DARKNET CORPORATION (15 page)

Chapter Eighteen

The fire was out and policemen were putting tape around the immediate
area to protect it for forensic examination. The driver was a charred skeleton,
but was probably dead before the fire erupted.

There were uniformed officers moving back and forth and a jumble of
vehicles outside the gates, completely blocking the road.

There was a line of people on the embankment at the highway gawking at
the scene and
Landespolitzei
trying to move them
back. The flashing lights of the emergency vehicles dealing with the multiple
pileup caused by Wood lighting up their silhouettes from behind.

Mert was being loaded into an ambulance and Bill went to see what his
condition was.

He seemed barely conscious and had an oxygen mask over his face but tried
weakly to give the thumbs up as he saw Bill. Bill queried the ambulance man and
through an interpretation from a BPOL officer understood that
Mert’s
injuries were not life-threatening. However, Bill
was well aware of the threat from shock, blood loss and septicaemia, occasioned
by gunshots.

Once Mert and the two BPOL wounded were loaded up, the ambulance left,
sirens and lights making a dramatic exit. Vehicles were moved to give it
passage up the road crowded with police, fire engines and assorted vehicles.

Bill waited until Hans had completed giving instructions to a group of
his BPOL men then asked about the escapees. Hans was aware that two had been
apprehended by the dogs and were being held in the local police station.

There was a makeshift operations centre being set up in the warehouse
proper. Bill looked around to see the massive warehouse doors had been opened
up sufficiently to allow vehicles and equipment in. The circus would continue.

“What about the car-
jacker
who took off west
along route 3,” asked Bill, referring to the
E40.

“The aviation unit from
Gifhorn
searched along
route 3 but since it joins Route 7 twenty kilometres down the road, they could
have gone in any direction; north, south or west within 15 minutes. We have
sent out an ‘all-points bulletin’ to watch for a suspicious black BMW, but
there are probably hundreds of similar cars in this area.”

Bill thanked him for his efforts and made sure that he was aware of
Wood’s laptop and asked that he take custody of all the evidence in the
warehouse and keep him informed on their investigation.

Hans introduced Bill to the local
Kripo
(
KriminalPolitzei
) chief detective, Max Brandt, who
was leading the investigation of the drug bust, explaining that he was British
MI6 and responsible for leading them directly to the warehouse. Max invited
Bill to step into his ‘office’, a trestle table with a crude screen made from
an empty shelf rack filled with cartons, at the side of the main warehouse and
a couple of chairs.

“Thank you for providing the information that led to apprehending these
people, Mr Hodge,” started Max Brandt.

“Of course.
No worries. What have you found out from them so far, Max?”
asked Bill.

Max blew out is breath and started, “Well, we have recovered 116 kilos of
heroin. Stacked up in six sets ready for what we assume is pickup or delivery.
The name tags on them suggest they were prepared for at least a couple of known
drug syndicates, but neither operate within 100 kilometres from here. We think that
the others may be in other countries and have registered the pseudonyms on the
bits of paper we found with Interpol to see if we can find out who they are. We
have not arrested anyone arriving to collect their ‘belongings’.”

“It’s strange that there wasn’t any money found. You would expect that a
sizeable drug transaction would involve an exchange of cash for the drugs?”
Bill commented.

“Yes. You would. I’ve never come across this before. There is always cash
handed over. I haven’t figured that out yet,” Max agreed.

“Have any of those you’ve arrested started talking?” Bill continued.

“Not a lot. They are mostly experienced criminals asking for their
lawyers and refusing to comment.

But the warehouse manager is singing like a bird. He says that he was forced
to give these people access to the premises at short notice. The ‘force’ being
that he, apparently, is a heroin user and they threatened his supply. They just
squeezed him until he was prepared to do anything they asked. Nobody here was
even aware that he had a heroin habit. He’s finished. But it looks like his
supplier is a low level pusher that was leaned on to procure use of the
warehouse rather than anybody significant.

He was told to open up the warehouse annexe when the truck arrived and to
keep everyone else out until they were finished. He didn’t recognise any of the
men who were here or what they were going to do before they arrived. Apparently
there were people coming in all kinds of vehicles, coming and going for hours
before you arrived.

He bolted out the window when the
Bundespolitzei
crashed in and ran for his life. The dogs found him trying to get away by
walking up the stream to get rid of his scent. The dogs are much better than
that.”

“Who was the other escaper?” asked Bill.

“The forklift driver.
He was just pulled in to unload the
two pallets by the Warehouse Manager and then he was forced to help unbolt the
drug containers by the criminals. Once he’d done that they held him inside the
annexe until they were finished, but when the raid started he followed the
Warehouse Manager out the window and was caught with him.”

“There was a third escapee. A man named George Wood, who I think is a
senior figure in the drug syndicate. He’s an ex-special services soldier from
the British SAS. He car-jacked a black BMW on the highway out there and took
off to the west,” Bill explained.

Max wrote down the details. “We tried to locate him from the air, but it
was no good. Where did the drugs come from?” asked Max.

“Afghanistan. The people who smuggled them out contribute to the
difficulties we face there by providing funds and we’d like to shut them down.
They were transported over land via Pakistan and Iran to Turkey then up through
the Balkans to here.” Remembering the truck driver, he asked, “So what did you
get from the driver of the transport at the MZVI factory?”

