The worst of it was always
the waiting, Sowerbutt thought to himself. He remembered the never-ending night
he had spent frozen against the wall of a deserted building in Carabanchel
during the Siege of Madrid in the Spanish war while three young idiots
from the Anarchist Brigade sat on the dusty road nearby and drank themselves
silly with a case of Russian vodka. When they finally passed out, he had been
sorely tempted to use his clasp knife. But what would have been the point?
The robbery had gone smoothly
so far, he had nothing to worry about, he told himself. Two mail bags were
stashed in the car boot and one on the back seat, covered with an old blanket. The lads would head back in the Chevy truck painted in the livery
of a non-existent transport company and the Austin builder’s van. The plan was
to drop some canvas over the truck’s side on the way back to the Smoke; the
builder’s van had been smothered in mud and sand to obscure any names. http://www.amazon.co.uk/Colour-of-Red-ebook/dp/B00B1CWM5M/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1358353851&sr=1-1
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