Peace on Earth

He and his men could still be caught in a trap, Enderson was still thinking. He had always distrusted people like the informer, had never trusted anyone except his own. The men had come to the cache, were looking around for the last time, bending down. So many tricks, so many traps to walk into; he had not even inspected the cache in case it was boobytrapped, in case there was a sniper in the hills above waiting for him to show himself. The men in front were bending down, uncovering the cache.

The first man picked up the first gun.

The Special Branch briefing was brief, Special Branch briefings were always brief. Graham Enderson was not sure whether it was because the need to protect sources was as strict as the men concerned insisted, or because it was a game they played, not only with their contacts but also with him.

The informant who had passed them the details of the arms cache had approached them again, said the sergeant. He would not say who the man was or where the meeting had taken place, would not even confirm that such a meeting had taken place. There was to be a high-level conference in Belfast, the man had said, some of the big boys were coming for it, from Dublin, from Derry, he had given them the time and the location.

‘Who’s involved?’ asked Enderson. The meeting was taking place in the army centre in Lisburn.

The Special Branch sergeant gave him the names. Enderson knew all of them. ‘Where?’ he asked. He remembered the night at the arms cache, how he had managed to phone home that evening after all, managed to wish his son happy birthday.

The Special Branch man gave him the address.

‘The Sportsman’s,’ said Enderson, ‘just along from McDonald’s place.’ He knew the addresses, knew the IRA man who lived along the road.

‘That’s right,’ confirmed the sergeant, giving nothing away.

‘Will McDonald be going to the meeting?’ No problems, he was thinking; he already knew where they could keep watch on the house, where they had already kept watch on the house, the secret place from where they had logged McDonald’s movements, his wife’s movements, his son’s movements, till they knew them all as if they were family: McDonald himself, the hard man, the planner behind the deaths and mutilations, the wife Eileen, even the son Liam.

‘Yes, McDonald will be going to the meeting.’

Typical Special Branch briefing, Enderson thought again, the sergeant had omitted McDonald from the original list; he knew, nevertheless, that McDonald was not the informant, knew that McDonald would never be an informant.

One problem, he was already thinking. He did not know the interior of the bar in which the meeting would take place, which rooms were above it, which doors led to it, away from it.

‘When?’ he asked.

The Special Branch man told him.

Not much time, he thought, only a matter of days, almost the end of term for the kids, he thought, knew he would not be home for Christmas, almost the beginning of their Christmas holidays.

‘OK,’ he said.

The Special Branch briefing lasted a mere fifteen minutes, the briefing which Enderson gave to his teams lasted almost three hours; at the end of it they had worked out the covers as well as the approach routes, plus what they would do inside. The only things they did not know, the only things they still needed to know, were the movements of McDonald and the interior lay-out of the bar where the meeting would take place.

By five thirty the IRA planner called McDonald had been given the code-name Michael, by five forty-five Enderson had solved the problem of the lay-out of the bar. At seven thirty that evening a house in the Falls Road opposite the home of the IRA planner called McDonald was broken into whilst the family who lived there were out. Nothing was stolen and the entry was not even noticed. When they returned at nine that evening there was no way the family could have known that concealed in the roofspace of their house was a man, lying in a hammock strung between the beams of the roof, looking through a hole where he had removed a tile, his radio on whisper.

* * *

By twelve fifteen the next day Enderson confirmed the arrangements he had set in motion to examine the internal lay-out of the Sportsman’s. Eighty-five minutes later Jimmy Roberts flew into Aldergrove Airport.

If he had asked them, he knew, they would have said no; instead he left the flat he shared in Earls Court, took the tube to Heathrow and caught the twelve thirty shuttle to Belfast. There was no trouble with security or Special Branch at either airport. Jimmy Roberts was, after all, an American citizen.

It was almost six weeks since the first message from California that his grandmother was ill, three days since she had died, two days since he had known of it.

