by Geoff Wolak
‘They think you are like them, and after the two men died they need some muscle.’
‘Muscle, or a gunman?’ I pressed.
‘A mention of both, for a difficult job, mention of a good payout.’
‘But not what the job is?’
‘No, they did not say, and I can’t risk asking questions.’
‘Why the rush?’ I asked.
‘Job is this weekend, has to be for some reason.’
I nodded. ‘Maybe an armoured car.’
He shrugged, then handed me a piece of paper. ‘9pm tonight, that hotel, that room. It’s bugged by now I guess. Contact is Rodos, my cover name is Markov, and we met in Germany twelve years back, illegal betting on cage fights.’
After he paused, I said, ‘That it?’
‘All I know. Sorry.’
I was soon out the door – glad to be away from the stink, Bob’s taxi driver waiting down the street. I stood in the dark wet street, saw the taxi pull out, and pretended to flag it down. Inside, I gave the driver the hotel and room, but he had already been warned in advance, and I pictured a room full of people at Mi5 getting an update, white boards annotated, the coffee on.
Fifteen minutes across town, and we halted at an expensive hotel, all plastic and tall windows, rubber plants and newspaper racks. I was early and so sat in a green neon-backed bar sipping an expensive foreign beer, and clocking the faces. I recognised one of Bob’s men sat with a woman, plus one other face that I considered seemed out of place. Then again, if they looked out of place, they were not spies – at least not very good ones.
A well-built man walked in, a glance my way, and he ordered himself a drink. When he glanced my way I stared dispassionately back, and my look said I’d kill him in a heartbeat. He took his drink away with him.
On time I headed up to the room, a knock on the door. The man I had seen in the bar opened the door and held it as I passed him – a bit of a sneer given, three other men in the posh room; the obvious leader, plus a fat guy, plus a tall guy with a chiselled jaw – he could have been in a horror movie.
They were all tanned, in their late forties, and they all had the bad-boy look about them; typical Russian men who had endured Russian national service in their youth.
They stood. ‘So, you’re Petrov,’ came from the obvious leader as he adjusted his dark suit. ‘I’m Rodos.’ He appraised me. ‘You took a chance in coming here.’
‘This is not the movies, and you won’t be shooting in a hotel room,’ I told him.
He smiled. ‘You are correct. And you were in the bar, checking out people I guess.’
‘Yes, I have a feel ... for people watching me.’
‘You’re accent..?’
‘I grew up in Canada, father in Aeroflot, then Germany, then here mostly.’
Rodos nodded. ‘We ... need you to take off your shirt.’
I glanced at the man who sneered my way, eased off my jacket, slipped off my holster whilst being carefully observed, and unbuttoned my shirt, finally slipping it off. His sneer had turned to surprise followed by fear.
Their eyes boggled, and their leader seemed pleased, and vindicated somehow in front of his men. ‘You were tortured, and shot many times.’
‘Yes.’ I eased my shirt back on.
‘You still cage fight?’
‘No, the skull damage is too bad, it would kill me.’
‘Skull damage?’ a man queried.
I moved towards him and bowed my head. ‘Feel.’ He did. ‘I was shot three times in the head.’
‘Yet you lived.’
‘Luck,’ I said with a shrug as I put my holster back on, my jacket over it.
‘You could take down a big man quietly?’ Rodos asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Two big men?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. And ... how much do you work for?’
‘Simple disposal of someone ... £30,000.’
‘Disposal?’
‘I knock them cold, inject them with a chemical, looks like a stroke, they are deaf and blind for the rest of their lives.’
The leader straightened. ‘You used that technique here in London?’
‘Many times.’
The leader exchanged looks with his team. ‘I have heard ... of friend of ours struck down by such methods.’
‘Talk to the men who hired me, I ... don’t care about your friends.’
‘And the men who hired you?’
‘I would never reveal that, not matter what was done to me.’ I sat and faced them, knowing that a room-full of people at Mi5 were listening in. I had to try not to smile. ‘So ... what do you want me to do for you?’
