by Geoff Wolak
‘We’ll get that sorted out soon. In the meantime, why not release just one hostage as a sign of good faith.’
‘OK, we get rid of the man bleeding.’
‘Bleeding?’
‘I shot the fucker. We send him now.’
I put the phone down, knowing that the line was probably not cut. ‘There are ten hostages, we send the wounded man out,’ I said in Russian, Mister Sneer nodding.
I lifted the wounded guard, but he could walk OK, and I nudged him towards the door. Unbolted, I turned the Yale lock and hid myself, opening the door so that the guard could leave. As soon as he was gone I closed the door and bolted it.
Back near the phone, and wondering if they were listening in, I said, ‘Tell Rodos that I let the wounded man go as they asked.’
Rizzo, Stretch and the regular Regiment lads jumped into the blacked-out minibus in a hurry, all kitted out, extra kit carried, and they were soon heading for Farringdon, where Russian speaking gunmen were reportedly held up inside a safety deposit box building.
A few minutes later, and after pacing up and down, I returned to the phone. I pointed my gun at a receptionist that had clearly wet herself, sat in a damp patch. ‘What is your name?’ I asked.
‘Hope,’ she said, and I smiled.
‘Good name.’ I turned to Pamela. ‘Hey, money lady, what’s your name?’ She did not respond, so I raised my pistol. ‘What is your name..?’
‘Georgina. Georgina Bright.’
‘Your money or your bosses?’
‘My bosses.’
‘What does he do, eh?’
‘He ... sells fine art.’
‘Ah, London art dealers, all gay men, yes.’ She did not answer. ‘They all go to Eton, then Cambridge and Oxford, yes, like Burgess and Maclean.’
She controlled her shock, and kept quiet, no response coming from behind me.
The Special Branch Russian translator lifted his head and looked at his colleague, both now sat at the command centre around the corner, a hire rental office. ‘Run a name, Georgina Bright. And contact Mi5, and give them that name, as well as Rodos. Something very odd here, and I’d swear the guy is trying to speak clearly near the phone. And he’s not Russian either.’
A few minutes later and the panic button was very firmly pressed.
The Russian speaking officer lowered his phone, and glanced at the Special Branch detectives in charge. ‘That name ... is a cover name for a senior Mi5 officer, Pamela Houghton. Her office confirms that she’s overdue, and was here this morning. She’s inside.’
Bob Staines had just arrived and had listened in. He now turned and left the room immediately, hiding his shock and surprise. Along the street, and after making a call, he ducked into another office, this one full of troopers, the kettle on. He found the Major.
‘You look worried,’ Bradley told Bob.
Bob hesitated. ‘Looks like Wilco deliberately spoke after putting down the phone, knowing that the line wouldn’t clear and that we could hear inside. It’s still live.’ He paused. ‘Pamela Houghton is being held inside.’
The Major’s eyes widened. ‘How the fuck did she get herself kidnapped!’
‘Something here ... stinks.’
The Major adopted his worried look, Captains Harris and Moran at his elbows. ‘She’s supposed to be running this show, so what the fuck is she doing wandering into her own heist?’
Bob’s phone went and he stepped away. Returning, he began, ‘That building has safety deposit boxes, some of which are used by Mi5 for slush money. She was attending one this morning.’
‘Maybe some fucker knew that!’ the Major let out. ‘Is her assistant after her job?’
‘This can’t be a coincidence, and if someone knew, then ... why drag in Wilco?’ Bob thought out loud. ‘For them to know, they already know ... what they want to know and need to know.’
‘Wilco is a smart lad,’ the Major commended. ‘He already got a message out.’
Bob looked past the Major. ‘Why alert us that she’s there. What ... would change?’
‘Change of plan, no risk to her,’ Moran suggested.
Bob began, ‘Someone, other than us ... wants to call the shots here. Oh, and we got the name of the ringleader confirmed.’
‘What about the wounded guard?’ Harris asked. ‘Did he say anything?’
