Benoit laughed again and shook his head.
“I swear you’d be a great interrogator,” he said. “I’ve another equally pressing motive to resolve this issue. My guys in Lyons are pretty hot on dredging up information. This time, they’ve brought me a beauty.”
“Go on,” said Jack.
“You ever hear of a man called Ruben Torres?”
“Yes,” the two ex-SAS men replied together.
Jack continued. “He’s the guy who jumped ship from the Foreign Legion about fifteen years ago and took some of his men with him, right? His name crops up every now and then in magazines for international mercenaries. We had to keep abreast of that stuff back then. We sometimes used freelancers in black operations, especially in places we weren’t supposed to be. Where is he now?”
“We’ve reason to believe he’s changed his name,” said Benoit.
“To Xavier Nante?” said May-Ling.
“Stop doing that, May-Ling. You’re unnerving,” said the Frenchman, hardly able to contain his delight. “Bang on the button. Xavier Nante.”
He turned serious again.
“We’re getting reports from reliable sources in Italy that he’s spearheading the filthy trade in people-trafficking from North Africa. He stays in the shadows, of course. These bastards work among the migrants when they get as far as the coast in Libya, then charge extortionate money to provide the inflatables to ferry them across.”
The mood in the room had grown more sombre.
“We’ve seen the horrific pictures on the newsreels, Marcel,” said Jack. “What’s being done to tackle it?”
“It’s dreadful to say so, but more talk and hot air than action from politicians. The Italian coastguard authorities are overwhelmed, and do their best. A lot more than they’re given credit for. Until now, there’s been no cohesive policing force on the ground in North Africa. What reliable information we get at Interpol comes mainly from the international medical missions on the ground.”
Benoit put his brandy glass on the table and pursed his lips.
“Whatever good work the missions’ paramedics are able to manage in these circumstances is negated by the vultures feeding off the distress of the migrants. I think if the bad guys can be halted for a while, it might turn the tide a bit in favour of resolving some of the problem.”
“Ye think ISP can be doin’ that for ye, then?” asked Malky.
“I’ve no doubt you can,” said Benoit. “But there’s another line of information my men have sniffed out and you should be aware of it before you come to any decisions.”
“Go on,” said May-Ling.
“If we’re not mistaken, Torres, Nante, whatever he calls himself, has some formidable partners. He’s the front man for their money. The main players are heavily into the drug business. Mostly cocaine. They route a lot of it through Guatemala, partly because it’s a bit of a crossroads for their supply sources, and more conveniently for them, local policing is blind to their activity.”
“Bad eyesight caused by bribe money?” asked Jack.
The Frenchman nodded.
“Yes, the usual thing we face all over the place with these cartels. I don’t expect ISP to go chase down the drug people, but if you go after Torres, it might get a touch complicated. As I said, we think he’s the channel man for them into Europe.”
“His Ma must be proud of him, the way he’s turned out,” said Donnie. “A poster boy for drug gangs, and a prime mover in screwing desperate migrant families.”
“As with some of the projects you’ve engaged with us in the past, I’ve access to funds to use to meet any contractual payments needed,” said Benoit. “I’m recommending two million dollars. If it is Xavier Nante alias Ruben Torres, I solve two issues at one time. If not, you tackle two different engagements, one for Banque Louvet and one for me. I don’t include the Guatemala business in that fee.”
“And if you did?” asked May-Ling.
The head of Interpol chuckled again.
“I thought you might ask, my dear. Another five million dollars is available. You’re free to accept none of this, or the Torres involvement only. Or all of it, to include some damage to the Guatemala operation.
He sat back and waited. Not for long.
It took only moments for nods to be exchanged among the four ISP directors.
“We’re with you, Marcel,” said May-Ling. The chief executive officer reached across and sealed the deal with a handshake. In turn, Jack Calder, Malky McGuire and Donnie Mullen confirmed their solidarity with the decision by also shaking his hand. Written contracts were unnecessary in this group.
