Taking the Tunnel Read online

  At the same time Adams began to cultivate a new image as a calm thinker, even a voice of moderation. His soft voice was heard frequently on television in Britain and the United States explaining radical revolution in a reasonable and reasoned manner that won the Movement many supporters. The beard and the ever-present pipe enhanced the thinking, professorial image. Like many habitual pipe smokers, Adams’s teeth had suffered from years of chewing on the wooden stem. His lower teeth had retreated into his mouth while his two front teeth protruded, making him look rather like Bugs Bunny.

  After years of practice, he has come to see himself as Renaissance man: warrior in the morning, critic in the afternoon and politician in the evening. To others in the Movement he is known simply as Condor, a nickname derived from the tobacco he smokes and the North American vulture, combining a dig at his pretentious ways with a grudging recognition of his ruthlessness.

  In the 1980s support for Sinn Fein steadily declined in the face of a consistent British policy of improving the conditions of Catholics in the province and reducing the profile of the Army. In the 1992 general election, Adams lost his seat as a Westminster MP, a blow to his pride and to the prestige of the IRA. The result was greater pressure on Adams to push for a military solution. Under pressure from the hawks, Adams had authorized a new round of attacks in England.

  Now Adams is in charge of an organization of no more than around 200 men and women prepared to pull a trigger or press a detonator; another 1,000 willing to carry their bags or provide safe houses; and about 10,000 sympathizers who will gather intelligence and act as low-level informants. Gone are the days when 5,000 people turned out for a funeral of one of the Boys who had died on active duty. These days they were lucky to get a couple of hundred. The days when the Brit patrols down the Falls Road would be greeted with a rolling cacophony of dustbin lids banged together by angry housewives have gone, along with the slums they used to live in. The orchestra has given way to a few soloists who understand the need for a performance but have largely forgotten the music.

  It was hardly surprising then that Adams, ever the realist, had come to understand that a subtle change in the relationship between politics and terrorism was required. He knew that terrorism was no longer going to force the Brits to the table. Instead, terrorism helped keep his troops loyal by giving them an outlet for the violence, a way of keeping the romantic flame of Republicanism alive in the Provisional heartlands of South Armagh, West Belfast and Londonderry. Adams knew that it was political realities which would bring the Brits round in the same way that it had forced the Israelis reluctantly to talk to the Palestinians. He knew, too, there would never be a deal that would result in a united Ireland led by an IRA-dominated government. That was a 1970s dream which had faded in the apathy of the 1980s. The 1990s required the pragmatism of a politician, and he was the only man with the vision and the intelligence to deliver even a part of the Republican dream.

  The latest mainland campaign had two goals. The Movement had always believed that if they could cause the Brits enough pain on their home ground then the people would force the politicians to compromise. Over the years, the headlines detailing bombs in Oxford Street and killings in Wiltshire had served to reinforce that conviction, which was, in fact, based on a fundamental misunderstanding. The news reports bore no relation to political process; while the British public and most of their politicians would like Northern Ireland to sink into the Atlantic Ocean, there was no stomach for a deal. On the contrary, the Brits had grown used to the security checks and the bomb warnings. Even the few directly threatened had learned to live with daily checks under their cars and changing their route to work each day. Just as the IRA had a hard core of supporters who would always be ready to die for the cause, so the Brits were tough enough to resist any temptation to compromise produced by even the worst atrocity. It was an equal match.

  Over the years Adams had developed a healthy respect for the enemy. He knew that he was followed everywhere by people and microphones. He assumed that every conversation he had was later dissected by British intelligence, and he knew that every person he met was photographed, a file opened on every contact, however innocent. That was why he was meeting his odious lieutenant in a drinking club in the Catholic heartland and leaning close to his revoltingly dirty ear to carry on a conversation.

  “At last. Sean Thomas is a bloody genius.” The praise was obligatory but Adams was already thinking ahead. “We’ll put out a statement saying the attack was one of ours, and let’s put in a line about the campaign being for the people and against the military.” He paused and then added, “Oh, and we’d better get there before the Brits so make sure Royce’s Ministry of Defence work is emphasized. We don’t want them telling the media he was some innocent working in the accounts department.”

  Spike turned his head to reply. “What about Sean? He’s going to need help and we’ve no one over there to fill the gap.”

  “Send someone in from the South. One of the ghosts who’s clean.” Adams was referring to the small group who had been formed in the last twenty years for active service. Each of them was officially dead and buried, some from accidents, some from natural causes. But in each case the coffins were full of stones and the grieving families were supporters of the cause. Now, with false identities in the Republic, they could travel on their old, genuine papers, and pass through all the normal computer checks. It was a simple and very effective method of infiltration. The single difficulty was that the ghosts, although prized assets, lacked the experience to cope with a life on the run in England and so they were often caught.

  “We want him to last but above all we don’t want him to do anything that will betray Thomas. He’s our single best asset in this campaign and at last we’re beginning to cause the Brits some pain. Let’s keep up the pressure and move to another target.

