Everyone had been pretty quiet throughout the trip, most sleeping. Hank had stayed awake. He was sticking to his game plan of staying in the background, remaining the grey man. He had overheard that the mysterious camp was named Ilustram and was designed and built for Special Forces use only. Its location was classified. The team was hoping to get at least a week of intensive training in before individuals were selected for the mission. Whatever that was he still had no idea. He suspected most of the others didn’t know either. If they did then it was down to their ‘need to know’ - and Hank did not need to know. There was no sense of excitement.

A short distance after the bridge the vehicles turned off the motorway and on to a minor road that cut through the countryside. Hank was content to take in the sights; the scenery became quite beautiful as the road began to meander, shadowing the course of a river that followed a wide valley.

An hour after leaving the river valley, as Hank started to nod off, the Rover came to a stop. He looked up drowsily to see that the front vehicle had halted at a barrier outside a guardhouse and he shook off his tiredness. A civilian police officer was talking to Stratton through the passenger window. Hank looked around, wondering if this was Ilustram. They were still in the countryside, surrounded by trees, with fields visible beyond. A hundred yards or so behind the guardhouse was a cluster of new office-style brick buildings. A high-security fence stretched in opposite directions from the guardhouse barrier. There were no signs to indicate that it was the entrance to an army camp.

A minute later the police officer raised the barrier and waved the vehicles through. Hank looked into the guardroom as they passed it and saw several more policemen inside. If it was a military camp, he wondered, why were there no soldiers on guard?

The Rovers passed through the neatly manicured complex where half-a-dozen cars were parked in front of the buildings.There was no sign of life. A few hundred yards the other side of the complex the new tarmac road gave way to a dirt track and they headed into open countryside.

They followed the security fence for a mile before veering away to drive through wide open fields.

As they approached a small wood Hank saw the outline of several three-storey buildings within it. They were plain concrete structures resembling unfinished office blocks that had been on fire recently. There were no windows, doors or wooden frames in any of the openings. A couple of battered cars parked off the side of the track leading to the buildings were riddled with bullet holes.

Further on, the other side of the road, a dozen men were dressed in black assault clothing, all armed with sub-machine-guns and wearing chest harnesses. Gasmasks hung from their hips. Beyond them, surrounded by a high earthwork, was a civilian passenger aircraft that looked like it had not been airworthy for many years. Scorch marks surrounded many of the doors and windows. More armed men were exiting the aircraft down a ladder. The men by the road watched the Rovers as they passed.

‘There’s old Geordie Marshal,’ Clemens said.

‘G Squadron,’ said Doles.

SAS, Hank thought. The SBS didn’t do aircraft and there was only one other SF unit in the country that did. Hank watched them through the back window until they were out of sight.

A mile further on a handful of long, narrow brick huts in parallel rows came into view. They looked as if they had been built during the Second World War. Hank recognised the unmarked truck parked alongside the end hut as the stores wagon from Poole. The Range Rovers pulled off the track and parked behind it.

The men stepped out, stretching and yawning, some lighting up cigarettes. Hank stepped out and took in the scenery. It was a bright, cloudless day with a slight chill in the air. Some trees dotted the immediate area, otherwise it was open fields in every direction. He thought he could hear gunfire in the distance carried on a breeze that suddenly picked up and rustled the brittle leaves on a nearby pair of oaks. As he focused on the sound he was interrupted.

‘Listen up,’ Doles said in a raised voice as he climbed out the front of his vehicle, holding a clipboard. Everyone stopped talking and faced him. ‘This is building one,’ he said, pointing to the first building on the road. ‘It’ll be the admin staff basher and stores. Building two, the next one over if you hadn’t guessed, is the galley. Building three, SBS accommodation. Four is showers and heads.’ He checked his watch. ‘Time now is ten twelve. Let’s get everything unloaded. Sort out your beds. Grab a brew and muster here for twelve-thirty ready to go.’

‘What’s the first serial?’ one of the men asked.

‘If you don’t interrupt, Jackson, I’ll get to it.’

Someone nudged Jackson in the back. ‘Yeah, shut it, Jackson,’ a voice said playfully.

Doles moved right along.‘Today will be pistols and SMGs on the range. Before dark the aim is to fit in some car and van drills. Lunch will be nosebags. Dinner whenever we get back.’

Hank observed the men as Doles spoke. Most of them seemed young, between twenty-two and twenty-six he guessed.

‘There’ll be no specific teams,’ Doles continued. ‘Those will be nominated as and when required.You’ll draw weapons at . . . eleven?’ he said, looking directly at the quartermaster for confirmation. ‘You keep your pistols with you until we leave here. They will be on your person at all times and, gentlemen, they will remain loaded with one up the spout, even when you’re asleep. I don’t need to warn you that any NDs - that’s negligent discharges for our non-English speaking guest - and you will be looking for a new career. The serials will be worked out day-by-day, hour-by-hour if need be, so remain flexible. Keep your shit together, move like greased lightning when you’re told to, and I don’t want to hear any stupid questions. Are there any questions?’

There were none.

‘Clemens?’ Doles continued. ‘You’ll look after Hank and familiarise him with any kit and routine he’s not au fait with.’ He then shifted his gaze to Hank. ‘You happy with everything so far?’

‘Not a problem,’ Hank said.

‘Good.’ Then louder to everyone,‘Back here twelve-thirty, weapons cleaned and ready to go.’ Doles walked over to Stratton, who was standing alone across the track, and the two men walked away.

Hank faced Clemens, who was looking directly at him, wearing one of his weird, big-mouthed smirks whereby he let his unusually long tongue protrude from his mouth to touch the tip of his nose. ‘Come on, Hanky boy,’ Clemens said. ‘Let’s git yarll kitted up and on the trail.’

Hank wondered if Marty had been given a jerk like Clemens when he first arrived.

The packs were tossed out of the back of the Rovers and everyone grabbed their own and headed for the accommodation building.

Inside the squat hut it was one long, cold, damp room with a concrete floor and narrow metal beds spaced out along both sides, each separated by a grey metal locker. On a table by the entrance was a stack of clean sheets, pillowcases, blankets and pillows. Hank took Clemens’s lead, grabbed a set, and followed him in to the room.

‘Grab any pit you want, Hanky boy,’ Clemens said, tossing his pack and bedding on to a bed.

Hank took the bed opposite and dropped his pack on the floor. He opened the circa WWII locker, which was empty but for a couple of twisted wire coat hangers hanging on a bent rail.

‘Hank?’

Hank looked around the locker door at Clemens, who was holding up what looked like a large tube of toothpaste.

‘Know what this is?’ Clemens asked, tossing the tube to Hank. Hank looked it over but did not recognise the chemical contents. He shrugged at Clemens.

