“Time to get airborne,” ordered Jules, leading out toward the helicopter with Brad, Jeb, Malky and Johan. All nine had earpiece radios and the waterproof-wrapped weapons, as with the engagement in Istanbul harbour. On board the chopper, the quintet also carried shoulder-slung AK47s. The pilot gave the thumbs-up, and they lifted off easily despite the wind and rain. On the ground the base hangar housed the radio signal receiver, manned by Bob Granger.
“Target maintaining course, heading for Bognor,” he transmitted. “Go get ‘em, guys.”
“Roger that, base. Keep us on track,” replied Johan, the designated radio-man in the air.
The wind strengthened and the swell looked heavier. Jules checked each of the men in turn. This would be a tricky drop, but they’d all done them in rougher weather than this. The teams coming in on the water surface needed to be careful. Johan maintained contact with the launch. It put out to sea with the other four, all set. He matched in the coordinates with Granger and they looked in good shape. Now for the drop.
***
Aboard The Constellation, Fadi’s men were unfazed by the gathering storm. They’d been doing this kind of run for years, and on a vessel this stable it was a straightforward operation. The skipper checked his computerised course readings and made an adjustment to the settings. He had strict orders not to cross the twelve-mile line. The other two craft would come out to meet him, the handover scheduled to take no more than an hour, then set course back toward Turkey and a well-earned bonus. His plans were about to be dramatically curtailed.
***
Brad leaned out from the side of the helicopter. The wind buffeted him. He grinned his broad smile at the others and waved. The open door made speaking futile. They’d flown out beyond The Constellation and doubled back to approach from its stern. With the noise from the gathering storm, the chopper would be inaudible aboard the boat. Johan held up his palm with fingers spread, indicating to Jules they were five minutes from the target. Simultaneously, the vessel ahead of them appeared to slow also, with back engine foam churning the sea around the stern. It was stopping. Jules nodded, understanding The Constellation had reached as close to the coast as its skipper intended to be, meaning other company was expected. The South African relayed the message to Jack at sea level.
“Roger that,” came the answer.
Fadi’s men had rehearsed their meeting with the shore-bound team, but weren’t ready for the reception that hit them. The launch powered toward the larger vessel before stopping in a circle of white sea spray. The two dinghies propelled over the side, followed by two pairs of wetsuits. In this weather, their approach on the surface wouldn’t be noticed aboard The Constellation. From the chopper, Jules and Brad took a rope line each and abseiled down to the rear deck. From their previous visit they knew the complete layout of the boat. They landed heavily on the wooden deck as the heavy swell moved up to meet them. In seconds they steadied back against the rails with the AK47s at the ready. Malky descended next, with a lightness belying his bulk. Johan and Jeb followed suit.
A man stepped out of the lounge to flick a cigarette butt into the sea and peered into the night darkness. The rendezvous was due soon, but he couldn’t make out anything on the immediate horizon looking like his shore team. His eye caught the movement of a dark figure lifting a weapon. He darted back inside screaming, “Attack! Attack!”
Brad steadied himself to aim at the man. A sudden sea pitch sent his bullets sailing harmlessly past his target.
“Damn. Now we’ve gotta do it the hard way.” Jeb and Malky raked the lounge windows with a barrage of gunfire, smashing the fortified perspex glass into shreds as the men inside returned their fire. Johan and Brad darted forward and lobbed in a stun grenade each before retreating under cover from Jules. Despite the roar and smoke from the grenades causing instant panic and confusion the defence didn’t stop. Stunned as they were, these men knew what had happened in Istanbul and didn’t relish the same end. Constant random firing kept their attackers pinned back alongside the swimming pool.
Jules pointed to the pool, indicating they’d be protected in there and jumped in first, holding his gun above his head. At the edge nearest to the lounge, the water came up only to his chest. He kept up a salvo at the windows as the rest joined him. They maintained a stream of fire in rotation, ensuring no-one dared move forward against them. One set of gang members waited entrenched inside the suite area. Another six came up from the forward decks and moved cautiously toward their colleagues.
