Deception

FORTY

A few miles away, Ganic and Zubac had pulled off the M25 motorway at the first available exit and were heading north at a fast clip. A phone call from Deakin had given them fresh orders, and they were to report to an address in east London.

‘C’emal?’ Zubac was on the phone, arranging a meeting in a part of the city called Hackney. Neither man had been there before, but they had been assured of a safe reception.

‘Yes, brother. It is good to hear from you again.’ Their contact’s voice was softly familiar, the same voice which had arranged the guns and stun grenades for the attack on Brixton police station. ‘While you are on vacation in the city,’ he continued quickly before Zubac could say anything else, ‘you should call and see your uncle Bakir.’ He gave no address, but Zubac knew it meant they should go to a store in Dalston Lane. ‘Come and visit. We will eat and help you shake the dust from your journey. Eight o’clock. Drive carefully.’

The call was ended. Zubac put the phone away and gave his friend directions.

It was dark by the time they reached Hackney and parked in a side street just off Dalston Lane. They were a few blocks away from the address they had been given, but the car would be safe enough here. Just in case, they used wet-wipes to go over everything they had touched and made sure they left nothing of themselves behind.

They walked the rest of the way, noting familiar smells and sounds, of music and conversation, eyeing the eateries with interest but resisting the temptation to go inside. Being seen in the open around here would be a mistake; if the police had released photographs of them attacking the station, it would not take long for someone to see them and call it in.

Eventually, they found a store trading in all manner of goods from groceries to clothing and kitchenware. The lights were still on although no customers were in evidence. Zubac tried the handle. The door was locked. He tapped on the glass. Seconds later, they were admitted and ushered to the rear of the store, where the air was heavy with the smell of fruit and spices, and the mustier aroma of soft goods and clothing. Three men were standing by the counter at the back, watching the two new arrivals. The man who had let them in remained by the door, watching the street.

Two of the men were in their twenties and dressed in jeans, trainers and jackets, the uniform and appearance of a million others. The third was a large individual with a shaved head, a heavy stomach and beard, and piercing eyes. His hands were resting on the counter.

‘I am C’emal Soran,’ he said, and swept a hand towards the others in introduction. ‘Antun, Davud.’ He did not introduce the man by the door, but it was clearly one of his sons, since he possessed the same build and posture.

Zubac and Ganic nodded and shook hands all round with steady formality, then Soran led them through a door at the back, to a storeroom with a central table and four chairs. The air here was heavy and gritty on the tongue, the floor scattered with a variety of packing materials. The table held a large platter of food, bread and fruit, and alongside stood glasses of juice and bottles of water.

‘Sit, my brothers, sit,’ said Soran and waited for the visitors to take their places, then offered them food and drink. ‘I apologize for the surroundings, but we have a growing mail-order business and not enough room.’ The two younger men sat but did not eat or drink.

‘So,’ Soran said eventually, when Zubac and Ganic were refreshed. ‘How can I help you?’

‘Did the rucksack come back to you?’ asked Zubac, pushing his glass away. ‘There should have been two handguns, some ammunition and three grenades.’ He smiled to soften any implied suggestion that he did not trust the Jamaican who had handled the weapons after the attack. ‘Our thanks for everything — and the car.’

‘It was nothing.’ Soran waved a vague hand. ‘And yes, we have everything back.’ He gave a humourless smile to show that he understood the reason behind the question. ‘We have a good relationship with the Jamaicans. They help us, we help them. Because nobody expects it, it works to our mutual satisfaction. You have need of these things again?’

Zubac nodded. ‘The guns, yes. But first we need these two.’ He lifted his chin to indicate the two younger men, who had so far remained silent, summoned by Soran to listen and be ready to follow instructions.

‘That is why they are here, brother.’

Ganic leaned forward. ‘Are they any good, though? They look very young to me, just out of school.’ He seemed less comfortable with the ritual Zubac had insisted they should observe, and more intent on getting down to business. He stared hard at the two young men, who blinked nervously before looking to Soran for guidance.

‘They are sons of my cousin,’ the older man rumbled, and looked calmly at Ganic as if daring him to question it further. The message was clear: these two are blood relations and therefore vouched for. ‘They have lived here two years and know the city well. They have also been trained in another place. They have many skills.’

Zubac nudged Ganic’s knee under the table, and the taller man shrugged and sat back with a muttered, ‘Very well.’

‘What do you want them for?’ asked Soran, eyes switching back to Zubac.

‘Surveillance work,’ Zubac replied. ‘That is all. Watch and report on a target. . on who comes, who goes, what she does. We will pay well for their time.’

‘She? You want them to watch a woman?’ Such an idea, Soran’s question implied, was both beneath them and could lead to trouble, in spite of the money offered. A man could only get so close to a woman for so long before someone noticed — usually the woman herself, if she had her wits about her.

‘Yes. Why? Is that a problem?’ Zubac spoke firmly but without heat. He knew that Soran was probably looking for any reason he could find to raise the fee. Having a difficult, even well-known target would make any surveillance all the more complex to carry out.

‘You tell me.’

There was silence, lengthening as wary looks were exchanged between Soran and his two men. Then Zubac added carefully, ‘She is nobody of importance, I give you my word. Simply a connection in a chain.’ He rolled a finger through the air as if winding in a length of string. ‘Watch her and we find the person we want.’ He smiled and lifted his chin. ‘Is that acceptable?’

Soran nodded. He wasn’t about to turn away valuable business. The young men, Antun and Davud, said nothing, their opinions not required. ‘You have a name and address for this woman?’

Zubac took a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and slid it across the table. Soran picked it up and opened it. The paper had a small photo clipped to one corner. He read the details written down, his lips moving slowly, then slapped the piece of paper and photo down in front of the man named Davud.

‘It is agreed.’ He smiled as if he had signed an international treaty, and poured more juice. This time he included his cousin’s sons, who raised their glasses and drank in turn. ‘They will go immediately and watch and report on this woman of no importance,’ he said, eyes glinting with dry humour. ‘In the meantime, you can sleep if you wish. I have made arrangements.’ He jerked his head at the two young men and they got up and left the store without a word. Then he looked again at the paper and said, ‘This woman named — ’ he tilted his head to one side, curling his tongue with difficulty around the words — ‘Jean Fleming, a seller of flowers.’