Queen of Green (Queen of Green Trilogy Book 1)

by V E Rooney

  Sean sits forward. “Miss Reynolds has been working for my organisation for over two years now. You could say I spotted her potential early on, thanks to her success with her family business,” he says, smiling at me. “She’s proven to be one of my most valuable employees.”

  “And how did you manage that, Miss Reynolds?” Nunes says, not looking at Sean.

  I take a breath and look at Sean, who gives me the briefest of smirks. So I relay the whole fucking thing all over again, the same way I did when I was first sat in front of Sean with a gun pointing at me. It’s like a bloody job interview, me explaining how I came to be here, Nunes interrupting with questions, me answering him. When I get to the part about Sean – and that’s when Mr Kerrigan very kindly offered me a position within his organisation - that’s when Sean takes over and explains how I’ve helped to build the firm up with new deals, how I’ve reorganised the crew’s banking and finances and hidden them from potential prying eyes.

  Nunes sits forward, looking at me with a quizzical expression on his face. “I’m sorry? You have all of these bank accounts and front companies in place? And yet there are no details on paper?”

  “Well, the only documentation is things like company formation documents, which are a legal necessity of course, and each bank will have its own documentation about each account,” I explain. “But the accounts and the companies have been established with false names. Phantom identities, if you see what I mean. And we do not keep any paper copies of these documents regarding these entities anywhere.”

  “And yet you know all of the details of these different entities? How?”

  So I give Nunes a brief spiel about my particular memory capabilities. How it’s all kept up in my bonce, how I use opaque codenames and numbering systems which nobody else would be able to decipher.

  “I have to tell you, Mr Nunes. This girl has a brain like a computer,” Sean says admiringly. “I’ve tried to do the same thing myself, but she has a gift for it.”

  “I have heard of this technique…yes…it is called the memory palace, is that correct?” Nunes asks me. First I’ve ever heard of a fucking memory palace, whatever that is.

  “I’m not sure,” I say as I shrug. “I didn’t know it was a technique, to be honest. I learned how to do it by watching my Mum play bingo, how the numbers had different nicknames, that kind of thing,” I say, feeling like a clueless schoolgirl.

  Nunes gives a burst of laughter and claps his hands together. “Bingo! Marvellous! Two fat ladies!”

  “That’s the one. Or 88, I should say,” I reply, trying to forget how surreal the conversation has become. I’m sat here with two drugs barons talking about fucking bingo. Just as I am pondering this, the two men turn back to the matter at hand. Now that Nunes has been given an overview of Sean’s operations and our particular skills, I can see that he is warming to us. He wants to know what we’re capable of.

  “So…putting aside the question of price for the moment, let’s say that we are able to supply your organisation with a regular quantity of product, Mr Kerrigan,” Nunes says as he drains the dregs of his brandy. “Let us say that we can offer you an initial quantity of 50 kilos, for example. How would you then take delivery of those 50 kilos? And how would you distribute them?” Nunes sits back, clasping his hands together, peering at Sean.

  Sean purses his lips together. “Well, using our previous expertise, we would establish a new front company to receive the consignment either here in Holland, the UK or wherever, with the necessary bank accounts and import and export administration related to whatever goods the product was to be hidden in. For all intents and purposes, it would be like any other shipment of goods arriving here with nothing out of place or exposing the consignment to discovery by the authorities.”

  Nunes nods along.

  “Another front company would be established to dispatch the product onwards to its final destination via sea transport, either ferries or chartered boats, and using insider haulage companies in the same way we have used in the past without any issues. Once the product is in transit, it is placed under discreet surveillance by one of my teams to ensure that it is not being tracked by the authorities. When the product arrives at its destination, another dedicated team is tasked with unloading and repackaging the product into smaller quantities and then selling it onwards. It’s a tried and trusted method that we have used several times in the past with no problems. My employees, my contacts? They have all worked with me for several years. They are extremely loyal, professional and trustworthy.”

