The Dark Heart, page 19
‘A year.’
‘And he’s helping you to cut that short?’ His tone carried an edge.
‘No.’
‘What, genuinely?’ He sounded surprised.
‘Aye. He wants to do his sentence, and face the parole board. He wants to leave it all behind, Bruce, I’m sure of it.’ Max leaned against the scuffed, overpainted wall, and scratched an itch on his scalp.
There was another pause before he spoke again. ‘What’s prompted this, you think?’
‘Love of a good woman, Bruce. Look, I have to dash, there’s lots going on, here.’
‘So I hear.’
‘I hesitate to ask how you hear.’
‘I like to stay abreast of developments. We look at all the variables in the countries my boss has interests in. He likes regular threat assessments, particularly about areas of concern that may be considered helpful to the Kremlin. I have heard that Stringer Dent is a very bad man, however. Dent has been recently influenced by someone connected to malign forces who are looking to sow real discontent, which the powers that be in Moscow are encouraging. You need to stop him, Max.’
‘We’re on it.’ Max felt his hackles rising at Bruce’s tone, which carried the legacy of a regimental sergeant major gently chiding an underling.
‘I hope so. The drugs are just a small part of the problem. I take it you know about the link to the terrorist bomb in York a while back?’
‘Aye.’ Max didn’t elaborate.
‘They were keen to put the spotlight on AQ for that, but our analysts don’t buy that for a moment. Right now, they’re just fund-raising to do the bidding of the Kremlin. Stringer Dent and Shorty Shore are both just useful idiots, Max. I’ll be in the UK in the next few days, maybe meet for a coffee?’ Max could tell that Bruce had more. He sighed, not now. There was too much at stake.
‘Does it change anything that we may be planning, Bruce?’
Max looked up as the office door opened, and Janie stepped into the corridor. She looked at him, her eyes full of suspicion. He scratched at his scalp again.
‘Well, as I don’t really know your plans, I couldn’t possibly answer that, could I? Maybe stay in touch, eh? A bit of quid pro quo?’ Bruce’s tone was genial, but backed with some steel.
Jane raised an eyebrow and tapped at her wristwatch.
‘I have to go.’
‘Fine, but I’ll be watching and listening.’
‘Glad to hear it.’ Max hung up.
‘Who was that?’ said Janie.
‘No one,’ said Max.
She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘It didn’t sound like no one. And you’re doing that nervous thing.’
‘What nervous thing?’
‘Thing where you scratch your bald heid. Come on. First Minister has signed the interception warrant, and it’s about to be reviewed by the independent judge. The line room is getting it set up now. We should be live later on this afternoon.’
‘Authorised? Jeepers, that’s quick going.’
‘Aye, three dead bodies in a couple of days will do that, come on. Briefing time, then we’re testing it works. Fancy calling Stringer later?’
‘Aye, why not.’ Max held up his fist, and they bumped knuckles.
45
Stringer was in the gloomy barn in Low Cocklaw, humping and dumping all the detritus from the ageing Renault van, to reveal the false floor. It just took another ten minutes before the floor was lifted, revealing the fifty kilo bricks of purest Colombian marching powder, all tightly packed in the space. He selected three at random, and dropped them into a small rucksack by his feet.
He was replacing the false floor when he felt his phone buzzing in his pocket. He pulled it out and looked at the screen. It was Robbie. He felt a small blip of nerves. This was a big job, now. They needed the cash, urgently. A mad Dutchman was waiting for a great deal of money, and he needed to balance the books to make sure that the Cashier’s Bitcoin would arrive properly.
‘Yeah?’ he said casually, as he answered the phone.
‘Stringer, it’s Robbie.’
‘I know that. We all good?’
‘Aye, just checking you’re still okay for tomorrow.’
‘Yeah, of course. We’re heading up in the afternoon, same place?’
‘Aye. We’ll be in a dark X5, what you driving?’
‘Why do you need to know that?’ he said.
‘Mate, we’ll be in a public car park, and we don’t want to be pissing about. It’s quiet enough there, but not so quiet that we’d attract attention if the polis swing by. The car park gets about half full this time of year, even later on, so you can spot us, or we can spot you depending on who arrives first.’
