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  At 10.25 the souped up Renault van pulled into the parking lot of Borehamwood station and waited for the slow train to St Pancras. Three minutes later the train pulled in, dead on time. Danny, Sammy, and Ugly Johnson were the last to alight, taking their time and letting the passengers that also disembarked at Borehamwood leave the train first. Without a word Danny, Ugly and Sammy joined up and walked briskly to the waiting van. They had practised this on at least three occasions; they knew the exact location of the van, away from the security of the CCTV, not that anyone would be looking for these robbers at Borehamwood railway station, but still a worthwhile precaution. The back doors were open and Danny and Sammy climbed into the back, Ugly into the front.

  “Ready then,” said The Fly to the two brothers.

  “As ready as we’ll ever be” came the stock reply. Danny and Sammy rummaged through the bags on the floor; both quickly found what they were seeking,

  “So,” enquired Danny “these shotguns, have all possible means of identification been removed?”

  “Clean as a whistle” replied The Fly.

  “And how about the van?” asked Sammy.

  “The same” came the answer.

  The plan was that after the blag the van was going to be dumped down a small bridleway which Danny had identified near Harpenden High Street. He would torch the van, and then return to his car empty handed, and head off to Maidstone meet up with Madge and get off to Paris. The other three would be dropped in Bernard’s Heath just off St. Albans city centre, where Dave Johnson had left the Merc. Torching the van was as much a diversionary tactic as destroying the evidence; all the men were wearing protective clothing head to foot and there would be no evidence left in or on the van to associate them with the robbery, even if for some reason Danny could not burn the van. They were all professionals after all.

  At 11.30am the white Renault van cruised north up St Peter’s Street, the main through route of St Albans. As the van drew up to the lights for pedestrians to cross, all eyes in the van were focused on the event occurring outside Barclays Bank, to their immediate right. A black armoured vehicle was stationary outside the bank and a heavily clad guard was carrying large boxes of money into the premises. The van proceeded up the high street where it turned left and left again to position itself in a small lay-by approximately fifty meters from the main bank entrance.

  “All ready?” asked Danny, the other three all replied in the affirmative. Normally Danny would have been the wheels man, but on this occasion there was an outside possibility that he might be recognised sitting in the van, so Tommy Payne stayed where he was behind the wheel and the other three jumped out, with the shotguns under their jackets and balaclavas ready to go on as soon as they stormed into the bank. Sammy was first in, immediately followed by Ugly Dave. Danny stood by the door, Sammy let one barrel off into the ceiling, and the next discharge from the sawn off blew the door between the public and the staff access off its hinges.

  “Every fucker down now” he barked.

  The staff dropped to the floor, all apart from the Manager who started to protest. The butt of Sammy’s shotgun was rammed into his face, teeth and blood spewed everywhere and the Manager fell to the floor; the four members of the public who were unlucky enough to be in the bank at the time all dropped to the ground. Sammy stood over the bank staff whilst Ugly Dave ran behind him through the gap where the door had been and looked for the recent delivery. Just as Danny had said, the boxes were now open and the cash being transferred to the vault; complacency had set in over the years at this bank and now they were going to pay for it - if the manager ever recovered from his violent assault he would probably lose his job, but that was the least of his worries at the moment. Sammy wasn’t sure if the alarm button had been hit- he looked to the door for the signal from Danny, who opened and closed his left hand three times. This was the agreed sign that fifty five seconds had elapsed since they entered, and they were on time. Ugly Dave busied himself with filling the canvas bags they had brought, the boxes were emptied and two bags stuffed with money. Dave first, then Sammy, made their way to where Danny was standing, having emptied the cash boxes in a further forty five seconds. Nothing was said. Danny flipped the tops off the two gas canisters, rolled them across the floor of the bank, and the three men fled out of the ramshackled building to the waiting van. They left behind a scene of total carnage, screams were coming from the bank and the passerby’s who were witnessing the raid were fleeing as if a bomb had been detonated.

