Counterfeit (The Jim Slater series Book 2) Page 16

  “He’s not going to the international terminal,” she said.

  “No, he’s heading for the general aviation terminal. Don’t get too close – keep those cars between us.”

  “I know, I know.”

  The terminal was coming up.

  “Drop me outside the entrance. Then you can park the car and come back. You have your earpiece?”

  “Yes, in my bag. I’ll put it on after I’ve parked.”

  When we were here the previous day I’d been surprised by the scale of the general aviation terminal. Back in the US there’d been an expansion in the use of private aircraft, but that was nothing to what was happening here. I suppose it was the same combination of increasing prosperity, the desire for status, and concerns about security, multiplied up by rapid development. Delhi was something of a business hub for the region, and this new terminal had obviously been built to cope with the traffic. It still had to deal with the smaller operators, though, as we’d seen when we went up to the observation deck: on the apron and runways, shiny executive bizjets and TurboFans mingled with light single- or twin-prop aircraft, many of them quite old. It explained the mix of cars and people going in and out of the terminal: limousines disgorging men in business suits, and cheap cars driven by young men in casual clothes.

  Ahead of us the Daimler drew up outside the entrance and we slowed to a crawl. Deepak jumped out to open the door and Chowdhury emerged. He was wearing a pale brown suit and what looked like a silk shirt, open at the neck, and he was carrying a boxy, black leather case of the type that pilots use. He went inside.

  Abby pulled in. The Daimler was still standing there with only a couple of cars between us, but the way I was dressed I figured Deepak would be unlikely to make the connection even if he did see me.

  As I opened the door the heat and light hit me like a wall. I crossed the pavement quickly and entered the terminal. Chowdhury had turned left, and he was walking quickly down the arrivals hall to a large, open-plan café at the end. I followed him, looking in every direction. Above the café there was a gallery with shops. That meant I could observe things from up there. I took the stairs two at a time.

  I paused behind a column, took my earpiece from my trouser pocket and put it on. Then I went over to the rail and looked down.

  Chowdhury was in a queue at the self-service. Eventually he came away with a bottle of water and a couple of plastic cups. He went to a table on the far side. I walked to a point where I could see both him and the entrance area, pulled out a chair and sat down. Then I spoke quietly.

  “Abby, are you receiving?”

  “Just coming into the terminal building.”

  “Okay. Turn left and go down to the café at the end. Chowdhury’s sitting at a table on the right. Copy?”

  “I copy. Where are you?”

  “I’m up on the gallery. Don’t look for me when you come in.”

  A few moments later she appeared below. I looked over the rail, following her in. Even in an ordinary dress Abby was no ordinary woman and I hoped she wouldn’t attract attention. The dark makeup and sunglasses certainly helped and she was carrying an overnight bag over her right shoulder, which was a nice touch. Then she turned and I froze. She was wearing the brooch. She must have put it on after she parked the car.

  Why? It’s so distinctive! If Chowdhury so much as glances in her direction we’re blown!

  She’d moved out of my line of sight now, presumably to a table underneath the gallery where I was sitting. There were people around so I had to keep my voice down.

  “Abby? For Christ’s sake take the brooch off! Abby?” All I could hear was white noise. I closed my eyes, clenched my first and brought it down slowly and carefully on the rail. “God-dammit.”

  She must have moved into a bad reception area or near a source of interference. If I couldn’t hear her, chances were she couldn’t hear me.

  Abby would be fairly inconspicuous where she was, so I shut the brooch out of my mind and instead alternated my attention between Chowdhury, still sitting alone at his table, and the people entering the café area. I glanced at my watch. It was already three-fifteen. Chowdhury sipped his water. He could have been waiting for a flight. The only clue that there was something more afoot was the second plastic cup sitting on his table. I looked back towards the entrance.

  A barrel-chested Caucasian wearing a grey suit and dark glasses walked into the café. I read the posture: hands free, hovering around waist level, just where they should be to clear the jacket on the way to a concealment holster. He surveyed the area, then moved off to the left, below my field of view. There was someone behind him, also well built and wearing a blue suit. One thumb was hooked into his belt; the opposite arm hung loosely at his side. He looked around, then moved off to the right. Then a fat man entered, a man with a smooth, boyish face and Asiatic eyes. A face I knew.

  Perhaps I should have been surprised but somehow I wasn’t. What happened in Tanzania may have persuaded some people that the Russians had been burned to death in their car; it had never convinced me. I recalled our conversation with Dayo Ojukwe at NAFDAC and her assessment of the type of person who would be running a racket like this.

  “Someone who can travel legitimately between countries without attracting undue attention. Rich, powerful, well connected.”

  “A senior member of – what, a mafia-style organisation?”

  “Possibly.”

  Gerasim Vlasov ticked all of those boxes.

  I felt a surge of excitement. If this man was even remotely responsible for the loss of my men in Colombia as well as the ambush in Tanzania it would be deeply satisfying to take him out.

  Sure enough he began to make his way to Chowdhury’s table, with that waddling gait, arms out wide. And he was carrying a black pilot’s case.

  The old case-swapping trick. Never fails.

