Читать книгу Northern Heist - Richard O'Rawe - Страница 13

SIX

In Dublin, Finbarr sits on the wooden window ledge, gazing out at a long back garden that is surrounded on all sides by fir trees. Ennio Morricone’s ‘Gabriel’s Oboe’ from The Mission plays on the radio. ‘Benzo’ Mullins leans against a furry animal skin that adorns the back of a cream sofa. His feet are resting on a matching pouffe. The drug dealer’s eyes are closed and his right hand waves an invisible baton. Beside Benzo is Ian ‘Twenty Bellies’ McClure, rubbing his Uzi sub-machine gun with a cloth.

Finbarr speculates whether a cut-throat razor had been used to give Benzo his ‘Glasgow smile’. He reckons that the scars at the corners of his mouth are each about an inch long. Involuntarily, he strokes the sides of his own mouth with his thumb and index finger.

Geek O’Reilly does not take drugs, but he knows that Finbarr has a nose for coke, so he invites him to sample the goods. Finbarr comes over to the glass coffee table, bends down and, using a rolled-up ten-euro note as a funnel, snorts a line of coke. He throws back his head.

‘Well?’ Geek asks.

The innocuous grin on Finbarr’s face soon turns into a full-blown smile. ‘It’s good stuff.’

Benzo stands up, walks towards Geek, puts one hand on his shoulder and points a finger at the kitchen. ‘That mule is carrying an awful lot of Charlie. Now, tell me you’re going to look after her, coz the minute she walks out of here, she and Charlie are your responsibility.’

‘It’s all sorted,’ Geek says.

‘How are they getting up to Belfast?’

‘That’s my concern.’

Benzo makes an appealing face. ‘Indulge me.’

‘Like I said, how Charlie reaches Belfast is my concern.’

Benzo nods. Twenty Bellies, sub-machine gun in hand, stands up. ‘That’s okay, but terms still have to be agreed.’

‘Of course,’ Geek says.

‘You get a month’s credit.’

‘No problem.’

‘Ahh!’

Geek remains unmoved by Benzo’s outburst. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asks soberly.

‘I hate those fuckin’ words! Every cunt that tells me there’ll be no problem ends up being the fuckin’ problem.’

‘Hey!’ Geek snaps, ‘I’m no cunt.’

‘I didn’t mean it like—’

‘When you call me a cunt, you call my boss a cunt, and he takes exception to being called a cunt.’

Benzo nods slowly. ‘No disrespect intended, Geek. You’re no cunt, and neither is my good friend Panzer—’

‘What a strange name,’ Geek says with a glint in his eye. ‘I can’t say I know anyone by that name.’

Unruffled by the sudden spike in tension, Benzo strokes the scar at the right side of his mouth. ‘You’ve got your ways of doing things and I’ve got mine, and business is business. I want my two hundred large by this time next month. No excuses, no sob stories. I really don’t give an elephant’s fart if your boss is down the bury hole and you’re lying on top of him. I want my poke. And if the gear’s caught, I still get my poke.’

‘Are you finished?’ Geek says.

Benzo whispers in Geek’s ear. ‘The General had a saying: “familiarity is the slippery slope to bad judgement”. This way, nobody can say they didn’t know the score if one of the boys has to blow them away.’

‘My boss has a saying,’ Geek says. ‘“Don’t make threats – but keep promises”.’

Finbarr is open-mouthed, his eyes shifting from Geek to Benzo and back. He hears a swaggering voice inside his head: Cheeky bastard! One of your boys will blow who away? Me? My old man? Ructions? And what are we going to be doing, eh? Blowing bubbles out our arses?

Benzo has said his piece and decides against making things worse. ‘Your boss is a man of honour, Geek, a man I respect.’

‘That he is. Finbarr, go see to the mule.’

‘Sure.’ Finbarr goes into the bathroom where Beatrice, a friend of Peteris, is strapping a cocaine belt around her midriff.

‘It heavy,’ Beatrice says, as she adjusts the cocaine belt for comfort.

‘Get it right, Bee,’ Finbarr says. ‘Take your time.’ Beatrice puts on her dress and coat. Finbarr inspects her. Nothing looks amiss. ‘Stay here.’ He goes back to the living room. ‘That’s us ready for the road.’

