Zero Option

The call had been made from a mobile. From the way the signal came and went we were pretty sure he'd been in a car, driving around. He'd been on the air only a few seconds; Special Branch would have needed four or five minutes to DF him accurately. But at least there was now a chance of another call coming through for them to work on.

I listened to the tape three times. The twang of the accent — 'nay', almost 'nayee', for 'now' — took me straight back to Northern Ireland and the slimy, sleazy methods of the PItLA. In particular I thought of the night when, lying in a ditch a few yards from an isolated farmhouse, I could have topped Farrell as he stood there bollocking some underlings for failing to go through with a shoot. I remembered how he'd roared 'Cunts!' at them, addressing them as though they were shit. The guy had been barely thirty yards from me. My companion and I could have dropped the whole group of players — but the head-shed had forbidden us to open fire because one of them was then the most valuable tout in business.

This guy on the tape had the same sort of peremptory, domineering manner. The way he'd started in — 'I'll speak to Geordie Sharp' — immediately put a,stamp on him. There was no question of'can I…?' or 'please', just arrogance and bluster.

'Christ!' I muttered. 'Just wait till the bastard comes through again. I'll sort him.'

'Take it easy, Geordie,' said Fraser, who'd come flying back into the incident room from the digs he'd taken in town. 'Whatever your feelings, it's no good getting stroppy with these people. They're always hoping to make you lose your rag, and if you do you play into their hands.'

I settled in to wait. The girl had said I'd be back in half an hour. Kevin, whoever he was, should call again around seven. I rang Tony and told him I'd been delayed. 'Why not go on out to the cottage and make yourself at home?' I suggested. 'You know where the key is — on the hook.'

'OK,' he agreed. 'I've been to the supermarket and got the stuff to cook something real good. I'll see you later.'

As I hung around, the SB girl, Karen, began to get on my tits again. I had to admit that she'd handled the call as well as anyone could have — she'd tried to keep the guy on the line, and given nothing away — yet there was something about her that annoyed me, an air of complacency that came over more in the way she looked and acted than in anything she said. She was wearing a track suit of dark-blue velvety material, and she seemed unable to keep still. She.was forever looking at her nails, filing one of them for a second or two, bringing a mirror out of her handbag, tweaking at her eyebrows, patting her fair hair into place, all as if she was trying to attract attention. The trouble with her, I decided, is that she's too damned pleased with her looks. I also caught her staring at me a couple of times in a way that was strictly unoperational. I realised that she must have been bored to tears, sitting around day after day on her fanny with nothing happening, living in some dreary bed-and- breakfast dump away from her home, wherever that was.

I knew I should have made an effort to chat her up and be friendly, but I just had too much on my mind.

Seven o'clock came and went. Seven-thirty, eight, eight-thirty.

Fraser could see I was getting more and more steamed up. 'Relax, Geordie,' he said. This is standard practice. They do it to wind you up. Don't fall for it.

Stay cool.'

'It's OK for you,' I said. 'It isn't your kid they've got.'

'I know. But I do have a little girl about Tim's age. I can imagine what you're feeling.'

I'd been so wrapped up in my own problems that I'd never paused to think about Foxy's domestic circumstances. The news that he had a family made him seem suddenly more human. Looking at the lines on his forehead I thought, You must have started late, to have a daughter of four. And he, as if reading my mind, added, 'I didn't get married till I was thirty-seven.'

'Sorry,' I mumbled. 'I didn't mean anything personal.'

He smiled, and as he came past where I was sitting he gave me a bump on the arm with the heel of his hand.

At nine o'clock I rang Tony. 'Listen,' I said. 'The bastards haven't called. They're stringing us along.'

'Aw, shit. I've made a hell of a Mexican bean stew.'

'Go ahead and eat it, then. I don't know when I'll get back.'

‘I'll keep some warm for you anyhow.'

'Thanks, Tony.'

It was nearly eleven when the call at last came through. I was sitting by the phone, but not wanting to appear too eager I let it ring five times before I picked up the receiver. Then I just said, 'Yes?', 'Geordie Sharp?'

'Yep.'

'I'm calling about your family.'

Was this the same voice as on the tape? I didn't think so. A Belfast accent, all right, but somehow different.

The connection was brilliantly dear, as if the call was short-distance. I looked across at Fraser and raised a thumb.

'Kevin, is it?' I said.

'It is not. A friend of Kevin's.'

'Oh — right.'

'You're wanting them back.'

'Where are they?'

'I said, you're wanting them back. Are you not?'

'Of course.'

'You know what to do, then.'

'What?'

'Get our man out.'

'What man?'

'Declan Farrell.'

'Farrell?' I said. 'Who's he?'

'Look, if you want to see your little boy again, or your girlfriend, you'll not mess about.'

'Wait a minute. I don't know who you're talking about. Who is Farrell?'

'It's the man you were after murdering at Ballyconvil. You know him.'

'Bally-what? I never heard the name before. Where's this guy supposed to be?'

'The Brits have him.'

'What, in Belfast?'

'No, on the mainland.'

'What's happened?. Is he in the nick or something?'

'In gaol, so he is.'

'What am I supposed to do about that?'

'Ask around. Find out where he's been put, and spring him.'

'But I'm army, not police. I don't have the contacts.

Besides, I'm working. I don't have the time.'

'I said — ask around.'

'All right. Listen, I'll do what I can. Give me a couple of days. Then I'll get back to you.'

'You will not. I'll call you in two days' time. That's

Thursday. Seven o'clock.'

'Hello?'

I was going to try and glean some scrap of information about how the hostages were, but the line had gone dead.

'Well done!' said Fraser keenly. 'That was great, the way you kept him on the air. Let's see what the boys have managed.'

A couple of minutes later we learnt that the call had been traced to a phone box in West Belfast. Of course, by the time the P, UC arrived there the caller would have gone, but there was a chance of getting some fingerprints. The fact that the PICA had rung from Northern Ireland alarmed me, as it seemed to work against Special Branch's theory that London was the most likely place for the hostages to be held. But Fraser remained unruffled, saying that, naturally, their spokesman would phone from Belfast wherever the prisoners were.

The exchange left me screwed up with a seething mixture of anger and frustration. The arrogance of the guy's manner had really pissed me off.. That was bad enough, but almost worse was my own helplessness.

What the hell could I do? If I'd lost my rag and called him a scumbag he'd merely have laughed. If I'd admitted I knew where Farrell was he'd have gone on saying, 'Get him out, then.'

Did the PIIA realise I'd been in Colombia and had been responsible for Farrell's capture? The caller had,given no sign of knowing that, but it made little difference. Somehow the terrorists had established the connection between me and their big player, and little details — like the fact he was in a high-security prison were not going to worry them.

Screw the nut, I told myself. Like Foxy says: stay cool.