by A P Bateman
King slowed the BMW, then took another left-hand turning, which took them along the seafront. The road forked in front of them, left towards the shops and restaurants along the sea wall, or right towards the beach road that led out of town in the direction of Holman’s address. He pulled the vehicle into the side of the road and reached into his pocket for the directions, which Forsyth had issued him with back in England. “This is it.” He rested the piece of paper carefully in his lap, then pulled back out into the road. “It’s not far to go now, keep your eyes peeled. Holman’s house is number one-thousand and seven, on the left and set back from the road on the dune-side, apparently.”
The narrow road followed the coast behind a partial blockade of sand dunes, which parted every now and then to reveal a glimpse of the calm, shimmering ocean. The sun was setting directly to their left, turning the ocean orange on the horizon. After a few hundred metres they passed a large car park to their left, then headed into denser pine forest as they left the town of Lacanau and its outskirts behind them.
King slowed the vehicle to a relative crawl, as he passed the occasional house, set back from the quiet road. He glanced down at the instructions, then looked up with conviction. “That’s it! One-thousand and seven. The properties must be numbered throughout the district. There’s hardly twenty houses out here, let alone a thousand.” He eased the car to a halt then looked at his watch. “Forsyth did not call to update us, so we must assume that O’Shea and Neeson are on the way. Holman could be hours away, or he could be right on our tail. It depends how he drives. That car of his could be made to hustle.”
“What do we do now then?” Grant asked as he studied the property and its surroundings. “There seem to be no immediate neighbours, but the house could well be alarmed.”
“It will be,” King said, then pulled back out onto the road and drove on past the house. “It’s with a management agency for maintenance. The company insist on their properties being alarmed. We will do it now. I don’t want a premature confrontation with Holman, it will ruin everything,” he paused. “I want the Irishmen.”
***
O’Shea and Neeson had just bypassed the town of Carcans, having driven a different route south on the D3. The road was quiet; the traffic becoming lighter the further south they travelled. Pine forest spread out on both sides of the road, with one hundred metre firebreaks cut into it every kilometre or so.
O’Shea pointed at a group of men huddled conspiratorially around the tailgate of a four-wheel drive vehicle. “What are that lot up to?”
As they drew nearer, one of the men turned around with a double-barrelled shotgun broken over his arm. He watched the Saab dubiously as they passed, then turned back to the others. He had a bunch of dead pigeons hanging by their legs from a loop of twine.
“I guess they’re game shooting,” Neeson commented, then nodded towards the side of the road where a man had appeared from the forest clutching a brace of plump wood pigeons. “Another one there. Seems the French are big on hunting. I like that. Shoot your own meat, grow your own vegetables. My neighbour kept pigs when I was a lad. He shared the chops around and took payment back in chores or potatoes others grew in their back yards.” He checked his empty rear-view mirror, then looked ahead at the next car, which had pulled well off the road amid a growth of bracken which fringed the edge of the dark forest.
“Aye, same here,” O’Shea commented. “Simpler days. Better ones too.”
Neeson slowed down, watching the man stand at the rear of his vehicle, a small Peugeot hatchback. He then eased his left foot onto the brake and tapped the accelerator with his right. The Saab jerked erratically as it slowed and he quickly switched on the hazard warning lights as he pulled into the side of the road,
“What’s going on?” O’Shea sat up in his seat and stared at the hazard warning lights as they flashed intermittently on the dashboard. “Are we out of fuel?”
Neeson shook his head. “No. Just relax.” He pressed down hard on the brake, but did not apply the clutch. The Saab shuddered dramatically, then stalled on the side of the road. Neeson opened his door and stepped out, scratching his head in bewilderment, before walking around to the rear of the vehicle and taking a small emergency tool kit out from the boot.
