War on the Streets

6

Paul Carney’s telephone rang. It was by far the most exciting thing that had happened to him in two days. He virtually jumped across the flat to snatch it up.

‘Paul?’ The voice on the other end of the phone was hesitant, almost apologetic.

And so it ought to be, Carney thought, recognizing the caller as DCI Manners. The man had, after all, virtually suspended him. His response was somewhat less than enthusiastic. ‘Yeah?’ he grunted. ‘What is it?’

There was a long sigh on the other end of the line as Manners got the message. It was more or less the reaction he had been expecting. ‘Look, Paul, about that special job I mentioned to you,’ he muttered, finally. ‘They want to see you.’

‘They? Who’s they?’ Carney asked guardedly.

‘Sorry, Paul, but I can’t tell you that,’ Manners apologized. ‘But there are a couple of Special Branch officers on their way round to your flat now. I’m sure they will explain everything to you.’

Eagerness, and the air of mystery, had already raised Carney to a pitch of anticipation. A sense of frustration was not far behind.

‘Special Branch?’ Carney queried irritably. ‘For Christ’s sake, Harry, what’s going on here?’

‘Sorry, but that’s all I can tell you for the minute,’ Manners said flatly. He had only the sketchiest idea of what was going on himself, and he’d been pressed to secrecy. Whatever the full facts were, they were well above the level of a mere Detective Chief Inspector. Even as a friend, there was nothing he could tell his colleague on that score. There was, however, something he could say, and he needed to say it.

‘There’s one other good piece of news I think you ought to know,’ Manners went on after a brief pause. ‘You know that batch of contaminated heroin you were worried about? The stuff that killed the girl?’

Carney jumped on it immediately. ‘Yeah. What about it?’

‘We’ve pulled it in – hopefully the whole lot,’ Manners told him. ‘And you were right – it was real bad shit. Adulterated up to seventy per cent and cut with bleaching powder, among other things. Lethal.’

Carney let out a sigh of relief. ‘Yeah, thanks, Harry. That is good news. How did you get on to it?’

‘Sofrides talked,’ Manners told him. ‘He led us straight to his supplier. A callous little bastard out for a quick profit and damn the consequences.’ He was silent for a while. ‘Just thought you’d like to know, that’s all.’

‘Yeah, thanks.’ Carney felt equally awkward, not sure what to say to his boss. The line was silent for a long time.

‘Well, good luck – whatever happens,’ Manners said finally, and hung up.

Carney slipped the receiver back into its cradle and began to pace about the flat, trying to figure out what was going on. He did not have to wait very long. Less than three minutes after the call from Manners, there was a light but firm knock on the door.

There were two men standing in the hallway as Carney opened up. They both looked businesslike and efficient. They were unsmiling.

‘Paul Carney?’ one of them asked.

Carney nodded. The two men exchanged a brief glance and took the admission as an invitation to enter. They stepped across the threshold, the second man closing the door behind him.

Minutes later, Carney was in the visitors’ car, being driven south to New Scotland Yard.

McMillan gestured to a vacant chair at the table. ‘Please sit down, Carney. Would you care for a drink?’

Carney felt himself tense up, both physically and mentally. Was this the opening move in some sort of test? he found himself wondering. Coppers weren’t supposed to drink on duty. So did they want to see if he lived by the book?

He forced himself to relax, rationalizing the situation. All this secrecy was making him paranoid, he decided. The offer was probably an innocent and genuine one. Besides, he wasn’t officially on duty any more, and he could certainly do with a drink. He nodded, finally. ‘Yes, thank you, sir. A Scotch would be fine.’

The commissioner allowed the faintest smile to cross his face. So Carney was a man, and not just some order-following drone. Carney noticed the smile, realized that he had been tested, and could only assume that he had passed.

McMillan stood up, opened a filing cabinet and pulled out a bottle of Glenfiddich and a chunky tumbler. He splashed a healthy measure into the glass and carried it over to Carney before resuming his place at the table. He looked at Carney thoughtfully for a while. ‘Well, no doubt you’ve been wondering what all this is about,’ he said at last.

Carney allowed himself a small grin. ‘You could say that, sir.’

Commander Franks consulted a slim dossier on the desk in front of him. He studied its contents for a few seconds before looking up at Carney. ‘Your superior says you’re a tough cop, Carney,’ he said. ‘You know the streets and you know your enemy.’

Carney shrugged. ‘I just handle my job, sir.’

Franks nodded. ‘But unfortunately you can’t always handle your temper,’ he pointed out. It was a statement of fact, not quite an accusation, but Carney was immediately defensive.

