The Saint Jude Rules (Cal Winter Book 3)

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The Saint Jude Rules (Cal Winter Book 3) Page 10

by Dominic Adler


  I explained my theory about the FN pistols.

  “The armourer is a guy called Ludo Haak – The Dutchman,” said Harry.

  “What else do we need to know about him?” I asked.

  Harry kneaded his chin and frowned. “Well, he’s not Dutch for starters.”

  “Nobody’s who they say they are,” said Oz, gunning the car towards Vauxhall Bridge, “not in this bloody game.”

  Chapter thirteen

  It was dusk, curious gulls circling above us. The Dutchman’s warehouse was a low-rise affair, perched on the Thames next to a municipal tip. Rows of flat, garbage-laden barges were moored nearby, London’s trash hidden under filthy tarpaulins. I rapped on the door, a rusty orange slab with sturdy locks. A camera panned towards us.

  “We’re closed, come back in the morning,” crackled a voice through the intercom. It was guttural, harsh. I detected South Africa in there.

  “We need to talk. Privately,” I said.

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Diana sent us.”

  “So why isn’t she here?” demanded the voice.

  Harry shook his head. “Open the bloody door, Ludo. It’s The Saint.”

  Locks clunked and chains rattled, the door opening on wailing hinges. Ludo Haak, ‘The Dutchman,’ looked sixtyish: bald and thick-set, face leathery as an old ammo pouch. He wore a dark suit and open-necked shirt, a gold crucifix and Star of David glittering in a thatch of snowy chest hair. Nothing like hedging your bets.

  “Diana sends her regards,” said Harry. He pushed his way inside, hand on pistol-grip. I followed, Oz covering the rear.

  The warehouse was full of marine engineering parts and equipment – outboard motors, plastic tubs of lubricant and a propeller as tall as me. Aerials and antenna pointed at the gloomy, cob-webbed ceiling. A table, covered with a red-and-white checked cloth, held two champagne flutes and a sweating bottle of Pol Roger. Fleetwood Mac played tinnily from a laptop.

  “You smooth bastard,” I said. “Champagne for two and Tango in the Night. You might as well open that bottle, I’m thirsty.”

  Harry raised an eyebrow. “You should know Diana prefers Krug, Ludo.”

  “Spit it out, whatever it is, then leave,” said the Dutchman, voice a low growl. “I’ve done a deal with you people. We have an agreement.”

  I straightened my tie. “We used to work for The Firm.”

  The Dutchman switched off Stevie Nicks in mid-warble. “I see.”

  “Yeah,” Harry replied, “I think you do.”

  “The Firm is suddenly issuing FN Herstal 5-7 pistols,” I said. “Impossible to source without expert assistance. Did you supply them?”

  The Dutchman studied me with hard, yellowing eyes. Like a decrepit wolf. “What business is it of yours?”

  “We just killed two men who pointed shiny new 5-7s at us.”

  The Dutchman nodded slowly, eyes roaming the room.

  “I want to know who fronted the transaction on The Firm’s behalf,” I said.

  “Where’s the advantage for me?” The Dutchman’s voice was flat, but those lupine eyes glowed. “Provide one and we can talk.”

  I walked over to the table and popped open the Pol Roger. The cork made a lazy arc, disappearing in a pile of mildewed life-vests. “It’s over, y’know. The Firm. All of it. Getting out of this alive, an exit strategy? That’s your advantage.”

  The Dutchman swept Harry with those old-wolf eyes. “You let your punks insult me like this, Harry? The Saint?”

  Harry joined me for a glass of champagne. “Get over yourself. I’m surprised you’re still alive. Who bought those 5-7s? And what else?”

  Glowering, the Dutchman watched us drink his booze. If this was the Dutch version of a Mexican standoff, I could live with it.

  Finally, Oz pulled his Browning. “Listen mate, I’m not one for yakking. The new Firm is meant to be even worse than the old one. So start talking, or I’m gonna kneecap you. Nothing personal.”

  Ludo Haak walked to a notice board with a privacy blind and flipped it up. It was a nautical map, Thames Estuary to the Netherlands. A sheet of clear plastic was pinned to it, covered in felt-tip lines, figures and arrows. “This consignment was my last. We shipped stolen weapons out of Den Helder in a trawler, right under the navy’s nose. We transferred the merchandise to a pleasure cruiser off Sheppey, then straight up the Thames.”

