London Belongs to the Alchemist (Class Heroes Book 4) Page 5

  She cautiously looked at Dad.

  He was sniffing the air.

  “What the hell is that smell?” he demanded, his face like thunder. He looked at her closely.

  “And what happened to your clothes?”

  “What?” asked Sam, her voice suddenly very small. James’s knee receded from her back and for a second Sam wasn’t sure if he’d teleported out and left her in the car alone with Dad.

  “I can smell cigarettes, alcohol and I dread to think what else,” he said, his voice laden with suppressed anger. “Where have you been?”

  “To the party,” offered Sam, feebly. Why wasn’t James speaking up? Why had she bagged the front seat? Stupid, stupid.

  “Don’t lie to me. What happened?”

  “Look, Dad, the thing is… I mean, what it is, it kind of started when…” stuttered Sam. The game was up and she knew it.

  “Save it,” Dad cut her off. “Not a word until we get home.”

  He put the car in gear and drove off. Sam gulped.

  This was going to be a long night.

  Chapter 8

  Saturday 14 April

  Nicky Cairo cruised along the Old Kent Road in his yellow Lamborghini Aventador. This was a car for turning heads. A limited edition, £250,000 beast of a high-performance sports car. He’d bought it off some Saudi kid who was looking to trade in for something newer. A bargain. The waiting list for these things was ridiculous and Nicky had fallen in love with it the moment he’d touched the bonnet.

  The car suited his style. Powerful, bold, full of energy and ambition. It stood out from the crowd. Nicky was feeling pumped up and full of verve after an hour-long workout in the gym. His pecs and biceps had that satisfying burn, the sure sign of a good session. As an ex-boxer and the owner of a business empire spanning nightclubs and casinos around south-east London, Nicky felt that it was important to stay in top physical and mental shape.

  He checked his appearance in the rear-view mirror. He needed a shave. It offended him the way the flecks of silver stood out like a beacon against his skin. He was only 44. Why was he going grey already? Fortunately, his hair was still jet black. He’d always favoured a buzz-cut in the past, but now he wanted to show off his youthful colour while he still could, so he was letting it grow. The new waitress at the club had said she liked it. And he had certainly liked what he had seen of her.

  A kid at the side of the road fumbled with his phone to take a picture of the car. Nicky slowed down and gave the kid a wave. The kid waved back. Then Nicky accelerated, with a massive roar of the engine, to give the boy a taste of what the car could do.

  He pulled into the bus lane, cutting up a double decker, the driver of which started leaning on the horn. Nicky ignored him. The morning rush-hour traffic was already building up.

  Ordinarily he would go straight to the office, take a shower and start working. Frustratingly, he had to drive right past his flagship club, the New Cross Empire Casino, as he headed back home for an important business meeting.

  He glanced over to the left at the imposing grey stone building. He could just make out the brass plaque that bore his name next to the grand entrance. Yes. Not bad for the son of an unimaginative Egyptian immigrant. He floored the accelerator, swinging the car right onto the A20 and utilizing the bus lane again to fire the car past the crawling traffic.

  ***

  Thirteen minutes later and he had reached Bromley. He eased off on the accelerator so that the car positively purred as it passed first the cricket ground, then the golf club and finally his local pub, before he turned the wheel to bring it to rest on his driveway.

  He swore under his breath. His wife’s white Range Rover Sport was parked in front of him. Which meant Shereen and the children were all still here. She was supposed to have taken them out for the day. He looked at his watch. Five past eight. Eight o’clock was the time he had told her, what the hell was she playing at? Shereen just got on his nerves. It was crazy. He owned this stunning property worth two million quid, designed by some renowned architect, and he could hardly bear to spend any time in it.

  Nicky opened the front door and walked through the long white hallway into the kitchen. He kissed his two daughters, Trina and Michelle, on the tops of their heads as he passed them and sat down at the long pine breakfast table. He glowered at his wife, who sat watching him nervously, fidgeting with her wedding ring, not touching the coffee that was in front of her.

