“What about giving Ching Mak a visit?” asked Bob Granger. “Friendly call?”
“All that’ll do is put him on alert,” said Manning, turning to the Assistant Commissioner. “Let me check out the warehouse with some of my team, nice and easy. If we find nothing, we go chat with Mister Ching?”
Rennie pursed his lips and glanced from Manning to Granger, “That okay with you, Bob?”
“Sure. It’s a start anyway. Let’s do it. I’ll be with you, along with my Chinese officer. If there’s gonna be an arrest, I’d like him to get the kudos on this one. Okay?”
“Okay with me,” replied Manning. “I’ll have a couple of unmarked cars ready in twenty minutes.”
***
Split across three morning commercial flights, the nine-man commando squad landed before noon in Warsaw. They reassembled and boarded the plain, grey minibus organised by the local Interpol office. The trip to Krakow covered a hundred and sixty miles. With no need for speed it was late afternoon when they drew up at the safe house on the south side of the city.
An early meal awaited them, but no alcohol so close to a live operation. Then it was time for final preparation for the assault. The black night clothing had been carried in their kit bags, with weapons provided locally. Jack smiled as he watched the Gurkhas inspect their daggers, not their traditional kukri knives, but in these hands they’d be equally lethal. Each user and a team partner checked and rechecked the machine pistols. Chance could always play a part in any assault. The detailed pre-attack routines ensured the odds weighed in their favour.
On the way from Warsaw, they had agreed the makeup of the teams. The three Interpol guys and Malky would make up the rear wall squad, with Jack leading the four Gurkhas over the front approach.
“Okay, lads, it’s nine o’clock,” said Jack. “We move out at one, impact at two-thirty. That gives us four hours from now. The rain’s set for the night which is a help. I suggest you grab some rest.”
With the strike time so near, the usual adrenaline patterns began to build. Nobody looked as if they wanted to sleep. Jack knew he also wouldn’t relax, but he liked to spend a couple of hours quietly on his own before any armed engagement, letting his mind repeatedly run through the expected attack sequence. Jules had taught them well. Attention to detail saved lives. Except, hopefully, those of Jozef Kaplani and his thugs.
CHAPTER 22
His mobile phone lay on the hallstand at home, as he never carried it on his morning jogs, but George Chu still wore his rubber-strapped sports watch. At least he was aware of time. Almost two days had gone since the snatch. The room offered nothing to use to get out. A tiny window near the top of one wall, too high up and too small to offer any escape route, let in some daylight. The men brought him only fast food to eat, with no cutlery, therefore no potential weapon, besides they always had their guns with them. So far, no sign of May-Ling and he wondered how he’d handle that when they brought her here.
The man’s shooting hand swelled from heavy bruises after the hit from the Range Rover, but his finger still fitted the trigger guard. The swelling would go away in a day or so, he thought. He and his partner had come straight to the warehouse from the hospital. His boss had made it plain if anything else went wrong he’d have their heads on a plate.
“Go get us some McDonald’s,” he ordered the driver. “I’ll keep an eye on our guest. And bring me extra fries.” It was three in the morning but the local fast food outlet opened twenty-four seven. He was hungry, and to hell with it, he’d give Chu an early breakfast too.
Paul Manning and his two armed specialists arrived a few moments before Bob Granger and his officer. Nothing moved around the building. A diffused light shone from inside its far end.
“We take it nice and gentle. Be careful. If these guys are here, assume they’re armed,” warned Manning. The specialists carried their service Uzi machine guns. “The entrance looks straight forward, usual warehouse free access for vehicles to drive in. We’ll enter from the front. Bob, you and your lad go down the left side. We’ll sidle up the right.”
Before the DCI replied, a transit van drove up to front of the building. The vehicle bore severe dents in the rear panels. As it disappeared slowly inside Granger said, “That’s our chums from the West End, Paul. Couldn’t have timed it better.”
“Right. Let’s do it,” replied Manning, unbuttoning his pistol holder.
