Michael Barry slept restlessly. He rolled away from the warm, lithe, body of Siobhan, his wife of five years and gazed for the hundredth time at the alarm clock – 4:26 a.m. He wondered why it was always like this the day before vacation. One more workday to get through, a thousand minuscule tasks to complete, each one dragging out the day interminably. Everyone and everything keeping the excitement of a week under the sun in Ibiza, with Siobhan and without the kids, a too distant dream.
Of course, Michael loved little Sarah, now two, and four-year-old Michael Junior, but the upcoming week away would be their first vacation alone since Sarah was born.
4:34 a.m. – Michael chewed over the day ahead; monthly audit procedures to update, teller cash counts, update sales reports for his boss, staff schedules to peruse. He loved his job, Bank Manager with Allied Irish Bank, but the paperwork involved to keep even a small branch operational could be overwhelming.
An employee with AIB for five years, and a Manager for less than two, the branch in Ranelagh was his first Managerial posting which he hoped to use as a springboard to bigger and better things. Banking wasn’t his first choice coming out of college, but with only marginally passable grades, he took what he could get.
The clock ticked over to 4:42 and Michael could lay there no longer. He slipped out from underneath the covers, careful not to disturb Siobhan and stood next to the bed shivering in the early morning cold. He gazed down at her sleeping form and smiled. She lay on her left side, knees drawn up at a right angle to her body. The covers pulled up tight under her chin and held in place by her right hand she’d balled into a small fist. With her long blonde hair splayed out across the pillow, Michael thought her just as beautiful as when they’d first met at Dublin City University more than eight years ago.
If sleep would not come, perhaps he could catch some rugby on Sky Sports. Michael tiptoed to the door to head downstairs. He opened the bedroom door to the sight of two men standing before him in the hallway; dressed head to toe in black and wearing balaclavas. For a moment, it was unclear who was the more surprised, but numbers and the brief flash of a weapon quickly settled the argument.
The shorter of the two men clamped a gloved hand over Michael’s mouth and pointed a pistol at his face before he was able to make a sound. Then deftly spinning him around, slipped zip-ties over his wrists and pushed him back into the bedroom. The other man, armed with a sawn-off shotgun, followed close behind and knelt by the bed next to Siobhan. He extracted a roll of duct tape from a jacket pocket and tore off a small piece. Siobhan awoke to the tearing sound. The adhesive strip roughly placed over her mouth quickly muted her scream. Zip-ties for her wrists followed, then another piece of tape was applied over Michael’s mouth.
The shorter man wore a headset distorting his voice, the microphone hard-pressed against his mouth. The words sounding scratchy and robotic. With the command, his partner left the bedroom to secure the still sleeping children. A minute later the children, crying and squirming, were carried back into the bedroom like sacks of potatoes and dropped onto the bed with their mother.
Michael Barry, eyes wide, struggling to comprehend what was happening, shook his head in the affirmative.
The realisation of his situation hit home like a gut punch. Michael’s mind flashed back to the security videos he’d watched in training. Of the precautions to take driving to and from work. The same videos he’d required his staff to watch, but he’d so carelessly disregarded.
He looked down at the prone figure of his wife, the look of fear palpable on her face. His children were snuggled up close to their mother and hiding their faces as if to make it all go away.
As the man spoke Michael sized up the two assailants; one eight to ten centimetres taller than the other, the taller man lean and imposing, the shorter man older and wiry. They appeared disciplined, professional, and definitely not your typical Irish punks out for a bit of fun after a night on the piss.
The shorter of the two men, the one doing all the talking, ripped the tape from Michael’s mouth. Staring into his cold brown eyes, Michael placed him as middle-aged, but with his voice sounding like a miniature Darth Vader, he couldn’t even be sure it was an Irish accent.
You’ll never get away with this.
How did I know you were going to say that? However, Mr Barry, you better pray that we do, otherwise you’ll be a very young widower. Now, who’d like a nice cup of tea?
Two hours later, Michael, showered and dressed, waited impatiently to leave for work. Siobhan – mouth still taped – and the kids sat on the couch in the family room staring at the television. They were tied together, left wrist to right wrist. Sarah had laid her head down on her mother’s lap and fallen asleep. Michael Junior sat stoically, alternating his stare between the taller man and the television broadcasting cartoons. The taller of the two men sat on a kitchen chair angled to face both the television and the couch; the sawn-off shotgun rested on his knees. The only sound he made was an occasional muffled laugh at the coyote being out-foxed yet again by the roadrunner.
The shorter man had not left Michael’s side.
Michael seethed with anger but was powerless to do anything. Once they left the house, he couldn’t dare to make a move, to raise the alarm would only place his family’s lives at risk. He was their pawn and could only hope and pray everything went to plan and the man with the robotic voice kept his word.
The Dublin morning was cold and grey to match Michael’s mood. He walked from the front step to the driveway, unlocked the family’s 2008 Skoda and climbed in behind the wheel, the shorter man moved quickly to the rear door and lay down across the back foot-space. The children’s car seats claimed the seating area.
