VENGEANCE WEARS BLACK (Jack Calder Crime Series #2) Read online

  VENGEANCE WEARS BLACK

  A Jack Calder Novel

  Seumas Gallacher

  Copyright 2012

  UK Copyright Services

  Registered number 284656743

  ISBN 978-1-910262-05-4

  About the Author

  Seumas Gallacher was born in Clydeside, Govan, in Glasgow and spent his formative teens in the idyllic Scottish Hebridean island of Mull.

  His career as a banker took him from Scotland to London for ten years and thence on a further twenty-five-year global odyssey through Hong Kong, Singapore and the Philippines in Asia. Along the way he metamorphosed into a corporate troubleshooter and problem solver. He moved to the United Arab Emirates for a month in 2004 and has remained in the Middle East ever since.

  Seumas has become a strong proponent of the use of the social networking channels to reach and engage with a global readership market. He is a sought-after speaker and lecturer on how to develop productive online relationships.

  He was voted Blogger of the Year 2013. Follow Seumas at www.seumasgallacher.com!

  The Jack Calder Series:

  The Violin Man’s Legacy

  Vengeance Wears Black

  Savage Payback

  Killer City

  Deadly Impasse (mid-2016)

  Vengeance Wears Black

  A Jack Calder Novel

  CHAPTER 1

  It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.

  The journey from Krakow to Cherbourg is a thousand kilometres as the crow flies.

  The dingy truck with four dozen aboard was cramped and filthy. Svetlana could smell the sweat and fear that clings to transit refugees. She knew two of her companions among the others sharing the dark canvas-covered space in the rear of the transporter. Only females, some barely older than her own seventeen years, some much older, the common thread the desire to find a route to England, and a chance of earnings, however meagre, at least better than nothing in their homeland. Desperation and hope made easy bedfellows.

  The handlers had outlined the way out two weeks ago, promising work with their business partners in London. Guaranteed placements with good families keen to have their foreign labour. The clincher, no money up front required, nothing to lose. Early misgivings surfaced about rumoured enforced prostitution. These evaporated with the handlers’ assurances this was a legitimate business, with constant need in the UK for reliable workers like themselves. However, crossing borders without documentation was illegal, but who had time and money to acquire passports?

  Thin matting covered the floor of the truck, and piles of large empty cardboard boxes softened the jolts and jarring. Because of the risk of betraying their presence to officials at checkpoints they were told not to smoke. It would also be dangerous because of the extra fuel containers stacked inside to avoid the need to purchase gas on the road.

  A small light fitment shed its glow across the passengers. Some whispered in nervous conversation, while many travelled in silence, wrapped in the anticipation of better times at the end of the journey. No talking was allowed when the vehicle was motionless. Officials have ears.

  Svetlana boarded third last in Krakow before the door was locked. Some dialects she understood. Most she didn’t. She tried to focus on being as comfortable as the overloaded conditions allowed, tucked into the left rear corner, supported at least on two sides. Her belongings were crammed into a duffle bag, which doubled as a cushion. She didn’t own a watch, had no idea how long they’d been on the road, and not being able to see outside made the time drag even more. The initial fear causing the dryness in her mouth at the start of the journey slowly turned to positive anticipation of what lay ahead in England. At least she’d be able to send money to her mother in the village. Her father had been an unknown figure, having died sixteen years ago when Svetlana was barely one year old. She opened her bag to remove the greaseproof paper holding the cheese and bread she had brought aboard and ate half of it. Not knowing how much longer they might have to go, she decided to keep some for later. The bottled water, warm by now, eased her throat a little. The monotony of the noise from the wheels as the journey progressed began to make her drowsy. With barely room to manoeuvre with the other girls pressed so closely, she tried to position the bag at her back again and leaned her head against the heavy cloth wall. The truck had been used to transport many different cargoes in recent months. The stink of rotted vegetables and dank canvas mixed with the sweat and body odour. Proper sleep impossible, she managed to doze for short spells.

  Tev Naar made this run dozens of times a year.

  His job was to drive. Just drive. Nothing else. Each trip had a bag man aboard. Some of them he’d journeyed with often, others not, names neither asked for nor exchanged. The greaser’s function at the points of entry and exit ensured recognised friendlies at customs crossings received the standard payment, no vehicle inspection needed.

  The greaser on this trip was a regular. A small man, unremarkable in any crowd. These were the best operators. Quiet. Effective. Mingling in.

  Early evening drizzle misted the entrance to the quay as the truck drew into the port of Cherbourg. As normal, Tev parked on the far edge of the dockside, away from unwelcome attention. Now the wait. In a couple of hours, around ten o’clock, local handlers would arrive to transfer the human cargo to the waiting freighter for the journey across the English Channel. Until then, Tev and the greaser chatted quietly about football, the only common interest they shared.

  In the rear, the women waited, talking only in low whispers. They’d been briefed on the schedule. They’d be on the high seas soon, on the final leg to England.

  The dashboard clock neared nine o’clock. Tev’s companion opened the truck door.

  “I need a pee.”

  “Right,” said Tev.

