Monday 0900 Paris
(London 0800, Washington D.C. 0300)
“Ellen Beetson, American citizen,” the French immigration officer read the name on her passport out loud.
“How long are you staying?”
“Between three to five days.”
“Business or holiday?”
“Business,” Ellen answered.
He looked at her again and stamped her passport.
“Enjoy your stay.”
“Merci,” Ellen walked past him into the frenzy of France’s Charles de Gaulle airport and checked the boards for her luggage carousel number.
It’s good to be alone, she thought. I know Sam wants to be in London, working with Mitch and the boys, but I’m happy for some time out and to manage my own project for a while. Glancing at her watch, Ellen quickened her step. Midday meeting!
Three hours later, Ellen walked through the Louvre with the Head of Security, Gilles Revault, and the English-French speaking agent from the Trans-national Crime Unit based in Paris, Gerard Astier. Ellen got straight down to business leaving Astier and Revault no choice but to take the potential threat as genuine.
As they entered the Louvre, Ellen felt a rush of excitement.
“Can we see the area where the Fabergé Eggs are housed?” she spoke in French as the head of security did not speak English.
“Yes, of course. That’s in the Richelieu Wing,” Revault led the way. Ellen’s eyes ran over each work as she followed.
“Magnificent,” she murmured.
“Yes, indeed,” Astier agreed, walking beside her.
Revault stopped in front of the exhibition. “This is it.”
“Truly incredible,” she said. “I’ve seen photographs of the Eggs, but never seen them in person,” she leaned closer.
Breathtaking; so many shades on such a small surface area.
Ellen read the sign; ‘The Fabergé Imperial Easter-Egg collection commissioned by the last of the Russian Czars’.
“Of all the Fabergé Eggs in the collection, those commissioned by the last Czar were considered the most outstanding,” Revault said.
“They are stunning.” She went to the edge of the room, taking note of everything around the Fabergé display from floor to ceiling.
OK, we’ve got two days to work out how the eggs are going to be stolen. Clock’s on!
Monday London 0900
(Paris 1000, Washington D.C. 0400)
“Shit landing,” Nick groaned as they touched down at Heathrow airport in the U.K., fifteen hours after leaving Nevada. “Wonder where he learned to fly.”
“Did they need to announce we’ve landed? Was anyone unaware of it?” Mitch agreed.
“Landing was never your forte as I remember it,” Nick said.
“You’re kidding aren’t you?” Mitch said. “I’m great at landing. Remember that landing you did in Singapore? Now that was shit.”
Nick scowled. “Nice to reacquaint myself with my injuries. Hello sore body.”
“I can’t get back into a plane for at least a week,” Mitch steadied himself as he rose to stand beside Nick.
“I can imagine,” Nick sympathized as he pulled two duffel bags from the overhead locker and tossed one at Mitch.
They followed the other passengers out, avoiding the luggage carousel.
“Are you going to call Adam?”
“Yep, right now,” Mitch turned his phone on.
“I hope the apartment’s got two showers – otherwise, you’ll be waiting,” Nick yawned.
“Dream on. In your condition, do you seriously think you’re going to beat me in there?”
“How did you go for accommodation?” Mitch asked.
“Good,” Adam Forster gave him the address. “It’s the biggest self-contained apartment I could find with three-bedrooms close to the tube and Lawrence’s building. If Ellen or Sam join us, we’ll have to take the sofa.”
Mitch and Nick lowered themselves into a taxi and Mitch advised the driver of the address.
“OK, on our way,” Mitch told Adam.
“Sorry I couldn’t pick you up … the Porsche has only got two-seats,” Adam said.
“Yeah, yeah, show off,” Mitch retorted. “See you soon.”
“Here’s home, lads!” Adam greeted them at the front door.
“No place like it,” Mitch agreed and threw his duffel bag into the room Adam indicated. He introduced the two men.
“Do you guys want to get some shut-eye first?” Adam asked.
“Nah. I’ll hang out for tonight or I’ll be out of whack,” Nick said.
“Me too,” Mitch agreed, “I’m beyond tired now.”
After settling in, Adam played the tape where Lawrence decided to wait for a call from the group that hacked into his system the night Anthony Jenkins was killed. Mitch could hear the concern in Lawrence’s Chief of Staff’s voice. They listened as several of the directors challenged Lawrence’s decision.
Andrew spoke. “OK. So, say they make contact with us; you transfer them the blackmail fee and they give you back the file, where’s the thrill in that?”
