Peter Cave - War on the Streets

Commissioner McMillan interrupted. He sounded dubious. ‘You make it sound as though we’re dealing with terrorists, not tearaways.’

Grieves’s face was set and grim as he responded. ‘That may well be the case, sir,’ he said flatly. ‘We have reasonable grounds for suspecting that a new type of terrorist organization is building in Europe, perhaps loosely allied to the radical right. If we’re right, they are creating a structure of small, highly mobile and active cells which may or may not have a single overriding control organization at this time.’

Commissioner McMillan was silently thoughtful for a few moments, digesting this information and its implications. Finally he sighed deeply. ‘So what you’re telling us, in effect, is that a unified structure could come into being at any time? That we face the possibility of an entirely new terrorist force on the rampage in our towns and cities?’

The Home Secretary took it up from there. ‘That is exactly what we fear,’ he said sombrely. ‘And we believe that conventional police forces may be totally inadequate and ill-prepared to deal with such a threat.’ He paused, eyeing everyone around the table in turn. ‘Which is why I invited Lieutenant-Colonel Davies of the SAS to this briefing today,’ he added, quietly.

There was a stunned silence as the implications of this statement sank in. Of the group, no one was more surprised than Barney Davies, but it was he who found his voice first.

‘Excuse me, Home Secretary, but are you saying you want to put the SAS out there on the streets? In our own towns and cities?’ he asked somewhat incredulously.

The man gave a faint shrug. ‘We did it in Belfast, when it became necessary,’ he pointed out. He looked at Davies with a faint smile. ‘And it’s not as if your chaps were complete strangers to urban operations.’

Davies conceded the point, but with reservations. ‘With respect, sir, an embassy siege is one thing. Putting a full anti-terrorist unit into day-to-day operation is quite another.’ He paused briefly. ‘I assume that’s the sort of thing you had in mind?’

The Home Secretary shrugged again. ‘Yes and no,’ he muttered, rather evasively. ‘Although personally I had seen it more in terms of a collaboration between the SAS and the conventional police forces. A joint operation, as it were.’

Davies held back, thinking about his response. Finally he looked directly at the Home Secretary, shaking his head doubtfully. ‘Again with respect, sir, but you are aware of the rules. The SAS does not work with civilians.’

The Home Secretary met his eyes with a cool, even gaze. ‘I think you’re rather stretching a point there, Lieutenant-Colonel Davies. I would hardly call the police civilians.’ He thought for a second, digging for further ammunition. ‘Besides, the SAS Training Wing works with various types of civil as well as military groups all over the world, so why not on home ground? Think of it more in those terms if it makes you feel better. A training exercise, helping to create a new counter-terrorist force.’

The man was on dicey ground, and he knew it, Davies thought. Nevertheless, his own position was not exactly crystal-clear, either. They were both dealing with a very grey area indeed. For the moment, he decided to play along with things as they stood.

‘And how would the police feel about such a combined operation?’ he asked.

McMillan spoke up. ‘We have discussed similar ideas in principle, in the past, of course. But obviously, this has come as just as much of a surprise to me as it has to you.’ He paused for thought. ‘But at this moment, my gut feeling is that we could probably work something out.’

The Home Secretary rose to his feet. He looked rather relieved, Davies thought. ‘Well, gentlemen, I’ll leave you all to think it through and come up with some concrete proposals,’ he said, collecting up his papers from the table.

‘Just one more thing, Home Secretary,’ Davies called out, unwilling to let the man escape quite so easily. ‘We’ll have full approval from the relevant departments on this one, I take it?’

The man smiled cannily. He was not going to be tempted to stick his head directly into the noose. ‘Grudging approval, yes,’ he conceded. ‘But of course you won’t be able to count on anyone with any real authority to bail you out if you come unstuck.’

It was more or less what Davies had expected. He returned the knowing smile. ‘So we’re on our own,’ he said. It was a statement, not a question.

‘Aren’t you always?’ the Home Secretary shot back.

It wasn’t a question that Davies had any answer for. He was silent as the politician left the conference room, followed by his aides. There was only himself, Commissioner McMillan, Commander Franks and David Grieves left around the table. No one said anything for a long time.

Finally, Franks cleared his throat. ‘Well, it would seem to me that the first thing you are going to need is a good, straight cop who knows the drug scene at street level,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘No disrespect intended, but it really is foreign territory out there.’

It made sense, Davies thought, taking no offence. Franks was right – the theatre of operations would be something completely new and unfamiliar to his men, and they didn’t have any maps. They would need a guide.

‘Someone with a bit of initiative, who can think for himself,’ Davies insisted. ‘I don’t want some order-taker.’

Franks nodded understandingly. ‘I’ll find you such a man,’ he promised.

The blue Porsche screamed round the corner into the narrow mews entrance at a dangerous angle, clipping the kerb with a squeal of tortured rubber and wrenching the rear wheel up on to the narrow pavement. Bouncing back down on to the cobbled street, the car slewed erratically a couple of times before straightening up and slowing down, finally coming to a halt outside one of the terraced cottages. Like everything else in this part of south-west London, the house was small but expensive.

Glynis Jefferson glanced sideways out of the car window, looking at the number on the house to check the address. There was no real need. The sounds of rave music and general merriment issuing from the house showed that the party was still in full swing, even at three-thirty in the morning. Relief showed on the girl’s strained face as she opened the car door and stepped out.

Her knees felt weak, buckling under her. She leaned against the side of the car for support, trying to control the violent shudders which shook her whole body in irregular and involuntary spasms. It was a warm night, yet she was shivering. Her young face, though undeniably attractive, was taut and lined with tension, ageing her beyond her years. Her eyes were wide, apparently vacant, yet betraying some inner disturbance, like a helpless animal in pain.

She pulled herself together with an effort and dragged herself up the three stone steps to the front of the mews cottage. She rang the bell, fidgeting impatiently as she waited for someone to answer it.

The door was finally opened in a blast of sound by a young man in his early thirties. Glynis did not recognize him; nor did it matter. Names were not important to her.

Nigel Moxley-Farrer lolled against the door jamb, appraising the young blonde on his doorstep. His eyes were glassy, the pupils dilated. He was either drunk, or stoned – probably both. An inane, vacant grin on his face showed that he approved of his attractive young vistor.

‘Well hello, darling. Come to join the bash? You’re too gorgeous to need an invitation. Just come on in.’ He lurched backwards, inviting her into the house.

Glynis shook her head. ‘I’m not partying. I’m just looking for Charlie.’