“I don’t believe so,” said Jack. “The abomination today was message enough to you. But there’s no such thing as being too careful.”
“He’s right,” said May-Ling, “but as we agreed, the extra layer of security at the bank will help. First thing tomorrow morning we’ll have a confidential meeting and discussion with your top management team, advising them on what to do if any contact is made with them.”
“I’m grateful for your presence, all of you,” said Francine. “I can tell you, whatever lengths these animals want to go to, they’ll get nothing from me. Today, Marcel, I’d like you to receive a formal request from Banque Louvet to investigate the accounts of Xavier Nante and his associates. We processed the usual required ‘know your client’ documentation when we accepted their deposits, and these proved legitimate on the surface, but I’ve ordered the remaining balances frozen until further notice.”
“Good,” said Benoit. “You’re half a step ahead of me. I was about to propose the same thing. The bank will have a watertight request from my office before noon.”
“Strange they haven’t tried to withdraw the balance of the money now,” said Jack.
May-Ling tutted at her husband. “And give another direct pointer to whose hand was involved in the explosion? At present, for court of law purposes, all we have is hearsay conversation between Francine and Nante. Any lawyer straight from law school would tear that to ribbons.”
Benoit suppressed a smile, but couldn’t resist commenting.
“The real brains of ISP at work again, Jack, huh?”
“No disagreement there, my friend, but with the stance Francine’s taking… and correctly taking… given what these vermin are capable of, I think we’re running into a bit of a deadlock, an impasse,” said Jack. “I know which side I want to see breaking it.”
CHAPTER 8
The brotherhood of the SAS past and present runs deep. An unspoken support line exists into and out of Credenhill Barracks in Hertfordshire, the home base of the Regiment. The permanent keeper of the records, a sanguine Major, known simply as Mac to his close friends and associates, had assumed his role many years before. His active field service, cut short by the loss of an arm in a fiery confrontation in Borneo, was replaced with his current position, principally at the valued recommendation of his fellow Major, Jules Townsend, ISP’s founder. Although Jules had died in a booby trap bomb a few years earlier, Mac’s affinity for his remaining colleagues at the security firm was unwavering. Severely injured in the same blast that took her boss’s life, May-ling had been unanimously elected as his successor by the surviving directors of the company. She enjoyed the continued privilege of a welcome access to Mac’s private line.
“Good afternoon, my dear. How’s my godson doing? And that husband of yours?”
“We’re all fine, Mac. How about you?”
“Can’t complain. What can I help you with?”
“Your genius in tracking, as usual. A former Legionnaire by name of Ruben Torres. We think he’s tied into some messy drug traffic in Guatemala. He passes off under at least one alias, Xavier Nante. Our sources say he’s also involved in the filthy business of trafficking migrants across the Mediterranean, mostly out of Libya. Any information about his haunts and connections would be a great help.”
“I remember the name Torres well,” said Mac. “He did a runner from the Legion along with another senior officer called Cornelius Corrado. They brought more than a dozen of their mates out with him. Not many people do that and escape the clutches of their former employers for long. The Corps has long memories, usually nasty memories.”
“I thought most of that legend about hunting down Legion deserters was merely historical,” said May-Ling. “Surely if men decide they no longer want to be part of it and go over the wall, it’s too much trouble to pursue them?”
“You’re right,” said Mac. “Nowadays, generally if a deserter is stopped and arrested by the regular police for other reasons and found to be on the run from the Legion, they get sent back. Punishment is a few weeks in jail then a dishonourable discharge.”
“Then why such a big deal about Torres and the others?”
“They killed some of their commanding officers and peers to get out. Nobody knows for sure how many, but even one killing of a senior rank is enough to make them lifelong fugitives.”
“Oh, I understand. That puts a different slant on it.”
“It certainly does, my dear. Give me a few days to dig around to see what I can find for you.”
“Thanks, Mac. See you in London soon.”
