Hard Place

by Douglas Stewart

  “Coincidence.”

  “Well, maybe. But guess where he did the diplomat bit when not in Washington? Kabul.”

  “Afghanistan!” Ratso almost breathed the word with reverence, his eyebrow raised.

  Jock grinned. “Bang on, boss.”

  Ratso looked stunned by the magnitude of the information. “We need the entire lowdown on the circles Ruthven moved in. If he’s a high-up, then …”

  “He might have come across Adnan Shirafi.”

  Ratso was so excited that he stood and punched the air like Freddie Mercury. “And there’s better news? Surely not better than that?”

  “Boss, before we move on … I’m no saying ye’re wrong but we’re at the hypothetical stage only.”

  Ratso was in no mood for negativity. “Give me the best news.”

  Jock pushed across a series of photos taken around the two boatyards. There were three vessels in for repairs or checks. One was a small yacht of probably about twelve meters. The next was a mixed cargo vessel. Ratso looked up. “According to Detective Inspector Darren Roberts, it is undergoing extensive repairs after hurricane damage.” Jock nodded but his face was almost puce with excitement.

  Ratso picked up the two photos of the third ship. According to the printout, it was a former Coast Guard vessel undergoing a refit in the boatyard that had lasted some months. The Coast Guard had used it for oceanographic research but apparently it was outdated and too rusted for a government agency to use. It was apparently being updated by new owners for the same purpose, having been picked up for a song.

  Jock looked at his boss. “My money’s on the third one. No reason except the size.”

  Ratso stared hard at the two larger vessels before reaching into his drawer. After pushing aside old cricket fixture lists, an invite to the Spinal Injuries Association AGM, a bus timetable, chewing gum packs, dried-up biros and an unused WH Smith diary, he produced a powerful magnifying glass. He pored over the photos of each vessel in turn. Suddenly, to Jock’s astonishment, he jumped up again as if a swarm of bees had invaded his anus. “Nomora! Nomora! Nomora!”

  Twenty minutes before, his eyes were those of a fish on a slab. Now they danced with excitement. Ratso’s pulse was racing, his nerves jangling, all his senses in overdrive.

  Jock tried to share the excitement but could only manage bemused interest. He sat waiting for Ratso to scrape himself off the ceiling. “Ye’ll need to explain, boss. Something I’m missing?”

  “Klodian Skela speaks from the grave.” He rummaged in a different drawer and produced the recording of the Albanian’s last words. The broken English accent echoed eerily round the room. “Erlis go there about boat. No more.”

  At first, Jock sat impassively but when he heard the words, he leaned across the table and high-fived Ratso. “No more. Nomora. That’s what he was saying!” They both stood up, almost ready to do a quick twirl of the Dashing White Sergeant but the room was too small. Ratso gave Jock the type of hug he normally reserved for the opposite sex.

  “The Nomora. That’s why Bardici went there.” Ratso was almost breathless as the words tumbled out.

  “It wisna being adapted for cargo, though. Just a cover story?”

  “Maybe,” Ratso agreed, “until we storm aboard and find no men in white coats.”

  Jock laughed. “Aye! Or maybe a couple of Bunsen burners and a vial of copper sulphate for show.”

  “But Bardici wouldn’t go there just about a boat. He’s a hammer. Maybe he went because of this Ruthven guy.”

  “Maybe Ruthven was the link to Kabul and something had gone wrong, so Ruthven was … er … eliminated.”

  “Or Ruthven knew too much. Jock. You take the meeting. I want to see the AC.”

  “Not our friend Tennant? He is our boss.”

  “You’ve missed the good news?” Ratso’s grin was rare but spectacular. “He’s off from today till after Christmas. Gone to his place in Majorca. But anyway, I need authority from Wensley Hughes.” He looked round furtively as if expecting a spy to jump out from behind the potted plant on the windowsill. “Remember, we may have someone in our team leaking. Don’t tell anyone about the Nomora or the missing American.”

  “Tosh?”

