by Thomas Waugh
Marshal’s half-smile didn’t falter. His shrug seemed genuinely insouciant, rather than for show. Marshal was also a Para, as well as philosophical. Resilient. Paras, officers and squaddies, were used to enduring, being outnumbered and fighting against the odds. Churchill had founded the regiment in 1942. They were “men apart”. The first to fight and the last to leave the battlefield.
“I am grateful for the intelligence Oliver. I’ll judge the lay of the land this evening and tomorrow,” he replied, clutching the flash drive as if it were a gem. Or key. He didn’t want to commit to either evading or engaging the enemy at present. With a subtle flick of his eyes, he conveyed to Porter that Alessio was approaching, to refill their glasses.
“Can I ask, what made you want to confront the Albanians in the first place?” Porter asked, after the waiter was safely out of earshot.
“I’m not sure. Like most things in life, there are more questions than answers. Maybe it was due to the fact that they were dealing with impunity, just a stone’s throw away from a school. Perhaps I’ve read too much William Blake. Against my better judgement, I still believe in innocence – however fleeting it may be. Or I believe in justice, and they deserved to be punished. Somebody had to do something. I was either in the right or wrong place. Time will tell. The police seem to have better things to do, like tweet, than clean-up the crime on our streets. I am willing to go places the police can’t. I’ll soon be familiar with their personnel and operation. But they still don’t know who I am, or what I am capable of,” Marshal argued, his features tightening in determination. Yet his half-smile seemed to widen rather than diminish.
“Well, I hope you’re still capable of doing me a favour, as per our agreement.”
“Go on,” Marshal replied, partly concentrating on the people he saw on the terrace outside, smoking. Desiring to join them. He was also briefly distracted by a querulous fifty-something old woman, who was complaining that her steak had been overcooked. She seemed to be enjoying the attention she was attracting – and spoke to the staff as if they were Untermensch.
“I told you I wanted my steak blue. Blue! Do you not know what that means? Did you not write it down? You silly girl! I have been coming to this club for years, since before you were born. I know people at the BBC.”
Her intention was to intimidate but, more so, she proved to be a source of amusement for staff and diners alike. She smelled of lavender and mouldy old newspaper. The Guardian, no doubt. She looked like a grey-haired Cherie Blair, although Marshal fancied that her husband was more scrupulous and faithful. The shrill harridan, who had spent the morning shopping at Debenham’s and then popped into a refugee charity she was a patron of, also distracted Porter, but he nevertheless ploughed on with things.
“I just need you to drive my niece around for a few days. According to my wife her schedule involves a few meetings in West London. A friend of hers is also hosting a party in some country pile, near Oxford. I need someone I can trust, and therefore put my wife’s mind at ease. Her name is Grace. She is a former fashion model, back from living in New York. Apparently, she has had some bad boyfriends in the past couple of years, although that may be a tautology. All boyfriends are bad, if you’re a father. I will need you to keep any dealings with Grace on a strictly professional level. I do not want you trying to make a play for her. I’m ambivalent, but my wife is adamant about that – and one should always do what one’s wife says. The only codicil to the job is that you will need to be at her beckoned call, so to speak. I’m happy to put you up in our guesthouse. The job should last more than a couple of days, but no longer than a week.”
Marshal remained impassive, as if he were sitting for his passport photo. But he knew he had to assent to Porter’s request. He had no other way of obtaining the intelligence he needed. It was a price worth paying. He had played the role of a driver before. There was nothing new under the sun. He would tug his forelock and say, “Yes Mam” and “No Mam” to the would-be princess. She would be far too self-obsessed to grant him a second-look. If he could be indifferent to God, Marshal was sure he could be capable of indifference towards a retired fashion model.
“When do I start?”
The office of the nightclub, The High Life, had blacked out windows, which looked down onto the dancefloor and main bar. The club was situated between Camberwell and Kennington. Luka Rugova refurbished the venue shortly after making it his base of London operations. He installed plenty of intimate booths, chrome fittings and new toilets, decked out in black marble, so the clientele could easily see any remnants of their coke. There wasn’t a single square foot of carpet in the establishment, given how difficult it was to remove blood and wine stains from it. The club served food, Balkan and Western cuisine, and stayed open till three in the morning (although, for employees and business associates, it was open twenty-four hours). The club was a success, even if you discounted the product which was moved through it and its value as a money laundering operation.
