Cocaine

by Jack Hillgate

  We reached Hyde Park Corner and crossed to the centre, Apsley House to our right, its sandstone structure reminding me of Downing College where Jeavons would be, guarding our fridges. We walked along the grass verge and then the Eggman dipped down into the subterranean passage that led to Kensington Gore. The Lanesborough was to our left and then we approached the heart of Knightsbridge, marked by Harrods. We had been walking for fifteen or twenty minutes. We continued past Kensington Gardens to our right, the Palace and Barker’s to our left. We continued along Kensington High Street, towards the western end. Thirty minutes had elapsed and we hadn’t stopped walking.

  Suddenly, the Eggman turned right, up Melbury Road. I looked round as we turned, but it was impossible to tell if anyone was following us or not because High Street Ken was busy. After thirty yards, the bustle of the high street faded. We circled around Holland Park and then in through the Ilchester Place entrance, past the Kyoto Garden and then out onto the exit near the Greek Embassy. The Eggman turned left, swiveling on his heel like a drill sergeant and walked down the hill, past large cream-puff mansions. When we got to the bottom of the road the Eggman turned right, towards Holland Park Avenue, crossed the road and up the steps of the hotel on the corner, The Halcyon. We followed him in to find ourselves cosseted by blue carpets, deep blue wallpaper and staff in blue waistcoats over white shirts. The Eggman walked to the end of the corridor and turned sharply right and down a flight of steps to the basement where faded drawings lined the walls and it was very quiet. When we turned a corner we found him in the wood-panelled empty basement bar.

  ‘Take a seat, chaps. You’re up in twenty minutes. Fancy a drink?’

  ‘I’ll have a coke’, I said.

  ‘Herbal tea’, said Kieran.

  ‘They’ll come and get you’, he said. ‘Just make yourselves comfortable.’

  That was last time I saw the Eggman.

  Twenty minutes later they came and got us, two small but thick-set men in suits, their hair slicked back behind their ears. We followed them out of the bar and back up the stairs to reception.

  ‘We take the elevator’, said one of them. I nodded. The metal cage was barely big enough for two let alone the four of us. We squeezed in and had to edge away from the door so that the sensors would allow it to close, which meant I was now in close proximity to the two intermediaries and their pungent eau de toilette. They took the opportunity to frisk us both as the red LED display flashed the numbers one, two and then three. The door opened on the third floor and I took a deep breath of unscented air when we walked out into the thickly-carpeted corridor.

  We followed him to the door of number three-o-four, The Campden Suite. He rang the little bell and the four of us stood behind him, clogging up the hallway, waiting for someone to answer. I checked my watch. It was five o’clock. Kieran would do the talking. I would chip in if necessary. We were primed and ready. We did not know the identity of the principal with whom we were about to deal, but I felt sure, from the elaborate precautions taken to ensure we were not followed, that he or they were taking us seriously.

  The Campden Suite was enormous. Large white net curtains billowed in front of three large windows which led out onto a terrace. The room was set up like a meeting room, with a round table and four chairs, one of them occupied by a thin man with glasses and a very black moustache, poring through what looked to be a set of accounts. He looked up only momentarily when we entered and then went back to his reading matter. I heard someone snort and blow their nose in the ensuite bathroom. A few seconds later the door opened and a man walked out to greet us. He was short and dapper and he had a fine moustache. His hair was graying slightly and his face showed signs of sun spots. He must have been in his mid-fifties.

  ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen’, he said, in accented but perfect English. ‘I hope you enjoyed your walk. I am the Wizard and I believe you have something that may be of interest to me. This man is my accountant.’ The thin man looked up and blinked, then back down to his papers. ‘Please sit. A coffee, perhaps?’

  We sat down and someone rang room service.

  ‘And you are…?’ he asked, eyebrows raised.

  ‘George and Ringo’, I replied.

  He smiled and looked down at our Tower Records bags. Then he looked up at me and studied my face as if he recognized me. There had been no photos in the newspapers, of me or anyone else, so I didn’t succumb to paranoia.

