The Ninth Step - John Milton #8 (John Milton Thrillers) Page 18

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  MILTON GOT off the bus at Holborn and stopped in a branch of Phones 4U. He bought a pay-as-you-go handset with a cheap plan and then walked to Hatton Garden, heading north until he reached the entrance to the London Vault. There was a luggage store halfway along the road, and he stopped to buy a small leather satchel into which he placed the items that he had purchased.

  He thanked the proprietor and went back outside again, continuing to the north until he passed the vault, then proceeded farther up the street. He checked that the premises were not being surveilled. He didn’t know how thorough Fabian would be, and it wasn’t impossible that he had stationed someone to keep an eye on the building. Milton observed the street. The pavement was busy with pedestrians. A man leaned against a metal bollard, gazing down the street as if waiting for someone—his fiancée, perhaps, for an appointment to look at rings in one of the jeweller’s. An old woman stood beneath an awning that was stencilled with PARIS JEWELS, clutching a handbag. Two Hasidic Jews, dressed all in black with long grey beards, were conversing. Milton didn’t recognise any of the people he could see, and none of them looked as if they were watching the building.

  He walked on. The rain had held off, although the sky was the same dark grey as it had been for days. He passed a branch of Costa Coffee, the Ace of Diamonds store, and a branch of EAT. He turned into St Cross Street and then Leather Lane, the road that ran in parallel to Hatton Garden. He had scouted the block in his car, but he took more time about it this time. He fixed as much of it in his mind as he could.

  He looped all the way around until he was outside the building again, opened the main door and stepped inside. There was a corridor and, at the end, what looked like a reception area. Milton looked up. There was a smoke alarm fitted to the ceiling and a series of nozzles for a fire-suppression system. He went forward, following the corridor for three paces and then passing through a pair of impressive security doors that were held open on magnetic stays. They were stainless steel and perhaps two inches thick. Frankie Fabian had been right: he could see that when they were closed and locked they would present a serious impediment to forward progress. He continued for another eight paces and reached the reception area. There was a smart desk, a table and two comfortable chairs. There was another security door in the opposite wall, but this one was locked.

  The clerk smiled at him as he approached the desk.

  “Hello, sir. How can I help you?”

  “I’d like to rent a safe deposit box.”

  “Certainly, sir. You’re in the right place for that. Have you rented a box from us before?”

  “I’m afraid not. I’ve never had one before, actually.”

  “It’s very simple. It’ll take twenty minutes. Would you like to do it now?”

  “Yes, please.” Milton nodded down to his bag. “I’ve actually got the items I’d like to store with me.”

  “In that case, let me get the paperwork sorted out for you.”

  It was indeed a simple process. The man, who introduced himself as Michael, took him through the procedure. Milton took out the passport and electricity bill and handed them to Michael to be scanned. There was a simple lease agreement to be filled out and the first month’s key deposit to be paid. It was a hundred pounds; Milton paid it in cash.

  “There, Mr. Knight,” Michael said when they were done. “Simple. Would you like to come downstairs to the vault with me? I’ll get you your box.”

  Michael took an RFID card and swiped it through a reader next to the security door. There was a buzzing noise as the locks opened, and the door clicked ajar. Michael pushed it back and led the way inside. The decor immediately became less opulent. The corridor walls were bare concrete and there was no decoration. Back here, Milton saw, it was all about security.

  “It’s very safe,” Michael said as he turned a corner and descended a flight of stairs. “The only way in is through the front, and there are two security doors between there and the vault.”

  They reached the bottom of the stairs and a pair of elevator doors. “Does the lift come down here?” Milton asked.

  The man shook his head. “No. It serves the rest of the building, but it stops on the ground floor.” He turned and pointed out a metal roller door and then, beyond that, a barred security door. “These are closed at night. Anyone who tried to get in through here would have to go through the two doors upstairs, then the roller door, then this one. There’s a state-of-the-art alarm, too, of course. I don’t like to tempt fate, but we’ve been here since 1912 and we’ve never lost any of our clients’ belongings to fire or theft. We’re as confident as we can be that there’s no way inside when we’ve got everything locked up tight.”

