Solomon's Keepers

by J. H. Kavanagh

  ‘Well, I handle a lot of important things for Mr. Matzov. He trusts me to work out what is and isn’t significant. We get a lot of people speculating and coming up with all sorts of theories and identities for KomViva that they try out on us. It’s sport for a lot of journalists too. So I’m sure you’ll understand that we have to be cautious. But I’m calling you now so why don’t you tell me what it is that you know, or at least think you know?’

  ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘Do I know him? Yes of course. I don’t have dealings with him personally but I know who he is…’

  ‘If you don’t deal with him personally then I don’t see how you will help me. I need to speak to him. I’m not interested in anything else. It’s a personal matter. Do you understand? Is that such a peculiar request?’

  ‘Eva, we both know that the peculiar thing here is the nature of KomViva itself. It has its own ground rules and one of them is strict secrecy. Everyone on the team has to make their peace with that. No contact. They all had a choice. But you’re talking to a senior executive and I’ll do my best to help you. It looks as though you’re on a trail that others have been on before. I’m afraid it’s not a trail that anyone is really going to gain anything from following.’

  ‘I see. I repeat, I know who KomViva really is and I want to speak to him. Are you going to facilitate that?’

  Another pause.

  ‘Eva, a number of people have been convinced as to who KomViva really is. There are some reasons people form these views that may be worth explaining to you. Each has been entirely convinced and yet none has been right. It’s actually a syndrome we’re quite familiar with and can explain. Remember that the experience of KomViva is mediated by your own mind. Where strong emotions are concerned the mind is a powerful tool. It plays an active role in creating the experience, in bringing its own desires. Perhaps if you tell me more about what you think then I can comment.’

  ‘I don’t think. I know! I know who he is. I want to speak to him. If it makes it easier I’ll tell you that I don’t want to blow his cover. I have no interest in doing that – unless I can’t speak to him otherwise.’

  ‘And what is it that makes you so convinced you know who he is?’

  ‘That’s my business. I don’t think you’d have called unless you knew I was right. All I want to know is whether you’re going to let me speak to him.’

  ‘Eva, I think you should know that you are going over some old ground. I can’t elaborate over the phone but I will say this: It’s not that you’re right. You’re not. It’s that you’re wrong for the same reasons as some others before you. We have people barking up the wrong tree every day of the week and we’re cool with it – but you’re falling in with a particular conspiracy theory that has already been dealt with and which has necessitated legal action and some severe steps by the governments both here and in the US. There are some things…things which have nothing to do with us but which seem connected…that must remain secret. And if that doesn’t daunt you I suspect you’ll care more about the unnecessary distress to the family concerned. I think we both know what I’m talking about. Now, let me ask you one thing, Eva. Have you shared your beliefs with anyone else? I hope not with the family? Perhaps with – shall I call him your friend R’s – former colleagues?’

  ‘If I get an explanation as to what the hell is going on then I won’t need to.’

  ‘Good. Because I can tell you that Mr. Matzov himself took a close personal interest in all aspects of the case and he wants to help you. I can assure you the story has not got a scrap of truth to it. However, if you mean what you say and this is a personal quest then I can let you see for yourself that you’re mistaken.’

  ‘I’m mistaken? Categorically – I’ve got the wrong person? It’s not…R?’

  ‘Absolutely not. You’re not the first to make that mistake, Eva. I’m sorry. I can’t bring him back but I can help you lay that story to rest, unequivocally, if you want.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I’m sorry to stress this – but for legal reasons I have to – if this really is personal – and if you can convince me that you are acting alone and that we are solely concerned with helping you settle something in your own mind about your private life…if this is not a foraging exercise for some other motive – then we’ll have you meet the real KomViva. You’ll very quickly be able to verify what I’m saying. But I must warn you not to fool around if this is all about getting the inside story on who he really is. You may think you know what you’re dealing with but I assure you that you don’t. It is not Network One that is being protected here. Mr. Matzov is a very generous man on personal issues. He also understands this situation better than you ever will.’

  ‘And if I’m not convinced?’

