by Ted Tayler
Phoenix collected the kit they required this morning and followed Rusty out of the safe-house to the car. The Skorpion SA361 sub-machine gun was a familiar sight on Britain’s streets. Hundreds of these weapons from the Czech Republic had been discovered among the arsenals of UK gangs in the past decade. It was light, even with its magazine fitted, effective up to twenty-five metres; and capable of delivering up to eight hundred and fifty rounds per minute, it was an efficient killing machine.
Phoenix joined Rusty in the Mercedes.
“First things first,” he said, pointing to an addition to the usual display, “flick that switch.”
Rusty did as he was told. Nothing happened; as far as he could tell. Phoenix didn’t shed any light on matters either, so he started the Merc’s engine and drove through the gateway. After a minute, there was a break in the line of vehicles passing and he merged into the nearside lane. They had a minimum of an hour ahead of them inching their way across the London rush hour traffic to reach Hackney and their first job.
“When we finally get there, we’ll locate McTierney, follow him, and then pick our spot. His schedule has him stopping off at places between the Empire and The Dolphin before ten. He has an appointment with his barber. One of the old-fashioned sort, where they give you a proper shave with a cut-throat razor. After that at ten, he’s due at one of his dodgy places for a massage. He leaves ‘Healing Hands’ at around half-past eleven. From there he goes for lunch at one of his restaurants on Richmond Road. Five minutes up the road. If I can’t make the hit at one of those three spots, I might as well retire.”
“It’s manic around here though Phoenix,” said Rusty, “with this traffic, I mean. When I floor it after you’ve done the business, we’re going to be snarled up in a jam until the law arrives aren’t we?”
Phoenix produced a detailed set of notes on several sheets of paper.
“I’ve always admired those rally drivers, Rusty, haven’t you? I can’t do the Swedish accent, to give it true authenticity. It depends on which of his ports of call proves to be McTierney’s last. The correct set of instructions from these sheets via your co-driver will get you through side streets and shortcuts to a place of safety. We’ve got another ace up our sleeve, don’t worry.”
“I can always rely on you to have done your homework, Phoenix,” said Rusty. “Why couldn’t you have run me through this when we were back in the orangery?”
“Where’s the fun in that, Rusty?” his colleague replied, without a hint of embarrassment.
What seemed a long time later, they passed The Dolphin; it was just after twenty-five past nine. They drove on towards the Empire.
“Keep your eyes peeled,” said Phoenix. “His driver will be as frustrated with the volume of traffic as the rest of us. But every week since our surveillance started, he’s dropped his boss at the barber’s shop between nine twenty-eight and nine-thirty.”
“It’s coming up on our left, about now,” said Rusty. “Is that them?”
“Yes,” snapped Phoenix. “Head for that gap in front of the Ocado delivery van.”
Rusty heard a squeal of brakes behind them, and fanfare of protesting horns, but he squeezed the Mercedes through the gap without hitting anything. McTierney’s driver had stopped his vehicle half on, half off the pavement. He had got out and walked to the nearside rear passenger door and opened it. The gang leader was now out of the car and walking the short distance to the shop door. McTierney turned to see what caused the noise behind him. What he saw concerned him, but it was too late to change the outcome.
A Mercedes with blacked-out windows had mounted the pavement, its front passenger window was being lowered. McTierney saw the muzzle emerging from the dark interior. He spun around and ran for the plate-glass shop door. Phoenix opened fire. Gavin McTierney was dead before he was propelled through the shattered glass and onto the freshly swept tiles of the barbershop floor.
The driver had drawn his own weapon and was running towards his boss to protect him. As he saw McTierney sprayed with bullets, he turned back to fire at the Mercedes. Another short burst from the Skorpion hit him in the upper chest and throat. He crumpled to the ground. His gun slid off the pavement and into the gutter.
“Let’s get out of here,” shouted Phoenix.
He grabbed the notes and reeled off instructions. Rusty reacted immediately. Nobody wanted to be a hero. The traffic had come to a standstill. It was as if Hackney’s residents witnessed a drive-by gang hit every day of the week. They moved their cars out of the way, so the Merc could have free passage off Mare Street.
