by Julian Beale
Conrad drove into London and reached The Mansion House fifteen minutes early. He hadn’t entered the building since his abrupt departure over three years before. It felt longer to him, more like from another age and lifetime. The reception area was unattended for the weekend, but Bill Evans appeared immediately. Bill was Bow Bells cockney, retired through disability from the Police Flying Squad to manage security for The Mansion House with razor sharp efficiency. He had come in at David’s request and was keeping a sharp look out for the arrivals. Bill gave Conrad a warm greeting and escorted him directly to the small conference room where Ursula was on hand to settle him with a cup of tea and left him to himself. He took a gulp to help wash down the couple of pills which were due about now and glanced around. The room was quiet, enclosed, with no windows: the temperature control gurgled softly in the background. There was a sideboard against one wall, flanked by two armchairs, but the room was dominated by an oval table which could seat maybe ten, but now there were half a dozen chairs drawn up. He took one of them. He didn’t have long to wait. David came striding in with a mug of coffee in hand and on his heels was Rory Trollope looking overdressed in a suit and tie, carrying a smart briefcase. He was wearing heavy rimmed spectacles and looked like a fat cat accountant. David said simply, ‘Rory happened to be around.’
He followed this curt announcement with, ‘thanks for coming, Connie. I still don’t know what the hell this is all about, but I’m bloody glad to have you with me. Now, how are we going to sit?’
He had no time to answer his own question as they heard footsteps outside. The door was opened by Bill Evans who stood aside to allow their visitors to enter the conference room.
There were three of them. In front and in charge was the man who must be Thierry Cestac. He was quite tall, a little stooped at the shoulders, very slim, over long hair which marched in pepper and salt waves over his ears. He stood for a second in the doorway, fixing Conrad with a piercing gaze from the clear grey eyes set wide to frame the long, aquiline nose. The face was clean shaven and heavily lined. He was immaculately presented in pure French fashion: an open necked shirt under a sports jacket of subdued pattern, flannel trousers, highly polished loafer shoes in deep brown. There was no denying the presence of the man but he was well into the autumn of his years. Sixty-five if he was a day, David decided, perhaps more.
Cestac advanced into the room to give space to his companions. The first was similarly slender, but a shorter man with a sallow complexion and oyster colouring. He was quiet, composed: his eyes moved constantly and his long, thin hands hung by his sides with ever flexing fingers. It was difficult to put an age to this man, but the third was obviously mid-forties, average height with a stocky, powerful build. He had a boxer’s face with a broken nose beneath a bullet head with its light bristle of crew cut hair. His gaze lingered briefly on Bill Evans as he passed through the doorway.
David Heaven made no greeting and didn’t rise from his seat. He simply gestured at the chairs opposite. The Frenchman took his time. When he had settled himself, he looked across the table into David’s eyes.
‘You are Mr David Heaven, I assume,’ he said, and the suggestion of a lisp was in his voice with its slight accent, ‘is one of these two gentlemen Felix Maas?’
David made no reply and Cestac continued,
‘No matter, it is you, M’sieu Heaven to whom I wish to speak. With me are Toussaint,’ and he nodded at the sallow face to his right, ‘and Mr. Margolis from London.’ The bullet head inclined. In the short silence which followed, David gave no reaction. He held Cestac’s gaze and said simply, ‘State your business.’
‘Very well,’ and the voice rose a notch in volume to assert an authority.
‘My name is Thierry Cestac. I am entirely informed as to your Plan Zero. Your past employee Mr McCabe was able to provide me with the fullest detail through electronic access to the work of Mr Maas. I have followed your progress over the last two years and I know that you are now approaching your deadline. Mr McCabe was an extremely clever man, but with aberrant taste and quite unreliable. I decided to send him to carry a personal message to you. That is how we are together today.
‘My requirement, M’sieu, is quite straightforward. I embrace your concept and admire what you have achieved. I do not wish to interrupt your activity. My interest is in power. I have now reached a maturity in years and I wish to exercise power for myself. You have provided me with the means of doing so. You can say that I am taking over your takeover. That is my demand.
