Mustafa had argued in favor of a retreat from illegal activities multiple times, expanding on their investment interests, but Zakariya recognized that none of their good fortunes would have been even remotely possible without the initial seed money provided by their criminal affairs. He had always wondered why his brother was so keen on forsaking all involvement in unlawful activities when he was clearly relishing the action. Just one of Mustafa’s many mysteries, he had reasoned, I guess I will never be able to pierce and peer into his thick skull.
CHAPTER 9
The two men sitting on a bench facing the Serpentine Lake in Hyde Park had diametrically opposed takes on the late autumn heat waves currently hitting the South of England.
For his part, Kemal Aydin could be found basking in the sun as soon as the pervasive British clouds dissipated. Dark skin fellows migrating to the UK had a tendency to suffer from Vitamin D deficiency and experience annoying symptoms ranging from intense fatigue to aching bones.
The Aydin patriarch had been living on the British island for over forty years, but he still felt the effects of a weaker sun exposure than back home, unless he made a conscious effort to get out there and brown his skin. His call to meet in London’s largest public royal park, however, was not predicated on a desire to mix business with pleasure. He simply did not trust the man he was about to meet.
The London crime syndicate scene was not an affair of fellow countrymen with similar ways to do business, like in most other countries with influential mafias. Outlaws affiliated to one of the many crime rings in London bore little similarities with the Yakuzas, who were identifiable by their black suits and missing little fingers, and permeating all layers of the Japanese and South Korean societies. They weren't like the Los Angeles-based M-18 gang members, who recruited elementary and middle school children, either. They weren't like the widespread Russian mobsters, well-known for their elaborate and hierarchical tattoos, and active in organs trafficking and contract killings. They weren't like the Costa Nostra, the Albanian mob or the Mexican drug cartels either. No, the London-based opioid traffickers were a jumble of desperados with various criminal profiles, secret practices, and untold codes of honor. There were no rules to play by in London's underworld and this bestowed upon the city's organized crime an insidious unpredictability.
Kemal Aydin knew an outdoor encounter at the height of the summer, as the openness of the park's vast expanse magnified the sun’s smoldering heat, would play to his advantage. He glanced over his shoulder. Families strolled along the dirt path in an organized chaos, while lovers flirted on the dry grass behind them. Neither the man next to him nor the uninvited bodyguard chewing on a toothpick twenty yards away would attempt any funny business here. Besides, his own bodyguard had a perfect vantage point from the inclined hills opposite the Serpentine Lake and would come to his rescue should his interlocutor show dodgy intentions. Despite all his precautions, he had to remind himself that this meeting was about business, and nothing else.
“My men took care of the lieutenant yesterday night,” Kemal Aydin said, tilting his head slightly toward the old white man seated next to him, “A clear statement of intent they won’t left unpunished.”
"Good, that's what I want to hear...Did you make sure it was obvious enough you guys were behind it?" The man spoke with a marked British accent and was sweating profusely. The mercury had soared to thirty-four degrees Celsius, and his blanched skin was starting to show an uneven scarlet hue. He pinched a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his increasingly smothering face and still-ashen neck. His baby blue shirt and white linen shirt were an appropriate testament to his toned-down English elegance. Only his face was exposed.
“They will have figured it out,” Kemal said. “And as an extra precaution, we’ve been feeding them fabricated evidence. There can’t be any doubt in their mind that my clan murdered their youngest lieutenant.”
“Good, good.” The other man said, his double chin purring as he gasped for air. He measured his words carefully, as this very discussion promised to sway his clan’s fortunes for years to come. Yet, as he struggled under the scorching sun, all he could think of was his pesky mental limitations. He was pissed at himself for forgetting his hat. He was not a man meant to live in hot temperatures. “Now we wait,” he said.
“Yes, we wait. But we must provide for contingencies. We need the full backing of the other clans if we are to successfully take them on and put them back where they belong.”