‘Last time I was here everyone caught crabs, from the beds, or the sheep shagging after hours. I suggest you have a good scrub down with that stuff before you go home otherwise the missus will wonder where you’ve been.’ Clemens flapped his oversized tongue and grinned as he winked at Hank and went back to sorting out his kit.

Hank placed the tube in his locker and looked down at his stained and lumpy mattress. He had slept on worse. He detected movement outside the metal-framed window above his bed. It was Stratton and Doles in the narrow gap between the buildings.They were talking. Stratton sensed Hank’s stare and looked at him. Doles also noticed Hank and the two men moved on. Hank had the distinct feeling they had been discussing him.

It was a rudimentary construction with no buildings inside other than a simple concrete shelter to house the boxes of ammunition and targets in the event of rain. It was an open-air, rectangular arena with an entrance wide enough for a vehicle to drive through. The sides were steep earth embankments down to a knee-high sandbag wall all around the inside. It was designed so that targets could be placed and engaged anywhere within it. The embankment curved around the entrance so that bullets could not escape through it unless, obviously, fired into the sky.

‘Listen up!’ Doles commanded as he walked into the range. ‘Load up your pistol magazines only. Grab a target and find yourself a space. Some of you may not have shot close-quarter pistol in a wee while. This first practice is to shake the rust off and get the feel of your weapons. Start off with some dry drills, then in your own time I want you to practise drawing from your holsters, single-handed as well as two-handed; standing and kneeling, no rolling around on your backs or bellies unless you’ve been shot; empty magazine and reload drills; close-quarter techniques holding the weapon into the body.All firing positions will be static and no further than three metres from your target. No firing on the move. All shots will be double-taps, no leaping about, and be mindful of the persons beside you. Any questions?’ then without waiting half a second for a response, ‘Carry on!’

Hank tagged on behind the others, picked up a box of 9mm rounds and selected a figure eleven target: a man-size torso papered on to a thin wooden board with a stick nailed to the back. Everyone selected their own small area of embankment; Hank chose a far corner and headed across to it. He stuck the target into the earth, just behind the low sandbag wall, placed the box of rounds on the sandbag wall, and removed the Sigmaster P226 9mm semi-automatic pistol he had been given by the admin sergeant from the leather shoulder holster he was wearing under his jacket. He released the empty magazine, took two more from a quick-release hip holder, and proceeded to load them.Within a few minutes Hank was dry practising: drawing his weapon from his holster and coming up on aim without firing to get the feel of it. It had been several months since Hank last held a pistol.

‘No shooting from the hip, Hanky boy,’ Clemens called out from a few yards away, grinning like a moron. ‘This ain’t the OK Corral, pardner.’

Hank ignored him and carried on practising a double-handed technique from the draw. Satisfied, he cocked the weapon and pushed it firmly into his holster. No one else had started firing yet. Hank didn’t mind being the first. He felt comfortable enough and was a competent shot with a pistol. He relaxed his shoulders letting his arms hang loosely by his sides, composing himself. A sudden and deafening boom made him flinch as the man beside him a few feet away fired off two rounds in quick succession. The shock was painful to Hank’s ears and he cursed his own forgetfulness.

‘’Urt yer ears, Hanky boy?’ Clemens cackled.

Hank walked back across the range to the stores shelter and picked up a pair of ear defenders. By now everyone else was firing as he placed them over his ears and went back to his stance. With everyone wearing rugged civilian clothing it looked more like a terrorist training camp than a Brit military one.

Hank lined up in front of his target, composed himself once again, drew his weapon, fired a double-tap, and replaced the weapon into the holster in a smooth action. He didn’t feel a hundred per cent comfortable but that was to be expected. His actions would be smoother after he had emptied a few magazines. Hank had been brought up with guns. As a kid he regularly went hunting with his buddies, often camping overnight, shooting squirrels, rabbits and prairie dogs. He drew again, quicker this time, and fired another double-tap into the target. He felt a little better and closed his mind to the activity around him as he drew and fired again.

‘Cease fire!’ Doles shouted as he climbed out. ‘Anyone here not done car drills before?’

Hank looked around. No one else had a hand raised. He raised his. Doles nodded to him and addressed the others. ‘We’ll start with two-man drills, then when everyone’s gone through we’ll go to four-man,’ he said. ‘Choose your partners. Hank, you hang back until everyone else has gone through then you can jump in with Clemens, okay? Nice and easy first time please, gentlemen,’ he said louder, addressing everyone. ‘Control, control, control. Make sure you are clear of the man in front of you before you raise your weapon. Take down all the targets and place a cluster of three or four along the back wall,’ he said pointing to the far end of the range. ‘I want to see you driving in at speed. When you hear gunshots it means you have been engaged. Halt. Debus, and engage your targets. Clear the vehicle soon as you can: remember the vehicle is the initial focus of incoming fire. I’ll give you a ceasefire and the next couple take it away. We don’t have much time and we have a lot to get through. Oh, yes, and anyone puts a hole in this car it’s a fifty pound fine, understood? Except you, Jackson. I’ll take a hundred quid for each hole you put in one.’

‘Understood, Colours,’ Jackson said as everyone else laughed, sharing a joke Hank was not party to.

‘First pair, let’s go!’ Doles shouted as he clapped his hands. Targets were grabbed, a handful was placed at the far end in a bunch, and everyone headed to the back of the range except the first two operatives, who jumped into the car.

‘In case you didn’t notice, Dolesy is real sensitive about putting holes in cars,’ Clemens said to Hank with a grin as they stacked the used targets. ‘A couple years ago there was about fifty of us up ’ere doing car drills and Jackson was sent back to the HQ to pick up another car. God knows how but the idiot somehow went and picked up Doles’s thinking it was one of the company training cars. Dolesy was on another part of the range at the time. No one realised the cock-up till the next day when Dolesy went to get his car to head on home. There were about fifty bullet holes all over it.’

Jackson overheard Clemens and joined in the conversation, grinning. ‘He went fuckin’ banzi,’ he said. ‘I ’ad to ’ide in the bleedin’ woods till he left.’

Joe, the tallest of the operatives and one of the youngest, chimed in. ‘Wasn’t he stopped about five times by the cops on the way home?’

Clemens chuckled. ‘Yeah. He must’ve looked like he’d just been in a bank robbery or summit.’

‘His missus went nuts en’all when she saw it,’ said Jackson. By now others had joined them to revisit the story, adding and embellishing what they knew. Hank found himself in the middle, looking at each person as they talked, laughing with everyone else.

Brent, a well-spoken southern English boy, added what he knew. ‘Doles had no end of trouble trying to get it fixed. None of the repair shops would touch it for less than fifty quid a hole or something like that.’

‘And what about his wife though,’ Jeff said. Hank had to listen carefully to understand everything this young operative said in his northern accent. ‘She kept driving it since they had no other car and everywhere she went she was having to explain what had happened to it.’

‘He eventually sold it to a skinhead,’ said Clemens. ‘The bloke actually came up to Dolesy and asked him how much he wanted for it. He thought it was brilliant.’