  Chowdhury saw him coming and got to his feet. They shook hands and sat down, and Vlasov placed his case under the table, next to Chowdhury’s. I didn’t know if Vlasov spoke English but it hardly mattered: the payment for the last consignment and the instructions for the next would be in that case. The other one was probably empty. The meeting wouldn’t last long.

  Chowdhury raised the bottle of water and, in response to Vlasov’s nod, poured some into the second plastic cup. Vlasov picked it up and took a sip. Then a movement caught my eye. Abby had come into view.

  And she was walking directly towards them.

  24

  Chowdhury couldn’t have seen her yet; he had his back half turned. She approached until there were no customers between her and the table, then slipped the overnight bag off her right shoulder and put it down. I held my breath, unable to move a muscle. There were two very hard men down there. If she was spotted now she’d be in serious trouble.

  Abby, Abby…

  I watched her bend over, fiddle with the strap, then hoist it to her left shoulder. As she did so, Chowdhury glanced round.

  My heart hammered. Then I saw she’d reached her right arm across to grasp the strap, so perhaps it had covered the brooch. He turned back to Vlasov. She walked past the table and out of the café. I released my breath.

  Where had she gone? Had she walked right out of the terminal, as I hoped, or was she waiting for them somewhere else? I wanted to go after her but I had to keep the two key players downstairs under observation.

  They sat there, sipping water. It was hard to see if they were talking; if they were it was barely a conversation. Then Vlasov placed his hands on the table and levered himself to his feet. Chowdhury stood up, too. They shook hands again, inclining heads, and Vlasov picked up Chowdhury’s case. His two guards came around to the entrance and they were in front of him as he left the café.

  It was time to go. I ran downstairs and strode quickly to the arrivals hall. I scanned the entrance area, then craned my neck to see past the people hurrying in both directions, many of them towing suitcases. Then I caught sight of Abby, well ahead of me, a
nd in front of her the receding figures of Vlasov and his two burly companions. They turned left and Abby followed. I wanted to hold her back but running would just draw attention to myself. Fortunately I have long legs and a fast walk would be good enough. Glancing behind me I saw Chowdhury emerging from the café. When I looked again he was crossing the hall and heading straight for the exit doors. No doubt Deepak was still out there on the pavement, waiting by the car.

  I returned my attention to Abby. She’d pulled up short and I could see why. The three men were heading for a line of security desks. Above them, in several languages, was the word Departures. I caught up with her.

  “Now what?” she said.

  I jerked my head. “Observation deck.”

  The observation deck wasn’t open-air, it was on the top floor. It was crowded up here, full of families with small children, waving pointlessly at craft taking off. In spite of the huge windows, vision downwards was restricted and I could see only the tails of the aircraft parked at the departure gates on either side. I couldn’t tell Abby what was on my mind so I just said:

  “Sit down over there, if you like. I’m going to wait till they take off.”

  She stood beside me.

  Half an hour later a Quickstream Majestic 100 taxied out onto the runway. The long-range jetliner was painted white with MIROVOI INDUSTRIES in large blue letters above the windows. I noted down the registration mark, just forward of the tailplane: RA-1037ZG.

  Abby looked at me with a puzzled frown. I saw the question forming and held a finger to my lips.

  “Later,” I said, and headed off down the stairs.

  By the time we’d reached the entrance to the terminal the burgundy Daimler-General had gone. It wasn’t far to walk to the multi-storey car park where Abby had left the Fiat.

  “Who’s driving?” she asked as we reached the car.

  “You can, if you like.”

  Neither of us spoke as the ancient car burbled out of the airport, but the moment it hit the highway we both starting talking at once.

  “How did you know he was on that plane?”

  “What the fuck were you—?”

  “You first,” Abby said.

  I took a deep breath. “All right. The plane belongs to Mirovoi Industries. Mirovoi is a big Russian conglomerate. The CEO’s a man called Leon Vlasov. The fat man who met up with Chowdhury is his brother, Gerasim. There’s not a lot known about Gerasim, but it’s generally reckoned that he handles all the dirty work for Leon. He may also have mafia connections.”

  She didn’t take her eyes off the road but her voice was filled with wonder. “How come you know all that?”

  “I’ve run into him before. Gerasim tried to assassinate an American business leader called Mark Ridout. It was cleverly organised but it didn’t work, thanks to a little task force from the SAF which happened to be under my command. Okay, now perhaps you’ll tell me what the fuck you thought you were doing in that café.”

  “I took pictures of the two of them together.” Her tone was slightly aggrieved. “I thought you’d be pleased.”

  “Pleased? Vlasov had two armed heavies with him. Didn’t you see them?”

  “Of course I saw—” She frowned. “How do you know they were armed?”

  “Believe it. Chowdhury only had to see that brooch and point a finger and those two hoods would have lifted you faster than you could blink.”

  She took a quick look across at me and smiled sweetly. “But you’re so big and strong. You’d have rescued me.”

  “Are you kidding? It’s one thing taking on a street mugger and quite another taking on two professionals, nicely spaced apart, so if one gets tackled the other one picks you off.”

