Savage Games

by Peter Boland

  “So how did she get away with it?”

  “Every morning, she’d burst through the door, stomp her way to her desk, a mass of different work bags slung over her shoulder, phone wedged in her neck, bollocking some supplier or other, shouting at the top of her voice. Thing is, it was all a smokescreen, pretending she was busy and important to distract from the fact that she was always late.”

  “So, are you saying we make a big song and dance of going in there, like we own the place, no one will challenge us?”

  Savage stopped pacing. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. And the best way to look like you own the place is to make big loud entrance, like my wife’s work colleague.”

  “How do we do that?”

  “We show up outside the front door in a convoy of posh cars with blacked-out windows—like bonafide VIPs.”

  Savage went for his phone, speed-dialled a number. “Hello, Harry. It’s John Savage.” The guy on the other spoke so loudly it was as if he were on speaker phone.

  “Savage, I thought I recognised those Dorset tones.”

  “It’s dulcet, Harry. Dulcet tones.”

  “Whatever. Hey, I was just thinking about you. I was in the bogs in King’s Cross station and saw your name and number written on the wall in the last cubicle.” A hacking laugh came from the other end of the line that made the fillings in Tannaz’s teeth ache.

  “What were you doing in the bogs at King’s Cross station, meeting a client?”

  More throaty cackling. Tannaz rolled her eyes.

  “How’s business, Harry?”

  Harry Preston was an old mate who had started a prestigious chauffeur company a few years ago, with one limo and one driver—himself. Things went well and before long he had a fleet of five limos and a roster of regular drivers, mostly friends. Things were looking up for the fledgling business, apart from the fact that success breeds resentment, and in Harry’s case his rivals had tried to put him out of business by sending round thugs to smash headlights, pull off wing mirrors and scare the drivers away. That was until one by one, the thugs got put out of action by a mysterious guy who’d follow them home after the pub and hurt them, not badly, just so they couldn’t work. A broken finger here, a fractured jaw there. This kept happening until the rival company got the message that there was space in the market for another chauffeur company. From then on, Harry had owed Savage, big time.

  “Business is good, great in fact,” Harry blurted out. “Thank God for the Russians and Chinese. Paranoid, they are. Frightened someone wants to assassinate them. Always want to be driven around in bulletproof cars when they come and visit their empty properties in London. We got seven of them now, put in an order for three more.”

  “Listen, that was what I was going ask you about, Harry. I need to cash that favour. I need to borrow five black Range Rover Sentinels.”

  “Five? Five!”

  The line went quiet.

  “Harry, you still there?”

  “Yep, just got up off the floor in shock. I think I’m okay now. What the hell do you want five bulletproof Range Rovers for? Not thinking of storming an embassy, are you?”

  “No, just need to make a good impression.”

  “Well if you want to do that you need to stop buying your clothes at Poundland.”

  Tannaz laughed.

  “Please, Harry. It’s important. And I need drivers too—big, smart guys who look like they work for the FBI. Shades and good haircuts.”

  “How is your hair by the way? Still like the ice caps—rapidly receding.” More guttural laughter. “Jeez, you want the moon on a stick.”

  “I only need them for half an hour, just to drop me and my partner at a posh club. It’s important Harry.”

  “When do you need them?”

  “As soon as.”

  “Look, I can do you two Range Rover Sentinels, plus a bulletproof Jaguar XJ-L but tomorrow’s the only day I can do. After that, every vehicle’s spoken for.”

  Savage thought for a moment. Tomorrow was Wednesday. “You know, that might be even better. The Jag in the middle, a Range Rover front and rear.”

  “Classy, eh? Where do you want picking up?”

  “Outside Victoria station, around lunchtime. I’ll text you an exact time.”

  “Right you are.”

  “Thanks, mate.”

  Savage hung up.

  Tannaz looked serious, eyes unblinking. “What did you mean by me and my partner?”

  “You’re coming with me.”

