SAVAGE PAYBACK (Jack Calder Crime Series #3)

by Seumas Gallacher

  How the hell did they find us? They’re on to Ahmed, that’s how, dammit. But they didn’t wait around. Means they’re not on to me. Yet.

  The hallway back into the hotel was deserted. Duval overheard the concierge talking excitedly on the telephone to somebody. He reached his room on the first floor without incident. The packed rucksack sat untouched in the wardrobe. He picked up the bag, retraced his steps to the back exit door and disappeared into the night.

  ***

  The official dinner for International Police Federation Charities in Paris had started when Marcel Benoit’s mobile phone vibrated. His attendance as a top-table guest at these official events came with the territory. He glanced at the screen and excused himself. An adjoining room gave him the privacy to call his agent in Algiers.

  “Good evening, boss. The local guys arrested four men an hour ago. Three armed guards and one guy in a meeting room. They refuse to say anything until their lawyer arrives. We’ll have to wait for him, then we can give you an update.”

  “Excellent. Was Duval one of them? He’s the guy with the limp.”

  “None of these men has a limp. Maybe he wasn’t there tonight.”

  “Why do you think there would be only one guy in a meeting room? Perhaps they moved in too early? I suggest you get back to the hotel and check if Duval’s been seen. Damn. Anyway, it sounds as if they’ve got Fadi. Let them process him and then we can file for transfer to us for further charges.”

  “Okay, boss. I’ll call you again later.”

  The Interpol chief pocketed his phone and returned in time for the main course. He didn’t relish the interminable after-dinner speeches.

  An hour and a half later, the mobile phone in his pocket buzzed again. Marcel welcomed the second excuse to step into the private area. His pleasure would be short-lived.

  “Hello. What’s happening?”

  “Boss. We can’t believe this. The lawyer turned up. We weren’t allowed into the meeting, only the local cops present. All of them were freed on bail. We never even saw them leave. I reckon the lawyer’s a big hitter here.”

  “Big hitter? Big hitter my arse!” Marcel stormed. “More like a bundle of fucking money changed hands. I knew I shouldn’t have asked the local cretins to get involved. There’s no chance of getting another bite at them in Algeria. They’re probably flying out as we speak.”

  “Sorry, boss.”

  “Not your fault. Any luck on Duval at the hotel?”

  “I’m afraid you got that right as well. No name of Duval, but a guest with a limp checked in last night. He paid cash. The room’s empty now.”

  “Damn. Okay. I’ll talk to the Chief of Police tomorrow. I won’t be surprised if he’s on the take as well, but you didn’t hear me say so.”

  “Goodnight, boss.”

  Marcel didn’t return to the dinner. He had a sour taste in his stomach.

  ***

  The charter plane taxied for a short distance before taking off north-eastward bound for Turkey. Ahmed Fadi’s associates in Algiers had summoned the lawyer and told him to do whatever it took to get the drug boss and his men freed. A couple of high-level names worked, as well as a considerable bribe.

  The four-hour flight to Istanbul gave Fadi ample thinking time.

  Was Duval’s exit to the washroom too convenient? Was it all an elaborate set-up? What would Duval gain from it? No. The look on his face when I said he had a score to settle was real. And the idea of talking to the buffoon Estrada was good. Well, he knows how to contact me. Let’s see if he does.

  The day after arriving back at his fortified home in Kilyos, Ahmed Fadi’s instinct proved correct. His right-hand man led his guest into the private sitting room. The drug boss greeted the visitor with respect and waved him toward a seat on the sofa next to his own.

  “You never cease to surprise me,” said Fadi. “How did you know I’d be here?”

  “You’re not the only one with contacts in strange places,” said Rikko Duval. “A phone call confirmed you’d solved the problem. I also think you were expecting me.”

  Fadi nodded. “Yes.”

  “You would figure I’d nothing to do with the police shake down. If I hadn’t turned up here, you’d think otherwise and I’d be a target for you for the rest of your life or mine. Correct?”

