by Jack Higgins
“The East End of London?”
“Yes, just about as romantic as Little Italy in New York or the Bronx. The Kray brothers, the nearest thing England ever had to cinema gangsters, the Richardson gang. Do you know much about the East End?”
“I thought all that was history?”
“Not at all. A lot of the big men, the governors as they call them, have gone legitimate to a certain degree, but all the old-fashioned crimes—hold-ups, banks, security vans—are committed by roughly the same group. All family men, who just look upon it as business, but they’ll shoot you if you get in the way.”
“How nice.”
“Everyone knows who they are, including the police. It’s in that fraternity Dillon will look for help.”
“Forgive me,” she said. “But that must be rather a close-knit community.”
“You’re absolutely right, but as it happens, I’ve got what you might call the entrée.”
“And how on earth do you have that?”
He poured her another glass of champagne. “Back in Vietnam in nineteen sixty-eight, during my wild and foolish youth, I was a paratrooper, Airborne Rangers. I formed part of a Special Forces detachment to operate in Cambodia, entirely illegally, I might add. It was recruited from all branches of the services. People with specialist qualifications. We even had a few Marines and that’s how I met Harry Flood.”
“Harry Flood?” she said and frowned. “For some reason, that name’s familiar.”
“Could be. I’ll explain. Harry’s the same age as me. Born in Brooklyn. His mother died when he was born. He grew up with his father, who died when Harry was eighteen. He joined the Marines for something to do, went to, Nam, which is where I met him.” He laughed. “I’ll never forget the first time. Up to our necks in a stinking swamp in the Mekong Delta.”
“He sounds quite interesting.”
“Oh, that and more. Silver Star, Navy Cross. In sixty-nine when I was getting out, Harry still had a year of his enlistment to do. They posted him to London. Embassy Guard duty. He was a sergeant then and that’s when it happened.”
“What did?”
“He met a girl at the old Lyceum Ballroom one night, a girl called Jean Dark. Just a nice, pretty twenty-year-old in a cotton frock, only there was one difference. The Dark family were gangsters, what they call in the East End real villains. Her old man had his own little empire down by the river, was in his own way as famous as the Kray brothers. He died later that year.”
“What happened?” She was totally fascinated.
“Jean’s mother tried to take over. Ma Dark, everyone called her. There were differences. Rival gangs. That sort of thing. Harry and Jean got married, he took his papers in London, stayed on and just got sucked in. Sorted the rivals out and so on.”
“You mean he became a gangster?”
“Not to put too fine a point on it, yes, but more than that, much more. He became one of the biggest governors in the East End of London.”
“My God, now I remember. He has all those casinos. He’s the man doing all that riverside development on the Thames.”
“That’s right. Jean died of cancer about five or six years ago. Her mother died ages before that. He just carried on.”
“Is he British now?”
“No, never gave up his American nationality. The authorities could never toss him out because he has no criminal record. Never served a single day in jail.”
“And he’s still a gangster?”
“That depends on your definition of the term. There’s plenty he got away with, or his people did, in the old days. What you might call old-fashioned crime.”
“Oh, you mean nothing nasty like drugs or prostitution? Just armed robbery, protection, that sort of thing?”
“Don’t be bitter. He has the casinos, business interests in electronics and property development. He owns half of Wapping. Nearly all the river frontage. He’s extremely legitimate.”
“And still a gangster?”
“Let’s say, he’s still the governor to a lot of East Enders. The Yank, that’s what they call him. You’ll like him.”
“Will I?” She looked surprised. “And when are we going to meet?”
“As soon as I can arrange it. Anything that moves in the East End and Harry or his people know about it. If anyone can help me catch Sean Dillon, he can.” The waiter appeared and placed bowls of French onion soup before them. “Good,” he said. “Now let’s eat, I’m starving.”
