‘Hello, this is Klaus.’
‘Good morning, Klaus, it’s me. I must say I’m extremely sorry that I didn’t ring you yesterday as I promised but I was detained. I’ve been busy and I’ve got some maps, photographs, names, other bits of information on the party you’re after. How does that sound?’
‘Very good indeed. I’ll come to you now?’ he asks.
‘I was gonna say I’ll meet you later at Primrose Hill, any cab driver’ll know it, at the top.’
‘Is it a hill?’
‘It’s a park. It’s ideal cos we’ll be up there all alone, there’s nowhere for anyone to hide. We’ll be able to see each other comin. Go to the top and I’ll see you there.’
‘At what time?’
‘Twelve-thirty?’
Plenty of time for him to catch his train.
‘That is good,’ says Klaus.
‘I’ll have an envelope in my hand. I wanna restore our reputation. Who knows, Klaus, there may be some business to be done in the future.’
At exactly twenty-five past twelve the shooter gives me a nod and we get out the motor. This geezer’s as fuckin cold as ice, no nerves at all. He opens up his bag, reaches and emerges with my half of the rifle. I put it under my raincoat. He tucks the other half under his puffa. We stroll into the park, along the fence, about three hundred yards from the top of the hill, till we reach the bushes and small trees that he’s selected to be the best vantage point. I hand him the half of the rifle I was carrying, unbutton my coat and get the binoculars outta the case hanging round my neck. He slots the rifle together and again I’m impressed with the way the metal clips together as the result of loving craftsmanship. There’s not a soul on our side of the park but in the distance I can see people walking their dogs. A group of four people are descending from the top of the hill and with my binoculars I can see a very large blond-haired guy in a similar trench-coat to mine hiking purposely up the hill with big strides. Sturmbannführer Klaus is right on time, punctuality being a Germanic virtue.
The shooter is standing with his hands behind his back, Prince Charles style, holding the assembled weapon behind him, outta sight. Through the glasses I can see Klaus arrive at the top and put his hand across his eyebrows to shade the sun while he looks down onto London. How do I know that’s Klaus? Who else is it gonna be?
‘Listen, that’s our boy on the hill there,’ I tell the shooter.
‘You sure?’
‘I’ll tell yer what, for your satisfaction I’ll ring him.’ I get my phone out. ‘Be ready, cos as soon as he answers he’s gonski, okay?’
‘Whatever you say. You’re the client.’
He looks about, left and right, to double-check there’s nobody about, then raises up a very serious-looking hunting rifle, complete with silencer.
I push the button to dial the last number, Klaus’s, looking through the binoculars at the same time. It starts to ring. Klaus reaches into the pocket of his raincoat and comes out with his phone.
‘Do it,’ I say.
Dooff. Klaus drops like someone’s cut the puppet’s strings, into a cross-legged position with his head down.
‘Hello.’ Someone answers the phone. ‘This is Klaus. Shy-sen! Mien Gott!’
Fuck! Panicking, I look up and down, back to the dead body. It’s a fuckin disposable four-ninety-nine camera on the ground beside him. I’m confused, gone burning red instantly. Halfway up the hill, fifty yards from the top, I spot a short, dark, dumpy guy, stood still, paralysed like a statue, with a fuckin mobile phone welded to his ear. Not very master-race. He looks like a kid in a grown-up’s suit. Suddenly the figure turns and starts to run back down the hill. I can hear quick, heavy footsteps and breathing at my end cos the connection’s still live. Klaus drops his phone. I can hear it crackling and sliding across the gravel path. He stops, grappling to pick it up.
‘Shoot that geezer runnin. Quick! That’s the fuckin geezer,’ I’m screaming at the shooter.
‘Listen, pal,’ he says, calm as fuck, already dismantling his rifle, ‘life ain’t a fuckin fun-fair. Trevor’s only paying for one. Comprendi?’
‘Please.’
‘No. I don’t do massacres. And I thought you Cockneys were cool.’
