Constantin had never experienced such feelings – the initial rush created by the drug took him by surprise, the girl brought out the best in him, just touching him was enough, the sensation was intense, beyond anything he had ever experienced, hour after hour she played with him until he became so drowsy he was unable to remember his own name. Soon afterwards he despised her and was so emotionally disinterested in her it would have shocked him, had he have been capable of connecting two thoughts together.
He had heard many people talking about the first rush that heroin provides, but always thought of them as weak. Until now. Now he just needed to visit the cruel mistress, just one more time. Just once.
He stayed with the girl for a month – he called her the girl because he simply could not remember her name. By then he was dependent and penniless. What she hadn’t taken, her friends and dealer had.
He tried to self-treat – trying his best to withdraw but the constant itchy skin, restlessness and vomiting, diarrhoea and cold flashes made him miserable. There was only one way to counter the dreaded symptoms. He had to get away from the girl, the city and the endlessly available supply of drugs.
In a rare moment of sobriety, he left mainland Europe and arrived in London. Days later he had entered the previously considered fortress-like building of a provincial bank and had blown the front of their safe off. The explosion had taken him by surprise, but it was his new drug. The thrill was incredible. And the rewards far outweighed the risks.
What satisfied him more than anything else was the ability to choose when he wanted to experience an entirely different high. For now, it seemed that he had finally found a replacement for the dreaded drug that had entered his life and stripped him bare of everything he had ever worked for.
Staying at opulent hotels, he was soon exposed to the hedonistic world of pleasure that only cold, hard cash can provide. Drink, a new drug had laid bare his deep-seated addiction and soon he was seeking out a new dealer.
It was around this time that he first met the girl called Lucy. Against her judgement, but in return for a healthy reward, she introduced him to the local heroin trader. It wasn’t a moral issue – she just despised the drug and how it had led to her younger brother’s death.
From the moment that Constantin met her, his entire life was a fabrication. A drug-fuelled fantasy that enabled him to take greater risks and each time he entered a financial building, intent on removing some or all of their profits, he increased the amount of explosive that he used.
Constantin and Lucy continued to see one another for a few months – he even accepted the fact that she was a professional escort and insisted upon her taking precautions. The truth was, he had fallen in love with her – bizarrely, given that he knew that she was also living a momentous and almost paraphilic lie. Drugs had not removed his ability to judge a situation. It was his repressed sexuality that confused his state of mind, but if Lucy was happy, then so was he.
His opiate-based legacy had soon led him to accepting more demeaning roles, anything to be able to live. Quickly desperate for money, he had met another male in a pub on a quiet and miserable Thursday afternoon. The male was drinking vodka and offered to buy the second round. A simple act of kindness was all it had taken – that and a comforting conversation in his mother tongue.
The male spent the next few hours convincing him to join his team. They talked about the revolution and toasted the future of a new Romania. The male liked what he heard and had a role that would reward his skills. No, the job would not be as satisfying, but his expertise would be utilised and he would be rewarded well. It seemed to be an ideal situation for a man who had little else to offer.
Constantin was not attracted to the male – more to his proposals.
Best laid plans: He was caught exiting a bank on only his second attempt and sent to prison by a judge who sought to make an example of him, later describing Constantin’s offending as a ‘Gaussian bell curve of gluttony’.
Locked down, hour after solitary hour in Her Majesty’s Prison Wormwood Scrubs, he learned a lot about people, and importantly a lot more about his field craft. He read book after book about chemistry to the point where he convinced himself that he could easily initiate a device that would blow a hole in the extensive walls of a prison whose first construction began in 1874.
He was also, rather forlornly, able to obtain the drug of his choice and so his addiction flourished behind the Victorian façade of one of Britain’s most notorious prisons from which he never escaped, nor truth be told did he eventually ever want to.
Whilst they housed him, cared for him and fed him, he could live a life without care. His body slowly began to rot, his mind quickly evaporating. The only thing he could remember was how to destroy things.
And her, yes, even in his darkest hours, he always remembered her.
What his sentence did do was focus his thoughts on how he could exploit his knowledge on the outside. He agreed with himself, for it was easier that way. He made a personal pact that the moment he got out of that miserable place three things would happen.
One, he would find that bastard Gheorghiu who he had met in that miserable English pub that served warm, inferior vodka and remind him what loyalty really meant.
Two, he would carry out the most spectacular bank raid yet and three, most importantly he would spend his ill-gotten gains on one more night with Lucy.
Oh, and four, he would place his addiction into an envelope, carefully seal it and send it, somewhere, anywhere, he didn’t care, as long as it was as far from him and his inherent weaknesses as possible.
That was then. His past had a habit of visiting him whenever he allowed it a split second to invade his consciousness.
‘Focus, Constantin. Please.’
Whilst Constantin did not witness it the second device was far more impressive. The blast tore a hole in the facia of the cash machine, sending its component parts across the street.
Small, effective and demanding attention. Stefan would be pleased. Jackdaw would be delighted.
