“You still ain’t tellin’ me why Estrada,” said Cy.
“I’m getting there, big fella,” said Jack, holding his hands up in mock surrender.
“A couple of days after the robberies, three of our people were murdered, two in Hong Kong and one in Berlin. We know there’s a tie-in.”
“Yer bastards took them out in cold blood,” said Malky, the emotion still running strong with the Irishman. “I could understan’ if they wanted a pop at us boys, but these were yer normal, innocent employees, for God’s sake.”
Cy nodded. “Personal, huh? I still don’t get why Estrada. Jules?”
“There’s more than one way to trap a rat,” said Jules. “Going after Fadi might be difficult but could be done with a little planning. If we took him out it wouldn’t halt the machine. The drugs would still get peddled. His supply lines and connections being smacked makes a more powerful impact. Not likely to stop the business forever, but recovery from that kind of damage would take months, not days or weeks.”
“Fadi doesn’t source from here, not from Estrada nor any of the other cartels. Where’s this leadin’ us?” quizzed Cy.
“His feeders carry the stuff in from Afghanistan, Pakistan and the Near East, fragmented, hundreds of routes,” said Jules. “Difficult, but not impossible to disrupt but it would take time, a lot of time.”
He paused and handed his coffee mug to Jack for a refill.
“Put yourself in Fadi’s mind. He’s thinking a tie-up with Estrada guarantees bulk supply, coupled with the cash flow from fencing the gems he’s knocked off, his business gets secured. The value he lost he makes back in what, a year, eighteen months?”
The DEA man’s face cracked in a wide grin. “Son of a gun. You wanna hit his new supply before he even starts, right?”
“Not exactly before he starts.”
“I’m intrigued. Do tell,” said Cy, a huge smile creasing his face.
“My guess is they’ll run a trial shipment from here to Europe,” said Jules. “Probably sooner than later. I suggest we let the stuff through, track them until it’s under Fadi’s control, then hit hard.”
Cy roared. “Jules, you’re a fuckin’ genius. I like this. I like this a whole bundle, man.”
Malky and Jack joined in the laughter. Kindred spirits don’t take long to bond, and in Cy Foster they had one of their own.
Jules let the noise settle and said, “I’ve a couple of ideas to bounce off you.”
“Try me.”
“Okay. Estrada’s cartel’s not the only game here. These mobs seem to spend a lot of time shooting each other up.”
“Darn right. Just look at the mug shots on the walls,” said Cy. “Most of the red crosses are gang murders. Pity they don’t go a hundred percent. Would do a big part of our job for us. Where you leadin’ me with this?”
“You’re keyed in to when and where these gangs transport stuff. It’d be good to try to funnel Estrada’s actions in the next week or so. If you feel like sharing some of your intelligence on what you think’s moving soon, a few interventions from us could stir the pot nicely. We only hit Estrada’s competition, leaving him untouched. That does a couple of things. The competing gangs’ll raise the heat on him as they’ll think he’s directing you guys towards them.”
“What’s the other thing?”
“The increased local pressure might speed up his move to ship out to Fadi.”
Cy slapped the desk with a huge palm and roared again, his broad grin beaming at Jules.
“Man, it’s a good job you’re on the side of the good guys,” he said. “I’d hate to be chasin’ you down with a devious mind like that.”
“You know this patch better than anybody. Do you think it’s workable?”
“Oh, it’s workable, more so havin’ your team here,” said Cy, waving his arm at Jack and Malky. “Maybe we can do a bit of damage together.”
His huge fingers tapped at his computer keyboard. In a few seconds, a succession of pages danced across the screen.
“Here, look,” he ordered. The ISP men did as they were told, standing in a semi-circle around the big man.
“We continually trace the major players. They follow patterns until we break ‘em up. Then they come again, usually repeatin’ the same routines. With only so many ways they can get their shit into the States, they try land-crossin’s, boats and planes. After the 9/11 attacks, security checks intensified everywhere and public means of transit became off-limits. They’re still tight.”
