VENGEANCE WEARS BLACK (Jack Calder Crime Series #2)

by Seumas Gallacher

  “So, Marcel uses you for the sensitive stuff?” said Jules.

  Miles rubbed unconsciously at his neck scar. “Yes. When Interpol’s direct involvement is likely to cause embarrassment, we come in instead. We’re deniable. Until now, we’ve been successful in taking out a few nasties in select places, the last one in Colombia. No headlines, but a useful takeout. Bent government drug traders.”

  Malky put his coffee cup down and coughed lightly. “What’s been the hang-up on hitting Kaplani’s guys then?” The soft Irish lilt disguised a no-bullshit directness.

  “Scale, Malky. Scale. Their thugs are spread all the way across the continent as the flags show you and chasing so many down at one shot is like trying to herd cats. Kaplani has no obvious successor and taking him out would screw them up big time, but he’s difficult to target. His men are products of an anything-goes war in the Balkans. They kill first and don’t hang around to ask questions.”

  Miles sat back and looked at the group clustered at the table. The background on the former commandos was impressive. Marcel’s dossier on them showed a trio whose record in undercover black operations was second to none. Jules Townsend, son of a successful City stockbroker, who shunned the chance of a lucrative business career and became the youngest man to attain the rank of Major in the SAS. He was a smart, tough, officer who led from the front. Jack Calder, a product of the harsh Govan shipyard slums in Glasgow, and his mate Malky McGuire, who opted away from the sickness of the religious troubles in Ireland, both fighting men with a stellar action career in dozens of anonymous episodes across the world. All were excellent commandos, uncomplicated in their approach to complicated situations. Added to them was Donnie Mullen, as tough a cop as you’d find anywhere. A brilliant clean-up record over twenty years in Hong Kong. Brad knew he was among brothers here.

  “Do you have any intelligence on the Chinese?” asked Jules.

  “Not much to be honest. The Met keep tabs on them. Our main focus has been Kaplani and his mob. The Chings tend to stay under the radar better than the East Europeans.”

  “Yer doing a favour to the other lot if ye eradicate only one side, right?” queried Malky, with more of a statement than a question.

  “Right.”

  “So, we’ve got to work out how to take both teams off the park,” said Jules. He put his half -finished coffee on the table and strolled to the wall map. His eyes narrowed as he peered intently at the flag placements. Jack and Malky were familiar with the silence as their boss slipped into deep thought mode.

  After a couple of minutes, Jules spoke again. “Okay, let’s wrap this one up. Brad, I want you to firm up as near as possible the number of players in each location. Also, detailed site maps and any intelligence on regular schedules moving stuff in and out would be good.”

  “Noted,” came the reply.

  “Jack, contact Guna and tell him we’re likely to want him and his Gurkhas with us within a week or so. We’ll come back to him with transport and other details in the next few days. Brad, we need cover passports for my Nepalese friends, better still, guarantee of free movement unhindered and unrecorded in these sites.”

  Jack and Brad grunted acknowledgement.

  “Malky, you’re in charge of operational kit and weapons. Gentlemen, we’re going black.”

  “Grand. Couldn’t be better,” smiled the big Irishman. “Time we had a bit of proper action. We’re goin’ soft in the guts from too much pencil-pushing stuff.”

  ‘Going black’ was the hard-impact attack mode. No prisoners, no questions, no trails.

  “Something else, Donnie. I need your man at the Met to get me similar details about our Chinese lads. Completely off the record. Possible?”

  “Not certain, boss. I’ll be on to him tonight. Alan’s always ready to help. The signs tell me they’re going nowhere with this themselves, although if Manning thinks we’re getting involved he’ll be none too pleased.”

  “If we do this right, there shouldn’t be anything for Paul Manning or anybody else to worry about once we’re done,” said Jules without a smile. “We’ll be ready to throw the switch within a week. I’ll get back to you all with how I want it to work. For the meantime, I need those details. Let’s move.”

