The first hole took just under an hour. The men took it in turns to operate the equipment, wearing masks to keep the dust from their mouths and noses, and heavy-duty earmuffs against the noise. The drill made quick progress through the concrete but slowed markedly each time it hit the reinforced steel bars that threaded through the wall. Eventually it burst through into the vault. The man operating the drill switched it off and pulled it out. He knelt down, peered through the hole and grinned as he saw the rows of metal safe-deposit boxes. The man with him patted him on the back. ‘Let the dog see the rabbit,’ he said, slipping his mask over his mouth and nose. He took over the drilling, starting a second hole that overlapped slightly with the first. It took just forty-five minutes to break through, and the third another forty minutes. By the time they had finished, the three holes formed a gap twelve inches deep and two and a half feet wide. The four men who had carried out the task were carrying a few more pounds than was good for them and weren’t anywhere near slim enough to squeeze through. They packed up the drill and cabling and two climbed back up the ropes, hauling the equipment after them.
As they left the building, their kitbags hidden in a wheelie-bin, two more men arrived, wearing grey backpacks. They were smaller than the first four, wiry and shorter than average. Their small stature belied their strength: they were both former SAS and as hard as nails. They abseiled down the lift shaft and examined the hole that had been drilled into the vault. ‘Tight fit, but it’ll do,’ said one. He took off his backpack and went through head first. He had to breathe in and wriggle a bit but he managed it. His colleague passed through the two backpacks and followed him.
They stood up and surveyed the 999 safe-deposit boxes. They were graded in size, the larger ones at the bottom, the topmost ones only a couple of inches deep. Each had a number, and two locks. The owner of each safe-deposit box held one key, the company the other. Both keys were necessary to open the box. That was the idea, anyway, but the drills the men had in their backpacks meant that it was a matter of seconds to open any of them. Unlike the massive drill that had been used to bore through the wall, the smaller models came with their own power supply. One man took a folded piece of paper from the pocket of his overalls. ‘Seven six two,’ he read out. It was on the right of the room, a medium-sized box at about waist-height. The other man pressed the trigger of his drill and pushed the bit against one of the locks. It ripped through it in seconds. He did the second lock, then opened the flap. His colleague pulled out a slim metal box, placed it on the floor and opened the top. Inside were three men’s watches, several small red boxes, a stack of notebooks and a black thumbdrive. The man took out the notebooks and the thumbdrive and put them into his backpack. As an afterthought he took out one of the watches – a gold Rolex GMT Master – and slipped it onto his wrist. ‘What do you think?’ he asked.
‘I think with what you’re being paid for this, you could buy your own fucking watch.’
The man grinned. ‘I like this one.’ He waved his arm around the strong room. ‘Make it look good.’
‘How good?’
‘Fifty, at least.’
The other gunned the drill. ‘And we get to keep the ill-gotten gains, right?’
‘The guys outside take the gear and sell it. We’ll get our cut down the line. The important thing is that it looks like the jewellery and cash were the prizes. Catch you later.’
‘Not if I catch you first.’ He began on another lock as his colleague threw his backpack through the hole and wriggled after it.
CHAPTER 4
Charlotte Button poured Pinot Grigio into a large glass and carried it with a plate of spinach risotto to the sofa. She flopped down, took a long drink of wine, and pressed the remote to watch Sky News. She ate her risotto as a pretty blonde girl with augmented breasts and a too-perfect pixie nose went through the events of the day in an annoying sing-song voice more suited to a primary-school teacher addressing a class of eight-year-olds.
The raid on the Manchester safe-deposit company was the third item. The fork froze in the air on its way to Button’s mouth. Fifty-eight boxes opened: no idea yet how much money and jewellery had been stolen but several Premier League footballers were thought to have had boxes in the vault. And allegations were flying that the Manchester police hadn’t been doing their job properly. Next a grey-haired security expert described the robbery as a ‘good old-fashioned caper’, which bore an astonishing number of similarities to the breakin at the Hatton Garden safe-deposit company earlier in the year.
