‘Coz, I bleedin’ said so. That’s why’. Bill murmured something under his breath but did as he was told. He crouched down - but not as low as a younger, fitter man could have - then tiptoed towards the front door. He looked back at Charlie who stood a few feet behind him seeking instructions.
‘Try it,’ whispered Charlie, while mimicking opening a door.
Bill grasped the door handle and twisted it. He smiled. ‘It’s open’.
‘Go on then,’ said Mike who was crouching next to Charlie, with Roger behind him. Bill pushed on the wooden door to open it. The snoring inside continued unabated. The crew readied their guns and prepared to scramble into the building.
‘Go,’ yelled Charlie.
Bill led the way, running into the living room only to find it empty, save for a dying log fire and a large wooden table upon which sat a mono tape player. The device was playing an audio recording of a snoring man.
‘What the fuck?’ said Bill.
Mike ran to the back of the structure and pointed his shotgun into the sleeping area and kitchenette. Both were empty. The rear door was secured with a sturdy iron padlock and chain. ‘It’s a trap,’ he said. ‘Get out. Shit. Back, go back’.
Charlie, Mike, Bill and Roger all ran back to the front door but as they burst from the door, they found themselves blinded by the lights from several vehicles thirty feet away. They held their hands to their eyes, trying to regain some vision.
Mike hit the deck. ‘Get down,’ he shouted. It was too late. Several bullets smacked into the surrounding timber, one hitting Bill in the arm. He dropped to the ground, wounded, but still pointing his pistol in the vague direction of the unseen enemy.
‘Drop the guns,’ shouted Pickering. ‘I’ve got young Edward’. Kenny, who had remained standing and holding his small revolver, tried to run back to the corner of the building, but came to an immediate halt when another volley of automatic fire hit the rocky soil in front of him.
‘Try that again and I’ll fucking end you,’ shouted one cockney.
‘Drop them, or we drop you,’ Pickering commanded.
‘Do it,’ Charlie said. He flung his pistol forward.
‘Fuck’s sake,’ said Mike, then did likewise with his shotgun. Roger, Bill, and Kenny followed suit.
‘On your fucking knees,’ said Pickering as he emerged from out of the cover of the car lights. Four more of the East End crew approached behind him carrying a variety of machine pistols and assault rifles.
Pickering walked up to Charlie and pointed the MAC 10 at his head. ‘Fucking amateurs. Did you really think you could sneak up on us like that?’
‘Where’s my brother?’ said Charlie.
‘He’s alive. He’s tied up over there nursing a right nasty headache’. He gestured at one of his crew to collect the weapons lying on the floor, then crouched down in front of Roger and grabbed his wounded arm. ‘You’ll live,’ he said grinning, then stood up. ‘Two days ago I came to you with a polite request. All I wanted was two hundred grand - compensation, if you will, for loss of earnings and costs incurred from our recent association with you gentlemen’.
Sounding like a “no win, no fee” solicitor, Pickering walked along the line of cowering bodies and stopped at Kenny. ‘All I wanted was a little recompense. But you tried to stiff my lads and me. You came up here planning to shoot us in our beds. This is very…disappointing’. He walked back to where Charlie lay. ‘The price just went up. It’s five hundred grand now’.
‘You’re havin’ a fucking laugh,’ said Bill who received a sharp kick to his shin from the boot of one of the East Enders.
‘Do I look like a fucking comedian?’ said Pickering. He pressed the MAC 10 into the back of Bill’s head, forcing his face into the dirt. ‘Do I have to blow this moron’s brains out so prove how fucking serious I am, Charlie?’
‘No,’ said Charlie. ‘We believe you’.
Pickering stood up, smiling. ‘Smashing,’ he said. ‘On your feet’. The Five Bullet Crew pushed themselves up and dusted themselves down. Bill clasped the gunshot wound to his arm. Pickering signalled at one of his men to bring Eddie over. ‘Now, Charlie. I want to get one thing clear with you and your dumb buddies here. I don’t give a fuck about you. Any of you. I don’t give a fuck about your wives, your girlfriends, your drinking partners, your business partners or any of your fucking family back home’. Two of the cockneys pushed Eddie towards the rest of Charlie’s crew. ‘If I ain’t got half a million quid sitting in a fuck-off big pile in front of me in five days, I’ll kill you and every single person you care about. You got that Charlie bleedin’ Lawson?’
