Chapter 16
Southampton, England, August 1999
It was with more than a little apprehension that Jack Ropell drove in through the black wrought iron gates of Her Majesty's Customs and Excise offices in Southampton and headed automatically for his old parking space. Parked in it was a Rover 600i. For a couple of seconds he stared at it and then shook himself. Of course they had re-allocated it. After all, it was for the first time he had been here in eighteen months. You couldn't expect them to leave it unoccupied indefinitely. He drove over to the visitor’s section and parked his Toyota Celica in the first empty space. Getting out he locked the car and looked around. In his absence the place has lost its familiarity and to his surprise he felt strangely nervous. He stood there for a moment trying to re-absorb it all and then after taking a last big deep breath, walked across to the main entrance. As he climbed the main steps and entered the building an observant person would have noticed that he favoured his left leg with a slight limp. On this, his first day back at the office, he was wearing his uniform for the first time in many years and felt like a clockwork soldier.
On reaching the foyer he had a pleasant surprise. The Duty Officer behind the counter was his old friend, James Hambrowe, who had been with him on the night of the explosion. He had last seen him six months previously when he had come to visit him in the hospital with Commander Peter Romsey. He stopped and grinned at him.
"Hello Jamie, bit over qualified for this aren't you?" He indicated the desk
James Hambrowe grinned at him and held his hand out. Ropell took it. Hambrowe was a solid man of five feet eleven and while still looking like the rugby full back he once had been, was beginning to show the start of a middle age spread. Now thirty-seven, he was almost completely bald, but was one of those lucky men on whom baldness didn't seem to matter, this was helped by the full naval beard. He had light blue eyes that at this moment were twinkling brightly, but which at other times could look like ice. Looking at the immaculate uniform he touched his fingers to his forehead in a mocking submissiveness at the others superior rank.
"Hello, Jack, all in your honour really. Young Davis is the real Duty Officer today, but I let him sit in the back office and get his notebook up to date while I waited for you. Welcome back." He put his head through the small hatchway behind him. "Alan, I'm off now. Its all yours again."
He lifted a section of the counter and walked through into the foyer.
"Peter Romsey asked me to meet you as he didn't want some young sprog who didn't know you mucking you about on your first morning back." He opened the double doors into a corridor. "How are you old son?"
He glanced meaningfully at Jack's left leg and then looked quickly away. Jack sensed his embarrassment.
"The limp? They say it will go away completely when I get used to the fact that it is a quarter of an inch shorter than the other one and stop favouring it. They say there is no need to limp at all with the built up shoe." He shrugged. "Personally I don't know if believe them or not. Still, they did a good job, Jamie. I shall never be able to really sprint again, but under the circumstances I don't think I can complain"
He paused on their walk down the corridor, turning to his friend.
"You know about five months ago, when I had finally thrown away the crutches and was to beginning to trust the leg again, they showed me some of the original X-rays. The bone just below the knee was so completely shattered that it looked like a jigsaw puzzle. I'm surprised that they didn't amputate it right away."
James Hambrowe kept to himself the knowledge that was exactly what would have happened, if The Old Man had not been there when they brought him in and insisted that nothing was done until a leading specialist had examined the leg. Ropell continued.
"Mind you, in all truthfulness there were times in the last eighteen months when I wished they had. The morphine withdrawal and the seemingly endless hours, days, and months of operations and constant physiotherapy, were a bloody nightmare."
He looked at Hambrowe's civilian clothes and then down at his uniform, which seemed to exude the mustiness of clothes that hadn't seen the light of day for some time. Perhaps he had overdressed in his anxiety to re-establish his contact with the service. Hambrowe caught his look and grinned broadly.
"I take it you left the revolver at home then, Jack. I think that uniform is cut a little closely for a shoulder holster."
Ropell ignored this dig at the extra weight he carried since he had last worn the uniform. Jamie looked sideways at him.
"I hear on the grapevine that romance has come your way or are you just making sure the boss doesn't forget you."
Ropell looked at him sharply. He was about to tell the other that it was none of his bloody business when he remembered who he was with. He and Jamie went back a long way and until the explosion had been about as close as two professional colleagues could get. He bit back the retort and smiled.
"Its early days yet Jamie. Anne Romsey and I have not even really been out together in the real sense of the word. Since the hospital let me become a day visitor I moved my office back to the flat. That means that Anne has been visiting my house twice a week. I like her a lot and I would like to get closer. I am sure she feels the same, but at the moment that is as far as it goes. She has only been a widow a couple of years and I have no idea what I can offer anyone at the moment."
Hambrowe snorted.
"You went head over heels the first time she walked into your hospital room."
Jack had the grace to grin.
"Was it that obvious?"
Hambrowe nodded.
"Too bloody true it was. Even the old man noticed it. I reckon it was a part of his plan to get you off your arse and working again."
Jack thought about that and decided he didn't care.
"Well it worked. But I can't rush her Jamie. If I have found out anything about her it is that she has a fierce independence and will not marry the first bloke that asks her just to get another husband to keep her and her daughter." He grinned. "That's why I am taking it gently."
They had stopped in the corridor for this conversation and Ropell thought it was time to change the subject.
"Lead on Jamie. Can't be late on my first day back."
As they had been walking down the corridor they had passed his old office. He had looked, but had not recognised the name now on the door. Somebody new transferred in, he thought. Finally they stopped in front of a door that bore no name at all, just the one word. Private. James put his hand on his shoulder.
"Well the hospital is finished with now and here you are again safe and sound. Pop in and see me when you have finished with the old man. They have put a desk in my office for you for the time being and I can fill you in on anything you might want to ask about. By the way don't take the Yank too much at face value. He is very young."
He smiled again and walked back down the corridor without explaining. Ropell turned to the door, knocked twice and then waited. A deep male voice answered the knock.
