The London Transport control room finally got the message across to their police peers who were having signal problems with their recently issued radios. It had been an ongoing problem with the various police forces based in the capital, who despite working incredibly close to one another could rarely communicate on a reliable network. Heading underground only exacerbated things.
“Yes, a male, by my guess European, in his forties, he had a handgun. In his left hand. My team member saw it clearly. We have back-tracked on the footage and we also think he took someone’s wallet. He used the card to get through the turnstile.”
The message was relayed to those staff present in the station. Some had remained on the street, hoping their target would exit, like a fox revealing his presence from a wooded copse, craftily evading the hounds.
Others continued to search toilets whilst a few more, their numbers now growing, moved down the escalators and onto the platforms.
A black-haired sergeant approached Roberts seeing his tell-tale radio in his left hand.
“Alright gents? No sign of the bastard. He’s long gone.”
“Yes, and with some poor bugger’s wallet. Stand by a second.”
Roberts held the radio to his face and broadcast some new information.
“All units Westminster Station. The suspect male is called Constantin. He is possibly in possession of a handgun and a wallet with contents in the name of John Kelly. All staff to avoid direct contact, sightings only, repeat sightings only.”
On the street another ARV team arrived, checked their weapons and made their way through the crowds towards the platforms.
“Where are his team Jason? This bastard is not operating alone. It’s not how they work.”
“Offshore? Creaming the profits off the top whilst the minions take all the risks?”
“Possibly. Probably, but a city this size allows people to operate right under our bloody noses. Constantin’s boss is in town. I’ve got one of my strange feelings.”
He shuddered.
In a warm hospital bed a stone’s throw away O’Shea’s inert body also twitched involuntarily. Her cruel reveries had returned. Her mind was the only part of her that had remained active. The images that flashed into her dreams were coherent, filled with washed-out colours, and sounds. She could see herself, but she was unaware whether she was alive or dead. The images that surrounded her made her wish for the latter.
A mile away, sitting in a corner of the American Bar, an iconic part of the equally lavish and sought-after Stafford Hotel a muscular blond-haired male leant back in a red upholstered armchair, steepled his hands and spoke with a confidence born out of success.
“Go upstairs, or go out and buy something. You are annoying me. You know where the money is. I have business to discuss. Can you not see this? Go on, go before I have to consider something unpleasant to do to you.”
He held her slender hips in both hands and pulled her towards him. She bent down and kissed him, leaving scarlet lipstick on his left and right cheeks.
As she made to stand up, he pulled her back down onto his knee, allowing her all-too-short skirt to ride up. He slipped his hand beneath her cream silk blouse, running his fingertips beneath the ivory-coloured bra and over her breast.
His male business partner feigned looking away.
“That feels nice?”
The girl giggled and pulled away but he was stronger.
“I asked you a question.”
She cleared her throat and replied.
“Yes, it feel nice. I like it. Now, I go – and buy a new dress and underwear. For you. For you Stefan.”
He smiled, it was the smile of a man surrounded by the trappings of his illicit gains. The stuffy, classically dressed, pinstriped males scattered around the bar despised his sort. New money. Russian, probably. Yes, Russian.
‘Look at him with his beautiful girl and his endless supply of cash. His sort has no place here.’
But they came and their numbers were growing.
To make matters worse to the pinstriped voyeurs, the male appeared to be held in high regard by the staff – either that or they feared him. The stockbrokers could only assume.
Stefan Stefanescu summoned the immaculate bar manager to his table.
The Frenchman had been a part of the fabric of The Stafford since the late nineties. He had replaced the much-loved Charles, an equally iconic part of the hotel’s history who had served business people and celebrities alike for over forty years.
The Frenchman longed to continue the work of his adored predecessor and also hoped to stay, at least for a while. Always elegantly attired, he wore a blue suit, white shirt, a waistcoat and navy blue tie, matched with a handkerchief, folded, just so.
He too loathed the blond, but he knew that his money was as good, if not more plentiful than anyone else’s. He noted that his money was tangible, unlike many of the bankers who became richer each day but never appeared to have cold, dirty cash in their possession. Nevertheless, he always turned down their tips, generous and tax-evading though they were.
“Bonjour Monsieur Stefanescu. How nice of you to join us.” Measured, professional but tainted with an underlying distaste.
“Yes. Isn’t it?” He laughed, causing the male to his right to join him. It was false and everyone present in the exclusive bar could see how he had forced the response. He was either very shallow, astute or lived in fear.
“I trust you are well my friend?”
“I am, sir. Very. Thank you. Now, how may I help you today?” replied the Frenchman.
He was engaged in a conversation that to a casual onlooker might indicate that the two males knew one another. Nothing could be further from the truth, for neither had ever met. But the man, originally from Lyon had carried out some basic research and as with all of his more interesting patrons he knew enough to avoid conflict.
“Well, I am delighted to hear that. And you will be delighted to learn that business is good my friend, very good actually, I have an obscene amount of money burning a hole in my wallet. So I require you to make a recommendation between…” He glanced at the wine list before tapping onto a particular line and then another, “…this one, or this one.”
