Shadows of Good Friday (Alex King Book 3)

by A P Bateman

  Grant shook his head. “That makes no sense whatsoever. Surely the safe would be full at the end of the day, after the races! If it contains money, then why not hit it in the early hours, why wait until people have started to arrive? Or do it the next day after the second race meet.”

  O’Shea smiled. “I understand that you’re wary, and to a certain extent, I understand why,” he said pointedly, then glanced at the other men. “We want this to succeed, we have invested a great deal of time, money and resources into the venture. We have it on reliable authority that the safe will contain a small fortune. At seven o’clock, the time-lock will be switched off, for no more than ten minutes, during which time you will defeat the secondary devices, and the rest of your team will defeat any security personnel who want to become heroes.”

  Grant stuck out his chin obstinately and frowned. “Why would it be full of money? Surely it would only hold a few thousand pounds to act as a float?” He glanced at the other four men, but could see that from their expressions that no one shared his doubts.

  Neeson stepped forward, his face contorted in anger. “Because we have reliable information!” He shook his head then slipped into an unsettling smile. “That is the way that it will be. We have an insider in the contract security firm that deals with Kempton Park racecourse. They have a secure enough facility to keep the money held at the park. Security vans take the money to three various banks on random days to avoid creating a pattern. That is the way that the track operates. Now, if you want to see how we operate, just carry on the way you are!”

  Grant hung his head, his mind briefly filling with images of Lisa and his son. He looked up; there was no point in pressing his luck. This organisation wanted their money. The details may sound strange, but the other men seemed to have taken their information at face value, and they had all worked together in the past, perhaps he should take their word as well. “Alright, I’m just used to working differently, that’s all.”

  O’Shea smiled. “Aye, and you went to prison on your last job as well. Just trust us, and I guarantee that you’ll not see the inside of a prison cell again.”

  Grant nodded humbly, then sat back against a small stack of straw bales.

  Neeson took a few steps backwards and perched himself on the bonnet of the Ford Mondeo. “You will go in these two vehicles.” He slapped the bonnet of the Ford, then nodded towards the Peugeot. “Ross and Sean will be the drivers. They’re the best in the business, so rest assured, you couldn’t be in safer hands.”

  “Where are they?” Grant asked.

  Neeson stared at the Englishman despairingly. “Questions, questions, always with the fucking questions!” he paused, grinning at the rest of the men. “Ross and Sean are surveying the area, checking out all the possible escape routes. They want to check now to get the lie of the land. The last thing you all need is to run into road works that have suddenly sprung up since they last checked the area. And, before you ask, Jason Porter is working on something else, safer all round if you don’t know what. Let’s just call it, a diversion.”

  O’Shea nodded in agreement then said, “You are effectively two teams; this operation will be run in two parts. And neither part knows the full extent of the operation. It’s the basic cell system. Although you do know who else is involved, it is better not to know where they are, or what they will be doing.” He glanced across at Neeson, then turned back to the rest of the group. “While you are inside the race track, Neeson and Jason will be causing a wee diversion for the police.”

  “We will not meet up here again.” Neeson shook his head slowly, emphasising the point, then added, as if regarding the emphasis as inadequate. “Under any circumstances.”

  O’Shea nodded. “Once you have the goods and return to the vehicles, Ross and Sean will be in absolute charge. They will take you to the secondary location, where we will re-group and sort things out.”

  “It couldn’t be simpler. The time locks go off, you pull up in the cars. You leg it to the offices, Grant cracks the safe, while the rest of you keep him covered. You dump the equipment, then fill the bags with the money, leg it back and then get driven away.” Neeson smiled. “It’s not usual procedure, but all four of you will be given a substantial wedge for your efforts. Enough to start a good life with your loved ones.”

  The four Irishmen hooted in unison then sat back, grinning excitedly at the news of their unexpected windfall.