The Frenchman looked on, somewhat bemused as Neeson took a large spanner out of the tool kit and walked around to the front of the vehicle. Tourists were not among his favourite people. Indeed, from Bordeaux to Biarritz, that opinion was one shared by a great many of his countrymen. The man opened the rear hatch of his car and unfastened the cartridge belt, which hung under his ample stomach. He bent down, picked up three wood pigeons, then dropped them down into the boot before returning his gaze to the stupid foreigners who had run out of petrol.
Neeson peered through the open window at O’Shea and said, “Pop the bonnet.” O’Shea frowned, but Neeson scowled at him. “Just do it!”
O’Shea quickly pulled the release catch then sat back dejectedly as Neeson walked around to the front of the vehicle, lifted the bonnet and tinkered with the engine. After a few seconds, he shut the bonnet back down then peered back inside the open window. “Pass me the map,” he said tersely. He waited for O’Shea to pick the map up off the floor, then snatched it from him and walked over towards the Frenchman’s vehicle. He smiled benignly as he approached, the map in one hand, a large spanner held loosely in the other. “Do you speak English?” he asked, as the man seemingly ignored his existence. “Vous parlez Anglaise?” Neeson smiled meekly. He shrugged an apology for his poor attempt at French, then pointed to his car. “Garage? Petrol?” He turned back to him and held out the map. “How… far… is… the… garage?” he asked loudly, just in case raising his voice would make the Frenchman understand.
The man frowned, then nodded in the direction that Neeson had been heading and held up eight fingers.
Neeson frowned. “I don’t understand.” He held out the map for him. “Is that kilometres?”
The Frenchman begrudgingly stepped forward and caught hold of the edge of the map. He stared at the page for a moment, then pointed at a spot approximately eight to ten kilometres from their location, and started to speak in rapid French. Neeson stepped closer and looked down at the page, then, just as the man pointed down the road, he swung the spanner up into the man’s face.
The man fell backwards clutching his mouth and shattered teeth, and wailing loudly. Neeson wasted no time in following up his attack with two more vicious blows to the head. The man fell onto his stomach then rolled over onto his back and raised his hands in a desperate bid to shield himself from the rain of blows that Neeson was now delivering. Each blow struck the man in the face with a sickening crunch, and after several blows the man’s hands dropped to the ground and he lay motionless. Neeson rolled him over onto his stomach, then raised the heavy spanner high above his head and directed a deadly blow to the base of the man’s skull. There was a loud crack, then Neeson stood up slowly and looked cautiously around, before throwing the spanner deep into the surrounding undergrowth. Less than two paces away, a small drainage ditch cut a path neatly through the bracken. Neeson caught hold of the body by its feet and quickly dragged it towards the ditch. He heaved and rolled it, then stood back as the cadaver dropped down into the thick mud.
He wiped the sweat from his brow and returned to the small hatchback, where the .20 bore shotgun rested against the passenger door. He quickly picked it up, opened the action and looked into the breach. Both barrels were empty, although he already suspected that this would be the case, considering that the man was packing his equipment away. Neeson walked around to the rear hatch, picked up the half-filled cartridge belt, then quickly returned to the Saab.
“What the hell?” O’Shea stared at him, dumbfounded.
Neeson opened his door, placed the shotgun on the rear seat then dropped the cartridge belt into the rear foot space. “Relax,” he said. “I dumped the revolver at Folkestone, couldn’t chance a search. We needed
a weapon, and now we have one.” He calmly started the Saab’s engine, selected first gear, and pulled out onto the empty road.
O’Shea looked behind him at the lonely vehicle as they pulled away and shook his head slowly, still shocked at what he had just witnessed. “Is he dead?” He turned back to Neeson and stared at him coolly. “We have no friends here. If he’s dead, we could be in the shit big style.”
Neeson shrugged. “It will serve the bugger right,” he said calmly. “The man was bloody unhelpful.”
