THE LONDON DRUG WARS (10 page)

Brookes nodded slowly. “Good idea
Bill. We’ll have to give some thought as to how we get a punter to co-operate
without us being accused of being agents provocateur but maybe we can find a
way round that.”

There was silence in the room.
Brookes continued, “OK good. Vincent, you’re attached to us for the duration.
Bill Moore will introduce you to the other members of the team and find you a
desk.” Then to them all he said, “OK, let’s get at it.”

The rest of Brookes’ day went in a
whirl of activity. Each of the research teams was gathering information.
Brookes and his two sergeants collated it as it arrived. By three in the
afternoon he was satisfied they had enough to make a start and called the team
together for a briefing. It took two hours but by five-thirty everyone had a
copy of the various briefing papers and knew their role.

He summarised his thoughts. “Having
looked at the mass of information you people have collected I’ve decided how to
approach the problem. Imagine you are fighting a war and Bronchi’s gang are the
enemy. What we will do is probe their defences until we find a weak spot. Then
we attack. In the meantime we keep nibbling away at his empire until the
opportunity to crush it arrives.”

He
then called the briefing to an end and said, “OK, tomorrow’s Sunday. Once we
get started on this I doubt we’ll have the luxury of days off. So enjoy this
one. I’m going for a pint now at The Fig Tree round the corner, join me if you
will, otherwise I’ll see you at eight sharp Monday morning.” Turning to Moore,
he added, “Make sure the office is locked when you leave Bill, and lock all the
sensitive info away.”

Helmand Province, Afghanistan.

It was approaching nightfall when the caravan stopped
again
,
but this time it had reached its
destination. It was Fraser’s nose that gave him the first clue; the stench of
rotten eggs, ammonia. He reacted immediately
,
knowing the Taliban would have sentries posted, guarding the
chemist and his valuable product. He called a halt and ordered his team to get
under cover.

Then, leaving his heavy Bergen with his companion, he
moved forward alone with even greater vigilance. The tracking device told him
that the caravan had stopped somewhere to the south of him, he was heading in
that direction. Then his ears picked up the braying of donkeys. Several minutes
later he stopped just short of the brow of a ridge; he knew the smugglers must
be in the valley on its far side.

Slowly, he raised his head between two rocks. Then he
froze. Four hundred yards away on a ridge the other side of the valley an
Afghan sat nursing a Kalashniko
v
rifle. He appeared to be looking directly at Fraser. The SAS man forced himself
to remain still, his heart pumping in his chest. After a few moments the
Afghan’s gaze wandered away to his left. Fraser slowly let out his breath;
apparently the sentry hadn’t spotted him.

With the greatest of care he eased himself back below
the ridge-top. Once below the skyline he set off east
,
keeping just below the top of the ridge. Four hundred yards
further on, he came across a fault in the line of the ridge. It was twenty feet
deep and filled with jagged pieces of broken rock. He eased himself upward
through the fault until he could see the ridge opposite. He scanned it
carefully
,
looking for more sentries. There
were none in sight. He guessed if there was another sentry, it would be on the same
ridge he was on
,
so was even more
careful not to expose himself.

He eased himself further forward
,
just enough to see the valley floor.
It was squeezed between the two ridges running from
w
est to
e
ast,
descending all the time. A streambed carrying a trickle of water ran down its
centre. Fraser knew from his map that the stream emptied into
t
he River Dori some two miles to the
e
ast. There were a few stunted trees
and patches of scrub grass along the stream’s path.

Below him was an encampment of men and animals. In its
centre was a stone hut similar to the one lived in by the poppy farmer and his
family. It too had a ramshackle lean-to beside it with a corrugated tin roof.
Smoke rose from the ends of the lean-to
,
drifting away up the valley in the gentle breeze. It was
this breeze that carried the smell of ammonia that had first alerted Fraser to
the fact that the chemist was nearby.

As he watched, an Afghan dressed in peasant garb
emerged from the lean-to. A cloth was wound around the lower half of his face.
Reaching the fresh air he rubbed his eyes and took a couple of deep breaths;
under the lean-to the stench of the boiling opium gum and ammonia must have
been overpowering.

