into his attache case, handed in the keys and discontinued the contracts.
He walked to a West End of London hotel, no reservation made, and booked into a room. He emptied out onto the bed coverlet the legal proof of his great wealth. There were bank statements, bonds, title deeds for five hotels and three aircraft, more deeds for residential property in France, Greece, the Bahamas, the Caymans and Gibraltar, and a stack of computer disks. He could not, in the hotel room, enter the disks, but he speed-read the documents as if he needed to remind himself of the resources available to him. The fact that he did not spend the wealth on himself and the Princess, that he hoarded it and seldom released it other than to underwrite further ventures, did not in any way detract from the pleasure he took in glancing over the figures and the property descriptions with the income generated. Wealth was power – power, although he would not have recognized this, was the drug that sustained him.
He used the hotel room for fifteen minutes, then checked out. He paid two hundred and sixty-five pounds for it, cash to the cashier, and slipped anonymously into the street.
He walked across central London. It was his city.
His wealth gave him the power he craved. Hundreds of people, the huge majority of whom had never heard of him, worked in that city to multiply his wealth. In the evenings and at night, thousands of the city's seething, moving, stirring population bought the product that he purchased after importation and sidled away into dark, private, hidden corners to inject themselves or to inhale. He was buffeted by the home-going office workers, shop women and the tourists, and he felt contempt for them because they would never, none of them, approach the power and wealth that were his.
He saw the young man sitting at the back of the cafe in the new piazza square of Covent Garden.
Sol Wilkes stood up as he approached. Mister wove a way between the tables. He'd checked outside for watchers and not seen any. Inside he took a zigzag route to the table in the rear recess of the cafe. It gave him the chance to observe most of its clients, and look into their ears. Any of the Church watchers, men or women, would have moulded clear plastic earpieces.
It was an old routine, but useful. He liked the cut of the young man. The suit was good, new and quiet, the shirt was a gentle cream, the tie wasn't loud, and the haircut was tidy. The Financial Times on the table was folded beside the half-empty glass of orange juice; it was a good first impression.
'Evening, Mister Packer.'
'Evening, Sol – you don't mind if I call you that?'
'Not at all, what can I get you?'
'Cappuccino, please.'
The coffee was ordered. There was an attraction in going for new blood. Mister thought it spoke of his personal virility if he went after youth. Wouldn't have considered it, of course not, if the Cruncher hadn't ended up in the river. But he had… And maybe, as the operation into the Balkans expanded and came alive, it was the right time to think the unthinkable.
The Eagle was old. The Fixer might just be past his best years. New people and new ideas, it was something to chew and think on, but carefully. Everything must be done carefully.
'I've known your family a long time, Sol.'
'So my lather told me.'
Trusted your family, Sol, for many years.'
As my father's trusted you.'
'Always had respect for your father.'
'And him for you.'
'And now I'm short of someone I can trust and respect, and who'll show the same to me, and who will handle various of my affairs.'
'Look after your investments, Mr Packer, and see them grow.'
'That sort of thing, Sol.'
'Move in where the Cruncher was.'
'With discretion.'
'My father would walk on hot coals for you, Mr Packer. I'd work for someone, with someone, if I knew I'd have the same loyalty back that my father's shown you.'
'Of course.'
'But my father was surprised that you weren't at the Cruncher's funeral.'
There had been no change of inflection in Sol Wilkes's quiet conversational tone, but the statement smacked the air separating them. Mister would have gone, and taken the clan, but the Eagle had counselled against it. The Eagle had said it would be a photo-graphic jamboree for the Crime Squad and the Church, and he'd taken the advice. He thought the young man had balls – questioned whether it demonstrated due loyalty to an old and trusted colleague if a cold shoulder was turned at the end, the funeral. He was jolted… The young man wasn't frightened of him, not in the way the Eagle was. He couldn't say to Sol Wilkes that he'd stayed away because the Eagle had told him to, that he wasn't his own man when it came to a last farewell to a friend. Perhaps he should not have listened to the Eagle, but he had… There was no fear in the young face as there had been terror last night in an older face. His reputation created fear, but Sol Wilkes was holding his eye, not wavering, and waiting for an answer.
'If you worked for me, Sol, you'd get to see the bigger picture. You'd know more. You'd find it easier to make judgements.' He smiled. 'Whether that's good enough for you or not, that's what you're getting.'
'What are you offering me, Mr Packer?'
'To come on the payroll.'
'With a percentage of profits, as the Cruncher was?'
'Are we running before we can walk?' There was menace in his voice. He was not in control of the talk.
His fist was clenched on the table as if in threat.
'If I'm inside, Mr Packer, then there's no going back.
I understand that. It's not short-term, it's as far as I can see, for ever… Five per cent comes with my guarantee of loyalty, of respect.'
Their hands met. Mister took the smaller fist of Sol Wilkes in his and the deal was sealed. He squeezed the hand until the blood had drained from it and he heard the crack of the bone knuckles, but the young man did not flinch.
He took the papers and the disks from the attache case and passed them across the table. They were read fast, and there was no expression of either surprise or admiration on Sol's face, just as there had been no fear.
A twenty-eight-year-old, trained investment broker, the son of a friend of forty years, was invited into the inner circle. When the papers were read they were returned, with the disks, to the case. Rules of engagement were discussed, then Mister launched into his description of the future and of trade through Bosnia. He didn't think it necessary to spell out that, should he be double-crossed, ripped-off, then all of the Wilkes family would suffer, wish they had never been born, the father and mother, the sisters and brothers, and especially young Solomon; it wasn't necessary to say it because Albie would have made it clear in one-syllable words to his favourite boy. The arrangements were agreed for new safety-deposit boxes. They would meet again when Mister was back from abroad.
He walked out into the evening crowds. He felt good, lifted by Sol's youth – and he knew that the attraction of the Eagle's worried fussiness was waning: he was the big man, and supreme.
Pitching up there had not been Joey's idea. The crush of bodies was all round him, and the smoke and the loud laughter, and the big voice boomed at him,
'You're Joey? That right, Joey?'
'I'm Joey Cann, yes.'
'With Maggie? You're Maggie's bag-carrier?'
'Something like t h a t… and you are?'
'Francis. We weren't introduced. Francis. I'm your host here, this is my pad, I'm HM's man in Sarajevo. She's a great girl. Why'd you make her drive the whole way? She says she's driven from Zagreb. Couldn't you have done a bit at the wheel?'
'It's what she seemed to want.'
'Terrific girl, wheelbarrows of fun. Your first time here, Joey?'
