DEADLY IMPASSE (Jack Calder Crime Series #5)

by Seumas Gallacher

  Donnie from the left and Jack from the right crept under the arc of fire to within a few feet of the windows. In tandem, they lobbed in two grenades and stepped back to let Malky and Rico repeat the dosage. The assault was deadly. Weapon silence from the interior accompanied by screaming was followed by another wave of grenades.

  There would be no prisoners.

  The screams also died along with their owners. Jack raised his hand. From the rear of the hotel an engine noise sputtered into a whine. The recognizable whirr of helicopter blades rotating at speed increased as the machine lifted off, away from the direction of the ISP attack. Jack motioned the others to proceed with care, to watch out for more traps and any other live opposition. The chopper was already too far away to shoot at.

  “Damn,” Jack muttered.

  It wouldn’t take a genius to know who was in the helicopter. Meantime, there was still work to do. First order of business was to check the bodies among the carnage. No one survived inside the lobby and adjoining rooms from which the firing had come. Corrado and Torres were not among the dead. The team systematically swept from room to room, also checking wardrobes for anyone smart enough to be hiding inside. They returned to the gym, where the tables held neat rows of newly-packed drugs. Malky and Donnie attached cluster explosives along the tables and the four moved outside to the swimming pool. Jack and Rico pulled back the first tarpaulin. Instead of the expected stacks of drugs, empty wooden cartons piled on top of each other. The remaining three tarpaulins revealed the same.

  “He was expecting us,” said Rico. “This guy’s clever.”

  “You said he’s probably dealing with your fellow countrymen,” said Jack. “Do you have any contacts with them?”

  Before Rico could answer, the cluster devices in the gym detonated, destroying the merchandise and setting fire to the building.

  “Si, I have ways of communicating with them. What do you have in mind.”

  “I’ll tell you on the way back. Let’s get out of here.”

  ****

  The double-trot back to the remaining van took less than ten minutes. This time, Rico took the wheel. When they reached the fork in the road leading up to the hotel, instead of heading back to Guatemala City, he steered sharply around to take the other route away from the capital.

  The objective had been partly completed with the erasure of Hotel Pedrosa, but the failure to eliminate the ringleaders was a downer. To return to the lockup, or anywhere else in the city, risked confrontation with the local authorities. There was no way of knowing if Corrado had primed his cop stoogies about the threat of attack, or if they would consider the wipe out as an inter-cartel hit. Either way, exit via the Guatemala City airport was not the preferred option. Exit flights from the country would be under scrutiny as a primary response from the police.

  ****

  “I want to know where these guys in the helicopter were heading, Rico, or likely places they may use as bolt holes,” said Jack. “If you can squeeze that from some of your contacts in the other mobs, I don’t mind spending some money to find it out.”

  Rico kept his eyes on the road.

  “How much money?”

  “Whatever it takes.”

  The bite in the Scotsman’s voice was not lost on the others in the van.

  “Understood,” said Rico. “Whatever it takes, amigo. That should be enough.”

  Only Donnie and Malky smiled.

  ****

  The Mexican was familiar with several safe crossing places into El Salvador. The same porous border controls along the edge of the countries facilitated their exit from Guatemala. Four hours later, with a damp, sunless dawn spreading from the east, four business men stepped out of the van at the parking area at San Salvador airport, the night combat clothing repacked in the holdalls and discarded along with the weapons in a dump near the city limits. The ISP directors made separate cash purchases of single tickets for three different flights into America, with onward transit legs to London. Rico bought his, a one-way flight back to Mexico. He was owed a few outstanding favours in some strange places. He intended to call some of them in.

  CHAPTER 20

  The helicopter veered southeast and crossed into Honduran airspace at a level too low to register on any radar screens. Travelling in the pre-dawn darkness, the pilot knew the route to Tegucigulpa was unlikely to attract attention from anyone, except maybe American Drug Enforcement Agency operatives imbedded in the country. Forty minutes of flying brought the chopper to its destination twenty kilometres from the capital, hovering above a property owned by one of the syndicate’s associated companies. The long grass around the perimeter of the landing area in the compound flattened as the pilot put down on the helipad. The blade spun slowly to a halt and the bosses alighted. A welcoming party of armed men greeted the pair.

  The main building living quarters occupied a compact bottle-neck shaped portion of the area at the rear of the property, with generous acres of open grassland to the front. The main feature resembled a farmhouse on the outside, but the interior was lavishly fitted. Two adjoining smaller buildings held guest rooms, doubling as sleeping berths for Corrado’s men. A narrow river coursing along the back of the property, a few metres from the buildings, which were defended by a seven-foot high, iron fence, shielding the occupants from any unwanted callers from that direction. The back fence continued out for thirty metres on either side of the cluster of dwellings, and was joined by a stone wall, at the same height, extending around the entire property. A four-hundred metre hard-packed soil landing strip ran the length of the left side of the grounds. A helicopter pad situated twenty metres to the right of the last building. A parked Cessna 441 faced away from the front of the dwellings. More armed men guarded the solid metal gates at the entrance, with a slide-back shutter to view any visitors.

