The nearly finished building they were sitting in was theirs; built with the illegal fruits of their various enterprises. They knew their country would be a tourist goldmine and this was their opportunity not only to reap great rewards in building appreciation but also to have a legitimate operation. On top of that, as part of their expansion plans the men had looked for pastures new, less hazardous pastures, to which to move their base. They looked at France and Spain but knew in both countries if you crossed the line a bit too far the Intelligence Services would just come and kill you. It was easier that way. No trials, no embarrassment. Easy.
But in Britain……… Britain had no idea how to cope with organised crime and still, according to their information, saw itself as a democracy. So you could do most things and some idiot would come to your defence in the name of ‘freedom’ and ‘human rights’.
But they needed a platform and didn't want all the effort of building one. They needed clubs to operate from and use as a front and they had been told about one little business that interested them. It just needed a bit of pressure on the owner before they made their offer. They would have usually just bombed one of the clubs but they felt they could muscle him out instead. Why destroy valuable assets?
Violence had got them everything in the past and it would surely get them what they wanted now. They chatted amiably about this and that and then a mobile rang. A man answered and spoke in Russian.
‘It's done’ he said to the other three Russians and the Albanian. ‘It's started. The clubs will soon be ours’
They had a glass of expensive French wine which they raised in a toast, swilled it back then went downstairs to the enormous basement under the hotel which would be an underground car park and service the hotel. Their anonymous, black windowed SUV's waited to take them to another place where the women did as they were told and if they didn't they wouldn't be missed…….
H Chapter 6
Ernest Hathaway
Ernest Hathaway looked from the third floor window over the magnificent lawns with the eight Indian blue peafowl wandering around. Approaching the mating season the three peacocks were already strutting their stuff; the iridescent tail feathers were extended, making up sixty percent of the birds length and showing off their blue, gold and red ‘eyes’ to spectacular effect.
His gaze carried on out over the beautiful French countryside beyond.
He let out a long sigh…….
Although he stayed there infrequently it added a spiritual meaning to his life. Its peace, its beauty, its timelessness gave him a rebirth each time he was there. It was an oasis here, away from the ‘madding crowd’ of the City, its inhabitants and his businesses. One day, maybe, he would retire here…..?
Ernest owned car dealerships, betting shops, a casino and many other companies. These activities made him considerable amounts of money and they paid for the palatial home in the Surrey stockbroker belt and a large holiday home in Spain where his family currently were.
The chateau in France had been picked for its privacy, located as it was in nearly one hundred acres of woodland which screened it from prying eyes and known about by very few people. That was what Hathaway wanted.
By chateaux standards it was modest with its three storeys housing ten bedrooms but it was immaculately kept and expensively furnished, coupled with all the latest electronic gadgets piped through to every room. The latter cost a fortune as Hathaway was a man of taste and so the broadband and audio/video feeds were mainly wi fi and any necessary cabling was hidden with subtlety, taking care to not intrude on the muted splendour and elegance of the residence.
Outside, about two hundred yards away and hidden from the house behind trees lay a heli-pad that he had built to allow him to get around quickly.
Spiritual it may have been but from the chateau Ernest also directed his other activities which included theft and related operations. Ernest did not get involved himself but did two things; he either arranged operations on behalf of others or he found the opportunity and arranged it himself.
Hathaway had heard of an upcoming opportunity. One of his longstanding moles had, at long last and much expense, come up with a gem. The mole was a shipping router with one of the major security companies who were overseeing a shipment from the US to the Middle East. Unusually the plane was going to touch down briefly at a local UK airport rather than a national……. The plane would be a company Lear and carrying gold bullion. Not an enormous sum, only about seven million, but enough after expenses to buy a decent meal.
He picked up the phone and dialled England.
‘Yes?’
‘Evening’ said Hathaway ‘how are you doing?
‘Good. You?’
‘Ok’
‘Just saying hello and not stopping so take care’
‘See you’
H put his phone down, waited a moment and then it rang again; he pressed a button on a small console and waited another moment as the two scramblers talked to each other to agree a set of protocols which would then change continually as they talked. The line went quiet and he heard Hathaway. Well he assumed it was Hathaway as the scrambler tended to make the voices a touch ‘tinny’.
‘Evening H’ said Hathaway ‘everything good?’
H snorted ‘Excluding the fact that one of the doormen got killed for no apparent reason, things are ok. You?’
‘Betting good, but the motor trade is a bit quiet with all the panic about the green nonsense, although I have just managed to buy the franchise down the road which will give me a deal with Japan for one of the hybrids, otherwise I can't generally complain’
I bet you can't thought H but said ‘How can I help you?’
‘A little job. Airport in Southern England. Few quid in bullion on a Lear. Need it taking off and putting somewhere safe. Seven mil in dollars and gold. I will move the gold and there's two mil left in dollars. You can either take it or I will sort it out within four weeks’
‘How much more detail?’
‘Lots. Time, place, personnel everything. You will have everything you need’
‘When?’ asked H, knowing this would be the problem.