Harry Flood crouched in one corner of the pit, arms folded to conserve his body heat. He was naked to the waist, bare-foot, clad only in a pair of camouflage pants. The pit was only a few feet square and rain poured down relentlessly through the bamboo grid high above his head. Sometimes the Vietcong would peer down at him, visitors being shown the Yankee dog who squatted in his own foulness, although he’d long since grown used to the stench.
It seemed as if he’d been there for ever and time no longer had any meaning. He had never felt such total despair. It was raining faster now, pouring over the edge of the pit in a kind of waterfall, the water rising rapidly. He was on his feet and yet suddenly it was up to his chest and he was struggling. It poured over his head relentlessly, and he no longer had a footing and struggled and kicked to keep afloat, fighting for breath, clawing at the side of the pit. Suddenly a hand grabbed his, a strong hand, and it pulled him up through the water and he started to breathe again.
He came awake with a start and sat upright. He’d had that dream for years on and off ever since Vietnam, and that was a hell of a long time ago. It usually ended with him drowning. The hand pulling him out was something new.
He reached for his watch. It was almost ten. He always had a nap early evening before visiting one of the clubs later, but this time he’d overslept. He put his watch on, hurried into the bathroom, and had a quick shower. There was gray in his black hair now, he noticed that as he shaved.
“Comes to us all, Harry,” he said softly and smiled.
In fact he smiled most of the time, although anyone who observed closely would have noticed a certain world-weariness to it. The smile of a man who had found life, on the whole, disappointing. He was handsome enough in a rather hard way, muscular, with good shoulders. In fact not bad for forty-six, which he usually told himself at least once a day, if only for encouragement. He dressed in a black silk shirt buttoned at the neck without a tie and a loose fitting Armani suit in dark brown raw silk. He checked his appearance in the mirror.
“Here we go again, baby,” he said and went out.
His apartment was enormous, part of a warehouse development on Cable Wharf. The brick walls of the sitting room were painted white, the wooden floor lacquered, Indian rugs scattered everywhere. Comfortable sofas, a bar, bottles of every conceivable kind ranged behind. Only for guests. He never drank alcohol. There was a large desk in front of the rear wall and the wall itself was lined with books.
He opened the French windows and went on to the balcony overlooking the river. It was very cold. Tower Bridge was to his right, the Tower of London just beyond it, floodlit. A ship passed down from the Pool of London in front of him, its lights clear in the darkness so that he could see crew members working on deck. It always gave him a lift and he took a great lungful of that cold air.
The door opened at the far end of the sitting room and Mordecai Fletcher came in. He was six feet tall with iron-gray hair and a clipped moustache and wore a well-cut, double-breasted blazer and a Guards tie. The edge was rather taken off his conventional appearance by the scar tissue round the eyes and the flattened nose that had been broken more than once.
“You’re up,” he said flatly.
“Isn’t that what it looks like?” Flood asked.
Mordecai had been his strong right arm for the best part of fifteen years, a useful heavy-weight boxer who’d had the sense to get out of the ring before his brains were scrambled. He went behind the bar, poured a Perrier water, added ice and lemon and brought it over.
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Flood took it without thanking him. “God, how I love this old river. Anything come up?”
“Your accountant called. Some papers to sign on that market development. I told him to leave them in the morning.”
“Was that all?”
“Maurice was on the phone from the Embassy. He says Jack Harvey was in for a bite to eat with that bitch of a niece of his.”
“Myra?” Flood nodded. “Anything happen?”
“Maurice said Harvey asked if you’d be in later. Said he’d come back and have a go at the tables.” He hesitated. “You know what the bastard’s after, Harry, and you’ve been avoiding him.”
“We aren’t selling, Mordecai, and we certainly aren’t going into partnership. Jack Harvey’s the worst hood in the East End. He makes the Kray brothers look like kindergarten stuff.”
“I thought that was you, Harry.”
“I never did drugs, Mordecai, didn’t run girls, you know that. Okay, I was a right villain for a few years, we both were.” He walked into the sitting room to the desk and picked up the photo in its silver frame that always stood there. “When Jean was dying, for all those lousy months.” He shook his head. “Nothing seemed important, and you know the promise she made me give her toward the end. To get out.”
