“You’re sure of the Balkans?” asked Jack, moving aside the notepad he’d carried into the room. He wouldn’t need to write anything in this meeting.
“We’ve suspected for a couple of years and nailed it ten days ago. A truckload of women being trafficked into England from Cherbourg was torched on the quay. More than forty of the poor bastards burnt to death. Three survived. One of them was able to tell us the sourcing operations centre on the villages close to the Balkan borders, the backyard of a mob run by a guy called Josef Kaplani. Have you heard of him?”
“A little,” ventured Jules, steepling his fingers under his chin. “What about the Chinese side? Who’s involved?”
“Rumour rather than confirmed fact, it points to a triad family called Ching. They’re powerful in London and across Europe, headed by a nasty piece of work by the name of Ching Mak. We’ve no substantive evidence to pin on him. However, a series of hits over the last couple of months tells us we’ve got a classic tit for tat process in full flow.”
“So, what can ISP do for you? You guys have a massive organisation to work with. Why come to us?” asked Jules. “We’re not the law.”
Benoit unbuttoned his jacket and leaned forward toward Jules. “You’re right. You’re not police. That’s why we’re here. Your field capabilities are excellent and you’re able to operate in ways my teams can’t. Interpol and the local cops have restrictions.”
“Whoa, Marcel,” Jack butted in. “Are you asking us to get involved and act illegally? With no protection for things going wrong? Where’s the safety net for us?”
“He’s right,” said Jules. “We’ve no legitimate reason to be in this. Chandra being a mate doesn’t give us free licence to chase after your bad guys.”
“We expected you to say that,” replied the Interpol boss. “We’re here to offer you a prima facie security contract. We’ve several undercover non-Interpol related enterprises across Europe, run as proper businesses. They double as listening posts and springboards for some of the activity Brad handles. We propose you provide services to these companies. Legitimate deal.”
“In reality you want us to help find and handle the mobs?” asked Jack.
“We can arrange a certain degree of cover and support for any action you guys need to take, but not absolutely. That’s why we require the skills and experience of you and your team. Brad would be a resource for you too.”
For the first time, Brad Miles spoke, his slow southern drawl unmistakable. “We got only so close and no closer to Kaplani. They killed two of my best guys. The bastards cut their heads off and dumped them in their hotel lobby in Krakow. Nothing would please me more than to go in and just blow them to hell. We’re not allowed to operate that way. I’d like to work alongside you guys if you decide you’ll help us.” Jack noted the steady tone from Miles. The guy hurt for the loss of his agents. Good control. He’d be a useful field buddy.
“How much are we talking about in contract terms?” asked Jules, easing back in his chair.
“All expenses covered. Assistance with movement across borders of any weaponry you would need. A monthly retainer of a hundred thousand dollars, and a final bonus of five million,” said Benoit.
“You’ve got a serious pitch, my friend. I appreciate your usual straight-forward honesty,” replied Jules. He gestured to Jack, with a raised eyebrow looking for the unneeded confirmation. His partner nodded.
Jules stood up and offered his hand to Benoit. “We have a deal. The retainer will cover actual security protocols for your businesses. As for the bigger objective, we’ll keep Brad for a few days to download whatever intelligence you can share.”
“No problem, consider it my pleasure,” said Miles, standing up to offer his hand to each man with a broad smile. “I’m here for as long as you want.”
“The retainer will be handled by our legal guys, the bonus is between you and me, Jules,” said Marcel.
“Good.” The handshake had already sealed the deal.
The look from Jules to Jack spoke volumes.
Now we’re in. Legitimately. Sort of.
CHAPTER 11
Ching Mak kissed his mother on the forehead and took his usual seat opposite her at the small dining room table. Their customary midweek dinner together continued a ritual which began a long time ago in the month after the murder of his uncles.
