Going Dark Page 5

  BJJ is a little like a game of chess: move and counter-move, trying to lead an opponent down a particular route. It usually begins with standing holds, the aim being to take your opponent to the ground on your terms to try and get a submission from a joint-lock, choke, or compression-lock. Luka grabbed aggressively at Tom, trying to take the initiative and get him to ground quickly. As soon as Tom saw his opponent’s approach, he knew he could beat him; Luka was rushing, and he was overly aggressive. He knew that he could easily counter and have him locked up in a heartbeat, but that wasn’t the objective.

  Tom let himself be taken down to the mat, falling into the half-guard. Luka pressed his weight across Tom’s chest, trying but failing to get full control. It was an easy escape for Tom: he was much faster and fitter than the bigger man. Tom quickly got an elbow-lock in place—which he could have easily finished the bout with—but he kept it loose enough to allow Luka to escape and move into a dominant position. The bout continued in that way for a good six minutes: Tom allowing Luka to nearly win several times, before escaping and turning the tables for a brief moment. It prolonged the bout, but Tom knew he could have won several times over.

  When Tom felt that Luka was tiring badly and at the end of his stamina, he finally allowed himself to be caught in a rear-choke, submitting with a double-tap of his hand on Luka’s arm. Luka rolled off him with a huge gasp, exhausted. Tom exaggerated his breathing to match his opponent, pretending that it had taken him to the edge rather than just been a mild workout.

  Luka looked delighted. ‘Jesus, man, you’re as tough as Ivan said. I struggled to beat you, took everything I know.’ His sweaty face shone bright-red.

  ‘Well done,’ Tom gasped. ‘You’re a good fighter. I thought I had you once or twice.’

  Both stood and shook hands. ‘Come on, man; let’s go and have a drink,’ said Luka.

  After showering and changing, both men left the gym. Ivan had excused himself, saying he had to see his woman, which suited Tom just fine.

  They entered the Angel pub opposite the Tube station and both ordered pints of lager. Luka led Tom to a nearby table that was already occupied by a man of a similar size and build to Luka. Aleks Branko: Tom recognised him from the briefing photographs.

  Luka introduced Tom to his brother. ‘Aleks, this is Tomo, the first worthy opponent I’ve had for some time. I still kicked his ass though, eh, Tomo? This is Aleks, my older brother.’

  Aleks fixed Tom with an even, unsmiling gaze. His face was scarred with old acne marks and he had the same blue eyes and stocky build as his brother. The coolness of his light eyes and his grim expression gave him an aura of barely-disguised cruelty.

  Aleks nodded in Tom’s general direction and said to his brother in Serbian, ‘Who is he and where’s he from?’

  ‘He told you,’ Tom replied in Serbian. ‘I’m Tomo. I’m from Glasgow, but I was born in Sarajevo.’

  Mild surprise spread across Aleks’ face. ‘I wasn’t told you were a countryman. Bosniak?’

  ‘Bosnian Serb, my friend, I just look a little dark; I think I’ve some Roma blood. But I’m an orphan; I don’t really know.’

  ‘You fight well, Tomo; where did you train?’ asked Luka.

  ‘Glasgow, mostly, but a fair bit all over. I started with boxing back in the homeland and wrestled at school in Sarajevo. I’ve always loved fighting sports. I also spent some time in Thailand at Muay Thai camps.’

  ‘I’ve never been to Glasgow, or Scotland, for that matter. It’s funny, I never met a Serb with a Scottish accent,’ said Aleks.

  Tom smiled and the tension dropped a notch. He had kept his normal accent for the deployment, but with just a touch more Slav. He knew from experience that it was too easy to slip back into his normal brogue after just a few hours undercover; Tom’s usual accent was light Scottish with a trace of something else underneath.

  ‘I like your T-shirt, man,’ Aleks said, reaching across to feel the fabric of Tom’s shirt. Tom tried his best to look comfortable in the gaudy Emporio Armani T-shirt, overly-designed stone-washed jeans and huge, glittering Brietling watch.

  ‘Thanks. Armani is classy stuff,’ Tom said.

  ‘Where do you live now?’ Luka asked.

