“Ah, but how very remiss of me Mr Dillon, I forgot to give you the credit you so rightly deserve. I should have known that a man of your resourcefulness and experience would move the packages. But my friend, you would be well advised not to trifle with me, I am not a man to cross. Show him, Nazir.” He said to the big Egyptian stood to his right. But kept his gaze on me.
Nazir, cracked his fingers, like a bare knuckle boxer does, just before a fight. And for a split second I thought I was in deep trouble. He stood in front of me, his face completely expressionless, pulled a two-way radio from his jacket pocket and spoke very quietly into it. The Egyptian then walked in a business like manner to the other side of the room to a large sash window.
“Let him up.” Flackyard ordered. “Why don’t you take a look out of the window, Mr Dillon?” He said with a grin.
I stood up, straightened my jacket and bow tie and then looked over at Fiona, who shot me a nervous glance. I did my best at a reassuring look back.
“Well, the view over your courtyard is very nice, Flackyard. But what is it, that I’m supposed to be looking at?”
Nazir, once again spoke into the two-way radio. A dodge pickup truck backed into the courtyard and stopped just below the window.
“Take a good look. As Mercedes go, I’d say the one that you’re looking at, would fall into the compact class. Wouldn’t you, Mr Dillon.”
I didn’t say a word, simply turned and then walked across the room to where Fiona was sitting and stood by her side.
“I do so hope that you’re not in any way under the illusion about the lengths that the people who own that opium will go to. They want it back, Dillon. Think yourself lucky that you weren’t in your car at the time they crushed it. Needless to say the next time…”
“There won’t be a next time, Flackyard, and those packages, that you so badly want back. Well, they’ll be kept safely on ice until you fulfil your part of the deal as agreed with my employers. Until then they stay safely hidden away. Of course you will be told when and where to retrieve them, as and when the Partners are completely satisfied that their business with you has been concluded. Once and for all. Is that clear enough for you — Mr Flackyard?”
The air in the library hung heavy with tension and cigar smoke. Only the tick-tocking of the grandfather clock standing in a far corner broke the silence, as I waited for Flackyard to reply.
“You are of course quite right, Mr Dillon,” he said calmly. “I shall arrange for delivery as quickly as possible.” Flackyard hadn’t flinched; his hands now lay flat, palm-down on the tabletop. The calmness that he showed was a façade inside, I knew that he was seething, wanting to smash his fist into my face repeatedly for daring to confront him, especially in front of his staff.
“When you’re in a position to conclude the transaction, Mr Flackyard, please contact me on this number. Oh and you owe me a new car.” I placed my card in front of him, turned, smiled to myself and left with Fiona.
Chapter 18
I drove the car that I’d hired into London with an odd feeling of melancholy.
Charlie had been murdered not more than twenty feet from where I’d been standing and Rumple had been shot in the shoulder right next to me. Not that I thought that either had been unsuccessful attempts to get at me, but diligence ensures a much longer life than bravery ever did. I decided to make a few discreet inquiries on my own private grapevine, even if it did mean ignoring LJ’s rules and procedures.
The cool wind carved up the street faster than a stockbroker’s Porsche, and a leather — clad rider on a Japanese super-bike came roaring past in search of cooperation in the act of suicide. Instead of going to the apartment I checked into one of those cheap, small sidestreet hotels that catered for travelling salesmen and persons looking for anonymity. It was all 80’s floral wallpaper and dusty fake plants. I wrote the name of James Fisher into the register. The overweight Slavic night porter manning the reception desk eyed me suspiciously and asked for some form of identification.
“Can I see your work permit?” I asked bluntly.
Embarrassed by my retort, he grudgingly gave me a key and told me my room was on the third floor at the front. The gaudy floral wallpaper was obviously a job lot with bed linen to match. The room was otherwise clean but bland and poorly furnished. I threw my overnight bag on the floor, flopped down onto the bed and slept, waking with a start when my travel clock told me it was 10.40 am. I had already decided to let a few hours pass before contacting LJ. I used my mobile phone to dial an inner London number. The phone made all the correct noises associated with making a call. After a while it even rang at the other end.
“Can I speak to Simon Davenport?” I said. He was my first ear to the ground.
“This phone is very hot — be careful,” said the voice at the other end and hung up. He wasn’t usually a laconic man, but in his world of electronic wizardry, tapped land lines and mobiles being listened to by satellite were an everyday occurrence. I decided to ring someone else who definitely had his ear to the ground. This time I was a little more circumspect. I waited for Alex Chapman, an Australian, to speak first, then I said, “Hello, Alex.”
“I recognise the voice of my old mate…” he replied.
“You do,” I said before he could blab it across the phone.
“Are you having a spot of bother?” he asked.
“I don’t know, Alex; am I?” I heard him laugh like a hyena at the other end.
“Let’s not talk over this,” he said. His paranoia about talking on telephones was legendary.
“How about that trendy café bar, what’s it called, bloody hell it’s got a name that plays on words. Ah, I remember, ‘Java Kye’ that’s it, say in an hour.”
“OK,” I said.
Java Kye actually is slang for coffee and drinking chocolate respectively. This sophisticated small café bar in Kensington has a reputation for exquisite coffee, and from the moment you step in your senses are lifted with the aroma of freshly ground coffee beans from around the world. You fight your way through a selection of American and European newspapers with a few glossy magazines added for colour. Inside it’s a fusion of what’s now and memorabilia of a bygone age, stage set superbly to amuse the rich and famous. I heard someone saying, “… God, I feel like shit this morning, but I have to say what an absolutely excellent party.” It was 12.30 in the afternoon.
“Espresso, please,” I said. Alex’s skull shone through his thinning hair over a copy of the Financial Times.
“Hello Alex,” I said. He didn’t look up. The girl behind the counter gave me the coffee and my change; only then did Alex murmur, “Bring any baggage with you?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” I said. I’d forgotten this man was paranoid. His brief but frequent stays in prison had left him with a skilful technique in rolling cigarettes thinner than matchsticks, an obsession about being followed and a lifelong aversion to any food that wasn’t healthy.
“We’ll sit over there at the back so I can see who comes in.” We moved towards the rear and two vacant chairs.
“Did you go round the block a couple of times to make sure?”
“Relax, will you.”
“You have to play by the rules,” said Alex. “Only careless fools don’t have rules, and they get caught.”
I thought that was pretty good coming from the man who got caught at least once a year. “Rules,” I said over the top of my coffee cup. “I didn’t know that you were an advocate of rules.”
“Well, I am now,” said Alex. “Rules, you’ve got to know what to do in any situation, so that you can do it before you even think about it.”