He looked at his watch, “Ten minutes now, the Frontier Ops guys are expecting us.”
Daniel was back on his phone, the handset jammed between his cheek and left shoulder and briefing the duty inspector at Camden who was already reading the Crimestoppers information.
“Yep, all over it governor, like the proverbial weeping rash.”
“Just be aware that we think this group are connected to the team we have been hunting for weeks now, the ones targeting the ATMs all over the city.”
“A bit up market this job isn’t it? You know, compared…”
“Absolutely. But our human source believes that the ATM stuff was actually just a training programme for what is to come.”
“And that being?”
“And that being, I haven’t got a bloody clue. Needless to say we are committed at the coast, it would appear that every man, including his dog is aware, briefed and ready to respond. But as yet we don’t know what we need to respond to, where and when, and potentially by whom.” He counted the interrogatives off on his hands and realised he’d forgotten one. “Oh, and how!”
“Permission to mock openly guv and say we know two fifths of fuck all then?”
“Granted, Inspector – and trust me, that is forty percent more than we knew this time yesterday.”
“So, do we have a cunning plan?”
“We do. It’s called sit back, wait, and respond, using the much-loved but recently berated old fashioned policing technique of chaos, foot chases and a right-royal punch up down a dark alleyway. I can only wish you a quiet night elsewhere so we can focus your fine men and women onto one spot.”
“Splendid, that’s cursed that then boss! I look forward to this night with glee.”
The poorly veiled sarcasm didn’t hide the real message, which more simply said, “Should we just go and get the bastards?”
The two gleaming white Renault vans entered the Clerkenwell area of London at 19:55 hours – exactly.
At 19:57 hours – or nearly eight o’clock in old money, the first pulled up in Leather Lane, a stone’s throw from Hatton Garden, the iconic and heavily guarded, much-prized diamond trading centre of the City of London.
Its driver pulled off the road and watched and waited for the second van to arrive, which duly parked alongside two heavily shuttered businesses, that prior planning had shown lacked any type of CCTV coverage. The small camera that was is in situ was as false as the lettering on the side of the French panel van, the eight occupants of which sat tight and avoided any form of eye contact with the few and far between pedestrians.
The Argosy Shop Fitting Company logos and phone numbers that had been freshly applied and which were entirely fabricated offered an early alibi. Maintenance teams often entered the city to carry out such work overnight, and to the only onlooker, a disinterested nightshift worker heading to Smithfield Market, where they were parked was ‘bang on’ as the building was in dire need of a makeover and besides they didn’t ‘look suspicious’.
The local security patrols had already carried out their rudimentary checks and had moved on. The few remaining people who were contemplating doing some work on a hole in the ground had decided to refrain and take shelter in their own works van, comforted from the cold by a thermos flask of tea.
The conditions were, so far, perfect.
A minute later the vans had stopped further down the street, again, away from the sweeping arc of government and commercial cameras. The front passenger of the first vehicle removed the two-by-two square to reveal an extremely familiar logo and naming convention.
At 19:59 hours a stereotypical silver saloon car passed them, travelled along the same road, past the skeletal remains of partially erected market stalls and turned left again onto Greville Street. It drove quietly beyond the Bleeding Heart public house and began to accelerate, turning left once more onto Hatton Garden itself.
Having entered the unexpectedly quiet street the driver identified the location, selected after many similar journeys and steadily began to pick up speed. In his mirror, the driver saw one of the two Renault vans following him.
A hundred metres short of the sombrely painted and understated shop frontage of Hodgkinson & White the first van drove by the silver car, rapidly decelerated and stopped, effectively blocking Clerkenwell Road to any vehicular traffic.
The second van careered across the narrow carriageway, spinning one hundred and eighty degrees before coming to a halt and closing Hatton Garden to traffic trying to enter or exit.
The silver vehicle was now travelling as fast as it possibly could in the short distance left. Its driver took a nanosecond to consider his future before jarring the steering wheel to the left and forcing the car through the shop frontage. The glass shattered with a stupendous thump, but the driver, restrained and grateful of the protective cover of the airbag was fine. In fact, he was already out of the car.
“Hello Operator, what is your emergency?”
“Yes hello police please, and fire there’s been a crash on Hatton Garden.”
“Thank you. Any obvious injuries at all? Are you a witness? Is the road open?”
All standard questions and easy to respond to.
“I can’t see love to be honest. No, not really, I’m busy. Erm, sort of, there are two vans that have crashed too, one’s sort of blocking the street. Look I have to go.”
“Hello?”
Call ended. 20:03 hours.
The resultant positions of the vehicles did in fact give the impression, to anyone with more than a passing interest that they had probably collided. Someone should call the police, but this was Hatton Garden, the home of the United Kingdom diamond trade. There would be cameras everywhere, little point then in calling anyone, someone would be there sooner or later. No one looked injured, probably a hint of road rage. Best carry on.
No, on second thoughts, best make the call.
