YANKEE DAWN

By Michael Cumiskey

Would it be so easy to successfully challenge our democracy and alter our value system?

Imagine a wealthy American determined in his belief and practice of the cult of Scient

• Language: English
• Publisher: Authors Press
• Release date: Jun 28, 2021
• ISBN: 9781643145679

Michael Cumiskey

Michael Cumiskey was raised in the north of England. His grandparents on both sides were immigrant families one side from Ireland and the other from Italy/Sicily. The creative life he enjoys beside his writing includes the visual arts and this is the area in which he was trained. He has taught and lectured extensively throughout the UK and his sculpture and drawings are represented in a variety of collections in Germany, France, England, the USA, and Canada, including the national collection of Trinidad and Tobago. He was the first sculptor in the UK to be employed on staff with a new town development corporation where a number of his public works are still to be seen. In 1974 he was awarded the Ronald Tree Fellowship in sculpture to the University of the West Indies. He began writing whilst he was in the West Indies and since then has completed eight novels as well as large variety of the other works including poetry some of which has also been published. Currently, he lives and works in Devon with his wife Sue their three children are now grown and have long-since left home.

Book preview

BOOK ONE

Chapter One

Tuesday night

It was a cold cloudless night, high skies revealed the summer panoply of the Milky Way under a more than usually bright Hunter’s moon. The drop in temperature had come as a surprise especially to populations south of Birmingham. The excessive warmth of the recent summer months had lulled many, leaving expectations high. Fantasies about continuous sunshine due to global warming had become popular however, the developing ground frost that night was to prove a much needed corrective and a reminder to all of the capricious English climate.

Having slowed during its passage through Grantham the express train was beginning to accelerate again once the busy conurbation was safely behind. In some real sense this was fortunate, had its top speed been maintained, derailment would have been almost certain. The old Ford Consul a relic, albeit a well kept memento of the 1960s straddled the track at a level crossing just beyond a long bend. The train driver had little chance to react. Brakes were applied immediately and to full capacity and suddenly it was as if the train’s long streamlined steel overcoat rippled with the effort—the strain of containing the momentum. The wheels and the lines enjoined in a chorus of protest and the three carriages behind, shunted one another trying their best to resist the instruction. A display of sparks pointed fingers at the wheels and startled the skies with their intensity. However, the objections were to little avail. Despite the driver’s best efforts the old motorcar was smashed to

scrap metal in an instant and the results pushed over half a mile down the track before it was finally able to stop.

Even before the huge machine had come to rest the two guards situated in the middle coach had relayed their concerns to the local police authorities. Luckily the gold ingots in their charge had been stacked in wooden boxes. Had they been loose the rapid deceleration would have flung them about the space like heavyweight shrapnel.

In essence the robbery was a simple affair. It had been designed in five easy stages. The problems as Barry Smallfield the originator of the plan had identified them were (1) to stop the train. That was an easy enough matter simply by causing an obstruction in the most appropriate place. (2) Breaking into the bullion carriage and subduing the guards. Again it wasn’t too difficult a problem given the convincing threats of violence by Paul, Kelly and Harry and the cutting equipment planted on site. (3) The removal of the gold—a challenge satisfied by the portable fork-lift the robbers had brought with them (4) the transport of the stolen goods—by the lorry provided and finally (5) How to get it as far away as possible as quickly as possible. A quick removal had been planned by the use of a helicopter stationed only some six miles away. Since the previous ‘Great Train Robbery’ the authorities had lulled themselves into a false sense of security, believing that such a situation would not, could not arise again. As it happened, they were wrong.

On the night in question the theft went like the proverbial clockwork toy and from the moment of the collision to the truck’s exit from the scene less than 25 minutes passed—at least 10 minutes faster than the emergency services or the police could possibly respond. The heavy vehicle headed slowly north through Little Ponton until it picked up the A52 where they turned east towards the coast. Some four miles later they took a turn off into a field where their loot was transferred to the waiting helicopter. Within the hour the lifting gear was left on a site nearby and the stolen goods were on their way to Northern Spain. By then most of the gang had been absorbed by the night.

