by Geoff Wolak
Kneeling, I eased up the trap door and peered down four flights of stairs, the lights on the lower levels, and as I peered down I could see movement. A guard. Waiting patiently, he eventually moved for me, and came into view for a moment, a pump action shotgun in his hands.
Slowly lowering the trap door, I said, ‘What the fuck..?’ Was I supposed to kill that guy in the morning, and why didn’t they know he was there?
Backing up, I crossed the slats to the hole, got my elbows outside and eased myself awkwardly up, rolling forwards and cracking a few tiles. Standing up against the low balustrade, I put one foot directly in front of the other, balanced, and I reached the wall, a hand helping me back inside. They were waiting expectantly.
‘You missed a guard,’ I told Rodos. ‘There’s a big black man at the base of the stairs, pump action shotgun.’
He was horrified, but it seemed that he was horrified that he had made a mistake in front of the others more than a risk to his own safety. ‘He has never been there before,’ he insisted, stiffening.
‘He is now,’ I said. ‘Are they expecting a big deposit in the morning?’
‘Well, maybe,’ Rodos conceded, exchanging looks with the others.
‘Will he even be there in the morning?’ I asked. ‘Maybe he just sits at night.’
‘Would make no difference in the morning with hostages,’ Rodos insisted. ‘But we would have to disarm him. Good ... good job you spotted him,’ he reluctantly got out.
Back through the main room they led me to a second room, camp beds laid out. There were no windows, so no draft.
The fat guy sat next to me. He idly commented, ‘In the morning we rush down the stairs when you go in, we’ll get that guard if he is still there.’
I settled down and got some sleep, figuring that I would probably need it.
‘They’ve lost him,’ Bob Staines told the Major. ‘They went through several buildings, all carefully planned so that no one could follow them.’
The Major glanced at the troop sergeants, all now kitted in black, respirators to hand. ‘So we wait till the police report a major incident, or till Wilco gets a message out.’
I was awake early and peering out the plastic at a grey dawn, but I had never been left alone, always one other with me. I peed into a hole in the concrete before I made myself a coffee, baguettes to hand from some local shop, the dead guard still there.
Rodos appeared tired, and he could not have gotten much sleep.
I asked him, ‘You are here with just pistols?’
‘No, we have other weapons nearby.’
‘Show me the drain exit before we do anything more. If I don’t like it I’m leaving.’
He had to fight to control his temper, and he duly allocated the fat guy to show me the drains. That man took me down to the building’s sub-basement, two levels below the street, a metal door hanging open. He handed me a torch, and I peered down a tunnel tall enough to stand up in. Then the smell hit me, and I recoiled for a moment.
Easing inside, and sloshing through an inch of water, he followed me in, and I walked ten yards to a junction, hearing traffic above. There were many exists available, all big enough to run down in a hurry. And the one thing I was certain of was that any siege involving the Regiment would have these drains examined in a heartbeat, an ambush ready.
Something was not right here. The detector had been cut, the camera broken, and access to the unfinished building would have been easy by the Regiment, as easy as these drains.
Returning to the bare concrete building, we closed the metal door and bolted it, and I considered that they had no idea how the SAS worked during a hostage situation. The drains would be blocked as an escape route, and this building would be penetrated very quickly. Maybe they were just ignorant, but I doubted it. Something was amiss, something I could not put my finger on.
At 9am I was dressed in my casual suit and stood ready - a damn cold breeze blowing through the building, pistol checked, and as I sat with another coffee the fat guy disappeared, returning with a bag of rifles, AK47s, plenty of full magazines.
They checked the weapons as if they half-knew what they were doing, but none checked a firing pin or down a barrel. I would have, if my life depended on it.
Finally they were ready.
Rodos began, addressing me, ‘You go in first, two big guards hit, move to the rear, pistol out, we cut the alarms on the second floor -’
‘Who deals with the armed guard?’ I cut in with.
‘If he is still there, we will deal with him when we come down,’ Rodos explained.