May-Ling closed the line and not for the first time reflected on Mac’s legendary reputation. Operating as a one-man lore of information, he ran his unit with the same old computer system he started with twenty years prior, and steadfastly refused to be seduced by the welter of new-fangled gizmos. His self-built system of cross-referencing and nose for where to find data was an infallible resource for the Regiment and friends such as ISP.
CHAPTER 9
The stress of coping with the incessant stream of patients took its toll on of everyone in Benji Rafael’s team, some more severely than others. During the morning hours he ordered two of the nurses out of the patient area, with instructions to go get some sleep, and not return for duty until daylight the next day. Much as he appreciated their devotion, tired paramedics make mistakes, and mistakes in an already difficult environment cause people to die. His own strain was exacerbated by his helplessness over the presence of the criminals soliciting traffic for their vulture trade. Of course, their overtures were not blatant, but the medical team was so understaffed, it was impossible to monitor every bed every minute of every day. The quiet men in the shadows identified the families of the patients and negotiated with them away from the hospital marquees.
The morning shift moved into afternoon and on through the early evening. Rafael’s small office within the compound was separated from the main tent by a canvas sheet wall. The pile of paper on his desk tallied numbers of patients tended and how much medicine had been dispensed. Fine details such as names, ages and nationalities were of little relevance. With few repeat patients, the transience of the camp resembled a war zone rather than a medical care centre.
The flap serving as his door opened and two large strangers entered. Dressed in black, they startled Rafael. He stood up and stared from one to the other.
Has it come to this? Are these bastards here to attack me, now?
“Doctor Rafael?”
He recognised the burr in the accent as Scottish.
“Yes. I’m Rafael. Who are you?”
The bigger man extended his hand.
“I’m Jack Calder. This is Malky McGuire. We’re here to see if we can help you.”
“Are you qualified doctors?”
“No, certainly not doctors,” said Jack. “A friend of your Mission has asked us to have a look at the other issue you’re facing, the criminals responsible for the trafficking of your patients.”
“Are you police?”
“Can’t claim that tag either, Doc, but we have connections in high places.”
“Who might that be?”
“You’re right to be cautious,” said Jack. “I understand the impossible conditions you and your staff are working under. Your chief in Cairo contacted his pal, who happens to be the head of Interpol. He’s the one who invited us to come and meet you.”
Benji Rafael slumped back into his chair. Malky and Jack recognised the wave of relief as a broad smile danced across the medic’s face.
“Ye look exhausted, man,” said Malky. “Is there somewhere else we can go an’ have a wee chat, in private? Our Jeep’s outside.”
“Give me a few minutes to talk to my second in charge to let him know where I’ll be,” said Rafael. “We can go to our quarters about a kilometre from here.”
A few minutes later, the three men drove off toward the Mission’s compound. A circled parcel of prefabricated dwellings housed the doctors and nurses. In the
centre, a kitchen with attached tables and chairs in a shaded area served meals around the clock. As the medical personnel slept and ate at any and all hours, the cooks worked in three shifts, doubling as guards for all the accommodation. Benji Rafael guided Jack and Malky to a table and ordered a pot of Turkish coffee.
“It’s a bit rough and ready here,” said the doctor, “but compared to what most of these people back there are going through, it’s five star. They arrive here with whatever luggage and bags the family can manage. They’re desperate, Jack. Kids, parents, grandparents, carrying the remnants of a lifetime with them. Some have very little money. Others have jewellery, treasured pieces in many cases, I’ve no doubt. Wedding rings, anything, really, that can be used as currency.”
Rafael sat back, and wiped his brow, the exhaustion visible again.
“We do our best,” he continued. “In fairness, the majority of the patients we deal with are grateful for our service, which makes it worthwhile. But these thugs…”
He shook his head.
“If they don’t go with the snakeheads, what else do these families expect?” asked Jack.
