Revenge (26 page)

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Michael was exhausted, but he had no choice but to carry on. He was negotiating a deal that would bring him millions over the next few years if it came off. He had planned it down to the last detail; it had taken nearly a year to bring to fruition. Now he was almost there. He was working with a huge Colombian cartel personally, and he was only too aware how dangerous that could be.
These
people were not impressed with anyone, anywhere, and it had taken him a lot of time and effort to convince them he was a viable partner. He had his own rep as a bad man in Europe, but compared to them and the world they moved in the Europeans were fucking amateurs. These men were a law unto themselves; they would shoot their own mothers if they deemed it necessary to the cause, and were more than capable of torturing and murdering a rival’s child to prove a point. They inhabited a world where a human life was valued cheaper than a can of Coke. It was a different ballgame altogether.

Now he, Michael Flynn, was fronting one of the biggest deals ever negotiated on British turf. And, once it was in place, he would be the undisputed king of Europe. No one could have a shit, shave or a shampoo without asking his permission first.

He looked out of his office window over the Thames. He loved this view; it made him feel invincible. He surveyed his domain. London was all his. He had bought, fought and forced his will on everyone who mattered, and it had paid off.

The offices had been recently revamped, and he wasn’t sure he liked the results. With the white walls and bleached oak flooring, there was nothing remotely attractive about it – it looked far too impersonal for his tastes. He missed his old desk – an antique captain’s desk. It had been bulky and scuffed, but it had character. Now he sat at a very expensive modern desk that was basically two planks of highly polished wood, held together by willpower and two pieces of eight by four. It had six spindly legs, which didn’t exactly fill him with faith it would stay up, and it was without even one single fucking drawer to give it an iota of usefulness. Even the chair he sat on was uncomfortable – yet it had cost more than his first car. But it was all about front – he knew that better than anyone – and it impressed people he dealt with.

He was getting old, he supposed. He was turning into the very people he had loathed as a young man. Yearning for the past; now, of course, he understood why they had felt that way. He still wouldn’t let anything be done over the internet. He was classed as a dinosaur because of that, but he didn’t care – he didn’t trust it. They could shove cyberspace up their arses. For the right price, like most things in this life, it could be abused. He didn’t trust anything that had the power to reach millions of people at a stroke. It seemed to him that computers bred laziness and apathy. People were too quick to trust in something that they couldn’t build themselves, that they had to rely on other people to maintain for them, and at great cost as well. It was a recipe for disaster. He particularly worried about leaving a trail that could be discovered without the person involved even leaving their office. No, he wasn’t prepared to join the cyber rats.

He worked in a world where the fewer people in the know the better. He still relied on private meetings and word of mouth. Fortunately for him, so did the Colombians. Now they had finally agreed to meet him on his own turf. It was the last step. That they had felt confident enough to come to him was a coup in itself. They needed to show him that they trusted him, and he had to prove to them that he could guarantee them the protection needed. He had done just that. They had landed safely in England, and no one had questioned them.

It was dark now, the lights were on across London. It was funny, but he always thought that London looked more impressive by night. It looked more alive to him, full of possibilities and secrets. He glanced at his watch, a diamond Rolex with a platinum face. It was just after nine p.m. They would be here in the next ten minutes or so. He glanced around him. He had everything ready. The drinks cabinet – that he personally thought looked like a fucking cheap filing cabinet – had every alcoholic beverage known to man, and the leather sofas were placed strategically so everyone could interact together without having to move about too much. There was also food in the kitchen, should anyone request it.

Salvatore Ferreira was an extremely cautious man. Michael appreciated that trait. He rarely left his native Colombia. Michael had taken over a whole floor of one of the top London hotels to guarantee Salvatore his privacy, and also to give him the chance to enjoy the luxury such an establishment could provide.

He heard the soft thrumming noise that heralded the arrival of the private lift and, settling himself into his chair, he waited patiently to begin the meeting he had been waiting for for a year, and which would cement his legendary status in the criminal underworld once and for all.

Chapter Seventy

‘Listen, Declan, I didn’t want to be the one to tell you this, believe me, but what else could I do, for fuck’s sake?’

Peter Barker, the elder of the Barker brothers, looked into Declan’s face with its usual blank countenance. But his colour was high, he was flushed red. Declan could tell the man was angry, and so he fucking should be. This was a piss-take, especially now when everyone knew there was something serious in the wind.

