*********
Hayes, too, had been busy in Australia. It was 5:3 0 am there, but he wasn’t even sleepy. What was more, he now knew there was only 15 hours until the start of the operation, and he’d been working on a lead Keane had given him. The bottles and corks that Randolph had used had not been produced by Penrith. So where had they come from?
Hayes had been ploughing through Randolph’s correspondence, searching for any link to a South American producer, and just after 6 o’clock local time he found it. It was an invoice that had been made two years ago for 12,000 bottles and corks, with an accompanying specification that made little sense to Hayes. He calculated it would be about 3pm in Santiago, so he called directly to the company whose number was on the invoice. As it was ringing, he wondered how on earth he would explain this to Randolph if he walked in. Then he realized it was Randolph who would have a lot of explaining to do. Hayes was clearly a lot more tired than he had realized!
The phone was answered and a woman spoke Spanish at him at 100 mph. “Hablo Ingles?” tried Hayes.
“No, señor. Bla-bla-bla-bla-bla-bla-bla”.
Hayes apologized: “Pardonez-moi” and realized as she put the phone down, that he had just concluded the call in French. He could not believe he had got this far, just to be pipped at the post, and all because he had always preferred Bournemouth to Ibiza. He pulled himself together, and wracked his tired brain. “Ibiza!” he thought. Jenkins was always going on about it. He called her at her home address. She was not there. Of course, she would be at the station. He got hold of her there, explained everything, faxed her a copy of the invoice and specification from the company in Santiago, and effectively passed the buck to her.
Hayes set Randolph’s alarm clock to wake him at 10:30 am BST, and then crashed out on the sofa.
*********
Jenkins was thrilled to finally get into the thick of the action. Throughout this case she had always been on the periphery, and any lead that had seemed promising had simply evaporated once she had probed into it. And now, at the kill, things had escalated out of their hands. She had been like a cat on a hot tin roof. But now, out of nowhere, she had been given a chance to make a difference. She knew Keane would have preferred to have been informed before she made the call, but she chose to go for glory. Her Spanish, albeit poor, was sufficient for her to get past the receptionist and to get hold of the company’s Director, a Señor Emilio Sanchez. Fortunately, his English was better than her Spanish.
Jenkins had expected a tussle to establish her credibility, but the words “Scotland Yard” were seemingly on a par with “Buckingham Palace”, and once she had faxed him the invoice and accompanying specification, a surprisingly cooperative Sanchez was soon looking through the company’s files. After a couple of minutes, he confirmed that the ordered goods had been sent from them to the Australian customer.
“Did you not find the order to be suspicious in any way?”
“No, no, not at all. You see, señorita, we also make bottles that are not used for normal wine-making, example: like for the entertainment industry or shop window decoration, etc.”
“Can you remember who handled the order?”
“No, but I remember one of our salesman go to Australia to follow . . . to . . . to check the sale; to be sure the customer be pleased with the delivery, and to see if there are other products we can sell them. Australia is an important market, and we want to get more business there.”
“Can you tell me the name of the salesman?”
“Yes, it was Diego Calderón, an acquaintance of mine. I bring him into our company 2 years ago. He works in our foreign sales department, because he has excellent language skills.”
“Where is he now?”
“Now he is in Europe, trying to make some more business for the company. He’s away about one month now”
“I have to tell you, sir, that we have a strong suspicion, that he is involved in a serious crime. It is very important that you do not contact him or anyone else about this, and that you fax us immediately his photo and as many details about him as possible, including everything you know about his past.”
Jenkins gave Sanchez the necessary details, and he – although shocked at first – retained his cooperative attitude, which she thanked him for when she concluded the call.
Moments later she was standing outside Keane’s office. Her mind was in turmoil. How was she going to present this hugely significant breakthrough to Keane, and at the same time gloss over the fact, that she had patently ‘gone it alone’, when she knew she should have informed him before calling to Chile. She knocked on the door, and was beckoned in by Keane.
As she approached his desk, Jenkins was flushed and flustered in a way that Keane had never seen before; it was quite out of character. He may have been exhausted mentally, emotionally and physically, but he knew instinctively that the next few moments would require him to utilise all his ‘people skills’.
“Sit down, Jenkins. Are you alright?”
“Yes, sir. It’s . . . ”
“Would you like a cup of tea?” Keane cringed inside; this was so out of character for him. She blushed more deeply.
“Er, no. Thank you, sir. Er . . . “
He was making this worse! Let her speak, for God’s sake, he thought to himself.
“I’m sorry, Jenkins, you were about to say something.”
“Well, I got a call from Hayes about 45 minutes ago, and, and, I knew you were busy, and . . . so I made a call to Chile, because . . .”
“You made a call to Chile?” Keane instantly feared the worse. She’s blown it. The murderer knows we are on to him. She’s blown it!