‘I just hate drugs. And I hate the villains who are pushing them to our kids,’ he said with feeling.

‘As do we all,’ Franks observed. ‘But our job places certain restrictions upon us. We have to work to specific rules, standards of behaviour which are acceptable to society. You went over the top, Carney – and you know it.’

It was an open rebuke now, inviting some sort of apology. Carney bowed his head slightly. ‘Yes, sir, I’m aware of that. And I’m sorry.’ He did not attempt to justify his actions in any way.

It seemed to satisfy Franks, who merely nodded to himself and glanced across at McMillan, passing some unspoken message. The commissioner leaned across the table, resting his elbows on it and forming a steeple with his fingers. ‘Right, gentlemen,’ he announced in a businesslike tone. ‘Let’s get down to it, shall we?’

For the next forty-five minutes Carney faced an almost non-stop barrage of questions. Some seemed totally irrelevant, and a few were of such a highly personal nature that he found himself becoming irritated by what he thought were unwarranted intrusions into his private life. As the session drew to an end, however, he began to realize that the three men in that room now knew just about everything there was to know about Paul Carney the policeman and Paul Carney the man. His opinions, his personality, his strengths – and his weaknesses. It was a rather disconcerting feeling.

Finally McMillan glanced at each of his colleagues in turn, inviting further questions. There were none. He turned his attention back to Carney.

‘Let’s get to business, then. It would appear that you need a job, Mr Carney. We have one for you, if you want it. A very special job, I might add.’ He paused. ‘Are you interested?’

Carney was guarded. ‘I suppose that would have to depend on what the job was,’ he said.

‘Ah,’ McMillan sighed thoughtfully. ‘Now that gives me something of a problem. Basically, I cannot give you any details about the job until you agree to take it. You will also be required to take a grade three security oath.’

Carney was flabbergasted – and it showed on his face. He gaped at McMillan for several seconds before finally finding his voice. ‘With respect, sir, that’s crazy. How can I agree to a job without knowing what it is? It might not suit me. I might not suit it. I couldn’t be a pen-pusher, buried behind some pile of papers, for a start.’

McMillan smiled faintly. ‘I appreciate your candidness, Mr Carney,’ he murmured. ‘But I can and do assure you that far from being desk-bound, you’d be out there fighting crime. In the very front line, so to speak.’ He paused briefly. ‘But that’s all I can tell you at this point. It’s now completely down to you. We can proceed no further without your agreement.’

Carney’s head was spinning. In desperation, he looked over at Commander Franks. ‘If I turn this down, sir, what are the chances of my being returned to normal duty?’

Franks shook his head slowly. ‘None,’ he said, bluntly. ‘The very qualities which make you attractive to us also preclude your continued service in the conventional police force.’

The finality of this statement was enough to push Carney over the edge. He made his decision on impulse as much as anything. ‘All right, so let’s say I’m in,’ he muttered, still slightly dubious.

McMillan nodded gravely and signalled to Grieves, who produced an official-looking document from his pocket and slid it over the table towards Carney. ‘Read and sign this,’ he said curtly.

Carney scanned it quickly, eager to find some clue as to what he was letting himself in for, but the document itself told him virtually nothing. Finally he looked up at Grieves again, who silently handed him a fountain pen. Hesitating for just a moment, Carney read the security oath aloud and signed the paper. McMillan and Franks added their own signatures as witnesses and Grieves returned the document to his pocket. It was done.

‘Right. Now we can tell you what we have in mind,’ McMillan said. He began to launch into a detailed account of the plans formulated thus far.

7

‘I’ll tell you right away that I have some serious reservations about this whole concept,’ Barney Davies said candidly. ‘But I agreed to treat it as a workable idea, and you’re the man they’ve sent me. So if we can work something out, we will.’

Carney tried to think of a suitable rejoinder, and failed completely. An opening speech like that was a hard act to follow. And he was already feeling a little out of his depth anyway.

He’d been ordered to report to Lieutenant-Colonel Davies at SAS HQ in Hereford, and that’s what he’d done. Merely passing through the gate guard had been like walking into the lion’s den. Like most civilians, Carney had only a sketchy picture of the SAS and how they worked. Fact was thin on the ground, and the man in the street could only form his own mental image from the fiction and the legend. And that legend was of a special breed of super-heroes, just one step removed from Captain Marvel or Superman.

‘I’ll try to keep that in mind, sir,’ he managed to blurt out eventually.

