by A P Bateman
Neeson glanced around, his stare fixing on King’s gaze. King moved to his right, keeping tight against the nearby stall. He had to think quickly, direct eye contact usually meant that the game was over. He quickly pretended to browse over the nearby stall. A collection of teddy bears, a tarnished sabre, some medals, pieces of porcelain and cut glass, and furniture.
Furniture, that was it. Nobody following a known terrorist would buy a bulky piece of furniture. King pointed to a pine milking-stool towards the back of the stall. “How much for the stool?”
The woman put down her foam coffee cup and reached backwards. She caught hold of a leg then pulled the stool over a small chest of drawers. “Fifteen quid, luv.” King caught hold of it then quickly thrust his hand into his pocket. He pulled out a ten-pound note, then raised an eyebrow. “A tenner any good to you?” He didn’t want to wait for change.
The woman looked annoyed. However, realising it was probably one of the better offers that she would get that day, she nodded reluctantly and held out her hand. King handed over the note, took the stool and turned around. The trick now was to avoid the temptation of checking whether Neeson and Grant were both still there. If he did and Neeson saw him, it would all be over. He held the stool by his side and casually went with the flow of the crowd, which now appeared to be going in a counter-clockwise direction with very few people heading his way out of the building. At least with a prop in his hands he would appear to look like a genuine buyer.
***
Neeson stared at the second closed circuit camera system, which was mounted on a large, purpose-built post in the centre of the walkway. “That one will be a problem. The cable runs underground, most probably. Cutting it without detection will be difficult.”
“It’s only the power which runs underground, the images are sent by receiver, much like a radio, or mobile telephone. The lens is aimed at the public conveniences and the tote stands. It has a forty-five-degree line of sight, so we should make it undetected,” Grant paused. “Unless, that is, it operates from a control centre, automatically changing its variables.”
Neeson shook his head. “I doubt it, security looks pretty shoddy, all in all.”
Grant nodded, then said, “That seems to be all we can check outside, we’d better take a look inside the main building.”
Neeson swung around, suddenly changing direction. He pushed through the oncoming crowd, dodged past a large rotund woman, then caught his leg on a hard object. “Ah! Watch it will yer!” He rubbed his leg, where the foot of the stool had banged into him. “What’s your fucking problem?”
“Pardon, Monsieur…”
Neeson looked perplexed at the unexpected reply, then scowled. He kept walking then as he rubbed his leg he turned around. “Bloody frogs!” he shouted gleefully.
“Sshh, we don’t want to draw attention to ourselves.” Grant caught hold of Neeson’s lapel and pulled him along. “Just keep walking.”
Neeson pushed his hand away and grinned. “That told him! Fucking French prick!”
***
King let out a deep breath. He had not seen Neeson until the last minute and by then it was too late. He had circled around the row of stalls and had come up behind the two men, momentarily losing them as he became stuck behind a group of people walking slower than the rest. The crowd had become compact; growing in both volume and density as the day went on. The last thing that King had expected was for the two men to change direction so suddenly.
Only his extensive training, quick thinking and brass neck had enabled him to bluff it out so well. A simple sorry would not have been sufficient. He could see from Neeson’s retaliation that he was a violent man, ever-eager for a confrontation. However, if neither man spoke the same language, a confrontation would be pointless. King had assumed correctly that Neeson would not be familiar with another language, and was extremely grateful he had been proved correct. After all, he had just used up almost half his entire French vocabulary.
He watched the two men enter the main building, where the smaller, more delicate antiques were on display, as well as silverware and fine jewellery. There was a lot on display, but King felt that he had seen enough. Neeson would recognise him for sure, and there was no point in pushing his luck. He knew what the two men were up to; with his security training, it had been obvious from the first glance that the two men were carrying out a reconnaissance. Kempton Park was definitely the target for something.
King walked past the silver ring and out of the main entrance. He would return to his vehicle, manoeuvre it into a more practical position then wait for the two men to return to the Saab.
***
“Nothing special, is it?” Neeson commented flatly, as he led the way past a row of stalls.
“What, the stalls?” Grant asked, glancing at the vast array of valuables.
“No, the building,” he paused at a stall, doing his best to appear interested. He turned to Grant who was watching an Orthodox Jew wearing a prayer shawl, or Tallit. The man was examining a diamond and sapphire encrusted necklace. “To think what a wealth of valuables are for sale in this drab building, not to mention the amount of money being carried around.”
Grant nodded. “And bugger all in the way of security.” He stared at the Orthodox Jew, who handed the necklace back to the woman behind the counter, then reached into his pocket as she smiled and started to wrap the necklace. To Grant’s left, an Arab dressed in a white dish-dasha, complete with a business-suited minder carrying a metal briefcase chained to his wrist, studied antique silver at a neighbouring stall. Orthodox Jews and robe-clad Arabs in the same room. For a brief moment all beliefs and old scores looked to be forgotten. The only common interest was money and obtaining the best possible deal.
