt and her mind was clouded with the effect

of the injections. Vaguely she could recollect the slim
young soldier who had tried to comfort her. She remembered
he was more shy than she was; but he had shown
concern.

Her silence embarrassed him.. Making an effort he said
suddenly: "We can't keep meeting like this."

For a moment he caught the hint of a smile in her eyes.

Her voice had a slight lisp and a whistle to it, caused by
the damage to her mouth. "You seem to make a habit of
turning up when I'm not at my best."

"I was very sorry to hear .... about what happened. We

all were. All the lads, that is. They send their love. Well,

yOU know."

She remembered the four soldiers. Remembered how
they'd stood in the bedroom, staring, mesmerised by her
nakedness. It seemed like an age before they'd been able
to take their eyes off her. She wondered if they would find
it so difficult now.

"That's good of them."

Encouraged, Young Tom said: "And we want you to

know that we'll get them. The bl... the men who did this

to you."

Abruptly she turned her head away again. He strained

to catch her words. "What good will it do? Adding to the
killing, that's all. Enough people have been hurt. How

many more ... How many more?"

"It's only justice."

He saw her shoulders shake and guessed she was crying.

He said: "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. But I
thought you'd be pleased to know we intend to sort them
out."

Her voice was barely discernible. "You fool, you don't

82

understand ... Only Charlie knew ... He knew it was all
pointless."

"It has to be done, miss. Whatever the rights and
wrongs," Young Tom insisted.

Suddenly she turned back to face him. Her eyes were
filled with tears. "And what if they got you and your
friends first?" she demanded. "Then where would you be?
Just another statistic. Just another tragic little news story
... Why are you all so blind? I'm beginning to think that
Sean was right about all this. My brother. It was all right
until you all came with your guns and your big Army
boots!"

He reddened. "Look, miss, we didn't start all this. We're
just doing a job. Trying to stop people getting hurt.
Innocent people like you."

She forced herself to calm down, taking a deep intake
of breath. "I suppose that's the way you see it. To me
it seems you're just adding to the trouble. If it hadn't been

for your people I wouldn't be like this ..."

"But..."

She looked at him directly. "I'm afraid it's true. If I
hadn't got involved with Charlie it wouldn't have happened...
Or if my brother hadn't been involved, I suppose.
Anyway, if you catch the gang or if they catch you, it won't
help me walk again"

Without thinking he reached out to hold her hand. It
felt cool in his grasp. "You will. Given time."

She shook her head, looking sympathetically at the conviction
in his clear eyes. '!That's not what the doctors say."

He held her stare. "They can do wonders nowadays.
With determination and effort..." He searched for words.

"Who dares wins!"

"What?"

"Our regimental motto. If you try hard enough, anything
is possible."

For the first time the clefts at the corner of her mouth

dimpled into a smile. "You are funny."

"Am I?"

"You have a very blind faith ..."

I83

"I do in you," he said earnestly.

She averted her eyes. "Please don't say that." She tried
to remove her hand from his grip, but he held it tighter.

"I believe you can get better... Perhaps not completely
... I mean nothing very energetic ... running or the like.

You'll just need perseverance."

"Don't I know it!"

"And when you're out of here," he added, looking down
at her hand, "I'd like to take you out."

Roisin gave a small, bitter laugh. "In my wheelchair?"
He looked back into her eyes. "I'm not trying to be kind.
I mean it. I've always found you attractive. And nothing
that's happened has changed how I feel."

She swallowed hard, stifling the lump of emotion in her
throat. Her teeth were clenched as she spoke for fear that
the flood of sobs would not stop once they began. "Leave
... me ... Please go now ... I don't want to see you
again..."

Young Tom went to speak, but stopped himself. He took
a deep breath and got to his feet, carefully tugging on his
beret. He looked down at the discarded posy she'd hardly
noticed.

Finally he said: "Please remember me. I'll tell the sister .
how I can be contacted if you change your mind." He

paused before shutting the door. "Good luck, Roisin."
Outside, the sister was coming back.
"Did you get the report you needed?"

"Oh, stuff the damn report," he said quietly and set off
briskly down the corridor.

Five minutes later, when the sister entered the room,
she found that Roisin McGuire had drifted back into a
drugged sleep. She eased the bunch of wilting forget-menots
from the young girl's hands and, smiling to herself,
placed them in the empty vase at the bedside.


"'Name Duffy mean anything to you?" Bill Harper

asked. "Richard Duffy?" He had just been speaking to the
colonel at Bradbury Lines.

Ducane and Forbes looked up from the table where they


84

were finishing a brunch of friend bacon sandwiches, and
exchanged glances. The Welshman was relaxing in a chair,
his stubby legs up on the table in front of him. It was now
I4oo hours and, when the captain and sergeant had entered
the operations room a few minutes earlier after an exhausted
sleep, they had found the major already hard at work,
freshly shaven, and showing no signs of strain. They, in
contrast, had eaten their meal in broody silence, Forbes
concentrating on the plump bottom of the blonde WRAC
called Sally, as she pounded furiously at the ancient typewriter.

Hearing the major speak, she had discreetly stopped and
begun filing the mass of memos and papers on her desk.

"She's a little poppet," Forbes commented appreciatively,
quickly distracted.

"Duffy's a fella, Sergeant," chuckled Harper.

Ducane stood up. "I think you could say we know Duffy.
We spent three months in Londonderry tryg to corner
him. Really tricky lad. One of their best, I'd say. They
pulled us off the case in the end; brought in some new
blood."

"Just as well," Forbes sneered. "I'd had enough of
waitin' to catch the sly bugger red-handed. I was all for
us-handing him a bomb in a carrier bag and shooting him
as soon as he looked inside."

Harper scratched his head. "Doesn't look like your
successors had better luck either. He's still loose, and
there's still no evidence for a conviction."

Forbes raised his eyebrows in despair. "God preserve
us from politicians!"

Ducane looked over the major's shoulder at the notepad
in his hand. "What's he up to now, anyway?"

"Well, can't be sure, but it looks as though he's a
potential recruit to this new FCU lot. It appears that a
couple of years ago The Kremlin back at Hereford fielded
some secret squirrels of their own. I don't remember much
about it as I was working on Dhofar section then, but it
appears one of those squirrels is still loose under the code
name of Christopher Robin." He looked up and grinned.


I85 "

"Nice touch of class that, as the operation name is Pooh Corner ."

"Jesus," Forbes muttered in disgust.

Harper scowled at the sergeant's irreverence. "Well he
managed to get a message through to Hereford, tipping
The Kremlin off about Duffy being recruited into the
FCU. As a result we've managed to put an SAS tail on
him. And up to an hour ago they hadn't been shaken off.
'Last reported driving south in a pick-up truck at Omagh,
heading towards Dungannon."

Ducane wandered over to one of the large maps on the

wall, studied it for a moment, then added a circle in red
chinagraph on Omagh. He also added I4OO hours.

Forbes wiped his moustache with a handkerchief.

"Looks like he's coming our way."

"Convenient," Ducane observed. "But how reliable is

this Christopher Robin character? If that information is wrong and we show our hand, they'll change tactics and
we may never find the FCU base."

"The Kremlin reckons he's got a hundred per cent

record," Harper replied.

"Can we ask for confLrmation?"

The major shook his head. "He's in deep, Jacko, and

on one-way transmission--same as you'll be once you go
over the border. And The Kremlin's giving nothing away,
the whole business is so sensitive. In fact the Old Man
and head of Int. section are the only ones who know about
it."

Forbes studied the WRAC carefully as she leaned over

her desk, still busy.."I wouldn't like to be in his shoes.
But neither do I fancy going off half-cocked if your secret
squirrel's got it wrong."

"Even if he doesn't lead you to the FCU base, he's got

to lead you somewhere," Harper said. "Whatever happens

it's unlikely to be a complete waste of time."

"That's not the point, Bill," Ducane answered. "The

FCU's got top priority. With the success they've been
having lately we can't afford a wild goose chase and the chance of blowing the fact that we're on to them."


I86

The major Smiled. "But we may never get such a positive
lead again. It could take months. The Royals have come up
with nothing despite an extensive operation."

Suddenly everyone seemed aware of Sally rustling her
papers. Ducane nodded soberly.

"Up the sharp-end again?" Forbes asked, grinning.

The major said: "Shall I push the button? It's your
decision."

At that moment the telephone rang. Quickly Harper
picked up the receiver and listened for several minutes to
the voice at the other end, interrupting only with gruff
monosyllabic questions. Finally he asked the caller to hold
and, clamping his hand over the mouthpiece, addressed
Ducane: "It's the latest report on Dully. He's approaching
Drumsallan on his way to Armagh. Do you want full alert
and continuous reports?"

Ducane nodded. "Let's go."


Within twenty minutes each of the three patrols in the
troop had been deployed for surveillance and tracking
duties should Dully abandon his vehicle and proceed on
foot. All regular VCPs on approved border routes at
Middletown, Carnagh, Cullaville, Tullydormell and Killeen,
in a wide sweep around the border of County Armagh
where it bit into Eire, were instructed not to apprehend the pick-up truck for any reason. Regular Army units
carrying out spot-checks were similarly informed. In case
he stuck to the roads, a souped-up Ford Escort was on
standby for Ducane's patrol.

Every few minutes messages were exchanged with The
Kremlin at Hereford, informing them of every move. At
1800 hours the Old Man came on the telephone for a firsthand
account. He sounded cheerful. Obviously he felt no
need to restrict the operation, so his visit to London must
have proved fruitful, He was still talking to Ducane when
Sally handed him a new report. Dully had turned off the
main road near Silver Bridge and had left the truck in a
deserted layby, no more than four miles from the border.
He was proceeding southward through the rugged hill

I87

country between Tullydonnell and the town of Forkill.
"Don't let him slip through your fingers now, Duc.ane.,
"I won't, sir. One patrol's already been dropped by
chopper, and more are being dropped ahead of him,
covering all possible routes. We're leaving now, sir. We'll
take up the trail as soon as he crosses the border."

"That's the ticket, Ducane. Good luck." The colonel

hung up and stared blindly out of the window onto the
darkened drill square. This was more like the old days, he
thought, sttfffing tobacco into his pipe. Ducane could
almost have been a replica of himself twenty years ago.
What he wouldn't give to be out there with him. Have
to make sure his promotion went through this time, he
decided, and scribbled a note to remind himself.


Young Tom had made himself scarce since his return in
the mid-afternoon. He hadn't wanted to risk being bawled
out for failing to get the written report, so he had phoned
the temporary operations centre and told Sally that Roisin
McGuire had been heavily sedated, and her mumblings
incoherent. He had then tried to sleep, but had only
managed three hours of disturbed slumber before Forbes
called him to get ready to go.

Once dressed he sat on his pack, scribbled two hasty
notes, stuffed the envelopes in his pocket, and made his way
to join the others.

The atmosphere in the operations room was electric. As
he handed the envelopes to Sally and asked her to send
them for him, telephones were trilling from all corners.
Additional SAS support staff, who had been called in to
assist, rushed from one set to. another taking notes and
passing them to Major Harper who stood before a giant
wall-map. Only the comparatively diminutive form of
Turnbull was distinguishable in the three-man team, each

figure covered by bulky non-standard issue anoraks,
smocks and waterproofs and woollen hats, their faces
blackened with cream as they prodded fingers at the
markers on the mhp.

"No doubt about it," Bill Harper said. "That's him.


188

God, thought he'd slipped through then. YOU can pick him
up from Remick's patrol on that hill overlooking the

border. Chopper can land down-wind. Safe as houses,"
"Let's get going," Ducane said.

"Mind if I join the official waving party?" the Welshman
asked.

"'Course not."

As the five men turned to go, Sally confronted them.
Big blue eyes looked up at Ducane and Forbes from below
a neatly-trimmed fringe of blonde hair.

"I've never been involved in an op. like this before,"
she said quickly. "And I just want you to know I'll be
thinking of you. Please take care."

Forbes kissed her quickly on the nose, leaving a smear
of camouflage cream on its upturned tip. "Sunbeam," he
said, "when we get back you and toe's gotta date!"

"C'mon," Turnbull said and pushed him roughly
towards the door.


It was a crisp, clear December night. At five hundred
feet the rolling woodlands were quite distinct -as the
Wessex 2 helicopter �wept along the winding valley
between the hills. The slipstream was icy as it whipped
into the open hatchway where Ducane and Bill Harper
peered down, identifying landmarks to one another.

Against the appalling clatter of the overhead blades,

Ducane yelled: "ANY MOMENT NOW! TO THE RIGHT!"
"YES! LOOK!"

Sure enough the pin-prick of red light flashed briefly in
the surrounding black mass of trees. Almost immediately
the helicopter peeled off to the west as the pilot spotted
the signal. They slowed quickly to a.hover as, below them,
the vegetation began to take on the distinguishable shape
of individual trees and bushes.

Strips of fluorescent orange plastic had been laid out to
form a letter T to identify the landing spot. The winchman
in his white helmet shouted: "DOWN THE LINE, I'M AFRAID!
CLEARING IS TOO SMALL!" His meaning rather than the
words were understandable.

I89

Ducane merely shrugged, but Bill Harper looked pet.
rifled, watching in amazement as Young Tom calmly took
up the rope in both hands.

"CHANGED Y'MIND, BOYO?" It was Forbes. His teeth a
mocking white in the blackened face.

Harper shook his head, unable to hear above the din.

"WATCH TOM!" the sergeant yelled in his ear. "HAND OWR HAND! AND GRIP WITH YOUR FEET! USE 'EM AS A BRAKEI"

Harper watched with his mouth open as Ducane slapped
Young Tom's shoulder and the soldier stepped out into the
void, slipping expertly down the rope in a series of short,
controlled movements.

As he hit the ground, Forbes nodded to the major. AFTER YOU, BOYO!"

Taking a dccp breath, Bill Harper grasped the rope and
flung himself out. For a moment his stocky body hung, the
short l.cgs threshing the air, before he suddenly plummeted
out of sight with a squeal. Shaking his head Forbes made
his exit, quickly followed by Turnbull and Ducanc.

After the deafening roar of the helicopter fuselage and
the swift fifty-foot descent to the clearing, the new world
sccrned quiet and ccric. The group had already ioincd the
two shadowy figures Ducanc knew to be from Rcmick's
patrol. Bill Harper was standing slightly apart, rubbing his
palms together in an effort to quell the pain of the
friction burns. Few words were exchanged as the two men
from the SAS surveillance patrol led the way up the stone
scattered hillside under the high canopy of rustling
leaves.

Ten minutes laborious uphill struggle brought them to
a small circle of gorse bushes that looked over the vast
panoramic sweep of the border strip. Far in the distance
pin-pricks of light marked isolated farmhouses and villages

" of Eire.

Captain Peter Remick was" on his haunches, talking into
a radio handset. His companion, a chunky corporal called
Anderson, sat studying the display unit of the Tobias alarm
system, which could be linked up to as many as twenty
buried geophones on each of the four channels. Each


I9O

geophone sensor would record man-made seismic activity
up to three hundred yards away.

"Welcome," Anderson said without looking up from the
screen. He had been monitoring their progress ever since
they had come within two hundred yards of the temporary
lair.

Remick said: "We've got our three suspects in view."
He jabbed a finger at the blobs on the screen. ,'They're
getting towards the limit of our coverage. We'll lose them
in about twenty minutes, so you'd better get under way."

Anderson showed Ducane the position of Duffy and his
two companions in relation to the map and, after a quick
check over the terrain with a long-range IWS 'Twiggy'
night-sight, the four-man team set off. Using a radio link,
Remick guided Ducane's men to a safe intercepting position
so. that they were able to fall in some hundred yards
behind the party of Provisionals.

At last the tell-tale indicators disappeared off the top of
the screen. Corporal Anderson snapped off the machine
with a flourish. It was a gesture of finality.

"Well, we have lift-off," he mused. "They're out of our
range now."

"And on their own," Bill Harper said. He was standing,
legs astride like the captain of a ship-of-the-line, the
Starlight scope to his eye.

"Lucky beggars," Remick muttered. "Give a month's
pay to be in their shoes."

Harper had long lost sight of both groups and reluctantly
handed back the device to Remick. "It's a tough assignment.
Could be nasty."

"All the better," replied Remick.

The major shook his head. He could never understand
these men. Tell them their chances of survival were nil
and they'd queue up to volunteer. Mad, the lot of them.

Remick's call-sign came up on the radio. Absently he
replied and listened intently to the message from Bess
brook. He shook his head slowly. "Negative. Repeat,
negative. The mission has left and they are beyond recall.
Over." He paused. "I read you. Out."


191

Major Harper's face was etched with concern. "A recall?
For Christsake, what's happened?"

Remick shook his head in disbelief. "It's an order
relayed direct from Hereford. Codeword Christopher
Robin. Apparently a message received advises abort
mission. Enemy have prior knowledge of plans .....

Major Harper paled visibly. Because of the sensitive
nature of the mission Ducane's Sabre team had no transmission
of any kind; its discovery by the Irish authorities
would cause diplomatic and political scandal beyond ira.
agination.

There was absolutely nothing he could do.

I92


CHAPTER 11


Before crossing the border, Sergeant Dave Forbes had
concealed their radio behind the loose stones of a roadside
wall, having first informed Captain Remick's team of its
location. It would be collected at first light the next
morning, along with the geophones that had been secreted
in the area.

Without the radio all communication with the outside
world was severed. The feeling of isolation pressed in on
the small group, heightening their sense of danger and
anticipation, as they continued after Duffy and his
companions.

Only Young Tom was unsure whether he enjoyeci this
new thrill. As soon as he knew that they had crossed the
frontier into Eire his sense of perception had increased
as though an unseen hand had twisted a tuning dial deep
inside his brain. His eyes seemed to focus in the gloom with
a clarity almost as vivid as the Starlight scope; the muffled
snapping of a twig underfoot Sounded like cracking china
to his ears. Even sounds he had not n6ticed since their
arrival by helicopter took on a new, individual significance:
an owl-hoot in the mid-distance, a rodent rustling in the
undergrowth nearby, the faraway rumble of a lorry.

To the others the feeling was familiar. It was always after their early assignments that they had been able to
analyse their feelings and realise that life had reached a new
peak only when the adrenalin was flowing freely. Only
during later periods of inactivity did they start to yearn
for that sense of danger and excitement. And somehow
it was never stronger than when crossing a frontier.
Danger, it seemed, had its degrees. But only over the
border of a hostile land did it reach such a tingling


I93

zenith. After an illegal border crossing everything else
seemed second rate.

None of the three older men considered Eire to hold
many fears. They held little respect for the Irish border
patrols, believing that no accidental encounter would hold
the same stark horror as East German frontier guards or
the trigger-happy Russians north of Norway.

Ducane and Forbes took it in turns to maintain visual
contact with Duffy, the remaining three men in the team
dropping back still farther. By this method, ff the leading
soldier was unlucky or careless enough to be discovered
the others would have time to disperse and counter-strike
before the enemy realised what had hit them.

But this night the quarry gave no sign that it suspected
it was being followed. Their movements were cautious,
with heads frequently turning to scan the surrounding
countryside, though the action was instinctive rather than
deliberate.

Progress was rapid as they moved south between the
rivers of Cully Water and Kilcurry, keeping to open
country. They had skirted around the populated Dungooly
Cross Roads and proceeded towards Lurgankeel, their
passage sheltered by low hills on both sides. After half a
mile they had veered suddenly westward through the low--
lying swampy ground. Here the going was arduous with
mud squelching in hungry sucks as each foot was wrenched
from its persistant grip and placed laboriously after the
other. Feet became tender and chaffed as cold water found
its way into the boots that were never quite watertight.

Silently Duffy's men had crossed the main road that led
to the Ulster border in the north and Lurgankeel a mile
farther south. This was the area where "the Provisionals
were most at risk. The road was subject to frequent patrols
by the Irish Army and Garda, but tonight there was no
traffic of any description.

The ground began to slope away rapidly to the gurgling
flow of Cully Water. It was swift, but shallow here, easily
fordable by deep-wading at several points. Beyond this
point the river widened, the torrent increasing, controlled


I94

by weirs around the grounds of Falmore Hall and Balregan
Castle where it merged with the Kilcurry River.

The men grimaced good-humouredly at each other
before plunging into the shock of icy water that threatened
to pull their feet from the precarious grip on the loose
stones beneath the surface.

From then on the journey became decidedly unpleasant.
For another hour they trudged over the undulating terrain
in cold discomfort, anxious for the chance to change into
dry clothes and to eat something hot.

The first perceptible glow of dawn was beginning to
lighten the eastern sky in a dim aurora when they came to
the outskirts of the village.

Young Tom was suddenly aware of birds chirping,
busily waking their feathered neighbours. He was scarcely
conscious of the increasing visibility until he saw Ducane
waving for the main party to join him.

Turnbull was first away, breaking into long, easy strides
over the rough, sloping pasture; Forbes was next with surprising
speed and power for a man his size; Young Tom
followed.

They dropped down beside Ducane on the roadside
embankment.

"I think they've come to roost," the captain said,
pointing to where the narrow road circled out of sight
between the first houses of the village.

"I should bloody well hope so," Forbes said irritably.
"So damned cold my balls have shrunk like dried peas."

"Lucky you didn't get your head wet," Turnbull quipped.

"Where they goin', boss?" asked Young Tom, peering
out Of the fringe of grass to get a better view.

The large hand of the sergeant landed firmly on his head,
pushing it down. "Didn't I teach you nothin' at camp,
Perrot?"

"Sorry, Sarge, but I haven't seen the buggers all night."
"And they haven't seen us!" Forbes replied. "Let's keep
it that way."

Ducane said: "Dave, you take the other side of the road.


z95

I'll take this side. Once we're sure they're staying put, one
of us will come back for you two." He turned to Turnbull
and Young Tom. "Meanwhile you can change into some
dry ciwies. And grab some chow if there's time."

Turnbull nodded silently as the two men sped off at a
running crouch in different directions. There they go
again, he thought bitterly, the bloody dynamic duo.

He found the teamwork of Ducane and the sergeant
irritating. They always assumed the lead-roles; forever in
their element up the sharp-end, seeming to read each
other's mind without exchanging a word. As a cold shiver
rippled through him, he was nevertheless pleased at the
opportunity to change into something warm. He was never
at his best when he was cold; it seemed to numb his
thinking process, slowing it down to an unacceptable
speed. He had always disliked Arctic warfare, but at least
in the dry, crisp Scandinavian snow you had the proper
kit, and you weren't troubled by gnawing damp.

Forbes returned half an hour later, changed quickly into
jeans and sweater, and led the others back to Dueane's
temporary hide. It was in a copse of trees overlooking a
picturesque old brick schoolhouse with a neat playground
lined with iron railings.

While Ducane changed into a dark leather jacket and
brown corduroy trousers, Forbes explained the situation.
"Duffy and friends have parked themselves in the armexe
building behind the school."

Now that the sky was lightening rapidly, Turnbull and
Young Tom could see the long one one-storey slab of prefabricated
concret6 that ran the full length of the rear wall
of the school, destroying the building's overall quaintness.

Turnbull slitted his eyes, trying to determine some sign
Of life. "'They parallel bars on the walls?"

Forbes nodded. "I think it's a gym. Obviously one of the
staff or the caretaker is in with the Provos, because they
just walked in the back door. Used a key."

"Perhaps it was the builders?" Young Tom suggested.
Forbes scowled. "Eh?"

I96

Perrot nodded towards the railings. "There's a sign
hanging up. Some decorators. Douglas and Sons, or something
like that."

"Douglas and Douglas," Turnbull corrected quickly.

There he goes again, thought Forbes. Brainy bastard
doesn't miss a trick.

Ducane finished dressing and packed away his anorak
and waterproof trousers in the collapsible holdall with his
empty hack-pack, boots and equipment. He pulled a neat,
cellophane-wrapped chicken drumstick from the bag and
began munching eagerly.

Between mouthfuls he said: "I think Tom's right. A
building firm provides good cover. Lots of blokes to-ing
and fro-ing. Often covered in dust and paint. Always
different faces."

"And transport," Turnbull pointed out stiffly.

Ducane smiled, gulping the last of the meat from the drumstick. "I hadn't overlooked that one." Mild rebuke.

He jabbed the bone towards the road that ran in front
of the school. Opposite was a second-hand car showroom.
The conventional narrow shopfront had been ripped out
and a plate-glass door installed. Inside two cars had been
squeezed side by side. The remaining vehicles had been
backed onto the wide pavement; others appeared to be
parked down the narrow side alley.

"Convenient," Forbes murmured.

"Anything take your fancy?" Ducane asked.

The sergeant rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Better not
be too small for us lot. Hopefully a bit of poke in it.
Inconspicuous."

"That old blue Zephyr looks nice," Young Tom
commented, appreciatively.

Forbes looked at him disapprovingly. "Looks nice, does
it, Perrot? Fancy that one do you?"

Young Tom looked apprehensive. "Well, yes. Nice
condition."

The sergeant looked to the heavens. "Want an
inspection, do you?" He gave the soldier a hard but
friendly shove. "C'mon then. If it's pretty enough for you, .


I97

t's pretty enough for me too. You can keep your eyes
peeled whilst I do the dirty work."

Crouching low, the two set off towards the road and the
showroom. The Zephyr that Young Tom had selected was
down the side alley which was still in shadow. Once at the
roadside, the younger man strolled openly across to the
parked cars, peering through the windows, idly kicking the
tyres, and making appreciative nods for the benefit of
any passers-by. Meanwhile Forbes crossed the road, out- of-sight of the school building, and made his way down
the narrow service road that ran behind the showroom,
until he could approach it unseen.

Already there were signs of life as the community stirred
itself at the start of a new day. Somewhere along the road
a housewife put out empty milk bottles, looked up at the
sombre sky, grimaced and retreated indoors. Two agricultural
workers in flat caps sauntered along the pavement
together, each clutching a lunchbox. A delivery van trundled
past, seeming very noisy in the early morning
quietness. Cycling lazily, with a short ladder over his
shoulder, a window cleaner zig-zagged his way down the
centre of the road.

"Peaceful," Turnbull commented, struggling to get the
remains of the camouflage cream from his face with a wad
tissues. "Makes you wonder why there're so many violent
buggers in the world.",

Ducane laughed. "Does, doesn't it. But I don't think
we'll ever be out of a job."

Turnbull shrugged. "No, I'm afraid you're right. It's

just when you see a village like this. So quiet. Friendly ...
It all seems such a bloody shame." He ran a hand over

his chin. "Is it all off yet? This cream sticks like gluel'"
"Your cheek. The left one, below ygur eye."

Tumbull found it. "I feel positively naked without this
lot!"

You don't look it, thought Ducane. As usual Tumbull

had managed to look immaculate in a ligh.t suede jacket and
beige mohair slacks.

At that moment the serenity of the village was shattered


I98

iby the rumble of a lorry as it approached from the far end
of the high street, changing gear noisily, spewing out a
cloud of blue exhaust. Once the paintwork had been white,
but now it was pitted and stained with sand and cement so
that the black legend along its side was only just legible: Douglas & DouglasmBuilders and Decorators.

Instinctively Ducane and Turnbull moved forward for a
better view. Across the road, Young Tom took' care to avert
his face as he wandered to the end of the alley, hands
thrust casually into his trouser pockets. Ducane guessed he
as whistling 'Colonel Bogey' to warn Forbes of danger as
the lorry bounced its heavy nearside wheels onto the pavement
and jolted to a stop outside the school entrance.

Two young workmen in stained white overalls climbed
down from the cab, laughing as they shared a joke together.
They were joined on the pavement by the driver, an overweight,
florid-faced man in his fifties. Casually they
aroceeded to the school gates, inserted a heavy key in the
old-fashioned lock, and let themselves into the playground.
They didn't look round but continued joking amongst
themselves as they disappeared into the annexe.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Turnbull asked
quietly.

Ducane nodded. "Do you think you can get a bug on that
truck?"

I'll have a shot."

The captain rummaged in his holdall and extracted a
sealed aluminium container. Inside was a small receiver set
and half-a-dozen miniature rad/o transmitters, no larger
than a half-pence piece. Powered by a small mercury
battery, they would transmit a continuous.signal up to a
range of three miles. . .

Quickly Ducane activated two of them by inserting the
batteries, and handed them to Turnbull, who pocketed
them swiftly and made his way through the bushes to join
a gravel path that ran alongside the school to the road. Once
there he stepped off the pavement, walking behind the
vehicle, using it to screen himself from any watchful eyes
in the school. Seconds later he emerged from behind the


99

vehicle, walking towards the village centre. No one would
suspect he had stopped to slap the magnetic grips against
the lorry's metalwork as he passed.

Ducane switched on the receiver, thumbing the small
dial until he picked up the first bleep, repeating rapidly due
to the nearness of the transmitting bug. He twisted the dial
again. There was no sign of the signal from the second
transmitter. Carefully he repeated the process. Still nothing.
Either there was a malfunction or else it had dropped
off and been damaged.

Just as he began to curse, there was a movement from
the annexe and the three workmen emerged, still laughing
amongst themselves as they carried lengths of timber and
toolbags back towards the school gate. The fat man had lost
some weight, and the younger man had aged considerably.

Ducane glanced across to the car showroom. There was
no sign of Perrot. God, he thought, I just hope Dave isn't
having trouble. It would be. unusual for him not to
bring the most stubborn engine to life in a matter of
seconds. But it was just possible that the cars tucked in
the alleyway were awaiting servicing, or were generally
not up to the standard of those prominently on display.
It wouldn't take long for the lorry to cover the three miles
that would take it out of transmitter range.

Working rapidly, Ducane gathered the four bulky items
of luggage together and, picking up two in each hand,
stumbled towards the main road.

He had only just begun his agonising walk when the
builder's lorry jerked noisily into life. With a crunching of
gears and a clumsy over-use of the accelerator, the big
vehicle got underway, making a wide U-turn and gathering
speed back towards the centre of the village.

As he dumped the last item by the roadside, Ducane
heard the spluttering cough of a car from the alleyway
opposite. It faded and died. Again the metallic bronchial
stutter, followed this time by a sudden throaty roar as the
engine caught.

