We'd been duly told about the ASU, but we'd also been briefed that there would be no blocking car and that the bomb would be detonated by a handheld device. These last two pieces of intelligence meant that McCann, Farrell, and Savage had never stood a chance. They were dead from the moment we thought the bomb was in position and armed, because at some stage one of them was bound to make a hand movement that would be construed as an attempt to detonate the device.
I certainly wouldn't have taken the chance that Savage was only going for his packet of mints, and Euan obviously didn't when he initiated the contact with McCann and Farrell. In Pat's immortal words: Better to be tried by twelve than carried by six.
A dialogue box came up on the screen telling me that I was running short of power and needed to plug into another power source. Fuck! I wanted to read more. I got back to the screen and read as fast as I could to get the general idea.
Even though there hadn't been a bomb, the cartels had accepted that their Irish lackies were playing ball. After all, three of their people had been killed in the process. PIRA kept the trade with the Colombians, even though, as Big Al had said, it was thereafter routed through South Africa, then Spain.
PIRA was in seventh heaven. It had gotten rid of two trouble makers, not quite in the way that it had intended, but three martyrs had been created, with the result that PIRA's cause at home was strengthened, and even more dollars rolled into the coffers.
It was only the Brits who appeared to have been left with egg on their faces, but even so, no matter how much the inter national community publicly condemned the shootings, in secret most heads of state admired Thatcher's muscular stand against terrorism.
Fuck it. Another box came up and told me to plug into an external power source. I switched off the laptop and packed it away, full of frustration. I wanted to know more. At the same time I was on a high. If we made it back to the UK with this stuff, I'd have cracked it with Simmonds.
It was 3:30 a.m. There was nothing to do but wait for three hours or so until the first wave of aircraft started to arrive and depart, creating enough activity for us to blend in.
I let the backrest down a bit and tried to get my neck into a comfortable position, but I couldn't relax. My mind was racing. The whole operation in Gibraltar had been a setup so that PIRA and the Colombians could keep making money.
That was one thing, but where did Kev and I fit into the scheme of things? I lay there and listened to the patter of rain.
For Euan and me it had all started on March 3, less than a week before the shootings. We were both on different jobs and had got lifted off and sent to Lisbum, HQ of the British army in Northern Ireland. From there it was a quick move by Puma to Stirling Lines in Hereford, England, the home of the Special Air Service.
We were taken straight to regimental headquarters, and the moment I saw the china cups and cookies outside the briefing room I knew that something big was in the offing. Last time that had happened, the prime minister had been here.
The room was in semidarkness and packed. There was a large screen at the back of a stage and tiered seats so that everyone got a good view.
We were looking for somewhere to sit when I heard, "Hey, over here, dick spot Kev and Slack Pat were sitting drinking tea. With them were the other two members of their four-man team, Geoff and Steve. All were from A Squadron, doing their six months on the counterterrorist team.
Euan turned to Kev and said, "Know what this job is about?"
"We're off to Gib, mate. PIRA's planning a bomb."
The commanding officer got up on the stage and the room fell silent.
"Two problems," he said.
"Number one, a shortage of time. You leave immediately after this briefing. Number two, shortage of solid intelligence. However, Joint Operations Committee wants the Regiment to deploy. You will get as much information as we know now, and as it comes in during your flight and once on the ground."
I thought. What the fuck are Euan and I doing here? Surely it would be illegal for us to work outside Northern Ireland? I kept my mouth shut; if I started querying the decision, they might send me back and I'd miss out.
I looked around and saw members of RHQ, the operations officer, and the world's supply of intelligence corps. The final member of the team was an ammunitions technical officer, a bomb disposal expert on attachment to the counter-terrorism team.
Someone I had never seen before moved toward the stage, a tea cup in one hand, a cookie in the other. He stood to the right-hand side of the stage by the lectern. There was an overnight bag by his feet.
"My name is Simmonds, and I run the Northern Ireland desk for the intelligence service from London. The people behind you are a mix of service and military intelligence officers.
First, a very brief outline of the events that have brought us all here today."
Judging by the bag, it looked as if he would be coming with us. The lights were dimmed, and a slide projector lit the screen behind him.
"Last year," he said, "we learned that a PIRA team had based itself in southern Spain. We intercepted mail going to the homes of known players from Spain and found a postcard from Sean Savage in the Costa del Sol."
A slide came up on the screen.
"Our Sean," Simmonds said with a half smile, "told Mummy and Daddy he was working abroad. It rang a few alarm bells when we read it, because the work young Savage is best at is bomb making."
Was he making a joke? No, he didn't look the sort.
"Then in November two men went through Madrid airport on their way from Malaga to Dublin. They carried Irish passports, and in a routine check the Spanish sent the details to Madrid, who, in turn, passed them with photographs to London. It turned out that both passports were false."
I thought to myself. Stupid timing by them, really. Terrorist incidents in Northern Ireland tended to decrease in the summer months when PIRA members took their wives and kids to the Mediterranean for a fortnight of sun and sand. The funny thing was that the RUC--Royal Ulster Constabulary-also took their vacations in the same places, and they'd all bump into each other in the bars. These two characters had drawn attention to themselves; if they'd passed through Malaga airport during the tourist season, they might have gotten away with it.
It turned out that one of the passport holders was Sean Savage, but it was the identity of the second man that had made everybody concerned.
Simmonds showed his next slide.
"Daniel Martin McCann.
I'm sure you know more about him than I do." He gave a no-fucking-way sort of smile.
"Mad Danny" had really earned his name. Linked to twenty-six killings, he had been lifted often, but had been put away for only two years.
To British intelligence, Simmonds said, the combination of McCann and Savage on the Costa del Sol could mean only one of two things: either PIRA was going to attack a British target on the Spanish mainland, or there was going to be an attack on Gibraltar.
"One thing's for sure," he said.
"They weren't there to top off their suntans."
At last there was a round of laughter. I could see Simmonds liked that, as if he'd practiced his one-liners so the timing was just right. Despite that, I was warming to the man.
It wasn't that often you got people making jokes at a briefing as important as this one.
The slide changed again to a street map of Gibraltar. I was listening to Simmonds but at the same time thinking of my infantry posting there in the 1970s. I'd had a whale of a time.