“You’re beginning to put on weight now you’re back in the US,” said Rios, poking Halloran in the ribs.
“Too much food and not enough exercise. I’ve been putting in some long hours.”
“Now, tell me about Merriman. What did he think of our little birthday gift? I trust it was appreciated?”
“I think it had the desired effect. He certainly didn’t expect it.”
“His little mole could have hurt us if it wasn’t for your information.”
“How did you uncover this guy?”
“It was easy once you’d told us about Merriman’s plan to place undercover agents among us. After that, we were more careful with our new recruits at head office. Vargas asked too many questions.”
“Was that the name he was using?”
“Arturo Vargas. Thought he was very clever, but Jivaro identified him immediately.”
“I’m glad my information was helpful.” Halloran thought about the memorial service for the undercover agent and how difficult it had been for his parents. He wasn’t proud of his betrayal, but he was trapped. He knew there was no going back.
“It was very helpful. Once we suspected Vargas, it didn’t take too long to get him to speak. He squealed like a little pig.”
Halloran faked a laugh. “The tip about the raid on Isla Tiburon was well-timed,” he said.
“Jivaro was very grateful for that. We were able to move our key people off the island and destroy sensitive records thanks to your help.”
“Took a lot of work to get that information.” More loss of innocent American lives.
“The best part was giving the US a bloody nose. I wish I could have been in your offices to witness their reaction.”
“Merriman and Butler were in a major panic. You sure showed them.”
“Have they any idea who’s on the inside working for us?”
“They’re being extremely careful with information, but I’m pretty sure they don’t suspect me.”
“Watch your back, Frank. We need you in place.”
“I’m okay for now.”
“What do you have for me today?”
Halloran knew each time he was summoned to Merida he’d need to deliver something of value. Sometimes he rationed the information he was able to glean; that way, he’d always have something to give Rios. He couldn’t afford to disappoint. He knew what Rios was capable of doing if things didn’t go his way. He’d stay on the right side of the monster.
“I’ve got no further information on undercover agents. As I’ve said before, this is kept at the highest level within the service, but I’ll keep trying.”
“You must have something for me. What do you know about the seizure of cartel assets?”
“Only what was announced at the press conference. I wasn’t on that team. I may get pulled into dealing with the assets as a lot of people are getting sucked into that at the moment.”
“It was a savage blow to us, but we still have deep resources. I need to know who helped Merriman from our side. Someone is feeding him information.”
“I’ll do everything possible to stay on top of this.”
“It must be your highest priority, Frank. We cannot absorb another hit. Find the informant and quickly.”
“I’ll deal with it.” It would be difficult to unearth Merriman’s informant, but Halloran was not going to share his concern with Rios.
“Now, we must leave you. Enjoy your few days in the sun, my friend.”
Rios stood up to leave. He turned to Halloran and smiled. “Jivaro has left a little bonus for you in your account. A token of his gratitude for the work you did in helping us with Vargas and the invasion.”
“I appreciate that.” Blood money.
Halloran’s visitors were gone by seven p.m. He’d stay in Merida for one night only then finish his few days’ vacation in Cancun merging in with all of the other tourists. He had to go back with a suntan.
Chapter Fifty
The small, high-security prison on the edge of the village of Mauvoisin was used by the Swiss authorities to house sensitive prisoners. These were prisoners who might be at risk from the wider prison population if they were kept in mainstream institutions. They were kept at Mauvoisin for their own protection.
Baumgart had a cell to himself on the third floor of the concrete building, a ten foot by eight foot box with a barred window looking out over the Alps. His large frame filled the room. For a man used to a luxurious life, this was a massive shock to the system. The food was disgusting, and his cell suffocating, but the worst of all the indignities was his having to mix with the weird array of real criminals. He wasn’t like them; they were uncivilized.
He was being held there pending his extradition hearing in Geneva. The idea of being extradited to the US and being held in a US maximum-security prison for the rest of his life frightened him. He knew it would not be a long life in those conditions. He was not cut out for that sort of existence.
Two weeks after his arrival, he was scheduled to appear at the central court in Geneva for the first of three appearances under Swiss extradition proceedings. It was a two and a half hour drive by prison van. His slot in court was scheduled for eleven a.m. Baumgart was up and dressed in his smartest suit and ready to go by eight. He couldn’t stomach any breakfast; his lawyer had led him to expect the worst. He’d advised he was likely to be unsuccessful in challenging the extradition process, and it was probable he’d be on a plane to the US within the month. The Swiss authorities had no time for those who used the secrecy of its banking laws to assist criminal and terrorist organizations. It damaged the country’s reputation, and they would not tolerate it.
The three guards came to collect him from his cell just after eight. They handcuffed him and led him down three flights of steps into the prison courtyard, where a white, unmarked prison van was waiting for him. Two of the guards climbed into the front of the van while the other sat in the separate, specially strengthened rear box compartment with Baumgart. He was the only prisoner on that morning’s court run to Geneva. Even though he’d lost some fifteen pounds since his arrival, the wooden bench it creaked under his weight when he sat on it. The guard placed cuffs around his ankles. Shortly before eight fifteen, the security gates slid open, and the van drove out of the courtyard, heading north on Route de Mauvoisin toward Verbier.