Take It Like a Man
‘Come in here and sit down right there. Now, maybe you just think I’m some tick, shit-shovelling Paddy, some shit-kicker fresh from off the bog, just got off the fuckin steam-ferry at Holyhead, but let me tell you something, you gormless little cunt, I’ve spent the last three hours sorting out the abortion of a bollix that you caused this morning. I’ve had to send sensible blokes out, on top fuckin money, that you’re fuckin payin, every fuckin penny, by the way, to try and find this Klaus character and his fuckin crowd and they’ll do the fuckin job properly, no mess. That man you had shot today was an American national, a systems analyst from Portland, Oregon, first time in London, had a wife and four kids. He was a fuckin decent, hard-working man and because you wanna start fuckin playing the gangster, calling on button-men, been watchin too many fuckin pictures, a man is now dead. If you wanna play the gangster, go play somewhere else, because if you do it round me I’ll fuckin cripple yer. Shooting people in public parks is not fuckin on, with kids and all sorts wandering about. Maybe I should’ve had more fuckin sense, you shoulda had more fuckin sense, what the fuck was you thinkin of? Who do you think you are? I’ll tell yer who yer ain’t. You ain’t Michael-fuckin-Corleone. You think that’s funny, do you? So why you got that insipid grin on your face? Don’t fuckin smile at me, son. Nervous, yer say? I’ll give yer fuckin something to be fuckin nervous about, yer little prick. Do you know what happens when an American gets shot in the fuckin head with a sniper’s rifle overseas? They send over the CIA, FBI, DEA. It becomes a diplomatic incident and that’s before you start to worry about what Scotland Yard are gonna do. We’re talking Anti-Terrorist Squad, MI6, Crim. Intel., SOU, Home Office, Foreign Office, that’s even before they put together a shit-hot murder squad. It’s one thing shooting a nut-case Nazi who’s probably known to Interpol, is up to all sorts of drugs skulduggery and has, no doubt, made enemies all over the fuckin place. If you’d shot the proper bloke today the old bill would probably wanna give you a medal. They’d be looking for other neo-Nazis because those fuckers are always falling out but, no, you gotta have Mister American shot fuckin dead. Have you seen CNN? They doing This Is Your Life on the guy. They’re ready to go to war with half a dozen countries, got the armed forces ready to go and bomber planes in the sky. Say what you like about Yanks but if one of their own guys gets fucked over, they don’t fuckin stop till someone’s crying. Every little sneaky little grass in London’s gonna have his arse set on fire by old bill. You wanna pray that the guys I sent out there this evening find these Germans and take care of them properly, dissolve the bodies, because if they find this Klaus before we do and he puts your name up, you’re fucked, you’re doing life plus twenty, hard time, behind the door. They’ll wanna put you on trial in America as well, on fuckin TV, so you better get down on your fuckin knees and pray, yer fuckin cunt. Does it bother you me talking to you like this? You got a fuckin problem with it? Maybe you think I’m just a fuckin gundog too, a shit-for-brains Mick. Maybe you think you can go dig up yer metal and you’re gonna come round, sneak up on me, and put one in my fuckin nut like ya did Jimmy fuckin Price. Well, you better not miss, yer cunt, cos I’ll take that fuckin gun and stick it up your arse sideways. Do you think I’m a cunt? Do ya? Think I’m a cunt? No? Yes? No. Well I’m fuckin glad you said that cos you sometimes look at people like you do, like yer think we’re here for your own fuckin personal amusement. You’re on probation with me, okay? I said, okay? You fuck this thing up tomorrow and I promise you I won’t kill ya, you’ll wish I had, I swear on my mother’s grave I’ll cripple yer, I’ll break your arms, then your legs, then your fuckin spine. I’ll put yer in a fuckin wheelchair. I swear they’ll have to feed yous with a spoon. You start a war with these fuckin geezers with
the pills and I’ll bury yer alive. I swear I’ll dig a hole and bury yer. Tonight I’ve got a guy from Stockwell bringing up some Smith and Wesson revolvers, same as what the law use, and some vests, stab-jackets. You send Clarkie over early in the morning to get them, he’s still got a fuckin brain. You reckon your pal’s gettin the caps and the radios? Tell him he better not fuck up either. And Morty, I’m holdin five uncut kilos that are paid for. Take it over to Sonny King tonight and he’s gonna sort ya out sixty grand in cash while ya wait. I know it’s too cheap but we need the cash for expenses. By the time he’s slapped it around he’ll have eight fuckin kilos outta that. Now you, listen to me, I’ll be round tomorrow, in Finsbury Park, with Mickey and a couple of other lads, just in case it does go crooked, but if you’ve got anything to say to me, tell Mister Mortimer here, and he can tell me, cos I don’t wanna talk to yer, in fact I don’t even wanna look at yer. Now get outta my fuckin sight. Morty, get this fuck away from me before I change my mind. Did you hear me? I said fuck off, now! Get outta here. Get!’
