‘But what about Bligh? I mean, what if he tries to stop me? He’s still technically my boss.’
‘Listen carefully, Bill.’ Black Mac put his stubbled face next to Todd’s. ‘Go home and do what Mr Bolshakov says. Ignore that arsehole Bligh. If he interferes, tell him the proprietor ordered you to do it and he should take it up with him. And, Bill, you better do a good job. If you fuck this up, I will personally ensure you won’t be even able to get a job cutting up newspapers for toilet paper. You hear?’
Todd nodded.
‘Right, get your things together. I’ll organise the chopper to take you to the airport in Lanzarote. The boss’s jet will be fuelled and ready to take you back to London.’
36
JUGGS JAGGER crept along the dark alleyway behind Aldgate Tube station until he reached the back of a dark blue SUV parked outside the padlocked wooden doors of a nondescript warehouse. A sign on the wall above saying NO PARKING was almost covered in sleet.
The car engine was running and vapour trailed out of the exhaust pipe. Juggs crouched down and unslung one of his cameras. He grinned as he saw one of the back windows was cracked open. There were soft noises from inside: a wet, slushy sound like someone sucking spaghetti, accompanied by low murmurs of contentment. Juggs fiddled with the Nikon’s motor drive and then reached up with one arm to the window above. There was a fast burst of clicks, like the noise a kid makes when dragging a stick along a slatted fence. Ten frames a second. Bound to get something good.
Then there was a strangled shout and the sounds of a struggle inside the car. Juggs gave it one more burst then stood up and walked back towards the end of the alley where UKT reporter Brian Pearce was waiting in the staff car. He gave him a thumbs up and then turned back to look at the SUV. The back door was open and a man was fighting to get out but his trousers were around his knees and he fell to the ground like a sack of eggplants.
Juggs pointed the camera as the man finally managed to stand, holding his trousers up with one hand and gesticulating at the photographer with the other. Muffled words sounding suspiciously like ‘motherfucker’ and ‘kill you’ carried towards Juggs in the chill wind. The photographer grinned and then got in beside Pearce.
* * *
Ray Griffiths was a happy man as he gave an account of the sting at the evening editorial conference. He revealed that a police sergeant involved in the Met’s investigation of the Whitechapel prostitute murders had allegedly been coercing the local working girls into giving him free sex. ‘We got a tip from one of Shiv’s hooker contacts. She claims he tells them that if they refuse, he’ll implicate them in the slashing murders.’
‘How can he do that?’ I asked. ‘Surely he’d need some evidence?’
Griffo snorted. ‘He does. But these poor girls are not the sharpest knives in the drawer. Many are junkies. They just think he’ll find a way to lock them up without access to a fix. They’d rather open their legs than face that.’
‘Who was on the story?’ I asked.
‘Richard Pearce.’
Pearce was a solid operator even if he lacked some of Shiv’s energy and tenacity. ‘So how do we prove it?’
Griffo explained that the reporter and Juggs had set a trap for the copper. ‘You don’t want to know, boss,’ he told me with a shake of his head.
‘Was it legal?’
‘Just about. But you can bet the lawyers won’t like it.’
Taking the hint, I asked no more questions. But towards the end of the meeting, Juggs came in with a bunch of photographs. They depicted a thickset man in the back seat of a car getting what looked like a blowjob from a thin young woman. As I flicked through the explicit pictures, I saw the man’s face – and other parts of his anatomy – in some detail.
‘How did you manage such great shots?’ I asked
Juggs shrugged modestly. ‘It was easy. We got the girl – her name’s Stevie Pugh – to take him to a lane behind a Tube station. It’s pretty dark and dingy and no one goes there apart from a few junkies. We stressed that she needed to get a window open so I’d get a decent shot. Couldn’t use a flash obviously, so I cranked up the ISO. A few blasts of the motor drive and the copper was cactus.’
The more I saw of Juggs, the more I warmed to him. The Aussie snapper had a wonderfully dry sense of humour and an easy manner. He and Shiv usually worked together and made a formidable team – both on AND off duty if the office whispers were true.