"Come in."
He took a deep breath and turning the handle, entered.
It was a large office by any standards. In the centre was a large rectangular table some ten by five feet, covered in rolls of charts, books and papers. One wall was taken up entirely by a computer consul, laser printer and a digital communications centre that included satellite phone equipment. A woman in her mid thirties who he did not know, dressed in a severe woollen twin set and high-necked blouse, was busy at the computer and did not look up when he entered. A second wall was covered in the type of filing cabinets used to store computer printouts, proving conclusively that even a modern office creates a lot of paper.
The other two walls were covered in large-scale maps, overlapped to show the whole of the world in detail with the corner where the two walls met occupied by the Atlantic Ocean. Under these maps and across the angle of the two walls was a desk. It contained only two telephones, a lined pad and a plastic container of pens and pencils. Behind the desk
sat Peter Romsey, head of the Narcotics Investigation Division of Her Majesty's Customs and Excise Service. A legend in his own lifetime as the man who had taken the fight back to the traffickers, even if the advantage was now going back again the other way. Seated on the other side of the desk were two men, both of them in civilian clothes. One he knew the other he didn't. That must be the Yank. They were both tall men although the stranger looked slightly out of place. Ropell realised it was his clothes. They were subtly different enough to say, not made here. They both looked up at him, the one he had marked as American with a look of curiosity on his face for a moment, and then they all waited for Romsey to do the honours.
When he stood up against the other three men Peter Romsey looked surprisingly small. Dressed in a charcoal grey, single breasted suit, with a white shirt and pale blue tie, his evenly white hair was cut as short as the small neat moustache that he sported. He wore a pair of gold-framed bifocals on a neck cord and he looked more like somebody's kindly uncle or grandfather then ever. Away from work he was both, Ropell had met his granddaughter April when she had accompanied her Mother to the hospital on occasions, but if you looked into his pale blue eyes you could see the strength of character that sat behind them. Romsey put down the report he had been reading and standing up came around the desk, taking Ropell's right hand in both of his. His pleasure was genuine.
"Jack lad, it is good to see you back."
The voice has a trace of the North in it, but not strongly enough to detect the region accurately. He steered Jack to a chair in front of the desk and took the one facing it, ignoring the other two men and giving his whole attention to his subordinate. He leaned back against the desk.
"I asked you to be here today because something has come up and I want you to be involved in it." He indicated the other two men who nodded at him. "Alan Sobers you already know as a Chief Inspector with the Metropolitan Police Drugs Squad, and this is Mark Taylor, who is with the US Coast guard."
Alan Sobers was a giant of a man who for many years had been a star forward of the police rugby team, as his flattened nose testified. He had deep set; piercing eyes the colour of rain clouds, a thick head of black hair and bushy eyebrows. He looked like a man who did not suffer fools gladly and that was how it was. He did not particularly expect much good to come from his presence at this meeting, but was prepared to swallow his cynicism of joint operations until he had heard what was to be said.
Taylor was different. He was of more than average height, but slimly built with sandy coloured hair and dark brown eyes that were magnified by the powerful spectacles he was wearing. Next to the policeman he looked like a piece of string. His whole demeanour said that he was a man who worked with his brain rather than his body and he didn't look like a law enforcement officer. His handshake only offered the ends of his fingers, as if here was a man who'd had his own fingers bruised too often by those bone crushing handshakes that the perpetrators seem to think endows them with sincerity, and wasn't prepared to suffer any longer. Ropell also felt that he was more than a little bored at having to cross the Pond to explain to the natives how the world worked, but in fairness all Americans gave him this impression and he put it down to having been brought up in a country that had to live next door to a super power. Peter Romsey read his mind and cut in.
"Mark specialises in preventing narcotics entering the States rather than finding them when they are already in and he has got something to tell us that you will find of interest. Alan has been seconded to us from the Met boys to act as liaison between us as them, as we can operate out of the country and he can't and some one has finally realise the sense of the cross services team we have been asking for."
He nodded at the American.
"It took what Mark is going to tell you to swing it, though. Carry on, Mark"
He retreated to his desk and the American moved over to the large wall map and picked up a pointer and turned to face them. Confident now that he had control the apparent boredom left him and he became animated, though still serious. He looked at them in a way that reminded Ropell of his old physics tutor at Cambridge, sincerity and enthusiasm fighting for first place.
"Jack, Alan, what I am going to tell you is known only to some eight people in the whole world and two of them are already in this room."
He glanced at Romsey and then at the woman working at the computer module, but offered no further explanation.
"In the war against the drug manufacturers, at this point in time we up against two specific things." He hit the pointer against his other hand to emphasise his point. "High technology and intelligent, highly intelligent, organisation, the first being used effectively by the second. If you will bear with me for the next half an hour or so, I will tell you what we know about that organisation and look for your feedback."
He peered at them through his bottle lenses like some very young owl.
"Most of what I have to tell you is fact and some of it is only intelligent guesswork. Having said that, some of the guesses are the only things we can find to fit the known facts and they can with some certainty be taken as accurate."
He smiled depreciatingly and Ropell resisted smiling back.
"Forgive me if I tell you some things that you already know, but I think it will be better if I give the complete picture even at the risk of repeating known facts."
He cleared his throat gently.
"We have two main hard-core drugs of which nearly all the others are variations, Cocaine and Heroin. Of these Heroin is nothing like the problem it used to be for two reasons. The first is the advent of AIDS. People are no longer keen to stick a potentially, lethally contaminated needle in their veins to get their kicks. The second is Cocaine and its derivative that is extremely simple to manufacture, known as Crack."
He reminded Ropell even more of his old physics professor as he continued.
