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  Chapter Four

  McBride arrived back in town at four o’clock. He set out walking to the drilling site, taking a slightly different route this time, for variety. He came to the turn to The Wellington Inn. A big red metal sign in the middle of the road read ‘DIVERSION’ with an arrow. Down towards the pub, he could see a line of traffic: all heavy trucks, engines running but going nowhere. Police were wandering about on the road, in yellow vests, occasionally in small groups, talking to each other. He could hear a loud hailer in the distance. McBride looked at the trucks. They were carrying heavy equipment. The one nearest to him looked to have a couple of diesel generators on its low load platform.

  McBride walked alongside the trucks until he reached a policeman.

  “Am I allowed to come along here as a pedestrian?”

  The policeman turned to him. “Not really, Sir. It’s for your own protection. There is a Police Support Unit up in front of this convoy of trucks. They are going to ensure they get on site. There are protesters that will try to stop them. I wouldn’t want you to get involved accidently.”

  “The fracking site, is it?”

  “Yes, Sir.” His radio crackled and he spoke into it. “Yes, message received.”

  Ignoring McBride, he ran up to the truck at the end of the line, conveyed some message to the driver. In response, the truck revved up and inched forward. McBride saw that the whole convoy was on the move. The policeman walked along, keeping up with the last truck, so McBride tagged along behind.

  He estimated that they were no further than 450 yards from the camp. He could hear shouts, and the rapid banging noise above the voices; police beating their batons on their shields. Must be serious, the force would be wearing NATO helmets with dark visors, shin guards over black uniforms. It would certainly frighten the Greens, but probably not the Russians. Although the Russians would almost certainly avoid arrest, they must be standing there, fuming at their inability to control matters.

  The convoy moved slowly on until McBride could see the entrance to the site. He could see why the road had been closed, a mass of police vans and other vehicles making the road impassable. McBride spotted a couple of ambulances in the melee. All the police vehicles had their blue lights flashing, lighting the twilight. Some of the vans had roof-mounted searchlights that illuminated the gateway. A droning noise behind him had McBride looking upwards. A news helicopter, the cameraman in the open door, but securely strapped to the machine. It was hovering, continuously filming. It was good television, for sure.

  The police linked up in one large line, in effect pivoting like a windscreen wiper, the gate the fulcrum, shields in front of them batons waving, pushing the protesters back towards the tents. These men ignored the protesters that were lying on the track, who were being hauled away by the regular police, two or three in a gang, physically lifting each protester, and pushing them unceremoniously into police vans; anyone who attempted to fight back was given a tough time by the policemen. McBride noticed that the two Russians that he knew had pushed themselves into the background, behind the tents. The last thing they wanted was to get arrested. The Green Party members were the patsies for that.

  All the time the convoy was inching forward, the lead truck’s huge bumpers hovering inches away from the protesters that were slow to move, or be moved. The police in yellow worked feverishly, removing bodies, so that the convoy was kept moving. The police were certainly winning. Even as far back as McBride was, he had to jog now to keep up with the final vehicle. The helicopter flew even lower, and he could see the cameraman zooming in on occasion, to film the best bits. Protest banners on poles were lying crushed and trampled into the mud near the gate. McBride looked towards the drilling site across the field, and the track was one long convoy, the rig site gates open to welcome the reinforcements.

  By the time McBride together with the last truck turned into the campsite, the fight was over. Police vans full of protesters were driving back to the station. Police cars full of policemen were departing. Some would stay back, McBride was sure, until the last truck was safely on the rig site, and the gates locked. This was one nil to the British government.

  Once through the gate, McBride tramped across the battle scarred field towards the camp. Donny stood forlorn with only one other member, a late arrival, only present for the last couple of days.

  “Hello, Donny.”

  “Hi John. We was beat. Didn’t have a chance. They took the old man away, lifted him into a van. I hope they don’t beat him up.”

  McBride was confused. “The Big Man, you mean? Surely not.”

  “No the Green Party man, Fred. You know, with the white beard.”

  “I don’t think the police will beat him up. In fact, I’m sure they won’t. Where is The Big Man, and Michael?”

  “In the caravan.”

