The South Lawn Plot

by Ray O'Hanlon

  Manning's team was to hit the government bank, the other team, with Maeve in command, was responsible for rifling the contents of the opposition bank.

  The role of the trucks was simple. At appointed positions on their respective entry routes they would be turned sideways, rammed into parked cars and abandoned. The drivers would take the keys, and the front driver's side tire would be deflated by means of a hunting knife. This was all to be accomplished in a matter of seconds. With the trucks blocking two streets, there was just the lone remaining street that offered an escape route.

  The Garda station would be left in temporary isolation on the wrong side of Dermot's truck. Liam's truck would keep other unwanted traffic at bay for the time the two teams needed to make their escape.

  It was a simple plan. It had just a few minutes to succeed or fail. Precision and speed were central to the desired outcome.

  Manning was still looking in the side mirror when Liam's truck suddenly swerved to its left. It slammed into a parked car and stopped. Manning didn't bother to watch the rest. The car ahead was now speeding to its target, and he pressed his foot hard against the pedal.

  “El Fucking Paso,” said Dinny to no one in particular.

  As they had anticipated, the town was in its high noon torpor. The planning team had predicted that weather would play a crucial part in the operation. Rain would keep people indoors, but high speed driving would be riskier. Also, traffic tended to slow down and condense in wet conditions. The last thing they needed was a traffic jam.

  The better option was exceptionally warm weather. The day of the week when the money was in the banks was a constant. But Irish weather was a crapshoot.

  The operation was fixed for a week in August, weather permitting. And today it was doing just that. The temperature was nuzzling above eighty degrees for the third day in a row. The locals, Manning well knew, would be complaining bitterly about the heat after months of complaining bitterly about the damp and the chill. It was the Irish way.

  The IFF planners had been right. The square was deserted bar a sheepdog relieving itself against a parked bicycle. The first car pulled into a “no parking” spot just outside the west bank. Manning pulled into a space across the street from the east bank at an angle that allowed for a quick exit to the escape route.

  The first car would have to round the square so its team was given a thirty-second start. Manning watched as Joe approached the first car and opened the trunk. The team members, their faces hidden by balaclavas, emerged from the car. Joe was pulling weapons from the trunk. They were inside the bank a few seconds later.

  “Masks and gloves,” Rob said. “Give them thirty seconds.”

  It was an age. Manning pulled on his balaclava and gloves. There was a slight bump to the rear of the car as Liam arrived and popped the trunk.

  “Let's go,” Manning shouted.

  They were in the bank. The west bank had plexiglass security screens, and that called for either a hostage to be taken or a bullet into the lock leading to the inside area where the bank tellers worked.

  The east bank was an old fashioned affair, one of the few banks in the country that still lacked security screens. It would be a straightforward stickup.

  Liam and Rob were in front. Both were carrying automatic pistols and large canvas bags. As soon as they were in the main public area, they fanned out, Liam to his left. Rob to the right. Manning, with an AK47, and Dinny, with a pump action shotgun, went straight for the middle teller points.

  “The fucking money. All of it,” Dinny roared as they crashed against the counter. Liam and Rob had turned inwards and simultaneously tossed the bags across the counter.

  There were two customers, both women, one elderly the other about thirty.

  “Down, on your faces,” Dinny shouted. Both went to the floor. The old woman seemed to crumple. The bank staff pulled handfuls of bills from their cash drawers.

  Dinny raised his shotgun and pointed it straight at the face of a young teller. She appeared surprisingly calm. Manning moved the barrel of his assault rifle from side to side in order to keep the four bank officials behind the counter from making a break for the rear office.

  “Not just this rubbish,” Dinny shouted. “Get the big stuff.” The woman looked at a man beside her. He was evidently in charge.

  “Get it,” he said. Two of the tellers stepped back a few paces and pulled open a large floor level filing cabinet shelf. They each pulled out square packages wrapped in brown wrapping paper. These were the high denomination notes.

