“Sweetheart, we can’t spend our time guarding the hospital,” said Jack.
“Yes we can, if we define what we mean by ‘we’.”
“I believe I sense the Lady Calder brains churning,” said Benoit, his delight evident even over the telephone.
“Jack, Malky, you’ve plenty of contacts retired from the Regiment and other units whose names keep appearing in the soldiers of fortune publications,” said May-Ling. “Francine, you offered to finance efforts to bring these criminals to justice. In the absence of local capability to tackle the problem, your funding could be used to hire sufficient armed muscle to protect the hospital for at least a couple of months, if it takes that long to sort this out.”
Benoit whistled and clapped.
“I knew it! I knew it! Madame genius, yet again.” he said. “Frankly, I’ve been racking my brains to think of some similar proposition, but only got about a quarter of the way to where you are.”
“What about the second step?” said Donnie.
“After a period of weeding out the traffickers from the hospital, we hit them again. First of all, the cash flow stops. That rebuffs their initiatives to detract us from what we need to do, and a second wipe-out of their men on the ground should be enough to get them to hell out of there completely. Having established the protection at the hospital, it also sends a message to any other mob that’s tempted to traffic from there to think again about coming in.”
“I love you,” said Jack, laughing.
“An’ I love ye too,” said Malky.
“Don’t leave me out, guys,” said Donnie. “I love you as well.”
“My offer stands,” said Francine. “If it requires more money, you let me know. What about Xavier?”
The mood on the lines sobered.
“Yes, I’ve been thinking about him, too,” said May-Ling. “My feeling is he’ll be in contact one way or another, and soon. Here’s my thoughts on how to deal with him.”
The group listened for several minutes as the ISP chief outlined her ideas, prompting a couple of questions, one from Jack and one from Donnie.
“What do you think, Marcel? Francine?” she asked.
“I’m in,” said the bank boss.
“It’s not without some considerable risk,” said the Interpol chief. “In principle, I’m supportive, but let’s be sure to think it through in detail.”
“Always,” said May-Ling. “First things first. Malky, Jack, names for Libya?”
“We’re on it.”
The lines closed.
“Time for more tea?” said Francine.
“I thought you’d never ask,” said the ISP boss, holding out her cup.
CHAPTER 21
Most of the names were familiar, some were not. Jack separated them into two rosters, a dozen on each. Malky and he shared the calls, initially to players known to them. From the first list, seven had SAS backgrounds or similar experience, men with urban and countryside combat smarts. Two were unreachable by telephone. Of the other five, two had voice messages saying they were out of town for the foreseeable future, code for ‘away on engagement’. The remaining trio welcomed the calls and the prospect of well-paid work for a minimum of two months. The other five men on the list yielded three more suitable candidates. Total hired, six.
The second list contained recognizable, seasoned veterans. A couple of hours of more calls produced four more recruits. Group complement, ten. Proven, fighting, hard men. Jack would have preferred twelve, but as Malky pointed out, these guys were more than capable of dealing with the Libyan syndicate ‘go-furrs’. The group agreed the first meeting two days later in a low-key, three-star hotel off the King’s Road, for the first squad bonding and signing of contracts. All of these men had private bank accounts and instructions for payments to next of kin in the event they didn’t return from missions… standard practice in their profession.
****
Benji Rafael sounded tired. Constant static interrupted the line to the medics’ quarters.
“We heard about the Jeep and the fire, Benji,” said Jack. “We’re bringing in some private help that should make a difference for you and your team.”
“Police?”
“No, they’re our people, and they’ll be much better than any local authorities.”
“Jack, we don’t have money for that kind of security, you know our situation.”
“The money’s covered already.”
“Has the United Nations come up with some at last?”
“Not to my knowledge, my friend, but for the meantime, this source is more reliable, and the men will answer to our firm. We’re going to need quarters for them. Do you have three billets able to house up to four men each?”
“I’ll make sure we have.”
“Good. I’ll be in touch with the names of our group leader and his back up man. My boys will operate in two twelve-hour shifts per day, so you’re protected at all times. I’d like you to advise your people what’s going on. When they see anybody who shouldn’t be in your hospital or even near it, tell my guys, then stand aside and let them do their job. Don’t let them get involved directly themselves. They’ll be on site with you the day after tomorrow. They’re aware you’re the man in charge of the hospital and they’ll work to ensure you, your people and your patients are left alone.”
“Understood. You’ve made a tired man very happy, Jack. Goodnight.”
****
There are many ways of making money in the drug trade in the Americas, none more couched in danger than being a ‘listener’. The big bucks stick with the leaders of the cartels and syndicates. Their lieutenants do less well, but still enjoy good paydays. The rest of the trade, the middlemen, the brokers, and a few of the fringe players make a comfortable living. At the edges, the opportunists exist on the comparative financial scraps. These bottom feeders are not high-ranking gang members. Some, particularly the young guns, the wannabe top-flyers, are attracted by the aura of the mobs, the legend, the dream of becoming a senior honcho. Many of this group never reach proper adulthood, perishing in ambushes with rival cartels or the drug enforcement authorities, an inconveniently frequent event. Which leaves the ‘listeners’.
