Shadows of Good Friday (Alex King Book 3)

by A P Bateman

  ***

  Forsyth cursed the fact that he was not carrying a weapon, although he seriously doubted that he would have been able to take on three armed men and walk away unscathed. He had seen enough. He had done and seen more than most in his dozen or so years with MI6, but even he had been sickened by the way the three unarmed security guards had been so needlessly slain.

  He edged his way cautiously backwards, keeping both eyes on the three men, until reached a bend in the hedgerow and was out of sight. He then retreated to the relative safety of his car. He tried to call King, but the man must have been in a blackspot. He cursed and tossed the phone onto the seat next to him. He switched on the laptop and saw the red dot indicating the Saab’s position on the map. It was still stationary. His adrenalin was pumping and his breathing was erratic. He tried to breathe steadily, calm himself, but his shaking hands told him he was far from calming down.

  ***

  With the sacks loaded evenly into the two cars, Danny Neeson turned to Ross and held out his hand. “Give me your rifle, quickly!”

  Ross handed him the weapon, and Neeson snatched it out of his grasp. “And the control unit.” Ross did as he was ordered, although he could not hide the confusion from his face. “Right, you two get yourselves the hell out of here and back to the farm, drive carefully and at the limit, and don’t get yourselves nicked!”

  Ross jumped into the driver's side of the Mondeo and opened the door for Sean. It was just short of one-hundred metres back to the Peugeot, but no doubt the man would be grateful of the short ride.

  Neeson ran along the side of the security van and back to his vehicle. He opened the near side rear door and hastily pulled out two large canvas holdalls, then dragged them towards the rear of the Saab. He opened the rear hatch, then lifted out one of the heavily laden sacks. He glanced nervously over his shoulder, Sean would have reached the Peugeot by now, the road would soon be free from obstruction; the last thing that he wanted was to be seen beside the security van.

  He unfastened the drawstrings and opened the two newly acquired canvas sacks. Inside, the sacks were full of waxed paper, cut into rectangular pieces. He pulled the silenced 9 mm pistol from the waistband of his trousers, then dropped it inside one of the sacks, along with the electronic control unit used to detonate the explosive charges. He refastened the drawstrings, then placed one of the stolen sacks from the armoured van into the other canvas sack, pressed it tightly in place and refastened them. With the rifle under his arm, and a heavy sack in each hand, he half carried - half dragged his load around the corner to where Jason Porter was anxiously waiting in the stolen Porsche.

  Porter glanced up at Neeson as he rounded the corner, and instantly started the Porsche’s throaty 3.4 litre, flat six engine. He reached over the specially adapted space, where the passenger seat had once been, and opened the door.

  Neeson dragged the sacks around to the passenger side and rested them on the ground, as he placed the rifle into the foot-well. “Here, take this with you.”

  Porter looked at the weapon hesitantly. “What for?”

  Neeson lifted one of the sacks into the specially designed space, then grinned as he picked up the second, heavier sack and heaved it into the vehicle. “Don’t worry, it’s not for you to use, I just don’t want to chance walking back to my car with a gun on me,” he paused, checking over his shoulder for any signs of approaching traffic, then looked at Porter seriously. “Right lad, get going back to the farmhouse. Don’t take any chances, I don’t want you getting nicked.” He grinned wolfishly. “Not with over ten-million quid in cash on you!”

  Porter’s mouth dropped open upon hearing the amount. He swallowed, then looked nervously at Neeson. “Sure, I’ll be alright.” He slipped the gearbox into first gear then dipped the throttle, waking the beast. “Better get going.”

  “Sure, drive safely.” Neeson slammed the passenger door shut and watched as the Porsche’s wheels spun on the tarmac. The car accelerated erratically up the road as Porter raced through the gears. He smiled at the display. It just proved that Porter was the right person for the job. A good choice. Undisciplined and untrustworthy.