George Chu had decided. There was no point in waiting for these clowns to kill him and the girl when she arrived. He needed to take the offensive and try to catch them by surprise. He heard the van enter the warehouse and guessed it meant food delivery time. The chair he’d been sitting on was the sole form of weapon he had and he readied himself by the side of the door, holding the piece of furniture as well as he could for a baseball bat swing. He’d only get one shot. The sound of metal scraping at the lock from the outside would be his cue.
With his swollen hand on his weapon, the gunman placed the McDonald’s bag on the floor and turned the key. The door swung open and he bent down to retrieve the food. He never sniffed the blow as it caught him fully across his face and chest. His pistol clattered to the floor. Chu dropped the chair and moved out of the room. The second captor reacted to the noise by grabbing his own gun and starting toward Chu.
From the darkness behind him he heard a shout.
“Guns!”
That was the last thing he’d ever hear as bullets from the Uzis ripped into him. He wasn’t the only casualty. The man with the swollen fist and George Chu also went down, hit by the fusillade. Three Chinese males shot dead resisting arrest.
There’d be hell to pay.
***
In a busy hospital with people moving in and out of wards and corridors all day and all night, the presence of two orderlies pushing a gurney-laden patient toward the exit went unnoticed. An hour before dawn the third assailant was ferried anonymously into the waiting vehicle and vanished into the early morning traffic around the airport, his disappearance flagged when the night duty nurse checked the private room forty minutes later. She found the bed empty of all but the leg cradle and leaking tubes dangling from the drip stands.
Detective Chief Inspector Bob Granger fielded the call from an anxious Doctor Singh. What had begun as a promising breakthrough had turned rapidly into a nightmare. In spades.
***
“He’s fucking what?” The usually placid Assistant Commissioner couldn’t believe what he was hearing on the conference line. “Killed in crossfire? Paul, this wasn’t a fucking warzone. Nice and gentle you said. Just take a look round, you said. He’s the head of the Chinese community in London. Have you any idea how much damage this’ll do to us?”
“Shit happens, sir. These guys were armed and aiming our way. We had no alternative,” replied Manning, unruffled. “Chu was in the wrong place at the wrong time. You know as well as I do split-second delays mean the difference between us and them getting killed. Unfortunately he’s not the first ever collateral damage fatality and he won’t be the last.”
Alan Rennie well remembered the previous occasion when the Head of Serious Crimes took charge of an almost botched operation. He recovered his temper and gave instructions, this time addressed to Bob Granger.
“Get a warrant and bring in Mister Ching. The usual ‘helping us with enquiries’ will do until we figure out what to throw at him. We’ve grounds for interview at the very least. It’s his business premises and his employees, but from what I gather we’ve no direct evidence of his personal involvement. He’s sure to bring his lawyer, so be prepared for that.”
As he closed down the call, Rennie knew Manning’s version of events at the warehouse would hold up as reasonable, as had happened the last time, but he felt a sourness in his stomach. This was a messy complication.
CHAPTER 23
An angry rain-laden Wieliczka sky with gusting wind provided the perfect cover. In these conditions, Jack’s men were chameleons. From the boots up to the bal
aclavas, the gloved hands and the blackened night vision equipment strapped to their heads, this was as invisible as a commando team could be. Each man in turn had led the rehearsal at the safe house. Timings, options, compound layout and back-up details had all been covered. Their two transport vans were delivered well ahead of time, and they left on schedule, with Malky at the wheel of one and Jeb Zucker at the other. Not even local Interpol agents would be involved in the direct strike.
The approach road narrowed into a double lane about eight kilometres from the target, with thick woods on either side. For the last twenty minutes no other traffic shared the road with them. Five kilometres further brought them to the single track off-road. They reverted to night vision gear and cut the headlights, with speed down to a slow cruise and engine noise minimal amid the pounding rain and forest cover. The compound loomed out of the darkness, close to the edge of the tree perimeter, the distance to the walls less than ten metres away. There were no lights around the exterior wall. In this part of the woods, they’d hardly be needed.
