The Last Big Job hc-4

by Nick Oldham

  The undercarriage whined down with a creak and a groan. Final descent.

  Danny saw road lights below her from the window. She tightened her seat belt, then glanced at her watch — 9.30 p.m. She made some mental calculations: up to an hour tops to get through the airport, collect luggage and pick up the pre-ordered hire car; twenty minutes to Los Cristianos — a resort she knew well from previous holidays — book into the hotel, quick shower, change into holiday clothes, then down to the harbour for a meal and a bottle of wine in a restaurant.

  She tried unsuccessfully to wipe the grin off her face.

  It was a dirty job, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera…

  It was an awfully civilised occasion by any standards. A thirtieth birthday party, the big three-zero.

  The entire restaurant had been hired for it — at a very discounted price, obviously. A marquee had been erected in the gardens, with a dance-floor and live music from Queen and Beatles tribute bands. The food, wine and entertainment were all terrific and free to everyone who had been invited.

  Henry Christie did not want to be there.

  It was not in his plans to be invited to Gary Thompson’s girlfriend’s birthday bash. But such was the way of undercover operations. He had intended that the first down payment of the money for the stolen whisky should have taken place in an environment which he controlled. The last-minute party invitation had thrown him off kilter and he could not really refuse it. Gary had said he wanted to settle things at the party and for Henry to have said no would have probably aroused suspicion.

  At least it meant he was in the bloke’s good books and maybe there would be some opportunity to get Gary or Gunk to start blabbing whilst under the influence of drink.

  Henry, wired up, walked into the marquee entrance and had a listen to the Freddie Mercury lookalike for a few minutes, quite impressed.

  Whilst lounging there and being treated to a rousing rendition of ‘Hammer to Fall’, Henry’s eyes roved across the assorted assemblage. Then he did a double-take and tensed up as he recognised someone in the crowd — a guy called Fallon, a Manchester crim, low-level drug dealer, who Henry had surveilled and locked up a few years before when he’d been on the squad. Henry moved away from the marquee, quickly putting his drink to his mouth to cover some of his face. This was one of those exact reasons why undercover cops do not work near home. The possibility of being blown out, accidentally or otherwise, was very real and dangerous.

  And if Fallon was here, who else could be?

  What he needed to do was conduct his business with Thompson, make his excuses and then a sharp exit.

  He tried to stroll nonchalantly away from the tent whilst holding his glass up to his cheek, pretending to scratch the corner of his eyes. He had gone about ten yards towards the restaurant when a big, heavy arm wrapped around his shoulders. Gunk Elphick stuck his face into Henry’s, overpowering the detective’s sense of smell with a combination of booze and a particularly repugnant aftershave. The fusion stung Henry’s eyeballs, made him blink rapidly.

  ‘ Frank, how you doing, pal?’ slurred Gunk, oiled to a very high viscosity.

  ‘ I’m fine, considering.’

  Gunk stepped back, affronted. ‘You still moanin’ about me duffin’ you up?’

  ‘ Duffing isn’t the word I would choose. Hammering the shite out of, is the phrase. And yes, I am sore.’

  ‘ Y’soft twat.’ Gunk punched him hard on the shoulder. ‘Nowt personal.’

  ‘ So I’ve been told.’

  Gunk’s face warped into a ‘Don’t give a monkey’s anyway’ sort of look. ‘What do you think about the do?’ He swept his arm in an all-encompassing gesture, taking in the whole of the party.

  ‘ Big do. Nice.’ Henry nodded appreciatively.

  ‘ Yeah, you’re right — effin’ big do.’ Gunk gave Henry a salacious wink for some unfathomable reason. ‘We’ve invited a lot of top boys to this, both as a sign of friendship and also to put ‘em on notice that me and Gazzer’ve arrived. To let ‘em know where the power is going to be in the future. A kind of friendly poke in the ribs to our competitors, sorta.’ Gunk’s big index finger rocketed towards Henry’s chest to reinforce the point. Henry caught it in his fist and slowed it down before it broke his sternum. The finger was as podgy as a semi-erect cock. Henry let it go quickly.

