SAVAGE PAYBACK (Jack Calder Crime Series #3)

by Seumas Gallacher

“And get them to check out the Livic Hotel, near the dockside.”

  ***

  “We think we have a lead on where he lives, Marcel.”

  The head of the detective force in Casablanca had responded to his old friend’s request to put a red alert on the hunt for the Gibraltar killer.

  “My men have criss-crossed the city, showing his picture to anybody and everybody. We got lucky. A newspaper seller thinks this guy lives in a villa along from his corner stall. You said not to intercept at this stage. What do you want us to do now?”

  “Good work, mon ami. If your men can keep a watch on the location, I’ll fly across as soon as possible. Frankly, between you and me, there’s a lot more at stake here than the murder of the bank manager. Also, the place may be rigged with explosives. The man’s a genius with that stuff. Please tread carefully.”

  “Understood. I’ll meet you at the airport. Call me when you expect to arrive. Au revoir.”

  This must be a big affair when the Interpol boss himself flies in to take charge, the head of detectives thought.

  Five hours after the call, Marcel shook hands with his friend and they drove to the villa.

  “I have five men surrounding the place, but no movement and no lights have shown anywhere. No-one has gone in or come out.”

  “He may not be in there, but as I said, we have to be cautious. You have someone here from the explosives squad, I presume?”

  “Of course. Shall we?”

  Marcel led the way. The pair approached the villa and peered through the windows. Through the light curtains they could see nobody inside. The head of detectives motioned for his bomb expert to come forward to check the door. In minutes he indicated no booby trap on the front door. To everyone’s surprise, when he tried the handle, the door opened. An unlocked entrance, either a decoy or showing nothing to hide inside.

  The place was unoccupied. Marcel ordered everyone to wear rubber gloves and to walk with care. Within half an hour, all the rooms had been thoroughly checked. Nothing out of the ordinary. The bedroom wardrobe held male clothing, mostly black and bland colours. The kitchen was tidy, no cups or glasses to remove to test for possible DNA samples. No sign of a computer or laptop. If this was Duval’s villa, the lack of computers would fit in with the assumption he always used external sites for messaging.

  “We found these in the bedside table drawer, sir,” said one of the officers, holding a mobile telephone and an opened box of strong painkillers. He handed them to his boss, who gave the phone to Marcel.

  “Hmm. Let’s see what it tells us.” The on-switch lit the screen, the SIM card still inside. The last call showed an overseas number dated the previous day. Marcel recognised the code for Turkey. He noted the number and asked the officer to put the phone and the tablets back as he found them. “It’s not definite, but I’m almost certain this is our man’s place. He may return here, and he may not, mon ami, but no point in leaving a calling card, eh? Okay, we’ve done enough for now. He’s disappeared for the moment. God only knows where he’ll show up next.”

  ***

  Where Duval showed up next was familiar terrain. Algeria had been a regular stopping-off city for assignments over the years. Police surveillance in the country was notoriously lax. A man of Duval’s calling was unlikely to attract the attention of the authorities. The Livic Hotel, a low-quality establishment, fitted his taste well. Nobody asked questions, cash the usual mode of payment, an ideal place to go quietly about his business. He locked the room door and slid the chain across for extra measure. The pressure pain on his knee from the long drive nagged at him. He lay down on the bed after swallowing a couple of painkillers. The idea he had to discuss with Fadi was clear in his head; he needed the Serbian to buy in. Midnight had long passed before he lapsed into sleep.

  CHAPTER 36

  With the bandages removed, the effect of the blast on the left side of May-Ling’s face revealed damage to her ear as well as the eye. The nurses had shaved her head to give clean access to the wounds. Her normally healthy skin had a pallor Jack hadn’t seen before. His wife was still very sick. Doctor Spencer spoke to them together at May-Ling’s request.

  “My husband has to know everything you tell me,” she had insisted. Jack sat at the opposite side of the bed from the doctor. His clipboard held several sheets of paper, the detailed medical test reports.

