Zero Option

'Thanks, Yorky. We're going to need some backup, too. It's possible the PIPA will try to lift Farrell. We could do with a Q1LF somewhere close.'

'That's no problem either. Again, we'll suss out the site and make arrangements. Geordie, you sound tired.'

'I am. I'm fucking knackered. We've been on the go since five this morning. Didn't get much sleep, either.'

'Why not get your head down, then?'

'I'm going to. There’s not a lot we can do between now and then. Er… Yorky?'

'What's that?'

'Any more news about PIRA safe houses? Any news at all?'

'Yes. They're concentrating on two flats in Acton.

Our 1Led Team's moved up to Hounslow Barracks.

They're on standby there. Twenty guys, all their vehicles and kit. The police have a team from SO19 standing by as well. In fact, the commander ofSO19 has just been here, going through various options with the head-shed.'

'So there is some movement?'

'Definitely.'

'Thanks, Yorky. That sounds great.'

'Don't worry, lad. Everything's in hand at this end.

Listen — your prisoner doesn't sound a very nice guy.'

'What d'you mean?'

'The RUC faxed us his dossier. The things he's been suspected of but never got for: three murders, GBH, arson, extortion.'

'Didn't I tell you?'

'You did,' Yorky admitted. 'But when you see it written down… Keep a good grip on him, anyway.'

'Will do. But the bastard doesn't seem very happy.

Something in those last calls pissed him off.'

'I know,' Yorky suddenly sounded quite chuffed.

'I've been listening to the tapes. His people seem to have turned against him, for whatever reason. They were giving him two fingers. One of them was talking about putting a CAT team on to investigate him.'

'No wonder he's shitting himself, then. I don't know what he's done, but obviously he's dropped a bollock somewhere. Since those last conversations he's really gone down.'

'That's fight.'

'The sooner the miserable sod's off my hands, the better,' I said. 'Listen, Yorky, I'll call in again at four o'clock to check the form. OK?'

Now I understood why Farrell had become so agitated. The Civil Administration Teams are the PIIA's notorious means of enforcing discipline within the ranks. If someone gets a call saying, 'We need to come round and have a talk,' he knows he's for it — at the very least a few cold baths and some beatings to make him produce information, at worst a kneecapping or even an execution.

For three and a half hours I was dead to the world, and I awoke with the unpleasant but familiar sensation of not knowing where I was. Staggering up, I found Tony in the kitchen, heating up some soup.

'Get to sleep?' he asked.

'Yeah. How about you?'

'Sure did. Couple of hours. I feel a whole heap better. Like some soup?'

'Great. In a minute, though.

Again I slipped out, down the track and into the wood.

'Yer daft bat,' said Yorky straight away. 'Where've you been?'

'Kipping it deadly,' I told him.

'Well done, lad. I was hoping you'd come on. We have two guys in an old railway wagon right alongside the IV site — Andy Peake and Terry Mason, from the SP team.'

'Fabulous,' I said. 'What wagon is it?'

'It's a closed freight car with the serial number zero nine two painted in big white numbers on the side. The sides are fairly intact, but part of the floor's gone, so they've got easy access to the track. They've a good view ofthff yard, and they're pretty sure no PIRA have shown yet.'

'All right. So what do we do?'

'You'll need to decoy the PIRA car as close to that wagon as you can. Then, while the players are concentrating on you and Farrell, somebody will slip out from between the wheels with a little goodwill package…' Yorky explained that the yard was a couple of hundred metres long but only fifty wide. Our best tactic, he said, would be to drive in along the left-hand side, close to the rails, and then at the end do a U turn, so that we came to rest facing back towards the entrance gate, with our left-hand doors close to the high wall that bounded the yard on the road side. Parked there we'd be opposite the occupied railway wagon, and the logical place for the PIIA to pull up would be right beside it, across the yard from us.

'Sounds good,' I said. 'What about backup?'

'There'll be two cars, each with four, in the road above. There's a pub up there, the Railway Arms, so there should be enough people coming and going to create a bit of a distraction. But our guys won't do anything or show themselves unless the PIRA start messing about. They'll only intervene if there's an attempt at a snatch.'

'Fair enough. Will you brief the police to stand off?.'

'C)fcourse. What vehicle will you be in?'

'The Granada. And I'm not taking any chances on this one. We're going to be there early.'

We set out in good time, with Farrell blindfolded once again. To give Whinger and Tony a break I had left them to house-sit, taking Stew to drive and Doughnut to act as principal minder. Another belt of wet weather had moved up from the south-west, and a soft rain was falling — no bad thing, as it would reduce visibility at the RV site. In another conversation with Yorky and Fraser I'd learned that, sure enough, two young fellows with every appearance of being PIRA dickers had appeared outside the Railway Arms at about half-past four and walked along the road that ran above the marshalling yard. They'd made one pass out and another back, and were presumably based in a car parked up there on the high ground. Without doubt they'd report our arrival to colleagues over a mobile phone or CB radio.

Whether or not Farrell had any ink.ling about where the safe house was, I couldn't be sure. On our way out to the rendezvous in the morning we'd made one diversionary detour off the M4 and driven through a few of the roundabouts on the outslirts of Swindon, purely to confuse him and give the innpression that we weren't doing a sustained motorway run. Next, back on the M4, we'd come on the block at Reading and had to turn round, which providentially added to his disorientation. Then on the way horre we'd come via the M40 and Oxford, so that once again there hadn't been any long stretch at high speed. All in all, it seemed to me that he'd have to be a bloody genius to work out the location of the cottage.

This time, as a further variation, we went north- about through Gloucester and across country to Cirencester, so that we came into Swindon from the north-west. By the time we hit the outskirts it was almost fully dark, and under the sodium lamps the streets were glistening with rain.

It may be that some other town in Britain has more roundabouts per square kilometre, but if it does I don't know where it is. We went through dozens of the bastards, some single, some double, and many of them practically touching each other.

'The town planners went fucking mad here,' I said as we missed a turn and had to circle yet again to pick up the fight road.

'Too fight,' Doughnut agreed.

We found Brunel Road with fifteen minutes in hand, so we decided on-a drive-past.

'There's the entrance,' I said as we came towards the left-hand bend. The big mesh gates were shut, as predicted, and we only caught glimpses of the yard beyond.

'Pretty damn dark in there,' said Stew.

'Yep,' I agreed. 'But that's to our advantage.'

Again we were caught up in an insane network of roundabouts and one-way streets, with the result that it was nearly 2255 by the time we made our second run.- This time I jumped out, slid back a bar-catch and pushed the right-hand gate open. Its base scraped over a rough surface — earth or cinders — but I forced it back, left it wide open and nipped into the car again.