by R. W. Hughes
‘Yes, sir! I’ll come straight away.’ The station superintendent wanted to see him. It would no doubt be about the murder so he picked up the file from his desk. Pointless really, he thought as he made his way down the corridor, there’s nothing more to report since the last meeting several days ago.
Surprisingly, he was waved straight through by the superintendent’s secretary, even though there were several other officers of much senior rank than him in the small waiting room, all with previous appointments.
‘Take a seat, Paul,’ said the superintendent, indicating a seat opposite him. Paul Robinson felt an air of apprehension in the room as he placed his body in the chair indicated.
Superintendent Robert Mackay and Paul Robinson had known one another for many years; they had both started as rooky constables at the same time. Robert Mackay had been selected to be fast tracked and the cynical rumour in the station at the time was that this happened because of his university education and, possibly, because Robert Mackay and his father were also members of the Freemasons.
‘Paul, I’ve received some further information on this Larkin case. It’s come from the chief constable’s office. I must emphasise that what passes between us in this room needs to be confined to this room for the present.’
The superintendent took a deep breath before continuing. ‘The American CIA has picked up a message on a mobile phone. Apparently their worldwide satellite recording equipment automatically kicks in when triggered by certain words. As a result, I’ve taken delivery of a recording which is believed to come from a person in Italy who we know as Geoffrey Larkin!’
Paul Robinson sat upright in his chair, he was looking at the superintendent in amazement.
‘No way! How the hell could Larkin have got mixed up with the American CIA?’ They dealt with terrorists and Larkin was just a small-time con man come petty crook.
‘Close your mouth, Paul,’ said the superintendent smiling. ‘Listen to this recording. There was an electrical storm at the time so the odd word is missing but the CIA have requested our assistance in giving them any information as Larkin is one of our nationals. This has been sanctioned by the powers that be, on this side of the pond.’
The superintendent pressed the play switch on a recording machine on his desk.
Quite distinctive above the static was the name Geoff Larkin spoken by a man with a Scottish accent, also an obvious request for specific explosives possibly available in Albania.
‘There is another recording,’ said the superintendent, ‘which is a lot clearer. In this he informs his contact, a guy called Jock who is mentioned in the previous conversation, that he requires confirmation of the serial numbers on these goods. We can assume that these are the explosives in question and he obviously does not trust his supplier. Who we presume is this Jock. There is also a figure of £6000 mentioned and payment is to be made using, of all things, credit cards! The numbers given are being traced to see who they belong too.’
‘Credit cards!’ repeated Paul Robinson.
‘That’s what the tape says,’ replied the superintendent. ‘Listen to the second tape.’
Both men listened to the recording of the second conversation, where Geoff had spoken to Jock the Fence.
‘That certainly sounds like Larkin,’ said Paul Robinson, recalling the times he had spoken to him on previous occasions. ‘That other voice is a small time fence, appropriately named, Jock. We’ve been trying to pin that crafty blighter down for years but I don’t know about him being an arms dealer, that’s out of his league. I would like to involve my constable in this if I may sir,’ he said, looking across at his superior officer.
The superintendent thought for a few moments. ‘Okay, but no one else at the present. Special Branch has asked for our assistance so put a file together. They’re sending someone down to collect it later. In the meantime, they want us to keep a low profile surveillance on this Jock’s place until they can assess the situation in detail. Apparently, there is a meeting of the world’s leading industrial nations due to take place in Italy shortly. Their security teams are, understandably, on tenterhooks. This intercepted telephone message has set all their alarm bells ringing. That’s all Inspector Robinson! Take these tapes but keep them under lock and key and emphasise to your constable the need for confidentiality.’
Paul Robinson left the superintendent’s office, his mind in a whirl. Geoff Larkin, bloody little con man! Larkin, involved in a terrorist ring, it certainly takes some believing. Robinson hurried back to his own, less luxurious office, using his mobile phone on the way to contact his constable.
‘Something big has cropped up, constable, regarding Geoff Larkin. He’s out of his depth in some deal in Italy. The shit has hit the fan good and proper. Report back to my office as soon as you can. It’s urgent!’
Robinson wanted to go over the tapes again, in detail, with his constable, to try and glean from them as much information as was possible. Also, following the superintendent’s instructions, he sent a team to watch the Scotsman’s shop. They had instructions to just observe from a distance, make notes, and no more!
In the meantime at the hotel in Florence, Marco had received a report from the Italian, Luca, via his mobile phone concerning the sighting and following of Geoff Larkin. He had passed on most of the details to his boss, Mr. Brown. What Marco deliberately failed to mention was the involvement of the two Germans. That same day, Marco had received a telephone call informing him that his brother, who he’d been in contact with, had arrived in Rome from Cyprus. He had also brought along a nephew who spoke quite good Italian. They would be travelling by train to Florence and they would contact him again when they arrived in that city, joining him as soon as they received his instructions.
