JACK OF DIAMONDS

CHAPTER 21

“Tell me one more time why the fuck we’re doing this in Plymouth?” Reggie asked, looking at Sabini. They were in the small office he had over a sweets shop in Soho. The sunlight broke in through slatted blinds like a thief, making long horizontal stripes on the dark green rug. There were several bookcases filled with nick-nacks of all sorts; porcelean figurines, and crystal goblets, boxing trophies from his youth. The walls were dark panel, hung with paintings of horses and boxers.

“Because no one goes to Plymouth anymore, Reg. They all go to fuckin’ South’ampton. Face it, Reg, you’re gettin’ old. The days of sailin’ ships died fuckin’ years ago. That's why no one goes to Plymouth anymore. So you can fuckin’ forget about runnin’ off t’ sea anytime soon. Seems they forgot t' fuckin’ tell ‘em out there in Plymouth,” he added, sitting back in his chair and lighting an oversized cigar. He was looking at Reggie closely. “Besides, we don’t wanna attract any attention now then, do we?”

He put his hands on the desk, leaning forward and dropping his eyes under low hanging lids. There was a hardening look to his stare. The scars on his face—small whorls and cuts he’d earned during his years as a semi-pro boxer—were more than just wounds and stories; they were a reminder of every time he'd gotten back up after having been put down. It was one thing to get knocked down when you were fighting, Reggie knew, but getting back up was harder. It meant you had balls, and he’d never be one to say Charlie Sabini didn’t have balls.

“You din’t fuckin’ square it off with Dickie the Docker, did you?” Reggie asked after a moment.

“No, I didn’t fuckin’ square it off wit’ fuckin' Dickie,” Charlie mimicked, throwing his arms up in the air and sitting up straight. He was angry for a moment, and then settled himself down. “Look, Dickie’s a right fuckin’ dickwad, an’ you know it. He might say he runs the South’ampton docks, an’ I’ll give it to ‘im, he does a right fine fuckin’ job of it. But this ‘ere’s a private deal. We’re simply offerin' our services for the protection of a client.”

“Client? Is that what you’re callin’ them these days? Clients? They're Russians, Charlie. What am I s’posed t’ say to that? C'mon, tell me straight up, who’s gonna be there that you have to wathc over it all?”

“The Solomon brothers," he said, and held a hand up before Reggie could argue. "This is s'posed to be 'tween the Solomons, an' the Russians. We’re just there t’ see ever’thin’s on the up an’ up.”

“But why, Charlie?” There was a note of disbelief in his tone.

“It’s not the fuckin’ Reds, if that’s what yer thinkin’, ya daft sod.”

“It din’t know there was any other sort,” Reggie said back.

“An’ why would ye, right? Do you git any fuckin’ newspapers out in fuckin’ Devon, Reggie?”

“I hear things, same as you.”

“Oh yeah? When’s the last time you ‘eard any fuckin’ news ‘bout any fuckin’ thing? So yeah, these Russians are the hoity-toity type. They’re the monied gents what own all the land. Yer Lords an’ Ladies; Counts; Dukes. Princes. But they just lost the Civil War they had; an’ they don’t like t’ lose, Reg.”

“Ye mean revolution.”

“You see? That’s ‘ow much you don’t know about what's goin' on in the world, Reg. Sure, there was a Revolution. They even killed the Tsar, an’ his whole fuckin’ family. God only knows how many else. But there was more to it than that. So this ‘ere guy--Prince Igor they call him—I don’t know what ‘is real name is, so don’t fuckin’ ask me—anyway, ‘e comes t’ me an’ says ‘e wants to buy dope. From the Sicilians.”

“Why would he want to deal with the Sicilians?”

“Opium. ‘E wants t’ flip it an’ make some serious coin.”

“For what? You said it yourself, they lost the war, or whatever it was there.”

“Heard him says ‘e wants t’ send a shipment of guns up t' the Finns.”

“Why the Finns?”

