Reed pitied people who felt they needed to buy this gadget or must use that machine for exercise. He managed to make a lot of household items for strength training: chairs for dipping or press ups, books to increase the depth for handstand presses, towels hung over doors for pull ups to name a few. People just lacked the long-term discipline especially in this time of instant gratification. People bought into the twelve-week programmes punted by various fitness and bodybuilding magazines with steroid laden models on the front cover. He believed in books over magazines; that the information in a book was more trustworthy than a magazine article written under a monthly time constraint.
He began his repetitions with his right leg and began to smile. It felt like it was sinking in—he had killed three men, one after torturing him. Instead of being locked up, they offered him employment. The alternative may not have been attractive, but he’d have jumped at the chance regardless.
His smile faded—I am not employed yet.
Bruce got through the door of his London apartment after returning from a run. For the sake of his joints, he knew he should be using the elliptical trainer stood in the living room corner. It had resembled a towel rack since its purchase. Exercising on static cardio machines bored him, feeling like a hamster on a wheel. He’d commenced bodybuilding recently when a doctor told him a sign of healthy ageing was the retention of muscle mass.
He still loved running outside. He’d got over feeling faintly ridiculous wearing a bum bag—called a ‘fanny pack’ in America—when running. It concealed his Walther M&P45C which held eight rounds. It may not have been the best handgun in the world, but it was small and accurate. Importantly, it had been stolen from a Turkish gangster and untraceable to himself.
He walked into his hotel-like bathroom, stripped off, threw his clothes into the laundry bin, and stepped into the glass cubicle. Cold showers had been his routine for years. It had taken him two years to abscond from warm showers altogether. He’d seen it written in several articles and books; cold-water exposure helped produce more white blood cells. Indeed, he couldn’t remember the last time he had been ill.
He finished, dried off, dressed and walked into the small dining room. Sitting at the small table, he unlocked his laptop. After a few procedures, he located an encrypted email from Jamie.
Jamie Rangel was a twenty-five-year-old Peruvian computer genius living in the UK. He’d been studying at the Imperial College London when Bruce first came across him. The Chameleon Project chief would never know the number of institutes, organisations, and people whose computer systems Jamie had hacked before their first meeting. However, it was Russia’s SVR intelligence agency that eventually managed to locate the student. The SVR, though not the force their precursor the KGB had been, was nevertheless very formidable and dangerous.
Most in the Intelligence community believed them to be behind the assassination of Alexander Litvinenko. The former KGB Agent had fled to the UK for political asylum in exchange for information. In November of 2006, Litvinenko fell ill and was hospitalized with radiation poisoning dying three weeks later. The message had been clear—death will not be quick nor painless for traitors. Bruce respected that.
It had been Jamie who contacted Bruce. He deciphered an encrypted email and was aware the SVR were about to move in on him. He needed an ally and wanted it to be Bruce. Bruce remembered how perturbing he felt that Jamie knew of him. After putting in the necessary precautions, he met him at the British Library on Euston Road. He still remembered how scared the thin Latino had looked back then, sunk into his ill-fitting cardigan. Offering him protection in exchange for the use of his cyber skills seemed a natural discourse. So, began a professional relationship that was extremely valuable to Bruce, and financially lucrative to Jamie.
Jamie was security conscious to the extreme. Nick had used the word ‘paranoid’, but Bruce didn’t agree. The precautions were not only smart but also provided security for everyone involved. Bruce knew he could afford to replace any individual in his team, but he would be hard pressed to substitute the loyalty and skill-set of Jamie. Bruce had picked up skills from the ‘techies’ that had enhanced his working knowledge of computer hacking. Enough to realise Jamie was a master—maybe ‘the’ master. Cross-referencing his work with some of the official hackers on MI5’s pay roll confirmed it. In a few instances when they’d reviewed some of his feats, they’d been convinced some of the work was impossible.