  As they left the room Jack felt the adrenaline rush fuelled by the promise of action.

  CHAPTER 14

  His football skills were top notch, and a couple of years at one of the best clubs in the country here in Manchester also brought recognition at international level. The daily papers praised his play the previous night at Wembley against Spanish opposition. This was the good life. With no morning training, a late lie-in followed by a light lunch and a round of golf with his team buddies filled the early part of Thursday, and sometimes a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. The upmarket brothel, discreetly tucked away from prying eyes, particularly the paparazzi hyenas, matched the best from the big smoke. Mama-san Corrie’s younger Asian females were the prime attraction, with no lack of supply for one of her best clients. He always tipped generously, with never any complaints from the girls. He didn’t use drugs, nor booze. Fruit juices only, and the same for the ladies he entertained. Four of them and he were well into their session two hours after his arrival.

  Apart from the England defender, seven other salons were occupied. Mama-san Corrie was pleased. Tips promised to be good, and still only eight o’clock. The late evening trade busied before midnight until four in the morning. The muted chime of the doorbell sounded and Corrie made her way down the darkened hallway to the reception area. Two casually-dressed foreigners entered, each carrying a plastic bag with the names of city centre malls. Overseas tourists finished with the duty-shopping for family presents, now indulging some paid sex before getting back to their hotel.

  “Hello, gentlemen. How are we this evening?” she greeted them with a broad smile.

  “We’re fine. Your place is highly recommended, Miss. Our friends came here before and say you’re the best in town,” replied one of the men, returning her smile, very relaxed.

  “Thank you. We do try to look after our guests. Please come in,” she said, stepping aside to let them into the hallway.

  “They told us they had two girls each. We’d like the same, but can we meet them first to pick the ones we want?”

  “Of course, my dears, if you’ll follow me to our viewing salon.” Corrie led the way through the reception lobby. “Our private rooms are upstairs on the first floor.”

  They entered a large area boasting five sofas, all facing an extended raised platform along one wall. The visitors sat down, one each to a sofa. Corrie pressed the silent intercom button. This signalled the arrival a few moments later of almost a dozen young girls, elegantly dressed, but intent on exuding as much sensuality as possible. They chorus-lined across the raised dais and gazed expectantly at the guests. The Mama-san spoke to them in Chinese, lining them up to show their sexual attributes to best effect.

  As she talked, the men opened their plastic bags and removed automatic fast fire pistols. In seconds the room echoed to an ear-splitting fusillade of bullets as they gunned down the girls and the Mama-san.

  Upstairs the noise was no less deafening. Customers and their partners from the first floor salons spilled out, startled by the racket. The England footballer appeared at the top of the stairwell, a towel clutched around his waist. He couldn’t understand why men were setting fire to the curtaining on the ground floor.

  “What the fuck?” he yelled, starting down the stairs.

  The nearest intruder turned and fired twice. The player’s body twisted and fell tumbling toward his killer. He was dead before he reached the bottom. As other faces appeared, the gunman fired again, this time causing wholesale screaming as girls and clients scattered back into the salons. The flames raced up the walls and thick, choking smoke filled the blazing hallway. Unrushed, the two men left the building, closing the door behind them as they made their way to the waiting car.

  *** />
  A second wall of the boardroom at International Security Partners was taped with a large map of England and smaller maps of the bigger cities.

  “Looks like a bloody school geography class,” cracked Donnie Mullen.

  Brad Miles and May-Ling had joined the others about an hour after the first report flashed across CNN, the killing of the football player in a brothel fire huge breaking news.

  By midnight reports of the atrocity were compounded by bulletins of similar attacks, one more in Manchester, in Bolton, Newcastle, two in Liverpool and eleven in London. The death of an international footballer faded into the background as the scale of the mayhem became clearer. With seventeen buildings torched, the fatality count already over thirty females and at least a dozen males, the final tally remained unknown.

  “Your man at the Met’s information might be superfluous now, Donnie,” said Jules. “These gents have pre-empted us. All the strikes coordinated a touch after eight o’clock.”