Barry sat in the co-pilot’s seat and enjoyed sipping from a flask of brandy. So far it had all gone smoothly and he could see no reason why it should not continue in the same vein. The cargo was designed to provide the financial seed-corn on which some large part of the ‘Groom’ plan would depend.

Thursday mid-day

Heathrow International Airport.

Outside the ‘Arrivals’ area a small group of well-dressed young men waited at the terminal for the travellers to emerge. The mid-day flight from New York’s Kennedy airport was typically well patronised, and as a consequence the authorities regulating incomers were kept busy. As ever, Customs Officers were especially vigilant. A tall man marched through the ,’Nothing to Declare’ exit with an air of authority sufficient at least to attract the attention of one of the officers.

Excuse me Sir, the officer asked, could you please come over to the desk.

Momentarily, the tall man’s stride faltered. Imperiously he glanced at his watch and then at the officer.

I am in something of a rush officer, will this take long?

The accent was one of a well educated Northern American. Equally clearly, from a man used to getting his own way and one not usually bothered by officialdom. The officer smiled sympathetically.

Only as long as is necessary. Is this your luggage Sir?

The traveller agreed, if somewhat reluctantly.

And did you pack the cases yourself Sir?

Hesitantly he replied, No. My manservant packed the cases.

It was partly as a consequence of this reply that the two matching suitcases were examined in great detail. The majority of their contents were spread over the top of the long table. Various containers hosting shaving and showering accessories were inspected closely. Throughout this episode the tall man stood to one side muttering and grumbling and when the search was complete, he was instructed to repack the cases himself. This he described loudly as, ‘a last straw’ and he began to air his grievances ever more loudly. Finally at his request a senior officer was called for.

Eventually the dispute involved a close examination of the tall man’s passport and questions were asked concerning what his business in the United Kingdom might be. None of this appeared to please him or quell his complaints, only to irritate him further.

When he eventually left, he did so making loud promises to pursue his complaints as far and as high as it might be possible to do so. However his threats made little impression on his tormentors who maintained non-committal expressions throughout without making any repost or comment. Theirs was the unmoveable, professional face of British Customs. A necessary prerequisite for admissions control. The visitor was not the first traveller to promise to bring down fire and brimstone on their heads and they knew he would not be the last. It was a surprisingly hot day and by the time the traveller moved on, his face was swathed in perspiration.

The group of young men waiting for him through the double swing doors, quickly took his cases and, as far as it was possible, smoothed his ruffled feathers. They explained to him, his treatment was typically English: and included an awkwardness and disregard for quality clients that was endemic in this country. Since the Brexit fiasco of a few years ago, the polite, considerate Britain of the previous century had all but disappeared they said. Cut-backs in policing and in the Armed Forces had impaired the spirit of the land leaving a much more edgy society lacking in trust and good-will. Adding that, it was something he would have to learn to accommodate. That level of accommodation was furthest from his mind. Stanley Groom was not used to such a reception and he made a mental note to examine it’s content more closely when the occasion allowed. It was his first trip to this part of the world but already he could see there was much here that needed to change.

The waiting limousine soon whisked the group south to the capital only stopping when they parked up outside one of the more famously well known hotels. The suite that had been booked for Mister Groom was on the top floor and Mister Groom was settled there quickly and efficiently, his every need accommodated effortlessly. The management was quick to respond to his arrival and within twenty minutes members of the chief executive’s team had made themselves known to their visitor, promising a service second to none. Their visit was followed by one from a representative from the head chef’s office and notes and preferences were recorded to be included in the Groom menu designed for the coming days.