Tuesday This Is a Raid
Gene gets into the back of my rented motor. I’m half expecting a clip round the ear. I don’t really wanna look at him. I can feel his presence, smell today’s snout and last night’s whiskey. I’m at one end of the short street and Morty’s at the other, keeping an eye out for old bill. We’ve got phones, short-wave radios and a couple of scanners tuned to the local police frequency. We’ve driven past and seen the Merc G wagon and Merc sports soft-top parked up in front of the archway.
‘Right, son,’ he says, all top-of-the-morning, giving me a playful slap on the thigh. ‘What happened to your hand, son?’
‘Don’t ask, Gene,’ I say without turning to look at him.
I think I work with a loada fuckin schizophrenics. I’ve taken to carrying my false passport and money at all times.
‘Gimme your phone a second, son. Oh look, you’ve got quite a collection, quite the command post, ain’t ya?’
I hand him over one of the mobiles I’ve got in the back seat with me. He gets a piece of paper outta his pocket. ‘I’m useless with these. Get this number, will you?’
It’s JD’s number. I feed it in, press the send and hand the phone to Gene.
‘Good morning, Sir,’ he says to JD. ‘The boys have been busy on your behalf. We’ll have a meet later today. I think it’s fair what they’ve come up with . . . Not over the air. I’ll ring you later.’
It was decided that Gene shouldn’t lure the sentry party away, too obvious, but should tickle-up the theory that we have buyers on their behalf. It would be relatively simple to go blasting into the arch, take the cargo, but that would have massive implications, maybe start a war. They’ve got to think they’ve got a squeeze. If there’s an almighty steward’s inquiry it’s been a complete failure.
The boys have been busy on their behalf getting everything we need. Terry and Clarkie have been up here day and night, watching the comings and goings. Cody’s been up here taking photos with a long lens when he ain’t been running all over London recruiting, putting people to work acquiring, sometimes making or printing the necessary props. Cody’s had some excellent reproduction police baseball caps made, with the chequered sides that the heavy-mob use on raids. The badges on the front are photocopies of the chest of the South East Regional Crime Squad, embossed then laminated. If you studied it under a lamp it wouldn’t pass serious inspection but in the confusion we hope to produce it will, hopefully, work, especially when teamed up with Gene’s pal’s Smith and Wesson revolvers, stab-jackets that look much like the Met’s, yellow hi-visibility vests with POLICE surgically cut from stencilled blue and white plastic and then very carefully stuck on along with thin strips of reflective plastic running lengthways. Cody has obviously been watching The Colditz Story on telly, the bit where the English public-school boys make a very convincing Field Marshal’s uniform outta Red Cross parcels. He’s hired radios, hand-helds, lapel and ear-piece microphones.
On Sunday night he sent a geezer over the wall into the car-pound of a police station in deepest South London. The creeper was in the yard for three hours, in the early hours, opening the boots and doors of all the vehicles, seeing what he could find. He was disappointed with the haul, a bin-liner of odds and sods, POLICELINE tape, a truncheon, police-issue gloves, clipboards, but to Cody it was worth the five hundred he paid him. The two-quid-per-hundred-metres police tape was the real prize, well worth a monkey on its own.
Terry has made his way through back gardens into a decrepit garden shed about twenty feet from the doors so he can hear laughing and joking from inside. From his forward observation post he could ring back whispered intelligence but we couldn’t ring him for an update. Cody told him to hold the phone as far up and in their direction as was possible. Sometimes he rings another phone, we let it ring and decipher the signal. Three rings means movement in the G wagon, two rings in the Merc sports.
Terry rang earlier to say that there was six, repeat six, geezers inside. Three had spent the night and three had arrived early. When Cody’s firm went in they would have mobiles with them, tucked in a pocket in the front of the stab-jackets with a line open going back to me so if things got outta hand we’d know and then it becomes a straightforward skank. If we heard anything over the scanners, we could tell them over the radios. There’s a danger that they could cause so much commotion that some get-a-life neighbourhood-watch nuisance calls the real old bill, they come down here in cavalry-charge mode and the swindle’s blown. I keep a listening ear on that scanner. Gene goes to get out the motor.
