“But you like the idea of half a million pounds?”
“Maybe I do. But it’s still an idiotic idea. You’re all idiots! Christ, why do I feel so strange? What the hell is the matter with me? Why am I so hot? Why is the fucking table rippling?”
“Don’t get stressed, man,” murmured Fistule, “I put a few magic mushrooms in the soup. We went foraging today, it’s mushroom season.”
“You fucking dosed me? Christ Almighty! We’ve got a house full of illegal immigrants, a bath full of turds, half a million pounds’ worth of drugs… Is this really the time to start tripping?”
“We thought you needed to chill, man.”
“Yeah, you’re a bit on edge, Feel,” said Mercedes gently. “Just go with the flow.”
I felt very hot, like a badger in an oven. I needed some air. I walked to the front door. It was full and firm, so solid. I wondered how many trees had died to make it. Surely they wouldn’t have killed more than one tree? I knocked my fist against it. Only one tree, I was sure. I could feel its soul. Better to be an outside door, where you could feel the elements, than an internal one. We shouldn’t paint the door, either, even though it was peeling. It wanted to take its clothes off. Let it breathe.
I opened the door. A small Indian child looked up at me, her face streaked with tears. Another immigrant. They probably all had our address by now. She looked down at her knee, which was bleeding. “Wait there little girl.” I walked back to the kitchen and took Fistule’s first aid kit off the wall. He was fanatical about keeping a properly stocked medicine cabinet in case of emergency. I found a sticking plaster and antiseptic wipes, and returned to the child. “Don’t worry. We’ll fix you up.” I wiped the graze clean and applied the plaster.
“You see. It’s good to be righteous, Doctor Hart.” Wodin’s voice floated from somewhere behind me. The girl ran away into the night.
I remembered there were forty-two Somalis in the house. I turned and walked up the stairs, feeling as though I was floating, and entered the first bedroom. The air was still, the window open. All was silent, the road down below deserted. The yellow streetlights illuminated the faces of the sleeping men, huddled together. They were so black, their skin so smooth, as if they were carved from a dark wood. Had they killed trees to make these men? How could anyone be so black? I felt as if I could fall into them – fall all the way to Somalia.
One man stirred and I tried to snap out of it. I could see the carpet rippling beneath me, like little waves. The ripples washed out to the sleeping men, disappearing under their white sheets. Would those waves carry the men away, wash them down the street and into the River Chess, then the Thames, then to the sea and back to Somalia? Would they wake, see that they were being carried away, reach out their arms and cry for help? If I held out my own arm, could I catch one of them, grab hold of one those strong black arms?
I saw the sinews, the dark, mahogany skin, like an ancient carving, so strong. Mahogany would float, wouldn’t it? It was a wood. It would float back to Somalia, wash up on the beach, beautiful pieces of deadwood, snagging on seaweed that would dry and shred, like skin. They would be bleached by the sun, worn by the wind and the blasting sand. A man would collect the limbs and make a fire on the beach, after the sun had set. He would be shivering – he was only trying to keep warm – but he was burning them, burning their limbs, just to keep the cold away. I heard the gas escaping from the burning wood, a high whistling bubbling sound, unnatural, like screaming.
I felt hands on my shoulders then around my waist, something soft and also hard against my neck. It was Mercedes, her dreadlocks and their cold rings next to my skin. Her lips brushed my ear.
“They have to stay.”
5.4
Turkish Delight
I pushed through the revolving doors of Gatesave’s HQ the following morning. It was a quarter to seven but Rizzo was there again, waiting in reception for me. He was accompanied by a man in a black suit and dark polo neck. There was no sign of Morelli. Their eyes followed me as I neared reception and my stomach tightened. They had to be onto me. Play it cool, Felix.
“This is becoming a habit, Marco. What brings you to Gatesave’s office this time?”
Neither man spoke for a moment, then Rizzo said, “Braintree container depot. Why did you send our goods there?”
“Oh, I think it was a mistake by my logistics colleagues,” I said breezily. “They didn’t realise we’d made a special arrangement. Anyway, no harm done. I understand the stock will be in stores later today. I sent an email to Sergio confirming everything is fine.”