  ‘Are you George, or Ringo?’ he asked me.

  ‘George.’

  ‘Excuse me one moment, George.’

  He got up and walked through a door leading to the bedroom.

  ‘Tell me what you are selling’, said the accountant suddenly, without looking up.

  ‘We talking to you or to the Wizard?’

  ‘Ringo? Please understand. We are all friends here. Just doing business, comprendes?’

  Kieran stared at him through his blue-tinted shades.

  ‘Comprendo.’

  It was strange how just a single word in Spanish could send a shiver down my spine. I hadn’t been able to place the accent but it was clearly Spanish. They couldn’t be Colombian. Buying coke from us would be like taking coals to Newcastle. Kieran took out one of the bags of pure synthetic cocaine made by Jeavons and placed it on the table.

  ‘Sample for you to try.’

  ‘Muy bien.’

  The accountant set down his accounts and took a glasses case out of his jacket pocket. He opened it up and removed a razor blade, a small mirror and a thin metal tube. Things were looking promising.

  ‘My life is full of interruptions’, said the Wizard, appearing from the bedroom. ‘Telephones, faxes, telexes. It is never-ending.’

  I nodded, leaving Kieran to get on with the business of assisting the accountant. The Wizard came over and sat down next to me.

  ‘Where are you from, George?’ he asked, putting his hand on my shoulder.

  ‘I’m from here.’

  ‘Of course. Have you ever been to my country?’

  ‘Which country are you from?’

  The accountant had cut the twenty grams from the first bag into a number of lines and he was studying them through a magnifying glass. He poked one of the lines with his finger, collecting a couple of crystals with the moisture from his skin and then he put his finger to his mouth in order to taste the result.

  ‘Colombia’, whispered the Wizard.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Si. Hablas espanol?’

  ‘I speak a little’, I replied, watching as the accountant bent over the table and snorted a line up the thin metal tube.

  ‘Where did you learn?’

  ‘Costa Rica.’

  ‘You have traveled to Colombia?’

  I didn’t answer but looked instead at Kieran for a clue as to how much information we should be giving out.

  ‘Do you like the coke?’ Kieran asked.

  ‘It’s very good’, said the accountant as he bent down to try another line. ‘Very pure. Manufactured, definitely. The aftertaste is quite alkaline. Perhaps with some acidic content to negate this…?’

  I realized he was talking to the Wizard, not to me.

  ‘How much do you have?’ asked the Wizard.

  ‘A hundred kilos’, I replied. ‘And we’re looking to sell it all.’

  ‘How much do you propose to charge for this?’

  ‘Ringo?’

  Kieran didn’t look up so I nudged him.

  ‘What?’

  ‘We’re talking price, Ringo.’

  ‘Oh, right. OK. What are you paying, Wizard?’

  ‘It depends what you are asking. You made this cocaine yourselves?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I do not want to flood the market, you understand. One hundred kilos is a significant quantity. In Colombia…’

  ‘What about Colombia?’

  I watched the Wizard’s face as it contorted.

  ‘In Colombia they have destroyed all of our factories. The Rio Putumayo
. It is in the south of the country. It is the Americanos. I am not in control anymore. I was, I think you say, retired.’

  ‘You’re retired?’

  ‘Yes. This is why, I say to myself, live a little. See the world. London, I find, is most conducive to non-resident aliens such as myself.’

  ‘So you don’t want to flood the London market?’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘How much of this stuff would you want?’

  ‘It depends how much you want for it.’

  ‘Name your price.’

  ‘Jorge?’

  The accountant pursed his lips and took a large desktop calculator out of the briefcase next to him. He placed it in front of us and tapped in some numbers quickly. ‘Setenta, ochenta, noventa, noventa y cinco.’

  ‘Jorge?’

  ‘We take the whole shipment from you. Ten thousand dollars a kilo.’

  ‘Pounds.’

