I remembered the looks around town - the expressions. Fear? Hostility?
Kaufman kept at me. "They misunderstood to begin with. Thought they could frighten you off. Bombing your car, sending you flight tickets. But you're staying, Sam - and we've sent them a message to prove it."
He fumbled into a folder and produced three photographs, sliding the first one down the table to me. "Tony Carmello. Ran the prostitution and drug trafficking for the Pipeline in South Wales.
Until yesterday. Last night his body was fished out of the Cardiff docks." He skimmed another photograph down the table. "Larry Hopkins - the Pipeline's man in Liverpool until the early hours of yesterday morning - when he was killed by a hit and run car. Third - Benny James - worked Birmingham, until midday yesterday when he was found knifed to death in a back alley."
Kaufman nodded grimly. "That's the new message the organisation got this morning."
"You mean - they'll think I was responsible-" "Who else?"
"But-" I struggled to grasp the implications. "You killed those men-"
"They were all killers. We had files an inch thick-" "You killed them. Without benefit of trial or-" "You had a trial, Sam! What fucking benefit was that? Will you stop crapping about it. Get your head together and listen. We're dealing with animals at that level. We're dealing with narcotics pouring into London like water through a sieve. This country can't build drug dependency clinics fast enough - you know that? A kid here gets hooked and he can't get treatment for three months. Three months for Chrissakes - he's a hardened addict by then, into prostitution, crime, anything - just to get the price of a fix."
"A heroin addict reduces his life expectancy to five years," Llewellyn said mildly.
"If he's lucky," Richardson interrupted. "Some of the stuff on the streets now has been cut with brick dust, detergent or even strychnine, for Christ's sake. You shoot that shit in your arm and you will die even more quickly."
Henderson said, "The Home Office daren't publish the true figures. Hard drug addiction is growing at the rate of at least twenty per cent per annum. And it's the same in Germany and most other European countries. Drug-related crime is rising in the West at an annual rate of ten per cent-"
"And I'll tell you something else," Kaufman said, pointing a finger at me. "This country is being used as a clearing house for heroin on its way to the States. And the man running it is a friend of yours."
Llewellyn said, "The Pipeline is by far the biggest and the most dangerous drug-smuggling operation ever encountered anywhere-" "You ever had any experience of heroin?" Kaufman shot at me suddenly. I felt the blood rush to my face and I had a great deal of trouble in meeting his eye. "Yeah, well," he growled, "we'll talk about that later. Meanwhile have a look at this morning's papers." He slid copies of the Telegraph and the Mirror down the table and Richardson passed them on to me.
GANGLAND KILLINGS was typeset in letters an inch high. Three men were pictured at the head of the story. I knew who they were without reading their names. The same mug shots were on the table next to them. But as I stared at the newsprint other pieces of the jigsaw fell into place. Henderson's act at Oliver's. The photographers! They had been Kaufman's men - they had to be. Yesterday the papers were full of me, now they were dealing with a gangland killing. The connection was obvious.
Kaufman read my mind. "That's right - we're talking to the Pipeline on the front pages. Beats the shit out of the personal columns."
He watched me carefully, then said, "The top man knows you, Sam. Knows you've served your time, knows you're Out - and he thinks you've got a list of names. So now what's he going to do?"
I remembered that film, the cellar, and shuddered.
Kaufman smiled. "He ain't going to damage you - not until he's sure about the list. And while he's making up his mind, we'll move in."
"You're mad. You've no right-"
"They've got to negotiate, Sam. They can't risk anything else not before they talk to you about the list-"
"Which I don't have."
"Neither do we. Not a complete list. But we've got bits and pieces. Cells of the organisation. We could wrap Southampton up tomorrow. But what's the point? They'd duplicate it within a couple of weeks and the new set-up would take months to penetrate."
Llewellyn added, "We could do the same in Hull and several other places. But they are merely distribution centres for narcotics. Raiding them would not cut the Pipeline-"
"They'll make contact, Sam," Kaufman said confidently. "All you got to do is insist on meeting the top man."