Luka Rugova sat behind his desk in the office. Viktor Baruti sat on a nearby armchair, answering messages on his phone. Vasil Bisha and Tarin Bashkim stood in the middle of the room, looking more than a little nervous and cowed. Across the other side of the room, curled up on a large leather sofa, were two prostitutes, half sleeping and half high. They hadn’t slept the night before – and had still provided hospitality for a couple of business associates of Rugova’s during the morning and afternoon. Ferid, the krye’s driver and bodyguard, sat Buddha-like on another sofa in the corner. A serene, or sated, expression, softened his features. His double chin was buried in his chest, as if he were on the cusp of falling asleep. Dandruff covered the square shoulders of his suit, like a dusting of snow on tarmac. Gold rings hung off his sausage fingers. His lips were pink, rubbery. His flat nose, which given his bull-like appearance and build, wouldn’t have looked out of place with a ring through it. Ferid was fiercely loyal, as well as just being fierce, when called upon. He had known his employer since childhood and had beaten more men to a pulp than he cared to remember. The office was also home to a pool table, safe, metal cabinet and mini-bar, which ran along half the side of the back wall. A large, heavily tinted window overlooked the carpark, which housed Rugova’s crimson Bentley, Baruti’s black Lexus and Bisha’s silver Subaru XV.
A view voices could be heard downstairs as the bar staff began to arrive, their heels clicking against the polished wooden floor. The kitchen was already in gear and the smell of qebapa wafted through the building.
A computer, printer and bust of Napoleon sat on Rugova’s large, teak desk – along with a full ashtray, next to flecks of cocaine. A catalogue, containing small yachts for sale, was open in front of him. The krye was flirting with the idea of buying a boat, to moor outside his villa in Vlora. The boat could be used for smuggling, and family holidays. The attractive, impressive antique desk had once belonged to Bajram Curri, a hero of Albania who had fought for the country’s independence at the beginning of the twentieth century. He had died, committing suicide, rather than be captured by enemy forces. A couple of empty bottles of Cristal champagne and a half-eaten plate of tave kosi could also be found on the desk. On the wall, next to the krye, hung a huge painting of Skanderbeg, Lord of Albania – a fifteenth-century prince and military commander who helped unite the Albanians and successfully fought against the Ottoman Empire. He was famed for having personally killed thousands of men on the battlefield. His coat of arms, featuring the double-headed eagle, formed the basis of the Albanian flag. The portrait, specially commissioned by the krye, depicted the bearded nobleman brandishing a bloodied sword, slaying his enemies. A landscape of Rugova’s coastal hometown also hung on the wall. As much as the Albanian was forging a life – and empire – for himself in the new world, he often spared a thought for his home and its traditions too.
He finished reading an email and focused his attention on his two errant employees, pursing his lips in disappointment. Grey hairs marked his temples, increasi
ng his lupine appearance. His skin was stretched across his face, giving rise to the rumour that the forty-year-old regularly received Botox injections. Yet no one understandably owned the audacity to broach the issue with him. An inch-long tattoo of a knife could be seen on his neck. His otherwise black hair was slicked back, with grease or hair gel. His build was lithe, athletic, as opposed to bulky. He didn’t want to give off the impression of being a thug. He was a businessman. Rugova wore an Armani suit, Boss silk shirt (with the top two buttons undone) and Gucci loafers. A gold chain and pendant, of a scimitar, hung around his neck – a gift from his mother. A triangular-shaped scar, over his left eyebrow, had been a gift from his father – a month before the abused fourteen-year-old boy had murdered him, with a scimitar.
As much as the issue in front of him was an unwelcome irritation, the Albanian’s hostile takeover was proceeding as planned. He had not trespassed on Russian or Chinese territory, but the West Indian and independents were fair game in South London. He had flooded the area with cheap product, using new and old gang members to establish and enforce his franchise. The West Indians were in retreat, although far from defeated. Once his product dominated the market, he would raise prices accordingly. The pink pound and city boys in the area were a particularly lucrative revenue stream. It amused him how half his crew were scornful of the gays, but the other half were keen to sell to them. Rugova was happy for his men to fraternise with the kafirs. To get high with them, to get into bed with them. Their money was good, that was the main thing. He was a businessman first, a Muslim second. The grey pound was on the rise too. Old men were the principal clients in their brothels, spread across Soho, Lambeth and Southwark. Most preferred the older whores, even if they were dried-up and had missing teeth. It was just a matter of lowering the prices, depending on the quality, or lack of quality, of the merchandise. The hags were still assets.
