The Outsiders

by Gerald Seymour

  They had shouted and sung ‘Nacionalna Himna’, the Serbian anthem, and the songs of the gulags, blatnyak, which lodged at the heart of criminal folklore in Russia. They had sung with each other and in competition. He had performed the Balkan song and they had tried in Russian. They had drunk slivovicz, which they could buy in the mini-mart by the police station. And they had shouted at each other, demanding more bottles, more toasts. Later there had been music from Belgrade alternating with the best of St Petersburg, and they had danced, fallen, danced some more and collapsed. Cigars had been smoked. It had been like old times.

  If the women had been there it would not have happened.

  If the women had been there, the man who had reneged on a deal and had insulted Ivanov by offering himself as an employee would not have been taken to the chipper. At the end, he had not looked them in the face but had closed his eyes when they lifted him. At the height of the binge they had imitated the noise the skull had made – the crack, splinter and crunch: a high point.

  He belched. The dog came from the house and lay close to him. He couldn’t see the place from the back of the villa. Had Pavel Ivanov lurched to the front of the Villa del Aguila, stood on the far side of the swimming-pool and looked to the west, he would have seen a sheer escarpment and a bluff with a ledge. Ivanov, Marko and Alex knew the routes away from the property if a crisis threatened, and supplies were kept in two places so that the fugitives would have money and identity. Alex had carried the bags up and spilled the contents on to that flat rock. The gulls had found what he’d left and would clear the place, leave some shoe leather and a mangled wristwatch.

  That afternoon they had turned their backs on the new world of cleaned money, investments and deals. They all felt the better for a killing and a binge, and the ache in their heads was a small price to pay. He ruffled the fur at the dog’s neck.

  After many months, he could walk tall again. He blinked against the sun, then laughed softly. They had been nervous of, almost cowed by, the arrival of the man who had once served the organ of State Security.

  Last night Marko had yelled, ‘I tell you, we’ll take no shit from that man when he comes!’

  ‘We haven’t answered it.’

  ‘Because we can’t.’ It was rare for his master sergeant to snap at the Major.

  ‘Did they buy the Gecko?’

  The warrant officer said that they had all been there when the boy’s gear was tipped out: there had been nothing of value, nothing to show he had taken money.

  ‘Why would he have done it? I treated him well.’

  They had been driven to a meeting and sat outside a white-daubed stone house. They had declined water. Inside, the host and his associates – fucking tribesmen, evil-looking devils – pondered the figures the Major had offered for a transhipment that would bring the pastes and powders originating in Latin America across the desert to the coast. There were, it had been emphasised, Customs, police, politicians and tax gatherers to be paid off.

  They threw his questions back at him.

  ‘You hit him.’

  ‘You accused him of stealing.’

  ‘You took your whore’s side.’

  ‘We held him and you hurt him.’

  The Major frowned. ‘We found the earrings. I made it up to him.’

  ‘You hit him.’

  ‘You didn’t apologise.’

  ‘He was only the Gecko – it wasn’t important.’ The Major spat.

  The argument ended. The Major couldn’t stop. The future for him was bigger deals and more expensive killings. The Gecko had confused him. He had been kind, had sympathised about the chest cold, and the blows had not been brutal. The Major would never retire, as the Tractor had. He would never be a man once admired and now despised.

  Were his men loyal? He didn’t know. Could they be bought? No leader ever knew, but they all searched the faces and watched for signs. Many times he had heard it said when a big man was killed that, in death, his face was frozen in an expression of acute surprise.

  ‘Excuse me.’

  Jonno started.

  For a big man, Snapper moved like a feather. Jonno had been miles away – concocting more lies for the girl at Málaga International – and hadn’t heard him come out of the bedroom, cross the landing, come down the stairs and stop behind him.

  ‘Can I pass, please?’

  He twisted and made space. Snapper went across the hall, down the corridor and into the bathroom. Jonno could choose between peace and goodwill or a fight. He was still mulling it over when Snapper flushed the toilet, washed his hands and came out. He stood in front of Jonno and waited for him to swivel.