  ‘I got a place in Dalston. It’s okay. Area’s a bit of a shit-hole, though.’

  SC&O35 had a small quantity of flats furnished and ready to go for undercover operatives to use while deployed. A very creative member of the team could very quickly personalise each flat to each individual officer with post and bills in the cover name and some personal effects to give the impression that the operative was living there. They would also stock the cupboards and fridge to reflect who was living there. In Tom’s case that meant lots of beer and a few Pot Noodles. The whole place screamed ‘Single Man’. It was fairly basic; Tom had stayed there a few times to make sure he was seen by the neighbours.

  The three of them chatted amiably enough, mostly about MMA and fighting sports. Tom had no intention to raise the issue of trafficking or anything criminal: it was far too soon and would have to happen organically if he wasn’t to arouse suspicion. But he was also determined to not forget that, in spite of the fairly friendly banter between them, he was dealing with violent, sadistic criminals.

  After about half-an-hour, Tom stood and said, ‘I have to go, guys. Good to meet you both and maybe we can roll again soon, Luka. I’ll kick your butt next time.’

  Luka snorted. ‘In your dreams, skinny man. Sure, let’s roll soon.’

  They exchanged phone numbers and shook hands.

  Tom left the pub and walked back to where he’d parked the old BMW he’d procured from the SC&O35 pool of covert cars and drove to the flat in Dalston. The car had been re-registered to his name at a Glasgow address which had been fully back-stopped to make sure that anyone investigating it wouldn’t get any further. He really didn’t fancy staying at the flat, but he couldn’t risk going home at such an early stage of the assignment. He parked nearby, let himself in and made a cup of tea, sending a message to Liam updating him that initial contact had been made.

  He was pleased enough that the introduction had gone well, although a little frustrated that there had been no mention of business. But he also knew that such things couldn’t be rushed without arousing suspicion: a risk he couldn’t afford to take. The Branko brothers had a sinister reputation, and his meeting with them had done nothing to dispel that.

  He had looked into the eyes of evil men on many occasions in his career, both in the police and the military, but this was different. The Brankos transported him back to that day in Petrovici in 1992 where he had witnessed true, sadistic evil. The brothers radiated malevolence and cruelty and it disturbed him.

  7

  A Month Later

  Tom woke early and headed straight to his workout zone to begin his usual punishing circuit training. He did a simple and speedy circuit, using all the equipment, and was soon bathed in sweat. He dived into the shower but didn’t shave. His beard had grown substantially, and it gave him a slight feeling of anonymity, even if it was illusionary. That, plus the fact that his hair hadn’t been trimmed for a while, made his appearance somewhat different from when he had accepted the tasking.

  The past month had been a bit of a rollercoaster ride. He had been quickly accepted into the group as an acquaintance and training partner, but he’d not yet been approached about getting involved in any criminality.

  He had been to the Branko family house, a tidy and over-furnished fourth-floor flat in a fairly run-down estate just off City Road, an area that the creeping London gentrification had not yet quite hit. There he had met the Brankos’ mother, Mira: a matronly, heavy-set woman with dyed red hair, lots of costume jewellery and clown-like make-up. She looked older than the date of birth on the briefing sheet had suggested, and her lined face told the story of a hard-lived life. The brothers were deferential in her presence and she was clearly the boss of the small organisation. It was amusing to see that the brothers
still had a room with single beds in it, despite both being in their early thirties.

  Tom found his time with the brothers seriously hard work. Their enforced collegiality was wearing in the extreme; they both felt it necessary to put on a display of machismo all the time, unless they were in the presence of their mother. As a self-reliant person who used words carefully, the company of two such overly-macho, aggressive buffoons was torturous for Tom, but he was professional enough to play along, remaining sufficiently deferential to not be perceived as a threat.

  He had dropped hints that he hoped would lead the brothers to believe he was approachable to any criminal enterprise but, so far, he’d had no bites.

  He held regular briefings with Liam, reporting that he’d been accepted and seemed to be trusted to a degree. This he put down to the regular BJJ bouts where he kept taking Luka to the edge without ever quite beating him. Tom sometimes found this frustrating, knowing he could submit Luka in a heartbeat, but it kept the big Serb’s confidence high; and in any case, being under-estimated could be a distinct advantage. Luka had such an enormous ego, it wasn’t difficult to keep it massaged.

