Sniper Fire in Belfast. Shaun Clarke

shoulder-and-hip stock, ideal for anti-terrorist work.

      All of the men in the car were wearing the same scruffy civilian clothing that they had worn on the night ferry.

      As their driver, Sergeant Lovelock, took the Al, which led all the way to the heart of Republican Belfast, Martin unholstered the Browning and held it on his lap, as he had been instructed, hiding it under a folded newspaper. Nevertheless, he held it at the ready, with his thumb on the safety-catch and his trigger finger resting on the trigger guard.

      It was an early morning in January, and there was a heavy layer of frost on the ground, with spikes of ice hanging dramatically from the wintry trees. The windscreen was filthy and frosted over again even as it was wiped clean by the automatic wipers. The motorway ran straight as an arrow between hills covered with grass and gorse, on which cows and sheep roamed, disturbed only by the AH-7 Lynx helicopters rising and falling over the Army OPs.

      ‘The early morning resups,’ Sergeant Lovelock explained. ‘Men and supplies. Don’t fancy static OPs myself, stuck up there for hours, either sweltering in the heat or freezing your nuts off under all that turf and netting. Not my idea of fun.’

      ‘You’re the man who gave us the manila folders at the meeting,’ Ricketts said.

      ‘You’re not blind,’ Lovelock replied.

      ‘You prefer being in a Q car?’ Ricketts asked him.

      ‘That’s for sure. I like being able to move around instead of just waiting for something to happen. When my time comes, you can bury me in an OP, but not before then. So what’s it like in the SAS?’

      ‘It’s great.’

      ‘You guys get to a lot of exciting places.’

      Ricketts chuckled. ‘Right. Like Belfast. So what do you think about the SAS? Does it bother you to have to work with us?’

      ‘Not at all. In fact, I was thinking of applying when I get posted back to the mainland. I was in the Queen’s Royal Lancers before being transferred to the Intelligence Corps, posted here for special duties, which meant 14 Intelligence Company. It’s OK, but I need something with a little more variety. If your Lieutenant Cranfield’s anything to go by, you guys must be all you’re cracked up to be. Cranfield’s like fucking James Bond! A real tough guy.’

      A couple of Saracen armoured trucks, bristling with weapons and troops, passed the Q car, heading the other way, back to Bessbrook.

      ‘A good officer,’ Ricketts said. ‘Being in Intelligence yourself, you probably appreciate the type.’

      ‘We’re not as free and easy in the Army as you are in the SAS. That’s the difference between Captain Dubois and your Lieutenant Cranfield, as you probably noticed. Dubois’s a good officer, but he tends to take his job pretty seriously. Cranfield, though good as well, is a lot more informal and headstrong. His SAS training, right?’

      ‘More to do with his personality, I’d think,’ Ricketts said, glancing at Gumboot and Martin in the mirror and receiving a wink from the first. ‘Though he is, undoubtedly, quite a character and well known to be headstrong.’

      From Gumboot’s wink and Ricketts’s tone, Martin sensed that Ricketts was leading to something specific.

      ‘Absolutely,’ Lovelock replied. ‘Enough to have taken out that fucking IRA tout, no matter what he told you. Christ, Dubois’ face was a picture. He knows it wasn’t the IRA!’

      ‘Is that the word about the place – that Cranfield did it?’

      ‘Sure is. Him and Dubois and a couple of 14 Intelligence Company sergeants, they went out there and took him out. They did it for Phillips and the ten sources knocked off by the IRA. It was a pure revenge hit.’

      ‘That isn’t like the SAS,’ Ricketts said.

      ‘It’s like Cranfield,’ Lovelock insisted. ‘Believe me, he did it – which is why Dubois was shitting himself when your friend raised the subject.’

      ‘But Cranfield has never admitted he did it.’

      ‘Of course not. He’d be in deep shit if he did. The killing has incensed the IRA and brought a lot of flak down on 14 Intelligence Company in general and the SAS in particular. That’s why Dubois and Cranfield can’t admit that they did it.’

      ‘So what makes a lot of people think they did it?’

      ‘Because Cranfield and Dubois have often sneaked across the border to snatch members of the IRA and bring them back to be captured, as it were, by the RUC. It’s illegal, but they do it. Combine that knowledge with the fact that Cranfield was openly stating that he was going to avenge the suicide of Phillips, as well as the death of his ten sources and…Well, what would you think?’

      ‘I’d keep my thoughts to myself,’ Ricketts replied.

      ‘OK, Sarge, point taken.’

      As they neared Belfast, a stretch of mountain loomed up out of the mist. Ricketts checked his OS map, looked back up at the mountain and said, ‘Divis, known locally as the Black Mountain.’ Lovelock nodded his agreement as he left the motorway and entered Westlink.

      ‘So this is the guided tour,’ he said. ‘We’re now heading for the Grosvenor Road roundabout. When we get there, we’ll drive along Grosvenor Road, past the Royal Victoria Hospital – where most of the kneecapped or otherwise wounded get treated – then head up the Springfield Road towards Turf Lodge, the heart of “Provo Land” – if it has a heart, that is.’

      ‘It’s that bad?’

      ‘Fucking right. This is the worst killing ground in Europe and don’t ever forget it.’

      ‘What are the rules regarding the killings?’

      ‘There aren’t any. Though oddly enough, the Provos are more controlled than the Prods. The IRA are pretty methodical about who they kill or torture, whereas the loyalists tend to work on impulse – usually when they’re angry. When they go for it, any victim will do – an innocent shopper, a teenager idling on a street corner, a pensioner in the bookie’s – anyone convenient enough to be snatched. As for IRA tortures, they can’t be any worse than what loyalists do with baseball bats, butcher’s knives, or blowtorches. We find the victims hanging from fucking rafters and they’re never a pretty sight. Freedom fighters? Don’t even mention that word to me. These bastards are terrorists and psychopaths and should all be put down.’

      Lovelock stopped the car at the Grosvenor Road roundabout, which was already busy. Eventually, when he had a clear run, he slipped into the traffic and turned into Grosvenor Road itself. Almost immediately, they passed a police station and regular Army checkpoint, surrounded by high, sandbagged walls and manned by heavily armed soldiers, all wearing DPM (Disruptive Pattern Material) clothing, helmets with chin straps and standard-issue boots. Apart from the private manning the 7.62mm L4 Light Machine Gun, the soldiers were carrying M16 rifles and had stun and smoke grenades on their webbing. The Q car was allowed to pass without being stopped. Further on, a soldier with an SA-80 assault rifle was keeping a Sapper covered while the latter carefully checked the contents of a rubbish bin. ‘The Provos have Russian-manufactured RPG 7s,’ Lovelock explained, ‘which fire rocket-propelled grenades up to about 500 metres. The Provos use them mainly against police stations, army barracks and armoured “pigs” – they’re troop carriers – and Saracen armoured cars. They also command-detonate dustbins filled with explosives from across the waste ground, which is why that Sapper’s checking all the bins near the police station and the checkpoint. Usually, when explosives are placed in dustbins, it’s done during the night, so the Sappers check this area every morning.’