A cool thermal wave of control eased back into his thinking. His brain clicking, checking, checking. May-Ling was in the only place that could help her right now. Nothing he could do or say could impact this. Time to get out and let these good people get on with their work. He rose abruptly.
“Thank you, ladies. I know you’ll look after her for me.”
He left the room with a quick glance back at the woman he cared more for than anything else in the world. This part was out of his hands now.
***
The international media channels covered the horrific pictures soon after the devastation at King’s Cross. Bad news sells better than good news. Television interviewers pitched at vantage points with as much of the carnage in the backdrop as possible. Appalling scenes make more riveting viewing. Advertising hoardings in the station stood in tatters. Glass and wooden rims from windows punctured by the blast spread across the forecourt. Paramedics and nurses worked the makeshift triage tables. The only noise was the wailing of fire alarms nobody had switched off, mixed with the repeated public-tannoy message announcing the station was closed.
***
In Casablanca, the architect of the blast listened for any hint of responsibility for the deaths of three people and the dozens injured. The closure of the station caused horrendous traffic problems, which also consumed much of the coverage. Eventually, he heard what he was waiting for. A senior police officer addressed the cameras.
“At six fifty-five this evening an explosion at the left luggage locker area at King’s Cross Station resulted in the deaths of William Lang, a senior member of the Anti-Terrorist Unit, Julian Townsend, chief executive of International Security Partners, and Melvin Crombie, deputy stationmaster. We would like to assure the travelling public everything is being done to curtail any further threat to public safety. We expect King’s Cross Station to be closed at least until tomorrow afternoon, while the investigation into the cause of the explosion proceeds. Further information will be available as we have it ourselves.”
Duval noted no specific mention was made of a bomb, as is standard practice. Regardless, the memory of the devastation in New Bond Street would be fresh in the public’s mind. No word of May-Ling Calder.
Well, can’t hit a home run every time, he thought.
***
A few hundred kilometres from Morocco, Ahmed Fadi’s evening in Istanbul was filled with reactions to a compressed series of events. An hour after the ISP attack on Estrada’s drug shipment, his temper raged as violently as his lieutenants had ever known. He cursed at the stupidity of his guards in Antalya, at the incompetence of the police security his bribe money financed, at the leakage which could only have come from that bastard Estrada’s side, at the audacity of the mercenaries who had intruded on his business, in his backyard, in his fiefdom. As ever, the anger boiled only for a short time, to be replaced by partly blaming himself for not having monitored the movement of the drugs more personally.
Not long after the news of the fiasco in Antalya, the television newsreels restored a malevolent satisfaction as it became clear how effective Duval’s hit had been in London. The streaming headlines repeated the names of the dead. None were of any interest to Fadi, except the former-SAS Major, Julian Townsend.
The private telephone purred and he picked up, expecting to hear his hit man on the other end. Instead, the unmistakable growl of Manuel Estrada greeted him.
No pleasantries preceded the vitriol as the Mexican launched into a tirade of insults and accusation.
“What the fuck went wrong with your people? Let’s try out a nice, easy, safe shipment to start us off, you said. You would take care of everything on your side, you said. You’ve got the local guys on a fucking string, you said. And what happens? Your shitheads lose the whole fucking lot. You owe me, Ahmed. You owe me big time. How the fuck can I trust you with any of my business when you can’t even babysit an easy piece of crap like this?”
No-one ever spoke to Ahmed Fadi in this way. The bile rose in his throat. He controlled his voice and spoke almost in a whisper. He used no curse words and erred on the edge of politeness.
“If you’re quite finished with your little rant, Manuel,” he said. “First of all, I would advise you never to speak to me like this again. Ever. Secondly, you should be aware of a message left with the only survivor from the attack this evening. It points to you and incompetence at your end being the reason for the hit in Antalya. One of the killers was a big, black, American guy. He mentioned your name twice. He said friends of yours don’t like you doing business with me. I think there’s something badly wrong with the way you run your own operation.”
