apart at this time and his only child died.
From this dark period he was resurrected by a spell in a secret, dangerous undercover operation about which even now not much is known. But the esteem he won then was recognized when the Second City of London was being formed and he became Chief Commander of its Police Force. He has married again, an old love, Stella Pinero, who is herself a very successful actress. He has also discovered two siblings, a much younger sister and brother.
For the urban terrorist, logistics are expressed by the formula MDAME.
| M | mechanisation |
| D | money (dinheiro) |
| A | arms |
| M | ammunition (municos) |
| E | explosives |
Minimanual of the Urban Guerrilla
Carlos Marighella
Despite the popular image there is no reliable archetype of terrorist personality. While they are undeniably cruel, virtually none has been found to be clinically mad. But there are always exceptions.
A recurring syndrome is what psychiatrists call externalisation, coping with failure by blaming an outside source.
Terrorism
Professor Geoffrey Lee Williams
Alan Lee Williams
Institute for European Defence and Strategic Studies
‘The Chemin des Dames, that’s the name,’ said Charles. ‘Do you know that in 1917 the whole French Army was in revolt because of the terrible deaths on the Chemin des Dames. That wonderful army that Napoleon built, reduced to chaos and despair … that’s the mood I want to create with our bombs. Then we can rebuild society.’
Not me, thought Jerry. I’m a soldier, I get instructions from above, I do the job, and walk away. Also, I get paid.
There were three of them in the rented room above an empty shop in Mordecai Street; the neighbours, such as took any interest, thought they were charity workers helping Africa or Tibet.
Present were Jerry, the supreme professional, the leader and the technician on the bomb, Andrew, an old colleague on the bomb run, and Charles, the college graduate, the sort to go out on a crusade. Jerry found him useful, but did not trust him.
Nor did he trust the fourth member of the team, known as the Secret Card, brought in by Pip for local knowledge and inside information on the Second City Police.
None of them used their own names, not even Jerry and Andrew. Only Jerry knew and had contact with the man next in the chain of command, and he knew him only as Pip. Jerry knew that they were only the second team, not entrusted with the bigger bomb, but they were operators.
The local knowledge of the Card had told them which street was strategically placed for a bomb, near a big supermarket for maximum damage, yet neutral; a thorough-fare where people took not much notice of each other and where cars and vans could park unnoticed. Arch Road, with Percy Street, in which many houses were empty, just round the corner. Arch Road – put the bomb there.
‘Cameras, videos?’ Jerry had queried, having observed the police cameras going up on street corners in the Second City.
‘None in Arch Road, nor Percy Street yet. The city has to persuade local businesses to come up with the cash.’
That was where the Card’s knowledge of the police had come in useful.
The Card was not present at this last meeting before the bomb. Might be due for a quick exit. Jerry would decide.
In any case, the group (and there were others of whom this little coterie knew nothing) would soon split up and disappear.
Job done.
But Jerry had not quite taken in the tricky character Pip had enlisted in the Card.
Pip could have enlightened him, but saw no reason to do so.
There were two great explosions on the same day in the Second City that autumn. One bomb went off, near the entrance to the new tunnel under the Thames which the Queen had opened but two years before. The tunnel was not damaged. The other bomb went off later in a shopping street. Most of the damage was in the ancient riverside borough of Spinnergate, but it had been heard as far away as East Hythe, and even Swinehouse, further east, had felt the blast. The new rich areas of Evelyn Fields and Tower Hill with their loft conversions in old warehouses and their smart flats in former factories had been spared – to the fury of Spinnergate, which was not smart or converted in any way. There had been deaths and more injuries in the second bomb, houses and offices nearby were blasted, but the tunnel itself was already open, with traffic running through it. Still, the Second City was used to surviving onslaughts, having come through the ravages of Romans, Vikings, and Normans, not to mention later enemies, amongst whom they numbered all governments, whether home-based or across the Channel. The habit of the population was to pick itself up and get on with living while cursing its rulers.
They did regret that the complex system of video cameras placed high on many buildings around the Second City had yet to be extended to lesser streets, where it might have provided better clues. Instead they had to wait for the bombers to claim their work. Which they did, only when they thought they were safely away.
It was war, after all.
The other explosion, more personally aimed, was about to happen.
Six days after the explosions, a row of houses which had been damaged in the blast was being tidied up. There was no major structural damage and the repairs, which were in the hands of a local firm, were expected to be finished quickly. The firm, William Archer Ltd, a small outfit which knew Percy Street well, glad of the work, was not going to rush, tacitly admitting that if the bomb brought work it was not altogether a bad bomb.
Bill Archer, the boss and owner of the firm which his father had started, was in a bad mood, irritable because of the absence of his office manager who had taken some days off. Peter Corner had gone sick, sending a brief message that he had migraine.
‘Didn’t think men got migraine,’ grumbled his employer, ‘that’s for women. Why can’t he just take an aspirin and come in?’
‘You can be quite ill with migraine,’ said his wife, who had taken the message on the telephone. She was in the office doing the work herself so that if anyone had a grievance it was her. ‘You pay him women’s wages anyway.’
‘I pay him what he deserves, and I won’t pay that if he doesn’t turn up. Nancy boy. I bet it was a man on the phone to you.’ Mrs Archer admitted silently that it was. ‘Gone off together somewhere, I bet.’ Bill was sharp. He often had labour problems. He employed casual labour, taking them on for a job and then sacking them. It was