  ‘Dollars.’

  He tapped in some more numbers.

  ‘One million dollars.’

  ‘It’s worth six times that on the open market, more if you cut it.’

  ‘One million dollars. You think you get a better offer?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘You know who you buying from, huh? You know who I used to work for? You know anything about the Cartels, George and Ringo or whatever your names are? Do you?’

  ‘Yes’, I replied. ‘I understand the system.’

  ‘So you have been to Colombia?’

  ‘Yes. I spent four years there.’

  Kieran bit his lip nervously.

  ‘We need two’, he said.

  ‘You need two what?’

  ‘Two mill. That’s a good deal.’

  ‘What you doing for four years in my country?’

  ‘What are you doing in mine?’

  ‘Okay, okay. Four years is a long time, George. A long time. It is perhaps a little strange that our paths didn’t cross. I had a very big job there.’

  ‘It’s better if we don’t know.’

  ‘Of course. Two million.’ He reached forward and held his hand out. ‘Do we have a deal?’

  Kieran nodded. I shook the Wizard’s hand and tried not to smile.

  ‘We do.’

  ‘Que chevere.’

  It was one of Juan Andres’s expressions and it made me blink. One of the men who had led us into the Campden Suite held out a briefcase stacked with hundred dollar bills.

  ‘Two million’, said the Wizard. ‘ Take us to the merchandise and it’s all yours.’

  Kieran and I stared wide-eyed at each other. Two million dollars. He picked up a bundle and flicked through it.

  ‘It’s real’, he said.

  ‘Of course it’s real’, said the Wizard, laughing. ‘If you knew where it came from you would laugh, but that is perhaps for a future deal, yes? We can trust each other?’

  I nodded and made the leap of faith.

  29

  August 2007

  Production had begun at Daillion, despite the summer heat. We had paid double for our eight workers to spend the month of August distilling the finest scent from our new machinery, all under the watchful gaze of Stephanie Delacourt, my newly-promoted assistant. I took out some advertising space in Nice Matin and Let’s Go, Riviera. We were aiming for the very top of the market, competing with the likes of Creed, which sold for enormous amounts even in diluted form such as that employed in Eau de Toilette.

  I was tempted to go legitimate, to make a go of the business that was in Stephanie’s sole name. I was still worried about my imprint, about leaving any marks on the dusty streets of Grasse or the glitzier pavements of Cannes. However, the temptation was too strong, especially as I had large quantities of tropinone in my first floor laboratory to which only I and Stephanie had access.

  There had been no sign of Carlos since we sped away from the large Mercedes jeep, carried to safety by my gleaming white Portia. For the first time Portia had been grounded, forced to eke out the hot summer days in her cold concrete garage rather than bask, with her top off, in the dawn-til-dusk Mediterranean sun. Portia was too recognizable, perhaps, despite my dichotomy: a part of me wanted Carlos to find me, wanted it to finish, to have some form of closure. A bigger part of me preferred anonymity, so I purchased a three year old Peugeot 307. It was the souped-up version, so we had speed and nimbleness, but wrapped in a generic French cloak rather than an instantly-noticeable German one. Stephanie actually preferred the Peugeot.

  ‘Buy French’, she said. ‘My mother always say this to me.’

  ‘Daillion’s French. Do you think your mother will buy some?’

  ‘But of course! I will write to everyone I know. We can create – how you say – a buzz?’

  ‘That’s right’, I said, putting Blackie (my new car) into first. ‘Big buzz.’

  ‘And no Carlos?’

  ‘No Carlos.’

  I headed out of Grasse and down the N85 towards Cannes, taking the outside lane but sticking to the speed-limit, passing a car-full of morose gendarmes and a jeep pulling a caravan. I smiled. The caravan was a Marauder.

  March 1994

  ‘You can’t park that ‘ere, sir’, said the porter to us, resplendent in his bowler hat and long black coat. ‘Visitors’ car park. Back there. Second left. Oh. Ullo Mr Jacobs, sir. Didn’t see you there.’

