Ratso ended the call. It was time to pull rank and use the hard shoulder. He asked the driver to switch on the sirens and reveal the blue strobe lights. But in the instant gridlock that had developed out of nothing, there was no quick escape. Only by forcing vehicles to clear a path to the hard shoulder could they move at all. “Come on, come on.” Ratso shook his fist and shouted in vain at a Sunday afternoon driver in a flat cap who seemed to have no idea how to reverse to make some space.
The elderly man in the flat cap, now in a total panic at the noise and shouting, suddenly shunted backward two meters too far, slamming into the front bumper of a Ford saloon. There was no time to waste sorting that out. Ratso’s driver swung the wheel sharply and nosed through the over-large space onto the emptiness of the hard shoulder. The Insignia accelerated away as Ratso imagined all the other drivers swearing and cussing at the lucky bastard hurrying home for tea and cakes. He checked with the driver. “With luck, sir, I’ll get you there in twenty-six minutes.”
Close. Too close.
Damned ego trip.
He dialled Jock again.
Nothing.
For a second Ratso caught his reflection in the rear-view mirror. His eyes looked tired, his cheeks pale and there was black bruising coming up on his lower lip where he had been chewing it. He looked the way he felt—a physical wreck from almost two days and nights without a proper kip.
But Boris Zandro, I’m coming to get you. Better still, you don’t know it.
If I’m not too late.
CHAPTER SIXTY
La Coruna, Spain
Jock saw Bardici pause beside a blue Toyota beneath his window. He did a quick look round to check the position of the armed officers. He must have decided that with luck he could make the steps and get into the hotel. As Bardici looked up, Jock pulled back out of sight, hoping he had not been seen. Though the two had never met, it never felt that way to Jock. What would Bardici have thought of him? Did he look like a hotel guest, terrified at being caught up in the raid? Did he look like a Spanish cop? Or did he look like a knackered detective sergeant from the Met Police?
Bardici made his move. In his brown leather jacket, black roll-neck, black jeans and a pair of sturdy boots, he moved surprisingly fast for a man weighing over fourteen stone. In barely three seconds he had cleared the short open space, mounted the stairs in two leaps and was into the building. He was out of Jock’s sight and just had to be in the corridor heading for the front entrance, which he was going to find was blocked by two officers armed with Heckler & Koch rifles.
Though Jock had taken in Bardici’s whole appearance, what lingered was the small black gun held tightly in the massive grip of his right hand. What would Bardici do when he found the front entrance blocked? Would he try to shoot his way out? He’d lose out on that. One of them would get him, no question. So could he hide up? Go upstairs? Impossible without getting up close and personal with the Spaniards. So where else would he go? Yes, there was a small office behind the front desk but he would never make that with two trained marksmen so close. The only other alternative was the bar, in which … Christ! I’m a sitting duck. If he comes in and sees the Taser, he’ll know I’m a cop.
Unless I get him first.
Jock wanted to report to London but there was no time. He switched off his phone. Couldn’t have that ringing now. He left the window and moved as fast as his knees permitted. To cross the lobby to take cover behind the Spanish cops was impossible; Bardici would be there first. Quitting the bar now, he would be four-square in the line of fire between Bardici’s gun and the Heckler & Koch rifles. There was no escape. He was trapped in the cosy but drab surroundings. He looked round for a hiding place but there was nowhere obvious to conceal his bulky frame.
Maybe if I stand opposite the door. If it opens, I let him have it with the Taser.
No. Not a good idea. The Spanish cops might let loose their Heckler & Koch rifles. I’d be shot—collateral damage, a small price to pay for killing Bardici in a flurry of bullets.
There was one chance and he took it. He dodged behind the curve of the bar counter and saw just sufficient space to duck under it and squeeze himself between two metal beer kegs and a sink. The near foetal position, his knees screaming for relief from being so badly bent, was distinctly preferable to doing nothing.