“. . . because Hayes discovered a connection between Randolph and a Chilean producer of bottles and corks, and . . .”
The worst was out. She could see the dark clouds had rolled in over Keane’s brow the second she had said “I made a call”. There was no going back, and this seemed somehow to alleviate the worst of her fears. She recalled her success and decided to head straight for the finishing-line:
“. . . and I got through to the manager, and right now he’s faxing us the details of their agent, who oversaw the deal, and he’s our man!”
Keane knew that Jenkins’ revelation could be good news or bad news. He knew too, that the deed was done. Now all he could do was to get all the details from her to see the extent of the damage. He calmed down. He forced what could have passed for a gentle smile, and said:
“This sounds like a real breakthrough, Jenkins. Now, please, relax and tell me every detail, from the moment you got the call from Hayes until your last words with the Chilean manager.”
Jenkins recounted the events, the words that were said, her thoughts and decisions. As she spoke he realized that he had assumed the worst. He really had to learn to be grateful for having assistants who were both competent and willing to take responsibility. His smile relaxed.
“Jenkins, you have done really well. But you do realize that the manager could have been in on it?”
“Yes, sir. I just followed my gut-feeling.”
“Well, let’s see what he’s sent us, shall we?” He got up and they went to the fax machine. Around 10:00 pm, Keane and his crew were finally able to put a face and a history to the identity of their prime suspect.
The photo was an enlarged image of Diego Calderón’s calling card. Although the quality was poor, Keane knew instantly that he had seen the face before, though when and where escaped him for the time being.
Calderón was 36, 6’3” and had dark features: heavy eyebrows, narrow-set, steely, brown eyes, thick, black, medium length hair, parted on his left. He had shiny white teeth, a ready smile, tanned skin. The phrase “tall, dark and handsome” and its connotations of mystery and danger fitted him like a glove. His smiling photo conveyed charm and self-confidence. Prior to working for Sanchez, he had spent his whole working life in the army. Most of those years had been spent in the secret service under General Pinoche
t’s regime.
Calderón’s photo and details were immediately distributed to everyone involved.
Keane had one more job to do. He picked up his jacket and made his way down to his car. He drove to Niels Frederiksen’s home address and waited outside, as they had agreed. Around 1:20 am, Frederiksen pulled into the driveway of his house. He switched off the engine, locked the car and walked back down the drive and over to the dark green Morgan Roadster parked on the opposite side of the street.
In the twilight, Keane could discern that Frederiksen was middle-aged, tall and heavy-set. He had short, probably light brown hair, with a fringe! He had a square face, and his apparently pale blue, narrow eyes were set wide apart, below flat eyebrows. He had a large moustache on what must have been a very deep upper lip.
Keane greeted him cordially and identified himself. A very nervous Frederiksen immediately handed over to him a plan of the restaurant, details about his staff, the keys and security codes. Stuttering in a deep voice, he said: “That’s the . . . the whole you asked for. That’s all.”
“What time do you normally arrive at the restaurant, Mr. Frederiksen?” asked Keane
“9 o’clock. Paul and Terry arrive at 10 and start with the cleaning up.”
“When they arrive tomorrow, call them into your office and keep them there under some pretence until it’s over. When you arrive at 9 o’clock, there will be four armed officers from the Police Firearms Unit inside the restaurant. One of them will let your guest in, and then they will take him down.
Mr. Frederiksen, I realize what we are asking you to do requires courage and faith in us, but I hope you believe me when I say: no harm will come to either you or your staff tomorrow.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“Thank you for your cooperation. Try to get some sleep. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.” With that Frederiksen walked back up the driveway to his house and let himself in.
Keane drove to the end of the street and stopped his car by a large dark van. There he handed over the plans, the staff details, the keys and the security codes to an SFO (Specialist Firearms Officer) from the Police Firearms Unit, who had been waiting for him. Now it was up to them. They drove off.
Keane decided he would head back to the office to try and catch a little sleep there. He had just pulled away, when it came to him: the tradesman who had brushed past him at Symonds’ restaurant - that was Diego Calderón!
Chapter 16
Tuesday, 22nd September, morning
Niels Frederiksen entered his restaurant at 9 am from the main street, just as Calderón was expected to do 90 minutes later. Once inside four men with guns pointed at him stepped out of the shadows. He froze.
The restaurant itself was ideal for their ambush. The doorway was set in and very little natural light came in from the street because of the blinds and the outdoor canopy. The décor of partitions afforded many locations that were suitable as cover. Three of the armed officers were arrayed in a 90 degree angle on the left side of the restaurant for a clear shot at whoever entered; the door opened inwards and was hinged on the right.
