He heard the footsteps behind him and said, “Beautiful apartment Janet.”
He looked around at her. Even in casual clothing, her sense of style was seemingly effortless. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail leaving a flick of blonde over her eyebrow. She wore a charcoal top with dark red stripes and a plain skirt.
“Thank you, although the interior designer gave me the benefit of his advice. In my experience, the camper they are the better their interior designing, and this one was very gay.”
“A lot of your fellow liberals would class that comment as casually homophobic, would they not?”
“An observation isn’t homophobic. And I would class my being a liberal comment as rather presumptive.”
“Perhaps you’re right. And the interior looks great.”
“Maybe I’ll send him around your way.”
“He’d be wasted on me I am afraid. I am a man of simple tastes.”
“You abscond from material possessions? Like the great Buddha?” she teased.
Bruce smiled. “I like nice things but don’t get attached to them. A man once told me, ‘You remember your first holiday, not your first sofa.’”
“A nice sentiment. But you sit on a sofa daily. I can’t see a person like you taking many holidays.”
“It’s an interesting point. I’ll mull over it and get back to you?”
“So what do you do for fun?”
“I enjoy the theatre, opera and ballet.”
“You do not,” she exclaimed.
“Now, who’s being presumptuous?”
“Well, you are a surprise. How did that come about?”
This was not going as planned. Still, she was good conversation. He knew he couldn’t bed her only to tell her he couldn’t see for again for a while in a post-coital glow.
“Do you drink whisky?”
“On occasion.”
She left to return a few moments later with two glasses and a bottle. It was an Aronson by Lass and Wright and aged sixty-four years. Bruce knew that there had only been three bottles of it ever produced. He also knew the price of it. She poured them a glass and sat beside him. Something clicked in place, and he decided that he wouldn’t be having the conversation about not sleeping with her after all.
“You a whisky connoisseur?” he asked.
“I like a tipple on occasion.”
“Well, here’s to an occasion,” he said and clinked his glass with hers. They smiled at one another.
She lounged back a little and asked, “Any further into your investigations?”
“I have hit a few snags, unfortunately.”
“How so?”
“It’s a political situation. I can’t really go into it.”
“I see. Surely you’ll continue though?”
“It depends, Janet. I haven’t the resources to pursue something like this without support. And my superiors are denying me that.”
“Is there anything I can do? Go public, put pressure on them?”
“You can’t go public without hard evidence.” He finished off his whisky, and she did the same.
“I apologise,” she said, “I shouldn’t be taking either of our work into our evening time. We’ll talk about this in the morning.”
Bruce looked at her as she stood. He took her outstretched hand and followed her to her bedroom.
O’Reilly knew that the more he stayed in the house, the stronger the temptation to hit the bottle would grow. So he turned up to the office.
Everyone was very sympathetic towards him, and he projected an air of gratefulness for it. He didn’t welcome it as he wanted work to be an escape. It was to be expected though.
Verbatim Securities chief technician, Paul Fisher, came into the office. O’Reilly had always operated an open-door policy.
“How are you, Darren?”
“I am OK. What’s up?”
The gawky-looking Fisher had a shiftiness about him and O’Reilly couldn’t warm to him. That said, this was a business and Fisher was superb at what he did.
“Well, I wasn’t going to ask so soon after Jessie. But I wanted to talk to you about maybe getting involved in other parts of the business.”
O’Reilly looked at him. “Why? Your talent lays in being a technician?”
Fisher replied, “Just wanted to get a better handle on how the company works as a whole. Be a better asset to you.”
O’Reilly knew better than to give a valued employee an outright ‘no’. “What were you thinking?”
“How the financial, internal and external communications function, and the running of other technical aspects.”
“Alright. Report to Marcy. I’ll send her an e-mail.”
When he left, the urge for alcohol came back with a vengeance.
He left the office shortly afterwards. There was a pub not far.
31
“You are fackin’ joking!” screamed Dixon down the phone.
“I must ask you not to swear Mr Dixon. The matter is out of my hands I am afraid. It was authorised by you using all the relevant security protocols,” replied the Swiss banker in a clipped tone.
“But I haven’t taken money out. I think I’d have remembered three million knicker going out.”
“Two million and eight-hundred thousand, sir.”
“Fuck—sorry—where did it go?”
“It dispersed amongst twenty-seven different account numbers, I will forward them to—”
“—twenty-seven different accounts? I barely know twenty-seven people. Surely your ‘protocols’ know that isn’t normal.”
“Of course. But you—my apologies—the sender, answered every single question of your memorable data correctly—six in total.”
“They’ll belong to a single company I am telling you. Can you check?”
“I will check now. It may take a few minutes.”
“Fuck. Call me back when you do.”
Dixon slammed his traditional office phone down.
He took a breath to gather his thoughts—so this was the Yank’s response. Dixon had sent the e-mail terminating his involvement with the organ harvesting the day before. Now, the deduction to his Swiss account of the exact amount of money that he had thus far made from the venture. No more, no less.