  “You’re right. This is scorched earth in more ways than one, boss. My pals in the Met and up and down the country won’t know what the hell’s hit them with this lot.”

  Jack spoke, shaking his head. “Can you believe this shit? It’s wholesale arson and murder in a way not seen since the blitz. Where the fuck do they start?”

  “Well, one side of the school’s partly taken care of, but it makes the other side a lot more complicated now,” said Jules, turning away from the television set in the corner of the room. The sound muted, the constant ticker tape headlines streamed across the bottom of the screen.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Think, Jack. Tit for tat hits for months. Granted, on a smaller scale than this, but Kaplani’s thugs’ll be expecting a response, and soon. My original approach is going to need a rethink.” The room fell silent again, as the CNN tape added another couple of fatalities.

  ***

  Less than twelve miles away, Madam Ching Fan was deep in thought. Ching Mak had woken her from sleep to tell her the scale of the horrific news blaring non-stop from the TV channels. He sat opposite her, not knowing how to react. He twisted his white and green jade prayer beads nervously, his mind a blank, the jasmine tea in his glass cold, untouched since rousing his mother. His private mobile number rang nonstop, feeding him the growing calamity as his lieutenants in the field assessed the damage.

  For the tenth or eleventh time he put down his phone and turned to speak to her. “Liverpool, they’ve…”

  Ching Fan raised her hand, palm up-stretched, cutting him off in mid sentence. “Enough. No matter whether it’s six or twenty-six, this is open war now. This round goes to them, but they’ll pay for this, and pay dearly.” She spoke quietly. “They won’t attack the rest of the houses after this. They’ll expect them to be guarded.”

  Mak nodded. His devotion to his mother went deeper than that of a dedicated son. He knew she had the intellect, the cunning, and the ruthlessness that he aspired to, and that engendered an even higher level of respect for her.

  “However, as a precaution, move the girls into the other houses and back up security on them. Business will continue, you understand?”

  “Yes, Mama. There’s more news, stuff the TV’s not picking up.” He fingered his beads again.

  “What’s that?”

  “Four of our key dealers have disappeared, taken from their own homes. Some of the merchandise has also gone. They wrecked their places. This is a disaster, Mama.”

  “Disaster? Disaster? What the hell are you talking about?” she screeched at him. Mak was taken aback with her vehemence.

  “This is no disaster, Mak. A few bags of white powder, and some low life hookers with their half-pricked shagging customers buying the big sleep isn’t a disaster,” she spat out, her face contorting into a scowl of contempt. He felt a cold chill as she railed on.

  “The disaster is that my son sits here pissing in his pants after a bit of muscle flexing from these European assholes. It’s time for you to grow up, Mak. I need you to show me that you’ve got the balls for this, not just the easy stuff in London.” He remained silent, stung by her words, knowing she was right. She was always right. If he was ever going to take over the reins completely, he had to be more like her. Not just more like her, he had to become her. Sharp in business, cold in execution.

  He rose and went to her, bending down to take her hand. He kissed it gently and then kissed her forehead.

  “Of course you’re right, Mama. This is only the starting point. We will be the winners in the end. Trust me with this. I won’t let you down, that I can promise you.”

  She bowed her head, hiding the half-smile on her lips. She knew her boy wouldn’t fail her now.

  ***

  Jozef Kaplani watched the international news channels ferry the blow by blow account of the evening’s campaign. Horrible scenes of carnage were the life blood of the twenty-four hour cable networks, the endless visual loops showing buildings ablaze in five cities across England an editor’s dream and no less satisfying to the mob boss. He poured another three glasses of vodka and returned to the two girls on the bed. He handed each a drink and eased down beside them.

  “Now, my pretty ladies, let’s have some fun with Uncle Jozef, no?”