Button put down her fork, drained her glass and walked over to the burglar alarm console in the hallway. She activated the perimeter system but kept the motion-sensors and infrared detectors on stand-by. She opened the cupboard under the stairs and took out a black North Face backpack and placed it by the front door. It contained a change of clothes, a torch, a first-aid kit, five thousand pounds and five thousand dollars in cash, and two passports, one Irish and one British, both with her photograph but neither using her real name. The Americans called them bug-out bags, but at MI5 they had always referred to them as go-bags. Every officer on overseas assignment had to have their go-bag close by so that they could leave at a moment’s notice, and even though she no longer worked for the security service, keeping an up-to-date go-bag was second nature to Button.
She took her plate and glass to the kitchen, washed them and put them on the rack. The kitchen door was locked but she flicked the bolts across, top and bottom. She switched off the lights and went back to the hallway. She killed the lights there, too, and in the sitting room, then went to the window and looked outside. Her car was parked in front of the garage, a two-seater Audi. The driveway was graveled so she’d have heard anyone walking across it, but there was plenty of grass around the house.
She went back to the burglar alarm. The outside lights were normally linked up to motion detectors but she pressed a button to switch them on. She went into the sitting room and looked out. No unusual shadows that she could see. No movement.
She picked up her black Chanel handbag and took out her car keys, slung the backpack over her shoulder and set the alarm. She closed the front door behind her as it was bleeping, jogged over to her car and climbed in, heart pounding. She started the engine, put the car in gear with a shaking hand and drove away, the tyres of the Audi kicking up a spray of gravel behind her.
Less than three hours after Sky News had reported on the robbery, Barbara Reynolds left Heathrow Airport on a flight bound for JFK. Her only luggage was a black North Face backpack and a Chanel handbag.
CHAPTER 5
Button had arranged to meet Richard Yokely at midday in Central Park. Specifically Sheep Meadow, the fifteen-acre field on the west side of the park, between 66 and 69 Streets. It was a popular spot for dog-walkers and picnickers, and a favourite site for demonstrators to gather and protest. It was also the perfect place to spot watchers and followers. At eleven o’clock Button found herself a seat in a coffee shop on 67th Street overlooking the meadow, sipped a latte and nibbled a croissant as she read that day’s New York Times. She saw Richard Yokely arrive at exactly midday. He seemed to be alone, but Richard Yokely was a pro with decades of experience in surveillance and counter-surveillance working for agencies that preferred to identify themselves by initials, including the CIA, NSA and DIA. He was wearing a long black coat over a grey suit, a gleaming white shirt and a yellow tie with pale blue stripes. He was too far away for her to see his footwear but she was sure he’d be wearing his trademark tasseled loafers.
Button left the coffee shop, crossed the road and entered the park. He saw her the second she stepped onto the grass, smiled and waved as if he was an old friend. Yokely was in his very early fifties with short grey hair, thin lips and teeth so white they were either veneers or chemically treated. He air-kissed her on both cheeks and she caught the scent of sandalwood.
‘I didn’t know you were visiting the US, Charlotte,’ he said. ‘You should have let me know you were com
ing.’
‘It wasn’t planned,’ she said. ‘All a bit rushed, actually.’
‘What’s interesting is that the INS doesn’t seem to be aware of you arriving on our shores either. But an Irish lady named Barbara Reynolds seems to bear an uncanny resemblance to you and has identical fingerprints.’
‘Ah, yes, sorry about that.’
‘False papers aren’t the asset they used to be, not now we take the fingerprints of any foreigner who flies in.’
‘I’ve been a very naughty girl,’ said Button, fluttering her eyelashes theatrically. ‘Please don’t arrest me.’
‘Why the fake passport, Charlotte?’
‘It’s genuine, issued by the Irish authorities.’
‘You know what I mean.’
