Текст книги "48 Hours"

Автор книги: Jackson J. Bentley

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Chapter 57

Ashburnham Mews, Greenwich, London. Friday, 11:30pm.

I lay in bed looking at Dee’s back; she was wearing a short strappy nightdress, similar in style to the dresses that many young girls would probably have worn going out to a nightclub. Her neck and shoulders looked so smooth and inviting that I wanted to kiss them, but she was asleep and I didn’t want to wake her after another long and busy day.

Despite the hectic day, we had spent the night eating, drinking, and what passes for dancing. We had just one more night left together before she moved back into her flat. We were both due to be back at our desks on Monday, and Dee had lots to catch up on at home during Sunday.

Tomorrow night I would buy some take-away, chill some beers and we would snuggle up on the sofa before going to bed, where I intended to make love to her until the early hours of the morning.

After that, who could say? Tentatively we had arranged to stay over at each other’s flats every weekend, but I had a feeling that it would not be enough for either of us. Was it too early to ask her to move in? I had known her for just a week or so, but it seemed like so much longer. And what a week it had been.

I wasn’t sure how easily sleep would come for me tonight, but I guessed that it would come a lot more easily for me than for Lord Hickstead.

Chapter 58

Commercial Road, Tottenham, North London. Friday, 11:30pm.

“You know, this is insane, Dave. We never do a job with this amount of planning. The reason we aren’t inside is because we strategise. We’re better than those gangsters in East London, that’s why they keep doing time and we get to go on holiday with our families.”

Dave merely grunted in reply. He seldom knew what to say in these circumstances. Johnny was the more articulate of the two, and he made some really good points. Dave didn’t really know how to respond to them. But Dave knew that he was Johnny’s equal in many ways. After all, Johnny didn’t know how to blow things up.

The industrial unit seemed dark and forbidding at this time of night. Dave’s kids would have referred to it as spooky. The overhead lighting was adequate, but that was about all. Deep shadows fell across the floor. At one time this place had been a service centre for the electrical generators which ran the London Underground, but these days it was a printing press.

Dave and Johnny didn’t work on the printing presses; they provided more specialist services. The industrial unit was far too big for the printing machinery. It looked rather lost on the floor of the building, which was about the size of a soccer pitch and rose a good thirty feet to the apex of the roof. The grey cladded walls and roof were supported by yellow painted steel portal frames, and in one corner stood a two storey block which housed an office, kitchen and toilets on the ground floor, with an open tread metal staircase leading to two big offices and a bathroom above.

The sign above the doors read Tottenham Press (2005) Ltd, mainly because the owners had allowed the old Tottenham Press to go bust to screw their creditors, only to set up in business again the following week with new directors.

During the working week the press turned out brochures, magazines, business cards and letterheads at almost cost price, but at the weekend it was a different story. On a Saturday and Sunday the special presses were running, the ones which produced forged tickets for pop concerts, sporting events and Premier League Football matches. It was no surprise that the forgeries looked just like the real thing; they were printed on the same type of press.

Their most successful coup to date had been producing fifty thousand National Lottery tickets for Spain, all carrying the price of ten Euros. The Tottenham Press had done themselves proud. The serial numbers, the metal strips, the watermarks and the foil pictograms had all been masterfully reproduced. It was even rumoured that it had been one of the forgeries which had scooped the main prize, but that was probably just an anecdote.

Johnny assembled the kit he had gathered from various lock ups in the area and placed them into the boot of the impressive car with cloned number plates.

“Dave, are you done with the Jelly?”

“Johnny, how many times have I told you we are in the twenty first century now? We use RDX high explosive. Gelignite probably hasn’t been used in London since the 1970s.”

“All right, smart arse, when will the RDX be ready?” Johnny asked, placing undue emphasis on the initials.

“Two minutes. I’ll put it in the car boot with the other gear. Anyway, why aren’t you going on this job, Johnny?”

“Because they’re bringing their own team. We’re just providing logistics, see?”

“Apparently I’m going.”

“Dave, you’re the best man in London for a box job. And on this occasion I think you count as logistics.”

Ten minutes later the two men were closing the shutter doors and taping the laminated printed notice on to the outside. It read: “Closed for Holidays – Reopens after the Bank Holiday.”

