Mitch, Nick and Adam stood with William Irwin, the head of the SO19 unit and David Byrnes, the head of security for the London Underground. They waited while Byrnes spoke to a staff member. Mitch looked around; the office had no natural light, was tucked into a forgotten corner at Charing Cross station and had a distinct damp odor. Taking up most of the back wall was a map of the Underground that had begun to peel away from the wall at each corner.
Mitch referred to his notes and Byrnes’s title. He whispered to Nick: “Byrnes looks like his room: out-of-date, faded. He’s been in the job too long.”
“Was thinking the same thing,” Nick agreed. “I’m guessing the biggest security scare he’s had is probably a parcel left on board a carriage.”
“Even then, he would have called in the cops.”
Byrnes turned to his waiting audience. “Sorry, gentlemen. Welcome to the Underground. You know, people used to take refuge in the Underground during the war; it was used as a bomb shelter.”
Mitch showed polite interest then cut to the chase. “Mr. Byrnes, we have a situation and we need your help.”
“What do you need?” Byrnes puffed with importance.
“This Thursday I need full access to the Jubilee line from ten to midnight,” Mitch continued, laying their requirements on the line. When he finished, he noted Byrnes looked pale and turned to the chief of police.
“Wouldn’t it be easier to go into his offices with a warrant, search the place and arrest him?”
“If this was The Bill or Law and Order, maybe,” Mitch said. “But Mr. Byrnes, you will have to trust us on this one – we need to let the subject bring evidence to us.”
Mitch turned to the head of the SO19 unit, William Irwin, for back up.
“Special Agent Parker is right, David, it has to be done this way,” Irwin concurred.
“Then, I’ll do anything I can to help,” Byrnes agreed.
Mitch and Adam exchanged quick looks.
As they took the stairs back up to street level, Mitch turned to Adam. “Keep him out of our way; he’s more of a liability than an asset.”
“I’ll assign him an important task,” Adam agreed, “maybe clock watching.”
Tuesday 0800 Washington DC
(1300 London, 1400 Paris)
Samantha met CID agent Sebastian Roe in his boardroom at eight sharp Tuesday morning, the day before the crime was due to take place in Washington’s Library of Congress. She noticed the room was surprisingly modern despite the old façade.
He offered her tea and coffee and pushed a plate of shortbread cookies towards her.
Breakfast, she thought, rather have scrambled eggs.
Sitting back with her tea and cookies, Samantha watched as people began to arrive; eight senior police staff – six men, two women. Once they were seated, Roe called for attention. Samantha had nothing new to report – she had heard that morning from John that Daniel was still holding out, which no one had expected. Roe brought the team up to speed. There was a high level of disbelief in the room.
Typical. They’ll believe it when it damned well happens, she thought. At least, I hope it happens.
She yawned through the presentation on the current security procedures undertaken at the museum delivered by the Director of Security at the Library of Congress and tried to stay alert while his voice droned on.
“All members of the public on entering the Library go through a metal detector, and everyone exiting passes through an electronic theft-detection system,” he explained. “We also check all bags and folders. Anyone booking a reading room or a conference facility has to register with photo identification and a complete security check is run on them. Any material that needs to be brought in for conferences is subject to restrictions. There is video surveillance on all levels and security staff at each stairway, entry and exit.”
He resumed his seat and Samantha noticed all eyes turned to Roe.
“Agent Samantha Moore will now explain what information she has to date,” Roe announced.
Samantha stood and explained, without any reference to Lawrence, the international Mastermind game up until now and how the Library of Congress fitted into the plan.
Tuesday 2230 London
(2330 Paris, 1730 Washington)
Mitch, Nick and Adam rode the Jubilee line several times between ten-thirty and eleven-fifteen that evening. Pacing around the station, Mitch determined where their marksmen would go and where he would stand when he met Lawrence.
Right in the line of fire, but with plenty of back up.
He saw Nick checking out the security cameras.
“Could Lawrence access the live feed from these cameras in the twenty-four hours before the handover? We don’t want to risk him seeing us doing our run-through,” Nick asked.
Mitch turned to Adam. “It’s a good thought. He could buy or hack his way into anything.”
“I’ll get them disconnected on this line from midnight Wednesday,” Adam said.
“What’s to stop Lawrence coming in here in the twenty-four hours between the delivery of the blackmail note and the handover, and setting up bombs and who knows what?” Nick asked.
“We’ll have plain clothes security in this station from the moment we deliver the letter to the handover,” Mitch informed him.
