"You're up," he said flatly.
"Isn't that what it looks like?" Flood asked.
Mordecai had been his strong right arm for the best part of fifteen years, a useful heavy-weight boxer who'd had the sense to get out of the ring before his brains were scrambled. He went behind the bar, poured a Perrier water, added ice and lemon and brought it over.
Flood took it without thanking him. "God, how I love this old river. Anything come up?"
"Your accountant called. Some papers to sign on that market development. I told him to leave them in the morning."
"Was that all?"
"Maurice was on the phone from the Embassy. He says Jack Harvey was in for a bite to eat with that bitch of a niece of his."
"Myra?" Flood nodded. "Anything happen?"
"Maurice said Harvey asked if you'd be in later. Said he'd come back and have a go at the tables." He hesitated. "You know what the bastard's after, Harry, and you've been avoiding him."
"We aren't selling, Mordecai, and we certainly aren't going into partnership. Jack Harvey's the worst hood in the East End. He makes the Kray brothers look like kindergarten stuff."
"I thought that was you, Harry."
"I never did drugs, Mordecai, didn't run girls, you know that. Okay, I was a right villain for a few years, we both were." He walked into the sitting room to the desk and picked up the photo in its silver frame that always stood there. "When Jean was dying, for all those lousy months." He shook his head. "Nothing seemed important, and you know the promise she made me give her toward the end. To get out."
Mordecai closed the window. "I know, Harry. She was a woman and a half, Jean."
"That's why I made us legitimate, and wasn't I right? You know what the firm's net worth is? Nearly fifty million. Fifty million." He grinned. "So let Jack Harvey and others like him keep dirtying their hands if they want."
"Yes, but to most people in the East End you're still the Governor, Harry, you're still the Yank."
"I'm not complaining." Flood opened a cupboard and took out a dark overcoat. "There's times when it helps a deal along, I know that. Now let's get moving. Who's driving tonight?"
"Charlie Salter."
"Good."
Mordecai hesitated. "Shall I carry a shooter, Harry?"
"For God's sake, Mordecai, we're legit now, I keep telling you."
"But Jack Harvey isn't, that's the trouble."
"Leave Jack Harvey to me."
They went down in the old original freight elevator to the warehouse where the black Mercedes saloon waited, Charlie Salter leaning against it reading a paper, a small, wiry man in a gray chauffeur's uniform. He folded the paper quickly and got the rear door open.
"Where to, Harry?"
"The Embassy, and drive carefully. A lot of frost around tonight and I'll have the paper."
Salter got behind the wheel and Mordecai got in beside him and reached for the electronic door control. The warehouse doors opened and they turned onto the wharf. Flood opened the paper, leaned back and started catching up on how the Gulf War was progressing.
The Embassy Club was only half a mile away, just off Wapping High Street. It had only been open six months, another of Harry Flood's developments of old warehouse property. The car park was up a side street at the rear and was already quite full. There was an old Negro in charge who sat in a small hut.
"Kept your place free, Mr. Flood," he said, coming out.
Flood got out of the car with Mordecai and took out his wallet as Salter went off to park. He extracted a five-pound note and gave it to the old man. "Don't go crazy, Freddy."
"With this?" The old man smiled. "Wouldn't even buy me a woman at the back of the pub these days. Inflation's a terrible thing, Mr. Flood."
Flood and Mordecai were laughing as they went up the side street, and Salter caught up with them as they turned the corner and reached the entrance. Inside it was warm and luxurious, black and white tiles on the floor, oak paneling, oil paintings. As the cloakroom girl took their coats, a small man in evening dress hurried to meet them. His accent was unmistakeably French.
"Ah, Mr. Flood, a great pleasure. Will you be dining?"
"I should think so, Maurice. We'll just have a look round first. Any sign of Harvey?"
"Not yet."
They went down the steps into the main dining room. The club atmosphere continued, paneled walls, paintings, table booths with leather seats. The place was almost full, waiters working busily. A trio played on a small dais in one corner and there was a dance floor, though not large.
