His most profitable customer had funded both the installation of a hi-tech computer suite, and his tuition in IT encryption methods. His name was Abdul Uddra, a Saudi financier who funded various Islamic fundamentalist groups.
Abeeb wasn’t as strong a sympathiser as he liked to appear in front of his more fundamentalist custom base. His God was money, and the status it brought. He didn’t care how these people spent their money, with the exception that he was paid promptly and well. He had been smart—so smart he’d never been caught in the seven years that he’d been handling seven-figure or more accounts and transfers.
In the beginning, he imagined government agencies being all knowing and powerful. With time, and as his wealth grew, this fear became relegated to the background.
Now, standing in his silk pyjamas he watched himself brush his teeth. Ten seconds at twelve different angles. He mused that if he was going to be caught it would have been back when he was nervous and inexperienced. Not now that he was a seasoned professional in the international money laundering game.
‘Mr Negative’, as Connor called him, tried to inject doubt into his thought process—you’re about to murder an unarmed man in his home who isn’t posing any immediate threat. This notion surprised him given what he’d done to Stephen Hardcastle. That had been intensely personal though and he alone had planned it. He quickly quashed this line of thinking with the countering affirmation that Zahid had funded many terrorists over the years to line his own pockets.
This was a necessary measure.
Connor reminded himself of the time, a few years earlier, that he’d given first aid to a screaming little Afghan girl. The right side of her head had received severe burns in a vehicle-borne suicide bomb in Helmand Province. The glimpse of this memory hardened his resolve. He knew that every murderer, child rapist and corrupt banker couldn’t all serve actual life sentences. There just wasn’t the money to keep that many prisons running. Capital punishment wasn’t returning to the UK any time soon either, as much as the working classes repeated it should when setting the world to rights in the pub.
Still, this didn’t mean he couldn’t feel angry. Now he had an outlet for that anger. In fact, he could now strike a blow for justice himself.
Bruce crouched five feet away from the rear camera and beckoned him over. Connor felt like a young version of himself as he climbed onto the taller man’s shoulders with the can of black spray paint at the ready. He remembered his Grandad carrying him on his shoulders in the same manner.
As Bruce stood and took his first step, Connor covered the Scotman’s eyes and stifled a belly laugh. Bruce shook his head violently to rid the obscuring hand and stared at Connor incredulously.
“Fucking eejit,” Bruce muttered under his breath.
Bruce walked Connor just under the security camera and Connor took out the black spray can and blacked it out. Still carrying him, Bruce started towards the front of the house.
“Don’t cover my eyes again, you wee fucker.”
Connor did the same to the security camera at the front, and Bruce let him down. The Scot tried the handle to the front door and found it was locked.
“OK, keep watch while I open this lock,” said Bruce, removing a lock-picking gun from the inside of his jacket. After a few moments, he unlocked the front door.
Connor felt the adrenaline shoot around his veins.
“Now, I’ll rip the alarm off and cut the wires, and you take care of Zahid.”
Connor took a breath—this was it—there was no turning back now. He had been shown diagrams from which he’d memorised the layout of the house. He smashed the handle down, and his pounding feet raced up the stairs.
The bedroom door crashed through under his boot, and he found the wild-eyed Zahid scrambling from his bed. The duvet was wrapped around him like it was alive.
As Connor approached, he heard the horrific screams of the little girl in Afghanistan adjoined with the image of her pain-seared eyes and the smell of burnt flesh. Euphoria shot through him as he smashed the hammer into Zahid’s skull with a thunking crack. The cranium caved in, and an expression of terror froze onto launderer’s face. Connor felt a primal thrill as he hammered the skull to a pulp.
The lifeless body slid to the floor with an inordinately large pool of blood emanating from the smashed head. A thought occurred to Connor as clear as day—that he wasn’t James Bond and never would be. Bond was meant to have a cold detachment when killing baddies.
But Connor loved it.
The sound of commercial pop music played through the medium of the wall mounted televisions permeated throughout the Manchester gym. The treadmills and static bikes whirred as people zoned out to the images on the screens. Young men populated the free weights area dressed in tank tops and wearing snapback baseball caps, extolling one another with catchphrases such as, “It’s all you!”, “Push, push, push!” and “Lightweight.”
Four Asian youths, with upper bodies disproportionately large in comparison to their legs, took turns on the bench press.
Some of Nick Flint’s friends would ridicule gyms like this, but he liked coming now and then. From the spit and sawdust weightlifting gyms he usually went to it was a change of ambience. There were women here too. He could also bank on the squat rack being free. He stood in the rack breathing deeply after his second set with his palms resting on the barbell. He was amid a six-week hypertrophy phase, designed to increase muscle size.
The high protein/high carbohydrate diet consisting of six to eight meals spread over the course of the day could be tedious in both the preparation and the consuming. The heavy barbell squats performed for sets of ten could be brutal. However, the additional muscle mass could be very handy in his line of work, and he liked being a muscular guy anyway.
He remembered how lean he was after selection to become a badged member of the SAS. Perhaps this sort of training wasn’t so ‘brutal’ in comparison, he thought.
