THE LONDON DRUG WARS (29 page)

He said to his companion, “Heads up
Pierre, we’re bubbling. Activate the device on the Ford.”

Pierre replied through the cloud of
smoke from his Gouloisse cigarette. “My head is not down and what is bubbling?”

“I mean the pot’s beginning to boil,
we’re in business.”

The French detective mumbled as he
touched switches and dials on his electronic equipment. “Mon dieu, why don’t
they give me someone who speaks proper English to work with? There, the device
is on.”

Ten minutes later, three men were
seen to leave the house and get into the Ford. One was carrying the large black
bag. A woman detective standing in a doorway some distance from the house
radioed the information to Middlemiss.

“Did you recognise them Bravo Three?”

“One was the Russian who arrived in
the Ford. The other two look like the Chechens but I am too far away to be certain.
Heads up, they are on the move, driving west.”

“Well done Pauline, we’ll take over
now, don’t show out.”

“Yes serg. No serg.” And, after
taking her hand off the transmit button she added, “And three bags full serg.”

Four unmarked police cars in surrounding
streets started their engines. Middlemiss called on the radio, “Bravo Four,
they are heading your way. See if you can get a positive ID on the Chechens.”

“Wilco.” The young couple sitting in
an old Honda saloon went into an embrace. Looking over her male companion’s
shoulder, the woman detective looked at the occupants of the Ford as it passed.
The front seat passenger was staring directly at her. Thinking quickly, she
winked and smiled at him. He turned in his seat to keep her in sight as the
Ford passed and made a crude gesture with his fist.

When the Ford was gone, she called on
her radio, “Bravo One, this is Bravo Four. Positive ID on one of the Chechens.
Repeat, front seat passenger ID’d as one of the Chechens.”

Listening to the radio conversation,
Inspector John Barnes smiled. He told the six heavily armed police officers
sitting in the unmarked van with him, “Right safeties off, we’re moving. No
mistakes this time, I don’t want to lose another one of you ugly so-and-sos.”

The Ford travelled south towards
central London, followed at a distance by the SO 19 van and four unmarked
police cars. Barnes had worked out a plan of attack. Middlemiss called on the
radio, “All units. The light is green. I repeat, the light is green, go, go,
go.” He took his finger off the transmit button and said, “Right Pierre now
you’ll see some fireworks, if you can see through the bleedin’ fog of your fag
smoke.” The Frenchman grimaced. “Merde, I have heard of London fog but didn’t
know it bled and I am not a fag. You English are very strange.”

The Russian’s Ford was halted in
traffic at a red light; the SO 19 van pulled out from the row of vehicles,
three behind the Ford, into the oncoming traffic lane with the intent of
drawing up beside it, hemming it in.

But as it did so, a motorcycle came
round the corner from the left driving straight at the front of the van. Both
braked sharply, the van stopped but the motorcycle slid out from under its
rider and under the front nearside wheel of the van. The rider slid on the road
ending up lying in front of the lead surveillance car effectively blocking
their progress. The traffic lights changed and the vehicles in front, including
the Ford, drove off, its occupants unaware of the lucky escape they had just
had.

Middlemiss in the Renault slapped the
steering wheel in frustration. “Shit! Shit! Shit!” The Frenchman in the back of
the van watched the dot on his screen that was the Ford disappearing into the
distance.

Moore had the radio in one hand and a
phone in the other, giving Brookes a running commentary. He asked Brookes,
“Shall I get the uniform to stop the Ford boss?”

“No, Bill. They’re not equipped to
deal with armed assassins. It would be a bloodbath. If someone spots them, they
should let us know and keep back. Get Fred moving before they go out of range
of the tracking device. We’ll have to see where they go and set up another
ambush.”

“But if they get away, they’ll come
after you, boss.”

“I know Bill. But I’ve got armed
bodyguards and know what to expect. We won‘t risk the lives of young unarmed
officers to save my skin. No, get the team and SO 19 after them again. Do it
now, we might still catch them.”

But that wasn’t to be. Half an hour
later, the Ford was found in Shepherds Bush parked outside the address of the
Russian driver. On hearing the news Brookes wanted to go straight to the scene
but Fraser insisted he stay put.

He insisted, “No boss, this could
have been staged just to draw you there. Let SO 19 deal with it.”

Reluctantly he agreed.