After a shower Stanley made himself comfortable in the lounge, stretched out on the chaise Longue, wrapped in thick warm towels with a cocktail to hand and the telephone close by. He made several calls before taking to the large bed. Before he retired however, one of his young men brought four nubile young women to parade before him. They represented a variety of profiles as well as different country’s of origin. They were each scantily dressed and all well endowed. Stanley was obviously pleased and took his time selecting the two who would join him. The remaining couple were sent on their way with a generous payment whilst Stanley escorted his new friends to the nearby bedroom. Not surprisingly, it was some considerable time before he slept Whilst he was being entertained two of his escorts remained in the outer apartment ensuring he would not be disturbed. Eventually he slept soundly, as only the innocent or the fabulously wealthy can manage. Stanley Groom was surely the one but certainly not the other. In his eyes, innocence was a virtue to be valued only in female partners.

His telephone calls the following morning signified the second step in his carefully manicured campaign. After referring to his note-book, his instructions were simple. His helpers had clear instructions concerning the takeover of a variety of specified criminal industries. They implied, for example, a total takeover of the delivery and distribution of all illegal drugs in the south of the United Kingdom. The contacts he had developed before making the trip to the UK had ensured the necessary details were in place to enable his representatives to to take this action. He had made it clear that it would eventually repeat itself across the whole country and that it would be followed by control of all gambling, money-lending, computer scams and prostitution. The development of his theme necessitated a considerable increase in manpower and selected employees had already begun a recruitment drive to fulfil the staffing need.

He was well aware that in some instances there would be considerable resistance and he had instructed his employees to take an immediate and fatal response to any such situation. He knew this was not usually the British way of dealing in circumstances such as these. The common practice was in the use of blackmail

and threats to family also in employing beatings, disfigurements, crippling. Death sentences were rare but he was about to change all that. His instruction was at the first sign of resistance employ total destruction as the selected response. It was his view that the criminal underworld in Britain was at last about to grow up. With proper planning it would provide a different level of understanding and a complete change of behaviour. Both of which would mean an increase in profit.

Stanley’s two guests stayed for breakfast which was served in his bedroom. Their visit had satisfied him and he was pleased to pay them excessively. Given his personal incapacity, the girls were less satisfied physically. However, this was a complaint more than made up for by the size of the fee paid.

After his guests had left Stanley enjoyed a Cuban cigar on the balcony whilst watching the London Traffic. He dwelt on thoughts of how in the next few days, his employees would carefully but thoroughly over run a host of very successful businesses in and around the Capital. In the process a number of well established criminals would likely meet their end, leaving space convenient for his own organisation.

Chapter Two

Friday, early morning. Notting Hill London

In his own words Henri de Gannes was a ‘happy bunny’. His new girl had proved to be pure gold. She’d turned more tricks in a week than the other two had done in a fortnight and she couldn’t have been more popular with the punters had she been Madonna herself. The money just kept rolling in. And now that he’d parcelled his latest shipment of smack into small plastic sachets ready for the street, he was feeling good. He stepped out of his shower and stood to admire himself before the big mirror in the bedroom. His brown skin glistened as he struck a pose. He rubbed a damp finger across already brilliant white teeth before smiling at himself then he dressed slowly, enjoying the exercise.

The pink silk shirt felt smooth against his skin, a dazzling contrast with the dark blue mohair suit and black patent leather shoes. His appearance was just one of the signs of his meteoric success; an emblem of his smart and aggressive business practise and the cool of his Caribbean style.

What they be t’inkin back home if they see me now? he asked his reflection, they don’ believe it man—they jus’ don believe it no-how.

He massaged gel into his long black hair making it shine and then wiped his fingertips on a white tissue. It had taken Henri six years, six short but eventful years to establish himself in the drug and prostitution markets of West London. A far cry from his childhood home in the tenements of Laventille, the poor council

flats just outside Port of Spain the Capital city of Trinidad and Tobago. By the end of the previous year he had saved enough ready cash to put down a deposit on his tiny basement flat in Notting Hill. It was a huge investment but very worthwhile.