Mordecai closed the window. “I know, Harry. She was a woman and a half, Jean.”
“That’s why I made us legitimate, and wasn’t I right? You know what the firm’s net worth is? Nearly fifty million. Fifty million.” He grinned. “So let Jack Harvey and others like him keep dirtying their hands if they want.”
“Yes, but to most people in the East End you’re still the Governor, Harry, you’re still the Yank.”
“I’m not complaining.” Flood opened a cupboard and took out a dark overcoat. “There’s times when it helps a deal along, I know that. Now let’s get moving. Who’s driving tonight?”
“Charlie Salter.”
“Good.”
Mordecai hesitated. “Shall I carry a shooter, Harry?”
“For God’s sake, Mordecai, we’re legit now, I keep telling you.”
“But Jack Harvey isn’t, that’s the trouble.”
“Leave Jack Harvey to me.”
They went down in the old original freight elevator to the warehouse where the black Mercedes saloon waited, Charlie Salter leaning against it reading a paper, a small, wiry man in a gray chauffeur’s uniform. He folded the paper quickly and got the rear door open.
“Where to, Harry?”
“The Embassy, and drive carefully. A lot of frost around tonight and I’ll have the paper.”
Salter got behind the wheel and Mordecai got in beside him and reached for the electronic door control. The warehouse doors opened and they turned onto the wharf. Flood opened the paper, leaned back and started catching up on how the Gulf War was progressing.
The Embassy Club was only half a mile away, just off Wapping High Street. It had only been open six months, another of Harry Flood’s developments of old warehouse property. The car park was up a side street at the rear and was already quite full. There was an old Negro in charge who sat in a small hut.
“Kept your place free, Mr. Flood,” he said, coming out.
Flood got out of the car with Mordecai and took out his wallet as Salter went off to park. He extracted a five-pound note and gave it to the old man. “Don’t go crazy, Freddy.”
“With this?” The old man smiled. “Wouldn’t even buy me a woman at the back of the pub these days. Inflation’s a terrible thing, Mr. Flood.”
Flood and Mordecai were laughing as they went up the side street, and Salter caught up with them as they turned the corner and reached the entrance. Inside it was warm and luxurious, black and white tiles on the floor, oak paneling, oil paintings. As the cloakroom girl took their coats, a small man in evening dress hurried to meet them. His accent was unmistakeably French.
“Ah, Mr. Flood, a great pleasure. Will you be dining?”
“I should think so, Maurice. We’ll just have a look round first. Any sign of Harvey?”
“Not yet.”
They went down the steps into the main dining room. The club atmosphere continued, paneled walls, paintings, table booths with leather seats. The place was almost full, waiters working busily. A trio played on a small dais in one corner and there was a dance floor, though not large.
Maurice threaded his way through the tables by the floor and opened a door in quilted leather that led to the casino part of the premises. It was just as crowded in there, people jostling each other at the roulette wheel, the chairs occupied at most of the tables.
“We losing much?” Flood asked Maurice.
“Swings and roundabouts, Mr. Flood. It all balances out as usual.”
“Plenty of punters, anyway.”
“And not an Arab in sight,” Mordecai said.
“They’re keeping their heads down,” Maurice told him. “What with the Gulf business.”
“Wouldn’t you?” Flood grinned. “Come on, let’s go and eat.”
He had his own booth in a corner to one side of the band, overlooking the floor. He ordered smoked salmon and scrambled eggs and more Perrier water. He took a Camel cigarette from an old silver case. English cigarettes were something he’d never been able to come to terms with. Mordecai gave him a light and leaned against the wall. Flood sat there, brooding, surveying the scene, experiencing one of those dark moments when you wondered what life was all about and Charlie Salter came down the steps from the entrance and hurried through the tables.
