DEADLY IMPASSE (Jack Calder Crime Series #5)

by Seumas Gallacher

  “Why would he want to focus on her?” asked Jack. “They know what she looks like.”

  “He didn’t,” said May-Ling. “Every one of these shots is a grouping. He’s captured everybody sitting close to her. Even you and I are on the edge of a couple of them, look.”

  “Potential threats to everyone in the place?”

  “No, Jack. Unlikely. I think they were taken with the intent to send them to Francine.”

  ‘Why?”

  “To give her the impression close friends might be targeted next. More of their persuasive blackmail tactics.”

  The doorbell sounded again. Viv repeated the security check as Jack had done and opened the door to Marcel Benoit.

  “I knew you’d still be here,” said Benoit, holding a brown folder. “I’ve a present for you.”

  He opened the folder and placed six high-resolution images of a man’s face beside the others spread across the table.

  “I pulled some rank, and asked for the assistance of the television people covering the event this morning. This is the man in the gabardine coat.”

  “I recognise him,” said Jack comparing another of the pictures on the table. “The scar on the face running through his lip matches this one here. This is the thug who punched an old man the other night before bundling him into the dinghy.”

  “We recognise him, too,” said Benoit. “He’s one of the Legionnaires who deserted with Torres and Corrado.”

  “Which leaves no doubt the drug business and the trafficking are wrapped in together.”

  “This fits well with what I discussed with you and the team the other day, Jack,” said May-Ling. “I’m sure the man I have in mind will be highly interested in these photographs.”

  Benoit gave her a quizzical look.

  “Mac gave me the contact details of Yves Rainier,” she said.

  “The head of the French Foreign Legion,” said the Interpol man, laughing. “I know him well. I swear that Jules Townsend’s brain lives on in that head of yours, my dear. I like the way this is moving.”

  “Would it be too much to impose on you to approach him with these, Marcel, and have you and Jack share our idea with him?” asked May-Ling.

  “Of course. I’d be aggrieved if you didn’t ask me. Now, do you think room service could fetch us a pot of coffee and some decent croissants?”

  CHAPTER 13

  “It would appear that Mademoiselle Louvet has surrounded herself with some alert professional security,” said Torres. “The little escapade with the camera went wrong. Our man dropped it making his getaway. He’d captured a comprehensive range of attendees at the service. If they download the pictures, I’m sure they’ll think everybody in the photos is now a target.”

  The late afternoon sun had slipped below the horizon, and the fading light cast fingered shadows across the terrace veranda of Hotel Pedrosa. The mercenaries sipped at the beer bottles, the first of the evening.

  “Let them think that way,” said Corrado. “They can waste as much of their resources as they wish protecting the wrong people. I’ve another approach which may bite deeper.”

  “Tell me, Raddo.”

  The senior man leant forward and mentioned a name.

  “I bow to your thinking,” said Torres. “I’ll have it arranged.”

  ****

  The black Renault purred to a halt at the signal, waiting for the red light to change. Four cars behind it in the adjacent lane, the man in the passenger seat raised a gloved hand and pointed the switch mechanism forward. The explosion bombarded the early morning stillness. Startled birds wheeled skyward as the glass from shattered windows rained onto the street. Superficial damage to the vehicle immediately behind the mangled heap of the Renault was minimal. The focused Semtex charge, planted at the centre of the base front axle steered the blast up through the car, blowing the roof apart, and killing the occupant instantly. The remains of Pierre Louvet’s secretary’s body would be hardly recognisable.

  Further back in the traffic, beyond the scope of road intersection cameras, two anonymous cars made a U-turn and drove away in the opposite direction.

  ****

  May-Ling had postponed the return flight for herself to London and Jack’s to Libya. Marcel Benoit had also delayed his booking back to Lyons. The Calders’ hotel quarters served as a temporary operations meeting area. In all the time May-Ling had known the boss of Interpol she had never seen him ruffled. Until now. Her grasp of French covered sufficient of Benoit’s muttered curses. His breathing, flat and hard, hid his struggle to remain in control of his emotions. In the space of several days he had lost two dear friends to the maniacs hunting down the money they’d lost in the Banque Louvet accounts. She had often witnessed at close quarters a similar rage in the faces and eyes of the men she had worked with through the years at ISP. Her dead chief, Jules Townsend, Malky McGuire, former boss, Donnie Mullen and her beloved Jack. She also knew an unspoken crusade would ensue until the perpetrators were brought to account, and that was unlikely to be through any court of law.

  “The cameras at the airport took a while to download and filter but we’ve been successful with these,” said Benoit. “Some are from outside the terminal and a couple of dozen inside and around the hangar’s perimeter.”

  He placed on the table a bundle of printed images, taken from various camera angles, each with a date and time legend stamped on the bottom.

  “Outside the hangar where the jet was parked, the CCTV picked up two men in dark green overalls entering the area a couple of hours before the flight time. It took some clever work from the photographic guys, but they’ve produced recognisable features. Recognise this fellow, Jack?”

  The Scotsman stared at the face he and his agents had chased across the courtyard. The scarred lip underneath a sparse stubble.

  “He gets around, doesn’t he?” said Jack.