  As Tom finished his post-workout coffee, his phone rang: Luka, summoning him to a meeting. Half-an-hour later he was sat in a café in Hackney, nursing a coffee with Luka and Aleks Branko.

  ‘We need to speak, my friend,’ said Aleks. ‘We have a business opportunity for you.’

  ‘Are you up for a bit of work if we need some help, Tomo?’ asked Luka. ‘We sometimes need a bit of help with our business interests, and Ivan says you can be relied on.’

  ‘I’m listening,’ replied Tom

  ‘Has Ivan told you anything about what we do?’

  ‘A bit. Not much,’ Tom replied. This is perfect, he thought. The Brankos making the approach in this way couldn’t be better.

  The big Serb scowled. ‘Ivan talks too much but we go back a long way. He always had a big mouth.’ He shook his head and continued, a slight smile touching his blue eyes. ‘We help people who want to stay in the UK I think we’re like a dating agency!’ He laughed uproariously at his own joke.

  ‘Seriously,’ he continued, ‘we’re making plenty of money. We have Bosnian girls at home who can use EU Slovenian passports. It’s simple: we have someone who can do good photo-swaps in the passports. We then use them for paper marriages to men wanting visas. It gets them their visas and they pay us plenty for it. Some of our girls do escorting as well for extra cash. Most of them are working girls from back home who can make more over here.’

  ‘What would you want from me then?’ Tom said.

  ‘We often have to move a lot of cash after a busy day with the girls and you know how it is: you have dodgy money, and dodgy people want to steal it from you. Maybe you mind the girls, maybe help us at a few meetings. We just lost two good men—the bastard Home Office deported them—and we need some muscle. You interested, Tomo?’

  Tom flashed an easy smile. ‘Yeah, I can help you out, Luka. As long as I get a few quid my way.’

  ‘Good man. I trust you, Tomo. A fellow Serb who can fight. I’ll give you a call soon, yeah?’ Luka stood, indicating the meeting was over. They shook hands, and then Luka locked Tom in a light embrace.

  Aleks stared at Tom and growled, ‘Always remember though: you cross us and we will fuck you up. You wouldn’t be the first. The Branko family won’t be crossed. Ever.’ He smiled, but Tom could feel the conviction and menace behind the expression.

  Tom shrugged. ‘Hey, guys. Look at my face: who wouldn’t trust me? I’m a man of my word and we’re all Serbs. If that’s not enough, I can fuck off any time. A man can always find ways to make money.’

  The brothers laughed and Aleks said, ‘We’ll be in touch. Stay available. We’re busy, there’s lots of money to be made.’

  They nodded a farewell and left the café without further comment.

  Tom sat with the remainder of his coffee, smiling to himself. He fished his work phone out of his pocket and tapped out a text to Liam.

  ‘I’m in.’

  8

  Three Weeks Later

  After the meeting in the café, Tom found himself accepted as a full member of the gang. The days and weeks of groundwork and detailed preparation had proven essential, fully validating the decision to go for a slow-time infiltration. It was perfect that the socialising and MMA had led to the Brankos approaching him to help with their criminality: not only from a legal but also a safety standpoint.

  The past three weeks had enabled Tom to gather more than enough evidence of the family’s trafficking and prostitution business, much of which he had captured on covert recording equipment, both video and audio. For a week or so, he’d performed a security role at a brothel in Hackney, where Mira had rented a first-floor, three-bedroom maisonette and installed three Bosnian girls in the bedrooms, all of them sad and tragic individuals. The girls were worked pretty much full-on and Mira didn’t like them talking to Tom, so his conversations with them had been brief at most. They were all terrified of Mira and the brothers, a climate of fear keeping them very much in check. One of the girls, Ana, would often come out between clients to smoke a cigarette by where he sat. She was a funny girl, probably only eighteen but looking younger, full of life and with a great sense of humour. Tom always thought that with a change in life circumstances she could have made something of herself, but it seemed that the lure of drugs had put paid to all that. He couldn’t help but feel sorry for her but forced himself to keep his mind on the wider job and maintain a respectful distance between them. She would often flirt with Tom but only jokingly; Tom reckoned the last thing she actually wanted was more sex, given she was at it almost constantly with the punters.

