Black Friday (or Black Market) - James Patterson [68]
Caitlin sucked in a raw, cold breath. She shifted impatiently from one boot to the other.
No one was visible yet, not anywhere up and down the weathered railway platform.
Was it all going to be over after this?
Who was Green Band finally going to turn out to be?…
What part did the North Irish play? And what could have happened between the Russians and Green Band in London?
A black leather briefcase hung from her wrist. Inside were codes to release the sums now on deposit at a Swiss bank, which were to be paid outright this morning.
The ransom of the century was to take place here at little Fox Cross Station. Historic Fox Cross Station outside Belfast, Ireland.
Caitlin imagined she looked like a successful businesswoman with the fine, black leather briefcase. Some regular commuter heading into downtown Belfast. Another day at the bloody office. She thought she was playing the part well—on the outside, at least.
She glanced at her watch and saw it was a few seconds before 5:45. The time they’d indicated for the exchange had come. Caitlin cautioned herself that they were not necessarily punctual.
What would their lack of punctuality mean right now? What would it mean in terms of any emergency police action planned for the Fox Cross railroad platform?
Caitlin’s body tensed. Every muscle, every fiber inside her involuntarily tightened.
A faded blue panel truck had appeared, and was approaching the deserted station from a thick row of pine trees to the north.
The slow-moving truck steadily got larger and larger. Caitlin saw that there were three passengers, all of them men.
Then the blue panel truck passed Caitlin by.
A gust of frozen wind swept back her hair, and Caitlin let out what must have been the deepest sigh of her lifetime.
Carroll and the British detectives were close by, a thought she found more than a little comforting. They were less than a mile away. Still, there was nothing they could do if trouble suddenly bloomed—if someone panicked, if someone made a simple, foolish mistake now.
A car, a nondescript sedan approached moments after the panel truck.
Caitlin tried to observe everything about the car as it rolled forward over the parking lot gravel. Very possibly it was just a passenger drop-off for the first scheduled train at 6:04.
It was a late model Ford, grayish-green, with a slightly smashed-in front grill. There was a tiny chip in the windshield. Four passengers inside;—two in front, two in the back.
Irish working men? Thick, heavy-set types anyway. Maybe farm workers?
But the second car passed her by, too.
Caitlin was both relieved and disappointed. She was confused, trying to keep her wits and remnants of her concentration.
Then the car stopped suddenly. The tires screeched in reverse.
Two burly men in back jumped out; both were wearing black cloth masks, both carried machine gun pistols.
They ran to Caitlin at full speed, workshoes splatting hard against concrete.
“You’re Caitlin Dillon, missus?” One of the masked men asked. He thrust forward his menacing gun muzzle.
“I am.” Caitlin’s legs had begun to slightly buckle; her knees were suddenly on hinges.
“You were born in Old Lyme, Connecticut?”
“I was born in Lima, Ohio.”
“Birth date—January 23, 1950?”
“1953. Thanks a lot.”
The masked IRA terrorist laughed at Caitlin’s response. He apparently appreciated a modicum of coolness and humor.
“All right then, dearie, we’re going to put one of these hangman masks on you. No eyeholes for lookin’ out. Nothing to be afraid of, though.”
“I’m not afraid of you.”
The other man, the silent partner, looped a black hood over her hair, then pulled it down tight over Caitlin’s face. He was careful not to bump or touch any other parts of her body. How very Irish Catholic, Caitlin couldn’t help thinking. They’d put a bullet into her without blinking, she knew that. But no impure thoughts, no accidental touching of a female.
“We’re going to lead you back to the car now. Nice and easy…. Easy does it…
“All right, step up, step inside.