Lessons In Blood

by Quentin Black

  “Any ideas?” Connor asked.

  “I don’t think he or she has their origins in the UK. It would be too risky to outsource to anyone, even Tris Dixon, if you had the option to run it yourself. But if you were from another country and you had other interests, then Dixon would be ideal. He has the appearance of legitimacy but enough dirt on him that you could trust him with this. I am guessing the man at the top is an American or Australian businessman—the billionaire kind.”

  “Wait, we’re actually going to facilitate the kidnap of innocent people for their organs?” exclaimed Ciara.

  Bruce looked her in the eyes. “Ciara, we need to find this person because I have a suspicion that ours isn’t the only country they are doing this in.”

  “What happens if we can’t identify the people or person in time, and those people end up corpses?”

  “Then you’ll have to ensure that doesn’t happen. By any measure necessary,” said Bruce as he looked at Connor.

  “We’re not going to pick up people off the street Ciara,” said Connor. She looked at him quizzically, and he continued, “The people we pick up will be our people. That’s the point. The irony is that he’s asked me to do this because he trusts me. We’ll give it a few weeks of photos and fake reports. Then we’ll be delivering Project operatives to whatever hospital these sick freaks like cutting up innocent people in.”

  “Am impressed,” murmured Bruce, looking at him—a rare compliment, thought Connor.

  Ciara said, “Why couldn’t Connery’s Bond exist now? I mean as he was then?”

  “It was just a different time back then,” replied Bruce.

  “What he means, is that back then men were men. Footballers prided themselves on not going down, before ‘benefits’ was a lifestyle, when kids weren’t zombified by their phones, before health and safety and bureaucracy strangled our military and before everyone’s initial attitude to any bully of any kind was to seek protection from a higher authority instead of developing a backbone.”

  “Quite a speech,” said Ciara, “for someone who’s birthday is around the late eighties or early nineties.”

  “Well, lets ask someone who spent his teenage years in the sixties.”

  Bruce afforded him a smirk. “Cheeky wee bastard.”

  There was a quietening of the voices of the other mechanics. Even from underneath the Fiesta, Tom could tell who had walked into the garage.

  Tom came out from underneath to greet his Uncle Derek. His uncle was dressed in a suit and didn’t acknowledge the other mechanics. Tom wiped his hands on a rag and then extended his hand.

  “What’s brings you to the shire?” said Tom.

  “Alright son,” answered Derek despite Tom being his nephew, “the Jag needs a service, and then we could have a chat.”

  “Anything wrong with it?”

  “Nah, don’t want the coppers pinching me for lack of a service.”

  Tom didn’t want to point out to his uncle that a service wasn’t a legal requirement—an MOT was.

  “Joe, can you take a look at it,” said Tom nodding to the ginger mechanic. “Let’s bob into the office.”

  His uncle followed him up the stairs into the soundproof room.

  “Safe to talk?” asked his uncle as he sat down.

  “It’s swept every Wednesday,” replied Tom, meaning it was swept for electronic surveillance and audio devices.

  “How come the cost is low on the product? I was expecting a lot higher given the quality,” asked Derek, referring to Dixon’s rate for the drugs they were going to be distributing.

  “Because the producer is adamant that the product isn’t cut, and that if they are, then he’ll stop supplying them. I said we could guarantee that they won’t be.”

  “How can you guarantee that? There are always people who buy so sell on, even to friends?”

  “Because we’ll only be punting it to the ‘oh, darling, this really is the best stuff’ crowd around Leeds, Harrogate and York, and it’ll only be at exclusive parties and that.”

  “And you think you can shift the weight required doing that rather than hitting the street?”

  “Not as much sure, but the coppers won’t be as mardy if it’s kept to those sorts of places. I told Dixon that. Plus, some can be set aside for the narcs an’ that.”