  ***

  In the heart of the Metropolitan Police headquarters, Assistant Commissioner Alan Rennie, DCI Bob Granger and the Serious Crimes chief, Paul Manning, headed a team of ten clustered around a large formica work table. A bank of telephones relayed the developing information on the evening’s events. Coffee mugs sat amongst an orderly but growing batch of station reports from the northern forces as well as from the London borough stations. The cork wallboard bore five location columns with the death headcount. For the moment very few positive identities attached to the John and Jane Doe casualties. The footballer’s name headed the list.

  The norm at this stage in the work with on-going multiple incidents comprised information gathering.

  “Interpol on line six; Marcel Benoit,” called one of the detectives.

  Rennie picked up, with his end of the conversation audible to all in the room. “Marcel, how are you? Thanks for getting back to us. Yes, pretty bloody affair. Your guys have given us more intel on the Kaplani people, but frankly there’re not even on our radar screens. Yes, we’ve plenty on the mob being hit this end. Chinese triad business. Yes. Yes. We know that too. Yes, the Ching family. Nothing substantive to go after them with right now. Yes. Yes. We’ll be in touch. Thanks for your help. Goodbye.”

  “Anything?” Granger asked from the end of the table.

  “Nothing much. Some names of senior people in Kaplani’s crew, but I doubt we’ll see them on any credit card hotel bookings. They’ll have their own private bases here for sure. Put them out to the airlines anyway.” He passed over the sheet of paper with the names scribbled in his left-handed scrawl.

  “You know, if that’d been us on a SCO 19 hit, we couldn’t have done this any better,” said Manning, pacing the floor. “These guys aren’t dumb. Some pretty fine-tune planning went into this. Anything from our own people other than guesswork?”

  “Nothing so far,” replied Rennie. “Right now, we keep to the basics. The fire and forensic lads are working their tails off as we speak. Door-to-door teams to find out if anybody noticed cars, speeding, strangers, unusual activity, anything. Plenty of survivors got out of the brothels, but don’t expect much cooperation. Policemen aren’t their favourite breed. It’s four a.m. Let’s reconvene with what we have later today.”

  ***

  Even if they had used their own passport names to travel out of London they were not going to be stopped by any police activity at airports. Long before the mayhem began, Yurev and his four lieutenants left England on five separate airlines, routing through different destination transit points on their return journeys to Krakow. Kaplani had every reason to be pleased with the operation but Yurev warned him this marked only the opening salvo. Retaliation was to be expecte
d, and that should be used to further advantage. The gloves were well and truly off now.

  CHAPTER 15

  The newspapers on George Chu’s reception area table all carried headlines of the previous night’s slaughter. As the door opened, May-Ling stood and walked toward his office.

  “Come in, my dear,” he said, signalling to his secretary to bring some tea. “Dreadful business, this. I hardly slept all night watching the TV news.”

  May-Ling didn’t tell him the ISP team had also spent most of the night doing the same thing. The sitting area held four large armchairs covered in tasteful Chinese green and gold embroidered fabric. The elegant prints on the walls were a matched series of sepia illustrations of old Hong Kong eighty years before mainland China took the colony back from the British. May-Ling’s parents had owned similar wall coverings before leaving for Europe decades ago and even now at their home in Surrey. The touchstones of ancestry were never far from any of them.

  Dressed in a plain white blouse buttoned to the neck, with simple dark pants and low heeled shoes, his guest’s attire was no different from dozens of other young Chinese ladies he met every day in Chinatown. He understood this was no ordinary meeting. The previous encounter had been of limited importance to Chu, but the horrific events of the last twenty-four hours, had escalated matters.

  “Thanks for seeing me at such short notice, George.” His assistant opened the door and stood aside to allow the office boy to enter carrying a silver tray with tea and biscuits.

  “You’re welcome as ever, May-Ling,” said George, as the servant placed the tray on the table between them. He waved the boy away from his usual duties of pouring. “I’ll do that. Please leave us.”

  May-Ling resisted the urge to serve the tea, knowing custom and good manners dictated her host fill the cups. The pleasant tang of jasmine spread through the room.