NO PEACE FOR THE WICKED (Gavin & Palmer) Read online

  “The army covered it up. They didn’t want it known that any of our UN chaps were shipping in drugs bought on the Serb black market. Bad publicity, you see. Especially involving men with good records. Unfortunately, you went into bat for them, didn’t you, without thinking about it? You were on a loser right from the start, with those guys As an officer that was enough to ruin your career.” His eyes bored into Mitcheson with growing amazement. “You really didn’t know, did you?”

  Mitcheson shook his head. “No. I did wonder, but they denied it. Just souvenirs, they said. Seemed best to let it go after that, the way things turned out. As you say, it was enough to kill my career prospects.” He looked through the windscreen, his eyes suddenly cold. “I had no idea.”

  “You were used,” Palmer said brutally. “You were used then just like you’re being used now. Pity your ‘lads’ don’t set as much store by loyalty as you do, isn’t it?”

  He stepped back and watched Mitcheson drive away.

  Chapter 40

  Mitcheson sensed an atmosphere the moment he arrived at the villa. Gary nodded without meeting his eyes, and he could see Doug scouting the trees to one side. Howie was standing by the pool as backup.

  Lottie Grossman was in the living room, smoking and staring out at the water. Painted and powdered as usual, she seemed amazingly calm considering her husband had died and one of her men had disappeared with a valuable car.

  “Glad you could make it,” she muttered, echoing her late husband’s words. “Ray’s dead.” She began clicking her nails together in irritation, and Mitcheson readied himself for the inevitable blast. He wondered what was annoying her most - her husband’s death or McManus’s disappearance.

  “I thought I’d follow Segassa and his boss,” he said. “Just in case we need to know where their base is. Sorry to hear about Ray.”

  Lottie looked surprised. “You followed them? Where to?”

  “A hotel the other side of Malaga. It’s probably a temporary base. They must have come in specially for the meeting but I doubt they’ll hang around long.” He wondered if it sounded as plausible to her as it had to himself as he walked into the house. Nothing like living on the wing to get the blood going.

  “Good thinking,” she said, eyes sweeping over him. After a moment her face seemed to click shut on the subject but he could see she was still burning over something. Her next words confirmed it. “I still don't like it. McManus called earlier. Unfortunately, one of your men answered the phone and told him Ray was dead and he rang off without saying where he was. We don't know if he got the Gavin woman or not - and we still haven’t seen this Palmer who’s working with her. If McManus hasn’t got the girl she could still make trouble.”

  “Maybe he’s dealt with Palmer as well.”

  She shrugged and took a deep breath, then said with studied calmness: “I’m flying my husband’s body home tomorrow or the next day, after the local coroner has signed a release. And after we’ve completed the deal.”

  “Okay.” Mitcheson gently let his breath out, relieved she seemed to have been temporarily diverted from focusing her paranoia on him. “What about the payment?”

  “Tomorrow. The usual way - on delivery.”

  Mitcheson raised his eyebrows, remembering how adamant the Moroccan had been. Payment today, delivery tomorrow.

  “I arranged it with Segassa by phone,” Lottie informed him smugly. “After all, how could I know they wouldn’t just skip with our money?”

  No wonder she looked so pleased with herself, he thought. It made sense, but it put more pressure on him and his men. Taking delivery of illegal goods was problem enough; having to exchange them simultaneously for large amounts of money was compounding the risk or discovery – or treachery.

  Her next statement came like a cold shower. “There won’t, of course, be any money.”

  “Come again?”

  “We take the drugs and keep the money. Simple.”

  He stared at her. “You can’t be serious. Those people can’t be messed with, for God’s sake. They’re killers - we’ve already seen that.”

  Lottie seemed unconcerned. “The others don’t agree. It’s manageable.”