Surrounded by the smell of stale beer and pipework, Jock could no longer see what was happening in the car park but judging by the lack of gunfire, Botía’s men must have been closing in on the dealers. Perhaps some of the gang were even surrendering in the face of the overwhelming odds. But there was no way of knowing from the shouts in frantic Spanish, his only impression of the conflict outside.
Jock’s limited view was toward the door into the bar and then only if he craned his neck so that one eye could peer round the woodwork. What is Bardici doing? Two shots rang out from somewhere—had that been Bardici? Or had they come from a Beretta outside? Jock wasn’t sure. Then from the lobby came shouting in Spanish followed by a burst of shots as the door to the bar was flung wide open. Jock pulled himself tighter into his hiding place, just able to glimpse a pair of feet—or more precisely, Bardici’s Colorado-style leather CAT boots.
For barely a second, the feet were motionless as Bardici checked out the room. Is he puzzled at finding the room empty? Jock couldn’t be sure. Then the feet turned away and he slammed the door shut. From the lobby came the sound of raised voices. Bardici’s feet moved rapidly as first a table, one chair and then another were stacked to barricade the door. Just as quickly, Bardici pulled them away, dismissing them as too light. Instead, he placed his back against the door. Jock flinched as he saw and heard the door shudder as someone on the other side tried to force entry. At the second attempt, the door bulged open maybe half a meter before Bardici’s weight once again slammed it shut.
Jock saw Bardici’s feet swivel so that he was now sideways to the door, his back facing the Scot. This could be his best chance—his only chance. If Bardici retreated, Jock realised he would be in a hopeless position, trapped beneath the counter with no room to move, let alone to escape. This was no time to sit it out. It was a time for action.
The bar door was rammed partly open again but once more Bardici’s heaving shoulder gradually forced it shut. Judging by the laboured breathing, Bardici would not be able to resist much longer. The Albanian would soon be forced to retreat and tuck beneath the bar was the obvious choice for Custer’s Last Stand. Jock eased himself out from under the bar to give the Taser a clear shot. He felt exposed but knew he was okay so long as Bardici did not turn round.
As Jock leaned hard to his right, edging out to get a better balance, his left foot struck one of the casks with a dull metallic clang. Instantly, Bardici whirled around. Almost immediately, the Albanian saw the Taser and Jock’s crouching figure. He looked shocked but only for a split second. The Albanian’s gun was still clutched in his hand and as the two men’s eyes met, Jock saw that hand pivot upward to shoot. But even as it did so, the door, no longer restrained by Bardici’s weight, burst open and struck him, so that as he fired, his body was knocked off balance and the bullet flew harmlessly over the counter before embedding itself into a wall.
There was a loud crash as the door slammed into the discarded table. Jock heard more shouts from the lobby, followed by a burst of fire, the bullets smashing through the partly open door. Jock did not hesitate. Aiming at Bardici’s chest as the Albanian struggled to regain his balance, Jock squeezed the trigger on the Taser and sent 50,000 volts searing across the four meters between them to hit Bardici square in the chest.
Bardici gasped and writhed as the powerful surge of electricity sent him toppling backward against the fallen furniture. He twisted sideways, falling awkwardly to Jock’s left, a quizzical look on his greasy features. Jock was puzzled too. He had seen a Taser used on a few occasions and usually the victim writhed and w
riggled in spasm but Bardici lay still, sprawled beside the chairs. With another crash, the splintered remains of the door swung open, the corner slamming into Bardici’s skull for good measure as he lay contorted on the floor. The two guards from the front door appeared. Instantly, one of them swung his rifle round to aim at Jock before recognizing him and lowering his weapon.
Slowly, Jock stood up. He was unable to move freely, his knees screaming for synovial fluid to get them moving again. He nodded to the officers, who now stood over Bardici’s motionless body. Gingerly, Jock took a step forward, concerned about at the shit that would flow from him killing Bardici. But as he looked down, relief surged through him like a storm. There was blood trickling down Bardici’s left cheek from a bullet hole close to his left ear. One of the shots fired through the door had slammed into the Albanian’s skull. Death had been instantaneous.
