“I met Jack Calder earlier visiting May-Ling,” said Alan Rennie. “He’s pissed they didn’t nail Fadi at the house. The news from Bogota didn’t seem to please nor displease him. He hinted at having a crack at Estrada next. How would the DEA guys react to that?”
“I understand they had a couple of joint forays already about a month ago,” said Marcel. “I think they’d be more than welcome. You and I might not be able to operate in London or Lyons the same way as they can in El Paso. We’ve discussed this before, Alan; sometimes you have to fight fire with fire.”
Local newspapers in Bogota carried nothing on the deaths of the four Serbs. Journalists’ desire for personal survival in a city rife with corruption, fed with money from wholesale drug trafficking activity, motivated the self-censorship. Carlos Silva headed the biggest network, but his was only one of several large organisations whose principal revenue generator was supplying cocaine to the rest of the world.
The DEA had other ideas about reporting the killings. Television channels in the United States and Europe picked up stories fed to the international press, courtesy of the agency, with gruesome pictures of Fadi’s mutilated body and three dead henchmen. No names of suspected perpetrators appeared in the articles. The agency wanted a simple, primary message carried. A major international drug trafficker had been killed. Any death at that level was a positive score in the war against drugs.
***
Another continent away, in a rain-soaked Manchester, Rikko Duval switched off the television. His paymaster was dead. He’d underestimated Manuel Estrada and sent Fadi on a fatal wild-goose chase. The attack on the Bosnian house was fading news. Local revenge killings, according to the Bosnian press. Duval thought otherwise. He recognised the work of professional assassins. Calder was following Townsend’s lead.
Too bad, he mused. Shit happens. I’m not recognisable on any of Fadi’s records. The money’s invisible now. The payments traced to Gibraltar carried the Robert Cavendish name, but that fucking photograph on the television must have come through Jules. Which means ISP’s still a problem. These fuckers know I’m the only guy able to rig the deals in New Bond Street and King’s Cross. A pity the hospital hit missed the target. So, what to do next?
Duval was coming up empty with answers. And his knee hurt. He walked to the bathroom for his painkillers. The mirror showed his beard almost fully grown. The purchase of brown-tinted glasses had helped change the eye line. For the moment the rented flat in Manchester served his need for anonymity. The north-western city, the second most populous in England, swallowed him up along with thousands of others.
If you want to remain hidden, stay in a crowd.
The former soldier had no links of any kind to the metropolis. Nothing to lead anyone to him. He could take time thinking about his next move.
CHAPTER 44
Hank Turner, second-in-command to Cy Foster, stepped up one link in the chain after his boss was murdered. A seasoned agent, his six-year tenure in El Paso-Juarez stretched back two years before Cy’s appointment. He had enjoyed working with the ISP men during the week of their previous visit. When Jack Calder rang, he was pleased to take the call.
“Jack, how’re you doing? I see Mister Fadi bought his this week.”
“Good afternoon, Hank, or I guess, still morning with you guys. Yes, we just missed giving him our regards in Bosnia.”
“So I heard. Good job. To what do I owe the pleasure of your call?”
“We’d like to help in nailing Estrada. I realise you can’t legally arrest him in El Paso. Besides, if I don’t miss my guess, he’s probably got a major investment in the local police force?”
“Yup. Makes things kinda tricky. We hit the down-line activity almost daily. Lower-level people are expendable to guys like Estrada. And for every success we get, in come replacements. Men and drugs.”
“For us to come in under the radar would be tricky,” said Jack. “Not impossible, but tricky. We’d prefer a situation with higher odds of success. A better deal would be if somehow we can flush him out of Mexico.”
“I’ll keep my ears open. We’ve a few paid informers helping with snippets, but nobody high enough to keep us up to speed with the big man’s movements in detail.”
“Maybe we can help with some grease money. How about a hundred thousand dollars?” said Jack.
“Hey. That kind of money might produce something. Let me work on it.”
