Honour Bound (28 page)

-47-

Inspector
Victor Spring, the early shift duty officer of the City of London Police
tactical firearms unit, raised himself from his chair and held up his hand for
quiet. "Okay people," he said, addressing the gathered members of his
convoy protection team, "let's get the briefing out of the way so we can
hit the road."

Seven
faces paid polite attention. The five men and two women had been in
Spring's
team for four years and each one knew his briefing
routine off by heart. Apart from the odd time change, the current briefing was
nearly always identical to the last. They knew there would be very few major
changes while they were dealing with a scheduled airline service.

Spring
unclipped a sheet of A4 paper from his clipboard with an exaggerated flourish
before speaking. "Listen up," he said. "The usual place,
Heathrow, the usual stand, three twelve in the cargo area, and believe it or
not, the usual airline, South African. Now, what is not usual is the size of
today's load, it’s the biggest we've had so far this year."

He
paused for effect, eyeing the faces of his team.

"I've
been authorised to tell you, the load for this run is no less than seven
tons." 

His
words produced the effect he had expected. Heads turned, eyebrows raised and a
murmur rippled through the room. Usually, throughout his briefings, he had to
pop in the odd question to make sure they were all awake, and not catching the
professional’s forty winks with their eyes still open. Not this time. Over the
last few years, loads of one or two tons had become the norm. Although the
value rated an armed guard, it was unlikely to be high enough for a gang to go
to the expense of hijacking it. So the runs had become normal and just a
routine for the different teams that performed the escort duties. But this one
was going to be different, with a pinch of added spice, a little more
interesting.

"Our
intelligence boys," he continued, "have nothing to give us on the
possibility of a hit, but there's been an unconfirmed report from Royal Mail
security about a robbery in the offing. But I emphasize it is unconfirmed. More
importantly, and linking up with this rumour, is next month's load. That one
will be even bigger, an unheard of nine and a half tons."

"Bloody
hell, we're not going to war again are we?" inquired Paul Smith, a rear
gunner from the tail car.

A
visiting RAF officer had given the nickname of rear gunner to the people who
sat in the back seats of the trail car many years before. Similarly, the people
in the rear seats of the lead car were nicknamed nose gunners. A tactic had
also arisen from the nicknames in that the trail car crew would, where the
prevailing conditions allowed, always cover the rear on an operation, whether
it be a building or an aircraft, and the lead car would always cover the front.
The crews also adhered to the nicknames because they sounded better than back
seat passengers.

"No
it’s not a war," quipped
Dougie
Hamilton, the
longest serving member of the team. "They'll be stocking up to pay my
pension, I'm expecting a fat
tata
cheque at the end
of the month but I didn't think it would be that big."

"And
we'll be really glad, I mean really sad, to see you go," responded
Spring
, to the applause and laughter of the team.

He
waited for the noise to die down. "Back to a serious note..." he
began.

"I
thought that was serious," interrupted Richard Brown, one of the nose
gunners.

"I'm
beginning to get a feeling," Hamilton said, "that you lot are trying
to tell me you’re not coming to my leaving do."

"Don't
be daft," interjected Graham Simms, the other nose gunner, "we'll
never miss '
owt
for
nowt
.'"
He attempted a broad Yorkshire accent but failed by at least two counties.

"Okay,"
Spring
said, "enough of this frivolity. Just
remember that when he's gone we'll have nobody to take the piss out of."

"Oh,
Dougie
poohs
," purred
Linda Fuller, a willowy Scot with deep blue eyes that could melt a heart at
twenty paces, "don't listen to the naughty,
waughty
Inspector,
cos
we all love you." She finished by
planting a noisy kiss on the top of his head.

Hamilton
sighed. "I'm
gonna
miss all this sexual
harassment, I really am."

"Okay
people,"
Spring
said smiling, "Let's get
finished before the good folk start wondering where we've got to." He
paused, looking at his notes.

"Right,"
he said, finding where he had left off. "In response to this robbery
rumour, we've been asked to note any cars that seem to be hanging on our tail
too long. Every motorbike, with a rider I may add, stopped on the route, the
normal intelligence stuff."

"Are
they expecting the next one to be hit then?" asked Fuller, one of two
women on the team, and the lead car's radio operator.

"As
I said, there's only an unconfirmed report to suggest a hit. But having said
that, today's run would be a good one to spot and time, if anybody wanted to
have a go at the big one next month."

"That
seems reasonable," she said, "any extra precautions?"

"Yes.
There'll be one other car today," he looked down at his notes,
"unmarked. It'll be a black
Vauxhall,
you'll see
it in the courtyard at the bank before we leave."

"Who's
crewing
it?" inquired Paul Johnston, the trail
car radio operator.

"There
are two new chaps. One of them is your replacement
Dougie
,
the other is on attachment from Diplomatic Protection. The driver will be
Inspector Smith from training and the operator is Lenny Lewis."

"Are
they up front or behind?" this from Marion Weeks, the other rear gunner.

