Business as usual. That was the mantra throughout the Mile End stadium. All the staff – and there were several hundred of them – carried on with their day to day activities as though the rapidly growing crowd of protestors at the gate was not there at all. David Carter was good at sweeping things under the rug, but he had his work cut out for him this time. Some of his staff were getting a look about them that made him think of the band playing on deck as the Titanic went down. A sort of desperate good humour. Something had to be done about it. Drastic measures must be taken. And David Carter was the man to take them.

He decided to bypass the usual channels – which would have meant going through Max Linley and several others – to make the call himself. It was now a few months since their last acquisition, and he was proving to be somewhat better than anticipated, actually. Scored a handful of goals (three, to be exact). So it couldn't hurt to add another name to the roster. It was a classic technique used by governments and others with dirty secrets to hide – the dead cat manoeuvre. As opposed to the dead duck manoeuvre favoured by the likes of George McMinn. A new player might be enough to monopolise the headlines for a bit, and before long the loan would be chip-paper fodder. A largely forgotten (albeit somewhat embarrassing) episode in the club's storied past. And if what David had in mind came together, he might even be able to redeem himself in the eyes of the fans. Maybe.

The loan would give him about 600 million to play with. Enough to keep his shareholders from losing all faith in him, but also enough to invest in another player. A biggish name, someone with news-making capabilities. And, as usual, he would arrive in the country with a shipment. Business as usual, business as usual.

David put in another call to George McMinn. "George."

"Funny," said The Fucker, with a smile in his voice, "I had a feeling you might be calling back."

"I'm strategising," said David good-humouredly. "And I'm starting to think a new acquisition might be the way to go."

"Are you, now?"

"Things are falling into place," David assured the old gangster. "It'll all come together. Just you wait."

"Let's hope for your sake that it does."

Next, David put in a call to his chief scout, a guy named Joey Adams, a sound bloke who'd been with the organisation forever. He was the one who got most of the free holidays to South America, and who spent an inordinate amount of time by the pool at various drug barons' villas, sunning himself with a cocktail.

"Joey, how are you?"

"A bit better than you are, me old mucker," said Joey. He'd been around long enough that he could talk to the boss like that.

"Yeah, tell me about it," sighed David. "I've got something that might interest you, though." Of course Joey could never say no to another excursion. It was money for nothing. He had the cushiest job on the planet.

"Tell me more."

So David told him. The club was planning to acquire a new player – but not just any player. Someone good. Someone world class. Someone with a track record to be envied. Someone who scored goals, someone who looked good on TV, someone who put on a show. Ronnie Vincent, only with more talent and less of a bloodlust.

"The dead cat manoeuvre," Joey chuckled. "Well, I've heard whispers about Enrico Brigante. Seems he's unhappy with his current situation."

David could hardly blame him. Brigante was indeed a good player, whose talents were currently wasted on a second-rate Brazilian team. Well, now they could be wasted for a second-rate English team. "When's the next flight out there?" said David.

"This evening. Nine, I think." Joey had the schedule for flights to South America more or less committed to memory.

"Alright. Be on it, Joey. I'll have the shipment arranged for when you get there."

"I'll check my schedule.” A joke, of course; he would be on the flight no matter what.

Next, David set about sorting the shipment. This took a bit more work, and a few more calls. The procedure was the same, but everything needed to be done at double-quick speed. When David told his contacts that Adams was already on his way, they were not pleased. Nonetheless, they assured him things would be in place. In many ways, the actual acquisition of the player was the least troublesome aspect of the whole scheme. Brigante would do whatever he was told. He wasn't being paid to think. And of course, David had agreed to pay over the odds for him. That was the kind of thing that the fans wouldn't mind – after all, a player is only worth what a club is willing to pay for him. A necessary expenditure. "You have to spend money to make money," David frequently said. More often than not, this was a means of justifying an apparently spurious investment which was really a part of his clandestine smuggling operation.

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

Not only that, but he had also agreed to double the shipment, bringing twice as much cocaine into the UK. Really, it was a win-win. A new player to take the heat off David, and a sweet profit to be made from all that lovely "stuff."

