The Untouchable (16 page)

It was a simple procedure. He visited each building, opened the boxes and cleared them, loaded the contents into his attache case, handed in the keys and discontinued the contracts.

He walked to a West End of London hotel, no reservation made, and booked into a room. He emptied out onto the bed coverlet the legal proof of his great wealth. There were bank statements, bonds, title deeds for five hotels and three aircraft, more deeds for residential property in France, Greece, the Bahamas, the Caymans and Gibraltar, and a stack of computer disks. He could not, in the hotel room, enter the disks, but he speed-read the documents as if he needed to remind himself of the resources available to him. The fact that he did not spend the wealth on himself and the Princess, that he hoarded it and seldom released it other than to underwrite further ventures, did not in any way detract from the pleasure he took in glancing over the figures and the property descriptions with the income generated. Wealth was power - power, although he would not have recognized this, was the drug that sustained him.

He used the hotel room for fifteen minutes, then checked out. He paid two hundred and sixty-five pounds for it, cash to the cashier, and slipped anonymously into the street.

He walked across central London. It was his city.

His wealth gave him the power he craved. Hundreds of people, the huge majority of whom had never heard of him, worked in that city to multiply his wealth. In the evenings and at night, thousands of the city's seething, moving, stirring population bought the product that he purchased after importation and sidled away into dark, private, hidden corners to inject themselves or to inhale. He was buffeted by the home-going office workers, shop women and the tourists, and he felt contempt for them because they would never, none of them, approach the power and wealth that were his.

He saw the young man sitting at the back of the cafe in the new piazza square of Covent Garden.

Sol Wilkes stood up as he approached. Mister wove a way between the tables. He'd checked outside for watchers and not seen any. Inside he took a zigzag route to the table in the rear recess of the cafe. It gave him the chance to observe most of its clients, and look into their ears. Any of the Church watchers, men or women, would have moulded clear plastic earpieces.

It was an old routine, but useful. He liked the cut of the young man. The suit was good, new and quiet, the shirt was a gentle cream, the tie wasn't loud, and the haircut was tidy. The
Financial Times
on the table was folded beside the half-empty glass of orange juice; it was a good first impression.

'Evening,
Mister
Packer.'

'Evening, Sol - you don't mind if I call you that?'

'Not at all, what can I get you?'

'Cappuccino, please.'

The coffee was ordered. There was an attraction in going for new blood. Mister thought it spoke of his personal virility if he went after youth. Wouldn't have considered it, of course not, if the Cruncher hadn't ended up in the river. But he had . . . And maybe, as the operation into the Balkans expanded and came alive, it was the right time to think the unthinkable.

The Eagle was old. The Fixer might just be past his best years. New people and new ideas, it was something to chew and think on, but carefully. Everything must be done carefully.

'I've known your family a long time, Sol.'

'So my lather told me.'

Trusted your family, Sol, for many years.'

As my father's trusted you.'

'Always had respect for your father.'

'And him for you.'

'And now I'm short of someone I can trust and respect, and who'll show the same to me, and who will handle various of my affairs.'

'Look after your investments, Mr Packer, and see them grow.'

'That sort of thing, Sol .'

'Move in where the Cruncher was.'

'With discretion.'

'My father would walk on hot coals for you, Mr Packer. I'd work for someone, with someone, if I knew I'd have the same loyalty back that my father's shown you.'

'Of course.'

'But my father was surprised that you weren't at the Cruncher's funeral.'

There had been no change of inflection in Sol Wilkes's quiet conversational tone, but the statement smacked the air separating them. Mister would have gone, and taken the clan, but the Eagle had counselled against it. The Eagle had said it would be a photo-graphic jamboree for the Crime Squad and the Church, and he'd taken the advice. He thought the young man had balls - questioned whether it demonstrated due loyalty to an old and trusted colleague if a cold shoulder was turned at the end, the funeral. He was jolted . . . The young man wasn't frightened of him, not in the way the Eagle was. He couldn't say to Sol Wilkes that he'd stayed away because the Eagle had told him to, that he wasn't his own man when it came to a last farewell to a friend. Perhaps he should not have listened to the Eagle, but he had . . . There was no fear in the young face as there had been terror last night in an older face. His reputation created fear, but Sol Wilkes was holding his eye, not wavering, and waiting for an answer.

