War on the Streets
Ultimate soldier. Ultimate mission, But can the SAS prevent Britain descending into war-torn anarchy?Great Britain, 1995: With terrorist bombs destroying town and city streets, rising crime and a teenage drug problem that is out of control, police forces are stretched beyond their limit. And now a new threat is looming.A fanatical right-wing movement is spreading into the UK. Using terrorism and crime to fund its undercover activities, and a frightening new drug to spur on its growing army to unprecedented extremes of violence, it is threatening to turn Britain’s towns and inner cities into battlegrounds of anarchic brutality.In desperation, civil authorities turn to the only men who might be able to confront these fanatics on their own terms: the SAS. Guided by a maverick undercover drug cop, they will be pitted against an enemy as ruthless and deadly as any the regiment has faced. The SAS are at war, and that war is just outside the window – a war on the streets.
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War on the Streets
PETER CAVE
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by 22 Books/Bloomsbury Publishing plc 1995
Copyright © Bloomsbury Publishing plc 1995
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2016
Cover photographs © Alain Le Garsmeur âThe Troublesâ Archive/Alamy (soldier); Shutterstock.com (textures)
Peter Cave asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the authorâs imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9780008155360
Ebook Edition © December 2015 ISBN: 9780008155377
Version: 2015-11-02
Lieutenant-Colonel Barney Davies, 22 SAS Training Wing, cruised slowly down the Strand and the Mall, then turned into Horse Guards Road. It was not the first time he had been summoned to a Downing Street conference, and heâd learned a few of the wrinkles over the years. Finding a parking space was the first trick. You had to know where to look.
Finding his objective, he slid the BMW into a parking bay, climbed out and loaded the meter to its maximum. These things had a nasty habit of stretching out for much longer than anticipated. What might start as a preliminary briefing session could well develop into a protracted discussion, or even a full-scale planning operation. Failing to take precautions could prove expensive.
He turned away from the parking meter and, glancing up to where he knew the nearest security video camera was hidden, treated it to a lingering smile. Every little helped. If they knew he was coming it might just cut down the number of security checks heâd have to be stopped for. Picking his way between the buildings, he ducked into the little labyrinth of covered walkways which would bring him to the back of Downing Street and ultimately to the rear security entrance of Number 10.
In fact Davies was stopped only twice, although he suspected he had identified at least two other plain-clothes men, who had allowed him to pass unchallenged. He preferred to assume that this was due to his face having become familiar, rather than security becoming sloppy. There could be no let-up in Londonâs fight against terrorism.
The final checkpoint, however, was very thorough. Davies waited patiently as the doorman checked his security pass, radioed in his details and paused to await clearance. Finally, he was inside the building and climbing the stairs to Conference Room B.
He pushed open the panelled double doors and stepped into the room, casting his eyes about for any familiar faces. It was always a psychological advantage to re-establish any personal links, however tenuous, Davies had always found. It gave you that little extra clout, should you find yourself out on a limb.
Of the five people already in the room, Davies recognized only two: Michael Wynne-Tilsley, one of the top-echelon parliamentary secretaries, and David Grieves from the âgreen slimeâ. Davies decided not to bother with Wynne-Tilsley, other than to give him a brief nod. On the single occasion he had had any dealings with the man before, Davies had found him to be a close-lipped, somewhat arrogant little bastard, and far too protective of his job to give out any useful information. He would be better off having a preliminary word with Grieves. The man might be MI6, but he would probably respect Daviesâs grade five security clearance enough to give him at least an inkling of what the meeting was about. And forewarned was forearmed. Davies hated going into things blinkered, let alone blind.
He sauntered over to the man, smiling and holding out his hand. âDavid, how are you?â
Grieves accepted the proffered hand a trifle warily. âDonât even ask,â he warned, though there was the ghost of a smile on his lips.
Davies grinned sheepishly. âCome on, David, youâre here and Iâm here, so somebodyâs got to be thinking of a joint operation.â