“I guess they’ve built an entirely new network to move their gear,” said Jack.
“Yeah. We’ve a whole screed of paid informants on the ground, some are useless, just takin’ free dollars from Uncle Sam. A few feed us good stuff on a regular basis. A lot of penny-ante smugglin’, too small to bother us, but the streamers, we call ‘em, we track daily. Here’s what’s fresh as of this mornin’.”
A series of bullet points in bold characters appeared, with names, locations, and expected drug movements with allocated timings, some with different colours.
“Why aren’t they shaded the same?” asked Jack. “Each gang colour-coded?”
“Yep,” said Cy, hitting the keyboard. “Here’s what you really wanna see.”
A succession of photographs with the faces of known dealers tagged to their gang associations appeared on the screen.
“Accordin’ to our sources, these boys are gonna be active this week. Three different mobs, three lots of movements, one tonight, and the other two tomorrow after midnight. These pictures are middlemen. For a cut of the action they ferry the shit from one location to the next. Payment used to be in cash, and sometimes still is, but more and more they’re takin’ their cut in heroin and meta. That spreads the distribution even deeper.”
“What about yer suppliers?” said Malky. “Where do they fit in?”
“They get the stuff from overseas, mainly Colombia and Peru, package ‘em up in street parcels, and pass ‘em along to the middle guys.”
“So the cartel men and the transporters are together at the hand-over points, right, Cy?” said Jules, stroking his chin. “And money changes hands at the same time?”
“Right on point one. A shipment hand-over will have at least half a dozen people from each side. Nobody trusts anybody. Lots of guns. Somebody sneezes the wrong way, it can get bloody. On point two, as I said, it’s not always done on a dollar basis. Depends on the players. Sometimes it’s on consignment, but only for long-established dealers. Given who’s involved tonight, the gig will be against cash. Tomorrow, one cash deal, one consignment. My teams are geared to hit all of them.”
“Do any of these three belong to Estrada?” asked Jules.
“The first one tomorrow night’s his people.”
“How about we let that one go and take down the other two? We can join you?”
“Easily done,” said the DEA chief. “I’ll get word out Estrada’s gettin’ a free ride.”
Jack laughed and punched him in the shoulder. “You catch on fast for a big mother, don’t you?”
“Easy enough for me to unnerstan’ Jules here, cuz he speaks the Queen’s English, but I’ve gotta lissen louder to unnerstan’ the accents you and the Irishman spout,” he said, returning the punch before Jack could move.
“Let’s go meet my team and get you up to speed on the deal tonight.”
The trio followed Cy towards the corner of the warehouse to join a group of four men and two female officers. Five hours later they were fully primed for the evening’s action.
CHAPTER 15
A good hairdresser costs money, one of the few indulgences May-Ling allowed herself. With Jack and the others away in South America, an appointment at her favourite salon in the Regency Hotel was fixed for ten o’clock. The valet-parking attendant handed her a number tag, before taking the wheel of the black Range Rover. The reserved parking on the ground floor ensured guests a minimal wait to retrieve their vehicles on departure. The attendant reversed the
car in between a yellow Ferrari and a pick-up truck and walked back to his station at the front of the hotel.
Minutes later, a man carrying a small canvas bag appeared from the opposite side of the parking area and made his way to the rear of the Range Rover. He knelt down and removed a package from the sack. In a simple operation, he taped the payload under the chassis. As he stood up, another driver some bays distant accidentally pressed his horn in a sharp burst of noise, causing the man to look up.
Nothing to do with him.
He walked to the side exit and left as he had come, unnoticed.
May-Ling rode the elevator to the second floor level, arriving ten minutes early at Cutaways. The receptionist greeted her warmly.
“Good morning, Mrs Calder. I’m afraid your stylist called in a little late, something to do with a delay in taking her daughter to school. She’ll be here in about half an hour. If you like we can have someone else look after you?”
“No, that’s okay. I’ve an easy schedule today. I’ll wait for her.”
“Some jasmine tea as usual, then?”
