Gray Vengeance

by Alan McDermott

  After unpacking his few belongings, he lay on the bed and went through a mental checklist of his tasks over the next few days. Step one was to get hold of a cheap laptop so that he could receive orders from his handler and update him on the team’s progress. He had the website address memorised, along with his username and password, and he was due to check in at one in the afternoon the following day. That gave him plenty of time to source both the laptop and a phone to act as a Wi-Fi hotspot, as well as extra batteries for both. He’d need them when the power went out.

  He would also need to change up more of the ten thousand dollars he’d been given before he left Kano, and he heeded their warning to spread it around different change bureaus to avoid suspicion. In addition, he’d been given a pre-paid credit card loaded with another five thousand pounds sterling for those purchases that couldn’t be made using cash.

  With the following morning planned out, he headed to the high street in search of supper. The streets were lively as rush hour approached, and he saw the bustling people in a different light. Six months ago, he would have walked among the crowd without thinking about it, but his time in Nigeria had changed all that. He sensed their numbers, and it filled him with confidence that the plan would work.

  ‘The people think they are powerless,’ Sergeant Dan had drummed into each and every one of the recruits, ‘but they hold the key to this country. We are sixty million ruled by six hundred self-serving parasites. It’s time for the people of Britain to wake up and see that this is their land, not the playground of the rich and privileged.’

  Roberts scanned the faces of those he passed. Mothers, fathers, every one of them someone’s child. His actions would take some of their lives, and their passing would be mourned, but one day a monument would be built to commemorate those who’d lain down their lives in the name of freedom.

  Roberts was up at seven the next morning, and he showered and dressed before watching the morning news with a cup of instant coffee. At eight, he set off for a local café in search of breakfast to pass the time until the shops opened an hour later.

  He found a window seat and ordered the full English with toast and a coffee, then took a seat that gave him a good view out of the window. None of the passersby seemed to take any notice of him, and there were no occupied parked cars or vans that he could see.

  Which didn’t mean he wasn’t being followed.

  Always assume they’re on to you, was the warning his instructor had given him. Stay calm, yet alert. Don’t make it look like you think you’re being followed.

  It was Spy-Shit 101, the kind of things people picked up from thriller novels and action films, but with all the other training they had had to undergo, there simply hadn’t been the chance to elaborate and go into in-depth techniques. It was assumed that Roberts and his ilk were so far down the pecking order that the security services wouldn’t give a damn about them until the brown stuff hit the swirly thing, and by then it would be far too late. Still, though, basic precautions were always prudent.

  Just before nine, he headed towards the Tube station and once again took a circuitous route before ending up in Hammersmith. He knew a good place in his old stomping ground where he could get the equipment he needed at a fair price, but he’d been told to avoid the old area. He’d given up the bedsit, and the lease had lapsed on the old office, so he had no real ties with the place. The concern was that he might meet old friends who would question his absence, and his instructions were to avoid any such communications. If he did happen to stumble across anyone he knew, he would simply tell them that he had found religion and was done with the anarchist shit.

  By lunchtime he was back in his room, with a new Acer, a Samsung phone and a sandwich, which he ate while charging the devices and reading the instructions. It took a while to get internet access, but once online he went straight to the website for the latest updates.

  Houtman had already been in and left his phone number, and Roberts added it to his contacts list before leaving his own number for the other members of the cell. He then read the first set of instructions, which told him where to find a warehouse that had some of the resources he would need in the coming days. Roberts looked it up on the internet and worked out a route, then entered vans for sale London into the search engine. He was inundated with results, and it took him an hour to find a suitable second-hand Ford Transit. The owner was asking a thousand, but Roberts thought he could argue him down to nine hundred pounds, and he called the number in the advert to arrange a viewing.

  With a meeting set up for three, he closed down the laptop and put it under his mattress, then pocketed the phone and headed back to the Tube station. It was a twenty-minute journey to Maida Vale, and when he arrived at the address he saw the twelve-year-old white van sitting forlornly in a driveway. Roberts wasn’t sure it would even start, let alone sustain him for the next few months, but the owner came out and assured him that she was a good runner, and he was selling up because his business had folded.

  It sounded credible, but Roberts wanted a second opinion, and the seller agreed to escort him to a local garage to give it the once-over.

  The van sounded fine on the way there, and the mechanic spent twenty minutes checking the electrics and engine before giving it a clean bill of health. Roberts handed over fifty pounds for the check-up, and then drove the owner home to complete the paperwork.

  Once everything was signed over, Roberts parted with nine hundred and fifty pounds and called an insurance company to get cover. The last thing he needed was to be pulled over for not having the right documentation, especially once his van was fully laden. A search of the vehicle at that point would jeopardise the entire mission, so he wasn’t inclined to cut corners.

  He paid for the insurance with the pre-paid credit card, then drove to a petrol station to fill up before heading out of the capital in search of the warehouse. He found it on an industrial estate just outside of Oxford, and after pulling up outside, he went into the small reception area.