He arrived at Milltown Cemetery fifteen minutes before they arrived to lay her to rest, the rain sheeting across the headstones and the mud churned round the hole they had dug for her. He had met her only twice in his life, on the two occasions she had visited the branch of her family on the West Coast of America, yet even there, he remembered, she had been fêted, even there they had known of her republicanism.

Roberts stayed at the gate till he saw the procession wind its way up from the city, the outline of Belfast almost lost in the clouds, and turn into the cemetery. Not many for such a fine woman, he thought, knowing again he should not have come, was glad he had. They passed by him, staring ahead; he watched the faces through the car windows, white, colourless, the men and women not looking at him, seeing him nevertheless, wondering who he was, what he was doing. Only when they had slid the wooden coffin from the hearse and the Holy Father was praying over his grandmother for the last time, did Roberts leave the gate and join the handful of mourners. They nodded at him and looked back at the priest.

He looked on as the box was lowered into the ground, remembering how he had listened to her, remembering the stories she had told him, the heady days of the Easter Rising, the mystery of the death of Michael Collins, the dread of the despised Black and Tans. Only when the coffin was still, and the earth had been sprinkled on it, did they turn to him.

‘I’m Sean.’ He had already worked out what he would say, knew there was no way they could check, no way any of them would know. They recognised his accent, knew he was who he said he was.

‘You’re Sean,’ one of them was saying, ‘all the way from America, you’re her Seamus’s boy.’

It was amazing, he thought, how the family ties still spread across the world, how they were still remembered. ‘Yes,’ he thought of his cousin, ‘I’m Seamus’s boy.’

The rain was harder: not a fitting day, they all agreed, asked him how he was getting back to the city, offering him a lift, someone suggesting he might like a drink. He thanked them, meaning it, was only sorry that he could not tell them the truth, that he never had the chance to tell his grandmother the truth.

Jimmy Roberts was twenty-six years old, his father had emigrated to America with his wife three years before Jimmy had been born. His uncle, the father of the man called Sean, had joined them two years later. They had settled on the West Coast, in the Bay area of San Francisco, where the old lady had visited them, once when Jimmy was four, the last time when he was eighteen. Roberts was both intelligent and industrious, he also shared his grandmother’s zeal for a united Ireland. In late 1982, after four years in the United States army, he had volunteered, through a complicated series of checks and cut-off points, for active service in the cause of the land he considered his own. His last meeting, in a bar in New York, was with a man introduced to him as the head of the movement in North America, whom he knew only by the nick-name or code-name, he was not sure which, of Chopper. The following summer he had been sent to the republic, where he met the men with whom he would live and fight until the movement tired of him, or he of it. Or, he always knew, until the day they buried him with the black beret and the tricolour on his coffin. Three months later Roberts and three others had been posted to London as a sleeper unit of the Provisional IRA. The job of the unit was simple, to lie low, build up a supply of arms and explosives and to wait for the moment the men who gave the orders decided it was time to bomb both the body and the soul out of the mainland. It was for this reason, he knew, that they would have said no if he had asked them permission to attend the funeral of his grandmother, for this reason he had not asked them.

The Falls Road was already dark when the car stopped outside the Sportsman’s. He followed the men inside, the car continuing, taking the women home. The room was small and warm, the condensation running from the windows. He reminded himself who he had said he was and knew that he should not have come. One drink with the family and then he would leave, he told himself; before anyone saw him, before anyone who might recognise him from the training in the Republic entered the bar. The family would not let him get away with just one drink, he knew. He knew again why he had not asked permission, knew he should not have come.

The door flew open and the troops came in. The Green Jackets, he knew, smashing through the tables, forcing the drinkers to get up, pushing them against the wall. He felt the panic rising in him and forced himself to stay calm, to act like the others, tried to persuade himself it was routine, looking at them hurrying through the bar, through the door at the end, up the stairs to the flat above.

The bastard on the end, he suddenly thought, same uniform as the others, same badges, same weapons hanging from his arm, same beret. He wondered why he had noticed the man, why he had singled him out, told himself to remember the face.

