THE LONDON DRUG WARS (25 page)

Within a second or two he heard the
ring of the front door bell. Next, the scrape of a chair and the sound of
footsteps going across the foyer. Next he heard the guard say, “Yes?”

Another voice said, “There’s been an
accident, I need to use your phone.”

The guard couldn’t help looking where
the caller was pointing. Clearly visible in the glow of the street lights, a
small crowd of people could be seen surrounding a man lying on the ground;
beside him a bicycle lay on its side. “The phone’s over there on my desk. How
bad is he hurt?”

“Dunno but he’ll need to go to
hospital.”

Brookes and Moore heard the last of
those comments from the rear corridor. Both stood with their backs pressed
against the wall for a moment, breathless, more from the excitement than the
exercise. Then they quietly moved to the rear exit. They hadn’t locked it
behind them on the way in, and, on the silent count of three measured on
Brookes fingers, Moore swung open the door and they both passed quickly
through, swinging it to behind them. Brookes knelt down and used his picklocks
to relock that door. Moore heaved a huge sigh of relief. “Jesus,” he said. “How
the hell anyone could do that for a living is beyond me.”

At 4am the next morning. Brookes and
Moore sat in a car parked fifty yards from the Green Emerald nightclub which
seemed to be Bronchi’s new headquarters. This time they’d brought Williams, the
burglar turned locksmith, with them. The nightclub was alarmed and they would
need his expertise to disarm it. Brookes waited until he was sure there was no
movement from within. The club had closed a little after 2am, as noted by the
two detectives keeping observation from across the street. But it was known
that the manager lived in the flat above and Brookes needed to be sure he was
asleep before they moved in.

He gave it ten minutes. Then he and
Williams got out of the car and approached the door to the place. Moore remained
in the car as the lookout. In the unlikely event of their activities attracting
the attention of a passing police patrol, he would approach them, identify
himself and explain this was a covert police operation.

It took Williams just two minutes to gain
entry to the club. Once inside he had just sixty seconds to disarm the alarm.
He did it in fifty-five.

Brookes whispered, “I’m glad you’re
on the side of the good guys these days Bert.”

Williams smiled. “No trouble, boss.”

The huge room was illuminated with
dim green lighting. Brookes led the way to the door to the manager’s office.
This was where it was most tricky as the staircase leading up to the manager’s
flat was close by. But Brookes had briefed Williams as to the layout of the
place and the ex-burglar had not forgotten his skills of working silently.
Brookes stood back whilst Williams did his thing with the lock. Two minutes
later, he pushed the door gently open. Brookes went to move forward but
Williams held out an arm to stop him.

He whispered in his ear, “Hang about
boss, if this is where they keep their loot there might be another alarm here.”

Taking a metal box the size of a tea
caddy from his bag, he pressed a button on its side and swept it around the
room. Looking over his shoulder, Brookes saw the box held a dial with a pointer
which hadn’t moved.

Squatting down, Williams pointed the
box at the carpet. The pointer on the dial moved halfway up the scale printed
on the dial.

“There you are boss, there’s a
pressure pad under the carpet,” he whispered. He then swept the detector over a
wider arc. A minute later he said, “The pad is here.” He indicated an area on
the carpet. “If you keep to the left, you’ll be OK.”

Gingerly stepping forward, Brookes
kept to the path indicated and crossed the room to the desk. It took him just
five minutes to plant the device in the telephone. Then he carefully retraced
his steps.

Williams relocked the door and they
made their way back to the front entrance. Brookes called Moore on his mobile
and established that the street was clear. Williams removed the crocodile clips
he’d used to bypass the alarm, closed and locked the small cabinet it was in,
and they left the building, again locking the door behind them.

The whole operation had taken less
than half an hour but Brookes was sweating like a pig. He was now a step nearer
being ready to trap the Russian. There was just one other thing he need to do.

*

Any conversation the bugs picked up
of conversations between Bronchi and other gang members would no doubt be in their
native tongue. Brookes needed a Russian speaker. He knew just the man for the
job.

The Metropolitan Police Force
attracts a great many people with diverse talents; one such was David
Rockowski. Known to everyone as Rocky, he had come to the UK from Warsaw with
his parents when he was sixteen years of age. Educated in Poland when it was
part of the USSR, he had learned Russian as a second language. He had proved to
be a good linguist, later quickly learning English. He grew to a strapping 6’5”
tall with the build of a rugby prop forward, which he in fact was. He joined
the Met and took to the job like a fish to water. He was a natural thief-taker;
whilst most young constables struggle hard to get such a reputation in order to
earn entry into the CID, criminals seemed to fall over themselves just to be
arrested by Rocky.

One incident that became part of
local police lore occurred when he was a probationer constable. Walking his
beat in the early hours of the morning, Rocky heard a cry for help coming from
a locked building. He called the key holder and went in to investigate. He
found a burglar who had fallen through the roof and broken a leg.