The subsequent explosions, although small, were loud enough to be heard across various parts of London and in a city not immune to terrorist activity and occasional gunfire it was enough to cause some nearby residents to call the police.
One resident described the explosion as ‘annoying’ – it had interrupted her television viewing. Another was more descriptive, if not guilty of a little embellishment, explaining to the call taker that it sounded like ‘the gates of Hell had opened!’
A third was perhaps the most informative. Pete Deighton was a thirty-year veteran of both the British Army and latterly, a police officer, now retired. He’d cut his teeth as a royal engineer, in particular as an explosive ordnance disposal technician.
He described the explosion as being exactly the same as the noise a detonator or blasting cap would make. He was spot on. Pete Deighton always was, he was a true gentleman and as his oft-used own pun went, a mine of information.
The first officer to arrive at the scene of the ATM blast updated his supervisor, who in turn told the CAD inspector that what they were looking at was an explosive device – not a cashpoint attack. This was enough to raise a few eyebrows and when the third one had been reported the CAD inspector hovered his index finger over his speed dial for a second. Should he call out the Met’s own Bomb Squad or refer this to the local Royal Engineers?
He pressed the number 3 digit on the phone and began briefing the call taker.
Three minutes later the Metropolitan Police Ford Transit van exited its home and travelled swiftly across the city, crew on board, suited and ready.
Satisfied that the appropriate call had been made, Inspector John Ballard paused and then made another call to an old contact in Rochester, Kent, the home of the nearest available military EOD team.
“Geoff? John Ballard. Yes, very well mate. Listen, I’ve got a series of events happening up here and think you should be aware – our own squad are en route –
and it may be nothing – but I want to inform you now in case this develops.”
He began to outline what he knew to date and was careful to differentiate between fact and opinion.
“On one hand, we have a series of attacks on bank cash points and on the other we now have explosions at cash points. I’m sure they are connected, but I’ve seen my share of mayhem over the last twenty years.”
“So, what’s the real connection? Surely you don’t get interested in these sorts of events?”
“You are right, Geoff, I don’t. But these attacks have a link to a small group of Eastern Europeans who we think have begun to perfect this m.o. It’s pretty lucrative stuff, but now the risks are increasing with these bloody explosions. Call me paranoid.”
“You’re paranoid, mate,” replied a broad Birmingham accent, “But I’ll consider myself informed. Keep me posted John.”
In the preceding hour, Gabor and his unwelcomed mentor had worked with their own mix of diligence and paranoia to complete their task. Both men pulled their hoods around their faces, scarves already in place to cover their mouths.
Constantin gave the instruction to Gabor to start to prize open the cash slot with a crowbar whilst he ran to the car, grabbing two hoses, a sledgehammer and a length of wire.
He got back to his accomplice.
“Good, now go and get the cylinders. Quick!”
Gabor was back in seconds. He fed the two hoses into the gaping mouth of the machine, stopping when he was physically unable to push any further. The wire followed.
Each hose was in turn attached to a cylinder. One contained acetylene, the other oxygen. If they had been able to park Gabor’s car nearer to the scene they would have done, but for this event they would have to compromise.
The older male took control now – this was the critical part of the operation, far beyond the scope of a mere, albeit attractive boy. He skilfully allowed the gases to decant into the bowels of the machine, leaving them for two perilous minutes until he was ready to introduce a spark.
He’d seen it done many times in Eastern Europe and he had heard similar tales from South Africa – admittedly he’d only seen it on CCTV footage but he had practised it in his head many more times. The trend had only started that year, but was spreading with such intensity that the major banks had no response. The damage caused to their branches was almost as financially harmful as the actual loss of cash.
He had been allowed one trial run the day before at an old quarry in the nearby county of Essex. The explosion, given its simplicity, was gloriously spectacular.
“Come, Dorin. Hide with me behind this wall Come, now!”
Gabor was unsure, cautious almost, but Constantin’s next words re-emphasised what they were dealing with. There was a sense of urgency, of excitement.
Quietly, he had hoped that this dark and deviant character would stand just a little too close to the bank. His thoughts were interrupted by his overly-eager abettor.
“Any moment now that cash machine will explode. Just like Gheorghiu and I explained. Remember? The front hole lets air in and the door on the back of the machine. It lets it out again! Simple. The gases mix and when we add a little spark…it goes boom! Then all we do is smash the wall down with the crowbar and hammer, and we take the stack of money and run. Ready?”
“It is like my chemistry class – chemistry meeting with physics, no?”
Constantin was too excitable to have the slightest interest in what the boy had just said. He considered his work an art form, alchemy, without the gold. He would turn a simple exchange of gases into a masterpiece, one which he considered, morosely, to be a waste of talent for many of his customers – and victims.
He was particularly focused, but managed what he considered to be a sincere smile before asking again.
“Are you ready?”
He was far from ready. What would his mother think of him? He had had such a bright future ahead of him.