Next, David got things in motion on the most vital component of his import scheme: the decoy. They had been doing it for as long as anyone could remember; in fact, it had started out as Max Linley's bright idea. What was the best way to prevent the authorities from latching onto an illegal shipment, hidden in plain sight in a high-profile private jet? By giving them another, smaller illegal shipment. Throwing the dogs a bone. A couple of washed-up drug runners could always be procured for these purposes, and a few bricks of cocaine were a necessary expenditure. Spend money, make money.

Then came the tip off to the authorities, placed via the usual channels. And again, Max Linley's famous caution came into play. He was not willing to rely on the Metropolitan Police to figure anything out for themselves, and so he’d dug up a bit of dirt on a handful of vice officers and now they were effectively in his pocket. And he had his go-to man, a bent cop called Edwards.

No one in this business was trustworthy, but Inspector Edwards was at least reliable. He had been working for the Carters on and off for nearly a decade, and in that time he had helped them to secure the acquisition of many millions of pounds’ worth of merchandise. Edwards was an unusual beast – part jack-the-lad, part corporate climber. He knew how to brown-nose the bosses, but at the same time he had an approachable air about him that meant he was one of Scotland Yard’s most popular men. His colleagues respected him, and his superiors trusted him. In other words, he was the perfect criminal.

Procuring the services of a bent copper can be tricky. Fortunately for David Carter, Inspector Edwards was a huge football fan. He lived and breathed Mile End. To him, the fact that he was involved at all, even to the minutest degree, in the workings of the club was not just an honour – it was a pleasure. And like the professor who had assisted with the Judas Fly, he had another weakness – his kids. Edwards was divorced, but he had two young sons who worshipped the ground he walked on. Thanks to his friendship with David Carter, he was able to get his kids the best tickets to every game and special VIP treatment. And all he had to do to keep the gravy train rolling was to collar a few druggie scumbags at certain times, in specified locations. It was a win-win.

Usually this transaction was unknown to the player – they did not know they were multimillion-pound drug mules. That was the case with Brigante. He came from a humble background in a small village in Bolivia, where football had been his gateway out of poverty.

So the idea that the one good thing in his life, the one source of hope and unity in his battlescarred homeland, was really just another means of shipping that cursed white powder, was unthinkable. If he had known, he would have wept, he would have raged. But he didn’t know. In his heart, he was still just a good, naïve Catholic boy. He said please and thank you. He did what others told him. And now he was coming to England.

The next person David called was Max.

"Hiya Max, I need you to do something for me."

"What's the damage this time?" Max inquired.

"Oh, the usual. I'm arranging another acquisition. But this time I need things to move pretty sharpish. Understand?"

"I see. You've spoken to Joey?"

"Just come off the phone with him. He's taking a flight out tonight."

"Tonight?" Max sounded surprised.

"Well, I told you I need a lot of things to happen in a short space of time."

"How long are you thinking to complete the acquisition?"

"No more than a week."

"Bloody hell, you don't want much, do you?"

"I know you won't let me down, mate."

"No," said Max. "I won't."

Max Linley was used to accommodating unreasonable demands from his old friend and boss. Really, there was nothing especially out-of-the-ordinary about this. But the circumstances changed his perception of the operation. He had been wondering about David ever since Silvertown had first appeared on his radar, and now he was pretty sure of his conviction that the boss no longer had what it took to keep the business afloat.

David's instincts for self-preservation tended to supersede his loyalty to his people. It was a harsh truth, but one which had become inescapable in recent weeks. And Max was still bitter about what happened to Wayne. He couldn't help but think about how he would have handled things if it had been his own son. Fortunately, Rob was unlikely to find himself on the wrong side of the Popovs. Max had gone to great pains to ensure that was the case. He had lobbied David to get his son that nice management job and had been pleasantly surprised to find his son had a natural aptitude for it. Now he was the runner-up for CEO. Rob, in other words, was everything that Wayne was not.

All the same, Max liked Wayne. He felt shitty about the way the lad had been treated. Cast aside by the club like a piece of rubbish. Made to feel worthless.

So Max did as he was told, but the whole time there were other, darker thoughts lingering at the back of his mind. Thoughts about what his criminal enterprise might look like if David Carter was no longer at the helm. It could be done. It would take a bit of effort, but Max might just be able to pull it off.