The Nationalist (29 page)

48

The First Minister was at home when he took the call from Craig McAlmont. It wasn’t good news.

“The Police think another attack’s been planned.”

“Do they know where?”

“I spoke to Graeme Donald; he’s focusing on Prestwick Airport; thinks something might happen tonight.”

“Prestwick – Jesus. Is it under control?”

“They’ve made contact with one of Wark’s associates. He claims that a meeting’s been arranged at the terminal for tonight; he’s co-operating.”

“Does it have to go that far – I thought he’d been tracked down to Cumbrae?”

“One of their officers was attacked. The patrol car was stolen.”

“This won’t look good if it gets out.”

“The car was found. It was left in Millport. The GPS tracker meant they were never going to get far. We’re not 100% certain, but it looks as though they may have left the island. A boat’s been reported missing.”

“I was under the impression this situation was pretty much under control, but it seems to be getting worse.”

“We’re dealing with a man that’s ex-SAS. He’s not an easy target to track down.”

“This is real life, not Rambo. I want this guy caught. Let Donald know that we’re too close to fuck it up now. We need to close this case – one way or another.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I’m not necessarily looking for a show trial.”

Craig digested the information. He nodded and left to update Police Scotland on ‘operational priorities’.

Graeme Donald didn’t appreciate being told what to do by politicians, let alone their overpaid lackeys. Bastards. The message had been received, though, loud and clear. He rang extension 3567 and called in Ying.

“Yes, sir?”

“We’ve got a situation on our hands tonight. It looks like we could be close to catching Wark.”

“Not before time.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Nothing I—”

“—don’t talk, just listen. I need you to go to Prestwick Airport. You’ll be heading up a major operation there tonight. Davidson, Arbogast, and Guthrie are en-route there now. I need you to take personal control. As Ying listened she became increasingly nervous. It seemed that it would be all too easy for a lot to go wrong in a short space of time.

Despite the drama, the adrenalin, and the tasks which lay ahead Arbogast fell into a light sleep as the helicopter sped towards Prestwick. He dreamt he was flying. Not being flown but physically flying, his arms outstretched like a detective messiah. On reflection he recognised the dream as the opening scene of La Dolce Vita, where a huge statue of Jesus was transported, suspended by ropes from a helicopter flying over Rome, as the city continued its life, unaware and unconcerned, as this religious icon flew above them, quite literally over their heads. In his dream he flew in the Christ pose, sweeping along the sea. People in their boats looked up and pointed. On land, cars stopped and people hung from windows. There’s Arbogast, they whispered. Arbogast looked down and smiled. There was nothing he could do for these people. His was a higher mission. In his dream the frame stopped, and he watched himself disappear into the horizon enjoying a moment of Zen contentment. Then, at the furthest point, a bolt of forked lightning descended from the heavens and ripped him in half. He awoke with a jolt. What the fuck?

“You were dreaming,” Chris Guthrie was sitting beside him, head swathed in bandages.

“But it felt so real.”

In the distance the symmetrical lane of runway lights meant they had almost arrived.

***

It had been a long week for Sandy Stirrit. He went to Rab’s after work; half hoping he would bump into John at the bar. He felt guilty about using the information he had been given which was now putting a strain on their friendship, but what did he expect? If he didn’t want it used he should never have opened his mouth. He sat by the bar nursing a Guinness, yesterday’s paper lying untouched on the counter. He felt the vibration before he saw the light, as the bar quivered underneath from the gentle rocking of his mobile phone – unknown caller. He didn’t want to talk to anyone, so he let it ring. The bar was quiet, and his three fellow drinkers didn’t seem to appreciate the Theme from S-Express.

“You going to answer that?” asked one of them.

“I just like the tune.”

“Well I don’t.”

The tone rang off, “You know what it’s like when you really don’t want to talk to someone. It’s like that.” Sandy turned his back on his neighbour and heard ‘Prick’ uttered with some conviction behind his back. Checking his voicemail, Sandy was surprised by the details of his missed call.

