He said, ‘They should go somewhere else, not Geoff and Fran’s patch. It’s a dump, Posie, but it’s their home, and it won’t ever be the same again. Do you trust that cop with the camera? I don’t. At the end, he’ll be gone down the pub, celebrating. Geoff and Fran are wrecked.’
‘So what are you going to do?’
He didn’t know. He pondered on her question or she walked beside him. She didn’t prompt him. There was an ordinary pavement bordered by an ordinary kerb and an ordinary stretch of road with the usual stained surface. The place had come on him fast. He hadn’t intended to be there. It was different in daylight, without the throb of music. A man with a gun had crossed that road, tripped on that kerb, had missed a target approaching that pavement where a convertible had been parked. The pistol had been raised before the trip, and the man hadn’t noticed Jonno was there. No one had asked him: So, what are you going to do? He had done nothing. If there had been blood, screaming and death, he would have carried it to his grave. Lucky, Jonno, that the idiot had missed twice, and that his failure to do anything wouldn’t haunt him.
‘I don’t know.’
‘We go home, call it a day, forget we were ever here, or – ’
‘I can’t. Don’t laugh at me . . . I promised to look after the cat.’
‘– or live with it. Close your eyes to what you don’t like and stop being so pompous.’
‘But I can’t do that either.’
‘I don’t understand where all this is coming from. I don’t like it – you’ve got so sanctimonious. If I’d known you could be like this, I’d never have come.’
‘You should have looked harder.’
He kept walking. She’d stopped. The gap opened. He didn’t know what he would do. Jonno could not have said that she would come after him. He heard nothing, but didn’t break his stride. There was a phone booth ahead and he went to it. He fished out a fist of coins and flipped through his diary to ‘Useful Phone Numbers’. He took a deep breath.
He dialled. His breath was panted and sweat squirmed in his eyes.
‘Metropolitan Police, yes? I’m calling from Spain. I seem to be blundering into an investigation, but I have big reservations. It’ll be “serious crime” or “organised crime”. I’ve been shown identification by people claiming to work for SCD. Please, I want to speak to somebody.’
There was a pause. He thought he’d sounded like some nutter with an agenda. If he explained a bit more, where he was and why, he would be told to get down to the beach or hike in the hills.
He dropped the phone and pocketed the money he hadn’t fed. He walked on, was alone.
Snapper poured tea from the pot into the mug.
She had been close to tears on the doorstep, and had come back by bus and on foot. She hadn’t had the key and the bell didn’t work, but Loy had heard her and brought her in. Snapper had come down the stairs, sent Loy back to the view and the camera, and had been told, blurted little sentences, of their split down in the town. It was often said of Snapper that he had a fine way with people in crisis and he thought it an opportunity not to be passed up.
‘I don’t think, my love, that you know him very well.’
‘Different in London . . . seeing bits now that I didn’t know.’
‘And if you had you’d have stayed at home. It’s really bad luck . . . you’ll not find us short of friendship, Posie.’
‘Thanks.’
‘We’re not pulling out – of course not. You’re here to look after the cat while Mr Walsh has his operation. We should be able to co-exist as long as Loy, Sparky and I are shown some respect. Drink up, there’s a good girl.’
She drank the tea.
Snapper said, ‘It’s the same with terrorists, Posie. People who don’t know and don’t have close experience of them see them as rather principled “martyrs” or freedom fighters, and having a cause and being prepared to make great sacrifices for it. They’re wrong because usually the poor idiot with the Kalashnikov or the waistcoat of explosives is a manipulated half-wit. Only very rarely does a big man step into the line of danger, and he never puts his own family there. Same with the major players in organised crime – which I wouldn’t expect you to know anything about, or Jonno. A man is prepared to ship in from Latin America a ton of cocaine, cut it up, put some filth in it to make it go further and chuck it out on to the streets of Europe’s cities – the villages as well – but his sons and daughters would get the hiding of their lives if he ever thought they were at it. So, organised crime . . .’