Maurice threaded his way through the tables by the floor and opened a door in quilted leather that led to the casino part of the premises. It was just as crowded in there, people jostling each other at the roulette wheel, the chairs occupied at most of the tables.
"We losing much?" Flood asked Maurice.
"Swings and roundabouts, Mr. Flood. It all balances out as usual."
"Plenty of punters, anyway."
"And not an Arab in sight," Mordecai said.
"They're keeping their heads down," Maurice told him. "What with the Gulf business."
"Wouldn't you?" Flood grinned. "Come on, let's go and eat."
He had his own booth in a corner to one side of the band, overlooking the floor. He ordered smoked salmon and scrambled eggs and more Perrier water. He took a Camel cigarette from an old silver case. English cigarettes were something he'd never been able to come to terms with. Mordecai gave him a light and leaned against the wall. Flood sat there, brooding, surveying the scene, experiencing one of those dark moments when you wondered what life was all about and Charlie Salter came down the steps from the entrance and hurried through the tables.
"Jack Harvey and Myra--just in," he said.
Harvey was fifty years of age, of medium height and overweight, a fact that the navy blue Barathea suit failed to hide, in spite of having been cut in Savile Row. He was balding, hardly any hair there at all, and he had the fleshy, decadent face of the wrong sort of Roman emperor.
His niece, Myra, was thirty and looked younger, her jet-black hair caught up in a bun and held in place by a diamond comb. There was little makeup on her face except for the lips and they were blood red. She wore a sequined jacket and black miniskirt by Gianni Versace and very high-heeled black shoes, for she was only a little over five feet tall. She looked immensely attractive, men turning to stare at her. She was also her uncle's right hand, had a degree in business studies from London University and was just as ruthless and unscrupulous as he was.
Flood didn't get up, just sat there waiting. "Harry, my old son," Harvey said and sat down. "Don't mind if we join you, do you?"
Myra leaned down and kissed Flood on the cheek. "Like my new perfume, Harry? Cost a fortune, but Jack says it's like an aphrodisiac, the smell's so good."
"That's a big word for you, isn't it?" Flood said.
She sat on his other side and Harvey took out a cigar. He clipped it and looked up at Mordecai. "Come on, where's your bleeding lighter, then?"
Mordecai took out his lighter and flicked it without a change of expression, and Myra said, "Any chance of a drink? We know you don't, Harry, but think about the rest of us poor sods."
Her voice had a slight cockney accent, not too much, and it had its own attraction. She put a hand on his knee and Flood said, "Champagne cocktail, isn't that what you like?"
"It'll do to be going on with."
"Not me, can't drink that kind of piss," Harvey said. "Scotch and water. A big one."
Maurice, who had been hovering, spoke to a waiter, then whispered in Flood's ear, "Your scrambled eggs, Mr. Flood."
"I'll have them now," Flood told him.
Maurice turned away and a moment later a waiter appeared with a silver salver. He removed the dome and put the plate in front of Flood, who got to work straight away.
Harvey said, "I've never seen you eat a decent meal yet, Harry. What's wrong with you?"
"Nothing, really," Flood told hi
m. "Food doesn't mean much to me, Jack. When I was a kid in Vietnam, the Vietcong had me prisoner for a while. I learned you could get by on very little. Later on I was shot in the gut. Lost eighteen inches of my intestines."
"You'll have to show me your scar sometime," Myra said.
"There's always a silver lining. If I hadn't been shot, the Marine Corps wouldn't have posted me to that nice soft job as a guard at the London Embassy."
"And you wouldn't have met Jean," Harvey said. "I remember the year you married her, Harry, the year her old dad died. Sam Dark." He shook his head. "He was like an uncrowned king in the East End after the Krays got put inside. And Jean." He shook his head again. "What a goer. The boys were queuing up for her. There was even a Guards officer, a lord." He turned to Myra. "Straight up."
"And instead she married me," Flood said.
