The Bootneck

by Quentin Black

  He dumped him on the pavement and took out a ‘bump-key’. The key was designed to open cars and start the ignitions. He knew they were only effective with cars over twenty years old or so. He’d been taught about them during his agent training and was told he’d only receive a bump-key once he’d finished the programme. He’d already possessed his own for years. They’d been discounted to him by the same cousin who sold him the tracker. Inserting it into the keyhole of the boot, he felt the rewarding click, and it opened. He looked at Nick and realised he didn’t have anything to tie him up with. He’d the element of surprise this time, but the next time he wouldn’t. He considered resting Nick’s leg onto the bumper and snapping it. He stopped himself—a captive that couldn’t walk and needed to be helped everywhere would be more of a hindrance and danger. Besides, Connor had a Glock and Nick didn’t. And he was sure he had cracked at least one of his ribs.

  Connor lifted him into the boot and took a look at Nick’s unconscious face. An illicit giggle bubbled in his stomach, and he punched Nick square in the face. Connor slowly craned his head back and laughed as he saw the tongue protrude out. He shook his head—for fuck sake. There’s a time and a place.

  He closed the boot and opened the driver’s door as easily with the bump key. Now was make or break time. He didn’t have a screwdriver or a wire stripper that made hot wiring easier. He put the bump key in the ignition and twisted.

  His heart soared as the motor coughed into life.

  The sunshine illuminated the golf course, and Ravil felt at ease. He’d heard it said the art of meditation lay in focusing on a single thing to the exclusion of anything else. In that the mind finds peace.

  The Pakhan of London believed he got the same effect from golf, which he’d become addicted to despite himself. When alone, sometimes he’d practice his swing without his golf club in his hand. An instinctive feel for the game was developing, and he relished games that pushed him. His opponent was Henry Costner, a power broker within the British Government.

  Ravil found the Brit likeable enough though he did not trust him—he didn’t trust anyone unless it was necessary. He had to trust Makar as his operations would collapse if he didn’t. That was as far as it went and even that had taken a significant amount of time.

  He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket and cursed it interrupting his swing.

  He answered it. “It’s done,” said the voice before clicking off.

  Ravil had also taken years to develop these contacts within the British security services, judicial system and Government. His most powerful contact had insisted he kill Opekun and Ravil had pledged to do so.

  Opekun’s real name was Bruce McQuillan.

  Ravil was not going to kill him immediately, though. He was going to bleed Bruce McQuillan for information first. Having the Scot within his possession felt akin to catching a mythical beast. A beast that’s existence had been doubted.

  The rumour was Mr McQuillan held a treasure trove of evidence that related to the corruption and shame of high echelon figures within the British establishment. He’d used this evidence to armour himself and for leverage. Any information was useful information, but dirty information regarding powerful and supposed allies would be priceless. Behind all the facades, they were snakes.

  “Good news?” His playing partner enquired.

  “Yes, my friend, achieved without error and no witnesses.”

  “And so?”

  “And so my friend, you will, as they say, ‘batten down the hatches’. Control the media output, feed my organisation intelligence,” commanded Ravil, “and we will clean up your streets and monitor criminal activity from now on.”

  “And release us from any blackmail?”

  Ravil looked the politician in the eyes. “You know that we will not do that.”

  “No relationship survives without trust.”

  “Maybe not my friend,’ said Ravil, hitting the ball sweetly, “but plenty of business partnerships do.”

  Bruce woke in darkness. The blindfold wrapped tightly around his face. Quickly, he became aware his hands were tied. He tried not to move. He’d hoped to get his bearings or any information before whoever tied him realised he was conscious.

  There was no such luck.

  The influx of light made him squint with the removal of the blindfold and his retinas fought hard to absorb it. Before him was a gentleman dressed in dark corduroys, with a cream shirt covered by a tweed suit jacket. He was an inch over six feet, thickset with a sharp jaw line. The eyes stared at him but not with any attempt at intimidation. Instead, they were flickering between determination and what looked to Bruce like a hint of sadness.

