Timebomb

by Timebomb (retail) (epub)

  The leading ‘officer’ stepped up to the door, levelled his MP5 at the lock and fired a couple of short bursts. Wood splinters flew like confetti as the armour-piercing nine-millimetre rounds slammed into the door and the frame directly beside it, the yammer of the automatic weapon a further assault on everyone’s ears after the explosion of the bomb.

  They’d assumed that the frame would have a steel insert and the door itself a metal lining and, as the wood flew off in chunks, it was immediately obvious that this was correct. But that level of security was intended to protect the bank’s assets against blaggers wielding sledgehammers and crowbars, and against the rapid-fire assault by the armour-piercing rounds it stood no chance. The German stepped back from the door and kicked out hard with the sole of his boot, aimed directly against the remains of the lock.

  The door flew open and the man raced inside. He was joined behind the counter a couple of seconds later by one of his companions, carrying two holdalls. The third member of the team remained on the other side of the counter, his MP5 trained on the dazed and injured customers and staff, in case of any sign of resistance.

  One of the intruders pushed the dazed tellers aside, forced open all the cash drawers one by one and began scooping handfuls of notes into his holdall, his MP5 now slung over his shoulder.

  The other crashed through to the manager’s office, the door to which was already standing open. The room was empty, so he swung round, reached down and grabbed a male clerk who was cowering under the counter. He pulled the young man to his feet, slammed him back against the wall and rammed the muzzle of his MP5 into his stomach.

  ‘Where’s the fucking manager?’ he snapped, his voice harsh, the guttural accent clearly German.

  The clerk just stared at him, whether in shock or incomprehension. The German lifted the Heckler & Koch and slammed the butt against the side of the man’s head, and sent him tumbling senseless to the floor.

  The terrorist strode across to a woman cashier and repeated the question. She took one look at his masked face and pointed silently at a middle-aged man crawling away on his hands and knees, his face streaming blood from a gash on the temple.

  The German seized the older man’s collar and pulled him to his feet. ‘The safe,’ he snapped. ‘Open the safe.’

  The manager shook his head. ‘There’s a time lock,’ he stammered. ‘I can only open it when –’

  He got no further. The terrorist swung round, aimed his MP5 directly at one of the few tellers still standing, and fired a three-round burst. The man tumbled backwards, the front of his shirt suddenly sporting three crimson circles as the slugs smashed into his chest at point-blank range, and slammed him into the wall. As his lifeless body slid down to the floor, the massive exit wounds left a gory vertical streak on the light-coloured paintwork.

  ‘Now open the fucking safe.’

  ‘Yes, yes. Just don’t shoot, please.’

  The manager led the way along a short corridor and into a small room, where he stopped in front of a solid steel door with a keyhole and combination lock fitted. He took a key from his jacket pocket and slid it into the lock. With hands trembling from shock and outrage, he began turning the dial. The first time, he missed one of the numbers, either deliberately or by accident, and the German grunted in annoyance.

  ‘Last chance,’ he growled. ‘Get it wrong next time and we’re out of here. But you won’t be because you’ll be dead. Just think about that.’

  The manager hastily wiped the sweat from his hands on his trousers, and started again.

  As the lock clicked on the final number, this time he was able to turn the key. He then seized the handle and pulled the door open, swinging easily on its massive hinges.

  It wasn’t a particularly big safe, because it wasn’t a particularly big bank – Morschel had chosen his targets carefully, avoiding the larger branches likely to be equipped with better security systems or safes that would be more difficult to crack. Inside there were piles of banknotes in multiple currencies waiting invitingly on the shelves, and the German could see dollars and euros as well as pounds.

  ‘Fill them,’ he ordered, tossing the two nylon holdalls to the manager, then stepped back to the door and glanced along the corridor to check that his men were still in control. The terrorist emptying the tills was now standing beside the counter, the bulging holdall at his feet. He nodded to signal that he was finished.

  As the manager finished stuffing money into the holdalls he stepped back, trembling, clearly wondering if he was going to survive this encounter. The German slung his weapon, plucked both bags from the ground, turned and left the room without a word. As he ran towards the main door, his two companions followed him.

  Outside, the fake ‘police’ van was waiting, blue lights flashing and the rear doors wide open. The three terrorists jumped in and slammed the doors shut. Immediately, the driver gunned the engine and accelerated hard down the street, the siren blaring to clear a path.

  In the back, the leader pulled off his mask and looked at his watch. The entire raid had taken under four and a half minutes, thirty seconds less than Morschel had planned.

  As the van screamed down the centre of the road, drivers pulling their vehicles over to allow it to pass, he took out his mobile phone, dialled a number and waited for the call to be answered. When it was, he said simply ‘Alpha is complete.’

  Hammersmith, London

  Richter pushed open the door of Simpson’s office. The call from his superior had been brief, peremptory and almost entirely uninformative.

  Simpson had the phone to his ear, and silently pointed to the chair in front of his desk.

  ‘How many dead?’ he asked, and jotted something on the pad in front of him, as Richter sat down.