‘Is it anyone we know?’ I asked Pearce.
‘This is even better, boss. None other than Detective Sergeant Danby – Reg Danby, DI Mulroney’s skipper. Caught him bang to rights, pardon the pun.’
‘That could be our headline tomorrow.’ I laughed. ‘What about quotes from the prostitute?’
‘Yes, a signed affidavit. By the book. Cost us a bit, of course. But the good news is that another two girls have come forward to back Stevie up. Dirty Danby targeted them too.’
‘Have you written the copy yet? I asked.
Pearce grinned. ‘Sure, it’s a blow by blow account.’
Everyone laughed except the Meerkat, who whined that there was no video for the website.
‘Great stuff,’ I said. ‘Run it by the lawyers. If you have any problems with them, let me know.’ A small team of lawyers came in every night and read every story, every headline and every caption on every page looking for potential problems. They would be okay with this one – the photos and the signed statements would keep them happy. But I also knew that the Met would be very unhappy. Even though they’d know Danby was bent and deserved his fate, the other cops would hate the story. And, from past experience, they would try to shoot the messenger.
Sure enough, I got a call from Inspector Mulroney that evening, giving me an expletive-ridden earful. I laughed out loud just as he slammed the phone down.
37
WHEN MACRAE returned to the upper deck, Varvara was goading her husband: ‘Todd was right, you know. It was not your best idea hiring this writer of trashy novels to run newspaper. I told you – when I read his palm, I saw “strong heart, strong mind”. The man is idealist, he has intensity of purpose. I told you it is not good for us.’
Bolshakov’s eyes blazed. ‘Zatknís! Shut up, Vava! No more. I not want to hear. Anyway, it does not matter. If this Jonno does not do what I ask, I will simply remove him.’
‘There might be a problem with that,’ said Martha.
‘What fucking problem?’
‘As I said, the troops think he’s doing a good job and will be pissed off if we bounce him.’
The Russian slapped his bare chest and shouted, ‘Well, fuck them! Those súkas don’t decide this. Who pays their wages? Me! I decide who works for me and who doesn’t.’
Martha crossed her arms over her stomach causing her breasts to bunch up in her bikini. ‘Sure, I know that, honey,’ she said, ‘but I’m just sayin’ that when you bought the newspaper you signed an agreement that editorial would remain independent.’
‘What do I care about some piece of paper? If we do not fix this sanctions shit, I will not have a fucking newspaper! Worse, my father will send me to run some mining camp in Siberia.’ Bolshakov’s tombstone teeth glistened as his tongue slid over them in agitation. He looked hard at Martha Fry and frowned … Maybe he had said too much. The American woman was his creature but she still had some way to go before he fully trusted her. He could see that she was still in shock as a result of the earlier incident involving Todd, when he’d lost control. It was not surprising, he had too many balls in the air. This sanctions saga was a nuisance, a distraction from his real interest – making money.
There was a silence while everyone stared out at the blue-grey sea and the coastline of one of the islands rushing past. The only sound, apart from the wind, was an imperceptible hum from the ship’s four MTU high performance diesel engines.
Reading the signs, Martha excused herself, saying she was going to her cabin to make some calls.
When she’d gone,
the Russian sighed and turned to his wife. ‘Marvell has finally agreed to play ball if Jonno Bligh runs campaign as he said.’
‘Todd just told me that Bligh won’t do it,’ Macrae lied, determined to stitch the editor up as payback for the humiliation of being banned from the UKT newsroom. ‘He’s telling everyone he won’t change the paper’s stance. He even said to Bill, “That Russian bastard can go fuck himself.”’
‘What! He says this? Bligh will double-cross me? That motherfucker!’ Gone was the suave, sophisticated veneer as his mouth twisted into an ugly slash.
‘Okay, boss. Don’t worry.’ Macrae spoke carefully, afraid that the Russian would kick off on another of his notorious rages. ‘I’ll sort this out. Todd will put a package together on the international sanctions and –’
‘Why you bring that prick Todd here, Carlos?’ Bolshakov interrupted. ‘You know I don’t like him.’
