Pope vaulted up now, his boots scraping against the panel until he was over the fence. He dropped down next to her.
She held up her thumb to indicate that the way ahead was clear. She waited another beat, listening intently, and then, hearing and seeing that nothing was out of the ordinary, she jogged across to the outbuilding. Pope followed. The garage was north of their position. The study, where Milton would breach, was one hundred yards to the east.
They exchanged looks. Pope held up his fist and then raised one finger, then a second, then a third.
They split, jogging carefully and quietly to their entry points. Conway had to pass through an open area, but she stayed in the undergrowth at the side of the garden, crouching down low. She reached the garage block. There were two large roller doors; she guessed that Ziggy would be able to hack them, but they would make a lot of noise as they opened. Instead, she followed the wall around until she found the door at the back of the structure that she had seen on the plan. It was uPVC, with a glass inset panel. She knelt down to examine it and saw a simple mortice lock.
Her earpiece buzzed and Milton’s whispered voice came over the channel. “Group, Group. This is One. Are you in position? Over.”
Conway pressed to speak. “This is Ten. In position.”
“This is Five. Also in position. Over.”
There was a pause. Milton was double-checking his strategic assessment.
“WATCHER, WATCHER. This is One. Report.”
“No activity visible,” Ziggy said. “The alarm is disengaged. I’m working on the cameras. Over.”
Conway felt the usual emptiness in her gut. Nerves. She didn’t mind. Nerves kept you sharp. On your toes. Comfort led to complacency, and, in their line of business, being complacent was a good way to get yourself killed.
“This is WATCHER. Cameras are offline. Clear to breach. Over.”
She took out her lock picks and knelt down at the door. The lock was old and corroded. It would be easy to force.
34
Nataliya went into the kitchen and was about to open the door to the annex when something caught her eye. There was a monitor on the counter, the screen split into six panels to show the feeds from the cameras that had been installed around the property. There were cameras up high on the corners of the house and all of them were equipped with infra-red so that they could be used at night. Nataliya paused and stared at the screen. A man was standing next to the outbuilding, his back pressed against the wall. The camera was too far away to offer useful detail, but the image was good enough to show that the man was cradling something in his hands.
“Mikhail,” Nataliya hissed. Her husband came across and watched the screen. The man dropped down low and, after looking around the corner of the outhouse, he set off toward the main house. The camera was fixed and the man passed beneath it and out of its field of vision.
And then, as they watched, the screen suddenly went black. All six cameras tripped out at the same time.
“Fuck,” Mikhail swore. “They cut the feed.”
Beck was biting the inside of his cheek.
“How many do you think?” she whispered.
“More than just him,” Mikhail hissed back.
“Do you have weapons?” Beck asked.
“Yes. In the garage.”
“Nothing else in the house?”
Nataliya reached over to the knife block and pulled out two knives: a long bread knife with a sharp point and a serrated edge and a chef’s knife. She gave the chef’s knife to Mikhail and kept the bread knife for herself.
“The car’s ready,” he said. “We need to go now, before they breach. We’ll need the guns.”
Mikhail clasped the chef’s knife, crossed the room and opened the door to the annex sitting room. The quickest way to the garage was through there, and he led the way. They passed through the sitting room and then the bedroom and approached the partition door that opened into the garage. Mikhail paused against the door, listening carefully, and, satisfied that there was no one on the other side, he opened it.
The garage was dark. There was a window in the opposite wall, but it was up close to the garden fence and only a little moonlight was able to filter through. They kept all their junk in here: cardboard boxes that they had still not unpacked after they had moved in, tins of paint, an old tumble dryer. The equipment for the pool had been fitted here, too, with a bulbous pump and a large boiler to clean and warm the water. There was a car in the middle of the space. It was a new Porsche Cayenne, boxy and powerful.
Nataliya went to a large wooden wardrobe that had been left in the corner of the garage. It was used to store tools and equipment for the garden. She opened the door, reached inside, laid her palm flat against the right-hand edge of the backing panel and pushed down. It was the same as the wardrobe in the bedroom: a false back. The panel squeaked as the loose edge rubbed up against the carcass of the wardrobe, moving back enough for the left-hand edge to come forward. She slipped her fingers into the newly opened gap and yanked the panel out, standing it on its side against the wall. The hidden space was ten inches deep and had been rigged up as an armoury. There was a selection of weaponry there: pistols, two stubby MAC-10s, a combat shotgun and an AR-15. She took one of the submachine guns.
“Shit,” Mikhail cursed.
“What is it?” Nataliya said.
“I left the passport on the kitchen counter,” he said, cursing for a second time.
“I’ll go back,” Nataliya said. “Start the car.”
“I’ll go,” Beck said. “You’re not well.”
“I’m fine,” she said sternly. “Stay here, Vincent. I’ll be quick.”
35
Milton had already picked the lock, and now he pushed down on the handle and stepped into the study. The room, like the rest of the house, was dark. There was a computer on a desk and the standby light cast just enough of a glow to show a collection of papers and a wireless keyboard beneath it. There was an armchair on one side of the room and a bookcase on the other. Milton recalled the layout of the house from the plans Ziggy had shown them: the study led into a downstairs cloakroom with Jack and Jill doors that, in turn, opened into the hall. From there, Milton would clear the sitting room and then move into the kitchen. Pope was to the east, at the front door. He would already be inside and clearing the drawing room and sitting room. Conway would come in through the garage and clear the annex. They would meet in the kitchen and then take the stairs to clear the floors above.
Milton gripped the UCIW, swivelling the barrel across the room as he cleared it. It was empty.
He moved deeper into the house.
Conway was buzzing with adrenaline; she took another breath and rested her hand on the handle of the garage door. She pressed down and the door opened, swinging into the dark space beyond.
“This is Five. Drawing room is clear. Out.”
It was dark. Conway didn’t have a torch, and she wouldn’t have wanted to light one even if she did. She waited inside the doorway for her eyes to adjust, waiting as the shapes of the things around her started to clarify in the dim moonlight that came through the open door: a rack of shelves against the wall, cardboard boxes stacked in rows of two, a large SUV in the middle of the space.