  A few seconds later he ended the call and gazed across the desk. ‘Now we know what Morschel and his merry men were talking about. An IED has just been exploded outside a bank in Greenford. What appeared to be a Metropolitan Police van arrived on the scene a few minutes later. Three men got out and robbed the bank, killing one of the staff members in the process. It’s still very confused over there, but the initial reports suggest maybe half a dozen people were killed, about thirty injured, one building was totally wrecked, and the robbery netted perhaps three or four hundred thousand pounds.’

  Richter digested that for a few seconds, then shook his head. ‘I doubt it,’ he said.

  ‘What the fuck’s that supposed to mean? I’ve just come off the line to the Five Duty Officer, who was briefed five minutes ago by the Met. This has all just happened, so what exactly don’t you understand?’

  ‘I don’t mean about the robbery. I mean that if this is connected to Morschel, it’s not what he would consider a major terrorist attack. The conversation recorded by the German police in Stuttgart mentioned the “big one” in London. But to me, this incident sounds like the Germans just picking up some loose change to fund their operation.’

  ‘Six people are dead, Richter. Don’t forget that.’

  ‘I’m not. I just don’t think this is all that German bastard has got planned.’

  ‘So what, then, do you think would count as the “big one”? Doing a Guy Fawkes job at Westminster? Something like that?’

  ‘Maybe. Something impressive, that’s for sure, and knocking over a High Street bank doesn’t count, in my opinion. Half the appeal for the terrorist mind-set is the shock factor, like knocking over the Twin Towers while most of the world sat and watched it on satellite television.’ Richter paused for a second or two, thinking. ‘How big a bank was it?’ he asked, finally.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I don’t know how they classify banks – branches, sub-branches or whatever. What I’m interested in is the size of the bank, and the sort of money it was likely to hold. In other words, was this a major bank raid that went wrong, with the result that they walked out with less than half a million? Or did they deliberately pick a small bank and get away with most of what was there?�
�

  ‘I see where you’re going with that,’ Simpson said. ‘I don’t know, but I’ll find out.’ He picked up the phone, to ask Thames House a couple of questions.

  ‘Right,’ he said eventually, replacing the receiver, ‘basically Five don’t know for certain because the Met haven’t told them – information’s still coming in, obviously – but they think it was just a small local bank, and the take was probably most of what was currently in the safe.’ Simpson eyed Richter questioningly. ‘You think this is just a diversionary tactic, that Morschel’s got something else up his sleeve?’

  ‘Makes sense to me. And while half the Met descends on Greenford looking for clues that they probably won’t find, I wouldn’t mind betting Morschel’s out there right now organizing another withdrawal somewhere else in London.’

  ‘You could be right,’ Simpson said. ‘I’ll pass that suggestion on to the Met through Five.’

  ‘It won’t help. There are probably thousands of banks in the Greater London area, and these bastards could be planning to hit almost any one of them. They have the element of surprise, and there’s nothing we can do about that. What are the plods up to now?’

  ‘They’re instituting checks at all exit points from the UK, working on the assumption that these guys are German and so they’ll want to get back to the Continent with their ill-gotten gains.’

  ‘That’s probably a waste of time, seeing how leaky the Channel ports are.’

  ‘Agreed. Apart from that, they’re probably chasing down the only actual lead they’ve got so far.’

  ‘The fake police van?’

  ‘Exactly. The witnesses aren’t going to be a lot of help, since most of them would still be in shock after the explosion, and I doubt anyone would have noticed a little detail like the van’s number plate. But it’s possible we might get something useful from the CCTV cameras in the area.’

  ‘And don’t forget that van had to have come from somewhere. My guess is they stole it and faked the markings themselves, but there’s a possibility they hired it from one of those companies that supply film props. Somebody’s chasing that down already, I hope?’

  ‘If they aren’t, they will be as soon as I’ve briefed Five,’ Simpson said.

  ‘And the same applies to the gear these guys were wearing. I presume they were all dressed as policemen?’

  ‘So I’ve been told.’

  ‘OK, what do you want me to do?’

  Simpson looked surprised. ‘Get yourself over to Greenford, of course. It’s only just up the road. Five want a liaison officer there, as usual. More importantly, you know about Morschel and the plods don’t, so you might come across something that’s significant. You’re still armed, presumably?’

  Richter eased open the left side of his jacket and nodded. ‘Right, then,’ he said, standing up. ‘I’d better get going.’

  A2, south-east London

  The Mercedes finally reached the dual-carriageway section of the A2 and Morschel began to accelerate, though checking his speed and watching out for cameras.

  His mobile rang as they passed Bexley, and Hagen picked it up to answer it. The conversation was brief, just a few words.

  ‘The second group’s in position, and both vehicles have reported ready,’ he announced, but almost immediately the phone rang again. This time the conversation took longer, and when Hagen ended this call he was smiling.

  ‘Alpha is clear and complete,’ he said. ‘They’ve ditched the police van and everything except the weapons, and they’re now in their getaway cars and heading for the Channel ports. They’ve split the take between them, and a rough count gives us just over four hundred thousand pounds’ worth, in mixed currencies, about six hundred thousand euros in total.’