  The children greeted him happily, showing off the drawings that they’d been working on at the table while pushing their cornflakes around their bowls. Despite his bad temper, Nicky was impressed. But of course they were very advanced for their age. They may only have been four and six, but he was convinced they were far ahead of their classmates.

  Shereen smiled.

  “Morning, darling,” she offered, nervously. “We’re a bit behind schedule.”

  “I noticed,” said Nicky, thinly. The girls’ crayons were rolling around the kitchen table and dropping onto the wooden floor. The large dresser had a precariously balanced pile of paper and colouring books hiding his iPad. Now he noticed how the cream-coloured kitchen door and the adjacent wall had a dirty scuff mark.

  Nicky tried to contain his anger. He’d spent a fortune letting his wife interior design the place and now she was letting it go to ruin.

  Nicky retrieved his iPad and switched it on. He let Shereen pour him a coffee and bring him some toast.

  “Good to see you can still manage some basic tasks,” he muttered. Shereen said nothing.

  “Where are you taking the girls today?” he asked, without looking up from the iPad screen.

  “I thought they’d like to see the Cutty Sark,” said Shereen, almost asking his permission.

  “Why not take them to see where the Olympics are being held. Much more interesting for them. You’d like that, wouldn’t you girls?”

  Trina and Michelle nodded enthusiastically.

  Decision made, Nicky checked his emails while his wife hurried the children to finish their breakfast and hastily filled the dishwasher.

  The doorbell chimed. Nicky looked up at Shereen to answer it. He checked his watch. Eight thirteen.

  “Uncle Zak,” cried out Trina in delight, throwing herself at the new arrival as he sauntered into the kitchen behind Shereen.

  Zak El-Baz was Nicky’s oldest friend and his trusted business associate. They had known each other for 40 of the 44 years of their lives. They were both from Egyptian families, had grown up on the same south-east London street, gone to the same school, joined the same boxing gym, and when Nicky had taken on his first nightclub, he got Zak in to help him manage it.

  Instantly, Nicky relaxed.

  Zak looked more like a rock star than a businessman. At six foot one, he was an inch taller than Nicky. His hair was stylistically dishevelled, his stubble designer, and he wore a gold earring. Like Nicky, he was muscular and powerful looking. He wore a classically tailored black suit and waistcoat. Shereen and the girls loved him, particularly as he always brought them presents.

  “Have you got us anything, Uncle Zak?” asked Michelle.

  “Sorry ladies, I didn’t think I was going to see you,” said Zak, lightly, but looking questioningly at Nicky.

  “They’re just on their way out, aren’t you darling?” replied Nicky, kissing his wife and daughters in succession.

  Shereen virtually threw the children’s coats and shoes on, didn’t even stop to hassle Zak about why he wasn’t married, and left the house.

  Nicky got his friend a coffee.

  “Why are the Russians coming here?” asked Zak. “Why not at the club?”

  Nicky exhaled. He hated having business associates at the house. He had a strict policy that all appointments were conducted at one of his nightclubs. But these particular business associates had insisted. And one did not refuse these particular associates.

  “Good question,” said Nicky. “And it’s making me nervous. What’s the news?
What happened last night?”

  Nicky led Zak into the large sitting room. No toys or drawings in here to clutter up the careful, minimalist design.

  “Cops got the whole shipment,” reported Zak. “Wipe out. Arrested everyone on the boat. They must have got a tip-off.”

  Nicky sipped his coffee while he considered the report. These things happened. Police intervention was an occupational hazard. None of the men arrested were his own guys, so that was the Russians’ problem. This was bad news, though, in terms of business. A drugs bust like this made everyone jittery.

  What would the Russians themselves have to say about it? He would find out soon enough.

  ***

  The doorbell chimed at eight thirty precisely. Nicky admired the Russians’ punctuality. He opened the door. Although he had never met his guests before today, there was no doubt that it was them. Both men were at least six foot three and had far bigger muscles than Nicky’s own. It left him feeling distinctly uncomfortable and at a psychological disadvantage.

