by Robert White
“This is gonna be a wee bit sticky, mate,” he drained the remainder of his Gaelic, “and I reckon I’ve got the short straw baby-sitting Joel Davies’s missus.”
“Fair go, Des, but you know Tanya’s temper. She would top her before we got across the Channel and we are going to need both ladies for this job.”
Des burst into a laugh. He’d met Tanya before and knew exactly what I meant. The Jamaicans were not noted for their patience with petulant, pampered whites.
He lowered his tone. “What if she’s been in on the deal with the Dutch since the marriage proposal? If so, we’ll be compromised from the start, we could be walking into a minefield.”
I nodded in agreement.
Des had come to the same conclusion as I. What if Susan had decided to go into business for herself? What if her marriage to Joel and the two previous deals had all been bait for the big payday? If so, she was the ultimate grafter. If she was a con artist, she had made over a million pounds in less than two years and lived in luxury whilst earning it.
“She gets no contact with anyone outside the team unless it’s to Davies himself. Either you or I must be present even then.”
Des nodded. “What about Davies himself? Does he trust her?”
I felt my mouth turn at the edges.
“Who the fuck knows, Des, he wouldn’t be the first to be conned by a pretty face, would he?”
The doorbell announced Tanya’s arrival.
She strode in with a broad grin for Des and me, rested a manicured hand on Des’s shoulder and pecked me on the cheek. She wore a black, figure-hugging, two-piece tailored suit by Karen Millen. It caused a deep wrinkling of Des’s brow. She dropped a single suitcase onto the carpet and poured herself a brandy without invitation.
Tanya knew the outline of the job. That was all she needed, that and her fifty grand fees. She swallowed and wiped her lip carefully with her index finger. This time the nail was black to match her suit.
“So, boys, we’re going on a holiday to Amsterdam, eh?”
I told her the travel arrangements. She nodded.
“This Susan Davies, can we turn our backs on her or what?”
Des piped up, and as casual as you like said, “The first sign of a problem and I’ll slot her.”
We both knew he meant it. Only I knew it couldn’t happen. We needed her. Well, for the time being anyway.
My entry phone beeped and I lifted the receiver. I saw the black and white image of Susan Davies. Even two inches tall and out of perspective she looked stunning. A lift ride later and she arrived at the door flanked by what she would describe as her ‘security’, which consisted of a fat dickhead carrying a mountain of luggage.
He was red-faced and out of breath. If this guy had to help you in a barney he would be as much use as a chocolate fireguard.
Des eyed him with mild amusement and turned to our esteemed guest.
“So, Susan, I take it you are Susan? Is this your personal porter?” It took a second or two for the tub of lard to realise he was having the piss taken out of him. As the light came on he dropped the cases and squared himself at Des.
“I’m Mrs Davies personal security. So shut it.”
Des raised his hands in mock surrender.
“Deepest apologies, pal; personal security? My word, you must be important.”
Susan had no time for the show at all. I could see the change in her. With no Joel Davies about there was something different. A tiny change maybe, but it was there. And it wasn’t what I expected.
She reached out and planted the palm of her hand slap in the centre of the big fella’s chest. There wasn’t a hint of nerves there at all.
“Stop all this macho shit, will you! You can go now, Eric.”
Eric looked puzzled, he was obviously expecting a jolly to The Dam, but Susan nodded to the door and he turned to leave.
I decided to push the envelope a bit.
“Before you go, son,” I motioned to the ridiculous amount of luggage on my living room floor. “You’d better take all these cases with you, Eric.”
Susan was on me like a rash. Her personality changed again. In fact it seemed she had more of them than your average mental patient.
“That,” she pointed, “is my luggage!” Her hands moved to her hips and I saw Des raise a smile out of the corner of my eye.
“Mine!” she continued.
“It is nothing to do with you or anyone else, understand, Colletti?”
She was on a roll and pointed straight at me. Her Dutch accent more pronounced than ever. She was so close, I could feel her breath.