‘Now, Mr Heaven, why should you agree? In truth, M’sieu, you have no other choice. I have out manoeuvred you. I am in possession of your facts and your plans, all of them, and I can publish them across the world in an instant. But to be positive also, I can help you. I can guarantee your success. I have at my disposal large resources of manpower and armaments. We will have no need for make believe charities.’
Cestac curled his lip in disdain as he continued.
‘Now Mr Heaven, I am a determined and ruthless man. I get what I want and now I want to acquire Plan Zero. The fate of McCabe gives you evidence of my ability. My people here today can provide further demonstration.’
Cestac let the threat hang in the air as he prepared to continue. David stayed motionless with his eyes locked on the Frenchman’s face.
It was Conrad Aveling who spoke.
‘Thierry Alphonse Cestac. Born Pau, France 1928. Left home as a teenager. Fled to Paris. Took up with ageing roué. Inherited his property and money. Commenced a discreet and successful career in international crime. Prostitution, drugs, brokering influence in Africa and Central Asia. Guarded by muscle, accompanied by this little wop of a knifeman.’
Cestac turned to face him with a pointing finger, saying ‘and you are who?’
‘My name is Aveling: a long time friend and colleague of Mr Heaven.’
‘Ah yes, Monsieur Aveling. Mr Conrad Aveling. I am familiar with the name, but I think you are now less close in friendship to Mr Heaven? No? Perhaps that is because you failed to keep watch on McCabe as you had contracted to do. But you are trying to make amends, I see. Your summary of my background is correct as far as it goes and I commend you. Few people have been able to discover even as much as that.’
Cestac smiled. If Connie’s revelations had disarmed him at all, he had made a remarkably swift recovery. By his side, Toussaint’s eyes burned with barely suppressed fury: he did not suffer insult. Margolis appeared stolid and indifferent. David kept his silence, leaving the floor to Conrad who continued.
‘My relationship with Mr Heaven is not your concern, Mr Cestac, and it has no bearing on your demands. But there is another matter of which you should be aware. You and I have not met before, but our paths have crossed — a long time ago. You will remember the occasion. Thirty years ago, January 1970, you seduced a French girl for sale to a deviant in Bahrain. She is’, he emphasised the word, ‘a friend of mine and of Mr Heaven from our university days. She was to be delivered by your colleague, a Mr Georges Eboli. She did not arrive and he did not return. I, myself, intervened.’
Cestac gave himself time to recover from the shock of genuine surprise and Connie pressed home his advantage by shifting forward in his seat and placing his meaty forearms on the table, stretching out his hands, palm down, as if to invade the Frenchman’s territory.
Cestac rocked back on his chair and blew out his cheeks. He was giving signs of capitulation as he spoke.
‘Well. That is indeed a revelation and a coincidence. I remember the incident very clearly. How unfortunate it was.’
He gave a wintry smile and smoothed his long hair back from his forehead before continuing.
‘Of course I don’t recall the girl. She was just one amongst so many as you will understand. But I do remember the result. I lost a great deal of money, and that mattered to me.’
As they were digesting the shock of his words, he added in a whisper — ‘Toussaint.’
The slight and sallow
man moved in a blur. He half rose from his chair and leaned across the table, right arm supporting his weight while the left windmilled and shot forward with a glint appearing at its wrist as he plunged his killing knife into Conrad Aveling’s right hand, to skewer it to the highly polished table.
Pandemonium ensued. Conrad screamed with the pain, clapping his left hand to his right wrist. Cestac was smiling, David was open mouthed, the thug Margolis was instantly on his feet and moving to give himself space. Rory Trollope was the surprise to which Toussaint should have been alert. He had assessed this bulky young man as they had entered and wondered if the average suit and spectacles aimed for disguise, but Conrad’s jibe at the ‘wop knifeman’ had diverted him and he had been craving for Cestac’s instruction to strike. He would not live long to regret it.
