“Come with me and have a look at the other stuff you wanted,” he said.
Jack had a sense of déjà vu of the armoury in the DEA office in Tegucigalpa as Gordon revealed the equipment in the Commission’s safe room, an area within the building with the strictest access code control. He watched as the ISP men chose their weapons, checked and swapped them over to recheck.
“You need any help on your next visit to the villa?” he asked.
“Thanks, Barry,” said Jack. “For so many reasons, it’s better if we go on our own with this one, but there’s something you can help with after the event.”
“Tell me.”
Jack outlined what he wanted.
“Will be done,” said the attache.
CHAPTER 33
The quiet swish of water merged with the evening stillness at the villa poolside as Corrado completed a dozen laps of breast stroke. He swam a leisurely four more of back stroke and finished with six fast lengths of crawl. The distant, gentle hum of light traffic far out in front of the villa contributed to the tranquillity. The nightly swimming exercise toned his muscles and gave him added thinking time.
The meeting earlier in the day between his men and the latest recruit rounded out to fifteen the new crew for Libya. Within a week the first strike force would be ready. Three days hence, the first briefing session with all the recruits, assembled at the villa, would let him assess the quality of the squad. He trusted the judgement of his lieutenants, who like the unfortunate Torres, had been with him since the desertion from the Legion, but he still liked to run his own professional eye over them.
He stepped out of the pool a few paces to his table and picked up his towel and began to dry himself. His t-shirt draped over the back of the chair. As he put it on he reached for a beer from the cool box, usually placed at the other side of the table, but it wasn’t there.
They haven’t brought it out yet.
He wiped his hands on the towel one more time and walked toward the open lounge door.
“Pedro. Vicente. Can one of you bring out the cool box?” he called.
The kitchen door to the left of the lounge was ajar, but neither man replied. He stepped forward and entered the kitchen. Pedro and Vicente were there. Instant shock seized his senses. They lay dead on the floor, each with a dagger imbedded in the throat. The split second of realisation was matched with a fierce pain at his neck. The wire garrotte drew tight. His flailing arms and desperate clawing were helpless to prevent the terror of losing his breathing. The wire bit tighter. The blood seeping from his neck covered his fingers, making his attempts to free himself more feeble. A hooded man in black appeared in front of him.
“This is for Rico,” the man whispered. “And all the poor bastards you and your scum have murdered at sea.”
Jack Calder drove his knife up through Corrado’s rib cage and into his heart. The garrotte was no longer necessary. Malky McGuire let the dead man fall to the kitchen floor.
Barry Gordon received the message from Paphos and allowed an hour to pass before making his anonymous phone calls to the incident desks at the leading English newspaper, the Cyprus Mail and its counterpart, the Greek daily, Haravgi. There was no need to alert the police. The newspaper reporters would compete to take care of that with no trace of the original caller. The responding squad cars’ sirens disturbed the late night calm of the residents of the hillside community, none of whom bothered to look to see what was causing the noise. The officers found three corpses floating in the pool, each with a dagger impaled, two of them in the throat and one through the heart. Later investigations revealed that all of the dead men had frequently entered the country with false names, using the same excellent forged passports each time.
The morning editions of the Cyprus Mail carried the headline story.
SUSPECTED DRUG GANG MURDERS
‘Following a tipoff from reliable sources, police authorities in Paphos discovered the bodies of three men in the swimming pool of a villa in a residential suburb north of the city. The manner of death, the precise details of which the police are keeping confidential at this time, mirrors the style of execution favoured by notorious criminal gangs from the Turkish mafia in the north of the country.
A police source who spoke on terms of confidentiality said the recent increase in the movement of illicit drugs in the region has been matched by an escalation in rivalry between competing syndicates. These suspected turf killings have been expected for several months.
The owner of the property is currently out of Cyprus, but a spokesperson on her behalf knew of no reason why the victims, who have been impeccable tenants for more than two years, should have been attacked in this manner. Investigations continue.’
****
Jack Calder read through the article at the airport lounge, prior to boarding for London with Malky.
“Your man Barry’s a neat operator.”
“He’s all o’ that,” said Malky. “He was always bailin’ our lads out o’ trouble in Hong Kong. Nice job here.”
The tannoy announcement called the flight for London. As they moved from the lounge, Gordon appeared alongside to escort them to the gate.
“Any time you gentlemen need a good Greek breakfast, you know where to come,” he said. “Nicosia’s far too quiet. It was nice to get involved in a little community service, cleaning up the garbage.”
“We’ll be glad to return the compliment in London,” said Jack. “Thanks for everything.”
CHAPTER 34
The payment of five million dollars from Marcel Benoit reached ISP’s account the day following the announcement of the police discovery at the Paphos villa. An hour after releasing the instruction to make the remittance, the Interpol head called his friend, General Yves Rainier, at the Legion’s headquarters in Aubagne.
“Bonjour, Marcel. To what do I owe the pleasure this morning? Do we have another sortie in prospect with our friends from London?”
