Shepherd had memorised the layout of the Killing House by glancing at a hand-drawn map for less than five seconds. His memory gave him an advantage over the troopers he was with, but they spent up to three hours a day practising there and knew all of its permutations. The corridor they were in had three doors off it as well as the one they had just come through. There was a door at the end, facing them, another on the right three paces ahead and a third on the left a little further on.
Shepherd’s eyes were stinging from the cordite in the air and his ears were buzzing. They were using live ammunition and the floor had to be swept clear of dozens of empty cartridges after each scenario had been played through. They weren’t wearing gas masks because armed police were generally not permitted to use tear gas or thunderflashes, unlike the SAS who used pretty much any ordnance they needed to achieve their objective.
Shepherd flashed his light at the door on the right, then kicked it open and went in low to the right. Two troopers behind him followed, one to the left, one to the right, while the third stayed in the corridor. Lights flashed. There were two targets in the room, one sitting at a desk, the other standing in the far corner. ‘Armed police, drop your weapons!’ shouted Shepherd, as he pulled the trigger and sent three slugs thudding into the chest of the desk target, a diving suit filled with straw. MP5s ratt-tatt-tatted behind him and the target in the corner was hit in the chest and head.
More flashes to confirm that the room was clear, then back out into the corridor. The formation changed: this time Shepherd brought up the rear and waited in the corridor while the three troopers burst into the second room. There were three short bursts of fire. One target, another padded diving suit. The briefing had specified six targets and one hostage. That meant the hostage and three targets were in the last room.
Shepherd led the way down the corridor. He flashed his light at the door then went through, keeping low as he swept his MP5 around the room, stabbing at the light button. Flash, flash, flash. There were more flashes behind him. One hostage, four targets. The briefing had been flawed to catch them out, but the troopers with Shepherd were old hands and one snorted just before Shepherd yelled, ‘Armed police,’ and the firing started.
Bullets thudded into the four padded diving suits and within seconds it was over.
‘Clear,’ said Shepherd.
The hostage was sitting on a straight-backed wooden chair holding a transceiver. He spoke into it. ‘Lights,’ he said.
The overhead fluorescent bulbs flickered into life. Major Gannon surveyed the targets. ‘Not bad,’ he said. Like Shepherd and the three troopers, he was wearing black overalls and a Kevlar vest. ‘You might have given me a new parting, but I’m not bleeding so that’s a good sign.’
Shepherd smiled. None of the bullets had gone anywhere near the major. It was traditional for troopers to play the part of hostages in the Killing House. It demonstrated trust but it also gave them the chance to experience being under fire. The major had had more than enough experience of gunfire and that he had decided to sit in on Shepherd’s initial exercise was a better demonstration of his faith in Shepherd’s ability than any written evaluation.
‘It’s interesting without the night-vision gear,’ said Shepherd.
‘The cops aren’t trained in it,’ said the major. ‘Nine times out of ten they wouldn’t go into a no-light situation. Too risky.’
Shepherd had read the S019 manuals and it was clear that the police followed different procedures from the SAS. They went in hoping that the incident could be resolved without shots being fired. They identified themselves as armed police and would charge in shouting that the targets were to drop their weapons. They were only to fire if they were under attack or if civilian lives were at risk. The SAS went in as a last resort and went in hard. There was no shouted identification, no need to tell the bad guys to give up. They went in intending to shoot and kill. The chest and the head were the only targets. Double tap, triple tap, it didn’t matter: all that mattered was that the target went down and stayed down. If Shepherd stood a chance of being accepted as a member of an armed-response unit he’d have to forget most of what he’d learned as an SAS trooper.
There was a further problem, which Hargrove had made clear to him when he’d accepted the assignment: once an SO19 officer had fired his weapon he was immediately removed from firearms duty until the incident had been investigated. That could take months. If there had been a fatality, it could take years. If Shepherd fired his weapon, the undercover investigation would be over.
