Two

On the south-eastern outskirts of Paris, in the district of Ivry-sur-Seine, Yuri Serban sat back in his chair and stared through the window towards the centre of Paris, which shimmered in the heat a few kilometres away.

Serban was not averse to taking risks. In his trade, which mostly entailed making money in any way he could manage, whether through manipulation of circumstances, argument or outright force, they came with the territory. Profit was profit and if it meant taking from others – and it usually did – so be it. However, this latest endeavour was a departure. He had taken a while to be convinced that it would work, but the lack of manpower required and the apparent absence of direct risk had seemed attractive, as had the potential returns. Most importantly, the scheme avoided stepping on the toes of the more powerful criminal groups closer to the centre of the city. And this had been sufficient to clinch his co-operation.

He enjoyed the irony of the situation: that the targets for the scheme proposed were not in any position to go running to the law, something he knew the other gangs would quickly pick up on once they heard. Even more of a reason to get in, make a profit and move on before they came calling, looking to take over. Serban was no coward, but he knew his limits. He wasn’t equipped for a fight with bigger organisations, preferring to stay out here in Ivry-sur-Seine where he could run his businesses and his lines of girls and clubs, away from the furious undercurrents that had dragged other groups into open conflict, burning business and freedom of movement in a vicious downward spiral.

He reached forward and picked up the telephone, dialling a number in the city.

‘My driver has made the first drop.’ His voice was soft but echoed deep from his large chest. A former boxer and wrestler, he still carried an impressive amount of muscle, something that had done him no harm in establishing his local crime operation.

‘Excellent. We should hear something very soon.’ The voice on the other end was cultured, the tone confident and pitched to convince and reassure. Yet there was an undercurrent of something else, too, which appealed to Serban: was it relief? Gratitude for a service rendered?

‘I sincerely hope so,’ Serban murmured, adding for good measure, ‘for everyone’s sake.’ This last came with an emphasis which the other man couldn’t fail to notice.

‘Of course, I understand,’ he agreed quickly. ‘I’m certain it will.’

Serban smiled. He wasn’t convinced by the reply but neither was he unduly concerned. He’d learned long ago that all guarantees were subject to change. In his view trust was strictly a one-way street. And the man on the other end of the line was someone he wouldn’t trust if his life depended on it. However, he was useful in a number of ways and, in Serban’s business, that counted for a lot. This endeavour – he liked the word endeavour, which sounded almost noble – had yet to show signs of reaping any reward, but it had cost little more to set up than Peretz’s daily wage and the provision of a suitable vehicle. Most endeavours cost a great deal more and they too brought varying degrees of success.

‘And if it doesn’t?’

‘Pardon me?’

‘What if your scheme doesn’t work?’

There was a brief pause as the reminder of whose idea it had been sank in. ‘I’m sure it will. In any case, that’s why I prepared the other two to fill any … shortfall. You have the details, don’t you?’

‘I have.’ Serban reached into a drawer and took out three photographs and a sheet of paper. The paper held three names and addresses. The photos were of paintings: two nudes and a clothed portrait. He studied the latter carefully. It was of a young woman with an inviting expression. He liked this one best. He had young women in his employ who would be naked at the click of his fingers, but this one was different. He wasn’t an art lover as such, but he could appreciate beauty like any other man. Maybe he’d buy some paintings of his own some day. An investment for the future. Good ones, though. Proper paintings, not copies like these.

‘Your man is delivering them soon, as arranged?’

Serban took a moment before replying. His patience was wearing thin at the other man’s superior attitude, as if he were the master and Serban the slave. One day he might enjoy the pleasure of putting him in his place. ‘He will deliver them soon,’ he confirmed. ‘There’s no rush.’

‘As you see fit.’ There was a pause. ‘I believe I did caution you that this scheme might not work every time. However, there are plenty more opportunities like these out there. All we need to do is exploit them.’

‘If you say so.’

‘Well, I haven’t let you down in the past, have I?’

Serban put the telephone down without answering. It was a trick he’d learned some time ago, and it worked well with those in a more vulnerable position than himself. The sudden cut in the connection acted like a physical turning and walking away from a conversation, leaving the other wondering what had gone wrong, what they might have said.

He tossed the photos back in the drawer, on top of three letters. He wasn’t supposed to have seen these, which had been in sealed envelopes, but he’d taken the precaution of opening them and having copies made. Being used as a mail service to deliver sealed letters was akin to playing with unstable explosives: if you didn’t know what you were handling, it could blow up in your face.

And Serban hated surprises.