THE LONDON DRUG WARS (11 page)

It was Monday morning and Abbot had
the task of briefing Fred Middlemiss and his newly tasked ‘Toms squad’ on the
do’s and don’ts of dealing with prostitutes and the people who ran them. The
small team of detectives sat expectantly waiting his briefing; six were men and
two women, all were in their twenties and thirties. Sex is a subject that
interests us all and discussing it is a welcome diversion for busy detectives.
But Abbot’s appearance did not inspire the team with confidence, one or two
made derogatory remarks about him before he entered the room. It was now that
Middlemiss showed his mettle by telling them to shut up and give the man a
chance.

But he needn’t have worried, the Vice
Squad DI was used to this kind of reception and knew his stuff and how to put
it across. First he looked slowly around the room, making eye-contact with each
of them. Then he spoke. “OK, listen in.” The room fell silent. “What’s the
difference between a bottom feeding blood-sucker and a lawyer?”

Various suggestions were put forward;
he waited for the noise to subside. Then he said, “The bottom feeder’s useful;
you can eat it.”

He waited again whilst they laughed.
“That is the last funny story in this session. This is a tragedy, not a comedy.
What you are setting out to do is no joke. Anyone who thinks it is can leave
now.” He paused for effect; he had their attention, the room was silent.

“A gang of Albanian thugs runs a
thriving business. They obtain young girls from all over Eastern Europe by a
variety of means. Some are purchased from their parents, some are kidnapped,
and some are tempted by the promise of big money and freedom from the poverty
in which they lived. Some of the girls are as young as fourteen. The girls are
taken to Prague in the Czech Republic; there they’re trained as prostitutes. I
won’t give you details of their training; I’ll leave that to your imagination.
Suffice to say it is not pleasant.” He paused again for effect.

Then he continued. “From there on
they lead a miserable existence; many turn to drugs as an escape and become
addicts. These are the girls Bronchi and his gang of thugs are using. The
Albanians deliver them to London at £3,000 a girl. Bronchi will make damned
sure he gets his money’s worth. You’ve heard stories about the white slave trade;
well this is the reality people, and I promise you there is nothing funny about
it.” He paused yet again to let his words sink in.

The room was silent; he had their
attention.

“OK, how do we go about spiking the
Russian’s gun? To prove that a woman is soliciting for the purposes of
prostitution is fairly straightforward but there are strict guidelines. If a
man approaches a woman and says, ‘How much for a quick screw love?’ however the
woman responds, she cannot be convicted of soliciting. She must make the
approach and make the first mention of money. Otherwise her lawyer will scream
agent provocateur and you have no case. There has to be an agreed contract and
it must be at the prostitute’s suggestion.

But Bronchi’s girls operate from a
brothel; there the contract is made between the punter and the madam often
before the punter even meets the girl. He pays the madam the money and only
then does the prostitute enter the arena. She then does her thing. Some of the
girls in Bronchi’s brothels speak hardly any English anyway. Now whilst in this
case we are not looking to prosecute the girls we nevertheless must prove they
have prostituted themselves in order to prove there are some ‘immoral earnings’
as a result. So how do we go about getting the evidence?”

The question was rhetorical as he did
not expect them to know the answer. “This is the hard part. We must get the
evidence from the customers after they have been to the brothel. Not many men
are willing to admit that they have paid for sex, however. So you must use your
interview skills to get a signed statement from them. That way they are obliged
to give evidence in court.”

DC Gerrard interrupted him. “How the
hell do we do that, guv?”

“I’m sure you watched the film, ‘The
Godfather’. We make them an offer they can’t refuse. For example, if you pick
the ones in business suits you can suggest that the press might somehow get to
know of their activities if they don’t co-operate. Some of them will be married
and their wives obviously wouldn’t be pleased to hear about where they’ve been.
Use your imaginations. Although we can’t promise it, the courts are sometimes
sympathetic to those who have co-operated with police and protect their
anonymity. But don’t make promises you can’t keep.

“You must set up observations on the
brothels and log everything you see and learn. Take some photographs of those
coming and going. But make sure you are covert; if the villains smell a rat
they’ll make sure you find nothing when you eventually raid the place. The
objective is to raid the brothel whilst it’s full of punters and catch them in
the act. But that takes timing. But I’m with you for the duration as your boss
puts it, so I’ll teach you as we go along.”

Gerrard nodded. “That sounds a bit
seedy to me, guv.”

“You’re not here to enjoy yourself
son, you’re here to catch the villains who are using these girls as slaves.”

Gerrard lapsed into silence.

Abbot continued, “OK. There are two
offences we can nail them on; living off the immoral earnings of a prostitute
and allowing premises to be used as a brothel. So it is necessary to prove a
chain of evidence.
First,
the punter paid to have sex; next, the money ended up in the pocket of the
accused. It is here that we have a problem. Bronchi doesn’t collect the money
himself; it is collected by some of his heavies and delivered to him at his
nightclub. The best we can really hope for is to hit him in the pocket. I
expect the deeds to the properties are in someone else’s name anyway.” He
paused. “Are there any questions so far?”