"You mix Cocaine and water with baking soda and heat the mixture. When its cool you put it through a filter paper, which catches the small crystals that the process produces. These crystals are Crack. Crack is an incredibly addictive drug that can lead to clinical dependency in some people in just one afternoon. It is also a much easier drug to take as you do not need to carry a syringe and all the other paraphernalia associated with Heroin addiction, just a few Crack crystals and a pipe. Put a couple of crystals into the bowl of the pipe, heat and inhale, and you get an instant effect. The other side of the story with Cocaine is that sniffing coke has become the done thing in the more affluent levels of western society, so Cocaine itself has now become the major drug."
He paused to take a sip of water then continued.
"Almost without exception, Cocaine is supplied from South America and in particular Colombia. In the past it has always been a fashionable drug, taken by the rich and famous and the upper section of the middle class who think Its smart to snort. The drug has been around for a long time and as narcotics go it is not the most addictive if taken nasally in its pure form. However, with the advent of Crack that has all changed"
With the last words his voice took on a stronger tone.
"The other side of the problem is availability. In the last five years, in real terms, Cocaine has dropped in price to a mere fifteen percent of what it was ten years ago and you can now buy it on any street corner. Why?"
He paused to take another sip of water.
"We believe that the mass production of Cocaine is a deliberate policy to make the first rung of the hard drug addiction ladder available to more users. How?"
He put his glass back on the table and continued without waiting for any answers to what was obviously a rhetorical question.
"Its like this. Ten years ago in Colombia, two men, twin brothers, began to manufacture Cocaine on a commercial basis. Fernando and Carlos Borrodo, for that's who they are, came out of nowhere nearly thirteen years ago. They had the necessary funds to set up a purpose built Cocaine manufacturing plant of such a size that they now employ some five hundred people. O
f these, over three hundred are employed in the actual production process."
He paused to let those numbers soak in before he carried on.
"That some one initially funded them is beyond question, as before this they were completely unknown to any police service anywhere. What is also beyond question is that their backers chose the right men. The Borrodo's have proved them selves to be both efficient and ruthless in their operations until today the brothers control an area of some two to three thousand square miles of the Colombian highlands, centred on the small town of San Pablo del Montana. They have a security so effective, that so far some fifteen different agents sent to penetrate their organisation have all vanished without trace within a few weeks of entering Colombia. The majority of these were working for the US government, although three were Spaniards and two Portuguese. The reason for these last countries involvement will become clearer in a moment."
He turned to face the large map of the world with a light pointer in his hands. A bright white arrow suddenly moved across the map and settled on a spot in the Colombian highlands.
"San Pablo del Montana, a town of some five thousand people of mainly Indian blood. I mention this last fact not to put the blame on the Indian population, but to illustrate some of the clever thinking that has taken place."
The light went out. Taylor sat down again and leaned back in his seat, staring directly at his audience who did not dream of interrupting his flow.
"These mountain Indians, here and throughout the rest South America, were and still are at the bottom of the social and economic scale. Before the arrival of the Borrodo's, most of them lived a hand to mouth existence, working for a pittance for an American owned coffee plantation."
He gave a shrug to show that he acknowledged that not all Americans made perfect employers before continuing.
"Others, if they owned land, also grew coffee, which surprise, surprise, they could only sell to the same American company. I think it was no coincidence that in the two years prior to the Borrodo's surfacing in San Pablo, this same American company suddenly suffered the most intense labour problems and sabotage after years of total compliance by their work force. These problems included the dynamiting of some parts of the factory and the murder by person or persons unknown, of the manager, his wife and their two young daughters. Anyway, it finally closed down and sold out."
He gave a knowing sneer and Ropell once again was not sure if he was going to like this obviously knowledgeable, but not altogether modest young man.
"It is also no coincidence that the company which bought it was entirely owned by the Borrodo brothers and had no previous history of being in the coffee business, or in any other business for that matter, a brand new company. The third coincidence is that the type of country that suits the growing of coffee is also ideal for the growing of the Coca plant. Erythroxylon Coca, to give it its Latin name, from which comes Cocaine."
He held up a hand and gave a modest grin as he realised he was running on as if he were talking to a couple of amateurs. Alan Sobers shifted his weight to his other buttock, but held his peace. Taylor caught the movement.
"But let us not digress. The point I make, is that those same Indians that lived a hand to mouth existence for so many years, now have one of the highest living standards in the whole of Colombia and are hardly likely to go rocking any boats." He shrugged. "Seed on fertile fields you could say."
He switched the light pointer on again and played it up and down the Colombian coast.
"They have six, twin engined Beechcraft aeroplanes up there and a crushed rock landing strip dynamited out of the side of the mountain, which even as I speak they are surfacing and extending. From here the finished product is flown down to the coastal region. They use small coastal landing strips or hard sand beaches to land on, away from any well-inhabited areas and usually just before dusk. Its then put aboard fast cabin cruisers and taken out to sea for transfer to a sea going cargo ship and this is where a big help is received from modern technology in the shape of Satellite Navigation."
He watched the effect this had on Jack Ropell who was the only yachtsman of the group and saw that he had immediately realised the implications. Alan Sobers did not and was not afraid to say so.
"I hope you are going to explain to us mere mortals what that means, Mark?"
Taylor nodded.
"Of course, Alan. With Satellite Navigation it is possible to pin point your position to a matter of a few metres or better, because you can get the satellite to tell you exactly where you are at any time."
He nodded as he saw that Sobers had caught up.
"Therefore, even on the darkest and filthiest night two craft can rendezvous with pin point accuracy. You only have to know the time and the co-ordinates of the rendezvous and Satellite Navigation tells you when you get there. A message is received from the sea going vessel giving the expected time of arrival at the rendezvous, and Its that simple. We believe that the Cocaine can be transported from factory to cargo vessel in under ten hours."
