Hard Place

by Douglas Stewart

  No way, no way. With his foot, he manoeuvred the cylinder out of her reach and then jerked Zandro’s head upward again but this time instead of crashing it back down he heaved himself and his prisoner sideways, slamming Zandro’s head into the fuselage to his right. The force stunned the Albanian enough to momentarily stop his heaving. Taking a huge gamble, Ratso released Zandro’s neck and dived to the carpeted aisle, just in time to seize the extinguisher before the stewardess got it. He knew he had just a second or two before Zandro would gather his wits sufficiently to get hold of his weapon.

  As he rose from the floor, he glimpsed both a large knife and a pistol under the table, the knife clinging precariously by thick brown tape, tantalisingly close to Zandro’s hand. With a surge of power, Ratso rose to his full height and swung the extinguisher. It smashed into Zandro’s temple with all the power of a cricketer’s hook shot. Zandro’s snarl died in his throat as he crashed onto the table, legs crumpling uselessly. A moment later his whole body slithered to the floor, blocking the aisle.

  The hostess was now terrified for her own safety, no doubt mesmerised by the blood that covered the detective from ear to ear. “Out of my way, bitch,” he commanded as he gave her an almighty shove, sending her reeling back toward the galley. She scrambled in the drawers and came up clutching a fork but before she could even attempt to use it, a short-arm jab to her midriff sent her tumbling to the floor. He wrenched the fork from her hand, stamped his foot into her stomach and banged loudly on the closed cockpit door.

  Mountford must have looked through the spy hole and seen him looking badly injured. There was some hesitation as he debated what to do, or perhaps he was discussing it with his co-pilot. But after a short delay, the door opened and the languid figure of Giles Mountford appeared in his navy blue uniform and crisp white shirt with blue tie.

  For a second, Ratso peered into the cockpit brimming with high-tech screens and dials, the sharpness of the colors starkly clear in the overall darkness. “Detective Inspector Holtom, Metropolitan Police.” He flashed his card. “Switch off the engines. Then get the plane’s door open at once.” He barked out the orders for the benefit of both the co-pilot and the hostess, though he doubted she was in much shape to notice what was happening around her. Taking no chances and for good measure, he winded her again.

  As Mountford squeezed past to open the door and release the steps, Ratso returned to the motionless figure of Zandro. From under the table he freed a Bowie knife with a six-inch blade and a loaded Glock. He checked the safety catch and trousered the gun but kept the nasty Bowie in his good hand in case of trouble. Seconds later, the whine of the engines died and a blast of cold air confirmed that the door was now open. Ratso welcomed the sound of the hail bouncing off the fuselage and all across the apron.

  Still, there was nobody close to the plane but clustered by the terminal he saw a group of uniformed officers being briefed. Another posse of armed officers wearing the distinctive blue-and-white-checked baseball caps ran out to the tarmac to surround the plane, weapons at the ready and heads bowed against the fierce storm. He summoned the uniforms from the top of the steps with a shout and a wave, though with his bloodied face and fearsome knife he wondered what impression he was giving. Two officers bounded up the steps and crammed into the tiny galley area. “You okay, Ratso? Pity about the teeth.” It was Inspector Harry Dunbar, an old mate from his early days in the force.

  “Good to see you!” Ratso’s grin was somewhat lopsided. “I’m in a better state than Zandro, that’s for sure. Make sure he’s still out cold.” Ratso flicked his tongue round his swollen mouth and found that the blow from the attaché case had knocked out two front teeth and loosened another. He had never noticed during the fight but now he could feel blood trickling from his mouth to mix with the slowing flow from his cheek. “How’s Rogerson and the woman? Zandro peppered them.”

  “Being treated.” Dunbar looked at the hostess now lying in a foetal position on the floor.

  “Cuff her. She’s in deep shit. But secure Zandro first, even though he’s out cold.”

  A young constable with a scar down his left cheek looked into the cockpit, where both pilots were now seated. They looked bemused by events. “Them?”

  Ratso ordered the pilots to leave the cockpit and when they stood in front of him he challenged them in turn. “You. What’s your name?”

  “Mountford. Giles Mountford.”

  “And you?”

  “Edward Sanders.”

