Hard Place (19 page)

The AC shrugged, obviously frustrated. “Tell me about it. Him and hundreds, thousands of others globally. I attended a meeting in Washington where their narcotics guys almost cried on my shoulder.”

“And you cried on theirs?”

“More or less. Law enforcement wanted poppy crops destroyed from the air, killing off 90% of the world supply. The local population would have been compensated in some way. But the Pentagon was hostile, just like MoD.”

“You mentioned 2006. What about today?”

“Real politik has won. The war is ending but three times, I repeat, three times as many poppies are grown today as in 2001. Nobody wanted bodybags returning to the USA or UK. Lives of our troops depended on what the military chiefs out there recommend. Their voices held sway.” A resigned shrug said the rest.

“So Shirafi rules!” Ratso’s sucked-in cheeks and steady eyes made him look unusually rat-like. “Corruption wins while we fight a drugs war that could have been killed stone dead in Helmand.”

“There’s a report saying British troops themselves were active in opium trading. I don’t buy that but it might be true.”

Ratso’s anger was mounting. “There’s more spin than from Shane Warne’s leg-breaks.”

“That’s politics. It might be spin. But look at the stats.” He swivelled the monitor.

Ratso absorbed the summary in a few seconds. “So 7,000 tons of opium sold by growers at about £100 a kilo becomes about 1,000 tons of heroin worth around £4,000 a kilo on the European market.”

“And the traffickers pocket around a billion.” Hughes turned back the monitor as if to close the conversation.

“Here’s to Zandro’s next jet!”

Wensley Hughes’ gave a resigned nod as he drained his coffee and topped them both up again. “Ironic, isn’t it? You want me to turn a blind eye to Bardici’s murders because of the bigger picture—bringing down the entire Zandro empire, including Shirafi. Yet you don’t sympathise with our military bosses, who turned a blind eye on Shirafi for their bigger picture of defeating the Taliban.”

“Are you saying we are defeating the Taliban, sir?” Ratso was rewarded with a glance that said touché. “Rock and a hard place, then.”

“You may be right. But where does this leave us? The Lance Ruthven link is pure speculation but must be investigated. Whatever you prove, when it comes to it, our political masters may want a cover-up, dancing to the US president’s tune.”

“Ah, yes. The special relationship between our two nations that means we are special if we follow the Yanks blindly but meaningless if we need their support.” Ratso saw Wensley Hughes was bored with his rant but he continued anyway. “But heroin, the drug trade, kills more people, ruins more lives than al Qaeda or the Taliban ever did. For that, Shirafi’s accountable. I want to bring him down.”

“Accountable?” Wensley Hughes brushed away some crumbs as easily as he swept aside Ratso’s irritation. “Wrong word. He may be to blame but he’s not accountable.” His eyes turned hard. “And no way will you try to bring down Shirafi. Stick with Zandro.”

“I get Zandro and days later Shirafi starts supplying the next chancer.”

“Don’t shoot me, Todd. I’m only the messenger.”

“Sorry, sir. My team spends its shrinking budget battling the drug barons while the politicians spent billions on a war in Afghanistan supporting the guy who …”

Hughes stopped Ratso with a decisive wave of his arm. “Don’t piss into the wind. You know and I know that from our standpoint it’s crazy, insane. But our political masters won’t countenance any attempt to strangle the source. Shirafi is untouchable, at least for now.”

Ratso’s fingers clenched, unclenched and clenched again. “So?”

“I want Cyprus watched. Send your Scotsman. Sergeant Strang, isn’t it? You’ve convinced me Tirana Queen is headed there. It’s still being tracked?”

“Yes, sir. But unfortunately we couldn’t wire it for sound. An oppo of ours on the Gib force got aboard delivering veggies. Reported it was too risky to get up to the bridge.”

“I gave up ideas of bugging Zandro in 2008. He has his home, his jet and Tirana Queen swept for bugs, though I gather the latest tracking devices can beat the sweep.” He checked his screen again. “Your friendly—Giles, isn’t it? Is he reliable?”

Ratso nodded. “Giles Mountford? Good guy. So far, sir, straight as a gunbarrel.”

“Good, good. Then we can be sure Zandro’s Gulfstream flies to Cyprus tomorrow. I’d guess he must be meeting up with his boat. I want Strang and one of the women on your team in Cyprus tonight. There are two airports, Larnaca and Paphos. Could be either. They must cover whichever airport Zandro will use and track down the Tirana Queen.”

Ratso thought for a moment. “As I recall, those airports are about fifty miles apart. I’ll get Giles to tell me which it is once Zandro files his flight plan.”

“You say heading to Cyprus is outside Zandro’s normal routine?”

“Normally, he has the vessel sent to Barbados for Christmas. He’s been there every year since 2003.”

“Oh, yes. That’s right. I was always green with envy. So this trip is not pleasure.”

