Hidden in Plain Sight

by Jeffrey Archer

  Faulkner reluctantly held his tongue.

  “If the pictures were hanging on the hooks Warwick found in the rubble, what was holding them up?”

  “Picture wire of course. Except for the larger paintings, which would have needed ch—” He paused for a few moments before saying, “Ah, yes, now I remember. I had them all changed to rope a couple of years ago.”

  “Enough to hang yourself with,” said Booth Watson, “because your ex-wife claims—”

  “It will be her word against mine.”

  “I only wish it was. But unfortunately, Warwick has recently paid a visit to the Fitzmolean, where he found the Vermeer Christina donated to the museum hanging by a steel and brass interwoven picture wire, and both the Rembrandt and the Rubens that you so generously presented to the gallery last year were still hanging on their original brass chains. So, before I fix a date for Superintendent Lamont to question you under caution, Miles, you’d better come up with something more convincing than rope. Otherwise the only way you’ll be getting out of Pentonville will be to face a new trial for arson and the theft of seventy-two paintings worth over thirty million pounds. In which case, your present accommodation could end up being permanent well into the next century.”

  26

  “In an hour’s time the battle will be over, one way or another,” were the commander’s opening words to his troops on the ground.

  The Hawk had assembled a crack team of specialists from every field of law enforcement in the Met’s armory. They had all played their individual roles on smaller stages across the capital many times, but this was the first time they’d come together to form the biggest gang in town.

  The previous night they’d taken part in a dress rehearsal with only the commander sitting in the audience.

  At ten o’clock, that wretched hour when more drugs and money change hands than at any other time of the day or night, and well hidden from the public gaze, they had all assembled at Battersea power station. Four fully equipped armored vehicles, six Black Marias, a dozen squad cars, four ambulances, and a double-decker bus. Inside the power station were eighty-three men and women who had been given strict orders to remain silent about where and when this covert army would be assembling the following night, including their colleagues.

  The commander surveyed his troops. As with everything else connected with Operation Trojan Horse, he’d gone over his speech again and again.

  “Fellow officers, we are about to take part in one of the biggest operations in the Met’s history. Every one of you was handpicked because you are recognized as the acknowledged leaders in your particular field. Drugs are the scourge of our society, and have caused the biggest rise in crime for decades. They indiscriminately kill the young and the vulnerable, while a small group of ruthless individuals line their pockets, untroubled by the human suffering they’re causing, and arrogantly convinced they’re above the law.

  “Tonight, we have a chance to strike a blow against these vile individuals, by capturing one of the most prominent of their leaders, Khalil Rashidi, and closing down his empire, which stretches from one end of London to the other. Let’s put this monster behind bars for the rest of his life.”

  Everyone rose to their feet and cheered, and William was reminded why he’d always wanted to be a copper. It was some time before the commander was able to continue.

  “If our operation goes to plan, we will also arrest his four closest acolytes, preventing the hydra from simply replacing its lost head. And finally, we will permanently shut down the drugs factory where Rashidi’s deadly wares are prepared before they’re released onto the streets.”

  Once again, the commander was held up by the eager response of his troops.

  “If we succeed, you will be able to tell tales of heroic deeds performed tonight that will become part of police folklore. Many of your colleagues will claim they were members of the Capital Gang, when drug barons became drug serfs, when our young were freed from being victims of these cynical predators. But you yourselves will never talk of the role you played, other than to those who stand by your side tonight.

  “As the one chosen to lead you into battle—for a battle it will surely be—this is unquestionably the high point of my career. So now let’s go about our task, and in the great tradition of the force, let’s make a difference.”

  The Hawk stepped down from the stage to a storm of cheers that only died down after he had climbed aboard the battle bus to join his inner team, who had spent so many months preparing for this moment.

  “This wouldn’t be St. Crispin’s Day by any chance?” said William, suppressing a grin when the commander joined them on the top deck.

  “If it is, let’s hope we achieve the same result as Henry the Fifth,” replied Hawksby as he took his place in front of a command center that looked capable of delivering a man on the moon rather than just a couple of dozen armed officers to the top floor of a tower block in Brixton.

  “Time to discover just how efficient this piece of kit is,” said the commander, tuning in to a frequency that would keep him in touch with everyone on the ground, although they’d all been warned to maintain radio silence once the convoy was on the move.

  Danny sat astride the Trojan horse, stirrups ready, impatient to spur the beast into action, while Lamont, William, and Jackie remained by the commander’s side. Paul was in position on the lower deck, determined that he would be the first off the bus the moment they drew up outside the entrance to the tower blocks.

  The commander checked his watch, pressed a button on his two-way radio, and said, “Let battle commence.”

  The number 118 bus led the troops out onto Brixton Road, with its well-ordered convoy following closely behind. No flashing lights, no sirens, no screeching tires. At various prearranged points along the way, other vehicles peeled off to disappear down unlit streets and await further orders.

  A mile from the target the Hawk said, “Time for you to leave us, DS Warwick, and begin directing operations on the ground. Don’t report back until the job is done.”