Charlie nodded.
Pickering moved closer to Mike. ‘What about you, big man? You got that?’ Mike responded with the bare minimum of nods. Pickering stared at the men lying on the ground, then shook his head. ‘Nah, I’m not convinced’. He signalled at one of his crew, and the man jogged towards one vehicle. ‘Now, I didn’t want to have to do this,’ said Pickering, as his crew member returned a few seconds later pushing a gagged and bound man. The prisoner was wearing a suit, the shirt untucked. He was shoeless and whimpering.
‘Guillem?’ said Charlie.
‘The very same,’ said Pickering. ‘He was so scared he pissed himself in the car after we nabbed him’.
‘What are you doing, Bobby?’ said Mike.
‘Making my point,’ Pickering pointed the machine pistol at Guillem. The lawyer moaned from inside his gagged throat, his eyes full of fear.
‘Don’t do this,’ Charlie pleaded, but the East Ender was already squeezing the trigger. It was all over in an instant. Guillem’s torso seemed to dance like a convulsing drunkard, before collapsing to the ground. A pool of dark liquid grew from under his mangled corpse.
‘You fucking bastard,’ Charlie screamed. He tried to get up, but one of the East Enders kicked him in the belly.
‘Have I made my point?’ said Pickering. ‘Are you going to pay us, or do I have to shoot someone else?’
One of the East Londoners sniggered.
‘You’ll get your fucking money,’ said Charlie.
‘Good,’ said Pickering. Then that concludes our business for today’. He signalled at one of his crew, a shaven-headed man in his twenties who emerged from within the farm building holding a petrol can. ‘Burn it,’ he told him.
The man lit a match and flicked it into the building’s interior, flames appearing almost immediately.
Pickering started towards one of the cars, his crew already doing likewise. ‘Five days, Charlie. Five days’. The car engines started up, and doors slammed shut.
‘What the fuck do we do now?’ said Roger, transfixed by the sight of the burning building.
Mike watched the two cars drive away into the darkness, then glanced at Charlie. ‘How about I call the Moroccans, now?’
Chapter Thirty
Going All In
‘Go over it again,’ said Eddie as he lowered his aching body onto a chair at the head of the kitchen table in Carol’s restaurant in Marbella old town.
Dawn was still over three hours away, and none of the crew had slept, but the men - tired as they were - were now in no doubt that they needed a plan to raise a lot of money. And quickly.
Mike sat to Eddie’s left, Roger next to him - sporting a freshly applied bandage around his arm. Kenny stood near the door, fidgeting with his car keys. Bill sat perched on the edge of a brown vinyl couch accompanying the reclining Charlie, who lay there eyes closed, and rubbing his forehead. The air was thick with cigarette smoke.
‘What didn’t you get the first time?’, said Mike. ‘It’s bleedin’ simple’.
‘That’s what you said about knocking off half a dozen sleeping cockneys,’ said Eddie. ‘That didn’t go so well, did it?’
‘Alright, fucking hell’, Mike relented. ‘So, we rendezvous with the Moroccan’s fishing trawler off the coast and take on a ton of dope. Then we bring it back, load it into a truck, drive it up north and meet up with my contact who w
ill pay us the five hundred grand we need. Like I said, simple’. Mike looked at the rest of the old-timers for support.
Eddie sat still, running his finger around the rim of his coffee mug.
‘Sounds like the solution to all our problems to me, Ed,’ said Bill.
Eddie disagreed. The plan sounded like pure fantasy to him. Too good to be true; as thin as paper. ‘Where’s the boat going to come from?’ he asked.
Kenny piped up. ‘A neighbour of mine’s got a thirty-foot yacht moored up in Puerto Banús. I’ve been out in a few times,’ he said. ‘He’s in Florida for a month. I know where he keeps the keys’.
‘And it will get us out there and back?’ said Eddie.
‘No worries. It’s only a year old’.
‘Okay’. Eddie directed the next question at Mike. ‘Tell me how we get a ton of hash from one boat to another in the middle of the sea’.
Mike rubbed his eyes and leaned forward. ‘The Moroccan geezer said that it’s all wrapped up nice and tight in polythene in fifty-pound packages what float. They bung them overboard, strung together on a long rope. We just hook one end and pull it all on board. They do it all the time. No hassle’.