Barnes discovered that the Russian
occupied the top flat of a maisonette. He detailed the detectives to quietly
evacuate the ground floor tenants. Only when that had been done did Barnes
storm the flat above. It was empty.

It was late afternoon when the team
reassembled at Cundell House. They went into a council of war. Barnes said,
“These are professional assassins sir, the only way you can be effectively
protected is to take you to a safe location and keep you there under guard.”

Brookes snorted. “And how long would
that be for? Bronchi is going to be on the move very soon and I want to be
there when we take him. No, I’ll rely on the SAS; they’re experts in this
game.”

Moore said, “I agree with John Barnes
sir, you can’t make a target of yourself.”

“If I’m visible, they will have to show
themselves to take me.”

“Live bait usually ends up dead when
the fish bites, boss.”

“That’s
my decision. I’m going to go about my business, Fraser and his team will have
to protect me as best they can.”

“In any given situation, think of all the
possibilities. It’s called looking for the fifth side of a square.”

–
Bryan
K. Silver

The rusty old
Honda was travelling at a speed that would not draw attention, not too fast and
not too slow. The Russian driving kept his eyes on the road. One Chechen sat in
the seat beside him, the other sprawled on the back seat. They had changed
their clothing; blue jeans, check shirts and anoraks bought locally replaced
the smart casual Moscow wear and leather jackets they had arrived in.

But they couldn’t disguise their
features. Broad faces with high cheekbones, curly, black hair and thick
eyebrows showed their origins to be somewhere in the high Caucasus Mountains,
halfway between Mongolia and Europe. The leader in the front seat was of medium
height and stocky build; his unshaven face and piercing dark brown eyes gave
him the sinister appearance that matched his calling. His companion in the back
was two inches taller but he wore the blank expression identifying him as the
mule who simply followed orders.

The driver had pointed out the target
house as they approached it; the Chechen in the front seat became fully alert,
taking in every detail as they passed. They could afford to make only one pass;
if there were an alert policeman there, he would notice any vehicle that came
past more than once.

But no-one appeared to be paying
attention to them. The Chechen failed to spot the man sitting down low in a
parked black Land Rover with dark tinted windows who watched them roll past. He
could not make a positive ID however, and waited to see if they made another
pass. The Chechen noted that there were cars parked nose to tail on both sides
of the residential street. He also noted the street lamps that would illuminate
the place during the hours of darkness. This would make the covert planting of
a bomb difficult. He could also not be sure where the target would be in the
house when it exploded.

He made the decision then that he
would stick to his original plan and kill from a distance. As well as a high-powered
sniper rifle, he had a weapon that he’d been practicing with in the forests
outside Moscow. It had been despatched here via Ireland and it, together with
one projectile, had been in the bag Dimitri had delivered to the safe house.
The Chechen smiled to himself, pleased that he had been able to do the recce
unobserved; there was every chance that the target was not aware of the danger
and would prove easy prey.

A
plan was forming in his mind; it was not perfect but would have to do. The time
scale was short and the target alert. Bronchi had insisted that the contract be
completed within the next twenty-four hours; he had other business that could
not wait. The Chechen made up his mind, he would use the rocket propelled
grenade. He would likely only get one shot and there was always the possibility
of missing with the rifle; if the rocket went off anywhere within twenty yards
of the target it would kill him instantly.

It was just after 4am. The flat was
quiet; nothing stirred. Brookes slept soundly in his bed at the rear of the
house. Fraser dozed on the couch in the front room. Outside were the three
other members of his team. One, Corporal Brian Williams known to his mates as
Blodwynn, sat in the seat of the black Land Rover keeping watch. The other two
slept in the rear of the nondescript van they’d brought with them.

*

A white delivery van pulled slowly to
a halt at a street junction some fifty yards from Brookes’ house. After a
moment, the van moved forward and turned left, away from the house. Fifty yards
further along it pulled to a halt and reversed into a space between two parked
cars. The driver extinguished the vehicle’s lights and turned off the engine;
he then sat looking into his rear view mirror.

In the passenger seat beside him, the
Chechen wound down his window and adjusted the nearside rear view mirror so
that he too could see the length of the street behind him. For five minutes
nothing moved in the van or on the street outside.

The driver looked at his companion.
He spoke to him in Russian, “I think it is OK, no-one saw us arrive.”

