THE LONDON DRUG WARS (26 page)

“
The sons of the prophets are brave men and bold,

And quite unaccustomed to fear.

But the bravest by far in the ranks of the Shah

Was Abdul the Bulbul Amir.
”

–
Anonymous

Later that same morning the two
detectives sat in the office of Teresa O’Halloran of Her Majesty’s Customs and
Excise Service. O’Halloran’s office was at London’s Heathrow Airport and looked
out over the vast expanse of hangers and warehouses that was the cargo side of
the busiest airport in Europe.

Moore had briefed his boss on his
friend Teresa. She had joined the Customs service 25 years ago in her native
Belfast and had cut her teeth on combating the import of firearms and
explosives by the IRA and Ulster Defence Regiment. As so many of the local
population supported the aims of the two terrorist groups, the success of the
Customs had been limited. Nevertheless she had soon earned a reputation as
being sharp and thorough. Promotion had brought her to the UK and she was now
responsible for the Customs and Excise operation at the UK’s major airport.

She was a thickset woman in her late
forties. From her close-cropped steel-grey hair to her sensible flat shoes, her
no-nonsense appearance reflected her approach to the job. Her only concession
to fashion was a hint of rouge on her thin, determined lips. She spoke with the
distinctive tones of Belfast and wasted no time on pleasantries. Had he not
been warned in advance, Brookes might well have been taken aback by her
aggressive nature; as it was, he ignored that and concentrated on what she had
to say.

Moore made the introductions.

Without pausing to say hello, she
said, “Ah! ‘Tis the famous detective himself come to see me, I wondered when
you might get round to us. You’ve done very well closing down the Jamaicans and
giving the Russians something to think about. But the trouble with drugs is
that whilst there are silly buggers who want the stuff there will always be
people falling over each other in order to give it to them. The smugglers can
make more in a month than you or I make in a lifetime. Now, what can I do for
you young man?”

Brookes felt like a schoolchild being
congratulated on handing in a good essay then being told that he could have
done even better. But he didn’t let his thoughts show; instead he said, “We
need your expert opinion on something.”

“Expert is it? We’ll see.”

“With the Russian’s supply line shut
down, at least for the time being, he obviously must go somewhere else to buy
his drugs. We hoped you might have an idea where.”

“Well you’ve come to the right place,
haven’t you? I’ve an idea all right; in fact I’ve several. I just hope you’ve
got more gumption than the National Drug Squad, they couldn’t catch a raindrop
in a bucket.” She paused.

 Brookes
suppressed a smile and waited for her to go on.

A long ten seconds passed before she
spoke again. Then she said, “You’re only concerned about London; I have to look
at the whole of the country. The whole place is flooded with drugs. Forget for
a moment crack and the other manufactured drugs that are mostly made up
locally. Let’s look at the basic ingredients, heroin and cocaine, which are
smuggled into the country in their pure form. I’m sure you know that over 90%
of the heroin comes from Afghanistan and just about all of the cocaine from
Columbia and its neighbours.”

The two detectives nodded.

“OK, cocaine first; something like
forty tons a year ends up on our streets. The Colombians distribute the stuff
by light aircraft to the Caribbean coast of South America. You can forget the
Mexican cartels; they’re only concerned with the North American trade. The
stuff headed this way is put on what we call motherships that carry it across
the Atlantic. Some go straight to the major ports: Rotterdam, Marseilles, Le
Havre and Naples, but the Customs officers in these ports have become wise to
this and have made some major finds.

“So the
smugglers have become more sneaky. Much of it now is transferred to small boats
off the Iberian Peninsula which is very much like the coast of Cornwall and
very difficult to police. The Spanish fishermen bring it ashore but they don’t
do the distribution themselves. They sell it locally to all sorts of people who
distribute it all over Europe. We’re fairly sure that most of it travels in
container lorries, hidden among legitimate goods. But if you want it in the
kind of quantities the Russians do, the Turks are probably your best bet;
they’re the biggest smugglers.

“About thirty tons of heroin hits our
streets every year. Apart from the Russian operation, the vast majority floods
across the Pakistan and Iranian borders from Afghanistan. In its rawest form,
opium gum, it can be bought for as little as US$2
5
0 per kilo at the border. I’m assuming you know how it’s
gathered?”

Brookes nodded. “Yes, in broad terms,
but I’d appreciate it if you gave me a detailed explanation.”

Then pin back your ears and I’ll tell
you. For centuries the opium poppy has been grown under cultivation by the hill
tribes of South East Asia as a cash crop. It’s cheaper to grow than cereal
crops and brings a higher price. Most of it used to be grown in what was called
the golden triangle, Burma, Thailand, and Cambodia, that area. But those
countries, under pressure from other nations, have got their acts together and
banned the crop. That’s when Afghanistan took over.

