by A P Bateman
“The police say that it looks as if a terrorist organisation, possibly animal rights extremists, were planting a device when something went terribly wrong for them. As yet, no organisation has accepted responsibility,” he said, shaking his head. “And nor will they. We are the only people who will ever know for sure. Those men were rotten to the core. They hired themselves out to the INLA and the IPLO, and used our funds in the process. They even used our intelligence and resources to set up an arms deal last autumn; PIRA never saw a penny.”
“What about my interest?” Parker’s voice was quiet and unassuming, yet exuded confidence. “I trust that has been taken care of?”
“Yes, of course. As agreed.” O’Shea turned to both Ross and Sean. “You see, Mr Parker here, is the general manager of the security firm whose van you just hit. His company has just received a new contract with Gatwick International Airport. The money we have now was on route to the money exchanges in every terminal, just in time for the weekend. It was being taken along a devious route, that he just so happened to find out about.” The Irishman beamed a smile. “The route should only have been known to the courier manager. The security team was to be told on the day,” O’Shea paused. “Mr Parker saw to it that the compressed-air operated dye canisters to be placed inside the sacks as a deterrent, were recalled the day before, due to some fault or other. The company decided to ferry the money regardless, eager to fulfil their obligations so early into their contract. There was no way they could turn down such a large deal, not with the competition as it is. I seriously doubt that his company will end up keeping the contract now!”
The rest of the men all laughed, except for Parker, who remained straight-faced. “What I meant was, I kept to my side of the bargain. I supplied the relevant, but essential information. Did you keep to yours?”
Holman placed a hand on Parker’s shoulder. “Weren’t you listening Keith? The team was all blown to pieces. Simon Grant is dead! Lisa won’t need a divorce, but what’s more, a dead man can’t possibly take her away from you!” Holman patted the man reassuringly on his shoulder. “And on top of that, you are now an extremely wealthy man indeed!”
***
“Bastard. The utter bastard…”
King and Forsyth both turned around, startled by the silent intrusion. Simon Grant stood in the passageway leading to the bathroom and the bedroom. He wore a pair of King’s trousers and a dark grey sweater, although the outfit was far too big for him. He stepped forward and stared at the two men.
“What is going on?” he asked indignantly. “Who are you, and where am I?”
King stood up and pointed to the small sofa on the other side of the low coffee table. “Sit down over there.” He turned to Forsyth and frowned, as if for guidance.
“Come now, old chap, do as he says and take a seat.” Forsyth opened his cigarette case and offered it to Grant. “You are in a right old pickle; wouldn’t you say?” Grant reached forward and accepted one of the handmade cigarettes, then slipped it into his mouth, his hands shaking slightly. He leaned forward as Forsyth reached out and flicked the wheel of his lighter. Grant winced, his ribs obviously causing him a great deal of discomfort. Forsyth smiled. “The least of your worries, I’d say,” he smiled, blowing out a thin plume of smoke. “It would seem that you are caught slap bang in the middle. The IRA on one side, your friend Holman on the other, your wife’s lover… Not good, not good at all. And now us.”
Grant turned his stare to King and then back to Forsyth. “And who are you?” he asked defiantly, regaining a little composure.
“Oh, we’re working for Her Majesty’s Government. Don’t even think of asking more, because you will not be told. Let’s just say, it’s a shadowy department that doesn’t officially exist and we answer to very few people. Better to accept you belong to us now.” Forsyth turned to King and smiled. “Please sit back down Alex, I think you’re making our guest a trifle nervous.”
King reluctantly sat back down, then held up his hand, as Forsyth was about to speak. “Wait.” He nodded towards the receiver. “Leave the questions for later, I think we should listen...”
***
O’Shea banged his fist down on the table in an effort to regain some authority. It was time for the high-spirited banter and celebrations to come to an end. He looked seriously at Ross and Sean, then pushed a large pile of twenty-pound notes towards them and smiled. “Here, take this little lot for expenses,” he paused, then pushed two large bundles of American fifty-dollar bills towards them. “And that’s a little bonus for your troubles. You’re both leaving tomorrow morning, at seven o’clock. Take the Ford and head for Liverpool, you know where the safe houses are. Keep your heads down for two weeks, then get yourselves back home on the ferry. Separately. And don’t spend the money just yet.”
