by Thomas Waugh
Baruti lived alone, in an apartment at Canada Water, close to the river. The flat was always immaculate, as if the owner had moved in a week ago. He seldom spent any time there though. Life was work. Work was life. Even if it was the dead of night, Baruti would respond to a phone call or text message. The lieutenant oversaw all aspects of the business. The devil is in the detail. A near eidetic memory meant he didn’t have to write much down. Rugova gave his loyal lieutenant free rein, in relation to matters of personnel, strategy and accounting. Together they were greater than the sum of their parts.
Baruti woke at 7.00. He would run for an hour each morning and then perform fifty sit-ups and fifty press-ups, before taking an ice-cold shower. He didn’t smoke, drink or sample any product. His one indulgence was coffee. He had bought two La Marzocco coffee machines. One for his apartment and one for the club. His wardrobe consisted of ten black suits, ten white shirts, ten white polo shirts and ten black tracksuit bottoms. Baruti suffered from OCD. He would be forever straightening his cutlery at the dinner table and, no matter how late it was, would clean and maintain his coffee machine (and gun) before he went to bed.
The kryetar was asexual. He would allow women to give him a massage or manicure, but he considered them to be unhygienic – and duplicitous. He recoiled when he thought of being intimate with a woman. Sex was an animalistic act. Debasing. He had no desire to contract another man’s diseases through a woman. Women bred weakness. The whores in the corner held no temptation for him. Even virgins weren’t virginal. Desire and abstinence were both a matter of will – and Baruti considered himself master of his own will.
He had once been in a relationship with a fellow mathematician in his youth. Sophia appreciated the elegance of numbers, and never asked anything of him – materially or emotionally. She could be as cold as him, which somehow fomented a mutual warmth. Their relationship was based on a passion for intellectualism, rather than carnality. But Sophia moved away.
The killer’s disciplined, yet eccentric, lifestyle gave cause to him earning the nickname “the Mad Monk.” Although an atheist, the teachings of the Koran left their mark on the Muslim.
“Be not weak hearted in pursuit of the enemy… Slay them wherever you find them, and drive them out of the places whence they drove you out… If thou comest on them in war, deal with them so as to strike fear in those who are behind them, that they may remember.”
As per his ritual, Viktor Baruti stirred his coffee four times and then tapped the spoon against the side of the cup twice.
“I want to clarify events. Be clear in your answers. The Englishman approached and asked you to drive off, because you were dealing?”
“Yes,” Bisha asserted, nodding his scabby head, to further emphasise his certainty.
“What did this man look like?”
“He was about six foot. Short, brown hair. Well dressed, in a blue suit.”
“Any facial hair, glasses or distinguishing features?”
“No.”
“Did he have an accent?”
“He was well spoken. But he had a slight London accent. Yes.”
Bisha felt like he was standing under a hot lamp, as Baruti fixed his unforgiving gaze upon him. He would have preferred it if a gypsy gave him the evil eye. He was still scared, lest the kryetar suddenly pulled his gun from his holster. As when he pulled his gun, he usually used it. It wouldn’t matter if he was undeserving of any punishment. Bisha recalled a scene when, accompanying Baruti, he had drawn his pistol and pointed it at the head of a dealer who was suspected of skimming from the weekly take. “I am innocent, I swear,” the dealer protested, his voice and body trembling, as he kneeled in a pool of his own urine. “I don’t believe in innocence,” Baruti had casually replied, pulling the trigger. The man’s head exploded like a watermelon.
“Whoever he is, he’s now a marked man. If somebody attacks you, they attack me. Blood must be paid in blood. It’s the code,” Rugova flatly argued. He had a duty to his men and liked to promote a culture of fraternity. Family. “Can you look into this? I’ve got to be off shortly.”
The krye wanted to leave. He had arranged to visit his girlfriend, Mona, a mixed-raced model and aspiring actress. He had just installed her in a new apartment, in Greenwich. He wanted to see what he was paying for. He had told her to buy a large HD TV, for when he wanted to watch the football. He would fuck her and then leave. His wife was cooking his favourite, comlek, this evening – and he promised his children he would be home early, to take them to the cinema. The krye prided himself on being a man of his word. It was good for business.
“I’ll fix it,” Baruti stated. Each word punctured the air, like a nail being hammered into the wall. The Englishman, at present, was an anomaly. If he had been contracted by one of their competitors to send a message, then why not mention who the message was from? Or was he just a would-be local hero? Was he ex-police or ex-military? It took someone trained, or deranged, to take on someone of Bashkim’s size and best him in such a way. Things didn’t quite add up at the moment, but he vowed to solve the equation. If he willed it, the Englishman was as good as dead already.
8.
Marshal woke-up early, restless and dehydrated. After the wine, he had hit the cognac at the club. He had decided not to go through Porter’s files the night before, as he wanted to do so with a clear head. In order to sweat the toxins out of his system, he went for an hour’s run around Kennington Park.