  Dave, Danny and Sammy jumped into the back of the van and Tommy Payne gunned it away from the scene. Three minutes later, the Renault van pulled up on Bernard’s Heath, a few meters from the parked S class. Still not a word was said. They had rehearsed these moments so many times nothing needed to be, every second from here on out was vital. The overalls they had worn were now discarded in the back of the van, as were the shotguns. The hand guns were kept in case things went belly up and there had to be a shoot out, of which they were all prepared and capable. Danny gave his gun to Sammy, who was now going to be most at risk in the next thirty minutes or so. The three men who were travelling back to Essex got into the Mercedes leaving Danny to dump the van as planned, pick up his own motor and hit the road. The Merc, after no more than a minute since they had arrived in the van, pulled onto the main road and headed for the ring road. The plan was, if all had gone according to schedule, the Merc would head up to the M1 at Hemel Hempstead before heading south. The gang had figured that all motorway slip roads around St. Albans would be shut, and if the old bill were really on the ball this would be within thirty minutes of the time they left the bank. They had plenty of time, so no breaking speed limits on the way to Hemel; they were as good as home and dry.

  This, however, was not the case for Danny; he still had to get shot of the van, which meant another fifteen minutes in the Renault. As he passed the Ancient Briton Public house on his way to Harpenden, three police vehicles came screaming in the opposite direction. Danny’s heart was racing, did they know a Renault van was the getaway vehicle, he would find out in a few seconds, the squad cars drew level and then passed. Danny checked his mirror; if he saw them brake he was prepared to outrun them, and he had planned where he could ditch the van if chased, and the Essex boys had done a good job with the engine, so if the worst came to the worst he was still confident of his escape. The police cars flew by, straight through the red lights at the pub and were gone. Danny was mightily relieved; he was now entering the last phase.

  Five minutes later Danny was reversing the van into the small pull in up the track he had identified not far from his parked car, but remote enough to torch the van and not be seen. As Danny got out of the driver’s door, preparing to burn the Renault, a tractor appeared coming from the top of the lane towards him. Fuck it, were Danny’s first thoughts. To make matters worse, the driver pulled up about 100 meters from where Danny was parked. Danny looked and could just make out that the driver was pouring himself a cup of coffee from a flask, and opening a package of tin foil. Unbelievable, thought Danny, he’s having his fucking lunch. Danny had to think fast; if he torched the van the man might have a phone or radio and call the fire brigade, or even worse the police, or both- he would definitely notice Danny whatever. If Danny left the van there was a chance the tractor driver might assume the van was owned by a dog walker and ignore it. Danny considered what incriminating evidence was in the van, well the shooters for starters. However, they had considered this option, and the van was untraceable and everything was wiped clean. With a bit of luck, the van might not cause suspicion until Danny was clear of England. He made his decision; he locked the van, threw the keys into the hedge and walked. It was the wrong decision.

  Down in Harpenden High Street, PC Dave Evans was on patrol. His brief that morning from the duty Sergeant was to walk the town centre, make sure traffic was flowing, check the occasional car for tax etc: in general, be seen by the good burghers of Harpenden as a police presence. Really a
day as ordinary as the last fifty had been; in fact in the last year, PC Dave Evans had detained one shoplifter from Sainsbury’s. He had been alerted by a nosy shopper, who had watched the thief nick a bottle of scotch from the wine department, and then collared the policeman along the high street and pointed him out. That had been his sum total of arrests; he was beginning to wonder if policing was all it was made out to be.

  As he made his way to the station, he glanced at the five year old Honda parked alongside the other commuter cars. The tax was a couple of days overdue, nothing remarkable really but nonetheless it constituted a motoring offence.. PC Evans wasn’t even sure if he should take down the number- maybe the occupant was already at the post office taxing it now, maybe he should find a traffic warden and ask them to keep an eye on it, he couldn’t really justify waiting for God knows how long for the owner to return, so he walked on. Just as he reached the corner to turn for the railway station, he looked back and there was a man unlocking the Honda.