Johan radioed into the mouthpiece at his cheek. “We five are in the swimming pool on rear deck, repeat swimming pool on rear deck. Enemy fire still active. Over.”
Jack and his team neared the prow of The Constellation. He picked up the message and answered immediately “Roger that. Keep your heads down, repeat keep your heads down. Front sweep under way. Over.”
“Roger that.” Johan turned his palm downwards and motioned to the squad to stay in situ to avoid any crossfire hits.
From the front of the vessel the lowest point up to the deck was a meter and a half. Paul and Donnie treaded water and clasped each other’s wrists to make a bridge. May-Ling being the lightest, she placed her foot on their arms and they pushed her up. A careful look from just below the rim showed all the crew either in the lounge area or moving in that direction. She clambered on to the deck and reached round to help Jack come aboard. He grabbed her wrist, and she clutched his, bringing him quickly up beside her. May-Ling removed her machine pistol from the waterproof, covering the others as they climbed on board. Paul and Donnie were alongside moments later. The men from below decks neared the mid-ships, moving slowly and firing ahead randomly at invisible targets. The sweep team fanned out and on a drop of the hand from Jack opened fire in a concerted deadly burst. The bodies crumpled in front of them as Paul Manning threw a stun grenade forward through the lounge doorway. This time no-one returned fire.
“All clear,” the earpieces echoed to Jack’s instruction.
“Visitors incoming about three hundred metres away. Prepare to receive,” announced Donnie Mullen as he watched two large heavy-duty rubberised dinghies speeding toward The Constellation, their prows pointing well above the sea surface. These getaway ocean speedsters, powered by massive outboard engines were used by drug smugglers all over the world. Three men occupied each dinghy, unaware of the action taking place aboard their rendezvous. On a bad night like this they weren’t surprised no-one greeted them from the larger vessel, wiser to stay inside out of this storm. What was a surprise as they circled in a semi-arc and moored at the stern was the appearance of half a dozen black clad figures aiming AK47s their way. Any sudden stupid move would be fatal and they surrendered without a fight.
The assault team tied the prisoners back-to-back and secured them against the rear railings. No chance of jumping overboard. Suicide by drowning may have been fitting summary justice for these criminals but would have robbed Alan Rennie and Bob Granger of arrests to put on the score sheet.
Jeb took the wheel of The Constellation. “Manoeuvre her closer inshore,” ordered Jules. “At five miles off the coast they’re officially contravening British law. That’ll do nicely.”
Within half an hour, a launch tied up alongside. Led by Bob Granger, the police anti-drugs team, dressed in dark blue overalls, didn’t take long to uncover the stowed drugs. In the suites they took the panels apart with crowbars. Stashed in the walls of The Constellation they retrieved a huge shipment in excess of one and a half tonnes of pure heroin with a street value nearing five hundred million dollars. Granger’s men arranged for the removal of the bodies on board and formalised the arrests of the crews from the power dinghies. This would prove the biggest bust ever in the United Kingdom and put a colossal dent in the trade for months to come.
This is not good, thought Yurev. After an hour had passed beyond the time he expected to get the confirmation call all had been delivered safely he was already concerned. When two and then three hours elapsed
he knew they’d been busted.
“Take me to the airport,” he commanded the driver, as they began the reverse journey.
On the way to Heathrow, his mobile phone rang, the caller name blank. Ahmed Fadi’s subdued voice carried its own menace. “You’ve failed me, Yurev. I’ve received word my vessel has been violated again. There’s a common factor in both of these, no?”
“Ahmed, I’ve no idea—”
“Don’t talk to me, Yurev. My own people there have gotten intelligence the authorities attacked The Constellation. The shipment is lost. And so are more of my men.” The line went dead.
Yurev’s mind raced. He wasn’t familiar with the sensation of fear but he had a rock where his stomach should be. What the hell to do? Going back to Turkey would be a death sentence. He still had numbered bank accounts and money of his own stashed away for a rainy day. Well that rainy day was pouring now. He had enough places where he could go and just disappear, invisible retirement the obvious choice. He began to feel better but the rock still nagged at his guts.
