“Please think it over. I’ll call again in two days. Goodnight, my dear.”
The line cut. Francine Louvet placed the receiver back gently, her hands shaking. She stood up and leaned toward the telephone stand once more and with a violent swipe, flung it from the desk. Her other arm swept across the desk to the other side, brushing pens, pencils, files and her in-tray onto the carpet. Her shaking wasn’t from fear, but from barely controllable anger. The noise brought her assistant running into the suite. As the secretary stooped to retrieve some of the debris, her boss waved her out, with a signal that she was okay. The door closed softly and Francine knelt on the carpet, picking up each hurled object and replacing it to its proper place on her desk. She took her time, repeating the retrieval process for every individual item. The rage receded. The simple therapeutic act of returning her desk to normality was over in fifteen minutes.
She picked up the telephone and dialled.
“Good evening, May-Ling,” she said. “You were right. Xavier himself has just called. Almost scripted the way you said it might be.”
“How are you feeling?”
“I was mad. I nearly lost it with him. But I responded the way you suggested.”
“And the recorder is running constantly on this line?”
“Yes it is. But I don’t want to hear his voice again until you’re here with me, May-Ling.”
“I understand. I’ll be with you in the morning.”
“Thanks for that. And thanks for everything.”
“No thanks needed. You’re a very strong woman. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
Francine looked up as a knock on the door preceded the entry of her assistant.
“Are you sure you’re okay, ma’am?”
“Yes. My dear. Everything’s fine. You may go home now, thanks.”
The young woman closed the door behind her. Francine walked to the drinks cabinet and poured a brandy. A regular size measure. Her hands were no longer shaking.
CHAPTER 23
The man’s information was usually reliable. Rico never asked, nor expected to be told, who his sources were, but his record in the past was sound. The informant contacted him a week after the first coffee house meeting to arrange a second rendezvous, at a different location.
The central bus terminus in Cancun bustled with foot traffic. The sprawling, one-storey building’s interior containsed fast food outlets, a florist, newspaper vendors, a bookseller, and a wine shop. In the centre, separate queues at the fare windows dispensed tickets to different parts of the country. Lines for destinations within the city limits stretched longer than those for the cross-country routes. The parking area in front of the huge arcade held dozens of buses, the longer distance vehicles conspicuous by their large, tinted glass windows.
Ample seating on benches ringed the concourse inside, where the air conditioning units fought a losing battle with the stifling early afternoon heat. Rico entered and looked across to the area in front of the wine shop. At the back of the three rows of seats, his man sat with an open sports magazine. He raised his eyes as Rico took the seat two along, but avoided turning toward him. There were no other passengers sitting nearby.
“Honduras,” the man said. “Fully operational, no disruption in supplies according to the locals here who deal with them. And their little problem in Guatemala is common knowledge.”
“Location in Honduras?” said Rico.
“Tegus. Where exactly, I don’t know. If you give me more time, I can possibly get it. I have to be careful who I talk to.”
“Any idea how much they transport, and when?”
“Yes. The street knows. Every month, around the last week, a regular major shipment comes in, anywhere from 250 kilos to 350 kilos of cocaine. They land it in San Cristobal de las Casas. You’ve heard of Los Tigres?”
“Of course, one of the biggest cartels in the Americas, no?”
“Yes. They own the town.”
“They ship in by air?” asked Rico.
“Yes.”
“Helicopters?”
“No. They attract too much attention. The authorities turn a blind eye, for the usual reasons. They get paid well to do so, and they have families they don’t want to put at risk. Los Tigres are serious people, amigo. However, the airport’s too open. There’s a private landing strip they use instead with small aircraft.”
“Anything else?” asked Rico.
“Maybe, maybe not, but I’ve heard Don Hidalgo, the head of Los Tigres, funded Corrado for close to a hundred million dollars,” said the man. “Big drug deals eat up big bucks in ready cash. So far he’s delivered locally what’s been ordered, but if there’s any disruption to the supply, the cartel wouldn’t be too happy. Comprende?”
“Comprende, amigo.”
Rico removed a packet from his inside jacket pocket and placed it on the seat between them.
“More biscuits,” he said. “Enjoy.”
The man placed his magazine on top of the package as Rico rose and ambled away without looking back. This time it was the man’s turn to wait ten minutes before picking up his magazine and the money. He strolled all the way around the inside of the terminal, stopping at a couple of shop windows. He ended at the fare window where he purchased a local ticket. Satisfied no unwelcome observers had witnessed the conversation and exchange of cash, he walked out of the exit, crumpled the unused ticket, and threw it into a waste paper bin.
****
The conference lines were open between Francine Louvet’s suite and Marcel Benoit’s office in Lyons. Malky McGuire, Donnie Mullen and Jack linked up via the console in ISP’s Amsterdam office.
“We’ve a few agenda items this evening,” May-Ling began. “First, Francine received a call here yesterday from Torres, pretty much along the lines I expected. I want you to listen to the recording.”
