DEADLY IMPASSE (Jack Calder Crime Series #5) Read online

  DEADLY IMPASSE

  By

  SEUMAS GALLACHER

  ISBN 97819102620601

  Copyright 2016

  Registration Number 284707934 (UK Copyright Service)

  CHAPTER 1

  “You know it’s impossible for me to do that,” she said.

  Her fingers gripped hard on the telephone as she tried to hide the anxiety in her voice. The caller didn’t answer.

  “Are you still there?” she asked.

  A few moments silence followed before he spoke again.

  “My dear Francine, it’s no longer a matter of requesting. My associates have lost all patience. You and I already discussed how they want you to put things right. There are no alternatives. Please proceed as directed.”

  “But…”

  The click of disconnection and the dull, droning monotone of an empty line buzzed in her ear.

  The chief executive officer lowered the receiver onto its cradle on her desk. The menace imbedded in the call’s message caused her hands to tremble slightly.

  She decided it was time to tell her father everything.

  ****

  The explosion reverberated deep in the safety deposit vaults of Bank Louvet, but hardly caused a stir at the deserted Luxembourg street level, three floors above. The shrieking tocsins were a different matter. At four in the morning, the piercing wail of the alarms reached outward and upward, alerting night watchmen and security patrol guards in other buildings up to a kilometre away. Inside the partly-lit offices, the mid-shift coffee break for the two overnight guards came to an abrupt end. The internal elevators automatically shut down as fire sprinklers rained an early wash on all ten floors, including the three basement levels.

  From the ground area down to the vaults, reserve lights shone on the wet stairways, guiding the guards to the source of the blast. The first man thrust his card key against the security door panel. One of a pair of small lights blinked green. The auxiliary power was functioning as it should. His partner followed suit with his card, producing a matching green light, and the barred, steel gate slid open.

  The flashlights added to the faint illumination from the back-up bulbs. The swirling fog of dust and residual smoke created a surreal picture. The cones of torch beams showed no flames, but the charred damage to one area of the wall housing the deposit boxes was plain to see. Fingers of angled metal near the top of the tiers pointed to the source of the blast. Shredded papers, some of it currency, and assorted reflecting pieces of jewellery, littered the floor of the vault. The guards backed off, wary of potential further detonations. The leader drew the barred door closed and both men retreated to the ground floor to await the arrival of the police cars.

  Later official reports of the incident recorded seventeen deposit boxes affected. The registered holders were contacted over the ensuing days to ascertain what had been in each space. The specific box identified as the centre of the eruption led to a fictitious client name, a bogus subsidiary at the end of a series of false holding company names. Attempted traces on the person who initiated the box rental would prove equally frustrating.

  ****

  The morning of the incident devoured all of Francine Louvet’s attention. The detectives afforded her the respect her position merited as she fielded their questions. Yes, of course, she promised every assistance to the authorities to find who had committed this outrage. No, she could not hazard a guess as to who would wish to attack her institution in this desperate manner. Not to her knowledge, as far as she could tell them. No threats, no disgruntled clients, and certainly, God forbid, no competitor bank which would countenance such an act. And yes, she would be glad to be available for continued discussions. Just let her personal assistant know if and when further meetings may be required. The officers’ questioning lasted a few minutes short of a couple of hours. As the door closed on their departure, a few steps to the mahogany-lined cocktail cabinet gave her access to a brandy to steady her nerves.

  The first order of business when she arrived earlier had been an inspection of the damaged vault. The assurance of no personal casualties was a relief. Instructions for holding statements enabled three of the bank’s senior management to field the inevitable avalanche of press calls. More important was the calm handling of client concerns and determining the names of the affected security box holders. Banque Louvet opened its doors at the normal time. Incoming calls were held with a message that Mademoiselle Louvet would revert in due course.

  She sipped at the brandy and welcomed the pleasing burn at the back of her throat. The shaking hands steadied. Another, smaller gurgle from the brandy bottle almost brought a sense of normality. Almost.

  The direct line purred and the yellow light blinked. No more than a handful of people had access to that line. The tightness in her stomach told her which one she expected on the other end of it.

  “Hello.”

  She surprised herself how calm she sounded.

  “I’m sorry to hear of this morning’s inconvenience, my dear,” the man said.

  “Why did you have to do this, Xavier? Are you crazy?”

  “I tried to warn you, Francine. It’s not me. I have scant control over my associates. They say you should take the little firework display as a nudge.”

  “A nudge?”

  “Yes. A nudge. They say the next time will be for real. They expect to see some movement in the account by the end of the week. I’m sorry, I have to go. Au revoir.”

  “Wait…”

  The line cut.

  The chief executive officer of Banque Louvet slumped back heavily into her chair. The twitching in her hands began again.

