Blood Money (chapters thirteen and fourteen.) (standard:Suspense, 3520 words) [7/18] show all parts
Author: Hulsey	Added: Sep 22 2011	Views/Reads: 2226/1822	Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Continued.

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Pepper again glanced out of the window. “Surely, O'Hara wouldn't dare
have you topped, Sam. If anything happened to you, then the media would 
crucify him.” 

“So who took the money?” interrupted Schofield. “With a degree of
confidence I would eliminate Manaf, so who does that leave? Kannallakis 
and our arrogant friend, Mukhtar. But how would they know about the 
money? As far as they were concerned, they were to receive a cheque.” 

Chaplin and Pepper were paralysed with fright when the door to the
lounge opened. A pretty, blonde girl, clad only in a red silk dressing 
gown ignored the guests and helped herself to one of Chaplin's 
cigarettes. Her long mane was tousled and her feline eyes were 
half-open. 

“What time is it, Deano?” she asked. 

“It's not yet nine 'o'clock. Go back to bed, Gemma.” 

The girl sat on Schofield's knee and poured herself a glass of Jack
Daniels. “Shouldn't you be at the office, Deano?” 

“That's one of the reasons I left the army, I don't like early mornings.
I'm my own boss now, Gemma.” 

“Aren't you going to introduce me to your friends?” she asked. Chaplin
was conscious that he was staring at her long, slender legs. Schofield 
noticed Pepper's seemingly lack of interest towards the girl, and that 
added fuel to the rumour that he did indeed prefer men. 

“Go back to bed ,honey, it's just men's talk. I'll wake you at
ten-thirty, I promise,” ordered Schofield. 

The girl kissed him on the lips and reluctantly left the room. “Shit,
Dean, are you crazy or what?” moaned Chaplin. “She might have heard 
everything.” 

“Relax, Sam. You could have told her the whole set up and it would have
gone over Gemma's head. She's not playing with a full deck.” Pepper 
resumed the debate. “Would the Greek or the paki have the resources for 
such an organised job?” 

“Organised,” countered Chaplin. “I hardly think it was organised... The
robbery didn't warrant being organised. O'Hara, in his stubbornness 
refused to mention to the authorities that the van was carrying three 
million grand. If he had, then we would have been escorted to the bank 
by the police. Security was non existent and whoever robbed us knew 
that.” 

Schofield picked up the morning newspaper off his table. “O'Hara must be
suffering. The tabloids are crucifying him. They've even revived old 
stories about his possible links with the IRA.” 

Pepper drained his glass. “Well, that's it. I'm out of here. Shit
happens and gentlemen, we have been dumped on big style. May I suggest 
that you do not contact me again?” 

“Sit down, Jack,” threatened Schofield. “Someone has stolen our money
and I aim to do something about it.” 

The reporter smirked. “Like what? What exactly are you fucking going to
do, Deano? Grow up man, it's about time you took a reality check. 
You're not Rambo, and Perry Mason here has been reduced to a bumbling 
wreck. Even if you were competent at your job, which incidentally you 
are not, where would you start? The entire force of London CID can't 
find out who was responsible for the robbery, but you can? Do me a 
favour and forget about the money and forget about me. Good fucking 
morning.” 

Schofield waited until the reporter had gone before whispering,
“dickhead... So where do you stand, Sam?” 

“Where do I stand? I'm being investigated by CID and there may be a
psycho Paddy waiting to blow me away, and you ask me where I stand? Do 
you know, Pauline, I'm certain even suspects me of being involved with 
the robbery? We've even had to keep David off school because he was 
being teased about his old man being a potential armed robber. Where I 
stand, Dean is in a puddle of shit about six feet deep and I'm sinking 
fast.” 

“Do you know any good solicitors?” 

“It's not funny, Dean... Everything's such a bloody joke with you isn't
it?“ 

“Okay, so I'll do this alone. I'll get our money back without your
help.” 

Chaplin laughed out loud. “So let's suppose that by some miracle that
you did get back the money, where would that leave us? I for one 
wouldn't be able to spend a penny of it, and you? I wouldn't be 
surprised if CID and O'Hara have you under surveillance.” 

“Do you have the address of Mukhtar?” 