  He said, ‘Take your time, Jonno, because you’re on holiday. Don’t worry about the man who has a job to do. I’m only a low-life cop, who sits on his backside most of the day and doesn’t stop graffiti getting sprayed on walls round your mum’s home. I’m not like you, Jonno, clever and educated, holding down a top-rank employment opportunity – I couldn’t do it, haven’t the brains. You’re a big cheese at work – stands to reason because otherwise you’d have no call to be treating us like inferior low-life. Want to hear about me, what I go to work with?’

  He had spoken easily, the venom hidden.

  ‘I have a Thermos with tea in it, and a plastic bottle to piss into – I wash it out at night. I have a bib, one of the utilities – electricity, water or gas. I can walk up a street in it, have a look at a suspect’s home and nobody’ll bat an eyelid. Or I can do a leaflet drop for a carpet sale or a warehouse clearance, which might spark a doorstep gossip with someone about the neighbours, who’s at home and where an army veteran might live because they’re good for us. I’ve always a dog lead with me – a man holding a lead looks about and whistles because he’s lost his pooch. It’s a good one – actually, there are plenty of good ones. They work well for an ignorant man who never went to college.’

  Jonno sat still.

  ‘I’ll tell you a bit more, Jonno, about what works for the dull ones who never reached college. I was watching a man who was so smart he did all his business meetings when he was jogging in a park, south-east London. The others had to jog with him and there was no way we could bug him on the move. He was a clever chap and would have thought himself streets ahead of me. I saw that each week, after he’d jogged, he flopped on to the same bench. So did the others. We bugged the bench and had the conviction: conspiracy to import class A. Fifteen years. Little things . . . You can’t put a woman in an electrician’s van, but you can put one in a car in a supermarket car park.’

  He moved, the bare minimum.

  ‘Of course we’re going to be seen, but we mustn’t be noticed. A big man walks down a street and he’s a likely target for surveillance, so an associate follows him but hangs back. Between the two of them is the tail. If he makes what we call a “wake”, like a boat does, he’s shown out – ordinary people stare at him. I come into people’s homes, drink what they bring me and eat their biscuits. It’s the sort of job that people do when they don’t have a university education. Please, Jonno, shift a bit more so I can pass without belting your face.’

  Jonno gave a little smile. ‘In your line of duty, Snapper, have you ever been hurt?’

  ‘Others have. Luckily, I haven’t.’

  ‘Do you know what I think?’

  ‘Enlighten me.’

  ‘It’s a game to you.’

  ‘That’s insulting and displays surprising ignorance. Don’t take it out on me because your lady dumped you.’

  ‘I still think it’s a game. No doubt it justifies the budget.’

  He was slapped. His face stung and his eyes welled. He was jolted back across the width of the step. Snapper went past him.

  He called up the stairs, ‘Your target, what’s he done?’

  ‘An agent – UK citizen – was tracking him. He and his chums hammered the agent senseless, then killed him. They played football with the agent’s head. The agent had a security case on a chain from hi
s wrist. To get it, they sawed his hand off, alive or dead, we don’t know.’

  ‘Nobody told me.’

  ‘Why should they? Take a soccer ball next door and see if they want a kick-around with you.’

  The door closed upstairs. Jonno dropped his head to his knees.

  Kenny had stayed back with the vehicle, but Dottie went with her. They were escorted by an RAF officer.

  The aircraft was being refuelled, and the crew gave her the eye: a woman without makeup or jewellery, in a black suit and flat shoes. The ‘mouse’ at her side wore a grey trouser suit and a blouse buttoned to the throat. The officer had come to them, announced the arrival of a cargo item in Winnie Monks’s name and asked its status, as far as Customs were concerned. She had told him, with a sweet smile, that the package was ‘none of your fucking business’ and that she would collect it. Kenny had followed the Land Rover, and had stopped at the edge of the apron.