“Sergio is no longer involved,” said Rizzo. The other man said nothing, just stared at me. Not with menace, just an unflinching stare. He was slim and fit-looking, with close-cropped hair.
“What have you done to him?” I asked.
Rizzo paused again and looked at his companion. “He is back in Italy, supervising the winery.”
“I see. Well, let’s look forward to a bumper season of Asti Spumante sales then!”
I walked away quickly, scanning myself through the security turnstile. For the second time in twenty-four hours I took the lift down to the gym, my stomach churning with fear, and stood under the shower.
I was home by six that evening and I’ll give Wodin his due, he had used his day productively. Not only had he suited and booted Galad, the giant Sharmarke and four more of the larger Somalis, but he had also purchased a banknote-counting machine that detected counterfeit currency. It was around the size of a large shoebox and Wodin had already unpacked it in the kitchen and plugged it in. We tested it on some real notes mixed with pieces of paper. The digital display faithfully counted the real notes as they were fed into the machine then stopped and gave a little beep of complaint when it encountered a piece of paper.
By seven o’clock Galad and his five friends were lined up by the door, looking rather apprehensive, although very smart and business-like in their dark suits and white shirts. Only Sharmarke, the giant, kept a blank face, his sad eyes following Wodin as he zipped the counting machine into a holdall. The contraband, still in its wrapping, had been carefully wiped clean of fingerprints and placed into several separate bags earlier, well out of sight of the Somalis.
We trotted down the outside stairs and walked briskly to the hired SUVs in the car park, two new-looking black Land Rovers with tinted windows. Mercedes, who had tied her dreadlocks back and was wearing a dark fleece, took the wheel of one, with Galad beside her and three other Somalis in the back. Wodin climbed into the driver’s seat of the other SUV and I joined him in the front, while Sharmarke took up most of the back seat alongside the final Somali, a tall, wiry but strong-looking chap called Amiir.
The contraband was packed in the boot of Mercedes’s vehicle – she drove ahead while we hung a hundred yards or so behind. Our main worry was that one of us might be stopped by the police, so we minimised the risk by placing all the contraband in just one SUV. If her vehicle was stopped and searched, the plan was for Galad and the other Somalis in her car to grab the legs of any police officers and hang on, allowing Mercedes to drive – or, if necessary, run – away as fast as possible.
It wasn’t the most sophisticated plan and, I’m slightly ashamed to say, our Somali friends had not been fully briefed. Wodin and I told Galad that we were travelling to an employment agency to arrange jobs for all the migrants. We had to take the strongest-looking men to give the impression that everyone was fit and able to do physical work. We would be paid commission up front by the employment agency, hence the need for the counting machines. The only truthful bit was that the police would take a dim view of us if we were intercepted, hence the need to gently obstruct the forces of law and order while we did a runner. We assured Galad that, so long as Mercedes escaped, we could easily arrange the release of his friends from custody by paying bribes.
God alone knows what would have happened to Galad and his friends if we’d actually been stopped – they’d have been arrested a
nd the contraband revealed. Hopefully it would have been obvious that they were mere pawns in some sinister high-level plot, and they would have suffered nothing worse than a short spell of imprisonment followed by deportation. I’ve no idea whether Galad believed our cock-and-bull story, but buying everyone clothing and food and treating them well had endeared us to our guests, so the plan had been accepted without argument.
But fortune smiles on the righteous, and we completed our journey into London without a hitch. Wodin had procured a brand-new pay-as-you-go phone and rang one of Father Turk’s lieutenants as we turned onto Green Lanes. “Be outside in two minutes,” he said.
Mercedes pulled over so we could catch up, then we slowed as we approached the Green Lanes Billiards Club. A pair of frowning Turkish men stood on the pavement outside the entrance, observing our approach. We wound down the front and back windows of both SUVs so they could see we had arrived in force. Then Mercedes drove off, parking a mile away in a pre-agreed spot behind a row of shops. We pulled up on the pavement round the side of the Billiards Club and the four of us climbed out. The two Turkish hoods approached and I could see their eyes widening at the size of Sharmarke.
