SAVAGE PAYBACK (Jack Calder Crime Series #3)

by Seumas Gallacher

  “I hear you. I’ll sniff around. You know it’s not easy dealing with the police on the ground in Turkey. Too much bribery. This will take some time, my friend.”

  “I understand, Marcel, thanks. I’ll catch up again soon. G’bye.”

  Benoit finished the call and redialled. The instructions he issued to his agents were clear and simple. Find out everything available on Ahmed Fadi, his companies, his cash flows. Don’t use the Istanbul police contacts. Get Interpol’s local narks involved. He replaced the phone and mused on what kind of hornet’s nest this elusive Duval had stirred up by attacking Jack Calder’s wife.

  CHAPTER 19

  Nothing remains private for long in the El Paso-Juarez underworld. The grapevine was on fire for days after the hits on his rivals with news Manuel Estrada had acquired some heavy-duty, foreign protection. Subtle and not so subdued murmurings surfaced, including planted newspaper snippets pointing to Estrada and his people having done a deal with the wrong devil. At the same time, Cy Foster’s team continued to hit the smaller feeders for the Mexican’s operations. The opposition from the other gangs was of no concern, but the added pressure from the authorities served to hasten the plan of action agreed with Ahmed Fadi. Within days, the DEA informant relayed the shipment details. The American Government’s grease dollars still spoke volumes. Date, cargo, shipping route, transit pickup points and final destination all buttoned down.

  Cy issued instructions to cover the El Paso end of the process without physical intervention. This was one load he wanted to see make it all the way to Europe.

  ***

  “They’re takin’ the long way round, Jules,” drawled Cy. “Down to Dakar in Senegal and trans-shipment up to Turkey. The handover’s gonna be in the south-western seaport of Antalya on or around ten days from now for on-shipment to Istanbul. The designated transit handover point on land is the port’s dockin’ bay area number five.”

  “Great work, my friend. That’s some information network you’re running.”

  “Bonus information for you. The merchandise’ll be picked up by a security truck from Tri-Square Security, comin’ all the way down from Istanbul. Tyin’ in kinda neat. What’s the bettin’ Tri-square belongs to Ahmed Fadi?”

  “Brilliant, Cy.”

  “I’d expect the truck won’t be travellin’ solo. My gen says there’s three million bucks worth of street shit in that cargo.”

  “Perfect. We’ll start planning now. If you hear anything further let me know.”

  “You got it. Keep me informed the other way. I wanna know what you and the crazy Irish-Scots duo are doin’ on this one.”

  “Deal. Thanks again, Cy.”

  The international call had been relayed on the speaker. Jack and Malky were all smiles as their chief terminated the conversation.

  “We’ve got some homework to do,” said Jules. “Let’s get the ordinance maps for Antalya. We’ll need the layout of the port and any info on security.”

  Detail, detail, detail.

  CHAPTER 20

  The London bank’s Head of Security asked the safe custody vault officer to go over his story a few times. After the fifth visit by the men with the Moroccan leather case, the nagging in his head had become too strong, it was time to alert his superiors.

  “Just a gut feeling, sir. Prob’ly all above board. Just something I can’t put my finger on. Thought I’d better mention to you.”

  “You did right. Let me think about it. Give me a heads-up when they visit again, okay?”

  “Will do, chief.”

  The officer left the room. The security boss leaned back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head, looking at the ceiling, running through all the information he’d just been given. Several minutes later, he dialled the direct number of his mate, Assistant Commissioner of Police, Alan Rennie.

  “You know we’re not supposed to do profiling like this, don’t you?” said the police chief, in more of a statement than a question. “It does seem a bit sniffy. You’re aware of the stuff we’ve been chasing down for the past couple of weeks, Bertie?”

  “Precisely why I called you, Alan,” said the security honcho. “Did you know we hold back-up copies on all clients’ keys for use in emergencies? I’m not permitted to go snooping on the bank’s clients, especially not in the custody vault area. However, if I’m presented with a legitimate police search warrant, what’s a guy to do, eh?”