“We need to get this straight. Before I go anywhere with you and your little team of cronies, you need to remember that you work for my husband, Joel Davies. Remember him?” She cocked her head, “You do remember him, don’t you? The guy that pays you all? The scary guy with the big house? The guy that would have the three of you killed without a second thought?”
She glanced at each of us in turn.
Tanya was pouring a second brandy. She raised the balloon to the light and inspected the liquid colour before taking a measured sip. Des simply smiled broadly back in Susan’s direction.
He crossed his legs and motioned to each of us with an outstretched palm.
“As you can see, Susan, we’re all fuckin’ terrified.”
The confidence in her voice wavered slightly. Her pointed finger wagged up and down but it had lost some of its force. She made a vain attempt to regain her composure.
“In Joel’s absence, you work for me.”
She tailed off. There was an awkward silence.
I smiled.
Tanya moved with all the grace of a ballerina. Her left foot connected with Susan at about calf height. Simultaneously Tanya pushed Susan backward. Both Susan’s legs flew from under her and she landed on her arse on my Persian rug. It looked fairly painful, but I got the impression it was only Susan’s pride that was dented. In fact she fell quite well.
Big Eric was lumbering toward Tanya like an overweight heifer. Des and I exchanged a look that allowed the show to go on. He was within six feet of her, when Tanya drew an exquisite Derringer pistol from her jacket. She extended her arm. The engraved silver barrel met Eric’s forehead and stopped him dead.
This was a good start to the campaign, I was enjoying myself, and from the grin on Des’s face, so was he.
Eric the Flabby stood rooted and sweating. Tanya raised one eyebrow that asked the obvious question. I broke the silence.
“Is that a .22, Tanya?”
“Uhh, uhh.”
“It will still make a hell of a noise.”
Tanya was having none of it.
“Turn up your hi-fi. No one will hear.”
Eric was shaking. Susan seemed remarkably calm.
I turned up the sounds and barely heard Eric cry out. Didn’t he like the White Stripes?
I had recently installed the system. It was the dog’s bollocks. So small you hardly noticed it. It didn’t interfere with the look of my living room. Yet it was so powerful, over a hundred watts RMS per channel, it would cover the gunshot with ease.
Then I remembered. I had just had my rug professionally cleaned. It was pale grey, with black and gold Persian panel, beautifully hand woven, and pure wool.
“Just a minute, doll.”
I walked to my utility room and gathered some plastic sheeting used by my decorators. I placed a single sheet about eight feet square behind Eric.
“Ask him to step back a little, Tanya. I’ve just paid an arm and a leg to get this rug cleaned.”
She nodded at the blubbering hulk. “Step back, fat boy.”
He complied. A tiny red circle had appeared on his forehead from the barrel of the Derringer.
I do like it when people take pride in their equipment. Tanya must have parted with a princely sum to obtain such a weapon. She pulled back the hammer on the deadly beauty. It made a clickity click sound and Eric’s bowel control failed him. Susan
had seen enough.
She screamed at Tanya, “Stop this nonsense! For Christ sake, stop it now!”
The point had been made to the person who mattered. Tanya looked to me for the signal, and holstered as quickly as she drew. I grabbed Eric by the hair and pushed him toward the door.
“Fuck off before you stink out my house.”
I closed the door behind him and turned to Susan who, to my surprise, had regained her composure.
I selected one suitcase.
“Now, Missus Davies, I’ll try to remember that I work for your husband whilst you pack this single bag, no more. You have ten minutes.”
I pointed to a grinning Scot resting his bones on my sofa.
“You’ll be travelling with Des here. He has your ticket and your best interests at heart.” I looked her straight in the eye. “I’ve known your husband for a long time. I know exactly what kind of man he is and what kind of woman you are. We are here to do a job. I don’t give a shit if you want to be here or not. What I can tell you, is that the three of us would rather be without you. The best thing you can do is keep your mouth shut until the time comes for you to ID the man that stole from your husband. Fail in that department, honey, and nothing will protect you. The only person in charge here is me, understand? Now pack that bag.”
