Cocaine

by Donald Phillips

Chapter 24

  London, England, September 1999

  Outside it was early morning. Inside the three motorbikes gleamed in the overhead neon lights of the windowless, railway arches lockup. All three were black, nine hundred cubic centimetres, four cylinder Kawasaki's, fitted with tailor made panniers. Against the other wall was a nearly new Volkswagen Caravel, also in black and with darkly tinted windows with the exception of the windscreen and front side windows. Seven men were sat around in a semi-circle on an assortment of oil drums and chairs that had seen better days and surroundings, paying attention to the eighth. They were also dressed completely in black. Sweatshirts, trousers, trainers and ski masks, which at this point in time they wore, rolled to the top of their heads like woollen hats. They looked at home in their outfits and showed no sign of nerves at the job they were about to carry out. In front of them a selection of Israeli Uzi machine pistols and Walther automatic, thirty-eight calibre handguns, were laid out on an old folding card table. Under it were six identical black crash helmets with tinted plastic visors.

  Their leader was using a pointer to indicate various points on a large scale map of central London and the others were paying complete attention to him. It could have been any professional army unit preparing for an important operation. The leader turned to face them with a small grim smile on his handsome features, his bright blue eyes seemingly lit from within. He spoke with a soft Irish accent.

  "Right gentlemen. That's it then, three teams for three targets. You have all had your money in advance and now you get to earn it. We cannot be completely synchronised, as we will be waiting for our individual targets to reach the chosen points of interception. However, the closer we can get to a simultaneous operation the more confusion we will create and the greater the chance will be of pulling it off."

  He touched a forefinger to his brow in mock salute.

  "Good luck lads and god bless."

  "Good luck and god bless."

  Seven voices answered in unison and the group broke up, rolling down the ski masks and pulling on crash helmets where necessary and picking up their weapons, two to each motorcycle and one to the Volkswagen Caravel. All except the driver of the Caravel who left his ski mask rolled up on the top of his head like a woollen hat. Bryant went to the large double doors, opened them a few inches and looked out. He waited for some moments and then threw them wide. All four machines drove out, the Caravel pausing just long enough to wait for Bryant to close and lock the doors before climbing into the vehicle through its side door. Thirty seconds later all was still.

  In his hospital ward, Thomas Jensen slept the deep, almost unconscious sleep of one recovering from a serious operation. His head was swathed in bandages and the twin tubes taped to the side of his face ran up to his nostrils, supplying an air/oxygen mixture. A second tube ran from a plastic bag suspended above the bed to a needle pushed into a vein in his right arm, giving him sustenance. In a chair next to his bed Detective Sergeant John Coles from the Diplomat Protection Squad sat with a pencil and pad working out exactly what it was going to cost him take the family for a two week caravan holiday in Devon and Cornwall. This bit of overtime might just make the difference. Outside in the corridor Detective Sergeant Shane Collins sat on his chair and wished he were back on Embassy duty. At least there was a constant stream of people there to watch and wonder about. Since they had been placed here two days ago the only excitement had been when an alarm buzzer went off and the resuscitation team came racing down the corridor to the aid of some poor bastard who was struggling to stay alive. Hospitals, he decided as he shifted his backside to a more comfortable position, depressed him and he was getting bored.

  Wayne Doolan stood, as the door of his cell was unlocked. He was a little pissed off that his request to be moved to a safe house or a hotel had been refused, but all in all he couldn't complain too much. He had managed to work immunity against criminal charges on nearly eighteen months of drug trafficking and his own involvement in three deaths and he was feeling quite pleased with himself. Far from being left for dead in a Spanish flat it was his input that was allowing the law to destroy those that would have snuffed him out like a candle. That would show the bastards that you didn't fuck about with Wayne Doolan. He had to admit he wasn't looking forward to putting the bite on Angel because he had really liked her, but the memory of what her father had tried to do to him would make it a little easier. The door opened.

  "Good morning, Wayne. Are you ready?"

  Detective Sergeant Jimmy McLauder spoke to him with the same easy friendliness he had displayed throughout the last two weeks. Doolan liked him as he was one of the few coppers he had come across here who did not appear to hate his guts. He did not realise that the stocky, carrot headed Scot was just better at hiding his feelings than most. Like the rest of them he was appalled that this evil little bastard had been given immunity, even though logic told him it was necessary. Still, it did stick in his throat to have to protect the bugger. He unconsciously put his right hand up to the breast pocket of his sports coat to make sure the automatic pistol he carried was comfortably settled in its holster snuggled into his armpit. Doolan was picking up the leather jacket that they had fetched from his flat for him with his other clothes.

