22 July 2012
As he followed Eaton out of the office and walked down the short corridor, Bronson realized just how little he really knew about this group. They had already caused tens of thousands of pounds’ worth of damage, killing a man in the process, and that, according to Georg, was simply a “distraction.” Whatever the group’s final aim, it could be catastrophic for London, something that could rival, maybe even surpass, the carnage caused by the suicide bombers who’d struck the city on “7/7.”
And the only way he could find out what they intended was to do exactly what Georg had told him. He had to travel to Berlin and hope he’d be able to worm his way inside the group there. Handing Georg, Mike and Eaton to the police would achieve nothing useful. He had to wait until he knew far more before he could order an attack on them.
But as he reached the end of the alley between the two adjacent buildings and was about to head across the forecourt toward his parked car, he saw something he really didn’t like.
He watched an unmarked white Transit van turn into the entrance road to the industrial estate and then stop, the front of the vehicle pointing toward him. That wasn’t unusual-vehicles of that sort were ten a penny throughout the area during the working day-but the wire mesh that covered the windscreen was unusual. The only group of people who routinely operated vehicles protected in that way, Bronson knew, were the police.
Something had gone wrong. Perhaps Curtis had misunderstood what he’d said, or maybe a more senior officer had decided to take the opportunity to make an early arrest, despite what Bronson had told them. He didn’t know, and it didn’t matter. What was important was trying to retrieve the situation, because he had to get to Berlin, had to find out what the group was planning.
“John,” Bronson said urgently, just as Eaton reached the end of the alley. “Back inside.”
“What?”
“That’s a police van. It’s a raid.”
Eaton followed Bronson’s glance and nodded, then turned on his heels and swiftly retraced his steps.
“What is it?” Georg asked, as Eaton and Bronson stepped back into the office.
“There’s a van-load of coppers outside,” Eaton said urgently. “Chris spotted them.”
“You mean he bloody brought them here,” Mike shouted. “He’s a plant-I told you that.”
“If I brought them here, why the hell would I warn you?” Bronson responded. “I don’t know how they found the place. Maybe somebody in the unit next door recognized me or John and called the cops-our faces have been splashed all over the news. The how doesn’t matter. What we have to do is get out of here.”
“What will they do?” Georg asked, standing up. “How will they approach us?”
“That depends on what information they have. If they know we’re in this building, they’ll cover the exits, then use an enforcer-a battering ram-on one of the doors. Then they’ll swarm inside. If they just followed my car or John’s, then they won’t have our precise location, and they may wait where they are until they spot one of us.”
“So what do we do?”
“First we watch,” Bronson replied, and stepped out of the inner door of the office into the open central area of the building. The floor was littered with debris, mainly small items but interspersed with a few empty cardboard boxes, while fluorescent light fittings were suspended from the ceiling, most of them missing their tubes.
Bronson strode over to the front office, beside the roller-shutter door. When he tried the handle, he found that the access door was locked.
“I don’t have a key for that,” Georg said from behind him.
“No problem.”
Bronson took a step back, then kicked out hard with the sole of his right shoe. The blow connected with the internal door directly alongside the lock. The wood creaked, but didn’t give, but on the second kick, the jamb splintered with a crack, and the door crashed open. He walked straight across to the window and peered out cautiously, keeping his body out of sight behind the wall that ran between the window and the outside door.
The white van didn’t appear to have moved, and was still parked in the road, two shadowy figures faintly visible in the cab, but Bronson had no doubt there were at least half a dozen other officers sitting in the back of the vehicle waiting for the signal to disembark.
“What do we do?” Georg asked, for the second time. He sounded only mildly concerned. Mike, in contrast, was clearly very agitated.
“Come on, Mr. Ex-copper. Sort this out.”
“I can’t ‘sort this out,’ you idiot,” Bronson snapped. “All I can do is try to work out how the hell we get out of here.”
He turned away from the window.
“Yeah, well do that, then,” Mike snarled.
Bronson ignored the remark and looked at Georg.
“Are you known to the police?” he asked. “I mean, if you stepped out of here and walked past that van, would anyone inside it recognize you?”
Georg shook his head. “No. As far as I know, I’ve never come to the attention of the authorities here.”
“Good. That’s something.”
“They might know my face,” Mike interrupted. “There’ve been cameras at some of the places we’ve hit.”
