Shadows of Good Friday (Alex King Book 3)

by A P Bateman

  The door opened and the light came on instantly, almost blinding King through the glass of the top door. He dropped down out of sight and quickly gathered up the bag of equipment, before hastily retreating across the garden and over the stone wall.

  He hesitated behind the wall. From this vantage point and could clearly see a man filling a kettle at the kitchen sink. King wiped his brow and slipped the pistol back into the holster. Although it was cool outside he was perspiring by the bucket load. That had been far too close.

  ***

  Simon Grant placed the kettle on top of the gas ring and turned the igniter. It clicked rapidly for a few seconds, then exploded into life, the blue flame playing off the bottom of the kettle and enveloping the sides. He adjusted the dial, settling the flame, then walked over to the window and stared out into the night.

  It would be easy to escape, simply open the door and run. He had many friends in London, and to the south on the coast. Friends who would help him lie low, help him to rebuild his life. Unless Frank Holman had got to them as well and paid them off. Unlikely, but it seemed that money could buy anybody.

  They had been clever. They had known that he might want to pull out, so to hedge their bets, they had played one extra chip. There was no way that they could lose, now. Lisa and David Grant were their insurance policy. If he did not co-operate, they would be killed. Simple. Grant closed his eyes, filling his mind with images of his son. His four-year old son, who had cried on his one and only prison visit. David was ten-years old now, yet Grant could not picture him. He had seen him fleetingly at the school steps, but even now, when he closed his eyes he struggled to picture him. The realisation that he did not know his son made him want to weep. He wiped a tear from his eye, and walked over to the table. He pushed an empty cup aside, rested his elbows on the table, and buried his face in his hands.

  If he could get to Lisa in time, would she want him? Or would she be settled and in love with this man? There was so much to think about, and so little choice. Deep down, he knew that he had no option but to proceed as planned. He was penned in, a prisoner once more. Grant seriously doubted their chances of success at the racetrack, and it was almost too easy to wish for the relative safety of prison.

  Every way he looked, the view was bleak.

  ***

  King placed the heavy box of equipment on the ground at the foot of the large beech tree, and picked up the long rubber aerial. He took two rubber clamp-ties out of the box and carefully strapped the twelve-foot aerial to the tree. The rubber-coated aerial, which had come in three screw-in segments, was connected to the power unit by a length of fibre-optic cable, which in turn, connected with the receiver and the secure transmitter. He screwed the length of fibre-optic cable into the receiver unit, then covered it with the camouflaged plastic weather covering. He bent down and scraped up a handful of twigs and loose leaves, then scattered them over the covering. King seriously doubted that the relay system would be detected. From the look of this area of woodland, although it was only about a hundred-metres from the road, nobody ever came here.

  The unit was powered by a car battery, and would give the system six days of unlimited use. The audio and visual recordings would be transmitted from the farm and received by the large rubber aerial and receiver. In turn, these recordings would be transmitted on a secure airwave, of unlimited range, to King’s master receiver at the flat which he and Ian Forsyth had made their base for the life of the operation.

  26

  O’Shea beamed an enthusiastic smile as he walked briskly into the kitchen. “Morning, lads,” he called breezily to the four Irishmen, who stared blankly at him, obviously puzzled by his easy mood. “Change of plan, we go tomorrow.”

  McCormick looked up, apparently concerned. “What’s the problem?” he asked.

  Neeson walked into the kitchen a few paces behind O’Shea and glared at McCormick disdainfully. “Nothing for you to worry on,” he paused. “You’re paid to do your job, not ask fucking questions.”

  “I’m not paid at all,” McCormick said, then looked to backtrack when he caught Neeson’s eye. “I’m in it for the cause,” he said. “Like we all are, or should be.”

  “You wouldn’t be saying that I’m not, would you Matt?” Neeson asked. “I wouldn’t recommend bringing my loyalty to the cause up again.”

  “I wasn’t,” McCormick countered hesitantly. “I just don’t understand all this heist shit. I get planting a bomb for the police to try and find. I get shooting a soldier. I don’t really get this.”