“Bonjour, mon ami,” said Benoit. “There’s no need for any more action from your side. You’ll be pleased to know Messieurs Corrado and Torres will no longer be a problem for anyone on this earth. I’ve also reason to believe most of their henchmen can be removed from your list of living deserters.”
“That is extremely gratifying to hear, Marcel. Please relay my personal thanks to our friends. I wish I had half a dozen of their kind here with me in Aubagne. They have the true spirit of the legionnaire.”
“I often have a similar wish, Yves. However, they seem to operate very efficiently within their own rules. A bientot, mon ami. Let’s catch up for a glass or two next time you’re in France.”
****
Benji Rafael’s staff knew something important was imminent. The chief of the Medical Mission for Peace in North Africa had flown in overnight from Cairo, a visit off-schedule from his normal bi-annual field trips, as he had been to see them three weeks earlier.
During the afternoon, other visitors arrived. Jack Calder and Malky McGuire were recognized as the men in black whose presence had preceded the installation of the superb security at the hospital.
The two ladies accompanying them were new faces. A strikingly attractive Asian female, together with an equally elegant woman of European appearance. The casual pant suits they both wore did nothing to hide the grace and comfort with which they carried themselves.
Another gentleman, smartly dressed in suit and tie, arrived last. The head of Interpol had made hurried arrangements to be present.
At the request of Francine Louvet, the paramedic staff assembled in an area within the hospital’s marquee, permitting the full complement of personnel to be present without leaving their patients unattended. A plain campaign table sat in the centre. Jugs of juice and pots of coffee from the canteen kitchen joined heaped plates of biscuits. In lieu of a fancy table cloth, a substituted clean bedsheet served the purpose. Self-service was the order of the day.
The chief of Mission stood up and the buzz of conversation dwindled to a
n attentive silence.
“Good afternoon, everyone,” he said. “I’m delighted to be back with you again today, and I’d like to welcome some special guests. To my left, are three gentlemen whose direct involvement has meant the installation of the security force we’ve enjoyed for the past weeks.”
The ISP men and Benoit gave a wave of their hands as applause broke out. Some of the staff whistled.
“The lady to my right is associated with the two you call the men in black,” he continued, pointing to May-Ling.
The whistling and applause resumed, louder than before. The Mission chief let it recede before speaking once more.
“Benji, ladies and gentlemen, your work here is something I know you do because you want to help others. It’s part of our calling. It’s part of our creed. There are times, however, when other assistance is required to sustain your work here in Libya and other areas where our Mission is present. Funding support is not always easy to source as there are many other fields of good work requiring financial aid. We’re very fortunate to have a new benefactor. Please welcome Francine Louvet, the chairwoman and chief executive officer of Banque Louvet, who provided the financing for your hospital security.”
Francine stood up as the applause and cheering renewed. She gestured for quiet.
“Doctor Rafael, you and your wonderful staff are doing priceless work here. Through the connection with this lady and these gentlemen you see in front of you, I’m privileged to have been given the opportunity to contribute in some small way to your efforts. My late father was a great believer in the credo of giving back some of the good fortune that has come the way of our family over the years. I understand some, but not all, of the difficulties you face at the hospital in an environment which unfortunately also attracts human vermin in the form of people traffickers preying on the migrants’ desperation and especially those amongst your patients.”
The audience was silent, with many nodding their heads as Francine spoke.
“When I was asked to assist in funding for the security of the hospital, I had in mind a limited period of a few months, thinking that would suffice to stabilise the situation, but I realise if the guards are removed, other gangs would appear sooner or later. I’m pleased to tell you Banque Louvet will guarantee financing for the security arrangements for your hospital as long as it remains in Libya, and these good people here will manage the process,” she said, indicating May-Ling and her partners.
Many of the patients strained to see what was causing the tumultuous cheering as the paramedics rose to their feet, clapping, shouting and whistling at the announcement. The applause continued for a few minutes before Francine could continue.
“I’ve spoken with several of my peers in the financial market in Luxembourg, and a few further afield. I’m recommending the establishment of a more permanent foundation to support efforts such yours. In the meantime, I’ve brought with me an initial contribution which is donated in the name of my father, Pierre Louvet.”
Francine handed an envelope to the Mission chief.
“May I open it?’ he asked.
“Of course.”
The chief removed a cheque and read it out to the audience.
“Payable to the Medical Mission for Peace in North Africa. Twenty-five million euros.”
The hospital marquee erupted with a noise never heard before as the paramedics screamed and laughed. Francine Louvet smiled as May-Ling approached and hugged her. Both ladies had moist eyes.
“Thank you, May-Ling. Thank you to all of you. Now it really is over.”
