Honour Bound (29 page)

-49-

Norton
had managed to get three uncomfortable hours of sleep curled up on the back seat
of the Ford. He awoke a little after six with an ache in his neck and his head
feeling as though it was full of cotton wool. He climbed out of the car and
stretched, taking several deep breaths of clean fresh air. He quickly checked
both the Sig and the shotgun, then tightened the Velcro fasteners on the body
armour that he'd kept on for the extra warmth. Finally, he adjusted the straps
on the sheath containing the throwing knives and got back into the car.

A
few minutes later, after studying the courtesy map, he steered the car
carefully out of the firebreak. With his window fully down, filling the inside
of the car with pine scented air, he drove back towards London. He took the
most direct route, following the A3 as far as the M25, and then clockwise to
the M4. His speed reduced to a crawl on the approach to the Heathrow turn off,
as solid metal lines of near stationary traffic occupied every lane. There's no
point in staging a robbery anywhere around here, he thought, there's nowhere to
go even if you’re successful.

Several
minutes later, as soon as he was clear of the junction, he and the other
vehicles that were avoiding the airport began to pick up speed. He kept to the
inside lane as his fellow motorists flashed by in an attempt to make up for lost
time, trying to beat the city rush hour which they themselves would be
creating. Norton concentrated on the bank butting up to the hard shoulder,
trying to spot any point where a heavy vehicle could drive safely off the
motorway and on to another road running alongside. According to the map, one or
two places seemed possible, but in reality, a tracked vehicle of some kind
would be needed to negotiate the steep angle of the embankment.

Strike
that one off the list, he thought, there's no guarantee they'll be able to stop
the convoy exactly where they want it, which means they'll have to take action
at or near a slip road. He drove on, passing a service station that he knew
from a visit several months before, had no exit roads other than the one
leading back to the motorway. The traffic around him started to build up again
as more and more vehicles cleared the jam at the Heathrow junction and joined
the solid nose to tail queue approaching West London's suburbs.

In
the distance, brake lights flashed as three lanes of motorway gradually
filtered into two. A ripple of red lights washed along the lines of cars as
their speed decreased even further to cater for the reduced width. Norton
pulled the Ford onto the hard shoulder, watching the traffic with growing interest
as it entered the bottleneck. A mile further on was a junction, 2E according to
the route marker, and the traffic flow there became even slower as more cars
squeezed onto the congested motorway from the slip road.

"Somewhere
around here would be ideal," he said.

Further
back towards the airport, there were the problems with the embankment, any
closer towards the suburbs and they would run the increased risk of regular
police patrols. He had a gut feeling, this area was ideal. He had had the same
sort of feelings before, and he had taught himself never to ignore them. On
more than one occasion the feeling, some called it a sixth sense, some called
it instinct, had saved his life. He was not going to ignore it now. He
indicated and pulled back into the traffic, going as far as the slip road
before leaving the motorway.

The
slip road curled round and wandered between fields that had so far escaped the
developers, before entering a residential area. Many new houses and flats
huddled behind a hedge on one side of the road, whilst on the other, a row of
old warehouses took up most of the space. A sign placed at intervals along the
shabby looking walls informed anyone interested enough to look that they were
to be re-developed into sixty luxury flats.

A
continuous stream of vehicles of all shapes and sizes passed him going in the
opposite direction. Parked cars lined both sides of the road, forcing him to
drive along it until he could find a place to stop. He locked the car and
walked a little further before entering a small brightly lit cafe. He ordered a
coffee and a sandwich the size of a doorstep from the display, and sat in a
corner booth by the window enjoying the warmth of the sun that was intensified
by the glass.

Having
finished the sandwich, he tossed back the lukewarm coffee and went into the
toilets. The cold water he splashed onto his face cleared away some of the
mental cobwebs that were forming through a lack of sleep. He splashed on some
more before drying his face and combing his hair. Feeling more awake than he
did some minutes before, he went to the counter and paid his bill.

