And he was right. The last waiter who’d taken one look at Dmitry’s longish tangle of hair and leather jacket and decided he wouldn’t be able to tell shit from toothpaste had ended up with both hands rammed repeatedly in the drawer of the cash register. After that word got around.
But now, rather than some high-class restaurant—not that he had any choice here—Dmitry was up sitting at a table by the window in the service station’s open-plan food court.
Western junk food had not been a part of Dmitry’s experience growing up. He had only made the glorious discovery when he first arrived in the UK. Of course he quickly realised that to live on nothing else would be bad for his health but Dmitry was nothing if not a man of utter control. So he treated the occasional greasy burger and extruded potato-starch fries as an indulgence, a reward for good behaviour or a job well done.
Last night’s work he considered qualified as both.
As a compromise he ate slowly, chewing every mouthful and keeping his elbows off the table. He was early and in no hurry. Around him his fellow diners fell on their food with disgusting gusto, stuffing their faces like the pigs they were.
Dmitry allowed nothing of his disdain to show on his features. He didn’t need to. Disdain was an impotent emotion whereas he had the ability and the temperament to beat any one of them to death for no better reason than their table manners offended him.
He sat with his back to the security cameras out of habit although he was confident that his face would not set any alarm bells ringing. He’d always been very careful about that.
The man he’d come to meet however, that was another matter and Dmitry had no wish to come to official attention merely by association.
So he kept a close eye out for the make and colour of vehicle he’d been told to expect and spotted the dark blue Land Rover Defender the moment it swung into the car park.
He glanced at the time display on his iPhone. The man was only a couple of minutes late which—if not exactly pleasing Dmitry—at least did not put him in too black a mood.
Without appearing to hurry he wiped his fingers fastidiously on a paper serviette and strolled out leaving the debris of his meal on the table behind him. Important men did not clear up after themselves—not food wrappers anyway.
Despite the steadily climbing sun there was still a residue of night chill outside which did not encourage people to linger. Nevertheless Dmitry gave the surrounding area a casually thorough survey as he walked across the car park.
He approached the stationary Land Rover from an oblique angle in the blind spot to the rear. When he rapped his knuckles on the side glass the driver started in his seat before opening the window a crack.
“Whatever you’re selling I’m not buying,” he said, his voice abrupt. He was a big man with fleshy jowls and the lacework of thread veins across his cheeks that indicated a lifetime spent outdoors in all weathers. Even through the small opening Dmitry could smell the earthy odour of animals and wet cloth.
He kept his face stony. “It is fortunate then that I am buying.”
But as he stepped back to let the man climb out from behind the wheel Dmitry saw the beginnings of a shift in his expression, the sly calculation blossoming in his eyes.
Like a snake Dmitry launched against the Land Rover door. It cannoned into the big man’s bulk bursting a grunt of pain and surprise from his lips and pinning him there by his shins, half-in half-out.
Dmitry leaned his body weight a little more onto the edge of the door, watching the man’s annoyance turn to fear as his discomfort leapt another notch.
“Your brother vouched for you. We are here to do business my friend,” he said quietly, ladling on the Russian accent because he knew the effect it would have. “Let us not have any . . . unpleasantness that may come back on your family, yes?”
“Y-yes!” the big man said, his voice a gasp as if he daren’t take a breath. “I mean no! No unpleasantness—you have my word on it.”
Dmitry eased back, opened the door wide and gave a mocking bow. “This is good,” he said smiling. “You have the . . . merchandise with you of course.” It was not a question.
If the big man had been thinking of trying to cheat him Dmitry reckoned he was now too unsettled and flustered to follow through. Instead as he slithered down onto the tarmac he clutched the door frame with hands that trembled slightly.
The two of them moved around to the back of the Land Rover and Dmitry waited while the man opened the rear door. As he did so the man glanced round in a way guaranteed to draw attention to the pair had anybody been watching them. Dmitry suppressed a sigh. He hated dealing with amateurs.
“There you go,” the man said gesturing inside with nervousness surging through his voice. “It’s all there—just as we agreed, eh?”
Nestling amid the junk-filled interior was a stained coolbox. Suppressing his distaste Dmitry dragged the coolbox out into the centre of the gritty straw-crusted floor and opened it. The big man leaned in alongside him as if to make sure Dmitry would see what he was supposed to.
Dmitry surmised that, having initially planned to double-cross him in some way, he was now anxious everything should go according to plan instead.
The young Russian pursed his lips as if disappointed by the amount or the quality or both. In truth there was more than he’d anticipated.
Excellent.
Still they engaged in a half-hearted round of haggling which ended with Dmitry paying a little less than he’d expected and the big man able to kid himself he’d driven a hard bargain.
Dmitry handed over the cash still wrapped in its bank paper bands and had to stop the man counting it there and then right out in the open. He pointedly withdrew to the Land Rover’s cab leaving Dmitry to transfer the coolbox across to his Mercedes.
By the time he returned the man was back out lighting up a noxious pipe that reminded Dmitry of the old men back home. In the bad times they smoked just about anything they could shove into the bowl and set on fire. As a child it had made him feel nauseous. Now it made him slightly sentimental.
Perhaps that was why he didn’t kill the big man when he gave him a sideways glance and remarked, “Lot of stuff there. Want it for something special do you?”
Dmitry lit a cigarette of his own, bending his head to his lighter and taking his time about it. Then he gave the man a long stare through the smoke, cold enough to make him shiver.
“Unless you wish to find yourself on the receiving end,” he said, “then it is best for your continued good health if you do not ask such questions, yes?”
15