  Ratso shook his head, eyes closed in thought. “No need yet. The stuff from Kirsty-Ann is marked Top Confidential. This must be a hot potato in DC. We didn’t know how Zandro was going to shift this mega consignment. Now only me and you know the vessel that’s to be used. How vital is that?”

  “Aye! If Zandro thought we knew, he’d abort.” Jock stood and edged the couple of feet to the door. “You don’t trust one of our team?”

  “Until I’m sure how Bardici’s thugs knew where to find Tosh last night, I don’t trust anyone.”

  “I don’t buy that, boss.”

  “I don’t want to sell it either. I’d have said every man jack downstairs was straight up and Wensley Hughes too. But bastards like Bardici, they sniff out a weak link like Tosh looking for burgers.” He saw from Jock’s troubled face that his caution was sinking in. “Someone downstairs might be short of money—woman trouble, gambling debts. Any pressure point and Bardici’s type can twist the knife.”

  “Put like that …”

  “Answer me this. Who knew Tosh would be walking down Trinity Road and into Welbeck Avenue last night?”

  “Me. Nobody else … unless Tosh told somebody. But it’s his normal route.”

  “That’s our best hope. Oh and get someone to cover Skela’s funeral.”

  “Waste of time, ye ask me.”

  “I expect you’re right but we do it anyway.”

  “This ship Nomora. Yon mega shipment. When’s it happening?”

  “Still vague.” Ratso paused for a moment. “Mind you, my snout is well down the chain. But he was warned to stand by for something very big in November and then it was this month. Now he’s unsure.”

  “Reliable, is he?” Jock had been let down by informants before.

  Ratso’s face showed his mixed feelings. He tilted his hand both ways. “But if the Nomora’s not ready, that would explain it.”

  Jock paused, hand on the doorknob. “Tosh’s route, boss? The leak? It wisna me,” he said, his face suddenly as forlorn as his voice. In his concern he’d dropped into his strongest Glaswegian accent, like Kenny Dalglish at a press conference when he disliked the question. “No gambling, no women and no drinks I canna handle standing on my head.”

  Ratso gave the big man a reassuring nod and started making notes for what he wanted to say to the AC. At that moment, his phone rang. He listened to the brief call, ending it with, “I’ll be there.”

  Wanting to see the AC was one thing. The AC summoning him was rather less welcome.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Westminster SW1

  Ratso was ushered into the well-ordered office of the AC. Wensley Hughes had a reputation as a ferocious worker but you would never know it. Besides a Nokia, a landline phone and a laptop, his long, narrow desk was empty except for a copy of the Billboard magazine, a publication designed for all coppers high or low.

  “Morning, Todd. Grab a seat.” Wensley Hughes had not stood as Ratso entered. The AC was wearing a white long-sleeved shirt with a starched collar and very formal tie. He asked for two coffees to be brought in but then got straight to the nub. “I heard about Sergeant Watson. But not from you.” The accusation was obvious.

  “I was typing up a report for you this morning when my other sergeant, Jock Strang, brought what he thought was good news.”

  “But it wasn’t?”

  “On the contrary. It was fantastic news but Jock Strang hadn’t joined the dots. Sir, on top of linking a City solicitor to Boris Zandro, we’ve had a major break today.”

  “Tell me about the hit-and-run.” Wensley Hughes’
narrow nose seemed even more prominent than usual this morning, probably because of the rimless half glasses that were perched way down it to check his monitor. Ratso glanced at his scanty notes. He knew Hughes hated waffle and so his report was a series of pithy headlines starting with the cock-up at the cemetery.

  “Close judgement call, that,” Hughes commented. “You needed to have the funeral covered. I see that. But you were there as a mourner anyway.”

  “True, sir but look at it this way—I’d never have spotted Bardici’s daughter. Tosh did. He just got unlucky with that damned pigeon.”

  “Was he warned yesterday? Afterward, I mean. About Bardici?”

  “We discussed it, yes, sir.” It was a gentle way of saying that of course Tosh had received a clear order that he had ignored.

  “But he took no special precautions. It was his usual route home?”

  “Correct. He didn’t expect anything to happen so soon.”

