Stella Rimington - At Risk

She steadied herself. In the long term, the action that she was taking today would save lives. It would make the West think twice before raining bombs and bullets on those they considered faceless and of no consequence. The cascading triple detonation in which the British family would die would serve as the scream of those countless others across the world who had died without a voice. The young man would have to give up his life with the rest.

The two of them reached the village stores at the same time, and he stood aside politely as she pushed the door open. Inside, as she crammed a basket with bread, mineral water, fruit, cheese, chocolate, and for good measure a couple of Christmas cards and a packet of green tinsel, she felt the young man’s eyes on her. Covertly glancing between the aisles, she saw a tall figure in jeans, a T-shirt, and a motorcycle jacket. He was unshaven, and his hair stuck up on one side of his head as if he had slept on it that way. Catching her eye, he grinned amiably at her, and she looked away. She was prepared to kill him, but she couldn’t bring herself to smile at him. And why- why -did she think that she recognised him?

Near the counter, and with a heart-thumping shock, she saw a photograph of herself on the front of the Daily Telegraph. It was a particularly unsympathetic portrait that her mother had taken at Christmas three or four years ago. WOMAN, 23, SOUGHT… Taking a copy, forcing herself not to read further, she refolded it so that the images were on the inside.

“Rain’s stopped, anyway!” It was the young man-a boy he was, really; he couldn’t have been more than eighteen-by now in front of her in the queue.

“That’s true,” she said flatly. “How long for, though?”

The question, as she had intended, was unanswerable, and he did not reply, just shuffled good-humouredly from leg to leg. When the till girl had scanned his Cheerios and his six-pack of Newcastle Brown Ale cans, he asked for the total to be put on account.

“Which account would that be?”

“Mrs. Delves’-I’m her son.”

The girl leaned comfortably back in her chair. “That’d be your little sister, then-that Jessica. I had a big smile off her yesterday. She’s gorgeous !”

“Well, she’s certainly got a strong pair of lungs on her.”

“Bless! Give her a smacker from me, won’t you?”

“OK. Er… who shall I tell her it’s from?”

The girl spread her fingers and glanced downwards. She was wearing an engagement ring with a pale blue stone. “Beverley,” she said.

“OK, I will. See you.”

As intended, he had seen and taken note of the ring. The faint but unmistakable note of disappointment in his voice, however, had given Jean an idea. It was not going to be easy, but she knew what she was going to have to do. Dumping her basket on the inclined ramp of the counter and letting the girl take the items out and scan and bag them, she reached out and touched the boy’s arm as he made for the exit. He looked round at her, surprised.

“Can I just ask you something?” she whispered. “Outside?”

“Er, sure,” he murmured.

Turning, Jean pulled two ten-pound notes from the velcro wallet. Engrossed in the business of the till, Beverley had not registered the exchange.

Outside the shop Jean assumed her friendliest expression. It was not easy. Smiling was almost painful.

“Sorry to sort of… grab you like this,” she said. “But I was wondering, do you know of any good pubs round here? I’m staying nearby…” she nodded vaguely westwards, “and I don’t know the area, so…”

He scratched his head cheerfully, further disordering the straw-coloured hair. “Well, let’s see… there’s the George,” he jerked a thumb left-handed, “but it’s a bit Ye Olde, if you know what I mean. A bit mums ’n’ dads. I usually go to the Green Man, which is a mile or so up the Downham Road.”

“That’s good, is it?”

“It’s the best round here, I’d say.”

“Right,” said Jean, meeting his anxious, self-conscious gaze with a warm smile. “That’s… Can you tell me exactly how to get there on foot? Because I’m not a hundred per cent sure that I’m going to be able to borrow my parents’ car.”

She was amazed at herself. She had thought that it would be next to impossible, this close-up deception, but it was so easy. As killing, when it had come to it, had been so easy.

“Well, you want to cross the cricket ground, and…” He looked down at his feet and took a deep breath before once again meeting her wide-eyed, enquiring gaze. “Look, I can… I can take you if you want. I was going up there myself tonight, so if you, er…” He shrugged.

She touched his forearm. “That sounds really great. What sort of time?”

“Oh, er… eightish?” He looked at her with a kind of dazed disbelief. “Say eight thirty? Here? How would that be?”

“That would be lovely!” She gave his arm a quick squeeze. “It’s a date, then. Eight thirty here.”

“Er, OK. Great. Where was it that you said you were staying?”

But she was already walking away.

On the tarmac outside the hangar, the SAS were taking on the PO19 Tactical Firearms Unit at football, and losing. Without doubt, the players were having a considerably better time than their immediate superiors, who were sitting inside waiting for news. Phones rang at intervals, and were snatched up, but no news of any importance had come in. Helicopters and regular and Territorial Army teams were maintaining their patrol.

The area was not a densely populated one, and the locals were somewhat bemused by this activity, and by the huge resources of camouflaged manpower that had been mobilised. The county had been intensively leafleted over the course of the morning, and everyone now knew that those suspected of the murders of Ray Gunter and Elsie Hogan were an Asian man and an Englishwoman.

This time when her phone went off Liz did not dive to reach it. All morning, as the negative results came in from each sector, she had had an increasing sense of her own uselessness, and only a terrible fascination with the endgame process prevented her from slipping away and driving back to London. Leaving was what Wetherby would certainly have counselled under the circumstances; there was no advantage to the Service or to anyone else in her staying around.

But Wetherby’s advice had not been sought, and until all the intelligence had come in from Garth House, Liz was going to stay put.

At 3:30 p.m. one of the Army officers voiced the thought that no one else had dared put into words: that perhaps they were searching the wrong area. Was it possible, he ventured, that they had been sold a dummy? Led by a false process of deduction to guard the wrong institution? Could Lakenheath or Mildenhall be the real target?

The question was greeted with silence, and all present turned to Jim Dunstan, who stared expressionlessly in front of him for perhaps a full quarter of a minute. “We continue as we are,” he said eventually. “Mr. Mackay assures me that the Islamic regard for anniversaries is absolute, and we have several hours until midnight. My suspicion is that Mansoor and D’Aubigny are lying up waiting to run the cordon under cover of darkness, and darkness will be with us within the hour. We continue.”

Shortly after 4 p.m. the rain came, wavering grey sheets of it, lashing the hangar roof and dimming the outlines of the waiting Gazelle helicopters. The air smelt dangerously electric and the Army Air Corps pilots glanced anxiously at each other, mindful of their airborne colleagues.

“All we bloody well need,” winced Don Whitten, forcing his hands frustratedly into his jacket pockets. “They say rain’s the policeman’s friend, but it’s our enemy now, and no mistake.”