“You go fuck yourself,” Estrada screamed down the line. “Don’t dare tell me my operation’s flawed. This shit happened on your ground, under your care, not mine. You’ll pay for this one way or another.”
The line went dead. Ahmed Fadi eased the receiver back onto its cradle. He had some hard thinking to do.
CHAPTER 28
For over a thousand years, Winchester Cathedral welcomed into its cavernous high-vaulted place of worship the good and the great, the high and the mighty, nobility and commoner. Seldom was it ever as packed as the day of Jules Townsend’s funeral service. The family home situated less than a mile and a half distant, but for his widow and children, it was the longest journey of their lives. The horrific injuries inflicted from the focused blast at King’s Cross meant a closed casket, a mahogany, polished coffin, draped with the Union Jack colours. A neatly tucked beret sat on the flag, with the clearly-embossed emblem of the SAS pinned left front, the winged dagger and the words, ‘Who Dares Wins’.
His widowed father, now a retired stockbroker, sat erect in the far front pew right, closest to the centre aisle, staring at the pedestal cradling his son’s body. Alongside were his grandson and granddaughter. Jules was an only child, and the only other close relative, his widow, flanked the children. Jack and Malky had the two remaining places next to her.
Jack scanned the congregation. The left front pew filled with representatives from the highest ranks in Her Majesty’s Armed Forces, including Mac from Stirling Lines barracks. The uniformed array included two princes of the realm in full dress uniform. In the public domain, little was known of the exploits and service given to his country by an outstanding commander of men. Within the echelons of secret operations, he was already a legend. Every other seat was filled, row upon row leading back from the altar. The mourners comprised local friends of the family and former classmates from Eton and the military college at Sandhurst, at which a young Jules Townsend had excelled in every aspect of his training. The vast majority of the rest of the space contained uniforms of various ranks from different military disciplines. Current and past members of the SAS made up almost one half of the attendees. Also prominent, senior personnel from other special services forces around the globe acknowledged the passing of a special one of their own.
Deputy Commissioner Alan Rennie and DCI Bob Granger nodded greetings from three rows behind. Next to them sat Donnie Mullen and Paul Manning. The large frames of Cy Foster and Marcel Benoit covered the remainder of the pew. Former Gurkha regiment officers had flown from Nepal to say goodbye to a man whose respect for them had been mutually returned. Jules Townsend had been a commander, a fighter, a strategist, a fellow combatant, and a man of honour and dignity.
All of this Jack Calder internalised. There would be no tears today. But another emotion roiled within him. Rage was not a common visitor to the Scotsman. Even in the horrors of lethal war situations over the years, he had followed his mentor’s example. Anger leads to rashness. Rashness leads to error. Error leads to death. Today, as he watched the familiar grief dwell on the faces of Jules’ widow and children, his loathing of Rikko Duval intensified. The final emphasis hit him as he caught the pain in Townsend senior’s eyes. At that moment, he understood that he, Jack Calder, retired SAS commando officer, would never be the same person again. Revenge is a terrible emotio
n, both for the one seeking it, and for the one being targeted.
The report in the morning on May-Ling was encouraging, with the assurance his wife would live. The doctors as yet had no predictions regarding her eyesight and her mobility. Jack knew the combination of killing his best friend and the attack on the woman he loved could only be settled in one way. There in the front row of the cathedral he promised himself there would be a bloody and savage payback.
Strict orders from the highest level prevented any television coverage of the funeral inside the cathedral. Too many faces present required anonymity. The only visual permitted was a shot of the pallbearers carrying a hero’s remains to the graveside. Jules was laid to rest beside his mother. The photograph carried across newspapers and news reports on the usual channels worldwide.
***
In El Paso-Juarez, Manuel Estrada stared at the picture. The big, black guy in the centre of the three pallbearers on the left side of the coffin triggered a thought.