“In reality, every one of them is hoping to get across the water to Italy one way or another. Even those with no money. That’s why they come here. Groups of them will try to make their own craft. Nobody in authority is going to stop them trying. God knows how many drown in makeshift boats.”
“How about yer international aid groups?” said Malky. “Not the hospital guys like yerselves, but the government agencies?”
“They get to some of them, but very few have the patience to wait for processing centres and the chance to get shipped out. Only a small percentage will take that route. Hence the attempts by themselves, and the lure of the trafficking scum.”
Malky sipped at his coffee mug.
“Man, that’s strong enough to raise the dead,” he said. “D’ye use it to keep yerselves awake?”
The medic laughed.
“In this part of the world, everybody drinks coffee like this.”
“You said the gang negotiates with the relatives away from your hospital,” said Jack. “Once they make their deals, where do the migrants go to set off?”
“There are several spots, but they generally choose places easy to push away from. I can point you toward two or three of them, not too far from here,” said Rafael.
“Do they operate during daylight?”
“Seldom. They bribe the local cops, but they still want to do it as secretly as they can. The darkness of night also means it may be harder for the patrol boats to sight them once at sea. Of course, that’s nonsense, as the coastguard vessels all have radar.”
“Can you take us to one or two of these sites now?” said Jack. “We’d like a feel for how it goes down. And where do the traffickers billet?”
“They’ve a camp halfway between here and the launching areas. About a dozen trailer homes on a site where they also receive and despatch the dinghies. We see the delivery trucks regularly. The road passes the hospital. There’s nothing else out there for delivery vehicles to be servicing.”
“Maybe we can take a look at that from a distance also?”
“Sure. Let’s go.”
A twenty-minute drive on a dirt-packed road led to the gang’s campsite. Malky manoeuvred the Jeep to within a couple of hundred metres and parked. Jack instructed the others to stay inside the vehicle.
“There’s no point in drawing any unnecessary attention,” he said.
The field glasses panned across the perimeter. As Rafael had described, an assortment of trailer homes clustered loosely in place, interspersed with various four-wheel drives. Two large trucks parked side by side, one empty, one with its load still visible. Large, rubber outboard dinghies. One man sat smoking near the front of the trucks, with an M16 across his knees.
“Only one guard. The rest must be sleeping or somewhere else,” said Jack. “Not surprising, from what you’ve told us, Benji. They won’t be expecting any trouble, and much of their moving business is done after dark. Can we go have a wee reconnaissance of the launch spots?”
Fifteen minutes covered the trip to the waterside. The first area, a small beach, more pebbled than sand, provided easy boarding and push off into the Mediterranean. Malky and Jack took in the immediate surroundings, no trees, or bush cover from which to observe proceedings. Further along the same beach, a half kilometre distant, promised better scouting. The same flatness for simplicity in launching, but this area did have some foliage close enough for someone to watch any activity without being seen.
“This’ll do until later,” said Jack. “Is there any spare sleeping area for us in your compound for a few days, Benji?”
“No problem. I’ll sort it out now when we go back.”
“If you can have us in the end billet away from your own people, they won’t be disturbed when we move in and out, which’ll be at night anyway.”
“Consider it done.”
CHAPTER 10
May-Ling called daily to talk to Francine about the security status, using it as a means to check on how the bank’s chief executive was coping. So far, she was doing well. The female operatives on the two bodyguard teams had been especially briefed to watch for any tell-tale signs of erratic behaviour. The feedback in the week since her father was killed detailed her movements to and from the office, handling the inevitable press and client questions. Francine had given instructions to Pierre’s secretary, authorising him to arrange for the burial of the remains once the body was released from the police morgue. The memorial service for close friends and family was scheduled a few days ahead. The Calders were invited, but would have attended regardless.
****
Donnie Mullin and May-Ling listened on the conference line to Jack’s briefing. The regular update call to London covered the meeting with Benji Rafael, the trip via the traffickers’ camp and the information on the dinghy launch areas.
