Before he turned around Kepple’s suspicions were confirmed. He knew the voice.
Ryan.
The American who had visited him earlier. Supposedly one of Canfield’s people. The man was a fraud. Nothing to do with the company and he had checked out the set up simply for a return visit.
The suit was gone. Now the big American was dressed all in black. He had a large black nylon bag dangling from his left hand.
“You bastard,” Kepple said.
The American hefted the bag and dropped it on Kepple’s desk.
“We were getting on well last time I was here, Ray. I thought we had something going on.”
“I don’t like being made to look a bloody fool. Jesus, Chambers will tear my bloody heart out if I let you—”
The big man gestured with the pistol. “Empty your pockets. Everything on the desk.”
The Executioner watched Kepple turn out his pockets. He picked up the bunch of keys, weighing them in his hand.
“Sit down, Kepple.” All friendliness was gone. “I want you to pass along a message to Chambers and Canfield. It’s for both of them. Tell them their time is running out. Tell them it might be easier of they took the quick way out, because when I’m done there isn’t going to be a damn thing left.”
Slumped in his chair Kepple wondered what the American had planned for him. He understood now what the earlier visit had been for. The man had been checking the place out prior to this return visit. Learning how the security system worked, finding out how long Kepple would be on his own. And he, fooled by the man, had shown him around the control center, telling him exactly how to immobilize the system.
Kepple knew something else. This man was Cooper, the one who had been wreaking havoc around Rotterdam.
Bolan pressed the muzzle of the pistol against the side of Kepple’s skull. With his free hand he produced plastic ties from a pocket of his blacksuit.
“Hands behind you,” he said.
Bolan made sure Kepple’s hands were threaded through the wooden slats in the chair, looped one of the ties over his wrists and pulled it tight. Then he secured Kepple’s ankles to the chair legs.
“Hey, my wrists hurt,” Kepple protested.
Bolan stood back, holstering his pistol. When he looked down at Kepple his face was impassive.
“If you were one of your ‘vegetables on legs’ you wouldn’t feel a thing. Isn’t that what you tell yourself?”
Kepple stayed silent this time. He had decided his survival was in his own hands. Antagonizing this man would not be a wise move. There was nothing he could do, so he kept his mouth shut.
The Executioner picked up the bag and moved into the control room. He checked the bunch of keys and selected one. It didn’t fit the wall box. Bolan tried two more before the lock turned. He opened the door and checked the internal panel. Simple enough. He threw the cancel switch. When he turned to check the monitor bank the screens were blank. He moved to the telephone connections and pulled the lines from the wall sockets.
Kepple had said that the security system was linked to the London office. It wouldn’t take long for someone to realize the link had gone down. Once that was certified, action would be taken. Before that happened Bolan would be long gone.
He pushed open the control-center door leading into the freight yard. His targets were the parked rigs and the warehouse behind. Bolan wasted little time. He moved along the line of vehicles, attaching a Semtex block to the underside of each of the trucks.
As Len Watts had told him the Semtex blocks were fitted with electronic detonators that would respond to the handheld activation unit he carried. As each block was fixed Bolan pressed the small button that primed the detonator, a red light winking to show it was ready.
From the trucks Bolan made his way to the warehouse building. One of the keys from Kepple’s bunch opened the small side door. It didn’t take Bolan long to find the “hospitality suite” at the far end of the building, concealed behind its false wall. Inside he found primitive living quarters equipped with basic wooden cots. The front wall was built from steel bars with a single door set in it. The place hadn’t been cleaned for some time and Bolan could only imagine how the captive occupants must have felt. He placed one of his blocks through the bars, sliding it across the floor, then as he worked his way back to the exit he laid down his remaining explosive blocks. The final pack was placed near the fuel pumps. Dropping the nylon bag Bolan returned to where he had started, across the freight yard and through to the office where Kepple was making halfhearted attempts to free himself.
