The Outsiders (23 page)

The man in the doorway was the one they had called Sparky. Jonno couldn’t help himself – he rocked back and raised his arms as if to protect himself.

The man wore jeans, heavy trainers and a T-shirt. The tattoo on his right forearm showed outstretched wings and a filled parachute. Under it was inked
Utrinque Paratus
. They had not done Latin at Jonno’s school so he had no idea what the motto meant. The hand below the tattoo held a see-through plastic bag with three beakers in it, a packet of dried milk and some loose teabags. The eyes fazed Jonno. Hard for him to describe. There was short-cut hair, army style, a broad, well-weathered forehead, stubble on the cheeks and chin, but the eyes drew him. There was no dislike in them, or enmity, but nothing to signal that a truce had been called. They seemed to probe him, and he couldn’t read their mood. They gave him nothing.

Jonno made tea. He didn’t know what to say so said nothing as he poured the water into the pot, then went to the fridge for milk. He let the pot stand and stared solidly out of the window. The man waited behind him, silent. ‘. . . or I’ll break you,’ Sparky had said. Jonno didn’t doubt it. He poured the tea, which was barely ready, into two mugs and Sparky came forward to take his place by the kettle.

Jonno went out of the kitchen and his hands shook, slopping the tea, as he went back to the bedroom. They’d wait to be called.

‘Good man, Sparky.’

He had brought the tea, a beaker for Snapper, Loy and himself.

Snapper had the cushion under his backside now and was comfortable, with the view of the Villa del Aguila about as good as it would get. He had seen the dog on the move in the night – it had seemed to be housed round a corner – and the men had been out. He’d seen the guns in the waistbands of the goons’ trousers . . . and Loy had logged it all.

‘Good brew, Sparky, thanks.’

A shower had started on the ground floor, with the noise of stone-age plumbing.

Sparky told him that the guy, Jonno, had been in the kitchen.

Snapper shrugged. ‘We’ll have our tea, then call him up, tell him the scene and have some breakfast.’

Loy asked, ‘What’s the position we’re in, Snapper, the legal bit?’

Snapper kicked it away. They were where they were, and anything else was for the Boss to sort. It wasn’t usual for Loy to query the validity of an instruction, and the young man seemed pressured – maybe he had gut ache from not having eaten a proper meal or perhaps he hadn’t slept. He had little love for Loy and they went their own way when not tasked together, Snapper back to his wife and kid, who didn’t seem to notice when he was at home and when he wasn’t, and Loy to his relationship with a legal executive in a solicitor’s office. She worked all hours, and when their free time coincided they did long-distance rough-terrain cycling. Snapper thought he had trained Loy well, and the guy could carry heavy loads; he was clean and quiet.

Snapper did not expect, and would not encourage, a debate on legality. Their guidelines were governed by the Regulation of Investigatory Powers Act 2000, Part 2, which dealt with ‘techniques’ of surveillance and the public’s safeguards from ‘unnecessary invasions of their privacy’. That was big, but there was bigger in the Summary, Section 2, para (a): ‘Before the observations commence a sergeant
should
visit the location and ascertain the attitude of the occupiers as to the disclosure of their identity, and the attitude of the public in the area and their willingness to assist the police.’ He knew pretty much by heart the judgement on Regina v. Turnbull and Regina v. Johnson that covered on appeal the identity of the occupiers of private premises used as an observation post. Here, they had not observed the letter of the law; first, they were abroad and, second, they had no letter of authority from the house owner. But Snapper could flannel – some said, in SCD11, that he was gold-medal standard.

He said, ‘Get them up, tell them the minimum about what’s going on, sweeten them with the ‘‘public good’’, then let them get on with their holiday and us with our work. I don’t see a problem.’

He wanted the couple on side, and then he would get Loy to call Xavier and talk to him about their view of the ‘plot’ in daylight, the dog and the guns.

‘You make a good cup of tea, Sparky. Not prying, but were you airborne?’

The answer was curt, not inviting conversation. ‘I was 2 Para.’

‘What was the speciality?’