  Gunk leaned into Henry again. The drink was making him voluble. ‘We’re going to be big, me and Gazzer,’ he breathed. ‘Got big plans

  … and now that we’ve got the backing… and we’ve already let the rest of the nobs know we won’t be twatted around with.’ Again, he winked.

  ‘ You mean by that, the way you dealt with Jacky Lee?’

  Gunk tapped his nose conspiratorially. ‘Ex — fucking — zacktly. We are going to be immense in this town.’ He leaned back slightly, teetered, then regained balance.

  ‘ Can you talk Russian?’ Henry asked him.

  ‘ No need. English is the language of the world, these days. They talk it better’n me, and they talk money. That’s all we need to get along, innit?’

  ‘ Sounds a good enough combination to me,’ Henry agreed — except that he seriously questioned the wisdom of such a partnership as, over the last couple of days, he had done some research into the Russian Mafia.

  Henry had contacted his friend and colleague at the FBI office in London, a man called Karl Donaldson. He and Henry had met each other a few years earlier on a case concerning American Mafia connections in the North of England — a job that had almost cost Henry his life. Henry knew Karl would be able to give him the lowdown on the Russians, in particular how they operated abroad.

  He had made the correct assumption. The Russians, it transpired, were very high on the agenda of the FBI for reasons Donaldson did not immediately explain.

  Donaldson got quickly into his stride. Since the demise of the USSR, the American began, the Russian Mafia had internationalised very quickly and became a leading player in global crime. He went on to quote a few facts about Russian operations outside that country. They fell into three main categories.

  The first was known as hard penetration. This is where the Mafia decide to establish themselves as the predominant criminal force in a particular area or country. In some cases this is achieved by aligning themselves with local organised crime and in others taking on the locals directly and bloodily in turf wars. Examples of countries in which this approach had been taken were Poland, Austria, Germany and Israel.

  Next category, Donaldson went on with relish, was a more subtle technique known as soft penetration. This method is chosen when the marauding Russians see either the local law enforcers or the local organised gangs as threats, such as in the UK where the cops, on the whole, are pretty effective or in Italy, where the local Mafia are just as ruthless and well-organised as the Russians themselves. In these cases, their usual method of infiltration is by way of legitimate business fronts.

  Finally — last but not least — came Donaldson’s third option: service penetration. In this way the Russians are able to cash in on their undoubted skills and abilities in several areas by providing key services to criminal gangs, whether it be money laundering or assassination.

  There were examples, he said, of the Russians combining two or all three of these approaches where necessary. They sometimes kill for the locals, then move into their organisations, then take over — often by use of force.

  Henry felt slightly queasy at the revelation.

  Donaldson had concluded by telling Henry that the FBI, and the CIA, he believed, were investigating several murders which appeared to have been carried out by highly trained Russian killers contracted by local criminals.

  ‘ Good Lord,’ Henry exclaimed as Donaldson finished the last point. He quickly asked the American if he knew any of the Russian language. Henry knew Donaldson was a whizz at language.

  ‘ Yeah, I’m studying it at night school in Basingstoke, doing what you Brits call an A level. Why?’

  �
� What does… let me try to get this right… “ Astana veesta” mean? He tried to recall what Jacky Lee’s killer had shouted at him.

  Donaldson thought for a moment. ‘If you’ve got it right, it could be “Stop” maybe.’

  Henry quickly told him about the situation in which he found himself, described Jacky Lee’s murder, and the subsequent appearance of the Bryan Ferry lookalike, Mr Drozdov, on the scene in Manchester.

  As a matter of urgency, Donaldson asked Henry to send him a copy of everything he had, and promised to do some digging for him with his European contacts.

  Now, as Henry looked at Gunk, swaying drunkenly before him at the party, he wondered who would come off better in the partnership, the Russians or the locals. But he already knew the answer. For all their bluster and violence, Gary and Gunk did not have the brains to foresee the implications of getting into bed with the Russians.

  Henry did not have one jot of sympathy.

  ‘ They did Jacky for us as a favour,’ Gunk said bluntly, astonishing his listener. ‘They wanted to work with Jacky at first, but he told them to sling their hooks. Then they talked to us, discreet like, put a deal to us and we had the vision to see ahead.’ Suddenly Gunk clammed up tight, realising he had said too much, even in his inebriated state.

