Liberation Front terrorists who had seized a school coach containing thirty children aged between six and twelve. The marksmen had to wait over ten hours for a clear shot at all the terrorists at the same time. The only casualty was a little girl who was butchered by a sixth terrorist who boarded the bus after the shooting; he did not survive the subsequent storming of the vehicle by GIGN personnel.
‘We thought,’ Lacomte continued, with a smile, ‘that your SAS men might like to experience working with true professionals.’
It was after six when Richter and Herron emerged from the Ministry and climbed into the waiting car. Westwood waved a hand and walked away towards the avenue Gabriel. Back at the British Embassy, Herron looked through a sheaf of signals, including one from Stirling Lines – the signal address of the SAS Headquarters at Hereford – which he passed over to Richter. It confirmed that the unit requested would arrive no later than 2359 GMT that evening. No date, no place, no names. Typical SAS brevity.
At ten minutes to midnight there was a gentle double tap on the cabin door. Richter pushed everything into the briefcase and locked it, eased the Smith out of the shoulder rig and gently pulled the curtain away from a window. Outside was a white Transit van with ‘Uxbridge Vehicle Hire’ printed on the side and a handwritten sign in one of the windows advising any interested onlooker that the occupants belonged to the Rotary Club (Pinner, West London, Division). With the Smith held out of sight behind him, he unlocked and opened the door. Richter almost didn’t recognize him in his suit and tie, but Colin Dekker knew Richter instantly, despite the state of his face.
‘Paul Richter,’ he said. ‘I might have guessed.’
‘Come in, Colin,’ Richter replied.
Dekker stepped up into the cabin, and watched Richter put the Smith back in its holster. ‘This looks serious,’ he said. ‘You don’t normally carry a piece.’
‘I don’t and it is,’ Richter agreed. ‘Where are your men?’
‘Out there,’ he gestured with a thumb. ‘Making sure we aren’t disturbed or overheard. So what’s this all about? Nothing to do with British lamb and French farmers, I hope.’
‘Not exactly,’ Richter said. ‘We’re going to attack an armed road convoy and seize a nuclear weapon that the Russians are trying to deliver to London.’
‘Fuck a duck,’ Colin Dekker said, and sat down.
Chapter Twenty
Wednesday
Colin Redmond Dekker, Captain, Royal Artillery, and nearing the end of a three-year detachment as Commander, Troop 3, D Squadron, 22 Special Air Service Regiment, sat in an easy chair and watched a film of the Main Street Electrical Parade, with commentary in German, on the Disneyland Paris resort closed-circuit television system.
Richter put the kettle on and sat down opposite him. ‘You’d like a drink, I take it? What about your troop?’
‘Yes, thanks, and they would too,’ Colin Dekker said. ‘I’ll leave one man outside just in case, but I think we should be safe enough here.’ He opened the door, stepped outside and whistled softly. A figure approached silently, murmured to Dekker and then stepped inside. A second followed him. A third man approached, talked briefly to Dekker, then melted into the darkness. Colin Dekker walked back inside and stood beside the two newcomers. His stocky, compact figure looked smaller than Richter remembered, but it might just have been the contrast with the size of the other two men. ‘Introductions, I suppose. This is Trooper Smith, and that is Trooper Jones. As you can probably guess, the man outside is Trooper Brown.’
Richter nodded. Standard SAS procedure.
‘Troopers,’ Dekker began, ‘this gentleman is a member of Her Majesty’s Secret Service, but that’s a secret, so don’t tell anyone.’ The two men smiled politely but disinterestedly. ‘Before you both dismiss him as just another desk jockey with delusions of adequacy,’ Colin Dekker continued, ‘you should also know that he has been through the full course at Hereford, starting with the Battle Fitness Test and finishing with the Fan Dance.’
The Fan Dance is named after Pen-y-Fan, the highest peak in the Brecon Beacons. It’s a twenty-four- kilometre run over the Beacons. You start at the bottom of Pen-y-Fan, run up to the top of the mountain, down and around another mountain called the Crib and along a Roman road to the checkpoint at Torpanto. Then you turn round and do the whole thing again in reverse. The memory of it still gave Richter occasional nightmares.
‘He also spent some days on the range and a week in the Killing House, and his scores were easily good enough to get him into the Regiment.’
The Killing House at Hereford is the Close Quarter Battle training range. Its interior can be modified to simulate almost any environment, and it offers the most realistic combat environment possible, short of an actual firefight. The troopers were looking at Richter with a little more interest.
‘Whilst I am reluctant to break into this paean of praise,’ Richter interrupted, ‘we do have things to discuss. Oh, and for the duration of this operation, my name is Beatty, OK?’
The kettle boiled. Richter made coffee and handed round the mugs. Dekker flopped down again in his chair, took a sip and then put his mug on the table beside him. The two troopers sat side by side on the sofa, silent and watchful. ‘It’s been a very long day,’ Colin Dekker said, ‘and we nearly didn’t make it. We got the Flash activation signal from your Secret Squirrel outfit at just after fourteen forty, UK time. We sent the van on its way within twenty minutes, which was bloody good going, and then we sat down and worked out what we were going to need.’ He took another drink. ‘Drawing the gear and checking it took over two hours, then we had to sort out passports, money, Channel Tunnel tickets and all the other stuff, so we weren’t ready to get into the chopper until well after five.’
‘Where did you fly to?’ Richter asked.
‘Manston,’ Dekker said. ‘The van was waiting for us, so it was a quick blast down to Folkestone, hop into the Chunnel train and then explore the delights of the French autoroute system, which isn’t that bad, actually.’ He smiled at Richter. ‘I hope you’re impressed.’
‘By what?’ Richter asked.
‘By the fact that neither I nor Trooper Smith nor even Trooper Jones have asked what the hell we’re doing sitting in a log cabin in a wood at a holiday resort in France watching Disney cartoons at nearly one o’clock in the morning, while Trooper Brown wanders about outside guarding a van which contains enough ordnance to start a small war.’
‘Only a small war?’ Richter asked.
‘It’s only,’ Dekker replied, ‘a small van.’
‘It’s camouflage,’ Richter said. ‘Hopefully no one will think of looking for us here.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t look for you here,’ Dekker said, after a pause, ‘so you might be right. Who exactly do you think might want to find us?’
‘At the moment, only the SVR and the GRU, but if it all goes wrong tomorrow you can probably add the entire security apparatus of la belle France.’
Trooper Smith blinked once, but that was the only reaction Richter could detect. Colin Dekker swallowed the last of his drink and put down his mug. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘that you’d better tell us everything we need to know.’
Forty minutes later Richter folded up the map and put it back in his briefcase. Dekker looked at him thoughtfully, then turned to his men. ‘Trooper Smith can give us his recommendations before he goes out to relieve Trooper Brown. Your thoughts, John.’
The man called Smith looked at them both, then spoke softly and economically. ‘It doesn’t look difficult,’ he said. ‘The only problem is not knowing the actual opposition strength, but we can handle it.’ Looking at him, Richter thought he probably could.
Dekker nodded to him, and he left the cabin as silently as he had entered. Trooper Brown came in a minute