After a moment the big Zephyr edged out of the alley
and swung onto the road. Young Tom was at the wheel. As


2OO

Ducane staggered across the road, the young soldier

climbed out and opened the boot for the luggage.
"Where the bell's Dave?" Ducane demanded.

In answer, Forbes' bulky frame emerged from the alley
hunched astride a roaring Triumph Bonneville motorcycle.
His moustache protruded each side of the battered
white crash helmet as he grinned broadly.

"Thought we could do with extra wheels. Your escort,
boss["

Ducane returned the grin. Bloody maniac. He said:
"Okay. But keep behind us until we need you."

He slammed the door shut as Young Tom accelerated
towards the village centre. They picked up Turnbull at the
village crossroads and continued, keeping the monotonous
signal of the receiver at a regular beat, indicating that
Duffy's truck was about a mile ahead.

In the mirror the large be-goggled figure maintained its
distance some two hundred yards behind.


There was only one route to the friary which could be
used by vehicles, but it wasn't designed for the low-slung
Rover zooo.

It was half an hour's bumpy ride since they had left the
main road and Billy McKee felt bilious and irritable. The
front wheels hit another pot-hole,.and the chassis bottomed
again with a teeth tingling grind. He swallowed hard,
glancing at his companions for an indication that they
shared his discomfort. He felt annoyed that Doherty next
to him and Martin McGuiness beside the driver saw no
reason to curtail their heated discussions, despite the fact
that their heads were frequently jarred against the roof as
the car climbed the pitted track.

McGuiness was explaining: "You can see why they
chose this spot. Even in the height of summer the tourists
are few and far between. And they rarely leave their cars."

Eamon Doherty nodded appreciatively, his eyes scanning
the bleak Galway countryside. "Hikers could be a
problem come June."

"No. McClatcher reckons we'll be fully operational by


20I

then. We're closin' it anyway in a few days and going onto.
a new site. I've suggested we start a gymnasium somewhere
during the summer. At least it'll keep the lads fit when
they're not operational."

The Rover hit another rut and McKee bounced violently

in his seat. "How much farther?" he demanded, feeling the
acid aftertaste of the cheese and stout lunch they'd eaten
earlier. "'This road isn't fit for a mule, let alone a car."

"We could have walked, sir," Doherty reminded pointedly.

McKee grunted. "Don't tell me we can't run to a jeep?"

Doherty replied: "McClatcher's group have got three,
but they're all in use. He refused to send one tomeet us."

Again McKee grunted. "'Bout time he knew whCs
running this show."

Doherty just managed to restrain a grin. "I think he
knOW S. ' '

"We're nearly there," consoled McGuiness.

Even as he spoke the Rover reached the peak of the track
and started the gentle downhill run to the old friary. As
they approached, the flat gleam of Lough Corrib shone
through the mist that drifted across the small peninsula.
A glimmer of sunlight shed an etching line of shadow
around the undulations in the turf, highlighting the
weather-worn stone walls in bold relief.

Here and there the rolling shades of green were broken

by jutting outcrops of rock, like balding brown skulls amid
the turf and gorse.

As the driver applied the brakes, McKee sighed with
relief, thankful for the opportunity to get out into the
surprisingly mild air. He frowned as he scanned the
deserted landscape. The only sign of movement was a hawk
drifting on an outstretched span of wing, circling lazily
above the range of boulder-strewn hills in the distance.
Nearby a flock of sheep appeared almost stationary, nibbling
contentedly. A lone bleat reverberated forlornly
across the quiet waters of the lough.

Suddenly McKee said: "You sure this is the right place,
Chief? 'Countryside round here all looks much of a


2O2

sameness. That friary hasn't been inhabited for years by
the look of things."

McGuiness and Doherty exchanged glances. The ex
paratrooper had been let in on the secret. He couldn't
conceal his admiration for the cheek and style of the Chief
of Northern Command.

"I just hope our Brit friends think the same way,"
McGuiness replied. He extracted a whistle from the pocket
of his raincoat and put it to his lips. Twice the shrill
whistle blasted, its vibrant echo lingering in the air, fading
slowly.

McKee glanced around, suddenly alarmed. "If this is
some sort of ..."

The words died on his lips in disbelief. Even as he
watched figures materialised out of open countryside,
growing slowly like trees or shrubs. He gasped audibly as
he realised that every clump of grass and bush had
concealed a man, each expertly camouflaged with material
and sprigs of vegetation. It was only possible to distinguish
them when they moved.

Panic seized McKee. He never carried a 'short' and for
once he cursed the empty pocket of his overcoat. It was an
ambush. By the Army. An Armymbut British or Irish?
The thoughts raced through his mind.

His mouth fell open as a section of the bare, flinty
track just a few feet in front of the car yawned open and
two hooded figures peered out, each pointing an Armalite
rifle.

He let his shoulders-relax. They were completely
surrounded. He would never have believed it possible.
There were forty men if there was one.

His head turned quickly as he heard McGuiness laugh.
"Don't worry, sir. These are our lads. Just a little demonstration for your benefit."

McKee felt the anger rising, replacing the numbing fear
that had paralysed his thoughts and actions. "You'd better
have a good explanation for this!"

The younger man was ignoring him, still smiling, as he
looked towards the old friary and the two large figures


203

who had emerged from the rough stone archway. Both
wore military-cut green shirts and trousers. Only as they
approached the car, saluting casually, did McKee recognise
Earl Lee McClatcher and Winston Loveday.

"Thanks, Colonel," McGuiness said, anxious to prevent
McKee from launching into.his usual battery of verbal
broadsides. "I think we all appreciated that display. Didn't
we, sir?"

McKee grunted, turning up his coat-collar. Now his
sense of priorities had returned, he was anxious that none
of the armed men surrounding him should be able to
identify him at some future date. He indicated to Me
Guiness and Doherty to do the same.

McClatcher said brightly: "I'm glad you liked the show
of force, Mr McKee. An' believe me, them bastards is
as mean as they look. They kin handle anything the
British can throw at 'em. Later we'll show you. But first
if you'd come up to the old monastery we'll give you some
chow and some good news." He turned to Loveday.
"Okay, Sergeant, get the men dispersed. We'll give a
combat demo in about an hour. Okay?"

"Yessirl" The Negro snapped to attention, threw a sharp
salute, and strode off calling the men into line.

McGuiness found his bemusement replaced with a
profound sense of surprise. He was impressed.

He could sense, too, that McKee and Doherty found it
hard to comprehend that the obedient, quick-moving
group of armed men around them were just a ragtag
collection of Provisional gunmen and bombers a few weeks
previously. They could almost have been watching an
exercise on Salisbury Plain, as the men fell into line and
marched off in a perfect column, with Loveday at their
head.

Twenty minutes later the Army Council members had
been shown around the crumbling friary that served as
a headquarters. One cell had been stuffed with electronic
gadgetry, and the bank of monitor screens, which plotted
movement throughout the peninsula, had suitably impres-
sed everyone.


2o4

McClatcher explained that they had installed a mix of
remote control television cameras, seismic sensors and
listening devices over much of the five square miles, from
the edges of the lough to where the base of the promontory
reached the mainland road.

"I guess we've all main approaches covered," Me
Clatcher conceded confidently. "We were monitoring
yer movements all the way up the track. I'll show you a video tape later if we've time."

McGuiness said: "I think we ought to break the latest

news."

The American allowed himself a slow smile. rithout
rushing he lit a cigar butt and blew a ring of smoke.
He wasn't displeased when the draught from the makeshift
tarpaulin roof drifted the pungent cloud directly at
McKee.

Stuff you, he thought. This is McClatcher's moment.
This is the moment when you choke on your own cynicism.
When you realise McClatcher's not as good as his word.
He's better.

As McKee's nose wrinkled, the American said: "I'm able
to report our first successful strikes against your buddies
of the Special Air Service! In the past fortnight three SAS
patrols have come under fire. Severe casualties have been
inflicted. Our teams have also killed or iniured fifteen
regular troopers."

He waited for the words to sink in. McKee frowned. "I
heard that report. Casualties are not even confirmed."

"Shift" McClatcher snapped. He was angry. This was
not the reaction he wanted. "Complete crap! Listen, man,
you'd better start believin' what I tell you, or you 'n' me are
goin' to fall OUT!" McKee's cheeks coloured visibly with
indignation. Before he could retort, the American continued:
"Do you want my sergeant to present you with
scalps?"

Quickly McGuiness intervened: "I can verify the colonel's
claim, sir. During the past weeks our own
intelligence network in the area has improved dramatically
with his help."


205

"I can also tell you that yer own security ain't nuthin'
to write home about," McClatcher grated. "Our intelligence
tells us the SAS already know too much about the
FCU and are mountin' an operation to locate us." He
jerked his cigar end in the direction of a large map on
the wall. "At this moment four SAS men are happily
crossing Eire in hot pursuit of Mr Duffy. They'll be here
by nightfall."

The Council members exchanged glances.

Tersely McKee asked: "What happens now, Colonel?"
The American stamped a heavy boot on the cigar butt
he dropped on the flagged floor. "As we were anticipatin'
such action, we've had our men watchin' fer SAS groups
tailin' our new recruits on border crossings. At this
moment two of our people are keepin' an eye on them.
When the moment is right, they will be eliminated. And
you can actually have your scalps."

McKee nodded. Carefully he eyed the bank of monitor
screens, watching the driver of the Rover smoking surreptitiously,
unaware he was under surveillance. "I hand it to you, McClatcher. You've done well. I had my doubts,
but you've proven McGuiness's confidence in you was well
justified." Praise indeed.

The young Provo commander felt pleased. This operation
promised to be the highlight of his career. Once the
story spread, his name would become even more of a legend
than it already was. Only from now on the Brit bastards
would tread more warily when dealing with his men. Treat
his name with a little more reverence and respect. And
within the organisation his word would be sacrosanct.
Amongst the rank and file his followers would be legion--
with the loyalty normally earned only by martyrs.

This was only the beginning. Twenty-four hours after
its next victims were caught, the friary campsite would
disperse, all signs of its very existence gone. Then, in a
month or so, things would start to happen in Armagh, in
Belfast, in Newry, in Londonderry. His squad would go
on the offensive, quiet and deadly, fired by their early successes.

206

Even now he had laid plans with McClatcher and the
big Negro. Some in embryo; some quite detailed. The
American was a genius.

In the past many brilliant plans had gone wrong. So
many 'own goals' had been scored, the term laughingly
given when a bomber shot his bolt. So many well
conceived campaigns had backfired. And always because
of the calibre of his men. Now it would be different.

Sabotage on an unprecedented scale. Army surveillance
teams dropping like nine-pins. The FCU would strike like
phantoms out of the darkness. Set-up after set-up. It would
be a bloodbath.

The Brits would have to draft in the whole Rhine Army.
And even then they wouldn't cope. Not with two hundred
of McClatcher's privates to deal with!

Then, inevitably, the Brit withdrawal.

Martin McGuiness stepped out into the mid-afternoon
sunlight that bathed the loughside in a subdued light from
the shredding cloud cover. McKee was impressed and he
followed the small party to the mound of high ground from
where they were to watch the display of armed and unarmed
combat.

But his mind was thinking beyond the present leaders
of the ArmyCouncil. To the inevitable time of the Brit
withdrawal. No doubt the final act would be heavily disguised
with artificial objectives and official pronouncements. Just like President Nixon's 'Vietnamisation' before
the Yanks finally threw in the towel. Hand the power and
military punch back to the people. Get just enough promises
to justify the abdication of responsibility. Then get
out fast as hell while the going is good.

If it goes wrong then, too bad.-Once the Brits left they'd
not come back. Not this time.

McKee found it difficult to believe they'd ever get a
political settlement, despite his earlier optimism. Now he
steered the Army Council with an air of resignation. The
attitude of a man who knew what had to be done, but no
longer knew how long it would take or if it would ever
succeed. His blind faith had gone unquestioned. It was


2o7

the blindness of one who did not want to see.

But McGuiness knew different.

He knew things would change. History proved it. A
solution would be found and he intended to be ready when
it did. He had seen McKee age, seen the hatred and bitter�
ness of failure gnaw away at him. When the time came,
freshness of approach and a fist of steel would be required.
Maybe the fiery Communist, Gerry Adams.

McGuiness knew that the strange forged friendships
between the hardliners of the Provisional and Protestant
gangs in the prison of Long Kesh had sparked a new hope.
A new aim. A new symbol of unity.

Not of a united Ireland. Not now. But of an independent
Ulster. This was the ever-growing battlecry of all the
hardline socialist factions. United by a common enemy: the
Brits.

McGuiness knew it would come, because it was the only
option the Brits hadn't tried. It was the only one that bad
support from extremists on both sides. A small following
now, but growing with the speed of bindweed. And giving
Off a heady fragrance.

Unknown to many, the Catholic population of Ulster

was no longer significantly smaller than the Protestant. As job discrimination had been removed, Irish Catholics no
longer emigrated in vast numbers to seek a living wage
across the water. But more Protestants did, uncertain and
concerned at what the future held. In the schools now there
were more Roman Catholic children than Protestant.
Strange that, but true. In thirty years, or even less, the
tide would be completely reversed.

McGuiness watched the group of men running steadily

up from the shore-line of the lough, pounding, along in

powerful, united strides as they prepared for their display.
Tomorrow it would be the real thing.

McGuiness felt suddenl cold. When Independent
Ulster came he would be ready. Ready with the most
ruthless, best-trained private army the British Isles had
ever witnessed. Ready to seize power and control from any
other group in the political running.

208

High above the hawk still circled, silent, watchful and
menacing. Waiting its moment.

He turned his head, looking north-east across the flat
waters of the lough to where he knew his latest prey was
moving inexorably into his web.

Somewhere out there. Four men in a car.


Dave Forbes was enjoying himself.

It had been some years since he had owned a motorcycle
and, as he relaxed astride the powerful machine, he
recalled the leaves he had spent with Elaine touring
Europe. They were pleasant memories, warm and sunny
with the carefree joy of youth. It was strange, he reflected,
how the bad moments were shut out by an invisible barrier
in the mind. Only with effort did you look beyond it; too
painful.

He throttled back, allowing the Zephyr to edge ahead
beyond the next bend.

There was little traffic on the road. So unlike Ulster or
the mainland; here life ran at its own easy pace. Always
time to pass the day; no rush no urgent needs, no overbearing
demands. Even the people here seemed friendly.
Curious to see a British visitor, but rarely hostile. It was
the air. It slowed you down, its soporific effect seeping
into your bloodstream like alcohol. Drowsy, lazy. Everything
can be done tomorrow. Have another Guinness--
you've time to wait for it to be slowly poured; time to

savour it. Today's too good a day for cares and worries.
He glanced down at his watch. 15oo hours.

It was two hours since the truck had pulled into the
roadside cafe. Tom Perrot had turned the Zephyr into a
layby where the rest of the team had stopped and attacked
their rations eagerly. After the night of hard activity
appetities were not easily satisfied. Certainly not with
K-rations.

Forbes had gone onto the cafe, parked near to the truck,
and strolled in to order roast lamb, potatoes and cabbage.
The oily gravy wasn't extra. The customers were mostly
lorry-drivers and local workmen. Some ate quietly, reading


209

papers or magazines. Others chatted in small groups,
laughing between mouthfuls of food. Two men worked
silently and without humour at the fruit-machine.

Dumping the crash-helmet on a spare chair, he had
seated himself at a table opposite Duffy.

It was the nearest he had ever been to the man he had
hunted years before. He was hardly recognisable as the
face in the flat, over-lit mug shots he had seen that time
in the operations room at Ebrington. It was hard to imagine
that the sandy-haired man with the freckles who was
laughing with his mates just ten feet away was really 'Big
Dick'. The long, lanky frame, awkwardly sprawled in the
chair, seemed too clumsy; the face too young,

Difficult to believe, thought Forbes, this was the bomber
who had eluded them for so long, the smart-arse who had
wreaked so much havoc in Derry and always managed to
get away with it. Even the raid on the Smugglers' Inn,
the notorious Provo meeting place at Cladby. He had even
got out of that. Through the lavatory window and a three
hundred yard sprint to the border. Some berk had spent
so much time calling out the Yellow Card routine that 'Big
Dick' got over the frontier. Untouchable.

And after all those months of effort. Forbes stabbed at

the meat on his plate, finding it hard to keep his angry
gaze from the man opposite.

This time, bastard, you've had it. The pilgrims are after
you. Sitting opposite. It was a nice try though, the schoolhouse
and the builders' truck. Typical 'Big Dick' Dully.
Slippery.

By rights you should be dead now. If this was Aden or
Malaya ... Not to worry. This pilgrim's got his finger on
you. You've blown your last bang.

Duffy's companions, two men in their late thirties, were
looking anxiously at their watches, but the other man

waved aside their words. He ordered more tea.

What makes you tick, bastard?

What makes someone like you blow up a factory or a
shop? Do you care if the warning comes too late and people
get killed and maimed? Do you ever think what it's like


21o

to see your whole life stretched out before you and know
you've got to finish the course with a limb missing? Sometimes
all four.

Do you know what it's like to make love to a woman
with no legs? Can you share her shame, her humility? Or
what it feels like to know there's so much shrapnel in you
the doctors will never find it all?

Do you feel remorse? Go to the confessional and beg
forgiveness, then brag about it in the Smugglers'?

You nearly got me once too, 'Big Dick', didn't you?
Forbes drained his tea, remembering the patrol at company
strength that nearly caught the Provo bomber two
years before. He had been attached to Three Platoon, B
Company of the Queen's operating with the big Scottish
Colour Sergeant, guiding and advising.

Forbes had seen it coming, but only just. Too late to
save the Scotsman as he passed the freshly-painted, white
house front. From the alleyway opposite Dully would have
had to be blind to miss the silhouette.

Colour was back in England now, in some home or other.
Forbes had visited him once, but there had been no point.
The fearsome head wound had left the man without the
powers of coherent speech and without control of his body.
But Forbes knew from the sad, alert eyes that the Scotsman
understood every word he said. Try as he might,
Forbes couldn't even recall the Colour's name.

He was pleased when Dully left the care, because his
anger had risen to boiling point and it was difficult to
contain. The Irishman had stopped for a few minutes at
the coinbox in the entrance hall before joining his impatient
companions. Outside the air was fresh and cool.
It seemed to blow away the filth, ease the fury.

Now Perrot was ahead again, in the Zephyr with Ducane
and Turnbull, keeping a safe mile behind Duffy's truck.
Leaving Forbes alone with his thoughts, free to enjoy the
rolling farmland.

The sharp blast from the hooter made him swerve.

Stupid sod.t Forbes veered back into the kerb as the
powerful black Triumph sped past, a copper-haired


2II

woman passenger mouthing silent obscenities at him like
a goldfish through the glass.

He held the machine steady, avoiding the drain-grating
that threatened to topple him. The car disappeared fast
around the next bend.

Forbes cursed himself, glancing in the stalk-mirror on
the handlebars to inspect the clear road behind him. They
must have been going a fair lick for him to have missed
them. Still, they should have been in his rear view for some
seconds before they passed; he should have seen them. A
stupid road accident would have been an ignominious way
to go!

He was still chiding himself as he rounded the bend to
find the black Triumph saloon in front of him. It had
slowed to a mere crawl. He jammed hard on the brakes.
Ahead, just disappearing over the brow of a hill, he could
see the boot of Ducane's Zephyr.
He swore loudly at himself for not having realised
earlier. Everyone in Eire drove in a lazy, easy-going way,
frequently on the wrong side of the narrow roads,
especially during drinking hours. But an angry motorist
was a rarity.

He allowed himself to drop a comfortable distance behind,
his mind racing to establish the significance of the
couple in the Triumph.

Forbes didn't like the answers he got. He remembered
Duffy's phone-call from the cafe.

There was little doubt in his mind that the newcomers,
having raced to catch the Zephyr, were deliberately hanging
back.

His mind went back to the discussions with the Welsh
major. Was someone just taking precautions, or was it
possible they knew about this mission? He recalled
Harper's instinctive feeling of unease. Even a few minutes
ago, he would have dismissed the idea. It was crazy,
impossible.

But the couple in the Triumph were no figment of the
imagination. A smart move. Typical Duffy. Observing the
observers. Hunting the hunters.


212

Shit! Wasn't that supposed to be the whole idea of the
stupid Provo plan they'd heard so much about? The whole
purpose--to give his regiment some stick.

With a terrifying clarity he realised that the whole
scheme could just work. He had not accepted the concept,
and he doubted that Ducane had really worked out the
possibilities.

The contempt with which the SAS generally treated the
hooligans and bullyboys of the Provos and hardline
Proddies could be turned against them. If it was just
possible to train a handful. Really train them.

If, and it was a very big if. How many men would be
killed before GHQ Northern Ireland realised exactly what
they were up against?

The thought made him shudder. They could be marked
down to be the first. Ducane, Turnbull, Perrot and Big
Dave Forbes.

He remembered having seen the county border sign of
Galway many miles back. Already they were fully committed.
Another thirty miles or so and they would reach

the west coast. The Atlantic.

So it had to be soon.

Hardly had this thought entered his mind when he
crossed the brow of a hill that fell away to the loughside
miles beyond. He could see both the Triumph and
Ducane's Zephyr on the ribbon of road that stretched
across the rolling heathland. Both looked like toys in the
distance, the Triumph slowing as it approached the small
collection of houses that strung along both sides of the road.

Nearing the isolated community at low-level the buildings
seemed different to those Forbes had glimpsed from
his vantage point on the hill. From tiny model dwellings
on a diorama they had developed a life-size character of
their own.

The buildings looked tired and weather-worn from the
constant Atlantic breezes that blew across Galway, gathering
strength over the lough. The total lack of pedestrians
added to the sense of desolation and weariness, faded and
forgotten by the outside world.

The black Triumph had pulled into the side of the road
outside a dilapidated garage forecourt beneath a row of
ancient, overhead davit pumps.

Farther down the street, the Zephyr had pulled into the
shallow parking recess outside a confectioners-cure-guest
house which boasted the inevitable bar. From a concealed
spot ha a layby at the edge of the village, Forbes narrowed
his eyes as he sought a sign of the builders' lorry. He could
see nothing. Someone climbed out of the Zephyr. He
thouglat it was Ducane, but at that distance it was impossible
to be sure.

He sniffed the air. It smelt very fresh with just a trace
of seasalt. To the south he knew Galway Bay couldn't be
far away. High above a seagull cried plaintively, the sound
ripplhag in a mocking echo across the lough. In the far
distance a large bird of prey hovered menacingly over a
rocky peninsula of land.

He shivered involuntarily and returned his gaze to the
deserted village. The passengers of the Triumph had made
no attempt to leave their vehicle; still no one had approached
to see if they required service.

Perhaps this was the end of the journey? Somewhere
around this barren and rocky heathland? Or in the steep .
hills flexed like hard granite muscle amongst the undulating
grey-green flesh? Somewhere, half-hidden in the veil of
mist, their target must lie. Unnoticed by the world at large.

There could be worse places to site it, he reasoned. And
if Ducane had halted because Duffy's truck had stopped,
then he must quickly satisfy himself that he was right about
the Triumph.

He kicked the motor-cycle into.life and moved down the
road. He pulled in across the front of the parked Triumph.
Slowly he dismounted and flicked down the prop-stand
with his heel. Then he strolled across to the driver's door
of the car. The man inside 16oked irritated. His eyes were
bright and blue, fierce almost, an effect heightened by the
ruddy complexion and wild ginger beard and whiskers. His
thick matching eyebrows were half-hidden by a soft
chequered fishing hat.


214

In Gaelic, Forbes said: "Good day to you, friend.
'Nearly had me off my bike back there."

Not bad, he thought to himself. Pity I don't find Russian
this easy.

Unable to hear, the man wound down his window
angrily. The woman passenger, her long copper hair restrained
by a floral scarf, ignored him completely, raising
herself in the seat to see over the motorcycle that now
blotted her view of Ducane's Zephyr. She was probably
in her late thirties and had been pretty once, thought
Forbes, and fiery. But, like her companion, she'd grown
bitter. It was hard to imagine that those thin, compressed
lips had ever smiled; her eyes were a shade of pale green,
lacklustre. Forbes guessed she drank heavily. That would
explain the rolls of fat that were beginning to disfigure
a once-good shape. In a few years she would be a hag.
Twisted with hatred. Frustrated and useless to everyone.

The man's ginger whiskers twitched in annoyance as he
spoke. "What?"

Forbes beamed at him. "Good day to you friend." Again
in Gaelic.

The man sighed impatiently. "Can't you speak
English?" he demanded.

Christ, Forbes thought, I'm more bloody Irish than he
is and you could cut his accent with a chain-saw it was
so thick.

"I was sayin'. You nearly had me offmy bike back there.
But it was my fault. Wandering all over the shop. 'Sorry
if I gave you a shockdrivin' in front of you like that ..."

The man looked irritable. The tiny veins on his ruddy
face became more noticeable. "Think nothin' of it,
mister."

Forbes leaned across to the woman, who continued to
look straight ahead at Ducane's Zephyr.

She said tightly out of the corner of her mouth. "For
God's sake, Bill, get d of him!"

"Now, look here .. I" began the man.

Forbes beamed again. "Just being' friendly, re'am. 'You
here on business? It's a bit quiet here for business." He


215

aused. "'You travellers? You know, reps."
"We're on holiday," replied the man impatiently.
Forbes said quickly: "Coincidence. I'm on holiday too.
You stopped to fred a place t'stay? Let's try that guest
house."

He could almost hear the woman's teeth grating. She
exchanged glances with her companion. He shrugged.

Forbes smiled. He had seen Young Tom and Turnbull

start to take the luggage out of the Zephyr's boot, and in
through the front door. Something was up.

He restarted his motor-cycle and allowed the Triumph

to follow him across the narrow street, careful not to give
the vehicle passing space until he had stopped alongside
the Zephyr.

As the couple climbed out, Forbes said: "Let me buy

you a drink, seem' as how we seem to be fellow travellers."
The woman smiled unconvincingly. "I'm very tired."

"Later maybe," grunted the man, extracting a small
overnight case from the back seat.

Young Tom clattered out of the front door to the
Zephyr. The sergeant saw his eyes flicker in surprise. But
it was only a fleeting sign of recognition. He whistled softly
as he retrieved the fourth holdall.

He then appeared to notice the three of them for the

first time. "Hello, folks," he said brightly. "If you're
planning on stopping, I think you're in luck. Only six
rooms, but it's out-of-season."

Forbes sighed in silent relief. He was pleased Perrot
hadn't attempted the Irish accent. Languages weren't his
strong point.

"English?" asked the woman. Her voice sounded like
crushed glass. Although she spoke with a smile you could
detect the hatred without difficulty.

Young Tom inclined his head. "Yes. I'm on a trip with
a friend and my old Irish uncle!"

Don't overdo it, lad, cringed Forbes. Ducane was the

other linguist in the team, and he didn't seem to fit the role.

"Let's go inside," Forbes suggested.

p"Have they started the holiday season early this year?"
The young girl laughed at her own joke, as she served
out the drinks in the spartan bar. Her hair was auburn,
framing a cheerful freckled face, making her look younger
than her twenty-five years.

As she pulled a pint of bitter for Forbes he noticed her
muscular arms, white and with a rash of freckles to match
her face. Well-rounded, even plumpish. Nice, thought
Forbes appreciatively, as he wetted his lips at the sight
of the frothing glass.

"No, my beauty, we've come for some ski-ing on the
Galway mountains[" He chuckled loudly, turning to the
Irish couple who had reluctantly succumbed to his insistence
that he should make amends for his careless driving.
The man was in no mood to share the humour, but the
woman allowed herself an ingratiating smirk.

"You're in luck," the girl said, lifting the guest-book

from under the bar. "Are you all together?"

"No," the woman said sharply.

"I see," the girl said, unsure of the sudden hostility.
"We've just let two of our doubles. There's only one left.
A bit small. And a single ..."

"The double will do," the woman said quickly.
"What's the single like?" Forbes asked, smirking.
"Small enough for one," the girl replied mischievously.
She twisted the guest-book around for the couple to
sign.

Forbes glanced carelessly over the man's shoulder. Mr
Mrs William Kelly. As he laboriously wrote out the
address, the sergeant glanced around the bleak, yellow
walls, broken only by cheap prints of the Galway landscape.
Turnbull and Young Tom were seated together at
a plastic-topped table over a couple of drinks.

Two elderly men, one in a flat cap and collarless shirt,
sat in the corner. Obviously they were companions, but
neither spoke, both content to idly watch. Ruminate. They
thought they'd seen the last of the foreigners coming to
trample over their farmland this year.

There was no sign of Ducane.


217

"Is there a telephone we can use?" the woman asked

the girl.

"On the landing upstairs. A public phone."

The woman looked at her husband and inclined her head
towards the stairway at the back of the bar. He picked up
the room-key and followed her obediently.

As they disappeared, Forbes crossed quickly over to his
companions. "What's happening?" he demanded in a low
voice.

Turnbull said: "The truck driver dumped Dully and
another one. They set off on foot. The boss is following.
Don't get too comfortable, we may have to move quickly."

Forbes nodded, turning over the facts in his mind. They

were in a remote spot suitable for the rumoured camp. It
would make sense if it was inaccessible by road.

"Who've your two friends?" Young Tom asked.

The sergeant glanced quickly around the bar to check

that no one was within earshot. One of the old boys was
staring blankly at him. He smiled back with a wave of his
hand.

Lowering his voice still further, he said: "We've got
ourselves a tail."

"Those two upstairs?" Young Tom asked.

Forbes nodded.

"Christ!" Turnbull hissed. "This could mean we've

been set-up. Are you certain about them?"

"'I wouldn't stake my life on it," Forbes replied. "But

I'd stake yours ... Yes, I'm sure.

"Those two jokers are goin' to make a call. I'd feel
happier in my bed tonight if no one knew where we were."
He looked at Turnbull. "You come up with me. Perrot,
you stay here and make sure we don't get disturbed for
five minutes."

Young Tom looked alarmed. "How can I stop anyone?
What if the barmaid wants to go up?"

Forbes looked at the ceiling. "Use your initiative. Chat

her up. You'll think of something."