  Alan Rennie roared with laughter. “Let’s say this is a preliminary peek inside. Do you think myself and Bob Granger could drop by for a wee look? If anything shows, I promise I’ll get you a back-dated warrant. No need to mess everyone around with paperwork if it comes up blank?”

  “Sounds good to me. Come in tomorrow morning at seven, before opening hours. Just myself and the vault officer’ll be here. And bring some croissants.”

  The pastries were still warm in the takeaway bakery bag as Alan Rennie handed them over to his pal.

  “Enjoy your breakfast, Bertie. Thank Bob here, he paid for them,” he said with a grin.

  “Didn’t expect a bloody Scotsman to pay for them anyway,” said the security chief, picking the larger of the two croissants and handing the other to his vault clerk. “Let’s go down to the custody room. We can eat on the way.”

  The controlled lift access to the basement level two floors below opened into a well-lit area. The Assistant Commissioner acknowledged Bertie’s pointed finger toward a series of CCTV cameras along the ceiling, covering every square inch of the ante-room to the custodial space, but none inside the walk-in vault precinct. Bertie’s colleague motioned to the ranks of chrome-fronted doors of the safety boxes, each with twinned keyholes. He turned the key in a large box two rows from the top. Bertie followed suit with the master key. Inside the box, crammed rolls of black cloth left little room for anything else.

  “May I?” asked Bob Granger. Bertie nodded and the DCI removed the topmost roll and placed it on the table adjoining the back wall. The thick twine binding the cloth took a few moments to undo. As the contents of the package were revealed, Alan Rennie whistled.

  “Well, I’ll be damned. Jackpot, Bertie. Bloody jackpot.”

  Accentuated by the blackness of the cloth wrapping, several diamond-mounted pieces of jewellery sparkled in the bright illumination of the vault.

  “Camera, Bob. Snap these and we’ll get them compared with the stuff that went walkabout.”

  The vault clerk re-wrapped the items, taking care to ensure the revelation wouldn’t be noticeable when the box owners came to reclaim them.

  “You said they’ve another two boxes,” said Rennie. “Let’s open them, please.”

  The second cache was already partially empty, but the third was as full as the first. Bob Granger repeated the camera work.

  The vault clerk locked the barred doors behind them as the quartet returned to Bertie’s office.

  “The official search warrant will be with you before noon today, Bertie,” said the Assistant Commissioner. “In the meantime, we’ll want the addresses on these opening account forms. The backroom lads’ll follow up on these, but I wouldn’t expect them to yield much, but who knows? Bob, I want you to coordinate with Bertie. Arrange a twenty-four hour, invisible watch until these guys come to open any of the boxes again. Check the photographs to make sure we’re not kidding ourselves here. If these aren’t from New Bond Street, I’m a Dutch uncle. If it is the stash from the heists, I want whoever comes back for them arrested. Post a couple of plain-clothes boys with Bertie until further notice. Let’s get back to the office; we’ve got a bit of work ahead of us this morning.”

  “Guess you owe us another bag of croissants, Alan,” said Bertie, grinning from ear to ear, as he shook hands in parting with the police officers.

  The addresses on the bank opening account forms showed three separate corporate names. Contrary to Alan Rennie’s expectations, they reaped a valuable harvest. All three carried the same building, same floor address in London’s West End.
A quick site visit from a local detective showed the names shared a brass-plated signage with several other company names, under a banner group, East-West Trading. A follow up search at the Companies Registrar of the group’s base led back to Istanbul. A confidential call to Marcel Benoit requested a discreet enquiry on the ownership without alerting the local Turkish officials. The Assistant Commissioner specifically asked Marcel to sniff around for any links to the Ahmed Fadi group. His gut instinct was in overdrive. Now it was waiting time again.

  CHAPTER 21

  Late afternoon drifted into early evening in the ISP boardroom. Used coffee mugs and sandwiches cluttered the centre of the worktable. The walls carried magnified street maps of the area around the port in Antalya, lifted from ordinance survey sheets only a couple of years old. Coloured markings highlighted the principal focal points. Around the table, Jules, Donnie, May-Ling and Jack faced the wall as Malky went through the summary.

