SAVAGE PAYBACK (Jack Calder Crime Series #3) Read online




  SAVAGE PAYBACK

  A Jack Calder Novel

  Seumas Gallacher

  Copyright 2013

  UK Copyright Service

  Registered number 284674039

  ISBN 978-1-910262-03-0

  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:

  Savage Payback

  Vengeance Wears Black

  The Violin Man’s Legacy

  Killer City

  Deadly Impasse (mid-2016)

  Savage Payback

  A Jack Calder Novel

  CHAPTER 1

  The walk from Green Park subway station took her five or six minutes each morning, depending on pedestrian traffic. This Tuesday was no different, except when she reached the junction with Piccadilly, the place was deserted. New Bond Street empty of vehicles was an unusual sight for Martha Compton. The normal daily clutter of cars and delivery vans had gone. Instead, yellow streamers taped off both sides of the street for a distance of a hundred metres. ‘No parking’ notices accompanied official roadwork signs from the local council to lay new underground pipes scheduled to start later in the day. Martha smiled.

  Wouldn’t it be nice if they did this every day?

  At eight-thirty almost to the second, she stopped in front of the security-locked entrance to the branch of Moertens, keys in hand, knowing the timer on the door would release at the same time. Two of her staff waited for her, as well as the pin-striped security guard for the shop, the prestigious London branch of the Swiss-based jewellery chain. Around her, several of her peers, managers of similar high-value premier chains, attended to their own outlets. Official opening times varied among the dozen or so branches here, the centre for the high value retail gems and jewellery business in London.

  For the first hour of the routine work-day, staff retrieved merchandise from the inner vaults at the rear of the premises, made a double-person auditing on the tally stock sheets, and arranged the goods in the display counters, an art in itself. It wasn’t normal to expect any clientele before mid-morning, after which New Bond Street busied with an assortment of potential customers, some with specific outlets in mind, others bustling from shop to shop, the ‘jackdaw buyers’ in trade parlance. None of these included purchasers from the low-spend range. A maximum of two or three clients were permitted entry at the same time in any one outlet. The electronic security locks controlled from inside the shops, released only to permit client buyers to enter and exit. The sun broke through the dark-tinged, morning rain clouds making the glare of reflected sunlight from the dampened street intrusive to the eye. Inside Moertens, Martha glanced up at the wall behind her to the oversized central display timepiece decked in diamonds and rubies ticking round to touch ten o’clock.

  “We might be in for a fine day after all,” she said to her assistant.

  She never heard the response. A huge explosion erupted, ripping the front door from its hinges. The layered, reinforced entrance shattered into hundreds of pieces of malicious, glass shrapnel. The impact of the air compression from the blast stunned Martha’s eardrums as she took in the horrifying vision of a man’s bloodied arm enclosed in a pin-striped sleeve flying past her face. The security guard died instantly. She didn’t know eleven neighbouring outlets were suffering the same fate. The shopping avenue transformed in seconds, resembling a blitzed war zone. A dozen simultaneous devices triggered at precisely ten o’clock had blown open the finest gems stores in London.

  Moments after the blasts, four ambulances convoyed into the street, stopping twenty-five metres apart. From the rear of each vehicle, teams of men appeared, dressed in doctors’ white lab coats and carrying leather medical-bags. They paired off to their target stores. Martha Compton’s mind, reeling from the explosion, was further confused when the white-coated twins entered the shop. Her muddled thinking didn’t understand the half-man, half-animal faces hid masked men. The intruders opened the bags and removed heavy mallets and pistols. The first man smashed the glass display top as Martha looked on in further astonishment. She reached forward to stop the attacker wielding the hammer, her courage answered with a blow to the face, smashing several bones and cracking her skull at the forehead. Unconscious, she crumpled in a heap to the carpet. The assailant stepped over her body to join his mate, continuing to smash the display counters, before clearing the jewellery pieces into their bags.

  The looting repeated in every one of the shops, before the gang retraced their steps into the ambulances. They drove off while the sound of police sirens whaahh-whaahhed along Piccadilly, summoned by several internal alarms connected automatically to central security agencies. A slew of dead bodies littered the street where various front-door guard personnel had perished. Not all the stores were ablaze, but thick, black smoke billowed from some, the only sound the raucous concert of the fire alarms.

  The SCO19, London Met’s Special Crime and Ops teams arrived as reports of multiple bombings hit the newswires. The devastation meeting the first responders brought instant recall of recent terrorist atrocities in the capital. Not reminiscent was the report of four ambulances already at the scene as the attacks progressed and disappearing afterwards. The initial death count of eighteen rose over the ensuing week to a further five.

  The value of the merchandise stolen from the twelve stores later tallied at over seven hundred million dollars, the largest single event loss in the industry’s history.