Chaplin assumed a more solemn stance. “You are serious aren't you? Yes,
I have his address, but God willing the money is closer to home, 
hopefully in bloody Belfast.” 

“Mukhtar's address?” 

The solicitor wrote it down on a piece of paper and handed it to
Schofield. “Whatever you decide to do I want nothing more to do with 
it. The only way out of this as far as I can see is if O'Hara somehow 
gets his money back and then keeps his promise to donate it to the 
three appointed beneficiaries. Perhaps then, we might be able to 
collect our share... Don't you see, Dean; this is our only way out of 
this mess?” 

Schofield listened with interest to what his brother in law was saying.
“That makes sense, but not everything is rainbows and butterflies. Just 
suppose I did find out who took the money. I could send an anonymous 
letter to O'Hara and let him take over. I'm merely assisting him in his 
search for the thieves, only he doesn't know it.” “You do whatever you 
have to, but I think it best if we didn't see each other again for a 
while.” 

“Jesus, Sam, you're my brother in law. The police would be more
suspicious if we stopped seeing each other.” 

Chaplin opened the front door and checked for any suspicious characters.
“Please don't come to my home, Dean, I think it's for the best. Good 
morning and good luck.” 

The troubled solicitor walked swiftly along the road, unaware of the
driver of the black BMW that was parked opposite Schofield's flat. The 
driver removed his sunglasses and spoke into his cell phone. He joined 
the Saturday morning traffic, satisfied with his morning's work. 

14 

PIRAEUS ATHENS 

Terry Keenan leant on the balcony of the Athens, Acropil hotel and
looked down at the busy street below. The bare-chested Irishman sucked 
on his lemon lollipop and basked in the welcome Greek sunshine. 
Although the temperature at that time of the year was not sweltering, 
the climate was pleasant and warm. 

Keenan was a cautious man; the false passport he had used to enter
Greece was a natural precaution to protect his identity. To hand over 
his passport to the desk clerk was the usual procedure in Greece, and 
Keenan was confident that the fake document would survive a thorough 
inspection. 

He rummaged through his drawers and selected a black, baggy tee shirt.
He placed his 9mm Browning in the waistband of his shorts and the tee 
shirt conveniently hid the bulge. A black baseball cap and a pair of 
designer sunglasses completed his get up. 

The Irishman had left nothing to chance and was as immaculate as ever in
his planning. He had purchased a map and had visited the local Internet 
cafe to find the location he sought, rather than to ask for directions. 


Passing through the hotel foyer, the desk clerk waved to him. “Have a
nice day, Mr Riley.” 

Keenan mounted his rented scooter and kicked it into action. The
scooter, he reckoned was more convenient for the streets of Athens and 
easier to manoeuvre between the traffic if need be. He merged with the 
chaotic lanes of traffic and inhaled the fragrant flora and the strong 
stench of fish. 

Ten minutes later, and Keenan joined the Akti Miaoli Street that borders
the harbour. He parked his scooter at the side of the road and walked 
along the harbour front, occasionally glancing at the flat-capped 
fishermen who were fixing their nets. A fleet of cargo and passenger 
ships were moored in the port of Piraeus, but Keenan was not here for 
the sightseeing. 

He came across several seafront establishments and quickly located the
Vlassis Taverna. The taverna was partly covered with a thatched roof 
and several tables were pitched outdoors close to the waterfront. 
Enormous wine barrels lined the walls and the red and white checked 
tablecloths looked tacky, but typical of a Greek taverna. The music of 
bouzouki's serenaded the diners. 

Only a handful of holidaymakers occupied the interior of the taverna,
and four local fishermen were engaged in a game of cards. Nobody paid 
Keenan much attention as he sat at a table facing the staircase, his 
baseball cap and sunglasses still intact. 

It was ten minutes before a small, stocky man, wearing an apron
approached his table. “Parakalo. You are English, yes?” 

“Close... I'll have the grilled octopus with salad and a cup of coffee
please.” 

“Grilled octopus, eh? Nescafe or Greek coffee, Sir?” 

“Greek will be fine.” 

Another ten minutes passed before Keenan was served with bread and
coffee. Leaving his table, the Irishman walked towards the staircase. 
He took the steps two at a time and was ignored by the fishermen, who 
were squabbling over their cards. 