Ross picked up the pile of dollars and grinned gleefully as he walked towards the door to the hallway. Sean grabbed the handful of pound sterling and beamed a smile.
“No arguing now, sort yourselves out with an equal split.” O’Shea picked up the whiskey bottle, which was half-full, or half-empty, depending on your way of thinking. Today was more of a half-full day. He handed it to Sean. “Go on, get it down! A winner’s breakfast! Just make yourselves scarce for a while, we’ve got further business to discuss.” He waited for the two men to leave the room then turned to Keith Parker. “Well done. Your information was bang on the nail.” He counted out the bundles of pound sterling, then slid the pile towards him. “Here, as agreed. Five-hundred-thousand pounds, or thereabouts. Keep it safe, and don’t be too bloody obvious.” He smiled. “You don’t need to be told to hide it and wait for all of this to blow over, do you?”
“No.”
“Good. I didn’t realise how big a pile like that would be. Got a suitcase?”
He held up a roll of black plastic bin liners. “I work with this stuff. I knew it would be a fair old stack.” Parker reached forward, trying to suppress a childlike grin. “I intend to lie low for a bit. I might well do what Holman here has done and buy myself a little holiday home in France, take it easy for a change. I’ve got some holiday time due. I might even look to change careers next year, once the dust has settled. Or retire altogether.” He opened up two of the bin liners and started to stack the bundles of money neatly inside. He looked across at Holman, who was still sipping from a large tumbler of whisky. “Thank you, Frank. It took a while to plan, but we finally did it.”
“Fortunate that we could tie up all the factors,” Holman said. “I’m pleased to have helped you with your… problem.”
O’Shea rose to his feet and held his hand out across the table. Parker noted the gesture and realised that it was time for him to bid farewell. He shook O’Shea’s hand firmly then gave a quick nod to Neeson. “I’d best be off. It was a pleasure doing business with you.”
O’Shea waited until Keith Parker had left the house and was walking down the path before he spoke. “What about you Holman, what are your plans?”
Frank Holman set his empty glass down on the table and smiled. “I’m going to put my feet up for a change, like Parker said, take it easy.”
Neeson turned to O’Shea and patted a nearby money sack. “Best be putting this lot away, we’re here for a day or two more at least.” He stood up and looked at Holman. “Come on, fatty,” he teased. “You can help us out. Do some work for a change!”
Holman stood up reluctantly and caught hold of a sack in each hand. He grunted under the strain, obviously unaccustomed to such strenuous work, then followed Neeson out of the front door. The three men trudged across the wet and muddy yard towards the barn, avoiding the myriad of puddles as best they could. As Holman waited for Neeson to unbolt the lock, the weight proved too much for him and he released his grip on the sack in his left hand. Neeson gave the man a look of contempt, then unbolted the door and hastily stepped inside.
***
“Where do you think they’ve gone?” Forsyth glanced across at Grant, who simply shr
ugged.
“It has to be the barn,” King leaned forward and switched on the monitor. There was nothing but a blank screen. He looked back at Forsyth, who seemed quite agitated at the sudden loss of communication.
Forsyth stubbed his cigarette into the ashtray and opened the silver cigarette case as he looked at Grant. “Is there anywhere else at the farm where they would perhaps store the money?” he asked, then shook his head. “Oh, hang on, all is well…”
King followed Forsyth’s gaze and saw the monitor’s screen flicker slightly, then reveal Neeson half-dragging, half carrying two large sacks into the cavernous space of the empty barn.
***
Neeson dropped his two sacks on the ground near a stack of musty straw bales, then turned and smiled as he watched Holman drag his sack towards him. The man was panting, his face had turned a slight tinge of scarlet, and he was sweating heavily from his deeply furrowed brow.
