by A P Bateman
35
At precisely twenty-two hundred hours, King stood up and looked down at Simon Grant. “Come on mate, time to get going.”
The two men had been watching the recordings of the inside of the barn, freezing the picture periodically so that they could study the safe and get a good idea of what it would be like. There was only so much that they had been able to see, but both men now knew exactly how many paces it would take to reach it in the dark, as well as the opening procedure. The combination seemed to be three turns to the left, two right, four left, one right and two left. It would help to know, but it was the exact numbers on the dial that counted. The key looked as if it had completed a whole turn to the left, half a turn to the right, then two turns to the left. Although they would have to play around with the system when they reached the safe, at least they had a good idea of what was in store for them upon their arrival.
Both men wore black denims and black leather jackets. Grant was entirely outfitted in King’s clothing, and had tucked and tightened it accordingly. They would each carry a bag of equipment, although Grant’s load had been considerably reduced due to his rib injury, which made heavy lifting extremely painful.
King swung his bag over his shoulder and made his way across the room. He waited for Grant to catch him up, then opened the front door. Grant stepped through the doorway and waited on the landing, as King closed and re-locked the door. He moved the drawing pin from the bannister and tucked it underneath as an indicator to Forsyth.
King led the way down the flight of steps and into the enclosed parking area reserved for the tenants of the small complex of flats. He ignored the gleaming BMW 540i and walked over to the tatty Ford Escort van, opened the passenger door then stood to the side and waited for Grant.
Grant dropped his bag into the foot-well of the vehicle and slipped into the passenger seat, while King closed the door after him then walked around the rear of the van and opened his own door. “Don’t you trust me or something?” asked Grant.
King dropped down into his seat and closed the door, locking it instantly. He nodded his head towards Grant’s door, signalling for him to do the same. Grant frowned at this, but locked his door even so. “Habit, basic security,” he explained, then started the vehicle’s engine. If I was in your position, I would probably have made a break for it long before now.”
Grant shook his head. “I have a family. You don’t, do you?” he stated flatly. “If you did, you certainly wouldn’t risk their safety.”
“No, I don’t have anybody,” he said, as he pulled the van out into the road, entering the light stream of traffic. He positioned the van in the correct lane, then turned to Grant. “What about your wife? Keith Parker must be extremely scared of you taking her away from him. He had the plan and the robbery coincide with your release. She must make it clear to him that she’s still in love with you.” King accelerated up through the gears, then steadied his speed at a legal sixty miles per hour. Even though the road was practically empty, he did not want to risk a confrontation with the police. “Are you going to try and get back with her?”
“If you don’t mind, I don’t want to talk about it,” Grant replied flatly. “I never wanted to lose her, but she left me because I was a criminal. A bloody crook.”
King laughed mirthlessly. “And what do you think he is? Keith Parker is directly responsible for the deaths of three of his company’s security guards, not to mention the two poor sods at the racecourse. He also tried to have you killed and got a hefty sized wedge of money on top! He’s a bigger crook than you ever were, or ever will be!” Grant said nothing as he turned and gazed out of his side window, engrossed in his own thoughts. “Man, the guy must have felt threatened by you.”
The two men did not speak again until they neared the farm. Grant seemed preoccupied with his thoughts. King just hoped the man would focus when the time came. He killed the engine and switched off the headlights before opening his window and looking out across the dark fields. It was a still night and the moon was full, covered periodically by the occasional scattering of dark cloud.
“What are we doing?” Grant asked, suddenly shattering the silence. “Waiting for an invite? Let’s get this done.”
King kept his eyes on the outside world then spoke quietly, indicating that Grant should do the same. “We are tuning in to our surroundings,” he paused, then glanced briefly at him before resuming his vigil on the monochrome landscape. “Getting our night vision, distinguishing the individual sounds. There is very little wind, so sound will travel fast, both from anyone lurking out there, or from us.” He turned back to Grant, as a beam of moonlight illuminated the inside of the vehicle, suddenly enabling him to make out the man’s features quite clearly. “That is why I decided to leave earlier than Forsyth suggested. To give us plenty of time to adjust to our surroundings. The entrance to the farm is just over half a mile away. We will get nearer in the van, but refrain from using the headlights. I know a good place to park, well out of sight of the road. From there, we cross over the road and go in across country.”
Grant studied the luminous dials on his wristwatch. “What time will we go in?”
“One hour’s time. Midnight. If necessary we can wait just outside the farmyard, it will give us a rest at the same time.” He glanced down at Grant’s watch. “Better take that off before we go, those dials could just be enough to give us away.” He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a small torch “Here, take this. It’s a Mini-Maglite, with a red filter which will not destroy your night vision,” he paused as Grant took the torch from him. “If you do look into a bright light, when you get back into the dark, try looking out of the corner of your eyes. The retina is made up of cells called rods and cones. Rods are sensitive to dim light and line the sides of the retina.”