Dawn stirred and glowed. Or blushed. The colour reminded Marshal of the maroon beret of the Parachute Regiment. A wave of nostalgia, or something more stoical or uplifting, came over him as his feet pounded asphalt and grass. Porter had asked him at dinner if he missed being in the military. During WWII, Montgomery had called the Paras, “men apart.” Porter was also aware of the quote, that the Paras were “uniformed psychopaths” too. Marshal replied that he didn’t miss the drilling, food or being told what to do. But he did miss something about soldiering. “I’m just not quite sure what.”
Marshal let himself recover in the park and returned to his flat. His senses were alert, as if he were entering a hostile environment, with possible snipers or IEDs. Marshal was conscious of surveying the street for any watchers before entering his building. He couldn’t let the enemy know where he was based. He showered and fired-up his laptop, inserting the flash drive.
The files were numerous and varied, drawn from the NCA, the Met and agencies north of the border. Marshal was used to gathering and evaluating intelligence, whether it be in relation to Somali pirates, poppy growers in Helmand or kidnap gangs in Baghdad. Marshal first opened the files pertinent to the gang’s krye, Luka Rugova, and his activities in Scotland.
Rugova had been a rising star in the Albanian mafia in Tirana. He was granted the go-ahead to commence operations in Glasgow. He was given scope to recruit his own personnel and grow his franchise as he saw fit. He flooded the market with cheap product, which was also superior, purer. He forged alliances with rivals but proved aggressive in dealing with any competitors who defied or attacked him. When Rugova retaliated, he did so with disproportionate force. He would torch his enemies’ base of operations and murder key operatives in their homes. Rival gang members were snatched and tortured. Executed. Shock and awe. The underworld was a vicious place, but Rugova made it his home. The crime boss naturally came to the attention of the authorities, as well as other gangs. The police perennially lacked hard evidence and witnesses who would testify. Drug-related deaths increased by over 50% in his area of operations, during the course of one year. By the time the police and competitors knew they were in a war with Rugova, he had already won it.
As well as controlling over half the drugs and human trafficking trades in Glasgow the Albanian built-up a significant network of “legitimate” business interests, to launder his money and generate alternative revenue streams. Marshal glanced over the list of businesses he owned (or was purported to own). Although The High Life was registered in his own name, Rugo
va arranged proxy owners for other outlets. Between London and Glasgow, he owned bakeries, restaurants, bars, dry cleaners and a scrap metal yard. He had also ploughed his money into property. It was estimated that the Albanian owned over fifty flats in and around both cities. Some were rented out to legitimate tenants, some housed employees.
An addendum file to one report ran through Rugova’s modus operandum for acquiring assets. He would target a business (usually one which he could distribute product through and launder cash) and buy a share in it. Eventually, he would force the original owner out, through intimidation or a buy-out clause, and set-up a proxy with a small offshore holding company to take control of things. Rugova was ruthless – and tax efficient.
An NCA profile stated that the Albanian was charming, when the occasion called for it, and intelligent. His English was excellent and, unlike other Albanian crime bosses, Rugova mixed outside of his immediate criminal circle. He gave to charity and even did a stint coaching his son’s football team. Both Rugova and his wife were neighbourly. They regularly hosted dinner parties in their townhouse in Blackheath (although the krye also hosted slightly less civilised gatherings at his nightclub, with cocaine and escorts in tow, for his gang members and business partners). Rugova had a string of mistresses, but he always kept business and pleasure separate in that regard. He was too smart, cautious, to fall for any honeytrap, one report concluded. He engendered loyalty (each gang member swore an oath of loyalty to the krye) and remunerated his associates well. Undercover operatives, in Glasgow and London, had failed to infiltrate the gang in any meaningful way. Low-level associates had been arrested and successfully prosecuted, but the police had been unable to turn the foot-soldiers against their general. For those gang members who were serving a jail sentence, a report stated that Rugova still looked after them. Drugs, mobile phones and even McDonald’s had been smuggled into prisons.
The bulk of the Albanian’s business – and revenue – was still centred around cocaine, despite recent diversification. It was a multi-million-pound operation. Their distribution and sales had shifted in the past couple of years. Instead of targeting working-class areas, they focussed on selling to the middle-classes. Young professionals paid more for their product. Rugova’s gang had contacts which pushed drugs within the City, Millwall FC, the London Assembly and Channel Four. Technology and diverse supply chains were utilised. Customers could order product, and have it delivered to them as easily as they could order a pizza. Distribution had been expanded and outsourced. Teen gangs were employed to deliver to the door. Rugova had been one of the pioneers of the County Lines system. It didn’t seem to matter to the middle-classes that, while they were getting high, youths (usually non-whites) were being stabbed and shot in ongoing turf wars. London was bleeding. And who knew or who cared about the people suffering and dying in their droves in the likes of Mexico and Columbia? Ignorance – and getting high off cocaine – seemed to be bliss, Marshal mused.