Marco booked them into a small, two star hotel several blocks from where he was staying. He then contacted them by phone to give them the address, telling them he would call at their hotel later that evening.
It was later after dinner before Marco managed to slip away, leaving Mr. Brown cursing the other members of the team, and moaning about incompetent Italian, small-time crooks and their seemingly lack of organisation or their capability of producing any positive results.
For Marco it was an emotional reunion with his relations, especially his brother who was eighteen months younger than himself. He had not seen them since leaving Cyprus five years earlier. After the greeting he explained the situation to his brother and nephew, they were not unduly concerned, having both worked for various criminal gangs in Nicosia.
They were quite confident that they were capable of looking after themselves in any situation. It was Marco’s promise of big, big, money that had tempted them to fly to Italy.
‘I need you to check all the taxi ranks. You are enquiring about four young Englishmen with either one or two older Germans, one who needs the assistance of a walking stick.’
He handed his brother photographs of the four lads. ‘They are staying somewhere in this area. They’re also using a big black Mercedes. My boss has the local Italians working for him, for us to hit the big time we need to find them before they do.’
*
Geoff left the bus at the terminal car park on the outskirts of the old, walled town. He stopped for several minutes to admire a new, red sports car in the showroom window of the Alfa Romeo car agency before entering the town by the eastern entrance.
Going through one of the huge, stone arched gateways he meandered slowly through the narrow, cobbled streets. With tall buildings on either side he immediately noticed how cool it was in comparison to the stifling heat he had encountered on the open space of the large car park.
At a newsagent’s he purchased a detailed map of the area which was, or so it said on the cover, ‘Especially for cyclists’. He continued slowly towards the northern gateway of the town where he knew the Mark 111 was situated.
He soon realised that the big Merc would be no good coming this way through the narrow streets in the city, the acc
ess was too restricting, they would just get trapped. They would have to keep to the main roads if it came to a quick getaway.
From the shadow of the great stone pillars that supported the massive, permanently open, heavy, iron, studded gates, he could see the Mark 111 tank, the Municipal Building and the main road dropping away down the hill to a set of traffic lights.
The old part of the town where he was now standing was pedestrianised for most of the day, vehicles only being allowed access early in the morning and after ten o’clock at night. He realised that the headlights of any vehicle using this entrance at night to leave the city lit up the front entrance of the Municipal Building. That was something he would need to look in to. Looking at the detailed map, he identified a narrow secondary one way service road which ran from the traffic lights to the far side of the community of Castligion Fiorentino. It then joined the main road to Arezzo for a short distance before there was a branch off onto the road that led to their villa. Geoff thought that the dodgy stretch was the short length of one way road that led to the main high way to Arezzo but, if they could get down there without being pulled by the Carabinieri, they were in with a chance.
He retraced his steps through the narrow streets and alleyways of the town to the bus terminal. Here he waited in the shadow of the town wall until the bus arrived which shielded him from the taxis and drivers. Then quickly leaving the protection of the shadows he joined the group of people boarding the vehicle that would take him back to where the lads were parked, while seated on the public transport he took the opportunity to study in more detail his recently purchased map of the surrounding area.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Marco’s brother and nephew were following in the footsteps that had been taken by the local Italians who were working for Mr. Brown. They were concentrating their enquiries at the taxi ranks, rail and bus stations between Florence and another main station further down the line called Chuisi.
Marco had assumed that, as the English had been seen twice in the vicinity of Castligion Fiorentino, they must be staying or renting somewhere within that area. From the main railway station at Florence, going in the direction of Rome there was the express which only stopped at several of the main stations between Florence and the main towns of Chusisi. It was in this area that Marco was concentrating his search.
There was also a provincial train that called at all the small local stations on the same route. Neither of the two groups looking for Geoff Larkin and his gang knew at which station the Englishman had departed the train.
The one scrap of information that Marco had, that Mr. Brown didn’t in the search for the four young Englishmen, was that there was also in their company two old Germans, one who needed a walking stick. This meant an ordinary taxi could not take all of them, it would need a larger vehicle and this would most likely have had to be booked from a private hire company.
While Marco’s brother and nephew did all the legwork, double checking the taxi ranks, Marco was busy on the phone in his room going through all the local directories and contacting all the listed car hire and mini bus firms.
It was while he was going through this list that there was a banging on his bedroom door which interrupted his phone calls.
‘Yes! Who is it? What do you want?’ he shouted through the closed door.
‘There’s been a development!’ was the reply from a voice he recognised as one of Mr. Brown’s heavies. ‘Mr. Brown has been trying to contact you for the last half hour but your phone has been busy all the time. He’s not a very happy bunny, Marco; you had better come down at once.’ Marco groaned inwardly. That would mean another slagging off in front of the other two by Mr. Brown’s vindictive, insulting tongue. Still, the excuse was a good one; he was ringing the taxi firms enquiring about the four young Englishmen. He would still omit to mention the involvement of the Germans. That vital piece of information he would keep to himself for the time being.