Fraser carefully logged in his mind every detail of
the scene below him. He counted twenty
-
five armed men
,
each
with a Kalashnikov rifle; in addition they had two ground-to-air missile
launchers which made helicopter pilots nervous over this terrain. Add the
sentries on the ridges and possibly one or two in the hut and he estimated no
more than thirty fighting men. In addition there appeared to be six civilians.
Five wore the ragged dress of the peasant farmers
,
and one who he assumed was the chemist was better dressed in
the leggings, shirt, kilt, waistcoat and turban so common in this part of the
world.

Beside the stream a dozen donkeys were tethered to a
long rope. Further afield two goats foraged along the valley floor. Fraser was
relieved to see there were no women
or
children anywhere in sight. When the regular British troops attacked,
the missiles and bullets they used would not discriminate between the soldiers
and the civilians.

Finally
satisfied he’d seen all there was to see, Fraser eased himself slowly back out
of sight, turned and made his way back to where he’d left his companion. Only
then did he radio his information and co-ordinates to HQ. In reply he was told
to set up a twenty-four hour watch on the production plant, report any movement
and wait.

Rushing home that evening Brookes had
barely time for a quick shower before rushing over to Liza’s flat. This time
he’d bought a dozen red roses and turned up at her door with those and a bottle
of his most favourite red wine, Châteauneuf-du-Pape. He rarely splashed out for
this relatively expensive wine but this was a special date, and although he did
his best to hide it, he was a romantic at heart.

There is a magical feel when two
people fit together like pieces in a jigsaw puzzle, and both experienced it
that evening. Liza was indeed a good cook and she produced a meal that Brookes
found it difficult to describe. But when he did find his tongue, what he said
sparked yet another bout of the fencing that was becoming a trade mark of their
relationship. After tasting the Dauphinoise potatoes that accompanied the
superb rack of lamb he said, “This mash is delicious, will you marry me?”

She replied, “Probably but not whilst
you’re eating.”

“That’s a shame, this food is too
good to waste.”

“Perhaps some other time then.”

“OK, remind me to ask you again when
I’m not eating one of your meals.”

The conversation flowed, as did the
wine; even her choice of music was to his taste, although if someone had asked
him the next day to name the tunes he wouldn’t have been able to. And the
evening ended as Brookes had hoped it would, in Liza’s bed. The lovemaking was
exquisite and seemed so natural despite their short acquaintance. Both dozed
off contentedly afterwards.

Sometime later Brookes woke with a
start. He’d heard Liza’s front door close loudly and a tap on the bedroom door.
A young female voice said, “Hello Mum, I’m home, are you awake?”

Liza stirred beside him. In a sleepy
voice she called, “No love, see you in the morning.”

Brookes sighed heavily. “She
frightened the life out of me. Does she always do that?”

Liza giggled quietly. “Of course,
she’s a good girl and she knows I worry when she’s out late.”

He looked at his watch. “It’s after
one; I should go home.”

“I don’t want you to but I agree with
you. My daughter isn’t used to me having someone in my bed and it might be as
well to break her in gently and not confront her with it over breakfast. Give
her ten minutes to fall asleep or she’ll hear you.”

“Goodness, what
will I do for ten minutes, count sheep?”

“OK make it half an hour
.
Come
here, I’m sure we’ll find something to do to pass the time. And be quiet this
time, earlier it sounded as if you were about to have a heart attack.”

“OK, I’ll adjust my pacemaker.”

Good as his word, a half-hour later
he got out of bed, quietly dressed and left, making sure not to wake Liza’s
daughter.

Brookes enjoyed the luxury of a
lay-in the next morning. As he lay there thinking about the events of the
previous evening he could not wipe the silly grin off of his face. He felt like
a teenager in love for the first time. There was so much to look forward to in
building a new relationship.

But then reality intruded on his
thoughts. He’d been in love before and married the woman he’d loved. After the
first happy eighteen months, the marriage had lasted another long, painful
fourteen years until it had imploded. They had two children but instead of
bringing them closer together it gave her additional cause to complain about
the long hours he worked. This in turn led to his further frustration. The
vicious circle simply spiralled as the bitterness between them increased, until
in desperation she looked elsewhere for solace. An acrimonious divorce followed
and Brookes buried himself even further in the job.

