Hard Place

by Douglas Stewart

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Washington DC

  3:15 a.m. Lance Ruthven was awake instantly. He silenced the alarm and climbed out of the double bed that he shared with nobody. After wrapping himself in a silk dressing gown with a dragon motif, he glided down the narrow corridor to the kitchen where he fired up the coffee maker on the black marble countertop. He saw the flip-top lying on the table and moved toward it. He resisted momentarily but then flicked open the pack. As he waited for the Costa Rican dark roast, he lit up and stood by the window looking down onto Dumbarton Street, conveniently close to M Street and a pleasant walk to the State Department where he worked.

  Unlike New York, a couple hundred miles farther north, Washington, DC, was a city that slept. Of course, down Pennsylvania Avenue, government buildings would be buzzing with activity, as would some of the big law firms. But midweek, this was not a party town. Washington took itself seriously. Running the world was serious. Life-and-death decisions were taken in the few square miles that he could almost see from his window. The lives of soldiers and citizens globally depended on the perceived knowledge and wisdom of the politicians, military figures, spooks and government servants who ran DC. Sure, he could imagine the occasional senator or other party animals being tossed into cabs from the K Street Lounge or the Good Guys Club on Wisconsin. But mostly, it was early to bed and early to rise.

  But not 3:15 a.m. early.

  He checked his Cartier Santos watch, a little luxury he had picked up on the Rue du Rhone in Geneva while attending a top-secret meeting during the Iraq War. Times had changed; Afghanistan now filled his working day. Kabul, Kandahar and the integrity of the Green Zone were the agenda at 2201 C Street NW. He poured a coffee and stubbed out the cigarette. On the table lay his Blackberry and a neat silver pay-as-you-go cellphone. He checked the time again, picked up the phone and dialled.

  Seven thousand miles away, the phone rang in a magnificent turreted poppy palace in the Sherpur district of Kabul. An urbane man with a round O of a mouth adjusted his glasses, waved an aide from the room and answered the call. He felt at ease, totally secure with over thirty-five guards patrolling his ten acres day and night.

  “How’s it going?” Ruthven asked.

  “Usual diplomatic crap. I’m meeting a British delegation shortly.” The speaker sighed at the tediousness of it all. The Afghan’s voice was guttural but his English was heavily American East Coast. Not surprising. Until fifteen years before, Adnan Shirafi had been at Harvard Business School following private schooling in New Hampshire. His top-class education had taught him everything … and nothing. Certainly nothing that had enabled him to become the pivotal figure controlling and exporting over 80% of the world’s heroin.

  As a cousin to Afghanistan’s new president, he had a comfortable impression he was above the law. The US and British governments knew of Shirafi and his drug empire but were powerless to expose him. Helmand Province was Shirafi’s fiefdom, the area that produced the endless supply of poppies. He could turn the Help Button on or off at a whim. He could fix elections—and had. He could stir up the local tribesmen for good or ill. He played Downing Street and the White House as easily as Sir Elton John played the piano.

  The governments were neutered. Helmand was critical in the war against the Taliban and had already cost countless British and US casualties. Top brass in the Pentagon and the MoD in London had convinced the politicians that to win the war in Helmand, Shirafi was a better friend than a foe.

  Shirafi stretched out on the chaise longue and popped a date into his small mouth, then wiped his thick black moustache with a chubby hand. “There’s still shit flying after those leaks from your State Department.”

  “Wikileaks? Here too, believe me!” Ruthven hopped nervously from foot to foot. “Funny thing about the truth. Knowing folk are saying things behind your back, sure, that hurts … but hell, it hurts a darned sight more when they’re in confidential memos that become front-page news around the fucking globe.” Lance Ruthven leaned back against the wall as he thought of the State Department’s disparaging comments about Adnan Shirafi. He coughed nervously. “But, er … nothing’s changed, huh?”

  “Everything’s good to go.” Shirafi paused to sip his herbal tea. “GB? All ready?”

  “I’m flying down there.” Ruthven’s imagination took him to the shipyard at Freeport on Grand Bahamas, where the refit work was continuing. Or should be.