From the vehicles, Guna and Johan Krull each carried a black painted aluminium sliding ladder. Malky, Brad, Jeb and Krull made their way toward the rear of the compound. Jack counted down the three minutes to two-thirty, then signalled his men forward to the front wall. Exactly on schedule, he was first up on the top. No sign of any guards or lights. Probably all asleep, he thought. Good. The four Nepalese followed him up and into the alleyway. Here they split, Guna and Jack moving left, the others to the right. The arched corridor into the cluster of rooms where they expected they’d find Kaplani’s men housed had doors opened on both sides the length of the hallway.
No lights? Open doors? This wasn’t what they’d expected. The rooms were empty. They moved through to the central kitchen area. Also no sign of activity. Ten minutes later, it was clear the entire compound was deserted. No trace of Kaplani, no guards, no women, nobody. Jack gathered the team in the large room off to the right of the master bedroom suite, presumably Jozef’s living quarters.
“They’ve gotten wind of something. Maybe a heads-up from the local minders.”
“So do we blow the place?” asked Malky.
“No, we leave everything untouched, big man. No calling cards. No intimation we’ve been here. First, we do another once round to see if they’ve left any of their cargo shit here. I doubt it, but we’ll check anyway. And be mindful of booby traps. You know the drill. Go.”
Thirty minutes later confirmed Jack’s expectations. These guys weren’t about to desert the compound and leave their cash machine behind. But they did forget one small piece of equipment. Brad Miles had picked up a mobile telephone from a wastepaper basket in the main bedroom down the hallway from Kaplani’s suite.
“Whaddya think, Jack?” the thick Southern twang sounded across the room. “Somebody puts a phone like this in a bin usually means a one-time use then dumped. I wonder if it’ll show us anything, huh?” The screen lit up as Miles peered at the functions. He hit the address list function. Only one number appeared, but with no name. The call history showed a solitary contact made, just over a day earlier. A connection lasting twelve minutes. Nothing else.
“Note the number, Brad, and put the phone back in the bin where you found it,” said Jack. “Ask your people to trace the recipient. Somehow I don’t think it’s gonna be for a cruise holiday company.”
“No problem,” the drawl spoke again. “We should have that by the time we get back to Warsaw.”
On the return journey to the capital nobody felt much like talking. As fighting men, the mission had left them disappointed. The expectation of action affected every man differently, but they shared the common quirk of relishing combat. They had experienced this before, being primed at the extreme end of operations, not all of which resulted in conflict. At least we’ve scared the rabbit out of its warren, thought Jack. Now we have to find where the hell it’s gone. At the airport lounge, Brad came over and sat beside Jack, a glass of lemonade dwarfed in his huge fist.
“We traced the telephone number,” he said. “Seems whoever was calling from the compound has the direct number of the Chief of Police in Warsaw.”
Jack whistled. “Interesting. Very interesting. Good work, Brad. Now do you think Marcel’s box of tricks can get a covert trace on Mister Chief of Police’s phone lines?”
“Hell, Jack. How slow d’you reckon we are? He’s on to that already,” and his laughter rocked the lounge. Jack smiled. Now they had something to take back.
Benoit’s computer geeks tapped into the Warsaw telephone company’s records of the last few days. The one-time use from the mobile phone found in the compound showed up as a midmorning connection to the Chief of Police. Of the several other calls in and out from that Warsaw number during the course of the same day one connection stood out. A call to London. Marcel Benoit hadn’t expected the name marked beside it. He asked his assistant to arrange a time for a conference chat with Jules Townsend as soon as possible. His next instruction placed a round-the-clock illicit phone tap on the direct line of the Warsaw Chief of Police.
Benoit’s mid-morning revelation brought a moment of silence in the ISP boardroom. The number called from the Chief’s office in Warsaw matched the Hounslow residence of Ching Mak.
Donnie Mullen spoke first. “That takes the biscuit, Marcel. That’s got to be worth a ton of payoff money. Go-between for both sides in a drugs war? I don’t think we’d have written that script.”