  Wensley Hughes showed no sign of irritation at Watson’s lapse. That was the man, Ratso felt. Always an even keel. No highs, no lows. And all the more effective compared to Arthur Tennant’s histrionics. But Ratso knew the AC would not ignore the sergeant’s stupidity. Hughes spread his hands flat on the desk and then held them together as if in prayer. “Luckily for you, your sergeant wasn’t killed or held for torture. Your team dodged that bullet. But things were tricky enough even before that. Caldwell’s still griping about Neil Shalford’s murder. He’s persistent, I’ll give him that.”

  “Can you hold him off for another month?”

  “Look, it was bad enough letting Bardici run when we believe he murdered your mate Shalford. Now we suspect he took a swipe at one of my officers.” He stood up to his full six foot four, leaning against the window. “Things look different when you sit in my chair.” He wiped some dust off a plaque on the wall and sighed. “Todd, you’re running an operation that has the potential to bring down Boris Zandro’s empire. I’ve been there. I remember what it was like—the obsessive need to win. But that overwhelming drive can make you ignore the risks and get on with the game as if nothing but the end result counts.”

  Ratso nodded, still bursting to explain the breakthrough but assessing that this was not the moment. Wensley Hughes returned to his swivelchair with its navy moquette padding.

  “Bardici may or may not take another pop at Watson. I’m inclined to your view that, having failed, he’ll move on but precautions must continue.” He sat down and peered at Ratso over his glasses. “Here’s the worry: Bardici kills again. We—and that means I—cannot keep ignoring evidence pointing to Bardici while he slaughters at will.” He raised his right finger in warning. “If Watson had been murdered last night, that would have been the end. I would have had to bring Bardici in and gear all resources to finding the driver.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “These days, the slightest deviation from the fundamentals and I can get summoned before some Parliamentary Committee to be asked ludicrous, long-winded but occasionally penetrating questions by a bunch of flatulent-mouthed MPs seeking to boost their own profiles.” He selected a biscuit with all the care of a surgeon doing a brain implant. Then he pushed over the plate. “At present,” he continued, “I can still hold the line that I do not know Bardici was involved in both incidents. But now Bardici realises he’s being watched.” The AC looked at his screen and Ratso wondered whether it displayed his bullet points—his ducks in a row. “But you know and I know that if the shit starts flying from the pinko politicians and they rabbit on about us not doing enough, or anything, to prove Bardici’s guilt, heads will roll. All because you believe you can land Zandro.”

  “Can I cheer you up, sir?”

  “You can try.” The tone was dry, ascetic. Come to think of it, Ratso decided, the AC does have a monk-like quality about him. Always calm, measured, contemplative. Persuading him now’s my best hope.

  “Arresting Bardici now would blow everything. First, why would Bardici tell the lieutenants or anybody that he has been rumbled? My guess is that’s why he moved fast last night—making a point. Second, let me tell you where we’re at.”

  When Ratso had finished explaining about the Nomora, Lance Ruthven, Adnan Shirafi and the London clubs, Wensley Hughes asked for the Fort Lauderdale report. In character, he had taken the good news with quiet satisfaction, concluding with you’ve done well at the end of Ratso’s summary. He scanned Kirsty-Ann Webber’s report in seconds, only pausing to reread the final comments about Lance Ruthven. “As if we didn’t have enough trouble with Bardici's capers, now you’re going to bring the MoD, the Foreign Office and maybe the PM himself down on our heads. Mine particularly.”

  “Sir?”

  “Look—for years, British policy in Afghanistan has been to cosy up to Adnan Shirafi. He controls the heroin scene in Helmand Province. If we took out the poppies and his endless flow of smack, world supplies would be stifled. To us fighting the drug barons, Adnan Shirafi is the man to take out. But to the MoD, he’s been an asset helping to control the Taliban rebels in Helmand Province.” He shook his head in despair.

  “Crazy position, sir. Right hand–left hand nightmare.”