His fury and despair had been compounded by the fact that the young Colombian football star had pulled out of his contract; not with the club but with Dixon’s agency. A reason had not been forthcoming.
The phone rang, and Dixon answered with, “This better be good news.”
“Well that depends on what you do now,” answered Ethan Steyn.
Dixon flinched upon hearing the South African’s voice. “What do you want?”
“Don’t play naïve, or I’ll have to escalate this ‘gentle persuasion’ up a level. Two general scenarios could occur based on your actions. Your money may reappear in your account. Other young talents may not be dissuaded from joining you. Certain accountancy details need not end up in the hands of Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs service. And you need not lose your ability to walk. Get the picture?”
Dixon breathed deeply, his pride scolded, angry but in his place. “I get the picture. I’ll continue.”
Henry Costner had recounted the story of the phone call which resulted in the images appearing on his laptop, to Bruce. It had been four days ago, and when Henry hadn’t replied to Bruce’s attempts to contact him, the Scot went to see him.
Anticipating that there was a reason behind Costner’s unresponsiveness Bruce had slipped into the politician’s home at gone past midnight. He had placed a half cylinder MSC bug scanner on the bedside table and turned it on. It was one of Jamie’s inventions. After thirty seconds he checked the underside—‘Negative’. He woke the startled Costner who started babbling about hidden cameras and devices.
“We’re OK, I have already scanned for bugs,” Bruce said. “Now speak, why have you not being answering my messages?”
When Henry had finished explaining
, Bruce smiled. “They are scared now.”
“Well, I am scared. If they plant anything like that again, even if I did prove my innocence, something like that would stick,“ said Costner.
Bruce knew he was right. Besides liking the albeit, at times, annoyingly aristocratic Costner, if he were to lose his prodigious standing within the Halls of Westminster, then he couldn’t inform or protect Bruce.
“This isn’t your concern any longer. I’ll be in touch when this is all over.”
“What you going to do?”
Bruce’s accent became more pronounced. “Ah canne be having these people living.”
He left.
Soft reds and ambers lit the club. The sofas held the occupants in comfort towards a raised cylindrical stage. The waitresses sauntered around with an elegance that contrasted with the underwear and suspenders they dressed in. The RnB music floated through the background, without the patrons having to raise their voices to make themselves heard.
“Mr Dixon, I wasn’t expecting to hear from you so soon?”
Tris Dixon looked at Connor Reed. The Yorkshireman’s lilac shirt contoured his well-built physique and displayed his grooved forearms with a tan strapped watch matching the tan leather brogues that jutted out of smart, dark jeans.
“Mr Reed, please take a seat.”
Reed did so and raised his handled glass of beer, “Thanks very much, surprised you had this brand in.”
Dixon nodded approvingly—he has good taste.
They were in the Soho ‘Vixen’ erotic dancing club that he owned. His other ‘Vixen’ club was in Manchester.
Reed had come in at the start of one of Dixon’s favourite performances. The two beautiful and lithe girls, one a redhead and one a blonde, were dancing together in the style of ballroom, with the skill of two professionals. Exquisitely styled gowns clung to them—the redhead in black and the blonde in white. Dixon had sent eight of his girls for training with classical instructors before unveiling this act.
Among the patrons tonight were a Hollywood actress, a prominent film producer, a supermodel and a famous British comedian. Dixon was impressed that Connor was not gawking at them. His eyes remained fixed on the movements of the two women.
The music of the act began slowly before getting harder as the women stripped one another. It rose to another level as the kissing, licking and biting commenced before simmering into soft tones as the staged sex climbed to a peak. It finished to a standing ovation as it always had.
“Now in the words of Seth, ‘That’s what I call a fucking show!’” said Connor over the din as he stood, banging his hands together.
“Glad you approve, Mr Reed.”
“You have to suspend your common sense to enjoy it fully, but I thought it was great.”
Dixon frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Well, that pair must be bored to fuck of doing that now. I bet the blonde one that gets finger blasted at the end has gone through tubs of lube.”
Dixon grimaced—the image ran counterpoint to the elegant eroticism he was aiming for.
“Shall we discuss business upstairs?”
Connor nodded and followed him. The VIP area remained closed to others, and the two men took a seat across from one another.
“And so,” said Connor.
“I have a few legitimate businesses. And one or two that aren’t. It is one of these that I wish to discuss.”
“OK.”
“This one may offend your sensibilities.”
“It might, or it might not. All I can say is ‘no’, so stop pussyfooting around and tell me.”
Dixon felt a jolt of indignation. It had been a long time since anyone had spoken to him like this. Still, he liked it on a certain level.
“Human trafficking.”
“You mean like driving a lorry through Calais with Eastern Europeans or Syrians packed like sardines in the back? Surely you can get one of your minions for that.”
