BB nodded his acceptance.
Brutus had been on his staff for the better part of nine years and received a healthy salary in return. If the big Georgian couldn’t be trusted to do his job properly, no one could.
The pretty, dark-haired waitress at his side said something BB didn’t catch.
“Yes, my dear?”
“Do you have any preference, Sir Brandon?” she asked, a cheeky smile playing on her pouty lips. “Chef Christie thought you’d particularly enjoy sinking your teeth into the House of Lords.”
BB laughed and wondered how much she’d charge to let him sink his teeth into her inner thighs. In an avaricious world, everyone had their price.
“Go ahead, I’ll have a corner of the Palace, a mouthful of St Paul’s, and a spoonful of the Thames, too.”
She did the honours and dipped low enough while loading the plate to give him a fair glimpse of her more-than-adequate cleavage. Well, if she didn’t want him looking, she shouldn’t take such pride in displaying the goods.
Brutus stepped back to his normal position in the shadows, but kept his eyes on the Professor, who continued an animated conversation with the Maître D’. Slowly, the Maître D’s haughty expression turned to one of compliance and his complexion took on the shade and texture of Thames Embankment mud at low tide.
BB clicked his fingers. “Brutus, what the fuck’s happening over there?”
The bodyguard started raising his wrist to his mouth again, but BB chopped his hand through the air.
“Don’t just stand there, man. Go find out for yourself.”
Brutus shook his head and leaned closer, keeping his voice down. “No, Sir Brandon. My job is to protect you. I will send Charlie.”
Equally as quiet, and with a smile pasted in place to fend off the questioning glances of Ivan and the others, BB replied, “Fair enough, just hurry him up, the moneymen are starting to wonder what’s going on.”
Brutus retreated to make the call. One of the restroom doors opened and Charlie arrived. He straightened his jacket and weaved between the tables to the reception area. He stood at least five inches taller than the Professor who had to crane his neck to hear what Charlie said. They exchanged a few words before the Professor pointed at something out of sight. Charlie nodded and walked away.
The Maître D’ ducked behind his desk and reappeared a second later. He passed a microphone to the Professor, who tapped it, causing the metallic thumps to boom through the PA speakers. Cutlery stopped scraping bone china, and the background noise fell to a murmur.
About fucking time something happened.
Reluctantly, BB took a break from eating his delicious serving of London, crossed his fork over his knife, and left them in the centre of the plate.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the Professor said, “I’m sorry to interrupt your evening, but this is a very special occasion. You’ve all met him before, but I’d like to introduce you to the real Sir Brandon Banner-Hardy.”
The Professor pointed at BB and indicated that he should stand.
Really?
“Please everyone, a round of applause for your benefactor, and the owner of this wonderful establishment. Sir Brandon, please stand to take your well-deserved plaudits.”
The specially invited guests took their cue from the Professor and started clapping. One man shouted “Bravo,” and another whistled.
To remain seated in the face of such adulation would have been churlish. BB stood and bowed slightly, still uncertain of what to expect. He glanced at each of the men at his table in turn. None seemed offended by the disruption to their dining pleasure. In fact, Ivan actually appeared impressed.
Maybe BB needed to reassess his opinion of Fenella. Perhaps she wasn’t such an empty-headed, hopped-up bimbo after all. Nothing like her shit-for-brains mother. Perhaps he should move her into the organisation—at a junior level to begin with. She’d need to prove herself. Work her way up from the basement.
The Professor stopped clapping and waited for the commotion to die. Without his orchestration, it didn’t take long.
“I expect,” the Professor continued, “you’ve noticed Sir Brandon is looking a little surprised. Well that’s because he’s a modest man and had no idea we’d arranged this little presentation for him. One moment please, while my glamorous assistant sets up the audio visual equipment.”
Charlie reappeared, wheeling in a trolley with a TV the size of a small cinema screen. Still murmuring, the crowd settled down for a showing.
