LITMIR.BIZ

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has thousands of British tourists as potential victims, the second because the IRA have often publicly stated that it is a potential “soft target” and, even better from their point of view, one strongly identified with British imperialism.’

      ‘Do you have any specific grounds for such suspicions?’

      ‘Yes. We’ve just been informed by the terrorist experts from the Servicios de Información in Madrid that yesterday two well-known and experienced IRA members, Sean Savage and Daniel McCann, arrived in Spain under false names. Savage is a shadowy figure of no proven IRA affiliations, though he’s been under RUC surveillance for a long time and is certainly suspected of being one of the IRA’s best men. McCann is widely known as ‘Mad Dan’ because of his reputation as an absolutely ruthless IRA fanatic up to his elbows in blood. It’s our belief that their presence in Spain, particularly as they’re there under false passports, indicates some kind of IRA attack, to take place either in Spain – as I said before, because of the enormous tourist population, presently running at about a quarter of a million – or in their oft-proclaimed soft target of Gibraltar. If it’s the Rock, where there are approximately fifteen hundred service personnel, then almost certainly it will be a military target.’

      ‘Do we know where they are at the moment?’ the Controller asked.

      ‘No,’ the SMIU leader replied, sounding slightly embarrassed. ‘We only know that they flew from Gatwick to Málaga. Though travelling under false passports, they were recognized by the photos of criminal and political suspects held by the security people at Gatwick. However, when we were informed of their presence at Gatwick, we decided to let them fly on to Spain in order to find out what they were up to. Once in Spain, they were supposed to be tailed by the Spanish police, who unfortunately soon lost them. Right now, we only know that they hired a car at Málaga airport and headed along the N340 towards Torremolinos or somewhere further in that direction. The Spanish police are therefore combing the area between Torremolinos and Algeciras and, of course, we’re checking everyone going in and out of Gibraltar. I’m sure we’ll find them in good time.’

      ‘So what happens when they’re found?’ the Controller asked.

      ‘Nothing,’ the SMIU man told him. ‘At least not just yet. We just want to observe them and ascertain what they’re planning. Should they remain in the Costa del Sol, then naturally we must be concerned for the safety of its thousands of British residents and tourists. On the other hand, if they cross the border into Gibraltar, our suspicions about the Rock as their soft target will be, if not actually confirmed, then certainly heightened.’

      ‘What if they simply have a holiday and then fly back to Northern Ireland?’ the Controller asked.

      ‘We’ll let them go, but keep them under surveillance, whether it be in the Province or somewhere else. We’re convinced, however, that they’re not on the Costa del Sol to get a suntan. We think they’re there to gather information about a particular target – and our guess is that they’ll materialize quite soon on Gib.’

      ‘To cause damage?’

      ‘Not now, but later,’ the SMIU leader said. ‘These men have entered Spain with no more than suitcases, so unless they meet up with someone, or pick up something en route, we have to assume that this is purely a scouting trip.’

      ‘Given all the questions you’ve just asked me about the Loughgall affair,’ the Controller said, smiling sardonically at the Secretary, ‘can I take it that you’re considering future SAS involvement?’

      ‘Yes.’ The Secretary leant across his desk to stare intently at the Controller. ‘If the terrorist outrage is going to be on Spanish territory, the scenario will place enormous constraints upon us – notably in that we’ll be totally dependent on the cooperation of the Spanish police and the Servicios de Información. This problem, unfortunately, will not go away if the IRA plan their outrage for the Rock, since any attack there will almost certainly have to be initiated on the Spanish side of the border, which will again make us dependent on Spanish police and Intelligence. Either way, they won’t be happy with any overt British military or Intelligence presence on the scene; nor indeed with the possibility of an essentially British problem being sorted out, perhaps violently and publicly, on Spanish soil. For this reason, as with the Iranian Embassy siege, we’ll be caught between making this a police matter – in this case the Spanish or Gibraltar police – or a military matter undertaken by ourselves. If it’s the latter, we’ll have to persuade the Spanish authorities that we can contain the matter as an anti-terrorist operation run by a small, specially trained group of men, rather than having any kind of full-scale action by the regular Army. That small group of men would have to be the SAS.’

      ‘Quite right, too,’ the Controller said.

      The Secretary smiled bleakly, not happy to have handed the Controller a garland of flowers. ‘While undoubtedly your SAS have proved their worth over the years, they are not the only ones to have done so: the Royal Marines, for instance, could possibly undertake the same, small-scale operation.’

      ‘Not so well,’ the Controller insisted. ‘Not with a group as small as the one you’ll need for this particular task.’

      ‘Perhaps, perhaps not,’ the Secretary said doubtfully. ‘I have to tell you, however, that I’ve chosen the SAS not just because of their counter-terrorism talents but because they’re experienced in working closely with the police – albeit usually the British police – and, more importantly, because the Iranian Embassy job has given them the highest profile of any of the Special Forces in this or indeed any other country.’

      ‘Not always a good thing,’ the Controller admitted, for in truth he detested the notoriety gained by the SAS through that one much-publicized operation.

      ‘But good in this case,’ the Secretary told him, ‘as the Spanish authorities also know of your Regiment’s reputation for counter-terrorist activities and will doubtless respond warmly to it.’

      ‘So at what point do we step in?’ the Controller asked, now glancing at the SMIU leader, who was the one who would make that decision.

      ‘This has to remain a matter between British Intelligence and the Servicios de Información until such time as the terrorists actually make their move. Once that appears to be the case, the decision will have to be taken as to whether the Spanish police, the Gibraltar police or the SAS will be given responsibility for dealing with it. In the meantime, we want you to discuss the two possible scenarios – the Spanish mainland or Gibraltar – with your Intelligence people at SAS HQ and devise suitable options for both. When the time comes we’ll call you.’

      ‘Excellent,’ the Controller said. ‘Is that all?’

      ‘Yes,’ the Secretary told him.

      Nodding, the Controller, the most shadowy man in the whole of the SAS hierarchy, picked up his briefcase, straightened his pinstripe suit, then marched out of the office, to be driven the short distance to the SAS HQ at the Duke of York’s Barracks, where he would make his contingency plans.

      A man of very strong, sure instincts, he knew already what would happen. The SAS would take over.

       2

      After removing his blood-smeared white smock and washing the wet blood from his hands in the sink behind the butcher’s shop where he worked, Daniel McCann put on his jacket, checked the money in his wallet, then locked up and stepped into the darkening light of the late afternoon. The mean streets of Republican Belfast had not yet surrendered to night, but they looked dark and grim with their pavements wet with rain, the bricked-up windows and doorways in empty houses, and the usual police checkpoints and security fences.

      Though only thirty, ‘Mad Dan’ looked much older, his face prematurely lined and chiselled into hard, unyielding features by his murderous history and ceaseless conflict with the hated British. In the hot, angry summer of 1969, when he was twelve, Catholic homes in his

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