As the story grew in richness Hank went from grinning to laughing as loud as anyone else. It felt good. It seemed a long time since he had last laughed out loud.

‘You want some advice, Hank. Don’t do any car drills with Jackson,’ Jeff offered.

‘And if you do,’ Joe added, ‘make sure you’re in the back. He’s a dangerous bastard.’

‘Piss off,’ said Jackson.

‘You won’t see anyone else rushing to be his partner,’ said Brent.

While the serials took place and couples swapped to take their turn in the car, Hank was engaged in one conversation after another, answering questions about SEAL operatives some of the men knew personally and swapping stories, only pausing to watch when the car flew into the range and the occupants leaped out to shoot at the targets. For the first time since arriving in the UK the ice was starting to break for Hank. Much as he wanted to remain the grey man, he could not contain the born extrovert within him for long. If he ever wondered why he wanted to stay in the military, it was times such as this that reminded him why: he revelled in the company of soldiers. This most natural and rewarding fellowship was a mystery to many men and all women. It transcended borders and nationalities; Hank was American to be sure, but he knew he was going to feel at home in England with these men.

Hank was thinking about the day’s shooting and how much he had enjoyed it. Clemens had thrown him a curve by asking him to drive on his first four-man serial. But Hank was a competent driver and won a ‘well done’ from Doles after he stopped the car with a handbrake turn that placed its flank square on to the targets allowing the front and rear passengers on that side to open fire immediately. Even Clemens had warmed to him as the day went on and had virtually ceased talking to him in a Texan accent, and when he did, it no longer sounded as if he was trying to jive him.

As Hank drifted off to sleep he wondered what Kathryn was doing and how the girls had got on with school that day. He wished he could have spoken to her and told her about the day’s events. He pulled the blanket tighter around him, feeling the chill as his body cooled. He thought about getting up to fetch an extra blanket but decided he would put up with it for the time being. He wondered what the next day might bring. He was sure that whatever it was, he would do as well as the best of these guys. It was the most confident he had felt since arriving in UK.

As the Rovers pulled to a stop on the dirt track Hank could see Stratton waiting up ahead beside two civilian cars. Any speculation as to what this next phase of training could be was met with shrugs of ignorance. They had been told to bring nothing, other than their loaded pistols of course.

The vehicles slowed to a stop and everyone climbed out. The clouds had returned and it had rained briefly during breakfast, filling the air with the rich smell of earth. The men gravitated towards Stratton.

‘Close in,’ he said, keeping his hands in the pockets of his old leather jacket, his collar turned up against the slight breeze, which was noticeably colder than the day before. ‘I call this next phase character drills. It’s simple and straightforward. You will be in pairs, driving in this vehicle. One pair at a time will drive off from here and follow a course that has been set out for you. The car will be returned here on completion of the journey and the next pair will head off. Everyone will take part. The scenario is this: you are undercover operatives in Northern Ireland. You’re heading across country to carry out a recce.You do not have communications with headquarters or anyone else. In the car is a sketch of the route you will follow. It’s not a complicated route. Anyone who gets lost shouldn’t be in the boy scouts, never mind the SBS.’

Hank noticed the difference in the men when Stratton addressed them. No one made a comment or looked anywhere other than directly at him. Stratton had charisma for sure, but there was something else. It was not just that he was the team leader, or that he was intolerant of anyone not paying full attention. There was something about his demeanour, the way he moved and the way he looked a person in the eyes. When he spoke you listened. Hank felt there was still something else though. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but if he were pushed to describe what he felt he would have to say there was a darkness about Stratton.

‘You’ll cover a distance of approximately two miles,’ Stratton continued. ‘Drive normally, as you would without attracting undue attention to yourselves. During the journey there will be incidences. You will react to them as a member of Her Majesty’s internal security forces. At the end of the day, undercover operatives, special forces, whatever your job description, you are officers of the law and must abide by the rules that apply to every other member of the internal security force working in Northern Ireland.’ Stratton handed a sheet of paper to Brent. ‘Those are the driving pairs in the order they will follow. I don’t expect any questions because I’ve given you all the information you need. First pair will depart precisely on the half-hour . . . in eleven minutes.’

Stratton climbed into one of the Rovers and the two cars drove away up the road.

Everyone crowded around Brent to find out who they would be with.

Clemens left the huddle and joined Hank. ‘You’re with me,’ he said. ‘We’re last.’ Hank could not be sure but he thought Clemens seemed nervous.

An hour and a half later, after another pair had gone, a different vehicle arrived, driven by the other staff driver, who dropped off four brown paper lunch bags. Clemens took one and handed another to Hank, who was sitting under a tree across the track.

‘You ever do any civvy stuff like this?’ Clemens asked as he sat down on the grass and made himself comfortable.

‘Nope,’ Hank replied as he looked inside the bag.

Clemens squinted inquisitively into his bag, took out a sandwich bound in cellophane and unravelled it. He inspected between the slices, looked unimpressed, closed them and took a big bite from it.

The circuit car returned and the staff driver climbed out and headed for the wood, again without saying a word. The last pair before Hank and Clemens put their lunch in their pockets, climbed in and drove away.

The earlier breeze had dropped off and the heavy grey clouds had made it perceptibly darker. Hank wondered if they would dump their load or move on. He tuned in to the sounds around him: the birds, the wind, the gentle rustling of small critters in the undergrowth . . . and Clemens chewing.

‘You married?’ Hank asked him.

‘Na. I’m a fag,’ Clemens said, quite seriously. He then spat out something that apparently should not have been in his sandwich and checked inside to see what it was.

Hank was unsure if this was another of Clemens’s dry witticisms. Clemens glanced at him long enough to wink. ‘Relax, Hanky boy. I’m pulling your plonker. You’ll ’ave to come round for dinner when this is over and meet the missus and kids.’

Hank nodded, feeling sure the offer was a genuine one. After all, Clemens had not said it in a Texan accent. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘How many kids you got?’

‘Two. Boy, girl. You’ve got a couple, ain’t ya?’

‘Two girls.’

‘What kind of food do you like? You one of them fussy types? I know how you Yanks are. Got to be organic and no microwave stuff and non-fat and all that.’

‘Not us. We eat just about anything, I guess,’ Hank shrugged. ‘We’re a meat and potatoes family. Barbecues. Stuff like that.’

‘I like cooking Italian. I like to think I’m a bit of a gourmet, ’ Clemens said, deliberately pronouncing the ‘t’. Any form of upper class affectation was anathema to Clemens, and that included pronouncing French correctly. He tossed the rest of his sandwich away. ‘Only pusser can cock up something as simple as a bleeding cheese sandwich,’ he said tiredly.

‘Pusser?’ Hank queried.

‘Pusser means Royal Navy.’

Hank nodded. ‘You going on this op?’ he asked.