"Just like that," I said sarcastically.
"Sure, just like that. They'll pass you up the line. Shall I tell you why? Because you'll threaten them. Tell them that for every day they delay you'll blow one of their operations. Starting with Southampton. Anonymous tip-off to the police-"
"Every day? How long will this last for God's sake?"
He shrugged. "Ten, twelve days - a couple of weeks maybe."
"You're monitoring that many of their operations?"
Llewellyn nodded. "But it's the Pipeline itself we're after. We know it starts in the Middle East and North Africa - we think it runs through Sicily-"
Kaufman interrupted. "And we know a big shipment is planned for a couple of weeks' time."
"And big is very big," Henderson said, "maybe as much as two hundred million pounds worth at street prices."
"What we don't know," Kaufman said, "is how in God's name they land the stuff here and tranship some to the States."
When I stopped grappling with the thought of two hundred million pounds worth of drugs something else occurred to me. "Nor do you know the name of the top man."
"Oh, but we do, Sam," Kaufman smiled. "That's just it. But knowing and nailing the bastard are two different things."
I looked at the faces around the table. Grim, tense, expectant hard, calculating eyes following my every reaction.
"So I'm to be used as bait?" I said in a harsh, strained voice. "Staked out - like a tethered goat."
"Yeah, well," Kaufman growled, "there's going to be a lot of white hunters waiting for the tiger."
"And if I say no?" I said coldly.
Kaufman's eyes flashed with temper. "What's the matter with you? Don't you want to know who framed you? Who ruined you?"
"That's not the point-"
"So what is the point?" he snapped. He leapt from his chair and strode down the room to where I was sitting. "You want to see the point of all this? To see what we're really up against?" He reached for Lucia next to me, pulling her to her feet. "Turn round," he snapped, brushing her hair from her shoulders to get at the zip of her dress - then he tugged it down to her waist. "See that! Look at it!You can only do so much with skin grafting. Like when there's no skin left you're fucked! That's what they did ten years ago. She'll carry that to her grave. And she's one of the lucky ones. Look at it - then maybe you'll see the point! Understand the animals we're dealing with."
Lucia's back was corrugated! The sweet curve of her body was ridged from just below her neck to the gaping V of her dress above her buttocks. Puckered skin, ugly with discolouration - alternate stripes, some white as bone, others which looked red raw and calloused.
I growled, "There was no need for that." I pushed Kaufman to one side and gently drew the zip up Lucia's back. Her face was crimson as she turned away.
"Yeah? Well maybe I thought it was time you stopped being so damned pious." Kaufman turned on his heel and went back to his chair. "You say no any time you want, buddy boy. But let me tell you something. Ever since you left Brixton we've had a team of men covering you. Sixteen of them. Plus Lucia. We've watched over you like a baby. If you're with us that team stays put. If you're not -" he shrugged and sat down.
Nobody moved. They were all watching me. The chimes of a distant clock made me look at my watch. Eleven o'clock. Holy Christ, was that all? Had I only been in this room a few short hours? I sat down wearily and reached for my cigarettes.
"Like
the book said, Sam," Kaufman murmured softly. "We had to make you an offer you couldn't refuse."
Chapter Five
So much happened that day. Kaufman kept after me, hour after hour, using a carrot and stick technique which made my head spin. It was supposed to be an interchange of information, and it was for some of the time - but if I was suspected of shading the truth or evading an issue Kaufman erupted into a furious temper. Most of it was simulated, I felt sure of that, but knowing that was of little consolation. Arguing with Kaufman was a wearing business and on the odd occasion he was lost for words Bonello and the others were ready to pounce. They were obsessed by a sense of urgency - there was information they had to tell me and information I had to tell them - but all within the space of a few hours. It was essential for me to be in position tomorrow, back at Rex Place, waiting to hear from the Pipeline. At one point Llewellyn even admitted that I had been right about my 'dream'.