“Stay with the car Amiir,” ordered Wodin, clapping him on the shoulder. Amiir climbed into the driver’s seat and I lifted the holdall containing the note counting machine out of the boot.
Wodin turned to the Turkish men. “Where’s Father Turk?”
One of the men, olive-skinned with a bushy moustache and a head of glossy black hair, tilted his head to a side door, which they opened and entered. The three of us followed, Wodin first, then Sharmarke, stooping low to avoid banging his head on the frame, then me with the bag. The Turks ascended a set of steep, narrow stairs and we followed them. I heard the door close behind me with a solid clunk – when I looked back a thin, unsmiling man returned my stare and took a seat inside the door.
My stomach started to tighten. We were clearly trapped inside the building and, no doubt, heavily outnumbered. Our little adventure suddenly seemed a much less clever idea, and I hoped to God that Wodin knew what he was doing.
Oh fuck, this wasn’t going to work! I was the one holding the bag so I would probably be the first to get a bullet in the head. Or maybe they would open the bag first, find the cash-counting machine and torture me to find out where the drugs were. Christ, what kind of sick torture would they inflict? Probably drill into my knees first, just to soften me up. I thought of the hapless gangster hurled from the roof of this very building into Green Lanes. The rumour was that a billiard cue had been stuck up his backside before he was thrown off, so that when he landed on his arse it was driven all the way up and out through his mouth. They called it ‘kebabbing’.
The stairs ended in a small landing. A young acne-afflicted gangster stood guard in front of another door. He looked us up and down, lingering on Sharmarke and on my bag, then said something in Turkish to the other two. They folded their arms and waited.
“He stays here,” said the acned youth, in a London accent, gesturing at Sharmarke, who gazed at the gangsters with unnerving blankness.
“That’s fine,” said Wodin, “but don’t provoke him. He’s very emotional.” All three men kept their eyes on our giant as the youth turned the handle, pushed opened the door and jerked his thumb.
We entered a very large room with windows covered by cheap venetian blinds running the length of one wall. The only sign of the world outside was the amber glow of street lights through the slats. Against the opposite wall there was a row of steel cabinets, while a full-size snooker table stood in the middle of the room. A single billiard cue and ball lay on the table.
At the far end of the room there was a large glass-topped desk. Behind it, seated in the only chair in the room, with his hooded eyes fixed upon us, was Father Turk. He was not alone. A thin, vicious-looking man in a tracksuit stood with his back to the windows, his clean-shaven face revealing a prominent scar across the chin. He stared at me with undisguised hatred.
Father Turk raised his hand suddenly and Wodin stopped. Tracksuit walked forward and pointed at the bag I was holding. “Put it there against the wall and step away.”
His accent was Turkish, not London, and I spotted the flash of a gold tooth. I did as I was told. The man patted me down roughly, checking every nook and cranny, then did the same to Wodin. He nodded to Father Turk and took up position again next to the window.
Father Turk beckoned us closer. He was not particularly old, perhaps mid-forties. His face was deeply lined around the eyes and he had a small, neat moustache over a rather sorrowful mouth. He looked quite ordinary – an unremarkable, middle-aged Mediterranean man. A lit cigarette lay in the ashtray before him, sending up a long unbroken line of smoke.
As we reached the table he spoke. His voice was deep and heavily accented. “I know you. But I do not know you.” He looked from Wodin to me. “Who are you?”
“I am Wodin’s business partner. I played snooker here when I was at school.” I smiled, encouragingly. Father Turk did not smile back.
“Where did you steal these things?” It was clear what things he meant. We had rehearsed this and our plan was to stick as closely to the truth as possible. I didn’t like his use of the word ‘steal’ though.
I cleared my throat. “They are not stolen…” Father Turk raised his hand again and I closed my mouth, my stomach giving a little lurch.
“Do not take me for a fool. What is in the bag?”
“A note counter, for the money,” I murmured, my mouth now dry.
