by Peter Cocks
“Who are you going with?”
“Dunno yet. But I don’t think PK will be anywhere near. He’s going nuts. He’s doing plenty of blow and it’s making him edgy.”
I told her about the hit by Flanagan’s bar, and about the mayor’s visit and how ruffled Patsy Kelly was getting about the Serbians.
“Does Baylis actually know where this Serb is?” I asked.
“If he does, he’s not letting on. But between you and me, I don’t think he does. We’re just getting intel that he’s in the area, building up contacts. If it’s rattling them, that’s good enough for the moment. I don’t need to tell you, but let me know as soon as you get details of the drop.”
“Sure,” I said. “But if I’m going to do this, you will pull me out of here straight away, won’t you?”
“I said we would as soon as possible,” Anna said.
“And Juana,” I pressed. “I’ve promised her. It will be too dangerous for her to be even in the same country if you bust twelve million quid’s worth of cocaine out of Jubarry’s.”
“I’ll do what I can,” she said.
Juana was back at the restaurant.
I’d been leaving most of the work to her while I’d been seconded to Patsy Kelly and Terry Gadd. It was getting busy towards the festival weekend, so we’d taken on extra staff, including Juana’s mum, who was helping behind the bar. Valerie was an experienced pair of hands.
I felt guilty for having plans that would take her daughter away from here as soon as I could.
My phone rang around 10.30 p.m. Gadd.
“All right, bollock chops? We’re on. Tomorrow night. I’m gonna text you the details. Basically you’ll meet a geezer called Adie down on the pontoons. Sea Dog of Ramsgate the boat’s called. 8 p.m. Don’t cock up,” he said, “or I’ll cut your girlfriend’s throat.”
My knees went weak.
He texted the details five minutes later, plus the coordinates for where we were to meet the incoming boat, Selim.
An hour later Ian Baylis was on the phone. It was the first time in months that I’d spoken to him. Never my favourite thing to do: I always felt he was trying to catch me out.
“Anything to report?” he asked.
“Are we safe on this line, Nimrod?” I said, using his code name, toeing the line. I walked across to the shadows on the other side of the square, where no one could see me.
“As houses.”
“OK, the pickup is tomorrow night. I’ve only just got the coordinates but it looks like it’s some way out at sea, Strait of Gibraltar maybe.”
“Perfect timing,” Baylis said. “Text me the details, we’ll be there.”
“What?” I said. “You’ll be where?”
“We’ll intercept the drop. I can get the Guardia and the British Coastguard from Gib’ across there in a joint operation.”
“Whoa, I agreed to do the pickup,” I said. “Not be right at the centre of a heist! Two things: first, the Guardia are as bent as a bottle of chips; as soon as they get a whiff of this, someone at Patsy’s end will be tipped off. Second, it would be better to land the stuff at Jubarry’s; that way you get both hauls in one place. I’m sure Gadd at least will be there. None of them are coming out on the boat. That’s why they’ve got muggins here doing the pickup. They’ve threatened to kill Juana if I mess up.”
“You’re thinking above your pay grade,” Baylis said drily. He paused. “But what you say makes some sense. We’ll hold off until the consignment is safely landed, then our chaps on the ground can take care of it.”
“Thanks, Nimrod,” I said. “I think it makes sense.” Stupidly grateful, even though it was still me doing the dirty work.
“OK?” Baylis said.
“Sure,” I said. He rang off.
It wasn’t OK. I knew the score down here better than Baylis. I’d been the man on the spot, but he always acted like he had superior intelligence. Maybe he was picking up intel that I knew nothing about, from surveillance … or from other agents I didn’t know. I was sure I couldn’t be the only person working undercover out here. You could just never spot them. I walked back across to Jubarry’s.
Juana looked tired. Donnie Mulvaney had wandered in and was talking to her mother across the bar, sipping Coke and laughing politely at her, like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. It struck me how I’d got used to hanging around people like Donnie, Terry Gadd and Patsy Kelly. I realized how small my pool of friends was. In short, I didn’t have any here. The work prevented it. I was lucky to have Juana. Without her I would have been completely lost.
