by Tom Marcus
Alex grinned. ‘You didn’t go to school, Logan. Anyway, Rabid Dog doesn’t necessarily have to be a member. He could be Shlovsky’s guest.’
‘So how are we going to identify him, then? No point setting up an OP to see who goes into the club unless they waltz in together. We have to have eyes on the meet.’
The door opened. It was Mrs Allenby, carrying a Harrods shopping bag. I wondered if she was about to hand out cakes. ‘Sorry to have missed all the fun. I understand we managed to intercept a phone conversation. What do we know?’
‘Shlovsky’s meeting someone at his private club tomorrow night, the Merrick. At least that’s what we think. Someone he doesn’t like, too,’ I added.
She put the bag on the floor, looking thoughtful. ‘So not a friend. And not a business associate he could meet with openly.’ She nodded to herself. ‘I suppose it could be the person we’re looking for.’
‘My gut tells me it is,’ I said. ‘Shlovsky was prickly. He wasn’t happy about having to meet this guy.’
Mrs Allenby looked at me over her glasses. ‘Then we need to get you in there.’
‘How?’ Alex asked. ‘No offence, Logan, but even you wouldn’t be able to blag your way into a place like that. And I’m guessing you need a couple of million in your bank account before they’ll let you become a member.’
‘I imagine application is by referral only,’ Mrs Allenby said. She took her glasses off and started polishing them with a piece of cloth. ‘Mr Woodburn?’
Alan had drifted back to his work station and was fiddling with some wires. He scuttled over.
‘We need a membership card. Do you think you might be able to produce one for us?’
Alan looked dubious. ‘Mind if I . . .?’ He pulled Ryan’s laptop towards him. ‘Let’s have a look. Membership card . . . OK, here’s one. Hmm.’ He clattered away at the keyboard for a couple of minutes, then sat back, staring hard at the screen. ‘I don’t know . . .’
Mrs Allenby raise an eyebrow. ‘You don’t think you can do it?’
‘If we could get hold of one, I could clone it, I reckon.’
‘I don’t think that’s a feasible plan,’ Mrs Allenby said dryly. ‘Any other thoughts?’
Alan chewed the end of a pen. ‘I could try taking the member information off the website and inputting it on a dummy card, but there’d be a unique signature. It wouldn’t work.’
‘Plus it would mean Logan trying to pass himself off as someone else. What if the real guy turns up?’ Alex pointed out.
‘So what you’re saying is you could make a card that looked authentic, but that’s all,’ Mrs Allenby said.
Alan nodded.
Mrs Allenby gave him a disappointed look, like a schoolteacher who’d just been let down by her star pupil.
‘We can make it work,’ I said. ‘As long as it looks like the real thing, I can bluff my way in.’
Mrs Allenby looked at me sceptically. ‘If you cause a scene, that might put paid to the whole operation. Shlovsky could realize he’s being targeted and simply go to ground.’
I looked around. ‘Anybody got any better ideas?’
‘All right. You go in. But with Miss Short. You’ll be less conspicuous if you’re accompanied by your wife.’
‘I don’t think it’s the sort of place where members bring their wives, to be honest.’ I grinned at Alex. ‘But I’m sure a high-end call girl wouldn’t look out of place.’
17
I knew the Merrick Club was going to be tricky to get into, but I wasn’t worrying about that right now. First we had to find the bloody place.
Located somewhere along a narrow lane off Curzon Street in Mayfair, it wasn’t exactly advertising its existence. I wasn’t expecting a big neon sign, but a discreet brass plaque would have helped.
In fact, there weren’t even numbers on the row of black basement doors lining the street. Everything looked dark, shut up, uninhabited. Ryan had dropped us off on Curzon Street – pulling up in anything less than a top of the range SUV or luxury saloon would have put up a red flag right away, assuming the club had a camera or two on the street. But wandering around like a couple of lost souls looking for number 58 wasn’t an option either.
‘Should have started counting at the top of the road,’ Alex muttered, trying to keep steady on her six-inch heels.
‘Yeah? Which end do the numbers start, then?’ I asked, shaking my head.
We both knew if we passed the door and then had to double back, we’d be sunk. We slowed to a snail’s pace.
