He remembered the aghast face of Fisher as he informed him that if he didn’t produce all the information Blake required—without charge—from then on in, he would send the details of Fisher’s corporate betrayal to O’Reilly and his powerful legal team.
After Fisher had gotten over his shock and indignation, he seemed to accept his position and had fed Blake gold.
Now Blake lay with a Nikon Coolpix P610 taking photographs of Darren O’Reilly in what looked to be deep conversation with a tall, broad and sinewy man.
Blake had been around enough dangerous and professional men to know this was one of them. The man exuded the paradox of effortless alertness.
Blake hadn’t been able to set up any parabolic equipment due to O’Reilly’s walking.
The conversation between the two men had been brief. Blake would hand over the pictures and his findings to his superior.
He surmised that if this was the gentlemen heading the investigation into his client, then the next time he would be observing him, would be through the lens of a weapon’s sight. That would only be after he had gleaned the necessary information from shadowing him.
Ciara had enjoyed the gym session right up until the end. They had traded sets of five, starting at 110 kilos and adding ten aside until they reached 160 kilos.
She managed four on 160 kilos but was sure he wouldn’t do any better. They weren’t using a belt, straps or chalk.
He had slapped on a ten-kilo plate either side of the barbell and cranked out five on the new weight of 180 kilos.
He had used a ‘hook’ grip as opposed to an alternative grip that she had adopted.
Then he had smiled a smug grin which had infuriated her.
Now, she sat showered and dressed, with Connor and Louis outside on the swing sofas. They were nursing coffees and talking.
Holt and White had driven away the drug load leaving only Millar behind.
“What do you think Dixon wants? To renegotiate?” asked Ciara.
“Nah, no one renegotiates until a few cycles have been completed,” answered Connor.
“I think your man might have heard about that ambush attempt,” said Louis.
“I guess we’ll know soon enough.”
A few moments of silence passed, and Connor asked, “Would you rather be responsible for the death of three adults or one child?”
“What sort of question is that?” exclaimed Ciara.
“Fine. Let’s talk about the weather.”
“One child obviously,” said Louis.
“Why an innocent child?” asked Ciara.
“Because its simple maths init,” replied Louis.
“Agreed,” said Connor. “Save three lives for one. You’re sick Ciara.”
Ciara opened her mouth for a retort when a Range Rover pulled into the enclave. Louis and Connor didn’t show much interest at first. The doors opened, two men got out, and Connor’s demeanour changed.
25
“What the fuck?” Connor said, aloud but to himself.
“What’s up my mate?” asked Louis.
Connor looked at him. “That’s my cousin.”
Tris Dixon and Thomas Ryder walked over after a brief discussion with Millar. Connor stood and met them.
The two cousins looked at one another and fell into a brief embrace.
“What’s all this?” Connor asked.
“The Ryder family are going to handle a percentage of the distribution of Van Der Saar’s product,” announced Dixon.
Connor felt a chill up his spine.
“What’s wrong? You don’t look happy,” asked Dixon.
“Well, it’s a surprise. How did this come about?” asked Connor. He felt his cousin staring at him.
He didn’t want his family anywhere near his activities with The Chameleon Project. He never had. He cursed himself that he let his concern show on his face.
“Your uncle got in touch after he learned that Waseem Khan had announced that he was going to have you killed. That’s why we are here.”
“You’ll have heard by now that Ciara and I were ambushed back in the ‘dam. Are you saying that Waseem had a hand in that?”
“Yes. Waseem and Fassih Himmich have had business links for almost five years now.”
Connor held his tongue. He didn’t know how his uncle knew about Dixon. Didn’t know how he found out about Waseem wanting to kill him.
Everyone else had stood around them with awkward scrutiny as these exchanges were going on.
“Where’s Waseem now?” asked Connor.
Dixon and Tom shared a brief glance, before Tom said, “Waseem is enjoying his seventy virgins now.”
“Seventy-two.”
“What was that?”
“It’s seventy-two virgins, or Houri, as they are called. A Muslim man has to martyr himself to receive them. A bit of knowledge there for you Tom.”
Connor was attempting banter, but it was absent-hearted—he was fighting to make sense of this turn of events.
His cousin smiled. “I prefer girls who have been about a bit.”
“Let’s take a walk,” Connor said to his cousin.
The party was a welcome distraction to Van Der Saar. He hated these periods of his career—going to the mattresses was the parlance in The Godfather film. The periods of hyper-alertness and the stringent care taken towards security zapped the fun out of life—and money out of the offshore bank accounts.
Van Der Saar mused that some would suspect that the life of an international drug dealer was one of being in a constant state of alertness. He had made the decision only to devote a certain amount of energy to it.
Tonight, he had no such worries. Ralph Nolet was one of only a handful of Holland billionaires. His party was a reflection of such. Even Van Der Saar, one of Holland’s wealthiest men himself, had been impressed by the event.
The leggy waitresses dressed in men’s suits in a way that enhanced their femininity. The soft music of a pianist blended beautifully with the female solo star that Van Der Saar had seen in various publications and television.