‘Hope so,’ Clemens replied. ‘We won’t know who’s going till the brief. That’s if it’s still on by the time we’re ready to go. I’ve been on so many standby-to-go’s I’ve lost count. Two months ago we got as far as hovering over a cruise ship near Iceland, just about to leap aboard because some fuck-pig was threatening to hijack it and shoot the captain when we pulled off because the dick’eds finally noticed all the bloke had in ’is ’and was a friggin’ water-pistol . . . Knobbers.’

Hank nodded as he opened his own sandwich to inspect it. It looked like a slab of luncheon meat in margarine, made in two seconds flat. He closed it and took a bite anyway. ‘Is it up to Stratton who goes?’ he asked.

‘Na. He’ll put his suggestions to ops. I expect the ops officer’ll probably agree with ’em though.’ Clemens pulled a sausage roll from his bag and smelled it.‘I’d like to know what the op is,’ he added, biting half the roll off in one go. ‘I just hope it’s not two weeks in a fucking bush watching some farmhouse.That’s one thing about this job that bores the shit out of me. I’ve done more ops up to my nuts in kak watching sweet fuck-all for weeks at a time than I can remember.’

Hank wished he knew more about the Northern Ireland thing. From what he had gathered so far it was probably closer to police undercover drug ops in the States than anything the US military did.

‘What’s he like?’

‘Who, Stratton?’ Clemens asked. He shrugged. ‘I don’t know him all that well. I’ve never been in one of his teams before. He’s one of those who flits around a lot.’

Clemens dumped the other half of his sausage roll. ‘Who can fuck up a sausage roll?’

‘Pusser?’ Hank asked.

‘You got it, pal. It’s the hardest course in the Royal Navy, a cook’s course. You know why?’ he asked rhetorically. ‘Because no bastard has ever passed it.’ Clemens gave one of his idiotic chuckles as he dug an apple out of his bag. ‘I bet they’ve even fucked up this apple,’ he said, polishing it on his sleeve. Clemens took a huge bite and continued talking as he munched. ‘He’s probably one of the most experienced seniors we have. He’s done ops in just about every theatre. Got an OBE, MBE, BEM . . . one of them. Don’t know one from the other myself.’

‘That a medal?’

‘Yeah. He got it for some job against the Ruskies, I think. A few years ago now. Cold War stuff. Went into Russia off a sub and brought some MI6 character back. He was also at the jail break in Afghanistan, lucky bastard.’

‘He was there?’ Hank asked.

‘Yeah. From what I heard they shot over four hundred Taliban.’

‘I got there the day they left,’ Hank said.

‘That right?’ Clemens asked.

‘Sure were a lotta stiffs.’

‘He’s a bit of a cold bastard.’

‘How’s that?’

‘Can’t you tell?’

‘The guys seem to like him.’

‘That’s because he’s got kills, hasn’t he? Everyone likes a man who’s had a kill.You’re a member of the club if you’ve got blood on your ’ands in this business.’

Hank could detect a bit of envy in Clemens’s voice.

‘And Stratton isn’t just a member; he’s the bloody president. Isn’t it the same with your lot?’

‘Sure,’ Hank said. ‘Everyone likes a kill on their record books.’

Clemens looked at him as if trying to read into his eyes. ‘You in the club then, Hanky boy?’ he said in the Texan accent.

Hank wondered what the accent change meant.

‘We gonna start swapping war stories now, me old janner pig?’ Hank asked, trying out the Devon accent for the first time and sounding more like a Pakistani.

Clemens gave him a blank look that Hank was unsure of.

‘I ain’t got any,’ Clemens said, taking another bite of the apple.

Hank was about to admit he did not have any kills either but decided to keep it to himself. He was aware that his comment made it seem like he had and preferred not to talk about it. If Clemens asked, Hank would tell him, and if he did not, he would let Clemens think otherwise.

They finished their lunch in silence, both men beginning to feel a little apprehensive about the upcoming mystery drive.

When the car arrived they stood up as it came to a halt in front of them. The staff driver kept to his dumb routine and trudged his familiar route towards the wood.

‘I’ll drive,’ Clemens said, climbing in. Hank got into the passenger side.‘You map read,’ Clemens ordered as he started the engine. Hank reached for the safety-belt behind him but it was all tangled up. ‘No safety belts,’ Clemens said. ‘You didn’t wear any yesterday, did you?’

Hank remembered. Clemens put the engine into gear with a crunch. ‘Piece a shit car,’ he grumbled. ‘You set?’

Hank checked the map, which was nothing more than a photocopy of a hand-drawn sketch. ‘Straight for half a mile then right at a T-junction,’ he said. ‘I guess this means a wooded area,’ he asked, showing it to Clemens.

‘Looks like it.’ Clemens revved the engine then eased his foot off the clutch and the car set off.

Clemens kept the speed at thirty miles per hour and they bumped over a cattle grid through a gap in a hedgerow and came to the T-junction.

‘Right,’ Hank said and they followed the road into a wide firebreak.

‘Keep your eyes skinned for anything and everything,’ Clemens said looking in all directions. He adjusted the rear-view mirror to check behind.

Hank’s apprehension had increased, helped on by the tension in Clemens. ‘If we get ambushed, do we return with live fire?’ he asked.

‘You do whatever you want, buddy-boy. Whatever you want. But I have a feeling that whatever happens it won’t be so realistic that you’ll have to blow someone away.’

Hank eyeballed the door handle, memorising its location and action. He moved his seat back as far as it would go to give himself maximum room to manoeuvre and jump out if need be. The road took a gentle bend to the right and the wood opened out a little more on both sides. Hank searched the darkness behind the front line of trees as Clemens maintained a steady speed.

‘We must’ve done a mile by now,’ Clemens said.

‘Something has to happen soon.’ Then seconds later he called out. ‘Up ahead, up ahead!’

Hank’s eyes snapped to the front. Clemens pushed on the brake and stopped the car.

They stared ahead in silence as the engine ticked over.

A hundred yards to their front a car was lying on its roof just off the road, with a thin wisp of smoke curling skyward from the buckled engine compartment.They turned in their seats, checking in all directions for an ambush. Hank noticed his heart rate had quickened. Clemens looked unsure what to do.

‘Something’s gonna happen,’ he said. ‘Something’s gonna happen real soon.’

They continued looking and waiting but nothing else materialised.

‘How ’bout reversing outta here?’

‘Where to?’ Clemens said, checking his rear-view mirror for the umpteenth time. ‘Stratton said follow the road and complete the circuit. That’s what we have to do.’

It soon became clear nothing was going to happen while they remained in their current position. Clemens depressed the clutch and eased the engine into gear. ‘Bollocks,’ he said. ‘Let’s go ’ave a look.’

They moved off and slowly approached the wreck. ‘Something’ll happen here, you know that, don’t you?’ Clemens said, more to himself, licking lips that had suddenly gone dry.

