CHAPTER 28
Little On saw Ritchie before he’d set foot in the Peacock.
“Micky! You come see me?” She was wearing a pink tee shirt over black shorts and ran, smiling to him as if he’d been away at sea for six months. She grabbed his arm and dragged him inside. “You want beer, Micky?”
“Why not?” Ritchie said. “Anyone upstairs?”
“I not see your friends. Om not here, also.”
Ritchie was in jeans, tee shirt, his lightweight nylon jacket and the Converse trainers but, on Dobson’s advice, had left the cap behind. “Once lucky, twice risky,” he’d told him. In all honesty, Mark knew he’d been adding to the risk factor with that voice recorder. All it needed was a touch of suspicion from one of the Russians and things could have become very nasty, but they’d needed the break and it had worked.
Ritchie looked around. The snooker tables were busy, a football match was on the big screen and just a few drinkers were in the downstairs bar talking to girls. He went up the spiral stairs. On was right. It was empty, so he came back down to where On was waiting with a cold bottle of Singha beer and a frosted glass on a tray. “You see? No-one come tonight. Just you and me.”
“We’ll wait,” Ritchie said making his way to the long, front bar overlooking the road where the Peacock girls gazed at phones, painted their nails and waved at passers-by. He edged up onto a stool, On wriggled up alongside him and started to pour his beer. Then his phone buzzed. “Micky?” It was Olga’s voice.
“Olga, my sweetie. How’re you doing?”
“Yah. Where are you?”
“Where you told me to be. The Peacock.”
“Yuri says take a taxi to On Nut sky train station. Go to Tesco Lotus supermarket. Wait by entrance next to station. You understand?”
“On Nut, huh? And Tesco. Perhaps I can do my grocery shipping while I’m there.”
It was that place name again. He’d checked On Nut on a road map. It was on the east side, not too far. “I gotta go,” he said to On.
She looked utterly heartbroken and Ritchie felt like a crack had appeared in his own heart. He put an arm around her shoulders. “Business,” he said, “I’ll be back later.”
“Can I come with you?”
The crack grew wider. “Here’s a thousand baht. Pay for the beer and keep the change for when I come back.” Then he got up and walked away.
At 8.50pm when Ritchie arrived at On Nut BTS Station, directly linked to a Tesco hypermarket, it was still busy in the usual bustling Bangkok style of eating and shopping. Surrounding the station was a dense residential area of high-rise condos, housing projects and an above average number of expats. Ritchie decided where he thought he should wait and stood, playing with his phone. At just after 9pm, he felt a tap on his elbow. Standing beside him was the Thai forklift truck driver from the warehouse in his grubby tee shirt, baggy trousers and flip flops. The dark brown face looked up at him. “Mr Micky.”
“Ah, it’s my friend,” Ritchie said smiling. He held out his hand but the Thai just walked away. “Come,” he said, using probably the only word he’d learned from Olga and Yuri.
Ritchie was led through the brightly lit Tesco supermarket past shelves of vegetables and groceries then downstairs and out into the semi darkness to a disorganised mass of hundreds of parked motorcycles. Despite that, the man seemed to recognise his own bike. “Please.” Ritchie was given a crash helmet, helped to put it on and then the front shield was pulled down and clipped into place. It was as blacked out as the sun glasses Olga had given him. Not only that but within three minutes Ritchie had completed a tour of side streets, weaving between traffic and finally going down a ramp with a concrete hump in the middle that Ritchie distinctly remembered from the last time he was there. The motorcycle stopped, Ritchie got off and the crash helmet was removed. “Come.”
They didn’t go to the lift but to the white Toyota Camry that was parked just a short distance away. The rear door opened as Ritchie approached and Olga’s hand with its blue finger nails emerged. “Come. Sit.”
Ritchie found himself in the back seat with Olga as the Toyota’s engine purred and the air conditioning wafted cool air. In the front passenger seat was Yuri Abisov. Behind the wheel sat Dimitri Medinski. An interior light was on over the driver’s mirror and another in the felt lining above Ritchie’s head.
Yuri turned and gave a toothy, twisted smile. “Mr Magic. Good evening.”
Medinski touched Abisov’s arm as if to warn him. Olga, wearing a tight brown skirt showing six inches of big legs above her knees, slid along the leather upholstery towards Ritchie as if she wanted to watch reflections in the mirror but, in doing so, their thighs touched. She patted Ritchie’s knee.