  “At the same time get the intelligence boys to find out what happened to Marty. We don’t want to make the same mistake again.”

  “What do you want to hit this time?” Spike asked.

  “People. We must keep at the people,” Adams replied. “For every one we hit, there will be a hundred who have to check their cars each morning, a thousand who worry if they might be on our list. That’s pressure and that’s pain and that’s what we want.”

  Adams stood up, put his pipe in his pocket and gestured to the two men standing at the bar. They drained their glasses and moved to flank him. As Adams turned to leave, he suddenly stopped and leaned over Spike’s ear.

  “And tell Sean he’s a bloody hero.”

  Nico’s was one of those expense account restaurants which had flourished in Thatcher’s eighties and suffered in the more austere nineties. Douglas Hurd, the British Foreign Secretary, was one of the few who could still afford to eat there regularly. He defended the large bills by arguing that it was a restaurant where the tables were set far enough apart to allow discreet conversation. Hurd was one of the handful of civilized men left in John Major’s cabinet. After the 1992 election Major had cleared away the last vestiges of the Thatcher inheritance and many of the old guard had been fired to make way for a more egalitarian — some would say bland — group who were more in the image of their leader.

  Hurd was the exception. An Eton and Cambridge man, he had been Foreign Secretary in Thatcher’s government and had hung on through the change of power to become one of the few left with international experience. Hurd had cut his teeth in the Gulf War and had since become one of the strong hands controlling international policy against Iraq and arms proliferation. His hoarse, gravelly voice, which sounded as if he was being permanently strangled, was widely imitated by comedians and his unruly bouffant silver hair was a cartoonists’ dream. Although a figure of fun, he was respected as a man with a good brain and a sensible approach to foreign policy, which tempered a realistic assessment of Britain’s current position in the world with a developed sense of what was morally defensible. In other words, he was the perfect apparatchik f
or the Foreign Office where pragmatism was always the preferred policy.

  Between mouthfuls of hazelnut bread liberally spread with butter, Hurd was rehearsing arguments he had voiced many times before.

  “But it is the practicalities of the thing, you see. We simply cannot be expected to play host to four million people from Hong Kong. The country wouldn’t stand for it, not when we’ve already got three million unemployed of our own.”

  “As you know perfectly well, that is not the point,” his guest replied. “The issue is not whether the country would like it or not. That is a political problem. The issue is, Did the British government promise passports to those people or not? They did, and the British should keep their word, something that I would not even have had to mention fifty years ago.”

  The rebuttal was familiar, the conversation a dance where both knew the steps and the music. Dame Mary Cheong was the acceptable voice of Hong Kong, a spokesman for the local people and an articulate interlocutor between the British and the Chinese community.

  Unusually for the highly stratified Hong Kong society, she was not a local at all but a refugee from the Chinese who had tied the Communist regime twenty years earlier. Looking at her now — poised, carefully coiffed dark hair, Yves St Laurent suit, expensive jewellery — Hurd found it hard to believe. She was one of the very few who had turned sanctuary into success.

  She was the main bridge between the Western and the Oriental communities in Hong Kong. As the head of one of the most successful businesses in the colony, importing clothes, plastics and gold and exporting toys, jewellery and china, she employed hundreds. A member of LegCo, the Legislative Council that runs Hong Kong under the British Governor, on the board of the Chinese General Chamber of Commerce and prominent in the Jockey Club, she had the connections and the political influence to matter. Ever since the British had agreed to hand the colony over she had been trying to force Britain to fight the Chinese — and had failed.

  Now Hurd tried once again to convince her that the British government were honest.

  “It’s easy for you to argue that we must do this or have to do that. But I have a responsibility to Parliament and the people and I can assure you neither would tolerate an influx of refugees on the scale you’re talking about. We didn’t allow it in Kenya or Uganda. We have tough laws to stop it happening in India and Pakistan. And they’re all former colonies, just like Hong Kong.”

  “But Hong Kong is different,” Mary insisted. “You promised the people that they would get British passports. Most of us who came from China are anti-Communist. When you hand Hong Kong over, the Chinese are not going to sit around allowing us to continue with business as usual. Half my friends will be in jail and the other half will be dead.”

  Hurd responded with the British distaste for drama and the scepticism of someone who has never had to fight to survive. “I have never accepted that argument. We have assurances from the Chinese that they will leave well alone.” He was interrupted by a grunt of disagreement from Mary. “And anyway, it will not be in China’s interests to do anything that will disturb the status quo. They see Hong Kong as their point of access to the capitalist world. It will be something they inherit so they can bridge the philosophical gap between Communism and Capitalism.”

  There was a pause while the first courses were served. After the first mouthful Mary took up the cudgels again.

  “I don’t think you have ever really understood just what it means to be a refugee from China. Perhaps if I explain how I arrived in Hong Kong you might begin to appreciate why we feel so strongly about the British betrayal.”