  O’Shea smiled. “After we meet at the new location, I will have your travel arrangements ready. We’re going to Northern Spain and using an ETA safe-house for a couple of weeks and then we’ll take a sea crossing via Spanish fishing boat to the west coast of Ireland.”

  ***

  “Do you think it will work?” Forsyth sat back in his seat and blew out a thin plume of smoke. The two men had watched and listened to the entire briefing, then sat in silence with their own thoughts, once the team had been dismissed.

  King looked up from the empty screen, turned to darkness with lack of movement. He shook his head. “Not a chance. At first, it sounds so simple.” He picked up his cup, and sipped his tea, which by now had become tepid. He screwed up his face in distaste, and hastily returned the cup to the table. “I don’t believe that there will be such a large amount of money left in the safe. It’s a race course, not a bloody bank, after all,” he paused. “Sure, there will be plenty of money there after a race, but why leave it there between races?”

  “It isn’t done like that, old boy.” Forsyth watched his newly formed smoke ring drift lazily across the room, then turned back towards King. “I checked. Apparently, the security van arrives in the morning with the float. It is certainly a substantial amount and well worth the trouble, but it’s nowhere near the figures they’re quoting. It’s in the tens of thousands, not millions,” he said, slipping the cigarette between his lips, then inhaling deeply. He unhurriedly exhaled another smoke ring, and grinned at the result. King watched him with increasing impatience. Forsyth remained unhurried, seemingly more concerned with his creation. “A different van arrives just after the last pay-out, then collects the takings, which of course, are truly substantial.” He stubbed the cigarette into the ashtray, then rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Tomorrow, you will follow the cars to the race course, see if you can observe the events. I will follow our man Neeson. I find myself somewhat intrigued by his plans for a diversion.”

  “I’m more intrigued by the race course.” King mused. “If it is a fact that the safe doesn’t contain a vast sum of money, surely their insider would know? What the hell can they be up to?”

  ***

  Neeson walked into the kitchen carrying a large bundle of clothes in his arms. The men were seated around the table, coffee freshly made and a plate of biscuits vanishing in front of them. Neeson pushed between Patrick and Dugan and dropped the bundle onto the table. “Here you go lads, sort yourselves out with that lot.” The men reached forward and pulled the bundle apart. It consisted of navy blue overalls, the full-bodied boiler suit type, black balaclavas, black leather gloves, and black high-top trainers.

  “You will be wearing them over your own clothes. Try them on now and swap if they don’t fit.” Neeson exaggerated a stretch as he yawned, then turned to O’Shea. “Right, I’m off now, boss. Jason will follow me in the Porsche.”

  “Right, stay lucky and be bloody careful. If the pigs get suspicious about that car and find out that the plates don’t match, we’re finished.” O’Shea shook his head. “We’ve come way too far for things to go wrong at this stage.”

  “Aye, don’t be worrying yourself, it’ll be all right.” He turned to the rest of the group, who were trying on their new garments. “Lads, I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t balls it up!” He walked over to the dresser, picked a blue sports bag off the floor beside it, then walked silently to the door.

  O’Shea turned to the five men and sipped his whiskey. He watched as they swapped shoes with each other, looking like an amalgamation of terrorists and pl
umbers, in their matching overalls and balaclavas. Finally, he replaced his glass, and leant back in his chair. “Right, lads, get your kit off and sit yourselves back down.”

  ***

  “Where are they now?” Forsyth stubbed out his cigarette, then immediately reached for his silver cigarette case.

  “In the farmhouse.” King turned up the volume control, then turned towards Forsyth. “I’ll need my equipment before tomorrow. If the hit is still going ahead, that is.”

  Forsyth extracted yet another hand-made cigarette, tapped the tip against the lid of the case, and smirked as he slipped the cigarette between his thin lips. “Oh, the hit will definitely be going ahead, old boy. I’m just not sure about when,” he paused as he flicked the wheel of his gold lighter and stared at the flickering flame. “To tell you the truth, I haven’t managed to pick up the executive order yet. You see, they have to be signed for, and I thought that it might prove worthwhile if we found out the full extent of what these chaps are up to.” He brought the flame to the cigarette and inhaled deeply. “You see...” He exhaled the smoke and grinned, “I have rather a free hand in all of this. For the good of the operation, and all that. I’m sure HQ will understand. As long as O’Shea goes down before Friday.”

