On Dangerous Ground Read online

  To Kunming from Chungking was four hundred and fifty miles. They took the opportunity to refuel and then pressed on to the most hazardous section of the trip, the five hundred and fifty miles over the Hump to the Assam airfields.

  Conditions were appalling, heavy rain and thunderstorms, and the kind of turbulence that threatened to break the plane up. Several hundred aircrew had died making this run over the past couple of years, Campbell knew that. It was probably the most hazardous flying duty in the RAF or the USAF. He wondered what persuaded men to volunteer for such work and while thinking about it, actually managed some sleep, only surfacing as they came into their Assam destination to refuel.

  The onward trip to Delhi was another eleven hundred miles and a completely different proposition. Blue skies, considerable heat, and no wind to speak of. The Dakota coasted along at ten thousand feet and Caine, leaving the flying to Giffard, came back and tried to get a couple of hours’ sleep.

  Campbell dozed again and came awake to find the wireless operator shaking Caine by the shoulder. “Delhi in fifteen minutes, Skipper.”

  Caine got up, yawning. He grinned at Campbell. “Piece of cake this leg, isn’t it?”

  As he turned away there was an explosion. Pieces of metal flew off the port engine, there was thick black smoke, and as the propeller stopped turning, the Dakota banked and dived steeply, throwing Caine off his feet.

  Campbell was hurled against the bulkhead behind with such force that he was almost knocked senseless. The result was that he couldn’t really take in what was happening. There was a kind of nightmare as if the world was breaking up around him, the impact of the crash, the smell of burning and someone screaming.

  He was aware of being in water, managed to focus his eyes, and found himself being dragged through a paddy field by a wild-eyed Tanner, blood on his face. The Corporal heaved him onto a dyke, then turned and hurried back, knee-deep in water, to the Dakota which was burning fiercely now. When he was halfway there, it blew up with a tremendous explosion.

  Debris cascaded everywhere and Tanner turned and came back wearily. He eased the Major higher on the dyke and found a tin of cigarettes. His hand shook as he lit one.

  “Are we hit?” Campbell managed to croak.

  “So it would appear, Laird.”

  “Dear God.” Campbell’s hands moved over his chest. “The Bible,” he whispered.

  “Dinna fash yourself, Laird, I’ll hold it safe for you.”

  Tanner took it from the map pocket and then all sounds faded for Campbell, all color, nothing now but quiet darkness.

  In Chungking, Mountbatten and Stillwell were examining on the map the relentless progress of the advancing Japanese, who had already overrun most of the Allied airfields in eastern China.

  “I thought we were supposed to be winning the war,” Stillwell said.

  Mountbatten smiled ruefully. “So did I.”

  Behind him, the door opened and an aide entered with a signal flimsy. “Sorry to bother you, sir, but this is from Delhi—marked urgent.”

  Mountbatten read it then swore softly. “All right, you can go.”

  “The aide went out. Stillwell said, “Bad news.”

  “The Dakota Campbell was traveling in lost an engine and crashed just outside Delhi. It fireballed after landing. By all accounts, the documents and my dispatches went with it.”

  “Is Campbell dead?”

  “No, that Corporal of his managed to get him out. All the crew were killed. It seems Campbell received a serious head injury. He’s in a coma.”

  “Let’s hope he hangs in there,” Stillwell said. “Anyway, something of a setback for you, your Chungking Covenant going up in flames. What will you do? Try to get Mao to sign another one?”

  “I doubt if I’ll ever get close enough to him again. It was always an anything-is-better-than-nothing situation. I didn’t really expect much to come out of it. Anyway, in my experience, Chinese seldom give you a second bite at the cherry.”

  “I agree,” Stillwell said. “In any case, the wily old bastard is probably already regretting putting his signature to that thing. But what about his supplies?”

  “Oh, we’ll see he gets those because I want him actively on our side taking on the Japanese. The Hong Kong business was never serious, Joe. I thought we ought to get something out of the deal if we could, and the Hong Kong thing was all that the Prime Minister and I could come up with. Not that it matters now, we’ve got far more serious things to consider.” He walked back to the wall map. “Now show me exactly where those Japanese forward units are.”

