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Authors: Jack Higgins
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Heathrow.
"If I collect the package Wednesday afternoon, you must be prepared to take delivery that night," Barry said. "Preferably a trawler, say fifteen miles off the coast."
"And how will you rendezvous?"
"We'll get whoever your people in London find to work for me to arrange a boat. A good forty-foot deep-sea launch will do to operate somewhere out of this area." He tapped the map. "Somewhere on the coast opposite the Isle of Man. South of Ravenglass."
"Good."
"I'll leave for St. Malo tonight and cross to Jersey tomorrow, using the French passport. There's a British Airways flight to Manchester from Jersey at midday. I'll meet your London contact man the following day on the pier at Morecambe at noon. That's a seaside resort on the coast below the Lake District. He'll recognize me from the photograph you keep on file at the KGB office at your London embassy, I'm sure."
Belov looked down at the map. "Frank, if this comes off, it will be the biggest coup of my career. Are you sure? Are you really sure?"
"That you'll be a Hero of the Soviet Union decorated by old Leonid Ilyich Brezhnev himself?" Barry clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't worry, Nikolai, old son. A piece of cake."
Chapter Four.
The 22nd Regiment Special Air Service is what the military refer to as an elite unit. Someone once remarked that they were the nearest thing the British army has to the SS. This is a sour tribute to the unit's astonishing success in counterinsurgency operations and urban guerrilla warfare, areas in which the SAS are undoubtedly world experts, with thirty years experience behind them gained in the jungles of Malaya and Borneo, the deserts of southern Arabia and the Oman, the green countryside of south Armagh, the back streets of Belfast. The SAS accepts only volunteers, soldiers already serving with other units. Its selection procedure is so demanding, both physically and mentally, that only five percent of those applying are accepted.
The office of the commanding officer of 22nd SAS at Bradbury Lines barracks in Hereford was neat and functional, if rather Spartan. Most surprising was the CO himself. Young for a half-colonel, he had a keen intelligent face, bronzed from much exposure to desert sun. The medal ribbons above his pocket included the Military Cross. He sat there, leaning back in his seat, listening intently.
When Ferguson had finished speaking the colonel said, "Very interesting."
"But can it be done?" Ferguson asked.
The colonel smiled slightly. "Oh, yes, Brigadier, no trouble at all as far as I can see. The sort of thing my chaps are doing in south Armagh all the time. Tony Villiers is the man for this one, I think." He flicked his intercom. "Captain Villiers, quick as you like, and we'll have tea for three while we're waiting."
The tea was excellent, the conversation mainly army gossip. It was perhaps fifteen minutes before there was a knock at the door, and a young man of twenty-six or seven entered. At some time or other his nose had been broken, probably in the boxing ring from the look of him. He wore a black track suit. His most surprising feature was his hair, which was black and tangled and almost shoulder length.
"Sorry about the delay, sir. I was on the track."
"That's okay, Tony. I'd like you to meet Brigadier Ferguson and Captain Fox."
"Gentlemen," Villiers nodded.
"Brigadier Ferguson is from DI5, Tony. He has a job of the kind to which we are particularly suited. Absolute top priority. Seemed to me it could be your department."
"Ireland, sir?"
Ferguson said, "That's right. I want you to kidnap someone for me. My information is that he'll be spending the weekend at his cottage in County Mayo on the coast near Killala Bay. I need him within thirty-six hours, delivered to me Sunday morning in London. Do you think you can manage that?"
"I don't see why not, sir." Villiers strolled to the map of Irelan d o n the wall. "Only sixty or seventy miles from the Ulster border." "Excellent," Ferguson
"If I collect the package Wednesday afternoon, you must be prepared to take delivery that night," Barry said. "Preferably a trawler, say fifteen miles off the coast."
"And how will you rendezvous?"
"We'll get whoever your people in London find to work for me to arrange a boat. A good forty-foot deep-sea launch will do to operate somewhere out of this area." He tapped the map. "Somewhere on the coast opposite the Isle of Man. South of Ravenglass."
"Good."
"I'll leave for St. Malo tonight and cross to Jersey tomorrow, using the French passport. There's a British Airways flight to Manchester from Jersey at midday. I'll meet your London contact man the following day on the pier at Morecambe at noon. That's a seaside resort on the coast below the Lake District. He'll recognize me from the photograph you keep on file at the KGB office at your London embassy, I'm sure."
Belov looked down at the map. "Frank, if this comes off, it will be the biggest coup of my career. Are you sure? Are you really sure?"
"That you'll be a Hero of the Soviet Union decorated by old Leonid Ilyich Brezhnev himself?" Barry clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't worry, Nikolai, old son. A piece of cake."
Chapter Four.
The 22nd Regiment Special Air Service is what the military refer to as an elite unit. Someone once remarked that they were the nearest thing the British army has to the SS. This is a sour tribute to the unit's astonishing success in counterinsurgency operations and urban guerrilla warfare, areas in which the SAS are undoubtedly world experts, with thirty years experience behind them gained in the jungles of Malaya and Borneo, the deserts of southern Arabia and the Oman, the green countryside of south Armagh, the back streets of Belfast. The SAS accepts only volunteers, soldiers already serving with other units. Its selection procedure is so demanding, both physically and mentally, that only five percent of those applying are accepted.
The office of the commanding officer of 22nd SAS at Bradbury Lines barracks in Hereford was neat and functional, if rather Spartan. Most surprising was the CO himself. Young for a half-colonel, he had a keen intelligent face, bronzed from much exposure to desert sun. The medal ribbons above his pocket included the Military Cross. He sat there, leaning back in his seat, listening intently.
When Ferguson had finished speaking the colonel said, "Very interesting."
"But can it be done?" Ferguson asked.
The colonel smiled slightly. "Oh, yes, Brigadier, no trouble at all as far as I can see. The sort of thing my chaps are doing in south Armagh all the time. Tony Villiers is the man for this one, I think." He flicked his intercom. "Captain Villiers, quick as you like, and we'll have tea for three while we're waiting."
The tea was excellent, the conversation mainly army gossip. It was perhaps fifteen minutes before there was a knock at the door, and a young man of twenty-six or seven entered. At some time or other his nose had been broken, probably in the boxing ring from the look of him. He wore a black track suit. His most surprising feature was his hair, which was black and tangled and almost shoulder length.
"Sorry about the delay, sir. I was on the track."
"That's okay, Tony. I'd like you to meet Brigadier Ferguson and Captain Fox."
"Gentlemen," Villiers nodded.
"Brigadier Ferguson is from DI5, Tony. He has a job of the kind to which we are particularly suited. Absolute top priority. Seemed to me it could be your department."
"Ireland, sir?"
Ferguson said, "That's right. I want you to kidnap someone for me. My information is that he'll be spending the weekend at his cottage in County Mayo on the coast near Killala Bay. I need him within thirty-six hours, delivered to me Sunday morning in London. Do you think you can manage that?"
"I don't see why not, sir." Villiers strolled to the map of Irelan d o n the wall. "Only sixty or seventy miles from the Ulster border." "Excellent," Ferguson
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