Suddenly a voice said, ‘The eleven thirteen has arrived at platform three.’ It was Mike Callaghan, sitting at a cafe table on the concourse of Bangor Railway Station, with a copy of the Belfast Telegraph and a large cappuccino.
Reggie Purvis spoke into his mouthpiece. ‘Brown Fox should be wearing a green anorak and carrying a Marks & Spencer carrier bag.’
There was silence for a minute. Then: ‘Got him. He’s heading towards the main exit.’
Suddenly on one of the monitors Liz could make out the figure of a man, walking rapidly past the concourse cafe. The image was transmitted by Callaghan, using a miniature device that looked like a standard mobile phone, but which sent at high bandwidth and resolution. The image was slightly blurred, nonetheless, and the man passed by Callaghan too quickly for Liz to see much detail. But she knew the pictures would come up nicely when Technical Ted worked his magic on them later.
‘Okay. Bravo, he’s yours now. You’ll see him in ten seconds.’ Maureen Hayes was parked in one of the short-stay bays, engine idling, as if she was waiting for an arriving passenger. ‘I have him. He’s walking up towards the roundabout.’ And then, after a short pause, ‘Brown Fox has turned left on Dufferin Avenue. He’s clean.’
‘As instructed,’ Purvis said, turning his head towards Liz. ‘So far so good.’
Liz looked down at Reggie’s desk where a laptop showed the satellite map of this small area of Bangor. They’d chosen it because it was outside Belfast, yet easily accessible by train and by car. As she stared down at Dufferin Avenue on the laptop screen, ten miles away Terry Fleming walked slowly down that road in the direction of the railway station. When he saw the man across the street walking in the other direction, he said in a voice barely louder than a whisper, ‘Brown Fox moving north. There’s no one behind him.’ The miniature microphone under the lapel of his overcoat relayed this instantly to the Control Room.
At the corner of a small residential road called Primrose Street, the target turned right. A couple sitting parked in a Mini two hundred yards down the street stopped squabbling and reported that Brown Fox had stopped at a public phone box.
Liz thought how lucky they had been to find a call box in a convenient place. Probably one of only half a dozen left in the whole of Bangor, she had remarked to Dave, wondering what on earth they were going to do for this kind of an operation when there were none left at all.
The phone on the desk in front of Reggie Purvis gave a long, low buzz. He parked his chewing gum in his cheek as he pressed the button and spoke at once in low, controlled tones. ‘Listen carefully. Walk back down Primrose Street, then continue right on Dufferin Avenue. Turn right onto Gray’s Hill and walk towards Queen’s parade and the harbour – you’ll see it ahead of you.
There’s a large car park right next to it – go in from your end, and walk towards the fountain in the middle. You’ll be contacted.’
The caller said nothing and hung up. Seconds later, Maureen Hayes reported, ‘All clear on Dufferin Avenue. We’re across from the harbour now.’ She had collected Terry Fleming and driven on another street to the car park.
‘Okay,’ said Purvis. He spoke over his shoulder to Liz. ‘It all looks quite clean, but let’s get an overview, shall we?’
He flicked a switch on the console and suddenly a phut phut phut came over the speakers. ‘Air Three, can you hear me?’
‘Loud and clear. We’ve circled the harbour and are just coming inland to turn round.’
The helicopter appeared to be searching for something off the coast, just coming slightly inland to turn around. The manoeuvre gave the pilot and his A4 passengers an unrivalled view of the network of streets that lay between the flotilla of yachts in the basin and the railway station less than half a mile away.
In the Control Room the camera positioned on the helicopter’s front right strut began transmitting to the second monitor. It was like a moving version of the satellite map, but infinitely sharper – Liz could see individuals walking on the streets below. Including a lone figure approaching the car park.
A minute later, a voice spoke over the chopper’s dense fluttering. ‘All clear on Queen’s Parade and back up Gray’s Hill Road. No sign of hostile activity.’
By then another parked car had reported that Brown Fox had entered the car park. Suddenly on the third monitor a misty view of the car park appeared, shot through the windscreen of Maureen Hayes’s vehicle. Liz watched the street-level view of a man in a green anorak walking towards the little fountain that sat in a kind of miniature garden in the middle of the car park.
Maureen zoomed her lens and the image grew sharper and closer – the target, an oldish man, in his late sixties at least, with a pinched face and grey hair cut short on the sides. Liz craned forward; he looked familiar.
The watchers in the Control Room heard the sound of a car starting up and a metallic grey saloon appeared beside Brown Fox. He must have heard it coming, as he turned and stepped to one side to allow it to pass. But as it drew alongside it slowed down sharply and stopped. Brown Fox stood still, looking startled as the passenger door opened. Then Liz heard Dave’s voice on the audio say, ‘Good morning. I’m your contact. Climb in.’
16
Dave had re-parked his car in an uncrowded corner of the car park. It gave him a clear view in all directions; equally, it allowed the two A4 cars discreetly stationed to cover the exits a clear view of him and his passenger. Further up on Gray’s Hill Road another car sat, watching for new arrivals, whether on foot or by car. Above them all, the small unmarked helicopter moved at an altitude of a few hundred feet. Apparently focused on the harbour and the sea, it flitted in and out of the area quite unobtrusively.
‘I’m Simon Willis,’ said Dave, offering his hand, which his passenger slowly shook.
‘Patrick.’
‘Patrick? That’s a fine Irish name. Have you got another one to go with it?’
‘Not one you need to know.’
‘Okay.’ Dave sounded confident, thought Liz in the Control Room. ‘You said you needed to talk to me.’
‘No – you need me to talk to you.’
‘Well,’ said Dave, ‘I’m certainly interested in hearing what you have to say. And why you want to say it to me.’
‘That’s my affair,’ said ‘Patrick’. He sounded surly, and Liz wondered just what his motivation was. He clearly wasn’t acting out of any affection for the security services.
This was confirmed a second later, when Patrick announced, ‘I am not here to betray the cause I served for twenty-five years. I’m here because someone else is doing the betraying, and I want it stopped. All that’s different now is that you people and I have the same interests – temporarily.’
‘I’m listening,’ said Dave. Then he added, ‘Do you mind if I take notes?’
‘I certainly do,’ said Patrick sharply.
Liz smiled at the classic ruse for distracting the agent from wondering whether he was being recorded.
‘That’s fine. I have a good memory,’ said Dave easily. ‘Ready when you are.’
Patrick sighed and took a deep breath. ‘When the Provisional Army Council decided to sign the Belfast Agreement and go along the political route, not all of their followers went with them. Some wanted to continue the struggle just as before. You will be familiar with the groups I’m talking about. The splinter groups.’
‘Continuity IRA. The Real IRA,’ said Dave.
Patrick must have nodded, and he went on: ‘For others the problem isn’t that simple. The fact is, things have changed – to pretend they haven’t is just plain daft. Now the leaders are wearing suits and taking jobs as government ministers and drinking coffee out of china cups in Stormont, we can’t carry on the war like we did.’ He added venomously, ‘Not that most of us don’t want to. But we’ve sworn loyalty to the leadership. And whatever we think, we’re loyal buggers, and the leadership’s come down hard on splinter groups. So we’ve had to find something else to do.’ He added with a suggestion of embarrassment, ‘There was also the problem of earning a crust.’