Chapter 59

Citysafe Depository, Cheval Place, London. Saturday, 3pm.

The sleek silver Lexus moved slowly down Cheval Place, the driver clearly looking for an address. After a minute of uncertainty, the luxury car with darkened windows pulled up level with the uniformed policeman guarding the entrance of Citysafe Depository.

The policeman watched as a man in a smart chauffeur uniform stepped out of the car, which was carrying diplomatic number plates and colourful sticker representing one of the new states which had sprung from the breakup of the Soviet Union. Constable Davenport was familiar with most of the diplomatic flags – you had to be if you were a policeman in London – but he couldn’t place this one. He scoured his memory banks for the country whose flag had a sky blue background and a bright yellow sun in the middle. He felt sure it would be one of the ‘stans’ but he wasn’t sure which one.

“Excuse me, officer; we are looking for Citysafe Depository.” The chauffeur was now standing by his side waiting for directions. The young policeman smiled as he looked at his own reflection in the man’s large mirrored sunglasses.

“You’re already here,” he answered politely.

The chauffeur opened the car door and bowed slightly as a middle aged man stepped out of the car. He had one blue eye and one brown eye, disfiguring scarring on both cheeks and very prominent Slavic cheekbones.

“This is His Excellency Mr Muravi Dumatov, Ambassador to the United Kingdom representing Kazakhstan, and he would like to make a deposit.”

“Good afternoon, your Excellency,” the constable said respectfully. “I’m afraid that, owing to some additional security measures this weekend, I will have to accompany you to the vault. You will of course enjoy the same privacy as usual, but I will be guarding a particular box.”

“Thank you, officer. Does your presence suggest my valuables may be at risk?” His Excellency made a determined effort to speak perfect English, but there was still the trace of an accent lingering.

“I can assure you that your assets are safer than ever,” the constable said in a voice that he felt offered reassurance.

His Excellency Mr Muravi Dumatov reached into the car for his briefcase. It was an old battered leather case with two handles at the top which held it closed.

“Alexander, pass the treaty papers, please. You may wait for me in the car; I will be perfectly safe with the police officer.” The man in the back of the car handed a banker’s box to the chauffeur.

Constable Davenport, pleased with himself for recognising the flag and for reassuring the Ambassador, led the way up the steps to the Depository. At the top he pressed the buzzer and looked at the camera. The door clicked open. Weekends at the Depository were generally quiet, but security was paramount as usual, and so whilst one burly guard manned the desk, two more presented an intimidating presence in the lobby.

The fourth man on duty was downstairs in front of the vault.

The chauffeur placed the banker’s box on the desk beside the Ambassador’s battered briefcase.

“This is His Excellency, the Ambassador for Kazakhstan,” the policeman announced, hoping that no-one would notice that he had forgotten the man’s name.

“Welcome, Your Excellency,” said the guard, with little deference. “May I scan your Citysafe security card, please?”

“Of course,” the Ambassador agreed, reaching into his briefcase. He did not extract a card, however, but rather he flourished a Czech Scorpion Machine Pistol. At the same time the chauffeur dipped his hand into the banker’s box and took out a matching model. The Ambassador covered the policeman and the guard behind the desk, whilst the chauffeur covered the remaining two.

“Hands on your heads. No alarms, silent or otherwise, or we kill you all. No interference from any one of you or we kill you all. Are these rules simple enough for you?” They all nodded in shocked silence. No-one in that room was paid enough to willingly give up his life.

“OK, now all of you kneel against the far wall, facing away from me.” The men did as they were told and the chauffer set about hooding all four and then tying their hands with plastic cable ties. The hoods had drawstrings which were pulled tight so that the men could not remove them easily. Now that they were secured, the two men from the car joined the fray.

The man posing as the Ambassador opened his mouth wide and removed two prosthetic fillers from his cheeks and his Slavic cheekbones disappeared as his face regained its natural gaunt look. Carefully he picked at his sideburns and peeled off a transparent sheet imprinted with pock marking and scarring. When he had removed both sides, his face was smooth and clear. Finally he popped out the brown contact lens, placing all elements of his disguise into the empty banker’s box.

