by Nick Oldham
Flynn closed his mouth. It had been sagging open like a fly trap.
‘They are in fact headed by an old man called Viktor Bashkim, now in his eighties. He is the absolute leader of the clan, has been for over sixty years. There is also one grandson left, Niko, who is Aleksander’s third and last remaining progeny.’
Flynn listened, astounded.
‘Niko isn’t anywhere near as violent as his siblings were, but he and Viktor have been keeping the ship afloat just as successfully as before. Thing is, Steve, old man Viktor is not one to forgive and forget. He’s very old school, which is why we find ourselves in this position.’
‘The position being?’
‘That the pursuit of lawful justice is at an end.’
Rik Dean shifted uncomfortably.
Karl Donaldson smiled evilly.
Steve Flynn wondered what the hell was coming his way.
‘OK, you won’t be upset if I’m a bit wary, will you, guys?’ Flynn asked. ‘I don’t know where this is headed’ – he arched his eyebrows pointedly at the two men – ‘but I’m not being drawn to say anything in this environment that might incriminate me. I’ve been abducted at gunpoint, brought hooded to an unknown location in Blackburn’ – here he saw both men react to that, even though all it was only an educated guess – ‘and I don’t want to be verballed up.’
‘I understand your reticence, Steve,’ Donaldson said calmly, ‘but let me assure you of several things. First, our conversation will not be recorded in any way, shape or form because what we will talk about is entirely off the record and I don’t want anything I say to be heard anywhere else, either.’
Flynn glanced at Rik and prompted him with another arch of his eyebrows.
‘Me, too,’ he said sullenly.
‘So we will be honest with you,’ Donaldson said.
‘OK, tell me exactly where I am right now.’
Donaldson took a breath. ‘What we say is entirely confidential, between ourselves.’
Flynn nodded.
‘Just to show I trust you, I’ll tell you: you’re in an industrial unit on the outskirts of Blackburn, which I think you already worked out. It is as secure as it can be and is a joint facility used by the FBI, CIA, MI5 and the SIS.’
‘For what?’
‘To hold certain people incognito.’
‘Terrorists?’
‘Terror suspects.’
‘And interview them?’ Flynn asked.
‘If appropriate. Some people who have been detained here have subsequently found themselves in other locations in which they can be held without charge.’
‘Rendition, then,’ Flynn said.
Donaldson shrugged.
‘OK,’ Flynn said. ‘Cross my heart and promise not to blab, though I’m still not convinced this chat of ours won’t be recorded.’
‘It won’t, I assure you,’ Donaldson said.
Flynn’s eyes turned to Rik. ‘It won’t,’ the detective said.
‘Can I have that in writing?’
‘No!’ both men responded together.
Flynn shrugged.
Donaldson said, ‘I’ll tell you why. Once we’ve established the ground rules here, what we will then tell you, if it became record, would put us both in danger of losing our jobs, and I have too many years invested in it for that to happen.’
Rik said, ‘Me, too. I want to retire on a superintendent’s pension.’
I’ll bet you do, Flynn thought cynically. Commute over a quarter of a million tax-free and a half pension around the forty grand mark. A full police pension was something he himself had been denied and it still rankled.
Rik shrugged on seeing Flynn’s expression. ‘I don’t make the pension rules.’
‘Guys,’ Donaldson interceded, sensing tension. ‘OK, what we are about to discuss is off the books. My bosses know about it and have sanctioned it because that’s part of their jobs, but it is completely deniable. Rik’s chief constable is also aware but, if it comes back to bite our asses, you can bet shit will slide downhill.’
Flynn stayed silent.
‘The, err … slight bugbear in all this, Steve,’ Donaldson went on, ‘is that you were in custody for murder and it’s not as though that can be written off.’
Flynn remained silent.
‘I’ll come back to that but Rik probably needs to speak now.’ Donaldson handed over to the superintendent, whose face seemed to continue to swell visibly. He wasn’t looking well.
‘A few things,’ he began. ‘Obviously you killed more than Brian Tasker, such as one of the guys who ambushed the police escort. You took Molly’s gun off her and shot one of them. She shot another.’