He gripped the barbell tightly and ducked under it pinching his shoulder blades together. He rested it on the shelf of muscle underneath the base of his neck.
Nick squeezed his core tightly letting the tension irradiate throughout his musculature—he didn’t wear a weightlifting belt. He sipped the air as he lifted the 140kg off the rack pins and began his descent. He always went full depth, before pushing through his heels for the ascent.
The weight bore on him like a giant’s thumb as the veins throughout his shoulders, upper chest and neck stood out in bold relief. At the top of his reps, the thighs displayed a remarkable muscularity.
He fought through the burning pain of the final two reps. It took almost the last of him to step forward and re-rack the bar. He leant against it pretending not to notice the surreptitious looks from the other gym patrons, including a couple of the women on static bikes in the reflections of the mirrors. He leant down to his small training holdall to take out his pre-prepared protein shake when he noticed a message waiting on his work phone.
‘We need to talk. Use a phone box,’ it read.
Connor continued his training throughout the following months. He was tested every day, physically, mentally and spiritually. That he was the only recruit on the course felt alien to him. On every training course in the Marines, he’d always been surrounded by other lads. Here, aside from the instructors, Connor was alone. None of the directing staff ever extended him any familiarity. He wasn’t being screamed at or insulted, and every criticism was constructive and measured.
Still, he wasn’t being encouraged either.
The line between instructor and student wasn’t ever crossed, by any of them, nor had it been by him. He didn’t want them to be his friends, not while he was ‘on course’.
Every morning began with either weapons training or unarmed combat. This would be followed by memory training, learning about key personalities and the structures of different terrorist or organised crime threats. Surveillance training, driving at speed, basic Arabic and lock-picking were ha
mmered in. There were lectures and practical lessons on agent recruitment and handling. The complex geography of major cities in the UK and Europe had been impressed into him day after day.
Sometimes his brain felt akin to a left-over lasagne.
The fight training often left him feeling vulnerable and in pain, but he loved it. Everything stretched him, making him better for his new profession.
Connor felt a definite purpose he hadn’t felt in years. He knew that this was the real reason the Scotsman had included him on the mission before he completed his training—to let him know that the skills he was learning would be used.
It bothered him that in the Marines some of the more arduous training might never be used. He knew of Sergeant Majors with twenty years of service, who had been to Belize and Norway several times in their career on exercise, having never had the opportunity to complete an operational tour in jungle or arctic conditions. Though, he’d heard it argued, that most of the skills in those conditions were transferrable to any environment, it had still bothered him.
Also, McQuillan had probably wanted to see if he could kill someone up close, which was different to engaging the enemy with a rifle at range.
However, he also knew McQuillan wanted to let him know he would be making a difference. Connor was aware that this was what he wanted to do with his life and thanked providence.
This morning, when he had walked into the dojo, he saw another man in addition to George. The man was about an inch taller than himself, stocky, with a shaven head and prominent features.
With the man prowling around in the corner of the cage wearing black and red Lycra fight shorts, Connor could sense why he was here.
The man thankfully didn’t make eye contact. Connor thought it was ridiculous to try and win a staring contest with a man he was going to punch the fuck out of anyway.
The man looked South American, possibly Brazilian, with every muscle clearly defined.
“You will be fighting this man under Vale Tudo rules,” said George.
Connor stripped his training vest off revealing his tattooed torso. He made a conscious effort to remain non-emotional. He turned to face the man.
“No eye gouging, fish-hooking, biting or tearing ears off. Other than that, it’s no holds barred,” George announced.
Connor’s adrenaline spilt out like cold liquid around his internal organs. He controlled his breathing and reminded himself to keep his defence tight and not to over-reach. They circled one another, and Connor threw a couple of sharp jabs to test his opponent’s reactions. He kept switching the angles and kept off the centre line.
Feinting the jab, Connor sank a thudding right to the body which fired out the Brazilian’s breath. Connor ducked the whipping left hook, sliding to his right before clattering his fist off the bald head. The man stumbled, righted himself and threw a swift kick to the thigh. Connor blocked its path with his shin—the adrenaline switched off the pain that would throb later through the bone.
His opponent shot out his hands to grip Connor only to find the hollow of his eye smashed by a headbutt.
By his reaction, the Brazilian had forgotten the lack of rules.
Connor seized his opportunity with a hard knee to the stomach, raining punches and knees both to the head and body. Captured by both legs under his arse, Connor was elevated into the air. He couldn’t wrap an arm around the opponent’s neck quick enough, so had to break his fall by smashing the mat with both hands.
The wind vacuumed from him.
He wrapped his legs around the Brazilian’s waist and crossed his ankles together. Fighting to survive the moment, he blocked the incoming blows with hands and forearms.
He shot up and threaded his arms underneath his opponent’s armpits, pulling him tight to his chest. Releasing his hooked feet, he jammed them between the Brazilian’s thighs. Like a pair of pliers, he opened his opponent’s legs and tipped him onto his back. His elbow smashed onto the skinhead’s jaw and he whipped his legs either side his chest. Connor reared up to give himself room to hammer the Brazilian’s face with punches.