  ‘I’m looking for a three-inch flange with a diaphragm base,’ he said, reciting the pass code he’d been given. The man behind the counter picked up the phone and made a hushed call, then nodded and buzzed Roberts through a door, which led to the main storage area.

  He was greeted by a small, elderly man, who introduced himself as Ted. Roberts was ushered down an aisle, the shelves on either side stacked to the metal rafters with an eclectic mix of items. Ted stopped at a pallet containing dozens of red fire extinguishers and handed one to Roberts.

  ‘Looks authentic,’ Roberts said. ‘How does it stand up to close inspection?’

  Ted released the security pin and squirted CO2 into the air. ‘It holds about forty percent of the normal volume; the rest is the explosive. If it’s used on a small fire, it should be fine.’

  All well and good, Roberts thought, except that he’d been told that at their intended destination, fire extinguishers were routinely replaced with full ones after even partial use.

  ‘I’ll collect these the day before I need them,’ he said. ‘Planting them early is just inviting trouble. If they’re called into action, it could tip our hand.’

  Ted agreed, and led him to another aisle, where toilets and sink units dominated the shelves.

  ‘Okay, now I’m confused,’ Roberts said, and Ted pulled back some of the cellophane covering a toilet bowl. He tapped it with his pen, and the sound was what Roberts expected to hear.

  ‘The coating is just four millimetres thick,’ Ted explained. ‘The core of each unit is packed with roughly twelve kilos of C4. All you need to do is break off the outer skin of porcelain and you’ve got enough plastic explosive to bring down half of London.’

  Roberts smiled at the ingenuity. ‘Detonators?’

  Ted led him to the other side of the warehouse and handed over two packs of children’s colouring pens.

  ‘Each pen conta
ins one detonator, so you’ve got fifty there.’

  Impressive. They would be easy to transport without raising any eyebrows.

  ‘I was told there would be directional EMP devices.’

  ‘There will be,’ Ted said. ‘They’re still being manufactured, but we should take delivery within the next couple of months. We tested the government-commissioned prototypes, but the range was ineffective for some of our targets. We’re working to increase that, and then we need to provide adequate shielding for the delivery vehicle and disguise it as some kind of household appliance.’

  ‘Are you sure they’ll be ready in time?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Ted assured him.

  He led Roberts around the building, pointing out the boxes of second-hand mobile phones and several other items the plan would require.

  Roberts was impressed with the ordnance, but explained that he had a few things to sort out before he could take anything with him.

  ‘I should be back in a couple of days,’ he said, and gave Ted a list of items to have ready on his return.

  Once in the van, Roberts drove back to his room in London and spent the rest of the day looking for more permanent lodgings, as well as a storage company that could provide a room to store his arsenal. He’d considered a lock-up garage but worried it wouldn’t be secure enough.

  By three in the afternoon, he’d arranged viewings on two flats in the area, and drove to Elegant Storage to see what they had available.

  The manager was happy to show him around, and Roberts explained that he was going into business and was looking for a short-term arrangement while he tried to grow his brand.

  ‘What will you be selling?’

  ‘Money belts,’ Roberts said. ‘They’re hand-made and personalised. I’ll need room for two tables and a few large boxes of materials.’

  The manager guided him to a large unit that contained a dozen spacious rooms, each with a steel door and a clasp to accommodate a padlock. Roberts went inside one and looked around, glad to see that the CCTV coverage ended outside the door. The two electrical plug sockets at the far end of the room would be more than enough for his needs.

  ‘Perfect,’ he said.

  He returned to the main office and completed the registration process before handing over enough money to cover the next three months.

  ‘We have a good range of padlocks,’ the manager said, but Roberts assured him that he would provide his own.

  It was almost dark by the time he arrived back at the bed and breakfast, and he went out for a burger before heading back to his room for the evening, pleased at the progress he was making.

  For the first time in his life, Roberts felt a sense of belonging, of real purpose. His many years as an activist had been spent dreaming of the chance to make an impact, but those hopes had never transitioned into reality. Now, though, he was part of a huge, invisible machine that was rolling through the streets of Britain unnoticed, unhindered. It was still early days, but after months of preparation, he finally felt the exhilaration of seeing his long-held plan take shape.

  After checking the website and getting Ed Conran’s new contact details, he sent both cell members a text offering to meet for lunch in a pub the following day.

  Both responded immediately, and he settled in for a night in front of the TV. The twenty-four hour news channel regurgitated the same stories over and over, the headline being the multi-vehicle pile-up on the M25 that had closed the northbound carriageway for over eight hours. Some commuters were being interviewed, and they bemoaned the fact that they’d missed a whole day of work after being stuck behind the carnage, though they were thankful that it hadn’t resulted in any deaths.

  Roberts smiled.

  You ain’t seen nothing yet.