  CHAPTER 2

  In the offices of International Security Partners less than a kilometer away in the West End, Jack Calder received the first message of something major developing in New Bond Street. Jack, an ex-SAS officer, and two former commando colleagues, Jules Townsend and Malky McGuire, comprised the core team of the specialist security firm better known as ISP. Jules was the founder and chief executive of the company. Malky had been recruited at the same time as Jack when they’d demobbed together. They were all adept in undercover, black operations, but the professional face to the world covered the efficient movement and safeguarding of high-value merchandise and personnel across the globe. Three of their client companies were among those attacked, including Moertens.

  Jack summoned the other partners into the boardroom and relayed the information he’d just received.

  “Sounds like a helluva commotion. Multiple hits on stores both side of the street. Bluudy mayhem,” his Scots burr announced.

  Nothing ever seemed to disrupt Jules Townsend’s outwardly calm command manner.

  “You and I’ll get down there now,” he said. “Malky, you man the phones here. Call Paul Manning and tell him to join us. We need him to talk to his SCO19 pals to find out what he can from them. We cover Moertens as well as Cromleys and the Gemtec outlets. That’s reason enough for us to stick our noses in. Try to contact their chief executives.”

  “On it,” said Malky as his mates picked up thei
r jackets and headed out. Jack held the door ajar, waiting for Jules to follow him.

  Malky’s large fist dwarfed the telephone as he tapped in the number for Paul Manning. Manning had recently joined ISP direct from his former post as Head of Serious Crimes in the Metropolitan Police in London. The mobile line rang a couple of times before he picked up on the call.

  “Paul here. What’s up?”

  “Hi, mate,” the Irish brogue sang into his ear. “There’s a stramash goin’ down over in New Bond Street. Bombs, jewellery shops blown apart. The lads’ve just left. Jules says he’d like ye with them, tae tickle the ears of yer old chums in the SCO19 squad.”

  “I’m on my way. Catch you later.”

  The calls to the top men at Moertens and Cromleys connected immediately. Malky informed them ISP was already on site and they’d be kept in the loop for updates during the day. Each communication was short and to the point. ISP wanted to know how much value they estimated on site at the time of the robberies. And background details on all members of staff, although unlikely anyone in the stores would have been stupid enough to be involved and be hanging around when the explosives went off. Malky knew Jules Townsend’s penchant for detail. Any absentees or delayed arrival of personnel? The police would check for the same things, but ISP needed to be at least as far up the curve.

  Deryk Ostman, the chief executive and owner of Gemtec, the third name on the list, was based in Amsterdam. ISP had a strong relationship personally and corporately with Ostman and his company, having successfully protected them against a major hijacking campaign several years earlier. Malky was unable to speak to Ostman. His assistant told him her boss was already on the way to the airport for a flight to London after hearing the news.

  Typical of him, thought the Irishman.

  Heavy cordons blocked off Piccadilly up to fifty metres left and right from the entrance to New Bond Street. Despite the security designation on ISP’s Range Rover, access was denied. The orders were explicit, no vehicles other than medical responders and police authorised to enter the zone. Jules and Jack produced their identity cards and waited a couple of minutes before a uniformed sergeant waved them through on foot. The former SAS men had seen similar destruction many times before, but seldom in a First World setting. The devices which blew the doors shattered several front windows and debris was strewn across the pavements. Rescue ambulances lined up at the end of the street, with teams of paramedics fully engaged tending survivors, some with severe wounds, others suffering little more than shock and superficial cuts. Jack noted at least three bodies on the roadway covered with sheets, waiting for police clearance to move them to the morgue. Beyond any life-saving help, these corpses were now technically evidence. SCO19 and bomb squad members systematically moved from one outlet to the next, ensuring no surprise delayed detonations.

  Jules pointed to the Moertens branch, the third store in from the junction. As they approached, stretcher-bearers exited the charred opening, tatters of an elegant marble and wood doorway. They stepped aside allowing Martha Compton to be carried to the end of the street and a waiting ambulance. The paramedics walked alongside with medical drips attached to her arms. She was still unconscious.

  “Morning, lads.” Paul Manning entered the shop.

  The former cop, well known to the police officers on site, hadn’t needed to show his identity card. He peered at the remains of the entrance to Moertens. Having led SCO19 teams in the past, he was familiar with the after-effects of bomb blasts.

  “Usual damage from a Semtex explosion,” he said, pointing towards the streaks of black charring spearing outward in radials from where the primer had attached to the bottom of the door. “Channelled like that, as easy as opening a tin of sardines.”

  “Yes,” said Jules. “It’s a professional job. I’ll bet the other taps are exactly like this. We’ll check them in a while. This took some helluva planning.”

  “These display tops are pretty thick glass,” said Jack. “It would need heavy hammers to get through them.” He waved towards the ceiling. “The CCTV cameras up on the corners look undamaged. The sooner we eyeball what’s on them the better.” He stepped back across where matted blood stained the deep, green carpeting.

