VENGEANCE WEARS BLACK (Jack Calder Crime Series #2)

by Seumas Gallacher

  Yurev stood riveted, as he recognised a face from more than twenty years ago. The face belonged to a different name back then, during the strife that ripped a nation apart as the Balkans self-destructed.

  Fadi signalled to the other men and they left, leaving Yurev alone with the man he used to call Viktor Bodan. A few moments later, one of the guards returned and placed a tray with cups and an ornate coffee pot on the middle table before retreating from the room. Ahmed Fadi poured some of the sweet-smelling brew for himself and his visitor, and handed him a cup.

  “You’re the last guy I expected here, Viktor,” Yurev began. “I’d heard you were dead, killed in Tuzla in the street fighting.”

  “Viktor Bodan is dead,” came the emphatic reply. “For reasons you’ll readily appreciate, he no longer exists. You call me Ahmed Fadi, for that’s who I am. Knowledge of any other name has been a death warrant for many over the years. You understand that, of course.” A statement, not a question.

  Yurev nodded, picking up the familiar quiet voice of this past guerrilla commander, but still not quite able to bring himself to believe he was hearing it in these surroundings. He instantly understood now the relationship between Kaplani and this drug lord. Almost brothers. Former fighting leaders in Bosnia, and partners in crime for all those years since the conflict ended. Why the fuck hadn’t Jozef told him? Now one was dead. What happens next?

  The Armenian read his mind. “You’re wondering where do we go from here, Yurev. First things first. The nonsense aboard The Constellation has caused me considerable embarrassment. And a lot of money. Two million dollars to be precise. The local vermin need plenty of bakshish to make killings go away, you understand?”

  Yurev sipped his coffee and eyed the former guerrilla commander.

  Fadi continued, “The Turkish police are aware The Constellation is associated with, shall we say, certain interests to which they turn a blind eye, but only for as long as their price is paid. An untraced anonymous phone call informed them of the killings aboard my boat. Now you’ve lost a boss and, as Jozef had been telling me, a potential new partner. I’ve lost four men, good men.” He stopped and tilted his head toward Yurev. “The men I can replace. The trade through my dear friend Jozef won’t disappear, but it won’t flow again so easily for quite a while. Frankly, that’s also no hardship. My business has plenty of distribution channels to keep it moving. When one door closes, another opens.” He leaned back and rested his neck on the rear top of the couch, looking at the ceiling.

  Yurev waited for Fadi to finish, and guessing he had, began to speak. “The loss of Jozef is like ripping out my own heart, Viktor…”

  “Ahmed.”

  “Ahmed,” he corrected himself. “I served with his father and with him for most of my life. He is…was…my only family. I know who’s done this. Sooner or later, I will make them pay.”

  Fadi leaned forward from his ceiling-gazing and put his cup back on the table. “Making whoever is them pay doesn’t help my business, Yurev. Continued movement of my goods is all I’m concerned about. You understand?”

  Yurev shrugged and looked directly at the drug lord. “So, what do you need from me?”

  As with Viktor Bodan the guerrilla, Ahmed Fadi the drug baron always showed decisive leadership. Yurev sensed his intelligence, far smarter than Kaplani, and he wasn’t fucked up with booze or women. The business of killing and creating havoc always came first. Fadi had decided how to react to the mess on The Constellation.

  “Let me tell you, if I thought you were responsible for anything that happened the other night, you would be dead already. You were always a faithful soldier to the Kaplanis, which I respect. Now Jozef’s gone, I want you to report directly to me. He counted on you to manage his operations and I see no value in throwing away that organisation. It’ll take a while to fix the backlash from his disappearance. Despite the payoffs here, my people will be under scrutiny for some time.”

  Yurev opened his hands in a gesture signalling acceptance. Anything else would end his life instantly.

  “Secondly, forget these people you think did this. My guess is they were after Jozef and the Chinese guy. I don’t need any further unwanted attention focused on my business. Let them believe they’ve achieved what they wanted, which I’m sure was to disrupt your trade and the Chinaman’s.” Fadi refilled the coffee cups and handed one to Yurev.