“What about when the stations close after one a.m. and before five?” Nick continued.
“Security will stay on.”
They threw back and forward scenarios for the next twenty minutes. Eventually, they ran out.
“You’ve earned a drink,” Mitch slapped Nick on the back.
“A warm beer?” he said with a look to Adam.
“I’m sure we can find you a cold one somewhere in London, Nick, even at this hour!” Adam promised him.
On their return, Mitch sat at his laptop finishing the blackmail letter, which was to be delivered tomorrow afternoon. Nick and Adam sat with earphones on, listening to the transcripts from Samantha’s planted microphones. They divided up the tapes.
Mitch finished his first draft, stood and walked to the window. He swallowed back the tension rising inside him; even his bones were feeling stiff. Below, the Docklands area was a blaze of lights and several floors were still lit up in Lawrence’s building. Mitch slid the glass door open and went out on to the apartment balcony.
He thought about what was to come: tomorrow’s going to be one of hell of a day; everything’s happening at once. Should think this through again … at four in the morning we’ll have a practice run in the Underground with the SO19 team and the designated train driver. That should take about an hour, before the line opens to the public at five in the morning. Then, Ellie will be on full alert at the Louvre and Sam on alert at the Library of Congress – and I’m not with either of them to provide back up.
Maybe I should take the one-hour flight across to Paris. No, Ellie should be able to manage it with backup from the local agent and his on-the-ground resources. Trust her, he told himself. Hopefully, it would be contained to the area where the Fabergé Eggs are being displayed. Sam on the other hand, worries me. The Library of Congress Mastermind is too ambiguous for my liking. I hope Sebastian Roe’s good. I need to speak to John about more backup for Sam.
And by tomorrow, close of business, we deliver the blackmail note and kick in with surveillance of Lawrence and his men.
Then, Thursday night will be deliverance time.
Mitch leaned on the railing, stretching his back, trying to relieve the knots of tension.
I’ve got to trust the team and try not to control everything – even though I’d feel better about it if I could.
As Nick listened to the tapes, he watched Mitch leaning against the balcony rails.
I know how you feel, Mitch, I’m a bit uptight myself.
He glanced at Adam, sitting opposite with his headphones on.
Adam’s the only one who looks like he can’t wait for the fun to start. No vested interest, I guess.
The tape finished and Nick turned it off. Adam finished a minute later.
“Shit, that’s boring,” Nick groaned removing the headset. “Nothing usable there.”
“Nothing here either,” Adam agreed. “I’m going to bed. I’ll see you at three.”
“Look forward to it.”
“Anything?” Mitch asked as Nick joined him on the balcony.
“Nuh. Nothing major on either tape.” Nick pulled a cigarette out of the packet in his pocket and lowered himself into one of the white steel chairs, shivering in the cold air.
Mitch glanced through the glass door. “Has Adam turned in?”
“Yeah.”
“Should be pretty interesting tomorrow night in that boardroom.” He sat down next to Nick. They watched the night traffic, the lights, and the occasional person coming and going.
Nick lit up. “How’s your mom these days?”
Mitch looked over at him. “She’s good. Keeping busy with her committees and clubs. How are your folks?”
“Good. Dad retired last year. He and Mom are planning an overseas holiday.” Nick chuckled. “Can’t see it happening though, Dad won’t put up with the language barriers and changing money.”
“Seems like a lifetime ago we spent summers in your pool.” Mitch smiled at the memory.
“Yeah, they were good times. Dad used to give me such a hard time after you’d gone home – nagging me to get a scholarship like you to save him a fortune in school fees. I can hear him now … why don’t you apply yourself like Mitch does … blah, blah, blah,” Nick rolled his eyes.
Mitch grinned.
“Do you ever hear from your dad?” Nick asked.
Mitch stiffened and shook his head. “That summer when he decided to clear out, that was the last time I saw him,” he looked the other way.
Moments later, Mitch turned to face Nick and began to speak, then hesitated. “Did you see him at our air force graduation?”
“No! Was he there?”
Mitch shrugged. “Henri saw him there.”
“Did you want to see him?”
“God, no. His clearing out was the best thing that ever happened.”
Nick cleared his throat.
“I’ve got a bit of a confession to make about that.”
Mitch froze.
Nick continued. “Remember that long weekend before your dad went away … the one that was like a heat wave?”
“Yeah …”
“And we were hanging around the pool but you wouldn’t get in, so my Dad threw you in fully dressed?” Nick smiled.
