Hard Place

by Douglas Stewart

  “Rogerson. Mark Rogerson, Special Branch.”

  Before the man had a chance to say anything more, Ratso jumped in. “Excellent.” He explained in headline terms what was happening to arrest Altin Vata and Rogerson’s attitude changed instantly. Ratso judged that after months of nil excitement, Rogerson was pleased to be seeing some action.

  “You’re arresting him airside, then?”

  Ratso had every reason neatly marshalled. “Once he’s airside, he can’t escape. He could be armed though.”

  Rogerson was dismissive. “We have the top specification scanners here.”

  Ratso gave a half smile. “That’s one good reason for tackling him airside. It reduces the chance of him being armed. He’s rich, well-connected but beneath that he’s a bruiser, a streetfighter. He will not go quietly. We can immediately hold him for using a false passport but we’ve years of shit to throw back at him.” He saw Rogerson was in synch. “Will Zandro recognise you? Your colleagues?”

  “There’s two of us on duty. Me and Keith Groom. Yes, he’ll have seen us both.”

  Ratso’s phone vibrated. “Yes?”

  “Target has just turned into the airport,” reported Tosh. “He’s approaching some type of security barrier now.”

  “Confirmed.” Ratso turned to Rogerson. “He’s arrived. Anyone in the departures lounge?”

  “Quite a few city types. They’re waiting for fog at Geneva to lift.”

  Ratso was pleased. “When Zandro enters the airside lounge, I want your colleague Keith to block the exit to landside so he cannot turn back. I want you to be mingling with the other waiting passengers. We’ll nab him by the door leading to the apron. Be armed and have the cuffs ready. Go now. Get your mate sorted.” He paused. “Ah, Moira: tell the control tower that the flight must not, repeat not be cleared for take-off. In fact, no flight must be cleared for take-off. Understood?” As the listeners turned to hurry away, he added, “I’ll be in the airside lounge. He doesn’t know me.”

  Ratso walked through the body scanner, which was turned off—just as well, because the knuckleduster buckle on his belt would have triggered the alarm, as might his chunky steel cufflinks. For a moment he thought back to when he had unclipped the knuckleduster in the slums of Freeport. Then, it had been an unnecessary precaution; now he freed the buckle again and slipped the aggressively meaty device onto the fingers of his right hand. Just in case. He rolled up the belt and slipped it into his left pocket.

  He glanced back but there was no sign of Zandro in his Altin Vata disguise. You had to give it to the guy. He was well-prepared. His escape plans must have been fine-tuned for an immediate departure—plans that clearly did not include his shopaholic young wife. Ratso entered the final departures lounge where there were about a dozen young executives of both sexes. Their body language shouted their frustration loud and clear over their delay. One or two nodded toward him in a friendly but remote manner, more acknowledging his presence than wanting to talk. Sorry, guys. You’ll just have to wait for your in-flight Romanée Conti and rare fillet steaks. Jealous, Ratso? After only a bacon buttie and a coffee on the incoming flight from Spain? You bet.

  Ratso now had a moment to think. He had only been in the terminal for four minutes and had achieved a great deal. But what have I overlooked? He could think of nothing yet a nagging doubt remained. So long as everybody else did their thing, surely nothing could go wrong. He tried to look like a billionaire awaiting his private flight as he strolled restlessly, pausing to gaze out at the five impressive jets that were parked at varying distances from the exit beside him.

  In Zandro’s waiting Gulfstream, he could see the pilot … and a co-pilot. Shit! A co-pilot. He had forgotten about him. Giles Mountford had someone seated next to him. But who could it be? What does the co-pilot know, if anything? Nothing. Giles would never have confided that he was a grass, a snout for an officer in SCD7. It was too risky to phone Giles now with someone seated beside him. Sure, Giles would not take off without ATC clearance. That was a given. But the colleague? What would he do? Or what if Zandro kept a gun on board? What if Zandro got aboard and threatened the pilots with a gun? Forced them to take off? Shit! He should have thought of this before. Too late now.

  Zandro must never reach his jet.

