Honour Bound (9 page)

-14-

The
long red and white barrier blocking the entrance lifted with an electronic
whine as Peter Greaves approached driving a fifty foot articulated lorry. The uniformed
guard, who had been awaiting his arrival, waved a clipboard in acknowledgement
before disappearing inside the gatehouse. The door that swung closed behind his
grey clad figure bore the sign, 'HOLFLIGHT LTD. All visitors must report
here.'   

Greaves
passed through the gateway and drove towards the smallest of the three hangers
on the far side of the compound. He paused in a safe area next to the aircraft
manoeuvring area while a small executive jet taxied in front of him on its way
to the runway. The jet rolled past, its outline shimmering in the exhaust from
its twin engines, its backdrop a hazy section of the four and a quarter miles
of chain link fence that enveloped the outer perimeter of the aerodrome. As
soon as the aircraft was at a safe distance, he crossed the taxiway and
reversed neatly into a corner of the hanger, pulling up alongside two identical
vehicles and several items of heavy plant equipment. Air brakes hissed and
seconds later, the engine died. Greaves grabbed a light cotton jacket from the
sleeping area behind the seats and jumped down from the cab landing lightly on
the balls of his feet. He pulled the jacket on, left the hanger via the gaping
aircraft access doors and walked to the administration block, taking the
emergency stairs to the top floor, avoiding the aircrew briefing rooms and the
passenger reception area.

He
was expected, and his knock was answered immediately with a sharp, 'Come in!'

Greaves
entered the richly appointed office and sat in a leather armchair after Peter
Holmes nodded a greeting, and waved a cigar in its general direction. He made
himself comfortable and looked across at Holmes, who was sitting in a huge
wing-backed chair that he swivelled slightly from side to side as if to
exercise his legs. A cigar, whose tip moved gently in time with the chair, was
supported by long graceful fingers, and gripped between thick, puffy lips in a
ruddy football of a face. He was wearing a long sleeved shirt with half moon
sweat stains at the armpits. It appeared filled to capacity by the obese body
it covered. His breasts, one had to call them
that,
pushed alarmingly at the straining material as they hung over an enormous belly
that was rippled in line with the shirt's buttons. All in all, Greaves thought,
he looked like an overweight Buddha with high blood pressure.

"Good
morning Peter," Holmes said, after his guest had seated himself, "Is
everything okay?"

"Things
couldn't be better," Greaves said, knowing Holmes would be asking about
the forthcoming operation and not about his health. "I've just brought the
last truck over. As a precaution there's another two in the loading bay across
at Seymour Wharf, they're for backups in case we have any mechanical problems.
I can't see that happening, but it's better to be safe than sorry."

Holmes
nodded and shuffled his bulk around in his chair. "How's the training
coming on, you and the rest of the boys getting enough practice?"

"Yes,
no problems there. We've fired over a thousand rounds apiece through the MP5,
and I must say it’s a bloody good gun. We were told at the start it would be
hard to miss with it, and he wasn't kidding. I've fired a few weapons in my
time and I reckon it's one of the better ones."

Holmes
thought of the near eight million pounds the operation had cost to date. He was
not surprised to hear the weapons were good. The success of the whole operation
depended on a swift, surgical strike during the assault phase. Hit and run was
the key phrase. It would have been far cheaper to buy old East European
weapons, there were still tons of them about, and still easy to get, but they
needed reliability so had gone for the best. Besides, they could be sold on
later to recoup some of their cost.

He
looked across at Greaves, sitting relaxed in the armchair. Dark wavy hair neatly
combed, clean-shaven. A smart jacket, shirt, tie and trousers, not the usual
pair of jeans and T-shirt his regular work force tended to wear. He was a man
who had worked well in the past and would do so in the future.

"So,
in your opinion," Holmes asked, "things are going okay?"

"Like
I
said,
no problems." What’s he after, Greaves
thought, he's not one for exchanging pleasantries.

Holmes
drew deeply on his cigar, turning half an inch of tobacco into grey ash.
"We may have a small change of plan," he said, exhaling a cloud of
blue smoke around his words. "Not, I may add to the operation itself, but
more to the destination and distribution of the profits when the operation has
been concluded."

Greaves
interest suddenly perked up. Here it comes. He had worked for Holmes for many
years, employed in both his legal and his not so legal activities. He thought
he had a good idea of how his boss's mind worked, and he knew something
underhand was on the cards. His nose, very sensitive when it came to money, could
smell the possibility of a bonus.