This time of year, the snow was thick on the ground, but the main roads were largely clear. The driver still needed to concentrate on the winding route descending two thousand meters down the mountain to the valley floor. The two guards in the front were chatting and listening to the radio. There was no conversation at the back. Baumgart closed his eyes and thought about the nightmare of the months to come. He had no real defense to his crimes. He’d been greedy and had allowed himself to be seduced by the money and lifestyle. He knew the authorities were going to throw the book at him. They’d use him to set an example. This thought, and the rolling motion of the van, made him feel nauseous.
Ten minutes into the journey, the vehicle approached a one hundred and eighty-degree bend on the mountain road. The driver pumped the brakes in plenty of time, anticipating this dangerous stretch of the road and the sharp curve. The new patches of steel barrier provided ample evidence of those who’d underestimated the danger and had careered down the side of the mountain.
About a hundred yards before the bend, the driver lightly touched the brakes again. A large truck careened round the bend in the opposite direction. It was going too fast and was straddling both lanes. The guard slammed on the brakes and tugged furiously at the steering wheel. The van skidded to a halt moments before impact with the truck. Baumgart and the guard at the back were thrown against the front of the rear compartment and then hurled back onto the wooden bench.
Two heavily armed henchmen jumped out of the truck. The two guards in the front cab were dead within seconds as the van was sprayed with rapid fire from their machine guns. Baumgart and the guard at the back threw themselv
es onto the floor. They were not injured due to the heavily strengthened metal cage surrounding the rear compartment of the van.
When the shooting was over, Kulpman stepped out of the black Mercedes which had pulled up behind the truck. He ordered his men to move the truck while he walked over to the rear window of the prison van. He looked through the window. Baumgart and the guard were cowering on the floor. Baumgart lowered his forearms from his face and looked up. He stumbled to the window.
“Franz. Thank God it’s you. Get me out of here, quickly,” he shouted. “I knew you would not let me down.”
Kulpman smiled, but said nothing.
“The guards in the front must have the keys. Hurry,” shouted Baumgart.
Kulpman walked to the front of the van, dragged out the body of the dead driver, and sat in the driver’s seat. He put the van into neutral and released the handbrake. As the vehicle began to roll down the road toward the dangerous bend, Kulpman jumped out. He watched as the van sped up and shot toward the steel barrier. Baumgart was still at the rear window, thumping desperately on the door. The vehicle smashed through the barrier and fell three thousand feet to the bottom of the valley, bursting into flames on impact with the ground.
Kulpman and the two henchmen jumped into the Mercedes and sped off. The whole thing was over in less than five minutes.
Chapter Fifty-One
Bill Grendon loved everything about his shiny new Honda CRV 4x4. For years, he’d bought cars made by US manufacturers, refusing to consider any foreign-built vehicle for his private limo business. Mostly, he’d stuck to GM or Chrysler, much the same choices as his father had made. Then, recently, he watched a TV documentary and learned his “American” car was actually made in Mexico. He felt robbed, but it gave him permission to consider the Honda when he came to change his vehicle a couple of months back. He’d always secretly liked the styling. The truth was, but for the “buy American” rhetoric he kept spouting to his friends, he’d have bought one much sooner.
The car was now exactly five weeks old, but was still receiving all the tender loving care Grendon could lavish on it, including parking it in his garage overnight rather than leaving it on the drive where it would attract the dust. After maneuvering it into the garage at the end of another long working day, he remained in the car checking his diary and reviewing his bookings for the following day. He could easily have checked it in the house, but then he’d have missed the new car smell.
Grendon was in his midfifties and sported a gray mustache, which had become bushier over the years as his hairline had receded. He’d run a limo business for almost thirty years since he’d left the army. He much preferred the freedom of being his own boss, out and about and answerable to no one, rather than being stuck behind a desk. He was not ambitious. He was his company’s only employee, but he’d won a few prestigious long term driving contracts over the years, mainly on the strength of his strong reputation for reliability and honesty. People trusted him.
It was seven thirty p.m., and Grendon was hungry. It had been a tough day, with three airport runs back to back and, worse still, no time to stop for lunch. He was looking forward to his wife’s homemade dinner. Barbara Grendon was an excellent cook, and sooner preferred to make dinner at home rather than eating out. He was always disappointed with the quality of the fare on the rare occasions they did go out for dinner. Nothing beat Barbara’s home cooking, not even close. After thirty-five years of marriage, his expanding waistline was living proof of his appetite for Barbara’s cuisine.
He entered the modest ranch-style property from the internal garage door. “Barb,” he shouted. Strange. He couldn’t smell dinner cooking. As usual, he’d called and spoken with Barbara about an hour before, to let her know when he was likely to arrive. She’d confirmed his dinner would be ready when he got home. “Barb, I’m home.” Still there was no reply.
He walked into the kitchen and turned on the light. There was no sign of his wife and no note. Barbara always left him a note to avoid worrying him if she had to go out.