"Mr Harris," he said gravely, "when you arrived last night we administered certain drugs. A doctor was present and you were in no danger. We apologise for our action, but it was necessary because of time - time is of the utmost importance. You told us various things while you were semi-conscious - some we knew, others we guessed at - but it is imperative that we know the whole of your story as quickly as possible."
I swore at him. It was a mockery of an apology. He was only sorry because they had not found out what they had wanted to know - and I was beginning to have a shrewd idea of what that was. Not that I said anything - at least, not until later. But I found out a few things - principally about the scale of the operation because at one stage Henderson said, "Your release date was planned months ago. More than two hundred operatives are in position now - in London, New York, Milan-"
"And all because of your story, Sam," Kaufman interrupted. He was transferring various items from a briefcase onto the table in front of him. Even from where I sat I recognised the Apex Minute Book, and I saw a file marked 'Transcript of Trial' with various other files which bore the crest of the Home Office.
"Your story," Kaufman repeated with a smile. He waved a hand at the paperwork in front of him. "I've got most of it here. I've read it a hundred times - discussed it with dozens of people - checked a million details - and you know something? One item still puzzles me."
I shifted in the chair and said nothing.
"Or perhaps I should say one person puzzles me," he said. He opened a large brown envelope and slid a glossy photograph onto the table. I was too far away to see what it was - but I sensed an immediate reaction from the others. They knew what it was, and were watching Kaufman to see what use he would make of it. "Sam," he said, "we committed a burglary early this year. Oh, not us personally. None of the people in this room. But members of our staff. We burgled a private house in London. Cracked a safe and took some valuables, just to make it look good. What we were really looking for escaped us, but in the process we came across a photograph."
He picked it up and held it at an angle so I couldn't see it. Then he walked slowly down the room and sat on the edge of the table near me. I expected him to hand me the photograph, but instead he placed it face down on the table and rested a hand on it, just in case I reached for it.
"But to go back to what puzzles me," he smiled, "in this story of yours. I've thought about it a lot. Imagined you - fighting to save your business - day after day and night after night. You never knew it but you were fighting the Pipeline, and you gave them a hell of a battle. But what puzzles me, Sam, is what your wife was doing while all this was going on?"
"Why?" I puffed on my cigarette and looked up at him, keeping my voice neutral and my face expressionless.
Kaufman's eyes narrowed. "Your story, Sam - remember? That's why we're all here. She's part of it-"
"Not part of Apex - of what went wrong-" I waved a hand, "of any of this."
"Remember the deal, Sam," Kaufman persisted. "Your story. Don't dry on me now, baby."
"Kay is not relevant-"
"Dammit! I'll decide that. Will you get that into your head? You can't hold back on anything."
He was driving me down a path I wanted to avoid - and we both knew it. I scowled at him, biting my lip, holding onto my words in case he turned them against me.
"Don't give me that mule-eyed look," he snapped, "it cuts no ice with me. I'm not your defence counsel."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"As if you don't know. Like I spent a day grilling the bastard.
Getting the inside story on how you instructed him. Trying to find out why in God's name you pleaded guilty."
"You had no right-"
"Shove it! It's over and done with. I did it, that's all that matters. Want to know what he told me?" Kaufman lowered his angry face to within inches of mine, "That you clammed up tight whenever his questions got within a mile of that precious wife of yours! Well, you clam up on me, buddy boy, and I'll break every bone in your body!"
Then he slammed the photograph face up on the table in front of me. It was a picture of Kay. Naked. On a bed. She was not alone, but I wasn't there. I closed my eyes. Oh God, would the nightmare never end? Never go away? The look on Kay's face. That look. Even before I opened my eyes I turned the photograph over, face down, hiding it.
"Where - where did you get that?" I asked in a curiously thick sounding voice. But Kaufman walked away without answering.
Henderson leaned forward slightly. "We'll tell you later. I promise - but meanwhile we must get the rest of your story. It's vitally important. In fact the man whose safe we took the photograph from is the man we suspect of running the Pipeline."