When Marco entered the hotel’s lounge it was empty apart from Mr. Brown and the two heavies who were there waiting for him. Surprisingly, Mr. Brown did not indulge in one of his usual verbally abusive onslaughts. Instead he came straight to the point and the reason for calling the meeting.
‘The organisation which I represent,’ he stated, ‘have been recently informed by their contacts that this little pip squeak of a crook, Larkin.’ Mr. Brown forced himself to keep calm and not indulge in one of his tantrums about what he would personally do to this Geoff Larkin when he was eventually traced. But this forced calmness did not last long. ‘That this guy, Larkin,’ he continued, ‘is trying to buy explosives through a contact in London. Through our organisation’s contacts in Eastern Europe we are going to supply Mr. Fucking Larkin with what he has requested then when he goes to collect his goodies we, that is, you gentlemen, will be waiting to pick him up. When we’ve kicked the shit out of him and his little play mates and we’ve got what we came over here for we will fasten these explosives to what’s left of Mr. Larkin and co. and blow the bastards into the next fucking world!’
The thought of what actions he would take when he eventually caught Geoff and his gang sent Mr. Brown into convulsions of hysterical laughter.
Marco left the hotel lounge with the loud laughter of his boss still ringing in his ears. If he was to trace Geoff Larkin he and his relations would have to move fast. That would mean involving the local Italians much more and disclosing the information about the two Germans. It was a risky strategy but, at least, any information directed for Mr. Brown would first have to come to him. He could possibly delay passing it on for a short while until his brother had been informed and had chance to act. But after weighing up all the pros and cons, Marco decided against going down that road for the moment, that information was his ace and he would keep it to himself and his relations for the time being.
*
It was while Geoff was on the bus travelling back to the terminal where he had left John Bolton and Sooty that his mobile phone rang with a text message. It contained the details of a delivery date and place for the goods requested, as well as, a series of what was obviously serial numbers. This was the information he had requested and needed, which he would have to discuss with Peer and Werner. The response was also very quick, much too quick for the Scot on his own to come up with, which confirmed to him that Jock the Fence was passing everything on to the mob as he had suspected. He could not trust Jock the Fence.
The seeds of an idea were already starting to form in his brain; money was Jock’s God; he would sell information about Geoff and his mates as soon as spit. Geoff would try and use Jock the Fence and his newfound associates to his own advantage. He smiled to himself as the details of his plan continued to form in his mind. The more he thought about it, the more he liked it. Whatever they, the heavy mob, may have planned, if they were on the scene at all, which he was sure they were, his little scheme, with a little luck, could possibly outwit them.
There was a problem though. His plan had little chance of success and it could only succeed if Peer Merkel would be prepared to play ball by getting a little deeper involved.
It was after dinner and Peer and Werner had removed themselves to the chairs around the pool, as was becoming their custom, finishing their evening with a brandy and a good cigar. The rest of the lads usually cleared the dinner table, washed all the dishes then set the table for breakfast. ‘Efficiency,’ was what Peer called it.
Geoff had decided he might as well be as direct as possible. Time was not to his advantage, he needed a decision quickly.
‘Would you two gentlemen like a drive down the east coast with a couple of us lads and, possibly, take a ferry across to Corfu for a day trip?’
Even though his statement was said in a casual, light hearted manner, he knew the two old soldiers would read what his intentions were, guessing immediately what the purpose of the trip was and also the implications it may have on their safety and wellbeing.
Not a word was spoken as the two men
looked at Geoff, absorbing what he had suggested. Meanwhile, he busied himself bringing another chair from the far side of the pool to join them. It was Werner who was the first to reply to Geoff’s offer.
‘This excursion that you wish to take us on along one of the most beautiful stretches of coastline in Italy and also the ferry trip across to the Greek island of Corfu is most generous on your part, however, in view of the present situation I think that if Peer and myself were to accompany you and your friends on this journey, our freedom and possibly our future safety, could well be in great danger.’
Geoff’s immediate thought was that because the pair of them hadn’t completely condemned the idea out of hand, he was still in with a chance of persuading them.
‘There is a risk, I’ll give you that,’ he replied, ‘but it’s no more dangerous than driving around in this area, in fact, it would be much safer as the mob are not looking for us in that part of the country. As far as the authorities there would be concerned, we are simply tourists along with several hundred more travelling from one EU country into another.’
There was a long silence before Werner replied, ‘You give us a little time to talk Geoffrey, then we answer you.’
The two Austrians conversed in their native tongue in what to Geoff seemed like an eternity. In actual fact, it was only several minutes. It was Peer who eventually spoke to Geoff. ‘But documentation that Italiano authorities looking, arrest you border with Greece, clamp in irons, put in jug, throw key in drink, my friend, Werner and me be irons together along your side.’
Geoff could not help smiling to himself as he wondered where Peer Merkel had picked up some of his English expressions, the more excited and agitated he became, the more broken his English became.