SAVAGE PAYBACK (Jack Calder Crime Series #3)

by Seumas Gallacher

  Marcel Benoit thanked the bank manager for the information and issued instructions for his agents to fly to Gibraltar on the midday flight next day to stake out the bank.

  CHAPTER 33

  Heavy bandaging still covered her eye, but May-Ling had improved steadily over the previous few days. Her official status remained serious, but the critical alert had lessened. Speech had returned but Doctor Spencer warned Jack not to tire his wife too much. He was allowed to be with her for half an hour twice a day while awake.

  “What are going to do about Duval?” she asked.

  He pressed her hand softly and replied, “Don’t you worry yourself about Duval, sweetheart. We’ll take care of him soon enough.”

  “What are you not telling me? I know when you’re holding stuff back from me.”

  Jack looked away from her.

  How to open the issue with her?

  She beat him to it.

  “You’re thinking about the baby, right?”

  He stammered, “You didn’t tell me you were expecting.”

  “You silly man. I thought I might be pregnant but only got confirmation the day Jules and I went to King’s Cross. The doctor tells me it’s unharmed.”

  “Yes. He told me when I first met him. I’m worried to hell about you getting well. And there’s other news I suppose you should know.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Cy Foster was murdered in El Paso when he flew back from Jules’ funeral.”

  “Oh, Jack, that’s horrible. Was it Duval?”

  “No. Marcel thinks Manuel Estrada’s people did it. But we think Duval’s been in El Paso in the past few days. Somebody assassinated Estrada’s daughter in his front garden during his wife’s birthday celebrations. We’ve been told the DEA people weren’t involved and rival gang hits don’t go down that way.”

  “Then who?”

  “On the night you and Jules went to the station, we took out the shipment from Mexico intended for Ahmed Fadi, just as Jules had planned. To create a rift between the two of them.”

  May-Ling was quiet. Jack said nothing. She spoke again.

  “So Fadi thinks Estrada’s double-crossed him and sends Duval to deliver a message by killing his daughter?”

  “No. Killing his daughter would serve no purpose. We think he meant to shoot Manuel Estrada himself. The bullet hit the wrong target.”

  “My God, Jack. You really think so? What happens next?”

  “No way of telling for sure, but it won’t finish there. The DEA guys are tracking Estrada’s movements. Marcel is trying to get a line on Fadi. They’ve all promised to keep us in the loop.”

  His wife stared at him. “Then you and Malky’ll make sure they finish their personal business, right?”

  Jack nodded. “Jules always said you thought clearer than any of us, even if you’re injured. Yes, if they don’t take each other out, we intend to lend them a hand. Anyway, you have to get some rest. I’ll be back tomorrow, sweetheart.”

  He leaned forward and kissed her forehead. May-Ling closed her eyes. Her thoughts slipping into sleep included Jules Townsend, Cy Foster, Manuel Estrada, Ahmed Fadi, her beloved Jack and an unborn baby. Even in a half-sleep state she realised something had changed in her husband, something ruthless she had never seen before.

  CHAPTER 34

  The early flight from Casablanca landed in Gibraltar in time for Rikko Duval to be at the bank office minutes after opening time.

  “Mister Cavendish, I wasn’t expecting you until this afternoon,” said the general manager as his secretary led his visitor into the private office.

  “My apologies. Last minute change of travel schedules,” said Duval. “Can you still assist me at such short notice?”

  “Of course, of course. Please, have a seat. Coffee with no sugar as usual?”

  The officer buzzed his intercom and gave the order to his assistant. In a few minutes, she appeared with a silver tray with the coffee and assorted biscuits.

  “Please ensure we aren’t disturbed,” he said, pressing a desk switch to illuminate the privacy sign outside of the room. The secretary retreated and closed the door behind her. Instructions were absolute never to interrupt the manager when the light switched to the occupied setting.

