DEADLY IMPASSE (Jack Calder Crime Series #5)

by Seumas Gallacher

  The cabron was going to renege on him.

  The knock on the door broke his train of thought as his right hand man entered.

  “You needed me urgently, Don Hidalgo?”

  “Yes. Sit down. I want your opinion.”

  The man listened without interruption as Hidalgo recounted everything from the conversations with the DEA Honduras station chief and the second caller.

  “What do you think?” Hidalgo asked.

  “The news about Guatemala and Tegus is the buzz on the street,” said the lieutenant. “However, as you say, reversals happen from time to time. In normal circumstances, there’d be enough money in Corrado’s drugs stream to overcome that. Except…”

  “Except?” said Hidalgo.

  “Except he already owes us more than any single debtor we finance. He never told us about his business in Libya, or his secret deposits. It means he’s been financing his drug flows from the trafficking out of North Africa and from the money we’ve given him. The fact he’s willing to withhold information from you makes me wonder if he was ever going to pay us back.”

  “That’s what I think, too,” said Hidalgo. “I want you to do two things. Find out who my second caller is and who he’s with. I need some background and I need it fast. Put the word out asking where Corrado’s likely to have gone. My guess is he’s not in the Americas. In which case, I don’t want our people running around all over the place trying to nail him. The guy on the phone today and his people have their own agenda and may be an ideal means to settle our business with the cabron. Get back to me soon.”

  “Okay.”

  “One thing more.”

  “Yes, boss?”

  “Contact our other suppliers today. Tell them we want a little hike in their regular shipments starting next month. None of them too big an increase. Enough in total to cover Corrado’s shortfall.”

  “Will be done, boss.”

  The man left the room.

  Don Hidalgo sat back, feeling more comfortable than since he’d first heard about the hit in Tegucigalpa.

  ****

  The description of the Scottish caller and the methodology used in the attacks on Corrado made tracing and identification simple. Don Hidalgo looked at the summary report his man had taken only a day and a half to produce. International Security Partners, rated among the highest specialist security companies in the world in their market. Impressive. Then he read the list of partners in the firm and their credentials. Even more impressive. Several thoughts vied with each other in his head.

  The man on the phone had claimed no fight with him. ‘At this time.’ File that phrase away for future reference. ‘At this time.’ What the hell had Corrado done to have a team like this chasing him down?

  ****

  The mobile phone buzzed the signal for an incoming message. Jack clicked and read the code word followed by ‘Paphos, Cyprus’.

  Thank you, Don Hidalgo. But where in Paphos? Cornelius Corrado was unlikely to have his name emblazoned on a shingle on the island.

  Jack shared the message with the other directors.

  “I’ll ask Mac to check if the holding company link shows up in Cyprus, and any other connection he can think of,” said May-Ling.

  ****

  Mac rang back after a few hours.

  “Nothing showing on the holding company name, nor in Mister Corrado’s own name, not surprisingly,” he said. “However, I have another avenue for you.”

  “You usually have,” said May-Ling with a laugh. “Tell me.”

  “It’s not common public knowledge, but there’s a significant illegal drug business in Cyprus,” said Mac. “The main players are Turkish syndicates shifting stuff in and out of the Middle East, to and from Afghanistan, Turkey and Russia.”

  “Is Corrado dealing with them?” asked May-Ling.

  “I’ve no trace of any information on that, and can’t tell you one way or the other, but I’ve a connection who could be helpful. British intelligence has long had listeners in Cyprus, operating out of the British High Commission in the Greek side of the capital, Nicosia. Your husband and Malky will be aware of that. Part of what they keep an eye on are arms and drug shipments and some of the players. My contact is Colonel Barrington Gordon, which handle he never uses. He goes by plain ‘Barry Gordon’ for obvious reasons. I’ve been in touch with him. He doesn’t recognise Corrado’s name, but he says that in itself means nothing. I sent him a copy of the photograph I gave you a while ago. He’s plugged into a lot of the unspoken business, not only in Cyprus, but in the region, and he’d be pleased to meet any of you in Nicosia.”

  “You’re a great help, as ever, Mac. If you can give me his direct contact details, I’ll have one or two of the boys fly there by tomorrow if he’s available,” said May-Ling.

  “That’s what I told him already. I knew you’d want to get in there as soon as possible.”

  May-Ling laughed even louder than before, causing her fellow directors to look up from their desks.

  “Mac, when you decide to retire from the Regiment, we probably would never have enough money to entice you to come and join us, but I swear I’ll be trying anyway.”

  “The details are on the fax as we speak, as well as commercial flight times into Cyprus tonight and tomorrow morning. Give my regards to the boys.”

  As she replaced the receiver, Jack, Donnie and Malky gathered at her open door, knowing it had been Mac on the line. May-Ling retrieved the fax message.

  “Malky and Jack, you’re flying to Nicosia tonight,” she said. “You’re meeting a Barry Gordon around noon at the British High Commission.

