“There’s only one place these guys are headed,” said Jack. “That truck had at least one dinghy aboard. They’re gonna try to get away on the water.”
“Not if we can bluudy help it,” said his buddy.
Malky slowed on the approach to the launching area. Ahead, the minute gained when their pursuers had stopped at the bend in the road had given Scarlip time to reverse the truck down onto the shingle. He and his sidekick began to unload one of the dinghies. The ISP men stopped at the vantage survey point they had used the previous week. The distance from the trees gave Jack and Malky clear views of the pair ahead.
“That’s the bastard from the cathedral,” said Jack as Malky raised his weapon. “Take out the smaller guy, but I want the bigger one alive.”
The Irishman needed only two shots. The first struck Scarlip’s mate in the middle of the chest. A perfect kill. As the boss man turned toward the firing, Malky’s second shot ripped into his right knee. He crumpled screaming to the beach, clutching his leg.
Jack approached with caution, his own weapon at the ready. It wasn’t needed. Scarlip was unarmed. Malky watched bemused as his partner strode toward the fallen man. Scarlip raised one arm with his open hand held up in surrender. The Scotsman’s response took Malky by surprise. A savage kick to the face drew further screams from the injured gangster. Jack threw his AK47 to his mate and proceeded to remove the shoelaces from the captive’s boots. In moments he used the improvised handcuffs to tie the man’s hands behind his back.
“Help me with this,” said Jack, moving toward the dinghy partly unloaded from the truck. In less than a minute the craft was readied at the edge of the water.
“Now this piece of shit,” pointing at the moaning Scarlip. They brought the man to the front of the dinghy. Jack faced him shoreward and punched him violently in the stomach before pushing him backward into the dinghy.
“Bit o’ his own medicine,” said Malky. “I like that. I like that a lot.”
Jack started the outboard on the first attempt and nudged the inflatable out to sea. The foam on the water churned as the distance from the shore increased. Thirty metres. Sixty metres. Ninety metres.
“How’s your aim with a moving target, Malky?”
Both men raised their rifles and fired at the receding dinghy. The bullets punctured the vessel above and below the waterline. A hundred and forty metres and sinking fast. Another burst ripped more holes in the rubber. A hundred and fifty-five metres. The outboard motor sank in a flurry of foaming bubbles. The dinghy and its passenger were no longer visible.
We go black.
From the camouflage of the undergrowth, Felix watched the torching of the trailer homes. He recognised the manner of the extra bullets into the bodies strewn across the campsite to ensure no one came out alive as legionnaire standard ‘no prisoner’ procedure. The returning jeep which had followed his boss came to a standstill beside the others. Two men dismounted and gave a thumbs up sign.
Shit! Scarlip must be dead. One of these guys is the man in black from the camp.
Felix counted half an hour after the convoy drove away from the massacre. Then an hour more before beginning a long detour away from the place.
CHAPTER 17
Felix took the offered bottle of beer from Ruben Torres and swigged heavily. Corrado sat opposite the two men, deep in thought. Thirty-six hours after the takedown at the camp, the surviving mercenary had travelled nonstop to be reunited with his chiefs at Hotel Pedrosa. His telephone call hours after the massacre had shaken his commanders. The order to get to Guatemala immediately had meant a small detour to pick up cash sent to a money exchange for the purpose, then two international flight connections.
As usual, other than Felix, only Torres and the big boss sat on the veranda. The rest of the men busied themselves inside the building, packaging and sorting shipments.
“Tell me again,” said Corrado. Felix had recounted the events four times, but repeated his story one more time.
“They were legionnaires, Raddo. Unmistakeable. Except the two men in black. They came in fast, stun grenades, sweeping gunfire. It was clear they wanted nobody left alive. I’d be dead too, if I hadn’t gone for a piss.”
“And the two dudes who followed our men in the truck?” asked Torres. “Describe them.”