  “It’s very impressive.”

  They reached the vault. The door was formidable: stainless steel and secured by two locks that were opened with dials. There was a viewing room at the end of the corridor, and Michael ushered Milton toward it. He knocked on the door to ensure that the room was empty and, when there was no response, unlocked the door with a key that was clipped to his belt.

  “If you’d wait in here, please, Mr. Knight. I’ll get your box for you. I’ll just be a minute.”

  Milton went inside. It was a small room with a table and no other pieces of furniture. The man came back after a minute with a reasonably large metal box. It was around four inches by twelve inches by six inches and, judging by the noise that it made as it was set down on the inspection table, it was heavy.

  “When you want to open your box, you just need to come in and visit us. We’ll check you in upstairs and then bring you down here to a viewing room and bring you your box. It has two locks.” He turned the box around so that Milton could see the fascia at the front. There were two keyholes. The man inserted a key into one and turned it. “This one is for us, but you need to unlock both to open the box, and you are the only person who has the other key.” He laid a key on the table next to the box. “When you’re ready, open the box and leave your belongings inside. When you’re finished, just ring this bell and I’ll come and get you.”

  “Thank you,” Milton said.

  Michael left the room, closed the door behind him and locked it.

  Milton examined the box. A small plastic plaque above the twin keyholes denoted that it was box 221. He committed that to memory. He unlocked the box with the key that the clerk had left him and opened it. He removed the empty tray from the box. He reached into the satchel and took out the things that he had purchased. He took out the pay-as-you-go phone, switched it on, and checked that there was a signal. There was: three out of five bars. He had been unsure whether it would operate in the basement, and it was a relief to find that it did. He entered a number into the phone’s memory and then switched it off again. He tore open the cellophane sheath that held the envelopes together and collected the two copies of the Mail. He tore the newspapers into ten separate sections, folded them and slid them into the envelopes. He put the cable ties into the envelopes at the bottom of the stack. Finally, he dropped the phone into another and made sure to leave that one on top of the others. He sealed them all, replaced the tray in the box, closed the box and turned the key in the lock.

  There was a button on the wall next to the door; he pushed it, a bell sounded in the corridor outside, and Michael unlocked and opened the door.

  “All done, Mr. Knight?”

  “Yes, all done. Thank you very much.”

  Michael smiled his satisfaction and told Milton to wait as he went back into the vault to store the box. He collected him, led him past the locked vault door, back up the stairs and into the reception area again.

  “Is there anything else you need to know?” he asked him.

  “No,” Milton replied. “That’s all I need.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  MILTON WENT home to change into dark clothes and then took the underground out to Hounslow and walked the rest of the way to the warehouse. The car park was quiet once again, and he recognised
the Audi in which he had been collected the previous night. It was parked next to a white transit van. He could see a line of light shining through the narrow gap between the roller door and the concrete sill, and, when he tapped on the side door that they had used yesterday, he had to wait only a few moments until Spencer Fabian appeared to let him inside.

  Milton followed him into the main room. Frankie Fabian wasn’t here tonight. Marcus and his sister, Lauren, were sat at the same table as before, the remains of a Chinese takeaway set out on the table between them. Vladimir was studying the plans on the wall. Marcus and Lauren turned to him, expressions of distaste very evident on their faces. Vladimir was more circumspect.

  “You ready?” Spencer said to him.

  “Yes,” Milton said.

  Marcus stood. “Before we get going, I want to make one thing clear. You do exactly as you’re told, all right?”

  “I understand.”

  Marcus walked over to him. “Put your arms out,” he said.

  Milton did as he was told. He knew that they wouldn’t trust him, and could hardly blame them for that. He had expected to be frisked, and Marcus was thorough about it as he started at his shoulders and worked all the way down to his ankles.