  “I like the way you think,” said Fadi.

  “That’s what keeps us both alive. I’m sure you’ve been considering my idea about Manuel Estrada?”

  “It’s a good strategy, if he bites. If not, we’re no worse off. When do you suggest we make contact? Should that be through a third party?”

  “No. Direct from you. You wait a little while. Otherwise, if he believes you’re responsible for his daughter’s killing, he’ll think you’re gloating. A third party go-between would increase the number of people knowing what’s going on. Estrada’s a Latino. He’ll be big on personal relationships. You make the call. Leave it for a week.”

  “Where will you be?”

  “I’ll be somewhere,” said Duval, handing Fadi a piece of paper. “When you need to talk, ring this number. I’ll use it only once to receive your call. It will be live for two evenings for five minutes at eight o’clock your time, seven and eight days from now. By then you’ll know if Estrada buys in. Whether he does or not, we’ll have a fall-back strategy to deal with him, and one for the ISP people. Now, if you can ask one of your men to drive me into the city?”

  “Of course,” said Fadi, shaking hands goodbye with his guest.

  Duval left and the drug boss realised it was the first time the man had given him a handshake. He still didn’t know his real name.

  CHAPTER 38

  The aftermath of Cy Foster’s death reached across all the gangs in El Paso-Juarez. The DEA squads would never admit to an added impetus to their activities solely because of their former leader’s killing, but every man and woman in the agency grieved for him. Each wanted to be part of the payback. The normal focus on large drug movements expanded as middle-sized and small operators were also hit hard. This compounded as the major players stepped up attacks on each other’s territories, an audacity expected after the murder of Estrada’s daughter.

  Successive hits on rivals fed the testosterone levels as open warfare spiked across the region. Bravado bred bravado. The DEA welcomed the surge as significant numbers of gang murders made their job easier. The agency officers themselves were more trigger-happy while the culling went on. A gradual slowdown in the killings kicked in after ten days. On the walls inside the agency compound the mug shot photographs with the red ‘X’s and green question marks had tripled. Dead gang members were replaceable over time, but every mob’s normal business routines suffered. The imports, the distribution channels, the dealer networks, the cash middlemen, were all disrupted. Disruption meant loss of trade and squeezed cash flows. Estrada ran the biggest operation and was under most financial pressure. The unexpected call from Ahmed Fadi was timely.

  “Manuel, I’ve just learned about your daughter. Terrible news. My condolences. Our recent little incident is as nothing compared to your family’s loss,” said Fadi.

  “My daughter was a princess. She deserved none of this. I’ll find whoever did this if it takes the rest of my life. Thank you for your words.”

  “I heard a whisper, Manuel, the people responsible were associates of the black guy who hit our shipment.”

  “Yeah, you bet your ass. The drug agency hombres are going nuts out here.”

  “No, not them. The British outfit. They call themselves International Security Partners. They’re the ones who killed my guys and torched our merchandise. Now their pal’s dead, I don’t think they’re gonna stop at this.”

  Estrada was silent. Fadi filled the void.

  “I know we had words, but I was hoping we could put these aside and work together as planned, my friend. The benefits we discussed by working in partnership haven’t changed. And I’m sure we can deal with the bastards who killed your daugh
ter.”

  The Mexican remained silent. Fadi let him process the conversation.

  “Let me think about it and get back to you in a day or two,” said Estrada.

  “Sure. Take your time. We have to do it right. I look forward to your call.”

  Ahmed Fadi was pleased with the exchanges.

  Good. At least he’s not raging at me for now. This’ll work out well.

  In El Paso-Juarez, a bemused drug boss pondered. His daughter smiled at him from a silver-framed photograph at the side of his desk. The grief ate at his stomach. Rage simmered in his veins as he thought about Fadi’s call. An unsettled murmuring whispered at the back of his mind. A nagging whisper he fully understood. He put it aside and in its place came a reprise of his rise to his current position in El Paso’s gangland.