“Yes, thanks,” said May-Ling, making herself comfortable on the waiting-area sofa. She picked a couple of glossy magazines from the rack and settled in to browse the latest gossip from the world of show business. It never occurred to May-Ling her own life and career was as unreal to most people as those she read about in these magazines. The half-hour delay stretched to forty minutes before the arrival of her stylist, out of breath from racing to make up lost time.
“Mrs Calder, I’m so sorry. My timetable this morning went completely haywire,” she said. “First, the kid spilled her breakfast juice all down her school clothes. Had to be changed, then the car wouldn’t start. I managed to flag a taxi after ten minutes waving my arms at a whole fleet of them. The cabbie waited at the school until I got her inside then brought me here, a nice guy. Cost a bloody fortune, though. I had to speak to the teacher of course to apologise for being late. Mama’s fault, not my daughter’s. You know the kind of thing, huh?”
“It’s not a problem. We all have mornings like that. My day’s free anyway, so relax.”
“Thanks. You’re an angel. Let’s get your hair rinsed,” she said, guiding her client to her work booth. “The usual works?”
Close to midday, May-Ling tipped the stylist, and left Cutaways. She rummaged in her handbag for the valet ticket as she walked toward the elevator bank. A few steps later the building rocked to a huge bang. She recognised it immediately as a bomb explosion.
Here? In the hotel? What the hell?
Then a cold wave gripped her.
Oh, my God. The Range Rover! Could it be?
Next to the severely-damaged yellow Ferrari and the pick-up truck, the Range Rover had been transformed into a twisted mangle of steel and rubber. It was clear to the bomb squad officers the target was May-Ling’s car. The device had channelled the blast up through the base of the chassis, propelling the vehicle high enough to hit the concrete ceiling. The handiwork of an expert, the strike would have killed any occupants, probably leaving them unrecognisable. By good fortune the parking level was deserted when the timer went off.
May-ling’s life had been spared by the stylist’s daughter’s spilled breakfast juice.
***
DCI Bob Granger arrived at the car park where William Lang huddled in deep conversation with the hotel general manager and the security officer. He approached the group in time to overhear the chief of the Anti-Terrorist squad address them.
“Mrs May-Ling Calder? The wife of Jack Calder of ISP? What was she doing here?”
“Good morning, William,” said Granger. “I heard Jack Calder’s name. How’s he involved in this?”
“His wife’s Range Rover’s the blast source,” said Lang, with no formal greeting to the DCI.
“Good job she wasn’t in it when this thing blew, or we’d be picking bits of her off the roof. She’s in the GM’s office with my lads, helping our inquiries. Your ISP friends turned up pretty sharpish in New Bond Street, and when the missus nearly gets blown to kingdom come they’re nowhere to be seen. What d’you think’s going on here, eh?”
The ice in Lang’s voice was unmistakable.
“I don’t know any more than you do,” said Granger, indicating towards the hotel entrance. “Let’s go find out if May-Ling has any insights.”
Lang nodded to the general manager to lead them from the wrecked cars through the side passage connecting the hotel.
“The security guy tells me CCTV covers the car park,” said Lang. “I’ve asked for the tapes, and you’ll get a copy too. I suggest you tell your boss we need to nail this stuff quickly. The Minister’s bugging me on this already.”
Typical, thought Granger. Pass the crap on to Alan Rennie and keep any kudos for himself. Let’s get this back on course. This is a police crime scene investigation, not Lang’s playground.
***
A former policewoman, May-Ling knew the drill. Her interviewers were skilled in downloading information. Information covering everything about the intended victim. Herself. Her movements, not only today, but yesterday and as far back in recent days as she could tell them. Anything the slightest bit out of the ordinary she’d noticed? Her habits? Regularity in visiting the hairdresser? Movements sequence this morning? The mundane questions. Anyone with a reason to harm you? Are they kidding? Pick any one of a dozen.
The hotel bustled with police. Detective interviews with guests present in the lobby when the explosion went off yielded little information. Likewise with those in the rooms overlooking the car park. The parking team and foyer staff reported no unusual activity. The valet who drove the Range Rover remembered nothing out of the ordinary.
