Confessional - Jack Higgins

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himself over the side while Salim protested in a hoarse whisper. ‘Villiers Sahib, this is madness.’

      As Villiers dropped behind the driving wheel, the Rashid clambered up into the vehicle, followed by Levin. ‘I’ve a dreadful feeling that all this is somehow my fault,’ the old Russian said. ‘We are, I presume, to see the SAS in action?’

      ‘During the Second World War, the SAS under David Stirling destroyed more Luftwaffe planes on the ground in North Africa than the RAF and Yanks managed in aerial combat. I’ll show you the technique,’ Villiers told him.

      ‘Possibly another version of that bullet in the back you were talking about.’

      Villiers switched on and as the engine rumbled into life, said to Salim in Arabic, ‘Can you manage the machine gun?’

      Salim grabbed the handles of the Degtyarev. ‘Allah, be merciful. There is fire in his brain. He is not as other men.’

      ‘Is that in the Koran, too?’ Villiers demanded, and the roaring of the 110 horsepower engine as he put his foot down hard drowned the Arab’s reply.

      The Sandcruiser thundered across the tarmac. Villiers swung hard and it spun round on its half tracks and smashed the tailplane of the first MIG, continuing right down the line as he increased speed. The tailplanes of the two helicopters were too high, so he concentrated on the cockpit areas at the front, the Sandcruiser’s eight tons of armoured steel crumpling the perspex with ease.

      He swung round in a wide loop and called to Salim. ‘The helicopters. Try for the fuel tanks.’

      There was the sound of an alarm klaxon from the main administration block now, voices crying in the night and shooting started. Salim raked the two helicopters with a continuous burst and the fuel tank on the one on the left exploded, a ball of fire mushrooming into the night, burning debris cascading everywhere. A moment later, the second helicopter exploded against the MIG next to it and that also started to burn.

      ‘That’s it!’ Villiers said. ‘They’ll all go now. Let’s get out of here.’

      As he spun the wheel, Salim swung the machine gun, driving back the soldiers running towards them. Villiers was aware of Kirov standing as the men went down on the other side of the tarmac, firing his pistol deliberately in a gallant, but futile gesture. And then they were climbing up the slope of the dunes, tracks churning sand and entering the mouth of the wadi. The dried bed of the old stream was rough with boulders here and there, but visibility in the moonlight was good. Villiers kept his foot down and drove fast.

      He called to Levin. ‘You okay?’

      ‘I think so,’ the old Russian told him. ‘I’ll keep checking.’

      Salim patted the Degtyarev machine gun. ‘What a darling. Better than any woman. This, I keep, Villiers Sahib.’

      ‘You’ve earned it,’ Villiers told him. ‘Now all we have to do is pick up Hamid and drive like hell for the border.’

      ‘No helicopters to chase us,’ Levin shouted.

      ‘Exactly.’

      Salim said, ‘You deserve to be Rashid, Villiers Sahib. I have not enjoyed myself so much in many years.’ He raised an arm. ‘I have held them in the hollow of my hand and they are as dust.’

      ‘The Koran again?’ Villiers asked.

      ‘No, my friend,’ Salim bin al Kaman told him. ‘It is from your own Bible this time. The Old Testament,’ and he laughed out loud exultantly as they emerged from the wadi and started down to the plain below where Hamid waited.

       2

      D15, that branch of the British Secret Intelligence Service which concerns itself with counter-espionage and the activities of secret agents and subversion within the United Kingdom, does not officially exist, although its offices are to be found in a large white and red brick building not far from the Hilton Hotel in London. D15 can only carry out an investigation and has no powers of arrest. It is the officers of the Special Branch at Scotland Yard who handle that end of things.

      But the growth of international terrorism and its effects in Britain, particularly because of the Irish problem, were more than even Scotland Yard could handle and in 1972, the Director General of D15, with the support of 10 Downing Street, created a section known as Group Four with powers held directly from the Prime Minister of the day to co-ordinate the handling of all cases of terrorism and subversion.

      After ten years, Brigadier Charles Ferguson was still in charge. A large, deceptively kindly-looking man, the Guards tie was the only hint of a military background. The crumpled grey suits he favoured, and half-moon reading glasses, combined with untidy grey hair to give him the look of some minor academic in a provincial university.

      Although he had an office at the Directorate General, he preferred to work from his flat in Cavendish Square. His second daughter, Ellie, who was in interior design, had done the place over for him. The Adam fireplace was real and so was the fire. Ferguson was a fire person. The rest of the room was also Georgian and everything matched to perfection, including the heavy curtains.

      The door opened and his manservant, an ex-Gurkha naik named Kim, came in with a silver tray which he placed by the fire. ‘Ah, tea,’ Ferguson said. ‘Tell Captain Fox to join me.’

      He poured tea into one of the china cups and picked up The Times. The news from the Falklands was not bad. British forces had landed on Pebble Island and destroyed eleven Argentine aircraft plus an ammo dump. Two Sea Harriers had bombed merchant shipping in Falkland Sound.

      The green baize door leading to the study opened and Fox came in. He was an elegant man in a blue flannel suit by Huntsman of Savile Row. He also wore a Guards tie, for he had once been an acting captain in the Blues and Royals until an unfortunate incident with a bomb in Belfast during his third tour of duty had deprived him of his left hand. He now wore a rather clever replica which, thanks to the miracle of the microchip, served him almost as well as the original. The neat leather glove made it difficult to tell the difference.

      ‘Tea, Harry?’

      ‘Thank you, sir. I see they’ve got the Pebble Island story.’

      ‘Yes, all very colourful and dashing,’ Ferguson said as he filled a cup for him. ‘But frankly, as no one knows better than you, we’ve got enough on our plate without the Falklands. I mean, Ireland’s not going to go away and then there’s the Pope’s visit. Due on the twenty-eighth. That only gives us eleven days. And he makes such a target of himself. You’d think he’d be more careful after the Rome attempt on his life.’

      ‘Not that kind of man, is he, sir?’ Fox sipped some of his tea. ‘On the other hand, the way things are going, perhaps he won’t come at all. The South American connection is of primary importance to the Catholic Church and they see us as the villain of the piece in this Falklands business. They don’t want him to come and the speech he made in Rome yesterday seemed to hint that he wouldn’t.’

      ‘I’ll be perfectly happy with that,’ Ferguson said. ‘It would relieve me of the responsibility of making sure some madman or other doesn’t try to shoot him while he’s in England. On the other hand, several million British Catholics would be bitterly disappointed.’

      ‘I understand the Archbishops of Liverpool and Glasgow have flown off to the Vatican today to try to persuade him to change his mind,’ Fox said.

      ‘Yes, well let’s hope they fail miserably.’

      The bleeper sounded on the red telephone on Ferguson’s desk, the phone reserved for top security rated traffic only.

      ‘See what that is, Harry.’

      Fox lifted the receiver. ‘Fox here.’ He listened for a moment then turned, face grave and held out the phone. ‘Ulster, sir. Army headquarters

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