“As I said, one was in the migrants’ camp for a couple of days, just wandering around, not talking to anybody, but he seemed out of place. Now we know why. The other guy was a bit taller, from the light of the flames, he looked fair-haired, American or European, maybe Scandinavian or German.”
“Or maybe British,” said Corrado. “You said the two were in a separate vehicle?”
“Yes. A Jeep. The rest were in Land Rovers.”
“You did well, Felix.”
The drug boss shook his head slowly.
“What do you think, Raddo?” asked Torres. “The Legion trying to hit us again? Maybe somebody’s recognized some of our men in Libya and tipped them off? If it’s that, they still don’t have a line on us here, right?”
“Maybe,” said Corrado. “As sure as hell, it’s not the local cops. If it was the Legion, they won’t be back there. We’ll get replacements up and running as quick as we can. Felix, you work with Ruben to do that. Find out how the local police are dealing with it and ensure our arrangements are still solid. Persuade them this was some dumb move by our competition. The cops won’t want their payments halted.”
“What if it is competition?” said Torres.
“It’s not. Rest assured, none of our competition’s that well organised. However, I think it might be a bit deeper than just the Legion.”
“Oh?”
Corrado reached for three more bottles from the icebox next to the table and handed a beer to each of his companions.
“I’ve been thinking about the two other dudes in the attack. They’re pros, no doubt. Where else are we involved where that kind of talent’s available?”
“Louvet?” asked Torres. “How?”
“You told me the filming stunt at the funeral service was busted by her security people,” said Corrado. “That’s the sort of professionals I’m talking about.”
Torres put his drink on the table and sat back in his chair.
“I don’t see the connection, Raddo. Where’s the link?”
“I’m not sure yet, but my gut’s telling me there’s something there. We don’t have anything from the camera we lost, but there could be another way to find out. A long shot maybe. The television station in Luxembourg covered the service. Get onto the internet and search if there’s anything showing. Felix, I want you to look at that with Rubin. Tell me if these guys you saw were also in the crowd in Luxembourg.”
“Okay,” said Torres. He and Felix lifted another beer each from the box and headed into the hotel to the office computers.
Like many of the enlisted men in the Legion, Cornelius Corrado had a different name at birth. However, unlike many of his men, his route into the force was not a result of a harsh upbringing, nor from being a fugitive from unwanted attention, legal or otherwise. The second son of an upper middle class family from Algiers, and an intelligent student, his formal education in Paris and a military training scholarship at the famed Citadel College in South Carolina promised a career and life wherever he cared to choose in the upper levels of society.
By the same kind of quirk that leads some men into monkhood and a life detached from the norm, the discipline and rigour demanded of a top class officer appealed to him. The growing dread of conforming to his family’s boring expectations of him threw a mental switch. He yearned for the adventure, the edginess of a real fighting man. Instead of returning to his home in Algiers after his training, he bought a one-way ticket to Aubagne. His blood name and history were discarded at the gates of the recruiting centre and he emerged as legionnaire Corrado. For the first few years, the life and raw adventure fulfilled his needs, but the same character flaw which had diverted him from his family de
veloped into a deep resentment of his fellow senior officers. Petty issues of chain of command festered in him. His superior officer was compelled to take action after a brutal fist fight in the senior mess which put a colleague in hospital with broken ribs and a smashed face. He was busted one rank and served ten days in confinement. The men who served under him treated him with respect, bordering on awe, and the demotion served only to heighten their opinion of him. The inevitable parting from the Legion was no whim. Simmering animosity between his men and another squad in adjacent barracks was the trigger. Corrado led his closest group, including Torres, on an assault against the offending soldiers. The supposed purpose to give them a good beating escalated swiftly when Corrado drew his pistol and fired at the opposing barracks leader, the shots piercing the man’s throat and face. In the melee, the alarm brought other senior officers running from the captain’s mess, the usual internal authority level for quelling the occasional fracas in camp. Five of these were shot down in cold blood. The perpetrators fled and became the subject of Legion pursuit for years after.