Holmes
knocked the ash from his cigar into the ashtray, tamping it into a fine grey
powder with the lighted tip before continuing. "As things stand at the
moment," he said, "I'm supplying the majority of the manpower and the
equipment, and it is I who have the most to lose should things go wrong. That
was fine to start with, because I thought both the major players would be
taking equal risks, but now I find that is not so."

Greaves
leaned forward in his seat. He asked, "What do you want from me?"

"I
know you're the second in command of the assault phase," Holmes said,
"but as far as I am concerned, you work for me and you are the one I can
trust. This Winters character was brought in by the other party, there's no
need for you to know who that is, but needless to say I know nothing about him
or where his loyalties lie, if indeed he has any."

Greaves
was interested to hear what was coming next, although knowing his boss he did
have a good idea of what to expect.

"To
effectively redistribute the wealth," Holmes said, running a finger around
the inside of his collar, "certain steps will have to be taken.
Having said that, nothing is to be done until after the assault
phase is complete, because unfortunately, the other party has access to
information that's denied to me.
If we move too soon to alter things and
then something simple happens like a route change, or even a time change, the
whole operation, to put it frankly, will be well and truly fucked."

Greaves
could sense the crunch was coming. He would do anything to earn extra money, he
had no scruples whatsoever when it came to hard cash. He just wished Holmes
would get on with it instead of playing with words.

Holmes
leaned forward in his chair, and with some difficulty rested his elbows on the
table.

Greaves
thought, finally we get there.

Holmes
paused briefly then said, "There'll be several loose ends to be tied, and
the first one will be Nigel Winters. I want you to stay close to him during the
assault, and once it's over, add him to the casualty list. Before you leave on
the day, I'll give you a phone and a contact number, so you can call me when
you get to the rendezvous point with the cargo. I'll tell you then where to
bring the team to tidy up the other loose ends." Holmes sat back in his
chair and used a manicured fingernail to scratch the side of his nose.
"Apart from
Winters
, you and the team may have to
top and tail about three or four extras, how do you feel about that?"

Greaves
stroked his chin as though in contemplation of the offer put before him. His
mind was already made up he just wanted to know how much. "Mr.
Holmes," he said, "I believe that a man of your calibre will
understand when I say that I've got to look out for myself. I'm going to spend
most of that morning, well, about twenty or thirty minutes of it, in danger of
being shot. I think it’s prudent to ask if there's any added benefit to this
little sortie."

Holmes
nodded and stubbed out the cigar. "Peter," he said, "you are
definitely a man after my own heart. I must stipulate that this conversation is
not to be repeated anywhere else, or expenses may tend to get a little out of
hand. Do you agree to that?"

Greaves
nodded. "Yes."

"Good,"
Holmes said, "take the figure that you are already being paid, and then
double it. That is how much your help is worth to me, and if the circumstances
are right, it may be a little more."

Greaves
stopped breathing, at least three hundred grand, maybe more. He exhaled and
looked across the table at Holmes.

"Will
you do this extra job, Peter?" Holmes asked, knowing for sure he had
bought his man.

"Mr.
Holmes," Greaves said, the beginnings of a smile curling the corners of
his mouth, "does a bear shit in the woods."

-15-

Norton
had arrived early for the meeting with Jamie Stewart so the introductions were
made over a handshake and a cup of coffee in the staff canteen.

Mary
had called Norton about an hour after he had spoken with Talbot to give him the
time of his appointment. She had also informed him that the incident room for
the Tower Bridge and Tower Hill bombings had been set up in Leman Street police
station. He had thanked her and she hung up after her usual 'take care'
instruction.

Stewart
was far from the archetypal boffin, the word Talbot had used to describe him,
as one could possibly get. Rather than being dressed in a crumpled old suit,
and sporting a pallid face with round glasses that magnified an eccentric look
below a receding
mish
-mash of wild hair, he in fact
looked like one of the hired hands. A pair of faded jeans and an open necked
short-sleeved shirt replaced the
suit,
while a
pleasant welcoming smile adorned an uncluttered face topped with neatly
trimmed, almost white hair.

With
pleasantries exchanged and security passes issued, Norton followed Stewart
through an electrostatic arch that led into the Royal Mail security section's
computer room. His hair felt as though it was standing on end as he passed
through the opening.

