Now that the initial contacts are made and the supply routes from the source are secured, the real logistical puzzle begins: distribution.
It's easy to get romantic about the grand scale—national, continental, international supply lines tracing invisible arteries across the globe—but the reality is more granular, intangible, maddeningly prone to snags and derailments at every stage. The small details are what kill you. In the end, it's the unremarkable delivery van that gets pulled over on the M62 because the driver failed to signal. It's the warehouse clerk who gets suspicious because the paperwork is crumpled and smells faintly of oranges. Or the dispatcher who notices, for the first time, that a single crate on the manifest doesn't fit the usual shipping pattern. Even success, when it comes, is more a matter of relentless, dull repetitions than of any single stroke of genius.
The primary markets are clear. The UK, with its dense urban centers and affluent consumer base, has an insatiable appetite. From Croydon to Newcastle, there are communities built on quiet excess, on a thousand private parties and hidden rooms, on the certainty that even in the worst recession, people will always find money for what they crave. Across the Atlantic, the fragmented, sprawling demand of the United States offers a different kind of opportunity—and risk. The problem with America isn't the lack of customers; it's the bottomless, shape-shifting chaos of the place. It's too easy to get lost, to be torn apart by your own ambition, to be noticed by the wrong set of federal eyes.
For the UK operation, air freight is the only method that makes sense for the first major shipment. Customs at the major ports are too hot, and the rail lines are crawling with dogs and random spot-checks. The play is to use a chartered cargo plane, perhaps one carrying legitimate produce or textiles, with a few unmarked crates hidden among the pallets. A private jet is a more discreet, though more expensive, option—useful for moving smaller, high-value samples to establish trust with distributors on the ground. Either way, the goal is to get the product to a secure warehouse on the outskirts of London or Manchester, somewhere with good motorway access and few questions asked. The drop must be unremarkable, one of a hundred similar shipments that pass through every day, then quickly dispersed into a network of smaller, safer caches.
But even before landing, there's the matter of who actually handles the distribution. The traditional approach is to use your own people, but that's suicide if you don't have a deep bench of trusted soldiers already embedded in the territory. The other way is to piggyback on an existing organization, the kind that's already used to moving volume and, more importantly, cleaning up after their own messes. In Britain, there are two such outfits: the Harrigans and the Stevensons.
The Harrigans are a blunt instrument, a family enterprise that's operated for generations with the subtlety of a crowbar. Their thing is volume—cheap cigarettes, knockoff pharmaceuticals, counterfeit electronics, and, when the occasion demands, high-quality coke. Their reach is everywhere, but so are their enemies, and their methods are primitive, bordering on moronic. Still, there's a kind of genius in their persistence, and when they say they'll do a job, it gets done. The Stevensons, by contrast, are surgical. They run on loyalty, silence, and an utter contempt for overt violence. Their product is exclusivity and reliability, and they have a standing arrangement with elements of the Metropolitan Police. It's said you can slip a kilo of heroin into the Prime Minister's teapot if you do it through a Stevenson channel. The choice, therefore, is between brute force and surgical precision.
I would need a organization that can sell these products in London and other cities in the countries. One option can be the Harrigans, where I can get involved with Conrad and Meave Harrigan, or the Stevensons. I would need a reliable organisation, so i dont deal with the bullshit.
But before any of that, there's the question of introductions. I've spent two weeks running down mutual friends and old business acquaintances, putting out feelers through the appropriate channels, and, when necessary, making quiet threats. It's not enough to have product—you need a reputation, a myth. You need the right people to believe you are who you say you are, and that you have what you say you have.
Its a week later and i manage to get in contact with Meave Harrigan, the wife of conrad and i speak to them on the phone.
The call comes at two in the morning, which is meant to unsettle me, but I've been waiting in a hotel room for three days, long past the point of fatigue or surprise. The line crackles with that particular London static, and an unfamiliar voice says, "Is this… Lee?" The cadence is off—nervous, rehearsed. I recognize it immediately as a test.
I say, "This is Leonidas Cassilas. I was expecting Meave."
There's a pause, then a laugh that sounds like glass breaking. "You know how it is," she says. "Busy week in the business." She doesn't introduce herself, and I know better than to ask. "What do you want with Meave?"
"I want to set up a meeting," I say. "I have merchandise that needs to move, and I don't have time for the usual courting rituals."
Another pause. "You're not from here, are you?" The question isn't a question. "We don't do business over the phone. Especially not with ghosts."
The implication is clear: I'm still an unknown quantity, and the Harrigans don't deal with unknowns, no matter what legends precede them. I could play the supplicant, but that's not going to work—these people exist solely to exploit weakness. So I pivot.
"If I wanted to waste your time, I'd have sent you a crate through Heathrow last night. This is me being polite," I say. "I'll be at the George on Commercial Street tomorrow at four. Bring Meave, or bring a gun. Your choice." I hang up before she can respond.
I spend the night reviewing the plan, compulsively checking the manifests, the permits, the cover stories I've constructed like a house of cards. I clean my pistol and repack my suitcase three times. At noon, I check out, tip the bellman in cash, and walk the city for three hours, burning off nerves in the drizzle. I arrive at the George early, order a mineral water, and wait.
At four precisely, a black BMW pulls up. Two men get out first, then Meave: she is short, built like a bulldog, and dressed in a peacoat two sizes too large for her. She sits across from me, alone, and orders a gin and tonic without looking at the menu. Her eyes are ancient. She says, "You're not what I expected."
I say, "Neither are you."
She grins, crooked and predatory. "So, Leonidas. You want to run product through my city. Why shouldn't I just kill you and take the lot?"
I laugh. "Because you'd never find the shipment. And because you need me if you want to move up in the world."
She sips her drink, sizing me up. "You think very highly of yourself."
"I think very highly of my product," I say. "And I think you've been waiting for something new."
She considers this, then leans in. "You have one shot. If I don't like it, you disappear."
"That's fair," I say. "Tomorrow. Same place, different time. I'll have a sample."
She stands, leaves her unfinished drink, and is gone.
I spend the night in a rented flat in Tottenham, staring at the ceiling. The next day, I take a taxi to the George. This time, I bring the sample in a nondescript shopping bag. Meave is already there, nursing a coffee. She takes the bag without a word, opens it under the table, and inspects the contents with the efficient, brutal curiosity of someone who's seen it all.
She nods, almost imperceptibly, then says, "We'll be in touch."
For the next week, I hear nothing. I go to the gym, eat terrible takeaway, watch muted television in my flat. On the eighth day, my phone rings.
Is this Meave on the phone, she said yes and i say this is Leonidas Cassilas on the phone. I was wondering if we could meet tomorrow or the next weekend.
Firstly you little shit how do i know that you won't betray me or are some cops on the side that is looking to entrap me in some crime.
I laugh at her audacity and say my name is enough of a guarantee to avoid all this bullshit. I have merchandise that needs to be distributed throughout the country, and I don't have the time or the patience to do it personally in a country.
Darling, this is the one of the only time you be allowed to threaten me because i am not the type of person who deals well with threats. Do it again and i will slit you throat and feed you to your own family pigs and serve them to your kids.