THE LONDON DRUG WARS (27 page)

“
The evil that men does lives after them.

The good is oft interred with their bones.
”

–
William
Shakespeare

Early the next morning Brookes had
Brigid drive him to the Yard. Arriving, they parked in the underground car park
and walked up to reception. Brookes said to Brigid, “Hopefully I won’t be long.
Please wait for me in the canteen, I’ll call you when I’m ready.”

She rolled her eyes at him but headed
for the lift. He produced his warrant card and stated his business. Within just
a few minutes Jeremy Hornsby collected him and took him to the inner sanctum.

When seated in Hornsby’s office
Brookes said, “Jeremy, there is something I need your help with.”

“I gathered that from the urgency of
your call. What’s the problem John?”

 “It’s a little delicate. I need to
show you the translation of a conversation we happen to have overheard.”

“What exactly is delicate about it
John?”

“The fact that we overheard it.”

“I see... I think. Go on.”

“It’s as well you don’t ask how we
happened to overhear it.”

“You always were a devious sod, John.
Get on with it.”

Brookes gave him the translation.
“Read this.”

 Just as Brookes had done, Hornsby
read it twice. He finally looked up. “Is this for real?”

Brookes nodded. “That’s why I came to
you. After the bomber who came here from Moscow to blow up the Yardies, I think
it might be.”

“My God, this is dynamite, literally.
You seem to have really gotten under his skin.”

“You can’t make an omelette without
breaking eggs.”

“What kind of bloody eggs are you
using?”

Brookes ignored the question. “What
do you know about this Chechen Gorilla?”

“The short answer is nothing but I
know a man that might. Give me a moment to think.” After a few moments, a
mischievous grin spread across his face. “OK, let me make sure I’ve got this
straight. A Russian drug dealer in London has put out a contract on you and is
bringing Chechen hitmen here to carry it out. But officially we are not
supposed to know about it because the way we found out is not strictly kosher.
But, as its most probably a serious threat, we must ask for official help.”

“Yes, that’s about the strength of
it.”

“Aren’t you due for retirement soon,
John?” Hornsby said with a grin.

“You should know Jeremy, we joined
the job together. Now, can you help me or not?”

“The answer to your first point is
yes, but you seem to have gone at a faster pace than me, no-one has put a
contract out on me. As far as the help is concerned, of course I’ll help if I
can. But we’ll have to take this to the secret squirrels. They will ask awkward
questions John, and you will have to be frank with them.”

“I suppose that’s inevitable. Don’t
you have a friend there who can be discreet?”

“Maybe, just maybe.”

He picked up the phone and dialled a
number. When it was answered, he spoke a few words and put the receiver down.

Turning back to his friend, he said,
“Right I know you have signed the Official Secrets Act but I have to remind
you. Where we are going and whom we are going to see are not to be divulged to
anyone. I shouldn’t really take you there but I don’t think we have a choice.
This is urgent and my contact will want to hear this from the horse’s mouth.”

“OK, you can blindfold me if you
like.”

“Don’t be flippant John, this is
serious.”

“I know Jeremy; it’s me this Russian
is after, remember? I’ll play by the rules.”

“Right, let’s go.”

On the south bank of the Thames is a
strange-looking building designed by an architect who missed his vocation; he
would have been better suited to building sand castles on the beach. Those who
know the building called it anything from a blot on the London landscape to
something from a Harry Potter novel. There has been no attempt to hide the fact
that it is the headquarters of a branch of Britain’s secret services. The fact
that the building is so noticeable and well-known is perhaps a blessing in
disguise; possibly even a deliberate ploy, as the secret squirrels are devious
people. Intelligence gathering and covert operations are handled elsewhere.
Hornsby took his friend to an anonymous-looking house in one of London’s famous
squares.

The two policemen showed their
identification to an elderly security guard seated at a reception desk in the
building’s foyer. He used a telephone and within a short time another security
guard, younger and fitter looking, appeared and took the two to a lift at the
rear of the building. He inserted a key that opened the lift door and took them
to an upper floor. There the lift door opened onto a corridor. He led them
along to an anonymous-looking door and knocked on it.

A tall slim man wearing a pinstriped
suit and an old Etonian tie opened the door. Aged around fifty, he had
iron-grey hair cut short, and a thin military moustache. Not knowing quite what
to expect Brookes was surprised that the man fitted the description of the
fictional spymaster portrayed in the movies. He spoke in a manner that confirmed
he had probably earned the tie by attending the school it indicated.

He gave Brookes an appraising look
then said to Hornsby, “Jeremy, what a pleasure to see you. Please come in.”

Hornsby introduced the man as James
Braithwaite. He invited them to sit in comfortable chairs arranged around a low
table. They declined the offer of refreshments and Hornsby got straight down to
business.

“James, John is the officer in charge
of an investigation into the activities of a gang of Russian thugs selling drugs
here in London. We need your help with a small problem that has arisen.”

“Yes of course.” Braithwaite turned
to Brooks. “We have been following your exploits with interest. It really was
about time that someone did something about these bloody foreign criminals.
Well done old man. By the way, please call me James.”

It crossed
Brookes’ mind that this was not the kind of man who you would call Jim. He
simply smiled and nodded.

Hornsby added, “Yes, it seems he’s
doing
too
good a job and that may be the root of the problem. Something
has come up. His team managed to overhear a council of war held by this Russian
and his cronies.”

Braithwaite frowned. “Happened to
overhear? Never mind, go on.”