He lit another cigarette and clicked on a file devoted to surveillance photos of their – his – target. Marshal wanted to know what his enemy looked like, as a boxer might pin a picture of his next opponent onto his mirror, to focus and inspire him. With his black hair, tanned skin and designer clothes Rugova resembled a George Michael tribute act. A bad one. A few photos, taken whilst the subject was sunbathing next to his swimming pool, revealed his heavily tattooed body. His torso was swathed in ink. Marshal squinted at the screen and picked out images of a dragon, angel, scimitar and Arabic script – no doubt a schlock quotation from the Koran. Many of the photos were captioned. There were a host of pictures featuring members of the Turkish mafia and fellow Albanian gangsters. Shaking hands and back slapping one another. Marshal noted a couple of photos in particular. They were wide-angled shots, encompassing members of the krye’s crew. He recognised Bisha and Bashkim. They were referenced as being low-level dealers and enforcers in the organisation. And so, Marshal had attacked a couple of minnows on the food chain. But he was willing to work his way up to the big fish. A number of photos of Rugova’s mistresses were also included in the documents. The Albanian may not have had the best taste in clothes, but Marshal couldn’t fault his taste in women. As much as there may have been an air of swagger and menace in the krye’s expression, Marshal couldn’t deny the joy and devotion in his eyes when pictured with his children. Rugova probably wasn’t a complete monster. But he was a monster, nevertheless. One who needed slaying.
Despite the dry and officious tone of many of the reports, a sense of frustration and failure seeped through in the prose. Yet at least one of the officers involved in the case appeared dogged and determined to get his man. A DI Martin Elmwood. Marshal made a mental note of his name and saved his contact details to his phone. Elmwood had been the one to authorise a raid on the nightclub. Although the raid had ultimately proved fruitless, Elmwood still believed that the club, registered under Rugova’s name, should still be a focus of their surveillance and investigation. Sooner or later the Albanian would make a mistake. Arms or a significant amount of cocaine would be warehoused there. Or someone would be tortured or murdered at the venue, with the boss present.
Marshal would prove equally dogged and determined, he promised himself. He balled his hand into a fist and felt his heart pumping. But instead of experiencing a sense of rage or fear, Marshal felt a strange sense of liberation or even contentment. Purpose. And it wasn’t due to the endorphins released in his system from his run. Marshal realised that he no longer felt bored – and boredom was so often the enemy of a soldier.
Marshal couldn’t be bothered to correct people at the time, but friends and family thought he originally enlisted in the army to please his father. But Marshal enrolled at Sandhurst in order to prove something to the world, or rather to himself. The army would help him fight off the despair and melancholy he suffered from. Fuelled by pride and ego, he wanted to be a man apart. 3 Para would also be a stepping stone to reach his goal of 22 SAS. That was the plan. But man plans, God laughs. Thankfully, he no longer had any regrets about failing to reach the Regiment. The SAS could manage without him. The bullet in his shoulder had nearly killed him. But, ironically, it may have also saved him. The ultimate goal could have proved a gaol. Enlisting in the army had been one of the best decisions he had ever made. But leaving it had been another.
His eyes grew tired and he pinched the bridge of his nose. There was still a wealth of intelligence to plough through. But he needed some fresh air – and some coffee.
Bars of sunlight slanted through the bedroom window, between the curtains. Porter’s head remained resolutely relaxed, sunk into his goose-feather pillow. He slept in, along with his wife. The children were staying with friends. They could indulge themselves. The husband had briefly woken earlier to bring some freshly squeezed orange juice and a warmed-up croissant to his wife. Breakfast in bed. It was the least he could do, to repay the supper he devoured after getting home last night. Even though he had eaten lamb cutlets at the club, Porter – inspired by love and his wife’s cooking – managed to eat a second meal.
Victoria gently rubbed her silken leg against her husband’s shin. He smelled her skin and hair, breathing in the scent like a favourite perfume.
“I should get up,” Victoria said, yawning and stretching out her elegant figure.
“No, you shouldn’t. We should have some more “us” time. I should really be sweeping you off your feet and taking you on a romantic weekend to Vienna or Lisbon. We could leave the children to fend for themselves. But I’m mean. I like the discount they provide us with, from a group booking,” Porter drily remarked. He was intending, however, to arrange a trip for just him and his wife soon. The plan would be to arrange a fortnight stay at a luxury resort. Follow the sun. The only small problem was organising for someone to take care of Violet. He would rather book a holiday with the Khmer Rouge than leave her in a kennel or with strangers.
Victoria smiled and rolled her eyes. She had grown accustomed to
her husband’s dry sense of humour. Needs must.
“I need to get up. I’ve a few things to sort before Grace arrives this afternoon. What time are you expecting your driver? James, isn’t it? We can trust him, can’t we? I don’t want him leering at Grace or trying to hit on her.”
“He’ll be fine. He’s a former officer, no less. Not just some Tom,” Porter replied. His wife was from a military family and she was aware that “Tom” was a shortening of “Tomcat”, a nickname for paratroopers. Forever on the prowl.
“It’s the officers you need to watch out for more,” Victoria countered, knowing all too well how officers liked to think they were God’s gift to women. More than one officer had made a play for her over the years, even when she had subtly mentioned she was a married woman. Or especially when she had mentioned she was married. Grace had recently complained to her aunt, over the phone, how she was tired of photographers, casting agents and actors hitting on her, expecting them to fall for their looks or charms. Victoria didn’t want her niece adding “soldier” to the list of professions.