VENGEANCE WEARS BLACK (Jack Calder Crime Series #2)

by Seumas Gallacher

  “I agree,” countered Jules. “Kaplani didn’t show because he doesn’t want to risk getting taken out personally. The sourcing won’t stop until the heads are dealt with. Alan, you’re not hearing any of this officially, right?” The Assistant Commissioner held his hands up to his ears in a mock ‘monkey no hear’ gesture.

  “In which case,” continued Marcel Benoit, “our original clean-up contract with ISP is still the main driver. The intelligence I’m getting says the drug supply is back on the streets already. We need more mopping up and cutting off the distribution channels.”

  “That’s the easy part,” said Jack, stretching his shoulders. “I wouldn’t mind another shot at Mister No Show, wherever he’s holed up.”

  “In due time, Jack. The way this game’s moving, I believe we’ll have a clear run at taking down the lot of them,” replied Jules. “At some point they’re going to all meet together or try to muscle out each other. Either way, we’re only a short-term proposition for them to get rid of. So long as we’re still hassling them, they’ll be forced to make a show of cooperation. After we’ve been taken care of, the slimy business starts.”

  A nod from Benoit showed a meeting of the minds. “And something else,” added Jules. “Run the last couple of minutes of the surveillance film, will you?”

  It took a few moments for Marcel to track back to where Jules had asked. They all looked again at the final shots, the parting of the four men, two one way, the other pair in the opposite direction. The ISP chief had noticed something the others had missed. Miles, Malky and Jack stood up and came closer to the screen. As Yurev and his companion walked away, a nondescript figure appeared and fell in behind them, hands in pockets, unnoticed by the men in front, far enough back not to be obvious.

  “A tail?” said Jack. “Now who the hell…?”

  Jules asked, “Can we freeze and zoom in on the guy?”

  Marcel did as requested. As the frame expanded, the features became clearer. Almost at the same time, Alan Rennie and Donnie Mullen’s Scottish accents cut the room, “What the fuck?” How had Jules spotted this and nobody else? The face on the screen was the informally suspended Met’s Head of Serious Crimes, Paul Manning.

  “Geez!” exploded the Assistant Commissioner, taking out his mobile phone. “I’ll have his ass for this.”

  “Hold on, just a minute,” said Jules. “Paul’s clearly on some personal grail with this. This could work for us. Notice he isn’t following Ching. I guess he tailed him to the meeting, then realised something else is cooking and decided to sniff at what’s going on with these other lads. As far as you’ve told us, you’ve taken him off the Ching trail, but technically if he’s doing his own thing with dogging the opposition, that doesn’t breach your instruction?”

  “Bullshit, Jules. He has no right to be there in the first place. I’ve got to haul him off.”

  “May I suggest for the meantime having Paul tailed might be more productive? He might help us to get to the Europeans quicker.”

  Marcel joined in, “Jules is right, Alan. Why don’t we let this ride for a little bit, see where it takes us?”

  Rennie sat back, closed his mobile, not comfortable. He conceded the others might have a point in this. He gave a resigned sigh, “Okay. Let’s do it for a day. After that, we review. I don’t want him fucking this up. I’ll brief Bob Granger to put a tag on him. I think you guys have another agenda to look at, so I’ll leave you. Some of us have real work to do you know.” With handshakes and smiles all round, Alan departed, leaving Jules and company with the prospect of another few hours of detailed planning on how to keep the pressure on the mobs. The message on the tapes about their own personal security would come home to roost quicker than expected.

  CHAPTER 26

  Brad Miles was on the second run-through of potential targets for elimination, most identified as major intermediary drug dealers across the continent. Some had arrest records, but only for minor offences. The normal process of law fell short of the capability of bringing to summary justice a sheaf of criminal activity from the individuals Brad highlighted.

  “We need more chart paper,” said Brad.