  “Mrs Calder, I’m pleased to say you’re past the initial dangerous phase. Often in the first two or three days, delayed effects can arise from the blast injuries, particularly to the head. The brain is a highly sensitive organ,” he said. “As I told you before, much of the force of the explosion was shielded by your companions when the bomb went off. Nonetheless, you did suffer severe trauma. The x-rays show us a small hairline fracture at the base of the skull at the back of your head. Healing from that should be quick. The news on your left eye is less encouraging. I’m afraid you may lose up to fifty percent of the vision. The cornea has been distorted and dislocated which is difficult to repair. We can make a final call on that in a few weeks.”

  Jack gripped his wife’s hand gently and she squeezed back.

  “What else, Doctor,” he said.

  “The left eardrum was perforated, which will cause some diminution in hearing, but not deafness. The effects on the shoulder and the left side of the body will leave mild scarring, but no permanent damage.”

  “What about the baby?” said May-Ling.

  “Your own physical well-being speaks volumes, Mrs Calder. So far, everything’s in good shape.”

  A faint smile appeared on her face and she squeezed Jack’s hand again. He sensed he was a stranger looking in on this scenario. The fatherhood warmth he should be feeling was absent. Of course he loved his wife. More now than ever before. The nights he spent alone at home waiting to come to the hospital each morning offered scant sleep. The nightmares hadn’t revisited him, as he half expected they might. Instead, his mind kept coming back to Rikko Duval. Back to Jules Townsend. Dead, Jules Townsend. Dead. Killed by Rikko Duval. The mantra rattled around his head. He realised Doctor Spencer was talking to him.

  “We should leave her to rest now, Mister Calder. A word outside if I may?” he said.

  “Of course, Doctor.” He leaned over and kissed his wife on the forehead. “I’ll be back later tonight, sweetheart. I love you.”

  The doctor walked Jack along the corridor away from the detectives sitting guard outside May-Ling’s room.

  “Mister Calder, I’m aware of your deep concern for your wife. I can tell you she is out of danger now, but will need some months of rehabilitation with her eye and the ear damage. She’ll be relatively okay after all of this.”

  “I’m grateful.”

  The medical man held up his hand, cutting Jack off. “Right now, I’m also worried about you, Mister Calder.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you. As a doctor, I can’t miss the way you react in the room when you’re with your wife. I understand your past history, and possibly some of your present activity overlaps with that. You show classic signs of a man about to explode, Mister Calder. Anger is a powerful emotion, and a destructive one, often destroying the person trying to grapple with it. I’ve no doubt you’re a strong individual physically, with more courage than the average person could ever hope to have. The danger lies in your mental state. I can recommend another colleague of mine who may be able to help you.”

  “I appreciate your concern,” said Jack. “But I don’t need anybody to tell me how to cope with my mind.”

  “I think...”

  “Perhaps you think too much. Perhaps you should concentrate on getting my wife well,” Jack snapped. “I’ll look after myself, thanks.”

  He turned abruptly and strode back down the corridor, past the guards without a word to any of them.

  “Something wrong, Doc?” one of them asked.

  Doctor Spencer shook his head.

  “No, nothing wrong. The man’s got a lot on his mind, that�
�s all.”

  Inside he had a different opinion.

  Jack switched on the television and poured himself a Scotch. The tightness at the back of his shoulders nagged at him. He stretched his elbows back a few times, trying to relax the muscles. The sound from the news program was only a noise and he turned the set off. Another Scotch with a splash of water went down easily. Doctor Spencer’s words revolved around his head.

  Worried about me? My mental state? What the fuck?

  The third glass of Scotch sat untouched. The series of events from leaving London to take down the Turkish shipment, the explosions at the train station, Jules’ funeral, Cy’s murder, all the way to the conversation tonight in the hospital, ran like an unavoidable tape. He felt his body seize, his fists clenching, then easing down.

  The man was right. Damn.

  He called the hospital and asked for Doctor Spencer.

  “Hold the line please, I’ll page him for you,” said the ward duty-nurse. Moments later he came on line.