It
seemed that the rush hour was over in this part of town. What had been a
constant flow of traffic when he entered the cafe had now reduced to a Sunday
style trickle. Norton looked at the
proprietor.       

"Did
something happen while I was in the loo? Where's all the traffic gone?"

"It's
like this every morning," the man said, "it goes bloody balmy for an
hour, hour an' half, and then nothing. It'll be the same tonight only in
reverse. I'm glad my trade comes from the offices on the main road, 'cause I'm
afraid the passing trade's crap.
If you'll excuse my
French."

Norton
smiled.

"Make
sure you have a nice day now," the man said as Norton picked up his change
and left the cafe.

He
waved in answer and walked back to the car.

-50-

The
voice of the airliner’s captain was crisp and clear in the headphones of the
approach controller. "Heathrow Tower this is South African two
two
three reporting the outer marker." 

The
controller’s eyes never left his orange tinted radar screen. He could see by
the slow moving blip, one of many executing a predefined and closely monitored
pattern, that the approaching aircraft was a Boeing 787, the latest
mega-carrier from the American makers. His response was immediate.

"South
African two
two
three, you are on course. Wind is
three knots easterly. Temperature is twenty degrees. You are cleared to land on
runway zero nine left."

"Clear
to land runway zero nine left," the captain repeated in confirmation.

The
gigantic aircraft lumbered over the airport's perimeter fence, its passage
charted by the shrieking of car alarms activated by the turbulent air in its
wake. Superheated exhaust roiled behind in a man made thunder, causing the
buildings and landscape to quiver as though the casual observer were watching
through a clear, but agitated liquid.

Huge
tyres kissed the runway with the tormented scream of a thousand enraged demons.
Clouds of blue smoke erupted from the rubber, forced in an instant from a
gentle freewheel in the slipstream, to over 150 miles an hour. A banshee howl
erupted from the engines as reverse thrusters were engaged to help bring the
charging behemoth to a crawl.

Two
and a half miles further along the runway, the aircraft was travelling slow
enough to turn on to a taxiway. The huge jet, its graceful airborne shape
ruptured by the trunk like proportions of its landing gear, powered itself
along the side of the terminal before turning into a cul-de-sac and parking
with delicate precision on its reserved stand.

As
soon as the engines stopped and the anti-collision lights were extinguished, a
hydraulic passenger ramp and a swarm of cargo vehicles nestled up to the plane
like bees around their queen. Electric motors whined as the forward cargo doors
slowly opened, revealing the interior of a hold packed solid with freight. The
rear cargo door remained closed until the forward holds were emptied and the vehicles
left the stand. It opened slowly on the approach of the two police cars and the
armoured truck. The convoy, dwarfed by the size of the aircraft, drew to a halt
and eight heavily armed police officers took up their assigned positions.

An
armour-plated door supported by thick hydraulic arms moved out from the curved
lines of the truck and slid upwards. From the shadowy interior, a robot
forklift emerged supported on a stainless steel rail.

An
electronic winch appeared from the aircraft's cargo hold and a single pallet
held by steel chains began its descent. The pallet stopped on contact with the
metal arms of the forklift, and was weighed by the robots sensors. A thin
telescopic arm reached out, and in a random pattern, drilled three holes through
the canvas covering the contents of the pallet. The arm retracted and
electronic data passed at the speed of light to the truck's central processing
unit. The CPU, satisfied that the pallet contained one ton of gold, instructed
the robot to secure it inside the truck.

The
process, lasting two minutes, repeated a further six times before the robot
re-housed itself and sealed the door from the inside. The next time the doors
opened it would be by special command from the master computer housed in the vaults
of the Bank of England.

At
Spring's
command, the escort crews returned to their
vehicles. Once the laser guidance system was reactivated on the bullion truck
and the rear police car, they moved off in Indian file. The convoy passed
through two of the airports control posts before driving through the tunnel
under the northern runway and onto the M4 motorway spur.

