48 Hours - A City of London Thriller (28 page)

***

Dave, the safecracker or box man, was inside the vault placing
his prepared charges. Plastic explosives worked to a strict
chemical formula which Dave only partially understood; nonetheless,
he was brilliant at shaping charges to blow inward or outward for
point detonations or flat detonations. Dave was, quite simply, a
natural.

Gregory had broken into the control room and found the server
and the hard drive that stored the video from the CCTV cameras. He
could have dismantled the hard drive and taken it, but this was a
quick in and out job, so he placed one of Dave’s charges on the
server and closed the door.

Upstairs the fake Ambassador was talking to his captives
whilst destroying the CCTV cameras. He lifted the ID card from the
man who had been sitting at the desk; he would need it later. He
placed it next to the phone.

Downstairs, Dave and Gregor were pushing the giant safe door
towards the closed position. Whilst it was heavy it was so
beautifully counterbalanced that it moved easily. Leaving a small
gap to allow positive air pressure to escape from the vault, Dave
pressed the remote control.

A series of detonations filled the area with dust and debris,
but the overhead fans soon cleared the air.

Gregor could see that the server was in ruins as the door was
hanging open on one hinge. He, the chauffeur and James set about
clearing the six largest boxes in the vault. As part of their haul
they picked up a holdall and a large titanium case from one of the
boxes.

They had been in the vault for two minutes when the reception
phone rang. The Ambassador blew a whistle before he picked up the
phone. The guys downstairs knew that they now had two minutes to
get out.

***

The fake Ambassador picked up the phone.

“
Citysafe, how may I help you?”

“
Is that Chris?”

“
No. It’s Pete Maxwell. Chris is in the men’s room.” The
intruder had assumed the identity of one of the lobby guards, Chris
being the reception guard.

“
You need to get Chris out of the bog right now and get him to
the phone.”

“
OK, I’ve sent someone to get him. What’s the
panic?”

“
You’ve gone offline. All your security lines are down. You
are unprotected.”

“
No we’re not. I’m looking at the screens now. The gate is
locked, all personnel are on camera, and the vault cameras are
showing green lights on all boxes.”

“
It must be the server, then. Is the server flashing
red?”

“
Hold on, I’ll ask.” the Ambassador said, leaning back in his
chair and looking at his watch. “Yes, it is flashing red. Does this
mean it’s a false alarm?”

“
Not necessarily. I can reboot the security system from here,
but security protocol means I need Chris to give his secret data
and the eight figure password before I can do anything.”

The three men from downstairs were each laden down with bags
when they passed through the lobby, nodding at their colleague at
the desk.

“
Hello, Chris here,” the Ambassador said, moderating his voice
and pitching it slightly higher.

“
Chris, before I can reboot I need to ask the security
questions,” the technician said, on the verge of panic.

“
Fire away,” the intruder said, as he laid the handset on the
reception desk and walked out of the building.

“
Right, Chris. I have your details on the screen in front of
me. The first question is, please provide the second and fourth
characters of your mother’s maiden name.”

The technician was still awaiting a reply as the Lexus drove
away towards Brompton Road.

“
Hello? Chris, are you there? Hello?”

Chapter
60

Citysafe Depository, Cheval Place, London. Saturday
4:30pm.

Inspector Boniface drew his family car up to the police tape
and parked, showing his warrant card to a uniformed officer. He was
dressed in chinos and a colourful golf shirt which carried the logo
of the PGA on the left sleeve. The crime scene was bustling. There
were four police cars, an ambulance and a police van inside the
cordon.

Boniface had been with his children in the park when the call
came. The Superintendent told him he wasn’t needed at the crime
scene and that he had been called merely as a courtesy.
Nonetheless, he had wanted to see the scene for himself, and so he
dropped his two kids off at home, with his long suffering wife, and
drove into central London on one of his precious days
off.

He looked around to see whether DCI Coombes had made it to the
crime scene and he spotted DS Scott, wearing denims, trainers and a
brightly coloured Harlequins retro rugby shirt. In truth he was
hard to miss, with the heady mix of blue, red and green adorning
his torso.

DS Scott spotted him and waved. The young sergeant finished
instructing the uniformed officer he was talking to and turned to
walk towards Inspector Boniface.

“
Inspector, I’m afraid we haven’t tracked down DCI Coombes
yet.”

“
Sensible fellow probably has his phone off. Well, Sergeant,
this is a bit of a mess.”

“
Yes, sir, it is. We didn’t see this coming, did
we?”

“
I’m not sure that we saw any of it coming. It seems to be
spiralling out of control. What have we got so far?”

DS Scott flipped open his notebook and proceeded to explain
that four or more armed men had gained entry by posing as Kazakh
diplomats. They had blown open six boxes, removed the contents, and
left the policeman and the guards tied up. The Citysafe central
controller initiated the Metropolitan Police RVH Protocol, and the
first squad car was on site four minutes later, with the first
armed response vehicle arriving seven minutes later. The Robbery
with Violence potential Hostage Protocol was initiated by a code
word given to a police operator on a dedicated line, hence the
quick response.

One of the six boxes hit turned out to be Lord Hickstead’s
sealed box, and the police constable in the depository said that
the accents of the robbers sounded less Eastern European and more
Dutch.

“
So,” Boniface responded as Scott fell silent, “Hickstead
called in a favour from Van Aart, would you say?”

“
Looks like it, sir. We have an enquiry out to Europol, who
say they are close to finalising their operation and they don’t
want to jeopardise that. However, they confirm that Van Aart is
still in Amsterdam.”

“
Maybe he sent a team over; he probably runs hundreds of men,”
Boniface thought out loud.