  So she’d already run it by the others. Well, now he finally knew where he stood. It looked like Palmer was right: his hold over the men had been severed. Or maybe it had never really been there in the first place

  “But what you’re doing will kill off the whole supply-line. What about the illegals? How the hell do you think Segassa’s boss will deal with you for people when you’ve screwed him over drugs? We’ll be lucky to leave Spain in one piece.” He stared at her, trying to figure out whether she had gone completely insane or if she knew something he didn’t. Then it hit him. “You’ve come to a separate deal with Segassa.”

  “I can’t afford to lose another man, Mr Mitcheson.” Lottie didn’t bother denying it. “If McManus comes back, all well and good. Somehow I don’t think he will. And while the men are good at what they do, I need you to organise them.” She stubbed out the cigarette. “Andre Segassa has been waiting to establish his own operation and will deal with his own contacts on the other side. I need to cover things here. I’ll double your contracted amount and pay another seventy-five thousand on completion.”

  As she was speaking, Gary entered the room and stood by the door. At the same time Howie drifted across the patio to stand directly outside the glass doors. Doug was nowhere to be seen, but Mitcheson knew he wouldn’t be far away. It was a clear and chilling indication of what would unfold if he told Grossman he didn’t want any part of her plan.

  They were preparing to ditch him.

  “All right.” He nodded and, because it was probably expected, added, “but make it a hundred thousand... There’s more risk involved.”

  Lottie Grossman smiled, her painted lips gathering into a small, obscene rosebud of victory. He was speaking a language she understood. “Agreed. Let’s have dinner and go over the plans, shall we?”

  While Palmer sat smoking by the window, Riley finished her next batch of notes and emailed them to Brask. The fat man had been effusive when Riley phoned him earlier, saying the first batch she sent had already aroused a lot of interest. The editor was pushing for more.

  Encouraged by Palmer to focus on work while she still could, Riley had sunk herself in the detailed task of collating the facts and adding her own commentary. It had turned out to be an excellent therapy, preventing her being overtaken by thoughts about the near miss with McManus at the building site.

  As the laptop beeped obediently, Riley looked at Palmer. “You think Mitcheson will come through?”

  “I think so.” He’d shown Riley the details Charlie had sent from London concerning the extent of Mitcheson’s involvement in the Bosnia business. Her relief had been palpable. “But time will tell.”

  When he’d gone, Riley closed the laptop and lay down on her bed, staring at the ceiling. The image of Mitcheson’s face became that of McManus’s, leering down at her with blood streaming from his smashed nose, eyes glinting with hate and frustration. She shivered and wrapped her arms across her chest, and wondered if Mitcheson would have nightmares about the gunman’s death down the shaft.

  The following morning Riley’s mobile bleeped with a message from Mitcheson. His voice was low and hurried, and she guessed he was calling from the garden of the villa. She listened intently, then rang Palmer and arranged to meet him downstairs for breakfast.

  By the time he joined her she was demolishing a plate of bacon and eggs.

  He sat down and poured a cup of coffee before lighting his first cigarette of the day.

  “For Christ’s sake, Palmer,” Riley protested, waving the smoke away, “at least let me get some food down before you smoke us both to death. God, you’re so unhealthy.”

  He doused the cigarette. “So what’s the news from our man on the inside?”

  “According to John, Lottie Grossman’s got it into her head she can cheat the Mor
occans and take the drugs and the money. She sweet-talked the one called Segassa into dealing direct with her instead of through his boss, and got Mitcheson’s men seeing things her way. He thinks he’d have joined McManus by now if he’d showed signs of backing out.”

  Palmer whistled silently. “So much for army buddies. And Lottie must be off her trolley. Segassa will bide his time then skin her alive.”

  “We should try again to get Mitcheson to bale out.”

  Palmer shook his head. “It won’t change anything. And he’s not stupid; he’ll know when to jump. When and where’s the deal going through?”

  “There’s a stretch of coast just before Motril where the government’s doing some underwater survey work. Boats come and go all the time; another one won’t be noticed. The Moroccans have tested it out twice recently and reckon it’s safe. They’re going for an exchange at midday today.”

  “Did he say how?”

