Intervention deathly mis.., p.8
Intervention: Deathly Mist, page 8
“Morning!” Demir said brightly, answering a call absentmindedly.
“Morning, Burak. Jim here. I need help, or at the very least your advice.”
Burak sat up alert, as though he had just taken an injection of caffeine straight to the brain. He wrinkled his face, concerned at Siggerty’s tone. “Absolutely, that’s what I’m here for.” It had been a very long time since Jim had sounded so troubled. “What’s up?”
“Have you seen any British news over the last couple of days?” Burak was Turkish and had started his criminal career there before expanding internationally. His tendency to travel extensively meant that his henchmen never quite knew where he was, and he liked it that way, managing matters remotely, or through a loyal army of heavies to keep people in line.
“Some,” he admitted.
“Well, you may have noticed that a number of drugs dealers have been killed. The media say ‘under suspicious circumstances’, but the truth is that they are being assassinated.”
Burak’s mental radar was rapidly scanning every word he heard now, as well as any recollection of what he had read in the papers. He recalled some articles, but all had been sketchy. “Yes, I read a bit, although it was all rather vague.”
“That’s because no one on the outside understands what’s going on. Quite a few of the dealers were mine.”
“So what is going on?”
“Well, I’m sure it is all linked to Henrique’s assassination.”
“Really? Why?”
“Do you remember when you helped me secure the lines of supply?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Well, even though the Mexicans wanted a larger foothold in the UK, I thought there was more than enough for everyone. Therefore, I worked with both the Mexicans and my traditional sources from the East.”
“Yes, I remember. And I thought part of the Mexican deal was that you were to reduce prices and you were happy to do that?”
“Exactly! But that was supposed to be a short-lived thing. Anyway, it’s spiralled out of control following Henrique’s assassination. The Mexicans have pulled together seeking revenge; they believe a non-Mexican group is responsible.”
“Okay, I’m following so far.”
“Well, some of the Eastern suppliers also decided to remove some of the competition – they aren’t happy with the low prices. It’s getting ugly and I am being asked by both sides to help in the fight against the other.”
“Ouch! Not pretty. So, let me guess, you’re in the middle and both sides are closing in?”
“Yes,” Siggerty replied sounding downcast. “It’s only a matter of time until they realise I’m working both sides and they come looking for me!”
The conversation continued for a long time. Burak now detested the drugs trade, even though it had provided him with immense wealth. So, on the one hand, Burak was torn between helping a man he had supported to get established and letting him sink, suffering the consequences of messing in a dangerous business. A range of ideas were thrashed out giving Siggerty options for action given different scenarios.
Following the call Burak sat back and contemplated the ramifications of what Siggerty had said. The man’s future was potentially short. Clearly, he was scared. The authorities would be concerned too – any turf war threatened not only the criminals but also innocent bystanders.
Although not directly a matter for Gurning, Burak called him all the same. He would know the right people to brief and work with to try and take out the assassination squads and keep a lid on a potentially violent turf war.
* * *
Well into their journey, Laura’s phone rang, picking up the car’s hands-free system. It was Rob’s turn in the driving seat, so Laura did the talking, not that much was required. Gurning briefed them of Burak’s call, concluding with “Laura, as always with Burak, it doesn’t rain, it pours! Anyway, when you get back, I will need you to cast your eyes over this as well. This chemical thing remains a priority, but you may find linkages into Operation Network Break.” Gurning used the term they had given to dismantling Burak’s criminal network.
Once the call had finished, Rob and Laura spoke about little other than drug wars for the rest of the journey and the terrible toll they can take on society at large. As a result, Rob felt quite exhausted when they arrived at the Logistics Arranged operations centre. “Actually Rob,” Laura teased, “Given why we’re here, it’s good that you are more somber than when we left!”
“Gee, thanks.”
“You’re welcome. And despite the make up to hide some of your injuries, I suspect some will be in awe at the sort of auditing that we do!”
“Ha ha,” he smiled, gazing fondly into her twinkling eyes.
20
The level of hostility towards them was tangible from the moment Laura and Rob entered the building. All staff had, at their request, been informed of their arrival. Their cover was as auditors carrying out a random spot check and wanting to review the entire operational process. Consequently, they were likely to want to speak to people throughout the organisation.
As they walked through the building, along colourful corridors and through the contact centre, they recognised that their presence immediately dampened an otherwise lively environment. People got up and left when they entered the breakout area with a pool table and vending machines. Those they asked to meet were surly and cautious with what they said, regarding them through suspicious eyes.
For one meeting, they called in an operator and a driver to talk through a typical journey, the process of giving and receiving instructions and planning the most efficient route. Their choice had intentionally appeared random, taken from a long list, but Rob had been prepared and knew who he was looking for.
