Desperate Cargo

by Don Pendleton

  Canfield nodded. “Thank you, Enright.” He waited until the man had withdrawn before picking up the receiver.

  “Canfield.”

  “This is van Ryden. Is it convenient?”

  Canfield allowed himself a slight smile. The club dining room was exceptionally quiet. Only two other diners were seated together on the far side of the opulent room. All Canfield could hear was the low murmur of their voices and the click of knives and forks as they ate.

  “It will cease to be if my roast beef gets cold.”

  “There has been a problem with the latest cargo due for delivery. I thought you should know.”

  “Explain ‘problem,’ Ludwig.”

  There was a slight pause before van Ryden spoke. “The problem occurred at the delivery location and the cargo was lost.”

  “I’ll be going back to my office after lunch. Use the jet. I want you in London before the end of the day.”

  “Of course, Hugo.”

  Canfield ended the call. He beckoned for Enright to remove the phone, then returned to his meal. He found his appetite a little soured at the news. Hugo Canfield did not enjoy being told that one of his shipments had been lost. He knew the details of the particular cargo that had been expected in Rotterdam. He had invested time and money, as he always did, and if it had been lost, then that meant he was going to be down a considerable sum. Not only that but he was going to have to disappoint important clients. They would not be pleased, which meant Canfield would not be pleased. Client satisfaction was something he prided himself on. It was one of the reasons his organization was the best. He allowed no slackening in standards. He would not tolerate failure.

  He smiled suddenly at the thought of van Ryden sitting in the comfort of the Learjet as it crossed from Rotterdam to London. The man would not enjoy the flight. His churning stomach would not be put down to air sickness. He would be worrying. He would not realize that Canfield was not about to lay the blame on him. The lawyer was responsible for the legal part of the operation and logistics. He also dealt with finance. He was not a field operative.

  Let the man worry, Canfield decided. It would not do him any harm. It paid to keep his people on their toes, to shoulder their responsibilities.

  Canfield finished his meal, called for his car to be brought to the entrance and strolled to the reception desk where he collected his coat and hat. He made an imposing figure. Just over six feet tall, athletically built—he kept himself fit—and expensively dressed. Women found him excitingly attractive and he played on that. His aloof demeanor toward those he considered below him made others step back when confronted. He was powerful. He exercised immense control and had no hesitation when it came to using his influence.

  When he stepped outside, shielded from the London rain by the doorman’s umbrella, his year-old, top-of-the-range Bentley was already at the curb. The doorman opened the rear door and Canfield slid onto the soft leather seat.

  “Back to the office, sir?” asked Gantley, his driver and minder. Gantley was a former British Army military policeman. A big man. Solid and tough. Above his hard face he wore his hair close-cropped. He had worked for Canfield for eight years, was loyal and had a fearsome reputation for brutal violence. “Bloody day, sir. Global warming obviously hasn’t reached London yet.”

  “Always the pessimist, Sergeant Gantley.”

  “That’s me, sir. So, the office?”

  “The office. No rush now. Mr. van Ryden is flying in from Rotterdam so there’s plenty of time.”

  “Way the traffic’s building up he’ll more than likely be there before us.”

  LUDWIG VAN RYDEN WAS shown into Canfield’s spacious Canary Wharf office just before five o’clock. Watching from behind his executive desk Canfield was barely able to refrain from smiling at the concern on van Ryden’s face.

  “Sit down, Ludwig.” Canfield caught the attention of his secretary, who had shown the Dutchman in. “Jane, please arrange some fresh coffee for us. Or would you like something stronger, Ludwig?”

  “Coffee will be fine.”

  As the door closed behind the young woman, Canfield pushed to his feet and stood at the wide window that overlooked Canary Wharf. He never failed to enjoy the view. It excited him.

  This was his pinnacle.

  It had taken him a long time to build his organization—taking it from humble beginnings all the way to an empire that spanned the globe. On his way to the top Canfield had honed his skills on the backs of others. Weaker men failed to spot the quiet ambition of the younger man in their employ. Canfield had been a good pupil. Always watching and listening, gathering his strength by exploiting others. When he was ready he struck.

  During his climb to absolute power he left behind a trail of dead bodies. Literally. But Canfield always covered his tracks. There were rumors about the way he worked, but Canfield was sharp enough never to leave evidence that might point the finger his way. Each time he took out rivals he absorbed the operations they had been running, slowly and carefully creating his own. Now he controlled a powerful criminal network that had its hand in a number of illegal operations, the most lucrative was his human trafficking.

  It had not taken Canfield long to realize the potential of the trade in people. From the very young to adults, the slave business was thriving.

  The suite of offices at Canary Wharf, the prestigious docklands business complex, housed Canfield Enterprises. Day to day it carried on the legitimate side of the business. Finance and development. It acted as a cover for Canfield’s murkier business dealings. The majority of the people working there knew nothing of Canfield’s other enterprises. The legitimate business earned him a lot of money and contacts he made from that part of his empire were icing on the cake.