"We know!" Kaufman shouted, "We don't suspect. We know he's running the Pipeline."
I hardly heard him. I was wondering who had seen the photograph. Gloated over it. I imagined the snide comments, the dirty jokes, the sick remarks.
"Okay, Sam," Kaufman sighed, "you sent Corrao away with a flea in his ear. Then all the problems start. Fights breaking out in the clubs, food poisoning, things like that. We get the picture. But what happened then?"
They said I killed a man in '76. It was a lie, of course, but I damn near killed Sam Harris. Apex was in a hell of a mess. I lived like a fireman for months on end - putting out one blaze before rushing off to another - quite literally once when someone put a match to Pamela's Place in Chelsea. We spent ten weeks renovating it, but it was never the same; when we re-opened the kids were frightened to go there, just as the punters were afraid of our betting shops. And the press gave me hell. I remember one photograph, taken when I was leaving the Point of View at two in the morning. I had rushed over there to hold an inquest on a brawl which had broken out for no apparent reason - and this photographer caught me as I was leaving. It was in the papers next day - 'Winner Harris' - with a big question mark after my name. And no wonder. My shoulders were slumped and my face bore that haunted expression I get when I'm tired. I looked deadbeat, like a fighter who won't make the bell.
Running Apex turned into a nightmare. So much happened, so many things at the same time. Key men had accidents or fell ill - or just resigned to take jobs elsewhere; and training their replacements took more time than I could spare. Every day brought a conflict of priorities, a new crisis, a fresh source of anxieties. And board meetings became a farce. Only Edgar Hardman gave me unqualified support, the others seemed to lose interest - as if I had got them into this, so it was up to me to get them out. We had a hell of a row about it one day. Lew Douglas did the smooth bit about his lack of interest being merely an expression of confidence in me, but Charlie Weston got a lot more pointed. "You were happy enough to make the decisions before," he said, "it's too bloody late to complain now." It brought home to me how much the take-over battle had unsettled things. Charlie had wanted that deal, and I had blocked it. And Lew Douglas felt the same. He had latched onto Edgar's offer as second best, to cover himself - but from that day on he was always criticising and finding fault - so that board meetings turned into
slanging matches without much chance of constructive work. I got on with it as best I could but it all added to my sense of isolation.
I hadn't seen Kay in weeks. By then I was working a sixteen hour day, often seven days a week. Constant emergencies kept me in town. Even when I grabbed a few hours' rest at Rex Place the telephone shrieked with a fresh crisis. But despite that - despite the worry and the strain and the long exhausting hours - I always thought we would win in the end. At least I did until my problems started with Kay - and then life came apart at the seams.
The troubles at Apex were about nine months old then, and all the time Kay and I continued to live our funny sort of lives married but living more apart than together. That fifty mile stretch down the M4 looked as wide as the Atlantic at three in the morning - and on the few occasions I did get home Ashley Grange was too noisy for my liking. It was like trying to sleep at a carnival. Of course Kay never saw it that way. To her mind she was playing her part in the 'war effort'. Winner Harris was as solvent as the Bank of England to listen to her - and as long as Winner was all right Apex had to be. At least that's how she explained it to me - but then she was to explain a good many things over the next few weeks.
One night, one early morning, I did go home. It was a Friday and I was on my knees with tiredness. I phoned Kay during the day to let her know, but it was very late when I arrived, four in the morning I think, though it may have been later. She was asleep in bed and I undressed in darkness to avoid waking her, but she switched on the light as I rolled into bed. Her expression was warning enough - a truculent, petulant look which suggested that the row we had avoided on the telephone might break out now we were face to face. I tried to head it off with an apology for disturbing her.
She shook her head. "You didn't. I was awake anyway. Maybe that's the trouble - you don't disturb me any more, you don't disturb me at all."
"Knock it off, Kay, tell me tomorrow. Right now I'm ready for bed."
"Ready for sleep, you mean. Bed used to mean something very different."
Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1 Page 51