  “I see. But it is impossible for every shipment to make it undiscovered or unharmed, whether it is sunk by an act of God or whether it is discovered by the authorities,” Nunes says. “It is the nature of the business and the risk that one must take. Let us consider the worst-case scenario. Let us consider what would happen if our shipment was discovered by the authorities, either here or in the UK.”

  “For each consignment, new front companies with new bank accounts – in offshore jurisdictions to ensure secrecy, of course - would be set up, with no verifiable link at all to any of the other front businesses we have used, and with no link back to you or to us,” I chip in. “The teams that we use at each stage of the process – to unload the cargo, extract the product and take it elsewhere - would have no connection to each other and no knowledge of each other. They work like isolated, autonomous cells, each with their own task. It’s like a spider’s web, if you know what I mean. The more strands that we spin, the harder it is for the authorities to get to the spider at the centre.”

  Nunes nods.

  “And of course, should a shipment be lost for whatever reason, then you would be reimbursed for that loss. You have my word on that, Mr Nunes,” Sean says, with as much sincerity as he can muster. “There are not many things I’m afraid of in this world, but being in debt is one of them. And my organisation is in the very fortunate position of having invested its profits very wisely. We also have a readily available amount of capital which is rising steadily, thanks to our various schemes and investments. You would not be out of pocket if you were to do business with me. I can guarantee that, Mr Nunes.”

  A smile is slowly spreading across Nunes’ face. He looks down at his hands for a few moments.

  The London lot who fucked up and left the way open for us to take their place? Sean fills me in on the way back to our hotel, with a definite streak of disdainful relish in his voice. He’s almost crowing about usurping them. I’m guessing some of this animosity is personal.

  “The fucking Thompsons. Bunch of inbred twats. That lot couldn’t find their own bollocks with both hands. Not a fucking brain cell between them. They still think it’s the fucking 1970s. They haven’t moved with the times. You can’t afford to stay still, girl. Not in this game. Anyway, Davey Thompson, he’s the main fella, head of the family. Then his younger brothers, Tony and Chris, loads of cousins, nephews and what have you. They think they’re the fucking Krays, that lot, strutting all over London giving it the Big-I-Am. Wankers.”

  “Right. So what did they do to you?” I say, as we traverse the edges of the red light district, ignoring the calls of “you want to come and see fucky-fucky?” from the touts and the pimps outside the live sex shows.

  “Me? Fuck all, girl. I knew better than to get tangled up with that lot,” Sean says. “Anyway, doesn’t surprise me they fucked up. See, girl, a few months back, I heard rumours that something had gone down with the Thompsons and some gang in the Costa del Sol. Turns out a boat with some precious cargo on board had disappeared in the Med on the way to the Costa. It never arrived where it was supposed to arrive. So the Costa gang straight away are pointing the finger at the Thompsons, thinking that they’ve done a double-cross on them, and the Thompsons are pointing the finger at the Costa lot, saying that they’ve set the whole thing up.

  “Meanwhile, some Venezuelan and Colombian fellas are getting twitchy because their cargo’s gone missing and they’re of the opinion that the
Thompsons and the Costa gang are in on it together, that they’re both trying to stitch up the South Americans. Which you don’t fucking do if you’ve got any sense about you. That lot aren’t in the habit of giving people second chances, know what I mean? Anyway, the next thing I heard, a bunch of South American fellas have turned up on the Costa, making enquiries on the quiet. And then one day there’s a fucking shoot-out at this villa, proper fucking Scarface style. Half the Costa gang get wiped out, and a couple of Thompson boys go missing, never to be seen since.

  “The next thing, Davey Thompson has done a moonlight flit out of Blighty to fuck knows where to lay low for a while, and Tony and Chris Thompson are so fucking petrified of being gunned down that they won’t even leave their houses. They’re wearing bulletproof vests 24/7, even when they’re asleep. Meanwhile, their cronies are shitting themselves, they’re getting driven round in the boots of people’s cars so nobody will spot them.”

  “And what about this missing cargo?”

  “Nobody knows for sure, although the Thompsons have got form for suddenly coming into a shitload of coke, not long after a consignment has gone missing in mysterious circumstances. Sounds like they got in over their heads with the South Americans, thought they could get away with blagging them. But as they found out, those South American lads do not mess around.”