“Hello Operator, what is your emergency?”
“Oh yes hello, there has been a crash, it’s a bad one, on Hatton Garden.”
“Yes thank you sir, we are aware, help is on the way. Are you a witness?”
“No, sorry. I was looking for a ring, for my wife, we’ve been married you see, forty-two…”
“Thank you sir, if there isn’t anything else we are extremely busy tonight.”
“Yes actually, there is, the two vans are your lots…”
“Our lots?” The operator bristled at the caller’s slothful use of the English language.
“Yes, as in police. They are police vans my friend. There are men coming out of them are in dark boiler suits.”
The caller was becoming more excitable causing the operator to cut over him, stopping him in his tracks.
“They’ve got guns!”
“So you are saying we have staff there already?”
“Absolutely – and some! And whilst you are on…we heard a bang…”
“Sorry sir, we have more calls coming in about an incident elsewhere. It’s probably a training exercise. I have to go.”
She lifted one earpiece from her head and turned to her colleague. “Do we have something happening in Hatton Garden tonight?”
The two elderly pedestrians who had been browsing for a new ring were the first to hear the silver car colliding with the shop front. They were a little shocked, to say the least. They had tried to tell the Operator that the sound they had heard was a real and loud bang, and would later declare it to be just like an explosion.
“It sounded like a bloody great big firework or a cannon. A proper one. You know officer, like those they fire on the Queen’s birthday?”
Typical witnesses, they had focused on the less than obvious and had missed the literal.
The first charge erupted with a resounding crack knocking the hinges off the secure door to the lower-level vault. Hatton Garden was a warren of subterranean passageways and vaults, some were interlinked, others guarded fiercely by their justifiably paranoid owners.
T
he second charge turned heads.
The side and rear doors opening on the white vans did little to dissuade people, now gathering in their numbers that this was not a conventional crash on one of London’s streets. Some counted seven, others ten as the darkly clothed figures spread out, almost in military fashion.
Perhaps the Operator was right. It must be an exercise. It was very impressive.
One of the armed men guarded the vehicle and Clerkenwell Road, his opposite number watched Hatton Garden and the second Renault. The remaining balaclava-clad offenders burst through the demolished shop front and into the conventional jewellery store. One person remained, sweeping a tactical arc with a short-barrelled firearm, away from the door and back out into the street, whilst his colleagues cascaded down the stairs and into the vault and very much into the life of Barry Hackett.
Hackett, was a fifty-nine-year-old retired police constable and night-shift guard for one of the annual jewellery convention storage facilities – the big guns of the jewellery world were in town and storage was at a premium.
He initially tried to stand, but was greeted only by the sound of a deliberately racked weapon. He knew enough to say nothing and do less. Instead choosing to point towards the vault with a deliberately straightened index finger. His mind was a tornado. Speak and get shot, say nothing and probably get shot anyway.
“May I speak?”
The male stood in front of him was caressing his weapon. His night-black eyes, the only thing visible through the flame-resistant headgear never left their target. The head nodded once.
“Guys, the vault won’t open until the morning unless you have the code and I haven’t – so shoot me by all means.”
It wasn’t going well.
The dark eyes that stared back at him neither pitied him nor gave him an indication about which way his life might head.
“I’ll keep quiet. Yep. Best I do. Right away.” He cursed his every word. ‘For Christ’s sake Hackett shut the…’
It was his last thought that evening, the butt of a rifle striking him across the rear of his neck, not once but twice, as he had always been physically belligerent. Far from permanent it ensured he wouldn’t wake for a while. His hands were cable-tied, and he was rolled to one side, ironically out of harm’s way.
“Four minutes.”
The team leader didn’t reply but heard the two important words. He watched as one of his team dealt with the cameras. There was nothing technical about the way he did it; simple and destructive.
The leader then tapped in the memorised six digit code and waited as instructed.
Out on the street Hatton Garden was now becoming more animated. A distant wail heralded the approach of the local section vehicle, containing a single police officer, sent to deal with what appeared to be a non-injury crash. A fire brigade unit was following and would have to pick up the pieces as the local Ambulance staff were already overly committed.
The numeric code allowed the tumblers to slip and slide into place almost without an audible sound and this was a benefit as the operator could only hear his heartbeat and the familiar and distant wail of a siren.
The door opened and three pre-selected team members entered, filling black holdalls with diamonds – it was surprisingly simple – as one would if they entered a supermarket and picked up fruit or vegetables. As specifically instructed, they ignored other gems, gold and conventional jewellery which was conveniently but naively stacked, ready for display at the forthcoming convention.
Candy from a baby.
“Six minutes. Now get the black cases.”
Alin Vasile moved quickly, ushering his team upstairs. The last to pass him was the similarly aged and identically militarily trained Dragos Saban. Both had carried out and completed their mandatory national service only months before, hardly experts and both from the infantry they had learned enough to handle weapons, how to dominate an enemy and above all, especially so, they had learned the art of discipline, and command and control.