  1993

  LONDON

  ONE

  NORAH BELL GOT OUT OF THE TAXI CLOSE TO ST. James’s Stairs on Wapping High Street. She paid off the cab driver and walked away, a small, hippy, dark-haired girl in leather jacket, tight black mini skirt, and high-heeled ankle boots. She walked well with a sort of total movement of the whole body. The cab driver watched her put up her umbrella against the heavy rain, sighed deeply, and drove away.

  She paused on the first corner and bought an Evening Standard. The front page was concerned with only one thing, the arrival of the American President in London that day to meet with both the Israeli and British Prime Ministers, to discuss developments in the Palestinian situation. She folded the newspaper, put it under her left arm, and turned the corner of the next street, walking down toward the Thames.

  The youth standing in a doorway opposite was perhaps eighteen and wore lace-up boots, jeans, and shabby bomber jacket. With the ring in his left nostril and the swastika tattooed on his forehead, he was typical of a certain type of gang animal that roamed the city streets in search of prey. She looked easy meat and he went after her quickly, only running in at the last minute to grab her from behind, one hand over her mouth. She didn’t struggle, went completely still which should have told him something, but by then he was beyond reason, charged with the wrong kind of sexual excitement.

  “Just do as you’re told,” he said, “and I won’t hurt you.”

  He urged her into the porch of a long-disused warehouse, pushing against her. She said, “No need to be rough.”

  To his amazement she kissed him, her tongue flickering in his mouth. He couldn’t believe his luck and, still clutching her umbrella, she moved her other hand down between them, brushing against his hardness.

  “Jesus,” he moaned and kissed her again, aware that her hand seemed to be easing up her skirt.

  She found what she was looking for, the flick knife tucked into the top of her right stocking. It came up, the blade jumped, and she sliced open the left side of his face from the corner of the eye to the chin.

  He screamed, falling back. She said calmly, putting the point under his chin, “Do you want some more?”

  He was more afraid than he had ever been in his life. “No, for God’s sake, no!”

  She wiped the blade on his jacket. “Then go away.”

  He moved out into the rain, then turned, holding a handkerchief to his face. “Bitch! I’ll get you for this.”

  “No you won’t.” Her accent was unmistakably Ulster Irish. “You’ll find the nearest casualty department as fast as you can, get yourself stitched up, and put the whole thing down to experience.”

  She watched him go, closed the knife, slipping it back in the top of the stocking, then she turned and continued down toward the Thames, moving along the waterfront, finally pausing at an old warehouse.

  There was a Judas gate in the main entrance, she opened it and went in. It was a place of shadows, but at the far end there was a glass office with a light in it. It was reached by a flight of wooden stairs. As she moved toward it, a young, dark-skinned man moved out of the darkness, a Browning Hi-Power in one hand.

  “And who might you be?” she asked.

  The door of the office was opened and a small man with dark tousled hair wearing a reefer jacket appeared. “Is that you, Norah?”

  “And who else?” she replied. “Who’s your friend?”


  “Ali Halabi, meet Norah Bell. Come away up.”

  “I’m sorry,” the Arab said.

  She ignored him and went up the stairs and he followed, noting with approval the way her skirt tightened over her hips.

  When she went into the office the man in the reefer coat put his hands on her shoulders. “God help me, but you look good enough to eat,” and he kissed her lightly on the lips.

  “Save the blarney.” She put her umbrella on the desk, opened her handbag, and took out a packet of cigarettes. “Anything in a skirt, Michael Ahern. I’ve known you too long.”

  She put a cigarette in her mouth and the Arab hurriedly took out a lighter and lit it for her. He turned to Ahern. “The lady is part of your organization?”

  “Well I’m not with the bloody IRA,” she said. “We’re Prods, mister, if you know what that means.”

