Authors: Jack Hillgate
***
July 2007
Portia was pleased with me. The frequency of her runs between Cannes
Californie
and Grasse kept her motor running sweetly, her flat six cylinder engine gurgling behind my head as I shuttled the last of the tropinone into the first floor laboratories, locked and alarmed them. I had told Louveau my plan to make a rejuvenating ointment for rich women which we would scent and create from alkaloids intended to stimulate, and he had constructed the laboratories accordingly. Stephanie was looking forward to her role as chief
parfumiere
whereas I was looking forward to distributing the specialist product that we would soon we packaging up and selling in little pale-green jars, the colour chosen so as to accentuate the organic, carbon-neutral nature of our operation. To cap it all off, the sun was shining, marking yet another beautiful day in the South of France.
I first noticed that something was wrong when I left the factory with Stephanie sitting next to me, smoking out of the window and singing along to whatever was playing that evening on Riviera Radio. The traffic out of Grasse was normally heavy and consisted principally of white van drivers, small French hatchbacks with broken tail-lights and lorries delivering marble or slate or perfume or televisions. My car was conspicuous, that of an eccentric, the white 911 with the black whale-tail and black wheels. But, perversely, I felt that that made me inconspicuous, a character, a lovable Englishman enjoying his new business next to the glittering Mediterranean. There were many of us about, some in their Astons and some in their Ferraris. Portia was gentler, more classy, I thought. A sturdy classic, just like its owner.
The car three cars behind us had joined the road only a few hundred yards from
Daillion
. It was a black Mercedes M class with blacked-out windows. There was nothing unusual in that, but it just didn’t feel right. When we reached
Le Plan de Grasse
and the first big roundabout with sign-posts for Cannes next to a semi-industrial area littered with big metal sheds, I turned off the main road quite sharply, and headed down a well-kept road that led, according to the sign, to an industrial estate. The Mercedes followed us. I could see the car about three hundred yards behind us, hiding unsuccessfully behind a white Twingo.
‘Where are we going, George?’
‘A storage facility for us to look at.’
‘Here? They will have gone home. Is past seven. This is France, remember.’
‘It won’t take a minute.’
I kept my eyes glued to the rear-view mirror and slowed, as if I was looking for somewhere. We were near the turn-off to a carpet wholesalers and I lingered just enough for the Mercedes to catch up with us.
‘No’, I said suddenly, slamming Portia into reverse with the handbrake on and then burning up the road in the opposite direction, leaving the Mercedes stranded behind the Twingo.
‘What is wrong with you, George? This is crazy. You make me drop my cigarette.’
‘I’ll buy you another one.’
‘Don’t be silly. Can we go home now?’
‘Yes. But we’ll stop off for cigarettes.’
I was driving in the bus lane, weaving quickly in and out of the traffic. At one point I shot through a red light – everyone did it in France anyway – and then found a clear stretch where Portia hit ninety and I knew we’d lost them.
The Eagles were singing ‘
Hotel California’
on Riviera Radio and I listened to Stephanie join in with the chorus, her Gallic vowels making the song sound much sexier than the original. She looked so happy, my little coked-up
madamoiselle
with her chemistry degree and toned calves. I didn’t want to spoil her mood by telling her that things might change soon. I didn’t want to tell her that Carlos might already have arrived.
We would sleep in her apartment tonight, not mine. She would hold me and protect me. And if that didn’t work, then I still had the Taser and the Glock.
28
March 1994
Tower Records on Piccadilly Circus was one of the biggest music stores in Europe. Kieran and I were standing next to the ‘B’ section: The Beatles, Bowie, Bananarama and Captain Beefheart. We were both dressed in black cargo pants and sweaters with black training shoes. Kieran wore blue-tinted sunglasses and he was carrying two small bags of the cocaine that Jeavons had manufactured for us.
‘Kieran?’
‘What?’
‘It’s him.’
‘Where?’
‘Over there. By the videos. Wizard of Oz.’
We skirted casually through the ‘C’ section, then ‘D’ and ‘E’, pretending to browse but looking to see if the man we were looking at was the man we were meant to meet. A medium height man in jeans and a checked shirt with a brown leather jacket and glasses walked up to us. Kieran and I were both holding a copy of the ‘Sergeant Pepper’ album, as instructed. He was holding a copy of the VHS cassette of ‘The Wizard of Oz.’
‘Morning chaps’, he said. ‘Big Beatles fans?’
‘Yes.’ I paused, trying to remember the exact words. ‘
Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds
is my favourite track on the whole album.’
‘
I am the Eggman’, he replied. 'We’ll go to the check-out now and then I’ll take you to see the Wizard.’
‘Fine.’
We queued with our items and paid in cash, as did the Eggman. We walked out of the store, the three of us holding our Tower Records plastic bags.
‘This way’, he said, crossing the road and heading in the direction of Hyde Park Corner. We passed the Ritz, Green Park tube station and the Saab garage on our right. We had the park to our left, Spencer House and, through the trees, I could see the western flank of Buckingham Palace. If the Queen were in residence she could have spied us through a pair of binoculars, two men taking a jaunt along the northern edge of Green Park, following in the trail of the Eggman.