‘Sniping.’

‘Bad places?’

‘Some said so.’

‘And you do things for the Boss.’

‘Yes, and I work in St John’s Gardens. Does it matter who I am, where I’ve been, what I do?’

‘No . . . Just trying to learn who’s being paid to watch my back and what his pedigree is . . . Doesn’t matter. But if you’ve finished your tea, and the lady’s decent, bring them up here, and I’ll tell them all they need to know so we can settle down.’

‘Can I ask?’

‘What?’

‘Why don’t you just call Miss Winnie and give it to her to fix?’

‘Too easy. Not the way it’s done – never the easy way. She’s on the Rock. I don’t contact Gibraltar because messages from here to there leave signature footprints that are traceable, which isn’t our style. My contact is Xavier, calls from here to downtown Marbella, using the cut-out system. He can natter with the Boss, but the footprint from us is obliterated . . . Now, why am I not bending Xavier’s ear? It may not be the army’s way but we operate with spheres of responsibility. This ‘‘plot’’ is mine. I run it, it’s my call. I make decisions and act on them. If I’m watching a target and feel the need, I can call in the whole works – helicopter, armed cordon, storm squad, negotiator. I’m trusted enough. So, if there’s a little hiccup I don’t get on the phone or the radio and pass the parcel, I deal with it. You ever had responsibility, Sparky?’

Sparky said softly, ‘Suppose so. When to shoot, when not to. When to kill and when . . .’

‘I hear you, Sparky. Same hymn sheet. Get them up here.’

On the tough housing estates and among the terraces where the Islamist targets were, it took all of Snapper’s skills to find the right location and comply with the RIPA stuff, but he didn’t expect the couple to be difficult. He rehearsed in his mind what they needed to know.

Sparky stood by the door. He thought Snapper dripped charm, sincerity and reasonableness.

‘You can imagine that we don’t go lightly down this road. It was a huge decision to deploy us, one taken at a very high level of law enforcement, and I’m not at liberty to say what agency tasked us. It would not have been activated if it was not considered of exceptional importance in the struggle against organised crime. The occupant next door is Pavel Ivanov, who was associated with Russian crime gangs in the St Petersburg area, then decamped to southern Spain, cleaned his money and is now worth many millions of euros. At my level I don’t get to see the full balance sheet. We have no argument with him. He’s expecting a visitor within the next few days and we have a considerable issue with the individual coming here. You do understand, both of you, that I’m now straying into the realms of confidentiality? I’m relying on both of you to take a sensible and adult attitude to such material. I cannot tell you who is coming, nor can I be specific about the offences this individual has committed that we want him to answer for in a court of law.’

The girl sat cross-legged on the floor. Her head was down and the colour was gone from her face. He could see the graze on her elbow from when he had put her on the floorboards. He had collected the pieces of the mobile phone he had destroyed, bagged them and given it to her. Her eyes were on Snapper’s footwear. There was a bed in the room, and Loy sat on it. He took his cues from Snapper and nodded when a point was emphasised. The boyfriend, Jonno, was on the move, sometimes at the bottom of the bed, sometimes by the dormer that looked out on to the back and the cliff.

‘So, why are we here? You have the right to know and, as utterly respectable people, your integrity should not be doubted. It is not. Again, I’m putting faith in you and being frank. There is widespread corruption in this country throughout society, which includes the judiciary and the police. I would assume that every high-rate target in Marbella, who is at liberty, owns a police officer in the Organised Crime Squad. I’m not plucking that out of the air. It happens too often. We’re not prepared to jeopardise our investigation by allowing a bent cop to wreck it. That’s why, at this stage, we’re operating independently.’

Sparky watched Jonno, could see only part of his face but enough to read him.

‘We’ll identify the principal target when he comes here – but the time is uncertain, as his method of entry into Spanish territory. We’ll see him, activate our communications, and our people will then demand a fast and immediate response from the local authorities. He goes into custody, and we start the business of extradition. At this stage, a few of the rules might have been bent, not much. When the handcuffs go on, everything will be ultra-legal, shipshape, above board . . . and a very dangerous man will be on his way to an airport, a flight into the UK and a prison sentence. You see, Jonno, it’s nothing for you to get agitated about.’