She smiled tightly. ‘I know, I’m sorry. It was more about leaving the UK discreetly,’ she said.
‘Are you in trouble, my dear?’
She nodded. ‘I’m afraid so.’
‘And that’s why you wanted to meet here instead of at a perfectly good restaurant?’
‘I thought it might be more appropriate, yes.’
‘Don’t you trust me? After all we’ve been through?’
‘I’m not sure who I can trust just now. I’m sorry.’
‘You might at least have chosen somewhere I could smoke,’ he said. ‘Smoking is illegal in Central Park. Pure madness. It’s outside, but you can’t smoke. Cross the street to the sidewalk and you can smoke there. The wind will blow the smoke into the park, but that’s the rule.’
‘Health Nazis,’ said Button. ‘What can you do?’
‘What about the UK?’ asked Yokely. ‘Can you smoke in Hyde Park still?’
‘I think so. But I’m not a smoker.’ She started walking across the field and Yokely kept pace with her. ‘How much do you know, Richard?’
‘I know everything. It’s my job.’
‘About my position?’
He smiled, like a kindly uncle. ‘I know you left MI5 under a cloud. I know you’ve been accused of using government resources to resolve personal issues.’
‘I used the Pool to kill the men who were responsible for the death of my husband,’ said Button. ‘Shame on me.’
‘Charlotte, I would have done the same, trust me. You have my sympathy. But what you did …’ He shrugged.
‘You were never one to shy away from an off-the-books operation, Richard.’
‘It wasn’t what you did that was the problem,’ said Yokely. ‘It was the fact you got caught. But that’s water under the bridge. What’s happened to get you over here under a false name, looking over your shoulder, like a fox who can hear the hounds on her tail?’
‘I’m in shit, Richard. Deep, deep shit.’ The wind tugged at her hair. ‘I kept records of everything I was asked to do, obviously.’
‘Obviously.’
‘After what I did, they couldn’t keep me on, but they could hardly drag me through the courts. Not with what I know.’
Yokely chuckled. ‘You know where all the bodies are buried. Figuratively and literally.’
‘So, basically, they had two choices. Lose me, or use me. And my insurance policy against anything bad happening to me was a file. A very big file. I made three copies of that file, and stored those copies in safe places.’ She smiled thinly and corrected herself. ‘In what I assumed were safe places. Did you read about the safe-deposit robbery in Manchester?’
‘Sure. A professional job, perfectly executed.’ Realisation dawned. ‘Ah. You had a box there.’ It was a statement, not a question.
‘There were nine hundred and ninety-nine boxes in that vault. They broke in without being discovered, they had all weekend to work, and they opened fifty-odd.’
‘Because they were interested in just one? Yours?’
‘That’s what I’m assuming,’ said Button.
‘It could be a coincidence,’ said Yokely. ‘Have you been told officially that yours was one of those opened?’
‘I don’t need to hear officially,’ she said. ‘It’s the second of my boxes to have been raided. Mine was one of those that was broken into when they raided the Hatton Garden Safe Deposit Company earlier this year. That time they broke open seventy-two boxes and one was definitely mine.’
‘But didn’t they arrest the men responsible?’
‘They did indeed. But I’m pretty sure they were just the fall guys. I doubt they did the planning. Hired hands, I’m guessing.’
‘And you think, what? The government?’
‘Possibly.’
‘I’m sure they wouldn’t be stupid enough to try to hurt you, Charlotte.’
‘There are some very stupid people in our intelligence services,’ said Button. ‘A lot of very bright people, but we have more than our fair share of idiots. And one of them might well have decided to have a go at me.’
‘Your nemesis, Jeremy Willoughby-Brown?’
‘I’d hardly call him my nemesis, Richard.’
‘He did get your job at Five. And he was responsible for you leaving.’ He sighed. ‘Charlotte, I really need a smoke. Can we please go to the sidewalk? I give you my word we’re not being followed.’
