CHAPTER 54
With Lester gone, Novak relaxed slightly. He dropped the stick he’d used to pull Lester from his chair onto the floor, sat back and pulled a packet of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. He waved it at Ritchie. “Smoke?”
“No thanks. “
“Any coffee here?” he asked Olga,
“Maybe,” Olga said, “Not my house.” She got up and disappeared.
Novak lit his cigarette, leaned forward, pulled the already overfull ash tray towards him, took a long suck and blew smoke towards the ceiling. Ritchie, assuming it was negotiations time, readied himself.
“You were – what you say? – recommended,” Novak said. “Cosmetics isn’t it? You tried to sell the team your own brand.”
“Problem with my supplier,” Ritchie said shaking his head as if ready to punch someone. “Last minute. Know what I mean? I was ready to launch.”
Novak took another drag. “No problem. We can replace.”
He pauses and took another drag. “But you see what happens if you don’t co-operate?” He waved his arm towards the door and a finger of cigarette ash fell onto his trousers. He brushed it away leaving a grey powdery streak. “Co-operation. OK? You are - what you say? – independent. You run your own business, no interference, everyone happy. But we expect discipline. Without discipline things go wrong. Understand?”
“Yeh, I know. That’s what I always say.”
“But cosmetics?” Novak shook his head slowly and continued sucking on his cigarette. “Cosmetics is not so good. Learn from an old man and look at that stupid bastard.” He beckoned to the door again. “The plan was simple - take over that company, Vital, close their factory and import everything from our own factory in Italy. But no, the stupid bastard thinks he knows a better way. He ignores advice. He decides he can make more money from raw materials. We try it. We supply the oils and ingredients but we tell him many times it’s too complicated, too risky and it’s not efficient. He got scared of something. No real power. We say, our way better. Still he ignores us.”
Ritchie shook his head as if he greatly sympathised with Russian strategy.
Novak took another relaxed drag.
Since Lester had gone, his speech was slower, more calculated as if he was choosing his words carefully. His good eye was looking at Ritchie, the other moving independently. He coughed like a chesty old man and a spot of something flew onto the coffee table. Ritchie watched it land but continued to sit with his arms draped across the back of the sofa. One foot was resting on the knee of his other leg, but he was unable to stop it twitching.
“So, young man, you want to make big, big cash?” Novak asked.
Ritchie sat forward. “The bigger the better,” he said excitedly. He almost rubbed his hands together to re-enforce his enthusiasm but decided that would be too much like drama school training.
Olga returned holding two mugs of black coffee by the handles in one hand and a mobile phone.in the other. She put the phone on the table. Novak watched. Ritchie watched. “Sugar Micky? You sweet enough already?”
Ritchie grinned. “Black without. You not joining us?”
Olga looked at Novak and he nodded slowly at her and Ritchie took it to be a silent communication of some sort. Olga left again. Novak took a sip of coffee but winced and Ritchie wondered if Olga would now be in trouble for low standards, wrong temperature, unsuitable caffeine content and poor co-operation.
Novak wiped his mouth. “I need someone to run Bio-Kal UK. You know about Bio-Kal?”
“Sure. Enzo’s business, but I thought Enzo was, you know…”
“Enzo is finished. That guy…” He flicked a hand towards the door again. “He’s also finished. We start again. No problem. But we set conditions. You run it, make the money, do good, no interruption, everyone happy. But do not ignore the conditions. If we say there’s a problem then there’s a problem. OK? You must sort it. Do not ignore instructions. If you ignore then…”
Novak hit the table with such force with the palm of his hand that the bottle of Smirnoff jumped. Ritchie didn’t jump because he’d sensed an eruption building.
“Quite right Mr Novak. I’ve also had to get rid of poor performers. I like what I see of your operation. If I can run it independently that suits me fine. Holding back commissions, OK. Sharing profits, OK. Fixing things so we bypass the petty bureaucrats like the VAT inspectors, OK. Tell me what you want from me.”
Novak stubbed his cigarette and fished for the packet to start another.
