Cartel Fire

by Tom Riggs

  “Surely no-one is that homophobic, I’m afraid I don’t buy that one Jack. And to be honest, I’m not sure I buy your theory. I agree, sending round his lawyer to get us to stop the case is dodgy, and he clearly wasn’t the loving father that the press had led us to believe. But sending drug dealer assassins to kill his own son is just a step too far. We’ve checked out Constantine Lipakos, his money is clean. Its all in shipping, oil trading, commodities. People like that don’t need to get involved with drug smugglers, they make enough money in other ways.”

  “I agree, and I’m not saying that Lipakos is a drug smuggler or involved in the cocaine trade. But think about it. From the very beginning, who is the one player in this story who would have the power to mobilise what has been set against us? Someone paid the Venezuelan police a lot of money to lie and skew an investigation that would normally be very high profile for them. Someone paid Adrian Hudson, a rogue SIS agent, to come all the way to Isla Margarita just to tell me to leave. Someone paid Hector Ortega, a top sicario working for a Colombian drug paramilitary to kill Richard. Someone then paid for Hector to follow us to Mexico and pursue us all over the place. You saw how many of them there were in Acapulco. They had police with them Charles! The Mexican cartels are in the middle of a war, and they send their top men and their corrupt police just to kill the witness to one murder in Venezuela? Think about it. Whoever has been pulling those strings has a lot of money, and a lot of influence. There is only one person in the ring who has that kind of power. And that is Constantine Lipakos.”

  Rudd paused and sipped his coffee, his face conflicted.

  “I’m sorry Jack, I understand your argument, but I just don’t buy it. I agree that father and son might have been arguing. I also agree that whoever was behind that gold mine was the person who killed Richard. But that doesn’t mean it was Constantine Lipakos. Think about it. The mine was just over the border from Colombia. The Black Eagles, Hector’s employers, have stakes in all kinds of enterprises, mining included. If they found out a gringo kid had evidence of their illegal mining, they wouldn’t hesitate to kill him. And they would send one of their assassins to do it. In this case Hector Ortega. But Ortega messes it up. He leaves a witness. A North American witness who could get him into some real trouble. Fortunately for Hector, the witness goes to Mexico. The one place, apart from Colombia, that Hector has real power. It was Hector and the Black Eagles pulling those strings in Mexico Jack, not Constantine Lipakos. Hector was a captain in the Sonora cartel, he has friends there. It was Hector and his men, and his tame police, who came after us in Acapulco. No-one else. There isn’t some big conspiracy Jack. Richard Lipakos just got on the wrong side of some really bad people.”

  “So why didn’t he just get his father to fly him out there? Why run to Venezuela?”

  “Because he was on bad terms with his dad. I agree that’s what he would have normally done. But they were arguing about money. The way rich people do, the way fathers and sons do. My guess is that he wanted to do this himself. Prove that he was his own man. He wanted to expose the mine all on his own. And that’s what got him killed.”

  Munro was quiet for a moment as he sipped his coffee.

  “Come on Jack, you know I’m right. Constantine Lipakos may be a shit, his lawyer certainly is. But he’s not the bad guy here. My guess is that the men behind that mine are at this moment sitting in a ranch outside Medellin, counting their money and planning their next illegal venture. Richard just chose the wrong people to mess with. It was just bad luck Jack. It happens all the time, you know that. Some arrogant little rich boy, goes to South America, and decides to take on forces he has no idea about. He thinks it’s like Europe over there and he can come over all Greenpeace, expose the illegal mine. But South America isn’t Europe, and the men who run that mine are serious operators. Paramilitaries Jack. Organisations that grow drugs, run drugs, collect taxes ... even raise small armies. They are the government there. The police, the military, everything.”

  “What about Mrs Stanfield? You didn’t buy what that lawyer said?”

  “No I didn’t, and we need to look into that. I didn’t trust that guy … Lipakos is clearly up to something there. He’s probably trying to claw back all the money she took from him in the divorce. But again Jack, that’s what rich people do. They fight about money. They don’t pay assassins to kill their sons.”