“Maybe trafficking isn’t the correct term,” began Dixon, “as you’ll be picking up people here in the UK.”
“Go on.”
“You’re to identify people who will not have anyone missing them, who are under the age of fifty and not intravenous drug users.”
“Quite specific.” Reed squinted. “Why?”
Dixon shifted in his seat. He had been hoping that Reed would simply agree and not ask questions. He knew it was a forlorn hope, and that the man would seek to understand everything he could regarding the operation.
“They are to be used for their organs.”
Reed stared at him for a moment. “What’s wrong with smuggling in European immigrants who exchange a kidney for residence here?”
It heartened Dixon that the Yorkshireman’s first statement was not a disgusted rejection of the proposal.
“That used to be the remit but times are changing now. BREXIT is nearing, and the borders will be tightly girded so the profit margins will reduce. However, domestic resource is abundant.”
Reed asked, “Why would anyone be willing to give one of their organs if they lived here?”
This was the ‘make or break’ question Dixon knew. “They wouldn’t.”
Reed rubbed his chin and said, “You want me to kidnap people for their organs and hope no one notices?”
Dixon almost smiled—the man’s hesitation was based on the probability of being caught, not on the morality of it.
“That’s the thing. These are people no one will miss. Drug addicts and the homeless. You do a few weeks ‘recon’ on them to do a risk assessment, and then take them.”
“You have done this before.”
“I’ve been doing this for months.”
“Why do you need me then?”
“An internal issue that has meant that I prefer a new face in there.”
“Anything I have to worry about?”
“No.”
“So there’s a moody hospital that these people get dropped off at?”
“It’s not a ‘moody’ hospital.”
“A private hospital I take it?”
“Mr Reed, I’d prefer not to get into the details before you have agreed in principle.”
“OK. Let’s talk money.”
“I’ll give you eighty grand per person.”
Connor smiled. “A hundred thousand. I am the one taking all the risk. If it comes to light, then I am the one in the newspapers before having to fight off sexual enslavement and hidings in prison.”
Dixon didn’t need to mull it over long. “Deal.”
“Is there anything else I can do for you? A woman perhaps?”
“Nah. I always feel guilty when afterwards they say things like ‘Oh my God, I cannot possibly take your money. In fact, have all of my earnings for tonight if you promise to come back’, that sort of thing. Because I know they need the money more than I do.”
“You’re a funny man Mr Reed.”
“It’s a strength.”
“How so?”
“People often underestimate what you’re capable of.”
32
“It is him. He asked me to run it for him. I was dying to kill him right there,” said Connor, the memory of last night’s conversation with Dixon making him angry. He’d already given Bruce a vague and brief rundown on the phone before he requested a meet.
Now they sat in a quiet corner of The Anchor Pub along the river Wey. The half-hour walk from West Byfleet to the pub allowed for tighter counter surveillance, in addition to the vehicle change they had carried out before arriving.
“What did you say to him?” asked Bruce.
“Played it coy but not disinterested. I made out I’ve had to wrestle with my consciousness before the money offered dissolved my plastic morals.”
“Good,” said Bruce. “How does she feel about it?”
He flicked his head back a touch to indicate Ciara. She stood at the bar ordering the drinks.
“To tell you the truth, she’s nervous. Nervous about ho
w far we have to go with this?”
“She’s never struck me as the type who couldn’t get her hands dirty.”
“I am not talking about what we might have to do to the ‘baddies’. It’s how far we might have to let these ‘donors’ go into the process. To be truthful, so am I.”
“You know as well as I that if the crunch came to the crunch, then sometimes a few need to be sacrificed for the many—but we do everything we can to make sure that bridge isn’t crossed. Where Ciara is concerned—”
“—backblast,” interrupted Connor, indicating Ciara was about to come into hearing range and the subject be changed.
“Who is your favourite Bond then?” Bruce continued as Ciara came from behind him and set the drinks on the table.
“Daniel Craig,” answered Connor.
“You know, I always liked Pierce Bronsan and Roger Moore,” said Ciara as she sat down.
“They were good for their time,” said Connor, “but I couldn’t take them seriously now. Losing a fight to them would be like losing a fight to Tory politician.”
Ciara turned to Bruce. “Let me guess, yours is Connery?”
“Aye, that sort of Bond wouldn’t be acceptable on screen now mind,” he replied. “Anyway, we need to discuss how we’re going to proceed with our task.”
“What does this mean? We have him now. We can take him out?” asked Ciara.
“I don’t think he’s the architect of this, and we still need to identify the hospital or hospitals, that are taking these people in.”
“Why don’t you think he’s the mastermind of it?”
“Miles Parker received an email to his personal account that circumvented the security protocols on it. On it was the identities of some of the ex-members of ‘The Project’, who, as a precaution, I have told to go to ground. The sender seemed to think they were current members. That said, whoever gleaned that information and surpassed Parker’s IT protection measures has the means above Tris Dixon.”
Lessons In Blood Page 18