"They'll
be at the
back,
they'll keep about five or six cars
behind the rear escort. If we do spot anything suspicious, they'll be the ones
to stop and deal with it." He looked around the faces, "Any more
questions?"

Heads
shook and feet shuffled. Spring eyed the gun rack at the back of the room. Six
Heckler and Koch sub machine guns and two pump action shotguns stood in a black
and shiny line.

"I
can see you've already raided the armoury," he said, "so let's get to
it."

***

The
two armoured police cars made their way sedately through the traffic from their
underground base in
Bishopsgate
to the Bank of
England. The roller gate blocking the access to the rear courtyard opened
automatically on their approach, the instruction to do so, sent from the
onboard computer in the lead car. The gate closed as soon as the two cars had
passed through.

Spring
parked the lead car in its allotted position, left his sub machine gun in the
holster fixed to the drivers door, and crossed the enclosed courtyard to a wall
mounted telephone. Picking it up, he said, "Courtyard and waiting."

After
a short pause, he replaced the handset and turned towards the escort group
making a thumbs-up sign. He walked to the Vauxhall and spoke briefly with Alex
Smith, the training Inspector, then returned to his car, closing and locking
the door.

The
armoured truck stood silent and menacing in the vault access chamber deep in
the bowels of the Bank of England. Its dark blue paint and deeply tinted glass
seemed to absorb the light cast from the bright strips in the ceiling.

Sir
Aubrey Perry, a portly round faced man whose horn rimmed glasses seemed for
ever intent on sliding down his nose, had been chief of security at the Bank
for as long as most people could remember. He approached the master computer
after stepping out of the lift, and stood next to
Iqbal
Aziz
, the morning shift chief of
operations.          

"Morning
Az
, how's the transfer coming along? The escort group
is upstairs."

A
thin umbilical of data transfer cable hung limply between the main computer and
the remote unit built into the truck.
Aziz
checked a
digital readout and penned several figures on a sheet attached to his clipboard
before answering.

"The
vehicle management system has already been interrogated," he said,
"so far, everything is on line."

Aziz
continued with
his checks penning more figures onto his pad.     

"The
security and satellite data has been loaded," he said, keeping his eyes on
a monitor that displayed each command as the computer executed it.

"At
the moment, data is being fed to the robot re the weight and metal density of
each pallet. Another five minutes and it will be ready."

Perry
nodded with satisfaction. "Good," he said, unconsciously pushing his
glasses back to the bridge of his nose. "I'll summon the crew."

He
paused before picking up the telephone and ran his eyes over the six-ton
vehicle as if for the first time. He felt a thrill being this close to the
magnificent armoured beast. His secret desire was to be part of the crew on one
of its runs, but he knew that to be unlikely. A pair of crew members, specially
picked and trained, always worked together. The onboard computer would only
accept pairs of thumbprints, the same pairs every time. If one member of the
crew was off sick or on holiday, the other member stood down and another crew
took over. Perry thought it unlikely the computer would be re-programmed just
to allow him to 'have a go', so he kept his desire in check and came to see it
off, like father to son, before each trip.

The
main computer finished passing its coded information to the truck's remote
terminal, and issued two commands. The massive 17000 horse power engine rumbled
into life, and two seconds later, the single hermetically sealed crew door
hissed open.  

The
two uniformed crew used the engineered footholds to climb into the cabin like
blue suited mountaineers, driver first, followed by the operator. As soon as
the computer was satisfied with the thumbprint security checks, the door
automatically closed and resealed itself. The master computer gave another
electronic instruction and the independent cabin air feed and air conditioning
hummed into life. The data feed cable was automatically retracted and control
passed to the remote unit. The engine revs increased and the huge truck rolled
forward on a computerised track to the lift for its journey upwards to the
courtyard.

The
lift doors slid open with an electronic whine and the truck nosed slowly into
the bright sunshine like a bear sniffing its surroundings after long months of
hibernation. The onboard computer positioned the rounded nose of the truck
precisely six feet from the rear of
Spring's
car.
Unseen laser beams shot out from sensors built into the headlights and
interrogated a metallic strip built into the body of the car between the rear
lights. Finding the coded information correct the computer activated the
satellite tracking system and handed over partial control to the driver. The
lasers would now keep the truck a constant six feet from the rear of the car no
matter how harsh the braking or violent the acceleration.

Dougie
Hamilton,
behind the wheel of the trail car, activated his laser locking system via a
button on the dashboard. The acceleration, speed and braking patterns of the
three-vehicle convoy would now be determined by
Spring
in the lead car.

The
ready light on the dashboard of the lead car turned green and
Spring
pulled slowly away. The gate rolled open and the
three vehicles moved out into the early traffic in
Threadneedle
Street. Twenty seconds later the Vauxhall began its separate journey.

-48-

Gavin
Nash and Colin Lyle were both decidedly uncomfortable. They had been
laying
in more or less the same position on the hard flat
roof of a disused warehouse for a little over two hours. Both had become tired
of the jokes relating to stiff muscles, poor circulation and aching joints, for
it was no longer a joke. Uncomfortable though it was their vantage point gave
them an unobstructed view of the motorway section chosen as the ambush site.