“Important enough to screw up his usual Christmas routine. That’s a pointer that he’s up to something.” As he thought back, Ratso realised why he was disappointed. “But you don’t want me in Cyprus then, sir?”

“No.” The AC’s face broke into a warm smile. “I want you to sniff around Grand Bahama.” He checked the time on a clunky Sekonda watch. It had been a twenty-fifth wedding anniversary gift and it gave him a load of data he never needed. “I think there’s a BA flight to Miami after lunch. Be on it today. Susie will book it and a hotel. Stop off in Fort Lauderdale to meet that police chief.”

“Bucky Buchanan.”

“You know him?”

“No, sir but he owes me a favour or two.”

“Good. See that detective, too. Keep her in the loop. On the downside, I’ve got to inform the Feds in DC about the possible link between Bardici and Ruthven’s disappearance.” Ratso’s face screwed up, showing his concern. The AC was quick to spot it. “I can see what you’re thinking, Todd. But if you’re correct, the link is very bad news for the State Department.” For the first time during the meeting, Ratso got the finger treatment. Everybody who had a one-to-one with the AC was liable to get it at some point. The AC’s wagging finger pointed straight at Ratso’s chest, delivering the message that this was deadly serious. “So when you’re out there, do nothing to upset Washington’s low-key approach. Understood?”

Ratso’s look said he would obey orders but through gritted teeth. “Of course, sir.”

“I want you to find out everything about the Nomora. Owners, when the work will be finished, what’s happening next. Itinerary. Where the crew will come from. Maybe there’s even a master signed up.”

“I was thinking about how the Nomora was paid for, sir.”

“I like that. Link it to that solicitor in the City. One of those companies he formed.” The AC typed a note onto his computer.

“Someone will have to get aboard the Nomora to plant a tracker. Not a job for us.”

“Report back to me on how to get aboard. I’ll get the boys to do it.” Hughes looked thoughtful, rubbing his chin slowly. “No. Second thought, no tracker on board. I’ll get the boys at Vauxhall Cross on it. They can do it remotely.”

“It’s in a secure shipyard.”

Wensley Hughes stroked his smooth-shaved cheek as a sly smile played out around his lips. “Don’t underestimate your own ingenuity to get aboard if it’s essential. Lawfully, I mean—use a pretext, got it? As for the boys if we have to use them, a locked gate and a couple of guards won’t stop them. I say boys but there’s some damned brave women in that team working under the radar.”

“Anything else, sir?”

“Before you jet off for those piña coladas, get Sergeant Watson to send me a report on why he ignored your warning last night.” He paused. “And to provide a full debrief on his walk home. Because if he was not followed along Glebeside Lane and Trinity Road, then someone in your team is …” He let the unspoken words hang. “And I don’t want to think that.”

Ratso rose and shook the AC’s hand. “Me neither, sir.”

“When Watson is able to return, keep him close to base. And make him a damned sight more careful.”

“He’s learned, sir.”

“Lost any weight, has he?” For a moment, Ratso was puzzled at the question, so the AC continued. “You saw that report saying Met Police are very overweight. Those jokes about Scotland Lard or Blobby Bobbies. If the rumours are right, we’re unfit for purpose. Watson, as I recall, has the body mass of a humpback whale.”

“Unfair on the whale, sir.”

“He ought to lose weight. He might have dodged that vehicle if he’d been more nimble.”

“But how would McDonalds survive, sir?”

Fort Lauderdale, Florida

Ratso had never found the drive north from Miami on I-95 to be a pleasant experience. Even by day you needed the skills and courage of an F1 driver to survive. The multi-lane highway linking Miami to the rest of the USA was always busy. Now, after a disturbed night, a tiring day and a long flight, it was distinctly unnerving. In the dark, after a squally shower, his headlights showed a constant sheen of water and sometimes blinding spray, thrown up by the thundering wheels of the huge trucks and semi-trailers. His rental car felt tiny and feeble with such awesome power speeding by.

Each driver behaved as if they’d discovered the secret of how to stop suddenly in the wet, when in truth they had no more chance than a puck on an ice rink. With constant lane-changing for the stream of exits up the eastern coast, the slightest error and carnage was just a second away—more fodder for the contingency fee attorneys who advertised on billboards, TV and the radio, all promising massive accident compensation.

Ninety minutes later, Ratso was relieved to be turning the little Nissan off I-95 rather than being carted off in an ambulance or to the morgue. He headed eastward, letting the nasal-voiced sat nav guide him to the Blue Ocean Motel. It had been a long day that had started twenty-three hours before when he had awoken in his chair at home.

But the flight had been smooth and after the economy-class meal, a vodka tonic and some red wine, he had slept soundly. When he awoke, the 747 had been only eight hundred miles from touchdown. Surprisingly refreshed, he had pulled out a scribbling pad from his black carry-on, intending to create an action plan but thoughts of his conversation with Charlene kept intruding.