It was quiet outside now, deathly quiet. Jock went to the window. A small group of policemen stood close to the corpses of the two gunmen. He could just see Botía in the other direction, standing beside a line of armed officers, their guns at the ready like a firing squad, all trained on the rear wall of the hotel. Jock could not see any of the gang but he assumed they were all standing with their hands pressed against the hotel wall, waiting to be frisked, handcuffed and taken away.
The two guards left the bar to return to their posts at the front exit, though it seemed superfluous now. Jock followed them, clambering over the fallen chairs. He turned left into the corridor leading to the carpark. Once down the steps, he waved to Botía, receiving the signal to join him. Jock could see Adrian Fenwick, in handcuffs, being led toward one of several police vehicles. Foxy Boxy was being patted down, ready to be removed. Altogether, fourteen people had been arrested.
“The two gunmen over there are dead,” Botía explained with a nod of satisfaction.
“Where did they appear from?”
“One of the vans with Malaga plates.”
“Sounds like Foxy Boxy’s men.”
“They were English, yes. I heard them.” He paused to watch another pair being led away. “And inside? I heard shooting.”
“Erlis Bardici was shot dead resisting arrest.”
“By you?”
Jock shook his head. “By one of your officers.”
Botía nodded with satisfaction.
“I saw one of yer men go down. Is he okay?”
“He was hit in the chest and the force knocked him over but he will be okay. The chest plate did its job.” Botía looked around at the scene. “Your colleague Inspector Holtom was right; we needed all these men.” Jock nodded, thinking that but for him and Ratso, Botía might even now have been sitting at the wrong hotel, waiting for action. But he said nothing as Botía turned his attention to his ringing phone and issued more instructions in rapid-fire Spanish. His face creased into a broadening grin. “The entire crew of Nomora has been arrested. The ship is now being searched. The operation is over.”
“The master, too? Micky Quigley?”
“Definitely—though he tried to escape.”
“Congratulations, Comisario—a great job.” Jock stretched out his hand and after a slight hesitation Botía clasped it and shook it warmly.
“We must have a drink before you go. We have much to celebrate, yes?”
Jock agreed but already his thoughts had turned to Ratso. How he would have loved seeing Bardici gunned down and Micky Quigley frogmarched away. But perhaps the boss was getting his own moment of satisfaction.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
Biggin Hill, South-East London
Just over twenty-seven minutes later, the Vauxhall Insignia pulled off the A233 between the blue signs announcing Biggin Hill Passenger Terminal. The famous wartime airbase had evolved over the years and was now home to executive jets and other pleasure craft, some of them not much bigger—and a few even smaller—than the Spitfires that had once dominated the runway. For about the hundredth time, Ratso checked his watch. Zandro could not be ahead of him—not after that gut-wrenchingly wild ride as Brian had skilfully scythed his way through the afternoon traffic like an F1 driver.
He tried Jock’s number but it was still not ringing. Forget it, Ratso! Now, everything was about arresting Zandro. He checked with Central 3000 who linked him to Wensley Hughes. The news was good: the helicopter, India 99, had Zandro under observation just over four miles from the airport in heavy but moving traffic, closing from the northwest. The team from SCD11 were holding well back, leaving India 99 to make the running. “You’ll have a team of covert armed officers,” Hughes explained. “They are near Bromley.”
“Something and nothing, sir. That could be just a few minutes away or too bloody late depending on traffic.”
“There’s also a people carrier full of uniforms scheduled deliberately to arrive soon after Zandro.” Wensley Hughes wished him luck before adding a final comment. “Incidentally, how did you know Zandro would do a runner via Biggin Hill?”
“That’s for later, sir, I’m arriving.” Ratso had responded as the red and white barriers at the entrance appeared. The Insignia squealed to a halt t. The barriers were set about sixty meters back from the road and beside them was a small but solid-looking building that housed security. An efficient-looking woman in a navy blue uniform emerged almost at once. Ratso flashed his card.
