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.
***
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.