before it had come down. He had laughed. An old man, in drill shorts, a sweat-stained shirt and a colonial hat, was behind a motor mower that coughed and spluttered. His immediate neighbours were Flight Lieutenant and Mrs Geoffrey Walsh, and their home was a small bungalow. That evening he had sent Alex round to collect the mower and bring it back for servicing in the garage, beside the two Mercedes. It had been returned in a week and worked a dream. The old couple existed in poverty.
It was said in Marbella, most particularly in the office of Rafael, Ivanov’s lawyer, that the views from his patio and from the main windows in the ochre-coloured villa were the most sought-after in the district. He would have thought himself at peace there, except that an email had come earlier that morning. A visit was planned. Marko appeared from the side of the villa with Alex’s wife. They went down the steps and towards the garage. The electric gates were opening. He did not have to look about for Alex, who would be armed and watching the gate.
The visit he had been alerted to was not one he could refuse lightly. The prospect made the only cloud in a clear sky. He watched the Mercedes, black, with privacy windows, slip out of the gates, which closed immediately after it. The visit would be, almost, a return to old times.
The two Serbians, Marko and Alex’s wife, were recognised at the school gate. It was a good meeting place, and the street that ran up the hill between the schoolyard and the Guardia Civil headquarters was well filled. There was a babble of conversation and the squeals of children. Cigarette smoke hung over them, parents admired their children’s art work, and they were acknowledged, as they waited for the two little ones to emerge. It was hot, and Alex’s wife wore a halter top that exposed her arms, shoulders and much of her back, her only protection a small-brimmed hat. Marko wore a poplin windcheater – there was no threat of rain but he needed something to cover his left armpit, where the CZ99 semi-automatic handgun nestled. It was now three years since his son and Alex’s daughter had been enrolled at the school.
That date had marked a major change in the lives of the Russian organised-crime leader, Pavel Ivanov, his two permanent bodyguards, their wives and children: their breakout from life inside the Villa del Aguila.
Men, most of them unemployed because of the economic crisis, greeted Marko and asked his opinion of the Málaga football team, and women talked cheerfully to Alex’s wife about the price of cooking oil and whether the chicken-pox epidemic would spread west from Fuengirola. He kept the windcheater zipped to the middle of his chest and held a folded newspaper over the left armpit. There were more children from eastern Europe in other Marbella schools, and down the coast at Puerto Banus, Estepona and Mijas, but no more at this school opposite the Guardia Civil barracks.
There were ironies and Marko – a forty-two-year-old with a hard, chiselled face, a man who oozed strength, had throat tattoos and a skull shaped like a hammer head – was not blessed with the humour that would have pointed to them. Threats stalked them at the villa on the hill. Few of the deals Pavel Ivanov had struck in the last three years had involved the transhipment of drugs, weapons, girls, or the laundering of money at which he had become a supreme expert. His business had been cleansed and he had achieved – almost – legitimacy. Threats came from others who were less successful – burglary, mugging or ‘protection’ demands. The children could have been kidnapped for ransom. Ivanov had the household’s security down to a minimum but enjoyed the loyalty of the two Serbian families. Matters involving the police, prosecutors and the specialist UDyCO team he could handle, but criminals made him anxious. So his men were always armed and well trained in the use of firearms.
The children came. He did not lift
It was said in Marbella, most particularly in the office of Rafael, Ivanov’s lawyer, that the views from his patio and from the main windows in the ochre-coloured villa were the most sought-after in the district. He would have thought himself at peace there, except that an email had come earlier that morning. A visit was planned. Marko appeared from the side of the villa with Alex’s wife. They went down the steps and towards the garage. The electric gates were opening. He did not have to look about for Alex, who would be armed and watching the gate.
The visit he had been alerted to was not one he could refuse lightly. The prospect made the only cloud in a clear sky. He watched the Mercedes, black, with privacy windows, slip out of the gates, which closed immediately after it. The visit would be, almost, a return to old times.
The two Serbians, Marko and Alex’s wife, were recognised at the school gate. It was a good meeting place, and the street that ran up the hill between the schoolyard and the Guardia Civil headquarters was well filled. There was a babble of conversation and the squeals of children. Cigarette smoke hung over them, parents admired their children’s art work, and they were acknowledged, as they waited for the two little ones to emerge. It was hot, and Alex’s wife wore a halter top that exposed her arms, shoulders and much of her back, her only protection a small-brimmed hat. Marko wore a poplin windcheater – there was no threat of rain but he needed something to cover his left armpit, where the CZ99 semi-automatic handgun nestled. It was now three years since his son and Alex’s daughter had been enrolled at the school.
That date had marked a major change in the lives of the Russian organised-crime leader, Pavel Ivanov, his two permanent bodyguards, their wives and children: their breakout from life inside the Villa del Aguila.
Men, most of them unemployed because of the economic crisis, greeted Marko and asked his opinion of the Málaga football team, and women talked cheerfully to Alex’s wife about the price of cooking oil and whether the chicken-pox epidemic would spread west from Fuengirola. He kept the windcheater zipped to the middle of his chest and held a folded newspaper over the left armpit. There were more children from eastern Europe in other Marbella schools, and down the coast at Puerto Banus, Estepona and Mijas, but no more at this school opposite the Guardia Civil barracks.
There were ironies and Marko – a forty-two-year-old with a hard, chiselled face, a man who oozed strength, had throat tattoos and a skull shaped like a hammer head – was not blessed with the humour that would have pointed to them. Threats stalked them at the villa on the hill. Few of the deals Pavel Ivanov had struck in the last three years had involved the transhipment of drugs, weapons, girls, or the laundering of money at which he had become a supreme expert. His business had been cleansed and he had achieved – almost – legitimacy. Threats came from others who were less successful – burglary, mugging or ‘protection’ demands. The children could have been kidnapped for ransom. Ivanov had the household’s security down to a minimum but enjoyed the loyalty of the two Serbian families. Matters involving the police, prosecutors and the specialist UDyCO team he could handle, but criminals made him anxious. So his men were always armed and well trained in the use of firearms.
The children came. He did not lift
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