  The officer frowned. ‘I’m a little concerned, Miss Monks, on this matter of Customs and—’

  ‘Just look the other way and count to ten.’ She walked past him and up to the crew. ‘I’m Winnie Monks.’

  An eye lowered would have noted the absence of a ring on the appropriate finger. ‘Good to see you, Miss Monks.’

  ‘You have an item for me. Thank you for the prompt delivery.’

  The pilot said, ‘We wagered it might be flowers ordered by the governor’s wife, or that they were running short of gin in the Residence. Has either of us won?’

  ‘What’s the description on the manifest?’

  ‘Machine parts.’

  ‘Then machine parts it is. Sorry and all that. Just pop your money in the poor box.’

  She’d grinned and the pilot had gestured to a crewman to bring the package to her.

  ‘I didn’t think, Miss Monks, that the dear old UK was up to this sort of thing, these days. Are we?’

  A little mischief played at her mouth. ‘What’s “this sort of thing” when it’s at home?’

  ‘Diverting military aircraft a thousand miles, and having good reason to.’

  ‘Without machine parts, young man, we all seize up. Enjoy the rest of your flight.’

  It was brought to her. Dottie had her arms out for it. The loadmaster hesitated, as if it might be too heavy for her. She gestured that she could manage it. Winnie was handed the docket and signed it with a flourish. They walked away. All eyes would have followed them – on the package that was now on Dottie’s shoulder. It was, of course, almost a capital offence to load an item on to a service flight and not declare that it contained live ammunition. The escort officer would have helped but was edged aside.

  Dottie said, ‘Sort of crossing the Rubicon, Winnie.’

  ‘Not a million miles away.’

  ‘I liked the question he asked – us going after those targets, still.’

  Winnie’s voice dropped: ‘The big Mafia boys taught us the lesson. It doesn’t matter to them how long it is before the fist drops on your shoulder – but it will. The creed is, ‘‘Fuck with me and I’ll hurt you.’’ I’m not in the business of slagging off my political masters – not often – but all that pragmatism stank when it came to rebuilding relations with Russia after their hoods were sent over to poison the dissident with that fucking horrible stuff. They slammed doors in our faces, blocked an investigation – and all we do is cosy up to them again. I have to say I’m gob-smacked, and chuffed that this one has the go-ahead. Even if it fails.’

  ‘It was Georges Clemenceau, the French PM, who said, ‘‘A man’s life is interesting primarily when he has failed – I well know. For it’s a sign that he has tried to surpass himself.’’ Any good?’ Dottie asked, bent under the weight of the package.

  ‘It’ll do.’

  ‘Can’t fail if you don’t try. But, Boss, you’ll have to front up soon.’

  ‘I’m aware of that.’

  They reached the car and Kenny came out of his seat fast to open the door for Winnie Monks. He received the exasperated stare she used when they fussed over her. The sun beat off the apron, and there was a rumble behind her as the fuel tanker drove away. Suddenly, under the great rockface that was Gibraltar, she experienced the heart-stopping sensation that was becoming more familiar with each passing month. Who was Winnie Monks? She was an investigator. She worked for an organisation that did not acknowledge brotherhoods or sisterhoods. When she finished she would hand in her ID, clear her expenses, sort out her pension, give up the phone and the insider’s knowledge, and leave. No calls would come afterwards, asking for her advice on an area of her expertise or with a titbit of gossip. Her old life would be cut, as surely as if a guillotine fell on her neck. She was haunted by doubts, lonely to the point of desperation. She had given her life to the Service and would finish as poor as a pauper. Her target, who might destroy her or might live to regret having crossed her, would not know her name.

  ‘You have to make the calls, Boss, and level with them.’

  ‘Don’t nag. I will.’

  ‘Yes, Boss, because you have to.’

  ‘I want you here.’

  Dawson told his caller that him travelling 310 miles south wouldn’t make the message any sweeter.

  ‘I want you here in a car with plates.’

  ‘When are we talking about?’

  ‘Tomorrow. Sleep over, then off at sparrow-fart. And the car will have plates.’

  ‘And what am I doing on the Rock?’

