The ground floor veranda overlooked the swimming pool, long since empty of water. Instead, a series of waterproof tarpaulins covered stacks of sealed packages, each destined for committed buyers in North and South America. The gymnasium served as the narcotics processing area, where the inward bulk shipments were broken down into smaller onward transmission orders. The prospect of discovery from local legal enforcement was zero, a direct result of a negotiated monthly commission, delivered in dollar bills to the hacienda of the regional Chief of Police.
Cornelius Corrado puffed easily on his cigar, letting the smoke drift across the veranda. He lifted his coffee cup.
“What’s happening now?” he asked his visitor.
“Nothing has moved on the accounts since I last spoke with her,” replied Ruben Torres. “We follow through on the next step.”
“Foolish woman,” replied Corrado. “Perhaps she doesn’t understand clearly enough the first message you delivered.”
“The next one will be unmistakable.”
“Good. Another coffee?”
“Thanks.”
Ruben Torres and Cornelius Corrado moved in circles where a number of aliases, with passports to match, were the norm. The men shared a history of mercenary careers from more than twenty years past. Part of the French Foreign Legion, they had masterminded the desertion of more than two dozen of their fellow legionnaires. Both had been senior officers in the Legion, but Corrado was the more natural leader. His men knew him simply as ‘Raddo’. Fresh fields in the burgeoning drug trade across South and Central America suited the ambitions of the pair and of their men, all well steeped in dark operations in which life itself was often peddled for a handful of dollars. The unceasing demand for their product in North America paid multiple times more handsomely than anything they had done under the guise of the Foreign Legion.
The corps’ legendary reputation to retrieve or eliminate any deserters came to naught. Over the decade and a half since the mass desertion, their former employers frequently attempted to hunt them down, but always resulting in the disappearance of those sent to track them. Some were killed, others joined their former officers. The Legion’s appetite to pursue the rogue soldiers would remain a constant shadow. Nonetheless, the threat of ultimate retribution added to the caution that Corrado demanded of his followers. The filthy underworld of drug trafficking spawned other kinds of enemies. Competition dwelt at every level. The danger from international authorities was also ever present, but that fear was largely mitigated by operating in regions where bribe money carried more persuasion than the prompts from Interpol and the American Drug Enforcement Agency. But not everything was rosy in Corrado’s and Torres’s world.
An impressive cash-laundering operation had routed money into several financial institutions across the globe, one of which was Banque Louvet. The build-up of money invested in the Luxembourg bank alone had grown steadily to over four hundred and fifty million dollars. The onset of the financial crash devastated the investment portfolios of millions of accounts across the international banking industry. Corrado and his partner’s nominee companies had lost almost three hundred million dollars of their illicit pile. They wanted that back by whatever means. They targeted Francine Louvet as their solution for doing so.
****
Pierre Louvet and his daughter listened carefully throughout the briefing instructions. Both teams of close-protection operatives knew their business inside out. Years of field experience produced a systematic programme of protection for ISP’s high profile clients, balancing the twin practical needs of security and personal space. The boardroom at the bank served as an ideal setting for the meeting, with access to video presentation equipment. Jack addressed the eight operatives and the two Louvets together.
“Pierre, Francine, I’ve no intent to scare you needlessly, but I’m sure by now you are well aware of the severity of the threat either or both of you may face in the coming days and weeks.”
The elder Louvet raised his hand in acknowledgment, while his daughter nodded.
“Our team here are highly experienced,” Jack continued. “As far as possible, they will protect you with minimal interference in your daily programmes, but a few of your routines will need adjustment. They’ll be with you twenty-four hours a day, working in pairs, covering two twelve-hour shifts for each of you. Francine, as we said already, you’ll have a female operative with you in each shift.”
The chief executive officer raised a questioning eyebrow.
“In the ordinary course of things we can hardly have one of our men accompany you into a ladies’ rest room when you’re away from the bank or your home,” said Jack. Francine smiled and nodded again.
“In extraordinary circumstances, they won’t think twice about it. Let me assure you, however, our female protection officers are every bit as capable as their male counterparts. When either of you travel outside of your homes, the team members will accompany you in the same vehicle. Do you both have set drivers?”
“Yes, we do,” said Pierre. “Long-serving staff. I’d trust them with our lives.”
“I hope it doesn’t come to that,” said Jack, without a smile. “If for any reason either of your drivers fails to show for work, you are not to leave home until further advice from the team. Is that clear?”
“Clear,” said Francine. “Do you want to vet our domestic staff too?”
“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary. We’ve already quietly run the rule over them, without their knowledge. We’re satisfied with them at present.”
“My, my. You are thorough. Is there anything else my father and I should be aware of?”
“Yes. One simple thing. Please don’t ask any of our people to carry things for you. Briefcase, bags, anything. It’s imperative their hands are kept free at all times. If they tell you to do something, they won’t be polite. For example, if they suspect any immediate threat to you, they know how to react to best protect you. Please follow their commands. Even small talk conversation with them should be at a minimum. Talk is distractive. While with you, my men and women are on duty. Do you have any questions?”
