Romeo's Tune (1990) (21 page)

36

A
lgy drove me to Bayswater the next evening. The garage was in a mews somewhere at the back of the Russian embassy. It had been the first spring-like day of the year and the sun was setting fast into the west over Shepherd’s Bush. We drove up Holland Park Avenue past the expensive homes set back off the main drag like dowager ladies holding their skirts away from the riffraff, past Notting Hill tube with its permanent stink of stale grease, took a right into Kensington Church Street, then slid effortlessly into the back streets where the shadows were long and the leases were short. The three Americans were sitting in their Volvo outside the lockup. Frederick was in the driver’s seat. Antony Cassini got out of the back seat when we drew up. Algy and I left the Jaguar with the engine running and walked over to join him.

‘This is Algy,’ I said by way of introduction. They shook hands. Ferrara flipped a wave from where he sat in the passenger seat next to Frederick, who studiously ignored us. The cut on his head was healing. His pride was obviously taking longer to recover. Ferrara climbed slowly out of the car. He had a set of keys in his hand. He went over to the two-car garage, chose a key and inserted it into the lock, and with an effort pushed the door up and over. There was just one vehicle parked inside the dark interior. Ferrara searched for a light switch, found it and illuminated the concrete box.

‘Christ,’ I said. ‘Couldn’t you have found something a little more conspicuous?’

In the light from the overhead fluorescents we were looking at a customized Range Rover. It was one of those stretched, six-wheel jobs. The body had been jacked up high above the massive all-terrain wheels and it was sprayed kandy-black with a gold metallic flake. The windows were tinted, and all the lights, front and rear, were protected by black mesh. All the chrome had been replaced or sprayed matt black. The only highlights were the wheels themselves which were made of polished chrome that reflected the harsh light from the ceiling.

‘Nice car,’ said Algy appreciatively.

‘Fucking stupid thing,’ I cut in. ‘How many of these do you think are going to be driving back up the M4 tonight?’

‘It has its advantages,’ said Antony.

‘Like what?’ I asked. ‘A cocktail bar in the back?’

‘Are you going to drive?’ Antony asked Algy, cutting me off.

‘Love to,’ said the big man.

Frederick spoke at last. ‘I drive the boss,’ he said from where he was sitting.

‘They know the roads,’ said Antony, with no trace of a rebuke on his voice. ‘Let the Limeys take us there.’ Rebuke or not, Frederick gave Algy and me a filthy look, but said nothing more and settled back to sulk. Antony and Ferrara looked at each other, then shrugged and ignored him.

Antony pulled another set of keys from his overcoat pocket and handed them to Algy.

‘You’ve driven one of these before?’ the American asked.

‘Yes,’ replied the big man. ‘My ex-boss has got one. Not as nice as this though.’

He went over to the driver’s door. The Range Rover was right-hand drive.

‘There’s an alarm,’ Antony said. ‘The smallest key fits it.’

‘Check,’ said Algy, and fiddled around with the keys until he found the right one which he inserted into a tiny keyhole in the bodywork. Then with another key he opened the driver’s door and levered his bulk behind the wheel.

‘Christ,’ he said in awe, ‘this fucker’s fully loaded.’

‘It belongs to a sheikh,’ said Antony by way of explanation. ‘We’ve done some business. He’s very security conscious.’ He went over to the driver’s door himself and pointed out something on the dashboard. Algy pressed a switch and with a hiss metal louvres came down from inside the wheel arches and covered the tyres.

‘You see,’ said Antony. ‘I said it had its advantages.’

‘Very nice,’ I muttered.

‘Bullet-proof glass too.’ Antony tapped the windshield. ‘And a heavy-gauge steel body, guaranteed to stop a Magnum round at point-blank range.’

‘You’ve convinced me,’ I said.

‘Good.’ He gestured to Frederick. ‘Bring in the car and we’ll transfer the cargo.’

Frederick did as he was told and reversed the Volvo in next to the Range Rover. He got out and opened the boot. I moved so that I could see what it contained. Quite an arsenal had been laid out on the floor of the boot. There were two micro Uzis with spare clips of ammunition; a 12-gauge Winchester Police with a chrome finish and pistol grip; a long-barrelled Ithaca Bear-stopper with an eight-shot magazine. That was the heavy artillery. There were also three handguns: a Colt Agent with a snub nose; a .44 Magnum Ruger Blackhawk with a long barrel, maybe 7 ½ or 8 inches; and a Smith and Wesson Model 15 Combat Masterpiece probably chambered for .38. All the guns looked new or well-cared for. There were several boxes of 12 gauge shotgun shells and .38 and .44 Magnum ammunition with traces of gun oil at the edges.

