by Robert White
The thought of going back to my old life didn’t sit well with me. I, and anyone working with me would make enemies by the hour. From the little street rats riding BMX’s, to the boys hiding behind electric gates with an army of security and paid muscle at their disposal. Still, at ten large a day, who were we to complain?
As I pulled on a new pair of Duck and Cover chinos, I began to feel that familiar tingle of excitement that only a new mission could give me. However, I couldn’t quite decide how to sell the whole idea to Lauren. That, and which of my Thomas Pink shirts to wear.
Choosing the blue gingham number, I wandered to my kitchen, only to find the cupboards bare and the fridge full of out of date delicacies.
No sooner had I binned the contents of my chiller; I was saved from ordering takeaway by my phone. It was Des. The Scot had a similar predicament and wanted to meet and eat. That made me feel better. It would give me a chance to run my ideas by him, before we met the rest of the team.
Just before seven, my cab dropped me at The Rajdoot Tandoori. Des had always had a liking for Indian food. Apparently, his father wouldn’t have anything spicier than a pickled onion in the house, however this had done little to dissuade the young Cogan from his favourite cuisine and he never missed an opportunity to visit the oldest Indian restaurant in town. The Rajdoot had been around since Adam was a lad and served North Indian delicacies. It was located in a basement deep under Albert Square. The interior was a little brash for my liking, with lots of brass, wooden carvings and bronze statues, but its reputation for excellent food ensured the place was always busy.
As I dropped down the stairs, Des was sitting on an ornate sofa in one corner of the bar. He waved over and I joined him. Moments later a very efficient waiter strode to our position and took our drinks order. I’d had enough alcohol on the boat from Ireland to last me a lifetime, so decided on water. Des did not share my reticence and chose Stella Artois.
We were shown to a quiet table and over the course of the first drinks, I ran Cartwright’s plan by the Scot.
“Sounds a wee bit hairy,” he offered. “Look what happened when we nicked the last lot of charlie, we ended up chasing Stephan Goldsmith around the globe.”
“This is different,” I said. “And nothing we can’t handle. We just have to make our presence felt straight away, be quick about it. Hang around too long and the cops will come on top. As usual, we won’t have much in the way of protection from the long arm of the law.”
Des nodded. “No change there, eh, pal? So have ye still got some contacts in the trade, y’know somewhere to start like?”
I shook my head.
“No, that is an issue, could take a day or two to rattle some cages.”
Des nodded and then got down to discussing the visit of Estelle Ryan to his flat earlier in the day. That and her brother’s predicament.
“And your thinking is?” I asked, feeling ever so slightly suspicious.
Des took a long drink and licked his lips, “Well… I kind of promised Estelle we’d look out for the kid, sort his debt. But with what yer sayin’, why not use the boy as a way in? He knows the score and a few players. We’re going to need a friendly local to get us inside. This boy, Arti Jonas that Sean owes the coin to, sounds just the level of face Cartwright wants us to turn over.”
I shook my head and sat back in my seat. Knowing the business as I did, one thing was for certain, putting an outsider in harm’s way, was playing with fire. Especially one that was connected to us.
“I don’t know, Des. Sounds to me that the kid is a liability. Once he has a few lines up his nose, he’ll think he’s fucking Ronnie Kray. I’ve seen it happen loads of times, and those boys always end up dead. Trust me on this one, pal, do you want to be the one who tells Estelle her brother’s been slotted? I reckon we can find this Jonas bloke without involving Estelle’s brother. May take us a few days, but we’ll get to him.”
The Scot blew out his cheeks, took another sip and eyed me coldly. “According to Estelle, the boy hasnea got a few days.”
He was right, of course. I’d never heard of this Arti Jonas, the face that Sean owed the cash to, but I knew how the game was played. Sean Ryan was as good as a walking corpse. I could see the method in the Scot’s madness too. The kid’s predicament was a place for us to start. Jonas sounded like a mid-level dealer. The boy could get us in close. We could turn Jonas over and our game could begin right there.
“Okay,” I said, reluctantly. “Maybe Estelle has brought us a bit of luck for a change. This could be our way into the mix. Maybe it’s an opportunity too good to miss. Where’s this kid live?”
“In Longsight somewhere,” said Des, looking over my shoulder and raising his arm. “But I took the liberty of asking Estelle to invite him for some curry. I reckon this is him now by the look of it.”
I didn’t turn around.
“Please don’t tell me that he’s wearing a fucking shiny tracksuit, or I might have to slot the fool myself.”
He wasn’t, but it was almost as bad. He wore skinny jeans of indeterminate make that sat so low on his hips, if it hadn’t been for his Calvin Klein’s you’d have seen his arse crack. On top he sported a Chemical Brothers t-shirt, a black puffer jacket with a Stone Island badge and a stupid floppy woollen hat. On his feet, were evidence of his recently discovered wealth in the form of a pair of Air Jordan XX2 basketball boots.
“Yo,” he said as he approached the table.
I leaned over to Des.
“I won’t forget this,” I said, with a smile as fake as Sean’s Stone Island number.
The boy pulled up a chair without being asked, sat and looked about the gaff.
