by John Day
His step father was a person of high social standing within the UK Government. It would kill the man to carry the burden of shame. Much the same for his step mother, too.
Then there was his stepsister, they were devoted to each other and apart only so he could prove he was able to stand on his own two feet and not benefit from the family name. Look how that turned out. It couldn’t be much worse.
Somehow, he had to make this salvage operation work, everything depended on it.
Alone in his well-appointed though typical city hotel, free of distractions, his mind looked for answers to his life problems.
After raiding the mini-bar for gin & tonic, he slumped into an overstuffed armchair to compose his thoughts.
An idea occurred to him and he flicked through his contacts for the salvage company Benny had recommended. The sort of concern where legality was a flexible concept, operated by people that knew how to keep their mouths shut, in cases like this.
He poked the CALL icon and waited for the pickup.
The tall, strongly built man instinctively ducked as he entered his cabin to answer his smartphone. As it rang, it vibrated, sending it walkabout over the chart table. The curled chart the phone danced across, rolled up tightly when the phone ceased to be a paperweight.
“Hi, is that Charles Henshaw?” Asked Alan in his friendly, confident business-like manner.
Henshaw slumped down into the desk chair of his poky bedroom-come-office. He ran his fingers through his long, sun-bleached yellow mane, while sizing up the caller’s voice. Well-spoken and direct, sounds like a sales rep about to try and sell him something. Well, think again matey!
“Yup!” A man of few words, even before he has cause, Alan thought.
“Alan Patterson here, Benny Markowitz recommended I speak to you about a salvage project I am thinking of doing with him.” Henshaw sat forward, both elbows on the scratched mock mahogany, melamine desktop. The caller had his full attention.
“Oh, that sort of project, is it? What were you thinking of raising?” Charles seemed to be optimistic that his time on the phone would not be wasted. Benny wasn’t the waster of other people’s time that many prospective clients were.
Alan concisely described the problem. “It’s an IXC type sub that went down in the Venezuelan Basin 28 July 1943, just south of Haiti in 3600 metres. Exact position unknown so a fair bit of hunting around will be required.
“I am trying to get a feel for possible financial outlay before proceeding. Can you help me?” Charles tensed his mouth in a weak grin, forming dimples in his smooth, deeply tanned cheeks. The usual thought crossed his knowledgeable mind. This guy was over simplifying. Clients always did that. Anyone would think they were asking him to pop to the corner store for a bottle of cheap wine. Now he would come over as Mr Negative, and tactfully point out the facts that mattered.
“Assuming it was not blown to bits and scattered across the sea bed, or crushed on its way down, or broken apart on impact with the bottom, it will be very expensive. Do you know the answers to any of those?”
Alan resisted the negative vibes of the experienced salvage expert. “Let us assume that it filled up quickly on the way down, so no crushing and that the impact on the seabed was a glancing blow, like the Titanic.” Alan had decided that anything worse than that made the project impractical anyway.
Charles Henshaw was thinking aloud as he replied. “If I remember rightly, the IXC is about 1200 tons so the worst-case load will be double that, filled with water and mud. To lift it, we would need to fit cables at close intervals along the hull. Passing them under the sub by cutting through the silt would be very tricky at that depth. After that, we would take most of the weight by air bags and direct lift by cables to a crane. Once on the surface, we slip a floating dock under it and out she comes.
I would suggest you start at $3 million and keep going until you run out of money.”
“Thank you, Charles, but it is a bit beyond my resources, so sorry to have wasted your time.”
“No problem. Perhaps that is the reason it is still down there. No one will pay anything for a heap of rusted metal.” Charles hoped to elicit a defensive retort that would indicate there was more to the sub than most people knew. After all, Benny was not a collector of World War II museum exhibits.
Alan didn’t bite.
“True enough Charles, I got carried away with the adventure of it and lost sight of reason. Good bye, and thank you again for your time.”
