Ratso playfully punched Jock’s chest. “I’m covering your arse by staying on. Mine is up in lights! This could be a five-star balls-up if there’s a shootout with the Spanish outnumbered.”
“But Boris Zandro? You said …”
“He’s under surveillance again and there’s no sign of panic. I’ve told the AC. I’ve just implemented my Plan B.”
“Which is?”
“Turning a high risk of him escaping into a calculated gamble.” Ratso winked and Jock knew better than to probe.
The Scot signalled for more coffee. “So we kiss goodbye to arrests in France?”
Ratso nodded. “That’s the only part of Botía’s plan I’m not pissed off about. If we arrest the driver here, he might tell us where he was headed and we don’t risk losing the coke through a cock-up.” He looked at the two runny fried eggs and rashers of limp-looking bacon that had just arrived. “I wish I’d had yours now.”
“And Micky Quigley? Do another runner?”
Ratso shook his head and smiled as he dipped his bread into the egg’s yellow. “Nah. That was just me being awkward. He’ll be off quicker than a whippet if he hears something has gone wrong but otherwise, no way would he abandon Nomora here. The Spanish cops would crawl all over it and find drug traces.” He chewed thoughtfully on a piece of bacon before pushing the remains to one side. “Remind me—no more full English over here.”
“The pancakes are great.” Jock grinned. “So what do ye reckon Quigley will do?”
“Refuel and sail. He doesn’t know about the Spanish navy blocking him in. He might want to scuttle her in deep water. Off the West African cost is pretty deep. The crew won’t get their tootsies wet; they’ll be in the lifeboat with some cock-and-bull story. That’ll bury the evidence and the company can recover some insurance. Either that, or she’ll be sold in an obscure port somewhere.”
“So what’s yer big worry, yer biggest worry?” Jock wiped at smears of chocolate under his lower lip.
“That when the gang transfers and divides the smack, there’s a shootout with Botía’s young cops. Several die. Some of the distributors escape. Zandro and Terry Fenwick are tipped off and disappear. Quigley hoofs it overland in a stolen car.” Ratso’s scowl blackened his face. “Bad enough for you?”
“I’ll tell ye mine, boss. That meeting willna be at the Hesperia Finisterre Hotel. Botía’s wrong.”
“Evidence?”
Jock tapped the side of his nose. “No evidence. Just a sixth sense, that’s all.”
Ratso’s intent stare showed his respect as he drained the rest of his black coffee. “Antonio Delgado would agree with you.” Ratso stood up and said he would be in the hotel, waiting for the AC to phone. “And you?”
“I’m going over the hotels again. We must have missed something.”
For the next several hours, the Scot, having scoured the Web and bought a large-scale map of La Coruna, visited and revisited every war memorial and cemetery in the area. Somehow, he managed to ignore his aching feet and keep going. But nothing else fitted with HF or HS better than the ones they had checked out. While Jock was pavement-pounding, Ratso spent the day working on his plan for the UK arrests, the phone bill to Wensley Hughes costing a fortune. By the end of their third conversation, he had the AC as close to seething about Comisario Botía as Hughes ever went. “Damned cavalier approach. I can’t risk that. I’m getting this sorted.” Just after 3 p.m., Hughes phoned back. “I’ve spoken to someone I met at an Interpol convention in Berlin. You can assume Botía’s cojones are now on the line already.”
“Even better in a paella dish.”
“Your end? Anything?”
“Jock Strang’s been gone all day. He’s not happy at all. But the good news is that the satellite data points to Nomora entering harbour late this evening.”
On a whim, Ratso rang Tosh. “Anything?”
“Tomorrow I’ll be up in the Central 3000 room with the AC,” Tosh enthused. “Watching the action.”
“You like blood, do you?”
Ratso was sure Tosh was holding back. Something was not right. “It’s business as usual for Terry Fenwick in Lime Street and there’s been no messages using the pigeonholes at any of his London clubs.”
“He and Zandro are due to meet on Thursday night at the Poulsden. That won’t happen. I’d stake my pension that Terry will know instantly when Botía’s men move in down here. So keep up the surveillance on both Zandro and Terry Fenwick.”