  “Norah and I were in the Ulster Volunteer Force together and then the Red Hand of Ulster,” Ahern said. “Until we had to move on.”

  Norah laughed harshly. “Until they threw us out. A bunch of old women, that lot. We were killing too many Catholics for their liking.”

  “I see,” Ali Halabi said. “Is it Catholics who are your target or the IRA?”

  “The same difference,” she said. “I’m from Belfast, Mr. Halabi. My father was an Army sergeant, killed in the Falklands War. My mother, my kid sister, my old granddad, all the family I had in the world, were killed in a street bomb planted by the IRA back in eighty-six. You might say I’ve been taking my revenge ever since.”

  “But we are open to offers,” Ahern said amiably. “Any revolutionary organization needs money.”

  The door banged below. Ali took the gun from his pocket and Ahern moved to the door. “Is that you, Billy?”

  “As ever was.”

  “Would that be Billy Quigley?” Norah asked.

  “Who else?” Ahern turned to Ali. “Another one the Red Hand threw out. Billy and I did some time together in the Maze prison.”

  Quigley was a small, wiry man in an old raincoat. He had faded blond hair and a careworn face that was old beyond his years.

  “Jesus, is that you, Norah?”

  “Hello, Billy.”

  “You got my message?” Ahern said.

  “Yes, I drop in to the William of Orange in Kilburn most nights.”

  Ahern said to Ali, “Kilburn is what you might call the Irish quarter of London. Plenty of good Irish pubs there, Catholic and Protestant. This, by the way, is Ali Halabi from Iran.”

  “So what’s it all about?” Quigley demanded.

  “This.” Ahern held up the Evening Standard with the headline about the American President. “Ali, here, represents a group of fundamentalists in Iran called the Army of God. They, shall we say, deeply deplore Arafat’s deal with Israel over the new status of Palestine. They are even more unhappy with the American President presiding over that meeting at the White House and giving it his blessing.”

  “So?” Quigley said.

  “They’d like me to blow him up for them while he’s in London, me having a certain reputation in that field.”

  “For five million pounds,” Ali Halabi said, “don’t let us forget that.”

  “Half of which is already on deposit in Geneva.” Ahern smiled. “By God, Billy, couldn’t we give the IRA a run for their money with a million pounds to spend on arms?”

  Quigley’s face was pale. “The American President? You wouldn’t dare, not even you.”

  Norah laughed that distinctive harsh laugh, “Oh, yes he would.”

  Ahern turned to her. “Are you with me, girl?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  “And you, Billy?” Quigley licked dry lips and hesitated. Ahern put a hand on his shoulder. “In or out, Billy?”

  Quigley smiled suddenly. “Why not. A man can only die once. How do we do it?”

  “Come down below and I’ll show you.”

  Ahern led the way down the steps and switched on a light at the bottom. There was a vehicle parked in a corner covered by a dust sheet which he pulled away revealing a British Telecom truck.

  “Where in the hell did you get that?” Quigley demanded.

  “Someone knocked it off for me months ago. I was going to leave it outside one of those Catholic pubs in Kilburn with five hundred pounds of Semtex inside and blow the hell out of some Sinn Fein bastards, but I decided to hang on to it until something really important turned up.” Ahern smiled cheerfully. “And now it has.”

  “But how do you intend to pull it off?” Ali demanded.

  “Hundreds of these things all over London. They can park anywhere without being interfered with because they usually have a manhole cover up while the engineers do what they have to do.”

  “So?” Quigley said.

  “Don’t ask me how, but I have access through sources to the President’s schedule. Tomorrow he leaves the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square at ten o’clock in the morning to go to Number Ten Downing Street. They take the Park Lane route turning into Constitution Hill beside Green Park.”

  “Can you be sure of that?” Norah asked.

  “They always do, love, believe me.” He turned to Quigley and Ali. “You two, dressed in Telecom overalls which are inside the van, will park halfway along Constitution Hill. There’s a huge beech tree. You can’t miss it. As I say, you park, lift the manhole cover, put up your signs and so on. You’ll be there at nine-thirty. At nine-forty-five you walk away through Green Park to Piccadilly. There are some men’s toilets. You can get rid of your overalls there.”