‘Be careful of that shotgun,’ I said. ‘If he fires and hits the wall you get some in the face.’
Rodos nodded, considering that. ‘If all goes well we open the stairs door, you close the main doors, and we’re set – till the police arrive.’
Their plan was full of holes, but that was not my concern. And so far no mention of who was behind this, who had supplied the guns – or the bomb they were yet to display, or where the loot would go. I figured that the detail would reveal itself slowly. If not, I would shoot them all dead and end the siege – at least that was the plan.
Rodos made a call, had a chat - I did not catch any of it, but I had to wonder who was down the other end. He then gave me a time to be at the door, which was odd, very damn odd, but I did not question it. Maybe it was a rotation of guards or a delivery of cash.
Ten minutes later I was on the street, my heart racing. This could all go horribly wrong; I could accidentally kill someone, there would be an enquiry, that guard with the shotgun could shoot me. Each step towards the door was full of doubts, but I had been ordered into this, so I had that to fall back on at least.
Five steps from the door and a man lifted his face for a moment as he passed me. I recognised him from somewhere, and that was a concern, and then I considered that Pamela was across the street with a small army stood ready. He was one of hers probably, and I relaxed a bit. This was a stage play, I had my part, and she had the responsibility.
I heaved a big breath and stepped up two stone steps, seeing a sign for the first time about deposit boxes and safe storage. A tall black guard stood to one side, the man six-eight probably, another tall black guy a few steps behind him, two black ladies at reception, a half-caste managerial type stood over them. This would not be easy.
I passed the first tall guard with a polite smile, and faces lifted towards me. I turned back and hit the first guard on the chin before he could react, sending him down. But I had no time to look, I had turned and run, the second guard shocked and moving forwards, a kick delivered to his middle, his head soon in the right place for a knee.
I drew my pistol as screams went up. ‘Get down on the floor or I shoot!’ I roared at them, and they dived down as I ran to the big double front doors. Yanking one of the doors free, I slammed it shut, and a key would be needed to open it.
The first guard was unconscious, the second moaning. I levelled my pistol at the hostages, their hands up now, no one moving. Stealing a glance at the door, I saw a brass bolt and pushed it across, soon running to the edge of the desk area and covering them as the second guard lay semi-conscious.
To the managerial type, I said, ‘Open this back door, or I shoot the girl.’ I pointed my pistol directly at her.
‘The vault is locked, we can’t open it,’ he said as he inched towards me, the man clearly terrified.
‘I’m not interested in the vault,’ I said. ‘Just open this door.’
He did as asked, fumbling for the key, and as he opened it a shout came, and it sounded like instructions for him to get down. I aimed and fired over the manager’s shoulder, hitting the armed guard in the soft spot and spinning him.
Holding the security door open, and wedging it with a chair, I eased inside. In Russian, I shouted, ‘It is clear, come down here!’
A lock broke, and heavy footsteps followed. I jumped back into the main room, seeing a side door open, a dark skinned woma
n and a white woman with her. I blinked when I recognised Pamela, and she stared back in abject shock.
‘Get in here, get on the floor!’ I roared, my pistol held level.
The deposit box woman screamed as they got down, my mind racing, my heart racing, Rodos and his men bursting in.
‘Good work,’ he commended in Russian, and he stepped over the hostages and checked the main door. ‘We smashed the alarm and camera housing.’ He finally turned towards the centre of the room. ‘Search them, then tie them up.’
‘That guard I shot, I’ll patch him up, he may live,’ I said in Russian. ‘If he dies, the police hand over to the army – don’t forget that.’
He nodded. ‘See if he’s still alive.’
I edged past my fellow robbers and to the guard, the man now rolling around on the floor, his shotgun having been kicked away. I knew where I had hit him, and I could see that the blood was not pumping. Back in the main room I looked around, grabbed a box of tissues and some sellotape, and I padded the wound, taping it down inside the man’s shirt, Mister Sneer over my shoulder and covering me.
I stood. ‘He’ll live I think. Some water, sit him up.’