Jamie would only deal with him, never any other agencies. He also insisted he always pick the meeting place and choose the route for them. He could tap into the CCTV cameras and track Bruce—and anyone who might be following.
Jamie performed a multitude of tasks in his role: tracking funds, intercepting emails, monitoring electronic chatter. He would report in every three weeks unless he’d something pressing, where he’d immediately bring it to Bruce’s attention. Despite being so technologically advanced, he insisted on giving his findings to Bruce in person if he deemed it an emergency or ultra-sensitive. Now the email was asking him for a meet in Chatham. He would give him the precise location nearer the time.
Bruce usually brought Nick along with him as backup to meetings with contacts. They’d a prearranged messaging system that covered them in the event of one being apprehended or worse.
There had been something about Nick’s demeanour that had unsettled Bruce, but he couldn’t explain it. It was not dissimilar to knowing the answer to a test question but being unable to recall it under exam conditions. It gnawed because he couldn’t articulate it to himself and therefore couldn’t act upon it.
He remembered when he first felt a pang of unease. It was when Nick had asked him if they were walking to the meet. Ordinarily, Nick would only ask where he’d have to be, at what time and with what kit. Nick had always been dependable. There wasn’t anyone else he’d trusted more, so he decided to suppress his reservations.
Ravil strolled across Walton Heath Golf course with his two bodyguards doubling as challengers. He guessed the cold crispness of the day was the reason the course was sparse of players. The bodyguards played against him regularly with the offer of £5,000 for any game they could beat him in. In eighteen games, one had managed it but only once. When he had been younger, Ravil could not understand some people’s obsession with golf, but the older version understood; the walk in the open air, relaxed conversation and a game that was a supreme technical challenge. Ravil now had a handicap of eleven—a sticking point he was determined to overcome.
He’d been told most Brazilian Jiu-jitsu practitioners quit soon after obtaining their blue belt. Most hit their first real plateau at this grade. He knew how learning curves worked. First, you improved rapidly, then the improvements slowed into increments which took time and effort. There was an American term that he believed originated in wrestling circles: ‘Embrace the Grind’—an apt expression.
Golf rid him of the stress of this career without being too relaxing. He needed a stress release in his life. He was mindful to unwind even under the most trying of circumstances. He’d seen many of his contemporaries become the victim of the ‘sinkhole syndrome’ by not observing the necessary balance between work and play. He’d seen a clip on a news channel regarding a sinkhole and how they were caused by a collapse underneath the surface layer. He realised this happened to high performing people if they didn’t take a break—they imploded or simply burnt out.
Ravil observed how one of the bodyguards set up to putt for the fifth hole. His feet were shoulder width, slight bend in the stomach, thumbs on the flat section of the grip and the sharp matched the angle of the forearm. Ravil knew he was going to putt it.
As the ball sank in, Ravil clapped twice in congratulations. He was behind now. He dismissed the notion that it could be an omen. The last time he had been amidst such a precarious time was over a decade ago. That was when Ravil single-handedly plunged the entire Russian Bratva into civil war.
Traditionally, only a repeatedly jailed convict could b
ecome a ‘made man’—a Vor—within the Russian Bratva. To be crowned involved approval by several Vors and the newly made man would be marked by a tattoo during the ceremony.
Ravil had been the first to object to the ideas of jail time and tattoos which had caused an uproar. He had a vision, and a brigade full of ex-prisoners with identifying tattoos ran against it.
After fourteen months of paying a few of the right people, and killing a lot of stubborn dissenters, Ravil achieved his aim of policy change within the Brotherhood. However, it had taken its toll with Ravil falling prey to tiredness, colds, migraines and insomnia. He realised the importance of taking time out to pursue enjoyment during times like this.
What was about to occur was going to send shock waves through the British establishment and beyond. The first step was nigh: the kidnap and interrogation of the man he and Makar referred to as Opekun—‘The Guardian’. Ravil was perturbed that Opekun had gone under his radar until recently. One day one of Ravil’s contacts ensnared a recording of Opekun. Ravil questioned whether Opekun knew he was being recorded.