  King stared at him in disbelief. An executive order came from the top of the intelligence tree; and here was an MI6 liaison officer, flagrantly disregarding the order, which for all King knew, could well have come from the Prime Minister himself.

  King had met only a handful of the closeted men from SIS who acted as liaison officers. Unlike its sister service, MI5, where both sexes are employed equally at all levels, the Secret Intelligence Service tended to prefer men. Privately-educated men from moneyed backgrounds. So far, all the liaison officers that King had met had been men, and yes men at that. Yet the more time that he spent with Forsyth, the more exceptional he appeared. Forsyth flouted the rules and was blasé not only towards authority, but also to the risk, which was building with every second that Mark O’Shea remained alive. Initially King had wanted to build some background intel on the IRA cell, but it was now Forsyth who ran the risk of taking the operation beyond its remit and beyond its vital deadline. The special operations man hated the idea of a rushed job, but with every hour the IRA quartermaster remained alive, the operation risked failure.

  ***

  O’Shea drained the remnants from his glass, then sniffed the trace of vapour which still clung to the rim. “You know all you need to know. The time, the location, and the objective of the mission. And most importantly of all; the escape,” he paused, looking at Grant. “You know your job. I know that you can do it. You also know the score if you let us down.”

  Grant sat in silence. It really was going ahead, and nothing that he could say or do would make any difference. All he could do now; was pray. Pray that he could pull it off. Pray that both Lisa and young David would be safe. He nodded, acknowledging O’Shea, then bowed his head. He hated Holman for getting him into this, but wished his old friend could be here nonetheless. There would at least be some comfort in familiarity.

  “We shall meet here, at five-thirty tomorrow morning, for a final check. Half an hour later, you will be on the road. Be ready.” He stared at each man in turn, finally fixing his cold, hard eyes on Simon Grant. “All of you.”

  ***

  “Where the hell did Danny Neeson go?” Forsyth got to his feet and paced across the room to the kitchen. He returned seconds later with a hand-wrapped packet of cigarettes and sat back down in his chair. King stared at the brown paper packet, which he did not recognise, then glanced up at Forsyth and shrugged. Forsyth opened the packet and started to replenish the silver case. “Can we track the Porsche?”

  “No. I only have a tracking device on the Saab, and it doesn’t work if the vehicle is more than a kilometre away.”

  Forsyth shook his head. “Well, that’s no bloody good, is it!” He tapped the tip of the first cigarette against the case lid, then reached for his lighter.

  “Don’t bloody bark at me, Ian!” King growled. “I’m a specialist. I came here for an assassination, not to become PC bloody plod! I was issued with enough equipment to carry out an evaluation. There should be a whole team working on this, but as you well know, this entire operation is deniable. If the truth got out, if people knew that British intelligence assassinated key members of the IRA in the middle of the peace process, then they wouldn’t blame Sinn Fein for stalling at every hurdle. As for the whole Good Friday Agreement; peace agreement, deal, talks - whatever the hell you want to call it - we all know it is doomed from the outset. Killing O’Shea won’t make a shred of difference. Sinn Fein has called the shots from the start. The IRA got an agreement to get their men out of prison, and kept most of their weapons into the bargain!”

  Forsyth held up a placatory hand. “Calm down, old boy. I was just thinking out loud, that’s all.” He lit the cigarette, then slipped the lighter back into his inside jacket pocket. “Turkey…”

  “What?”

  Forsyth smiled. “The cigarettes, old boy, the cigarettes,” he paused, inhaled deeply, then blew out a thin plume of pungent smoke. “I noticed you looking at the packet earlier. I get them sent over from Istanbul. Spent four years over there, well, all over the Balkans actually. Found that when I returned home, I could hardly do without them.”