She didn’t answer. She simply stared straight at me, her blue eyes flashing contempt. She raised herself and started to arrange her luggage.
I was particularly taken with her Christian Dior shoes.
I didn’t bother to check exactly what Susan had packed, even though I admit to a certain curiosity. Her taste in clothes was obvious for all to see and I’d bet it dented old Joel’s chequebook. What she paid for her underwear would have kept a family of four in clothes for a year.
Everyone was travelling under their own name except me. I can never relax if strangers know my identity. It’s a personal thing.
We had split into our relative couples. Tanya and I were leaving thirty minutes prior to Des and Susan and from different terminals. I left the Range Rover in covered parking and the two of us relaxed in the KLM first class lounge. We drew some attention, but I put that down to the fact that Tanya was not only beautiful but black. The sight of a mixed race couple still raised an eyebrow in the UK.
We both double-checked a very athletic looking single white male reading a Dutch newspaper, but he left on a flight to Frankfurt. Our nerves were starting to hone the rest of our senses. The ability to turn tension into intelligence is a great advantage; a physical and mental state that makes an invisible enemy visible, the very special gift that keeps people like us alive.
The first call for our flight sounded from the public address system. I drained my Evian over ice and walked from the lounge to the bathroom. The flight time, Manchester to Schiphol was only an hour and twenty minutes, but I disliked using the toilet on aircraft.
The first class rest rooms were clean and presentable. They had black marble tiles and shell-shaped washbasins which I found a little ‘’80s’. I appeared to be the lone user of the facilities and I entered a cubicle at the end of the row of three.
I sat.
Within seconds I heard footsteps on the tiled floor. They paused and then the next cubicle door opened. I couldn’t help but listen to the noises.
Something was wrong. The noises were wrong. The hairs on the back of my neck started their journey upward. I had no weapons. We had just cleared security. As quietly as possible I reached for my trousers. Anyone would have trouble defending themselves with their trousers around their ankles and their dick hanging out.
There was a sudden scrabbling noise. The person in the next cubicle was agile and quick. Before I could complete my task, my assailant was over the divider. I was knocked backwards onto the pan, trousers still at my ankles.
Tanya grabbed my hair hard enough to remove some by the root and forced my head back against the wall. She was as strong as an ox. She planted her mouth on mine and pushed her tongue to the back of my throat. She was standing astride me and reached down to grab my crotch. She handled me roughly. Her breath was all I could hear as she sucked and bit frantically at my neck. I raised a hand to touch her but she pushed it away with more strength than the average male.
Stepping back, she was breathing hard.
She smiled. “You were a little slow there, baby, you need to sharpen up, or I’ll have to find myself a new plaything.”
It was Tanya’s idea of a joke.
What was even funnier was the look on the face of the guy that saw the pair of us emerge from the single cubicle with me covered in Tanya’s lipstick.
The Dutch are notoriously casual towards recreational drugs, sex and art. Some of their ideas make perfect sense. Others defy belief.
Amsterdam Airport, though, was like any other major international, with lots of people and lots of security. It would have been madness to bring weapons or anything else through a place like Schiphol. I had personally arranged for our hardware to be left in a luggage locker at the airport. The contact was all my own and nothing to do with Davies. This was exactly the way I liked it. The drop and the weaponry cost me ten grand. I knew it would be an expensive job. I quietly did the sums.
Until the weapon stash was collected we were totally vulnerable. Our only saving grace would be that any attempt at a hit would be very dangerous in the airport complex.
Tanya had grown increasingly uncomfortable in the arrivals hall. Jamaicans have these peculiar mojo moments that I find weird. It’s not that I didn’t believe some of the black magic stuff. I did a tour in Africa and saw some really strange shit there. It’s just that I preferred to deal with the ‘here and now’ and not what might happen. I wandered around in duty-free.