They were gone as quickly as they had come, crashing out through the door, the last man covering the others. He heard them moving along the street, the engines starting, pulling away, then he finished his drink and left.

By ten thirty that evening Jimmy was back in the flat in Earls Court which the active service unit used as a base and a bomb factory. He did not tell anyone where he had been or what had happened. It was almost Christmas; he remembered feeling the sadness that his grandmother would not see it, was glad, at least, that he had said goodbye.

By eleven Enderson had drawn out the plans of the bar from the details he had memorised on the raid that afternoon and briefed his teams. It was almost Christmas, he remembered; perhaps, he thought, he could phone his wife on Christmas Day, perhaps he could speak to the children.

* * *

Twelve days after the meeting in the villa outside Comarruga, Issam Sharaf reported back to Abu Nabil. Except for the tight circle of advisors who had need to know, there was no indication to anyone that either he or Nabil had been away; even within that circle no one knew where they had been or why they had gone.

It was almost lunchtime. Only after the bodyguard who sat behind Nabil had left the room did the soldier begin his briefing on the Barcelona conference and his meetings in West Germany; at no stage did Nabil inform Sharaf of his own discussions in Paris and London and at no stage did Sharaf ask.

The sky outside had the thinness of winter, cold and watery.

Sharaf listed those present in the villa at Las Piñas, describing the general atmosphere and detailing the consensus on the three-point agenda, his summary brief and businesslike.

‘Under the general policy that all actions must be seen as part of a coordinated campaign, it has been accepted that assassinations and kidnappings, if any, will be directed against figures connected to the military-industrial complex, and that bombings, which are more likely, will be restricted to companies and institutions linked directly to NATO.’ His voice was level, matter-of-fact.

Nabil nodded his agreement. ‘Weapons and explosives?’ he asked.

‘Arrangements have already been made for the groups involved to share weapons and explosives. There were some objections: some groups feared that it would suggest they were short of such items. It took time to persuade them that the effect would be the opposite.’

Nabil nodded again. ‘And communiqués?’

‘Also agreed. Communiqués will carry joint responsibility. There will also be a link-up between joint communiqués and the exchange of weapons.’ Nabil waited for an illustration. ‘If Action Directe, for example, carries out an assassination in France using a weapon previously used by the Red Brigades in Italy, then the communiqué claiming responsibility will be signed by those two groups. If the Belgians use explosives of a type already used in Germany, then the communiqué will carry the names of the CCC and the RAF.’

Nabil looked up from his drink. ‘It should set them thinking,’ he mused. ‘I wonder how long it will be before anyone picks it up?’

‘Not long at all.’

Nabil tapped the rim of his cup. ‘Anything specific?’

‘Yes. Action Directe are already planning the execution of the man in charge of French arms sales, General René Audran. They’ll postpone that action until ordered to carry it out. The weapon they’ll use will be a machine pistol already used by the Red Brigades in Italy.’

‘What was it used for in Italy?’

‘The killing of a magistrate in Turin in August.’ Sharaf’s voice was still matter-of-fact.

‘Any other specifics?’

‘The Germans and Belgians have agreed on a list of firms they’ll both attack, using explosives from the same source. They have also said that they are prepared to hold off.’

Nabil interpreted the nuance of his words. ‘They will hold off until what?’ he asked.

‘Until one condition has been met, the same with the French.’

‘The condition we assumed they would impose?’

‘Yes,’

They stopped for lunch: Nabil did not consider they should eat while discussing the next subject. The meal, in any case, was light and they completed it in fifteen minutes. When the plates had been cleared and they were again alone in the room, Sharaf raised the subject of the second stage of his European itinerary.

‘The hunger strike,’ he began. It was the part of the plans Nabil had requested him to set in motion which he had anticipated would be the most difficult, but the part which, to the contrary, had proved the easiest.

‘The West Germans have agreed. Contact has been made with those in prison for what the state calls acts of terrorism or who have connections, at whatever levels, with the Red Army Faction; all these are prepared to join a hunger strike.’ One other requirement, Nabil thought, one other prerequisite he had emphasised to Sharaf. ‘Contact has also been made with those in prison in West Germany for political offences not connected with acts of violence,’ continued the soldier. ‘Of these, a number are also prepared to join a hunger strike.’