  Malky stood up, “I’ll get it.” He left the boardroom and made his way across the hallway toward the stationery cabinet on the other side of the suite of offices. He picked up a new roll of the large squared paper and turned to go back to his colleagues when his ears caught a scrabbling sound outside the half glass-panelled front door. A shadowed figure outlined through the frosted pane. A couple of paces brought him down the hallway. He opened the door slowly and glimpsed a man scurrying down the stairway. Two feet from the open entrance a heavily taped canvas package lay on the carpet. In one movement he slammed the door shut and raced into the boardroom, screaming, “Get down!” Instinctive survival training kicked in with split-second reaction from his mates. Five bodies hit the floor together and rolled under the table as the device exploded.

  ***

  At around the same time as the attack on the office, May-Ling entered the parking area and approached her car, ignition key in her hand. On her way to meet the rest of the team, she inserted the key in the lock and felt metal press against her head under her ear. This time there was no means of escape. She could have disabled the man holding the gun to her neck, but a second stocky figure standing a few feet to the side with a machine-pistol pointed in her direction made her pause. The second guy aimed not at her head, but at her body, his eyes staring directly at hers, watching for any move. She knew immediately these were not the same amateurs from the previous botch up. Professionals don’t aim at the head from any distance, but have almost perfect percentage on body shots.

  The first man removed the key from her hand, took her handbag and wordlessly handed it to his partner. The second assailant waved with his gun, pointing back to a black stretch limousine with darkened windows two parking bays away. She was pushed into the middle row of three tiers of seats. Already inside sat another man and she became sandwiched with the guns pointing at her. From the back seat a rough arm grabbed around her neck while the two men beside her pinned hers. The chloroformed rag did its work and as she slipped into unconsciousness, she never felt the needle that would keep her senseless for the next several hours. The man who took the handbag rummaged to find her mobile telephone, opened it and removed the SIM card. Now the phone was impossible to track until the card was re-inserted, and that would not be for another day or so yet. Yurev smiled. This was how planning paid off. If Mister Ching Mak wanted them to show willing, this should fill the bill. He looked at the unconscious Mrs Jack Calder on the seat in front of him and wondered if Jozef Kaplani might have another use for her, other than a bargaining chip with her husband and his murderous bastard pals.

  ***

  The blast had wrecked the front door and part of the internal hallway. The fact Malky had pulled the boardroom door shut behind him as he dropped to the floor had protected all of them. The SCO 19 squad arrived, this time with no Paul Manning. Alan Rennie took personal charge, having left this office only a matter of hours earlier. He talked with Malky and Jules, ensured there were no injuries and agreed they’d keep this incident under wraps as far as possible. This level in the building contained no other offices and the story if needed would be one of an electrical fault causing a minor explosion. Jack joined them but before he could speak Rennie’s mobile phone rang.

  “Excuse me, guys,” the Assistant Commissioner said, lifting the phone to his ear. A concerned scowl crossed his face as he listened to the caller. “You’re sure? Licence plate number? Fat good that’ll be. Stolen I’ll bet. Yes. Keep on him, call me if you get anything. Immediately. Yes.”

  The three ISP executives’ faces begged the same question.

  “This has gotten dirtier sooner than expected. Jack, my tail on Manning led them to where your wife parks her car. The guys he was following have forced her into a limo at gunpoint. I’ve got an APB out but don’t hold your breath. I’ll guaran
tee the vehicle’s stolen.”

  Jack’s blood ran cold. His mouth went dry. He looked from Rennie to Jules, and then to Malky and back to Rennie. He couldn’t speak. None of his SAS experience could ever prepare him for the kidnapping of his own family. His wife. The mother of his son. The woman who’d helped him overcome the black dog days he had years ago about his father’s suicide and the recurring nightmares that plagued him. Coupled with the horrific flashback images in his sleep of slaughtered boy soldiers in Africa, impoverished partisans in the Balkans and the aftermath of indiscriminate bombings in Northern Ireland, he had been a psychological mess. May-Ling had lost a husband, killed in the police force, and endured the same dark anguish until finally finding peace. She had understood and she alone brought him the mental and emotional solace he needed. Now this was happening. In a few compressed moments all of these personal terrors came flooding back. His head spun. He started to mouth something. “Wha…?” And then somebody turned the lights out.

