Tom left the pub and walked back to where he’d parked the old BMW he’d procured from the SC&O35 pool of covert cars and drove to the flat in Dalston. The car had been re-registered to his name at a Glasgow address which had been fully back-stopped to make sure that anyone investigating it wouldn’t get any further. He really didn’t fancy staying at the flat, but he couldn’t risk going home at such an early stage of the assignment. He parked nearby, let himself in and made a cup of tea, sending a message to Liam updating him that initial contact had been made.

He was pleased enough that the introduction had gone well, although a little frustrated that there had been no mention of business. But he also knew that such things couldn’t be rushed without arousing suspicion: a risk he couldn’t afford to take. The Branko brothers had a sinister reputation, and his meeting with them had done nothing to dispel that.

He had looked into the eyes of evil men on many occasions in his career, both in the police and the military, but this was different. The Brankos transported him back to that day in Petrovici in 1992 where he had witnessed true, sadistic evil. The brothers radiated malevolence and cruelty and it disturbed him.

7

A Month Later

Tom woke early and headed straight to his workout zone to begin his usual punishing circuit training. He did a simple and speedy circuit, using all the equipment, and was soon bathed in sweat. He dived into the shower but didn’t shave. His beard had grown substantially, and it gave him a slight feeling of anonymity, even if it was illusionary. That, plus the fact that his hair hadn’t been trimmed for a while, made his appearance somewhat different from when he had accepted the tasking.

The past month had been a bit of a rollercoaster ride. He had been quickly accepted into the group as an acquaintance and training partner, but he’d not yet been approached about getting involved in any criminality.

He had been to the Branko family house, a tidy and over-furnished fourth-floor flat in a fairly run-down estate just off City Road, an area that the creeping London gentrification had not yet quite hit. There he had met the Brankos’ mother, Mira: a matronly, heavy-set woman with dyed red hair, lots of costume jewellery and clown-like make-up. She looked older than the date of birth on the briefing sheet had suggested, and her lined face told the story of a hard-lived life. The brothers were deferential in her presence and she was clearly the boss of the small organisation. It was amusing to see that the brothers still had a room with single beds in it, despite both being in their early thirties.