‘No actual denial there, just mitigating circumstances, such as we were fighting for our lives.’
Rik held up a hand. ‘I know that and I’m certain it will not go to trial. There will be an inquest but not a trial. The result will be justifiable homicide. I can make sure of that.’
Flynn waited for more.
‘I have to know something else,’ Rik said. ‘Mark Carter, our local drug lord. Did you kill him and his two associates?’
‘Who?’ Flynn said.
‘That’ll do,’ Rik said. ‘Looks like a gang war to me.’
‘Still leaves the issue of Brian Tasker,’ Flynn said.
‘You’re a wanted man. I can’t suddenly rescind that and make it go away. You also assaulted me, stole a police van and wrecked it.’
‘What could you do?’ Donaldson asked.
‘I could bury it,’ Rik said simply. ‘Fudge it, delay it.’
Flynn said, ‘Why would you do that?’
‘Because,’ Donaldson answered for Rik, and this was no surprise to Flynn to hear it, ‘you could be useful to us.’
‘What? In a greater good kind of way?’
Donaldson leaned on the table. ‘You have intimated to Rik and to PC Cartwright that you haven’t finished with the Bashkims.’
‘I’m good at intimating things.’
‘Thing is – do you have a plan?’ Donaldson asked.
Flynn shrugged. ‘Suck it and see.’
‘So, no plan,’ Rik said dryly.
‘Correct,’ Flynn affirmed.
Donaldson leaned back. ‘In my estimation, piss-poor planning, as they say, will screw you over. And you can only plan if you have knowledge of a subject. Agree? Which I think is what you intended to get by coercing Molly Cartwright to download confidential information for you from Lancashire Constabulary’s intel database, for which she could be in big trouble.’
Flynn didn’t respond to that either. As it happened, Molly didn’t really need to be coerced, but he understood she had spoken to Rik and was now trying to save herself by telling him about the misdemeanours she had committed and then luring Flynn into a honey trap of sorts. Cover your own backside, Flynn thought, which is what he’d told her to do anyway.
‘Look,’ Rik said, seeing Flynn’s hesitation, ‘I know all about it – she told me.’
Flynn sighed. ‘So what are you proposing, guys?’
Donaldson’s eyes narrowed. ‘You don’t have a plan?’
‘No, OK? No plan,’ Flynn admitted.
‘So how did you intend to deal with the Bashkims?’
Flynn leaned forwards now. ‘I have no idea. So far everything has been purely reactive.’
‘Well, a good plan …’ Donaldson commenced to say before Flynn cut in irritably, ‘You’re a stickler for planning, aren’t you?’
‘Far from it,’ the American said, unoffended. ‘But what I like to have is knowledge; yeah, I do formulate plans but they’re always flexible.’
He stood up. Flynn watched him with a furrowed brow as he untucked his shirt and lifted it, exposing his stomach and lower chest area. Tanned, obviously, and still with a hint of a six-pack. Just under his ribcage was an ugly, puckered wheal of flesh as though he’d been stuck by a red-hot poker tip which had then been twisted.
Flynn knew a gunshot wound whe
n he saw one. Indeed, he had his own currently in his leg.
‘A man wanted on terrorist charges almost killed me.’ Donaldson pulled down his shirt. ‘The planning was good but, like all plans, once someone shoots you they tend to go to rat shit.’
‘What was the other guy’s fate?’ Flynn asked.
‘Not pretty,’ Donaldson said wryly. He sat back down. ‘Look, all I’m saying is this: you want your revenge for Maria’s death. I want my revenge for my agent’s death. My hands are tied, pretty much, although there are always things going on in the background. You, however, are pretty much a free agent. We can brief you on the Bashkim organization, then it’s down to you. You’ll have more intelligence and information than PC Cartwright could ever access for you – from the FBI database and others – and you can use it to formulate your … plans … if you have any.’
‘So you want to feed me then let me loose? Is that the deal?’
‘In a nutshell,’ Donaldson confirmed.
‘What if I say no?’
‘Then you’ll be coming with me to the nearest cop shop,’ Rik said.
