The Glory Boys

He pulled the bag out on to the bank, scanned the path in both directions, listened for a moment and then, satisfied that they were alone, started to unwind the sticking tape that sealed the top. From the bag he took three rifles, small, narrow, seemingly ineffective by their very abbreviation. Each was only marginally more than two feet in length, with the steel skeleton of the shoulder-rest bent back alongside the barrel. He placed them on the plastic, handling them with delicacy and concern, and with them two bulky cloth bags.

'What are they?' asked Famy. it's a version of the Mi carbine. World War Two, American. These are the paratroopers' ones, with the folding stock. They wouldn't give me Armalites, the bastards, said three was too many. These are old, but that doesn't mean there's anything wrong with them. They were test-fired ten days ago, across the water, then stripped down and cleaned…'

Famy interrupted, anxiety in his voice. 'There were no Kalashnikovs?'

'We never get a sight of the bloody things. They've tried to bring them in, but we haven't had any reach us. Our stuff is American. One of the reasons our big men got involved in this was to try and guarantee a supply of Kalashnikovs.'

'To you it will sound ridiculous, but I've never trained with any other sort of rifle,' said Famy.

'There's nothing wrong with these. They've packed enough coffins. Three hundred range, more than we need.

Fifteen-round magazine – if we need more than three we're screwed anyway. Small, light – just about six pounds. The Yanks ran off more than three and a half million of them in the war. They're untraceable.'

'Why only three? There were going to be three of us, and then you.'

McCoy was taking loaded magazines from one of the cloth bags. He looked up and into Famy's face. 'You were going to do the shooting. The deal was that I looked after the accommodation and the motor. You looked after the rest.'

'And now?'

McCoy laid the magazines out side by side, twelve of them. 'Well, it can't be done by one alone,' he said, still gazing directly at Famy, 'so we'll need two of them, and have one spare.'

There was a huge smile across Famy's face as the strain of the last few hours fled from him. God, the bastard's been suffering, thought McCoy. He's had enough bloody hints and not believed them. McCoy opened the second bag.

'We may not have done you well on the rifles, but on the grenades we've the best. We get a lot of our stuff via the dealers in Holland. These are Dutch, called the "V 40

Mini", less than half the size of a normal grenade. Tiny, but the sales talk is sensational. Four hundred chunks flying out, hundred per cent casualties guaranteed at ten feet. It's what we want, something for close work, not a bloody great bomb that'll demolish half the audience but one that can land nice and near your man, and take him out.'

There were twelve of them. He held one in his hand, nestled in the palm where it fitted snugly, less than an inch and a half in diameter, and deadly. McCoy packed the grenades and the magazines back into their separate bags and dropped them into the bigger plastic one. The rifles followed, and he again taped the top, and then they both walked up the path towards the car. McCoy's mind was now tuned to the next batch of problems. Transport.

Where to ditch his present motor, where to get another?

And where to sleep, where to lie up for the next two days?

Famy could see he was thinking, and did nothing that might break the other's train of thought. He felt complete confidence in the Irishman who carried under his arm the vital weapons that would be used against David Sokarev.

The Prime Minister cut short his Scottish weekend and flew to Northolt, the capital's military airfield. His surprise move aroused little press speculation among the journalists covering his foray into the north. It was generally believed, and not denied in official circles, that the country's economic plight had led to the abbreviated schedule. It was less well known outside his immediate entourage that the workings of the Security and Intelligence Services that were ultimately answerable to him fascinated and exhilarated the Head of Government. In his first-floor office, overlooking the immaculate flower-decked gardens of his Downing Street residence, he met the Director General of the Security Service.

The Prime Minister was prepared to listen to the exposition of the problem, and hear the results and actions that would follow from the series of meetings that had gone on through the morning between the police and officials from the department. He had shown concern that at this stage of the operation no leakage of information to the press should happen, he required maximum detail on the two potential assassins, but already knew of the remarks passed between the Israeli Ambassador and the Foreign Office.