Hard Place

by Douglas Stewart

  “Aye, right enough—a three-egg Spanish omelette too, boss.”

  “But I’m reporting to Wensley Hughes first. CYA rules.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  La Coruna, Spain

  Despite the generous portion of his crab salad and a blood-red fillet steak with tomato and onion salad, Ratso was still unable to sleep. Even the red wine and a couple of cheap fiery brandies were no help as his mind shuffled through how the next day would develop. Erlis Bardici dominated his thinking, especially with Kirsty-Ann’s warnings replaying ominously. When the phone rang at 1:30 a.m., it was almost a relief to stop the endless marshalling of facts. “Yes?”

  The chocolate voice of Darren Roberts filled his ear. “Hey, mon! What’s goin’ on?”

  Ratso sat up and adjusted the pillow behind his shoulders. “Don’t ask! I’d almost given up on you. You got something?”

  “Sure but hey, it’s been tough shit. I been done try to get something from the boy Chuckie. Remember, my cousin’s son who do welding at the yard.” Ratso needed no reminding. “He’s damned scared and then some.”

  “I can believe it. You cracked it?”

  “The boy, he done tell me. You remember your inspection?”

  “Every moment.”

  “You found nothing strange. Right? No surprise. You done visit the accommodation? The crew’s quarters?”

  “Yes. But no work had been done there according to the specification. And there was no sign of anything either.”

  “Under one of them bunks on the lowest deck, they done cut like a manhole. Under there was a big water storage tank. Chuckie, he done work down the manhole—strengthen the bottom.”

  “How big?”

  “Easy take maybe three tons. But I’d say like hell down there—filling it, stacking the coke. Chuckie, he did not see nothing of the coke.”

  Ratso was now on his feet, pacing the room with giant strides. “Anything else from Chuckie?”

  “The boy, he did ask the boss, why is we doing this? He been told to shut the mouth.”

  “Once the sacks were down there, I guess they could weld over the hole.” Ratso was almost talking to himself, thinking through the implications. “Did the boy know of any other hiding place? Nomora’s now loaded with smack too.”

  “I did ask him that. He did say maybe the crew’s quarters.”

  “Hold on, Darren. That fits.” Ratso leaned over and flicked through pages on his iPhone. “During scientific research, there was sleeping space for sixteen crew, eight officers and up to a dozen boffins—thirty-six total. How many crew sailed with her?”

  “Twelve total. I do watch from a crane.”

  “Tosh Watson saw the heroin going aboard in Turkey. He reckoned it was concealed somewhere around the stern. Perfect.” Ratso was already weighing up more changes to the day ahead—big changes. “By the way, I see you got anew murder case on your hands.”

  “You know that?” There was almost a squeak in Darren Robert’s voice.

  “I read the papers,” Ratso bluffed, not wishing to reveal that Kirsty-Ann was his source. “What’s it about?”

  “The Pink Flamingo Bar where we done meet? In the mangroves near the carpark, a body do appear after a storm. With the high tides and wild seas, the waves they done swept through the pines and mangroves. They done disturb maybe a shallow grave.”

  “The bar? Is it okay?”

  “It sure been damaged but survived.”

  “What’s the story with the body?”

  “Male. Around forty. Been dead several weeks. Throttled with a wire noose.”

  Ratso knew that modus operandi well enough to mutter Bardici under his breath. “Something to get your teeth into. Local, was he?” He played it straight.

  “His clothes, what remained, suggest white male from the USA.” There was a pause. Then Darren spoke slowly. “My guess, it’s the guy you showed me. Remember the guy with Cassie—liked doggie-doggie?”

  Ratso decided to volunteer nothing. “Good luck with that. Anyway, great job on the Nomora. I owe you.”

  “But there’s more.” Darren sounded hurt and excited at the same time.

  “Sorry, Darren! I’m all ears!”

  “Ida, she’s scared as hell mon, ’bout me telling you all this shit about Lamon Wilson.”

  “Her name won’t come out.” Ratso kept his fingers crossed as he spoke.

  “On 28 December, she did hear her boss on the phone. He been done fixing something for delivery to Nomora.”

