The Secret Agent by Rafe McGregor

Moon and Sommer were sitting in an unmarked Astra, on a farm road about a mile from Junction 13 of the M1. Detective Chief Inspector Johnson spoke from the backseat. “Right, run through it again for me.”

Moon checked his watch for the second time in less than a minute. “John.”

“Okay, guv, we got Papa Charlie Two an’ Four standing by at the roundabout at the entrance to the motorway. The rest of our firm, Three an’ Five, are standing by off the Groveway roundabout to the north. Half the Blue Team of CO19 are in Range Rovers north an’ south of us, outta sight. There’s a spotter chopper in the air, also outta sight. The other half of the Blue Team are standing by in a transport chopper at the local factory, with a second transport ready to pick us up if we scramble ’em. RAF Uxbridge an’Brampton have their radar stations on the alert, an’ RAF Cottesmore is ready to put a couple Harriers in the air if there’s any bother. An’ we got radio contact with the prison van.”

Johnson did not look happy.

Moon checked his watch again, and spoke to Sommer. “Does everyone know what they’re supposed to be doing, John?”

“Yeah, we’re all sussed, guv. A rabbit with trainers couldn’t get through.”

“The briefing was good,” said Johnson. “Now let’s hope the plan works. For both our sakes.” He glared at Moon.

Moon tried to sound confident. “Yeah, Harold, I appreciate the autonomy you’ve given me on this one. I won’t let you down.”

The radio crackled: “Control, Whisky Mike Ten.”

“Whisky Mike Ten, send.”

“Control, we are leaving Woodhill prison, over.”

“Received, Whisky Mike Ten. Papa Charlie One, Control.”

Moon keyed the mike. “Papa Charlie One.”

“Papa Charlie One, did you copy last, over?”

“Affirmative, over.”

“Papa Charlie One, you have control of the net. Good luck. Out.”

“Papa Charlie One to all units, I have control. Whisky Mike Ten has left Woodhill. All units stand by. Radio silence until you have the eyeball.” Moon turned back to Johnson. “Even if they don’t spring the break here, we’re still on top of them.”

“Better for us if they do it before the motorway.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“They will,” put in Sommer. “It’s too risky on the motorway – an’ afterwards the van’ll be stuck inLondon traffic. No, it has to be here.”

“You’re right, John. I just hope Dave’s covered every contingency. Otherwise there’ll be hell to pay.”

“Papa Charlie One, Alpha Whisky Eight.”

Moon recognised the spotter chopper’s call sign. “Alpha Whisky Eight, send.”

“I have the eyeball: Whisky Mike Ten approaching Groveway roundabout, over.”

“Received.” Moon released the mike. “I hope that fucking chopper stays out of sight. That’s all we bloody need.”

“Papa Charlie One, Papa Charlie Three.”

“Papa Charlie Three, send.”

“I have the eyeball: Whisky Mike Ten is heading for your location, over.”

“Received.”

Two and a half minutes later Moon saw the prison van pass them. He gave it fifteen seconds, then told Sommer to follow. Sommer pulled out onto the arterial road.

“Papa Charlie One, Alpha Whisky Eight!”

“Alpha Whisky Eight, send!”

“Contact, contact! South of your position, over.”

“Papa Charlie one to all units: stand off. I say again: stand off from the contact…” Sommer slowed down. “…Alpha Whisky Eight, relay commentary in bursts, over.”

“Two BMWs, four suspects. Suspects have rifles and are wearing motorbike helmets and flak jackets…the navigator is on the deck, driver is opening the van…Three prison officers on the deck…Eyeball on Zulu Two…”

Moon heard gunfire. “What the fuck was that!”

“India Three fired a warning shot, no injuries. I repeat: no injuries…A chopper! Papa Charlie One, there is a bandit in the air…A white Sikorsky S-76.”

“Back to the RV, John.” Sommer turned the Astra around, heading back for the farm. Moon keyed the mike. “Control, Papa Charlie One.”

“Papa Charlie One, send.”

“Initiate Operation Tombola.”

“Received, Papa Charlie One; initiating Operation Tombola, over.”

“Alpha Whisky Eight, sitrep?”

“Bandit has landed. Zulus boarding now…all Zulus and Indias aboard…bandit is taking off. I am standing off from bandit, over.”