He stopped, took another sip of water and then moved the light pointer nearly halfway across the world to the Mediterranean.
"This next part is the intelligent guesswork. Remember some of those missing agents were from Spain and Portugal? Well we are fairly sure that the narcotics come in to Europe through Spain and Portugal, mainly Spain, for the following reasons."
His look in Ropell's direction told him that Taylor had been of his own Spanish blood.
"One, Its the first European landfall after crossing the Atlantic Ocean. Two, the languages are the same, the whole of South America is of Spanish or Portuguese descent and even the indigenous South American Indians now speak those languages. Three, there are still strong family and emotional ties between the Iberian Peninsular and South America, even the odd arranged marriage. Four, when it comes to transferring cargo at sea the Mediterranean is usually a kinder and more predictable water than the Atlantic and busier. Easier to hide in the regular traffic."
He switched off the pointer and turned back full face to his audience.
"Again, on the Spanish side, we are sure that Satellite Navigation is being used in the transfer of the drugs, and we believe, other sophisticated equipment."
He looked down briefly at his notes.
"The Colombian Navy recently bought a whole batch of Sonar and Radio buoys from the United States Navy, a fair number of these are now being considered surplus to requirements with the break up of the Soviet Union and the removal of the threat of nuclear submarines. The Colombians bought one hundred of each."
He lifted a forefinger for emphasise.
"Now the US of A vets this kind of sale pretty closely. After all, you don't want to find yourself fighting against your own equipment, do you? They were told that these buoys were to be used in the fight against the drug traffickers and at the time this sounded pretty reasonable and desirable You see the way these things work is that you drop a sonar buoy and switch it on and it will tell you when any craft enters the area of Its range, above or below water. Electronic watch keeping and very effective too if like the Colombian Navy you don't have enough patrol aircraft.
He shook his head ruefully.
"The problem is that one Easter weekend, when there was only a skeleton guard on duty and every other soldier was at the fiestas, the depot where these buoys were stored was attacked by what appears to have been a highly professional team of combat commandos. The attackers killed all twenty Colombian Soldiers, who seemed to have offered no resistance what so ever and hijacked all the Radio buoys. The Sonar buoys were destroyed where they lay."
He acknowledged Alan Sobers shocked reaction to the number of soldiers killed and continued grimly.
"These Radio buoys are normally used in the hunt for enemy submarines. After the sonar buoys locates an enemy craft they can be released from friendly aircraft to guide surface hunter/killers right up to an enemy sub's last known position, from where they can drop another pattern of
Sonar buoys to pinpoint it accurately before taking aggressive action. They work by transmitting a high frequency radio signal on a chosen wavelength. The US Navy tell us they can also be modified quite easily to perform other little tricks, the most interesting of which is the ability to carry a radio operated strobe light. Any signal received on the right frequency and the strobe begins to flash. It raises some interesting ideas does it not?"
He gave a grim smile as the others caught his drift and Ropell admitted to himself that Taylor at least seemed to know his stuff. Taylor waved a hand.
"Its not difficult to imagine the scenario. A rendezvous is no longer necessary. The cargo ship advises the pick up craft when and where it is going to drop the cargo and does so within a few metres, using Satellite Navigation. Two hours later along comes the pick up craft, also using Satellite Navigation, to the same location right on the button. He tunes in to the right frequency and using a radio direction finder heads for the goods."
For the first time Taylor looked a little dispirited.
"Using Sat Nav, even allowing for tidal drift, he is certainly within half a kilometre of his target. He then heads down the direction given by his radio direction finder. Every now and then he sends out another little burst of high frequency until he triggers the strobe light, so simple. He then pick up goods and heads for home. Very little chance of intercepting the bastards, I'm afraid."
He leaned his elbows on the table as if to get closer to the audience.
"There will be nothing to connect the two craft. Even if we knew who the sea going vessel was and were to track the ship, we would not know when they made the drop unless they were stupid enough to do it in broad daylight. In order to really catch anybody we would need to know the right co-ordinates and at least the date of the drop."
Taylor gave a tired smile.
"Now we come to the other side of the coin, intelligent organisation. I have already mentioned the Borrodo brothers. As I said before it is without doubt they were funded. They are supposedly Colombian by birth, although this too is shrouded by a smoke screen, as their claimed Mother was a small town prostitute who is known to have produced six children, all by completely different and unknown men. She died some twenty years ago in a fever hospital."
"The Borrodo's claim to have left home at the age of thirteen to go and seek their fortune in the capitol, Bogota, but nobody remembers them there. From Bogota they are supposed to have travelled to Spain and then to South Africa, before returning home with a fortune. How they made this fortune is not known as no trace of their entry or exit in either country can be found, or again, anybody who remembers them."
He was on his feet again.
"By the same token local villagers who remember their supposed Mother, say that there were twins born to her although one of them was a girl, and that in total, only one of the woman's children lived past the age of six without succumbing to one of various illnesses brought on by malnutrition. However, the Borrodo's births are registered in the town as twin boys of father unknown, although they are the only children of this woman who births are registered."
He waved a hand to show how little belief he himself had in this fairy tale.
"We estimate that it cost eight million dollars US to build the factory in San Pablo del Montana and at least another half a million for the infra structure necessary to service it. Add to this a further million for the first two aircraft, and an unaccountable sum in bribing and buying local police and politicians, as well as paying their own soldiers. Say about fifteen million dollars in all, a lot of money ten or twelve years ago. So where did it come from?"
Unexpectedly Sobers answered him. Echoing Ropell's thoughts.
"Russia or China, perhaps"
Taylor shook his head. He scratched his chin with the fingers of his left hand and then continued.
