The airfield had been completely off the radar, built in the Everglades. It was designated on the planning at City Hall, as a parking lot for the alligator farm and air boat rides offered by the owners. On the face of it, it was a very long car park but, considering the number of tourists likely to visit at any one time, it was clearly out of all proportion to the likely needs of the purported business.
Rojas had assured him that it was a big heroin shipment and that it would boost his and the DEA’s profile in the so called, War against Drugs, so beloved by the US Presidents. He looked at his watch. It was three thirty in the morning. The air was filled with the croaking of frogs and bright specs of light, in the form of alligator eyes, that could be seen watching them from the swamp. The mosquitoes formed swarms around the heads of the DEA agents surrounding the field. Despite the heavy application of deet based repellent, they did not seem to be greatly deterred from seeking out a meal among the waiting agents.
There was the sound of footsteps and he turned to see Agent Martha Swain, who was heading up tonight’s raid. “They’ve just bagged two men in a truck. They are here to switch on the runway lights in twenty minutes from now.”
“They just gave that up to you?”
“Not as such, they were just hired to switch on the lights, unload the plane and load up their truck, then deliver the drugs to an address in Miami. We offered immunity if they gave up the next link in the chain. We now know the address and bulk dealer in Miami. The two of them are pretty low level and illegal. We’ll hang onto them for a few days and then export them back to Mexico,” she said.
They sat in silence and waited. At first, Trist could not be sure if he was hearing anything against the chorus of night noises coming from the swamp. He strained to hear and then it became louder. The distinct drone of a light aircrafts engine.
“Switch on the strip lights,” said Swain as she hurried off to join her team and a minute later the lights came on.
The strip ran parallel to the swamp. On the left were the rushes, weeds and mango trees that lined the edge of the Everglades. In the lights he could see the jetty and the sign offering trips on the airboats. He could hear the plane, but could not see it. It did not have its navigation lights on. Trist had wondered why these planes were not picked up by Air Traffic Control as they crossed the border into US airspace. He had made a phone call earlier in the day and received his explanation.
“Some are and some are not,” said the controller. “They fly low and do not have transponders. The traffickers are not stupid and they have a lot of money, so they hire six or seven charter planes as decoys and literally swarm us with light aircraft. They buzz around each other and peel off. We don’t have the resources to chase up on all of them. We intercept the odd one, but the profits are so vast ,they just sort of accept the odd loss of a shipment. It is like a tax to them.”
The engine noise grew louder and the small plane gradually came into view. It circled the strip getting its bearings and began to descend. Trist held his breath. This was the crucial part. He hoped that the pilot’s attention would be taken up with the tricky landing procedure and so not have time to check around as he came in.
The plane came in and landed heavily and bounced before settling. The plane was clearly heavily laden and it struggled to stop on the relative short, makeshift runway. It turned and taxied back and came to a halt facing into the small breeze that came in from the swamp onto the land. The truck with two DEA agents driving it, flashed its lights and headed towards the plane. The hatch opened and the pilot stepped out.
“Go, go, go,” shouted Swain into the mouthpiece of her radio. The three DEA vehicles raced towards the plane with their headlights on full beam. The pilot froze like a statue, bewildered by the turn of events. He realised the game was up and lay himself on the ground with his arms outstretched. He had obviously been arrested before and knew the procedure and had no desire to get himself shot.
The Agents stepped from their vehicles and began to unload the seized drugs onto the tarmac as Trist drove over to inspect the haul. “It is a big haul,” said Swain
“Fucking big,” said Trist looking at about twenty million dollars worth of heroin.
The pilot was cuffed and placed in a car. The armoured truck which would be used to transport the drugs to the secure pound was on its way. It had been parked about fifteen miles away on the Interstate, waiting for a call. It was too big to conceal near the runway. For fear of it being spotted, it was decided to keep it off site.
There was an upbeat feeling of elation among the agents, a mixture of relief and excitement following the adrenaline rush of the wait and the seizure. They were clustered next to the plane, speaking excitedly and laughing.
The relative calm of the scene was suddenly shattered by a terrific roar of engines and the Agents looked around confused. For an instant they froze, their brains trying to make sense of the ear splitting din. Trist reacted first, “hit the ground,” he screamed as bullets started to fly towards them from all directions.
Four air boats going full throttle came roaring from the swamp. Sat next to each driver, in the elevated seat, which was directly in front of the engine and the propeller, that pushed the boats skimming on the surface of the swamp, stood a gunman, spraying bullets, from a small Uzi machine gun.
The agents scrambling for cover were taken unawares and struggled to bring their own fire arms to bear on the men that had now jumped from the boats and were intent on recovering their drugs. Swain was hit, as were two other DEA agents, as they began to return fire, forcing the approaching men to fall to the ground for cover. The agents were out numbered and out gunned. It was only a matter of time before the assailants got the upper hand and recovered the drugs and made off into the night in their air boats. Once in the backwaters an army would not be able to find them.