"Could have done worse, Harry. I mean, you helped her keep things going a treat, especially after her mum died, we all know that."
Flood pushed his plate away and wiped his mouth with a napkin. "Compliments night is it, Jack? Now what have you really come for?"
"You know what I want, Harry, I want in. The casinos, four of them now, and how many clubs, Myra?"
"Six," she said.
"And all this development on the river," Harvey went on. "You've got to share the cake."
"There's only one trouble with that, Jack," Flood told him. "I'm a legitimate businessman, have been for a long time, whereas you . . ." He shook his head. "Once a crook, always a crook."
"You Yank bastard," Harvey said. "You can't talk to me like that."
"I just did, Jack."
"We're in, Harry, whether you like it or not."
"Try me," Flood said.
Salter had drifted across the room and leaned against the wall beside Mordecai. The big man whispered to him and Salter moved away.
Myra said, "He means it, Harry, so be reasonable. All we're asking for is a piece of the action."
"You come in with me, you're into computers, building development, clubs and gambling," Flood told her. "Which means I'm in with you into pimps, whores, drugs and protection. I shower three times a day, sweetness, and it still wouldn't make me feel clean."
"You Yank bastard!" She raised her hand and he grabbed her wrist.
Harvey stood up. "Let it go, Myra, let it go. Come on. I'll be seeing you, Harry."
"I hope not," Flood told him.
They went out and Mordecai leaned down. "He's a disgusting piece of slime. Always turned my stomach, him and his boyfriends."
"Takes all sorts," Flood said. "Don't let your prejudices show, Mordecai, and get me a cup of coffee."
"The swine," Jack Harvey said as he and Myra walked along the pavement toward the car park. "I'll see him in hell, talking to me that way."
"I told you we were wasting our time," she said.
"Right." He eased his gloves over his big hands. "Have to show him we mean business then, won't we?"
A dark van was parked at the end of the street. As they approached, the side lights were turned on. The young man who leaned out from behind the wheel was about twenty-five, hard and dangerous-looking in a black leather bomber jacket and flat cap.
"Mr. Harvey," he said.
"Good boy, Billy, right on time." Harvey turned to his niece. "I don't think you've met Billy Watson, Myra."
"No, I don't think I have," she said looking him over.
"How many have you got in the back?" Harvey demanded.
"Four, Mr. Harvey. I heard this Mordecai Fletcher was a bit of an animal." He picked up a baseball bat. "This should cool him."
"No shooters, like I told you?"
"Yes, Mr. Harvey."
"Flesh on flesh, that's all it needs, and maybe a couple of broken legs. Get on with it. He'll have to come out sooner or later."
Harvey and Myra continued along the pavement. "Five?" she said. "You think that's enough?"
"Enough?" he laughed harshly. "Who does he think he is, Sam Dark? Now he was a man, but this bloody Yank . . . They'll cripple him. Put him on sticks for six months. They're hard boys, Myra."
"Really?" she said.
"Now come on and let's get out of this bleeding cold," and he turned into the car park.
It was an hour later that Harry Flood got ready to leave. As the cloakroom girl helped him on with his coat, he said to Mordecai, "Where's Charlie?"
"Oh, I gave him the nod a couple of minutes ago. He went ahead to get the car warmed up. I mean it's spawn of the north time out there, Harry, we'll have the bleeding Thames freezing over next."
Flood laughed and they went down the steps and started along the pavement. When it happened, it was very quick, the rear doors of the van parked on the other side of the road swinging open, the men inside rushing out and crossing the road on the run. They all carried baseball bats. The first to reach them swung hard. Mordecai ducked inside, blocked the blow and pitched him over his hip down the steps of the basement area behind.
The other four paused and circled, bats ready. "That won't do you any good," Billy Watson said. "It's leg-breaking time."
There was a shot behind them, loud in the frosty air and then another. As they turned, Charlie Salter moved out of the darkness reloading a sawed-off shotgun. "Now drop 'em," he said. "Unless you want to be jam all over the pavement."