  Malky caught his partner as he tumbled forward. In seconds Jack was back with them, but the buzz in his skull remained.

  “Bring him in here,” Jules ordered, as Alan Rennie helped shepherd their recovering mate into the chief’s room.

  “I’m sorry, guys. I lost it for a minute. Shit,” Jack mumbled.

  “I should’ve been prepared earlier for this kind of move,” said Jules. The muscle on the side of his cheek flexed, and the sound of an almost inaudible crunching of his back teeth reached Malky. Several times before with Jules he had seen this reaction to attacks on his own people. Outwardly his boss appeared in complete control, but he knew a seething rage was building below the facade.

  Having been part of his squad for several years, Malky’s respect for his leader was absolute. Jules Townsend’s reputation in the SAS stood second to none in armed combat, never afraid to lead from the front. His strategic nous in the field and obsession with detailed planning had saved his commandos time and again in difficult situations across several continents. He also understood more intensely than other commanders the psyche of the men under his watch. Sure, they counted among the fittest and most courageous soldiers on earth, but even the bravest have spells of emotional turmoil. They wouldn’t have been human otherwise. Malky had also seen the intangible trait in the ex-Major’s make-up, the sensitivity in looking after these men at pivotal times of stress. Jack Calder’s situation now needed careful handling. The next few minutes would determine his buddy’s continuing involvement or otherwise in the campaign.

  “How’s your head?”

  “I’m okay, Jules, really, I’m okay,” replied the Scotsman. “It’s passed.”

  “What do you want to do now?”

  A few seconds lapsed. “First we try to find where she’s been taken. Then, figure out how to get her out safe. And…I know…I don’t lead the charge, one of you does that.”

  Malky observed Jules’ nod. Right answer. Any response from Jack entailing headlong pursuit of his captured spouse, or outburst of anger would have ruled him out of the action completely. Nice one, Jules. Malky knew his pal well enough to reckon the rage would surface, but later, and along with that would come the anxiety attacks. They all got them. Hell, he’d had his own share of them too over the years.

  Jules turned to Alan Rennie. “No shots fired? The only reason she’d be taken is because they need a bargaining chip. If these guys are even half aware of who we are, they’ll know that killing May-Ling, or any one of us singly would bring a hell-storm down on them. She’s the antidote they hold until they figure out what to do next about us.”

  “I can have one of our negotiators standby if you want, we have them in the anti-terrorist unit,” said Rennie.

  “Thanks, but no, Alan. They’ll likely communicate directly with us. Let’s wait until they do. We’re used to dealing with this stuff. The wider the spread of people involved, the messier this’d become.”

  Jack asked, “What happens with these mopping-up plans meantime?”

  “Not engaging to screw up their operations means they’d get more confident. We proceed as arranged. Messrs Kaplani and Ching will have enough on their plates trying to stop us. They’ll slip up eventually and we’ll nail them all.”

  “What about May-Ling?”

  “We play by ear. You know how hostage scenarios work. We make different plans for that along with the other details. Right now we don’t have a clue where she is. Until we discover that, everything else is on the table. I suggest we go home and rest. I want you all back here at six tomorrow morning. That includes Guna and his men. Alan, advise us if you get any sniff of the limo. Goodnight, gentlemen.”

  ***

  The Cessna nosed toward the sky as May-Ling’s head began to clear. The small aircraft bumped through the clouds shortly after take-off from the private airfield outside of Epsom. No flight plans were registered for this trip. A plastic rope bound her wrists, allowing no room for movement. The men with her spoke freely amongst themselves in a language she couldn’t understand, but she heard a name, repeated more than once. Durres. She let her mind work on the word. Durres? Durres? Then she remembered. Durres is a seaport on the Albanian coast. That made sense. Kaplani country. They were taking her to Albania.