“I’m not going to transfer it to them electronically, Andrew. We’re going to pay it to them in person. Then we test them – how do they know we won’t follow the collector home? Or bring in our own security? Or injure the public during the handover?”
“What if they don’t agree to do it in person? What if they say they want to send you back the files in the mail and want the money paid electronically?” Another male voice asked, clearing his throat with a cough.
“Then, our I.T. people better be good because I want to know who we’re transferring funds to and how we find them. Look, Alan,” the three men listened as Lawrence addressed the male speaker, “they’re likely to want cash. They won’t risk an electronic transfer in case it’s traceable. And if they want cash, they’re going to pick somewhere safe, somewhere public, so they can walk out of there unnoticed. And I want the file in my hand before I hand over any cash.”
“And who is going to do the drop?” Andrew’s familiar voice asked.
“Me, of course.”
“But …” Andrew began to protest. Lawrence cut him off.
“I’ll wear glasses and a baseball cap; the cameras won’t be able to pick up any features. Stop worrying Andrew, it’s supposed to be fun.”
“Fun, of course,” Andrew said.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” Lawrence said. The listeners heard chairs being pushed back and the door opening.
Adam turned the tape off and turned the volume down on the live feed. He looked at Mitch and Nick. “He’s out of control.”
“He’s going for broke,” Nick said, “and taking the directors with him! Can’t we get him now with what we have on tape?”
“No,” Mitch said. “He could say it’s a game or he had to protect his business or it’s not really him speaking; any number of things. We’ve got to catch him in the act. This has got to stick.”
Lawrence Hackett called his Monday-morning meeting to order, the empty chairs of Ian Gare and Michael Germaine indicated there were still two Mastermind projects outstanding. Daniel Reid’s chair remained empty. Lawrence circled the table and refreshed their memories about Thursday night’s discussion.
“So, the idea is we wait for the intruders to contact us and foil them at the point of paying the bribe. Let’s have a show of hands from those wanting to play.”
After the meeting, Andrew Kenny and Alan Peasely, took the lift down the nine flights to the streets below. Once they were clear of the building, Andrew turned to Alan.
“He’s gone too far this time; he’s going to blow it for everyone.”
Alan looked around. “We can’t win,” he agreed. “If we pull out, he’ll have us cleaned up; if we stay in, we could spend the rest of our lives in prison. These people with the file, they’re not going to hand it over cleanly … this is turning ugly.”
“I know. I don’t know what to do. Do we run for cover, or keep hanging in there and hope we’ll survive?”
“We could do a Rudolph Hess and deliver some information to the authorities,” Alan suggested.
Andrew shook his head. They entered a sandwich bar. “I can’t be an informer. I’ve done everything he’s done – I’m as accountable. This is sheer stupidity.” He wiped a film of sweat from his upper lip.
“Not to mention that some of the directors are young idiots. They’re bound to stuff up on the job,” Alan grabbed a pre-made sandwich and a Coke and paid for it. “Can you get us out of the country on project work?”
Andrew hesitated. “It’ll be transparent, but it’s one option. Can’t see him going for it. Lawrence is up to something; it’s like he’s got a whole other agenda. I want to know what’s going on in his head.”
“Contain it,” Mitch said pacing in front of the windows in the apartment. “We need to contain it, yet have it in a public area.”
“I agree,” Adam leaned over the kitchen bench. “If we meet Lawrence somewhere isolated, we’re leaving ourselves wide open. If we can pick an area that we can control like …”
“Like the Underground,” Mitch continued, “where we can account for everyone in the station.”
“And we can keep it in this neighborhood,” Nick added.
Adam reached into a folder and withdrew a map. He unfolded it, spreading out a detailed plan of the London Underground on the center table.
“Canary Wharf is on the Jubilee line; the train runs every five to ten minutes.”
Mitch stopped in front of the windows and squinted as the midday sun hit the side of the building. His brow was creased in thought.
“What are you thinking?” Adam asked.
“Huh?” he turned. “Nothing …”
“Really?” Adam pushed him.
Mitch rejoined them. “I was thinking about that kid – there was less than ten feet between us while he was still breathing, if we had known … I wonder where his body is.”
“My guess would be weighed down in the Thames,” Nick said casually.
Mitch shot him a look. He turned to the map.
“OK, we want Lawrence down in the station where we can control the environment and we want him to think that we’ve planned it so we arrive on the tube, do the file and cash swap, then leave on the same train. There will be no time for hostilities and we’ll be surrounded by the general public, so he won’t want to try anything, agreed?” Mitch asked.