They sat, looks exchanged. ‘We are short of men for a job, this weekend. We need to quietly deal with some big strong security guards, then hold a group of hostages for a few days. We make it look like a hostage situation to cover what we are doing.’
‘Which is what?’
‘We don’t wish to give the details yet, just the outline.’
‘If I knew the plan, and the plan was shit, I would not be with you.’
The leader was obviously offended, but controlled his reaction. ‘The plan ... has taken a long time to organise, and cost a great deal.’
‘And the payoff?’ I asked.
‘Sixty million English, plus bonuses. But we need two days to get at it, and two days of hostage standoff. The British police will not attack the building with hostages in it.’
‘They may not, but what about the British SAS?’
‘Them we know about, and they will take two or three days to plan the attack, and only move after we kill a hostage. If we release hostages unharmed, no SAS attack. Simple.’
I nodded. ‘From what I read, that is correct. Is the payoff in cash?’
‘Some cash, some jewels. Can you ... fence jewels?’
‘Yes, but not large items.’
‘Gold?’
‘Gold is easy to fence. I have sources for gold, I once came across gold coins and had them melted down.’
‘Good.’
‘And my cut?’ I asked.
‘One million.’
I nodded. ‘So ... why am I sat here not believing you?’
The leader again controlled his anger. ‘You don’t know us, so it is understandable, and such a large payout is not from our pockets, but from what we take, a cut, so one million from sixty is not so much unbelievable.’
‘I need some money upfront, enough to convince me.’ I waited, imagining the posse at Mi5 listening in screaming for me to go along with whatever these guys wanted.
‘And ... you would go put it somewhere and ... return to us,’ he toyed.
‘It could sit with Markov. You know where it is, I know where it is.’
Rodos considered that, not wanting to lose face in front of his men. ‘How much?’
‘Thirty thousand English.’
‘Your standard fee,’ Rodos stated. He considered his options, and his lack of time. ‘I could have it with Markov in an hour.’
I stood. ‘I’ll have a meal downstairs, let me know when the payment is there, I’ll call Markov. But if I don’t like the job I walk, and you get your money back. Since no one has ever made me talk ... you’re safe.’ I pointed at my head. ‘When the last group failed to make me talk after seven days, they shot me and left me. The British police won’t get me to talk.’
Rodos had stood. ‘Your reputation precedes you, which is why we are talking; you’ll take what you know to the grave. Enjoy your meal, we’ll come get you later.’
I turned and headed out, soon downstairs, and soon ordering an expensive steak.
Just over an hour later and Rodos’s sneering man walked past, a nod given, and I followed him up to the room. From the room I called the hotel Markov was at, being put through to his room. The money was sat there. I told him to leave the hotel straight away, and that I would be in touch.
Phone down, they were staring at me, not happy that I told M
arkov to leg it away. Maybe they had planned on killing him and taking back the money.
Rodos composed himself. ‘You are willing to ... risk everything on a job you don’t know much about?’
‘They money goes to my ex-wife and kid here in London. I don’t have long to live.’
Rodos eased up, now concerned about his plans – and my part in them. ‘What is wrong with you?’
‘9mm bullet in my brain, slowly moving. It will kill me inside two years, maybe a lot less. So ... I don’t give a fuck.’
He slowly nodded. ‘That makes you a very dangerous man, my friend.’
I was not quite sure what he meant, but said, ‘It does, yes. I don’t fear the police or prison, or ... being shot.’
He slowly nodded to himself, thinking things through. ‘We leave now, no outside communication.’ He offered me his best attempt at a sinister smile. ‘Do you ... have anywhere you must be?’
‘Hold on, I will check my busy social calendar.’ I took out an imaginary book and thumbed through it, making them laugh. ‘It looks like I have no super models to come see me this weekend.’