‘We could always have another row,’ Alex suggested.
‘They might be a bit leery of letting you in if we have a screaming match in the street,’ I said. ‘Just take out your phone and look like you’ve had a call from your sister and she’s about to top herself or something.’
Alex frowned but slipped her phone out of her bag and pretended to answer it. We both knew this wasn’t going to buy us much time. We just had to hope Ryan had realized we had a problem and would send us a text when he’d figured it out.
Just then a big black Mercedes off-roader turned the corner and started nosing its way slowly down the street.
‘Here’s fucking hoping,’ I said under my breath.
The Merc pulled up twenty yards ahead of us. The driver got out and hopped round to the rear passenger door but a man was already getting out. Dinner jacket, bow tie, slicked-back grey hair to his collar, he spoke briefly to the driver while a second, younger, wide-shouldered man in a plain dark suit got out on the other side.
The talent and the hired muscle. I suddenly wondered if bringing Alex along was such a good idea after all. If the place was full of old men in DJs accompanied by their security, a bleached blonde in a tight red dress tottering around in her stilettos was definitely going to look out of place.
Cross that bridge when we come to it, I thought. We hadn’t even got into the place yet.
The grey-haired geezer and his minder went down some area steps. At least we knew where the front door was now. While Alex continued to hand out sisterly advice, I kept half an eye on our friends. The old guy knocked on the door, light and noise briefly flooded the area as the door opened, and they stepped inside. It closed noiselessly and the street returned to darkness and silence.
Alex dropped her phone back in her bag.
I raised my eyebrows, continuing to play the part, even if no one was watching. ‘Everything all right?’
Alex rolled her eyes. ‘Cry for help. I told her to pull herself together and stop being such a drama queen.’
‘You’re all heart,’ I said.
She shrugged. ‘Us high-class tarts are a tough lot.’
‘I’ll remember not to stiff you on your fee, then.’
‘Just fucking try it,’ she said with a wink. She took my arm. ‘Come on then, I reckon it’s show time.’
We walked down the steps and I knocked on the door. I couldn’t see any cameras but they had to be somewhere. I just hoped there wasn’t a secret code and I’d just demonstrated that I wasn’t in the know.
I waited ten seconds, thinking the door wasn’t going to open, that they’d taken one look at us and decided we were fakes. I was beginning to feel the sweat under my collar when it swung open with a hiss and a short, barrel-chested guy with a buzz cut and a dickie bow ushered us in.
Regiment or just Paras? I wondered.
Down at the end of a short corridor with shiny black and white tiles was a large desk. A brunette in a cocktail dress sat behind it with a slim laptop open, while another ex-Special Forces type lurked at the bottom of the stairs. Through a door to the right of the desk I could hear the muffled buzz of conversation.
I got out my wallet and pulled out the black card Alan had knocked up for me an hour ago. ‘Thank you,’ the brunette smiled as I handed it over. She swiped it through some sort of card reader and looked at her laptop screen. She was pro: her expression didn’t change, but I could tell from her eyes she didn’t like what she was
seeing.
‘I hope there isn’t a problem,’ I said with a tight smile, trying to sound like the sort of man who had waiters killed for bad service.
‘I’m afraid the system doesn’t seem to be bringing up your details,’ she said, swiping the card through a second time. ‘If you wouldn’t mind waiting for just a moment, let me just talk to Mr Riccardi.’
I leaned over and put a hand on her arm as she reached for the phone. The last thing I wanted her to do was talk to Mr Riccardi, whoever he was. Alex had casually sauntered over to stand between the brunette and the heavy so he couldn’t see what I was doing.
‘I’ve got a meeting with Viktor Shlovsky,’ I said, keeping the smile in place but putting as much menace into my voice as I could. ‘If I was to be late for my meeting because you’re having some IT problems, that would be very inconvenient.’
I took my hand away, but maintained eye contact. I could see the wheels going round in her head as she tried to figure out which was worse: getting fired because she let a non-member into the club, or getting fired because she pissed a genuine member off. I was hoping the threat of physical violence behind my nasty expression was going to tip the balance.