  “Yer main entrance and exit to the docks have no gates but the individual loadin’ sheds are secured front and back. The one Cy gave us the heads-up on, number five’s got slidin’ doors at the front, and swing-openers at the back, here.” He tapped the sheet with a huge finger. “Yeez’ll notice it’s the last bay, closest to the road system out o’ the place. The feedback says it’s got the quietest traffic area of goods in and out. Owned by one group. No prizes for guessing whose?”

  Jules nodded. “East-West Trading. Go on. Overall security manpower at the port?”

  “Minimal,” said Malky. “Blue-collar guards. A couple o’ roamin’ jeeps, more for show than anythin’ else.”

  Donnie spoke from the end of the table. “What’s the deal with Customs people? Antalya’s a port of entry.”

  “Marcel’s reports say they’re as bribe-laden as anywhere in the country,” said May-Ling. “I’d guess when this shipment arrives, there’ll be no holdup for transfer to the shed.”

  “Which also means, probably fewer eyes around,” said Jack. “If customs boys’ve been paid off, they won’t want to be in the vicinity in case it comes back to bite them. No see, no do, no blame, Right?”

  “Correct, my man,” said Malky. “But let’s not take anythin’ for granted.”

  “Okay,” said Jules, ticking off some headings on a pad in front of him. “Run us through the timings again.”

  “Right, ye are. The boat’s supposed to arrive from Dakar mid-evenin’ the day after tomorrow. It’ll be dark outside the port, but inside, the floodlightin’ll still be on. They might lower the lights around shed five, but maybe not.”

  Jules wrote something on his pad as Malky talked.

  “We’d be daft to presume the shed guards won’t be armed, and heavy-duty gear into the bargain,” Malky continued. “No way o’ tellin’ how much o’ a reception committee to expect.”

  “That won’t matter too much. I’m sure they won’t be expecting visitors,” said Jack. “Speaking of visitors, what the hell are you doing here?”

  The door to the boardroom had swung open and the large frame of the DEA chief for El Paso-Juarez stepped in.

  “Hi guys,” the voice boomed and the usual huge smile lit his face. “You mean you didn’t tell them I’m comin’ along, Jules?”

  The ISP boss rose to greet his pal with their customary hug.

  “Take a seat. No, I thought better to wait for you to turn up,” said Jules.

  He addressed the squad. “Cy insisted he join the party, and since we enjoyed his hospitality last time around, how could I say no? Besides, somebody has to carry the calling cards, eh?”

  Greetings were exchanged all round, including with May-Ling, the first time she’d met the big man.

  “I can see why you were in such a hurry to get back home, Jack,” said Cy, the grin growing even wider. “Nice to know you at last, May-Ling.”

  “Malky, let’s run through this again now our interloper’s here,” said Jules, settling back into his chair.

  The Irishman recast the summary up to the point of Cy’s entrance. Jack stood up and approached the wall to continue.

  “Interpol people will meet us at Antalya airport. We’re flying in via Paphos in Cyprus, private flight, courtesy of Marcel, the same evening the goods are expected to reach the sheds. There’s two hours turnaround time on the ground before flying back, but the port is only about fifteen kilometres away. Gives us plenty of time to do what we need to do. We’ve asked for a couple of local pick-up trucks. That should attract no attention when we drive onto the dockside. The hunting party is Malky, Donnie, myself and now, it seems, our gatecrasher as well.”

  “You ain’t comin’ Jules?” said Cy.

  “Too many cooks spoil the broth,” said Jules. “You four are plenty for this hit.”

  “The locals supplyin’ the hardware too, I s’pose?”

  “Yes. M16s, stun grenades and laser pistols,” said Jack. “We make the hit, disappear back to the airport, hand over the vehicles and weapons and get aboard for the return flight. The Interpol guys will be on standby in case the timing changes. Right now, from what they can track from Senegal, everything’s on schedule.”

  “Any questions?” said Jules, rising from the chair.

  Shakes of the heads all round showed no need for elaboration.