Five minutes of skilful driving from Rusty, with Phoenix in the passenger seat, barking directions, and they were on their way.
“Right, Rusty, flick that switch once more and take it slow. We can return to the safe-house now.”
“Will you please explain?” asked Rusty.
“A modification to this Mercedes was needed to shift the blame for McTierney’s death. Remember the Bond film? The revolving number plate wheeze. Any number of rival gangs exist within the borough of Hackney. Inter-gang rivalry is endemic. Henry Case informed me that the leader of one such gang drives a Mercedes of the exact vintage and model. We travelled from Chiswick until a few seconds ago, with his number plates on our vehicle. Gangs are territorial, so we would have been unfortunate to run into the other car while we were on our travels. Eye-witnesses and CCTV will confirm who was responsible. The police will arrest the poor guy. A good brief will undoubtedly find evidence of him being in two places at once. Sadly, on this occasion, he will avoid a prison term.”
“And the transport waiting for us?” asked Rusty.
“That delivered a van for us to use for the rest of the week. You will drive this Merc up the ramp into the waiting lorry. Olympus engineers will replace the windows, remove the number plate gadget, and store the car in our transport section until it’s required again.”
“Onwards and upwards, then? Will we have time for a bite to eat before we start hunting Waqar Ali?” Rusty enquired.
“I don’t see why not. We need to chase up Artemis for the latest information. If the GPS tracker is in place on his BMW, we might tidy matters up earlier than planned.”
Rusty drove steadily back to Chiswick. When they arrived at the safe-house, a large lorry was waiting with the ramp in place. A transit van stood in the driveway next to the saloon car. Rusty positioned the wheels of the Mercedes carefully and the car climbed gracefully into the back. The two agents sat inside the car for a moment.
“What are you thinking, Phoenix?” asked Rusty.
“I might have been a tad hasty, making the hit at the first place McTierney visited.”
“Why so?”
“If they have an open coffin for his funeral, it would have been better if he had had his haircut, and a proper wet shave,” replied Phoenix.
The two agents got out of the car and descended the ramp. The driver of the lorry and his mate cleared away the ramp and closed the back doors. They said their goodbyes and headed off to the London garage where several other Olympus transport vehicles were maintained and stored.
As they watched the lorry move carefully through the gateway, Rusty patted his colleague on the shoulder.
“No, I reckon you did the McTierney family a big favour. They would have been mortified if you had taken him out after he’d emerged from his session at the massage parlour. It would be far more disconcerting to have an open coffin where the departed has a satisfied smile on his face, than one where he’s got a few stray hairs and a five o’clock shadow.”
Once inside the house, it was back to business. Phoenix wanted to find the exact whereabouts of Waqar Ali. He called the ice-house. Artemis picked up the phone.
“Hi there, Phoenix,” she said, “have you had a good day?”
“Everything went as planned,” Phoenix replied, “did you and Giles make any progress with locating Waqar Ali?”
“Our man attached the tracker to his Beemer earlier t
his morning. Ali’s been on the move since he left home. He was on Commercial Street at around ten o’clock; then he drove along Brick Lane and made several brief stops. At noon, he parked in the NCP car park on Whitechapel High Street. He’s probably having lunch somewhere close. Our man is on the ground, in the area now. Giles was contacted five minutes ago to say Ali’s sat in the Altab Ali Park, two or three minutes’ walk from the car park. Naturally, he’s on his phone.”
“Get a message to Giles’s agent,” said Phoenix. “Rusty and I will head off to Tower Hamlets. It will take an hour and a half at best. I want Ali followed. Wherever he goes after his rest in the Park, digesting his lunch, I want to know about it. Give the agent my number and he can talk us into position. Is that clear?”
“Crystal,” said Artemis, “good luck. Tell Rusty… well, you know.”
“No worries,” said Phoenix, and ended the call.
“Where are we off to now?” asked Rusty.
“Tower Hamlets, for a walk in the park. Your lady friend wanted to be remembered to you, by the way.”