  O’Shea held up a hand to stop Neeson from answering. He looked at McCormick and the other three men in turn. “There are dark days ahead of us. We’ve decommissioned weapons and have to hand over locations of weapon caches to the British as part of the agreement. Funds have been set by to hand over as well.” O’Shea shook his head. “But what about when the Brit bastards go back on their word? What about when they wage a secret war on us? We’ll have little funds and a limited arsenal to take the fight back to them. This heist, as you call it Matt, is one of many scheduled this week around the mainland to look after our futures. They have been aimed as a shot in the arse for the British. And all in the last few days before the peace agreement has been signed. The British won’t connect the dots until it is too late. By then, we’ll have our boys out of prison, in line with the terms of the agreement.”

  “Fucking win-win,” Neeson laughed. “A load of new funds, clean and unaccounted for. And our lads back where they belong. English muppets!” He walked around the table, pulled out a chair and sat down. He smiled at Dugan, then reached out and swiped a sausage from the little man’s plate. “Where’s Grant?”

  Dugan stared dejectedly at the half-eaten sausage in Neeson’s hand, then nodded towards the ceiling. “Upstairs, not sure if he slept too good,” he replied in his soft monotone.

  Patrick roared with laughter. “Best not tell him we go tomorrow; he’ll not sleep tonight for sure!”

  “Mister O’Shea,” McCormick said respectfully. “How can the job move forward if it’s money from the race that we’re after?”

  “Ah for fuck’s sake…” Neeson looked at him.

  Again, O’Shea held up a hand. “We have a man on the inside. He has delivered the information on the safe to us, and he has also informed us that on day one there will not only be the tote money for the first day’s betting wins, but forecast betting figures for day two. Essentially, day one will carry more money because the odds favour runners on day one more. Day two should be the bookmakers’ day. Also, day two will have more staff in place.”

  The six men all turned simultaneously as the door opened and Grant appeared in the doorway. His bloodshot eyes sat deeply in dark, skeletal sockets, and his face was a ghastly, ashen grey. It looked as if he had had no sleep for a week.

  “Aye, the main man!” O’Shea beamed a yellow-toothed grin, oblivious to the man’s sickly appearance, then winked at the others around the table. “Got some news, not sure you’ll like it though.”

  Patrick shook his head despondently, then grinned. “His heart’s not in it, you just see if I’m wrong.”

  Grant glared at the big man. “Piss-off, ginger!” he snapped. “You haven’t had your family’s lives threatened to get you here!” Grant shook his head and walked over to where the kettle was boiling away on the gas stove. He threw a tea bag into an oversized mug, then lifted the kettle and poured the hot water. He turned around and stared at Patrick defiantly. “If you had, I seriously doubt that you’d find room for a smile on that ugly face of yours.”

  For a second, Patrick looked as if he was going to respond to the insult with physical violence, but he suddenly relented. Instead, he looked down at his hands, shame appearing on his face. Grant stared at McCormick, Dugan and Liam. He could tell that none of them had known. That piece of information had been the preserve of the few at the top.

  “Well...” O’Shea said, breaking the awkward silence that Grant’s outburst brought
on. “Behave yourself, and tomorrow, you’ll be a very wealthy man indeed. And, your wife and wee one will be safe.” O’Shea turned to the other men and nodded towards the door. “Go on now, get yourselves over to the barn, you’ve all got work to do.”

  ***

  King sat up in his seat and shouted to Forsyth. “They’re going out to the barn. Come and take a look!” He turned back to the monitor and adjusted the volume. Forsyth walked out from the kitchen, a tray of tea and biscuits in his hands.

  King glanced over his shoulder at him, then returned to the monitor in anticipation. “I just heard why Grant is mixed up in all of this,” he said, helping himself to a biscuit. “He had his family threatened.”

  Forsyth stared forlornly at the empty space where the lone chocolate-coated crinkle crunch had been, then dejectedly picked up a plain digestive.