Neeson walked back to where Holman had dropped half of his load. He picked up the sack, slinging it casually over his shoulder, then followed O’Shea towards the pile of sacks.
“The world and their dog hates a fucking show off,” Holman said sarcastically as he wiped his saturated brow. Neeson remained silent. Holman looked around the barn, frowned, then looked at Neeson and asked, “Where are the bodies?”
Neeson shrugged. “Ross and Sean buried them someplace,” he replied tersely. “Plenty of places to dig on a farm. They dumped the car too.” He walked past him, then started to move the stack of straw bales. Holman watched in silence, as Neeson moved three bales aside to reveal a sheet of blue polythene covering. He dropped down onto his knees and brushed the loose scattering of straw away then carefully peeled back the section of sheet. In its place and set into the ground was a steel door, approximately one-metre wide and one and a half metres long.
“Jesus! It looks bomb proof!” Holman exclaimed. “It’s sure to be safe in there.”
“Aye, that’s the idea.” Neeson stood up and turned to O’Shea. “You get it opened, boss, and I’ll go for the rest of the sacks.”
O’Shea, who had been standing beside Holman, stepped forward and bent down, as Neeson jogged out of the barn. He reached down and gently twisted the combination dial, several times, in both directions, until the lock clicked open. Holman watched intently, never before had he seen such a large safe; the hinges were recessed and the rim of the door overlapped the sides. O’Shea reached under his collar and looped a length of chain over his head. Attached to the chain was a large key with a complex-looking set of wards. He slipped the key into the lock and turned it several times in both directions. Then he looked up at Holman and nodded towards the safe.
“Give us a hand, it’s going to take two.”
Holman bent down and eased his fingers under the rim of the door, then heaved in time with O’Shea. After much effort the door fell back against the straw-covered ground, to reveal a deep, steel-sided casing, at least two-inches thick.
O’Shea stood up and turned to the pile of sacks beside him. He opened two of them and started to count out the bundles of notes onto the ground.
Holman looked at the pile greedily; he knew that this was to be his share, and almost salivated at the sight.
“One-million pounds, as agreed.” O’Shea turned his back on Holman and started to drop the sacks into the hold. “Don’t spend it straight away, don’t brag down the pub and don’t get caught. Go and lie low. What did Parker say? A holiday home in France? Time for you to go and have a croissant and some cheese and watch the boats. In fact, I insist.”
Holman dropped to his knees and grinned gleefully as he caught hold of the pile of French francs, American and Australian dollars and pound sterling. He pulled the considerable pile towards him, then took two large polythene carrier bags out of his coat pocket and proceeded to stuff them with the bundles, along with pieces of straw and debris. “Pleasure doing business with you, Mister O’Shea. An absolute pleasure!”
“Aye, just don’t go getting yourself caught.” O’Shea turned around and stared at him menacingly. “You know never to cross our organisation; our reach is extremely long indeed.”
Holman shook his head. “I’m not stupid, you know. Tomorrow, I’m long gone.”
“We will be too.” O’Shea turned his back on him and continued to load the sacks into the hold.
Neeson appeared in the doorway of the barn, struggling to carry three sacks. He stared distastefully at Holman. “Are you sorted?” Holman nodded. “Aye, well get going. Myself, I wanted to put a bullet in your brain and save on your considerable fee. But, luckily for you, O’Shea is a man of his word, and said that you’ve done a good job and may be useful to us again in the future,” he paused, glaring him. “So get your fat arse out of here before he changes his mind!” Neeson walked past him and dropped the three sacks straight into the hold.
O’Shea caught hold of the edge of the door and waited for Neeson to do the same. Between them, they lifted the door up and eased it back into position. As O’Shea twisted the combination dial and re-locked the door with the key, Neeson turned around and smiled to himself. Frank Holman had disappeared.
