‘Let’s just say you’ve been warned, now let’s get this over with before I lose my temper!’
‘Put the envelope on the table, I’ve been instructed to count it in the ladies’, before giving you this,’ she rolled her shoulder and glanced at the rucksack.
‘Yeah right, and I’m an idiot. I’ll tell you now, that’s not happening, so call your boss to re-negotiate.’ Ibrahim shot her an angry stare.
A muffled message coming from a police airwave set startled them both. The woman froze. Nervously, Ibrahim glanced at a motorway cop in a Hi-Viz jacket ordering coffees at the counter; then another cop joined him. Shit! There were two of them, he thought.
A moment of deadly silence followed as they both sat there waiting for the cops to leave. God forbid they’d take a seat.
Carrying two lidded cups in a cardboard tray they walked towards their table. The woman’s complexion turned white; she looked as if she’d faint any second. Avoiding eye contact, Ibrahim pulled out his mobile and began nonchalantly flicking through his messages. As the cops levelled with their table, one of them noticed the woman’s demeanour.
He paused and glanced at her. ‘You OK love, you don’t look well?’
‘I’m… fi… ne,’ she said almost alerting him that something was wrong.
Ibrahim interrupted, ‘She gets car sickness on the motorway, Officer.’
‘Fair enough,’ he said.
The airwave set blasted again, this time Ibrahim listened carefully.
‘Safe to talk shire 591 over?’
‘Roger, go ahead?’
‘RTA just before junction 24, what’s your estimated response time, over?’
‘About ten minutes, on our way.’
Ibrahim breathed a huge sigh of relief as he watched the coppers make their way out of the café door. With a worried look the woman got up, fished her mobile from her back pocket, paced towards the window and dialled.
Ibrahim never took his eyes off her. She was totally out of her depth.
She returned to the table and renegotiated, ‘Says he wants proof all the money is there; wants it counting.’
‘And how am I going to do that in here; you’ll get us both arrested, don't be dumb. The best I can do is take a picture on my phone in the men’s. But let’s get one thing clear I’m not leaving without that rucksack, even if I have to rip it off your back you stupid bitch. I’m done fucking around.’
Realising there was no other option she sat at the table waiting for Ibrahim to come back from the gents.
‘He says it’s okay to do the deal, after you’ve sent the picture to him.’
Ibrahim took a deep breath, ‘That’s it then, no more of this shit. And I want to see some samples of the gold first. She glanced around the room nervously, then fished in her pocket and pulled out a clear bag containing sword fittings; pommel caps, hilt plates and garnet set pyramids.
Ibrahim scrutinised them. A minute later he received a text…
DO THE SWITCH. If you follow her after I’ll call the cops!
With gritted teeth he slid the folded Daily Star across the table, hiding the brown envelope inside. The woman grabbed it and left the rucksack where she’d been sitting. Ibrahim was desperate to follow her but didn’t call the man’s bluff; since he didn’t know who he was dealing with it was too risky. He grabbed the rucksack, unzipped it and rummaged through; all the boxes loaded with the gold where there. He breathed a sigh of relief. At least there was still some honour left in the criminal world.
CHAPTER 92
The Sepang blue RS5 Audi Tronic eased into the lower bay of Liverpool One car park. This stolen-to-order beauty had cost the Turkish gangster less than half the manufacturer’s on-the-road price of sixty-thousand. A London syndicate had nicked it to order: affording Ibrahim uninhibited motoring in this exquisite coupé for the past six months.
The journey from Stoke to Liverpool took longer than Charlie had expected, due to traffic. Before setting off from the Potteries, Ibrahim informed him that, with a cargo of £3.3 millions’ worth of ancient gold stowed on-board, he should stick to the speed limit religiously.
The switch was due to take place later that evening in a room at the four-star Hilton overlooking Albert Docks, on John Sears’ Way. The Collector’s man in Europe was overseeing the deal. Ibrahim and Bullard were scheduled to meet his specialist artefacts’ authenticator in the hotel bar at 6.30 p.m. After the nerve-wrenching experience of the heist, Charlie was enjoying all the mystique.
