Mustafa couldn't focus, and his cluttered mind refused to let him think clearly. "It's worse than I thought. This need to be addressed without mercy, without pity."
“The lieutenants are preparing a thorough purge of this damned ghetto as we speak.”
The consequences would be wide-ranging, Mustafa thought. But he agreed that there was no other way. Cancer had pervaded their side of the hood. "Good...this has to be done." He stared at his brother in straight the eyes, and said, "Zak, how do you feel about all this? Everything we've built here…"
"We'll have to leave the Val Fourré, Mouss, we won't be able to take the heat from here. Djib, Rayyan and the others will take over; they'll protect Ma. But you and me, we'll have to leave. For a year, two, maybe more."
"I know." Mustafa was filled with regrets. Their adventure at the helm of the drug organization had ended in the worst possible way. For a fleeting instant, he thought back to the promise he had made to an old man as a kid, in the very apartment he was standing in right now.
“I’ll tell Ma. It’ll be hard on her.” Zakariya said.
“I’ll come with you.”
Zakariya nodded, and they walked toward the bedroom. Just as he laid hand on the doorknob, Mustafa stopped him in his stead.
“Wait, I need to know.” His tired yet glistening eyes betrayed a twisted curiosity. “How did you kill Eliah?”
Zakariya looked down at the back of his hands. They were strained, and his knuckles were dotted with scales of blood. He clutched his fists and said, “He suffered, trust me.”
CHAPTER 41
For the first time in his life, Zakariya had surrendered to the feeling that his life wasn’t worth living. He had given up on his ideals of a hood bathed in blissful harmony, of a tight community living in peace, rid of human perversion. At no point had he been naive about it, but he believed that the natural tendency of men to seek chaos could be contained. The old leaders of the gang had chosen to imprint their rule of a blood-stained fist, without any attempt to revolutionize their way or leverage their position for the greater good.
Zakariya felt like a fool. All of this for what? More death? Closer to me...
He was focused on carrying out his departing gift to the Val Fourré, but as he pressed on toward the basement of sector C with his brother, he wrestled with thoughts of death and shattered hopes. He needed to throw the dice again, start over with a clean slate. At the same time, he felt a profound sorrow, for his innocent sister of course, but she wasn’t among the livings anymore. First and foremost, he was full of regrets for his despairing mother.
Nour Mansouri had had her world torn apart in one dramatic evening, her fragile family broken to pieces by an agent of the devil, a wicked kid that had triggered a nefarious series of events that would leave a permanent mark on the grimmest ghetto of Mantes-la-jolie.
The purge began at six thirty in the morning in the form of synchronized operation, in a sense reminiscent of the weak coordinated warning they had given to the same group a few months earlier. For someone who prided himself on his ability to read people and anticipate betrayals and changes of heart, Zakariya’s feeble warning shot had backfired spectacularly.
The lieutenant council, gathered in haste, had resolved to eliminate all fangs of the rogue band, along with a number of relatives and close friends earmarked as likely to seek revenge in the future. The intelligence collected by dozens of watchmen over the years had proven invaluable. They had mapped out twelve men in total, the youngest aged just eighteen, the oldest forty-three.
It had been an ice-cold decision, not a unanimous one. And even though all lieutenants felt some sympathy for the death of their leader’s young sister, what had tipped the scales for most of them was a more selfish predicament.
Eliah had proven the perfect trojan horse for his own group. His mobile phone, once unlocked, had proved filled with gold nuggets. The teenager had tried to smash it on the wall as the noose tightened, but it had bounced on Zinedine’s quick hand and landed softly on the ground. What they found stored in the Nokia 3310 was a mastery in betrayal.
Countless exchanges with other traitors carefully pinpointed how they planned to overthrow the current gang leadership. The Mansouri brothers were supposed to be the first ones to be assassinated. Zakariya later realized that Eliah was on his way to execute the death sentence all by himself that night, in an attempt to prove his worth to older, contemptuous dealers. And unable to take out his original targets, in his psychopathic deviant delirium, he had murdered Yasmina instead. The demented act of a mad dog.