“We just want to be alerted if and when he leaves the country and where he’s going. A hundred grand to tell us that much should make something happen.”
“I’ll get back to you. Have a good day, my friend. Goodbye.”
“They let me out of bed for the first time this morning,” said May-Ling. “A couple of lengths of the room.”
“How did it feel?” asked Jack.
“Shaky. For the first few steps, I thought I was going to fall.”
Jack’s anxiety showed. His wife caught the look on his face.
“Oh, Jack. It’s okay. The physiotherapist checked me out. She reckons I’ll be up and about in days. She says I could be out of here in two or three weeks. Stop worrying.”
“Stop worrying? Baby, you get hit by a bomb blast, part of your eyesight’s at risk, you’re lying here, and I’m so fucking helpless. Of course I’m bloody worried.”
He stood up and paced the floor, angry for letting his emotions show in front of her.
“Come here, you silly man.” She reached out with her right arm, the left still difficult to move with the shoulder injury, and he leaned over the bed to embrace her. “I love you so much.”
His eyes welled up and as much to hide any tears from her, he brought her close and held her tight, more than ever determined he would nail that bastard Duval.
Donnie Mullen was right, when someone hurts your family, no other feelings of rage come close.
Patience is part of the deal, Duval reminded himself.
He prided himself on the ability to wait. To wait for the optimum moment to execute his own strategy in his own time and at his own pace. For twenty years he’d operated solo. No partners to screw up. No family to take into account. Of course, his forward planning had always included an ultimate bolt hole. The right amount of money could buy access to many safe, welcoming domiciles. Wealthy foreigners prepared to give up some of their capital to their adopted havens would always find a home. The trick lay in identifying a place to stay anonymous. Armed protection could be bought. He had enough money to live well for the rest of his life.
The presence of Jack Calder and ISP cast a long shadow on all of these plans. Somewhere, sometime, they’d find him. Even if they didn’t, he wouldn’t sleep easy in case they did come, wherever in the world he might be. A chance coincidence, a routine check by local cops, nosy neighbours, and the whole game would change.
Who’d have thought the fucking bank manager was a risk?
Survival depended on eliminating the risks as much as possible. His former comrades-in-arms posed the biggest danger now. He had to take care of that threat sooner or later. Patience. He didn’t have an answer now, but would find one if he worked at it long enough.
They’ll be expecting something. So take your time and do it right, Rikko.
CHAPTER 45
“We’ve got something for you, Jack, but not from the source you’d suggested,” said Hank Turner. “We pitched some feelers in El Paso. I thought a hundred grand would’ve found some takers, but nothing from there yet. Maybe they’re all too rich already. More likely they’re scared shitless about blowing the whistle on Estrada.” The long-distance line cut and Jack waited for the reconnection.
“What’ve you got?” said Jack.
“My counterpart’s informers in Vancouver brought him something late last night.”
“The Mounties?”
“Yes sirree, the good old Royal Canadian Mounted Police,” said Hank. “The whole of the Canadian west coast drug trade’s run by the Chinese. More than half of the Drug
Squad’s Asian. They’ve had a deep plant in one of the major gangs for years. Only feeds big stuff to them. From all accounts, highly reliable. The noise says Estrada’s visiting next week. Tuesday evening arrival. We think he’s been distributing into California and all the way up the continental west coast for a while, but never had any concrete proof, as usual.”
“What’s to say you’ll get any incriminating evidence if he’s just visiting?” said Jack.
“Nothing. We’ve no record of Estrada ever travelling as far up the coast. Makes me think something big’s about to move when he feels the need to be involved personally. I discussed you guys with my pal in the Drug Squad up there. He’d have no problem with any intervention, but obviously can’t back you openly.”
“Understood. We can work around that. I’ll need some location details, players, likely storage hides, the standard stuff.”
“You’ll have it within the hour, including contacts with the Mounties in case of need. Good luck, Jack.”
“Thanks, Hank. I’ll be in touch.”