  Tom was referring to the practice of leaving a large part of drug shipments in random caches before tipping off a contact in the National Crime Agency to its whereabouts. The contact’s career would benefit from the ‘seizure’. In exchange, he provided Tom with intelligence both generic and specific to NCA investigations into the Ryder family. This way Tom wasn’t ‘grassing’ but still staying a step ahead. Back in the nineties, Liverpool gangster John Haase had used a technique to obtain a Royal pardon and get released from an eighteen-year prison sentence just eleven months in. Tom remembered what his contact had told him the last time they spoke, ‘stay away from guns if you can. Nothing pisses us off more than little kids waving guns around. If innocent people get shot with weapons you’ve provided, then I can’t help you.’

  “How is my illustrious nephew?” asked Derek.

  Where was this going? thought Tom. “He’s fine, in good spirits considering.”

  “Considering what?” asked his uncle.

  “Considering we involved ourselves in his thing yeah, without asking before.”

  “That how thee see it?”

  Tom shrugged but didn’t say anything.

  “What’s he fretting about? Can’t bide to be helped by his own family?”

  “I don’t know me’sen, but he’s alright now.”

  “If it wasn’t for us,” Derek said as if he hadn’t heard Tom, “he’d be dead by now.”

  Tom regarded him for a moment or two,

  “What’s bothering you?”

  Derek looked at him, “I don’t know. Ah want him closer to us, you know. Sometimes, I wonder if he blames us all for his dad’s death.”

  “I don’t know. I think he wants his own thing. He’s coming up Saturday for the boxing anyway.”

  “Ahh, the boxing. Azera Nightclub isn’t it? How much tha looking to pull in?”

  This was something that pissed Tom off about his uncle—his questions about his finances.

  “Why? You worried about not getting your cut.”

  “Just making conversation.”

  “It’ll make money. There’s twenty-five bouts on, fifty sets of supporters. Tables of twelve are going for nearly a grand. But there’s the ref, judges, doctor, paramedics, ring card girls—boxers take their money from the tickets they sell themselves—and other bits and bats. It should be a good night though. You, Connor, my dad, Luke, Dan, Curtis and Charlie will be at a table at the front.”

  Tom didn’t tell him that he had shifted well over one and a half thousand tickets himself at £30 per ticket. The fighters sold over two thousand as a collective for the same price, kicking up £10 per ticket to Tom.

  “Good, look forward to it.”

  Something was perturbing Tom. Derek was all about the acquisition of money. It formed the majority of their conversations. Tom expected that his uncle would insist on cutting the product for higher profit. Either he was respectful of Van Der Saar and Dixon, or he had another large stream of revenue on the side.

  33

  The distorted sound of over three thousand people and background pop music filled the cavernous Leeds Dalmers nightclub. The boxing ring was in the centre bathed in lights, framed by the VIP tables all covered with red velvet sheetings, with a bucket of champagne on top.

  As she entered the nightclub, Ciara put on the act of being oblivious to the attention—both male and female—she was attracting. She wore a white crop top exposing the lines of definition on her stomach, blue jeans and tan, strappy, block heels taking her height to five-feet-ten-inches.

  Connor held her hand as he guided her through the throng of the crowd. He wore an olive green ribbed jumper, white collar underneath, dark tr
ousers and the brogue style lace-ups took his height just over an inch above hers.

  It was early in the evening, and the boxing had yet to commence. Ciara expected it would get rowdier as the night went on. They came to the barrier for the VIP area, and the security stamped the inside of their arms in exchange for tickets.

  They made their way towards the ring, and Ciara saw a hand shoot up from one of the tables. She recognised it as belonging to Connor’s cousin Tom. He sat at a table with several other men and women. They all snapped their attention to their direction, but their focus was on Connor, not her.

  The men on the table stood as Connor and Tom embraced. The man behind looked in his early twenties, and his smile spread across his face,

  “Cousin, how’s it diddling mate? Haven’t seen you in like forever?” he said as he hugged Connor.

  “‘Eeyup Luke, been busy haven’t I. You OK? Congratulations on your win the other night.”