  The greaser stepped down from the passenger seat. He didn’t hear the click as the silenced gun blew a hole in his right temple.

  Tev heard a grunt. He turned toward the noise to be met by an equally deadly bullet to the head.

  Inside, Svetlana caught a rustling coming from the canvas-covered side of the vehicle together with whispered voices in a language she didn’t recognise. Then the pungent stench of petrol fumes. What was going on?

  Everything happened in a blur. Flames exploded along the sides of the truck and up across the roof. The screams from the women were terrifying. Utter panic. Instinctively, she and several beside her clawed frantically at the back door sheeting. Nothing moved. Others piled forward. They heaved their bodies against the door as acrid smoke filled their lungs. Svetlana struggled for air. Dear God, I’m going to die, the thought came to her. Who’ll look after my mother?

  The flames reached the spare fuel tanks on the right hand side. Seconds later they ignited in a roar. None but those furthest from the blast stood a chance. The wall of refugees between Svetlana and the explosion saved her along with the front three women. It gave extra impetus to their shoving.

  The door broke open. Svetlana fell headlong onto the muddy ground and rolled away, unaware her clothing had been burned along with her legs, half of her back and her left side. At least she landed several feet from the burning truck.

  It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.

  The night went blacker as Svetlana passed out.

  CHAPTER 2

  The Peking Garden restaurant in the middle of London’s Soho is a honeypot for tourists from all over the globe. More telling is the bulk of repeat business from Chinese families and businessmen in the area. The famed smoked duck and marinated char siu pork strips is the bedrock order for most of the tables.

&
nbsp; Half a block away sat the headquarters of International Security Partners, the brainchild of former SAS Major Julian (Jules) Townsend. The firm grew through some high profile operations in difficult security arenas in Europe and the Far East. More sensitive successes remained unpublicised to all but a few insiders in the security industry. The shortened tag, ISP, was now the go-to outfit for reliable movement of high value goods, and for elite personal protection.

  Jack Calder and his wife May-Ling, executive partners in ISP, along with Townsend, waited for their guest at the restaurant. Chandra Rana, an ex-Gurkha captain, carried a distinguished career history in the service of the British military. In line with many of his compatriots, he’d gained recommendations and awards for bravery and courage in several foreign campaigns.

  Jules and his partners were keen to persuade Chandra to lead ISP’s rapidly expanding growth into South East Asia.

  Adjoining tables, crammed with noisy families and children underscored there was no such thing as a quiet mealtime in the Peking Garden. Precisely at one o’clock, Chandra appeared at the crowded doorway and acknowledged the wave from Jack. The Nepalese, unusually tall for his race, touched over six feet, but his lean frame pointed to athletic fitness. A warm smile broke across his swarthy features.

  “Jules, Jack, Mrs Jack, how good to see you again,” he began.

  “And you, Chandra,” said Jules, offering a strong, military handshake.

  “Mrs Jack, you’re as radiant as ever,” he addressed May-Ling, not ever having called her by her first name, an accepted Nepalese courtesy. His compliment was not misplaced, as May-Ling carried the mixed genes of a Chinese father and a Welsh mother with stunningly attractive ease.

  “Good to have you in London again, Chandra,” she replied, making space between her husband and herself. “Please come sit here.”

  “How’s my favourite Scotsman, Jack?” he said, offering his hand.

  “Much the better for seeing you, my friend.”

  The group were no strangers to each other, having been involved in several clandestine engagements in the past. The SAS and hand-picked Gurkha officers including Chandra worked together in cleaning up banditry in the Thailand border area with Malaysia a few years earlier.

  Chandra took the chair facing the window and the front of the restaurant. Jack and Jules smiled as they watched him subtly turning this way and that, checking out the bustling environment.

  Old habits die hard.

  May-Ling spoke in Cantonese to the nearest waiter. He disappeared to fetch menus, even though she had already decided what they would order.

  Before anyone else could speak the doorway crashed open, loud enough to cause a lull in the babble of noise as diners turned to face the intrusion.

  Two bulky dark-clad figures blocked the light from outside, their faces covered by balaclavas. One of the men kicked the door open, and held it ajar with a heavy leather boot. The other threw an object into the middle of the restaurant before swiftly disappearing from sight. The security honchos reacted to the danger immediately, but the Gurkha moved faster than any of them.

  “Bomb!” he screamed, diving toward the grenade which came to rest against the leg of the adjoining table. He landed on it as the detonation blasted his body, ripping his chest apart, killing him instantly.

  The explosion reverberated in the cramped space. Panic erupted. Tables and chairs tumbled over as diners scrambled over the fallen furniture and their neighbours to get out.

  Jules and Jack had seen havoc like this countless times before. The adrenaline kicked into overdrive as they clawed across to what was left of their friend. They spoke no words. It would take an hour or so for their eardrums to recover from the shock of the explosion.

  “You okay?” Jack mouthed to May-Ling. She nodded. Jules crouched over the shattered remains of Chandra Rana. The split second reaction by the Nepalese saved all but his own life. The rush for the exit by the terrified customers created only minor injuries. The body of the Gurkha had taken the full force of the blast. A few hangings on the walls hung askew, but nothing else more serious than spilled plates and glasses. The overturned furniture resembled the morning after a drunken party. A fire sprinkler spattered haphazardly over one corner of the restaurant. Fire alarms screeched, but to Jack were a distant reedy noise.

