The Exit Club: Book 4: Conspirators Read online

  Pearson was already on the radio, calling for backup from a QRF, when Taff clambered over the joists to press his back against the brick wall, raise his knees, and aim his 9-Milly two-handed at the trapdoor of the adjoining loft, his blue eyes bright with the murderous light that Marty had seen so often. Turning away, Marty helped TT to dismantle and repack the valuable audiovisual surveillance equipment. As he did so, he heard footsteps coming up the stairs, then the whispering of men on the landing directly below the trapdoor. Something clattered and then squeaked – obviously a stepladder. Taff released the safety catch of his 9-Milly and held the handgun steady, waiting for the first PIRA man to appear.

  As Marty and TT continued dismantling the surveillance equipment, placing the separate pieces in reinforced canvas carriers, Pearson finished relaying his message to the RUC station where the QRF was located, then switched the set off and slithered sideways to glance down through the peephole.

  ‘A lot of neighbours coming out of their houses to see what’s happening,’ he said, speaking over his shoulder. ‘Apart from that, nothing.’ He withdrew his 9-Milly from its cross-draw position and aimed it at the trapdoor in the adjoining loft, preparing not only to give covering fire to Taff, but to stay near the peephole and keep alert for the arrival of the badly needed QRF.

  Something banged against the wall just below the trapdoor – obviously a stepladder being placed in position – then it made a muffled drumming sound and someone clambered up it. The trapdoor squeaked and shook a little, then it was pushed open, slamming back onto the joists with dust curling over the outspread fingers of the hand that had pushed it. A man’s face appeared, his eyes too wide as they adjusted to the sudden gloom, then his second hand appeared, holding a Webley pistol, its barrel wavering uncertainly as he tried to take aim.

  ‘Halt!’ Taff bawled, obeying the letter of the law by giving a formal warning before he opened fire. ‘Security forces!’

  The man took no notice. A single shot from his pistol reverberated around the loft and the bullet ricocheted off the wall high above Taff’s blond head. The man was firing wild and blind, but that made him no less dangerous, so Taff returned the fire with a double tap. It resounded like a thunderclap in the loft’s confined space. The man’s head turned into a mess of spurting blood, torn flesh and shattered bones. He screamed, dropped his pistol, then fell away from the trapdoor, knocking the stepladder over as he crashed to the floor below. The other men down there cursed and bellowed instructions at one another, then a fusillade of pistol fire shot straight up through the ceiling, turning the floor of the loft into a convulsion of flying wood splinters, smashed asbestos and spitting white dust.

  After pressing himself into the wall and inching his way around it until he was closer to the trapdoor, Taff leaned forward and emptied the rest of his thirteenround magazine, aiming down through the trapdoor. There were more shouts and screams. Satisfied, he pressed himself back against the wall and reloaded with a full magazine as the anticipated volley of return fire came from below, with the bullets smashing up through the floor in more spewing dust, asbestos and wood splinters to ricochet off the roof above his head.

  Even as Taff leaned forward to shoot down through Even as Taff leaned forward to shoot down through Milly in one hand and a G60 stun grenade in the other. When he reached the trapdoor, he pulled the pin, dropped the grenade down through the hole, then threw himself back just as more shots were fired up through the ceiling. Dust and wood splinters were still spitting upward from the floor of the loft when the stun grenade exploded below with a loud bang and a blinding flash. This put an immediate stop to the gunfire, causing the temporarily blinded PIRA team to groan and curse volubly. Before the terrorists could recover from the shock, TT had shuffled forward again, even closer to the trapdoor, with another grenade in his hand.

  ‘Smoke grenade,’ he whispered.

  Taff glanced at Marty and Corporal Pearson as TT pulled the pin of the smoke grenade and dropped it through the hole. Exploding a second later, the grenade filled the landing below with smoke, making everyone down there choke and cough, even before it drifted up into the loft. Seeing what was happening and catching Taff’s urgent glance, Marty, who had just packed the last item of surveillance equipment into a carrier, nodded and reached down to another canvas bag, withdrawing four SF10 respirators. When he and the others had put them on to protect themselves from the smoke, which contained elements of burning CS gas, Marty went to the peephole, looked down on the street below, then stuck his thumb up in the air, indicating that the SF quick reaction force had arrived.