  "Morning, Jimmy. You have no idea how good it will be to get out into the fresh air for a few hours, even if it is only to visit the Assizes. Hey, are you tooled up?"

  This last was asked with a note of concern in his voice as he noticed the detective's hand movement. Doolan smelt danger and it was unsettling. Since Spain he had realised just how precious life was and how easily it could be taken away from you. McLauder smiled at him reassuringly while inwardly enjoying the brief flash of terror the other had shown.

  "Just a precaution, Wayne, just a precaution, laddie. I've worn this gun now on over two hundred occasions and I have never yet had to put a hand on it."

  Doolan looked at him doubtfully, but in the end nodded. He put his jacket on.

  "OK. Its just that these bastards have tried to knock me off before and it tends to make you a little nervous." He suddenly frowned. "How are we travelling? Not a bloody Black Maria I hope."

  The policeman shook his head and patted Doolan on the arm.

  "Not a chance my friend. Not for our star witness. Plain clothes Ford Granada for you laddie. Only the best."

  Doolan relaxed and started down the corridor to the outside world.

  "Better get on with it then, Jimmy, better get on with it."

  For a brief second the policeman allowed his true feelings to show as he watched the other walk away down the corridor. Then he stitched the mask back in place and followed.

  Angelique Parsouel was not feeling quite so jaunty. She was now well into her second week in Holloway prison and her spirit was broken. The four painted brick walls and the drab prison clothes were outside of anything in her experience, even her worst nightmares. Holloway was a busy prison, especially in the remand wing, and she'd had three different companions in the cell's other bed since she had been here. All three had been decidedly pessimistic about her chances of seeing the outside world in the near future. That had been bad enough, but the worst blow had been the failure of her father to help her.

  She had known he would be disappointed with her and very angry, but she would never have believed he would just go off and abandon her. At this stage of the proceedings she was still unaware of his true involvement and had been unable to understand some of the questions she had been asked about him. Then there was the question of Wayne. Since that terrible heart sinking moment when she had walked into the Silver Goddess and the arms of a Detective Sergeant of the Drug Squad, she had not mentioned his name. In fact for almost a week she had refused to give her own name until her father had declared her missing. Now she had been shown a signed statement that Wayne had made, confirming that she knew what she had been delivering and listing every occasion on which she had committed a similar offence. Her Legal Aid solicitor had taken t
o murmuring about pleading guilty, throwing herself on the mercy of the court and maybe getting no more than eight years.

  She wiped away the tears. For the first time in nearly three weeks she was dressed in her own clothes and was wearing what little makeup they had allowed her. Of course it was only so that she could attend the Assizes where she would undoubtedly be committed for trial, but it felt good to be dressed in decent clothes again. The key turned in the lock and the door opened. It had begun.

  The hospital reception area was a buzz of activity as the motorcycle pulled into the kerb and the pillion rider leapt off and released one of the panniers. Both he and the driver were wearing white vests bearing bright red crosses and the words Emergency Delivery Service over their black leathers. Lugging the pannier he ran towards the main doors as if his life, or somebody else's, depended on it. The policeman on duty outside took it all in his stride, organ transplant or rare blood delivery coming in. It happened several days a week here and always by motorcycle as it was the only way to get rapidly through London's traffic. He wandered over to have a word with the driver. It was a boring duty this one for most of the time and he liked to have something to tell the wife when he got home.

  The pillion rider entered the foyer and rushed up to the reception desk where he repeatedly banged the bell to get the attention of the receptionist, who was on the telephone. She looked around with an annoyed expression on her face, which immediately changed as she read the legend on the man’s white vest and saw the box he was holding up to her. On the side it read.

  URGENT BLOOD SUPPLIES.

  "Ward five.” he said.

  She was about to call for a porter to show him the way when a white-coated houseman arrived looking hot and bothered. He was a tall, rangy individual, with a bushy ginger beard and hair. He waved to get the attention of the receptionist.

  "That's for me." he turned to the pillion rider. "Come on man, Its a matter of life and death."

  He ignored the lifts and raced for the stairs without waiting for an answer. The pillion rider raced after him. The stairs were relatively quiet and at the first landing the houseman dived into a sluice room and turned to the pillion rider who still wore his helmet with Its smoked plastic face shield.

  "He is in a room just around the corner of this corridor. There are two armed policemen, one outside and one inside. Just follow my lead and when I deal with the one outside, you go straight in and deal with those inside."

  While he spoke the pillion rider had opened the pannier and produced two silenced, automatic pistols. The houseman put one of the wicked looking weapons in his pocket and held it there while the pillion rider tucked his inside the black leather jacket. The houseman nodded to show they were all set.