  ‘You will be.’

  ‘OK, so how do we do it?’

  ‘I give you a time and a place. All you do is sign a standard undertaking when we meet that you will not publish or convey to anyone else anything of our meeting or anything you learn in it or anything about your views as to the identity of KomViva or why you might hold them. Is that clear?’

  ‘You’ll email me this undertaking?’

  ‘No – that’s what we’d do if you were working professionally. This will need to be entirely off the record and at no point will we mention any names. No silliness. No telling friends and family or anyone else anything about it.’

  ‘When can we do this?’

  ‘I’ll have to fit it into the schedule. Can I confirm with you on this number?’

  All Eva is thinking is that she can get a closer look at KomViva. She can feel her doubts stirring under his confident offer to lay the story to rest.

  ‘Yes, um…when will you know?’

  ‘I’ll call you within 48 hours with details of what to do. It’s a personal favour from Mr. Matzov. The KomViva schedule is not common knowledge and if it leaks it will have to change and we’ll call everything off. Now, we need to be assured that you come alone, you tell no one about this conversation. Anything at all on this, anything and we call it off.’

  She manages to say OK before the tears come.

  ‘Thanks again for getting in touch. I’m sorry it won’t be the outcome you’d hoped for – but at least we can clear something up. I’ll look forward to meeting you.’

  She puts the phone down. She can’t be sure now.

  Yes she can.

  ‘You lying bastard.’

  Nineteen

  The news is dominated by reports about riots. There’s a new temper on the streets that many will blame on the exceptionally hot summer. Night after night the same neighbourhoods come alive in the light of urban bonfires and to the sound of sirens. The television news shows pictures of upturned cars lying in the streets like dead beetles and silhouetted figures running in the shadows in front of mounted police. Each morning the papers report more wrecked and looted shops, more bullied and beaten passers-by. But riots aren’t like floods or droughts; they aren’t weather, they don’t just happen when the temperature reaches a particular threshold. There are underlying causes, catalysts. There have to be better explanations than the tired repetition of racial tensions and deprived metropolitan youth.

  While the others talk of complex webs of causality, and the merits of curfews, it is Network One that identifies the significant influence of a secretive new group calling itself the Union Jackals. They are masters of the use of mobile communications to orchestrate sudden gatherings that wrong-foot the police, wreak havoc and then melt away leaving the impromptu crowds of spectators and hangers-on to face the anger and frustration, the horses and the batons.

  Night after night the same formula of lurid defiance and destruction goes unpunished and every bulletin carries yet more platitudes from identical wooden police chiefs and politicians.

  After three weeks the army is called in to Manchester and the nation watches soldiers in khaki battledress protect swelling numbers of foreign correspondents as they report live from th
e front line on the futility of every effort to stop the chaos.

  In a rare statement via an intermediary, The Union Jackals admit responsibility and gloat that Britain is in for a ‘summer of discontent.’ Again, it is Network One that gets the scoop. As it turns out later, they had infiltrated the Jackals months before and built a map of the organization and its extraordinary habits. They tracked the leaders as they planned each outrage, lounging in the back of chauffeur-driven limousines amongst champagne bottles and cartoon molls, all sponsored with the spoils of their looting and a previously unknown sideline in protection money. They constitute a cynical new force on the British crime scene. In an ironic twist on their apparent racist motivation, it turns out they are themselves mostly recent immigrants from Eastern Europe.

  The back of a large van. No windows. Rees is already dressed in his black get up with thick-soled boots laced up his shins, black combats and a tight balaclava over his ears. A shot of whisky has covered the sick taste that went before – Escalon dealing one of its occasional twisters. He’s steady now. Everyone is back in position. They run the video again on the laptop. He already knows it but embedded video always has to go over several times or the hookies won’t get it. The corner of a dark street. A large man in a dark suit emerges from a doorway into yellow streetlight and a limousine pulls up at the kerb in front of him. The big man opens the car door even before it has completely stopped and two women emerge with a little guy between them. He affects nonchalance but looks too quickly up and down the street. It’s a short walk across the pavement and he acts as if he knows he’s being watched – as if he’s always watched. The two women are on stacked heels and link their arms with his. He leans his head forward as if urging them on. If they were steadier they’d be frogmarching him. They’re not wearing much but their big curves would stop a bullet.