The three intruders in the lobby pulled on ski masks. By now the one dressed as a chauffeur was standing at the iron grillage that separated him from the last security guard and the vault. The man hadn’t noticed him approach, as he was busy listening to live commentary of West Ham versus Chelsea on the radio, which was strictly against company regulations.

The intruder coughed, and the security guard looked up.

“Sorry, sir,” he said, hurrying to the gate. “Can you scan your security card on the panel, please?”

The intruder reached into his jacket and retrieved his weapon, which he pointed through the bars at the guard’s face. The guard seemed so terrified that the intruder thought he would faint.

“If you don’t open the gate in five seconds, I shoot you and we blow it open anyway. You choose.”

The gate was open almost before his last syllable had died away. He hooded and tied the guard, securing him to his chair. The radio was still on, and the crowd cheered as Chelsea scored.

“I hope that you are not a West Ham supporter,” the chauffeur laughed grimly.

***

Dave, the safecracker or box man, was inside the vault placing his prepared charges. Plastic explosives worked to a strict chemical formula which Dave only partially understood; nonetheless, he was brilliant at shaping charges to blow inward or outward for point detonations or flat detonations. Dave was, quite simply, a natural.

Gregory had broken into the control room and found the server and the hard drive that stored the video from the CCTV cameras. He could have dismantled the hard drive and taken it, but this was a quick in and out job, so he placed one of Dave’s charges on the server and closed the door.

Upstairs the fake Ambassador was talking to his captives whilst destroying the CCTV cameras. He lifted the ID card from the man who had been sitting at the desk; he would need it later. He placed it next to the phone.

Downstairs, Dave and Gregor were pushing the giant safe door towards the closed position. Whilst it was heavy it was so beautifully counterbalanced that it moved easily. Leaving a small gap to allow positive air pressure to escape from the vault, Dave pressed the remote control.

A series of detonations filled the area with dust and debris, but the overhead fans soon cleared the air.

Gregor could see that the server was in ruins as the door was hanging open on one hinge. He, the chauffeur and James set about clearing the six largest boxes in the vault. As part of their haul they picked up a holdall and a large titanium case from one of the boxes.

They had been in the vault for two minutes when the reception phone rang. The Ambassador blew a whistle before he picked up the phone. The guys downstairs knew that they now had two minutes to get out.

***

The fake Ambassador picked up the phone.

“Citysafe, how may I help you?”

“Is that Chris?”

“No. It’s Pete Maxwell. Chris is in the men’s room.” The intruder had assumed the identity of one of the lobby guards, Chris being the reception guard.

“You need to get Chris out of the bog right now and get him to the phone.”

“OK, I’ve sent someone to get him. What’s the panic?”

“You’ve gone offline. All your security lines are down. You are unprotected.”

“No we’re not. I’m looking at the screens now. The gate is locked, all personnel are on camera, and the vault cameras are showing green lights on all boxes.”

“It must be the server, then. Is the server flashing red?”

“Hold on, I’ll ask.” the Ambassador said, leaning back in his chair and looking at his watch. “Yes, it is flashing red. Does this mean it’s a false alarm?”

“Not necessarily. I can reboot the security system from here, but security protocol means I need Chris to give his secret data and the eight figure password before I can do anything.”

The three men from downstairs were each laden down with bags when they passed through the lobby, nodding at their colleague at the desk.

“Hello, Chris here,” the Ambassador said, moderating his voice and pitching it slightly higher.

“Chris, before I can reboot I need to ask the security questions,” the technician said, on the verge of panic.

“Fire away,” the intruder said, as he laid the handset on the reception desk and walked out of the building.

“Right, Chris. I have your details on the screen in front of me. The first question is, please provide the second and fourth characters of your mother’s maiden name.”

The technician was still awaiting a reply as the Lexus drove away towards Brompton Road.

“Hello? Chris, are you there? Hello?”

Chapter 60

Citysafe Depository, Cheval Place, London. Saturday 4:30pm.

Inspector Boniface drew his family car up to the police tape and parked, showing his warrant card to a uniformed officer. He was dressed in chinos and a colourful golf shirt which carried the logo of the PGA on the left sleeve. The crime scene was bustling. There were four police cars, an ambulance and a police van inside the cordon.