Business was good. The club, and other small enterprises he owned, washed the money. His alliance with the local Turks was strong. Once he was strong enough, he would turn them into the junior partners in the relationship. Hiring personnel from other Balkan states, as opposed to just Albanians, had proved an astute move and plugged a hole in their labour shortage (he still needed to keep his foot on the throat of things up in Scotland too). Rugova was due to receive another shipment of girls next week, which he would farm out to the Hellbanianz in East London and their brothels in Southend.
The move from Glasgow had not all been plain sailing though. The krye had to put down a few markers, make an example of rivals. But the deaths, amputations and castrations had served their purpose. For some reason, he had been rumoured to give a couple of his competitors a Columbian necktie. Notwithstanding that it was a physical impossibility to cut someone’s throat and pull their tongue through the gash, he let the rumour spread.
The police had also tried – and failed – to check his success. Their second, fruitless raid would probably be their last though. The kyre was conscious of only keeping a minimal amount of product on the premises, so the most they could prosecute someone for was for possession, rather than intent to supply. They thought they scored when they discovered several shotguns and knives in the metal cabinet in his office. But the shotguns were licenced, for hunting, and his lawyer argued that the knives were for use in the club’s kitchen. Baruti had arranged for a couple of police to be on the payroll, who would provide him with valuable intelligence. Rugova had also put a warning shot across the detective’s bow, who had dared to go after him. The DI’s name was Martin Elmwood. He thought he was a bulldog, but he was a mewling pup. The krye had set him straight, defiantly looking him in the eye as the policeman stood in his office. Smirking as he taunted/threatened him.
“I am just a businessman. I would advise you to treat me as a businessman, rather than a criminal. I am not your enemy, but a potential ally. The West Indians are your enemies. Pimps exploiting diseased whores and dealers cutting their coke with laundry detergent are your enemies… If you do not come knocking on my door, I will have no need to come knocking on yours. And, trust me Detective Inspector, you do not want me knocking on your door in the middle of the night and disturbing you and your family. Your wife, Karen, and your two young children, Peter and Kelly.”
But Rugova knew he had to be careful, vigilant. London wasn’t Glasgow. Special Branch were not the Scottish police. If he put his head above the parapet too much, he would become more of a target. The underworld should remain underground.
Rugova took another drag on his cigarette and placed it back in the ashtray.
“Perhaps I should hire the man who did this to you. You say the stranger was an Englishman?” the krye remarked. Despite the prospective Botox injections, his forehead was wrinkled in dismay or denigration.
Bisha and Bashkim stood to attention, as if they were back in the army, despite their weary frames. The two men had taken themselves off to King’s College Hospital, after the attack. They headed back to Bisha’s flat after being patched-up, dulling the pain with the painkillers the doctor prescribed – and other drugs he didn’t. They woke up late the following day and arranged to report to their superiors later in the afternoon. They had explained over the phone how the stranger had caught them unawares. Bisha replayed the scene in his mind, envisioning other outcomes. Bashkim, his crooked face contorted in malice, imagined torturing their assailant. The Englishman had been lucky before. He wouldn’t get the chance to be lucky again, he promised – grunting to himself. Bashkim had a cast on his leg, from a broken ankle. His chin was marked with stitches and a hefty bruise. He leaned on his crutches, his palms slick with sweat, feeling both ridiculous and scared. He had never let his krye down before. His pride seemed shredded. A graze, covering half his face like the mask of the Phantom of the Opera, testified that Bisha had been in the wars too. He waited for his krye’s judgement. At least the attack had not turned into a robbery. Loss of income was worse than loss of life. His eyes flitted towards Baruti, who he was equally keen not to upset. Unfortunately, Bisha couldn’t help but stare at the two whores on the sofa – and lick his lips. One, the bottle blonde, was wearing a mauve sequined dress. A rock of cocaine hung from her left nostril. Her scrawny legs were open, and he noticed how she wasn’t wearing any underwear. The brunette next to her was wearing black, wet-look leather trousers that seemed so tight, he fancied that she would have to be cut out of them. Her cherry lipstick was smudged, as if it had been applied by a monkey or drunk. As hypnotised as Bisha was by the sight of the two vulnerable girls on the sofa, his head snapped back to attention to answer his krye. It was unspoken that he, as opposed to his guileless companion, would do the talking.