CHAPTER 4
The tented, makeshift humanitarian relief centre operated around the clock. A beleaguered medical squad of two dozen volunteer doctors and paramedics worked fifteen-hour shifts every day, sometimes stretching to seventeen and eighteen hours. The flood of humanity came in ceaseless waves. Not all of them required medicine or hands-on surgical assistance, but those who did created a constant barrage of patients in the huge tent. The migrants on this route began their exodus from places as far away as Ethiopia and the Yemen. Some found their way from Nigeria, Zimbabwe and the Central African Republic. Whatever the difference in sources, the desire was common; the hope to find to a new life for themselves and their families somewhere, anywhere, bound them together.
As operational field head of the charitable group, Medical Mission for Peace in North Africa, Doctor Benji Rafael was on his third two-year contract, leading his team in serving migrant communities across the continent. Prior spells in Kenya and Chad were no easier than the situation he currently faced. Nobody in the team put in longer hours than he did in the cramped canvas huts. The operating theatre and its partner surgery room resembled twin conveyor belts, with the constant demand to tend broken limbs, disease-afflicted bodies, and vexing life-threatening pregnancies. The rate of fatalities at birth for mothers and babies was far too high, but without the diligence of his over-worked staff, would have been even greater.
Into this appalling scenario, a sinister overlay had begun to emerge a year earlier. People-trafficking on a scale the doctor had never seen before. Human predators feeding off the desperation of fleeing thousands, became horribly prevalent and overt. Benji Rafael tried to ban all but family and close friends of patients in the medical centre, but still failed to keep out the infiltrators. The quiet-spoken, persuasive agents of the criminal gangs found ways to capture the attention of the sick and injured, vulnerable targets willing to pay more than the normal outrageous fees to cross the Mediterranean to their version of the promised land.
Unable to combat the efforts of the traffickers, the doctor had appealed to the local police, but to no avail. Too much bribe money changed hands at that level. As a last resort, he had written to the ultimate chief of the Mission in Cairo, who in turn had passed his message to an old friend in Interpol, Marcel Benoit.
CHAPTER 5
The white-haired male secretary to Banque Louvet’s chairman carried an air of old-school personal connection, a hallmark of the inherent history of a family-owned financial house. He met May-Ling and Jack in the outer office of the executive floor and led them into an anteroom adjacent to his employer’s office suite. His manner in politely taking their coats, while enquiring how their flight had been from London, reminded Jack of valets and butlers from a bygone age. He disappeared soundlessly into the Chairman’s chambers, and closed the door behind him. The Calders took in the artwork on the walls around them, much of which would doubtless raise a fortune at any art auction. Old money. The painters and craftsmen who produced these were long dead.
“We’ve a different type of wealth in Hong Kong,” said May-Ling.
She pointed to a piece hanging in the centre of the wall facing them.
“If I’m not mistaken, that’s a Van De Beer, and the one next to it’s a Frans Hals portrait.”
“Are these old then?” asked her husband, clueless on artwork.
“
The De Beer is five hundred years old, and the other is easily three hundred and fifty years old.”
“We didn’t have many of these kicking around the Govan docksides in Glasgow when I grew up,” said Jack.
May-Ling aimed a playful punch at his arm.
The door opened and instead of his secretary, Pierre Louvet himself walked toward them. The tall banker stretched out his hand in welcome.
“Mrs Calder, Mister Calder. I’m grateful to you for taking the time to meet with us.”
His warm handshake matched the genial smile. The combed-back hair, two strips of silver bordering a bald top, tapered down at the back to touch the neck of his suit collar. The suspicion of a small bulge in his stomach area hinted at a full calendar of business lunches and dinners. The elegant cut of his tailoring belonged to the top layer of corporate establishment.
“Will you join me, please? Francine is here with me already.”