I suddenly felt very tired. I needed out. I went out back and checked that everything was securely locked and bolted. Carlos was still in the kitchen.
“You OK, boss?” he asked. I shrugged. “You look fatigado … tired.” It was nearly time to close. “You go home,” Carlos said. “I lock up here.” I didn’t like to leave the locking up in anyone else’s hands, but I needed to get away.
“Make sure you do the double bolts and the deadlocks,” I said.
“Sure, sure, sure,” Carlos said, shooing me away. “Go get some rest.”
Good old Carlos. I thanked him, said goodbye to Juana and walked out of Jubarry’s.
Just one more day, I thought.
FORTY-EIGHT
Saturday dragged.
We got in early and it was busy right off the bat. Even the roughest towns in Spain have an air of excitement when there’s a fiesta on.
We were serving coffees and pastries. There were some tourists in town, but for the most part holidaymakers stuck close to their resorts and the beaches, and to the bars and 24-Hour Square at night. Any local culture pretty much passed them by.
I could see why it was a good day to try and slip vast quantities of cocaine into town. In the winter, any activity down by the harbour was scrutinized. On a day like this there was so much else going on: outdoor discos in the plazas; fairground stalls on every street; balloon sellers walking up and down. By lunchtime the Spanish were pouring themselves bottles of wine and drinking beer like the English expats.
I did my best to keep across the customers, but Juana could see I was jumpy. I’d told her I had to go off in the evening and she knew not to ask me where.
Late afternoon, brass bands started assembling in the town, brought in from surrounding towns and villages. From the restaurant we could hear the distant rap of snare drums and blare of bugles and trumpets warming up. Outside the church across the plaza, men dressed in white were gathering, ready to shoulder the effigy of the Virgin for a procession around the town before heading down to the harbour. The air of ritual increased my tension, and I was glad I would be away before the festival got going.
By evening I was on pins. I kept checking my phone, hoping that there might be change of plan or that I might be called off.
Nothing.
When it was time, I went down to the harbour and found the familiar pontoon. I knew Sea Dog of Ramsgate of course, and Adie who was waiting on deck for me, but pretended I didn’t.
“Pedro?” he asked. I nodded. He threw me some salopettes and a waterproof jacket. “Put these on, it might get a bit wet out there.”
“We sailing?” I asked.
“Nope,” he said and laughed like I’d asked a stupid question.
Ten minutes later we waddled down another pontoon, then across to a more industrial, concrete mooring where there was a medium-sized diesel boat chugging at rest. It had a cabin, with a couple of cushioned seats and a bench around the inside of the hull.
A Spanish guy stood at the wheel, smoking a strong-smelling cigarette. Combined with the stink of diesel, fish and sweat, I hoped it wouldn’t prove too much for my nervous gut.
We shook hands. No names. Another Spaniard was taking care of the ropes at the stern of the boat. He nodded to me and Adie, and we nodded back. I wrote down the coordinates for the skipper, and within a few minutes we were motoring out of the harbour.
I stayed on top in the f
resh air as we chugged past the pontoons towards the open sea. I watched the town recede into the distance as the drumming became fainter. Festival lights were beginning to come on around the harbour, lighting up the domed apartments on the quayside, making the place look almost magical.
An hour later we were out at sea, heading down past Marbella, the coastline just visible as a streak of lights in the distance. No one spoke much. Adie fussed around on deck, clearing crates and making space. I went into the cabin and checked the chart. The skipper pointed to our location with a diesel-stained finger. We were well out into the Strait of Gibraltar, a couple of centimetres away from our rendezvous point on the map. It was dark out at sea now and I scanned the horizon for other vessels or lights.
Nothing.
