Den of Snakes

by Damian Vargas

  ‘They’re here,’ he announced. ‘You ready Willy?’

  Guillem Montcada, who Charlie had noted, was wearing his favourite Armani suit for the occasion, lifted himself up from his seat and stood upright. ‘Of course,’ he replied, smiling. Charlie knew that Guillem hated being called by that stupid nickname, but for one hundred pounds an hour, his lawyer would just have to suck it up. Charlie paid him twice what any local client would, and the additional - off-the-books - rewards meant that the Spaniard could look forward to an early and very comfortable retirement.

  Charlie walked over to the other figure at the back of the room. Lucian Soparla was a thin, gaunt-looking fellow with oily black hair - the fringe of which dangled over the top of his face as he crouched over a teak cabinet upon which rested an open briefcase.

  ‘Is that thing working?’ said Charlie. He looked at the tape recorder inside the case.

  Soparla pressed a button on the device. A small green light came on, and the two clear plastic spools of tape started turning. ‘It’s working’. Soparla closed the case and snapped the two metal latches into place.

  ‘How many more are there?’

  ‘Five. Between them they will pick up every conversation in the room’.

  ‘Good. Better make yourself scarce,’ said Charlie. ‘They’re on their way up’.

  Soparla nodded. ‘I’ll be in the room next door,’ he replied. ‘Tell me when they have all left’.

  Charlie waited until the Romanian was out of sight, then signalled to Guillem to accompany him to welcome the invited guests who he could hear were assembling in the office’s reception area outside the wood and glass dividing doors.

  ‘Let’s fucking do this!’ he said while cracking his knuckles.

  The lawyer nodded and opened the door. ‘Buenos dias, Señors. Thank you for waiting. Please, come in’.

  Charlie stood greeting each of the men with a firm handshake as they entered the room, with Guillem introducing each of them as they approached. One man, however, needed no introduction. Charlie knew who Juan Fernandez was. The tall man in his late fifties with a grey moustache and perfectly dyed, jet-black hair took Charlie’s outstretched hand and shook it firmly.

  ‘It’s good to see you, Señor Fernandez,’ said Charlie. ‘I’m sure this will be well worth your time, sir’.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Lawson. I’ve been looking forward to this. My advisors say that you have an exciting project here. I look forward to hearing more about it’. Fernandez stepped into the room.

  Charlie looked at Guillem, smiled and winked. ‘Please, gentlemen. Take a seat,’ he said after the last of the guests had entered. He gestured towards the row of dark wood and green leather chairs that he had carefully laid out before the large wooden table upon which was located a handcrafted model of a white apartment complex. Sporadic trees made from sponge and wire, a few toy Matchbox cars and a smattering of small, plastic people gave the visitors a sense of the building’s scale. Charlie stood waiting as the men took their seats. He was well-prepared and looking forward to this. Guillem closed the door, walked towards the rear of the seated guests, then signalled to Charlie that he could start.

  ‘First, thank you very much for your time here today, gentlemen. I greatly appreciate it. I know that you are all very busy people’. He stepped slightly to one side and held out his arm to present the model behind him. ‘This is Urbanizacion Majestico. A complex comprising one-hundred luxury, two and three-bedroom apartments that I will construct on a plot of land which I have acquired, a stone’s throw away from Puerto Banús. You will each find a pack under your chairs that contains an overview of this investment opportunity and a draft of the marketing brochures that will go out to prospective purchasers. You are welcome to keep those, but I’d like to take a few minutes here to tell you about the highlights’.

  Charlie was interrupted by the sound of the door creaking open which drew the attention of the audience. He followed their gazes towards the visitor who had stepped into the room. The man wore a tailored charcoal suit, and a white shirt unbuttoned at the collar. His dark brown hair was immaculately groomed. He closed the door firmly behind him, then strode over to join the group. The confident smile fell away from Charlie’s face as he recognised the new arrival; Daniel Ortega, the head of one of Andalusia’s wealthiest families, and a declared enemy of Charlie’s.

  ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen. Please excuse my tardiness,’ said Ortega. Charlie shot Guillem an alarmed look.

  His lawyer, who was clearly as surprised as Charlie, shrugged then rose from his chair behind the rest of the men. ‘We were not expecting you here today, Señor Ortega,’ he said. ‘Can I offer you my seat?’

  ‘No need. I can stand. I would not want to cause any more disruption’. He placed his hand on the shoulder of one of the seated men, shook his hand with the other while muttering something in Spanish to the man, who chuckled.

  ‘If you don’t mind, Señor Ortega?’ said Charlie.

  Ortega looked back at him with what Charlie knew to be a contrived look of surprise on his face. ‘My apologies. Please continue,’ he said. He half-smiled at Charlie, stood up straight and folded his arms. Guillem retreated to the back of the group once again.

  Charlie took a handkerchief from his suit trouser pocket and wiped a trickle of sweat from his forehead, then stepped towards the overhead projector next to the model of the building. He flicked the power switch on, and an instant bright yellow-hued rectangle of light appeared on a screen hanging above the miniature apartment complex. Charlie took a transparent sheet from beside the projector and placed it down onto the machine’s glass plate. Someone in the audience snorted, and Charlie looked up to see the slide was upside down. He reorientated the transparent plastic sheet, took a deep breath and stepped back in front of his guests.

  ‘Urbanizacion Majestico will be a much sought-after complex of luxury holiday apartments, targeted at wealthy European and Middle-Eastern clients. With traditional Andalusian styling, high-end north European construction materials and know-how, and a superb location very close to Puerto Banús, it will offer an unsurpassed living experience. This complex -’.

  ‘You don’t think our other developments in the region are well-constructed?’ asked Ortega. Charlie grimaced at the interruption.

  ‘I’m sorry, what?’

  ‘You said “High-end north European construction materials and know-how”. Do you mean to suggest that we cannot construct our own buildings here in Spain? Or that more established property developers, such as Mr Fernandez here, use sub-standard materials?’ said Ortega.

  Charlie looked at Fernandez, who appeared unfazed. ‘No, I’m not saying that. I’m simply emphasising that this complex will combine the best possible combination of design, materials and construction expertise. After all, we should all be striving to ensure that each new development improves upon those that have come before them. I and Señor Fernandez, I am sure, feel a duty to maintain the wonderful legacy of the great Luis Banús’. Fernandez appeared satisfied with Charlie’s answer and Guillam gave Charlie a covert ‘thumbs up’ sign from his vantage point at the rear of the room.

  ‘So, as I was saying,’ Charlie continued, ‘this will be a world-class complex that will attract a new influx of wealthy and influential people and their families to the area. That will further bolster the local economy and create employment. Because gentlemen, while we do what we do as businessmen, we must also ensure that we can bring broader returns to this magnificent region in which we are so lucky to live’.

  On a fucking roll now, Charlie.

  ‘You will see the interior design, materials and other options in the brochure in your packs’.

  The men opened the glossy document, and Charlie paused to give them a little time to flick through the impressive-looking imagery.

  ‘These do indeed look very good,’ commented one of the attendees, a balding man in a light blue suit.

  ‘How much will the units sell for, may I ask?’ inq
uired another.

  Charlie turned to face the man who’s slender build and withdrawn posture gave him the appearance of a praying mantis. ‘The provisional pricing is at one hundred and twenty thousand pounds for the two-bedroom properties, another thirty thousand for the three-bedroom ones’. The man seemed impressed.

  ‘May we hear about the financing, Mr Lawson?’ asked Fernandez who had already switched his attention to the financial document.

  ‘Certainly,’ said Charlie. ‘The total project costs are estimated to be five million sterling. The building will take place over three phases, the first of which - comprising the forty, three-bedroom properties - will be completed within thirteen months of breaking ground. Phases two and three, the two-bedroom apartments, will follow and be ready in under two years’.

  ‘And you are projecting total sales revenue at twelve and a half million pounds, I see,’ said Fernandez.