Van Der Saar knew that the plush, soft, blue velvet sofas, so regally sat upon now, would be lounged and fucked upon later after the consumption of high-quality drugs and alcohol.
“Mr Van Der Saar, how is life treating you?” said the man who appeared at his side. He spoke in Dutch.
“I cannot complain Erik,” answered Van Der Saar in the same tongue. “Will you miss this?”
Erik Bos was the shadowy Deputy of the National Crime Squad—Dienst Nationale Recherche. Van Der Saar knew through his contacts that Erik would soon ascend to the position of Chief of Police in the Netherlands— Hoofdcommissaris. Then his profile would be far too high to attend functions such as this. Erik was one of the few policemen Van Der Saar had met who could shake off their law enforcement demeanour in this type of setting. He was of medium height and build, his blond hair long disguising the thinning on the crown. He had blue eyes and a strong jawline. He wore a sky blue shirt with a maroon tie and a dark beige waistcoat.
“Life is full of sacrifice Raymond,” he replied sipping his scotch. “I hear you’re making inroads into your turf war?”
“There’s been progress.”
“Well, the sooner you can conclude this, the better.”
“If you’re nervous my friend, then perhaps law enforcement could step up their efforts?”
“An overt increase in pressure on Moroccan criminal organisations without a simultaneous one on the Penose would raise the anger of certain high-up individuals Raymond. Even the speaker of the House of Representatives is Moroccan-Dutch. You know this.”
“So that is what allows those animals to traffic human beings? Politics—and I thought my game was dirty.”
“We haven’t enough evidence to bring to bear.”
“If you turned one of them over to me, I could extract a confession from them.”
“You mean as a favour to you, as you know full well it could not be used in cou
rt? I cannot I am afraid, the risks a person takes is proportionate to the amount he stands to lose. I know too much about human nature not to know this.”
“As do I, my friend. But if your side is not willing to help me, then any complaints regarding the speed of which I operate can only be taken with ‘a pinch of salt’ as our English cousins like to say.”
“I am not familiar with the term?”
“It means I cannot make your concerns a priority.”
“I think you should take them seriously Raymond. Because if this isn’t cleared up soon, then maybe a crackdown will be necessitated on all organised crime in Holland.”
Raymond Van Der Saar nodded his head; he had made up his mind.
“There is something you can do for me, if you would.”
“Tell me what it is.”
“I want you to look into a Tris Dixon. He’s a UK national, and football agent.”
“Alright. Going to give me anything else to go on?”
“No. I do not wish to influence your search.”
“I see. Very good. Anyone else you want checking out?”
For some reason, Ciara Robson came to his mind.
“No. Not for now.”
Tom walked with his cousin outside Redcliffe.
He knew Connor wouldn’t be happy that his business was connected with the families. Still, his disconcertion seemed stronger than he anticipated. The others back at Redcliffe wouldn’t have noticed it, but he’d been close to his favourite uncle’s son since they were kids and could tell.
“Come on then, what’s up with you?”
“What do you mean ‘What’s with you’?, I specifically told you that I wanted to keep our family out of anything I am involved in down here.”
“That would be understandable if we all weren’t in the same business. It’s not as if you’re protecting a family of Mormons from the horrors of crime. You scared your Legend will be affected by association or summat?”
“Eeyaare Tom. You’ve known me long enough to know I aren’t—am not—in this for the fame, so stop trying to bait me. Besides, you shouldn’t have gone over my head.”
“It seemed to Uncle Derek that you needed our help that’s all.”
“I am still alive, aren’t I? And let’s not pretend that Derek’s cash flow isn’t going to be significantly pumped up by this.”
Tom felt a shot of anger. “You prefer Brummie Pakis—who’ve attacked you twice now—to profit from it all. We love you; I don’t know what your fuckin’ problem is sometimes. Of all the people I know, I thought you’d hate them more than anyone.”
Connor ignored the outburst. “How is Derek?”
“He’s good. He’s been on the growth and steds, and put on a lot of weight.”
“Yeah, I noticed the size of him last time. He looks like a sinister and hench looking Moomin.”
Tom laughed. “He’s changed too—mentally I mean. It’s like he thinks the world is out to get ‘im.”
“Heavy lays the crown?”
“I am not sure what it is. You’d think he’d be laughing.”
“He wants to be careful with that shit—the steroids I mean. I can’t think of anyone who takes it regularly that cycles off it the way you’re meant to—beware the power of positive reinforcement.”
“You always did like reading books, didn’t you?” smiled Tom.
“You should try it; knowledge is power.”
“It’s called podcasts mate. You can drive or bang out weights at the same time.”
They walked on, and Tom said, “So are we cool?”
“Have to be, don’t we. Blood is thicker than water, and all that.”
“Yeah, my old man says that in relation about our Derek.”
Connor smiled. “How’s your old man?”
“He’s alright mate. He lives in the past a lot. Missing your dad like,” Tom thought for a moment, “I miss your dad.”
“Yeah,” said Connor looking out into the distance. “Me too.”