  “Hello, Doc. This is Jack Calder. I’m sorry I behaved like a dickhead earlier. A lot of stuff’s going on in my head right now with the attack on my wife and Jules being killed. I had no right to speak to you they way I did. I really want to apologise.”

  “No need for apologies, Mister Calder. I’ve seen what this is doing to you, and just wanted to suggest a way to deal with it. The fact you’re calling now tells me you’re starting to become aware of the potential effects when our family and friends are attacked or threatened.”

  “I hear you, Doc, but hey, I’ve seen friends killed in action. I’ve watched kids and old people slaughtered in places you’d never want to imagine.”

  “I understand. However, none of these matches coping with death and life-threatening injuries to the people we love, Mister Calder.”

  “Okay. Well I just wanted to say sorry.”

  “My offer is open at all times, if you want to talk to me or one of my colleagues.”

  “Thanks again. See you tomorrow, Doc.”

  Jack put down the phone and caught his breath for a moment. Like a child he began to weep. The tension flowed out through his sobbing. He had cried like this before. After the murder of a former buddy, when he realised how much the pointlessness of his death related to the suicide of his father all those years ago when Jack was just a child.

  He drank the third Scotch and poured another. A mid-morning meeting at ISP was scheduled for next day, but seemed a long way away.

  Donnie Mullen led the discussion, but didn’t sit at the top of the table. Jules’ place. Paul Manning and Malky already had coffee mugs in front of them when Jack entered the boardroom. Nobody commented on his arrival, ten minutes late. The hangover dressed his face. Malky poured another mug, straight black, and handed it to his buddy, with a squeeze of his shoulder.

  “Morning, Jack,” said Donnie.

  This was the first formal get-together since the King’s Cross tragedy.

  “Let’s get started. First order of priority concerns operations. We’ve reinforced the red alert in all our branches. So far, nothing else out of the ordinary to report.”

  Jack cleared his throat. “What are we going to do about Duval? And Fadi? And Estrada? We still have a clean-up contract from Chuck Morrow’s insurance group. Are we forgetting our fucking priorities?”

  “Whoa, Jack. We’re all on the same side here. We feel the same as you about what these bastards did to May-Ling and Jules. And Cy. But we can’t go chasing shadows. Paul talked to Alan Rennie last night. He’s got some news for us. Paul?”

  “Interpol nailed down where Duval’s been living. A villa in Casablanca. Marcel went himself. Our man wasn’t at home and unlikely to be back again. He knows his cash payments were tracked to Gibraltar. By the way, he topped a bank manager in his office and walked out as calm as you please,” said Paul. “Not only that, they checked his account. He transferred most of his money out of the bank while he was taking the guy out. Untraceable now. This is one cool bastard.”

  “So, no trace of him?’ asked Malky, topping up the coffees.

  “A little chink of light,” said Paul, holding out his mug. “They found a mobile phone with a recent call to Turkey. Duval won’t use the device again, but the number he called is traceable. They presumed Fadi was on the other end and Interpol put a tracker on it. Fadi didn’t remove the SIM card, making his phone location traceable. Marcel’s people already know he’s left Istanbul, and landed in Algiers last night.”

  “Then what’s keeping us?” said Jack. “Let’s get to Algiers now and nail the bastards.”

  “Not so fast, Jack. It’s not as simple as you think,” said Donnie. “Marcel’s men are on the ground trying to pinpoint where Fadi is. Chances are he’s meeting Duval. Algiers isn’t an easy place to hunt down bad guys. I think we should wait for a further heads up from Marcel. Paul, you’ll keep fielding info from him and Alan.”

  “Donnie’s right, Jack,” said Malky. “We should wait our chance and make sure we get them good when we take them down. That goes for yer Mexican pal, too.”

  Jack shrugged, practicality overriding his urge for action.

  “C’mon, mate, let’s go see yer wife,” said Malky. “I’ll drive.”

