by A P Bateman
He walked the slight gradient, placing his steps around the large tufts of thistles and other weeds that had been allowed to thrive through neglect. As he reached the top of the field, he paused in the gateway and studied the farmhouse and its surroundings. The light that he had originally seen from the road shone from an upstairs room, most probably coming from a bedroom or an upper corridor. In the courtyard two new arrivals accompanied the Sierra: a saloon, possibly a Ford Mondeo or a Rover 600 series, from this distance King could not be certain. Next to the saloon was a small hatchback, again he could not identify the make or model.
He looked over at the barn, which was completely shrouded in darkness and appeared to be empty. After a brief pause to assess potential danger, he eased himself over the gate, careful to distribute his weight evenly, not wanting to put too much trust in it. Crouching low to keep his movement and silhouette unseen, he studied both the house and the barn. One would be easier than the other. The choice was his.
***
As he lay on the bed unable to sleep, Simon Grant stared thoughtfully at the ceiling. He tried to make sense of it all, but too much failed to add up. The location itself was perfect. The security precautions were second-rate, both in systems and personnel, although Grant was aware of the possibility that extra security staff might be hired for the event. If so, most likely from a first rate company. It was true, the racecourse administration would be holding a great deal of money, but the whole job seemed more tailored to an armed robbery, not forced entry followed by safecracking and security overrides. The Irish would be armed to the teeth: although Grant knew nothing about guns and had no idea what M16 Armalites looked like, the men who did have experience in such matters had obviously been pleased with them.
The most important area to be viewed - the offices that would be holding the money - had been off limits. He only had Neeson’s description of what it would be like, and Grant preferred to take that with a pinch of salt. Then there was Holman. A man whom Grant had once been able to call a friend. Frank Holman had even attended his and Lisa’s wedding. The two men had gone back years, almost as long as he could remember. Grant and Frank Holman had grown up together on a high-rise council estate in south London. Frank had always been up to something, always in trouble with the police but usually successfully avoiding them. With his flashy suits, the cars that he drove, his jewellery and expensive-looking counterfeit watches, he had become something of a role model for the younger boys on the estate. Frank Holman had taken Grant under his wing, and they had been partners in crime ever since.
Holman was in this up to his eyeballs. If Grant’s family had been used to coerce him, then what could they possibly be holding on Holman?
***
King stood with his back to the stone wall of the barn. Its construction was clearly different to what he had first anticipated. The side furthest from the road and the side of the adjoining corner were constructed from solid stone, the other two sides were finished with timber planks. King guessed that the building had decayed over the years, and had been repaired, like so many farms, on a tight budget.
He edged his way along the side of the barn, feeling the wall as he went, testing it for strength. It was sturdy, which was not what he wanted. He needed to be able to drill through the wall with the minimum amount of resistance. He watched his step, placing his feet carefully on the uneven ground and avoiding the clutter that had been discarded between the building and the overgrown hedge. When he reached the timber side of the barn, he stopped and carefully removed the backpack from his shoulders. Inside, everything had been packed securely, each tool in the order in which it would be needed. He reached inside and removed a small, soft leather pouch. He unfastened it and took out a small black box, approximately the size of a cigarette packet. Attached to the box were two wires - one with an earpiece, the other connected to a disk about the size of a ten pence coin. He slipped the earpiece into his ear, and then pressed the button on the side of the box. His ear filled with the sound of distorted atmospherics then fell silent as he gently turned the tuning dial. He pressed the disk against the wall and adjusted the volume control. The device magnified the sound from within the barn one hundred times. It was now imperative that he did not drop or scrape the device, if he did, the magnified sound could well shatter his eardrum.
He heard the unmistakable sound of breathing and estimated that there were at least three people sleeping in the building. He moved the device cautiously, taking care not to knock it against the wall, then placed it gently against a flat piece of stone. He could tell that there was another sleeper, on his own by the sound of it. He took a few more paces, watching where he placed his feet, then, as he reached the join where the stone and timber construction met, he placed the device carefully against the wood. A welcoming silence. He walked the last ten-feet, then placed the device against the door. There was no sound. He adjusted the volume control, and could hear the faint sound of breathing in the distance, which meant that the timber part of the building must be empty, a separate unit in itself.
He removed the earpiece and switched off the device before returning it to the leather pouch and dropping it back inside the backpack. He decided that the side door, next to the large double doors, would be the best point of entry. Given that there were so many people within the building, he seriously doubted that it would be locked. He carefully felt around the door-jam, on the off chance that it would be alarmed or booby-trapped, then, satisfied that it was clear, he tried the door handle. To his relief it clicked open and pushed easily inwards. The moonlight beaming through the two windows at the far end of the barn, illuminated the storage area sufficiently for him to make his way across to where the vehicle was parked, shrouded by a covering of white sheets.
He lifted the fringe of a sheet, and even in the gloom, instantly recognised the vehicle as one of his lottery daydream favourites - a Porsche 911. He replaced the material and walked over to the old tractor, which was parked beside the far wall.
