Haytham Bustan sat in a coffee shop on Victoria Road. He owned the establishment. Or more particularly, he owned the company which owned the establishment. Bustan didn’t want his name linked directly with anything. Laundering money was a complex business.
Bustan was a complex man. He had, over the years, sprinkled money in many diverse areas. Property and land. The stock market. Various businesses. He owned a taxi company, and five car washes. Plus a chain of nail bars and tanning salons. A wide-ranging portfolio. His name was hidden, beneath layers of documentation. Confuse, complicate, befuddle. By the time the authorities caught up, if they ever did, he would be long gone. Back to Turkey, to live like a prince.
Everything emanated from hard cash. The amount he got for the refugees was, even by his own standards, extravagant. It was a Saturday morning, and Bustan sat in his coffee shop, waiting for the cash deposit. Six weeks earlier, he had delivered six people. Six bodies. Which meant, in his estimation, £240,000. They never failed to pay. Every six weeks. Punctual and reliable. He sat, sipping a double-shot espresso, and wished to fuck he’d got into this business years ago.
The coffee shop was unspectacular. Blink and you’d miss it. Which was the idea. Nothing showy or ostentatious. The opposite. The exterior was drab. Wooden cladding painted pale green, peeling and stained. Inside was gloomy. The floor was black tiled linoleum, laid a hundred years ago. The walls yellowy white, with framed pictures on the wall, of nameless faces and places. A single glass counter, exhibiting rows of unappealing rolls and sandwiches, and behind the counter, a fat man sat on a stool. The fat man was an old friend of Bustan’s, born in the same shithole part of Istanbul. His name was Yousef Kaya. Yousef Kaya killed people, and enjoyed doing it. Which was why Bustan found him useful.
Bustan sat in a corner, at a table upon which was a single cup and saucer. Four others sat hunched round an adjacent table, playing cards, drinking strong coffee. Cousins. All part of the organisation. Friends and family. Bustan reflected – he’d heard the old adage a thousand times. Friends and business, oil and water. Incompatible. Bustan however regarded the notion as bullshit. Blood you could trust. Friendships going back to the shared experience of dirt and poverty and violence could be counted on.
Every man in that room would die for Bustan. Their loyalty was beyond money. Was beyond question. Bustan sipped his coffee. Would he die for any of these men? Hardly. It was a one-way arrangement.
Apart from Bustan and his men, the place was empty. It was always empty. It was 10am. Exactly on time, two men entered. Well dressed. Wearing tight-cut sombre blue suits, crisp white shirts, dark ties. Both sporting crew cuts. Clean shaven. Muscular. Ex-military, probably, thought Bustan. The Syndicate would employ the best. But in the dirt and grime of a street fight, when knives were out, and blood was high, he wondered how such men would fare.
One carried a small metal briefcase. They spotted him immediately, nodded, made their way over. The four other men playing cards stopped their chatting, stared like hyenas. The fat man eased off his chair, locked the door.
“Welcome.” Bustan gestured to the chairs on the opposite side of his table. The men didn’t offer any pleasantries. The one with the briefcase sat, set the briefcase on the table. The other hovered three paces back, watchful.
“Your friend is always so anxious-looking,” said Bustan, the edges of his mouth curling into a smile. “Tell him to sit. Relax. Coffee? Yousef makes it strong and good. Turkish. The way it should be made. Yes, Yousef?”
The fat man – Yousef Kaya – had remained at the door. He had flipped the “open” to “closed”. He stared back with round button-black eyes.
Bustan shrugged. “Yousef doesn’t speak much English.” He gave a humourless chuckle. “He prefers kofta to talking.”
The man opposite remained expressionless. “No coffee, thanks.” He opened the briefcase, swivelled it round to face Bustan. It was packed neatly with £50 notes. He reached into his pocket, produced a mobile phone, placed it on the table beside the briefcase, pressed the keypad. A voice spoke. It was harsh, metallic. Disguised through a voice modulator.
“The goods were spoiled.”
Bustan licked his lips. Not what he was expecting. He saw the look on his cousins’ faces, their demeanour change. Unlike Yousef, they spoke good English.
Bustan maintained his easy smile. “What has this got to do with me? This is not my concern. I gave you six. I get paid for six. The arithmetic is easy, yes?” He gave another rumbling laugh, took another sip.
“You brought six to the table,” replied the voice. “But I repeat. Two were spoiled.”
Bustan ran a hand through his wispy dark hair. “Spoiled? Sorry, am I missing something?”
“The man and woman. They were riddled with cancer. Had to be written off. We don’t pay for write-offs.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning we’re not paying for ruined meat. There’s £160,000 in the case. Next time, make sure the merchandise is clean.”
Bustan leaned back in his chair, gazing at the man sitting opposite. His face betrayed no emotion. It was like looking at carved wood.
“Next time? Maybe there won’t be a next time.”
“You think you’re special, Bustan?” replied the voice. “There’s a queue of greedy fuckers like you. If you’re not happy, that’s fine. Take the money, and it ends. Let’s see how long you and your puny band of jumped-up gangsters last without the cash.”
Bustan took a deep breath, spoke as if the voice of reason. “How can I know if they have cancer. Or Liver disease. Or Hepatitis. Or the fucking clap, for that matter. I bring them. You do what you do with them.”
“It’s bad luck, Bustan. But we’re not paying for stuff we can’t use.”
Bustan shifted in his chair. His cousins watched him. The two men were undoubtedly carrying weapons. Plus they would have backup.
Almost as if the voice on the phone could read his thoughts, it spoke again.
“If you’re thinking of a little bloodshed, then there are two cars outside. Ten men. If you want to display some of that hot Turkish temper, then we come down on you like a fucking whirlwind. That shithole you’re in will be the last thing you’ll see, and you can wave goodbye to your fucking castle in Istanbul. Take the money, Bustan. Move on.”
One of the cousins got to his feet, went over to the window, peered out. He turned, nodded at Bustan.
This situation was unexpected. Bustan was caught. He could either start a war he could not possibly win, or accept the insult to his pride and self-esteem. Fuck pride. Bustan didn’t want to die.
He closed the briefcase, and placed it on the floor by his feet.
The man sitting opposite him grunted. “Good choice.”
Bustan resumed his smile, finished his coffee. Back to business. “We have another batch coming in Tuesday evening. Another family.”
“How many?” replied the voice.
“Two adults, three children.”
Silence. Then the voice spoke again, deep and brassy. “This is from the top. Change of plan.”
Bustan raised an eyebrow. “What change?”
“We don’t want the adults. Only the kids.”
Bustan asked the question, but he thought he already knew the answer. “Why?”
“You know why. They’re cleaner.”
“And what will I do with their parents?”
Laughter, sounding like the turn of rusty wheels. “Do what you do best, Bustan.”
The line went dead. The man picked up the phone, put it back in his pocket. He stood, acknowledged Bustan with the briefest of nods, and he and his associate made their way out. Yousef Kaya rattled the bolt, opened the main door. They left. Bustan watched them go.
Do what you do best.
Three children. £40,000 each. £120,000 total. He would kill his own mother for that type of money.
The parents would not present a problem to Haytham Bustan.