  “Excuse me sir, just wait a moment please,” he shouted. .

  Danny froze; what the fuck was this all about, it just didn’t make sense, no way would a uniform boy know him, neither would a uniform give him a tug for the blag, especially as firearms were used, it had to be something simple and a misunderstanding, it had to be.

  As PC Evans walked towards Danny, his two way radio crackled into life: “All units, all mobiles, a serious armed robbery has taken place this morning in St Albans, be on the lookout for anything suspicious, do not under circumstances approach any suspects.” Bloody hell, thought PC Evans, someone’s going to see some action, all I’ve got is a bloody tax disc two days out of date.

  Chapter 15

  Gandamak, Northern Afghanistan

  Night falls with the speed of an assassins’ bullet in the Hindu Kush, there is no twilight- its light, and then it’s dark. In the harsh winter months in Northern Afghanistan, the temperature drops to -20c in moments. The town of Gandamak had fallen silent before the inky blackness had descended.

  In the alley way, which ran at right angles to the town square, and which housed the most wanted man in the world, two figures stood hunched in opposite doorways cradling burning cigarettes in an attempt to stave off the bitter night air; no one else moved.

  In the inauspicious hovel that was situated a hundred meters to the north of the town square, Mike Tobin and his three comrades were wide eyed and buzzing, the adrenalin rushing, uncontrolled, through their bodies as they finalised the coming night’s activities.

  “One more time,” said Mike as they rechecked the armoury that was spread out before them. All four men had checked their weaponry every day, at least six times since they had been holed up in the semi- derelict building that was a favoured habitat of the local peasants, and which caused little interest to the inhabitants of Gandamak.

  All four men had the latest PVS-17s, a night vision goggle that enabled the user to operate in the darkest night as if they were in full daylight. There were Four M 84 flash bang grenades (wrapped in high density plastic to keep the noise down to a minimum, but maximise the effect), which happened to cause temporary blindness and massive disorientation, as the chemical reaction of magnesium and ammonia treated the recipients to a visit from a supa nova. There were four Arwen tear gas canisters; these were really back up, and for emergency use if the extraction met complications, as were the six Claymore anti-personnel mines, although Mike was planning on leaving these as a present on the outskirts of town just in case any of the locals wanted to play hero and give chase. Each trooper had the latest Sig Sauer P226 tactical pistol, manufactured to take a suppressor. This was the weapon of choice, and this was the weapon that was going to see action tonight, starting with the two condemned men in the alley who were about to light up their last cigarettes, of this lifetime anyway.

  Finalising this array of warfare, there were four MAC-11 SMGs compacts, able to fire off an incredible 1600rpm; a favoured sub machine gun of the SAS to use at close quarters, and also capable of carrying a suppressor.

  Mike opened the first aid kit and withdrew a small phial of colourless liquid- it was in fact a fast acting paralytic drug developed in the laboratories of a well known UK pharmaceutical company named Succinylchlorine. With rock steady hands, he broke open the small glass jar and inserted a syringe into the neck, carefully sucking the liquid into the plastic tube.

  “Fucking Mother Theresa,” came the comment from Jock Wallace, sitting immediately opposite Mike, and watching his every move.

  “Once we get this inside the target, he’s out for eight hours,” retorted Mike. Changing the subject, he then asked: “So how’s the wheels then, Jock?”

  “All fuelled up and ready to go,” replied Jock confidently. He had bought an Old Russian Volga from a trader in Kabul the previous week, it looked and was a shit heap, but no one in the regiment could touch Jock when it came to engines and this little baby was going to deliver them to the Rendezvous point, no problem. Whilst once again not drawing any curious looks from the locals.

  “Right,” said Mike. “We go in thirty minutes, so here’s the brief...”