“For full partnership we need a letter of credit,” Medinski said without any preliminary pleasantries. He was looking at Ritchie in the mirror.
“How much?”
“Three hundred and fifty thousand US dollars.”
“What am I buying?”
There was a short pause and Ritchie saw Abisov grin at Medinski as if he had already decided this was a non-starter and a waste of time. “Enough to earn you three million dollars a month.” Medinski said quietly.
Ritchie stayed calm. “Even Calvin Klein don’t make that amount in a month from Euphoria or Eternity. You think I don’t know the cosmetics industry, Dimitri?”
Yuri Abisov’s shoulders shook as if he was in the front seats at a good live comedy show.
“You in business or no, Micky?” Medinski said.
“Sure, I’m in business but don’t start underestimating me again, understand? I know my business.” Olga patted Ritchie’s knee again but went further up his leg this time.
“Calm it, OK? We’re not just talking cosmetics,” Medinski said. “We’re talking chemicals that can earn you big, big money.”
“Chemicals? What’re you talking about?”
“Precursors, Micky. Ingredients that go into a recipe to make something that’s in big demand. You starting to understand?”
Ritchie sniffed. Jesus, he thought, what was this? At Mark’s request, he’d researched cosmetics, he’d read up on energy drinks, food supplements and vitamin pills, but what the hell were precursors? What would Mark do or say right now?
“You need to spell it out clearer than that, Dimitri. If I came to you with a proposal, you’d want a hell of a lot more. Am I right?”
“Sure, sure. Stay cool, OK? I’m just feeling my way. We got to be careful.”
Medinski patted the top of the steering wheel with a big hairy hand as if listening to some sort of silent music. Olga patted Ritchie’s inner thigh and Ritchie looked at her. She was smiling with big red lips. The problem was that the white interior light that cast a shadow from above did nothing for her wrinkles or the impenetrable darkness of her cleavage. Ritchie took the opportunity to re-assess her age. In this light she looked sixty and Eddie would have had a field day proving his theories about anti-ageing and wrinkle creams.
Ritchie sniffed again. “Well,” he said, “How long do we sit here while you feel your way, Dimitri? I prefer to be prepared, don’t you Olga?” He gently removed the hand that was working its way up his thigh. Olga didn’t mind. She sniggered just like Yuri had.
“I like this guy,” Yuri said grinning at Medinski. “He’s bratva. He’s got style, just like an actor.”
“You said that before,” Medinski replied gruffly but then he slapped the steering wheel one last time. “OK, we’ll go for a ride.” He slipped the automatic into reverse and the big car moved silently backwards but then stopped. “Get out, Micky. First, we need to protect our business until things are settled. I’m sure you do the same in your business. We need to do some checks.”
Ritchie opened the door and got out. Olga slid out the same door. “Hold arms up.” She frisked him with both hands, around his back beneath his jacket, under his armpits, down his sides, over his thighs and buttocks, down his legs and back up the inside of his leg to his crotch. She lingered at his crotch and looked at him. Then she ran her blue nails down all the seams of his jacket, his tee shirt and jeans as if feeling for hard objects. Then she stood back and looked at him still standing with his legs apart and his hands above his head. Ritchie winked at her. “Find anything you want?” he said.
She grinned. “Where nice hat today?”
“No sun at night,” Ritchie replied.
Medinski’s voice came from inside the car. “Give him the glasses.” Olga bent inside the car to grab her bag. In the process, her skirt rose another six inches up the back of her legs so Ritchie took a longer than usual blink. Then she backed out, handed him the dark glasses and he put them on.
“Yah. Very cool, Micky.”
Sannan had been watching the block of apartment suites for over three hours. During that time several people had come and gone. He now knew it took seven seconds for the front door to close automatically. He could slip inside if necessary. At 9.45 he phoned Mark Dobson to check if he should stay on watch or go inside “Ho’s on the second floor,” he reminded Dobson.
“To do what?” Mark asked but there was no reply. He repeated his question “You there? What would you do if you went inside?” There was still no reply. “Are you there Sannan?”
The answer came. “I’ve just seen a white Toyota Camry go by, Mark…hold on.” Mark held on.
“The car stopped further along the road. Medinski’s got out with a big woman and there’s a tall, black guy with dark glasses on. Would that be Ritchie?”
Sannan and Ritchie had not yet met but the description of the scene fitted perfectly. “Yes,” Mark confirmed
“They’re walking back and going inside.”
“Stay where you are,” Mark said. “I’m on my way.”