Death in Kabul, page 19
‘What am I looking for?’
‘Drugs – Sergeant Gordon found that weed, just enough for personal use, but he’s of the opinion it had come out of Kabul.’
‘Don’t they check every flight coming in with dogs, anyway?’ said Ginger.
He was right. With Afghanistan being the world’s biggest producer of opium, there was plenty of scrutiny already in place.
‘For sure,’ said Holder. ‘They check a lot of the flights.’
‘So it’s gotta be worth a lot to know in advance which flights are going to be checked, and which aren’t. Everyone has their price.’
He heard Holder suck in air. Mac knew that was quite some accusation he was throwing around.
‘But dogs don’t sniff out antiquities,’ continued Mac. ‘That’s the other thing we’re after. They’ll probably be hidden in crates, labelled as something else, underneath false bottoms, or in voids in vehicle bodywork…’
‘This is to do with Marshall, right?’
‘Yes. Looks like he was in hock to a bunch of smugglers.’
Holder cleared his throat.
‘What is it?’ said Mac.
‘I don’t know, but since Marshall’s death, even if he was working in league with others, don’t you think they’d stop for a bit? Till the investigation’s finished and the noise has died down?’
He had a point.
‘Can you check them anyway?’ said Mac with a sigh. ‘And let me know if you find anything.’
‘I’ll set it up.’
As soon as he disconnected, Mac’s mobile buzzed but he didn’t recognise the number of the incoming call.
‘MacKenzie.’
‘Logan here.’
Mac made a mental note to save the number in his contacts.
‘What can I do for you?’
‘You busy right now?’
‘I’m in my office.’
‘I didn’t ask where you are. I asked if you’re busy. Can you get away?’
‘I could…’ Mac needed to know why before he committed to anything.
‘Because now we’ve got a perfect opportunity.’
Logan seemed to pause unnecessarily. Mac prompted him. ‘For?’
‘I’ve had a couple of guys watching the Lucky Star. They picked up the Swede and followed him. Apparently, he’s heading out of town in the direction of Kalakan.’
‘Kalakan? Why would he be going there?’
‘Who knows? That’s not the point. The point is, he’s not at the Lucky. He won’t be back for a bit. Now’s our chance.’
‘To do what?’
Logan sounded surprised that Mac had to ask.
‘To take a look in Bao’s basement, of course.’
Chapter 27
Tuesday, 16 December 2003
Mac parked on the street – in fact, two streets away from the Lucky Star. The Swede was miles away and it might seem like he was being over-cautious – after all, why would the bloke even be looking out for him or know what vehicle he drove? – but you could never be too careful.
His mind was racing as he approached the restaurant. He was on his way to search a premises without a warrant in a country where he had no jurisdiction anyway, in the company of a known mercenary. It was mad, but they had to find out what Holmberg was up to and how he might be linked to Marshall’s murder. The end justified the means, he told himself, but he wasn’t entirely sure anyone else would see it that way.
A sulky teenage guard pushed open the gate for him and he went into the compound without making eye contact. Logan was propping up the bar dressed in a black T-shirt and black jeans, two beers on the counter in front of him. He was talking animatedly to Bao Liang. When he said something and followed it with a bark of laughter, Mac saw Bao’s face soften into a smile for the first time. She looked like a different woman – the severity he’d seen on his previous visit momentarily melted away.
She glanced up and, when she saw him looking at her, her expression changed instantly. Logan looked round.
‘MacKenzie,’ he said, beckoning Mac to join them.
‘Mac is fine.’
Bao gave him a slight nod of recognition, then moved away from them to the other end of the bar. Logan’s eyes trailed her as she retreated.
‘Here,’ said Logan, pointing at one of the beers. He lowered his voice. ‘Cover – so it looks like you’re just in for a drink.’
Mac took the stool next to him and put a hand around the glass. ‘We need to be careful with our time.’
Bao Liang hovered at the other end of the bar, watching them both surreptitiously.
A young Chinese girl came in and waved at Logan.
