SAVAGE PAYBACK (Jack Calder Crime Series #3)

by Seumas Gallacher

  Jack and Donnie covered each other in rote as they cleared each of the remaining three upstairs bedrooms, even checking wardrobes. Satisfied to find no further occupants, they joined their partners downstairs.

  “Anybody still breathing?” Jack asked Malky.

  “One guy over here, but he’s not gonna last more than a few minutes. He’s the only one,” said Malky, pointing to a badly injured man, sprawled across a blood-stained sofa. Jack knelt beside him.

  “Which of you is Ahmed Fadi?” he said.

  The man stared back at him and tried to shake his head.

  “Tell me, which one is he?” Jack repeated.

  The man moved his head again and tried to speak.

  “Viktor? Viktor? Viktor left yesterday. Fuck you,” he managed to whisper.

  A grotesque half-smile twisted at the man’s lips. His head lolled to the side as blood trickled from his mouth and the stare of death fixed across his eyes.

  Malky walked across to where the man lay and tugged at his sleeve.

  “You missed something, Jack. Look at his hand.” The right hand stuck out from the sleeve, the bare skin showing all the way to the wrist.

  “Well I’ll be damned,” said Jack. On the skin was a defined birthmark they’d seen before, resembling a large spilled coffee stain. The killer of Martha Compton and ISP’s accountant in Berlin would kill no more.

  The grainy copy photograph taken of the man with Estrada in Boston didn’t match any of the bodies in the house.

  “Fuck,” said Jack. “The bastard’s right. None of these guys is Fadi. Where the hell’s he gone?”

  “Wherever it is, he won’t be back here now,” said Paul Manning. “It wasn’t a lost effort, Jack. This’ll rattle him. He won’t know where to expect us next.”

  “Maybe, but we need to find him soon to keep him on the back foot. We can’t hit somebody we can’t see. Donnie, get Alan and Marcel up to speed with this. Tell them we’re still hunting.”

  The Interpol agents ferried the squad back to Tuzla airport and waited until after the plane soared into the sky before making a call to the local newspaper.

  The red-herring message was simple. The agent told the journalist he represented the families of those killed so many years ago by the criminal guerrillas. If the police did their jobs properly they wouldn’t have to do it for them.

  “Mister Bodan thinks he can waltz in and out of this place along with his scum whenever he likes. We don’t like ethnic cleansing. There will be more retribution.”

  The false plant would keep the authorities chasing shadows for months.

  CHAPTER 42

  The direct request from Manuel Estrada to Carlos Silva to make available a floor of suites at the Paradiso Hotel in Bogata was easily fulfilled. Silva owned the hotel. His companies’ portfolios also had several other property developments in the city. The Silva family had grown into the largest single supplier of cocaine in the world. The third generation son, Carlos held sway over a far-reaching international corporate empire. His father had ensured a solid business education for his first-born by sending him to Harvard for four years. The investment paid enormous dividends. The sharp acumen gained from the best financial tutoring available combined well with the family reputation for deal-making. The effect of modern techniques for identifying money laundering were countered with equally ingenious mechanisms to evade detection. Layers of chains of command protected Silva from even the most minor prosecution, but he still called the shots. Major business decisions and relationship-building needed his approval. The proposed visit from Estrada suited Silva. The Mexican’s trade over many years had proved highly profitable. The recent disruption in El Paso from the DEA heat had caused concern. This would be a good time to hear from the principal’s mouth how he intended to address the situation.

  The camera clicked repeatedly, recording the departure of Manuel Estrada from the same airport where Cy Foster was killed. The watchers inside noted the Bogota flight details for onward notification to their counterparts in Colombia.

  Similar to his status in El Paso, the Mexican wasn’t subject to any arrest warrant in Bogota. The limousine transporting him to the Paradiso attracted surveillance, as with his regular previous trips to Colombia. The authorities knew where to find him, but held no legal reason to do anything other than track his movements.

  The camera followed the Estrada group’s exit from the vehicle. They walked a few paces into the shade of the large vestibule fronting the hotel and stopped. The drug boss looked at his watch and appeared to be waiting for someone, checking a couple of times on cars arriving at the hotel driveway. After some minutes, a Paradiso courtesy limousine drew up in front. The long-range Nikon shots captured a repeat of the meeting at the Boston Four Seasons.

  Ahmed Fadi shook hands with his host and accompanied him into the hotel.

  ***

  Five hours later, a refreshed Ahmed Fadi had slept and showered. He was ready to discuss business. The entire top floor had been vacated to afford maximum privacy for both visiting groups. The sitting area in the lounge held only the two of them. Their henchmen sat forty metres away at the other end of the room.

  “It’s good to see you, Manuel,” said Fadi, embracing his counterpart. “How is your family after the dreadful loss of your dear daughter?”

  “We are all grieving, amigo, but none more than my wife. She’s been under heavy sedation since the murder. But business must go on.”

  “Agreed.”

  They sat down on closely-adjoining armchairs out of earshot of the guards, trading niceties over coffee.

  “You mentioned a proposal involving your supplier here in Bogota,” said Fadi.