‘I’m gonna go in with the first wave but I’ll be staying in the van, unless . . .’ He winks and pats his chest where an awesome weapon’s secreted. He shuts the door, walks away, takes two steps, returns like he’s forgotten something, opens the back door again and leans in. ‘Oh yes, that business. It’s sorted, lads found ’em in a mucky sauna in Swiss Cottage. Lifted ’em outside.’
‘And I gotta pay? That’s okay,’ I shrug.
‘I’ll treat yer. We’ll take it outta our winnings.’
He shuts the door and tiptoes off up the street. One of the phones rings so I pick it up. It’s Terry holding the phone up. I can hear laughing and joshing, about who’s going to brekkie first, complaints, play-fights, insults and pretend threats. They’re in good spirits after Geno’s call. Morale’s just taken a massive surge upward. One of the other mobiles rings three times then stops.
‘Movement in the big Merc. Get ready,’ I say over the radio.
Terry’s whispering over the sound of an engine. ‘Three are going. JD, Sidney and Gary are staying.’
This is an early away-goal for us cos the three getting in the Merc, Big Frankie, Paul the Bouncer and Sammy Fisher, are the hard-core, trigger-happy loons. They’ve pulled rank, are trotting off for their feed. JD’s the only serious heavyweight contender in there. Gary will show a clean pair of heels if shown a chink of light but Sidney ain’t gonna shoot fuckin nobody. But he may be reluctant to make one, do a runner, might need a shove. Half lying, half sitting, one eye shut, using one side of the binoculars, I see the Merc G wagon emerge from the entrance and turn off in Morty’s direction. One of my mobiles rings. It’s Mort.
‘Three on board. Frankie, Sammy and Paulie, a result.’
‘Billy’s gonna give it five minutes then hit it.’
Now I’m back to sweaty palms, shortness of breath, hearing my own heartbeat, looking at my watch every five seconds, wondering if Billy’s decided to turn it in, decided not to bother, maybe having a Darjeeling and almond croissant himself, when round the corner at Morty’s end comes a white box van, the Trojan horse, as Cody would have it. Driving is one of Gene’s head-the-balls. He puts full-lock on the steering wheel, into the entrance. A mechanic from one of the garages, outside having a smoke, tries to stop him driving up the tight, pot-holed track but he totally ignores him, almost runs him over instead. The gears grind and burn, the gearbox cries for help, the van sha
kes backwards and forwards, catching the kerb, scraping the brick wall on one side of the entrance. All the geezers in the back push the call button on their mobiles at the same time. They all ring together. I hit the green receive buttons. I can hear the screaming engine through all six phones laid out neatly in a straight line on the back seat.
I hear the roller-shutter of the back door go up and geezers dropping to the tarmac, war cries going up, like Red Indians, howling and savage, a door going in, shouts of ‘Armed police!’, curses, a fight. If anyone was going to be shot, it would be now. Combatants are grappling, one phone’s dropped to the floor. Cody’s told his team to get the three outside as soon as possible so they can leg it. Ordinarily old bill would be trying desperately hard to incapacitate their prisoners, dominate them, but our crowd are trying to aid and abet their escape, without it being obvious. I can hear a bit of metal hitting the brickwork, JD’s voice cursing. A scattering of mechanics and paint-sprayers come running onto the street to get away from the mêlée. I can hear Terry’s voice shouting my name on one of my phones.
‘Terry?’
‘Yeah, brov. Listen, that Gary went straight through the slips, over the fence like a gazelle.’
‘What about the other two?’
‘They’re getting near the street. We may have a result, brov, it’s a stand-off.’
I can hear shouting, JD’s voice above the rest, about burying it in yer head, ya cozzer cunts.
‘Go on, me son, run. They ain’t gonna shoot ya,’ Terry’s shouting over the phone. ‘Let me get a better view. Yessss, they’re on their way, you fuckin beauties, JD’s out-flanked them, they’ll be with you in five, four, three, two, one, zero. You got ’em?’
On zero, JD and Sidney come hurtling out the entrance into the street, running faster than two big guys should. JD drops a steel bar onto the road. A car has to break hard, with a skid, to avoid hitting JD but he’s oblivious to it. He swerves past it, curses and runs full pelt in my direction, while Sidney, who looks absolutely terrified, takes a tumble, gets quickly up and dashes off the other way, completely panicked. I duck down. I hear JD go darting past. I count one-two-three and put my head up again slowly but he’s already rounded the corner. That’s the hard part. Now comes the clever part.
Layer Cake Page 33
