19

THE GUESTS took their seats for an exclusive dinner none of them had thought would ever take place, but one which all hoped would pave the way to a powerful and profitable future.

Only one man in Glasgow could have hosted this particular gathering. The roof-terrace marquee had been specially reserved for a meeting that, it was hoped, would unify the city’s drugs trade under the rule of that man. His name was Johnny Balfour.

Balfour had moved swiftly to fill the power vacuum left by the departure of Glasgow’s underworld overlord and put an end to the never-ending battle for supremacy of the underbelly of Scotland’s biggest city.

Since Declan Meechan had fled the city, and his nominal over-lord Jimmy Gray had died, the encroachment across the Clyde from the Southside had been incessant. Balfour’s tactic had been simple. Divide and conquer. As the constant warfare between the local ‘firms’ had drained their strength he had exploited their weaknesses, playing them off against each other. Meanwhile he decided who he could work with and ultimately absorb into his organisation and who had to be eliminated.

Now Balfour stood at the head of a luxuriant dinner table on the roof-terrace at the private members club 29, on the cusp of complete dominance of Glasgow’s drug trade.

The exclusive nature of the premises was ideal for discreet dining and Balfour, the son of an accountant, had never been one for ostentation and grand gestures - until now. Slowly, the 52 year-old surveyed the six men he had summoned to the meeting at which he planned to carve up the city almost as clinically as he intended to slice up the superb fillet steak that was 29’s tour de force.

A ripple of a breeze whistled under the marquee but the weather was dry and decidedly better than usual for this time of the year. The autumn sunshine cast a pale shadow on the roof-top, an ideal setting for his guests to enjoy a smoke while they ate, drank and conducted the business at hand.

With entry to the roof-top sealed off by both club security and his own henchmen, privacy was guaranteed. Yet the unease among some of the assembled cast was palpable.

As he stood, the thought crossed Balfour’s mind that some of his guests still did not appreciate what was at stake, what he was working towards. “Gentlemen, thank you for your attendance. I assure you that your presence today will benefit all of us in the weeks, months and years to come. You have my word on that.”

The response was lukewarm, underlining the size of the task that awaited Balfour and his vision. But he received warm backing from an unexpected quarter. Frankie Green, the balding owner of a string of bookies and a private-hire taxi firm, got to his feet flashing an insincere, gold-glinting smile.

“Aye boys, it’s time for us to put our differences behind us and unite. There is only one man who can do that and map out a future which will benefit us all.” There was a vehemence in his words that was not lost on his fellow diners as he added, “Johnny Balfour is that man. This is our time boys, and with Meechan gone, if we don’t seize the opportunity now it may be gone forever. I pledge my allegiance to Johnny Balfour. I suggest you boys do likewise.”

At the opposite end of the table Balfour looked startled by this astonishing development but Green was not done. “If you don’t mind Balfour, I’d like to propose a toast, ‘To new beginnings!’”

To Balfour’s relief and deep satisfaction the rest of the company scraped their chairs back and took up the toast.

The information that Balfour was planning a summit meeting at 29 had been confirmed only 24 hours earlier.

Checking the ropes and the claw-hammer grappling gear that would be used to scale the building, the man with the discoloured eye smiled grimly at the memories this mission was bringing back. The countless raids on embassy buildings and barracks which he had executed serving Sheik Osama, in the countries that Bin Laden would one day soon unite, flooded back.

Slipping a mask onto his head he held his hand up in the air with all five digits aloft. Turning around he looked at his companion to assess his readiness. Masks on heads, AK-47’s slung over backs, ropes and grappling gear ready to be launched, he counted down his fingers in silence.

The concentration of cigar smoke had turned the air in the marquee an almost pastel shade as Balfour assessed his company. He pushed his chair back and raised his newly replenished glass of Chateau Neuf du Pape.

“My friends; a final toast before we get down to the business of the moment. I give you the reason we are all here today – dominance!”

As Balfour’s glass reached his lips and his eyes shut momentarily, awaiting the satisfaction of glasses clinking together, he heard a series of metallic clunks. Opening his eyes and sweeping his gaze over his guests’ faces, he saw their looks of concern turn to panic.

He turned to the source of their terror. Two figures had appeared at the edge of the roof and now quickly vaulted over the immaculately manicured mini hedgerow before ripping open the transparent doors of the marquee.

The intruders’ features were hidden by Bush and Blair masks. Balfour felt a hot surge of anger and took a step forward. But as they gained their footing on the roof the figures unslung AK-47s from their backs, levelled them at Balfour and his company and advanced with obvious lethal intent.

Panic engulfed the company who, by mutual agreement, had come unarmed and had sent their henchmen to enjoy a drink in the bar below. Balfour signalled to Green to make for the door to the main restaurant and turned to face the gunmen. As Green started to move the area was filled with the sound of gunfire. He was mowed down in a staccato of lead which felled him three yards short of the door.

Balfour addressed their attackers. “Listen, I don’t know who you are but we are all extremely wealthy men. Whatever you want we can make it happen . . .”

He got no further. ‘Bush’ let his AK-47 do his talking in a hail of bullets that ripped through Balfour and threw his corpse onto the table.

