*
As Schiller’s car heads towards the M40 and Mo’s Bentley drifts up the long gravel drive leading to Nether Stowe House, I am sitting in the back of what appears to be an airline caterer’s truck while the guys from the Artists’ Rifles check their weapons. Every thirty seconds or so there is a titanic growl of jet engines as a couple hundred tons of airliner throws itself along the runway and claws its way into the sky, passing directly over our heads. They’re low enough to rattle the panels of the truck. This is Heathrow, one of the ten busiest airports in the world, and we’re inside the perimeter fence, parked just to one side of the general aviation stand.
The boys from Hereford have finally gotten the message that I don’t like guns; praise whoever you believe in, it’s a huge relief not to be expected to tow one of the bloody things around and make sure I don’t accidentally drill a hole in my foot. Instead, I’m strapped into a Kevlar-and-ceramic corset, otherwise known as a bulletproof vest. Along with a helmet, night-vision glasses, and a spare set of fatigues, that’s me kitted out. Well, it’s that and a Hand of Glory (pigeon-surplus, lab produce), a heavy-duty defensive ward, a booklet of Angleton’s patented door-stoppers, and a brace of memorized Old Enochian couplets. Plus of course my phone and a two-inch-thick attaché case full of legal paperwork.
“Are you sure this is all in order?” I ask Chris.
She smiles at me tensely. “It had better be; if it isn’t, the judge will tear me a new one.” She’s wearing a business suit. Her only concession is that she’s in sensible shoes rather than heels, the better for stepping over broken glass and groaning bodies to serve the court order. Otherwise she looks as if she’s ready for a day in court, minus the gown and wig. It’s not every day I get to go on a raid team with a barrister. “Captain, where are we at?”
Captain Partridge, predictably, is paying attention to the job at hand, namely making sure that the snake eaters have all brushed their teeth, combed their hair, and remembered to pack stun grenades rather than frag or Willie Pete. After a final mike check to confirm they’re all dialed into the correct troop frequency he turns to make eye contact with Chris and myself. “We’re ready when you are,” he says mildly. “It’s coming up on 1800 hours, so the day staff will be clocking off in the next—” He raises a hand, pausing, and listens. “Roger that.” Turning back to us, he continues. “—minute, the front door’s open.” He keys his microphone. “Driver, proceed to objective. Team Red, take point on arrival. Team Blue, follow through. Civilian staff, stay with me.”
Johnny gives the back of the captain’s neck a mulish stare, but holds his tongue. He’s not taken the Queen’s shilling so he’s a civilian for legal purposes. We shall draw a polite veil over the utterly illegal pistol he’s packing in a shoulder holster. I’m sure the folder Chris gave me to carry has a suitable piece of paper to cover that, too.
The engine grumbles into life and we drive forward. “What level of risk do you anticipate?” Chris asks.
I remember that she has some kind of military background. I’m not sure what it is, but it means she’s less likely to freeze or panic than a raw newbie—like I was when I first got dragged into this, too many years ago for comfort—so I give her my unvarnished best guess. (She’ll already have read the briefing.) “Schiller’s operation is a security company. One of their jobs is personal protection; another is trans-shipment of munitions. Also, he tends to employ true believers in security-critical positions. This is the UK and we’re inside the terminal security cordon so we’re probably not facing firearms, but it’s a really bad idea to make assumptions. So we’re prepared for the worst case—aggressive resistance by deeply unreasonable men with guns. Say, 10 percent probability. In which case, get down, stay back, and leave Captain Partridge and his merry men to clean house before you call in the scene-of-crime folks to nail down the evidence.”
What I’m hoping for—say, with 20 percent probability—is a janitor with a jobsworth attitude. That leaves a 70 percent likelihood of something in between (for example, a deeply unreasonable janitor). I console myself that at least Mo can expect a polite welcome when she gets to make her big entrance; it’s one less thing for me to angst about. Last time I went on a door-breaking run with an OCCULUS crew I ended up picking bits of sergeant out of my hair for days because I didn’t anticipate armed resistance in Watford. Won’t fool me twice: these are Schiller’s people, I’ve had a run-in with him before, and if there’s any sign of trouble I’ll … well, there’s a reason I don’t carry a gun on armed raids, it’d only slow me down.
The truck grumbles and sways as it trundles around the taxiways and service roads of Heathrow Airport. Eventually we come to a security gate leading to a fenced-off section of the cargo terminal. This is where they keep the warehouses, many of them guarded and separately fenced because they contain high-value bonded merchandise or military cargo—munitions and explosives, supplies for overseas missions, that sort of thing. Not far from here is the site of the old Brink’s-Mat warehouse, where thirty years ago thieves carried out what was then the biggest robbery in British history: three tons of gold bullion, plus diamonds and cash worth a few million on top.
Cops with automatic weapons who had their sense of humor surgically excised at birth patrol the airport: you do not want to pick a fight with SO18. However, if everything is going according to timetable, then about half an hour ago they were told in no uncertain terms to go into three wise monkeys mode with respect to this particular corner of the facility. Presumably the Board burned one of our rapidly dwindling stock of one-time-only party favors, otherwise this op would be impossible, and if the Aviation Security unit turns up while we’re going in there’s going to be blood everywhere.