“Yeah,” Mitch grinned. “He had a habit of doing that.” His smile faded as he remembered it clearly. I was twelve then, old enough to know not to take on Dad when he came home from the bar. Geez, he was strong when he was drunk. He locked his jaw, tensing at the memory of his father’s fist and leather belt.
He realized Nick was watching him. “What’s your confession?”
“When you got out of the pool your T-shirt stuck to your back. You didn’t know it, but there were huge blood marks on your T-shirt where the welt marks were.”
Mitch shuffled uncomfortably at the memory. Both of them looked out over the balcony.
Nick continued. “Dad was so angry; man, I’ve never seen him so mad. He was pacing around the kitchen, swearing and carrying on how he couldn’t believe any adult could do that to a kid. That night he confronted your father. I was there, waiting for him in the car. Do you remember your dad coming home with the shit beaten out of him about the week before he cleared out?”
“Yeah,” Mitch said in a quiet voice. “For a whole week he didn’t touch any of us. I thought maybe it was because he realized how much it hurt.” Mitch shook his head at the memory. “It was like living with a time bomb waiting for him to start up again. The week after that he was gone and we never saw him again. Best time of my life after that. I’d love to thank whoever beat him senseless.”
“Dad did it,” Nick cleared his throat. “He told your old man that if he ever laid a hand on you again, he would dish out the same treatment every time. And to prove it, he gave him a walloping. After, Dad got back in the car, told me to keep it to myself and we went home.”
Mitch’s throat tightened. The memory of his fear and pain as clear to him as if it were yesterday. He struggled with Nick’s father’s actions.
Mitch inhaled. “Wow.”
“Hell, Mitch, it’s no big deal; we were like brothers,” Nick tapped him on the back.
“Are you kidding? It’s a huge deal to me, Nick.” The words caught in his throat. “No one stood up for us—no teachers, coaches, friends of Mom’s—no one interfered while Mom, my brother and I were copping it regularly. By the time Henri had come on the scene, Dad was gone.” Mitch swallowed a lump in his throat.
Nick’s father … I was so jealous of Nick having a dad like that, and he’s the one who stuck up for us.
“You OK?” Nick asked looking at Mitch.
Mitch nodded, turning away. “I could use a coffee,” he said in a low and controlled voice.
He heard Nick stub out his cigarette and rise to go make coffee.
Grateful to have Nick away from him, he gathered himself, breathing deeply and wiping his eyes and face with his hands.
Pull yourself together, he told himself. Unbelievable. All this time … it was Nick’s father that looked out for us.
Several minutes later he heard Nick return. He handed Mitch one of the cups of instant coffee. “Are you alright?”
“Fine,” Mitch’s voice broke. He coughed, clearing his throat.
Nick nodded and sipped his coffee.
Mitch ran his hand over his eyes. He rose. “I’ve got to turn in; early start.” He hurried past Nick.
“Mitch …” Nick stood up behind him.
Mitch didn’t risk speaking; he slid the glass door closed behind him, leaving Nick with his coffee on the balcony.
On Wednesday morning at three o’clock, the three men moved around each other, dressing and preparing for the rehearsal. No one spoke. Mitch, who was ready first, waited at the door. Nick and Adam filed out and Mitch locked it behind them. They entered the Underground stop at Canary Wharf where a security officer had been briefed and was expecting them. He opened the caged wire door to let them through. Within thirty minutes, the full team was present – six officers, plus David Byrnes from the Underground, William Irwin head of SO19 and a train driver assigned to the police service.
Mitch directed teams to go with Adam and Nick. He moved between both, listening in as Adam took aside the two officers assigned to the entrances and the three men who would be on the platform; two as passengers, one in a concealed sniper position with Ellen when she returned from Paris. Mitch distributed photos of Lawrence and the directors, leaving Adam to run through the scenarios, contacts and the plan for that evening with his team.
Mitch moved over to Nick’s group and watched as Nick directed the men he would be managing, allocating them carriage positions and advising them they would get on at Waterloo station. William Irwin followed Mitch and moved between both teams.
After thirty minutes, Mitch called them together and, with Adam, talked through the weaponry, which was stored underground at Canary Wharf. Mitch called for questions and between the three men, they fielded a few. Close to five a.m., Mitch wrapped it up, confident with the group. The three men spent another hour with David Byrnes and William Irwin before leaving.
As they walked along the main street, looking for somewhere to eat breakfast at six in the morning, Mitch did the time calculations.