‘Why can’t we do the job in a fucking hotel room, or something?’ said Stringer, already knowing why. First time deals, with no track record, who’d trust walking into a private hotel room with a big bag of cash? It’d be the easiest rip-off ever, whereas no one wants a confrontation in a public place, despite what you see in films.
‘No disrespect, but we don’t know each other. We have no reason to fucking trust each other, so we do this as we say, or we go somewhere else. I’m not going somewhere out of public view. I’m not a fucking newbie, man. I’ve been ripped off before. If this goes well, the next job can be somewhere much quieter over a cup of coffee. Now, can we get this done? I’ve a fuck ton of cash burning a hole in my pocket, pal.’
Stringer thought about this for a moment. Not the G-Wagon. Way too flashy, and guaranteed to attract the attention of the bizzies. It wasn’t like he didn’t have access to other cars. He mentally ticked through the other possibilities, remembering the images of the car park he’d studied on Google Maps Street View.
‘Stringer?’ Robbie’s voice was tight.
‘Aye, fine. We’ll be in a grey Mondeo. A 59 plate. Just me and Shorty, is it just you and the Gorilla?’
‘If by Gorilla you mean Jed, then yes.’ Robbie sounded amused.
‘Far-right side of the visitor car park closest to the trees, by the bin. Find two empty spaces and wait for us there. Text when you arrive, and we’ll be there within five minutes, as long as there are no cozzers about, okay?’
‘Got it.’
‘You have the readies?’
‘Of course, unless you take American Express?’
‘Fat fucking chance, bonny lad. Don’t fuck us about, and remember who you’re dealing with, eh?’ Stringer said, his voice hardening. He hung up and immediately redialled.
‘Yeah?’ The rough Berwick accent.
‘Shorty, we’re on. Get the Mondeo ready for tomorrow, the one with the hide under the rear seat.’
‘Right, I’ll call Jimmy J. to fetch it over to mine, and I’ll pick you up early, how far is Pitlochry?’
‘Just over two and a half hours.’
‘Shit, why are we doing it up there?’ said Shorty, sounding indignant.
‘Halfway for both of us. We won’t always do it this way, but we want this one to be quick, we’re committed with the Cashier, and he needs his dough. I don’t want to risk pissing him off, do you?’
‘No bloody way, man. Right, pick you up at seven. One thing?’
‘Aye?’ said Stringer.
‘Are we strapped?’
Stringer paused, considering the options. It was only three key, but Robbie was an unknown. Would it be a rip-off? He pursed his lips and scratched his itching scar.
‘You know the answer to that. I’m not risking getting rolled by no bastard. We need this wedge, and we need it now.’
‘Whey-aye. I’ll sort it,’ said Shorty, as calm as if he was talking about collecting a loaf of bread, not two nine-millimetre pistols.
‘Canny. It’s on, lad.’ Stringer hung up, feeling a surge of energy in his chest. Despite only getting out of jail a few days ago, here he was. Back in the thick of it, making money, but this time for a genuine cause.
Things needed to change, and they needed to change now. The only way to bring the country to its senses was chaos. Chaos followed by the reset.
And he was here for it, one hundred per cent.
46
Ross was in the office, staring at his empty cup, hoping that it may magically refill with tea, as it seemed like no other bugger here was going to make one any time soon. He looked at Barney, who was pretending to fiddle with some stupid bit of tech, when in reality he was trying not to nod off. Max was just staring at his phone, and Janie was leafing through a magazine about some stupid martial art. Only Norma seemed to be working, tapping away on her computer.
He opened his mouth, intending to indulge in some abuse relating to who was making the tea, when his phone began to vibrate on the desk in front of him. The display read, ‘Private number’. He knew, or rather hoped he knew who it was.
‘Ross Fraser,’ he said, answering the handset.
‘DI Fraser, it’s Maggie in the line room.’ Ross sucked in a breath. The line room. An independent and isolated unit in a secret location somewhere in Scotland. Or maybe London. Ross didn’t have a bloody clue. All he knew was they were the ones listening, and they stripped back the information to its component parts, sanitised it and relayed it in the most anodyne fashion possible.
