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

  “Yes, I’ve seen the headlines. I thought you might be involved with some of the names, and half-expected your call. How can I help?”

  “A couple of things to get us going would be good. Here’s my initial thinking.” Over the next twenty minutes the former officers chatted as Jules laid out his observations. Mac interrupted only twice with some thoughts of his own.

  “Okay, leave it with me. I’ll get back to you as soon as I’ve something relevant to tell you.”

  “Thanks. We’ll be in touch.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Conversation in most of the offices in the financial district spun around the horrific atrocities a few kilometres away across the city. In the dealing rooms of stockbrokers and bankers, the share price fluctuations on the trading screens reflected the guesses and estimates of losses incurred and potential liabilities of many insurance companies, some accurate, most, as usual, magnified by rumour.

  The safest place to hide something is right under the noses of those looking for it.

  The barred doors clicked behind the men, leaving them alone with the banker in the security area, three floors beneath the traffic in Lombard Street. The routine was simple. The officer had one set of operational keys to the boxes, the client had another. A third copy in a vault in the bank’s remote premises thirty kilometres from London, served as back-up in case either of these sets were lost or stolen. The men each carried small suitcases of a reddish-brown, Moroccan leather, with numbered dial locks.

  The bank man located the box registered on his control sheet, inserted the key and tapped in the code. The taller client replicated the action with his own and the separate number sequence. The empty security space swung open. The banker retrieved his key and retired from the room, leaving his customers in private.

  As a matter of bank policy to provide absolute privacy to depositing clients, no CCTV cameras scanned this protected area. If there had been cameras, they would have captured the transfer from the small suitcases of a series of cloth-covered packages, bound tight with black cord. These filled the deposit box almost to capacity. The door re-locked with the single sequence repeated by the client before buzzing the connecting line to release the inner gate. The whole procedure lasted no more than eight minutes. The officer noted the times in and out and had the tall man initial the entries.

  The transaction was the first in the banker’s shift, as he covered the stretch from eight in the morning until relieved by an overnight watch colleague at six in the evening. Several other clients visited the vaults during the course of the morning and early afternoon, most of whom he recognised by face or by name. The clock ticked through lunchtime and two more customers appeared at the ante-room, tendering the number of another of the large boxes. This matched with his register and the procedure repeated anew. These were not the individuals who started his day for him. The deposit box also differed. While they proceeded with their business, something familiar occurred to the vault caretaker. He was sure the small, Moroccan leather suitcases were the identical ones carried by the morning visitors. Nothing illegal in that. Nevertheless, he made a mental note matching the numbers as the clients departed the vaults.

  Two incidents like that may have been coincidence, but at five-thirty, a third pair of men arrived, with the key to a different space, with the same suitcases. After they left, the officer wrote down the sequence of numbers of the three depositary registrations. The six men appeared well-dressed and polite, with a distinctly foreign accent on each occasion, the origin of which eluded him. Perhaps he’d refer this later to his superior. He’d choose his time to do that. In the meantime, he checked the details again. They were opened in a trio of separate, corporate-holder names over a period of two weeks – less than a month before the deposits.

  Clients have many reasons to maintain security boxes, perhaps some of which rested in the shadows of propriety, but were of no direct concern to the bank unless formal, legal enquiries made it so. A perfectly valid explanation for the unusual sequence of visits the officer witnessed probably existed, but it niggled him.

  Well, it isn’t my job to play the snooping sleuth. Best just stick to the standard policy. Customer confidentiality is paramount and all that. Nearly knocking-off time, out for a beer, then the subway home. They’ll be showing a replay of the big match later.

  The shadow was still there, the seed planted firmly in his mind. He’d look out for these names again.

  CHAPTER 4

  Deryk Ostman, third-generation owner of Gemtec, the second-largest gems and jewellery firm in the Netherlands, had entrusted his group’s world-wide security to ISP some years earlier. The faith in Jules and his team back then was reinforced with the successful undercover operation resolving a series of deadly robbery attacks on Gemtec by a Chinese triad organisation in the Netherlands and Hong Kong. The Dutchman was a strong, hands-on owner of the business and, as Jules had surmised and Malky’s call had confirmed, the gem merchant’s immediate reaction to the news was to fly to London immediately.

