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“Good morning, my child,” he said, as he passed a cleaner in the corridor on his way to the vestry.
“Good morning, Father,” she replied, giving him a slight bow. He had learned over the years that if you look and sound as if you’re in your natural habitat, no one questions your presence.
He disappeared into the vestry, relieved to find the last chorister had left. He went straight to a cubicle that bore the name FATHER MICHAEL SEED, his confessor, and an old friend he had little in common with except that they were roughly the same size.
He removed his jacket and tie and replaced them with a long black cassock, a surplice, holy bands, and a dog collar that would transform him from a layman to a priest for the next hour. He felt a bit of a fraud, but he hoped the Almighty would forgive his transgression, and accept that it was for the greater good.
Glancing in the long mirror on the wall only made him feel even more guilty. He slipped back into the corridor, and made his way through the outer sacristy and into the nave. He kept a steady pace as he passed the Chapel of the Blessed Sacrament, having no desire to stop and talk to any of the parishioners, although he was well practiced at playing the part of a priest going about his pastoral duties should any of them question him.
When he reached a secluded corner below a bronze relief of St. Benedict, he stepped into the dark, cramped space, and settled down to wait to hear the confession of the only sinner he had an appointment with.
After a few moments the door to the confessional opened, and someone entered and sat down. He drew the red curtain.
“Good morning, Father,” said a voice he immediately recognized.
“Good morning, my son.”
“I’m sorry it’s been so long since my last confession, but my life has been in turmoil.”
“Is there any way I can help?” asked the commander, replying to the coded message.
“As you know, when I last attended confession, Father, Tulip was in hospital after swallowing a wrap of cocaine in an attempt to avoid arrest. I confess that I hoped he would die.”
“That is indeed a mortal sin, my son, but one with which, given the circumstances, I feel our Lord might have some sympathy.”
“In his absence I became a runner for several dealers, whose names I feel I must share with you, to atone for my transgressions.”
“May the Lord bless you and keep you.”
A slip of paper was pushed through the latticed screen. The commander took a quick look, and was delighted to find the names of several new sinners he hadn’t come across before.
“May the Lord have mercy on their souls,” he said, as he put the slip of paper into an inside pocket. “But have you located the Viper’s nest?”
“Tulip’s arrest for the murder of Adrian Heath created a vacancy in the hierarchy, Father, and I was promoted, which happens fairly regularly when you’re on a battlefield.”
“And?”
“Block A, Mansfield Towers, Lavenham Road, Brixton,” came back the immediate reply.
“That confirms our own intel. Am I also right in thinking that Rashidi’s headquarters are at the top of the building?”
“The top three floors. The twenty-fifth floor is where they grow the cannabis. The twenty-fourth is where the drugs are prepared for the street dealers. Heroin, cocaine, Ecstasy tablets, and cannabis.”
“And the twenty-third?”
“The distribution center. Where the dealers pick up their supplies and hand over their takings.”
“Who’s in charge?”
“Rashidi has four deputies. All of them are on the list I just gave you: a disbarred lawyer, a disqualified accountant, a doctor who’s been struck off the medical register, and a former sales manager who was sacked by John Lewis for embezzlement. He makes so much money now he no longer needs to embezzle. Rashidi also has a second-in-command, but I haven’t managed to find out his name or where he lives, but I’m fairly sure it’s not in the building. The whole operation is as well run as any City institution.”
“And the security?”
“He has four lookouts watching the building at all times. There are two entrances to the slaughter on the twenty-third floor; the front door, which is made of reinforced steel, only opens from the inside, and has a grille so the gatekeeper can check on anyone who wants to come in. The doors are protected by a New York stop, a safety device invented by the Mafia to keep out any unwelcome visitors. However, that’s not your biggest problem. Rashidi doesn’t use that door. He has his own private entrance and exit.”
The commander didn’t interrupt the confession.
“Blocks A and B are joined by a walkway on the twenty-third floor. Rashidi has a large flat on the twenty-second floor of Block B, so at the slightest hint of trouble, he can be well out of harm’s way before anyone can reach the front door of the slaughter.”