  “But the Cygnet Club’s a bastion of misogyny.”

  “Nope. It’s one of the few clubs that allows women in.”

  Tannaz looked disgusted. “Wow, I feel so privileged to rub shoulders with a load of old, sexist imperialists who still wish it were the nineteen thirties.” Tannaz slammed her laptop lid down hard.

  “This is probably not a good time to bring this up,” said Savage. “I need you to pretend to be my PA.”

  “Why can’t you be my PA?”

  “Because, like you said, they’re a bunch of old, sexist imperialists. Although this place admits woman, it’s still backward. A place where white, bigoted male dinosaurs are still allowed to roam free. No one’s going to bat an eyelid if you’re my PA. They will if it’s the other way round. Remember, we’re just doing it to get in there and get Wellington’s device. Bit of role playing, that’s all.”

  Tannaz stared at him, fire burning in her eyes. “Okay, fine, but I don’t like it.” She got up and headed to the door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To get some printouts from the hotel’s printer. Floorplans of the Cygnet Club. We need to memorise them so we know where we’re going, otherwise we’ll look like a couple of idiots who’ve just snuck in.”

  She slammed the door shut behind her.

  Chapter 46

  They spent Wednesday morning in Southampton, Tannaz being Savage’s personal shopper attempting to make him look the part of a filthy rich, hereditary land owner who went to a posh school, where the uniform alone would cost more than most people made in a year. To pull this off, Savage had to act upper class, and that meant behaving like he never did anything for himself because he could pay other people to do it for him. For such a resourceful, practical person as Savage, this was going to be tricky. So getting the look right was going to be everything.

  In the end they settled on a pure wool tweed jacket with clean simple lines and a subtle brown overcheck with a matching waistcoat and a light blue shirt. Trousers were dark brown needle cords with brown leather brogues.

  Tannaz went for a simple black pencil skirt, matching jacket with a white blouse underneath. She slicked her hair back and added black-rimmed glasses with clear lenses, even though she didn’t wear glasses, to give her that studious look. Shoes were a problem. She refused to wear anything with a sharp heel, and argued with Savage about wearing a pair of comfortable black Doc Marten shoes instead. Savage argued that it would make her look more like a nurse about to go on duty than a high-powered PA. In the end they compromised on a smart pair of ballet shoes. To finish the look, Tannaz added a sleek black leather computer bag with a shoulder strap.

  Two and half hours later they stepped off the train and onto the platform at London Victoria, the capital’s second busiest station after Waterloo. Throughout the whole journey they had sat silently, going over the plan in their heads, even though they knew it backwards, and could have still pulled it off even if they were floating in zero gravity.

  Stepping outside the train station, they were confronted by a line of three glossy black vehicles parked up on the opposite pavement, even though to do this risked incurring the wrath of every traffic warden in London.

  Just as Harry had promised, a sleek black Jaguar XJ-L, bookended by two intimidatingly large Range Rover Sentinels. The drivers sat ready
with the engines running, while a second man stood beside each vehicle, decked out in plain black bomber jackets and dark glasses. All three men were well-groomed and had muscular frames.

  Tannaz and Savage hurried across the congested lanes of traffic that continually orbited the station like the rings around Saturn. Horns blasted as they crossed.

  When they reached the Jag, the man standing beside the car turned and opened the rear door for them. Harry had even gone as far as to give each man an earpiece with a curling lead that disappeared down the back of their necks. They did indeed look like they were about to storm an embassy. Tannaz and Savage climbed in the back seats of the sumptuous car. Tannaz’s right knee began bobbing up and down nervously. Savage steadied it with his hand. “Calm thoughts,” he said.

  “Good afternoon, sir, madam,” said the driver.

  “I’ve never been a madam before,” Tannaz replied.

  “Just to confirm our itinerary today, sir,” said the guy in the passenger seat. “We are en route to the Cygnet Club on St James’s Street. Estimated journey time of fifteen minutes. Is that satisfactory?”