  “Deryk’s got Chuck Morrow with him for this meeting,” said Jules, as he and Jack crossed the foyer of the Dorchester Hotel in Park Lane.

  “Who’s he?”

  “He’s the chief executive of Quantum Re-Insurance Group, one of the world’s biggest. They’ve large-scale business interests in New York and here in London. Might be some opportunity for ISP if we play our cards right,” he said, pressing the button for Ostman’s floor. “He’s also the chairman of the Society of Re-Insurance Groups, so I’m sure he’s feeling a lot of weight on his shoulders today. His members’ll be screaming at him for action.”

  Jack grunted. “Understood.”

  They stepped out of the elevator and turned left on the plush carpeting leading towards the Dutchman’s suite. The expensive wall-hangings in the corridors reinforced the understated elegance of the hotel. The ‘Do Not Disturb’ notice circled the doorknob, but Jules ignored it and pressed the doorbell. A faint chime echoed from inside. A few seconds later, the owner of Gemtec opened the door and greeted his visitors.

  “Jack, Jules, hello. Come in please,” he said, moving aside to let them enter a large sitting-room. The double-sized windows overlooking Hyde Park filled the place with light but kept out the traffic noise from the road below. A strong aroma of coffee indicated a percolator on the side cabinet near the leather-backed armchairs, with some used cups on the central table. A lanky figure turned from the window to face them. Dressed in a well-tailored business suit, a buttoned-down collared, blue shirt offset with a badly-matched tie, the semi-balding boss of Quantum Re-Insurance scowled across the room.

  “You the security guys? It’s been twenty-four hours since this shit went down. What’ve you people done so far? What’ve you got for me?” The aggression in the unmistakably American accent matched the rising volume.

  Jules spoke before Deryk Ostman could intervene with any formal introductions.

  “I presume you’re Chuck Morrow. I’m Jules Townsend. I run International Security Partners. Let me be clear. We aren’t contracted with you, nor your firm, so what we’ve got for you is precisely nothing. As far as what we’re doing about this, as you ask, that’s a matter between our clients, including Mister Ostman here, and some others involved in the mess yesterday.” Jules raised his voice a little more. “In case you hadn’t noticed, Mister Morrow, several people lost their lives in the attacks along with massive robbery on a scale hardly seen in this country or any other. The police authorities quite correctly are the primary respondents to these crimes. I consider it’s of no direct concern to you what ISP’s position is in all of this, but we’re satisfied our protocols in each of our clients’ premises matched the expectations and standards in our undertakings with them. These contracts don’t envisage attacks of the type that hit them yesterday. I can understand as a re-insurer you and your fellow groups stand obliged to cover the losses incurred, and you’re probably more concerned right now about covering personal and corporate
asses than the people killed. Do I make myself clear?”

  Jules held the American’s eyes in a hard stare, before the executive shook his head and blustered, “You’ve no idea the kind of money we’re talking about here. The last count is half a billion dollars and rising.”

  Deryk Ostman leaned forward signalling with his palms downwards for tempers to cool down. “Gentlemen, gentlemen. Please. Chuck, Jules is right. Nobody could’ve foreseen yesterday’s events. Gemtec has worked with ISP for several years, and I can assure you these guys are the best in the business.”

  Jack glanced at his boss, noting his totally relaxed body language and allowed himself a little inner smile. Jules Townsend backed down to nobody.

  Morrow’s eyes darted everywhere around the room. For a few moments nothing was said, then he sat down heavily on the chair nearest to the window. His shoulders slumped.

  “I’m sorry. Completely sorry,” he said. “I’m not usually such a prick. I haven’t slept a wink since yesterday. My re-insurance partners have been on the phone non-stop the last twenty-four hours. Look, Quantum itself is into this for probably a coupla hundred million. It’s a ton of money, but we’ve had these kinda hits before. We can ride with that. It’s just…it’s just…” his voice tailed away.