'If you worked for me, Sol, you'd get to see the bigger picture. You'd know more. You'd find it easier to make judgements.' He smiled. 'Whether that's good enough for you or not, that's what you're getting.'

'What are you offering me, Mr Packer?'

'To come on the payroll.'

'With a percentage of profits, as the Cruncher was?'

'Are we running before we can walk?' There was menace in his voice. He was not in control of the talk.

His fist was clenched on the table as if in threat.

'If I'm inside, Mr Packer, then there's no going back.

I understand that. It's not short-term, it's as far as I can see, for ever . . . Five per cent comes with my guarantee of loyalty, of respect.'

Their hands met. Mister took the smaller fist of Sol Wilkes in his and the deal was sealed. He squeezed the hand until the blood had drained from it and he heard the crack of the bone knuckles, but the young man did not flinch.

He took the papers and the disks from the attache case and passed them across the table. They were read fast, and there was no expression of either surprise or admiration on Sol's face, just as there had been no fear.

A twenty-eight-year-old, trained investment broker, the son of a friend of forty years, was invited into the inner circle. When the papers were read they were returned, with the disks, to the case. Rules of engagement were discussed, then Mister launched into his description of the future and of trade through Bosnia. He didn't think it necessary to spell out that, should he be double-crossed, ripped-off, then all of the Wilkes family would suffer, wish they had never been born, the father and mother, the sisters and brothers, and especially young Solomon; it wasn't necessary to say it because Albie would have made it clear in one-syllable words to his favourite boy. The arrangements were agreed for new safety-deposit boxes. They would meet again when Mister was back from abroad.

He walked out into the evening crowds. He felt good, lifted by Sol's youth - and he knew that the attraction of the Eagle's worried fussiness was waning: he was the big man, and supreme.

Pitching up there had not been Joey's idea. The crush of bodies was all round him, and the smoke and the loud laughter, and the big voice boomed at him,

'You're Joey? That right, Joey?'

'I'm Joey Cann, yes.'

'With Maggie? You're Maggie's bag-carrier?'

'Something like t h a t . . . and you are?'

'Francis. We weren't introduced. Francis. I'm your host here, this is my pad, I'm HM's man in Sarajevo. She's a great girl. Why'd you make her drive the whole way? She says she's driven from Zagreb. Couldn't you have done a bit at the wheel?'

'It's what she seemed to want.'

'Terrific girl, wheelbarrows of fun. Your first time here, Joey?'

'Yes.'

'Let me mark your card, explain the ground you're on.'

'I'd be very grateful.'

He would have preferred his bed. Something to eat, a slow bath, and bed. The message at the hotel had been for her. The party at the Residence was to celebrate Commonwealth Day. He thought she would have despised him if he'd pleaded exhaustion and the need of food, a bath and bed. She'd driven for eight hours, and she was still up for a party. He could see her on the far side of the room. She must have sluiced herself under a shower, slipped into that little black dress and done her face. She had a cluster of older men round her, was honeypotting again as she had done at the Customs post at Bosanski Novi. It was a brief little black dress. The men leered at her, and Joey thought each of them believed himself to be the centre of her attention, in with a chance. She must have told the Ambassador - cheerful, noisy Francis - that Joey Cann was her burden of the day and wasn't up to driving across Bosnia. He readied himself for the lecture, and snatched a drink off the waiter's tray.

'I'm not going to ask what you're doing here, because I don't want to know. What I usually do when Maggie's people are in town is take the phone off the hook and head off up country. Do not embarrass me, there's a good fellow. What I mean is, don't step on any toes. Last thing I want is muddy water . . . We may, that's the foreign community, run this horrible little place and bankroll it, but they are extraordinarily sensitive to overt interference . . . The local talent is for obstruction. We tell them how to live, we send them our best and our brightest, we shovel money at them, but it isn't working, nothing's moving. Right now they're seeing the signs of what we tell them is

"attention fatigue", we're running down. They've decided all they have to do is sit tight and wait till we're off their backs. Nobody listens in London when I tell them that it's all been a very considerable failure.