  Still wearing his respirator, and with his 9-Milly ready to be fired single-handed, Marty moved forward to the trapdoor hole and looked down onto the smokefilled landing. The steel stepladder was lying on its side where it had fallen, but otherwise the landing was empty. From the ground floor he could hear the hysterical babble of a woman – obviously the dead tout’s wife – and more cursing and coughing from the remaining PIRA men.

  Going first as PC, Marty dropped down through the trapdoor hole, landing on his feet on the lino-covered floor just as gunshots were fired out in the street. He moved quickly along the landing, holding the 9-Milly two-handed, kicking the two bedroom doors open, one after the other, and turned into the rooms, preparing to fire.

  Both bedrooms were empty.

  As Taff dropped down onto the landing behind him, also wearing his respirator and holding his 9-Milly twohanded, Marty hurried on down the stairs to the short hallway with the front door of the house at one end, a living room to the side. Finn Riley was lying flat on his back on the floor of the hallway, his shattered head pouring blood from a gaping bullet hole. Ignoring him, still preparing to fire, Marty tentatively entered the living room to his right. The room was empty, though filled with smoke and CS gas. He then checked the kitchen and back door. The back door was locked. Satisfied that the whole house was empty, he hurried out to the hallway, just as the fearless Taff was pressing himself against the wall, his 9-Milly still held twohanded, to stick his head tentatively around the door frame and look into the street where more gunshots were being fired.

  Taff disappeared outside. Stepping over Riley’s dead body, Marty followed Taff out, dropping low as he did so, swinging the 9-Milly from left to right, covering a wide arc. Women screamed and men shouted as the onlookers scattered. One woman was coughing and wiping her streaming eyes with a handkerchief, a man was squatting on the pavement with blood soaking his head and shoulders – the results, so Marty surmised, of Taff’s blind shots down through the trapdoor hole – and a QRF team composed of British soldiers and RUC officers, all wearing flak jackets and holding assault rifles and truncheons, were jumping out of Saracen armoured cars to take command of the street.

  Two other QRF teams had also arrived. One, consisting entirely of British Army troops, was rushing into Riley’s house to help TT and Corporal Pearson carry out their kit and equipment as quickly, as securely, as possible. The other, composed of flakjacketed RUC officers, was returning the gunfire of two PIRA men who were covering Jack Flagherty as he dived into the back of his car. One of the PIRA men managed to get into the car, also, but the second was cut down as the car roared off along the street and disappeared around the far corner.

  As the dead PIRA gunman was lifted off the road by two RUC officers, some watching women screamed abuse and the men – mostly youths, including some known dickers – started throwing stones, empty bottles and Molotov cocktails that exploded into yellow flames and black smoke. Seconds later, an armoured pig came along the road to disgorge special British Army riotcontrol troops. Wearing flak jackets, Perspex-visored helmets and reinforced arm-and-leg pads, they charged the crowd while holding up black shields and swinging their truncheons.

  Again shocked by what he was seeing, still scarcely able to accept that this was happening on British soil, Marty tugged the respirator off his face, letting it hang loose below his chin. Standing beside him, Taff did the same, then p
atted his dust-filled blond hair with fingers equally dirty.

  ‘They found out about Riley,’ he said. ‘That’s what led them to us.’

  ‘I reckon,’ Marty responded, still shocked and outraged by what was happening. ‘Now let’s hold the doorway of his house until the others come down.’

  Together they backed up to the front door ofRiley’s house. There they stood guard, their handguns at the ready, while angry youths threw stones and bottles at the shields of the riot-control troops, who were breaking up to swarm through the crowd and attack individuals. Minutes later, even as the street battle continued to rage, the QRF troops who had rushed into Riley’s house came out again, this time forming a protective circle around TT and Corporal Pearson, both carrying the packed-up surveillance equipment, as were some of the soldiers.