  One of the men had a buzz cut of fair hair and was youthful and clean shaven. The other looked older, had a neat goatee beard and shoulder-length dark hair that was streaked with grey. Both wore immaculately tailored suits, but they were a shiny, light-grey material, which was too flashy and eastern-European looking for Nicky’s tastes. He preferred his own darker, crisp-cut suit. He couldn’t see gun bulges beneath the jackets, but that might just be good tailoring.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” Nicky greeted them genially, determined to show he wasn’t intimidated. “Mr Smith and Mr Jones, I take it?”

  The two men nodded, unsmiling.

  “Which is which?” asked Nicky, as if they were all sharing a joke.

  “I am Mr Smith,” said the man with the greying hair, in a strong Russian accent. “That is Mr Jones.”

  Nicky smiled and gestured for them to enter the house.

  “Come on in. No need to take your shoes off,” he said, laughing expressively, like he was fully in command.

  Neither Smith or Jones returned his smile, or anything even closely approximating it.

  The two men entered the house, looking totally out of place, like they were uncomfortable in a domestic setting. Nicky wondered if they had wives or children. Somehow he could only picture them hanging around in badly lit underground car parks. All drab concrete slabs and dripping water.

  “Please sit down,” Nicky indicated two leather armchairs in front of the fireplace, and the two giants creaked into them. Nicky sat down on the sofa opposite his guests. Zak remained standing.

  Nicky decided to take the initiative.

  “Well, gentlemen. I presume you are here to talk about last night’s lost shipment? Do we have a plan to re-ship?”

  “No,” said Mr Smith, bluntly.

  Nicky was surprised.

  “No? You’re not going to send another shipment?”

  “Not until we have clarified our business terms,” growled Mr Jones.

  “The terms of our business are clear, pal” said Zak, taking a step forward. Neither of the Russians looked impressed.

  “You supply us with the drugs, for which we pay you, and then we distribute. What needs clarification there?”

  Mr Smith eyeballed Nicky.

  “You should keep your boy quiet,” he warned.

  Zak took a step forward but Nicky waved him back. The situation had suddenly become very dangerous. They would have to tread carefully.

  “What do we need to clarify? I appreciate that you had a setback last night with the customs raid. I’m happy to help in any way I can,” said Nicky, trying to be courteous.

  Mr Smith leaned forward and the leather complained again.

  “The position is, that as far as we are concerned, the shipment reached the United Kingdom. The fact that the merchandise was taken by the authorities is your problem.” Mr Smith didn’t take his eyes off Nicky. Mr Jones fixed Zak with the same steely gaze.

  “What do you mean?” asked Nicky, feeling distinctly hot under the collar now.

  “We mean that you won’t receive any more shipments until you pay for this one, or return to us the missing shipment. We are prepared to waive our out-of-pocket expenses for the arrests, as a sign of good faith.”

  Nicky felt his gut twisting with anger. The Russians were going to screw him! Make him pay for their lost shipment. He struggled to keep his temper.

  “But the delivery is nothing to do with me. I pay for goods received. This is on your side.”

  “The way we see it,” said Mr Smith, “is that this is a partnership. This is your country. How do we know you didn’t set us up? You knew when the shipment was coming in. None of your people were arrested.”

  “Now wait a minute,” said Nicky, hastily getting up. “You’re bang out of order and you know it. Just what are you accusing me of?”

  “Let’s just say you’ll be putting our minds at rest,” concluded Mr Jones, remaining seated.

  “I’m not paying two million quid for drugs that I never received,” said Nicky, trying to stay calm.

  Smith and Jones rose casually to their feet. Mr Jones started perusing the sitting room, closely shadowed by Zak.

  “You will, Mr Cairo,” said Mr Jones, matter-of-factly. “You will because you are a smart fellow. But you are also very small. You need our drugs and you don’t want to annoy the people we represent, do you?”

  Nicky smiled.

  “I am a smart fellow, Mr Jones,” he said, coolly. “You may think I’m small, but I’ve built a business empire up from nothing. I’ve had to fight for everything I’ve got. You’re not the only supply source available. This is the free market over here, comrade. We’ve enjoyed a good arrangement with your people so far, but this isn’t Moscow. We’d like to continue that relationship, but only on the current basis. I’ll happily pay you two million pounds, as soon as I receive the promised shipment.”