“Cheers. Do you want me to make us sandwiches? It doesn’t sound as if we’ll have time for a leisurely lunch.”
“We can grab a take-out and two coffees from that place near the roundabout,” said Phoenix, loading kit into a bag for their afternoon mission. “We need to get moving straight away.”
Ninety minutes later they were driving into the Tower Hamlets borough. When they were still five minutes away, Giles’s agent had phoned. Waqar Ali had left the park and retrieved his car. He had then driven to Spitalfields Market, where he met with his fellow countrymen. Their conversation was animated and in their own language. He had kept watch from a safe distance, so could give no indication whether the conversation had been friendly, or otherwise. Ali had then left the Market area and was heading towards Blackwall.
As soon as they reached the borough, Phoenix called the agent back.
“Which way do we go from here? We’re passing the Queen Mary University.”
“Cross the Mile End Road and follow Harford Street. You need the A1205 and A1261 which get you near the East India Docks. I’m near Poplar Business Park, Waqar’s BMW is two cars in front of me. You’re twenty minutes away. If you get a few green lights, you might make it quicker.”
“Call me as soon as he stops,” ordered Phoenix. “Tell me exactly where and what he’s doing. Thanks,”
Rusty got the message. He needed to get them there as fast as possible, without getting pulled over by the law.
“Have you got a sheet of instructions the same as we had earlier, mate,” he asked.
“Afraid not, Rusty,” replied Phoenix. “Just be thankful we’re in the saloon and not the transit van.”
The agent rang back.
“Ali’s on the move. He sat in the Park for ten minutes after I talked to you last; then a guy approached him. He was white, thirty-five to forty, medium height. The guy might have been Greek or Turkish. He was well-dressed, cultured looking; a businessman rather than a working man. A bag was placed on the park bench between them as they sat talking. The other guy left it behind when he got up and walked away.”
“Which way is Ali headed now?” asked Phoenix.
“My best guess is he’s off home,” replied the agent.
“Guess again,” grunted Phoenix. “Waqar doesn’t normally handle the merchandise. He certainly wouldn’t stash it at his house. Something must have forced them to change their routine. The meeting at Spitalfields must be connected. No idea why, but the delivery had to be made in the Park, direct to Waqar. I’ll check with Larcombe to see if they have any intel. You keep tailing Ali and direct us to him as soon as you find out where he’s dropping off the stash. He’ll be going somewhere first before he goes home; that’s a given.”
“OK, Phoenix,” said the agent, and hung up.
The minutes ticked past. The distance between the Olympus agents and their prey was narrowing.
“Giles? Do you have news on Waqar Ali and his crew?” asked Phoenix.
“Just a second, Phoenix. News of a gangland execution in Hackney made the lunchtime news. You didn’t get a mention, you’ll be pleased to hear. The police are calling it the result of inter-gang rivalry and signs of a power struggle within the borough. This culminated in one gang trying to take over a nearby patch. The Met stress that this doesn’t mean the growth of the so-called super gangs is any more likely. This is an isolated incident, and they are pursuing a suspect with extreme diligence. Across the capital, there have been indications that gang members have changed their daily routine. Everything will get back to normal in a day or two. They’re probably nervous about the extra police presence on the streets; because of what happened to McTierney and his bodyguard. Added to that, the word will be out it was one of their own who flexed his muscles, aiming to elbow in on a neighbour’s manor. It’s left them looking over their shoulder to see if they’re next.”
“We might be able to help the police,” said Phoenix, thinking on his feet. “They’ve announced publicly, they have a suspect. We know their suspect will be home free within an hour of them taking him into custody. They won’t be able to make a charge stick. The police will be left with egg on their faces, yet again. Let’s change our plans. Get your agent in Tower Hamlets to make an anonymous call to the Met, informing them of the whereabouts of a large stash of drugs. Give them the number of Waqar Ali’s BMW. We’ll stay close by, to ensure he doesn’t make the drop and escape. We need to either allow the police to find the drugs in his car or catch him passing the bag on to his usual handler. The next guy in the chain, between Waqar and his runners.”
