She recalled that the teams that had attacked London in the past worked in threes. So that could be nine. Who had they left behind? Him? And that other bastard that had so cruelly deprived Thomas of his sight and her of her much-admired hair? She could forgive many things, but not her hair.
In a few hours they would begin their escape. And when the time was right, she would exact her own revenge. A dish that she would enjoy, cold or otherwise. She spent the next hour considering ways to carry out her hideous retribution and whilst she did so she slowly stretched the grey metallic tape, easing her head up further, her arms too. It was now just her legs that were tightly bound.
The three vehicles left the old factory, split up and drove off towards their chosen targets – all grey vans, all sign written with company names and phone numbers adding to their assumed identities; builders, couriers and telecom companies.
One headed north. The second west and the third stayed south of the river. Worst case they would get home and regroup.
Their team consisted of twelve people now. And ten more were on the way – due in two hours at the old factory.
The first van, a Ford, traversed the invisible boundary that marked the change between the County of Kent and the Royal Borough of Greenwich. They followed the A200 road as it skirted its way north west and south of the River Thames. Eventually the A200 became Tooley Street which in turn led to London Bridge.
They crossed the Thames. As they left the bridge, the road name changed and became King William Street. In a hundred metres they stopped, eased the van to a halt, waiting for the traffic lights to turn from red to green. In front of them the House of Fraser department store, its window displays creatively set out to lure passing shoppers. Below it the Monument tube station, identifiable by its red circular sign with a blue horizontal stripe running through it. They turned left onto Cannon Street.
They kept to the speed limits. Pedestrian numbers were low. A few black taxi cabs plied their trade and a late night bus headed back to the depot. It was quiet. For one of the busiest cities on the planet it was almost abandoned. A few hours and it would come to life once more.
They drove along Cannon Street. 107, 109 and there it was. The only signs of life were near to and within the Cannon Street railway station, which luck would have it was directly opposite their target.
111 Cannon Street, London, EC4N 5AR to give it its correct title. And there in the wall surrounded by a decorative but easily missed Portland stone fascia, behind an iron grate, was their quarry.
The London Stone.
“Is that it?” One of the younger members of the team said, almost deflated. “We have come here, into the city, to risk ourselves, for that?”
“Shut up. And get ready. If the Jackdaw says it is important, then it is. Or do you want to go back and tell him we failed, let him cut your eyes out too?”
He didn’t.
Two of the men got out and started to erect a workman’s tent over the site. The driver swung the van around and reversed it up to the tent, pulled out an amber beacon and stuck it on the roof. Switched it on. Opened the back doors and sealed them to the tent.
Late at night, in the city, underneath a temporary structure, telecom workers doing something to something else. They were just another team of nightshift workers anonymously keeping the city alive.
The tent was up quick and the team went to work, a large pallet truck was lowered into place and power tools began screaming in protest against the metal grid.
It took minutes to run the heavy chain from the back of the van and wrap it around the stone. Then three more to remove the large piece of limestone from its long-term home; a lump of old stone that had been in the area, some said for at least a thousand years.
The stone was linked to the Romans, to Druids and had once been built into the front of St Swithin’s Church, a place of worship that had survived the Great Fire of London, and was then rebuilt by Sir Christopher Wren, only to fall into disrepair and be demolished in the 1960s. They built a church around it.
Throughout the transition period and over the course of hundreds of years, before and after, the Stone had remained, defiant. It had survived countless attempts to have it relocated, and had mocked the Luftwaffe, who never managed to destroy it during their ceaseless raids.
Moved once, from one side of the street to the other. Worshipped. Revered. Even the legendary historical figure Jack Cade has struck his sword against it and declared himself Lord of the city.
And now, many hundreds of years later Alex Stefanescu was caught in a battle of wits with his namesake. And, like it or not, the stone had to go. Tonight.
It resisted, screamed in protest, then slowly began to leave its place of rest, digging into the pavement, gouging a broad mark as it slid towards the van. The winch was doing its job. It’s one and only job in fact. Stolen and due to be burnt out, along with the van.
The London Stone rumbled, then rolled up and onto the pallet.
By the morning the gouge marks, a brass plaque and the empty chamber from whence it came, would be the only sign that the fabled rock had ever existed.
It seemed that all roads now led to the Jackdaw.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Two of the teams had already completed their tasks. In the West, one had deployed its men at a dozen bank ATMs. They had nonchalantly approached the machines, knowing they were being filmed and placed false fascia plates onto the host machines. They looked up at the cameras and smiled. At least they did behind the scarves that covered their faces.
This was now old school stuff. Teams like theirs had made their mark around the world, mainly targeting Western banks. But the banks were fighting back with new technology and counter measures. They reported the attacks very quickly, and unlike the past, the banks now talked to their counterparts, sharing intelligence. It made sense.
What they missed was that the devices were thrown away items. Of no use, monetarily. They were Trojan Horses without a team of soldiers secreted within. They were a distraction. Nothing more.