  CHAPTER 2

  The intense darkness engulfed the dinghy. Wave after wave crashed heavily along the sides, the spray soaking the passengers. Four dozen people crammed into the craft as its grossly underpowered outboard engine struggled to make headway against the roiling water. The promised lifejackets had not appeared prior to setting off from the Libyan shoreline two hours earlier, but desperation to make the journey had overcome the hesitation to board. A new life beckoned at the end of the voyage. Several families and a few young, single men had clambered in and arranged themselves to balance the dinghy as they pushed off. The handlers told them the crossing would take no more than three hours. The safety of the coastline of Italy beckoned across the pitch-black night. Parents hugged the younger children tighter with words of reassurance they were almost there. With each successive pounding from the sea, many of the children began to cry.

  The sweeping searchlight from the approaching coastguard vessel picked them out just before the huge, rogue wave hit the craft broadsides. The slew of bodies from one side to the other was too much to keep it stable. The inevitable capsizing turned the dinghy upside down, pitching everyone aboard into the water. The screams were inaudible against the screeching wind as the crew on the cutter reacted as swiftly as they could.

  Less than fifteen passengers were pulled aboard alive. Deterioration in the weather made rescue efforts increasingly hazardous as the coastguard men retrieved seven bodies. An estimated further two dozen souls drowned. The captain decided further recovery was impossible after half an hour and headed back for the Italian shoreline.

  The waiting international news cameras recorded the next day’s photographs for the world’s consumption. They could barely capture the depth of the survivors’ horror.

  CHAPTER 3

  International Security Partners’ clientele base spread across most of Europe and many parts of Asia. Recognised in the industry by their initials, ISP, the specialised security firm run by former SAS officers, Glasgow-born Jack
Calder and Irishman Malky McGuire, had Jack’s Chinese wife, May-Ling as chief executive officer. The addition of another Scot, Donnie Mullen, as the fourth board member, brought to the firm his former experience in charge of the London Metropolitan Police Serious Crimes Division, combating crime, first in London, and latterly as Head of Anti-Triad activities in Hong Kong.

  The mid-morning call to May-Ling from France had Marcel Benoit at the other end of the line. The head of Interpol in Europe was a close friend of the firm.

  “Good morning, May-Ling. How’s my favourite security team doing these days?”

  “We’re all fine, thanks, Marcel. All the better for hearing from you. What can I do for you this morning?”

  “I’ll be in London for a couple of days later this week, and would appreciate catching up with you and the others, perhaps over dinner?”

  “You have an agenda, I’m sure?”

  “Yes. There’s a matter of some delicacy I’d want to discuss, but it can keep for a day or two. How does Wednesday evening at the Dorchester Grill room suit?”

  May-Ling had a quick glance at her desk diary.

  “Wednesday looks good,” she said. “And you want all the guys present?”

  “If possible, yes. I’ll see you there. Goodbye.”

  The private salon at the Dorchester Grill Room was equipped to hold a dozen diners with comfort. It needed only five place settings for Marcel Benoit’s visit. Similar to the main restaurant area, wall drapings of Royal Stewart tartan cloth and pictures of old Jacobean Scottish Highland scenes lent a warm ambience to the chamber. Matched by the impeccable service expected of one of London’s top fine dining haunts, the regular a la carte menu, purposely kept simple, with special requests catered for if required of course, was more than adequate to satisfy even the Frenchman’s discerning palate.

  May-Ling motioned to the waiting staff to clear the dessert plates and fill the coffee cups. She joined Marcel in the choice of an excellent Courvoisier brandy. The other three ISP partners each indulged a large measure of a peaty single malt. Only Malky McGuire added a splash of water. The two Scotsmen deigned not to mess with the malt, declaring it impossible to improve upon, even with water.

  Jack rose and closed the door behind the retreating waiter, with a nod to indicate no disturbance until summoned again, please.

  “A fine meal, in the most splendid company,” said Benoit addressing his hostess. “I really should visit London more often, my dear.”

  “You know you need no formal invitation from us,” said May-Ling. “It’s wonderful as ever to see you, whether for pleasure or business. You mentioned there may be some of the latter to share with us?”

  “Yes. A couple of things, which may or not be interrelated. You can judge for yourselves.”

  “Sounds intriguing,” said Donnie, leaning back in his chair. “Do tell.”

  “There is, as I also mentioned on the phone, a certain measure of delicacy involved. I’m sure you’ve seen the news last week of the explosion in Banque Louvet’s headquarter vaults.”

  “We did catch that,” said Jack. “We saw the usual press statement nonsense about the probable cause being some electrical fault in the basement wiring. Luxembourg is not a centre of discreet banking for nothing. No financial institution there would have Mickey Mouse wiring, especially with all the security protocols they’re bound to have in the vaults.”

  May-ling added to her husband’s comment. “We wondered who’s looking after their security. Nobody hurt, we heard.”

  “Correct. No casualties except perhaps the Bank’s reputation. It doesn’t sit well with clients when damage is done in the most confidential part of the building, even if it’s only accidental,” said Benoit, sipping his brandy. “Their premises security is handled by a reliable outfit, a good name you’d recognise easily. However, there may be a separate kind of contract available to ISP, if you’re interested?”

  “We’d welcome your recommendations at any time,” said May-Ling. “Your issue of delicacy means there’s something far deeper to look at, right?”

  The head of Interpol smiled.