  Fifty years before, Emmanuel Calvi Juan de Estrada came gently into the world. A quiet child, the second eldest in the family, his doting parents scraped and sacrificed to raise the boy and his seven siblings in the squalid slums on the edge of El Paso. Education in the sprawling ghetto came from the Christian friars in the San Juan cluster of schools near his home. Attendance depended on the family’s need for him and his brothers and sisters to join the hordes of hawkers around the city. Most of their goods cascaded down through several chains of stolen merchandise. The black market let them eke pesos and centavos along with Yankee money wherever they could. Until he was twelve years old, the boy had never worn shoes. The incident that changed his life came a year later on his mother’s birthday.

  The streets had a code and a pecking order. Gangs ran the territories where the hawkers plied their trade. Protection money ensured little or no interference so long as the squeeze was paid on time. The young Manuel’s day had not gone well. To start with, he had only a few packs of stolen cigarettes to sell, and the meagre takings barely covered the cost of a few flowers for his mother. Every year, his father made sure the children paid homage to his wife on her birthday. This day was no exception.

  The flower seller bargained hard. Manuel walked away from the stall with the present and bumped into his protection money collector, a man twice his age. Several of the street hawkers watched, expecting this to end badly.

  “Hola, chavo. You have something for me? You know what day it is, eh?”

  “Senor, I will pay you tomorrow. Today was not good. I make very little business. Tomorrow I pay you for sure.”

  “Chavo, you say your day wasn’t good, yet you can afford to buy flowers? What lies you are telling me, eh?”

  “These are for my mama, Senor. It’s her birthday.”

  “Well, maybe I take the flowers and tomorrow when you pay me the money you can get these back for your mama.”

  Adrenaline coursed through Manuel Estrada’s body as he realised the man was serious. Whatever happened, he could not return home without his mama’s birthday gift.

  “No, Senor, you will not take these. I told you, tomorrow you will have your money.”

  “Ah, chavo. Perhaps you don’t hear me too well. Maybe I teach you how to listen better.”

  The man produced a knife and waved it at the boy. At thirteen, Estrada had already learned if a man threatens you, you either run or you kill him. The man in front of him held the only weapon in sight. Time to run. Something screamed inside his head.

  No, Manuel. If you run from this fight you are as good as dead.

  The enforcer moved forward. Manuel waited until he was almost touching him, then held out the flowers toward the hand holding the knife.

  “That’s better, chavo,” said the man, lowering his attacking arm. At the last second, the boy threw the flowers into his face and seized the knife arm. His father had taught him how to lever an arm to get someone to release whatever they held. The knife dropped to the ground and the young hawker grabbed it before his assailant recovered his balance. In a single movement, Estrada drove the blade into the man’s neck and twisted. Blood spurted from the severed jugular vein. The crowd was silent. Nobody moved. The man was dead. The boy bent down to collect the flowers and walked away from the corpse.

  Word sped through the community and reached back to Estrada’s father the same evening.

  “Manuel. I’m proud of you. You showed great courage, but understand this man’s boss will come looking for us. We’ll have to leave El Paso tonight,” said his father.

  “No, Papa. We don’t leave.” His son had been thinking. “Stay here. I must go see someone.”

  The gang boss’ hacienda bordered the slums. A ten-minute walk brought the boy to the building. Several men sat at a large wooden table outside, smoking and talking. Wine bottles and food plates scattered among the ashtrays. The boss watched the lad approach. He stopped and took a deep breath and spoke directly to the leader.

  “Senor, I am Manuel Estrada. I am the one who killed your man at the plaza today. He wanted the flowers I bought for my mama’s birthday. My mama’s birthday is more sacred than my life. Do what you will with me.” He managed to hold back the tears that would flood his eyes if he let them. A couple of the men stood up.

  The boss motioned for them to sit down. He stared at the boy for a moment.

  “How old are you, boy?”

  “Thirteen years, Senor. Fourteen in October.”

  “Where is your father?”