  Munro did not say anything as he finished his coffee. He did not like to admit it, but Rudd was right, his theory had holes.

  Just then Munro’s Blackberry beeped. He looked down at it. Two missed calls and a message. The missed calls were both from Anna. He excused himself and stood up to listen to the message. It was short and he immediately tried to call her back. A couple of minutes later he turned back to Rudd.

  “Charles, I need to go. That was Anna, I think she might be in trouble.”

  “What do you mean? I thought you had her tucked up safe and sound at your cottage?”

  “I did, I mean she was. But she called me twenty minutes ago, left a message. Something about two jeeps coming across the field towards the cottage. She sounded scared, really scared.”

  Rudd stood up, immediately ready for action.

  “Have you tried calling her?”

  “The line’s dead. Sounds like the phone is switched off.”

  “Shit.”

  “I agree. Look Charles, I need to get up there, and now. You go back to the office. Maybe you’re right, maybe I’m right. But the answer is going to be in whoever owns that mining company FTP Supply. So get onto those ports and find out where they were sending all that gold ore. If you’re right they probably sent it via Cartagena in Colombia. If I’m right, who knows?”

  “Fine, will do. Sure you don’t need me to come with you?”

  “No, thanks Charles but I need you in the office. Try to find Sarah Stanfield too. She’s our client and we need to look after her. That nervous breakdown story is rubbish, so find her and get her out of whatever hole they’ve put her in.”

  Munro turned to walk up Queen Street and stopped.

  “Charles, one more thing.”

  Rudd had also turned to walk away, but in the other direction, towards the office.

  “What’s that Jack?”

  “If I’m right, you owe me a beer.”

  And with that Munro walked away, fast, towards the traffic of the City. Rudd paused. He finished his coffee in one long gulp, took a deep breath and walked back towards the office.

  41

  Munro marched, rather than walked. He was worried about Anna. Two jeeps coming towards the cottage. That was all she had said. But she had sounded scared, and she had good reason to be. If the jeeps had been coming over the field towards the cottage, then there was nowhere else they could be going. The cottage was at the end of a field, next to a thick wood. It was isolated, and that was how Munro liked it. But that also meant that no-one else had any reason to be there. Munro picked up his pace.

  He came out onto Canon Street, cold and grey. Few people around. The Defender was parked across the street, the obvious choice. But he remembered the traffic earlier in the day. He didn’t have time for traffic. He tried Anna’s phone again. No response, not even a ring. Not a good sign. He looked at the Defender, the obvious choice. But too slow.

  A five minute walk across Southwark Bridge brought you into a new world, a new London at least. Gone were the clean and corporate City of London streets, every road flanked by macho hulks of steel and glass, the streets thronged with grey office workers. Across the river and London changed character completely. There were no towers of steel and glass in this part of London. Where the bombs had fallen in the Second World War, grey concrete housing estates had sprung up. London’s damp climate and almost constant clod cover did them no favours and many were considered among the most deprived places to live in the country. But Munro headed for the parts that had survived the Luftwaffe’s strikes. A network of alleys and tunnels underneath elevated rail lines kn
own as The Borough. Traditionally the home of artisan tradesmen, its quaint workshops had in recent years been taken over by London’s new artisans, who catered more to the rich clientele over the river. Boutique cheese shops, organic wine merchants and tapas bars all provided a welcome retreat from the corporate gloom across the river. But Munro ignored the expensive temptations on offer and turned onto a cobbled dead-end alley lined with railway arches. Gentrification had not quite reached this alley and several of the arches had been boarded up, sometimes incompletely, to keep out the homeless and drug addicts who still called this part of London home. At the end of the alley, the last two arches had been joined to form a garage. Several cars in various states of disrepair were parked outside, a talk radio station was playing loudly from inside the bowels of the arches. As Munro walked in, a man in blue overalls appeared from underneath a large BMW SUV.

  “Mr Munro sir, how are you today, sir?” Munro looked down at the man. He was small and wiry and covered in engine oil.