After throwing a few clothes into his grip, he had called her. Looking back on it, the call had been good or bad depending on how he wanted matters left. Hell, he liked her enormously, sympathised with her hugely, fancied her something rotten. If he could be sure her only demands would be in bed, then, as his mother would have said, everything would have been just tickety-boo. But his copper’s instinct had flashed too many warnings.

Being a twenty-four-seven detective put the mockers on rose-tinted views of parenthood. Look at your mates, Ratso! Half of them are divorced or separated. But for his kids, Tosh would have been. Rare were the wives who could say, Don’t worry I know your job comes first—and really mean it. He had ended the call promising Charlene she’d be the first to know when he was back, whenever that might be. Before Christmas for sure. Christmas lunch together? If I’m not working that day.

He swigged his bottled water before putting the perplexities aside to return to his to-do list. His top priority, besides meeting Detective Kirsty-Ann Webber and her boss Bucky Buchanan, would be assessing whatever data arrived from the IMB about the Nomora. While in the departures lounge at Heathrow, he had spoken to Bob Whewell, the director of the International Maritime Bureau in London’s Docklands. Formed over thirty years ago to fight crime at sea, the Bureau had become a treasure trove of information. On several occasions, Ratso had received valuable support when drug trafficking by ship was involved.

As the aircraft’s wheels came juddering down, he felt heartened. So many new leads had opened up. Soon, after Christmas, he could start piecing together the final strategy. Nomora was the key. Surely it had to carry Colombia’s finest from the Caribbean and collect a huge stash of heroin from Cyprus or Turkey. His dream of Boris Zandro being frogmarched from his mansion in handcuffs was interrupted by the bump, bump of touchdown and then the screaming engines, reverse thrust at full bore. Welcome to Miami and the horrors of the US Immigration system. Not that the cabin staff announced it in quite those terms.

As he finally turned into the parking lot of the Blue Ocean Motel, it was gone 11 p.m. local, 4 a.m. in London. He killed the Nissan Versa’s engine and abandoned it among a line of similar nondescript small saloons. He stood for a moment, shivering in the chill evening air, then flung his black leather jacket over his plain white T-shirt. He stretched, rubbed his tired eyes and walked stiffly to the car’s boot to retrieve his grip. But the prospect of some beers, a hotdog and a shower—in any order—brought a spring to his step as he crossed the asphalt toward the brightness of the sparse but efficient-looking lobby. Inside, he took in the desk clerk, lines of drink machines and a cash dispenser. Nobody else was checking in. Perhaps everybody was in the bar watching ESPN.

An hour later, he was seated in the bar himself. It was busy with sales reps, roadwarriors, mainly under thirty-five and mainly staring at the TV screens dotted around the soulless room. In front of him was a giant hotdog with lashings of mustard. It was ludicrously large for any normal person but no doubt the Americans around him would take such a monster in stride. As would Tosh, he told himself, briefly wondering how to tell his sergeant that the AC wanted him on a diet.

Ratso had grabbed a vacant barstool. Though basketball filled most screens, there were also a few on Fox News, talking heads without sound. Best way to listen to them, Ratso thought as he turned away. Neither programme was of the slightest interest. With these tall black guys, basketball seemed far too easy. After the third beer, he vowed to email the NBA telling them to raise the baskets.

An oaf sat down next to him, wanting to pour out his heart after a skinful. With a curt nod, Ratso picked up his beer and moved to a corner table. En route, something alerted him to a new idea—something he should have concluded a great deal sooner. Perhaps, he decided, it was simply distance giving him objectivity. As he plumped himself down on the tired red leather banquette, it was all so blindingly obvious.

No way could Tosh Watson have been targeted just from a fleeting sighting in the cemetery. Bardici’s daughter may have told her father that a copper who had interviewed Skela was skulking between the graves—assuming she dared tell him that she was being humped by his cousin. He drained the beer and signalled to the bartender for another. Tosh could never have been traced by anything Lindita had seen. Tosh hadn’t left any details with Skela after the interview. The chain of events must have started at Terry Fenwick’s office. Tosh had flashed an ID card but the print of name, rank and warrant number was so small that a casual glance would reveal nothing. Where Tosh was based was not on his ID anyway.

Had Fenwick, suspicious, gotten his PA to try a dial-back after Tosh phoned for the appointment? No. That would have revealed nothing. Then a thought struck him. He grabbed his iPad and started typing furiously as the bartender arrived with another bottle, the condensation running down it onto the absorbent mat. When the message to London had gone, he felt satisfied, confident now about what had happened. It was the only way. Now he just had to prove it. There should be a reply in the morning.

In just six hours, he would meet Bucky Buchanan, to say nothing of Kirsty-Ann Webber. He was still thinking about her as he drained the bottle and headed for his room. He peeped round the closed curtains but found himself staring at the darkened window in the next building barely twelve meters away. Despite the name, the Blue Ocean was several blocks back from the Atlantic. He might just as well have been at home in Hammersmith. At least there he got the screech of gulls from time to time.

And the cricket would have been on TV.