  For Cornelius Corrado, the mess back at Hotel Pedrosa was a disaster. If this was the work of the people from ISP, these cabrones were exceptionally good. The stakes in the game had become instantly magnified now, many times higher than before. The combat strategies drummed into him from the classes in South Carolina and his own street smarts, inbuilt from operations in the Legion, would be tested to the full. However, the capabilities of the SAS, ex- or otherwise, were legendary. He needed something to knock them back. Something to deflect their focus. Normally a good sleeper, he spent the entire first night back in Honduras wide awake, his mind working overtime.

  His early breakfast meeting with Torres betrayed no sign of the lack of sleep. The instructions to his right hand man were succinct and unequivocal. An immediate course of action, starting that day, would put them back on track not only for the current businesses in Central America and reinforcement of the operations in Libya, but also to tackle the lingering, vexing issue of the group’s embargoed funds.

  ****

  The delivery man, clad in the uniform of the international courier company, had unchallenged access to each building. In Luxembourg, the tiers of private letter boxes usually filled one side of the entrance to the flats. Foot traffic in and out of the tenements in mid-morning largely comprised sundry deliveries, with most of the tenants already having left much earlier to their respective work places. The moped, with its characteristic branded container mounted behind the driver, stopped at three addresses in a period of barely more than an hour. He dropped similar small packets into the letterbox addresses on his list and drove off. The dark visor on his crash helmet left no clear picture of his face on the CCTV cameras. The burned-out uniform and stolen moped, later found in a waste lot, gave no DNA, no fingerprints, nor other evidence to identify the perpetrator. Twelve minutes after the final delivery, three mail boxes blasted apart as the coordinated timers struck noon. Although only a fraction of the destructive power of the recent explosions at the vaults and with the old secretary’s car, the link was unmissable. Nobody was physically injured. The mental impact on the owners of the boxes, Francine’s top three senior management executives at Banque Lo
uvet, was more difficult to assess.

  ****

  The ebb and flow of humanity through the medical centre at the camp wrapped around the infiltrators from the trafficking gang. Freedom of movement, unfettered by unaffordable police or other security personnel, made their activity simple. The medical staff handled constant pressure from the endless stream of patients, a continuous twenty-four seven struggle to cope. The recent fire incident with the chief’s Jeep added to the gnawing worry about personal safety. The assurances from the nameless Scottish man in black had faded into doubt once more, but the principal concern to serve their patients never lapsed.

  The man in the shadows walked along the perimeter of the marquee, dropping rags five metres apart. His cigarette lighter ignited the oil-soaked cloths with a mild popping sound. He placed each one against the wall of the tent and strolled away. The heavy canvas material took a few minutes for the fire to catch hold properly. The first clouds of black smoke gave way to flames. The shouts and screams from patients in beds next to the smoke alerted the duty nurses. Regular staff drills for fire emergency were part of their training. First order of priority, always, to move patients at risk, followed by containment of the fire. Aided by some of the able-bodied patients and relatives, the orderlies and staff reacted well. A dozen beds on castors rolled into the middle of the marquee area to allow access with the extinguishers. The billowing smoke cleared as the flames retreated. From beginning to end, the incident lasted seven minutes. The effect lasted for days. The paramedics had an added security patrol roster to consider. Help from the local police was never likely to happen.

  Who knew when another event, more disastrous, could be on the way?

  ****

  May-Ling travelled to Luxembourg on the first available flight after hearing about the mail box attacks. She wasn’t surprised to learn Francine was at her office suite in the bank, and not at home. On her arrival, the security boss noted with satisfaction the discreet but visible presence of extra guards outside and inside the bank added to the metal detector equipment at the main entrance. Francine’s assistant greeted her at the ground floor and led her inside. The elevator doors opened on to the executive floor, where the close-in agents patrolled the hallway. May-Ling nodded to the ISP officers and stepped forward to embrace her counterpart, already waiting for her at the elevator lobby. They walked toward the inner office.

  “Please bring us some tea,” Francine instructed the assistant. “And hold all calls until further notice.”

  “You decided to come here today,” said May-Ling. “Do you think that wise?”

  “If I run and hide every time these cretins say ‘Boo!’, what kind of chief executive am I? The guys who had their boxes blown this morning are all still here. At their desks. I’m blessed with some exceptional people in this organization.”

  “Conventional security wisdom would recommend you keep a lower profile,” said May-Ling. “But I’m with you. To hell with convention.”

  They both laughed.

  “No wonder I like you,” said Francine.

  The knock at the door announced the arrival of the promised tea. As the banker poured, May-Ling took stock of her client. The frightened woman from two weeks ago had gone. The same elegant clothing and carriage, the understated beauty of a lady in her prime remained as before, but her strength of character had resurfaced. May-Ling’s tenure as an undercover detective in Hong Kong years back had exposed her to many examples of women battered and beaten mentally and physically in the sordid trade of prostitution and drug peddling, but who had regained their own selves when given the chance. Francine Louvet was a universe away from the squalid brothels and dingy, rat-infested opium dens in the former British colony, but the recent horrific invasions on her personal and business life were psychologically no less potentially crippling. Violent abuse is abuse no matter what form it takes.

