I'm scared, but this is exciting. My heart thumps hard as I make the first phone call to one of the many dodgy diamond dealers who crossed my path when I worked at MIB.
"Hello, is that Claude?" I say, putting on my poshest telephone voice, but I think the nerves are still coming through.
"Who's that?" he replies in a thick French accent. It reminds me of Frenchie in Bangkok and a string of horrific memories flood my brain. I shake my head, I need to focus.
"You don't know me, Claude, but I was told you might be interested in some off‑the‑record diamonds?"
CLICK.
Well, that didn't go well. I guess I'm not really surprised, why would anyone trust the voice on the other end of a cold call? I need to think of a better approach. I don't want to identify myself, of course, no point in taking a risk that details of my enquiry might filter back to MIB. Maybe creating a false persona for now would do the trick.
I realise that it may take some time to perfect my approach, so I reverse the order of my phone calls. I wish I hadn't phoned Claude first. He was my best bet, I think, and now I've blown that opportunity. I've got fifteen potential shady dealers on my list, so now I'm trying the fifteenth least likely.
"Hi, is that Albert?" I say, putting on my poshest telephone voice again. The nerves have gone now, up to a point.
"Who wants to know?"
"My name is Robert Williams," I say, realising too late that Robert shortens to Robbie. When I make the next call, I'll have planned a better nom de plume. I remember meeting a girl called Victoria once, I asked her if it was her nom de plum, she thought I was a moron which maybe explains why I only met her once.
Silence. I guess he's waiting for me to say more or have I missed something while I drifted off into thoughts about Victoria?
"I was given your name by Mr Montri, he's a contact of mine in Bangkok." I like that touch, using a real contact in the industry. I just wish I'd got the name of the Rio dealer from Kevin. That could create a neat red herring trail for MIB. I'll sort that out before my next call.
"I know him," replies Albert in a French accent you could cut cheese with. Two Frenchies in a row. "So why did he give you my name?"
"He thought you might be interested in a business opportunity which has come my way."
"What was your name again?"
"Robert Williams?"
"Do your friends call you Robbie?"
Had I been rumbled? "Robbie? No," I say.
"How is it that you know Mr Montri?"
He's asking too many questions. Time to bail out.
"Does this sound like the noise a phone makes when it's hung up?" I hang up the phone before he has a chance to answer.
I make my way to the kitchen where Marty is brewing a cuppa.
"Well, how did it go?" he asks.
"Not great, but I got a few ideas about how I can make my approach an awful lot better."
"Example," he says doing a bad impersonation of Samuel L. Jackson in Pulp Fiction.
"I need to have a proper cover story, I mean, in the first call, I hadn't even got a false name planned. It's funny how your mind goes blank when someone springs a question on you."
"Nonsense."
"Okay, smartass, make up a name. Go on. Now."
"Jim. George. Frank. Gerald. Michael," he says without a pause.
"First name and surname," I press.
"Brian Douglas. Simon Matthews. Terry Barnes. Arnold Green. Can I stop now?"
"Maybe you should make the calls. You're a better liar than me."
"I always was," he says as he pours out tea for two. "But I'd get rumbled when it came to talking about the diamonds. You're the gem expert."
"Yeah. I just need to get my cover story straight... before I call."
"I wonder how Kevin's getting on?" says Marty.
Kevin went back to work at MIB this morning, after his week's 'holiday'. He had to act as if nothing happened, pretend he'd just had a normal week off. The question was, would Richard break cover and confront him or would Richard want to distance himself as far as possible from the scam? As far as Richard knew, Kevin had no idea about the relationship between Hazel and her boss, so he might want to leave it that way. It was going to be a tough day for Kevin but hanging around waiting for news made it a tough day for us as well.
"We seem to spend a lot of time waiting to hear what happening with Kevin," says Marty, echoing my thoughts.
"Yeah, and I need to get the name of the dealer they met in Rio before I make any more calls."
"Text him."
Why hadn't I thought of that? I get out my phone and start thumbing a message – 'How goes it? Who was the dealer you met in Rio? D.'
"Done," I say sipping my tea. "What time did you arrange to meet Tommy?"
Marty looks at his watch. "In a bit over an hour."
"I'll be glad to get started on framing Richard. It'll put some heat on him and maybe divert MIB's attention. Anyway, the bastard deserves everything he gets."
For the next forty minutes, we discuss the ways we can frame Richard and bring him to the attention of MIB. We want to keep Kevin out of it as much as possible but he'll be the one who'll have to plant the drugs in Richard's office. Planning revisited and polished, we head off to the Iron Duke.