“Similar story as the Warehouse Manager.
He’s got a son who’s a junky and was
forced to pick up the extra
elektrische
transformatoren
when he loaded the other 4 in Turkey or
he’d have found his son with an overdose. He says he’s been forced to do this
run for months, every month a different kind of packaging. This is the second
time it’s been
elektrische
transformatoren
.
He’s still being interviewed and we’ll get whatever information we can out of
him. They sent a passenger with him to the factory to isolate him until the
warehouse exchange here was all finished, but like the rest, the passenger is
giving ‘no comment’.”

An officer appeared and Max asked that Bill give his statement to the officer
on the events from the start of the raid at the warehouse. Bill obliged,
talking for half an hour in great detail, waiting patiently from time to time
as the officer wrote and clarified Bill’s explanation. The process was slow
since the officer translated what Bill said into German. When it came to
signing the statement, Bill scrawled that he didn’t understand German but that
what was written had been recorded as a result of his verbal statement and that
he was willing to review and sign an English translation.

Just as he had time to raise his head, Jenkins interrupted with another
call. “Bill,” he started, getting quite familiar, “the driver of the car
Bicep
hijacked has been found dead in a ditch on the E40 near the junction with Route
7.
Two shots in the back of the head.
Sorry.”

Bill sighed heavily and said, “He’s a ruthless bastard. There was no need
for that. How did you find out before the police here? Never mind. Thanks for
the update.”

“The other thing is, I just wanted to let you know I’m arranging for a
local Company liaison person,” he said, being typically circumspect. “…so you
have someone in your
timezone
when you get back to
London. OK?”

“So this is the end of the road for us?” Bill was smiling sarcastically.

“I very much doubt it. But it has been an honour, sir,” Jenkins sounded
genuinely touched.

“OK. And thank you Jenkins. What
is
your first name?” Bill
asked.

“Randall. But I don’t like being called ‘Randy’,” Jenkins quickly added.

“OK, Randall. Your assistance has been greatly appreciated. Stay safe.”

Bill found Hans in the annexe and gave him the news about the dead
hijacked car driver. He asked where the hospital was that Mert had been taken
to and Hans arranged for a
Landespolitzei
officer to
accompany him to show the way.

Bill walked with the officer who said his name was Lukas to one of the
Landespolitzei
cars parked on the road crowded with police
cars. They drove north for only a few kilometres but it was now getting dark
and Bill doubted he would find the hospital if he’d just been given directions.

When they arrived at the
Klinikum
, it turned
out to be a substantial and excellent teaching hospital. Bill relaxed a little
that it wasn’t, as he had feared, an underfunded, small country town, clinic
with minimal medical expertise.

Mert was already in a ward rather than intensive care or an emergency
room. Again, Bill was relieved that German efficiency had prevailed to have him
treated promptly and that any immediate threat had been addressed.

Bill went to the nurse’s station showing his ID and asked about his
condition. They said that he had two gunshot wounds to the upper right chest
which had collapsed the right lung and shattered his right scapula. They were
going to stabilise his lung condition before they could address the broken
bones and that he could not be moved from the hospital for at least a week.
They classified him as ‘serious’ rather than ‘critical’ and although not in an
intensive care ward he was in ‘close observation’ with a continuous monitor and
a nurse checking him on a regular basis.

Bill provided some information they needed for their paperwork and asked
if he could stay with him for a while. He was directed to ‘room 4’ and when he
went in he saw that Mert was asleep. He had an oxygen mask and intravenous drip;
saturation monitor clipped to his index finger and electrodes attached to
patches feeding a variety of monitors.

An orderly brought in a large, recliner easy chair so that he could
sleepover if he wanted to. He sat for a while ruminating on the misfortune of
his partners, searching his memory for any instances of culpability he had for
their fates. Once he had flagellated himself adequately he went out seeking the
hospital cafeteria. His body reminded him urgently that he was starved and he
conceded to himself that he had supplicated sufficient suffering for his sins.
He followed the endless overhead signs and walked corridor after corridor until
he eventually found food.

Fully sated and comfortable back in the chair Bill slept fitfully until
awoken by a physician surrounded by a bevy of students all taking full
advantage of the rare opportunity to observe a gunshot victim. It was morning
and bright and Mert was awake although his face was covered with an oxygen mask
and he looked washed out.

After his consultation the senior teaching physician spoke to Bill in
German and had to start again in English. He repeated what the nurse had told
him and added very little to the prognosis other than that he was in good
hands. The knot of students moved on and Bill moved closer to
Mert’s
bed.

“How are you feeling, Mert?” asked Bill.

Mert pulled off the mask with his left hand and tried to speak but
gagged. Bill helped him get the straps of the mask back on and paused to let
him recover. He obviously could not speak with the damage to his lung and
needed constant oxygen to keep breathing. But he was lucid enough to point to a
pad and pencil on the side table. Bill handed these over and Mert wrote, “I
feel great /
sarc
.”

Bill laughed out loud and the wrinkle of
Mert’s
eyes showed his appreciation. At least he had a sense of humour even after
almost losing his life and being in considerable pain.

“Why did you shoot at Wood?” Bill asked.

Mert picked up the pencil and wrote, “To distract from you.”

Bill responded wearily, “I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself, but
thanks for the thought.”

Mert wrote, “He was too good a shot.” Bill nodded.

After relating what had happened at the warehouse and speaking for some
time, Bill realised he needed to ensure that
Mert’s
home office were aware of his predicament. He used the preregistered number to
contact
Mert’s
boss in Istanbul and related all the
details of
Mert’s
location, condition and prognosis.
He was most apologetic for getting his man into trouble.