  The picture flickered, as the sudden movement activated the lens, then both men were able to observe Mark O’Shea walk into the barn, followed by the others. There was a momentary delay between the audio and the visual, but nothing that should prove too tiresome. “Didn’t have the time for a more sophisticated system, just one pair of hands, I’m afraid,” he said, tongue in cheek.

  Forsyth sipped from his cup of tea then shook his head vigorously before saying, “Nonsense old boy, you’ve done a remarkable job.”

  “The farmhouse comes up on a different receiver. That way, we can tape conversations in each location.” He picked up his cup of tea, then patted the other receiver. “The job is going ahead tomorrow. Grant doesn’t seem too impressed.”

  Forsyth nodded his acknowledgement, then rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I suppose we could put a close protection team on his family,” he mused, then shook his head. “But then again, just for two people, I don’t think that it would be worth the risk or resources.”

  “Resources?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it worth checking higher up the SIS ladder?”

  “I shouldn’t have thought so, old boy.”

  “So Grant’s wife and child don’t matter?”

  “I think they’re separated.”

  “They are,” said King. “And last time I checked, the lives of a woman and child still mattered.”

  “Bigger picture, old boy,” replied Forsyth. “Look, it doesn’t matter if it gets us O’Shea. That is the operation. Now, if they were going to put a bomb in a shopping centre, then I would risk the operation to keep the public safe. But this woman is someone who has mixed in the criminal fraternity for most of her life. She’s happy to do that for the life she’s lived.”

  “And the boy?”

  “It probably won’t come to it.”

  “Probably?”

  “No,” Forsyth said sharply. “Now shush, I want to listen…”

  King bit his lip, refraining from further comment. Only a man like Forsyth would disregard an innocent woman and her child as not worth the risk. Personally, King didn’t care for the bigger picture. As pictures went, it wasn’t the best he’d seen.

  They watched Neeson open a trunk. He pulled out a bundle and placed it carefully on the earth floor. He opened it up and stood back.

  “There you go lads, America’s finest,” He paused for dramatic effect as the men stared at the weapons on the ground, each coated in an oily smear of factory gun oil. “Enjoy.”

  King leaned in towards the screen. “M16’s,” he said. “Or AR-15’s. And a whole load of magazines.”

  “Damn and blast!” Forsyth shifted in his seat and studied the pile of weaponry on the ground.

  “Four, I think,” King guessed what the other man was thinking. “They could do a lot of damage with those.”

  “One each lads. Just help yourselves. And four clips a piece.” Neeson paused and grinned. “Don’t be afraid to use them, the bastards do call us terrorists after all!”

  “What are clips?” Forsyth asked.

  “Magazines. It’s not accurate though, the term goes back to world war one. Bullets clipped onto a small rail and were slotted down into either a fixed or detachable magazine. They saved weight and metal.” King glanced up at Forsyth, but the man didn’t seem interested. “Those are magazines.”

  “Thanks for the history lesson,” Forsyth chided.

  “You asked.”

  There were whoops and cheers as the four men collected their weapons.

  “Go and check them over, but don’t fire them. The sights are factory-fitted so you’ll just have to take your chances with them. They should be bang-on though. Besides, you won’t really need sights, it will all be close work.” Neeson turned around, as Grant walked into the entrance of the barn, carrying his mug of tea casually in his left hand. “I’ve got your kit in the car, you can make yourself useful and give me a hand.” Grant went to place his mug on the ground, but thought better of it when he noticed a pile of dog’s excrement. He looked around, then placed the mug on top of a nearby upturned oil drum and followed Neeson outside.

  King’s heart rate was beginning to subside. He had felt sure that Grant was going to detect the transmitter. He sat back in his seat and looked across at Forsyth, who was beginning the ritual of lighting one of his handmade cigarettes. “This is recording, isn’t it, old chap?” Forsyth asked, not taking his eyes from his cigarette. He slipped it between his thin lips then inhaled deeply, with apparently life-giving effect.