"Do you ever wonder if you and Brenda will get back together someday?" I ask.
"Do you ever wonder if you and Sarah will get back together someday?"
That's his way of saying he doesn't want to talk about his wife. He knows I hate talking about mine, so a question about Sarah will always shut me up.
"Sorry," I say, "I'm just interested because it was my fault you split up."
"And why did you and Sarah split?"
Fair point, in the sense that it's a total conversation stopper. I never talk about Sarah and that wanker of an estate agent... not sober anyway. A change of subject is required, and hopefully it'll change into something a little bit more comfortable.
"Tommy sounded as if he was still on board," says Marty.
"He wants his other sixteen grand, that's why."
"Sixteen and a half," says the master mathematician.
"Yeah right, and his love of money will keep him on board."
"Don't care what the reason is as long as he's on our side."
We have time to buy a pint, well three actually, one for me and Marty, and a spare for Tommy who arrives about ten minutes late.
"All right, guys?" he says before he takes his seat and swallows the first big slug of his beer.
"We're good, Tommy," I say. "We're ready to start the downfall of Richard Foster."
"The downfall of Richard Foster? Sounds like the title of an old black and white movie," says Tommy. He downs the rest of his pint in one massive swallow. "Your round, Marty."
"It's actually my shout," I say as I make my way to the bar. Truth of the matter is it's Tommy's round, he hasn't bought a drink since the first day I met the man. Wisely, I keep that thought locked up and well away from my vocal chords.
"Thanks, Dave," says Tommy when I return with the drinks, his swigs are smaller now he's had his first pint. "So, are we ready to crush the bastard?"
"Yeah, I think we're ready."
"Before we start, I've something to tell you. You're going to like this." He took a big swallow of beer. "Richard called me."
"He what?"
"You heard, he called me," says Tommy.
"What did he want?"
"He wants me to strong-arm Kevin. Find out if he's been up to any no good. He didn't want to fill in any details, sounds as if he's not telling anyone about his little scam with Hazel."
"But you knew about the Bangkok scam."
"Not really, Foster told my boss about it, I just knew there was a plan in play to earn the boss some extra cash."
"Okay, so he wants you to find out what Kev's been up to without sharing any info?"
"That's right, he ain't telling me nothing, his trusted right-hand man."
We all laugh but I wasn't feeling happy. Was Tommy really on our side, after all he had a longer relationship with Richard than he had with us?
"What did you tell him?" I ask once my faux-laughter had subsided.
"How much?" he says. "I always ask how much."
"And?"
"He said he'd give me a grand if I found out about anything iffy. I said okay."
"You said okay?"
"Yeah. I reckoned I could spin him a yarn that might help our plan, and earn a grand in the process."
"Sounds good to me," says Marty.
I'm still not sure, I've seen too many movies where the double-agent double-crosses everyone... sometimes twice.
"Okay, let's do this," I say. "Have you got the coke?"
"Yep. Two hundred grams in individual wraps. That's definitely enough to attract the charge of possession with intent to supply, particularly if you plant some cash alongside it." He slides a small package across the table. "Seven and a half grand. That's what it cost me plus a grand for my trouble and the risk."
"You can't have an extra grand for your risk... that comes out of your fee," I say before I can stop myself.
"Fair enough," says Tommy without batting an eyelid. "Worth a try, and anyway I've already added a mark-up on the coke, so six and a half grand is fine."
I count out the money with my hands under the table. It's not easy when you can't look at it properly.
"What are you hiding it for? No one in here's going to say anything... if they know what's good for them."
I hand over the money and slide the package into my pocket. I'm nervous, I remember the last time I got caught with drugs on me.
"Just to be clear, that money isn't part of my fee. You still owe me sixteen and a half grand."
"I know. That was incidental expenses. Don't worry about your fee."
"I'm not worried about it, I just don't want to have to hurt you to get it. I'm starting to like you guys."
"So, what do you reckon Richard will get if he's caught with this lot?" says Marty bringing the conversation back to the practical.
"Two hundred grams should push him into category two possession and if he's deemed to have a significant role in the dealing, which I think he will be, then he should be looking at six years inside, even for a first offence."
"You seem to know a lot about it," I say.
"It pays to know what the risks are," he says as he slips the money into his pocket. "And here are copies of some of his gambling debt markers. He's lost nearly two hundred thousand over the last couple of years. That's a lot more than his job could sustain."
"Great. We'll work out the best way to plant this lot on Richard once we hear how Kevin got on at work today."