They
had arrived at the warehouse, in accordance with the overall plan, in the
predawn light to lessen the risk of being seen and their presence reported to
the local police. Lyle had parked their car outside a twenty-four hour
supermarket about half a mile away, and had to endure the good-natured cursing
of Nash as he carried a large sports bag containing the equipment they would
need.

Their
entry into the derelict building had been silent and unseen. Once on the roof,
they had lain as still as possible beneath a large military style mottled
canvas sheet, which would protect them from the sun and more importantly, from
the unwanted attention of any casual observer in the tower blocks to the east.
Standing between them, matt black and lethal, and with the elegant lines so
often found in weapons of death, was the Barrett sniper rifle. The long slender
barrel, raised on a bipod, formed an inverted 'V' in the leading edge of the
canvas sheet giving it the appearance of a half erected tent.

Nash
had cleaned and assembled the rifle as soon as they had settled themselves on
the roof. Now, each time he shuffled his position to substitute one aching part
for another on the unyielding surface, he would touch the lightly oiled metal
as if to reassure himself that it was still there.

For
the past ten minutes, Lyle had been observing the traffic on the motorway
through a pair of high-powered binoculars. To the naked eye, the distance
reduced the vehicles travelling in both directions to small shiny boxes that
winked unreadable messages as the sun ricocheted from them. Between the end of
the warehouse and the motorway lay half mile of open fields criss-crossed here
and there with tangled, unkempt hedges. Across to the right a decaying
shantytown of old wooden sheds were dotted around an unused and overgrown
allotment. A small herd of cows were lazily grazing in a field stretching
between the sheds and the bottom of the motorway embankment, apart from their
bovine wanderings, nothing else moved.

Over
to the left, on the other side of the road that originated at the motorway, was
a new housing estate. If he and Nash were to come up against any problems when
leaving the warehouse, the estate would be the probable source. From his
elevated position, he could see over a hedge and into a good number of the
houses. Only a few were occupied, the majority still vacant, and some, over on
the furthest side were still in the final stages of completion. Although a
threat from some have-a-go hero on the estate was real, he thought it highly
unlikely, and if one did emerge, they were both suitably equipped to cope with
it.

He
scanned the motorway again, more for something to do than for any operational
reason because he already knew the approximate time the target would come into
view. He sighed as he slowly moved the glasses. He hated lying around wasting
time, doing nothing, because boredom soon set in. Unlike Nash, he thought, as
he glanced across at his friend who was casually reading a book as though he
were catching rays on a secluded beach.

He
rolled his cuff back and looked at his watch. Shouldn't be too long now, he
thought, Christ I'll be glad to get off this bloody roof.   

He
swept his binoculars first to the west and then to the
east.          

He
felt a light tug on his sleeve, and looked at Nash.

"Why
don't you try and relax," Nash said, "just stare into space or
something, you're making me feel
guilty."        

"I'm
getting bored already," Lyle answered, rearranging his elbows trying to
find a comfortable position.

"You
can be as bored as you like but don't start fidgeting. It'll be like being next
to a dog with fleas."

Lyle
smiled and continued scanning the motorway. Nash looked at him, shook his head
and returned to his book.

After
several minutes silence Lyle swung his binoculars to the east and said,
"Here they come, right on time."

Nash
folded his page and set the book down on the roof before rolling onto his
stomach and settling himself behind the rifle. It was easy to spot the convoy
moving at a steady speed through a rippling heat haze. The dark blue armoured
truck was travelling close to the rear of the lead police car, the second car
following the truck at a similar distance. The three vehicles, blue lights
flashing, sped along the outside lane, their speed constant as motorists moved
out of the way to let them pass.

Both
Nash and Lyle watched as the convoy entered the M4, leaving the A4 behind to
wend its way westward as the Great West Road. Nash raised the rifle to his
shoulder and adjusted the focus on the telescopic sight. The blurred edges of
the four occupants in the lead car became crisp and clear under the ultra-high
magnification of the lens. He centred the crosshair on the windscreen of the
second police
car,
the four crew members were as
visible as their colleagues, even down to the movement of their lips as they
spoke. He panned the sight across to the right settling it on the armoured
truck. Its driver and operator were visible, but little more than misty blurs
through the thick tinted glass. Still looking through the sight he said,
"This is going to be a turkey shoot, it's like they're sitting right on
the end of the barrel." 

He
took a further look at each vehicle in the convoy before lowering the butt to
the roof and returning to his book. Lyle continued observing until the convoy
had disappeared in the haze to the west. Only then did he lower the binoculars,
letting them hang from the strap around his neck. He delved into the sports bag
and took out a small radio transmitter, pressed the transmit button and spoke
into it.

"Crewman
this is Scout, Crewman this is Scout, go now, go now."

He
readjusted his position under the canvas and settled down to wait.