Charles Henshaw gazed thoughtfully at his phone, his face creased with concentration. He then made a call to Benny Markowitz. “Hi Benny, it looks like your client Patterson isn’t going to pay for a survey. Who’s paying my costs?”
“I expected that, but don’t write him off yet. I have another client anyway. You have heard of Mendez in Montevideo, haven’t you Charles?”
Charles felt a chill run up his spine. “Jesus-friggin’ Christ Benny, you don’t want to get on the wrong side of him. If he is stumping up the cash for the search, what will he do if we can’t find the sub?”
“That is exactly why he is joining us on board. He will see for himself everything we see, so he will be fine with it as long as he knows we are not twisting him. I warned him that failure was a possible outcome, though unlikely, and that is why he insisted on coming along.”
“What if he and Patterson learn of the other’s involvement?”
“Without going into details, Mendez knows Patterson is interested in the wreck, that is why Mendez is, and why he is so keen to beat Patterson to it. Just don’t tell Patterson, or I will lose him and I might need him later when we are at the recovery stage.”
“Oh, don’t tell me you intend to set one against the other in a bidding war?”
“Not just the two of them Charles, no. I have another prospect who will join in. You know people like I do, Charles, they are all greedy. If one thinks the other is interested, they want a piece. It keeps them interested, even when things don’t quite pan out. Advertisers do it all the time to the gullible public.”
“For God’s sake, don’t mention your dodgy dealing on the boat Benny, I want no part of that.”
“Don’t worry Charles, I do this sort of thing all the time. It is never my fault if someone else wants to invest.”
“Bye Benny. Just make sure Mr Mendez brings his Debit Card with him, before we sail.”
Charles ended the call and then checked his weapons locker.
Accident.
Gavin Bedell fumbled in his butt-pocket and slid out his phone from his grubby jeans.
“Yea, wadya wunt?” His eyes never strayed from the lead greyhound, as it strained every sinew to catch the uncatchable felt rabbit. Gavin had bet all his unemployment benefit on the long-odds mutt. Could this be the turning point in his life-long streak of bad luck?
His wife knew he was a loser when she met him, but thought she could turn him into something better. Even the baby wasn’t his, he couldn’t even manage that. Still, he was too stupid to twig. Like everything else, maths wasn’t his strong point. What he did know was, if the dog failed him, there was no point in him going home.
The voice at the other end of the phone spoke with a strong Mexican accent, it was Pablo, a dubious friend. “I want you to do a little job for me Gav. A couple of hundred in it for you. Interested?”
Gavin was on a roll; his life was on the up. A win at the dogs and now a job. Not such a loser, bitch! He was thinking of what his wife had said to him as he stormed out, this morning.
“Yea Pablo, can do. I’ll be home in an hour.” He ended the call. Gavin was so stupid, he hadn’t even asked what the job was, he was more concerned at the knackered dog. The creature’s eyes were bulging with exertion and breathing so long and deep, it’s pace slowed to a lope. Every other dog streaked past.
Tossing his ticket in the air, Gavin felt gutted. He trudged home blaming the dog for his misery. The long odds should have warned him he was wasting his money.
*
**
With the certainty of £200 from Pablo, Gavin breezed in and flumped down in the worn two-seater settee, his arm resting on the beer stained, fag burned armrest that was his end. His wife left the galley kitchen, scooped up her child and walked purposefully down the hallway. Her high heeled booted feet echoed with menace on the bare boards.
Gavin watched her walk in. She had a face on her like she sucked lemons. It twisted into a contemptuous sneer. “Gav, I want my money!” Even Gavin knew this was coming. Yes, he was that smart.
Bang, bang, bang. Pablo had arrived and was pounding on the front door, making the wired security glass rattle.
“That’s Pablo. Get us a couple of Fosters sweet-cheeks and I’ll sort you out after. I have a job now.”
Sweet-cheeks rolled her eyes, walked to the door and let Pablo in. The beer was next on her to-do list.
