Shadows of Good Friday (Alex King Book 3)

by A P Bateman

  Oil was the next ingredient in this basic, yet powerful mixture, and for this he walked over to the tractor, lifted the engine cover and pulled out the oil dipstick, letting the thick black oil run down the stick and into the dipper. He repeated the process a few times, then peered into the container and smiled in satisfaction. Grant mixed the compound into a thick pulp with the aid of the dipstick and continued to stir until it formed a smooth dirty-grey coloured paste. All eyes were on him, the men silently huddled, craning their necks to watch the man work.

  Grant then picked up an old shovel and went over the other side of the barn, where a rusted metal gate was propped against the wall. He worked the tip of the shovel blade on the underside of the rails and the rust gathered in the shovel pan. He collected a good sized handful, then walked it back to the pile and scattered the rust on top. He moulded the paste with his hands, then formed it into a ring, approximately ten inches in diameter on the inside and thirteen inches on the outside. He stood up; looking around the barn then walked over to the far wall where several lengths of various sorts of wire were bundled together in hoops and coils. First he selected a length of common household lighting wire, which he frayed against the rusty wheel arch of the old tractor and stripped down until he had a single strand of bright copper, which he then twisted until it snapped. He coiled this into a broken ring, which he embedded into the paste, making sure that it didn’t touch the metal surface of the safe. He left two bright ends protruding. Then he selected a thin roll of the type used in electric cattle fences, and walked back to the safe where he started to twist the wire until it broke under friction. He then connected the two separate lengths of wire to the copper protruding from the compound, and walked steadily backwards towards the tractor, making sure not to disturb the ends of the wire from the dangerous mixture, and doubly sure not to allow the two lengths to touch.

  All that Simon Grant prayed for now was for the tractor battery to retain some residual charge. He wrapped one of the ends of wire around the negative terminal, then searched for something that would act as a suitable insulator. There was nothing that he could see, so in desperation, he kicked off his left trainer and pulled the rubber insole away from the shoe. He wrapped the rubber insole carefully around the wire then rubbed the tip of the wire against the bonnet of the tractor to make a cleaner connection. Grant was ready, only the battery’s uncertain charge could let him down now. He glanced across at the group, who were all waiting with abated breath, then without further word, he touched the tip of the wire against the positive terminal.

  The electrically charged copper ignited the oil-soaked chemical fertiliser compound, causing it to flash instantly in a sudden rush of bluish flame. Without hesitation, for this was the most critical part, Grant rushed forwards to the smouldering safe and kicked down hard on the centre of the ring. It gave way with little resistance, creating a cleanly cut hole.

  Grant turned back to the group of men and settled his stare on O’Shea. “Crude, but effective,” he paused, breaking into a wry grin. “But it is easier with the right tools.”

  After the excitement had subsided, Ross, Sean and Jason went back to working on the Porsche, while the four new arrivals talked quietly amongst themselves leaving Neeson, O’Shea and Grant to listen to Frank Holman’s jubilant elation.

  “I bloody told you! I told you that he was the best! How many men do you know who could pull off something like that? And with no planning?” He slapped Grant upon the shoulder grinning happily.

  O’Shea smiled. “I’m impressed, I like a man who shows initiative and works well under pressure,” he paused, then nodded towards the four men, who were standing in the corner admiring the Porsche and its damp, glistening coat of paint. “This will be your team. You start planning tonight in the farmhouse.”

  “What is it? The job, I mean…” Grant asked.

  “It’s a safecracking job.” Holman grinned excitedly. “Time locks, dead locks and a state-of-the-art security system!”

  O’Shea glared at the obese Londoner, as if the man were divulging far too much. He quickly looked back at Grant and smiled. “Of course, you understand that you are in this now, in it far too deep to be thinking of backing out.” He looked across at Danny Neeson and grinned. “We’re used to playing the game a bit on the rough side, are we not Danny-boy?”

  “Aye, right enough.” The tough-looking Irishman paused and stared coldly at Grant. “Cross us or back out, and you’ll not live to regret it. Believe me, you’d just be another name on a very long list.”

  O’Shea chuckled out loud. “That said, I think we can all go over to the farmhouse and have a wee drink,” he smiled. “A toast to the job, and new friends so to speak.”

  ***

  King walked cautiously along the hedgerow, as alert now as he had been earlier. He had made it this far, but there was no sense in becoming complacent now. He climbed over the rickety wooden fence, then crossed over the road to where he had parked the van. He removed the field glasses from where they had hung loosely around his neck, and placed them upon the roof of the van, along with the video camera while he unlocked the door.

  “Stand still!” The voice was commanding, yet thoroughly calm. The voice of a professional used to giving orders.