26
Erik Bos walked with his wife Patricia down through the Eastern docklands towards their neighbourhood of Transvaalbuurt. It was late in the evening, and they had decided to walk back from a social occasion with Patricia’s work colleagues.
The area was ethnically diverse, colourful, and they had a great view from his top floor apartment.
He could have upscaled long ago but decided not to. He and Patricia didn’t have kids yet, so he put a lot of his cash into buying and renovating the property, like the two apartments below his. Besides, being in the area helped keep his finger on the pulse in a way that wouldn’t be possible living in the suburbs.
Patricia wrapped her arm tighter in his and snuggled into him. The petite, slim, glossy dark haired beauty could pass as being ten years younger. They had been married as nineteen-year-olds and were now approaching their twenty-fifth anniversary. Erik was a rarity with the crime squad and the police force beyond in that he had never even considered an affair or even a dalliance with another woman. He put this down in part to the fact that he had fallen in love with her at the age of thirteen and had never had a reason to fall out of love with her. She was such a calm, and gentle woman. Even when they were told that the chance of them conceiving children naturally was remote, his love for her never wavered and in the end, they decided they were happy as they were.
They reached the bottom floor of their apartment block and entered, before making their way up the spiral staircase into their home.
“Didn’t I set the alarm?” Erik asked.
“I thought you did?” she said cocking her head to one side before saying, “Never mind, let’s get to bed Husband.”
She smiled, leading him by the hand into the bedroom.
A firework of shock exploded in him at his wife’s screams.
Four men with balaclavas and dark eyes exploded into a frenzy of Arabic, Berber, and Dutch shouts and rapid movement.
Erik stepped forward punching. One of the assailants threw Patricia to the floor and knelt on her chest. No sooner had Erik connected on one of the reeling attackers, a blow to the temple stunned him, and he too found himself pushed and dragged to the floor.
A gun pressed against his head. “Ssshhhh Mr Bos. We want the code to the safe.”
It seemed strange that upon hearing that, Erik felt a sense of hope—maybe it is just a robbery. He nodded his consent, and they roughly pulled him to his feet. They marched him over to the open wardrobe which housed the safe behind ordinarily hanging but now strewn clothes. They helped themselves to twenty-five thousand euro of jewellery including an eighteen carat gold boulder and diamond pendant, and a platinum, tanzanite and diamond ring. The ten thousand euro in cash was taken too.
“Bossman Himmich was right about you police. Biggest gangsters in the world.”
A bolt of anger went through Erik. “Fassih Himmich sent you?”
“Bossman said everything in the safe is ours. Just to let you know your place.”
The butt of the pistol cut off Erik’s retort and his consciousness.
Bruce walked through the woods similar to the one he’d left O’Reilly in a few days previous. The morning light had almost fully illuminated the sky, and the fresh air remained silent.
He had a fishing rod in his right hand, tackle box in his left and a day-sack on his back.
For the past week he had been building the case, exhausting leads and hypotheses, meeting contacts and studying files.
He knew the importance of forcing himself to take time out. There was always something to do, someone to meet, some organisation to research, some matter to study in this profession. He’d seen others in pursuit of promotion, achievement or the wish to get the job done completely, neglect to rest and recuperate. It always caught up with them. He’d noticed a correlation in that the longer a person worked without rest, then the longer it generally took for them to recover when they did finally implode.
A Joe Waldron owned this stretch of land and the
two large fishing lakes in it. He and Bruce had been friends since 1986; ever since they were paired to face another in a minute’s bout of ‘milling’. Milling was one of the tests of ‘P’ Company, the requisite course to become a member of the fearsome Parachute Regiment. Boxing gloves were donned, and the two combatants had one minute in which to display as much ‘controlled aggression’ as possible—no ducking, slipping, dodging or fancy footwork was permitted. Bruce reckoned that given this time of the media punting ideas like gender fluidity and extreme liberalism, that milling would go the way of the Page Three model.
Their bout had been declared a draw although both claimed victory on the rare occasions the subject came up.
Waldron, a couple of inches shorter than Bruce, was a big, barrel-chested man originally from Shropshire. He had reached the heights of Regimental Sergeant-Major before leaving the military to form his own private security company over a decade ago. He was away on a job now but had always allowed Bruce free range of his land anyway.
The Scotsman had walked around a mile through the undulating terrain and then woods. He remembered how he felt tabbing as a young Para seeing elderly dog walkers enjoying a stroll through the same landscape.
It wouldn’t be long now until the woods ended and he would be in the immense openness. The hills would encapsulate him and the vast lake.
Jim Blake felt a concoction of fear and excitement as he eyed the Scotsman from the foliage. He pondered whether or not a lion felt something similar while stalking a buffalo. He had once heard it said that a James Bond-type of character could not exist, because the skill sets of surveillance and assassination were carried out by two separate parties. Well that’s bullshit—he thought—I do both.
Bruce McQuillan had evidently chosen this place for its solitude not understanding that he’d inadvertently chosen the place of his own death. Jim Blake had felt disappointed. It had been easier than expected. The Scotsman hadn’t performed any counter surveillance since setting foot on a one Joseph Paul Waldron’s land.
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