‘Man who shot him fits Wilco’s description, and Wilco knocked down two big guards on entry, with his fists. But ... Wilco is credited with shooting the guard.’
‘Where was the guard hit?’ Moran asked. ‘Exactly.’
‘Inside of the shoulder,’ Bob answered. ‘Not life threatening.’
Moran smiled. ‘Wilco special, he hit the soft spot.’
‘Still,’ Bob cautioned. ‘Be an enquiry.’
‘He’s playing the part,’ the Major insisted. ‘He can’t be seen to be soft, or he’s dead meat.’
I whiled away the time pacing up and down, and at one point I touched-up one the black receptionists in full view of everyone, a big firm pair to play with. Rodos came back down half an hour later.
‘How’s progress?’ I asked.
‘On schedule,’ he said, lowering his dust mask. ‘No more calls?’
‘No.’
Rodos had turned away when the phone went. I made no attempt to answer it, and looked to him. He gestured me towards it. Heaving an irritated sigh for the benefit of Rodos and Mister Sneer, I lifted the phone.
‘Yes!’ I said in Russian, Rodos wandering off.
‘We would like to thank you for releasing the hostage, such gestures help to calm things. We are trying to get the bus soon. How ... big a bus would you like, for how many people?’
‘I want the bus big enough for twenty people.’
‘Twenty, OK, we could do that easily enough. We could get a Leyland, a Daff or a Wilco. Which would you prefer?’
I resisted a smile. ‘Third one, Leyland Daff.’
‘And ... how are things ... in there?’
‘Fine. We will contact you later, when we are ready, a few hours.’
‘How many ... special passengers for the bus?’
‘Why you ask? There are four ... women, maybe we send one out.’
‘That would be another good gesture, yes. Are all the hostages alive and well?’
‘They are all OK, only the first guard was shot, and by accident. But if they make problems for us, we shoot them in the arse.’
‘Please, I hope they don’t make any problems for you. Could we talk to one of the lady hostages, to see if they are OK?’
‘No, they’re bitches.’ I slammed the phone down, Pamela studying me intensely, our eyes locked.
Bob and the Major had been listening in, and now lowered their headsets. They walked outside.
‘Four gunmen plus Wilco,’ the Major noted. ‘Or four in total.’
‘He wouldn’t put Pamela on the phone,’ Bob noted.
‘He called her a bitch,’ the Major noted. He stopped and faced Bob squarely. ‘He called her that for a reason.’
Bob squinted. ‘He’s mad at her, but why?’
‘Because he knows she should not have been there, because he knows that something stinks.’
‘Could she be dirty?’ Bob wondered. ‘Running the show whilst pretending to be a hostage?’
‘If she is, then Wilco has seen right through her already, hence the bitch comment.’
‘What would she gain?’ Bob thought out loud.
‘What’s in those safety boxes?’
‘Mi5 slush money, not much, but ... what’s in the other boxes?’
‘Something worth getting!’ the Major stated. ‘And something worth risking her life for!’
‘She’d never get away with it, and now she knows that we’re aware of her. There’d be a hell of an enquiry just for accidentally being caught up in this, her judgement in question.’
‘On that basis, maybe she didn’t know, but someone else did, someone after her job – or at least someon
e wanting her gone. You ... want her gone, Bob?’
Bob shot the Major a look. ‘No, and she’s not in competition with me, different areas altogether.’
‘Apart from the Russia House,’ the Major noted. ‘And Petrov. Maybe someone wanted her gone, Wilco with her.’
‘That ... could be a worry. But who would risk the enquiry? Once this is over, every full stop will be examined. They would never get away with it.’
‘Maybe some fucker has done his homework, and has a tight plan,’ the Major said as he walked off.
I sat studying the room, and thinking, thinking about Pamela - and why she was here.
Half an hour later, and the phone went. They wanted to know that the hostages were OK. I put down the phone and turned to Mister Sneer. ‘They want to know the hostages are alive.’