  “Here, in the bag,” Dinny commanded. One of the bank officials rammed the package into a canvas bag but the second, a young woman, hesitated.

  “Now!” Dinny screamed. Manning turned to tell him to cool it. Rob was already heading to the door with one full bag, Liam just behind him.

  The young woman said something, but Manning did not hear the words. They were drowned by the thunderous blasts of two shotgun barrels.

  Manning froze. The woman stood for a split second and stared at him. He shook his head. “No, it wasn't me,” he shouted.

  She tried to speak. Dinny was reaching over the counter waving his gun at another young woman who quickly stuffed the package in the canvas bag and hoisted it over the counter.

  Manning didn't pay heed. His eyes were fixed on the woman who had been shot. Her white blouse had turned crimson, and she had stumbled backwards against a table, trying to speak but with no words coming out.

  “Dinny,” Manning shouted, but Dinny didn't pay attention. He was shouting louder.

  “You don't fuck with me!” he was screaming.

  Manning's hand reached for the clock, and it fell off the bedside table. It was still dark outside the house, but Rebecca had an early meeting.

  “Just ten minutes more,” she said, sounding fully awake.

  “You were having a bad dream. You almost drop kicked me out of the bed.”

  Manning said nothing. He was thankful that in the pre-dawn darkness his wife could not see the tears flowing from his eyes.

  26

  HER BODY TENSED, and without opening her eyes, she clenched her right fist. Then she remembered. She was in her own bed and the snoring corpus beside her belonged to Nick Bailey.

  Samantha Walsh wasn't quite sure how she felt about her night out, the dinner at the Thai restaurant and the invitation from a man she barely knew. Mostly, however, it was occurring to her that she might have to make a whopping breakfast, bacon, oozing eggs and all the rest.

  Then she remembered, and it prompted some relief, that despite it being Saturday morning she was expected in the office first thing. Bailey would have to look after himself. He had muttered something about a shift of his own beginning in the late afternoon. That he was still sleeping soundly was, then, no surprise.

  The alarm was ten minutes from going off and with a flick of a finger Walsh made sure it would keep its peace.

  Bailey was lying on his back. Walsh lifted the covers a bit and inspected the man. A bit skinny and a bit pale perhaps, but overall not too bad. And he had been unexpectedly romantic and attentive over dinner, not at all what she had expected from a jaded hack from the likes of the Post.

  Whatever his work habits, Bailey had been anything but jaded a few hours previously when they had returned to Walsh's pin neat flat.

  “Rise and shine, sunshine. I don't suppose so,” she said in a whisper. Walsh didn't want to awaken him just yet. She needed a few minutes to get her thoughts in order.

  At the beginning of the week she had been due Saturday off. But that had changed by Friday evening. The phone message from Plaice had not supplied any details, but the urgency in his tone was clear. A break in the case of the dead priests was a possibility, but at the end of the message Plaice had hinted at something more personal.

  “A bit of an opportunity for you,” is how he put it, without elaboration.

  Walsh, now sitting upright, regarded her own body. She stretched to a respectable five f
eet seven inches. Not bad for her age, she thought, not bad at all. But of course she was a copper, and one who had taken every opportunity for physical fitness that the job allowed. Nevertheless, she felt more than a little self-conscious. Whatever about the throes of passion in the darkness of night, she was not quite ready to present herself full frontal to Bailey in the light of day, or what would be the light of day when she pulled back the heavy drapes.

  She reached over to the bedside chair and grabbed the extra large tee shirt with San Francisco inscribed in beg red letters on the front. She pulled the garment over her head and yawned. There was still no movement from Bailey, so she swung out of the bed and tiptoed towards the bathroom.

  She only got half way.

  “Morning, all,” said Bailey, his voice giving no hint of a man emerging from deep slumber.

  “You were awake,” said Walsh, sounding not exactly unpleased. “You sneak.”

