‘I spoke to my cousin in England this morning,’ Janov began. ‘He told me there was a problem in the port when the ship docked.’
Abdul opened his hands in surprise. ‘So why are you telling me?’
Janov explained. His voice was steady but full of implication. ‘The authorities in England must have known about the shipment. We need to find who is supplying them with the information. I have no reason to suspect any of my men. So you must make sure you are confident with your men.’
Abdul would have laughed had he not felt insulted by the suggestion that there was a leak in his organisation. Abdul’s side of the operation meant that he dealt with the Afghanistan farmers when it came to buying up their opium yield, the men who converted the milky sap from the poppy into heroin, and the Taliban warlords who allowed the poppies to be grown on their territory. None of those men had any reason to jeopardise their own part of the operation; they were all well paid and had a virtually guaranteed market.
Each year the Afghanistan farmers produced about four thousand tons of opium; roughly eighty per cent of the world’s supply. The market in Great Britain alone was worth about six billion pounds, to say nothing of the markets en route from Afghanistan to the points of entry into the United Kingdom.
Abdul’s part in the drug route covered most of the northern provinces of Afghanistan. Janov’s covered the entire European route once the drugs had entered Turkmenistan. But Janov had another finger in the pie: weapons.
The Taliban needed weapons and money to support and maintain their so called intifada against the infidel and the great Satan, America. The beauty of it for the Taliban was that they were allowing farmers to grow opium for which the Taliban took a share of the profits, and the money earned from the drugs was used to purchase arms from the British and the Americans to prolong the war in Afghanistan. It was a continuous loop and Janov sat in the middle of it, sending misery into the world and filling his pockets with money and feeding his power hungry aims and ambitions.
And Janov was convinced that Abdul was causing him a problem and wanted shot of him.
And Abdul knew it.
But Janov could not declare open war on Abdul without alerting their paymasters to a split in the ‘ranks’. As far as Janov was concerned, Abdul’s demise had to be made to look like a dispute that had gone tragically wrong, but Janov needed more time to set something up.
The reason they had met was routine; money was to exchange hands and deals to be concluded. But because of the problem at the docks in England that Janov had referred to, and the fact that the operation had been closed down for the sake of security, there was to be no money and no deals.
It made for a very tense meeting between the two men, but they had no reason to blame each other, although that was exactly what Janov was trying to: lay the blame at Abdul’s feet.
The meeting ended with a lot of angry words between both sides, and left Abdul hoping that the letter David had sent to England would elicit some kind of response. If not, then he and David were dead men.
TWELVE
Marcus sat beside an enormous policeman in the back of a nondescript but very powerful Vauxhall Vectra. He had met him when the lorry that he had been following had pulled into a truck stop just outside Brandon in Suffolk. Marcus had contacted Cavendish and asked for instructions. Cavendish told him to wait at the truck stop until he was contacted. Half an hour later the Vectra turned up and pulled into a parking space a few yards from Marcus.
The two men who climbed out of the car were defying the laws of ergonomics because there was no way the two of them should have been able to get into the car. They were dressed in plain clothes and for a moment Marcus thought the villains had caught up with him. One of them put his hand on the roof of the Mondeo and tapped on the window. Marcus opened it.
‘Marcus Blake?’ He pulled a warrant card out of his pocket. ‘Detective Sergeant Whelan,’ he told Marcus with a heavy Irish brogue. He looked across to the passenger door. ‘And that’s Detective Constable Iverson; ‘Yorkie’ to his mates. If you want to speak to me, call me Paddy.’ Whelan straightened up and beckoned Marcus. ‘Now sir, if you’d like to follow me?’
Marcus got out of the Mondeo and went over to the Vectra with the two policemen. Yorkie Iverson got into the driver’s seat while Whelan and Marcus climbed into the back.
‘Is that the truck?’ Whelan asked him.
Parked among the lorries in the lorry park was a flat-bed articulated lorry stacked with large crates.
Marcus nodded. ‘That’s the one.’
‘Right,’ Whelan began after a short pause. ‘It’s like this: we follow the truck as far as it goes. It will probably be Feltwell according to our sources.’ Marcus didn’t have the heart to tell him who exactly those ‘sources’ were. ‘We’ll make a decision when we get there.’
‘Make a decision about what?’ Marcus asked him.
‘Whether we bust them or not,’ Whelan replied.
It was a simple reply, and Marcus could imagine these two huge coppers putting the fear of God into hardened criminals.
The three of them sat there for well over an hour, saying very little and making small talk. Marcus had tried to encourage them to open up a little, but they were not that forthcoming, so he gave up.
They all saw the driver come out of the truck stop and walk across to his lorry. Yorkie gunned the motor into life and waited until the lorry was on the move before pulling away from the parking lot.
Their journey was not too long. The lorry drove away from Brandon a short distance and then turned on to the Weeting road. It headed into the country until it came to a sign pointing to the town of Feltwell.
None of them spoke as a sense of tension began feeling its way into the car. Marcus was sure it would not affect the two coppers, but he could definitely feel a slight, skin tightening sensation creeping over him.
They followed the lorry through the small town of Feltwell. It was beginning to get dark and the street lights were flickering into life. Soon the shops and houses began to thin out as they drove a little deeper into the countryside.
Then the lorry slowed and turned on to a small road. Yorkie pulled the Vectra over and parked.
‘Why are we stopping?’ Marcus asked.
‘Wouldn’t do to follow him up there,’ Whelan told him. ‘We’ll have to wait until it gets dark.’
‘Aren’t you afraid of losing him?’
Whelan shook his head. ‘No.’ It was all he said.
So they waited until the darkness was complete. Suddenly Whelan leaned forward and reached over the empty passenger seat. Yorkie put his hand out and opened the glove box. He took a Sig Sauer hand gun from the compartment, and handed it to Whelan who slipped the magazine out, checked it and rammed it back. Then he put the gun into his inside pocket.
‘Wait here,’ he said and climbed out of the car.
Whelan walked carefully along the track, which was in very good condition considering it was probably no more than a farm road. It had a tarmac surface, which surprised him.
He could see the road curving in the moonlight, but the curve was too sharp for him to see much beyond thirty yards or so. On his right the trees seemed to leap up and hang over him like phantoms. He took the Sig Sauer handgun from his pocket, slipped the safety catch off and held the gun firmly, pointing it down.
The road began to straighten and he was able to see a chain link fence in the distance. He could also see a wide, metal gate, which was closed. But astonishingly the gateway was flooded in light from arc lamps bearing down from high stanchions above the fence. And just inside the gate was what looked like a sentry post; a security hut. He could see someone sitting at a desk. He was wearing a uniform which Whelan recognised. And then he saw the large, floodlit sign.
‘Oh bollocks,’ he said.
The words on the sign read: United States Air Force. 7th. Logistics Wing. Bonded Warehouse.
Whelan stopped and slipped the gun back into his pocket. He then retraced his footsteps until he had cleared