“You can’t fucking do this,” Kepple yelled. “Don’t you realize how big Canfield is? The man will—”
“If he’s half as smart as everyone keeps telling me, he’ll cut and run. But I don’t think he is all that smart,” Bolan said.
“You really think you can get away with this?”
“Let’s see,” Bolan said. He walked out of the office.
At the point where the concrete apron met the road Bolan took the handheld unit from his pocket. The first key he pressed powered the unit. The second activated the detonation units fixed to the Semtex blocks, and the third started the timers. Bolan had set them for four minutes. Enough for him to get well clear.
He’d parked his rental car a hundred yards down the road. The Executioner pulled on the jacket he had dropped on the seat, fired up the engine and swung the car around, starting his drive back toward his hotel. The roads were quiet. Bolan saw no other vehicles as he cruised steadily away from South East Containers.
The explosions rocked the countryside. They detonated almost in unison, some after a microsecond delay. Overall it was like a single, massive blast that rippled and echoed. Bright fireballs rose into the night sky, expanding and shooting fire and smoke into the sky. Bolan slowed, leaning out of his window to look back as the destruction of Canfield’s fleet took place. He felt the aftershock of the explosions rock his vehicle. Seconds later he heard the patter of debris fall to earth. The rumble of the blasts went on for some time, fading as Bolan drove on.
He settled back in the seat, his mind already locked on to the next phase in his systematic takedown of Venturer Exports.
14
“Tell me something positive,” Hugo Canfield raged, facing the men sitting across the conference table. “I do not want an itemized list of the vehicles that were destroyed. Or an estimate of the damned cost.”
No one spoke because they had no positive input to deliver.
“One man. One fucking man. And he is making fools of us all. The operation in Holland has been severely compromised. Now our transport was blown to hell while we were sitting back doing nothing.”
From the end of the conference table someone spoke up. “Ray Kepple wasn’t injured…”
The speaker’s voice trailed off into an embarrassed silence as he realized the ineffectual content of his remark, and it became very quiet in the room.
“The fact that Kepple wasn’t injured tends to make me think he wasn’t doing his job properly. Think back to the fact that he took Cooper on a guided tour of the freight yard only hours before the bastard came back and blew it up.” Canfield slammed his hand down on the table. “How did that happen? Cooper just walks in and presents himself as part of our operation and Kepple falls for it. Someone please tell me where we get these people?”
“Chambers hired him,” one of Canfield’s lieutenants, a lean, eager-faced young man named Travis said. “Kepple oversaw the site on weekends.”
“Why is it every time I hear that name just lately I get a queasy feeling. It was Chambers who screwed up trying to take care of Cooper in Rotterdam. Now his operation here goes up in smoke. Tell me where that walking disaster is right now.”
“We, er, well, we can’t seem to locate him, sir,” Travis admitted. “He’s somewhere in the city.”
Canfield didn’t speak for a while, leaving the gathering in uncomfortable silence until Travis spoke up again.
; “I’ll get some people on that right away, Mr. Canfield.”
Canfield cleared his throat. “Do that. When you get your hands on him I want him here. I want it done discreetly. Make him realize this isn’t a request, it’s a fucking order. And I also want Kepple taken care of. He is superfluous to requirements and stupidity of the degree he’s shown requires stamping on. The thought crossed my mind that the local police may be conducting a detailed investigation and they might be liaising with that bloody task force. If Kepple sees an opportunity to make a deal he might decide to cooperate to save his own bloody skin.” Canfield let the words sink in. “Are we clear on this? It only takes a small stone to create ever-widening ripples.”
“Are we still going to slow operations down?” Travis asked.
“I’m debating that. This Cooper seems to be concentrating his attention on Europe and now the U.K. Until we sort out this mess I’m considering stopping our trade here. The U.S. and Asia haven’t been targeted yet so let’s maintain those areas.”
In Canfield’s mind he was hearing the message Cooper had instructed Kepple to pass along.