  “He’s clean,” he reported to the others.

  “Good,” Spencer said. “Just so you know, Smith, I’ve got this.” He opened his jacket to show a holstered pistol. “If you do anything I don’t like—and I mean anything—I won’t have a problem popping you in the head. We’re clear about how this is going to be happening?”

  “Very clear,” Milton said.

  Milton wasn’t surprised that they had a weapon. It was possible, maybe even likely, that Marcus was armed, too. Milton had assumed that would be the case.

  Marcus turned to his brother, sister and Vladimir. “Ready?”

  “Ready,” Lauren said.

  “Whenever you are,” Vladimir said.

  Spencer nodded.

  “Let’s go.”

  #

  LAUREN TOOK the wheel of the transit van and drove them into London. The others were in the back and conversation was at a minimum. Milton could diagnose the reason for the silence. It was nervousness. Milton was anxious, too. If they were caught, he wouldn’t be able to count upon his previous connections to extricate him from legal difficulties. He wouldn’t be able to call Control and ask for assistance. Michael Pope, the new Control, would have no choice but to ignore him, regardless of their friendship. Milton would be treated as a criminal, just as the others would be treated as criminals, and his punishment would be identical to theirs.

  Marcus reached into a bag and tossed each man a pair of new gloves, the tags still on, and a balaclava.

  Milton gazed through the rain-slicked windscreen as they drove into the city. The roads were wet, with standing water pooling out of overflowing drains, and the wheels of the van cast spray across the pavements as they splashed through the puddles. They entered the Square Mile, the tall towers of the office blocks scraping into the angry clouds overhead, myriad squares of light in the windows from offices that were always left illuminated. It was Saturday, and the city emptied out over the weekend, a stark contrast to the teeming throng that populated it throughout the week. Now, though, the pavements were almost empty and the stores and restaurants and cafés that were open were doing a sluggish trade.

  Milton’s hands were in his lap and, as he turned his gaze down onto them, he saw that they were clenched into tight fists.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  MILTON DIDN’T know how they intended to get onto the roof. He followed the others until they stopped outside the branch of Costa Coffee that was four doors to the north of the vault at number eighty-six. It was a modern concrete building with five floors, each floor equipped with six long, tinted windows. Milton looked up to the top storey. It angled away, with a TV aerial just visible above the edge of the camber.

  “Gloves?” Marcus said.

  Milton was already wearing the pair that he had been given in the van.

  “Balaclavas.”

  Milton took the close-fitting knitted cap and pulled it over his head.

  Marcus nodded to his brother that they were ready. Spencer took a key from his pocket and looked up and down Hatton Garden. It was quiet, with no traffic and no pedestrians. The late hour, twenty past nine, meant that passing traffic was also at a minimum. Milton looked back to the van. Lauren was staying with it to keep a watch on the street and to warn them if anything required them to take action. That was fine as far as Milton was concerned; one less person to worry about when they were in the vault.

  Spencer stepped up to the door, inserted the key and opened it. Milton heard the warning bleep of the alarm, but Spencer went straight to it and input the code. The alarm fell silent. This part of the job, at least, had clearly been facilitated by an insider. Milton wondered what must have happened to make that possible. One of the Fabian family’s connections had infiltrated this business, perhaps, or they had told an existing employee that they were going to hit the shop and offered a percentage of the takings in return for giving them easy access. It didn’t matter. They were inside now.

  Spencer went through the café to a door in the rear wall, opened it and started up the stairs beyond. The others followed, each carrying his assigned bag of equipment. Milton’s bag contained a ten-pound industrial angle grinder, and the blunt edges dug into his spine as the bag bounced on his back. The others carried the rest of the equipment that they would need, including the component parts of a powerful core drill and a wide selection of tools.