“I am responsible for the protection of the British people. I do not care what these people do in other countries. It’s not my responsibility. The people who empathise or appease them only make the matter worse in the long run. Greed is a basic human trait, and if you allow these people an inch, they will take a mile. Germany could still control most of Europe to this day if Hitler didn’t get so greedy. I will fight any one man or organisation who think they can set roots here. Until they kill me trying.”
Ravil felt a surge of admiration when he had listened to it. His admiration grew when he learned that the contact who had recorded the conversation had drowned in a fishing accident two weeks later.
Connor had tracked Nick for a full day now.
Nick hadn’t left the hotel he was staying in thus it hadn’t been a challenge. The headache would come when he’d to track him on the move. Connor had taken a calculated risk. He knew he couldn’t stay awake at all hours waiting for the target to leave. He needed a plan. He had walked into the hotel and drew the attention of the young manager behind the reception, noting the name on the tag.
Connor took out his Naval Identification Card. It used to irk him that it was labelled ‘Royal Navy’ and not ‘Royal Marines’. To give it some semblance of authority, he’d put it in a plastic holder meant for his railcard. Showing the manager the card he announced, “Military Police sir, is there somewhere we can talk in private?”
“Errr…yes…erm…follow me.”
He was led into a small office and took a seat in front of the nervous looking Jason Reynolds.
“Mr Reynolds, I’ll be brief because time is of the essence. There is a guest within this hotel who we have reason to believe is involved in a drug trafficking ring.”
Reynolds’s lower lip detached itself from the upper and Connor continued. “Because at this juncture it is only suspicions, we are unable to maintain a twenty-four-hour surveillance on the hotel. There simply aren’t enough human resources. I would need your assistance, sir.”
The Manager leant forward. “What…what can I do to help?”
“All I need you to do, is to call me whenever this gentleman leaves the hotel…not just checks out, I mean whenever he steps foot out of that door sir,” said Connor before he unfurled a picture of Nick.
“Is that OK? I will see to it your assistance is appreciated”.
“Yes…happy to help.”
“Thank you, Mr Reynolds. Circulate that photo among the staff on reception. Ensure the next member of staff on shift is briefed by the previous. The man isn’t renowned for being physically dangerous, so there’s no need to be nervous. Could you pass me the pad and pen behind you, and I’ll give you my number. My team and I are staying at the ‘Lock and Key’ across the road.”
Connor had wrote down his number, made the reception manager call him on his mobile to confirm it.
“Thank you for your assistance,” he had said. He had shook the manager’s hand firmly and left.
Now he was sat back in his room across the street, bag fully packed. He watched ‘The Jeremy Kyle Show’ in a kind of morbid amusement. Connor had come across people like these guests when he’d visit his dad and went ‘debt-collecting’ with his uncle.
Connor thought about his father’s side of the family, where hardness and ruthlessness were a necessity.
16
Bruce drove on the M25 towards Basildon, exhaling again at having to stop with the rest of the traffic. He’d rather continuously crawl along at fifteen mph, even if he got there later. Still, the BMW provided a comfortable drive.
He had just finished a hands-free call to his niece Millie, which had helped to pass the time. She’d been upset. Her ex -boyfriend Richard had ended it after admitting to being married. She lamented on what a scumbag he was and what a lucky escape she had. Bruce had regurgitated the usual cliché quotes.
As the traffic coughed along, Bruce was getting drawn into listening to a topical debate on Radio 2. It centred on the social comparisons of attitude towards the elderly between the UK and countries like India and China. Bruce had seen a bit of that himself: the old people of an Asian family were taken in by relatives which was almost unheard of amongst white Britain. The common discourse was professional home care followed by a nursing home. He was just about to listen to one woman’s counter argument over the air when his phone rang.
“Yes,” he answered.