‘Then we will go, to be in position in the morning,’ Rodos announced with a smile, leading the group out. I followed, being carefully observed by Mister Sneer.
Getting into a taxi, we went around in circles for ten minutes, soon getting into another taxi, again going around in circles, finally stopping near an old blue Transit van. Most of us jumped into the rear, and off it went, hard to see out of the rear windows – not that I even tried to keep track of where we were. Ten minutes later, and we pulled into a garage of some sort, shutters pulled down behind us.
In a carefully planned move they led me through a side door, into a building under renovation, across something of an obstacle course, and out the other side, soon in another van, and off we went. My expression had not changed, and it remained neutral disinterest, which bothered Mister Sneer.
A shopping centre and two tubes later, and we arrived at another building under construction – this one an office block, a key used to get access to it from a dark lane. Torches on, they led me through another obstacle course, and up to a second floor of non-descript grey concrete walls, cables hanging down - most of the windows spaces being covered in opaque plastic sheeting, and through a strong metal door – locked behind us. This being the weekend there were no builders likely to disturb us, I realised.
Entering a room with a heater working, we stepped around the body of a security guard, and I again failed to react for them. Rodos knocked on the kettle, Mr Square-Jaw pulling out a bug detecting wand and giving me the once over.
‘I changed my underwear, I am clean,’ I told him, making them laugh. I accepted my cup of tea without so much as a look at the dead body.
‘Tonight we need to make a hole in a wall,’ Rodos explained. ‘In the morning, you need to walk into the building next door, looking smart, and take down the two guards quietly as we smash the alarm. You stop them calling the police.’
‘Cameras?’ I asked.
‘When we break through to the building tonight we will be ready to cut the electricity to the cameras and alarm, but not the phones. You must get us inside quick, and stop them calling out.’
‘And if they do call out?’ I asked.
‘Then ... we have police a day or two before we are ready, but no bother.’
‘The exit route?’
‘The drains. We have been testing them carefully, and we have a small office across the street, basement office. We have been planning this for some time.’ He seemed very pleased with his plan, and with his position in control.
‘Fine,’ I simply said. ‘Show me maps and plans when you like.’
‘You ... accept my plan readily,’ he noted.
‘It is all a risk. If this works OK ... my kid is OK for life, I go away to the Far East and fuck every damn whore they have whilst high on cocaine.’ They laughed. ‘Markov said you were organised, but I will decide when I see your plan.’
‘When you fuck those hookers, wear a condom, because some diseases these days – they can kill you!’ Rodos quipped, his men laughing.
I sipped my tea, and took in the room.
Ten minutes later they offered me overalls, and I took off my nice clothes; they would be needed in the morning, and my role seemed critical to their plans. I made a point of lingering half naked, and that helped convince them of who I was.
They led me to the next room, and I could see that someone had already cut through the new concrete using the powerful circular saws that littered the floor, a rough square removed, and I wondered if the builders who had done it were dead already – or simply paid off. Beyond the concrete I could see part of a wall already dismantled, old brick visible with black mortar.
‘Behind this wall is an empty office, but maybe an alarm or camera,’ Rodos explained.
‘Go get some window cleaner spray,’ I said. ‘And a fire blanket, or silver blanket like they use for marathon runners. If the detector is for heat, I move very slow and then cover the detector, spray for the camera, it will look like a fault.’
Rodos was impressed, and he dispatched one of his men, although window cleaner spray was already to hand. And so far I had not seen any rifles - nor a bomb.
In the cold night air we got to work in dull bulb light, pulling out bricks one at a time, exposing a layer of plaster an hour later. We left the plaster in place, and a finger through it revealed dated wallpaper, several layers of it. Putting my eye up against a small hole I could see dull grey moonlight coming from a street window, and I noticed a cabinet.
‘Here,’ I said. ‘Left three feet, a tall cabinet. We open a hole behind it.’
