Marcel glared at the general manager.
“As I’ve said, Inspector, we will cooperate with you at all times. May I ask what kind of criminal activity Mister Cavendish is suspected of?”
“You may not. For your own safety, better you are privy to nothing more than we’ve covered this afternoon. Furthermore, if continued activity occurs on the account or should he visit this office again, you will deal with him as normal, but call me direct on this number,” said Marcel, handing over his Interpol business card bearing his name and direct private telephone number.
Ten minutes later, the Interpol chief and his agent left the bank. The folded paper tucked into his inside pocket carried the requested contact details.
“It’s amazing how the fear for one’s own skin instantly overrides the interests of the institution that’s fed a man for years,” said Marcel, following his colleague into their car. “Anyway, we’ve something to trace now. Get a check on the triangulation on the mobile phone. If the SIM card’s still in place, that’ll narrow down the area. Also instruct the technical guys to track where the emails end up. I’d be surprised if the phone is live, and the email terminal won’t lead to a computer or laptop where Duval lives. More likely to be an anonymous internet café routing, but it might help to focus in on the locale.”
Marcel made a few notes on the short plane trip back to Lyon, marshalling his thoughts to be shared later with Alan Rennie and Jules Townsend.
CHAPTER 23
At another bank in London, police work and patience were playing out well.
The vault officer opened the security box for his visitors and returned to his post. The pre-coded call to his boss patched through immediately.
“They’re here, sir. Just gone into the vault.”
His chief gave the nod to DCI Bob Granger and his three-man team in the lounge. No other clients were in the basement, as per policy. The arrival of the policemen in the vault area coincided with the men leaving. The cameras captured the attempt by the taller client to swing his attaché case at Granger’s head. The blow parried upward as he caught his arm and spun the man around, pinning him against the wall. A second detective applied the handcuffs. The other man’s headlong dive to evade capture ended with a rough body tackle.
The detectives read them their rights. Bob Granger instructed Bertie, the security boss, to seal and date-stamp the CCTV film covering the last two hours in the vault. Indisputable evidence showing pre-entry to the area, the signatures on the box number and handling the stolen merchandise it contained would be unassailable in a courtroom.
The case held jewellery identifiable as stolen from New Bond Street.
***
Five hours after the arrests in London, Ahmed Fadi received word his operations in England had hit a severe snag. Two of his top lieutenants were under lock and key, no doubt bearing intense interrogation from the Metropolitan Police.
The captured men would reveal nothing. They valued the lives of their families. Of more significant importance to the crime lord were the impounded packages of jewellery from the bank’s vaults. Hundreds of millions of dollars worth. The cash flow pile.
Fadi’s Balkans reputation for coolness as a guerrilla commander belied a ferocious temper. He seldom made a decision in anger. His initial rage subsided as he regained control of his emotions, mulling over the course of action needed now.
An hour later, he called Rikko Duval.
***
Fadi’s assumption was correct, as Alan Rennie and William Lang tussled for seniority in managing the case. The head of Anti-Terrorism would not be as easy to divert this time as at the hotel bombing interview. The two men discussed the issue in Rennie’s office. The Assistant Commissioner had ensured Bob Granger joined him for the meeting.
“We’ll take over jurisdiction, Alan,” said Lang. With these arrests, he had something at last to appease the Home Office Minister.
“I don’t think that’ll be necessary, William. For the moment, the chain of evidence merely involves possession of stolen property.”
“These men are liable to terrorism charges, which take precedence over any possession nonsense, my dear fellow.”
“On the evidence as it stands, there’s nothing to justify a terrorism charge supportable in a court of law. Not in my opinion,” said the Assistant Commissioner. “My experience tells me if we press anything other than those I’ve stated already, a sharp lawyer’ll throw the book at us, and we’ll be left with nothing. Besides, my detectives made the arrests and logging of the evidence trail. Standard procedure, William, the case stays here meantime.”