BB found himself keen to learn what darling Fen had laid on for him. He started to sit, but the Professor shook his head. “No, no, Sir Brandon. Please keep standing so everyone in the room can see your reaction to our version of This is Your Life. I can assure you, it won’t take long. The first scene takes place a short distance away from this very building. I think everyone will find it fairly self-explanatory.” He took a remote control from his pocket and pointed it at the screen.
When BB saw the first few seconds of film—a man on a motorbike outside Bistro Mykonos—he lost control of his legs and collapsed into his chair.
Chapter 24
Wednesday 27th October—Sir Brandon Banner-Hardy
The Corpulent Canard, Hounslow, London
A frantic BB summoned Brutus and hissed into the big man’s free ear. “Shut that fucker up. Do it now!”
“You are sure? It will create more of a scene and might require force.”
“I don’t fucking care if you have to rip his shitting arms off,” he spat. “Get rid of him!”
“Yes, Sir Brandon.”
On the screen, the leather-clad biker threw a large brick and the restaurant window exploded. The diners gasped. The film paused on a close-up image of two little girls, mouths open, clearly screaming as their father vanished beneath a shower of glass.
While Brutus barked orders into his wrist mic, the Professor began his narration, shouting above the growing hubbub.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m sorry if the film ruined your appetite, but what you see on the screen is more than a simple act of random violence, much more. The man on the motorcycle was paid to terrorise the owners of Bistro Mykonos into selling their business and their lease to the building. If we pan out on this shot”—he worked the remote again—“you’ll see the block in which this restaurant is located, Hardwicke Row. Do you notice all those other businesses on the street, the pub on the corner, the betting shop, the butchers? During the past eighteen months, every one of them has changed ownership except for Bistro Mykonos.
“And take a look at the scaffolding on the upper floors and the weatherboard on the windows. Looks as though a major refurbishment is underway, doesn’t it? Right in the heart of London, too. When I first saw the block, I wondered who the developer might be, as there aren’t any signs up on the scaffolding. Just the usual health and safety notices.”
He stopped, probably to drive home his point and to confirm he had the attention of the audience.
Beside the Professor, Charlie looked on in confusion while Brutus gathered his men and led them towards the reception area, but too bloody slowly. What the hell was wrong with them? They only faced one man, and he was short, no taller than BB himself. Slim too, a weakling.
The Professor resumed. “It didn’t take me long to find out. Amazing what a little online research and a trip to the local planning office will do, eh? And what do you know? Apart from Bistro Mykonos, that whole block is now owned by—”
Brandon shot to his feet. “What on earth is the meaning of this interruption? Who are you?”
The Professor smiled through his grey beard.
“My name isn’t important, but you could say I was sent by the man Fenella told you about, Algernon Fortescue Carruthers.” He smiled and added a little half-bow. “Ah yes, I see from your reaction she did tell you about dear old Algy.”
The Professor raised his hand to halt the approaching security detail.
“Ah, there you are, big fellow. T
he fiercely loyal—to anyone prepared to pay his exorbitant salary—Brutus Novikov,” he said, the smile fading. “Yes, that’s right, I know your name. I also know you’ve murdered at least five men on the orders of your boss, over there.”
BB stared hard at Brutus. As usual, the big bruiser didn’t react. Didn’t bother denying the accusation either. The Professor had just signed his own death warrant, but he didn’t seem to realise the fact. BB had met plenty of academics who didn’t appear to live in the real world and, clearly, this idiot was no exception.
“I’ve done my homework,” continued the Dead Man Standing Still. “Stop right there, Brutus. I’m almost finished and we don’t want to create any more of a scene. Not with all these people working their cameras’ video apps.”
BB looked around him. At least half of his guests—some of them his so-called friends—had mobile phones raised and active. Some of the phones flashed for stills. Hot bile rose up from his stomach, threatening to bring his meal up with it.