Djibril was to be the next target, then Zinedine, and Rayyan, and the other lieutenants. They were all to be slain, in what was meant to be a fear-mongering operation that would span weeks and disrupt the entire organization. Details were lacking, but the gist of the plan was terrifying. It would have been the boldest, most shameless coup ever carried out in the Parisian suburb, and there was no doubt it would have punctured the Val Fourré narcotics business in its heart.
Paradoxically, the gang’s salvation had come from Eliah himself. As was customary, the rogue members were deleting messages immediately upon receiving or sending them, and they would change phones frequently to keep suspicious eyes at bay. The troubled kid had obviously failed to understand the importance of discretion when plotting a coup – maybe he really was too inexperienced.
Once Zakariya had announced that there would be no deliberations this time around, all the lieutenants got behind him unconditionally, and set out to avert the impending crisis in the most brutal of fashions. In total, the purge had involved fifty-nine watchmen, dealers, lieutenants and members of their armed militia, in what would be remembered for years as the Mansouri vendetta, an unrepentant payback operation conducted with military precision. None of the policemen that would later investigate the case would suspect even one instant that the outline of the plan to purge the Val Fourré had been drawn in only ten minutes.
. . .
The culling was still underway when Zakariya and Mustafa Mansouri bid farewell to their mother and life-long comrades. Nour Mansouri was desensitized to the inhuman amount of sorrow she had experienced that night. Zakariya knew she would be crushed once reality kicked back with a vengeance, and he had mandated Rayyan and Ismael to watch over her when that happened.
Oddly enough, he had found hardest to part ways with Djibril. The untold mutual respect they shared, bordering on admiration, and the brotherly empathy they had for each other was an infinitely stronger cement than a friendship predicated on common interests and cultural similarities. Djibril had insisted the Mansouris stowed twenty grants of the organization’s cash reserves in the trunk of their car, to start over elsewhere and guard against unforeseen circumstances.
The farewells with the rest of the gang were brief, and Rayyan promised Zakariya he would watch over his hood. Zinedine and Ismael looked distraught, their dark expressions only too fitting given the deluge of death that had just doused the Val Fourré. Ismael's mouth was curled up in a snarl, yet, as he locked eyes with Zakariya for the last time in years, he couldn't help but feel that they would meet again. In fact, they were all convinced of it.
As the Mansouri brothers drove away from Mantes-la-jolie, a city that had become inherently toxic to them, Zakariya was suddenly hit with a heart-wrenching realization. His pulse quickened at the thought of it.
Mariam would be waiting for him tomorrow in their cozy hangout in the basement of sector C. He had completely forgotten about her existence in the midst of the ongoing chaos, and he knew chances were he would never see her again. He gazed out of the window and lost himself one final time in the soothing memory of her fabulous perkiness. Her soul-piercing eyes, and warm, inviting skin. Her alluring, fruity scent. Her insatiable sexual hunger. She had been a sweet, intoxicating presence in the middle of this land of wolves. For the first time since last night, Zakariya was smiling.
ACT III
“In life, unlike chess, the game cont
inues after checkmate," - Isaac Asimov.
CHAPTER 42
Even the most nocturnal patrons of club Lucky 77 were already gone by the time the lieutenants made their way into the secret boardroom in the early hours of the morning. By then, the streets of London were freed from the relentless bustle of the night. Most drinking establishments had closed, as the last partygoers buckled up in black cabs as they headed home. On the other hand, it was still too early for the first commuters, who would only flock the streets of the city a couple hours later. The odd supply van could be spotted in front of clothing stores and healthy fast-food chains, but for the most part, at five A.M., London was still asleep.
Ismael was the last to arrive, and the emergency council could start.