Madam Ching’s white hair flecked with broad stresses of dark grey, worn back in a tight bun, befitted her eighty-two years. Her face bore the shine of a rice, fish and fruits diet. The left eye clouded from the cataract robbing her of sight on that side. Mak never saw her in anything other than a black high-necked cheongsam dress. She walked with ease, despite the aid of a walking stick. Dark silk slippers completed her dress, emphasising her petiteness when she rose, hardly reaching up to her son’s chest. She seldom ventured from the house, but on such few occasions, as an elderly lady her presence in any crowd went unnoticed.
The servants laid the meal and left them in private. No ears, no eyes. Nothing written down. Thus, Madam Fan Ching ran one of the most ruthless criminal organisations in Europe. No significant amounts of money, and no trace of drugs or contraband products permitted in the family home. A highly-tuned and invisible network of depots and collection points throughout the continent laundered the cash flows streaming though multiple bank accounts in various names across Europe.
“What news on the Peking Garden, Mak?” she asked. “Anything from the police yet?”
“The usual bastards hit us, Mama, but the cops have nothing. We’ll be able to re-open in about a week or so. We can’t let them think we’re going to change our business because of them. They’re not likely to hit that one again anyway. The cops’ll be watching Soho. The restaurant manager’s helping them with enquiries, but no leads back to us. The Nepalese guy saved a lot of people and damage by jumping on the grenade.”
Madam Ching showed no concern for the dead customer. “What’s the insurance cover situation?”
“I’m not sure yet. We’re checking the policy, but right now they’re not willing to pay. We’re not covered for terrorism and until they decide whether it’s terrorism or not, we wait.”
“What about the stuff you took outside the airport?”
“Much better news, Mama.” Mak grinned. “A big load, almost two million bucks worth. The stuff’s moving up north to the midlands already.”
His mother chewed on a piece of fish. He always waited until she made ready to speak and never interrupted her thinking.
She continued, “That’ll fill the supply gap for a few weeks. Good. The price is rising again. We must build up a decent stock over the next months. The competition isn’t going away. How’s the business with our young ladies?”
“So far, reasonable. News of the Cherbourg truck attack filtered back to our own supply people in Asia. I warned them to be alert for anything. We’ve seen retribution hits before and some of them are getting jittery. They’re suggesting we slow down on the girls for a while.”
“Absolutely not!” she snapped across the table at her son. “We can’t start to show any weakness to anybody. Perhaps you need to bring one or two of them back in line as an example?”
“I’ll handle them, Mama. Don’t worry,” he replied, well aware of what she meant by enforcing discipline in the ranks.
“I heard a friend of George Chu was in the restaurant during the explosion. A Chinese girl, an ex-policewoman. She carries the name May-Ling Calder,” the old lady said. “She met Chu yesterday in his office. Now what do you think she would be chatting to that rat for?” Mak knew his mother’s information network was reliable. She had informants everywhere, including in the offices of George Chu.
“Find out more about her, and why she’s talking to him,” she ordered. “Where do they live? How are they connected? Is she a threat to us? I don’t trust that bastard as far as the table salt.”
“Yes, Mama.”
The rest of the dinner continued in silence. Ch
ing Mak had his marching instructions for this week, the most pressing the unbroken sourcing of drugs from the Far East to compete with the East European mob outlets. Next, the need for some enforcement in the supply chain for the girls. Easy. Finally, a bit of intelligence gathering on a young Chinese ex-cop. This last one could wait.
CHAPTER 12
His appetite for women stemmed from his father. After his sixteenth birthday, the elder Kaplani blooded his son Jozef in the ways of the fairer sex. Fortified with a couple of shots of brandy, he introduced the boy to the services of the best brothel in Tirana.