  “Coca-Cola for the crew, of course,” joked Ratso.

  “Ida, she do say her boss, he did call it the white stuff.” Ratso whistled. Another piece of the puzzle was in place. “Ida she say them photos of Freddie, they did hurt her real.”

  Ratso was quite moved. “I’m lost for words. Thank her for me. How’re things … with her, I mean? She still sticking pins in my image? Chanting Voodoo curses?”

  “She be a coming round. Mebbe soon I’ll get back in the big bed.” He tee-heed.

  “I’ll drink to that. Thanks for everything. Stay cool.”

  Kirsty-Ann had told Ratso the victim had been garrotted. “If he’s identified, heh, Washington’s plans kinda fall apart.” She had sounded concerned enough to put the lovey-dovey stuff several steps back.

  “Not your problem. Relax.” He chose his words carefully. “Bucky won’t let the Feds or the CIA hang you out to dry.”

  He was less convinced than he sounded. He had no illusions about the power of Washington to stage-manage whatever they wanted the public to believe. And Kirsty-Ann still had the road fatality hanging over her—plenty of room for a stitch-up there too.

  With too many facts buzzing round his head like demented blowflies, sleep was impossible He poured a glass of sparkling water and phoned Jock, who had also been lying awake watching a recording of a Spanish football match. “Let’s have thirty minutes. Come to my room.”

  “I’ve still some of my duty-free Famous Grouse. I’ll bring that.”

  As he waited, Ratso slipped on a T-shirt and jeans and opened the action plan scribbled over dinner. The AC had done his stuff. Botía would have to listen. As he savoured the prospect of some malt whisky, he got his red pen ready to make some hefty changes.

  Next morning Jock’s bottle emptied, Ratso and Jock were seated in the same chairs as the day before in Police HQ. Jesus Botía had left the room to check on the latest news from the port.

  “At last he seems to be cutting ye some slack.” Jock helped himself to a very plain and very dry biscuit. It was 7:15 a.m. and since their arrival, Ratso had driven home the evidence about the Hispanio Sol. Botía’s bronzed face had not blanched but had graduated from disinterest to a Christ I’ve screwed up look of panic. He had left the room hurriedly, prompting Jock to suggest he was changing his trousers.

  “Your smart work yesterday, not mine,” Ratso acknowledged. “But Botía’s attitude has only changed because someone in Madrid has shat on him from a great height.”

  Wensley Hughes’ contact had been a comisario principal, a full commissioner and able to talk nicely to Botía, as the AC had put it. While not admitting any error, Botía was busily changing his instructions to the assembled team. Head now agreed to position the anonymous support vehicles with their posse of heavily armed officers in a side street much closer to the carpark for the Hispanio Sol. He had also just confirmed that the GOES had arrived—the Grupos Operativos Especiales de Seguridad, a crack SWAT team ready for a shootout if needed.

  Superintendent Botía bustled into the room, his composure restored, with news that a white truck had parked by Nomora.

  “Just one truck?”

  “One only for now.” For the first time in twenty-two hours, Botía smiled. “You may be correct, Inspector Holtom. Maybe the cocaine cannot be u
nloaded until the heroin has gone.” The smile turned less friendly. “Or maybe the cocaine does not exist.”

  Ratso was going to retort but decided to leave it. The conversation between Zandro and Terry Fenwick had been plain. Ida’s information was solid too.

  Botía took out a packet of cigarettes and played with it, knowing he could not light up. “So I agree with you. As soon as the dealers have been arrested with the heroin, we arrest the crew before they unload the cocaine.”

  “You have enough support?”

  “I have another twenty officers coming.” Botía looked away to conceal the climb-down. There was a look of triumph on Jock’s face as he winked at Ratso who fought to conceal his satisfaction.

  “Coming from Madrid? That might be too late.”

  “Not from Madrid. From Oviedo. They will be here by nine.” Botía was about to continue when his phone rang. Still twirling the cigarette packet with his other hand, he listened intently and then ended the call. “As you suggested, I have two officers already watching the Hispanio Sol Hotel.”

  “From where?”