“We’ve had a line on this guy for a while, Donnie. We know he’s been blind-eyeing a lot of small stuff for years, but this, as you so elegantly state, does take the biscuit. We’ve got a tap on his phone since yesterday, and working to get one on his mobile. That’s a bit trickier. Jules, what’re your plans now?”
“First thoughts, I suppose we’ll have to wait to track any further calls and what they tell us. Currently, we’ve no idea where Kaplani’s holed up. Here in the UK, we got news this morning the leader of the Chinese business community, George Chu, was killed in a shoot out at Ching’s warehouse. It seems he was kidnapped a couple of days ago. Alan Rennie’s told Donnie our friend Ching’s currently at police headquarters assisting with enquiries, but he’s as slippery as an eel. Paul Manning led the swoop at the warehouse. He’s been bugging us as well these last few days, thinking we’re involved in this.”
“Leave him to me, Jules. I think it’s time for me to go visit my friend the Assistant Commissioner for a quiet chat off the record.”
“I agree, Marcel. If you want I’ll come with you, Alan’s an old buddy of mine,” said Donnie.
“Done. In the meantime, I’ll let you have anything we get from the tap. Have a good day, gentlemen.”
CHAPTER 24
Ching Mak hadn’t slept more than an hour in the previous twenty-four. His rage at the incompetence in failing to pick up May-Ling had tempered down. The decision to take his injured man to hospital for treatment proved the right one, but he also realised leaving him there was a risk not worth taking. His phoned instructions to spirit the casualty away from Hounslow Hospital were executed flawlessly. His satisfaction was short-lived however, broken by the arrival of police officers at his home at eight in the morning. The polite but insistent Detective Chief Inspector required Ching to accompany them, not to the local Hounslow station, but to Central Headquarters in London, primarily to assist in their enquiries regarding a firearms incident at his warehouse and the suspected abduction of a certain Mister George Chu.
It was the first intimation to Ching things had gone very wrong. DCI Bob Granger gave no details of any deaths at the scene, only the mention of a shooting and the name of the Chinese businessman. Granger had to admire the man’s cool reaction.
“Of course, officer. We’re always open to helping our friends in the police. Why would you need me to assist you?”
“We’ve reason to believe two of your employees were involved in the incident, but we’d prefer to continue this conversation at Headquarters if
you don’t mind.”
“Will I need legal representation, Inspector?”
“Your prerogative, Mister Ching,” said Granger calmly, acknowledging to himself this lad knew the ropes alright. Alan Rennie’s warning was bang on the money. There’d be a slick lawyer present before they could try getting anything significant out of the Chinaman.
“Am I under arrest?”
“At this time, sir, all I can say is we’d like to interview you in pursuit of our inquiries.” Standard procedural comment. Ching made a call on his mobile, to his lawyer Granger presumed, but in a torrent of rapid Cantonese. With the Chinese officer present, Ching couched his language carefully even in his native tongue and merely told the person on the other side enough to alert him to the seriousness of the situation and to ensure the lawyer attend at Police Headquarters.
“Okay, shall we go?” he said, putting on his jacket.
The journey into the city through the usual dawn traffic ate up almost an hour. On the way, Ching’s mind raced. Among the issues he mentally juggled was the call the previous morning from Poland. The conversation had been couched in roundabout language, in an accent unmistakably Eastern European. He re-ran the tapes in his head, as he’d done several times already. Although his direct line at home was ex-directory, the caller knew he had the right number.
“Good morning,” the voice had begun, careful not to address Ching by name. “I’m sure this is a little unexpected, however I assure you I speak on behalf of a party who, until now, shares common business interests to your own.”
“Who are you? I think you’ve got a wrong connection,” Ching replied.
“Let’s just say I’m a trusted intermediary. It would seem that certain, shall we call them, unfortunate incidents have troubled both parties’ interests recently. The similarities lead my principal to think it’s a good time to discuss with you the possibility of putting competitive disagreement aside. Some information has come to light leading him to believe an unwelcome third party may be muddying the waters for all concerned.”
VENGEANCE WEARS BLACK (Jack Calder Crime Series #2) Page 10