  ‘That is correct,’ said Charlie, grinning. ‘Which, will generate a profit of around seven and a half million pounds, a return on investment of one hundred and fifty percent’.

  Heads nodded around the room except that of Daniel Ortega who, with his arms tightly crossed still, shook his head. ‘That is very optimistic,’ he said.

  ‘I disagree,’ said Charlie. ‘The Spanish property market is booming and shows no sign of cooling down for the foreseeable future. If anything, I’d say that we will be able to charge higher prices by the time phases two and three are underway. As you know, the Costa del Sol is proving to be a huge attraction to affluent individuals from across Europe and beyond,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Yes, we are already attracting plenty of affluent individuals, but I’m not so sure that we want all of them here’. Ortega thumbed through the financial statements. ‘I see you have already invested around nine-hundred thousand pounds into this project. That is a considerable sum of money’.

  ‘Indeed it is,’ said Charlie, wishing that one of the other guests would ask a question instead. ‘And it should indicate the level of belief I have in this project’.

  ‘As I understand it,’ continued Ortega, ‘your income here in Spain is derived from a tourist bar and a few other small investments’. He placed a particular emphasis on the word “small”. ‘As I’m sure you can appreciate, as potential investors, we must have reassurances as to the legitimacy of your funds. So, if you don’t mind, would you share with us the source of your income? I, for one, would need to be certain it is, as you might say, kosher?’

  Charlie looked around the room. A wall of expectant faces greeted him.

  ‘Mr Lawson made his money in the scrap metal business in the United Kingdom,’ Guillem interjected.

  ‘Is that so?’ said Ortega. ‘We would need to see evidence of this should any of us wish to consider investing in your project’.

  ‘Of course,’ said Charlie, trying to hide his intensifying anger.

  ‘Because, as I’m sure you are aware,’ continued Ortega. ‘There has been a worrying influx of compatriots of yours whose wealth is derived from…well, let me speak candidly here, illegal endeavours’. Ortega looked around the room. ‘We’ve all heard of “Great Train Robbers” and the likes of Ronnie Knight, for example’. He gestured towards Fernandez. ‘I feel I speak not just for myself but for the others in this room when I say that we could not possibly entertain an investment in your project until we had first received cast-iron assurances that there is no criminal involvement’.

  ‘I assure you I am a legitimate businessman,’ said Charlie.

  ‘We do not doubt that,’ said one of the other men. ‘But I agree with Señor Ortega, here. For reasons of due-diligence, we would need to see guarantees as to the source of your funds’.

  ‘Do you agree, Juan?’ said Ortega to Fernandez.

  ‘I would. Naturally, we all have both business and family reputations to uphold. But I assume this is not a problem for you, Mr Lawson?’ said Fernandez.

  Charlie did not answer. His stare was locked upon Daniel Ortega’s.

  ‘We can certainly assuage any concerns that any of you may have, Señor Fernandez,’ said Guillem.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Fernandez as he rose from his chair. ‘Then in the meantime, I shall study this information further, and we shall await an update from you regarding this issue’. He walked up to Charlie, the brochure rolled in his left hand. ‘There is a lot of potential in this project, Charlie. I hope that we can work together on it. Good day to you’.

  Charlie forced a smile and nodded as Fernandez and the other investors shuffled towards the open door. He heard Guillem force an artificial cough and turned to see that Ortega remained in the room, standing next to the architectural model.

  ‘Couldn’t keep your nose out of it, could you, Daniel?’

  Ortega turned from the model to face Charlie. ‘I told you before, Charlie. You and your associates are not welcome here in my town’.

  ‘Your town?’ Guillem tried to hold his arm, but Charlie brushed it aside and confronted Ortega. ‘You know as well as I do where all those men get their money. Hell, Fernandez is a bent as a nine-bob note, you fuckin’ hypocrite’.

  Ortega leaned forward. He had two inches on Charlie and was in much better shape. ‘The difference is, that Seńor Fernandez and his family have lived here for generations’.

  ‘You mean he isn’t foreign like me’.

  ‘I mean that he isn’t a foreign criminal, like you’.