“Ready.”
Gabor stepped out from behind the wall but felt an instant grip on his arm.
It was his partner. His strength belied his physically poor condition.
“Get down you fool.”
The explosion that followed was quite the most spectacular thing that Dorin Gabor had ever witnessed, heard or felt. In fact, he felt it before any other sense had been aroused.
There was no blinding flash of magnesium-white light, no obvious flames. If he was honest he daren’t look, albeit if he had of looked he would have witnessed an impressive orange fireball. The surrounding air appeared to vanish, for a second he felt he couldn’t breathe. The noise was intense, almost catastrophic given their proximity to the device. But what he did realise was that this was by far the most stupid, dangerous and undeniably amazing thing he had ever done. He found himself hugging his partner in crime, who just smiled an equally wide but broken smile.
“Come, brother, now we must hurry, this is where we make some money!”
Gabor ran with him, involuntarily rubbing his hands together.
They smashed down what remained of the machine surround and gained access to the rear, stepping over broken office furniture, walls and glass that had become victims of the attack. Gabor was amazed at the extent of the damage and more so that the police were not there yet. He recalled a feeling of suspended animation, as if he were able to operate in complete isolation with absolutely no fear of being apprehended.
He started laughing as he grabbed box after box of cash and stuffed it into one of a number of large canvass bags.
“Have you ever seen so much money, Constantin?” He asked, a huge smile emerging across his face.
His mentor had of course seen much more, but the taste of victory was sweet, sweet enough to overpower the acrid stench of garlic that surrounded them – a by-product of the toxic mixture of phosphine and arsine compounds released during the explosion.
They hastily rammed cash into the bags, climbed back through the void in the bank wall and ran as fast as they could, adrenaline coursing through their veins, back to Gabor’s car.
All that was left was a vast hole, a debris field, a few hundred pounds in abandoned notes, and another statistic on a growing list of victimless crimes. And not one siren. Anywhere.
If the Jackdaw wanted notoriety, he had just found it. His rapidly growing team had just carried out the first successful ATM gas attack on British mainland. At least the first that the banking industry would have to admit to, but it would not be the last and they would, for a few years at least be two steps behind.
Cade and O’Shea had foregone breakfast and had walked into work with four of the team, with a breathless Roberts two steps behind them.
“You’ve heard the news then Jack?”
“I have Jason, yes. What do you think? It’s them, isn’t it? It has to be.”
“I’m a hopeless gambler Jack, so I’m putting it all on red.”
“What exactly does that mean?”
“I have no idea.”
The two were laughing about their conversation when they were joined by Daniel.
“Well, well, well, what do we have here then gents? A cynic might suggest that you and Jack have been running around town setting off a few firecrackers to court the attention of the media…”
Roberts was quick to retort, “With all due respect sir…”
“Which we both know means with absolutely none at all Jason…”
“We do boss, and normally I’d agree, but I mean it, respectfully, if you think this is really some half-cocked scheme…”
Cade intervened, “I’m pretty sure the boss didn’t think that for a second Jason, and anyway, where can you buy fireworks at this time of the year?”
“Indeed – bloody big firework, Jack. Right Jason round up that motley crew you call a team and let’s get the whiteboard fired up. I want every fact on a timeline by nine-thirty latest. Give me a cast iron reason for me to go back to Frank Waterman so I leave his office with my reputation int
act and not my balls in a bun!”
“You’ll have everything you need, sir.”
Roberts took the lead with his team, “Right folks, you heard the governor. If Breaker is to continue we need some real hard facts, I want these muppets locked up by the end of the week. They must be leaving more DNA evidence around the city than a teenage stag party. Let’s get some enthusiasm going guys. Ask yourself what Woodie would have done!”
With the team fired up, Roberts ordered tea and coffee and a handful of what he liked to call ‘celebrity biscuits’ and then joining Cade and O’Shea adjourned to the briefing room, grabbed a pile of whiteboard markers and started drawing up the latest timeline. What startled them all was just how little ‘time’ had actually elapsed on the timeline.
“Morning Guv, Skipper, Carrie.” It was Terry Campbell.
“Morning Tel, right, grab a brew and let us know any thoughts you have on this. Things have gone up a few notches overnight.”
“They sure have boss. Like my dear old mum used to say, ‘Life is like a box of chocolates, you never quite know whether to take the low road or the high road.” He walked over to the whiteboard to act as the scribe.
Cade whispered to O’Shea, “Did he just misquote the great Forrest Gump or are my ears deceiving me?”
O’Shea beamed – it was the most amusing thing she’d heard for twenty-four hours. She hated what was happening in and around her beloved city.
Campbell was busy inscribing events onto the much-used whiteboard when a front counter employee walked in to the room.
“Sergeant Cade?” asked the employee.
Roberts was the first to respond. “It’s Inspector, actually, Alice, but I’m sure he will forgive you. What have you got there, bit early for Christmas?”
Seven Degress (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 2) Page 12