  King shook his head and found he was gripping the arm of the chair in frustration. “Ian, I don’t give a damn which brand of cigarettes are giving you lung cancer.” He took a deep, calming breath, then stared at him. “I am more concerned that we have let matters go too far. Tomorrow, four known IRA terrorists will be running amok with automatic weapons, while attempting to rob a racetrack. We had the chance to stop it, but we didn’t.”

  Forsyth held the burning cigarette out in front of him and studied the smouldering tip. “It’s a blend, old boy, not a brand.” He smiled briefly, then rested his head back against the chair. “We can still stop it from going ahead.” He slipped the cigarette back between his lips, then glanced up at him. “But then, we will never discover what the hell they were really up to. And you were really keen on that, if I recall correctly.”

  King shook his head. “I want to know as much as you do; but what if it all goes pear shaped tomorrow? What if innocent people get killed?”

  Forsyth nodded. “Ah yes. The big what if. Come along Alex, you know how this game works, you’ve been undercover in Northern Ireland,” he paused, looking for any trace of realisation in King’s eyes. “I’ve been liaison officer in countless operations. I’ve seen your colleagues, the men you trained with in the SAS, place a car bomb under a Protestant’s vehicle, just to have a Catholic shot in the head the very next night. Tit-for-tat, old boy. Don’t tell me that you didn’t know it went on?” King glanced down at the floor. He did know, but he had never taken part. He had been part of surveillance operations on the streets of Belfast, nothing more, but he had heard the rumours all the same. Forsyth blew a smoke ring, then stared ponderously, as it drifted with the draft towards the kitchen. “I knew of a young MI5 field agent who infiltrated a faction of the IRA. It was during the mid-eighties, back when you were probably sniffing glue behind the bike sheds…”

  “I’ve never done drugs, Ian,” King paused. “Watch your mother die from an overdose and your brothers and sisters get separated into care homes. It puts perspective onto things…”

  “As I was saying,” Forsyth interrupted, quite dispassionately and with no offer of an apology. “During the mid-eighties, when the IRA were receiving a great deal of weaponry and funding from the Middle East. The IRA splinter groups were becoming as bold as bloody brass; certain countries saw them as an investment. In return for weapons, ammunition and explosives, the IRA splinter groups were prepared to carry out certain tasks for their benevolence,” he paused for another long drag, before blowing the pungent substance out in a long, thin plume. “This agent got in so deep, so thick with them, that his superiors were
reluctant to extract him. His intelligence was superb, second to none. It was a dream come true for both intelligence services, who were receiving the best information, this side of the Russians running Kim Philby.”

  King frowned. “What has this got to do with our situation?”

  Forsyth stubbed the half-smoked cigarette into the ever-filling ashtray and looked coldly into his eyes. “After a while the young agent was nearing detection. Several pieces of information, which had been known to only a privileged few within the IRA faction, had been picked up by the security forces a little too quickly. He was put onto several operations where he would have to be the drop man. He would have to plant a device and be responsible for many civilian fatalities. SIS weighed up the pros and cons and decided that there would always be casualties, but there would not always be such first class information.” Forsyth reached for his lighter, then picked up the silver case. “The man was ordered to continue with his work, regardless of the consequences.” King remained silent, thinking of the horrendous ramifications involved. An agent, sworn to defend the realm, but forced to carry out bombings so that the intelligence services could continue receiving information. Forsyth flicked the wheel of his lighter as he slipped yet another cigarette into his mouth. “You see...” He brought the flame to the tip of the cigarette, then replaced the lighter on the table. “Sometimes, you have to look at the whole picture, and not just the pretty bits. If we can achieve more than just the death of one IRA quartermaster, then we may push things closer to resolving a hideous situation. The peace deal did not achieve what it set out to do. With breakaway groups springing up like weeds, if anything the whole situation is now even more complex and volatile than before.”