The major stood up and stretched. ‘Your marksmanship is spot on,’ he said. ‘Can’t fault you on that. But we’re going to have to slow your reaction time a bit.’ He grinned. ‘Crazy, I know, but at the moment you’re moving at twice the speed of a cop. You’re identifying yourself and firing at the same time and that’ll get you drummed out the first time it happens in the real world.’
Shepherd nodded.
‘On style, I’d keep your weapon high, stock to shoulder,’ said Gannon. ‘I know we fire from the hip, but the cops train that way. Generally they don’t go up against multiple targets so intimidation is the name of the game. They hope the bad guy will back down. Most armed cops go through their whole career without ever firing their gun in anger.’
‘Got it,’ said Shepherd.
‘What you just went through is as tough as it will get,’ said the major. He gestured to a small CCTV camera in the corner of the room. ‘We’ll review the tapes, then run through a few exercises, just to get you more in tune with the cop way of doing things.’
‘I appreciate it, Major.’
Gannon waved away his thanks. ‘It’s an interesting exercise,’ he said. ‘Like detuning a high-performance car. Come on, let’s get some fresh air while they’re getting the tapes ready.’
They walked away from the Killing House to the barracks memorial garden in front of the Regimental church. The SAS had moved from its old barracks in May 1999, and taken over the former RAF Cledenhill base. They had brought the Killing House with them and the clock tower from the old Stirling Lines barracks had been rebuilt in the garden. Engraved on it were the names of all the members of the SAS who had been killed in action.
‘You know there’s always a place for you here, Spider,’ said the major.
‘On the clock tower? Thanks a lot, but I don’t plan to shuffle off this mortal coil just yet.’
The major ignored his jibe. ‘With the Regiment,’ he said.
‘I’m a bit long in the tooth to be abseiling out of helicopters,’ said Shepherd.
‘You’re thirty-four. Hardly over the hill. And the Regiment could use you on the directing staff. We lost three instructors last month. They’re in Iraq pulling in two grand a week.’
‘I appreciate the offer, but I was never cut out to be an instructor. Besides, as a cop I can spend more time with my boy.’
‘An undercover cop?’ said Gannon. ‘That means being away for days at a time, maybe weeks, doesn’t it? If you come back to us you’d be based here and have most weekends off. House prices are a darn site cheaper than London, too. Your in-laws are still in this area, aren’t they?’
‘Born and bred,’ said Shepherd. ‘They’re taking care of Liam until I get my situation sorted. It’ll be okay.’
‘The offer stands,’ said the major. ‘You change your mind, let me know.’ They headed towards the administration block. ‘These rogue cops, aren’t they going to be suspicious when you turn up out of the blue?’ asked Gannon.
‘Alleged rogue cops,’ said Shepherd, with a smile. ‘That’s the thing about being a cop – we have to bother with things like proof and evidence.’
‘But presumably they wouldn’t be sending you in unless they were pretty damn sure.’
‘Like my boss says, knowing and proving are two different things. But my legend’ll be watertight.’
‘It had better be,’ said the major. ‘Bad cops with automatic weapons. Not a pleasant mix.’
‘I’ll be okay,’ said Shepherd.
Gannon slapped him on the back. ‘I don’t doubt it for one minute,’ he said.
The Saudi knew that he would be lucky one day. That was all he needed. One lucky day when Allah smiled on him. He’d been at university in London when the IRA had almost killed the then prime minister, Margaret Thatcher. They’d exploded a huge bomb in her Brighton hotel and she had been pulled from the rubble, shaken but alive. The Saudi had never forgotten what the IRA had said afterwards: Margaret Thatcher had been lucky, but she would have to be lucky for ever; they only had to be lucky once. The Saudi felt the same.
He had been unlucky three times already. He had planned the perfect operation in Manchester. Five men in Manchester United’s Old Trafford stadium all fitted with explosive vests, ready to blow themselves up shortly after