***
In the general manager’s room, two of Bob Granger’s men sat with May-Ling, together with a pair from the bomb squad. Contrary to Lang’s earlier comment about her ‘being with my lads, helping our inquiries,’ the Met officers were in charge of the interview.
“Hello, May-Ling. You okay?” asked the DCI as they entered the room. She raised her hand in a relaxed gesture and shrugged her shoulders.
“This is William Lang, head of the Anti-Terrorist team,” said Granger. “Bad business, this.”
“Good afternoon, Mrs Calder,” said Lang. “I’m sure this attempt on your life is unnerving, but we’re here to help you. Please try to give us as much detail as possible. May I ask why your husband’s not here?”
Bob Granger picked up on May-Ling’s irked body language. In three sentences, Lang had managed to be patronising, condescending and rude, a talent not missed by his interviewee, the least likely person in the room to be unnerved.
“Mister Lang, my husband is currently overseas on business, but I’m quite capable of looking after myself, thank you. Your colleagues already questioned me at length. They should be able to give you my detailed feedback with great clarity. I don’t think I’ve missed anything. I’d like to leave now, if you don’t mind. My day’s screwed to hell and the fallout from this’ll take me a while to sort out.”
“I’d prefer you to stay a little longer and go through it one more time with me,” said Lang. “Sometimes these boys miss things, you know?”
May-Ling stood and picked up her bag.
“No, Mister Lang. I don’t know. Perhaps you should do your homework. I used to be in the force too. I know how to conduct interviews and these boys, as you call them, did a terrific job of it. Unless you feel you want to arrest me, I’m leaving.”
Lang stepped aside to let her sweep from the manager’s office.
The suppressed smirk on the DCI’s face matched the elation he felt.
That told the bastard! Jack Calder’s wife’s got more balls than Lang’ll ever have.
CHAPTER 16
The briefing finished at five-thirty in the afternoon, with the move-out scheduled at eleven p.m. Including Cy, the combined attack force for the evening now numbered eight men and two female officers. For the
next two operations, they would dispense with the customary DEA insignia on the armoured vests. From current information, they expected a dozen or more gang members at the first hand-over rendezvous.
The new additions to the task force checked their M16s in rotation. Jack to Malky, Malky to Jules, and back to the Scot, in a pass-the-parcel process. The machine-pistols received the same treatment. The DEA team followed their own preparation drills but weren’t as precise as the ISP men, their chief noted.
Always something to learn from other pros.
At nine o’clock, Jules asked Cy to repeat the proposed action plan.
Detail, detail, detail.
Each of Foster’s squad took turns to walk through parts of the sequence. Jules nodded his satisfaction at the seamless way they covered their business.
The night-vision binoculars picked up the movement of small, unlit trucks converging on the target site. Six vehicles, with a higher headcount than anticipated. The ISP men each partnered with separate DEA groupings. Jack buddied with Cy and one of the female agents a hundred metres from the entrance to a yard surrounded by an eight-foot wooden fence. A two-storey private residence sat forty metres back from the opening. The property belonged to a known drug trader but had been unoccupied for several months.
Kinda stupid having just one way in and the same way out, Jack thought.
Situated at two further vantage observation points, the other groups waited for the signal from Cy.
The front four approaching trucks entered the compound in procession, only feet apart. A few minutes later, the last two drove in behind them. Previous experience told the watchers the middle pair would be carrying the merchandise. The last two held the buyers. The wooden gates swung shut. The DEA chief counted down from ten then spoke into his radio.
“Time to party, ladies and gents. Go! Go! Go!”
The female agent gunned the armoured jeep toward the gate, crashing into it at speed, with the remaining two jeeps tight behind them. The wooden spars offered no opposition as they sped into the yard and screeched to a halt. The second DEA squad entered the compound and the last blocked the exit. Jack followed Cy out of the vehicle, both with M16s primed.
SAVAGE PAYBACK (Jack Calder Crime Series #3) Page 6
