'Now,' I said. 'Just take a swing round and park.
Anywhere will do.'
Stew knew that my last remarks were cover. I'd briefed him on the exact procedure that Yorky and I had worked out.
There were the old railway wagons, on a line right beside the yard. They looked very tall, because there was no raised platform at that point and we were down on the same level as the tracks. Farrell was still hooded, so as we came level with number 092 I pointed at it silently, and Stew nodded. He drove past, then swung right-handed into a U-turn, brought the Granada to rest about three feet from the high wall, switched off the engine and doused the lights.
'OK.' I turned to Farrell. 'We're there. Now it's up to them.'
He only grunted in reply. I think he felt as nervous as we did, and I don't blame him. If anyone did attempt a snatch a fire-fight would erupt within seconds, and he'd be in the middle of it.
The only light in the yard was a feeble spill-over from street-lamps along the road above. Under the wall, we were in deep shadow. The floor was uneven and pock-marked with holes. I presumed it must once have been covered with railway tracks, and now pools of water glistened in the depressions left behind where the sleepers had been ripped out. The whole place looked black as coal, and whenever a train went by on the main line, only a few yards away, the noise sent my mind back to the steam engine which used to pull a few tourist carriages up and down a branch line near where I was brought up, in the north.
I wished to hell we could use our covert radios. I was a good friend of Andy Peake, one of the guys hidden in 092, and I longed to chat him up. Had he seen the dickers any more? Had they come down and sussed out the yard? Had any other car made an approach? Were our own guys in position up top? Andy would be listening in on the net, and would know the score exactly. M1 we could do was hope that the lads had everything under control.
Once again the deadline came and went. To cover my anxiety, I began mentally rehearsing possible moves.
'When they arrive,' I told Farrell, 'you're going to stay put. You're not getting out. If they want a good look at you, they'll have to come up close and take a shufti through the window.'
'We'll see,' he said. 'I can't vouch for what cunts like that may do.'
Suddenly I found myself thinking of the hot, clear nights in the Libyan desert, a world away from this soft English rain. I thought of the moment when Norm had found he'd left his Magellan behind, and the crazy, blaring crackle of the muezzin's first call to prayer as dawn was about to break. Once again I saw our target in his death throes, and heard his slippered feet going slap, slap, slap against the wall.
'Watch yourselves!' Stew's voice jerked me back to the present. 'There's a car trying to turn in at the gate.'
The driver had his right-hand indicator on, waiting for a couple of oncoming vehicles to pass. But when the road cleared, all he did was drive into the yard, swing straight round and out again.
'Lost,' said Stew. 'Can't blame him. There must be hundreds like him in this bloody maze.'
Five more minutes crawled past. Already the PIIA were ten minutes late.
None of us had anything to say. With the windows of the Granada open, we could hear sounds of revelry from the distant pub: drunken shouts and outbursts of song. I began to think the opposition had succumbed to temptation and gone in there. I'd known it happen in Ulster. Bombers or shooters, on their way to a hit, would stop off for a quick pint to steady their nerves, and end up drinking six or seven, so that they'd be out of their minds and the operation would have to be aborted. But this was only a harmless meeting, without danger, so, surely…
'Here we are!' said Stew.
This time a pair of lights swept through the gate without hesitation and blazed in our faces. In retaliation Stew snapped his headlights on to full beam and lit up an elderly-looking red Peugeot, cruising gingerly over the potholes. I held my breath, willing the driver to keep straight on along the line of the tracks.
Our psychological reading of the site must have been spot-on, because he did just that, and came to rest within a few inches of where we wanted him. Then he doused his lights and sat waiting.
I let halfa minute tick by before declaring, 'If they're not coming, I'm going.'
I got out and walked round the front of the Granada.
By then I'd un-zipped my jacket so that I had quick access to my shoulder holster, but as I strolled across I deliberately kept my hands well away from my hips.
Out there in mid-yard I felt cold and exposed. I knew Andy was in the wagon straight ahead of me, beyond the Peugeot, and I was confident that I had more support behind me, up above, but if one of the players lost his nerve and opened fire, I'd be the first to get it.
A yard from the driver's window I stopped. The face inside the rain-spattered glass was still a blur. The flash of a torch in the fellow's eyes might be taken as a provocation, so I waited till he wound the window down by hand.
'Come to see someone?' I went.
'Where is he?'
'In the car.' I jerked my head backwards.
'Bring him over, then.'
'Not a chance. You can come and look.'
'Not fucking likely. You bring him here.'
In line of sight over the roof of the car, not ten feet away, I detected movement down among the wheels of truck 092. Jesus! I thought. Andy's not waiting. He's crawling out with his tracking device. Whatever might happen later, I had to keep the PIIA fully occupied for the next few seconds.
'Listen,' I said. 'Are you the guys who came up the M25 this morning?' As I spoke I leant forward and rested my hands on the edge of the roof, deliberately making the car rock in the hope that the movement would help cover any slight disturbance that Andy might create.
'Get yer hands off!' snapped the driver.
'I was only asking.'
'Get off anyway!'
'Was it you, then?' I stood up, letting the Peugeot rock back.
'What difference does it make?'
'You fucked up, that's all.'
Now I thought, I'm getting him well stropped up.
I'll switch on the torch anyway.
The effect was excellent. The driver twisted in his seat, rocking the car again. 'Get that thing off!' he hissed.
But I'd already recognised him. He'd been the passenger in the grey minivan that morning, the guy with whom I'd had that flash of e.ye-contact. His companion in the passenger seat was an older man with stiffgrey hair cut short, definitely not the driver on the M25. He was the one, I guessed: the player who'd come to make the identification.
I flashed my torch round the inside of the car, partly to make sure there was nobody else on board, partly to dazzle the occupants. Both of them twisted about in their seats, shielding their faces from the beam.
'I said, get that thing off,' said the driver.
'You told me there'd be three of you.'
'No, only two.'
'What happened to your mate?'
'He couldn't make it in time.'
'All right, then.' As if climbing down, I switched off the torch and said, 'Well, I'll make a compromise. We'll bring him half-way across. But that's all.'
Another main-line train trundled past, shaking the ground and filling the yard with the scream of big diesel engines as it picked up speed out of the station. Once again I caught a hint of movement under the railway wagon, and reckoned what I saw was Andy's heels going back into cover, his job done. He'd certainly had time to place a magnetic device on the petrol tank and crawl away to shelter. Stepping back ostentatiously, I turned round and walked towards the Granada.
'Get him out after all,' I told Doughnut. 'We'll take him half-way over.'
I opened the door and stood back, expecting Farrell to start creating. But he said nothing as Doughnut wriggled out crab-wise, and he followed him into the open without fuss. When the pair were on their feet I took off Farrell's blindfold and said, 'Right. We'll go twenty steps and stop.'