  “Yes,” King replied, as he watched Forsyth sink back in his chair to appreciate the soothing smoke. “The audio is running as well. As soon as anyone speaks, the whole system is activated.” The men on the screen were busy loading the weapon’s magazines with 5.56 mm full metal-jacketed ammunition. King turned to Forsyth, who was watching the monitor intently. “What about Mark O’Shea? He’s meant to go down tomorrow or the day after.”

  Forsyth blew out a plume of pungent smoke, then furrowed his brow. “I know, but to tell you the truth, I find myself somewhat intrigued. If we can bag this lot, and secure the money, which would no doubt go towards PIRA funds, we will be glory boys, through and through.” He inhaled on his cigarette and ponderously released a perfect smoke ring across the room. “Might just help my career prospects out no end. Yours too, old boy. This peace agreement will affect the likes of us. The middle east threat isn’t what it’s made out to be. Saddam Hussain is finally playing ball now that he’s been given a bloody nose. People like us need feathers in our caps, otherwise when things go slack, we’ll be swept along in the subsequent layoffs.”

  King couldn’t imagine a time when the middle-east didn’t pose a threat, but he was merely a foot soldier. “I think it would be best if the hit went ahead as planned, things could soon spiral out of control,” he ventured, watching him, but the man seemed more intent on blowing another smoke ring. “It could cut both ways; we could become glory boys, as you say. Or, or we could become the biggest joke within the intelligence and security community. If we fail, we’ll both be finished.”

  Forsyth shook his head, then stubbed the cigarette into the nearby ashtray. “The job that they have planned will go ahead, with or without Mark O’Shea. Another IRA quartermaster, another time. If we can recover the money and take out the main man, it might just put those little men off trying something like this again. We could hold it over Sinn Fein and cash it in for some further bargaining chips in the future.”

  King nodded. “I see your point, but it’s too risky,” he paused, watching the screen and seeing the Irishmen stripping down the M16 rifles. He looked back at Forsyth. “Does this mean that you intend to come off the side-lines for O’Shea’s assassination?”

  Forsyth’s expression did not change. He took out his silver cigarette case then smiled wryly. “That is what you are trained for, old boy.” He opened the lid, extracted a hand-made cigarette and snapped the case shut with a loud click. “That’s why I have a first class degree and a masters, and you have an eleven plus. Horses for courses dear chap, horses for courses. You gather the information, and I’ll use it. You
put a bullet in the man’s head, and I’ll dine out on the success of the mission. Sorry, old boy, it’s just the way of things.”

  “You really are a proper bastard,” King said emphatically.

  “Oh, absolutely, old boy. Absolutely.”

  ***

  Grant returned to the barn and spread the equipment out on a blanket that Neeson had laid out for him. It was all there, everything that he had requested.

  “Impressed?” O’Shea asked with a smile. “Gelignite, nitro-glycerine, a butane blowtorch, even the magnetic picklocks and the diamond-tipped lock-breaker,” he paused. “Everything that you requested is there.”

  Grant picked up the cordless drill and checked the charge. He nodded as he replaced it, then set about checking the selection of hand tools. “What about the hydrochloric acid?”

  O’Shea pointed to the unopened bag. “In there, don’t spill any. We got you some sulphuric acid as well, it’s in the same bag.”

  Neeson appeared at O’Shea’s shoulder, then looked at the other four, who were checking over their weapons. “Right lads, put your toys down and bring the cars inside.”

  They brought the cars into the barn. Dugan and Patrick driving while McCormick and Liam held the doors open closed them again when the two cars were parked inside. The cars were a green Ford Mondeo a light blue Peugeot 306 hatchback.

  “Right lads,” Neeson said as the men gathered around him. “It’s tomorrow at seven o’clock in the morning.” O’Shea glanced across at Danny Neeson, then turned back to the rest of the men. “We have information, from a reliable source, that the safe will contain an unspeakable amount of money, but will be emptied just after seven o’clock and distributed to the cashier booths and concessions.”