Davies smiled. ‘Lesson one,’ he said. ‘We don’t place a great deal of emphasis on rank in the SAS. A man is respected for what he is, what he can do, rather than the extra bits of material sewn on to his uniform. In your case, as you’re basically an outsider, and a largely unknown quantity, you’ll be just another trooper. So don’t expect any deference from the rest of the men you’ll be working with. To them, you’ll be just another probationer.’ Davies paused, his tone softening a shade. ‘And you don’t have to call me “sir”, by the way. “Boss” is perfectly acceptable.’

Davies flipped quickly through the file which Commander Franks had faxed to him. ‘So you think you’re tough,’ he muttered, without condescension.

Carney bristled slightly. ‘I don’t think anything,’ he protested. ‘But I can look after myself, if that’s what you mean.’

Davies nodded, looking faintly pleased. ‘Good. You don’t allow yourself to be put down too easily. But don’t get any inflated ideas. Keep in mind that any one of my men could probably fold you up, stick a stamp on you and stuff you in the second-class post before you even knew what was happening.’

Carney took this somewhat colourful piece of information at face value. It was delivered not as a boast but as a hard fact – and he found himself believing it.

‘I assume Commissioner McMillan has already briefed you as to the general theory?’ Davies went on.

Carney nodded. ‘You want me to advise a special task force. Basically point you in the right direction.’

Davies nodded again. ‘In a nutshell, yes. But you’ll be more than just an adviser, more like a seeing-eye dog. We’re going to need a man on the ground. Someone who knows the right people and the right places.’

‘Or the wrong people and the wrong places,’ Carney suggested.

Davies found this mildly amusing, and smiled. ‘Whatever.’ He was thoughtful for a while. ‘Of course, in an ideal world you should never be required to get involved in a combat situation. However, we don’t live in an ideal world. There may be times when you find yourself up front. What have you done in the way of weapons training?’

Carney gave a faint shrug. ‘Standard police training. Revolver and some sniper rifle practice.’

Davies consulted Carney’s file again. ‘Not bad scores,’ he observed, in a matter-of-fact tone. It was the nearest thing to a compliment he had given out so far. He made a note on the file. ‘But we’ll check it out in a minute.’ He eyed Carney up and down like a piece of meat. ‘When was your last physical?’

Carney had to think about it. ‘I’m not sure,’ he admitted. ‘Probably about five or six months ago.’

Davies made another note. ‘We’ll have to do something about that, as well.’ He looked at Carney appraisingly. ‘You look reasonably fit. Do much in the way of training, working out?’

Carney shrugged. ‘Just regular health club stuff, once or maybe twice a week. Weights, bike machine, a couple of miles on the rolling road.’

‘Sports? Pastimes?’ Davies asked.

Carney smiled ruefully. ‘Don’t get a lot of time these days. I used to climb a bit, and I was junior squash champion at school.’ He studied Davies’s eyes carefully, noting that the SAS man was unimpressed. ‘Actually, all this raises something I wanted to talk to you about,’ he said.

Davies raised one eyebrow. ‘Which is?’

Carney paused for a second, framing his thoughts. ‘Look, I have a pretty fair idea of the sort of men I’m going to have to work with,’ he started out. ‘And I’m prepared for the fact that there’s quite likely to be a certain amount of resentment – me being an outsider and all.’

Davies made no attempt to deny it. There would have been no point. However, it was good that Carney appeared to have a realistic viewpoint. He eyed him thoughtfully. ‘So what’s the point you’re trying to make?’

Carney took the bull by the horns. ‘If I’m to stand any chance of gaining the men’s respect, I know I’m going to have to earn it,’ he said quietly. ‘That’s why I’d like to get involved at ground level, if it’s at all possible. What are the chances of my joining some of the men in basic training?’

Davies was impressed – both with the man’s accurate assessment of the situation and with his bottle. He smiled thinly. ‘Have you got the faintest idea of what you might be talking yourself into?’ he asked.

Carney was perfectly truthful. ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘But I’d still like to give it a go.’

Davies’s smile broadened. ‘Look, it’s fairly obvious that, like most members of the general public, you have a somewhat simplistic view of how we operate,’ he said, without sounding patronizing. ‘It’s not a question of “six weeks basic training and you’re in the SAS”. All our volunteers are already highly trained soldiers. Our selection training is short, brutal and perhaps the most intensive in the world – but it doesn’t just stop there. Basically, an SAS soldier never stops training from the day he joins the Regiment to the day he leaves. It’s an ongoing thing.’

Carney digested all this information stoically. ‘All right, I concede that I’m not prime material to start with. But I’d like to get some time in with the men.’

