“She’s going to be fine. Maybe a little drop of brandy will set her up, but she’ll be just fine.”
In the car, Pamela sat beside Maureen.
“Are you part of this?” Maureen asked, hardly audible.
“No, but I don’t think they’ll hurt us. We just have to do exactly as we’re told and nothing will go wrong.”
“They’ve got my husband.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Have they got yours too?” she asked.
Pamela turned and took her hand. “Yes, darling, so we’re in this together. We just have to think it’s a film. It’s the only way we can get through it.”
The door opened, and Westbrook passed in a small silver flask. “Have a nip of this, ladies, we’ve got about half an hour to go.”
Pamela winked at him and unscrewed the flask. Maureen clutched at it with both hands and gulped down the brandy. It made her cough and splutter. Her hands were shaking and her knees were jerking. “I’m so frightened. This is terrible, terrible.”
Pamela gripped her hand again. “Now stop this, stop it now. We have to do what they say. It’s my husband as well, you know.”
Maureen nodded and closed her eyes. “I need-need to redo my lip-lipstick,” she stammered.
De Jersey’s cell phone rang, and he snatched it up. “All on course, are we?” came Marsh’s chirpy voice.
“Just waiting for you,” de Jersey responded. He glanced at his watch. It was ten past nine.
“Well, I’d hit your coal bunker. I’ve just sensed activity on the alarm phone lines, which means they’ve done their tests. You’ll need to do your IRA threat in about three-quarters of an hour.”
“Fine, but what’s the code word?”
“They’ve not phoned it through yet. Don’t panic. I’m on to it.”
“You’d better be.”
“Over and out.” Marsh clicked off.
De Jersey stood up. He knew that the wait would get to them all now; he also knew that, above all else, he had to show no sign of his own tension. He turned to Wilcox and nodded for him to get ready to climb through into the D’Ancona coal room. Wilcox was wearing an overall, thick gloves, and a helmet with a light attached. “How long have I got?” he asked.
“It’s nine fifteen now. I’ll make the threat call at ten, and Marsh will intercept to the safe house shortly after that. Then we’ve got twenty minutes before we move out.”
Wilcox walked down into the cellar and made his way to the opening between the two buildings. He switched on his lamp and started to remove the loosened bricks.
“How we doing?” came a soft whisper. Wilcox whipped round. De Jersey looked like a ghost in a white paper suit to protect his clothes from the dust.
“Just breaking through now. How am I for time?”
“We’re fine.”
As de Jersey spoke, Wilcox pushed another brick loose, cringing as it dropped to the opposite side. He pulled bricks toward him onto an old duvet he’d laid on the floor to dull the noise.
“They’re doing the final cleanup of the warehouse,” de Jersey told him.
“Great,” said Wilcox, working hard. Both men remained silent for a moment. “We’re in,” he said softly. “Shouldn’t you be upstairs making a call, for Christ’s sake?”
“I’m on my way. Just get in and see if it’s going to be a problem.”
“Bit late for that now, isn’t it?” said Wilcox and crawled out of sight.
He had already seen inside the room when he opened up the wall, so he knew what he would find. Marsh had been correct. There was the box with all the lines plugged into it, each neatly labeled with the location of the related panic alarm, such as “under floor reception” or “vault walls.” On the far side a steel door led into the safe house. D’Ancona had never suspected anyone would be able to gain access from the opposite side. That had been their mistake.
Wilcox was dripping with sweat. If one of the plugs was pulled a fraction earlier than the others, the police would be round in minutes and they’d be on the run without the reward. The technique Marsh had come up with for removing the plugs was brilliantly simple. At the end of each plug was a small loop where it met the cable. Wilcox took a piece of stiff wire from his belt and began to thread it through all the loops. He took his time. He didn’t want to jolt any of the plugs. After five minutes the wire was in place. This was the moment of truth. He took hold of each end of the wire and pulled.
Driscoll was ready, pacing up and down beside the Daimler. The two bikers sat with their helmets in their hands. Wilcox seemed to be taking ages. Eventually he emerged, covered in dust, and gave a thumbs-up. The team heaved a collective sigh of relief, and Driscoll patted him on the back.
Westbrook checked the time. It was five to ten. He was starting to sweat and unsure if he should take his last hit of speed now.
“Is there a bog in this place?” Westbrook asked. Driscoll pointed to the rear of the warehouse. Westbrook walked off and let himself into the dirty bathroom. He was just a few minutes behind Wilcox and heard him snorting up a line of cocaine through the door. “I wouldn’t mind a line if you have one to spare,” he said quietly. Wilcox opened the door and beckoned him in. They huddled together as Wilcox chopped up two very long lines.
“For Christ’s sake, don’t let the Colonel know I’m doing this,” Wilcox said.
“He knows I need it.” Westbrook was already rolling a rather creased five-pound note in anticipation. Wilcox produced a short silver straw and Hoovered up his line. He was still wearing his overall, his face filthy from the dust.
De Jersey checked the time again and again. They had half an hour to go, and there was still no word from Marsh. It was insanity to have depended so heavily on him. He was starting to think about leaving the warehouse and killing the man with his bare hands when the cell phone rang. The IRA code word for that day was Boswell. With trembling fingers, de Jersey made the call. When someone answered, he said, in a mild Northern Irish accent, “Boswell, I repeat, Boswell.” The officer taking the call did not question the authenticity and put the receiver down fast. De Jersey sighed with relief.
Marsh was listening in to a call from the commander at Scotland Yard to Buckingham Palace informing them of the IRA threat and putting a halt to the day’s plans. His final task was to intercept the call from Scotland Yard to the safe house, which would inform them of the cancellation.
The team waited in silence. Wilcox had changed into his chauffeur’s uniform in preparation for driving the second Daimler and stood chewing his lips. All were on edge for the last call to come in. When it did, everyone stared at de Jersey as he answered. Marsh had intercepted the call, and the safe house had no idea that the fitting had been canceled.
De Jersey checked his watch: it was exactly ten twenty. They prepared to move the short distance from the warehouse to the safe house. De Jersey climbed into the Daimler beside Wilcox. Driscoll took his position in the second Daimler containing Pamela, Westbrook, and the silent, terrified Maureen. The bikers lowered their helmets and sat astride their police bikes. The minutes ticked by slowly.
“Open the doors,” de Jersey said. The biker nearest pressed the automatic button to slide back the warehouse doors, and they were on the move.
The convoy turned left. Maureen sat beside Pamela, clutching her handbag, her blue head scarf tied round her head, her lipstick badly reapplied. She wanted to go to the toilet, but she was too scared to open her mouth. Her eyes were wide with fear. Pamela occasionally patted her knees, which were still shaking alarmingly.
“Well, we got the show on the road,” de Jersey said, resting his arm along the back of the front seat, just touching Wilcox. “We got the show on the road,” he repeated, when Wilcox didn’t respond. He gave him a sharp look. “How much of the stuff did you take?” he asked.