  “And then what?” Ali demanded.

  “I’ll be in a car waiting with Norah for the golden moment. As the President’s cavalcade reaches the Telecom truck, I’ll detonate by remote control.” He smiled. “It’ll work, I promise you. We’ll probably kill everyone in the cavalcade.”

  There was silence, a kind of awe on Quigley’s face, and Norah was excited, face pale. “You bastard,” she said.

  “You think it will work?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  He turned to Ali. “And you? You’re willing to take part?”

  “An honor, Mr. Ahern.”

  “And you, Billy?” Ahern turned to him.

  “They’ll be singing about us for years,” Quigley said.

  “Good man yourself, Billy.” Ahern looked at his watch. “Seven o’clock. I could do with a bite to eat. How about you, Norah?”

  “Fine,” she said.

  “Good. I’m taking the Telecom van away now. I shan’t be returning to this place. I’ll pick you two up in the Mall at nine o’clock in the morning. You’ll arrive separately and wait at the park gates across from Marlborough Road. Norah will be behind me in a car. You two will take over and we’ll follow. Any questions?”

  Ali Halabi was incredibly excited. “I can’t wait.”

  “Good, off you go now. We’ll leave separately.” The Arab went out and Ahern turned to Quigley and held out his hand. “A big one this, eh, Billy?”

  “The biggest, Michael.”

  “Right, Norah and I will go now. Come and open the main gate for us. I’ll leave you to put out the lights and follow on.”

  They went downstairs. Norah climbed into the passenger seat, but Ahern shook his head. “Move into the rear out of sight and pass me one of those orange jackets. We’ve got to look right. If a copper sees you he might get curious.”

  It said “British Telecom” across the back of the jacket. “It’ll never catch on,” she told him.

  He laughed and drove out into the street, waving at Quigley, who closed the gate behind them. He traveled only a few yards, then swung into a yard and switched off the engine.

  “What is it?” she demanded.

  “You’ll see. Follow me and keep your mouth shut.”

  He opened the Judas gate gently and stepped in. Quigley was in the office, they could hear his voice and when they reached the bottom of the stairs, they could even hear what he
was saying.

  “Yes, Brigadier Ferguson. Most urgent.” There was a pause. “Then patch me through, you silly bugger, this is life or death.”

  Ahern took a Walther from his pocket and screwed on a silencer as he went up, Norah behind him. The door was open and Quigley sat on the edge of the desk.

  “Brigadier Ferguson?” he said suddenly. “It’s Billy Quigley. You said only to call you when it was big. Well this couldn’t be bigger. Michael Ahern and that bitch Norah Bell and some Iranian named Ali Halabi are going to try to blow up the American President tomorrow.” There was a pause. “Yes, I’m supposed to be in on it. Well this is the way of it.”

  “Billy boy,” Ahern said, “that’s really naughty of you.” As Quigley turned he shot him between the eyes.

  Quigley went back over the desk and Ahern picked up the phone. “Are you there, Brigadier? Michael Ahern here. You’ll need a new man.” He replaced the receiver, turned off the office light, and turned to Norah. “Let’s go, my love.”

  “You knew he was an informer?” she said.

  “Oh, yes, I think that’s why they let him out of the Maze prison early. He was serving life, remember. They must have offered him a deal.”

  “The dirty bastard,” she said. “And now he’s screwed everything up.”

  “Not at all,” Ahern said. “You see, Norah, it’s all worked out exactly as I planned.” He opened the van door and handed her in. “We’ll go and get a bite to eat and then I’ll tell you how we’re really going to hit the President.”

  In 1972, aware of the growing problem of terrorism, the British Prime Minister of the day ordered the setting up of a small elite intelligence unit which became known rather bitterly in intelligence circles as the Prime Minister’s private army, as it owed allegiance only to that office.