Rob called Yuri and asked to meet. This wasn't the sort of thing he felt comfortable discussing over the phone. Yuri agreed tersely, and they settled on a local supermarket, which was usually quite busy at this time of day. They met within the hour, both men looking somewhat incongruous as they strode the chilled aisles in their business suits. To add verisimilitude, Yuri pushed a large shopping trolley which contained only a single bag of apples. They walked slowly, in perfect step.
"You have something to discuss?" said Yuri, his gaze fixed dead ahead.
"I think you'll like what I'm going to tell you."
"Then proceed."
"Last night my dad came over for dinner. He told me there's going to be a coup. The board is planning to oust David Carter. He'll be gone by the end of the month. He's made one too many mistakes, lost too much money. He's no longer sustainable."
Yuri Popov's features did not register even the slightest change of expression. To an onlooker, it was as if Rob had not spoken at all. His only remark was: "Please continue."
"Well, you know what that means. They need a replacement. Someone who knows what they're doing. Someone who's not embarrassed themselves in the past, somebody with a bit of nous. Someone who can bring back a bit of what's been lost."
"You're talking about yourself," said Yuri, eyeing a tin of peaches.
"My dad doesn't want the job," said Rob. "He likes being the power behind the throne. But he's asked me if I'd consider it."
"And what was your answer?"
"I told him I'd think about it."
"And?"
"It depends on what you have to say about it. I'd need assurances."
Yuri paused, and for the first time in a few minutes, he glanced sideways at Rob. "What sort of assurances?"
"You back off. You leave me and my family alone. For good. I'll take the job, I won't make waves. It'll be a simple, peaceful transition of power. You put a stop to your operations in East London, and I’ll put a stop to ours in West London. Our paths won’t cross."
Yuri was silent for another moment. He seemed to be digesting the proposition, but whether or not he found it palatable was impossible to tell. Eventually, he remarked: "You think David Carter will give up so easily?"
"He won't have a choice. He's just one man. At the end of the day, that's all he is. One man."
"And what about his son?"
"Who, Wayne?" Rob gave an involuntary bark of laughter. "I know Wayne. We grew up together. Best mates, we were, back in the old days. Wayne's a good lad, but he's not the brightest bulb in the box. All he was ever good for was kicking a ball about. Now he can't even manage that. It's sad, but in a war there's always casualties. I think Wayne will take whatever we offer him and be grateful."
"He seems to be in love with your wife."
"He... what?" Rob stopped. He looked at Yuri, who remained frustratingly expressionless.
"You know he visited your house yesterday?"
"Who told you that?"
"Nobody. I have seen the photographs for myself." Yuri paused, then said, "I can tell by your silence that you were not aware of this."
"They had a thing when we were kids," said Rob. "That's all. They haven't seen each other for years."
"Until yesterday."
Rob struggled to compute this new information. He had assumed that he was in the know, and that he would have the upper hand throughout this meeting. And here was fucking Yuri dropping a fresh bombshell out of nowhere. If it was true, of course. It might simply be a power play by the Popovs. Rob would talk to Chloe about it. He could trust her. She would never lie to him.
"Don't worry about Wayne," Rob said, trying to regain lost ground. "If need be, we'll get rid of him. There won't be any problems."
"Very well. In theory, your proposal is a good one. But how do I know we can trust you? My father will want more than the word of a slack-jawed middle manager."
"I’m not a middle-manager. I’m the next CEO.”
“Still.”
“There's something else,” Rob continued bitterly. “You've heard about Enrico Brigante?"
"I heard. Mile End's newest signing, isn't that so?"
"Right. And you know how David Carter brings his merchandise into the country?"
"I don't know precisely, but I would imagine it's a similar method to that used by my father."
"He brings it in on the flights with the new players."
"Ah. I thought as much. So presumably a shipment will be arriving with Brigante?"
"Correct. But not just any shipment. A huge shipment; the biggest we've ever had. He's trying to make a bit of easy money, to cover his Silvertown debts."
Yuri's expression darkened as he considered the packets of pasta that lined this set of shelves. "And why are you telling me this, Rob?"
