I took one step closer to the edge of the ride and again stood still, invisible in the blackness, waiting to see if anything moved. The wind stirred faintly through the tops of the spruce, but that was the only sound. What the hell was wrong? Normally I never get spooked. I regard the night as a friend, not as a foe or anything to be frightened of. But here something was definitely amiss.
I gave it a couple of minutes, struggling to get hold of myself. I could pull out, obviously — but that would be pitsville, an almighty waste. All day, all week, I’d been psyching myself up to get the job over and done with, and this was my best chance. I knew that if I quit now, I’d never forgive myself.
Gradually, as I stood there, I got the feeling that there was somebody ahead of me on the ride, between me and the forest boundary. Again I had no physical evidence, just the feeling. Then I thought that maybe it was a poacher. There were probably fallow deer in the wood, and some local could easily be after them. He might have seen my car come up, and be waiting for the coast to clear. Well, if we did have a clash, it needn’t be anything serious.
Time was passing. I couldn’t hang about much longer, or Farrell would be back and safely inside before I reached my firing position. Nor could I see much future in trying to work round to my objective some other way. I hadn’t checked out the other tracks inside the forest, and if I started trying to work them out now, I might easily finish up getting lost.
I gave a shudder, half involuntary, half deliberate, as if a good shake would throw off my doubts. Then I went forward.
Fifty yards farther on, I knew too late that my instinct had been right. All at once there was somebody on the track ahead — and not one person, but two. Two dark figures, blacker than the night. For a split second I still thought they might be poachers. Then, from the way they came at me, I knew they couldn’t be.
I turned back and started to run, only to see a torch flash on ahead of me. I’d been followed as well. Cut off. There was only one way to go: sideways, downhill, straight into the trees. I dived to my right, aiming to plunge under the lowest branches and slither or crawl down the smooth carpet of needles on the ground. But it didn’t work. Immediately a branch snagged on my day-sack. Another jabbed into my left temple, ripping my skin. Behind me I heard the bark of a big, heavy dog.
I found myself in a bit of a clearing. Two more dark figures loomed in front of me. I lowered my head, charged forward and nutted the left-hand one properly, dropping him in his tracks. The second took a dive at my legs and brought me down. I kneed him in the crotch and hit out with my left fist, struggling to get at the Luger with my right hand. Then a heavy animal came crashing through the trees and a second later jaws closed on my right ankle.
Suddenly there were men all round me, hammering at me with sticks. I tried to shield my head, but took some damaging blows about the neck. My shoulders and kidneys got a battering, and I couldn’t get up because of the dog. I started to feel sick. Then a torch blazed down into my face and a voice said, ‘OK, come on out of it!’ I tried to get up and run, but somebody else crashed into me from the side, knocking me back to the ground. Next second I was face-down in the pine needles with a knee in my back and another guy sitting on my head.
For a few horrible moments I was shitting myself. I thought I’d been grabbed by the PIRA. In the gleams of torchlight I saw that my attackers were dressed darkly and wearing ski-masks. Fucking hell, I thought, Farrell’s got wind of my movements. I really thought I was going down.
Then I realized that the voices I could hear were relatively cultured. Somebody dragged my arms back and snapped a pair of cuffs round my wrists. The guy who’d sat on my head stood up and said, ‘On your feet!’ The dog had let go of me, but it was still jumping around. Then someone tied a cord to my wrists, and two of them hustled me back through the stiff lower branches of the trees to the open ride.
By then a whole load of torches were bobbing about. There seemed to be guys everywhere. When I moved my feet a couple of inches, one of them snapped, ‘If you don’t want a big clog stuck on yer, stand still.’
The next thing was a body search, expertly carried out. Two men shone torches in my face while a third ran his hands over me. He soon found the Luger and my sheath-knife; of course my day-sack wouldn’t slip off with my hands locked together, so he had to undo its straps.
Then a different man came up in front of me — some sort of boss, I guessed — and said, ‘What the hell d’you think you’re doing up here?’
From the odd glint of metal about his shoulders I got the impression that this figure was in uniform. But, not knowing who he was, I reckoned it best to keep quiet. Then, behind him, I saw something white, and a second later two fellows dragged a big bag down over my head. At the top end was a hood with an elasticated drawstring, which settled tight round my face, leaving my vision clear. The bottom end was pulled in close round my knees, with my arms and hands inside. I felt humiliated to be trussed and bundled like that, but it gave me a clue about the identity of my captors. Those white bags are what the RUC use to cocoon prisoners, so that traces of explosives or gunpowder or blood or any other tell-tale substance aren’t rubbed or washed off on the way to the station. I’d been lifted not by the PIRA, but by some arm of the security forces, probably HMSU, the Headquarters Mobile Support Unit, the RUC’s equivalent of the SAS.
‘Look,’ I said to nobody in particular. ‘I don’t know who you guys are, but I’m SAS.’
‘SAS?’ said an Ulster voice incredulously. ‘With a fucking Luger? Bollocks. Think of something better — and get moving.’
A shove in the back started me off along the ride towards where I’d left the car. A man with a torch lit the way, but on the uneven track, and with my hands behind me, it was difficult to balance, and I kept stumbling. Ahead, I saw headlights sweeping up the hard road, and by the time we reached the turning-place several vehicles had assembled, the gargle of radios burbling out of them.
At the back of a long-wheel-base Land Rover someone yanked open the door and propelled me in, telling me to lie on the floor. Two other guys climbed in and sat on the side-benches, one with his boots right in my face. The door slammed, and immediately we set off downhill.
That was one hell of a journey. I was getting my right shoulder, elbow, hip and ankle well battered on the bare steel of the floor as we went over bumps; but more agonizing was the mental torture I was suffering. In the space of a few minutes, my whole life and career had gone tits-up. That was me finished in the SAS, I felt certain — it was inevitable I’d be RTU’d. Probably that was me finished with Tracy, too. When she found I’d gone straight back on the job after promising to lay off, she might well ditch me.
Almost worse of all, that was the end of my attempt to level the score with Farrell. I couldn’t imagine I’d ever get another chance. And how in hell had these people cottoned on to me? Perhaps someone had seen the Datsun going up into the forest and reported it?
I wasn’t going to show weakness by asking more questions; in any case, I was sure nobody would answer if I did speak. I felt certain we were heading back into Belfast, and after half an hour I began to see orange street-lamps above us as I peered up through the back window. There was a good deal of stopping and starting at traffic-lights. Then we went slowly through three successive pairs of high mesh gates into what I guessed must be a police station.
The driver backed fast up some sort of ramp and came to an abrupt halt. The back door was opened from outside, my two escorts scrambled out and dragged me after them. I got a quick impression of high brick walls forming a narrow cul-de-sac, before being bundled in through a door at the end.