  “I am arresting you both for obstructing the police and for assisting an offender.” Ratso turned to the officer at the top of the steps. “Take them away for further questioning.” For just long enough, Ratso was alone facing Mountford. He gave him a broad wink which the pilot ignored with a perfect poker face. Finally Ratso ordered the hostess removed. As she was lifted to her feet, she spat straight into Ratso’s face before she was taken down the steps into the icy pellets of hail turning the tarmac white.

  “Sir, I think you can put down that knife now,” the constable grinned. Ratso laid it on the blood-spattered table along with the Glock.

  “Careful of the gun. It’s loaded.”

  Zandro only stirred after his hands had been secured behind his back by a couple of the support team. Then he was frogmarched like a drunk down the short stretch of the aisle and assisted down the steps to the tarmac. At that moment, the AC appeared from beneath an umbrella at the top of the steps. He saw the gun and knife and then spotted Ratso’s bloodied face, his left arm hanging limply at his side. “Take a seat, that one near the back.” He signalled that they were not to be disturbed. “Let’s talk in headlines for a couple of minutes. Then you need to get yourself sorted. You better than you look?”

  “Feeling great, sir! Feeling like Christ! I’ve done it. I’ve got the bastard.” There was a slight pause. “But Jock? He’s okay?”

  “He’s fine. He got into a confrontation with Bardici—hence the loss of communication. The gang in Spain were all rounded up, including Micky Quigley.” He stopped and turned to face Ratso. “Bardici is dead.”

  A look of enormous satisfaction nearly took over Ratso’s lopsided and bloodied features. RIP Neil. Then he thought of Kirsty-Ann, who would whoop round her office at the news about Bardici. “Dead, eh? That saves Washington’s neck. It was looking bad when Lance Ruthven’s body turned up.”

  “With luck, a malleable pathologist and the Bahamas boys not being too interested, that corpse will become an unsolved crime statistic. I’m banking on you and Darren Roberts.”

  “Unless …”

  “No, Todd.” The AC smiled knowingly. “No unless. Adnan Shirafi remains off-limits. No way must his name come out. Bardici’s death makes that far easier to achieve.” The AC’s words were spoken with finality. “Operation Clam is now a dead parrot.”

  Ratso was in no mood to let go of Shirafi. “Unless something comes out at Zandro’s trial.”

  “Do you really believe Boris Zandro is going to name Shirafi? I think not. The words the fat greedy bastard on that recording apply to half the civilised world.” Ratso felt constrained to agree, though he hated to do so.

  “Terry Fenwick?”

  “Fractured tib, fib and femur and now in hospital under twenty-four-hour supervision.”

  “And The cocaine? They found it?”

  Hughes laughed. “But for your work in Freeport, Jock reckons it might never have been found. It was brilliantly concealed. There’s been no time to remove it but the manhole cover into the water tank was cut open. Crammed full down there.” The last words were said with real satisfaction.

  Ratso was now lost for words, the energy that had driven him for so long suddenly draining away. He was running on empty. Wensley Hughes motioned him off the comfy gray chair and put a fatherly arm over his shoulder. No words were needed as they walked slowly down the aisle between the m
aple tables. As they reached the galley, Ratso turned for a quiet moment, taking in the soft lights and opulent luxury that Zandro’s crimes had bought. The sound of Neil Diamond’s Red, Red Wine crooned from the wraparound sound system.

  “This’ll raise multimillions under the Proceeds of Crime Act.” The AC’s words reflected Ratso’s thoughts.

  “Hard to compare this with a night flight on Ryanair, isn’t it, sir?”

  Wensley Hughes stooped to exit and beckoned Ratso to follow. “Time you got cleaned up a bit. I’ll get this sealed off as a crime scene.”

  Slowly Ratso descended the steps, holding onto the rail with his only working arm. The hail had stopped but the frozen chunks of ice crunched beneath their feet as they crossed to the bright lights of the terminal. The flight to Geneva was still grounded, fog or no fog and Ratso felt the curious stares from the delayed passengers. Then someone clapped, a solitary sound that quickly spread till everybody joined in as the figure with the torn jacket, dead arm and ripped and bloodied face walked slowly through. Several patted him on the shoulder. It was an extraordinary moment, quite surreal and something Ratso had never experienced before. He found it hard to cope with, this hero bit, so he continued walking with only a briefly raised hand in acknowledgment.