‘You’ve just been driving around with all this shit in the back?’ I asked. ‘I don’t fucking well believe it. Couldn’t you have at least covered it with something? This is London, not fucking Las Vegas.’

The Yanks just looked at each other. I was beginning to wish I hadn’t come.

We loaded the guns into the back of the Range Rover and covered them with a tartan travel rug, much to the amusement of our transatlantic cousins. Then Algy drove the big six-wheeler out of the lock-up into the street. He replaced it with the Jaguar and Ferrara closed the garage doors and relocked them. I sat in the front passenger seat next to Algy and the three Americans made themselves comfortable in the sculpted bucket seats at the back. Antony balanced an oversized briefcase on his lap, lit a cigar and settled back for the ride. I envied his coolness.

‘Very cosy,’ said Algy, pointing the nose of the Range Rover west and heading off in the direction of the motorway.

I felt extremely vulnerable as we drove. All eyes, it seemed, both pedestrian and motorist, passed over the customized Rover. It was like driving around in a fish tank. A fish tank full of lethal cargo. One pull from the Bill and we’d all be in dead trouble. Prevention of Terrorism Act I believe it’s called, but no one else seemed to mind and slowly I relaxed.

The traffic was vicious and it took us fifty minutes to get from Notting Hill to the Chiswick Flyover. It was after seven and nearly full dark when we drove onto the M4 and Algy put his foot down and pushed the heavy car up to eighty miles per hour.

‘Keep to the limit, for Christ’s sake,’ I ordered.

‘Yes boss,’ said Algy, slinging me a dirty look, but easing off the gas nevertheless.

So, like some malevolent version of the knights of old we set off to do battle with the evil-doers.

We came off the motorway at junction nine and hit main arterial roads, then back lanes, then nothing much. We finally stopped at a crossroads and Antony pointed to the left and said, ‘The farm’s down there, main gate maybe two hundred yards. Algy, turn right and find somewhere to park out of sight, so we can talk.’

Algy did as he was told, swung the heavy vehicle to the right and drove slowly along the narrow road until we came to a turn-off. He reversed the Range Rover into the gap, drove back until we could hardly see the road and turned off the engine and the head and side lights. The interior of the car was illuminated only by a dim green glow from the dash lights. I pressed a button and the electric window next to me rolled silently down. The air was still and chilly and full of the sounds of night creatures getting ready for a busy evening. From time to time I heard the distant sounds of a car engine, but nothing came even close. We could have been a thousand miles from London instead of just forty minutes away.

Antony Cassini took charge. ‘Right, we know they’re home.’

‘How?’ I asked.

‘Don’t ask.’

‘All right, I won’t.’

‘How many are there?’ asked Algy.

‘The Divas, their two bodyguards, the kid’s bimbo and the housekeeper,’ replied Ferrara.

‘Should be easy,’ said Algy.

‘Nothing’s easy with those bastards,’ I said.

‘He’s right,’ said Antony. ‘Now, the plan is simple. Fifty yards down this lane is the main gate to the farm. It’s electrified, as is the complete perimeter fence that runs round the property. We tool up here, then Algy drives the truck through the gate. The drive proceeds for another quarter of a mile and we are at the house. The layout of the building is very simple. It’s ranch style with a first and second floor.’

‘How are you counting that?’ asked Algy.

‘What?’

‘First and second floor: English or American?’

‘I don’t get you,’ said Antony.

‘When you walk in the front door what floor are you on?’ asked Algy patiently. ‘First,’ came the reply.

‘Not over here, you’re not. In England that’s the ground floor, and that’s how we get confused.’

‘Good point,’ said Antony. ‘OK, we got the ground floor with three entrances. That’s the front door, the back door from the kitchen, and a side door onto the swimming-pool. There’s a triple garage and you can get through the garage into the house also. That entrance leads into a corridor between the kitchen and the dining-room. The front door leads into an entrance hall, off that is a big living-room, another room rigged up as an office and the other door into the dining-room. A big central staircase goes to the second, sorry,
first
floor where there’s a bathroom and five bedrooms. Four of the bedrooms have en suite bathrooms except one which has a kind of half-assed patio arrangement. It’s just a guest room and anyone who stays there uses the john at the top of the stairs, clear?’