‘Stall,’ Benzo says. He takes out his mobile and dials a woman who is scouting the area in a car, looking for signs of a police presence.

‘Anything?’

‘Nothing.’

‘No cops,’ Benzo says, offering his hand to Geek, ‘and no hard feelings?’

‘None. As you say, business is business.’

‘Give your boss my best, will ya?’

‘Will do.’

‘And tell him it’s a pleasure to do business with him. Yeah?’

‘Sure. Finbarr, you and the mule leave first.’

Panzer and Ructions are sharing a table along with some French supporters in the front garden of The Bath Pub beside the Lansdowne Road Stadium in Dublin. Directly below them is a white bath that has been converted into a flowerbed. Standing behind them on the tiled walkway to the bar entrance is a host of Irish supporters singing the Irish national anthem.

An earthy, rumbustious voice emerges from amongst the passing rugby fans. ‘Ructions! Ructions!’

Ructions stretches his neck to see who is calling his name. Serge approaches, bedecked in a French scarf and a welcoming smile. Ructions holds out his arms to Serge and they hug.

‘Bonjour, mon ami,’ Serge says, glowing with delight.

‘Bonjour, Serge.’ Ructions holds him at arm’s length. ‘Vous avez l’air très bien.’

‘Merci, Ructions.’

‘Really, I can’t get over it. You’re looking twenty years younger.’

‘I’ve discovered Botox, my Irish friend,’ Serge chuckles as he turns to give Ructions a side profile.

A group of Irish supporters approach and one puts his arm around Serge’s neck. Both Serge and Ructions join the Irish supporters in singing ‘Amhrán na bhFiann’. Ructions leads a swelling chorus of Gaelic goodwill. ‘Come on, Ireland!’

A bonding, a spiritual union from Serge, ‘Vive l’Irlande!’

‘Vive la France!’ Ructions shouts.

A French supporter bumps into Panzer, who is approaching with two pints of Guinness. Miraculously, none of the Guinness is spilled. The two apologise to each other. Panzer, his face alight, hands one of the pints of Guinness to Serge. ‘Thought you might need this, old-timer.’

Serge has to look twice before he recognises Panzer. His dramatic weight loss and grey pallor shocks him, but he quickly recovers and smiles widely at his old friend. ‘Ha!’ Serge says. ‘Old-timer, indeed! You’re older than me!’ Serge takes the pint from Panzer and sips it gingerly.

‘You’ve hardly wet your whistle there, Frenchie!’ Panzer cries. ‘Take a decent slug.’

Serge drinks the whole pint. A white foam moustache adorns his upper lip. ‘C’est magnifique, Irish,’ Serge says, thumping the pint glass down on a table. Panzer and he throw their arms around each other and warmly embrace.

Walking into the stadium, Panzer gets a phone call and drops behind Ructions and Serge. After a few seconds, Serge stops to tie his shoelace. He looks up at Ructions. ‘Can I ask you, Ructions,’ he says, ‘how much do you expect to lift?’

‘It’s difficult to say. At a rough guess,’ Ructions purses his lips, ‘I’d say anything from thirty to fifty.’

Serge stands up, clearly taken aback. ‘Million?’

Ructions nods.

‘Mon Dieu!’

‘Can you handle it?’

Serge hesitates before replying. ‘Yes, yes, I can. But understand this – money of that quantity will be extremely expensive to clean.’

‘How expensive?’

‘I don’t know yet, but it could go to fifty or even sixty per cent.’

Ructions stands with his hands on his hips, hanging on Serge’s every word and mannerism. ‘Jesus, that’s rough. Wow!’ Ructions puts his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. ‘I’m gonna come right out with it, Serge, I wasn’t expecting that.’

‘It may not be as much as that or …’ Serge holds up his palm and shrugs, ‘it may be more. I simply don’t know yet. I admit, I’ve never had to deal with that amount of money before.’ Serge is lost in thought. ‘I’ll have to make enquiries.’

Panzer comes back. ‘We’ll talk after the match,’ Ructions says.

‘Well, you two,’ Panzer says, putting his arms around both men’s shoulders. ‘What’s the buzz? Tell me what’s a happenin’.’

‘Ireland’s playing France,’ Ructions says. ‘Come on, Ireland!’

‘Éirinn go brách!’ Panzer shouts.