  Hughes pointed to a men’s room. “First, clean yourself up. Then let’s grab a cup of tea before the ambulance picks you up.”

  “A cuppa and some biccies would be just great, if I’ve enough teeth left to bite with.”

  He followed the sign for the Gents’ and wandered in, operating on autopilot. The obsession that had driven him for so long was over. No question, this had been the biggest moment of his career. And yet now he felt flat, limp, a sort of post-coital tryst without the sex.

  He looked in the mirror and took in his swollen jaw and the gap where two teeth on the right side had been knocked out. Two others wiggled at his touch. Need to get all this fixed before Kirsty-Ann arrives. The dried blood covered most of his face; even his hairline was snagged with clotted lumps. He was shocked at the gaunt, unshaven features that stared back at him, the eyes sunk deep with dark rings.

  At last, hot water filled the basin. He took a final look at the mess he was before sloshing the water over his face till it was pale crimson. He rinsed the last drops of blood from behind and inside his ears and then towelled himself down, gently dabbing the gouged cheek which was going to need some stitches. But he looked better and rather less like the loser after ten rounds with Mike Tyson.

  His phone rang. It was Tosh. “Hey, boss! Congratulations. What a day! Coming back for a piss-up?”

  “Thanks, Tosh. Let’s wait for Jock. Maybe tomorrow.”

  “Sure, whatever. They nabbed three more in Leeds. By the way, the lads have already planned the first song for down the Nags Head.”

  Ratso knew some jibe was coming but was too exhausted to spot it. “Go on.”

  “All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth, my two front teeth,” sang Tosh with a chuckle in his voice.

  Ratso laughed and felt better for it. “You’d better make the most of this party. Your 5:2 diet starts the next day. Wensley Hughes’ orders. It’ll be green tea and Ryvitas two days a week.”

  “I’ll resign. Become a traffic warden. See you later, boss.” He rang off, leaving Ratso in higher spirits. In the end, camaraderie was the glue; teamwork, team spirit and a shared sense of purpose made it all worthwhile. He’d have to ring Jock from the ambulance and congratulate him.

  He looked in the mirror again. Forget the swollen jaw, the lost teeth, the jagged rip down my cheek, the searing pain in my temple. This is life, the only life I really want. Living on the edge, sniffing out opportunities. That’s for real. Now for the next Zandro to give me that rush. And until then? Well … it’s Fulham at home on Saturday with the Stoke Mandeville lads. And then? Not too long till a week with a beautiful American blonde. Yes. That would do very nicely, thank you. Bring it on.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Hard Place was inspired by a real-life successful operation by officers of London’s Metropolitan Police but for a wide variety of reasons, the events in this fictional work are much changed—while remaining authentic.

  As always, I am grateful to the many people who assisted on what proved to be a fascinating journey into the world of major international criminal activity. I love writing on a large canvas with my novels crossing borders and evoking images of different cultures, time-zones, climates and atmosphere. To all those who have enabled me to travel to distant lands and to support my research there, my sincere gratitude.

  Old friends Rick and Sarah Heffernan in Northern Cyprus provided great hospitality whilst I researched the truth and fiction about the Turkish Republic of North Cyprus. Ray and Annie Foot also opened my eyes to the Bahamas during my time there and assisted with some useful input. My wife Bridget and daughter Lara have supported the quirks and foibles of an author at work. All deserve this named acknowledgement. Others, including serving police officers, must remain nameless. They provided true insight into their fight against hardened criminals and wealthy drug barons. They know of my gratitude and do not need public acknowledgement, although they deserve more public recognition for their long hours and work in dangerous circumstances.

  As is evident from my previous books involving crime at sea—Undercurrent and The Brutal Seas (now updated and re-released as Terror at Sea), I have always been fascinated by the significant role that ships play in underworld activity—without the wider public having any real insight into what goes on beyond our shores. Hard Place, while land-based, exposes how the sea and ships has been used. For this novel, besides advice from serving police officers, I am grateful to Graham Sowrey for his valuable insight about both ships and aviation. I hope I have interpreted all help correctly.

  I am also indebted to the personnel at Biggin Hill Airport for granting me privileged access for part of my research. Thanks to Alison, Joanne and Michelle for their support and valuable advice in the design and editorial process.