‘The percentage you’re paying I’m not surprised,’ said Wedekind.
‘I’m getting a shit deal, then?’
Wedekind sipped his champagne. ‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Can you get me a better one?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Would you? You can take a cut, obviously.’
‘I’d have to talk to the boys. I work for them, remember.’
‘Yeah, but I’ll be on the team so it’ll all be in house,’ said Shepherd.
‘Let me give it some thought,’ said Wedekind. ‘How much are we talking about?’
‘Half a mill a year, give or take. Pounds and euros.’
‘And this guy you went to see, what’s the story?’
‘I met him through a friend of a friend. He vouched for him. But, like I said, a hundred grand’s gone walkabout.’
‘Bearing in mind how you make your money, why would he take the risk of upsetting you?’
The waiter returned with Shepherd’s gin and tonic. He waited until the man had set down the drink and left before continuing. ‘I didn’t tell him, obviously. And neither did the guy who introduced us. He thought I was just a self-employed businessman trying to hide money from the taxman.’ He grinned and raised his glass. ‘Which is sort of true, but not the whole truth.’
‘And you resolved this?’
‘Let’s just say if the money isn’t in the bank by close of business today he’ll be at the receiving end of my expertise.’ He winked and sipped his drink.
‘If you don’t mind me asking, where does he put your money?’
‘Some in Jersey. Some in the Isle of Man. The usual places.’
Wedekind grimaced. ‘I’d be wary of the usual places,’ he said. ‘They’re not as safe as they used to be. Under the new EU rules they have to open their books to the taxman, and they do.’
‘Most of the accounts are in other names.’
‘That’ll help muddy the water. But if they ever come after you, a false name or two won’t stop them.’
‘So what would you do?’
‘Hypothetically?’
Shepherd laughed. ‘Hypothetically.’
‘There’s no problem in having accounts in Jersey or the Isle of Man, but you need to make them company accounts. Or ideally put the money in a trust fund. As soon as the Revenue see a trust fund, they know they’ve got a fight on their hands and, more often than not, they won’t bother. They’re typical bureaucrats, mainly. They get paid to do their job no matter how well they do it.’ He swirled the champagne in his glass. ‘If I was running the Revenue I’d be putting them on commission. You’d soon see them perk up if they knew they’d get to keep ten per cent of anything they found. But they don’t so, like most bureaucrats, they’ll always look for the easy life.’
‘And you make it more complicated. Is that it?’
Wedekind smiled. ‘The more complicated the better,’ he said. ‘You can have your Jersey account, along with a debit card and a credit card feeding off it. But you make it a company account and have the business incorporated offshore. Belize, maybe, or the Cayman Islands. You throw some local property into that company but then have it owned by another offshore company, ideally one which is then owned by a trust fund.’ He shrugged. ‘It takes a bit of time to set it up but it’s worth the effort.’
‘And how do you get the money into it?’
‘Some offshore banks will still take cash,’ said Wedekind. ‘From people they trust.’
‘And you could set up something like that for me?’
‘Not me personally, no. It’s specialist stuff and it has to be done right.’
‘But you know people?’
‘Of course.’
‘And these people, they could set something up for me?’
‘In theory, sure. But I’d have to talk to Tommy and Marty first.’
‘You couldn’t get them to do it for me on the QT?’
Wedekind chuckled drily. ‘You don’t play that sort of game with the brothers, Terry. Trust me on that.’ He pushed a menu towards Shepherd. ‘I’ve already ordered,’ he said. ‘Oysters, then lobster.’
Shepherd didn’t bother opening the menu. He waved over the waiter and asked for smoked salmon, then fish pie.
‘And bring us another bottle of the bubbly,’ said Wedekind. ‘This one will be dead soon.’ The waiter repeated the order and walked away. Wedekind drained his glass and refilled it. ‘So, Gibraltar, you’ve never been?’
‘Never needed to. But I know the SP. British-owned, the Spanish want it, bit of a tax haven.’
Wedekind nodded. ‘The brothers have money there and some property, including a couple of hotels. All locked away in offshore companies, obviously.’
‘Obviously,’ repeated Shepherd.
‘They also have an online casino based there. Blackjack, slots, poker, all the usual stuff. Their guy over there is a Spaniard, Carlos García. Carlos is a nice enough guy, a bit lazy but, then, all the Spaniards are, right?’
‘I guess so.’