  Duval picked up immediately on the manager’s nervousness. Small beads of sweat showed on his brow, even in the air-conditioned office. He touched his tie and smoothed his jacket repeatedly. He had never seen him in anything but sophisticated banker mode. Something was wrong. His decision to switch his timing to this earlier arrival was a normal ruse he used to stay a step ahead of any circumstance. Keep everyone else off guard. Part of his SAS training included doing the unexpected.

  “What did you have in mind today, Mister Cavendish? You said you wanted to make some money transfers?”

  His client removed a folded paper from his jacket and handed it across the desk.

  “Yes. I need to make these two transactions now. The last time I moved funds we did it together from your computer. For confidentiality, can we do the same now?”

  The manager’s hand trembled a little as he took the paper and read the instructions.

  “But…but this is almost all of your deposits with Reliance Bank, Mister Cavendish.”

  “Some temporary alternative investments. Don’t worry, I’ll be moving the money back to your bank after a short while.”

  The pair of transactions amounted to almost thirty million dollars. The first recipient bank was in the Cayman Islands, the second in the Dominican Republic.

  “I… I…”

  “Do we have a problem with these? We’ve done large sums before.”

  “No, no. There’s no problem.”

  If the man had been nervous before, he was close to panic now.

  But then he recovered his nerve and said, “Mister Cavendish, forgive me, it’s just that we seldom lose such a large amount of our valued customer deposits, even temporarily. Of course I’ll do these with you right now.”

  The computer on the desk lit up. The manager keyed in his own password, then invited Duval to counter-key with his own personal code. Seated at the screen with his customer standing behind watching as the instructions fed into the system, the bank officer didn’t catch Duval’s eyes scanning the desktop. The Interpol business card of Marcel Benoit was unmistakable, leaning upright against the telephone console. Duval’s instincts had proved correct, yet again. Now he understood the nervousness. Somehow the bastards had tracked the payments to here. His forward planning was about to save him thirty million dollars.

  “How are we doing? These should be in the other banks’ systems in minutes, shouldn’t they?”

  “Yes, they’re irreversibly in the system now. See, here are the reference numbers for you,” the general manager said, handing over a sheet with the printed codes.

  “I’m grateful for your help,” said Duval.

  Without warning, his right hand jabbed forward in a karate punch, catching the manager in the throat. The man jerked backward in his chair. In seconds his head was in a deadlock. A sharp twist snapped his neck. Duval eased the body on to the carpet and sat down at the computer. In a matter of minutes he dispatched instructions to the two earlier receiving banks with coded details for forwarding the received monies into several account names with other banks. These banks resided in jurisdictions less accessible to the prying eyes of international authorities.

  He moved across the floor to let himself out, and called back as he went.

  “Thank you for all your help. I’ll be in touch soon,” a farewell meant only for the secretary’s ears as he closed the door.

  The privacy light remained on and stayed that way until two hours later.

  ***

  The Interpol agents showed their badges to the secretary who reluctantly let them open her chief’s door. Minutes later, her screams and hysterics echoed through the bank. She herself would need the ambulance that would be of no use to her boss. The agents relayed the new
s to Marcel Benoit in Lyons before calling in local police and detectives to cordon off the murder scene.

  “Clever bastard,” said Marcel to the agent who called. “Jules said he was intelligent. He’s a thinker alright. Okay, I want you both to stay put and work with the local head of police. Use my name, he’s a friend. The likeliest exit is by plane and I’m sure he’s no longer in Gibraltar. Get a hold of the CCTV scans at the airport. He walks with a limp and it might show up. If he does, try to find which departure gate he used. That’ll give us a flight and a destination.”