She nodded, and they walked across the grass towards 68th Street. ‘I don’t think it’s Jeremy. He got what he wanted, my job. He wouldn’t gain anything by killing me.’
‘So who would?’
‘A dozen people whose careers would come to an abrupt end if the file were ever made public,’ said Button. ‘Politicians and civil servants. The Pool was always acting in the interest of the greater good, but things were done that …’ She sighed. ‘Well, you know what I mean.’
‘I do indeed, Charlotte. Sometimes the ends justify the means.’
‘Morally, yes. But not legally. And a number of people would sleep easier if the file and my good self were laid to rest. I could go to the papers with the file I have left. But I’m reluctant to pull that trigger, obviously.’
They crossed the road and Yokely took a small cigar case from his coat pocket. He selected a cigar and lit it, taking care to blow the smoke away from her. ‘You were never a smoker?’
She shook her head. ‘My father smoked a pipe and I hated it. Hated the smell. It’s funny – sometimes I forget what he looked like but if I walk past a pipe-smoker it hits me.’
‘Smells can be like that. They’re a direct link to memories.’ He held up the cigar. ‘I’m fairly sure that within my lifetime possession of one of these will be a criminal offence. At least, it will be here in the US.’
‘So long as I can still get a decent bottle of wine, I’m happy,’ said Button.
Yokely took another drag on his cigar as they walked south, the park to their left.
‘I need protection, Richard. I need someone to watch my back. Just for a while until I get a grip on what’s happening.’
‘I thought you were in the protection business, these days. Your company, what’s it called?’
‘It’s called Executive Solutions but it’s still known as the Pool.’
‘Because you’re in at the deep end?’
She laughed softly. ‘It was always called the Pool. Partly because we had people we could call on as and when required, but partly because so many of them seemed to come from Liverpool. The thing is, yes, I could get a couple of my guys to follow me around. But that’s not the sort of protection I need. I need government-standard surveillance. I need to know the chatter, Richard. I need to know what’s being said about me. I need to know if I’m being watched as I move through an airport. I need to know if I’m in danger.’
‘You want the NSA looking out for you?’
‘That would be nice. And I’d like it known that I’m being watched over.’
Yokely nodded. ‘The idea being that if the world knows Charlotte Button is under the NSA microscope it’s likely to leave her alone?’
‘Just for a short time, until I get my ducks in a row.’
‘Those ducks being?’
�
��I have one more copy of the file in what I consider to be a safe place. In view of what’s happened at Hatton Garden and in Manchester, I need to make sure it isn’t compromised, and I have to put other copies in other places. Clearly safe-deposit boxes aren’t safe, despite the name.’
‘There is an alternative, Charlotte. You could give me a copy.’
‘I did think about that, Richard, but it’s perilously close to treason.’
‘We’re on the same side.’
‘Of course we are. But the information in that file is classified. And passing it to another government, even an ally, could be taken the wrong way.’
‘You could give it to me personally.’
‘To be opened in the event of my death?’ She laughed again. ‘No, I’ll handle it. But until then, I need someone watching my back. Will you help?’
‘Of course I’ll help.’ He put a bear-like arm around her and hugged her. ‘You think I’d let anything happen to my favourite ex-spook?’
‘Thank you, Richard. You’re a sweetheart.’
He released his grip on her. ‘Actually, it’s fortuitous that you turned up when you did. I have a favour to ask of you.’
‘A favour?’
‘Let’s call it a quid pro quo.’
‘I’m listening.’
CHAPTER 6
Lex Harper studied the menu, unable to decide between pad thai or the khao pad. Noodles or rice. The menu was idiot-proof and consisted of a plastic photograph album into which had been slotted a couple of dozen pictures of the dishes on offer. Each had a sticker, with the description in English and Thai and the price. The waitress, a pretty teenager with her hair in plaits, stood patiently with her notepad. Her name was Som and she was the daughter of the owner, still at school but helping her mother in the evenings.
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