Sowerbutt's Message

“We must finalise plans for our Russkie friends. Small measures are a waste of time. The heavens need to fall in for their numbskull masters in Moscow to get the message. Whatever it takes to protect the Family.”

“You’ve got something worked out, guv?” Spaghetti asked.
Sowerbutt nodded: “We need the latest pair of Russkies to come and see Madame Komarovski again. Then a sequence of major disasters. Disaster after disaster after disaster. I’ll talk to the Scribe about forging something that will send the Russkies scurrying round to bother Madame Komarovski. Bees to the honey pot. Then we’ll tail and top them.
“We’ll drop one of them off near that club in Soho with some white powder in his pocket. Some of the Fleet Street lads will be there, no doubt. The other we’ll put outside Martins Bank in The Strand, a shooter in his hand and a diagram of the main safe in his pocket.”
Spaghetti grinned, the guv knew his stuff.
“We’ll have an encore. Shapiro’s warehouse in Millwall. Old Hercule has made a good few bob, shipping in bullion, artworks and Russian antiques. And he sends out machinery, shooters and medicines to the Baltic, I hear. He’s got to be a front man for the Reds. We’ll send him up in flames and leave some incriminating papers around, courtesy of the Scribe.”
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