Queen of Green (Queen of Green Trilogy Book 1)

by V E Rooney

  “Fucking hell. Are you always so bloody cool about everything?”

  “Can’t afford not to be cool, mate. It’s the only way to get things done.”

  “I’m glad you’re so sure of yourself.”

  “I have to be. Who else is gonna look after number one?”

  “I’m hurt by that, girl,” he says in mock indignation. “Haven’t I always looked out for you?”

  “Oh alright, fairy Godfather,” I snort. “So how did this come about?”

  Sean sits forward, wiping a smear of tomato sauce off his gob. “Your lad Simon and our factory fella in Holland have put me in touch with one of their mates in Holland. And this mate is tuned into some of the South American lads in a big way. And one of these South American lads wants a meet and greet with us.”

  “Really? What, just out of the blue like that?”

  “Oh, I’ve put some feelers out on the quiet,” Sean says. “Turns out this South American fella has been putting out some feelers towards me as well. Apparently, he’s highly impressed with our pill-shifting. Wants to know if I’m interested in diversifying, if you get my gist.”

  “Mmmm,” I say, trying to be as non-committal as I can be. “And how do we know he’s legit?”

  “Oh, he’s fucking legit, alright. He’s the sales rep in Europe for the Mendez cartel.”

  At the mention of this, I sit bolt upright, twitching like a rabbit.

  “The Mendez cartel? Are you fucking serious?” I say, eyes wide, jaw slowly dropping. Sean nods at me and winks.

  Now, there are loads of cartels all across South America, cartels within each country all battling for control and dominance. The Mendez lot may not be in the same league as the likes of the Cali cartel and the Medellin cartel in Colombia, but by all accounts, it won’t be long before they are. What sets them apart is that they have links into the shipping industry in Venezuela. They have a long-established coke-shifting operation and they want into the European market. My mind begins jumping about at the thought of Sean and the Mendez cartel joining forces. There’s big-time smuggling and then there’s fucking humungous stratospheric big-time smuggling. We’re not talking a few kilos here and there in the back of a Transit van. We’re talking about hundreds of kilos on container ships coming across the Atlantic.

  I try not to get carried away by my train of thought. At this stage, it’s very much hypothetical.

  “Why do you need me in Amsterdam?” I say. “You’re the main man.”

  He doesn’t answer me, doesn’t even look at me. He carries on chewing another mouthful of pizza.

  I peer at him and narrow my eyes. For a moment, he looks embarrassed.

  “Oh alright,” he says. “Look. I’m not using you as some dolly bird, alright? But…” he tails off, as if he’s struggling to phrase what he’s about to say.

  “But what?” I say, suddenly defensive. “Give the lad a blow job or a tit wank to sweeten the deal? You can get fucked if you think…”

  “Oh, as if, girl. For fuck’s sake,” he says, exasperated. “Like I’d ask you to do something like that! Behave, will you? I want you there to explain how we intend to bring the stuff over. And…”

  “And what?” I say, glaring at him.

  “Look…do you know how rare it is for birds to be in this game?”

  “Of course I fucking do. How many times have I had to put up with smart-arsed comments from our lot?”

  “The point is, the Mendez lot aren’t gonna do business with just any fucker with a few wads to throw around. They’re not gonna do business with some knucklehead who can’t string two words together, someone whose gonna get violent at the first sign of trouble. They wanna do business with quiet people. Reliable people. People like us,” he says, nodding at me. “People who have a proven track record of bringing stuff in on the quiet and selling it on at the highest price. They already know who we are and what we’re capable of. And don’t be getting all swell-headed, but some of that’s down to you, isn’t it? As much as it fucking pains me to admit it, girl, but it’s the truth. If it wasn’t for you, we wouldn’t be in the position we are now. And the Mendez fella wants to meet the people who will do the business for him over here. And that means you and me,” he says, swigging from his beer bottle. “You’ve got to remember something, girl. Those South Americans, they can be a bit old-fashioned, like. They respect women, think that they’re more trustworthy, you know. If it was me wanting to shift a few tonnes of Charlie in a new market? I’d rather be doing business with the girl who knows how to stay off the radar over the big-bollocks fella shouting his mouth off.”