Sparky had come to the door. Snapper didn’t acknowledge him. He had – as back-up – the report from Xavier of the meeting in the supermarket: nothing had been said, so he felt good, in control.
‘Nice girl like you, Posie, will have seen one of the Robin Hood films and you might have been quite excited by the modern gangster movies where it’s all rather romantic and there’s usually a streak of good in every evil creature that just needs tapping into. Anyway, it’s a world that isn’t reflected on your commuter train in the morning and evening, nothing to do with mugging and burgling, and nothing to do with back-handers into the pockets of public servants because that wouldn’t interest you. Forgive my language, Posie – it’s all fucking rubbish.’
He swore only for effect, to make innocents recoil.
‘There is no romance and no sacrifice in organised crime. They fight like sewer rats, mostly among themselves, and they’re not the stereotype of successful chief executives. The men who run major companies do not murder, maim or cripple their opponents. They do not base their import flowcharts on the trafficking of Class A narcotics, teenage prostitutes, cloned credit cards. Organised-crime bosses get to the top by the vicious and ruthless use of violence. It underpins everything they do.’
She was crying quietly now. Sparky watched Snapper and showed nothing of his emotion.
‘We’re responsible people, Posie, and our chiefs are governed by a mile-long list of regulations. We understand where Jonno’s at but it’s not justified. We’re men to be trusted . . . Maybe you should have a lie down.’
Jonno came in. His face was flushed – he’d been drinking. The car was outside the gates.
He slammed every door – front, kitchen, bathroom and bedroom. She had her back to him, facing the wall.
A small voice: ‘What have you decided? What are you going to do?’
He fell on the bed. ‘I don’t know, but something . . .’
He could hear their movements upstairs.
‘. . . because, Posie, it’s wrong. Something.’
10
Jonno followed Loy up the stairs.
Loy said, ‘You don’t want to get off on the wrong foot with Snapper. He’s one of the best. Very highly regarded.’
Jonno didn’t answer. He felt good. He had slept well. He had recognised the summons when it came: Loy at the door. Posie had gone further under the bedclothes. It was a call from Snapper so there were no apologies, nothing about him coming up when he was dressed or after breakfast. He’d fight, but on his own ground. Sparky was at the top of the stairs.
Loy led him in, and Sparky closed the door. Snapper was in his chair, and the camera was on the table, Loy’s logbook beside it, with the pencilled entries. Jonno thought they were in pencil so that they could be rubbed out and replaced if need be. Snapper had turned, and Jonno saw that they’d let the dog out. One of the Serbs was throwing a ball, and the Russian was on the patio, a mobile at his ear.
Snapper grinned. ‘On the piss last night, were we? How are you feeling this morning?’
Give them nothing. ‘Fine, thanks.’
A grin. ‘Excellent, so we can clear things up.’
‘You can. I’ve nothing to “clear up”.’
‘Get things on an even keel.’
‘Whatever that means.’
‘I’m suggesting that past misunderstandings are put behind us.’
‘There are no misunderstandings.’
Snapper said ea
sily, with the smile working hard, ‘I have a job to do, Jonno.’
Jonno said, ‘And the best place to do it is somewhere else.’
He stood with his hands on his hips, wearing boxers and a T-shirt. The bristle itched on his face and his mouth was dry. Where he worked, no one would have recognised him. He wasn’t certain what had changed him.
‘Your concern for the Walshes does you credit, Jonno, but it’s misguided. Their interests can – will – be looked after. We’re already talking about this with the seniors. We take their welfare very seriously and will do nothing that jeopardises their safety. We’ll have gone by the time they return from London and our target will have been taken into custody. They won’t know – unless you tell them, which will only unsettle them – that we were ever here. I’m suggesting we get off each other’s backs.’
It was a winning smile, an invitation to compromise.
