Part 23 (1/2)

In the ink-black stable we stood and listened. I found I was hyperventilating, but I knew that now the most immediate danger of having the hardware discovered in the car was over.

Now, in an emergency, we could do a runner or shoot our way out, leaving the stuff behind, and, if challenged, deny all knowledge of it.

The yard was very still, the church dark. We waited a couple of minutes. n.o.body moved or spoke. Then I whispered, ”OK.”

Our individual tasks were carefully pre-planned. Toad kept watch on the doorway. Pay, the tallest, slung a loop over the main roof beam to take the top hook of the hoist. I broke out the nets, which were made of thick green nylon with a three-inch mesh, and manoeuvred the steel cases into them.

We'd just got the first one trussed when Toad let out a hiss.

Torches snapped off Everyone kept still. But it was only the usual problem women crossing the yard from the church -and in a moment we moved again.

With all three cases netted, I pulled on my dry-suit, got Rick to zip up the back, and took over from Toad at the door while he got his suit on.

Pavarotti had the hoist well secured, the pulleys running smoothly.

”Looks good,” I whispered, running my torch beam over his ropes.

”Rick?”

”h.e.l.lo.”

”I'm going down. We'll aim to be back at the base of the shaft at midnight. Lift the lid and have a listen then, anyway. If we're not back, try again every half-hour.”

”Roger. Happy landings.”

Feet into the top of the shaft. Ease down the ladder. Once my feet touched, I took a careful look round the floor in my immediate area. No signs of disturbance other than our own. The same damp, muddy smell of decay.

I switched off my head-torch to save the battery, jerked the ladder and felt it rise past me as somebody lifted it clear. Then I heard scuffling noises as the first of the loaded nets the SCR started down. I was tempted to peer up the shaft and watch it coming, but didn't fancy being under it if a rope should break or anything went wrong with the hoist; so I stood to one side and waited until the heavy bundle sank gently to the floor, then released the shacide.

Before the second net came down there was quite a pause. I imagined the guys struggling to manoeuvre the heavy case into position, on end above the mouth of the shaft, without letting it b.u.mp or sc.r.a.pe. Then more scuffling, scratching noises started, and I switched my torch on again in time to see the bulging net appear. Once more I released the shackle and twitched the rope, then walked the case out of the way on its corners and laid it gently on its back. Its weight was formidable, and I knew that the third component, section two, was ten kilos heavier still.

The pause was longer this time. The guys were obviously having more problems. Then came a thump, and some strangled curses. At last the sc.r.a.ping noise began again, and I stood clear in antic.i.p.ation.

Suddenly a loud, sharp crack ripped down the shaft. A patter of particles landed by my feet, as if there'd been rapid movement above. Jesus, I thought. Somebody's fired a shot.

I stood frozen. All movement in the shaft had ceased. Some b.a.s.t.a.r.d's stumbled on them, I thought. They've dropped him.

But they can't close the cover with the pulley ropes in the way.

Why the h.e.l.l don't they get on and lower away? Maybe there are more guys in the yard.

In the silence of the tunnel I could hear my heart beating. Not a sound came from above. Irrationally, I felt that if I moved or spoke I might precipitate disaster. All I could do was keep still.

For many long seconds I waited motionless in the dark. My heartbeat seemed to grow louder and louder. Then at last I heard more noises above. They sounded different from the earlier sc.r.a.pings, but at least something was happening. More b.u.mps and thuds. I shone my torch quickly up the shaft and saw that the whole of its section was filled by the third and last net. Yet, in spite of the noises, the thing wasn't moving. Had it jammed?

I tried my radio and got no response. My instinct was to yell up the shaft and find out what in h.e.l.l was going on. But I realised that they couldn't shout back for fear of being heard, so I steeled myself to wait.

In the end movement resumed and the big case came on down, Toad and Pay close behind it.

”What the flick were you doing?”

”Didn't you hear that?” Pay asked.

”I sure did. Did somebody fire a shot?”

”No, no. That was the main beam in the stable going.”

”Jesus!”

”Yeah. The whole roof dropped several inches. s.h.i.+t rained down all round. We thought the place was falling in on us.

”n.o.body else heard it?”

”Don't think so.”

”What did you do?”

”Found an old timber lying at the back and managed to get it under as a prop so the beam couldn't drop any lower. Then we carried on.

We'd lost quite a bit of time already, so we made haste to catch up.

First we had the laborious task of getting the cases out of the nets, loading them into the rubber bags, then bundling them into the nets again.

Experiments with nets full of sandbags, filled to the equivalent weight, had shown us that the best way of s.h.i.+fting our loads in the confined s.p.a.ce of the tunnel would be by fitting slings of wide webbing to the nets, fore and aft, and advancing as a pair in line-ahead, one leaning forward and the other back, to levitate the burden between us. It wasn't easy or comfortable because the laden net tended to crash into the heels of the person leading and drag the back marker off his feet but it was better than hauling a huge weight along the floor.

It was obvious that three journeys would be needed, so we set out on the first with me leading, Pavarotti behind, Apple's section one between us, and Toad carrying his own bergen full of tricks. My plan was that, once we reached the site, we'd leave him there with the first half of the device so that he could start preparing it while we went back for the second.

All went well until we were on the downward slope, leading to the river. Then, as the beam of light from my head-torch danced around in front of me, I sensed that something had changed.

”Stopping,” I said.

I slackened off my end of the net and stood still.

”The water,” said Pay.

”It's gone.”

”Exactly. I'm sure my marker was just here somewhere. Look there it is.” I pointed to the horizontal scratch-mark on the wall.

”Some b.a.s.t.a.r.d's been in here draining it,” said Pay incredulously.

”Can't have been.”

”Where's it gone, then?”

”You tell me.”

In fact only some of the water had gone. A lot remained. Soon after we'd moved forward again we saw its surface lying still and black ahead of us. As we advanced to the edge of it I realised that even at its deepest point it no longer reached the roof: there was a gap of about a foot under the arched yellow bricks, and I could see right through to the other side.

”Well, d.a.m.n!” Pavarotti sounded very Welsh in his indignation.