As they drew closer they could make out two bodies lying in the grass beside the car. It looked like a man and a woman. They were face down and motionless.

Clemens stopped the car as they drew alongside the upturned wreck, keeping the engine in gear and a foot on the clutch, ready to speed off if a threat showed itself. They maintained their vigilance in all directions, but the two bodies were of the greatest interest. Clemens could make out bloodstains on the woman. Then the man suddenly moved, slowly, and groaned as if in great pain.

‘He’s moving,’ Clemens said.

Hank craned to get a look past Clemens. ‘Shouldn’t we see if they’re okay?’ he asked.

Clemens was in a quandary, checking in every direction and then returning to the bodies. ‘I don’t know.’

The injured man made an effort to crawl but did not have the strength. ‘We either check ’em out or we move on,’ Hank said.‘Seems kinda strange to just drive on though.’

‘Okay,’ Clemens said, coming to a decision. ‘I’m gonna get out and take a look,’ He padded his gun in its holster through his jacket as he opened the door to make sure it was there, placed his feet on to the dirt track and stood up, every move preceded by a quick check around.

Hank felt vulnerable in the car alone and climbed out his side leaving the door wide open in case he needed to dive back into it. Clemens took a cautious step towards the bodies that were in a slight dip. Hank walked around the back of the car where he could get a better look at the bodies, still checking in all directions as he moved. He touched the butt of his gun inside his jacket to remind his hands where to go quickly if need be.

Just as Clemens leaned over the injured man to get a look at him, three men with balaclavas over their heads and aiming sub-machine-guns leapt from the trees right in front of them. ‘Don’t move! Don’t move!’ they shouted. At the same time the injured couple sprang to their feet holding pistols they had concealed under their stomachs. The woman was a man in disguise. Three more hooded men charged from the trees the opposite side of the track to close the trap.

Hank jerked around to face them. A shot of adrenaline rushed through him as the screaming ambushers closed in aggressively. His overriding personal directive to be proactive took charge and he went for it, his hand jerking under his jacket towards his holster, but a burst of machine-gun fire ripping up the ground at his feet froze him, the loudness and impact a warning of the sheer destructive power of a bullet.

‘Move and you’re focken dead! I’ll focken kill you, you bastard!’ the man who fired yelled. Hank put all further thought of movement out of his head.There was something chillingly real about this.

‘On your knees! On your knees!’ Another shouted, prodding Clemens with his gun barrel. They were talking with Irish accents.

‘On your knees!’ one of them yelled with finality and levelled his gun at Hank’s head.

Hank and Clemens lowered themselves on to their knees where they were then harshly pushed to the ground, their backs knelt on, and weapons jammed into their heads. Hank was unprepared for the level of brutality. A hand grabbed the hair on the back of his head and rammed his face into the dirt.

‘You fockers are dead,’ one of the men standing between Hank and Clemens growled. He placed his foot on Hank’s back and put his weight on it. ‘You hear me, Yanky? Your focken goose is cooked.’

The wet soil chilled Hank’s face. It was an effort to breathe with the weight of the boot on his back. The attackers then became silent and motionless, as if they were robots at the end of their current program and waiting for their next command. Hank heard someone step from the bushes and trudge through the grass to stop close by his head.

‘Let ’em up,’ said a man. Hank thought he recognised Stratton’s voice. The boot and hand lifted off him and he could take a full breath.

Hank got to his feet wiping his face and spitting dirt from his mouth. He glanced at Stratton, then at the others, who kept their balaclavas on. Clemens got to his feet, looking annoyed but kept his glaring eyes aimed at the ground.

Stratton nodded to the ambushers and they stepped back and cleared their weapons.

‘Hank,’ Stratton said, as if nothing of any consequence had happened. ‘Your turn to drive. Continue the route. Get going.’

As Hank walked around to the driver’s door his jaw throbbed and he wondered if he’d cracked it. He climbed into the car and moved his mouth from side to side. If it wasn’t it was badly bruised, but he could live with it. He wouldn’t show these guys he was in any pain if he could help it.

‘On you go, Clemens,’ Stratton said.

Clemens gritted his teeth, ignored the dirt stuck to his face and walked around to the passenger side. He climbed in and slammed the door. Hank started the engine and drove slowly away from the scene. He adjusted the rear-view mirror and watched Stratton talking with the ambushers.

Clemens wiped the dirt from his face and spat some out of his mouth.

‘Who were those guys?’ Hank asked.

‘SAS fucks,’ Clemens said angrily.

‘I guess we were meant to ignore the accident and drive on through.’

‘Hindsight’s a beautiful thing,’ Clemens said curtly. ‘Act like poxy internal security officers is what he said.That’s what we were supposed to be, right? So you don’t drive past a bleeding traffic accident with people lying half-dead in the bleeding road, do you? A load of bollocks, that’s what it is!’

‘What were we supposed to get from all that?’

‘Fucked if I know,’ Clemens said.

Clemens sat back and stewed in his anger, staring down at his feet like a kid who wasn’t going to play any more. Hank decided to leave Clemens to himself. If something else happened on this little adventure it would be in Hank’s hands anyway. He assumed that was why Stratton told him to drive.

The track curved gently to the left along the wood. Hank checked the mirror and caught a last glimpse of Stratton walking away from the SAS ambushers until the wood blocked any further view.

Hank concentrated on the road ahead. They arrived at a junction and he stopped the car. Clemens still looked too irritated to get involved, so Hank reached down beside his feet and picked up the map. After comparing it to the surroundings he took the right turn.

Hank felt surprisingly relaxed as he drove, not as nervous as he was at the start, as if being thrown to the ground and stomped on had cleared the tubes a little.

The track turned the corner of a wood and crested a slight rise. As they headed down the other side a small town appeared in front of them. It looked strangely out of place, as if a large square had been neatly carved out of the centre of a city - streets, buildings, the lot - airlifted, and then deposited in the middle of the countryside. The sight was enough to make Clemens snap out of his gloom and sit up and stare at it. It was surreal. There was no sign of life in the town. It was grey and characterless, a dense urban block in the middle of open countryside, unloved or cared for.

‘Toy town,’ Clemens said. ‘I didn’t know they had one here.’

‘What’s a toy town?’ asked Hank.

‘It’s usually used for troop training - a city environment. Purpose built. There’s a huge one in Thetford the army uses before going over the water. They put on riots and snipers, stuff like that . . . The regular army doesn’t come in here so this is obviously for SF only. You’d better slow a little.’

Hank slowed to a crawl as they approached the edge of the town and the first few buildings. The dirt track turned into tarmac and widened to the width of the main street that ran down through the centre of the collection of concrete and brick structures on either side. Clemens was back to full alert now. He pulled out his gun and checked it.