“Wrong question, Reg, but I’ll tell you anyway, or at least, I’ll tell you what I know. Because the Finns’re havin’ their own fuckin’ revolution, aren’t they? They’ve always been pain in the ass for the Russians. Sorta like the fuckin’ Irish with the English.”

“I fuckin’ hate the Irish.”

“Yeah, well don’t we all. But here’s the tricky part. That’s where the guns are comin’ from.”

“Guns? What guns? You never said anything about no guns.”

“I just tolt ye. But that’s the question, isn’t it? Where’d they get the guns from?”

“Okay, and the guns are from…?”

“The Irish. They got what they call themselves a Republican Army. Revolution's in the air, Reggie-O.”

“The Irish? Why the fuck would the Irish wanna sell guns?”

“Who said they wanted t’ sell ‘em?” Charlie smiled.

“Why is it I’m startin’ t’ think it’d be easier dealin’ with Dickie the Docker?”

Charlie sat forward, resting his arms on the desk again. It was after noon, barely, and Reggie would soon be leaving for the Station at Hyde Park in order to catch a connecting train out to Plymouth. Everything would be in place by the time he got to Plymouth, Charlie told him. He’d have a crew of nine men. Charlie said he could count on them, and Reggie believed him. Why wouldn’t he?

“So what’s the tricky part?”

“The tricky part. Well, that would be the Solomons buyin’ the dope, wouldn't it?”

“Yeah, you said that. What’s the payment?”

“Gold.”

“Gold? How the hell did the Solomon brothers get their hands on gold?”

“They got deep pockets, Reg, you know that.”

“An’ the Sicilians? Why’d they even think of sellin’ it t’ the Russians in the first place?"

"Near as I can say, they don't like the Reds anymore than you an' me."

"Do they know the Solomons are takin’ the load from them?"

"Don't know, an' I don't care."

"The Solomons get there hands on that much crude, what’re they gonna do with it?”

“That’s between them an’ the Sicilians.”

“Okay, so what's the tricky part? Aside from the Solomons?”

“The guns.”

“You mean the Irish?”

“That’s what I’m thinkin’, yeah.”

“Why the fuck would ye ever agree t’ that!”

“I din’t know ‘bout the fuckin’ guns! I was doin’ a deal for dope, for the Russians. Nobody said anythin’ ‘bout the Solomon brothers at that time either. So some Irish fuck comes waltzin’ in here, all pretty like. A right fuckin’ dapper prick. Right fuckin’ proper. Say’s he’s got a little problem an’ ‘e wants t’ know if I can help. Says it’d be in my own best int’rest if I do. So I tell ‘im I’m all ears. Says ‘e was waitin’ on a truck comin’ into the BSA warehouse. Only it never showed. No one’s seen it.”

“Let me guess. A load of guns?”

He nodded. “That's my guess, though he never said as such. That was three weeks ago. Three weeks, Reggie. An’ in that three weeks, this fuckin’ Prince Igor says he wants me t' talk with the Sicilians an’ help broker a deal for ‘im."

"Why'd he come see you?"

"Shetty brought him in t' see me. Said he had some deal he was workin' on and stood t' make a pretty penny for all of us. He said Prince Igor wants me t’ stand in as a translator. I don’t speak Italian. I was fuckin’ born here! Anyway, fuckin’ Prince Igor, ‘e doesn’t wanna say what kinda deal it is, an’ I din’t wanna ask at the moment. I figure that can wait. This geezer’s not too bright, though, this Prince Igor. Sometimes the less you say, the better, right? He says to one of his geeks loud enough so as I can ‘ear, that they’ve been sittin’ on this truck for three weeks now. Says ‘e wants to git the guns up t’ the Finns. So I don’t know what he wants the dope for, but I’m guessin’ the Sicilians don’t feel threatened by him; they even wanna help the fuckin’ Cause. Like I said, those Mafia boys hate Fascists an’ Reds. So they agreed to whatever the fuck the deal is they made, an’ say it’s on me. Me? I’m the middle fuckin’ man, I say. I tell ‘em, I’m just here t’ translate, an’ they fuckin’ laugh in my face. Fuckin’ laugh. Anyway, the fuckin’ Geezer asks me what they said, an’ I tol’ him I din’t know. Turns out, the Sicilians aren’t gonna get their payment until after the deal goes down. But young Prince Igor, ‘e’s not trustin’ no one, cause the fuckin’ Solomon brothers are bound for fuckin’ Bedlam, an’ everyone knows it.”