  Ostman spoke for him. “Jules, the lady attacked in Moertens yesterday, Martha Compton, died of her injuries early this morning. She was Chuck’s sister-in-law.”

  Jack blew out his cheeks softly.

  No wonder the guy was stressed.

  He looked over at Jules. His boss walked across to the American and gripped his shoulder.

  “No apologies needed. We’re sorry about Mrs Compton, truly sorry.”

  “Would you like a Scotch?” Ostman asked Morrow.

  “No thanks. I need a clear head today. Better with some more coffee.”

  “Allow me,” said Jack, bringing the pot over. The atmosphere in the room had completely reversed. Chuck Morrow braced his shoulders, the chief executive persona reinstated.

  “Deryk has told me about you guys, Mister Townsend.”

  “Jules.”

  “Jules. I think it might be useful for us to discuss with our members a paid role for ISP in this. The police’ll do a good job, I’m sure, but from everything Deryk’s shared, I think your skills and methods may be what’s needed in this.”

  “A move like that would be sensible, gentlemen. From observations on site yesterday, I can tell you we’re dealing with some clever operators. An extra layer of investigation might produce results a lot quicker. When will you let us know?”

  “We’re seeing the others after this meeting. We’ll revert to you in a day or two if that’s okay?”

  “Fine, we’ll talk to you then,” said the ISP chief, rising to his feet and making for the door. “We’ve some other stuff to take care of. Thanks for the coffee.”

  ***

  “Slick as hell, sir. The planning must’ve taken months,” said DCI Granger, placing the early report sheets across Alan Rennie’s desk. “The council tapes they used to seal off the street were real. So far, all the witnesses can tell us is every attacker had a white lab coat and wore an animal mask. We’ve run the initial films from the external CCTVs from the night before the hits. They’re too obscure to pinpoint faces, but they show a team of guys setting up the streamers and getting the explosive packets on to the doorways. Easy enough with adhesive. At this stage, from the four or five we’ve been able to zoom in on, it seems they even had the devices matched to the door frame colours. Almost impossible to spot unless you were specifically looking for them. We’re scoping the internal CCTV stuff now and should be done by tonight.”

  The Assistant Commissioner nodded. “What about the ambulances?”

  “They were from four different hospital services, all with large fleets. One ambulance from each went missing last week, not enough to raise any big alarms at the time. Who’d think of nicking ambulances, sir? Anyway, two turned up already, one in Hackney, and one in Kensington. No doubt the other pair will surface soon enough. The forensic lads are crawling all over the ones we’ve got.”

  “Fatalities?”

  “We’re up to twenty as of this morning. Something else to note, sir. These bastards fired at will. It strikes me they knew they were working to a tight timetable and nothing was going to stop them.”

  “Among the villains we know, any ideas at this stage who this crew might’ve been?”

  “None, sir. No local heavies are this good. A couple of the big lads from up north use shooters but not on this scale. Besides, they’re not usually into knocking over jewel stores.”

  Rennie leaned back in his chair. “The Anti-Terrorist guys are picking their way through this lot, too. Let’s see what they come up with.”

  “Ah, yes. On that score, sir, you remember Jules Townsend and Jack Calder turned up yesterday with Paul Manning? Jules told me he doesn’t think this is anything to do with terrorism. Heists are not on the usual agenda for terrorists, he says. Can’t say I disagree with him.”

  His chief smiled. “Not much gets past Jules Townsend. I suggest you might want to keep close to him and Donnie Mullen on an informal basis.”

  “Will do, sir.” As he left the Assistant Commissioner’s office, Bob Granger guessed his boss would welcome the balance ISP could provide to offset the heavy-duty head-banging bound to come from the sessions with the official Anti-Terrorist spooks.

