store items for the most part, and a pair of worn cor dura hiking boots. From one of these an inexpensive Suunto compass trailed a para-cord lanyard.
On the slab, weighed down at each corner, was a good-quality photocopy of an architectural blueprint. The building in question was entitled Powys Court (Block 2), Oakley Street, London 5W3. A roll of similar blueprints lay to one side and a flash of the Maglite served to confirm that all related to the same building.
What was it that Dawn had said about Angela Fenwick's flat? A private block? In a gated estate? One of the most secure addresses in London?
Heart pounding, Alex scanned the place, felt through the modest pile of clothing. There was no sign of any weaponry -Meehan had it all with him. He tried thumbing Dawn's number on his mobile but couldn't get a signal.
Shit!
Racing up the steps, he hurriedly replaced the grille and the brass plate.
Moments later, pulling the crypt door shut behind him, he was running from the church towards the main gate. Meehan was about to move on Angela Fenwick he was sure of it.
He was over the gate in less than a minute and, having got well clear of the premises dialled Dawn again. This time he got a tone and she picked up immediately.
'Powys Court mean anything to you?'
'Yes, it's Angela's place. Why?'
'Meehan's got the architectural blueprint. He's probably there right now.'
'Where are you?'
'Couple of hundred yards beyond the entrance to the house there's a lay-by and a sign saying Chilford.'
'OK. Two minutes.'
Packing the night-vision goggles into the rucksack, he waited impatiently for the headlights of the Range Rover.
She was closer to five minutes.
'I've rung Angela,' she told him.
'Told her to get out.'
'And go where?'
'Safe house. She's agreed to stay there for the next twenty-four hours and surround the place with Special Branch people.'
'Can she get there without being followed?'
'She was on her way home from Downing Street. The driver will throw in every move in the book, make sure they're not followed.'
Alex looked dubious.
'Don't worry,' said Dawn.
'He's very good and very experienced. Ex-army, as it happens.'
'Go on.'
'She wants me up there soonest. I have to help her run things from the safe house.'
Alex nodded.
'And I'll stay down here. Sooner or later this is where he's going to come back to and when he does I'll be ready.'
'I'd have liked to stay with you.
'I could certainly have used an extra pair of eyes and ears,' said Alex, unloading the gear from the back of the Range Rover.
'Is that all I am to you?' she asked with a half-smile.
'A handful of body parts?'
'You know what I mean.'
'Have you got everything you need?'
Alex patted his smock pockets and checked the rucksack.
'Torches, lock-picks, Glock, ammo, night sights, knife, scoff, first aid, spare clothing, waterproofs, cam netting .. . Looks OK. To be on the safe side I might take the bike and some petrol. Don't like being without a vehicle. Oh, and some drinking water I'm not poisoning myself with that shite from the stream.'
He opened the back doors and collected a couple of bottles of water and the helmet, goggles and ten-litre fuel can that went with the motorcycle.
'Sure you'll be OK?' Dawn asked as he lifted the bike from the transportation frame on the back of the Range Rover and rolled it towards the pile of supplies.
'Yeah. He's not getting the drop on me twice, don't worry.
'Professional pride.' She smiled.
'Honour of the Regiment!'
'Something like that.'
She nodded.
'OK, then. Take care. And remind me about those stitches.'
'They can wait.'
She kissed him on his good cheek.
'So can I. Be careful, Captain Temple.'
'On your way, Harding,' he said, touching his hand to her hair.
He hid the bike in the woods opposite the entrance to Black Down and covered it with bracken and pine branches. The machine was an Austrian KTM 520cc EXC, and had been sprayed a matt khaki. The green plastic fuel can was full, and attachable to the rear of the seat by means of a rucksack and bungee cord. He left a helmet and pair of goggles attached to the handlebars. Then, shinning backwards and forwards over the steel barrier, he moved the rest of the kit into the grounds of Black Down House.
No cars passed. There had been traffic on the road earlier in the evening but now it seemed to have dried up. Crouching by one of the gate piers, he checked his watch. It was twenty minutes before midnight.
Quickly Alex considered his position. His target could arrive at any time, and the sooner he got himself out of sight and into position the better. But into which position Meehan was far too security-conscious simply to climb over the barrier each time he wanted to get into the property and might approach the church from any point along the half-mile or so of boundary fence.
But whichever direction the man was coming from, Alex knew it was to the church that Meehan would go.
He settled himself to wait. He had chosen a position in daylight in the long grass midway between the woods and the church. The Watchman would return tonight, he was sure.
This was the end game.
TWENTY- SIX.
As the night progressed the temperature fell. Dampness enclosed the Black Down estate, the waning moon clouded over and shortly after midnight the first drops fell. Within the hour the grass was bowed and the stream hissing with rain.
Alex tried to ignore the increasing cold and the sodden weight of his clothing. He was lying on uneven ground behind a fallen and rotting tree with the rucksack cached at his side. His face was blackened with cam-cream, long grass surrounded him and cam-netting covered his body. Rain streamed down the grip of the Glock 34. The rain would conceal him, but it would also conceal Meehan.
'Come on, you bastard,' he murmured.
'Come on.
He prayed that Meehan would return. Surely the man didn't have a place in London. London was a very tightly regulated city, it was next to impossible to sleep rough without some helpful cop or social worker directing you to the nearest shelter. And asking for your name. And having a bloody good look at you.
Nor would he be able to return to his Kilburn haunts. Irish London was far too dangerous a place for him to approach since MI-5 had spread the word that he'd been touting for them. Every Provo sympathiser would know his face, unless he'd had it altered beyond all recognition and that was a damn sight harder to do than was popularly supposed.