  “I have no family, Senor. I left home when I was eight.”

  The gang boss burst out laughing. The others didn’t understand what he found so funny, but joined in the laughter.

  “Well, my brave Senor Manuel. So you’re an orphan? But you buy flowers for your mama?” More laughter. The man’s eyes started to water and he brushed it away with his sleeve.

  “You’re the first orphan I know who has a mama and a family right here in the district. I’ve heard of your father. He’s a good man. And he has a son with the heart of a lion. The fool you met today is no loss to me if he can’t take care of a thirteen-year-old boy with a bunch of flowers.”

  He roared again, this time the others joined in, getting the joke at last.

  “Senor Estrada, go home to your family. I’ll cause no harm done to them. In fact I’ll come with you.”

  Some of his men stood up, but the boss motioned them to stay. This visit he would do alone. He collected two bottles of wine and joined the boy.

  His father was startled when the gang boss appeared at his door, but relaxed when the man asked him to bring glasses.

  Much later, the gang boss walked back to his hacienda, unsteady on his feet having emptied the wine bottles with the senior Estrada. The next day, the boy went to work with his new employer, the most powerful gang boss in El Paso. Thirty-seven years later, Estrada carried the same tag.

  CHAPTER 39

  The hospital receptionist signed for the floral delivery, a beautiful bouquet of red roses. The envelope pinned to the present was addressed to Mrs M. Calder.

  “Lovely flowers here for Mrs Calder,” said the receptionist to the trainee nurse. “Can you take them along to her room?” The young girl picked up the bouquet.

  “I wish somebody would buy me flowers like these, they’re gorgeous,” she said with a grin. Her older colleague smiled back.

  “Ah, love’s young dream. You’ll get plenty of these soon enough, I’m sure.”

  The girl walked toward the private ward area. Halfway along the corridor, the envelope fell from the flowers. She stooped and picked it up. The envelope was thicker than the normal greeting card.

  Oh my, I hope it didn’t get dirty.

  She brushed the envelope with her finger and thumb to remove any imagined dirt. It was the last act of her life. The pressure from her hand movement on the envelope triggered the spring mechanism wedged inside the card. The detonation killed the nurse instantly and set fire alarms clanging throughout the hospital.

  Alan Rennie and Jack made their way to May-Ling’s room. The corridor where the device had exploded thirty minutes earlier was cordoned off. The men had to circle to the sid
e entrance of the private wing. Rennie’s guards stood aside as their boss and Jack entered the room. Doctor Spencer stood at the bedside conversing with his patient.

  “Gentlemen.”

  “Doctor, this is bloody disastrous,” said Jack in a rush. “One of your people killed with a bomb meant for my wife. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. We can’t leave her here now; it’s too dangerous for everybody.”

  He stepped toward May-Ling.

  “Sweetheart, how are you? This is terrible. Are you okay? Doc, when can we move her?”

  The physician held his hands up in a signal for Jack to slow down.

  “Not so fast, Mister Calder. Your wife isn’t going anywhere. She needs careful medical attention which this hospital is committed to provide. By the way, Mrs Calder also tried to make a case for leaving. That’s not going to happen, unless, of course, you both want to go against my orders. Security will be stepped up. I’m sure Mister Rennie will agree that’s feasible? If we run and hide every time some nutcase decides to threaten a medical centre, we’d all have to close down tomorrow.”

  “I agree,” said the police chief. “After this attack, we wouldn’t expect another here and I’ve already ordered extra security from the perimeter inward. Part of your hospital is now a crime scene, and we’ll guard it accordingly for at least another week or so while the forensic guys do their job. I’m very sorry about the nurse’s death.”

  “Alan, we know this is Duval’s doing,” said Jack. “Forensics can look all they want, but we need to find this bastard. And quickly.”

  “Can I talk to Jack and Alan alone for a few minutes?” said May-Ling in a quiet voice.

  “Of course,” said the doctor, walking to the door. “I’ll be outside.”