  “I was daydreaming,” Bailey replied. “Nice one, too. All about how I got arrested and dragged into the scratcher by this super sleuth with a sexy voice.”

  “Stoppit,” Walsh said. She turned her head away to hide the smile.

  “I'm sorry but you're going to have to get your own breakfast. I have to go into the office. I'll manage a quick shower and that's about it.”

  “Room for two?” Bailey said.

  “You stay where you are or I will indeed arrest you.”

  But of course he didn't.

  Walsh was still trying to figure out why she found Bailey so attractive when she knocked on Plaice's door. She had a foot in before Plaice had time to say anything.

  “Come in. Good morning,” said Plaice. “Thanks for being so punctual, not that I would have expected anything less from you.”

  “Morning, guv,” Walsh replied.

  “Take a seat,” said Plaice. “Tea? Coffee?”

  Walsh shook her head. She went straight at it. “News about the priests?”

  “Well, some but not much. I think the inquest on Blackfriars is heading towards a suicide after all. Your Cornwall business is as was. We've asked the locals to ask a few more questions, but I wouldn't bet my last pound on a result. The other couple, well…” Plaice allowed his voice to trail away.

  “That said,” he quickly added, “I am still not fully convinced that the Blackfriars death was self administered. I have been looking into the man a little more. From what we have uncovered he just seems too private an individual for such a…,” Plaice paused for a moment, “display.”

  Walsh felt a little frustration creeping in but it was just as quickly pushed aside by fresh thoughts of Nick Bailey. Her parents would never approve. A journalist was bad enough, but a reporter for a paper like the Post would be met with scornful dismissal.

  She was conscious of Plaice talking, and then conscious of his silence.

  “Sorry, guv. I've been a bit distracted. A family matter.”

  “Nothing serious I hope,” said Plaice.

  “No, not really. But, guv, I was sure that there was something really odd about the Cornwall business. Shouldn't we have a longer look ourselves before turning it back to the locals?”

  “Of course, Sam,” Plaice replied, leaning over his desk and clasping his hands in that ‘I want to be perfectly frank with you’ pose that Walsh well knew was a precursor to an entirely different tack.

  “But there are other matters to attend to. Matters that concern your career and advancement.”

  Walsh sat back in her chair and stared at Plaice. That she had done something wrong was her first thought, but Plaice did not appear to be heading in that direction. He seemed too relaxed for that.

  “You have been a terrific asset to this team, Sam,” Plaice said.

  Walsh started at Plaice and slightly beyond him. Plaice had pulled a file from the side of his desk and had opened it. Walsh assumed it was hers.

  “You have been very diligent, Sam, when it comes to taking courses and adding to your curriculum vitae. Most laudable.”

  Plaice paused and shuffled a few papers.

  “Most particularly,” he said, “that stint up in Milton with SO19,” he said referring to the Metropolitan Police firearms training facility. “Turns out you're a crack shot, one of the best they have ever seen. A right Annie Oakley.”

  “It was very enjoyable and interesting,” Walsh replied allowing herself to inject a little more enthusiasm into her words.

  “Well, also revealing,” said Plaice. “You came out tops in the all the psychological testing, and I see here that you are more than proficient with several weapons.”

  Plaice looked at Walsh. He was inviting a further response to what was now a well and truly changed subject

  “Yes, guv,” she said. “Glock 17 and Heckler and Koch MP5 carbine.”

  “Precisely,” said Plaice. “The only problem is that you didn't complete the course.”

  “There was a family matter. You probably remember that my mum wasn't too well.”

  “Ah yes,” said Plaice. “I understand. But have you thought about finishing what you started? You are most of the way there as it is and there would be no problem in facilitating the necessary time.”

  “Are you trying to get rid of me?” said Walsh, her smile a cover for her rising puzzlement, and the first atoms of annoyance.

  “Let me be frank with you,” said Plaice. “The most exciting future in this force, sadly perhaps, is for those officers proficient with firearms. To the public eye we are still an unarmed force. But you know that the number of officers carrying firearms is rising all the time. There will come a day, and it isn't all that far off, when the unarmed bobby is going to go the way of the police whistle.”