"We believe that a cartel of already successful businessmen got together some twelve or more years ago with the sole aim of running the worlds drugs trade. We also believe that their current five-year business plan is to extend the amount of drug users to as many as they can by making drugs cheap and plentiful. Their motives we are not so clear about. Whether the power they seek is political or monetary we can't say. What we do know is that they can, and will, bring the Western World to Its knees if they are not stopped. In about ten more years at the very outside."
He paused slightly theatrically at this point to enforce what he was saying before he continued, the American accent making Jack Ropell feel he was taking part in a movie.
"I am now going to give you some classified information. If you ever let slip to anyone about this, you will put into certain danger, probably fatal danger, the life of a very brave man."
He stared at them intensely and Ropell and Sobers tried to look suitably impressed at this. Satisfied they had taken that message on board Taylor continued.
"We do have one slight edge. The organisation, as I will call it from now on, is incredibly powerful at this point in time. However, Its very success in eliminating or absorbing most of its competition may eventually work in our favour." He gave a knowing little smile. " In the past to deal with drugs was to deal with a Medusa. As soon as you cut of one head another sprang up to take its place. By dominating the world trade in narcotics these people have put all the eggs in one basket. If we can kick over that basket we can smash most of that power in one fell swoop. We only need one little break."
He gave them a bleak smile.
"We have infiltrated a man into the Fernando Borrodo organisation in Colombia."
Taylor paused to let his words sink in. He saw Ropell straighten up in his chair and raised a hand to prevent his protest.
"Yes, I know we have done that before, but this time Its different."
His obvious satisfaction broke through despite his attempt to stifle it.
"This is no peon bringing in the coca leaves or working in the production plant, overhearing the odd bit of gossip and passing it on to the CIA for a few dollars. This guy is a Lieutenant! A Jefe, a Boss!"
Ropell and Sobers glanced at each other. Taylor's slightly condescending attitude so far had not endeared him to them and they were prepared to be sceptical. The Yanks were always on the verge of destroying the drug barons, but they still got more powerful every year. Taylor caught the mood and became anxious. For the first time he dropped his Senior Lecturer pose and spoke quietly and urgently.
"Look you guys, we've have had this man in place for nearly two years. First as Plant Manager, but never in a position to give us any really meaningful information in time to do any good, at least not very often."
He grinned. "Then we got lucky. One of the planes used to ferry the drugs to the coast got caught in one of those mountain storms that can blow up out of nowhere. It was hit by lightning and lost an engine. On board were the pilot and one of the Borrodo's senior lieutenants. The result was one smashed plane and two dead drug traffickers." He paused. "I think you can guess the rest."
Ropell's interest was suddenly caught. He took a deep and excited breath.
"They promoted our guy?"
Taylor nodded.
"Very perceptive of you. Yes, that's what they did, all right. Our first real break on these bastards in three years."
Sober scratched his chin.
"How do we know that he will help us? I mean, why should he? These people are making millions. How do we know he won't change his mind now he has been given a top job?"
Taylor shrugged.
"We don't. However, when I said we had infiltrated someone it was really only a manner of speech. This man really infiltrated himself and then offered to help the US government. All we know is that in the last two years he has given us two bits of real information. The first led to the arrest of Borrodo's brother when he visited New York to negotiate with The Mob. Unfortunately, that eventually ended when we had to release him for lack of evidence of trafficking and in the face of claims of entrapment. The second tip off led to the search
and consequent arrest of the freighter, "Dia de Oro" and the biggest Cocaine haul the American Coast Guard service has ever made. Nearly half a metric ton of the stuff."
Ropell whistled.
"He did that?"
Taylor nodded. Ropell turned to Alan Sobers and shrugged his shoulders.
"Well in that case I am convinced, but where do we fit into this?"
Romsey chuckled. Up until now he had let Taylor do the talking.
"Same old Jack. Straight to the point as usual."
He stood up and walked over to the giant map, Beckoning to Ropell to follow him.
"Right, where do most of the narcotics from South America enter Europe?"
Ropell walked over to the map. He had spent the last six months working on this.
"Well, some comes in on the regular airlines in luggage and inside people, when they can find someone desperate or stupid enough to shove a condom of the stuff up their rectum or swallow it, but that is small beer. Some comes across from Africa. Morocco in principal, although that's mainly hash of course. The vast majority enters through the Iberian Peninsular. Spain and Portugal."
He continued.
"As Mark pointed out Its the first European land mass you encounter after crossing the Atlantic and the coastline is almost made for it. There are hundreds of little bays, coves and harbours in a coastline of several thousand kilometres. Over one million small craft, both private and fishing, available to make the pickups from larger seagoing vessels." He paused. "Also there are the common language and blood ties between South America and the Iberian Peninsular. But you know all that."
Romsey smiled a self satisfied little smile. It made his normally benign features look gnomic.
"Yes, I know all that, but what do I need to know if I am to intercept it."
Ropell felt as if a Catherine wheel had gone of in his head.
"You mean this guy is prepared to give us that, the co-ordinates for the pickups? But that would be suicide for him. I mean, he may get away with the first time, even we get lucky sometimes, but the second time they are going to know someone has shafted them and they will look around to see what has changed. It will take them about five seconds to work out that its only been happening since this guy was promoted. Then one more person will be found hanging from a tree, or whatever else they decide to do to make an example of him."
He paused and took a deep breath to regain his equilibrium and then continued more gently.
"Sir, these people are bloody ruthless. I should know!"
Romsey put his hand sympathetically on his shoulder and Ropell recalled that this was the second person to do that since he had entered the building. Perhaps he didn't look as ready to return to work as he thought he did.
"Its too late, Jack. Its what he has already done. We are still waiting for the exact location of the transfer, that has not yet been decided, but we do know its Spain and we know Its the Costa Blanca. And yes, I know its suicide for him, but think about for a minute. After you lost your sister to narcotics wouldn't you have taken some chances to hit back at them? Isn't that why you do the job anyway, or at least why you joined in the first place?"