‘Look, don’t shoot the fucking messenger, mate – I’m trying to do the right thing here.’

Declan shook his head. This was the last fucking thing he needed tonight. The music from the nightclub was loud, even through the heavy fire doors of the offices. He hated the music they had to play in the clubs these days; it was fucking abysmal – it sounded like electrical interference to him. Declan sighed and, as calmly as he could, asked, ‘Who did you say told you this, Peter?’

Peter took a large joint out of his jacket pocket and, after lighting it, he puffed on it fiercely, before he answered his friend’s question. ‘I told you already, Declan – it was Jack Cornel. He was full of it. The stupid-looking northern ponce! I was all for hammering him, but my brother Billy stepped in. He reckons that this is about nausing up Michael’s meeting with the Colombians – though how they know about it is fucking suspect in itself. You and I know the Cornels have never been happy answering to him. Michael never gave them their due, and they fucking knew it. They are so fucking full of themselves. They still seem to think that the North is a fucking no-go area for us lot down here. The M1 passed right over their fucking heads, I tell ya.’

Declan laughed at the man’s words despite himself. He could be funny, could old Peter Barker. He had a dry humour which wasn’t everybody’s cup of tea, but always hit the proverbial nail on the head.

‘So they have come down south, determined to cause fucking havoc, have they?’

Peter nodded sagely. ‘Basically, yeah. They think that if they cause problems for Michael, the Colombians will see the error of their ways. That’s the real worry. Michael won’t want any kind of issues, will he? That stands to reason.’

Declan let this information sink in. The Cornel brothers had been a thorn in everyone’s side for a long time. They were without scruples, devoid of even the most basic of social graces, and they had taken over the North East almost by accident from the Dooleys. Jack Cornel had shot one of them over a debt and, as the older Dooley brothers were on remand, he had not yet been challenged about his foolishness. The Cornels were relatively new to the real game – up to now, they had been no more than cannon fodder. It had been assumed that they would be removed tout suite. But it had not happened. No one had ever seen the Cornels as a serious threat; now, it seemed, they were under the misapprehension that they were hard enough to take on Michael Flynn and the whole South East. What planet they were inhabiting was up for debate all right. It was ludicrous, and it could not have come at a worse time. Jack Cornel was a natural-born fighter, but his younger brother, Cecil, was a fucking looney. He was definitely two bob short of a pound note. He didn’t fight as such – he just attacked with whatever weapon came to hand. Jack Cornel was a fucking exhibitionist; he would love nothing more than to cause a row with Michael in public. He was too thick to see the folly of his actions – all he would see was the glory of people knowing he had dared to do such a thing. As for Cecil, an original thought in his head would die of fucking loneliness; he would follow his brother’s lead. It was a fucking abortion. Of all the times the Cornel brothers could have chosen to get themselves killed stone dead, they had to go and pick now, when Michael Flynn was negotiating the biggest deal in criminal history.

‘Oh, Jesus Christ. Michael will go fucking apeshit when he finds out.’

Peter Barker grinned. ‘I had worked that one out for myself, Declan.’

Declan Costello held his head in his hands; he was absolutely mortified. ‘Round them up, Peter. But try and keep it on the down low.’

Peter took a deep toke on his joint before saying huskily, ‘It will be a fucking pleasure, Declan, believe me. It’s already in hand actually – I took it upon myself to presume!’ He shook his head in wonderment. ‘It never ceases to amaze me, Declan, just how fucking thick some people actually are. But as my old nan used to say, you can’t educate a fucking haddock.’

Chapter Seventy-One

Jessie was pleased to see her mum waiting outside her school, and she jumped into the car happily. She knew how hard it was for her mum to drive at night; she had guessed far more about her mum and her problems than she let on.

‘I thought Dad might be picking me up. You know what he’s like about me getting home at a reasonable time!’ She was genuinely amazed that her mum had come to get her. She rarely left the house these days if she didn’t have to. It was something she knew was wrong, but no one would ever say it out loud. It worried her that her mother didn’t go anywhere any more, and it scared her that everyone acted as if it was normal.

Josephine smiled nervously as she pulled away from the kerb tentatively. ‘He was unavoidably detained, as usual! Work stuff. How was your night anyway, darling?’

Jessie laughed with delight. ‘It was a good night, Mum, a right laugh.’