“So, Samantha,” Laura said after the introductions. “Let’s see, why not take us through this assignment,” she continued, flipping through a thick sheaf of papers and selecting a day apparently at random and pushed the sheet over to the woman. “Let’s talk about day three of that tour.”
Samantha Wilde wriggled uncomfortably and glanced at the driver beside her who had taken the instructions for that day. She described her approach to issuing instructions and guidance for the pick-ups, deliveries and ordering the priorities.
“And you would agree with that approach?” Rob queried, looking at the driver.
The man shrugged. “Sure, why not?”
“Great!” Rob tried to sound encouraging and positive. “So if I quickly tap all this into my computer,” he continued as Laura turned a small projector on and pointed it at the bare white wall, “We can see the whole journey on a map. I presume you have to take toilet and rest breaks, as well as stops for something to eat?” he queried.
“Yeah, o’course. What you saying?”
“Nothing, just trying to clarify matters. Do you find the pick-ups and drop-offs impact your schedule if you have to wait around?” Rob was playing for time as he typed.
“Yeah, o’course,” came the same, surly reply.
“Ah, so here we are. The computer has calculated the journey on the shortest possible route as being 167 miles. I would never expect anyone to achieve that – allowing for diversions, whether for road closures, traffic jams, or even to find some lunch and an overnight stay or whatever.”
The man nodded, but was clearly wary, having recognised the journey.
“That’s strange,” Laura commented innocently. The sheet here from the van’s computerised log suggests that you drove 283 miles that day.”
“Hey! Jus’ wha’ yu’ sayin’?” the man growled, half standing, leaning his hands on the table, exposing his thick forearms. “You be careful, missy. I don’ like your tone.”
Rob stood up sharply, making the man look at him as a reminder that Rob was clearly used to fights from the still vivid marks on his face. The man sat down again and glared at them.
“I’m sure there is a good explanation,” Rob volunteered. “So, to collect your thoughts, shall we take a ten minute break and meet again after that?”
“Yeah!” The man stood abruptly, his chair toppling over, and strode from the room. Samantha Wilde, pale faced, stood and uncertainly walked from the room, stepping around the upturned chair.
Rob closed the door behind her, but did not return to the table. “Well, we certainly hit a nerve there. I think we should follow them and see what happens. You take the woman.” Before Laura could reply, he had slipped from the room.
* * *
It wasn’t hard for Rob to follow the driver’s progress – the man stomped through the building, barking at people in his way and kicking doors open in front of him without so much as looking back. He stormed from the building and into the car park, where Rob watched him walk up and down as he spoke to someone on his mobile phone, clearly agitated. Within two minutes, the man pocketed the phone, strode to a car, got in and sped off.
Well, I’m not going to see him again, Rob thought as he walked back to the room.
On his way, he met Laura who had been watching Samantha Wilde from the other side of the building. She too had left the building to make a phone call, pacing up and down in the cool, autumnal air.
“I think we should call it a day,” Laura suggested. “We’ve rattled quite a few cages today, and those two the most.”
Rob nodded. “You let her know,” he said nodding towards Samantha who had just walked back into the building. “I will go back to the room and pack our stuff.”
“Surprisingly, Samantha went straight back out to make another call,” Laura commented when she came back into the room and had closed the door.
“Odd. Oh well. Let’s go through the schedule for tomorrow and then head off to the hotel. I could do with a break.”
Fifteen minutes later, they walked from the room and headed to the front door. As they picked their way through the operations centre, they were very conscious of the acrimonious looks they were getting and the obvious way in which Samantha rose from her position and stalked off.
Once out of the operational centre, they were alone in the foyer where they were faced with Samantha Wilde walking towards them as though from the ladies’ rest room. She brushed passed Laura, bumping shoulders and hissed “Pick it up!” without missing a step.
Taken aback, Laura turned as though to challenge her. Having heard the hiss and seeing that they were being watched, Rob caught Laura’s arm. “Not now,” he counselled, stooping to pick up Laura’s dropped brief case and Samantha’s piece of paper.
“What was that about?” Laura asked once they were safely inside their car, Rob ready to drive.
“This,” he replied, passing her the piece of paper. Laura glanced at the scrunched up scrap. “Well?” he asked, steering the car out on to the road.
“She’s asking us to meet her later this evening. Her home address is here as well.”
“Interesting. So much for my hope of a relaxing evening!”
“She must know something, but is unsure of what to say and to who.”
“Why to us, then? We are merely auditors. If she wants to share something serious, why not speak to the police?” Rob asked.
“Fair point, but she may not be aware that there is anything criminal going on.”
“No. I don’t buy that. Something’s up. The woman is rattled and rattled badly.”
* * *
Nearly three hours later, a little later than requested, Rob’s SatNav guided them to an unexciting street of identical, terraced houses a few miles from their hotel. It was already dark and the roads were quiet, a far cry from the busyness of London that they were used to. Lights were burning in the windows as they walked to the front door, trying to be serious after their joking and flirting in the car.