Now he was a man of means with a foot on the London property ladder. In his mind’s eye he listed his acquisitions, a favourite preoccupation: the series five BMW—his pride and joy; his apartment; the warehouse in Southall and the bevy of three white working girls. By comparison to his early life he was now worth a king’s ransom. Lovingly he slipped the expanding bracelet of his gold Rolex over his wrist. He picked up a bulging wallet and a small neat notebook and slipped them into an inside pocket. Finally he slid a spring-bladed knife into a snugly fitted sleeve pouch. Quite literally he had carved out his empire with this weapon earning him the nick-name of ‘Switch’ in the process. He was well aware of the risks should he be picked up by the police carrying such a tool. However, the consequences were not half as bad should he be caught carrying a gun. The Uzi and the AK47 were all the fashion these days and due to conflicts around the globe they were relatively easy to acquire. Nevertheless owning guns was not an option for Henri. Should he feel the need for that level of activity he knew he could hire whatever he needed through his friend, an armourer living in Hackney. Jed Drum could produce just about any kind of firearm from hand held weapons to extra large calibre automatics.

Friday night was distribution night: an occasion when large sums of cash would come to him. As usual he would drive to the warehouse and set up his stall. He would distribute forty packets of hard drugs; a variety of pills and a few parcels of Marijuana to his agents. In turn they would move the merchandise along to street vendors in various locations around Hanwell, Ealing, West Drayton and beyond.

He locked his door carefully and strode quickly up the stone steps to the car parked at the nearby kerb. His BMW was immaculate and when he slid into the pale tan leather seat he felt like a million dollars. It was an easy drive to Southall and on the way he had ample time to telephone the girls on his car-phone. The new girl Alicia did not answer—obviously she was still hard at it. She had

not long since left her secondary school and it was her youthful enthusiasm that was clearly the secret of her popularity. Jenny and Tracy responded, as usual complaining about the heating in their flat. He promised to deal with the problem and told them he would be round just after midnight to collect the money. He had recruited both the girls himself and trained them for the ‘meat market’ the previous year. They had been eager to earn big money by selling their services but of late, it seemed they might be regretting their choice of career. The time was rapidly approaching when he might consider selling one or the other of them to a Continental buyer. Recently he’d been offered a couple of Russian girls who were illegal immigrants. Their status guaranteed obedience and subservience but whilst Henri did not need the extra work involved in monitoring new employees, the potential profit was tempting. It was a well established fact that girls from Eastern Europe were a profitable investment. He decided to talk to Mark Antony Diaz, an international dealer in the skin trade to see if he could trade Jenny as part of a deal.

The Broadway in Southall was as crowded and as busy a thoroughfare as ever. The shops, restaurants and market stalls operated late into the night in a community renowned for its numerous Asian residents and its wide commercial bias. The population concentrated abruptly between the Hayes bi-pass at one side and the golf course on its eastern boundary and boasted a diversity of cultures seldom seen outside of places such as Cairo or Lisbon. By the same token the variety of commercial enterprises covered a complete spectrum of any high street.

The colour of Henri’s skin therefore attracted little attention and, due to the frequency of entrepreneurial activity common in the area, his comings and goings at all hours also passed without comment. His warehouse was situated beyond the railway line south of the main road. It was an area where the confusion of town planning had allowed a variety of commercial premises to verge on and mix with the residential sector. The location suited his purposes admirably. The close proximity of Heathrow airport had been a major consideration as was also the closeness of West Drayton. West Drayton had long since been a centre of the virulent

drug trade in West London. And although there was a consensus favouring the belief that the capital’s drug problem had been caused by immigrants, this was hardly the case. The contribution of those who came to the UK seeking sanctuary was insignificant by comparison to long established residents. The enterprise in London was a highly organised and carefully executed business. It was largely controlled by two white families both of which comprised a majority of members born in Britain. Each group could however, boast of extensive foreign contacts across Asia, Africa, Europe and the Americas.

The effectiveness of the smuggler’s trade depended as much on speed as it did on subterfuge. Whatever the quantities involved, once the cargo was delivered, the time taken to divide it into smaller consignments and dispense it to the next level in the hierarchy was crucial. And this was the level at which Henri operated. His ability to speedily move the product on, also defined the level of danger with which he gambled. The period in which the drugs were in his possession was clearly the most dangerous time, consequently the location and security of his distribution centre were designed to minimise any such risk.