  “On my way, sir,” said William, who ran down the spiral staircase to join Paul on the lower deck, where the assembled troops were waiting impatiently for the order to move. One young officer, chosen because he could run a hundred yards in under ten seconds, was standing next to the conductor waiting for the starter’s pistol to sound. Paul hadn’t told him that he was determined to reach the lift ahead of him, and personally take out Donoghue before he could press the alarm button.

  One step behind the sprinter stood two squat square-shouldered men, who played in the front row of the scrum every Saturday afternoon. They would only be a few yards behind, and their orders were clear: play the man and not the ball, because there wouldn’t be any referee giving penalties for foul play.

  The two rows of seats near the back of the bus were occupied by eight young officers in tracksuits and trainers, whose sole purpose was to disarm the four lookouts before they had a chance to warn the gatekeeper. In the next three rows were a dozen officers from the Specialist Firearms Command, hydraulic kits strapped to their backs, who once they’d leaped off the bus would head straight for the stairs, determined to reach the twenty-third floor in under seven minutes. Bets had already been placed as to who would make it to the front door first.

  In the front rows sat a larger group of men and women who were in no particular hurry. Trained specialists from the drugs unit, their job was to meticulously gather the evidence and bag it up before sending it to the lab for analysis. It would be their evidence that would decide the length of the sentences, not the courage of the foot soldiers.

  Scattered at random among the other officers were a number of WPCs, of whom the Hawk had said, they also serve who only sit and wait. William had smiled when he heard his boss misquote Milton.

  The carpenter was already in position near the walkway on the twenty-third floor of Block B, ready to put up his own personal no-entry sign the instant the order was given, so t
hat one line of escape from the factory would be completely cut off.

  The tactical firearms team was out of sight, but Hawksby was confident that, like unwelcome guests, they would appear the moment they were least expected.

  So far, everything had gone like clockwork, but the Hawk knew only too well that you can’t plan for the unexpected. On that, at least, he would be proven right. The bus continued its steady progress along Coldharbour Lane carrying a silent group of nonpaying passengers on their way to work. Danny had carried out two dry runs the previous evening, so he knew how long every red light took to change, where the pedestrian crossings were located, and where the road narrowed, making it impossible to overtake or be overtaken. He drove past puzzled and irate clusters of would-be passengers at each stop, ignoring their insistent waves. Would they work out why he hadn’t stopped when they read their morning papers?

  “Five minutes from the target,” said Hawksby, breaking radio silence for the second time. William could see that the passengers who would be getting off at the next stop were now poised tensely on the edge of their seats, waiting for the command, go, go, go!

  The sprinter was already set, desperate to burst out of the blocks and be on his way with his two heavier colleagues following close behind. Paul, still determined to reach Donoghue first, had ditched his ticket machine and peaked cap, and was unbuttoning his jacket. Leaping off the bus had been endlessly practiced to make sure no one would trip or bump into each other.

  “Three minutes,” said the commander, as they rounded the next bend and the two tower blocks came into sight for the first time.

  William could feel a rush of adrenaline flood through his body, accompanied by a moment of fear and apprehension, as they inched closer and closer to their target.

  Hawksby checked his stopwatch, a thumb poised on its button, aware that a few seconds either way could spell the difference between success and failure.

  Two minutes, Red. “Board them up,” said the commander.

  The carpenter stepped out of his overnight accommodation, having completed all his preliminary work during the day. He rested three thick wooden planks up against the wall, then took a battery-powered drill and a handful of screws out of his large kit bag. He placed the first plank across the door. A perfect fit. He inserted the first screw into its prepared hole and set about his task, confident that no one on the other side of the heavy reinforced metal door would be able to hear him going about his work.

  One minute, Blue. “Prepare for landing.”

  The carpenter was screwing the second plank into place when a Gazelle helicopter appeared out of the clouds, banked steeply, and hovered above the roof of Block A.

  Thirty seconds.

  The carpenter finished screwing the final plank into place, and stood back to admire his handiwork. Anyone who was thinking of leaving the slaughter by that route could think again. He picked up his bag, and whistled as he began making his way down the stairs. He’d told his wife he might be a little late for supper, but hadn’t told her why.

  Fifteen seconds.

  Danny began to slow down as he approached the bus stop; CI Scott Cairns leaped out of the helicopter and fast-roped down onto the roof. Another officer was only seconds behind him, while two more waited impatiently to join them.

  Danny put his foot on the brakes when he reached the entrance to Block A.

  “Go, go, go!” said the commander, finally releasing his troops from the Trojan horse. He was painfully aware that the game was no longer in the coach’s hands, and he would have to remain on the touchline while the players determined the final outcome.

  Paul and the sprinter flew out of the blocks together and began running flat out toward the lift, with the two front row forwards doing their best to keep up, while at the same time, eight tracksuited young constables moved swiftly in four different directions toward the lookouts.

  One of them was so high he wouldn’t have noticed if a spaceship had landed. The second was deep in conversation with a girl who was offering him sex in return for a joint. The third had been overpowered before he realized what was happening, but the fourth saw them coming, and had time to contact Pete Donoghue, who was sitting by the lift listening to Pink Floyd on his radio.