He stepped aside to allow his guests to enter a surprisingly small office. The window drapes and furnishings would not have been out of place in a rich family home. Another array of fine art dressed the walls. The traditional, solid, mahogany desk with inlaid-leather writing surface sat at an angle to the door, with a view out to the main Luxembourg thoroughfare below. Opposite his working area, a set of Chesterfield chairs formed a semi-circle around a large coffee table, set high enough to reach documents and cups without bending too far.
The chief executive officer of Banque Louvet stood near the window, and turned from looking onto the street.
“This is my daughter, Francine. My dear, Mister and Mrs Calder.”
“Please, we’d prefer ‘May-Ling and Jack’,” said May-Ling, extending her own hand to Francine.
“Then ‘Pierre’ for me,” said the chairman with another smile.
“My pleasure, May-Ling,” said Francine, replicating her father’s handshake. “We’re grateful you could come. Please have a seat. Will you have tea or coffee?”
“Coffee sounds good,” said May-Ling. “Jack?”
“Same for me, please, thank you,” said her husband.
Pierre Louvet walked back to the door and relayed the order to his secretary.
Francine’s business dress sense was a marriage of couture and commerce. A faint pinstripe hidden in a dark grey, well-fitted jacket and skirt with a plain white blouse blended immaculately with light-heeled black shoes.
The finely-styled auburn hair, cut to just short of shoulder-length, and shaped back from her cheeks, did not escape May-Ling’s attention. There was undoubted beauty there, but the unmistakable signs of strain hung across her face. Marginal puffiness around the brown eyes betrayed the lack of sleep. With a former detective’s pickup on detail, May-Ling also observed although her fellow chief executive needed little if any makeup, whatever cosmetics had been applied to her face that morning, either a shaking hand or an unlikely disregard for her looks had taken over. The overuse of expensive perfume hung in the room. May-Ling guessed Francine preferred the intrusive scent over the remnant odour of a hangover. Jack noticed none of that. Unlike his wife, he also missed the faint tremor in the lady banker’s hands.
“I believe our mutual friend, Marcel Benoit has given you an indication why I requested your visit,” said the senior Louvet. “We’ve no reason to think the firm providing our existing security arrangements are anything but professional and efficient. It’s the other issue which concerns us greatly.”
“Yes,” said May-Ling. “We know your present security company and they’re well-regarded in our market. Nevertheless, as a matter of elimination, you may want to have an independent eye run across them. But, as I say, we would agree with your prima facie assessment of them.”
“If you don’t mind, it would be helpful to let us check out the physical vault arrangements while we’re here,” said Jack. “Just in case there’s anything the police have overlooked.”
“Of course,” said Pierre Louvet. “However, as I said, it’s the other matter which is more perplexing, and…”
He paused, trying to find the right words.
“…and of some sensitivity.”
He glanced at his daughter who gave him a gentle nod.
“Papa, let’s come to the point,” she said, her voice a half tone stronger than she had probably intended. “May-Ling and Jack need to know every detail if they’re to be of any help to us.”
“Thank you for that, Francine,” said May-Ling. “Be assured we at ISP are highly protective of our clients’ confidentiality. Total openness and trust is paramount in our dealings. Marcel also indicated the awkward and unpleasant position you’ve been manoeuvred into. However, the attack on your premises and the subsequent call you received pose an imminent threat to both of you personally, and to your staff.”
“What course of action do you propose?” asked Francine.
“I’d like to check out the building’s security, but frankly doubt if there’ll be anything there we can improve on,” said Jack. “It’s a bit like closing the barn door after the horse has bolted. It’s more appropriate to review your own personal security now. For both of you.”
“I can see how that would pertain to my daughter, Jack, but as for myself, I hardly think…”
“Pierre,” Jack cut in. “You’re as vulnerable as Francine. If these people are capable of causing an explosion in your vaults, which in itself could have maimed or killed, they’re not likely to back off from attacking either of you. The money at the centre of this is more than enough for them to kill to try to get it back. We’ve seen people murdered for fractions of that amount.”