The fourth armed officer, who was closest to Frederiksen, was apparently the one who would open the door to Calderón. He stepped forward towards Frederiksen, while gesturing to the others:
“Alright, lads. Guns away” he commanded. “Good morning, Mr. Frederiksen. My name is Wilkins, please follow me” and the officer led the owner to his own office at the back of the restaurant. Inside he was surprised to find a fifth officer (equally well-armed and protected).
“This is Sergeant Thompson” Thompson held out his hand to Frederiksen who promptly shook it. “We’re taking an extra precaution by having Thompson here. Just for your peace of mind. When your staff arrive, have one of them leave their key in the back of the door and call them in to your office. Thompson will explain everything to them, and ensure they remain here and remain calm. Until then we’d like you just to go ahead with what you would normally do. If the phone rings, take it and answer it. Any questions?” There were no questions.
For your information, Mr. Frederiksen:
There are 2 parked cars out on the street with armed, plain clothes officers who will make the arrest once we have the man under control. His name is Calderón, by the way. There’ll be 4 men behind the restaurant, and 12 disguised men outside patrolling the street, six at a time, moving from one end to the other and replacing each other as they leave the street. They’ll all be within 100 yards of the restaurant at all times. We have an observation crew in a building on the other side of the street. They will alert us when Calderón is approaching the restaurant. We have a picture and a description of him, and your two staff, so we know who we’re looking for.
I will be opening the door, so I need you to give me the clothes or uniform that your staff would normally wear.”
“But they just wear their own clothes!”
“Which are?”
“Well, jeans, t-shirt, trainers usually.”
Wilkins paused for thought and looked at Frederiksen. Mustering his most butch voice he said, “Mr. Frederiksen, I’m going to have to ask you to lend me your clothes.”
Danes often come in extra large sizes, so Wilkins had no problem in squeezing his muscular body into Frederiksen’s shirt, suit and surprisingly large shoes.
Back at the station, Keane, Angus and the whole team were hanging around, waiting to meet in the incident room as arranged at 10:15. An unshaven Keane had had a rough night on the sofa in his office. (The sofa had appeared there, the day after he had slept there on the floor for the very first time). Keane decided to go down to the canteen to try and find something edible.
Angus was making notes for the press conference that he was going to call in the afternoon, once they had had time for the initial interrogation of the suspect.
Jenkins, Connolly, Parker and Hassan were looking at their brainstorm notes to see who had actually come closest.
On the street outside the restaurant, the 12 disguised SFOs had split into four groups of three, and were discussing the routes they would take and who would replace who.
In the Police Firearms Unit’s look-out, two men were drinking coffee and dissecting the referee’s performance in yesterday’s derby. Their equipment had been set up long ago and they were absolutely ready.
It was exactly 9:30 when Diego Calderón stepped into the doorway of restaurant ‘Maison Rive Gauche’, with his merchandise under his arm. He knocked boldly on the door. Inside he could hear a loud noise as if a table or chair fell over, and through the left side window he could just make out a dark figure wearing boots diving behind a partition! His secret service training kicked in instinctively. He released the wine and dove out of the doorway in one cat-like leap.
Wilkins had grabbed his two-way comm no more than a second after the shocked Hopkins had knocked over the chair in his attempt to get under cover, and the figure outside sprang away to the shrill cacophony of the crashing wine bottles. He screamed “Target here! Target here! All units: Take target down now!”
Coffee flew through the air in the look-out room. It took another 5 seconds for them to spot Calderón and respond “Target running towards the Underground entrance, repeat, target running for Underground entrance!”
Two of the four groups of armed officers were located at the opposite end of the street to the Underground. About 50 yards from the restaurant, Calderón’s trained eye instantly spotted the group of three disguised SFOs a few yards further up the pavement he was pounding along. He instinctively shoulder-charged one of them into the other two, bowling all three over.
Calderón ploughed on towards the subway entrance, weaving in and out between the pedestrians so as to discourage the SFOs from taking a shot. The final group of three SFOs, who were at the right end of the street but on the opposite pavement, spotted Calderón as he charged along. Two of them ran out into the street to cut him off, the third moved to the kerb and drew his gun in t
he hope of getting a clear shot away.
Calderón got to the entrance of the Underground about 10 yards ahead of the two chasing officers. Charging at the speed of a 400m athlete he made a suicidal leap into the air, over the heads of the commuters that were making their way down the long stairway. Twenty metres down the stairs he crash-landed, knocking at least a dozen people straight down on to the cold concrete steps.
The chasing armed officers stood at the entrance for a split second and stared in disbelief at the cold-blooded, ruthless survival act of a maniac. Hardened officers though they were, they had never seen anything like this. The sound of crunching bones, the screams, the blood and flying broken teeth stunned them for yet another second, giving Calderón the time to pick himself up and push on down the stairs through the crowd.
The officers had no way of getting past the pile of injured people, and no way of getting off a shot.
To Make a Killing Page 13