  “So can I confirm February, January even to our guys?”

  Even these few mundane words made Ruthven flinch. Was it something in his old pal’s tone? Ruthven and Shirafi usually enjoyed easy banter, dating back to shared days and long nights at Harvard. But somehow this was different. Ruthven licked his lips as he assessed the edginess in his friend’s voice.

  “Give me till March.” Ruthven heard a grunt followed by an overlong silence.

  “You made the wrong choice. I said to use that yard in NS. Those bums down in GB are too damned lazy. We’re running behind. It’s giving me a heap of shit.”

  Ruthven felt queasy as his stomach churned. It was true. He had persuaded Shirafi to send the vessel south to the sun rather than north to the cold of Nova Scotia. The quoted price had been cheaper but for the American, that had not been the clincher. Unsaid had been exchanging the penetrating chill of a Washington winter for guaranteed warmth, rum-based drinks and steel bands. That hidden agenda had now come back to bite him in the ass. Time to get off the phone.

  “Same time Monday, then?” There was hesitance in the American’s voice.

  “Agreed.” Shirafi paused and Ruthven was unsure whether the call was over. “You’ll meet a guy there.”

  Ruthven fell silent for a long beat as he weighed up the implications. “Whoa! Whoa, hold on! But our deal—we agreed …”

  “Change of plans.” Shirafi’s dark brown eyes narrowed and had Ruthven been with him, he’d have spotted the lie in the slyness of the man’s features. “London put him in. Beyond my control.”

  Ruthven’s blood ran hot with anger and then cold with fear before he spoke. “Our deal! Nobody was to know of me, or of my role. Just you.” He sensed he sounded too wheedling, so he sharpened his tone. “Take a hike!”

  “London insists. Their patience is exhausted. Another deadline missed could screw up everything. As well as …”

  “I’m not going. Nobody must know who I am. Let this other guy do it.” But even as he said it, Lance Ruthven could see he was being short-sighted.

  “Relax, my old friend.” The tone was intended to be reassuring but Lance had sat in too many diplomatic meetings to be fooled. “With your other ID,” the speaker paused “you can be confident he won’t know …”

  Shirafi mean this false passport. Ruthven shook his head. “No way am I letting anybody know a goddamned thing. Not any name.”

  “You quitting, then … my friend?” Again the innocuous words seemed full of menace, a hard edge Ruthven had never heard personally before. He hesitated in his reply. He paced the room, phone to his ear. He fought for what to say. A guy in my position. Hell, I’m a senior trusted government servant in the State Department. Me, mixing with some lowlife London drug dealer?

  Shirafi’s voice intruded. “I asked if you’re quitting.”

  Ruthven faltered. “No … but.” Shirafi had never come across like this in Boston. He knew he should tell Shirafi to shove it right up his hairy asshole. “We had a deal.”

  “So sue me.” Shirafi laughed mockingly, then realised he had gone too far and softened. “Look, my friend, I’m sore about this too. But London? Big customers. They talk. Even I jump. Trust me. I had no choice.”

  But at that moment Ruthven knew he couldn’t trust Shirafi anymore. “Cut me a bigger slice for the added risk.”

  “Excuse me? Five million bucks for what you had to do is pretty damned good already.”

&nb
sp; Ruthven gripped the phone tighter. He had no illusions; there was one good reason to quit and five million bad ones to continue. In daydreams, he’d spent the millions time and again—a condo on Grand Cayman, global travel, five-star hotels and still a shitload to invest. He had almost felt the sand between his toes, had swayed gently on the double hammock with that cute-assed attorney from H Street. Now, as he imagined losing the chance of massaging her breasts with Australian Gold suntan lotion, he was hooked. “You’re right. I’ll go.” He almost choked on the words.

  “Good. You’ll get the guy’s name through the usual channel. It won’t be his real one, naturally.” There was another long pause as Shirafi awaited a reaction.