“Yes, I think so,” Bisha replied, whilst scratching his crotch.
“You think so, or you know so?”
The voice was as hard and sharp as flint. The kryetar had barely glanced at the two men since they entered, as he concentrated more on replying to emails on his phone. Bisha and Bashkim. Little and large. They were a double act. An unsuccessful one. Baruti’s eyes narrowed. A chill ran down Bisha’s spine. He had witnessed a similar expression on the kryetar’s face previously, just before he shot someone. Or hammered a chisel into a man’s hand, after strapping him to a chair. Or when he stuffed a pool ball down someone’s throat. Or used a penknife to repeatedly stab the throat of a gang member who had been embezzling. Accusation and thinly veiled contempt lined the enforcer’s features, as if carved in stone.
“I know so. Sorry. Yes. He was English,” he answered, stammering. His throat became dry and forehead perspired, as Baruti’s dark eyes seem to bore into his soul.
If Vasil Bisha had been familiar with the painting, he might have noticed that his kryetar looked like Thomas Phillips’ portrait of Byron. The curly black hair was the same, as was the determined, cleft chin. Attractiveness allied to intelligence. Defiance and desire infused his haunted – and haunting – aspect. But not sexual desire. Rather a brooding, sadistic desire. Bisha gulped slig
htly as his attention was drawn to the gun in the shoulder holster Baruti wore, beneath his jacket. A bribe to an Albanian diplomat meant that the assassin had been granted a licence to carry a firearm.
Before his national service, Baruti had been a student of advanced mathematics. There was something the youth appreciated about the certainty and preciseness of mathematics. Mathematics never lied. As a student, he also read philosophy – and had a few articles on Nietzsche and Schopenhauer published in respected journals. The army changed him, however. Viktor Baruti grew to despise humanity – and considered himself a superior being. Remorse was a disease, which he had somehow been inoculated against at birth. The intellectual wanted to become a man of action. He read Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment with fervent enthusiasm. Raskolnikov was superior too. The laws – of the state and human nature – shouldn’t apply to him. The young Baruti was suitably disappointed when the Russian student experienced guilt for his crimes. Dostoyevsky had only got things half right. Baruti, who had trained as a sniper, would feel no such guilt, he vowed. After leaving the army he played a part and ingratiated himself into a criminal gang. When the opportunity arose, he grasped his chance, and carried out his first murder. His victim was an old sot, who refused to pay his debts. A message needed to be sent out, for others who might be tempted not to pay. Baruti crept-up behind the drunk, used a cut-throat razor and slit his throat from ear to ear. The curve in the wound mirrored the killer’s grin. He felt like a vet, putting a mangy animal out of its misery. When he returned home, after completing the hit, the young man sat down to supper with his mother as if it were any other day. He even elected to cook pancakes and washed-up the dishes. He felt like singing, but he didn’t. That evening Baruti stayed up late, not wracked with guilt, or reliving the event. Instead, he planned his next hit. His only regret was that he didn’t get to look his victim in the eye, as his life was extinguished. He was intrigued as to what fresh death would look like. The killer seldom repeated the error. Over the years Baruti observed shock, resignation, terror, tranquillity and defiance in the aspects of those he executed. But it all added up to the same thing. Death was the ultimate absolute, the only necessary and sufficient property germane to life. Baruti realised he had a talent, as did others. Violence was a commodity, to buy or sell like anything else. Contract after contract was fulfilled, until he found permanent employment as Rugova’s kryetar. It was a fine thing to get paid for what you were good at – and loved. The two men, who trusted each other like brothers, worked together in Albania and Glasgow. And now a patch of London was ripe for the taking.