Without further delay the sergeant mounted the steps,
Turnbull close behind with one of the holdalls.

218

Upstairs the door of the first room on the left was ajar,
and the man in the fishing-hat could be seen attending
to the small travelling case. At the end of the landing the
copper-haired woman was busy thumbing through a notebook,
her handbag open on the table by the wall-mounted
telephone.

Forbes indicated the door. Turnbull nodded.

The woman was cursing low under her breath as she
attempted to dial whilst juggling with the notebook. Her
struggle was made more difficult as Forbes' large hand

closed over hers, forcing the handset onto its rest.
"Hello, my beauty," he said.
"What the ..."

As she gaped at him in surprise with her hands full,
Forbes quickly dabbed a handkerchief into her open
mouth. She fell back against the wall, choking in a muffled
cough. Her notepad dropped to the floor.

Roughly the sergeant spun her round, jerked her hands
up behind her back and snapped on a pair of Plasticuffs.
He pushed her across the hall and into the open door,
stooping to pick up the notebook as he followed her.

"One squeak out of you, darling, and it'll be your last."
The bearded man had lost his fishing hat. He was
sprawled face-down on the bed and insisted on kicking his
legs violently as Turnbull attempted to bind them with
pyjama cord, despite the fact he, too, was handcuffed.

"You're too nice," Forbes muttered disapprovingly, and
hit the man over the back of the neck with a bunched fist.
There was a painful gasp.

Turnbull looked up at the sergeant. "Clever sod, now
he's gone and coughed out his gag!"

But the man had lost his wilt to fight. After a few
moments the two Provisionals were sitting side by side on
the end of the bed: the man moaning at his headache; the
woman eyeing them malevolently.

"Okay," Forbes said quietly. "Let's have your name,
rank and number and no one will get hurt."

He removed the lipstick-covered handkerchief from the
woman's mouth.


219

The abuse came out in a violent tirade. "You fucking
Brit pig! 'Might have known, you pissing, sodding shit.. I"

The crack of Forbes' knuckles across her mouth made
Turnbull wince. The sudden silence was absolute.

"Listen you stupid hag," Forbes spat. "I've been in
West Belfast and I've heard all that filth before from hard
bitten bags even worse than you. So stow it!"

He stood up, his cheeks white with anger. Forbes had

a simple affection for women of all shapes and sizes, but
one thing he could not stand was women debasing them,
selves with gutter language. His ideals were simple,
Women should be clean and pure in mind and body. It
didn't matter how stupid they were, or often how ugly.
He could overlook these things if they were ready and
willing.

He said patiently: "Let's try again, sweetheart."

"Fuck off!." she said with feeling. "'I don't know what
you're talking about."

Turnbull said: "You and your gentleman friend here
were both carrying guns. Not the usual practice for law
abiding citizens in Eire, is it? So cut the innocence and
let's have your names for starters."

The man was looking wildly at the woman, his bright .
blue eyes bulging with effort as he tried to gurgle words
through his gag.

"Ah," Forbes said. "Looks like your boyfriend has
something to say."

He pulled the gag from the man's mouth. "Don't say

a word! We'll be dead if you do!"

Forbes snorted. "You'll be dead if you don't!" He
looked down at the man, then recalling their signatures
in the register, added: "Now, c'mon, Mr Kelly, tell us a
bit about yourself..."

The face went a deeper shade of red. "How d'you know

my name?" he demanded.

"Oh, we know a lot about you, Mr Kelly. Like your
lady friend here ..."

"My wife!" Kelly snapped.

Turnbull shook his head sadly. "Try again." He was


220

leafing through the woman's notebook. "It says here, this

book belongs to Clare Flyrm ..."

"You stupid cow!"

"Tut-tut," Forbes said. "That's no way to talk to your
wife."

At that moment Young Tom came in. "Finished?"
Turnbull said: "Shut the door. Any sign of the boss?"
The young soldier shook his head.

The corporal said: "Tom, I want you to go downstairs
and find out from that barmaid if there are any other hotels
or guesthouses in the area. Get the name of one of them,
right?"

Young Tom looked puzzled.

"What you thinkin'?"

Turnbull waved the notebook at him. "We'd better
finish that phone-call for Miss Flynn here, before someone
starts getting worried. We'll tell them we're staying somewhere
else. You know, just in case."

Forbes frowned. "There's probably a codeword."

Turnbull waved the book in triumph. "There is: Orange
Disorder by the look of it ..."

"'Stupid bloody cow!" Kelly growled again.

The woman looked white, her lips beginning to swell.

Forbes laughed. "'I guess that's what you call the Paddy
Factor."

As he went out of the door, Young Tom was smiling
to himself.

"Reckon you can impersonate Clare Flyrm's voice?"
Turnbull asked.

Forbes leered at her. "I wouldn't insult the lady. But
I can manage him."

He stooped to pick up the square of white card that had

slipped from the notebook as Turnbullwaved it. "What is it, Sarge?"

For a moment he didn't answer. He was staring closely
at a poor print of a photograph he recognised. The furrows
deepened on his forehead.

"A snapshot," he said slowly. "From the boss's family
album."


22I

	CHAPTER 12
	-


Winston Loveday strolled into McClatcher's flag-stoned
cell, grinning broadly. "Looks like they've come home
t'roost, Earl."

The other man looked up from the bunk where he
sprawled untidily with a half-empty whiskey bottle. His
eyes were sunken and red-rimmed with tiredness, his face
drawn with the tension of waiting. Failure to locate the SAS hit team would mean the certain loss of the contract
from the PIRA Army Council.

As the Negro's words sunk in, the gaze in the deep blue

eyes sharpened, and his teeth gleamed white against his
tanned, unshaven face.

"Thank Christ fer that," he breathed.

Loveday sat himself on the edge of the bunk, recoiling

as he caught the odour of stale whiskey. "Dammit, Earl,

it's a bit early to celebrate, ain't it?"

Earl eyed him coldly for a moment, then dismissed the

rebuke he was about to mouth. Things were looking up.
In a sudden violent movement he sat up, swinging his
legs over the edge of the bed.

He plucked a fresh cigar from his tunic and lit it quickly.

His voice was hoarse when he spoke. "'I wasn't celebratin'
nothin', Winston. Just gettin', morose and itchy. It's bin
a long wait--with at least half a million bucks restin' on
the outcome."

He offered the bottle to Loveday who declined with

a shake of his head. "Well, rest easy. I've just had a report
from Kelly. Phoned in to confirm they've arrived and the
message got to me by RT not five minutes ago."

McClatcher frowned. "Codewords?"


222

Loveday nodded, waving his hand. "No sweat. All
AOK."

"Took his bloody time."

The Negro grinned at the other's impatience. Me
Clatcher was a goer all right. Determined to make it to
the top no matter what the cost. While he was content
with a beer and a broad and a pocketful of bread,
McClatcher wouldn't be satisfied until he had a private
estate in Florida, an ocean yacht and his personal Lear
jet.

"He had to be sure they'd holed up for the night.

Didn't wanna raise any false hopes."

"Where are they?"

"Dalmeny Farm. 'Bout fifteen miles down the road. from
the village. Seems they're posin' as tourists. The place
does bed 'n' breakfast."

McClatcher climbed to his feet and moved across to
the map pinned on the wall. He peered at it closely.

"That's a long way from where Duffy was dropped
by the lorry. 'You had Kelly's story checked out?"

"I got Malone an' Reagan to go down in one of the
jeeps to confirm Ducane's car is there. We've had reports
that someone is followin' Duffy up here to the camp.
If that's so, we should pick something up on the camera
shortly."

McClatcher rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Okay, Winston,
gimme five minutes to freshen up an' I'll join you
in the surveillance room."

"Yessir," the Negro saidand made quickly for the door.
Alone again McClatcher took a final gulp of whiskey
and poured some fresh cold water into a bucket in the corner . He began to feel better as he quickly drew the
razor through the tough stubble on his face.
He was reasonably satisfied that everything was going
to plan. Ever since his lucky break when he had telephoned
Pattie Ducane a couple of days earlier, and she had tried
to buy him off with information she had overheard, he
had been expecting some of his new recruits to be tailed
over the border. The news had not surprised him, as.


223

the FCU had been making its presence felt in Ulster.
But the speed of the SAS reaction did. So did the good
fortune of Ducane's unexpected leave and the fact that
Pattie had been able to gather so much detail on how
the operation would be mounted. The fact that Ducane and Forbes would be on the mission was another unexpected
bonus. Having worked with them in 'Nam he
knew their strengths--and that would be their biggest
weakness.

McClatcher had been harbouring only one private fear,
although that danger seemed to have passed.

The lush Clare Flynn and her boyfriend Kelly were
dedicated Republicans, but were blinded by hate and
irrational behaviour. They weren't the ideal choice to pick
up anyone tailing Duffy, but they were the only experienced
people the PIRA had in the area of the border
crossing.

McClatcher was relying on picking up Ducane's team
before they had a chance of locating the camp site and
relaying the position back to GHQ in Ulster. If Flyrm
and Kelly gave the game away, Ducane would be on his
guard, could go to ground, complete his. surveillance, and
have a large-scale deep-penetration raid organised by a
full SAS squadron.

In its capacity as the strike-arm of the intelligence
services, McClatcher had no doubts that the Special Air
Service was quite capable of mounting such a deadly large
scale operation at very short notice. In fact he knew from
Pattie that the necessary contingency plans had already
been laid.

He felt pleased as he slid the fresh tunic over his
shoulders. He would personally ensure that Ducane's team
got no closer, and the thoughts of action again gave him
a dull thrill deep in his gut. Afterwards he'd present the
Army Council with the SAS men's ears.

As he buttoned his tunic he felt the familiar stiffness
in the fingers of his right hand. Over the years he had
become so used to it that it caused him no more concern
than a mild irritation, but now he recalled vividly the


224

moment in the Vietnamese village when Ducane's foot
had crushed his fingers into the ground, breaking the small
bones in a dozen places.

Ever since the SAS man, then a Second Lieutenant,
had been seconded to the Green Berets at Fort Bragg
there had been no love lost between them. Forbes had
been all right, he remembered, accepting the punishment
McClatcher had dealt out to suspected VC sympathisers
without a word. Ducane had been insensed on many
occasions and had finally acted in the quiet riverside
hamlet.

McClatcher and three cronies had a girl in one of the
huts. She was about fifteen. Perhaps younger, it was hard
to tell with Gooks. The American had been convinced
she had deliberately led two Berets into a booby-trap
ambush, which had cost one his life and the other both
his legs. They had the girl stripped naked, and McClatcher
was going to be the first to rape her.

Speaking in a low voice, Ducane had, calmly told the
four men to leave her alone. They had ignored him, until
his foot had shot like a bolt into the side of McClatcher's
head, sending him sprawling into the array of clay kitchen
pots. The American, staggering under the blow, had
reached for the combat knife which lay by his discarded
clothes. It was then that Ducane had lunged with his
booted foot, grinding McClatcher's fingers into the. hard,
cracked earth.

The other soldiers had pounced swiftly, two of them
holding the Englishman back while a third pummeled his
stomach with hard right-handed jabs. Then Forbes had
burst in, his rifle held low and steady. He had undoubtedly
saved Ducane's life.

Afterwards they'd all tried to make light of it but things
had never been the same. And McClatcher had never
brought himself to forgive the Englishman for the weeks
of pain that followed.

He finished securing the buttons and stood upright
before the mirror. Slowly he grimaced. He had not
forgotten the incident and as he got older, the increasing


225

rheumatic soreness in his right hand served as an almost
constant reminder.

When he had been released from the military hospital

in Saigon he had heard about the girl. Later she had
proudly and defiantly told her captors that she had
deliberately lured the two soldiers into the booby-trapped
clearing.

No one knew what had become of her.


"It's there all right," Ducane said, lighting a cigarette.
He and Forbes were sitting in the small, single bedroom
the sergeant had booked, whilst Young Tom and Turnbull

guarded 7illiam Kelly and the woman.

'"7hat happened?" Forbes asked.

Ducane exhaled a stream of smoke. "I sauntered up
this cart track, doing my best to look like a tourist on
a walking holiday. Obviously I couldn't go prancing
around hiding behind bushes, and when Duffy began
running I just had to let him go." He lifted the curtain
and looked out at the lough. It was almost dark and a
strong wind had whipped up small frothy crests of the
wavelets that rushed into the shingle shore. "Duffy
sprinted through a screen of trees, and when I got there
I was confronted by some fella in plus-fours with a loaded
shotgun."

"A farmer?"

"That was the idea." Ducane smiled. "I was told politely

but firmly that there had been an outbreak of foot-and
mouth disease, and the entire peninsula had been sealed
off until the agricultural ministry gave clearance."

Forbes nodded. "That's what the lassie in the bar told

me, too. They've been putting about the story for the
benefit of inquisitive locals. Anyway, what did you do
then?"

Ducane shrugged. "Ther wasn't much I could do. I
took a stroll across the base of the peninsula. About three
miles altogether. And the one time I tried to cross the
boundary again, another farm-hand popped out of the
bushes and waved me away."


226

"They've done a pretty thorough job then?"

"They have. Not only manpower, but I reckon they've
got some sort of surveillance system operating. There's
no way they could have had me in view on the second
occasion without one."

"Tricky," Forbes said, joining Ducane by the window.
Dusk was settling around the outcrop of rock far out on
the lough. It began to blur, melting into a purple murk.
Suddenly it looked very menacing.

Ducane turned away. "Shut the curtains,. Dave, that
place is starting to give me the creeps." He sat down
in the small armchair and stubbed out the half-smoked
cigarette in the ashtray. "And tell me what's been happening
this end?"

Quickly Forbes explained that they had found telephone
numbers and code-words in Clare Flyun's diary and that
he had phoned in, assuming William Kelly's voice. The
person at the other end of the line had given no indication
that he doubted the message when he was informed that
the SAS team had booked into a farm down the road.
Young Tom had already taken the Zephyr down there
and left it at the side of the .road. Short of actually visiting
the farm and questioning the occupants, the story could
not be disproved.

"Round one to us," Ducane murmured thoughtfully.
"I'm not so sure, Jacko."

Ducane looked puzzled as he saw the expression on
Forbes' face. "We found this on the Flyrm woman."

Ducane said nothing as he was handed the photograph.
The furrows deepened on his brow as he studied it,
mesmerised by the blurred images of his family. Slowly
he shook his head, scarcely aware that Forbes was still
talking.

"... I wanted to talk to you alone about this. I don't
think the others quite appreciate what it means. I don't
know that I do myself."

Ducane's knuckles showed white. Still he stared at it
in disbelief.

"I don't know how many copies there are," Forbes.


227

continued. "But I've only ever seen one. In your lounge
at home. Unless, of course, someone got hold of-the
negative..."

"Save yourself the effort, Dave. I can tell you where
it came from." Ducane was aware of his own words, but
they sounded strangely distant. "Someone's been to my
home."

"That can't be true, Jacko. There must be another
explanation ..."

Ducane climbed slowly to his feet, staring vaguely in

the direction of the bed. "Someone's got at Trish ..."
"Oh, for Christ's sake ... I"

Forbes stopped as he saw the look in the captain's eyes.
He had known him for a long time. Too long perhaps.
Had known him since he was a tough and ruthless new
recruit to the Special Air Service, before he had become
mellowed by the experience and wisdom learned on
countless combat missions. He had not seen that look for
many years. And it frightened him.

Slowly Ducane said: "I never gave it a second thought.
But you remember who called on Trish the other day?"
He pulled out another cigarette and lit it. "A certain Earl
Lee McClatcher. Retired US Army Special Forces."

Forbes frowned, uncomprehending. "Yes. Those Yanks

we ran across in 'Nam?"

Ducane nodded.

"You don't think he's behind this ... this ..."

"I gather he's in the arms business on his own account
now."

"McClatcher! Working for the Provos! He'd throw a
thousand fits!"

"Even if the money was good enough?"

Forbes sat down heavily on the edge of the bed. He
said nothing as his mind pieced together the odd events
of the past few days.

At last he said: "Trish would never have told him
anything. I'm sure of that."
"Not knowingly. But if he made it sound casual, or
..." He hesitated. "Gave her a few drinks."

228

Forbes' eyes flashed. They both knew what he was
implying. Forbes could recount several occasions when
Trish had become over-amorous with strangers at parties
over the years. And he recalled that she had been obviously
attracted to the big American all those years before.

"I expect he just got a few snippets of info from her
in conversation," Forbes suggested. "And helped himself
to the photograph."

,And what else, I wonder?" Ducane's voice was scarcely
audible. "Something that could have led to blackmail?"

He moved back to the curtains and thrust them angrily
aside. It was now completely dark, only the faint glimmer
of starlight giving the surface of the lough a dull satin
sheen.

"Do you want to phone her?"
Ducane shook his head. "No. I can't accuse her of
anything, without evidence. She mentioned they had
drinks in. Maybe she just let a few things slip.'"

Christ, thought Forbes savagely, I just bet they did.
"Besides being strictly against orders, they've got this
place so well buttoned up, they could have the phones
tapped."

Forbes said: "Look, Jacko, from what you say, there's
no way we're going to get near that peninsula without
those bastards knowing. And if we get in they'll just close
the doors behind us. Sodding rats in a trap. The Flynn
woman says she understands there's up to a hundred of
the buggers up there. Let's pull out quick. Tonight. The
Old Man will have the boys.in within twenty-four hours."

Ducane said quietly: "In twenty-four hours, Me
Clatcher could be a thousand miles from here! Besides
the photograph combined with the fact that we've been
tailed suggests to me they know all about this mission.
If Trish overheard our plans the other night ... If she
was scared for Sarah's safety she might have tried to buy
them off with information ..."

"Three of us could make sure McClatcher goes nowhere,
while you catch the next plane to England."

"Don't be daft Dave. There's no way three of you can .


229

prevent McClatcher getting out. The territory's too bloody
big. Besides he's as much a pro as you or me. And if
you follow that to its logical conclusion, they're already
out looking for us. So we don't have long."

"The bastard," Forbes growled, annoyed at his own
naive optimism.

Ducane wiped the condensation that was gathering on

the window. "Do you remember, Dave, that time in


Forbes looked up, a half-grin on his face. "'Come

I do. You should have stepped on both his sodding hands!"

never thought we'd meet again."

"You haven't--yet."

Ducane allowed himself a faint smile.

Suddenly Forbes knew what was going to happen.
Despite himself he was aware of the quickening of his
pulse, and the dim glow in his belly. He looked up at
his companion.

"You're mad, Jacko," he said quietly.

I'll forget you said that."

"You know damned well we'd never get near the place."
"Since when has that been a deterrent?"
Forbes shook his head slowly.

Ducane said: "Call in the boys. We'll put it to the vote."


Dear Roisin,

I'm not too good at letter writing, but I really felt I had

to say that I meant what I said when I last saw you. I'm
sure you'll get over your injuries--even though it may take
a while. And, however long it takes, you can count on my
help. If, of course, you want it.

Shortly I'll be taking R and R back in England and I'd

be pleased for you to come and stay for a holiday with my
family in Dorset. I'm sure my mother would be delighted
to meet you. A real break away from all your problems will help you get well, I'm convinced. And please don't think
that this is some sort of act of charity. My motives are very
selfish.

You laughed when I tried to cheer you up and give you


230

the courage to fight back by having faith in our regimental
motto 'llTho Dares llTins', llTell, I must tell you, the lads
have their own reply to that--' IFho cares who wins.t"

And I don't care who wins, either. So long as you win
through. You're the only thing I never want to forget about
Ulster. I mean that.

Please drop me a note via the sister and say you'll come.
Yours,
Tom.

P.S. IFriting to you is better than writing reports any
day.


She read it through for the fifth time and shook her
head slowly.

Why, in God's name, couldn't he leave her alone. She
was a physical and mental wreck. She would probably
never be able to lead a normal life again. It would take
years to adjust. She just had to be alone.

Her eyes trailed across to the withered bunch of forget
me-nots in the bedside vase.

She would need help though. Understanding, but without
probing questions. Her mind went slowly through
the list of relatives she could stay with. It was hopeless.

Again she picked up the letter. Dorset. Dm-SET. She
smiled imagining Tom Perrot in a farmer's straw hat and
dungarees.

The door opened.

"Well, hello there," the man in the whit coat said.
"You must be Roisin McGuire. My name's O'Rourke.
Dental surgeon extraordinaire." He extended a long, pale
hand.

She hesitated.

"It's okay, Roisin. The most artistic hands in the
hospital." He was in his early fifties with iron grey hair
and a long, crinkled face. His eyes were kindly. "You
look surprised."

"I didn't think teeth rated that highly. Sure, I've plenty
other things need fixing."

He grinned at her. "Well now, that's true." The dentist .


23I

parked himself on the edge of her bed. "But apparently
sister's had a note from a young admirer of yours. A soldier

boy who visited you recently."

"Oh?"

"He was quite insistent that here was one young lady

who wanted ..." He paused. "Now how does the song

go .. ? All she wants for Christmas is her two front teeth.' ..... Roisin's jaw dropped in surprise.

"Ah," O'Rourke said. "I see he was right! Very kissable

lips but the of' front tooth would be a distinct improvement."

She blushed.

"We should manage temporary choppers before Christmas,
if we try. And some super Hollywood ones soon
after." He held her hand. "Your young admirer seems

to be a bit of a psych61ogist."

"Yes."

"To tell the truth, I think sister's taken a bit of a shine

to your young man."


"So that's the situation," Ducane concluded. He was

still standing by the window overlooking the lough.

Young Tom sat in the small armchair and Turnbull

on the edge of the bed. Both had listened in silence while
the captain told them as much as he knew. As neither
had met Trish, they were in no position to jump to any
conclusions other than the fact that she had been tricked
into saying too much by an alleged old friend.

"This McClatcher must be a right bastard." It was
Young Tom who spoke.

"I've met nicer," Ducane murmured.

"I still can't believe it," Tom said, half to himself.
Turnbull stood up and paced across the room, his head
bowed as he turned over the various implications in his
mind. At last he said: "Lo6k, boss, you've given us the situation as you put it. It's them over there." He nodded
towards the window. "On what is, in all probability, a
highly-defended peninsula. And us here on the lakeside.
As I see it, we've accomplished most of our mission by


232

locating the camp site. I agree we can handle a lot, but
sixty bloody Provos might be pushing it a bit far." He
grinned without humour, before adding: "Even for us."

Ducane nodded in agreement. "So you're for pulling
out? Even though McClatcher and these Provos will
probably get away."

"'Goes against the grain," Young Tom admitted.
Turnbull looked down at him sadly. "As I see it, boss,
what I think is neither here nor there. You make the
decisions around here. You say go and we go."

"That's right," Ducane answered, his voice very quiet.
"And I wouldn't hesitate to call off the mission in other
circumstances. To take a chance the Old Man can organise
a strike fast enough. But as I've just explained, the situation
has got a bit personal."

"For you," Turnbull said evenly. "Not for the rest
of us."

"Hey, steady on, Corp!" began Young Tom.
Turnbull ignored him. "It's your wife who's been
blabbing. Not our mothers, girlfriends or whoever. And
she's been blabbing stuff she shouldn't even know.
Information she could have only got from one source.
You!"

Ducane said coldly: "That's right, John. I can't deny
that. And I apologisc for any danger that it's put you
in. But if you ever cared for anyone but yourself, you
might find that you too said more than you meant to
on some occasions. That sor of thing can happen when
you get really close to people and trust them."

Turnbull's cheeks reddened. "I don't have to mkc that
from you! If you're that close to someone you don't tell
'em anything--for their own bloody good."

Young Tom said: "I don't think you understand, Corp."
Turnbull snorted. "I understand all right. Our commanding
officer has dropped us in the shit, thanks to
his own unprofessional conduct. And now he's appealing
to our better nature by having a hcartobloody-hear!
So he can get himself off the hook. Not only that, but
hc's adding to the felony, by trying to persuade us to


233

fight his own personal vendetta for him["

Ducane said quietly: "That's enough, John. I can make

no excuses for myself. Nor for my wife. It's a million
to one chance that things have worked out this way, but
coincidences have a nasty way of happening when you
least expect them." He paused. "What I'm saying to you
now is that we either go on or turn back. One course
is obviously more risky than the other. Either fulfils our
orders. But it is a choice that, under the circumstances,

I feel I must ask each of you to make individually."
"What did the Sarge say?" Young Tom asked.
"He'll go on."

The young soldier nodded. "I thought so."
"Typical!" Tumbull murmured.
"Then count me in, too."

A silence followed until Ducane asked: "Well, John,

if you're turning back, you'd better start now. The sooner

you alert the Old Man the better."

Turnbull had dropped down again onto the edge of

the bed. He looked up, his eyes squinting at the tall figure
by the window. "I never said I was turning back. I don't
want this Yankee bastard to get away with it anymore
than the rest of you. At least if I come along, there's
a chance we won't all get killed."

Tom smiled broadly. "Attaboy, Corp."

Turnbull added: "But so help me God, when we get

out of here I'm going to make an official complaint at
the highest level! Perhaps Perrot and Sergeant Forbes
won't mention your wife's involvement--or yours---but
I'll make damn sure they know about it. Because I don't
think you're fit to be an officer in this regiment."

Ducane said: "Obviously you are perfectly within your

rights to do what you think fit, John ..."

"Bloody creep .. I" interjected Young Tom.

"... But," the captain continued, "since you have now
decided to bless us with your company, you will keep
your mouth firmly shut. Especially when it comes to your personal opinion about me or how I run this unit. Understood?"


234

The corporal opened his mouth and shut it again
quickly. He Shrugged resignedly. "Okay, boss, you've let
me make my point. I'll save my complaints for when the
mission's over." He stood up suddenly. "Now how are
we going to crack this impregnable fortress?"


The rain was falling heavier now, driven inland across "
the lough beating hard against the side of the Land Rover
which was parked outside the short lane leading to the
farmhouse.

McClatcher and Loveday were alone in the vehicle,
sitting in the back seats and leaning forward to peer
anxiously through the monotonous swipe of the wipers.
Opposite they coult see the Zephyr pulled up on the grass
verge.

"Taking his bloody time," McClatcher muttered irritably.

The Negro shot him a sideways glance. He shared
the other man's growing sense of apprehension. There
was something about the car that gave it an abandoned
look. Surely, Loveday reasoned, if Ducane's men were
staying there, they'd have taken it up the drive and
parked right outside the farmhouse. Malon had only
been gone for a few minutes, but it seemed like a lifetime.

Again McClatcher looked at his watch. "Why Reagan
or Malone didn't think to check with the farmer when
you first sent them, I don't know."

Loveday chuckled. "I think it's what the Brits call the
Paddy Factor."

McClatcher wasn't in the mood to appreciate the joke.
"Whatever the reason, Ducane could be a hundred miles
from here by now. You'd've thought flaat stupid bastard
would're reasoned there was something odd. Parking on
the road when there's plenty of space in the farmyard."

Loveday shrugged. "'Don't necessarily mean nuthin'.
After all, we got the coded message from Kelly. So no
sweat, man,"


235

The big American grunted. In his own mind he was
already fully convinced that the Irish couple had been
jumped and that the message was a hoax.

"At last!" breathed McClatcher, as the raincoated figure

of Malone trudged along the churned-up drive.

The Irishman opened the door and climbed in, his dark

eyes burning like coals beneath the beetle eyebrows.

"The o1' gaffer's not seen anyone," Malone said tersely.

"He saw the car parked earlier, but don't know who it
belongs to."

"I knew it!" McClatcher pounded a clenched fist into

his open palm.

"Slippery motherfuckers," Loveday growled.

"But I think I know where they are," Malone added
quickly. "There's a bar down at the village where we
turn off for the camp. The o1' boy was down there earlier
tonight, and said there were some strangers stayin'. 'E
said they sounded like they could be the ones I was lookin'
for. "

McClatcher looked at his watch. "Eleven."

Loveday prodded Malone in the back. "Step on it,
Private. Don't sit on yer fanny like a fart in a trance.
We gotta go places!"

The Irishman hurriedly put the Land Rover into gear,

and, with its wheels spinning over the wet, mud-splattered
road, roared off in the direction of the village

It was an uncomfortable fifteen minute drive to the

bar, with the rain-laden wind buffeting the canvas sides
as the Land Rover sped on its way. Malone drove nervously
and badly, cornering too fast as he heard McClatcher
cursing at him from the rear seat. He pulled into the
narrow parking space at the bar and thudded to a halt
with the assistance of the crumbling brickwork.

"We're getting warm," Loveday observed. "There's
Kelly's car."

Hurriedly the three men pushed their way inside,
pausing for a moment in the doorway of the empty bar,
the rain dripping from their overcoats. The draught
scattered the mess from unemptied ashtrays.


236

"I am sorry, gentlemen. We're just closing down for
the night."

McClatcher saw the girl behind the bar and grinned
broadly, touching his hat as he strode across to her.

"I'm sorry too, ma'am. It's an inconsiderate time to
call. But me an' my friends here just heard you got some
visitors. Old friends of ours."

"Oh!" The girl looked bewildered, glancing at Loveday
and Malone uneasily. "Oh, I see. Well, we do have some
people staying. What's the name of your friends?"

McClatcher forced the grin to stay on his face as his
impatience grew. "Ah, well, they're more acquaintances
than friends, see. Only met 'em yesterday. Farther north.
Only know their Christian names, see..Now there's a Jack
and a Dave. David, y'know?"

The girl fumbled at the register. "They've just put
initials. No J or D."
"Say, miss," Loveday interrupted quickly. "Just tell
us what they look like, huh. We ain't no good on names.
Four fellas, huh? Together."

The girl frowned. "Only three together. Twofair-haired

and one dark. English. One quite young."

"They split up," Loveday muttered.

"Oh, I don't think so," the girl replied. "There was

another man. Irish. But they weren't together ..."
"Which room, miss?" McClatcher asked.

She glanced at the clock behind the bar. "Oh, you can't
go up. It's much too late and ...."

Loveday swivelled the registration book round on the
bar top. "Five."

"But you mustn't," the girl began, as they started
towards the stairs at the back of he bar.

"It's okay, li'le miss," Loveday said lightly, "they won't
mind."