As the Saab pulled back out onto the road and made its way into the distance, the young boy stepped out from the forest with his .410 shotgun folded over his arm, just as his father had taught him. He swung the pigeon by his side, beaming proudly. It had been his first kill and his father had not been there to witness it. He had wandered away from the clearing, out of his father’s sight. He knew that his father would be angry, shooting was a strict discipline, but he also knew how proud his father would be of him. To bring home food for the table, to contribute to his modest household. Hopefully he would not be chastised when his father saw his prized trophy. He walked through the thick bracken towards the vehicle, then stood still, puzzled. He was sure that his father would have returned by now.
40
Two-hundred metres past the house, just before the next exclusive holiday home, a narrow lane branched off to the left, cutting through the dense pine forest and into the dunes.
King checked the rear-view mirror, then satisfied that there was nobody nearby to observe them, pulled into the lane and drove steadily through the muddy and sandy puddles until he estimated that he was directly behind Frank Holman’s property. He steered the BMW carefully to the left, where a small passing point had been cut into the undergrowth, then switched off the engine.
“It’s not dark yet, we’re bound to be noticed,” Grant said, shaking his head despondently. “We can’t take the chance of being seen.”
“I don’t give a damn if we are noticed, as long as it’s not Holman or our Irish friends,” he paused. “Take a look around. There’s nothing here, no reason for people to be here. If we can get the money in position and get the hell out before anyone calls the police, then it doesn’t matter,” he paused, looking at the tiny sliver of sun which stabbed savagely through the tree line. “It will be at least another hour before it’s completely dark, we haven’t got enough time to wait.” He opened his door and stepped out over a large puddle then gently closed the door and walked around to the rear of the vehicle.
Grant followed suit, closing his door as quietly as possible. He crossed over the lane, avoiding the muddy water as best he could, then scrabbled up the small embankment and looked down the incline towards Holman’s property. There were a few islands of pine trees, growing in groups of three or four, then two-hundred metres or so of scrubby undergrowth before the final belt of pines, which bordered Holman’s rambling gardens. The house nestled amongst the trees, invisible but for its terracotta roof.
“Grant!” King called out in an exaggerated whisper. “Come on, take this!” He set the bag of equipment down on a patch of pine needles, then lifted the heavy suitcase out of the boot.
Grant tentatively eased himself down the steep embankment, then picked his way through the myriad of puddles as he crossed over the lane. He bent down and picked up the heavy bag of equipment, then waited for King to close the boot of the car.
King opened the offside rear door and hastily pulled the panel away from the doorframe. He reached inside, under the electric window motor and retrieved the plastic-wrapped packages.
“What are those?” Grant asked curiously as he watched King place the tiny bundles on the roof of the car, to join the other four packages.
“Tool of the trade,” he replied quietly.
Grant watched intently as King ripped the plastic off each of the packages. The toothpaste solution was crumbling like old plaster. He laid the parts out in front of him and quickly assembled the pieces, with well-practised precision: barrel into the frame, spring pressed tight against the holding lug, then the whole frame slipped inside the recess of the working parts. With the pin in place, the weapon was complete. He inserted the magazine into the pistol’s butt, racked back the slide and applied the safety. He then tucked the weapon into the waistband of his trousers. Thirteen rounds. Not many for two terrorists who had both been in the game for twenty or more years. He would have preferred the odds a little more in his favour.
King slung the equipment bag over his shoulder, then picked up the heavy suitcase and pointed to a dip in the embankment. “Through there.” Grant followed him through the dip, which in fact, turned out to be natural drain for excess water that had accumulated on the surface of the lane. Once clear of the makeshift passage and into the undergrowth, they cautiously picked their way towards the thick barrier of pine trees that bordered Holman’s property.
King moved smoothly, placing his footsteps so as not to make any unnecessary sounds. Grant followed, somewhat less stealthily, then stood still, breathing heavily as King suddenly signalled for him to stop moving.
“What’s the matter?” Grant asked quietly, his eyes darting everywhere as he cautiously crouched down beside him.
King pointed towards the far-left side of the house. “Up near the guttering, a red alarm box.”
