and left.
The unexpected and heavy rain had emptied the pavements, especially at the side of the Seine. Around him were quiet buildings, dark at that time of night, narrow streets leading down to the river, the faint sounds of traffic in the distance. Holley hurried on, without meeting a soul, and eventually reached his destination. In the gloom, there was something sinister about it, dark and threatening. There were two old street lamps on the jetty itself, another in the yard at the end, where there was a huge warehouse door. In the door was the usual small access entrance for workmen, and he opened it and stepped inside, the door banging.
He saw several rows of old workbenches, some machinery, a couple of vans at the far end, and a wide exit door, open, lights above it so the heavy rain glistened like silver as it fell. To the left was an office, partly glassed in, so you could see inside. Ali Kupu was sitting behind a cluttered desk and appeared to be fondling a young woman who was standing obediently beside him.
‘Ah, it is you, Mr Holley. Enter, my friend.’
His English was surprisingly good, but then, as a youth, Kupu had worked in Soho for two years until he’d finally been expelled as an illegal immigrant. He was an overweight, unshaven, coarse animal with a shaven head.
‘Come in, come in.’
Holley moved forward, passed the first van, and was not in the least surprised when the rear door opened and Abu scrambled out behind him. He was enormous, with a face like stone, hair down to his shoulders. He wore a black suit.
‘You know what to do,’ he said.
Holley obliged, leaned on the van, and the Walther was discovered. ‘My, but you are getting to be a big boy,’ Holley said as he straightened, ‘You should enter the Mr Universe competition this year. Muscles gleaming under all that oil. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’
‘No, Mr Holley, what I’d really like is to tear off your head—and I will do exactly that, the first chance I get.’
He moved into the office ahead of Holley and put the Walther on the table, then stood at the back of the room. Kupu was very drunk and yet reached for an open bottle of vodka and swallowed deeply from it.
‘You shouldn’t anger Abu like that. He’s a very violent man when he gets angry and does terrible things, doesn’t he?’ he said to the woman, who looked terrified. She wore a raincoat over a light black dress and clutched a handbag.
‘I’m sure he does.’ Holley walked to a chair at one side of the door, sat down, took off his Burberry rain hat and put it on his lap.
‘This is Liri.’ Kupu encircled her waist. ‘One of my best girls. Empty your handbag and let’s see how well you’ve done tonight.’
‘The rain,’ she said as she fumbled. ‘Business wasn’t good.’ She emptied the handbag of not very much.
Kupu glanced at it, then took a Gladstone bag from under the desk, opened it and swept in Liri’s earnings.
‘Excuses, Mr Holley, it’s all I get.’ He slapped her face, then said to Abu, ‘Search her next door. See if she’s hiding anything.’
‘No, please,’ she begged Kupu, as Abu grabbed her arm, opened the far door and shoved her through.
‘Stupid bitch, they are all the same. I give them employment, look after their interests and how do they repay me?’ He swallowed more vodka. ‘But to business. You can supply what I need? I’m a serious man. I desire only to help my Muslim brothers who are being butchered every day in Kosovo.’
‘Very commendable.’
‘And I have good references.’ He patted the side of his nose drunkenly. ‘AQ, eh?’
‘Is that a fact?’ Holley said.
There were muffled cries from the next room, but Kupu ignored them. ‘You don’t believe me, do you?’ He reached for the vodka bottle, swallowing again. ‘My father’s brother, my Uncle Mahmud, is an art dealer based in Tirana. He specializes in rare holy books and manuscripts. He travels all over Europe, knows people at the highest level. I act as his contact man in Paris. He tells me everything. For example, what if I told you that Prime Minister Putin intends to make a visit to Chechnya this weekend? All very hush-hush. The sort of thing you only hear about afterwards.’
Holley said, ‘And why would he be doing that?’
‘A meeting requested by a very high-level Muslim holy man. A famous Mullah, now in his