  His illicit enterprise had recently brought Canfield’s organization under the close scrutiny of a multination task force. The goal of the task force was to gather enough evidence to allow the law to close him down. That was the plain and simple fact. The intent was there but the task force, though it had its suspicions, was unable to garner the hard evidence that would lead to Canfield’s conviction. The task force worked within the constrictions of lawful intent. They had to follow the rules. Canfield was under no such regulation. He worked by his own set of rules. There were no limits in his world of business. As long as he made his money and increased his power, then he was satisfied. He was already ultrawealthy and making more money by the day. He was a well-known businessman. He had, over the years, cultivated many relationships with respectable people in positions of power. Some of those individuals were also under his patronage because Canfield had something on them. He disliked the word blackmail, preferring to see the associations as a mutual understanding between friends. He protected them by keeping their guilty secrets hidden away, suggesting that reciprocating gestures from them would retain the status quo. Within his circle of friends Canfield had government ministers, cops, wealthy individuals who moved in high circles.

  Hugo Canfield felt very secure in his world.

  The recent events in Rotterdam, namely the disposal of the two American agents who had managed to penetrate his organization, had been a means of announcing to the task force that they were ineffective. That nothing they could do would ever touch him. It showed that he, Hugo Canfield, had the power to do such a thing without fear of reprisal. The task force knew what had happened, but there had not been a thing they could do about it. Proof positive did not exist. If they had arrested Canfield, or any of his people, it would have ended up with them all walking free because there was not the slightest shred of evidence against him. Or the people who had carried out the torture and murder. His legal team would refute any and all charges against him as being without basis. The task force would have one chance to take Canfield down and one chance only. They needed proof absolute. To the last detail. Evidence both documentary and verbal. Witnesses. They would need enough backup to fill a courtroom. The task force knew that and so did Canfield. Despite the intern
ational members of the task force they had nothing they could use against Hugo Canfield. With his contacts he would be able to buy, destroy or wipe out anything the task force threatened him with.

  “Wait until the coffee arrives, then we can talk,” he said over his shoulder to van Ryden.

  The lawyer was in no hurry to get to the reason he was in London. He had been debating the matter with himself during the flight in Canfield’s jet. Whenever he had flown before he had always immersed himself in the luxury of the executive aircraft. Canfield had ordered many custom additions to the airplane during its construction. It was equipped with the most comfortable seats van Ryden had ever sat in. It had a communications system that would have cast a shadow over Air Force One. Onboard entertainment played to perfection and the cabin crew were able to serve up practically anything a passenger wanted. On this particular flight van Ryden had found he couldn’t face anything except for a couple of glasses of whiskey. Even they failed to quell the queasy sensation growing stronger in his stomach the closer he got to London.

  The office door opened and the young secretary wheeled in a burnished steel trolley. It held the coffee Canfield had ordered.

  “Would you like me to pour, sir?” Jane asked.

  “We’ll be fine,” Canfield said. “And, Jane, no interruptions until I say. No exceptions.”

  She nodded and withdrew, quietly closing the double doors.

  Canfield moved to the trolley and poured two cups of coffee. He handed one to van Ryden, then resumed his seat behind his desk.

  “Bring me up-to-date, Ludwig. I have some details but I need clarification.”

  The lawyer explained the occurrences from the meeting between Wilhelm Bickell and the American, Cooper, to the strike against the freshly delivered cargo at the former oil dock. His delivery was detailed and precise. He felt as if he was in a courtroom at that moment, though for once it felt as if he was on the witness stand himself.

  Canfield listened without comment, drinking his coffee, his eyes fixed on van Ryden throughout. When the lawyer finished and took a long swallow from his own cup, Canfield waited for a few moments before he responded.

  “Do we assume that it was this man, Cooper, who carried out the attack at the dock?”

  “Who else would it be? He dealt with Bickell and his men. He is obviously a man who believes in direct action. As the strike at the dock showed.”

  “What do we know about this man? Apart from the obvious fact he knows his job.”

  “All searches have failed to bring up anything about him. His initial contact with Bickell suggested he was involved with the task force. He isn’t on any databases I had our people check. It’s as if he doesn’t exist.”

  “His actions are certainly real, Ludwig. The bullets he used killed my people, his ability to have the cargo taken into care was certainly real. I’ll have my sources look into who this bastard is. Someone, somewhere, must know about him.”

  “He fooled Bickell into believing he was genuine.”

  “Bickell was an incompetent idiot. He should have contacted me before he went ahead and arranged that meeting. What the bloody hell did he think he was doing? Did he imagine that every time he was confronted by someone from the task force all he had to do was kill them? The removal of Turner and Bentley was a single, clearly defined warning to the task force that they were on dangerous ground. I was not advocating open season.”

  When van Ryden appeared reluctant to say any more Canfield realized he hadn’t been told the whole story. He refilled his coffee cup, sat again and asked the lawyer outright what else he had to say.

  “He came to my office, Hugo,” van Ryden said. “Tricked his way in as a potential client, then made it clear his intentions are to bring us down.”

  He detailed what had happened from the moment the man named Cooper had entered his office.

  Canfield laughed. “If nothing else he has a bloody nerve. Whoever he is, this man doesn’t sound like your everyday task-force agent. He must be some specialist. I don’t suppose he gave anything away we could use?”