Grant craned his neck to see, then nodded. “Looks like a decoy to me,” he said then looked back at King. “If you catch it right, you can see daylight through the vents. It’s either a decoy to stop you looking any further and seeing the real system, or it’s a poor-man’s substitute; which is always a good sign.”
“What do you mean?”
Grant slowly rose to his feet, keeping back behind the thick pine tree. “If someone goes to the trouble of having a fake alarm box fitted, then it generally means that they have stuff worth stealing, but are only half-hearted in their approach to protecting it.”
King nodded. “That’s fine, but we are not here to steal, and Holman is pretty clued-up as far as thieves are concerned.” He placed the suitcase down on the soft earth and stood up, keeping close to the pine tree for cover. “I reckon it’s a decoy, to stop any would-be burglar from detecting the real system. Remember, Holman doesn’t live here much of the year, any system will probably go through the telephone lines to either the police, or a private security firm, or to the maintenance company.”
Grant suddenly pointed to the outside light, which was fixed to the house near the left gable. “Over there, the light on the left. Near the roof. The telephone lines come in at a point just above it, but trace down the wall and into it.” He looked at King excitedly. “There is no reason for the telephone line to go through a light unit, other than to alert a number if it is compromised. The light is either fake or dual purpose, it’s the light that’s the alarm system. They should have brought the lines in stealthily. What cowboy rigged that system up?”
King smiled. “Alright, we will go in from the right, that light may well be motion sensitive.” He glanced quickly at his watch, then picked up the heavy suitcase. “We have to hurry. Follow me, and stay aware.”
Grant followed him through the rambling gardens and past a large area of overgrown pampas grass, until they reached the paved patio. King looked cautiously around the area, then stepped over the timber-framed veranda and beckoned Grant forwards. Grant caught hold of the wooden rail and climbed onto the veranda and dropped his bag of equipment onto the walkway. “The window would be the best bet, but we don’t want to leave any trace, so that rules out removing the pane.”
King clenched his teeth together and stared at him. “I’m not here for a bloody lesson, so I am not interested in what we can’t do. Just get us into the bloody place.”
“I was just thinking out loud,” Grant protested.
“Well don’t, we haven’t the time. Holman may be here in a matter of minutes rather than hours, after our delay. It will depend whether he stopped off somewhere. That also goes for both
O’Shea and Neeson. Our little escapade in Bordeaux didn’t help matters.”
Grant shook his head. “Alright!” He turned back to the window and ran his hands along the underside of the frame. “There are no sensors on the exterior, but that doesn’t prove that there are no sensors inside. I reckon that each room will have a PIR, or passive infrared which will detect movement,” he said.
King took the bag off his shoulder and set it down on the wooden walkway, next to the suitcase. “Get everything ready, all possible tools that you should need, then pick the lock.” He stepped backwards a few paces, then looked cautiously around for anybody approaching, before turning back to Grant. “Come on, hurry it up!”
Grant placed the necessary tools on the ground next to the doorstep, then reached into the bag and took out a plastic bag. He tipped the bag upside down to reveal two tightly bound bundles.
King watched as Grant unwrapped one of the bundles then slid the other across the veranda to where he was standing. “What’s this?” he asked as he unwrapped it curiously.
“Just a couple of plastic carrier bags and two elastic bands.” He quickly placed a plastic bag over each foot, then doubled the elastic bands around his ankles to hold them firmly in place. “Don’t want mud on Holman’s carpet, do we?”
King smiled to himself as he quickly pulled one of the plastic bags over his foot then bound it tightly in place. He had used the same method back at the farmhouse. Grant was obviously a true professional. The first detail that Holman would notice would be two pairs of muddy footprints in his hallway. That was what separated the professional thief from their bungling counterparts. Many victims can go days, even weeks without realising that they have been robbed. By then, the perpetrator can be safely away, free to concoct their rock-solid alibi.
