Authors: Douglas Stewart
London Gatwick Airport
As soon as his flight taxied to a halt, by arrangement with the flight attendant Ratso pulled rank to ensure he was first off, to the irritation of other passengers who had to make way for him. In the terminal, he checked his messages. Nothing from Jock. That was hardly a surprise, as any division of the smack would only take place once the truck reached the car park behind the hotel. As requested before the flight, an unmarked Vauxhall Insignia would be outside the terminal. He phoned Tosh. “No news from Spain?”
“Not yet. No movement.”
Ratso adjusted his watch, puzzled that by 1:30 p.m. Spanish time the shit had yet to reach the fan. “Zandro? Terry Fenwick?”
Tosh sounded excited. “Fenwick is at the Regency Club in Upper Brook Street—probably tucking into steak and kidney, if he’s lucky.” He paused. “His last meal before prison.”
“We hope. We hope!” Ratso’s anxiety was clear in his tired voice. “And Zandro? Got him back for me yet?”
Tosh laughed. “Good news, boss. He returned home just after eleven this morning. By taxi. Same clothes. Smart, shaved. Must have a pad up West or along the river where he meets his crumpet. He then went by chauffeur to Church Row, Hampstead. It’s some type of Art Society buffet. But seven minutes ago he was collected by his limo and headed home. I saw him on the big screen. He looked calm, unflustered.”
“For now,” observed Ratso.
“SCD11 have his house under surveillance as we speak. You coming here, boss, or going to Hampstead?”
“I’ll let you know. I’m heading for London for sure. Adios.”
“Ah! Can’t fool me. Italian again boss.”
“Spanish, mon amigo.” Ratso could laugh with Zandro back under the cosh. He phoned Jock. “So?”
“The meeting broke up an hour back but nobody has come out. I guess they’re stuffing their faces. Loading the truck by Nomora is nearly finished. You want to speak to the superintendent? He’s right next to me. We’re in an unmarked van near the hotel.”
“Not necessary. Let me know once the action begins.” Ratso ended the call and immediately started another. “Brad here,” he opened the call using his agreed pseudonym. “What you doing, mate?” He listened for a moment. “In the snack bar? Pizza? Enjoy it. You may have a busy day. Now listen carefully.”
The buttie on the flight seemed long ago, so after ending the call Ratso hurried into a fast-food joint, where he grabbed a black coffee and smoked salmon on brown before joining the throng heading for the exit. There he spotted the black Insignia waiting with a driver who looked too young to drive a car, let alone be a police officer. The youngster announced himself as Brian. Ratso climbed in and, through a mouthful of bread, instructed the driver to head up the M23 to London. He settled into the back seat, placed his coffee in the holder and chewed hungrily through the rest of the sandwich. He felt better for it but it did nothing for the stabbing pain behind his sleepless eyes. The car had barely left the sprawl of the airport to turn onto the M23 when Jock phoned.
“The truck’s here. Botía’s men are moving in now. I’m following.”
Ratso immediately ended the call and briefed Tosh. “Move in on Terry Fenwick now. But until I say so, no alert to ports. No Home Office.”
Ratso was about to end the call when Tosh continued. “Hang on, boss. There’s action. I’m watching live.” Ratso gripped the seatbelt across his chest so tightly his knuckles whitened.
Tosh sounded excited. “Fenwick has left the Regent Club. Christ! He’s running along Upper Brook Street talking on his phone. We’re moving in.”
“That quick! Brother Adrian must have hit a panic button.” Ratso rang off, anxious to clear the line. He had barely flipped the lid from his coffee when he received the call he wanted. He listened carefully. “Altin Vata, eh? No surprise about that! Thanks, mate.”
He phoned Tosh but it was Wensley Hughes who answered.
“Hello, sir. Zandro’s just left his house, right?”
The Assistant Commissioner was stunned. “How the hell did you know that? I was about to phone you.”
Ratso laughed. “I’ll tell you later, sir. I know where he’s going and my suggestion is no intervention. As you agreed yesterday, we don’t spook him. Although he doesn’t know it, Boris Zandro is coming to meet me.” He heard the AC laugh. “I need support. Care to join me, sir?”
“What and where?”