  When TT and Pearson had been rushed to a waiting Saracen, Marty and Taff left the doorway, hurried across the road, ducking the flying debris, and clambered up into the same vehicle. The doors were slammed shut by one of the soldiers, then the armoured car moved off, leaving the QRF teams and riot-control soldiers to contain the continuing street violence. The Saracen was stoned as it turned out of the street and headed back to Bessbrook.

  ‘What a bloody nightmare!’ Marty exclaimed, releasing his anger. ‘What the hell are we doing here?’

  No one bothered to answer.

  Chapter Eight

  It was close to midnight when Marty, Taff, TT and Corporal Alan Pearson were driven out of Bessbrook in a dark-blue Hiace van to set up a second covert OP overlooking Jack Flagherty’s converted farmhouse in the ‘bandit country’ of South Armagh. Though normally the covert OPs were manned and resupped by helicopter, this one would be left alone during its existence and was being set up in strict secrecy. The Hiace van was, therefore, being driven by a British Army REME corporal in civilian clothes, guarded by a crack marksman of the maroon machine, a hefty man, also wearing civilian clothes. The OP’s SAS team, on the other hand, were wearing DPM windproof clothing, Danner boots with Gore-tex lining, and soft, peaked, camouflaged combat caps. The exposed parts of their faces, necks and hands were smeared with stick camouflage, suitable for blending in with the local foliage.

  Stopped repeatedly by British Army road blocks, the men in the van had to show their ID cards, which in this case were genuine. They were always then allowed to proceed. Nevertheless, the many stops slowed them down considerably and it was just after two in the morning when they finally reached their destination.

  Flaghert y’s converted farmhouse was in rolling farmlands surrounded by hills high enough to afford a glimpse of Carlingford Lough and the Irish Sea. The REME corporal parked the van and killed his headlights in a pitch-black winding lane, then the men hurriedly jumped out and unloaded their equipment, guarded by the big paratrooper. No one said a word.

  When the unloading was completed, the four SAS men strapped on their heavily laden Bergens, distributed the rest of the equipment between them, then clambered over a wire fence to commence the long hike up a dark, windblown hill. As they did so, the REME driver, still protected by the paratrooper, turned the van around and headed back to Bessbrook.

  The men hiking up the grassy slopes were heavily burdened indeed, with packed Bergens weighing over twenty kilos and the rest of their weapons, ammunition, equipment, water and rations either attached to their webbing or carried by hand to form an even greater burden. The weapons included a GPMG, a couple of Lee-Enfield bolt-action sniper rifles with starlight scopes, M16 assault rifles with grenade-launchers, and two 5.56mm Colt Commando semi-automatics with thirty-round box magazines. As the equipment included various surveillance systems and recording machines, as well as a PRC 319 radio, it was a daunting load to carry for any distance.

  Following Marty’s hand signals, the men advanced up the hill in a well-spaced line. Marty was out front as point man, TT and Corporal Pearson were in the middle to cover both flanks, and Taff was bringing up the rear as Tail-end Charlie.

  Hiking silently across the dark fields, keeping his eyes peeled for any unnatural movement, Marty could not help thinking about what had led to the rumbling of the urban OP and the dreadful consequences of its discovery by the IRA. Unfortunately, though the British Army in the shape of the 14th Intelligence Company had been largely responsible for it, the SAS had not come out of it well either.

  The whole damned business had obviously been started by that big-timer, Captain Marsden, when he assassinated Seamus O’Sullivan, arousing the wrath of the IRA. A sentence of death had been placed upon Marsden and Jack Flagherty’s PIRA wing was ordered to carry it out. This matter was only made worse when Colonel LeBlanc of the 14th Intelligence Company, though angry with Marsden, encouraged him to virtually blackmail his tout, Finn Riley, into letting the company use his loft for an SAS OP, even knowing that to do so would put Riley, and possibly others, in great danger. That was not, to Marty’s way of thinking, an honourable way to operate and in the event what he had feared had come to pass.

  Grandstanding as always, Captain Marsden had determined to neutralize Jack Flagherty before Flagherty could get to him. Breaking every rule in the book, Marsden donned civilian clothing, armed himself with a hidden Browning High Power handgun, and drove to a pub in South Armagh, known to be frequented by Flagherty. Trying to pass himself off as an Irishman, Marsden did not fool anyone and was captured by Jack Flagherty and his PIRA team who, alerted by some of the customers, were waiting for him when he left the pub. According to LeBlanc’s tout, he was badly beaten, then driven to an empty country cottage where he was tortured for hours, including getting a six-pack: bullets through the knees, ankles and elbows.