“Agreed.” Nick continued. “We’ll need to follow him all that day. He might walk into the Canary Wharf tube stop from the street, or he may get smart and take a train from further out to give himself some observation time.”
“Good point,” Adam said.
“Are the trains regular?” Mitch asked.
“Pretty much,” Adam explained, “they call it a metro service, which means trains show up every few minutes. There are no daily timetables, except for the first and last train, you just go and get on.”
“That’s going to make it a bit hard to get the timing right,” Nick mused.
“Where’s the last stop on that line?”
“Uh, that’s the Jubilee line … it’s four stops later at Stratford, Mitch.”
“To play it safe, we could make Canary Wharf the last stop for that particular service, but there will still be some commuters coming in and out of the platform area,” Nick said.
“Unless …” Mitch squinted at the two men as he thought. “What’s the chances of us keeping that train at the platform and closing down the line, so that it can’t get out and no other trains can get in?”
“If we own the driver we can keep the train at the station. As for preventing other’s coming in, we can get the police to do that,” Adam continued the train of thought. He broke into a P.A. announcer’s voice. “Due to person under train, your service has been delayed.”
Mitch smiled at him. “Exactly,” he recognized the kind of public announcement that most Londoners had experienced the misfortune of hearing. “We get the police to block off the area, but to make it seem authentic to Lawrence, we could make the ‘person under train’ announcement … play it right after the handover when the train stops at Canary Wharf,” Mitch paced. “So, we get the timing as close to the mark as possible – the train stops at Canary Wharf, the driver calls through a jumper, all other trains are halted coming through on that line and we can’t move out either. The platform is ours. Any passengers left on board are only going as far as the last stop, in this case Canary Wharf, so we get them out. Outside, we can position police at each of the entrances to the tube to tell commuters the station’s temporarily closed. That gets rid of our general public coming in.” Mitch looked to the two men for comment.
“That will work,” Adam said. “But we can’t position those cops until Lawrence has entered the station. They’ll be on standby. Our guys will be in the last carriages and around the station looking like commuters.”
“Lawrence’ll have the same, it’s a matter of identifying them,” Nick said.
“On hearing the announcement, Lawrence will panic – his guys will either act or wait, but we’ll have him by then,” Mitch concluded.
All three men stood in silence thinking about it. Mitch stared at the Underground map, his dark head bent over it.
“What time of the day are we thinking for the handover?” Adam moved to his laptop.
“The quietest part of the day. Any idea of what time that will be?” Mitch asked.
Adam opened the Underground website. “This site is unbelievable. They’ve got everything except our plan up here. Check this out,” Adam clicked through several pages. “It’s an annual entry and exit frequency chart.”
“A what?” Nick asked.
“A list per station of the average number of commuters coming and going at different times,” Adam clicked through to the Jubilee line and then to Canary Wharf.
“Impressive,” Mitch agreed sitting next to Adam. “Odd all that info is available, from a security point of view.”
“OK, the quietest time of the day for commuter activity is at first train. Nearly seven hundred people in the station.”
“I’d rather operate under the cloak of darkness outside and with a little more traffic around; we’ll be less noticeable,” Mitch said.
“And it can’t be the last train for the day, because in theory we want to make a getaway with the cash,” Nick reminded them.
“What time is that last train?” Mitch asked.
“One a.m.,” Adam read from the site.
“How about eleven p.m.?” Mitch suggested.
“Anywhere between eight at night and one in the morning, we’re looking at around eight thousand people entering Canary Wharf and around three thousand exiting,” Adam read from the site.
“Geez, seems a hell of a lot,” Mitch exclaimed.
“That’s not on one train though, that’s on numerous services in non-peak time, which spans five hours – so, you might average one hundred on the train,” Adam calculated.
“Right, that sounds more manageable.” Mitch yawned.
Exhaustion and jet lag were creeping up on him now. Nick, too, looked like he was in slow motion.
“Let’s wrap this up and get out of here, I need a coffee,” Mitch said, his eyes glazing over. “So, the blackmail note goes out at close of business Wednesday. That night, we do surveillance on who goes in and out of Lawrence’s offices and the car park, to check which directors are on board and how many security guards are coming and going.”
“Bet it’ll be all hands on deck in Lawrence’s office that night,” Nick shook his head.
“We give him a day to organize his team and the cash. So, I’m proposing we do the handover the next night, Thursday, at around eleven p.m. What do you think?” Mitch asked looking from Nick to Adam and back.
“Sings!” Nick rubbed his eyes.
Adam agreed. “So, who’s good at writing blackmail notes?”