The Long Reach_British Detective

by Michael Leese

  36

  The Courier had always understood that it was a good idea to keep his top people close. When he had cut back his smuggling operation, he had hand-picked the best to move over to the new project.

  Over the last few months there had been many occasions when his foresight had proved invaluable. His return to people trafficking had proved especially problematical and, without the input of those he had retained from the old days, he would have failed.

  But even though he had achieved a degree of success there was no longer any doubting his belief that he needed to get out sooner rather than later - or risk running headlong into a serious problem with one of his many rivals.

  If he needed any further confirmation that his time away had generated issues, it was highlighted by the collapse of his network of key contacts. He had once had border officials on speed-dial. Not anymore. Many of those he knew were either retired or had switched allegiance to one of the new gangs.

  He had tried bribing his way back into their favour but the officials were far more afraid of their new paymasters than they were of him. As a final attempt he had called in major favours to gain meetings with two key immigration officials, one in northern France and the second his contact for southern England.

  Between them the two men could control the flow of illegals across the English Channel. The French official had looked terrified when he had finally agreed to meet. In response to being shown a suitcase full of high denomination notes he had gone totally white.

  “You don’t understand; our time is gone. If I try to stop working for these people, they will kill every member of my family and every member of my wife’s family. They have no inhibitions.

  “I have never pretended to be a good man - I always wanted the money - but at least with you I could tell myself that the refugees were treated with a basic level of respect and provided with food and water.

  “You can forget that with these new people. They couldn’t care less what happens, all they want is money. In some cases they have no intention of transporting the refugees but murder them the moment they hand over the money.”

  The Courier recalled the conversation as he headed for an industrial zone about forty miles from Calais where he was due to meet up with several members of his team. He rarely got involved in the hands-on work since his most important role was to negotiate safe passage, but recent violent encounters with rivals meant he had to show his face or risk the morale of his team.

  He was at the wheel of a large white van with French number plates through an area dominated by ugly warehouses built to house businesses that valued practicality over appearance. His destination was a secluded area, where his team should have been waiting inside one of the more dilapidated warehouses.

  But, to his mounting alarm, he couldn’t make contact with them - and that never happened unless there was a problem. He pulled over to call his back-up team. They were already heading his way since they, too, had lost contact with the other team.

  A short while later two cars pulled up. He briefly conferred with his people and then led the way to a quiet spot just short of their target.

  Carefully checking there was no one around he jumped out of the van and watched as the back-up team grabbed Kalashnikov rifles they had stored in the boots of their cars. The weapons were quickly distributed among his five men and three women.

  The plan was simple. There were only two entrances to the warehouse, front and back, so his teams would split, with him a fifth member to the frontal assault team. By now they knew something bad must have happened.

  Fifteen minutes later, and on an agreed signal, they raced inside to find a macabre scene. The bodies of their four colleagues were lined up on the concrete floor, on their backs and with a single gunshot wound in the centre of their heads. There was no sign of anyone else.

  He had just ordered his team to check the warehouse thoroughly when there was the deafening sound of gunfire. He saw two of his people thrown backwards by the impact of bullets. With no cover, he dived to the ground only to be hit in the shoulder, the force spinning him round before he reached the floor.

  The noise was ear-splitting and he lay stunned, waiting for the pain to kick in. He tried to grab his rifle but the injury stopped him moving his hand more than a few inches. Just before everything went blank, he heard the sound of screaming but had no idea where it was coming from.

  *

  When he came to, several hours later, he was lying in a bed attached to a drip. He had a throbbing headache and his arm and shoulder were heavily bandaged. A man in a white coat walked in and he realised where he was: in a safehouse in the woods around the popular tourist spot of Le Touquet.

  The modern five-bedroomed house was set back at the end of a long driveway and behind a thick screen of hedge which hid it from view. The man in the coat was a doctor who lived in the neighbouring property, and had treated his wounds while he was unconscious.

  The man stood at the end of the bed and looked at him for a moment before smiling.

  “If the lump on your head is anything to go by, mon ami, then you probably have an almighty headache and I wouldn’t be surprised if you are slightly concussed. As to the wound on your arm, well, I suggest you pray to any God who listens to you.

  “You were incredibly lucky. The bullet grazed the inside of your left arm; a few centimetres’ difference and it would have either been your chest or into the shoulder itself. You might not have survived that. You lost two people in the shoot-out.”

  The Courier felt a sense of fury building, which rapidly turned to nausea. His hand trembled slightly as he reached for the glass of water at the side of his bed.

  “Not too much to start with,” cautioned the doctor. “I’ve got you on a drip, so no need to worry about dehydration.” He was looking concerned, and the Courier became aware that he had started sweating profusely - the room felt hot and clammy - and for a moment he thought he would pass out again.

  By sheer force of will he regained control and looked back at the doctor.