Quickly the girl moved parallel with them behind the
bar, not sure whether to be alarmed or just annoyed at
their arrogant persistence. McClatcher was already on the
stairs as she reached out for Malone. As her hand grasped
his arm he spun round, pushing her heavily so that she237


crashed into a stack of bottle crates. With a resounding
smashing of glass she sprawled out, helplessly winded.

Loveday eyed Malone coldly. "You gettin' a taste for
thrashin" women, Private? You'll wake the whole bloody
village."

Malone stared down at the inelegant splay of legs, and
wiped his forearm roughly across his mouth. "Her own
fault, stupid bloody bitch!"

"Never mind about that!" McClatcher snapped. Quickly
he pulled something from his pocket and Malone saw
the glint of gun-metal. "Look, Winston, we can't afford
no chances. We'll just have to take 'em now while we canif they haven't already heard us. And get that fuckin'
jackass out of our way before he gets us all shot!"

Loveday pulled the Beretta automatic pistol from his overcoat pocket. He motioned to Malone. "Get that kid
outa sight. Anyone passin' can see her. An' stay here 'til
we fetchya.' ....

So saying, he spun on his heel and scrambled up the
stairs after McClatcher.

On the upper level the corridor was deserted, their quick
footsteps muted by the expanse of threadbare carpet as
they crossed to the door of Room 5.

They stood one each side, guns held upright with safety
catches off, moving in unison like a well-oiled machine
as they had done so many times before.

McClatcher nodded. He raised his foot and stamped
hard at the handle of the door. It burst open as Loveday
dropped to his knees in the opening, his pistol held straight
and level in a double-handed grasp. The crack of gunfire
shattered the silence as the shells tore into the bodies
on the bed as they struggled to sit up.

The stink of cordite filled the air and McClatcher waved
aside the smoke as Loveday climbed to his feet and
cautiously approached the bed.

As he saw the blood-stains seeping through the eiderdown
he relaxed. A grin spread across his face. "Two
down and two to gol"

McClatcher rasped: "The other two must be in the


238

other room! They must have heard that racket!"

"Number Six!" the Negro shouted, but the big
American was already moving. He leapt down the short
corridor to reach the room before the occupants could
realise what had happened.

There was no time to wait for Loveday. A second's
delay could be fatal if the men inside realised the danger.
After years of experience, a sixth sense could wake a true
professional, even on a silent night. And the gunfire had
been loud enough to wake the dead.

McClatcher twisted the door knob and drew back,
allowing the door to swing open under its own weight.
Quickly he slid to the floor, his automatic aimed, so that
the occupants would look first at face-level where they
would expect to see the intruder.

The steel pip of his gunsight traversed a room shed
in the light from the corridor. Nothing stirred. The single
bed was empty.

Cautiously he climbed to his feet. "Nothing,'; he thought aloud.

"Earl!" It was Loveday.

He turned, surprised that the Negro wasn't right behind
him, covering his rapid entry. He moved fast back to the
first bedroom, where Loveday stood by the bed.

He was holding up the eiderdown to reveal a cascade
of flowing copper hair. Beneath it a white and stricken
face stared up at him, the eyes fixed and glassy like a
stuffed fish, the bright red mouth opened around a gag
of coloured cloth like an obscene and offered kiss.

Momentarily McClatcher shut his eyes. It was like a
nightmare. "Stupid fucking bitch!" he mouthed beneath
his breath.

"And Kelly," Loveday confirmed. "Both bound and
gagged." He nodded towards the window where a length
of rope stretched to the bedleg jammed beneath it.

"They're already on their way ..."

"Just a minute!"

McClatcher spun at the sudden sound of the angry voice.
He was aware only of the bulky frame silhouetted in the


239

doorway for a fleeting second as the automatic in his hand
pumped into action. The sudden crash of shells was
deafening.

He heaved a heavy sigh as the disembowelled figure

fell back against the corridor wall, the red-sodden pyjamas
leaving a smear of sickening graffiti down the wallpaper.

It was the barmaid's father.


"I thought you were supposed to be the bloody locksmith
of this outfit!" Forbes hissed.

"Piss off," Turnbull replied as he inserted the thin wire
again.

"My old granny could do better."

His words were whipped away by the wind that whistled

off the lough and down the wind-tunnel formed by the
two adjacent boat-houses. At least it provided some shelter
from the rain which caught on the corrugated roofs and
dripped in a steady curtain on the four huddled figures.

"Gotchya!" Turnbull said with delight as he felt the

lock tumblers turn and the wooden door begin to shake
in the wind. Climbing to his feet he slid quietly in, holding
open the door for the others to follow.

The four soldiers had changed back into anoraks, waterproofs
and non-standard webbing. If found discarded
there would be nothing to suggest that the clothing hadn't
been purchased from a civilian camping or surplus store.

Ducane turned on the flashlight and ran it quickly
around the upturned dinghies. They lay in various states
of repair as the owners began the long process of scraping
and revarnishing in readiness for the next season and the
steady trickle of holiday fishermen.

"Christ," Young Tom said. "I just hope one of them

is seaworthy."

"It'll be a rough crossing all right," Forbes added,
peering out at the rain-lashed shoreline.

"If there's nothing here," Ducane said, "we'll try the

other boathouse. Ideally we want a rubber dinghy. Low
profile. And a powerful outboard."

They were to find neither. They discussed the possibility


240

of swimming across using the large black polythene bags,
carried by each man as a buoyancy tank, in which weapons
and equipment would also be stored. But the real risk
of hypothermia in the icy water, and the possible need
for a fast getaway across the lough recommended the use
of transport. The appalling visibility would be in their
favour.

After an exhaustive search they settled for a small
fibreglass dinghy painted dark blue and two battered
outboard motors, one to be used as a spare. Between the
four of them it weighed very little and was no effort to
carry across the shale to the water's edge. There they loaded
the spare weapons, grenades and ammunition.

It was impossible to see more than thirty yards across
the choppy surface before the lough was enveloped in an
inky blackness. Only with the starlight scope did the dark
smudge of the peninsula become visible on the far horizon,
murky behind the sheets of driving rain.

Young Tom and Turnbull rowed the boat slowly away
from the shoreline using makeshift muffles of clothing tied
around the oars. Forbes planned a roundabout course that
would take him far around the outermost rocks of the
peninsula and into the exposed northern flank. There,
Ducane reckoned, a landing would be least expected.

Once the shoreline had been swallowed up, Forbes
began swinging the lanyard toggle on the outboard. At first
it gave no sign of life. Two hopeful croaks followed, then
nothing.

"Sodding useless lump of metal!" he cursed, attempting
to maintain his balance in the heavy swell.

"I suppose there's fuel in it?" Turnbull suggested.
"Sod off!" Forbes snarled. "And keep rowing."

He swung again, almost stumbling over the side. A wave
slapped heavily against the transom, splashing heavy
dollops of cold water over the men in the stern.

"Pull up, Tom," Ducane snapped. "Keep her into the
wind."

Young Tom looked down at his wet hands. "I'm getting
blisters," he observed.


24I

"If you don't get rowing, Perrot," Forbes roared above
the wind, "you'll get blisters on your bleedin' arse["

Turnbull said: "Try puttin' your hand over the air
intake."

"You try ..."

Ducane nudged him. Forbes shrugged and swung the
lanyard for the tenth time, using his palm to cut off all the
air. This time the little outboard coughed and spluttered,
coughed again, and roared throatily to life as Forbes
opened up the throttle.

Young Tom and Turnbull needed no bidding to ship
the oars after the strenuous rowing of the past ten minutes.

Forbes grinned widely, the spray glistening on his face
as he peered into the gloom, clutching the tiller arm lightly.
"Ah, this is the life!"

Ducane smiled. "It may be the life, Dave, but it's the
wrong direction. You're heaclin' back."

"Bloody good idea," Young. Tom muttered.

"Typical ex-RCT," Turnbull snorted, relaxing on the
thwart.

"Sod off, the lot of you!"

For twenty more minutes the little boat struggled on
against the racing waves, their tops frothed and flattened
by the wind. It was like being at sea, with no sign of land
in any direction through the filthy murk. Eventually
Ducane picked up the jagged outcrop of the peninsula
through the Starlight scope, sticking upright out of the
heaving water like a broken black tooth. As he scanned
back and forth along the shoreline he could see no sign
of life. No indication of the reception committee that might
be waiting. In this weather, he thought grimly, you could
hide a whole infantry battalion in the vegetation by the
water's edge.

Idly he switched the gaze of the nightsight right across
the expanse of the lough, fascinated by the relentless
motion of the waves as they tumbled after each other in
a frantic race for the shore.

"Cut the engine!" he yelled suddenly. "Down!"

The other three sprang to life, scrambling to get down


242

in the boat, Forbes fumbling to cut out the throttle. As
the throaty roar died, they were suddenly aware of the low,
monotonous howl of the wind.

"What was it?" Forbes asked between curses. He was
kneeling in the swill of bilge water.

"A boat out there." Ducane peered over the gunwhale,
resting the nightsight on the edge as he tried to pick out
the ominous black shape and the tell-tale cream of her
wake.

"What sort?" Turnbull's whisper was hoarse.

Ducane stared into the rubber eyepiece. "There she is.

An old fishing boat. About twenty foot at a 'guess."
"Local fishermen?" Young Tom suggested.

The captain shook his head. "No lights. And something
nasty on the bow. Looks like an old RP-46 machine gun.
Drum magazine."

"Range about i,ooo metres," Turubull added.

"If I can see him," Ducane said, "then we're well within
shot."

Forbes wriggled across the deck-boards to his pack. He
plucked out a couple of smooth tinplate frag grenades and
tossed one down to Turnbull.

The sergeant then passed the Sterlings down to Ducane
and Young Tom.

The dark shape was now taking on distinctly recognisable
lines as it slowed, wallowing slowly across their
path, some thirty yards ahead, beam on.

"Looks like they've spotted us," Young Tom said. His
mouth felt suddenly dry. Instinctively he thumbed off the
safety. A metallic rasp and click followed as he pulled the
bolt back with the cocking handle.

Quickly Ducane said: "We'll put any searchlights out
first, then abandon the boat. Take your arms and we'll each
make for their stern. Each man for himself."

"We'll take the bastards with us, that's for sure," Forbes
said, squinting his eyes against the stinging rain.

"Did you see that?" Turnbull asked suddenly.

Again the light flashed from the shoreline of the
peninsula.


243

"The boat's answering," Forbes observed. "Shit, my
Morse is�rusty.''

"Like your Russian," Turnbull quipped.

"Routine check, I think," Ducane said. He couldn't read
the ship's Aldis in reply.

"Never listen to half a conversation," Forbes mused.
"The shore-party just told 'em to keep an extra sharp
look out," Ducanc continued. "Looks like they've been
to the guesthouse."

"I just hope that couple di .dn't give them anything useful,"
Young Tom said.

Forbes shook his head. "No, we didn't discuss anything

in earshot. They've only got our descriptions to go on."
"That's bad enough," Tumbull replied.

The urgent throb of the heavy-duty inboard diesels
began as the boat suddenly gathered speed, moving away

to concentrate its patrol on the south coast of the peninsula.
"Round one to us," Forbes commented.
"By default," Turnbull added.
Ducanc said: "Let's get on."

CHAPTER 13


Thirty minutes later, through the rain that was now
slanting down like steel rods, they at last heard the water
breaking over the boulder-strewn shoreline. The dinghy
was responding sluggishly, wallowing like a clumsy toy in
each trough as the waves urged her towards the slippery
rocks. Turnbull and Young Tom were baling as fast as
they could, but it was not fast enough as each passing wave
slopped in another bucketful of cold water.

Even with the little engine racing at full revs, their
headway was slow, denying them the ability to steer safely
through the maze of granite teeth that were appearing all
around them in a welter of spray.

A violent shuddering shook the boat as its fibreglass hull
scraped across a submerged outcrop.

"MOV. POWER!" Ducane yelled above the howling wind.
"THa ISN'T A!" Forbes bawled, although his words
were scarcely audible to the captain next to him. Another
wave smashed against the boat in an explosion of foam,
pushing the hull back against the outcrop. A grating crackle
of fibreglass followed, and a hairline split suddenly
appeared below the centre, thwart.

Turnbull put a leg over the side and jammed his boot
hard against the granite obstruction, pushing firmly. More
waves buffeted the tiny vessel, forcing against the soldier
as he heaved with all his strength.

A sudden gust hit the side of the boat, contemptuously
throwing the hull farther onto the outcrop, half-crushing
the man's boot as the rubber sole slid from the slimy rock.

"FUCKING HLL!" Turnbull shouted. "Nearly lost my
bloody foot."

"SIT DOWN, YOU SODDING HERO[" Forbes yelled. In.


245

support of his words another wave hit the transom, rocking
the craft with a violence that almost toppled Turnbull.

The fracture in the fibreglass spread as the hull was
forced over the outcrop, finally breaking free with a crunch
of steel as the propeller pin sheared and the safety cutout
killed the engine. Helpless in the sudden rush, the boat
began to gyrate towards the ragged shoreline some thirty
feet away. Turubull and Young Tom needed no instruction
as they scrambled to get the oars out.

"Oh, luck aimtie!" Young Tom exclaimed. "The bloody
rowlocks gone!"

"How deep you reckon it is, Dave?" Ducane asked.
"Maybe six feet," Forbes replied, still clutching the
tiller arm in the vain hope it would provide some steerage.
"Maybe more."

Ducane slitted his eyes against the rain and murk. "I'm
going to try and get a line ashore. Maybe we can beach
her on that strip of shingle."

"Maybe you can drown yourself, too."

Another resounding crack. The boat jolted as it hit
another rock, the engine being torn from its mounting
before Forbes could raise the propeller shaft. The fracture
in the hull was beginning to weep.

"Four men in a sieve," Turnbull muttered.

Hurriedly Ducane began to undo his boots, cursing the
laces as he raced against time, his fingers clumsy and numb
with cold. He stumbled painfully forward, taking the
painter rope coiled in the bow.

As he lowered himself over the side, Young Tom said
anxiously: "Careful boss."

Ducane released his grip on the gunwhales. Immediately

he vanished from view to emerge, spluttering and coughing
in a ring of foam some feet away.

"Christ! It's freezing ..." he was seen mouthing.
Turning awkwardly, he struck out for the shore. His
sodden anorak dragged him down, making movement
sluggish and exhausting. Twice he was hurled with bone
crushing force against partly submerged rocks, until he
finally gained a foot hold on the shale bottom.


246

The numbing cold acted like an anaesthetic to his skin
so he was unaware of the livid bruises beginning to swell
along his legs and back. Rapidly he hauled the rope taut,
dragging in the water-logged boat that stubbornly refused
to co-operate, bucking heavily in each swell.

At last it was close enough for Turnbull and Young Tom
to plunge waist-high into the icy water and join the efforts
to guide it in.

Forbes waded straight ashore with his Sterling and
scrambled over the shingle, up through the strewn rocks
and stunted bushes, to the upper ledge of the shoreline.

After a few moments Dueanc arrived, dropping exhausted
down beside him. Breathlessly he asked: "Anything
Dave?"

"Not a bugger in sight. But it's hard to tell without the 'scope."

Ducane handed ov6r the nightsight and watched as
,Forbes scanned the barren landscape that climbed gently
into the darkness before them.

After grunting a couple of times, Forbes shook his head.
"It's not much better with this in these conditions. Anyway,
they'd have to be pretty determined to be out in this."

"They are determined," Ducanc replied testily. He
flicked the strands of wet hair from his forehead. "According
to the map there should be an inlet a quarter mile along
this shore. Probably be a bit more natural camouflage there
for the boat."

"As well we brought that spare engine," Forbes conceded.

"Let's just hope we don't have to start it in a hurry.
After your last attempt,"

Forbes pulled a face and grinned.

After twenty minutes they were ready to proceed and,
following the route they had memoriscd from the large
scale map at the guest-house, they moved deeper into the
peninsula in pairs.

As they started east across the width of the promontory,
the ground rose sharply in a series of low, rocky hills.
Vegetation was sparse and stunted. The men took their.


247

time, content to use the natural contours .of the land for
cover as they progressed, carefully studying each possible
hiding place as they went. Although the rain eased off at
about three-thirty in the morning, it was still uncomfortable
going, their wet clothes chaffing tender skin and a dull
aching cold they knew would not go until a warm meal
had been eaten and daylight arrived.

On their route, both Forbes and Ducane were beginning

to get an uneasy feeling. They had found no sign of life
after an hour of patient searching. They took it in turns
to survey the landscape with the nightsight, while the other
stood as rearguard, always standing with the back to something
solid to prevent being surprised by a sneak attack
from behind.

Already they were at the foot of the low hills where the
ground was more sheltered. There were encouraging signs
of vegetation and even the occasiohal clump of thin trees.
Ahead of them the ground began another gentle incline
to a high ridge where, with the improving visibility, they
could distinguish the outline shape of a ruined building.

Forbes dropped down beside Ducane in a shallow
depression surrounded by thickets of gorse, forming a
rough circle like a fairy-ring.

"That must be the friary," the sergeant observed.

Ducane nodded. "According to the map, it's the only
goddamn building around here."

"You still reckon that's their base?"

"Unless they've got a camp site for sixty-odd blokes,

I don't see the alternative."

Forbes scratched his chin. "Well, they certainly haven't
pitched any tents on our route. Unless, of course, they're
scattered through the entire peninsula, and camouflaged."

"It's possible." He looked around at the desolate landscape,
now dimly discernible. "But I don't like it at all.
Not a sign of life ..."

Forbes shrugged. "Perhaps we've been wrong about the
whole thing."

"That fishing boat was real enough."

"True. Still perhaps reports about the size of the

z48

operation wereexaggerated. A bit of Paddy optimism."
He peered towards the dark outline of the friary. "Christ,
I could do with a smoke."

"Shut up, Dave," Ducane said good-humouredly.

"Have a bar of chocolate." "Good idea."
"Hey!"
'"'hat?"

Ducane pointed the nightsight towards the friary.
"We've got company after all."

"Thank God for that. I was beginning to feel lonely.
hat 'you seen? Man Friday's footprint?"

"I think it's an OP, just below the old building." He
concentrated in silence for a full two minutes, conscious
of Forbes' heavy breathing beside him. At last he said:

"Christ! It's well-hidden. 'Have done our lads proud."
"McClatcher's influence?"

Ducane handed across the nightsight. "He learned a lot
about camouflage in 'Nam. I looked straight at it and
couldn't see a damned bean until something bright
glinted."

Forbes squinted into the eyepiece. "You're fight. It's
bloody good. It makes you wonder what the hell we've
passed on the way here."

Ducane felt an involuntary ripple pass up his spine. He
glanced quickly around the protective ring of gorse. Suddenly
it seemed very exposed.

"Do you want to risk going any closer?" Forbes asked. "I think we could do a sketch of the layout of the place
from here."

Ducane nodded. "If Turnbull's been able to get round
the other side, we'll have a full picture." .

"Old 'Action Man' will get there all right. You can stake
your life on it."

"Now we've some idea what we're up against, I don't
want to get nearer until we've developed a full plan of
action." Ducane glanced up at the sky, his eyes narrowed.
It wouldn't be dawn for a good two hours, but there was
a faint lightening as the storm clouds thinned and the


249

occasional star tried to brazen its way through. "Let's get
back whilst the going's good."

Hastily Forbes began scrawling the layout of the ridge

and the old friary on a notepad, careful to include the
solitary wizen tree to the north and the apparent size of
the space inside the building. It was easy to recognise the
main hall, and then the lower southern section which
housed the smaller cells of the monks' quarters, probably
running off a central corridor. He pencilled in the observation
hide and the other likely OP sites. Finally he
snapped the plastic-covered wallet pad closed.

"Done," he said.

Ducane nodded and began to wriggle carefully out of

the shallow saucer of land, between the gorse. A sudden
clatter of metal came from behind him. He turned quickly,
his hand nervously fingering the trigger of the Sterling he
held at the ready.

"What the hell ... ?" Forbes was saying as he prodded

at something in the thicket.

Ducane crouched by his side, puzzled at the grey metal

box and the blue-black fish eye that glinted up at them
from the undergrowth.

Forbes said: "It's a bloody camera."
"Jesus ... I was right!"
"Huh?"

"I said I thought I must be under observation yesterday.
After that guy with the shot-gun warned me off."
"TV cameras?" Forbes asked incredulously.
"Low-level. Remote control. This bastard must have

had our whole approach covered."

"Shit!"

As if in response to his words, the camera twitched
suddenly like a living thing, beginning a sweep.

Forbes stared at it. "You mean it's watching us now... ?
Fucking hell!" He stood up quickly and stamped hard on
the metal shell with his boot, distorting the heavy-duty
casing and shattering the lens. As if in a death spasm, the
crushed object tried to obey its command to rotate, whirring
like a giant insect. Forbes kicked it again.


250

At that moment a stream of machine-gun fire burst from
the direction of the low hills they had descended earlier.
The violent, explosive stutter was accompanied by a stream
of tracer shells that ripped apart the gorse by their feet,
spinning branches and clods of earth skyward in a sudden
fountain.

The Sterling leapt in Ducane's hand as it spat out returning
fire. Forbes jumped back into the depression, rolling
over in the grass as he went. Dueane gave a second short
burst and went after him in a crouching run.

Together they peered over the rim, through the shat.
tered patch of gorse, Ducane pulling at the straps of the
nightsight case. "No wonder we didn't see anyone," he
panted. "If they've got cameras all over the place, they
can watch it all at home like bloody Coronation Street!"

He scanned through the viewer. "Dave, can you see that
tree at one o'clock?"

"What do you think I am? A bleedin' cat?"

"Well, take my word for it. The bastards have got themselves
a nest up there. We must have walked right under
the damn thing."

Forbes grimaced. "I'm beginning to feel like a bloody
amateur."

Ducane said thoughtfully: "I just hope they haven't got
the whole place covered."

"If they have," Forbes said, "I just hope they ain't got
no mortars. Otherwise they could be zero-ing in on us right
now."

Ducne shook his head. '.'The locals would hear it."

Forbes grabbed his arm. "You sure you want to rake
that chance?"

Ducane smiled. "No. Let's go. You lob a couple of flash
bangs as near the tree as you can. I'll do the shootin'.
Right?"

"Okay, Jacko."

Hurriedly they extracted the anti-dazzle goggles from
their smocks as another burst of machine-gun fire streamed
overhead. The tracers appeared curiously slow, like lazy
fireflies, disappearing a split second before they thundered


251

into the centre of the depression in a furore of earth and
smoke.
"Careful," Ducane warned. "They've probably got
'scopes."

Forbes nodded.

Together they sprinted forward towards the tree,
crouching low. Immediately the machine-gun opened up
again with a noise like ripping calico, the rate of fire so
rapid that it was almost like one continuous sound. The
tracer shells hit the turf in a ragged zig-zag pattern,
wildly inaccurate as the gunner tried to pinpoint the dark
running figures.

The prolonged burst was an extravagance he couldn't
afford. When the two soldiers were some fifty yards from
the tree, taking their time to run in an indirect and weaving
course to throw off the gunner's aim, the firing ceased
abruptly. Both Ducane and Forbes recognised the familiar
clink of the firing-pin biting hungrily at an empty ammunition
belt. They could imagine the curses as fumbling
fingers tried to feed in the new belt too quickly. Howevex
good they were, it would take seven seconds before they
could resume accurate fire. And that would be seven
seconds too long. In
one fluid, practised movement, Forbes hurled the
tubular cardboard stun-grenade and threw himself for'
ward into a clump of tall grass, hurriedly levelling his
Sterling to cover Ducane's advance.

Even in the open air the effect of the small device was
impressive. A blinding white sheet of dazzling light tore
through the inky black night, so bright that it paralysed
the senses. The noise was even worse, pitching fractionally
below the decibel level that could result in permanent deafness.

There was no explosion as such, but the shock on the
nervous system was sufficient to send one man toppling
from the tree-nest in sheer fright. Forbes' gun barked a
short burst, several shells finding their target before the
man hit the ground, with one leg badly ripped at the
knee.


252

The sudden crack of Ducane's gun joined the mounting
crescendo as he fired from less than twenty yards, blasting
away the makeshift wooden platform, tearing away some
of the lighter branches.

Two more shattered bodies joined the first on the ground
with a double thud.

Suddenly it was over, and all was quiet but for the low
whimper of a dying man.

Cautiously Ducane and Forbes approached the tree, the
sergeant putting his back to the scarred and punctured
trunk, scanning the surrounding bushes for a sign of movement.

Ducane stood up from examining the bodies, having
made a neat pile of the considerable arsenal. Apart from the machine-gun they had all been armed with Kalashnikovs
and half-a-dozen old pineapple hand-grenades.

The man who had been moaning carried a radio set in
his back pack. Evidently it had broken his spine when he
fell. Now he stared up at the soldiers in stark horror, his
body paralysed and helpless.

"What we going to do about him?'" Forbes asked.
Ducane grunted. "Homicide goes against the grain.
Better leave him. He can't tell 'em anything they don't
already know."

"I reckon you'd be doing him a favour."

"This isn't 'Nam, Dave! Just because McClatcher's a
bloody butcher doesn't mean we have to do the same."
He turned and looked up the slope to where he knew the
friary stood. "They'll be down soon enough to investigate.
They've probably got some tame doctor in a nearby
village."

"If I remember old Earl, he's more likely to put a bullet
in his brain. The ultimate discipline h used to call it."

Ducane's voice was hoarse. "That's his problem." He
stooped beside the man and said gently: "Sorry, old lad,
I want that pack off your back. It might hurt."

If he felt pain the Provo said nothing. Numb fear gazed
back into Ducane's eyes as he manhandled the body out
of the harness. The radio was still hissing and chirping.

'.'Step on it, Jacko," Forbes urged. "I can hear a car
engine."

Ducane finally tugged the radio free, slinging it over his
shoulder, then picked up his Sterling.

Forbes had made sure that the machil.e-gun would not
fire again and, hanging the spare ammunition belts around
his neck, he set off hurriedly towards the nearest cover.

They were scarcely over a shallow rise when they clearly
recognised the familiar sound of a Land Rover. There
followed an excited jabber of voices, the exact words lost
in the distance.

At the first opportunity they left the footpath that was
almost certainly covered by a camera. They moved across
country until they reached the narrow bed of a stream tlmt
gabbled noisily after the heavy rains. They moved along
it towards higher ground before they sank, exhausted,
behind a large clump of gorse.

Forbes peered back down the valley with the nightsight.
"No sign of the bastards!".

Ducane nodded. "No point in them taking risks. Someone
could get hurt chasing after us in the dark."
"You reckon they'll wait till dawn?"
"Wouldn't you?"

Forbes nodded. "If I'd got the place covered in TV
cameras, I'd bide my time."

"Especially if you knew we couldn't get off the peninsula."
"You reckon they've got the boat?"

Ducane unscrewed the cap of the water-flask. "It's not
beyond the bounds of possibility. Especially if they've got
a number of those cameras." He took a draught of water,
wiping his lips with his sleeve. He offered it to Forbes who
shook his head slowly as he considered the possibility that
their entire approach had been monitored.

"This peninsula's pretty exposed, Jacko, so it wouldn't
take much equipment to cover all the lines of approach.
That wooded inlet where we hid the boat was the only bit
of cover for miles." He scratched at the stubble on his chin.
"You wouldn't have to be a bloody genius to guess we
might have used it."


254

Ducane took a final swig from the flask. The cool water
helped to clear his head. "We daren't stay in one spot for
too long, Dave. Call up Turnbull and tell him what we've
found. We'll meet at RV One and take a discreet look at
the inlet."

"I just hope they've kept plugged in," Forbes muttered.
He switched on the Pye Pocketfone and said crisply: 'Sabre
Two this is Sabre One. Have engaged. All okay; Under
TV surveillance. Caution. Make RV One o5o0 hours.
Out." Almost immediately he heard two answering clicks
in his earpiece. Message received and understood.


They approached RV One across country, ten minutes
ahead of time, and settled down in a clearing in a dense
patch of scrub overlooking the junction of two paths. To
the unaccustomed eye it would have still been pitch black
but, after an entire night in the open, they would have been
able to pick up a careless movement at a hundred yards
or more. It was to Sabe Two's credit that Forbes didn't
spot them until they were virtually at the junction. Evidently
heeding the warning about cameras they too had
come overland, making their final approach along a drainage
ditch that was operating at maximum capacity to cope
with the water still flooding from the hills.

Turnbull, wet and cursing, was first to scramble up into
the clearing where Ducane and Forbes waited. Tom
followed close behind, looking even more dishevelled and
uncomfortable.

I'll get those sods for this!" Turnbull hissed and spat
out a mouthful of ditchowater and sodden leaves. "It's bad
enough being out on a night like. this without having to
bellycrawl everywhere."

"Sorry about that--but they really have got cameras."

Turnbull forced a smile. "Yeah, I believe you. They've
got more than that, too."

"What?" Forbes demanded.

Young Tom's eyes brightened. 'Seismic sensors! They
must be able to hear everywhere we go."

"Do belt up, Perrotl" Turnbull snapped irritably. "Let


255

the senior ranker report first. You can add your four.
pennyworth later." He turned back to Ducane. "After we
got your message, we thought we'd see what we could find
over our side. It's quite open and they'd Obviously have
to use high ground to cover all the approach routes
economically. So we had a look-see. Not only bloody
cameras, but a PSID unit with a lead going down to a
spiked geophone buried at the side of a path."

"Christ!" Forbes said. "Are we sure the bleedin' US

Army hasn't invaded Ireland and someone forgot to men

tion it?"

Ducane ignored the outburst. "How close to target did

get?"

Y�'U'A hundred metres or so. Close enough to get a decent
diagram. Apart from a friary, there's a fuel tank and
generator. And three Land Rovers. Everything's under

camo. Good job they've made."

"OPs?'

"A couple. Gave themselves away when some fireworks

went off the other side of the friary. Your party, was it?"

Forbes chuckled. "Let's say three of 'em will remember

our visit. The boss got a present, too."

