VENGEANCE WEARS BLACK (Jack Calder Crime Series #2)

by Seumas Gallacher

  Yurev smiled. That’s more like it.

  ***

  Recent photographs of the old hotel building and its neighbours were pinned to the wall along with interior layout plans. Jules Townsend had all his squad around the table, the time invested in this part of the planning as important to him as the physical attack would be when they threw the switch.

  Detail, detail, detail.

  No lifts, only staircases, closed-door entries at the front and back, the latter surrounded by rubbish bins. Refuse collection looked neglected, with piles of old boxes and debris stacked against the walls.

  “The fire escape doesn’t look too sturdy, Jules,” said Brad. “D’you reckon it’ll carry our weight?”

  Guna interrupted, “I think one or two of my men can get up there quickly. We’re lighter than you. If we need to, we’ll drop a rope ladder.”

  “May-Ling’s on the third floor, and these plans say there’s only three rooms at the front and three at the back,” said Malky. “Shouldn’t take long to find her.”

  “Right, and she’ll be ready,” replied Jules.

  “I’ll go in first,” said Jack, stabbing a finger at the floor plan.

  “No, Jack. Myself and Malky’ll do the third floor rear. Our two boys from the roof’ll join us at the front.”

  “But…”

  “No ‘buts’, Jack. You go in the second floor rear with Brad. Zeb and Johan’ll be with you on the second floor but front level. Guna and his other lad’ll cover the ground level doors front and back. Understood guys?”

  Jack bit his tongue. Nobody ever argued with Jules Townsend on operational detail. Everybody in the room, even Jack, accepted Jules was right. The success of the mission needed ice-cool rational action. The last thing they needed was any temperamental rashness from Jack Calder busting to get his wife out.

  “Let’s go over it one more time,” said Jules.

  Jack clenched his fists, digging his fingers into the palms, trying to distract his inner emotions. He wanted to be first in the attack and get the woman he loved out of the hands of those bastards, and of course his boss wouldn’t be diverted. As Jules finished going over the details one more time with the team, Jack couldn’t help remembering the man’s history.

  Major Julian Townsend had not acquired the ability to coax the best out of the men under his command through his military training. As with any special quality in leadership, that sense of balance seemed to have been with him since birth. His father crafted a distinguished career as a successful stockbroker in the City of London. Upper-class family ties traced their way back even before the pages of the Magna Carta in the thirteenth century. One of his ancestors bore arms as part of the inner circle of King Richard the First some twenty years prior to the signing of that parchment.

  Money was never an obstacle in giving the young Julian the highest levels of education. He revelled in the schooling his father provided through Eton College, then at Oxford University. He found himself drawn toward the histories of the great warriors. His scholastic thesis covered the impact of military battles on the genesis of modern day governments. He graduated with Honours.

  Townsend senior had intended his son follow him into the financial markets in the City, where a lucrative future awaited. His boy was having none of that. He declared a wish to pursue a career in the army. Officer training at Sandhurst held the strongest appeal for him and his sense of adventure would not be stifled. After long discussions, his father reluctantly agreed to make the opportunity available to him.

  Military records logged Julian Townsend as a fast-track rising star. The ease with which he overcame the gruellingly demanding training course for the SAS astonished those in command of his entry batch. At six feet tall, he was not the biggest recruit, nor the most muscular. He was certainly the toughest.

  It didn’t take long for his own command to be authorised. He treated his soldiers as partners, but demanded the same rigorous application to the training and assault courses. His personal creed dictated he couldn’t aspire to lead others in combat action if he didn’t also excel in these.

  His style of leadership allowed a close brotherhood to develop between himself and his units. He insisted he would bust them back to the ranks if they stepped out of line. This never happened under his command.

  Hand-to-hand fighting evolved into an obsession with the young officer. Over and over again he returned to the exercise mats. The instructors understood his desire for perfection and repeatedly pushed him to his limits. They had a very special fighting man on their hands. Once he attained his proficiency badges, Jules continually came back to rework the moves and techniques, often adding little nuances of his own to the standard training disciplines.

