We walked forward three abreast to the middle of the yard, Doughnut on the right, Farrelt in the middle, myself on the left. I was stepping on the tips of my toes.
If any attempt at a snatch was going to be made, this was when it would come. And no snatch would take place, because if they tried anything, Doughnut and I would drop the pair of them.
For a few seconds there was no movement from the Peugeot. Then the passenger door opened, on the side away from us, and I knew it must be the grey-haired guy getting out.
As he advanced towards us I muttered to my two, 'Keep still. Your arms particularly.'
Behind us I heard a click, and I knew that Stew was opening the boot of the Granada so that he had immediate access to the loaded MP 5s. I could just make out that the PII<A man was carrying some light- cotoured object in his left hand, but it looked harmless, like a big envelope. He stopped a yard from us, and I spotted his right hand coming up. In a split second I had my torch beam on him, and saw that he too was holding a flashlight, which he switched on and shone into our faces, first mine, then Doughnut's, then Farrell's. There the beam stopped.
'So it is you, yer fuckin' wee cuntie,' he muttered in a quiet, menacing voice. 'Even better looking than usual, with that pout on yer.'
If Farrell had been free, I'm sure he'd have hit the guy. As t was, he just said, 'Holy Mary! It's Marty Malone.'
There was a moment's silence, as if both men were getting over the shock of seeing each other. Then Farrell said, 'Jaysus, but I never thought I'd see you this side of the water.'
'Maybe you didn't. But you've seen me now. Which of these turds is Geordie Sharp?'
'I am,' I said, 'and watch yourself.'
Tm watching, and I don't like what I'm seeing. So it's the mighty assassin I have before me is it? Here.' He held out the manila envelope. 'Take this. It contains your orders.'
'Orders for what?'
'You'll see. If you go murdering our allies overseas, it's only fair you do something for us in return.'
A shiver of alarm ran up my back, but I had the presence of mind to come straight out with, Tm not with you. What are you on about?'
'Come on! We know you've been abroad.'
'What d'you mean? I've been nowhere.'
'Oh no? Not even to north Africa.'
I shook my head.
'Libya?' queried the man in a horrible, taunting voice. 'Ajdabiya camp?'
'Sorry, mate. Your wires are crossed somewhere.
Those names mean nothing to me.'
The temptation to drop the guy was fearsome. From Farrell's reaction I knew he must be some big player.
We could smack him and his driver in about five seconds. But if we did, that would be the end of Tim and Tracy.
The man shone his torch in my face again and said, 'You wouldn't be lying to me, would you, Sergeant?'
'Listen, I told you. I've never heard those names. I don't know what the hell you're on about.'
'General al-Khadduri was very important to us. We didn't like losing him.'
'General who?'
'The man you shot.'
'Look,' I said, 'piss off, and stop all this rubbish. Now that you've seen your man, you'd better get going before the law arrives to break up the party.' I made a half-turn to the right and said to my lot, 'OK. Let's go.'
As we walked away, the PIRA guy stood looking after us until we were nearly at the car. Then he too turned and went back to his vehicle.
'Let them thin out first,' I told Stew. Internally, I was seething. Jesus Christ! an inner voice was shouting.
How in God's name did they find out about Libya? Or do they really know about it? Are they just guessing that the SAS was involved? Then suddenly I realised: it was Karen, that bitch of a policewoman, telling them I was abroad when they called. That's what they'd cottoned on to. They can't have any proof, I told myself, they've simply put two and two together… and made about ten.
The worst thing was that I couldn't utter a syllable of these violent thoughts, or Farrell would have been on to it in a flash. I just sat there in the dark with my mind racing as we waited for the opposition to clear. After a minute it became clear that they were doing just the same, and I said to Stew, 'Ah, luck it, let's go. Fast, as well. '
Our back tires spun on the cinders as he put in a scorching take-off. In a second we were through the gate and burning up the hill. Behind us I saw lights come on as the Peugeot also got going. From its speed down the yard, I reckoned the party was going to try and tail us.
'Take the first left you can!' I snapped. 'They're going to play funny buggers.'
Though not quite in the Whinger class, Stew was no slouch as a driver. Before the Peugeot had even gained the top of the hill and come into sight, he'd dived left- handed into a residential street, pulled into the kerb between two parked cars and doused his lights. Looking out through the rear window, we saw the Peugeot hurtle past along the main drag.
'Great!' I said. 'Now we can take it easy. Give it a minute, and we'll slide out the way we came.' Then, as though it were a casual afterthought, I added, 'What the hell was that guy on about — Libya and all that?'
'Ask me another,' said Stew.
'Any idea, Doughnut?'
'Not a clue.'
'Nor me. Sounds as if they lost a key player or something. Some Arab, by the name… whatever it was. Tell you what, I could do with something to eat.'
The too,' said Stew. 'There's a good few takeaways about. I was eye-bailing them on the way in.'
My mind was very much on the contents of the buff envelope, but instinct told me to play that down as well.
So for the time being I left the package on the floor behind my feet. Five minutes later, with no further manifestation of the red Peugeot, we drove back on to the highway, and at the fifty-seventh roundabout (or thereabouts) we found a Chinese takeaway still open.
Chicken and chips all round put us back in good heart; we ate sitting in a lay-by, and didn't hood Farrell up until we were ready to set off for home.
Then, as Stew pulled out on to the Cirencester road, I picked up the envelope and switched on the map- reading light to examine its contents. The first thing I saw was an Ordnance Survey map, a sheet of the 1:25,000 series, two and a half inches to the mile, covering part of the Chiltern Hills. Next I came on a page of what looked like instructions, typed in short, numbered paragraphs. Only when I unfolded it and looked at the head of the page did I realise that it was addressed to me. And when I read it, my breath seemed to lock up in my chest.
With the motion of the car and the feeble light, I couldn't take in every word. But the gist of the document was all too clear. Because I had been personally responsible for the murder of a leading financial supporter, it said, I was now ordered to carry out an operation for the IRA. To secure the release of my family, I not only had to hand Farrell over, I was also required to shoot the Prime Minister on the terrace of Chequers, his official country house in Buckinghamshire, on the morning of Thursday 2 June — two days' time. If I failed, the hostages would be killed and their weighted bodies would be dropped into the Thames.
I think we were nearly in Cirencester, a dozen miles down the road, before I fully took in what I was reading. The idea was so outrageous that at first I thought it was some grisly joke. Assassinate the Prime Minister? They couldn't be serious. Then I saw the notes that somebody had made after a recce of the park at Chequers, with bearings and distances, and details of the security arrangements protecting the house, and I realised that the plan was in deadly earnest.