Son of a bitch. I wonder…
He called his right-hand man. “Get that kid in here, the one who came to me after the takedown at the hacienda. The one the black hombre spoke to. Yeah. Now.”
The boy held no fear as he appeared in front of the big boss. Estrada pointed to the newspaper on the desk.
“Is this the one who gave you the message for me?”
The boy peered at the paper for a few moments.
“Si, Senor Estrada. He’s the one. For sure.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“There, Senor. Look, the diamond stud in his ear. Besides, he’s an ugly hombre too, no? Who could forget that face?”
The drug boss roared and slapped his leg.
“Ugly? Oh, yes, he’s ugly alright. I think he’s so ugly, he’d be better off dead.” Another roar at his own humour.
“Okay, get back to work. Here.”
He rolled off a couple of hundred-dollar bills and gave them to the boy. When the lad had gone, Estrada gave further instructions to his honcho.
“I’ve been thinking all along the hits must have been coming from the DEA bastards. Get this photo out on the streets. We need some reliable information on this hombre. His name, any word on his movements, anything. Then we’ll prepare a present for him, no? Move.”
The lieutenant left a thoughtful boss behind him as he summoned his own men to start the process of sniffing out information on the black dude.
CHAPTER 29
Duval never drank alcohol, Fadi only seldom. Cigarettes and drugs were also off limits. Each respected the use of their own senses and faculties too much to risk having them dulled with unnecessary indulgences. Tonight, two days after Jules Townsend’s funeral, a pot of fine Turkish coffee sat on the table between them, with ample finger-foods spread across its broad marble top. Fadi had dismissed his guards from the sitting room to their usual stations outside in the corridor, within calling distance. Fadi poured coffee for his visitor and handed the demi-tasse across to him.
“Your plan worked to perfection, my friend. Mister Townsend won’t be troubling us anymore. It would appear Mister Calder’s wife has also been removed.”
“I’m surprised Townsend jumped in so easily. The man with him wasn’t as careful as I expected Jules to be,” said Duval.
Ahmed Fadi was unaware of his hitman’s inner gloating. Rikko Duval had waited a long time to exact his revenge on the officer he blamed for ending his SAS career. “May-Ling Calder was a bonus, but she’s not been reported dead. It depends how much of the detonation got to her. I watched her fall, and something tells me she’s seriously wounded but not fatally.”
“You watched her fall?” Fadi’s incredulity showed in the rise in his voice. “You were in the station when the thing went off?”
“Of course. In the coffee shop opposite. If the reckless Mister Lang hadn’t played with the key, I had a coded transmitter pointed at the locker, ready to blow when these guys closed in. If a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing properly, Ahmed. Right?”
His paymaster locked eyes with the bomber. He saw no mirth, no delight, just a matter of fact executioner’s gaze staring back at him. He nodded his head slowly and allowed himself a smile.
“How did you get out of there?”
“Easy. With all the mayhem and screaming, I merely walked away. No-one gave me a second glance. The problem now is dealing with the rest of the guys from Townsend’s shop. They won’t know who’s behind this but, you can bet your ass, they’ll be pulling in favours all over the place to find out. My guess is you’ll be high on their suspect roster, but they’ve no idea who you are, have they?”
“Me?”
“Not you by name, Ahmed, but they’ll put two and two together and find a motive. That motive leads to whoever lost the drugs shipment last year.”
“Yes. I thought of that already. My people they arrested in London won’t talk. Everything here in Turkey is watertight and my personal security is assured.”
Fadi refilled the coffee cups. Neither man knew they were both wrong. Rikko Duval and Ahmed Fadi were the only names under focus from Interpol, Alan Rennie, Cy Foster, and more dangerously, Jack Calder.
“You didn’t ask me here to discuss the outcome in King’s Cross,” said Duval, switching the subject. “What’s up?”
“Last week wasn’t all successful,” said Fadi.