“We’ve got our team of eight covering Terry Fenwick like a rash. Wherever he goes, we’ll know. Likely time?”
“Dunno. I’ll call you. As soon as the raid starts, I want him picked up—and Zandro too.”
Ratso heard the slight cough at the other end. “Not so easy, boss. Zandro’s given the lads from SCD11 the slip.”
“What! My instructions were the sod couldn’t fart without us knowing. You telling me he’s outwitted the surveillance unit?” There was an uneasy silence. “They’d better bloody find him by tomorrow morning. Where was the loss?”
“His chauffeur dropped him near Fortnum & Masons. He went into Thomas Pink on Jermyn Street. He didn’t buy anything. He was then picked up on Lower Regent Street and taken to Plantation Tower in the City.”
“Plantation Tower?” Ratso tried to recall the address. “Oh, yes! That huge block near Fenchurch Street Station. Quite close to Lime Street, funnily enough. Why was he there?”
“Unknown. He was followed in at 10:30 a.m. He used a photo ID to get through security and went to the bank of lifts. DC O’Donnell kept watch for him coming out but he never did.”
Ratso was exasperated. “It’s 4 p.m. now. Is he in a meeting there?”
“The surveillance team circled the huge building and found another exit and watched that too. Then they checked a security camera. He never went up in the lift. He went down and two minutes later, exited through the rear entrance on a lower level. Timed at 10:32 on the security camera”
“Lost him! That’s all I bloody need. Did he go to Fenwick’s office? It’s close by.”
“No. It’s being watched.”
“So the bastard realised he was being followed.”
Tosh had to agree. “Looks like it. And from the rear exit, he could have gone in God knows how many different directions.”
Ratso felt drained. He didn’t blame the SCD11 crew; he knew that even with a team of eight using motorbikes, cars and plainclothes, cunning bastards like Zandro could use local knowledge to give them the slip. “What bothers me is not him losing them. It’s that he felt the need to.”
Tosh could only agree. “But maybe he uses this dodge occasionally for other reasons. Maybe he didn’t know he was being followed.”
Ratso scowled as a thought hit him. “Well, I hope to hell there’s been no leak.”
“I hadn’t thought of that, boss.” He paused to check his scribbles. “Oh yes—he was carrying a small overnight case.”
“Anything else I should know?”
“They say not.”
The overnight bag did something to calm Ratso. “Okay. Keep me posted.”
“Do you want all ports and airports alerted?”
Ratso was about to say yes when he remembered the note in the thousands of papers he had inherited from Wensley Hughes’ original investigation. “No. He had at least one mole in the Home Office, a well-placed one. I can’t risk tipping Zandro off. Remember, we haven’t been following him at all till now—quite deliberately—letting him think he’s off the radar. So our best hope is he’s playing away from home. He always used to. Ciao!”
“I didn’t know you spoke Spanish, boss.”
“I don’t. That’s Italian, caromio.”
Exhausted after a restless night, a worse morning with Botía and now Zandro’s disappeara
nce, Ratso slumped back onto the pillows. He needed to unwind, regroup, get his head in gear. Forget Plan A and Plan B. With Zandro gone, even a Plan Z wouldn’t bloody work. He tossed and turned restlessly, his mind a jumble. Everything seemed a bugger’s muddle of futility. Too much had gone wrong at the same time. Only the possibility of Botía getting his balls chewed provided any comfort.
How long he lay there he was unsure. Had he dozed off? Or had every moment been spent treading paths to nowhere? When the phone rang, he was confused, his mind fuzzy. “Yes, Jock. Only give me good news. I can’t take any more bad.” He listened for a moment before leaping off the bed. “I’ll be five minutes.” He pulled on his jeans, stuffed his feet into his ageing black shoes and splashed cold water over his face before drying with an abrasive towel. He felt better already.
It was under four minutes later when he saw Jock standing outside the Tourist Office on the plaza. “We’ve been sniffing at the wrong dog’s arse.” Jock grinned.