Tell Canfield his time is running low. He should take the easy way out.
He couldn’t wipe it away and it irritated him.
“One more thing, sir,” Travis said. “There is a shipment due to arrive from Thailand. On the Orient Venturer. It will dock tomorrow afternoon unless we act.”
Canfield sat back, gently drumming his fingers on the conference table. “I need some time to decide on matters. This meeting is adjourned,” he said while nodding at Travis.
Everyone stood and filed out. Travis got as far as the door before closing it and turning back into the office.
“Sit down, Clive,” Canfield said. “Glad you mentioned that incoming shipment. I think we need to do something about it fairly quickly.”
“It came to me, sir, that because of what this man Cooper has been doing, the authorities may be renewing their interest in our business. Even if we got word to our man in the local customs-and-excise division he might not be able to prevent the ship being searched.”
“Precisely, Clive. Of course, if they did make a search and there was nothing but the regular cargo on board…”
“No special cargo, no proof.”
“Pity to have to lose that consignment. The Thai girls are high earners.”
Travis shrugged. “There’s a plentiful supply, sir.”
“Exactly.”
Travis crossed to a framed map on the wall. He tapped it with his finger.
“Pretty deep water where the ship is right now.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time a container got lost at sea,” Canfield said.
“No time like the present, sir,” Travis said reaching for the satellite phone on the table. He tapped in a number and waited until the call was answered.
Canfield took the phone, acknowledging the identification of the ship’s captain.
“Canfield,” he said. “Are you running to schedule? Good. I heard you’ve had troubled waters. All clear now? That’s fine, Captain Muren. I hope the rest of your trip goes well. Goodbye.” Replacing the phone Canfield returned to sit behind his own desk. “Problem solved, Clive.”
AFTER TRAVIS HAD GONE Canfield smiled to himself.
Troubled waters.
Two simple words. In this case it was a prearranged signal that told whoever received it to dispose of any special cargo they were carrying. Venturer Exports had used the order a number of times when unexpected problems came up. There were no exceptions to the rule. If a threat appeared and there was time to implement the command it was issued quickly. The loss of cargo, financially, was to be avoided if possible, but if circumstances deemed so it was put into action without further thought.
There’s a plentiful supply, sir.
Travis had put it plain and simple. In Canfield’s business the supply of human fodder was limitless—and so, too, were the customers.
15
Ray Kepple shook his head in frustration, trying to work out where the contents of the bottle had gone. He brought it closer, staring at it with blurred eyes. He couldn’t recall having downed the half bottle so quickly. Despite his condition he decided that he must have drunk the stuff. The problem was he could remember why he had been drinking.
The freight yard and the warehouse. Those bloody awful explosions after the man called Cooper had gone, leaving him tied to his office chair. The blasts, seeming to go on forever, had destroyed the fleet of trucks and reduced the warehouse to rubble. The force of the blast had demolished most of the control center and had blown Kepple’s chair, with him tied to it, across the office. He had lain there, stunned, clothing and skin scorched, deafened by the blasts, barely able to move. Following the explosions and the rain of debris falling back to earth there was a lot of smoke. It drifted into his office and Kepple could smell the acrid tang. As his hearing returned he picked up the crackling of flames.
Cooper had done a real number on the yard.
Kepple was able to see why the man had been so effective in Holland, running rings around everyone. He wasn’t held back by rules and regulations. He chose his targets, checked them out and went directly for them. Not like the cops and their pals on the task force. Cooper, whoever he was, got results.
When Paul Chambers turned up to inspect the damage he had exploded with rage. His mood ranged from disbelief to incandescent fury. Ray Kepple was his main target. He blamed him for everything, including the weather. When Kepple pointed out that it had been Chambers’s idea to keep the place low-key over the weekend the man almost lost it. He had to be careful because the police and fire crews were still around, poking and prying, asking questions. It had been a difficult time. Chambers had maintained that the explosions had been the work of a rival group who wanted to take over the business. The cops were skeptical, but when Canfield’s lawyers arrived, backed up by orders from on high, the local authorities had to back off. Canfield, as usual, had used his influence to have the investigation stalled. It wouldn’t last forever, but any delay would give Canfield and his backers time to negotiate themselves out from under. Even so it was a nervous time for Chambers and Kepple.