“With all the turmoil in the country
there are hardly any government controls over the small farmers. They live at
the subsistence level and have quickly learned that it’s easier to feed their
families growing opium than anything else. It’s now the country’s major crop.
You have to understand that the whole of Afghanistan is well above sea level
and the soil is not very rich; the poppy is a hardy little plant and thrives
almost anywhere.” She paused, checking that Brookes was paying attention.

He nodded encouragingly.

She continued, “The poppy takes about
four months to flower; once the petals have dropped the seed pod remains. The
farmers score the skin and the gum oozes out. Once the gum has dried, it is
scraped off and collected. A one-acre field will produce about a kilo of the
gum from each crop. The Taliban, who control most of the countryside, get in on
the act and escort the farmers with their gum to the Pakistan or Iranian border
and get a share of the profits. Once it’s over the border, the gum is processed
and the raw heroin extracted. It’s a smelly process so it’s done in remote
areas.” She paused again.

Brookes nodded. “Go on.”

“Once it’s pure, it continues its
journey. Again, t
he Turks are the major smugglers and they distribute it all over Europe.
They use just about every form of transport available, overland trucks, ships
and planes. When it arrives in the UK, the smugglers demand £25,000 per kilo.
The distributors then add baking soda, powdered milk or other neutral
substances to bulk it out and it’s less than 20% pure when it hits the
streets.”

She paused and looked at the two
detectives for a moment. “If the Russians own smuggling route has dried up,
your man will have to try to do business with the Turks. The Irish have their
own network but that is restricted in the UK to Belfast and Liverpool.”

“Where would the Russians make their
purchases?”

“Locally, probably in Holloway in
North London, where there is a large Turkish community. If you have the right
contacts and the money, you can have it delivered to any city in the UK;
London, Birmingham, Leeds, Glasgow, the list is a long one.”

“So how will we know when the drugs
are available here?”

“Here we might be lucky. Because we
are not part of mainland Europe, it takes a day or two longer for the smugglers
to get the stuff here. Word gets about; we often get warning from our European
colleagues that a consignment has arrived in Madrid or Rome; when I hear
something, I’ll let you know. It’s then up to you to watch your man closely and
see where he goes to make the purchase.”

“What about the smugglers, do you
have any of their identities?”

“In some of the European countries,
but not here.”

The
two detectives thanked O’Halloran for her help and promised to pass on any
information they obtained about smuggling routes. They drove back to their
office and Brookes sat down to think out his next move.

To fail to prepare is to prepare to
fail.

In days of yore travelling through
the English countryside was full of dangers. Approaching London from the north,
thick forests covered the land and unwary travellers often fell prey to
highwaymen. Those who made the journey without mishap heaved a sigh of relief
when reaching Highgate, then the most northerly point of the capital.

Highgate became a famous landmark.
Legend tells us that it was here that Dick Whittington, accompanied by his cat
on their journey from the north, turned, then turned again, before travelling
on into the city to make his fortune and become mayor. It is in Highgate
cemetery that Karl Marx, the grandfather of communism, is buried.

Travelling south down Highgate Hill,
you reach the London borough of Holloway, whose only famous landmark is a
women’s prison. Like so many of the less fashionable parts of the capital
Holloway has become home to immigrants from many parts of the world. A nearby
street market was
once
described as a melting
pot of cultures. In reality it more resembled a boiling cauldron of humanity
where peoples with different lifestyles and religious rub abrasively against
one another in their struggle for space. First and second generation immigrants
reluctant to leave their way of life behind them live cheek by jowl with others
from all parts of the globe. Many lived in thin-walled council flats where they
have no choice but to listen to their neighbour’s music, conversations and
sexual romps.

Irish navvies came across the Irish
Channel seeking work in construction, many eventually settled here. In the many
pubs at the top of Holloway Road, Guinness is still the most popular drink.
Jamaicans and Barbadians, fleeing from the poverty of their Caribbean Islands
found work here; salt fish and black-eyed beans are served in several local
restaurants. Africans and Asians, unsettled after the break-up of the British
Empire, made their homes here.

But perhaps the
largest and most volatile of the local immigrant communities who settled there
are the Greeks and Turks. Escaping the political unrest of the Mediterranean
Island of Cyprus, they brought with them memories of the troubles they had
tried to escape. In Holloway, Donner kebabs are more popular than fish and
chips.

 It is therefore perhaps no surprise
that Holloway Police Station in Hornsey Road is the busiest in London; possibly
in the whole of Europe. In addition to the countless disputes dealt with on the
streets, more people are arrested here daily than anywhere else in the country.
A constant stream of people are charged with everything from petty theft to
armed robbery; from common assault to murder; from indecent exposure to rape;
and from possession of a personal stash of cannabis to drug trafficking. To say
nothing of those of Irish descent for drunken brawling in the local pubs.