  Plaice paused to let his words sink in.

  “You have a chance to get in ahead of the rush. Most armed officers are still men. You can handle a gun better than most of them according to this file. And I don't have to tell you that this is the sort of orientation and proficiency that will propel you into even higher ranks. And you do want to advance in the ranks?”

  “Absolutely, of course, yes,” said Walsh nodding her head. “I wouldn't mind being chief constable for that matter.”

  She immediately regretted this, but Plaice didn't seem to take it as facetiousness, or cheek.

  “I know you're interested in travel, Sam,” said Plaice. “That time we were doing a course exchange with the Germans you almost took a flying leap into the plane.”

  Walsh smiled, this time prompted by memories of going on night patrol with the Frankfurt Polizei, not to mention a little after-hours activity, much of it involving beer and singing.

  “Now there's the Special Branch, the various anti-terror units and the royal and diplomatic protection units. All of them work on a have-gun-will-travel basis,” said Plaice.

  “I know your family roots are in Ireland and a Special Branch posting, for example, would have a nice twist to it.”

  “How so?” Walsh responded.

  “Well, you may or may not know that the branch was formed back in the 1880s to specifically combat your Fenians when they were trying to blow up buildings around here with politicians in them. They called it the Special Irish Branch at the time. It evolved from there, although I dare say the middle name in the title was never too far in the background in the bad days of the troubles in Northern Ireland.”

  “That's fascinating, sir, but what guarantees do I have that I could make the transfer to any one of these units. I could apply, yes, but I'm sure there's quite a queue for all of them.”

  “Sam, you underestimate yourself. You're top of the line, and I have that from above. I know that you made an inquiry last year about diplomatic protection work. I think that would be an ideal start. You get to be seen, and you meet all sorts of interesting people.”

  Before Walsh could reply, Plaice closed her file and stood up.

  “What I'm saying is that I know there is a vacancy coming up in the prime minister's protection team. And they want
a woman. Not a token woman, but an officer who really could save the man's life.”

  The day was not panning out quite as Walsh expected. She stared at her closed file and did not immediately reply.

  “Sounds very interesting,” she said after a few moments.

  “Listen, Sam,” said Plaice, “I don't want you to rush into a decision, but all I can say is that another visit to Milton will do you a lot of good. Trust me.”

  “I do,” Walsh said, rising from her seat.

  “I'll let you know by Monday. By the way, am I working on cases today?

  “No,” said Plaice. “The day's all yours, and I hope it wasn't inconvenient that you had to rush in this morning.”

  “Not at all,” said Walsh, turning towards the door. “All that you said was very interesting. And I appreciate it. It sounds like you put in a good word for me.”

  “Don't mention it. On your way out please tell Detective Sergeant Smith that I want to see him for a minute.”

  Walsh nodded and stepped into the corridor. She punched the air with delight and just as quickly folded her arms. It was flattering to be presented with such opportunity. But something was nagging her.

  She couldn't quite let go of the idea that the higher ups that Plaice had been speaking with were less interested in her progress through the ranks as they were in diverting her from the Blackfriars case and the other, quite possibly connected, cases involving dead Roman Catholic priests.

  Something was up, she thought as she went in search of Tony Smith.

  27

  THE STORM WAS VENTING its full fury over Taipei, the flashes lighting up Henry Lau's office almost overlapping.

  More than one bolt had struck the antennae atop the Taipei 101 building, which, for a brief time, had been the world's tallest structure.

  Lau preferred low light in his office so the contrast between the dim glow and the flashes was both startling and stimulating. The light within came from five lamps distributed around his sanctum, each with a shade illustrating a scene from imperial Chinese history. There were, additionally, inset lights in the ceiling in one corner of the room, but they were switched off. In the relative darkness, the effect of each lightning bolt was all the more dramatic.