‘Aye, that’s me.’
‘We have recent intelligence that subjects known as Stringer and Shorty are leaving his home address at seven tomorrow evening in a grey 59-plated Mondeo to travel to the car park at the Pitlochry dam. It is believed that they will be in possession of three kilos of cocaine for supply to another. The car is being supplied by Jimmy J., and has a hide under the back seat.’
‘Excellent, thanks, Maggie. Anything else?’
‘Yes, for a separate intelligence sheet. It is also suspected that they need the funds to pay an individual known as the Cashier, who they seem to be in fear of.’ Her delivery was brusque and matter-of-fact.
‘Hmm, right, okay,’ said Ross, scribbling in his A4 day book, a brand-new item he’d started specifically for receiving these intelligence reports from the line room. Once finished, the intelligence in the book would be transposed onto intelligence sheets, graded and evaluated. At the conclusion of the job, it would be destroyed.
‘That’s it for now. Stay tuned for further updates.’
Ross ended the call, looked around at the team, all of whom were staring at him expectantly. ‘We’re on.’
47
Three months earlier
Stringer was sitting in the association hall of Frankland jail, his eyes down and taking in the chessboard in front of him. There was no doubt about it. He was screwed. He only had four pieces left, to Boggie’s five. He’d been getting excited as he’d picked off the Russian’s pieces nicely, and he really thought that the time was now. He genuinely thought he’d beat the bastard for the first time.
He was very wrong.
He looked up at his opponent, the skinny Bogdan, who showed his crooked teeth in a wolfish grin.
He looked down at the black and white pieces, and sighed. His king was pinned in the corner with Boggie’s rook and knight, and he pretty much had nowhere to go. Take his rook, and his knight had him. He had nothing else. He reached over, and knocked over his king with a forefinger.
Bogdan let out a throaty cackle, his rheumy eyes glinting.
‘You cunning old bastard,’ Stringer said, grinning widely. He and Bogdan had become close soon after Stringer’s remand almost a year ago. The little Russian was quiet and aloof, and rarely spoke to any of the other inmates, but after a week sharing a cell with Stringer, he’d opened up. Stringer had been moved to a single cell shortly after but they’d remained close, and religiously played chess at every association session. He’d told Stringer his life story, and what a tale it was. Born into poverty in Moscow, he’d started out picking pockets, before moving to burglaries, and then robberies. The inevitable happened, and he was jailed in Siberia. This left only one option. Join the gangs, or die.
He joined the Solntsevskaya Bratva, the feared Russian crime syndicate, and entered the world of organised crime, enduring battles with the Chechen mafia, and spending time in New York, before he was deported back to Russia. He’d ended up in the UK after he’d been sent to London with a new identity, in order to represent the interests of his boss, who in turn was heavily influenced by forces deep in the Kremlin. He’d been in the UK only a year before he was jailed for shooting a Russian journalist in the head, netting him a life sentence. He was an intense man, full of quiet passion, and when he spoke, Stringer listened. He listened intently to everything the man said, and he was captured by those hard Baltic blue eyes, and the fervour with which he spoke.
And when they realised that their worldview aligned, the deal was done. They discussed it all, endlessly. How Europe was being poisoned by the Jew and the Muslim. How the Aryan race must fight back and must stop the pollution of the white majority. The ‘88’ tattoo – as in the eighth letter of the alphabet, H – told its own story.
‘Heil Hitler.’
Bogdan was a dyed-in-the-wool Nazi. And Stringer was here for it. He was captured by it, and a new desire was planted deeply in him. Sow division, create havoc and spread hatred. ‘Hatred is powerful weapon, no? UK is divided, left or right, black or white, gay or straight. Our paymasters make Brexit happen, it make NATO look weak. Only by destroying can we rebuild, you understand me, Stringer?’ His burning eyes bored into him. Well, that was that. He was captured. No more just dealing drugs for nice watches and cars. Now he had a purpose.