Grabbing a chair with wheels, we eased the big guard up onto the chair and wheeled him into the main room, telling the manager type to fetch some water.
My fellow robbers had searched the hostages, bags removed, and had tied their hands, placing the hostages on posh gold-enamelled chairs meant for rich clients.
I studied the hostages as they whimpered, Rodos stood by the main door and only two hostages away from Pamela. Walking over, I reached down and cupped one of her breasts, shocking her. In Russian I said, ‘She keeps me warm tonight,’ the gang laughing.
‘We have some work to do, so ... we make a start,’ Rodos loudly announced in Russian. Mr Sneer remained at the internal door, the rest moving back upstairs. I was left to cover the hostages, and I sat down across the room, facing them.
The first guard I had hit was still unconscious, now being tended by a girl, despite her hands being tied. The second guard was sat against a wall, a huge swollen eye staring back at me, the shot guard moaning and being cared for by the second lady receptionist. They must have thought me a monster.
But what the fuck was Pamela doing in here, and why had my entry been timed? She had been looking at safe deposit boxes, so it seemed, but would she be dumb enough to allow herself to be captured, to be inside, to see the action?
I could think of no reason for her to be so brave and so foolish. Could she have simply been checking on something, not knowing this was the target business? What about the man outside, he seemed familiar.
My head was spinning as I glared at her across the room. Something was not right, very not right. And if I blew her cover she would be dead very quickly.
Looking down, I could see the bags taken off the hostages, their wallets and phones. Pistol away, I knelt down and picked them up, placing them on the counter.
Opening a purse, I emptied the contents whilst Mr Sneer looked on, and he looked like he wanted to stop me. Pocketing some cash, a few bank cards, I shot him a look and the ignored him.
Getting to Pamela’s red bag, I dumped the contents, finding the usual feminine contents, but what I did not find was an Mi5 ID or card swipe, nor a mobile phone. What I did find was an ID in someone else’s name, credit cards in someone else’s name. She was undercover, here and now in this business this morning, when she should have been running the show from her office.
Was she a good field agent? Was she a field agent at all? I didn’t know her that well, but I figured not. Several wallets later and I had collected some cash, but I had also collected some information. Most everyone here was from Zimbabwe. So what was the connection between Zimbabwe and a vault with a lot of cash in it?
Stolen cash from Zimbabwe, kept here in London? That made little sense; the UK government had blocked all of Zimbabwe’s banking transactions through British banks. That might explain the cash, and hidden cash at that. Rodos had gotten word of it, and had come for it. But how did he know?
I glanced over my shoulder at Pamela just as a knot started in my guts, and I had to fight to control myself. Who would benefit from screwing over Zimbabwe? Well, we would, the UK security services. And if the money found its way into Pamela’s hands ... the PM would be happy, if he ever knew, and the government of Zimbabwe could never admit to what was here.
Standing there, I could feel Pamela’s finger up my rectum, a smile on her face. But why call me in? Why ask for me to be undercover here? What was my role?
The answer was obvious, and I shook. Get me killed or discredited, and knock back Bob Staines, her arch rival.
Picking up a wallet, I checked it for anything valuable, then tossed it hard, striking Pamela below the eye, a spot of blood visible. Hell, for all she knew I was playing a part, and playing it well.
But there were only two ways I was coming out of this; dead, or facing an enquiry – the kind of enquiry I would not be walking away from. I was so very tempted to shoot her dead there and then. I needed to distract myself, so I set about opening drawers and exploring the room.
I found some cash, not much, then pinched someone’s lunch, a sandwich and a can of Fanta. I ate the sandwich as I stared down at the whimpering girls.
A thought struck me. ‘You the manager?’ I asked the managerial type.
‘No, Deputy Manager, I don’t have the keys for the vault. Search me, look,’ he pleaded.
Nodding, and still eating my sandwich, I had a look through a glass panel into the vault room, seeing the heavy metal grill of a door with a key lock, gold coloured safety boxes lining a wall. In the vault itself I noticed sub-sections, safety boxes much larger than those outside, a metal door as tall as me.
