The Nationalist (30 page)

“We do not move until Wark arrives, do you understand?”

“Crystal clear, ma’am. I would like to make the arrest.”

Rosalind eyed her nemesis and weighed up the pros and cons. The further removed she was from the suspect the better. He was a trained killer and if worst came to worst; well it couldn’t happen to a nicer colleague.

“With my blessing, DI Davidson,” she knew that the credit would be hers, given she was managing the operation. In reality the only person who would be mentioned in public would be Graeme Donald. The only thing she really cared about was the arrest. In the background she saw Arbogast and Guthrie. Rosalind didn’t make eye contact, and made them wait. First she needed to get Al Coulter, who was sitting on a green plastic water barrel in the corner of the hanger. He was looking at his phone, the pale glow illuminating his weathered red face.

“He’s just got in touch. He’ll be here soon. I need to go to the perimeter fence to let him in.” Rosalind passed him the wire cutters he said he needed to clip open the metal fence. Al Coulter nodded and left the hanger to make his way out into the compound. Rosalind signalled into her radio that the operation was now live.

Al Coulter’s hands were cold from holding the steel wire cutters, and he felt the metal bite into his skin as he walked slowly out to the site boundary. This was the meeting point, where it was all supposed to happen. But Al Coulter knew the meeting wasn’t going to happen; not now. He looked back and saw that the hanger door was open; the light plane ear marked for a night flight was just visible inside. It was meant to act as a lure but the bait had already been taken. This was the same spot as the Libyan shipment had been left. Al Coulter knew what needed to be done. He let the wire cutters drop to the ground, bending down to the spot where he had buried the package several weeks ago. It was still there; everything he needed was at his fingertips. He straightened up and after taking a deep breath began the long walk back towards the hanger.

“What’s he doing? Why’s he coming back?” Ying looked to Davidson for answers. He responded with a shrug and then ran out to meet Coulter. He saw the figure emerge from the gloom, his hands clasped together. What the fuck is this guy doing? Doesn’t he know how important this is? What’s he holding? Coulter was about 20 feet away when Davidson rasped, “Get back into position, you’re going to blow this.” He thought he heard a light click in the night but kept on running. Coulter’s face came into view and in an instant he knew he’d made the wrong call. Coulter was holding a grenade in one hand and the pin in the other. He didn’t have time to change his course and was still running when the evening exploded into a ball of fire. Al Coulter’s mission was over.

The waiting mass of the Police pack emerged slowly from the hanger, as if stepping out after an air raid. They panned out across the tarmac and moved out towards the perimeter. Ian Davidson had been blown back by the blast. He wasn’t moving. A bright light was switched on behind them from the top of the hanger. What had been a cold murky night was brought into sharp focus as the harsh flood lights illuminated the carnage. Ying clasped her hand across her mouth; there wasn’t much left of Al Coulter – his remains were strewn across the grass, barely recognisable. One side of Davidson’s face was red raw, the skin having been fused by the heat of the explosion. Her first thought was that he must be dead. Behind her the airport ambulance appeared. Bending down Ying looked for signs of life and touched Davidson on the shoulder, unsure of the best thing to do. He juddered to her touch, and spat blood out onto the grass. There was a sharp intake of breath and then he was conscious. With his mind unable to comprehend what was happening to his body, his immediate reaction was to scream. The noise didn’t stop until the medic sedated him with morphine.

Ying phoned Donald to say the operation hadn’t gone to plan.

Sandy Stirrit was furious. He had captured the airport explosion on camera. His footage showed the looks of horror on the faces of everyone who had watched the suicide attack. He knew he was onto a good thing and had mounted the camera on his shoulder and ran out to the injured policeman. His screams had been testament to the brutality of the incident. At first he thought Al Coulter must have run off, but then he saw the blood stained grass. This was the best footage he’d ever shot. Although the film was jerky and uneven, the raw emotion of the night had been perfectly captured. But as he played it back from the back of his car, downloading the film onto his laptop to edit, there was a knock at the door. It was Rosalind Ying.

