He said something rapidly in Turkish to Tracksuit, who walked to one of the steel cabinets and unlocked the door. He removed several plastic supermarket bags with their tops tied and dumped them at our feet. He returned to the cabinet, removed several more and added them to the pile.
“Now you can use your counting machine.”
I crouched and untied one of the bags. It was full of cash, all odd notes crumpled together.
Wodin looked down at the bag and met my eyes. It was far too early to relax but things were looking a hell of a lot better than they were five minutes earlier. He lifted the counting machine from the holdall and emptied a bag of cash onto the floor.
I looked around for a plug socket. “Er, do you have a spare socket anywhere?”
Tracksuit was playing with the Beretta, cocking it then pulling the trigger, letting the bolt fly forward with a satisfying chink. He looked up and waved the gun impatiently at the opposite wall. I plugged the machine in and switched it on.
We started to feed notes into the counting machine, which whirred and rattled, spitting them out into tidy wads at the front. Every time we got to one thousand we tied a rubber band around the bundle and placed it in our holdall. Every so often, the machine gave an annoyed beep and we extracted a counterfeit note, which I placed in a separate pile. Fifteen minutes later, we were done.
The display stated ninety-eight thousand, one hundred and twenty pounds.
“I thought you said we were getting half a million,” I whispered.
“One lie deserves another,” called Father Turk from behind the desk. “One hundred thousand pounds is enough. Now your side of the bargain.”
“And the other one, and the ammo,” called Tracksuit, waving the empty Beretta.
“The stuff is in our other car. Where do you want it?”
“You will deliver it to my other cousin. Here is the address. Do not say it out loud. You must text your colleagues.” He handed Wodin a scrap of paper.
Wodin phoned Mercedes, explaining the process and told her to expect a text, which he tapped out after hanging up. Then we sat and waited. Every so often a text message would ping onto Tracksuit’s phone. Sometimes he read and ignored it, other times he said something in Turkish to the older man, who remained silent, chain smoking his way through a pack of foreign cigarettes.
My mind raced over the next hour as we paced up and down our end of the office. Mercedes was supposed to text Wodin when she arrived, and call us back when the other side were satisfied, but we heard nothing. Were they all lying dead in a ditch? And, more importantly, was the same about to happen to me? It would be quite straightforward for them to take the contraband from Mercedes and the oblivious Somalis. I started to wish Wodin had sneaked in the other Beretta and some ammunition – at least we might have been able to shoot our way out.
Then Tracksuit’s phone rang. He answered and spoke rapidly in Turkish, looking agitated and glancing at us. Father Turk turned and rose from his chair for the first time. He moved surprisingly quickly, crossing the floor like a cat and snatching the phone from his young lieutenant. He said a few words then listened for a while, all the time watching us.
Suffice to say, I was close to shitting my pants. There was clearly something wrong and I strongly suspected we were being double crossed. I felt it was time to make our escape. The younger gangster was watching his boss and was holding the unloaded Beretta in both hands, having replaced the snub-nosed revolver in his pocket. If I could cross the ten yards between us quickly enough and overpower him, maybe Wodin could deal with the older guy. Then I could take his weapon and we could shoot our way out.
Then Father Turk addressed us. “It looks like we have a problem. Your lady friend is making life difficult for everyone. You must talk to her.” He placed the phone on the desk. Wodin picked it up.
“Hello?” He listened and his eyes widened with shock. I could hear Mercedes’s voice shouting urgently but couldn’t make out the words. Wodin looked over at Father Turk, who stared straight back, unsmiling. Still listening, Wodin walked to the corner and beckoned me over. “Ok, ok, don’t worry, just hang on, I’m talking to Felix.”
My blood ran cold. God only knew what horrendous fuck up was under way.
“Felix,” he whispered urgently, “they’re trying to rip us off. Mercedes handed over the stuff, they tested it, everything was fine. Then they pulled a gun on her and Galad, telling them to sit tight and send a false message that everything is ok.”