  Within hours, the fast response through the assistance of the local police chief gave them the destination of the killer. The limp clearly noticeable on the CCTV coverage made identification simple. After leaving the check-in counter, Duval made an unhurried walk through the forecourt of the departure hall and turned left. With no hand luggage visible, Marcel Benoit assumed the flight would be taking his quarry home. The flight had already been called as the former soldier walked down the covered archway to his plane. The destination Casablanca, a city easy to remain hidden in, but at least the hunters now had a target area to zone in on. So far, the mobile phone and email trails had given no clues. The man was astute. He would know not to have the SIM card live until he needed to use the phone, if it was even still in his possession. Apart from routine detective work, the best chance remained with the technical experts by cyber-tracking whatever computer device Duval used, either a laptop or a computer at some internet café.

  ***

  Rikko Duval’s life and freedom depended on anonymity and invisibility. His routine was non-routine. Blending in with the background had become second nature to him. He wore neutral-coloured clothing. Transport in Casablanca was always by foot or by taxi, no car ownership registration, even in a false name. Vehicles are too easily tracked. He stopped taxis streets away from where he lived and walked the rest of the way home. No shops in the area around his dwelling enjoyed his regular patronage. When he did make purchases, these were in cash, no credit card receipts or records anywhere. His nondescript villa blended in with several identical buildings set back from the main street in a lower middle-class district. Laundry and cleaning of his residence he took care of himself, with no maid or maintenance workers.

  The late morning flight from Gibraltar had been on schedule. He closed the villa’s front door and checked the rooms in rote, a security habit as natural to him as breathing. He kicked off his shoes, poured some sparkling water and sat down to think. The close call at the bank disturbed him. Until now, his identity had never been an issue.

  Where had it leaked? Fadi? Somebody in Fadi’s camp?

  He’d need to talk to Fadi today. The Interpol card on the bank manager’s desk meant they had been at the bank before. No records existed at the bank to lead them here to Casablanca. But was he safe in Morocco? How much did they know? The obvious link tied in Jules and his fucking interfering bastards. Well, Townsend had bought his. With any luck the Chinese bitch wouldn’t make it either. Her Scots husband and his Irish mate posed a different proposition. Their reputations in the special services community were well-founded. They were dangerous operators and if still involved in this, the whole ball game had just elevated to a new and riskier level. He’d have to do something about them. But just what? This would take some time to think through. His knee hurt like hell, a sign of stress. He reached for the medication and switched on the television news, the only channel he ever watched.

  The newscasts ran in English, French and Arabic in Morocco. He was fluent in French, and understood some basic Arabic. The picture flashing across the screen jolted him. His own face, ten years younger, looked back at him.

  Fuck. How the hell?

  “Police authorities are seeking to interview this man in connection with a murder at Reliance Bank in Gibraltar earlier today. It’s believed he may be in the Casablanca area. If you know this man, or have seen him at any time, please contact the number shown below. Do not approach him,” said the announcer. “We repeat, do not approach him. He is dangerous and may kill again.”

  No mention of his limp. They’d missed out on that. He moved quickly. Duval always had back-up plans for a rapid exit wherever he located. The early evening darkness helped.

  The cloth rucksack’s sewn-in pockets held four passports in different identities as well as seven thousand dollars in hundred bills. A grey thobe covered his denims and sweatshirt. The traditional Arabic male clothing provided easy camouflage. A red and white checked, cotton, keffiyeh scarf hid his head and part of his face.

  He retrieved the mobile telephone from the bedside table drawer and inserted the SIM card. There was only one number on speed dial. Ahmed Fadi answered within two rings.

  “You have a major leak. The police know about the payments to Reliance Bank,” he said without introduction. “It means they’ve tapped into you on the other business. I’m on my way to Algeria. Meet me at the Livic Hotel, near the docks. Mid-morning, day after tomorrow. I’ve got some ideas for you. I understand you’re a careful man, but be extra cautious.”

  “My friend, I can’t move on a whim like this.”

  “It’s not a whim. Interpol’s involved. Probably Jack Calder and his mate, too. You still have the Mexican issue to deal with. Be there.”