“Are you OK, Rose?”

“It’s business tonight, Sandy. I’m going to need you to hand over that camera and laptop.”

Sandy laughed, “You’ve got to be kidding. You can’t interfere with the freedom of the press.”

“Let me put it another way. Either you hand over the equipment or we arrest you for hindering a terror investigation and we will impound all your gear anyway.”

“I can’t let this go, Rosalind. I would have thought better of you.”

“You mean you thought our friendship would mean the law was irrelevant in a matter of national security? Don’t be so naive. What’s it to be?”

Sandy could see a new coldness in her eyes. Maybe her break-up with John meant he was also out of the loop. But he knew he couldn’t just cave in, “You’re going to have to arrest me because there’s no way I’m going to willingly hand this stuff over.”

“Have it your way.”

The car veered off the M80 at Junction 6. Ian Wark had been driving too fast and the car struggled to stay on the road as they wound round the circular off ramp which would take them to their destination. Cumbernauld Airport was a modest affair, consisting of a single office complex and two small hangers. It was mostly used for training, but was also home to several helicopter and light plane charter companies. It was the latter which was of interest tonight. The airport only operated 9-5, and at half past one in the morning it was deserted. The car cruised through the industrial estate which had sprung up around the airport. At the end of Duncan McIntosh Road he parked the car. They needed to work fast.

“I can see the plane from here,” Annabelle said.

“There’s CCTV, so this has to be quick. You know what to do.”

Annabelle nodded, and Ian passed her the Glock, “It’s loaded but don’t waste the bullets. Only use it if you need to buy me some time.”

Turning off the ignition they both sat momentarily in the dark, the silence helped to put them at ease. Outside the only thing which barred their way was a three foot high metal fence. It had a red sign on it which said ‘No admittance beyond this gate’ but the security was a joke. Ian went first. Looking around he could see there were several cameras trained on key points. His movements would be tracked. Later he thought they would show his final moments on TV. He knew this was all part of his narrative; his grand plan. He left Annabelle behind. She had jumped over the fence and was waiting for company.

The Cessna 172 Skyhawk had been used for pleasure flights for the last three years. Tourists would take in views of Loch Lomond or travel up the west coast to Skye. That day it had been flown down to the Borders and back – a short and unremarkable trip. Tonight would be different. Ian forced the flimsy lock with his screwdriver and climbed into the plane. He ran his fingers across the white leather interior which still smelt new. He hadn’t flown this model before but the basics were the same for all. He’d flown helicopters in Iraq but had experience of Cessnas in Libya. Taking a deep breath he sat down in front of the controls and started to map out the controls, familiarising himself with the layout. The ignition barrel was to the right of the control column. Light aircraft weren’t really designed to be theft proof, and the relatively basic security meant they were easy to steal. Ramming the screwdriver into the ignition barrel Ian Wark took his hammer from the bag and hit the wooden handle as hard as he could. The barrel bent out of shape and the screwdriver became the key. He opened the throttle by half an inch, pressed the master switch, checked the fuel mixture and looked ahead. Pressing the ignition he smiled when the engine roared into life. The country wasn’t going to know what had hit it.

50

The airport ambulance disappeared from view, taking Davidson back to Glasgow for treatment. The local hospital was nearer but he was going to need specialist care at the plastic surgery and burns unit at the Royal Infirmary. Whatever happened next, Davidson was not going to be part of it. Even though Arbogast hated his colleague, he still wouldn’t have wished this on him. He would have settled for a transfer. Shouldn’t joke John, it’s not right – what’s wrong with you? Looking back at the hanger he could see that Rosalind’s report wasn’t going down well with the top brass. She was holding the mobile phone a few inches from her ear. Donald would be furious. He watched as Sandy Stirrit was led away by the constables, handcuffed, with his equipment impounded. He was glad his friend had fallen foul of the law. After splashing Ian Wark’s name all over the media it might do him some good to consider the bigger picture. Sandy had shouted after him as he was taken away. Tell them John. Tell them this is a mistake. But Arbogast had just looked at his friend and said nothing; he wasn’t in a good mood. The airport had become the latest crime scene in a bewildering investigation. Chris Guthrie voiced the question on everyone’s mind.