32
Forsyth stubbed his cigarette into the ashtray, then leaned back in his chair, making no attempt to suppress a wry smile. “Well, well, well. Whoever would have thought it?” he paused, rubbing his chin ponderously. “The IRA, so committed to the peace agreement, that they actually blow a rogue splinter group to kingdom come. A man so jealous of his girlfriend’s past, so threatened by the thought of her estranged husband being released from prison and wanting to make a fresh start, that he puts together a plan where part of his payment is the husband’s death!” Forsyth opened his case and took out a handmade cigarette. “Not to mention Frank Holman, the mutual friend who agrees to deliver the husband, like a lamb to the slaughter.”
King nodded. “And the fact that the IRA are so dubious of the peace agreement and its duration, that they’re on a fund-raising mission, the like of which we’ve never seen.”
Grant reached forward and stubbed the butt of his cigarette into the overfilling ashtray. He winced, placing a hand over his aching ribs for comfort. “What about me, do I get arrested or something?”
King shook his head. “No. Not yet, at least. I think I may have an idea.”
“Do tell.” Forsyth said, incredulously. “This whole situation has gone too far. People have died, I accept responsibility for that. If we had acted sooner, those security guards, both at Kempton Park, and at the site of the armed robbery would still be alive.”
“It’s not all on you, Ian,” said King. “I wanted more intel. I wanted to see what they were doing. If I’d just killed O’Shea, then none of this would have happened.”
“You’re an assassin?” Grant shook his head in despair. “What’s going on?”
Forsyth looked at Grant. “I’ll surmise for you. We are members of the intelligence community. We have been tasked with removing a prominent IRA member, before the peace agreement is signed in two days’ time. You will never speak of us, never mention our existence to anyone. If you do, then the IRA will be the least of your worries. Understand?” Grant nodded emphatically. “Good.”
“We know where the money is being kept, Ian,” King paused, patted the monitor. “And we have a safecracker right here, who I am pretty certain will want to help us. Unless he would rather go to prison on terrorist related offences? Or his involvement in the armed robbery? Let’s face it, coerced or not, we’ve got more than enough on tape to send him down.”
“What are you saying, old boy?” Forsyth frowned. “That we take their money?”
“Exactly. We can’t involve the police, because technically, we’re operating outside of the law.”
“Then what do we do with the money? Keep it?”
King laughed. “Of course not,” he said. “But we don’t let them keep it.”
“So we steal their money. And then, what? Kill them?”
&nb
sp; “We have to anyway,” King said. “That was the job.”
“So many loose ends,” said Forsyth, tapping another cigarette on the lid of the silver case. “The police will have to be involved at some point.”
“Maybe not,” King paused. “As I said; I have an idea.”
Grant stared at the two men warily. “I don’t want to cross these people. After all, they think I’m dead. What about the safety of my family?”
Forsyth chuckled, apparently to himself. “My dear man, that was all a wonderfully played bluff. It was merely a ploy to get you to agree. Your wife’s boyfriend was involved. The sole purpose from his point of view was to have you killed, but he had to come up with a plan that would suit both parties. Your wife and son could never have been safer.”
Grant looked crestfallen. “No, I’m not doing it.” He stood up calmly, then stared at them both. “I’m leaving.”
King pointed the pistol at him. “You’re not, mate.”
“Now, now, Alex,” Forsyth said. “It’s not going to come to that. One word from an anonymous tipster to some contacts in Belfast and Simon Grant won’t make it a week. Nor will his family, for certain this time.” He looked at Grant. “Sit down, Simon.”
Grant hesitated for a moment, then looked to reconsider. He sat down heavily in the well-worn fabric chair, that had once been a part of a suite. But not now. “What then?”
“We have a lot of loose ends. We have terrorists with ill-gotten gains, a considerable sum. We can’t have that.” He looked at the MI6 special operator. “Alex, you said you had an idea. I should very much like to hear it.”
33
After King had laid out the bare bones of his plan, Forsyth had added some meat to them, and left to make a series of calls. He had been absent for just over five-hours. The time was now six-thirty p.m.
King had replayed all of the video recordings on the monitor, making both sketches and mental notes of the layout of the interior of the barn. After the film show had finished, he set a new tape into the receiver, to record any current conversations, then played back the audio recordings, periodically making notes on a small pad.