  King did as he was ordered. He heard the man move tentatively, slightly to his left. Behind him and to the right, he could hear, or rather, sense, the presence of another person, standing still but breathing heavily, almost nervously. King kept the keys of the vehicle in his hand, working them around into position so that the largest key protruded from his knuckle, between his fore and index fingers. A punch with the tip of a key is a formidable weapon, especially to the eyes or the throat. He glanced down at the wing mirror and could see the second man quite clearly. He was fairly well built, but he didn’t hold himself with the confidence of a professional. Hired help. King was convinced that he could overpower him if it came to that. Out of the corner of his left eye, using his peripheral vision, he could make out the shape and form of the man who had given the command. He stood approximately eight-feet away and was considerably taller but less well built than his silent companion.

  King breathed calmly. Tall thin men were easily overcome. With their higher centre of gravity, tall men always go down quickly; what’s more, they tended to stay down.

  “Hold your arms out to the sides and drop those keys.” The man let out a sarcastic chuckle. “Do you think we’re stupid?”

  Damn it! King thought. With his crude weapon discovered, he did as he was ordered, dropping the keys where they could be recovered quickly, on the bonnet of the van. He was sure that the two men were security forces, the two from the Mondeo three-hundred metres further up the road, but could hardly confide that he was on the same side. Both Frank Holman and the safecracker were English, speaking with London accents and not the broad Ulster twang the others had so freely demonstrated. It was not out of the question, then, to assume that these two characters could be acting as an outside security team, keeping watch from beyond the boundary of the property.

  “Check him.” The tall man to his left gave the curt command, and the other man walked dutifully forward. King was left in no doubt to which of the two men was in charge. He felt the man’s hands clasp firmly to his sides, then expertly frisk him, searching for any concealed weapon. The man then caught hold of both his shoulders and attempted to spin him.

  King tensed his whole body rigid, resisting the man’s grip and forcing him to pull harder. Then, as the man attempted to turn him again, this time more forcefully, he spun with the turn using all of his might and the momentum the other man had created, and brought his elbow up to a point striking the man in his ear. The man started to fall but King was already moving. He grabbed the man, one hand gripping his throat, the other grasping the tuft of hair on his forehead. Then using all his strength, he rushed him backwards into the man with the pistol. The tall, thin man dropped, as tall, thin men do, sprawling onto the wet grass and
releasing his grip on the weapon, as his companion cannoned into him with great force. King kept hold of the other man and without delay, he thrust his knee up into his groin. The blow was barely given chance to smart before King brought his forehead down onto the bridge of his opponent’s nose. There was a sickening sound of cartilage and bone flattening and the man’s face turned a crimson-red, as blood surged down over his mouth.

  The MI6 operative did not have to wait and see if his opponent had been overcome, nor did he follow the attack up with anything else. His long training and experience told him that the man was out of the equation before he hit the ground. He spun around quickly, just in time to see the tall man reaching for the pistol amongst the twigs and leaves, which made up a belt of scattered debris along the grass verge. King was already lunging forwards. The man brought the pistol up to aim, but was not quick enough. The kick caught him full in the face. He reeled backwards then lay still. King was already upon him, his left hand clasped around the man’s throat, his right hand raised for an execution blow to the side of the neck. He’d done it before, a world away and what felt like a lifetime ago. A poorly controlled temper and a lack of thought, that had ultimately set him on a very different path. He was a different man now. He could choose.

  His breathing was heavy and his pulse was pounding in his ears. He looked down at his felled opponent, then relaxed a little as he began to regain rational control. During the confrontation, which had lasted merely seconds, his entire being had been completely absorbed from the moment of the initial strike, as if he were operating on automatic pilot. An experience which only the most highly trained of individuals can know, or ever truly understand. His heart hammered against his chest in the ensuing silence as he bent down and retrieved the pistol. The first man, the one with the very broken nose, lay worryingly still. King approached him cautiously, bent down and retrieved the pistol from his shoulder holster, then checked the carotid artery for a pulse. It was beating like a drum and even without checking, he could see that the man was still breathing. Even so, he quickly and expertly placed him into the recovery position then turned round and went over to the taller man, who had begun to stir.

  He slipped one of the pistols into his belt, then gently eased back the slide of the other, and checked that the breach was engaged. Live and ready to go.

  “Who are you?” the man asked, his voice shaky yet superlatively defiant.

  King shook his head. “I’m the one asking the questions now.” He aimed the pistol at the man’s knee. “I’m telling you straight, piss me about and I will start low and aim higher with every shot. Now, who the hell are you?”

  The man squinted up at him, his vision obviously still blurred from the concussion and shock of the blow. “Police,” he stated flatly.

  “Bullshit!” King paused, waving the pistol in front of him. “This is not police issue, not in this calibre anyway. The police use 9 mm in autos, and .38 or .357 magnum in revolvers. This is a Sig-Sauer P220 .45 ACP. Cops can’t pick and choose their weapons to that degree.” He shook his head. “No, I’m afraid you’ll have to do better than that.”

  “All right, we’re Special Branch.”

  King raised the pistol and aimed it at the man’s head. “Same deal, SB don’t use irregular calibres either.”