  “Here’s another from the parking bays outside the terminal about fifteen minutes before that one was recorded. This car plate number’s the same one your boys noted. I’ve put out a stop and arrest order on both the vehicle and Mister Scarlip. We might get lucky and find him still in Luxembourg, but I doubt it.”

  “I know where to find him,” said Jack.

  “Hold on,” said May-Ling. “I don’t want you and Malky storming off into any traffickers’ camp. I think it’s time for that meeting with Yves Rainier.”

  “Agreed,” said Benoit. “I’ll call him now and arrange to see him as soon as possible.”

  The fierce look in the Frenchman’s eyes had not diminished, but his shoulders had relaxed a little.

  ****

  The headquarters of the French Foreign Legion in Aubagne, stand proudly in an area several kilometres from Marseilles in the south of France. General Yves Rainier, a thirty-year service veteran, allowed himself a smile when his aide-de-camp brought the message of a request for a meeting with an old friend, Marcel Benoit. The men had been classmates in the Universite de Paris, better known as the Sorbonne, how many years ago now? The time lapse had not diminished the mutual respect for their respective career achievements.

  What possible reason could the head of Interpol have to come all this way to Aubagne?

  The assistant’s knock on his door at precisely four o’clock heralded the punctual arrival of his guest. General Rainier stood and came to the front of his desk. The solid figure of Marcel Benoit appeared in the doorway, leading a larger gentleman.

  “Marcel. What a great pleasure, mon ami.”

  The officer did not reach out a handshake, offering instead a warm embrace and the masculine beso-a-beso continental greeting.

  “You haven’t changed a bit. Still the handsome model of the world’s best police force.”

  “And you too, Yves. I see you haven’t lost the ability to charm. Although I would suggest maybe an eye check-up. Handsome? Ha! Maybe thirty years ago, mon ami.”

  Benoit stepped aside to introduce his companion.

  “I would like you to
meet a great friend of mine, Jack Calder.”

  “My pleasure, Mister Calder,” said Rainier, with a strong handshake.

  “And mine, but please call me Jack,” replied his guest.

  “Your accent tells me you’re Scottish, perhaps Glasgow?”

  “You have a fine ear,” said Jack.

  “Not so much that,” said Rainier, “We’ve had many of your countrymen grace the Legion’s ranks in my time. I often think your city and country breeds a certain type of fighting man. You’re most welcome here.”

  The legionnaire addressed Benoit.

  “Have you brought Jack to enlist with us? From his bearing I think he’s already an experienced soldier, non?”

  The Interpol chief laughed.

  “No enlistment, Yves. I’ll leave you to do your own recruiting. We’ve come to discuss another matter which I believe will be of interest to you. Shall we move over to your table here?”

  The door to the general’s office opened to allow a subaltern to enter with a tray carrying coffee, juices and water.

  Jack waited until the man retreated from the room and opened the envelope containing the photographs. He spread them in two semicircles opposite the general. Rainier leaned forward for a closer look. A dark scowl indicated instant recognition of most of the faces.

  The legionnaire stared from image to image and back again a few times.

  “May I ask where you acquired these, gentlemen?” he asked. “Most of these men are on the Legion’s wanted list for murder of officers during the act of desertion. Do you have access to our files?”

  “No, Yves,” said Jack. “I photographed all but two of them myself recently in North Africa. Libya to be precise. The pair in the middle come from records of a friend of mine and we have a fair idea where they’re located now.”

  “Central America, from the last intelligence I have,” said Rainier. “Living high on the proceeds of their filthy drugs business. Over the years, we’ve tried a few times without success to bring them back to justice. We’ve lost a further three legionnaires killed and a few more co-opted into their ranks. May I ask what your involvement is with them?”

  “It’s a little complicated, Yves,” said Benoit, pouring more coffee for himself. He held the pot out. “Refill anyone?”

  Jack and Rainier held out their cups.

  “At Interpol we’ve been tracking them across a range of disgusting activities. Apart from drug running, they’re key players in people-trafficking across the Mediterranean. Countless would-be migrants, possibly thousands, have perished in that enterprise. We also want them for six murders in Luxembourg.”

  “In Luxembourg? Pierre Louvet?” asked Rainier. “I knew Pierre well. A good, good man.”

  “Yes,” said Jack. “Along with his pilots and two of my operatives.”

  “Your operatives?”

  “Our firm is International Security Partners.”

  “ISP. Of course I’ve heard of you,” said the general. “I know Jules Townsend was killed in a booby trap bomb a while back. Another fine man. So, where is this conversation leading?”

  “I think we both have reason to want these men stopped,” said Jack. “I’d like to propose a joint effort to do that.”

  “When you say ‘stopped’, do I take it you mean permanently?” said Rainier.

  “Yes. The authorities on the ground in Libya have no interest in these people other than the bribe money they receive, so capture and hand over to them is out of the question.”

  “In normal circumstances, the Legion prefers to bring back deserters and put them through due process.”

  The general stroked his chin.

  “However, these are also coldblooded murderers. I knew all of the officers they killed. One was my cousin. And the type of men we’re dealing with wouldn’t surrender quietly or easily.”