“Am I allowed to carry a weapon?” asked Pierre. “I have a licence for my luger.”
“I’d strongly prefer you not to be armed. There’s plenty of legitimate firepower in your teams. If the need arises for their use, our guys know how to cope in close quarter firearms engagement. With the best will in the world, Pierre, you having a pistol would complicate matters.”
Jack turned to Francine.
“Do you also have a licence?”
“Good grief, no,” she replied with a look of disdain.
“Good. Any further questions?”
A mutual shake of the head from the bankers indicated none.
“Fine, then. Now I’d like to run a couple of short videos for you, showing you examples of how executive protection works, and your part in it.”
One of the men dimmed the lights and Jack threw the switch for the video. As the presentation unfolded, the Scotsman was pleased to see his clients watch it intently. Personal protection is an intense business. Having cooperative clients made it marginally easier.
CHAPTER 7
A full week elapsed since Jack’s briefing with the Louvets, during which the protection teams and their charges swiftly settled into an operational routine. Part of the chairman’s schedule for the Wednesday was a day trip to Paris to meet with an international investment banking steering committee of which he was a member.
A light breakfast as dawn broke preceded the drive to the airport where his chartered private jet awaited him and the two first-shift bodyguards. The licensed firearms were declared and passed through security then reunited with their owners prior to boarding the small aircraft. All of ISP’s executives were licensed to carry guns in Paris and in Luxembourg. The pilot and co-pilot welcomed the trio aboard and began to taxi to their position in the departure queue. Several similar small jets preceded them, with the Luxembourg-
Paris journey a regular hop from this airport. After a longer than usual wait of twenty-five minutes, the engines hummed louder as the craft sped down the runway and lifted its nose skyward.
The wheels had barely risen fifty metres from the ground when a thunderous noise rent the air. Later in the day, the few bystanders who witnessed the explosion would tell their versions, some of them embroidered by imagination, some less so, but all agreed the jet was instantaneously blown apart in a huge fireball. The forward momentum from the takeoff carried parts of the plane onto the end of the runway, and much more into the fields beyond. Various parts of the fuselage also littered both sides of the tarmac area.
There was no doubt all five people aboard died in seconds. The delay in departure would prove helpful in gathering the debris and evidence of the cause of the tragedy as the jet had travelled such a short distance.
Francine Louvet had lost a beloved father. Banque Louvet had lost a chairman. Jack Calder had lost two fine executives. The charter company had lost a pair of excellent pilots. Cornelius Corrado and Ruben Torres had lost little time in executing their threat to increase pressure in pursuit of recovering their financial losses.
****
The Calders and Marcel Benoit arrived separately in Luxembourg as soon as possible after the news broke of the atrocity. The authorities kept the airport closed to all flights while the immediate forensic activity began. A private airstrip twenty kilometres from the centre of the city handled the increased bulge in traffic for businessmen returning from Paris and elsewhere. Larger planes would have to wait another day for clearance to land at the main hub.
Francine Louvet met the trio in the family home in the exclusive residential area of the city. She greeted her guests calmly as she ushered them into the large sitting room. To Jack, their hostess looked undisturbed, but he had seen the stunned facial expression countless times in dark, clandestine combat areas where families had watched their loved ones killed and often mutilated before their eyes. Shock manifests itself differently with different people. Benoit embraced her without saying anything. May-Ling caught the look of controlled rage in his eyes.
“Francine,” Jack began, but his voice trailed off as he ran out of words. Francine gave a half-smile and nodded, gesturing for everyone to sit down. The chief executive had lost her father, but she was still in charge of business. A polite knock at the door preceded the entrance of the old man’s private secretary, carrying a tray with teacups and biscuits. His face also bore the strain of bereavement. Jack pondered just how long he had been in service to the family, and how invaluable his presence would be for the daughter at this time. The head of Interpol waited until the secretary placed the tray and its contents on the table before standing up to greet the man with a hug. Again, no words were exchanged. The older man retreated from the room.
“My father is gone, and the other poor victims caught up in this evil also murdered,” said Francine. The steel in her tone was unmistakeable.
“Papa was more than a father to me. He was my counsel, my mentor, the guiding light of my life. He taught me many things.”
The others did not interrupt. They all understood it was vital she be allowed to talk.
“He instilled in me a belief that our family would hold its values regardless of our business fortunes. In that, I promise, Banque Louvet will not waver. The man who is responsible for this… this blasphemy… he and his cohorts will meet their Maker at some time to account for their crimes. I believe that. However, I’m not so idealistically blind as to think it stops here. Jack, May-Ling, Marcel, I want revenge for this. Yes, I know that’s a dirty word. But nevertheless, my father’s life and the lives of those who died with him this morning were precious. They can’t be brought back. However, with your help, I know these people can be brought to account. Whether it’s possible within the law or outside of it, monetary resources are no object. May-Ling, Jack, I’m aware of how our dear friend here, Marcel, is sometimes able to interpret justice in his own way. I’m prepared to place five million dollars at your disposal to find and eliminate this scum. Will you help me in this?”