  WINTER

  Chapter 9

  12 December 2014

  Ed Conran pulled into the field and killed the lights before parking the Land Rover next to the hedge. After a quick scan of the area, he climbed into the back and removed his rucksack from the hidden compartment underneath the seats before heading off into the darkness.

  The grass was wet beneath his feet, and he almost slid onto his backside more than once as he descended towards the railway track. He easily navigated the small, wire fence that blocked his path, then scrambled down the embankment and onto the gravel lining the rails.

  To his right, the tracks disappeared into darkness, while in the other direction the mouth of the tunnel beckoned. He pulled out a headband and secured it around his forehead, ensuring that the torches fastened to each side were facing forward.

  A hundred yards later, he stopped to listen for any untoward sounds, then placed the bag on the ground. With the tracks illuminated by his torches, he began scraping the stones from underneath the closest rail until he hit soil, then brought out a trowel and began digging farther. Once he had a six-inch gap, he removed the shaped charge from the rucksack and placed it gently into the scrape. He then inserted the detonator and attached the trailing wires to a mobile phone, which was modified to run off an array of batteries. This arrangement allowed him to deploy it three days before detonation without the risk of the charge running down.

  With the explosive in place, he moved over to the other side of the track and repeated the process, connecting the second charge to the same mobile to ensure both explosions happened simultaneously. He knew that hundreds of trains would pass over this point before he was ready to detonate, so he made sure the connections were tight and had no chance of coming undone.

  Satisfied that the devices would withstand the repetitive vibrations, Conran carefully covered both packages with soil before replacing the stones on top, then stood back to check his handiwork.

  Nothing looked out of place, and he was confident that it would escape anything but the closest scrutiny. His watch told him that it was almost three in the morning, and he yawned as he shut off the torches and took off the headband. The rucksack went over his shoulder, and he walked back to the mouth of the tunnel, scanning the area for signs of movement.

  Nothing.

  Ten minutes later, he was heading back to London, to the bedsit accommodation he was renting in Wembley. After a few hours of sleep, he would meet Roberts to get the next set of packages, and the following few nights would be much the same as the last: late-night excursions into the countryside to plant his devices, then a few hours’ sleep before repeating the process.

  The day was finally drawing near, and all the hard work of the last nine months was about to pay off.

  Chapter 10

  13 December 2014

  Erik Houtman adjusted the blue coveralls bearing the Chubb insignia and cursed Roberts for providing a uniform a size too small. It didn’t look too bad when he stood erect or walked, but when he crouched to perform his work, the gusset cut into his groin, all too often with painful consequences.

  Armed with a convincing ID badge and clipboard, he walked through the hospital, stopping to inspect every fire extinguisher he came across. No-one paid him the slightest attention as he went about his business, though he was prepared in case a member of the estates department asked why he was there. His forged worksheet was as close to the real thing as there was, and a cursory glance would satisfy anyone.

  Avoiding the more sensitive areas of the hospital, he wandered the corridors until he arrived at the surgical unit. A couple of patients were waiting outside the double doors to be processed, and he offered a young girl a smile as he passed her trolley.

  The extinguishers were clipped to a wall at knee level and, as expected, one was the CO2 variant. Houtman knelt next to it and pretended to check the maintenance label, then made a sound of displeasure as he marked a comment on his sheet before heading out of the building. He returned soon after, carrying a brand new replacement, and noted the date on the label before taking the old one back to his van.

 
An hour later, three explosive extinguishers had been planted in the hospital, his fourth target of the day. He was thankful that he had only the A&E unit at the Royal Free Hospital still to do, then he could relax for the day and finally be free of the damned overalls.

  Paul Roberts walked into the offices of NTS Couriers Limited and smiled at the twenty-something blonde behind the counter.

  ‘Hi. I understand you do international deliveries.’

  The girl flashed white teeth in response and began typing on her keypad. She asked for his personal details before enquiring about the nature of the delivery.

  ‘I’m renovating a house in France, and want to have a toilet and sink delivered. I thought about having them flown over, or taken by ferry, but you just can’t trust people not to damage them. They’re custom made.’

  If the girl thought tailor-made toilets were unusual, she didn’t show it. Instead, she maintained her professional demeanour and asked for the pickup point and destination. Roberts gave her the address of a cottage just south of Bordeaux, something he’d found after a five-minute search on Google.

  ‘I’d like to deliver the items here and make sure they’re properly secured in your van,’ he said. ‘They cost over four thousand, and I don’t want them getting knocked about on the journey.’

  ‘No problem,’ the girl assured him.

  ‘I’d also like them to go via Eurostar,’ he added. ‘The Channel is rough at this time of year, and I don’t like the idea of them being tossed back and forth for an hour.’

  ‘We usually take them by ferry because it’s cheaper.’

  ‘I don’t mind paying extra for the Tunnel,’ Roberts said, receiving another smile in return.

  The total bill came to just short of four hundred pounds, and Roberts extracted a bundle of notes, counting off the twenties. He arranged to drop the items off at seven on Monday morning.