‘It’s like being in Ocean’s Eleven,’ he said to Ibrahim, as they wheeled their trolley cases across the highly polished marble floor of the hotel reception. ‘I need a drink.’
‘Let’s check in first. Take a seat there,’ Ibrahim said, pointing towards the modular leather sofas opposite the reception desk.’
Because businessmen from all over the world frequented the hotel they’d blend in relatively unnoticed; although Ibrahim made an obvious point of mentioning to the receptionist, that they were attending a business conference at the Echo Arena. With the formalities over, they took the lift to the third floor.
The adjoining rooms had spectacular views overlooking the Albert Docks UNESCO heritage site. Charlie dumped his case in the spacious double wardrobe, opened the mini-bar, and flipped the top off a cold beer. It’d been years since he’d stayed in a posh hotel and this place would do nicely, he thought. With its super king-size bed, modern en suite, panoramic view and, most importantly, fridge stocked full of beer.
In the next room, Ibrahim secured the Hoard in his safe and made a coffee from one of the complementary sachets. Whilst he languished in a large swivel chair, gazing through the floor-to-ceiling glass, he thought about the five million. A light tap on the door brought him back to the present. Padding across the carpet he peaked through the spy hole at Bullard’s silvery moustache.
‘Charlie, come in?’
‘Quality room that.’
‘Glad you like it. Fancy lunch?’
‘Yeah, I’m starving, man.’
‘OK, I’ll book us a table at Jamie Oliver’s; it’s only five minutes from the hotel. Italian OK with you?’
‘The TV chef?’ he animated.
‘Yeah, just a franchise; he won’t be cooking.’
‘Sounds good.’
‘Give me twenty minutes to freshen up and I’ll give you a knock.’
‘OK.’
CHAPTER 93
Over prawn linguine and pizza, they covertly discussed the last couple of weeks’ intense heist preparation, and the audacious bastard that stole the gold from them. Above them, the glass walkways of the busy Liverpool One shopping centre filled up. After they’d finished Charlie lifted his glass in the hope of a top-up, but Ibrahim shook his head at the waiter, putting paid to his desire for more Chianti.
‘Can we have the bill please? No more alcohol, Charl; you need to keep a straight head for the meeting. Once that’s done, we can party.’
‘Party!’ His face lit up anticipating going on a bender with Benzar.
‘Another meal, a couple of bars, then onto Eros Divine.’
‘What’s that place then?’
‘Lap dancing club.’
‘Seriously?’ Charlie grinned.
‘Yeah, thought I’d blow some cash. I’ve booked a VIP. booth for eleven. We get champagne and a couple of girls to ourselves for an hour.’
Demonstrating the desperation of single bloke who rarely got his rocks off, the ageing bank robber rubbed his hands together.
‘Anyway, it’s three o’clock; we need to get back. You take a nap, watch TV, while I prepare for the switch.’
Back in his room, Ibrahim set up the money counter and then lay on the bed. The heavy lunch had made him feel drowsy. Lying there he mulled over the arrangements of exchanging half the gold for two million cash, and the second half on completion of an online bank transfer into a Cayman Island company account, set up by his accountant Malcolm Preston.
Ibrahim woke after a nap; it was 5
.10 p.m. He showered, wrapped himself in a towel and opened a beer from the mini-bar. Finally, after weeks of planning, payday had arrived. Sitting upright on the bed, he felt apprehensive. Could he trust the Collector? Apart from weekly phone calls during the months leading up to the heist, he’d not seen the eccentric millionaire for over eight years. Even with the two hundred thousand upfront, payment for personnel and equipment, he still had nagging doubts whether the cash would be kosher. Five million seemed an absurdly large sum to part with for a collection worth just three point three million, although he was aware mega-rich collectors were more interested in the status of owning some of the world’s rarest artefacts, as opposed to their monetary value. Equally worrying was how long it would take the museum to discover their Anglo-Saxon kingdom of Mercia was full of gold-plated Indian tat.