“Barb. Where are you?”
When he drove up to the house he’d noticed the light in the main lounge was not on, so he knew she couldn’t be in there. He ran to the master bedroom, but there was still no sign of her. He sat on the bed and called her cell phone. Voicemail. Why does she never leave her phone on?
He changed into some casual clothes then tried her cell phone again. Straight to voicemail. He walked into the lounge. Was that moaning? He turned on the light. Maybe she’s fallen and injured herself.
The truth was much worse. Facing him in the middle of the room was his wife bound to a dining chair. She’d been gagged and had clearly been struck in the face several times; she had a bleeding nose and badly bruised left eye. Behind her chair, facing Grendon, were two muscle-heads. The one with a deep scar on his right cheek spoke first. “Welcome home, Mr. Grendon,” as he tapped his palms on Barbara’s shoulders.
“What have you done to my wife?” shouted Grendon, running to Barbara. “Untie her now, you bastards.”
Scar-face punched Grendon to the ground and kicked him in the stomach. “Sit down and shut up. If you do exactly as we say, then your wife won’t be harmed,” he said. Grendon crawled over to an armchair and heaved himself into it. He could see the men meant business, and he knew he was no match in any physical fight. They were a good twenty years younger than him.
“What do you want from us? We don’t have much money,” he said, holding his stomach. “Are you okay, Barb?”
Scar-face slapped Barbara hard in the face. “I told you to shut up,” he said.
“Okay, okay. I’m sorry. Please don’t hurt her again — please.” Grendon raised both palms in the air. What in God’s name do these animals want?
“We’ll be staying here tonight. We’ll tell you more in the morning.”
The other man tied Grendon to another dining chair and gagged him. They turned off the light and left the room. The Grendons sat trembling in the dark. As their eyes grew accustomed to the poor light, they could see each other. Barbara motioned with her eyes to her husband, drawing his attention to the telephone near his chair. He rocked his chair round. The phone line had been cut right through.
If these people were thieves, they’d have taken what they could by now and left. What do they want?
Chapter Fifty-Two
After a long, sleepless night for the Grendons, the two men came back into the room.
“Listen very carefully, Mr. Grendon,” said Scar-face. Grendon nodded to indicate he was listening.
“This morning, you’ll pick up your regular client at eight o’clock. The difference is once you’ve collected the client, you won’t follow your usual route. Instead, you’ll follow my friend here, in his car.” Scar-face nodded in the direction of his accomplice. “Do you understand?”
He pulled down the gag from Grendon’s mouth so he could respond. “I understand, but my first client is a young schoolgirl. There must be some kind of mistake?”
“There’s no mistake. We know exactly who your client is. You must follow our instructions. If you don’t, your wife will be killed. Is that clear?”
“I understand. Please. Don’t harm my wife. I’ll do exactly what you want.”
“Now you must get ready for work. We leave at seven thirty.” Scar-face led Grendon to the bedroom to get changed.
Shortly before seven thirty, he pulled Grendon back into the lounge. The other man was gone. Barbara was still bound to the chair.
“I’ll be staying here with your wife. My friend will be following you in the silver Nissan across the street.” He pointed out the car through the window. “As soon as you pick up your client, you must follow the Nissan and stay closely behind it. If my friend loses sight of you for one moment, he’ll call me and your wife will be killed. If you follow our instructions exactly, then I promise your wife will be safe, and you’ll both be free later today. Is that clear?”
“I’ll do exactly as
you wish. Please don’t hurt my wife. I beg you.”
“Her life is in your hands, Mr. Grendon. Now, you must leave.” Grendon kissed his wife on the cheek and squeezed her hands.
“Don’t worry, Barb. I’ll do exactly as they say. You’ll be safe. I’ll see you later today.” He kissed her again. She groaned through the gag still in her mouth.
Grendon walked into the garage and reversed the Honda onto the drive. He looked at the silver Nissan across the street in his rear view mirror. When he pulled away, the Nissan followed at a safe distance. He toyed with the idea of using his car phone to call the police. He looked down at the phone, but the cable had been cut. His captors must have cut the phone overnight.
What do they want with this client? Who are they?
Once both cars had driven away and were out of sight, Scar-face calmly walked behind Barbara and shot her in the back of the head. He picked up her car keys, left the house, and drove off in her car.
Just before eight, Grendon pulled up outside the detached, colonial house in Herdman Park. The Nissan parked fifty yards away, but Grendon could still see it. He honked his car horn once, and a few moments later the front door of the house opened. Patti Merriman and her youngest daughter, three-year-old Erin stood in the driveway, waving goodbye to seven-year-old Emma. She ran down the path and climbed into the Honda.
“Good morning, Mr. Grendon,” said Emma as she fastened her seatbelt. “Mom says hello.”
“Good morning, Emma. Are you all set for school?” Grendon smiled and waved to Mrs. Merriman as he moved the car away from the curb. She waved back, as she did every weekday. How can I go through with this? Are these people going to harm Emma?
Martin Bodenham Page 23