They adjusted their approach, and half an hour later we had a hole big enough to peek through, shelves seen; the cabinet had no back to it. Pulling out the bricks, and creating a right old mess on the floor, we opened up an area almost as large as the cabinet itself before the fat guy returned with a fire blanket and a space blanket. I placed the fire blanket over my head, wet it down, and they formed the silver space blanket around me, selotape used to fix it.
Damp mortar in one hand, window spray in the other, they knocked off the bulb as they very slowly eased the cabinet out, inch by painstaking inch over half an hour, and I was soon edging past it and loosening bricks as I went.
Head down, and moving very slowly, I inched towards the first corner across a long ten minutes, and hugging the wall I peered up, seeing the thermal detector. Reaching up very slowly, hugging the wall, I gently sprayed it then smeared it with wet mortar, and waited. No alarms sounded out.
Turning slowly, I faced the opposite corner, seeing a camera hanging down and pointing at the floor, broken. I walked over anyway, slowly, and sprayed its lens.
Turning, I could clearly see the other corners, no cameras or detectors. Dumping the blankets, I returned to the detector and made sure that it was well covered in dirt. Seeing a wire, and puzzling it, I traced the wires from the detector back. They had been cut. I stood puzzling that in the dark. ‘OK, it’s clear.’
They eased inside and looked around, Rodos soon lifting the carpet. ‘Beneath us is cage vault, basic but strong.’
‘How do we open it?’ I asked.
‘Two ways. First way is to rush them when it is open, which is random chance, second is to drill here. Six inches of concrete maybe.’
‘Can we force them to open it?’ I asked through the dim moonlight, all the faces a shade of grey.
‘Maybe, but the manager may not be around in the morning, he only comes at certain times.’
I stepped to the window, and with the spray in my hand I started to cover it, glancing out at the same time and wondering if anyone was watching – or if a lot of people were watching, and was Rizzo over there with a sniper rifle. ‘Why take hostages? To give you time to get the vault open?’
‘Yes, the police would find out soon enough. With a hostage siege they will negotiate for many days
. And the front doors of this building are very strong, they would not try and storm in, any blast would kill the hostages.’
I nodded. ‘What next?’
‘We’re well ahead of schedule, so ... some rest.’
‘And the electrics?’ I asked.
‘Outside this door, right hand side, there’s a cabinet. But outside the detectors are high up.’
‘Night guards below?’ I asked.
‘No, they go home. It’s strong, and alarmed, so they don’t worry too much’.
I peered up. ‘If I get into the roof, maybe I can cut the cameras and alarm now.’
‘If the power is cut the alarms go off,’ Rodos smugly pointed out.
‘Worth looking, I’m good with alarms. I may be able to disable it.’
‘The roof is lower than this new building, and we can’t use the concrete drills again without making a lot of noise,’ he pointed out, turning his back.
‘Tiled roof?’ I asked.
Rodos hesitated and turned back. ‘Yes.’
‘Show me.’
Again he hesitated, but led me back through the hole in the wall and up the bare concrete steps to a level which overlooked the roof. I poked my head around and into a damp and windy London night.
Back inside the plastic sheeting, I said, ‘Easy. Get me some rope.’
‘What’ll you do?’
‘Remove some tiles, go into the attic and see what alarm or camera system it is, then let you know.’
He reluctantly agreed, not knowing that my real aim was to find a working phone.
Roped-up and tied off, I clambered around and dropped onto the balustrade, an excavated pit of a building site four floors below me, twinkling London lights all around. I started pulling up wet tiles, cracking the edges nailed down whilst being observed from behind, soon a pile of tiles created and resting against the balustrade.
Felt came next, cut through, thin wooden slats punched through. Asking for a small torch, they fetched one, and I peered down into the attic, but saw no electronics housed there. Without relaying that fact, I untied the rope and eased myself in and down, finding wooden joists to step on. They creaked, and I held my breath for a moment.
Finding a central area of wide joists, I stepped confidently now and found the trap door, a dead pigeon moved aside, an inch of dust disturbed.