  “Thirdly, the fact Jozef called for a meeting started this whole episode ending with me having to pay out two million dollars in bribes. I’ll recover the money through you as the business gets back up and running. There’ll be enough for you later as the trade builds up again.”

  Yurev steepled his fingers to his lips and began to nod his head slowly.

  This could’ve turned out much worse. Jozef’s gone, we move on. Soldiers and guerrillas get killed, leaders get killed. We get new soldiers and new guerrillas. We get new leaders. We move on.

  “Okay, Ahmed. Boss. I’ve no problem with any of that,” he replied. Except the bastards who did this. I’ll sort them out in my own time.

  “Good,” said Fadi. “Here’s what we do.” The pair hunched forward slightly. “The Constellation needs to depart Istanbul for a while. Part of the bakshish arrangement means it can leave port this week. I want you to supervise the following.”

  The largest supplier of drugs from the region started to outline his scheme to Yurev. They interrupted the discussion only to summon more coffee and food. The guards left them alone.

  Two hours later, the man he used to know as Viktor Bodan embraced Yurev before seeing him into the sedan. This time only the driver accompanied him on the way back from Kilyos. Yurev didn’t often smile, but as he left his new boss behind, he allowed himself that luxury.

  We move on.

  CHAPTER 38

  Cooling his heels in the waiting area for a half hour beyond the ten o’clock appointment time served to increase Charlie Parker’s agitation. He hadn’t been offered tea or coffee, not that he would’ve accepted it anyway, but this was no way to treat a top-flight lawyer. He was good and ready for Bob Granger and his buffoons when the junior officer approached and directed him toward the interview area. The young policeman stood aside as Parker stormed into the room. DCI Granger and a female Chinese officer sat on one side of the table with a neat pile of folders in front of them. Sitting opposite them, the diminutive Madam Ching Fan stared toward her legal representative as he entered. He ignored the vacant seat next to his client and instead launched into his customary attack mode.

  “What kind of insanity are you guys playing at?” he began. “Terrorism? A helpless eighty-two year old Chinese lady. Terrorism? The rest of your charges are absolute nonsense too, by the way, but terrorism? This takes some beating, Inspector Granger. I demand you release my client immediately. These trumped-up charges smack of rampant racism. Racism, you hear?”

  Bob Granger smiled. “Good morning to you too, Mister Parker. If you’ll take a seat, we’ll be happy to elaborate for you the basis for these extremely serious charges your client faces.”

  This wasn’t the same Bob Granger Charlie Parker had eaten for breakfast at the last meeting when his client’s son was in the room. The DCI positively beamed at him. What the hell’s going on?

  “Madam Ching Fan has been read her rights and had all of the charges explained to her in English and in Cantonese,” Granger continued affably. “If you wish I can repeat these for her in your presence.”

  “This is bullshit, Granger,” retorted Parker, raising his voice.

  “Her Majesty’s Metropolitan Police Force doesn’t regard it as such. If you’ll sit down, I’ll go over the charges in order for you to understand how much serious trouble your client finds herself in.”

  “Hrrmph,” grunted the lawyer. This wasn’t following the script. This seemed for real this time. “Tell me.”

  “Madam Ching Fan was arrested yesterday morning at seven-fifteen. At nine-twenty she was charged with multiple counts of murder,
arson, drug offences, people trafficking and money laundering. Added to those are the charge of complicity in causing explosions in public places and public buildings.” Granger paused and looked at Charlie Parker, who didn’t seem at all perturbed as he read out the list of charges.

  Parker said, “You know as well as I do Madam Ching rarely leaves her residence in Hounslow, Inspector. This is nonsense. The bombings in London and elsewhere around the country could hardly have her imprint on them, now, could they?”

  “We’re not talking about events in this country Mister Parker, although I’m sure we’ll be looking into that angle before too long. The charges relate to incidents across Europe recently in France, Germany, the Netherlands, Poland and Denmark. The authorities in these countries and our friends at Interpol have compiled quite a dossier on Madam Ching. Oh, and by the way, there are similar charges and arrest warrants outstanding we’ve been asked to help with in relation to Madam Ching’s son, Mak. I don’t suppose you’d know where your other client is right now, would you?”