Josephine could hear the pleasure in her daughter’s voice. ‘That’s how it should be at your age.’

Jessie didn’t answer; she was still basking in the night’s events.

‘I thought Natalie needed a lift home?’

Jessie shrugged easily. ‘No, she’s walking home with some of the other girls.’ She wished it was her – she would love to walk home with everyone, exchanging gossip, and talking about the next party on Friday night that they were all looking forward to. Jason Ford had asked her to go with him. But that was never going to happen – she was always dropped off, and then picked up and taken home safely. It was her life, and she had to accept that.

‘By the way, Mum, I’m staying at Natalie’s house on Friday night. We’re going shopping Saturday early. I told her mum it was OK.’

Josephine yawned. ‘’Course it is! We’ll get you picked up when you’re ready to come home.’

Jessie grinned happily. ‘Thanks, Mum.’ She knew her mum would never question her staying over at Natalie’s. They had been friends since infant school, and they lived in each other’s pockets. Natalie was going to tell her mum she was staying at
hers
, and they would then be able to go to the party in peace. She couldn’t wait. Jason Ford was going to get the shock of his life on Friday. She was determined to show him she was a lot more grown up than he realised. She had been mad about him for over a year, and now he had actually asked her out. If her mum or dad knew about him, she would be grounded until she was old and grey. Her dad was like her minder! Yet she knew that he was not lily-white himself. She had heard all about him and her uncle Declan, but when she tried to ask her mother about the stories she’d been told, her mum had been less than forthcoming. She loved that they cared so much about her, but she also resented that they never gave her any freedom. She lived so far away from her friends, and that alone made her feel like an outsider.

The name Flynn gave her a certain cachet. She was the daughter of a man who was feared and respected in equal measure and that was her cross to bear. She had been treated like royalty all her life, and she had known from a young age that was because of her father. Even her teachers were wary of her father; that had been a real eye-opener for her. She wasn’t a complete fool. People called him the Crime King of England – and a violent thug. It was awful, especially as her friends knew all the gossip too. But he was still her dad, no matter what people might say about him. She had a good life, and she appreciated it. Whatever he might be, he was the man she looked up to, and who she adored.

Nevertheless, she was going to lie and cheat her way to the party on Friday night. She was going to have a good night out, by hook or by crook.

Chapter Seventy-Two

Salvatore Ferreira was not as big as Michael had expected him to be. In fact, he was quite short – only about five nine – but he was built like a brick shithouse. Anyone looking at him would know immediately that he was more than capable of great violence. It was there in his eyes. He had the look of the gutter; his eyes were without any kind of emotion whatsoever and that was the real giveaway. Michael knew he had the same look. It was why they had both advanced so far in their careers. It was what made most people take a step back from them.

Salvatore Ferreira was dark-haired, dark-eyed and dark-skinned and he possessed a very proud countenance. Michael understood that as well – without that innate arrogance neither of them would have achieved anything of note. Michael was pleased to see that the man was very well dressed in a bespoke suit, handsewn shoes, and without the usual South-American need for loud, garish jewellery. He looked just what he was: a well-heeled businessman.

They shook hands affably; each had a very strong grip. Sizing each other up, they were both pleased with what they saw in their prospective business partner. Michael knew his size gave him the edge, he was a powerful-looking man. Patrick Costello had told him many years before, ‘Always walk into a place like you already own it, and the chances are that eventually you fucking will.’ It was good advice, and something that he had never forgotten.

‘It’s an honour to have you here, Salvatore.’

His tone conveyed the respect the man required from him. After all, he was the main supplier, the benefactor – without him, Michael would never have been able to guarantee such huge amounts of drugs to the people he dealt with. This was something that had never been done before on such a large scale. Thanks to Ferreira, he had an endless supply of cocaine that was purer than anything else on the market. It could be cut over and over again, and still be purer than anything in Europe. Everyone was a winner.

‘I am pleased to be here, Michael. My first time in London. Already I am in love with this country.’

Michael grinned. ‘It’s a funny old town, Salvatore. But it is also one of the biggest tourist destinations in the world. The Queen sees to that, mate. We may be a small country, but we are a rich one. Europe has always looked to us for guidance. We are the main players, as we always have been.’