“And where would that be? In the gutter?” The man’s discomfort was palpable even to the kids strolling on the path ahead of them.
"Don't be a fool, Adam. Your business and reputation have suffered as much as ours. The French have a couple of hot heads at the top of their organization, but Zakariya is certainly not one of them. There's a real chance they won't take the bait, and in that eventuality, we'll be forced to act on our own, you and me."
As he patted his forehead once more, Adam Wilkinson pondered what Kemal Aydin had just said. The salt in his sudor was tinkling the corners of his eyes.
“What I am asking is, do we have the full support of the Wilkinson family?” The intensity in Kemal’s deep voice was making his Turkish accent come out. This wasn’t a bad thing; his powerful vocal cords and outlandish accent had served him well – as a foreboding deterrent – in his past dealings with local gangsters.
Kemal Aydin cut an imposing figure, that of a stout, hairy testosterone-fulled brown man built like a tank and dressed in jaunty clothes. Much to his clansmen amusement, his outer appearance couldn't be more foreign to his conservative, guarded nature. The Aydin patriarch always erred on the side of caution, if given a choice, avoiding conflict and seeking to convince through dialogue rather than fists.
Now in the middle of Hyde Park, he sat sideways on one of the benches at the edge of the Serpentine Lake, intermittently glimpsing at his bodyguard for self-reassurance. He panicked for a split second when a bunch of young Free Hugs campaigners reached their corner, blocking the views, and he lost track of his guardian angel. The promiscuous teenagers quickly dispersed in the face of the crowd's lack of enthusiasm for an impromptu cuddle, and the bodyguard was in sight again.
Across the bench, the Wilkinson sire looked completely out of place. Adam Wilkinson was suffocating under the searing heat, his balding head adding to the surface area under assault from the sun. He squirmed to try and unstick his drenched shirt from his prominent ale-grown belly.
He was too much of a proud cocksure to admit that the sudden rise of the Mantes-la-jolie boys had left him and his clan in disarray. Both he and Kemal Aydin silently regretted not to have put up a united front years ago, before the Mansouri brothers had experienced their meteoric ascent. But neither of them saw any benefit to dwelling on the past. Now was the time to work toward a common objective and restore their families' former greatness.
"I've already spoken to my sons about the future of the Wilkinson business. It has been decided. We are standing behind you and will remain fully committed to this alliance until the Mansouris are wiped out entirely." The crimson shade of his face conveyed the impression that he had lost his temper, but he was calm and composed inside. "Let them make the mistake of starting a full-scale war. And if they're smarter than that, we'll eliminate them one by one."
“They will increase security around their business interests,” Kemal Aydin replied. “And neither the Aydins nor the Wilkinson have deep enough pockets to rival them purely on manpower. But together, we are mightier than them.” His eyes were drawn toward a pedal boat struggling to move forward just a few yards away. He contemplated the options at their disposal. Things hardly looked promising, but there sat the heads of two of the strongest underworld clans in the country, after all. He knew that guerilla warfare tactics would yield no result again the resilient youth that was causing them so much trouble. They would have to take a leap of faith, be audacious.
Wilkinson seemed to have reached the same conclusion. “K
emal, look, we’re old men. They’re probably laughing at our inability to turn the situation around meaningfully. But one thing is for sure. We’re not men of the past.” His face was relaxed, his unruly perspiration now under the tight control of his pocket square, and his piercing grey eyes staring right into Kemal’s.
“Let us meet again in two weeks,” Kemal frowned as if to show his resolve. “If I’m right, the French bastards won’t have taken the bait....and we’ll be left with no choice.”
They stood up and shook hands. Kemal Aydin spun around, glanced at the woods across the park, and signaled with a nod that they were finished. His bodyguard pushed the tree he was leaning on to give himself some momentum and walked toward them nonchalantly. Adam Wilkinson smirked at the uncalled-for cautiousness, and then, he discreetly scrubbed his sweaty palm against his pants.