“Hold it, sir.” He checked the map on his iPhone and told the driver to head east on the M25 and then take the A22 exit heading south, then onto the A25 toward Westerham. He returned to the AC and explained the backup he needed. Then he sat silently listening to Wensley Hughes issuing instructions in the background. When the AC came back on the line, Ratso immediately noticed concern in his tone as Hughes asked him to hold on. Again Ratso found himself squeezing the life out of his seatbelt and chewing fiercely on his lower lip. After what seemed an age, the AC’s voice returned. “We have Terry Fenwick. Sgt Watson saw it live on screen—he was knocked down by a taxi while evading arrest. First reports suggest he’ll live. But,” he hesitated, “all hell has broken loose in Spain.”
“Jock okay?”
“We’ve lost contact.”
La Coruna, Spain
After Ratso’s sudden departure, Botía had permitted Jock to sit in on the final team briefing at 9:30 a.m., where he was introduced and seemingly quite warmly received. On being informed that Jock was trained in weaponry and permitted to be armed in the UK, Botía offered him a Beretta but Jock was unsure of international legalities and declined.
Sitting in the large windowless meeting room and listened to Botía prattling away in Spanish, Jock could follow the plan easily enough. Every move was being explained using an aerial photo of the area with every position demonstrated by Botía’s laser pen. It was so similar to what would have happened back in Clapham that Jock felt increasingly comfortable. All told, thirty men were to be deployed at the hotel. Another ten would then storm the Nomora by land whilst a naval team in small craft guarded the seaward side. Micky Quigley was not going to jump overboard and flee this time. Another twelve local officers were on standby to blockade the port gates so that escape was impossible.
The comisario principal got at Botía big-time, Jock thought with satisfaction.
About halfway through his presentation, Botía called Jock to the front and asked him to confirm what they knew of the dealers, which was a decent gesture though he had little to add. He spoke slowly, killing his Glaswegian as far as he could, while Botía translated. “We expected these dealers to have armed protection. However, other than this man,” he pointed to three different shots of Bardici’s disguised face, “there has been no sign of muscle.” He paused. “This man is a professional killer. Others also may be armed. This man is the boss,” he pointed to Fenwick. “And this guy, Foxy, always carried a gun.”
Jock watched the eager faces. Most were young; all seemed to be under forty. Some looked thoughtful, while others nodded or whispered to a neighbour. Botía received the latest reports. “It is time to get in position. The truck is being loaded,” he announced. The assembly broke up with nervous laughter, pats on the back and what Jock took to be mutual messages of good luck.
Across Jock’s thighs was a Taser. When everyone had been piling into the van at HQ, Jock had spotted a spare Taser X26, used by the local police. He stretched a point and told Botía he had been trained to use one. After momentary hesitation, Botía agreed to let him carry it. “So okay, with nothing you may feel naked.” Botía’s words were spoken with a nod of understanding. “Tasers, they are not popular here in Spain. The CNP do not much use them but some local forces do.” As Jock fingered the black stubby Taser, it felt reassuring—certainly better than nothing. He doubted it was difficult for a novice to use.
For over three long hours, Jock was seated beside Botía in a red maintenance van parked two hundred meters from the front of the hotel, anonymous among a line of parked vehicles. There had been spasmodic conversation, though most of the time was spent with Botía receiving information and firing off snappy responses. In the rear there was quiet conversation and occasional laughter from the armed group. The atmosphere was tense as the minutes ticked away and the moment of confrontation drew closer. But these officers were the GOES—the elite team, hardened for a confrontation like this.
Copious empty plastic water bottles littered the floor. The air was full of the smell of freshly baked rolls filled with chorizo or some other spicy sausage. Jock tried one and enjoyed the new experience, though hot buttered toast and chunky marmalade was more to his taste. On a couple of occasions, Jock pointed out Erlis Bardici emerging from the front of the hotel. Both times, he looked up and down the busy road but only in a casual way with no sign of being spooked. Each time, he had tossed away his cigarette butt and gone back inside. “He seems pretty relaxed about what’s going on,” Jock observed. “Otherwise he would have stayed in the room.” Botía said nothing.