“Hi Sandy, Craig McAlmont here. I’ve some information that will be of interest to you. If you don’t phone back within the next five minutes I’ll take the tip elsewhere. You’ve got my number.”

***

Al Coulter had been at work for around two hours. His colleague, Jim Wray, thought he seemed a bit out of sorts.

“What’s up with you tonight, Al?”

“I think it was something I ate. I’m not feeling so good.”

“You look a bit pale, right enough.”

Al Coulter made his excuses and left Jim to monitor stock at the fuelling depot. In the toilet he looked at his face in the mirror. He was pale. Pull yourself together man, this will all be over tonight; you’ve done nothing wrong. He could feel the microphone taped to his chest. It itched. The feeling of nausea which had been building was suddenly overwhelming. He swallowed back the bile, tried not to vomit, but it was too much. He threw up the contents of his stomach in the sink, heaving for some time, retching nothing but air for five minutes. Looking up again the tears streamed down his face. He was disgusted with himself, forever and always a traitor to the cause.

The wooden hull of the Star Sailor creaked and splintered on the protruding rocks at Ardneil Bay at Portencross, about three miles south of Cumbrae. Ian Wark waded back to shore, up to his waist in water. He carried his rucksack above his head. Annabelle followed. She couldn’t swim and had insisted on wearing a life jacket, which was now making her life more difficult. She lost her footing on a loose rock and fell back into the water. She cried out, momentarily paralysed by a feeling of fear and claustrophobia. Salt water washed into her mouth, making her gag in the swell.

“For god’s sake, keep it down woman,” Ian went back in the water and pulled Annabelle upright. A few moments later they were both back on dry land. It was a cold night and the wet clothes clung to them like a second skin.

“We need to get changed.”

Ian passed the rucksack and pulled out jeans and a jumper. He threw them across the sand. Annabelle stripped and changed. Ian pretended to do the same but he watched, unable to look away. His attention was broken when a strong searchlight came their way. A helicopter was flying low over the water, heading down the coast. Ian and Annabelle ran to the dunes and lay flat. They listened as the drone of the blades drew fainter. Before long the helicopter had disappeared from view. Ian wondered if his suspicions rang true. He was confident it was a Police helicopter. It seemed to be heading in the right direction.

“We need to get a car.”

Rosalind Ying arrived at Prestwick Airport to find Ian Davidson in deep conversation with Chris Guthrie. They had set up camp in what passed for the business lounge, a small windowless box with a coffee machine. The food consisted of small packets of biscuits, and judging by the fact that there were a number of empty wrappers lying around on the table, she could see her colleagues had been here for a while. She saw that Arbogast was sitting alone at the far end. He nodded to her when she entered and she forced out a smile. The wounded puppy, just what I need tonight.

“Gentlemen, are we all set?”

Ian Davidson had obviously not seen her, or else he was making great play of being surprised, “DCI Ying, I wasn’t expecting to see you tonight.”

“The Chief wanted someone senior here,” She suppressed a smile when she saw the reaction on Davidson’s face, “Not that you’re not senior, DI Davidson, it’s just that there are high expectations that tonight should go well.”

“I’m sure we’ll all benefit from your vast experience in these matters, ma’am.”

“I hope you’re not going to give me trouble? I need you onside and I need you working for me. OK?”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way. Shall I talk you through the plan?”

Al Coulter didn’t like the plan. The plan involved massaging Police egos while he put his life on the line. They didn’t really get Ian Wark. Not like he did anyway. Ian was sound. He had spent so much time with him. Two summers ago they had gone on holiday together. He had been expecting to do more sightseeing in London but they had stayed indoors all the time. Ian talked to him a lot. He explained why they needed to push the cause. He kept going over it again and again, until it finally made sense. Neither of them had eaten anything for three days. Ian had told him it would make him stronger. That he had to remember to be strong to be able to act in any way necessary at whatever time was needed. He kept saying that too, over and over, until he didn’t know what to think. Ever since that week away, Al knew he would do anything for Ian. He knew he was right to do what he was planning, but the coppers had been persuasive too. Giving up his good pal wasn’t something they had talked about. He was only meant to be getting him into the airport. Maybe he still could.

