48 Hours - A City of London Thriller (27 page)

Andrew Cuthbertson had asked for it. He was weak, and he would
have exposed Arthur and sent him to jail. As for Richard – well,
the man was a pervert.

The odd thing was that the person he had expected most trouble
from was the foul mouthed Don Fisher, and yet the singer had paid
up quickly and just let it go. The Peer certainly hadn’t been
expecting Josh Hammond to begin a witch hunt for his blackmailer.
For heaven’s sake! He’d only lost a quarter of a million. He would
probably make that back in bonuses within a couple of
years.

The more he thought about it, the more he realised that Andrew
Cuthbertson had been right; Josh Hammond was the real danger in
this scenario. None of the others had called in the police or
threatened Andrew Cuthbertson. His alter ego, Bob, hadn’t been
worried about police involvement because he had covered his tracks
expertly. No, it was Hammond’s fault that his life had begun to
fall apart.

Lord Hickstead felt the anger rising inside him, but concluded
that submitting to rage now would be counter productive. He walked
over to the drinks cabinet and poured himself three fingers of
single malt whisky.

Catching sight of himself in the mirror, he saluted himself
with the raised glass and swore an oath.

“
I will not follow Jeffrey Archer out of the House of Lords
and into prison.”

***

An hour later the Peer had formulated a plan that he couldn’t
execute, and so he recovered the ‘pay as you go’ phone he had been
using for the purpose and pressed the only number on speed dial.
The phone rang out at the other end in long continuous tones,
unlike UK phones. Eventually it was picked up, and Hickstead spoke
urgently.

“
You know who this is. I need your help and I’m willing to pay
for it.”

Chapter 57

Ashburnham Mews, Greenwich, London. Friday,
11:30pm.

I lay in bed looking at Dee’s back; she was wearing a short
strappy nightdress, similar in style to the dresses that many young
girls would probably have worn going out to a nightclub. Her neck
and shoulders looked so smooth and inviting that I wanted to kiss
them, but she was asleep and I didn’t want to wake her after
another long and busy day.

Despite the hectic day, we had spent the night eating,
drinking, and what passes for dancing. We had just one more night
left together before she moved back into her flat. We were both due
to be back at our desks on Monday, and Dee had lots to catch up on
at home during Sunday.

Tomorrow night I would buy some take-away, chill some beers
and we would snuggle up on the sofa before going to bed, where I
intended to make love to her until the early hours of the
morning.

After that, who could say? Tentatively we had arranged to stay
over at each other’s flats every weekend, but I had a feeling that
it would not be enough for either of us. Was it too early to ask
her to move in? I had known her for just a week or so, but it
seemed like so much longer. And what a week it had been.

I wasn’t sure how easily sleep would come for me tonight, but
I guessed that it would come a lot more easily for me than for Lord
Hickstead.

Chapter 58

Commercial Road, Tottenham, North London. Friday,
11:30pm.

“
You know, this is insane, Dave. We never do a job with this
amount of planning. The reason we aren’t inside is because we
strategise. We’re better than those gangsters in East London,
that’s why they keep doing time and we get to go on holiday with
our families.”

Dave merely grunted in reply. He seldom knew what to say in
these circumstances. Johnny was the more articulate of the two, and
he made some really good points. Dave didn’t really know how to
respond to them. But Dave knew that he was Johnny’s equal in many
ways. After all, Johnny didn’t know how to blow things
up.

The industrial unit seemed dark and forbidding at this time of
night. Dave’s kids would have referred to it as spooky. The
overhead lighting was adequate, but that was about all. Deep
shadows fell across the floor. At one time this place had been a
service centre for the electrical generators which ran the London
Underground, but these days it was a printing press.

Dave and Johnny didn’t work on the printing presses; they
provided more specialist services. The industrial unit was far too
big for the printing machinery. It looked rather lost on the floor
of the building, which was about the size of a soccer pitch and
rose a good thirty feet to the apex of the roof. The grey cladded
walls and roof were supported by yellow painted steel portal
frames, and in one corner stood a two storey block which housed an
office, kitchen and toilets on the ground floor, with an open tread
metal staircase leading to two big offices and a bathroom
above.

The sign above the doors read Tottenham Press (2005) Ltd,
mainly because the owners had allowed the old Tottenham Press to go
bust to screw their creditors, only to set up in business again the
following week with new directors.

During the working week the press turned out brochures,
magazines, business cards and letterheads at almost cost price, but
at the weekend it was a different story. On a Saturday and Sunday
the special presses were running, the ones which produced forged
tickets for pop concerts, sporting events and Premier League
Football matches. It was no surprise that the forgeries looked just
like the real thing; they were printed on the same type of
press.

Their most successful coup to date had been producing fifty
thousand National Lottery tickets for Spain, all carrying the price
of ten Euros. The Tottenham Press had done themselves proud. The
serial numbers, the metal strips, the watermarks and the foil
pictograms had all been masterfully reproduced. It was even
rumoured that it had been one of the forgeries which had scooped
the main prize, but that was probably just an anecdote.

Johnny assembled the kit he had gathered from various lock ups
in the area and placed them into the boot of the impressive car
with cloned number plates.

“
Dave, are you done with the Jelly?”

“
Johnny, how many times have I told you we are in the twenty
first century now? We use RDX high explosive. Gelignite probably
hasn’t been used in London since the 1970s.”

“
All right, smart arse, when will the RDX be ready?” Johnny
asked, placing undue emphasis on the initials.

“
Two minutes. I’ll put it in the car boot with the other gear.
Anyway, why aren’t you going on this job, Johnny?”