“Thanks.” Grant slipped the torch into his pocket, then nervously tapped his fingers against the dashboard.
King smiled to himself. He knew how the man felt. Waiting was always the hardest part.
As the van crept quietly along the road, without headlights, King kept his eyes on the hedgerows that lined both sides of the strip of tarmac. He kept the van in the centre of the road using the central white lines, which were only just visible in the faint moonlight, as a guide to the vehicle’s position. When he drew near to the turning, he slipped the gearbox into neutral and switched off the engine. Making doubly sure that the steering lock was off, he let the vehicle free wheel past the entrance and down the slight gradient, until they reached the entrance to the lane. He gently applied the handbrake, so as not to illuminate the vehicle with the brake-lights, then coasted into the muddy lane until the vehicle’s momentum ceased altogether, bringing it to a gradual halt. He opened his door quietly, then pulled the key from the ignition and stepped onto the muddy ground. He bent down and placed the key behind the front wheel, a precaution that he had found to be most useful in such situations, then looked across at Grant. “Right, out you get; no talking, coughing or heavy breathing. I hope you’re fit.” He reached behind his seat and caught hold of the heavier of the two bags.
“So do I,” Grant commented, as he bent forward and retrieved his bag from the foot-well of the vehicle.
The two men fastened the bags over their shoulders, linking their arms through the straps. King thoroughly checked Grant’s pack for unnecessary movement or rattling, by shaking it vigorously. Grant winced as his ribs bore the brunt of the momentary assault, then breathed deeply to ease the pain. “Are you all right?”
Grant nodded. “I’ll be fine, let’s just get it done.”
King led the way, using the faint moonlight to pick his way through the myriad of puddles that dotted the way along the muddy lane. He quickly crossed the road, then waited for Grant to catch up with him before vaulting the three-railed wooden fence.
Grant scrabbled over the obstruction. Not so adept as King, he dropped over the other side and became entangled with his bag. He struggled to free himself, unti
l King caught hold of his shoulder and stopped him. He pushed Grant back against the fence, then gently lifted the bag free. With Grant released, King continued to lead the way along the hedge and down the gentle gradient. It was soon apparent that Simon Grant was neither fit, nor honed to this type of activity. He struggled to breathe quietly, but his intakes of breath were both erratic and noisy. His footsteps were unsure, thundering heavily, instead of being carefully, unobtrusively placed. King helped him across the small brook, catching hold of his arm and pulling him forward as he leapt over the gently running water. He helped him under the wire fence, keeping his bag from snagging, then pushed him clear. By contrast, King moved stealthily - placing his footsteps carefully and breathing steadily. As well as being far fitter than Grant, and well-practised in such activities, King had a natural affinity with this sort of exercise. His senses were instantly alert, and he was able to foresee his way silently across any obstruction, moving virtually without sound. He had operated in identical countryside in Ulster on reconnaissance operations, remaining undetected for days.
The two men climbed the gentle incline, with Grant following the MI6 operative’s footsteps through the tangle of weeds and thistles. King briefly hesitated at the base of the tall hedge, and pulled Grant towards him. “We have to climb the hedge,” he whispered. “I will get on top, then help you over. Watch where you put your feet.”
King reached up and caught hold of an old hawthorn tree stump. He checked it for stability by giving it a sturdy tug, then eased himself up, placing his feet carefully in search of a foothold. Once on top, he held out his hand and waited for Grant to take hold. Grant pulled and scrabbled his way up, cracking a number of twigs as he reached the top. King released his grip on Grant’s hand, then looked over towards the farmhouse. No lights shone from within; it would appear that the inhabitants were asleep for the night. He turned back to Grant, then leapt down from the hedge, landing quietly on the overgrown ground below. Grant eased himself down, then went to step forward, but King grabbed his arm and pulled him back into the shadows.
“No. We will wait here for a couple of minutes, I want to double check.” He pulled him to his knees, then crouched beside him. “I will go first, then signal for you to follow. Watch your step, there’s a lot of junk spread all over the place.”
Grant nodded, then squatted down and watched the farmhouse. Only a day ago, it had been a makeshift prison for him. He had been held there by a threat to his family. Inside were the same people who had attempted to kill him, and now - he was back. He shook his head, unable to comprehend the insanity, the sheer audacity of returning. He tried to steady his erratic breathing; much of his fitness had been lost to the tedium of prison life. He was certainly not as fit as his build would suggest. He turned towards King and watched as the man silently moved out across the open ground.
King crouched low to the ground, stepping cautiously over and around the pieces of rusty scrap metal and other rubbish that was spread haphazardly across the area between the hedge and the barn. As he eased himself against the side of the barn, he looked in both directions, then signalled for Grant to follow. He watched as the man cautiously left the sanctuary of the hedgerow and stepped out into the moonlight. He successfully made it across the waste ground, avoiding the scattered debris, then stood a few feet from his right shoulder. So far, so good.
