[b]Scotland Yard
11:01 AM[/b]


Detective Inspector Rory McEntyre checked his watch. The Super was late. It was only a minute, but even a minute’s tardiness was something the old man could not abide. The guv had served in the war and still acted like he was a Tommy, with his immaculate uniforms and punctuality. 

“Inspector,” Detective Superintendent Thomas Brown said as he entered the squadroom. 

The two men were the only ones in the room. It wasn’t an unusual sight to see a ghost town in the Flying Squad’s office, especially on a day like today. The Sweeney didn't do their work behind desks, their offices were out on the street. McEntyre stood and greeted Brown warmly.

“Guv.”

“Walk with me.”

McEntyre filed in behind Brown. Brown was maybe a half inch shorter, but he stood taller thanks to his ramrod straight posture and McEntyre’s habit of slouching. Brown led them through the desks and chairs towards the Super’s own closed off office. Like the man who inhabited it, the office was in pristine condition. His desk clear of any junk or files, save for the neat little pile resting in the outbox. On the far wall was a map of London, red push pins stuck in about a half dozen spots. 

“We have a grass,” said Brown. “One that has a solid history. One that says a big robbery is going to go down today.”

“Makes sense,” McEntyre shrugged. He wanted a fag, but the Super did not tolerate any cigarette smoke in his office. “Half the bleeding country is gonna be watching the game, coppers among them. Perfect time to catch some blokes with their knickers down.”

“I think it’s more than that,” said Brown. ”I think it’s [i]them.[/i]”

Brown’s eyes drifted towards the map of London and the red push pins. McEntyre had to keep his mouth shut and not say the first thing he thought of. [i]The Boogies[/i]. It had been a source of debate among the Flying Squads of the Greater London area, the pet theory of the Super’s. Brown had become convinced that all the major robberies of the last five years were all the work of one mob, a group of independent operators who were clever, professional, and did not make mistakes. The guv even had a few names of probable suspects, a list he tightly guarded. 

From what McEntyre had glossed, the evidence to tie all the robberies together was thin stuff. Most of it was based on shaky eyewitness testimony and underworld gossip. The theory, coupled with Brown’s paranoia about his list, had made some of the men in the Sweeneys dismissively deride it all together. There was a name for them that was whispered behind the Super’s back: Brown’s Boogies.

“What shall I do, guv?” McEntyre asked.

Brown rubbed his hands together and sat down behind his desk. He favored McEntyre with a slight smile, about the closest the old man ever came to showing any genuine warmth. Brown reached into his jacket pocket and removed a slip of paper that he held between his slender fingers.

“We’re going to set a trap, Inspector. But we haven’t got long.”

McEntyre smiled. “I’ll rally the men.”