I was going to ask him if he’d ever been an estate agent, but I left it out. We all nodded or mumbled assent.

‘Right. Sharman, you’re injured, so you stick with your buddy and take the back door. I hope you’re as good as you look, pal,’ he said to Algy.

‘I am,’ came the terse reply.

‘Good. Freddy, you cover the front door. I guess that’s where the action will start, so be cool, we don’t want to lose you. Benny and I check the garage; if it’s locked we go to the door by the pool. If the garage is open, we split up and Benny takes the pool door. Just get in there and waste everybody. We leave no one, but no one, alive, clear?’

‘Even the housekeeper?’ I asked. ‘How is she involved?’

‘She might identify us,’ Antony replied. ‘I repeat: everyone inside dies. They killed my sister, so they die.’

I wasn’t about to argue. They’d killed my woman and my cat. They wanted to kill me and they didn’t care how many innocents perished in the backwash. Fuck the housekeeper. Too bad for her. She fed the bastards didn’t she?

Everyone got out of the car. Antony opened the hatchback and handed out the weapons. Benny and Freddy got the Uzis. Antony took the Ruger. Algy chose the Ithaca and the S&W Model 15 for back-up. I got the Winchester and loaded the six-shot magazine with 12-gauge buckshot, then just for luck pumped a shell into the chamber and slid a seventh cartridge home. I also took the Colt Agent, swung out the cylinder and checked a full load of .38 Special ammunition. I pushed the little gun down the front of my blue jeans and waited for everyone to stop milling about and get organized.

Finally everyone seemed ready. Antony leaned into the car and pulled out his briefcase. He laid it on the bonnet of the truck and opened the case. Inside were five portable radio receiver/transmitters. He handed them out to us. ‘Switch to channel twenty,’ he said. ‘These are for emergency use only, otherwise keep radio silence.’ I could hardly see in the darkness of the turn-off but I sensed that Algy pulled a face. I hooked the strap of the radio over my shoulder and we all climbed back into the Range Rover.

Algy ground the starter, the engine caught and we nosed back onto the lane and turned in the direction of the Divas’ farm. He didn’t switch the lights back on. I wound up my window as we went. After a minute or so Antony said, ‘Slow right down, we’re nearly there.’ Algy let the big vehicle drift on idling revs, and up ahead I saw a heavy mesh gate with a sign on it that I couldn’t read in the darkness.

‘Radios,’ said Antony. We all squinted down and found the right channel and the inside of the cab filled with the sound of static. I thumbed the volume control down on my set and everyone else did the same. In the silence that followed Antony said, ‘Good luck guys, we’ll be back in town for supper.’

I hoped that he was right. I hooked the radio over my belt where it dug into my hip. ‘Right Algy, take the gate out,’ Antony went on. ‘Hands clear of the metal, just in case.’ I sat in the centre of my seat and thanked God I’d had the sense to wear rubber-soled shoes.

‘It’s going to make some noise,’ said Algy.

‘Fuck it,’ came Antony’s reply.

‘You’re the boss,’ said Algy. He slipped the Range Rover into neutral and wound up the big engine to a scream. I peered over and saw the rev-counter swing into the red at 7000 and keep climbing. The truck began to shake on its chassis and just when I thought the engine would burst Algy flipped the gear stick into low drive and with a screech of tyres on metalled road and a machine-gun rattle of loose gravel on the underside of the car we exploded along the lane towards the gate. Algy slammed the lights full on and I just saw the notice DANGER HIGH VOLTAGE when we hit the gate with a bang like Armageddon and a blue flash that lit up the trees and the inside of the car as if we had suddenly found the key to the fifth dimension. The gate flew up and over the body of our vehicle as if it was made of chicken wire and Freddy screamed above the engine note, ‘Boss, there’s someone there.’

‘Get him,’ ordered Antony. Algy hit the power brakes and the Range Rover fish-tailed to a halt. Freddy baled out of the back door, his Uzi in his fist. ‘Go, Algy go,’ shouted Antony and the truck took off again, the back door slamming to with the force of the acceleration.

I heard a burst of automatic fire from behind us, but before I could turn and look we crested the brow of a hill and powered down towards the house below.

The farmhouse loomed like a dark block in the lighter darkness of a plantation of woodland. There wasn’t a light to be seen and as we dipped down the hill the head-and spotlights of the truck caught the white wooden sides of the house and threw long shadows across the lawns. Human shadows, armed human shadows.