  Yeah, thought Henry, the Russians do not do favours without a payback day.

  Gunk grinned lopsidedly at Henry, who thought fleetingly that he was just a big, dumb lad with a very violent streak in him.

  ‘ Where’s your bird?’ Henry enquired innocently.

  ‘ Me? I don’t have a bird. I shag blokes, mate. I’m a poof, queer, whatever you wanna call me… and to be honest, I fancy shagging you.’ Gunk’s ‘dumb lad’ face turned menacing. ‘But I think you know that already.’

  They commandeered the restaurant manager’s office, the man reluctantly vacating the room when he realised it was probably in his best interests to do so. The verbal request for him to up-stakes came from the drunken Gunk; behind him stood Gary Thompson, Drozdov and Henry. Four very intimidating characters to say the least.

  Gary took the manager’s seat behind the desk. Drozdov and Gunk settled into a ragged two-seater sofa. Gunk immediately loosened his belt, parted his legs and farted loudly and proudly. Henry caught the most fleeting expression on Drozdov’s face, making the detective guess that when the time was right, Gunk would be the first to be fitted with a cement overcoat when the Russians took over.

  Henry, chairless, perched on the corner of the desk. He picked up a letter-opener and scraped his nails — because he’d seen some gangsters do it in films. He very quickly learned that letter-openers are not designed to clean behind fingernails.

  ‘ Sorry to push this through so fast,’ Henry said apologetically, ‘but I’ve got to get on to another appointment, after which,’ he added as a sweetener, ‘I’ll probably be able to offer you some very cheap ciggies. I have a contact in Kent who deals in duty frees. Excellent prices, amazing mark-ups… so I need to get going. Sorry, because it’s a good party.’

  ‘ OK, what’re you saying?’ Gary asked.

  ‘ I’d like that down payment we agreed on — and tomorrow I’ll arrange delivery wherever and whenever you like.’

  ‘ How do I know you won’t fuck off with the money?’

  Henry laid the letter-opener down, a very pained expression on his face. ‘I thought we’d been through all this. My word is my bond. I’ve got a good history as you know. I never once let Jacky Lee down and I won’t let you down.’ He was holding his arms wide in an ‘Honest John’ gesture. Then he decided to throw in a bit of a wobbler like Frank Jagger would have done. ‘And anyway, what is all this shit? I’m here, aren’t I? You’ve beaten the crap out of me, put me through the ringer ‘cos you thought I might be a cop, and I’m still here, putting business your way. If I had been a cop, I would’ve dropped this job pretty damn quick, and if I hadn’t wanted to do a deal with you, I wouldn’t be here. So what do you want? More blood? I need the down payment to get this deal up and running. If you don’t want to give it, I’ll fuck off.’

  Gary snorted. ‘ You don’t half get on your high horse, don’t you, Frank? You’re hyper, man. Touchy, touchy, touchy. Cool down, chill out. I asked a valid question, that’s all.’

  Henry took a deep breath. ‘Right — you’re right, Gary. Sorry.’

  ‘ However, there is a slight change in the down-payment details. It’s ten per cent, not the fifteen per cent we agreed. That’s three and a half now, the rest the day after delivery.’

  Henry bridled again. ‘A deal should be a deal.’ His voice was stone.

  ‘ It will be,’ Gary said reassuringly.

  Henry made a show of considering it. ‘OK, to show I trust you, I’ll take it — but don’t mess me around on delivery. That’s when I want the full balance.’

  Gary allowed himself a small smile. His eyes flickered across to Drozdov, who shifted, leaned forwards and took a brown package from his jacket. He gave it to Henry who opened it and peered inside at the contents.

  ‘ I know it’s a corny line — but do I need to count it?’

  ‘ It’s all there, Frank, three and a half thou.’

  Henry slid it into a pocket.

  There was a knock on the office door. The four men turned to look.

  ‘ Yep,’ Gary shouted.

  The door opened a few inches. A guy Henry recognised as having been one of Jacky Lee’s gofers — now having changed allegiance and employed in the same capacity for Thompson — poked his head in. ‘Sorry to bother you, boss, but the guy you were expecting is here.’