‘And if I say yes, then I walk out of here and disappear into the night?’
‘You won’t,’ Donaldson said.
‘But what if I did?’
‘Your call, but you won’t.’
Flynn weighed it up. ‘So in essence, this is a briefing?’
‘Kinda,’ Donaldson said.
‘In that case, it’s a long time since I was at a briefing, but I seem to remember that a prerequisite to every single one I ever attended was bacon sandwiches and lots of coffee. This isn’t any different.’
THIRTEEN
The three men left the cell and made their way upstairs to the first level and a large conference room, big enough to hold about thirty delegates if they squashed in. There were several rows of chairs each fitted with a swing-over desktop, reminding Flynn of his early days as a probationer PC on courses at Hutton Hall. The classrooms there were all then kitted out with such furniture for the new bobbies. At the front was a raised stage and on that was a desk with an open laptop. Behind this was a smartboard and the image displayed on it was the laptop screensaver, a view of a beautiful but unidentified mountain valley.
Flynn took a seat at the front, as did Rik Dean, but several seats apart. Donaldson went to fiddle with the laptop, then stepped away from it using a wireless mouse. He sat next to Flynn, two very big, physically fit, powerful men squeezed into chairs too small for them.
Donaldson pressed a button.
The smartboard screen came to life with the first slide of a PowerPoint presentation entitled simply: THE BASHKIM FAMILY – black writing, white background.
The next screen had the same title but smaller, and a list of bullet points followed.
The first one said, The Albanian Mafia.
The next, Albanian History/Geography.
The next, The Bashkims.
As this last one came on screen, the door to the room opened. Flynn glanced across, disinterested, but suddenly sat upright on seeing who entered.
Molly Cartwright.
She was carrying a tray with four fresh Starbucks coffees slotted in it and four paper bags each containing hot Starbucks all-day breakfast sandwiches.
Flynn watched her walking painfully, handing out a coffee and sandwich to Rik, Donaldson, then finally him. As she gave him the food she half-smiled. He smiled back, noticing the red marks on her neck from Hardiker’s assault.
She sat on the other side of Flynn, who said, ‘What’s going on?’
Donaldson said, ‘Bit of a decision on the hoof … We’ll explain soon.’
Flynn sat back, flipped his desktop over his lap and opened his all-day breakfast. He could smell its aroma immediately and it did the job on his senses. He bit into it with joy and a sidelong glance at Molly, who pretended not to notice him as she opened her food.
Once each person had eaten a few mouthfuls and sipped some coffee, Donaldson got back to the briefing.
Flynn actually did know quite a lot about the Bashkims. They were one of many criminal gangs operating out of Albania and their sphere of operations stretched across the whole of Europe and included some connections with Mexican drug cartels. They were heavily involved in people and drug trafficking, the latter being a line of business far more lucrative and less dangerous for the gang than the drug trade. Flynn had believed that the ultimate boss – or krye – was Aleksander and that his two sons, Pavli and Dardan (known as kryetars) – were his main henchmen.
Which had been true, up to a point.
What Flynn hadn’t known was that Aleksander had another son, Niko, and that his still-living father, Viktor, was the actual boss of what was known as the Shkodra Clan.
He had wrongly assumed that the deaths of Aleksander, Pavli and Dardan would be the end of their story and he would live happily ever after.
Wrong. It seemed that the old man had been prodded back to life with bleak thoughts of revenge on his mind and that the Bashkim enterprise was still a thriving concern with many lesser family members now involved.
‘So as you can see,’ Donaldson explained, ‘taking Aleksander and his two sons out has not put the beast down.’ He paused and clicked the mouse. A face materialized on the smartboard. A young man with a lock of thick black hair falling over his eyes who reminded Flynn of a young Frank Sinatra, but the look was pure Bashkim. ‘Circa 1956, this is the young Viktor Bashkim.’
Flynn sat forwards and saw the arrogant expression in the two dark eyes as they looked down his long nose at the camera lens of what was definitely a police mugshot. Flynn saw a heavy chain around his neck.