Rocky was currently working with one
of the Yard’s robbery squads. A phone call to DAC Groves secured Rocky’s services.
It was significant that Groves didn’t ask Brookes why he wanted the Russian
speaker. No more than he had when he’d asked for the visit of the French
surveillance team. Some questions were best left unasked.

 Now
Brookes
’
preparations were
complete and he was a great believer in the old saying; the better one prepared
the greater chance one had of success.

“
Fortune favours the brave

And damns the foolhardy.

Only hindsight tells us which is which.
”

–
Unknown
origin

The next morning four men sat around a low table in
Bronchi’s penthouse flat. With the gang leader were his two surviving
lieutenants; Tomas Dimitri
,
his
long-time friend and enforcer
,
and
Grigorie Brusilov, his newly appointed drug distributor. Brusilov’s predecessor
had been buried a fortnight ago.

It had been these three men who, on
the night Brookes’ detectives had been sent on a wild goose chase to north
London, had met with a Moroccan to buy cocaine. About a third of the cocaine
destined for Europe came via West African Ports. But the gangs using this route
were less well-organised, and shipments were irregular and couldn’t be relied
upon. They were however, opportunists, and took full advantage of the shortage
of the drug in London caused by Brookes’ success in closing down the Russian
smuggling chains. It was a case of dog eat dog in the world of narcotics.

Bronchi had paid an exorbitant price
for the drugs; this had made him furious. But without the drugs, he could not
supply his street dealers. His hold on the London market depended on his
ability to keep the street dealers supplied; some were already looking
elsewhere.

The fourth man at the table was Emil
Smulevitch, a Russian Jew who handled the enormous profits Bronchi made from
his once flourishing drug and sex empire. Whilst he was not a member of the
gang’s inner circle his financial expertise was essential to the organisation.
His loyalty was guaranteed by a combination of his share of the vast profits
and the fear of what would happen to him and his family if he betrayed them.

The mood at the table was sombre, the
other three men taking their cue from Bronchi, whose face showed every trace of
his foul mood. He was not a large man, being of average height and slim build.
He had never enforced his will with brawn, preferring a Glock pistol, a
baseball bat, and his reputation for utter ruthlessness.

What distinguished him from other men
were his eyes. The lightest shade of brown in colour, they appeared almost
yellow when he was angry. Looking into those eyes was like looking through the
gates of Hades, the underworld abode of the souls of the dead. Few could hold
his stare for long.

He spoke in the Russian of his native
St. Petersburg. “Tell me Tomas, have we heard from the Chechen Gorilla?”

“Yes, he is sending a team.”

“Good, I want this cursed policeman
eliminated.”

“Are you sure this is wise boss? The
police here are already watching our every move.”

“Tomas you are loyal and I value that
above all else. But you are sometimes too timid. I have built our business by
removing anything that threatens me. Now find out when they arrive so we can
get in with our business.”

Dimitri said nothing more.

Bronchi looked around the faces at
the table. “Good, that is settled then. Now to business.” Then to Smulevitch he
said, “Emil, I have to buy heroin; how much cash do we have available?”

It was now the old Jew’s turn under
the microscope; he squirmed in his seat. He did not raise his eyes from the
table. “Very little, Ivan Ivanovitch. The police raids have taken most of our
working capital.”

“Then transfer some from Zurich you
fool.”

“That might be dangerous Ivan. If I
transfer a large sum of money into your London account, the authorities will be
alerted.”

“But it’s my money; I can do what I like with it.”

“Of course you can Ivan Ivanovitch, I
only offer my counsel. If you are not careful, the authorities will seize the
money just as they did from Popov’s safe.”

“But they can’t touch my bank
accounts.”

“Sadly that is
not true; any deposit of over £10,000 into a UK bank must be reported to the
Treasury. They may freeze the money and ask awkward questions. That is why it’s
necessary to take the profits to Guernsey to bank them.”

Bronchi was by now struggling to keep
a grip on his temper. He took a deep breath, trying to clear the fog from his
mind. Finally he said, “OK, this pig of a Turk must have a bank on the
Continent, we can transfer him the funds directly from Zurich when we make the
purchase. Make the arrangement.”

Without waiting for an
acknowledgement he turned to Brusilov. “Now Grigorie what have you arranged
with the Turk?”

“Guny is willing to do business boss,
but he is demanding fifty per cent above the going rate. He is not willing to
negotiate.”

Bronchi shook his head in
frustration. “OK we have no choice, we need the heroin. Arrange a meet; I want
him to come to us so I can see there are no tricks.”

Again Brusilov paused nervously
before speaking. “That’s another thing boss. He knows we are desperate for the
drugs and does not trust us. He will only deal on his territory.”

Bronchi swore fluently, cursing the
Turk’s ancestry. He saw his empire falling down around his ears. When he had
finally regained control, he said, “It is always the way, when people see
weakness, they dictate the terms. But I have a long memory; I will deal with
the Turkish son of a whore later. Arrange the meet on his terms; we must have
the drugs. Then you will get on to Vakhayer in Moscow and get him to
re-establish his supply route. The only people you can trust are Russians. I
hate doing business with foreigners.”