“
I expect so, sir. Europol said that they trailed an SUV
belonging to Van Aart to the Channel Tunnel and made sure that
customs checked the passports and the vehicle thoroughly. The
vehicle was clean. They are sending over the photo page of each
man’s passport.”

“
You know, Scott, on the surface this may look like bad news,
but when criminals start rushing things like this they invariably
make mistakes. They don’t plan properly and they give us a chance
to snare them.” Scott wasn’t sure he fully understood the
Inspector, and so Boniface explained.

“
Hickstead and Van Aart don’t know that we have linked them.
Van Aart doesn’t know he is about to be closed down. His men in the
UK don’t know that we have linked them to this robbery, and they
don’t know that we know what they look like. I think it is also
safe to assume that if their vehicle really was clean, then they
are getting help from someone in London, and I’m sure it isn’t Lord
Hickstead. I think we will find that one of our local villains
provided the hardware. How else could they have got hold of it so
quickly? We know their car was clean, and they haven’t been in the
UK twenty four hours yet. No, Scott, they think that they’re being
clever, but I think that we are cleverer. What do you
say?”

“
I’m sure of it, too, sir,” Scott agreed, feeling much happier
than he had fifteen minutes earlier.

Boniface picked up his mobile and dialled Josh Hammond. He
wasn’t looking forward to making this call.

Chapter
61

Ashburnham Mews, Greenwich, London. 7:30pm.

Today was to be our last full day and night together before
Dee returned to her flat and we both returned to work, and so I had
intended it to be a wonderful, memorable day. Given my aspirations
for the day, we probably should not have considered attending the
West Ham versus Chelsea match. Even the most ardent West Ham
supporter must have foreseen defeat at the hands of the reigning
Premiership champions, and the match did indeed run to form. It was
a miserable day for West Ham fans. We were one goal down in the
first few minutes to the West London based champions. I had hoped
rather optimistically for a draw at least, but when the second
Chelsea goal went in a few minutes later, I decided to sit back and
enjoy the company and forget that if we lost this match we would
have played four games without winning a single point.

We did lose by three goals to one in the end, and had to bear
the ignominy of being the only team in any league not have any
points on the board. Less than a month into the season and we were
already well behind the clubs that we had considered no hopers
before the season began. We needed three points from our next home
game against Tottenham.

While we were at the match I had received a message on my
BlackBerry from Inspector Boniface. He wanted to talk to me as soon
as possible, and so as soon as we got back to the flat I called the
number he had left. The first twice I called I was diverted to
voice mail, but the third time I called I spoke to the Inspector.
For my own peace of mind I soon wished that I hadn’t.

I laid my BlackBerry on the table and switched it onto
loudspeaker so that Dee could listen too as the inspector explained
that the Citysafe Depository had been robbed and a number of boxes
had been cleaned out, one of which was the sealed box of Lord
Hickstead. Boniface tried to play down the importance of the
robbery by insisting that it changed nothing and that Hickstead
would still be tried and convicted. But we all knew that with the
money and the painting the case would have been a slam dunk,
whereas now Hickstead would be looking for a deal.

I sympathised with him for being called out to deal with the
robbery in the middle of a family event, and asked him to pass my
regards to DCI Coombes, who had eventually turned up and who was
growing on me.

***

Dee had promised me that she had something planned that would
cheer me up, and she did. It perked me up in every sense. I had
seen a gaudy purple bag with gold coloured 1960s style writing on
it on the bedroom floor earlier that day, and I had been curious.
The logo on the carrier bag read Retro City, an odd shop run by a
fifty something couple who had been flower children in the 1960s
and still dressed as if they were. I had been in the shop a few
times, as it was close to where I lived on the High Street, and I
had thought it strange. Stepping inside felt rather like going back
in time. There were clothes made in the iconic styles of the
period, Herman’s Hermits singles, LP’s and CD’s and hippy
paraphernalia all around. If anyone ever asked me if I knew where
to buy fragrant joss sticks, I would direct them to Retro City
without a moment’s hesitation.

I had visions of Dee emerging from the bedroom in a flowing
Kaftan with a beaded headband holding her auburn locks in place. I
was wrong. Dead wrong. Wonderfully wrong.

Dee shouted for me to close my eyes, I did as I had been
instructed. I could hear her walking across the room, and I sensed
her standing in front of me. She said I could open my eyes, I
did.

For a moment I couldn’t catch my breath. I had often used the
expression ‘I was left speechless’, but only now did I understand
what it actually meant. I began to talk but just croaked. I tried
again but nothing came out. I concentrated and eventually managed
to kick start my vocal chords, but only to stutter like an
idiot.

“
That’s, I mean it’s, the way it fits. Wow.”

“
So you like it, then?”

If I could have connected my brain and voice box I would have
told her that there was not a man in the known universe that
wouldn’t have liked it. I stared at her again. With her hair swept
back and turned up at the ends and her face lightly made up, she
glowed. At her neck was a buckled collar which topped out the
figure hugging shiny black leather catsuit which had a zipper
running down the front. I am quite certain it was the sexiest thing
I had ever seen in my life.

I was immediately transported back to the 1980s when my dad
used to sit next to me on the sofa and we would watch reruns of the
1960s cult TV show, The Avengers. My dad was in love with Emma Peel
- he probably still is - and now he owns a complete boxed set,
which contains all one hundred and eight episodes starring Diana
Rigg. Mum doesn’t seem to enjoy them quite as much, for some
reason.

I guessed that the catsuit I was looking at was styled after
the Diana Rigg costume, as it had definite 60’s styling, although
it could just as easily have been based on the Catwoman suit Julie
Newmar wore in the Batman TV series of the same era.