The transition into the criminal underworld was a simple step. With trained mercenaries and Corrado’s brains, in a few years the earnings from their enterprises ran into the millions of dollars.
The same sensitive internal antenna which had kept him safe from the repeated attempts to bring himself and his men to justice, was twitching now. And the men in black were the cause.
The search on the internet carried journalists’ articles on Pierre Louvet’s memorial service, in English and in French. Some featured photographs taken outside the Parliament chamber. None of these showed pictures of either of the two ISP men. The same embargo on press photography inside the building had not extended to include the television coverage. The computer screen zoomed into the You Tube track.
“There’s one of them,” said Felix, stabbing a finger toward the images as the cameraman had swept the assembled mourners. “Raddo was right. Son of a gun.”
In clear focus, Jack, May-Ling, Marcel Benoit and others, captured near the front of the congregation. The film panned back and forward on familiar faces from high finance and government circles in Europe.
“The big, blond-haired man’s gone,” said Torres, a few minutes into the clip. “Call Raddo in to have a look at this.”
Corrado crouched over Felix’s shoulder and watched them run it again and again, asking for the pause button several times.
“Okay, that’s plenty,” he said. “The disappearance of the blondish guy would coincide with the chase where we lost the camera. The first shots show him sitting side by side with an Asian woman. She could be one of his security people, but more likely his wife or girlfriend. Ruben, call our contacts and find out what top agencies use Europeans with an Asian woman in their teams.”
“The top agencies?” said Torres.
“These people are trained, and they’re good,” said Corrado. “The run of the mill outfits wouldn’t be this slick. I want to know what we’re up against. By the way, the man sitting next to them. Do you know who he is?”
“No,” said Torres. “Do you?”
“If I’m not mistaken, he’s Marcel Benoit, the head of Interpol. That would broaden the picture even more. We’ve always been careful to keep our heads under the radar screen, but my sense is somebody’s adding one and one and coming up with more than two.”
“As you say, it pays to be careful,” said Torres. “So how do we handle this?”
“No knee jerk reaction but I want you to look around at some of our alternative safe places for our operations here. Step up security. The last thing we need is a surprise like the one in Libya.”
“Who would come to Guatemala?” said Felix. “We’re covered every which way here.”
“We were covered in Libya, too. And if your bladder wasn’t so weak you’d be dead. Both of you have calls to make. Ruben, about the security firms. You, Felix, check on our back up sites and how secure they are.”
Corrado stood and walked toward the door.
The other men were already on the telephones.
“One more thing,” he said, before leaving them. “Ruben, have the chopper on constant standby while we’re here.”
He returned to the table on the veranda, flipped the cap from another beer and sat sipping it, alone. It tasted good. The frisson he felt had been missing for a while. The others would never understand how the anticipation of danger sharpened his mind. Whoever these people were, interfering with his business, he welcomed the challenge.
The matter of the embargoed dollar millions in the banks remained an issue waiting for a solution.
The time difference between Central America and Europe meant a few hours lag time before Torres finally got the information he sought. The best specialised security businesses numbered no more than half a dozen premier firms across the globe. The reputation of International Security Partners, although shrouded in the usual confidential aura the industry bred, was close to the top of the list.
The smell of strong coffee streamed from the breakfast table on the veranda. Ruben Torres poured for himself and joined Corrado.
“You were right, Raddo,” he said, pushing a folder toward his boss. “International Security partners. ISP. Ex-SAS guys. It used to be headed by a Major Jules Townsend, tremendous reputation, but he was killed a while back. The rest of the outfit is tightly run by three guys, Jack Calder, Malky McGuire, who were officers alongside Townsend, and a former top cop, Donnie Mullen. The Chinese dame is May-Ling Calder. You were correct again. She’s Calder’s wife.”
“Yes, I’ve heard of them,” said Corrado. “I also heard a whisper the guy who killed Townsend is also no longer on this earth. These people don’t fight by the rules. They may not come near us again, but for so long as they’re employed by Louvet, we have to assume they’re a threat.”
“How do you want to handle them?”
