by Les Cowan
Tati went straight to her room and lay on the bed. She could hardly contain herself. It was like drinking too much champagne or getting a new boyfriend; she wanted to giggle or laugh out loud. She certainly couldn’t keep a smile off her face. But she had to compose herself in case someone came in. Only a little over twenty-four hours to go. She’d just have to make it through one more night of groping and fumbling, heaving and groaning, then it would be over. Of course she didn’t know exactly what would happen or when but she was 100 per cent sure that something was going to happen, something decisive and final – something that would surprise them all. But especially Max. That would take the smile off his face. Permanently. It would all happen like clockwork, she knew. All she needed to do was keep this stupid grin off her face and behave exactly like normal. So she sat up, straightened her face, emptied the Sally Winters bag out on the bed, and started going through the stuff to get it all ready. She might be in the oldest profession in the world but she was going to act completely professionally. Roll on Friday.
From what Tati and Elvira had told them, McIntosh explained to his team – now they all had a fresh coffee in front of them – they knew there were seven houses, all run by PGC. The main house was in Duff Street, then further establishments were in Salamander Street, Craigmillar, Muirhouse, Wester Hailes, Granton, and Victoria Quay. They had tails on Blatov and Lubchenco already, along with anyone who came or went from Duff Street, so there was a good chance they’d be able to identify the houses even before Friday but, if not, it was almost certain they’d find their addresses in the records in the office in Duff Street. Blatov and Lubchenco seemed to feel so confident in their police protection that they were being negligent in their own internal security. “Criminally negligent,” piped up one wag to general mirth before McIntosh called them to order again. So, assuming they could place teams in each location, they would go in at exactly the same time – 3 a.m. on Friday evening when the party was in full swing. If not, then SWAT teams would be stationed in each vicinity, ready to get an address as soon as they could access one, whether from office records or by persuading a participant in Friday’s fun and games to cooperate in the hope of maybe some consideration in court. So that was it. Everyone knew their roles in the operation. They’d reconvene in the morning to go over it once again and update intelligence; in the meantime, go home, relax, unwind a bit, and roll on Friday.
Chapter 25
FRIDAY NIGHT IS MUSIC NIGHT
There was always a lot going on prior to a Special night. Mikhail would go around adjusting the decorations, making sure there was enough drink in the fridges and snacks on the tables and that broken lightbulbs were replaced. Each of the girls had to dress and was inspected from top to toe. Sometimes they were sent off to fix their make-up or even change into something more revealing. The end result was that everybody was totally keyed up. In the middle of this particular evening, Tati felt she was ready to explode, but she had to keep a straight face and behave totally normally. With about half an hour to go, Tanya came to her in floods of tears.
“I just can’t do this any more,” she sobbed. “I hate them. I hate them all. I can’t go on.”
It was so tempting to say, Don’t worry, Tanya. In a couple of hours it’ll all be over and you’ll never have to do it again. But she couldn’t. She just helped her dry her eyes and tidy up her mascara.
“You’ll be fine,” she said soothingly. “It won’t go on for ever. Take it easy. I’ll try and make sure you don’t get one of the worse ones. I’ll take Stevenson.”
“Thanks, Tati,” Tanya said. “Sorry, I know I have to. You’re the best.”
Tati let out a sigh of relief as she sent her back to her room to compose herself and went to change into her latest Sally Winters creation. Great for your honeymoon with the man you want to spend the rest of your life with, she thought, fiddling with the straps. Maybe even ok for a wild weekend in Grodno with a cool guy you met in a bar. Not so good just to be peeled off by a fat, sweaty man in his late fifties with bad breath who thinks you are his personal plaything.
Dimitri was keyed up too and also tanked up with a couple of shots to keep him steady. However much he boasted and blustered in front of Boris and Yuri, he knew that taking on Max was not in fact a piece of cake and carried significant risks. He thought he’d got the others on side and he’d made sure they had sufficient firepower if things got messy, but this wasn’t going to be a Sunday afternoon picnic on the banks of the Svislach. As a result he was even more rude and aggressive to the girls than normal. Kristina ended up in tears on account of something he said and Mikhail tore a strip off him and told him to keep his fat butt out of the way and look after security like he was paid to. Just a couple of hours, Mikhail, he thought, then you’ll get yours. I’ve got a Special for you that you won’t forget. But he did as he was told.