As we waited for Des and Susan’s flight to land, I stocked up on aftershave. I bought the new D & G, Hugo Boss and CK. I wasn’t sure about the CK but it was a bargain. I shopped whilst Tanya pensively checked for any tails, and rubbed rabbits feet or whatever.
We watched the others clear customs. No one else appeared to be skulking around so we walked separately to a café by the luggage lockers. It was a typical airport design, all open-plan with a poor menu, dreadful coffee, and extortionate prices.
Why is it, that you always find a spotty, unkempt and intellectually challenged youth serving in these places? After my passable attempt at Dutch, the little bastard serving ignored me. I’d suffered this treatment in Holland before. I was on a stag trip to Amsterdam with some army mates and we’d walked into a small bar where the Dutch locals drank. When we eventually got a beer we were asked to sit in a small separate room away from the rest of the drinkers. As I said, the Dutch are a strange mix. Tanya’s definite rudeness paid off and we got two cups of truly awful coffee.
Des and Susan sat three tables from us. I got up and walked to the left luggage room; the key arrived at my flat in Manchester just three hours after I knew I was visiting ‘The Dam’. Now that is service for you.
A swift walk down two flights of stairs and I was in the locker room. It was busy with mainly student types. People were dumping their larger suitcases and travelling light into the city. Most would be day trippers. Some of them were excited and talked openly about the drugs they were about to buy in the many legal coffee shops once they got to the centre. I did a double take as one meat-head dropped down the steps and seemed to do nothing in particular. Several moments later, he was joined by his girlfriend who had just dropped her case in a locker and they left, hand in hand. I gave myself a mental slap. I was starting to get as bad as Tanya.
Paranoia, self-importance’s first cousin.
There were hundreds of identical steel doors. I found the one with my key number and removed two large black suitcases. I strolled to the gentleman’s toilet. I didn’t expect another visit from Tanya.
Directly on cue, Des took the next stall to me. His Irish brogue pushed under the partition. He tapped out my initials in Morse. I slid one of the cases to him under the st
all and made my exit.
Our nakedness was over.
The plan called for Des and Susan to take the train to Central station and from there, a cab to the hotel. Typical of Amsterdam the hotel was called ‘The Koch’ which was a five minute stroll from Dam Square and the heart of Amsterdam city life.
Tanya and I walked to Avis.
“How’s the mojo, Tanya?” I said trying to lighten her mood.
“Don’t mess with the magic,” was all she said and strode on in front, the conversation was over.
I rented a BMW 325i. It was a brand new car; black with caramel coloured leather seats.
Once the paperwork was completed we loaded up and made for the city. The motorway network from Schiphol takes you under a runway approach and as we stuttered through traffic I watched the bizarre sight of a Boeing 747 taxiing over our heads.
The traffic cleared. Tanya stamped on the accelerator and the German saloon responded nicely. I sat in the back and checked the contents of our armoury.
The case contained two Heckler Koch MP5K’s with sliding stocks; they had Ultra dot aim point sights and Maglites fitted.
Beautiful.
They took an extended magazine of twenty rounds, two of which were taped to each weapon. The MP5K is light enough to use one handed and operates on single shot, burst of three and fully automatic. At the flick of a switch, this weapon is the ultimate urban killer. It is deadly accurate to a hundred yards on single shot, an ideal weapon in a running battle on short burst and a great room-clearer on automatic.
Sitting either side of the MP5’s were two Glock 9 mm SLP’s. Not my ideal choice of weapon, I preferred the SIG or H and K. The plastic Glock felt too light and flimsy but it was short notice for my man and all the weapons took identical ammunition, which was a bonus.
I loaded the two Glocks, handed one to Tanya, and pushed the other into my waistband in the small of my back. I felt instantly more secure.
I was checking the remainder of the case, night vision goggles, audio transmitters, de-bugging gear and other bits of ancillary kit, when Tanya piped up.
“Green Audi A6, babe. Two cars back. It’s been with us since the airport.”