Dueane swung across the radio, which Turnbull grabbed

avidly. "American. I think the sarge might be right in his
US Army invasion theory." He inspected it with disdain.
"What you been doing with it?"

"Got a bit dented when some Mick sat on it from a great
height," Ducane explained. "If you can get it working, we

could do a little eavesdropping. Probably still tuned in."

"May be possible," Turnbull agreed.

"It could make life easier if we know what they're up

to," Ducane returned. "But with it working or not, we've
got to make plans on the assumption they've got this whole
area well-sewn up. That means that they've been monitoring
our progress since we landed ..."

"The boat!" Young Tom began.

Turnbull nudged him hard in the ribs. Ducanc con

tinucd. "As our brilliant recruit here has pointed out, ff

the roles were reversed we wouldn't bother chasing around


256

in the dark, we'd corner them where we knew they had
to go." He paused and watched each face as it nodded in
agreement. "That inlet would be ideal for an ambush. I
think we ought to pay 'em a visit and see if they're doing
it properly."

"Attaboy," encouraged Forbes.

"That's all very well," Turnbull said, "but even if we
bushwhack some of them, they're hardly likely to have
left the boat in a seaworthy condition. And it's a long swim."

"The corp's right, boss," Forbes said. "We've still got
the problem of four of us versus God knows how many
Micks with the most sophisticated electronic gadgets
going. In fact they're probably listening to us discussing
our plans right now!"

That brought forth a spontaneous laugh from all four
of the dirty, bedraggled soldiers, and it took a few moments
for the mirth to subside enough for Ducane to finish.
"Look, lads, I've got a few ideas that are beginning to form.
That recce has proved invaluable, because at least we know
what we're up against. And that's half the battle. Now we'll
all give it some thought over a hot meal. This clearing's
quite secure. I'll draw up some plans while Turnbull plays
with that radio. Dave, you and Tom go to RV Two and
bring back the kit and spare smudges we stored. We'll all
think better when we're warm and got some chow inside US."

Forbes was already on his feet. He kicked Young Tom
playfully. "C'mon, lad, back into ditch. Show me how fast
you crawl."

Tom Perrot shrugged: "And to think I joined the Army
to see the world."

Turnbull was unmoved by the sudderi wave of jocularity.
"Dry kit and grub won't solve our problems, Sarge. I think
we've got ourselves into a bloody jam."

Forbes leaned down until his face was almost touching
Turnbull's. "Listen, Corporal, if you don't like the heat
in the fuckin' kitchen you should've joined the bloody
Marines. Me 'n' the captain have fought the Vietcong, the.


257

Russians, and the blo6dy Yemini bandits and we sure as
hell ain't going to give a gaggle of thick Provos the privilege
of burying us."

He turned abruptly and disappeared into the ditch with
the agility of a teenager.


Winston Loveday treated himself to one of McClatcher's
plump cigars. He allowed the smooth smoke to escape his
teeth with a long low hiss of satisfaction. From his seat
in the Land Rover he could observe virtually the entire
expanse of the inlet. Forty feet up on the west bank, the
vehicle had been expertly covered in brush and camouflage
nets under his personal supervision. Some twenty feet
below him ten of McClatcher's privates were concealed,
overlooking the bushes where the dinghy had been hidden.
These men formed the main group of the ambush, armed
with automatic weapons and hand-grenades. He had
decided against using one of the two French Hotchkiss
Bran& 6omm mortars they had in their arsenal. The
ranging shots may have alerted the SAS group, and he
wasn't convinced that his men had yet mastered their use.
Already there had been an unfortunate incident which had
cost him an instructor.

The opposite bank, about seventy-five yards away, was
unoccupied to avoid accidents with cross-fire and ricochets,
although he had taken the precaution of blocking
access routes up the embankment using trip-wires fixed
to grenades. If anyone attempted to escape that way when
his trap snapped shut, they'd get a nasty headache.

He leaned forward and peered south to the apex of the
inlet. It was the direction from which Ducane's men were
expected to come. They would be allowed to pass the first
stop-group--three men with a heavy machine-gun. He
smiled slowly. He. knew he was looking directly at the
clump of undergrowth where his men were concealed, but
he could distinguish nothing to give away its existence.

In the opposite direction, where the mouth of the inlet
widened into the lough, the second stop-group was hidden,
with two more heavy machine-guns. Beyond them, hidden


258

in the pre-dawn murk, the motor fishing boat waited at
anchor. The final insurance policy in case any of Ducane's
men escaped the ambush.

There was a sudden movement outside the Land Rover
as one of the Provos looked in through the open window.
"The rear group's in position, sir."

Loveday allowed the man a brief smile. "Well done,
soldier." He reached for the radio, pleased he had decided
to take the precaution of covering his own rear. Ducane
was no fool and, if he expected an ambush had been sprung,
Loveday was convinced he might try and turn the tables
on them. If he tried, now he would come face to face with a concealed machine-gun nest.

The sudden crackle of static filled the Land Rover.
Loveday picked up the handset: "Ratcatcher to Bishop ...
Ratcatcher to Bishop ... Over."

"'Hi, Winston, how goes it?" Despite the distortion of
transmission, the cheerfulness in McClatcher's voice was
tin-mistakable.

"We're all set, Earl. I've put out a rear guard, after all
... Better to be safe than sorry. If that ain't enough, then
a whole battalion won't do it."

"Okay, if you're happy. You usin" a trip-flare? Over."

"Yep. Right in front of us. I reckon there's another hour
before it gets light. Any sign of 'em? Over."

This time the edge of optimism was missing from
McClatcher's voice. "'Nothin' for the last two hours, I'm
afraid. I guess they know about the cameras. Over."

Loveday frowned. "Nothin' on the ground sensors?
Over."

"'Not yet, Winston. I guess they're steering clear of the
paths. At least we know they ain't anywhere near the friary
and they ain't got no other place t'go except-their boat. I'll
contact you if anything breaks. Over."

"Okay, Bishop. Out." He hung up the handset and fell
back against the seat. The cigar stump clamped between
his teeth, he stared blankly at the windscreen. The elation
he had been experiencing a few minutes earlier had dissipated
under the weight of a nagging concern.


259

Nothing on the television screen. Nothing on the sensors.
And, of course, the missing radio set.

Angrily he mashed out the cigar butt with his boot on
the floor. He just prayed that he was being unduly pessimistic.


The faint whine of the nightsight died away as Forbes
switched it off and replaced it in the stout leather case.

For almost an hour they had studied the inlet from the
last of the high ground before it flattened out to the edge
of the lough, now discernible as a sheet of dull metal in
the glimmer of pre-dawn light.

Ducane's booted foot kicked away the last traces of the
three-dimensional model of the inlet he had constructed
in the mud. As he felt the excitement of anticipated action
increase he craved for a cigarette. But they all knew it was
their ability to resist such temptation and suffer hardship
that gave them the edge over other lesser mortals.

"'Any questions?" he asked. He looked steadily at each
man in turn. The expression of every face was set firm
and humourless. Only Forbes' eyes gave away his enthusiasm
to get started.

It was an audacious plan. Anyone who didn't understand
the SAS training philosophy would have called it foolhardy.
There was certainly much that could go wrong; but
coping with and anticipating the unexpected was the name
of the game. The odds had to be improved.

Ducane climbed to his feet. "Okay. Twenty minutes
until the fireworks go off. o7oo hours." He buckled on his
belt and picked up his Sterling. "It's not the easiest
operation we've had, lads, but it's one we won't forget."

Turnbull stepped forward. "Look, boss, you know I

haven't been happy with a lot of aspects of this ,.."

"... Not now, John," Ducane returned coldly.

The man shook his head. "No, let me finish. I want you
to know that now we're in, I'm with you all the way. I
think we might even pull it off." He half-smiled. "And I was all for pulling out. I can see that if we did,
McClatcher's mob would go to ground before we could do


260

anything. They're too well-equipped and well-organised
for us to allow them to get established in the north. Our
next chance would be in Armagh ... and by that time
they'd be even better."

"We haven't beaten 'em yet, Corp," Forbes said. "Let's
not count our chickens."

Turnbull looked sheepish. "I just wanted you all to
know ..." His voice trailed off.

Ducane nodded. "If the plan even half-works, John, it'll
be largely due to you. You've thought things out well. It's
a valuable asset."

Forbes sounded disgusted. "What's this? Bloody mutual
admiration society?"

"Piss off, Sarge," Turnbull returned amiably.

Ducane moved off and Young Tom silently shouldered
his Sterling and fell in quickly behind him.

As they watched them go Forbes said to Turnbull:
"Poor little bugger. He's sheet white. Scared out of his
bleedin' wits."

Turnbull laughed as he began burying the spare
weapons and equipment. "Guess that makes four of us."

261


CHAPTER 14


Ex-US Marines Sergeant Carl Bristow sat at the edge of
the machine-gun nest that formed Winston Loveday's
first stop-group. Chewing morosely on a wad of stale
gum, he watched the shallow valley from which the SAS
team was expected to approach. Beside him a young
Provo sat, crouched over a "30 Browning, his finger playing
nervously on the trigger. Another recruit lay by his side, ready to keep the weapon fed as its insatiable appetite
devoured cartridge belts at a rate of I2o rounds per
minute.

All three were dressed in waterproof trousers and combat
iackets, stained by hand to blend with the mellow
shades of winter foliage, so that even from a few feet away
they would be indistinguishable from the dead bracken and
sparse shrubbery.

"Finger off, Muldoon," the American muttered laconically.
"With your itchy digit yet likely to scare the bastards
off as soon as they show."

The Irishman's hand ierked instantly as he obeyed, and
Bristow felt the hot flush of anticipation sweep over him.
Christ, he thought, these guys are so keyed up they're likely
to let fire if someone yells "'Boo!" Darn near opened up
when I spoke to him then.

Bristow didn't look much like a veteran. But his long
unruly hair which curled over his collar had been grown
in an attempt to hide the effects of his two years in Vietnam.
Even his old buddies in the leathernecks wouldn't
recoguise this scruffy hippyas the close-shorn Sergeant
Bristow who won the Purple Heart when he routed an
entire company of VC almost single-handed outside Khe
Sahn. But when he'd been invalided out, the length of his


262

hair and faded denims couldn't disguise the hard glint in
his eyes. The mischievous sparkle of the fun-loving college
boy he'd been 24 months earlier would never return. He
had seen too much, and done too much.

As he sat waiting for the first fingers of dawn to reach
across the Irish sky, he could not accept this was really
happening. That somewhere, out there in the brooding,
mean landscape, four men were waiting who had a reputation
for cunning and fighting prowess in excess of anyone
he had met in the Far East. Not here in Eire, the lethargic
backwater of Europe, where the mild-mannered, generous
people spent their time in endless conversations and gossip
over countless glasses of Guinness. Unthinkable.

The radio earpiece crackled. "Bishot to Pawn One.
Bishop to Pamn One. Over.'"

He found his pulse quickening as he flicked the switch.
It was difficult to maintain his usual easy drawl as he
replied: "Receiving. Over."

"Geophones got someone comin" your zoay. Three minutes.
Oer."

"Pawn One ready, Bishop. Out."

He cringed inwardly as he gave their call-sign. Pawn
One. It was all right if you were Bishop or Knight or some
such. The connotations of Pawn gave one an uneasy feeling
in the gut. Especially when it was just you and a couple
of greenhorns.

He forced a grin. "Te got visitors, it seems." He kept
his voice low, little more than a murmur. "Keep off the
trigger until they've passed right into the inlet an' I give
the word,"

The two men nodded and glanced at each other nervously.
Bristow closed his eyes briefly. Give me strength,
he thought.

As his lids opened again, his eyes focused directl on
a slight movement a hundred yards away, down the shallow
incline that ran to the apex of the inlet. The stark arms
of a long-dead shrub swayed slightly beside the track that
led into the peninsula.

He put the Zeiss binoculars that hung around his neck


263

	to his eyes and adjusted the focus as he zeroed in on the

	shrub.

	Bristow grunted to himself. There was someone there

	all right. A few minutes earlier the shrub had been thin

	and spindly; now it seemed thicker around the base. More

	substance. More colour, too. But, however hard he tried,

	he could not distinguish the shape.

	He shifted the gaze of the glasses inland, along the path.

	Again he grunted. Whoever it was down there, they must
	1

	have passed right along the edge of the path without him

	seeing, using just the short turf and natural undulations

	of the ground for cover.

	They were good, he decided. Or else he was very out

	of touch. After fill it had been five years since he'd last

	played cat-and-mouse in the rain forests. He felt a sudden

	thrill. His mouth was quite dry.

	He swept the penetrating gaze of the Zeiss farther inland,

	towards the rise that overlooked the inlet and his machine

	gun nest. Much earlier he had thought he had seen move
	ment,
but had discounted it after studying the spot for

	almost half-an-hour. Now, once again, he wondered if he

	had been right. Whoever it was below him could have been

	on that rise an hour earlier, presumably watching the inlet.

	Instinctively he glanced behind him. The ground

	couldn't be seen as it rose gently away behind the nest

	because it had a thick covering of bracken and brush. Dead

	leaves crackled as the wind moaned mournfully. There was

	no other sound. He shivered.

	Bristow's was the first stop-group of the ambush. It was

	perched on a spur of land on the west bank of the inlet,

	commanding a view of the approach from inland. Directly

	below was a blind-spot created by taller bushes and trees,

	and then, if the machine-gun was traversed, it had a wide

	field of fire straight down to the inlet itself towards the

	lough.

	Once the intruders were at the water's edge in the inlet,

	the main party on the west bank, where Loveday had his

	Land Rover, would open up with automatic weapons and

	grenades. Pawn One would then slam shut the door of the


264

trap, opening up down the inlet with a withering fire of
3oinch shells, cutting off any chance of retreat.

Bristow pressed the switch. "Pawn One to Bishop and
Ratcatcher. Someone wants to come in. Reckon one.
Maybe two. Over."

Loveday's voice sounded cautious. "'Okay, Pawn One.
There's four of d'bastards. Ratcatcher to all groups: Watch
yer ass.t Take special care 'til all four are identified. Out."

The silence seemed oppressive after the sudden raucous
crackle of the radio. The loader began shuffling his legs
uneasily. Bristow ignored him and again concentrated the
Zeiss on the shrub below them at the pathside.

This time he thought he could make out a definite shape.
He leaned forward, screwing up his eyes and willing the
lens to give a little added magnification. Was that a gun
barrel? It had obviously been threaded with twine and
grass stalks, but the general shape was too rigid to be
natural.

A long, slow smile began to spread across Bristow's face.
It looked as though the quarry was getting ready to move
deeper into the inlet ...

Something was wrong. He suddenly knew that he faced
danger. That old familiar instinct was nagging at his mind.
Quickly Bristow checked his senses. It wasn't vision; there
was nothing out of place. He could hear nothing distinct
above the monotony of wind and rustling bracken. His
nostrils were filled with the pungence of peat and rotting
leaves and a hint of oil from the machine-gun.

Then he knew it was touch. Not his hands, but the
crawling skin on the backof his neck. The exposed flesh
had been cold and numb, and suddenly there was just the
slightest warmth. Like someone's breath.

Bristow's thought process had takena meremillisecond.
But that had been too long. And he knew it.

Even as the hot ebb of fear rushed through him and he
braced himself for the pain, the padded forearm snapped
over his face like a steel mask.

The breath exploded through his teeth with the force
of a steam turbine as the knee drove into his pelvis, hauling

265

him backwards into the carpet of leaves. Involuntarily his
arms spread to protect himself from the fall. He could only
hear the gasping exertions of an unknown human and the
urgent shuffle of heavy boots amongst the bracken and
cartridge belts.

Acting on trained reflexes Bristow forced himself to
ignore the excruciating pain at the base of his spine and
the iron-hard knuckles that were trying to force his torn
lips and teeth down his throat. Instinctively, he realised
that his attacker had botched it. He should have been dead,
but he wasn't, He should have already felt the lethal prick
of the knife-point in his jugular. But it hadn't happened.

Bristow drew a deep breath with the sound of an animal
snort through his half-smothered nose, and wriggled with
the strength and agility of a python.

He heard the muffled cursing sound hard in his ear. He
felt the grip around his mouth begin tO slip until his teeth
came in contact with bony flesh. He bit hard into the pink
skin, tasting salt and blood on his tongue.

There was no air left in his lungs to make a sound as
he tried to yell, but the exertion prised him free of the
bleeding hand.

He forced himself forward, turning awkwardly as he did
so to face his assailant.

A quick visual impression of chaos was left imprinted
in his mind as his head turned. The machine-gutmer was
sprawled prostrate across his weapon which had collapsed
under his weight; a length of garrotte wire hung from the
man's throat like an absurd necktie. The loader was
engaged in a furious wrestle with a big man in a camouflage
smock. He caught a glimpse of fair hair before he completed
his turn to come face to face with his own attacker.

The man was sitting on his knees, clutching a bleeding
hand. He looked up in surprise and anger, as if not
believing his victim had escaped his deadly grasp.

It seemed an age while the two men faced each other,
both breathing heavily as they weighed up their adversaries,
although it could have only been seconds.

Bristow was surprised how young the man was. Despite

266

the smears of blacking on his face the American was certain
he was hardly out of his 'teens. The eyes had been smarting
with tears of pain, and the face was pale with fear.

The younger man's glance fell to the glinting metal blade
that lay between them in the leaves.

That's why I'm not dead, thought Bristow. The youngster
had dropped it in his haste and inexperience.

Both men leapt for it simultaneously. Bristow's fingers
got there first, quickly grasping the haft, before the young
soldier's hands clasped his wrist.

Their posture seemed ridiculous: both bodies flung
fully forward with hands grasped at arm's length, neither
able to press home an advantage. Each staring into the
other's eyes, as they strained muscle for muscle and will
for will.

Bristow raised his left arm and swung it at the youngster's
face, as his feet scrabbled madly to gain a grip in
the slippery leaf mould. But the other's reflexes showed
the difference between their ages. Deftly the soldier rolled
to one side, so that the American's knuckles just grazed
his cheek before they thudded uselessly against the turf.
The sudden jolt caused Bristow to flinch and his grip on
the knife slipped a fraction.

Gauging exactly his split-second of advantage, the
youngster swung his legs round until he could twist himself
onto his knees, while the American remained prostrate.

Still grasping Bristow's clenched fist with both hands,
the soldier used the grip to pull himself to his feet. He
followed it up with the full force of his boot to the
American's throat.

Bristow's teeth snapped together hard over his tongue
as he felt the toecap punch into his Adam's apple. His
senses reeled as he toppled backwards and the knife span
into the undergrowth.

Red mist clouded into his vision as he tried to focus on
the youngster, who fell exhausted on top of him. The
breath had left the American's body and the lump in his
throat seemed to have swollen to the size of a brick, cutting
off the air supply to his lungs. As he tried to stifle the

267

involuntary cough it triggered off a spasm of choking sobs.
His windpipe had constricted to the size of a drinking
straw. The burning sensation glowed in his throat like a
red hot coal. There was nothing he could do to stop the ......
rising vomit. As it forced its way through his oesophagus
his whole chest and head seemed to disintegrate into pain.
Finally, with the heavy weight of the soldier sprawled over
him, he gave way to the dizzy waves of unconsciousness...

Young Tom, trembling with exhaustion, panted for
breath as he raised his head from the chest of the dead
American. He saw Ducane dusting the leaves and twigs
from his smock and let his head fall back onto the still body
beneath him. He shut his eyes and forced his mind to relax.

Perrot, you stupid bastard, he told himself, that was
nearly the last mistake you ever made.

A hand touched his shoulder. Again he raised his head,
forcing his eyes open. Ducane was crouched by his side,
the deadly knife that had dispensed with the machine-gun

loader already back in its sheath.

"Okay, Tom?"

Perrot nodded, not trusting himself to speak in case his
voice betrayed the fear and utter fatigue he felt.

"Well done," Ducane said, glancing casually at the .
corpse. "He was a big bastard. Tough, too, from what I.
saw. Gave you a hard time?"

Young Tom muttered between clenched teeth, angry
with himself.

"What was that?" Ducane asked.
The young soldier forced himself up into a half-crouch,

still not trusting his legs to hold his weight if he stood
up. He looked down at the mess of blood and vomit on
his smock. "I dropped the bloody knife when I went for
him. Sorry. Just careless. He nearly got it and carved
me...

He looked down at the ground.

"You're here. He isn't." The voice was without emotion.

Ducane half-sat in the bracken. The weathered, grease
smeared face suddenly cracked into a white grin.

Young Tom half-smiled, self-disgust giving way to a


268

sheepish embarrassment. "I didn't even stick him. He
must have choked himself to death."

Ducane stood up. "Then it must be your lucky day." He
looked down the slope to the path where Forbes and
Turnbull should be waiting. "I'd better get moving now.
'You clear on everything?"

Young Tom nodded. "Guess so, boss."

Ducane nodded reassuringly and returned to the edge of
the bracken where he had been lying in wait. He hauled
out the canvas bag that carried an Army-issue battle smock
and threw it down at the other's feet. "Okay, Tom, get
weaving. You've got exactly twenty minutes before you
make the transmission." He went to turn away, then
paused. "And good luck."

Picking up the machine-gun and an ammunition case,
Ducane melted silently into the brush. Within seconds
Tom could hear only the rustling of the wind in the sea
of waving ferns.

Sitting down beside the body of Bristow, he extracted
a frag grenade from the deep pocket of his smock and
placed it carefully on the ground. Then, glancing quickly
around him, began to unbuckle his belt pack.


From his concealed position at the base of the tree by
the pathside, Turnbull could see halfway down the inlet,
until the gorse-covered embankments kinked to the right,
obscuring the mouth of the stream where it opened into
the lough. Only some twenty feet in front of him the
stream broke noisily from the undergrowth, crossed the
footpath, and gabbled over the shale: Swollen by the earlier
rain, it had widened to some twelve feet by the time it
reached the kink and disappeared. Turnbull reckoned it
was probably up to knee-height at its deepest point.

Ducane followed the direction of the corporal's pointing
finger to the thicket on the left bank, where they had
stowed the boat. It showed no signs of having been
disturbed.

"If you look above the hide," Turnbull said, "that's
where they are." 269


Ducane squinted but could see nothing. "Any idea how
many?"

Turubull shook his head. "No, boss. They're being
good boys and keeping their heads down. At a guess,
anything up to twenty."

"What about the other bank?"

Forbes interrupted. "If you hope they're going to shoot
each other, Jacko, you're out of luck. I've been watching
,for twenty minutes, but there's not a twitch."

Ducane rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "There's bound

to be another stop-group at the mouth of the inlet. In

case any of us escape their initial burst."

Turnbull nodded. "We've managed to pick up some

of their transmissions. They'd taped the frequencies they
were using to that set you found. Call-sign Bishop appears
to be the main group. He's been commtmieating with Pawn
One and Pawn Two, and with Ratcatcher, which appears
to be your friend McClatcher. Back at the friary I should


"Winston Loveday's in charge of the ambush," Forbes
interjected.

Ducane frowned. "Bit careless of them to use names."

Forbes said: "That's what happens when you get too
confident. The Yanks always were a slovenly loada shits."

"Don't you get too complacent either, Dave," Ducane
returned. "They may be sloppy but they're also pretty
good. Some of them."

Turnbull said: "If you've disposed of Pawn One, then
Pawn Two is probably the stop-group at the mouth of

the inlet. There's also a call-sign called Neptune."

Ducane chuckled. "Original." .

"That fishing boat we met last night?" Forbes suggested.

The captain shrugged. "Probably. They're determined

we don't get off this peninsula in one piece."

Suddenly the radio crackled into life. "'Bishop to Pazon

One, oer.'"

The three men exchanged worried glances. "I hope Tom
answers," Forbes said.

270

"I just hope the radio's still working," Ducane added.
"What's Tom's American accent like?"

Forbes shook his head. "Sounds like a bloody Australian!"

"'Bishop to Pawn One. Come in.t" The static accentuated
the irritability in Winston Loveday's voice.
The three men watched the set, willing something to
happen. After what seemed an age Tom's voice could
be heard amidst a sudden flurry of interference. "Pawn

One to Bishop. Transmission trouble. Over.'"

Forbes laughed. "Crafty little sod!"

Winston's voice came over again. Loud and demanding. "Any movement on your contact? Over.'"

Amidst more static Tom's voice sounded feeble and
distorted. "'Hardly hear you, Bishop. Fading. Contact still

under cover. Will advise if there is advance to inlet. Over."
"Do you want replacement transmitter? Over."

Tom's reply sounded almost too insistent. "No, Bishop.
Am in direct line of fire. Cannot risk contact. Reception
seems to be improving. Out.'"

Ducane breathed a sigh of relief. "Right, lads, let's get
going before Loveday's patience runs out and he sends
a runner to Pawn One." He turned to Turnbull. "You
happy with your role?"

Turnbull's small, humourless face flickered briefly with
a smile. "Drawing enemy fire's never my idea of fun,
boss. Just make sure you fire first. I don't want the first
incoming shot to be hostile." He shrugged and looked
up the inlet. "I'll use the stream-bed for cover. It's not
much but ..." His voice trailed off.

Ducane gave the corporal's shoulder a reassuring shake
as he stood up in a half-crouch. "Come on, Dave," he
said to Forbes. "We've got ten miiautes to cover I5o
metres. Let's move."

Ducane threw himself at the path, rolling rapidly across
the exposed ground, and climbed onto one knee in the cover
of a bush on the other side. Forbes threw across the machine
gun and the ammunition canister they had taken from
Bristow before rolling across the pathway himself.


271

The crawl up the slope to the right hand bank, opposite
Loveday's ambush group, took five minutes. It seemed
like five hours. It was a strenuous, excruciating task, edging
through the foliage on elbows and knees that became
grazed and raw with the constant friction against hard
shale and rock. Ducane led the way, making quick but careful progress. Forbes lumbered breathlessly behind on
his elbows, with the machine-gun balanced across his
crooked forearms. Sweat was rolling so profusely from
his forehead into his eyes that he almost collided with
Ducane's feet when the SAS captain stopped.

Forbes squeezed his eyes hard shut to stop them
smarting and clear his vision. Ducane was indicating the
thin strand of nylon wire that ran across the path.

In explanation Ducane mouthed the word "Grenade".
It seemed obvious that the right-hand bank, although clear
of the enemy, had been sown with booby-traps. If
Ducane's group had attempted to escape from the ambush,
by running up the opposite slope, they would have tripped
the wires.

Tracing the grenade and securing the pin in place whilst
the wire was cut was a quick task. But, had they been
running under fire, it could have been a very different
matter.

The grenade was added to their armoury along with
two other booby-traps they found. They had also come
across a hurriedly placed seismic sensor which they swiftly
covered with a sheath of field-dressing wadding to muffle
any giveaway sounds. Finally Ducane was satisfied that
they were opposite Loveday's main group.

Forbes glanced at his watch as he feverishly opened
the ammunition container to thread the belt into the
machine-gun's cartridge port. They were overdue.


"Pawn One to Bishop. Over." Winston Loveday had

been waiting so intently for the message that, when it
came, he physically jumped. He snatched up the handset.
"Go ahead, Pawn One."

"'Contact advancing. One man going point. ,4nother x oo


27:2

metres behind. Two others advancing towards our position
here. Over."

"Jesus!" Loveday spat, his mind racing at the likely
result of his first stop-group having been spotted. Controlling
his excitement he said calmly: "Okay, Bristow.
Watch yet ass and try not to fire till we've caught the
two over here. Out."

One of Loveday's men had crawled out of the vegetation
overlooking the inlet and raced across to the camouflaged
Land Rover bent double.

The Negro climbed out of the seat to meet him.
"One of the bastards come out the treeline," the young
Irishman's words came out in a gabble of thick brogue
that Loveday found hard to understand.

"Okay, soldier," the Negro snapped. "Get back in line
and hold till the second man's in the open and I give
the word."

As the man scrambled back down the slope, Loveday
leaned against the wing of the Land Rover and peered
down at the stream-bed. At first he found it difficult to
see the man standing motionless in the water, his battle fatigues blending perfectly with the bleak winter countryside,
a Sterling held at the port.

Winston froze. It seemed as though the man was staring
directly at him, but at that distance he couldn't be certain.
It was uncanny. He cursed himself for leaving the safety
of the disguised Land Rover. And he cursed the Provo
gunman for having left his position.

Through clenched teeth he hissed as loud as he dare.
"Hold your fire till the other one appears!" He wished
to God he could move and grab a weapon, or at least
his binoculars. His eyes were transfixed by the lone figure.
A single, small offered target. So insignificant in the grey- brown sweep of the inlet, yet full of menance and danger.
If only he'd move ... just to indicate he didn't really
expect anything.

Winston's mouth moved imperceptibly. "Come on, little
bastard, a few more steps into my web." A pause, his
throat going dry. "C'mon now." Coaxing.


273

The head with the woollen skull cap flicked suddenly,
as though checking an unexpected movement.

"Fer Chrissakes," Loveday growled, his coaxing tone
giving way to anger at the man's caution. He was afraid
his own men would not be able to resist the offered target
much longer, but the range was far enough to make a
hit unlikely.

As the Negro blinked the man had begun to move
forward. Very slowly, with the gurgling waters swirling
around his knees, the soldier advanced three paces before
pausing again.

Loveday bared his teeth. "You don't suspect, baby.
There ain't nothin' here but the birds and insects. C'mon
now." He was willing him on, convinced, as the figure
advanced again, that he must be feeling more secure.

As he kept on moving slowly forward Loveday was
able to study him more closely. He was too small for
Ducane or Forbes. This man was a stranger; an unknown
quantity.


	Fifty yards and another stop.

Loveday frowned. The soldier, his body kept at an
oblique angle to where the Land Rover was hidden, looked
only at the bank where the boat had been left. Never
once did he look to the right-hand bank. Why?

Just as Loveday's eyes swung towards the opposite side
of the inlet, he heard one of his men shout out a warning.

The stillness of the inlet was torn apart with the violent
stutter of machine-gun fire. Glass splintered behind him
as a burst of shells studded the Land Rover.

Loveday hurled himself down instinctively, his eyes
seeing the vivid wink of muzzle flashes from the opposite
slope. Pain, fierce and excruciating, exploded in his thigh
as he pressed himself hard against the tuff.