  He looked anxiously back toward the door leading to the security zone. Where the hell was Rogerson? Zandro would be here any moment and only Rogerson had the cuffs. And where was Wensley Hughes and the promised support? Surely they had arrived? He dialled and heard Hughes’ gentle tone, calm and reassuring. “We are under a mile from the airport, well clear now of Bromley. Okay?”

  “It might be.” Ratso was looking anxiously over his shoulder. “Gotta go.” He turned to look at the Gulfstream, imagining the tall, slim figure of Giles Mountford sitting in the cockpit. God! I’m placing a load of trust in him. Under threat, who would he back? Too late to agonise now.

  Would Giles or the co-pilot personally be escorting him to the steps into the aircraft? Even as he looked, the light rain became a sharp shower that beat down harder, the raindrops bouncing off the tarmac. In these conditions, more likely someone from the terminal with an umbrella would escort any passenger across to the aircraft.

  Once banged up, Zandro would be very suspicious of how he had been traced to Biggin Hill. Maybe I should let Zandro think he was followed by a team on the ground. Ratso felt an overwhelming duty to protect any informant like Giles. It was the feeling every copper had for someone who took risks to make a few quid. If Zandro ever discovered the truth, then somehow, someday, Zandro would have Mountford killed—that, or murder his wife and two kids.

  With most snouts, the desire to protect them as a source was matched by contempt that someone would sell his mates down the river for money. Ratso occasionally felt like that with the lowlifes but Giles Mountford he saw very differently. The pilot had not wanted money. Worse still, he knew he would lose his job once Zandro was arrested. But he despised Zandro. Ratso thought back to that day, seven months back, when he had traced Mountford to the Coal Hole pub on the Strand in central London. He had cornered him, got chatting and then taken him to dinner up Wellington Street. There he had produced the before-and-after photos of young Freddie. The sight of them had turned him.

  “I’ve two kids myself in a vulnerable age group. I despise the drug trade.” Before dinner was over, he had agreed to do what little he could to destroy the man who paid him. But is he to be trusted if Zandro reaches the plane and threatens him? Answer: don’t let Zandro get near the Gulfstream.

  As he gazed round the room, he saw with relief that Rogerson had joined the throng of thwarted passengers. Sorry, guys. Even if the fog lifts now in Geneva, you’re not going. Rogerson immediately immersed himself in conversation with a small group that were tapping their feet, standing close to the door to the tarmac as if their proximity would make the Swiss fog lift. Then Ratso saw him—a total stranger who appeared from the direction of the scanner. He knew it was Zandro but not from his appearance. He was being escorted by a woman with a large umbrella; she wheeled a small roll-along and he was carrying an executive case. Good on you, Boris, Ratso thought.

  Altin Vata was nothing like Boris Zandro. He looked ten years older, his cheeks much fatter, his eyebrows much wilder and gray. In a Tyrolean hat and dark olive-green overcoat, he looked like a retired and prosperous Austrian banker, though the name still sounded Albanian. Ratso could not see the eyes but he was prepared to bet he was wearing colored contacts. The stomach girth was the same—substantial but not obese. The shoes were more suitable for mountain walks than Zandro’s usual crocodile loafers. The hair that circled the foot of his perky little hat was also grayer than normal. But the dead giveaway was the ubiquitous black leather attaché case with brass trimmings. Below the handle were the embossed initials BKZ. The roll-along was barely larger than an oversized briefcase of the type us
ed by many pilots. He was travelling light but to where? Air Traffic would have known, if he had thought to check.

  Ratso watched Zandro’s eyes sweep the room. If he was inwardly nervous, it did not show. “I’m just checking that Mr Mountford is ready for you,” the woman said to her passenger as she held the phone to her ear. Ratso was ready to make his move but was baulked by the passengers who had gathered closer to the exit, between him and Zandro. The woman smiled at her passenger. “They’re ready, Mr. Vata. We can go across.” The woman released the roll-along while she removed the swipe card from her tunic pocket. Ratso moved rapidly to circle the chattering group. Damn them! Rogerson had been better positioned and was closer to Zandro as the swipe card worked and the glass door opened. The sound of the thunderous rain filled the room.

  Things were not going as planned. Where were the uniforms to make the arrest? It was now down to him and Rogerson. There were no regular police officers based at this small airport unlike the major ones where they patrolled with their weapons ready. No time to blame yourself for this snafu. Play the ball where it lies, Ratso.

