The Land Rover reversed onto the road without incident.
‘Head for Loughgall.’
They turned to the right, Brendan remembering to breathe again, caught between threat and salvation. His initial panic subsiding enough to remember that was where his Da worked. The RUC barracks were in Loughgall. Was there a chance of rescue there? He knew about the service pistol hidden under the seat, but what chance was there of using it? All he could do was watch his father slowly moving up the gears, trusting that something would happen to get them out of this mess.
‘Now take a left.’
They had only gone a few hundred metres. Turning left would mean heading south on a narrower road towards the border with the Republic. Bandit country. Faulkner took the corner slow, desperately trying to think what lay ahead. Next to him Brendan was aware of three things: on his left was a man with a knife, on his right was his Da, but his immediate concern was on what had just happened between his legs.
It was fully dark now, and not another vehicle in sight. The headlights raked the high hedgerows either side of a token asphalt surface. Parsifal returned his knife to its sheath, bracing himself with one hand on the dashboard and the other on the bulkhead behind. Seatbelts were redundant; the occupants restrained by uncertainty.
Lights ahead. Then a figure standing in the roadway.
Faulkner slowed. Opportunity? He glanced to his left at the man in black.
More figures ahead. One standing in the centre of the road, an arm raised in authority. Two more to his right, both apparently carrying assault rifles, and all three in military clothing. Behind them were at least two vehicles clearly not for civilian use. Faulkner could not believe his luck. He chanced a jibe at his captor.
‘Hey Mick, what do you want me to do now? Run for it?’
There was no reply. Faulkner brought the Land Rover to a halt barely four metres from the lead soldier. A solidly built officer in a black beret barred the road, his cap badge glinting in the headlights, this last object a welcome beacon of reassurance. The use of military style uniforms was common among several organisations in Ulster, but no one could mistake this patrol as anything other than British.
The Land Rover idled in the glare of a powerful searchlight mounted on an army vehicle. As the officer moved round to the driver's door Faulkner switched off the headlights as well as the engine. He wound down his window, knowing the procedure.
‘Thank you, sir. Please step outside your vehicle.’
‘I will, sergeant. But would you first relieve me of this passenger? He’s assaulted me and my son!’
There was little reaction from the officer in charge, but then the passenger door was flung open, prompting a loud shout. Faulkner turned towards Brendan in time to see the man in black being pulled out by two armed squaddies. They bundled their captive to the ground and screamed at him to spread his legs and place his hands on top of his head.
‘Sir? Can I see some ID?’
Faulkner stepped down in front of the officer and pulled out his warrant card. ‘Patrick Faulkner, inspector with the RUC, Loughgall Barracks. Thanks for this. My son’s petrified.’
The army officer used a small torch to examine the card, then shone it inside the Land Rover at Brendan’s tear-stained face. Another shout came from outside the vehicle. ‘Sarge! This one’s got a knife! We’ve disarmed him, sarge.’
Faulkner followed the officer and saw a soldier kneeling on top of his captive. The man’s mask had been removed and he was wincing at the pressure of an assault rifle against his ear. Another soldier stood over him, holding up a knife for inspection. ‘No ID, sarge.’
‘Very good, corporal.’ The officer turned back to Faulkner. ‘Looks like you’ve had a lucky escape, Inspector. I’ll have to take you for debriefing at our barracks. What’s the situation with the boy? Are you his legal guardian?’
‘Yes! Well, no… he should be at his mother’s. We’re divorced. He lives in Portadown. He’s only eleven.’
‘I understand. Bring the boy with you. We’re at Mahon Road, two minutes away. We’ll take the lad back to his mum. But I will need a full report from you.’
‘Understood. But can you get your squaddies to check my vehicle? I think this feller was tampering with it while I was in the house.’
It took a full minute to coax Brendan out of the Land Rover, and the boy clung tight to his father as they followed the officer. Seeing their attacker back on his feet, held firmly by the two soldiers, Faulkner hesitated. He strode over to the man and stared him in the face.
‘Better luck next time, Mick!’ Then he spat on the ground and turned away.
*
Brendan was worried. It must have been an hour or more since he had seen his father, and he’d been left alone in a room they had told him was an officer’s mess. It didn’t look much of one to him, but then these were the Brits. Brits-give-you-the-shits. He never told anyone his mother was English. Not his fault.
