Quintin Jardine - Lethal Intent

'Sure does. I should be shocked. Why am I not?'

'Because she's a very compelling and charismatic woman.'

'That's certainly how she comes across on television,' Alex conceded. She picked up her wine-glass from the floor. 'Bloody hell. Pops. What are you going to do?'

'What I always do… until Sarah comes home, at least. Get my head down and lose myself in my job. God knows, right now it needs my full attention.'

'Can I ask you something, Neil?' said Bandit Mackenzie.

'You already did.'

'Eh?'

'You asked if you could ask me something. That, of itself, constitutes a question. The answer is "yes". However, there is no guarantee that you will get a reply.'

'I'll take my chances. Do you always look this knackered in the morning?'

McIlhenney grunted. 'It shows, does it? My wife's pregnant; it's like sleeping with a chorus line.'

'Ah, I know that one. Commiserations, pal. How long does she have to go?'

'Quite some time yet; about four months.' He was glad that Mackenzie had bought the lie. The dream had recurred the night before, even more vividly: it was not something he wanted to be drawn into discussing. For all Lou's reassurance, he had found it profoundly disturbing.

Their conversation was interrupted as the door of the conference room swung open, and Amanda Dennis entered, followed by Bob Skinner, Willie Haggerty and Sean Green. She was carrying a bulky folder, which she laid on the table.

'Good morning, gentlemen,' said the DCC. 'Let's get this going.' McIlhenney looked at him and moaned inwardly: he was sharp-eyed and focused, as if jet-lag did not exist for him. Suddenly the day promised to be very busy. 'Amanda.'

She nodded and opened the folder, then took four brown foolscap envelopes from it and handed one to each of the police officers. 'Inside these,' she began, 'you will find photographs of our four targets and intelligence notes on each.' She took a photo from her folder and held it up. 'Naim Latifi.' It showed a clear colour image of a swarthy, moustached man, with a thick mop of grey-flecked hair.

She laid it down and selected a second shot. 'Fadil Ramadani.' The photograph was less sharp than the first, as if it had been taken from a greater distance and enlarged, but the sharp, foxy features and V-shaped hairline were recognisable.

She held up a third. 'Samir Bajram.' The subject looked younger than the other two, and bigger, more muscular. His head was shaved and he wore a gold ring in his ear, with a crescent hanging from it. He was smiling at the camera.

'The other two are surveillance shots,' Skinner observed. 'How was this one obtained?'

Dennis looked at him. 'It was taken by a member of the German security service who infiltrated the gang as part of an operation against organised car theft. A few days later, he was compromised; his body was dumped on the steps of the police headquarters building in Tirana, with some important parts missing.' She held up the last photograph. 'Amet Ramadani, brother of Fadil.' The features were identical, although the younger Ramadani had more hair and appeared to be bigger. Again, the shot had been posed. 'This was taken by the same unfortunate officer, at the same time as the other.'

She gathered the images together and replaced them in her folder. 'These are not nice people,' she said. 'They're typical of a hard core that exists in modern Albania, which the police and the military cannot control because they simply do not have the firepower.' She looked at McIlhenney and Mackenzie. 'Do you know much about Albania?'

'I'd an uncle who went on a package holiday there about fifteen years ago,' Bandit replied. He grinned. 'He was a bit tight: it was the cheapest deal he could find. He told me that when he was there, they had a bit of student unrest; nothing major, just disobedience. The army rounded them up and strung up the three ringleaders from lampposts. They weren't bothered about the tourists seeing it, either.'

Dennis nodded. 'That was fairly routine behaviour for the regime at that time. And the fact is that although the system may have changed the people haven't. I know about that incident you describe: it's in the files on Naim and Fadil. Although they were all masked, as was usual, it was said that Latifi was the officer in charge of the detail that executed those young people and Ramadani was one of his men.'

She took a document from her folder. 'This is a run-down on Albania. You'll find it in your envelope. To summarise it, the place has a pretty tragic history. It was ruled by the Turks for four hundred years, until it finally won independence in 1912. For about half of the time since, it lived under xenophobic Communist rule. Since that collapsed around twelve years ago, it's been trying to introduce multiparty democracy, but it's been a struggle. The early governments were corrupt, and allowed the gangsters to take effective control; that still exists, although there are signs of progress… it is said.' She raised a disbelieving eyebrow.

'The country's infrastructure is appalling. Paradoxically, it has decent mineral resources, and yet it's the poorest nation in Europe. It can't produce enough energy to sustain itself, there's one telephone to fifty people, and there's less than three and a half thousand miles of proper road in the entire place. The population is predominantly Muslim, but there is little sign of fundamentalism. As always, the gangsters' true religion is money. The black part of the Albanian economy is far and away the strongest. Another paradox is that proportionately there are more Mercedes owners there than anywhere else in the world; they're stolen in Germany by Albanian gangs and sold in Durres. That's why the unlucky German came to be where he was. They will traffic in anything: arms, cigarettes, general contraband, people, you name it. But, as always, drugs top the list. It's an active shipment point for Golden Triangle heroin, hashish and cannabis coming into Europe through the Balkan route. Some South American cocaine also makes landfall there.'

She continued, 'However, it is more than a staging post. It grows its own opium and cannabis, and in recent years ethnic Albanian narcotics organisations have expanded rapidly in mainland Europe. My gut feeling is that our four subjects have come to Scotland to extend that growth.'

'What about the arms-dealer in Rotterdam?'

'Oh, they may have used some of the proceeds of their robberies to buy modern weapons, but these people are criminals, not terrorists. We're guarding the airports as a precaution, that's all. I think they're here to move drugs. That was my bet when we sent Sean and Mr Bell in to flush them out'

'Then why aren't you talking to the Scottish Drug Enforcement Agency?' asked Mackenzie.

'Because I was ordered not to: too many people would know and the operation would become too obvious. My director general sent me here to brief Mr Skinner and seek his co-operation; they've had dealings in the past.'

What she stopped short of saying was that he had had active involvement with MI5 in the past and continued to be consulted by them. 'Kind of him,' he growled. 'I'll co-operate on one condition, that when the situation is resolved, if this is a drugs operation, the DG explains to the commander of the SDEA why he cut him out.'

'He anticipated that, and he promises to do so.'

'Fine. Now tell us about these four guys.'

'I will. As the assistant DG said yesterday, they are at the heart of much of the criminality in Albania. They are not overlords, but they are powerful and feared, strong men among other strong men. As I indicated earlier, Latifi and the older Ramadani brother were officers in the army under the old regime. When it collapsed, they kept much of their unit together and went into business. Samir Bajram and Amet Ramadani weren't soldiers… they were too young when the Communists fell… but they were brought in as added muscle and to strengthen the family influence. They're all closely related: all four of them had the same grandfather, Shaban Latifi, who was the second most feared man in the country in his time, after the dictator Enver Hoxha himself.'