  The stairwell led all the way up the middle of the building to the roof. It took them a minute to make their way to the top. There was a door there. Spencer took out another key, unlocked it, and pushed it open. Milton waited his turn to go through. He stepped out, a damp breeze whipping around him as he turned and gazed out over the tops of the nearby buildings. He could see the crenelated towers of the Barbican, glowing yellow from the lights within. He could see the taller spire of the Shard, the tapered finger of Tower 42, and the spectral cranes that told of the city’s renewed prosperity.

  This particular rooftop was bare and empty. There was a rail to guard the drop from the edge, but, save the aerial on a raised bracket, there was nothing else of note.

  “Come on,” Marcus called out in a quiet, tight voice. “Move.”

  They hurried back to the south. The building immediately adjacent was another modern construction, this one in red brick rather than plain concrete. The end of the roof that they were on was demarked by a raised concrete lip, but it was no more than four feet high. Milton anchored his hands on the top and pushed himself up, his boots sliding against the face of the wall until they found enough traction for him to shove himself up and over the edge.

  The next building was flush against its neighbour, with a narrow path formed by an unguarded drop to the left and a recessed seventh storey on the right. They hurried across it. The next building was the one that they wanted, the building with the vault in the basement. There was a U-shaped gap between the two buildings. Milton reached the edge and stood next to Spencer as they both looked down. It was a drop of eight or nine feet. If they descended into the drop, crossed to the facing wall and then started up again from there, there would be a climb of fourteen or fifteen feet to get to the roof of the next building, with nothing for their feet to purchase.

  Spencer unslung his rucksack, reached inside and withdrew a rope with a small grapnel fixed to one end. He took a moment to aim and then, after composing himself, sent the grapnel up and over the gap. The metal implement clanged noisily and then the teeth scraped as he carefully drew it back. The teeth fastened against the lip of the adjacent roof, secure enough to withstand a firm jerk. Spencer tied the other end around the chimney stack behind them, grabbed the rope, and, after taking off his pack, he hauled himself across. Milton removed his own pack and followed. The rope was fibrous and rough, but his gloves were thick
enough that he couldn’t really feel it. He reached the other side of the narrow gap, swung his leg over the edge and rolled onto the roof.

  Milton waited to help Marcus and then they both helped as Vladimir secured the packs to a second rope so that they could be hauled across. Vladimir came over last of all, and they assembled at the skylight.

  “Ready?”

  “What about the alarm?”

  “It’s down. We took it out half an hour ago. That okay with you?”

  Milton was not in a position to question him, and so he gave a nod. The others did, too.

  Marcus took a large pair of bolt cutters and fixed the jaws around the padlock that fastened the security grate over the skylight. He pushed the jaws together and the clasp of the padlock was sheared right through. It dropped onto the roof. The grate was on hinges. Marcus put the bolt cutters aside, crouched down, and lifted the grate up and pushed it away. The skylight was installed on top of a short curb that was attached to the roof trusses. The inside of the skylight was a box constructed of plywood sheathing which was attached to the inside of the curb at the top and the ceiling joists at the bottom. Spencer knelt next to his brother and used a drill to unscrew the unit, removing each long screw and then carefully lifting the unit away, revealing the bare trusses and the opening that looked down into the top-floor office.

  Spencer nodded. “Do it.”

  Marcus fed a line of rope through the loops of his kit bag and lowered it into the building. Milton took the other end of the rope and fastened it around a large brick chimney. He tugged on it to check that it was secure, and then gave Marcus the thumbs-up. Marcus grabbed the rope and slid down it, disappearing into the darkness below. A flashlight clicked on, the light shielded, the beam carefully directed around the room. Marcus unfastened the end from the bag and hissed that they could draw it back up again. Spencer secured the rope to the second bag, a black fabric sheath that contained the industrial drill that they were going to use when they got down to the vault. It was a heavy piece of equipment—Milton estimated thirty or forty kilograms—and they lowered it slowly until Marcus hissed up to them that he had it. Spencer slid down the rope, then Vladimir. Milton took one final look at the rooftops and chimneys of the buildings around him, crossed his fingers that he wasn’t about to do something inherently stupid, and came down last of all.