“An’ do the Irish know the Russians’re sittin’ on their fuckin’ guns?”

“That’s the real question, now then, isn’t it? Ya know, when you see this kid, yer never gonna believe ‘e’s even smart enough t’ wipe ‘is own ass without someone there t’ help. But a deal’s a deal.”

“An’ the Irish bloke what come by for a chat?”

“I never did see that Paddy again. I’m thinkin’ they were puttin’ feelers out all over town. I was just one on a list ‘e ‘ad.”

“An’ the guns?”

“Well, seems obvious the Russians have ‘em, doan it?”

“But why get the Solomon brothers involved?”

Charlie sat back and smiled.

“Remember when I said that young Prince Igor weren’t too smart? He wants t’ make money, an’ by sellin’ dope t’ the Solomon brothers, he can use that money t’ pay for a ship he's s'posed t' have waitin’ at the docks. I found out he’s got a ship comin’ in t’ load up the guns. He can get the guns t’ the Finns, get paid for ‘em, an’ then when he pays off what ‘e owes the Sicilians, he can pocket the rest.”

“An’ we’re there t’ make certain the Solomons don’t go back on their word?”

“That’s about it.”

“An’ tell me once again why you’ll not be there?”

“My boy’s got a recital.”

“You still got him playin’?”

“I won’t let ‘im know I got the new fiddle ’til ‘e’s a little bit older. ‘E’ll never be able t’ play it on any stage for a fuckin’ recital, but ‘e sure as fuck can play at ‘ome t’ me an’ the missus.”

The train out to Plymouth was slow and plodding, and Reggie looked out at the passing countryside wondering what he’d gotten himself into. Guns; dope; Russians; the Solomon brothers? It was enough to make a man want to pull his hair out and scream at the top of his lungs. He’d have to be on top of his game, though; he’d have to be at his best. He’d been out of the game for so long now, that while Charlie may have felt confident having him back on board, Reggie didn’t feel the same way. He kept looking at his watch and looking up at the conductor, wanting time to press on. He wanted this over with. He wanted to get back to Chumley Grove, and Claire, settling back into the life he’d chosen, not this. He looked at his watch again. He had to get into the station and set up before six o’clock. The deal was set for eight o’clock tonight, so it’d be dark enough not to attract attention, Charlie said, and Reggie saw the sense in that. There were no electric lights along that side of the docks, and while an inconvenience, he thought it might work to his advantage by keeping the meeting area small. But he wanted to get there earlier because he didn’t trust the Solomons; he didn’t trust Charlie either, but then, he knew Charlie. Still, there was always going to be that nagging doubt in the back of his head, wasn’t there? An itch that just wouldn’t scratch; a pain that wouldn’t go away.

The Plymouth train station was a mixture of both old and new. First built in 1877, it had been built of wood with the platforms fully covered by train sheds. It originally had just two through platforms, but additional platforms were added in 1908. The new train station was a more modern building, they’d said.

Reggie couldn’t say if he agreed.

He collected his small bag and made his way through the station, finding a taxi to take him to the address Charlie had scribbled down earlier on a piece of paper. He gave it to the driver and sank back into the seat, trying to go over the details, thinking there had to be something he’d missed. It’s all in the details, he told himself. There’s always something you miss, and that something, well, it’s always something that might get you killed. He wondered if that was why he’d had such a bad feeling about it after Charlie brought it up to him yesterday?

The driver left Plymouth Station winding his way along North Road East; from there, to James Street, bypassing Portland Square. They turned onto Coburg, then Charles Street, and then passing Exeter Square and on to the Waterford Hotel. The Waterford was a small four storey building looking over Sutton Bay, Catterwater, and Clovely Bay, directly across from Smeaton Pass and the English Channel. He remembered how when he was a child, the harbour front in London still had three masted Clipper ships—the English fishing fleet he liked to call it—in those days when he dreamed of running off to sea.