  Myron’s actor, Seth, pauses the film as they single file past the doorman and Rees sees the little guy face-on to the camera. It’s the face of a thousand movie thugs: nondescript, hard-eyed, thin-lipped with tension. A scar complicates one eyebrow. His hair is overly black and slicked back. The girls’ faces are lost in a toss of big hair. Their heads are caught at identical angles in a synchronized simper. He zooms in.

  ‘Remember the face,’ Seth says in the hard-bitten tone he’s been practising all afternoon. ‘He’s the head man, calls himself Drakal. Watch yourself, he’s dangerous. According to our research he’s a killer. He’s a hard man to pin down, rarely seen in public. He made his way up via child prostitution, racketeering, immigration scams and drugs. He’s left a trail of disappeared friends. He came to the UK nine months ago and hasn’t wasted time getting stuck in. He usually packs a nine millimetre and his help is never far away. So you take this – the Heckler and Koch MP5. You’ve got thirty rounds per magazine. That’s two seconds – which is why they call it the ‘room broom.’

  He rolls the rest of the video and Drakal enters the club

  ‘We believe we have their location tonight. They’ve laid on the usual party girls for when they’re done. We know the hotel suite. We’ll get you on the roof. Take a look at this.’

  Rees already knows it but he takes a look at the plan Seth holds out.

  ‘Three storeys. You go up the neighbouring fire escape and cross the roof here. The top balcony is directly above them. Here. You can wait there until we confirm they’re inside It won’t be easy from there but it’s doable.’

  He can’t resist a smile. He knows Myron has the suite rented but he’ll climb anyway and wait on his balcony. It needs to look hard. Seth has probably never been in anything tougher than a playground scrap but he looks the part. Strange how now he’s schooling them. This is almost like a training exercise on the kill house.

  Zena sends that they are going into the building. The van starts to move. It’s nearly two in the morning.

  The doors open and you jump down into the street and step through the black iron gates into the neighbouring garden. The pack is heavy and you have a climbing rope coiled on your shoulder and the MP5 swinging under one arm. You jog across the lawn and a concrete patio where rubbish bins gather at the back door as though for a smoke. The fire escape is a black zigzag against the bricks. They don’t bother with the Christmas cake paint at the back. The air is warm and the night still. You move slowly but the soles of your boots make a faint squeak on the metal steps. There are more footsteps behind you but you don’t look round. Three turns, two in darkness to reach the top. Traffic noise on a hint of breeze that climbs over the roof to meet you. Tree tops balloon in the gardens behind. In the façade next door there are lighted windows, wakefulness sprinkled randomly in the dark.

  A flaking balustrade fronts the roof and you make your way to where its shadows lean in from the street. Between the uprights, you can see three storeys down to the kerbs and the cars parked in a layer of aspic street light. The start of the hotel is a step over a low wall. You count off the windows from the plan, measuring against the mirror image of the buildings opposite. Zena sends again. They are in position. Second storey, just as planned. When you look over the balustrade there is a towel spread on the balcony – a private signal. You slip off the pack and the HK and walk to the dark side of the roof to secure the rope to a metal bracket on a chimney. Déjà vu. The rope snakes across the roof and you pull it taught and clip on ready to abseil. There’s a moment or two to play with the grenades and heft the HK. A few flicks of the safety and an out and in of the magazine. You sling it over your shoulder. A final check of the Sharman’s blue-lit face, then the rubber smell of the mask. The old routines reaching through the drugs and the nonsense. Zena gets the two taps on the head and sends to go. You think of Armand as you swing across the balustrade and into light. Welcome to the world of entertainment.

