Chapter 11: The Drug Trade
[The Three Bells Pub, Brixton — May 5, 2008, 8:30 PM]
The backroom of the Three Bells smelled of stale lager and jerk seasoning, which meant Jerry Baptiste's wife had been cooking again. The woman ran a restaurant three streets away that was, by every account James had gathered, the best Jamaican food in South London. She also, apparently, supplied her husband's business meetings with takeaway containers that arrived in a thermal bag carried by a teenage boy who didn't make eye contact.
Jerry Baptiste sat at a table covered in the remnants of dinner—rice, sauce, bones picked clean. He was forty-two, built like a middleweight who'd stopped training but not eating, with a shaved head and a gold tooth that caught the light when he spoke. His accent was South London layered over Kingston, the consonants hard, the vowels stretched.
Marcus had made the introduction. James hadn't brought Kevin—too many white faces in a Brixton pub backroom raised questions—and had come alone, which was either a sign of confidence or stupidity depending on who was evaluating.
"Marcus says you connect people," Jerry said. He leaned back in his chair, arms spread wide along the booth. Territorial. Claiming space. "Says you don't deal, don't move product, don't touch the merchandise. Just... connect."
"That's right."
"So what are you, then? A matchmaker?"
"A broker. I find what you need, introduce you to the people who have it, and take a percentage for the introduction. You never see my face at a drop. You never hear my name from a supplier. The connection happens through me, and if anything goes wrong, I'm the firewall."
Jerry's gold tooth caught the light. "Firewall."
"The police can arrest your supplier. They can arrest your distributors. But they can't trace the connection between them, because the connection is me, and I don't exist on any ledger they'll ever see."
James ate the last piece of jerk chicken from the container Marcus had pushed toward him. The scotch bonnet hit the back of his throat and stayed there, a slow burn that made his eyes water. He kept his face still. The chicken was extraordinary—charred, tender, the spice balanced against something sweet and smoky that he couldn't identify.
"This is incredible," he said.
Jerry's expression shifted. Not a smile—Jerry didn't smile easily—but something adjacent. A relaxation around the jaw. His wife's cooking was a point of pride, and complimenting it bought more goodwill than a thousand words of business patter.
"So," Jerry said. "Say I need a supplier. Not the usual channels—those are watched, taxed, and half the product's been stepped on three times before it reaches me. I need clean product from a source the cartels don't own."
"I can find that."
"Can you, though?" Jerry leaned forward. The booth creaked. "Because every white boy who walks in here promising connections ends up either lying, dead, or working for the Met. Sometimes all three."
"I delivered Albanian intelligence to the Bratva in forty-eight hours. I planned an insurance fire that the investigators classified as electrical fault. I redesigned a smuggling route through Felixstowe that's been running clean for three weeks." James met Jerry's gaze. "I don't promise things I can't deliver. And I don't walk into rooms I can't walk out of."
Jerry studied him. Ten seconds. Fifteen. The pub's jukebox played something James didn't recognise—reggae, bass-heavy, the kind of music that made walls vibrate.
"Two weeks," Jerry said. "Find me a supplier. Clean product, consistent quality, independent of the main cartels. Small trial—two kilos. If it's good, we talk volume. If it's rubbish, we talk about what happens to people who waste my time."
"Fair enough."
Jerry pushed the last takeaway container across the table. "My wife made extra. Take it home."
James took it. The thermal bag was warm against his side as he left the pub and walked two blocks to the Audi where Kevin was waiting, parked under a broken streetlight.
"How'd it go?" Kevin asked.
"I have two weeks to find an independent cocaine supplier."
Kevin's expression went through several phases—surprise, concern, calculation, resignation. "Right. And where exactly are we going to find one of those?"
James pulled out his phone. Scrolled to Viktor Kozlov's number. "I'm going to call in a favour."
The phone rang twice. Viktor's voice, flat and unhurried: "Moriarty."
"Remember when you said we might do business again? I need an introduction. Someone who moves powder through independent channels. Not cartel-affiliated."
A pause. The sound of a page turning—Viktor and his Russian paperback. "This will cost you a favour."
"Understood."
"I know someone. Turkish. Good product, reliable logistics. He prefers to work through brokers—doesn't like the street level. I will make the introduction." Another pause. "You are expanding quickly, Moriarty. Be careful that expansion does not become overreach."
"Noted."
Viktor gave him a name: Mehmet Yilmaz. A date: next week. A location: a restaurant in Canary Wharf.
James hung up. Stared at the phone. Two months ago, he'd made tea in a dead man's kitchen and tried not to throw up. Now he was arranging cocaine supply meetings through Russian intermediaries.
Be careful that expansion does not become overreach.
Sound advice from a man who read novels during business threats. James pocketed the phone and told Kevin to drive.
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