  “How?” said Harry. “It sounds too easy.”

  “The customer hacked the Netherlands’s naval radar. Besides, England has no coastguard to speak of. Your Border Force is too busy plucking refugees off dinghies to worry about us.”

  This was sounding familiar. “Impressive. How many weapons?”

  The Dutchman rummaged in his pockets. He found a memory stick and plugged it in the laptop. “There it is.”

  “Your insurance policy?” I said, watching a manifest scroll down the page.

  The Dutchman nodded. “This customer is more interesting to law enforcement than I’ll ever be.”

  “What the hell is this?” said Harry. “Are they trying to start a war?”

  I read aloud from the screen. “Seventy SIG MCX carbines with advanced optics and thirty underslung grenade launchers, fifteen Minimi light support weapons, ten FNH precision rifles, twenty SCAR-L personal defence weapons, sixty FN 5-7 pistols…”

  “Plus grenades, explosives, mines and a fucking anti-tank rocket,” said Oz over my shoulder.

  “How much?” said Harry.

  “My cut was six million euros,” said the Dutchman. Finally, he smiled. “The customer paid on the nail. Bearer bonds. Locked in a Zurich bank vault.”

  “Who brokered the deal for The Firm?” I said. It came out like an order.

  The Dutchman licked his lips. “I need… reassurance.”

  Oz racked his pistol with a metallic snap. “Your legs won’t get shot out from under you. I can reassure you of that.”

  “You keep your money,” said Harry. “Every single penny.”

  The Dutchman nodded sagely. “It’s good to see someone still understands the old ways. Is that a guarantee?”

  My old handler offered his hand. “Not only that, but we’ll protect you. You have my word.”

  The Dutchman took Harry’s paw and gripped it. “In which case, this is your man.” He pulled open a drawer and pulled out a sheaf of high-definition stills from a surveillance camera. They showed a hulking man in a dark three-piece suit. Red hair, and a square-cut beard. There was something oddly dandyish about him, hands covered in swirling tattoos.

  “Who is he?” I said.

  “He said his name was Tom Royal, but that’s bullshit,” the Dutchman replied. “I did some checking. His real name is Erik Drexler. Ex-colonel in the American army, something to do with intelligence. They say he screwed-up a special project, so he went freelance and ended up on The Firm. His money comes from a hedge fund, off-shored. I’m sure one of your tame spooks could trace it.”

  De Soto Augur.

  The Dutchman’s eyes met mine. “But you knew that already, I think.”

  “Anything else?” I said.

  “Keep the photographs. I kept copies.”

  “One more thing,” I said. “Why does Drexler need weapons?”

  The Dutchman shrugged on a raincoat. He smiled an undertaker’s smile. “I never ask, and the customer never tells. But we got talking...”

  “Get on with it.”

  The Dutchman headed to the door, turning up his collar. “There’s one reason people want weapons in my experience: to impose their will on others. But Drexler?” He put on a bad American accent. “There’s a storm coming. I’m the guy who’s gonna protect y’all from it. Like he didn’t give a shit if I knew or not.”

  “Drexler’s going to protect us?” said Harry.

  The Dutchman opened the door. “Maybe he’s even more delusional than my other customers. He reminded me of a terrorist. You know, higher purpose and all that bullshit. Now, I’ve got a plane to catch and
a beach to lie on. Tell Diana it’s not too late to join me.”

  “She won’t,” said Harry.

  The Dutchman smiled. “I know. I just enjoy the look on your face when I say her name.”

  Harry flinched, but said nothing.

  “You can lock up behind you.” The Dutchman dropped a bunch of keys in my hand and passed a card to Harry. Then he was gone, striding into the gloom, head held low.

  “What the hell is that?” I said. The card was covered with a jumble of numbers.

  “It’s a transposition cypher,” Harry replied. “They’ll translate into Ordnance Survey grid references, I’d imagine.”

  “For what?”

  “Weapons caches.” Harry tucked the card in his wallet.

  “Why would he do that after I just threatened to kneecap him?” said Oz.

  The handler thrust his hands in his pockets, lips pursed. “The Dutchman is a man without allegiances. The purest sort of mercenary. Starting a war between us and Drexler gives him more time to disappear.”