  He applied similar dedication to the weaponry modules; understanding how the weapons differed from each other; which were better under what circumstances? What, if any, were the downsides and risks of one weapon versus another? He had to learn all of these, and then some. The use of stiletto knives figured high. What were the optimum blade sizes? What variations of movement assisted the weapon holder? How to defend against attacks from these?

  His skill and strategy in field combat rated second to none. The ability to think ahead had often saved many lives among his squad, and his own at the same time. He was a stickler for detail.

  Detail, detail, detail.

  It was his mantra, and quickly became the mantra of all those who served with him.

  Julian Townsend married in his late twenties. His wife came from the enclosed sector of society his family inhabited. Courtship consisted of dinner parties with both sets of families, weekends on country estates of friends, and nights at the theatre and his enduring love, opera.

  The marriage bore a son and a younger daughter, but he kept his family life private. Gossip had it he was only truly married to the regiment. Nothing was further from the truth. Jules’ wife readily accepted his vocation could lead him into areas of personal danger, but understood his drive completely, and the issue never surfaced. A comfortable property on the outskirts of Winchester provided a familial balance to the rough edge of the clandestine operations in which he regularly engaged. Conversation about his fieldwork was taboo at home. On the other side of the coin, Julian Townsend never discussed his personal life with any of his fellow officers, and none saw fit to question him. Jules always kept these two different universes apart, the only way he could stay honest to both.

  Jack Calder mulled over that history and understood instinctively his leader’s grasp of the psychology of the men whose lives were his responsibility. Sometimes the fight was not only for physical victory, but also a battle for balance and sanity. Jules Townsend had never been known to get either wrong.

  It was time for the squad to fly to Albania.

  CHAPTER 30

  Ching was adamant.

  “We’ll arrive at Tirana as scheduled,” he told the caller. “But we won’t leave until we have the weapons in our hands. We’ll be around fifteen in all. You’ll arrange to have transport available to the farmhouse, which should get us there about ten in the evening. If there’s a hint of anything amiss, we stay at the airport. You understand?”

  “I expect you to be careful, my friend. My party understands, but he stresses this is to be a partnership,” replied Gorski. “He appreciates your caution and hopes you can begin to feel a bit more relaxed working together. I assure you the weapons and the vehicles will be supplied as requested.”

  Benoit played the recording back a couple of times. Excellent. Even down to squad numbers. Jules would like this.

  ***

  Bob Granger pursed his lips. “Another two murders, sir. One in Tottenham Court Road, coming out of a night club and one outside of his home in North London. The killers lacerated the faces and mutilated the bodies, most likely after they were shot.”

  “We won’t lose sleep over another couple of dead drug dealers, Bob,” replied Alan Rennie. “This stuff isn’t going away any time soon. W
hat’s the status on the other pieces?”

  “Slow to almost full stop, I’m afraid. No new leads. We’ve nailed down all of the victims’ names, except the dead foreign girls. All of them were clearly here under false tags. It’s a real shame nobody’s come forward to claim their bodies. We’ve got seventeen of them still in the morgues.”

  The Assistant Commissioner shook his head. He’d seen squalor and crime in all of its horrible forms over the years, but nothing touched him as a man and a father so much as the utter tragedy of these abused girls, brought from hardship into the slave trade that went under the guise of the sex industry, and now their anonymous deaths lacking the dignity of a proper identity. He had channelled his anger long ago into a stronger resolve as a law enforcer to do his bit to try to even up the score. His sworn duty obligated him to work within the legal system, but at times he too wished he could move in the greyer areas of justice similar to those of his friend Donnie Mullen and his partners.

  “What’s the word on the street with the drug supply lines? Have they been screwed up lately, Bob?”

  “Strangely, no. If anything, they’re smoother than before. Usually we get the whisper very quickly when supplies dry up, or prices increase, but no, it’s business as usual, if you can call drug dealing normal,” said Granger. “Despite the dealers’ shootings, there’s almost a truce on the supply front.”

  “Hmm.” Rennie looked pensive. He hadn’t informed Bob Granger of the pending meeting between the two syndicates in Albania, but what his DCI said fitted right in with the concept of an unholy partnership. “Try to keep a closer watch on some of the other known dealers. Not bodyguarding them, but we might get lucky if this attrition continues. Catch somebody in the act so to say.” Then as an afterthought, he said. “Although, somehow I have my doubts. What’s happening with the tail on Paul Manning?”