Trist wondered if this had not been a deliberate set up, but realised Rojas, nor any of the other drug lords making these shipments, could know what arrangements the buyers had made to protect their investment. The suppliers were only responsible for delivering the heroin, after that it was up to the distributor to process and sell it into the US market. In any event, his operation was going badly wrong.
Just as it appeared that all was lost, the armoured truck appeared and drove up on the six gunmen from behind. The driver, seeing the situation had driven the truck up onto the runway with the lights off. He drove at high speed at the men, switching his lights on, highlighting them in the main beam. Four guards in full body armour jumped from the truck and began spraying the would be highjackers with bullets. They were now caught in a cross fire between Swain’s team at the aircraft and the newly arrived armoured truck.
Silence, apart from the groaning of the injured, one dead and two wounded. It was a bad night for the DEA. It was no comfort that all but one of the drug dealers had been killed.
“That was fucking close,” thought Trist as he drove away. He certainly had to earn his money.
Chapter 14
Douglas is the Capital of the Isle of Man, a tiny island with a population of about sixty five thousand people. Situated between England and Ireland, its claim to fame is the Isle of Man Tourist Trophy motor bike races. The other thing it is famous for is it lack of corporation and capital taxes. While it has a tiny population, the advocate’s offices, in Athol Street, have their walls covered in brass plaques bearing the names of thousands of corporations who have their registered offices on the island. One of those companies was Baltic Bank Holdings
Mel Levy had just arrived at Ronaldsway airport, having flown from New York to Gatwick in England and then onto the Isle of Man. He sat in the taxi, looking out the window. He had never been to the Island before, but had established hundreds of companies there to help his investors minimise their tax bills. This time, he wished he had not suggested to the Russians the possibility, of not only laundering their money for them, but having cleaned it, of taking it tax free. Because of this, he now found h
imself on a tiny island in the middle of the Irish Sea meeting three of the most dangerous and powerful men in the World.
“Do you notice there are no trees,” the taxi driver interrupted his thoughts.
“What?”
“There are no trees,” repeated the cabbie. “Well, there are trees but no naturally occurring ones.”
Levy wondered if that was true or not. “Why is that?” he asked
“No idea,” he replied.
Levy was getting a sense of the Manx character and made a mental note to avoid, as far as possible, conversation with taxi drivers during his brief visit.
“The Manx cats have no tails.”
Levy knew he was going to regret this, “Why?”
It was the mistake he thought it would be, “I have no idea. Odd isn’t it?”
“The Fairies live her under this bridge,” he said as they rounded a bend. “You should make a wish.”
Levy did, but it clearly failed as the driver did not spontaneously combust. The drive continued to the Advocate’s office, but not before Levy had learned that the Manx flag had three legs, so you could never fall over.
Pelham Stevens were a well known firm of Manx Advocates who specialised in offshore work. Levy had used them on numerous occasions before, to set up special purpose companies, as they were known, to mitigate his and his client’s potential tax liabilities. This was the first time he had, however, met Gerald Pelham face to face.
“Welcome to the Isle of Man, Mr Levy. It is so good to put a face to a name after all these years.”
Levy knew, of course, that Pelham was just being polite and discreet. After all, Levy’s face was known thoughout the World as the rogue banker that was fined a billion dollars and sent to prison for four years.
“Your colleagues have just arrived and are in the conference room. Would you like coffee?”
Coffee sorted, he was shown into a large room with a central table and eighteen chairs around it. Five of the chairs were occupied. Two of the men seated were clearly body guards, Levy knew them, Andrei and Vadim. They were ex Romanian Special Forces and lethal, you would never mess with them knowingly.
The other three were typical, middle aged, successful businessmen types. Of course, their success was built less on their business acumen, but more on fraud, corruption and theft. Ultimately, their success was built on the closeness to their association to the Kremlin.
The level of corruption and theft is so vast, that it actually becomes a problem for the powerful elite at the top of the Russian political establishment. The only way to survive is to stay in power, in power forever. It was alleged that Boris Yeltsin, the first Russian Premier had stolen so much for his friends and family, that he knew if he lost power, the new ruling clique would have had them all disposed of, in order to steal the money back for themselves. When the new President came to power, it was rumoured that he did a deal with Yeltsin and his cohorts. They supported him and in return he would not have them killed when he moved into the Kremlin.
“Gentleman, as you know, under Manx law we, as lawyers are required to know who our clients are. The reason is to crack down on money being laundered and possible terrorist funding. As part of the “Know Your Client” procedures, we need to see your passport and verify your address. Once we have done that, we can move to the Company meeting and the distribution of the dividends.”
The first businessman handed over his passport. Pelham took a look at the passport. It was French. The next two were Estonian and Dutch.
He looked down at the three passports and supporting documents, none of which bore any resemblance to the men sat around the table. “These do not appear to be your passports?”
“I think if you look more closely you’ll find that is exactly what they are,” replied one of the three.
Pelham was beginning to feel nervous. He was used to dealing with all forms of tax avoidance and tax evasion over the years, but he had never encountered such a blatant level of rule flouting. “There are only three passports here,” he said, buying time to think.