Normally he would have only planted a transmitter in a static position, but he noticed that one of the machine’s well-worn tyres was flat. The rim of the wheel was misshapen and the tyres on the other wheel looked to be perforated. From the look of it, the tractor had seen better days. About thirty years ago. Confident that the tractor would not be moved in the near future, King bent down beside the nearside rear wheel and eased the backpack off his shoulders. He reached inside and retrieved a small plastic box then opened it to reveal a selection of dedicated frequency transmitters. He selected one, around an inch square with a twelve-inch strand of wire hanging out of it. This was the antenna and if it touched the rim of the wheel the tractor itself would act as a frequency booster, becoming the aerial.
The transmitter was voice-activated and had been fitted with a new battery, less than two hours ago, which would give it an effective life of five-days continuous use. King reached around the rear of the wheel, placing the transmitter on the brake pad, letting the antenna trail to the rim of the wheel. Next, he walked over to the far timber wall, dropped the backpack onto the ground and took out the hand drill. He placed the bit against the wood, then gently started to turn the handle.
Wood, especially tannin-treated timber of the type used in the barn’s construction, tends to splinter when drilled, so when installing surveillance equipment, where the whole point is for it to be fitted quickly and to remain undetected, it is best to drill from the inside and lessen the chance of detection. After a couple, of minutes drilling he had a large enough hole, and replaced the drill in his equipment bag. He would not be able to install the pinhole camera from this side, but once the hole is prepared, installation takes less than a minute.
He reached into the bottom of the backpack and took out the next transmitter, which was ingeniously disguised as a piece of dog’s excrement. Placed strategically on the floor, it is the one object that nobody tends to be keen to pick up and examine. Its one drawback was that it could only be placed o
n the floor, whereas a transmitter’s best clarity comes from waist to head level. King smiled as he placed the dog’s business on the soil floor next to the wall. It was an extremely clever design, which had fooled the players every time so far. He picked up a handful of straw and carefully scattered it over the device.
King stood up straight and looked all around the barn. It was a good size, and full of farm tools and machinery. He did not know much about agriculture, but he recognised a plough and a chain contraption he had once seen a farmer towing around a field. It was a harrow, or so he thought. Next to it there was a large bundle of polythene, tied with bailer twine. The bundle was around six-feet or so long, maybe a bit more, and four-feet in diameter. King walked over to it and crouched down for a closer look. He prodded it. It was soft but gave a little resistance. He tugged at a fold and opened an edge. He figured what it was before he saw the dead man’s face. It was still a shock, but he processed it quickly. From the size of the bundle he figured that it was the bodies of both men he had seen beaten and dragged into the barn. He tucked the fold of plastic back and stood back up. Poor sods, he thought. King had no idea who the two men had been, nor of their integrity, but he could imagine how it had gone down. It would have been a terrifying end. It made him think about the task ahead of him, whether he could do it when it finally played out. He had killed before, but fuelled by alcohol and in the days when he was a hot-head. A young man driven only by ego and a need, a desire, to be respected. He hadn’t intended it, but it had happened nonetheless. Since his training, it had been talked about, and he was sure he would be fine with it, but seeing the two men, dead and discarded, gave him something to think about. It would be easier to kill if he held all the aces, but easier to live with if it was in the heat of a standoff, with both men having a fighting chance. But it wasn’t all about him, it was about the mission. And the mission needed to succeed.
He decided to plant one more transmitter just in case of damage or technical failure. He walked over to the window and felt along the top of the rusty metal frame. Clumps of straw and dust fell, along with a couple of large spiders. It would be perfect; it had obviously not been disturbed for quite some time, if ever. He took a transmitter out of the plastic case and carefully placed it on top of the window frame, then trailed out the length of antenna. This one would probably provide the best reception, with the transmitter at the perfect height for audio quality.
King walked into the centre of the barn and checked his surroundings. Satisfied that he had left everything undisturbed, he walked to the doorway and cautiously stepped out into the night. With the door carefully closed behind him, he eased himself down the side of the building, running his right hand over the wood, at the approximate height that he had drilled the hole. Realising that he had found the spot, when he snagged his finger on a protruding splinter, he dropped his pack to the ground and squatted on his haunches while he retrieved the relevant equipment. A pinhole camera is basically a length of fibre-optic cable with a tiny lens and receiver unit. The lens is pushed through the wall or obstruction and the receiver unit picks up the image and relays it to a base receiver, utilising the same system that is used by mobile telephones.
King gently eased the lens through the hole, which was a tight fit, but far better than too loose as the hole needed to remain unnoticeable. It would also hold the lens in place and not allow it to skew off centre. On the rear of the lens unit, he had applied a small piece of tape with an arrow made in pen, which acted as a marker. He had seen the results of hastily fitted fibre optic lenses, and had seen playbacks of people who appeared to sit on the ceiling and walk up walls. He twisted the lens until his marker was at the top, then let the twelve-inch length of cable hang free. At the bottom of the cable were the receiver and transmitter, which would be capable of sending an image up to four miles on a similar frequency to that of the three audio transmitters. The whole system was movement activated, which in turn eliminated the need for constant viewing on a display monitor.