  Rainier lifted the coffee pot and refilled once more for his visitors.

  “Do I understand correctly your intent for a shoot to kill mission?” he addressed Jack.

  “Yes,” replied the Scot. “Myself and one of my partners would accompany a few of your best fighters.”

  “With due respect, Jack, I’ve full confidence in the abilities of my own people. What credentials do you have to offer me that your presence would not be a hindrance and possible danger to my men?”

  As he had done some years before in the presence of his former chief, Jules Townsend and a senior police commander in Bolivia, Jack wordlessly removed his jacket and unbuttoned the left sleeve of his shirt. The tattoo on the forearm revealed the winged dagger across the open blade and the banner, ‘Who Dares Wins’, the unmistakable insignia and crest of the SAS.

  “Will this do?” he asked.

  The broad smile from Rainier was accompanied by a loud peal of laughter.

  “Mon ami, that is a most powerful endorsement. Let me order us more coffee. Then I’d like to hear more details of your plans.”

  CHAPTER 14

  May-Ling and Donnie Mullen, both experienced former detectives, valued the use of good intelligence. For four years, Donnie had been May-Ling’s direct boss in the Anti-Triad Squad in Hong Kong, where direct and indirect access to information on the Chinese gangs proved priceless. Prior to his appointment in Hong Kong, Donnie had earned a flawless record in putting many of London gangland’s serious crime honchos out of commission. Much of that success stemmed from similar undercover infiltration and feedback from the seedier parts of the West End club land in Soho and latterly from the capital’s docklands, through which much of the early United Kingdom’s drug running business flowed.

  The two directors each had a copy in front of them of the file received that morning from Mac. The content covered one subject only, a detailed briefing on Rico Sanchez. They had read through once already the double-spaced lines in the twelve pages and written a couple of observations each in the margins before exchanging with the other for a second read.

  Detail, detail, detail. The constant mantra left them by Jules Townsend.

  The first page carried three photographs, each taken at intervals of some years, the first in black and white, the others in colour. The initial image showed a young man, dressed in a denim work suit, smiling, a shock of untidy black hair crowding his eyebrows. The slim face matched a slender body. The following pictures confirmed the eye colour. Dark, dark brown, nearly black, but the smile had disappeared. Even in a simple photograph, a sense of purpose emanated from the tight set of the lips and the rigidity in his stare.

  May-Ling read through the dossier again.

  Born in a village near the Mexican border with the United States, Rico’s upbringing was no different from many of his neighbours’ children.

  He was just like the other kids.

  Adequate schooling nurtured the boy’s nimble brain, and he performed well.

  Just like the other kids.

  Daytime lessons dovetailed with an evening’s work in the fields around the village.

  Just like the other kids.

  Until the day his life turned upside down.

  Despite several warnings and threats, Rico’s father had constantly refused to assist the various drug runners who proliferated along the border, by not allowing them to store their merchandise from time to time in his home. The money offered to do so would have changed dramatically the fortunes and wellbeing of his family, but Sanchez senior, a devout Roman Catholic, drummed into Rico and his two older brothers the values he himself had inherited from their long-deceased grandfather. He told his offspring dirty money only brought trouble. Those who lived by the sword would die by the sword.

  His father did not live by the drugs business, but he died from it.

  His refusal to cooperate with the cartels ended with a raid on Rico’s home one early afternoon. When the boy arrived home from school, the front door lay open. The sight of his mother, father and two brothers lying dead side by side became branded in his mind forever. The executions by gunfire were done in typical gang
fashion. Not so typical were the throats slashed open after the deaths. A harsh and macabre message to anyone else in the surrounding neighbourhood not to stand in the way of the drug runners.

  Just like other kids, no more.

  The thirteen year-old Rico packed a small bag with a few clothes. There was nothing of value to take with him. He stared one last time at his family’s bodies and moved toward the door just before the local police arrived, alerted by an anonymous phone call. The officers shouted amongst themselves when they saw the carnage inside. No-one took any notice of the boy walking some distance away from them. Rico Sanchez never looked back.

  Mac’s records showed the first image, lifted from a school class photograph when he was twelve years old, still smiling. The others were much later. The smile had gone.

  The name of a lad known only as Rico kept appearing for the next few years as a willing undercover source for the American anti-drug squads operating along the corridor between the countries.

  His reliability led to further involvement with U.S. law enforcement agencies where assets on the darker side were required. With those he engaged in a loose, paid, mercenary arrangement, claiming he wanted independence in his movements, choosing his own times and commissions. These agencies offered him training in combat skills and black operations activities and were content to accede to his own choice of engagements. Reliability along the border region was hard to find. And harder to keep. Rico was a keeper. Through Mac’s linkage, the SAS had used the young Mexican’s talents on a few occasions, always in Central and South American situations.

  Donnie closed his file copy.

  “He did well with Jules and Jack in Chile and Bolivia back then,” he said.

  “Yes, they said he was sharp, resourceful and effective,” said May-Ling. “I wasn’t aware of his other skills. He’s been in enough black ops stuff to know how to handle himself. I think he’d be very useful in Guatemala.”