Boniface had been with his children in the park when the call came. The Superintendent told him he wasn’t needed at the crime scene and that he had been called merely as a courtesy. Nonetheless, he had wanted to see the scene for himself, and so he dropped his two kids off at home, with his long suffering wife, and drove into central London on one of his precious days off.

He looked around to see whether DCI Coombes had made it to the crime scene and he spotted DS Scott, wearing denims, trainers and a brightly coloured Harlequins retro rugby shirt. In truth he was hard to miss, with the heady mix of blue, red and green adorning his torso.

DS Scott spotted him and waved. The young sergeant finished instructing the uniformed officer he was talking to and turned to walk towards Inspector Boniface.

“Inspector, I’m afraid we haven’t tracked down DCI Coombes yet.”

“Sensible fellow probably has his phone off. Well, Sergeant, this is a bit of a mess.”

“Yes, sir, it is. We didn’t see this coming, did we?”

“I’m not sure that we saw any of it coming. It seems to be spiralling out of control. What have we got so far?”

DS Scott flipped open his notebook and proceeded to explain that four or more armed men had gained entry by posing as Kazakh diplomats. They had blown open six boxes, removed the contents, and left the policeman and the guards tied up. The Citysafe central controller initiated the Metropolitan Police RVH Protocol, and the first squad car was on site four minutes later, with the first armed response vehicle arriving seven minutes later. The Robbery with Violence potential Hostage Protocol was initiated by a code word given to a police operator on a dedicated line, hence the quick response.

One of the six boxes hit turned out to be Lord Hickstead’s sealed box, and the police constable in the depository said that the accents of the robbers sounded less Eastern European and more Dutch.

“So,” Boniface responded as Scott fell silent, “Hickstead called in a favour from Van Aart, would you say?”

“Looks like it, sir. We have an enquiry out to Europol, who say they are close to finalising their operation and they don’t want to jeopardise that. However, they confirm that Van Aart is still in Amsterdam.”

“Maybe he sent a team over; he probably runs hundreds of men,” Boniface thought out loud.

“I expect so, sir. Europol said that they trailed an SUV belonging to Van Aart to the Channel Tunnel and made sure that customs checked the passports and the vehicle thoroughly. The vehicle was clean. They are sending over the photo page of each man’s passport.”

“You know, Scott, on the surface this may look like bad news, but when criminals start rushing things like this they invariably make mistakes. They don’t plan properly and they give us a chance to snare them.” Scott wasn’t sure he fully understood the Inspector, and so Boniface explained.

“Hickstead and Van Aart don’t know that we have linked them. Van Aart doesn’t know he is about to be closed down. His men in the UK don’t know that we have linked them to this robbery, and they don’t know that we know what they look like. I think it is also safe to assume that if their vehicle really was clean, then they are getting help from someone in London, and I’m sure it isn’t Lord Hickstead. I think we will find that one of our local villains provided the hardware. How else could they have got hold of it so quickly? We know their car was clean, and they haven’t been in the UK twenty four hours yet. No, Scott, they think that they’re being clever, but I think that we are cleverer. What do you say?”

“I’m sure of it, too, sir,” Scott agreed, feeling much happier than he had fifteen minutes earlier.

Boniface picked up his mobile and dialled Josh Hammond. He wasn’t looking forward to making this call.

Chapter 61

Ashburnham Mews, Greenwich, London. 7:30pm.

Today was to be our last full day and night together before Dee returned to her flat and we both returned to work, and so I had intended it to be a wonderful, memorable day. Given my aspirations for the day, we probably should not have considered attending the West Ham versus Chelsea match. Even the most ardent West Ham supporter must have foreseen defeat at the hands of the reigning Premiership champions, and the match did indeed run to form. It was a miserable day for West Ham fans. We were one goal down in the first few minutes to the West London based champions. I had hoped rather optimistically for a draw at least, but when the second Chelsea goal went in a few minutes later, I decided to sit back and enjoy the company and forget that if we lost this match we would have played four games without winning a single point.

We did lose by three goals to one in the end, and had to bear the ignominy of being the only team in any league not have any points on the board. Less than a month into the season and we were already well behind the clubs that we had considered no hopers before the season began. We needed three points from our next home game against Tottenham.