The skinhead made a grab for one of Connor’s wrists. Connor snapped his grip onto the wrist of his opponent’s outstretched arm and swung tightly around to trap it tight between his legs. The skinhead had managed to grasp both his wrists. Judging by the corded muscles of the forearms, it would be difficult to release the grip by wrenching it apart.
Connor smiled.
The bottom of his fist hammered onto the skinhead’s nose. His opponent released his grip and Connor cranked on the arm bar. The skinhead frantically tapped Connor’s leg and the mat in submission. The thought flashed through Connor’s mind to break it because of his surliness at the start but instead he let it go and lay there sucking for breath. He was elated, though—he had survived.
George shouted, “Next!”
10
Carl exited the hotel and approached Pierre’s car.
He had changed into a light grey business suit, not dissimilar to the style that Pierre wore and had noticed some of the women’s looks as he made his way through the hotel.
When he got into the car, Pierre informed him that any question he wanted an answer to, he could ask. It was then when he knew that there was no going back. They wouldn’t let him walk away from the job and live once he knew the answers to the questions he was about to ask.
The car began to move.
“Who runs the show within the organisation in London?” Carl asked.
Pierre tilted his head back before answering,
“Monsieur Ravil Yelchin, born in Minsk at 1960. He made his reputation during the eighties where he greatly specialised in the export of contraband oil and precious metals from Russia. It is unclear when he joined the Bratva.”
“How did he become so powerful?”
“Years before the collapse of the Berlin Wall, he was selling western goods in Eastern Europe. How he managed to continue the enterprise, year upon year, without falling permanently foul of the KGB, is a testament to his individual discretion and guile. Any Russian crime organisation he may have been a member of back then wouldn’t have been powerful enough to protect him.”
Not many organisations would have been—thought Carl as Pierre continued. “He slowly built his wealth and contacts, keeping the right people satisfied financially and investing in legitimate businesses. Then around the mid-nineties he began to, how you say, diversify into money laundering, prostitution, extortion of government officials with seemingly stunning success, and has continued ever since.”
“How powerful has he become?”
“He was next in line to become the Pakhan for the Moscow faction which would have made him—officially—the most influential member of the Russian Bratva. However, in a shrewd—I like this word—shrewd move, I think he negotiated a deal in which he took over the London err faction.”
“Why a shrewd move?”
“Being the Pakhan for Moscow is massively lucrative with the other Pakhans kicking up a percentage. But it also puts one in an isolated position. Corruption is large in Russia which helps protect the Pakhan from law enforcement,” said Pierre, leaning forward slightly, “the political manoeuvring is much with constant threats of a takeover having to be put down. London affords greater freedom and less stress. I believe he voluntarily took himself out of the running for the appointment, in exchange for fewer constraints being imposed on his London brigade.”
“What makes you say that?”
“His brigade is a lot larger than other cities—excuse moi—than in other cities.”
As the Parisian streets blurred by, Carl looked out of the window in thought—How did Pierre know all this?
“How have you been given a golden pass with regards to the inner workings to the Russian Bratva? I was led to believe it was either a highly secretive organisation or wasn’t nearly as structured as what you’re saying. That there are thousands of factions across the globe that are just known as the Russian Mafia?” Ca
rl asked.
“To answer your first question, I have not been given a golden pass, as you say. I have contacts everywhere, Mr Wright, and I cross-reference this information continually for accuracy,” answered Pierre haughtily. “No one in the Russian Bratva has ever told me more than I needed to know. That some doubt its structure is a testament to its efficiency. It may be a surprise to you but Interpol privately considers it the most far reaching, powerful and profitable organised crime syndicate in le monde—the world. And Ravil Yelchin is its most powerful member no matter who ever resides on the Moscow throne. He wants to take over the world, Mr Wright, and I guess that he is now ready to do so.”
Connor skirted around the mat dragging oxygen into his system. He tried not to show his opponent how depleted he was. He used feints while waiting for a second wind that couldn’t come quick enough.
Connor had cursed to himself when he realised he’d have to face another opponent—I am meant to be training to be an agent for this not learning how to be in the fucking UFC.
He banished such thoughts from his mind. They didn’t help. He would fight until it was physically impossible to resist any longer—I am a Bootneck.
This opponent was an inch or so shorter but stockier, well-built with disproportionately large, muscular thighs. A handsome man with wavy blond hair and an anvil-like jaw. Connor guessed him to be American by the way he carried himself and his glowing white, straight teeth. The man hadn’t spoken.
Also, Connor deduced that he was a wrestler with the way he moved low in a crouch. Unlike in Britain, wrestling was a staple sport imparted in American schools and colleges. Connor pushed him away with a teep to buy time.
Mr Blond was doing a commendable job of checking Connor’s low kicks. It was a painful thing to do but checking kicks didn’t usually disable the recipient like solid kicks to the thighs could. Connor let him come closer and fired a chopping right to the temple forcing him to one knee. With the power of a rushing bull, the wrestler shot in on his leg, took grip and wrenched it off the floor driving forward. Connor hopped backwards while pushing down on the blond’s head, trying to break the hold. The grip was now too tight.
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