Turning to Pamela, I dragged her up, tearing open her white blouse, her shock evident. Unbolting the door, Mr Sneer unsure of what to do but closing in, I pushed her forwards, grabbed her hair and edged her out, a few seconds visible and back in, throwing her back into her seat as I shut the door and bolted it.
‘Christ,’ Bob let out as he watched the cameras. ‘She’ll be mad as hell afterwards.’
The Major lifted his eyebrows. ‘He tore her top first, so ... he’s mad at her alright. Yanked her back by the hair.’
When Mister Sneer resumed his usual position I caught a look from Pamela, and so closed in on her. Lifting her, I dragged her across the room, the other girls worried – and crying quietly. In full view of Mr Sneer, yet far enough away, I pulled down Pamela’s bra and began playing with her breasts.
With her head away from Mr Sneer, she whispered, ‘My boss sent me in, slush fund, I was set up.’
I bent over a licked a nipple before pulling up her bra and closing her top a little, letting her struggle free and sit back down. Sighing, I closed in on Mr Sneer and knocked on the staff kettle as I considered what she said. It made sense, because to want to be here would be crazy, something could go wrong, and mid-level career managers did not risk their lives in the field.
The scenario went around and around in my mind as I made myself a coffee.
Her presence here was bound to get out, and there would be a top level enquiry. Who would risk that? Someone with power and clout, and resources, like her manager, who I guessed might be a director level guy – or a director level lady.
But what was my role in this? Did he want to get rid of me as well, was he jealous of Bob Staines, or was I supposed to witness something? Did he just want a reliable witness, to her death maybe? Would I be discredited if I failed to save her?
Scenarios went around in my head till I grew angry, angry at whoever was behind this.
Rodos came down half an hour later, a quick chat and a cup of tea before he got back to the concrete cutting. When the phone went I answered it.
‘Yes.’
‘As a sign of good faith, would you be able to release another hostage?’ He had not said “Would you be willing” he said “able”.
‘Call back soon.’ I put the phone down and walked past my accomplice, although he felt more like a guard. I bound up the stairs to the room where I had disabled the non-functioning detector. Dust spewed out. Rodos saw me and stopped, lowering his mask.
‘They want another hostage,’ I said. ‘How about the guy I hit, he’s awake now just about.’
Rodos nodded, and got back to his cutting.
Downstairs, I pointed at the bruised guard. ‘Get him up and to the door.’
Two girls assisted the big man to the door and I unbolted it, opening it twelve inches as I hid from view. With my pistol I waved the man forwards and out, slamming the door quickly and bolting it. Calm reclaimed the hostage room. The hostages resumed their routine of staring and worrying, and I resumed my routine of pacing around and thinking, and thinking about Pamela’s boss, and what he was after here.
In my mind I said, ‘Get the sixty million off the Zimbabwean Government, a good result. Get rid of Pamela, or discredit her for some internal reason – maybe she was after his job, get rid of me or discredit me, get back at Bob Staines and his recent successes.’ I sighed, since it seemed to make sense. All that would have to happen is that money moved from one box to another.
That brought me around to considering that one of the gunmen would do it, they would have to, but who? There was only one candidate, Rodos, since he had been taking directions from outside, not least my tightly timed entry to the building – timed to catch Pamela.
Nodding to myself, I realised that it fitted, and fitted well. All I had to do now was to right royally screw up his plans.
When the phone went, half an hour later and quite predictable now, I simply told them to call back later because we were holding a board meeting, Mr Sneer not picking up on my flippant attitude.
I made another coffee, dust now making its own way down the stairs, the smell of concrete hitting us. Then I noticed dust in the deposit box room, and peering up I could see the cut marks. Rodos would be through soon, so why the planned hostage siege? Would it take time to open the boxes? Not with metal cutters it wouldn’t, so why the estimated time of a few days? And where was the bomb?