“What’s happening here?”

“I was just thinking the same thing myself.” It had started to rain; the evidence outside was being washed away.

“I don’t understand this. There’s a military strand running through the investigation. It would seem that the main players all have some kind of gripe against the UK Government.”

“Yes, but if these guys are nationalists they’ve got a funny way of drumming up support.”

“What’s being achieved here?”

“Fear and death, nothing more.”

“That’s quite a lot in my book.”

“It doesn’t change anything though does it?”

“You tell me. I’m out of ideas.”

“Wark’s still out there.”

“The question is where?”

Air traffic control had been quiet. The flight volumes at Glasgow Airport eased off after 11:00pm, with international flights dropping to a rate of around one an hour. Mike Carmichael was tired. He sipped at his coffee, the fourth of the night, and watched the clock. He stopped in four hours, which seemed an age away. His desk phone rang. He recognised the number which flashed on the display; it was his girlfriend, Jane.

“Hey, how’s it going tonight?”

“Slowly.”

“You fancy passing some time on the phone.”

Mike enjoyed their games, “I could be persuaded.”

“How would you like me to persuade you?”

Mike smiled, and stared blankly at the large screen on his desk. It showed the flight path of every aircraft over Scotland. At that time there were only two showing, both bound for Edinburgh. What the screen didn’t show was a Cessna 172 which had taken off from Cumbernauld Airport. For all intents and purposes it was invisible to routine tracking; its transponder had been switched off.

The Cessna was flying low at an altitude of around 900 feet. Ian was careful to fly cross country, and he skirted around Glasgow which was a no fly zone. He was heading back down to the coast. Sitting in the cockpit he had time to think, but was focused solely on reaching his target. Everything he had worked for was now in reach.

***

HMS Vanguard was the oldest of the Royal Navy’s four nuclear submarines. She made headlines in 1994 when she became the first vessel to test Trident missiles and was currently docked at Faslane Naval Base. Petty Officer, James Green, had been working on the submarine for five years. He had expected to be promoted to Chief Petty Officer, but a gross misconduct case meant he had been passed over. A local woman in Helensburgh had lodged a complaint against him, claiming she had been raped. He had no idea whether it was true. After a 12 hour bender in the town’s pubs, he had woken huddled up under a motorbike cover in a seafront car park. Nothing came of the charges, but suspicions lingered. It seemed his career would go no further. The Vanguard’s sister ship, The Vengeance was due to go back out to sea in the morning. The 16 missiles were being transported from Coulport to be installed in the submarine that night. The vessel was due to go back out on patrol for four months, travelling around the world to the Americas, Africa, Australia, and Asia. But James Green had other plans. He wanted the world to know that the sure fire deterrent was not as secure as people believed. His contact at Newsnational said he’d be able to help. Accessing the safe he photographed the secure codes and forwarded the information by text. He was satisfied that his actions would be justified after the dust had settled.

***

Mike Carmichael hung up the phone when he saw the light plane in the distance. He checked the schedule, but the logs didn’t have any flights planned for this airspace. The plane wasn’t registering on the screen which meant the transponder was either faulty or had been turned off. He picked up his radio and tried to make contact.

“This is Glasgow Control to the unknown light aircraft violating airspace. Identify yourself. Over.”

There was no reply. Glen tried the same routine on various frequencies but got no reply. He contacted the RAF at Lossiemouth and told them they had a situation.

51

Annabelle Strachan stood and watched as the Cessna took off, disappearing into the night sky. She was alone now, tired and cold at the edge of the airstrip. But she still had work to do and knew she had to leave. If the cameras were working the security company should already be on its way. Jumping back across the fence she got back in the car and drove off. To keep her mind focused she put on the radio. It was tuned into Rock FM. She laughed as the tail end of AC/DC’s Highway to Hell faded out into an advert for double glazing.