  It took a few seconds for Charlie Parker’s racing mind to assimilate what he’d just been told.

  Shit! These charges related to the attacks on Kaplani’s sites in Europe. Mak had disclaimed all knowledge of these, had emphatically denied any involvement from their side. What the fuck was going down here? Had Mak lied to him? And with Ching’s name thrown into the charge mix with his mother, this was getting tricky. He kept his outward composure and pitched a holding question at the policeman. “This is rubbish. What possible grounds do you have to substantiate any of this?”

  Granger tapped the pile of folders in front of him. “We’ve been given certain conclusive information from the European police, Charlie,” he said, reverting to his first name. “Among other evidence we’ve been able to source, we’ve cast-iron tie-ins to the killing of over forty young women in a firebomb attack on the pier at Cherbourg a few weeks ago. Your man and his mother are going down, big time.”

  Madam Ching scowled at Granger and the Chinese officer, before talking in perfect English. “They’ve got some bullshit papers from George Chu, Parker. The man was always a bastard liar.”

  The palpable vehemence wasn’t helping, thought the lawyer. “What are the bail terms?” he asked.

  “Come off it, Charlie. With all this lot, plus the terrorism charges, bail’s impossible. Madam Ching will remain in police custody until further notice. We’ve a court appearance scheduled tomorrow afternoon.”

  Parker was already thinking of what to say to Ching Mak in his post-meeting call, when the door behind him opened.

  Paul Manning appeared with two other officers behind him. What the hell’s going on now? The Head of Serious Crimes nodded to Granger and addressed himself to the lawyer.

  “Charles Andrew Parker, you are under arrest and hereby charged with murder, arson, drug trafficking and money laundering. You have the right to remain silent but anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence against you in a court of law. Please stand up.”

  “What the fuck?” he blurted out, scrambling to his feet as Manning stepped aside to permit the officers to secure handcuffs on his oversized wrists.

  “You’ll be pleased to know with the help of our international friends your account at Cobalt Bank in Gibraltar has been frozen, including the little undeclared windfall of three hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Very careless,” added Manning. “But I suppose when you’re busy running around in Albania and Turkey it’s difficult to keep up with everything, eh? One other thing,” he continued, taking a wad of folded papers from his tunic and stuffing them into Parker’s right hand jacket pocket. “Pay your parking fines, Charlie. There’s a good lad.”

  The lawyer’s head began to swim. The two officers led him from the interview room as his ears filled with a torrent of Cantonese from Madam Ching. He understood none of the words but the invective was unmistakable. This was not his best-ever client day.

  CHAPTER 39

  “The Constellation’s cleared to leave Istanbul port, Jules,” said Marcel Benoit. “Forget the scene of crime issue. Doubtless a considerable amount of money changed hands to allow its departure. No deaths reports so far. I imagine the scum you cleaned up are lying at the bottom of the ocean. That underscores some of the problems Interpol has in working with the locals.”

  At the other end of the secured connection Jules replied, “Which also underlines the good sense you had in getting somebody like us involved, huh? The case isn’t closed yet, Marcel, and I shouldn’t be in a hurry to pay our bonus. I didn’t think the vessel would be hanging around as potential evidence. That’s why we made it an anonymous alert with the phone call. We’ve also left a little gift aboard to help us.”

  “Oh?”

  “Under the waterline at the rear of the boat we attached a radio tracker. Wherever The Constellation sails or moors, we’ll have a signal trace.”

  Benoit burst out laughing. “Jules, remind me never to play chess with you.”

  “I’m sure you’d do just fine. In the meantime, we’ll keep Brad, Jeb and Johan with us. I think we’ll be needing them a bit longer.”

  “Keep them as long as you need. I’ll update you on any developments from my side. Goodnight.”

  Marcel put down the phone and wondered how good a law enforcer Jules Townsend would have been. But then, Jules wouldn’t have had the freedom and training in black operations the SAS had given him. He congratulated himself on the decision to engage ISP.