‘This weekend’
‘That's cutting it a bit fine, but possible. Tell me everything you have and let's see whether it's do-able within our parameters…………’
The parameters were all important. They had been developed between them over a number of years and basically it meant that if there was any chance it could end as a balls up they didn't do it. There was enough loot in the world waiting to be grabbed, so they could happily wait for the next idiot to give them an opportunity to take it. After another hour of questioning, ‘what ifs’ and ‘you must be fucking jokings’ H had enough to allow him to proceed with setting it up. He also decided to let Hathaway sort out the whole consignment and he would get his cut in four weeks in an account in Belize. There would be a bit off for Hathaway to move it but that was ok and after expenses it would still be just over a mil.
The whole thing was a bit daft really. The company had decided to use a local airport as they were concerned about security at the nationals what with the terrorists and all. The fact that there was only four days to plan meant they would not be expecting anything and so there would be security but not heightened. And at a small airport you could get in and out fairly easily. Hopefully……….
He thought for a while then picked up a phone…….
‘Biggles. How the fuck are you?’
‘Better than you, you pox riddled son of a barnacled whore’
H smiled. You would have thought that Biggles had spent all his life on a galleon rather than sitting in a cockpit of a jet fighter. It was, thought H, people like Biggles that made criminality rewarding. Surely people in a factory weren't like this……..?
Biggles had been a Tornado pilot in the RAF and when the Iraqis invaded Kuwait Biggles was in one of the squadrons sent over to help liberate it. As the battle tide turned in late February 1991 the I
raqis fled home in fourteen hundred mainly Kuwaiti commandeered vehicles along the main highway north of Al Jahra. American F-15 Eagles and Strike Eagles along with British Tornadoes pursued them and relentlessly bombed them into oblivion but Biggles had bored of this successful but essentially easy target practice and had changed his modus operandi to liven things up.
A keen arcade game player Biggles decided that a bombing run as commanded was no fun and so he changed the rules of engagement. Instead of just firing off the rockets from a safe height he flew in low and from the side. His main objective was not to kill Iraqis as such, he wanted to see how high he could make the tanks and lorries jump in the air which he did by directing the rockets to hit the ground under the vehicles. It was spectacular! Lorries went amazingly high, their occupants even higher; and tanks, due to their massive weight, flipped over. An American Eagle pilot came over the radio with ‘Heavy shit dude…. awesome…..freakin awesome….right on’
Biggles grinned and waved in appreciation as he went in low again………
Weeks later even the top brass, unofficially watching the cockpit video in the mess, had marvelled at his accuracy and the vehicles jumping around like nine pins. Although it was flying at its most skilful it was another step too far for his superiors who decided, yet again, that political life and their pensions would be safer without Biggles. An injury in battle (Biggles had once snagged his flying jacket and fell out of the plane as he was disembarking and sprained his ankle) allowed them to give him an honourable discharge and a pension and that was the last they saw of him.
In due course Biggles leased his own small plane and flew businessmen to meetings, golf, mistresses or whatever until one day he met Hathaway who had mentioned him to H. H occasionally needed things moved from here to there and Biggles not only enjoyed the extra money but the excitement and danger. In due course Biggles true worth became apparent when H had a small problem with someone. The someone needed to be out of the country quick as he was soon to testify in a small case that H knew could lead to other things if anyone understood the ramifications. H arranged for him to be snatched and Biggles to take him across to Ireland until ………. until…………?
‘Do you want me to bring him back in due course?’ asked Biggles.
H thought for a moment. It was a balls up this trip. It hadn't been thought through; it had loose ends, what happens when he comes back? What? What? What? H shrugged his shoulders in despair. He had enough on his mind……
‘I could teach him to fly’ suggested Biggles.
Well, thought H, at the moment I really don't care if you teach him to play the fucking piano just get him out of here. H nodded.
Several days later H rang Biggles and asked if everything had gone ok?
‘Flew like a bird’ said Biggles ‘Only one attempt and he was perfect’.
H shook his head and took a deep breath. Much as he liked Biggles he was hard work at times and could be really fucking irritating…… How could you teach someone to fly a plane in one go for fucks sake? At that point H had a small touch of unease.
‘Biggles’ asked H ‘where exactly is young Trevor?’
‘Difficult to say exactly H what with the tides and all but I would say about half way between the Isle of Man and Dundalk’
H was horrified but had to smile. Rid me of this priest indeed?
‘Biggles…….you may have misunderstood what I wanted by just a tad……’
‘How's that then H……..?’
And so Biggles acquired another skill on his c.v.
Teaching people to fly.
H Chapter 7
The Job
H sorted out the killing of the doorman at the club with the men at the Met. It was the kind of thing that you didn't really want but the video had shown nothing that could hurt the club. That was what was needed. The Met knew who H was and what he did and they kept a healthy, respectful distance. H kept his clubs in good order and the Met left him alone. They had better things to do than deal with businessmen that could afford the best lawyers. H also paid a fair amount of money to a third party which was passed on to the appropriate people which also helped. Indeed an Assistant Commissioner, at that very moment, was staying in a small hotel in Thailand that an associate of H owned and would no doubt be sampling the local cuisine; crab, lobster, catfish and the local delicacy…..hot pussy.