‘We can expect to come under fire,’ he said. ‘Look out for pop-up targets in windows and doorways. If we do, stop the car, get out, find cover, and then we’ll cover each other to a safe location. Watch out for friendly targets, woman carrying babies, stuff like that.’

Two-storey houses lined both sides of the street, interspersed with the occasional local shop. It reminded Hank of an ugly version of Disneyland in so far as everything one expected to find in a town was there but superficially. There were signposts, a phone booth, lampposts, dustbins and a bus stop. The street and pavements were littered with bricks, chunks of concrete and broken bottles. Several cars were parked sporadically along both sides of the road, all wrecks, and many burned out and without wheels. It looked as if a serious riot had recently taken place.

‘Your gun cocked and loaded?’ Clemens asked.

‘Yep,’ Hank replied, his hands tense on the wheel. He steered carefully along the main street, nice and easy, eyes everywhere, avoiding the larger lumps of rock and concrete. It all felt so confined. The street seemed narrow even for English towns and the houses appeared to be closer at the tops as if they leaned in over the street. An attack could come from just about anywhere.There were dozens of doorways and windows, most of them broken or missing altogether.

Fifty yards into the town a bottle floated through the sky as if out of nowhere and smashed on the street beside the car. Hank maintained the steady speed. Seconds later another bottle smashed close by followed by several more.They flew from the buildings either side of the car as it passed. One hit the car and Hank speeded up. Bricks and lumps of concrete then joined the bottles. Hank drove faster as they headed towards a collection of wrecked cars arranged like a chicane, forcing him to swerve in between them.

Several men appeared, running from the houses, and pelted the car with stones and pieces of wood. A couple ran up and whacked it with sticks and kicked it. Hank drove as fast as he could, threading the obstacles in the narrow street without hitting them. A Molotov cocktail struck the road beside the car and flames splashed against its side. More rioters appeared up ahead.There must have been thirty or forty, shouting and yelling and hurling missiles.

As Hank screeched out of the chicane he put his foot fully down. The flames bubbled the paint on the car before they extinguished. Then several yards ahead Hank saw a woman running down the pavement pushing a pram. She looked panicky, as if trying to escape the riot herself. The final obstacle was two cars parked either side of the road leaving a narrow gap for him to squeeze through. As he closed on the gap, the woman running down the pavement suddenly tripped and fell and the pram wheeled from her grasp and on to the road. It rolled straight into the gap between the parked cars. Hank took his foot off the accelerator as his mind considered his choices: swerve and go down the right pavement and hit a bus stop, take the left pavement and try to squeeze past several lampposts, which looked unlikely, or slam on the brakes and hit one of the parked cars. The problem with all of those options was that they meant coming to a stop, and that meant having to deal with the rioters.

There was of course another option, an unthinkable one at any other time and place. But somehow this was all so different. He was supposed to be an undercover agent. His life was in danger, and the life of his partner. Ahead was a pram with supposedly a baby in it. Self-preservation meant something else. It was not just about one’s life. It was war.

Hank ran out of decision-making time and slammed his foot down hard on the accelerator. The car bore down on the gap. Clemens instinctively reached for the dashboard and sunk in his seat. Hank hit the pushchair square on and it left the ground like a football in a penalty kick. Something flew out of it and arced back towards the windshield. It was flesh-coloured.A baby. It slammed into the windshield, cracking it, then rolled over the roof. Hank kept his eyes on the road ahead. Clemens looked back to see the doll bounce on the road and its head fly off. A few seconds later they emerged from the grey, desolate structures back into the countryside and on to a dirt track once more as if it had all been a bad dream.

Clemens exhaled deeply and relaxed in his seat as the worst of the tension left him. ‘Nice one,’ he said. ‘Notch one dead baby up to Hank.’

Hank was in a kind of mental limbo. For a split second back there, just after the collision, he thought he had done the right thing, and now it seemed all so completely wrong. He wondered what he could have been thinking choosing the pram. This wasn’t a war they were in, not really. Stratton said they were effectively police officers. Cops don’t plough through babies to get away from rioters. ‘Shit,’ he mumbled to himself.

‘I reckon that just about sums up our day,’ Clemens said, sounding relieved that he was not the only one who had cocked up.

Hank began to doubt if these guys were all they were cracked up to be. Then again, maybe he was taking it more seriously than he was supposed to. Maybe they would find out later. He decided to eat and trudged back across the track towards the galley.

Just about everyone was inside having supper. Stratton sat at a table with Doles, both eating in silence. Hank had a sudden urge to go up to him and ask what he thought about the day’s activities. But he decided against it. He would play it the Brit way, whatever that was exactly. He picked up a plate, scooped up a steak, some mashed potato and cabbage, took a knife and fork out of the cutlery box and headed for the back of the room where there was an empty table.

Clemens was sat with several others and as Hank passed he heard his name mentioned.

‘. . . and Hank not only went for the bloody thing, he accelerated right into it.’ Clemens laughed in his croaking manner, his mouth wide open, and his huge tongue sticking out. He showed no guilt on seeing Hank. ‘Ain’t that right, Hanky boy? You railroaded that pram and that kid right into fucking space.’

Some of the men were amused but others were not.

Hank paid no heed and sat at the empty table and placed his food down. He was finding it easier to ignore Clemens. The guy had a big mouth.

Hank sawed at the steak with the blunt knife without much effect and then gave up and dug into his pocket for his penknife. The blade cut through the meat with ease but his teeth faired little better than the cutlery and his bruised jaw soon ached with the effort of chewing it. He tried a mouthful of mashed potato, which was obviously powder and water, and decided he would have to be a lot hungrier than he was to get through this particular meal and pushed it away.

Across the room Stratton got up, placed his dishes in the tub and headed out of the room. Hank grabbed the opportunity, picked up his plate and cutlery, and headed between the tables towards the entrance. He scraped the food into the trashcan and dumped the plate and tools in the tub.

Hank stepped outside in time to see Stratton walk around the corner. He hurried up and closed on Stratton’s back. ‘Sergeant Stratton,’ Hank said.

Stratton stopped and turned to face him. ‘We don’t call anyone by their rank when in civvies,’ he said.

‘Right,’ Hank said, suddenly wondering if this was a good idea. Stratton seemed to be in a serious mood. Hank was then suddenly unsure how to begin.

‘I, er . . . We haven’t officially met . . . Hank Munro . . . chief,’ then with finality, ‘Hank.’ He held out his hand. Stratton shook it.

‘Sorry I never said hello earlier. It’s been a bit crazed.’

‘Hey, that’s okay,’ Hank said, shrugging. ‘I know how it is . . . I just wanted to say that I appreciate being invited along.’

‘Always a pleasure to play with our cousins from over the pond,’ Stratton said.

Hank smiled appreciatively then got to what was bugging him. ‘Look, I just wanted to ask you about today—’

Stratton cut him off. ‘You can come to prayers,’ he said. Hank was thrown by the odd comment. ‘Prayers?’ he asked, as if he had not heard correctly.