  He rushed toward Zandro’s departing back. “Mr Boris Zandro. I’m Detective Inspector Holtom, Metropolitan Police and I’m arresting you for using a false passport.” On hearing this, Rogerson made his move. As Zandro spun round on hearing his name, Rogerson grabbed Zandro’s left arm, which held the attaché case. The startled look on Zandro’s face was one to savour, one Ratso hoped he would remember long after his days in the force were over. The eyes seemed to be twice their normal size; his tongue flicked out and as quickly back in as the muscles of the solid jawline drooped just slightly.

  Just as Ratso was almost in reach, he heard Rogerson let out an anguished howl of pain. It came from deep in his stomach and sounded almost primeval, to the horror of the nearest group. At first Ratso thought Zandro had stabbed him but as Rogerson reeled backward, releasing his grip, the detective could see what had happened.

  In Zandro’s right hand, he was holding what looked like a Mont Blanc pen, a symbol of wealth and status among pens. It was black, quite fat with the small white star on top of the cap. But Ratso knew instantly that Mont Blanc made no pens like this one. He guessed that a specialist in personal protection had created a fake that concealed a virulent pepper spray—ideal for passing undetected through airport security. The active ingredient of capsaicin had rendered Rogerson temporarily and painfully blind.

  As Rogerson reeled back yelling, hands frantically rubbing his eyes, he was caught by one of the city types. Ratso faltered, uncertain what to do. Zandro must not reach the jet. As Ratso lunged forward, Zandro raised his arm to spray him but Ratso landed a fierce upward blow with the knuckleduster on Zandro’s wrist. Zandro yelped and lost his grip on the spray which fell to the floor, hissing like an asp. The spray missed Ratso instead catching Zandro’s escort full in the face. She too fell back screaming, leaving Ratso alone by the open door to the tarmac.

  Ratso swung his right arm again and smashed it into the thickness of the overcoat below stomach level but other than a grunt, it had no effect. “Grab the bastard,” Ratso called out to anybody around him just as Zandro’s attaché case swung full tilt and caught him a mighty blow on his right cheek, the sharpness of the brass corner gouging out a chunk of flesh. Ratso rocked back, momentarily confused by the heavy impact and the blood already pouring down his face.

  Zandro needed no prompting. Before anyone reacted to Ratso’s cry for help, he had rushed out, slamming the door shut behind him.

  “The swipecard! Where’s the swipecard?” Ratso yelled as blood spattered to the floor. The woman’s hands were empty—she had clasped them over her eyes. He finally spotted it lying on the floor by her side. A quick swipe and he dashed into the downpour out on the apron, his head throbbing, the blood from his cheek dripping copiously onto his windcheater.

  Zandro was no longer built for speed and even though he had abandoned his roll-along, he was still only three-quarter way to the Gulfstream. Ignoring the pain, Ratso broke into a sprint, the lashing rain obscuring his vision. Ahead, Ratso saw Zandro signalling to a woman in a scarlet tunic on the aircraft’s steps.

  Ratso wondered what Mountford would do—and the co-pilot, too. Zandro must think the pilot will take off. He knows nothing of the embargo by ATC. But under pressure, would Mountford refuse? Would he obey a scruff with a bleeding face and risk blowing his cover? Does Zandro have a gun on board? Would Mountford still refuse if threatened at gunpoint? And if he took off with me on board? He didn’t care to think that through too closely.

  No time to worry about that, Ratso. Just get aboard, or you’ve lost everything.

  A crash of thunder almost directly overhead filled the air as Ratso splashed the last few paces toward the shapely beauty of the Gulfstream. Zandro had reached the plane. Ratso could see he looked out of shape as he clasped the railing and then mounted the steps one at a time. Ratso heard him shout to the woman in the scarlet uniform, “Close the fucking door!” Ratso could see her just inside as Zandro stumbled in before turning right and out of sight.