  “Well, come on quick down the pub. I’ll buy you a pint. If they see me, they might not let me go away again,” said McBride. They will be loading me up for the long voyage, thinking I engineered the events today.

  Donny cheered up at the mention of beer, and they walked along to the gate. McBride looked back, but there was still no sight of the Russians.

  The Wellington Inn was lit like a beacon now the daylight had gone. They walked into the public bar. There were already one or two protesters swigging pints. McBride wondered if they had got there before the police attack, safely out of trouble. The muscular man was again behind the bar, and Donny greeted him like an old friend. McBride just greeted him with a nod, and ordered the drinks.

  The television on the wall by the bar was tuned to Sky News, and the tapes from the helicopter were being screened under ‘breaking news’. Not only breaking, but unedited. The sound track included some asides from the cameraman, including ‘get the fuck closer,’ which would get somebody into trouble, and not be repeated in the next bulletin. Everybody in the bar was watching.

  “Look, that’s me,” said Donny excitedly. “I hope my mam’s got the telly on.” The screen changed, and two men in the studio were discussing the merits of shale gas extraction, presumably whilst the tape soundtracks were being edited. McBride had looked closely at the helicopter shots, seeing if he could spot The Big Man and Michael, but they were too far from the action. They would be very short of recruits, although the publicity might attract a few who liked a fight. But overall, the Russians would have to step up their efforts. It was unlikely that those who were in police custody would return. Not because they were in prison, because they wouldn’t be. Most would be released without charge, one or two bailed to appear at the Magistrates’ Court; but all of them would have been told by the police not to return to the site, or next time they would face serious charges.

  Donny downed several pints, and McBride ate a couple of sandwiches for his supper. Then he went into a corner of the bar, took out his mobile phone and keyed a number in. The phone was answered on the second ring. “Jenny, it’s John McBride here. I’m just phoning to say I haven’t forgotten about your brother Ben. I assume you haven’t heard from him?”

  “No. Are you still looking for him?”

  “I think I know where he is – in Russia. This may be the last time I get to speak to you. Until I get back. Just to say don’t give up hope. These things take time.”

  “Oh my God. You are doing this for me?”

  “Yes, since you ask, but also for myself. I can’t stand anyone getting away with things like this. So I won’t be able to get in touch for some time, but don’t think I’m doing nothing. Keep your chin up and goodbye, I must go.”

  He keyed the phone off, and went to find Donny. At ten o’clock they were on the way back to camp.

  The Big Man was on the way home, walking across the field towards his old Landrover When he saw McBride coming towards him, he halted and waited for the pair to come within earshot.

  “I’ve been looking for you.” He was speaking to McBride. He tried to grab him by the shoulder. McBride swivelled round, and avoided co
ntact.

  “You might be a big man, but don’t try to get it on with me,” said McBride.

  The Big Man looked at Donny. “On your way to your bed, son.” When the youngster was out of earshot, The Big Man said, “Be very careful what you say to me.” Magically he had a pistol in his hand, small snub-nosed and pointed at McBride’s heart. “Come to the caravan.”

  And they walked over, slightly apart, The Big Man just far enough away that McBride wouldn’t be able to snatch the gun. When they got close, The Big Man shouted out in a loud voice. “Open the door Mihal.”

  Michael stuck his head out of the van, and stepped back inside to let McBride through the door. The Big Man followed very closely behind, and now he had the gun pushing against McBride’s kidney. When they were inside, Michael gestured for him to sit down. The two Russians sat across from him on a sofa. Then Michael got up and went to the back of the van, spoke on his mobile phone, in Russian. McBride couldn’t speak the language. He’d had a chance to learn, in the army. But it was after glasnost so it didn’t seem worthwhile at the time. Suddenly, it did.

  The Big Man said: “You didn’t go to a funeral. We had you followed. You went to a hotel, tried to fool our man, went out of the back door, then to Piccadilly station, where you met an MI5 man. A very minor person in the organization, but still…”

  Michael had put his phone away, said, “You gave him some documents. What were they?”