Ropell didn't answer this direct hit. Romsey removed his hand and gave a small shrug as he turned away to stare at the map.
"Perhaps its the same for this man, I don't know. What I do know, is that if this is going to give us a chance to nail some of them, to hurt them and smash or even temporarily damage their organisation, then I'm going to take it."
Ropell subsided completely and nodded.
"You’re right of course, but again, where do I fit in?"
Romsey led them back to their chairs.
"I want you to go to Spain. They have a new set up over there at the moment. In the first place its an effort to try and prevent the entry of drugs into the country and in the second, to try and combat the distribution when they inevitably do get in. They have set up a new task force."
He leant his elbows on the desk.
"It combines people from the Spanish Coast Guard, the Guardia Civil and the local Police, with call on the Army and the Navy if they feel the occasion warrants it. They have had no choice really. They can't have hard drugs being sold on every street corner of their tourist towns. Too much income and foreign exchange at stake."
He checked a paper on his desk.
"The man responsible for the Multi Force Unit for the Costa Blanca is one Ramon Garcia. Your job will be to provide the information about the exact location of the pickup when we have it. It will be relayed to you by satellite link to a scrambled receiver. It will be in a one time code and only you will have the key."
He nodded at Ropell's look of surprise and waved a hand in Mark Taylor's direction. Taylor looked embarrassed, but determined.
"I know it sounds all very James Bond, but we don't intend to trust anyone we don't know with this information, so I am afraid that using any of their people to relay sensitive information is out. Besides, the American Government insists that this is how it is done and we are the ones supplying the information."
Romsey stared at Jack.
"As a part of our task force that gives you the job, so now you know what all the information I have been sending you was leading up to. I could have used Jamie Hambrowe, but he is co-ordinating an operation we have going with the Dutch police at the moment concerning some one hundred tons of hashish about to enter Europe. Anyway, you speak the language."
Alan Sobers had been quiet until then but now he asked the question.
"Why us? I mean, why don't the Americans go directly to the Spaniards? Surely involving us is just adding one more link to the chain and therefore, one more possible weakness."
Taylor shrugged.
"I know the reasons they gave me and its the same things you were just saying. The common language and blood ties make a leak to the opposition a lot more likely than they are prepared to risk."
He shook his head and became human.
"Personally, I think it has a lot more to do with the fact that Spain has refused to renew the leases on a couple of American air bases some years ago and this is the CIA's way of showing their displeasure. Spain has even more recently more or less told us to stuff it as far as having any more American military personnel in their country goes. That does not go down to well in the US of A"
Romsey decided this conversation was entering dangerous waters and killed it quickly.
"Anyway, that is the conditions on which we are getting the information. We send someone over there to act as the messenger. Can you be ready to leave at a moments notice on the daily scheduled flight to Alicante? I don't know how much notice we will get so you will a need bag packed and waiting at all times. Then, when we know, you can get straight off and I'll get Janet here to let Garcia know over the secure line when to expect you. You'll be staying with him while you are there."
He looked up at Jack.
"Is your Spanish good enough to let you get away with being a native?"
"Hardly that, I'm afraid. I can understand and be understood, but to pretend I was a native would cause some suspicion. Especially as most of the people in that area speak the Valenciano dialect."
"Never mind then, you'll just have to be an old friend of the family."
He rose and held out his hand.
"Welcome back to work, Jack."
Ropell took a huge breath and grasped the others hand. He was back.
Later, back in James Hambrowe's office with James and Mark Taylor, he was catching up on who was who and what operations were going down when he suddenly stopped in mid sentence.
"Tell me, Jamie, who is that woman in the Old Mans office? We were in there for half an hour and she never uttered a word."
Hambrowe grinned.
"Don't you know? That's his daughter, Janet. Romsey must have interviewed thirty people for the job when he had that office built and all that equipment moved in. Couldn't find one he liked so he employed his own daughter."
r /> Ropell looked amazed.
"Well I'll be damned!" he said and started to chuckle. "He must have all his family working here now. Well I'll be damned!"
Then he became more serious.
"You know, Jamie? I think he must be the only man I know that can wipe out an eighteen month absence in half an hour." He changed the subject. "What do you know about Alan Sobers?"
Hambrowe thought for a moment.
"He has a reputation for being a bloody good copper and for hanging in here until he gets his man. His early career went like a meteor, but he has a reputation for saying what he thinks, which is probably why he hasn't been promoted for the last ten years. I understand also that he and the new Police Commissioner don't get on very well, so I would think his progress in the Met is practically at a stand still." He grinned. "I would rather have him on my side than against me, though."
Ropell turned to Mark Taylor who was obviously bored by the other two's office gossip and was staring moodily out of the window. Ropell decided to catch him by surprise.
"How did you get into this, Mark? This operation I mean?"
Taylor fell for it.
"I just happened to be sitting in Bogotá bored out of my skull when this man phoned in and asked for someone to give information to. My boss was out so I took the call. He has been my man ever since."
Ropell grinned at him.
"You know, Mark. I had no idea the US Coast guard kept so many of its officers stationed in Bogotá. I had this impression it was a bit landlocked and way outside of the USA's territorial waters."
Taylor looked ice at him for a few moments and then laughed.
"OK you bastards, you caught with the guard down, but if I get that back from anyone else I will personally see your balls are cut off."
Ropell grinned and nodded and they resumed the interrupted conversation. It was only later that afternoon when they had completed all the arrangements with Mark Taylor, now become almost human compared to his persona of the morning and he had returned to the Embassy in London, that Jack Ropell got a chance to chat with Alan Sobers as they shared a late sandwich in his office. He asked him how it was going at the sharp end down, down on the streets. Sobers could quote him the figures without even a hesitation.