‘Arrested by the police in Tirana for stabbing another youth to death. Charged but never reached court. Story is that the gold neck chain he’s wearing belonged to his victim.’
‘Good-looking boy,’ Flynn said.
‘We have a few more photos over the years.’ Donaldson flicked through a series of shots showing an ageing Viktor until finally pausing on one taken by a long lens of old man Viktor leaning on a boat rail. ‘This is him now.’ He looked at Flynn. ‘No doubt he ordered Maria’s death.’
Flynn kept a straight face and shovelled the last piece of his sandwich into his mouth.
‘And this is Niko, by default suddenly second-in-command of the Bashkim family,’ Donaldson said as another photo came on the screen. ‘He’d been on the periphery of things really. Enjoyed the good life and the money and the women and, although he can be extremely violent when roused, he’s more of a bean counter but has stepped up to the mark.’
Niko was a good-looking man, reminding Flynn strongly of Aleksander and of Viktor.
Donaldson continued to narrate. ‘Stepped up to the mark certainly in terms of people trafficking. Word is there’s supposedly going to be a concerted pre-winter push to bring as many people across the Med from North Africa before the weather turns. Up to a thousand just by the Bashkims, so somewhere around the three million euro mark for their coffers.’
‘Why don’t you stop ’em?’ Flynn asked.
He knew it wasn’t a realistic proposition. Stopping people smugglers was like trying to plait fog. It wasn’t as though the migrants all waited patiently to board a nice ferry in Libya and disembark in Italy. Hundreds of different, tiny, usually unsafe boats would be used. A few might be intercepted but that was just the tip of the iceberg, and it was too late anyway. By the time a boat was stopped or overturned by waves, the smugglers would have their money in their pockets.
Donaldson just scowled at Flynn for the stupid question.
Another picture came on the screen. At first Flynn could not quite make out what he was looking at. He twisted his head slightly and the image was revealed.
A body floating in water, minus its head.
The next photo was, Flynn assumed, the same body naked on a mortuary slab.
No head.
‘My agent,’ Donaldson said. He clammed up, stared at the photograph, t
hen took a quick sip of his coffee.
‘Bastard,’ Flynn said, his thoughts on Maria.
Another picture came up, this time much more pleasant, of a very sleek and expensive-looking powered motor yacht, moored in a marina Flynn did not recognize.
‘This is Halcyon,’ Donaldson said.
‘Nice.’ Flynn sat up. He had been slouching.
‘It belongs to Viktor Bashkim.’
Flynn blew out his cheeks. ‘Take a lot of migrants to pay for that.’
‘Somewhere around the forty million euro mark, give or take,’ the American said.
‘Wow.’ Flynn was impressed and angry at the same time.
‘And it’s on this boat that Viktor Bashkim now lives, plodding mainly around the Aegean Sea and eastern Med.’
‘Not in the hills of Albania?’
‘No. A life of luxury at sea, surrounded by armed guards. It’s easy enough to be incognito, which is what he likes. Currently in and around the Greek island of Zante.’
Flynn knew Zante, had once been there on holiday with Faye.
The smartboard went blank. ‘That’s about it,’ Donaldson said.
‘Not that much,’ Flynn commented, ‘and yet … I still think you know even more.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘You used the word “supposedly” when you talked about Viktor’s push to bring as many people as possible across to Europe before winter. To me that indicates knowledge … and a source,’ Flynn concluded.
More coffee had arrived from Starbucks, this time delivered by one of the guys who had escorted Flynn to this location. He seemed less aloof now and even smiled at Flynn as he handed the coffee over, then left the briefing room.
‘Slip of the tongue.’ Donaldson grinned.
‘No, it wasn’t,’ Flynn insisted. ‘You’ve got a source, haven’t you?’
Donaldson chewed his lips and regarded Flynn. ‘You got me,’ he admitted.
‘Who?’
‘Can’t say.’
‘Where?’
‘Ditto.’
‘On the boat,’ Flynn guessed. ‘Crew member, maybe.’
‘Can’t say.’
Flynn rolled his eyes and uttered a disapproving gasp. ‘So much for information.’
