Another meeting was requested. Bustan was surprised at this. Normally, he only ever met people from the Remus Syndicate when cash was being delivered. Beyond that, instructions were given via mobile phone. A meeting therefore was unexpected, and Bustan didn’t like the unexpected. A departure from the norm, in Bustan’s world, meant trouble.
As such, he had to prepare. It occurred to him that perhaps they thought he had outlived his usefulness, and the meeting was a ruse, set up for his assassination. But he could be wrong, and if he refused, potentially, his cash cow might vanish, which was inconceivable for Bustan.
Greed always won. Bustan agreed to meet. At his shithole of a café. Bustan insisted. At least, if things went bad, he was on home turf.
A time was decided. Midnight. When the place was quiet. Bustan was there, occupying his usual table. Also, his fat friend, Yousef Kaya, who had stationed himself behind the counter under which, on a shelf, was a shotgun. Loaded. Sitting at his side, his nephew. Wire-thin narrow-pointed head shaved to the bone, restless button black eyes. Tucked in his belt, a Glock.
Four others, friends and distant cousins, all part of the Haytham Bustan mini empire, lured over from Turkey by easy money – to be made by a little violence, a little killing. Commonplace for such men, matters in which they were competent. Bustan was unaware what weapons they carried, but was confident they had ample fire power.
All the men were smoking. Plumes of tobacco coiled around them, dense and rich. The metal grills were down, both at the front window, and the front door. No light peeped through. From the outside, the place looked closed.
Bustan waited. He was anxious. He had no idea why he had been asked to meet. But they would know he would be prepared, and as such, he assumed killing wasn’t on the agenda. Which meant they had a job for him. Which meant money.
At precisely midnight, there was a sharp rap on the front grill. Bustan nodded at Kaya, who lumbered over, grabbed the bottom of the shutters, hauled them up. A man stood at the entrance. Medium height, jeans, dark leather jacket, nondescript features. Looped over his shoulder, a duffel bag. Kaya stepped to one side. The man entered.
Kaya rolled the shutters down behind him. The man made his way directly to the table where Bustan sat. He placed the duffel bag on the tabletop. With care, signifying he was no danger, he pulled out a mobile phone from his jeans pocket, tapped the keypad, placed it beside the duffel bag.
A voice spoke on loudspeaker, disguised.
“There’s fifty thousand in the bag.”
Bustan nodded sagely, as if he were expecting just such a statement.
“A gift?”
“Not quite. More a payment to account. Fifty now, fifty upon completion.”
“Ah. You require a service.”
“One which you and your men are particularly good at. My colleague will provide you with two names and their addresses. It has to look good. You understand, I’m sure. A random hit-and-run. A burglary gone wrong. Whatever seems appropriate. Nothing to suggest they were targeted. However you do it, the conclusion has to be… final.”
“Final. I understand.”
“The second fifty you’ll get when the task is completed. Do you accept?”
Bustan inhaled deeply, flicked the cigarette on a saucer improvising as an ashtray. It was already full. Do you accept? Of course he did. He was being asked to fulfil a task which, for him and his men, was as routine as ordering lunch.
“Yes.”
The man standing before him reached into his inside jacket pocket, took out an envelope, dropped it on the table. He picked up the phone, turned, and left the café, the fat man, Kaya, opening and closing the shutters.
Bustan drew a deep sigh. Soon – maybe a year, maybe two – he would retire to his villa by the sea. Sit on the beach, listen to the sound of the surf. One part of his mind scoffed at such a notion. Bustan loved money too much to ever give up. That part of his mind said – you’ll never leave this game. As long as the cash rolls in, the killing will never stop.
And easy money was the best money.
The man sitting beside him – his nephew – pulled open the duffel bag, and started fishing the money out. Rolls of fifties and twenties. He would count it, because it would have been imprudent not to. But Bustan knew the people who paid him were never inaccurate when it came to money. Of more interest were the contents of the envelope.
He stubbed his cigarette on the saucer, and immediately lit up another one. Another deep inhalation, exhaling smoke through his nose. He opened the envelope.
Two names, printed.
Charles Sinclair.
Deborah Gallagher.
Two people who had no idea of the fate awaiting them. Just bad luck. But good luck for him. He would plan their deaths, and do it quickly.
Jason Drummond disconnected. The Turks were talented at the job they’d been given. Plus, they were expendable. If things went to fuck, then they were easy to blame. But he knew the manner of the man, Bustan, and knew Bustan loved his money too much to allow failure.
Drummond sat back in his office, pondered. People imagined that for things like this, money would be wire transferred, discreetly handled, from one anonymous bank account to another. But Drummond knew people, and people liked the touch and smell of cash. Handed over in a safe place in something as simple as a briefcase, sports holdall or a plastic bag. Create all the technology you wanted, for things like this, cash was still king.
And Drummond knew when he offered a man like Bustan hard cash, then such a man would dance to any damned tune he played.