  “And Diana,” I said. “Maybe he wants to protect her, from whatever storm it is Drexler’s planning?”

  “Yes. I make you right,” Harry replied quietly.

  “What now?” said Oz.

  I gathered up the laptop and pocketed the champagne flutes, now smeared with me and Harry’s DNA. “We wipe the hard drives on the CCTV, get out of here and never come back.”

  “A solid plan, Captain Winter,” said Harry. “Marcus needs to know about this, and he needs these photos too.”

  We returned to the car and called Marcus. Harry told him everything except the exact quantity of guns. When he put the phone down, our old handler pulled a face. “If I told him about a hundred-plus assault weapons, the balloon would go up. He’d have no choice.”

  “Will Marcus go to the Yanks?” said Oz, heading east through Battersea.

  Harry drummed his fingers on the dashboard, “possibly.”

  We returned to The Harbour. Juliet was pacing the boardroom, a satellite phone clamped to her ear. “Yes, Drexler’s service records are of interest, but we need an up-to-date location. It’s urgent. Thanks, Ed, speak soon.”

  “You’ve spoken to Marcus already?” I said.

  “Yes, we’re both working our contact books. That was an ex-Delta guy I know.”

  “Too many spooks’ll wonder why someone’s trying to trace Erik Drexler,” I replied. “We need to get out of this the other side as cleanly as possible.”

  Juliet cocked her head. “You’ve a better idea?”

  I put The Dutchman’s laptop on a low glass table. “There’s a load of photos of Drexler on there. The Dutchman took them on his security cameras as insurance. D’you have a contact who could run them through the City’s facial recognition systems?”

  “Then we can ask him about his service record in person,” said Oz.

  “Okay,” Juliet replied. “It’s a good idea.” She scooped up the Dutchman’s laptop and tapped another number into her phone. “Hugh? It’s Juliet…”

  Oz busied himself with the drinks cabinet. “Here you go. I reckon you deserve this one.” He passed me a tumbler of Maker’s Mark.

  We turned the boardroom into an impromptu operations centre, Oz shifting furniture so Juliet could network computers and set up monitors. Harry, sitting in shirtsleeves, tinkered with a row of box-fresh satellite phones. Then we waited, bluish twilight deepening into black. We could have moved downstairs, but there wasn’t a bar in the basement.

  Juliet tapped at a keyboard. “Cal, I’ve got Hugh online. He’s got a result.” I joined her. The screen showed a row of grainy images, a bulky, red-haired man in a shop doorway. He wore that distinctive three-piece suit, hands blue-green with tattoos.

  “Hugh’s contact codes the software for the City Police’s facial recognition system,” she said. “It’s returning an 85 percent match on Drexler.”

  “When and where?” I asked.

  Juliet smiled. “Fifteen-hundred this afternoon. Brokenlance Path.”

  Brokenlance Path. Next to De Soto Augur’s City office.

  Juliet pulled up technical mapping of the area. I shook my head. “It’s a fortress. How do we get inside?”

  Oz tapped a grimy finger against the monitor. “Look at the CCTV coverage. It’s everywhere.”

  “The City generates a quarter of UK tax revenue,” Juliet replied, “of course it’s buttoned-up tight.”

  “Clever place for a load of tooled-up Yanks to set up shop,” I replied. “But why?”

  Harry had a map spread across his knees, a pencil tucked behind his ear. “Can we go in from above?”

  I shook my head. “They’ve got cameras covering the neighbouring rooftops.”

  Diana arrived, dressed in a grey silk blouse and faded jeans. “The City? Near Liverpool Street, by the look of it,” she said, looking over my shoulder. “I might be able to get you in there.”

  “Diana is the GROUNDSMAN,” I said.

  “I’m sure she is,” said Juliet, studying Diana coolly. “Welcome to The Harbour.”

  Diana pulled a piece of imaginary lint from her blouse and smiled. “Why, thank you.”

  “How can you help us get inside?” Juliet continued.

  GROUNDSMAN plucked the tumbler from my hand and gulped my drink. She winked at Harry and smiled. “I know someone who specialises in unorthodox access techniques.”

  “Who is it?” asked Juliet.

  Diana ignored the question. “I’ve used him before, he’s good.”

  Harry folded his map and headed to the drinks cabinet. “In the absence of any other plan, it’ll have to do.”