She switched the apparatus to replay the conversation between Francine and her former lover. The bank chief and May-Ling had gone over the exchanges several times, with Francine’s reaction becoming less uncomfortable with each successive running.
“Can you run it again?” said Benoit, after the initial hearing. “I want to record it over here, too.”
Donnie asked for a third run through, until everybody online agreed they had a grasp of the total conversation.
“The man couldnae lie straight in bed,” said Malky. “Is he thinkin’ ye’re daft?”
“I don’t give a damn what he thinks,” replied Francine. “He’s an out and out liar. I don’t believe a word he says.”
“The point is, he won’t be sure if she believes him or not,” intervened May-Ling. “He expected her to react the way she did. His follow up call tomorrow night will be more of the same.”
“And you intend to give him a little encouragement, bit by bit for a few more calls?” asked Benoit.
“Correct. If Francine pretends to believe him first bite, he’ll know he’s being set up, but piece by piece, I want him to think she’s coming around to him.”
“What happens then?” asked Donnie.
“Then we set up a meeting in an open area. Flush him out.”
“Okay. What else do we have tonight?” said Jack.
“Second item. Rico’s reported in from his contact in Mexico,” May-Ling continued. “He’s surfaced a few interesting things already. The likely location for Corrado and Torres is somewhere in Tegucigalpa.”
“Teguchi where?” asked Malky. “I’ve never heard of it.”
“Tegucigalpa’s the capital city in Honduras,” said May-Ling. “The locals call it ‘Tegus’.”
“Well, ‘Tegus’ suits me just fine,” said the Irishman. “Is it a big place? How do we find where these guys are hidin’?”
“I’ve been in touch with Mac and asked if he can use his research talent to help us. I suggested he look to see if there’s any common registration names of properties in Honduras, matching the ownership of the Hotel Pedrosa in Guatemala, especially one near an
airstrip. Rico says they fly their drugs across to Mexico in light aircraft.”
“Good thinking,” said Jack. “Marcel, if we find where they are, and it’s in Honduras, do you have people on the ground who can help with logistics and weapons?”
“I’m sure I can arrange that,” said the Frenchman. “Just let me know when and where you need them. We have agents down there working closely with our American friends. The Drug Enforcement people have limited strike ability there. They’d welcome and support anything you can do.”
“Noted, thanks. Anything else, May-Ling?” asked her husband.
“Yes. Item three. Rico’s man said Corrado’s syndicate is heavily indebted to the main Mexican cartel, presumably cash flow funding for sourcing the drugs. So far that hasn’t been a problem, but Rico says if we can block some of the merchandise getting into Mexico, even one month’s lack of supply would cause major embarrassment at the very least. Street value on a big shipment of three hundred plus kilos is around twenty-five to thirty million dollars. Our informer says that’s roughly how much they ship toward the end of each month. If we can’t nail Corrado and Torres immediately, the next best target would be their supply chain. It’s worth considering. Let’s keep the idea fluid.”
“Okay,” said Jack. “Are we done?”
“That’s all from our side. I’ll stay here with Francine until Torres calls tomorrow.”
The lines closed. Both ladies were silent for a moment.
“Would you care for a small brandy?”
“Why not?” said May-Ling. “With some ice would be good.”
“Ice?”
“That’s how we Chinese prefer it. Try it. I think you’ll like it.”
Francine poured a generous measure for each of them, and added ice cubes. The lady bosses clinked glasses as their evening lapsed into lighter conversation.
****
The call from Mac came through close to lunch time the next morning.
“You have something already?” asked May-Ling.
“Nothing with absolute certainty, but a high probability. Your idea of common property ownership gets us close, I think.”
“Tell me.”
“Property records are easy enough to find through land registrations. The name on the deeds for Hotel Pedrosa didn’t show anywhere in Honduras. It was a corporate registration, as most of these things are.”
“Yes?”
“So, I checked if the company was part of a bigger group.”
“Like a holding company?” said May-Ling.
“Like a holding company, as you say. I found its parentage, then checked the parent name in Honduras, and found a match.”
“Mac, you’re a bloody genius. What did it show?”
“They’ve several subsidiaries in Honduras, but only one registered with the sole purpose of owning a certain piece of land with buildings on it. Oh, and here’s your bonus, with a small airstrip on the grounds. It’s not a hundred percent, but it feels right.”
“Damn right it does. Knowing you, I take it you have the location for me?”
“The map of the place and its surroundings are on the scanner as we speak, along with the other details.”
“Thanks a million, Mac. We must owe you about a dozen dinners in London by now. Please come on down and join us soon.”
“Soon. Give my regard to the boys.
CHAPTER 24
Francine let the telephone ring half a dozen times before picking up the receiver.
“Hello.”
“My dear, Francine.”
She nodded across the desk to where May-Ling sat.
“I half expected you not to call this evening.”
“I promised you I’d call,” said Torres.
“You’ve promised me many things, Xavier, if not directly, indirectly. What am I to believe of you?”
“Please, if you have any scrap of feeling left for me, trust me on this,” the voice pleaded. “I truly want only the best outcome for you. When this is all resolved, nothing would please me more than for you and I to be as we were before this whole tragedy began.”
