On the Rock Read online

  At 11 a.m. the soldiers of the Royal Gibraltar Regiment would be marching up Main Street in their red tunics and white helmets, behind their band, until they reached the square in front of the Governor’s Residence. At 11.20 a.m., the Changing of the Guard would take place.

  As usual, the square would be packed with hundreds of soldiers and tourists. Families, lads on stag weekends and people on coach trips, like the Young at Heart lot, would line the route. When high explosives detonate, it’s not just the blast that does the killing. Anything else that shatters – like glass, metal, concrete, even the victims’ bones – becomes a small missile. It’s as if hundreds of machine-guns had opened fire at the same time.

  Many tourists would have selfie sticks to take pictures and videos of the Changing of the Guard. Some mobiles would survive the blast and their videos would show the world what had happened.

  Our job was to capture the players alive so they could be questioned. We wanted to arrest them as they were trying to carry out their attack. We didn’t want to arrest them after they had killed hundreds. That would mean a long court case, and by then any information we gained from them would be useless. They had to be caught in the act and grabbed. Then all three had to be made to tell us what they knew about this new terror group so that we could close it down.

  Until we saw the players, the team – Naz, Slack Pat, Kev and I – were to stay where we were, drinking tea and reading the paper. We were waiting for something, somewhere, to happen.

  Chapter Five

  Through my radio earpiece I could hear Simmons. He was on board a Royal Navy warship at the Gibraltar docks. Everything he said was clear and calm.

  ‘Hello, all call signs. This is Alpha. Radio check, over.’

  Kev replied quietly into the microphone hidden under his shirt: ‘Charlie.’

  Slack Pat said, ‘Delta.’

  I heard Naz say: ‘Echo.’

  My turn came: ‘Golf.’

  Those were our call signs. They were quicker and clearer to use than names, especially when things got busy.

  Once our team had finished the radio check, Simmons told us he had heard us all, which meant that the radios were working.

  ‘Alpha.’

  Naz always made me smile when he was talking seriously because he still sounded as if he should have been a market trader in the East End of London. Well, he did to me. His Arabic name meant ‘delicate’. But, being the world’s hairiest Pakistani man, he didn’t look delicate. Especially as I had always had this vision of him in a pork-pie hat trying to sell dodgy perfume from his market stall.

  The Young at Heart coach party settled down at nearby tables and picked up the menus. It was decision time for them – whether to have cake or go for soup and a sandwich. It was halfway between a mid-morning coffee and lunch time and they didn’t know which way to jump.

  I carried on looking bored, and that isn’t easy. I had to look like I was really bored when I wasn’t. If I didn’t succeed, I would blow my cover. My team and I must not give away to any of the people around us what we were doing. That included the bombers. We all had to look like normal people while we were doing something else.

  I had spent years being a Grey Man, blending in as best I could. No one ever gave me a second look. Years ago I worked undercover in Northern Ireland during the Troubles. I had been there about six months before I felt bedded in. By then, I was a local. I wore market jeans and cheap trainers. I needed to be moving about the city and be someone who wouldn’t get a second look from anyone.

  Wherever I went I had to fill my head with a reason to be there. If I found myself in a dangerous part of the city, I convinced myself I was going to see a mate. Even a mother walking her kids to school could be a danger to me. It takes less than a second for real people to sense something is wrong. That is especially true of young mothers so I always tried to avoid being near them. It must be something to do with their instinct to protect their child. Whatever it was, I knew that if I didn’t get my act together a mother would be thinking, Who is he? Has he come from one of the estates on the other side of the river? Is he armed? Is he here to kill someone? Blow something up?

  When someone notices you, things can go wrong.

  Naz, Slack Pat and Kev all had the same background. Naz’s experience wasn’t in Northern Ireland where he would have stuck out like a sore thumb, just like I would have done in Baghdad. Today I was a tourist, having coffee with my mates. Just like the Young at Heart group, who had settled for soup and sandwiches.

