When I heard a voice answer, I said loudly, 'Zulu One.
The PII<A wagon's gone past the tkV. Heading north.
Didn't st6p. It's a grey Morris Thousand van with some black logo on the side.'
Again I heard, 'Roger,' and that was about all.
I slammed the bonnet shut. The Indian was still hovering, a hurt look on his face. I brushed past him, jumped aboard, closed the door and said to Whinger, 'Let's go!'
Whinger started the engine and we eased back into the slow lane.
'See 'em?' I asked.
'Yep.' Whinger nodded. 'The grey “can.'
'That's the one. Get after it! Oh, Jesus!'
'What happened?' Farrell snarled from behind us.
I told him in words of one syllable: 'Why the hell did they not stop?'
'How could they, with another fucking vehicle up your arse? It might have been full of coppers or anything.'
'It was full of big, fat Indian women in headscarves,' I told him. 'They could have seen that. What the fuck did they think they were doing? And what'll they do now? Will they wait up ahead or come back on another
'Not a chance,' said Farrell. 'That's it for the day.
One run, and that's it. They'll never try again at the same place.'
'In that case, we won't either.'
Using hand-signs I indicated that Whinger was to ignore the M4 west, our natural route for base, which was coming up fast, and carry on clockwise towards the M40.
As he drove I was struggling to make a mental readjustment. The let-down was colossal. In spite of my attempts not to, I'd been counting chickens prematurely. I'd assumed that in about five minutes the whole drama was going to be over, that we'd be rid of Farrell and I'd have my loved ones back, that we'd all be able to go home in peace and get on with our normal lives.
Now everything had ended in fiasco, and we were faced with the task of setting up another meeting somewhere else. The prospect was so appalling that for a few minutes my mind went blank. All I could focus on was the fact that Farrell knew the precise location of the tV. T'herefore he knew we were on the M25.
Therefore vce needed to confuse him about the route we were taking home. My own priority was to confer with the incident room, and with Stew and Doughnut back at the cottage — but to do that I had to get out of Farrell's earshot.
First of all we needed a pit-stop so that everyone could relie've themselves; Farrell wasn't the only one bursting for a piss. A service station would be out of the question — we couldn't march a manacled prisoner into the bog without attracting attention — so the only alternative was open country. We took the M40 west and came offatJunction 2. From there we headed south until we were in some dense woods. At last, when he'd made sure there were no giveaway signs in sight, Whinger pulled off on to a cart-track, and we all thinned out into bushes to do our business. Once again the guy who had the worst of it was Tony, chained as he was to Farrell.
While they were busy I got in another call to the incident room, to say that we were returning to base. I told Fraser what had happened, and asked him to pass word to the cottage. His only news was that the grey van had been found abandoned within two miles of where I'd reported it. The PIRA must have had another vehicle coming along behind, and transferred personnel only a couple of minutes after the van had passed the 1KV. Sure enough, Fraser told me it had been stolen earlier thht morning in North London. There were some old cushions on the floor in the back, and forensic examination might reveal whether or not the hostages had been on board, but for the time being there was no indication. Our guys had established an OP in a factory overlooking the motorway, and although they'd watched the 1KV for a further hour, no other vehicle had stopped there.
As we set off for base my mind was reeling with disappointment. But at the same time I couldn't stop thinking about the wretched Indian, who was probably still where we'd abandoned him. The incident must have convinced him that all Englishmen are heartless bastards, racist to the roots of their hair, and treacherous to boot.
ELEVEN
'Get on the phone,' I told Farrell the moment we were back in the cottage, 'find out what the hell happened, and fix another RV for this evening. But keep it short: we don't want anyone tracing calls to this number.'
With ill grace he started dialling his contacts in Belfast. I'd already discovered from Fraser that one of the numbers was the Pock Bar, a drinking den on the Falls Poad, which stayed open twenty-four hours a day and was frequented by most of the leading players in the Belfast Brigade. The IUC naturally had eyes on the place, and filmed all the comings and goings, but the PIIA men were so arrogant and sure of themselves that they patronised it regardless. The Falls Poad was their territory, and they weren't going to stand for any interruption of their favourite routines.
On our way back Farrell had thrown me by identify ing a piece of classical music that had blasted out of the radio as Whinger was lumping stations. We only got a few seconds of it, but our prisoner suddenly woke up and cried, 'Beethoven! Leonora number three.' The music sounded pretty dire to me, and the rest of us looked at each other with expressions of alarm, but I could see that on Farrell's part it was a spontaneous reaction, not designed to impress us. Once again I thought it very strange that a man with his record of crime and thuggery could also have genuine cultural interests.
Back at base, the only two guys on our team still functioning properly were Doughnut and Stew, who'd got their heads down while we were on the road, managing to catch up on a bit of lost sleep. The rest of us were edgy with hunger and exhaustion — and I knew that sheer tiredness could lead to somebody making a fatal mistake. Farrell himself seemed almost comatose, but still we were aware that one careless remark from any of us might arouse his suspicion. I had therefore asked Doughnut to take over as warder-nanny so as to give Tony a break, and I stood over them as they swapped the handcuffs.
Stew had had the brilliant idea of putting some potatoes to bake in the oven, and the cottage was full of the smell of them, good and crusty. I told the others to get on and eat — breakfast or lunch or whatever it was and said I'd join them as soon as we'd set up another meeting.
Farrell “finished his.call to Belfast, then dialled the mobile number, which SB had traced to West London.
'Mother of Mary!' he exclaimed after talking for a minute. 'Why ever didn't they stop?' He listened for a few more seconds then said, 'That's no way to carry on.
He'll have to be reported… What?… Of course I was. Bursting for a run-out as.well.'
I grabbed the receiver from him and said, 'Hello.
This is Geordie Sharp. Stop pissing about and fix a rendezvous tonight.'
'It was yous fellers that fucked it up,' retorted the voice.
'Bollocks, mate. We were there ahead of schedule.'
'But you never had our man with you.'
'What d'you mean? He was there in the back of the van. He just told you.'
'Why wouldn't you let us see him, then?'
'You would have seen him if you'd stopped.'
'And a second vehicle up your arse-end as well.'
'That was nothing to do with us. The guy's engine had overheated, that was all. He arrived at the last minute. If you'd bloody well been on time he wouldn't have been there.'
There was a sick laugh at the other end of the line, and the man said, 'You fucking wee bastards! That's all you are if you expected anyone to stop with that circus parked there.'
'Listen,' I said, struggling to keep my temper, 'insults aren't going to get your man back. Like I said, name another time and place for an exchange. We'll call you again in fifteen minutes.' With that I slammed the receiver down.