Pennywhistle the other night.'
Hawke said, 'He's certainly capable of that. Panic, I mean.'
Ambrose said, 'Or it was premeditated. He gives us the 'secret' location of this Barking Dog Inn. Claims it's an IRA safe house. And they bloody well lay a trap for us. Here. Tonight.'
'Why forfeit the money? A big sum. He hasn't collected it yet.'
'Bulldog, we sent him to prison for twenty years. Innocent, he says. He wants revenge. And this place seems too-undisturbed-it doesn't feel right.'
Hawke surprised Congreve by readily agreeing with him. He reached into his rucksack and pulled out a lightweight 9mm Heckler & Koch machine gun with a folding stock. He also retrieved a pair of night-vision goggles and hung them by the strap around his neck.
'I think you make a strong point, Constable. This is an ideal setup for an ambush. Isolated. Rigged with IEDs for all we know. I say we take cover in the underbrush on that ledge overlooking the house. It's going to be spitting rain shortly and we'll have good protection under those trees overhead. We'll sit tight, give it an hour or so. If nothing happens, we'll climb back up the hill to the Land Rover.'
'And if something happens?' Drummond said.
'No action. We'll take note of it. Assess the situation. Then come back with a good deal more firepower and manpower. I can arrange for a British Army tactical unit to accompany us.'
'Excellent idea,' Congreve said, much relieved, wrapping his waxed Barbour jacket tight around his body. 'Rain's coming. Let's get moving.'
Nearly an hour later, wet and hungry, they heard the rattle of a laboring engine. They saw a misty pair of doused headlights spiking through the trees lining the old cart track. A few moments later an ancient truck came to a halt at the front gate of the Barking Dog Inn. The engine was switched off, then the headlamps.
Two men, one thickset, both armed with short, stubby machine guns, climbed out of the cab and did a quick surveillance of the road and the immediate area around the house. They were dressed in black with balaclavas over their heads. Satisfied they were unobserved, one of them went to the rear of the truck and unlocked and lifted the canvas flap.
The other entered the house, and soon lights could be seen through cracks in the shutters, upstairs and down.
Six men emerged from beneath the tarp at the rear. All armed and wearing camo from head to foot, they dropped to the muddy ground. Men still inside the truck began offloading wooden crates, heavy enough to require two men to carry. The rain was pouring now, and they slogged their way up the front walk, getting whatever equipment they had out of the weather as quickly as possible.
When the job was completed, the two men in black left the six others behind inside the house and climbed back up into the cab. The old truck started up and rumbled away, back toward the river and the bridge. It was clearly an important delivery, Hawke saw, but a delivery of what?
'Seen enough, gents?' Hawke asked, pushing the NVG goggles up on his forehead.
'Indeed,' Congreve said. 'Let's get back up to the road as quickly as possible. They may well send sentries out. I would.'
At that moment, two men emerged from the shadows at the rear of the house, both obviously carrying automatic weapons. They separated instantly, one heading toward the river, the other heading for the hillside where the three spies crouched in the undergrowth a hundred feet above.
'Move out,' Hawke whispered.
Half an hour later, all three were safe and warm inside a late-model black Range Rover, Drummond at the wheel. He had 'requisitioned' the vehicle from the Knight of Glin. They were speeding down a twisting snake of narrow road, hemmed in by tall hedge-rows, headed back to the town and the small establishment where they were boarding.
'Nice car,' Congreve said as they sped along through the thick countryside. 'How long have we got the use of it?'
'The Knight's got a bloody fleet of them,' Drummond told Ambrose. 'He'd hardly miss just one for a few days.'
Hawke said, 'Bulldog, when we get to town, if you don't mind dropping me at the British Army HQ, I'll have a word with my contact there, after speaking with Sahira Karim at MI5. Tell them about what we've seen. Prepare a plan of action. I should be back in the pub for a pint and a bite to eat at nine.'
THE BRITISH ARMY SENT THREE scouts and a sniper out to the safe house that very evening. After a wet, sleepless night, they'd been lying concealed in the woods all day long. IRA soldiers in camo and balaclavas had been coming and going since daybreak. More trucks had arrived, delivering what looked to be heavy weapons.
At the army HQ, an assault unit spent the day arming and preparing plans for an attack on the safe house. It would occur in the predawn hours of the following morning. The Regiment had conducted six tours in Northern Ireland over the years, taking heavy casualties in Derry and in the terrorist-plagued countryside of South Armagh.
Then came the Good Friday peace accords and the violence was finally and mercifully quelled.
But this new enemy had tired of peace recently and wanted war. These battle-tested army soldiers were more than prepared to give it to them. Their mission was to take out the leadership of the New IRA before they were able to ignite a new cycle of violence.
IT WAS NOW NEARLY THREE o'clock in the morning. Pitch-black, no moon, no stars. The house, which was dark, was completely surrounded by a team of elite British Army soldiers. When Hawke first arrived, he learned that mortars had been placed on the hillside above the house. Hawke, with the backing of MI5, had convinced the commanding officer not to use them. He argued that there might well be valuable intelligence, laptops, maps, and so on, located inside and to risk destroying such cache was unwise.
One hour before daybreak, at 0457, the British commando attack would commence. The troops would storm the house. It was estimated that there were at least twenty heavily armed men inside. Some of the crates off- loaded from the trucks had been identified as containing Russian-made RPGs, rocket-propelled grenades, and mortar rounds.
HAWKE HAD A DIFFICULT TIME with Congreve and Drummond. Both men had to be persuaded to remain up on the same bluff overlooking the house where they'd spent a cold damp hour the evening before. They wanted front-row seats and were determined to get them.
'I knew I should have left you two in town,' Hawke finally said in frustration. 'Damn it, you're both being completely unreasonable. And, frankly, unprofessional.'
'This is our fight too,' Congreve said, slipping his hand into the pocket of his tweed jacket and feeling the butt of his small Walther.380. 'We don't want to be stuck up here on the hill in the cheap seats. Especially since you're going to be down there in the thick of it.'
'This is not even remotely your fight, Ambrose,' Hawke said. 'And, frankly, I can't even believe we're having this discussion. This is a fight for a commando team. Highly trained professionals. Men who actually do this for a living. They wear Kevlar, not tweeds, to a firefight. They are using weapons you wouldn't know how to load, much less aim and fire. A lot of those boys down there are battle-tested veterans of Iraq, men who've done house-to-house fighting in places like Basra and Fallujah, under the worst possible conditions.'
Congreve was silent, chewing on the stem of his pipe, keeping his own counsel. Finally, he looked at Hawke and spoke.
'And yet you yourself are going to participate.'
'No, I am most likely not. Not at this point, at any rate.'
'You're certainly dressed and armed for it.'
'I'm simply prepared should I get the chance. I am trained to do this. If I can be of help, I will. You will recall my solemn promise to the Prince of Wales about finding his godfather's murderer. He may well be inside that very house.'
'My apologies, Alex. Silly idea of mine. No one is any better than you at this type of warfare. You certainly should not be wasted sitting up here and watching the whole shooting match with Bulldog and me.'
'No, I should not. But unless someone thinks I can help, I'm unfortunately going to be in the armored personnel carrier with the commanding officer. A fate worse than death from what little I know of the man.'
'Who is he?' Drummond asked. 'I've dealt with most of 'em over the years.'