“You’ve been busy, lads,” said Donnie. “What’s next?”
“A bit of suck it and see,” said Jack. “We’ll have a look at a live movement. I want a feel for how many of the gang are on site here. I’ve no intention going in gung ho anywhere without knowing what we’re likely to find. Marcel’s already arranged weapons and transport locally, so that’s not a problem.”
“I’ve an idea,” said May-Ling. “For the moment I think it’s better for you both to stay invisible. I want you to do a bit of shooting, but not with weapons. Did Marcel deliver the night-capture camera I asked for?”
“Yes he did. I wondered what that was for, specifically?”
“First of all, I’d want us to be certain if Torres is there or not. And I want photos of the other gang members on site.”
“Are we startin’ a pin-up collection of rogues gallery now?” asked Malky.
“No,” said May-Ling. “Here’s what I have in mind.”
The men listened while their boss explained. When she had finished, a short silence filled the room.
“Sounds just grand to me,” said Malky. “More than two birds wi’ one stone, eh?”
“Something like that,” she replied. “Let us know tomorrow what you find later tonight. By the way, Jack, the service for Pierre Louvet is the day after tomorrow. I’d like you to be there with me for that. Malky, are you okay to stay with the medics.”
“Okay, I’ll be there,” said Jack. “Goodnight.”
“Okay, I’ll be here,” said Malky, laughing. “Goodnight.”
****
Darkness fell as evening closed in on the medics’ quarters. Any movement toward the beach in daylight risked discovery from the traffickers’ camp. Jack and Malky intended to observe without being seen. A watching brief, no more than that. If circumstances called for combative action, laser-fitted AK47s and automatic pistols gave the ISP men all the comfort they needed. Camouflage black dress from head to toe, and balaclavas, would be difficult for anyone to notice from the distance of the thick foliage over
looking the second launch spot they’d reconnoitred earlier. A half an hour after dusk, Malky steered the Jeep out onto the dirt road and headed for the target location. The night vision glasses meant no need for sidelights. A few hundred metres from the trailers, Jack gave the signal to move back from the road and stop. A sweep with the binoculars picked out a few men transferring dinghies from the full truck to the spare. He counted three rubber craft. When these were loaded, four men climbed into the front of the vehicle. Minutes later, accompanied by a trio of four-wheel drives, the truck emerged and headed back the way Jack and Malky had come.
“Pick up time around the hospital, I guess,” said Jack. “Good. Something to see tonight. Let’s go.”
Malky drove off gently as the engine purred past the camp at a distance of a hundred metres. Unless there were outlying guards, nobody from inside the perimeter would have seen them. Jack continued to sweep the binoculars back and forth on the roadway, but encountered nothing to trouble them. The ample cover from the trees and bushes gave clear visibility to the beach. Jack retrieved the night camera and tested the sights. He zoomed in on a few stones a hundred metres away. They appeared like huge boulders through the lens. Malky turned the Jeep around and backed it in amongst the undergrowth, ready for any kind of departure, stealthy or otherwise. The pair prepared their observation spots and settled in to wait.
The hum of engines increased as the entourage approached. The vehicles, displaying only sidelights, stopped at the first point half a kilometre away. Around three dozen people spilled out from the rear of the truck and unloaded one dinghy. Armed men disembarked from the accompanying cars. The night glasses picked out several of them carrying the craft to the water’s edge. Other families remained on the vehicle alongside the other dinghies. A few from the group held the raft steady as the passengers climbed in, some with assorted baggage, others holding children. Jack watched one of the men instructing another aboard how to operate the outboard engine. Within minutes the group floated seaward, the foam churning behind them. Even at that distance, Jack could see how low the dinghy sat in the water. None of the men who held the raft had climbed on board. They returned to the convoy and the motorcade drove toward the second embarkation area.
DEADLY IMPASSE (Jack Calder Crime Series #5) Page 4