With the surveillance systems in place King’s task at the barn was complete, but deep down, and as risky as it was, he knew that the farmhouse would be the place where most of the sensitive business would be discussed. He stared towards the eastern horizon, then took his watch out of his pocket. It was nearly half-past-three. Dawn would not be breaking for some time yet. If he moved immediately, he might just have enough time.
He peered around the side of the barn and noted that the light that had shone from upstairs was no longer on. He studied the house intently. He had achieved what he had set out to do, this would just be a bonus, but one which he had not planned for. He just hoped that it would not prove to be an unnecessary risk.
Keeping to the relative safety of the shadows, he moved quickly across the courtyard then paused behind the large limestone wall that separated the farmyard from the unkempt garden. He kept his wary eyes on the house, then gave the courtyard behind him a cursory glance. So far, so good.
He placed both hands on top of the stone wall then in one smooth motion, vaulted the obstacle and landed softly on the damp grass. He crept up the concrete pathway, then placed the backpack carefully on the doorstep. The door was rustic in design, a traditional stable type, split into two equal parts. He tried the handle, but as he had expected, it was locked. No harm in trying though. He reached into his bag of tricks and withdrew a small tool kit. Inside the kit was a piece of neatly folded crepe paper. He unfolded it, smoothing out the creases, then slipped it under the door. Next, he took out a length of thick wire and gently inserted it into the lock. He felt what he had hoped for; the key was in place. Like most people, whoever had locked the door had ignored one of the most basic rules of personal security. He pushed the wire gently, gradually easing the key out of the lock. He tensed as the key fell to the floor, but as it bounced on the layer of crepe paper, it made next to no sound. King turned for a quick, cursory glance around, to make sure that he did not become so absorbed in his work that he became complacent. Then he returned to his task, and gently pulled the crepe paper back towards him, revealing the key, which glistened in the moonlight. Relieved, he picked it up and placed it smoothly into the lock. The lock, although rusty in appearance from the outside, opened easily. He pulled down on the handle and pushed the top half of the door inwards, then reached inside, caught hold of the bolt and gently opened the bottom half of the door.
King opened the backpack and took out a roll of cloth. He unwrapped it, then separated the two pieces of material. Each piece had been specially made, and consisted of a foot-shaped piece of cotton with elasticated seams. He bent down and quickly placed the pieces over his feet, the elastic holding the makeshift footwear in place. Now he did not have to worry about tell-tale muddy footprints on the tiled floor. He cautiously stepped inside, observing his surroundings, studying every detail, so as to disturb nothing.
Used cups and glasses cluttered the pine table in the centre of the room, and this first glance told King that this room, like kitchens in most houses, was the focal point. He wasted no time, quickly taking the box of transmitters from his pack. He selected a voice-activated transmitter that would put out its signal on a secondary frequency, then walked over to the dresser.
It was a strain lifting out the large piece of furniture, yet trying to remain silent. He eased one side of it back, tensing suddenly as it squeaked on the quarry tiles. He held his breath, listening out for any sound that would tell him he had been detected, but all he could hear was the sound of his own pulse, pounding savagely in his ears.
King relaxed a little, satisfied that he was in the clear. He peeled off the self-adhesive sticker from the back of the transmitter and carefully pressed it against the rear of the dresser, making sure that the antenna hung down free from any obstructions.
This time, he was ready for the dresser to stick against the quarry tiles, and avoided the sound by lifting from the corner. He had just replaced it back to its original position, when he heard the thud from
upstairs. He tensed, his heart pounding voraciously. The sound had been clearly audible through the thin, uneven ceiling. He stood stock-still, waiting for another sound, praying that the first had just been a one-off.
It wasn’t.
The thud was accompanied by another, clearly recognisable as footsteps on a hard, wooden floor. King snatched up the backpack, drew the Browning from its holster and bolted for the door. He quietly opened both doors and slipped outside, just as he heard the door open upstairs. He frantically closed the bottom door and re-bolted it, trying to strike a balance between speed and stealth. The footsteps became louder, then ceased altogether. He could hear running water, as he gently slipped the key into the lock, then, as he started to pull the top door towards him, he heard the sound of a toilet flushing. He dropped the pack to the ground and reached inside for the tool kit, which was housed in a soft leather case. He frantically pulled the case apart and caught hold of the required instrument. He raised his head, listening intently. He could hear the sound of approaching footsteps; whoever was up and about was coming down the stairs. The tool that he had selected for the task was a slim pair of pliers, which looked not unlike a pair of exaggerated tweezers. He carefully slipped them into the lock and caught hold of the tip of the key, the magnetised tips almost guiding him, before clamping down tight. His hands were shaking slightly, a response that he had seldom felt before. Maybe it was because someone was getting far too close, or maybe it was because he was operating alone and had no back-up. Either way, he did not spend time analysing it; he merely bit the side of his cheek and concentrated on the task at hand. He eased the key backwards a touch, closed the top half of the stable door, then turned the pliers anti-clockwise, through a three-hundred and sixty-degree rotation. He heard the click of the lock as it rotated a full turn, then he hastily snatched the pliers out from the lock.