*

In a resident’s parking bay in the
street just four hundred yards from Bronchi’s building, a small Renault van
bearing French number plates was parked. In the back two detectives sat huddled
over a tape recorder connected to a large metal box with wires everywhere. One
was English, the other French. Each wore headphones but neither had understood
a word of the conversation.

That was not their concern; it was
the quality of the recording that they were concerned about. In fact it was
clear and of good quality; the French Police could afford the best in
electronics. The English detective took the tape from the machine and slipped
quietly out of the van. Detective Sergeant David ‘Rocky’ Rockowski would spend
two hours that night accurately translating the taped conversation into
English.

When John Brookes arrived at his
office the next morning, he was handed the translation. He read it, twice; once
quickly, the second time much more slowly. His expression was grim as he took
in the import of the words.

After a long moment’s thought he
picked up the telephone and called Bill Moore into his office. Once he’d
arrived Brookes said, “Find Dick Mann, I need to talk to him urgently. And tell
Brigid to have the car ready, I have to go to the Yard.” Then holding out the
translation, he said, “Read that.”

Seeing the look on Brookes’ face,
Moore said nothing and began reading the document. When he finally looked up he
had a shocked expression on his face. “Jesus boss, is this for real? Moscow
assassination teams? What the hell is happening here?”

Brookes smiled grimly. “If you poke a
bear with a stick, don’t expect him to lick your hand. Let me worry about that.
What I need from
you
Bill is to find out where Bronchi and this Guny,
whoever that is, will meet. This is our chance to catch the Russian red handed.
I doubt we’ll get a second chance. Any ideas where this meet will take place?”

“Ideas boss, but I wouldn’t want to
stake my life on them. The meet could even be in the street somewhere.”

“No, I doubt that. If this Guny has
been supplying drugs for years as seems the case, he’ll choose somewhere he
feels safe. And he will be wary of the Russians; he’ll surround himself with
his own heavies. It’ll be in one of the places he owns. What do you know about
his businesses?”

“Nothing yet but I’ll find out
quickly enough.”

Brookes nodded. “OK, look into that.
Now, some of these names, do we know who Grigorie and Emil are? I know that
Tomas Dimitri is his enforcer.”

“Yes boss.
Grigorie Brusilov was clocked leaving Bronchi’s place. He was one of his foot
soldiers; he obviously got promoted. The other guy is Emil Smulevitch, he’s the
accountant; Dick Mann knows about him.”

“Good. Now, we have to work on the
worst case scenario. If we don’t get information on the meeting place in
advance, we may only get the heads-up when Bronchi moves. I want a team
standing by twenty-four hours a day, ready to go when Bronchi does. Make sure
that your guys watching Ivan’s back door are on their toes. And get on to your
Customs contact; ask her if there is any news about heroin on the continent.”

Moore nodded. “What about the threat
to you, boss? What are you going to do about that?”

“Don’t worry Bill; I’ve got that in
hand. And keep this to yourself; I don’t want to spook the lads, they’re under
enough pressure as it is.”

Moore looked at the man he had got to
know and like over the past months. “Yes boss but you be careful. Judging by
what we’ve seen, these Russians don’t make idle threats.”

Brookes
’
face
softened
.
“I know. Just keep your eye on the
ball. Let me worry about that. And not a word to anyone; is that clear?”

Moore nodded reluctantly.

Dick Mann
arrived half an hour later. Brookes did not show him the transcript, as Mann
was not aware of the surveillance bugs he and Moore had planted. He said,
“Dick, we know that Bronchi will arrange a meet very soon to buy heroin. I
doubt he has enough readies to pay for it, so he must use his Swiss money. Now,
we’ve all heard the James Bond stuff about transferring money from bank
accounts over the telephone; how does it actually work?”

“It’s quite straightforward sir, the
account holder arranges in advance with his bank an identity code that he can
give over the phone; usually things like your mother’s maiden name. It will also
include a code arranged in advance. Once the banker is satisfied of the
identity of the caller, he will carry out instructions as if the caller had
presented a cheque.”

“If someone else knew the code and
other stuff, could they use it?”

Mann shook his head doubtfully. “That
would be damned difficult, sir. The banker would also recognise the customer’s
voice and the codes are changed sometimes.”

“Hmm. What do you know about this
Smulevitch, Bronchi’s money man?”

“Emil Smulevitch, he’s a naturalised
Russian Jew. Been in the UK for thirty years. A qualified accountant, he seems
to work exclusively for Bronchi.”

“So he wouldn’t be a gang member as
such?”

“Not strictly speaking, no. But for
Bronchi to trust him, he must have some solid hold over him.”

“Find out all that you can about him.
We now know that Bronchi banks in Zurich but we don’t yet know which bank.
Accountants keep records; Emil must have the account details written down
somewhere; he might also know the codes. Find me a lever Dick; something I can
use on the man.”

Mann
was sharp enough to see that Brookes had a new source of information but was
wise enough not to enquire about the details. He replied simply, “Yes sir.”