rear carriage calling for all tickets to London. She produced hers and he stamped it and moved on. The last ticket he checked before stepping through to the next carriage was Brennan’s, who was seated where he could catch a glimpse of Kathryn if he leaned into the aisle.
As the ticket inspector disappeared through the connecting door Brennan had a quick check on Kathryn and then sat back and looked out of the window, hardly interested in the view, but it was better than staring at the back of the seat in front.
Brennan had mixed feelings about this sudden and unexpected field promotion. On the one hand he felt relief since he had feared he had lost favour with the War Council after the failure of his last operation, having not heard from them since the debriefing a week later. It was possible he was reading too much into it; perhaps there wasn’t a lot of work about - there had been long dry spells before - plus his buggered leg was likely another reason the phone hadn’t rang. Not that his leg was that bad. He had a bit of a limp and he might not be able to run as fast, but then he never ran anywhere anyway. Everyone knew it was not his style. Sprinting on a job showed bad planning in his books. If pursued, his MO was usually to fight, which was why he insisted on being well armed.
On the other hand, his new level of responsibility suggested that his role within the organisation had significantly altered and he wasn’t sure he liked the implication. He was nominally a gun for hire, not truly an official member of RIRA.
O’Farroll’s call had come out of the blue. Brennan’s role was to be one of considerable importance in the most bold and destructive operation RIRA had planned to date. In fact it was greater than anything the Provisional IRA and IRA had planned in their own histories.
The initial offer was a routine abduction and execution of a tout, Seamus. But after he arrived on the boat in Holland Brennan was told exactly what it was Seamus had acquired and that it was on board. He was shocked, although he didn’t show it. O’Farroll gave him the responsibility of escorting the weapon to its final destination. Brennan liked his mercenary status but being brought closer into the fold made it more difficult to discuss his financial compensation for operations. Next thing they would be expecting him to work for the cause rather than for the money. O’Farroll, the head of the War Council, had told Brennan he would be well looked after for his services but there had been no time to talk about money. Everyone had been so tense, what with the virus on board as well as the American, and uncharacteristically Brennan had agreed to take part in the operation before the financial side had been discussed. He had to figure out a tactful way of reminding the War Council that his position as a hired specialist was unchanged.
One would expect such a key assignment to be given to a senior officer. Asking Brennan to do it suggested it was highly dangerous, but it also meant the War Council trusted him greatly and regarded him more highly than he thought, and truthfully, more than he wanted. Then again, it was also possible that they were short of clean manpower, not that Brennan was exactly pristine, but that was better than clean and green.The only new and untarnished members of RIRA who were not on Special Branch’s suspect list were youngsters with no experience.
He had questioned the wisdom of having the American’s wife courier the virus into London. She did not know what was in the box, but she was not trained in awareness and reaction techniques and she would not take evasive action if the need occurred. O’Farroll’s reasoning was that there was something still to be gained if she was for some unexpected reason discovered. If, for instance, a RIRA member were busted carrying the virus it would go badly in all directions. But if she was discovered there was some positive publicity mileage to be had as the wife of the kidnapped American.
None of that mattered now anyway. She was on the train to the rendezvous and Brennan was her tail. He was curious about the character she was to hand the box over to. O’Farroll had revealed she was to be met by one of their people in Brit military intelligence. Brennan hadn’t known they had anyone that deep, although he’d heard the rumours about the famous mole. He’d always thought these to be nothing more than wild propaganda, but it seemed they were true after all.
Brennan decided to kill some time by calculating the value of the operation and how much money he should ask for. The deeper he got involved, the more he figured he was worth. There was a limit, of course. It would all depend on how it finished. That was surely going to be interesting no matter what.
Stratton sat at the open door of the helicopter, looking out at the countryside where it met the horizon. He had been trying to clear his mind of all the recent events, but without success. He could usually manage a crude form of meditation before an operation and found the cleansing helpful when it came to refocusing on the job. But this one was too complex. His focus was being divided. He knew he should be concentrating on the virus and Hank but all he could think about was the mole. Somewhere along the line his fixation had taken on a personal element. Perhaps it was because this traitor had been behind the attempted kidnapping of Spinks, one of Stratton’s team, and now Hank, who had been Stratton’s responsibility. Or perhaps it was because Stratton knew he had come close to the mole in Paris and that he should have got him. There was something about that day, a clue he’d missed that left him unsettled and frustrated. The answer had brushed past him, he was certain of that, and he hadn’t seen it. Stratton’s anger was fuelling a growing obsession with finding the mole.
Captain Singen tapped his shoulder and snapped him out of his thoughts.
‘It’s King’s Lynn,’ Singen said, wearing his communications headset and shouting close to Stratton’s ear over the noise of the engines and the wind. ‘The
‘Is she alongside?’
‘Been in port about two hours,’ Singen said. ‘Your lot from the NI detachment have already been diverted to Lynn. They’ll be there before us.They’ve been told to put it under immediate surveillance. We’re landing at Sandringham House. They’re laying on transport for us. The old girl isn’t home but she’s given us the okay.’
Stratton gave him the thumbs-up, dug his mobile phone out of his pocket, put in the earpiece and hit a memory code. Covering his ear he could just about hear the phone ringing.
Singen squatted to unzip a bag revealing dozens of neatly folded maps. He thumbed along them, occasionally lifting one partly out to check it before moving on to the next. He found what he was looking for and pulled out two of them. The first was an Ordnance Survey of King’s Lynn and the surrounding area. He found Lynn and then Sandringham a few miles to the north, then his eyes lost focus for a moment as his mind conjured up images of previous ship assaults.
This would be his fourth. The first had been an Iraqi merchantman during the Gulf War when he was a brand new, straight out of the box, operative, one month after he’d joined the SBS.The op had been quite basic since there had been no opposition but it was a fine introduction to the art. The second ship was a drug runner heading into UK waters from Africa.There were five armed couriers on board that one, but the teams had hit the boat so swiftly and quietly the two on the bridge didn’t know about it until the lads came crashing through, and the other three were asleep in their bunks. Not a shot was fired. The most notable point of that op was the strong smell of shit and urine immediately after the couriers were held at gunpoint. It was not unusual: the experience of a team of highly aggressive, swift and powerful men dressed from head to toe in heavy black fireproof material, armed to the teeth, with chest harnesses bristling with all kinds of weaponry and sophisticated devices was enough to make anyone crap themselves.
The most memorable assault was the last one he’d done, off the Colombian coast. There had been eleven armed, mostly South American, drug couriers on that one. The two men on deck, wide awake at one in the morning, had spotted the teams in their assault craft before they had actually reached the side of the ship. The couriers were either high on their own merchandise, or they were more frightened of what their bosses would do to them if they did not put up a fight, because they went immediately on the offensive with their selection of sub-machine-guns and assault rifles. Singen’s team bagged three but unfortunately, because he was in the tail pair and his team were the back-up assault wave, he did not personally have the opportunity of a hit himself. Six couriers were killed and four seriously wounded within three minutes, which was as long as it took to secure the boat once on board. The only injury among the teams was a creased arm from a ricochet. That had been a good day’s work.
But this boat was going to be tactically different. It was static alongside, which meant the first phase would be as if for a building. In theory it should be much easier, and normally Singen’s concerns would be only along the lines of the overall success of the operation since, being an officer, he would never take point on the assault and so his chances of taking a hit were similar to those for him getting a kill. But this bio thing was a different story. This was a first for everyone. They were going into the record books once again, but he wondered how it would read this time. It had to be treated like any other ship assault and they would just have to hope to God luck was on their side