  It had been her brother Lui who really wanted to make the journey. She was seventeen at the time, he was twenty, and with all the anger of the young he wanted a better life. He had seen their father grow old working the fields, still living in the same one-roomed shack in the same village surrounded by the same people. The Mao revolution had largely passed them by and so had the liberalization of the new regime. Their lives were set, and Lui could not bear it; the confinement, the hopelessness.

  For years the family listened to travellers telling stories of this fabulous place where even the humblest peasant could own his own home; where Chinese people were welcome and the opportunities were there for all to take. It was a vision for them, something to believe in outside the prison of the village.

  Then one spring, just after the first planting, Lui told

  Mary that he had decided to leave and that he wanted her to join him. He had always looked after her, defended her from the other children or lied to protect her from her parents’ anger. She had grown used to following his lead. It seemed only natural to her that she should join him on what promised to be a great adventure.

  The family all contributed cash for their father to exchange in Guangzhoushi for two gold ingots, the currency of the border traders. They had a cousin in Shenzhenshi near the border and they hoped he could be relied on to help them across.

  In those days, there were two ways of getting into Hong Kong: south to the peninsula at Shekou and then an eight-mile swim to the New Territories; or overland. Mary couldn’t swim and, anyway, the sharks and the currents took care of most of the people who went that way, so the land route was the only option.

  After five days of travelling by night they reached Shenzhenshi, the first big city either had ever seen. They could see it shining for two nights before they arrived, the huge buildings shimmering on the skyline. But when they actually arrived, they discovered it was all a sham. The buildings were mostly empty, the lights placed in windows to make it seem the city was alive, so the Hong Kong people just over the border would understand that China, too, had thriving cities with all the best technology. It was all just an exercise in face.

  Their cousin passed them along the network, to a man who said he would guide them through the patrols to the British fence that ran along the border. He promised to show them how to get through the fence. They would be met on the other side by another guide who would give them papers and new clothes and take them into Hong Kong. Giving up their gold, they set off for the border in the middle of the night.

  There is a border curfew after midnight so there was nothing moving, just dogs barking and the occasional startled goose. The first barrier to cross was the Sham Chun river, which runs about half a mile from the border. It takes all the sewage from the city down to the sea, so was full of eels and so thick it was almost possible to walk across it. Their guide placed them in tyre inner tubes and they floated downstream for two miles in the filth past a couple of guard posts, and then paddled to the other bank where they collapsed stinking, wet and frozen.

  On the south side of the river, local people have made dozens of ponds for breeding ducks so there are water, high earth banks with narrow paths and birds everywhere, ready to quack at the slightest noise. It was a terrifying journey of only a few hundred yards that seemed to go on for ever.

  After about three hours, they reached the fence, worried that the sun would be up and the curfew over before they crossed the border.

  There is a cleared track on the Chinese side of the border and then a seventeen-foot-high wire fence that runs for more than thirty kilometres along the border, covered with sensors and patrolled by Gurkhas. When the fence was cut or climbed, an alarm went off. Also, the British had sensors buried in the ground on the Chinese side that could hear somebody walking before they even reached the fence.

  Their guide took them to a small stream, about three feet across. It wasn’t water exactly, more like a deep sludge, the outflow from a pig farm on the Hong Kong side of the border. They slid into the ooze so that their bodies were covered, put on nose clips and used bamboo shoots so that they could put their heads under the sludge and breathe through the bamboo. It was terrifying. The mud was everywhere, sticking to them, sliding along their bodies, into ears, between toes, legs, everywhere. Mary knew that if she panicked the mud would come into her mouth. With each breath she imagined that black
slime pouring down her throat.

  Mary was leading, sliding along on her back, feet first, propelling herself forward with her hands. For forty-five minutes she had to push her hands into the slime, and after a hundred yards she was convinced that monsters lived in that ooze. She wanted to scream but couldn’t open her mouth. She wanted to feel air on her face but couldn’t take the risk of being seen by one of the patrols. Then her feet ran into the barrier, which was the posts supporting the fence above. She brought her head out of the mud and looked around. Above was the narrow bridge that formed part of the patrol road. Under its cover, the guide came up with the lorry jack he had been carrying for the past four hours. He placed the jack between two of the struts and started pumping. Gradually the struts were forced apart until there was just room to squeeze through.

  It was beginning to get light and the guide was desperate to get out, but didn’t want to leave his jack behind. Mary slid under the mud again and gripping the two steel bars used them to pull herself forward and under the jack. It was a tight fit but after some flexing and squeezing, she was through. The worst moment was when she had to get completely under the jack. She was forced to take the bamboo out of her mouth, slide it under the jack and then put it back in on the other side. To breathe again, she had to blow out the mud from the tube and then suck back in. She would carry the memory of the foul-tasting black slime for the rest of her life.

  When Mary surfaced, she could hear the alarm bells ringing along the fence and knew they had only a few minutes before the first of the Gurkha patrol arrived on their bicycles. Lui was next. The guide urged him on from behind while Mary encouraged from the front and he slid into the mud. Mary followed his progress with the bamboo shoot which cut through the ooze like a little periscope.