Six a.m. here; Paris is an hour ahead – Ellie should be up.
“This do?” Adam pointed to a modern café with its lights on.
“Perfect,” Mitch nodded entering the warmth of the café. The owner welcomed them to sit and they slid into a booth as the waiter dropped over the menus. Mitch dialed Ellen’s number. He glanced around, but there was no one in listening range.
She instinctively answered the phone in French. “Bonjour.”
Mitch smiled. “Very sexy!”
“Mitch!” she laughed. “Sorry I wasn’t thinking … totally in the zone. Thanks for saying I sound sexy though, I must use my French more.”
“Did I wake you?” he asked.
“No way, I went for a jog about five this morning and now I’m on my way to meet Gerard Astier at the Louvre.”
“What’s the plan?” Mitch asked Ellen as Nick took the menu from him and ordered on his behalf.
“That’s the frustrating part,” Ellen continued, “I wish we knew their plan. The best we can do is monitor the area all day. I’m going to be the curator so I’ll be standing next to the Fabergé Eggs to answer questions about the collection. I’ve had a crash course.”
“Will you be armed?”
“Yes. Plus Gerard will have agents in the roles of tour guides, so any tour group in the Richelieu Wing will have an agent leading it.”
“Excellent. It’s great he’s taking this so seriously.”
“Yes, well pardon the pun, but there would be serious egg on his face if these objects d’art that have traveled the world were stolen at the Parisian exhibition.”
“True.”
“We’ve left the existing security in place. The head of the Louvre’s security, Gilles Revault, swears by his staff. Gerard and I agreed to this so we didn’t raise suspicion and also, if it is one of them, we don’t want to forewarn them.”
“So, they don’t know what’s happening?”
“No, they’ve been told that some new tour guides are in training and they are to do their usual duties. We also have an additional five security contractors brought in who’ll be playing the part of tourists, visiting curators – an assortment of roles, all armed and alert. Basically, we don’t know what we’re in for, but we’re ready.”
“Ellie, great job. I’ll be sweating it out until I hear from you, so keep me updated when you can.”
“I will.”
Mitch lowered his voice. “Ellie, faites attention s’il vous plait; au revoir.”
He waited as she translated the words in her head – Ellie, please be careful. Bye for now.
“Well done on the French,” she teased.
“Yeah, I might have cheated on that last one. I looked it up earlier.”
Ellen laughed. “Talk later.”
Mitch hung up, turning back to the two men just as an English hot breakfast arrived for all three.
“I’d love to hear her speak in French,” Nick passed Mitch the salt before he asked for it. “In fact, you sounded so good, if I was gay, I’d be doing you now.”
“Thank God for small mercies,” Mitch said taking the salt.
“Good breakfast,” Nick concluded.
“Now, that’s a decent English breakfast. Bet you can’t get that at home,” Adam sat back.
“You’re right. At home it’s called an American breakfast!” Nick grinned.
Adam laughed. “You’ll keep.”
Mitch sat back with a mug of tea and pushed a piece of paper towards them both.
“What do you think? It’s the blackmail letter.”
The two agents read it: Bring one million pounds this Thursday November 28 to the Canary Wharf tube stop. Meet the last carriage of the northbound train at eleven p.m. Give the male who steps from the carriage carrying a black folder, the one million pounds in exchange for the folder. You will turn and leave via the stairs to your left. The folder will contain the MM-3 file disc. One other electronic copy exists. If the collector returns safely and if you come alone, the existing copy will be deleted. If not, the information will be sent electronically to MI5 and the newspapers.
“Clear enough? Too wordy? Did I miss anything?” Mitch asked.
The two men read it several times.
“Too educated,” Nick said.
“What do you mean?” Mitch looked at him.
“It sounds too educated. You want these guys to think you’re not the sharpest knife in the draw; you don’t want them to be too prepared”
“OK,” Mitch agreed. “Edit it.”
Nick grabbed a pen from his jacket and went to work. Adam and Mitch watched him, while they finished off a pot of tea.
“Here,” Nick passed the edited version back.
Bring one million unmarked pounds to the Canary Wharf tube stop this Thursday November 28. Look for the last carriage of the northbound train at eleven p.m. A man carrying a black folder will step out. Exchange the money with him for the folder containing your files. Leave taking the steps to your left. One copy exists. If we get the money safely, it will be destroyed. If not, we’ll send it to the press and cops.
“Better,” Mitch agreed, “much better. Thanks.”
“Let the games begin,” Adam said with a smile.