  “The Moroccans are using a flotation device to drop the drugs off from a small fishing boat. The device keeps the package just below the surface. The Grossman boat dumps a small buoy over the side with the money, and each boat picks up its package as it goes by.”

  “Neat,” Palmer commented. “With two ex-Royal Marines working the pick-up, it’ll be easy money.”

  “Right. And the boats go their separate ways with nobody the wiser.”

  “Until the Moroccans find they’ve been cheated. If Segassa doesn’t do his part it could get messy.”

  Riley looked sombre at the idea. “I know. John doesn’t like it, either.”

  “So what’s he going to do?”

  Riley frowned. “He didn’t say.”

  Chapter 41

  Had anyone stopped the Soukia as it ploughed a course off the island of Alboran, they would have found an ordinary fishing boat that had been making the same run for years. A cursory inspection would have uncovered nothing more interesting than nets, ice-boxes and wet-weather gear, with a crew of three tanned, grizzled men in their fifties.

  The only unusual piece of equipment would have been a set of scuba gear with some minor modifications which one of the men was sitting on while he mended a stretch of damaged netting. Attached to the equipment by strong plastic strapping was a large rubber-cased box that no fishing vessel normally carries, and which the man was ready to dump over the side should any naval or coastguard vessels come too close.

  In the tiny wheelhouse the skipper cocked his head to one side and answered his mobile phone. He listened for a while, then glanced at a map and gave their position before switching off the phone.

  Midday off the coast near Motril, and they could begin their journey home.

  Riley pulled the car off the road near a short stretch of beach and glanced at her watch. It was 11.30. She looked across at two small hotels nestled against a backdrop of sandy rock and coarse, scrubby trees. The Hotel Palma was neat and brightly painted in white and sea-blue, while its rival, the Flores was a modern aluminium and glass creation. The road here followed a sharp curve in the coastline, clinging to a steep drop down to the sea, and other than the small line of sand which had largely been man-made to bolster the two hotels, there wasn’t much to attract tourists.

  Offshore a cluster of small vessels was moored in haphazard fashion, with bright marker-buoys bobbing gently on the waves among them. Other vessels moved back and forth, heading east and west towards Almeria and Malaga. Most were gleaming white with flashes of shiny chrome, crewed by people for whom this was a highway to pleasure and relaxation, not work.

  Palmer raised his head from the back seat and picked up a pair of binoculars he had purchased that morning in Malaga. They wouldn’t have impressed a naval officer or a bird watcher, but they were quite sufficient for his needs.

  “I hope you don’t intend claiming for those on expenses,” Riley said dryly.

  “Of course not.” He focused on the moored craft. “I put them on yours.” There was little activity except for a small semi-rigid boat with two men on board. They were holding station near the marker-buoys and as he watched, a black-suited figure popped up from the water and passed up what looked like a large, yellow underwater camera. One of the two men on board took it from him, while the other helped him clamber over the rounded gunwale.

  “Might be part of the survey crew,” he said. “Looks like they’re getting ready to go to lunch.”

  Riley was looking towards the hotels, where a few vehicles were parked and a coach was unloading tourists. A Land Cruiser was just pulling in from the Malaga direction, its tinted windows masking the occupants.

  She had been toying with the idea of seeing if they could rent a sea-facing room for the afternoon, but dismissed it. It would have been a good observation point but would probably lead to idle speculation among the staff. And she doubted the Grossman group was the only one interested in current comings and goings at this particular point today.

  She pulled a floppy hat from the back seat and grabbed a beach bag. “Come on,” she said, donning her sunglasses. “Time to hit the beach. I think the enemy’s arrived.”

  Palmer followed her glance towards the Land Cruiser in front of the Palma hotel. “Right. But which enemy are you talking about?”

  He clamped on a baseball cap and got out of the car, dropping the binoculars into a plastic bag. His pale legs stuck out from a pair of tan shorts, and his loose cotton shirt flapped in the breeze.

  Riley looked at him and raised her eyebrows. “Palmer - you’re a sight.”