  ***

  Although The Constellation made good sailing speed, Yurev was not comfortable being at sea, even on such a luxury vessel. The chef and serving staff disembarked in Turkey, leaving only Fadi’s gunmen on the cruiser with him. The Mediterranean at this time of year could whip up squally weather the stabilisers couldn’t fully subdue. The last couple of days had been mostly smooth progress at just under the boat’s top cruising speed. A few patches of rough water appeared from nowhere, slowing them down considerably. He inspected the interiors in detail as instructed by Ahmed Fadi and familiarised himself with the layout of The Constellation, particularly the suites area. He had to be ready to instruct the fitters in Algiers when they docked.

  Cruise ships make Algiers a regular destination on most Mediterranean voyages, with both the north and south ports constantly busy. Docking schedules can have long waiting times. This didn’t trouble Yurev and the crew on The Constellation as they had no intention of touching the harbour, electing instead to anchor some way out in Algiers Bay. Three customs officials arrived and were escorted by one of Fadi’s men into the central lounge area, the scene of the attack just a week before. Yurev kept his distance at the prow of the vessel, but he could hear laughter and the clinking of glasses. Doubtless some documents were displayed, inspected and stamped, all without undue formality. An hour later, the officials disembarked, each with a well-padded unmarked envelope and a couple of bottles of brandy. Yurev prepared for the next set of visitors.

  The skipper of the small cutter handled the wheel expertly, bobbing easily through the waves and cutting its engine a few metres out to feather alongside the stern of The Constellation. A second man deftly secured a mooring rope, allowing enough slack for the smaller boat to ride the waters without smacking into the bigger vessel. The arriving squad of six, dressed in workmen’s overalls, embarked with an assortment of toolboxes and packing crates.

  “Follow me,” said Yurev, not bothering with exchanging names where none were expected. The carpenters ferried the cases down to the areas Yurev had identified. “You’ve been briefed on what’s needed?” he asked the leader.

  “Yes, my men are expert refitters. We’ve been doing vessels like this for years. But I must say this is one of the biggest I’ve been on, and one of the most beautiful,” replied the man with obvious admiration. “It’ll be a pleasure working on this. Now can you show me where you want us to start?”

  “In here,” said Yurev, pointing through the doorway of Kaplani’s death s
uite, “and there,” where Ching perished. “And these four suites alongside here,” indicating the guest salons leading back from the other two. “How long will you need?”

  “Our orders said to finish within a day, no more than twenty-four hours. My men are on double-shift money, so we’ll work in one stretch and should be finished well on time. If I find any problems I’ll give you a shout.”

  “Right,” replied Yurev, watching as the fitters began to segregate the various cases into the suites he’d indicated. After a few minutes observing them, he decided there was nothing to gain by standing over professional craftsmen, so best get out of their way and let them work.

  They finished in under fifteen hours, down to the cleaning up and re-polishing of the finishes on the interior wood linings. The company was paid in advance, and he didn’t doubt part of the payment ensured confidentiality. He admired their neatness, even in the way these guys packed their tools. A spotless job. The men boarded the cutter and untied the mooring rope. The engine coughed twice and kicked into gear. Within minutes the craft disappeared, a small object moving across the water back to port. Yurev called out to his own skipper, “Okay, let’s get going.”

  The Constellation’s engines flared into life, and with a muffled roar thrust out to sea, away from Algiers, and headed westwards toward its next destination, Morocco.

  ***

  “Looks like our friends are touring the Med,” said Jack. “They’ve just put into Tangier. Now what possible business d’you think these lads have there, eh?”

  The tracker signal had been static for some hours, pinpointing The Constellation alongside the dockside in the northern Moroccan city.

  “No bloody good, whatever they’re doin’,” said Malky. “Ye don’t have a luxury cruiser slummin’ in places like Tangier unless something pokey’s goin’ on, right?”

  “I think Jules’ll have us on parade again once we can tell where they’re heading next,” replied his buddy.