His pants were on a radiator, still damp because the heating had gone off before they arrived. Embarrassed by the dark stain at his crotch, after ten minutes on his own he had whipped them off and used a wet cloth to sponge them at the sink. He’d seen Ma do that more than once. Now he shivered and looked down at his sodden underpants and the yellowing stain. Should he do the same with them? He didn’t want Ma to know he’d wet himself. Things had turned out okay after all, hadn’t they?
But he didn’t understand why they’d locked him in.
‘Be back in ten minutes,’ said the soldier, after making him a cup of tea. Now it was well past eleven. Ma would kill him. The tea wasn’t like they had at home. It tasted funny, so he’d left most of it.
Footsteps in the corridor outside. Had he time to retrieve his pants from the radiator? Low voices on the other side of the door. He made his move, but not quickly enough. The door opened just as he got to the radiator, so he stopped and tried to look relaxed. He’d expected someone in uniform, but this man was wearing a suit. At least he was smiling.
‘My, my! What an intriguing picture,’ said the stranger. ‘Oh yes, we had a little accident, didn’t we? Nothing to be ashamed of, dear boy. Come and sit down over here.’
English. Brendan recognised that, but he didn’t speak like the soldiers, or his Ma. He sounded more like someone off the telly. The tall man with a thick mane of hair and specs that glinted in the light selected an armchair near the empty fireplace and sat back in it, crossing his legs and looking very much at home. He pointed to a similar chair opposite and Brendan took the hint.
‘So, you’re Patrick’s boy?’ The stranger spoke again in his silky English accent. ‘Brendan, isn’t it? Good. Very good. My name is Mr Gris. But you can call me Uncle Peter.’
*
The developing situation in Armagh had been communicated to Peter Gris in Belfast an hour earlier by the major in charge of G Squadron, 22nd SAS Regiment. It would have been a surprise to anyone serving in the Royal Ulster Constabulary to know the SAS were operating out of Portadown. Officially, G Squadron had the working title of 4 Field Survey Troop, Royal Engineers.
Faulkner read the name beneath the officer’s shoulder flash as he was directed into an interview room.
‘He’ll be fine, Inspector. We’ll let him clean himself up, give him a cup of tea and then take him home to his mum.’
‘Thanks, Captain.’ Faulkner was visibly more relaxed. ‘I’ll be getting some grief from his Ma in the morning! But I swear I’d no idea he intended to bike over to mine this evening. Kids, huh?’
‘Indeed,’ agreed the officer. ‘If we can just fill in a report, we can let you get on with whatever you have to do.’
The paperwork took almost thirty minutes, but it was thorough enough. Faulkner insisted he knew of no reason why he had been singled out for attention by militant dissidents. No, he made no secret of his occupation, and he kept a small social circle, purely within the drinking establishments of Portadown. No, he had no reason to believe he had any enemies, other than those expected for a serving policeman. Yes, he would be careful to check his vehicle in future.
Faulkner was driven back to his Land Rover at the checkpoint, now turned around ready for the return journey, and with one of the squaddies standing guard.
‘Sir? You should know we did find an IED attached to the underside. It’s been made safe and removed. Our boys’ll check it out in the morning to see what we can find out.’
Faulkner shuddered. He had suspected as much, but it was a sobering thought to realise how close he (and Brendan) had come to violent death. He nodded his thanks and climbed into the car, checking the time on his watch: 10.42. He knew he should go and face the music at Marion’s, but the thought of downing a quick pint held more consolation. He gunned the engine and shoved a cassette into the player: Brothers in Arms.
His mood lifted immediately at the upbeat rhythm of Walk of Life filling the cab. Accelerating along the narrow lane at a faster pace than his earlier journey, he was eager to shrug off the memory of masks and knives, bikes and bombs.
His approach was observed half a mile away by a man lying prone under a hedgerow. This time he had more than a gram of mercury to rely upon. The dancing headlights of the Land Rover stayed in his peripheral vision as he returned to look through the scope attached to an L96 sniper rifle. His concentration was absolute, judging speed and distance while allowing for light interference in the night vision attachment. Aiming for a spot on a straight stretch he had picked out earlier, ten inches above the tarmac, he followed the vehicle’s path out of the bend and sent a double tap into Faulkner’s offside front tyre. Scrambling out of the path of the stricken vehicle, he had one last glimpse of the Irishman struggling to keep a straight course. Then the Land Rover seemed to bounce into the air before crashing onto its side. Mercury finally forged a connection. Half a pound of Semtex detonated with a force that knocked the sniper off his feet before he rolled over and sat up to admire his handiwork.
Job done. Eventually.
Parsifal spat on the ground. ‘Better luck in the next life, Paddy.’