Rory started with Margolis, using the smart briefcase preloaded with a couple of house bricks to attack the broken nose, smashing into it with such force that the former boxer collapsed in a struggle to draw breath into his lungs.
Toussaint lunged for him with a fresh knife shaken from his wrist, but you can’t use a rifle against a tank. Rory caught the first thrust with his case, then pushing it back into the olive face as he attacked with a salvo of kicks to the groin and the slight body, ignoring the slashing blade to grind his opponent into the plush carpet, one foot to the belly, the other to the head. Toussaint lay writhing.
Meanwhile, there was a scene which would remain with David all his days. Connie didn’t try to free his hand. Crouching on the edge of his chair, he stretched across the table and grabbed Cestac by his shirt front. By brute strength, he pulled the Frenchman across the width of the table using his one available arm. He sat back then, cradling Cestac in his left arm which he slipped up around the chest while he wrapped his legs around the struggling body. He shifted himself further to work his left hand round Cestac’s throat.
It was a primeval scene and David was able only to sit and watch. Nevertheless, he could understand. Conrad had always exhibited extraordinary strength in his upper body. He was much older now and his power diminished, but older also was this adversary from so long ago. The years fell away. The veins in Connie’s temples and neck stood out like whipcords. He grunted and groaned like a beast from the deep. Cestac flailed and thrashed to escape. He could not. The struggle seemed to last an eternity.
Elsewhere in the room, Margolis lay like a stranded fish, whooping for breath. Toussaint lay terminally still. For David Heaven, this was a world beyond his ability and understanding. He sat motionless and awaited the outcome.
Finally came conclusion. Cestac lay stretched, his feet drumming on the table, his neck in the grasp of Conrad’s left hand. The seventy year old Frenchman became quieter and then ceased his struggle. It was over. He was gone and dead. Conrad let the body slide off him and onto the floor. He was himself a dreadful sight, mottled and puce from the effort. Rory moved in to release his hand from Toussaint’s knife and Connie gasped from the pain. In spite of it, he managed to look at David and say ‘for Alexa.’ His voice was slurring. The eyes were glazing.
David was conscious that Bill Evans had entered the room and was speaking to him.
‘I’ll clear up here, Boss. Danny Margolis isn’t a problem. I know him. He’ll just want out of here. We’ll give the other two the burial of St Luke.’
He saw David’s expression, ‘That’s not the Bible, Guv. It’s Met. Police speak from when Lord Lucan vanished. We’ll slip them over the side of a cross Channel ferry. No traces and no questions.’
David was incapable of speech, but he nodded vaguely before turning back, twisting in his chair to look at Connie who was still slumped beside him with Rory on his other side, fumbling to release Conrad’s tie and collar. David wanted to talk a while to his old mate, to use this moment to bridge the gap which had opened between them and to rebuild their friendship, starting with some words of thanks for the supreme effort which Conrad had made. But his mood was changed in an instant by the look in Rory’s eye and David sprang up to bend over Connie’s recumbent form.
‘What is it?’ he demanded.
‘Not sure exactly, but he’s out of it and I can’t find a pulse. We’re in trouble here. Need a medic. Could be a heart attack. He’s not conscious.’
David was galvanised into action. He could do crisis management and he swept from the room bellowing for help from The Mansion House weekend staff. Within thirty minutes, the room was empty: Conrad Aveling in an ambulance bound for Emergency, Bill Evans in a dark van bearing a macabre load out of London, with Danny Margolis back on the streets heading for anonymity.
DAVID HEAVEN & AISCHA GOMES — September 1999
They were stalked by death during those summer months. Cestac and Toussaint were buried at sea and they left not a trace behind: no word of enquiry, no acquaintance of either to mourn.