  "Bring the pannier and hold it out in front of you so that it can be clearly seen." He opened the door. "All clear lets go."

  Practically running, he dashed down the corridor and around the corner with the pillion rider on his heels. The armed policeman in the corridor started to his feet at the sound of the rushing footsteps and then relaxed as he saw the doctor and read the legend on the box. He stood back against the wall to give them room to pass.

  "Come on," said the houseman over his shoulder, "Its just at the end of this corridor."

  As he spoke he took the silenced pistol out of his pocket and pushing it against the policeman's chest, fired twice. He did not stop moving as he did this and ran on down the corridor to the emergency stairs at the far end. The pillion rider did not wait to see the detective slide to the floor, leaving a wet, red smear down the wall. He dropped the pannier and pulled his own weapon out into view. Grabbing the handle of the door he threw it open and diving through all in one motion he landed on his shoulder, rolled once, and came up shooting.

  The second policeman had heard the noise outside and already had his gun clear of his holster tracking the pillion riders progress, but at the crucial moment when he might have got in the first shot he caught the barrel in the drip feed going into Jensen's right arm. The needle was ripped out of the arm as his shot crashed out like thunder, taking the glass out of the window behind the intruder’s head and leaving a faint white mark on the polished black surface of his helmet. Then the pillion rider's pistol coughed twice and the policeman slammed back against the wall, his face contorted in pain, anger and frustration, his gun flying out of his hand to fall on the bed between them.

  The gunman picked it up in his gloved left hand and watched as the policeman slid to the floor. Although he was still moving he was obviously no longer any threat. He turned to Jensen who was now awake and struggling to sit up. The gunman smiled at him, but Jensen was unable to see this through the smoked plastic of his visor. He placed the silenced gun gently against the others temple.

  "Sorry friend."

  He pulled the trigger twice and then raced out of the room. Retrieving his pannier he sprinted along the corridor, pistol-whipping out of his way and into semi-consciousness, a nurse who had come to see what all the noise was about. Then, slowing only enough to shove the pistol inside his the pannier, he ran down the stairs and out into reception area. Here he put the brakes on and slowed to a rapid walk. A quick wave to the receptionist and he emerged out into the sunshine and hurried over to the Kawasaki.

  The driver saw him coming and breaking off his conversation with the policeman, started the engine. The gunman slid the pannier back into its fastenings and swung back onto the pillion. A wave of his hand to the policeman who waved back and then the driver let in the clutch and wove the bike back out into the traffic and out of sight. Exactly four minutes had passed. At the rear of the hospital a tall man in overalls dropped a plastic carrier bag into a large industrial dustbin and walked quickly away. Later it would be found to contain a white coat and a full set red beard of theatrical quality.

  Doolan was almost enjoying himself. Sat back in the soft leather of the rear right hand seat of the Granada Scorpio he watched the escort car ahead cutting a path through the traffic for them. It really was quiet funny that they were giving him the VIP treatment. He reflected that sometimes the old sayings were incorrect. In this case it was not only who he knew, but also what he knew that was making sure that he survived. He smiled and turned to tell his thoughts to Jimmy McLauder as the Granada stopped for a red light. McLauder spoke first.

  "Its not far now, Wayne."

  His voice told of his relief to have made one more successful escort, but Doolan did not pick it up. He was busy admiring the large black Kawasaki motorcycle that had pulled up beside him. He nudged McLauder with his elbow.

  "Look at that will you, isn't it beautiful? I might get one of those when this is all over."

  McLauder looked. From his side of the car through the narrow confines of the window he could only make out the middle section of the pillion rider who was leaning down unfastening the top of the pannier nearest to the Granada. He lifted the lid and then straightened up again. In McLauder's head alarm bells started to go off while the traffic ahead started to move again as the lights changed to green. The pillion rider reached down again, this time right into the pannier. Now he was certain something was not quite right.

  "Get this fucking thing moving."

  McLauder's voice rang out as his hand went for his pistol, but he could clearly see that there was too much traffic for the driver to do anything and Doolan's body was between him and the figure in black leather. The pillion rider’s hand came back into view clutching a Uzi machine pistol.

  The Granada was by now doing thirty miles an hour and searching for a gap in the traffic to get away, but ironically being impeded by the escort car directly in front. The detective riding shotgun also had his gun out, but was also finding it impossible to bring it to bear in the madly swerving car. The driver cut in the siren and was desperately trying alternatively to take avoiding action or sideswipe the motorcycle, but there was too much traffic for the first and the biker was too good to allow the second. As the whole world became a mi
nd numbing combination of sound and movement McLauder saw the barrel of the Uzi machine pistol start to come up and made a decision.