Later, when they were alone, Chambers had turned on Kepple again. He raged back and forth, venting his anger, and continued his verbal attack on Kepple until the man, driven to fighting back, told Chambers what he and Canfield could do with his job if they didn’t like what had happened. He delivered Cooper’s message with relish, enjoying the look on Chambers’s face. Then he walked away from Chambers with a final wild threat that suggested if anyone did come asking questions he might reveal just what South East Containers had been doing because he wasn’t carrying the can for it all.
Chambers had worked out his rage, eventually retreating to his car and driving off, leaving Kepple to survey the damage before using his cell phone to summon a taxi to take him home. His vehicle had been destroyed in the explosion and Kepple didn’t think he had much chance of getting Chambers or Canfield to replace it.
He questioned the wisdom of the outburst as he rode home, but his resolve to not be made the scapegoat for Cooper’s attack stayed strong. Later, alone in his house, drinking heavily, Kepple admitted to himself he had been careless. Chambers would do his best to shrug off responsibility, leaving Kepple high and dry. Hugo Canfield worried Kepple more than Chambers. He had only met the man once when Chambers had brought him to look over the site. That had been enough. The man frightened him. He didn’t like Canfield but he respected the man’s power and influence. Someone like Ray Kepple was unimportant to Canfield. Simply an employee paid to do a fairly menial task in Canfield’s eyes. And someone who could be disposed of without much concern.
Kepple sat up. He was sure he had heard a noise outside the house. Moments later he sank back in the armchair, waving a dismissive hand. He had imagined the noise. If he hadn’t it was most likely a stray cat or dog nosing around the trash can. He decided another glass of w
hiskey would send all the noises away. Before he had time to fill his glass he heard the noise again, and this time he didn’t dismiss it. He placed the bottle and glass aside and hauled himself up out of the chair, swaying unsteadily.
“Bloody strays,” he muttered, the words slurred. “I’ll fix you bastards.”
He stumbled toward the kitchen door, pushing it open and reaching for the light switch. As light flooded the kitchen Kepple realized two things.
The back door was open. And there was a dark-clad figure facing him.
Kepple’s vision was a little blurred but he felt sure he knew the man. He tried to focus. When he managed to bring the figure into sharp relief he saw he had been right. He did know the man.
Canfield’s minder. The one they called Sergeant Gantley. Ex-military copper. A big, powerful man. Broad across the shoulders and chest. Walked as though he was still on the drill field.
Gantley stood there and reminded Kepple of some immovable statue. He wore a black coat over a thick black sweater. And there were thin black leather gloves over his large fists.
“What are you doing here?” Kepple asked.
The question sounded superfluous. But Kepple didn’t want to admit he knew what Gantley was there for.
Kepple turned, seeking refuge away from the man. His alcoholic stupor slowed him.
Gantley, moving swiftly for a man of his size, reached out and caught hold of Kepple by the collar of his shirt. He pulled the wriggling, sobbing man to him, and spun him around.
Kepple didn’t even see the first blow coming. He just felt it as Gantley’s massive fist smashed into his face. The powerful blow drove his head back, knocking his skull against the door frame. The black-leathered fist began to repeatedly pummel Kepple’s face, crushing bone and tearing flesh. It didn’t stop until Kepple, unconscious, hung from his hand.
Gantley let Kepple fall to the kitchen floor, turning him over onto his stomach with his foot. Then he bent over the inert form, took Kepple’s head in his gloved hands and wrenched it savagely, hearing the neck snap.
Desperate Cargo Page 12