The email he had sent yesterday to the Directorate-General of Customs and Indirect Taxes in Montreuil, Seine-Saint-Denis, (DGDDI), would have caused quite a stir. A haul of two hundred kilos of pure heroin was substantial enough to demand immediate attention. Either the authorities had already intercepted the Erzurat at sea or they were waiting at the container port in Marseille. Whatever the case, the cargo would be confiscated and the available perpetrators, namely the ship’s captain and his contact in Marseille, would be incarcerated in a French prison. Just as it should be, he told himself. Drug smuggling is a vile business and they deserve to be severely punished.
The trail would end there, since there had been no traceable contact with either himself or Claude Jolidon, the originator of the funding of the transaction. Both of them had used the Philippines ISP and deviated prepaid phones with foreign SIMs, which would lead nowhere. Jolidon could still be useful to him in his position at Ramseyer, Haldemann, so he had no intention of casting him aside for the moment. He wondered vaguely whether Bensouda might attempt to extract his revenge on the man, but thought it unlikely, since they could each blackmail the other and he didn’t imagine that Bensouda was the murdering type. In any case, it’s not my problem. There’s always some collateral damage in these transactions. It’s part of the risk/reward ratio.
On his way back to his apartment he walked across St James Park to the lake in the centre. He removed the SIM from the phone and threw it into the water. Even though the chances of it being traced were next to none he didn’t want to risk it. He had another AT&T SIM in his office. The park was quiet and he decided to sit by the lake and enjoy a few minutes of sunshine. It was a shame not to enjoy such a lovely day.
Malaga, Spain
Espinoza awoke abruptly from his siesta. The clock on the bedside table showed seven o’clock. He got off the bed and took the mobile from his wife. “Since I’m now awake I might as well answer it. Gracias, Soledad,” he said with a smile.
Recognising the 4122 Geneva prefix, he answered, “ Bonsoir Andréas. Thanks for calling back on a Saturday. I assume you have some news for me?”
He listened for a few minutes then said, “Esther Rousseau, née Bonnard. I see. Why wasn’t this discovered at the time? I assumed she was a single woman.”
The explanation didn’t seem to impress him and after a few further exchanges he said, “Never mind. I’ll do what I can with this new information. Merci et à bientôt.”
He went downstairs where Soledad had made him coffee. “Is something wrong?”
“I need to make two quick calls, the last for this evening.”
The first was to Marcel Colombey, his contact in Paris. Colombey was a Senior Inspector in the Central Directorate of Judicial Police; a high-ranking officer. “Esther Rousseau, née Bonnard. That’s right. And I want you to check on another possibility.” He gave the details to the Frenchman. “It’s a long shot, but we might just get lucky.”
Then he called Jenny, to ensure that all was well in York House. “I’ve got one or two ideas about the perpetrators,” he added. I’ll call you when I have more news.”
He put away the mobile. “Now, Soledad. Go and get yourself ready. We’re going to Antonio’s for dinner to spend some of my bonus.”
Dublin, Republic of Ireland
Esther Bonnard-Rousseau was eating ham and eggs in the bar of the Liffey Landing pub in Rainsford Street in Dublin. That afternoon she had taken the train from Belfast, managing to avoid showing any identification, then come straight to the pub on the bus so no one knew where she was. She’d stayed there several times; it was close to the Guinness storeroom where tourists came to taste the black bitter ale straight from the keg. Her shabby but comfortable room had everything she needed and the owners respected her privacy.
She had come across the pub two years before, after being stranded in Luton when she realised Ray d’Almeida wasn’t coming for her and had made the same trip by a cheaper route, the train to Liverpool then the ferry to Belfast and another train to Dublin. With only four hundred and fifty pounds to her name she had gone into the pub looking for a cheap room and had ended up helping out as a barmaid. The proprietors, Seamus and Susan McCaffey, were large, friendly and discreet. They paid her in cash, with no questions asked. After working there for six months she had saved enough money to survive for a while and had cultivated a great ambition to make a lot more.