  She knew he was referring to a bare-knuckle match his cousin had won a few nights previous. His almost feminine, face still bore a few marks from the encounter.

  “Yeah mate, sweet. Cheers Connor, it’s really good to see you in the manor.”

  The others embraced him similarly. Then a bald, thickset, smartly dressed man stood and the others almost subconsciously parted.

  “Nephew, how are ya cock?” spreading his arms wide. Connor and the man embraced.

  “Uncle Derek, can’t complain.”

  “Come on, I’ve got the champagne coming.”

  “I am not drinking tonight. Driving.”

  “What? We have drivers who can take you anywhere you want to go.”

  “Not tonight.”

  The two men stared at one another for a moment, and Ciara thought she could feel an undercurrent of tension.

  “Never mind then, can’t blame ya, to be honest. Thinking of knocking it on the head meself,” said Derek, and he extended his hand to Ciara. “And who’s this gorgeous lass?”

  “I am Ciara. Lovely to finally meet you,” she said taking his hand.

  “Are you on this no drinking rule?”

  “When there’s champagne coming? Certainly not.”

  “Tha’s the spirit,” Derek smiled.

  Ciara was aware that the other girls might feel uncomfortable. None of the men had attempted to introduce them to her. Connor had told her that the men in his family had a subconscious, mildly sexist attitude when it came to women in public—‘they are gentlemanly towards them, but they don’t see them as equals. Behind closed doors, the women are listened to though.’

  Ciara reached her hand out to the attractive, forty-odd-year-old brunette. “Hi, love what you have done with your hair. I am Ciara.”

  “Bless you duck,” smiled the woman. “These men eh, I am sure they would hav’ gotten ‘round to making the introductions eventually. Am Jenny.”

  “I was just about to, Aunt Jenny,” Connor said.

  “Come over here ya scamp,” she said as she gave him a hug, and he looked over at Ciara. “He always was a fool for the blondes this one.”

  “Yeah,” said Luke, another one of Connor’s cousins, “Dolph Lundgren, Owen Wilson, Macaulay Culkin, he had posters of them all.”

  Everyone laughed including Connor. He introduced Ciara to the rest of his cousins and their girlfriends.

  Luke seemed the slightest of all the men at the table, and had a cheeky grin, on a face worthy of a boyband—albeit without the minor grazes. Ciara could tell instantly that he thought a lot of Connor.

  “Please tell me you have something?” said Bruce into the computer screen. He was in his London flat.

  “I am afraid not, but I am getting closer. There’s been an interesting development,” answered Jamie. “Eleven days ago, two million, eight hundred thousand pounds was taken out of Dixon’s Swiss account and simultaneously dispersed between twenty-seven obscure accounts in different countries. Then the funds were further dispersed to multiple accounts from each of those accounts. Follow me?”

  “And I am guessing that pattern went on and on.”

  “Yes. I still have to work through the multiple loopholes. Anyway, this happened at 23.59 on that night. This is where it gets interesting. The money—the exact amount—returned to Dixon’s account at 09.46 the next morning.”

  Bruce turned his palms over. “Some money laundering procedure?”

  “I don’t think so. If that was the aim, then the money coming back from a single or a few accounts would make more sense. Except this time, the money was returned simultaneously from thirty-two equally obscure accounts. There was a phone call made to the bank from Dixon’s phone. Almost immediately after was a call made to it from a number I haven’t been able to trace. Thirty seconds after the end of the call, the money was back into Dixon’s account.”

  Bruce understood immediately. “He tried to pull out, and his boss took the money to make a point. That he was to continue.”

  “I thought maybe the same thing,” said Jamie.

  “Think you can trace these accounts?”

  “I am not sure. The level of encryption has few equals, the phone call also.”

  “I thought you were the best?”

  “Attacks on my ego won’t make me work any better…maybe.”

  Bruce decided to change tact. “Be careful Jamie, whoever it is, is very powerful.”

  “I am the best, remember.”