CHAPTER 10
"Darling, you are smoking! I looove your outfit." Lola Chambers looked emotional, her green eyes gleaming at the stunning creature posing sensually across the bedroom. She was herself what most normally-constituted men would call a hot piece of ass. At almost six feet, she cut a svelte, model-like figure laboriously carved through a daily regimen of power squats and crunches. She worked out hard in the gym to claim the alluring curves that God deprived her of.
The girl facing her was endowed with precisely such generous curves, and her Mediterranean heritage was obvious. Lola envied her for that and despaired at the realization that she would never match her enticing waistline and bottom. Thankfully, she was more than content with her own enchanting face, especially her cute turned-up nose that inevitably brought a smile to men's faces.
“Those tight evening dresses definitely don’t agree with my big backside. I’m suffocating, I feel like a wrapped chick,” Chloe said, breathing heavily.
Lola felt a spark of jealousy trickled down her neck. "I would kill innocent kittens to have your shaggable behind, darling." She got one step closer and, hands on her hips and her head cocked to one side, she squinted at the object of her envy. "Honestly, that ass looks like you need a license to operate it. Those creepy top exec' will start panting the moment they see those marshmallow cheeks. I call dips if we have to use a defibrillator on one of them."
Chloe Orsini giggled loudly, although she did not need to be reminded why she and Lola Chambers were so close. The Essex lass was shamelessly politically incorrect, and she found it hilarious. She had found in Lola her first genuine friend after she had moved to England abruptly, at a time when she barely understood English. A friendship built on a love for European fashion and sweet mushy cupcakes. They would attend the latest theatre plays on Leicester Square together, wander to temporary exhibitions at the Tate Modern and have Sunday brunch in Covent Garden's cafés. Lola would occasionally drag her to one of Mayfair's pretentious clubs. They would spend hours doing outrageously girly things at Chloe's Notting Hill penthouse.
Tonight was a meant to be a combination of their favorite pastimes. Lola grabbed one of the many gorgeous dresses laid down on the king-size bed. “Can I wear that one tonight? Please, pretty please?” She begged, knowing that the golden designer gown she was pointing at was Chloe’s most precious clothing item – a glorious find at a thrift store in hipster den Brick Lane. “You wouldn’t deny me this little treat, would you, bestie?”
Chloe replied, “Oh, now I get it...the earlier flattery…that was just a ploy to gain my favor. You hate my floppy ass, don’t you?”
Lola raised her eyebrows in surprise, her mouth wide open, and then pouting at her friend.
"Babe, of course, you can wear it," Chloe said, as she pulled her friend in a warm embrace. "It will look better on you than me anyway."
“Will you help me with my make-up as well?” Lola asked innocently.
“Happy to. I can’t make you too good-looking though, it wouldn’t be fair to your boyfriend.” she flashed a naughty grin.
Lola frowned, possibly for the first time in her life judging by the complete absence of fine lines and wrinkles on her face. She said, “But then, how am I supposed to get free drinks?”
"It's a free event organized by Zak, I'm sure we'll find a way to get you drunk without spending a dime, honey." She released the interlock and cusped Lola's chin with her hand. "And worst come to worst, just let your cleavage breathe a little and pretend to be lost. Works like a charm on those old finance creeps." Chloe covered her lips with her hand, as if shocked by what she had just said. "Take advantage of it while you're still a maid," she winked. "By the way, still no hint of Lloyd popping the question?"
Lola shook her head. "My outstanding detective skills are letting me down, all the clues were pointing at him proposing in July, and here we are. August already…." She took off her pale pink silk shirt and her skin-tight charcoal skirt. "Ever since he got that position at Zak's investment firm, he has been working like a madman. I put the blame on you; I should never have introduced him to Zak. Lloyd seems to love his job more than me." She pretended to faint in an overly dramatic fashion.