He drained his bottle, slipped on some boxers and pulled on a navy polo shirt. Padding across the soft carpet to the window, he gazed out across the Albert Docks. Sun rays sparkled, flickering like tiny stars on the dark waters of the Mersey Estuary as a steady stream of tourists sporting backpacks ventured across the busy six lane ring road towards the city’s dockland bars and restaurants.
Turning back from the window, he slipped on his jeans and loafers and ran a comb through his hair. He grabbed his wallet and left the room, heading towards the lift.
It was 6.25, and the fashionable hotel bar with its glass chandeliers and zoned high-back Chesterfields was filling up with an eclectic mix of businessman, couples and groups of young woman, probably hen parties judging by the chinking of champagne flutes and their rowdy excitement. Ibrahim arranged for the Collector’s authenticator to call him at 6.30 p.m. Jefferson Newbridge was a rare artefacts specialist with a specific knowledge of ancient gold. And the Collector told him he could trust the 65-year-old implicitly.
Suddenly his mobile rang. ‘Hello.’
‘Jefferson Newbridge, we have a scheduled meeting at six-thirty.’
‘Where are you?’ Ibrahim asked, scanning around the bar until he noticed a grey-haired gent in a two-piece Harris Tweed suit, and green pinstripe tie, sat in the far right-hand corner, offering up a pint in acknowledgement. He slipped Charlie forty quid to get the drinks in and joined the eccentric-looking professor.
‘Hi, you must be Jefferson?’ he said offering a firm handshake.
‘Yes, please sit.’
Ibrahim dropped into the high back Chesterfield, facing the professors, affording them a degree of privacy. ‘Can I get you a drink?’
‘I’m OK, thank you, got one here,’ he said in near-perfect Queen’s English.
Charlie came trundling over, dodging four-luscious looking girls in skinny jeans with outrageously big hair. He tried hard not to spill the drinks, but the two pints of lager were a quarter of an inch lower by the time he’d stopped gawping at them and sloshed them onto the table.
‘Charl, this is Professor Newbridge.’
Charlie nodded in acknowledgement as he stood wringing his hands free of surplus beer. ‘Back in a minute, I’m going to wash my hands.’
Give his cock a good rub, more likely! Ibrahim thought, after that blatant perving. After taking a long slurp, he asked the professor. ‘How do you want to do this?’
‘I suggest we finish the drinks and reconvene at your room to look at the goods. Once we’ve established everything’s genuine, I’ll fetch my luggage. What room are you fellows in?’
‘Three-four-five, on the third floor.’
They made unrelated small talk for a further fifteen minutes before leaving the bar.
Back in the room Ibrahim poured two whiskys, one to calm his nerves and another for Charlie, who sat in the swivel chair reading a complimentary copy of the Mail. He’d already retrieved four of the eight boxes, containing the Hoard pieces, from the safe and was pacing up and down the narrow space between the bed and the door in nervous anticipation of the professor’s arrival.
A sudden tap on the door focused his attention. Peering through the spy hole he saw the distorted outline of the professor’s tweed suit. The eccentric entered towing a sturdy-looking black trolley case, with a smaller tan briefcase perched on top of it. He laid the briefcase on the bed, retracted the other case’s telescopic handle and let it rest by his side.
‘Please sit down, Professor.’ Ibrahim gestured towards the leather chair under the writing desk.
‘Can I offer you a drink?’
‘A glass of water would be fine, thanks.’
Ibrahim eased past him to fetch a bottle from the mini bar. Upon returning he noticed the professor had removed his jacket and linked a microscope to a small laptop he’d laid out with several other tools onto the desk, presumably equipment needed to authenticate the gold.
Rising from the chair the Professor heaved the trolley case onto the mattress, clicked the combination lock and slid it towards the opposite side of the bed, where Ibrahim sat eagerly awaiting to scrutinise its contents.
‘I think you’ll find it’s all there, one million in used twenties and seven hundred in fifties. The other three hundred is in the briefcase, but feel free to count it?’
Ibrahim carefully unzipped the case cover and folded it back to reveal deep piles of neatly packed notes. He gasped, his head spinning. Never in his entire life had he seen so much money in one place. Charlie stood speechless at his side gawping at the fortune laid out before them, and that was only bloody half of it, he thought! Switching on the note counter they set about the tedious job of counting and checking the cash was kosher.