  ***

  Jason Porter accelerated hard out of the corner and changed up to fourth. He loved the Porsche 911. He loved the sharp and precise gearbox, the closeness of the pedals. He loved the way that the bulges either side of the bonnet acted as perfect markers for both the white lines and the curb. It was as easy to thread through the country roads as a go-kart around a track. Another slick change and he was up around eighty miles per hour, and breaking for the next bend, where he would thread the car through the apex.

  He had it all planned. The Irish were unlikely to kill his family if he disappeared with their money. They would be lying low after the robbery. It would be enough time to get his immediate family clear and safely away. He patted the bags beside him. Ten million, Neeson had said. Well, there were not many places he couldn’t hide with that amount. Someplace warm, someplace where he could merge into the background. Just another young millionaire trader. He liked the idea of Monaco. And he would get to watch the Grand Prix from his own balcony. And as the cars raced past, and the champagne flowed, he wouldn’t spare a thought for the family members he had left behind. Neeson could do what he wanted with them. He never sent Christmas cards anyway.

  He smiled to himself. It was going to be alright. He had done his part, and what he took from them would just be a bonus for the inconvenience of having to lose his identity, to uproot his immediate family, his girlfriend’s too.

  The ringing halted his train of thought. He didn’t have a mobile phone on him, had to surrender it to Neeson. The phone rang three times. Porter did not hear anything more before he died.

  The call had activated the mercury tilt switch. Both ends of the circuit were now live. The ball of mercury, which had rolled to and fro with the vehicle’s movements, was now the conductor which would complete the circuit and initiate the RDX detonator, which in turn would detonate the one-pound block of Semtex plastic explosive. All of this happened between the third and fourth ring.

  As both Neeson and O’Shea had suspected, Porter was travelling away from the farm, away from Kempton Park and putting distance between the scene of the armoured vehicle robbery. The police would focus on where Porter was heading, rather than the area to the north where Neeson, Ross and Sean were now traveling to with the money.

  31

  King grunted as he heaved the dead weight of Grant’s unconscious body onto the bed. He had walked him out of the van, up the flight of stairs and into the flat, rather than carrying him, in an effort to remain inconspicuous. At the same time, he had acted drunkenly, slurring the words of a lewd song. To any casual observer, it would look as if the two men had returned home after an all-night drinking session somewhat the worse-for-wear. It was nearly eight-thirty, but King had come home later and certainly in a worse state in the past.

  He quickly undressed Grant’s limp body, leaving the man’s boxer shorts in place, then walked out to the kitchen to collect his compact but comprehensive first aid kit. Treatment was rapid, but thorough. The splinters of wood and shards of glass were quickly extracted with a pair of tweezers, the bleeding points dabbed, antiseptic rubbed in, and surgical plasters applied over the wounds. He felt as he went, checking for fractures, and after the swift examination, decided that Grant might have a cracked rib or two. It was evident that no pressure lay against the man’s lungs, so there was little he could do; nothing more would have been attempted in hospital, save for the intravenous administration of pain killers.

  King turned his attention to the egg-sized lump on top of Grant’s skull. There was no bleeding, but the lump was obviously the cause of his concussion. If he did not regain consciousness within the next hour, he would drive him somewhere quiet, drop him off, and call an ambulance from a phone box. He was not overly concerned about Simon Grant’s welfare; he was more interested in whatever additional information the
man could possibly provide. He rolled him over onto his side, covered him with a sheet then walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.

  ***

  Forsyth eased off the accelerator and pulled into the side of the road. He had a clear view of the farm from across the fields and could see that both the Ford Mondeo and the Peugeot were parked outside the farmhouse. Frank Holman’s Mercedes was parked next to the Sierra and now there was a new addition to the fleet: a large gold BMW, parked near the entrance to the courtyard.

  Neeson’s Saab was travelling down the bumpy lane, on route to the farm. Forsyth watched for a minute or two, as the Saab entered the farmyard and halted outside the house. Neeson stepped out of his vehicle and performed an exaggerated stretch, then walked casually across the courtyard and up the path to the farmhouse.