“Brilliant,” Bronson said, irritation lacing every syllable of the word. “So there’s a good chance the three of us would be recognized.” He paused for a moment, then glanced at his three companions. “The bad news is that there are probably eight officers in that van, maybe more,” he said, “so there’s no chance of us being able to fight our way past them. But unless there are other vans or cars parked out of sight, they’ve only got one vehicle here, and that gives us a chance. John and I came in separate cars. How did you two arrive?”
“Mike drove me,” Georg replied.
“So we’ve got three cars. They can’t follow all of us, so I suggest we scatter. Get to the vehicles and just go for it.” He turned to Georg. “Have you got a key for the roller-shutter door?”
“It doesn’t need one. It’s bolted on the inside.”
“Good, that means there’s something else we can do. The police don’t know you, you said, so you go outside, get into Mike’s car and back it inside here when we open the main door. Then Mike can duck down in the back of it, or maybe get into the boot, so that he’s out of sight, and you should be able to drive right past that police van. And while you’re driving out of the estate here, the police will be looking at your car, hopefully, so they won’t be watching this place. Then John and I will get outside to our vehicles and take our chances on the road.”
It wasn’t much of a plan, and Bronson knew it, but it was the best he could come up with in the circumstances.
“Good enough,” Georg said, and turned to Mike. “Keys,” he said shortly, and the big man pulled a bunch out of his pocket and handed them over.
As Georg walked out of the office, to leave the building by the side door, Eaton and Bronson crossed to the roller-shutter door and released the locking bolts. The moment they heard a car engine start outside, Bronson hauled on the chain that operated the door, and with a series of loud protesting creaks the metal shutter slowly began to rise.
As soon as the door was fully open, Georg backed the car inside the building, and climbed out of the car as the roller-shutter descended again. The vehicle was another Vauxhall saloon, the side windows slightly tinted.
“Boot or backseat?” Georg asked.
“I don’t want to get in the boot,” Mike said. “No way of getting out if there’s a problem.”
“I agree,” Bronson said. “If you are stopped, for any reason, if you both run for it in different directions that’ll split the police pursuit.”
Mike nodded, opened the back door and climbed in.
“Crouch down on the floor, and don’t look up as Georg drives past the van,” Bronson instructed, and watched as Mike complied.
Bronson stepped back into the office and looked out of the window again. The police van still hadn’t moved, and he wondered if they were just observing, or waiting for other vehicles to arrive.
As he stepped out of the office, he saw that Georg was already back in the driver’s seat and just buckling his seat belt, the engine of the car still running. Bronson stepped over to the chain, gave Georg a thumbs-up, then pulled it down to start the roller-shutter door moving again.
Georg waved at the two men standing beside the door as he drove out of the building.
As soon as the car had left, Bronson lowered the door again, slammed the bolt into position, and strode back to the side corridor, Eaton following just behind him. They left the unit by the open door, and jogged down the alleyway at the side of the building, slowing as they approached the end, while they were still effectively invisible to the occupants of the white van, parked some seventy yards in front of them.
Then Bronson slowed his pace even further. He’d noticed something, something in the alleyway that was only now registering on his conscious mind.
The adjacent building was essentially a mirror image of the one he and the other men had just left, with a side entrance door. In fact, it was identical in most respects except for one thing. Perhaps because of what was stored in the other building, or the work that went on there, or maybe simply to protect the employees, a fire alarm system had been installed. And right next to the side door was the small red box that contained a manual alarm switch, tucked safely behind a sheet of glass.
“Let’s see if we can cause a little confusion around here,” Bronson muttered, a bleak smile on his face.
He strode back down the alleyway, took the Llama out of his pocket, reversed it so that he was holding the weapon by the slide, and smashed the butt into the glass.
Instantly, an atonic wailing filled the alleyway as the building’s sirens screamed into action. And by the time Bronson had reached the front of the building again, all the doors on the front of the adjacent unit were open and men and women were streaming out, most of them glancing back at the structure, presumably looking for some evidence of what had triggered the alarm.
In moments, the forecourt was a mass of people milling around, some with their hands over their ears in an attempt to muffle the noise of the sirens. Others were running for their cars, clearly intending to move them away from the building in case the fire really took hold and spread outside the structure.
Bronson looked at the confusion and nodded in satisfaction.
“Okay, John,” he said, “I’ll go first. When we get out of here, turn left and keep your eyes open for me. I’ll stop about a mile down the road. When you see me, stop the car because I’ll need a ride.” He checked the scene in front of him again. “Now we can go. And run, don’t walk. You’re worried about the fire, right?”