“You look whacked out, Doc. Get some rest. I’ll let you know what response I get.”
The Welshman drove back to his billet and booted up his laptop. The email to Jack Calder was a clear action recommendation.
The following evening, Jack and Malky arrived back in the Libyan camp.
****
“At least she’s still talking with me when I call,” said Torres. “I gave her the option of choosing where to meet. It doesn’t matter where, so long as she starts the process of documentation. I’ll take one of our guys with me and have him act as a member of the offended partners.”
“You’ll be armed, of course?” asked Corrado.
“Of course. I’ve no idea who she might have with her.”
“When do you have to call her again?”
“Tomorrow night.”
“Okay. Keep me posted.”
Corrado shut his mobile phone. He uncapped another beer and sipped. He went through his mental checklist.
So far, so good. This thing might work out alright in the end.
One, if the lady Francine, and Ruben play to the script, that’s a bonus. If it doesn’t, it creates another good diversion, and I’m no worse off. Ruben’s at greater risk than he realises, but if I lose him, there’s plenty of others ready and able to take his place. He’s become a bit lax in his control of things lately.
Two, the money stream from Libya is flowing freely again.
And three, the next shipment into San Cristobal de las Salas is due in a week and a half.
The syndicate boss drained the bottle and reached into the icebox for another.
Yes, so far so good.
****
The complete contingent of Taff and his team plus Jack and Malky gathered in one billet. There were no smokers, but more than enough coffee pots and mugs to start their own coffee shop. Caffeine was a better mental stimulant than nicotine, and these men took care of their fitness. On missions such as these, their lives often depended on it. Benji Rafael sat in the rear. As local head of the Mission and the hospital, Jack had invited him to attend on a ‘need to know’ basis about what was being planned.
“The camp is three hundred metres further toward the sea than the one we took apart in the first clean up,” said Jack, pointing to the diagram pinned to the wall. “We know their security last time was non-existent. We were able to go driving in through the front door. That won’t be the case now. Once bitten, twice shy.”
Taff raised his hand.
“Dumb question time,” he said. “I’m sure we can take out their guards without too much trouble. What’s to stop us using the same strike pattern this time?”
“I’ve no doubt you boys can handle any first-line stuff they’ve put in place, but there’s a high risk of some shooting,” said Jack. “The noise would give others inside the compound warning. We want as much surprise as possible.”
“Right you are,” agreed Taff. “I like targets that don’t fire back.”
“Maybe we should send a nice note asking them to stand to attention as we drive in. Tell them we’re delivering pizza,” said one of the men. “They might even tip us.”
The laughter of men who thrive on black humour filled the billet. When it settled, Jack continued.
“Delivery’s not a bad idea,” he said. “Benji, you were telling me the lad we busted is screaming to get out of the hospital and back to their camp, right?”
“There’s no way I could sanction that man to leave now in the condition he’s in,” said Rafael. “I’m a doctor first and foremost. He’s my patient. He wouldn’t have a fraction of the care he requires if I let him go.”
“Have his people been in touch with you to have him released?” asked Jack.
“Daily.”
“Pizza delivery time, gentlemen,” said the Scot. “Benji, get word to them their boy will be coming back by ambulance around eight-thirty tomorrow night.”
“But…”
“Don’t worry, he won’t be in the ambulance. We will.”
The squad erupted in whistles, cheering, and laughter.
“B’jeezus,” said Malky. “I’ve heard o’ the Trojan Horse. This is the first time we’ll be ridin’ a Trojan Ambulance.”
The whistles and clapping repeated. Jack let the levity die down.
“Let’s get down to specifics, gentlemen,” he said. “Getting in is one thing, here’s what we do after that.”
Detail, detail, detail.
The late Jules Townsend’s mantra was never far away.
Tactics, targets, timing, buddy cover, weapons, and alternative back up plans one, two, and three, consumed the rest of the evening.
CHAPTER 26
“It would be better if we act sooner than later on this, Francine,” said Torres.
May-Ling, listening on the earpiece extension gave a negative motion with her hand to the bank chief, and mouthed silently, “Not yet.”
“I’m still not sure,” said Francine to her caller. “I need more time to get my head around this.”
“Is it your head, or your heart, my dear? You still don’t trust me?”
May-Ling gave hand signals worthy of a fisherman reeling in a catch.
“I’m not sure of anything anymore, Xavier. My father, the bank, the killings. Even you. How you fit in all of this. I don’t know what to think.”
“I understand. You need a little more time. May I call you again?”
The hand signals this time from May-Ling were to stretch out the time.
“Call me again at the same time on Monday.”
“Next Monday’s five days away, Francine, Can’t we talk sooner?”
“Xavier, give me time. Can’t you see I need time?”
“I’m sorry if I appear to be pushing you, my dear, I just want to do the best for you. Of course, next Monday is fine. I’ll call you again. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
“He’s biting for sure,” said May-Ling. “Well done. Now he thinks your feelings are in play.”
“Delusional clown,” said Francine. “Making him wait even longer’s a master stroke. Brandy?”