  “Yes. Carlos Silva. We’re all his guests. This is his hotel. I told you on the phone, I’ve done business with his family for many years. I have a long-standing contract to buy a fixed percentage of his production. With the nonsense recently in El Paso, for reasons you well understand, the arrangement has come to a temporary halt. Carlos is aware of the DEA’s assaults on us. He gets a lot of that in Colombia too, but he has so many ways to get around it locally,” said Estrada reaching for the coffee pot. “More coffee?”

  Fadi held his cup out for the refill. “Is he putting pressure on you?”

  “No. Not yet. But his patience won’t be unlimited. He’s mentioned an offer of a large shipment of cocaine. I believe he’s testing my resolve, amigo.”

  “How big a shipment?” said Fadi.

  “Wholesale price, two hundred million dollars. You can figure yourself how much that’s worth on the street.”

  Fadi pursed his lips. “That’s a lot of money. What payment terms does he propose?”

  “Cash. Carlos is a friend, but he’s also a tough businessman. He never deals on credit, not even to me.” The Mexican emptied his cup and sat back in his chair. His new partner sipped at his own cup and placed it on the table.

  “When does he need an answer?”

  “We’re his guests for dinner an hour from now. By the time we finish tonight, he’ll expect our response. I need to know your position before we meet him.”

  “I take it you want me in as an equal partner with you? A hundred million dollars? Cash?”

  “The stuff shipped to Antalya was peanuts, amigo. You agreed yourself it was meant only as an operational trial run, not a full-blown commercial deal. We know who the bastards are who hijacked us. That won’t happen again. It’s time to do some real business. We do this deal with Carlos and ship to dozens of distribution lines on your side and mine. Even if these British bastards are stupid enough to try us again, we’ll be ready, and they can’t cover all the places we can.”

  “I admire your thinking,” said Fadi. “A hundred million’s more than I’d normally put in one shot.”

  Estrada held his gaze. Decision time.

  “I’m in. Tell me where to send the money.” Fadi smiled and extended his hand. He didn’t share with the Mexican the news he’d received before this me
eting about the slaughter of his people in Tuzla. His position was steadily weakening. He needed guaranteed supplies. Estrada needed alternative distribution streams. The sooner the better.

  A private dinner in the owner’s quarters in the hotel was an eye-opener for Ahmed Fadi. Compared to Manuel Estrada, Carlos Silva oozed class. The immaculate Italian tailoring of his suit, the well-polished shoes and conservative shirt and tie would have been at home in a Wall Street chairman’s office. Fadi guessed his age at touching forty, some fifteen years junior to both of his dinner guests. There was no doubt, however, he ranked as the senior partner at the table.

  “Manuel informs me he has a new business associate, Mister Fadi. Welcome,” said Silva.

  “Call me Ahmed, please,” said Fadi. “I’m honoured to meet you.”

  “Ahmed it is then. Let’s eat. I believe we do business better on a full stomach. Come, sit.”

  Fadi watched as his companions ordered juices to drink. No alcohol. He followed their lead. At dinner back at the Four Seasons in Boston, Estrada had shared wine with him. Silva obviously didn’t mix pleasure with business. The meal passed pleasantly until waiters served the coffee and retired from the dining salon.

  “Ahmed, I like to talk straight to my business partners,” said Silva. “Manuel tells me you’re good for your hundred million dollars. I trust his word, but I also take nothing for granted.”

  Fadi nodded. “You’re a careful man, Carlos. I respect that. I guess you want to see the colour of my money in your accounts before we move forward?”

  Silva smiled and nodded in turn. He removed a folded sheet of paper from his jacket pocket and handed it to Fadi.

  “I already have Manuel’s payment. On here you’ll find a list of twelve banks with different account names and separate amounts assigned to each of them. The total is a hundred million dollars. I expect the funds to be in these accounts within twenty-four hours. Otherwise I don’t have a new partner.”

  Fadi glanced at the list, folded the paper over and put it in his own pocket. He stood up from the table.

  “Gentlemen, thank you for a most enjoyable dinner. If you’ll please excuse me, I’d like to go make a phone call. I’ll ask you to check these accounts within twelve hours, not twenty-four, Carlos.”

  Fadi shook hands with both of them and left the room. He wasn’t able to see the grins on each of their faces after he’d gone.

  The call to his accountants confirmed the money transfers had been executed as instructed within twelve hours.

  These smart asses wanna play bullshit macho money games? Two of us can play that way. What do they think I am? Some fucking cheapskate?

  He walked from his quarters to Estrada’s at the other end of the floor. The Mexican sat behind an ornate desk in the living area of the suite. Three of the Mexican’s men sat on chairs against the wall. Estrada used a stiletto to slice open a couriered package as Fadi arrived.

  “Good afternoon, Ahmed. Take a seat,” he said, pointing with the blade to the large chair in front of him. Estrada put his feet up on the desk and leaned back.

  “My people confirm the money’s been sent,” said Fadi.

  “I know. Carlos called to tell me. He likes things done properly,” said Estrada. “So do I.”