I’m counting on you now to have placed a very high value on your family’s heads. No stupid mistakes, okay?
I understand.
Nothing out of the ordinary, no distress signals to Emma, no triggering silent alarms, we will know.
I told you I understand.
Such venom in your voice, Michael. Just think, you get through today and it’s off to Ibiza with your lovely wife tonight.
Without another word, Michael slipped the gearshift into reverse and backed out into Edenvale Road. The headlights of the Skoda washed over his family’s prison before plunging its façade back into darkness as he turned towards his workplace just a short three kilometres away.
Parked waiting for his arrival was the ever-reliable Emma. He waved and forced a smile as he pulled into his assigned parking spot six car lengths away. Emma quickly left her vehicle and entered the branch. Michael and the shorter man patiently waited for her to turn off the alarms, search the premises and give the all-clear.
While she was out of view, the shorter man slipped from the car and took up a position, out of sight, close to the front door. A column of trees helped to block the entrance from the street, in the weak morning light he was invisible to the passing cars.
Michael watched the man in the balaclava take up a crouching position under the front window. Frozen to his seat, he held the steering wheel in a death grip. If Emma caught sight of the intruder she’d trigger the alarm, and Michael’s family would die.
Two minutes later, her inspection complete, Emma signalled to Michael the all-clear and kept watch at the front door while he made his approach. Michael willed himself forward, his knees refusing to unlock. The masked assailant remained unseen. As Michael neared the entrance, Emma unlocked the door. The sign for the shorter man to make his move. He rushed forward and barged inside behind Michael then wrestled the handheld alarm from Emma’s grasp. She fell awkwardly and slid across the tiled floor. The deposit stand in the middle of the lobby stopped her progress with a dull thud. While Michael rushed to her aid, the shorter man moved out of sight of the windows, all the while keeping his gun trained on them both.
The man in the balaclava made a quick check of the time to confirm he was on schedule. According to his instructions, the next employee wouldn’t arrive at the bank for another 30 minutes, he would be well on his way by then.
My apologies, Emma. I hope you weren’t hurt.
You bastard. Who the hell are you?
Michael, explain what is happening.
Michael helped Emma from the floor. She’d a good-sized bump on her head, but the hard knock hadn’t broken the skin.
Emma. They have my wife and the kids. We need to do as he says.
Bullshit. I’m not helping that bastard with anything.
Emma. Listen. They will kill Siobhan and the kids if we don’t do as they say. They broke into my house last night. Another man is there with them now.
The realisation of the position Michael was in slowly dawned on Emma. A look of resignation clouded her young face.
The intruder, with gun outstretched and sounding like a cheap cartoon cyborg, shepherded them towards the vault room.
Emma punched in her five-digit code to the vault’s digital display. After a single beep of acknowledgement, Michael entered the second half of the code and opened the door. Cash from the previous day’s shipment sat in the original delivery bag. A rectangular air-tight slab slightly larger than a shoe box. Michael, for a moment, made a mental note to discipline the staff for not following procedure and unpacking the contents to verify the cash immediately until larger matters sprung to mind.
The shorter man pulled a small carryall from a pocket in his cargo pants, stuffed the plastic bag full of cash inside, then all remaining loose straps of notes. It was a snug fit, but with minimal effort, he closed the zipper on the carryall and sat it on the desk next to the vault.
Less than 15 minutes elapsed from the time Emma entered the branch to when the man dressed in black slipped out the front door. Once clear of the bank’s security cameras he tore of the balaclava and headset. There was not a pedestrian in sight as he made his way around the corner to where a white Ford sedan, parked there the night before, waited. Traffic was light as he pulled out onto Ranelagh Road, the carryall sitting on the passenger seat beside him. He pulled out a mobile phone and called the pre-set number.
The taller man ended the call and placed the mobile phone back into the pocket on his vest. A small smile split his covered face, easiest money he’d ever made. He wasn’t sure who the smaller man was, a friend of a friend he’d been told. Best not to ask questions with the people issuing the orders. But so long as he got paid as agreed, he couldn’t give a tinker’s fart. After ensuring the wife and two kids were taped up securely, he slipped out the back door and into the laneway beyond. He’d still not uttered a single word.
Fifteen minutes later, the next scheduled employee entered the Ranelagh branch to find Michael and Emma tied up in the kitchen, and with looks of utter despair on their faces.
Moments later, at the Dublin call centre of An Garda Síochána, officers were alerted to the robbery. Before the Gardaí unit dispatched to Ranelagh left the yard, another call came in on the same emergency line from the AIB branch in Sandymount, then Smithfield, followed by a Bank of Ireland in Beaumont, then another in Drumcondra.
After dispatching officers to the Drumcondra location, the desk Sergeant swore silently to himself and hoped he’d heard the last of the calls. His next call was to his wife telling her to cancel their plans for the long weekend. He’d a hunch it would be all-hands-on-deck for the next few days.
A quick recap of his notes painted a sobering picture. Five bank robberies in all, by all accounts the same modus operandi used in each and not a whiff of hide nor hair from any of the culprits.