  The man carried a certain aura even though there were just two of them in the room—an internal confidence that showed even when not consciously expressed. The stranger spoke.

  “Mr McQuillan, I am an associate of Ravil Yelchin. My name is Makar Gorokhov. We have come to an arrangement with individual members of your government and security services to control organised crime in London and beyond,”—Makar shook his head—“It’s those members who saw it fit to betray you to us.”

  The two men stared at one another for a few moments. Makar continued, “We don’t trust traitors that betray their own people. You, of course, can appreciate the worth of real intelligence. We need all the information you have about these people and your organisation. I risk sounding redundant but if you give up the information willingly, I will give you a quick death. This merger is going to take place, it’s inevitable. It’s senseless to put yourself through what will follow if you refuse to co-operate. To protect the same people who have orchestrated your demise. The very people who would have ordinarily provided you hope of escape have proven their true colours Mr McQuillan. I have no desire to torture and maim an individual who I respect.”

  Bruce just looked ahead with a neutral expression.

  After a few moments, Makar spoke again. “Very well

  Mr McQuillan, the interrogation will begin shortly.

  Connor had pulled up to a deserted country track and finished tying Nick with some black rope purchased from a hardware store. He had flagged down a young teenager to go in and get it for him, explaining the central locking had failed and he couldn’t leave the car. The teenager had agreed to the ten pound then and there, and ten pound upon giving Connor the rope and insulating tape—the necky bastard.

  Now Connor, wrapped the insulating tape around his mouth several times.

  The Glock had gained Nick’s compliance.

  His eyes stared as Connor was about to close the boot.

  Connor stared back and slammed down a fist which broke his captive’s nose. He banged the boot lid down not caring Nick would now struggle to breathe—a mild retribution. Connor thought about where this pleasure of hurting bad people came from. His recollections took him back to when he had been fifteen years old running through the local park. He saw a youth a year or two older than himself gripping a young girl by the hair. The thug had brought his face menacingly close to the girl’s as his cronies surrounded her. When he saw the youth spit into the girl’s face, the red mist had descended. Connor’s anger eradicated his fear, and he tore into the ‘screamer’ like a jungle cat. He had pulverised him to the floor. The others stepped back in a collective adrenaline-induced shock. Still, Connor couldn’t leave it there, and after ensuring the girl was fit to return home, he had removed the would-be gangster’s jeans, trainers and underwear.

  He had got pleasure afterwards from two thoughts. One had been that this ‘wannabe gangster’ had met a real one and not one of his so-called friends lifted a finger to help him. Mostly the thought that the embarrassment of being half stripped while unconscious would burn into the bully’s psyche, probably for life.

  Connor also knew it was his father’s wish for him to be a force for good as his grandfather was. His grandfather died when Connor had just come out of Borstal. The funeral was to be a private affair, as was his wish. However,
hundreds turned up with the vast majority having to wait outside. There were some ‘gangster types’ there, but mostly it was people from the local community and beyond paying their last respects to Frank Ryder. Greg Ryder wasn’t a religious man, but Connor remembered him once saying, “Do unto others as you would have done to yourself. How much further to religion do you need to go?”

  His grandfather Frank was the epitome of that.

  Connor had once asked his dad if it was ‘…ok to hurt bad people’. His father had replied, ‘Hurting bad people, or hurting people for bad things, is a bit like striking a child for being naughty. It’s a last resort and essentially means that you have failed—failed to teach them correctly.’

  ‘So there’s no time you can do it?’

  ‘I didn’t say there’s never a place for it,’ he said, ‘being a pillar of your community, trying to help heal dysfunctional people, teaching your kids rather than continually punishing them, helping a person knowing that they may never be able to repay you – these are the marks of a true man. Unfortunately, some people are too far out of reach to be saved no matter what idealists say. They’re a cancer to other decent people, and need to be dealt with. Sometimes, they need to be dealt with in a manner that sends a signal to other baddies.’