“We’re going to Canada, Malky,” said Jack. “Our man’s moving north to ride shotgun on a load of shit. Five days from now. Hank says he wouldn’t be bothered for small stuff. Odds are on a major load going into Vancouver. It’s pretty damn cold this time of year, so get your woolly drawers ready.”
“We all coming?” asked Donnie.
“The fewer the better on this one. The primary aim’s to take out Estrada. One man and a back-up’s plenty. You and Paul can keep the rest of this place sane.”
The contact details from Turner gave Jack the direct connection with the local Drug Squad chief. A half-hour telephone link brought the promise of weapons supply, and an unmarked car with instructions where to leave the vehicle after any action the ISP men might engage. All discussion was off the record. To be able to claim non-involvement in any black operation, the chief suggested not to meet when Jack and Malky landed. If things went wrong, there was a number to call.
A day later, detailed location maps to the proposed drugs storage site arrived. Jack decided they’d travel to arrive in Vancouver a day earlier, on Monday afternoon.
The temperature flirted around zero. Jack and Malky exited Vancouver International Airport with a chill wind whipping at their legs. The packed exit hall confirmed the airport’s reputation as the second busiest in Canada. The nearest North American mainland airport to Asia, it could have been mistaken for Hong Kong with the scrum of Chinese faces in the forecourts. The ISP men carried only hand luggage to the short-term car park. The black Chevrolet Express cargo van with the coded number plate sat fifty metres from the far corner. Malky reached under the rear wheel bay and removed the envelope containing the keys. Inside the van, they checked the bags with the weaponry. Automatic pistols, AK 47s, and grenades of choice. Everything as requested.
The journey downtown in late afternoon traffic crawled. They were in no hurry. The Mounties had arranged prepayment for two nights in a nondescript three-star hotel. Jack and Malky intended to stay for one. The flight over the Atlantic and the American continent had offered enough sleeping time.
The afternoon half-light had disappeared into a starless evening when they re-emerged an hour after checking in. Malky drove out toward the north of the city. Their destination lay no more than ten kilometres from the hotel. A cluster of warehouses bordered the main road. Some carried signage, others none. Three back from the highway stood a timber-clad hangar-sized building with several elongated glazed openings ten metres from the ground. The front entrance held roll-open, roll-shut sliding doors with drive-in width of several metres, enough for two vehicles to pass together. The Polish name above the opening declared Joseph Jodlowski Freight Forwarders. The Warsaw connection had long since given way to Chinese ownership.
Malky parked the Chevrolet thirty metres across the street and cut the lights. Most of the other warehouses slept in darkness. The commercial park didn’t waste money on unnecessary street lighting. Illumination beamed from the top of the Jodlowski warehouse but the entrance was shut. A collection of trucks and pick-up lorries surrounded the place, with a handful of passenger vehicles. The building stretched back fifty metres. Close to the rear, dimly lit from the top lights, a pile of packing cases bordered an external generator. Several oil drums with fuel for the generator lined the side of the building.
Jack trained the night-vision glasses from the vantage point across the road. A small truck drove up and the driver tooted his horn three times. The doors rolled open to let the vehicle in. The binoculars gave a clear view inside the warehouse. The centre aisle gave uncluttered access all the way to the back, room enough for half a dozen vehicles. Assorted stacking racks and pallets sat on each side. At the rear on the right a wooden stair with a handrail attached to the back wall led up to a boxed-in office. A couple of motorbikes parked inside near the gate. Apart from these and the lorry, no other vehicles occupied the interior. No sign of personnel meant anyone inside the building was in the office.
“Drive around to the back road,” said Jack. “The map says there’s a wall all the way across, but let’s check it anyway.”
The map proved accurate. They’d seen enough to get their bearings and Malky headed back to the hotel. Their information had Manuel Estrada arriving the next evening.