The next team approached an ATM south of the river. They waited, patiently, then fed the hoses into the mouth of the machine, pumped it full of gas, then, as Constantin had shown them, using chalk, picked from the local soil and written on the old concrete floor of the factory that was their home, they introduced a spark.
Gas, meet your new friend spark.
The explosion was incredible and woke everyone for at least half a mile.
‘Take what you can, but do not get caught.’
The hole that the explosion tore into the machine was unexpected. The amount of money that sat there, that floated back to earth, all around them was nothing short of wondrous. Each one fluttered to the ground like a valuable snowflake. They grabbed at the cash, whilst one checked his watch, a cheap copy of a Rolex.
‘You have less than ten minutes once the explosion has happened. Do not be greedy. Take what you need. Leave the rest behind. Wear gloves. If someone approaches run, get back to your vehicle and leave. If you are spotted, dump the cash, dump the van, set light to it, split up and do not come back here. Understood?’
They understood.
‘But look at all of that money.’ Thought the middle one of the group who had travelled to the United Kingdom to seek his fortune. He had been told the streets were paved with opportunities. Now he stood, laughing, looking at those pavements strewn with bank notes.
They heard a siren in the distance. Someone had reported an explosion. Constantin said this would happen. The Fire Brigade would tell the police and they would both tell the Ambulance control. And soon the circus started. The nearest fire station was a five-minute drive away. They had timed it.
The police were thin on the ground in the area. They had checked.
Ambulances didn’t matter, for they had no desire to get hurt.
They had loaded the cash and the evidence of their nefarious hobby into the back of the Ford. Closed the doors.
�
�OK, let us go now, whilst we still can.”
He secured his two team members into the back, locked the door then jumped into the driver’s seat. He illuminated his own amber beacon and drove off into the night. They were all buzzing with adrenaline.
The first responder on scene reported into his portable radio that there had been an explosion, that there were no casualties. That the ambulances weren’t needed. And a glazier was probably pointless. But let the police continue, it was over to them now. And for the first time in years, the control room of the Metropolitan Police had recorded a gas attack on a bank safe. The Operator feverishly typed into the system and then sent a copy to a team at Scotland Yard. As per the brief.
‘Any attempts on any banks, send to:’
As the van navigated along the south London streets, the driver couldn’t help but laugh. Candy from a baby. They were right. Tomorrow would be another day. Same shit, different bank. He turned the radio on, got comfortable, watching the door mirror for company. The only patrol car in the area screamed by, going somewhere, its sirens competing for priority with Supertramp’s Roger Hodgson who was in turn was waiting to follow the haunting harmonica as they both considered the Long Way Home.
Hodgson began to sing. The driver joined in, although he didn’t know the words.
By the next morning, Detective Sergeant Bridie McGee would strut into her boss’s office and slap the stats onto his desk.
‘They are back, guv.’ Staff members on the floor below would hear his head hit the desk.
The first two vans were heading back to the ranch. But they had been told to wait an hour, then approach, individually, checking for traffic, then adopting the favoured lights-off approach.
The third van was waiting for its team to hoist the stone into the back of the Transit. It sighed as the famous bolder dropped onto the floor and announced its presence on the chassis and suspension.
It sat there, illuminated under the solitary interior light. A lump of bloody rock. It had better be worth it. The back doors were closed and two of the men sat either side of their ill-gotten haul and hoped it stayed in place. Their amber beacon pulsed and ricocheted off the walls of Cannon Street station, then retail outlets, and offices and then with no more walls to rebound off it was switched off as they retraced their steps, back across London Bridge.
They left the tent behind. It was stolen anyway. And a few days later someone might think to look inside, see what they were doing there, a passing cop or a nosy business owner, annoyed at the inconvenience of the whole damned thing.
The team adopted the same approach. It would be an hour before they reached their temporary home.
To the south a silver Augusta helicopter, navigation lights flickering, blades cutting through the night air slowed and descended as if it were landing in the Thames. On board were three people, the pilot and two passengers.
Waiting on the ground, at the London Heliport was a solitary male, dark blue suit trousers, white shirt, no tie – it was late, leather-soled black brogues and a substantial woollen coat. He checked his watch, his favourite. Stainless steel, clinical, cold, with a coal-black face and sweeping second hand and a trademark cyclops lens over the date. He had one proviso. It had to feel as if it were hewn from a solid ingot of steel.
They were three minutes early. He paced, from left to right.
“Good, it’s bloody cold.” The man pushed his un-gloved hands under his armpits. He could have sat in the silver BMW, enjoyed heated seats, but he liked the smell of a winter night, the hint of snow, the smell of the river, only fifty metres away.
They had opened the facility for him, pushed the boundaries a little. When a minister or even a minister’s aide rang and asked, nicely, you did. London was, after all, a small place.
He turned his back to the aircraft, inhaled the avgas, listened the birds fluttering, protesting, then turned back, waited a few minutes then approached the Augusta. The pilot was out and nodding, opening the door.
The two men climbed out, one looked more at ease with the rotation of the blades than the other but both looked exhausted, as if they had spent the last few days on the run.