"Consider this a show of good faith. David Carter's relying on this shipment to rebuild his name. He's got people like George McMinn watching his every move, just waiting for him to fuck up. They're like vultures circling round his head. If anything were to happen to that shipment, it might be just what we need to jumpstart our transition of power."
"I see. So you consider it a win-win situation? If we hijack the shipment, David Carter is made to look a fool and is swiftly ousted. A hijack – that is what you're talking about, isn't it?"
Rob thought very carefully before he answered. He couldn't help but suspect some kind of trap. In the end, he said: "Yes. That's what I'm talking about."
Yuri cocked his head thoughtfully. "In principle, it is not an idea to which my family would be opposed. But the details of Carter's shipments are shrouded in secrecy, are they not? He is careful to ensure that any information is shared on a purely need-to-know basis. So where exactly do you fit into the deal?"
"Simple," said Rob, idly grabbing a deluxe Galaxy bar. "I'm the driver."
"I beg your pardon?"
"I’ll be the one picking up Brigante from the airport. I'll oversee the unloading of the shipment, and it'll be packed into the limo with the luggage. Then I'll just drive away."
Yuri frowned. "You have done something like this before?"
"What, been the bagman? No, but I know the ropes. My dad pulled some strings to get me the gig. I didn't tell him why, of course. Just said I wanted to understand the workings of the business a bit better."
"And you will be willing to share the details of this shipment?"
"Yes – for a price."
"Which is?"
"My family. I want an assurance from your father that you'll leave them alone. No more park photoshoots. No more watching my house. No more following my wife around, or threatening my kids, or anything like that."
"I think I can guarantee that. But you realise, if we seize this shipment, that you will immediately fall under suspicion? David Carter will know that somebody leaked the information. And he will naturally focus on you. With that in mind, getting rid of him might not be as easy as you think. He'll be on his guard. He will know there is a traitor in his midst."
Rob didn't like the use of that word, 'traitor,' but he didn't comment. Instead he continued: "So you'll make it look realistic. I don't mind getting a black eye or two for the sake of authenticity. I'll even take another broken finger. But I want to know that my family is going to be safe."
Yuri smiled. "I'll see what I can do. You have the details of the shipment with you? Date, time?"
"I’m not that stupid, Yuri. Of course I don't. But the information's safe. I'll hand it over once I get an assurance from your father that my family and I will be safe when you take over."
Yuri's smile widened. He gave the shopping trolley a shove and let it roll away, whereupon it clattered against a display stand. The gangster no longer cared. "Expect a call," he said to Rob, and then strode out of the supermarket and into the daylight.
*
Mikhail Popov sat in patient silence, contemplating another chess move whilst Yuri explained the situation later that day. When the disquisition was over, he said: "This Rob Linley is an ambitious fellow."
"Yes. He believes he is being pragmatic, which is always a dangerous thing to believe. In fact he is merely being greedy. If we help to install him at the head of the table, he'll let us buy him out. We will have a monopoly in London. Mile End will be nothing more than a second rate football club."
"And David Carter?" asked Stanislaw. It was the first time he had spoken in several minutes. He had been listening carefully to his brother, doing his best to keep up with the apparently shifting loyalties within the rival club. "He won't go quietly."
"He won't have a choice," Yuri answered. "It appears that 'envious Casca' is gathering support."
"What?"
"Julius Caesar," said Mikhail, leaning forward to move his rook to a fresh and dangerous position on the board. The chess set was as splendid as ever, and Mikhail loomed over it from the leather chair behind his desk like the malevolent puppet master he was. "Envious Casca, unless I am mistaken, refers to Max Linley. Is that correct, Yuri?"
Yuri smiled. "Correct. Meanwhile, Cassius – with his lean and hungry look – is Rob Linley. Vultures are circling. The Ides of March approaches."
"What the hell are you talking about?" Stanislaw spat.
"Soon David Carter is going to lose everything," Mikhail said thoughtfully. He was still staring at the board, planning several moves ahead. But he was also thinking about a meeting he’d had with Wayne Carter earlier that day. A meeting of the utmost secrecy; even more so than the one between Yuri and Rob Linley. It had taken place in the sunny countryside, in their habitual layby on a winding lane.