  “Ould Barrin’ton Gordon!” said Malky, “He was an attache to the Governor’s advisers in Hong Kong at the time I was there wi’ the Irish Guards in 1971. Everybody knew he was more of a spook than anythin’ else. Terrific guy. We used to play fitba’ wi’ him. Hard bastard he was. Flyin’ tackles and a temper like fizz. We spent many a great night drinkin’ wi’ him down the red light district. Barry was a smashin’ go-between for our lads whenever there was a wee spot of local drinkin’ bother with your pals in the local police, May-Ling.”

  “A bit before my time in the force, Malky, about fifteen years before, I’d say” she said. “Anyway, his number’s on here, call him when you waken in the morning there. Apparently he’s an early starter, according to Mac.”

  “How on earth does Mac know that?” asked Donnie, shaking his head.

  “Mac knows everything, Donnie. By the way, you’re liaison back here for this one. Jack, if you need Donnie over there, give me a few hours lead time to get him to you. Okay, everybody?”

  “Okay,” said the other three as one.

  CHAPTER 32

  It takes time to import and recruit reliable men. Corrado was keen to re-establish his cash flows out of Libya, but not in too much of a rush. The route and sourcing from the migrants’ camp near the hospital was out of the question. Many other embarkation points thrived along the northern coast, but rival syndicates already controlled the busiest of these. His approach to strategy and tactics were more measured than most of the other players. Two locations interested him, both areas with a useful flow of potential candidates for his trafficking, coupled with loose organization of the gangs servicing them. He needed fighters. First order of business was to take over, to remove the opposition, and to commandeer their operations. His two lieutenants who doubled as bodyguards, and he, spent several days contacting men they knew fitted the calibre he needed. Responses were good and interviews had started already. Generous money and bonuses attracted a certain type of fighter, the kind who asked no questions and obeyed instructions.

  The long-term lease on the private villa in Paphos ran for another year and a half, cash paid in advance. Corrado employed no servants, gardeners or cleaners. A couple of refrigerators and a large storage freezer minimized the need for trips to stock the place with food, trips undertaken by his men, never by himself. The swimming pool and a gymnasium on the
premises kept himself and his men fit.

  His evening practice of a few beers on his own by the pool served as thinking time each day. He flipped the cap from his second bottle from the cooler and sipped.

  Another week or two and we’ll be up and running.

  ****

  “Ye’re a sight for sore eyes, Barry, m’boy,” said Malky, locking a handshake with the former attache. “This is Jack Calder.”

  “You haven’t changed much, Malky. It must be all that pure living away from the military. How d’you do, Jack? Good to meet you.”

  “Likewise,” said Jack.

  The clock above the reception desked showed seven ten. The three men made the foyer of the small hotel look crowded. Barry Gordon’s physique matched that of the two ex-SAS officers. Gordon resembled nothing like a British High Commission officer. Casual clothing more appropriate to a holidaymaker, with sunglasses, sandals and a light brown, loose-fitting T-shirt over cargo pant shorts was more fitted to the large number of typical Nicosia visitors. The cargo pants pockets covered the presence of a handgun, but Jack noticed it.

  Not your typical trade attaché accessory, he thought.

  “I’m sure you could use some breakfast and decent coffee,” said Gordon. “Follow me.”

  He led the others onto the street and walked to a grey Volvo parked ten metres away. The drive to their destination lasted no more than ten minutes.

  “We’re here,” said the host, parking outside one of many similar bistros on both sides of a busy street. Despite the early hour, patrons filled many of the plaza tables in most of the outlets, reading newspapers and enjoying morning coffee. Gordon led his guests inside the taverna and guided them to a reserved window table looking out across the street. Behind the shaded glass bearing the cafe’s name in large lettering, the three were invisible from the outside, but their view took in three restaurants directly opposite.

  A waiter brought coffee while Gordon rattled off something in Greek, incomprehensible to Jack and Malky. The man disappeared, shouting ahead of him into the recess of a kitchen. A loud, continuous conversation filtered back, as the cook’s voice sparred with the waiter’s. In minutes, the server returned with a large, laden, wicker tray. Plates with assorted breads, pastries and buns sat alongside cheeses, yoghurt, and sour milk. Others held cold cuts, meats and boiled eggs. Honey, tahini, olives and tiny pies rounded off the delivery.

  “You’ll find something in this lot you can eat,” said Gordon. “If you want your eggs fried, scrambled, boiled or as an omelette, just tell this lad. Help yourselves.”

  “How long did it take you to pick up the lingo?” asked Malky.

  “The basic street stuff takes a while, but everybody likes to eat in Cyprus, so the language for this is easier,” said Gordon. “But I’ve brought you here for more than the food.”

  “We’re all ears,” said Jack, reaching for some cheese.

  “The message about your Mister Corrado was timely,” said Gordon. “We’ve nobody with that name on our watch list, but with the backgrounder May-Ling sent us, I talked to two of my street listeners last night. What they came back with fits into something else I’ve had my eye on for the past week. A couple of guys who’ve been here before are back again, doing what looks like recruitment interviews. My informants say they’re involved in migrant smuggling across the water in Libya.”