  The man stared down the barrel of his own weapon and started to shake. “Please, don’t shoot me! I told you, we’re Special Branch!”

  King shook his head. “I’m asking you for the last time, who are you and what are you doing here?” He tightened his grip on the pistol, his index finger taking up the excess pull on the trigger. “If I have to use this thing on your knee, the players at that farm will hear and your operation will be blown. Not to mention the problems you’ll have doing the conga at this year’s office party.”

  “Are you security forces as well?”

  “I said, I’m the one asking the questions,” he paused. “Last chance, I’ll blow your kneecap off and walk away, leave you and your friend to face the music. That is, unless half a dozen known IRA terrorists not far from here don’t find you both first.”

  “Okay!” The man glanced across at his unconscious partner, then shook his head dejectedly. “We’re MI5. We have been involved in the surveillance of four men, believed to be an IRA Active Service Unit. They were in the Ford Sierra which drove up to that farm.”

  King frowned. He had been following the Saab. He already knew that another car had arrived at the farm, but it wasn’t proof they were in fact MI5. What he needed to ask was something that only a Security Service operative, or select members of the other security forces would know. King had previously accompanied his MI6 mentor, the man who had recruited him into the service, to a meeting at MI5 headquarters. “Tell me, are you aware of the tasks performed by C5 (c) section?”

  The man nodded. “Yes, surveillance of ports and airports.”

  “Good,” King paused. “What’s your name?”

  “Forester,” the man replied. “Charles Forester.”

  “Box are based on the Thames. But tell me, where are their secondary headquarters? The one where most of the counter-terrorist operations are over-seen from?”

  “In Reigate.” The man lowered his hands and started to look more relaxed. “You’re SAS, aren’t you?”

  King shrugged. He’d trained with them, from day one in selection to the second from last day. The pass-out. No sand-coloured beret for him. Just a new assignment, and no opportunity to say good-bye.

  “I thought so,” Forester said. “I’m not a fan of the mandarins using the likes of you. Intelligence work should be done by more qualified individuals.”

  King tightened his grip on the weapon. This man didn’t have to know who he worked for. His mentor, Peter Stewart, the man who took him from a prison cell on Dartmoor, had told him never to offer information, never to divulge it freely. If they really want it, they’ll get it alright, and you’ll know when that moment is, you’ll be at death’s door. Give up what you know, or open the door and step inside, it’s up to you… King smiled. “But I’m not the one on the wrong end of a gun.”

  “You’re with six,” he said decisively. “The Increment. You’re not meant to be operating on the mainland.”

  “Lodge a complaint.”

  “Oh, I intend to,” Forester said. “There’s no room for assassinations in this society. We have the armed forces to settle things by force, and the police to make arrests, and a justice system to try people and sentence them. That’s why you lot don’t officially exist, because even MI6 knows it’s wrong and doesn’t want to be held to account.”

  “Well, by the looks of it, we handle ourselves better than the operatives from Box,” he paused, glancing down at the man on the ground, who was stirring. “I’ll be reporting your lack of surveillance drills. Your driver damn near rear-ended the target vehicle.”

  “You lot are after the four who came in on the ferry?” Forester asked.

  “No. I don’t know anything about a bloody ferry. I’m following O’Shea,” King said. “I’ll be keeping the weapons. It will give you something tricky to report when you lodge your complaint. I expect we’ll see each other again,” he said, as he turned and walked back to the driver’s side of the van. “Better luck next time.”

  20

  Frank Holman poured himself a large measure of whisky, then placed the bottle in front of Grant, who declined the offer and slid it across the table towards O’Shea. Judging by the man’s grateful expression, he was glad of another refill. “Not have the belly for it?” O’Shea smirked at Grant as he poured himself another generous measure.

  “No,” Grant paused. “Not got the head.” He looked at each of the men in turn, then fixed his stare on Holman. “Reminds me of a couple of men that I met in the nick, a gang of five in all, but two of them ended up in the same prison. They spent weeks going over the events, discussing every detail from the planning, right up to their capture. It took over, plagued their minds, they just
couldn’t let it go,” Grant paused and glanced over to O’Shea who, having emptied his glass again, was reaching for the bottle once more. “Then one day, one of the men actually figured it out. It was so blatantly obvious. They planned the job for months and met every night to revise the procedures, only once they got the whisky out, all they talked about was how they were going to spend the money. The whole affair wound up more like a social gathering than a proper planning session. Too much drinking, not enough planning.”

  “So how come you were caught then?” Neeson asked patronisingly, his hand clenched around his own glass.

  Grant stared at Holman, who suddenly seemed uncomfortable with the topic of conversation. “Someone wasn’t where they said they would be. Got nervous, left me to fend for myself. We had a few contingency plans, but they seemed to be forgotten,” he paused, looking back at the Irishman. “Again, too much drinking, not enough listening to the planning.”