Eddie pictured the sight back in 1982 at Port San Carlos on East Falkland. The British forces had elected to come ashore there before mounting the assault to recapture the eastern island. Landing craft had collided, dinghies had capsized, men had fallen overboard while descending from the troop transporters and sizeable amounts of kits and supplies had sunk to the bottom or floated away into the Atlantic. He knew the sea was a challenging environment.
‘How many packages are we talking about?’ he said.
‘Forty,’ said Mike. ‘Fifty tops. He said it takes about ten minutes’.
‘Sounds risky’, said Eddie, rubbing his chin. He leaned forward to look at the map of the southern Spanish coast that lay on the table in front of him. ‘And then? Where do we get it ashore?’
Roger stood up, winced, then leaned forward and pointed to a long sandy cove, east of Estepona. ‘There. Casares Costa. Big long beach with multiple exits’.
Eddie examined the location. ‘Looks like a residential area. Not very covert’.
‘They’re building a new estate of holiday homes there, but it’s not finished. Shouldn’t be nobody around at that time of night’.
‘How far is it from the road to the water?’ said Eddie. ‘These packages will take some shifting’.
‘No more than twenty yards,’ said Roger, pointing to the east end of the bay. There’s a small car park by the roundabout, you can’t see it from the main road. We can park the truck there, no probs’.
‘And what about the truck?’ said Eddie. ‘It’s got to carry a ton and be in good condition. It must be, what, six hundred miles up to the French border?’
‘More like seven,’ said Bill.
‘Okay. So where do we get the truck from?’
‘Just rent it,’ said Bill. Eddie gave him a sceptical stare.
‘Using fake ID,’ said Roger.
Eddie nodded. ‘Whoever does that needs to wear a disguise, said Eddie. ‘They can’t be caught on security cameras’. He rubbed his chin again. ‘What about comms?’
‘CB radio sets?’ suggested Bill.
Eddie shook his head. ‘Every trucker in the area could pick us up with them. Charlie, would your man Soparla know where we can get hold of some VHF two-way sets?’
Charlie hadn’t spoken since he had sat down and was exhibiting a thousand-yard stare, oblivious to the conversation taken place a few feet away.
‘Any suggestions, bruv?’ said Eddie, louder. Charlie remained lost in thought. Bill tapped him on the arm.
‘Huh?’ said Charlie, before realising that all eyes were on him.
‘Ed’s going through Mike’s plan, Charlie’ Bill said. ‘So far, so good, but we’d need a set of radios. Can Lucian help with that?’
Charlie scratched at his stubble. ‘I’ll ask him’.
‘Alright then,’ said Eddie. ‘So we know how we’re picking the dope up and what equipment we need’. He turned back to Mike again. ‘Just one more question’.
‘Go on’.
‘The buyer,’ Eddie said. ‘This Dutch guy’.
‘Yeah?’
‘Can we trust him?’
‘I reckon’.
‘You reckon?’ said Eddie.
Mike nodded. ‘Yeah’.
Eddie got the distinct impression that the rest of the crew were privy to more than he was at that precise moment. ‘That doesn’t exactly fill me with confidence, mate’. Mike stubbed his cigarette out into a beer can. ‘How do you know him? Is he good for the cash?’
‘He’s good,’ said Mike.
‘He’s good?’
‘That’s what I said, ain’t it?’ Mike snarled. He seemed frustrated and gestured at Charlie with a nod that said; “tell him already”.
Eddie looked at his brother. ‘Would you care to fill me in on whatever I’m missing, Charlie?’
His brother forced himself up off the sofa with a grunt, reached for and opened a can of lager. ‘The dutchy owes me,’ he said after taking a swig. ‘Remember that ginger kid that was serving drinks at mine that first night you was here?’
‘The one who’s old man was serving time for gun-running for the provos?’ said Eddie. He sensed that the rest of the crew were waiting for Charlie to drop a bombshell.
‘Yeah,’ said Charlie, his gaze focussed on the table. ‘Seamus, the kid’s dad, was buying of guns from him’.
‘From the dutchman?’
‘Yeah,’ said Charlie.
‘And?’ Eddie countered, wondering where this was going. Charlie looked pensive now.
‘I made the introduction,’ said Charlie.