‘How far are they all prepared to go?’

Sharaf looked at him. ‘As far as necessary,’ he replied simply.

‘What about the authorities? Will they try to stop the hunger strike in any way?’ He did not ask how the man had communicated with those in prison.

‘No,’ said Sharaf.

‘What about force feeding?’

‘The authorities will view the hunger strike as an extension of the campaign against them. Any attempt at force feeding would be considered a victory for the hunger-strikers.’

‘And how will the German public react?’

Sharaf was realistic. ‘At first they won’t care a damn, they won’t even notice. As the first death draws near, however, they’ll begin to think about it, about what it means.’

They would begin to sense the fear, Nabil knew. ‘How long will it take?’ he asked, partly out of consideration of those he was about to sacrifice, partly out of necessity for his timetable.

‘The key,’ Sharaf began to explain, ‘is water. On average, the human body can only survive ten to fifteen days without water, so a hunger strike with no food or water would be over very quickly.’ Too quickly for them, he was thinking, though he did not say so.

‘And if the person took water but no food?’

‘A lower limit of thirty to forty days, an upper limit of approximately seventy to seventy-five.’

‘Is there any way of calculating the probable length of a hunger strike given the individual’s personal characteristics, his weight and body type for example?’

Sharaf guessed the reason for the question. ‘Only within broad outlines. It depends on more factors than just body size and shape. The amount of fat on the body is important. Women therefore tend to survive longer than men, but it also depends on how much exercise the person takes, even the temperature of the room. In the IRA hunger strike of 1981, Bobby Sands was expected to die after about fifty days but survived sixty-five. Joe McDonnell lasted sixty-one, but Kieran Doherty took seventy-three days to die.’

Nabil was staring across the room. ‘So what do you suggest?’

Sharaf’s recommendation was brutal and straightforward. ‘We start one a week, as the IRA did in Belfast. That way the public are made aware of the campaign as each person joins it, that way they are more exposed to the pressure as the deaths become imminent or the people start dying.’ He realised Nabil was looking at the photograph on the desk at the side of the window. ‘In a way,’ he said, ‘the pressure only comes after the first death.’

Nabil took a long time to reply. ‘So the really important person is the second one to die?’ he said at last.

‘Yes. The first death is a necessary sacrifice; it is the second death which is important.’

Nabil was nodding slowly, thinking of it, thinking of the fear it would bring, of the full awesomeness of the pressure he had asked Sharaf to set in motion. ‘You have arranged the second group as I requested?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘And they have all agreed?’

‘They have all agreed.’

Nabil knew how important they would be, how important they would all be. ‘Who goes first?’ he asked.

‘Klars Christian Mannheim.’

Abu Nabil knew it would be Klars Christian Mannheim. ‘He knows he will die?’

‘Yes, he knows he will die.’

For the second time, Nabil did not ask how Sharaf had communicated with those in prison. ‘How long will it take?’

The soldier had already made the calculation. ‘He weighs sixty-eight kilos. Within the limits we discussed, about seventy days.’

‘When will he start?’

‘He will announce his intention to go on hunger strike on Christmas Eve. He will start in the New Year.’

Nabil knew that Klars Christian Mannheim had worked it out, that he had set himself a timetable, that there was a reason for it.

‘How will it be for him, for all of them?’ he asked quietly.

‘Hell,’ said Sharaf simply.

Neither of them spoke for thirty seconds.

‘You said the campaign in Europe was dependent upon one condition?’ It was Nabil who broke the silence.

Sharaf nodded. ‘They ask that we start the campaign.’

‘As we expected.’

‘Yes.’ He knew Nabil had already selected both the target and the place.

‘Hassan Nabulsi,’ Nabil’s voice was without emotion. ‘The PLO man in London.’