Less than a hundred yards away McIntosh and his team were keyed up too but there was also something of a party atmosphere in the van. Sally Winters had felt like much the more speculative operation and that had gone better than could have been hoped. This was just sweeping up. It turned out they didn’t even need the bug they’d given Tati once that idiot Dimitri had blurted out the actual street address of the main house. What an amateur. But it was still useful giving them local broadcast audio. And this was the first serious outing for the van, which was proving a huge asset. It had actually been the idea of Douglas Forsyth, the Divisional Commander, and he had fought hard for the resources to put it together and to keep its development confidential. McIntosh liked the joke in the livery on the side. A huge pantechnicon furniture van converted to two internal floors with a mixture of holding rooms with interview facilities, an incident room, hi-tech surveillance, and even a coffee machine was just exactly what this type of operation needed. That way they could transport up to twenty-four officers exactly to where they were needed in a single group, with all the facilities needed perfectly camouflaged, in built-up areas. Only a furniture van-sized vehicle would be big enough and, as it happened, nobody would bat an eyelid seeing it parked outside a block of flats. To complete the illusion, the van had “OUR MOVE” in huge letters on the side, with two fat blokes carrying a sofa as its logo. That was appropriate to the illusion but also very funny. McIntosh enjoyed the thought that Blatov, Lubchenco, and their lackeys had been calling the shots to date but now it was law enforcement’s move. The audio feed from Tati’s bug matched how she had described preparations for a Special night, though he would have loved to have heard a bit more of Dimitri’s conversation just after they’d got back. Well, he’d find it all out in due course. In the meantime, Operation Top Hat – he had no control over the choice of designation – was sitting tight and ready to go. As well as his immediate team, they had a bunch of uniforms in body armour all wired for sound and video, night vision kit, two battering rams, stun guns and firearms, flash grenades, and a bucket load of other stuff you don’t get in army surplus. He was ready.
David and Gillian were also keyed up on the other side of town. Having finally tracked down David H: Pastor, Elvira couldn’t get enough of his visible, touchable reality and begged Dalrymple to let them get together on Friday evening. So James, Elvira, Sarah, and Paul had come over to Gillian’s Marchmont flat, which had a considerably bigger living room space than David’s. They drank tea or strong coffee and nibbled olives and savoury snacks but the conversation was desultory and vague. McIntosh had provided them with a receiver on the operational frequency, and it murmured away in the background with a load of coded comms abbreviations that meant nothing to anyone. David was surprised how calm and routine it all sounded. Elvira was high as a kite and chattered incessantly but he only managed vague monosyllabic responses or didn’t even notice he was being addressed. Gillian looked after the guests with food and drink and kept a slightly nervous eye on David. She knew him well enough to know he didn’t handle high-anxiety situations very well.
By 10.30 Mikhail was satisfied with prepar
ations and allowed the girls to sit down and have a drink or pop whatever pill they wanted in moderation. Guests were forbidden to arrive before 11.00 p.m. so there was a breather. He would rather be ready half an hour early than two minutes late. This would be a big one. It was the first time Stevenson and all the insiders had come in a single group. That was somewhat risky but Stevenson had insisted. He had just hit forty years in the force and had a huge pension to look forward to. After all the rough he’d had to put up with it was time for some smooth. The silky smooth skin of a nineteen-year-old would do just nicely. When the door entry buzzer finally went Mikhail himself answered it. He took his role of master of ceremonies seriously. Max looked after what they called policy and strategy, but Mikhail’s job was to keep the customers satisfied, and deal with what they laughingly called HR – a suitably dehumanized term for the resource they were managing.
“Mr Stevenson, nice to see you. We have a fantastic evening planned for you and your companions.”
“Evening, Mikhail. Happy days are here again. Things have been getting a wee bit bumpy of late. You boys better get your act together again or you’ll be wishing you were selling ciggies on the street corner. Oh, hello, darlin’!”
Six further burly men trooped in after him, laughing, joking, pushing, and jostling in high spirits. Their boss was leading the line. He’d have it all sewn up. And the girls were on him tonight. Mikhail ushered them into the main lounge.
“You’ve been redecorating, Mikhail,” Stevenson boomed. “Very tasteful.” Charlie Thompson just behind him wondered what his wife would have made of it. “Lurid”, “disgusting”, “an accident in a paint factory” might all be expressions she could have used. Anyway, she wasn’t going to be asked to comment on the decor or any other aspect of the evening. As far as she knew, George Stevenson was hosting a wee celebration for his closest fellow officers in a converted bingo hall in Leith – a couple of drinks, maybe a band, then fillet steak all round, ’nuff said. After twenty years a polis wife she’d learned when to keep her doubts and suspicions to herself. Anyway, she’d be spending the evening with a friend called Barry that Charlie knew nothing about. So that was fine too.
The decor on the walls wasn’t the main attraction, of course, and as each of the men came into the lounge they were met by a smiling escort who took their coats and hats, supplied them with a drink of their choice, then sat down draped around them as they had been trained to do. Tati made for Stevenson, leaving Tanya to go with Thompson, a slightly less disgusting choice. So drink was taken and Tati’s pen – which she’d popped behind a pot plant, having been told to keep it as near to her as possible – relayed crisp, clear audio of light giggly voices, raucous laughter, obscene jokes, calls for more drink, and general congratulations to George, who was, without a doubt, a true survivor. One or two of the boys had even got him something, so there was also the sound of the unwrapping of crinkly paper and happy surprise. To remind him of their night of pleasure, Thompson and Carmichael had clubbed together and got him an expensive Playboy coffee table collection.
“Very nice – but not needed tonight, boys,” was Stevenson’s laconic response.