This anonymous group consists of loners. Usually men, but occasionally women, who float in and around the shadows of the business. They trade in snippets of information. The half-heard whispers that get people arrested, or worse, killed. They answer to no paymasters other than those for whom the scraps of intelligence are worth whatever the price negotiated for them.
Rico Sanchez used this clandestine network as well as anyone in the black operations agencies. No telephone numbers or written contact details existed for this ghost corps. Deniability was a catchword in their world. The Mexican’s ability to forestall action against his informants had often saved several of their lives through the years with timely warnings. Others were simply paid for their contributions. Rico sat with his back to a side wall with clear vision of the entrance to the coffee house, awaiting the arrival of his contact. Appointment times in Mexico can be elastic, but promptly on the half-hour the man he had called earlier walked in. The slow swivel of the head, checking who else may be inside typified his caution as he approached Rico and took the seat alongside him, instead of having his back to the doorway. The newcomer owed his life, not once, but twice to the man at the table. Both times had been outside of the country, when the informant had travelled to Belize and Nicaragua in pursuit of the big money payoffs. Since the second brush with life-threatening circumstances nine years prior, the man had peddled his skills exclusively in Mexico. The intervening period had helped to hone his talent of being nearly invisible while acquiring his saleable leads.
“What will you have?” Rico asked his guest.
“Regular Americano, flat.”
Rico waved to the barista for a refill of his own cup and the new order.
“It’s been a long time, amigo,” said Rico. “How have you been?”
“Surviving. I can’t complain. How about you?”
“The same.”
“You said you wanted to talk to me about some people,” said the man.
Rico waited until the waiter delivered the tray with the coffees before answering.
“Yes. Corrado and Torres. I’m sure you know of them?”
“Who doesn’t?” said the informer. “They don’t deal directly with distributors in Mexico, but they supply three of the big guys here who do. So long as they keep that arrangement, most of the cartels are happy. The word I hear? Some competition’s flushed them out of their base in Guatemala.”
“I heard that, too,” said Rico. “I’m after something quite simple.”
“Tell me.”
“Where they’re likely to be now?”
“That’s it?”
“Nothing more. Location or locations.”
“I’ll see what I can find. How much is it worth, amigo?”
“Oh, I think I could stretch to another Americano for you,” said Rico.
The man laughed.
“Throw in a couple of biscuits too, huh?’ he said.
Rico passed a sealed envelope under the table. The informer folded it and slid it into his jeans pocket.
“There’s five hundred bucks in there,” said the Mexican. “That should cover a few biscuits.”
The normal price would have ranged up to five thousand for what he was asking. For past favours owed, the man wasn’t expecting to receive anything, but Rico knew a few hundred dollars for expenses would keep him better focused. His guest finished his drink and walked to the door. Rico waited another ten minutes before leaving
CHAPTER 22
The news from Libya rankled with Corrado. The hospital and its immediate surroundings had attracted unwelcome attention. Armed patrols. Heavily armed patrols. Twice in the past three days, confrontation with the newcomers ended badly for his people. One resulted in nothing more than a few warning fists in the face, but with the humiliation of a heavy boot in the backside, shepherding the intruding gang member from the marquee area.
The second incident delivered a stronger, more sinister message. In a mindless show of misplaced bravado, his man faced down a pair of the patrollers and opened his jacket to show his Glock pistol stuck in his trouser belt. He had no intent to draw the weapon. That lack of action saved his life. Instead, the men he challenged disarmed him so quickly, he lost not only his gun, but the use of his right arm, broken, along with cracked ribs, his nose and jaw, and severe damage to his left leg.
The injuries required attention and confinement to a bed in the tented hospital. The irony was not lost on the syndicate leader. Nor did he miss the fact the protectors were clad in black. This wasn’t in his game plan. An assault into the migrants’ camp was out of the question for many reasons. The police bribe money only stretched so far. Armed attacks on the hospital premises were outside the margins. By all means, if any of the men in black stepped away from the designated area, then fair game, but somehow he doubted that would happen. Meantime, the cash flow was drying up.
“Send instructions for the men to switch their reach away from the hospital,” said Corrado.
Torres nodded. The move to the Honduran base caused a few operational changes in the daily routines, but nothing significant. The two bosses still met each morning in what Corrado called ‘morning prayers’. The patio lacked a poolside, but the familiar setting of a single table with a large coffee pot served its purpose as a starter to the day.
“There are still plenty in the camp willing to pay,” Corrado continued. “Increase the price per head. They’ll still cough up. What we lose from the patients, we make up from the others. We’ve never had an empty dinghy yet.”
“What about the security guards?” asked Torres.
“We stay clear of them for now. They’re only in and around the hospital. They won’t be in the regular camp, it’s too big for them to cover.”