‘It’s always
mañana, mañana
, tomorrow, tomorrow. But with the brothers, as you know, if they want something done they want it done yesterday. Anyway, earlier this week the head of security was shot. No one seems to know who did it or why and García is being less than forthcoming. We’ve had a look at the books and it seems he’s let some of the high-rollers run up tabs. Big tabs. One of them is close to two hundred thousand euros in the hole. The client’s a Russian. Lives in Marbella. Been a client for going on a year, all fine and dandy, then for some reason García gives him a tab and now the Russian won’t pay him back.’
‘So I’m debt-collecting?’
‘Would you just shut up and listen for a minute?’ snapped Wedekind. ‘It’s not just about debt-collecting. If it was, the brothers have a dozen guys they could send and those guys wouldn’t be swanning around taking care of their own personal business as a priority.’
‘Sorry,’ said Shepherd, raising his glass.
Wedekind waved away the apology. ‘I’m just fucking hungry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t get breakfast this morning.’ He sipped his champagne. ‘Anyway, the brothers want to know what the fuck is going on over there and obviously they want to keep it at arm’s length.’
Shepherd smiled thinly. ‘Got it.’
‘They want you to fly over and calm things down. Shootings will draw attention to us and the brothers hate that. Put a lid on it. And find out what the story is about tabs. They should all be paying up-front.’
‘I’ll fly today.’
The waiter came over with Wedekind’s oysters and Shepherd’s smoked salmon.
‘How heavy can I get?’ asked Shepherd, once the waiter had left.
Wedekind leaned across the table. ‘Don’t kill anyone,’ he whispered. ‘But you don’t have to pull any punches. The brothers want this stamped on, and stamped on hard.’
Shepherd raised his glass. ‘That’s what I do best,’ he said.
Mohammed al-Hussain walked out into the arrivals area at Paris Charles de Gaulle airport. A middle-aged clean-shaven Asian in a black leather bomber jacket and tight jeans was holding up a piece of cardboard with the name RAJPUT on it. Al-Hussain nodded at him. ‘Welcome to Paris, bruv,’ said the man, folding up the piece of cardboard and putting it into his jacket pocket.
‘You are English?’ asked al-Hussain.
‘Yeah, bruv. I’m taking you on the Eurostar. Business class, so it’s all good.’ The train was preferable to flying into London. Security was less stringent on the Eurostar than at the airports, and passports weren’t checked as thoroughly.
‘So you are coming to London with me?’
The man nodded. ‘That’s the plan, bruv. You hungry? We can grab some food here or, if you can wait, they’ll feed us on the train.’
‘I can wait,’ said al-Hussain.
‘No problem,’ said the man. ‘We’ll get a cab to the Eurostar terminal.’
He headed for the exit and al-Hussain followed him. ‘What is your name?’ he asked.
‘Sunny,’ said the man. ‘Sunny by name, sunny by nature.’
Shepherd flew to Gibraltar on British Airways. Business class had been full and he ended up sitting halfway down the plane, over the wing. He had a good view of the Rock as the plane came into land, topped by a white radar dome and aerial towers, and behind it the three-hundred-acre nature reserve that was home to the famous Barbary apes. The limestone cliff was peppered with the holes used by cannons to defend Gibraltar going back to the seventeenth century, and a single Union flag fluttered from a pole at the peak. As they taxied back to the terminal he caught a glimpse of a blue-grey RAF Hercules parked by a hangar.
The plane came to a halt and stairs were pushed up to the front and rear, which meant that Shepherd was one of the last off. The sky was overcast but it was a good ten degrees warmer than it had been in London. The queue from Immigration wound onto the tarmac and there seemed to be just one officer handling EU arrivals while another dealt with non-EU passengers, including a dozen or so Filipino men who were presumably flying to work on one of the many cruise ships that visited Gibraltar. It took Shepherd longer to get through Immigration at Gibraltar than it had at Heathrow after his last flight. Even with no luggage to collect, it was almost an hour before he walked into the arrivals area.
Carlos García was easy to spot: he was tall and thin with a greasy comb-over and a well-tended goatee. He was carrying the jacket of his grey suit and wearing a grey shirt with the sleeves rolled up, showing forearms matted with thick black hair. He grinned, revealing unnaturally white teeth. ‘Terry, how was your flight?’
‘Flight’s a flight, mate,’ said Shepherd, playing the role of Terry Taylor, hard man, to the hilt. He wasn’t in Gibraltar on a social visit: he was there to sort out a problem for the O’Neill brothers and, if necessary, crack some heads together. ‘Where’s your motor?’