  Slack Pat leaned over and muttered into Kev’s ear, ‘New Jihad must be desperate. They’ve sent the Barry Manilow Fan Club. Is that your mum over there with them?’ He grinned at Kev, who frowned.

  Slack Pat was from Glasgow, with an accent to prove it. Blond, blue-eyed, good-looking, clever and funny, he was everything I hated. He was also six foot two, and very fit. Pat’s only saving grace, I thought, was that when he stood up there was nothing where his bottom should have been. He was called ‘Slack’ because he had lots of slack in the seat of his jeans.

  I put my elbows on the table and leaned across it so I could keep my voice down. ‘The file Simmons gave me said they call themselves New Islamic Jihad now.’

  Slack Pat thought for a second, which was a long time for him, then shrugged.

  Kev poured some more tea for Slack Pat. ‘Thickhead.’

  Kev’s mother came from southern Spain, just a twenty-minute walk from where we were sitting on the Rock, and he looked like a local: olive skin, jet-black hair, about five foot ten but with the world’s bluest eyes. His wife reckoned he looked like Mel Gibson, which he made fun of but secretly liked. He lived in a posh suburb with leafy streets and neat gardens. I wondered why Kev wanted a life like this.

  It didn’t matter to us what the bombers called themselves. All that did matter was that three of them were heading our way and we had to make sure they couldn’t hurt anyone.

  Chapter Six

  The waiter smiled politely as the Young at Heart group gave him their orders slowly and loudly, just in case he didn’t speak English.

  ‘Can – I – have – the – soup – dear?’

  Maybe they didn’t know that on the Rock English is spoken everywhere and has been for hundreds of years.

  They started taking pictures of themselves. Then they were swapping cameras so they could appear in their own photographs.

  Slack Pat got up and said to them, ‘Shall I take one of all of you?’

  ‘Ooh, you’re from Scotland, are you? Isn’t it nice and warm now?’

  He had just started doing his photo shoot when Simmons’s voice filled our earpieces.

  ‘Stand by, stand by. That’s a possible, a possible … Bravo One on Main Street, heading south, towards the town square. Golf, acknowledge.’ We had given the bombers the call sign ‘Bravo’ so everyone knew who we were talking about.

  I got to my feet, confirmed to Simmons that I’d heard, and started walking. It was pointless all three of us moving at this stage. Simmons had probably seen someone who looked like one of our three targets on the Rock’s CCTV cameras. He wanted me to go and see if it really was Bravo One – Alexander.

  Families on their Sunday walks strolled across from my left. Tourists were taking pictures of buildings, looking at maps and scratching their heads; elderly locals were sitting down enjoying the weather, walking their dogs, playing with their grandchildren. There were two men with beer bellies, both old, smoking themselves to death. They wore trousers with big braces, shirt and vest to soak up the March sun. It was like any other day.

  I wondered how many of them would survive if the bomb went off right there. I checked my watch. There was still an hour before the parade started for the Changing of the Guard.

  I was just getting into my stride when Simmons was back on the radio. ‘Stand by, stand by. That’s a possible Bravo Two and Bravo Three on Main Street heading north towards the Town Square. Charlie, confirm.’

  Kev got on his
radio. ‘Roger that.’

  His task was the same as mine, to confirm that the possible Bravo Two was Morgan and Bravo Three was Julie.

  I imagined Kev walking along the pavement like me, looking in shop windows and doing the normal lazy Sunday thing, blending into the crowd as he checked out the possibles.

  I hit Main Street and saw Bravo One straight away. He wore a brown pin-striped suit jacket – he’d had it for so long that the pockets sagged. The back was creased because he’d been wearing it in a car. His jeans were old and faded. He didn’t look like a slick banker today but, of course, he didn’t want to. It was definitely him.

  I got on the radio. ‘Alpha, this is Golf. That’s confirmed. Bravo One, brown pin-stripe on faded blue.’