We sip a few more pints and chat about the stuff men love to chat about. We swap accounts of some of our disastrous experiences with women, avoiding tales about Hazel, Sarah and Brenda, of course. We share Game of Thrones stories, like how Queen Elizabeth visited the GoT studios in Belfast and the press reported it under the headline 'Windsor is Coming'. The afternoon flies past in a flurry of embarrassing anecdotes, the world of politics and, needless to say, football. I particularly enjoy making the West Ham fan squirm as he pretends to be a Gooner.
"You're a bastard," says Marty once we've left Tommy. "How could you make me agree with the shite things you said about the Hammers?"
"Yeah," I say, "it was fun wasn't it?"
About halfway back to Marty's, my phone beeps to announce the arrival of a text.
Great. R asked about holiday. He didn't mention Rio. Talk later.
"Sounds as if Kev's day's going well. Let's get a few decent bottles of vino, I feel a celebration coming on."
By the time Kevin got in from work, Marty and I had polished off a nice bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape and had a decent Saint-Émilion breathing. Well, the truth of the matter was we'd just opened it but I told Kevin it was breathing in preparation for his arrival. Mind you, if he'd been late we might have strangled that bottle as well; you don't want to leave wine breathing for too long.
"Here you go, mate" I say as I hand him a glass. "How was your day?" I sound a bit like a servile wife welcoming home her hard-working husband.
"Brilliant," he says before taking a slug of the dark red wine. "We're in better shape than we ever could have imagined."
"How so?"
"Well, Richard had a very cagey conversation with me about my holiday. You know the sort of thing. 'Go anywhere interesting?' 'No,' I said. 'Anything exciting happen?' 'No,' I said. Then he made an odd remark about Hazel which gave me the impression he doesn't know what's happened to her yet."
"Must have been weird, I mean, he knows exactly where you were and he knows you were with Hazel."
"Yes, but he doesn't know that I know that he knows. And he doesn't know that I know about him and Hazel."
"There's a lot of knowing and not knowing going on," says Marty.
"I know," says Kevin smiling. "But the main thing is he didn't push me on anything which means he wants to keep his involvement a secret. I reckon he's going keep his head down while he tries to find out exactly what's happened to Hazel. For all he knows, she's run off with all the diamonds."
"He asked Tommy to check you out," I tell him.
"Better still," he says. "We can feed him false info if we want."
"Yeah, that's what I thought."
"You asked who we met in Rio. It was a guy called Silva, Hugo Silva. Why do want to know?"
"I thought it would add another red herring to my story when I'm contacting the folk in the grey diamond trade. If word does get back to MIB, it'll implicate Mr Silva in the missing diamonds scam and may ultimately create another trail back to Hazel."
"Good idea, it certainly can't do any harm."
I pull the cocaine, betting markers and cash out of the drawer and set them on the coffee table.
"Here's the gift for Richard."
"Perfect," says Kevin. "He told me he wasn't going to be around the office tomorrow. I imagine he'll be spending all his time with MIB security until they find out what's happened to Hazel."
"Yeah, and I bet he's shitting himself at the prospect."
"Whatever he's doing, if he's not around, that'll be the ideal opportunity for me to hide that lot somewhere in his office. Then we just need to tip off the police."
"Do you feel something is bound to go wrong soon?" I say. "Everything seems to be going to plan so well, I feel our luck's going to come to an end sooner or later."
"Don't be such a pessimist," says Marty. "Richard and Hazel are bastards. People like them deserve everything they get. We're just giving karma a helping hand."
"I hope you're right," I say. "I hope you're right."
"What goes around comes around."
"Yeah, so says the roundabout attendant."
☼☼☼
We're waiting for Kevin again. He's gone to work with the bag of gear to plant in Richard's office and all we can do is sit at Marty's and worry about all the things which could go wrong. Well, I'm worrying, Marty on the other hand seems as happy as Larry, happier maybe. I wish I could adopt his sense of optimism.
"Would you stop fretting," says Marty, bringing me a cup of coffee. "Start making some more phone calls. That'll take your mind off what's happening with Kevin."
"Yeah, you're right," I say looking at my watch. "It's that time."
Yesterday evening I perfected my story for the off-piste diamond dealers. I know exactly what I'm going to say now. The first couple of calls were a mistake but that's water under the bridge. I get out my list of fifteen names and numbers. The black line struck through numbers one and fifteen remind me of my lack of planning last time. I'm much better prepared now. I dial number fourteen on the list who happens to be yet another Frenchman. I'm going to work from the bottom until I've completely polished my approach.