Hornsby turned to Brookes with
eyebrows raised. Brookes handed Braithwaite the translation.

Braithwaite read it carefully; when
he had finished, any sign of levity had disappeared from his manner. “How sure
are you that this is an accurate record of the meeting?”

“Absolutely certain.”

“How did you come by it?”

Without hesitation Brookes replied,
“I planted a listening device in Bronchi’s home. The conversation was in
Russian; I had one of my men who speaks the language fluently translate it.”

“Right, I shall need the original
tape. Please give it to Jeremy; he will get it to me.”

Brookes nodded.

“This listening device, was it
officially sanctioned?”

“No.”

Braithwaite smiled. “I say old man,
that’s a bit naughty. I thought it was only my people who did that sort of
thing.”

Brookes returned his smile and said
nothing; he was beginning to feel like a Cheshire cat.

Braithwaite elegantly scratched his
head. “Interesting, very interesting. You had better give me the full
background to your investigation, John. I must ask you to be totally frank,
especially if there are any more little wrinkles that need ironing out. We need
to know what we can and cannot use officially.”

It took Brookes ten minutes to relate
the full details of his investigation; he left out only the parts played by the
French COND in providing the surveillance devices and Bill Moore’s part in the
nocturnal visit to Bronchi’s home. When he had finished, Braithwaite asked just
a few questions for clarification.

Finally he sat back and said, “So, it
seems that we must take this threat seriously.” After a pause he added. “Listen
old man; I need to have one of my people assess this. Sit tight, I won’t be a
tick.”

He got up and left the office, taking
the translation with him. When he was out of earshot Brookes opened his mouth
to speak. Hornsby quickly put his finger to his lips then put his hand to his
ear and with the other hand spun his finger, mimicking the turning of a tape
recorder; Brookes nodded and shut his mouth.

Braithwaite was away for fully five
minutes. Brookes spent the time looking around the room. Braithwaite’s desktop
was empty except for a blotter, a pen set, and a telephone. A bookshelf behind
the desk contained several box-files and ring binders. On the top shelf were a
small figure of a polo player on a horse and a photograph of an attractive woman
in her forties standing between two teenage girls. On the walls were three
framed oil paintings of English country scenes.

When Braithwaite returned, he was
accompanied by a woman of around sixty. She looked like someone’s maiden aunt.
Her pear-shaped figure was clothed in a long woollen skirt and a grey shapeless
cardigan. On her feet she wore sensible flat shoes, woollen stocking showed on
her legs below her skirt. Her grey hair was cut in a straight line level with
her chin and above her eyebrows, and hung limply on her head without the merest
hint of a curl. On her upper lip was the hint of a moustache. She had the
translation in her hand.

Braithwaite didn’t introduce her; he
said simply, “Well Mary, what do you make of it?”

She spoke in unaccented English and
in a matter-of-fact tone, as if she were reading the weather forecast. “The
Gorilla is the gang name of Aleksey Badalov. He is an ex-Chechen Army colonel
and the current leader of a gang of thugs operating from Moscow. Members of his
gang were responsible for the death of an American journalist and several
Moscow businessmen. They are killers for hire and are prepared to travel. I
would say the threat is genuine.”

“Is there any way we would know if an
assassination team were to be sent here to London?” asked Braithwaite.

“Possibly, we know the identity of
several of the assassins. If any of those are sent, they would be spotted on
airport security cameras.”

“Good. What about this Vakhayer, do
we know anything of him?”

“Yes, we think he is the head of a
gang of smugglers who distributes drugs to other Russian gangs in Western
Europe.”

“Thank you Mary,” said Braithwaite.
Then to his visitors, “Is there anything you wish to ask?”

“Well yes,” said Brookes. “If these
people are known killers, why have they not been brought to trial?”

Mary gave him a withering look. “Two
of the gang of assassins were put on trial for the murder of the journalist.
Vital witnesses disappeared never to be seen again and the assassins were
acquitted.”

“What about the bomber who blew up
the Bridge Tavern here in London. Was he part of this gang?”

“Yes.”

“Then why was he not identified and
intercepted?”

“We were not in an alert situation
then. The Chechens are a criminal gang and not normally of interest to us. They
have on occasion worked for terrorists; that’s the only reason we have a record
of them.”

“Why didn’t you give us this
information when you did find out?” Brookes directed the question angrily at
Braithwaite.

Braithwaite answered him patiently,
“What would have been the point? Your people killed the bomber, John. Our
effectiveness depends on our ability to remain anonymous. We only volunteer
information when it is essential for people’s safety. That’s why we are telling
you now.”

He turned to his colleague. “Thank you
Mary that was very useful.” She smiled, nodded at the two policemen and left
the office without another word.

Braithwaite said, “OK old man, we
know what we are up against. Rest assured that if we spot them we shall nab
them. But you really should take precautions just in case. These are very
dangerous people; if they do slip past us you are in serious peril.” He smiled
and let the words sink in. Then he added, “Keep up the good work old boy, we
would love to see you bring this Bronchi fellow to book.” He shook their hands
and ushered them out.

*

As they stood on the pavement outside
the building, Brookes said, “My god Jeremy, you’d think they were discussing
meat imports instead of cold-blooded killers.”

“You of all people should know of the
need to remain objective, John,” Hornsby chided him.

Brookes finally smiled. “I won’t be
so critical of spy films in future; they are not so far from the truth after
all. That Mary’s a bit of a cold fish, I wonder if she’s married?”