The father indulged a favoured pair of ladies of his own and chose three others to engage Jozef in a cloistered salon with instructions he should be sensually well looked after. They did not disappoint. The initiation became the precursor to an extraordinary urge and sexual drive in him, continuing long after his parent’s murder. He had witnessed many of the vicious beatings doled out to his mother during his father’s rages. His own inherited violent temper led to increasingly outrageous treatment of the regular prostitutes. One girl didn’t survive his frenzied beating one drink-fuelled evening. His henchmen removed and disposed of her body. His violence tempered a little, but his behaviour left many of the girls scarred inside and out after his indulgences. The ladies who stayed at the villa knew his history and he paid well over the usual tariff for his peccadilloes. They were prepared to take their chances with the occasional physical abuse.
The heist of the drug shipment in London consumed his thinking. Two million fucking dollars gone in one hit. These bastards’ll pay for this. The Cherbourg murders showed the vulnerability of his operations outside of the Balkans. Another large slug of vodka. How many was that now? Who cared? He hit the intercom button. A bass voice answered.
“Yes, boss?”
“The three new girls you told me about? Give them a few drinks and get them up to my room,” he slurred. He poured another glass. He never reached total wipe-out drinking, but tonight he was getting close. Bastard Chinese. Need to sort them out once and for all. An idea started to form, then got stronger. Yes, the way to go. Talk to Yurev after tonight’s session. Yurev dealt well with clowns like these fuckwits who came trying to bust into our patch. Nice touch, sending the heads back in separate sacks. He grinned. Another vodka. Now he felt better. Let’s have some action. His legs were unsteady, but no-one else would know how much he’d drunk.
Yurev delivered the girls to his chief’s chamber with the encouragement of ample payment when they finished. None of them aged twenty yet, each already had several years experience in their trade. They’d never met the master of the house. After a spell at the villa, the promised trip to England to work in the best bordello houses run by Kaplani’s people dangled in front of them.
The door handle squeaked as their mark entered the dimly-lit bedroom. A rugged figure appeared, a touch under six feet tall, no paunch, and a chiselled if not handsome face. The oversized bed in the back centre of the room was several paces away. Two of the girls lay across the top-sheet, clad in seductive, skimpy, black lingerie and high heels. The third sat on a chaise-lounge a few feet to the side of the bed, and a couple of yards nearer to the oncoming Kaplani. She rose and approached him with outstretched arms, naked from the waist up and short, jet-black hair fringed across her brow. None of the hookers expected what happened next.
Jozef Kaplani’s face twisted into an angry scowl as he opened his mouth to say something. No intelligible words came out, only a surprised grunt. His blurring vision took in the girl coming across the floor, arms projecting in his direction. Chinese bastard! How did she get in here? A product of the Asian quarter of Minsk in Belarus, her beautiful Chinese features were unmistakable. Jozef’s drink-dulled brain reacted to the threat. She’s coming to kill me? Is that a knife in her hand? A crashing blow from his right fist caught the unsuspecting girl on the jaw and as she fell, he began to kick at her body. Down the hallway, Yurev reacted to the terrified screams and shouts for the attack to stop. He knew what was happening and sprinted to the bedroom, greeted by a tangle of screeching girls and his boss. Spittle covered Kaplani’s lips as he kicked further at the senseless girl on the carpet.
Despite his lack of height, Yurev was a powerful man, but it took immense effort to pull Jozef away from the mess and pin him to the floor.
“Boss! Boss! You’re okay! It’s only the girls! Calm down!”
Kaplani breathed in heavy snorts, unable to free his arms from Yurev’s bear-hug embrace. In seconds, his body relaxed, the crisis gone.
The girl’s face swelled where the punch had broken her jaw. Yurev sensed her ribs were also damaged. The others sobbed and cringed away from Kaplani.
“Quick. Take her to your room. I’ll bring you a doctor soon.”
They did as commanded, carrying the unconscious Chinese girl back to their own quarters.
Jozef was lucid again. He looked at his lieutenant and shook his head muttering, “Bastard Chinese. We have to talk, Yurev. We need to solve this once and for all.”
His aide nodded. He understood. Neither man spoke about the attack.
“I want you to go to London and sort things out. Find these vermin and wipe them out. Do you understand? Take with you whoever you need. Do whatever it takes.”