Ratso leaned out of the window and flashed his I.D. “Are you alone? What’s your name?”
“My colleague George is inside. I’m Moira Gardner.”
“Right, Moira. Get George out here,” Ratso ordered. “And quick. And then come with me.”
The woman looked startled, her eyes narrowing as if to say she did not trust this clapped-out, unshaven bloke who looked more like a criminal than a detective from the Metropolitan Police. But after only briefly hesitating she hurried in to find her colleague. Seconds later she returned leading a rather older male.
“George, this is the start of a major police operation. We are going to arrest someone who will arrive in a black Mercedes in the next few minutes. He will give his name as Altin Vata but in fact it is Boris Zandro.”
“Boris Zandro,” the man echoed. “He’s a regular!”
“Despite his false credentials, let him through but don’t rush. He’ll be in a black Mercedes saloon. On no account show any suspicion. He may be armed. He is certainly dangerous. Got it?” Ratso saw the man as a solid, safe pair of hands. “Good. Also arriving will be Assistant Commissioner Wensley Hughes and more police support. Don’t waste a moment letting them through but only after Zandro is in the building. He must not see them arrive.”
“Understood, sir.” The guard half-saluted respectfully while Moira Gardner piled into the back seat beside him. “Move it,” Ratso ordered Brian, who surged forward, the car heading straight for the squat red-brick control tower. At the last moment he lurched sharply right to pull up in front of the terminal entrance. Both passengers tumbled out and hurried through the glass door into the compact welcome zone. Straight ahead, Ratso saw two counters—one for reception, where a woman was talking on the phone and another on the right for what he assumed was a commercial company called Executive Handling. Had there been time, he would have briefed the woman sitting there in her smart tunic but there was not. Ratso could almost feel Zandro’s breath on his neck. “Moira, take me to Special Branch and as we go, talk me through how Zandro will reach his jet.”
Immediately, they turned away from the raised seating area to their right where a couple of passengers and a pilot were sipping coffee. They ignored the reception desk and turned toward the large glass windows that looked out to the apron. “That’s Zandro’s.” Moira pointed outside to the rain swept tarmac. Just over forty meters away, gleaming white with a single line of red piping running along the fuselage, was a Gulfstream V, its twin Rolls Royce engines fitted just in front of the tail. The jet wa
s certainly longer than a cricket pitch but not by that much. Along the fuselage were six windows. Behind the cockpit, the steps were down ready to receive passengers. Ratso felt a moment’s envy thinking what he had to show for years of honest toil by comparison.
“Someone from Executive Handling will probably take him to UK Border Control,” Moira explained. “He will pass through that after his passport has been checked. He will then pass through security and the woman from Executive Handling may walk him right through to the Departures Lounge. If ready, the pilot may cross the apron to meet the passenger or he may stay in the cockpit doing final checks. The Executive Handling woman will swipe her card at the secure door leading outside and may either just let him through or may help him with his baggage.”
By this time, they had passed through an empty zone with the words UK Border Control just below the ceiling. It was unmanned and anything less like the queues and rows of desks for immigration officers at Heathrow or Gatwick was hard to imagine.
“Someone will check Zandro here?”
“Executive Handling will arrange for someone from Immigration to be here,” Moira acknowledged, slightly more relaxed now. She led him a few steps farther. “The security checks are then done just there.” She pointed to a small belt which fed the scanner, taking the typical Gucci, Hermes and other designer luggage of the rich and famous through to airside.
As Ratso took in the layout, a tall but well-built figure appeared. He was aged late thirties with Bradley Wiggins-style sideburns. There was an aggrieved look on his face at the intrusion. “What’s going on here?” The man’s strong Brummie accent made him sound as gloomy as a donkey with a sore throat.
The question was addressed to Moira Gardner but before she could answer, Ratso had shown his ID. “I’m conducting an operation that will take place in the next few minutes. And you are?”
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