The pilot walked around, checked for foreign objects, strapped himself back in and commenced his take off procedures. On the concrete helipad next to the River Thames overlooking Chelsea Harbour, the three men shook hands, shouting against the noise of the helo.
“Good to be back.”
“It’s good to have you back.”
The two men walked with their host, got in and headed for a hotel, a shower and some room service – the kind where you left the remnants outside the door on a tray.
O’Shea pushed now with all her strength, up and against the tape. ‘Come on you can do this. No gain without pain and all that nonsense.’
She shuffled down, trying to be as quiet as possible. Somewhere, possibly the next room she could hear a deep, relaxed snoring sound. She hoped it was the person tasked with guarding them. She sensed that Alex and the gap-toothed assassin were elsewhere in the building, their voices had trailed away as they walked. The further the better.
‘Come…on. Better to be mocked for being bald than celebrated as a life force at your funeral, girl. Push.’
Her head was free. It somehow gave her new strength. She wiggled her arms until the tendons screamed ‘Stop!’
She had one arm free. She reached across and shook Thomas who struggled to focus, but knew straight away that this was an ally, not a torturer.
“Stay quiet John.” She ripped at the tape, piece by piece as it slowly relented and tore the first layer of skin from her wrists. She was buoyed by her success and leaned forwards, timing the shuffling of the table with the snoring. He snored, slapped his lips together, she moved. Again and again, until she was able to stretch out and reach for the blood-stained scissors.
The snoring stopped.
She paused. Waited for it to start, then began to cut through the tape as Constantin had sawn through Thomas’ optic nerve.
She was free. Tears began to flow.
‘Control yourself you stupid cow.’
She sat for a moment, probably two, waiting for the equilibrium to return. She had been laid down, motionless for so long it now felt like she was on an ocean-going yacht.
‘Steady. Don’t rush.’
‘What do you mean don’t rush, what the f…’
She listened to her other self and pushed on, lowering herself onto the cold concrete floor. It was freezing. She now realised just how cold she was, had been, and knew she needed to find clothes, for both of them. And there they were, thrown in a heap in the corner. She probed with her hand, feeling through the damp clothing, working out what was what.
She had decided that worst case, she would dress and make a run for it. Get to the road and wave down the first car and hope they bloody well stopped. She remained silent, stationary, listening. The noise was her own heartbeat. She wished it would do her a favour and bugger off.
“John, we have to go.” As she spoke she cut through his own bonds.
“I’m in no fit state Carrie. Go and get help.”
“They will kill you. With me gone there is nothing left. Trust me.”
She handed him some clothes, hoping they were his and eased him from the table. She couldn’t see his face but knew he would look hideous. It was a good job it was dark.
“Steady.”
The clothes were wet, and stank, but they were no longer naked and that felt like a victory. She pocketed the scissors. ‘Come anywhere near me and I’ll ram these into your face.’
“Stay here. I’ll be back.” With her heart beating louder than ever she left the room, stepped quietly into the corridor and found the first room that had been converted to a dormitory. Their guard was propped up in an old battered armchair. Alex would no doubt kill him later.
For now, he slept, in another room, close by. Close enough that she could have surprised him, slitting his throat as he dreamed of a succes
sful future. But she knew she would be unable to kill them both. Which one of them was better to kill first? Alex? Or his psychotic sidekick?
For now, they both had to survive. Their time would come.
She allowed herself a brief and rare smile, then decided to walk no further. To her left was the door, or what was left of it. Most of the panes of glass had been smashed by countless kids, throwing stones and firing catapults. The wind blew through the voids and chilled her even more. There was no moon, or if there was it was hidden under an eiderdown of clouds.
She gently opened the door, expecting it to creak, but instead it dropped, hanging on one hinge. She cursed, silently, then held it, not knowing what to do next. Let it go and make a noise, or stand there all night like a frigid, pathetic concierge?
She let it go and in turn it repaid her confidence by hanging by a thread. She stepped though the corridor. The soles of her feet separated from the cool concrete with a barely audible noise as she edged back to what she considered to be their tomb.
In one of the rooms a loud snore woke its host. They waited until the rhythmic sound returned.
“Come on. We are getting out of this fucking chamber of horrors.” She led him to the door, and they stepped into the fresh, cold night. And it felt magnificent.
They both inhaled the clean air, allowing the cold to burn their lungs. Thomas frantically tried to focus with his remaining eye, trying to see out through the dried blood. He wiped at it but it made little difference.
“You’ll have to guide me Carrie. I’m sorry.” He almost hissed his words.
“No time for niceties. This way.”
They turned right, towards the noise of the motorway and with ever-improving night vision walked along the track, staying to the edge, ready to dive into the overgrown hedgerow. Ahead and to their right she could see the traffic, it seemed to float in the night sky. She shook her head. It was her mind playing tricks. They needed to get there and fast. If it came to it she had decided that she would climb over the barrier and walk out onto one of the busiest motorways in England and start waving her arms like a woman possessed.
Seven of Swords (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 3) Page 38