“Money? So you steal and I pay you money? I do not pay thieves, I punish them.” He raised his voice slightly. “My cousin?” Tracksuit took a step toward us and put his hand into his pocket. When he removed it I saw he was holding a small snub-nosed revolver.
The tightness in my stomach leapt to my bowels. I wondered how the hell I was going to get out of here. At least Wodin was standing between me and the armed hoodlum. With a bit of luck he’d take the bullet and I could rush for the door. But there were three men on the other side and, even if I made it without a bullet in my back, I doubted Sharmarke would be of much use – he’d probably just stand there. Even if he could fight, why would he? He was under the impression we were in a North London job centre, applying for work in a local restaurant.
The only other way out was through the windows and I didn’t fancy my chances hurling myself through the glass and falling twenty feet into the Green Lanes traffic. My eyes settled on the snooker cue. Oh Sweet Jesus, no. Might its next home be my rectum, shortly before I was hurled from the roof, the latest in a long line of unfortunate, kebabbed criminals to have incurred Father Turk’s displeasure?
“If you’re going to shoot us, you may as well do it with a decent weapon,” said Wodin loudly. Tracksuit frowned and hesitated as Wodin pointed towards the bag and addressed Father Turk. “We brought you a present, sir. We don’t mean any disrespect. Quite the opposite.”
I goggled at Wodin. What the hell was he talking about?
“A present,” stated Father Turk in a dead tone. “What is this?”
Wodin raised his hands. “If I may?” Tracksuit pointed his weapon directly at Wodin and followed him as he slowly approached the bag, hands aloft. He crouched, unzipped it and put his hand inside. The gangster stood over him, pointing his revolver directly at Wodin’s head. Wodin very slowly removed a package. It was a white fabric shopping bag, in which something had been wrapped.
It dawned on me what Wodin had done and I closed my eyes in despair. How the hell was this going to get us out of here?
Wodin placed the bag on the glass desk with a dull clunk and took a few steps back. The cousin kept the gun trained on Wodin and unfolded the bag with his other hand. He gave the bag a shake and one of our smuggled guns clattered loudly onto the table. All eyes were now on our weapon.
“It’s a Beretta 92,” I blurted. “The best handgun in the world.” Tracksuit picked it up and looked it over, excitement in h
is eyes. I realised my hands were raised and I lowered them slowly.
“Is a Beretta 92 S,” Tracksuit corrected, running his finger over the frame. He took aim down the barrel, thankfully not at me, and looked at Father Turk, who had a very slight smile on his face. “Can I keep this, Amca?”
“No need to worry, we’ve brought you two,” said Wodin gently. “The other is with the stuff.”
Father Turk sat back in his chair. “So you have two of these things. And then there are the other things. You tell me now where you got them.”
It was my turn. “I work in the importing business, sir,” I gabbled. “I don’t want to bore you with the ins and outs of my business, but sometimes my suppliers offer me a bargain. Often a warehouse somewhere has some, how should we say, surplus stock.”
Father Turk nodded slowly, his smile had gone and his eyes bored into mine.
“So, one of my contacts found me some sparkling wine,” I continued. “Several containers. It is Christmas soon so this is a very popular product, you see. The price was very, very cheap. My contact insisted I had to buy it quickly before someone else took it. So I paid, I arranged collection of the wine and delivered it to my warehouse. When I opened the containers, I found there was some stock missing. There was also – how can I put this – a horrible mess in some of the containers. As if someone had lived in there and gone to the toilet.”
Father Turk’s face was completely still, his eyes focused intently on mine.
“I had to write off some of the wine,” I went on, “but I knew I couldn’t complain and expect any money back – these kinds of deals are not refundable. But then I found some additional things in the delivery, you see. So this brings us to you. And here we are,” I finished, slightly feebly.
Father Turk paused for a while and took a drag on his cigarette. Finally, he looked at me, then Wodin. “Sounds like bullshit,” he said.
I tensed, wondering if I should make a run for it.
“Your wine shipment had illegals inside. That is why they sold it to you cheap. Your supplier would have lots of trouble from the police if they found out.” He considered us once more. “You are hiding something from me, but it is not important now.”
Corkscrew Page 31