“Control, Papa Charlie One.”

“Papa Charlie One, send.”

“Confirm RAF Uxbridge andBrampton have activated radar, over.”

“That’s affirmative. Uxbridge are tracking bandit…stand by one. Bandit is heading south, south-west for Toddington. Alpha Whisky Eight Two, confirm you are en route to Papa Charlie One’s location.”

“One mike, over.”

“That’s the transport chopper coming for us,” said Moon to Johnson.

“Papa Charlie One, are you standing by for uplift, over?”

“Affirmative.” They were back on the farm road, and Moon saw two Range Rovers bouncing over the field towards them. “Papa Charlie One and Blue Team standing by, over.”

The Eurocopter transport was ten seconds late to the rendezvous. As soon as

it touched down, Moon, Sommer, Johnson, and six Specialist Firearms Command officers boarded.

Moon plugged his earphones in, and used his handset to call as the chopper

took off. “Control, Papa Charlie One.”

“Papa Charlie One, send.”

“I am airborne with the remainder of Blue Team; require sitrep from Uxbridge.”

“Uxbridge confirm bandit is still heading to Toddington, over.”

“Received. All Alpha Whiskys to assume position for air cordon.” The chopper climbed as the pilot estimated his position in relation to the other two aircraft. “As soon as this is done we’re sorted,” Moon told Johnson.

“Papa Charlie One, Control!”

“Send.”

“Uxbridge inform bandit has landed; I say again: bandit has landed…location: Houghton Regis, Dunstable.”

“Alpha Whisky Eight, Papa Charlie One. Did you copy last, over?”

“Affirmative. ETA half a mike, over.”

“Received, resume commentary when you have the eyeball.”

Johnson looked at Moon, “Why has he landed already? We’re barely off the ground.”

“Papa Charlie One, Alpha Whisky Eight.”

“Go!”

“I have the eyeball. Bandit has landed…location, a field on the south side of Thorn. Repeat: Thorn…no eyeball suspects…heavy tree cover…Alpha Whiskey Eight One is landing.”

“What the hell is going on!” demanded Johnson.

“The spotter can’t see the suspects. Don’t worry, CO19 are landing.”

“I can bloody hear that,” Johnson said through grit teeth. He tapped the pilot on the shoulder and shouted, “How long?” The man held up three fingers.

“Alpha Whisky Eight, stand off from bandit. Keep watch for any vehicles leaving the scene.” So long as the spotter chopper could identify the vehicles the suspects were in, the operation was still on.

“Alpha Whisky Eight, copied…Blue Team deploying…”

“Suspects, Alpha Whisky Eight, any suspects!” Moon shrieked.

“Negative, negative.”

“What the hell is going on!” Johnson repeated himself. “Why can’t they bloody see anything?”

Moon swore. Sommer looked wistful.

“Papa Charlie One, Blue Leader.”

“Blue Leader, send!” Moon gripped his radio as if it were a lifeline – and it was.

“Bandit is empty. My team are searching the farmhouse, but it appears Zulus have left in two vehicles, descriptions unknown…do you copy, Papa Charlie One?”

Moon did copy. He could now see the two choppers in the field below, as well as a small wood and an avenue leading to an arterial road. No vehicles had been seen leaving: the tree cover was too heavy.

Twenty miles away, Jessica was in the passenger seat of another unmarked car, flying south along the motorway.

“What happened?” asked DC Mastveer.

“I don’t know, Sam. I think they used the chopper to take them just out of range of our cars, and then landed straight away.”

“What for?”

“Somehow they must have guessed we’d have a helicopter ready. So they landed before we could get the air cordon se’ up. Now they’re back in cars – only we don’t know which ones.”

“You mean John’s rabbit with trainers has left the building?”

“More like they left us holdin’ the rabbit while they screw it.”

Despite himself, Mastveer smiled. “You have such a way with words, Jess. But I wouldn’t mention rabbits – or any small animal – when we meet up with Dave. He doesn’t like your sense of humour at the best of times.”

“He doesn’t like me at the best of times. And don’t worry, I’ll be keeping my trap shu’.”

“Look on the bright side,” said Mastveer, “He might already be out of a job by the time we get there.”

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