Amongst themselves police officers
never spoke about ‘the force’ they were in. It was always ‘the job’; even the
Met’s own newspaper was named ‘The Job’. And the job was littered with broken
marriages. Brookes had once tried to analyse the reasons for this and, after
much discussion with other divorced officers, he’d concluded it was the
intensity of the job. That added to the cynicism officers built up over the
years from dealing with the dross of society and the results of what evil
people did to each other. Which made them not the best of company at the end of
a long day.

Some
took to drink, some turned inwards with their thoughts, and some resigned and
found an easy nine-to-five job. A few like Brookes retained the dream of
finding the perfect partner.
Could this be the one?
he wondered. Or
would it go the way of all his other attempts? Only time would tell. Never
having found the time for hobbies, Brookes had few. He spent the rest of Sunday
lazing around his flat reading the newspapers and watching television; just
passing the time until he could get to grips with Ivan Bronchi.

Helmand Province, Afghanistan.

Angus Fraser was a worried man. For thirty-six hours
he’d been stuck in this rock-filled crack in the mountain ridge watching and
waiting for further instructions; supplies were running low and a resupply this
close to the enemy would give away their presence. He dare
d not
move from his vantage point during
the day as the Taliban had patrols out
,
obviously searching for watchers such as him. His partner,
Pendleton, who he’d left half
a
mile back along the route they’d come
,
had confirmed this. From his own
vantage point in a spot where he could see all the northern approaches to the
valley the Taliban camp was in, he’d seen the patrols twice; once on the
previous afternoon, and once early today. Fraser had ordered his other two men
to find a secure lay-up at least half
a
mile from the enemy position.

Fraser knew that the longer they stayed in the near
vicinity of the drug processing plant
,
the greater the danger of them being found; it was only a matter of
time. This was the Taliban’s territory and they would know all the hiding
places. But he had been told to wait despite his protests.

At dawn that morning, he’d seen the five farmers
they’d followed to the valley below leave to make their way back to their
farms. And they had taken their donkeys with them
,
including the one still carrying the tracking device he’d
planted. Then, just a few hours ago, Fraser had been informed by radio that the
plan had changed: There was to be no attack on the drug processing plant in the
valley below. Headquarters wanted to find the locations of the second
processing plant across the border in Pakistan. Fraser and his team were to
wait for the Taliban to move and follow them.

Speaking on the radio in a whisper, he’d argued that
this was a near impossible task; there was no way he could attach another
tracking device in a camp full of heavily armed Taliban. Without that
,
following the Taliban to the
Pakistan border and beyond would require keeping them in sight
,
a
nd if they could see the Taliban,
there was an even-money chance the Taliban could see them.

The Rupert on the other end had said they would track
the caravan using drones and keep Fraser informed of their location.
What a
farce
, Fraser thought
.
A
n army could hide in these mountains
;
in fact one had for years.
And if you could track them with a drone why risk the lives of him and his men?
No-one had a true idea of just how many Taliban there were out there. But in
the end Fraser would do as he was told: Yes sir, no sir, and three fucking bags
full sir.

As a last resort Fraser had asked what happened when
they reached the border. He was told that the Pakistan Special Forces would
provide his team with a guide from there. Fraser had laughed into the
transmitter; after the debacle of Bin Laden remaining undiscovered for years in
the country it was clear that the Pakistan authorities couldn’t be trusted any
further than you could throw them; he was not at all happy to put the lives of
his team in their trust. But his discipline demanded that he do as he was told.
Reluctantly he relayed the message to the three men with him.

Two of them had been with him for over a year.
Sergeant Jack Higgins and Corporal Tim Pendleton were tried and tested and
Fraser had no misgivings about their abilities. The fourth however, Roger
Thompson
,
was a rook
ie
. He’d come straight from the selection process in the Brecon
Beacons and was something of an unknown quantity. Fraser didn’t doubt his
qualities as he’d survived the selection process
,
but how he’d react under fire was as yet untested. He would
keep the lad close to him now they were working in such close proximity to the
enemy.