  Forsyth dialled King’s number, spoke tersely when it was answered. “Alex, where are you?”

  “At the flat.”

  “Are you watching?”

  “No. I just got in. I had to see to Grant’s injuries first.”

  “Injuries?”

  “Blast and shrapnel. Glass and splinters mainly. He’ll be okay.”

  “Bollocks to him, old boy. Switch the monitor on and see what’s happening. It’s a bloody house party down here.”

  King sat down heavily in the chair and switched on the monitor. Adrenalin was leaving his system. His limbs felt heavy and tired. There was no picture; the motion-activated system obviously sensed nothing to pick up. He glanced at the nearby audio receiver and could see that it was recording in the farmhouse. He turned up the volume then sat back in his seat to catch the riotous hum of high spirited voices.

  ***

  “Congratulations, lads!” Holman patted the collection of sacks on the table, then took another long swig of whisky. “I fucking well knew you lot could pull it off!”

  Ross and Sean beamed at Neeson as he entered the room. He returned a grin, entering into the party atmosphere, then glanced at the pile of sacks and thumbed towards the door. “Plenty more out there, lads, off you go!” The two men jumped up from their seats and rushed to the door, ever eager to add to the collection of money sacks, which rested on and beside the large pine table.

  “So it all went to plan, then?” O’Shea asked, passing him a large tumbler of whiskey.

  Neeson nodded, as he reached out and accepted the glass. “Aye, textbook perfect.” He stared warily for a moment at the new arrival - a tall and thin, but hard-looking man in his mid-forties with thinning, short-cropped hair. “And this must be the infamous Mister Parker.”

  “Indeed.” The man stepped forward, a bundle of American one hundred-dollar bills in one hand, and a large tumbler of whisky in the other. “And you’re Danny Neeson,” he said flatly. He dropped the bundle of money on the table and held out his hand. “Glad to meet you, after so long. Nice work.”

  Neeson gripped the man’s hand and shook it firmly. He picked up a stack of fifty-pound notes and grinned. “Top info,” he replied. He raised his glass. “To a job well done!”

  Ross and Sean walked into the kitchen and dropped the rest of the sacks on the floor. Sean looked nervously at Neeson, then nodded towards the pile of sacks. “There were only five sacks in your car, Danny. There were six earlier.”

  Neeson grinned at O’Shea. “See how suspicious people become when there’s money involved.” Neeson walked over to Sean and patted him lightly upon the cheek. “Aye lad, you are right to question the money’s whereabouts, but I’m afraid that it has gone forever.”

  O’Shea turned around and smiled. “An expensive, but necessary investment, I’m afraid.” Sean nodded knowingly, although he was still none the wiser, and returned to his whiskey.

  O’Shea suddenly banged his glass down on the table, then raised it triumphantly in the air. “Gentlemen!” He looked at each man sincerely. “To money, and a new and peaceful way of life!”

  ***

  King spun around quickly, as he heard the sound of a key being placed in the front-door lock. He pulled the Browning 9 mm from his hip holster and kept it by his side, hidden from view by the arm of the chair. Forsyth appeared in the doorway, a look of anguish upon his face.

  King slipped the pistol back into his holster, then looked expectantly at the MI6 officer. “What the hell’s going on Ian? I’ve been listening in on the receiver for half an hour and they’re all going haywire!” he paused as he sat back down in the chair. “Money, drinking toasts, some new guy, who’s obviously well in with them. What the hell happened?”

  Forsyth walked over to his chair and sat down silently. He dropped the front door key onto the coffee table, then took a small silver hip flask out of his jacket pocket. He methodically unscrewed the cap, sipped a mouthful of the contents then offered the flask to King. “Napoleon brandy, care for a jigger?”

  King shook his head in frustration, exasperated near breaking point by Forsyth’s casual delay. “No! Just tell me what went on!”