‘Because I don’t trust Bligh. And we need someone to ride shotgun while he conducts this one-man crusade against Islam. I can use Todd to help focus him on our objectives.’
‘How much does Todd know about our plans? Could he become danger to us?’
‘Not enough to pose a serious threat. Anyway, he gets paid plenty to keep his mouth shut and his eyes open. And he knows the consequences of betraying us – the fact that he nearly drowned today will have helped concentrate his mind.’
‘He better, Carlos. Otherwise, I hold you personally to blame.’
‘I understand. But if we get rid of Bligh, we may need Todd to look after things at the paper. For a while anyway. Ensure the campaign works. And stop this Muslim nonsense.’
‘My God, why is Bligh screwing around with these camel-fuckers anyway? I don’t understand.’ The Russian slapped his hand down on the table: ‘I swear to you, Varushka, if he doesn’t deliver on his promise in one week, I will be one who cuts his head off, not these terrorists!’
‘Well darling, that won’t look good to your political friends,’ said Varvara.
Macrae nodded. ‘She’s right, boss. The British are strangely skittish about editors being fired.’
‘Who said I fire him? We will send this kakáshka back home to Sydney in fucking box if necessary. You, Carlos will arrange. Now get lost, I want to speak to my wife.’
As Macrae left, Varvara stood up and walked to the guardrail. She closed her eyes and tasted the salty breeze as her diaphanous caftan swirled about her. ‘Talking of going home, has your father told you he wants me to go back to Moscow?’ She spoke in Russian.
Bolshy nodded. She stamped her sandalled foot on the deck. ‘Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I do not want to leave New York. But what can I do?’
‘Nichego. Nothing. What Papa wants, Papa gets. You know this. Now tell me again about the original deal with the Marvell family business … when you were at the Moscow bank.’
Varvara nodded, took another sip of Cristal. ‘Banquo’s father was about to go bankrupt. The company could not get funding from any British institution. They were desperate. We bailed them out. Your father instructed me to give them excellent terms. Remember, this was years before the son became leader of his party.’ She shook her head in admiration. ‘Leonid was playing a long game.’
‘That is what he always does. Now I think Papa wants you close by in case we have to put more financial pressure on Marvell. Especially if my plan does not work. He’ll want you to pull the plug on the loans to MMI. Just last week I reminded the Prime Minister that this would happen if he didn’t do what we want.’
‘A pity. I was just beginning to enjoy myself in the Big Apple. But maybe it is for the best. This new president is facing lot of scrutiny over his ties to us. The media are now saying that we rigged the election in his favour.’ She laughed. ‘Huh, your dear papa won’t be happy at this news. He doesn’t like his dirty tricks to become so public. The West may have won the Cold War but we are winning the Cyber War.’
Varvara laughed again and raised her glass to her husband: ‘God bless America!’
38
ANNIE AND I welcomed the New Year snuggled up in bed with a bottle of Bolly. We counted down the seconds to midnight while watching the London fireworks display on television. Good, but not as spectacular as the Sydney show, I reckoned. But then I was probably biased.
We were in a poignant mood. It had been New Year’s night two years before in Jakarta when we’d made love for the first time. We’d escaped the pirates and been freed from jail where we’d been held on drug smuggling charges. We were feeling safe for the first time in our plush room at the city’s Ritz-Carlton. We enjoyed a tender moment of total bliss. As Annie said at the time, we were both damaged goods, and we used that one brief moment in time to try to fit together the jagged pieces of our jigsaw lives. Percy was the perfect result. For me, the moment had offered a promise of future redemption and gave me hope that I could turn my life around.
So much had happened since. Good, bad and ugly. And now, here in London, if we were to take the communiqué from the Movement of Martyrs seriously, our safety was once again under threat. But we had beaten BangBang Budiman and his pirates and we would not let this new threat force us to live in fear.
As the fireworks fizzed and crackled and popped in the background, I took Annie in my arms and kissed her. ‘Happy New Year, sweetheart,’ I said.