Now back in Dublin again she felt safe and ready to renew her attack on the world for compensation for the losses she’d incurred, namely Ray d’Almeida and twelve million dollars. She rehearsed in her mind the messages she would send in a day or two. Meanwhile she needed a good night’s sleep. She asked Susan to pour her a pint of Guinness. That should do the trick.
DAY EIGHT
Sunday, July 18, 2010
SIXTY-SIX
Malaga, Spain
Marcel Colombey at the French National Police called back as Espinoza was having his second coffee that morning. Soledad had gone to church with Laura, their daughter, but he wanted to catch up on his jigsaw puzzle. Several new ideas had come to him in the night and he needed to explore them in the quiet of the empty house. He would meet them in the tapas bar for lunch later on.
“Bonjour, Marcel. I’m impressed to see you working on a Sunday. Quelles nouvelles?” He listened for some minutes, making notes on his pad as always. “Nicole Charpentier. Well done,” he said eventually. “How did you find that out? A Casino Employees Recruitment Register? And then you searched through the employment records at the casinos in the Nice area, I suppose.”
He listened again. “Even with all the data bases at your disposal, it’s still excellent detective work. We’re getting close to solving this case and it’s you who should get the credit and you’ll deserve it. Can I ask you one last favour?” He explained his request, adding, “I’ll send the photos to you now and if you could possibly get someone to research them today, it would be of great help.”
Espinoza sent off the photos he’d received from Emma and MacCallister then filled out two more of the boxes of his crossword and ticked off several items on his list. He grunted with satisfaction. There were very few boxes left to fill and the unticked items were diminishing rapidly. He went to make himself another coffee.
London, England
“Bonjour M Jolidon, how are you today?” Lord Dudley had been expecting the call from Geneva since the previous day when he had failed to respond to his contact in Marseille. He listened patiently as the Swiss man told him what he already knew.
“I’m sorry that you find yourself in this situation but unfortunately I am unable to give the appropriate instructions to the agent.”
There was a pause, then Jolidon said, “In that case give them to me and I’ll send them to our agent. This is urgent so that nothing goes wrong tomorrow morning. The agreed identification codes will be exchanged, the transaction will be executed and we will receive our commission.”
“M Jolidon, I have been confidentially advised that information about the cargo has been notified to the French customs authorities. The ship will be apprehended, the merchandise impounded and there is nothing we can do about it. We need to stay as far away as possible from the matter to preserve our integrity.”
“Putin de merde! How did this happen? Where did you get this information?”
“I’m afraid I can’t reveal my source, but I am absolutely certain of the truth of the information.”
“That means our agent will be arrested. Do you know what the penalties are for bringing in this material?” Even on a secure line he didn’t dare use the word heroin.
“I am painfully aware of them and I agree that the poor man will not be well treated. That is the bad news and it is most regrettable. However, the good news is that we still have two hundred and fifty thousand dollars under our control, which means that you have just earned one hundred thousand dollars. What do you think of that?”
Dudley heard a sharp intake of breath. From
Esther Rousseau, he had learned the exact amount of Jolidon’s debt to the Casino de Divonne. It was seventy-five thousand Euros, about ninety thousand dollars. The Swiss man would now be able to throw away another ten thousand on the tables.
“That is most generous, Monsieur. But what shall I tell Favre?”
“You have had no written contact with him, as I recommended. Is that right?”
“Everything was done by telephone and he knows me as M Valentino, but I don’t see what…”
“Then, M Jolidon, I suggest that you simply replace the SIM in your US phone and he will be unable to contact or find you. This will save you a disagreeable conversation which would, in any case, be of no value to either party. What will be, will be.”
“And the Prince Bensouda?”