“Perhaps a coffee instead? I don’t have your French constitution for aperitifs,” joked May-Ling.
“I’ll get them from the kitchen percolator,” said Francine, moving toward the door. “My assistant’s gone home. Sugar?”
“Yes, please. I know that’s also sacrilege to your taste, but what the heck!”
****
The men stripped the inside of the ambulance of stretchers, saline drip stands, and boxes of blood pressure measuring kits. The only movable materials retained were field dressing bandages in case of urgent need later in the evening. The internal couch seating along each side comfortably held five men each, fully kitted for a night sortie. Black balaclavas, gloves, jackets and combat pants added to grenade launchers, laser-fitted AK47s, double-edged daggers, night vision glasses, stun grenades and packages of Semtex plastic explosive.
A simple tick-list of items. Assurance of enough gas in the tank. Every member of the team meticulously checked his allocated mission buddy for preparedness. Most of them recognised the familiar SAS protocols.
Jack was unequivocal in this mission.
Seek and destroy.
The criminals continued to put untold numbers of men, women and children in harm’s way, without regard for any fatal consequences. Now it was their turn.
Malky drove, with Jack as his front seat passenger, both with their night gear draped with the largest white medical coats available from the hospital. AK47s lay at their feet in the driving cabin. The sides of the ambulance had no transparent windows. The internal sliding glass partition between the front cabin and the patient carriage area of the ambulance was locked open. In the rear, the customary strip neon light bulbs were switched off.
Malky headed the ambulance out of the medics’ billet area at eight-twelve p.m.
and steered toward the traffickers’ camp. Fifteen minutes la
ter, he approached the entrance to the compound. It contained more mobile homes, in a marginally larger circle than those in the initial camp, an indication of a bigger crew of inhabitants. The adage about ‘safety in numbers’ was about to be blown away. Fifty metres out from the gateway, Malky slowed down, sounded the horn a few times, and flashed his headlights as he drew nearer.
“Standby, gentlemen,” said Jack to the team in the rear. “Approaching first point of contact now.”
The armed guards returned Jack’s wave and stood aside, ushering the ambulance into the compound. Malky brought it to a halt in the centre of the ring. He and Jack stripped off the white coats.
“Three, two, one. Go!” Jack shouted into the back of the ambulance.
The double lines of mercenaries filed swiftly out and down each side of the vehicle, while Jack and Malky in front piled out alongside with them.
In classic crescent attack, each party, now of six men, launched the gunfire assault. Three men flat on the ground, three more crouched in between in each team. Every weapon directed immediately in front of its owner. The gatemen fell dead as the first casualties. Grenade launchers delivered their deadly payoff into respective mobile home units in seconds.
“Halt. Move. Fire,” Jack screamed.
The crouching trios advanced beyond their prone mates and assumed the same flattened position. Their buddies took over their kneeling positions, the semicircles widening as they did so. The ‘halt, move, and fire’ sequence allowed two seconds between salvoes. The coordination was smooth. Lethally smooth. Screams from inside the enemy quarters told their own story.
“Move and fire at will.”
Jack’s command freed the attackers to switch to pairs, throwing secondary grenades into the mobile units in a systematic sweep.
No prisoners. ‘We go black’.
One or two men remained alive from the explosions and gunfire. These were put out of their misery in summary fashion.
Six minutes into the operation, each combination of attackers reported. ‘All clear’.
They didn’t need to count the numbers killed. If they had done, it would have been twenty-six.
“Everybody okay, Taff?” asked Jack.
“Bright and dandy. All safe,” replied the Welshman.
“Destroy every piece of this shit set up,” said Jack. “We don’t want anybody coming back here in a hurry.”
The squad affixed the Semtex packages with their timers to what remained of the mobile homes’ hulls and returned to the centre of the compound.
“All aboard the Trojan Ambulance, half price if ye’re under sixteen,” shouted Malky, laughing.
The men clambered inside and the Irishman headed out en route back to the hospital. The shock waves from the coordinated plastic explosives bounced against the vehicle moments after it drove through the gates.
****
The next day, the ambulance returned to its normal duties, as did the security team. Taking out Corrado’s men removed only one mob working the trafficking business in Libya. Many others still plied their despicable trade up and down the country’s coastline. The attack on the camp represented a fraction of the action required to remove the social infestation completely. That eradication solution lay in the hands and decisions of international politicians, a community not known for its speed of response. At least, with the presence of the men in black, the Medical Mission for Peace in North Africa’s hospital stood a better chance of carrying on its work unhindered for a while.
Despite Benji Rafael’s recommendations to the contrary, the injured mobster left the hospital of his own accord two days after the strike. He returned to his camp to find nothing but devastation. The bodies of his gang mates lay among the carnage. His message to Cornelius Corrado was the syndicate leader’s first intimation of the hit.
CHAPTER 27
“Of course, Don Hidalgo, your shipment will be on time. When have I ever failed you?”