  All three troopers stopped their cleaning and polishing, and looked attentively towards Mike. They had guessed it was a snatch, but were about to find out whom. It was always considered imperative on a black mission that team members were all treated on a strictly need to know basis, and when to know. As tough as these men were, no man alive could withstand modern day interrogation techniques for extended periods, so if any one was captured, or the mission compromised, during the long wait in the town they knew little to tell, which would actually make their interrogation far longer and considerably more painful than if they had known anything. They knew the risks.

  Mike continued: “Inside that house that we’ve been watching these last four weeks is a target very valuable to our lords and masters,” he said almost in a matter of fact way.

  “Well there’s a fucking surprise, “chortled Jock, “And I thought we were going to buy the place.” The others laughed,

  “Osama bin Laden,” said Mike trying to be as measured as he could, but those three words were enough to wipe the grins off the faces of the assembled snatch squad. No one said a word for several seconds, then in total unison the tension was broken as the three SAS troopers said “Fucking hell, “and burst out laughing.

  “So,” Mike continued, knowing he had their full attention. “Let’s keep it simple. Davey and Jim, you two walk down the alley and slot the two guards, remember they look like a couple of Afghan shepherds, but you can bet they’re the bollocks, so no chances. Jock and me will drive the motor up and take out the front door, the same time as you lob the flash bangs through the window, we are pretty sure there are four hostiles in the house plus the target, so remember all the training back in the killing house at Hereford and we’ll be fine. I will take the target, get him knocked out, and Jock will help me get him into the boot of the motor. The four hostiles are down to Davey and Jim. I want to be out and on the road in forty-five seconds.” The other three nodded confirming, they could achieve this.

  “Once on the road,” continued Mike, “we head due south. I’m going to cross into Pakistan using the border crossing at Torkham.”

  “Why not go straight through the Khyber Pass?” asked Davey. “It’s quicker and there’s more traffic to get lost amongst.”

  Mike acknowledged a fair point. “Davey, if the shit hits the fan and we get into a fire fight on the border, then the chances of us getting through are greater at Torkham where the border guards are less well trained and would not be expecting us to go that way. We just don’t know how quick the word will get out that we’ve got Allah’s first premier lieutenant in the boot.”

  They all laughed at the preposterousness of the situation. Without waiting for the group to comment on the merits of the extra time in the mountains of Afghanistan by crossing at Torkham, Mike continued: “Once inside Pakistan, we head north to Peshawar, about one h
undred klicks south there’s a flat piece of land, a small valley where we RV with a Little Bird. There’s just enough ground for him to land.”

  The Little Bird was an all weather light attack aircraft with a fuel range of four hundred and thirty klicks, and was capable of carrying the five people who would be waiting. “The Bird takes us into Islamabad Airfield where there is currently a joint training exercise occurring between the Pakistan Air Force and the Royal Air Force”

  “Mighty convenient,” grinned Davey.

  Mike continued: “Once we hit Islamabad we all transfer to a Hercules already scheduled to fly out to Brize Norton, and that, chaps, is our work complete, piece of piss, any questions?”

  “Yeah,” said Jock, “Seeing how high profile this is, how come the Yanks aren’t involved? They want him more than us, and it’s not their way to trust us.”

  “Because,” Mike grinned,” they haven’t been told about the party.”

  The others shook their heads in disbelief. “Any other little gems you want to tell us about?” asked Jim.

  “No, that’s it, shall we go?” enquired Mike.

  In fact, Mike had one more piece of the jigsaw that he felt no need to disclose. He was going to have to let the British security services contact over in Islamabad know they were on their way. Although this had all been pre arranged, the exact date of the extraction could not be pre arranged due to the unpredictable weather, so Mike needed to fire off an encrypted message as soon as they collected the package. This, ironically, would go via GCHQ, from the satellite phone which would take a nano second to deliver. However, the danger was that it was going to alert any listeners just as the original message had done so several weeks earlier. This time though, the listeners back at GCHQ were ready and waiting, and had been for several days now. They were primed to inform Islamabad immediately. By the time any hostiles had picked up the message and passed it upwards realising there was mischief afoot, Mike and the boys would be long gone, and well, that was the assumption anyway.