“The Prince took a gamble, M Jolidon. A risky gamble that unfortunately hasn’t succeeded. We have fulfilled the terms of our contract and deserve to be paid. Regrettably there will be no remaining funds to return to the Prince. As you know better than I, that is the unfortunate downside of gambling.”
The two men talked for a few minutes more and agreed to say nothing to Bensouda. He would find out about the aborted shipment soon enough. It was better for them to remain out of the picture, wait for his call and then commiserate with the loser.
Dudley reflected on the conversation. He had said nothing that could incriminate him in the forthcoming apprehension of the cargo and the identifiable perpetrators. Most important of all, he had not disclosed that there was no purchaser for the drugs shipment and never had been. He disapproved of drug abuse and would not contribute to the distribution of heroin on the streets of European cities. The whole transaction had been concocted by him with the assistance of various contacts in Afghanistan, Syria and Turkey. Contacts whose fees had been paid from Bensouda’s funds, along with the other costs of the operation.
According to his own contrary personal moral compass, Lord Arthur Selwyn Savage Dudley had acted correctly. He approved neither of drugs nor of gambling and he felt vindicated for the actions he had taken. Apart from the agent, who had been an unfortunate victim of collateral damage, every person involved in this month long transaction had been properly remunerated. But the gambler had lost. This so-called Prince Bensouda, who had been willing to destroy an unknown number of lives by delivering a supply of deadly drugs worth sixty million dollars on the street, in a risky gamble that he could obviously afford to lose.
The end had also justified the means. The escrow account with the balance of the money was under his control and the additional commission was in his bank in the Bahamas. The generous payment to Jolidon would buy his loyalty for the foreseeable future and encourage him to recommend more of his clients at Ramseyer, Haldemann.
He finished shredding the documents from the Bensouda file then burned the remains in the grate and raked the ashes. The transaction had never existed and if it had, he had not been involved. The weather was fair and he decided to go for a walk and have a coffee at the Italian café near the park. He had done enough work for a Sunday morning.
Dublin, Republic of Ireland
Esther Bonnard-Rousseau was working on her laptop in her bedroom in the Liffey Landing pub. It was foggy and pouring with rain outside and she felt warm and secure in her room. She reread and modified the emails she’d prepared, double checking the addresses of the two recipients. She wouldn’t send them until after she’d seen the transfer from Slater in her account on Monday, but she couldn’t sit around doing nothing. She wanted to be ready for the next steps in her recuperation plan.
Marbella, Spain
Pedro Espinoza called Jenny in the afternoon to say he was following a promising trail, but still had nothing definite to report. He would call her if he had more information on Monday. She didn’t mention her suspicions about Patrice, time would tell if there was anything in it. For Leticia’s sake she hoped it was only her suspicious mind and there was a simple explanation for his peculiar behaviour and the promise of expected funds.
London, England
“Identitity of Joburg and Polokwane murderer revealed.”
The news headline screamed out from the Africa Online News item. Dudley had consulted the site several times since the disappearance of Leo Stewart and was already aware of CS Johannes Hendrick’s claim to have solved the murders of Lambert and Blethin. The doctor’s real identity had been a surprise to him but he didn’t consider it of any importance. When he saw that a murder had been committed in Diepkloof, he had immediately assumed it was Nwosu and now it seemed he was correct.
He had no idea who had been abducted in the place of Leo Stewart, but it was no longer relevant, he was in Zimbabwe and likely to stay there. The deaths of Lambert, Blethin and Nwosu marked the end of any possible links between him and South Africa. Coetzee, he assumed, was either in hiding with the boy, trying to negotiate a ransom, or the boy had escaped and was perhaps reunited with his mother. In either case the South African was in no position to cause any problems for him, since he knew nothing and was himself a potential target for the police, either as a principal or an accessory. Esther Bonnard had paid herself off and disappeared and it was too dangerous for her to reappear and the same applied to Slater. The circle was completed; Lord Arthur Dudley was, as usual, in the clear.