  Then Naz was on the radio. ‘Echo is now backing you up, Golf.’

  Naz was short, with an acne-scarred face. He had the world’s biggest motorbike back home. I liked to tease him because when he sat on his bike he couldn’t get both feet to touch the ground at the same time. I looked on him as a brother. Naz and I had been young soldiers together and had got into the SAS at the same time. We’d been best friends ever since. He was always calm. I’d been with him when the police arrived to tell him that his sister had been murdered. He just said, ‘I’d better go to London and sort things out.’ Of course he cared but he didn’t get excited about anything. I always felt secure when he was backing me up.

  As I followed Alexander, I informed everyone that Bravo One – Alexander – was still moving south on Main Street. Then he turned into the square by the Governor’s Residence.

  There were six or seven cars parked in the shade, against the wall of an old building. I saw Alexander push his hand into his jacket pocket as he went towards them. Was he about to set off a bomb?

  Without slowing his stride, he focused on one vehicle and headed towards it. I moved so I had a clear view of the number plate.

  ‘Alpha, this is Golf.’ I read out the car’s number.

  I pictured Simmons with the computers in front of him in the control room. He confirmed that he’d heard me. ‘Roger that. The car is a white Ford Focus.’

  ‘It’s on the right, third car from the entrance,’ I said.

  By now the keys were in Alexander’s hands.

  ‘Bravo One at the car, he’s at the car.’

  I had to pass him quite close now – I couldn’t change direction. I could see his profile. His chin and top lip were covered with zits, and I knew what that meant. He had been suffering from stress.

  Alexander was still at the Ford. He turned, now with his back to me, pretending to sort his keys out, but I knew he was checking the tell-tales: maybe a sliver of Sellotape across a door, things arranged in a certain way inside the vehicle. If they were not as he had left them, Alexander would run.

  By now, Naz would be near the entrance to the square, ready to ‘back’. If I was too exposed to the target, he would take over, or if I got into trouble and weapons came out, Naz would help me to finish it.

  The buildings were casting shadows across the square. I couldn’t feel any breeze, just the change in temperature as I moved out of the sunlight.

  I was too close to Alexander now to transmit on my radio. As I walked past the car I heard the click of the lock as Alexander pressed the key fob.

  I headed for a wooden bench on the far side of the square and sat down as Simmons spoke again over the radio. ‘This is Alpha. The car was rented at Malaga airport two days ago by Morgan.’

  They must have driven from the airport, crossed the border and parked it straight away to make sure the device would be in place.

  Alexander made a sudden movement, and I got back on the radio: ‘Alpha, this is Golf. His feet are on the ground, but he’s fiddling under the dashboard. Wait.’ Could he be making the final connections to the bomb?

  As I was speaking without moving my lips, an old man came towards me, pushing his bike. He was on his way over for a chat. I didn’t want to discuss local politics or the weather, but I didn’t want to annoy him because he might somehow draw Alexander’s attention.

  The old boy stopped, one hand on his bike, the other swinging around. He asked me a question. I didn’t understand what he had said – he had spoken in Spanish. I smiled and shrugged. I’d done the wrong thing: he said something that sounded angry, then wheeled his bike away, arm still swinging.

  I got back on the radio. I couldn’t see exactly what Alexander was doing, but both of his feet were still outside the car. He was sitting on the driver’s seat and was still leaning under the dash. It looked as if he was trying to get something out of the glove compartment – as if he’d forgotten something and gone back to get it. I couldn’t confirm what he was doing but his hands kept going into his pockets.

  Everything was closing in. I felt like a boxer – I could hear the crowd, I was listening to the referee, listening for the bell, but mostly I was focused on the man I was fighting. Nothing else mattered. Nothing. The only important people in the world were me and Bravo One.

  Then, through my earpiece, Kev broke into my world: ‘Alpha, this is Charlie. That’s confirmed – Bravo Two and Three. Both of them are still heading north on Main Street towards the square. They have suitcases.’