The other diners scrambled for the doorway but the second intruder had already made his way around the table. Dropping onto one knee he unloaded the entire contents of his AK-47 magazine into the four surviving men.

The man with the white eye lifted the mask from his head and pulled a glinting blade from an inside pocket before drawing it across his throat in mock instruction of what was to happen next.

The Blair caricature, his mask resting on top of his head, smiled viciously. The duo went from man to man systematically slitting their throats to the bone.

Their instructions had been that every guest must be confirmed dead. The survival of any one of the men would not be accepted by their backer. He had demanded the liquidation of Balfour and his intended crime cabal as the price for helping the group realise their dream.

The bloody work was done in seconds and White Eye savoured a job well done. Looking up into the clear sky providing a serene ceiling over the city centre roof-tops he said, “I promised you when I left your side that your will would be done, Sheik Osama, and now that day has come much closer. I, Naif, pledge to make it so. Allahu Akbar!”

Slipping his mask back on Naif gestured to his companion to do likewise. Then he typed a two word text on his mobile and pressed Send.

The pair grabbed their ropes and swung through the air back to the roof they had launched their bloody mission from, leaving Balfour and his confederates bleeding out across the roof-top of Glasgow’s most exclusive eatery.

Meechan sat in the Adagio City Aparthotel room and contemplated the twists of fate that had brought him there. The building was close to the famous Sacré-Cœur

Basilica, in the famously bohemian Paris district of Montmarte. With 76 rooms the hotel was big enough to provide the required measure of anonymity.

He ran an index finger round the rim of his grande tasse as he waited for the text message that would determine if he could set a chain of events in motion that would allow him to wreak the revenge he burned for. His slate-grey eyes took in the Soviet-make Makarov PM pistol in front of him which would help him take the first steps towards that cold revenge.

He raised the coffee to his mouth and sipped, glancing at the metallic attaché case which contained the deadly vials. Their seven figure value was the reason he was in France.

Meechan awaited clients who were far from ordinary, but then the wares he was hawking, on behalf of his new employers, the Rising Sun, were extraordinary too. The men he was waiting for were from Mossad, the ruthless security agency of the Israeli government.

If the text he waited for failed to materialise, he would do business with the Mossad – a deal that would remunerate his new employers and enhance their control over the former Soviet block underworld. It would also pave the way to a potentially lucrative business relationship with Mossad.

Meechan was all too aware of the chips that were being stacked on his imminent meeting. Yet, should he receive the text message he longed for, he would renege on the deal and embark on a venture that would place his own life in continual peril and leave him hunted both by his employers and the Mossad. But it was a price he was prepared to pay.

His mobile’s message tone punctured the silence of the room and he lifted the phone and checked the screen. Two words appeared: ‘Subjects terminated.’

Quickly Meechan pocketed the mobile and took to his feet hoping he had the time to exit his room before the Mossad agents arrived. A rap on his room door indicated he did not and an accented voice followed it.

“Monsieur Marsaud, votre familie arrivez.”

The coded phrase confirmed his worst fears. Meechan grabbed the Makarov and the case. He slipped the latter under the bed and took up a stance that would place him behind the door when it opened.

Pistol levelled, he said, “Trés bien mon ami. Entrez vous.” The door swung open.

As the first dark-suited figure entered the room Meechan thudded in two shots, one high one low, ensuring at least one bullet would be debilitating. He immediately fired another double discharge through the door itself, which splintered pleasingly.

The first man toppled forward onto the floor, blood spilling from his mouth, the head wound inflicted by Meechan’s first shot apparently lethal. But his attention was drawn back to the door as the vicious retort of returned fire scythed through it.

Meechan had anticipated not taking out the second man and was in the process of diving onto the deck as the bullets ripped through the door. He noted they came from an upward trajectory that meant the shooter was adopting a low firing position.

As he hit the laminated floor Meechan’s momentum took him skidding across it to the cover of the bed. In a moment of fear he realised how close he was to the case containing his deadly cargo. Raising his head above the bed he saw that the second agent had taken cover in the hall. From the cursing coming from the corridor Meechan realised he had injured him.

Assessing his situation Meechan knew he had two options. One was to make his escape over the balcony and take a chance on the 12 foot drop to the cobbled courtyard. This option would leave his back momentarily exposed.

“No-brainer,” he said to himself. He had to take the second agent out or at least disable him. He pulled the case out from under the bed, sprung the locks and pocketed the two vials, slamming the case shut again.

“Pour vous mon ami!” he shouted and skidded the case across the floor towards the doorway.

He was already on his feet and sprinting for the doorway as a hand dropped down to grasp the case. Off-balance, the agent was taken by surprise. Meechan’s size 10 smashed into the agent’s jaw and as he crumpled to the ground Meechan fired his remaining shot at point-blank range into the the man’s head.

Meechan grabbed the case and the agent’s gun and charged back into the room as his ears filled with screams from the corridor. He replaced the vials in the metallic lead-lined attaché case and made for the window. Ripping a curtain from its pole he tied it to the balcony railings, tested it would hold, then shimmied down to the courtyard.

Walking out onto the Place Charles Dullin, Meechan smiled ferociously. The game was afoot and there was no going back.

The stakes were life and death and Meechan did not care whose.