Of the eight men in the van’s rear, two were to remain guarding the lobby after they had stormed the main entrance. Six local police would then arrive to provide a wider cordon around the hotel’s front. Botía’s plan was that he and the other six, all in body armour and helmets, would race through the lobby, exiting the hotel from the rear into the car park. There, in a pincer manoeuvre with his second team rushing the car park from the side street, Botía planned to trap the dealers as they stood by the truck inspecting its contents.
Jock had been told he could enter the hotel as an observer after the first wave. When he’d met the rude receptionist with Ratso, they had spotted a bar off the lobby that almost certainly overlooked the car park and he decided to head there once the action began.
It was gone 1:30 p.m. before Botía received confirmation that the truck had left the port and was heading toward the Hispanio Sol. By arrangement with Botía, its declared cargo of medical research equipment had been waved through with a cursory inspection by port security and Customs.
Everyone in the van was now like a coiled spring, waiting for the command once the truck entered the car park. Jock had chosen to wear only a bulletproof chest plate while those around him had the full body armour, including a helmet, gloves and chest and leg protectors. As he imagined Bardici’s merciless eyes staring at him, Jock wished he were better protected but no way was he going to cower in the van till the action was over. He gripped the Taser tightly, seeking reassurance in its solidity.
Too late now, Jock. If you don’t like it, stay in the van. Like a wimp.
Four hundred meters away down a narrow alley, well hidden from the hotel’s rear and away from the truck’s likely route, was the other group of GOES in an unmarked van. Tucked in behind them were more detectives and support from the local police. The locals were charged with setting up roadblocks with stingers at both ends of the one-way street feeding the car park.
There were even more officers involved now than Ratso and Delgado had thought essential. The boss would have enjoyed the irony. Jock wondered what the comisario principal had said to kick Botía into line. Suddenly his thoughts turned to Gordy in Glasgow. He had an urge to hug his son and tell him he loved him. Oh yes and to encourage him to stay strong—that their beloved Glasgow Rangers would get through the financial turmoil and would be great again.
Too late for that now, Jock.
Botía checked with the observers perched on the lavatories in the mall. They confirmed nobody had left the hotel but that the meeting room was now empty. A policewoman in disguise with a baby in a pram reported no activity at all on the one-way street. “The truck will arrive in under three minutes,” Botía announced. He ordered the team to put on their helmets and to have their long black batons ready.
They waited for what seemed an eternity but sure enough, almost on schedule, the message came through from the pram-pusher. A large truck had just entered the car park. Still Botía did nothing. He was waiting for the next vital data. A few moments later, the woman stopped near the gates and discreetly threw the baby’s rattle into the entrance. As she stooped to pick it up, she could see the truck with a group of men standing around it. However, almost instantly, a surly individual approached and slammed shut and bolted the wooden double gates.
The woman moved down the street and quietly reported to Botía, who grunted. He fired off orders and then told Jock what was happening. “Our other van must crash down the gates. That will be difficult.”
Botía then spoke to the driver. Their red van cruised forward and parked twenty meters beyond the hotel’s front entrance as Botía fired off instructions to all other units, presumably putting them on standby. Once their van had parked, the driver in blue overalls jumped out. He started to inspect the road, marking the surface with yellow chalk as if preparing to dig a hole or trench. He stood scratching his head and kicking at the surface.
Meantime, the other team had entered the sidestreet and jumped out as their driver prepared to ram. When he got confirmation that they were in position, Botía turned to the men in the rear. “Vamos.”
As they tumbled out and ran the few steps into the hotel, Botía, now in his balaclava, waited till the last man was inside before barking another order, which must have been to storm the car park. Botía nodded as he jumped down and ran for the entrance. Jock clambered out less nimbly, his knees aching from being seated for so long. As he stood in the road, he heard a mighty crashing sound somewhere out of sight. The gates were under siege. From inside the hotel came a torrent of shouting as Botía’s men rampaged through the lobby and down the corridor leading to the rear exit.
The road worker stripped off the boiler suit and grinned as Jock entered the lobby, Taser at the ready. Already two of Botía’s men were in position guarding that escape route. No question, the gang were trapped. Now that he was inside, the sound of the vehicle battering the gates was more muted but he could hear the shouts from the GOES as well. Jock could imagine Fenwick and the other distributors confused and panicking.
