Adrian Magson - No Peace For The Wicked

Mitcheson shrugged and pulled out to overtake a gaggle of cyclists. “I have to,” he said quietly. It sounded like the end of the matter, and Palmer glanced across at him, smoke dribbling from his lips. He returned her look and raised an eyebrow.

Riley sat forward on her seat. “Mitcheson, are you mad?” she asked bluntly. “They’re about to start running drugs and people into the UK and you think you can carry on working with them? Anyway, why do you have to? You talk as though you’ve signed a blood oath with them.”

They had reached the Ascona. Mitcheson pulled into the car park and cut the engine. He looked at them in turn.

“It was me who got the lads into this,” he explained. “I was offered the job through a contact providing I brought some men in with me. I knew they were having a hard time after leaving the army, so I recruited them.”

“And you feel responsible? They’re big boys, you know.”

Mitcheson nodded. “They served under me in Bosnia.” He glanced at Palmer. “Ask him — he knows what I mean.”

Palmer shrugged and got out of the car, followed by Riley. She leaned back in and stared at Mitcheson with a cool expression. “I’m grateful for what you did back there, John,” she said quietly, “but I’m not giving up on this one. That woman’s got to be stopped. The only way I know how is to gather all the information I can and let the police have it. I’ve already sent a report back to England. Brask will probably run it past the client editor to keep him sweet until I get back. But if he wants to break the story immediately, that’s his privilege. You could end up being scooped up with the rest of them.”

He returned her stare. “Thanks for the warning. I’ll keep it in mind.” He smiled briefly. “I’m glad he didn’t hurt you.”

“Get out of it, John,” she insisted. “You’ve got a couple of days at most.” Then she turned and walked into the hotel.

Palmer watched her go. He knew she was suffering and would need some care after what she had been through. On the way to the car he’d asked her if McManus had done anything and she’d said no. He believed her but it still couldn’t have been pleasant. He leaned on the car roof and pulled a sheet of paper from an inside pocket. He unfolded it and scanned it quickly.

“Got an note from a friend in London this morning,” he said casually. “He works in military records in Whitehall.” Mitcheson looked up but said nothing. “Says here you got in a jam after a couple of tours in Bosnia. Some of your blokes were caught adding a few items to their baggage, apparently, when it was shipped to the UK. Pistols, mostly, some ammo, the odd bit of high-tech battlefield equipment — even an Uzi and a couple of stripped-down AK47s. War souvenirs, your boys claimed.”

“Is this leading somewhere?” Mitcheson asked coolly. “Only I ought to be going before they miss me.”

“Sorry,” Palmer remarked dryly. “I forgot you were so conscientious. Where it’s leading is, those items of hardware being shipped out of Bosnia by your mates weren’t war souvenirs, were they? And neither were they the only items in the bags going back.”

Mitcheson frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Is that really what your lads told you at the time? That they were a little something to show the grandkids in years to come? What grand-dad did in the war in Bosnia?” Palmer shook his head. “It’s about time you got wise.”

Mitcheson reached out and grabbed Palmer’s wrist. “What are you driving at? What else do you know — and why the sudden interest?”

Palmer glanced down at the hand gripping his. With little more than a casual flick, Mitcheson’s hand was bent painfully backwards.

“That,” Palmer said conversationally, “was one of the first tricks I learned in training. Useful for when drunken squaddies object to being arrested and try to grip you by the throat. I did my training at a depot near Chichester, in case you’re interested. It’s also how I got the information about you and the others.” He released Mitcheson and stepped back.

Mitcheson gave him a sour look, then smiled faintly, massaging his wrist. “Redcap, huh? I should have guessed.” He seemed to re-assess Palmer for a moment. “That bit about the bags from Bosnia. What did you mean?”

“Drugs. They were shipping drugs and using the weapons as a diversionary tactic. It worked well for a time, too. Stash a gun where it’ll be found and all hell breaks loose while everybody and their dog concentrates on place where weapons can be hidden. That leaves plenty of places where they can’t but where drugs can. And that’s where the real money is. As a bonus they even got to sell any weapons that got through. Until they got careless, anyway.”

“How come I never heard about this?”

“The army covered it up. They didn’t want it known that any of our UN chaps were shipping in drugs bought on the Serb black market. Bad publicity, you see. Especially involving men with good records. Unfortunately, you went into bat for them, didn’t you, without thinking about it? You were on a loser right from the start, with those guys As an officer that was enough to ruin your career.” His eyes bored into Mitcheson with growing amazement. “You really didn’t know, did you?”

Mitcheson shook his head. “No. I did wonder, but they denied it. Just souvenirs, they said. Seemed best to let it go after that, the way things turned out. As you say, it was enough to kill my career prospects.” He looked through the windscreen, his eyes suddenly cold. “I had no idea.”

“You were used,” Palmer said brutally. “You were used then just like you’re being used now. Pity your ‘lads’ don’t set as much store by loyalty as you do, isn’t it?”

He stepped back and watched Mitcheson drive away.

Mitcheson sensed an atmosphere the moment he arrived at the villa. Gary nodded without meeting his eyes, and he could see Doug scouting the trees to one side. Howie was standing by the pool as backup.

Lottie Grossman was in the living room, smoking and staring out at the water. Painted and powdered as usual, she seemed amazingly calm considering her husband had died and one of her men had disappeared with a valuable car.

“Glad you could make it,” she muttered, echoing her late husband’s words. “Ray’s dead.” She began clicking her nails together in irritation, and Mitcheson readied himself for the inevitable blast. He wondered what was annoying her most — her husband’s death or McManus’s disappearance.

“I thought I’d follow Segassa and his boss,” he said. “Just in case we need to know where their base is. Sorry to hear about Ray.”

Lottie looked surprised. “You followed them? Where to?”

“A hotel the other side of Malaga. It’s probably a temporary base. They must have come in specially for the meeting but I doubt they’ll hang around long.” He wondered if it sounded as plausible to her as it had to himself as he walked into the house. Nothing like living on the wing to get the blood going.

“Good thinking,” she said, eyes sweeping over him. After a moment her face seemed to click shut on the subject but he could see she was still burning over something. Her next words confirmed it. “I still don't like it. McManus called earlier. Unfortunately, one of your men answered the phone and told him Ray was dead and he rang off without saying where he was. We don't know if he got the Gavin woman or not — and we still haven’t seen this Palmer who’s working with her. If McManus hasn’t got the girl she could still make trouble.”

“Maybe he’s dealt with Palmer as well.”

She shrugged and took a deep breath, then said with studied calmness: “I’m flying my husband’s body home tomorrow or the next day, after the local coroner has signed a release. And after we’ve completed the deal.”