  ‘Come on, Tomo. You know you want to; I’d be the best you ever have,’ she joked with a happy smile that almost, but not quite, masked the hidden sadness that her grey eyes betrayed.

  ‘Ana, you are on the go with men all day and night. You wouldn’t want extra, you must be exhausted.’

  ‘You’d be special, though. I will only charge half-price, as it’s you,’ she teased.

  Tom laughed. ‘What would Mira think of that, Ana?’

  ‘She’d go crazy, the nasty bitch. But she has promised to get my passport back soon so I can go home.’ Again she smiled, but the smile failed to touch her eyes.

  The girls seemed to be high on drugs half the time: probably the only way they could get through the days and the constant stream of clients. His brief conversations with Ana established that they had been working girls in Sarajevo who had jumped at the opportunity to earn more money in London. They had come over together, driven from Sarajevo by the brothers and crossing over on the ferry; a similar route to the one he’d taken himself with his mama all those years ago.

  Those who had been forced into sham marriages had done so with minimum fuss, with the applications to the Home Office apparently going in via the solicitor. They were all unhappy about how little they were paid and the fact that Mira had retained their passports but were too scared to protest.

  Tom’s team were delighted with his progress: all the covert recordings and forged documents had the Brankos bang to rights. They also had surveillance of the brothel as well as phone call and cell site information that plotted all the Brankos’ movements from Sarajevo to London. It would be a watertight case against them, even if the three trafficking victims didn’t want to give evidence. What they didn’t have yet was the final piece to nail the corrupt solicitor, Michael Adebayo.

  They did have good supporting evidence that he was handling bogus applications, but not enough to prove that he was knowingly subverting immigration rules. Tom had been kept away from the lawyer, with the Brankos frustratingly not even having talked about him in Tom’s presence. They needed more: Tom needed to get into the office and get something recorded to show that Adebayo had knowledge of the sham nature of the marriages.

  Tom’s phone buzzed next to him as he pondered the problem. Glancing at the
screen, he saw it was from Aleks and groaned inwardly as he answered it. ‘Aleks, man, how goes?’

  ‘We are out of the country for a while on some business and will be away for about four days or so. Mama may need a little help with a few things, so can you be available if she needs you? The girls at the Hackney place are going home; I think we’ve worn them out and we want them out of the way.’

  ‘Sure thing.’ Conscious that every word was being recorded on an app installed on his phone, he added, ‘What about the girls’ husbands?’

  Aleks laughed coarsely. ‘Who gives a fuck about them? Their applications are in, if they don’t get granted, we’ve already been paid. What they gonna do? Go to the police?’

  Tom laughed along. ‘No problem, Aleks. I’m about if your Mama needs anything. Tell Luka I was gonna kick his butt on the mat this week as well.’ More laughter as Aleks rang off.

  Tom was thankful they were going to be away, as it gave him a break from their bullshit. Mira had never called him before, so he reckoned he could have a few quiet days. He decided to go for a run; he was full of energy and wouldn’t be able to sleep later if he didn’t burn some of it off.

  He quickly changed into his running gear and set off along the Kentish Town streets, heading towards Hampstead and the Heath.

  He enjoyed his solitary runs, relishing the time to think and reflect. This reclusiveness was probably another reason Bev had called time on their relationship. He thought of her again: slim, pretty, with a big laugh and a big heart. He had enjoyed living with her and enjoyed the brief foray into normal life she gave him, but his fractured upbringing, nomadic military existence, and total commitment to the job had made things difficult. Could he ever completely trust anyone? Bev had got sick of the fact that something stopped Tom giving all of himself to her, so she left. The split had saddened him, he supposed, but a part of him felt like he should have been affected more than he was. A bigger part of him relished the comforting fact that he would continue relying on himself. He picked up his pace, feeling the burn in his legs and the tension dissipate as he pounded the streets.