Salvatore sat down on the black leather sofa gracefully. Michael knew he had come out of one of the worst slums on earth, that he had no real education – except what the Catholic priests had beaten into him on the odd occasion he had gone to school. Yet he was feared and respected by everyone he dealt with. There was more to this man than met the eye. He was not what Michael had been expecting. He had been told, on good authority, that the Colombians were basically fucking animals, without any social graces, but he had cast his net wider for information, and found out a lot more about the man by himself. You didn’t live as long as Salvatore unless you had something going for you up top. Salvatore was already coming across as a man after his own heart, who had embraced the financial aspects that his career had provided for him, and who had then learnt how to carry himself in any company.

The two men had bonded immediately. They saw themselves in one another, and that was something they understood the value of. It was important to have trust – without it they were doomed. It didn’t escape Michael’s notice that Salvatore had left his men outside the door, and he was glad that his decision to meet the man alone had paid off.

Michael sat down beside Salvatore. ‘I am so pleased that you came to England in person. I know how much that proves your belief in me. I wanted to show you that I have the money
and
the strength needed for such a venture – to not only finance this business arrangement, but also to police it and, more importantly, to guarantee you that there is
nothing
I am not prepared for.’

Salvatore nodded easily. ‘I know this. I have done my homework, as you say. I would never have ventured this far from my homeland, unless I was sure of that beforehand.’ He took a long drink of the brandy Michael had poured him, then he said honestly, ‘But I have to ask you this, Michael, face to face – how are you going to deal with the Russians? They have always had the monopoly in Europe. The Russians, and their counterparts the Eastern Europeans, are like us South Americans in many ways. They come from countries that are more corrupt than you could even imagine. They are ruthless, and they are here in London already. They don’t play by the rules. They also have their own suppliers. True, it’s always shit stuff – as you know, they are better with heroin and it’s a completely different market. That aside, I need to know that you can control them, and that you have already implemented plans to ensure that they can never interfere with our business should they decide to. This is not something I would enter into lightly, you know that. You have guaranteed that you have the monopoly in Europe, and I believe you. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have journeyed all this way. I just want you to reassure me that nothing and no one can interfere with our plans.’

Michael was irritated. He had already proved to Ferreira that he had everything under his control – that was why the man had come over to England in the first place! The Russians were already on-side, as he had informed him; they were quite happy to let him supply whatever was needed. Once he was onboard with the Colombians, they didn’t really have a choice. It was a done deal. There was too much aggravation in Afghanistan and Pakistan these days for the crops to be safe. It wasn’t so easy for the Russians any more – they were not as welcome as they had been in the eighties and nineties. The Americans were all over them like a rash, and they were concentrating more on finance deals and investing heavily in property, especially Dubai, Croatia and Greece. Michael knew that Salvatore had been told this, and more than once. He also knew that Salvatore Ferreira would not have taken his word for it, he would have found out what he needed to know himself.

Michael swallowed down his frustration. This was nothing personal, it was just Ferreira flexing his muscles, and making sure that Michael understood exactly what was expected of him. He was warning him that any problems that might arise would be his alone, and he would be expected to sort them out quickly and with the minimum of fuss. The man was a businessman, and at least he had the grace to say this to him on the quiet, man to man, without an audience. Still it rankled. But Michael had listened to his mentor Patrick Costello well. He could hear his voice now saying quietly in his ear, ‘Never let anyone know what you’re thinking, Michael, never show them anything of importance. The earn is the prize, never forget that.’

Walking casually to the bar, he picked up the bottle of Remy XO. Then, pouring them both another drink, he sat back down beside Salvatore Ferreira on the leather sofa, smiling as if he had just been blessed by the Pope himself.

‘I can assure you, Salvatore, that no one will interfere with our business. I own fucking everyone of importance, from the police, to the Customs, to the fucking High Court Judges. I can access anyone needed.’

Salvatore Ferreira nodded; he had expected no less. He had made his point, he could be magnanimous now. ‘I believe you, Michael. But I had to ask, you understand that?’

Michael took a large sip of his brandy and, shrugging nonchalantly, he said carefully, swallowing down the raw anger that was threatening to overwhelm him, ‘Of course I do, Salvatore. I would do the same in your position. Now, I thought I would take you to one of my clubs in the West End.’

Salvatore was watching him closely, and Michael knew this was some kind of test.

‘I like the English girls. Proper blondes!’

Michael sighed heavily, rolling his eyes in mock annoyance. ‘I had a feeling you would say that!’