  I look at Sean for a few moments. I know he’s being truthful but there’s still a smattering of flattery and bullshit on top of it. I’m not just there for window-dressing, but to put a few pretty bows on top of the deal. Still, I’m intrigued enough to say yes, I will go to Amsterdam with Sean to meet this South American fella. And Sean and I both know that he isn’t asking me. It’s an order.

  The next day, I turn up at Sean’s pad again, bearing a one-year British Visitor passport and a full 10-year UK passport as instructed, along with an overnight bag.

  Those one-year passports were bloody brilliant. You just picked up a form from the Post Office and a few days later you had a bit of paper entitling you to go anywhere in the European Union for up to a month. Shame they’re not around any more, they certainly made my work a lot easier.

  Say you set up a deal with a cartel salesman in Amsterdam, with a follow-up appointment in Venezuela. To keep the busies and the cuzzies off your scent, you’d use the one-year passport to go to Amsterdam, do the business there and then you’d make your way down to Spain, bypassing any border crossings or passport checks where possible. Once in Spain you’d use the full UK passport to go onwards to Venezuela. Then when you come back, you retrace your steps back to Amsterdam and return to the UK from there. That way, the UK law can only say with any certainty that you were definitely in Amsterdam, and they wouldn’t even think to check with the Spanish passport people. Throw in a few variations and diversions here and there and you have a picture of how easy it was for us to slip abroad unnoticed for so long.

  That evening, we fly out from Speke Airport, having paid cash for the tickets and using our one-year passports.

  A couple of hours later, Sean and I are on the train from Schiphol Airport heading into central Amsterdam. It’s early evening and drizzle greets us as we step out of Centraal Station. I get my first glimpse of the weed capital of Europe, along with the first whiffs of it thanks to the throng of blank-eyed monged-out tourists around the entrance to the station. Thanks to anecdotes from John, Ste, Paul, Lee and the rest, I feel like I already know the place off by heart. Sean and I make our way down to the Damrak with its multitude of neon signs, cheap hotels, souvenir shops, cafés and bars, dodging bikes, trams and cars every few feet.

  We’re going to the Kaminsky Hotel at the bottom of Warmoesstraat where Sean has booked us two single rooms for the night. I gawp at the mesmerising array of coffee shops, sex shops, bars and take-away outlets which line Amsterdam’s weed thoroughfare, understanding immediately and instinctively why this place attracts millions of people each year.

  People of all ages and ethnicities are gathered here. There are the expected groups of students from all over the world, including the awe-struck American college newbies, who are standing in the middle of the road and looking around the place like they’ve just stepped into Willy Wonka’s weed and sex factory, oblivious to the bikes and cars that are about to crash into them. I can hear them as I walk past.

  Woah…dude…woah…no fucking way, dude…awesome…

  Suddenly the Willy Wonka theme tune pops into my head.

  Come with me and you’ll see…

  A world of drugs and prostitution…

  Mushrooms, joints, spacey cakes…

  Fornication…

  And of course there are the ubiquitous stag and hen parties from the UK, making their national
ity known by their raucous shouts and cheers. A couple of Cockneys are egging each other on to venture inside one of the sex shops.

  Oi oi! Get in there, my son!

  Shut it, you slag!

  There are the hardcore stoners on a busman’s holiday, the saddos coming out of the sex shops holding bundles of magazines and videos closely to their sides, the wealthy-looking pensioner couples, the well-dressed businessmen…it really is a melting pot of humanity here. Sean and I have to step off the narrow pavement into the cobblestoned road from time to time, to avoid colliding with a few monged-out people stumbling out of the bars and coffee shops, their legs behaving like they’re made of rubber.

  As we pass the Baba coffee shop, I glance through the steamed-up plate glass windows to see an eclectic grouping of young and old sat under a cloud of smoke, some rolling their own joints, some sampling the space cakes, some who have clearly overdone it and are sinking into the couches, their heads lolling about, eyes glazed and mouths hung open. I can picture John sat in here, chatting shit with the other stoners, making new friends from distant corners of the planet as they pass joints around.