‘Orders.You weren’t in the galley when it was announced. The operational briefing. Building one.’

Stratton headed away.The briefing, or prayers as Stratton called it, was a complete surprise to Hank. The op was happening and he had been invited to the O group. If nothing else it was an indication he was still okay on somebody’s list.

Several of the guys passed Hank and after they had all entered building one he followed.

It was the same as all the other buildings: one long cold brick room with a concrete floor and a small toilet in a cubicle near the entrance.The only furnishings were a dozen metal chairs spread in a double semi-circle halfway into the room, facing a table and lectern. Behind these were several boards propped on chairs and draped in black cloths to cover what was on them. All the windows were cloaked in the same heavy black cloth. Two men were waiting at the far end behind the table and lectern: Lieutenant Jardene and a man Hank had never seen before.They were dressed in civilian clothes, a little smarter and more tasteful than the men, and their hair was short and neat.

‘Sit down, please, gentlemen,’ Jardene said. Hank waited until everyone was seated and took the last chair, pulling it further back from the others, feeling like an intruder perhaps and subconsciously trying to remain as invisible as possible. Stratton and Doles entered, closing the door.

‘Everyone here, Stratton?’ Jardene asked.

‘Yes, sir,’ Stratton replied, standing behind Hank. Hank half looked over his shoulder to see Doles leaning against a wall, holding a pen and notebook. Hank then noticed everyone else had a notebook. He cursed himself for not being in the galley when the warning order for the briefing had been given. It was little things such as this, not having a pen and paper when he needed one, that irritated him about himself.

‘We received the green light for operation Phoenix only a few hours ago,’ Jardene continued.‘This is Captain Sumners from military intelligence. He’s going to kick off with a brief background to the operation. Needless to say, everything you hear in this room will not be discussed outside of it.’ Jardene’s eyes rested on Hank’s for a second, as if impressing upon him that he was aware he was in the room, that it was no mistake, and that the rules applied to him as much as anyone else. Hank felt a rush of importance.

‘Gentlemen,’ Captain Sumners said in greeting. ‘Two months ago one of our intelligence operatives was captured by members of the Real IRA in County Tyrone. It was a well-planned operation that almost succeeded.’ Sumners glanced at Stratton who remained poker faced. ‘RIRA did not just happen upon the operative by chance. They knew precisely where to find him and when.

‘Many of our successes against the IRA over the years have been due to informants within the terrorist organisation itself. It is no secret that the IRA has had its own informants within the RUC and army, and even inside army intelligence at lower levels.The notion that they could penetrate the higher levels of our own military intelligence has always been considered improbable . . . A year ago we learned from a reliable source that there was very possibly a well-placed RIRA spy, or mole if you like, within the ranks of our military intelligence. This not only encompasses MI5, 6, A4, etcetera, but also the various intelligence cells of our military units. The informer who provided this information did not have any more details to offer, other than RIRA had gone to great lengths to protect this highly placed and valuable source.

‘Initially, many at MoD treated this information with scepticism. Today, it is looked upon with serious concern. There are many tactics employed to catch a spy. Luck plays a great part, often a chance encounter seemingly unrelated and setting the hunt into focus. That’s pretty much what happened in this case.

‘RIRA has enjoyed a strong intelligence relationship with the ALG, the largest of the Algerian terrorist organisations. The ALG has its sympathisers within French government, military and intelligence services. We believe our RIRA mole communicates with his or her handler through one such ALG spy who is a member of French counter intelligence, DST . . . Don’t worry if any of this loses you. It’s only background.’

Sumners removed the black sheet from one of the boards. On it were several pictures of a dark-complexioned man in his forties, some taken with surveillance cameras, others official passport photos.

‘Serjo Henri,’ Sumners went on, indicating the pictures. ‘I won’t go into any of his details other than his appearance and VDMs, visual distinguishing marks that is, since it isn’t important to this operation, but suffice to say we believe Henri is the link between our mole and his RIRA handler. In case anyone is wondering why a RIRA mole inside our military intelligence should need to go through an Algerian spy working for French military intelligence, the simple answer is it makes it devilishly difficult to discover or intercept communications. It is safe to assume that Henri is nothing more than a go-between and knows nothing about what he delivers either to the mole or to RIRA.

We have been watching Henri for the past six months and have discovered how he receives invitations to take secret meetings. We’re certain the trigger that tells him a meeting has been called for is a code of some sort stuck on to a lamppost. It’s not uncommon to find small ads on lampposts in Paris and he obviously knows what to look for. He quickly removes the code, which he can do almost without stopping. We’ve never seen one of the codes as he’s very thorough about disposing of them. We think they indicate a prearranged location and a date and time. Henri lives and works in Paris and he takes a walking exercise along various streets in his neighbourhood several times a week. He passes dozens of lampposts, any one of which might hold the invitation, and since it isn’t possible to watch every lamppost in the centre of Paris twenty-four hours a day, every day of the year, we can’t catch them that way.’

‘Who’s been carrying out the surveillance?’ Stratton asked.

‘A couple of our embassy staff. Up until now it has not been a high enough priority to mount a full operation, and there are other reasons I’ll get to later, which will also explain why I’m briefing you lot instead of one of our own teams.’

‘Have you covered any of the actual meetings yet, sir?’ asked Doles.

‘No. The two embassy staff members have done well but they are not trained surveillance operatives.’

‘Then how do you know the lamppost triggers are for meetings?’ Doles persisted.

Sumners was a patient man and used to having questions fired at him since so much of his work was piecing together bits of a puzzle. ‘We haven’t actually covered any meetings, as I said, but we’ve housed Henri at a couple just to prove our theories. In both cases Henri picked up his trigger in the afternoon, on a lamppost as I have described, and then he went to a café the following morning. Different cafés, but in the two cases we observed he sat outside, then after a while he went inside, presumably to meet his contact. Without a proper surveillance team and technical support we wouldn’t even attempt to cover the actual meetings inside.’

Brent put up his hand. ‘Sir, so how have you tied Henri to the mole?’

‘By cross-referencing sightings with events in the past we’ve been able to make some conclusions. Obviously, one must be careful about one’s deductions, but like doing a cross-word, there are certain answers to clues on which one must depend to support others until they can support themselves. On three occasions Henri’s actions have coincided with events in Northern Ireland. An example is his movements five days before the intelligence operative was abducted in Tyrone. Henri picked up a trigger for a meeting, which he took the following morning in a café. When he left the café half an hour later he caught a taxi. One of the attachés just happened to have his car nearby and managed to follow him - to the airport, where he boarded a flight to Dublin. We had a man waiting for Henri at the other end. He followed him on a train to Dundalk where he left him.This meeting tallies with a report from RUC special branch. Four days later the detachment’s operative was snatched. We believe Henri met with our mole in the café that day and was handed information that led to that attempted kidnapping.’