  ‘Good. If the other groups are as successful, we’ll have sufficient funds to last us for quite a while. And as long as this last phase works as we’ve planned, we’ve got the final payment from our Islamic colleagues to look forward to as well.’

  Hagen looked at the dashboard clock, then down at the road map on his lap. ‘We’ll reach the marina in about ten minutes, so we’re pretty much on time.’

  American Embassy, Grosvenor Square, London

  News of the bank raid had reached Grosvenor Square at about the same time as the Security Service Duty Officer at Thames House had been notified, and the information, although sketchy, was flashed to every computer within the building as a ticker running across the bottom of the screen.

  When Carlin Johnson saw it, he knew exactly what it meant. VIPER had to be running, and Stevens must still be out there, somewhere. He also knew it was time he left the building.

  As he stood up, his computer emitted a soft tone indicating receipt of an email, so he sat down again and clicked the mouse to open it. It originated from Langley, encrypted and designated for his eyes only.

  Johnson ran the decryption routine and studied the text. Then he sat back in his chair and muttered a single expletive. All his contact back at Langley had been able to find out so far was that the person who had run the searches on Walnut was John Westwood, and that wasn’t good news. Westwood was a Langley wheel, not some inquisitive junior officer who could be easily warned off.

  But, Johnson now reasoned, if Stevens was still out there directing VIPER, the endgame was now so close – a matter of hours, rather than days – that it might not matter. Once the final phase was complete, he could locate Stevens – not difficult, because the man had been given an emergency contact routine – and eliminate him.

  That would neatly tie up the sole remaining loose end, and none of the other four people indoctrinated into the operation would be able to say a word about it, ever, because the whole plan was their idea, and admitting to any part of it would be tantamount to signing their own death warrants.

  And VIPER had been specifically designed to point the finger of suspicion in a direction well away from Langley, Virginia, so once the job was finished and Stevens was dead, that would be the end of it. Whatever trail there might be would stop right there.

  Greenford, London

  Finding the scene of the bombing wasn’t difficult. Richter just followed a couple of speeding police cars and an ambulance, then stopped the pool Ford, half on the pavement, just short of the location and walked the rest of the way.

  The street really did look like a bomb had gone off in it, and for the first time Richter could really appreciate just how apt that expression was.

  On one side of the road and across half of the pavement was the floor-pan and a scattering of other mechanical components that had previously comprised a medium-sized van. Twisted, burnt and blackened bits of the bodywork were strewn around the scene, some of them dozens of yards from the epicentre of the explosion. Brick rubble, broken glass and pieces of shattered timber from the partially-destroyed building added to the mass of debris.

  The street was still chaotic, with police officers, firemen and ambulance crews running in all directions, trying to help the injured, or putting out the handful of fires that had started and generally trying to restore some kind of order. The flashing blue and red lights of the parked vehicles provided a kind of surreal additional illumination, and shouted orders and cries of agony from the wounded victims combined to create a continual torrent of noise. Lying close to the remains of the van, half a dozen motionless shapes testified to the horrendous effectiveness of the attack.

  Richter was aware that he was essentially a spectator, and that there was almost nothing he could do to assist either the police or the casualties. And, frankly, he wasn’t convinced that there was any point in him being there at all. Any clues left in the bomb vehicle would no longer exist, unless some forensic genius with a microscope managed to pick something out of the total wreckage. The bank raid, too, had been fast, brutal, and extremely efficient, and he doubted very much if the bad guys were incompetent enough to leave behind anything that might help identify them.

  He watched the activity from the end of the street
, taking in the scene and snapping a series of pictures with a small digital camera. The images might help him reconstruct the sequence of events when he got back to Hammersmith. Or not, as the case might be. He really didn’t know, and didn’t particularly care. The bomb had exploded, the bank had been robbed, and there was nothing that anybody could now do about either event apart from clear up the mess. In his opinion, the most important thing was to try to deduce where the next raid would take place.

  And that, as Richter had already pointed out to Simpson, was going to be sodding difficult, given the number of banks scattered across London. And it wasn’t just banks: there were also building societies, jewellery shops and a host of other potentially attractive and high-value targets in the city. Assuming the gang was planning another hit – and that was still Richter’s best guess – they could next strike absolutely anywhere.

  The bank itself was fairly small, with houses on one side and shops on the other, and faced a short parade of businesses on the opposite pavement, where the van had been parked. There was nothing about the street, or the bank, or anything else that Richter could see, that struck him as being even slightly unusual. It was an entirely typical north London thoroughfare. Without looking at the street names or consulting a map, there would be no way of telling exactly where it was located.

  That started a new train of thought. Richter took a few last pictures, trying to get a panorama of the scene in front of him, then walked back to his car and rummaged around in the glove box. He pulled out a London and Home Counties A-Z road map that showed the entire city and a good portion of south-east England, opened it up and studied it for a few minutes.

  Then he started the Fiesta’s engine, put the car into gear and performed an illegal U-turn before heading back towards Hammersmith. On the way, he pulled out his mobile and told the Duty Officer what he thought he might have discovered.