All on the house of course.
H had spent two days solid organising the Lear job. Separately H and Biggles had been down to have a look and so had Big John. Big John provided the muscle in these jobs with his own specialist team for particular operations. Big John was expensive but highly efficient. He looked something like a laboratory experiment gone wrong and most people thought he was dumb. The people that knew him didn't and even if they did they knew it wouldn't be a good idea to tell him as death was a permanent state.
They had all got together and gone over the possibilities. The room was kitted out with maps and big white boards to write on. Nothing was left to chance. The airport was not a problem and it was obvious the security company who were in charge of the company plane had been sloppy. This wasn't the place to touch down if you wanted security. It was the place to touch down for a snack and a fuel up. Good.
They went through all the scenarios. The price of gold currently meant that five mil weighed just under six hundred pounds which wasn't too bad. Big John had fast cars that had modified rear suspension to allow for heavier weights in the boot so that the cars handling became neutral rather than tail waggy.
Late on Friday it had all been agreed and then it was up to the people on the ground i.e. Big John and the crew….
H Chapter 8
Nice walk home…?
H asked Benny whether she would like to go for a meal to make up for the fact that they had missed her film due to the stabbing of the doorman and they agreed to go to the Floridata in Wardour Street. Essentially a Conran Cuban style restaurant that also provided Latin fare it was the nearest Benny could get to home cooking. H decided to find Rico on line before he went and try and take his money but, at the last minute, thought fuck it. Let's just have a nice night and fuck him!
Leaving the big Merc in the underground garage with the Ferrari they took a taxi. The meal was arranged for eight as Benny liked to digest her meal before going to bed. Benny said a full stomach got in the way of sleep and sex and Benny knew these things. They had a wonderful evening and enjoyed the speciality of Posta en Frutas Secas; a beef and dried fruit stew. Dancers had been hired and the evening was full of music and activity and they thoroughly enjoyed it.
Outside Benny suggested they walk a little before getting a taxi to take some air so they strolled off. H had his hands in his overcoat pockets and Benny had her arm linked in his. Yet again H marvelled that he looked like a domesticated married man and how much he enjoyed it. His mind went back………..
…………Benny had stayed that first week. He had hardly seen her. She slept in her own room, they had breakfast together in the morning, then she wandered off to God knows where to return late afternoon. They had an evening meal but then H had to go and make sure the Clubs were ok. When he returned she was in bed and fast asleep. There had been no intimacy, no sex. H thought he would have felt rampant but he didn't; if anything he felt even closer to this woman he wasn't close to.
The last evening was different and took him by surprise. She told him that there was no going to the Clubs that night and that she would cook for them which she did. Grilled salmon with a light salad. She bought two bottles of champagne which she put in the fridge to chill but did not take out again. They chatted amiably and after the meal they went and sat down.
‘I accept your offer’ said Benshima.
‘Eh?’
‘If I have to say it again I will leave’
‘Ok’ said H and a big smile beamed across his face. And that was it……… From that point on they had been together spiritually and physically. Although H found that his p
ast unexpectedly, quite unexpectedly, affected the latter……
…………Something entered his sub conscious and brought him instantly alert. Three black lads who had been on the other side of the street in front of them were crossing over. H already knew what was going to happen and he immediately turned round to head back the way they had come and where it was more public. He heard running feet behind them and knew they weren't going to make it. There was no way Benny could out run them in her pretty little stilettos.
‘Benny’ he said ‘We have a problem which I need you out of. I want you to go into that doorway, into the shadow and stand perfectly still. Don't move. Not one muscle. Got that? If this all goes wrong I want you to take off your shoes, run towards the main road and scream as hard as you can. Keep shouting rape, rape, rape! Got that?’
Apprehensively she nodded and went into the doorway. H turned round. They were just ten yards away; they stopped running and started walking towards him. A quote from Amir Vahedi clicked into his mind; Sometimes you have to be willing to die in order to live. So true.
H willed his body to relax. Every muscle relax. This would need as much speed as he could muster and to do speed you had to relax….
‘You want something fellas’? He asked in a non aggressive tone and keeping his hands in his pockets.
‘Your money’ said one ‘and maybe her’. He looked to the doorway.
‘You can have the money and then go away’
‘White pussy man; nothing like it. Especially when it's someone else's’.
They laughed.
H now completely understood the situation. That was all he needed. When you know what your opponent wants you can beat him; it's not knowing that's dangerous. Within his large overcoat pocket nestled another small pocket. His fingers found the knuckleduster waiting there and inserted themselves within it. He didn't like using a duster, his fists were usually more than adequate, but sometimes you needed an edge….
H When Hell Is the Favourable Option...... Page 3