As he crossed the tiled lobby, Jock glimpsed the brick-faced woman behind the front desk to his far left. He ignored her as he pushed open the door into the bar, saw that it was empty and hurried to the window. He saw the last of Botía’s team, followed by Botía himself, jump down the four steps into the car park. First he called Ratso and then Tosh. “The raid has started, Tosh. I’ll leave the line open.”
Jock could see the laden truck parked about forty meters to his left and by pressing his face close to the glass, he spotted JF, Foxy Boxy and the others in a state of baffled panic, heads twisting this way and that as they looked for somewhere to run. They were nearly surrounded by shouting police, menacing in their riot gear, batons at the ready. The noisy shouts added to their sense of confusion and Jock wished he could have captured the fear on Fenwick’s face. His Oxford degree and legal training were useless now. Of Bardici there was no sign. He saw Adrian Fenwick’s right hand fumbling in his pocket, producing a phone he must have speed-dialled without even looking at the keys. He never spoke at all, nor indeed did he have time to do so before he returned the phone to his pocket. All the while, the officers were closing on him, shouting and waving batons as the group were herded toward the hotel’s rear wall.
Jock’s attention was drawn to the car park gates. Even as he looked, he saw them bulge as the unseen van slammed into them again. This time, the hinges were ripped from the wall on either side. The gates fell to the ground with a fearsome, shuddering bang. Immediately, a rush of armed figures raced through, scattering in pre-planned directions to ensure that every corner of the carpark was secure. The front of the van then appeared, its bull-bars still intact as it moved to block that exit.
He spotted a movement down to his left in the parking lot. It was Bardici! The Albanian was pulling a gun from under his brown leather jacket. But even before he used it, the sound of semi-automatic fire filled the air. From every direction came the sound of violent action—men shouting, cursing over another round of gunfire. The dealers, including Fenwick, were still in retreat, moving backward one pace at a time to be trapped against the rear corner of the hotel. Botía’s men tightened the cordon. But nothing Jock could see explained the gunfire. It was not from the GOES. But no question, the hunters were now the hunted.
To a man, Jock saw the GOES duck down, crouching or crawling to take shelter beside or between parked cars. Given this glimmer of an opportunity, the gang scattered like scalded cats, hoping themselves to duck and weave between the parked vehicles and somehow breach the cordon. But from his lofty position three meters above the car park, Jock could see that there was no escape—the gang were still trapped by an outer ring of GOES at least twenty meters farther out.
As a new staccato burst added to the confused shouting, Jock checked every direction … still no sign of the gunman. In the kaleidoscope of movement, Bardici had disappeared. But who had opened fire? It had not been Bardici. Judging by the reactions of the police, the shooting had come from somewhere beyond the truck that was parked with its rear doors open, its tailgate lowered. As he looked toward the cavernous interior, Jock heard another burst of fire and this time he saw one of the officers just beyond the truck lurch, stumble backward and then fall to the ground.
At that moment, two figures armed with semi-automatics appeared from way beyond and behind the wider cordon. No wonder Botía’s men had been confused—the gunfire was coming from behind them. Two minders must have been sitting in a vehicle way down the car park. On seeing no chance of escape through the gates, the two now seemed intent on shooting their way to the hotel door. After each move between a line of cars, they fired another burst but their fire was now being met by some of Botía’s team, who had spotted them and had turned to face the right direction. Jock recognised the sound of Berettas and Heckler & Koch G36 assault rifles spitting out bullets at 750 rounds per minute.
The air was filled with shouted orders mixed with the whine of bullets and smashing glass as cars and vans were struck. There were shards of glass flying everywhere and Jock saw the vehicles rock as their bodywork was struck by repeated shots. To add to the mayhem, several vehicle alarms had been activated. Too close for comfort, a couple of stray bullets pinged against the outside wall with a nasty thwack. A chunk of concrete fell to the ground. Jock sidestepped from the middle of the large sash window to stand, half protected by the wall. From this position, whatever was happening at the truck’s rear was now out of sight but he assumed that Bardici must still be there somewhere protecting Foxy Boxy, JF and the rest.