"I'll go straight to the point," Mustafa said, his eyes full of resolve. "As you know, Zakariya was ambushed by two Turkish men earlier in the night. Those two men are now dead."
As he spoke, Zakariya was watching his lieutenants carefully, hoping that the traitor would make a silly mistake and somehow expose himself.
Of course, they were all impassive, their faces betraying no undue emotion. They all looked concerned but also resolute, as the gravity of the situation dictated.
“It is effectively an act of war,” Mustafa continued. “That’s the only way I am willing to interpret a murder attempt on any of us.”
Zakariya leaped into the conversation. “For that reason, we have decided to act decisively. And at a velocity that is likely to throw them off. The initial riposte is underway as we speak.”.
Djibril’s eyes widened, which Mustafa noticed right away.
Zinedine interjected, "You mean the counter-attack is happening right now? Without consulting us?"
“Our only chance to get to them was to act swiftly. There was no time to deliberate or ponder how to react. I’m sure you all will forgive us for this.”
"Of course, Zak, it was the right thing to do. The only thing to do,” Ismael said, before adding, “So, who’s the target?”
"We're cutting the head of the snake in half," Mustafa said curtly.
All of the lieutenants writhed on their chairs.
“You’re going after the Aydin brothers?” Djibril asked, startled.
Mustafa decided it was time to lay all cards on the table. “Yes, we are. Three of them will die today. We have gotten soft. They stabbed Jamal to death, and now they’re looking to eliminate the rest of us, one by one. Tonight, we are not repeating the mistakes of the Val Fourré.” Those words struck the lieutenants like lightning, and a somber shadow seemed to pervade the room. None of them dared to speak next.
“This is the clearest message we can send. If they attempt to retaliate, it will be time for an all-out war, an original purge to wipe them out completely, regardless of causalities we might incur.” Zakariya’s soft tone was at odds with the bleak consequences of his message.
The lieutenants knew right away that there was no arguing. They also understood that if Zakariya had reached that decision, it was likely the best course of action for the sake of the organization. And for their own sake.
The Mansouri brothers had been careful to disclose only minimal information surrounding the agitated evening at Clos Maggiore and how it had unfolded. They omitted to mention the tracking device and the investor's meeting with the two British spotters. They would give every chance to the traitor to reveal his true colors, and would be alert to any careless miscalculation on his part.
The black squad was on its way to carry out the killing contracts placed on the heads of the three designated Aydin brothers. The insiders that would participate in the executions would see their cover burnt and re-integrate the organization in less exposed roles.
Zakariya had kept the most delicate part of the vendetta for a very special man. A former member of the elite French GIGN force, the National Gendarmerie Intervention Group, one of the mightiest special ops forces in the world. The unit was famous for their pivotal role in the liberation of the Grand Mosque of Mecca in 1979 after extremist insurgency seized the holy site of Islam. Because of the prohibition of non-Muslims entering the holy city, a team of three GIGN commandos converted to Islam in haste before leading the Saudi armed forces in the recapture of the mosque. One of those men was Jérôme Chevalier. A tall, greyed-haired predator with unparalleled knowledge of hostage situations and guerilla tactics.
The man had the reputation to go to any length necessary to deliver on the promised outcome. He was a remorseless mercenary, the best there was, and had been a faithful soldier of the Mantes-la-jolie gang during their initial breakthrough in London a decade ago. He enjoyed nothing more than working from the shadows, accountable only to the Mansouri brothers.
Now, Zakariya had entrusted him with the all-consuming task of finding the mole that was lurking inside their organization. The bonds of friendship animating the lieutenants were so deep-rooted that only an outsider was fit for this perilous job.
. . .
Just one mile north of the river, Teddy Harper was knocking unapologetically hard on a narrow steel door, calling out for the owner of the premises. The door swung open, and a man dressed in black wooly clothes pointed toward the end of the tunnel.
