One particular weapon fascinated her with its clever incorporation of everyday household objects. The PRIG, in army jargon, Projected Recoilless Improvised Grenade, was a type of shoulder launched bazooka capable of knocking out a lightly armoured vehicle with a warhead that mostly comprised a dog-food can filled with explosive. A plastic lampholder acted as the arming switch, and resistance for the backblast in the launcher tube was provided by two packets of digestive biscuits wrapped in kitchen Jcloths.
But it was the heavyweights that truly amazed her. The spigot mortars and the ‘barrack-busters’. They truly defied the misleading description of ‘home-made’. Amateur only in their ingenious improvisation, these were the business, precision-built and lethal. And there were plenty of wall-mounted photographs to bear witness to their awesome power. Entire town centres destroyed in Ulster, gutted and flattened, and craters in roads so massive they looked as though they’d been created by small meteors.
Harrison said quietly: ‘You must realise that this is why Sir George was so hard on you. His fear is that this scale of damage could start happening here on the mainland.’
Next she was shown the UK operations room with large-scale wall maps that showed the locations of the ten army disposal teams and their fourteen backup units which were on short-term standby.
‘We cover the whole country except London,’ he explained. ‘Even then we’re available if requested.’
Outside she was taken to a large garage where some of the teams’ white Transits were housed. Welcoming the diversion of a pretty redheaded American visitor, nothing was too much trouble for the WO2 and his crew. The men happily demonstrated their skills with the robotic Wheelbarrow and other equipment.
‘What’s that?’ she asked.
‘A bombsuit, miss,’ the WO2 replied. ‘Like to try it on?’
She looked at Harrison, her eyes dancing with mischief. ‘I can’t, can I? I’m hardly dressed for it.’
‘Go on, miss,’ one of the corporals urged and earned a disapproving scowl from his commander.
‘Turn around then, and no peeking!’ she laughed.
And when they turned back the floral dress had been tucked up inside the legs of her knickers like a schoolgirl in a playground. ‘I haven’t done this since I was seven.’
There was no shortage of willing hands to strap her into the heavy suit, her long tanned limbs swallowed up by the enormous ‘leggings and the armoured jacket, then finally sealed with the claustrophobic helmet.
She and Harrison were still laughing about it as the chauffeured car sped back towards London in the early evening.
‘I can’t tell you how much I appreciated that, Tom.’
‘A pleasure, you made the men’s day.’
‘I wanna be a bomb man.’
‘You can’t.’
‘Oh, all right then.’ She glanced out the window at the lush Oxfordshire countryside passing in a blur. ‘All this makes me feel awful. You know — what Sir George was saying about you having to move house. Is that really true?’
‘Yes, but it was going to happen anyway.’
‘Really?’
He nodded. ‘My wife and I are separating.’ The words were out almost before he realised. Since Pippa’s father had told him about her affair, he’d had little time to consider his own reaction. He’d been too tired, too busy. But then perhaps he didn’t really need to think about it. The writing had been large on the wall for a long time, he just hadn’t wanted to see it. It wasn’t Pippa’s adultery; he’d been no saint himself. They had just grown apart, it was as simple as that.
His only real regret was the anguish that their separation might cause his son. But then Archie was a tough little character.
‘I’m sorry, Tom,’ Casey said.
‘Thanks, but it just stopped working out, that’s all.’
‘It must be catching. And it’s not much fun. I hate sitting in every evening eating TV suppers.’
‘What about your daughter, Candy?’
‘The same house but a different planet. You know, all Walkmans or pop videos.’ She looked at him and smiled. ‘You won’t be going home, not with the press waiting for you?’
‘They’ll have given up, I expect. Gone on to someone else. Anyway, I’ve moved in with Don.’
‘You like him?’
‘We’ve known each other a long time. He’s a good mate.’
‘Good-looking.’
‘An eye for the ladies.’
‘I noticed.’
On impulse, he said: ‘About that TV supper.’
‘Yes?’
‘How about giving it a miss tonight.’
‘The thing is, Casey, although what you wrote about me being called in from Belfast wasn’t incorrect, it was only half the story.’
They were seated in a quiet Italian restaurant off Haymarket.
‘What do you mean?’
Harrison said: ‘The statement issued at the conference was also correct in so far as it went. I’ve been given permission to give you the full story — but it must be unattributable. I’m getting far too much publicity for a humble bomb man.’
She was curious. ‘Why now and why me?’
He toyed with his wine glass. ‘Now, because this is a very serious bombing campaign which shows no signs of letting up and the public should know that the Provisional aren’t having it all their own way.’ He held her gaze with steady brown eyes. ‘And you, because I think you can be trusted.’
She wasn’t sure she believed that. ‘I thought I was in the doghouse, especially with you.’
‘I overreacted after the funeral. I was still angry after Jock’s death and I thought you were like the rest of the gutter press. On reflection, I realise why you didn’t advertise what you did for a living. Besides, I’ve since read the articles you’ve written. They were very compassionate, very touching. And, according to Sir George, you’ve virtually become accepted as Fleet Street’s expert on this new campaign.’ He raised his hands, palms out. ‘So we thought it wouldn’t hurt for you to understand more about what we do — hence the visit to our HQ.’
‘And now?’
From outside came the plaintive wail of a police-car siren carrying eerily on the night air.
‘You should know that the terrorists haven’t been quite as successful as people think. We’re receiving some excellent preemptive intelligence at the moment. That gives us a good idea of when and how the bombers, are going to strike, if not exactly where. That means that 11 EOD on the mainland, as well as the various police Explosives Sections, are ready and waiting on instant standby. So when PIRA gives its usual warning, lately down to thirty minutes, which is hopelessly inadequate for evacuating an area, the bomb-disposal teams are in there like a shot. Device defused, panic over.’ He hesitated as though deciding how much more he should say. ‘You remember the van bomb at the Chiswick flyover and the three hoaxes the other day? Well those hoaxes were in fact the real thing.’
‘Why wasn’t that admitted at the press conference?’
‘To keep the enemy guessing, unsettle them and get them wondering what game we’re playing. As you know, the Security Service, or MI5, is in overall charge of antiterrorist activity. They have their own agenda of psychological warfare.’
‘Is that the sort of thing that Don Trenchard does?’
Harrison was astounded at her perception; she’d only met him twice. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘I could just imagine him, that’s all. He’s so smooth.’
‘Well, what Don does for a living is a mystery to everyone, including himself half the time. Always has been. But the point is that the IRA has been adopting a new combination of tricky antihandling devices. Difficult for us, but not quite difficult enough. Because the truth is we’re right on top of them.’