‘Hey, Xiaoli,’ he said, raising his hand in return and watching her as she went over to Bao. ‘Bao’s daughter,’ he said, turning to Mac.
‘She doesn’t work here?’ She looked all of fifteen.
‘Of course not. Nor will she. She’s hoping to go to college in America.’ Logan took a long drink of beer. ‘We’d better get on.’
‘What are we up against?’ said Mac. ‘Has Bao given you a key?’
The American shook his head. ‘Holmberg rents the basement from her and he keeps it padlocked.’
Mac took a sip of his beer. ‘I’ve got a lock pick set. If it’s a straightforward padlock, it shouldn’t present any problems.’
‘Sounds better than bolt cutters.’
Mac laughed. ‘I passed the breaking and entry course with flying colours. Knew it would come in useful someday.’
‘That’s a genuine police training course?’
‘It is. We like to make sure our boys can go onto meaningful careers, once we ding them out.’
Logan laughed and finished his beer. Mac laughed too, but it was partly bravado. What they were about to do was strictly off the books and if word got back to Phelps, he could find himself deep in it. And the thought kept worming its way back in – could he really afford to trust Logan, or his motives?
‘Let’s get to it,’ he said in a low voice.
Logan left the bar by the door at the rear that Mac had gone through on his previous visit. After a couple of minutes, Mac followed him. Past the stairs leading up to the first floor, and along past the toilets, Logan was standing by another door.
‘It’s down here,’ he said, pushing the door open.
The staircase was small and narrow, lit by a weak bulb hanging from the ceiling at the top. By the time they reached the padlocked door at the bottom, the light was dingy and the air around them cold.
Mac inspected the padlock. It was a heavy-duty Abus, but not particularly complex.
‘Do you think you can do it?’ Logan peered over Mac’s shoulder.
‘No prob.’ As long as he could remember what he’d learned on the course.
He took a small black plastic pouch from his pocket and unzipped it. Twenty tiny picks and two tension wrenches, all of which had never been used since he’d finished the course. He never really thought he’d have to. But he’d found them again, in the bottom of his duffle bag of miscellaneous unused kit that he’d brought with him just in case… In case of what, he didn’t know, but at least the lockpick was coming in useful.
He pulled out one of the tiny wrenches first – hardly more than a strip of metal bent at a ninety-degree angle – and, holding the padlock in his left hand, he inserted it into the lock with his right. He pressed his left forefinger against it to apply tension to the inside of the barrel in order to create a shearline.
‘Grab me that first pick, would you?’ he said, handing the pouch to Logan.
Logan extricated the slim silver tool and passed it to him. It was a city rake and the end of it looked like a flat, very shallow key. Mac pushed it into the padlock and rocked it gently up and down to raise the pins, one by one, and edge them up to rest on the shearline. Each one made a satisfying clicking sound as he got it in position.
While he worked on it, Logan climbed silently to the top of the stairs to listen at the closed door. The Swede might be out of the building, but they didn’t want anyone else to realise what they were up to either.
‘How’re you doing?’ he said as he came back down.
Mac didn’t answer. It was taking all his concentration to get the last pin into position to open the lock.
The sudden sharp buzz of Logan’s phone made Mac’s hand jerk and the city rake slipped out of the padlock and clattered to the floor.
‘Shit!’
‘Sorry,’ said Logan. He pressed a key to accept the call and went back up the stairs for improved reception.
Mac bent down to pick up the pick and started over again.
What was the bloody problem? The practice locks on the course had all sprung open easily, within a couple of seconds.
He reapplied the tension inside the barrel of the lock using the tension wrench and then slipped in the city rake. Just as before, he managed to line up all the pins bar the last one. He rocked the pick up and down, minutely adjusting the tension of the wrench. Logan came down to watch him work, his bulk blocking the light. But it didn’t matter. Picking a lock was about feeling, not seeing.
Finally, the last pin clicked into place and the padlock sprung open. With a grin of relief, Mac withdrew both the tools and quickly slid them back into the pouch. He put the open padlock down carefully on the floor so they could lock up quickly once they were out.