  They were coming towards us.

  Chapter Seven

  Slack Pat was on the radio: ‘Delta’s backing Charlie.’

  He was the last of the team to move from the café: he had to support Kev.

  Kev came back on the radio. ‘Bravo Two and Three are still heading towards the square.’

  Simmons cut in to make sure we knew what to do. ‘All call signs, I still do not have control. Let them meet. There is still time before the Changing of the Guard.’

  Simmons hadn’t got control. That meant he hadn’t received the final order to carry out the job. He had only one boss and that was the Prime Minister. It was never talked about but all four of us in my team were aware that the Prime Minister had to give the final order for Simmons to carry out the arrest.

  The reason was simple. If it went wrong, a lot of lives would be lost, and the Gibraltar government would be angry that such a dangerous operation had taken place without their knowledge.

  That was why we, the Ks, were on this job.

  I recognized the other two players as soon as they turned the corner and walked into the square.

  Bravo Two was Morgan. He was a butcher by trade and, with his round face and red cheeks, he looked as if he had eaten too many meat pies.

  Julie, who was Bravo Three, was smaller and, like her husband, loved those pies. An ex-convent schoolgirl, with black curly hair past her shoulders, she looked angelic.

  Both wore the same hooded jacket and jeans with nice clean white trainers. Julie had even given herself the American tourist look: she had a camera dangling from her neck and a street map in her hand.

  But it was the large wheelie suitcases that worried me. They were brand new and, from the way they dragged them over the square, they were heavy.

  I wanted to get this over and done with before anything could go wrong. But instead I had to watch as the two men shook hands by the Focus and Julie looked on as a dutiful wife. Then she opened the car’s boot.

  I kept talking on the radio, explaining to everyone what was happening as the two men placed the heavy suitcases in the boot. Then the Keens stood in front of Alexander, hiding him as he bent into the rear of the car and stayed there far too long. I watched as he closed the boot and the three bombers started to talk. Julie leaned back against the car, the two men standing and facing her. If I hadn’t known differently, I would have thought they were trying to chat her up.

  Then Julie gave Alexander her camera, and Morgan stood at the rear of the Focus with her. They played the happy couple while Alexander got the camera on them.

  But he wasn’t taking pictures – it was video. I couldn’t hear what they were saying but their faces showed no sign of stress. Now and then I heard laughter above the traffi
c noise as they spoke into the lens. They were pointing into the square and then to the car. Once they had stopped filming, Alexander got out a packet of mints and passed them round. Then he took the memory card out of the camera and placed it in his jeans pocket. He opened the boot once more and threw in the camera.

  To me and the rest of the team dotted about the square that meant only one thing. Alexander had checked that the bombs in the suitcases were ready to explode when he made the call from his mobile. All they were waiting for now was the Changing of the Guard.

  But what about the video?

  That was the Keens’ suicide video and would be shown online after the explosion. Maybe they were going to stay in the square and detonate the device so the attack happened when it could do the most damage.

  Simmons was back on the radio. ‘Hello, all call signs, all call signs. I have control. I have control.’

  Great. Now it was down to me and the rest of the team. Like dogs, we had been let off our leads and no one could tell us what to do. Not Simmons, not even the Prime Minister. That was because we were the people on the ground. No one else would be seeing, hearing or even smelling what we would. Only we could make decisions on what to do when the bombers were in our hands.

  Chapter Eight

  Simmons had picked us for the job because once we were let loose we knew what we were doing.

  The Focus’s lights flashed as Alexander locked the car, and the bombers started to walk away. I spoke on the radio: ‘Stand by, stand by. That’s all three Bravos now moving away from the car, back towards Main Street.’

  I went on: ‘All call signs. Let them pass and we’ll follow until I think it’s safe to lift them.’

  I was glad they weren’t going to stay in the square with the car because there were far too many people around for us to take the bombers safely. For all I knew, they were armed and wanted to go out in a blaze of glory when they tried to set off the device.