  Just like old times. The blast pushes the window in and echoes from the fascia opposite. Even in the interior rooms they’ll feel it like colliding with a truck. You step through smoke and dust and swing the muzzle light across the room. It’s an anteroom of the suite with nothing but a coffee table, some couches and the remains of a large vase. The whole scene is rhinestoned with broken glass. You open the door to the corridor and kick into the main living room. The first movement in the beam is a girl in a complex harness of black lace underwear. She is dismounting from a figure on the couch. Both are luminous in the light from the television. He has a shirt on but nothing else, long hair, he’s a sidekick.

  ‘Floor, face down,’ you tell them.

  Drakal is in the main bedroom, the two girls feeding on his midriff are now terrified and won’t let him get up. His eyes blaze like stoplights. He reaches for the side table and you give it a burst. The wooden backboard screeches into blonde splinters, not quite where you aim and the big ceramic lamp stand collapses in musical rain. The girls scream. The second magazine snaps in and you hold Drakal’s forehead in the light and tell him to freeze. Seth’s team are through the front door. Their torches strafe the room. You hold your beam on Drakal and catch the cuffs glistening as they go on his wrist. The girls gather to the top of the bed like a pair of springs. ‘We’ll take him from here,’ Seth says, best baritone.

  There are people milling in the street below but they can only watch as you belay to the pavement and run through stabs of flashlight to the waiting van. Behind the cameras someone calls out ‘Are you the SAS? Police? Someone shouts KomViva. There’s a chant of let’s get started.’

  They will have to wait for the morning news. The tyres whine. You have a party of your own to go to.

  Matzov’s Media One makes it a double whammy. They break the story in the morning editions of their papers with a full spread on the ringleaders, now in captivity, and an exhaustive catalogue of their offences. ‘KomViva – this is what justice feels like’ says the headline.

  The longer it goes on, the more Rees feels that some kind of trade off is going on inside his head. He’s trading big for little, getting sensation and losing context. The Escalon ensures th
at he experiences every scat in incredible zestful detail, sensation by sensation, each needlepoint of apprehension, the choreography, and the kata of each play, every goose bump and bead of sweat. But he’s lost the big picture. What is he doing? It doesn’t seem to matter. What matters is the sweet warmth of kerosene in the start up, the precise squidge of the chrome shift of the Ferrari, the hot snatch of rubber and the shear and shriek of escape, knowing the tactile subtleties of yielding flesh, keeping going on a tough scat when your muscles are burning and adrenaline squeezing like an accordion in your guts. What matters is feeling more alive than anyone else for ninety minutes a day. Is that fucked up?

  He hasn’t read the papers for weeks. Someone shows him the Jackals spread in The News and it comes as a surprise. He hadn’t known what they had done. Had heard it and forgotten. But he remembers Drakal’s eyes blazing, the girls coiling like springs.

  It’s an effort but he forces himself to read it. The world outside has become an alien place. He reads about streets on fire, the Prime Minister facing hostile questions in The House, about a palpable sense of relief that the ringleaders have been brought to justice. He reads about himself. Sometimes Myron and Zena have joked with him about stories before but he has let it wash over him. It has always been marketing hype put out by Matzov’s people. This is different. They have a picture of him abseiling to the pavement. There are shots of Drakal and two other men being led away in handcuffs. As he reads he expects to come across anger at the stunt they have pulled. He expects disbelief, even ridicule. But there isn’t any. There is no outrage, there is no disbelief, no challenge. The hotel seems pleased to be featured, grateful for the compensation. There is no criticism from the police or politicians. He remembers the barrage of flashlights, the way they left a blue core inside the white, an after flash. He’s not a concept: He is real. KomViva makes him real to the subscribers and now he has a reality to the wider public too; a figure in black with a balaclava and boots. He turns the page. There he is again. A head shot with the lights picking out a KV logo on the forehead of his balaclava. He never noticed that before. An anonymous celebrity. He thinks of Matzov. Sooner or later they will get to you. Once you become a public figure there will be no let up. You are going to be the eyes, the ears, the mouth…It will drive them crazy. You’ll be like Superman. And you’d better believe that the whole world is going to be after the scoop of finding out who you are.’