He went on, ‘The subject is an Australian criminal, basically, a gangster. He is mentally unstable and frequently carries a weapon. His name is Andrew Jefferson. He ran a small machine shop in Sydney which was a front for illegal activities such as reactivating deactivated weapons. There were some financial issues and the local police were hot on the case, so he decided to do a runner to England along with the equipment from his factory, which was crated up and shipped to Felixstowe docks. His last illegal activity before leaving for England was to visit his local Harley-Davidson dealer and ask if he could test drive one of their top-of-the-range bikes. He rode it straight down to the dockside where the ship for Felixstowe was being loaded, and hid the bike amongst the crated machinery for transportation to the UK. The whole shipment is being held in a bonded warehouse near the docks in Felixstowe. The Australian government has got involved and through the British courts managed to get a court order to seize the shipment before it was cleared by customs.
‘Yesterday customs received a phone call from Jefferson. He said he was coming down to the bonded warehouse “to sort things out”. With an edge of intimidation to his voice, he added that he hoped his shipment had cleared customs.
‘Pete, this is where you come in. A solicitor from a London office and working on behalf of the Australian government will be standing in the warehouse reception waiting to serve Jefferson with a writ banning him from the warehouse. He needs protection. He will also issue the court order confiscating all his shipment. The firm of solicitors don’t want a big team of heavies in reception in case Jefferson gets frightened off before the writ can be served. They want low profile, someone who can handle the situation on a one-on-one basis if things turn nasty. I thought with your experience dealing with Portuguese gangsters in Hong Kong you’d be up for it!’
The phone went silent. Now it was my turn. ‘This begs one big question. Why hasn’t he been arrested by the Brit police?’
‘Because he hasn’t done anything wrong in England and as of this moment in time there is no extradition order,’ came Harry’s reply.
‘Let me just think about this one and I’ll get back to you.’ I put the phone down. Well, here was a criminal who lived by his own twisted set of rules. You can lie, you can cheat, you can steal, you can kill people, you can do any fucking thing you want and nobody does or says anything about it. He needed taking down.
I opened the bottom drawer of my desk and took out the black leather Zap gloves. They’d been given to me back in 1986 when I was still in the Regiment on the Counter-Revolutionary Warfare wing, by a visiting member of the FBI on what we called a tough guys’ course – training the Feds in unarmed combat. I knew they’d come in useful one day. I slowly pulled the gloves on and examined the fit. In a hidden pocket on the back, just over the knuckles, was a solid lump of lead four inches long by two inches wide, the soft grey metal insert moulded nicely to the knuckles. A covert knuckle-duster! An equalizer! You could literally thump a stone wall with these and not come to any harm.
‘Just like old times,’ I thought. I called Harry and accepted the contract.
Two days later on a cold February morning I was standing in the reception of George Barker Ltd, customs clearance and customs brokers, with Chris the solicitor from the London office. This was a large facility with over 5,000 square metres of secure warehousing and twenty-fourhour CCTV, an alarm system connected to the local police station and a panic button in reception. I noted with some satisfaction that the CCTV cameras at the front covered the car park and reception.
The time was now 11am. The gangster should have been here by now. I removed the photo of Jefferson that Chris had given me from my inside pocket and began studying it. ‘Do you think he’s coming?’ I didn’t get time for an answer.
Out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of a black BMW entering the car park at speed. With a squeal of tyres the car skidded to a halt fifty yards from reception. A stocky, well-built figure dressed in a long, darkblue Mafia-style overcoat emerged from the vehicle. It was Jefferson, a big man acting the part of an even bigger man. He headed straight towards reception with an air of clear and present danger. Maximum violence was written all over his face. I took one look at him and realized from past experience that there was no way I was going to reason with this guy. Make no mistake, this was going to be brutal.
My priority now was protecting Chris. I decided to carry out a preemptive strike, attack being the best form of defence. I grabbed the writ, stuffed it into my pocket, and then moved quickly through the door to reception, putting myself between Chris and Jefferson. By now I was in the car park pulling on my Zap gloves, making sure the soft lead inserts were moulded to my knuckles and the gloves were a snug fit. Jefferson, six feet of hulking Australian aggression, strode menacingly up to me. ‘Keep your distance,’ I barked. ‘Step back and stay away.’
He gave me the hard-man stare. Pitiful.
I played his game and looked unflinchingly back, trying to out-stare him. ‘Keep your distance,’ I repeated.
‘Get out of my face,’ he growled.
I kept the icy stare zapping into his face.
‘I said get out of my face!’ and with that he produced an industrialsized screwdriver from his inside pocket and brandished it like a knife. ‘Get out of my face or I’ll have your eyes, boy. I’ll take your eyes out and eat them one by one in front of you like pickled onions on a cocktail stick.’ He was now shaking with fury and making jabbing motions with the screwdriver.
I did step back and lower my stare but only to give myself time to think. ‘I’m going to have to get one over on this fucker. I’m going to have to pull the old Queensberry Rules con,’ I thought as I brought my gloved fists up and adopted a perfect boxing stance as though offering him a fair fight.
He took the bait. Looking cold and hard with a slight smirk on his face he said, ‘OK, son, but without the gloves.’
I stepped back again, my eyes firmly fixed on the jabbing screwdriver. I removed the gloves and returned them to the pocket of my Barbour jacket. I could always get the right-hand glove on pretty quick in an emergency. I returned to my perfect boxing stance.
Jefferson threw the screwdriver to the ground and his fists came up into what could be classed as a reasonable boxing stance. Perhaps he had been a boxer in his youth like the Kray twins. The only bit he forgot about was his feet. Instead of standing side-on with his left leg leading, he stood with his legs apart, offering me as a target one of the most vulnerable parts of his body.
It was a kind invitation that I couldn’t possibly refuse. I stepped in after him as though I was going to start boxing, then I brought my right boot up hard and fast into his groin. His eyes opened wide with shock and there was a deep intake of breath as though he was drawing his last. He staggered back several paces before falling to his knees, clutching his bollocks. As I moved in for the kill I noticed he was looking in the direction of his car. Suddenly he started scrabbling along the ground towards the BMW. For a big man he was quite agile. The adrenaline rush was probably blocking out the pain.
He was soon on his feet and within seconds he had the boot of his car open. Reaching in, he took out what looked like a heavy-duty crowbar that he must have got from the One-Stop Breaking & Entering Shop. He began flourishing the crowbar like a sword.
I reached quickly into my jacket pocket and retrieved the Zap gloves. I pulled them on and flexed my knuckles satisfyingly. At last, I get to use the gloves! I took off my Barbour jacket and was wrapping it around my left arm to use as a shield when – what a pity – out of the corner of my left eye I saw the blues and twos. A police car powered into the car park and screeched to a halt. Two members of the local plod jumped out and deployed their batons. As they locked him in handcuffs I stuffed the writ into his top pocket. ‘Don’t forget your paperwork,’ I grinned as he was led away.