“Sick place, man,” he offered, sniffing loudly.
I offered Des another death stare.
The Scot just gave me his best, ‘get over it,’ look.
“Sean, I’m Des and this is my colleague, Rick,” announced the Scot.
Sean made to fist pump me. I just glared at him. He drew his hand away and shrugged his shoulders.
“Whatever,” he said, and turned and waved to the waiter. “Beers here, pal,” he shouted pointing at the table.
“Not for me, son,” I said quietly.
Sean looked at my Evian and turned again. “And a water for the girl,” he shouted.
This was not going well.
I reached under the table and took hold of a handful of the boy’s inner thigh. When the knee is bent and the weight is removed from the foot by sitting, no matter how toned or strong the leg muscles are, that part of the inner leg, just above the knee is always soft.
I applied just enough pressure to get the kid’s attention, then spoke quietly, as Sean did his best not to cry out in pain.
“Listen to me, you little shit,” I hissed. “Your big sister has come crying to us to get you out of the brown stuff, and into Arti Jonas’ good books. As I understand it he’s looking to chop off your bollocks and feed them to his pit bull. So…” I squeezed just a little harder. “Show some fucking manners.”
The boy was bright red. He went to grab my hand.
“Touch me and I’ll snap your fucking neck,” I said.
Sean nodded like a budgie at a mirror. “Big sister? Oh yeah man, you mean Estelle. Okay, pal, sorry mate. Come on, you’re fucking hurting me, eh?”
I released him and looked him in the eye. “You’re stoned,” I said. “You’ve been snorting your own shit… and don’t even think of fucking lying to me, son.”
“I just had a quick line, is all,” stammered Sean, looking across the table to Des for some kind of support. “You know, just to take the edge off, like.”
Des leaned over, his nose almost touching Sean’s. I’ve seen a lot of menacing men in my time, but never one like Des Cogan. Face deeply lined by the countless hours spent in the driving rain, eyes as sharp as razors, wire in his v
eins.
His voice was low, intimidating, in fact, downright scary.
“Ye turn up here to meet men that ye hope will sort yer wee problem, and you show no respect,” he said. “Ye come to share our table, to listen to our proposition, a proposal that will keep you alive and put money in yer pocket and yet, ye disparage us by yer childish behaviour.”
Sean gave himself some space and wiped his nose with his palm. Despite his obvious predicament, the kid wasn’t for backing down so easily.
“Look man, Estelle said you guys would help me out, right,” he sniffed. “You know, front up some cash. Bail me, pay Arti off and I could pay you back, whenever. She never said anything about becoming a fuckin’ priest.”
I thought Des was about to slot the boy right there. His hand shot across the table. Grabbing Sean’s right wrist and pulled the kid to him. Out of sight of the restaurant’s customers, Des pushed his steak knife into the boy’s ribs. Sean winced as the tip pierced his skin.
“Don’t ye dare insult the clergy, son,” hissed the Scot. “I could just gut you like a fuckin’ fish right here and not lose a wink of sleep. Do ye understand me?”
Sean resumed his budgie impression. Des let him go and the kid sat heavily on his chair.
“Fuck’s sake, man,” he muttered. “Fuckin’ nutters, the pair of you.”
“What did you expect, ye wee jobbie,” said Des. “A pair of Avon representatives? I mean, ye wouldnea be thinking that we would just help you out without anything in return, eh? This Jonas fella is going to slot you, son. You can’t just pay him off and you’re in the clear. You’ve disrespected him. He needs to show his strength, show his muscle. A man like Arti cannea be weak or he’ll be eaten by the sharks. Every wee shite in Longsight will be trying to take his patch from him. Do ye get my drift, son?”
Sean swallowed hard and looked at us both in turn. “And what kind of stuff would you be wanting me to do like?”
“Take us to Arti’s house,” I said. “Get us in close. Inside his gaff.”
Sean was wide eyed. “In close? Why would you…?” The light came on. “Aww, I don’t know about this, man. I mean, Estelle said that you’d just front me the cash. I’ll pay you back, honest.”
I could see the kid’s bottle going. There was fear in his voice, and we hadn’t even started.
“Besides, man,” he whined. “Arti’s not a nice guy, he’s got a temper and with all due respect, you guys look a bit long in the tooth to be taking him and his crew on.”
I caught his eye. “Let me tell you how this is going to work son, then, you can make your decision. We are going to order some very nice food, and by the time the bill gets here, you will have plumped for one of two options. First, is you walk out of here and take your chances with the big fella, or second…”
Des jumped in. “Second, you arrange a meet with him, at his gaff, to pay him his coin. Then you keep him off his guard whilst we get in close and tax him there and then. We give you the five large for your trouble and everyone is happy.”
Sean went pale. “You guys are fuckin’ dreaming. Arti will have your balls… and mine for that matter.”
“Your balls are already in the vice, son,” I said. “Walk out of here and you won’t last the week. However, do this little job for us and you’re home dry.” I grabbed the sleeve of his coat and managed a smile. “If you’re a very good boy, you might even be able to afford a real one of these.”
