Another deal was sorted out. Clinton allowed Gerry Adams into the USA in 1995, a move that was not only good for the Irish American vote but which made Clinton look like the prince of peacemakers. He also appeared to be snubbing John Major's stand against PIRA, but the British didn't mind; they knew the agenda. Behind closed doors, Gerry Adams was told that if PIRA didn't let the peace process happen, the US would come down on them like a ton of steaming shit.
A cease fire was indeed declared. It seemed that the years of covert talks that had gone nowhere were finally at an end; it was now time to talk for real. Clinton and the British government would be seen as peace brokers, and PIRA would have a say in the way the deal was shaped.
On February 12, 1996, however, a massive bomb exploded at London's newest business center, Canary Wharf, killing two and causing hundreds of millions of dollars of damage.
The cease fire was broken. It was back to business as usual.
But it didn't end there. Kev had also discovered that PIRA had been trying to blackmail certain Gibraltarian officials, with some success. It seemed Gibraltar was still the key to Europe. Spain was far too much of a risk. They had also targeted some important personalities in the US so they could continue to operate their drug business with impunity. One of the victims was high up in the DEA. Kev's problem was, he didn't know who.
I did; I had the photograph of his boss.
And now I knew why McGear, Fernahan, and Macauley had been in Gibraltar. Whoever the official was, they'd been there to give him a final warning and to try to blackmail him with the shipment documents and photographs to get the routes open again.
I had to get back to the UK. I had to see Simmonds.
At ten o'clock we went back down the escalator to international arrivals. I needed passports--British or American, I didn't care. I scanned the international flights on the monitor.
Chances were we were going to end up with American documents rather than British, purely because of the number of families streaming back from spring vacation.
Just like before, there were people on both sides of the railings, waiting with their cameras and flowers. Kelly and I sat on the PVC seats near the domestic carousels on the other side of the international gates. I had my arm around her as if I were cuddling her and chatting away. In fact, I was talking her through some of the finer points of theft.
"Do you think you can do it?"
We sat and watched the first wave of domestic arrivals come, stand around, then leave when they collected their luggage.
I spotted a potential family.
"That's the sort of thing we're looking for, but they're two boys." I smiled.
"You want to be a boy for the day?"
"No way--boys stink!"
I put my nose into my sweatshirt. I agreed.
"OK, we'll wait."
A flight arrived from Frankfurt; this time we struck gold.
The parents were late thirties, the kids were about ten or eleven, a girl and a boy; the mother was carrying a clear plastic handbag with white mesh so you could check everything was where it should be. I couldn't believe our luck.
"See them?
That's what we want. Let's go, shall we?"
There was a slightly hesitant "Yeahhh." She didn't sound too keen now. Should I let her do this? I could stop it right now. As they walked toward the rest rooms I had to make a decision. Fuck it. Let's carry on and get this done.
"She's going in with her daughter," I said.
"Make sure no body's behind you. Remember, I'll be waiting." We followed casually. The husband had left with the boy, perhaps to visit one of the vending machines or to wait for their bags.
Mother and daughter went in via the ladies' entrance, chatting and giggling. The mother had the bag over her shoulder.
We entered via the men's on the right of the handicap toilets, and immediately went into one of the large stalls.
"I'll be in this one here, OK, Kelly?"
"OK."
"Remember what you have to do?"
I got a big, positive nod.
"Off you go then." I closed the door and held it in place.
The stalls were large enough for a wheelchair to maneuver in.
The slightest sound seemed to echo. The floors were wet and smelled of bleach. The time sheet on the back of the door showed the place had been cleaned only fifteen minutes ago.
My heart was pumping so hard I could feel it underneath my shirt; I was even starting to hyperventilate. My whole future pivoted on the actions of a seven-year-old girl. She had to slip her hand under the stall, grab the handbag, put it under her coat, and walk away without looking back. Not difficult just majorly flawed. But without passports we couldn't get out of the country; it was as simple as that. I had decided there was no way I could go back to Big Al's. Besides the risk of the journey, I couldn't trust him, because I had no idea what he'd been doing since I left him. It was just too fucking complicated. We needed to get out of this country, and now.
I was shaken from my thoughts by a sudden knock, knock, knock and a nervous "Nickkk!"
I opened the door quickly, didn't even look, and in she ran.
I closed and locked it, picked her up, and carried her over to the toilet.
I put the lid down and we sat together. I smiled and whispered, "Well done!" She looked both excited and scared. I was just scared, because I knew that at any minute all hell would break loose.
And then it came. The mother was running out of the rest room, shouting, "My bag! My bag's been stolen! Where's Louise? Louise!"
Louise came out and started to cry.
"Oh, Mom, what's happened?"
I could hear both of them running off, yelling. Now was not the time to get out. People would be looking; attention would be focused. Let's just sit tight and look at the passports.
We'd just robbed Mrs. Sarah Glazar and family. Fine, except that Mr. Glazar didn't look at all like Mr. Stone. Never mind, I could do something about that later on. But the names of both kids were entered on each of their parents' passports, and that was a problem.
I pulled out the cash and her reading glasses. The toilet tank was a sealed unit behind the wall. There was nowhere to hide the bag. I got up, told Kelly to stand, and listened at the door.
The woman had found a policeman. I imagined the scene outside. A little crowd would have gathered around. The cop would be making notes, radioing Control, maybe checking the other stalls. I broke into a sweat.
I stood at the door and waited for what seemed like an hour. Kelly tiptoed exaggeratedly toward me; I bent down and she whispered in my ear, "Is it all right yet?"
"Almost."
Then I heard a banging noise, and knocking. Somebody was pushing back the doors in the vacant stalls and knocking on the doors of the others. They were looking for the thief or, more likely, to see if the bag had been dumped once the money had been taken. They'd be at our stall any second.
I didn't have time to think.
"Kelly, you must talk if they knock. I want you to " Knock, knock, knock.
It sounded like the slam of a cell door.
A male voice shouted, "Hello, police anyone in there?"
He tried to turn the handle.
I quickly moved Kelly back to the toilet and whispered in her ear.
"Say you will be out soon." She shouted, "I'll be out in a minute."
There was no reply, just the same thing happening at the next stall. The danger had passed, or so I hoped.
All that was left to do was dump my pistol and mags. That was easy. I slipped them into Sarah's bag and crushed it into a package that would fit in a trash can.
It was an hour before I decided it was safe to leave. I turned to Kelly.
"Your name is Louise now, OK? Louise Glazar."
"OK."
She didn't seem fussed at all.
"Louise, when we leave here in a minute I want you to be really happy and I want you to hold my hand." With that I picked up the bag.