  Botía smirked quite unpleasantly. “They are using two WCs on the top floor of the shopping mall. By standing on the seats, they can see across the road and into the meeting rooms. In a moment, I will receive a photo of a meeting that has started.” He checked his notes and read out the name pedantically. “Adrian Julian Fenwick arrived three minutes ago.” Ratso liked it when Botía talked of Julian because he pronounced it more like hooligan.

  With a swift turn on his heels, Botía disappeared once again, walking briskly with the bearing of a well-trained soldier. When he returned, he showed them an impressively clear 8 x 6 photo zoomed through the meeting-room window. Ratso felt as if his nose were pressed against the windowpane, so detailed was the view. He saw the assembled group all seated with coffee cups in front of them. Ratso could also see what looked like scrambled eggs and bacon piled at one end of the table.

  “You recognise them?”

  “I can see Foxy Boxy, the weasel-faced guy with the cheroot.” He pointed again. “Fenwick is at the head of the table.”

  “And that is your Erlis Bardici in disguise, guarding the door,” concluded Botía. “I recognise him.”

  “Seven of them, boss,” confirmed Jock, “including the one from that French car with his popsy.” He pointed a stubby finger and Ratso saw he was correct.

  “So the French guy brought no minder,” Ratso mused and sounding puzzled. “Must be the all-friends-together scenario.” He saw a questioning look from Botía so he continued. “We reckon these are all Zandro’s own trusted distributors. There’s no real risk of them falling out when dividing the heroin. No cash will be changing hands in there.”

  “But Bar-deechi is there in case of trouble.”

  Botía spoke in rapid Spanish into his phone before explaining, “I’ve moved nearly all resources close to the Hispanio Sol.”

  Ratso smiled and checked his watch. “Jock. Change of plan. I’m leaving. I’ll take the morning flight to Gatwick.”

  “Zandro?”

  Ratso tapped his silent iPhone. “No news. He’s not been sighted since yesterday.” He stood up and shook Botía’s hand with an enthusiasm he had never thought possible yesterday. “Good luck, Superintendent. I am glad you and I now see things the same way.” Botía volunteered no thanks for having been saved from the edge of disaster, so Ratso continued. “And the role of Sergeant Strang?”

  Botía walked to the window, tossing his cigarette pack from one hand to the other before replying. “He will join me in the van.”

  Ratso smiled gratefully. “Tosh is going to be at Central 3000. Contact him the moment the raid starts to get things moving.” He saw Botía’s puzzled look. “You must have watched Jack Bauer in 24?” He saw Botía nod. “Central 3000 is a Metropolitan Police facility near the Thames where complex operations can be managed and monitored. We use it for counter-terrorist operations or major incidents like coordinated arrests. We’ve every latest gizmo to hear or observe our targets. Jack Bauer would love it. We will coordinate the London arrests from there.” As he spoke, he crossed his fingers that Zandro hadn’t carried a disguise in his small bag and disappeared for ever.

  Botía looked almost impressed but didn’t admit it.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  London Gatwick Airport

  As soon as his flight taxied to a halt, by arrangement with the flight attendant Ratso pulled rank to ensure he was first off, to the irritation of other passengers who had to make way for him. In the terminal, he checked his messages. Nothing from Jock. That was hardly a surprise, as any division of the smack would only take place once the truck reached the car park behind the hotel. As requested before the flight, an unmarked Vauxhall Insignia would be outside the terminal. He phoned Tosh. “No news from Spain?”

  “Not yet. No movement.”

  Ratso adjusted his watch, puzzled that by 1:30 p.m. Spanish time the shit had yet to reach the fan. “Zandro? Terry Fenwick?”

  Tosh sounded excited. “Fenwick is at the Regency Club in Upper Brook Street—probably tucking into steak and kidney, if he’s lucky.” He paused. “His last meal before prison.”

  “We hope. We hope!” Ratso’s anxiety was clear in his tired voice. “And Zandro? Got him back for me yet?”

  Tosh laughed. “Good news, boss. He returned home just after eleven this morning. By taxi. Same clothes. Smart, shaved. Must have a pad up West or along the river where he meets his crumpet. He then went by chauffeur to Church Row, Hampstead. It’s some type of Art Society buffet. But seven minutes ago he was collected by his limo and headed home. I saw him on the big screen. He looked calm, unflustered.”