As he strode beneath the pipes and artificial lights of the long corridor, Teddy started to get back into the groove. I got U from Duke Dumont had been screaming in his ears on the way to the Wilkinson warehouse, and he was in no mood to pause the song before it ended.
He reached the lone entry door at the other end of the tunnel, waited a few seconds for the tune to end and spat his chewing-gum right in the corner of the hallway.
Samuel Wilkinson was standing across the doorway, and he stowed his cellphone in his pocket. He had the anxious face of a man about to deliver bad news.
“Mate, everything alright? You look like you’ve just seen your old man take a dump,” Teddy joked.
"Worst, it's a bloody carnage," Samuel fired back, "we need to get to work, right now. The Turks are in dire needs of solid, reliable men, now more than ever – and we're their allies, Teddy." He sighed as if the hardest part was still ahead of them. "The Mansouri are retaliating like savages after a failed assassination attempt on their leader. Three of the Aydin siblings are dead, and there might be more heat coming their way. Walk with me; there's no time to lose."
“Fucking hell!” Teddy’s mouth was wide open, his brows raised awkwardly. Samuel was already striding toward the exit. Teddy caught up with him, and added, “The bastards are not joking, are they?” His eyes were glittering with excitement. His enemies were dauntless, but by all accounts, Teddy was nuts – a once in a blue moon lunatic daredevil.
“They’ve taken the old Turks by surprise. A quick, meticulous job. Two executed in their base in Balham, in their sleep, and another one taken out in an underground gambling parlor.” Samuel explained.
“Gambling...Oh no! Don’t tell me that...” Teddy shouted in false anguish, “They smoked fat titties?”
“They did. Our job now is to make sure they get what they deserve.” Samuel hauled car keys from inside his jacket, clenching them hard. “And believe me, they won’t see what hit them.”
CHAPTER 43
As a starting point to his contract, free electron Jérôme Chevalier had asked Zakariya to dress up an ordered list of the potential suspects. He would do the initial reconnaissance groundwork on each of them separately, and would then decide in agreement with the Mansouri brothers what lead to follow. There wasn't much time though, as every minute the mole was alive was a minute he could do more damage to the organization and its valiant soldiers.
As Chevalier went through the list silently, his eyes stalled half-way down the page. All the names written down were gangsters notorious amongst underworld circles. All except one. Lloyd Davies.
The entire file the Mansouris had provided on Lloyd Davies depicted a man that had nothing to be blamed for. He had never committed any felony. No misdemeanor. No infractions either. Not e
ven a suspicion of it. The intelligence the Mantes-la-jolie boys had gathered revealed no criminal association, and Davies appeared to be overall a very bland and ordinary thirty-odd-year-old, at the onset of a transition from career-focused overachiever to family man.
There were notes scribbled on the cover of the folder that Zakariya had handed over. It said that the man had an extremely sophisticated brain, an innate ability to grasp any subject, even under intense pressure, and understood the stakes quicker than any man he had ever met. Another note marked in red was underlined at the bottom of the page. "Do not be fooled by appearance."
We will know soon enough, Chevalier thought, as he got ready to carry out the interrogation. If Davies had something to hide, he would find it.
. . .
An hour earlier that very morning, in an illegal gambling establishment south of the river, a man with the belly the size of a truck wheel was slumped on a tiny char in front of a poker table. His forehead had been smashed against the green cladding repeatedly and had found an awkward balance on top of a broken pile of poker chips and a blood-stained deck of cards. Three other men were lying on the carpet floor, motionless, shot down in the back by the two insiders of the Mansouri organization.
It had all been a perfect hit, a brilliantly-executed killing, using the surprise element with instant success. The hardy Turkish mafioso had been playing card games for eleven hours straight, against the best advice of his brothers. One of the insiders was at the table, along with three other second-hand thugs loosely related to the Aydin family. The second insider had sneaked up on them at dawn, and the shot-down had begun.
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