  “Correct,” said Savage. “When we get there, I want all three cars to mount the pavement and stop outside the entrance.”

  The guy in the passenger seat turned around. “Sir, that’s a very dangerous thing to do, especially in London with all the terrorist attacks. It might be better to pull up beside the pavement.”

  “Not good enough,” Savage replied. “I need you to drive up onto the pavement and come to an immediate halt outside the club. We need to get their attention. Make them think that we’re important. So important that we can park on the pavement.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “One other thing. I want you and two of your colleagues to escort us into the building.”

  “Okay, sir.”

  “You’ve done this before?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good,” said Savage. “There’s a long entrance hall leading up to a reception desk. You and your men can turn and leave once we’re safely past the desk. You’ll need to walk us up that entrance hall like we’re high-value individuals. Standard bodyguarding wedge formation. One up front, two at the rear. You and your men familiar with that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Now can you relay those instructions to your colleagues?”

  “Will do.”

  The guy got on his phone and confirmed Savage’s instructions with the men in the other two vehicles.

  Just as the guy had predicted, fifteen minutes later, they were skirting the edge of Green Park, a name that had always baffled Savage—what other colour would a park be? Past the Japanese Embassy, they took a right onto St James’s Street, a wide, elegant thoroughfare lined with four- and five-storey buildings, like palaces that had been nudged together, shoulder to shoulder. Clad in fine grey Portland stone and with pleasing Greek proportions, each one typified the British Regency style, a layered cake of ornate cornices, porticos and fluted columns with fairy-tale balconies supported by vast bay windows.

  The street was home to the oldest and most prestigious clubs in London—Boodle’s, Brooks’s, White’s (Savage wondered whether it had that name because they were the only people it allowed in), the Carlton Club and the Cygnet Club, where a certain Simon Wellington would hopefully be sleeping off a rich three-course lunch, and one-too-many brandies.

  “We’re here, sir,” said the guy in front. The cars slowed and then mounted the wide accommodating pavement. Several pedestrians darted to the edge, eyeing them warily, as if they were terrorists about to mow them down. They were the wrong type of vehicles. Terrorists didn’t usually use bulletproof executive cars to cause murder and mayhem, they hired cheap budget trucks or vans. The pedestrians relaxed and went about their business. All three cars came to a stop outside the entrance, and within view of the club’s generous windows.

  The guys in the passenger sides of the cars stepped out first, dark glasses on, playing their parts perfectly. They scanned the street, searching for threats. Not that there would be any, but they had to keep up the pantomime for the Cygnet Club’s CCTV cameras that would certainly be catching all this. At that moment, someone inside would be alerting the staff that someone incredibly important was about to pay them a visit.

  Savage and Tannaz got the nod that it was safe to get out. Savage turned to her and said, “Remember, act arrogant. Like everyone’s beneath you.”

  “Already do,” said Tannaz, winking.

  As they got out, the three security guys fell into place just as Savage had asked. Two behind, one in front. Standard bodyguarding wedge formation.

  The little entourage marched up the steps and into the Cygnet Club.

  Tannaz supressed a gasp as they entered the cathedral-like entrance hall. A long processional space, barrel-vaulted ceiling held up by a series of white marble columns, ending in a grand staircase covered in a blood-red carpet that just needed a Disney Princess to come sweeping down it.

  Held in place with brass stair rods as long as spears, the red carpet led up to a vast landing where the staircase split in two, and continued up to a galleried first floor.

  Barring their way to the staircase sat a huge polished oak desk, behind which sat two men, who immediately got to their feet and straightened their jackets. A good sign, a deferential sign, Savage hoped, which meant they’d grant him and Tannaz access without question.