  Connor briefly imagined another life as he sat watching the bouts unfold. A life where he lived in Leeds while in the family business with Ciara as his girlfriend. He had introduced her to all five of his cousins, and two of his four uncles. His Uncle Michael and Lee were absent as they were doing prison stretches.

  Ciara had charmed everyone, including the girls which had been no mean feat. His twin cousins, Curtis and Charlie both seemed enraptured by her.

  His Uncle Ryan, smartly dressed and cherub-faced even at forty years old gave Connor a wink and thumbs up, indicating that he approved of Ciara.

  She had turned to him earlier in the evening and asked, “I’ve heard twice now, your uncles calling other men ‘Love’ when they’ve come up to the table to greet them?”

  “It’s a just a Leeds term of endearment.”

  She had nodded and focused on the action.

  The bouts were three rounds of two minutes each except for the final two which were to be four rounds. The participants boxed in fourteen-ounce gloves as opposed to the ten-ounce gloves worn in professional contests.

  He and Ciara had a friendly bet on the outcome of the current match between an athletic man in what looked to be his twenties, and one who appeared around fifty-years-old. She had bet on the younger man who was now taking a hammering.

  “How did you know?”

  “Because of their demeanours,” he replied. “And the way they were shadow boxing before the start, the older one was moving his head, the younger one wasn’t—like he isn’t now.”

  The younger man caught yet another fusillade of punches to the face.

  “That’s why that Judo girl got beat in the UFC wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah, one of the reasons, that and—oohh, he’s going to stop him,” said Connor as the older man pinned his victim in the corner and crashed punches through and around his opponent’s porous guard. “Look how he’s keeping a pace back so the other lad can’t clinch him—there see,” said Connor as the referee waved the fight off.

  The crowd clapped and cheered uproariously. Connor noticed the look on Tom’s face as he cut through the crowd towards the table. “Fucksake mate, one of the lads says he’s broken down on the motorway up. He was meant to be the co-main event.”

  “He bottle it?” asked Connor.

  “Don’t think so, he sent me a Snapchat of the breakdown service bloke hunched over his car. Fucking nightmare.”

  Connor thought for a moment, “What weight was it?”

  “Eighty-one kay.”

  “Four two’s with fourteen-ounce gloves?” />
  “Yeah mate, lots looking forward to it to this one too.”

  “I have my gumshield in my training kit in the car. I’ll stand in for him.”

  “Eh?”

  “I’ll box the bloke. You’ll still get your co-main event.”

  “Mate, this lad’s good mate. He’s been training for months and is ripped to fuck like.”

  “Tom…it’s four twos with fourteen ounces, I can survive that with anyone other than Tyson, and I am sober. Now do you want your fight or not?”

  34

  Michael Crowder sat, feverishly tapping away at the laptop in his Sydney apartment. Crowder, a rotund man in his early forties with a full head of thick black hair, was a respected journalist for The Australian.

  He had returned from the Philippines three weeks ago covering ‘the black markets of human organs’ there. The sale of organs used to be legal in the South-East Asian archipelago. Then in March 2008, the government banned it driving the trade underground. That would have been a story itself, but Crowder had been following a lead of something more sinister. That street urchins were being lifted off the streets and killed for their organs.

  Crowder had met with a Professor Lee Vargas who had told him of two potential victims escaping kidnap and reporting the matter to the police. The allegations fell on deaf ears. This caused a chill to go through Crowder, as he had remembered a similar story of an Ann Walker from back home.

  She had been living rough in Mawson, a suburb of Canberra. She had claimed to have been picked up by local charity workers who took her to a hospital. She had overheard a conversation between one of the workers and hospital staff regarding the removal of her organs and whether or not she’d be missed. Walker said she had escaped through a window when permitted to use the lavatory. She had reported the incident to the police, and then to a journalist for The Canberra Times. Six days later, Ann Walker had been found dead of a drugs overdose in her addict boyfriend’s apartment.