"In the last two years? Arrests for pushing drugs are up by thirty percent. Drug related deaths, that's through actually taking drugs, up by twenty five percent. Drug related deaths from violence; mainly inter gang warfare, up by fifty percent. Reported missing teenagers and adolescents, up by thirty five percent and muggings and other crimes by known addicts, up by thirty percent. These figures are all in relation to the figures at the time we started collating these statistics just over two years ago."
He paused and looked around to see if they were being overheard before he continued.
"I am aware that we are doing our best, all of us, but we are losing badly. What those figures mean is that over the last three years, drugs in Britain have become easily available to any one who wants them. That suggests organised crime on a level never seen here before."
He lifted his hands in front of him palms up.
"Our detection rate on all drug related incidents is up by a massive thirty percent overall, but don’t think that means success. What it is telling us is that hard drugs are now so easily available that if the whole of the Metropolitan Police force were to concentrate on nothing else, we would still have to run to stand still. At the moment we are chasing shadows."
Jack nodded.
"I know all that Alan, I was more interested in the force's moral really."
Sobers eyes gave him his answer and Ropell continued rapidly to try and bring some enthusiasm into the conversation.
"Anyway, if what Taylor says is right the bastards would seem to have all their eggs in one basket now. All we have to do is to kick it over good and hard to smash them all."
The other man just looked at Ropell, his eyes bleak. Sobers was married with two children in their early teens and he knew better than most exactly what the risks to them from drugs were.
"Can we kick their basket over, Jack? No offence old mate, but the last time you got anywhere near their basket they bloody well nearly murdered you. I know, I took that case and its still on the books, marked unsolved. What's changed since then?"
He went on.
"And how are we expected to make any headway against these buggers when not only are they half way across the world, but their own government refuse to take any action at all worth a damn."
Ropell, chastened at this reminder of his last failed operation could only nod his agreement and Sobers diplomatically changed the subject.
"I'm told by our statistics people that an increasing number of the brighter sort of criminal, ones that have probably only just done their first stretch, are jumping probation and never being seen again. There are a few little mysteries like that around at the moment and I have this strong feeling that Its all connected somewhere, if I could just find the link."
"Perhaps after today our luck is going to change."
The policeman sighed heavily.
"Christ I hope so. I wasn't joking earlier. We can't keep up with the bastards at the moment."
The phone rang and Ropell answered it. It was Peter Romsey.
"Hello Jack. Sorry to disturb your lunch, but Taylor has just had a call from our American friends. The details we asked for are coming across tomorrow in the diplomatic pouch and will be with us in about three hours. You've got time to finish your lunch, but you ought to know are booked out on the six o'clock flight in the morning, Gatwick to Alicante. Its a package flight I'm afraid, but that makes it good cover and it was the first available." He paused for a moment. "Good luck, Jack."
"Thank you sir. I'll let you know when I have arrived safely."
Ropell put the phone down and turned to Alan Sobers.
"Its started Alan."
He was home from his first full day back at the office and sorting out what needed to be done in order to make sure he could leave that night and also trying to prepare for an absence of unknown duration. Being a flat dweller and a single person, made this easier. He rang his daily woman, Mrs Maggie Barnes and arranged for her to see to everything in his absence. He was just making sure that his passport; international driving licence and credit cards were all installed in his briefcase, when he came across his permit to carry a firearm. He looked at it. He'd carried a gun on the night of the barge and it hadn't been able to protect him against two pounds of Semtex. He was trying to make up his mind if he should take it or not when the telephone rang again.
"Ropell!" In his preoccupation he used his office answering technique.
"Jack? It's Anne Romsey here. You sound a bit brusque. Have I called at a bad time?"
Her voice pulled him up short. He had forgotten he had asked her to dinner tonight to celebrate his return to work, their first real date. He thought rapidly. He could still make it, but he would have to lay off the wine.
"Sorry, Anne, First day back in the office and I am a bit preoccupied. Are we still all right for tonight?"
There was no immediate answer and it worried him.
"Is April all right? There's nothing wrong is there?"
Anne's voice cut through his thoughts.
"April is fine and so am I. Jack, would you mind if we missed dinner tonight. I mean just go for a drink somewhere quiet, I want to talk to you."
He didn't attempt to hide his surprise.
"Meet for a drink, Anne, are you all right?"
"Yes, and I just want to go for a drink somewhere quiet where we can talk without a lot of people around."
He thought quickly. He didn't like the turn the conversation was taking although it would suite him to miss dinner and get to bed early.
"Anne, do you know that little pub on the London Road, the Golden Oar. I'll meet you there at eight o'clock and we can have a little supper. The food used to be quite good."
"I don't know a
bout supper," her reluctance was obvious, "can't we make it seven o'clock?
"OK that's fine. I have to go to London tonight, work I'm afraid. I thought an early supper would be nice."
It was a couple of seconds before she answered and when she did her voice was softer.
"Look, Jack, I don't want to hurt you, but I really don't think supper would be a good idea. In fact I don't think you and I should meet socially, and after you hear what I am going to say tonight I don't think you will want to." She went on quickly. "No, don't say anything now. Please wait until you hear what I have to say tonight. Until seven o'clock then? Bye."
The phone went dead and Ropell stared at the receiver for several moments before replacing it. He had got to know quite a bit more about Anne Romsey in the last three months. He knew that she only had the one child, April. He knew that she was thirty-one years old and that until her husband had died she had taught classical piano at a girl's boarding school. As she explained ruefully, she was not good enough to perform, but more than good enough to teach others. She had hinted at the shock and pain she had gone through when her husband collapsed and died and of how alone and helpless she sometimes felt at having to do alone what they used to do together. She was beautiful, a little sad and lonely and she had melted his heart.