“Bio-Kal’s the business,” he went on. “Good for brand name, marketing you know, but stay small scale to keep the books straight for – what you say? – the pretty bureaucratic. It’s mixed trading, buying, selling, importing, exporting, bit of this, bit of that. Now and again we meet up. We sort bank transfers, agree transactions, you deal with Dimitri, OK?”
“Yeh. That’s Mr Medinski, right?”
“Yah. Dimitri. You start with buying tea and coffee. We already have labels and papers for customs but...”
He stopped because Olga suddenly returned with another mug of coffee. Perhaps she’d been listening from the kitchen and, after hearing Novak’s slap of the table thought it was time to return. But no. It was something else. Ritchie again saw her glance at Novak and nod her head.
She sat in the second arm chair, crossed her legs, picked up the phone, swiped it a few times and looked at something. Again, she looked at Novak but this time he didn’t respond and carried on where he’d left off.
The whole process was unnerving Ritchie. It was a if he’d entered a cage with a couple of hungry lions who knew they could pounce whenever they felt like it.
“But, it’s not tea and coffee,” Novak went on. “OK, you get invoiced for tea and coffee but we ship together with other goods. You contact other members of our team. They buy the other goods from you. No problem.”
Ritchie grinned. “Profitable goods?”
Novak nodded and glanced at Olga again. “Ready market. Others sell. You supply and facilitate. Easy.”
Ritchie almost rubbed his hands together again but moved them to his nose, wiped it and sniffed. “Any cosmetics?” he asked. “Because that’s my speciality.”
“Sure, sure. Calvin Klein or Pantene Shampoo or Nivea. You know these?”
“Calvin Klein cosmetics? Jesus. I have big customers waiting for that since my supplier of Eau de Toilette by Ritchie messed up.”
Novak gave a sinister looking smile and shook his head. “Calvin Klein underwear?” he said “Sure. Men’s, ladies, nice boxes. You wouldn’t know the difference.”
“Oh, boy,” said Ritchie excitedly. “When do I start?”
“First, we send you a pro-forma invoice. Then you issue a letter of credit in favour of the company on the invoice.”
“Will that be Bio-Kal?”
Novak paused. “Maybe. Maybe. What is this company of yours?”
“Ah, you mean Pollitop. It is a good business. Dimitri knows.”
Novak didn’t look impressed and Ritchie felt disappointed.
Novak sucked his fresh cigarette. “It can open a letter of credit for 300,000 dollars?” he asked.
He looked at Ritchie with one eye from inside the cloud of smoke and Ritchie suddenly didn’t like the look, or the tone. Surely, he’d heard about Pollitop’s excellent financial status. Was Ritchie now expected to ask questions? Was Novak testing him? If Ritchie had been genuinely about to open a big line of credit for an organisation run by Novak, he should be asking for details, for commitments and agreements from Novak’s side. The fact was Pollitop Limited was an overnight creation by Colin Asher and so was the bank statement. If Ritchie appeared not to care, which he didn’t, would Novak see through it and wonder why?
Ritchie was in a dilemma and his nerves set his foot jigging faster.
Why had Novak wanted to meet him? Did he meet every new recruit to the cause? It seemed unlikely. So why? And why ask about his parents? Had he slipped up somewhere? Had something come to light? Had they found the tracking device in the anorak? Unlikely. Had they delved into Pollitop and become suspicious? Was Novak not convinced that Pollitop could open a credit line of some 300,000 dollars?
Perhaps the Russian was just being cautious but since he’d smacked the table with such force his tone had become menacing and so had the look on Olga’s face. This wasn’t acting. In less than five seconds, Ritchie decided that Novak no longer trusted him and somehow it had been transmitted to Olga. He glanced at her, sitting with her legs crossed, white thighs on show, sipping from her mug of coffee but no longer looking at him, smiling or even winking. Olga was now more likely to wink at Novak or, at least, nod her head at him. What had they just communicated? Red lights flashed inside Ritchie’s head but he didn’t have time to sit and ponder so he plumped for showing an impatient side that seemed more in character with Micky Parker.
“300,000 dollars? No problem. When do we start?”
Somewhere amongst the smoke, Novak shook his head, but it was Olga who spoke two unsmiling words. “Careful, Micky.”