“Arti is going to kill you, Sean,” added Des. “You know it, we know it. Even if you manage to find the money, your days are numbered.”
The waiter walked over, pad in hand, smiling and efficient as ever.
“Can I take your order, gentlemen?” he said.
“Oh aye,” said Des rubbing his stomach. “I’m starving.”
“I’m not hungry,” said Sean.
Lauren North’s Story:
I hadn’t slept well. I mean, would you have? What a fucking weirdo, eh? The more I thought about Larry’s behaviour, the creepier it seemed. He was delusional. Last night had taken some planning, too. The ring, the song. I mean, it seemed everyone in the restaurant knew what was about to happen. Everyone but me that is. The napkin he’d written on sat atop my bedside table. It had drawn me to it several times during the night, and I’d read and re-read the words scribbled there. I have to say, they gave me chills.
As I pulled a brush though my hair, I couldn’t take my eyes from it. As crazy as it seemed, those words haunted me.
Rick had called just before 7.00am to organise a meet at our offices. Apparently, he’d been having a meal with Des whilst I fended off Larry the wedding planner and, as a result, needed us all to get together to discuss our next moves.
I still didn’t have my own car. The insurance company had written off my RS6 rather than repair it, therefore, until I had the chance to visit the showroom, it was public transport. I’d called a cab service and within minutes my phone vibrated to tell me the car was outside. Pulling on my jacket I made for the door, stepped into the hallway and instinctively checked I was alone. I then made sure my flat was secure and strode to the communal exit.
Walking into the garden and the morning sunshine, I fell straight into anti surveillance mode. I had to admit, I was spooked, and I just bet the bastard knew it.
A tedious and traffic filled forty minutes later, I arrived at our Piccadilly offices. As I stepped inside reception, Estelle nodded sheepishly.
I opened the conference room door to find the remainder of our team sipping coffee. Within minutes, the gravity of our situation became obvious.
“Let me get this straight,” I said, eyeing Rick. “I know you said that Cartwright wanted you to return to your old life, but are you really saying that we are going to run a fake drug dealing operation? Have you gone mad?”
Rick ran his fingers through his hair. “Not a fake dealing operation, just making ourselves visible. We need the buyer of that shipment to come looking for us. For him to believe we have his charlie. I never said this would be easy, and I’ll understand if anyone wants out.”
I looked into Rick’s face. “I never said anything about wanting out, but surely there has to be an easier way. What about our prisoner, the Doctor from the boat? What has he had come out with?”
Rick shrugged.
“I’m still waiting to hear from Cartwright. I’m sure as soon as he has anything worth telling us, we’ll know.”
Sellers took a sip of her coffee.
“Cartwright is out on a limb, darling. This is his game; he’ll play it his way. He’s concerned about the leak in intelligence. Moles slow up any process. You don’t know who you can trust.”
I sat back in my seat and rubbed my face with both palms.
“This is just crazy. Yunfakh already know about our team. They were all over us like a rash in Ancoats. It’s obvious they have informants inside the security services. Look at Mason Carver. If they’ve infiltrated the CIA, why not MI6?”
“And that is why Cartwright is so keen to play his cards close to his chest,” said Rick. “There are informants in all organisations, especially when there’s big money at stake. Cartwright wants Al-Mufti and the buyer. Once he has those, he figures he’ll have the traitor too.”
“Fuller’s right,” offered Sellers. “All the major security services suffer breaches, and mark my words, Cartwright will want that mole. But he’ll be equally desperate to find the buyer. The guy who was waiting for that boat.”
“Why?” I asked. “What have MI6 got to do with catching drug traffickers?”
“The Irish connection,” offered Des. “He’ll be thinking that there’s a terrorist connection there somewhere. Al-Mufti and the PIRA go back decades. Back to Gaddafi.”
“Ha! That’s just peachy,” I said. “And the best plan we have is to stroll around town, taxing dealers, waiting for some gangster, or w
orse still, some terrorist, to come and kill us.”
Rick stood up and paced the room. He tapped his temple with a finger.
“Right now, Al-Mufti has no way of knowing what happened to his cargo, or me for that matter. I personally don’t think that the deal would have been completed at sea but that is all conjecture. However, neither player will yet know if it was the cops, the security services, or our team that spoiled the party. One thing is certain though, Al-Mufti won’t make a move if he thinks the cops have me and his gear. No point.”
“But if he thinks you have it,” offered Sellers.
Rick pointed. “If he thinks I have it.”
“We’ll all be dead,” I said.
Rick pulled a face. “Don’t be negative, Lauren. Once we start to make waves on the streets, the word will spread like wildfire that I’m back in the game, and Al-Mufti and whoever his customer was, will believe that their product has been stolen by me... us. Look, I know it’s a dangerous game, but it’s the game we’ve always played. Al Mufti is being fed information from the inside, so even if we turned down this job, he’d find us eventually. He won’t rest until he has taken his revenge. If we back off now, call it a day, it would play into his hands. He’ll keep building his empire and wait for his opportunity, take his chances, simply pick us off one at a time. Now, I can’t speak for us all, but I for one, have no desire to be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my days. This way, we are visible and we get it over with.”