“So, where was I?” the Professor asked as though still delivering a lecture. “Ah yes, I remember now. The company with the freehold to Hardwicke Row, the block you see on the screen, is owned by none other than Sir Brandon Banner-Hardy. Ta-dah! So, you get the picture?” He paused for a beat before adding, “Pardon the pun, but I couldn’t help myself.”
“So what?” BB asked, swallowing the bile and finding his voice. “I own a number of properties throughout London. On occasion, some of them might be the target of vandalism. I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to suggest I had something to do with this terrible and shocking incident. You actually think I would attack an innocent family? Preposterous. In fact it’s slanderous.”
BB avoided looking at the screen, hoping the camera lenses would remain pointed at him. He’d faced down many a hostile crowd in his time, from shareholders to trades unionists who’d learned of mass redundancies. The Professor was no worse than any of them, and he wasn’t the one who killed Tugboat and maimed Lovejoy. No way could a man so … slight and inconsequential have bested those two, not with his bare hands. The man who did that had to have been huge. The Professor was slim, slightly stooped, and looked as though he hadn’t exercised for decades.
No, this was a huge bluff. The academic had nothing but innuendo and rumour.
The Professor straightened an arm and pointed at BB. “No, I’m not suggesting anything, I’m levelling a direct accusation. One of your employees, an individual named Alfred Lovejoy, paid the man on the motorbike, Barnard Mortensen, to terrorise the owners of Bistro Mykonos, And you, Sir Brandon Banner-Hardy, ordered the attack.”
“That’s an outrageous accusation!” BB shouted over another gasp from the audience. “You have no proof, and anyway, why would I do such a thing?”
“I’m coming to the reason, but as for proof.”
He hit run on the remote once again and the picture rolled forward to reveal the inside of the Chelsea Penthouse, the timestamp coincided with the date and time of the attack on Lovejoy and the gorilla. Fortunately, it only showed the desk and the kitchen, not the bloody mess on the floor. Unfortunately, Lovejoy’s laptop sat open on the desk.
Oh fuck. Oh Jesus fuck. No!
“For those of you unable to see him clearly in this subdued lighting,” the Professor said, mocking now, “our Knight of the Realm has just turned vomit green. You see, the laptop in the picture contains all the evidence I need to prove he ordered the attack that risked the lives of those two little girls you saw earlier and seriously injured their father. The laptop contains other damning evidence of wrongdoing, but this is not the time or the place to discuss those particular crimes.”
He clicked, and the image on the screen changed to a looped sequence of the rock smashing the window and the girls’ silent screaming.
“By the way, before you let loose your attack dogs, I sent the information from that very laptop to the local police station this evening. I’m expecting them to arrive at any minute.”
The local police station? The locals?
BB suddenly saw a way out and almost laughed. He owned the local police.
“This is an disgraceful pack of lies,” he yelled. “I’ve had more than enough of this. Brutus, kindly escort that deranged man from the premises. Take him through the kitchen and use the service exit. I’m worried about his mental state. Please take all the usual precautions.”
Yes. Kill the bastard and make it painful, but find any remaining evidence first.
Finally making a decision, Charlie lunged. The Professor threw out his arm and Charlie fell backwards as though having been shot in the head. A woman in the crowd close to the action screamed. The Professor’s arm had moved so fast BB couldn’t tell exactly what he’d done.
Brutus and his men stopped for a moment, giving the Professor the time he needed to recover his position behind the trolley.
“One moment please, Brutus,” he said. “If you let me finish, I’ll come quietly—”
Brutus and his men swarmed forward but, rather than resisting further, the Professor held up his hands in surrender.
“Okay, okay, I’m done. You can take me away if you wish,” he said, as though still in control, and meekly allowed them to escort him, unrestrained, through the dining area and into the kitchen.
The audience hum increased to an excited chatter and then to a roar. The camera phones turned towards BB once again.