"Monsieur Gervaut," I say, "Comment alley-vous?"
"English," he says in an accent which would be at home in any top public school, "speak English, your French it is appalling."
I think of pointing out that there's no need for the 'it' in his sentence. As I consider it, my thoughts drift back to the last time I'd used French. I'd tried to order a couple of beers and had ended up with twelve. Not a bad result in itself but not a great endorsement for my Gallic abilities. With that in mind, I give the idea of correcting him a miss.
"Thank you, Monsieur Gervaut. My name is Robert Brown and I was given your name by Mr Silva, he's a contact of mine in Rio."
"I know Hugo," replies Monsieur Gervaut. "Why did Hugo give you my name?"
"He thought you might be interested in a business opportunity which has come my way."
"And what might that opportunity be?"
"A million pounds worth of diamonds."
"I'm listening."
I run through my pitch about how a woman in Rio had shipped the diamonds via a courier to the UK. I liked the touch that it was a woman as it indirectly reinforced the idea that Hazel might be some way involved and it would stack up if Gervaut contacted Hugo to verify my story. Halfway through the spiel I mention the diamonds were originally destined for a large UK diamond import/export organisation. That's where it all goes wrong.
"Were they destined for MIB?" asks Monsieur Gervaut abruptly.
"I don't know," I say and prepare to continue with my story.
"Were the diamonds destined for MIB?" asks Monsieur Gervaut before I get the chance to say any more.
"I'm sorry, Monsieur Gervaut, but..." I hear a stark click. He's hung up.
There goes number fourteen on the list. I draw a line through it and prepare myself for number thirteen. In my head, I change the story from 'destined for the UK' to 'a shipment bound for North America which has been diverted'. Yes, that sounds much safer for a European dealer. My story has just had another layer of polish applied. The story's so good now, I nearly believe it myself. I look at my page of names and numbers. Three black lines have obliterated numbers one, fifteen and fourteen. I debate between dialling number thirteen and number two, maybe my story is good enough to try out on the favourites on the list. I come down on the side of number thirteen because it's lucky for some, or is it unlucky, I can never remember.
Number thirteen is Frank Burger from Berlin. I'd always thought his name would have been much more amusing if he'd been Hans; Hans Burger's so like Hamburger it would make you smile every time you heard it. Mind you, as it is, it always makes me wonder if his parents were making a Frank- furter sort of joke. Enough with the silly thoughts, I take a deep breath to settle myself before I dial Herr Burger.
"Mr Burger," I say dropping any pretence that I can converse in a foreign language, "how are you?"
"Who is this?" he asks skipping any pleasantries.
"My name is Dick Forrester and I was given your name by Mr Silva, he's a contact of mine in Rio."
I'm pleased with my Dick Forrester tweak. Apparently, people who create fake names often choose something similar to their real names. Dick Forrester, Richard Foster... another red herring gently grilling on the barbeque.
"So?" he says. This guy doesn't waste any words on small talk.
"He told me you might be interested in a business opportunity which has come my way."
"An opportunity?"
"Yes. I have more than a million dollars' worth of diamonds which I would like to sell." Stating the value in dollars is another one of my neat ideas, after all, it's the currency of dodgy deals if my experience in Thailand is anything to go by.
"And?"
My spiel about the woman in Rio who's diverted a shipment of diamonds via a courier to the UK comes out smoothly and this time I say that the diamonds were originally destined for a US dealer.
"Why haven't I heard about this?"
"It only happened in the last couple of days and the US dealer doesn't want any publicity. I'm sure you can understand why."
"So, what are you offering me?"
My heart is thumping in my chest. I'm like an angler who's just had a bite. The fish isn't on the hook yet but it's sniffing round the bait, if fish sniff, that is. They definitely smell, but do they sniff?
"So, what are you offering me?" he repeats.
I need to concentrate.
"Sorry, someone walked past me and I didn't want them to hear."
"Where are you? Are you in a public place?" A hint of nervousness has changed his tone. Shit. I need to be more careful. Have I blown this contact too? So much for lucky.
"No, I'm at home but my wife is here. I'd trust her with my life..."
"But not your money?"
I can hear him giggling and for no reason I can explain, I'm offended by him casting aspersions on my wife, even though I don't have a wife and the one I used to have is a bitch.
"I trust her with my money too but why take any chances?"
"Okay, so what are you offering me?"
"I'm offering you the chance to buy one point five million dollars' worth of diamonds for eight hundred thousand plus expenses."