  “He’s become invisible, sir. No movement to speak of. Maybe he’s taken your advice and gone off to find some sunshine.”

  “Okay. Keep me posted.”

  ***

  Sunshine was the last thing on the mind of the Head of Serious Crimes. The town of Durres offered little activity for even a casual tourist, and his reconnaissance spread over the day yielded much of what he needed. His detective skills still worked. The rundown hotel where he billeted sat in a row of buildings, each offering similar hospitality, with the exception of one along the street which had seen better days. Enquiries with his chatty concierge, encouraged with a generous tip, told him the former hotel now frequently harboured people ‘from away’, the customary term used pejoratively for non-locals. His newfound friend’s gossip left Manning in no doubt these men were ‘up to no good’. In the strong opinion of the concierge, whatever they did couldn’t be ‘healthy’ as they never mixed locally, and spent time going back and forward to a farm on the outskirts of town.

  Detective work made easy. Manning smiled to himself. Two locations. I wonder which one Charlie Parker and his client will be gracing with their presence? He’d checked the incoming schedules for the following day. Only one direct flight from London, arriving as his did, around eight in the evening. Best be at the airport an hour or so before landing, then let’s see what happens next.

  ***

  The private jet touched down on the runway at Tirana just after noon and taxied to a hangar some way distant from the terminal. No customs officials met the plane, but a transit van did.

  Jules Townsend and his nine companions transferred their equipment without any fuss and drove out toward their destination in a quiet villa on the edge of Durres. The team had a full day ahead of them, quietly checking out the old hotel environs during daylight and getting a close look at the farmhouse and its approaches. Jules insisted they do the reconnaissance not once, but twice. None of the squad complained.

  Later, after dinner, they were back round the table going over the whole mission again, each man in turn reviewing what lay ahead. Every member had a back-up buddy. They checked and double-checked the weapons. By the time sleep beckoned well into the small hours of the morning, Jules was satisfied this team was as primed as it could be for the planned action only twenty-fours away.

  CHAPTER 31

  Parking near the airport presented no problem. Paul Manning chose an unobstructed exit for his hired Volkswagen. He reversed the black saloon into the slot a few feet from the slip road and made his way to the arrivals greeting hall. Across from the passenger exit, a run-of-the-mill coffee shop provided a good view of the whole concourse. He settled on a table away from the front. Of the arriving group, only Charlie Parker could possibly recognise him, but he would see the lawyer long before being seen himself. The coffee tasted surprisingly good, a strong Turkish blend. An International Herald Tribune gave him face cover. Now for the wait.

  The flight from London landed ahead of schedule. Manning paid his bill and toyed with the remains of his third coffee. A party of more than a dozen Asians strode purposefully through the exit channel, surrounding Ching Mak and his legal counsellor. From the waiting crowd, two men stepped forward and indicated for the group to follow them off to the side of the concourse. They entered a security anteroom several metres to the right of the hallway.

  Instinctively he knew they were collecting weapons. To exit Heathrow with guns would have been almost impossible, but not a problem here in Albania. He had shown his warrant card in London to enable his own weapon to be carried, but nobody asked questions when he landed. He dropped the newspaper on the table and walked outside to the car to wait for the group to reappear. After a few minutes, a limousine and a minibus drew up in front of the terminal. Ching and Parker, along with two other Chinese men, got into the limo, while the rest of his people boarded the bus. The night darkness was useful cover as he tailed the small convoy at sight distance.

  Knowing their destination made it a simple job to keep them in view without getting too close. When they neared the township of Durres, the vehicles in front veered off in the direction of the farmhouse. Traffic thinned and as a precaution Manning dropped further back. His earlier reconnaissance pinpointed an observation spot four hundred metres from the building, on a lane leading away from the town side toward the coast. He killed the engine and the sidelights and focused his night vision binoculars on the residence. Light streamed from every window, illuminating the several vehicles already parked nearby. Full party tonight, he thought.