Keenan passed three apartments on the first floor before advancing to
the second storey. He focused on the number five, hanging lopsided on 
the paint-flaked door. Reaching towards his shorts, he crept towards 
the door. 

“Excuse me.” 

Keenan swung round and faced the man who had taken his order downstairs.


“I'm looking for the bog... The toilet... WC?” 

“Ah, the WC. Downstairs my friend. Come, I will show you.” 

It was another fifteen minutes before the octopus was served. Keenan had
tasted better, but it was edible and not too rubbery. He was now 
growing impatient and checked his wristwatch. 

The proprietor sat beside him. “The octopus, eet is good eh?” 

“The octopus is fine... Could I trouble you for a large lager please?” 

“Eet is on the house friend. Vlassis is happy if his customers are
happy.” 

Keenan sipped his lager and focused on an old gypsy woman, who was
carrying bunches of flowers. He tipped the old lady and then realised 
his mistake as she sat beside him, muttering something 
incomprehensible. She grasped his hand and Vlassis quickly appeared on 
the scene. He chased away the woman and settled down once more beside 
Keenan. In his hands was a bottle of raki and two glasses. 

“Fucking Albanians,” he growled. “Ignore her.” He proceeded to pour out
two glasses of the potent liquid. “Yamas.” 

“Yamas.” The Irishman grimaced as he tasted the strong ouzo. The sound
of footsteps descending the staircase held Keenan's interest. The face 
was familiar and there could be no mistake. Keenan recalled the man's 
features from the newspaper cutting. 

The new arrival, who had a cigarette clenched between his teeth was
beckoned towards the fishermen and a long conversation took place. 
Although Keenan was not fluent in Greek, the name Darius was all the 
confirmation he needed. 

Darius nodded at Vlassis as he exited the establishment, and Keenan
swallowed the remainder of his raki. 

“You like, eh?” smiled Vlassis. “Another?” 

Keenan held up a hand and rose from the table. “No thanks, I'm driving.
Thanks for the meal, Vlassis.” 

The proprietor shrugged his shoulders and returned to his bar. Stepping
into the pleasant sunshine, Keenan jogged after Kannellakis. He 
followed him across the busy road, ignoring the furious drivers, who 
sounded their horns and cursed him. 

Keenan reached into the pocket of his shorts and unwrapped a strawberry
lollypop. Kannellakis turned down a side street and Keenan was thankful 
for the shade. They passed several shipping company offices, before the 
Greek turned into a blacked out building without windows. 

Keenan waited a few minutes before sliding open the door. 

Kannellakis, who was bent over the bonnet of a car turned to face the
intruder, and in his hand, he brandished a spanner. 

“Darius Kannallakis?” queried Keenan. 

Kannellakis studied the face of the stranger, his cigarette still
dangling from his lips. “Who are you and what are you doing here?” 

Keenan ignored the question and whistled after recognising the car. “A
Ford Mustang? Shit, I haven't seen one of these for years.” 

Kannellakis relaxed. “The 1974 version, 2.3 litre engine and...” 

“Aren't you supposed to be underprivileged, Darius? This motor must be
worth a fortune.” 

“The car was given to me many years ago by an American friend who has a
house here. It was not in working order when he gave it to me, but I'm 
close to restoring it... Again, I ask, who are you?” 

Keenan removed his sunglasses and tossed his lollypop stick to the
ground. “A friend sent me.” 

“A friend? You are English, no?” 

“Fuck!” snarled the Irishman. “Are you Greeks obsessed with the English?
I'm fucking Irish, Darius, Irish.” 

“Mr O'Hara sent you?” 

“Correct, Darius, only he isn't feeling too charitable at this time...
Okay, I'll put this as blunt as I can. What do you know about the 
robbery in London?” 

“You think that I had something to do with that?” 

Keenan removed his pistol from the waistband of his shorts. “Please
don't fuck me about. I'm knackered and this damned heat is pissing me 
off... Who stole Mr O'Hara's money?” 

The frightened man retreated behind the car. “I swear I had nothing to
do with it.” 

“Get in the car, Darius.” 

“What?” 

“Get in the fucking car!” 