****
The flowers and pathways in the small Mexican village graveyard were well-manicured. Older stone crosses dated back over a hundred and fifty years. Jack, Donnie and Malky stood silently in a row alongside Ellis and Palmer, who had flown in from Honduras. They listened with bowed heads as the old priest led a prayer. When he had finished, Ellis stepped forward to the marble headstone and placed a wreath among the simple cluster of flowers already there. The embossed card read, ‘Rico Sanchez--a true fighter and a brother. From all of us who had the honour of serving with you.’
The emblem of the DEA rested at the bottom of the card.
Donnie followed Ellis with a similar floral tribute. The handwritten inscription stated simply,
‘To our dear friend, Rico. Sorely missed. From your family at ISP.’
The party retired to the priest’s house, a short car journey from the cemetery. The old man spoke perfect English. He asked them to sit at the cramped kitchen table while he made coffee for everyone. A large porcelain dish, filled with local finger-foods sat in the centre of the table. A few pieces tumbled on to the tablecloth and were quickly picked up by Malky and Palmer.
The priest squeezed onto the bench beside Jack.
“Thank you for coming to the graveyard today, Padre,” said Jack.
“I’m grateful that you came. I knew the Sanchez family very well. Unhappily, Rico was the only survivor. I think you know the story of how his father and the rest of the family were killed. They were good people. He didn’t come back to the village until many years later. We spoke often after that. Each time he returned, I’d hear his confessions. His conflict with his activities against the drug menace and his desire to adhere to his father’s teachings was always a source of heartache to him. Rico regularly left money with me, a lot of money, with instructions to use it where it would do most good for families who’d suffered the way his had suffered. He was a good man, like his father before him. I prayed often for him when he was alive and I’ll continue to pray for his soul every day.”
“Ellis told us about these things, Padre. And please don’t be offended when I tell you his agency also checked you out a long time ago. Rico was a special friend to them, too.”
The priest smiled.
“I was aware of that, Mister Calder. This is a small village and a close community. Even the largest government agencies find it hard to keep secrets in a place like this. As we say in the church, God moves in mysterious ways, no?”
“We know a major part of the pastoral work you do here includes the sort of thing Rico asked you to help with. We’d like you to accept this in his memory to continue that assistance to those you think can best use it.”
Jack handed the priest a Manager’s Draft. The old man read the amount and shook his head.
“This is for five million dollars. Mister Calder, I can’t possibly be solely responsible for that kind of money.”
“We thought you’d say that, Padre,” said Ellis. “May I suggest we deposit this in an account which can be managed by both you and I together? How does that sound?”
“That makes good sense to me,” said the priest. “May the blessings of God be with all of you. Now, more coffee, anybody?”
8 MONTHS LATER
The UK cable channel network aired its special documentary programme on a Thursday evening during the prime time viewing slot. A collage of the familiar news broadcast clips of beleaguered migrants, some on ramshackle boats and dinghies, many others being hauled from the water by Italian coastguard vessels, preceded the body of the report. The articulate voice-over, clipped and dramatic, fed in across the desperate images.
“Several months ago, these were common occurrences in the Mediterranean. Whole families, uprooted from their homes throughout the African continent, sought escape from the twin menaces of drought and localized warfare. International agencies, overwhelmed by the sheer volume of migrants, struggled to cope with the human flood. Into the mess and confusion came the cruel element of smugglers. Smugglers of people. Human currency. A currency with value which stopped the moment money changed hands and the defenceless cargo put out to sea. What happened to the families aboard these often flimsy and seldom seaworthy boats after they left shore was of no concern to the ruthless gangs plying their hellish trade along the Libyan coast.”
The images flashed on the screen once more, this time showing floating bodies of some of the men, wom
en, children and babies who had perished in their vain attempts to reach Italy.
“Official records tell us hundreds of thousands of migrants made it to the mainland. They don’t show the numbers who died at sea, but estimates run to as high as a similar figure, in the hundreds of thousands. A few months ago, reports emerged of positive results being achieved by the authorities in closing down much of the gang activity, with a marked slowdown in the volume of migrants attempting the crossing. Our investigators interviewed officials on and off camera to give them the opportunity to broadcast their successes. In many cases we found an uncharacteristic reluctance to elaborate on the initiatives being taken against the traffickers.”
The programme switched to close up shots of several locations along the Libyan coast. Close-up shots of burnt out off-road vehicles, trucks and mobile homes. Of rubber dinghies destroyed on land. The results of attacks on the illegal camps could only have come from concerted and professional organised action against the criminals.
The commentator continued, “We found it strange that none of the authorities we interviewed denied involvement in the eradication of the smugglers’ camps, but none would elaborate precisely what engagements were undertaken to achieve these successes. What is clear, however, is the measurable drop in the numbers of would-be migrants crossing. An Italian coastguard spokesman told us some people were still attempting the dangerous passage, but nowhere near the figures of the last twelve months.”
An image of a suited gentleman filled the screen.
“The United Nations coordinator for humanitarian issues, Heinz Gruber, spoke to our correspondent this week.”
DEADLY IMPASSE (Jack Calder Crime Series #5) Page 18