‘Between the Dutchman and the Irish guy?’
‘Yeah’.
The realisation hit Eddie like a sucker punch to the head. ‘You helped this fucker buy guns for the IRA? Guns they used on British soldiers, like me and my mates?’
Charlie nodded. ‘I didn’t know what they was gonna use ’em for, did I?’ pleaded Charlie.
‘Well they weren’t going fucking duck-hunting was they?’ said Eddie. His mind was in a spin. Images of his tours in Northern Ireland flashed past - police stations surrounded by watchtowers and razor wire, the cramped interiors of armoured personnel carriers, nationalist rioters screaming at him and his fellow soldiers, screaming curses and lugging stones their way. Petrol bombs, burned-out cars and blown-up bodies.
He lifted his shirt and pointed at a cluster of small scars on his side. ‘That was a fucking IRA pipe bomb,’ he said. He turned around to reveal another, more prominent streak of a scar on his lower back. ‘That was a provo bullet, from an AK47 most likely. If I’d been moving even slightly slower, it would have killed me’. He placed his right leg onto a chair and pulled up his trouser leg. A sprawling burn mark clad his shin and calf. ‘That was a Molotov cocktail. I was standing in a line between the Protestants and Catholics, stopping them from getting at each other. I was lucky. A nineteen-year-old kid took most of it. He’d only joined our unit a few days before. He didn’t look too pretty after that’.
‘I’m sorry, Ed’.
‘You’re sorry?’ said Eddie. He had edged to within six inches of his brother, so close he could smell his breath.
‘What more do you want me to say, bruv?’ said Charlie.
‘You can tell me why you did that? When you knew them guns would be used against me, your fucking brother. How about explaining that?’ Kenny tried to intervene, but Eddie waved him away.
‘Business, Ed. It was just business,’ said Charlie. ‘Ain’t nuffin more complicated than that’.
Eddie grabbed Charlie by the throat, forcing him back down into the couch. He looked into his brother’s eyes and saw a coldness looking back at him. As quick as it had materialised, Eddie’s rage dissipated. It was clear to him now. He had known it all of his life but never been willing to admit it. Now he
did.
‘Just business? That’s all it’s ever been, ain’t it?’ he said. ‘You never gave a fuck about anyone else. All you’ve ever cared about is yourself’.
Charlie responded with a simple, affirmative shrug. ‘And you’re different?’
‘To you? Yeah, Charlie. I’m fucking different’.
‘Bollocks,’ his brother sneered. Before you got involved with us, you was on your way to Angola.’ Charlie pushed Eddie backwards and forced himself up again. ‘Why was that, hey? What selfless, higher purpose was you going to do that for? To give them democracy? For honour? For your country?’ He poked Eddie in the chest and whispered, ‘I’ll tell you why. For money, Eddie. Blood-fucking-money’.
Eddie shook his head. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said.
‘The fuck I don’t,’ said Charlie. ‘It’s all you know how to do, that’s what you told me. And you needed the money’.
Charlie, now very much energised, pulled his cigarettes out from his shirt pocket and lit one. Then, through a cloud of fresh smoke, said, ‘We might not be blood relatives, you and I. But don’t kid yourself, Eddie. We’re from the same stock. We are the same. Only difference is, I fucking know what I am and I always have. Whereas you have been deceiving yourself all your life’.
At that moment, Eddie’s worldview collapsed.
Eddie leaned back against the wooden table. ‘He’s right,’ he thought. He’s fucking right’. There was no right to be wronged by being a mercenary. You weren’t serving some higher calling. You were a hired gun - expendable cannon fodder serving at the beck and call of one faceless power broker trying to get one over another. His face betrayed his thoughts.
Charlie smirked. ‘Penny dropped has it?’ he snarled.
‘Enough,’ said Mike. ‘Leave the kid alone. He don’t owe you nothing. Or the rest of us’.
‘He’s right,’ said Roger. ‘This ain’t your fight, Ed. No shame if you want to walk away’.
‘I think you’re all missing the fucking point,’ said Charlie.
‘What point is that?’ said Roger.
‘If we don’t do this. If we don’t pull off this score, it ain’t just us what Pickering’s gonna go after. It’s the girls. It’s Carol and Judy. It’s our families back home’. Charlie shot Mike then Eddie the same furtive glance.’ It’s Veronica’.
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