  The drug boss wasn’t used to taking orders, but Duval had delivered flawlessly every time he’d been asked, apart from the blip with Estrada’s daughter. His gut told him his hitman was right.

  “Okay. The day after tomorrow. See you there,” said Fadi.

  Duval put the mobile back in the drawer.

  In a side street a couple of hundred metres from the villa, a dark-blue Nissan’s windscreen had a slight layer of dust, indicating the vehicle had been parked for at least a day or two, the ignition key still place. Car theft is not common in Arabic countries. The door handle turned in his hand. He slid into the driving seat and shoved his rucksack across to the passenger side. The gas tank showed almost full, no need to stop for a refill. He eased away and headed out eastward toward the Algerian border. At a steady speed he would reach the crossing point in ten hours, faster if traffic was light.

  The border control officer accepted his passport and opened the first page. Two hundred-dollar notes transferred from the document to the officer’s pocket. He handed the passport back with a wave and a “Ma’a salama”. Duval entered the country and headed for Bechar airport, a forty-kilometre drive from the border crossing.

  The airport was a feeder to Algiers for the main international routes. Air Algerie scheduled regular flights to the capital. He nudged the Nissan into a space at the side of the long-term car park, close to the entrance to the terminal. His practiced eye registered nothing out of the ordinary in the way of potential watchers. No casual, standby personnel and no sign of occupied vehicles within sight of the entrance. He tossed the thobe and keffiyeh onto the back seat and reached for the rucksack. The French passport and a few more dollars slipped into his pocket. A small cloth wiped down the driving wheel and the door handle, leaving no trace of fingerprints. By the time this vehicle was recovered, Duval would be long gone. The next flight to Algiers departed in fifty minutes. A one-way ticket paid in cash secured a seat in economy class.

  CHAPTER 35

  After leaving the Balkans and his Serbian name of Viktor Bodan behind him, Ahmed Fadi’s nous and determination over several years had built up a powerful network out of Turkey, supplying drugs from Afghanistan into the European cities. An intelligent strategist, he valued planning. Planning also meant taking care in everything he touched. This latest unfolding threat from Interpol caused him little concern as long as he remained in Istanbul. The network of bribed officials provided a comfort level few could afford. Outside of the country was a different matter.

  The phone call from Duval disturbed him. The tracking of his money flow demanded a complete change of routine.

  Just how much did the authorities know?

  The information av
ailable from banks wasn’t something he could stop. Money transfers are recorded, and large amounts stand out quickly. He had to overhaul the system with his accountants. Most of his men were survivors from the days in the Balkans, but he’d arrange a personal back check on each of them, just in case.

  You can never be too careful.

  The proposed meeting in Algiers made sense. He had contacts in the city, useful middlemen who funnelled much of the drug shipments on to Europe, but commercial air transport was out of the question. He called in his aide-de-camp. A trusted, solid, right-hand man, he had been with Fadi for more than thirty years.

  “Yes, boss?” the voice came from the depths of the man’s boots. “What’s up?”

  “We may have a leak in the organisation, maybe not,” said Fadi. “I want you to run a check on everybody who handles our payments. Interpol’s on to the money we sent to Gibraltar. I want to know if our other payment streams are affected. Put a hold on any bank accounts currently in the system for anything other than ordinary commercial needs. Transfer any major balances to a safe account. The accountants can do that. Tell them I need a report on the cash position as soon as possible.”

  “I can tell you it’s tight, Ahmed. The money we expected from London’s dried up.”

  “Send a message down the line to the distributors. No more credit terms for the meantime. Cash or no merchandise. The dealers won’t like it, but if you have to squeeze a few balls, do so.”

  The aide nodded and turned to leave.

  “Something else,” said Fadi. “We’re going to Algiers for a meeting the day after tomorrow. Talk to the plane charter guys. Use one of the smaller company names. You and two of our men will come with me. Contact our people at both airports. I want us moving in and out without having to show our passports. Understand?”

  “Yes.”