  Jack put down his coffee cup.

  “Is the information reliable?” he asked.

  “Nothing’s ever a hundred percent, and we don’t have enough to trigger a move by the local authorities on the people I’m talking about, but I’d say reliable enough.”

  “Where’re they now?” said Malky.

  “If they stick with the pattern of the last few days, they’ll be here anytime soon,” said Gordon.

  “Here?” asked Jack.

  “Near enough to here. Across the street in the restaurant on the left, usually around eight o’clock. We can eat while we wait. Try the tahini, it’s the best on the island.”

  Malky and Jack needed no second bidding. All three men faced the window as they ate. A few minutes past eight, a Nissan Pajero drew up and parked near the entrance to the bistro opposite.

  “Our company’s arrived,” said Gordon.

  Two heavy-set men got out of the Pajero and made their way to an outside corner table bearing a small ‘Reserved’ notice. They acted like any normal customers, with no outward sign of caution or checking for any observers. A waiter immediately brought them coffee and plates without need for ordering.

  Regular patrons. Comfortable on their own patch, thought Jack.

  One of the men lit a cigarette and reached for the ashtray on the table. The other looked at his watch. As if on cue, a third man approached, walking from the left and waved a greeting as he joined the pair. Like the first two men, he was casually dressed, but not like a holiday-maker. The cigarette smoker offered his pack. The guest took one and accepted a light. The waiter brought another coffee cup and the second man poured while gesturing at the food, an invitation to eat.

  “Sometimes it’s one guy they meet per morning, sometimes more, but always one at a time,” said Gordon.

  “How long do the meetings last?” asked Jack.

  “Usually about an hour or so.”

  “Would they recognise your car?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Gordon. “And I’m ahead of your next question already. Yes, we can tail them when they leave.”

  Malky half-punched the attache on the shoulder.

  “I told ye Barry boy was clever enough to be Irish, didn’t I, Jack?”

  “Have some more coffee,” said Gordon, shaking his head. “These guys’ll be a while yet.”

  The joining man left the others with a handshake after an hour. Cigarette man took some paper from his shirt pocket and wrote on it for a few minutes. As he folded the sheet and put it back, his partner left some money on the table.

  Only one interview today.

  The watchers waited until the two had driven away before following at a distance in the Volvo.

  The ISP men silently acknowledged Gordon’s fieldcraft as he tailed the Pajero. The vehicle’s distinct size and shape made it easier to tag without the risk of getting too close and being seen. Mid-morning volume of commercial and private traffic heading from the capital toward Paphos provided good cover as they kept a minimum distance of half a dozen vehicles between themselves and their quarry.

  On the outskirts of Paphos, the traffic split, one stream into the centre of the town and another heading toward the northern roadway circling it. The traffic thinned only slightly, and Gordon dropped back further, maintaining visual contact with the Pajero. Eventually, the front vehicle turned right into a cluster of residential hillside properties, spread over an area which breathed exclusivity.

  The bungalows and two-storey homes were huge compared to those Jack was accustomed to seeing in London’s wealthier suburbs. Top of the range models of expensive cars sat in several of the driveways.

  “This isn’t a district where you put your head over the neighbour’s fence to ask to borrow a cup of sugar,” said Gordon. “This is concentrated wealth, right here. A bit of it’s local, but the bulk of it’s foreign. You’d be surprised at some of the names that show up here. The government cuts them tax deals and all sorts. And a lot of it’s dirty money.”

  Two cars remained between the Volvo and the men it was following. Gordon slowed down when the lead car stopped beside a cream-coloured villa. He drove on for thirty metres and pulled over at the roadside. One of the men in the Pajero got out and opened a wooden gate leading into a side garage. From the Volvo, Jack and the others had a clear view of a range of small bushes fronting a manicured lawn sloping up to an impressive veranda. A series of four sets of five white-paved steps led to a wide double-doored entrance. Similar low bushes bordered the sides, rising upward to the main building. The side walls of the villa stretched back more than thirty metres.

&nb
sp; “I don’t see any security or scanning equipment at the front of the place. Are you able to pinpoint this exact address?” Jack asked Gordon.

  “Indeed I can. I guess you’ll want to see if we can source plans of the layout of the place, right?”

  “Right,” said Jack. “We might also need some extra items.”

  “Ask and it shall be given,” joked Gordon. “I’ve a fair idea of what you’ll need. All available, no trouble.”

  “Good man. I think we should go back to Nicosia. We’ve some thinking to do.”

  Gordon restarted the Volvo’s engine and turned and headed back to the capital.

  The approval date franked on the copy of the building upgrades to the villa was recent, less than a year old. The contractor had filed for improvements to the front steps and to the swimming pool. For Jack and Malky, the plan of the general layout of the rear of the premises was of more interest, including windows and doorways not visible from the sighting spot on the roadway. Gordon folded the large facsimile copy and placed it a filing cabinet.