The kettle had been singing for two minutes and he turned the wick of the oil lamp up a little to give him more light to make the tea. I wielded the long brass toasting fork and put the butter nearer to the fire to soften it. Outside the wind howled and moaned around the small windows, and I thought of Phil sitting in the cold cockpit of the helicopter. “Opium,” said Angus as he warmed the teapot.
“Difficult to grow, therefore sought after. The basis of narcotic smuggling grows anywhere up to a latitude of fifty-six degrees. The Oriental poppy or the common poppy is of no interest to the drug cartels, because only the P.S.L. (the Papaver Somniferum Linnaeus) gives opium. They are sown in May for the August crop, and in August for the April crop.”
“It’s like painting the Golden Gate Bridge,” I said. “Oh yes, it’s definitely year round employment,” said Angus, spearing another crumpet onto his fork and holding it over the flames of the roaring fire. “To get it… You want to know?”
“Of course, that’s what I’m here for.”
“Little incisions are cut into the green capsules or pods of the poppy before the seeds ripen. White latex appears and you wait ten to fifteen hours for the latex to harden and turn brown. The evening they do this you can smell the aroma for miles around.”
“So then what happens to the latex?”
“Well, then it’s either packed in its raw state or shipped off to a lab for processing into heroin or “smack” or whatever other name it’s being given these days. This ends up as a brownish powder, which is then sold on to dealers who usually dilute or “cut” it with other substances, like sugar or quinine, to make it as white as snow.”
“Angus, I’m a little confused about the various strains of poppy?”
“Well, yes it is confusing, when you’ve got poppies ranging from white to purple-black, but I really couldn’t tell you at this point in time which strain is currently the best.” Angus poured the tea and I buttered another crumpet.
“Where is it grown? You haven’t said where.”
“Afghanistan is one of the world trading centres. This year alone they’ve harvested more than 4000 tons of opium, making them the world’s № 1 producer. I’ll put that into perspective for you, laddie. That’s around a US$1.4 billion gross income. The Taliban are not fussy about who they sell it to, either, and both the Russian and Sicilian Mafia take regular shipments, with most of it ending up in the US. I believe that around 60 % of all heroin in America is imported and distributed by the Sicilian Mafia and exported direct from Afghanistan. Other areas heavily involved in opium production are the Yunnan and Kwangsi areas in Taiwan, still definitely hot, as are Thailand, Laos, and North Korea, to name but a few. The Americans have a huge problem on their hands because as their intelligence shows there are certain governments in and around those regions who support the trafficking to simply undermine the U.S. The cartels like to move it that way, because that’s where it commands the highest price. Mind you, this is a worldwide industry and I’ve only been talking about illegal cultivation. Many countries produce and process their own legal quantities as well, you know.”
“For the medical industry, I presume.”
“Aye, that’s right. Pass me another crumpet will you. See, the latex from the P.S.L. poppy isn’t much good as it is. It has to be made into morphine base, and then that has to be made into diacetyl-morphine. Which is more commonly known as heroin or ‘H’ depending in which circles you move in.”
“So, how big do these laboratories need to be?”
“The lab doesn’t need to be that big, but the drainage is usually the problem. There is a tremendous amount of acetic acid to get rid of. If you use the public drainage system it’s likely to attract some rather unwanted attention. However, if you could pump it straight out into the sea — well that’s probably as good as it gets. You do know what acetic acid is like?”
“It’s great on fish & chips?”
“Aye, that’s right. Vinegar — salt — fish and chips — och, you’re torturing me, you wee Sassenach, the nearest chip shop is about seventy miles away from here.”
We talked a while longer, eating more crumpets and drinking strong black tea.
By the time we stepped outside the sky was awash with orange, scarlet and crimson hues as the old red eye stepped over the edge of the horizon.
The damp highland mist was starting to drop its cloak around us as we careered back down the hill to an impatient Phil Allerton and his helicopter.
On the flight back down to London, I thought about my talk with Angus and about the information he’d managed to get for me on Harry Caplin and Oliver Hawkworth, now safely tucked away inside my briefcase.
So, the waxy packages that we found on board of the Gin Fizz were on their way to a laboratory for processing. When I’d handed over the logbook, I had also given LJ one of the packages to be analysed; he’d put it straight into a specially adapted secure compartment in his car. Now I was beginning to understand why so many explosives had been placed throughout the Range Rover.
Someone was determined to destroy the evidence that was inside the glove box. I should have remembered that he’d told me he was going to the lab personally on his return from New York. Whoever was responsible for detonating that bomb not only wanted to destroy the evidence but also wanted the driver dead.
Everything seemed to point back to Dorset and ‘Poseidon’.
Tatiana met me at the heliport. She was driving a Mercedes SLK convertible from the firm’s car pool.
“What is it you do to the car fleet director, that he loans you a car reserved for Partners’ use only?”
“You have a disgusting mind.” She gave me a girlish smile.
“No kidding, how do you get him to trust you with one of these? I’ve never managed to get into one of these cars when it’s parked, let alone moving.”
“When he sees me enter the car park he sends one of the security guards to make sure I don’t get too near to any of his precious toys.”
“Well, I’ll tell you. I compliment him about the efficiency of his department and how all of the cars look amazingly clean, always. It’s something you’ve never heard about, but among cultured people compliments are all the rage, you should try them sometime.”
“Ouch, your talons are sharp today, but point taken,” I said.
Chapter 27
Under the porch of the elegant Georgian building hung an old lantern, its brass work burnished to an illegible sheen. Inside the entrance a vast fireplace, the coals long gone out, now had a magnificent display of white and yellow lilies set in a tall vase of blue glass. Behind a circular reception desk sat a uniformed security guard, who checked our names off against his list and issued us both with visitor identity passes. There were two senior officers from Special Branch, a face from MI6, and one from Interpol there when we arrived; we all shook hands after a Constable on the door was persuaded to allow us in.
The large square room overlooking the walled garden at the rear, had been set up for conference use. There was a large wall mounted plasma screen and an array of equipment required for giving a presentation using computer technology. Vince Sharp was along for the ride, busy plugging cables into the back of his silver multi-media notebook.
The first minute was satire at its best. The young Italian police officer wearing plain clothes had put the camera down on a large rock and inadvertently left it recording while he took a leak behind a large tree, and then to his dismay grappled with the zipper of his fly, which had got stuck.