  Outside, a scattering of men stationed themselves and even at this distance he counted many non-Chinese. If this had been on his patch in London, he’d be calling in a standby SCO 19 team, but what he wanted from tonight was enough evidence to pin down somebody for the trash back in England. If that wasn’t going to be the East Europeans, maybe he could nail Ching Mak and Charlie Parker for collusion with these guys. Who knows? Sometimes you get lucky. Meantime, wait and wait some more.

  ***

  A meal of chicken pieces, bread rolls on a paper plate and a styrofoam cup of coffee arrived late in the evening. May-Ling was glad to eat, not having had anything since early morning. The daylight had gone a while ago and she had no exact bearing on the time, but thought it must be approaching midnight. The door was kept locked, but the sounds outside told her the guard never strayed far from the room. She switched off the light and immediately switched it back on again. She started counting in her head, up to one hundred, two hundred, three hundred, approximating five minutes before switching off and on again. She continued to repeat the sequence, assuming it unlikely the guard outside would notice a momentary light going off and on at that interval. In between she did some aerobics to keep her muscles flexed. When the team arrived she’d be ready.

  ***

  Reminders from Jules for the evening’s mission were two-fold. May-Ling’s safe extraction the primary objective. Secondly, we go black.

  May-Ling had completed over a dozen light switch sequences by the time the ISP men were in place. Malky picked up the signal first. “There she is lads, sure enough, third
floor, room at the left.” From the planning in London, they knew the internal layout carried an open atrium from the ground to the fourth floors in the old European style. A staircase a few feet from the side of May-Ling’s room led up and down the structure. That would keep things simple. Jules nodded and checked his watch. Almost one o’clock. He motioned the first guys forward. Guna’s two companions, earmarked for the roof, sprinted to the base of the fire escape. One shouldered a rope ladder, the other abseiling lines. As the others hugged the shadows, despite also carrying AK47s, machine pistols fitted with silencers, and their kukri knives, the men ghosted up like oversize spiders. The rope ladder tumbled down silently as Jules and Malky stepped forward to begin their ascent. Jules had an extra machine pistol. Within minutes the other pairs followed them up – Jack and Brad, then Jeb and Johan. Guna and his remaining man stood on alert back and front of the building as arranged. Malky, Brad and Jeb also had abseiling gear across their shoulders.

  The leading pair secured the ropes on the roof. Jules and Malky’s target point of entry was the room in the middle, next to May-Ling, Jack and Brad the room directly below hers. A wave of the arm from Jules launched four dark figures outward from above the entry points. In a coordinated action, the weight of the assault teams smashed into and propelled them through four separate windows, back and front. Impacts were at the weakest parts in the centre of each window frame. The buddy in each pair took the second abseil swing and within thirty seconds all of the team bar Guna and his ground floor colleague stood inside the building.

  ***

  May-Ling heard the attack begin and positioned herself to the side of the door. The crash from the adjacent room startled the guard outside her quarters. Mistaking the noise as coming from her room, he turned the key and with his gun in the other hand pushed the door open. At the same time the completely black-clad figure of Jules Townsend stepped out of the room next door. The man turned to point his weapon at this unexpected intruder. The momentary distraction contributed to his death. May-Ling had armed herself with the only weapon available…the glass-framed seafront photograph. Her right arm swung and the glass shattered in the guard’s face as a bullet from Jules caught him in the throat. Jules handed her his second machine pistol and signalled her to get back inside. From the two floors below a succession of armed men appeared from around the atrium. They never had a chance to use their weapons. They were no match for the pincer movement accompanied by stun grenades. The first muffled zipping of bullets downed half a dozen men as others realised they were under attack. Three or four made to escape from the ground floor and met an equally deadly end from Guna and his compatriot as their silenced pistols brought them down. Malky moved upstairs with one of the other Gurkhas to flush out any personnel on the top level. None remained alive. Like an acid drip, the squad cleared down the building. They shot open the locks on the rooms with their pistols, kicking in the doors from the side and using grenades in a lethal mopping-up. The confusion and smoke from the explosions made any meaningful reaction to the attack impossible. Six minutes after entry all resistance had gone. Jules pointed to Jack to go upstairs to where May-Ling waited.