  Ruthven felt sick, lightheaded. “I’ll call you on Monday” was all he could get out. He cut the call and sagged like a falling sack deep into his red recliner. For a moment as it wrapped around him, he felt cocooned but seconds later the stark horror of what he had done overwhelmed him. Whom was he meeting? A scumbag with a criminal record? Undoubtedly a right bastard being sent in to scare the crap out of the slob who ran the shipyard. But now I’m risking everything. Big time. What had been a low-risk role, a real secret, was spiralling out of control. He clasped his head, one hand over each ear. There was no turning back now.

  He rose from the chair and grabbed a bottle of bourbon. After pouring a generous slug into his half-cold coffee, he sank back into the chair and downed the lot in a couple of gulps.

  He closed his eyes, his right cheek twitching, his fingers beating on the leather as he fought to make sense of the sinister turn of events. Adnan Shirafi had a point: the damned shipyard workers were idle, happiest when taking their ease listening to rappers and hip-hop on their ghetto blasters. The refit was three months behind schedule and he feared still more delays. Maybe he had swallowed too much bullshit. Perhaps he had been too polite, accepting flimsy excuses. But a deal was a deal. No way was anyone else to know of his role. Now he had been screwed by his oldest and dearest friend. He reached for a cigarette as if that would somehow clear his confusion. All those years of friendship suddenly meaningless. All that remained was the Afghan’s lies echoing round his head.

  No way. No way would Shirafi be dictated to by anyone, whether in London, Berlin, or Chicago.

  Ruthven sat motionless, finally crushing his cigarette into the onyx ashtray. He hated these damned middle-of-the-night calls. He would never sleep now. He poured another bourbon, lit his third cigarette and blew a perfect ring. Forget Freeport! This morning at nine, he was meeting Secretary of State Karl Weissner about the next Kabul trip. Top secret. If anything was secret any more. Wikileaks probably knew the agenda better than he did.

  A couple of years back, he would have gotten a buzz working with a top politician. No more. As assistant secretary to the number three in the State Department hierarchy, Lance Ruthven knew he had peaked. Now, he was bored as hell. He had reached a ceiling. Not glass; more like concrete. He had worked his way up the ranks, a safe pair of hands. But he was going no higher, not now.

  Age forty come April. Just a time-server. Game over.

  He poured another coffee and reached for a cookie. It had all been so neat. An old pal from Harvard days. Regular visits to Kabul. The perfect cover for a small job on the side. Monitor the refit, that’s all, Lance. Easy. No sweat. Or so it had seemed. He ran his hand through the thinning waves that rolled back from his pale forehead. His slate gray eyes closed as the torment raged. His normally untroubled face was twitching again, a muscle in his cheek working double-time.

  No honour among thieves.

  Pop had always said that. Right as usual, old man. And now Lance Argentis Ruthven was sinking into the clutches of London’s criminal underworld. If he knew, Pop would crap his pants.

  Forget it. Think of the money! Think of that young attorney. Amber Yardley. Age 31. Born Summerlin, Las Vegas. Patent law specialist. Outside interests, snorkelling and sailing. Amber, lying on a waterbed with him near Seven-Mile Beach. Naked. Eager.

  He was aroused just by the thought, went to his laptop and clicked open her photo on the law firm’s website. His hand drifted down beneath his dressing gown as he gazed into the softness of her brown eyes.

  He couldn’t wait to meet her.

  CHAPTER SIX

  South London

  “So what do we know, Tosh?” Ratso turned to Detective Sergeant Watson, who was driving them westward to Hammersmith. But it was Jock Strang, the never-lost-for-words Scot, who chirped up from the back seat.

  “Neil went in. No more contact. The body was found at 0645.” For Jock, this summary was brief but the atmosphere was sombre. Neil had been known to them all, a drinking mucker on the occasional bender.

  Ratso was unimpressed. “You must know more.”

  It was Tosh who joined in. “He lived around Kingston.”

  “I know that,” Ratso snapped, irritated at the lack of information. He looked at Watson’s profile, the narrow nose, the aggressive head. Even in another fourteen years, he would never match Jock for effectiveness. But Ratso liked the stolid worthiness of the man. “Wolsey Drive. That’s where he lived, with Charlene.”