  He opened the door.

  Behind him stood Billy Crane.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It had been a summer of rain in Britain. Records had been broken, many towns and villages devastated by flooding. Days of sunshine had been few and far between and no water authority had dared mention the dreaded hose-pipe ban. Most non-rainy days were overcast, dull and cold. The majority of people in Britain — and Danny Furness was no exception — were desperate to get some sunshine on their bodies to warm their creaking bones.

  With the way things had gone for her over the last few months, particularly in terms of Jack Sands’s suicide and its aftermath, she had not been able to escape to sunnier climes. A long Caribbean holiday was planned for the New Year with a girlfriend. So, although the Tenerife trip was primarily work-related and short, she intended to take full advantage of it.

  The morning after her arrival, Danny was up at eight and in the hotel dining room for the buffet breakfast shortly after. She sat contentedly alone at a table with a view across the pool and beyond that to the sea-front promenade which led to the centre and harbour of Los Cristianos.

  Whilst eating she worked out her timetable for the day.

  First thing was a pleasant stroll down to the resort centre, grabbing a coffee at one of the cafes to watch life meander by for a while. Then she was going to make her way on foot to Playa de Las Americas where Gillrow lived in his apartment. Danny aimed to be knocking on his door at ten o’clock. The interview would take as long as it took. After that she would return to the hotel, ease herself into her swimming costume, trying not to be too concerned by the bulges — and spend the rest of the day by the pool, with several long cool drinks to hand, chain smoking and reading a paperback.

  She folded the last bite of the warm roll into her mouth, washing it down with black coffee, wiping her lips with a napkin. Then she stood up and walked out of the hotel on to the sun terrace surrounding the large free-form pool.

  She almost collapsed with bliss from the heat of the sun, even at that time of day. She slipped her sunglasses on and breathed in the warm air deeply.

  She felt better already.

  Henry Christie and Terry Briggs were at the ‘unit’, the Undercover Operations Headquarters on a Blackburn industrial estate. They were planning the delivery of the whisky whilst waiting for a phone call from Thompson to tell them where and when
.

  Henry’s mobile rang. It was his own phone and he answered it using his own name. Karl Donaldson’s voice came clearly down the satellite link, speaking from his office in the FBI section of the American Embassy in London.

  ‘ Gimme a fax number if you can,’ he instructed Henry. ‘Read what I send, then call me back on a landline, not a mobile. You never know who might be listening.’

  Henry gave him the secure fax line number of the unit.

  A few minutes later the machine fired up and Donaldson’s fax spewed forth.

  Henry settled down to read it, Terry peering over his shoulder.

  ‘ Henry,’ he read, ‘I have been following up the details you gave me since we spoke the other day and have come up with a few interesting and disturbing facts.

  ‘ Firstly, Nikolai Drozdov. As we’ve already discussed, and you know, the Russian Mafia are very powerful, but as in the Cosa Nostra, they are very divided, fractious and families are often at war with each other. Some families are more powerful than others and one of the top five are the Drozdovs, headed by an old-fashioned patriarch called Alexandr. Their power base is Moscow. They are one of the richest and most pro active of the families, very strategically-minded with long term goals. They are also one of the most extreme in terms of violence — if measured by the number of people they are alleged to have murdered. They specialise in drugs, prostitution and extortion rackets — extorting mainly from multi-national companies, not corner shops, incidentally. Nikolai Drozdov is Alexandr’s grandson. Nikolai’s father was killed in a gang shoot-out four years ago. Nikolai is being groomed to take over the number one spot when the old man (he’s about 90!) either dies or abdicates.

  ‘ You may (or may not) recall an article in the Sunday Times recently about “crime kings” gathering in Europe to divide up the continent between themselves. One name not mentioned in the article is Drozdov, but they were the main players behind that meeting. Intelligence from French sources filtered through to the FBI about that meeting indicates that the Russians are very interested in wrestling the UK heroin trade from the Turkish gangsters who now control it. There was a lot of friction between the two parties and subsequently a lot of dead bodies have turned up across Europe this year. However, the position is still unclear as to whether the Turks have kept control or whether the Russkies have taken over. Time will tell, no doubt.