Grant turned back to Neeson, who was watching the Arab’s minder unlock the briefcase. “Seems you might just as well have planned to do this venue. There’s little or no security; an armed gang would have a fortune in no time. Besides, I think it would be more your style.”
“What do you mean, more my style?”
“I mean, it’s less complicated, quicker and there is a fortune in here,” he paused, then glanced at the Arab and the Orthodox Jew. “You see that? Those two men couldn’t be further apart in beliefs or ideals. Their countries and religion have been at conflict for centuries. And what are they doing? They’re ignoring each other, and getting on with their business. I think that there’s some sort of lesson in that, especially for you and your comrades.”
Neeson sneered. “You have no idea.” He looked around the densely populated room then turned towards Grant. “Come on hotshot, do what you were brought here for, and study the security systems.” He walked away, radiating hostility through the crowd, elbowing his way through a barrier of people huddling around a particular stall.
Grant followed, quietly pleased with himself. He had succeeded in rattling the man’s cage. He might well pay for it later, but for now, he was happy.
Neeson stood next to the double doors which would lead to the stairwell. To his right, a group of Hasidic Jews were examining each other’s purchases. They talked in low voices, offering each other a small profit, or a part exchange on another deal. Grant caught up with Neeson, who was leaning against the drab, off-white wall. A huge plaster crack ran from the floor to the ceiling, and in places, huge flakes of dried gloss paint hung from the walls. “This leads to the central office. Just two flights of stairs stand between us and the safe.” Neeson took a cursory glance around the room then pushed his way through the double doors.
Grant followed, noticing that the doors were fitted with a basic pressure connector alarm system. That would be no problem, just a simple snip with the wire-cutters and it would be easily defeated. He counted the steps, eleven in all, then a turn to the left. Another thirteen steps and they reached the top.
“Sorry, upstairs is off limits today.” A tough-looking man in his mid-thirties stood to the right of the staircase, wearing a yellow vest, marked: SEC
URITY. He held a compact two-way radio and stared defiantly at the two men. “It isn’t open up here until race day.”
“Is that a fact?” Neeson asked somewhat mockingly, his Belfast accent, hard and confrontational.
“Sorry, we were just looking for the toilets,” Grant explained, apologetically. The security guard stared at them, straight-faced, his arms folded across his chest. “Downstairs and on the right, just follow the smell.”
Grant nodded, then turned around and walked down the first flight of stairs. Neeson caught him up before he reached the bottom and grabbed hold of his arm. “Where the hell are you off to?”
Grant pulled his arm back, breaking Neeson’s grasp. “It’s closed, if we’d stayed and argued, we would only have aroused suspicion. He would have radioed for assistance and we would have been escorted off the site, we may even have got arrested.” Grant pushed his way through the double doors at the bottom of the stairwell, then picked his way through the growing crowd.
“Yer daft bastard!” Neeson chuckled. “He’s half-ass security. Minimum wage has just come in and it would have been a fucking big raise for that tosser. I could have bought him off. For Christ’s sake, I’ve got more in my pocket than he’ll see in three months,” he paused. “As a last resort, I could have done him.”
Grant stopped just short of the side exit. “Don’t judge everyone by your own standards, he liked his job. I could see that from the moment he opened his mouth. He relished telling us that it was off limits, not everyone can be bought,” Grant sneered, eager to get one over on Neeson. “As for doing him, well, he looked pretty handy to me. I reckon he would have kicked your arse.”
Neeson smiled wryly. He edged himself away from the doorway and lifted his jacket slightly, revealing the small semi-automatic pistol. The same pistol that had killed two men pushing their luck this morning. He let the material go, then patted Grant on the shoulder. “Doesn’t matter how handy someone is; nobody wins a confrontation better than the man with the gun.” He smiled then added, “As for buying people, they all give in, in the end. You did, we just threw in the extra little sweetener for free. And boy, is she sweet…”
24
“So what you are saying, old boy...” Forsyth paused to inhale and blow yet another perfect smoke ring. “Is that they actually intend to knock-off the race track?”
King nodded and replaced his coffee cup to the small wooden table, which was now covered with paperwork. “Either that or plant an IED…”
“A what?”
“An Improvised Explosive Device,” King said. “A bomb.”
“Well why on earth don’t you just say bomb?”
King shrugged. “They were taking pictures of the CCTV system and the alarm systems. But all in all, there isn’t a great deal in the way of security. Not cutting edge anyway. It could do with a huge update.”
“Maybe if this assassination work doesn’t work out you could become a security consultant…” Forsyth took another long drag on the cigarette.
King looked at the man, who seemed even more terse and argumentative than usual. What his colleagues in the special operations unit would say, in need of a good softener. A good punch in the face should just about do it. Instead, tempting though it was, King said, “I mean, enough money changes hands on the race days, but the only time that it would be worthwhile to pull something would be at the end of the day.”
“Indeed,” Forsyth mused.
“But surely that is when security would be at its tightest, until the money is off-loaded elsewhere, by ballistic-proof security vehicle. The money packed in cases with indelible dye canisters.”