  The two men stood glaring at each other until the lawyer interrupted.

  ‘Gentlemen, please. There is nothing to gain for anyone from this. Charlie, I think we should leave now. I’ll have the model brought to your house this evening’.

  Ortega straightened his collar, grinned and turned his back on Charlie. ‘The clock is ticking, Charlie. You can’t hide here forever,’ he said while striding towards the door. ‘Adios, Guillem’.

  The lawyer watched him depart, then looked back at his client. ‘Charlie?’ he said.

  Charlie looked past him to the office where Lucian Soparla remained ensconced. ‘Lucian!’ he shouted. The office door creaked open, and Soparla poked his head out. ‘They’ve gone. Turn them things off and get over here’. He turned back to the lawyer. ‘That wanker ain’t gonna beat me’.

  ‘You must be patient, Charlie,’ Guillem advised.

  ‘I have been,’ Charlie snapped. ‘But that bastard Ortega is testing my fucking patience to the limit’.

  ‘I know, Charlie. He has influence but Fernandez and the others, they are their own men. We need to win them over. Don’t let Ortega distract you. That is what he wants’.

  ‘How did he even find out about the meeting?’ asked Charlie while trying to pick up a small red toy Ferrari from the architectural model. It was glued to the wooden base.

  Guillem shrugged once more. ‘Marbella is not a big town. People talk’.

  Charlie took a step towards him. ‘Then we need to do more’. He turned to Soparla who stood nearby holding a box full of the tape recorders. ‘Ortega does all his business from his office on Ricardo Soriano. I need you to get in there and bug it. Tap his line too. Can you do that?’

  Soparla grinned. ‘It will be easy’.

  ‘Good. Bring anything you get to Guillem to sift through. Got it?’ Soparla nodded, then walked out through the open entrance.

  The lawyer closed the doors behind him, then cleared his throat. ‘Charlie, I told you before, I am not comfortable dealing with Soparla’.

  ‘I don’t want to hear it, Guillem. Just get it done’.

  ‘Charlie, I would really prefer -’.

  ‘I pay you very fucking well, amigo. If you want a safe life, work for someone else. See how much they pay you’.

  The lawyer rubbed his forehead. ‘Fine, I’ll do it, but there’s no certainty he can get anything on Ortega. And you have little time left to get this project going. The town council will rescind the planning permission if you haven’t got the funding in place soon’.

  ‘Tell me what
I don’t already fuckin’ know,’ said Charlie.

  Chapter Three

  Los Hermanos

  Charlie pushed his way past a group of casually dressed ex-pats midway through the exterior doors of the offices of the law firm. He was carrying his suit jacket under his left arm, his tie hung loose around his neck.

  ‘I say,’ said one middle-aged English woman as Charlie barged past. He ignored her.

  He fumbled around in his pocket for his cigarettes, then pulled open the packet of Benson and Hedges only to find it empty.

  ‘Fuck’s sake,’ he shouted. He crushed, then tossed the golden container into a nearby shrub, then stomped down the yellow concrete stairs and along the busy pavement, weaving his way through the hoards of slow-moving tourists.

  He had parked his car, a 1980-registered Porsche 928S, on the street a few hundred yards from the building where he had held the investment pitch. It was on a yellow line, but he had taken his chances earlier as he had been in a hurry. Besides, the traffic wardens around here never went on patrol in the midday heat. Or so he thought.

  When he arrived at the big silver coupe, he was greeted by the sight of a newly applied parking ticket under the right wiper.

  ‘Poxy hell’. He ripped the plastic-covered document from the windscreen, crumpled it up and threw it to the passenger footwell as he got in. He thrust the keys into the ignition, revved the engine as soon as it started and, with barely a sideways glance, pulled away with a screech of tyres.

  It took him twenty minutes to fight his way through the loathsome summer traffic to his beach bar on the far end of Marbella. When he had first bought the establishment just under five years ago, he had been lacking in creative juices, and opted to name it “Charlie’s Bar”. He had always intended to give it a more original signature title, but the name had stuck, so it had remained unchanged.