“Okay. Anything else?”
“Yes. I think it’s time to make contact again with your Ms Francine.”
“Really? She won’t welcome that, I’m sure.”
“Never rule out a woman’s reactions to anything, my friend. Here’s an approach to think about.”
His lieutenant listened while the syndicate boss laid out his ideas. When Corrado finished, Torres sat back with his hands behind his head, fingers interlocked. He stretched and stood up, pacing to the edge of the patio paving stones before returning to his chair.
“What’s to say she’ll bite, Raddo? Surely she sees me as part of everything that’s happened?”
“Maybe. It’s an outside chance, I admit, but a chance nonetheless. Don’t ever underestimate the simplest solutions. We’ve a fortune at stake, and she’s the best means of getting it back, or at least some of it.”
“Aren’t the lawyers working full time on that?”
“Forget the lawyers,” said Corrado. “It’s not their money. They get paid regardless of the outcome, and they’ll keep pressing the courts in their own way. No, I need you to get us closer to the only possible person who can influence the decision to make the cases go away completely. We need Francine Louvet to help make it happen.”
“The risks are huge,” said Torres.
“I disagree. If it doesn’t work we’re no worse off. You don’t make any face to face involvement unless you think she’s playing ball. No personal risk.”
Torres stood up again. The proposition was simple when his chief pitched it that way. He rubbed the back of his neck and paced the ground again. He sat down once more.
“As you say, minimal downside,” he said. “Let’s try it.”
Corrado smiled. He rarely found resistance from his people.
“You want a beer?” he asked, reaching for the iced container next to the table.
He didn’t wait for the reply. The pair clinked the opened bottles and revisited the proposition. For the first time since the attack in Guatemala, Cornelius Corrado felt he was back in control of the game.
****
The day’s business was drawing to a close in Luxembourg. The yellow light blinked on the telephone console. Francine gestured to her assistant to leave. As the office door clicked shut, she picked up the receiver on the direct line.
“Hello.”
“My dear, Francine.”
She paused.
“How dare you call me?” she spat the words in a loud whisper.
“Please listen. I can’t begin to think what you believe of me, but I beg you to listen, and I’ll understand if you put the phone down now. I’m not responsible for what has happened to you and your dear father. I want to help to get the people who’ve done this brought to account.”
“You’re a damned liar, Xavier. Because of you, my father is dead. His personal secretary, a great family friend and servant of this bank for decades, is dead. Others are dead. You spoke of your associates being impatient. You didn’t tell me they were murderers.”
“I know it’s difficult for you to believe, my dear, but I’m not part of the criminals who’ve done this. My group of associates comprised two distinctly different sets of people. The handful who carried this horrific series of events in their own way, and others who are above reproach. Decent respectable businessmen. They are as shocked as I am by what’s happened.”
“Then why have you been quiet all this time? You must know the police are investigating every piece of this. Why haven’t you gone to them if you aren’t part of it? Why haven’t your so-called decent friends gone to the police? And why call me now?”
“Francine, ever since the explosion at the bank, I’ve realised how ruthless these men are. I wanted nothing more to do with them. They threatened me also, and told me if I uttered one word out of place they would kill both me and you. The other partners are as appalled as I am, but are innocent victims also. They had no awareness of what was happening.”
“Then why aren’t they doing something about it now? Don’t th
ey know the names of the thugs who’ve done this?”
“It’s not that simple, Francine. Most of the others are sleeping partners, they place their funds through private brokers into deals such as these. Of course, they also want their money back. They’ve asked me to intercede with you to see what can be done to resolve this mess.”
“This mess! My father and others have died and you call it a mess?”
“My dear, please listen to me. You must find it impossible right now to trust what I’m saying, but please believe me, I want to put this right for all parties.”
“And how do you propose that can be done?”
“With your help, I’d like to try to get the frozen monies back to the innocent investors, and at the same time bring some justice to the killers.”
“As I said before, why don’t you go direct to the police?”
“Francine. Francine. Please. Put yourself in my shoes. Through no fault of mine, my name is linked to the accounts. Frankly, not one dollar of that money is mine. I have no personal interest in it. Nor do I want any of it. If I go to the police, they would arrest me. These men have contacts everywhere, and I’d likely also be killed. Until now, I’ve refused to answer their calls and have taken a new address. My own life’s on the line.”
The Banque Louvet chief stayed silent.
“I’m concerned for you and your well-being,” her caller continued. “I’m concerned for my friends whose money is innocently sequestered in this. And lastly, but not least, I’m concerned to bring these evil men to pay for their crimes. If you retain even a crumb of feeling for me, my dear, please give this some thought. I understand this is a lot to take aboard. Let me call you again in a couple of days, say at seven p.m?”
“I can’t stop you calling, but I find it hard to believe a word of this, Xavier.”
DEADLY IMPASSE (Jack Calder Crime Series #5) Page 11