“One would presume so, yes.” Forsyth stubbed the cigarette into ashtray on the table. “I will look into it, find out what the procedures are before, during and after the event. Although, I imagine that between the stewards, officials, security staff and even the cleaners, there must be a great deal of presence long after the public have left the site.” He took his time to open the ornate silver cigarette case. “Of course, it could be a bombing. The whole Northern Ireland situation is in a right old pickle. Splinter groups abound, and there is a great divide between the political parties. What the republicans say isn’t always what goes.”
“So, what about Neeson and O’Shea, what is their official stance on the peace agreement?” King asked. “This team that came over for something, and it certainly looks like something is going to happen. What have Five said about them?”
Forsyth smiled wryly. “The details are a bit sketchy. All in all, they’re fanatical about a united Ireland, but how they fare after the agreement, has not yet been determined.”
“And why the need for Simon Grant? He’s a safe-cracker.” King stared thoughtfully past the MI6 officer, then shook his head decisively. “No, it has to be a robbery, there is no other explanation.”
Forsyth carefully lit his cigarette then blew out a thin plume of sweet, sickly smelling smoke. “Yes there is, old boy, there always is,” he smirked. “We just aren’t seeing it yet.”
***
“You can’t be serious!”
“Aye, laddie, just you see if we’re not!” O’Shea stared at Grant, he was hostile in both tone and manner. “You can do it. Do you not have initiative?”
Grant shook his head despairingly. “But we didn’t even get to have a look upstairs!” He stood up, walked over to the window and looked out into the night. He couldn’t see anything, the lights from within made the windows look like dark mirrors. “How the hell can I do the job if I haven’t even checked out the security system properly? I have just been released from prison, I’m damned if I am going to go back because you want to rush this job instead of making a proper job!”
Neeson rose steadily to his feet and stared at him. “You have no other choice.” He slipped his hand inside his jacket and pulled out the pistol. “Now sit your arse back down.”
Grant knew that it was no empty threat, he could see the look in the man’s eyes. The barrel of the pistol was fitted with the silencer and remained perfectly still in his unwavering hand. Grant had no idea what type of pistol it was, nor did he care. It was a gun, plain and simple, and the business end was pointing at him. He turned towards Holman, looking for support but could tell that none would come from that quarter.
“Sit down, son, and stop wasting precious time.” Holman did not look at him; instead, he slowly shook his head. “You will not get another chance, mate.” Grant walked back to the table, reluctantly pulled his chair straight then sat down in silence. Holman seemed a different man since the killing of the two men in the barn. He was monosyllabic and withdrawn. This was the first time he had spoken during the meeting.
Neeson smirked at Grant. “As I was saying, I think that we have a very good chance of success.” He spread the newly developed photographs on the table. “I’ve been upstairs before. I’ve drawn a diagram of the area, it was only two weeks ago, it will be the same.”
McCormick studied the photographs in front of him, then looked at Neeson with concern. “Danny, what are we supposed to do?” He glanced over at Grant, then looked back at his fellow Irishman. “I mean, Grant here will do the alarms, the cameras and the safe, but what’s our job? We don’t know anything about this sort of work.”
“You know your instincts boys.” O’Shea interjected. He looked at the four men in turn. “You don’t want to get caught, do you? Of course not! So you now know enough about robbery.”
“You lads will be guardian angels to golden bollocks here.” Neeson nodded vaguely in Grant’s direction. “You will get him into the building, you will take out any security personnel and you will carry the equipment in, and the money back out.”
Patrick sat up in his seat. “Take out security with what?”
Neeson grinned, leaning back contentedly in his chair. “Some nice, shiny Colt M16-A2 Armalites. A gift from our American friends.”
Patrick let out an exaggerated wolf whistle, then beamed a smile at the other thr
ee men before looking back at Neeson. “With grenade launchers fitted?”
Neeson laughed. “Leave it out, it’s not fucking Christmas!”
Grant bowed his head and caught Holman’s expression. They looked as sick as each other.
***
“Why is he so horrible to us mummy?” The boy looked tearfully into his mother’s kind, yet somewhat distant eyes, then rested his head back down onto the soft pillow. She flicked a lock of her hair away from her forehead then smiled at her son as she pulled the covers up over his shoulders. “He’s not, he’s been very good to us.”
The boy shook his head in silent protest. “He isn’t, he shouts and hits us all the time. I don’t like it when he makes you cry, mummy.” He looked lovingly at his mother, his eyes glistening from his recent cry. “If I had a big gun, I would shoot him to make him stop hurting you.”
Lisa sat up, propped herself onto her elbow and looked at him. “Now, darling, you mustn’t say such things. Guns are terrible, evil things, nobody should ever want to shoot another person.”
“I don’t want to shoot another person; I only want to shoot him.”
She looked down at her son, saddened by what he had just said. There really wasn’t much she could say; the man’s actions were taking away the boy’s childhood, forcing him to think evil, murderous thoughts. Thoughts that no ten-year-old should ever have.
“I’d get a big gun, a machine gun,” the boy smiled innocently. “Then I’d stop him from hurting us.”