The Chechen replied in heavily
accented Russian, “Be patient Victor, don’t underestimate the opposition. We
will wait.”

The two men sat quietly for a further
ten minutes before the Chechen was finally satisfied. He knew that their
arrival at the killing ground was the most risky part of the operation. If
their arrival was observed, their chance of success was gone. Hence the hour
chosen, a few hours before dawn when any guards would be at their lowest ebb of
alertness. It seemed he had been right; he reasoned, if they had been seen the
defenders would have sent someone to investigate by now. He said something in
Chechen to the man in the rear of the van who just grunted a reply.

The three then settled down to wait.

A hundred and twenty yards from them
Corporal Williams sat quietly watching the white van. He’d noticed its arrival
but had made no move until now. He picked up his radio and made a call.

The radio on the floor beside Fraser
crackled. A voice said, “Heads up Angus, I think we’re in business.”

Fraser picked up the radio and spoke
into it. “What have you got Blodwynn?”

“A white delivery van. Went past ten
minutes ago. Reversed into a spot a hundred yards up the road. No-one got out
and nothing has moved since.”

“Which way is it facing?”

“Away from us. Tinted rear windows so
I can’t see inside. From where it’s parked it’s got a clear field of fire to
your front door.”

“OK wake Bill and Harry. I need
someone to take a closer look but tell them not to show out.”

“That’s received,” came the reply,
and the radio went quiet.

Fraser got up and walked to the bay
window. Through the lace curtains by the light cast by street lamps he could
clearly see the rows of vehicles parked on either side of the road. He saw the
van; Williams was right, anyone in the back of the van could see Brookes’ front
door over the tops of the vehicles parked in the intervening space. It was a
logical place from which to make the hit. As soon as Brookes appeared at the
front door he would be a sitting duck.

Fraser put the radio to his mouth.
“Echo two from one, are you awake yet Mike?”

“Either that or you’re a bad dream
Angus, go ahead.”

“Check behind you for other hostiles.
Then I want you in the top room of that empty house across the street so you’re
firing down on the ones in the van when the fun starts. Send Bill round the
block to cover the front of the van. Tell him not to show out and report
anything that moves.”

“‘Copy that’, as the Yanks say.”

Fraser kept the radio to his mouth.
“Echo four, maintain your position and do a check on the licence plate. Let me
know when you have a result.”

Fraser slipped the radio into his
jacket pocket and went to wake Brookes; they needed to talk. He doubted the
hostiles would make their move before Brookes left the house; they would want
to make certain of taking out their target. The one question that worried him
was their choice of weapons. What stuck in his mind was the description of the
bag delivered to the hit men the previous day. It was four times the size
necessary to carry a couple of sniper’s rifles and appeared to have been very
heavy.

Brookes woke with a start; someone
was shaking his shoulder. A voice said, “Wake up boss, it’s only me, Angus.”

“What is it, what’s happened?”

“It’s OK, nothing’s happened yet but
I think we have visitors. We need to talk. There’s coffee brewing in the
kitchen. Get some clothes on and join me there. But don’t go near the front of
the house and don’t show any lights.”

Five minutes later Brookes was
sitting at his kitchen table sipping the strong black coffee Fraser had put in
front of him. Fraser filled him in on the van’s arrival.

Then he said, “Where he’s parked, he
has a clear field of fire on the front of your house. I’m almost certain he’ll
wait until you go out the front door. But I’m taking no chances; my team are
awake and watching. If the bandits make a move, they’ll take them out.”

“Why don’t they do it now Angus?”

“Because we’re not absolutely certain
it’s them; it could be a local toe-rag getting his end away. We’ve done a check
on the plates. They’re false, issued to a Ford Capri. If any of my lads were to
go near the van to make certain who’s in there
they’d
be sitting ducks.
We have to winkle them out some other way.”

“OK; what’s your plan?”

“Don’t believe what you see on the
telly boss, we have rules of engagement. As soon as we see them with weapons in
their hands we can take them out; but not until. I don’t think they’ll show
themselves until they see you. So I think you’ll have to make an appearance.
But the moment you see the van doors open duck for cover. What time do the
couple upstairs get up?” He referred to the young couple who rented the flat
above Brookes.

“About six-thirty, they work in the
city.”