“Sure, boss. Here, have this,” he said, handing across a full glass of vodka. “Let me go sort out our little friends down the hallway.”
Yurev entered their room. The unconscious girl’s companions used small towels to clean the blood from her battered face. They never saw the gun in his hand pointed at them. The silencer’s muffled shots ensured word of this particular beating would never leak.
The following afternoon, the British Airways flight via Frankfurt touched down at Heathrow with Yurev aboard in business class. Four other men scattered in unrelated economy seats made up the group. They carried no weapons. These would be provided on the ground. The rendezvous an hour later included the local boss of operations. The warehouse nestled into an industrial estate four miles from the airport. A legitimate removals business gave adequate cover for the clandestine lines in drugs and imported prostitution.
Like Kaplani, Yurev spent little time on niceties.
“Tell me what you’ve got.”
The local chief cleared his throat and spoke. “The guy who runs them is hard to get at, Yurev. Everywhere he moves, he takes armed guards. There’s no set pattern to his day. He’s got a detached mansion in Hounslow, difficult to get inside, sensored walls, probably under constant monitor on security screens. We gather he deploys three rings of guards from outside, up to the front door. An attack on the house is not an option.”
“When does he go out? Regular places he visits?”
“Nothing you can count on. The cops constantly sniff his back also.”
“How about the brothels? The supply chain lines for the street stuff?”
“We’ve pinned down twenty cover houses for the girls, up to a dozen working at any time. They work around the clock, same as ours. The drug sales are trickier as they don’t stick just to Chinese pushers. We can finger about six of the bigger dealers. They handle maybe half of the shit, evenly scattered across London and up north.”
Yurev nodded. “How many people do we have, good with guns?”
“Three dozen. All reliable. You hit them though, they’re gonna respond by smacking ours.”
“The option to attack wholesale is the best way. I agree if we do them one by one, they’ll retaliate, but a multiple take-out would disrupt them big time and might bring the top guy into the open.” A sneer of a smile told the group around him his plan was already set. “Let’s get some work done. Show me the locations. Give me a list of our own people. As we hit these bastards, we’ve got to be ready to protect ourselves.”
“When do we start?” asked the local man.
“Three days from now. Bring our men in tomorrow morning at eight. I want us working on this for the next forty-eight hours. No mistakes
.” Yurev operated well at this level. His boss wanted a quick solution, and that’s what he’d deliver. His local guy was good, but none of them possessed Yurev’s ruthless mind-set for execution. Kaplani had too much at stake for things to fail. Many of his guys in London were former fighters, used to killing without qualm. Yurev still needed to check them out.
CHAPTER 13
The main wall in the operations room was covered with a large-scale map of Europe.
Brad Miles pinned several red flags against locations stretching from the eastern borders of the Ukraine, Romania, and Bulgaria, all the way across Poland, Germany, France, the Netherlands and Belgium. A few were tagged in main cities, but the majority were in smaller towns throughout the continent.
“Different colours for depots and transit points for their merchandise, with some halfway houses for the girls en route to England,” Brad’s drawl eased through the room. “You’ll note the green labels alongside the red tabs, indicating locations for our own people. Your prima facie contract covers their businesses, giving us freedom to move you in and out without raising too many eyebrows.”
“That’s about a dozen places you’ve pinned,” said Jack. “I presume Kaplani’s guys are armed?”
Brad moved back from the wall and took his seat at the table. “Yes. We’ve never had a watertight excuse to bust them. I’m sure enough grease money keeps the local cops away. On the face of it, all their sites have legitimate cover.”
“How big’s your own team?”
“The core’s small, only five of us at the start, now down to three counting me. We came in as secondments. Myself and one other from the Seals. One from South Africa. The two we lost in Poland were French. None of us are on the official Interpol payroll.”
VENGEANCE WEARS BLACK (Jack Calder Crime Series #2) Page 4