“Jack Harvey and Myra—just in,” he said.
Harvey was fifty years of age, of medium height and overweight, a fact that the navy blue Barathea suit failed to hide, in spite of having been cut in Savile Row. He was balding, hardly any hair there at all, and he had the fleshy, decadent face of the wrong sort of Roman emperor.
His niece, Myra, was thirty and looked younger, her jet-black hair caught up in a bun and held in place by a diamond comb. There was little makeup on her face except for the lips and they were blood red. She wore a sequined jacket and black miniskirt by Gianni Versace and very high-heeled black shoes, for she was only a little over five feet tall. She looked immensely attractive, men turning to stare at her. She was also her uncle’s right hand, had a degree in business studies from London University and was just as ruthless and unscrupulous as he was.
Flood didn’t get up, just sat there waiting. “Harry, my old son,” Harvey said and sat down. “Don’t mind if we join you, do you?”
Myra leaned down and kissed Flood on the cheek. “Like my new perfume, Harry? Cost a fortune, but Jack says it’s like an aphrodisiac, the smell’s so good.”
“That’s a big word for you, isn’t it?” Flood said.
She sat on his other side and Harvey took out a cigar. He clipped it and looked up at Mordecai. “Come on, where’s your bleeding lighter, then?”
Mordecai took out his lighter and flicked it without a change of expression, and Myra said, “Any chance of a drink? We know you don’t, Harry, but think about the rest of us poor sods.”
Her voice had a slight cockney accent, not too much, and it had its own attraction. She put a hand on his knee and Flood said, “Champagne cocktail, isn’t that what you like?”
“It’ll do to be going on with.”
“Not me, can’t drink that kind of piss,” Harvey said. “Scotch and water. A big one.”
Maurice, who had been hovering, spoke to a waiter, then whispered in Flood’s ear, “Your scrambled eggs, Mr. Flood.”
“I’ll have them now,” Flood told him.
Maurice turned away and a moment later a waiter appeared with a silver salver. He removed the dome and put the plate in front of Flood, who got to work straight away.
Harvey said, “I’ve never seen you eat a decent meal yet, Harry. What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing, really,” Flood told him. “Food doesn’t mean much to me, Jack. When I was a kid in Vietnam, the Vie
tcong had me prisoner for a while. I learned you could get by on very little. Later on I was shot in the gut. Lost eighteen inches of my intestines.”
“You’ll have to show me your scar sometime,” Myra said.
“There’s always a silver lining. If I hadn’t been shot, the Marine Corps wouldn’t have posted me to that nice soft job as a guard at the London Embassy.”
“And you wouldn’t have met Jean,” Harvey said. “I remember the year you married her, Harry, the year her old dad died. Sam Dark.” He shook his head. “He was like an uncrowned king in the East End after the Krays got put inside. And Jean.” He shook his head again. “What a goer. The boys were queuing up for her. There was even a Guards officer, a lord.” He turned to Myra. “Straight up.”
“And instead she married me,” Flood said.
“Could have done worse, Harry. I mean, you helped her keep things going a treat, especially after her mum died, we all know that.”
Flood pushed his plate away and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Compliments night is it, Jack? Now what have you really come for?”
“You know what I want, Harry, I want in. The casinos, four of them now, and how many clubs, Myra?”
“Six,” she said.
“And all this development on the river,” Harvey went on. “You’ve got to share the cake.”
“There’s only one trouble with that, Jack,” Flood told him. “I’m a legitimate businessman, have been for a long time, whereas you . . .” He shook his head. “Once a crook, always a crook.”
“You Yank bastard,” Harvey said. “You can’t talk to me like that.”
“I just did, Jack.”
“We’re in, Harry, whether you like it or not.”
“Try me,” Flood said.
Salter had drifted across the room and leaned against the wall beside Mordecai. The big man whispered to him and Salter moved away.
Myra said, “He means it, Harry, so be reasonable. All we’re asking for is a piece of the action.”