“Perhaps a word from someone above us both can clarify this, don’t you think?” said Lang. Bob Granger knew the condescension in Lang’s voice riled Alan Rennie but his boss kept his cool.
“I’d be glad to take direction from any proper authority senior to us both, William. Meantime if you need anything else from me, I’m always pleased to be of help,” said Alan. The response carried an unspoken message to the Home Office man.
You’ve no seniority over me and if you want to try pulling rank, go ahead. Right now, I win.
Granger watched, not for the first time, an outwitted head of Anti-Terrorism leave empty-handed.
CHAPTER 24
William Lang’s secretary explained the caller would only speak to the decision maker in charge of the bombings investigation.
“Who is this?” he asked, when the connection came through.
“It doesn’t matter who I am. Listen carefully. I won’t repeat myself. I’m sure your tracers are tracking this call, so I’ll be brief,” said the voice. “The key to your bombers lies with Jules Townsend and May-Ling Calder. King’s Cross Station. Left luggage locker number 218. Across from platform seven, near the tea-shop. Ask them what it means.”
“But what do they have…” The dial tone went dead.
Rikko Duval tossed the mobile phone into the nearest wastepaper basket. A single-use purchase. Maybe one of the best investments he’d ever made. Time would tell.
A career politician in the making, William Lang cared nothing for the subordinates he worked with on his way up the political pecking order. A brighter than average student, his talents stretched no further than an ability to reproduce facts during school examinations. The man’s personal initiative centred solely on selfish objectives. The family boasted upper middle-class pretentions. His father spent a lifetime in local government in a mid-level position, with a credo bred more on surviving in the system than surfacing, the overriding mantra being not to make mistakes. Uncle Herbert had prospered better, rising to Private Secretary to a State Minister who held three posts over a period of many years. Herbert’s connections were influential in fast-tracking the younger Lang into his current position as head of Anti-Terrorism. The bombings in New Bond Street offered the first public test of his mettle. He needed a positive development to claim success. The timing of the anonymous telephone call could help deliver a win for him.
The flush of excitement waned as Lang tried to make sense of the call. First the arrest of the men at the bank two days ago, and now this. Something to peddle with his superiors. In Lang’s view, that obnoxious bastard Assistant Commissioner would have to be sorted out one day. In the meantime he had to wait for the information flow from Rennie’s desk on progress with the arrested men. According to the Scot, so far, interrogation of the Eastern Europeans had yielded nothing of any consequence. They carried no identification, hadn’t asked for legal representation, and answered none of the barrage of questions thrown at them. The wall-clock showed a touch after six. Chances were the ISP people would still be in the office. He collected his jacket and instructed his secretary to have the car and driver stand by. A short drive across to the West End offices of ISP unannounced would leave Townsend and Mrs Calder no excuse to avoid him.
His luck held.
“Good evening, Mister Lang,” said Jules when the agency chief appeared at his office door. “To what do we o
we this pleasure?”
“Forgive my not pre-announcing myself, Mister Townsend. I received an interesting phone call a short while ago and wanted to come to discuss it with yourself and Mrs Calder. Is she here also?”
“Yes, I’m here,” said May-Ling, arriving at the office door. Both she and Jules donned their professional veneer, disguising their inherent dislike for Lang.
“Thank you both,” he said, taking a seat opposite Jules. May-Ling chose to sit nearer the wall, a little distant from the men.
“So, tell me about your telephone call, Mister Lang,” said Jules.
Ten minutes elapsed during which Jules asked William Lang to repeat himself a few times.
“We know nothing of this,” said Jules, nodding at May-Ling. “I think you’re dealing with a prank call. What do you intend to do now?”
“Would you mind accompanying me to King’s Cross? Perhaps we can clear this up quickly?”
From the corner of his eye, Jules saw May-Ling roll her eyes toward the ceiling. This man was a nuisance, but a persistent nuisance. Jules decided to close this down as soon as possible.