After what seemed like an eternity, she switched her professional smile on and handed me back my card. ‘That’ll be fine, Mr Schmidt.’ She pushed a ledger across the desk. ‘If you’d just care to sign the lady in?’
‘Thank you,’ I said, hoping she’d got the message that she’d made the right decision and there might be an opening as a hostess on one of my yachts if she kept up the good work.
The brunette nodded to the heavy and he opened the door. I put a hand on the small of Alex’s back and we stepped through.
We were in.
We just had to hope the brunette didn’t get straight on the blower to Mr Riccardi and we would find out that getting out again was going to be the real problem.
We walked towards the long, zinc-topped bar at the end of the room, trying to look as if we belonged. Booths lined the walls, with a scattering of tables surrounded by deep leather armchairs. The lighting was low and the carpet underfoot was deep-piled. This was clearly the opposite of any normal club: a place to not be seen and not be heard. I could see why Shlovsky had chosen it.
Now it was just a question of finding him and his mystery guest.
The barman made his way over. ‘Good evening, sir. Good evening, madam. What can I get you?’
‘Brandy and coke, please,’ Alex said. She’d already decided that this was the sort of thing high-class tarts drank, and I wasn’t going to contradict her. The barman didn’t bat an eyelid, either, so maybe she was on the money.
‘Wyborowa on ice,’ I said. ‘A large one.’
‘Of course.’ He turned back to the array of bottles above the bar and went to work.
With our drinks in our hands, we turned to make a discreet survey of the room. The tables were mostly occupied by men, a lot of them in evening dress, deep in serious conversations. Thank fuck there were a handful of bored-looking women too. I didn’t spot any professionals, but they all looked considerably younger than their male companions, so Alex didn’t look too out of place. I assumed a lot of these guys were getting some business done before heading out to the gaming tables, where a beautiful girl at your side might bring you luck, or if she didn’t, could at least help you forget how much cash you’d just lost.
Alex took a sip of her drink and touched my arm. ‘Three o’clock. Don’t look now but I think I’ve spotted Major Titov and the British guy.’
I waited for thirty seconds, then stood up, patting my pockets as if I was looking for something. Over Alex’s shoulder I could see the big Russian sitting at a table opposite one of the booths. On the other side of the table was another man with his back to us, but from the ramrod-straight posture I was pretty sure it was our Army friend. Both had what looked like glasses of sparkling water in front of them but they weren’t drinking. They weren’t chatting either. Instead, they were slowly quartering the room with their eyes, first right, then left, taking in the full three-sixty between them, without even bothering to hide what they were doing.
Alex swivelled slowly on her stool until she had an unobstructed view. ‘So where’s Shlovsky?’
‘In the booth,’ I said. I looked at my watch. It was 22.55. The meeting must have started early.
To the right of the booth was a long, padded bench. A young, unshaven guy was lounging with his back against the wall, arms crossed, looking bored. Was that the mystery man’s minder? If so, he wasn’t doing a very professional job. Nothing ex-Army about him. But he looked like a killer all the same.
‘Can you see them?’ Alex asked.
‘Nah, but they’ve got to be in there. Titov and his mate aren’t doing drills for nothing. And there’s another guy over by the wall I reckon is watching out for someone.’
‘We need to get closer,’ Alex said.
She was right. Hearing any of their conversation would be a million to one shot, but if we could get a decent pic of the guy Shlovsky was meeting, at least we had a chance of identifying him.
Two men were sat at a table between Titov’s and the bar. One of them got up and the other followed.
Perfect.
I took Alex’s arm. ‘Here we go.’
We made our way over to the table, trying not to look too eager. As I sat down, I made sure my jacket was open and the miniature camera masquerading as a shirt button was in line with the booth. Because of the angle, I could only see one occupant. It wasn’t Shlovsky but that was about all I could say; the lighting in the booths was even worse than in the main bar. He looked animated, though, with some energetic head-tossing and a couple of forceful finger jabs. Obviously not a happy bunny, but was he telling Shlovsky to piss off, or were they just haggling over the price?