  “Well, a bit of news from Marcel this afternoon. His cyber-intel system’s traced some large payments from Ahmed Fadi’s outfit into a bank in Gibraltar. While you’re flying from London to Cyprus tomorrow morning, he and one of his lads are paying a courtesy call on the general manager at Reliance Bank. I’d like to be a fly on the wall for that one. Okay, dinner, anybody? We’ve got to show Mister Foster a bit of British hospitality.”

  The ops meeting closed with murmurs of approval and smiles at Cy.

  CHAPTER 22

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you, Inspector. Without a police warrant, I’m not permitted to disclose details of any of my clients’ business to unauthorised persons or agencies. Rules are rules.”

  The smug look on the face of the general manager of Reliance Bank displayed his annoyance at police intrusion on his fiefdom.

  “I’d rather hoped we could do this like gentlemen,” said Marcel Benoit. “Of course, you’re correct. If I have to force your cooperation, I need to have with me formal warrants.”

  The banker’s smile persisted.

  “Which is why, Monsieur,” continued the Interpol chief, “my colleague here brought a warrant, not for the specific account I was hoping you’d help me with, but for every account in this office.”

  Marcel’s companion agent produced a thick envelope from his briefcase, as the smirk died on the banker’s lips.

  “We’ve reason to believe Reliance Bank may be engaged in wholesale money laundering, which if proved to be the case will involve serious criminal charges against any and all senior officers in your institution, not least yourself, Monsieur.”

  The General Manager sat down and stared at the unopened envelope on his desk.

  “There must be some mistake. This bank is clean,” he said.

  The arrogance switched in seconds to startled confusion. The bead of perspiration on the bridge of his nose and the nervous, clenched fists gave Marcel his opening.

  “Our suspicions may well be groundless, but you do understand while any investigation proceeded you would be obliged to close the bank for whatever time it may take us. Days, possibly weeks, who knows? However, Monsieur, I much prefer to deal reasonably with our friends in the financial world.”

  “Tell me again what you need to review, Inspector. Perhaps I was a bit over-formal in my reaction. We at Reliance Bank wish to maintain good relations with the authorities at all times.”

  “Thank you. I think this envelope can remain sealed for the meantime,” said Marcel, handing it back to the agent. “I’ve no desire to disrupt the bank’s business, nor indeed at this point to freeze the account to be discussed. The account is in the name of Robert Cavendish.”

  “Mister Cavendish? In
spector, he’s the largest single depositor in this bank. The behaviour on his account has always been impeccable. He holds large investments in blue chip companies. We regard him as an excellent High Net Worth client. The bank operates with strict rules on account management. Mister Cavendish has never stepped outside of these parameters. Regular communications are made to his email address, and he visits us from time to time.”

  “Is this your client?” Marcel placed on the desk a copy of the file photograph Mac had given to Jules.

  “Yes. Several years younger, but unmistakable.”

  “You keep an address for Mister Cavendish? Telephone contact numbers?”

  “We use a normal poste restante arrangement in-house for his bank mail, Inspector. Mister Cavendish travels extensively. We arranged for an original Post Office Box address for him in Geneva, which is a common feature of many of our High Net Worth clients, but his instructions are never to send mail. He collects as and when he visits us.”

  “How often is that?”

  “He called in about a month ago, I remember, but he has no set pattern.”

  “Mobile or landline telephone numbers?”

  “Mister Cavendish utilises a French mobile number, but only as a backup for text messages if we have a problem with the email communications.”

  “Do you ever contact it?”

  “Only once I can recall, something prevented an email getting to his inbox. The message bounced and we re-sent by text to the mobile number. He did receive that as he later got back to us by email.”

  “Monsieur, you will please give me details of the email address and the mobile telephone number. Under no circumstances are you to share any of this conversation with your staff, and most certainly not with Robert Cavendish. Be assured Interpol has means to detect if you breach these instructions. In which case, not only will the warrant we discussed earlier be rigorously enforced but you personally will be liable to arrest for collusion in a criminal enterprise. Do you understand?”