A young detective said, “Yes sir, if
we are acting as the punter, do we have to complete the contract?”

His question was greeted with
complete silence. His attempt at levity fell flat, none of his colleagues
laughed. The youngster’s face reddened with embarrassment.

DI Brown looked at him soberly. “No,
you keep your pecker in your pants and do as you are told.”

Another detective asked, “Supposing
we find the money is delivered to someone else; one of Bronchi’s lieutenants?”

“As I’ve just said, that’s what’s most
likely to happen. But that’s life. Then we seize the money and prosecute him.
At least we will annoy Bronchi and remove one source of his income even if only
temporarily. You don’t knock down an empire in one swoop. You nibble away at it
until it crumbles.”

Brookes had quietly entered the room
in time to hear this question and answer. He added, “That will serve our
purpose initially. As long as we confiscate the cash and have enough evidence
to close the brothels, we are hitting him in the pocket. Remember this is only
one prong of our attack. It’ll be the same with the team who will raid the
street drug dealers. As Mr. Abbot says we’ll nibble away at his profits unless
and until we find some bigger and better target. Patience is what we need.”

No-one else ventured a question.

Abbot went on to discuss the strategy
the team would adopt in gathering the evidence required. They would first
establish where all the brothels were and how they operated. Then they would
select one of the brothels and concentrate their efforts on planning how to
raid the place. But first they would log the comings and goings to and from all
the premises of punters, girls and heavies collecting the cash.

When
the briefing was over Brookes left Abbot and Middlemiss to sit down and plan
their tactics. When they were happy with the plan they took it to Brookes for
his approval. After some discussion, he gave the nod and their observations
began. They would take some time to conclude.

Helmand Province, Afghanistan.

Dawn came slowly in the mountains.
After lying awake for a long time Fraser had fallen into a deep sleep and woke
with a start when the youngest member of his team, Roger Thompson, shook him
gently by the shoulder. He reported, “Almost six, serg. Twenty minutes till sun
up.”

Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes,
Fraser nodded. “All quiet?”

“Not a sound.”

“OK, wake the others. I’ll go and see
what the rag-heads are doing. Cold rations only and make sure everything’s
ready to go, we may have to move in a hurry.”

His breakfast was a mouthful of water
from his flask and chunk of jerky bitten off a strip he carried in one of his
ammunition pouches. He stretched his stiff joints and picked his way carefully
in the half-light through the jumble of rocks outside the overhang they’d spent
the night in.

When he reached the foot of the
gulley below his observation spot he began to hear noises from the Taliban camp
the other side of the hill. As he climbed up the gulley the braying of donkeys
and the creak of equipment became louder. Reaching the top he smelled a wood
fire; clearly the Taliban had enjoyed a hot brew, unlike Fraser and his team.
He paused before slowly raising his head and peeking over the top of a rock.
But needn’t have worried, the men below were busy packing up the camp and
loading the donkeys. Fraser slowly scanned the surrounding hills for sentries
but it seemed they had all been called in ready for the move.

Next Fraser counted the men and
animals; there were thirty-one men including the chemist who, it seemed, would
be travelling with the soldiers, and seven heavily laden donkeys. No-one was
remaining behind, clearly the hut was used only when there was opium gum to
process. Finally, at a signal from the leader, the men and their animals began
walking in single file down the stream bed.

Taking a last look around Fraser used
his radio to call up his team. He’d studied the map of the area at some length
and finally concluded that there were no paths along the ridges on either side
of the valley. The only way to follow the caravan was literally to follow in
their footsteps along the valley bottom. This made them extremely vulnerable to
ambush or booby traps. If the enemy took the trouble to have a sentry climb
either of the ridges they could hardly fail to see them. And Fraser was
convinced they would take the trouble.

For that reason he would not move
until the caravan was some miles ahead. He looked up to see if he could spot
the drone that he knew would be somewhere in the sky above plotting the enemy’s
movements but he could see nothing. The sun had now risen above the mountains
behind him to the east. It was going to be hot work lugging their heavy Bergens
along the valley. Then a movement further along the ridge he was on caught his
eye. A Taliban soldier was making his way carefully down the steep rock wall.
Reaching the valley floor he began trotting along beside the stream in the
direction taken by the caravan. Fraser heaved a sigh of relief; his caution had
been rewarded.

Five minutes later he heard the brush
of canvas on rock and Pendleton led the other two up the gully to join him. In
addition to his Bergen, Pendleton carried the team’s more powerful radio, this
one enabling them to communicate with base. Plugging in the earpiece, Fraser
spoke into the mike. Giving his call sign he established contact and reported
the movement of the caravan, giving the co-ordinates and direction of travel.
After the message was acknowledged he added, “Please keep me informed of
progress of the target as we cannot keep them in sight ourselves without giving
our presence away.”

A mechanical sounding voice over the
radio replied, “That’s received, keep as close to the target as you can, over.”