  Nicky folded his arms to show he had made his final offer.

  Mr Smith just looked at him like he was a joke. Nicky wasn’t used to people not taking him seriously.

  Mr Jones was standing by the fireplace and he picked up a photo of Trina and Michelle. The picture had been taken at Trina’s birthday party last month. Trina was clutching a teddy bear, and Michelle was clutching Trina.

  “Beautiful children,” said Mr Jones, tapping the glass frame. “And you have a beautiful wife, too. Lovely blonde hair. We saw them all leave the house earlier. Perhaps we’ll take them back to Russia with us.”

  Nicky’s blood ran cold. He knew these types of scare tactics all too well. He had employed them himself on many occasions.

  Nicky was about to speak when Mr Jones swiftly smashed the glass picture frame against the marble fireplace.

  “Oi!” yelled Zak, leaping at Mr Jones.

  Mr Jones easily parried the punch that Zak aimed at the Russian’s head. Mr Jones caught Zak’s outstretched arm, twisted it, then dropped him with a brutal punch to the stomach. Zak collapsed in a heap and the initial assault was followed up by two vicious kicks at his prone form.

  Nicky was already moving. Seeing the guy off balance as he delivered the second kick to Zak’s stomach, Nicky led with his right, cracking Mr Jones under his left eye. The giant rocked but he didn’t go down. Nicky needed to finish the guy quickly so he could deal with Mr Smith.

  Nicky’s second punch was weaker but his aim was better as it made contact with Mr Jones’s temple. This time the Russian was knocked to the floor.

  Nicky turned to check Mr Smith’s position but it was too late.

  Like lightning, Mr Smith smashed him with a karate chop to the neck. Nicky felt like his head had exploded and suddenly he couldn’t breathe.

  He lay writhing on the ground, clutching at his neck, trying to loosen the collar on his shirt, his eyes bulging. He tried to speak but could only make gurgled, guttural sounds.

  Before he knew what was happening, Mr Smith had grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head
up, so Nicky’s face was only centimetres away from the Russian’s.

  “Pay the money or return our drugs to us, Mr Cairo, and everything will continue as before. Nobody need know about this unpleasantness. You are one small cog in a very big operation. We do not like upsets in the big plan. It is too costly. There will be another shipment arriving next Sunday. I’ll be in touch with the details. Please settle your account before then, or you might find that you no longer need to pay those private school fees for your beautiful daughters. Good day.”

  Mr Smith pushed Nicky’s head roughly back onto the carpet.

  Nicky lay there helplessly for several minutes more, while he struggled to get his breath. Zak helped him to his feet and together they staggered to the sofa.

  Both of them sat there, shell-shocked, for another ten minutes.

  “What are we going to do?” asked Zak, finally. “They’ve got us against the wall.”

  Nicky was struggling to see past his rage and sense of impotence. Nobody came to his house and threatened him or his family. Nobody. He wanted to call up some guys and go after the Russians and take them out.

  Except he knew what would happen if he did. The organization behind those two men was capable of reprisals that just weren’t worth thinking about.

  It was no-win. Unless something drastic happened to change the odds, he would have to pay up and like it. But just because you lose a fight, doesn’t make you a loser. You learn from your mistakes and you look for alternatives. It was the way he had always done business.

  “Look at it from their perspective,” he said hoarsely, still struggling to speak. The only way to get anything from this situation was to fully understand what he was up against. “Those two guys have screwed up. They lost the shipment, so they’ll be under pressure from their bosses. So they’re turning the screw on us, trying to get their masters’ money without losing face. We need to do the same. We’ll pay up, but we’ll turn the screw on our dealers and our customers. We’ll recover the money that way. Let’s start taking a closer look at what’s going on in our patch.”

  “Right,” said Zak, catching on. “If anybody is muscling in on our territory, if anyone is late with payment, or even if they’re just wearing the wrong kind of trainers, we’ll make them pay up. Business is business.”