  “Calm down, old boy. It never pays to get oneself so worked up.” Forsyth took his cigarette case from his inside pocket then opened the lid gleefully. “I followed Neeson to a spot just outside North Holmwood,” he paused, extracting a handmade cigarette. “The man parked his Saab in an overgrown layby and that chap Jason Porter parked the Porsche approximately two-hundred metres further up the road.” Forsyth slipped the cigarette into the side of his mouth, then flicked the wheel of his gold lighter and brought the flame to the tip of the cigarette. “After I spoke to you on the mobile, the Ford Mondeo arrived, followed by the Peugeot approximately ten minutes later.” He exhaled a thin plume of smoke, then smiled with satisfaction. “They positioned themselves, then waited. An armoured security van drove past a few minutes later. The man in the Peugeot sounded his horn as a signal, then pulled across the road. He popped the bonnet, then followed after the van on foot. The chap in the Porsche pulled across both lanes as well, then stayed in position. Both the driver of the Mondeo, and our friend Neeson blocked the van in the road, leaving the area of the operation out of sight, between two corners.”

  King frowned. “An armed robbery? An old fashioned hold-up?”

  “Yes, old boy. A plain and simple, old-fashioned hold up.” Forsyth flicked some excess ash into the ashtray, then slipped the cigarette back between his thin lips. “But with plastic explosive and assault rifles. It was bloody carnage, old boy. They took care of the two guards in the cab, then blew off the rear doors and shot into the back, killing whoever was inside. I’m pretty sure that there would only have been one guard in the rear of the vehicle. They off-loaded the loot into the Saab and the Ford, but unfortunately, that was when I bid my farewell. I didn’t see anything after that.”

  “So, you don’t know what happened after they unloaded?”

  Forsyth blew a perfect smoke ring towards him, then smiled. “I didn’t say that, old boy. I said I got out of there,” he mused. “I couldn’t see where the Porsche went, but I followed Danny Neeson back to the farm. Both the Ford and the Peugeot were there when he arrived.”

  Both men simultaneously looked towards the receiver, as the excitable banter suddenly died down, and a serious conversation began to emerge.

  ***

  “What about the lad?” Sean asked quietly. “Where did he and his fancy car get to?”

  Neeson shrugged. “He took all the evidence with him. A sack of French Francs, the electronic control unit, Ross’s rifle and my pistol.” He picked up his whiskey, sipped slowly, then turned back to Sean. “That and two large sacks of waxed paper cut to look like banknotes.”

  Sean furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”

  Neeson chuckled. “In the bottom of one of the sacks was a pound of Semtex. Jason Porter will take the credit of the armed robbery for us. Most of the interior of the vehicle will be vaporized by such a large amount of plastic explosive; leaving the forensics people with mere traces of money, electrical components, weaponry and body parts. And the chassis and VIN
numbers of the Porsche, which he left the showroom with when he disappeared.”

  Ross stared at the floor in dismay. “But he was Okay. I thought that he was with us.”

  “Aye, that he was. Right from the word go.” O’Shea nodded with a smile. “He has a criminal record for his part in an armed robbery and car theft. He was perfect. A few days ago, he disappeared with a brand new Porsche 911 from the classy car showroom where he worked, under a false identification and persona. When the police find his body, or what’s left of it, he will have a number of burned and charred items on him, including the remains of the control unit that blew the doors off the van, two weapons, both of which were involved in killing the three guards, not to mention charred money. The waxed paper will burn amongst the real money. The whole scene will look pretty conclusive,” he paused as he sipped a mouthful of whiskey, then smiled wryly. “The cops will think that he just got sloppy, blew himself to kingdom come with some explosive that he didn’t use.”

  “So, you see, Neeson commented. “He really was with us, gave his life to the cause, so he did…”

  “Nobody will ever suspect that it was the IRA who pulled off the job, there’s absolutely no evidence pointing our way.” O’Shea announced gleefully. “The two events will be unconnected. An ambitious but rubbish armed robber, and an IRA splinter group trying to derail the peace agreement.”

  Neeson turned to O’Shea. “What about the racetrack? What’s been said on the television or radio?”