The implied suggestion his operation may be under pressure angered Cornelius Corrado. He held the telephone away from his face for a few seconds and grimaced, but kept the resentment out of his tone, not wishing to send any negative message to his major distribution channel for the Americas. The drug lord headed the notorious Los Tigres syndicate, loosely headquartered in San Cristobal de las Salas, but with a reach deep into and across North America. He reminded himself the man was not only the offtake for the lion’s share of the monthly turnover, but also held his reducing marker for eighty million dollars, the balance of the original hundred million loan. The monthly interest payments were paid in kind as part of the drug cargo, but valued at cost, not street value. Hidalgo’s reputation for shrewd business dealing was matched by a legendary ruthlessness.
“I’m glad to hear that, amigo,” said the Don. “Your unfortunate episode in Guatemala is common gossip around the barrios.”
“Much exaggerated, I’m sure,” said Corrado. “Envy and wishful thinking exist everywhere in this market. We were prepared for the event, and left nothing of any value on the property. Yes, I lost a few men, but these are replaceable. Part of the spillage in our business, no?”
“Part of the spillage, indeed. Do you know who was responsible? Can I be of any help? My people are at your disposal. Just tell me.”
The last thing Corrado wanted was to admit any weakness to his biggest buyer.
“Your offer is most generous, as ever, Don Hidalgo. The skirmish is of no consequence now, and I have no wish to trouble you. Rest assured if the need arises, I feel comfortable I can ask for your counsel.”
“You’re welcome, amigo. My people will be ready to receive your shipment as usual sometime next week, on the 30th, no?”
“On schedule for the 30th. Until then, I bid you a goodnight.”
As Corrado closed the call, an unfamiliar sour taste rose in his throat.
The word from the previous afternoon about the second disaster in Libya had raised more problems, just when he thought the game was swinging back in his favour. Minutes after learning the news from the surviving gangster, his exchange by phone with Torres had been terse.
“Find out where these cabrones are and hit them hard.”
Over the next few days, Torres had his men in London check out the ISP offices and found them closed, with no notice of where they’d gone or when they might open again. He relayed the information to Honduras.
Damn them. A hundred times, damn them.
Corrado struggled to control his anger. He needed a win. A big win. His mind revisited the idea from earlier in the week, after his growing annoyance with Hidalgo’s call. If he couldn’t pin down the ISP people, the next best thing was to attack their business, the way they’d done to his.
He dialled Europe. Across the Atlantic, Ruben Torres answered.
“Change of plan,” said Corrado. “Francine has to go.”
“You mean kill her?” asked Torres.
“Yes. Meet with her and do it. Make it messy, then disappear.”
“What about the money? The funds?”
“We’ve far bigger issues to resolve, Ruben. These people have taken three bites at us without reply. If we let them carry on, they’ll jeopardise everything else we do. We need to clean up the yard. The business here is strong enough to recoup any losses in the banks over time. Kill her.”
“Understood. You sure about this, Raddo?”
“Don’t fucking question me. Do it!”
“Okay. Okay.”
Corrado slammed the mobile phone shut and cursed himself for losing his temper. He called back instantly. Torres picked up again.
“Boss?”
“Apologies for swearing at you, Ruben. I think I’ve had too much coffee today.”
They both laughed.
“No trouble. It will be done.”
The phone closed once more, gently this time. Cornelius Corrado was back in charge.
****
“Have a listen to this.”
The agent passed the he
adphones to his partner. The conversations between Corrado and Don Hidalgo followed by the two calls with Torres played back on the sophisticated tracker tapes in the DEA’s office in Tegucigalpa.
“Jackpot time,” said the second agent. “Marcel Benoit’ll love this one. The usual month-end shipments ain’t news, but the threat to the woman needs action. Get it to Lyons now.”
****
Marcel Benoit didn’t ‘love this one’.
He discussed the issue on the conference call with the usual participants.
“I’m more than concerned for your safety, Francine,” he said. “This guy’s running scared now. The fact he tells Torres the money’s now secondary means he’s escalating this beyond personal. His behaviour and reaction is borderline psychopath. May-Ling, I want you to abort your plans for Francine to meet face to face with Torres.”
“I agree with you, Marcel,” said the ISP chief. “We’ll have to think of another way to rein him in.”
Francine interrupted the exchange.
“No. I disagree.”
The force of her words startled May-Ling. She looked across the table at the bank boss. No hint of a frightened woman, the determination in her face evident as she repeated herself.
“I disagree,” she repeated. “We’re too close to getting him now. He believes I’m ready to meet. Let’s set it up. He doesn’t know I’m aware of what he’ll be doing. You guys can cover me.”
“Francine, the man’ll be armed, and probably have back up with him,” said Benoit.
“Will he have better back up than my friends here, Marcel? I don’t think so. He’s expecting me to have documents with me. I’ll give him documents. What do you think, May-Ling? Jack? The rest of you guys?”
“It’s too risky,” said Jack. “This is no SAS mission, where everybody in the team’s trained exactly how to react.”
“Then I’ll do it myself without your presence,” said Francine.
DEADLY IMPASSE (Jack Calder Crime Series #5) Page 13