Logan stepped forward and pushed the handle down. The door swung open and they were into Olle Holmberg’s private warehouse.
It was pitch black inside.
Mac felt around the wall by the side of the doorframe. A metal switch plate, a switch, a click and then they were bathed in light by another naked bulb, this one much brighter than the one that lit the stairs.
‘Jesus H Christ, look at all this,’ said Logan.
Wooden crates and metal boxes lined the walls, two deep in some places, reaching from the floor up to the ceiling. More were stacked in tiers in the centre of the room, which was itself not particularly small. Mac recognised some of the metal boxes – weapons and munitions. The wooden crates varied in shape, size and colour. Some were stamped with Arabic or Persian script, others were stickered and others were just plain wood. At a guess, they could have contained anything.
‘Let’s take a look,’ said Mac.
‘We need to be quick.’
Mac’s head snapped round. ‘What haven’t you told me?’
‘That call. It was my guys – Holmberg’s on his way back.’
‘Already?’
‘He didn’t go as far as Kalakan.’
‘Fuck! How long have we got?’
Logan shrugged. ‘They don’t know if he’s headed here or elsewhere in the city, so we’d better assume it’s here.’
Mac didn’t wait for more. What a cock-up. He went to the nearest tower of metal containers, but even if he could have reached up to lift the lid, it would be too high to see into. Logan went over to a block of wooden boxes in the centre of the room. One of them wasn’t quite as high as the rest, enabling Logan to prise the lid off it and look inside.
He gasped.
Mac went over and stared into the crate. It wasn’t big, but it was full, almost to the brim, with copper and silver drachms. Not individually wrapped or packaged, or numbered in any way – just heaped into the box.
‘It’s like Treasure fucking Island!’
Mac reached into the box and grabbed three or four coins. He wanted to compare them with the pictures he still had of the drachm Marshall had been wearing around his neck.
Logan meanwhile had gone round to the other side of the central stacks.
‘Weapons, too,’ he said. ‘AK74s, brand new.’
‘Going to whom?’ said Mac.
‘The highest bidder. Dostum. What’s left of the Northern Alliance. Southern warlords. They’re all still sniping at each other and they all need kit. But I’m pretty sure Holmberg has anti-Karzai contacts.’
Mac looked around nervously at the rest of the haul. They’d never hear a car being parked in the compound from down here in the basement. In one corner, there was a huge wooden crate, standing on its own. He went across to it. The lid was nailed down – they would need a crowbar to get into it. But there were a couple of small holes in the side. Mac pressed his face against the wood so he could look through. Of course, it was pitch black inside.
‘Got a torch?’
‘There’s one here.’ Logan took one from a nearby shelf.
‘Shine it through that other hole.’
Mac put his eye back to the crate. The narrow beam of light from Logan’s torch hit stone. Logan moved the angle of the torch up and down. The circle of light skidded across the surface of something sculpted.
‘It’s a Buddha,’ said Mac. He had no idea how old it was, but he didn’t think Holmberg had got it at the local garden centre.
‘We’d better go.’
Logan took out his phone and took a couple of pictures of the contents of the boxes they’d opened.
‘Come on.’
Mac waited for Logan to get through the door and then reapplied the padlock.
‘Shit, we left the light on.’ He reached into his pocket for his picks.
Logan peered down at him from the top of the stairs.
‘No time for that. Come on. Holmberg will just think it was his own mistake. And he won’t care – he doesn’t pay the power charges here.’
Mac went back to the bar and asked for a couple of whiskies. He sunk his gratefully, a slight tremor in his hand as he put his empty glass back on the bar. As Logan reappeared, he heard a couple of cars pulling into the compound parking area outside.
A text buzzed on Logan’s phone.
‘That’s them,’ said Logan, checking the screen. ‘Let me walk you out.’
They came face to face with Holmberg at the front door. He pushed past them, but not before his fierce blue eyes raked across Mac’s face with recognition.