Kannellakis obeyed him and Keenan opened the garage, door before
climbing in beside him. 

“Let's go for a drive. I fancy taking in a bit of your wonderful
scenery.” 

“The car is not yet ready to drive.” 

“Well, we'll see shall we?” said Keenan; his weapon still aimed at the
frightened driver. “Move it.” 

The red Ford Mustang came to life and Kannellakis steered it into the
street. He looked nervously across at his passenger. “Where do you want 
me to drive?” 

“Somewhere quiet, above the harbour will do, Darius.” 

Fifteen minutes had passed and they were now driving along a narrow road
high above Piraeus. Keenan ordered his hostage to turn off the road 
onto a grassy clearing. 

“You've excelled yourself, Darius. The motor ran like a baby... Now get
out of the car.” 

Keenan shepherded Kannellakis into a grove of trees. 

“Do you know what I hate about my job, Darius? I hate it when I have to
kill someone who may be innocent. Actually, I quite like you and that 
makes my job just a little harder... After the deed is done, I think 
that perhaps I won't be able to sleep at night, but I always do... Does 
that make me a bad person, Darius?” 

The trembling Greek shook his head. 

“Are you pissing yourself, Darius? I expected better coming from a real
life hero... Don't you think it ironic that you come through that fated 
flight only to die like this? Kismet I suppose.” 

“You must listen to me,” sobbed Kannellakis. “One of the others must
have robbed Mr O'Hara. I swear, I'm...” 

“Who Darius! Who?” 

Keenan aimed his pistol at the distraught man's left knee and squeezed
the trigger. Kannellakis screamed and collapsed to the ground. 

“See what you made me do, Darius? Just tell me what you know and I'll
drop you off at the hospital.” 

The stricken man was clutching his bloody knee. “Why would I rob Mr
O'Hara? One hundred thousand pounds is more than enough for me.” 

“What?” 

Kannellakis realised his mistake. “Perhaps Mukhtar or Manaf planned the
robbery but not me.” 

Keenan held his pistol against the right knee of Kannellakis. “What did
you mean by one hundred thousand pounds?” 

“I am confused,” pleaded the wounded man. 

Keenan again pulled the trigger and the right kneecap of Kannellakis
exploded. 

“Don‘t make me angry? Shit, I don't want to see you suffer. Now talk.” 

The crippled Greek spit into the face of his torturer. 

The irate Irishman knelt down beside his victim and pressed the butt of
his pistol against his ravaged left knee. 

“Ahhhh! Please, no!” 

“Talk to me, Darius. Fucking talk to me!” 

Keenan asserted more pressure onto his weapon and Kannellakis let out an
agonising scream. 

“You've got balls, I grant you that, Darius.” The Irishman smiled and
directed the muzzle of his weapon at the groin of the wounded man. “I'm 
not fucking with you. Tell me what I want to hear or I swear, I'll blow 
your bollocks off and leave you here for the vultures.” 

“C...C...Chaplin. I...It was Chaplin.” 

Keenan moved closer. “Chaplin robbed Mr O'Hara?” 

“Ahh. No, he was going to pay us one hundred thousand pounds each.” 

“All three of you?” 

“Y...Y...Yes.” 

Keenan rose to his feet and pondered. “Let me get this right. Chaplin
was going to pocket the rest of the money?” 

Kannellakis nodded. 

“Was Chaplin working alone?” 

“I don't know.” 

Keenan placed his hands around the throat of the tortured man and
squeezed. Satisfied that Kannellakis was dead, he walked swiftly 
towards the car. Driving over the rough terrain towards the body, the 
Irishman lifted him into the passenger seat. He drove slowly back onto 
the coast road and halted when he came to a gap in the safety railing. 

Keenan checked that the road was clear before pushing the corpse into
the driver's seat. He released the handbrake and pushed with all of his 
might. The car vanished over the steep cliff and Keenan scrambled to 
the edge, to see the crumpled vehicle disappear beneath the waves. 

Noticing that his tee shirt was bloodstained, Keenan removed it and
buried it beneath a sand dune. He tossed the pistol into the sea and 
began to jog downhill to Piraeus. The sunrays against his naked torso 
would do him good. Yes, he would sleep well tonight. 


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