A few kilometres further on, the skipper cut the engine and dropped anchor, the chain rattling loudly as it plunged into the calm sea. The four of us sat in near silence, just the faint sound of the waves lapping against the hull of the boat, drifting on the anchor.
Adie checked his watch and brought a torch out from the cabin. He took a bearing on the compass, then flashed several times across our starboard side. There was no response. He flashed again, then seconds later a faint light flashed back in the distance.
“That’s our man,” he said.
My heart started pumping hard. I was desperate for this to be over, desperate just to land the stuff, then hopefully get quietly arrested and spirited away as promised.
Life is never that simple in a business like this.
The lights of the boat drew closer. It was bigger than us, wide-bodied and low in the water, coming from the south. As it came closer still I could see orange floats and nets draped over the back, an old-fashioned Moroccan fishing boat.
My hand tightened on the gun I had tucked into my waistband, more for a sense of security than any thought of using it.
The boat chugged alongside us and I could see a couple of dark figures on its deck and the name Selim painted on the side. The figures and our guys exchanged ropes and pulled the two vessels side by side. Once the boats were hitched together, the men on the other boat shifted some pallets across the deck to a position underneath their winch.
The chains on the pallets tightened as the winch arm lifted them one by one into the air, and one by one deposited them onto the deck of our boat. There were twelve cartons altogether, plastic-wrapped against the damp. We stacked them centrally and covered them with a tarpaulin.
No money changed hands. That was clearly taken care of at a different level. The job was done and we began to unhitch the ropes and bring the anchor back up.
That was when the alarm sounded.
Two rapidly approaching spotlight beams flashed across the sea, fixing us in their glare. They were joined by another, larger beam powerfully sweeping the surface of the water, its klaxon roaring out a throaty warning that fixed us to the spot. I swore, and the crew of our boat looked around like cornered rats, searching for an escape that didn’t exist.
The Moroccans on the other boat ran around in a frenzy, starting up the engine and trying to chug away. But the approaching boats were coming far too fast, quickly gaining on us. Cutting across the beams I could see a RIB speeding towards us with several men on board.
A flare from the largest boat shot into the darkness. Its white light revealed not only the attempted escape of the Moroccan fishing boat, but also the heavy-duty vessels approaching us. One looked like a British Revenue and Customs cutter, grey and armed. The other had the distinctive green and white hull of a Guardia Civil patrol boat.
Baylis had clearly suckered me. He’d completely ignored my warnings and had gone his own sweet way, with his usual disregard for me or my opinions.
The British cutter fired a couple of shots at the Moroccan boat to slow it down.
Our boat was going nowhere. I froze to the spot and watched as the official boats came closer and closer, circling us like sheepdogs.
The first to reach us was the RIB, and while two men kept the engine running, four more, armed to the teeth, climbed aboard and waved automatic weapons at us.
“Down!” one shouted. I had the pistol in my waistband but didn’t for a second consider using it. I hit the deck, as did Adie and the two Spanish men. I felt a heavy foot on my back, while another set of hands frisked me, finding the gun and removing it.
Then I felt another hand, this time on my head. It lifted me up by the hair until my face was looking up. A man in black was standing over me, looking down via the end of his automatic weapon. Next to him, kneeling beside me, holding onto my hair and looking pleased with himself, was Ian Baylis.
FORTY-NINE
The Guardia Civil vessel hitched up the Moroccan fishing boat and began towing it towards the coast.
I was handcuffed and separated from Adie and the other guys. I knew it was standard procedure to keep defendants apart, so it didn’t look suspicious. I felt relieved. Soon I would be out of the game and on a flight home.
The customs cutter escorted our boat back along the coast, armed SBS men lining each side of their boats in case of attack. This was a major haul for customs, potentially preventing a few million quid’s worth of cocaine flooding southern Spain and beyond.
Baylis stood with me on deck. He was keeping up the official tone, but nothing could disguise how chuffed he was with this result.
“Pretty smooth operation, I think you’d have to agree, Elgar?” Elgar had been my code name while operating as Eddie Savage.