Vadim got up from his seat and placed a large metallic case on the table in front of Pelham. “Please to open,” he said.
Pelham opened the case. There was the forth passport. There was also ten million dollars, neatly bound in packets.
“I think that satisfies any outstanding questions you may have,” said another of the businessmen.
While not being the most honest of men, Pelham did feel torn. It was a lot of money and he certainly had all the tools at his disposal to launder the ten million dollar bribe and get it legitimately into his hands tax free. On the other hand he would be crossing a line into pure fraud.
“I see you are a man of principle. The man whose passport, you have in the brief case, the CEO of our little enterprise, understands men of principle. You may have heard of Alexander Litvinenko. He was a man who held strong beliefs and his principles forced him to speak out. I think you know the consequences of holding too many principles.”
Pelham now realised that this money went all the way to the Kremlin and he knew what had happened to Litvinenko. He died a horrible death, when he was poisoned with a radioactive isotope traced back to the Russians.
Choice made for him, Pelham said, “Thank you Gentleman, that seems perfectly in order.”
He moved on to the next order of business. “Their being a quorum we can now hold a board meeting to approve the payment of the dividends to the following members,” he handed out a sheet of paper showing just over sixty million dollars to be transferred into various bank accounts, in such Countries as Belize, the Virgin Islands and the Cayman Islands. The payments were unanimously approved.
“Mr Levy, will you accompany me to the Bank where I have an appointment set up. I will present the necessary documentation and with your signature, we shall make the transfers.”
“We will have a meeting here and wait for Mr Levy.” Pelham and Levy left to take the short walk to the bank.
On their own, the three Russians looked towards Vadim. “You burgled this woman’s house, Jacqueline Routledge and could find no trace of the parcel sent to her by Maurice Lee?”
“Nothing, there was no trace of it.”
“Then we have no choice. We need some leverage over her. You and Andrei will go to London and take control of the matter.”
“We have a problem, her husband”
“Why is he a problem? They are away on honeymoon in Egypt, nowhere near London”
It is not where he is. It is who he is. He is MI5,” said Vadim, “That is why we found it so difficult to find any information on him. Russian Intelligence have checked him out and come back to me with his background and they confirm that he is secret service.”
“We shall have to take care of it. OK Vadim, you go to London and Andrei it looks like you are off to Egypt”
“We do not have enough personnel to do it,” said Andrei.
“Use contract personnel, not ideal I know, but we cannot directly involve the Russian Secret Service. It is too delicate a moment. We are making progress with the West in getting the sanctions eased, we do not want an incident that goes straight back to the Kremlin.”
Levy joined the five of them as they walked back to the Sefton hotel, where they were spending the night, before flying off to their respective destinations. Being several millions each the richer, the Russians were in a bit of a holiday mode.
“I like the trams with horses and the policemen look so nice here in their hats and white uniforms,” commented one before licking his ice cream
They all agreed that the Manx police, in their summer uniforms, were vastly smarter looking than their leather jacketed Russian counter parts.
“Is Pitkin,” shouted Vadim, almost ecstatically.
“Yes, yes is Pitkin.”
“No it cannot be. Yes it is, it’s Pitkin”
Levy could not understand what was happening. The two goons were jumping up and down like excited children at the s
ight of a life size bronze of a small man with a cap, sitting on a bench under a street light.
They started taking selfies, then photos of each of them in turn sitting on the bench. Then Levy was asked to take a group shot of them all with the statue. All the while they were laughing and saying Pitkin.
When they finally stopped, Levy bent closer and read “Norman Wisdom”. He had lived on the Island and died there aged ninety five, in his home Ballasella. He had never heard of the comedian, famous for his many films with his character Pitkin, a cheeky chap, who things never quite worked out for. The Romanians had. He was a national hero.
Chapter 15
“How was the school run today?” Anne Routledge asked her husband John.
“Carnage, I did not realise getting Daniel to and from school would be so stressful. We should have insisted on Jackie doing a risk assessment before she went on honeymoon.” It was getting on for nine o’clock in the evening and Daniel should have been in bed, but his grandparents indulged him and he was just finishing a computer game on his Play Station.
“Time for bed soon, can you finish up now?” she said.
Dragging his feet Daniel went to bed. It was nearly half past nine before they sat down in front of the television. “It is nice having him here, but I am glad we can give him back at the end of the day,” said Anne.
“I think we’ve done our bit bringing up kids. I hate to say it but we are getting a bit too old and I don’t have the energy anymore,” said John.
He had just sat down and was about to lift his cup of tea to his lips when there was a knock on the door. “Oh no,” he said.
“Don’t worry I’ll go. It will only be charity requests, or Jehovah’s Witnesses.”
Anne opened the front door and he heard voices. Suddenly the living room door opened and Anne flew into the room and fell to the ground as she was pushed violently by a large man wearing a balaclava. A second man followed them in. John started to get up and a gun was pointed in his face. “Don’t move,” said Vadim.
Bank (A Tim Burr Thriller Book 2) Page 6