"Fire, you stupid fucking bastards!" he yelled.

Suddenly the silence from his startled men was broken
by the ragged report of returning firepower.

He squeezed his eyes tight to force the flooding red
tide from his vision, and reached down to the sodden
mess of his leg, Again he flinched. "Shit, man," he


274

muttered to himself, "i'm gettin' too old for this sorta
caper."

The trouser leg was ripped and the flesh hung in ribbons,
exposing white bone scorched where the cartridge had
deflected. A fraction of an inch nearer the centre of the
femur and his leg would have come clean off.

He decided it would have to wait for a few more minutes.
Summoning all his strength and determination, he pulled
himself over to the Land Rover. He reached in and hauled
himself up into the seat. Peering down into the inlet, the
lone soldier, who had been advancing, had disappeared.
A sudden crackle of fire from the shale sides of the stream
and a wisp of blue smoke told Loveday where. At least
he was pinned down by the returning fire from the Provos. He quickly scanned his own position, and his heart sank. Five of his men lay motionless; whether dead or iniurcd
it was impossible to tell. The others were more conccrncd
at hiding from the withering rain of lead from the oppositc
bank, than returning it.

Lovcday made a quick decision and snatched up the
handset, half-expecting it to have been hit. To his surprisc
it was operating. "Bishop to Ratcatchcr. Bishop of Rat
cat-chef. Over!"

Instantly McClatchcr's voicc came over the air in a hiss of static. "'Okay, Bishop. What gives?'"

"We found 'em, Earl. Or to be more precise they found
us." He went on quickly before McClatcher had a chance
to explode. "They're on the opposite bank and giving
fire. I've had fifty per cent casualties." He looked soulfully
down at the stream of blood pumping from his mangled
leg. "Including me."

There was a brief pause at the other end. "Seems like
Ducane's learned a few tricks in the pcist few years... Don't
worry. I've a back-up squad standing by. I'll bring "era up
behind the bank opposite you. Hold tight, black boy.t Out."

Loveday replaced the handset and fell back against the seat, fighting back the waves of giddiness and nausea.

His eyes opened suddenly at the sound of a new noise.
The distant muffled crump of grenades. He turned his


z75

head wearily in the direction of Bristow's stop-group on
the spur. Pawn One .was under attack.

The big Negro grabbed the Medic kit and eased himself
out of the Land Rover's cab and onto the ground, out
of the firing line.


The return of fire from the Provos had finally died
away to an occasional crackle. Across the flat riverbed
there was no sign of movement from the undergrowth
on the bank. Ducane counted three bodies lying in the
grass but he guessed there were more. If not, at least
the men were sufficiently pinned-down to consider shooting
back to be too dangerous.

He nudged Forbes who lay with his shoulders hunched
over the machine-gun stock. From their position they
could see around the dogleg kink of the inlet to the mouth
of the stream, where it merged with the sluggish grey
swell of the lough. "Dave, I think they've recalled the
other stop-group. Look."

Forbes swung the machine-gun muzzle to the right,
following Ducane's directions. Three men were making
their way awkwardly through the thick cover of the other
bank, evidently struggling with heavy equipment.

"Three hundred metres," Forbes decided. "I could give
'em a burst to keep their heads down."

Ducane nodded. "I think we'd better. 'Looks like

they've got some heavy stuff."

"Machine-gun?"

"Or a mortar even." He glanced down at the ammunition
belt in Forbes' machine-gun. "Is that the lot?"
"Yep. Just a couple of bursts."

Ducane nodded. "Well, Dave, next comes the tricky
bit."

The sergeant chuckled. "Your plan sounded fine in
theory." He squeezed the trigger and the machine-gun
jumped into life, spitting flame in the direction of Love
day's re-inforcements from the lough mouth. It was
difficult to see exactly what the effect was, except for
the flurry of dead leaves and branches. The three men


276

had disappeared from view. It was unlikely that they'd
been hit.

As the sound of the automatic fire echoed flatly across
the landscape and dwindled away, a new sound could be
heard. A four-wheel drive vehicle being gunned hard
across rough terrain.

Ducane turned his head and peered behind them,
through the copse of thin trees. "We got visitors, Dave."
"How many?"

"Can't see 'em yet. Sounded like a Land Rover. It won't
take 'em long to come through the trees. We'd better
act quick before some silly bastard panics and shoots us.
The middle of a firefight isn't the wisest time to surrender."
Ducane switched on the Pocketfone. "This is Group
Leader. Fe have enemy closing in from our rear. Time
for you to clear out, Corporal. Acknowledge. Over."

Sporadic fire from the west bank was beginning to gain
momentum. The enemy's confidence was returning while
Forbes conserved his ammunition.

From their POsition they could see Turnbull some
hundred yards from the treeline, still lying prone at the
edge of the stream, where he had been using the gentle
shale slope for cover. There was a slight movement as
he answered the signal.

"I read you, Group Leader. I'm on my way. Can you
cover me? Over.'" Ducane flicked the switch. "Will do. Good luck. Out."
Forbes eyed him carefully. "Shall we wind up?"

A burst of bullets punched into the ground a few inches
away in a shower of earth and torn grass.

Ducane spat the grit from his mouth. "Let 'em have
it, Dave."

The machine-gun stuttered noisily into action, the hail
of shells scything through the vegetation on the opposite
bank, subduing the Provos' fire. In the cover of the wafting
gunsmoke Ducane sprang to one knee and hurled three
frag grenades, one after another.

The first blew at the foot of the embankment opposite,
exploding in a deadly spray of tiny steel fragments and


277

slivers of broken shale. The second and third burst farther
up the slope, the force of the blast softened by the thick
vegetation, the sound muffled to a dull thud. As the smoke
and flying debris subsided, the full scene of devastation was
revealed. Three small, scorched craters smouldered amid
the winter foliage like ugly sores, each strewn with scarcely
recognisable human shapes.

Forbes grimaced. "That should shut the bastards up."
A brittle crackle of fire opened up from the top of the
opposing bank. Ducane dived for the ground as the

magazine of shells hammered into the tree behind him.
"Christi" Ducane hissed, "that was close!"

Forbes squeezed the trigger again. There was a forlorn
metallic click as the firing pin snapped on an empty
chamber. He threw the machine-gun angrily aside, and
picked up the Stealing. "It's Winston Loveday. I swear
to God it is!"

"He fired?" Ducane demanded.

"Up by the Land Rover. He was a nigger all right and
I ain't seen no cotton plantations 'round here."

Ducane forced a grin. "Don't hit him, Dave. I'd rather
us give ourselves up to him than a bloody Provo."

As the captain hurriedly tied a tattered white handkerchief
around the barrel of his Sterling, voices were heard
behind them. The sound of feet crashed through the
undergrowth. Both men pulled out the Pocketfones and
smashed them with the butts of the Sterlings.

Ducane raised the white rag. "HOLD YOUR FIRE, LOVEDAY!
WE'RE COMING OUT!"

It suddenly seemed frighteningly quiet. The air was
charged with tension like electricity. In the copse behind
thcrn the sound of the approaching rc-inforccmcnts grew
louder. Voices were raised. Angry, excitable.

"Shift it, Dave!" Ducanc snapped. "Before those trigger-happy sods decide to use us for target practice."

"HOLD YOUR FIRE, LOVEDAY!" Ducane stood up, hands
raised. "D'YOU HEAR ME.) CALL OFF YOUR DOGS["

At last the sound of the Negro's voice came across the
gap. It sounded strangely weak and feeble. "Come on

278

down, Mr Ducane! Nice'n'easy!" The captain started
down the slope.

"Throw down the gun! You don' need no flagpole fer
a white flag."

Ducane tossed the weapon down and Forbes, a few
yards behind, did the same.

The Negro appeared at the top of the bank, a broad
smirk cracking his face. He leaned against the wing of
the battered Land Rover with a sub-machine gun held
loosely in one hand. The other clutched at a blood-sodden
bandage around his thigh.

"An' if it ain't my old friend, Dave Forbes. "Thooo-ee[
Fancy meetin' you here!"

The two soldiers paused in the centre of the stream,
hands raised.

There was a sudden burst of activity behind them as
half-a-dozen heavily armed men burst noisily out of the
copse, shouting and waving their weapons.

"HOLD FIRE, MEN[" Loveday bawled. "I DROP THE FIRST
MAN WHO SHOOTS!"

They fell into a bewildered silence, as more movement
indicated the arrival of other re-inforcements from the
apex of the inlet. To the north the fishing .boat had also
pulled in close to the mouth of the stream and an outboard
dinghy, weighed down with more gunmen, was weaving
shoreward.

From the corner of his mouth Forbes said: "I think
this is what is called Check Mate."

Ducane attempted to smile; it wouldn't come. He looked
around him as the ring of men closed in. There was no
sign of Turnbull.

CHAPTER 15


The Land Rover slewed to a halt in the mud outside
the friary. There followed a noisy clatter, as the men
clinging to the framework jumped off, thankful to stretch
their aching muscles after the cross-country ride. Standing
in a ragged semi-circle, they watched with expressions
of hatred and curiosity as the two captives were hauled
roughly from the back by two armed Provos.

A heavy metallic click caused heads to turn in the
direction of one of the watching men. Reagan was only
of medium build, but the camouflaged jacket and makeshift
webbing added pounds to his stature. The whites of his
eyes seemed to gleam in the dirt-smeared face, accentuating
the bright irises like hard, black diamonds. The barrel
of the sub-machine gun in his grip wavered between the
two men who stood between the guards.

"We oughta kill the focken bastards now!" he said
angrily, his voice encrusted in a thick Irish accent.

His companions glanced nervously at him, then back
at the two prisoners. They seemed harmless enough now,
heads hung low, unable to straighten up after the stomach
pounding they'd been given on the ride. The biggest
one with the moustache had lost a front tooth and looked
almost comical. Hardly the invincible warriors of the SAS.
It was difficult to believe it had been necessary to train
so hard and use so many men to corner them. And the
end, when it had come, had been so quick that the men
who had been in the thick of the firefight could scarcely
believe it. Believe the carnage and destruction these
two had wreaked on their companions. After enduring
the weeks of merciless training by McClatcher and
Loveday--only to be torn apart by grenades and vicious


28o

automatic fire. Just from these two men.

The Provo's finger tightened on the trigger. His eyes
looked wild. "Let's kill the fockers now!" His voice was
hoarse with anger as he glanced around at the weary look
on the faces of the others. "They've rubbed out between
fifteen and twenty of us since last night. Harry, Sean,
Pat, Paul and the O'Casey brothers! Are we going to let
them go unpunished?"

One of the guards, the Provo called Malone, raised his
weapon in readiness. "Shut up, Reagan, you stupid
bugger. They aren't going nowhere. If anyone touches
them, McClatcher will take someone apart."

" Sod McClatcherl" Reagatl fpat contemptuously. "What
the hell does he know about the Republican cause?"

The man beside him, with a shock of ginger hair that
looked odd sprouting above the blackened face, said
wearily, "Perhaps he knows how to make it work. We've
been at it since '69. It's about time we started getting
results."

The fair-haired prisoner raised his head and held Reagan
in a hard gaze. "What's the matter, boy? Need your mother
to pull the trigger for you? Or would you feel more
comfortable if we turned our backs on you?"

One of the Provos laughed, stopping suddenly. The
guards tightened their grip.

Reagan froze, the gun trembling with rage in his grip.
He stepped quickly forward, his eyes flashing. "No one
asked your opinion, you Brit bastard." He raised the barrel
to swipe it across the captain's unprotected face.

"Enough.t'" There was no mistaking Loveday's voice.
The second bullet-ridden Land Rover lumbered to a halt
behind the first, in a cloud of steam that billowed from the
shattered radiator.

Loveday hobbled out, supported by two men. He
straightened himself up to his full height and viewed the
bedraggled collection of men. Instantly he could tell those
who had been in the ambush party. They were dirtier
than the others, and their eyes held the resigned, lacklustre
look of men who had survived their first close action.

28

He knew they'd had enough; wanted only sleep. It was
strange how just a few moments of vicious, nerve
shattering combat, after hours of waiting and rising
tension, could have such an effect. Even on the best
trained.

His anger towards Reagan subsided. After all, they'd
done it. This ragtag army of fanatical misfits had completed
their mission. Even more successfully than he'd thought.
And Malone was proving himself to be reliable and
professional. He allowed himself a slow grin, forcing
himself to forget the painful throb in his leg. McClatcher's
Privates had done even better than his two prisoners knew.
But he would break that surprise to them later. When
it suited.

He addressed himself to the guards. "You know where
to take 'em, so get on with it." As they ierked the prisoners
away, he turned to Reagan. "If you've got all this energy
left, soldier, you'd better come along and see if you can't
work it out on our new arrivals."

Reagan's angry expression turned to one of bewilderment
and then a smirk of satisfaction.

Loveday began struggling towards the friary entrance.

Then he noticed Malone and stopped, beckoning him over.
"Sir?"

"I waspleased with yer sense of responsibility back
there, soldier." The Negro looked at the Irishman
approvingly. "Yer a mean son-of-a-bitch an' a wild 'un.
But y've learned pretty fast. Now I'm agoin' t' give you the
chance to earn yer spurs. A mission into enemy territory, so

to speak. The mainland."

"Sir?"

The American drew an envelope from his pocket and
handed it over. "It's a vital mission an' must be carried
out t' the letter. Savvy, man?" Malone nodded. "Go to
the address on the envelope. It's a pub in Fulham where
we have a permanent room booked under the name o'
Adrian Brown. When you get our telephone call, yet to
open the sealed instructions an' follow 'em to the letter.
Okay?"


282

"When do I leave, sir?"

"Immediately, man, immediately." Loveday smiled
reassuringly. "Pack a few personal things an' get the hell
goin'. Grab yerself a driver to take yer to Shannon. Then
the first goddamn flight you can t' Heathrow."

Malone smirked with pleasure. "What about me weapons?"

"You'll find all y'want under the floor behind the door
in the room at the pub. That's all, soldier."

Still smiling, .Malone saluted smartly and marched off
to find a driver.

Loveday turned and hobbled into the friary helped by
Reagan. Outside the brightness of the new dawn was
subsiding, giving way to the promise of another bleak,
colourless day.


Against the stark, crumbling interior of the damp, flag
stoned cell, McClatcher looked clean and immaculate. The
trousers and military-cut shirt were pressed and his stance
emphasised his barrel chest. He was clean-shaven and his
brown, weathered face disguised the red rings around the
sharp, blue-grey eyes.

When it came the smile appeared genuine, as he looked

down at the two men on the spread of straw in the corner.
"It's been a long time, Jacko," he said amiably.
"Not long enough, McClatcher."

The American grinned and his teeth glistened menacingly
in the shaft of light from the narrow window. "Not
a friendly greeting."

"Piss off," Forbes offered.

McClatcher relaxed his shoulders and leaned against
the rough stone wall. As he plucked a cigar from his top
pocket and set about lighting it, Reagan watched curiously
from the doorless arch where a blanket had been fixed
as a screen. He fingered his sub-machine gun fondly.

Ducane said mockingly: "I hear you've made full
colonel. Not bad going for a captain who was kicked
out of the US Army."

McClatcher exhaled a long stream of smoke. It curled .

283

and hung in the still air like a thin, blue snake. "My
efforts are appreciated here," he replied evenly.

"This bunch of monkeys would appreciate Ghengis
Khan," Ducane snapped.

"Or Adolf Hitler," Forbes added.

The American smiled slowly. "You English underestimate
the Irish. Always have. These men might not
be much, but .they're improvin' daily." In the corner
Reagan stiffened. "They might not be up to our standard
yet, but you're the ones sitting under guard."

"That could have something to do with numbers,"
Ducane replied.

icClatcher's smile broadened. "You always were a
smart-ass, Jacko." There was no humour in his voice this
time. "We've known every move you've made in an
attempt to locate us. We set you up and you took the
bait. Hook, line and sinker--as they say. Now, that ain't
so smart."

Ducane shuffled uncomfortably on the floor. The hands
tied behind his back were bent awkwardly and the lack
of circulation was numbing his fingers. "All right, Me
Clatcher, you're a clever boy. But this location is known
to the authorities. You're living on borrowed time."

The laugh was harsh. "That's a pretty feeble line, Jacko!

I'd have expected something better from you."

"The captain's right," Forbes confirmed.

McClatcher held up three fingers. "You carried short
range radios." He tapped the first. "Second, there was
no communication equipment in the luggage you left at
the guest house. And, lastly, since you could have located
us, there have been no phone ealls made by you, except
that attempt to dupe us." He closed his fist, massaging
the stiffness in his fingers that Ducane had caused all
those years before. "In case you wondered, before we
chose this place, we made sure--sure as hell--we had a
Republican girl on the local switchboard.'"

Slowly he crossed the room to the bare wooden table in
the far corner. "So, my limey friends, I deduce that you're
on a sensitive mission. On your own with no backup."

284

"For Chrissake, McClatcher," Forbes said. "D'you
think this yellow-backed government of ours would do
anything to upset the Irish Republic? Jesus, you must
be as thick as these Micks you call soldiers!"

It was a good try and a fleeting expression of doubt
flickered in the American's eyes. Quietly he said: "I don't
need to play guessing games, Dave. The facts speak for
themselves. During the night this camp will be vacated
and there'll be nothing to prove anything or anyone was
ever here. And, quite frankly, I don't give a monkey's
toss if the whole bloody Irish Army arrived. We've got
mortars and anti-tank missiles. Even a couple of RPG-7
anti-aircraft jobs so we'd give 'em such a warm reception
..." He stopped suddenly and smiled again, slowly. "But
then that is hardly likely now, is it?"

Ducane asked: "And where are we moving onto?"
McClatcher sat on the edge of the table and, stretching
out his legs, crossed them casually at the ankles. "Where ue're going is nothing to do with you. Where you're going--
ah!" He dropped the butt of his cigar on the floor and
left it to smoulder. "That, my limey friends, is very much
in your hands.

"You see, there's a lot you can tell me about what's going
on over the border. Operations in Armagh, names and
addresses, safe-houses, IRA suspects. No chickenshit--
the works. I want that information and I'm prepared to
get it by any means possible. Remember what happened
to your friend, Harrington." He waved his hands expansively.
"Voluntarily or. under persuasion. Make it
easy on yourselves and there could even be a job in it
for you."

"Go luck yourself," Forbes snarled.

Ducane watched the American in silence. If he really

planned 			himself
			the Army in Ulster he

	tO

		set

					against

				up

was now in the position to extract enough information
to endanger hundreds of British soldiers. Not just SAS
and undercover operations, but ordinary squaddies as well.
Christmas was only a couple of days away, and by the
New Year McClatcher's men would certainly be well


285

enough trained to see that it was welcomed in with a
maelstrom of destruction and carnage.

If they offered information, true or false, without
resistance McClatcher would be suspicious. That alone
might extend their time alive, but it was unlikely to be
a pleasant existence. If they were caught out at deceipt,
he was sure McClatcher would not hesitate to use the
same physical excesses he'd used on the VC in Vietnam.

By resisting in the earlier stages, now, they could relent
before the punishment got progressively worse. It would
also allow them to play for time.

McClatcher's words shocked him: "I imagine you're
both working out how long you can spin this out before
your colleagues arrive!"

Ducane's heart pounded like a trip-hammer.

The American turned to Reagan. "You'll find a couple

of packages in the back of Sergeant Loveday's ieep, soldier.
Go bring 'em in pronto. An' be sure you keep someone
on this door."

For a moment the man hesitated, then he pushed aside

the blanket and disappeared.

Forbes glanced nervously at Ducane.. The captain
shrugged..

A few moments later there was a scuffle of clumping
boots outside and a sound of heavy breathing as Reagan
and another dragged in the two bodies.

The men dropped them to the floor. There was a
sickening squelch as the shattered skull of one corpse hit
the stone. Half the face was missing, as though it had
been chopped cleanly with a giant meat cleaver, and a
thick mucus of flesh and grey brain matter spilled onto the
stone. An eyeball floated in the mess like an egg.

The other corpse had no skull at all. Just a brittle white
stalk of neckbone protruded from the top of the torso
where the head had been snapped off like that of a doll.

There was no mistaking the blood-soaked camouflage
smocks. They had been drawn from the quartermaster
at Hereford barracks before the team left.

Ducane swallowed hard and breathed deeply to check


286

the vomit rising from his stomach. Forbes wasn't quick
enough.

He spat the stuff from his mouth. I'll bloody stick
you, McClatcher!" he choked, fighting hard to regain his
breath. "So bloody help me, I will."

The American nodded at Reagan. "Okay, soldier, get
these stiffs outa here. Organise a burial detail an' dig it
real deep. Then get. back in here."

Reagan gave the two pitiful bodies by his feet a bilious
glance and promptly called in two men to take them away:

McClatcher turned to Ducane. "I'm sorry about yet
friends. I'd've preferred 'em alive, too." He smiled, but
this time there was scarcely a pretence of burnout. "Now
that your plans have been circumvented, yer needn't waste
my time hoping for something to turn up. Are you goin'
to co-operate?" He lit another cigar. "An' none of that
name, rank and number crap."

Ducane said evenly: "The sergeant spoke for both of
us." He smiled slowly. "Go luck yourself."

He didn't see it coming, the steel-capped boot moved
so fast. It slammed into his cheek like a demolition ball
and he heard the bone crack as his head exploded in
brightly-coloured stars. He slipped heavily against Forbes
as-he felt the pain swell up in his face until he thought
it would burst.

Through the thudding noise in his head, Ducane heard
McClatcher's voice. It was menacingly quiet and restrained.
"I've no compunction, Ducane, in taking you
and your buddy apart piece, by piece. We've a chainsaw
here and I'm quite prepared to take off a limb at a time
..." He waited for the significance of his words to sink
in. "Like me you are trained to resist interrogation, so
I'm not goin' to sod about pulling out fiiagernails."

Ducane's vision gradually started clearing and he
watched the American's blurred shape move until it was
standing over Forbes. "Or I could start with you, Sergeant.
I've no compunction 'bout taking yer balls off with a
bread knife."

Forbes' chuckle was dry and lacking humour. "I've been


287

meaning to get 'round to a vasectomy for years ..."

McClatcher ignored him and returned to sit casually
on the edge of the table. "It strikes me, however, that
this overt violence might be unnecessary." His voice
sounded confident. "You no doubt found the happy family
snapshot of the Ducane family. It was missing from Kelly's
body ..."

The silence became brittle. A slow grin of satisfaction
spread across McClatcher's face, his teeth gleaming
demonically against his tanned skin. "Ah, looks like we
hit a raw spot. That's good, real good. Because it'd be
more fun roughin' up a lady like your Patricia than it
would you two ugly motherfuckers."

Ducane studied the American with fresh contempt. He
didn't trust himself to speak. Earlier it had crossed his
mind that McClatcher might use such a threat, but he'd
dismissed the idea. Unless she'd been kidnapped and
brought to Ireland, the idea seemed preposterous. But,
as McClatcher continued speaking, he realised that it was
far from an idle threat.

"Our guy Malone is now leaving for the mainland. By
this evening he'll be stationed near your home---iust
waiting for a telephone call. You remember him, don't
you, Jacko. You met at the McGuire farm. He'll have
no compimction in obeying orders. He may even add a
few ideas of his own."

"You're a fucking liar, McClatcher[" accused Forbes.

The American smiled and pulled out a sealed envelope
from his pocket. He proceeded to open it slowly.

He scanned his eyes over the sheet, smiling to himself.
"This is a copy of the sealed orders Malone is carrying
with him. On receipt of our call he's to open 'em and
carry out the instructions. He'll contact one of our sleepin'
cells an' proceed immediately to your home an' hold your
wife 'n' daughter." He paused, raising his eyes to look

directly at the SAS captain.

Ducane shook his head.

McClatcher continued. "Their instructions are to
abuse your wife on a prolonged basis, takin' care not

288

to let her become unconscious or to die. Your daughter
will be made to watch ... I won't bore you with the
details ..."

Miraculously Ducane was on his feet in one swift
movement, swaying precariously to keep his balance as he
strode forward. His foot was already driving towards
McClatcher's groin as Reagan stepped between them,
swinging the burr of his sub-machine gun over the soldier's
neck. A heavier build, Forbes tied in vain to followup
with the same speed. He half-stumbled over Ducane's
collapsed body and came face-to-face with the muzzle of
the Irishman's gun. He fell back against the wall.

Reagan hooked his booted foot under Ducane's shoulder
and rolled the unresisting body back into the corner.

The American was well-pleased with the effect of his
plan and lit a fresh cigar as he waited for Ducane to regain consciousness. It did not take long before the captain was
struggling into a sitting position.

McClatcher sounded relaxed and confident, his drawl
becoming more pronounced. "Well, Ducane, do I send
the message or not? Your little o1' lady has a sweet little
ass an' I'd hate t' see it harmed. But I'm sure you don't
doubt what I'm prepared to have done. After all, you saw
what we did to those Gook women in 'Nam."

"Christ," Forbes said. "You're the biggest yellow creep
I've ever come across."

"Shut your mouth, Sergeant," McClatcher replied.
"She ain't your o1' lady. It's yet tight-lipped captain who
has to decide."

Ducane had difficulty in speaking his lip was split and
bleeding, one side of his mouth paralysed with pain. He
spat out blood as he cleared his throat. "You go ahead,
McClatcher. I'll remind you the IRA doesn't hold with
molesting women and children. When the news gets round
what you've doneif you can carry it out--your life won't
be worth a shit."

McClatcher grinned. "Ain't gorma help your little wife
'n' kid none, whether the Micks approve or not." He
blew a long spiral of smoke at the two men on the floor.


289

"Besides, I think they'll forgive me, when I achieve what

I promised 'em."

Forbes said suddenly: "Jacko, you're putting Trish and
Sarah in the front-line. You can't do it. And the boys
in the regiment wouldn't want you to. Or expect you to."

Ducane stared blankly at the stone wall. His voice was
low. "'We all know the risks, Dave. Every now and again
someone has to pay the price. The regiment has a damned
strict rule about telling wives too much. Both Trish and
I know it. You know it. We broke that rule. She'll understand.
She'll have to."

Forbes' eyes burned fiercely. "And Sarah? Will she
understand?"

Ducane shut his eyes. He tried to speak, but couldn't
find the words.

The sergeant looked up. "NlcClatcher, you're the worst
kind of prick ever turned out by the military. You're a
perfect example of what happens when the system goes
wrong. But I can't let Jack make this decision." He paused,
glancing sideways at Ducane. "I maybe don't know as
much as him, but I know enough. I'll tell you what you
want."

McClatcher raised his eyebrows cynically. "Uncorroborated
testimony, Forbes? What's that worth?"

Forbes shrugged, his eyes pleading. "Give us a few
minutes alone. I'll try and persuade him."

McClatcher chewed uncertainly on his cigar. He looked

at Reagan but got no inspiration. "Okay. Three minutes.
But I warn you, I'll keep a full guard mounted with orders
to kill if you try so much as breathin' too fast." He strode
towards the door.

"I said alone," Forbes reminded, indicating Reagan.
Reluctantly the Irishman shuffled out after McClatcher.
Forbes let out a low whistle of relief, then rolled over
until his face was only a few inches from Ducane. "Christ,
Jacko, you deserve a bleedin' Oscar for that."

Ducane rubbed his shoulder against his swollen cheek.
"What makes you think I was acting? I didn't really think
he'd ever threaten Trish and Sarah."


29�

"That fucker would carve-up his own grandmother if
it suited him. 'Pity we didn't frag him and Loveday when
we had the chance in 'Nam."

"But we didn't. Threatening Trish has rather unbalanced
the odds ..."

Forbes said: "'Okay, it's not the game we wanted, but
we're still in with a chance if we can keep going long
enough."

Ducane's eyes looked very blue and very cold. "And
how long is enough? If we can't keep to the story we discussed, they'll have us in no time."

Forbes bit his lower lip. "If we've any doubt we'll just
have to go for the truth."

Ducane shook his head. "No, we'll just have to give
the most likely-sounding story ..."

With a sudden rush Reagan burst through the curtain,
gun at the ready, as McClatcher re-entered.

"Well, my friends, have you decided to be sensible?"

Forbes said: "I think I've just persuaded Captain
Ducane to commit treason."

29!


CHAPTER 16


For three hours the questions had been coming hard and
fast. Ducane had no time to relax and scarcely less to think
out his replies. He had been taken to another flag-stoned
cell in the old friary, while Forbes remained in the first.

He had been stripped naked and tied with thick steel
wire to an upright wooden beam that had once held the
roof in place. Winston Loveday had done the interrogating.
He seemed remarkably fit and awake, despite the leg
wound, and sat up in a camp bed whilst Reagan and another
Provo prompted the prisoner every time he paused to think
or tried to slow the pace of the questioning.

Ducane's groin had become one prolonged, throbbing
ache from Reagan's vicious attentions with a gun butt. Raw
patches of cigar burns spotted his torso. The method was
as effective as it was cruel. Working from a prepared sheet,
Loveday ran down the list of questions at a rattling pace,
demanding instantaneous replies and punishing hesitations
with increasing degrees of pain. He darted from one
question to another, then returned, re-questioning and
asking additional related questions. It was clear, almost
from the outset, that there would be no chance to confine
answers to those subjects Ducane had pre-prepared with
Forbes. From the start the questions were probing and
far-reaching, touching areas of military sensitivity. Codes
and code-words; current operations; details of personnel,
safe-houses, observation posts and operational timetables;
levels of penetration and manning; betrayals and informers,
suspects ... names, occupations, ages, weaknesses...

Almost immediately Ducane had been forced into half
truths and distorted replies, trying desperately to remem


292

her what he'd said fifteen minutes previously. A fourth
man stood in the corner with a portable tape-recorder.
Every twenty minutes he would put on a new cassette and
take the old one outside to some other part of the ancient
building.

"'Harrington," Loveday snapped. "What was his rank?"
"I told you five minutes ago ... Aaaagh!"

"Wrong answer, Ducane! Think! Your balls can't take
much more."

"Lieutenant." "'In w?'"
"Artillery.'