“OK, I don’t want to scare the life
out of them so I’ll need you to go up and talk to them once they’re out of bed.
I need their front room as my firing point. We need to be firing down on the
bandits otherwise we could take out anyone in the street behind them.”

“OK but what about my sergeant? She
usually picks me up. I’d better warn her to stay away.”

“No boss, that won’t work. If the
bandits know your routine, they’ll be suspicious if it changes. She’ll have to
arrive as usual and duck for cover when you do.”

“No way Angus, I don’t want to expose
her to a bullet meant for me.”

“Listen, if they don’t try for you
here, they’ll try somewhere else. And we might not be ready for them then. If
she travels with you, she would be in more danger then.”

Brookes argued against the plan but
was eventually persuaded to let her make the choice. When the decision was made
he phoned her. She agreed immediately to the plan. So it was decided. Brookes
phone Inspector Barnes of SO 19. They would close off the area surrounding the
street to prevent the public wandering into the firing line.

By 6.50 everyone was in position.
Brigid sat in her car two streets away, waiting for the order to move. Fraser
was in position in the flat above; another of his team was in the front room of
the empty house opposite. It was these two that would take out the killers and
both had clear fields of fire to the back of the Chechens’ van. Williams sat in
his Land Rover across the street from Brookes’ house. The fourth team member
was hidden in the front garden of a house the other side of the van covering
the bandits’ escape route.

At two minutes to the hour Fraser had
his finger poised on the transmit button of his radio when a young teenager on
a bicycle suddenly appeared on the street. Over his shoulder he carried a
newspaper satchel. He began making his deliveries to houses along the street.
Fraser cursed, “How the fuck did he get through the cordon?”

On the radio he said, “Everyone stand
by. We can’t move till the paper boy is gone. Repeat, stand by until he’s out
of the street.”

It seemed to take an age but five
minutes later the lad turned a corner and disappeared from sight.

Fraser pressed the button on his
radio. “Right, safeties off. DS Jones, move in now.”

A minute later Brigid’s car turned
into the street and pulled to a halt opposite Brookes’ house. As usual there
was no space at the kerb and she double parked. She got out of the car and
began walking towards Brookes’ house. As she did so the front door opened and
Brookes appeared. Brigid couldn’t resist glancing over her shoulder towards the
white van. Her face went white.

She shouted, “They’ve got a fucking
cannon!”

She’d seen that the rear doors to the
van were wide open and two men had emerged; one carrying a rocket propelled
grenade launcher, the other a rifle.

Both she and Brookes dived for cover
behind parked cars. Shots sounded from above them; two taps followed
immediately by two more. Both the armed men fell to the ground. But as the RPG
fell it went off with a whoosh; the Chechen’s dead finger was still on the
trigger. The grenade struck the ground ten yards ahead and bounced; ten yards
further on it hit the front of a parked car and exploded, lifting the car into
the air. Chunks of metal shot off in all directions. Everything was obliterated
by a ball of flames and smoke. Brookes and his DS hugged the ground, frightened
to move.

A moment later the van’s engine burst
into life and the van moved forward. Then there were two taps from a high
powered rifle. The windscreen of the van shattered but the van continued to
roll forward until it hit the car in front and came to a stop. The Russian
driver had tried to make his escape but hadn’t got more than five yards.

Then the street fell quiet; the only
sound came from the flames of the burning wreck of the car hit by the rocket.
Brookes slowly raised his head above the level of the window of the car he’d
taken shelter behind. But his view of the van was obscured by the smoke from
the burning car.

His radio crackled, a voice said,
“All clear. Three bandits down, no friendly casualties.”

Brookes glanced down at his DS lying
beside him. “Are you OK Brigid?”

She looked up at him. “I’ve laddered
my stockings sir, and I’ve scratched my knee.”

Brookes smiled as he helped her to
her feet. “Well you can claim for the stockings and we’ll get a plaster for
your knee. And by the way, please watch your language. I don’t expect to hear
effing and blinding from a future commissioner.”

She looked at him and saw that he was
joking. They both burst out laughing more from the relief of tension than
Brookes’ weak joke.

When they had quietened down she
rubbed her knee and said, “Mr. Groves said I’d see plenty of action working for
you sir, but I didn’t expect it to be this exciting.”

“It’s
not over yet Brigid, I want the bastard responsible for all this. Taking him
down could be even more exciting.”