In the valley below
,
Fraser watched
the Taliban making their preparations to leave. The two goats had been
butchered and their carcasses were cooking on open fires. He watched two men at
the stream filling water bags made from goatskins. Unless they intended to
travel by night
,
which was dangerous thanks to the rugged terrain
,
they would
leave at dawn tomorrow. Even in daylight you needed two sets of eyes here; one
to see where you’re planting your foot and the other to see where you were
heading.

He used his radio to instruct his team to meet at a
pre-arranged rendezvous point as soon as darkness fell
,
where they would spend the night, ready to move off in the
morning. He knew the task they’d been given was as difficult as any he’d
previously attempted
,
but
was obliged to tackle it anyway. But for the first time on active service he
had a sense of foreboding. Try as he might, he could not shift it from his
mind. Under his breath he cursed whatever idiot had come up with this new plan.

As he lay there his mind wandered back to his own
childhood. It had not been so dissimilar from that of the Afghan farmers below.
His father had been a crofter in the Scottish Highlands. He’d brought his small
family up in a tiny two bedroom cottage surrounded by a few acres of rented
land. That land had only been capable of supporting a small flock of hardy
highland sheep and a half-acre vegetable garden.

But when the price of wool went through the floor
Fraser senior had been obliged to seek some other source of income. He’d found
a job as assistant gamekeeper on the land of an impoverished laird whose 20,000
acre estate had been on the verge of bankruptcy.

The laird had opened up his ancestral seat and his
land to holidaymakers. But these would not be your run-of-the-mill sun-seekers.
These were the filthy rich
;
the
London bankers, investment consultants and the like
,
seeking to re-establish their links with nature
,
but not to come too close. For just
£1,000 per night you could rest your weary head on a soft pillow on a
four-poster bed in this granite castle miles from anywhere. This
,
after spending the day shooting deer
and game birds or fly-fishing the river for trout. And the evening spent eating
your catch to the accompaniment of fine French wines and ghost stories told by
the laird.

Fraser and his family had not only benefitted from the
half-decent salary he earned but also from the leftovers from the laird
’
s table and, thanks to the father’s
friendship with the butler, his drinks cabinet. The local single malt whiskey
was an especially fine tipple.

But things were not all good. One of Angus’s least
favourite memories of his childhood was of watching his mother painstakingly
weeding between rows of parsnips, pausing occasionally to stretch and ease her
aching back. He’d determined then that he would seek another life; one where he
and his childhood sweetheart, Aileen
,
would suffer less hardship. But his options were few. When he was just
eighteen he’d made his decision and joined
t
he Black Watch, a Scottish Highland Regiment with a famous
history.

After his basic training he’d come home on leave and
married Aileen. Their honeymoon had been spent in married quarters allotted to
them at the Regimental Depot in Perth. Then the regiment had been sent to Iraq
,
where Angus experienced his first
action in the attack on Basra. He’d returned to Scotland to find Aileen
pregnant with their first child. There was then a rare peaceful period in
Angus’s life spent giving his undivided attention to the baby girl the couple
had been blessed with.

But Angus had itchy feet and sought greater challenges
in his life. He had applied to join the Special Air Service, the SAS; the elite
of the elite among fighting units. On the five week selection course held at
Sennybridge in
t
he Brecon Beacons
he’d been one of the few who had made it through. It had stretched everyone to
the very limits of their endurance and courage and simply surviving was in
itself an achievement.

That had been ten years ago. In the meantime he’d
served in just about every war or skirmish his country had taken part i
n,
and several other situations. In the
process he’d been promoted through the ranks to his present one, Staff
Sergeant. More importantly Aileen had given birth to a second beautiful
daughter and he longed for his next leave so that he might spend time with
them.

His
mind returned to the present to find darkness creeping in around him. After
checking nothing had changed in the Taliban camp in the valley below, he slid
slowly backwards until he was out of sight and could safely stand. Then he
picked his way carefully back to camp and his companions.