My bowels tightened in horror. My very worst fears had come true. Doubtless they would force us to surrender the money and probably our lives into the bargain. After all, we now knew the location of their safe house. I looked at the two men standing at the table, observing us. But why were they just standing there? Why weren’t they taking the money back? Why were they letting us speak to Mercedes?
“Fuck! What’s happening there now?” I whispered.
“It appears Mercedes pulled her own gun and shot one of them.”
My mind went blank for a moment. Mercedes had her own gun? Of course – the other Beretta. And all the ammunition. “Christ on a fucking bike! Where is she now?”
“She and Galad have got them all sitting on their hands. Galad’s got the other guy’s gun. She’s telling us to get the money and get out of here.”
I thought that sounded like a fucking great idea. I turned to the two Turkish men. “Well, it’s been nice. We’ll be off, then.”
Tracksuit put the Beretta on the table, took the snub-nose out of his pocket and pointed it at me. I froze and felt my stomach cramp again in terror.
“Our friend says that if you don’t let us leave with the money, she’ll take the stuff away,” called Wodin, “and shoot your cousin in the balls.”
“She’s mad,” I added, helpfully.
Father Turk pushed his lieutenant’s gun down so it was pointing at the floor. He patted the younger man’s shoulder, said something quietly and the gun went back into his pocket. “Good doing business with you,” he drawled grimly.
I scurried over to the holdall full of cash and picked it up, leaving the counting machine on the floor – they could keep it as a memento. I walked backwards, watching the two men carefully. Wodin also backed up and we reached the door. I could hear Mercedes still shouting to Wodin over the phone. “Don’t worry, we’re leaving now, give us a minute,” he muttered.
I wrenched open the door and piled through, running straight into the young, acne-ridden hood. He exclaimed angrily and pushed back at me. The other two jumped to their feet and blocked the staircase, one of them reaching into his inside jacket pocket. It suddenly occurred to me that they were ignorant of their boss’s recent change of heart. I swung my fist wildly at the gangster’s head and knocked him straight over.
“Get out of my fucking way,” I yelled. I suddenly became aware of Sharmarke standing silently by the wall. To my delight, he launched himself forward, colliding with the other two men and sending them tumbling down the steps. Like a human steamroller he charged after them, flattening them as they tried to get to their feet.
Wodin barrelled down the stairs after Sharmarke and I followed close behind. The thin, unsmiling man guarding the exit was rising slowly from his chair, his face a picture of perfect terror as Sharmarke careered towards him. The giant Somali grasped the handle and wrenched it open, crashing the heavy door against the hapless guard and sending him flying against the wall. The three of us spilled into the night and sprinted to the Land Rover.
Amiir was leaning nonchalantly against the driver’s door. “Get in Amiir!” shouted Wodin, then into the phone, “Mercedes! We’re out! We’re out!” He fired up the engine, tossed Father Turk’s phone out of the window and U-turned the Land Rover back onto Green Lanes, heading north.
As we drove back to Little Chalfont I stared at the wing mirror, trying to see if we were being followed. We weren’t, but after we’d left the motorway we pulled onto a farm track and waited for five minutes just t
o be sure. We arrived home just after midnight and crashed, exhausted, on the lounge sofas, joined by Sharmarke, who had so magnificently aided our escape from Father Turk’s headquarters. He took up an entire sofa and was soon snoring away.
Wodin sparked up a large joint and I recounted our story to a stoned and astonished Fistule as we waited for Mercedes. I’d called her when we were clear of Harringay – she had successfully extracted herself and Galad from the drop-off point without further incident, although I was slightly disappointed she hadn’t shot Father Turk’s cousin in the balls anyway.
She arrived home a full hour after us. Such was her paranoia at being followed, she’d driven an extra junction north on the motorway before doubling back. She flopped onto the spare sofa and buried her head under a cushion, groaning. Galad joined us in the lounge too, Wodin and I moving up to make some space for him. Together with Mercedes, he had well and truly saved our arses. The other three Somalis, who had remained in the SUV during the stand-off, and Amiir were largely unaware of what had transpired and, after a few reassuring words from Galad, they headed upstairs to bed.