Davies was more and more convinced that Franks had sent him the right man, but he wasn’t giving anything away. He merely nodded faintly. ‘OK, I’ll see what can be arranged,’ he promised as he rose to his feet. ‘But right now, let’s get you down to the range and see what you can do.’

He ushered Carney out of the room and along a long corridor, eventally stopping by a steel-shuttered door. Producing a security key from his pocket, Davies unlocked the heavy door and swung it open, revealing a flight of concrete steps which led down into the basement. As the door opened, a barrage of loud noise echoed up the stairs. It took Carney a few seconds to identify it as the sounds of gunfire in an enclosed space. He followed Davies down the stairs and through another security door, finally stepping into the vast underground indoor firing range.

The sudden appearance of Lieutenant-Colonel Davies seemed to act as some sort of signal. The half a dozen or so troopers using the target range discharged their weapons quickly, put them down and walked away. Davies led the way over to a shooting booth next to the armourer’s office, summoning the man with a click of his fingers.

The armourer stepped over smartly, slipped a fresh clip into a handgun and laid the weapon down.

‘What have you used in the past?’ Davies asked, glancing at Carney.

‘Standard-issue army Webley .38 revolver,’ Carney told him.

Davies nodded, picking up the semi-automatic in front of him. ‘We tend to use these,’ he explained. ‘The Browning 9mm High Power handgun. They’ve been around for a good few years now, but we find they do the job.’ He picked the gun up and thrust it into Carney’s hand.

Carney weighed the weapon, assessing its feel. It was somewhat lighter than the heavy pistols he was used to, yet oddly it felt somehow more solid, more real. Instinct told him that this was not a gun which had been designed, or ever intended for, making holes in paper targets. This was a weapon expressly created to kill people.

Davies quickly ran through the weapon’s operation, finishing with basic safety instructions. ‘You’ve got eight shots in that magazine,’ he said, ‘although normally it’ll hold up to thirteen. Don’t put it down, or point it away from the target area, until you’ve emptied it.’

Carney moved into the firing position, spreading his feet slightly and balancing his body. Holding the gun in the approved two-handed grip, he squinted down the sights towards the black silhouette at the end of the range.

‘Carry on,’ Davies muttered.

Carney squeezed gently on the trigger, loosing off the first three rounds before checking the target. All three shots were high – the semi-automatic had a greater kick than he was accustomed to. Lowering his aim to compensate, he tightened his grip and fired off three more rounds. They were better – both body hits. He put the final two slugs smack in the middle of the target’s blank black face and laid the gun down again.

‘Not bad,’ Davies said, with grudging approval, as the armourer slid over and inserted a fresh clip into the magazine. ‘But don’t be too obsessed with going for head shots. The traditional “double tap” through the forehead isn’t quite as fashionable now as it used to be.’

Carney looked at him in some surprise. ‘I thought a guaranteed kill was the object of the exercise?’ he said.

Davies nodded. ‘Oh, it is. Basic SAS philosophy is that you don’t point a gun at someone unless you fully intend to kill him. But there can be other factors.’

Carney was intrigued. ‘Such as?’

Davies shrugged. ‘Suppose we were dealing with a hostage situation, involving armed terrorists,’ he suggested. ‘The prime consideration would be to neutralize the gunmen before they could do any harm and to protect the hostages as much as possible. Think about it, Carney – a head is a small target, and the human body is a bigger one. Accurate, sustained fire to the body is going to put your man down just as efficiently, but with less loose bullets flying about the place.’ He paused, nodding down at the the gun in front of Carney. ‘That’s why the Browning is a good weapon. It has real stopping power.’

There was a sudden crash from behind them as the inner steel door was kicked open. It was followed, almost immediately, by the roar of an angry voice. ‘I warned you, Davies – you bastard!’

Carney whirled round, to take in the burly figure of the soldier who had just burst into the underground range. His eyes were blazing cold rage, and his mouth was contorted into a mask of fury. They were looks that could kill – and the L1A1 self-loading rifle that he carried slung at his hip gave him the capacity to do exactly that.

‘I told you what would happen if you turned down my transfer,’ the man raged on, moving purposefully towards Davies. ‘Now I’m going to kill you, you bastard.’

Out of the corner of his eyes, Carney was aware of the armourer trying to edge towards the arsenal. The movement was also noted by the armed intruder, who barked out a warning: ‘Don’t even fucking think about it.’ He advanced upon them inexorably, his finger curled lazily around the trigger of the rifle.

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