  Further we go down Warmoesstraat, past the gay sex shops with the rather frightening-looking dildos proudly stood in the window – Rocket to the Moon, available now - the leather bars and clubs. It’s like a moving Tom of Finland picture here, with the muscled boys in their leather trousers and vests, all giving Sean the eye as we move forward. Sean is keeping his head down, almost blushing with the attention he’s getting. I try not to laugh as he suddenly puts his arm around my shoulders in attempt to silently fend off the gayness. A couple of the muscle queens are wise to that and laugh at us as I shrug off Sean’s arm.

  After checking into the hotel, we head to our respective rooms and change into our evening wear – Sean in one of his smart suits, me in a fitted and quietly glamorous evening dress and jacket – before meeting up in the hotel lobby. Sean is fixing his tie as I approach him.

  “Don’t you scrub up nicely for a scally,” I say as I appraise his attire.

  “Not looking so cheap and nasty yourself, girl,” he says, smirking at me. “You almost look feminine.”

  “Cheeky bastard.”

  We step outside the lobby and into a waiting taxi for the short journey to Spuistraat. Our rendezvous with the South American fella is at a discreet apartment located above an Indonesian restaurant.

  As we step out of the taxi, I feel the first twinge of nerves. And then it hits me. Properly. In a split second, I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience, looking at myself from above.

  What the fuck am I doing? I am barely 20 years old, the same age group as most of the people who come to Amsterdam to get monged off their faces. I am with one of the most feared and respected gangsters in the north of England, and we are here to meet the gatekeeper for one of the most notorious drug cartels in South America. I could ask myself how I got here, but that would be futile. I already know. There’s no point trying to convince myself that I am just a helpless little lamb caught up in something beyond my control. Time to put my big girl pants on.

  I swallow the fear, take a deep breath and take my place behind Sean as he presses a buzzer on the intercom panel by the door to the apartment. Above, I can see a small camera above the archway of the door pointing at us. We stand there for a few seconds, not looking at each other, not giving away any sign of trepidation to our watching hosts or to each other.

  The door clicks and then is opened inward by a tall, olive-skinned, well-built man wearing a black suit, black tie and white shirt. Probably the best-dressed bouncer I have ever seen. He scans us for a moment and then steps aside, beckoning at us to come in. After closing the door, another man steps forward and says to Sean, “Please raise your arms.” The man then gives Sean a full pat-down. Sean complies without a word. The man who opened the door looks at me.

  “I’m sorry, Miss, but…”

  I smile and raise my arms, standing motionless as he pats me down. When he’s finished, he gives me a brief nod and then turns to Sean.

  “Follow me, please.”

  He leads us up a narrow spiral staircase, only wide enough for one person to move up or down. The other bouncer is bringing up my rear. At the top of the staircase, there is a wood-panelled corridor, two doors on either side. The lead bouncer approaches the furthest door on the right hand side and knocks twice on the door. I hear a muffled command of some sort from the other side of the door. The bouncer then opens the door into what is a very plush and expensive-looking drawing room, kitted out with leather Chesterfield-style sofas, ornate wooden tables and old-fashioned portrait paintings hanging on the walls.

  We are ushered into the room by the bouncers, who close the door and take up sentry positions on either side of the door. As I step forward, there is another man approaching us from behind the desk in the corner. He is about 6ft, with the same olive-skin complexion, wearing a dark grey suit, with neatly-cropped salt and pepper hair slicked back. Looks to be in his mid-forties. Whoever he is, he certainly gives the impression of being expensive.

  He extends his hand to greet Sean.

  “Mr Kerrigan. Roberto Nunes.” He has a soft Spanish-sounding accent.

  “Mr Nunes, pleased to meet you,” Sean says cordially. “This is my associate, Alison Reynolds.”

  Nunes looks at me, smiling. I reach out my hand to shake his but instead he takes mine and gives it a kiss, like some 18th-century fop in a period film. I’m momentarily stunned by this gesture and can feel myself blushing.