Chloe flashed a compassionate smile, and said, “Welcome to the club. I’ve got plenty of tips if you start feeling lonely during those long nights alone. I might even share my side lovers with you if you behave.” Chloe mimicked a shameless masculine intercourse thrust.
Lola looked falsely horrified. “Good God, you Corsican women are real whores!”
“Hey!” Chloe cried out, genuinely offended. “Do I need to even start on what kind of reputation you and your fellow Essex homegirls are supposed to have?” She seized a pillow and hurled it a Lola, who took a step back and covered her face with her arms. The projectile crashed into her scalp, messing her neatly brushed mane. She picked it up, holding it firm, and swung it back at her friend.
Chloe let out a squeak as she tucked her head beneath raised arms, and said, “How sad is it, we’re reduced to having pillow fights to entertain ourselves while our men are at the office, probably shagging their assistants.”
“Shall we show them how we roll, then?” Lola gave her a crooked smile.
Chloe knew that smile. It was usually the last thing she saw before her friend got into a mad drunken frenzy. Another Essex-style alcohol-infused night ahead, she thought. There was no fighting it. Out of the blue, she left the room, and came back a moment later, brandishing a bottle of white Sauternes and two wine glasses. “You bet your ass we’ll show them how we roll!” she said.
CHAPTER 11
The mood at Castellane Investments had gone from nerve-wracking – as fund managers and analysts were mulling over their final trades before markets closed – to jovial, in anticipation of the upcoming festive event. A handful of employees had left the premises, but the overwhelming majority of the firm’s staff were impatiently waiting for the evening to kick off. Over two hundred relationship managers, product specialists, portfolio managers, traders, strategists, research analysts, personal assistant and two opportunistic interns were making their way to the fifth floor of the Victorian Mayfair building, which had been turned into a reception area for the occasion.
One billion pounds in assets under management was a momentous milestone and quite an achievement for a company under ten years old. They had gone a long way and came out ahead of the pack in the wake of the financial meltdown. Nothing like a crisis to shake up the status quo, Zakariya had thought, as one over-leveraged investment firm after another went under. His specialty was paddling against the tide, and the vast majority of his clients' assets were managed in an outright contrarian style. The firm was highly secretive in the way of its strategies, with one of the few media reports published ahead of the festivity speaking of a black box, and opaque business practices of a bygone era, somewhat reminiscent of the darkest hours of Anglo-Saxon capitalism.
None of the firm’s employees gave much credence to the city’s inner chatter. As their CEO regularly pointed out, absolute secrecy was the best way to maintain their edge. The source code of their quantitative models was guarded li
ke the Crown’s Jewels, and only a selected few top executives were allowed to join the committee overseeing it. Quitters had to deal with persuasive non-compete clauses and a lifetime in the Mansouris clan’s bad books, while loyal employees were dutifully rewarded with handsome cash bonuses and stock options.
The caterer for the evening had dressed the central oval table with a selection of its finest gourmet appetizers. He was proudest of his ice-sculpted raw bar featuring tiers of fresh crab legs and oysters. Zakariya had promised him an unlimited budget and his only instruction was to make it so good his employees would stick around for the next ten billion in assets under management.
The room was starting to fill up with expecting staff members, and Zakariya couldn’t hide a smirk as the first freeloaders congregated around the cheese board, voraciously stuffing their mouths before the crowd made it harder to reach the delicacies in the cramped space. I’m paying most of them over four hundred thousand pounds annually, he thought, and they still exhibit starved packrat behavior. Unbelievable.
Managing directors – and them only – had been invited to bring along a partner. All other employees, from Executive Vice Presidents all the way down to Associates, were either scandalized by such a lack of tact or simply felt mistreated. That is all employees except the two cheeky interns, oblivious to the company politics happening in the background. Instead, they were conspicuously preying over the wine, scanning the bottle labels with their iPhones in an overt attempt to identify the vino they would set their sight on for the evening. They settled on the most expensive one, of course.
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