  ***

  Benoit’s telecommunications trackers were certain now of the source location of the Albanian mobile phone call. A building in Durres, part of a terraced block fronting the ocean, about thirty-five kilometres from the capital, Tirana. A badly-painted, patchy blue four-storey feature jammed between two other poorly maintained properties. Discreet local enquiries showed the entire building was residential, once a mid-market hotel for holidaymakers in search of a bit of coastal air. The hotel had gone out of business over a decade ago. New owners had taken over the premises and filed to convert to residential use. Only one current tenant-owner was registered, a company associated with Jozef Kaplani’s group. The data was relayed to Alan Rennie on a courtesy basis and to Jules Townsend with a more direct motive. Marcel was not surprised when he received an immediate reply from Jules asking for any building layout plans for the property and the two adjacent structures. He directed his field agents to find out what they could and get back to him with details urgently.

  It was already past midnight. The point of the questioning from Jules was not lost on Jack. His boss needed to be assured about how he handled this shit. Well fuck it, I’m handling it okay. He looked around the living room in their house. The television shone from the corner on silent mode. A large scotch sat on the side-table next to his lounger. He’d poured that when he first got home, but hadn’t touched a drop. He stood up and walked through the house as he’d done several times in the last few hours. His son’s room; thank God he’s safely out of the way of this crap; the empty bedroom, where May-Ling’s things were tidily arrayed everywhere; their wedding photograph prominent on the dressing table, his wife looking as beautiful then as she looked today. He walked back into the living area toward the side-table with the whisky, the numbness from tension unrelenting. All his adult life he’d been a fighting man, a trained killing machine. This was what he did. Now they’d taken the person dearest to him in the whole world, and right at this instant he hadn’t one single bastard fucking asshole in front of him to tear apart. He scooped up the full glass and hurled it against the wall with a scream. The shards of crystal scattered over the carpet and the stain of the yellow liquid dripped slowly down toward the floor. Fuck it, he’d clean up later. He slumped into the lounger and rubbed his temples. In past times, his answer would’ve been simple. Get drunk, find a fight, and let the world go to hell. But that was past times. The primary concern now was May-Ling and how to get her back safely. He also realised the importance of his own state of mind. He’d be useless to himself or his mates if he went booze-diving or fist-crazy. “Busy yourself, you daft bastard,” he said out loud, rising from the chair. He dropped to the floor and started doing rapid-fire push-ups until the sweat dripped from his forehead,
staining the carpet under him. Sleep was unlikely, but he sensed the pivotal control mechanism in his head reverting back to full function mode. Clearing his mind was one thing, but past experience told him he had to match that physically. He laced up his heavy boots, loaded a knapsack with around fifteen kilos of old books and headed out for a run. Instinctively, this kind of intense activity seldom failed to calm his mental turmoil. A cold sleet bit into his cheeks as he ran, which helped further re-focus his capacity to plan clearly. At least it’d be an early roll call at ISP in the morning.

  CHAPTER 27

  Belleview in Paris and Nieuwmarkt in Amsterdam share a common bond. Both are long established Chinatowns. The commerce and bustle keeping them lively reflects the hardworking ethos of the majority of their Asian inhabitants. Another, sinister underbelly permeates the nightlife of each district. Prostitution and hard drugs are heavily peddled on street corners and in coffee shops. The pushers and users are a hybrid range of nationalities. The main dealers are supplied from various sources, but the two major supply streams led all the way back to Ching Mak and his parallel counterpart, Jozef Kaplani.

  Jules Townsend had given the go signal during the early morning reprise. Guna and his boys reached France and the Netherlands by nightfall. Nepalese faces melded well in the backdrop of Chinatown. The targets were clear. Main pushers already identified by Interpol made pinning down locales easy, and recent unmistakable headshot photographs would have done a fashion cameraman proud.

  The two pairs of Gurkhas spent several hours at each location, picking their moments to strike. This time they used only their kukri killing knives. Thrice in Paris and four times in Amsterdam the bloodletting was swift. These men were seasoned assassins, ruthless in open action and equally lethal in surprise ambush. They moved like silent shadows as they stalked their prey. The signature slice across the throat severed the windpipe in rapid, deadly hits. All the targets were principal dealers for Kaplani. All were left in Chinatown locations. Another unexpected series of blows to the Europeans. The question was, who to blame?