“Okay, we’ll come and check it out. We’ll take our own vehicle and meet you at King’s Cross in about half an hour.”
“Thank you. I knew you’d understand the need to follow every lead on this.”
William Lang missed the sarcastic flourish of May-Ling’s hand as she waved him out of the office.
CHAPTER 25
Lang’s departure from the meeting with Jules and May-Ling coincided with an arrival involving ISP personnel half a continent away.
The private flight from Cyprus landed two hours ahead of London time. Security clearance wasn’t needed. The Interpol agents handed over the keys to a pair of nondescript vans. In the rear of each, a broad cloth covered the weapons and blackened night-gear for the assault. Jack and Cy took the first vehicle, Malky and Donnie the other. The pairs spent five minutes double-checking the weaponry before heading out toward Antalya’s port area.
The route covered no more than twenty minutes of driving in light traffic. No vehicles cluttered the dockside’s main eastern entrance. The squat hangar for bay five stood twenty metres back from the wide driveway. One half of the large front shutter door hung ajar. Outside, two men sat on a wooden crate, smoking. Jack and Malky slowed as they drove past, taking in as much as the limited view would yield without causing more than a cursory look from the guards. A hundred metres later, Jack turned the vehicle around and waved to the others. Take-down time.
The vans sped forward and braked in unison in front of the smokers. Cy and Donnie exited first and pointed their guns at the men. Jack and Malky followed suit with no words and little sound. Donnie gestured with his weapon for the pair to move inside the shed. Half a dozen other men spread around inside. They all carried guns. One of the smokers screamed a warning and flung himself to the ground. It was the last act of his life. The firefight lasted seconds. The intruding quartet dropped to one knee and fanned the shed with deadly fire. Three of the men inside died in the first salvo. The others were injured, one fatally, two were still alive.
Cy kicked the gun away from the feet of one of the survivors and pulled him into a sitting position. He put his pistol to the man’s head.
“If you wanna keep breathin’ you show me where tonight’s delivery shipment is.”
“Go fuck yourself,” came the reply. The man sneered and turned his head. The shot from the pistol blew his brains away. Cy walked to the other injured guard. No persuasion was needed this time.
“There. Over there,” he said, pointing to a small tarpaulin on a steel rack at the side of the shed.
“Nice line in questioning you have there, big man,” said Jack using his knife to slice through the first package to reveal the dun-coloured raw cocaine. Jack nodded. Donnie stepped forward and fixed a couple of detonators to the stack.
“The third guy didn’t make it,” said Cy. “That leaves my squawker here as the only messenger. Ain’t this his lucky day?” He lifted the injured man and carried him to the door of the shed.
“Listen up, buddy. You tell your boss this. Friends of Mister Estrada don’t like him doin’ business with you amateurs. You got that?” The guard nodded. Cy pulled him ten metres clear of the building and joined Jack in the van. As the vehicles drove out of the port, the detonators did their job.
Fire engine sirens screeched in the opposite direction, passing them on the way back to the airport.
CHAPTER 26
The station’s rush-hour foot traffic had thinned. William Lang stood opposite the left luggage lockers beside a gentleman in uniform. Jules and May-Ling approached and Lang introduced the man.
“This is the deputy stationmaster. He holds the master keys for the lockers. We can solve this in minutes. Shall we?”
The four walked toward the bank of boxes. The railway man led the way with the key in his hand, Lang and Jules a metre behind him. A few metres back, May-Ling checked her watch. Jack and the team would be preparing for action in Turkey. The station officer tried the lock. Nothing moved.
“It’s jammed,” he said. The brass key protruded at a slight angle from the lock, stuck tight.
“Let me try,” said Lang taking hold of the offending key.
Something instinctively triggered in Jules’ head. “No! Don’t touch it!” he called.
Too late to heed the call, the Anti-Terrorism chief yanked at the key.
The deafening explosion reverberated around the station.