  “What else do I need to know?”

  “Your people say they have everything under control. As we speak, the bodies are being disposed of in a crematorium. The attacker had no ID on him, but they believe he is an Afghan, and they set fire to the warehouse.”

  He lay back in his bed, certain of one thing. Forget one last payday; get out now.

  In the past he had suffered his share of setbacks - it was a dangerous business - but he had always felt the odds were stacked in his favour because he was the biggest shark in the pool. When rivals tried to get a piece of his action they knew they could expect serious retaliation, but his time at the top was now over.

  He’d known a rethink was coming, and this had brought the timetable forward. Just as well that his recovery would mean he had plenty of time on his hands. His new plan would take longer to generate money but at least he would be alive at the end to enjoy it.

  37

  The doctor insisted he needed to stay in bed for another half a day. He’d hit his head hard; he was ordered to at least wait until his headaches had died down before moving around.

  Nine times out of ten he’d have made a fuss but he knew the doctor was right. It felt like someone had embedded a hot knitting needle just above his right eye and, from time to time, was giving it a twist.

  Half a day later and the pain had reduced from excruciating agony to irritating discomfort, but he amazed the medic by volunteering to stay where he was a little while longer. What he didn’t mention was that being looked after round the clock actually left him with plenty of quality thinking time.

  The following morning he was up and about, and he had a plan. He would strip everything back to basics and then let it be known that he was returning to the business of very special deliveries.

  Priceless art of all types, rare jewellery, high denomination cash notes, the most prized antiquities: anything that was high value and hard for their owners to explain how it
came to be in their possession, especially if it was featured on an official list of stolen riches.

  This was a different sort of market. Much lower volumes, and the people needing the service tended to take a personal interest in how it was being handled. It was an oddity, but deliver a child to someone’s home and they often pretended to ignore you; bring their stolen Picasso with you and you’d be invited to see which wall it would be hanging from.

  The biggest issue was trust. The owners of a stolen masterpiece tended to deal only with people they had known for a long time and were generally unwilling to engage with third parties.

  This was an area where the Courier was substantially in credit, having had many years of successfully moving items all over the world. He would have to explain his absence, but all he needed to say was that time out had allowed him to recharge his batteries and be back firing on all cylinders.

  Talking of cylinders, he needed to arrange for a small fleet of transport vehicles, from cars to light trucks, to undergo specialist modification which would increase the variety and type of goods he could move.

  Modern technology had improved the border defences between countries with hand-held detectors, supported by sniffer dogs, able to pick up the chemical scent of weapons, drugs, even money. The answer was to hide them in totally secure hidden compartments.

  And to do it well meant going down the customised route. Making those took time, money and skill. The last two he could get his hands on quite quickly; the first? Well, there was no way of speeding that up, but he could be ready in weeks. He had enough money stashed away to cover that.

  While he was waiting he could set up a small and discreet delivery company that had a base in the UK and one in North America. A handful of liveried vehicles and a basic website would be all the cover he needed.

  Best of all, it was simplicity itself to buy meaningless-sounding awards for “excellent customer service” and it would look like the company was established and trustworthy. Job done.

  Within a week the physical side of his operation was well underway, and he was already sending vehicles backwards and forwards between France and the UK. He wanted these runs to become as familiar to the guards as a cup of tea.

  On its own, this tactic would to be enough to reduce suspicion, but taken with all the other measures it would create a degree of credibility that might just help tip the balance and prevent his vehicles being singled out.

  Equally importantly it provided valuable intel, since all his drivers were trained to spot the techniques being used to protect crossing points. Most of these would be for entry into the UK, but he knew plenty of business would be coming from the East so he would want as much background on these borders as possible.

  He wondered how long he might have to wait for work. Sometimes he could go from nothing to multiple clients, as if they had silently communed and decided they wanted their stolen art moved to new locations. There was one wealthy client who had amassed a huge collection of stolen treasures and he moved them with him when he drifted between his different homes in London, Miami and a vast estate in Chile.

  The Courier would have loved that work, but the owner had found two groups he liked, and they did it all. Their competitive nature meant they were always at the top of their game, which is just what the client intended, and there was no way either group wanted to walk away from such lucrative work.

  In many ways the whole concept was ludicrous and cost vast amounts of money that could easily be better spent, but why go to the trouble of owning something beautiful if you couldn’t look at it in whichever home you happened to be in?

  The Courier took his time deciding who to approach. He didn’t want to create waves, so that eliminated some of the more excitable brokers, and eventually his choice narrowed down to two people.

  At first it had been his intention to make simultaneous approaches. The first was a formidable French woman who tended to specialise in antiquities. She had amassed a vast collection, much of it looted from Iraq, which had helped her establish a spider’s web of relations throughout Europe and the Middle East.