“That was a shit plan, guys,” Mercedes called from under the cushion.
“Nice work with the Beretta, though,” I said. “I think this calls for a bottle of something special.” I perused the wine rack and found a bottle of Gevrey Chambertin.
Mercedes emerged. “Make mine a very large one.”
I poured four glasses and looked to Galad. He gave a little smile and held up his fingers to suggest just a small measure. I poured a fifth glass. As I handed Wodin his wine I asked whether there was any chance Father Turk and his gang knew where we lived. He shook his head, but stayed pretty quiet for the rest of the night, just taking long sucks on his joint. It was his plan, of course, and he’d utterly cocked it up.
It turned out that I was the one who’d been kept in the dark. Wodin had always intended to trade the two guns along with the narcotics, if necessary, and convinced Mercedes to go along with him. It’s difficult to get hold of modern, high quality, unused firearms in England and he knew that it would help seal the deal. But, incredibly, he had not bargained on just how devious Father Turk could be.
Mercedes’s surprising familiarity with automatic weapons dated back to her convent school days. Despite being girls-only, her school had a thriving Combined Cadet Force run by a lunatic ex-Royal Marine who kept an illicit gun collection in his lodgings. He allowed a chosen few cadets who knew how to keep a secret to fire the weapons on field trips.
Mercedes had not trusted Wodin’s plan at all, and had loaded her Beretta before approaching the drop-off point. When the double-crossing cousin held her and Galad hostage, she’d bided her time until the gangster was distracted, then she drew her weapon and shot him in the leg and arm. If she hadn’t, we’d probably all be at the bottom of Stoke Newington Reservoir by now.
Despite the bumpy transaction, we were now in a significantly better financial position. We had one hundred grand in used notes and we’d got rid of all the contraband, with the exception of a thick slice of hashish for personal use.
I raised my glass. “Here’s to convent school girls and the Royal Marines.”
I drained the Gevrey Chambertin in one gulp. I have to say, it was drinking excellently.
5.5
Sustainable Living
The next day, Fistule prepared a giant pot of goulash for lunch. The Somalis queued down the stairs and into the kitchen for a generous bowl-full, along with a hunk of bread, before returning to their rooms. When everyone had been fed, the four of us shut ourselves in the lounge and tipped the bundles of cash onto the floor. I selected a well-aged Priorat from the rack and poured everyone a glass. Fistule poured a fine Islay single malt into the water pipe and heaped it with hashish.
“Right, team,” I announced. “Please submit your applications for capital expenditure.”
“Five grand for new kitchen appliances,” said Wodin. “Our washing machine is in critical condition and we need a bigger stove.”
“Approved,” the rest of us chorused. I tossed him five bundles of notes.
“I need some money to stock up with fair-trade quinoa, organic pasta, fresh vegetables from the farmer’s market…” said Fistule.
“Approved! Take a couple of grand.” I passed him two bundles.
“Cool, man.”
“A couple of grand for clothing and bedding,” said Mercedes.
“Done!” Another couple of bundles changed hands.
“Most importantly, we need to upgrade our wine library,” I declared, eyeing the seriously depleted wine rack in the corner. “I suggest we install a wine rack along the entire back wall of the lounge, floor to ceiling, and fill it with extremely fine wine.”
“Excellent idea,” agreed Wodin who, along with the others, had developed quite a discriminating palate. “How much do you need for that?”
“Twenty grand should do it. Everyone ok with that?”
“Agreed!” was the unanimous decision. I separated twenty bundles from the pile.
“We also need some aged single malt, man, for the bong.”
“Take a grand, Fistule, and get yourself down to Milroy’s of Soho.”
We agreed everyone should have five grand to spend on personal items, then we levered up a couple of floorboards under one of the sofas and hid the remaining fifty thou underneath.
“What else do we need to do?” I asked.
“I was trying to take a pee this morning, guys. It wasn’t great,” sighed Mercedes. “It’s DEFCON five in the bathroom. The toilet’s bust, the bath is an extreme biohazard. I’m amazed we haven’t attracted hyenas.”