"You said seconded to the SAS."

"Well, yes! Oh, Chri-ist!"

"Then say so." A fleeting pause. '"What was the name

of the operation at the farmhouse?"

"Trunk Junction."

"How many men in the operation?"

"Eight SAS. About thirty regulars."

"Tell me the names and duties of the SAS men?"
"Again?"
"AGAIN!"

"Let me have some water."

'Shit! Dammit, man! Ain't you got no STAMINA!"

Reagan punched at Ducane's testicles viciously with his
rifle butt.

As the cry echoed around the tiny cell, there came a
sudden commotion from outside. McClatcher's voice was
heard long before he entered with half-a-dozen of his men.

He stood between Ducane and Loveday's cot, legs
astride and his face distinctly red with anger.

"Ducane, what sort of stupid ass d'you an' your sergeant
take me for!" His eyes blazed as they swung from the
captain to the Negro and back again. "We've been crosschecking
your replies with your sergeant's! Goddammit,
how many names does one soldier have in your outfit? 'Cos
I got five different versions for each one. Timetables would
do credit to your goddamn British railway system! An' these
operation details you gave are a loada bullshit!"


293

Ducane said: "Dave doesn't know as much as I do. He's
bound to get confused. Got things wrong."

McClatcher stepped around until his mouth was within
inches of Ducane's battered face. "Well, you both got
things wrong, Ducane. Very wrong! Now I ain't got time
to fart about and be made a fool of. I'm goin' to give you
a quick, sharp example." He turned to Loveday. "Put some
clothes on this fuckin' lirney and get him outside pronto!"

He spun on his heel and pushed his way through the
small crowd that had gathered.


Five minutes later Ducane, his hands bound tightly
behind his back, was thrust out into the open. After the
dimness of the friary the dull afternoon light was dazzling.
He squinted at the scene around him, fighting the burning
in his eyes.

An early twilight mist was beginning to form on high
ground and across the flat grey expanse of the lough.
Visibility was restricted to barely half-a-mile. Where the
ground sloped away in front of him, towards the water's
edge, the men of McClatcher's private army had gathered
in a large semi-circle around a shallow depression. Behind
them stores and equipment were spread out neatly over
the rough turf. Evidently they were ready to be loaded
aboard large covered trucks, which had been parked under
the copse of spindle trees and covered with camouflage
netting.

Fear formed like a steel barb in Ducane's stomach. It
was as though he suddenly realised the enormity of
McClatcher's intentions and the sheer professionalism
with which his operation was organised. The American's
driving force and vast military know-how would have
little difficulty in turning the PIRA Army Council's
aspirations into numbing reality. But the bustle of activity,
the air of strict discipline, and the array of military
hardware didn't hit Ducane as hard as thesight of forty
uniformed men waiting, patient and grim-faced, for their
next order.

They were ready to move out, to disperse without


294

trace---only to reform later at a succession of predetermined
points throughout Ulster. Ready to embark on
the bloodiest campaign ever mounted against the British
Army in Northern Ireland. And there was no doubt that
the campaign would be thoroughly planned, researched tatnd executed.

As he stood, wearing just boots, trousers and a combat
smock that flapped open in the wind, Ducane realised that
the American would spare nothing to extract the information
he wanted. That knowledge would provide McClat
chef with the final key to unlock the bloodbath. The
ferocity and surprise with which the attacks would undoubtedly
be mounted would leave the security forces
winded and running around like headless chickens. During
the interrogation he had realised the depth and extent of
his own knowledge, and the countless numbers of lives that
would be imperilled before new measures could be introduced.
Within a month an organisation like McClatcher's,
armed with the information he possessed, could be easily
responsible for the deaths of a hundred British soldiers.
Two hundred even. Under the American's professional
leadership, the province would be under attack from
within, by a force the like of which had never before been
available to any terrorist group in the world. The PLO,
the Japanese Red Army and Bader Meinhoff would be like
amateurs in comparison.

The outcry on the mainland at the carnage could be
imagined. Demands for the withdrawal of British troops
would rise to a deafening pitch.

Ducane was jerked forward by his escorts and led
roughly to the high ground, overlooking the depression
and the gathering of Provos. In the middle of the semicircle
Forbes lay sprawled on his back on the tuff, his
hands tied behind him. To one side stood the man called
Reagan, both hands clasping the handle-grip of a chain
saw like a medieval double-handed sword.

His escorts stopped Ducane next to McClatcher, who
was standing on the high ground, patiently observing the
ranks of his men and the prone British soldier. He stood.


295

erect, impervious to the chill of the winter afternoon,
deliberately ignoring Ducane. The men below him waited
for his announcement, the excitement they felt given away
only by the flicker of interest on their faces.

McClatcher waited until Winston Loveday had reached
his side, helped by a stick and a medical orderly.

As he spoke his voice was brisk and clipped. "I don't
need to tell you guys how pleased I am with what you have
achieved today. You were put against the enemy you've
been training to fight. And yer won." He glanced quickly
around at the faces of the young Irishmen. There were
a lot of half-smiles and an underlying sense of achievement
could be seen on their faces. "Casualties were high, but
we were fighting the best and without the benefit of
surprise. An' surprise is what our planning will give us
in the campaign to come. Strike--HARD--then melt away."
He allowed himself a wry grin. "Only to strike minutes
later, a hundred miles away ... The enemy won't know
his ass from his elbow. An' all the time reinforcements
will be trainin' in new secret camps like this one set up
here in Eire, the States and in Libya.

"As soon as night falls you will all disperse. Orders will
be given to you individually when I've finished talking to
you. Unknown to each other you'll be sent to separate
addresses in Ulster, close to other members of the fire
teams we have selected. That is three or four man teams--
best qualified for the tasks you will be set. Targets will
be members Of the British Forces, particularly the SAS,
transport and communications. Some of you will be asked
to form sub-teams of your untrained colleagues in the
North. They will be sent out against known informers.
From our preliminary investigations and research we
already have a list of three hundred names ..."

A ripple of disbelief ran through the gathering. Dueane
was incredulous. Even without his knowledge, McClatcher
had obviously been hard at work with his Special Forces
techniques.

"Our first priority is to re-establish our control of
Armagh. Over the past year it's been heisted from us by


296

the SAS, backed up by regular units adoptin' similar
techniques. This'll open up safe lines of supply to Eire
and, believe me, we're goin' t'have one helluva lot of
supplies for you guys!"

The cheer and catcalls were instantaneous. McClatcher
had carefully worked them to a pitch where they believed
in their own invincibility. As well they might, thought
Ducane bitterly.

McClatcher raised a hand and immediately silence returned
to the ranks of the men. "After the Armagh cleanup,
which---make no mistake--will be damn tough, success
will gather momentum. But the success in Armagh will
be helped one great deal by the information provided by
the men you guys got this mornin', who you now see in
front of you." He glanced sideways at Ducane and smiled,
his white even teeth glistening against his tan.

"But our SAS friends, true to their reputation, are
playin' at being' smart-asses. They've bin givin' us bullshit
mpages of it--all day long! So we're wonderin' whether
we should ask 'em again, nicely, to co-operate, or have
some fun with Sergeant Forbes down there, an' tickle him
a little with the chain-saw ... ?"

Several of the men shouted up angrily. Ducane heard
the words: "Cut the Brit bastard down the middle!" Other
suggestions were hidden in the sudden surge of angry voices
demanding vengeance.

McClatcher turned to Ducane. His voice was very quiet.
"You see, Jacko, this is true democracy at work."

"One day you'll pay dear for this, you sod." Scarcely
audible.

McClatcher's smile remained on his lips, but his eyes
were humourless. "One day, Jacko, but not .today, eh?
Today your friend is goin' to pay dear: A leg first. Then
an arm. On opposite sides of his body. We have medical
people to ensure he'll stay alive ... At" least long enough
for us to remove the other arm and leg if you still refuse
to co-operate." He looked down at Forbes sprawled helplessly
on the ground. "And should you still resist, that
phone-call to the mainland ..."


297

Ducane could scarcely believe his ears. It was never
planned to be like this.

"What makes it all worthwhile, McClatcher? What does
it take to make a man sell his soul?"

McClatcher's smile cracked into a wide grin. "In my
case, man, a million bucks. An' in your case, your buddy's
right leg and the chance to save your wife's pretty little
ass!" The American turned sharply back to his audience.

Dueane heard the sudden urgent shriek of the chain
saw as it whined into life.

His knees felt suddenly weak and the barb in his stomach
twisted, getting bigger and harder. He shook his head,
trying to clear his brain. He must think of something. But
exhaustion and lack of food and sleep dulled his mind like
a drug. None of this should have happened. He'd had
every chance to do things differently.

Even now he could hear Turnbull's voice, clear and
incisive, hack at the hotel. He had made it plain enough
that the odds weren't on, but it had been Ducane himself
who used the regiment's tradition and training to get his
own way. No one else would benefit. Just the satisfaction
of a personal challenge against a man he had disliked
since he'd first met him. And .he knew it wasn't just
McClatcher's callous method of operation in Vietnam and
the atrocities over which he had smugly presided. The fact
that he so obviously attracted Trish had touched some raw
spot. He had quietly hidden the jealousy and anger he felt,
and had buried it deep in his mind in the intervening
years. With the birth of Sarah, a new life had opened up.
He had mellowed and had accepted his wife's physical
needs. He had never suspected her of being unfaithful, but
then he had taken care not to look too hard. But
McClatcher had been at the start of it, and now, in recent
weeks---in fact ever since she had phoned him about the
American's visit--it had been gnawing at the back of his
mind like a cancer.

He said quietly: "Tell me, how much did my wife tell
you.)"
McClatcher jumped at the chance to twist the knife.

z98

"Once Trish has her legs open, she'll tell you anythin' yer
wan118 know."

"An' believe me," it was Loveday's voice in his ear, "we
poked dat little pussy from dusk t' dawn. Yessir, an' she
jest loved it ... Whoweel"

"FOR CmIST'S S^KE[" Forbes' voice yelled as Reagan
dropped the spinning blade until it hovered just above the
left thigh.

McClatcher twisted round. "Reagan. Take his leg off!"
"No!" Forbes cried out involuntarily.
Suddenly his shout was drowned by another noise that
seemed to come from the very bowels of the earth.

Even as the violent shockwave of the debris showered
over them, Ducane found himself reasoning that a blast
of such ferocity couldn't have been caused by grenades
alone. Ammunition must have already been loaded on one
of the covered trucks.

His sideways roll was involuntary as the broadside of
displaced air hit him. At the same time the gathered men
in the depression were also scattered like ninepins, some
stumbling, falling over each other. The few who could
catch their breath screamed with shock and fear.

Amid the flying debris Ducane forced himself to look
around. Whether caught off balance or by sheer reflex
reaction it was impossible to tell, but both McClatcher and
Loveday were lying prone, as turf and scraps of metal flew
all around them. For a moment he had the crazy thought
of leaping on one of them and trying to grab a weapon.
But he held himself in check. Trussed like a chicken, the
chances of success were virtually nil.

Instead he turned his attention to Forbes, who had used
the diversionary explosion to rdll sideways .into a patch
of scrub at the side of the depression. This quick action
had left Reagan momentarily stunned. He was standing
in a dazed half-crouch, gazing in bewilderment at the
charred framework of the burning vehicles. Another series
of dull explosions boomed from inside the wreckage,
sending livid sparks and clouds of smoke into the air.

It took only a fraction of a second for Ducane to weigh


299

up the situation. Although he reasoned that he wasn't
exactly in a position to be of any help to Forbes, he felt
a compelling need to be at his side. Even tied with hands
behind their backs, their chances of survival together must
be better than if they remained separated. Hastily he
struggled onto his knees and pitched himself forward down
the slope. Visions of a grey, smoke-smudged sky spun
before his eyes as he rolled. The force with which he hit
the bottom knocked the breath from his body. The
momentum of the slope kept him moving. He crashed
through the dry scrub until he came to rest a few feet from Forbes' grinning face.

"Nice of you to drop in, Jacko."

Ducane twisted round until he was able to get onto his
knees. "Quick, Dave!" he panted. "Back-m-back. My
ropes have loosened a bit."

Forbes had obviously been given some rough treatment

and it took an age for him to climb onto his knees and
shuffle nearer. The initial pandemonium had subsided, but
now McClatcher's men were still suppressed by an
accurate and vicious hail of machine-gun fire. It came
from somewhere beyond the burning vehicles. Now that
the heavy tyres were ablaze, it was impossible to make
out anything beyond the thick columns of stinking
smoke.

Ducane felt the sergeant's fingers working at the bonds

on his wrists.

"An' what d'hell d'you think you're doin'!" There was

no mistaking the menace in Reagan's voice. Or the shrill
whirr of the chain-saw as the figure approached through
wafts of smoke.

Forbes' fingers plucked feverishly at the ropes, blindly
trying to unravel the puzzle.

Ducane glanced around desperately. If he was hoping

for some salvation, he was disappointed. As the palls of
black fog blotted out the landscape, the only person he '
could see was another of McClatcher's men, in beret and
camouflage jacket, jogging forward to assist Reagan.
Ducane's heart sank.

Reagan lifted the spinning chain-saw above his head
with both hands and ran the last few feet towards the
struggling SAS men.

Ducane thrust backwards, hard, toppling Forbes onto
the ground. He felt the cold displacement of air as the
rotating blade slashed past his cheek. His face hit the turf
with a thud. Again the awful noise. Twisting onto his back,
he looked up. The Irishman suddenly seemed enormous,
towering above him, filling his whole vision. Then a glint
of light as the thrashing blade came down.

For a moment the sudden stammer of fire meant
nothing. It was just part of the background turmoil.
Ducane heard the blade hit the earth, inches from his head,
and watched with stupefied curiosity as Reagan froze, a
look of total surprise on his face. Slowly he began to twist
at the knees, his entire body pivoting and he collapsed over
them. Reagan's glazed eyes stared into his, only inches
away.

Ducanc felt the warm, sticky wemess on his face as he
struggled to free himself from the weight of Reagan's body.
Then it was lifted and the berctcd man, who he had seen
running towards them a few seconds earlier, was crouching
by his side. The sub-machine gun, resting carelessly across
his knee, was still smoking. Even through the thick smudges
of camouflage cream, Ducane could recognisc the boyish
grin.

From the helpless position on his back where he had
been thrown, Forbes scowled. "What the hell kept you,
Perrot?"

Young Tom laughed. "Thought we'd like to see how

y'got yourself outa this-one, Sarge."

"Cheekly little bastard ..."

Turning Ducane over, the soldier ' slid hiS knife easily
through the ropes. As he sat up and worked the circulation
back into his hands, another figure came scrambling
through the smoke behind them.

Corporal John Turnbull seemed so weighed down with
weaponry that it was hard to imagine how his small
frame could have carried it all. His face looked pinched,


3or

white and drawn; more doll-like than ever. Thankfully he
dropped the heavy load of ammunition pouches and spare
grenades.

"Sorry, it took longer than I thought." He smiled
broadly, quickly unstrapping the guns from both shoulders.
"I was planning to get you from the friary. Rather
messed things up when they brought you out here. I had
to think fast. Thank God those lorries were parked there!"
He handed Ducane one of the sub-machine guns.

"For Chrissakes," Forbes said. "When you old women
have finished gossiping, will some bastard undo these fucking
ropes!"

Ducane's hands worked automatically over the Sterling
as he looked out across the depression. The coils of
obnoxious, thick rubber smoke were gradually clearing,
but still clung reluctantly to the contours, despite the
tugging of the breeze. Ducane smiled to himself as the
far side of the depression became visible. Some thirty of
McClatcher's men had thrown themselves on the embankment
to avoid the earlier hail of fire from Turnbull. Now
one or two were feeling braver and more inquisitive. They
peered over the rim of the depression at the skeletons of
the trucks that were now burning fitfully It had not even
occurred to them that the elusive enemy they feared were
now sitting fifty feet behind them, quietly checking an
array of automatic weapons and hand-grenades.

As Ducane's team prepared to assault the men opposite,
McClatcher and Loveday appeared at the top of the slope.
For a fleeting second the faces of the Americans registered
total surprise, immediately recognising that they had been
duped into believing two of Ducane's team had been
killed.

McClatcher's reaction came first. There was a quick
burst of fire, directed straight from the hip. The shower
of lead was returned by Turnbull and Young Tom.
McClatcher dived for cover.

Loveday needed no second warning. Firing a quick, inaccurate
burst he, too, dropped behind the crest.
At the sound of the commotion behind them, some of


302

the FCU men on the opposite bank of the depression
looked round. Expressions of curiosity turned first to utter
shock, then panic... Figures started jumping involuntarily
as Forbes and Ducane opened up, methodically hosing the
opposite bank with automatic fire. As the stream of shells
laced across the confused and stumbling men, hurled
grenades added their own dull, vicious crump to the increasing
rattle of fire. Hot steel fragments sliced across the
embankment, followed by more automatic fire. Additional
bodies fell motionless, some twitching in their death
throes.

It was a massacre, ferocious, quick and bloody. It lasted
scarcely forty-five seconds, but it was enough. The scene,
viewed through the wreathing gunsmoke in the dying
afternoon light, went suddenly quiet and motionless. Like
a macabre painting. Only half a dozen men near the top
of the depression had decided to risk the unknown and
had rushed towards the burning lorries. The others,
fumbling in terror to bring their weapons to bear on the
enemy at their backs, had been consumed by the murderous
outburst of gunfire and grenades.

As the air cleared of the acrid scent of cordite, one of
the figures twitched involuntarily. Forbes' Sterling gave
a quick, harsh cough. The body fell still. The smoke
wafted slowly away. Far out over the lough, a hawk circled,
its presence eerie .and mournful.

Already Ducane was worming his way up the embankment,
sliding expertly over the rough ground. Turnbuil
followed.

They peered over the crest together, only to be greeted
by a splatter of fire from the building some hundred and
fifty yards away. A small group of men .were giving
covering fire to the survivors who wer trying to reach the
protection of the friary stonework. There was no mistaking
Loveday as he limped awkwardly after the running men.
McClatcher was helping him with one hand and waving
furiously with the other. He was atterhpting to get his
bewildered men to form a defensive perimeter. His bawling
seemed to be falling on deaf ears.


3o3

Ducane gestured down to Forbes and Young Tom to
join him.

As they reached his side, he indicated the three jeeps
parked in a neat row, sideways on to the friary. Already
the vehicles had been .stripped of their camouflage in readiness
for the civilian roads. Two were attached to the
generator trailers that had been supplying power to
McClatcher's headquarters.

"Dave, come with me," he snapped. "John, you and
Tom give us covering fire. If anything happens to us, put
those Rovers out of commission ... I don't want any of
those bastards getting off this peninsula."

Turnbull palmed a fresh magazine clip into his Sterling.
"Don't worry, boss, they ain't going nowhere."

"When Dave and I get to the Rovers," Ducane continued,
"give us fifteen seconds, then open up with everything
you've got. Stop when the grenades go off, because
then we're goin' in. Right?"

"Gotcha," returned Turnbull. His eyes flashed in his
darkened face. "Good luck, boss. Keep your head down."
Ducane elbowed Forbes. "Let's move it!"

Two Sterlings crashed into life beside him, the shells
arcing almost lazily through the void between the crest and
the ruin. The returning blink of muzzle flashes was
diffused as brick dust, debris and sparks showered around
the old walls.

Crouching low, Ducane and Forbes sprang towards the
parked Land Rovers. Immediately a vicious haii of shells
ripped at the turf by their feet. But the covering fire from
Turnbull and Young Tom, combined with the curtain of
dust, had deprived McClatcher's men of a clear target.

Ducane dived the last few feet into the shelter of the
first vehicle. Forbes followed, stumbling awkwardly on top
of him. The next volley of opposing fire was closer in,
finding its accuracy. It tore up the ground where the
sergeant would have been, had he not jumped:

His heart pounding after the sudden exertion, Ducane
fumbled in his ammunition-belt pouches. He laid half
a-dozen grenades on the ground. There were two stun


3o4

grenades, two white canister smoke-grenades and two live
green L2 frags.

Half kneeling with his back against the side of the Land
Rover, Forbes poured two two-second bursts into the
empty windows of the friary.

The covering gunfire from the embankment eased while
one of the two SAS men changed over magazines. Someone
in the old building--it was impossible to determine who--
took the opportunity to send a withering return of fire at
Forbes. To the sound of ripping canvas the jeep's soft top
fell apart in shreds. Shells hammered into the far side of
the bodywork. With a sudden, spitting hiss of air the
heavy-duty wheel by Forbes' feet deflated. The vehicle
lurched suddenly, half-poised above him, swaying
threateningly under the impetus of the onslaught.

"Hurry, for Christ's sake!" he yelled at Ducane. "Before
I get this lot on top of me!"

The captain jumped to his feet and hurled the two

stun-grenades, overarm, at the stone window arches.
Nothing, silence.

He tossed two spare grenades across to Forbes. They

nodded to each other and threw.

SSshreeeee.t

In the confines of the small building the effect of the
exploding flash-bangs must have been mind-blowing.
Even with their eyes closed both men could see the
murky outlines of the building through their eyelids, so
dazzling was the sudden flood of light.

Ten seconds the manual recommended. One. Releasing
the fly-off levers, the smoke-grenades were tossed to cause
confusion when McClatcher's men recovered from the
paralysing shock. Two, three. Firing tWO precious bursts
in the direction of the window arches, as they sprinted into the billowing clouds of smoke. Four, five, six. Fighting
against the choking fumes, eyes smarting as they tried to
determine the way in. Aware, vaguely, of Turnbull and
Young Tom rushing in to join the assault.

Seven, eight, nine, ten. Into the smoke-filled room.
Nothing but murky figures in the coiling, white fog.


305

Shouts of panic and spluttering coughs as panting lungs
were burned by the phosphorous smoke. Men falling back
from the windows. The clatter as a weapon fell to the

uneven flagged floor.

Movement.

"Far wall!" Ducane.

"Watch it!" Forbes.

A stutter from the Sterling. The bright wink of muzzle
flashes and the sergeant's gun finds its target. A man drops
in a bloody mess against the far wall.

A sudden rush as three men fall over themselves to get
away from it all, through a door designed for one.

Ducane's barrel lowers and jerks involuntarily as it spits
out one second's worth of low velocity parabellum rounds.
The mass of men collapse.

Now the smoke is clearing:
"Loveday!" Forbes shouts in warning.
Ducane spins round.

"Fuck!" Forbes yelled. Sterling iammed.

The big, black face grinned broadly as the giant hand
closed on the trigger.

Ducane saw death. There was. no way his body could
pivot the final three inches needed to bring his weapon
to bear. Suddenly there was no option but to accept the
sickening thud of exploding lead into frail human flesh.
Suddenly it was pointless to resist, to go on. No contortions
this time; no death defying leaps to safety. No
reprieve.

Loveday's MI6 thundered into action, gobbling up the
magazine. A full clip of cartridges that went on and on.
It filled the small building with its crescendo of noise and
the wail of ricochetting shells spinning round the stone
walls.

Ducane sank to the floor, deafened by the torrent of fire,
his eyes blinded by the powder flashes at pointblank
range.

The noise stopped. He could feel no pain, but knew that
didn't necessarily mean. anything. Immediately he attempted
to pull the Sterling into a firing position. Without

306

difficulty he shifted his leg to release the steel stock.
Although there was a tell-tale rip in his smock, there was
no sign that he'd been hit.

It had taken only a fraction of a second to bring the
weapon to the ready. But even in that time he had
questioned how Loveday had managed to miss him at such
close range.

The answer stared him in the face.

Loveday was staring curiously at him, his eyes wide and
disbelieving. He sat, his legs sprawled, with his back
propped against the far wall. The blast that had disembowelled
him had thrown him there. In the poor light
the spreading pool of blood in which he sat looked like
black varnish. In his hand the Mr6 rifle still smoked.

The miracle of his reprieve hit Ducane like a shockwave.
His intestines seemed to knot and paralyse his nervous
system. It took supreme effort to command his legs to
takes his weight as he climbed to his feet.

All other firing had come to a stop. Soft moans and
coughing drifted through the wreaths of gunsmoke and
phosphorous.

Turnbull got to Loveday first, quickly wrenching the
weapon from-his grip and tossing it aside.

"Thanks, John," Ducane muttered. "I thought I'd had
it."

The corporal grimaced. "Luck. He was the first one I saw."

Loveday spoke, his words sounding breathless. "Yeah,
Jacko, I guess you kin thank yet guardian angel. No one
deserves that kinda luck ..." lie .broke off into a fit of
coughing, lie clutched his stomach in a vain attempt to
stop his guts from oozing through his fingers.

While Forbes and YoungTom moved cautiously around
the building, examining each of the bodiesin turn, Ducane
crouched down by Loveday and examined his wound.
Turnbull remained standing, his Sterling trained on the

Negro and a look of disdain on his face.

"Not too good, eh?" Loveday asked.

Ducane glanced at him. "No worse'n you deserve."


307

The Negro gave a snort of laughter. It hurt. "Same

pious prig you always were."

The captain's iaw stiffened. "Time you learned a little
humility Winston. From the look of this, you've bust. Your
time on this planet's running out."

A look of alarm flickered in Loveday's eyes momentarily,

then he gave a .resigned chuckle. "Open up dem Pearly
Gates "

"Not where you're goin', nigger," Turnbull snarled.
Loveday frowned, as though the thought of what lay
ahead of him had crossed his mind for the first time. A
wave of pain crashed through him and his eyes shut. When
he spoke, the power had left his voice. "Don't hang around
here, Jacko ... Get back to your wife ... before ..."
He winced as another bolt of pain shot through the remains
of his stomach.

Ducane was puzzled. Gently he shook the other's arm.
"Before what?"

Loveday forced his eyes open, but it was difficult to

focus. "McClatcher's raving mad at you ... screwed his

plans ... screwed his chance of a fortune ... Man, he's


"He's dead, Ducane returned coldly, but doubt suddenly
started nagging at him.

The Negro's chuckle broke into a wracking cough. A
trickle of blood escaped his mouth. The stench from the
stomach wound was starting to become nauseous. Finally
he managed to get out his words. "I hope you's right fer
yer wife's sake.., he threatened t'give you a lesson you'd
never ... forget." Agony contorted his face.

At that moment Forbes came into the room from searching
the rest of the building, Young Tom following behind

with both arms cradling a collection of weaponry.

"Hey, boss, McClatcher's not here."

"Shit," Ducane murmured under his breath. He shook
Loveday roughly. "That line you were shooting about a
man in England? Is it true?"

The Negro clenched his teeth. "Christ, man, I durmo

... I can't think straight ... I've got some bellyache."


308

Ducane gripped the man's chin in his fingers and
twisted his head around to face him: "Well, you'd better
start thinkin', black-boy!" he hissed. "Otherwise your last
minutes on earth are goin' to be worse than anythin you'll
meet hereafter!"

More coughing, the pool of black varnish spreading wide
and thick. "I tell you... McClatcher's mad at you... An'
he ain't goin' to risk no Provos t'do the job." He forced
himself to go on. "It's personal now ... I know him ...
He'll crucify you.., one way or another..." A slow smile
grew over his face. "That Pattie is okay ... don't let that
butcher get to her ..."

Turnbull said: "He can't get far, boss. All the transport's
outside."

Ducane stood up slowly. "Good point. Get the Rovers
covered, John."

"Right," he answered, moving towards the entrance.
Forbes said: "It's a long way back to England."
Ducane nodded. "I know, Dave, but he's got friends
here; we haven't. And I can't believe he hasn't got some
escape route planned ... Give this bastard a shot of
morphine ..."

The sudden sound like a whipcrack was hardly discernible.
Muted by the wind outside it sounded as harmless
as a firecracker. But the small gathering of men knew
better.

Instinctively they ducked below the level of the stone
window sills as the air hummed with ricochetting shells.
Turnbull, who had been approaching the doorway, on his
way to check the Land Rovers, was tossed contemptuously
backwards by an unseen force.

Ducane scrambled across the flagstones towards him.
Outside the urgent noise of a vehicle being gunned into
life smothered the sound of fire.

Forbes leapt over Turnbull's body and flew at the doorway.
His Sterling crashed violently into action.

"McClatcher's making a break!" he yelled. The firing
ceased abruptly as the magazine emptied.

Young Tom joined him at the entrance. Two of the Land


3o9

Rovers lay at crazy angles, the tyres ripped to shreds. Their
bodywork was distorted with bullet-holes like frenzied,
blackened teethmarks. The third vehicle was disappearing
fast over a rise that led to the main road.

"Quick, Dave!" Ducane yelled. "Give me a hand, John's
copped it."

Forbes spun round. There was a look of horror and
amazement on his face. He had the idea that Turnbull had
thrown himself to the ground to escape the stream of
automatic fire. The thought that the indestructible 'Action
Man' had been hit, had simply never occurred to him.

"Keep guard, Tom," he said hoarsely and stepped back
inside the ruin.

Ducane was cradling Turnbull's shoulders in his arms,
looking down at the shattered skull that was almost beyond
recognition. Forbes crouched over him in disbelief. The
high-velocity round had hit him directly in the left eye,
gouging out a hole the size of a fist. The bullet had exited
somewhere behind the ear, causing the entire cranium to
fracture as though hit by an axe, so that the whole left

side of his face had collapsed into an ugly pulp.

"He's still alive?" Forbes whispered.

Ducane nodded. "Get some morphine, quick, Dave. Fill

him up with it."

"'That you ... ooss. The words, breathed more than
spoken, seemed to emanate from deep inside the emaciated
flesh. He opened an unseeing right eye, but it swivelled
uncontrollably in its socket.

"Okay, John," Ducane said softly. "Dave's getting you

a quick shot. Ease the pain, eh?'

""Should have seen it ... coming.'" Ducane gritted his
teeth. Ever the perfectionist. The super-professional even

now.

"You couldn't have known, John." Ducane looked down

at the strange, monstrous thing in his arms. It wasn't
Corporal John Turnbull. He was just going through the
reflex words of comfort and consolation.

"'I can't ... see." The whispered words sounded frothy

now. "It's bad, isn't it?'"