  “For now,” observed Ratso.

  “SCD11 have his house under surveillance as we speak. You coming here, boss, or going to Hampstead?”

  “I’ll let you know. I’m heading for London for sure. Adios.”

  “Ah! Can’t fool me. Italian again boss.”

  “Spanish, mon amigo.” Ratso could laugh with Zandro back under the cosh. He phoned Jock. “So?”

  “The meeting broke up an hour back but nobody has come out. I guess they’re stuffing their faces. Loading the truck by Nomora is nearly finished. You want to speak to the superintendent? He’s right next to me. We’re in an unmarked van near the hotel.”

  “Not necessary. Let me know once the action begins.” Ratso ended the call and immediately started another. “Brad here,” he opened the call using his agreed pseudonym. “What you doing, mate?” He listened for a moment. “In the snack bar? Pizza? Enjoy it. You may have a busy day. Now listen carefully.”

  The buttie on the flight seemed long ago, so after ending the call Ratso hurried into a fast-food joint, where he grabbed a black coffee and smoked salmon on brown before joining the throng heading for the exit. There he spotted the black Insignia waiting with a driver who looked too young to drive a car, let alone be a police officer. The youngster announced himself as Brian. Ratso climbed in and, through a mouthful of bread, instructed the driver to head up the M23 to London. He settled into the back seat, placed his coffee in the holder and chewed hungrily through the rest of the sandwich. He felt better for it but it did nothing for the stabbing pain behind his sleepless eyes. The car had barely left the sprawl of the airport to turn onto the M23 when Jock phoned.

  “The truck’s here. Botía’s men are moving in now. I’m following.”

  Ratso immediately ended the call and briefed Tosh. “Move in on Terry Fenwick now. But until I say so, no alert to ports. No Home Office.”

  Ratso was about to end the call when Tosh continued. “Hang on, boss. There’s action. I’m watching live.” Ratso gripped the seatbelt across his chest so tightly his knuckles whitened.

  Tosh sounded excited. “Fenwick has left the Regent Club. Christ! He’
s running along Upper Brook Street talking on his phone. We’re moving in.”

  “That quick! Brother Adrian must have hit a panic button.” Ratso rang off, anxious to clear the line. He had barely flipped the lid from his coffee when he received the call he wanted. He listened carefully. “Altin Vata, eh? No surprise about that! Thanks, mate.”

  He phoned Tosh but it was Wensley Hughes who answered.

  “Hello, sir. Zandro’s just left his house, right?”

  The Assistant Commissioner was stunned. “How the hell did you know that? I was about to phone you.”

  Ratso laughed. “I’ll tell you later, sir. I know where he’s going and my suggestion is no intervention. As you agreed yesterday, we don’t spook him. Although he doesn’t know it, Boris Zandro is coming to meet me.” He heard the AC laugh. “I need support. Care to join me, sir?”

  “What and where?”

  “Hold it, sir.” He checked the map on his iPhone and told the driver to head east on the M25 and then take the A22 exit heading south, then onto the A25 toward Westerham. He returned to the AC and explained the backup he needed. Then he sat silently listening to Wensley Hughes issuing instructions in the background. When the AC came back on the line, Ratso immediately noticed concern in his tone as Hughes asked him to hold on. Again Ratso found himself squeezing the life out of his seatbelt and chewing fiercely on his lower lip. After what seemed an age, the AC’s voice returned. “We have Terry Fenwick. Sgt Watson saw it live on screen—he was knocked down by a taxi while evading arrest. First reports suggest he’ll live. But,” he hesitated, “all hell has broken loose in Spain.”

  “Jock okay?”

  “We’ve lost contact.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  La Coruna, Spain

  After Ratso’s sudden departure, Botía had permitted Jock to sit in on the final team briefing at 9:30 a.m., where he was introduced and seemingly quite warmly received. On being informed that Jock was trained in weaponry and permitted to be armed in the UK, Botía offered him a Beretta but Jock was unsure of international legalities and declined.