The car drew into the third-floor parking area they’d left the previous afternoon and cruised to a halt in the same bay. The driver got out and opened Yurev’s door. Neither of them glimpsed the two men stepping out from the van parked across from the sedan. In the enclosed space the noise was deafening as a hail of Uzi bullets rained in on them. Yurev and the driver heard little as their bodies jerked from the force of the onslaught. The power of the salvo spun Yurev around as he fell, cannoning off the car door to land across the body of his chauffeur in a grotesque death embrace. The assassins unhurriedly got back into their van and drove off toward the exit ramp.
Ahmed Fadi liked to settle accounts quickly.
CHAPTER 41
The elegant suburb of Wilanov boasts some of the most desirable residences in Warsaw. Nothing much disturbs its tranquil exterior and many of the wealthier people in the country choose to live there. Senior bankers, commercial titans, and leaders of industry are commonplace in the elite dwellings scattered along the tree-lined boulevards. Expensive imported vehicles populate the double- and triple-car garages blending aesthetically with the understated beauty of its environment. That the Chief of Police, Tomasz Gorski, owned one of these properties never raised any question. Conventional wisdom conceded a high-ranking law enforcement officer would naturally have access to the means of affording such a home. The salary would be an insignificant part of his income, also an accepted norm.
Gorski’s daily routine rarely encompassed more than a notional few office hours, the rest of the time applied to the pursuit of other, more lucrative engagements such as the advisory services extended to Jozef Kaplani. He had several loosely contracted arrangements of a similar ilk with diverse business interests, most of which skirted the shadow of the law. Tomasz Gorski was the law, and that was that. No arguments. His high arrest and conviction records satisfied his formal employers. Life was good and the pickings even better.
His maroon-coloured Volvo was easily recognisable in Warsaw and although entitled to a personal driver, he insisted on being his own chauffeur. Given many of the commercial liaisons he indulged, he preferred not to have an extra pair of witness eyes in the vehicle.
An early evening meeting with the advocate for a well-known surgeon had taken longer than he’d scheduled. The man, a weasel of a negotiator, often acted in mediation between the Chief of Police and an array of clients whose common denominator was their regular ability to break the law. Money always formed part of the mediation discussions. The doctor had been arrested on multiple charges of illegal abortions, stemming from an operation that had gone badly wrong for the wife of a parliamentarian. The wife’s abortion in the first place had nothing to do with her physical well-being but with the fact the husband was infertile. The unborn baby belonged to someone else. The law-maker insisted on teaching his wife, the lover, and the abortionist a harsh lesson. A divorce was already set in motion. On this occasion, Gorski had to disappoint the doctor’s mediator as the aggrieved husband had beaten him to it by ensuring a considerable amount of cash in a numbered bank account would guarantee a conviction. The pleadings of the lawyer wouldn’t change Gorski’s stance, but being a source of steady business, he indulged the man’s company for a few hours before parting with a rueful apology. Two bottles of vodka had been consumed, but no-one was going to arrest the Chief of Police for drink-driving.
Drunker than he realised, somehow he drove erratically back to his home without any accident. After several attempts, the gates responded to the fumbled clicking of the electric key, as did the garage doors. An interconnecting passage led a few metres from the garage into the house and he staggered into the central hallway to an unexpected welcome.
“Don’t make any sudden move, my friend,” said a deep American drawl. The end of a pistol jammed against the side of Gorski’s neck as two other men appeared from the living area, also armed with silenced weapons. The first man, with the gun at his throat, pushed him forward along the passageway toward his study. His own firearm was quickly removed from its holster as they moved into the den. The solid, wooden desk with his books and mementoes centred the room, with the club-style, upholstered chair behind. It never occurred to him to struggle. The vodka had dulled his thinking. Who the fuck are these guys? They want me to fix something. I’m the Chief of Police. They need me to fix something. Then it all went terribly wrong.