  From her office in Paris she was responsible for moving some hugely valuable pieces around, all done without attracting even the tiniest hint of suspicion. Her success owed a great deal to the cover provided by operating a totally legitimate company that moved legal artworks all over the world.

  She was always on the lookout for people to help transport her specialised items and had put a great deal of work the Courier’s way in the past. The pair got on well and had even enjoyed a brief relationship, which had ended amicably.

  But as tempting as it was to see her again, he knew he would receive less money because he would be working on her behalf, and she would want her cut for helping him out in the first place.

  He decided to go for his second option. Sir Valentine Topper was a man with an eclectic range of contacts. He could always go for the French woman in a couple of months, but he reasoned that Sir Valentine was the man who would be able to put the most lucrative deals his way.

  38

  Hooley called a time out; he needed to clear his head. Something was nagging at him but, to his irritation, he couldn’t pin it down even though he sensed it was important. That meant yet another coffee run was underway, which also meant more doughnuts for Roper.

  He divided up the purchases and then sat back at his own desk. He’d gone for a stronger coffee than normal because he reckoned his brain needed the caffeine hit but was finding it very hard going. He’d only added an extra shot but it tasted a lot stronger than that.

  He was going to have to do something. Glancing casually at Roper he noted he seemed to be occupied. His right hand sneaked into a drawer and his secret cache of sugar packets. He’d just got his fingertips on a bag when Roper spoke.

  “You know sugar is bad for you; that last blood test suggested you might be heading for the first stages of diabetes, so you need to cut it out.”

  He froze with his hand in the drawer. He suddenly knew how Winnie the Pooh must have felt when caught with the honey jar.

  “How did you know I was going for sugar?”

  “Because you keep your supplies in the left-hand drawer. It’s pretty much the only time you go for that one and, given that you just pulled a face after taking a sip of your drink, it didn’t take that much working out.”

  Chagrined, the DCI withdrew his hand and braved another bitter mouthful, trying to convince himself that if he gave it enough time his taste buds would adapt to the strong flavour - but he still grimaced as he swallowed.

  The coffee did have one benefit: the overpowering taste had cleared his head. He suspected it could probably clear drains as well.

  “I know you love this cloak-and-dagger stuff but there is one question I have. Are we getting sucked into spy work that would be better off being carried out by intelligence professionals? I would hate it if we missed some key detail that even the most junior MI5 person would pick up.”

  “Well, I’m not sure you can make a distinction between a criminal investigation and an intelligence one. Surely, if you are plotting an explosion then it follows you are engaged in criminal activity, whatever the reason you might claim to be doing it.”

  Hooley was ready for the response since he knew Roper was very strong on the “crime is a crime” line.

  “Yes, and I do appreciate that argument, but I think you agree with me: the thing about any form of detective work is that you would hope to be able to prevent things happening, as well as working out what happened after the event.

  “So, if we are dealing with Russian spies, then surely any investigation should be led by the intelligence people? I know Bill Nuffield and his people are looking into it, but we don’t have any idea of what they are doing and at the moment it feels like we are taking the lead. I’m worried that we are trying to do this with one hand tied behind our back.”

  Roper had been staring at him intently and now he jumped up.

&nbs
p; “I think you might be right.”

  “I am.” He always liked it when Roper appeared to credit him with brain power he wasn’t entirely sure he possessed, although working alongside someone with his ability to make intuitive leaps was enough to make anyone doubt their abilities.

  “So what’s going through your mind?”

  “I want to rethink our approach. If I am right that this is a rogue operation, then the chances are they won’t be able to move things around so easily as if they were an official outfit.

  “That means they need to consider how they bring everything into this country. Years ago all the KGB needed was diplomatic cover, but our people won’t have access to anything like that.

  “That will make things tricky for most of the bomb components, the electronics and suchlike, but it’s going to be nearly impossible to bring in radioactive material. If they get caught, it won’t just be us who will want to punish them; it could be their own side too.

  “So, if we know they need to get assistance, that means a smuggling gang - but not one of your usual gang of baddies. You wouldn’t want some South London heavy in charge of a load of plutonium.

  “That means they will need to find the more rarefied gangs - the ones involved in moving the most difficult cargoes. Now, I bet there can’t be many of those people around. I think it might be just a small handful and they won’t advertise. Either you will be in the know or not at all.

  “It’s been said for a long time that some of the richest Russians in London use smuggling services to avoid the authorities when they want to move assets around. One way or another, it is Russians behind this.”

  Hooley nodded thoughtfully.

  “OK. I can see now where you’re coming from. Let me ask you in a different way - and I am going to come across a bit George Smiley here.” Seeing Roper arch an eyebrow he stopped and thought for a moment. “You know I sometimes like to call you Sherlock? Well, George Smiley is the equivalent in the world of fictional spymasters.