Marseille, France
The Turkish cargo ship Erzurat tied up in the Port of Marseille’s Northern Terminal at seven o’clock in the evening. The port authority was closed on weekends and no work was carried out. Unloading was scheduled to start at seven am the following day.
Shortly after the docking, two unmarked Peugeot 308 police cars from the DCPJ, the French Serious Crimes Division, arrived alongside the ship together with a Citroen Jumper bearing the insignia of the DGDDI, the French Customs and Excise Directorate. Eight passengers emerged from the vehicles, three DGDDI officers, three policemen in uniform and two more in plain clothes. One of them, wearing a leather jacket and cap, asked a seaman at the gangway to call for Captain Yilmaz.
The captain was a short, burly man with a scruffy beard. He had donned a grubby officer’s jacket and cap before coming down to the dockside which made him look even more unscrupulous. Before anyone could speak, he announced that he spoke no French then burst into a long monologue in Turkish about the cargo of TV sets, fridges, etc. The visitors listened for a few moments until the leather jacketed man interrupted him in his own language, introducing the group as a joint task force from the DGDDI and the French National Police. He was Alexandre Treboux, Divisional Superintendent of the DGDDI, responsible for the Marseille area and he described the visit as a routine inspection of goods coming from the Middle East in view of the ongoing strife in the whole region.
After some discussion they went up to the captain’s quarters-cum office and he produced the bills of lading from Syria and Turkey. One of the DGDDI men installed himself at his desk and started going through the paperwork. Superintendent Treboux asked Yilmaz to assemble the crew in the canteen. Eighteen crewmen arrived in the room and he instructed the captain to order everyone to surrender their mobile phones. No one would be allowed to go ashore until unloading was completed the following day and that three customs officers would be stationed on the ship that night and three policemen would guard the gangway and the dock.
By now Captain Yilmaz was looking extremely nervous and unhappy. He confirmed everything to his crew, giving the example by placing his phone on the table, then left the canteen and went into the lavatory. After locking and bolting the door, he took another mobile phone from his inside pocket and called a local number. Speaking French now, he said, in hushed tones. “C’est foutu! Les douaniers sont là. It’s fucked, the customs people are here.”
He listened for a moment then said, “I don’t give a shit about that. I’m getting off this ship tonight and on my way back to Antalya. They’ll never find me in Turkey.”
The other person spoke again and Yilmaz said, “OK. I’ll meet you there in the ear
ly morning. I’ll call when I’m out of the port.”
He put the phone back in his pocket and went to join his crew, trying to look unconcerned.
Geneva, Switzerland
Prince Sam Bensouda had stayed away from Divonne Casino yet again, having convinced himself his gambling and drinking days were over. Now he had regained a substantial part of his family fortune, or so he believed, he was determined to change his ways and start a new life. He wanted that new life to include Jenny Bishop. It was time for him to settle down and she seemed like the ideal partner to keep him grounded. In addition to being a very lovely looking woman, she was sensible, charming and apparently independently well-off. His family would applaud a union with her and the black sheep would be welcomed home with open arms.
He poured himself a Chivas Regal and consulted the Room Service Menu.
DAY NINE
Monday, July 19, 2010
SIXTY-SEVEN
Marseille, France
Captain Bahadir Yilmaz slid hand over hand down the rope he’d cast over the port side of the Erzurat and slipped into the oily, murky water of the Port of Marseille. It was two o’clock in the morning but the water was still warm. He was wearing only his jockey shorts and carrying a set of clothes in a waterproof rucksack on his back. In a slow breast stroke, without causing a single splash he swam across to the side of the harbour furthest away from the ship. On the dock he dressed in a dark outfit and pulled a balaclava over his head. He walked towards the charging station of the railway that served the facility, alongside the high metal fence with CCTV cameras and other electronic security devices that surrounded the fourteen hectare property. It was a cloudy night and the area was deserted.
The African Diamond Trilogy Box Set Page 105