Normally he would collect and pay for his cargo in West Drayton and, after sorting it into trade packages in rooms rented for the purpose; he would take the consignment to his warehouse where it would be distributed to smaller dealers for further distribution to still smaller dealers. Eventually the goods would be ‘cut’ and repackaged before being sold again to street vendors and users.

It had always been an organisation that relied on cash sales. For example, it was only when Henri could guarantee an investment of ten thousand pounds that he had finally been able to buy direct from the source. The same rule was also applied to Henri’s customers; they needed to pay for their purchases in cash. Henri would tell them that, ‘If’n you want credit Man—den go to a bank’. Although he had started trading at street level, after a short explosive period of violent confrontations he had promoted himself to the middle echelons of big buying and big selling.

Just as he turned off the motorway onto the slip road it started to rain. It threw dazzling reflections from street lights and car

headlights at his windscreen and caused a typical increase in congestion. He cursed the nearby indecisive drivers for their lack of skill and criticised himself for deciding to drive over from Notting hill instead of using his rented room. By then there was no option left and he had to tolerate the delay. Consequently by the time he turned into the narrow alleyway where his warehouse was situated, he was twenty minutes late. He drove slowly between the rows of dilapidated buildings. They were mostly deserted but he drove carefully as he did not want his paintwork scratched by some grotty delivery vehicle servicing one of the small manufacturing concerns nearby.

Half way along the alley the narrow road widened slightly and bent sharply to the left. His premises were located at the far end. They were the last in the line, butting up to the railway embankment. As he approached he flicked his headlights to full beam, in the process illuminating a small group of men waiting near the double doors. As he drew near he ran down the nearside window and without a word threw a bunch of keys to the nearest man. The man opened the doors and Henri drove the car into the dim interior. The dealers followed closely behind.

So—close the doors eh! He instructed.

His voice rang hollow inside the dusty space. There was about sufficient room inside the warehouse to park three cars the size of his BMW. The only addition to the otherwise empty shell was a counter-top fitted along one wall and faced in a cheap plastic. Henri went to the shelf and flicked on a small noisy light-bulb. It was only enough to illuminate an area of one square metre. Other than the noise from the bulb the place remained silent. The silence was part of the ritual on which Henri insisted and he had trained them well. The men formed a line and he began to hand out bundles of small sachets to each one as they approached. The quantities varied depending on the purchaser. In turn as each was served they laid a ‘brick’ of currency in the pool of light for Henri’s inspection. It was only when he recorded the exchange and was satisfied, that the purchasers moved back.

That night there were twelve figures lined up in the dark of the warehouse; furtive faceless men, greedy for the profit implicit

in their dealings. Amongst them there was the smell of cigarette smoke and cheap after-shave and like them, the money they handled was well-used if not dog-eared. The pile displayed in front of Henri quickly grew into a considerable mound. He deliberately left it on display, in full view throughout the transaction. It was his belief that this was one way to demonstrate his status; to reinforce his superiority. Moreover, whatever their secret desires, none would ever dare to challenge him or attempt to steal from him. His prowess with a blade had proven a cold-bloodedness none dared contest. In this respect he had demonstrated this ability publicly on many occasions.

As each buyer completed their deal they moved back to the double doors and waited. This was yet another of Henri’s rules: a safeguard against too much continuous traffic going through the alleyway. The list of his regulations was well established: once inside the warehouse the buyers would not talk; they would line up and place their cash in the light before removing their purchases and once served they would wait in silence next to the exit. Henri wanted them all to leave at the same time and as long as they obeyed his instructions he didn’t care what they thought of him.

The last figure stepped into the light: a young white man in his early twenties wearing a leather jacket. He smiled at Henri but instead of putting a stack of bank-notes on the shelf he quickly reached over and shoved a small calibre pistol under Henri’s chin. The cold glare in his eyes clearly indicated that he was not prepared to fool about.

