reason?’
Holley hesitated, but decided not to mention the other business. ‘Oh, I fancy a couple of days at the Dorchester after meeting with someone like the Albanian. Maybe I’ll walk up to Shepherd Market, visit your cousin, Selim.’
‘I envy you. I’d enjoy that myself.’
‘I could send the Falcon.’
‘Nonsense. So expensive.’
‘We’re making millions.’
‘Leave me to mind the store. Allah be with you.’
The connection went silent. It was just past nine o’clock, still time to have a quick look at the computer to see if Roper had sent the material. He poured another glass of champagne, sat down and scanned the first page.
It took him twenty minutes to go right through it all, very briefly and far too quickly, but it was enough. ‘My God,’ he said softly. ‘What have we got here and what in the hell is to be done about it?’
And then a strange thing happened. He was aware of an energy; a cold, hard excitement he hadn’t known in years. He called Roper and got him at once.
‘Did you get the material?’ Roper asked.
‘You can tell Ferguson I want to be part of whatever operation you’re putting together. I’ll be in London tomorrow,’ he said, and hung up.
At Holland Park, Roper sat there in silence. ‘Good God,’ he said softly. ‘What a turn-up for the books.’
He debated whether to put the news directly through to the Gulfstream, but decided against it. Such good news could keep. He brought Warrenpoint up on the screen and started to go through everything again.
Holley had a quick shower, thinking of what lay ahead. Kupu was a dangerously violent man who had killed many times, but he was not stupid. Business was business, and he needed what Holley could provide. It wasn’t logical that he would do anything but behave himself.
But nothing in this life was certain, and Holley slipped on a nylon-and-titanium bulletproof vest next to his skin. It was guaranteed to stop a .44 round at point-blank range, and had done so on several occasions in his violent career.
He dressed in a fresh track suit and sneakers. There was no point in wearing an ankle-holster. Kupu’s goon, Abu, would certainly check on that. A Walther in his pocket, so easy to discover, would keep him happy. For his personal safety, he could rely on an old reliable, and he took it out of the wardrobe. A crumpled Burberry rain hat. Inside, a spring clip held a snub-nosed Colt .25 and its cartridges were hollow point. One of those in the right place was all it took. So, he found a light raincoat, slipped the Walther in a pocket, carefully arranged the hat on his head, found an umbrella and left.
The unexpected and heavy rain had emptied the pavements, especially at the side of the Seine. Around him were quiet buildings, dark at that time of night, narrow streets leading down to the river, the faint sounds of traffic in the distance. Holley hurried on, without meeting a soul, and eventually reached his destination. In the gloom, there was something sinister about it, dark and threatening. There were two old street lamps on the jetty itself, another in the yard at the end, where there was a huge warehouse door. In the door was the usual small access entrance for workmen, and he opened it and stepped inside, the door banging.
He saw several rows of old workbenches, some machinery, a couple of vans at the far end, and a wide exit door, open, lights above it so the heavy rain glistened like silver as it fell. To the left was an office, partly glassed in, so you could see inside. Ali Kupu was sitting behind a cluttered desk and appeared to be fondling a young woman who was standing obediently beside him.
‘Ah, it is you, Mr Holley. Enter, my friend.’
His English was surprisingly good, but then, as a youth, Kupu had worked in Soho for two years until he’d finally been expelled as an illegal immigrant. He was an overweight, unshaven, coarse animal with a shaven head.
‘Come in, come in.’
Holley moved forward, passed the first van, and was not in the least surprised when the rear door opened and Abu scrambled out behind him. He was enormous, with a face like stone, hair down to his shoulders. He wore a black suit.
‘You know what to do,’ he said.
Holley obliged, leaned on the van, and the Walther was discovered. ‘My, but you are getting to be a big boy,’ Holley said as he straightened, ‘You should enter the Mr Universe competition this year. Muscles gleaming under all that oil. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’
‘No, Mr Holley, what I’d really like is to tear off your head—and I will do exactly that, the first chance I get.’
He moved into the office ahead of Holley and put the Walther on the table, then stood at the back of the room. Kupu was very drunk and yet reached for an open bottle of vodka and swallowed deeply from it.
‘You shouldn’t anger Abu like that. He’s a very violent man when he gets angry and does terrible things, doesn’t he?’ he said to the woman, who looked terrified. She wore a raincoat over a light black dress and clutched a handbag.
‘I’m sure he does.’ Holley walked to a chair at one side of the door, sat down, took off his Burberry rain hat and put it on his lap.
‘This is Liri.’ Kupu encircled her waist. ‘One of my best girls. Empty your handbag and let’s see how well you’ve done tonight.’
‘The rain,’ she said as she fumbled. ‘Business wasn’t good.’ She emptied the handbag of not very much.
Kupu glanced at it, then took a Gladstone bag from under the desk, opened it and swept in Liri’s earnings.
‘Excuses, Mr Holley, it’s all I get.’ He slapped her face, then said to Abu, ‘Search her next door. See if she’s hiding anything.’
‘No, please,’ she begged Kupu, as Abu grabbed her arm, opened the far door and shoved her through.
‘Stupid bitch, they are all the same. I give them employment, look after their interests and how do they repay me?’ He swallowed more vodka. ‘But to business. You can supply what I need? I’m a serious man. I desire only to help my Muslim brothers who are being butchered every day in Kosovo.’
‘Very commendable.’
‘And I have good references.’ He patted the side of his nose drunkenly. ‘AQ, eh?’
‘Is that a fact?’ Holley said.
There were muffled cries from the next room, but Kupu ignored them. ‘You don’t believe me, do you?’ He reached for the vodka bottle, swallowing again. ‘My father’s brother, my Uncle Mahmud, is an art dealer based in Tirana. He specializes in rare holy books and manuscripts. He travels all over Europe, knows people at the highest level. I act as his contact man in Paris. He tells me everything. For example, what if I told you that Prime Minister Putin intends to make a visit to Chechnya this weekend? All very hush-hush. The sort of thing you only hear about afterwards.’
Holley said, ‘And why would he be doing that?’
‘A meeting