Like that boy in Kipling’s story. Except he didn’t run away, did he?

The wind was brisk, coming in from the East, with a light chop on the water where boats rode on small waves slapping against wooden hulls. They still had a few masted schooners out there, but most of the boats were steel hulled seiners, and he tried imagining what they looked like out on the North Atlantic. That’s a frightening venture. He’d heard stories.

He turned away fro the window and his dreams when a knock at the door brought him back to reality. It was Shetty. He opened the door, letting the man in.

“Good t’ see ye, Reg,” the man said softly, sitting in the only chair in the room. He was wearing a trench coat, and his pants were over-large. Reggie supposed that was for whatever other weapons he had on him, aside from the hammer hanging inside his trench coat on a loop.

“Any sign of the Solomon’s?”

“I saw Ronnie Loveless. Ya know ‘im?” Shetty grinned.

“Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure.”

“Ain’t no pleasure running into that geezer,” Shetty grinned again. It was a purposeful look, but nothing about it made Reggie want to trust the man. He'd known him too long to want to trust him. “He’s a right fuckin’ piece of work, that boy is. Likes to hurt people, he does. Goes out of ‘is way to hurt ‘em most times. He doan care if they ain’t in the game either, he’ll hurt ‘em anyway. Saw ‘im kick a pregnant woman once. He’s a real fuck.”

“I guess we’ll have to keep an eye out for ‘im then, won’t we? He’ll sorta be the bellwether of tonight’s festivities.”

“What the fuck’s that mean?”

“You never seen a flock of sheep?” Reggie asked.

“Not really, but I know what it is, if that makes a difference.”

“The bellwether’s the lead ram. They put a bell on him, and the rest of the flock follows him wherever he goes. That’s your friend Ronnie.”

“The bellwether?” He sounded appreciative, something Reggie remembered about him. Shetty liked to talk.

“What about the Russians? You see any of them around?”

“Nah. I heard a rumour, though.”

“You know I don’t like rumours, Shetty.”

“You’ll wanna hear this one. Word is, Prince Igor won’t be comin’.”

“What do you mean, he won’t be coming?”

“Fell off a ledge, or something like that. Landed in the hospital. Might not walk again, from what I hear.”

“Jesus. How?”

“Don’t rightly know, Reg. It's just something I heard.”

“When did it happen?”

“Yesterday.”

“Fuck me! Why didn’t Charlie tell me?”

“He didn’t know, did he? Christ, I just found out an hour ago.”

“Did you talk to Charlie? Did you ring him up? He might want to change the plan.”

“It’s too late for that.”

“Did you try? What about the Solomons? Do they know? Or did they do it? Do you think they did it?”

“Naw. There’s no way they coulda been the ones what did it. Besides, they want this shipment. It serves them no purpose taking out the top Russian. They need this just to keep afloat.”

“Do the Sicilians know the Russians are selling the dope to the Solomons?”

“The Sicilians? I don’t know. Fuck! What is it? Heroin, or morphine?”

“Opium.”

“Jesus Christ! What? That's not what this was about. Why would they make that kind of a deal? The Russians, I mean?”

“It’s political. Has to do with the was and revolutions, an' all kinds of shit.”

“Political? What the fuck do we know about that shit?”

“Calm down. People might hear you.”

“I don’t give a fuck if people hear me, or not," he said, jumping out of the chair. "They can go FUCK RIGHT OFF!” he yelled at the wall, punching it for added effect. “What I’m sayin’ is, I doan like where this is going.”

“Niether do I, Shetty,” Reggie said. “But it gets worse.”

“Worse? It gets worse? Fuck me like a two year old, Reg! What do you mean, it gets worse? Why din’t Charlie tell us, eh? Why din’t Charlie tell me? I come to him with this deal, and he goes and changes it on me? I doan like it, not one little bit.”

“He didn’t see it coming.”