  Connor used to smile at his father’s use of the word ‘baddies’.

  Now he was driving a car he’d stolen, and in the boot was a ‘baddie’ of a Government agent that he’d assaulted and kidnapped. He felt his nerves bite but he could handle that. He’d learnt to live with them long ago and he knew what he’d to do. He needed somewhere private to take Nick and he knew who to call as he began to look for a payphone.

  He didn’t trust the phone he owned anymore.

  Makar knew it wasn’t going to be quick. This was going to be especially difficult as all the techniques they tried were known to Bruce McQuillan, who had probably performed most of them himself and at least witnessed the rest.

  When the captive did begin talking, the initial dialogue would be lies and half-truths. Still, getting the detainee to say anything gave you a foothold. That they’d even opened their mouth let you know they wanted a way out.

  A Hollywood myth was that there were men who were unbreakable. This simply wasn’t true. All it took, as with anything in life, was time, skill and effort.

  Bruce McQuillan would know that.

  Nevertheless, he would also know the longer he held out, the more chance a miracle might occur. A skilled interrogator could stretch it out over a lengthy period without a detainee becoming incoherent. But it was more difficult than generally imagined.

  In war, where time was of the essence, the longer it took to break a captured soldier the more time it gave the enemy to change anything mission sensitive. Some militaries now taught their soldiers to bleed out information slowly to their captors for this reason.

  Time wasn’t a major issue here as no one would be coming to the rescue of Bruce McQuillan. As far as the British conspirators were aware, Bruce McQuillan was dead. Ravil had them by the balls anyway. It had surprised Makar that Ravil had pulled this off. He’d thought the computer system rouse was too farfetched to work—thought it had been a master stroke. Though Ravil helped finance the manufacturing, he did not have access to MI5 files or activities through them. However, the British establishment didn’t know for sure. Makar originally thought Ravil had a mole inside the security services. That Ravil had insinuated to the establishment that he knew of certain sensitive information through an imaginary ‘bug’ he’d planted in the computer systems.

  Makar had at first believed the British conspirators had panicked into an unprecedented agreement based on a bluff. When Ravil revealed to Makar the truth behind the betrayal, he was depressingly disappointed. He also, despite himself, felt a worm of injustice.

  He’d had McQuillan placed in a sensory deprivation tank. Makar, who himself had been placed in one during his KGB training, knew that hours felt like days. A man of honour like McQuillan should not be in there, but life wasn’t fair. Makar had made peace with that fact a long time ago and felt happier for doing so.

  “What’s ‘appenin my gee!” said Louis in an exaggerated Caribbean accent.

  He walked up to the car which Connor was leaning against, parked off a side street in Peckham. Connor smiled. He didn’t know his friend’s exact ethnicity except that Louis had told him he was ‘African black’—not from the Caribbean.

  Louis was tall and very built, a lot more so than when Connor had last seen him. Some would think he’d been ‘on something’, but Connor knew that Louis Allen one of those annoying men who was not only a natural sportsman but could also look at a barbell and put on muscle.

  Louis wore a white plunge top under an expensive black leather jacket, grey jeans, brown leather loafers and a black cap. Connor thought him irritatingly good looking.

  He had two stacked and intimidating looking men with him who he made stand back with a gesture with his fingers.

  Louis Allen and Connor had been in Royal Marine basic training, then the Corps and Navy Boxing teams together.

  Louis was born and bred in Peckham and his real accent matched. He’d left the Marines after the minimum four-year engagement and two tours of Afghanistan to become a personal trainer. He wasn’t just a commercial gym trainer but had been hired by a few B-list celebrities. Connor knew by his social media he’d been doing well for himself.

  Louis was also a criminal for the fun of it—armed robberies were a favourite. Connor knew because they committed several together.

