The official estimate, by default, was that the target of the two terrorists was either one of the USAF bases or the royal residence at Sandringham, where the Queen was now staying-as she did every Christmas. No one could quite envisage how the security net surrounding these establishments was supposed to be penetrated, but the worst had been assumed concerning the weaponry that the two were carrying. Neither chemical nor biological weapons had been ruled out. Nor, indeed, had a so-called “dirty” bomb, although the remains of the bungalow had shown no signs of radioactive material.
In his keenness to get the county’s two Squirrel helicopters launched and over the search area, Whitten had explained to Dunstan, he had sent them up without their thermal imaging activated. The helicopters had been scrambled from Norwich, but of the supposedly available system operators one was on compassionate leave and the other had broken his ankle in the course of a motivational weekend. So the Squirrels had gone up two-handed, with a pilot and a Night-Sun searchlight operator each. Visibility had been atrocious due to the rain, but the search area had been thoroughly covered with the help of the spotlights, and Whitten was confident that D’Aubigny and Mansoor were still confined to the seventy-mile square whose northern boundary was Brancaster Bay and whose western boundary was the Wash.
Liz was not so sure. Apart from their predilection for murder, the two hadn’t done too badly so far when it came to concealing themselves and moving across hostile terrain. The D’Aubigny woman clearly knew the lie of the land.
What was her connection with the area? Liz asked herself for the hundredth time. Why had she been chosen? Was it just because she was British, or did she have some specialised local knowledge? Investigations were checking every one of her known contacts, but the parents’ silence was desperately unhelpful. Couldn’t they see that there was only one chance of saving their daughter, and that was to catch her before it came to the final reckoning? Before it came to the killing time?
From the other side of the room she saw Don Whitten pointing in her direction. A neatly dressed young man in a green Barbour coat was walking towards the trestle table on which she had her own laptop set up. “Excuse me,” he said. “I’m told you can help me find Bruno Mackay.”
“And you are?”
He held out his hand. “Jamie Kersley, Captain, 22 SAS.”
She shook the proffered hand. “He’s due any time.”
“Are you from the Firm too?”
“I’m afraid not.”
He grinned warily. “Box, then?”
Short for Box 500, one of the Service’s former postal addresses, this was one of MI5’s many sobriquets. Traditionally, as Liz was keenly aware, the Army had always had a rather warmer relationship with MI6. As politely as she could, she ignored the question.
“Why don’t you take a seat, Captain Kersley? When Bruno Mackay shows up I’ll steer him in your direction.”
“Er… thanks. I’ve got two four-man teams unloading a Puma outside. Let me get them squared away and I’ll be back.”
She watched as he marched briskly away, and then turned to her laptop.
SAS here mob-handed, she typed out. But ITS target still unknown. Unusual, surely. Something I shd know???
Signing off with her identifying number, and encoding the message with a couple of swift key-strokes, she dispatched it to Wetherby.
The reply came back less than a minute later. Highlighting the text, she watched as the random-looking letters and numbers disappeared, to be replaced with legible text.
Agree unusual. Regiment present at request of G Fane. Essential ready deploy at short notice he told COBRA. Yr guess good as mine.
As she watched, the eight SAS soldiers passed the entrance to the hangar. Despite the rain, or perhaps because of it, they walked bare-headed and with studied casualness. They were dressed in black fireproof battledress and carrying a wide assortment of weapons including carbines and snipers’ rifles.
Altogether, a hellish volume of firepower was being brought to bear. Against what exactly? Liz wondered.
46
The pub in Birdhoe was called the Plough, and the sign showed the seven stars of that constellation. By 12:30 the car park was almost full; Sunday lunch at the Plough was a popular fixture, and there wasn’t another pub for three or four miles in either direction.
Exiting the ladies’ toilet in the corner of the car park, where she had been waiting until the coast was clear, Jean D’Aubigny looked about her. Luckily, it was still raining. No one was hanging around in the car park to chat. The car she had identified as the easiest to steal, if not necessarily the most suitable, was an old racing-green MGB. It was probably a quarter of a century old, but without being a collector’s piece looked reasonably well cared for. Its great advantage was that due to its age it had no steering lock that had to be disabled. Jean was capable of breaking a steering lock-a length of piping braced beneath one of the struts of the wheel and forced downwards usually did the trick-but it was a hard operation to perform unobtrusively.
Arriving at a decision, she walked purposefully to the MGB, deftly slashed the wet vinyl top with her clasp knife, dipped in her hand, slipped the lock, and climbed into the driver’s seat. Next to her, in the passenger seat, was a man’s sheepskin jacket, which she laid over her sodden knees. Drawing back her booted foot, she smashed her right heel into the covering beneath the steering wheel. It was plastic, but old plastic, and half of it cracked away, revealing the white metal ignition barrel beneath.
Glancing quickly around her to make sure that she was still unobserved, she wrenched the four wires out of the bottom of the barrel, and stripped them back with the knife. Taking the red wire-the main ignition lead-she quickly touched it to the others in turn. With the third, a green wire, there was a brief lurch as the starter turned over. Isolating the green wire, she quickly connected the other two to the red one. The dashboard was now live. Depressing the clutch, she ran through the gears a couple of times before slipping the MGB back into neutral.
OK, she told herself. Here we go-Inshallah!
Carefully, avoiding the thumping electric shocks she’d suffered the first couple of times she’d tried it, outside a housing project in southeast Paris, she touched the green starter wire to the other three and depressed the accelerator an inch or two. The MGB howled, terrifyingly loud, and Jean jumped. But the weather must have dampened the noise, because no furious owner, beer glass in hand, appeared out of the pub. Instead, rainwater poured into Jean’s lap from the knife slash in the vinyl top.
With the engine turning over, she switched on the heater and windscreen-wipers, put the MGB into reverse, let off the handbrake, and backed out of the parking space. Even the gentlest manoeuvre seemed to engender an outraged snarl from the old sports car, and Jean’s heart was thumping painfully in her chest as she shifted to first gear, nosed towards the car park exit, and turned sharply southwards.
On the open road she felt no less self-conscious. This, surely, was a vehicle that local people would know and recognise. But the area seemed deserted. People were either at the pub, she guessed, or behind their locked front doors, watching TV sport or the Sunday soaps.
A mile beyond the village she came to the spot they had located on the map, where the cut they had walked along disappeared into a culvert under the road. She pulled up just beyond it, ensuring that the engine stayed running. Within moments, Faraj’s head and torso appeared, and he was hauling himself up through the sodden dead brambles. Jean leaned over to open the door and Faraj handed in the black rucksack, which she placed alongside her own in front of the passenger seat. Dripping copiously, he climbed into the seat, arranged the rucksacks beneath his knees, and pulled the door closed.