It took Sandy Stirrit about 50 minutes to drive down the M77 from Glasgow to Prestwick. He always forgot about the average speed cameras, which flashed behind him as he sped towards the airport. The CCTV been installed to reduce the number of accidents on a road which enjoyed a notorious reputation, but at times like these, when there were no other cars on the road, he felt they were maybe a bit too intrusive. His tip off had been to arrive at the airport and report to the Police Scotland team. The First Minister’s office had confirmed the operation had been agreed with Police, although it was the first time Sandy had ever heard of the Scottish Government taking a lead role in an investigation like this. He made a mental note to include the fact in his final report. It sounded like tonight was going to be memorable.

Ian and Annabelle walked for what seemed like an age. With no natural light they stumbled along a gravel path which hugged the shoreline. It followed the edge of what looked like a golf course.

“Would it not be easier going along the grass?”

Ian hissed back at Annabelle, “We can’t be seen by anyone. Not now. We’re too close to town.”

Eventually they reached West Kilbride. The coastal path opened out onto Fullerton Road, a wealthy west coast enclave, which promised a ready supply of cars. It was two in the morning and every house was in darkness. At the top of the road the town’s golf club was fronted by a large open air car park. There were two cars sitting untended. One was directly under a security camera, while the other was on the dark side of the complex, underneath a copse of birch trees. Ian ran down the side of the wall inside the car park and tried the handle. No joy. Dumping his rucksack on the ground he groped around inside until he found what he was looking for. The car was an old style Volvo. It would now be classed as vintage, and fortunately still had an exterior lock on the door. Ian jammed the flat edged screwdriver into the key hole and wrenched it around. The door opened. Five minutes later they were on the open road, heading for the airport.

49

In theory Glasgow Prestwick Airport had a lot going for it. In practice, though, it was hard to see the potential. Let’s start with the name. The airport’s more than 30 miles from Glasgow, so not exactly local. It had started out life as a training airfield and developed through the years to become the fourth biggest in Scotland. The peak came with low cost travel, with around 2.5 million people using it every year. Then came the recession; higher fuel costs and greater competition conspired to more than halve the passenger numbers, and today the main trade came from commercial freight. The airport which once traded with the slogan ‘Pure, dead brilliant’ was now mostly just dead; a political football and a symbol of declining prosperity on the Ayrshire coast.

“I can’t believe that Elvis Presley is still the best thing that ever happened here,” Arbogast said.

“What?”

“Elvis; he was here for five minutes in the late 50s. He asked where he was, then fucked off back to the States.”

“You can’t really blame him. I’m wondering why we’re here too, to be honest.”

“Ours is not to reason why. The powers that be seem convinced we’re in the right place at the right time.”

“Remind me what time this is supposed to kick off?”

“In about an hour, so we’d better get in position.”

Al Coulter knew he didn’t have long to wait. In the staff room he opened his locker. He reached into his black rucksack and pulled out the new mobile, the display flashed when a new message arrived.  A knock at the door told him his chaperone was waiting. He didn’t have much more time, so removed everything he needed for the night ahead. His nerves had died down, and while he was still scared, he was confident he would be able to carry out the task being asked of him.

Sandy Stirrit had been asked to wait in his car. The Police had allowed him to park in the hanger but he’d been told to keep out of sight; but that when the operation got underway he would be given exclusive access. Sandy hadn’t been allowed to bring a cameraman, and would need to shoot and edit that night. He hadn’t been briefed, other than to be told the operation was in connection with the George Square bombings. From the driver’s seat he saw Arbogast enter the hanger from the back door. He watched as his friend made his way to the centre of the hanger, where Rosalind Ying and Ian Davidson were deep in conversation.