The Mexican’s business needed the push from Carlos Silva’s supply. The squeeze in El Paso continued to curtail cash flow. The hundred million dollars demanded from the Colombian had cleaned out his liquid reserves. This foray had to work. In the early days, building the distribution networks was part and parcel of Estrada’s hands-on approach to the business. This deal needed no hiccup, and he’d decided to handle it directly. Local connections provided private quarters for him and his guards. Estrada carried no weapons, but his entourage of three men did. Minders met the plane as early evening encroached and ferried the group to the safe house where a brief freshening-up preceded the convoy’s journey to Jodlowski’s warehouse.
Hours before the group set off, Jack Calder and Malky McGuire were already in place opposite the building, farther back across the roadway than the previous day. They left the hotel and spent fifteen minutes in the back of the cargo van changing into black clothing and double-checking the guns. Malky kept to the speed limit, retracing the reconnaissance trip. The commercial estate sat in from the main highway, with sparse traffic inside, as only vehicles with deliveries or collections to make came into the area. Similar to the previous day, the Jodlowski warehouse doors remained closed, although vehicles outside and lights from the high window slats showed it was occupied.
Daylight segued into early evening. A dark-red Lexus arrived and gave the three horn-toots signal. The entrance rolled open and the car entered and parked well inside the warehouse. Nobody closed the door, indicating to the watching pair the imminent arrival of someone else. Two Asian men got out of the front of the car. One held open the rear door, and the boss stepped out. Another guard joined them. All except the top man carried Uzi sub-machine guns. The boss led the way up the stairway to the office. One sentry, also armed, stayed downstairs, inside the open doorway.
Jack and Malky didn’t have long to wait for the next arrival. A white van and a Ford Capri drove up and joined the Lexus inside. The sentry rolled the door shut behind them.
“What d’ye bet that’s the payload?” said Malky.
“Yup. Hardly bring armed guards to deliver a pizza, huh? Now all we need is Mister E. to come to the party.”
CHAPTER 46
Eight months before Rikko Duval’s bomb killed Jules Townsend, ISP disrupted Ahmed Fadi’s drug business by intercepting a huge shipment of Afghani heroin. Fadi’s prized sixty-million dollar luxury yacht had also been forfeited in the raid twelve miles off the coast near Portsmouth in the south of England. Part of the hit squad included Paul Manning. At the time of the strike, he was in the process of rebuilding his reputation within the Metropolitan Police. For several years he ran the SCO19 operat
ions in and around London, his many successes unfortunately offset by a couple of bad experiences on his record.
His determination to put things right included a situation where he saved Jules’ life in a shoot-out in Albania with some of Fadi’s partners. He retired from the force with his reputation recovered and approached Jules to join the ISP team. Jules and the rest of the squad welcomed him into the company and he became a valuable asset.
Paul had never married and embraced the environment with his former Met colleague, Donnie Mullen and the ex-SAS men with enthusiasm. In the same way, a few years earlier Donnie had enjoyed the freer licence afforded to ISP than the restrictive procedures the police had to work under. The new lease of life was a far cry from the cloud Manning had been under for the couple of years prior to getting involved with the security firm.
Other than the current focus on the drug gangs and Rikko Duval, the firm had an extensive international business to run. Donnie had asked Paul to join an early meeting in the office at seven-thirty with a prospective new client from Switzerland. He listened to the television news as he washed down the usual light breakfast of toast and some fruit with strong coffee. Nothing of special interest to the firm. No word yet of activity in Vancouver, which was eight hours behind London’s time zone. He fixed his tie and checked in the hallway mirror. Old police habits are hard to shake. Uniform or not, professional appearance is always important. The drive into the office this time of day varied from thirty to forty-five minutes depending on traffic. He closed the door behind him at six-thirty and walked the few metres to his car in the driveway. A slight frost misted the windscreen, not enough to prevent safe driving. He got into the car, pulled the seatbelt over his shoulder and turned the ignition key. In the still of the suburban morning, the explosion echoed over a kilometer away.
SAVAGE PAYBACK (Jack Calder Crime Series #3) Page 17