The Safescan 2210 electronic banknote counter was a small portable device with built-in UV counterfeit warning detection and the ability to count a thousand notes per minute.
He fed the machine with the first pile of twenties. This crazy gadget even printed an itemised receipt at the end, providing a complete breakdown of the number of notes, batches and total value.
The professor looked on sceptically before asking to see the gold. Ibrahim passed him the first box while Charlie continued to feed the counter. He carefully opened it and sat in awe of its contents. The gold glistened under the powerful LED desk lamp.
‘So this is the world-famous Staffordshire Hoard? I must say it’s an absolute treat to see the pieces of this rare collection up close. Thirteen hundred years of history right in front of me. It’s like opening Pandora’s box to sixth- and seventh-century England,’ he said, squinting through the viewing tube of the microscope, whilst gently caressing the first piece with a pair of tweezers. ‘I’m presuming these pieces have already been gold-tested by the British Museum. However, since we can’t obtain those results legally, my employer requested this second test.’ He lightly scratched the surface of several pieces and performed analysis on them to identify what type of alloys the gold comprised of. ‘Beautiful filigree work, amazing skill. It’s so delicate and intricate… no two pieces are the same, an absolute joy to behold. The garnet inlays of this sword pyramid originated from India, the level of craftsmanship is astonishing. Look at this magnificent folded cross… you can see from the core it was crafted in two parts; there’s still plenty of soil trapped in the carving. Ruddy shame the settings used to decorate it aren’t here. They’d have probably been rubies.’
Spouting numerous superlatives, the professor methodically worked his way through both boxes, spending a few seconds analysing each piece. After an hour he declared emphatically that the exquisite collection was genuine.
Tell us something we don’t already know, egg-head! thought Charlie, visualising how he intended to splash his first hundred thousand, whilst reloading the last pile into the counter.
With a wry smile, the professor said, ‘I think that concludes our cash transaction.’ He retrieved a seven-inch tablet PC from his jacket. We can settle the bank transfer if you login to your account here.’ He pointed to a portal on the screen below a Dominion bank logo.
Ibrahim tapped his phone to display the account details and nervously entered the password. Fifte
en minutes later the screen returned a balance sheet showing a 3 million sterling deposit. He loaded the professor’s cases with the boxes containing the remaining pieces of the Hoard.
‘Shall we part over breakfast? Eight-thirty OK with you, chaps?’
Ibrahim agreed, carefully pondering how to best secure the cash whilst they were out on the lash that evening. ‘Make sure to stuff your safe with as many boxes it will hold.’
‘They’ll be collected later via secure currier in the guise of a taxi,’ the professor informed him.
Ibrahim should have guessed the Collector would have all bases covered. ‘What you up to this evening, Professor?’
‘Nothing much, couple of glasses of Shiraz in the bar, then I’ll retire with Gold From The Dark Ages.’
‘Couldn’t tempt you into a few beers with me and Charlie?’ Ibrahim asked him with a cheeky grin.’
‘Will there be girls?’
‘Might be.’ He winked at Charlie.
Professor Newbridge looked excited. ‘Bang on. The Dark Ages can go on a back burner; it’s been months since old Harry’s had a rub.’
The pair of them looked at each other, with a conspiratorial grin, trying hard not to laugh at the Professor’s overtly public schoolboy mannerisms.
After he’d left, they split the cash in half and intended to spread it around both rooms. In the unlikely event of being robbed at least they’d only lose a few grand. Five hundred thousand went into each of their safes, whilst the other million was split into ten bundles, and stuffed in different hiding places around their rooms.
CHAPTER 94
Later that evening the three unlikely drinking companions sat sipping a forty-quid bottle of Venica Ronco Delle Cime, in Gusto, a top-class Italian restaurant on the Albert docks. Ibrahim raised his glass and announced a toast.
‘Health, wealth and women.’
‘Quite right, old boy,’ added the professor as their glasses chinked together.
The Killer Shadow Thieves (DI Tom Blake, #1) Page 30