  “Don’t knock it,” he murmured cheerfully. “I’ve had my moments.”

  “Yes…but when?”

  They walked down onto the beach and sat just below road level. From here they had a good view of the sea, the beach and, if they peered over the top, of the hotels and car park as well as the road from both directions. There were few people on the sand, and they guessed many had gone in for lunch. Out at the survey site, the boats were silent and deserted.

  They settled back to wait. Occasionally Palmer raised his binoculars to scan the horizon, while Riley applied sun-cream to her arms and legs.

  After a few minutes Riley heard a car door slam, and risked a peek back at the Land Cruiser. She was just in time to see a man walking away from the vehicle and entering the Palma. It was too brief a look to see whether it was John Mitcheson or one of his men.

  A crunch of tyres on gravel drew her attention to the other end of the car park, as a nondescript white Toyota stopped near the Flores and parked away from the other vehicles. When no one got out, Riley nudged Palmer.

  “Fancy some lunch, Frank?” she asked. “My treat.”

  He rubbed his eyes. “Lead the way, boss. Throw in a gallon or two of iced water and I’m game.”

  They picked up their bags and walked across to the Flores, away from the Land Cruiser. As they neared the Toyota, Riley risked a glance from behind her sunglasses. She could just make out the shape of a driver through the glass, but no detail.

  Inside, the Flores was cool and airy. A lounge area ran along the front of the building, with a canopy over the glass to provide shaded viewing of the sea and beach. Riley ordered sandwiches and drinks, and they sat and waited to see what happened.

  Six miles out from the coast the Soukia was nearing the end of its run before landing its catch at a small harbour near Almeria. The skipper scanned the horizon, eyes alert for a boat approaching or the sudden arrival of the Spanish coastguard. He also checked the sky for the tell-tale dot of a helicopter; the drugs patrols were using newer and more modern methods to track down boats like the Soukia and the risk was increasing daily.

  Yet they had been lucky for a long time. Easy runs with no problems other than having to deal with the drunken Englishman, Bignell. Now, though, things had changed; the Englishman had gone and a woman had taken his place. He hawked and spat over the side. She wouldn’t last, the fat woman. She didn’t sound as though she knew what she was doing. Still, there would always be someone else to take her pla
ce, eager to trade for the powdered gold or anything else with a commercial value.

  A shout from one of his men made him look ahead. A speck was curving round on an intercept course towards them. He throttled back and shouted for his men to get the package ready.

  The speck became a fast, white launch favoured by the pleasure-seekers on the beaches of Spain. A would-be rich man’s toy that would not stand the first big wave that hit it. Ideal for this kind of job, though.

  With another glance skywards to check for aircraft, he waved a hand and his men jettisoned the rubber package and scuba-gear over the side, where it sank just below the surface, its position marked by a small coloured buoy.

  He saw a similar marker-buoy fall away from the approaching launch, and increased his own speed towards it. The launch growled by a hundred metres away, its twin screws lifting its nose clear of the waves. There were two men on board, both in their middle thirties, looking tanned and fit. The skipper noticed they stood in the launch with a relaxed stance, like men accustomed to the sea. With a faint hint of anxiety he realised these men weren’t amateurs.

  As the launch fell back and curved round to pick up the package, the skipper picked up his mobile phone and watched. It was as he thought; the boat had not even stopped and was now powering back towards the mainland. Very smooth.

  He slowed the Soukia alongside the marker-buoy and watched his men lean out with a grappling hook to snag the rope. After the other boat’s display of expertise, he hoped they caught it first time and didn’t expect him to come round for a second try. He was about to press the send button on the mobile to confirm all was okay, when he saw that, instead of having a rope and package attached to the buoy, there was nothing but lead weights hanging from it to keep it upright in the water.

  He turned to shout at the launch. To his horror, instead of disappearing towards land, it had slowed and crept up alongside and was now reducing speed to match his own. One of the men was standing against the gunwale. He was holding a gleaming black machine pistol and smiling in anticipation.