***
Donnie Mullen took Paul Manning’s call on his mobile phone as they waited to board the plane in Paphos for the connecting flight back to England. Jack saw his partner stiffen. He heard Donnie say his wife’s name and an icy grip of dread flowed from his neck to his toes.
“What’s up? What’s wrong?”
“Bad news, guys. Really bad news.”
“Spill it. What is it?” asked Jack.
“That was Paul. Jules and May-Ling were caught in a bomb attack at the left luggage lockers in Kings Cross Station. Lang was there too. Jules and Lang are dead. May-Ling’s in hospital. One of the station staff was also killed and a dozen other people injured.”
“What the fuck? How badly injured is she?”
“Serious, mate. She was unconscious when the ambulance took her away, and she hasn’t come to yet. Paul’s at the hospital now.”
“What the fuck were they doin’ at Kings Cross?” asked Malky. “And wi’ that asshole, Lang? Jules dead? Fuckin’ unbelievable.”
“Paul’s got no idea what they were doing there,” said Donnie. “He said Jules was killed outright. So was Lang.”
Cy gripped Jack’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, man, really sorry. Looks to me like a classic booby trap.”
“Rikko Duval. Bastard. Bastard,” Jack whispered.
It would be a long flight back to London.
CHAPTER 27
The intensive-care staff moved silently and efficiently about their duties. Paul stood up from his chair in the corridor as his three ISP partners and Cy strode toward him.
“The doctor’s in there with her now,” said Paul, nudging the door open and speaking softly to someone inside. In moments, the specialist appeared and reckoned Jack as the husband by the strained look on his face.
“How is she?”
“Mister Calder? I’m Doctor Spencer. Your wife regained consciousness for a little while earlier, but we decided to induce a controlled coma.” The soft-spoken medical man addressed the assembled visitors with total authority. “She suffered severe blast trauma on most of her left side. The two men in front shielded her from the worst of the explosion, but she’s in a serious condition. We’ve stabilised her vital functions for the moment. The next twelve hours are critical. Rest assured she’ll get the best medical help we can provide.”
“Her injuries?” asked Jack, his mouth stuck dry.
“It’s touch and go whether or not she’ll lose her left eye, but if we s
ave it, she’s unlikely to have full vision in it. Her shoulder blade is broken and she’s suffered typical blast trauma on her left arm and leg. These we can sort over time.”
“Can I see her now?”
“For a few minutes only, please. She’s not conscious. Oh, and by the way, I think the baby will be okay.”
“Baby? What baby?”
“I’m sorry. I thought you knew already. Your wife is eight or nine weeks pregnant, Mister Calder.”
Jack stared at each of his partners in turn, his mind reeling. His pregnant wife in an induced coma?
A nurse appeared from the room and the doctor spoke to her, “Nurse, can you get a gown for Mister Calder. He may go in, but for a little while only, please.”
The numbness in his body made everything move in slow motion. The nurse held the door open for him. The others waited grim-faced in the corridor.
Two more nurses attended the bedside, one monitoring a bank of equipment with several wires attached to the body on the bed. May-Ling. His wife. Mother of their first son, already at University in Edinburgh. Mother-to-be of another baby. If she lives.
Her head was heavily bandaged, the left eye completely covered. The bedclothes were not tucked in. Draped across the bed, a light sheet hid the web of wires from the machines. He caught the powerful smell of antiseptic. A wave of nausea hit him. Hard. His head spun.
“May I sit down?”
One of the nurses took his arm and led him to the chair near the bed. That was better. He swallowed a couple of times. Clarity returned. He talked to himself, a trait he’d practiced over the years in some horrific situations.
Get a grip of yourself, Calder. Jules is gone. Dead. Your wife’s fighting for her life here. She’s carrying your baby. Stop acting like a fucking chicken, man.
SAVAGE PAYBACK (Jack Calder Crime Series #3) Page 9
