War on the Streets. Peter Cave
a small grin. ‘You could say that, sir.’
Commander Franks consulted a slim dossier on the desk in front of him. He studied its contents for a few seconds before looking up at Carney. ‘Your superior says you’re a tough cop, Carney,’ he said. ‘You know the streets and you know your enemy.’
Carney shrugged. ‘I just handle my job, sir.’
Franks nodded. ‘But unfortunately you can’t always handle your temper,’ he pointed out. It was a statement of fact, not quite an accusation, but Carney was immediately defensive.
‘I just hate drugs. And I hate the villains who are pushing them to our kids,’ he said with feeling.
‘As do we all,’ Franks observed. ‘But our job places certain restrictions upon us. We have to work to specific rules, standards of behaviour which are acceptable to society. You went over the top, Carney – and you know it.’
It was an open rebuke now, inviting some sort of apology. Carney bowed his head slightly. ‘Yes, sir, I’m aware of that. And I’m sorry.’ He did not attempt to justify his actions in any way.
It seemed to satisfy Franks, who merely nodded to himself and glanced across at McMillan, passing some unspoken message. The commissioner leaned across the table, resting his elbows on it and forming a steeple with his fingers. ‘Right, gentlemen,’ he announced in a businesslike tone. ‘Let’s get down to it, shall we?’
For the next forty-five minutes Carney faced an almost non-stop barrage of questions. Some seemed totally irrelevant, and a few were of such a highly personal nature that he found himself becoming irritated by what he thought were unwarranted intrusions into his private life. As the session drew to an end, however, he began to realize that the three men in that room now knew just about everything there was to know about Paul Carney the policeman and Paul Carney the man. His opinions, his personality, his strengths – and his weaknesses. It was a rather disconcerting feeling.
Finally McMillan glanced at each of his colleagues in turn, inviting further questions. There were none. He turned his attention back to Carney.
‘Let’s get to business, then. It would appear that you need a job, Mr Carney. We have one for you, if you want it. A very special job, I might add.’ He paused. ‘Are you interested?’
Carney was guarded. ‘I suppose that would have to depend on what the job was,’ he said.
‘Ah,’ McMillan sighed thoughtfully. ‘Now that gives me something of a problem. Basically, I cannot give you any details about the job until you agree to take it. You will also be required to take a grade three security oath.’
Carney was flabbergasted – and it showed on his face. He gaped at McMillan for several seconds before finally finding his voice. ‘With respect, sir, that’s crazy. How can I agree to a job without knowing what it is? It might not suit me. I might not suit it. I couldn’t be a pen-pusher, buried behind some pile of papers, for a start.’
McMillan smiled faintly. ‘I appreciate your candidness, Mr Carney,’ he murmured. ‘But I can and do assure you that far from being desk-bound, you’d be out there fighting crime. In the very front line, so to speak.’ He paused briefly. ‘But that’s all I can tell you at this point. It’s now completely down to you. We can proceed no further without your agreement.’
Carney’s head was spinning. In desperation, he looked over at Commander Franks. ‘If I turn this down, sir, what are the chances of my being returned to normal duty?’
Franks shook his head slowly. ‘None,’ he said, bluntly. ‘The very qualities which make you attractive to us also preclude your continued service in the conventional police force.’
The finality of this statement was enough to push Carney over the edge. He made his decision on impulse as much as anything. ‘All right, so let’s say I’m in,’ he muttered, still slightly dubious.
McMillan nodded gravely and signalled to Grieves, who produced an official-looking document from his pocket and slid it over the table towards Carney. ‘Read and sign this,’ he said curtly.
Carney scanned it quickly, eager to find some clue as to what he was letting himself in for, but the document itself told him virtually nothing. Finally he looked up at Grieves again, who silently handed him a fountain pen. Hesitating for just a moment, Carney read the security oath aloud and signed the paper. McMillan and Franks added their own signatures as witnesses and Grieves returned the document to his pocket. It was done.
‘Right. Now we can tell you what we have in mind,’ McMillan said. He began to launch into a detailed account of the plans formulated thus far.
‘I’ll tell you right away that I have some serious reservations about this whole concept,’ Barney Davies said candidly. ‘But I agreed to treat it as a workable idea, and you’re the man they’ve sent me. So if we can work something out, we will.’
Carney tried to think of a suitable rejoinder, and failed completely. An opening speech like that was a hard act to follow. And he was already feeling a little out of his depth anyway.
He’d been ordered to report to Lieutenant-Colonel Davies at SAS HQ in Hereford, and that’s what he’d done. Merely passing through the gate guard had been like walking into the lion’s den. Like most civilians, Carney had only a sketchy picture of the SAS and how they worked. Fact was thin on the ground, and the man in the street could only form his own mental image from the fiction and the legend. And that legend was of a special breed of super-heroes, just one step removed from Captain Marvel or Superman.
‘I’ll try to keep that in mind, sir,’ he managed to blurt out eventually.
Davies smiled. ‘Lesson one,’ he said. ‘We don’t place a great deal of emphasis on rank in the SAS. A man is respected for what he is, what he can do, rather than the extra bits of material sewn on to his uniform. In your case, as you’re basically an outsider, and a largely unknown quantity, you’ll be just another trooper. So don’t expect any deference from the rest of the men you’ll be working with. To them, you’ll be just another probationer.’ Davies paused, his tone softening a shade. ‘And you don’t have to call me “sir”, by the way. “Boss” is perfectly acceptable.’
Davies flipped quickly through the file which Commander Franks had faxed to him. ‘So you think you’re tough,’ he muttered, without condescension.
Carney bristled slightly. ‘I don’t think anything,’ he protested. ‘But I can look after myself, if that’s what you mean.’
Davies nodded, looking faintly pleased. ‘Good. You don’t allow yourself to be put down too easily. But don’t get any inflated ideas. Keep in mind that any one of my men could probably fold you up, stick a stamp on you and stuff you in the second-class post before you even knew what was happening.’
Carney took this somewhat colourful piece of information at face value. It was delivered not as a boast but as a hard fact – and he found himself believing it.
‘I assume Commissioner McMillan has already briefed you as to the general theory?’ Davies went on.
Carney nodded. ‘You want me to advise a special task force. Basically point you in the right direction.’
Davies nodded again. ‘In a nutshell, yes. But you’ll be more than just an adviser, more like a seeing-eye dog. We’re going to need a man on the ground. Someone who knows the right people and the right places.’
‘Or the wrong people and the wrong places,’ Carney suggested.
Davies found this mildly amusing, and smiled. ‘Whatever.’ He was thoughtful for a while. ‘Of course, in an ideal world you should never be required to get involved in a combat situation. However, we don’t live in an ideal world. There may be times when you find