  "Fuck you, Doolan!" He hit the handle of the door and bailed out.

  Doolan at first did not realise what was happening. He, unlike Jimmy McLauder, had never seen a machine pistol at close quarters. He was not left in doubt for long and as the barrel came up and around to point in his direction he suddenly realised what was going to happen. He screamed and held his hands out in front of him in an effort to protect himself, but the wild movement of the car threw him backwards. He screamed again, but it was lost in the howl of the tyres and the din from the siren. He scrabbled across the seat away from the gun and into the space that McLauder had just two seconds earlier vacated, reaching for the half open door, but the avoiding action the driver was taking slammed the door shut again, trapping his fingers and causing fractures that made him scream again. The pillion rider then fired a three second burst that punched first into his pelvis and then climbed up his body to almost destroy his head, killing him instantly. Several things then happened in quick succession.

  The driver of the Granada, hearing the sound of the Uzi going off just behind his head and feeling the shower of glass fragments from the broken rear window, threw the car through an almost non-existent gap in the oncoming traffic and just missing the front of a bus, mounted the opposite kerb and went straight through the window a large department store, where it came to rest among some bedroom furniture. The motorbike driver threw the bike into a skidding U-turn and headed back the way it had come, accelerating hard while the pillion rider shoved the Uzi back into the pannier.

  Sitting propped up against a keep left bollard in the middle of the road, nursing his broken ankle, Jimmy McLauder saw the bike turn back. He gritted his teeth and drew his weapon. Holding it two handed, exactly as if he was on the firing range he emptied the magazine at the rapidly growing target of the Kawasaki racing back towards him. Of the seven bullets he fired, two hit the motorcycle driver. The second bullet caught him in the left shoulder and the shock of it threw him and the Kawasaki towards the left kerb and into the front of a small delivery van parked there. By this time the driver was unaware of the impact as he was no longer alive, the first bullet having gone squarely through the middle of his visor. When the Kawasaki stopped dead from the sudden collision with the front of the van, his body left the seat and went through the windscreen and onto the passenger seat, shocking several years growth from the van driver who was sat behind the wheel completing his delivery notes. The pillion rider was throw over the top of the van and on to the pavement, where he bounced a couple of times before lying still against the lamp post that finally arrested his movement and broke his neck. McLauder sat there in shock and disbelief in the sudden silence that fell and just before he fainted his last thought was that he had probably blown any future he might have had with the protection squad. The whole incident had lasted fifty-eight seconds.

  The third of James Bryant's teams was larger, consisting of four men. This was necessary as to release someone from police custody unharmed is far more difficult than simply assassinating them. It included his most skilled and trusted companions.

  The plan was to stop the Black Maria in which Angelique Parsouel was being taken to the Assizes and if at all possible, release her without a shot being fired. After all, she knew nothing about the Organisation and would not be subject to an armed escort, as no one would be expecting an attempt on her life. So it was plain bad luck that the attempted rescue would just happen to take place in front of two carloads of detectives from the Drug Squad, returning from a successful early morning raid on an Edgware pub, following information received from one of Jensen's estate agents. Such is the irony of life. However, it all started well enough.

  Angel's Ford Transit Black Maria had been on road for about eight minutes when the accident occurred. A black Kawasaki motorcycle overtook the Black Maria and pulled in front of it, only to meet a black Volkswagen Caravel as it came out of a side road and nipped smartly into the gap between the Black Maria and the car in front. There was no actual collision although in taking the necessary avoiding action the motorcyclist lost control, spilling the pillion rider into the road directly in front of the police Ford Transit. Although there was never any danger of him not being able to stop in time, the police driver had to break sharply to avoid the pillion rider who sat in the road shaking his head and rubbing his right shoulder.

  The Volkswagen driver pulled into the kerb some fifteen yards past the halted motorcycle and winding his window down, looked back to see what had happened. The driver of the bike, ignoring his companion sitting in the middle of the road, had pulled his machine up onto Its stand and run over to the Volkswagen, where he could be seen gesticulating and trying to pull the door open. The policeman riding in the passenger seat of the Ford Transit looked at his own driver in disbelief.

  "Look at that pratt, Sarge. More interested in giving the other bloke a bollocking than finding out if his mate is all right." He indicated the pillion rider who was trying unsuccessfully to climb to his feet. "Just a minute while I go and sort these silly sods out. I'll let you know if we need an ambulance."