  “Hello, Paul,” came a voice from the doorway. DCI Bob Granger from the Metropolitan Police stood framed against the outside glare. “These your clients? Hi, Jules, Jack.”

  He nodded to the others. Granger had worked a major case with ISP in the past, his respect for all three in the room mutually reciprocated.

  “Yes they are,” said Jack. “So are Comptons and the Gemtec store. Okay if we keep looking? We’ll not disturb your men.”

  “No problem. I think we’re gonna need a lot of help. A terrorist hit like this’ll get attention from the top. Wouldn’t be surprised if the Government specialist undercover boys are on the way here even as we speak.”

  “They’d be wasting their time,” said Jules. “This doesn’t have the stamp of one of those. Tell me the last jewellery heist you heard of being a job for terrorists?”

  “Hmm. Point taken. Anyway, I’m sure the spooks’ll be crawling all over us with this. Well, you know the drill, guys. Don’t touch or move anything. If you’re asked to clear out, refer my name. You’re good,” said Granger, moving towards the exit.

  “Thanks, mate,” said Manning. “We’ll catch up with you soon.”

  Martha Compton’s surviving staff had been escorted earlier from the store. A beat policeman stood at the devastated entrance. Jules would have to wait to interview them after the official questioning. Along the street, similar officers were stationed on guard, some helping with the injured, others ensuring the forensic squads were unobstructed in their work. As Jack led the way to Comptons and then to the Gemtec store to survey the damage in each of these sites he took in the familiar, eerie silence blanketing the scene. He pictured the screaming and terrified shouting surrounding the place in the minutes after the explosions. That had given way to a subdued bustle as the paramedic teams and the forensics went about their business. The usual crowd of reporters and television crews, corralled at either ends of the barricades in Piccadilly, found no direct access to New Bond Street. Above them hovered two press helicopters, one local and one international. The carnage would be screened on live feed constantly for the next few days.

  The same radial markings on the entrance walls to Comptons and Gemtec showed the devices had been attached at the point of most vulnerability at the base of each door, just above the bottom hinges. Identical routines with the mallets in every store bore all the indications of first class rehearsal.

  Jules pursed his lips and nodded to Jack. “I think we’re done here. Let’s have a word with Bob before we leave.”

  Jack had worked with Jules for so long, he picked up on the look on his boss’ face, coupled with the furrowed brow. Jules had caught something. As usual, he’d share whatever it was in his own time, probably back in the office.

  DCI Granger was in conversation with a new arrival, distinguished by the silver braiding on his cap, the Assistant Commissioner of Police, Alan Rennie. Another friend of the security firm, the head cop had tracked the same early career as ISP’s own Donnie Mullen, each of them highly respected law enforcement men cut from the traditional, tough, Scottish detective mould. Both had come from Dundee in Scotland to London. As the up and coming Head of Serious Crimes Division, known as the Flying Squad back then, Mullen had built a reputation as an uncompromising nemesis to the London criminal gangs, many of whom he had busted. A successful spell followed as chief of the Anti-Triad Unit in Hong Kong, before accepting early retirement to join Jules Townsend’s outfit with responsibility for continental European operations. His close pal, Alan Rennie’s rise through the ranks to his current position in the Met was equally stellar.

  “Hello, Alan,” Paul Manning addressed his former superior officer. “Bloody battleground this one, eh?”

  “Too right. More than a dozen fatalities so far
, and from what we can gather, a king’s ransom in gear taken. You guys’ve checked out your own clients?” asked Rennie, shaking his head as another sheet-covered body passed by on a stretcher.

  “Yes we have,” said Jules. “These are professional scores, Alan. I’d like to get copies of the CCTV film. ISP might be able to help your people.”

  “I’ll try what I can with the tapes. Meantime, I’ve got to go talk with the undercover lads. That’ll be a bundle of laughs. See you boys later.”

  Like all of them, the Assistant Commissioner had a difficult and busy day ahead.

  Jules rang the private number for the new Stirling Lines at Credenhill in Hereford, the headquarters of the SAS. It was picked up on the first ring.

  “Hello,” said the polished voice.

  “Hi, Mac. Jules here. How’s your day?”

  “Going well, Jules. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  Only a few people including Jules enjoyed access to Mac’s direct line. Their close friendship dated back many years, to before Mac had lost his left arm in a grenade attack during a clean-up operation in Burma. Active intervention from Jules had persuaded the SAS to retain his fellow Major in the capacity of official record-keeper of all things relating to his beloved fighting division. His family name had long since eased into the background, but Mac’s uncanny ability to surface facts and connections across the globe was legendary. Over several years, he’d developed his own cross-reference system on an old-fashioned computer, steadfastly refusing to be tempted into the latest new-fangled gadgetry. There was no better disciple of the ‘if it works, don’t fix it’ school.

  “I’m sure you’ve heard the news about the attacks in New Bond Street.”