Experience had taught Henri to be prudent. He tried not to over-react as he calculated the threat. There was no doubt that the young man was serious and he estimated that this was either the actions of a ‘young pretender’, some hard-nosed kid wanting to make a reputation for himself or it was a take-over attempt by a rival firm.

This is a .22 calibre pistol but the shells are soft-nosed—an’ if I twitched the trigger there’d be one nigger with a hole in his hair-do. So jus’ relax Sambo.

As his head had been forced back Henri had to squint to look into his assailant’s face.

Y’ gotta be mad man. Henri whispered, Y’ touch ma money an ah hafta kill you dead.

The gun was pressed ever more firmly into his neck but there was no other response. Suddenly one of the doors opened and two men entered. The first, a big man, produced a pump shotgun from under his long coat and shepherded Henri’s customers back, he took up a position in front of the double doors. The other man was older. There were streaks of white in his dark hair and his suntanned face was deeply lined. He approached Henri and the young man and stared at the pile of money—then at Henri.

You’ve ‘ad good night by the look of it Henri.

His accent was North London but cultured nevertheless.

Excellent, I do like my employees to be industrious. Now let’s see how much we have here.

He leaned across and swept the bank-notes nearer to the edge of the shelf. Henri stiffened.

Don’t even think about it ‘enry. the young man said.

Ignoring the exchange, the older man divided the cash roughly into two piles. He pushed one in Henri’s direction.

That’s your share Henri. Think of it as a golden handshake—a retirement present.

The response was immediate,

Who d’ fuck r’ you to retire me. This is ma operation man.

No... the other man said emphatically. This isn’t your operation, as you call it—not any more. Now it’s my operation—and please don’t try and do anything silly. It would be a shame to spoil such a wonderful hairdo.

Despite his apparent defeat Henri had coiled like a steel spring and, feeling the pressure of the gun on his neck to relax fractionally he allowed the switch blade to slip slowly from his sleeve into his right hand. Various other people had tried to retire him in the past but none so far had been successful. He could see that the shotgun guard’s view was blocked by both the young gunman and his boss. He sighed and looked down as the older man spoke, a sign he hoped that could be taken mistakenly as resignation or submission. However he knew that this would be a rare window of opportunity.

He reached as if to take the money offered. As he did so his left hand swung in an arc grabbing the gunman’s wrist and moving it away. At the same time the knife came up and the blade shot out as the blow was struck. The face of the young gunman paled as immediate trauma set in. The impudent smile was lost as the steel ripped upwards; his confidence vanished. It was done with the speed of a snake strike. Meanwhile Henri’s deflecting hand grabbed the gun from the young man’s fist and a moment later he was pressing its short barrel into the older man’s chest.

The older man froze. Henri grinned at him.

Retirement comes to us all Mister, he said into the man’s ’today is your turn."

He glanced down at the body on the floor. The noises down there were now plaintive.

An’ y’ shouldn’t employ young boys like ‘im. It’s a shame. What’s your name Mister?

Martin—Martin Connolly. I think we need to talk...

Before we talk Martin tell the big feller back there to drop the piece.

At the other end of the room there had been some confusion as soon as Henri had acted. The dealers had tried to leave but had been stopped by the shotgun threat and due to them milling about the guard’s view had been completely impeded. Unfortunately he had not seen clearly what had happened.

Robbie put it away.

But Martin I can...

Put it away.

The last instruction was barked and Robbie obeyed instantly; the gun was lowered. Henri felt more comfortable. Danger always gave him a distinct ‘buzz’. It seemed to heighten his perceptions and sharpen his senses. Three to one and he’d still come out on top. He’d cut that young fucker hard and he’d bled out—no sticking plaster would do for him. He’d drop him in the canal later. Now he’d have some fun with the other two but first he wanted to know who had sent them.

"That’s better Martin Connolly—now who the fuck is you—comin’ here an’ threatening