  “Your wife is always at least one step ahead, Jack, eh?”

  “Wouldn’t work any other way,” said the Scotsman. “Refills anybody?”

  The others offered their glasses except May-Ling. Jack retrieved the Scotch and brandy bottles from the side table and poured generously for each of them.

  Benoit swirled the Courvoisier in his right hand and leaned forward.

  “The evening after the incident at the bank, I received a personal call from Pierre Louvet. He’s an old friend who knew my father well. He needed some advice. Pierre’s the chairman of the bank. His only child, Francine, is the chief executive officer. His conversation was disturbing. His daughter has never married. She’s in her mid-forties now, an elegant woman, perhaps a touch aloof in her style. She’s run the bank since she was thirty-two. And managed it well by all accounts.”

  “Married to the bank?” asked Donnie Mullen.

  “Pretty much that way. It would seem she hasn’t been without admirers. The gossip magazines from time to time have carried subtle allusions to an arm’s-length relationship, but not naming her directly, of course. It’s the way these magazines thrive. Innuendo and suggestion. They keep stories and rumours alive forever.”

  “Excuse my Paddy thickness,” said Malky, “but does her havin’ a wee personal affair goin’ on the side mean somebody’s hittin’ her bank?”

  “Indirectly, maybe so, Malky. Francine confided in her father the evening before the vault was struck that she’d found herself in what she called ‘a situation.’ Over the past two years she’s been romantically involved with a man called Xavier Nante. He claimed to be fronting a group of wealthy investors and introduced substantial investment funds into Banque Louvet. Unhappily for them, the lion’s share of these funds was invested in sub-prime paper.”

  “Ye’ve lost me already,” said Malky. “What’s sub-prime paper?”

  May-ling interceded. “Simply stated, sub-prime is the massive cause of the credit crunch across the globe in the past several years. Huge amounts of sub-standard mortgages and borrowers’ loans, billions of dollars’ worth, were parcelled up and given what was described as protective guarantee wrap-arounds from the major international banks and insurance companies. When the music stopped and these had to be repaid, redeemed, it caused the hell of a domino effect in every international financial market. A huge crash. Fortunes vanished overnight and most of the big international banks went running for cover, some unsuccessfully.”

  “How d’ye know this stuff?” asked Malky.

  “I’m from Hong Kong. What’s not to know about money markets?”

  “Thanks for the lesson in world finance, sweetheart,” said Jack. “So, how does that impact Banque Louvet, Marcel?”

  “Francine’s relationship with Nante has soured recently. He threatened her if the losses his syndicate incurred weren’t recouped, he couldn’t be held responsible for the consequences.”

  “Let me guess,” said Donnie. “My cop’s instinct tells me he’s blackmailing her and smacking the bank at the same time?”

  “It looks that way,” said Benoit. “There’s another wrinkle or two yet. Anyone could do a search on how wealthy the Louvet family is. Pierre himself is conservatively worth seven to eight hundred million dollars, net. Francine’s net worth is possibly close to that amount, too, much of it in shares of the bank. Here’s the rub. Nante has recommended to Francine to use her influence within the managed investment accounts in the bank’s private client portfolios to make adjustments across several accounts to cover his syndicate’s money.”

  “You mean stealing funds from other people’s accounts to make up his losses? Is that possible?” asked May-Ling.

  “Maybe. But obviously highly illegal and would result in a lengthy prison sentence for embezzlement and fraud if his daughter ever did it and was found out. Not to mention the total discrediti
ng of the Louvet family name and certain ruin for Pierre also.”

  “Did she even consider doing this?” asked Donnie.

  “Not for a moment,” said Benoit. “Foolish she may have been in her dalliance with this hoodlum, but the Louvet family values are impeccable. That’s why she told her father the other night what’s going on.”

  “How much are Nante’s group’s losses?” asked May-Ling.

  “Francine estimates around two hundred and eighty million dollars.”

  Jack and Malky gave a concerted whistle.

  “How did he expect the rest of the bank’s portfolio to absorb these kind of numbers?” asked Donnie.

  “It wouldn’t be as far-fetched as you think,” said Benoit. “The bank’s clients’ managed investment accounts run into the several tens of billions. Auditors would probably eventually find any such fraud, but it could take perhaps a few years to uncover. Many clients trust the management of their money to the bank with absolute discretion.”

  “Man, I wish I had that kinda problem wi’ my money,” said Malky.

  The others’ laughter broke the solemnity in the room.

  “Which brings us back to why International Security Partners, Marcel?” said May-Ling.

  “Pierre and I agreed this mob are capable of anything after arranging to place an explosive device in their vaults. We feel Francine’s life is in danger now.”

  “And possibly her father’s life,” said Jack.

  “Yes indeed. I had to point that out to him, too, but his primary concern is for his daughter’s safety and, of course, the integrity of the bank. There are employees there to be considered also. I recommended he consult with you on how best to proceed. If you’re agreeable, he’d like to meet you the day after tomorrow.”

  “Agreed,” said May-Ling. “Now what’s the other wrinkle you haven’t told us about yet?”