King eased the bag off his shoulder and placed it between his feet. He gently unfastened the zip and retrieved the electronic listening device. He switched it on, then placed it against the timber wall, before turning briefly to Grant. “Keep extremely quiet, do not make any sudden noises.” Grant nodded as King slipped the earpiece into his ear.
King eased his way along the side of the barn, taking the device away from the wall as he walked, then placing it back against the building every three or four feet. They soon worked their way down the entire length of the building then King slipped the device back into the bag and held up his thumb. “Two people. At the far end. They must be sleeping, they’re very relaxed,” he whispered.
“Ross and Sean,” Grant whispered. “They slept out here the whole time. I thought they’d go inside the farmhouse now that the others have…” he paused. “Gone.”
“Did you see where they slept?”
“No.”
King shrugged. No matter. He had his 9mm and he wasn’t going to worry about using it. He made his way around the edge of the barn, Grant following closely. He stopped when he reached the smaller of the two doors, which was now fitted with a large padlock. “How do the two men get in and out?”
“I think the stone barn and the wooden barn are separate buildings. They have a door on the other side. There is a door in the internal wall, but they don’t have to use it.”
King contemplated this. It made sense. He had not noticed a door in the partitioning wall. He made a note to check the adjoining door. “Get the padlock off,” he said.
“No problem,” Grant whispered, taking the bag off his aching shoulders. He winced momentarily at the jolt of pain to his ribs, then placed the bag at his feet. He opened the bag and took out the set of picklocks, selected a thin, three-pronged pick, and set rapidly to work.
King watched Grant work, impressed at the sheer speed and expertise in which the man approached the task. Within seconds the padlock was off, and Grant had returned the picklocks to his equipment bag. King drew the 9mm pistol from his hip holster then pulled Grant to one side. He eased the door handle down then gently pushed the heavy door inwards. He held the pistol in a double-handed grip then cautiously stepped inside, moving away from the doorway and into the welcoming sanctuary of the shadows. His eyes were already accustomed to the dim light, but the inside of the barn was illuminated considerably from the moonlight that shone through the two windows near the rear of the building. He carefully sighted the pistol around the cavernous space then, satisfied that it was clear, beckoned Grant forwards.
Grant walked past him towards the bales of straw. He already knew the exact number of paces that he should take, then when he reached the small stack, he dropped his bag onto the ground and pulled the first three bales aside.
King made his way across the whole barn to the far wall. He strained his eyes in the darkness and found the door. It was an old fashioned latch type, with no lock. Two men, two trained IRA killers slept the other side of an inch and a half of wooden partition. He contemplated killing them. He had a knife on him, and knew they were sleeping. It wouldn’t be difficult. And it would cover their rears as they worked on the safe. He reached for the door handle.
“Come on!” Grant whispered. That loud whisper people make that sounds more like an exhalation of air.
King hesitated. He looked around, saw a rusted milk churn and picked it up. He carried it over and placed it against the door. It wouldn’t stop them from opening it, but it would alert him if the door swung open. After that, he’d let his friend Browning do the talking.
Grant was working at the covering of straw. King bent down, and between them the two men cleared away the loose straw, exposing the sheet of polythene. King gently peeled back the sheet, finally revealing the thick, steel door. Grant quickly opened up his bag and started to remove the various pieces of equipment that he would need. He placed them on the polythene sheet in the order in which he would use them, then picked up the medical stethoscope and carefully went to work.
King, although interested in how Grant would go about opening the safe, decided that he would be most use keeping a watch on the entrance to the building. He walked back to the open doorway, gently eased the door back until it was almost closed, then peered through the small gap, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the farmyard with his pistol at the ready in his right hand.
Grant smoothed his hands all over the surface of the safe, then around the hinges to the side. Both O’Shea and Neeson had partially masked the camera’s view, making the overall opening procedure difficult to see. Grant was aware that both locks were combination-
based, and both he and King were aware of how many turns O’Shea seemed to have taken. However, what seems, and what is, are two entirely different matters. Grant decided that it would probably be wiser if he started from fresh; hopefully, this would avoid confusion, or disappointment.
He slipped the stethoscope into his ears and placed the end roughly an inch below and left of the combination dial. As he turned the dial, he smiled to himself. The configuration of tumblers and gates seemed to leap into life, rotating and sliding with one another, until he heard the first click. He eased the dial back in the opposite direction, holding his breath as he did so, desperately trying to hear the next tell-tale sound over his own rapid heartbeat.
King turned back to Grant, but the man was working with his back to him. There seemed little point in asking how it was going; the man was a professional, he would get the job done, whether or not he asked him for a progress report. He turned back to the farmhouse, then visibly flinched at the sight. Upstairs, one of the lights was on, beaming through the small gap in the curtains. King eased the door, closing the gap until it was merely a thin slit. He kept his eyes on the front door, watching for any sign of movement, then scanned the surrounding area, in case he had missed something. He cursed under his breath - he had not seen the light come on, for that crucial moment, he had been watching Simon Grant at the safe.