“You mean we need personal bodyguards?” asked the father.
“Yes. I mean twenty-four seven protection until we can explore further what can be done to remove the threat.”
The Louvets exchanged looks for a few moments.
“Agreed,” said the chief executive. What does it entail? If that cochon does anything to harm my father…”
Her voice tailed off into a curtailed sob.
“We thought you’d agree,” said May-Ling. “We’ve a team of eight personnel from our Paris office on standby, waiting for our signal to board a flight to arrive here this afternoon. Together with you, Jack will brief them on protection duty to cause minimum disruption to your schedules. They’ll work on twelve hour shifts, a pair to each of you at all times.”
“Will these gentlemen be armed?” asked Pierre.
“They will be,” said Jack. “And they’re all fluent in French and English. Our close-in personnel are carefully chosen field operators. We served with some of them in the forces. They’re the best. Oh, and two of them are female. Francine, you’ll have a male and a female with you round the clock.”
“You seem to think of everything, even in advance,” she replied, with the shadow of a smile replacing the slight heaving at her shoulders.
“Pierre, if you could instruct your assistant to arrange for Jack to see the vault, perhaps I can have a quiet word with Francine?” said May-Ling.
“Of course.”
The chairman stood and accompanied Jack from the suite.
As the door closed behind the men, Francine let out another quiet sob.
“Oh, dear, what a stupid mess I’ve made of this. My poor Papa. So supportive. He doesn’t deserve this.”
A plain, white handkerchief dabbed at her eyes to stem the tears.
May-Ling crossed to where Francine sat and put her arm around her shoulder.
“From what I understand, you’ve really nothing to blame yourself for,” she said. “And I’ll bet you’ve not been able to share this fully with anyone, not even your father?”
“I truly thought I was in love with him, and he with me, May-Ling. And I, supposedly a grown woman, a sensible head of a bank, for goodness sake. How stupid was I?”
“If he gave you no sign of his real motives, how could you possibly have known? When I first fell for Jack, nothing in this world could have made me believe anything
negative about him. That’s called being in love, isn’t it?”
Another gentle sob.
“I suppose so. Now we have to face the reality that our business is under attack. Tell me what I have to do.”
“First things first,” said May-Ling. “You’re going to wash your face and re-do your make-up. Then we’ll have some fresh coffee. And I want you to tell me everything about this Xavier.”
CHAPTER 6
The Hotel Pedrosa hosted thirty-six bedrooms on two levels, and a couple of grand suites on the top floor of the building. The ground tier formerly held a small atrium lobby, housing a reception desk area, a luggage storage room, and a few salons for tourist shop use. The restaurant still contained a dozen tables, although linen had for many years been a stranger to their tops. A gymnasium running the length of the west side of the hotel no longer offered fitness exercises. Once a middle-class retreat in the cool highlands of Guatemala, the property’s purchase a decade earlier by an obscure Belize holding company marked the end of its catering for paying guests.
Food from the kitchen assuaged the appetites of an entirely different clientele. Criminals. The drug trade in the country outpaced the local economy by several multiples. Hotel Pedrosa now served as a transit depot for hard drugs from the region. With the most porous borders in Central America, cocaine, meta, and other synthetic drugs coursed in and out by land, sea and air from Honduras, Nicaragua, Costa Rica, Mexico, Panama, El Salvador and Belize. The lands stretching through the countryside around the hotel, with its cooler climate conducive to poppy growth, also possessed a vital element. Poverty. Law and starvation never mix well. Ready labour in the guise of drug mules fed the dozens of distribution routes in and out of the country. The paradox of decades of corrupt government administration stimulated a vibrant economy in underworld commerce. Families were fed and clothed from illicit earnings, not from adherence to a seldom-enforced criminal code.
DEADLY IMPASSE (Jack Calder Crime Series #5) Page 2