As I peered into the deposit box room, an idea hit me. Move the loot from one box to another, set off a bomb in here, damage all paper and computer records - and maybe kill the staff who knew about the records, and collect the boxes whilst pretending to be the rightful owners.
But what was normal police procedure after a raid like this? Would the police open the boxes, and given what the outside world knew about this planned heist, first thing they would do would look for the loot in the other boxes.
Little made sense, and it went around and around in my mind, my life depending on the outcome. But I could end this quickly. Mr Sneer could be knocked down, I could get upstairs whilst they were busy cutting, and I could kill them all.
I relaxed a little because I was confident that I could end it. But what of the bomb, if there was one? Where was it, and with what kind of trigger?
An hour later, two hostages taken to the toilet and rudely observed, and I was back at the deposit box door, getting there just as a cement block bent back and fell down in a cloud of dust.
I turned to Mr Sneer. ‘They are through.’
‘Already?’ he asked, and had a look for himself, and I had to wonder again about the estimate of several days.
‘Stay here,’ I said, and legged it upstairs before he could argue. Coughing in the dust, I entered the room and peered down through the hole.
‘That was quick,’ I commented. ‘You said days.’
‘It was much easier than we estimated, not as thick. These cutters did a good job.’ He seemed pleased.
‘Now what?’ I asked.
‘We lower down the cutters, and power cables, and we cut the boxes open. It’s time to get rich.’
‘Sounds good,’ I enthused, and I headed back down.
‘What’s happening?’ Mr Sneer asked me.
‘Now they get down through the hole and cut the boxes open. We see if we are rich or not.’
I resumed my job of peering through the glass in the door into the deposit box room, but took time out to dispense water when the hostages started whinging. I also tossed magazines and paperbacks at them to help them pass the time.
Rodos conjured up an aluminium ladder from the building next door, and he clambered down it carrying a heavy cutter, power cable dangling. Mask on, protective eyewear on, he tackled the cabinet door that I had seen earlier, a hell of racket created.
Ten minutes later and he was through, and I had wedged the deposit room door open with a chair at an angle, the hostages now getting the dust and the noise.
Rodos was sweating as he lowered his mask and opened the door. What he found was a rack of vintage flintlocks, and he stood puzzling them.
‘They are vintage,’ I told him. ‘Very valuable, but difficult to sell.’
Angered at his f
ind, he tossed the flintlocks aside and opened internal drawers, finding some cash, but not much. Mask back on, he turned his attention to the next largest door, and I was left wondering why he had not been told where to look. If he had been so well informed about this place, then where was the money?
Ten minutes later and he had the second door open, this time more money found, but not millions, and his disappointment was evident. Mr Sneer also saw that disappointment, and it added to his own; I caught a worried look from my guard and companion. I wondered what would happen if Rodos came up short. A shoot-out came to mind, that or some harsh language.
Rodos passed the money up through the hole and set about a box. Three boxes later and he had over a million pounds, but he was still looking worried.
The phone went, and I answered it. ‘Yes?’
‘We have your bus on the way, where would you like it to take you?’
‘To the airport of course. I want a plane fuelled and ready to go to Cuba.’ I hung up, imagining the expression on their faces, and returned to the deposit box room, the dust now settled.
Turning, I pointed my pistol at the deputy manager as I closed in on him. ‘If the man in there does not find what he wants he will be very mad at you. Which boxes have money?’
‘I don’t know, the clients always place contents inside in private, we step out when they do that.’
I nodded. ‘I hope he finds something.’
But things were not going well, and half an hour later Rodos was kicking things and shouting.
When the phone went I answered it. ‘Yes?’
‘We have a plane ready, and will soon have the bus.’
‘Change of plans, we’re going to Brighton instead. We’ll let you know soon. Stand by, stand by.’ I placed down the phone.
‘That’s a signal to us!’ the Major shouted around the control room. ‘Our standard wording. It means we move very soon.’
‘We have no authorisation yet!’ the Special Branch Commander insisted.