london, 1989
The hospital in Belfast had quickly patched Terry up before shipping him back to London on a C-130; he was the only passenger. Another week was spent in another hospital being fussed over by nurses in a private room. During this time, Terry had been seen by a couple of shrinks and had a few light debriefings by some nameless inquisitors, all pleasant and friendly, which didn’t fit their usual rubber-hose MO. Everyone finally seemed satisfied by week’s end that he wouldn’t bleed to death or wind up swinging from a homemade noose, so they released him into the clutches of his masters.
Terry thought it was a bit melodramatic that they had brought him by government car to a safe house outside the city in the New Forest. To describe it as a house was a vast understatement. It was more along the lines of a Tudor mansion, complete with walled grounds and automatic wrought-iron gates.
Upon entering he was shown to his room by a butler, of all things, and informed that dinner would be served at seven. Until then, Terry was free to explore the house and garden at the rear. He was also told to stay out of view of the street at the front of the house. The butler told him he would find a complete wardrobe of clothes in his size in the walk-in closet. What the hell is this? Why so much fuss?
After a gloriously hot shower and much-needed shave, he changed into black pants and a slate-gray shirt. There were beautiful silk ties in the closet, but he had a severe aversion to wearing anything around his neck after his years attending Catholic schools and wearing mandatory uniforms. Feeling more like himself than he had in months, he set out to explore the house and soon discovered the snooker room along with its fully stocked bar. Helping himself to an Absolut on the rocks with a twist of lime, he selected a cue from the rack and proceeded to play a lazy game of snooker. He sunk a rather fine shot in the bottom left pocket, leaving himself an easy black in the opposite corner.
“Nice shot, Nolan.”
He turned to face the person who had interrupted his tranquil afternoon. Before him was a man in his late thirties wearing a light tweed suit. If that isn’t from Savile Row, I’m Greek. He was slightly overweight with dark graying hair. It was his eyes that stood out to Nolan. They had an ice-blue intensity that would deter the average man on the street from messing with him in any way. He immediately knew this was a man who could read your very soul. There was also a hint of mischief that matched the slight smile that had appeared along with his outstretched hand. Military, definitely. Undoubtedly a Sandhurst man.
“Sorry to startle you, old boy,” he said pleasantly. “You can call me Robert, or just R for short.”
Nolan shook the outstretched hand, the grasp firm but not overly so. One could have described the handshake as “honest.”
“No, no problem at all, sir,” he replied. He guessed that very few people called this man Robert to his face, and he figured the name normally had the word Sir in front of it. “Could I fix you a drink, sir?” After all, why not, as it is most probably his liquor behind the bar.
R checked his watch and smiled. “Thank you, Nolan. I’ll take a gin gimlet. You do know how to make a gimlet, don’t you?”
“Absolutely, sir. Bombay Sapphire to your liking?” It was.
While Terry made the gimlet and refreshed his own drink, R removed his jacket and tie and hung them on a coat hook. R then methodically rolled up his shirtsleeves to halfway up his forearms and selected a cue from the rack. After looking down its length to check it for straightness, he picked up the chalk to ready the tip.
“Fancy a quick game, Terry?”
Nolan placed the freshly made drinks on one of the side tables dotted around the wood-paneled room and smiled at the officer’s use of his first name. So now the debrief begins.
“It would be my pleasure, sir.”
Racking the balls, Terry watched R take a sip of his drink and nod approvingly. First test passed.
“I think it’s your break, sir,” Nolan said while he chalked his cue tip.
R bent over to break. While he took aim, the questioning began. “So, how are you feeling?”
“Oh, pretty good, sir, considering.”
“Not too much discomfort then?” asked R after breaking the balls and sinking a red while leaving himself an easy blue in the side pocket.
“No, sir. Totally fit and ready to go.”
The officer looked at him and smiled. The smile was that of a father proud of a son.
“That’s the spirit, Terry. But I think we’ll give you a little R and R before sending you back out there. If that’s all right with you?”
He knew an order when he heard one. “No problem, sir.”
“Good, good. I read the reports and the statements you made in the hospital. But perhaps if you wouldn’t mind going over everything that happened again? It would be most helpful.”