My eyes began to adjust to the low light and his features started to come into focus. Dark hair, a hawk-like nose, a neatly trimmed beard. Did he look Middle Eastern, or was that just my own confirmation bias? We’d speculated about where Shlovsky would most likely try to outsource his dirty work, and it was hard to see who else had the people on the ground: the human weapons just waiting to be primed, aimed and fired.
I looked away, aware that Titov might register my interest if I made it too obvious.
‘Having a nice time?’ I asked.
‘Terrific,’ Alex said. ‘Can’t believe you’ve never brought me here before. Tell you what, though, the women in here: I bloody well hope they’re getting paid at the end of the night. They’ve bloody earned it.’
‘Well, I’m afraid all you’re getting is another tart’s drink,’ I said. ‘Do you want it with a little umbrella this time?’
‘I’m fine, thanks,’ she said. ‘These heels are bad enough when you’re sober. You wouldn’t want me going arse over tit and causing a scene, would you?’
‘I might actually, now that you mention it,’ I said. A neat little man in a grey suit was making his way slowly through the room, stopping to shake hands and exchange pleasantries with the members.
A monkey says that’s Mr Riccardi, I thought.
‘Look, Alex, I’ve got a feeling the manager’s going to introduce himself in a minute. We may not have much time. Can you just swing by the booth on the way to the ladies’ and confirm Shlovsky’s actually in there? If I’m not here when you get back, I’ve been made and you’re going to have to find another way out.’
‘No problem,’ she said.
The fact was, we didn’t have an exit strategy. If Mr Riccardi and a couple of his goons decided to brace me, I wasn’t quite sure what I was going to do. Carry on acting like a mega-rich arsehole and hope for the best, I guessed.
Alex got up and headed towards the booth just as Mr Riccardi reached our table.
‘May I?’ He bowed his head deferentially, but his beady eyes were like lasers.
I waved a hand towards a chair and he sat down.
‘Forgive me for interrupting
, Mr Schmidt, but I like to think I know all our members. I don’t believe we’ve met, have we?’
I sat back and tried to give him some laser beams of my own. ‘I’ve only just joined. That might explain it.’
‘And can you remind me who your sponsor was?’
I was ready for that one. We’d looked through the members list and picked the oldest, a reptilian South African precious minerals baron in his eighties, hoping he’d be tucked up in bed with a cup of cocoa at this time of night, and so wouldn’t be on hand to tell Riccardi he didn’t know me from Adam.
‘Mr De Vries. You know him, of course.’
Riccardi’s smile got a bit more brittle. ‘Unfortunately we haven’t had the pleasure of Mr De Vries’s company for some time.’ The lasers continued to bore into me.
Shit. Was De Vries not just old but dead? Why didn’t Ryan fucking think to check if the old bastard was still breathing?
‘And what happened was such a shock.’
I didn’t answer. I knew a fucking trick question when I heard one. I looked up, trying to see if any of the ex-Special Forces guys were waiting in the wings. Sure enough, the big one was stationed by the door.
I waited for a scream and the sound of someone being slapped, hoping Alex had seen the spot I was in and had decided to create a diversion, but as the silence lengthened, I realized it was a vain hope. I could see the guy from the door in my peripheral vision, sidling slowly towards us. Riccardi had me boxed in good and proper.
I tossed a coin in my head. If I caused a scene, Shlovsky would know something was up and that might put the kibosh on the whole operation. On the other hand, if I followed Riccardi meekly back to his office, there’d likely be a couple of plods waiting for me – and then things could get complicated.
Heads you win, tails I lose. Not much of a choice, really. I was leaning towards option number one, just because I felt like punching someone, when I heard a shout. We both looked over at Shlovsky’s booth. He was stood up, pointing a finger at the other guy, who was still sitting down. The room went quiet as the other tables clocked what was happening, and for a moment all you could hear was Shlovsky’s voice, hard and angry as he jabbed the air. In an instant Titov was on his feet, managing to intercept the guy sitting on the bench, who looked as if he was about to tackle Shlovsky. Now the young guy was shouting, trying to wrestle out of Titov’s grip, as his boss barged past Shlovsky and out of the booth, then turned on him, the two men now standing chest to chest, only inches apart, looking like they wanted to kill each other.