Where he stood, Sparky could see the tautness of the young man’s shoulders. He readied himself, rolled fractionally on the balls of his feet.

‘I really am sorry, Jonno – and Posie – for the way it turned out last night. It would have been very frightening for you both. We heard you come in and hoped you’d just settle down for the rest of the night, but we couldn’t have lights and telephone calls. Right. That’s where I’m at, and I hope what I’ve been able to tell you – they’d skin me for being so upfront – is satisfactory.’

He’d turned to watch the property through the dormer.

Jonno said, ‘Bullshit.’

If the young man had taken a step forward Sparky would likely have hit him on the back of the neck, at the side, where the shoulder joined the trunk.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You don’t get it.’ There was an edge in the young man’s voice, and a tremor. ‘You haven’t mentioned what is, to me, the only important factor.’

Snapper’s response was silky. ‘What haven’t I mentioned?’

Caro Watson saw him clearly.

When the executive jet had landed it had been far out from the terminal and two cars had met the aircraft on a distant apron. She had seen, through the binoculars Barry had passed her, the Tango come down the retractable steps, then the two minders who had travelled with him. It would have been the co-pilot who brought out two light bags and a holdall. She had, almost, felt panic rising, had begun to think, All this bloody way for bugger-all, and he had come down the steps. They had known where the plane would come, but not when, had staked out the place, covered each arrival, and had begun to fret – and then it had come into view, made one circuit and landed. She might not have identified him, but David had said crisply, ‘That’s him – he’s changed his shirt from Constanta.’

That was Nouakchott International. They were inland from a Saharan city; the ground was flat and sandy. The view was cut by a low heat haze, and they were in the terminal building because there was nowhere else to be. The traffic around them was typical, she supposed, of any backwater in west Africa. There were smart business suits, tribal colours, attaché cases, laptop holders and raffia bags, a smell nothing in London replicated.

Jimmy was the Six man in Dakar, to the south, and he’d flown up the night before to meet her. He would organise transport and hadn’t stopped bitching that he would miss his daughter in the International School play. They had scooted. They had a Nissan off-road job, with privacy windows. Jimmy had sat beside his driver and had moved on to his workload. He was based in Dakar, Senegal, but his bailiwick was Nouakchott, Mauretania, to the north, Guinea-Bissau, Guinea and Ivory Coast to the south, and Upper Volta to the west, and Barry had done the job for her. ‘Sorry, man, your workload’s a low priority to us. Can we turn the tap on it?’ They’d followed the cars that had done the aircraft pick-up. The driver was good – didn’t need to be told when to hang back and when to close up. They’d left the airport, having hung around there for more than twelve hours, ‘waiting for a plane from Mali’, feeling conspicuous until the target’s wings had slid out of the mist.

They had turned on to Avenue Gamel Abdel Nasser in the heart of the city. The target cars had pulled up in the forecourt of a hotel. She saw him climb out of the back door of the second vehicle. A different shirt, but the same jeans, and his bag was hooked on his shoulder. She saw all of his face as she peered between the driver’s and Jimmy’s heads. The boy, Natan, looked bowed, as if he was carrying a heavy weight.

The forecourt and its parking area were full but spaces had been reserved for the latest arrival. Nearest the door was the black Citroën limousine with the national flag on the bonnet, and behind were two motorcycle escorts, police. That made sense to Caro: she had seen the target, who was impressive and had stature: a meeting with a minister would have been scheduled. They would haggle over terms, then agree the transit of ‘goods’. Since she had returned from Constanta, she had gone to the Archive and had learned of the importance of the west African ports to the cocaine trade out of Latin America and into Europe. She knew that Dakar and Abidjan, in Ivory Coast, and Nigeria’s capital Lagos were policed by the Drug Enforcement Administration and that American bucks hit trading. The soft landing would be Nouakchott, which was safer and cheaper.