Turning, I said, ‘You came out with keys to a box, for the lady.’
He hesitated, so I took out my pistol.
‘Yes, yes.’
‘Give them to me.’ I levelled my pistol at the head of the nearest girl.
‘OK, OK, please.’
I faced Pamela. ‘Anything valuable in there?’
She did not respond. The Deputy Manager handed me the keys, buzzed me into the vault room, and I matched the key numbers to the boxes as Mister Sneer moved position to observe me.
Two keys in, turned at the same time, and I had Pamela’s box, hoping that her heart was racing. Back outside, I placed it down whilst glancing at her, but she had not reacted. Inside I found several wads of cash, placing them on the counter, perhaps a hundred thousand pounds. There were also papers, Cayman Island bank codes.
My heart skipped a beat; this was Mi5 slush money. So what was it doing here, this location? Pamela’s reason for being here was suddenly clear, or partly clear; she was responsible for the money. But why now, today, this time? Coincidence? No, no coincidence. The person in charge of a major operation I was dragged into this weekend was sat behind me, a black eye gift from me, when she should have been at command central organising the staff.
Lifting the wads of money, I kept one back and handed the rest to Mr Sneer, who placed them on the stairs, one wad in his pocket as I pocketed mine in full view of Pamela. This small gesture, at least, helped me get back at her.
A vibration built, then a sound, and I knew they were cutting the concrete, everyone looking up as dust fell. I settled down into simply staring at the hostages.
An hour later, and a very dusty Rodos came down, a quick look at the cash. He was happy with the quiet hostages.
I followed him into the stairwell. ‘There are rooms upstairs, I want some time with the ladies.’
He grinned. ‘Later, we’ll be here a while.’
I gave him my disappointed look and returned to the hostages, just as a door bell sounded out. Rodos rushed down the stairs, and I levelled my pistol at the hostages.
‘Stay quiet!’ I told them.
A knock on the door, and a black girl screamed for help before I kicked her in the
face, stunning her.
I faced Rodos. ‘Whoever is outside is going for the police.’
‘No matter.’ He pointed at a phone on the counter. ‘If it goes, stall them. Tell them ... we want ... a Russian speaking policeman and a bus.’
‘Bus?’ I queried.
‘Just drag it out,’ he said as he pushed past me.
I shrugged and made a face, and little more than five minutes later the sirens sounded out, cars arriving, Mister Sneer now obviously nervous.
Walking to the main doors, I kicked off the metal mesh mail box. Kneeling, I opened the mail box slat and peered through, seeing the police cars. Aiming carefully, I shot out a tyre before closing the slat again.
‘What are you doing?’ Mister Sneer shouted.
I eased up slowly, not a care in the world. ‘I shot a wheel, now they know it’s a siege. They won’t come in, they’ll call the phone line.’
Bob Staines got a call. ‘Safety deposit boxes? Farringdon? Could be, check it out.’
If Rodos had heard the shot or not he did not come down, the drilling noise continuing unabated.
Things settled down, and thirty minutes later the phone went. I turned my head to Mister Sneer as he held his AK47. ‘You want to answer that, could be cold calling double glazing.’
‘You answer it,’ he said.
So I did. ‘Who is this?’ I said, accented.
‘This is the police, we have surrounded the building, there’s no way out, but we don’t want to see anyone harmed, so we’re here to talk.’
‘I want bus, and Russian speaking policeman. Call back later.’ I put the phone down and settled down, Pamela keeping very still and quiet, a black eye forming.
Rodos came down ten minutes later, informed about the call. He pointed at the wounded guard. ‘Send him out as a gesture say ... an hour later, when they start to negotiate.’
Half an hour later, and the phone went. ‘I speak Russian,’ came a voice.
‘Good,’ I responded in Russian. ‘We want a bus, blacked out windows. We have a bomb, don’t fuck with us.’