  The guy at the front of their bodyguarding wedge, the one who’d been in the passenger seat of the Jag, marched purposefully towards the men at the desk, an intimidating sight with his broad shoulders and muscular neck. Just as he got to the desk, he turned and ignored the men standing behind it, as if they weren’t there. The move couldn’t have been more perfect. Looking back down the hallway, he held his wrist mike up to his mouth and said, “Assets safe. Returning to vehicles.” Savage and Tannaz breezed past him, and the men at the desk, making a beeline for the stairs. Their bodyguarding escorts turned and left.

  By the time Tannaz and Savage had reached the first landing, one of the men at the desk, said, “Er excuse me.”

  Tannaz turned on her heel, fixed the man with a look that could’ve incinerated granite. “Tea in the library. And a pot of black coffee, and make sure it’s extra strong and extra hot. Last time I was here it tasted like dirty bathwater.” She turned to carry on up the stairs. Then turned back to the men at the desk. “And don’t disturb us.”

  She caught up with Savage, who whispered, “Next time you demand free hot beverages somewhere posh, don’t forget biscuits.”

  On the first-floor landing the walls were covered in vast portraits the size of ping-pong tables. The aristocratic, oil-painted images of former members throughout the ages, stared back at Tannaz and Savage with apparent disapproval. As they passed each one, the canvasses grew in size, presumably each member trying to outdo the next by commissioning a larger portrait than their predecessor.

  “All that money and they still look miserable,” Tannaz remarked.

  Dead ahead of them was a wide wood-panelled door with a simple polished brass sign engraved with the word ‘Library’. They pushed it open and quietly went in.

  The same thick, dark-red carpet covered the floor. Every wall was taken up with bookcases that stretched to the ceiling, which was easily twenty-feet high. At regular intervals along the far wall, a series of floor-to-ceiling windows looked out onto St James’s Street below. Clusters of studded leather chairs were arranged around low coffee tables. A gentleman peered around his copy of the Telegraph at them, then went back to reading. Another two sat together, talking in hushed tones. And right by one of the windows, his hands clasped across his small midriff, his eyes firmly clamped shut, sat the devil himself, Simon Wellington, in a post-lunch slump. He looked smaller than Savage imagined and older compared to the photos they’d seen online. He’d lost a l
ot of weight too. The pudgy face had gone, replaced by something more shrivelled and birdlike. He still had that wavy, white, ice-cream hair combed across his head. Dressed in a navy-blue pinstripe suit, he snoozed contentedly, an empty brandy glass on the table in front of him and, more importantly, his mobile phone. Lifting it might be a lot easier than they thought.

  Savage and Tannaz sat down two tables away from him. The plan was simple. Tannaz would take his phone, head to the toilets and copy it. Then she’d return, slipping it back on the table. If Wellington happened to wake up to find his phone missing, she’d return to the library and announce that she’d found someone’s phone on the floor outside and hand it back to him. In his post-nap wakefulness, he’d be unlikely to question it. Then they’d get the hell out of there.

  Savage gave her the nod. Tannaz was just about to get to her feet and snatch the phone when the door opened and a waiter brought in a tray with their drinks and placed them on the table in front of them. When he’d left and closed the door behind him, Tannaz silently got to her feet and casually walked past Wellington, sweeping his phone off the table and into the pocket of her jacket. She turned sharply and headed for the door. Just as she reached it, four men came through it, barring her way. One of them Savage recognised. It was Bluetooth.

  Savage looked across at Wellington who now had his eyes wide open and was smiling at him like a demon.

  Chapter 47

  Bluetooth held out his hand.

  Tannaz glared back at him. “What?”

  “You know what. Give me Mr Wellington’s phone.”

  “Why don’t you try taking it off me. I’ll break both your wrists before you can say dumb, bald idiot in a headset.”

  Bluetooth smiled. “That might work on a silly little drug dealer, but not me.”

  “Give it to him,” said Savage. “We’re outnumbered.”

  “Listen to your friend, Miss Darvish,” said Wellington, his Irish accent was soft and lyrical, completely at odds with who he was. He turned to address the other three members in the library. “Excuse me, gentlemen. May we have the room?”