Broad had told Sir Ian to read David Reece’s file on his way over so when he’d arrived, he wasn’t surprised to see Assistant Chief Constable Tom Wilson PSNI, a six-foot Ulsterman, fit for his sixty years and with a head of silver hair, was already there. He acknowledged Fraser’s arrival with a welcoming smile. Wilson headed up what used to be the Royal Ulster Constabulary Special Branch, now called the Crime Special Department of the PSNI.
They knew each other well, having worked together in Northern Ireland when Fraser was a Five Operator targeting the same terrorists as Wilson, and both men had a deep respect for the other.
‘Well, Tom, I know from our history such a request for an urgent meeting can only be for one of two reasons: something is going to blow up in my face, or the person involved needs my help.’
Fraser sat back in the chair at the top of the conference table and took a long sip of the whisky Broad had handed around.
Broad looked at Wilson. ‘When you phoned this morning, you said it involved David Reece, so we pulled his file. What’s it all about?’
Chapter Five
Liverpool John Lennon Airport
Every journey begins with a single step, and this journey started in the departure lounge of Liverpool’s John Lennon Airport. As usual, the Belfast bound flight was delayed, so he had time to carry out his favourite pastime – people watching. Since 9/11, terrorism was a worldwide sport, and he’d found his talents sought after.
Every nationality seemed to be milling about the departure area. Some he watched for a while, others he would pass over quickly as he worked out in his mind where they’d come from or where they were going. Most of the young people were booking on to flights to hotter climates; their clothes light and cool reflecting that their destination point wasn’t within the United Kingdom. Unfortunately, he wasn’t bound for a warmer climate.
While watching he began to feel he was also being watched. Every human has this hidden sense from the time we were running with the dinosaurs as a defence mechanism in times of danger. After years of specialist training and living with danger, this gift had been honed to perfection. In the modern world of mobile phones, too many people were losing this special skill. Instead engrossed in the small screens they missed so much in front of them, and unfortunately sometimes because of this the very killers in their midst.
Slowly, he looked around. As he did so, his mind began to break down each section of the room into individual sequences. Within a few seconds he could see the security CCTV camera that typically panned the concourse had stopped and was focussing in his direction. He was sure he was the target of its interest. As he had nothing on him of a sensitive or incriminating nature, he stared back, daring the people observing to show their hand, to show why they were interested. It didn’t take long. Two men in suits, both about thirty, walked towards him. Within seconds they were standing each side of him, the one to his right spoke.
‘Mr Reece, sorry to bother you. There’s an urgent telephone call for you in our office, if you would like to follow us?’
No identification had been offered; he didn’t need to see any, recognising the methods they were using from his own training, don’t bring attention to yourself unless you need to. His trained eyes landed on the slight filling out of their suits at waistband level; they were armed, so likely Special Branch officers.
The office they took him to was small but big enough for its needs. One of the men handed him the phone and when he said hello, he immediately recognised the voice on the other end.
‘Hello, David, I’m glad I caught you. I need you to get down to London asap.’ Hearing the voice of Jim Broad made him wary. He reminded Reece of Captain Mainwaring from the TV sitcom Dad’s Army; part bank manager, part soldier, looking after his kingdom and the people who worked for him. He demanded and received respect. Anyone who had taken the time to research Broad’s background would know he’d been there and got the T-shirt.
‘What’s the matter with my mobile phone?’
‘Security, dear boy.’
‘I’m on my way. I’ll have to get across to Manchester Airport as there’ll be a better chance of getting a flight there.’
‘Don’t worry about that, there’s a Puma helicopter on its way to you, should be there in fifteen minutes. It will bring you to the office at London City Airport and I’ll meet you here. See you in a couple of hours.’
With that, the line went dead, and he stared at the noiseless handset.
What the hell is going on? he thought.
As he settled into a seat behind the pilot and they headed over the English countryside following the contours of the M6 motorway hundreds of feet below, the memory of the last time he’d been in a Puma came flooding back.
He’d been travelling with an army search team over the snow-covered hills of South Armagh in the middle of the night five years before. Although he wore the uniform of a Sergeant in the Royal Ulster Constabulary, he usually worked in civilian clothes as an undercover officer. Later, when walking through the streets of Crossmaglen – a Provisional IRA stronghold – the uniform would give him the anonymity he needed to do his job. As they flew over Camlough Mountain, it seemed like they were flying upside down as the white, snow-covered land below looked like clouds in the moonlight except for the odd golden light flowing from the windows of the farmhouses dotting the landscape.
The operation involved them landing at the Crossmaglen Army police base then patrolling on foot