  “Which is fortunate for us,” I say, half-serious.

  “Exactly, girl.”

  “And what do we know about the man from Del Monte?”

  “Nunes is old school. You saw that yourself. The things he looks for in partners are respect, loyalty and discretion. Not a load of lairy loudmouth London tossers who don’t know their arses from their elbows. If he gives us the nod, nobody will be able to touch us, girl. Nobody.” Sean says this with such authority and conviction that I can’t help believing in him. Even though I know that law enforcement agencies and rival gangs will be desperate to prove him wrong.

  “Remember, Sean,” I say. “Nobody can afford to become cocky and complacent. Not even you.”

  “Shut it, smart arse.”

  “Yes, boss.”

  We get back to the hotel and retire to our respective rooms. I’ve just had a shower and I’m brushing my hair in front of the mirror. I can’t help it. I get ahead of myself. I stare at the mirror.

  “Roberto. Roberto,” I say in an exaggerated Spanish accent. “Robert. Rob. Robbie. Robbie Fowler.”

  I carry on brushing my hair. “Robbie Fowler. Fowler. Fowler.”

  And then it dawns on me. The perfect codename for Nunes.

  “Birdman.”

  It’s 5am when I’m woken by a succession of sharp knocks on my door. Rubbing my eyes into life, I open the door to Sean. He’s already dressed and looks wide awake.

  “It’s a bit early to be checking out, mate. Isn’t it normally around noon?” I say, yawning.

  “Just had a call from Del Monte. We’re to meet him at Schiphol Airport in three hours. Get yourself organised.” With that, Sean heads back to his room, ignoring my splutters.

  A couple of hours later, Sean and I walk into the departures hall at Schiphol and make our way to an airline ticket desk where we purchase two single journeys to Madrid, both using our one-year passports. It’s as we’re heading past security and towards one of the airline business lounges when Nunes steps out from the shelter of a café and joins us.

  So far, Sean has not told me where we are heading or what is happening despite my insistent requests for the gist. It’s only when we are settled into the sofas in the airline lounge that I get the first indication that my hunch is right.

  Nunes is all perfect politeness and suave charm. “Ah, Miss Reynolds. My apologies for the rushed start to your morning,” he oozes as I neck the first of several black coffees. He then addresses Sean. “Upon your arrival in Madrid you will be met by my associate in the arrivals hall. He will provide you with your tickets and documentation for your journey to Venezuela.”

  We’re off to Venezuela, eh? All seems a bit rushed. I was expecting to make the journey at some point but not right away. Why the urgency? Isn’t it rather trusting of Nunes to be taking us into his inner circle so soon? Not that Sean is giving any indication of unease. He and Nunes are chatting away about places to see in Caracas, where to eat, where to drink and all that when the lounge tannoy system crackles into life, alerting passengers that the 8.40 flight to Frankfurt is now ready to board. With that, Nunes springs to his feet.

  “Mr Kerrigan? Miss Reynolds? I wish you both a pleasant and productive journey,” he says as he shakes Sean’s hand and snogs mine. And then he’s gone. We have another 40 minutes before our flight is due to start boarding. I’m about to give Sean the third degree but he’s on his feet as well.

  “Right then, you scruffy sod,” he says as he picks my bag up and hands it to me. “You’d best get down to the shops and get some summer clobber. Gonna be scorching where we’re going. See you at the gate.”

  The journey to Madrid is uneventful, although the hotter Southern European climate is already making me sweat like a pig in a sauna. I dread to think what the temperature will be like in Venezuela.

  We get through passport control and make our way to the arrivals hall. Amongst the hordes of waiting cab drivers and chauffeurs stands a man who looks a lot like Nunes. Brother? Cousin? He’s carrying a sign saying: HAROLD GRANT. Before I even know what’s happening, Sean has nodded at him and we follow him outside the arrivals hall. We walk to a café further down the airport whilst the introductions are formally made.

