THE FOLLOWER: SAS hero turns Manchester hitman (A Rick Fuller Thriller Book 4)(2)

Des and I had been on ‘strip duty’, part of a CT (Counter Terrorism) troop of sixteen blokes. The lads were split into four patrols. I, as a Corporal, led one of them.

Des was my number two, alongside Dave ‘The Butcher’ Stanley, and Frankie Green, my explosives man.

We were all a similar age, between twenty-five and thirty and got on like a house on fire. When we weren’t away, or on standby, we socialised together. Des and Frankie were married, but somehow still managed a good few nights on the lash. I knew Des’ missus Anne didn’t like me too much. I put that down to the fact that every time I brought him home, he was legless.

The bomb remained the talking point all week. All our team had completed at least two tours over the water and knew the script, but we were all getting tired of listening to the same old rhetoric on both sides. Something needed to change, and after the carnage of Enniskillen, thankfully, it seemed that even the most fervent Sinn Féin supporters were calling for an end to the violence and were demanding a political settlement.

On the Friday after the bombing, as we trudged from a killing house carrying hundreds of pounds of kit, piss wet through and freezing our tits off. We were met by one of the senior CRW trainers, Pat Evans.

The Counter Revolutionary Warfare Wing, was set up in the seventies to train other squadrons in CT work. Pat was a top bloke and really knew his stuff. He trained us in advanced pistol work, explosive entries, room clearing and the like.

It seemed, our patrol had been summoned to the Head Shed.

“You lucky bastards,” he said, lighting a fag. “You’re off to get some fuckin’ sunshine… do anythin’ to get out of the rain some fuckers.”

He wandered off in a cloud of smoke, and I felt the tell-tale rumblings of excitement that only a mission could provide.

We cleaned and stowed our kit, showered and changed out of our sodden clothes and got a brew on. By the time we’d finished the first pot, we were joined by the OC and a fresh faced suit.

“Right lads,” said the OC, grabbing a cup for himself. “Listen up, you’re off on a jolly.”

The suit was of similar age to our patrol, lanky with a white-blonde side-shed hairstyle. He didn’t introduce himself. He simply perched his backside on the edge of the table we sat around, all casual as you like, and ploughed on in an accent right out of his Oxbridge upbringing.

“The Enniskillen bomb was made up of 18 kgs of Semtex…40lbs in old money,” he began. “It was hidden in a sports bag and left against the gable wall inside the town’s Reading Rooms. It had a crude timer that was set to explode at 1043hrs, just before the ceremony was to start. Who made the bomb and who planted it, is not your concern. However, the Semtex it was constructed from, was provided to the PIRA by the Libyans… by Gaddafi himself… and that is very much your baby.”

I pricked my ears up at that. I’d never fought in the desert or against the Arabs. My old man served in Aden… the Yemen, and that hadn’t ended well.

The suit lifted an expensive looking briefcase from between his feet and pulled out a sheaf of papers.

“Now, we all know that our pal Muammar Gaddafi began to supply weapons to the Irish back in the early seventies. However, it appeared his interest in interfering in the Troubles had waned. That was until the Yanks killed his adopted daughter last year in a bombing raid. As those aircraft were launched from UK bases, old Muammar decided to teach us a lesson and start supplying the Paddies again. Now then, a couple of months back, the French kindly intercepted a ship…” He checked his papers, “The Eksund… in their waters, bound for Ireland. It had 1000 AK47’s and two tons of Semtex on board.”

Frankie Green whistled at that snippet.

“Exactly,” countered the suit. “Now, we are not suggesting for a moment that you nip over to Libya and dispose of our pet despot, as he does have his other uses. However, we do believe we know the identity of the chap who is the ‘go between,’ the facilitator of these transactions, between Gaddafi and the PIRA.”

He turned some pages, found a grainy black and white photograph and dropped it on the desk.

“Abdallah Al-Mufti gentleman. He’s thirty-two years old and an Egyptian by birth. He is a Muslim, but he is not a fanatic or freedom fighter. He doesn’t care who receives his guns and explosives, so long as he gets paid. He is a dealer, pure and simple. He will trade in anything from slaves to socket sets. Obtaining this picture, and the intel on his whereabouts has cost the lives of two very good chaps. We want the blighter gone… pronto.”

The OC put down his cup and addressed us. “So lads, this bloke Al-Mufti is holed up in a place called Tiji, a small town in the municipality of Nalut in the north-west of Libya. It’s located about 240k southwest of Tripoli in the Nafusa Mountains, at the northern edge of a major oil field. It’s also home to a Libyan Forces barracks.

Our initial idea was to drop you chaps in HALO, light up this bugger’s quarters with a beacon and let the RAF do the rest. However, Downing Street don’t agree. The house is close to a mosque and a hospital, and that kind of collateral damage isn’t acceptable.

Therefore, as you will need quite a bit of kit, we’ll get you to the Tunisian coast by sea, then it will be up to you from there. Once you get eyes on this Al-Mufti chap, do the business, and piss off quick sharp.”

I looked at the guy’s picture. He had the weathered face of a man who had spent many months in the desert sun, with sharp light eyes that just had to be blue in the flesh. He wore a full beard and the standard Arabic chequered headgear, known as the keffiyeh or kufiyah. The shot had been taken from a distance and Al-Mufti was watching something or someone intently.