Fraser cursed, “And fuck you too, you
stupid Rupert.” This earned him a strange look from the new lad, Thompson. Then
a smile as he realised Fraser had removed his finger from the button before
he’d said that. Fraser looked at him and winked.

“OK guys,” he said, “we’ll give them
five minutes more then get after them; the crafty buggers left a sentry who’s
only just moved out.” Then to Sergeant Higgins, “Keep your bins on them Jack.
See if any of them peel off to set up any surprises for us.”

Higgins, who was not known for
wasting words, simply nodded and got his binoculars out of the case attached to
his belt.

Fraser did an equipment check whilst
they waited for the minutes to tick by. They were fine for ammunition but short
on food. Water they could get from the stream down the valley. Finally, looking
at his watch he said, “OK let’s move. Roger you stay five yards behind me. You
other two fifty yards back. Keep your eyes peeled and watch for booby traps; I
don’t need anyone losing a leg, it’s a long walk back to base.”

Scrambling down
to the valley floor, they set off after the caravan. Even the sentry who’d left
last was by now out of sight around a curve in the mountains. They marched for
an hour before they saw ahead the spot where the stream joined the River Dari.
There was no sign of the caravan or any soldiers. Fraser called a halt and used
the radio again to call base. “Base from Delta Four, a message, over.” He had
to repeat the message before he got an answer.

The same mechanical voice as earlier
said, “Delta Four, hearing you loud and clear. Why are you so far behind the
target? Over.”

Fraser cursed, “If we’d been
travelling up their arse we’d all be dead, they left a sentry to see if they
were followed.”

“Please follow correct radio
procedure Delta Four. The target have turned north towards Pakha Pal Post. Follow
as close as you are able to, over.”

Fraser cursed again then turned to
his second-in-command. “You take the point Jack but be damned careful and mind
where you put your big feet.”

Higgins simply nodded and he and
Pendleton moved off north a regulation five meters apart. Fraser allowed them
to get a further fifty meters ahead before signalling the new lad to follow
him. “Make sure you tread only where I do. Do you understand, Roger?”

“Yes serg, got that.”

They’d travelled half a mile when
Fraser heard a yell of surprise behind him. Looking back he saw Thompson moving
quickly to his right. His eyes were on the path he’d been following behind
Fraser. Crossing the path was a snake. Fraser opened his mouth to say, “Careful
there might be mines…”

But the sound of his voice was
drowned by an explosion that threw Fraser onto his back. It took him a minute
to recover his senses. The first thing he did was to check his own body for
injuries; it seemed he’d been very lucky, there were none. Then he moved to where
Thompson lay on his back. He was in a bad way. The Taliban bomb-makers were
masters of their trade. Their objective was to maim; an injured man tied down
his team which put them all out of the fight. They had certainly achieved their
aim in this case. Thompson had lost both of his legs and was bleeding
profusely. Fraser applied pressure to the wounds until he was joined by his
other two team members. Higgins then stood guard whilst Fraser and Pendleton
did what they could to stem the flow of blood.

Fraser had called on the radio for
the extraction of his whole team. Their mission was now shot to pieces. The
Taliban up ahead would have heard the explosion and be on their guard. They
might also send a squad back to see what had caused the explosion. Having stemmed
the flow as best they could, he and Higgins took up defensive positions whilst
Pendleton, who was the team’s first aider, cared for Thompson.

A full half-hour later Fraser heard
the whir of the helicopter blades. He then lit the flare to indicate their
position. There were two choppers, one flew in a circle overhead keeping guard
whilst the other landed. The pick-up went smoothly, the Taliban had not
returned, clearly they put the potential profit they would get from the sale of
the drugs before finding out who had set off one of their improvised explosive
devices.

The helicopter crew jumped out with a
stretcher and careful loaded the casualty aboard. The other three weary
soldiers climbed gratefully aboard and the choppers headed for Camp Bastion.

They were greeted by Lieutenant
Colonel Barry Windsor, Commanding Officer 22 Squadron, Special Air Service. He
first went to look at his injured man. Noting the horrendous wound, his face
darkened. Turning to Fraser he said, “Angus, I’ll have someone’s fucking head
for this. I told those moronic pen-pushers at the Foreign Office they were
asking too much of you. But they would insist they knew better.”

Fraser nodded. “Who exactly ordered
this fiasco boss?”

“Apparently it came all the way down
from the PM. He wants something done about the drug gangs in London. But this
mission has been a cock-up from day one. No-one had the courage to tell him how
difficult it was. If he’s so bloody anxious to stop the drug dealers he should
do something closer to home. That’s what we’ve got a bloody police force for
isn’t it? Anyway you lads have done your best. Thank God we’ve got some decent
surgeons here; hopefully they’ll be able to save the lad’s life. We’ll get the
other three of you back to Hereford for some R and R.”

Fraser was fuming. Why did one of his
team have to be crippled before the powers that be came to their senses? He
said, “Have they at least called in a strike on the Taliban?”

No,
the damned fools have lost them. Apparently when they heard the explosion they
disappeared into the mountains. They’ve gone to ground and the drones can’t
find them.” “So all this was for nothing.”