They did as they were told and stood there waiting for what was to come. Mordecai moved close and looked them over, then he grabbed the nearest one by the hair. "Who are you working for, sonny?"
"I don't know, mister."
Mordecai turned him and ran him up against the railings, holding his face just above the spikes. "I said who are you working for?"
The youth cracked instantly. "Jack Harvey. It was just a wages job. It was Billy who pulled us in."
Billy said, "You bastard. I'll get you for that."
Mordecai glanced at Flood, who nodded. The big man said to Billy, "You stay. The rest of you, piss off."
They turned and ran for it. Billy Watson stood looking at them, his face wild. Salter said, "He needs a good slapping, this one."
Billy suddenly picked up one of the baseball bats and raised it defensively. "All right, let's be having you. Harry Flood--big man. No bloody good on your own are you, mate?"
Mordecai took a step forward and Flood said, "No," and moved in himself. "All right, son."
Billy swung, Flood swayed to one side, found the right wrist, twisting. Billy cried out and dropped the baseball bat and in the same moment, the American half-turned, striking him hard across the face with his elbow, sending him down on one knee.
Mordecai picked up the baseball bat. "No, he's got the point, let's get going," Flood said.
He lit a cigarette as they went along the street. Mordecai said, "What about Harvey? You going to stitch him up?"
"I'll think about it," Flood said, and they moved across to the car park.
Billy Watson got himself together, held onto the railings for a while. It was snowing a little as he turned and limped across the road to the van. As he went round to the driver's side, Myra Harvey stepped out of the entrance of a narrow alley, holding the collar of her fur coat up around her neck.
"Well that didn't go too well, did it?"
"Miss Harvey," he croaked. "I thought you'd gone."
"After my uncle dropped me off, I got a taxi back. I wanted to see the fun."
"Here," he said. "Are you telling me you expected it to go like it did?"
"I'm afraid so, sunshine. My uncle gets it wrong sometimes. Lets his emotions get the better of him. You really think five young punks like you could walk all over Harry Flood?" She opened the driver's door and pushed him in. "Go on, get over. I'll drive."
She climbed behind the wheel, the fur coat opened, and the miniskirt went about as high as it could.
As she switched on, Billy said, "But where are we going?"
"Back to my place. What you need is a nice hot bath, sunshine." Her left hand squeezed his thig
h hard and she drove away.
SEVEN
THE FLIGHT FROM Jersey got into Heathrow Terminal One just after eleven the following morning. It took half an hour for Dillon's case to come through and he sat smoking and reading the paper while he waited. The war news was good for the coalition forces. A few pilots down in Iraq, but the airstrikes were having a terrible effect.
His case came and he walked through. There was a rush of customers, as several planes had come in at around the same time. Customs didn't seem to be stopping anyone that morning, not that they'd have found anything on him. His suitcase contained a change of clothes and toilet articles, no more, and there were only a couple of newspapers in the briefcase. He also had two thousand dollars in his wallet, which was in twenty hundred-dollar bills. Nothing wrong with that. He'd destroyed the French passport at the hotel in Jersey. No turning back now. When he went back to France it would be very definitely a different route, and until then the Jersey driving license in the name of Peter Hilton was all the identification he needed.
He took the escalator to the upper concourse and joined the queue at one of the bank counters, changing five hundred dollars for sterling. He repeated the exercise at three other banks, then went downstairs to get a taxi, whistling softly to himself.
He told the driver to drop him at Paddington Station, where he left the suitcase in a locker. He phoned Tania Novikova on the number Makeev had given him, just on the chance she was at home, and got her answering machine. He didn't bother to leave a message, but went out and hailed a cab and told the driver to take him to Covent Garden.
In his tinted glasses, striped tie and navy blue Burberry trenchcoat he looked thoroughly respectable.
The driver said, "Terrible weather, guv. I reckon we're going to see some real heavy snow soon."
"I shouldn't be surprised." Dillon's accent was impeccable public school English.
Eye Of the Storm (1992) Page 11