  “Tasty little raver, she was and all,” Tosh grinned, taking his eyes off for the road to look at his boss. “Remember that night up West when she was wearing that pussy-pelmet and …”

  “I remember but I’m in no mood for memory lane. Not with Neil dead. Not with our big chance screwed up again. Not with my bollocks about to be chewed.”

  Strang leaned over from the rear seat. He knew the boss was hurting. “That time of night, Neil must have gone there in his Honda Civic.”

  “Good thinking! It was blue. We need to find it. He usually parked about ten minutes away from a job.”

  “The widow? Who’s going to speak to her? You?”

  Ratso stared down at the Thames as they crossed Putney Bridge and then joined the slow-moving traffic waiting to filter up the New King’s Road or continue through to Hammersmith. “I’ll visit her, of course but …” His voice trailed away as a jumble of thoughts intervened. “They weren’t married, y’know. Neil reckoned twice was two times too often.”

  “They were close, though?”

  Ratso looked disinterested. “Hard to say. It was a convenient relationship. Each got something from it.” He thought of Charlene and wondered how he would break the news. She was feisty, alright—strong features, a slightly sharp nose with melting green eyes like a colleen from County Cork. But Ratso knew they were eyes that wandered. “She grew up in Cheriton, not far from the entrance to the Channel Tunnel. She would be, oh, about thirty-one now. No kids. No commitments except their timeshare in Marbella.” Ratso was unsure how long they had been an item—going at it like stoats in a sack to use Neil’s description. “She was fond of Neil, for sure. But committed? I’d pass on that one.”

  Ratso could tell that Tosh Watson was watching his every reaction, so he had been picking his words with care. He found himself rehearsing some lines for meeting Charlene. A good man. Mixed in difficult circles. Didn’t deserve this. But Ratso knew he would have to be careful. To Charlene, Ratso was just Neil’s friend who happened to be a copper. No way did Charlene know what Neil did in his long, strange hours.

  “Tricky, eh boss? I mean. He’s dead because of you.”

  Ratso did not need Jock’s reminder and sat in silence, staring at the church at the northern end of the bridge.

  “You reckon he’d have spilled the truth? I mean Erlis Bardici …” Tosh ended the uncomfortable silence but only created a different one.

  At last Ratso spoke. “Neil was a mercenary, open for hire to allcomers, good or bad But he was a great mate and a true pro. My money? He fed Bardici the bullshit we planned.”

  “You know this place he was found, boss?” enquired Tosh as he swerved around an ambulance waiting to turn into Ch
aring Cross Hospital. “Frank Banfield Park?”

  “Not my stamping ground. I live the other side of Hammersmith Broadway. The posh side.” His listeners might have laughed in different circumstances. “It’s on the left, about four hundred yards. Used to be pretty much waste ground till about three years back. Park anywhere now.” Tosh turned off the Fulham Palace Road into a small side street and stopped.

  “Anything from Neil’s bug?”

  Strang shook his head. “The wee gadget says the vehicle never moved. That … or the bug was never fixed.”

  “Or Bardici found it.”

  “Or it was found,” echoed Strang, offering round peppermints.

  “If it is Neil, we know who killed him—more or less—and we know why. We’re ahead of the curve.” His eyes fixed each of his sergeants in turn. “We keep it that way, understood? Just to ourselves. Arresting Erlis Bardici now would kill Operation Clam. Deader than Neil. And that,” he gripped Strang’s arm, “must not happen.”

  Tosh had declined a peppermint and instead was gnawing at a Mars bar. “If it is Neil, what’s Plan B? Bug Bardici again?”

  “Plan B is to save my arse.”

  Jock slapped Ratso’s back. “That would be Plan A, boss.” All three laughed for the first time that morning.

  In the two years, eight months spent working together, a bond of mutual respect had developed between them. Though Ratso was unquestionably the boss, the relationships were more than business. A friendship had developed built on respect and a common zeal to bang up the Zandro gang.

  As they clambered out of the car into the gray misery of the London morning, Ratso thought again how different the sergeants were in every way. Their value came from dedication, solid instincts and experience but Tosh had all the subtlety of a naked light bulb. “Like my new jacket?” Tosh looked across at the listeners as they were walking along the side of the park. “North Face.”