Robert Ryan - Signal Red

dispersal of the Squad. But they had enough manpower to be all over any crime scene at the entire complex within minutes and, as an extra precaution, three high-speed pursuit vehicles were located just outside the perimeter fence. And this time they were equipped with stripped-out 3.8 Jaguars. Just the kind of thing the villains liked. Only better.

Sometimes, Naughton felt his stomach dissolve when he thought about Operation Icarus, as they had christened the airside stakeout. It was all on him, this deployment of the Squad's finest. Billy and the snout. As Frank Williams had said, if he got this one right, then he could start thinking about DS. Detective Sergeant Naughton, Flying Squad.

He liked the sound of that. And if it went tits up?

Don't even think about it.

A British Caledonian jet came in to land, the reverse thrust screaming as it touched down, its following plume of grit, rubber and jet fuel obscuring the pale, ineffectual sun still climbing clear of the control tower. Almost seven o'clock. Soon, something told him. If it was going to happen, it would be soon. And he felt it in his bones that this day, this Tuesday morning, was when it would all go off.

'Hey, Billy.'

It was Frank Jordan, the amiable gangmaster in charge of his Illumination Replacement Unit. 'We got two out at Holding Four. You want to do this one?'

Billy stubbed out the cigarette then rubbed his chilled hands together. The pale sun had been swallowed by a tin- coloured ceiling of cloud and the temperature had dropped once more. He checked his police radio was still live, and then went off to join his IRU. If need be, there was a real IRU member on standby in the canteen, but Billy preferred to be out here in the open and looking like he belonged at the airport, just in case the raiders had an inside man or two scoping the staff. And he might as well do something useful while he was waiting for this Big One to go down.

Bruce Reynolds glanced at his Patek Philippe watch. It was seven-twenty in the morning. Charlie had just phoned to tell them the severed chain on the gate was still in place, Gordy's tampering apparently undetected. Bruce had heard the excitement in his voice, a fizz like a fresh Alka-Seltzer in it. Good. That was how he liked Charlie.

Buster was still polishing his Oxfords, trying to get that City gent style. Bruce's black Berlutis – perhaps a little continental in style for a worker in the Square Mile, but Bruce doubted anyone would be looking at his footwear – already had a fine sheen on them. He selected his bowler and tried it on, admiring himself in the mirror that hung above the mantelpiece in Buster's place. He had on a navy pinstriped suit, a white shirt and, for the tie, the blue, maroon and thin white stripes of the 1st Queen's Dragoon Guards. He turned left, then right, checking the reflection. Not bad.

'What do you reckon?'

He heard Buster burst out laughing. Gordon Goody had changed in Buster's bedroom – he had wisely shunted his wife to the mother-in-law – and was sporting a ridiculous handlebar moustache. Bruce smirked at him. But, on second glance, it was so outlandish it didn't seem at all fake. 'Got this at the theatrical shop on St Martin 's,' he said. 'Here, take your pick.'

From his jacket pocket he unloaded half a dozen packets with face furniture of a variety of hues and sizes. Bruce sorted through them, trying to find an example that struck the right note. He took one out of the cellophane and held it on his top lip. 'Bit Terry-Thomas,' said Buster.

He tried another, but it was too bushy and eccentric for a man with a military background. The Guards tie suggested something more clipped. He found one that, although a little dark in shade, was the perfect shape. 'Alec Guinness,' he said. 'What do you think?'

'That's the one, Colonel,' said Buster, saluting.

There was the parp of a horn outside and Gordy pulled the net curtains aside. In the street was a lorry with the legend Co-operative Removals Ltd stencilled on the side. 'It's Mickey. In the van.' The Jags had been left at the changeover point in Hounslow the previous night, safely tucked away in a garage. Roy had stayed in a B &B nearby and would rendezvous with Harry, Tiny Dave and Ian, the muscle later.

'Tell him to go round the back,' said Buster.

Gordy indicated that Mickey should drive around to the rear access alley. It wouldn't do for three City gents to be seen climbing into a workers' van. Someone might notice. Or worse, remember.

Bruce ripped the backing from the adhesive strip on the phony 'tache and positioned it on his top lip. It was the perfect finishing touch. Colonel Reynolds, at your service. He grabbed his brolly, surprised yet again by the weight of it, and looked at his watch once more. Seven thirty-five.

He scooped up the gloves he would not remove again until this was over, one way or another. 'Right, let's go.'

'This is Icarus One-Seven. Over.'

That was Len, thought Billy Naughton. 'Icarus One-Five receiving you. Over.'

'Anything happening there? Over.'

Billy looked down the runway at the unnaturally bright strips of light. 'You'd be surprised how often those bloody bulbs fail.'

'That's not what I meant, Billy. Over.'

Billy could hear the impatience in Duke's voice. 'I know. What do you want me to do? Rob something myself? Over.'

'I think I will if this goes on much longer. That little toe- rag better hadn't be leading you up the proverbial garden path.'

'Say Over.'

'Fuckin' Over.'

Leading me? he thought. He was your snout. I get dropped in the shit, you're just one flush behind. 'He's kosher,' is what Billy actually said, as convincingly as he could. 'Over.'

'I'm only winding you up. Over.' There was a silence across the airwaves, filled by the hiss of static, then: 'What time is it, Billy? My watch must have stopped. Over.'

'Just gone eight. Over.'

'That's what it says. Watch hasn't stopped. Time's just slowed down to a crawl. Teabreak? Over.'

'I reckon must be due. Canteen B? Over.'

'Canteen B it is. Let's hope the other side are havin' a cuppa too, eh? Over.'

'Cheers.' Bruce took the cup of tea that Janie Riley poured from the flask. He was careful not to get his moustache wet as he sipped. Last thing he needed was to find it floating in the mug, like a drowned hairy caterpillar.

It was a few minutes past eight and they were in the large, empty warehouse in which they had stored the Jags overnight, and where they would be dumped after the job. In one corner, Roy kicked into life the little BSA motorbike he had brought along, checking it started first time. Mickey was in the back of the van, changing into his chauffeur's uniform, joshing with Harry, Piny Dave and Ian, the three most unlikely City bankers he had ever seen. Dave's jacket, in particular, was stretched as tight as tarpaulin over his barrel chest. Once he was satisfied with the motorbike, Roy killed it, washed his hands and went to join them.

'You all remember the address of the rendezvous in case we get split up?' Bruce asked everyone.

Gordy repeated it back, parrot fashion.

'Nobody's been stupid enough to write it down anywhere – like on the back of their hand? Good.'

Janie came over with a Nice biscuit. 'No thanks, love,' said Bruce. 'Don't want to get crumbs in the 'tash.'

'Thanks for letting me come along for the ride, Bruce.'

'Think nothing of it.'

Anyone who had been in Ronnie Scott's the night she was accepted by Roy wouldn't have recognised her. Gone was the Louise Brooks vampish look, replaced by a smart grey Jaeger suit. Her face was devoid of all make-up, apart from a delicate black line around the eyes and a pale lipstick. She still looked impressive though, albeit more in a Grace Kelly Ice Queen fashion. If Grace Kelly had been a brunette.