He stood tall and held up his hands. “My dear friends, please excuse the rantings of a fantasist who has clearly read too many conspiracy theories. I can assure you—”
Ivan stood, summoned his underlings from an adjacent table, and prepared to leave.
“Mr Andropov,” BB said, “there’s no reason to go. This means nothing—”
“Sir Brandon, thank you for such an interesting and entertaining evening,” Ivan said, his thick Russian accent melting into a perfect, if slightly arcane, received pronunciation, “but I cannot do business with a person of low moral turpitude. My family simply would not allow it. I suggest you search for your investment elsewhere. May I suggest you talk to the owners of your Premier League football clubs?”
While Ivan talked, the Saudis and the Japanese left without saying a word. BB sank into his chair once more and watched his specially selected guests and his former friends, desert him in droves, and without a sideways glance. Well, fuck the lot of the ungrateful bastards. He didn’t need them. He’d pay them all back for their disloyalty. Each and every one of the bastards.
As for the current situation, Brutus had the Professor and would beat the evidence out of him before dumping his body in the river.
BB took a deep, cleansing breath, picked up his cutlery, and re-focussed his attention on his plate of cold London.
After the main course, he’d search out the delicious waitress and demand the dessert he’d paid well over the odds to enjoy.
Chapter 25
Wednesday 28th October—Evening
The Corpulent Canard, Hounslow, London
Fully aware of Brutus behind him and the two thugs at his flanks, Kaine scoped out the kitchen, making sure nothing had changed since yesterday’s scouting trip.
White-smocked sous chefs and other members of the brigade, ten in all, stepped aside as Brutus’ men led Kaine into the kitchen. Brutus walked two paces behind to make sure Kaine couldn’t spring any surprises.
The security team’s discipline, and Kaine’s prior research, told him they were reasonably well-trained professionals. They were armed and likely to be no pushovers. Before allowing them to lead him from the dining room, he’d gambled on them being unlikely to use their weapons in the kitchen in front of witnesses. The odds weren’t in his favour until they took him outside.
Outside, he was prepared.
Outside, he had Danny with a rifle, and Danny never missed.
But inside, Kaine was vulnerable. Once in the kitchen, he’d planned to make a rush for the back door, but the best laid plans …
/> When preparing for battle, advanced reconnaissance often paid dividends. Unfortunately during his earlier visit, the big thug in the tight suit standing guard at the rear door must have been on a break. That was bad enough, but the cleaver in his hand—the one that didn’t look as though it had seen a side of beef since it left the cutler—made the situation much, much worse.
Kaine risked a glance over his shoulder.
Brutus threw a bolt on the kitchen door and snapped a lock. He smiled and drew a Glock 17 from his shoulder holster. One of the chefs, a young woman in spotless whites and a paper hat, screamed. Brutus raised a finger to his lips, said, “Shut up, bitch,” and held the pistol across his chest, muzzle pointing at the ceiling.
Kaine relaxed a little. At least it wasn’t pointing at him, not for the moment.
Brutus leaned against the closed doors. “You are going nowhere, mister,” he said to Kaine before addressing the kitchen staff. “You lot fuck off outside for ten minutes while we show this asshole how to make fish fingers—with his own fingers.”
Smiler, the man at Brutus’ side, who hadn’t stopped grinning since they’d taken Kaine from the dining room, barked out a cruel laugh.
“Nice one, boss,” Smiler said, his voice more high-pitched that Kaine expected.
None of the staff moved. The same blonde woman started crying. The slim young man at her side threw a protective arm around her shoulder, but looked close to tears himself.
“Well?” Brutus bellowed. “What you waiting for? Fuck off. Mauro will not stand in your way.”
The head chef, Jordan Christie, gathered his courage and stood as tall as a man of his stature could manage. “What’s the meaning of this? Leave my kitchen immediately!”
He would have been magnificent if his voice hadn’t cracked half-way through the second sentence.
Ryan Kaine: On the Defensive: Book Three in the Ryan Kaine Action Thriller Series Page 21