  “Well, it wasn’t a risk anyway. They could hardly kidnap me in the middle of a crowded cafe, could they? I’d have screamed at the top of my voice. I can scream very loudly,” she added.

  Was this really the woman who’d stood regarding me with ice-blue eyes in a room full of maps at Medellín? She was like a little girl, ridiculously pleased with herself. I found it very hard to be cross with her.

  “You took a big chance,” I grumbled. “Mind you, I’m not saying it wasn’t neatly done.”

  “There you are. I got some good shots, including the two cases under the table. Come on, Jim, lighten up.”

  I subsided. “Okay, okay. I said it was neatly done, didn’t I?”

  “All right, then. What have we learned?”

  “Well, we know who’s responsible for the counterfeit drug business, or at least one chunk of it. Gerasim’s running subcontractors like Chowdhury.”

  “Passing money and information by swapping black cases?”

  “Yup, they did the swap just after you went out. It’s a real shame we didn’t have the authority to intercept Chowdhury on his way back to base. I think the contents of that case would have been very revealing.”

  “So where are they going now?”

  “I don’t know, but I think I can find out.”

  *

  “These are remarkable.”

  We were in my room back in Hotel Samrat, looking at the screen of the reader, stepping through the photos downloaded from the brooch-camera.

  “Clear view of Gerasim in all of them,” I went on. “Enough of Chowdhury to identify him, especially in this one. It must have been when he turned round.”

  “I was shooting continuously,” she said. “That was just before I covered the brooch with my arm.”

  “Well you took one hell of a risk but you certainly got results.”

  “See, I told you.”

  She was standing close to me. I looked into that happy, upturned face, glowing in the half-light coming through the louvred blinds, and a feeling grew inside me. It swelled until I could resist it no longer. I grasped her shoulders and kissed her.

  She stiffened slightly. I drew away, disconcerted.

  “I’m sorry.”

  She gave me a little smile. “No regrets, Jim,” she said. “No regrets.”

  She stepped up close, her hands resting lightly on my chest, lips slightly parted, and we kissed again. Then her arms moved around and drew me into her. This time neither of us held back.

  We’d paid for the second room in the hotel but it remained empty. We didn’t need it that night.

  *

  When I awoke the following morning Abby was still asleep. I looked across at her and got that familiar little tug. It had taken me long enough to recognise what it was. My limbs felt warm and relaxed. I stretched. Somewhere deep down I knew I’d have to get back the sense of outrage that would drive me to my goal but those things seemed very far away right now.

  My phone sounded.

  It was a secure transmission but I answered cautiously. “Hallo?”

  “Jim? It’s Wendell. Where are you?”

  Abby hadn’t moved but her eyes were wide open. “Who is it?” she whispered,

  I mouthed, “Harken.”

  “Delhi,” I said crisply. “What’s up, Wendell?”

  “Sorry about this, Jim. I know I said six weeks but I’m going to have to cut it short. There’s some sort of crisis and Max Keller keeps asking for you.”

  “What’s it about – do you know?”

  “There’ve been some new developments. Max has good reason to believe Mark Ridout’s in serious danger again but the man isn’t even trying to keep his head down. They’re about to leave for Atlanta.”

  “Atlanta? Atlanta isn’t Tanzania, for Chrissake.”

  “Max sounded pretty desperate, all the same. He hasn’t logged an official request but he’d really like to have you on board. He said you had an interest in keeping Ridout alive.”

  “Well, that’s true enough. We risked our lives to protect that guy, and Sally was badly shot up doing it.”

  “I know. There could be political consequences, too, Jim. The African mission was spectacularly successful, earned us a lot of respect in places that count. You know what people are like. If R
idout gets himself knocked off now it’ll cancel out the earlier success.”

  I sighed. Abby and I couldn’t get a whole lot further out here anyway.

  “Okay. We’ll head back.”

  “Good man.”

  “Oh, Wendell, there’s something you could do for me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Remember when we were coming back from that safari lodge in Tanzania and we came across the Russians’ vehicle, burned to a cinder?”

  “Yes. You didn’t think they were inside it.”

  “Well, I was right. Our overweight friend Gerasim Vlasov is alive and well.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He turned up at Delhi airport yesterday with a couple of his heavies. It’s like I thought: torching that car was just a blind. Anyway, they left the general aviation terminal at Indira Gandhi International on a Mirovoi Industries jetliner. He’s probably on a tour of his production facilities. Hang on a moment, I’ll get you the registration number of his aircraft.” I got out of bed and padded over to where my jacket was hanging on the back of a chair. I dipped my hand into the inside pocket and read it out. “It was a Quickstream Majestic 100, registration RA-1037ZG. They must have crossed national boundaries so they would have filed flight plans. It’s crucial that we get hold of those plans: they’ll say where they flew from and all the places they were going to after that. Could you have a word with Bob Cressington? He knows how to press the right buttons with the Federal Aviation Authority and they can pursue it with the local Civil Aviation Authorities.”

  “That’s quite a tall order. I’m not sure they’ll be prepared to do it, even for Bob.”

  “He can tell them it has to do with an international terrorist network. It’s near enough the truth.”

  “All right. I can try.”

  “Thanks. I guess we won’t be in until late tomorrow.”