  Though it was to his credit that he did not talk, he had compounded his initial stupidity by embarking on his search for Flagherty while still carrying his real identification and, even more damaging, a small notebook containing the names and telephone numbers of his tout, Finn Riley, and the woman he had thought was his girlfriend. When Flagherty and his gang then visited the supposed girlfriend, she talked under torture, confessing that Riley had let the SAS set up an OP in his loft in return for protection, a false identity and a new life in Australia. When the supposed girlfriend had talked, she was shot. A notebook found in her possession then led Flagherty and his gang on an orgy of revenge killings against all those connected to her and Riley. Finally, Flagherty and his gang went back to their own street, reloaded their weapons in Flagherty’s place, then crossed the road to Riley’s house, where they shot him and attacked the loft OP.

  Fleeing when the SF QRF arrived to give back-up to the OP, Flagherty was now on the run. Though eventually he would head across the border, it was believed by Lieutenant-Colonel LeBlanc that he was hiding in the vicinity of his converted farmhouse in South Armagh and would return there, at least temporarily, to rescue valuable PIRA documentation and also ensure that the weapons and ammunition being stored there were moved on to another safe place.

  Marty’s task, LeBlanc had said, was to recce the farmhouse from a rural OP and neutralize Flagherty or his cohorts when he or they materialized. When Marty queried the word ‘neutralize’ in this context, he was informed that he was dealing with dangerous men and that while a shoot-to-kill policy was not actually in force, to shoot in order to wound would be, in this instance, counterproductive and could lead to tragedy for his own men.

  Knowing that he was being ordered to assassinate Flagherty and, if they also showed up, his men, Marty was outraged and said, ‘This isn’t the way we do things in the SAS.’

  ‘You may be in the SAS,’ LeBlanc replied, ‘but right now you’re attached to the 14th Intelligence Company and under my personal command. So you’ll do as you’re bloody well told – and that means neutralization. You understand, StaffSergeant?’

  ‘I think so,’ Marty said. Now, feeling disgusted by the sordid machinations of LeBlanc, but still determined to perform his task the way he saw it, which could mean capturing Flagherty instead of killing hi
m, Marty led his team to the OP by a zigzagging route that took in a series of predesignated RVs, or rendezvous points: the gate of a fence, a copse of trees, a certain hill. Though this took up more time, it was a vital part of their ambush-avoidance tactics. Eventually, however, after a final rendezvous, or FRV, during which they checked the map with the aid of a pencil-torch, they arrived at the location chosen for the OP. This was the windblown summit of a hill offering a glimpse of the lough and sea on one side and, on the other, an unobstructed view of Flagherty’s house – necessary not only for eyeball recces, but for the lineof-sight path required for the STG laser surveillance system. The location had also been chosen because it was on the direct line of a hedgerow that snaked over the crest of the hill and could be used as the protective wall of the OP.

  ‘Right,’ Marty said, speaking for the first time as he lowered his heavy load to the ground. ‘This is the place.’

  The clouds were low and patchy, showing stars between, and moonlight made strips of sea glitter in the distance. The wind was strong and cold, howling eerily across the fields, and frost glinted here and there on the grassy ground.

  While the other men sorted out their kit, Corporal Pearson used the radio to establish communications with the base at Bessbrook, using short-burst transmissions. Having confirmed that the OP had ‘comms’, or communications, from this location, Marty took guard and radio watch, leaving the experienced Taff and TT, with the help of Pearson, to prepare the OP.

  While it was unlikely that they would be seen by enemy aircraft, of which there were none, it was possible that a British Army helicopter crew, not knowing of the SAS mission, would mistake them for a PIRA murder squad. For this reason, the first thing they did was put up a hessian screen, with a poncho and camouflage net for overhead cover, supported on wooden stakes, looped at one end over the hedgerow, and held down with iron pickets and rope.