We reached the junction with the M25 in eight minutes — exactly what I'd reckoned. Eight more minutes to go. On our side of the big ring-road a solid river of traffic was flowing northwards, four lanes abreast. Again we kept in the slow lane, reaching Junction 13 in four minutes. As Yorky had predicted, the traffic there was yet more dense, all four lanes jam232 packed with vehicles, nose to tail.
Three minutes to Exit 14, then a minute more. I looked at my watch, at Tony, at the hooded figure of Farrell. Jesus, I thought, the trouble this guy's caused me.
'Fourteen,' announced Whinger coolly, pointing up as we passed under the blue and white board.. 'Sixty seconds to run. There's the phone, up ahead now.'
'Just pull in gently, as if we've got engine problems.
There — go over. now.'
Whinger put on his left indicator and cruised in. All we need now, I thought, is an AA or IkAC van on patrol, coming to rescue us without being asked.
I checked my watch. We were thirty seconds early.
As yet the lkV was empty.
As Whinger came to a halt and switched on his panic lights, I said to Farrell, 'OK. We're on site. Stand by to transfer. The drill is going to be this: they'll park fifty metres behind us, one guy will walk towards us with the hostages, Tony will go back with you. In the middle of the gap, once my people are past him, he'll release you.
Are you with me?'
'I am.'
'And don't luck about. Don't start pulling or trying to run before he unlocks you, OK?'
Farrell nodded. Through the hood I could hear him breathing fast. I knew he was hot — we all were — but was sure this panting was caused by adrenalin.
'Pull the bonnet catch,' I told Whing'er. As soon as I heard the click, I jumped out of the passenger door and whipped round the front of the van. There in the open the traffic roar was horrendous, and a wide-bodied jet, labouring up off the runway at Heathrow, adeded its scream to the general clamour. When I dialled the incident room on my mobile, I could hardly hear the voice on the other end.
'Zulu One on RV now!' I yelled, and I just made out a man's voice say, 'loger.'
At least I'd confirmed that we were in position, and word would fly out over the radio to the guys deployed around us. The head-shed's intention was to go for a hard arrest on the PIIA wagon as soon after the exchange as possible. As I looked round I wondered where the hell anyone could have established an OP in this urban jungle. All about me were asphalt, brickwork, concrete walls, the blank ends of buildings, electric wires, pylons, roaring lines of traffic. Yet doubtless the guys were deployed in there somewhere, watching me.
I raised the bonnet of the van and propped it with the stay, pretending to tinker with the engine. A British Airways 747 came roaring over, drowning out even the traffic. I wondered where it was heading. America, maybe. I thought of the passengers settling themselves for a long flight, the stewardesses putting on their aprons to start serving breakfast.
My watch said 0847. Already the opposition were late. Typical PIRA. I felt sure that at any moment some of their dickers would pass in some vehicle of their own — maybe two separate lots of them — and send word back over their CB radio links: 'Yeah, yeah, they're there. It looks OK. It's clear. It's on.' I tried not to stare at the drivers as they whipped past, for fear of putting the wind up one of the scouts.
Back round the passenger side of the van, I stuck my head in through the window. The noise was less deafening inside.
'Late!' I yelled at Farrell. 'We made it on time. Your bloody people are late.'
'Don't worry,' he shouted. 'They'll be here.'
Yet his composure was only skin-deep. When another minute had gone by with no sign of action, he began to fidget arid curse. I stood by the passenger door, gazing back at the unending flood of vehicles pouring up from the south. Another.jet screamed out of the airport. It looked like the control tower was launching a plane every two minutes.
At five minutes past H-hour, Farrell started effing and blinding, abusing the underlings in the PIRA for their incompetence. 'They're swine,' he went. 'They get pissed out of their minds at night, and can't get up in the morning for wallowing in their own shite.'
His tirade was getting on my nerves. 'Swine yourselfl' I shouted. 'It was you who got us into this mess in the first place.'
At that instant Tony snapped, 'Look out! What's this?'
Through the small rear windows he'd seen another vehicle pulling up behind us. The first sight of it made my heart'jump. It was an old banger of an estate car, beige-coloured, scruffy, decrepit, lop-sided, with patches of rust showing along the bottoms of the doors; exactly what I'd expect the PIRA to be driving. But a second later I realised there was something wrong. The arrangement was that the PIRA would pull up fifty yards short of us, not five. Besides, this wagon was going down fast. Steam and smoke were pouring out through the radiator grille and from the sides of the bonnet.
The smouldering wreck wobbled to a halt about four feet from our rear bumper. The driver's door opened, and a stout, middle-aged Indian, a Sikh with a grey beard and white turban, eased himself out on to the hard shoulder. He took one despairing look at the smoke and steam, then waddled towards me.
Shit, shit, shit! I thought. Of all the world's disasters, this is the worst that can befall us. With that thing there, nothing on earth will make the PI1KA stop.
The Sikh came lurching up. 'Sir, I am apologising most profoundly,' he began. 'Car is overheating. You help me with rope? Yes?'
It flashed through my mind to say, 'Do the fucking rope trick yourself, mate, car and all,' but it wasn't the moment for jokes, and I didn't want to be rude. What could I tell the poor bugger? Even if I'd drawn my pistol and ordered him to get his jalopy away from me it would have been impossible for him to obey.
All I said was, 'Sorry, no rope.' I spread my hands, and fervently hoped that was it. But the brute had spied the mobile sprouting from my pocket.
'Make call, please,' he went, pointing at it.
'Sorry, it's not working. No batteries.'
'Sir — you are very kind gentleman. You are giving me lift to garage.'
I felt frantic. I glanced at my watch. Six minutes past the deadline. Through the open window of our van I could hear Tony relaying events to Farrell.
'Sorry,' I said. 'I'm broken down as well.' I pointed at the raised bonnet. 'That's why I stopped by this phone.' Then I had a brainwave. 'There's a service station a couple of miles ahead,' I said, inventing the place on the spur of the moment. 'If you go on slowly, you'll make it.'
It was a shameless lie; I knew there was no service station for miles.
As I stood looking at the stranded Indian, my face twisted into a grimace of totally false goodwill, some sixth sense made me glance out into the passing traffic and there, right beside me, was a small, grey van, old and dirty. The vehicle had slowed down, causing others to concertina behind it. Somebody clapped a hand on his horn, and others responded. For a second I had direct eye contact with the driver and front-seat passenger. Both were staring sideways at me, two pale young faces concentrating in a way that could mean only one thing: this was the PIIkA wagon.
By the time I'd made the connection it was past. For a few yards it wavered in and out, as if the driver was about to pull on to the hard shoulder, but he never did.
A few seconds later the van straightened and carried on to the north.
I stared after it, suddenly out of breath. Jesus, I thought: Tim was in that thing. Tracy was in it. My family had gone by within inches of me. I felt a terrific pull, as if that vehicle had been a powerful magnet.
Ignoring the Indian, I leapt back in front of our own wagon. Using the raised bonnet as a shield to make sure Farrell couldn't hear, I redialled the incident room.