  “Mickey, I need my bike, and I need it now.”

  The mechanic pulled himself completely out from under the BMW. He picked up a rag and wiped some of the engine oil off of his face.

  “Mr Munro sir, I’m very sorry, but I did say last week that the brake valve was broken. I’m very sorry sir.”

  “Mickey, I put the bike in to have its wheel fixed, and you broke the brake valve.”

  The mechanic looked at Munro blankly. Munro looked around the garage. His eyes fell on another bike. An MV Agusta F4 CC. One of the most expensive and rare bikes ever made.

  “Whose is that Mickey?”

  “That belongs to a chap from Goldmans sir. Lovely bike that is sir.”

  “Is it working?”

  “Oh yes, Mr Munro, the chap just put it in for a service but…”

  “Fine, I’ll take that one.” Munro walked up to it, the keys were in the ignition. He grabbed the nearest helmet he saw.

  “No Mr Munro, that’s not…” But Munro was already on the bike, helmet on. He turned the ignition and felt the engine roar.

  “Fix my bike Mickey, and don’t break anything else.”

  Before the mechanic could answer, Munro was out of the garage, accelerating hard down the cobbled street. The Agusta had 1078 cc, 198 break horse power. Its top speed was 195 miles an hour. Munro was 45 miles from his cottage. On a normal day, on a normal bike, it would take Munro an hour, maybe more. Munro checked his watch and gunned the accelerator hard as he hit the main road heading south of London.

  Thirty-five minutes later, Munro was gunning the Agusta up the hill that led to his cottage. He hoped the bike’s owner did not already have too many points on his license. Six speed cameras had flashed him as he had sped down the M3 motorway. He had hit 170mph just past Basingstoke.

  But as he got closer to his cottage, he slowed his pace. Once he was up the hill, he edged the transmission down to second and turned onto a narrow track. The Agusta had been designed to cruise the boulevards of Milan and the Autostrada. It had not been built for a muddy, unmetalled trail in rural Hampshire. Munro had to put both feet onto the ground alternately as he manoeuvred along on its smooth tyres. Slowly now. Once he was within two hundred metres of his cottage, he stopped the bike, turned off the ignition and leaned it carefully into a hedgerow. The long thick hedge was now all that concealed him from the cottage. Munro came to a narrow gap in it. He went into a crouch and slowly looked through, at his cottage.

  There was one car parked outside it. A black Range Rover. He remembered Anna’s message. Two jeeps. Munro looked closer at his cottage. The kitchen window was large and facing him. He looked through it and could see three figures sitting at the table. Sitting at his table. He assessed his options. There was a shotgun in his house, and a rifle. But they were both in a locked safe in his cellar. And the door to the cellar was in the kitchen. There was an axe in the woodshed in his garden. He could get to the woodshed easily, unseen, if he flanked the cottage via the woods. He could see clearer now, they were three men sitting at the kitchen table. He looked closer. They were big men. Men he did not recognise. But he could not see if they were armed. He would have to assume they were. The Rangerover held five men comfortably. So possibly five men, probably armed. Against one man and an axe. Normally those odds would not have been great. But it was his turf. His kitchen. The main problem was Anna. He did not know where she was. Fighting five men with an axe would be messy. People would get hurt. It was a risk. He paused and thought hard. It was a risk he had to take. Just as Munro was getting up to crawl into the woods, his phone rang.

  He looked at the caller id and froze. It said ‘cottage’. Munro looked at the kitchen again. A fourth man was now visible. He was wearing a suit, but had his back to Munro. He was holding a telephone. His telephone. He answered the call.

  “Yes?”

  “I was hoping I would catch you in time Jack.”

  The man turned round to look out of the window. If Munro did not know better, he could have sworn he was looking straight at him. But Munro knew he was completely invisible where he was crouching. The man turned around and Munro looked closer.

  “I don’t remember inviting you over,” said Munro.

  “Hello Jack,” replied the man, “have you missed me?”

  “What are you doing in my kitchen Adrian? You should know, I get very protective over my personal space.”