“Explain!” Ratso was already shivering as the light faded and the first of the ornate street lamps came on.
“I went into the Tourist Office. Young laddie in there, a student, he wis an employer’s dream—bright, keen and spoke and understood English.”
“But you don’t speak English.”
“Away with yer tedious racist jokes. He understood me just fine and dandy, nae bother.” Jock laughed. “Anyroads, he started marking up every war memorial all over town. He seemed disappointed that I wisna impressed. But then I asked him if there were any war memorials near either of the other two hotels.” Jock held out the map and it fluttered slightly in the chilly breeze. “The laddie checked his list, mentally ticking off each one and said no. Well, he could see I was fair disappointed. ‘But ye’re English,’ he said, ‘so ye might want to visit this monument.’ He pointed here.” Jock’s stubby finger landed on the Mendez Nunez Gardens. I said no Sir John Moore again but he said it wisna. It was a bronze statue of John Lennon with his guitar.”
“John Lennon? You been on the wacky-baccy? Anyway, why should we be interested in that? We’re not here to sing ‘Yellow Submarine.’” Ratso didn’t mean to sound as harsh as he sounded.
“It’s a monument right enough—but it’s also an anti-war memorial.” Jock saw he had Ratso’s attention now. “And it’s only one hundred meters from the Hispanio Sol Hotel—that dump with the rude receptionist.” He pointed to the map. “The Lennon monument isna’ even marked. The map’s out of date. But it’s been there a few years.”
Suddenly all the negatives of the past twenty hours vanished. Ratso’s blood pumped faster, his eyes flashing with a boyish enthusiasm unthinkable just moments before. “What are we waiting for? Let’s go see. It can’t be far.” Ratso grabbed Jock’s arm and gave him a warm look for digging him out of his black hole.
They hurried across the plaza toward the seafront, Jock limping slightly and puffing and panting to keep up. Through the gloom of early evening and across the busy road, they saw a small tree-filled park. They dodged the traffic and found, nestling in the darkness of the trees, the statue of a seated, bespectacled John Lennon strumming his guitar. It was discreet with no pedestal, so low as to be almost anonymous. Ratso peered at it, struggling to read the inscription. Nothing to Kill or Die For.
“You’re right. Anti-war.” He stood a moment in reflection. Why had an obscure small Spanish town raised money to erect this statue? “Back in England, thieves would have nicked this by now for the brass. It used to be lead from church roofs; now they nick whole bloody statues to make a few bob to buy drugs.”
He looked across the street and pointed to the Hispanio Sol Hotel. The miserable woman at the front desk could just be seen under the lights of a central chandelier. “It’s not even a hundred meters,” Ratso commented, more to himself than to Jock, who had moved to get a better view. With dusk, lights had come on in much of the hotel, the first time they had seen it after dark.
“Boss, look at the windows on the first and second floors. Right-hand end. They dinna look like bedrooms to me.”
Ratso joined him, staring at the upper floors. “You’re right. They’re not. They’re meeting rooms, so whatever that Spanish bitch never said, she could have offered us a meeting room.” Ratso clapped Jock on the shoulder. “One more thing to do.”
“My feet are killing me.”
“We’re not going far. Not if I’m right.”
Ratso wanted to avoid walking in front of the hotel and most certainly did not want the woman on the front desk to see them. They crossed farther along the road at the traffic lights and then walked back toward the Hispanio Sol. Just before the entrance, they reached a scruffy one-way street running along the side of the hotel, into which they turned. At the end of the building stood a high wall, blocking any view of what lay behind.
“Come on, Jock,” Ratso pointed to the next street, which ran parallel to the rear of the hotel. “Along here and round to the far side. At last, I’m feeling lucky. This is a big area behind a third-rate hotel. I doubt we’ll find rose gardens and an Olympic-sized pool behind this wall.”
“The laddie at the Tourist Office told me there was off-street parking at the back.” Beside him on this busy road, rush-hour traffic was moving steadily in both directions. All around, the pavements were busy with office workers heading home or going to the shops, bars and cafés.
“The car park entrance can’t be on this street. It must be up the other side.”