  “Miss Reynolds. I am delighted to make your acquaintance,” he says, beaming at me. This guy looks like a rich South American businessman but it’s clear he’s fluent in English and fluent in good old-fashioned English manners. “Please,” he says, gesturing to the sofas in the centre of the room, “take a seat.”

  Sean and I take our positions next to each other on the sofa.

  Nunes remains standing. “May I offer both of you something to drink?” He’s looking at me.

  “Just water, please. Thank you.” I’m more nervous than I thought. I think about sitting back in the sofa but what with it being leather, I’m scared that I will inadvertently make a fart noise as I shift my buttocks. I don’t move. I feel fucking ridiculous right now.

  “I’d like a Scotch and soda, please. No ice,” Sean says confidently. Nunes nods and then says something in Spanish to one of the bouncers, who heads to a cabinet behind us to fix the drinks. Nunes sits down opposite us.

  “You had a good journey from Liverpool, I hope?”

  “Yes, no problems at all,” Sean replies. “It’s only an hour’s flight to Amsterdam.”

  “Ah. You are lucky in England. You have England and you are so close to the continent. All of the wonderfully different countries and cities just a couple of hours away from you,” Nunes says, still smiling. I wonder how his face muscles don’t hurt.

  “Yes. It’s a big advantage, having such proximity to the mainland,” Sean says, smiling back. Ooh, get him with his fancy words like proximity. He doesn’t speak like that to me or the lads.

  Nunes laughs. “Of course. Which,” he says as the bouncer passes around our drinks, “is the reason why we are here tonight. Cheers,” he says, raising his glass in an impromptu toast, which Sean and I oblige him with.

  There is silence as we sip our drinks. My hand is shaking slightly as I raise the glass to my lips. I take the briefest of sips before setting the drink down on the table in front of me, scared that I will drop it and make an even bigger tit out of myself.

  “As you may be aware, my associates have for some time had, shall we say, difficulties in distribution of our product in Europe,” Nunes says, sipping slowly from his tumbler of brandy.

  “Of course,” Sean says.

  “We have had some success in some places, due to partnerships here and there. But some of these partnerships have not been as fruitful as we had originally hoped. There have been unforeseen obstacles. Pro
blems which were not anticipated and planned for as they should have been,” Nunes says quietly. Sean nods along but says nothing.

  “For a period of time, my associates dealt exclusively with an organisation in London. An organisation, which came with its own reputation,” Nunes continues. “Unfortunately, that organisation, and certain of its members, proved to be unreliable, undisciplined. Unprepared and, how you say, sloppy in their methods. And that lack of discipline and organisation brought us unwanted attention from other quarters. As a result, that particular partnership is at an end and we are now searching for new partners who can deliver what we are asking for.”

  At this point, I don’t know whether Nunes is selling himself to us, or whether we are selling ourselves to him. Sean is handling this particular negotiation with my only input to be given on request. I say nothing. I just watch and listen.

  Sean takes a sip of his drink and places his Scotch on the table alongside mine. Sean is drawing himself up to say something when Nunes raises his hand to stop him.

  “Forgive me, Mr Kerrigan,” Nunes says. “I must ask you, Miss Reynolds,” Nunes goes on, turning to me, still smiling. “May I ask how old you are?”

  “Erm…I’m 20,” I say. Sean looks at me and back to Nunes.

  The smile on Nunes’ face widens. “My goodness. 20 years old? Extraordinary. Forgive my surprise. It is just very unusual for someone of your age to be involved in a business like this. Even more unusual for a woman.”

  Nunes may be the politest person I’ve ever met, but he’s still coming out with the tired old sexist trope that I’ve heard several variations of over the last few years.

  “Unusual, yes,” I say resolutely. I can sense Sean stiffening slightly beside me. “You could say I grew up in the family business. Despite my age, I’ve been doing this for a long time.” Point made, I sit back. No fart noise, thank fuck.

  Nunes’ eyebrows twitch upwards. He’s nodding at me ever so slowly. He looks at Sean and then back at me. “But you two are not family in the traditional sense of the word?”