Back at the hotel after the match, Panzer flicks a half-smoked cigar over the hotel balcony railings. It spirals downwards, revolution after revolution, until it lands on the roof of the concrete hotel entrance, bounces and comes to rest. He sits down, lifts his gold cigarette lighter with his thumb and index finger and tumbles it repeatedly. He didn’t really understand rugby, but he liked the physicality of it, the die-for-the-cause attitude of the players. His thoughts are interrupted by thumping on his bedroom door.

Panzer peeks out the spyhole, pulls back, squints again at the figure on the other side and rubs his eyes. Whoever it is, he or she is wearing a black, ankle-length leather overcoat and a large black hat and is facing away from the door. Then Finbarr turns around. Panzer opens the door and Finbarr walks into the room. ‘Sweet Jesus!’ Panzer exclaims, coming behind his son, ‘I thought for a minute there, Old Nick himself had come to put me to the scythe.’

‘Nope,’ Finbarr says. ‘It’s just me.’ He makes for the minibar, takes out a small bottle of whiskey and puts it to his mouth. ‘That other thing’s sorted,’ he says casually as he empties the whiskey down his throat.

Panzer turns up the volume on the television, motions Finbarr out to the balcony, closes the glass doors behind him and sits at the table. Finbarr fidgets. ‘So, Charles is away, then?’ Panzer asks.

Finbarr nods.

‘Where’s Geek?’

‘With Charles.’

‘I thought you were going back to Belfast with him?’

‘No, I’m meeting up with a few mates for a drink.’

‘Okay.’

A glass door slides open in the next room and Ructions steps out on to his balcony.

Finbarr raises his hat. ‘Hello, Ructions.’

Ructions sniggers. ‘Like the outfit. Creepy.’

‘So everybody keeps telling me.’

‘What time is our table booked for?’ Panzer asks.

‘Eight o’clock,’ Ructions says and heads back inside to take a shower.

Panzer stands up and puts his hands on the balcony railing. Without turning around, he says, ‘Remind me, when Benzo gets his two hundred large, how much do we come away with clean?’

‘Three hundred.’

‘And you’re certain you can move the stuff?’

‘That won’t be an issue. I know people who’ll break our arms for it. Dad, when we’re on the subject of goods, I think we can move at least another container of cigs a week, maybe even two. I know people who work in Dundalk harbour and they’ll turn a blind eye for the right money.’

‘Interesting,’ Panzer says.

‘And sooner or later, the IRA are going to get out of the fuel-laundering business altogether.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘The politics of the peace process will demand it. And once they go, they’ll leave behind a very lucrative diesel-laundering market. We should grab that market; we should start looking for sites where we can launder our own diesel and develop our own client base.’

‘Your mind has been at full throttle, hasn’t it?’

‘Not really. It’s just—’

‘What makes you think the Provos are just going to walk away from a multi-million-pound annual turnover?’

‘They’ve no choice if they want to become politically relevant.’

‘You know, in the broad political sweep of things you’d be right, but some Provos might be persuaded to go into the fuel-laundering business for themselves; some might, like you, see an opportunity.’

‘I think there’d be enough room for everybody.’

‘Now …’ Panzer wags his finger, ‘that is a dangerous concept. Sooner or later, one man always gets greedy and convinces himself he doesn’t need competition and then … well, then the guns usually come out and bodies are found lying face down in the streets.’

‘Surely that possibility could apply to any business.’

‘That’s not strictly correct, but in our marketplace, in the underworld, it’s always a possibility.’ Panzer puts his hand on Finbarr’s shoulder. ‘Son, you’ll be taking over from me soon and you should be looking for legitimate business opportunities … the property market, for example; it’s exploding at the minute.’

‘Sure,’ Finbarr says.

Panzer cannot help but frown at his son’s apparent disinterest.

Finbarr clears his throat. ‘Something has been puzzling me, Dad.’

‘Oh dear,’ Panzer says in a resigned tone. ‘What is it?’

‘Why did you do this drugs deal with Benzo? I thought you hated the drug business.’

Panzer chooses his words carefully. ‘I do, but I’m going to be laying out a lot of money for that bank job I told you about. You know … the one with Ructions.’

‘Okay.’

‘This way I take the risk out of the equation. It’s an insurance policy against a potential loss. A one-off.’

‘I see.’

‘I’ve told you before, but I’m going to say it again – don’t ever let him know I took you into my confidence on that job. He doesn’t like you.’