  Juliet nodded and fixed him a scotch with soda. “Are we running any of this by Marcus?”

  “No,” Harry replied.

  “Another layer of decision-making?” said Diana acidly. “No wonder governments take a year to come up with a suboptimal decision.”

  Juliet, I saw, bit her lip and poured herself a drink. A big one. “If you’ve got it covered,” she said coolly, picking up The Dutchman’s laptop, “I’ll get Hugh to examine this.”

  “Careful,” said Oz, “there’s a Fleetwood Mac album installed on the hard drive.”

  Juliet shook her head as she left the room.

  “Stuck up cow,” said Diana.

  “She’s a friend of mine,” I replied.

  “You’ve screwed her, I suppose.”

  I stood up and locked eyes with the GROUNDSMAN. “I don’t know what your problem is, Diana, but get over it.”

  “He’s right,” said Harry.

  “Of course, Henry. Action this day, gentlemen,” Diana replied, standing by the window overlooking the Thames. It oozed black in the moonlight. “You’re still letting a slip of a girl with a pretty face distract you.”

  Oz appeared at her shoulder. “Bollocks. I’ve been in the field with Juliet. She’s a quality operator.”

  “If you say so. As I said, action this day. Study your maps and drink whisky, while your girl scout phones every bloody spook in London. I’ve things to arrange.” Diana tapped her watch, a not-very-dainty steel diver. “Get some sleep. RV downstairs at 06:00.”

  “Women,” said Harry to himself.

  “I don’t need telling twice to catch some zeds,” said Oz. He made a cat-like stretch and yawned.

  “Me too,” said Harry.

  “What’s the plan?” I replied.

  Harry finished his drink. “Diana will explain at 0600.”

  “You’re not coming?”

  “No. I’m going to stay with Juliet and manage Marcus.” That made sense. War is one half fighting the enemy, the other wrangling High Command.

  I headed for the guest rooms. Passing Juliet’s door, I was tempted to knock. Thinking better of it, I crashed out instead. I dreamt: Iceland and Greta Muller, of being chased through lightning-struck mountains by a ravening, red-eyed beast.

  It was being ridden by the man called Erik Drexler.

  Chapter four
teen

  Diana Vaillancourt checked the dead-letter drop, a tree stump in Richmond Park. She wore a tan raincoat, eyes hidden behind Jackie-O sunglasses. All she needed was a beret and a Sten gun. She got in the car and gave a happy sigh. We’d spent all morning doing counter-surveillance routes, Diana only speaking to issue orders.

  “What’s all this eye-spy bollocks for?” said Oz, lounging in the BMW’s back-seat.

  “Most of my little helpers have their quirks. This one adores ‘eye-spy bollocks.’”

  I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel, “little helpers?”

  “Niche operators. Auxiliaries. People who grease GROUNDSMAN’S wheels. They haven’t a clue who they’re working for. They probably think I’m from the government.” Diana laughed. “Some of them don’t even ask for money.”

  “OK, where to?” I said, gently revving the engine.

  Diana studied the note she’d fished from the tree trunk, “Wimbledon Common. Do you know the Crooked Billet?”

  “The Crooked Billet’s a pub,” Oz replied, “ of course Cal knows it.”

  We drove to the sun-dappled common, past joggers and nannies. The pub was a little cream building, decorated with flower baskets. I looked at my watch… almost eleven.

  “We’re not going in,” said Diana sharply.

  A skinny bloke appeared. Night-shift complexion, dyed black hair and dark outdoor clothing. Slung over his shoulder was a pack studded with karabiners. He looked like a mountaineering Goth. “Morning,” he said breezily. “I’ve not been followed.”

  “I’m sure you haven’t, Martin,” said Diana, “meet Cal and Oz.”

  Martin offered his hand. I gave it a squeeze. He wore steel-rimmed glasses and needed a shave.

  “Martin’s an expert on subterranean geography,” said Diana. “Aren’t you Martin?”

  “I s’pose so,” Martin replied with a frown. “Although I think of myself as a spatial explorer rather than a geographer.”

  “Ah,” said Oz, “the eternal dilemma.”

  “So, this is a special operation?” said Martin eagerly.

  “Yes,” I replied, “a-hundred-years-in-prison-if-we-get-caught kinda special operation.”

 

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