“The hell it wasn’t. You won’t get a sweeter hit than that anywhere,” said Duval.
“Oh, I don’t mean Mister Townsend’s demise. You won’t have seen any newspaper reports on this, but the same night you were in London, professional assassins attacked one of my operations in the south. They murdered five of my men and destroyed a special cargo.”
“Calder?”
“I’m certain.”
“How come?”
“One of the hit squad was a big, black man. He left a message with the sole survivor to tell me not to deal with certain proposed new partners from overseas.”
“So where’s the problem? You win some, you lose some. You plan to hit them back, including Calder? You want me in again?”
“All in good time, my friend. There’s a more pressing matter.”
“Tell me.”
“The product destroyed belonged to the proposed new partner. He’s going crazy. The man has no temperament for dealing with delicate situations. He called and spoke to me in a way I tolerate from nobody. I think he’s foolish enough to try to act on his threats toward me.”
“I understand. You want him taken care of?”
“Yes. And soon. I’m not concerned so much about him personally, but about what his loose talk might lead to.”
“Where is he now?”
“He’s based in El Paso-Juarez, on the border of Mexico and Texas. My intelligence tells me either the competition or the Yankee authorities have been scoring a few hits on his activities, maybe both. Either way, his security stinks. Can you handle it?”
“Sure. Everything is possible. It just takes a little bit of planning. He won’t be expecting you to come after him, I suppose?”
“He doesn’t think as straight as that. Arrogant bastard.”
“Okay. Get me his details, including photographs. I’ll need about a week. I want no contact either way until I’m finished.”
Rikko Duval stood up to take leave of his client.
Ahmed Fadi would hardly have considered himself in those terms.
CHAPTER 30
The watchers inside El Paso International Airport concentrated on flights originating from London. They didn’t have long to wait for their quarry. A chain of four of Manuel Estrada’s men tracked Cy Foster’s exit from the plane, through to the waiting car at the kerbside. Walkie-talkie radio signals exchanged with the operational guys outside set other vehicles in motion. Traffic bunched close to the international exit road, slowing cars flowing toward the city centre. The laundry van veered across Cy’s limo and slewed into the passenger side. In seconds, five other vehicles emptied
a dozen men, all armed with high-velocity weapons. The head of the DEA in Texas and his two colleagues with him had no time to react. Round after round of bullets smashed through the windows and sides of their car. It was all over in less than twenty seconds. The killers took time to check the result of their work before leaving the scene. The three agents had no chance, their bodies hideously torn to shreds with the amount of incoming fire. It would be another two hours before Jack Calder received word his new-found buddy was dead.
On the same day, Rikko Duval’s plane touched down in El Paso-Juarez. His business-class ticket permitted a complimentary limousine transfer to his hotel, but he preferred to use the airport taxi
service. His usual hand-carried luggage needed no porter assistance. The less visual impact he left in his wake, the better. Porters and limo drivers tend to remember customers. The journey to Hotel Bravo absorbed half an hour. The registration clerk barely glanced at the counterfeit passport as he paid for five days stay in advance with dollars. Duval knew some of those dollars would end up in the clerk’s pocket.
With preparation to take care of in the following few days, the three-star accommodation suited his desire for low-key visibility.
***
The ever-present smell of antiseptic hung in May-Ling’s room. Jack’s second visit of the day coincided with the change in duty nurses, and he was already familiar with the earnest faces looking after his wife. During the earlier morning shift, she had regained consciousness enough to recognise him sitting beside the bed, his hand lightly touching hers.
He spoke gently. “Don’t try to talk, sweetheart. Everything’s gonna be okay.” What the hell else could he say?
She blinked her eyes several times as he gazed at her face.
How much had the bastard hurt his woman?
She stared at him, and with a faint smile winked purposefully at him. His heart flipped.
SAVAGE PAYBACK (Jack Calder Crime Series #3) Page 10