‘He’s a jealous asshole. He can’t abide me getting the farm and business and him not.’

Serge, Panzer and Ructions are seated in the hotel restaurant. A waiter brings a bottle of dessert wine and presents the label to Serge. ‘The 1996 Château d’Yquem Sauternes Premier Cru Supérieur, monsieur,’ the waiter says.

Serge nods and sniffs the cork. ‘An exceptional bouquet,’ he says.

The waiter pours the wine and leaves the table.

‘The pork was excellent, non?’ Serge says.

‘Very nice,’ Ructions says.

Serge lifts his glass and swirls the wine. ‘If I may say so, gentlemen, this is an ambitious project.’

‘It’ll work, Serge. I know it will,’ Ructions says.

Serge’s silence testifies to his reservations. ‘And you, Johnny … are you confident?’

Panzer pauses before answering. ‘I’m optimistic, put it like that.’

‘In my view,’ Serge says, ‘optimism is overrated.’

‘Perhaps, but I’ve gone through this with Ructions and I can’t find fault in it. We’ll need a bit of luck, but then you always need the rub of the green, don’t you? It’s more than worth the risk.’

‘I hope so,’ Serge says.

‘Ructions has never let me down yet,’ Panzer says.

Serge sips his wine. ‘I know that, but this thing is bordering on extraterrestrial. Nothing like it has been undertaken before.’

‘We know that,’ Panzer says.

‘You’ll not be able to launder the money in Ireland or Britain.’

‘That’s why we’re paying for this rather expensive dinner, monsieur,’ Ructions says glibly.

Serge bows his head gracefully and looks at Ructions in a manner that is decidedly puzzled. ‘Merci beaucoup.’ He exchanges glances with Panzer, then turns his attention back to Ructions. ‘Would it be unkind of me to play the devil’s advocate?’

‘I expected nothing less.’

‘Let us make a giant leap of faith and assume that all goes according to plan and the merchandise is in your possession.’

‘Okay,’ Ructions says.

‘And let us assume you can resist the attention of the authorities—’

‘Yes?’

‘You still have the problem of transferring the merchandise out of the country. I should think air travel, given its traceability, would be out of the question. Do you agree?’

‘Yes.’

‘How, then, do you intend to move the merchandise?’

Ructions makes a wave motion with his hand.

‘Yes,’ Serge says. ‘That makes sense. The police – I do not think it will be long before they find out who did this.’

‘Possibly,’ Ructions says, ‘but it doesn’t necessarily follow.’

‘The police would be aware that few, shall we say, parties, are capable of achieving a positive result in this matter. They will go through a process of elimination and arrive at the right conclusions, don’t you think?’

‘The actual enterprise has been subdivided amongst different groups of people who don’t know one another,’ Panzer says.

‘That’s as may be, but the central figures – the planners – they swim in a very small pool.’

‘The paramilitaries will be blamed for it,’ Ructions says.

‘Undoubtedly – at the start.’ Serge drinks some wine and looks past Panzer in concentration. ‘Is it not the case that the police and intelligence services have infiltrated the paramilitaries?’

‘To a point,’ Ructions says, ‘but not completely. There are paramilitaries who don’t work for the cops or for MI5.’

Serge stares at the wine bottle. ‘That doesn’t help, does it? All that tells me is that the paramilitaries who aren’t working for the police don’t know their friends from their enemies. Hmm … Can I ask who your people are, or is that—’

‘No, it’s a fair question,’ Panzer answers. ‘Actually, they’re ex-IRA. Retired revolutionaries. In business for themselves now. Very security conscious. Very forensically aware. We’ve used them before and there’s been no comeback.’

‘Only two of them know that we …’ Ructions points to Panzer and himself, ‘are behind it, and they don’t know of one another’s involvement.’

‘And it’s in their own interests to keep their heads down,’ Panzer adds.

Serge seems to be counting on his fingers. ‘I like that. I think, perhaps, it would be unwise of me to pose any more questions. I will not ask when this thing is happening, but you appreciate that I have arrangements to make. I will need an approximation, if that is okay?’

‘It’ll be very soon,’ Ructions says. ‘I’ll let you know when the time is right.’

‘There’s nothing else to be said, then, is there?’ Serge raises his glass. ‘To good business.’