‘So, you don’t see Arabian checkmate? I knew four move ago, and you took bait.’ He chuckled, a crackling and harsh noise, as he began to reposition the chess pieces.
Bogdan was in his sixties and was a husk of a man compared to the hulking bulk of Stringer. But Bogdan had something intangible. Bogdan had presence. He was the only Russian in the jail, but he was given a very wide berth by all the other prisoners. Memories of his attack on a tall, young inmate known as Legs was a thing of legend in the jail. It had been an argument over nothing more than access to one of the prisoner phones in the association hall. The young con, who was in for a nasty murder of a fifteen-year-old, had pulled Bogdan away from the phone when he felt he’d had long enough. Bogdan had done nothing initially, just smiled at the younger man’s back as he had dialled.
A day and a half later, during a violent disturbance on the landing between a number of cons, Bogdan had struck. While the chaos was happening, the young con had been blinded when chlorine gas had been sprayed directly into his eyes. It seemed that Boggie had knowledge of rudimentary chemistry, aware that mixing vinegar and bleach would create the horribly corrosive substance.
Of course there were no witnesses, and Legs certainly wasn’t grassing. A visit to his mother in Newcastle from one of Bogdan’s associates had made it very clear that giving evidence wasn’t an option.
‘Another game?’ said Bogdan, lining up the board with the cheap plastic chess pieces.
‘Aye, gan on. Although I’m shite.’
‘You improve, my friend. You improve every time. It good to play chess. Chess is all tactics, and you need to know and learn tactics, yes?’ The diminutive Russian stared hard at Stringer, his eyes deep set and icy blue. Eyes that seemed to see into your very soul.
‘Aye, I guess.’
‘Not guess. Know. Always know.’ His eyes went to the tattoo on the back of his hand, the two digits, 88.
Stringer was entranced as he looked into his friend’s eyes.
‘You must be smart, my friend. The Jew writer was a good operation, but he is small time. Better targets available, my friend. Much better. Most of world not even know he exist. You are a soldier, no?’
‘Soldier?’ Stringer felt his insides freeze at the man’s delivery. The short staccato sentences, the blazing eyes, the hard face. They were mesmerising.
‘Yes. Leader and a soldier, Stringer. Soldier uses tactics, planning, and think ahead like in chess, no?’
Stringer held the man’s gaze. ‘Like chess, aye.’
‘Just like chess. In chess, you go for the king. You may take out a pawn, or a knight, you may even sacrifice a rook, or a bishop, but objective is always the king.’
Stringer couldn’t find the words, so entranced was he by the diminutive Russian.
‘I’m lock in here for many time, and I’m an old man already, Stringer, but you,’ he tapped a finger on Stringer’s massive chest, ‘you are powerful, you are young, and you make a difference, when you get out, and get out you will, because you smart.’
Stringer’s mouth opened and closed like a fish as the words seemed to physically strike him in the face with Bogdan’s tobacco-laced breath. He felt a surge of energy. He knew now. He knew that it was his destiny. He had to make a real, proper difference.
‘Stringer, my friend. You now like a son to me, so make me proud, but make me real proud for real reason.’ His head snapped down, looking at the chess pieces.
‘Boggie?’ he began, but the words died in his mouth.
The Russian looked up, a smile stretching across his face. ‘Let’s play chess. You beat me, and I tell you how to make the world shake like never before.’
48
The unusually clement Scottish weather had disappeared to be replaced by a more typical set of affairs. The rain lashed down in warm sheets as Joe steered the BMW along the A9 heading north towards Pitlochry, the big tyres kicking up a deluge of spray, and the steering wheel juddering as the car aquaplaned in the ribbon of water that ran down the edge of the tarmac.
‘Looks like summer’s over, then?’ said Joe, grinning as the windscreen wipers fought against the deluge.
‘We’ve had it too good, pal. If it was always like it’s been over the past couple of weeks we’d be bloody flooded by tourists. Rain will make some of them re-evaluate.’ Max was fiddling with his phone. ‘You getting all this back there?’ Max said, ostensibly to no one. A ringing tone erupted through the BMW’s speakers. The display declared that the caller was ‘Profane Pete’.