She kissed me back. ‘And happy New Year to you, darling. I wonder what it will bring?’
‘Only good things, I’m sure.’
Christ. I hope I’m right.
39
HE HAD no light save for the pale cast of the moon that filtered in via cracked and dirty windows. He had no heat save that afforded by the ragged and filthy old sleeping bag he’d found in the ruined building. And he had no food save for the battered cabbage he’d stolen from a stall outside a greengrocer on Thornton Road.
Ghulam Hazari sat upright in the corner of the old textile mill surrounded by rubble and detritus left by previous homeless tenants. This included greasy food wrappers, empty wine bottles and syringes. He was exhausted and scared. But, above all, he was frozen. The smelly sleeping bag was wrapped tightly around his thin body but that didn’t stop the shivering. He had never felt so cold. Especially his feet. He had no socks, just open Peshawari sandals. He had not felt his toes for several hours. Occasionally he used the point of his machete to scratch himself inside the bag. How could fleas survive in this cold?
The moonlight gave the interior of the vast, tumbledown building a ghostly feel. When he had first snuck in through a rickety door a few days before, he had seen a DANGER sign warning about imminent demolition. The inside reminded him of the photographs of the London Blitz that he had seen in his history class at school. But the devastation around him was caused by fire, vandalism, and the unforgiving passage of time.
A ramshackle, four-storey wooden and iron spiral staircase snaked up one wall. The top half had broken away from its blackened concrete bearings and listed dangerously, creaking and swaying in the steady breeze that penetrated the crumbling roof. The rotting remains of old office furniture and rusting machinery that had been deemed to have no value to looters seemed to float on a sea of debris. Rats ran through oily puddles, leaving tiny tracks on empty areas of the dusty wooden floor. Hazari gave a bitter laugh. He felt just like a cornered rat himself. Like many in the dying fires of the doomed Caliphate.
It was like a scene from Scooby Doo, he thought, one of his favourite television programs growing up in Bethnal Green. The memory brought a smile to his weary face but it was quickly replaced by a scowl – that nonsense was from a false life, before he had seen the light. Before he had woken up to the spiritual corruption and twisted values of the West. Before Allah, may He be glorified and exalted, had chosen him to be his instrument.
Now he had done His bidding. The two he had killed, the homosexual and the unclean woman, both selected for their high profiles, meant nothing to him. He felt neither shame nor pride. They were degenerates. He had done what he had
been bidden to do. We are at war, he reminded himself. A Holy War. My fellow mujahideen are fighting for Islam in the battlefields of Syria and Afghanistan against the kuffars. But he had been chosen for a different path because of his upbringing among the unbelievers. As he had learned in the hot, dusty training camp in the Mayadeen desert at Deir Ezzor, near the Omar oilfields in eastern Syria, it is all the same – al-jihad fi sabil Allah – striving to serve the purpose of God on this earth. Al-dawla, or ISIS as the British say, had taught him the fundamental truth: ‘If someone opposes the message of the Prophet, he faces nothing but the sword.’
And now, Hazari was in His hands. He was ready to die if necessary. He knew he had already earned his place in Paradise. Insh’allah. God willing.
He thought back to that night in London. After he’d killed the girl, he and the Somali had split up. He’d made a call to his network leader from a throwaway phone. He’d said just two words in Arabic: ‘Tama altanfidh’ – ‘It’s done’ – and tossed the phone down a storm drain.
An old motorcycle had been provided for him along with an address in Bradford. But when he’d arrived at the terraced house in Thornton Road, he had been turned away. The man waved a copy of a newspaper sporting his picture topped by the headline THE HUNT FOR HAZARI before closing the door on him. He had no money and no petrol left for the bike, so he had ditched it and taken refuge here in this hellhole.
He’d been at a loss as to what to do. The day after he arrived, he’d gone to the local mosque to seek help, but they’d treated him with suspicion. The Imam told him to come back in a few days once his photograph had disappeared from the newspapers. He’d go back there tomorrow. They were his only hope. Gradually, exhaustion overtook Hazari’s feverish thinking and he nodded off to sleep.
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