  McBride smiled. “So you did have more than one person on to me? I’m flattered. Yes, I did go to meet someone. I gave them sketches of you and some others who were on site. Thought they might be interested. But they already have you tagged, so it didn’t help a lot. Did get a lunch out of it. And it got me away from here.”

  “So why did you come back?” said The Big Man

  “It is so exciting here.”

  The Big Man reached across and hit McBride across the face with his pistol.

  “Well I have my tent here. And you are paying me.”

  The Big Man said, “I was paying you.”

  “Then you’ve welshed on the deal.”

  Michael nodded a message to The Big Man.

  “I’ve not welshed on any deal. Anyway, I’ll give you a lift off site. The van is coming. Now stand up, go that wall,” pointing, “Stand with your legs spread, hands on the wall.” The Big Man expertly searched him, found his phone, threw it onto the couch. Then he searched his rucksack, gave him it back.

  McBride said, “ Off site for the long journey.” He put his rucksack on his shoulder.

  The Big Man laughed and looked across at Michael. “Yes, you could call it that. Very clever. You know quite a lot, don’t you?”

  They sat, not speaking. The Big Man still had the pistol in his hand. After a few minutes McBride heard a vehicle outside. Michael went to the door, peered out, turned back to look at The Big Man.

  “It’s here.”

  McBride was jostled out of the caravan and across to the Ford Transit van. The driver had opened the back doors. There was a roof light in the interior. McBride could see bench seats running down each side. Pushed by the Big Man, he climbed inside. The doors were slammed behind him, and he heard the sound of a key turning. He examined the inside, once he had found a way to switch the interior light back on. The doors had been modified, and were not the flimsy type fitted as standard. There wasn’t much else to see, so he turned out the light. Once the van was off the site and on to the road, the ride became smoother, so that McBride could wedge himself into one corner of the bench.

  Half an hour passed on minor roads, judging by the bends, and the van driver was cautious, probably keeping within the speed limits to avoid being stopped by the police. Suddenly the van was accelerating and the road was straight. McBride sensed that they were on a motorway, or at least a dual carriageway. He ran through a mental map of the area. There was the A1, the M62 and the A19 as possibilities. So they could be going north, south or west. McBride gave up, and settled into a doze.

  Later he awoke suddenly. The van came to a stop temporarily, then accelerated and turned at ninety degrees. A roundabout, thought McBride.

  They must be off the motorway. After a few minutes, McBride, whose eyes had become sensitive to the dark, could see a gleam of light where the doors did not fit tight. Orange sodium lamps, they must be passing through a town. He heard traffic passing in the opposite direction, and occasionally his own vehicle was rocked, as some heavy trucks overtook. He was working out exactly where they could be. It was a certainty that they would end up in a seaport, and that would be on the east coast, and have a shipping line going to Russia, most likely St Petersburg. If they had been travelling south, say to Immingham on the Humber estuary, then they would have travelled on the A180 as it continued from the M180. And he knew from past experience that the A180 was a concrete road, and caused a lot of tyre noise. The trip had been very smooth, so he could discount Immingham. If they had been travelling north, then they could be in Middlesbrough, en route to the Teesport Container Dock. This seemed quite likely. The length of the journey was right, he supposed. Depended on how long he was asleep.

  The van turned right again, and was braking steadily, and came to a stop. McBride heard the driver’s window going down, then a short conversation, and they were moving again, but slowly, with turns here and there, until finally, they came to rest. He could hear the driver getting out of the cab, walking on a metalled surface to the back doors, and then cautiously opening the doors. In one hand he had The Big Man’s pistol. The overhead lights glinted on the metal.

  McBride emerged slowly, and stood yawning and stretching. He looked round at the Container Port. In the distance he could see the old transporter bridge at Middlesbrough, illuminated as a historical symbol ought to be. It told McBride he was right. This was Teesport.

  The van had stopped in the lee of a container ship. It loomed over them, a huge barge, in effect, with all the superstructure at the stern, and a huge open hold, stacked with containers three or four high. One could not be certain, because the side of the hull shielded the lower containers. Containers predominantly red lead paint but some bright yellow, brown or black.

  The van had stopped right by the gang way that zigzagged up the side, and ended in a dark entrance under the superstructure. Two men were descending, and waving at the driver.