  “Hugo, I was scared. He tied me up, blindfolded and gagged me and shut me in my own washroom. I’m no hero. The man terrified me. I admit that. He was serious. He proved that by the attack at the dock. For all I knew he had come to my office to kill me. And before you ask, I did not divulge any information. He already knew of my association with you.”

  “Now that is interesting,” Canfield said. “The man has background details on our operation. Has information about us. What does that suggest?”

  “That he does have some kind of contact with the task force.”

  “They haven’t advertised their investigations to the media. Cooper must have been fed intel to get him on track.”

  “But he is only one man.”

  “He’s shown us that one man can do a lot of damage. He doesn’t follow any kind of rule book. Works instinctively and just goes for his targets.” Canfield sat back, considering the options open to him. “Time for some of our resources to earn their retainers. The problem with a wild card like Cooper is not knowing where he’s going to show up next.”

  He reached out and tapped a button on the office intercom. “Jane, get me Paul Chambers. Tell him to drop everything and get here immediately. ASAP. Any objections just put him directly through to me. I’ll deal with him.”

  “Yes, Mr. Canfield. Does that mean you’ll be staying over?”

  “I won’t be going anywhere until I’ve spoken to him.”

  “I’ll arrange for a meal to be delivered later. What would you prefer this evening?”

  “I leave that in your capable hands, Jane. And make the meal enough for two. Mr. van Ryden will be joining me.”

  “Will you need me to stay?”

  “That won’t be necessary, my dear. You just make the arrangements, then you can go home as normal.”

  Canfield spent the next hour discussing with van Ryden the need for damage control over the missing cargo. Client satisfaction meant a great deal to Hugo Canfield. He had a good record and the thought of that record becoming tarnished did not sit well.

  “We need to arrange with Timor to gather another cargo to be ready to ship out when I give the word. I’ll have to smooth things over with our clients about the delay. I think a discounted rate should make them happy. Everybody likes a price drop.”

  “I am sure they won’t lower the charges when they move the merchandise on.”

  Canfield shrugged. “What they do with the cargo once they have bought and paid for it is their business. As long as we receive our fee I don’t give a damn.”

  “What can I do to help?” van Ryden asked, eager to please his employer.

  “In the morning you get back to Rotterdam. Speak to DeChambre first, then arrange for him to contact me. He’s been damned quiet since he fingered those American agents. Perhaps I’m being too soft with him. Then you go home and lay low for a few days. Relax. Stay away from your office. Keep your security crew on hand.”

  “I will contact DeChambre as soon as I get back.”

  “Make sure he is aware I am not happy. My God, the man is an Interpol inspector. Wouldn’t you expect him to have at least a suspicion the Americans had sent someone else over after the deaths of Turner and Bentley? Tell DeChambre I want some answers, or his monthly retainer might suddenly dry up. That should kick-start his French arse. Now, loosen your tie, Ludwig, and don’t stay so uptight.” A wide grin crossed Canfield’s face and he leaned forward to clap van Ryden on the shoulder. “God, I would have given a fortune to have seen your expression when Cooper walked into your office and poked a gun in your face.”

  The lawyer still paled when he recalled the incident. He failed to see what was even faintly amusing about it. “Hugo, I think I will take that drink now, please.”

  Canfield poured him a large whiskey.

  “Here, get that down, then we can go over the details of this Russian drug deal. We need to work on our distribution list
.”

  6

  Harass the enemy. If there’s no opportunity to confront him in a full-on attack because he has an overwhelming force, the next best thing is to hit and run. Strike here, then fall back, move on and hit somewhere else. Keep the enemy guessing. Don’t allow him to take a breath before you strike somewhere else. Take him down piece by piece.

  It was a strategy the Executioner had employed many times before. He worked more often than not as a single entity without the privilege of a large supporting team behind him. His lonely war gave him no other option. Bolan had adapted to this over the years and he felt no disadvantage in having to operate without backup. On the reverse side of the card, working alone meant he could concentrate fully during an attack without having the burden of allies on his mind—no worries whether they were safe, whether they had been compromised. He only had to concentrate on himself. Responsibility came with its own shackles. When the need arose Bolan shouldered responsibility without thought, but when he was moving into a lone combat situation his mind could focus on the mission full-time.

  He had liaised with Stony Man Farm. Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman had assigned his cyber team to run a detailed check on Ludwig van Ryden’s background. Especially his home. By the time Bolan was in full receipt of the information he knew enough about the lawyer’s house to walk around it in the dark. He wasn’t even surprised that Kurtzman had come up with detailed architect’s drawing for the place.

  When Bolan had staked out the property initially it quickly became evident that van Ryden was not at home. The house stood empty, no vehicle evident on the paved driveway. A call back to the Farm to run a check on van Ryden’s whereabouts gave Bolan the answer to his query. An innocent telephone call to his office came back with the information that Mr. van Ryden was out of the country on business for a couple of days. So the Executioner had to wait. He did it by taking in the sights of Rotterdam he had almost missed on his arrival. He rested up for the battle to come.