  ‘Hullo, Fortescue’, I said, peering at him over the tinted window. ‘These men are with me. Come to have a look at the lab. We’re meeting Jeavons. You couldn’t let him know we’ve arrived could you? Perhaps get him to meet us?’

  ‘Very good, sir. You can leave it ‘ere.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The windows whirred upwards and we were cocooned once more in silence in our leather seats. I realized that what we had just done had been very stupid, because now the Wizard knew my last name, although he didn’t say anything.

  ‘If you wait here’, I said to him, ‘I’ll get the merchandise.’

  ‘Very well’, said the Wizard.

  ‘Take the money’, said Kieran suddenly. ‘They’ve got me as collateral.’

  The Wizard raised his eyebrows.

  ‘I value human life, Mr Ringo, but you are not worth two million dollars.’

  ‘I thought we trusted each other.’

  ‘We all go in together.’

  ‘Just you, Wizard. You and…George and the money.’

  The Wizard looked at the accountant and the driver sitting in front of us.

  ‘With Jorge.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘My accountant.’

  ‘OK.’

  The central locking clicked and the Wizard opened his door. I followed him and Jorge out into the cold of a March morning, the day after we had met at the Halcyon, where we had all ended up spending the night, Kieran and I in a separate suite to the Wizard and Jorge.

  ‘Where will you put it?’ I asked him.

  ‘The trunk’ replied the Wizard. ‘You will find four suitcases in here. You will carry two, and Jorge will carry two.’

  The boot opened and I saw four plastic Samsonite cases inside. I pulled two out and handed them to Jorge. They were light, empty. I pulled out the two for myself and then closed the boot. I heard the click of the central locking, just Kieran and the driver left inside.

  ‘Lead the way, Mr Jacobs’, said the Wizard, attaching the briefcase containing the two million to his wrist with a leather strap.

  ‘I ‘elp you with those, sir?’ said Fortescue suddenly, appearing in front of us.

  We stood there, the three of us, on the gravel drive behind the science labs with our four empty Samsonite suitcases and the briefcase full of enough money to build a new library.

  ‘No, no thanks Fortescue. We’ll be fine. They’re not too heavy.’

  ‘Right you are, sir. I’ll leave it to you to sign in these two gentlemen?’

  ‘Of course. They won’t be here long.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  Jorge
and the Wizard, both smartly dressed in suits, smiled at Fortescue and he made a little bow of his head in deference to us.

  Jeavons bounded out to meet us, rubbing his hands together nervously.

  ‘Hello, old chap’, he said. ‘I mean, hello George.’

  ‘Hello John’, I replied. ‘Take one of these would you?’

  ‘Of course. Gentlemen?’

  Jeavons waved us towards the science block, which we reached through the iron gates and the damp foliage of the old oaks that lined the car park.

  It was almost eleven o’clock – I could tell from the clock-tower down the road, the one that chimed every fifteen minutes – and everyone was either in a lecture, if they were an undergraduate, or busy at work, or possibly waiting for the pub to open. I needed a drink, I realized, as I followed the Wizard and Jorge and Jeavons through the main door and up the flight of stairs to our special research section.

  Jeavons took us into his office and pulled up three chairs. We left the four empty suitcases outside.

  ‘Your name is John?’ asked the Wizard.

  ‘That’s right’, said Jeavons. ‘John Paul.’

  The Wizard smiled. ‘You have the merchandise here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can I see it?’

  ‘Show it to him’, I said, ‘only when he gives me that briefcase.’

  The Wizard winced slightly, as if we were slighting his character, but he undid the leather strap that bound it to his wrist and handed the briefcase over to me.

  ‘I think I can trust you’, he said, nodding to Jorge. ‘Now, if you please?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Jeavons got up and walked out to the fridges. There were four in a row and we had the rights to the two on the left which were carrying something equivalent in value to the dollars in the briefcase.