“It’s me. Ken Follet. Be at The Lemon Tree tomorrow at 13.00. It’s near the railway station. Got it?”
Bruce knew instantly who the electronically distorted voice belonged to; ‘Ken Follet’ was one of the various author based code names agreed upon by him and Jamie.
“Got it,” answered Bruce, and the phone cut off.
The cream pattern ceiling contrasted with the burgundy veneer of the walls and soft carpet. The bowls of lights on the walls drew the eye to the various esteemed paintings dotted around: contemporary artwork of soft eroticism juxtaposed with the centuries-old canvases of battleships and historical figures.
Stanton and his companion lounged on the brown leather sofa chairs, as they nursed scotches. They’d met in this exclusive London private members club to ensure discretion: a public meeting between the Director-General of the Security Service and the Commissioner of Police of the Metropolis would attract attention.
Commissioner Sir Antony Adamson was a non-descript man of average build. His white and grey hair buzzed short, with a moustache retaining much of its original soft brown. His grey eyes remained bright and inquiring. His Portsmouth—‘Pompey’—accent lightly garnished his voice in relaxed company.
He looked at Stanton. “Dark clouds are looming Roger. Three of the most powerful crime figures in London have disappeared within the space of a week. Tommy Lloyd’s body was found last night in a rubbish skip in Islington after a tip-off to one of our officers. The media are going to dine out on this. I was hoping you may have some ideas?”
Tommy Lloyd had been the head of one of the most powerful white organised crime syndicates in London. Marvin Amos, the leader of the Tottenham Mandem Gang and Wei Cung, a prominent figure within the Sun Yee On Triad organisation, had also disappeared.
Stanton cleared his throat. “Isn’t this type of gang warfare typical every ten years or so. Re-structuring so to speak?”
“Indeed, but it’s usually the rooks and knights who bear the brunt of the bloodletting. These three are all major players.”
“What does our friend at the NCA say?”
Stanton was referring to the Director-General of the National Crime Agency Meredith Jones. He was aware relations between Adamson and Jones were frosty.
“She said she couldn’t speculate. We’ll see if she’s willing to impart more at the meeting tomorrow. I wanted to see if you had anything I could filter down to my guys beforehand.”
Adamson was referring to a multi-agency meeting scheduled for the n
ext day’s afternoon. Representatives from the Ministry of Justice, NCA, Scotland Yard, the MET and MI5 were to attend.
“Tony, this has been a surprise to me also. We’ve had our hands full with other things frankly. I’ll look into it and get back to you.”
Adamson took another sip of his Scotch. “There was one thing Meredith and I did agree on. Whoever are behind this, they are very smart, very professional, ruthless and worse—ambitious.”
Connor’s father had been the criminal kingpin around Leeds in Connor’s youth. The foundations of him becoming such a lethal figure were inadvertently laid by Connor’s Grandfather. Connor’s paternal grandfather Frank was a former Army Commando who served during the Suez Crisis in 1956 and boxed extensively for the army.
From what Connor could ascertain, his grandfather had moved back to the Burmantofts area in Leeds after his time in the army. The story was Frank had beaten up members of a local crime family single-handedly who had tried to take over a pub that he frequented. The family tried several times to avenge this dishonour to no avail. They stopped when his grandfather crippled two of them. Connor never could correlate the image of this fearsome fighter to the grandfather who would sit on the floor and play draughts with him as a child.
Soon, his reputation spread and landlords sought him out. Frank put the word out that these pubs were under his wing and made the occasional appearance. This alone would be sufficient to deter any aggravation. He soon had six pubs from which he collected reasonable wages. He refused to take on any more,—‘greed could be a man’s downfall’ he would say.
The confident twenty-four-year-old Frank met a blonde twenty-year-old Paulette at a local dance. Both were smitten from the beginning and they married five months later in the St Agnes’ Church. Over the next five years, Paulette went on to give birth to five boys; the middle child being Connor’s father Gregory Colin Ryder.
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