It was one of those orders framed as a request that officers loved to use. Terry began to tell his story, showing zero emotion from the time he arrived in Belfast to the culmination of his assignment with the removal of Kieran Martin. R allowed him to speak with very few interruptions, all the while playing one of the most flawless games of snooker Terry had ever seen. Just as Terry finished, R sunk the final black. Looking down at the now-empty table apart from the solitary white awaiting its next game, R nodded and smiled before returning the cue to the rack.
“And the ambush afterward. What occurred, exactly?”
Terry was about to answer when there was a faint knock on the door and the butler appeared.
“Dinner is served, sir,” he announced.
“Ah, thank you, John,” replied R. “We’ll be right there.” He turned to Nolan. “Let’s go and see what magic Cook has conjured up. We shall continue our chat after dinner.”
The meal was classic upper-crust British fare, not the tourist garbage that was served in the cities, but high-end country food, full of flavor yet simply prepared. Over a steaming bowl of potato leek soup, Terry took the opportunity to glean more information about his host. It turned out that the house had been in his family since the seventeenth century and that R saw himself more along the lines of a caretaker rather than an owner. He spoke rather dispassionately, as if showing a tour group around his home, about the various paintings that dotted the walls around the dining room. The original heavy oak table, where they now sat, that could seat thirty.
For the main course, John appeared with a pair of roasted wood pigeons with walnut sauce and pan-roasted vegetables. Terry commented how delicious it was, but he couldn’t help wishing he had a nice and familiar Holland’s meat and potato pie with mushy peas, chips, and gravy. R continued to talk about the paintings of his ancestors that lined the hand-carved main staircase and the upstairs landing. Terry didn’t fail to notice that throughout the officer’s reminiscences about his family he made no mention of the family name. Everything was Sir Edward or Lady Philippa but never a hint at a surname. He guessed rightly, as he later discovered, that no mention of this house existed on any national historic registry and that R himself was not someone about whom inquiries would return any answers.
After a dessert of treacle pudding with lashings of hot, rich custard that, for Terry, brought back memories of loud public-school dinner ladies and trying to charm them for extra custard, they withdrew to the stone-flagged terrace and the crisp night air. They both carried with them large glasses of brandy and fat Cuban cigars. They sat silently for a few minutes in slightly worn white wicker armchairs, contemplating the stars and the wisps of cigar smoke drifting toward them. As if unwilling to insult the serenity of the moment, R quietly spoke.
“The ambush, Terry, tell me about the ambush.”
Terry sighed, took a long sip of brandy, closed his eyes, and proceeded to recount the nightmare that was now an unwanted component of his dreams. This time there were no interruptions from R. Terry described everything in minute detail from the time he left the bar up until he’d been given the shot of morphine in the back of the Q car. After he had finished, R hesitated as if choosing his words carefully.
“And you’re sure you weren’t followed?”
“Absolutely, sir, not a chance.”
“So that means they were waiting.”
“Or just bloody lucky,” mumbled Terry.
“You cannot seriously believe that.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Not really sir,” admitted Terry.
“Then back to my previous point, they must have been waiting.”
“Yes, sir,” Terry whispered.
“Then I must ask, Terry, who did you tell?”
“Absolutely nobody, sir. I didn’t breathe a word.”
“Then it must have been Sergeant Major Bailey, as he was the only one who knew the exact location of the pickup in advance. The others were only informed of the details minutes before the cars started rolling”
“I’m sorry, sir, but not a chance. Steve was a pro. Hell, he wouldn’t have even breathed a word to his wife.”
“Then who? Come on, Nolan, you must have had some thoughts on this.”
Terry was getting angry. “I wish I fucking knew! Sorry sir, but I’ve been playing this over and over in my head and the only logical thing I can come up with is that it had to be someone on this end.”
There was silence as the accusation against MI5 hung in the air. Both men contemplated the incomprehensible dread of what that could mean for the service.
“Are you suggesting that we have a mole?”
“No, sir, not at all. It could have just been someone speaking out of turn or, oh hell, sir, I just don’t know what to think.”
Then came the one question that Terry had been dreading. “Tell me about the girl.”
As soon as he spoke, he knew that his reply was too quick, too defensive. “What girl?”
“Oh, let’s not ruin a perfectly good evening, Nolan. I would rather part as friends and not have to involve my inquisitors and their unpleasant methods. So I would appreciate it . . .” R took a breath. His face became cold and his body seemed to stiffen as he raised his voice almost to a shout, “. . . if you would not fuck me around and tell me about the fucking girl!”