Benoit looked at the Calders and gave a slight nod.
“Francine, it’s not necessary to put your money on the line for this,” said Jack. “Our late founder and former chief executive, Jules Townsend, always made it clear when business overlaps personal considerations for ISP, our personal decision is ours to make. Two of our own people were killed today. They were family to us. That’s highly personal. We will do everything we can to balance the account.”
May-ling saw the tightening of Francine’s shoulders. The woman was holding it together. Just.
“Gentlemen,” said ISP’s boss, “can you give us a few minutes alone?”
Jack and the Interpol chief rose and left the room. May-Ling approached Francine as the banker’s façade crumbled. The sobbing racked her body and she shook, trying to catch her breath. She tried to speak, but unintelligible sounds were all she could utter as she clung tightly to May-Ling.
The memory of similar grief many years ago in Hong Kong returned vividly. May-Ling’s first husband, Ben, like herself at the time, a detective in the Anti-Triad squad, had been killed in a botched police ambush. Her days and weeks of grieving had been almost unbearable, but her own strength of resolve had brought her through the ordeal. May-Ling knew the lady she comforted now was capable of the same resolve.
****
The balance of the day belonged to others better placed to source the exact nature of the explosive device which blew the plane apart. Jack and ISP had more immediate concerns to deal with. Having seen the results of the blast in the bank’s vaults, the Scotsman had no doubt the same Semtex material would have been used. Meantime, Francine Louvet was set in carrying on with her duties at the bank. The next several days would require her presence and steadying influence both on Banque Louvet’s staff and its clients.
The men busied themselves, lingering with their teacups in the kitchen, giving the ladies privacy while May-Ling and Francine talked in the sitting room. The secretary himself made extra tea for everyone, having appropriated the role of looking after his employer and her guests.
“I’m sure the guys at the airport will be checking for anyone who came remotely near the plane in the hours before takeoff,” said Jack. “Do you have much influence over their investigation, Marcel?”
“I’ve no direct jurisdiction unless I invent a reason to be interfering, but I know the local chief of police well,” said the Frenchman. “He’s a good man. He’ll do a thorough job. What do you want from them?”
“Whoever sabotaged the jet must have had airport security clearance of some sort. Perhaps even a falsified pass. It would be crazy to think any of the normal maintenance crew would plant a device as they’ll be the first people under scrutiny. Is there any way you can get us copies of the airport’s CCTV surveillance records from when the plane last berthed until the pilots signed on for duty in the morning? If they used what I think they did, Semtex, that stuff is so easy to secrete under seats or in a back stowage area without raising eyebrows.”
“I agree,” said Benoit. “However, there are maybe up to a couple of dozen camera sites throughout the area. It would take quite a while to vet them all. I’m sure the local team will be doing that, but I’ll have a word with the Chief.”
“Thanks.”
“I didn’t have time to update you on developments in Libya, Jack. I had a call yesterday from Cairo and a long conversation with the head of the Medical Mission for Peace in North Africa. He’s an old acquaintance. His man in the migrant refugee camp reports the infiltration by the snakeheads has become impossible to stop. They need some help there. Perhaps that’s a good starting point to find out where to locate Torres.”
“How much money does the migrant traffic generate?” asked Jack.
“Tons. It has become almost epidemic. Last year, guesses of the numbers who started out from the African side alone exceed three hund
red thousand. Not all of them made it alive. The going price for passage we hear is a thousand dollars per head, and the more desperate cases from the hospital pay much higher than that.”
“That’s bluudy frightening. If my arithmetic’s right, you’re talking upward of three hundred million dollars? Where does that kind of money go?”
Marcel Benoit sighed.
“We believe a major part of it feeds the drug supply business over in South America.”
“I never realised it was as big as that. Now I understand the link.”
The door to the kitchen opened and May-Ling gestured to the men to come back into the sitting room.
Apart from the giveaway redness around her eyes betraying Francine had been crying, the chief executive had regained her composure.
“We’ve agreed to add one each of the remaining team to Francine’s security squad, making three per unit, two males and one female, although I’d be surprised if they try to attack her personally now,” said May-Ling.
“Why?” asked Jack.
“If they do that, who’s left for them to negotiate with?” said his wife. “However, we’ve also agreed to fly in a further four of our people to be at the bank’s premises, in case of any further attempts there. They’ll be able to help the current security firm onsite with specialist advice.”
“I’ve had no contact from any of… any of… them, today,” said Francine. “If I do get a call what do I do? What do I say?”
Benoit spoke. “My dear, for a while, I don’t think you’ll be contacted directly by Nante, or Torres, or whatever he calls himself. Any communication would be a confirmation of his personal involvement in this morning’s outrage. They would assume your calls are recorded now. Jack and I have arranged to have that done here and at the bank, and also the lines to all your senior executives.”
“Oh dear, do you think my personnel are at risk?”
DEADLY IMPASSE (Jack Calder Crime Series #5) Page 3