The choice neither surprised nor displeased Sharaf: the target would satisfy those who had made the request at the Spanish conference, and assassinations within the various factions of the Palestinian movement were not uncommon.

‘Nabulsi is in Tunisia with Arafat at the moment,’ he said.

‘He returns next week.’

Sharaf did not need to know how the other man knew. ‘When?’

‘Before Christmas. Before Klars Christian Mannheim announces his hunger strike. That way he’ll know we’re serious.’

‘Who will do it?’ Sharaf asked at last.

If Walid Haddad was going to end it all, Nabil had already thought, then it was only fitting that Walid Haddad should begin it.

‘Walid Haddad,’ he said.

* * *

The mood in the centre of the city, even a city continuously under siege like Belfast, was festive; the mood in the operations room was tense. Today, Special Branch had confirmed.

At two in the afternoon Enderson left Lisburn and drove into the city; although he was wearing civilian clothes, he carried his personal Browning inside his coat and was accompanied by two members of his team. In Belfast, they had long learned, in the civil war in Ireland, they never went anywhere unaccompanied.

The streets were busy, the shop fronts lit and decorated; he realised how close it was to Christmas, how he had forgotten it was almost Christmas. The driver stopped the car outside a hamburger bar and they went in, not because they were hungry, simply to while away the waiting. It was crowded. Even at the table they did not relax, one always looking at the car, another at the door, looking at who might be looking at them, leaving, setting them up as they left. Outside the afternoon was already getting dark. He looked across the road at the shoppers, hearing the music in the background, the words of the carol.

‘They said there’d be snow at Christmas,

They said there’d be peace on earth.’

Today, the Special Branch had said. This evening. Definitely, they said their informant had told them, without fail. They rose and left the café.

The man whom Abu Nabil had personally chosen to both begin and end his campaign of terror arrived at Heathrow fifteen minutes late at ten forty-five in the morning on Scandinavian Airlines SK501 from Copenhagen. Neither the timing nor the flight was a coincidence. SK501 was one of seven flights to arrive from Europe in a half-hour period; the immigration halls would therefore be crowded and congested. And passengers from Copenhagen attracted less attention from immigration and Special Branch than those from other European cities, such as Rome and Athens, with reputations for terrorist connections.

Walid Haddad was twenty-eight years old, neatly though not expensively dressed in a dark blue business suit. The briefcase he carried contained, among a number of other items all related to his supposed profession of petroleum analyst, a diary with a list of business appointments in London over the next two days which had been easy to arrange but which, if they had been checked, would have provided him with justification for visiting Britain.

He followed the line of passengers off the plane, through the walkways and connecting doors, and into the large impersonal hall lined, at the far end, by the immigration desks. Four queues, he saw immediately, knowing he would have no problem, looking anyway for his insurance. The queues were longer than he had anticipated, with three officials on duty at each desk. Normally two, he thought, wondering why the security was tighter than he had expected, and glanced again at the desks. One official checking passports, a second looking over his shoulder at the person at the desk, looking for the tell-tale signs, the third concentrating on the queue itself. He moved forward, wondering again about the increase in security and looking again for the insurance he needed.

A flood of passengers from another flight began spilling into the hall. There was a moment of confusion as the new group mingled with those already in the hall, deciding which queue to join. He looked round, ignoring the mêlée, and saw the woman. She was young, in her mid-twenties, of Arab appearance, with olive skin and dark piercing eyes, taller than average with long black hair. She also had the one quality above all, the single characteristic he was looking for: that of arrogance. In the way her eyes flashed, the way she held herself. He knew the men at the desks were already looking at her.

The woman was moving towards the third queue from the far side of the hall. He hurried after her, waited till she had almost joined the queue, then stepped in front of her, almost bumping into her. He turned and apologised, politely, not friendly. The queue moved forward. He knew again they had already seen her, already singled her out. The queue to his right was moving faster, already growing shorter. Stay behind me, he spoke silently to the woman, stay where you are, give me cover. The queue shuffled forward, he reached the desk, gave the official his passport, entry visa on page five.