  The AC prodded a report on his desk. “When he was prime minister in 2001, Tony Blair pledged to kill the poppy fields—a pillar of his rationale for the Afghan war. Good call until you upset bastards like Adnan Shirafi. But Blair was not alone. In 2006, American counter-intelligence experts also wanted to destroy the entire Afghan poppy industry.” Hughes laughed in despair. “They were too late. The goalposts and our poppy field policy were, well … just poppycock! The Americans uncovered that the British Army in Helmand had distanced themselves from the war on the heroin trade. They had even put out a leaflet to local criminals to reassure them. Why? Because it was interfering with our military operations.”

  Ratso was unimpressed. “My nephew Freddie died in a Kilburn bus shelter because of Afghan heroin.”

  The AC shrugged, obviously frustrated. “Tell me about it. Him and hundreds, thousands of others globally. I attended a meeting in Washington where their narcotics guys almost cried on my shoulder.”

  “And you cried on theirs?”

  “More or less. Law enforcement wanted poppy crops destroyed from the air, killing off 90% of the world supply. The local population would have been compensated in some way. But the Pentagon was hostile, just like MoD.”

  “You mentioned 2006. What about today?”

  “Real politik has won. The war is ending but three times, I repeat, three times as many poppies are grown today as in 2001. Nobody wanted bodybags returning to the USA or UK. Lives of our troops depended on what the military chiefs out there recommend. Their voices held sway.” A resigned shrug said the rest.

  “So Shirafi rules!” Ratso’s sucked-in cheeks and steady eyes made him look unusually rat-like. “Corruption wins while we fight a drugs war that could have been killed stone dead in Helmand.”

  “There’s a report saying British troops themselves were active in opium trading. I don’t buy that but it might be true.”

  Ratso’s anger was mounting. “There’s more spin than from Shane Warne’s leg-breaks.”

  “That’s politics. It might be spin. But look at the stats.” He swivelled the monitor.

  Ratso absorbed the summary in a few seconds. “So 7,000 tons of opium sold by growers at about £100 a kilo becomes about 1,000 tons of heroin worth around £4,000 a kilo on the European market.”

  “And the traffickers pocket around a billion.” Hughes turned back the monitor as if to close the conversation.

  “Here’s to Zandro’s next jet!”

  Wensley Hughes’ gave a resigned nod as he drained his coffee and topped them both up again. “Ironic, isn’t it? You want me to turn a blind eye to Bardici’s murders because of the bigger picture—bringing down the entire Zandro emp
ire, including Shirafi. Yet you don’t sympathise with our military bosses, who turned a blind eye on Shirafi for their bigger picture of defeating the Taliban.”

  “Are you saying we are defeating the Taliban, sir?” Ratso was rewarded with a glance that said touché. “Rock and a hard place, then.”

  “You may be right. But where does this leave us? The Lance Ruthven link is pure speculation but must be investigated. Whatever you prove, when it comes to it, our political masters may want a cover-up, dancing to the US president’s tune.”

  “Ah, yes. The special relationship between our two nations that means we are special if we follow the Yanks blindly but meaningless if we need their support.” Ratso saw Wensley Hughes was bored with his rant but he continued anyway. “But heroin, the drug trade, kills more people, ruins more lives than al Qaeda or the Taliban ever did. For that, Shirafi’s accountable. I want to bring him down.”

  “Accountable?” Wensley Hughes brushed away some crumbs as easily as he swept aside Ratso’s irritation. “Wrong word. He may be to blame but he’s not accountable.” His eyes turned hard. “And no way will you try to bring down Shirafi. Stick with Zandro.”

  “I get Zandro and days later Shirafi starts supplying the next chancer.”

  “Don’t shoot me, Todd. I’m only the messenger.”

  “Sorry, sir. My team spends its shrinking budget battling the drug barons while the politicians spent billions on a war in Afghanistan supporting the guy who …”

  Hughes stopped Ratso with a decisive wave of his arm. “Don’t piss into the wind. You know and I know that from our standpoint it’s crazy, insane. But our political masters won’t countenance any attempt to strangle the source. Shirafi is untouchable, at least for now.”

  Ratso’s fingers clenched, unclenched and clenched again. “So?”