CHAPTER 20
At 8am next morning Mark was standing on the corner where, just twelve hours before, the six-year-old girl had been in the middle of her evening cabaret performance. It was busy with buses, cars, trucks, motorcycles and streams of Thais, eyes focused on their mobile phones going to work. Ritchie was on the other side of the duel carriageway, looking up and down, judging the right time to sprint across six lanes of traffic.
As he passed the corner Dobson emerged. “Spare some change for my singing, sir?” It was the highest pitched voice he could manage at that time of day.
“I haven’t heard you sing a single note. You’re a fraud. Someone should call the police.”
“Here’s your hat,” Dobson said. “Thanks for the loan.”
“Did it work for you last night?”
Dobson ignored him. “There’s a coffee place up there.” he pointed towards an open-air cafe in a side street that led to a row of contemporary-looking apartment blocks. “They also claim to serve English or American breakfasts but we don’t have time for luxuries.”
They settled for black coffee in the far corner.
“What’s your schedule?” Mark then asked.
“To call Olga with a plan.”
“Have you got one?”
“Nope.”
“Not even one? Not even an unworkable suggestion?”
“Nothing.”
Mark sipped his coffee and leaned back with his arms over the back of his chair. “Medinski’s other suggestion was to become a partner in their racket, wasn’t it?”
Ritchie nodded.
“Right. Here’s the plan. When you see him, or Olga, say you’ve had a sleepless night pondering on the wonderful opportunities you see coming from a full-scale partnership. Get excited. Tell him you really liked his story about the successful Italian because he sounded just like the cool sort of guy you want to be. Rub in your past experience and professional skills – the Smart TVs, the DVDs, mention a bit of small-scale money lending here and there to demonstrate your financial qualifications. Getting the picture? You’re young and eager and ready to expand.”
Ritchie looked doubtful.
“Tell him you’d already been planning something big like a full-scale partnership but hadn’t like to say anything yesterday. But now you’ve slept on it you’re raring to go. You want to be up front, frank and honest because that’s the sort of guy you are. So, what are the details and the conditions? How does it all work? What exactly does he do besides the cosmetics and the stuff in the warehouse? What would he need from you? You could be his foothold into the UK market and seventy million customers. As for your brother in Sweden and your cousin in South Africa then, hey, this looks like a family venture like no other. Blah blah.”
Ritchie still looked doubtful. “But even if I performed like Matt Damon or Will Smith this guy’s a bastard, Mark. He’ll still expect something up front like a financial commitment.”
“You’re squeezing him to talk, Ritchie. It’s an art. You’re evidence gathering. It’s vital and it’s the part of the training I couldn’t think how to do back in London because it required a real-life scenario. This is it. A genuine, real life situation. Anyway, listen on. There’s more. When do you need to call big Olga?”
“When I’m good and ready and I sure ain’t ready just yet.”
Mark took out his phone and scrolled to the downloads section. “Here,” he said. “Take a look. Colin’s worked all night on this. It’s just arrived. This is your new business. It’s called Pollitop Limited. Nice logo huh?”
“Pollitop? Jesus, Mark, it sounds like a bloody ice cream. And the logo looks like a phallus.”
“I have to agree about the phallus but Colin was pushed for time. And, anyway, it doesn’t need to exist for very long.”
“Do I get a business card?”
“Only if you print your own. It’s a question of priorities. Micky Parker is registered as a director along with two others, Simon Smith and Lucas Collins.”
“I don’t know those guys.”
“Yes, you do, Ritchie. They’re well known to you. Stop being so negative. Now: Here are the latest Pollitop company bank statements. Your current account shows slow trading this month because you’ve been travelling overseas on business, but it’s still in healthy credit to the tune of £2.450.
Ritchie looked. “Well now. Haven’t I done well?”
“And here’s the statement for your deposit account.”
Ritchie took two looks and then grabbed Mark’s phone to hold it up before his eyes. “Bloody hell, Mark. £467,980? How the hell…?”
“It’s the profit from your Samsung Smart TVs and some other business you don’t want to discuss because it’s too embarrassing.”
“But how?”
Dobson pointed at his own head. “Secrets of an old man,” he said. “When the time comes to prove to Medinski that you’re not short of money and serious, tell him you need to phone your accountant. For the sake of today that’s a guy called Mr Thomas. By coincidence Mr Thomas’s phone number is the same as Colin’s green phone. Understand? Ask Mr Thomas if he would be so kind as to send you copies of the last two bank statements for Pollitop Limited and a copy of the incorporation certificate direct to your phone as you are currently engaged in high level business discussions in Bangkok. If that doesn’t work, we’ll need to rethink. But, even if he’s still not convinced that you’re a worthwhile partner for his many rackets it should convince him you’ve at least got some cash. Agreed?”
Ritchie nodded and, at last, grinned.
“Good. One more thing. Put your cap on.”
“I don’t need it right now.”
“Put the bloody thing on, will you? Tell me if it feels normal.”
Ritchie put it on, adjusted it, then sat back with his arms folded. “Seems OK. It still fits. Surprising, because I thought your head was bigger than mine.”
“I didn’t wear it, Ritchie. I spent half the night sewing something into it. Keep it with you at all times and, if you wear it, wear it back to front so the voice recorder points forward.”
“Really? You don’t say! You mean I’m a genuine spy?” Ritchie pulled the cap off again to check. “Where is it?”
“Behind the Velcro. Switch it on and off by pressing the Velcro. It’ll look like you’re adjusting it. Neat huh? It’ll record for thirty-six hours on a single charge because it’s a top-quality device. Nothing but the best with Asher & Asher. We use an adapter to plug it into a USB port.” He paused. “Using a needle and thread is another skill I don’t suppose you ever thought necessary to learn while at school, Ritchie.”
Ritchie returned the cap to his head, sat back and grinned.
It was going to be another hot and humid day. Sweat was already trickling down his back and chest and oozing droplets on his forehead. He wiped his face with his hand and looked at Mark Dobson in his white, short-sleeved shirt with his sun-tanned arms draped across the chair back. He looked as mean and cool as if he’d just climbed out of a fridge. There was not a bead of sweat or sweat stain to be seen on the man and Ritchie suddenly felt the confidence storming back.
“Now call Olga,” Mark said.