“Artemis believes she has identified her, Phoenix,” said Giles, “yes, it’s a woman, not a man. Aisha Naru is a thirty-eight-year-old married mother of three children. On the surface, she is the model wife and mother. Her children attend a good school, and she is a governor. Her husband works in the City. She earned a first-class degree in chemistry and worked in the Department of Pharmacology at Bath University until the first of her children were born. The family live in a four-bedroom, two-bathroom townhouse in Hoxton. You don’t get much change out of eight-hundred grand for a place like that these days. Her role in the operation is to procure the additives they need and cut the basic cocaine product to make it go further and to enhance the user’s experience. Based on the thriving trade Waqar Ali has developed, she must be good at her job.”
“Thanks, Giles,” said Phoenix, “I’ll leave you to set the wheels in motion. We’re diverting to Hoxton immediately. We’ll get there within minutes of Waqar Ali arriving. How soon the police arrive once your agent has alerted them; heaven only knows. We’ll block the BMW in, if we can, to cut off Ali’s escape. I can rely on Rusty to make it seem he’s got a genuine problem with the car.”
Rusty shrugged his shoulders. “Take your pick,” he said. “The electrics just died on me governor, or I’m lost, can you tell me how to get to Heathrow. What will you be doing while I’m acting my backside off?”
“I’ll get inside the house if need be. To prevent Ms Naru flushing the evidence down the loo,” said Phoenix. “We need the police to catch them in possession of the drugs to make this work.”
The agent called back.
“The Met is on their way. After this morning’s incident, you’ll have an Armed Response Unit on the site too. They’re not taking any chances. Ali is turning right at the next junction. That takes him into the street where the Naru’s live. I can see a police van in my rear-view mirror. They’re making a silent approach, thank goodness. Are you getting close now?”
“We’re entering the street from the opposite end,” said Phoenix. “Ali’s sat in his Beemer waiting for the electronic gate to open. It’s just a bar, though. Not a solid wall of steel. OK, he’s now parked on the driveway. Ali’s out of the car and walking up to the front door. What’s your position, over?”
“I’ve stopped on a double yellow,” said the agent, “the police
vehicles have passed me. They’ll be on the Naru doorstep in ten seconds. Right, I’m off before I get a ticket. Good luck. I’ll report into Giles and tell him I’m going off watch. One way or another, my job is done.”
“Thanks for your help,” said Phoenix. He and Rusty then watched as the police vans pulled up across the driveway of the townhouse. Eight to ten men leapt out. Several were armed and dressed in helmets, and protective vests. Others wore hi-viz jackets and one of their numbers carried his big red key.
Waqar Ali had been inside the house for no more than fifteen seconds after Aisha Naru had answered the doorbell when the front door almost exploded behind him. Aisha Naru screamed. Waqar dropped the bag he was carrying. It was over in less than a minute.
A car horn sounded behind the saloon. Rusty pulled forward and gave a wave to the impatient driver.
“Reminds me of this morning, mate,” he said. “Instead of watching something exciting happening right under their noses, most Londoners want to get on with their day. In the country, towns come to a complete stop if something such as this occurs. Up here, they’re so blasé. Seen it, done it; I’m not sure I could ever live up here mate, could you?”
“I’m a country boy at heart, Rusty,” said Phoenix, “well, we’ve got rid of the top two people in the chain. That should cut the head off the snake, for that drug operation at least. The Met will have a positive result to balance up this morning’s case of mistaken identity. We need to ensure the ice-house keep the Olympus name out of the frame; then we’re home free.”
“Not yet, Phoenix,” said Rusty as he tried to find the quickest route back to Chiswick, “there’s the small task of collecting Dwight Thacker.”
“I think we can award ourselves a night in. Let’s get two large pizzas and a six-pack of cans of lager from the supermarket near the safe-house. What do you say?”
“Sounds good. Don’t worry, I won’t tell Athena if you don’t tell Artemis.”
“You’ve got a deal,” said Phoenix, “tomorrow is another day, as someone once said.”