“For the present, we watch and wait. I don’t want to aggravate anything at this stage, because as you said last night, there’s no confirmation they have us by name tied into any of the events of the last week or two. Get reliable people to track their movements in Europe, but at a distance. Here in Guatemala put our watchers on alert at the seaports and airports for anybody who resembles this guy. You have pictures of him now. Tell them there’s an extra bonus if he’s spotted.”
“Anything else?” asked Torres.
“Yes, we’ve a business to run. Go kick some ass around here and get our stuff out to the distributors. And let me know when Felix has reorganized our runs again in Libya. It’s business as usual, Ruben. That’s it.”
“What about the money tied up in the banks?”
“I’m still working on an idea for that,” said Corrado. “I’ll talk to you later about it. It may need a more direct approach with your lost lover.”
Torres laughed.
“Something tells me she wouldn’t be happy to see me again.”
“Maybe that’s why she should. But later. Go get the shipments moving.”
Ruben Torres never questioned his chief’s thinking and he wasn’t about to start now. He left the man on the veranda alone with his thoughts.
CHAPTER 18
“The three of us and Rico will be enough,” said Jack.
The other directors of ISP sat facing the Scot where he stood at the operations wall. The boardroom in their West End London offices doubled as a planning and strategy centre. Details and background information on the traffickers’ Guatemala nerve centre had consumed the afternoon. Input sent from Rico included a site map of Hotel Pedrosa and its grounds, segregated into fifty-metre squares. The close overlaps and proximities of likely easy entry points were clearly marked. As well as the hotel building itself, the empty swimming pool doubling as a transit storage area was bordered in red. It sat in front of the wooden veranda which ran along half of that side of the hotel. Brick steps led down to the pool. Rico had noted the number of steps as eight.
“Where’s
Rico now?” asked Donnie.
“He’s sourcing some decent weapons and equipment for you,” said May-Ling. “He tells me the owner of the place he’s shacked up in is plugged in everywhere over there. For a price, but it’s worth it.”
“Is his connection reliable?”
“Rico’s okay with him, and Mac says Rico’s judgement’s first rate. And he’s our man on the ground. Are you all comfortable with that?”
“He is what Mac says he is,” said Jack. “A hundred percent. He proved that with us in Chile.”
“When do we go in?” asked Malky.
“These guys’ll be very antsy after the hit in Libya,” said May-Ling. “If it had been us on the receiving end, we would have security so tight you could hardly breathe. I think you should wait at least another week or two. They won’t be going away any time soon. As for Rico, I’ve asked him to have another scout around the hotel area, double-checking the detail.”
“I swear you’re the living ghost of Jules,” said Donnie. “He’d be proud of the way you shadow his style.”
The chief executive gave a half-smile. Their former boss had taught them all many things, but most of all, care in preparation.
****
For several days following the departure of Jack and the others, Benji Rafael and his staff noticed the absence of the usual human vultures around the hospital. The local police had ensured no word of the shootings further down the coast filtered to the public ear. The authorities had their own bribery payments to protect. Rafael knew what had happened, but kept his counsel on the events leading up to this hiatus. The lull did not last long. Within a week and a half other faces appeared, some in the shadows, some more blatantly open.
With good reason, Corrado trusted Felix. The man knew how to manage his people on the ground, including the niceties of bribes to the roster of police officers on the take. On his second day back in Libya, he saw the Jeep at the hospital. He watched as Rafael got in to the vehicle at the end of his shift and drove off toward the medics’ quarters. Of course, he knew this was the chief medical man in the camp. To remove him from the operation here would do the trafficking business more harm than good. The supply of sick migrants was too lucrative to jeopardise. But sending a strong message of another kind was fair play. His first priority was to check the two men in black were nowhere in the camp. A full day’s reconnaissance assured him they were gone, as he expected, but he wanted to make sure. Given Corrado’s opinion of these guys, forcing an encounter with them would be futile.
DEADLY IMPASSE (Jack Calder Crime Series #5) Page 8