Alex
Smith, who had been waiting at the start of the spur, slotted the Vauxhall into
the traffic several cars behind as the convoy negotiated a roundabout and
headed east towards London.

-51-

The
whine from the twin Pratt and Whitney turbines gradually increased as the
massive power output whipped the rotors into a spinning blur. John Leach made
one last visual check of the giant orange helicopter before climbing into the
cockpit and strapping himself into the co-pilots seat. Although he loved
flying, helicopters had never been his favourite method. His dislike stemmed
from the years he had spent in the army. His flights had always been under
simulated combat conditions where the pilots always flew so close to the ground
they were forced to 'hedge hop' over the smallest of obstacles. Without fail,
the lurching up and down had made him feel physically sick. That apart, he had
always managed to get the chopper with the most sadistic loadmaster, the one
that would order you out in full combat kit from a height that would not quite
break your legs, but was guaranteed to knock every ounce of breath from your
lungs. Never in all of the years of his service did he fathom out why, as an
aircraft technician, he had to pretend to be a combat soldier for two weeks of
the year, and jump out of the helicopters that he helped to keep flying. The
army, like armies the world over had a peculiar sort of logic, which probably
made sense to someone somewhere, but he had never spoken to anyone with a
convincing answer. Such is life, he thought.

He
checked his lap strap and ran a hand through his hair, tangled into disarray by
the downdraft from the rotors. He pulled on a flying helmet and levelled its
boom microphone in front of his mouth. "Okay," he said, "we're
clear, let's go."

Alan
Harvey was an ex-army pilot, Leach had groaned when he found that out, he
looked across and nodded. His tanned features disappeared as he closed the
tinted visor on his full-face helmet and returned his attention to the bank of
instruments. He ran his eyes over them like a connoisseur admiring a fine
painting. Apparently satisfied with the information they held, he pulled gently
on the collective pitch lever. The noise from the rotors changed from a whine
to a deep thumping sound as the angle of attack on all six blades adjusted and
lifted the huge machine into the air.

Peter
Holmes watched the takeoff from his office window, a tide of anticipation
rolling through his grossly overweight body. Today's the day, he thought,
patting the perspiration from his forehead with a handkerchief. He looked at
his watch. In another four hours or so, I'll be stinking rich. He held his
breath for a moment as the nose of the helicopter dipped alarmingly towards the
ground. A mental sigh of relief followed as it remained airborne and began to
pick up speed. He kept watching as it banked to the right and slowly
disappeared from view.

Once
it was out of sight, he pressed a button on the intercom. "Send him
in," he said, and sat back in his chair.

Moments
later the door swung open and
Keiran
O'Connell
entered, hands thrust deep into the pockets of a leather bomber jacket.

"Sit
down," Holmes said, "we've got something to discuss."

The
Irishman smiled and sat in the chair opposite Holmes resting his elbows on the
upholstered arms and folding his hands across his stomach.

Holmes
studied the silent man before him for a few moments. He knew his background as
he knew the backgrounds of all the people who worked close to him. The fact
that he was a killer with both bomb and bullet bothered him not, for such men
always had their uses, like now.

He
said, "After the operation is complete and the cargo has been successfully
delivered, I'll have a little job for you. You won't be alone though the
assault team will be on hand to assist in a bit of clearing up. You see,
someone's been a little less than honest and caused me a pile of grief, and I
can't be doing with that."

O'Connell
smiled inwardly at the irony. A little less than honest, he thought. I doubt
anyone will get
a sainthood
for today's activitie
s
.
Aloud he said, "Anything at all, just tell me where, when and who, then
consider it done."

"The
'where' bit is easy," Holmes said, "
we're
going there in a few minutes. The 'when' I'll decide on while we're there, and
the 'who', well, the 'who' will become obvious. Just stay close to me and be
ready when I give you the word."

O'Connell
nodded, unconcerned at the thought of taking another life.

Holmes
pressed the intercom. "Have the car brought round." He stood up and
looked across at O'Connell. "It's time to be going. This is one party I
don't want to miss."