"And Rob Linley wants my word that he and his family will be safe?" he said. "That is his price for the details of the shipment?"
"Yes. Naturally, he must be beaten and bloodied, or else it will be obvious that he is the traitor."
"Naturally," Mikhail said with a little smirk. Then he reached for the phone on his desk. "Well boys, if you will excuse me, I believe I have a call to make."
Yuri smiled and withdrew, while Stanislaw – somewhat sullen about being kept out of the loop with all this – shuffled out wordlessly.
Mikhail dialled a number, and listened patiently to the ringing on the line. Eventually, his call was answered, and a female voice said: "Yes? Who's this?"
"Ah. Mrs. Linley, I presume. Chloe, is that right?"
"Um, yes, who's this?"
"Please let me speak to your husband." There was something in his voice – a quiet authority – which silenced any further protests.
He heard Chloe call out: "Rob!"
When Rob Linley came on the line, Mikhail Popov spoke softly, yet with an undeniable crispness and clarity. "Mr. Linley," he said, "my name is Mikhail Popov. I believe you were expecting a call."
"Yes," Rob spluttered eagerly.
"You wished to obtain an assurance from me. And in return, you will provide certain information."
"Yes, uh... yes, that's right..."
"Well, you have my assurance. I pledge to you that your wife, your children, and yourself will be left alone. My son Yuri will be by your house within the hour to collect the information. Once the shipment is in our hands, I will consider our transaction concluded."
And he hung up the phone.
*
Yuri Popov rolled up outside the Linley townhouse in his limousine. He swaggered up the path and hammered on the door, not troubling to press the bell. Rob Linley must have been hovering in the hall, for he answered the door in less than five seconds. "Here," he said, handing over a brown manila envelope. "It's all there."
Yuri considered the envelope, then he considered the man who had given it to him. Rob Linley was just the sort of man he despised. A sleazy corporate climber. A man who would throw any of his friends or colleagues under the bus in order to succeed. No loyalty. No class.
He smiled politely. "Pleasure doing business with you, Rob."
Rob Linley slammed the door in his face.
*
Enrico Brigante peered sleepily through the window of the private jet as England came into view through the morning mist. He had been travelling for a long time, and at long last he had reached his new home. He heard a squeal as the wheels touched tarmac, and before long the jet had reached a halt on solid ground for the first time in several hours. He got to his feet, stretched his aching muscles, and descended the narrow staircase onto English soil.
A man in a suit came over to meet him. Enrico spotted a crowd of what he assumed to be reporters approaching from a distance. "Welcome to England, Mr. Brigante," said the suit. "My name is Robert Linley, but you can call me Rob. I'm here to take you to Mile End."
"Thank you," Enrico said.
Rob led him towards a waiting car. "Your luggage has already been unloaded," he explained. "The trunk is packed. We're ready to go whenever you are."
Enrico glanced over at the reporters, who were gaining ground and drawing inexorably nearer. "Should I perhaps wait a moment and...?"
"Hmm? Oh!" Rob seemed to notice the reporters for the first time. "No, no. Ignore them. There'll be plenty of time for that later. Believe me, you'll be sick of the sight of them before long."
He was talking too much, this Englishman. He seemed a little jittery. Enrico was used to people being starstruck in his presence, and he couldn’t help but wonder if that was the case here. It was a pleasant feeling; it reminded him of home, where he was an undisputed superstar. It soothed his ego.
He slithered into the back of the car and waited while Rob clambered into the driver's seat. Without another word, Rob revved the engine and the car coasted away.
*
If Stanislaw Popov had been somewhat resentful of the way in which his brother Yuri had seized the reins of this particular situation, that resentment had since been utterly dispelled. This morning was Stanislaw's opportunity to shine. Unlike Yuri, he was not a subtle man. Sometimes this irked him, and he wished he had the capacity for diplomacy and the kind of suave menace that Yuri purveyed. But this morning, there was no time for subtlety. It was, to borrow his brother's phrase, the 'Ides of March.' He’d had to Google what that meant, but now that he understood, he enjoyed the sinister promise of the phrase: betrayal was coming. He grinned at himself in the mirror as he zipped his combat jacket up to his chin.