“From your point of view maybe,” I said. “But I’m the one standing here in handcuffs. If they get a scent of this ashore, then Juana is at serious risk. I told you not to intercept it out here.”
I was feeling seriously paranoid about Juana. I knew Gadd would have no hesitation in carrying out his threats.
“Send two texts,” Baylis instructed. “One to Gadd to say that the pickup was successful, the second to your girlfriend…”
“Saying what?”
“Suggesting that she makes herself scarce. While the fiesta’s on, it will be easy for her to disappear into the crowds.”
“I thought you were protecting her,” I said, my heart sinking.
“I have a couple of people on the ground, but as you know, our resources are stretched, particularly when such a big deal is going on. Everything else, including people’s personal safety, is secondary.”
I began shaking with barely contained rage; once again, my trust had been abused and I had been made false promises. I had been played, without any regard for my safety or Juana’s.
The difference between the organization I worked for and the crims, I thought bitterly, was that the villains were true to their word; did exactly what they said they were going to do. When they delivered on their threats, they were brutal, but at least you knew where you stood.
Baylis had my cuffs unlocked and I took out my phone and texted Gadd:
Pickup successful. PG.
Keep it simple, I thought. Then, to Juana:
On way back. Leave Jubarry asap. Go somewhere safe. Txt me later. P. XX
“It’s a good night to disappear. She can go to friends or somewhere,” Baylis said.
I wasn’t reassured. “She only really has me to rely on.”
Baylis nodded. The lights ashore began to come into focus and the occasional rocket burst into the sky off the coast.
“Quite the ladies’ man, aren’t you?”
I shrugged. I knew I had only her to rely on. I wouldn’t have survived out here without her.
Baylis got on his phone. He was liaising with someone ashore, speaking in a clipped, coded way. Then he came back over to me, rubbing his hands together.
“Everything in place ashore,” he said. “As soon as we land, I’ll authorize confiscation of the Jubarry haul. I have several armed plain-clothes SAS and Spanish specials lined up. They’ll all be around the square and the back alleys when we go in. Should be more than a match for Terry Gadd and his thugs. If we
can bring him in as well, it will be a bonus.”
I looked at my phone. “He’s not acknowledged my message yet,” I said.
“Would he normally?”
“I don’t get many messages from him,” I said. “But you’d have thought that with this amount of gear, he’d be on the case.”
Baylis nodded. He was thinking. “Try him again.” I texted Gadd again.
“Perhaps he’s sensed something. Doesn’t want his phone tracked,” I suggested. “They’re totally paranoid about the Serbians getting wind of this deal.”
“The Serbs have put the wind up Patsy Kelly, have they?” Baylis smiled in his usual self-satisfied way.
“Patsy’s been on tenterhooks since they attempted to shoot him. At least that’s who he thinks they were. He’s been getting increasingly jumpy, drinking plenty and putting a load up his nose. He relies more and more on Terry Gadd.”
“And have you seen any of the Serbians in town?”
“I wouldn’t know one if I saw one,” I admitted. “I guess they look pretty similar to the Spanish. I’ve seen a few pictures of this war criminal, Dragomir, in circulation, but to me he looks just like an average Spanish bloke. Dark hair, moustache…”
“They seek him here, they seek him there.” Baylis smiled. “Dragomir Radic is a bit of a Scarlet Pimpernel. Don’t forget, he might well have changed his appearance, like you. He might have blond hair and no moustache by now. But if all the stuff that’s blamed on him down here is true, he’s become a very major player, very fast. He wants his share in the white stuff, and a man who’s willing to torture and kill a whole village doesn’t let much get in his way.”
I looked out at the shore. Benalmádena was approaching. The fiesta was still in full swing and fireworks lit up the sky. I looked at the dark hills that loomed over the town and began to feel some of the fear that was building up around this legendary criminal, this bogey man who was hiding somewhere, ready to pounce. My phone bleeped. Gadd.