3I�

Forbes unscrewed the cap of the 3omgs Min-i-jet
syringe. He burst the diaphragm with the pin, squeezed the
tube to expel the air, and then emptied the contents rapidly
into Turnbull.

"It looks worse'n it is, old lad," Dueane lied. He was
surprised how easy it was.

After a few minutes the effect hit the corporal; his body
relaxed and his shattered head lolled against Ducane's
chest. Slowly Ducane laid him on the flagstones using a
makeshift pillow. Wearily he climbed to his feet and wiped
the mess from his smock.

He exchanged glances with Forbes and shook his head.
When he spoke, Forbes' voice was thick with emotion.
"I can't imagine John as a blind cripple ... disfigured like
that."

Ducane looked down again at the man who had saved
his own life on a'number of occasions. However much that
analytical mind had found fault with Ducane's plans, he
had never shirked his responsibilities. And, regardless of
personal risk, had made sure that he was always seen to
act to the highest professional standards. If he couldn't
beat the army system by rank, he had made sure that
he had never been the weak link in the chain in any
scheme that went wrong. Cool and critical, he had always
won the personal battle with his own conscience. Until

now.

Suddenly Ducane made a decision. "Dave," he said
quietly. "We've got some more morphine tubes. I'm going
to give him another 3omgs."

Forbes nodded soberly. "Old Johnny would have come
to that conclusion three minutes ago... He wouldn't want
to be a cabbage ..."

"Shut up, Dave," Ducane snapped, uddenly angry. He
didn't want to talk about his decision. The time of
analysis and discussion was past. "See if you can do something
for that bastard Loveday. And make it quick, we've a lot to do."

They buried Corporal John Turnbull on the rise overlooking
the lough.

He had been stripped of all identifying clothing and
papers, and the grave was left unmarked. It was that which
hurt the remnants of Ducane's Sabre team most. Although
Turnbull had been an intensely private man, he was above
all a man who valued the pride and traditions of the young
regiment. Perhaps he even took them too seriously,
depriving himself of friends by setting standards that no
one else could maintain. But then, Ducane reasoned, because
of that he would have anticipated and understood
the unmarked grave. In a regiment that maintained anonymity
in action, so anonymity in death was only to be
expected. And accepted.

Without the facilities for a blood transfusion, there had
been little they could do for Loveday. He had died only
minutes after the SAS corporal. In his last moments he
had made a determined attempt to shake Ducane by the
hand. A last, desperate plea for clemency? A gesture of
friendship or repentance to carry him through the valley
ofdeath? It was rejected.

As darkness crept fast over the forlorn landscape, the
three men had put all the usable tyres onto one of the Land
Rovers and had plugged the holes in the fuel tank and
radiator.

While Forbes drove out across the peninsula to recover
the equipment they had left at their various temporary
RVs, Ducane and Young Tom sifted through the crates
of documents and equipment that had been stored in the
friary ready for loading.

Although they had no time tO study the piles of typewritten
material they found, a cursory glance was enough
to confirm that McClatcher had made plans--sometimes
in draft, sometimes in detail--for a full campaign operation
in the months ahead. Lists of recruits and of targets,
death lists and novel ways of disrupting Ulster were found
within the cardboard folders. Many were only in carbon
copy form, directed to the PIRA Army Council, indicating
that they had already been dispatched. Others comprised


312

carbons and top copies. No doubt they were to be offered
one by one in return for increased fees as the operations
progressed satisfactorily.

Hastily the most important papers were locked in a
couple of suitcases that had contained the personal effects
of two members of McClatcber's private army. Ducane
knew that they would be a God-send to the Int. boys. No
doubt all or some of them would gradually be filtered back
to the PIRA, many suitably doctored or amended, serving
as iokers in the pack as the Int. boys played their deadly
game of bluff and counter-bluff.

There was no-time to do anything about the bodies,
including the corpses of the two machine-gunners who had
been decapitated by Tom Perrot's carefully-placed grenades.
No one would ever know how successful the ruse
had been now they had served their purpose. Ducane had
guessed correctly that only once McClatcher thought all
the SAS team had been eliminated, would he feel safe to
recall his men. Only then the overwhelming enemy force
would be together in one place. Vulnerable. It had been
the only way.

A can of red paint had been found, and Ducane had
ordered Forbes to scrawl qowmn is sin FROM trOF
AVENGERS. KNOW IT! on the inner wall of the friary. This,
together with a few other pieces of evidence, would direct
investigations neatly towards the outlawed Protestant
Ulster Defence Force in Northern Ireland, an outfit the
SAS were happy to keep the pressure on anyway.

All the remaining American electronic equipment was
put in one cell of the friary while Forbes set a PE 8o8
charge.

"That's about it, Jacko," the sergeant He
sniffed at the smell of the plastic explosive wigh

It was approaching dawn before Ducane took afll look
around the ruins. As far as they could tell no in
evidence remained. If there was anything, it was too bad.
He had been pushing the nagging fear for Trish to the
back of his mind. But now it kept forcing itself to the
forefront of his imagination.


33

Forbes seemed to read his mind. "McClatcher's going
to be too concerned about his own hide to wage a vendetta
on you, Jacko. I'm quite sure Trish is safe. McClatcher'll
be on the first plane to New York."

Ducane nodded. "I agree with you, Dave, but Loveday
seemed adamant."

"'Just trying to give you a final kick in the crutch before
he pegged out. That's all."

The captain smiled, uncertainly. "It hurt."

Forbes put a hand to his shoulder. "Well, we're ready
to clear out now; so we can both put our minds at rest."
He grinned. "I'm pretty fond of your o1' lady too, you
know."

Ducane laughed with a strained humour. "I get the
distinct feeling my missus is too popular for her own good,
Dave."

"Most guys fall instantly in love with her," the sergeant
said quickly. "I guess that's a pr.etty precious gift. But from
your point of view it must be hard to take sometimes."

Ducane bit his lip. "I wouldn't trade her.., you know."
He turned as Young Tom approached. Absently he added:
"We'll head for Shannon Airport and grab the first
available flight."

Tom said: "I've topped up the tank, so that's no
problem. It's around an eighty mile drive."

"On these roads," Ducane said, "it'll take a good two
hours. And I don't know how late there'll be flights to
London." He pointed at the two suitcases ready to be
loaded. "I don't want to risk taking this material through
Customs. So we'll go to Shannon then, Tom, you can go
on alone to the British Embassy in Dublin. It'll be a long
haul and, frankly, I doubt if you'll get there before midday. Insist only on speaking to the Military Attache."

Young Tom was enthusiastic. 'I'll get there, boss, in
no time."

Ducane nodded. "That means getting there in onepiece, Tom. Right, now let's get going."

Putting the luggage aboard, the three men set off into
the darkness towards the main road. Five minutes later

314


a glow lit the sky briefly as the time-fuse ignited the
plastic explosive packed around the electronic equipment
and other incriminating evidence.

The men exchanged silent glances. Young Tom smiled
to himself as it dawned on him that he'd just completed
his first deep penetration mission. Forbes knew how he was
feeling, but with the death of Turnbull weighing heavily
on his mind, he found it difficult to share the youngster's
satisfaction. Instead he shrugged matter-of-factly and
settled down to study the road ahead.

Ducane, his face set in an expressionless mask, swung
the Land Rover onto the main road to Shannon.

EPILOGUE


Martin McGuiness replaced the receiver and turned, grim
faced, towards the handful of PIRA Army Council
members who had been hastily called to the Christmas
Eve meeting in Cork. Although they didn't know the
details, the young Irishman's expression left them in no
doubt as to the magnitude of the disaster.

McGuiness stared down at his feet, as he tried to control

the emotions of anger and frustration that threatened to
choke him.

"For God's sake spit it out, Martin," snapped Gerry
Adams, the twenty-eight year old barman, who had
recently been promoted from a Belfast commander to the

PIRA General Headquarters Staff. He had made his
support of McClatcher's methods loudly known. His gaunt
features looked macabre in the poorly lit room, the light
glinting on the wide lenses of his spectacles to give him
a blank, owl-like expression.

McGuiness cleared his throat. "That was a message
from McClatcher."

"He's alive then," said Chief of Staff Seamus Twomey
brightly. It was the first optimistic news snippet he had
heard since the rumours had begun spreading.

"Be quiet," Billy McKee ordered softly. "Let him
finish."

All eyes watched as McGuiness resumed his seat

and clasped his hands carefully on the table in front of
him.

"Yes," he said quietly, "McClatcher's alive. Together
with about fifteen others. But they've scattered and some
of them are badly cut up."

"Fifteen?" Gerry Adams gasped incredulously.


3x6

"Holy Mother!" Seamus Twomey muttered as the facts
sunk in.

For once Billy McKee overlooked the profanity. It was
more than understandable.

"It was a Brit hit-squad apparently, despite the fact that
they've daubed UDF slogans everywhere."

"So McClatcher Wasn't so damned smart," Twomey
said flatly.

"For God's sake ...!" McGuiness snapped. Exasperated.

"All right, Martin," McKee said, "try and keep calm.
We've had worse setbacks. Where is he now?"

"England, I gather," McGuiness replied evenly. "He's
had a get-away route planned from the start--several, in
fact. He took a private aircraft to England. He's got
friends and can lose himself there completely--and no
connection with our cells. It was safest."

"The least he could do, would be to have reported to
us first," muttered Twomey.

McGuiness shook his head. "I agreed with him that
England was best. If anyone was looking for him, it would
be at Shannon and airports on the East Coast of the
States.'" He smiled gently. "Besides, he said he had something
to do that the SAS hitysquad wouldn't forget."
"What do you mean?" Adams. demanded.

"He wasn't specific," McGuiness-lied. "But I trust his
iudgement."

A murmur of approval went aroundtl ruble. Most of
them,.the young Irishman .mused,--wold !my� considered
any move ethical in order to slak� thirst for vengeance. Only McKee's steadyin lpt
group from baying for blood like-starved

Seamus Twomey shook his head slowly,

ing grotesquely large and moist behind his s
"I just don't believe it. Some forty-five of our
slaughtered like pigs. Thousands of pounds of eq
lost ... and all for what! ......

At the far end of the table Gerry Adams slappcda
document down noisily on the beige cloth. "It was the.


317

price to be paid for this!" he said angrily, his voice thick
with emotion. "And it was the price we had to pay to
rccognisc our own stupidity. Even when we hired
McClatcher, most of you didn't want to know. We needed
a bloody Yank to show us how to beat the Brits."

Roughly he opened the document in front of him. "But
have you even begun to read this, any of you?" he
challenged, his Ulster accent deepening with his anger.

"The ideas arc impractical," McKee began. "Blowing
up the members of the Royal Family, MPs, hitting targets
in Europe, co-operating with international terrorist
organisations, it will get us no sympathy. Like the Birmingham
pub bombings it'll get us no support from across the
water."

"Fuck their support[" Adams snarled, ignoring
McKee's obvious displeasure. "We'll blast the buggers
into submissionMand McClatcher knows how to do
it."

"So what do you suggest?" McKee demanded. His
patience was wearing thin.

Adams closed his eyes in disbelief. "Do what McClat
chef says," he hissed. "A tight-knit cell formation. No
more than four or five men per unit, and no one cell knows
the other."

"But our popular support?" Twomey interjected.
"What about our traditional power base in the Catholic
community?"

"And what fucken support are you goin' to get at this
rate? All our supporters'll be dead or interned ... Well,
they won't because they'll revolt first. Already there's talk
of splinter groups ...'

"Not that Irish National Liberation Army rubbish ..."
"Rubbish?" Adams demanded incredulously, as though
his hearing had failed. "Is that what you think?" He
shook his head in slow exasperation. "Are you really that in touch ... ? Do you really keep your ear to the ground?
God Almighty, haven't you heard the jokes about the
Army Council going the rounds .. ,"

"There's always dissension amongst the ranks," mut


318

tered Twomey. "'Always has been. The lads always think
they could do better."

"Have you ever thought they may be right?" Adams
replied angrily. "A bunch of fucken monkeys could do
better. And, as far as I'm concerned, this business with
McClatcher's the final shame. Our younger leaders are sick
to death of working for this Mickey Mouse organisation.
If the INLA comes to nothin', then it'll be another
offshoot ... unless the Army Council can pull its fucken
socks up. You're a bunch of o1' men fightin' for a lost

cause ...

"Watch your tongue!" McKee hissed pure venom.
McGuiness smiled quietly to himself. He had been right
about Adams. His controlled anger, reasoned logic and
natural flair for oratory marked him out as a future leader.
He shared his own convictions about the futility of their
current tactics, and acceptance that they were a spent and
shattered force. The difference between them was that
Gerry Adams would come out into the open and say so.
He was fearless of reprisals, perhaps certain that the Army
Council must know in its heart and head that what he said
was right.

It would take a while yet, but, eventually, McGuiness
was sure, Gerry Adams would control the Army Council.
Whilst he controlled the real power, theFCU.

Tension evaporated around the-tbl� s Gerry Adams moderated his voice. "I'm sure that,we mut restructure
on the lines that McClatcher sugges.. .We must also
recognise that we are losing our , many younger
members. Indeed, the very objeetiv yonn-er


"By feeding them with your Commuait

a Socialist Ulster?" Twomey provoked.

"It appeals to a lot of our younger fighter

see true social justice," Adams replied clmly.

also a concept that many young Proddies syml,

"You cannot divorce politics from the military
Socialism puts fire in the bellies of the kids, our
source of recruitment nowadays. They hate capitalism


39

much as you hate imperialism. And it joins us in a common
bond with every freedom fighter in the world today. We
have powerful allies willing to give us everything we


"That means we'll get all the money and equipment we

so desperately need, and the biggest fucken propaganda
and disinformation organisation in the world behind our
cause. The new political platform will renew our power
base with deprived young Irishmen everywhere--an' allow
us to forge useful links with sister organisations in Europe
and the Middle East. With a renewed socialist political
concept and McClatcher's military plan, we have an unbeatable
combination!"

Gerry Adams' words hung in the air. The silent room
seemed charged with static electricity. All eyes turned to
Billy McKee.

He looked drawn and tired. Like a man who knew he

had lost a fight against a terminal disease. To him it seemed
that the old cause had somehow lost its direction over the
years. Values had changed. Ideals too. And he knew in
his heart that everything Adams had said was true. The
Provisional Irish Republican Army was slipping into the
hands of the Communists from its bruised young roots up
to the very top branches. Nothing he or his old and
trusted colleagues could do would be able to change the
inevitable course of history.

When he spoke his voice was hoarse. He didn't look up

as he addressed himself to McGuiness. "Martin, do you
feel you are in a position to recommend a course of action
to the Council?"

The answer was crisp. "Yes, sir, I do."

"Then proceed with your recommendation."

Martin McGuiness looked at the faces around the table
before beginning. "I recommend that we reconvene in
about four weeks time. By then Mr Adams and I will have
been able to consult more fully with Colonel McClatcher.
Subject to those consultations, we shall commence the reestablishment
of the Forward Combat Unit under my
overall control, and put a new team into training. They


32o

should then be deployed in the way recommended in
McClatcher's reports to us."

"How long will all this take?" McKee asked.

McGuiness frowned. "A year. To do it thoroughly.
Maybe a little longer."

"We've got McClatcher's reports," Seamus Twomey
said. "Couldn't all this be done without the man?"

"I would say, it's possible. But it would be much more
difficult and would take much longer. And I doubt if it
would ever be so effective without his expertise."

Billy McKee grunted. "So we will have to renew his
contract?"

"I would say it is absolutely vital if we are to be
certain of success."


By the time the 737 ofAer Lingus Flight Ex x44 touched
down at Heathrow a tense, brooding silence had developed
between the two men. They had exhausted all the possibilities
of locating Malone and disarming him. The chances
were that he would be waiting on a corner or, because of
the declining weather, in a parked car. If his whereabouts
were not immediately obvious, they would rush to the
house. They would keep Trish and Sarah there until the
police could be alerted to seal off the area and conduct
a house-to-house search to establish that the place was no
longer under surveillance.

Neither had wanted to call i th� laolice and risk a
shoot-out. There should be no-. the gunman
could get to the house and hold Tlfih or Sarah

hostage. Working together, they reasold flF had a better


The afternoon traffic was heavy on;ti
London down the M4, and came to a
still as the taxi worked its way down
smith towards Fulham. The pavements were crowcllth
late Christmas shoppers, heads bowed against tllltt
north-easterly wind. Neither SAS man had realiltlt
it was actually 24th December.


32I

Ducane pulled across the glass partition to speak to the
driver. "Next one on the left."

"Okay, guy," the East Ender replied, slowing down.
"Hey, looks like there's bin a motor shunt. 'Lot of coppers
and rubbernecks on the corner."

Ducane and Forbes exchanged glances. The captain
leaned forward for a better view of the crowd on the pave

	As the taxi slowed, a white-helmeted police motor

ment.

cyclist approached them.

The cabbie wound down his window. "What's up,
mate?"

"Sorry, sir, this road's sealed off. 'Fraid there's been

a shooting." He peered into the back. "'Your passengers

live in this street?"

Ducane and Forbes were already on their feet.

"What house number, officer.)" Ducane demanded.
"Number Three?"

The policeman looked alarmed. "'You got relatives
there?"

"I live there," Ducane replied impatiently. "Has anyone
been hurt?"

The policeman was still suspicious. Years of experience
had taught him to recognise men of violence at fifty paces.
"I don't know exactly, sir. You'd best come with me and
talk to the Super."
Stunned by the sudden turn of events, the cabbie sat
gaping after the three men, forgetting to ask for the fare.

Half a dozen uniformed constables stood at the end of

the street, surrounded by an inquisitive group of neighbours
and passers-by. Outside Number Three the driver
of the parked ambulance stood.talking to a gathering of
plain clothes detectives.

"'Scuse me, sir, these gentlemen live here."

The tallest of the detectives, a florid-faced man with a
shock of thick white hair and penetrating grey eyes, looked
round.

"My name's Jack Ducane. Captain in the British Army.
Can you tell me what's happened.)"

"Detective Superintendent Miles," the policeman intro322


duced himself. His eyes narrowed. "Where were you last
night?"

"I've just flown in from Ireland with my colleague,
Sergeant Dave Forbes." His patience was running out. A
feeling of nausea was twisting in his gut. "Now what
the bell's happened? Are my wife and daughter all
right?"

From the expression on his face, it was evident that
Superintendent Miles had just eliminated the two men
from his immediate list of suspects. "Your little girl is fine,
Captain Ducane. But ..." he paused, always hating this
moment.

Ducane and Forbes knew what was coming next. "I'm afraid'your wife, Mrs Patricia Ducane, is dead."
Again a slight pause. "It appears that she's been
murdered."

The knotted fist in Ducane's stomach twisted a few more
turns. A sickening numbness crawled inside him, like a
paralysis.
His voice sounded strangely disembodied, as though
someone else was speaking the badly-scripted words. "I must see her."

"I don't think that's wise, sir ..." he began. Then he
saw the look in Ducane's eyes. "Of course, if you insist
... Come with me."

As they turned, Forbes asked hoarsely: "'When did it
happen?" '

Probably no more than twenty minutelaso,now," Miles
replied. "'Ncighbours heard gunsho I'Jteanty been here
myself less than ten minutes." ...... ,

Together they walked down the :.ar. ds. the
solemn mumble of voices coming from .
it was no longer the same building they or
so many years. The corridor was narrow
endless. In the eerie glow from a feeble 40
seemed sinister and claustrophobic.

Ducane was close behind Miles. "Have you got themaa
who did it?

Miles mounted the stairs. "No, sir, we must have juat.

323


missed the killer. My men are questioning anyone who
might have seen someone acting suspiciously. I'm sure he
won't get far."

He pushed open the bedroom door. The bright blink
of flashlights blinded him. The dark-suited men gathered
around the bed stopped their conversation abruptly. Bland
faces turned in the direction of the newcomers.

Miles coughed delicately. "Gentlemen, this is the lady's
husband. He'd like to see her. We'll only be a minute."

A young detective stepped forward. "Sir, do you think
it's..."

"Just a minute, Pearson." Insistent.

In silence the group of men stepped back from the bed.
Ducane swallowed hard. Trish's body lay spread in supplication
on the white bedspread, her dressing-gown thrown
open in frozen abandon to reveal her pale, naked body.
The thick mane of curls splayed on the pillow seemed
unnaturally bright.

Her eyes were open, looking glazed and questioning. Her
lips were parted in a cry. A cry she probably never made,
because the wire garrotte had embedded itself deepin the
flesh around her throat and vocal chords. A thin trickle
of blood had run down onto the bedclothes, where it had
congealed in a small pool.

"Jesus," breathed Forbes.

Ducane bit his lip and nodded. Enough. Miles looked
across at his men and indicated with his hand. They
gathered round the bed again to continue their work.

"For God's sake, do they have to stand around gawking?"

"Sorry, Captain, they've got a job to do. They don't
like it any more than you do." A sincere smile.

"Then cover her up. She's still my wife." And my God
I still love her, he added fiercely under his breath.

His heart had begun to thud painfully and he felt faint.
He breathed deeply and tried to put the mental picture
of the last time they'd been together out of his mind.

He steadied himself on the door. "Was she ... was she
assaulted ... you know .. ?"

324


"Sexually? No, sir, it doesn't seem so."

"And Sarah. What about Sarah.>"

"Your daughter.> She didn't see anything. She was in
her room." He nodded in the direction of the other door.
"There's a WPC with her now, just until we found a
neighbour. Or until we could locate you."

"Thank God she's okay. 'You sure she didn't see anything?"

Miles smiled. "No, your daughter saw nothing. She's
confused and knows something's wrong, of course. I'm
afraid it's your decision what to tell her."

Ducane shook his head. "Tell her that a fuckin' demented
Mick strangled her mother because of her Dad's
job? Christ, some decision!"

Miles' eyes narrowed. "You have an idea who did this?
Something to do with your work?"

Forbes proffered a cigarette. Ducane took it thankfully.
His hands were trembling as he lit it.

He said: "Yes, Superintendent, there's an Irish dimension
to this. It's a reprisal killing. The sergeant and I have

been on special duties."

"Oh, I see ..."

"The man you want is an Irishman called Malone.
About five-seven and ten stone. He's got black hair and
thick eyebrows. 'Meet in the middle."

Miles' eyes flashed. "That's more like it..." He turned
to call one of his men.

Ducane restrained the detective. "Before you launch a
full-scale manhunt, you'd better contact Special Branch
and get them to call my regiment in Herefot-d." He paused.
"It may be stating the obvious, but Malone.i very danger	ous."

	,.

	"I'll do that, Captain."

	"Now I'd like to see Sarah."

Forbes put a hand on his shoulder, "'Want m

with you, mate?"

Ducane nodded.

The WPC was embarrassed. She couldn't have
more than nineteen. She obviously didn't know wtmt to .

325

say to either of the men or to Sarah, who looked

frightened and bewildered.

"Daddy! Daddy!"

"Hello, sugar." He scooped her up in his arms.
'"Vhat's the matter, daddy?" She pouted.
"Nothing sweetheart."

"You're crying. Your eyes are wet."

Quickly Forbes stepped forward and tousled her hair.

"How's my little girlfriend, then?"

The TPC looked on, ill at ease.

Despite Forbes' grin, Sarah knew something was wrong.
She frowned. "Where's mummy?"

The smile fell from Forbes' face.

Ducane said hoarsely: "Mummy's had an accident.
She's going away for a while." He looked at Forbes as
though to ask if he was saying the right thing. The big
man shrugged helplessly.

"For long?" Sarah asked.

He bit his lip. "Yes, darling, for a long time."

The grPC stepped forward. Her eyes were wide, bright
and moist, he noticed. It wasn't easy for her.

"Look, sir, do you have a neighbour or relative we can
take Sarah to for tonight?" She hesitated. "You might find
it easier on your own. I mean, to sort things out."

Ducane forced a smile. He looked down at Sarah,

"How'd you like to stay with Auntie Rena, sweetheart?"
Sarah's eyes lit up. "Now? Will mummy come?"
Ducane nearly choked.

"Later, baby, later," Forbes said quickly. "Okay?"

Sarah nodded vigorously.

"You'll find Rena's number on the list by the telephone
downstairs. It's Chiswick."

The WPC smiled sheepishly and took Sarah gently from
him.

Ducane said: "The sooner you get her out of here the
better. And break it to Rena gently. Just say an accident.
I'll contact her later today."

The door closed leaving the two men together.

Forbes moved over to the window and lifted the net

326

curtain. There was not much daylight left, but enough to

see the rows of tiny, pocket handkerchief gardens backing

onto one another, and the houses opposite. There were

some lights on already.

Apart from one old boy tending his winter cabbages,

there was no one about. It was bleak and bare, the patch
work
of worn grass and vegetable plots unbroken except

for the shed at the bottom of the garden opposite. The

door swung gently in the wind. Immediately below,

two uniformed policemen talked together in Ducane's

garden.

At last Forbes spoke. "I'm sorry, Jacko. I loved her too,

y'know."

Ducane lit another cigarette. "I know, Dave. She's ...

she was ..." His voice cracked.

"Fantastic?"

Ducane nodded. "I just can't ... can't believe it."

The sergeant rubbed his nose roughly on his sleeve.

Suddenly the door opened. It was Miles.

"I'm sorry to disturb you both." His voice was excited.

"My officers have just found someone. Upstairs in the attic

room. He's been shot. If it's not that man Malone, there's

the damnedest likeness to-your dg:ription."

Ducane and Forbes exchanged puzzled glances.

As they started to the door, Ducane asitcd, "Has some
one
contacted Hereford?" '

"Yes," Miles replied, leading the waup to the second

floor, "they're sending someone ,am.t/ chopper to

Battersea Heliport. A Major Harper." :

"Good o1' boyo," Forbes said, phmmal to hear some

good news.
	' =

Miles opened the door of the spare --that led

to the attic cupboard under the eaves. "

Malone was lying on the floor, propped upaiamt the

foot of the bed. An ambulance re-ankn�ltllr

preparing a morphine iab, helped by a

constable.
	:

The Irishman didn't look too well. In fact Duca Forbes had seen enough dying men to know that

327

could be measured in minutes. There were two holes in
his chest the size of a fist.

Miles said quietly: "He can't be moved. The medics are
going to bring up equipment, but it's. a lost cause, I'm
afraid. The question is who shot him?"

Forbes said: "Not Trish, that's for sure."

"Someone strong enough to drag him up here and stuff
him in the cupboard," Miles said.

"But not Trish's body?" Forbes turned to Ducane
apologetically. "Sorry, Jacko."

The captain ignored him. "Perhaps he was interrupted
..."

Miles said: "He's been trying to tell me something, but
I can't make head nor tail of it. I thought you might understand
as you know what this is about."

"The medic?" Forbes asked.

Miles shook his head. 'He doesn't mind. He knows
there's nothing we can do. He should be dead now by
rights."

Ducane and Forbes knelt down beside him.
"Malone?" The captain's voice was sharp.

Slowly, painfully slowly against the light, the Irishman
cranked open one eye. He was having difficulty in focusing.

"'That you, Ducane?" His words were little more than
heavy breathing.

"Yes, it's me. What's been going on?"

"Your wife." He tried to speak louder, but it just caused
a burbling sound in his chest. "You know ... about your
wife?"

"I lda0Wo"

"I'm sorry ... God, believe me ... I'm sorry."
Ducane frowned. "What the hell d'you mean?"

"I did my best, mate ... My best ... But McClatcher
is good." He coughed suddenly, a trickle of blood escaping

from the corner of his mouth.

"McClatcher?"

Malone nodded. "He killed her ... your wife. I reckon
I was goin' to be next ... Witness ... Anyone who knew
him ... and ... revenge ... God, he hates you ..."

Ducane was stunned. Forbes shook his head in disbelief.
Malone's voice was fading. "I tried to ... to stop


"Why should you?" Forbes was puzzled.

The Irishman's lips twisted into a wry smile. "I reasoned
my cover had to stop ... somewhere. I already had to kill
Harrington ..."

"You did?" Forbes couldn't grasp what was being said.
"... That was bad enough ... I couldn't do anything
else ... he was talking ... Blown everything for
nothing . .."

"Blown what?" Ducane demanded.

But Malone didn't seem to hear. "I had to watch what
they did ... to that McGuire girl .,. Innocent ... just a
child ... So I couldn't let your wife,die ... I was so
surprised when McClatc.hex turned up... A private plane
from Shannon. :." .

"And we assumed he'd. to...America," Ducane
recalled, angry at hLS,. ,arapidit]

"He guessed wcd.:. New.York
by the time he arrived,


ously; it was only ,, . 	.you

that McClatcher got

No answer.

"Tell reel" Duca

you're saying

Suddenly Malone's

said: "Christopher Robin."

His body stiffened and

the ambulance man. His

Ducane and Forbes Iookedat

to their feet.

The Superintendent seemed

make any sense to you?"

Ducane said slowly, "I find it

just mentioned Christopher Robin."

Miles looked blank.

Forbes said: "It's the codename for

329

who'd supposedly infiltrated the Provos at the top."

Ducane looked down at the dead man. "Looks like he
succeeded."

"And tried to save your wife," Miles murmured. He
sniffed heavily. Life was getting too complex. "Let's get
downstairs and see what we can sort out."

Ducane followed the detective through the door. Forbes
glanced down at the ambulance man as he prepared a
stretcher. He started to follow the others, then stopped.

Slowly he walked across to the window and peered down
at the back gardens. The light was fading fast now under
the leaden sky, but he could still see the outline of the fences
and the garden shed opposite.

He reasoned that McClatcher had been interrupted after
the sound of gunfire had caused an inquisitive neighbour
to raise the alarm. And the police had called before the
American could dispose of Trish's body. Panic. Controlled
perhaps, but panic nevertheless.

Forbes' eyes narrowed. Out of the back door into the
garden. Overlooked on all sides. No cover and an old boy
pottering.

In the garden opposite, the shed door still hung open.

Slowly Forbes' hand reached down to his ankle. His

fingers closed firmly around the haft of the fighting knife.
This he would do alone. For Trish.

Night would soon bring the cover that McClatcher was
waiting for. But he would never see daylight aga.

330