SAS Captain himself, came into view a moment later, blocking the camera angle for a couple of seconds but allowing a full view on camera and tape of Mary Duggan reaching for her shoulder bag. Everyone heard the word “Bailiff!” very clearly in their headphones, though during the later hassle nobody identified the voice.
On-screen it was sickening and almost in slow motion. Mary Duggan was lifted off her feet, her chest exploding crimson and the shots hurting eardrums—the noise, in fact, blew out one of the mikes. The other three had all moved: Anne Bolan in panic, hands moving towards Patrick Glass, who seemed, in a reflex, to go for a gun that was not there; Michael Connor trying to run towards the only possible exit, blocked by the SAS Captain and the fourth soldier. He ran two steps forward and then slid six steps back, his body whirling like a dancer’s, spinning in the crisp winter air to land, blood-soaked, across the body of Patrick Glass.
There were nine shots. Counted, heard and logged. Nine shots, four bodies. Then the SAS team disappeared, literally like magic, whisked away in police cars, while other cars and a pair of ambulances came haring in, sirens screaming.
One hour later, sitting in the Annex, with Vicki Grismer typing away as Herbie dictated and Apted sat looking grim-faced, the telephone rang.
“We’re going to need some damage control,” the Whizz said, and Herbie felt, rather than heard, the disquiet in his voice. “There’s nothing in the house.”
There was nothing: not a gun, not even a marble-sized piece of explosive; no primers, no wire, no batteries, no electronics, not even a child’s cap pistol. The Minister and COBRA were busy denying everything, while the politicos—from the opposition to highly placed members of the government—were screaming for a complete, in-depth investigation by an outside team.
THE MASSACRE OF THE INNOCENTS? one hypocritical newspaper headline brayed that very afternoon, while by the following morning solicitors had already been retained by the families of the deceased Gang of Four. They were out to sue the British authorities for collective murder, and there was not even time or means to plant Semtex or weapons at the supposed bomb factory. The first press release actually called it a bomb factory and referred to the Gang of Four as known armed terrorists.
So, for the first time in that particular story, Gus Keene walked on, stage left— a sinister —and gave the performance of a lifetime.
Herbie riffled through the thick pages of documents that gave the true and complete story, and realized that this was only one small job in Gus the Confessor’s life. Yet it was the one that, presumably, gave the IRA—or any of their successors—the right to make him a prime target even ten years later.
He heard the outer door slam, and physically jumped, trying to make himself smaller, hearing again the terrible thud of bullets on that cold morning.
Bitsy Williams was back with the news that the Coroner had ruled on Gus’s death. Murder by person or persons unknown. Probably members of an unnamed terrorist organization.
“That make sense to you, Herb?” she asked. He nodded, and she then asked if he had heard the news from the States.
“What news?”
She related the three news stories they had heard in the car on the way back from the inquest. The car bomb in Manhattan, the explosion in the New York subway and the awful tale of a Boeing 737 blowing up in midair.
“It’s getting like Beirut and Bosnia,” he muttered. Then, as it suddenly struck him: “I wonder if they’re the same crew that did the London Underground?”
“Hardly.” Bitsy looked toffee-nosed. “Look at the time factor.”
“You ever been on Concorde?” Herbie sounded like a man who had scored a good point.
7
H ERBIE RECALLED THAT AFTERNOON in 1984 as clearly as he could remember the conversation during dinner at the Indian on the previous night. He could smell the
On-screen it was sickening and almost in slow motion. Mary Duggan was lifted off her feet, her chest exploding crimson and the shots hurting eardrums—the noise, in fact, blew out one of the mikes. The other three had all moved: Anne Bolan in panic, hands moving towards Patrick Glass, who seemed, in a reflex, to go for a gun that was not there; Michael Connor trying to run towards the only possible exit, blocked by the SAS Captain and the fourth soldier. He ran two steps forward and then slid six steps back, his body whirling like a dancer’s, spinning in the crisp winter air to land, blood-soaked, across the body of Patrick Glass.
There were nine shots. Counted, heard and logged. Nine shots, four bodies. Then the SAS team disappeared, literally like magic, whisked away in police cars, while other cars and a pair of ambulances came haring in, sirens screaming.
One hour later, sitting in the Annex, with Vicki Grismer typing away as Herbie dictated and Apted sat looking grim-faced, the telephone rang.
“We’re going to need some damage control,” the Whizz said, and Herbie felt, rather than heard, the disquiet in his voice. “There’s nothing in the house.”
There was nothing: not a gun, not even a marble-sized piece of explosive; no primers, no wire, no batteries, no electronics, not even a child’s cap pistol. The Minister and COBRA were busy denying everything, while the politicos—from the opposition to highly placed members of the government—were screaming for a complete, in-depth investigation by an outside team.
THE MASSACRE OF THE INNOCENTS? one hypocritical newspaper headline brayed that very afternoon, while by the following morning solicitors had already been retained by the families of the deceased Gang of Four. They were out to sue the British authorities for collective murder, and there was not even time or means to plant Semtex or weapons at the supposed bomb factory. The first press release actually called it a bomb factory and referred to the Gang of Four as known armed terrorists.
So, for the first time in that particular story, Gus Keene walked on, stage left— a sinister —and gave the performance of a lifetime.
Herbie riffled through the thick pages of documents that gave the true and complete story, and realized that this was only one small job in Gus the Confessor’s life. Yet it was the one that, presumably, gave the IRA—or any of their successors—the right to make him a prime target even ten years later.
He heard the outer door slam, and physically jumped, trying to make himself smaller, hearing again the terrible thud of bullets on that cold morning.
Bitsy Williams was back with the news that the Coroner had ruled on Gus’s death. Murder by person or persons unknown. Probably members of an unnamed terrorist organization.
“That make sense to you, Herb?” she asked. He nodded, and she then asked if he had heard the news from the States.
“What news?”
She related the three news stories they had heard in the car on the way back from the inquest. The car bomb in Manhattan, the explosion in the New York subway and the awful tale of a Boeing 737 blowing up in midair.
“It’s getting like Beirut and Bosnia,” he muttered. Then, as it suddenly struck him: “I wonder if they’re the same crew that did the London Underground?”
“Hardly.” Bitsy looked toffee-nosed. “Look at the time factor.”
“You ever been on Concorde?” Herbie sounded like a man who had scored a good point.
7
H ERBIE RECALLED THAT AFTERNOON in 1984 as clearly as he could remember the conversation during dinner at the Indian on the previous night. He could smell the
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