  He knelt down beside Jules and helped him lift Chandra from the blood-soaked carpet, knowing what to search for.

  The type of device? Where did it come from? Who would have access to that kind of weapon?

  The former commandos, well used to the aftermath of hits like this, never found it easy to view the bloody remains of a fellow soldier. Shock might set in later. Maybe not. For the moment both men remained ice-cool, focused, methodical.

  Jules helped his partner hold up the right side of the body, revealing the customary devastation fragmentation devices cause at close range. They also knew, as Chandra had covered the blast completely, pieces of the grenade must be imbedded in the corpse.

  “There.” Jules pointed to a mangled part of the man’s chest. Jack eased away a two-inch flat sliver of dark grey metal. “And here.” Another part, curved this time, about one and a half inches across. His partner nodded as Jack slipped the two pieces into separate jacket pockets. Whatever evidence the local bomb squad would get, ISP at least had a comparable start. Just then the dying wail of sirens announced the arrival of the Metropolitan Police SCO 19 guys. Reaction time from the blast to their arrival only four minutes. Jack nodded in approval.

  Good team. Response doesn’t get much better than that.

  CHAPTER 3

  The first couple of SCO 19 team members through the door aimed their weapons at the ISP men, still crouched over the body.

  “Get your hands up!”

  Both did as instructed, raising their arms as slowly as possible, not wanting to trigger any mistaken bullets.

  “We’re friendlies, chief,” said Jules. “Jules Townsend and Jack Calder. International Security Partners. That’s his wife.” He nodded toward May-Ling.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t the heroes from her Majesty’s exalted pretty-boy commando troop. Hello, Jules,” came a bass voice from behind the leading policemen.

  Paul Manning, Head of Serious Crimes Division, and an operator as well-known to the ISP men as they were to him, walked toward them. “What’ve you naughty chaps been playing with?” he asked, with a tone dripping in sarcasm.

  “Hello, Paul,” replied Jack. “Grenade through the door. Our mate Chandra jumped on it and you can see the result. Poor bastard saved everybody in the place.”

  “Geez,” said Manning, kneeling down beside the two men and the body. He gingerly repeated the same procedure as they had performed minutes earlier, then lowered the Gurkha’s side to the carpet.

  Jules exchanged an icy stare with Manning. There was no love lost between Jack’s chief and the officer. The Scot recalled the incident some years prior when a squad led by the policeman botched a siege situation in one of the major international bank headquarters in the City. The intervention of Townsend and four SAS men salvaged the operation, but Manning was left with some very public egg on his face. The mutual distrust and strong animosity lingered.

  Blue and white police incident tapes cordoned off the street. Onlookers were cleared. Back-up officers identified and detained whoever remained of the diners and ferried them to the local station for questioning. There was little or no expectation that helpful detail would result.

  “Do you guys need any medical treatment?” said Manning, at least checking off the ritual scene of incident questions.

  A concerted shaking of heads confirmed not.

  “We’ll have to get your statements and the usual stuff on this. The local nick’s a couple of streets away. You want to ride with us?” asked Manning, not expecting the offer to be accepted.

  “We’ll join you in a while. We can walk,” replied Jules, dusting down his clothes. “I presume your guys’ll take care of the body
? Jack, May-Ling, let’s move and let the professional handle this.” Sarcasm works both ways.

  Jules had no intention of going directly to the police station, and instead headed the group back toward their own offices.

  The Calders reckoned the detour was partly to irritate Manning, but more important, to deposit the salvaged pieces of shrapnel at ISP rather than having evidence with them during the interview.

  Malky McGuire, another partner in the security firm, also a long time SAS buddy, glanced up from his desk as May-Ling preceded the others into his office.

  “I didn’t expect yeez back so early,” said the Irishman. “Chandra not bite?” The serious looks on their faces changed his tack. “What happened, guys?”

  “Somebody tossed a grenade into the Peking Garden. Chandra smothered it and died outright. If he hadn’t moved, the rest of the place including us would’ve been killed too,” said May-Ling.

  “That asshole, Paul Manning, turned up with the SCO 19 boys. We have to go debrief with him now at the cop-shop, but we need to offload these first,” added Jack, removing the shrapnel fragments from his pockets.

  “I want you to track this down as soon as possible, Malky,” instructed Jules. “What’s the make? Who uses this stuff nowadays? Likely source or sources? Also call Donnie Mullen and ask him to start enquiries with his pals in the Met. Why this restaurant? Any previous history of violence in the area? Check out the owners of the place. Get us as much as you can. And by the way, these bits of the grenade do not exist. Understood? Also try to locate any close family of Chandra. Addresses here or in Nepal, telephone numbers if possible. We’ll be back as soon as we’ve finished with Manning.”

  “I’m on it,” replied Malky, picking up his phone. Donnie Mullen was in the Frankfurt office, so time zone was no problem.