Pablo barged in and stood over Gavin, fiddling with a mix of paper notes. “I want you to borrow a heavy vehicle and shake these people up. Nothing serious, just a clear message saying they are vulnerable.
“Here is a photo of the old couple and where you can find them in Chelsea. This is their car and at about 1.00pm they will drive along this road to lunch.” Pablo showed Gavin the map and the marked route.
“I need more than £200 for that.” Gavin had the air of a top-of-the-range hit man demanding his worth. Something he saw on TV and identified with.
Pablo said nothing as he snatched everything back and headed for the door.
The sight of sweet-cheeks leaning against the doorframe, looking in, shocked Gavin into action. He leapt up, shouting. “Wait, wait Pablo, I was only messing with yah. We’re good yeah?” Pablo wiped the smile from his face as he turned to glare at Gavin. “We’re good, man. Take the money and info and get it done today. Don’t mess up, just shake them badly, that’s all.” Pablo punctuated the statement with a dark glare and a curt nod.
“As good as done Pablo, trust me.”
As Pablo turned for the door again, he smiled at sweet-cheeks as she rolled her eyes in their mutual understanding. The baby, still straddling her mother’s hip, looked at her Mexican father and uttered baby-babble as he passed by.
Still clutching the payment in one fist and the documents in the other, Gav the loser followed Pablo to the door. As he passed sweet-cheeks, she deftly snatched the money and headed out after Pablo. She had shopping to do.
***
The heavy, long wheelbase Ford van, stolen from a delivery man a mile away, tailgated the small saloon car driven by Lord (Pops) Patterson, accompanied by his wife Lady (Mumsie) Patterson. The London traffic was slow this time of day, but they were in no particular hurry to reach their favourite restaurant.
When the traffic lights changed to red, Pops and Mumsie were at the head of the queue. Gavin saw his opportunity and he went for it. The white Ford van revved its engine and forced the small car out into the crossing traffic. A fully loaded skip lorry smashed violently into the side of the car shooting it into the path of fast flowing oncoming traffic. Totally mangled, the wrecked car spun to a stop in the middle of the crossroads.
Gavin leapt from the van and headed for a bus to get back home. The hit was a disaster, so he decided to phone Pablo and get the bad news off his chest. He knew he would feel better about the cock-up with the problem shared.
“Job done, but more ‘done’ than you wanted. The driver and passenger were badly crushed, most likely dead.”
Pablo sucked in air. Horror at the news of the botched mission left him speechless. After a moment to compose himself he spoke dispassionately. He would need to find Gav later and decided not to spook him by expressing anger at his cock-up.
“OK, thanks for the heads-up. To be expected I guess.” Pablo ended the call and took a very deep breath as he stabbed the phone number of his boss.
A desk phone rang in palatial offices half a world away, in South America.
“Mendez!” answered the ruthless Brazilian.
Pablo sounded as matter-of-fact as he could, hoping his report wouldn’t attract the man’s wrath.
“Sir, your request has been carried out, however, as bad luck would have it, damage was severe and both occupants of the car are believed dead.”
An almost contained curse bounced loudly off Pablo’s ear as Mendez struggled to contain his rage.
“Silence your man. This is not the message I intended.” Mr Mendez slammed down the phone.
His intention had been to drive out all feelings of rebellion from Alan Patterson’s mind, once he heard Mendez was behind the warning attack. The evil killer realised even a passive man like Patterson could be driven to take revenge, if he suspected Mendez had murdered his adoptive parents. Patterson could well afford to retaliate in kind. Now Mendez would have to stay silent and hope his carefully planned takeover of Patterson’s failing empire would pan out.
***
It was now late afternoon. Gavin had travelled across London and left the tube station for a long walk home. He had no money left.
Pablo waited patiently in his car for Gavin to pass by, minutes from his home. He spotted the weary man as he trudged along, hands deep in his pockets, head down, lost in a depressed world of his own.
“Gavin!” Pablo called out from the back-garden alley. “Job well done, I have a bonus for you.” Gavin perked up and steered himself eagerly into the narrow passage formed by long, high brick walls, his hands still playing pocket billiards with himself.