  “Call me boy again and I’ll one-bomb ya. You won’t be able to look your homeboys in the eyes after being dropped by a cracker,” dead panned Connor.

  “If you coulda, you woulda,” replied Louis who would normally edge their sparring sessions being twenty-five pounds heavier, “What do you need anyway brother?”

  “What I need is a room or a space where I won’t be disturbed, and loud screams won’t be heard, and I am being serious.”

  “Can you tell me what this is about? And before you say anything, you couldn’t make any chick scream loudly fam’.”

  “I can in my Louis Allen mask,” Connor smiled. “It’s a bit of a long story”

  “Well, you have time. The place I’m taking you is far away.”

  Carl Wright approached the table where Pierre sat. His eyes burnt into the Frenchman. The man had promised him he would be released from any blackmail once the assignment had been completed. Now he found himself being summoned again. To make matters worse they met here in Istanbul and Carl hated it: the congestion, the constant blare of car horns, the smoke and the stress of the people in this particular part of the city.

  He took a seat and stared at Pierre. The bodyguard sat at a forty-five-degree angle to him but Carl’s anger clouded any fear he had. Pierre was leant back looking at Carl with his chin raised. He dressed in a blue shirt with the sleeves turned up to reveal his tanned, sinewy forearms and a Balme and Mercer watch.

  “Well Mr Wright, it seems you failed. Well, at least partially failed.”

  “Impossible, I saw him bundled into the car you dick.”

  Pierre raised his eyebrows, “That you may have, but your brief was to provide over-watch and now the insider has gone missing. The reports suggest he was captured at the scene.”

  “No, I didn’t fail you fucking liar. If your insider can’t look after himself that’s your problem, you Monday-morning-quarterback.”

  “Watch your tongue Mr Wright, or—”

  “—fuck off! What you going to do? Gun me down in the street for stating a fact?” Carl knew that ultimately Pierre had a hold of him but that didn’t mean he had to eat shit, “It’s your problem now.”

  Carl could see his disrespect getting to Pierre. He realised that no-one had probably spoken to Pierre like that for a long time.

  “Actually Monsieur Wright, it is your problem. You don’t want to be looking over your shoulder for the rest of your
life, because if there is one organisation that still holds honour at heart, it is ze Russian Bratva.”

  Carl replied. “True, but you don’t want the connotations that would happen if I refused. Therefore, I want 700,000 euros for this, half now, and half later.”

  “Why would I agree to this, Mr Wright?”

  “Because I may not have the finances to escape the clutches of the Russians forever but I do have the finances to dedicate myself to tearing your operations apart. That’s if I do not simply decide to kill you.”

  “Mr Wright, these threats are so American, so Hollywood. Please cease with them before you get yourself into trouble or worse…to be boring to me.”

  They stared at one another intently before they resumed.

  “What’s the captured man’s name?” asked Carl. Pierre smiled broadly before answering. “Nicolas Robin Flint. I will email you all the relevant information. Now we have to depart.”

  Pierre and Carl stood up.

  As Pierre and his bodyguard turned to leave, Carl asked, “Weren’t you wearing a Berguet watch last time we met? Has it seemingly gone missing from your hotel bedside during the night as you slept by it?”

  Pierre stopped still, stiffened and turned to see Carl casually throwing his $150,000 Berguet from hand to hand. He threw it to Pierre, forcing him to scramble inelegantly to catch it.

  “You may want to re-evaluate how well protected you are. Then decide to pay me the first half of what is a now 800,000-euro bill before I set foot in London.”

  He turned and walked away from a stock-still Pierre and his bodyguard.

  19

  “Now I know you ain’t gassin’, that’s a dit even you couldn’t make up,” laughed Louis, as he rubbed his back against the seat. “My gee, this is some stone-cold conspiracy shit, but couldn’t you have got a better car? Anyone sees me in a clapped-out shit-wagon, I won’t be able to live it down.”