As if in agreement, Novak changed from shaking his head to slowly nodding it.
“I think you misunderstand me Mr Micky Parker,” he said. He coughed productively, swallowed whatever came up and went on. “Would a big multinational company – what you say? – jump into the bed with a stranger? No. We check. We eliminate the bad. We go with the reliable.”
Out of the corner of his eye Ritchie saw Olga nodding.
“That’s our style. That is why we survive. Forty years in business is good, no?”
Novak glanced at his Rolex watch which Ritchie assumed wasn’t a Rolex and then looked at Olga with his good eye. Olga nodded back at him again and Ritchie’s stomach churned. And where was Lester? He’d heard no car leaving – not that Lester was in a fit state to drive anyway – and neither had he heard a door shut or more words. He tried smiling at Olga but it was hard to force a genuine-looking smile because Olga was staring at him with a look that had moved from her usual flirtatious or suggestive manner into something threatening.
“How long has this Pollitop been running, Micky?” she asked as if she already knew the answer.
Ritchie paused to think but it was a pause too long. They were both looking directly at him, waiting for a mistake, a slip, an error made under pressure. “Recently,” he said trying to hold his casual, light-hearted, pro-Olga look. “I needed to move money to pay for the cosmetics so I used Pollitop.”
Olga shrugged. Novak took another long drag on his cigarette before completely changing the subject. “You ever carry anything?” he asked as smoke swirled around his head.
He was looking at Ritchie’s pockets, as if Ritchie kept weapons there as part of his normal daytime wear. Surprisingly they’d not frisked him this time but it was all too clear what Novak was thinking. Carrying a sub machine gun in his boxers might have been too noticeable but what about a voice recorder in his baseball cap or a tracking device in an old anorak? Ritchie tried a drama school trained look of utter innocence. “Carry anything? Nah. Only my wits.”
It didn’t help.
Olga sat up straight. “What is wits?” she asked as if it was the name of a secret weapon or a piece of clever electronic wizardry she’d never heard of.
Ritchie might have laughed or made a joke of it if this mood of suspicion had not descended on the room. Novak grabbed his stick, waved the last inch of cigarette at Olga as if to calm her and then stubbed it out.
“We go to London,” he said struggling to stand. “You come with us.”
Just to get out of his room would be nice but to jump up and rush to the door wouldn’t look good. “Why London?” Ritchie asked trying a new, more confrontational approach. “I thought this was it. Meet, check each other out, share a few drinks, be on my way. I’ve got things to do.”
Olga was already on her feet. “We already checked you out, Micky. Things don’t look so good.”
“Olga, sweetie. What is this?”
Olga was a changed woman. She’d gone from crotch grabber to crotch cruncher in five minutes. What had happened?
She retrieved her phone again, came around the table, stood over him and turned it to show him a photo. “Who is this?”
It was Mark Dobson sitting at a table in the Lat Krabang night market, surrounded by dirty dishes and a bottle of Fanta. It was as clear as if he’d posed for it. “You joined him,” Olga said. “Who is he?”
All Ritchie could think of doing was to grin. “Well, fuck me, yes. That’s my old mate Crabber. Bumped into him one night in Bangkok. But....”
Why had he invented Crabber? Was it because it rhymed with grabber?
“Don’t fuck about,” Olga said with a frightening scowl. “You heard what Mr Novak said just now? We check. We eliminate the bad. We only go with the reliable You aren’t reliable Micky. Who are you? Who is that guy?”
For the first time, Ritchie felt a trickle of sweat on his forehead. “Crabber, Olga. My old mate. On holiday. He told me he’d try to find me. Good customer is Crabs. If I’d had any Eau de Toilette samples left for him to sniff he’d have ordered a container load.”
Olga shook her head at Novak who was leaning on his stick. “I don’t believe,” she said.
Novak waved a hand at her. To Ritchie it meant he was either telling Olga not to jump to hasty conclusions or to delay wrenching his privates from his body until they’d found a more secluded part of the River Thames to hurl his eunuch’s corpse. But then Novak turned and made his way to the door with his stick.
“OK, Micky, let’s go. We got things to settle.”