Mac had forgotten how tall the man was.
‘You found the toilet okay this time, Mr MacKenzie?’
The Swede didn’t hang around for an answer.
Shit.
Chapter 28
Wednesday, 17 December 2003
Fuck knows where Ginger had managed to get a real Christmas tree from, but he had. Mac sat in his office staring at the emaciated branches. It looked more like a tree at the end of its tenure than one just put up. Blue, yellow and red fairy lights twinkled on a rotation that matched his own thought pattern.
He had made a mistake – going into the basement. He had made a mistake – leaving the light on. He had made a mistake – running into Holmberg on the way out. He had made a mistake… He tore his eyes away from the lights.
But the Swede had made a mistake, too. He’d let slip that he knew his name. He’d bothered to find out about him, though that wouldn’t have been too hard to do. In the tangle of overlapping spiders’ webs that enmeshed the city, gossip slipped easily along the threads. Information could be converted into cold, hard cash, and was routinely traded.
But the fact that the Swede had known who he was, and would probably by now have realised they’d been in his storeroom, drew a line in the sand. They needed to move against him fast – faster than he expected. He informed Jananga of what he and Logan had seen at the Lucky Star, and the major had agreed with him that it was time to take action. Prostitution targeting westerners was something the Afghan police were prepared to turn a blind eye to, but if Holmberg was using the place for gunrunning for Dostum or his associates, that was a different matter.
Jananga decided it was time to raid the brothel. Mac told Phelps what was going to happen, and Phelps had been far from happy about the plan. ‘You and Ginger can observe, but there’s no need to get tangled up in a Kabul turf war,’ he’d said, with a sigh of regret. Observe. Mac had decided to make his own interpretation of exactly what that would mean, and he spent the rest of the morning cleaning the police issue AK Jananga had provided.
* * *
There was no Christmas tree in the major’s office when they gathered there after lunch – just the usual fug of green tea and wet wool. Mac, Ginger and Jananga had chairs pulled up round one end of the desk and were studying a roughly sketched floorplan of the Lucky Star. Baz was sitting at the other end, examining the drachms that Mac had liberated from Holmberg’s stash – he wanted to get some idea from her of how valuable they were. Logan arrived. Mac had suggested bringing him on board as he had first-hand knowledge of the brothel’s layout and who they might expect to find there.
‘They’re definitely very similar to the one Marshall had,’ said Baz, putting down the magnifying glass she’d been using. ‘His could have come from a different source, but given the connections… it probably came from the same cache.’
‘Which could give us due cause to have Holmberg in for questioning,’ said Mac.
‘Leave the interrogation decisions to me, please,’ said Jananga.
Logan drew a finger across his throat and made a gurgling sound, earning himself a filthy look from the major.
‘Right,’ said Mac, assuming control. ‘Logan, talk us through the entry and exit points.’
‘The Lucky’s got the main gate at the front, which you know’ – he pointed at the gates on his sketch – ‘and a small pedestrian gate at the back, which is used by members of staff who don’t live in the compound.’
‘Who has the keys for that?’ said Mac. Logan knew the building inside out and as an ex-Green Beret he had probably far more operational experience than anyone else at the table, so Mac wanted to get all he could out of him.
‘I do,’ said Logan, producing a set of keys from his pocket. ‘But also five or six staff members. They come in at seven a.m., and most of them leave by sixteen hundred, apart from the two chefs and whichever barman is on duty for evening service.’
‘We’ll go in at twenty hundred,’ said Jananga, ‘so the day staff will be gone.’
‘How many men will you have available?’ said Logan.
‘Sixteen. We’ll take four vehicles.’
‘Good,’ said Mac. ‘Let’s put men on the back gate as our first move. We’ll all park round the corner on Qalla-e-Fatullah Road. Logan, you take Jananga’s sergeant and four of his men and place them on the gate, then go inside and give us the signal to move in from the front. That way, none of the staff or the girls will realise that you’re part of the raid.’