  The hostess looked startled on hearing Ratso’s shouts of “Police! Stop!” but must have pressed whatever switch set the steps in motion. As Ratso grasped the rail, they started to pivot upward, heading for their final position flush with the plane, sealing the passengers inside. From the third step, Ratso launched himself horizontally into the cabin. He crashed to the floor in the galley area, the main cabin’s plush leather seats and tables off to his right. In hurling himself aboard, he struck the hostess, who tottered backwards and crashed into a cupboard filled with what sounded like fine china. As he lay on the floor, struggling to orient himself, the door to the jet closed with a thud. He was trapped.

  Ratso took in his surroundings. Neil Diamond’s Solitary Man was playing quietly, filling the cabin. The interior smelled of new carpets, expensive leather and spicy air freshener. Right beside him, close to his head, were black stockings and a pair of expensive black leather shoes with high stiletto heels.

  As he rose to his knees, he saw Zandro’s hand fumbling under a table just a couple of meters away. Beyond the table were two thickly padded leather chairs in gunmetal gray. He could hear the crouching figure grunting with the effort, his breathing quite laboured from crossing the apron. Then came a crackle of sticky paper being ripped and Ratso knew it must have been holding some type of weapon to the table’s underside.

  Zandro still had his back turned, so it was impossible to see what he was reaching for but there was no time to find out. Pushing back the svelte stewardess to the sound of more crashing crockery, Ratso launched himself straight onto Zandro’s back, pulling him from the table and wrapping his right arm around his neck in a throttling grip. The Tyrolean hat tumbled to the thick gray carpet.

  Ratso needed help—the second Special Branch officer or Wensley Hughes’ team. “Open the door,” Ratso ordered the hostess, shooting her a sharp look over his shoulder. “I’m a police officer. Open the door now.” He strained to keep a grip on the cumbersome figure, who was twisting and lurching as he tried to get a weapon into play. “Just do it!” Ratso shouted again but he heard no sound of the door being opened. He wondered what was happening in the terminal or on the wet tarmac outside.

  Then the plane shuddered as the Rolls-Royce engines whined into life. My God! Heaven help anyone too close to the jet now. You’re on your own, Ratso. You gotta win this struggle. Was Giles Mountford obeying orders from the hostess who had done nothing about the door? Was the pilot bluffing—protecting his cover as Ratso had always advised him?

  As he fought to maintain his fierce lock, he realised that while pounding the tarmac he’d lost his knuckleduster. He was now reliant on the strength of his arms and fists alone. Just when I need it most, he thought, swaying from side to side in time with Zandro, who was fighting to free himself from the bear hug and grab whatever was under th
e table.

  Ratso heard a movement behind him. The next second he felt a sickening crack to his left shoulder as the hostess brought a fire extinguisher down in a vicious blow. No doubt she had hoped to crack open his head but with the two men’s erratic movements, she had narrowly missed. Now the shiny silver cylinder tumbled to the floor close to his feet.

  Ratso felt an immediate loss of power in his left arm. It fell away, momentarily useless. He tightened his grip on Zandro’s neck, his clenched knuckle pushing deep into it. Both Zandro’s hands were free to scrabble beneath the table if he could only get close enough. Shit! Will the hostess try to reach whatever’s under the table? She had only to squeeze past the two men, who were locked together like copulating dogs. She’s bound to try.

  A single tactical mistake now and he was dead. Neither pilot seemed eager to intervene as the jet engines continued to warm up, ready to taxi away. Ratso dismissed any hope that Mountford would break cover now. The best hope was he would not taxi the plane in defiance of ATC orders.

  The extinguisher lay close to Ratso’s left foot. That bitch could reach it. If she does, I won’t be so lucky twice. With just one arm, he knew he could not keep hold of the bucking and heaving Albanian for much longer. It was time for a change of strategy. Instead of forcing Zandro’s head downward with his full weight on the Albanian’s back, he suddenly jerked his arm up, heaving Zandro’s head back as far as he could. Then, when he could raise it no farther, he slammed it back down and smashed the Albanian’s nose into the table top.

  A howl of pain split the cabin and Ratso gleefully imagined the blood pouring down Zandro’s face and his eyes flooding with tears. But still the brute wriggled and twisted, grappling to get his hands under the table. From the corner of his eye, Ratso saw the stewardess lean down beside him, seeking the extinguisher.