‘How many of our people knew the operative was in the car?’ Doles asked.

‘We’ve obviously covered that route in great detail. The orders for that operation went to London a week before it took place. There are a fair number of people who could have had access to the file in the Lisburn office as well as London. An investigation in that direction would not be worthwhile for a number of reasons.’

Sumners paused for a moment to check where he was on the board. ‘Right. Let’s move on to the op. Yesterday afternoon Henri was seen picking up a trigger from a lamppost a mile from his apartment. If past habits are anything to go by he will attend a meeting somewhere in Paris tomorrow. We can only hope it will be with our mole, and if not, someone who can take us to the next step in finding him . . . Are there any questions before we get on with the operation orders?’

There were none. Sumners deferred to Jardene, who pulled the cover off the other large board to reveal a detailed map of a section of the centre of Paris. Dotted around the map were photographs of specific streets and locations in that area.

‘The ground is central Paris,’ Jardene begun. ‘Specifically a triangle formed by the Place de la Concorde, L’Opéra and the Louvre. It’s a somewhat upscale part of the city, a lot of shops, businesses, very much a tourist area. Henri lives in a small apartment over a shop, here in Rue Shebal. In the past his meetings have been within two miles of his apartment. He prefers to walk or use public transport. He likes to practise anti-surveillance techniques often but he doesn’t move very quickly and if you keep a good team formation you should have no trouble with him. Your mission is to house him at the meeting and then cover it with audio and visual recording systems.’

Hank sat listening with interest as Jardene spent the next hour going over every detail of the operation.When Jardene revealed the individual tasks Hank hoped that, despite it being a long shot, his name would be mentioned, but it was not. When Jardene got to the final phase of the orders, naming the command structure from top to bottom, Hank’s name failed again to make the list. Hank remained philosophical. There had been no chance of him going on the op from the beginning, but hoping had not done any harm.

‘Are there any questions?’ Jardene finally asked the room at the end of the briefing.

‘Sir,’ said Jackson putting his hand up. ‘Why us? I mean, we’re not as good at surveillance as the det is. Why not use them or A4?’

Jardene looked to Sumners.

‘Yes, I was going to mention that, wasn’t I?’ Sumners said. ‘Since we have no idea who the mole is - my suspicions lean more towards MI5 - we want to do this out of house.We doubt the IRA has infiltrated your lot. It wouldn’t make much sense since only a handful of SBS and SAS operatives work over the water these days and therefore spend little more than a fraction of their careers working against the IRA.’

‘Why did we spend the last few days rehearsing shooting and fast driving if we’re not going to be armed or use vehicles?’ Doles asked.

‘That was my decision,’ said Jardene. ‘It really couldn’t be helped since we had no idea what the operation was until this afternoon. All I knew was that it was RIRA related. I assumed that meant we would be going over the water and so I thought it best to brush up on some basics until I knew more. But you have all had surveillance experience and Stratton has commanded dozens of such operations.You may be a little rusty but I have every confidence you will come up to scratch.’

‘What about the French?’ Jackson asked.

‘What about the bloody French?’ someone replied sarcastically, to a few chuckles.

‘That’s a good question actually,’ said Sumners. ‘The French will not be informed of this operation. For a number of reasons we will be keeping this strictly a UK intelligence op. For all intents and purposes you are on vacation in Paris. That’s why you will be using cell-phones only for communications. Normally you would stay in the embassy for a day to be processed and qualify for diplomatic immunity. But obviously we do not have enough time for that. Technically what we’re doing is quite illegal and would cause a diplomatic storm if it got out. There must be no risks taken. If this operation is blown the repercussions will go all the way to the top.’

‘Exactly why aren’t we telling the French?’ Doles asked.

‘We don’t trust the bastards, that’s why,’ Clemens answered.

Sumners interrupted the laughing. ‘First of all, we don’t particularly want the French to know we have a mole. And if they found out that one of their own intelligence officers was working for RIRA and the ALG they might close him down immediately to avoid any further embarrassment. Henri is our only lead. We’re prepared to take the risk to keep him operational.’

‘Any more questions?’ Jardene asked. After a moment’s silence, he continued, ‘This is not a difficult operation. I must impress upon you not to be overconfident though. If at any time you feel you have been overexposed you must pull off.’

‘I would rather lose the mouse for another day than let it know there’s a cat in the house,’ Sumners added.

‘Right then,’ Jardene said. ‘Pack any kit you will not need and leave it in building one. It’ll be taken back to Poole. You should be home by tomorrow night after a debriefing back in Poole . . . Dolesy.’

Doles took his cue and stepped forward to address everyone. ‘Okay. Stores, transport, timings. Be in building six in thirty minutes. You’ll be given cell-phones, spare batteries, hand chargers and expenses money. Brent. You’re the tech man on this one. When I’ve dished out the phones and money we’ll go through the audios and cameras. Any questions? That’s all. Oh, and the expense money is for meals and transport only, not beer, Jackson. You give back what you don’t spend, and no receipts, tough titty, you pay out of your own pocket.’

‘Jock bastard,’ someone mumbled, followed by some laughing as the men headed for the door.

‘You better believe it,’ Doles said.

‘Oh, and I suggest you clean up - wash and shave - you’re tourists not farm labourers,’ Jardene called out.

Hank waited for everyone else to file out. Sumners and Jardene remained to huddle over the map and discuss the operation further. He thought about asking Jardene what he should do with himself but decided against interrupting him and left the building.

He stepped out into the chilly night air. The stars were clear and bright as the night before. Stratton was talking with Doles at the far end of the building. Hank headed to the edge of the compound a few yards away to look out over the countryside. Doles finished his conversation with Stratton and headed away.

‘Hank,’ Stratton called out. Hank looked over at him. ‘You been to Paris?’ he asked.

Hank walked casually towards Stratton with his hands in his pockets. ‘Nope,’ he said.

‘I suppose you don’t speak French.’

‘First time anyone’s ever asked me and the first time I wish I did,’ Hank said with a smirk.

Stratton smiled thinly. ‘Always a lot of American tourists in Paris,’ he said.

There was something in Stratton’s tone that caused Hank’s hopes to skyrocket. ‘Wish I was one of them tomorrow,’ he said.

‘Maybe you should be.’

‘How would that work?’ Hank asked, remaining as matter of fact as he could.

‘You got your passport?’ Stratton asked.

Hank’s hope sunk again. ‘No,’ he said.

‘Navy ID?’

‘Sure.’

‘That’ll do. You stick with me, okay?’

‘Okay,’ Hank said.

‘Put your kit with the rest of the baggage for Poole and I’ll see you at the vehicles,’ Stratton said and walked away.

Hank could not help grinning. First thing was a quick wash and shave, then put on that clean shirt he’d brought along. He walked briskly to his basher. Things were not bad at all, he decided.