Pablo gave a quick glance around, checking no one was about. The stiletto slim, sharp blade slid easily between Gavin’s ribs where they sprouted from his upper spine. With no more than a brief cry, the fool fell to the ground.
In a matter of seconds, Pablo retrieved all Gavin’s documents, his phone and wrist watch. A robbery gone wrong would be the police verdict.
New York.
The flight from Berlin to New York seemed to take for ever. Alan’s anxiety over his Company’s financial mess continued to build with every passing second. Of course, he could easily have telephoned his Financial Director, Albert Palmer, to see if he had a solution yet to the Company’s looming financial abyss. The fact that Albert hadn’t called him didn’t bode well.
It was now late afternoon as Alan walked through the general office where his army of staff worked frenetically at their desks or on the phone. They looked up and cheered, delighted to see their happy, adventurous boss was back at the helm. He looked sun bronzed and healthy as he breezed past his loyal staff. They saw him smiling, confident and understatedly wealthy.
He stopped at random to exchange pleasantries with some of the workers. One in particular, a heavily pregnant young typist who had recently discussed some personal problems with him, before he left for Berlin.
He spoke with her in a low voice to maintain confidentiality. “Hello Marion, did things work out for you?”
The girl turned in her chair and faced him, beaming with delight. “We move into the apartment tomorrow, thanks to you. Your conversation with the vendor clinched the deal. Now my partner Harry has a job here, we can afford the higher rent. Again, thank you for taking him on.”
Alan smiled, gave a nod of appreciation and walked into his own office.
It was all those loyal workers and people like Marion, with her worthless partner, that depended on him so much that caused him the pain and anguish he kept hidden. They perceived him as a hero type, accessible to them and their trivial life problems. A man generous in heart and spirit, not afraid to get stuck in and help them, a resourceful and inventive man.
Alan entered his small, but comfortable office and sank down in his familiar chair, at his lucky desk, reliving the events that led to this moment…
***
Since his investment business started 7 years ago, the company had expanded rapidly, making huge profits in the process. To be tax efficient, profits were rolled over and tax deferred. At the end of this year, the consolidation they had planned on would trigger a massive ta
x bill.
At the beginning of the year, a Mr Mendez, head of a South American company, had invested a billion dollars with the company, in return for a modest, but guaranteed return. That pay-out would also take place at the end of the year. It turned out that Mendez was using the investment to launder money.
When Alan discovered the transaction had been done without due diligence, he was horrified. The member of staff who took the contract had now left the company. As soon as he knew, Alan spoke to Mr Mendez explaining the investment was deemed illegal and that the contract would be terminated forthwith. All costs and penalties would be deducted from the monies being returned.
Mr Mendez did not take the news well and assured Alan that such action had grave consequences.
When Alan left for home that night, a man had materialised out of the shadows as Alan exited the office building. The powerfully built Mexican held up a small shiny metallic object between his thumb and forefinger. As Alan looked more closely, the man moved towards him and thrust the thing, inches from his nose.
It was a large calibre bullet.
Alan froze with fear as he realised what was happening.
The man’s voice was filled with menace. “This is a .45 hollow point bullet. It has your name on it. It has friends and relatives, just like you. One for Sarah, one for Pops, one for Mumsie and another one just for Albert Palmer, your Financial Director and friend.
“Don’t expect a quick, clean kill. It will hit you in the gut. The bullet will deform and blast a big hole in your belly. It will shatter, sending chunks of metal like blades of a liquidiser through you. The pain is something you will have to experience to believe, as you lie there bleeding to death.
“As Mr Mendez warned you, cancelling the contract will have consequences. Think on it before you do something stupid.”
The next thing Alan knew, he was slugged from behind and robbed.
To report the discovery of money laundering to the Authorities at this stage was certain to destroy the company. Alan and Albert thought it was better to see the investment through and hope it would not come back to bite them.