  CHAPTER 37

  A previous, awkward, cross-forces incident involving the mistaken-identity shooting of a local detective by Interpol agents some years earlier in Algiers made it politically appropriate for Marcel Benoit to decide to enlist the help of the local force. He didn’t mention Fadi by name, only a request to monitor a possible, international criminal operator. The triangulation on Fadi’s phone zoned in on the dockside area. Two of the Interpol men joined four Algerian detectives as they waited final directions on where the signals led.

  The Turkish contingent left their hostel and walked the hundred metres to the Livic Hotel. Duval had booked a private room on the ground floor. He arrived in time to greet his paymaster. Fadi ordered his men to sit outside on guard while he and Duval transacted their business.

  “This is bad news about Interpol. How can you be so sure?” said Fadi.

  “The manager was shitting himself from the minute I walked in, and Marcel Benoit’s card was on his table.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “The head of Interpol. I’m surprised you don’t know him.”

  “I don’t socialise in these circles.”

  Duval grinned. “Quite so.”

  “What did the manager say when you left him.”

  “Nothing. He was dead.”

  Fadi smiled.

  “The police would have used their own resources to trace your money payments, but you have to wonder where they got your name in the first place,” said Duval.

  “I’m checking on everybody in the chain. Believe me, I’m always very careful, but you’re right about the second thing. I’ve no idea why they should be tracking me unless the Mexican’s slipped his mouth somewhere.”

  “No. He wouldn’t do that on purpose. It comes back to Townsend’s people. They were the ones who hit your warehouse, for sure. The black guy’s dead, by the way.”

  “Oh? Where did you get that from?”

  “He was the head of the DEA in El Paso. Estrada’s guns shot him at the airport the day I landed. I think that might open the door to solve your issues with your Mexican friend and the ISP.”

  “ISP have no fight with me,” said Fadi.

  “I think you’re wrong. Jules Townsend probably figured out you’re behind the New Bond Street stuff. Where the guy in El Peso came into the picture, I can’t say, but it makes logical sense to me if they’re part of the same deal.”

  “How would this solve issues with both?”

  “You talk to Manuel. You tell him your information sources say Jack Calder killed his daughter. The black guy ordered the hit as part of the campaign, including the hijacking of the drugs in Antalya. Propose to carry on your partnership plans from before.”

  “What else?”

 
; “You combine efforts with him to put ISP out of business permanently.”

  “Meaning eliminating Mister Calder and the rest of his partners?”

  “Yes,” said Duval.

  For the second time in the meeting, Ahmed Fadi smiled.

  “This suits your purpose too, I think,” he said. “If I’m not mistaken, you have a score to settle, too?”

  “You could say that. I won’t be sorry when they’re all dead.” This time, Rikko Duval didn’t smile. He stood up and excused himself.

  “I’m going for a pee. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Duval left the salon, passed the guards outside and walked to the end of the corridor. Some way down from the corner, the washrooms tucked in at the end of the adjoining corridor. He pushed the door and went in.

  The message flashed to the Interpol agent signalling the Livic Hotel as the source of the pings from Fadi’s SIM card. The lead local detective took over. The posse moved in giving no chance for the guards to react. The appearance of half a dozen armed men meant no resistance. A belated shout to Fadi served only to alert the detectives to his presence inside the salon. The police officers ushered the guards inside to join their boss. Faced with an array of guns and a police badge, Ahmed Fadi stayed calm.

  “What’s going on here? This is a private business meeting. You must be mistaking us for someone else,” he said to the man with the badge.

  “We’ll see about that. Meantime you’re coming with us.”

  “Are we under arrest?”

  “You’re assisting authorities with their enquiries will do for now. Cuff them.”

  The detectives handcuffed the quartet and led them out of the salon.

  Duval returned from the washroom and heard the noise before he reached the corner of the corridor. He realised something was badly wrong. An exit door next to the men’s room led out of the hotel. He eased to the corner of the building. A few metres away a couple of large windowless vans and another car parked between them carried no signs, but were unmistakably police. From the shadows he watched as Fadi and his guards streamed out with half a dozen other men. In minutes, all three vehicles drove out of the car park. Nobody remained who looked like police. Fadi had held his tongue.