  ‘Tell you when you get here. More fun if it’s a surprise.’

  Dawson said, ‘At risk of repetition, the story won’t change. It was a big negative. I suggest you get your head round that.’

  ‘Go for a walk tonight, Dawson, and plod up the Gran Via. You’ll hear the tramp of boots and one pair were on the feet of Emrys the Brigade. Had a negative and kept going. Call me when you’re here. Safe journey.’

  Alone in his inner sanctum at the embassy, Dawson had not asked whether him driving down to Gibraltar had clearance from the liaison committee that dealt with all areas where the work of Thames House collided with that of Vauxhall Cross. He had not asked because the answer was obvious. He thought her one of those individuals who had a talent for enveloping others in a mesh of intrigue. He buzzed the outer office, caught his colleague, said he wanted the embassy car made available to him next day, the one with Corps Diplomatique plates. Could it be fuelled and the tyres checked overnight?

  The woman intrigued him. It was a bloody awful journey to the Rock, on a lethal road, but she had damn well hooked him.

  The Chief left work as evening gathered on London. The streets glistened with rain, and leaves blew off the trees in the park.

  It was the end of his day and he was anxious to be home. He had not, of course, heard that day from Winnie Monks. He hoped rather fervently that her voice would not be in his ears any time soon. The longer the silence, the less the crisis. And yet the Chief, who scurried out of Thames House on to the broad pavement of Westminster Bridge, yearned often enough for the old days to be summoned back. He was not senior enough for a pool car to take him home to the far side of Wimbledon, so he endured the cattle-truck existence of a commuter. He would cross the bridge, veer to the left and join the herd heading for Waterloo. The old days had been, in his opinion, bloody good, and Winnie Monks was a spirit from them, one to be nurtured. He had not quizzed her when she called in and wouldn’t unless the world caved in on top of her. Then he and she would need to cover their backs. It was so difficult, in this day and age, for the Service to assert itself. When he had started as a probationer, the work of a counter-intelligence officer had seemed to be a ticket to the élite. Not now. She could bring him down or lift him to the heights of his career.

  It was like the spin of a roulette wheel – he couldn’t know where the ball would land. Exciting times. Terrifying times.

  Times governed by matters unpredictable.

  ‘He hasn’t phoned.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘He
said he would.’

  She snapped, ‘Mikey, it’s the eighth time you’ve said that this evening. I know he hasn’t rung you and you saying it won’t change that.’

  It had been a hard day for Mikey Fanning, and the failure of his nephew to ring him with news of his meeting with the Russian was but one of the matters scratching his nerves. Myrtle had come from the mini-mart round the corner as near to tears as he could remember because the woman at the till – Rosa, always up for a laugh – had refused her cheque. Myrtle had offered plastic and Rosa had checked a printout list of names. Her finger had steadied on Fanning, and she had shaken her head. There was no way Myrtle had enough in her purse to pay for what was in her basket – and it was another week before the monthly pension came in. They were going to have a mug of tea but the milk was sour. The fridge had packed up: it might have been the thermostat or that Mikey hadn’t closed it properly. To cap it, her club – where once a month she met other elderly British women – was upping the subscription by 50 per cent in sterling to counter inflation and the falling value of the pound, while the gas, electricity and water bills were going up. There was a rumour, too, that Age Concern would close in Puerto Banus. For weeks, their difficulties had had a temporary feel – like the matter of the medical research unit that paid for funerals after they’d cut out the valued bits – tough days, but a rosy dawn might be round the corner. No longer: his mind was on the TV news report about the Santa Maria. He was in his blackest mood. Perhaps, all those years ago, he’d have been better off skipping the drive to Dover, then the long hike down to the Costa. He should have limped on his sticks – bullet hole in his leg heavily bandaged and dosed with pure alcohol – into Reception at Rotherhithe Police Station. He might have done better to turn himself in, do the time, then live on housing association and a bit of benefit . . .

  ‘I have to do something – can’t let it ride.’

  ‘What would he have done for you?’