"Carats?"
This is where I need to have my wits about me and this is why Marty couldn't do these cold calls. I need to show this guy that I know what I'm talking about and I also need to show him he's getting the bargain of a lifetime.
"The stones are mostly between point-three and point-four of a carat. They average F to G on the colour scale and VVS1 to VVS2 on the clarity scale."
"So, with the G-VVS2 price set at $2,900 per carat, so..." I hear him tapping on a calculator in the background. "So, you have about five hundred and twenty carats?"
This is brilliant. He's negotiating a price already. He's hooked.
"No. You've taken the low end of the average colour and clarity. The higher end is F‑VVS1 which is $3,600 per carat. That makes the average price $3,250 per carat. That's what I used to calculate the one point five million."
"Okay, I can live with that, for now." I heard the calculator tippety-tapping again. "So, you're saying about four hundred and sixty carats?"
"Yep, give or take."
"So, you're offering to sell me four hundred and sixty carats of grade G-VVS2 to F‑VVS1 stones for eight hundred thousand dollars?"
"Plus expenses," I say. No point in giving that up at this stage of the negotiation.
"Eight hundred thousand dollars plus expenses?" he says.
"That's what I'm offering."
"I'm not saying yes but I'm willing to meet you to examine the goods. When can you come here?"
"You'll need to come to me," I say. "You've got all the dealer paperwork which'll allow you to transport the diamonds across borders."
"Fair enough but we'll be taking my expenses off the price." He laughed a weird sort of throaty cackle which sounded like a duck with laryngitis.
He really had taken the bait. Shit, I was prepared for what came next but it wasn't as polished as the fore-spiel because I didn't really expect to get to this point so soon.
"I suggest you meet my people on Wednesday, that's two days from now," I say.
"Wednesday? Two days from now? Are you suggesting I don't know what day of the week it is?"
"No. I just want to make sure we don't get tripped up by some stupid misunderstanding."
"Okay, tell me where and when."
Marty starts questioning me as soon as I hang up. The questions come at me like bullets from a machine gun.
"A guy called Frank Burger," I say once he stops the grilling to take a breath. "He's German. He was number thirteen on my list. Lucky for some, eh?"
"I guess," he says without much conviction. "What's the next step with him?"
"He's to make arrangements to come to London within the next couple of days. We're aiming for Wednesday but once he's finalised his travel arrangements he'll call me on this burner phone."
"Oooh, 'burner phone'," he says in a camp voice which I think he thinks makes him sound mocking. "We're becoming quite the little gangster, aren't we?"
"It's easier to say than 'prepaid mobile phone which I bought specifically so I could throw it away when we're done', isn't it?" I say. I realise I've been a bit defensive but he shouldn't be taking the mickey at a time like this.
"Fair enough," he says. "We'll have to hook up with Tommy so he's ready for the meet."
"Yeah. That's the bit where we're going to have to trust him. Will he follow through when we give him more than a million pounds' worth of diamonds?"
"Or when he gets the million quid in cash?"
"I guess we just need to keep our fingers crossed. And it won't be a million we get for them, by the way."
"How much then?"
"I reckon we'll get half a million or maybe six hundred thousand if we're really lucky."
"Seriously? That's a bit of a discount."
"We're shifting stolen goods, what did you expect?"
"I don't know, it just seems to be a cracking discount, that's all."
"I've asked for eight hundred thousand dollars and he hasn't said no, but then again he hasn't said yes either."
An hour and a half later, we're sitting in the Iron Duke sipping pints and waiting for Tommy to arrive. We've arranged to get together so we can start planning the details of the meet with Herr Burger.
"How come Tommy's always late?" whispers Marty.
"Why are you whispering?"
"Don't want anyone to hear us talking about Tommy."
"Oh, here he is now," I say as I see Tommy bursting through the door and swaggering over. "He's only five minutes late this time, I guess he's keen not to screw up the deal and lose his money."
"I think you'll find he's always getting his money, screw up or not."
"All right, guys?" he says as he takes a seat at the table.
"You know what?" says Tommy.
The pause lasts so long it's clearly not a rhetorical question.
"What?" I say.
"I like you guys and I'm starting to enjoy this diamond caper. And I'm looking forward to getting you your revenge, Dave, and giving that fucker Foster what he fucking deserves. Cunt. This isn't about the money anymore, this is personal."
"Does that mean we don't need to pay you?" I say.
"Does it fuck! Three pints, Billy," he shouts across the bar, "and stick them on Dave's tab."