  “Mr Kerrigan? I am Miguel. Miss Reynolds? Miguel. We have some hours before your flight to Caracas. Roberto has asked me to accompany you until you are ready to leave,” Miguel says, giving my T-shirt and trackie bottom combo a rather disdainful look, in the same way Alan does when he sees me in my scally uniform. I wonder if Miguel’s gay. Maybe I could set them up. I know Alan likes his men dark and swarthy. We take our places at a corner table overlooking the taxi rank outside whilst Miguel gets the coffees in. I turn to Sean, almost whispering.

  “Do you trust this lot?”

  “What’s up, girl? What, you think they’re gonna jump us or something? Behave, will you?”

  “Pardon me for being on tenterhooks. It’s all a bit sudden, isn’t it? We only met this lot last night and now they’ve got us flying halfway across the world? And you’re not twitching at that?”

  A hundred different thoughts are fighting for dominance. Is this some elaborate ruse or sting? Maybe Sean has been taken in by this bunch and we’re about to be done over.

  “This is how it’s done, girl. Relax while you can. Gonna be full on when we get there,” he says as Miguel returns with the drinks. I quickly give myself a mental ticking-off. If anyone’s instincts are better than mine, they’re Sean’s. He would’ve rumbled this outfit within seconds. I really wish I wasn’t so paranoid at times, life would be so much more enjoyable.

  Miguel reaches into his jacket pocket and brings out a small manila envelope which he gives to Sean. Sean does not do his customary check of the contents, instead placing it inside his own jacket pocket. We make idle talk with Miguel for another 30 minutes and then he leaves. It’s only when he’s gone that Sean brings out the envelope and checks the contents. Two business-class tickets to Caracas for use with our full UK passports this time. Our flight leaves in four hours. We head back into the airport, clear check-in and security and settle down in another airline lounge.

  Sean is making various phone calls on the payphones in the lounge, sorting out arrangements with the lads at home and keeping a distant eye on business. I sink into a plush couch with a glass of orange juice and do a quick scan around the lounge. I’m a little out of place, put it that way. I’m surrounded by grey, middle-aged, harassed-looking businessmen, exquisitely dressed ladies and some continental yuppie types.

  In the space of 24 hours I’ve done my first ever plane trips and I’m about to have a 12-hour trip to the other side of the world.
Things are getting serious in a short space of time.

  The flight to Caracas is nerve-wracking. Not because I’m afraid we’ll get busted but because the turbulence halfway across the Atlantic is fucking terrifying. I seriously think the plane will split apart with all the bumping and shuddering going on. I don’t sleep a wink, whereas Seanie boy, nicely oiled by a couple of whiskies in the lounge, conks out asleep as soon as he sits down and doesn’t wake up again until a couple of hours before we’re due to land.

  I occupy myself by mentally checking off what we need, making sure I’ve memorised everything correctly. The less paper I carry around with me, the better it is for everyone. I also try to learn a bit of Spanish from a phrasebook I bought in the airport. Well, people appreciate it if you make a bit of an effort, don’t they? I’d hate to be one of those ignorant patronising Brits abroad who magically expects everyone to understand by shouting English at them very slowly.

  I am relieved when the plane lands at Caracas without any problems. I half-expect the wing to fall off or the tyres to burst. The sudden noise of Spanish chatter combined with the steep rise in temperature and humidity only serves to give me this otherworldly sensation as I step through the aircraft door ahead of Sean. He still hasn’t given me any details about where we’re going.

  We clear passport control, collect our newly-bought luggage complete with weather-appropriate clothes and make our way through the arrivals hall. We’re met outside by two tall men, who I clock to be more bodyguards from the Mendez cartel. We’re taken outside to a waiting vehicle and we set off on an hour’s journey through the dusty and bustling streets of Caracas to a much smaller airfield on the outskirts of the city. A private Cessna-type plane is waiting for us. Our bodyguards usher us into the plane, giving us blindfolds to wear so that we have no idea of which direction we’re heading. Then the propellers whirl into life, the plane hurtles down the small runway and we’re aloft.