“Go!”
They both heard the radio message clearly and now Saban knew what to do next. He pushed over shelf units and stands before emptying draws of necklaces and bracelets onto the floor. A ruby necklace caught his eye, it would have graced his mother’s neckline so beautifully. He bent to pick it up then kicked it away, a hundred thousand pounds of exquisite jewels pushed under rubble and left behind. Follow the orders!
He released the pins from two smoke canisters, tossed one into the vault and held the other as he bounded up the stairs, entering the main shop and dropping the second in the main display area.
Two more had been thrown and having struck the floor with their trademark ‘tink-tink-tink’ had initiated outside in the street and were effectively driving back the crowds.
Saban stopped alongside the silver car and dropped a white phosphorous flare through the passenger window. In seconds, the cloth upholstery had ignited and less than a minute later the cockpit was ablaze.
A few minutes after eight o’clock the ever-beating heart of the financial district of Britain had a low-level crash to deal with. Now, ten, fifteen minutes later the City of London had an incident of note and it had just torn a gaping hole in its aorta.
Before the first response vehicle arrived, and in a little over ten minutes, the team had entered the building, selected exactly what they needed, ignored much more and had left. The two Renault vans had departed, one heading north, at speed, headlights flashing rhythmically, the second south across Blackfriars Bridge and towards Chatham.
In a display of sheer audacity the passenger of the south-bound vehicle even waved to a patrol vehicle en route to the scene.
Chaos. Arrogantly. Organised.
Approximately twenty minutes later, as units still descended upon the area another call was received into the control room.
“There’s been an explosion, somewhere near Hatton Garden.”
The shift inspector wheeled himself across the control room and came to a halt next to his favourite operator Jean Gibson.
“Talk to me Jean.”
“Guv, seems that there’s been a report of an explosion near Hatton Garden.”
“Yes, but we know about this, don’t we? Isn’t this the crash near the junction of…?”
His junior colleague held up her hand.
“No sir. This is new. Somewhere near the Embankment. Described as a series of loud, dull thuds, some flashes too.”
“Jean, it’s November the bloody fifth. Are we going to respond to every one of these?”
“Point taken boss. But Guy Fawkes Night or not are you happy to sign off on this?”
“We are rushed off our feet. Even with all of our resources we are running out. Unless there’s blood coming under the door, then yes.”
He navigated his way back across the floor and plugged his headset back into the desk as he began to monitor another five similar calls across north and then south London.
Gibson shook her head as she stared at the screen in front of her. She had experienced busy shifts, but this one was becoming quite memorable.
Team Three were deliberately unconnected to the first, second and fourth teams. Team Four was operating south of the river and were now emptying the night safe of the second ATM that they had all but demolished with an oxygen cylinder attack.
In Alex Stefanescu’s simplistic view these were the Second, Third and Fourth Waves. His original naming convention for a group of organised criminals had been Primul Val – the First Wave. He liked it and defied anyone to disagree. His aim had always been to call his group of Romanian brothers the Seventh Wave – the most powerful in myth and legend.
In reality he didn’t really care what they were called as long as they were successful and gained a reputation under the flag of their blue wavelike tattoo. What the four teams had intended to do in the central business district of London was create a financial storm. Hitting the banks and finance houses from as many angles as they could.
&nbs
p; Whilst the northern and southern groups were achieving success two more were operating with equal success east and west. One team sustained a minor and calculated injury by over filling the device with the deadly mixture. Stefanescu, and his brother, without a doubt, would care not.
These were all just exercises anyway, designed to test the equipment and the personnel for a time when they would really exploit the ‘great’ British people, who meanwhile gazed up at the night sky, ‘oohing’ and ‘aahing’ as tens of thousands of pounds of black powder and chemicals lit up the black velvet backdrop.
There were so many deep, powerful and plentiful explosions that anything significant was greeted with a cheer. The louder, the better.
Within half an hour the Metropolitan Police had almost run out of resources and were calling, unusually, for mutual aid from Essex, Surrey and Kent.
A patrol van heading north, into Essex and en route to the port of Harwich didn’t choose to ignore the desperate appeal for staff, it simply didn’t hear them as its only connections to the largest police force in the country were false, magnetic and hanging onto the side of the vehicle. Its driver tried his best to hide a smile as wide as the ocean they were planning to cross.
As false as the uniformed staff it contained, it did its utmost to convince any uneducated onlookers that it was wholly original. Strips of magnets were in place and doing their level best to adhere the world-famous Met logo to the freshly painted metalwork.
The van and its passengers were already booked on the late night crossing to Rotterdam and before they reached the port, the signage had gone, along with the false UK plates. Their van was empty, apart from the much-loved tools that corroborated their reason for being in Britain – the building trade had been kind to them – or so their well-practised story went.
‘Thank you, officer. Yes, we have had a very good time. We have earned money in your country, but now we can head home to our people. Take care – until we see you again.’
Seven Degress (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 2) Page 41
