asked.
‘When you feel that your life is endangered and there’s no time to make your escape.’
‘Do we shoot to kill?’ ‘Baby Face’ asked.
‘Shooting to wound is a risky endeavour that rarely stops a potential assassin,’ Lieutenant Cranfield put in. ‘You shoot to stop the man coming at you, which means you can’t take any chances. Your aim is to down him.’
‘Which means the heart.’
‘Yes, Trooper.’
‘Is there actually a shoot-to-kill policy?’ Ricketts asked.
Captain Dubois smiled tightly. ‘Categorically not. Let’s say, instead, that there’s a contingency policy which covers a fairly broad range of options. I should remind you, however, that the IRA don’t always display our restraint. London’s policy of minimum fire-power, rejecting the use of ground- or air-launched missiles, mines, heavy machine-guns and armour, has contained the casualty figures to a level which no other government fighting a terrorist movement has been able to match. On the other hand, the Provisional IRA alone presently has at least 1200 active members and they’ve been well equipped by American sympathizers with a few hundred fully automatic 5.6mm Armalites and 7.62mm M60 machine-guns, as well as heavier weapons, such as the Russian-made RPG 7 short-range anti-tank weapon with rocket-propelled grenades. So let’s say we have reasonable cause to believe in reasonable force.’
‘Does reasonable force include the taking out of former IRA commanders?’ Sergeant ‘Dead-eye Dick’ Parker asked abruptly.
‘Pardon?’ Dubois asked, looking as shocked as Cranfield suddenly felt.
‘I’m referring to the fact that a few days ago a former IRA commander, Shaun O’Halloran, was taken out by an unknown assassin, or assassins, while sitting in his own home in the Irish Republic.’
Already knowing that his assassination of O’Halloran had rocked the intelligence community, as well as outraging the IRA, but not aware before now that it had travelled all the way back to Hereford, Cranfield glanced at Dubois, took note of his flushed cheeks, and decided to go on the attack.
‘Are you suggesting that the SAS or 14 Intelligence Company had something to do with that?’ he addressed Parker, feigning disbelief.
Parker, however, was not intimidated. ‘I’m not suggesting anything, boss,’ he replied in his soft-voiced manner. ‘I’m merely asking if such an act would be included under reasonable force?’
‘No,’ Captain Dubois intervened, trying to gather his wits together and take control of the situation. ‘I deny that categorically. And as you said, the assassin was unknown.’
‘The IRA are claiming it was the work of the SAS.’
‘The IRA blame us for a lot of things,’ Cranfield put in, aware that Parker was not a man to fool with.
‘Is it true,’ Ricketts asked, ‘that they also blame the SAS for certain actions taken by 14 Intelligence Company?’
When he saw Dubois glance uneasily at him, Cranfield deliberately covered his own temporary nervousness by smiling as casually as possible at Ricketts, who was, he knew, as formidable a soldier as Parker. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that’s true. It’s a natural mistake to make. They know we’re involved in surveillance, so that makes us suspect.’
‘Who do you think was responsible for the assassination of O’Halloran?’
The questioner was Sergeant Parker again, studying Dubois with his steady, emotionless gaze. Dubois reddened and became more visibly flustered until rescued by Cranfield, who said: ‘O’Halloran’s assassination wasn’t in keeping with the psychological tactics employed by the Regiment in Malaya and Oman. More likely, then, it was committed by one of the paramilitary groups – possibly even the product of internal conflict between warring IRA factions. It certainly wasn’t an example of what the SAS – or 14 Intelligence Company – means by “reasonable force”.’
‘But the IRA,’ Parker went on in his quietly relentless way, ‘have hinted that O’Halloran may have been involved with a British army undercover agent, Corporal Phillips, who recently committed suicide for unexplained reasons.’
‘Corporal Phillips is believed to have been under considerable stress,’ Captain Dubois put in quickly, ‘which is not unusual in this line of business. May we go on?’
Sergeant Parker stared hard at the officer, but said no more.
‘Good,’ Dubois went on, determined to kill the subject. ‘Perhaps I should point out, regarding this, that while occasionally we may have to resort to physical force, only one in seven of the 1800 people killed in the Province have died at the hands of the security forces, which total around 30,000 men and women at any given time. I think that justifies our use of the phrase “reasonable force”.’
Dubois glanced at Lieutenant Cranfield, who stepped forward again.
‘We have it on the best of authority that the British government is about to abandon the special category status that’s allowed convicted terrorists rights not enjoyed by prisoners anywhere else in the United Kingdom. Under the new rules, loyalist and republican terrorists in the newly built H-blocks at the Maze Prison will be treated as ordinary felons. The drill parades and other paramilitary trappings that have been permitted in internment camps will no longer be allowed. This is bound to become a major issue in the nationalist community and increase the activities of the IRA. For that reason, I would ask you to remember this. In the past two decades the IRA have killed about 1800 people, including over a hundred citizens of the British mainland, about eight hundred locals, nearly three hundred policemen and 635 soldiers. Make sure you don’t personally add to that number.’
He waited until his words had sunk in, then nodded at Captain Dubois.
‘Please make your way to the motor pool,’ Dubois told the men. ‘There you’ll find a list containing the name of your driver and the number of your Q car. Your first patrol will be tomorrow morning, just after first light. Be careful. Good luck.’
Still holding their manila folders in their hands, the men filed out of the briefing room, leaving Captain Dubois and Lieutenant Cranfield alone. When the last of the SAS troopers and Sergeant Lovelock had left, Dubois removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped sweat from his forehead.
‘That was close,’ he said. ‘Damn it, Cranfield, I knew we shouldn’t have done it.’
‘Small potatoes,’ Cranfield replied, though he didn’t feel as confident as he sounded. ‘The Irish eat lots of those.’
They left the camp at dawn, driving out through the high, corrugated-iron gates, between the two heavily reinforced sangars and, just beyond them, on both sides, the perimeter lights and coils of barbed wire. The gates whined electronically as they opened and shut. The car’s exit, Martin knew, was being observed and noted by the guard in the operations room via the closed-circuit TV camera. Even before the gates had closed behind the car, the driver was turning into the narrow country road that would take them on the picturesque, winding, five-mile journey through the morning mist to the M1.
Martin had been very impressed with the previous day’s briefing and now, sitting in the rear seat beside Gumboot, he was excited and slightly fearful, even though he had his 9mm Browning High Power handgun in the cross-draw position (in a Len Dixon holster over the rib cage, with four 13-round magazines) and had been shown where the other weapons were concealed.
Also concealed was a Pace Communications Landmaster III hand-held transceiver with a webbing harness, miniature microphone, earphone and encoder, located near the floor between the two front seats; and a 35mm Nikon F-801 camera with a matrix metering system, sophisticated autofocus, electronic rangefinder and long exposure. It was hidden