While we were at the match I had received a message on my BlackBerry from Inspector Boniface. He wanted to talk to me as soon as possible, and so as soon as we got back to the flat I called the number he had left. The first twice I called I was diverted to voice mail, but the third time I called I spoke to the Inspector. For my own peace of mind I soon wished that I hadn’t.

I laid my BlackBerry on the table and switched it onto loudspeaker so that Dee could listen too as the inspector explained that the Citysafe Depository had been robbed and a number of boxes had been cleaned out, one of which was the sealed box of Lord Hickstead. Boniface tried to play down the importance of the robbery by insisting that it changed nothing and that Hickstead would still be tried and convicted. But we all knew that with the money and the painting the case would have been a slam dunk, whereas now Hickstead would be looking for a deal.

I sympathised with him for being called out to deal with the robbery in the middle of a family event, and asked him to pass my regards to DCI Coombes, who had eventually turned up and who was growing on me.

***

Dee had promised me that she had something planned that would cheer me up, and she did. It perked me up in every sense. I had seen a gaudy purple bag with gold coloured 1960s style writing on it on the bedroom floor earlier that day, and I had been curious. The logo on the carrier bag read Retro City, an odd shop run by a fifty something couple who had been flower children in the 1960s and still dressed as if they were. I had been in the shop a few times, as it was close to where I lived on the High Street, and I had thought it strange. Stepping inside felt rather like going back in time. There were clothes made in the iconic styles of the period, Herman’s Hermits singles, LP’s and CD’s and hippy paraphernalia all around. If anyone ever asked me if I knew where to buy fragrant joss sticks, I would direct them to Retro City without a moment’s hesitation.

I had visions of Dee emerging from the bedroom in a flowing Kaftan with a beaded headband holding her auburn locks in place. I was wrong. Dead wrong. Wonderfully wrong.

Dee shouted for me to close my eyes, I did as I had been instructed. I could hear her walking across the room, and I sensed her standing in front of me. She said I could open my eyes, I did.

For a moment I couldn’t catch my breath. I had often used the expression ‘I was left speechless’, but only now did I understand what it actually meant. I began to talk but just croaked. I tried again but nothing came out. I concentrated and eventually managed to kick start my vocal chords, but only to stutter like an idiot.

“That’s, I mean it’s, the way it fits. Wow.”

“So you like it, then?”

If I could have connected my brain and voice box I would have told her that there was not a man in the known universe that wouldn’t have liked it. I stared at her again. With her hair swept back and turned up at the ends and her face lightly made up, she glowed. At her neck was a buckled collar which topped out the figure hugging shiny black leather catsuit which had a zipper running down the front. I am quite certain it was the sexiest thing I had ever seen in my life.

I was immediately transported back to the 1980s when my dad used to sit next to me on the sofa and we would watch reruns of the 1960s cult TV show, The Avengers. My dad was in love with Emma Peel – he probably still is – and now he owns a complete boxed set, which contains all one hundred and eight episodes starring Diana Rigg. Mum doesn’t seem to enjoy them quite as much, for some reason.

I guessed that the catsuit I was looking at was styled after the Diana Rigg costume, as it had definite 60’s styling, although it could just as easily have been based on the Catwoman suit Julie Newmar wore in the Batman TV series of the same era.

Dee spun around on her patent leather boots.

“It’s actually quite comfortable, and flexible.” She ran through a few martial arts moves, including high kicking, but stopped when she noticed I was sweating.

“Get you shoes on and go and order the takeaway,” she instructed. “I’ll have a Chicken Korma with plain white rice and nan bread.”

“But the Indian Restaurant is almost a mile away,” I complained, knowing that I would pass two Chinese takeaways, a kebab shop and the Pizza & Pasta Palace before reaching the Spice Island Restaurant. Although, I had to concede that the food from there was wonderful.

“What? Don’t you think I’m worth it, then?” Dee pouted as she started to unzip her catsuit.

“OK,” I conceded. “I’m on my way. I’ll be back soon.”

It was beginning to get dark outside, and so I cut through the back garden and climbed over the small fence into Mrs Catterpole’s garden before walking silently beside her house onto her driveway and onto the main road. Mrs Catterpole was a feisty white haired old lady who had scolded me more than once for using this shortcut. I vividly remembered one occasion when I thought I had got away with it. I was just exiting through her gate and she called me back.