Around 11.30 the lights dimmed in the lounge, all but at the far end where a small performance area had been cleared. An eerie Eastern beat began, and Natasha, who normally worked in the Victoria Quay house, came on dressed as a harem girl. There was uproarious applause, whistling, and catcalling. It was a good job Natasha’s English and for that matter her urban Scots wasn’t too good, though the gist of it was plain enough. Gillian might have done a paper on twenty-first-century Scots euphemisms for sex. Natasha was a very beautiful girl, and once she started moving the noise died down right away as the guys sat round with their mouths open, transfixed by what they were seeing but also half-dying of anticipation for what was to come. Even Mikhail came in to watch. It was spellbinding. As a professional he could appreciate her style. In fact, so engrossed did he and all the guests become that nobody noticed Dimitri, Boris, and Yuri edging into the room instead of being on door duty as they should have been. Yuri, as the slimmest, edged forward towards where Natasha was but nobody took any notice. The beat was building, Natasha glancing round enticingly from one gawping face to another as she spun, weaved, and swayed in time to the music. Boris stationed himself opposite Yuri and Dimitri was near the door. Everyone in the house was accounted for. They were all together in one place, just as Dimitri had planned. Everything was going perfectly.
At a nod from Dimitri, Boris yanked the audio cable out of the wall and the music instantly stopped. Stevenson and his crew hardly had time to protest before two sharp gun shots deafened them all. Dimitri was shouting. “On the floor. Everybodys! On the floor!”
Tati was confused. This wasn’t part of the police operation, was it? Was Dimitri on the side of the police all the time? Mikhail had no doubts. He was swearing in Belarusian. He tried to stand up and Boris battered him on the back of the head with the barrel of his pistol. Mikhail went down, holding his scalp. Everyone else was frozen.
“Are you deaf, everybodys? I said on the floor!” Dimitri shouted again and let off another round just to show he wasn’t joking. The girls immediately hit the deck or tried to hide behind the sofas, hands over their ears. Stevenson, Thompson, and the others weren’t so easily phased.
“Come on now, fellas. What’s this all about? You’re spoiling a great party,” he began, but Dimitri took a step forward and levelled the gun directly at his head.
“You want argue about it?” he asked. “What part you not understand, please?”
Reluctantly they followed instructions.
“Now, Mr Lubchenco. You. Get up. Come with me. We go office. If anybody’s moving they gets a bullet, ok?” He walked over and half-lifted, half-dragged Mikhail off the floor.
“Change of management,” he said sweetly. “A few things we need discuss, no?”
“Max will kill you for this,” Mikhail spat out.
“Max is history,” Dimitri said, trying to smile just the way he had seen Max do so often. “Right now, Max is my guest in Salamander Street house.” He glanced at his watch. “And all other houses under new management too. Now come. We friends, no?”
Tati lay on the carpet quivering. She was sure this wasn’t supposed to happen. Where was David H: Pastor and his police I’m supposed to trust?
“The computer,” Dimitri ordered Mikhail, holding the barrel of his pistol to the back of his head. “The money. You show me where is the money I maybe let you live.”
Mikhail gave a bitter laugh.
“That’s funny,” he said. “There is no money. Not any more. Max moved it to a safe account but when we looked two days ago it wasn’t there. Nobody knows where it is.”
“You think I’m a idiot?” Dimitri shouted. “You treat Dimitri like a crazy kid? You go to the banking. You show me the money or you never leave this room!”
“I can show you the account,” Mikhail said wearily, as Dimitri pushed him into the office with a gun in his back. “I’d be happy to share the money with you if you could find it.”
He tapped the keyboard to wake up the computer and started tapping and clicking. Dimitri, standing behind him, was aware of how much he was sweating. His mouth felt like the only dry part of him.
Back in the main room the police and the girls were all flat on the floor. Boris and Yuri were smiling at each other as they kept guns trained.
“Hey, Tati,” Boris said, breaking the silence. “Get me a beer. Out the fridge. Now.”
Slowly she began to get up and head for the door.
“No that one, you idiot. You’re not going anywhere. I’ve got plans for you.”
She opened the mini bar, took out a can, and handed it to him. The thought of trying to hit him with it occurred to her, but then she thought, Who does that help? It’s not like I’m on the same side as Mikhail. And where is David H: Pastor?
In the OUR MOVE van, McIntosh had been listening to the unfoldi
ng situation with growing concern. What they needed was control, predictability, complete dominance of the situation; unpredictable, out-of-control events were the enemy. What was happening now was not in the plan. He decided it had gone far enough. There was no telling what was going to happen next. He moved the timeline forward. The original plan had been to let the party unfold, let the evening take its course. Once the drinking was over Tati had told them the men normally took their chosen girl off about half past twelve. Then what happened next varied depending on how much they’d had to drink. But they were usually finished by three and in a woozy, mellow mood. That was the moment to go in: when guards – and trousers – were down. The guards would be sleepy and relaxed. The action was over. But it needed to be coordinated with the other sites. He got a status update from each of them. There were no other Specials on so no particular activity. Normal comings and goings. Blatov had entered the Salamander Street house an hour ago and not come out. They were all ready to go on his mark; it was his call. He pondered for a second then made up his mind.