Connie Aveling had suffered not a heart attack, but a stroke and it was very severe. He was paralysed down the left side of his body and he lost the power of speech. They did their very best for him, but he had lost the will to live. He died in hospital at the end of August, over the Bank Holiday weekend. Tepee was with him at the end and his three children, Peter, Oscar and Camilla. Pente Broke Smith took his funeral service at which all who had mattered to him were present in the small Hampshire Church in which he had worshipped. Alexa and Hugh from Hong Kong, David and Aischa, Kingston Offenbach, Martin and Ruth Kirchoff, Sebastien and Izzy together with Rory Trollope and a contingent from the business which Connie had nurtured.
The Oxford Five were reduced to Four. David was distraught. Tepee did not reproach him. She was simply sad and lost and inconsolable. Alexa was shattered for her. Connie had gone to his grave in defence of her for a second time and his sacrifice had cost her dearest friend Tepee the companionship on which she depended. Talking about it later, David said to Aischa,
‘I’m haunted by that last look he gave me when he said he’d done it for Alexa. He meant more than that I’m sure. He was also confirming his rejection of me and my philosophy and the whole Zero concept. And, no doubt, ramming it home that if I could conceive of such a thing, so could a villain like Cestac with no motive except his self satisfaction. Connie will have died mighty disappointed in me, that’s for sure.’
David shook his head in sadness as he reached for his whisky glass, but Aischa was having none of it.
‘You’re not attractive when you’re wallowing,’ she said sharply, ‘and you’re not looking at the facts. Poor Connie was already a sick man before this tragedy. He had worked too hard for too long. He was depressed by the world in which he worked and anyway, he refused to recognise depression. He barely listened to your proposal before rejecting it out of hand. Tepee knows all this and it tortures her now. She saw him withdrawing into his moods and now she wishes she had done more to change his lifestyle. Oscar thinks the same. He and Anna have talked it over endlessly and she has told me of course. Alexa understands it best of all, not surprising after all she went through. So for God’s sake, David, don’t you start mooning around in recriminations. It’s not right and it’s not fair to the memory of a great guy who just lost his way a bit, but who certainly pulled your walnuts out of the fire at the very end.’
David was startled by her words and her tone, but properly rebuked.
‘I think you mean chestnuts, Darling, but otherwise I take your points.’
He continued to brood over ensuing days but kept his thoughts to himself. Aischa was right and he knew it, but the memory of Connie and his friendship burned bright. David had always believed that their relationship would return in full strength, but now it was gone forever.
Then life moved them on again and brought another departure. Aischa returned to Lisbon at the beginning of September and a week later, she called David to say that Alves was in a hospice in Lisbon and slipping away. Anna was already on her way there and David jumped for the first plane. They were both too late. With a lack of drama and a self effacement
which was the style of the man, Alves Gomes went on his way, happy to leave the party of life while he was still enjoying it. He and Aischa had shared some precious conversations during his last couple of days. He had some final words of advice and they had both been smiling as he said,
‘Don’t delay now. Get on and get married properly. You’re like me and not getting any younger.’
Anna endorsed this advice, but Aischa was still amazed to find that it was already on David’s mind. He proposed to her on the day they buried Alves and they married in Lisbon before the weekend. Anna stood as witness and the Mori’s at the restaurant baked a cake. They all sensed that Alves was beaming down on them.
‘We will honeymoon,’ said David, ‘in a new century and on another shore.’
DAVID HEAVEN — December 1999
At midday on Christmas Eve, David and Aischa walked out of the apartment above The Mansion House and descended the building to find his car waiting outside in a quiet Piccadilly. They didn’t linger and as the driver took them away, David wondered if and when he would come back.
The previous evening had been a subdued occasion touched with apprehension. They had gathered together for a final report, a last hurrah, some quiet time of reflective conversation before the pandemonium of their own making swept over them. As he walked into the dining room of The Mansion House, David saw that it was set for fourteen which set him wondering until he saw that Ursula had included places for Conrad and Tepee — one who could not join them and the other who would not. He was touched, and more so when he noted that they would have made the total thirteen, a number for bad luck, and so she had put the bust of old Sol in front of a chair. She was right: he would certainly be with them in spirit.