“Joshua Hammond!” she called out, and like a naughty schoolchild I went to her and took the rebuke with head bowed. I might have been a man of thirty, but she was seventy and she made me feel like a kid again. She doesn’t hold grudges, though, because when my downstairs neighbour told her I was in bed with the flu, she came around with a casserole, and by the time she left my flat was as clean as it had ever been.

On this occasion I made it without being caught and, having saved myself three hundred yards, I set off in the direction of Spice Island.

***

The Lexus circled the area for a second time and all was quiet. It came to a stop outside the townhouse. The light was on, as they had hoped. It suggested that their journey hadn’t been wasted. The three men in the car were tired; it had been a long couple of days. They had left Amsterdam yesterday evening and driven to the Channel Tunnel to avoid as much customs interest as possible. They had expected a thorough search of their SUV, and so they hadn’t carried anything illegal with them. That meant, of course, that they had to rely on Mr Van Aart’s good friend Mr Holloway, the owner of the printing press, receiver of stolen goods and seller of humans trafficked from Eastern Europe, the Middle East, the Far East and Africa. Van Aart and Holloway had what they called a framework agreement. In Western Europe Van Aart would provide anything Holloway needed, and in the UK Holloway was the provider. If the balance swayed too far in one direction, a financial settlement was agreed. It was all very business-like, and very grubby.

The counterfeit Kazakh Ambassador, better known to his friends as Rik, sat beside Gregor in the back seat. Piet, now without his chauffeur uniform, was again in the driving seat.

“How long to open the front door?” Rik asked Gregor.

“A few seconds, that’s all. It’s on a movable latch that can be operated from the flats.”

The three men exited the car and walked to the front door. Gregor took what looked like a wallpaper stripper bent halfway down the blade. The big man placed his weight on the centre of the glazed door until it flexed, then he forced the thin blade between the door and the frame exactly where the Yale lock was located. The door sprang open. They entered and closed the door behind them, allowing the lock to engage.

***

Dee decided that in ten minutes she would go to the kitchen and find some plates and cutlery, ready for the take away meal Josh was bringing home. She would just wait until this episode of Friends had finished. Dee had surprised herself this last week. She had always considered herself to be a strong, independent woman who could live happily without a man. In her teenage years the closest she came to the boys was when she was throwing them around, kicking them or punching them in martial arts classes. Her sacrifice had seemed to be worthwhile when Dee had qualified to compete in the Commonwealth Games, held in Manchester, but she had been injured in training and lost her place. So, rather depressingly, she spent the duration of the Games in the arena seating, watching her ‘Team GB’ teammates.

Somehow, Josh had caught her unawares. He wasn’t so handsome that he turned heads. He wasn’t terribly intellectual, either, and whilst he was in reasonable physical shape, he was nowhere near as fit as she was. Then again, he didn’t have to work in the kinds of dangerous and tawdry places Dee encountered on a regular basis. Whilst the largest part of her time was spent in close protection work, looking after people who considered themselves to be celebrities and at risk from fans, there were more testing duties from time to time. Vastrick Security had initially specialised in extracting people from cults and deprogramming them. About half of the rescued men and women went on to lead normal lives again, but the other half would go back, find another cult or even be sectioned under the mental health act. Some of the extractions were violently opposed, with weapons being used to try to keep Dee and her colleagues away from their targets. She still found it surprising how many cults with names like ‘The Universal Congregation for Peace and Love” employed thugs to keep their members in line until the programming finally weakened their resistance.

Josh got under her skin. She was beginning to believe that she loved him, and it was difficult trying to persuade herself that this was not a sign of weakness. She was suddenly aware that Friends had finished, and she stood up just as the front door exploded against the wall.

***

Dee looked around to see three masked men rush into the flat, the third man closing the damaged door. It was this third man who spoke, as he looked her up and down, his eyes wide with obvious surprise.

“Good evening, Miss Whiplash. We are sorry we damaged the door but we forgot our key.” Dee recognised the accent immediately. Van Aart’s men, she thought to herself. She would play along for the time being, to see what developed. She put on a panicky girlish voice.

“What do you want? Who are you? I don’t have anything valuable.”