  He left the driver informing control about the problem while he jumped down and walked towards the figure in the road. As he got within a yard of him, the pillion rider suddenly leapt to his feet and grabbing the policeman by the arm span him round to face the Ford Transit, making sure that the Transit driver had a clear view of the automatic pistol he had pressed against the constable's ear. In the Volkswagen, Bryant shouted "Now" and he and the other motorcyclist ran back to the Ford Transit brandishing pistols, leaving only the driver with the Volkswagen. The sergeant driving the Transit looked at his colleague with a gun to his ear, and then at the other approaching gunmen and made no attempt to use the radio again. He switched off the engine and slowly and clearly raised his hands. The policewoman and the two warders in the back of the closed van with the prisoners had no idea what was going on until seconds later when the door was wrenched open.

  "Angelique Parsouel. Get yourself out here, quickly."

  The voice was Irish and Angelique froze with horror as she imagined that because of her father's money she had become a kidnap target for the IRA. The black ski-mask that only revealed the man’s bright blue eyes, adding to the panic that consumed her. The voice came again, full of angry impatience as the speaker scanned up and down the street.

  "If you don't get out here this minute I'll bloody well drag you out."

  He waited two seconds and then reached in and grabbed Angelique by the hair. She tried to resist, but the man was too strong and holding her by the hair and one arm he pulled her out of the Transit and ran her towards the Volkswagen. The unarmed policewoman with her never moved a muscle.

  At that moment a shot rang out. The pillion rider, still holding the gun on the policeman in the middle of the road, staggered backwards until his feet caught the kerb and then twisted around to fall face down on the pavement. People in the local butcher's shop could see clearly the blood beginning to seep through the hole in the back of his leather jacket. A voice distorted by the use of a megaphone rang out eerily in the street suddenly shocked into silence by the death it had just witnessed.

  "Armed police. Nobody move or we fire. Drop the weapons. Now!"

  Bryant, still hanging on grimly to Angel, looked around. There were two cars stopped across the road with at least six armed men crouched behind them, their pistols held out in front of them in the classic two handed grip. As his mind raced furiously a tearing sound filled the air as the driver of the Volkswagen Caravel let loose with his Uzi, spraying the nearest police car and sending the detectives diving to the ground behind them for cover. Bryant didn't hesitate; he had clear orders on what to do if things went badly. Putting the silenced gun against the terrified girls rib cage and between the perfect breasts, he fired just one shot before releasing her and leaping onto the Kawa
saki, which was still propped up on its stand in the middle of the road with the engine running. He shoved it forward off the stand, dropping it into gear and opening the throttle all in one smooth movement and was gone down the first side street before a single gun could be bought to bear. With a surprised expression on her beautiful face Angelique Parsouel dropped to her knees and then fell face down in the road without a sound.

  The Drug Squad detectives had meanwhile regrouped and were pouring a hail of bullets into the now hard accelerating Volkswagen. The windscreen and side windows vanished in a shower of broken glass as it swerved violently and came to rest with Its nose buried in a concrete lamp post, just missing a queue of people waiting open mouthed at a bus stop. The policewoman in the back of the Ford Transit slammed and locked the rear door as the attention of the armed detectives switched to the other black clad figure standing in the road. He immediately dropped the automatic pistol and raised his arms. Caught out in the open there was no other choice. Warily the detectives approached and gathered up the fallen guns. Their leader, a white faced and somewhat shaken Detective Inspector, walked to where Angelique Parsouel was laying face down in the middle of the road and went down on one knee beside her.

  "Its all over now, Miss, you can get up. We have arrested them all and taken the guns away.

  On receiving no answer he shook her shoulder. Then, alarmed, he gripped her shoulder and turned her over. The bullet had been fired directly into her heart from such a close range that he could clearly see the powder burn on the material of her blouse. He looked down at her for some seconds before rising and walking back to the Ford Transit where he spoke to the equally white faced driver.

  "Better call for the whole works I think, Sergeant. Ambulance, Forensic and the Yard."

  He walked over to where his own sergeant was busy supervising the handcuffing of the remaining black clad raider and another detective was dealing with a shaken constable who for the first time in his life had just felt a loaded gun against his head. He stuffed his pistol back into the shoulder holster and leaning back on the bonnet of a car rubbed his hand across his face as he spoke to his own sergeant.

  "Bugger me, Gerry. I wonder what all this lot was about?"

  The whole incident had taken one minute and thirty seconds.

  Alan Sobers was in the communications room listening to the radio calls coming in. He had been there since the first report had been received following the killing of Jensen at the hospital. It seemed to go on forever, disaster after disaster. He looked up to see everybody in the communications room watching him and knew that they were wondering if he was to blame for the deaths that had occurred. He wondered it himself. He picked up a phone and dialled the Commissioners office.

  "Hello Miss Garlant, would you ask the Commissioner if I could come up. It is urgent."