“No? Is that what he says? He din’t see it coming because he’s too busy fuckin’ about with that mistress of his. Have ye seen her?”

“No Shetty, I haven’t seen her. I’m just here for this one job, remember, and then I’m out. I don’t need to see his mistress,” Reggie smiled.

“She’s a looker, that’s for certain. Greedy little cunt, though,” Shetty said after a moment, almost as if he regretted saying it. “He’s always buying her things.”

“Things?”

“She lives here, you know? He doesn’t want her in London, or anywhere near him, for what that’s worth.”

“She lives here in Plymouth?”

“He bought her an apartment.”

“Never mind. I don’t wanna hear about it,” Reggie said, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Just tell me everything’s set.”

“Right as rain. But tell me, what did you mean when you said it gets worse?”

“The fuckin’ Irish are lurking about.”

“What the fuck for?”

“Seems there’s been some guns gone missing. Me an’ Charlie figure the Russians nabbed 'em.”

Shetty put his hands up to his face, shaking his head slowly. “The Russians hit the fuckin’ Micks?” he asked. It was impossible for him to hide the shock. He sat down in the chair again.

“That’s what me an’ Charlie think,” Reggie nodded, watching him. He went on. “He heard this Prince Igor fellow sayin’ somethin’ when he shoulda been quiet, you know? It’s more coincidence—circumstance—than anything else, but people have died for less.”

“An’ you think the Micks are goinna show up?”

“I hope the fuck not! I’m just sayin’, keep your eyes peeled. The Solomons are bad enough. I don't like that we know nothin’ about these Russians—except that maybe they’re patriots—but when you throw in the Irish, well, that just makes it all fine an’ fuckin’ dandy, don't it? Things have a way of gettin’ out of control now then, don’t they?”

“Out of control? That could be an understatement?” Shetty sighed.

Reggie turned and looked out of the window. He could see his reflection, but more than that, he could see Shetty’s. It was always good to make sure that when you turned your back on someone, you saw his reflection somewhere. Charlie taught him that one. But he thought he could trust Shetty. He’d known him since before the war. It was good when you went that far back with someone.

“You serve in the war, Shetty?”

“Air Corps.”

“How’d you swing that?”

“I weren’t no pilot, if that’s what you’re thinkin’. I was part of the ground crew. I must admit, we had it pretty good. Never once saw a German—except when they tried bombing the airfield. We heard the guns, though. Every night. We’d sit out an’ watch ‘em light up the night sky. We were everyone of us thankful we weren’t under them. You?”

“I was under them,” Reggie smiled.”Then I got wounded and sent to recover in Paris. I was lucky, though; the war ended before I had to go back. It was the best eight months of convalescence a man could hope for. Sure, I was bed-ridden for three or four months, an' it took me a while to get back on my feet again, but Jesus, Shetty, you ever spend any time in Paris?”

“Three days once.”

“What a fuckin’ town!” Reggie laughed. “Especially that first Christmas after the War.”

“I didn’t see much of it. Spent most of my time in the brothels.”

“Right you are—and I don’t blame you—but I was never one for the whores myself. But the best goddamned looking whores I ever saw were in Paris. Don’t get me wrong, I like my English lasses, but there’s somethin’ about them Frenchies. My God! They remind me of a bird singing at your window.”

“Is this it?” Chernetsov asked, looking at the rust-stained hulk of the Minotaur sitting in its berth. It was dusk, so there was little more he could see other than a dark silhouette as he listened to the water slapping against the hull. Massive tie-up lines wrapped around squat bollards slick with seaweed, the lines running at sagging lengths to the deck above. He could hear the hull scraping up against the berth with every passing wave of the tide.

Not a sight to promote confidence, he thought, walking the length of the ship’s berth.

Every fibre in his being thad old him he had to get here first so he could claim the proverbial high ground. Cherenetsov had always considered information to be power, and going into any meeting blind was not his idea of grasping power. But there was that other part of his mind telling him he shouldn’t even be here in the first place. He’d tried to ignore it, but that had proven impossible. Of course, with Anatoly’s fall, his entire life was about to change—he supposed it was enough to say that his whole life was about to change—but he’d been at the hospital earlier, and he knew nothing was going to keep him from his son’s bedside. Still, there was a part of him that felt he was showing the enemy that his greatest weakness was his family.