Two days earlier Fistule had removed the toilet seat and balanced it on two planks over the bathtub. There was now a bag of compost and a spade in the corner of the bathroom. Whenever anyone took a dump, they were supposed to shovel some soil over the top.
“Mercedes is right,” I agreed. “I’m sick of shitting in the bath and spraying fly-spray around my head every 30 seconds. I’m an international wine buyer – I don’t want to live like I’m permanently at a music festival. Besides, the bath will be full in a couple of days, then what are we going to do?”
I sighed and poured another glass of the Priorat. It was showing very well.
“We could use the loo in the local library. It’s twenty pence for non-visitors so we’ll need to convert one of those bundles into small change,” suggested Wodin, unhelpfully.
“Crap idea but the best one so far,” I replied. “Seriously, though, what the hell are we going to do? We’ll have to use buckets or something. Slopping out, like in prison. We’ll have to draw up a rota. Every day, someone will have to carry a bucket of crap outside and dispose of it.”
“Where?” demanded Mercedes.
“Can we bury it?” asked Wodin.
“We should compost it, man,” said Fistule.
“We really don’t want people queuing in the kitchen to shit into your home composter, Fistule,” I protested. “It’ll put everyone off their lentil stew.”
“But they do it in Africa, man – I read about it in National Geographic. We need to dig a composting toilet. I was talking to Galad about it – his friend knows how to do it. We could excavate one outside, in the garden.”
I went upstairs and found Galad. “Come and tell us about your toilet idea.”
He followed me back into the lounge. “Yes,” he said, “it is called an Arborloo. Invented in Zimbabwe. Cawaale can help build it. He is an engineer.”
We all looked at him.
“What, you think we can actually dig a hygienic, functioning toilet?” I peered out of the window at the back garden. “Not very private, is it? And what happens when it rains?”
“You have a tent over the top,” he said. “This is a common thing in rural areas.”
“Right Fistule,” I declared, “you and Cawaale build your toilet. I hope it works, because Plan B is that everyone sneaks into the graveyard to
take a shit under cover of darkness.”
The next morning the garden was a hive of activity. Wodin took a couple of grand from the reserve fund, hired a van and drove to the garden centre with Fistule and Cawaale, returning with a huge pile of bamboo canes, fence posts and several sacks of activated bokashi sawdust. Fistule bought a child’s Wendy house in the shape of a small circus tent. It was bright pink and festooned with pictures of fairy princesses, floppy-eared elephants and happy dwarves.
“Could you not have bought something a bit less conspicuous, Fistule?” I asked.
“Hiding in plain sight is the best strategy, man. Plus it was the tallest tent we could find, we don’t want to be shuffling into the privy on hands and knees.”
An hour later I became aware of a chugging and grinding sound from the car park. I dashed down the outside steps to see Wodin at the wheel of a small JCB digger. He guided it along the footpath, round the side of the building and parked it on our little patch of garden.
“What the hell is that for?”
“We’re not digging with spades, Felix. Cawaale says we need a trench six-foot deep and twenty-feet long.”
Cawaale stood at the edge of the garden and directed Wodin as he, somewhat incompetently, began to dig the pit.
“Hello boys,” called Mrs Hodfurrough over the fence. “What are you doing?”
“Hello Mrs Hodfurrough. Sorry for the disruption. We’re just digging an allotment. We want to grow our own vegetables.”
“Why do you need a mechanical digger?”
“It’s a university project, Mrs Hodfurrough. We have to prepare the ground with a special fertiliser first. We’re going for first prize in the Rickmansworth marrow festival.” I prayed there were no electrical cables or water mains in the garden and returned to the flat.
It was Saturday and Tariq and Dan had come round to share the excitement. I suspected they’d come to drink my wine too – I had installed the wine racks and spent several thousand pounds at three very upmarket London wine merchants. I also purchased a very expensive refrigerated Eurocave cabinet so I could keep a selection of whites and lighter reds at the perfect serving temperature.
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