“
Because they’re bringing their own team. We’re just providing
logistics, see?”

“
Apparently I’m going.”

“
Dave, you’re the best man in London for a box job. And on
this occasion I think you count as logistics.”

Ten minutes later the two men were closing the shutter doors
and taping the laminated printed notice on to the outside. It read:
“Closed for Holidays – Reopens after the Bank Holiday.”

Chapter 59

Citysafe Depository, Cheval Place, London. Saturday,
3pm.

The sleek silver Lexus moved slowly down Cheval Place, the
driver clearly looking for an address. After a minute of
uncertainty, the luxury car with darkened windows pulled up level
with the uniformed policeman guarding the entrance of Citysafe
Depository.

The policeman watched as a man in a smart chauffeur uniform
stepped out of the car, which was carrying diplomatic number plates
and colourful sticker representing one of the new states which had
sprung from the breakup of the Soviet Union. Constable Davenport
was familiar with most of the diplomatic flags - you had to be if
you were a policeman in London - but he couldn’t place this one. He
scoured his memory banks for the country whose flag had a sky blue
background and a bright yellow sun in the middle. He felt sure it
would be one of the ‘stans’ but he wasn’t sure which
one.

“
Excuse me, officer; we are looking for Citysafe Depository.”
The chauffeur was now standing by his side waiting for directions.
The young policeman smiled as he looked at his own reflection in
the man’s large mirrored sunglasses.

“
You’re already here,” he answered politely.

The chauffeur opened the car door and bowed slightly as a
middle aged man stepped out of the car. He had one blue eye and one
brown eye, disfiguring scarring on both cheeks and very prominent
Slavic cheekbones.

“
This is His Excellency Mr Muravi Dumatov, Ambassador to the
United Kingdom representing Kazakhstan, and he would like to make a
deposit.”

“
Good afternoon, your Excellency,” the constable said
respectfully. “I’m afraid that, owing to some additional security
measures this weekend, I will have to accompany you to the vault.
You will of course enjoy the same privacy as usual, but I will be
guarding a particular box.”

“
Thank you, officer. Does your presence suggest my valuables
may be at risk?” His Excellency made a determined effort to speak
perfect English, but there was still the trace of an accent
lingering.

“
I can assure you that your assets are safer than ever,” the
constable said in a voice that he felt offered
reassurance.

His Excellency Mr Muravi Dumatov reached into the car for his
briefcase. It was an old battered leather case with two handles at
the top which held it closed.

“
Alexander, pass the treaty papers, please. You may wait for
me in the car; I will be perfectly safe with the police officer.”
The man in the back of the car handed a banker’s box to the
chauffeur.

Constable Davenport, pleased with himself for recognising the
flag and for reassuring the Ambassador, led the way up the steps to
the Depository. At the top he pressed the buzzer and looked at the
camera. The door clicked open. Weekends at the Depository were
generally quiet, but security was paramount as usual, and so whilst
one burly guard manned the desk, two more presented an intimidating
presence in the lobby.

The fourth man on duty was downstairs in front of the
vault.

The chauffeur placed the banker’s box on the desk beside the
Ambassador’s battered briefcase.

“
This is His Excellency, the Ambassador for Kazakhstan,” the
policeman announced, hoping that no-one would notice that he had
forgotten the man’s name.

“
Welcome, Your Excellency,” said the guard, with little
deference. “May I scan your Citysafe security card,
please?”

“
Of course,” the Ambassador agreed, reaching into his
briefcase. He did not extract a card, however, but rather he
flourished a Czech Scorpion Machine Pistol. At the same time the
chauffeur dipped his hand into the banker’s box and took out a
matching model. The Ambassador covered the policeman and the guard
behind the desk, whilst the chauffeur covered the remaining
two.

“
Hands on your heads. No alarms, silent or otherwise, or we
kill you all. No interference from any one of you or we kill you
all. Are these rules simple enough for you?” They all nodded in
shocked silence. No-one in that room was paid enough to willingly
give up his life.

“
OK, now all of you kneel against the far wall, facing away
from me.” The men did as they were told and the chauffer set about
hooding all four and then tying their hands with plastic cable
ties. The hoods had drawstrings which were pulled tight so that the
men could not remove them easily. Now that they were secured, the
two men from the car joined the fray.

The man posing as the Ambassador opened his mouth wide and
removed two prosthetic fillers from his cheeks and his Slavic
cheekbones disappeared as his face regained its natural gaunt look.
Carefully he picked at his sideburns and peeled off a transparent
sheet imprinted with pock marking and scarring. When he had removed
both sides, his face was smooth and clear. Finally he popped out
the brown contact lens, placing all elements of his disguise into
the empty banker’s box.

The three intruders in the lobby pulled on ski masks. By now
the one dressed as a chauffeur was standing at the iron grillage
that separated him from the last security guard and the vault. The
man hadn’t noticed him approach, as he was busy listening to live
commentary of West Ham versus Chelsea on the radio, which was
strictly against company regulations.

The intruder coughed, and the security guard looked
up.

“
Sorry, sir,” he said, hurrying to the gate. “Can you scan
your security card on the panel, please?”

The intruder reached into his jacket and retrieved his weapon,
which he pointed through the bars at the guard’s face. The guard
seemed so terrified that the intruder thought he would
faint.

“
If you don’t open the gate in five seconds, I shoot you and
we blow it open anyway. You choose.”

The gate was open almost before his last syllable had died
away. He hooded and tied the guard, securing him to his chair. The
radio was still on, and the crowd cheered as Chelsea
scored.

“
I hope that you are not a West Ham supporter,” the chauffeur
laughed grimly.