  CHAPTER 5

  He flitted from one passport name to another as easily as changing his clothing. For twenty years a steady stream of assignments fed his bank accounts well. He had more than enough to retire on in comparative luxury, but the money wasn’t the reason he did this. From his first foray into the shadows, he’d relished the thrill of killing. The game. The chess moves. Creative ways of getting the job done. His aliases were known only to a handful of people and contact with, and from, him difficult. Every step was made obscure, contracting his services a long process. He always delivered, this latest stroke his best ever. New Bond Street had lost a fortune. Now, two days after the attacks, the bank account showed a further twelve million added to the upfront fee of three million dollars. His paymaster on this job was well-pleased.

  The strong caffeine hit compensated for the coffee’s lack of taste. He finished the cup and neatly folded the newspaper before putting it back on the breakfast table. The three-star hotel in Kensington didn’t match his tidiness. He always used a different place to stay in London, and never at the high-visibility hotels. The waiter brought the check, which he paid with cash, leaving a modest tip. Nothing too much, nothing too small, never anything to stick in somebody’s mind after he’d gone. He rose from the table and made his way out of the restaurant to the front desk to settle his bill, also paid in cash. The limp in his left leg was hardly noticeable as he walked across a foyer carpet that had seen better days. The guest turnover in these hotels was high. One man with a slight limp wouldn’t be front of mind for anyone.

  He boarded the taxi with the small, black trolley-case holding what little luggage he’d brought on this trip.

  “Where to, mate?” asked the driver.

  “Heathrow.”

  “What terminal? Who you flying with today, Guv?”

  “Terminal Four. Air Canada,” he lied.

  The journey to the airport took the usual forty minutes, filled by the cab driver chatting non-stop about the bombings in the West End.

  “Bad business, Guv. Nobody’s claimed credit yet. Unusual. The nutters are usually spoutin’ all over the news claimin’ dibs on it, but nothin’ so far. On the telly last night the cops don’t seem to be sayin’ nuthin’ either. Really bad business, eh?”

  He grunted in reply at intervals in the driver’s diatribe. They drew up opposite the entrance to Terminal Four and he handed over a few notes.

  “Thanks, Guv. Enjoyed the chat, have a good flight.”

  The driver waved. The taxi disappeared and he made his way into the buildi
ng. A left turn took him to the elevators leading to the floor level for the connection to Terminal Three. A few minutes later he presented his ticket for the British Airways flight to Gibraltar, homeward bound. The other pieces of the plan he’d outlined to the paymaster were about to be set into play.

  ***

  The two shift partners made the handover to the relief-duty men just before midnight, and ambled along the alleyway to the food stalls. The dai pai dongs, the licensed street vendors, crammed with customers, even at this hour. The owner of the pitch beckoned as the pair approached, pointing to the prawn fritters and cha sui pork strips. In double-quick time, a couple of plates appeared on the table to the side of the stall, backed up with small tripod stools. Two bowls of steamed rice and glasses of dark, jasmine tea completed the order. The street crackled with noise from the other stalls lining both sides of the roadway, a mixture of loud, Cantonese voices and a hodgepodge blend of local music channels blaring from the vendors’ radios.

  A motorbike roared into the street. The rider and his armed, pillion passenger wore hoods. The burst from the Uzi submachine gun ripped into the two patrons and the stall owner, splaying their bodies across the wooden counter, scattering the uncooked meats and fish pieces to the ground. No-one else was targeted. The reaction from the startled bystanders and nearby customers was rapid and instinctive. They disappeared as quickly as possible. Nobody wanted to be around if these guys came back, or when the police arrived.

  The market had lost a seller. The other two victims would no longer be serving ISP Hong Kong’s office as security guards. A posse of street cats cleaned up the food bounty littering the pavement. Very little goes to waste in Hong Kong.

  ***

  She cleared the paperwork into the filing drawers and locked them for the night, the month-end accounts for ISP’s Berlin office completed. These past few evenings had meant a bit of overtime work to get them done, but had paid off. Tomorrow she’d print them out and start the next month’s client invoices. Her husband wouldn’t mind her being a little late getting the dinner ready when she got home, as he understood how much she enjoyed her job as head of accounting.