“How would you think that could happen? You are the single common link in every terrible thing that’s happened recently.”
“As I said two nights ago, I think I may be able to help catch these people and bring justice where it belongs.”
“How?”
“If you’re prepared to listen to me, I believe it may be possible to tempt them to a meeting with you to discuss the money that’s been frozen. Except, if we’re able to release the funds, it won’t go to them, but to the blameless parties I mentioned to you already. I’d propose we set a place for you and I to talk first, and perhaps a second meeting to tempt them into being present, and we arrange for the police to arrest them.”
“Why the need for more than one meeting?” said Francine.
“They’re unlikely to come to any meeting, second or otherwise, unless they’re shown some paperwork pointing toward the chance of the funds being returned. I’d suggest when you and I first meet, we work out what wording’s needed on a legal document showing a move toward freeing up the money.”
Francine remained silent and gave a thumbs-up sign to May-Ling.
Torres spoke again.
“What do you think? What do you have to lose, my dear?”
“I’m not sure, Xavier. I’m not convinced I can trust you now.”
“Have you no feelings left for me at all, Francine? Are the two years we had to count for nothing?”
Again, the bank chief didn’t respond. She let the silence hang for a few moments before responding.
“If I did agree to meet you, how do I know the location would be safe?”
“Perhaps you’d feel more comfortable if you chose the venue?” said Torres. “Somewhere with as few other people around. For reasons I explained last time, I also don’t trust anyone these days, apart from you, of course.”
“Let me think about it,” said Francine. “Call me again at the same time the evening after tomorrow. Goodnight.”
She cut the line before he could reply.
“Well done,” said May-Ling.
The hint of a smile graced her client’s lips.
CHAPTER 25
The hired car had seen better days, but its age lent it anonymity. Documentation for the rental firm in Tegucigalpa consisted of the right amount of dollars, and an I.D. which the leasing clerk gave a casual once over, scrawling the number on his rental sheet.
The enlarged map from May-Ling pinpointed the property and the routes around it. Unlike the reconnaissance in Guatemala, this one had busy roads leading past its boundaries. Daytime viewing from several different stops on the thoroughfares close by was a simple matter of parking wherever his vehicle didn’t obstruct others. Rico made a rough mental note of the lengths and height of the walls. In the course of the afternoon, he watched as two vehicles approached the gate at separate times. They sounded their car horns with a similar rat-a-tat-tat code, and the guards opened up. The prominent AK 47s were a clear indication of the type of people inside the compound. Ordinary citizens don’t have heavily armed sentries. Confirmation this was the right destination came midway through the afternoon. The thud-thud-thud of a helicopter dropping toward the place caused the Mexican to look up to follow its descent. The lettered identification marks on its underbelly matched the same chopper he’d seen at Hotel Pedrosa.
The light faded into early evening. As the darkness descended, no lights appeared along the boundary walls. Rico approached the property from the rear. Light woodland and bushes covered a slight hill, enough to provide a shield from view from the edge of the road. He could see the back of the dwellings. The drop of several feet on the downside led steeply onto the river, flowing gently west to east. Rico tested the depth with a twig. It didn’t touch the bottom. Across the way, iron railings with a padlocked grid led onto the water, protecting the end house. In the half-light, through the bars he could make out the shapes
of two small dinghies, leaning against the wall of the building. Seventy metres further downstream, the river turned sharply left. Rico retraced his steps and moved further along, opposite to the bend he’d seen. It was accessible from his direction, still hidden from sight from the road.
Within an hour in Luxembourg, May-Ling Calder was reading his summary.
****
While the ISP boss was reading Rico’s report, two thousand miles to the east of Luxembourg, night had already closed in on Benji Rafael and his team. The chief medic pored over a different report, the week’s throughput summary of patients. He grunted in disapproval at names he recognized as serious cases, but who had discharged themselves in the past few days, regardless of the advice to remain in the hospital for further treatment. He couldn’t stop them leaving if they chose to go. Despite the security presence at the marquee, it was clear trafficking arrangements were being made further afield within the migrant camp, through relatives of those who subsequently signed themselves out. A sense of powerlessness brought a heavy sigh from Rafael. The tent flap to his office opened.
“You okay, Doc?”
The leader of the security contingent, a Welshman known only as ‘Taff’ to his men, checked in with Rafael two or three times daily.
“Hello, Taff. I’m okay, thanks, but the number of patients electing to leave the hospital early is too high. I can’t stop them if they say they want to go.”
“The vermin still nobbling them, then?”
“Of course. Nobody wants to discharge themselves unless they’re in good health, or think they’ve a chance of passage across to Italy.”
“I understand. It must be galling for you as a medical man,” said Taff. “Unfortunately, our orders are explicit. We guard the hospital and your people on site. No roaming outside unless we get instructions otherwise. I’ll send a message up the line and see what comes back, okay?”
“Thanks. My team and myself are grateful to have you guys here.”
DEADLY IMPASSE (Jack Calder Crime Series #5) Page 12