  “Raid, raid, raid!” came crackling over his intercom, and Donoghue was suddenly back in the real world. He was reaching for the FOP button when the sprinter dived head first as if reaching for the try line. He hit him squarely in the stomach, knocking the radio out of his hand. Donoghue fell backward, but quickly recovered and caught the sprinter with a well-aimed knee under the chin that sent him into touch.

  The two front row forwards were only yards away when the sprinter came tumbling back out of the lift, clutching on to the radio. Donoghue staggered to his feet and quickly jabbed at the top button. The doors slowly closed, clamping shut with the two props only a yard away. Their sole task that night had ended in failure. One of them punched the closed doors in frustration, but could only watch helplessly as the lift indicator passed the second and third floors. The other knelt down beside the sprinter, who was writhing in pain. “Officer down!” he shouted into his radio. “I need an ambulance immediately! Repeat, officer down!”

  The last of the eight counter-terrorism officers landed on the roof moments later, as the twelve armed officers on the stairway reached the sixth floor.

  By the time the lift passed the seventh, Donoghue could hear the sound of heavy footsteps thundering up the stairs. He looked around for his radio, but it was nowhere to be seen. He cursed, but he was still convinced he could reach the slaughter and raise the alarm long before the Old Bill got there.

  As the lift was passing the twenty-first floor, the counter-terrorism unit began abseiling down the side of the building, confident that no one in the slaughter would have thought it possible an intruder could appear from above, not least because every window on the top three floors was covered with tightly fitted black mesh blinds to make sure even a passing pigeon couldn’t see what they were up to.

  When the lift reached the twenty-third floor and the doors began to slowly open, Donoghue ripped them apart, leaped out, and banged frantically on the small metal grille in the front door with a clenched fist. The gatekeeper peered through the grille, and when he saw the sweat pouring off Donoghue’s face, he quickly undid the three locks and wrenched open the heavy door.

  “We’re being raided!” Donoghue screamed at the top of his voice as he barged past the gatekeeper and began looking for the one person he was responsible for, just as the Specialist Firearms Command reached the fourteenth floor.

  Rashidi was stacking piles of cash into wads of a thousand pounds, before placing them into a sports bag, when the door of his private office was flung open. The moment he saw Donoghue’s face, he didn’t need to be told a raid was in progress. He’d rehearsed for this moment several times, knowing that one day they must surely come.

  Rashidi followed Donoghue into the boiler room, where he was confronted by something he hadn’t been able to prepare for: pandemonium. While his workers streamed in panic toward the front door, he moved swiftly in the opposite direction, accompanied by Donoghue and two armed guards, as the SFC passed the nineteenth floor.

  Rashidi quickly reached the door that led to the walkway and the safety of his flat in Block B, but it soon became clear that, despite the three heavies’ best efforts, their escape route had been blocked. There was now only one way out. While those around him continued to panic, Rashidi remained calm and headed quickly back toward the front door in the hope that he could reach the lift and be on his way down to the ground floor before his nemesis appeared. His lawyer had told him that although it was the less desirable alternative, once he was in the lift it could be argued in court that he was simply an innocent resident caught up in the cross fire, and that he’d never taken a drug in his life. The last part of the prepared statement had the virtue of being true.

  Back in the boiler room, Rashidi found his pr
ogress blocked by workers all struggling like lemmings to desperately cram through the same narrow doorway as they attempted to reach the stairwell or the lift. His bodyguards and Donoghue began hurling them aside to make a gangway for their master, and he was within a few feet of the door when the first of the counter-terrorism officers came crashing through the window, knocking Donoghue off his feet. Moments later a second intruder crashed the party and threw a stun grenade into the middle of the room, shouting, “On your knees!”

  Rashidi had just reached the front door when a third paratrooper took out one of his armed guards. He could only watch helplessly as the lift doors began to close. His last remaining protector thrust an arm into the gap in a vain attempt to hold up a lift, which was built to accommodate no more than eight passengers but already had at least a dozen desperate escapees crammed inside, jabbering away in several different tongues. Rashidi spotted the first of the armed officers emerging from the stairwell below, and immediately fell back on the “plan of last resort.” He made his way back into the boiler room, where he threw off his jacket, put on a discarded face mask and a pair of rubber gloves that he found on the floor, and joined the workers who were meekly kneeling, hands behind their heads, passively accepting their fate. He, too, was prepared to accept their fate.

  The first of the armed officers reached the top of the stairs, and with one movement he disarmed the last of Rashidi’s remaining bodyguards by thrusting the butt of his Heckler & Koch into his jaw. Only Donoghue was still putting up a fight, but the police light heavyweight boxing champion put him out for the count, then handcuffed him and read him his rights—not that he could hear a word.

  Armed officers continued to pour into the slaughter, and began to round up what was left of Rashidi’s workforce, while half a dozen policemen dragged Donoghue and the two bodyguards unceremoniously down the stairs to the ground floor, where the first of a row of Black Marias was waiting to accommodate them. William was disappointed to find that the last of the resistance had already been dealt with by the time he reached the twenty-third floor.