  “So you’re here already Jack? That was quick, even for you.”

  “I’m looking straight at you Adrian. I’ve got you in my cross hairs.” Munro smiled as he saw Adrian jump to the floor and scream to the men at the table. They too all jumped out sight of the window. Munro saw two of them pull out guns as they did so. A few seconds later Adrian Hudson came back on the line. It sounded like he was lying flat on the floor.

  “Only joking Adrian. You really think I’d make a mess in my own kitchen?”

  “Alright Jack, cut the shit,” replied Hudson, still clearly lying flat on the floor. “I know very well what you’re planning and you can forget about it. There are four of us here and we’re all armed. Plus, we have your girl. The pretty Canadian? Little Miss Neuberg? You try anything funny, and she dies. And don’t get any ideas about coming in to save her. She’s already gone. If I don’t call every fifteen minutes, she gets thrown underneath a train. You understand me….captain?”

  “Ok big guy, go easy now,” said Munro calmly, “what do you want?”

  “We just want to talk Jack, we just want to talk. So come out of wherever you’re hiding, and let’s talk about this like civilised human beings.”

  Munro quickly reassessed his options. Every instinct he had was telling him to get into the wood, get the axe and take out the goons in his kitchen. Now he knew Anna was out of the way it would be much easier. But he knew he could not risk it. If Hudson was telling the truth about the fifteen minutes, he may not have time. He stood up and stepped through the gap in the hedgerow, into the field that lay directly in front of his kitchen.

  “Stand up Adrian,” said Munro into his phone, “stand up and look to four o’clock. And don’t worry big guy. I’m unarmed.”

  There was a long pause as Munro heard muffled voices on the other end of the line. Slowly, tentatively, one of Hudson’s men stood up, a pistol raised in front of him. Typical Hudson, thought Munro, send out the grunt first. Munro hung up and put the phone away. Raising both his hands he slowly walked across the field, one hundred metres away now. As soon as the man holding the pistol saw Munro with his hands up, he spoke to the others on the floor. They stood up slowly too. Slowly they came out of the kitchen door and Munro got a better look at them. Hudson’s men were meatheads. Typical private contractor types. Too old for military service, their years of lifting weights had given them freakish frames that were slowly turning to fat. They were all fair and sunburnt, their red scalps visible through their buzz cut hair. They all held pistols, .45s Munro saw, and they were all pointing them at Munro. Hudson walked through them. He
was clearly in charge.

  “Twice in one week Adrian,” said Munro his hands still in the air, “I’m guessing this isn’t a coincidence.”

  Hudson was unarmed, but he was smiling broadly. Munro remembered how much he disliked the man. His large lumbering frame, his total incompetence, his anger at the world. A small man trapped inside a big man’s body.

  “Hello Jack, I must say I haven’t missed you.”

  “Care to tell me what all this is about Adrian?”

  “All in good time Jack, all in good time. You know you’re a very hard man to kill. You’ve caused us a lot of trouble in Mexico, a lot of trouble.”

  “I always knew you were a snake Adrian; I just never knew how much. I got a call from your old employers, they’re very keen to find you. They say you’ve been a naughty boy. Stealing confidential files, pretending you still work there. You know what they do to naughty boys at SIS don’t you Adrian?”

  “SIS have nothing on me Jack, and anyway they can’t touch me now.”

  “That’s not what they think. They’re after you, and I think they’ve got something nasty planned for you.” Hudson squirmed slightly, and Munro paused. “What do you want Adrian? Where’s Anna?”

  “The girl’s safe Jack. We took her to guarantee your cooperation, and it looks like it’s worked. I must say I’m surprised. Has the army’s top killer gone soft?”

  Munro ignored the question.

  “I’m going to ask you a third time Adrian. What do you want? Don’t make me ask a fourth, because I’ll get upset. And you know you don’t want to upset me.”

  Hudson momentarily looked panicked, Munro could see it in his eyes. The meatheads holding the guns took half a step towards Munro, pointing their pistols more aggressively at him. Hudson looked at them and quickly regained his composure.