The Frenchman knew that the Romanian gentleman was far from well-bred, but he was not ill-educated and above all, in his defence he appeared to have taste, and was clearly able to make a discerning choice himself without any guidance. But, it was a game of cat and mouse designed to impress those that observed him. Stefanescu knew that the cellars beneath the hotel were built in the 12th Century, their walls had eavesdropped upon many tales and held within their white-painted brick walls the confidences of Lords, and Ladies and the desperate and vital secrets of Kings and Queens.
So stout were the cellars that they had withstood not just the test of time but also the onslaught of the Luftwaffe during the Second World War, who despite their targeted and persistent bombing had been unable to destroy the collection of around eight thousand bottles of the finest wine.
The Frenchman cherished the chilled rooms and their climatically controlled contents, but loathed equally the fact that this bleached, muscular male before him would dare to even ask for his advice, let alone be in a position to afford to have a choice.
Nevertheless, he smiled and nodded downwards and to his left and quietly pressed his hands together before continuing.
“Very wise and considered choices, sir. Of the two, as you are not dining and simply want to enjoy the flavour then of course I must recommend the Bordeaux. The Chateau Petrus 1994 comes from a very fine vineyard Mr Stefanescu. Even during the rainy periods between ninety-two and ninety-three they managed to produce some rather splendid wines. However the Ninety Four is my choice. You have selected very well. May I return shortly with a bottle?”
Stefanescu nodded condescendingly.
The Frenchman returned briskly, he would never run in front of a customer, regardless of their wealth and power. He expertly slid the co
rk from the neck and decanted some of the contents into an overly large red wine glass.
“As you will see it is brilliantly opaque, a dark purple, perhaps almost black in colour. You will immediately taste vanilla, and cherry. If you dwell a little longer, you will detect a hint of cassis as layer after layer reveals itself. This has been cellared for ten years now sir and in my opinion is as close to perfect as…”
The blond held up his hand, and allowed each finger to drop back into his palm before he formed a fist, then slowly opened the fingers again, back into a palm. It achieved nothing but reminded the waiter, for that is all he considered him to be, exactly who was in control.
“You have stopped talking? Good. Then pour two glasses and leave the bottle.”
“Of course sir. It would be my pleasure. Should I add it to your account?”
It was a purposefully rude question.
“It would be rude not to. Do you take me for a thief?”
The Frenchman knew that his true answer would encourage a swift response, albeit probably a violent one.
“But of course not sir!” He laughed, uncomfortably.
He expertly poured a measured amount of wine into Stefanescu’s glass then turned to his guest.
“Sir? Are you happy with the same?”
The voice was unexpectedly English. Controlled, considered.
“Absolutely. Thank you.”
The male who was wearing a lighter blue suit, pale blue shirt, brown shoes and a sapphire-coloured tie nodded to his host, raised his glass, swirled its contents gently, inhaled its aromatic fragrances and took a healthy sip.
He acknowledged the quality of the wine and gently clashed his glass against the Romanian’s.
“Salut.”
Stefanescu smiled before offering a mocking and accented English “Cheers!”
The Frenchman accepted his presence was no longer appreciated and once again nodded his head indiscernibly and discreetly blended back into the environs, slipping his prized corkscrew into the pocket of his waistcoat – in truth he wanted to drill it into the patronising bastard’s eyes and pluck them, as one would escargot, neatly from their shells.
As the Romanian took another sip of the rich red liquid, his phone began to ring.
“Yes?”
He raised his eyebrows to his invitee.
“What now? I have just opened a three hundred pound bottle of wine. I have our guest with me. Can it not wait?”
It couldn’t. He closed his phone and placed it into his pocket.
He beckoned the Frenchman back to his table.
“I have to leave. But I will be back. This wine will not keep. Give it to my admirers at the next table. They appear to be most interested in me. Now, if you would, my car, please.”
He ushered him away with a firm push in the small of his back.
He turned to his guest. “I am so sorry my friend. As you can see I have to go, such poor timing. One of my…staff…is in need of some…advice. I will ring you so that we might continue our little conversation. I feel you and I have plenty more to talk about – we have the same business ideas, do we not?”
He shook hands firmly, a test of strength which the guest was equal to.
“It would appear so. Do not leave it too long.”
Hewett drew him closer and whispered into his ear.
Stefanescu replied, then spoke louder, “I will ring you as soon as I can. Maybe tomorrow?”
He smiled at the table of businessmen and waved indifferently before feeling in his jacket pocket for his phone, mouthing the word ‘enjoy’ as he walked past the group. He squeezed one purposefully on the shoulder before lowering the half empty bottle onto their table.
“Ciao.”
He dialled. The call transferred to an answerphone service. It was a default message offering a random caller no clue to the owner’s identity.