Truth is that you cannot make people live together when they actually hate each other, then hate us nearly as much . . . Can I top you up?'

Joey shook his head.

'Even me, Joey, and I'm an old hand - I was here during the war, where I met Maggie - I'm quite astonished at the viciousness of the place. We haven't even started, haven't begun to start, getting rid of this brutality. Do you know, in the Brcko region the Serbs held Muslim civilians in a furniture factory. They had shredders there to make wood chips out of raw timber

- for chipboard, you know. They fed Muslims into the shredding machines, got human chips out of raw bodies, then spread the chopped-up stuff on the fields . . . Just to give you an idea of what we're up against . . . I'd better circulate. Anyway, nice to have met you. Have a good stay, and please don't cause me any problems, you know what I mean. Have another drink.'

Joey stood alone against the wall.

He watched her. There was a little bag in her hand, leather and delicate.

One moment she was in the group, the next she was gone and the knot of older men were peering around, over their shoulders. He looked to see which appeared the most bereft. Then she was beside him.

'Come on, time to go.'

Joey said sourly, 'Only if you've finished enjoying yourself.'

'I was working.'

'Looked as if you were working hard.'

'Don't be so bloody pompous.'

They left. She didn't bother to wait in the queue and thank her host. Moments later, they were out in the cold air, walking down a winding cobbled street, the party's noise behind them. Her hand was back in his arm and he could smell her scent. The little shops they passed were shuttered with steel and wooden grilles. The street was empty.

'What was the work?'

'You wanted a name.'

'I'm sorry, I'm not focusing - what was the name I wanted?'

'A judge's name. You know, the needle in the haystack...'

'Come again?'

'The name of a judge to trust - God, you didn't think I was talking to those deadbeats for the good of my health? Cop on, Cann. Here, the judges co-operate with politicians and Mafia, drive a big car, live in a big apartment and their kids get university places. Or the judges don't co-operate and they listen to all the horseshit the foreigners give them about the sanctity of the rule of law, and they're machine-gunned or car-bombed, and they're dead. Least likely, they're marginalized, and don't get involved, not noticed -

actually it's not "they", it's only one . . . He's straight, but the problem is - if you want to stay legal - he's useless. He stays alive and lives like a pauper. If you want "straight", then Zenjil Delic's your man.'

'Thanks.' They walked fast. 'What is this place?'

'It's the old market, the heart of the old city . . . The Serbs hit it with a mortar, the final straw that brought in the Americans. Thirty-eight dead and eighty-five wounded.'

He gazed over the gaunt frames of the market stands, now cleared for the night. A floodlit mosque minaret reached up towards the low cloud, the spit of snowflakes cavorting in the beam. 'Were you here?

Did you see it?'

'You never ask for war stories in Sarajevo, Joey. You get enough without asking.'

'How near was the front line?'

'A few hundred yards, maybe four hundred.'

'How was the line held?'

'It was held because there was nowhere else to go.'

'Weren't they heroes, the commanders who held the line, saved the city?'

'Bad luck, Joey. Nothing here is as it seems. One day they held the line, the next day they did deals across it for the supply of black-market food, cooking oil and bullets. They weren't heroes, they were thugs.'

In the folklore of the city, he was the man who had preserved its name, identity, its heartbeat.

He had the title of legenda. He could strut the streets of the old quarter, walk at liberty on the Mula Mustafe Baseskija, the Branilaca Sarajeva, the Obala Kulina Bana, and the old and the young would recognize and make space for him. Some of the oldest would wish to touch his hand as their saviour and some of the young would dream of working for him.

A message reached him from London, passed by cut-out figures from the Turkish community there to the Turkish community in Sarajevo, that Albert William Packer travelled to his city the next day, and that he and his colleagues should be shown respect. In his apartment, richly furnished and luxuriously fitted, he talked of this matter with the deputy commander of the Agency for Investigation and Documentation, and with the nephew of the ruling party's politician controlling the Ministry of Justice. The latest message came by the same route as that which, two weeks before, had introduced the first visitor - now dead, taken from the river and freighted back whence he had come.