García’s smile hardened a little. ‘Outside,’ he said.
‘Lead on then,’ said Shepherd, brusquely. ‘I haven’t got all day.’
García took him outside, crossed a road to a car park and led him to a lime-green Lamborghini. Shepherd stared at it in amazement. ‘You’re shitting me,’ he said.
‘It’s a beauty, isn’t it?’ said García, misinterpreting his reaction.
Shepherd looked at him contemptuously. ‘You drive this all the time?’
García frowned. ‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘It’s a bloody pimp-mobile,’ said Shepherd. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be keeping a low profile?’
‘This is Gibraltar,’ said García. ‘Here, if you’ve got it, you flaunt it.’ He unlocked the door and climbed in.
Shepherd squeezed himself into the passenger seat. The car was left-hand drive. Gibraltar was a British Overseas Territory, but as it was on the tip of Spain, driving on the left wouldn’t have made much sense. ‘Yeah, well, where I come from, if you flaunt it, someone’s likely to try to take it off you,’ he said. ‘Do you know what car Tommy drives when he’s in the UK?’
García shook his head as he started the engine. Shepherd could feel the vibration coming up through the seat. A stereo system that must have cost several thousand pounds kicked into life, filling the car with a Spanish love song at full volume. García flashed Shepherd an apologetic smile and turned the sound down.
‘Tommy has a Volvo estate,’ Shepherd continued. ‘With a kid’s seat in the back.’
‘I didn’t know he had a kid.’
‘He doesn’t, that’s the point,’ said Shepherd. ‘No one pays attention to a guy in a family car. He blends. This is a red rag to a bull, mate. If I were you, I’d lose it.’
García flashed him a tight smile. ‘I understand.’
‘It’s about staying below the radar,’ said Shepherd. ‘You can have as much money as you want, but the trick to keeping it is not to let people know you’ve got it.’ He folded his arms. ‘So, your head of security was shot?’
‘Only in the leg. It wasn’t life-threatening. He probably won’t even have a limp.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Jake. Jake Rosenfeld.’
‘He’s a Brit?’
García shook his head. ‘American. Used to work in Vegas.’
‘And forgive my ignorance but you don’t have any premises so why do you need security?’
‘It’s more website security, making sure we’re not hacked. He’s a systems guy.’
‘And who shot him?’
‘We don’t know.’
‘And where is this Jake?’
‘Home. They let him out of hospital this morning.’
‘Okay. You need to take me there now. I want to talk to him.’
García edged the Lamborghini out of the car park. ‘How long have you worked for the O’Neills?’ he asked.
‘Why do you need to know?’ said Shepherd. ‘This isn’t a fucking job interview.’
García flinched as if he’d been struck across the face. ‘I was just making conversation.’
‘Yeah, well, I haven’t flown all this way for a social chat,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m here because the shit has hit the fan and somebody has to clean up your mess.’
‘Terry, you don’t know me, I don’t know you. But I’ve known Tommy and Marty for years. I’ll talk to them and put it right.’
‘They want you to talk to me, Carlos. That’s why I’m here. They’re not going to talk to you over the phone.’
The Spaniard threw up his hands. ‘It’s nothing, Terry. It’s a storm in a teapot.’
‘Teacup.’
García frowned. ‘What?’
‘It’s a storm in a teacup.’
García nodded enthusiastically. ‘Exactly. That’s what it is. Just explain to Tommy and Marty that it’s a storm in a teacup. I’ll handle it.’
Shepherd shook his head. ‘You need to talk to me, Carlos. I’m here to help.’
‘Really, I don’t need your help. I can handle this.’
‘You handling it got your head of security shot. How is that handling it?’
‘Terry, please, it will blow over.’
‘And, according to your records, you’ve let a client run up a two-hundred-thousand-euro tab.’
The road they were on cut across the airport’s single runway. ‘He’ll pay it back,’ said García.
‘When?
Ma
ñ
ana
?’
‘Soon.’
‘Tell me, Carlos, do you think this client is the one who had your head of security shot?’
The Spaniard concentrated on the road and said nothing, but Shepherd could see that he’d struck a nerve.
‘His name is Stefan Bazarov?’
García nodded.
‘Why isn’t he paying?’
‘He says we cheated him. He was playing poker and he says we were cheating.’
‘And were you?’