The men on either side of him each held an arm in a vice-like elbow lock, impossible to resist. Effortlessly, they steered him toward the club chair, spun him round and pushed him into a sitting position, keeping his arms pinned. The first man stepped behind him, pulled his head back roughly by the hair and pinched his nostrils shut. The natural reaction was to open his mouth to breathe and try to speak. As he did so, one of the men at his side pushed Gorski’s revolver into his mouth and fired once, blowing his brains all over the study. The body slumped in the chair. The intruders placed the gun in the dead man’s right hand, with the index finger jammed in the trigger shield.
Brad Miles, Johan Krull and Jeb Zucker had wrought retribution for the murders of two valued colleagues a month earlier, saving Interpol the formal trouble of arresting and prosecuting a principal accessory of those responsible. The trio vanished from the house as they had come, invisibly.
The suicide of the much respected and sadly-missed Warsaw Chief of Police, Tomasz Gorski, would engage the local and national dailies for weeks to come.
CHAPTER 42
The three meetings at ISP’s revamped office were all in the same week.
On Monday, Marcel Benoit arrived and delivered a money order payable to the company’s account in the Channel Islands for five million dollars, drawn on a bank in Luxembourg. No receipt was required.
They finished their coffee and Benoit said, “You know, Jules, all we’ve done is slow them down for a few months, but the haul on the south coast is a major plus. I don’t have a limitless budget, but this contract with you was an excellent investment for Interpol. I’d like to keep the monthly retainer arrangement going for at least another twelve months. Who can tell, there might even be some other bonus work for you.” He laughed.
“Your lads did very well, Marcel. It’d be a pleasure working again with Brad and his boys.” Jules extended his hand for a warm handshake with the Head of Interpol before walking him to the door. “Keep in touch.”
Regular paperwork for the business took up much of the Wednesday morning. Donnie Mullen came into Jules’s office. “Couple of things of interest for you,” he began, spreading himself on one of the chairs in front of the boss’s desk. “First of all, an inspired piece of thinking by our man Bob Granger brought May-Ling photographs of the victims in the Heathrow car park shootings. The bodies were a bloody mess, but the faces were undamaged. She recognised the chunky individual as one of the group who snatched her and later got her to make the calls to Jack from Albania. We’re almost a hundred per cent certain it’s Yurev, the guy Marcel
kept talking about.”
“Hmm.” Jules sat back.
“Something wrong with that, Jules?”
“This boy’s been ordered killed by someone higher up the feeding chain because he was supposed to bring the drug shipment safely home. We might just have a bigger enemy in the offing some day. Anyway, another bad lad gone’s good news. You said you had a couple of things. What’s the second one?”
“I’d a visitor myself a little while ago this morning. I liked what he had to say to me. He’s still here. I think you should speak to him too,” said Donnie, standing up to open the door. “Come in, Paul. Have a seat.”
The Met’s Head of Serious Crimes walked in and took the chair opposite Donnie’s.
“Hi, Jules. Good to see you. Did Donnie tell you what I’m here about?”
Jules shook his head. “No, but he tells me I should speak to you. What’s up?”
Donnie grinned like a cat with a bowl of cream. Manning turned to Jules. “I’ve resigned from the Met, effective three months from now.” He coughed a little self-consciously. “I reckon my account’s cleared with them. I can leave with a clean book, officially and unofficially. You guys played a big part in making that happen, Jules, and I’m grateful.”
Jules opened his hands and smiled. “You did okay, Paul. I’m sure you didn’t come here just to tell me you’re gonna be a man of leisure, right?”
“Correct. I was thinking maybe there’s a place at ISP for somebody with my background. I enjoyed the gig in Albania, and on The Constellation. I believe I could add something to you guys. What do y’think?”
Jules looked across to Donnie who winked back at him.
“When do you want to start?” Jules stood up and shook hands with their new team member.
VENGEANCE WEARS BLACK (Jack Calder Crime Series #2) Page 20