If he were to maintain supplies to
his street dealers, it was to here that Bronchi must come to buy heroin. And it
was here that Bill Moore came to find out what he could about the local Turkish
community. Before leaving his office, there had been good news from France. The
Gendarmerie had confirmed that they had arrested the Russian who’d run the
heroin smuggling route from Poland to Western Europe. Carrying samples of his
drugs, he’d ventured into their country in an attempt to set up new connections
after the demise of Com Dec.

With the arrest of the local gang,
informants among the native criminal fraternity had become bolder and were keen
not to allow the Russians to re-establish their dominance of the drug trade.
Several had come forward and told the police of the smuggler’s presence. This
made it even more certain that Bronchi must find a new source of heroin and
approach the Turks.

Moore sat in an office at Holloway
Police Station talking to the station collator, who kept details of local
criminals. Moore was interested in one particular kind of criminal and found
precisely what he sought. Criminals, like people in all occupations, serve an
apprenticeship; and during their apprenticeship, they inevitably make mistakes.
Those mistakes are recorded by the collator. The collator at Holloway nick was
Derek Rogers, a career constable in his fifties.

Having introduced himself Moore said,
“OK Derek, the Turks, who would I go to, to buy heroin?”

“Depends how much you want serg.
There’s plenty of pushers around here.”

“If I wanted a lot?”

Rogers turned to his filing cabinet
and thumbed through the subjects’ index. He withdrew three bundles of cards
held together with elastic bands; each bundle had been well thumbed and
detailed the criminal career of the subject in question.

He held one out to Moore. “This guy,
Ahmed, he’s currently in Pentonville, awaiting trial for trafficking. He was caught
with two kilos of pure heroin.”

Moore removed the elastic band and
examined the several cards. Looking up, he shook his head. “He’s small time,
besides, he’s not available. Supposing I wanted twenty kilos?”

Rogers picked up the larger of
the two remaining bundles
.
“Then you’d go to this man, Abdul
Hussein Guny.”

 Moore smiled; bingo! He examined
the cards. On the front was a photograph of a man in his forties; dark skinned
with oily black hair and an Omar Sh
a
rif moustache.

 Rogers continued
,
“We’ve been after him for years. His parents came here from
Istanbul via Nicosia; Abdul was born here. He did his apprenticeship selling
cannabis on the streets, three convictions for possession with intent to sell;
the last got him six months. That was about fifteen years ago and we haven’t
been able to pin a damned thing on him since.

“
He’s come up in the world, big house in Highgate
,
but he’s got several businesses here
in Holloway; a big sweatshop and a restaurant, both run by cousins. Then he has
an olive oil and spice import business that he runs himself; although we can’t
prove it, we’re sure this is how he gets the heroin into the country. Surrounds
himself with a gang of cut-throats, literally, there’s been several razor
slashings where some toe-rag has got out of line.”

He continued as Moore scanned the
cards. “On the surface, he’s squeaky clean, too many cut-outs between him and
his soldiers. But we’ve nicked several of his associates. National Crime Squad
targeted him for a while but couldn’t get anything on him. The word on the
street is that he is the man. But he does most of his business outside London;
doesn’t want to upset the Russians or the Jamaicans. Are you in the team that
put the Jamaicans away, serg?”

Moore nodded but didn’t expand on it.
“And if the Russians wanted to do business with him?”

Rogers laughed out loud. “He’d leap
at the chance. But it would be very much on his terms. They’d have to come to
him where he feels safe.”

“Great, is there anyone else?”

“Nope, he’s the only one who deals in
those quantities.”

“Derek, that’s magic, thanks for your
help, can you photocopy this file for me?”

Back at Cundell House Moore put the
photocopied file on Brookes’ desk. “I’ve found our Turk, boss. It is Gunny, and
if Ivan wants to buy heroin in London, he’ll have to go to this man.”

Brookes read the file, a smile
spreading over his face. “He looks a bit like Omar Sharif, doesn’t he? But a
bit oilier.”

He read on, finally looking up. “OK,
we know the two principles, Bronchi and Guny. We know that a great deal of
money is involved so Bronchi will almost certainly handle the meet himself. And
we’re pretty sure the meet will be in Holloway. Customs might give us the
heads-up when a consignment is due but we can’t rely on that. Bronchi will go
mob handed. Let’s hope our tracking devices work and we can gate-crash his
little party. All we need now is the date and time and we might get lucky and
pick that up from our listening bugs. I can’t think of anything else Bill, can
you?”

“No boss, we’ve done all we can.”

“Good. When it happens, it may go
down very quickly. Make sure that all of your team are in contact at all times
and ready to roll. Now we just wait and hope.”

Brookes
spent the evening with Liza; he’d booked the restaurant he’d first taken her
to. He wasn’t very good company as, the more he thought about what he‘d learned
from the translation of Bronchi’s conversation, the more he realised the danger
he was in. But if he revealed what he knew to Groves, he would demand to know
how he got the info; and that might mean the end of his career. So the evening
wasn’t a success and when he’d taken her home he’d not stayed the night, making
an early start the next day his excuse.