Ratso led them another eighty meters or so till they reached the next junction. Here they turned left, the third side of the square, keeping the high wall next to them. Above them the street name was barely visible but a passing car lit the words Rua de Cervantes. They had barely taken a few steps when Ratso saw the faded sign saying Aparcamiento Privado Hispanio Sol. The two men looked at each other, Jock’s face breaking into the huge smile he normally saved for the arrival of his fish supper.
The wall ended and in the gap before it resumed was a perfect view of what looked more like waste ground than a real car park. The surface was dried earth strewn with litter, bits of newspapers, plastic bottles, fast-food cartons and old cans. Pristine it was not but the wide-open space was ideal for a truck looking to divvy up its load into other vehicles.
Ratso was about to pass between the open gates to snoop around the vehicles when he heard a car approaching from behind. “Keep walking, Jock.” For a fleeting moment, both men were lit up by the car’s powerful headlights before it turned into the car park. After the engine quieted and a couple of doors slammed, Ratso turned back and peered between the open gates. Though the yard was poorly lit by a floodlight fixed to the rear wall of the hotel, Ratso could see a man towing a small suitcase and his companion, a rather younger woman, clinging to his arm. They had their backs to him as they climbed a few stairs leading up into the hotel’s rear entrance.
There were perhaps twelve saloon cars in the car park, ranging from a black Mercedes to a small Seat. There were also four vans. That left spaces for dozens more vehicles. There was no security, so they crossed to the nearest car. Jock noted the car’s number while Ratso felt the bonnet for warmth. “You won’t learn much from Spanish numbers. Delgado told me a few years back that vehicle registrations are national, so you can’t tell from which region they come any more. But check out every one.”
The fourth vehicle’s bonnet was still hot, as if it had been driven far and fast. It was a burgundy-colored BMW 7 series and Jock confirmed it had a French number plate. “That couple who just checked in, maybe?” They continued down the line of cars and vans. No other felt as warm. A Mercedes panel van had German plates but the others might all have been rented in Spain. “Some posh cars here for a doss-house like this. I like that. I’m getting good vibes.”
“I’d like to see more vans, trucks to shift the gear.”
“You’re right, Jock. These
distributors won’t travel with the drugs. They’ll supervise the split and then use their delivery guys in case of capture.” Ratso led the way back to the street. “Maybe Foxy Boxy might risk driving his share across Spain—no borders to cross. That Toyota Land Cruiser over there could be big enough.”
“Are we done? I’m fair famished. I’ve feet like a pair of dead haddock.”
“We’ll find the best steaks in town. But first we’ve got to decide what to tell Jesus Botía.”
“He’s no going to listen to us,” grumbled Jock. “Why not talk to your pal Delgado?”
“Botía outranks him. The AC’s progressed it,” Ratso muttered as he led them alongside the drab gray rendering of the hotel’s boundary wall. As they threaded their way between the pedestrians on the main street, Ratso continued. “Would Jesus buy this? We say, this hotel has a discreet car park. It has meeting rooms. It is near an anti-war memorial. A French registered car has arrived. The receptionist was awkward. That’s it.”
“Aye, well … put like that.” Jock’s stride faltered. “Except that Erlis Bardici—call me Mujo Zevi—is staying there, fourth-floor room.”
Ratso stopped as if struck by lightning. They stood in the shadow between two street lights. Sure enough, standing at an open window overlooking the car park was the unmistakeable figure of the Albanian, his frame almost filling it. He was smoking a cigarette. They watched till he flicked the fag end into the darkness and then shut the window.
“That’s a clincher! But if Bardici’s there, won’t JF be there too?”
“Ye mean no using the other place at all?” Jock was hobbling along and Ratso slowed to accommodate him. “Possible.”
Ratso’s eyes narrowed as he weighed that up. “Christ, Jock! You’re puffing away like a clapped-out steam train.” They turned left beside the splendour of the municipal building on the plaza. “Perhaps JF keeps his location a secret.”
“Time to tell Jesus where to work his next miracle?”
“We’re going to save him from egg on his face.”
Hard Place Page 34