‘I’d say it’s not my war. I’d say I’d be aiding, abetting, whatever your language calls it, an illegal act. Nothing you’ve said has convinced me that there are any guarantees for Geoff and Fran . . . and you’ve threatened me. You should pack up and go.’
He still wore the smile but the eyes had no humour. ‘Your girl giving you grief, is she?’
‘Fuck you.’
‘Charming. Get an education to learn that, did you? Let’s deal first with the “threats”?’
Snapper broke off, turned, had the camera up and the shutter clicked. He glanced down at his screen, grimaced, then murmured to Loy, who wrote the entry in the log. Jonno thought it was theatre.
‘What happens if you sabotage us? We’ll start there, then cover what else is relevant. Right? Organised crime is not Jonno’s war. Organised crime doesn’t affect his comfortable little life. Organised crime, and the corruption it brings, pulls a society into a gutter, but it isn’t knocking on his door. Organised crime breeds failed states – Bulgaria, Mexico, Ecuador, Colombia, where they’re shifting so much class A they need submarines for the tonnage that gets past the Yanks for the run to the California, New Mexico and Florida shores. But my friend Jonno doesn’t see that. We find folk get wound up about organised crime when we tell them about the pedigree-dog breeder in Latin America, with all the necessary paperwork for pet exports north. He was slitting open the bellies of Labrador puppies, putting sealed containers of cocaine into them, then sewing them up and flying them in crates to the USA. There, the stitches were unpicked, the cocaine was taken out, and they were stitched up again. If any survive they are sold. We tell that one to people too stupid to understand the implications of organised crime.’
Jonno stared at him. Posie would have thrown up. His mother would have gone to the nearest animal-charity box and emptied her purse into it. His friends at work and the guys he lived with would stare at him in disbelief if he told them that story, but they’d ignore any lecture on the statistics of drug-dealing or . . . He wobbled. He was now unsure.
‘Threats. We’re on the back foot here, and you’re safe. You go home, we go home, and you’ve screwed us. You have a job, a decent credit rating, insurance. You have references for accommodation lets, and one day you’ll have a mortgage. All of those can be fixed. Not by me, of course, Jonno. You don’t have a job because management learns of a police investigation involving minors, nothing that can be taken to court, but . . . Your credit rating and insurance are easy – and, surprise, you flog round the banks but no one offers you a mortgage. What do you do, Jonno? Go to some left-wing rag, or a lawyer who does “miscarriages” for Islam’s bombers? What’s your story? Try this for size. “I’m the obstinate bastard who took it on himself to disrupt a major police and intelligence-based investigation targeting an international criminal, at last within reach, who is wanted in connection with the very brutal murder of a British national.” This man is now, finally, beyond the reach of the protective umbrella provided by his own country. Do you think there’d be singing and dancing in the streets if you went to them with that? I’m not hearing you, Jonno.’
He turned. He opened the door.
‘Still not hearing you, Jonno.’
His eyes smarted and he blinked hard as went down the stairs.
‘He’s a killer and he’s coming here. We’re going to ping him. Are you with the good guys, Jonno, or with him?’
‘Gecko, could you please power up your laptop?’
He had come from the dunes and lost sight of the camels. He had kicked off his shoes and beaten them together to spill out the sand, then peeled off his socks and shaken them. He had been ignored. The business of the day was finished and the meal was brought from a cold box. He was offered meat, lamb or goat, and two sauces for dipping bread into. There was bottled water, imported from France. The plastic plates and cups were buried, and some of the tribespeople walked a little off to defecate. Another big bird circled them. Natan looked for a sign of their suspicion: he couldn’t find it.
The Major had spoken to him briefly but affably; neither Grigoriy nor Ruslan had said a word, which was not unusual. Eventually they had climbed back into the vehicles. He was wedged between the warrant officer and the master sergeant. The air-conditioning was at full power.
The Major’s head was turned towards him and the lips moved but Natan heard nothing. He asked the older man to repeat what he’d said. The Major’s hand came casually towards him, took his wrist and gripped it, to reassure and comfort.