The Eggman walked quickly ahead of us, his Tower Records bag dangling by his side. He didn’t look round to see if we were following him. He didn’t need to. No doubt someone else was following us. I didn’t look round either because there wasn’t much either I or Kieran could do about it. Kieran was humming
I am the Walrus
under his breath, something he only did when he was nervous, and I joined in. We turned to each other and grinned. This was the real thing. We were in it for big money and so were the people we would be dealing with. This time, no fuck ups.
We reached Hyde Park Corner and crossed to the centre, Apsley House to our right, its sandstone structure reminding me of Downing College where Jeavons would be, guarding our fridges. We walked along the grass verge and then the Eggman dipped down into the subterranean passage that led to Kensington Gore. The Lanesborough was to our left and then we approached the heart of Knightsbridge, marked by Harrods. We had been walking for fifteen or twenty minutes. We continued past Kensington Gardens to our right, the Palace and
Barker’s
to our left. We continued along Kensington High Street, towards the western end. Thirty minutes had elapsed and we hadn’t stopped walking.
Suddenly, the Eggman turned right, up Melbury Road. I looked round as we turned, but it was impossible to tell if anyone was following us or not because High Street Ken was busy. After thirty yards, the bustle of the high street faded. We circled around Holland Park and then in through the Ilchester Place entrance, past the Kyoto Garden and then out onto the exit near the Greek Embassy. The Eggman turned left, swiveling on his heel like a drill sergeant and walked down the hill, past large cream-puff mansions. When we got to the bottom of the road the Eggman turned right, towards Holland Park Avenue, crossed the road and up the steps of the hotel on the corner, The Halcyon. We followed him in to find ourselves cosseted by blue carpets, deep blue wallpaper and staff in blue waistcoats over white shirts. The Eggman walked to the end of the corridor and turned sharply right and down a flight of steps to the basement where faded drawings lined the walls and it was very quiet. When we turned a corner we found him in the wood-panelled empty basement bar.
‘Take a seat, chaps. You’re up in twenty minutes. Fancy a drink?’
‘I’ll have a coke’, I said.
‘Herbal tea’, said Kieran.
‘
They’ll come and get you’, he said. ‘Just make yourselves comfortable.’
That was last time I saw the Eggman.
Twenty minutes later they came and got us, two small but thick-set men in suits, their hair slicked back behind their ears. We followed them out of the bar and back up the stairs to reception.
‘We take the elevator’, said one of them. I nodded. The metal cage was barely big enough for two let alone the four of us. We squeezed in and had to edge away from the door so that the sensors would allow it to close, which meant I was now in close proximity to the two intermediaries and their pungent
eau de toilette
. They took the opportunity to frisk us both as the red LED display flashed the numbers one, two and then three. The door opened on the third floor and I took a deep breath of unscented air when we walked out into the thickly-carpeted corridor.
We followed him to the door of number three-o-four,
The Campden Suite.
He rang the little bell and the four of us stood behind him, clogging up the hallway, waiting for someone to answer. I checked my watch. It was five o’clock. Kieran would do the talking. I would chip in if necessary. We were primed and ready. We did not know the identity of the principal with whom we were about to deal, but I felt sure, from the elaborate precautions taken to ensure we were not followed, that he or they were taking us seriously.
The Campden Suite was enormous. Large white net curtains billowed in front of three large windows which led out onto a terrace. The room was set up like a meeting room, with a round table and four chairs, one of them occupied by a thin man with glasses and a very black moustache, poring through what looked to be a set of accounts. He looked up only momentarily when we entered and then went back to his reading matter. I heard someone snort and blow their nose in the ensuite bathroom. A few seconds later the door opened and a man walked out to greet us. He was short and dapper and he had a fine moustache. His hair was graying slightly and his face showed signs of sun spots. He must have been in his mid-fifties.
‘Good afternoon, gentlemen’, he said, in accented but perfect English. ‘I hope you enjoyed your walk. I am the Wizard and I believe you have something that may be of interest to me. This man is my accountant.’ The thin man looked up and blinked, then back down to his papers. ‘Please sit. A coffee, perhaps?’
We sat down and someone rang room service.
‘And you are…?’ he asked, eyebrows raised.
‘George and Ringo’, I replied.
He smiled and looked down at our Tower Records bags. Then he looked up at me and studied my face as if he recognized me. There had been no photos in the newspapers, of me or anyone else, so I didn’t succumb to paranoia.
‘Are you George, or Ringo?’ he asked me.
‘George.’
‘Excuse me one moment, George.’
He got up and walked through a door leading to the bedroom.
‘
Tell me what you are selling’, said the accountant suddenly, without looking up.
‘We talking to you or to the Wizard?’
‘
Ringo? Please understand. We are all friends here. Just doing business,
comprendes
?’
Kieran stared at him through his blue-tinted shades.
‘
Comprendo
.’
It was strange how just a single word in Spanish could send a shiver down my spine. I hadn’t been able to place the accent but it was clearly Spanish. They couldn’t be Colombian. Buying coke from us would be like taking coals to Newcastle. Kieran took out one of the bags of pure synthetic cocaine made by Jeavons and placed it on the table.
‘
Sample for you to try.’
‘
Muy bien
.’
The accountant set down his accounts and took a glasses case out of his jacket pocket. He opened it up and removed a razor blade, a small mirror and a thin metal tube. Things were looking promising.