* * *
At the same time in northeast London a group of seven young men and two women were drinking heavily in an expensive bar. Quality wines and spirits were being consumed in large quantities. Two of the men took it in turns to peel off bank notes from large bundles of cash to pay for each round ordered. Later, when questioned by police, the bar staff were consistent in saying that the tone of conversation was sometimes jovial and often serious, but overall, perfectly pleasant. They were not regulars, but were known.
Flashy mobile phones were prominently displayed. Rarely did anyone take a call, but frequent texts were traded. On a couple of occasions, three men made as if to leave, but were encouraged to stay. Each time was preceded and followed by a bout of serious discussion in hushed tones and each time the three appeared pleased as a result. Eventually, following a lot of texts and much discussion, they shook hands, as though clinching a deal, and the three men left, one calling over his shoulder that they should have a party at one of his flats.
Once the three men had stepped outside, they stopped, as many people do, to look about and do-up their coats. Suddenly, each man jerked violently as three loud cracks were heard above the steady background noise of passing traffic. The force of the rifle shots threw one of the men backwards, bouncing off the wide expanse of bar window. As that man shook his head and tried to steady his buckling legs, another shot rang out, hitting him in the head before the bullet passed through the window.
Another man was already dead, sightless eyes staring up into the overhead street light. The third man started to stagger down the street. Barely three steps into his attempt to flee, another shot threw the man against the bar window. The glass, already stressed from the bullet hole, gave way and the man fell through, blood trickling onto the floor as he stared blankly at those inside.
Pedestrians ran screaming from the area, many reaching for their mobile phones. Inside the bar, there was a delayed reaction, the initial muffled sounds confusing. There was stunned shock when the first man was flung against the window leaving a small blood splatter. When the second man came crashing through the window, sending glass flying and upturning a table and nearby chairs, the customers and staff ran for cover, screaming. The men’s apparent friends, however, waited and watched unflinching. Upon seeing the three were dead, one of the women was heard to laugh, saying, “Funny if dey waz shot from one o’ his own flats!”
The blue lights of numerous police cars and ambulances soon gave an eerie feeling to the street as police cordoned the street off and diverted traffic.
Armed police started to search the surrounding buildings and area while police constables started questioning people. A member of the kitchen staff came forward to share the comment they had heard referencing the flats and very quickly radios were buzzing and the armed police focused their search there.
Minutes later it was confirmed – signs of where the assassin had based himself had been found. Forensics were called in to start their detailed work. All the while, police were obtaining descriptions of the three men’s companions in the bar and started reviewing CCTV trying to track their escape. Some of the bar staff commented that when the group had met at the bar previously there had been a third, older woman who had influence over the rest.
As luck would have it, the bar’s joint owner had had his birthday there three weeks earlier and the group had also been present. He was quickly summoned and arrived with a memory stick of photos, and the bar staff easily picked out the seven men and two women from earlier that evening, as well as the third woman.
* * *
As they approached the front door, Rob and Laura looked at each other in alarm. Sounds of an argument and shouting could be heard and it was clear that there were more than just Samantha and her husband inside. Rob hesitated, placing a hand on Laura’s arm. “Should we come back? I can’t imagine they will be in a suitable frame of mind for us.”
“But her message was…”
Gunshots interrupted, and moments later two men and a woman came running from the brightly lit house, barging past Rob and Laura.
“You stupid, bloody idiot! I didn’t say kill them!” the woman yelled.
The voice and American accent startled Rob; he recognised it from a few months earlier when he had the misfortune of encountering the Williamson family in Varna, Bulgaria. He swung round seeking visual confirmation and despite only the briefest of glimpses, he was certain that it was Nikki Williamson.
Laura spun round and leaped at the nearest pair of receding legs, tapping the man’s ankles making him stumble. He dropped his gun but his momentum kept him moving, arms flailing. As the trio fled one fired blindly backwards. Laura rolled behind the boundary wall for cover, getting filthy on the damp grass. Rob dived through the front door, scrambling for cover inside the house.
One man with stood behind a car on the opposite side of the road and maintained a steady stream of gunfire pinning Laura down. As he did, Nikki and the other accomplice jumped into the car. “Let’s go,” the driver yelled. The gunman leaped in and the car sped off, tyres squealing.
Once clear, Laura jumped up and collected the dropped weapon, picking it up carefully to preserve forensics.
By the time Laura entered the house Rob had already called for the emergency services and was kneeling beside a barely alive Samantha, tears streaming down her face, one hand stretched out to hold the now lifeless hand of her husband. Seeing that Samantha was whispering something to Rob, Laura waited in the background.
The pause between each clipped phrase gradually became longer. “Needed money… Needed job… Love families… Tell them sorry… Gave information… Urgh… Copies upstairs… Urgh also involved… Had to…”
