Black pulled them into a huddle.
‘We go the quick way. If we rappel down, those guys on the floor below won’t know we came past them.’
There was a short silence while they digested this. They didn’t look keen.
‘Do I look like I’m joking?’
Black went first, slipping into the aperture between the floor of the car and the bottom step of the doorway. They were three floors up but there was no way of knowing how many basement levels there were. As he rappelled down he counted five floors in all. It was pitch dark at the bottom. The lowest doors were jammed shut. He listened hard for any sound from the other side. Nothing. He signalled the others down with his torch. All four of them worked their fingers into the gap between the two doors and eased them open wide enough to slip through.
The doors opened into an antechamber and beyond that was the vault.
Black trained his torch on the huge foot-thick polished metal door. It was wide open.
‘Looks like our lucky day.’
They stepped in. It was the size of at least two containers. Safety deposit boxes lined one wall. Several were missing, some were on the floor. A few were wide open.
Black moved further in.
Campo started peering into the drawers.
‘I always wanted to rob a bank, y’know, real professional, inside man, tunnel from under.’
Black raised his hand. ‘Shut up, Campo.’
He trained his torch over the opposite wall.
‘Hey, look: maps,’ said Montes. ‘This is Al Bashir’s command bunker, ain’t it? These guys always end up in bunkers, just like Hitler.’
Campo peered at one.
‘Uh-oh, planning his world domination, more like.’ He moved closer. ‘Hmm. Let me see, what’s it to be? Looks like he’s narrowed it down to. . Paris.’
‘Or New York. Tough call. Me, I’d go for the one where they speak English.’
‘He doesn’t speak English, jerkwad.’
Black stepped forward. Circled on the Paris map in a thick black marker was Place de la Bourse, the Stock Exchange. And on the other, Times Square. He raised a hand for silence then waved them back so he could conduct a more methodical search. There were signs of recent occupation: a plate, on it the remains of some nan bread, a tomato and the leaves of a vegetable he didn’t recognise. The air was stale with tobacco smoke and an ashtray had fallen off a small folding table. Butts spread out across the floor.
‘They left in a hurry all right.’
Campo pointed at a case in the far corner.
‘Check that out.’
It was an aluminium container. ‘What’s that stuff on the side, them numbers? Farsi?’
‘That’s Russian.’
‘Well no surprise there, these dudes got lots of Russian shit.’
‘Yeah, but check that symbol. Nothing Russian about that.’
They all stared at the label: a yellow triangle with three cake slice shapes in black arranged round a central dot.
‘Shit. .’
‘Jeez, it could be primed.’
Black moved towards it. ‘If it is, there’s nothing we can do.’
‘We should call it in.’
‘I’m gonna lift the lid.’
As the others drew back, Blackburn stepped forward and reached down. There were two catches on the lid, both unclipped. He raised it and looked in. Within a thick lining, there were three compartments. Two were empty.
One wasn’t.
A single green light flashed frantically. Each of them turned away from the device, instinctively. The power had come back on. A dull yellow light glowed from a cavity in the ceiling.
‘Jesus, fuck.’
‘Back up lamp. Power must have come back. Maybe the lift’s working.’
Montes laughed nervously. ‘Anyone else thought that was the big one?’
‘I’m calling this in.’ Black adjusted his mike. ‘Misfit actual this is Misfit 1–3 sitrep, over.’
‘Misfit actual. Send,’ came the response.
‘Actual 1–3 Haymaker actual is inoperative. We have located vault. HVT negative, repeat negative. Have located what appears to be portable WMD, repeat WMD. Stable. One device in container, evidence of two, repeat two, gone.’
‘Hey, up there!’ They all looked at the corner where Campo was pointing. A split-screen monitor showed four views. One appeared to be the lobby.
Two figures, carrying what looked like American M4s, were on their way out, one pulling a wheeled case.
‘Fuck! That’s our HVT! That’s Bashir!’
There was nothing from the radio. Blackburn repeated his message.
‘We have visual of HVT. Al Bashir vacating building. Now!’
Eventually there was a reply. ‘. . breaking up. Mobilising assets now.’
‘They can’t hear me properly: we’re too far down.’