“Brother. I am sorry to drag you away from whatever you were doing. Another attractive whore perhaps? Things are becoming interesting here. I feel I may need to leave soon. I will get my best people to leave also. The rest can make their own way. One in particular, well, he is not likely to make it, the authorities are closing in on him as we speak. He should be shown some loyalty but since when did our family ever show anyone loyalty? Pick up the phone…”
He was aware that he was no longer offering relevant information and if his brother was even listening, he enjoyed being in control, he always had, so he pressed the red button on his Motorola and ended the call.
The Englishman stood, slipped his chair quietly back into its place, emptied his wine glass, placed it quietly onto a leather coaster, straightened his single-knotted tie and walked out of the bar. Within a minute, he too was in his car and dialling a number on his phone.
The phone rang for a while, so he leaned back in the leather seat, bracing his left foot on the rest and propping his right elbow onto the door trim of the Nordlichtblau Audi S6.
Clouds were starting to appear on the horizon. A few isolated specks of rain landed on the green-tinted windscreen initiating the auto-wipers which arced across the glass, clearing it temporarily.
The Audi engine started without drama, its driver selected first and accelerated into the traffic. He stopped at the first set of lights. The rain was more persistent, larger drops struck the screen, causing the driver to increase the speed of the intermittent wiper system.
Pedestrians walked, strutted and shuffled past him, oblivious to his presence. Some raised umbrellas whilst others pulled their collars up against the mounting squall.
There was a storm developing somewhere.
As Stefanescu walked through the lobby, he received another call. It was a very familiar voice.
“Do what you need to do, remove the fool from the operation, I want him back here where he can do no more harm.”
“Why not let the British authorities kill him? It would save a lot of time and trouble.”
“It would brother, but he has been a good foot soldier for us, he has made us an obscene amount of money for doing…nothing. I think we owe it to him to get him home. Don’t you?”
So he did reward loyalty after all.
Gheorghiu had also disconnected his phone and quickly walked out of the familiar fast-food restaurant and onto the street. He had promised Stefan that he would support Constantin. Everyone agreed that he was becoming a liability but his skills were reaping rewards, day in, day out. He had other skills too and for those he was both famed and feared.
He had trained the disparate team of young men and hired the one or two willing women that entertained them at night. To date, they had so far targeted nearly four hundred bank and retail point-of-sale machines.
The numbers, per capita, were staggering. Constantin was paid reasonably well. Gheorghiu better. Who actually knew how much the Stefanescu’s were earning?
With at least two-thirds of the intended victims unaware that their accounts had been compromised for around a week it was as close to the perfect, victimless crime as they could commit. Their boss was right. Why risk interaction with a victim when this type of offence could be committed, over and over, and when you thought you had enough, over again?
Resembling a plague of locusts they would strip London of all of its natural wealth, victim by victim. Then, when the risks outweighed the consequences they would move on, probably to another British city, possibly a European one. A number of factors would influence this decision. Their appearance in the local and national media as a result of continued pathetic and xenophobic police warnings, their own confidence and their nerve, all would act as a guide to where and critically, when.
Gheorghiu dialled a new number. It was eventually answered by a breathless, almost panicked male.
“Yes? What? Is that you…?”
Gheorghiu cut him off.
“Do not use my name, get onto the next train. You need to be on the Circle Line. Are you listening?”
There was a pause. Gheorghiu could hear th
e varied sounds of the underground. The public address announcements, the noise of the trains and the constant pulse of commuters. It was the white noise of a major city, broken down into its key components it would provide a fascinating insight into modern-day London but to the Romanian it was just noise.
“Well?”
Constantin responded.
“Yes. Yes, I am listening. I am heading deeper underground. Which train?”
It was clear he was not listening so Gheorghiu yelled down the phone.
“Circle! It is the yellow line on the map. Get on as soon as you can. They will be following you.”
This didn’t help.
“Then I will shoot them.”
“No, brother, you will not shoot them. You will NOT shoot anyone or our boss will feed you to the pigs. Get on the train as I have instructed you to do, keep your head down and get off at Blackfriars. I repeat, Black-friars. It is the third stop. You will be on board for five minutes. No longer. Tell me you understand?”
“I understand.”
“You have money?”
“Yes. I do now.”
Constantin was walking faster now, down stairs, onto escalators, a frightened hare desperate not to get caught in the headlights. His breathing was laboured. He needed to eat; he needed another shot of heroin. He needed to be home. Away from all of this. Away. From everything.
The underground system was incredible, a feat of engineering as impressive as any other, anywhere, but he had no time to admire the shining steel and concrete architecture. He rubbed his eyes then wrung his hands together, shielding his nervous demeanour, but to the trained eye failing badly.
He could hear shouting behind him. Resisting the urge to turn he carried on, faster now.
The voices weren’t gaining, but he knew instinctively they were calling to him.
He began to panic, pushing past other travellers, those that resisted were encouraged to move. He had made the decision, contrary to Gheorghiu’s instructions, that if anyone got hold of him he would fire his weapon. He now had nothing left to lose. The syndicate that he was indebted to would not support him anymore.
Seven Degress (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 2) Page 27