The voice was louder.
‘Gecko, could you please power up your laptop?’
He said he would. He had to bend down with his head between his legs to get the rucksack that was half under his seat. He pulled it up. On top of the laptop were two pairs of worn socks and a pair of dirty underpants. He drew out the laptop. The Major had spoken to him with respect.
With desperation, Natan prayed that his fear was unfounded.
His screen saver was a view of a snow-capped Mount Shikhara, a few kilometres inside the northern frontier of his motherland, Georgia. It was there to remind him of where home had been, his parents and his brother. He never wrote, never phoned, never sent an email, never sought to learn whether the old dog was still alive.
Natan went through the passwords that ensured his privacy. The security of his laptop was a work of art.
What did the Major want? The detail on the arrangements he had in place for their arrival in Moroccan territory. There was a mobile number, and there would be instructions at their next stop. He gave the number, which the Major wrote down.
‘And what do we have, Gecko, for Marbella?’ The question was phrased as if the answer would be of small importance.
He clicked keys. He said there was a number for a cut-out. He giggled. The fear was waning. The cut-out was a woman, the mistress of a lawyer. The lawyer supervised the contracts and investments of Pavel Ivanov. The Major wrote, held a pencil between thumb and long finger, wedged it above the index stump. He said they also had Ivanov’s phone number . . . ‘You shouldn’t use that number, not ever. I should send a secure email. You know that, Major.’
‘Of course . . . and you remind me. You’re a good boy.’
He trembled and sweated. He could have kissed the Major’s rough cheeks. He was told nothing else was needed and he closed down his laptop. It was extraordinary that a man such as the Major needed a boy such as himself, but each of the crime oligarchs had a Gecko. They had accountants, lawyers, muscle men and bankers, and they had kids who could hack for them and understood the secret channels of communication. In the bottom of the rucksack was the phone he had been given with the one number listed, that of Echo Golf. He was in a desert, stretching towards distant frontiers, and there would be no signal. Strength, slowly, returned to him.
He watched them come. Danie was South African, from the Free State. He had been a helicopter pilot with the air force, and was surplus to the requirements of the new republic so he had moved on. He was in his fifty-second year, and his son Jappie performed better as a mechanic than in his nominal role a
s navigator and second pilot. To keep the Beechcraft B200 KingAir up and flying, after close to a million miles, required all of Jappie’s skill. Danie piloted the eight-seater aircraft, described in the company brochure as of ‘civil utility’ capability. The family specialised in transporting passengers with a limited desire to be noticed, so many journeys were made out of and into remote landing strips. They had come down some three hundred klicks north-east of Nouakchott. The runway had originally been flattened for an oil-exploration camp, which had foundered. The hut was half collapsed, the windsock was shredded and it was a crap place, but perfect.
He enjoyed his work. His customers paid handsomely in cash, and he went where he was directed. After he had dropped these passengers he had French guys taking crates into the Democratic Republic of Congo. That day his son seemed content with the engines. The flight was 1,100 kilometres and would bring them down at a similarly underdeveloped location between Agadir and Marrakesh. They came closer, the dust spiralling behind them. The heat was fierce and the sun high.
They were in the air.
The pilot had said, in accented English, that they cruised at twenty thousand feet and had a ground speed of 400 kilometres per hour. There was a cabinet with two bottles of champagne, packets of nuts and glasses.
The woman had bullied him in Constanta and had abandoned him here. He had the warmth of the Major to feed off. He should not have gone to the embassy. The flight was smooth and he was exhausted. His eyes were closed. He did not know that they were coming for him.
Hands gripped his shoulders. Another pair flicked the clasp of the seat belt, and he was dragged upright.
The master sergeant held him from behind, and the warrant officer kicked, punched and gouged him. The door to the cockpit was closed. The Major was in front of him, watching.
The Outsiders Page 21