  Fadi heard a click and turned his head. One of the guards held a pistol to his neck. A second and third pulled his arms backward and fastened handcuffs on his wrists.

  “What the fuck?”

  The gunman holstered his weapon and walked behind Fadi. He slipped a garotte round his throat and pulled it taut. The wire bit into his skin below the Adam’s apple but not enough to restrict his breathing. Manuel Estrada swung his legs to bring his feet to the floor and walked around his desk. His eyes burned with rage.

  “I’ll tell you what the fuck, you murdering bastard,” he spat. “You think Manuel Estrada’s some dumb asshole? First you lose my fucking shipment and blame me for the fuckwits you employ.” The garotte tightened. Fadi tried to speak but could only manage a strangled, guttural noise. His eyes watered and his head began to spin.

  “Then you feed me the story the British guys killed my daughter,” said Estrada. “The black guy arranged all of this, right? Listen, you fucking son of a whore. The DEA and the British don’t go after kids. Unlike you, you pile of shit. I checked you out, Ahmed, or whatever your fucking name is. You’ve pulled crap like this before. Carlos Silva confirmed it for me before you came. I told you he’s a careful man. It’s his business to know about scum like you.”

  The garotte drew blood as Fadi began to lose consciousness. Despite his blurring vision, he saw Estrada come closer.

  “You killed my beautiful little girl, you bastard.” Estrada drove the stiletto into Fadi’s belly and ripped upward with enraged violence. He withdrew the weapon and stabbed again and again, each blow driven as hard as the Mexican could manage. He waved away the man with the garotte and plunged the blade through Fadi’s throat with so much rage, the point of the stiletto exited from the back of the man’s neck. The object of his hatred died well before the final stabbings.

  “You know what to do with this piece of dog shit,” he said to the guards, walking back to his seat behind the desk.

  The instinctive gnawing doubt he’d felt when Ahmed Fadi called with his condolences had grown into a realisation of who was responsible for his daughter’s murder. He reached for the desk telephone and rang Carlos Silva.

  “Buenos dias, amigo. The scum’s taken care of. We’ll find ways to move all of the shipment into the States. Maybe we use some of your routes as well as mine. Mister Fadi’s contribution is much appreciated, no? I’m going back to El Paso later tonight. I’ll be in touch.”

  The farmer kept his distance. A van had appeared at the far side of his field. Three men bundled four large bags at the side of the verge and drove away. He called the local police number without giving a name and went to work in another field at the other side of his homestead. It wasn’t good to get involved in other people’s business in Colombia.

  CHAPTER 43

  Donnie broke the news to the group.

  “You’re not gonna believe this lot. Alan rang me. He and Marcel have been on the wires for the last couple of days. The cops in Bogota picked up four dumped bodies, a common event with the drug gangs. No IDs on any of them. They ran fingerprint checks locally and came up empty so they ran them through Interpol and found two of them have criminal records in Serbia going back twenty years. The DEA lads had a look at the photos of the stiffs on the off-chance it might trigger some ideas. And who do you think one of them was?”

  Malky chimed in. “Go on, Santa Claus on holiday.”

  Jack and Paul started laughing.

  “Just as wild,” said Donnie. “They reckon it’s our friend, Ahmed Fadi, lately known to us as Viktor Bodan.”

  “What?” said Jack, looking at his partner in astonishment.

  “More than that. Three of the corpses had a couple of bullets in the head, quick execution style. The one they think’s Fadi was a bloody mess. Wire-strangled body with multiple stab wounds and a stiletto through his throat. Somebody wanted to mangle him big time.”

  Nobody was laughing any more.

  “Yer man does a runner from us in Bosnia and ends up toast in Colombia?” said Malky. “How does that fit?”

  “Fadi met Estrada in Bogota. The DEA boys got them on camera,” said Donnie. “All friendly on the surface when the pictures were taken. Sure as hell there won’t be any evidence to tie the killings into Estrada, but can you bet against him doing it?”

  Jack was pensive. He rubbed his chin and shook his head.

  “Where’s the sense in Estrada knocking off his new partner?” said Paul.

  “Jules was bang on the money,” said Jack. “Fucking them over in Turkey means they kicked off mistrusting each other. God only knows what happened afterward. Unless.” He paused. “Unless Estrada’s pinned Fadi for the hit on his daughter.”

  Donnie whistled.
“Plausible. That would explain the stabbing violence. The last time we had one of those in London, a husband went knife-crazy on his wife’s killer. Attacks on family can do strange things to people.”

  “Tell me about it,” said Jack.

  “I’m sorry, Jack. I didn’t mean…”

  The Scotsman waved the comment aside, but a resurgence of anger against his wife’s attackers welled up.

  “It’s okay. You’re right,” said Jack. “Whatever way, one out of three’s done. Our Mister Estrada’s not going far from El Paso. I wonder how much he doles out in bribes to keep him secure? The bigger puzzle is where to find Rikko Duval.”

  ***

  “What are the ISP boys doing now?” Marcel Benoit asked the Assistant Commissioner.