Stewart
saw the look that crossed Norton's face. "It's a funny feeling," he
said, his voice was quiet with just a hint of his native Scottish accent.
"You get used to it after a while. It's harmless, but it does suck all the
dust off your clothing. Better to have it in the filter than in the
computers."

"Definitely,"
Norton agreed, running a hand through his hair to confirm it was still there
and not languishing in the filter.

He
looked around the large, brightly lit and windowless room they had entered. A
quiet hum filled the air in unison with the faintly chlorine-like odour of
ozone. Various bits of computer equipment occupied every available square foot.
Some of it he recognised. Most of it, he thought, would not look out of place
on some futuristic film set. Cyclopean red lights stared out from otherwise
featureless cabinets that lined three of the four walls. A huge television
screen took up the fourth. Wooden benches, not the metal and plastic type he
had expected, formed an open square. Every available surface was crammed with
computer workstations, all of which faced towards the screen, as though it were
an electronic God placed there to be worshipped. Compact memory units with
optical drives were stacked below the benches, the gaps between each unit only
big enough for the operator’s knees to fit in comfortably. The monitors were
all touch screen and every machine in the room was on, blinking cursors on all
the screens waited, forever patient, for typed or ‘touch’ instructions. In
front of each workstation stood a wheeled chair for an operator, but apart from
Stewart and himself the room was empty.

"Is
it normally unmanned?" Norton asked.

"Yes.
We like to keep it as sterile as possible. Information is entered into the
system from a room along the corridor. We only use this room when we have a
valuable load in transit and we physically want to keep tabs on it from start
to finish."

Norton
wheeled one of the chairs from under a bench and sat astride it, resting his
arms on the backrest.

“I'm
sorry if it's a bit uncomfortable," Stewart said, "but I thought you
might like to see the control centre, to get the feel of things."

"No
need to apologise, and you’re right, I did want to see it. And may I say I'm
impressed."

Stewart
beamed, taking his words as a personal compliment. He had spent much of his
career to date developing the satellite tracking system, usually against
budgetary constraints and whingeing senior management, and was very proud of
the achievement. The whole system was now up and running and very successful.

"Shall
we get down to business? I understand that you've been cleared for any
information I can give you."

"Yes,"
Norton said, "though my request is very simple. All I want to know is if
you've had any vehicles stolen in say, the last two months."

"Oh!
Is that all," Stewart said, disappointment sounding in his voice. He had
been hoping to demonstrate the power of his system. He sat on the chair at the
nearest keyboard and hit several keys so fast Norton could not follow what he typed.
The screen instantly flashed into life, followed moments later by a hum from a
laser printer next to the keyboard as it ejected a single sheet of paper.
Stewart pressed one more key and the screen went blank. The small cursor
reappeared at the bottom of the screen and began its patient flashing.

"Is
that it?" Norton asked.

"Yes,
I'm afraid so. The system has enough memory to hold every word that has ever
been written." He picked up the sheet of paper. "I don't want to
sound rude, but when I typed in your request, if the computer had been given
the ability to
tut
, it would have done."

Norton
laughed. "I used to have a computer when I was at school," he said,
"it used to take thirty seconds or so just to warm up."

"In
thirty seconds or so," Stewart said seriously, "this one could have
done billions of computations."

"Well,”
Norton said, “it puts the one I had to shame."

It
was Stewart's turn to laugh. He waved the sheet of paper in the air like a much
sort after contract. "Anyway," he said, "there isn't much on
here you'll be pleased to know." He quickly studied the figures.
"Yes. I looked back over the last six months. In that time there have been
three vehicles taken. One artic, that one has been recovered, one van, and one
battery powered delivery cart. Does that help at all?"

"What
sort of van was it?"

"A
Vauxhall, it was a brand new one, stolen from one of our Scottish maintenance
yards. It was there to have the tracking system installed, does that help?”

"Yes
and no.” Norton said, “It's closed one avenue but opened another."

Stewart
put the printout in a plastic tray and swivelled his chair to face Norton.
Spreading his hands palms upwards, he said, "Is there anything else that I
can help you with?"

"No, not at the moment.
But I've got your
number should anything else crop up." He swung his arm in an expansive
gesture to encompass the room, "You'll have to program it to
tut
," he said, "just in case you get more
visitors like me."

Stewart
grinned. "Come on," he said, "I'll see you through our security
minefield. And please, don't hesitate to call if there's anything else I can
do."