But that’s the way it should be for everyone.

He nodded, and Kazakoff turned, looking up the length of the pier where an automobile waited in the distance. There was a light mist forming on the water, hovering, as if waiting for a breeze to rescue it, and Chernetsov thought he could understand that feeling. Kazakoff gave a quick wave of the torch he was holding, and the small group set off down the pier at a brisk pace. Chernetsov was grateful to have Kazakoff with him. He was a man willing to take the lead; he had experience in this sort of thing.

Does that make any difference now?

He couldn’t see any problems, and he thought Anatoly having asked Kazakoff to negotiate with the foreigners was just common sense. Again, Kazakoff was qualified. Anatoly had no idea how far out of his depth he’d been, which was why Kazakoff had been put in charge of stealing the guns in the first place. Again, Kazakoff seemed to have a knack for that sort of thing, Chernetsov admitted. He knew the ins and outs of dealing with police procedures, as well as Army Intelligence, the so-called Committee of Imperial Defence, and he supposed Kazakoff was the reason Anatoly had felt confident enough to pull off such an elaborate scheme in the first place.

And for just a moment—for a brief instant that was gone so fast it almost didn’t register—but for the first time Chernetsov asked himself what Kazakoff stood to gain if he betrayed the entire operation? Was he being too fearful, he wondered? Kazakoff had been with the family in one capacity or another, for more than ten years. Why would he think the man might choose to betray him now?

There has to be loyalty. I’m certain of it.

And what did he stand to gain? Chernetsov played the thought over in his mind as they walked the silent pier. There were six of them. Three of them were Michael, Andrew and Anthony, his Footmen, and he wondered if Anatoly hired them for their ability, or simply the convenience?

“Have you ever killed a man, Anthony?” he asked, looking at the man closely.

“Aye, sir. In the War. Quite a few, I’d say. Gunner, sir, Royal Artillery.”

“A gunner,” he said softly, looking at Michael. “And you?”

“Rifle Man, First Class, sir,” the man admitted with some reluctance.

“Kingsman, sir. Duke of Lancaster Regiment,” Andrew called out.

“And you’re all aware of what may be involved?” Chernetsov asked.

“We are, sir.”

“There could be gunplay,” he added.

“Aye, that there might that,” Anthony said softly.

Chernetsov sped up again, catching up to Kazakoff, thinking if he was going to be standing beside anyone, he was going to stand beside the man who was the most qualified among them. It all hinged on the Italians as far as Chernetsov could see. And how Anatoly had convinced them to defer payment for two days, he didn’t know. A part of him told him it was better not to know. But that was out of the question. Kazakoff would know the answer.

“How did Anatoly convince the Italians to defer payment?”

“Excuse me sir, they’re Sicilian. If you call them Italians, they may shoot you just for spite. The Corsicans are just as bad.”

“And Sabini’s Italian?”

“He’s as English as they come, sir.”

“I thought he was Italian.”

“No sir.”

As they approached the automobile three more men stepped out of the shadows. Chernetsov felt a sense of comfort at the sight of them. He had no idea of who they were, or where they came from. He told himself that’s how he liked it; anonymous help from out of town was always the best way to go. There were ways of approaching that sort of people, and Chernetsov was grateful Kazakoff knew those ways.

“When we get inside, Sabini’s man will have the dope in a trunk. The rest of his men will be out of sight, so we’ll only have to deal with the one man. It’s probably best not to have any of Sabini’s Hammerboys in sight, anyway. The geek he sent is an outsider, but I'm told he’s well known.”

“Well known? And what does that mean?” Chernetsov asked.

“That means the Solomon Brothers have a history with the man. Whether it’s a good thing, or not, remains to be seen.”

“If it’s good?”

“Then we won’t have any problems.”

“And if it’s not?”

“Then I suggest you stay close.”