But if he desired others probably did. So there it was then and as plain as the nose on your face. Another man, it had to be. He could think of no other reason why she should act like this. In the last eighteen months he thought he had got to know Anne Romsey well enough to know she was not the sort of woman to lead you on if there was no future. She must have met someone else and decided that dinner with him was unfair on all of them.
He stared moodily at the telephone. He was getting angry, but mainly with himself for believing he had a chance with her. He thought briefly about calling her back and telling her to do what the hell she liked. The thought of driving out to the cosy little pub he had chosen, just to be told she was marrying someone else was almost too much for him. He walked over to the hi-fi cabinet and selecting a compact disc, switched the unit on and placed the disc in the open tray. Pressing the play button he turned it up as loud as he felt he could get away with without complaints. The sounds of the opening to Prokofiev's Romeo and Juliet crashed out into the room and washed over him.
Half an hour later his anger was purged and he was once again thinking rationally. The important thing, he told himself, was to protect April. Do what was best for April; no matter how much it hurt. Another twenty minutes later, after a supper of scrambled eggs on toast, he put on his jacket, picked up his car keys and after switching on the burglar alarm, picked up his suitcase and headed for the lift down to the underground garage.
As he pulled into the pub car park he saw a brand new, bright red, Golf GTi and knew for certain it was Anne's. She had told him she had bought a new one every three years since Volkswagen had first brought them out. He went to park next to it and then thought better of it. If this was what he thought it was he would not feeling very much togetherness when he came out. He drove to the other end of the car park.
When he entered the pub he saw that it had been completely refurbished since his last visit some two or more years ago. The old wooden tables and red velvet curtains were gone. It was now all very Saunderson and chintzy, with tables for two in discreetly separate booths all down one side of the room, where two couples were already enjoying an early dinner in comparative intimacy. He groaned inwardly. Anne would think that he had known about all this when he had chosen it. He looked around and saw her brief wave to him from a table in the far corner against the wall. The green, high-necked dress she was wearing was a perfect match for those eyes of hers and her auburn hair. The grace of her movement brought such a lump to his throat that for some seconds it threatened to choke him. He swallowed it down and walked over to her table.
"Hello, can I get you anything?" He felt suddenly wooden and clumsy.
"Just a fruit juice please, Jack." She gestured toward the car keys on the table.
He went to the bar and bought her the tomato juice. He felt like a very large whiskey, but settling for a small lager he took them back to the table. She nodded her thanks and took a sip.
"Does the leg still hurt you?" She flushed and went on hurriedly, "I noticed that you are still limping."
He looked at her for some seconds before answering.
"No, it doesn't hurt at all now."
He looked her directly in the eyes. He tried to make it easy for her.
"I believe you have something to tell me. Like goodbye, probably."
She put her hand on his sleeve and turned an anguished look upon him.
"Listen, Jack, for just five minutes, and I will tell what I didn't have the courage to tell you when you asked me out tonight."
She held up a hand as he went to speak.
"Don't interrupt me, just listen for once. It's not you that I find so incompatible, you stupid bloody Canuck, its that bloody job you do and the lifestyle it forces upon you. I know there are other men doing what you do, but they don't do it with the same intensity you do."
She removed her hand and looked at him steadily. He was shocked. Not at what she had said, but the way she had said it. He had never realised she could swear, had never realised in his own male desire for her that she could hurt and feel equally as much as he could. And get just as angry. He was still absorbing this when she spoke again.
" I have had enough grief in my life already. I don't think I can handle being emotionally involved with a man who does your job and I have no desire to bury another lover."
Her eyes were full of unshed tears now.
"I couldn't live with it, Jack. Not the loneliness or the waiting for them to bring you home on your shield. I suppose that over the last few months since we met I had forgotten the agony that comes from not knowing you where your man is, risking their neck. Then I tonight, when I got home from the office and was deciding what to wear I thought about how they blew you up and it all came back to me. What was frightening me was suddenly clear. I didn't need to lose another man."
He covered her hand with his own.
"They just got lucky last time."
She withdrew her hand savagely from his touch, the green eyes sparking fire at him.
"They didn't get lucky. They planned it all out and they got you. What was the list of injuries?"
He tried to speak, but she stopped him again by holding both hands up.
"Let me see." She looked up at the ceiling and recited from memory.
"Right leg broken in three places, left leg broken at hip and totally crushed below the knee. Right arm dislocated at the elbow and the collarbone broken. Left wrist and three fingers fractured. Left kidney pulped and later surgically removed, same with spleen. Skull fractured in two places with double compression necessitating emergency surgery plus seven fractured ribs and three fractured vertebrae."
She lowered her tear-wet face.
"Have I missed anything?
He could only shake his head and hand her his handkerchief. She blew hard and then unconsciously put it in her handbag before she continued.
"So you see it has to stop. I don't want to see you again and I feel it would be best for April because she is getting to like you and I would prefer she was not quite so close to you when you finally get yourself killed."
She turned her face away and Ropell made his first and only real contribution to the conversation.
"Thank you for telling this me to my face, Anne. It would have been bloody awful to have not known what was going on."
He stood up.
"Will you be all right to drive back?"
She nodded.
"All right then, I'll be off, and thanks again."
His lager remained where he had left it, untouched.
Out in the car park he walked to his car, turning over in his mind what she had said and suddenly a chuckle started deep in his throat. He climbed i
nto the car and switching on the radio, searched for the local pop station. Rock music filled the air. He drove out of the car park and turned south towards Southampton. When he was well clear of the pub he could contain himself no longer. Lowering the window he let the night air blow in. Then he started to say a little refrain to himself in time to the music. Just under his breath at first and then finally out loud into the night.
"She bloody loves me."
"She bloody loves me."
"She bloody loves me."
"She bloody loves me."
When he got home, he thought to himself, he would have to work out exactly what that meant.