  “I’m assured nobody was injured this morning,” said May-Ling.

  “Yes. The police have interviewed the concierges in each of the buildings. Only one saw a courier deliver whatever was in the packages. He looked like a legitimate delivery guy. There was no reason to question his presence. That same building and one other have CCTV, and according to the detectives I spoke with, the film on each is not very helpful.”

  “It makes little difference,” said May-Ling. “The important issue is the message that’s being sent. Xavier and his gang are not giving up on trying to get their money back. You’re the only reasonable link for them to access the funds. Has anyone contacted you?”

  “No,” replied Francine. “Do you think they will?”

  “I’m almost sure of it. And when they do, I want us ready to respond.”

  “How?”

  “I’ve an idea, but I’d like to share it with my team and Marcel Benoit. Can we arrange a conference call? Jack and the others have just arrived back from South America. They had partial success, but missed out on the top targets. Right now, we don’t know where they’ve gone, but we’re working on that, too. Do you have secure telephone lines in this office?”

  “Yes, I do,” said Francine. “Give me the numbers you want connected.”

  While the assistant began arranging the phone linkup, May-Ling described the ISP attack in Guatemala.

  The assistant returned with the message the conference would be in twenty minutes when Marcel Benoit finished another call.

  “More tea?”

  Francine poured and the ladies sat back to wait for the connection.

  The voice quality on the lines from London and Lyons couldn’t have been clearer if the participants had been in the same room talking across the table.

  “Forgive me for keeping you waiting, my friends, I was fielding another line from Cairo,” said Benoit. “I’ll tell you about that in a while.”

  “Hello, Marcel,” said May-Ling. “I’m here at the bank with Francine. Jack, Donnie and Malky are on from London.”

  “Good afternoon, Marcel,” came the chorus from the ISP office.

  “Afternoon, gentlemen, and to you ladies in Luxembourg.”

  “Jack, can you start with an update on the South American mission,” said May-Ling. “Francine’s already in the loop, but we haven’t shared it with Marcel.”

  “Sure,” replied her husband.

  Jack spent a few minutes detailing the attack on Hotel Pedrosa and the failure to eliminate Torres and Corrado.

  “We’re certain they were spooked before we arrived, especially so because of the little preparation party of IEDs they laid on,” said Jack. “Rico’s still over there, and he’s using his contacts to try to nail down where they might’ve gone. Until then, there’s not much we can do from our side.”

  “This morning, Marcel, three mailboxes belonging to the bank’s senior executives were bombed,” said May-Ling. “Small devices, unlikely to have caused much damage unless they went off in somebody’s hands, but it’s apparent these guys still have some local presence here. I think they’re sending a message to get Francine to consider backing off from the money thing.”

  “And that’s never going to happen,” said the bank chief, with venom.

  “We know that, Francine, but it may give us a way to flush them out,” said May-Ling.

  “I did get notice of that earlier,” said Marcel. “As I told you before, the Chief of Police there’s a good pal of mine, and he’s keeping an eye on the situation. However, let me tell you about my phone call from Egypt. The head of the Medical Mission for Peace in North Africa is greatly concerned. The traffickers are back again, and more blatant than before. As you know, a week ago, Benji Rafael’s Jeep was blown up. Last night an arson attack on the hospital burned down part of one end of the marquee.”

  “Bastards,” said Malky.

  “Nobody’s been injured,” continued Benoit. “Yet. But the staff are understandably nervous, not so much for themselves but for their patients.”

  “So it’s more than just chasing down Francine,” said May-Ling.r />
  “How do you mean?” asked Donnie.

  “They want their money back, that’s a given, but this is a classic deflective tactic.”

  “You’re right,” said Jack. “If they create enough diversionary problems for us, they hope it’ll take the heat off them, correct?”

  “Correct,” said May-Ling. “It also means they’ve made the common connection of ISP for the bank and for the camp. They probably know who we are, too. Simple intelligence would yield that for them. As of now, I’m instructing the operations and staff to transfer from the London office to Amsterdam, as we’ve done in the past, until we see how this plays out.”

  “Won’t they pick you off in Holland just as easily?” asked Marcel.

  “We don’t have a nameplated office there, and we’ve done this more than once before,” said May-Ling. “Our telephone numbers link on a pass-through system. Callers are none the wiser they’re connecting with Amsterdam rather than London.”

  “And we go in and give these bastards another hidin’ in Libya?” said Malky.

  “Not so fast,” said the ISP chief. “That may be a solution as a second step.”

  “The first step bein’?”

  “The hospital needs a more permanent security arrangement,” said May-Ling. “From what you’ve told us, Marcel, the local authorities can’t or won’t do anything, and the United Nations committees are still struggling with how the whole country gets governed. They’ve no sensible focus on providing resources for the migrant problem.”