The Outsiders by Gerald Seymour Read Free Book Online Page A

rules when we get there.’
    ‘I rang my mother last night. She gave me the usual stuff – a two-week break at this time of year was hardly the road to promotion, that kind of thing. I don’t think she’s had a day off in the last five years. And she said, ‘‘Do you really want to spend that amount of time with him ?’’ That’s you, Jonno.’
    She was his girlfriend. They were a reasonably steady item. He didn’t think she was seeing anyone else. Her family lived in the East Midlands, but he hadn’t been invited up for a weekend to meet them. He knew what she liked to eat, what films she wanted to see and the music she listened to, but he couldn’t have claimed to be her soul-mate. He had never seen her angry, or disappointed, facing a crisis or delirious with enjoyment . . . but the sex was all right, and they seemed good together. When she was out with other girls, he missed her. If they couldn’t meet, or if he had to cancel her weekend sleepover at his place, he didn’t know how she felt about it.
    ‘We’ll be fine,’ he said.
    ‘It’ll be good,’ she said. ‘I mean it. Lots of fun.’
    ‘It’ll be great.’
    ‘Better than that. Brilliant. Can’t wait. One long laugh – thanks.’
    Their hands were together and they drank their coffee, spearing looks at their watches. They were taking liberties with the time, as they talked through where they’d meet in the morning for the drive to Stansted. He told her about the tickets and she promised to pay him back for hers. They talked a bit about cost-sharing when they were there, and then they stood up. Posie had her arms around his neck and gave him a long slow kiss. Jonno thought that house-sitting with the cat at Geoff and Fran’s Villa Paraiso might be Paradise and heaven rolled into one. Other punters in the coffee shop eyed them, one or two laughing. It was a good moment – no, a great one.
    Out on the pavement they did cheek kisses, and had another hug, then went their separate ways.
     
    The Major dominated the meeting.
    He had not come this far, in an executive jet, to exchange small-talk.
    The shipping agent they met would have expected a session with the doors closed and the windows keeping out the wind that came off the inland sea. They talked bulk and tonnage. The cargo was opiate paste, or crude heroin, refined in Ashgabat where the factory was cheaper than in Trabzon: Turkmenistan cost a pittance compared to Turkey. He preferred always to meet face to face so that he could watch a man’s eyes when they talked business. The Major believed he could recognise half-truths, evasions. Men were dead because they had not taken account of that skill.
    The smoke from the shipping agent’s cigarettes was whipped away from his face by the gusts off the Caspian. They were outside. The temperature was hovering between fourteen and fifteen degrees, and they sat at tables by the pool, which was drained, and looked out over a patio area, the beach and the water. They were the only people who had ventured outside. The Major did not talk business in hotel rooms or restaurants. He regarded himself as a prime target of the Americans and wanted open spaces. He didn’t use mobile phones unless he had clearance from the Gecko. The shipping agent was cold – he had worn his best silk suit to the meeting – and showed his discomfort. They could not be overheard as they talked money. The deal involved a margin of trust: the shipping agent would build into his price what he must pay to Customs officials at each end of the transhipments across Azerbaijani territory. The Major could not verify the figures but his word was backed by his reputation – and the menace of those with him.
    He did not cheat those he did business with. He pressed for hard bargains, but good ones. The threat of violence hung over every clinched deal if honesty was not two-sided. It was the same as it had been when he had started out, and the same for all of those who existed in that