The Fighter

by Robert White

  The boat that Mitch and Marvin had hired was still tied alongside us and that would put any would be drug dealers off. So, I decided that I could kill two birds with one stone.

  “Varese,” I shouted. “Tell you what, why not give it a rest, eh? If you are so against our methods, why not jump on your boat now and take it to the RV? That way, we won’t offend your precious principals and I can get some peace.”

  I expected a full on rant about how his seniority was being undermined. Instead, he looked around him and studied all the faces of the team

  When he saw no support, he turned to big Mitch.

  “Collins?” he asked, grasping his final straw.

  “Sorry, Sir,” said the big American. “But I’m of a mind to help Mr Fuller here.”

  Marvin strode over to me, chest all puffed out, doing his best to save some face.

  “You’re making a big mistake here, Fuller. This mission is over. The trail to Al-Mufti and Yunfakh is cold. I say we take both craft back to the RV, call the job in, and await further orders. You can’t risk losing this cargo.”

  I looked into his eyes and tried to read him. Whatever was going on in that shiny head of his, whatever the cock up with the intelligence, one thing I was certain of, Marvin was desperate to make sure the contents of this boat stayed in his hands. Did he know what was down below? On a scale of one to ten? A solid fucking eight.

  Pulling my Glock, I pointed it straight at his chest.

  “Just get aboard, Varese,” I said. “This mission is over for you.”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” he hissed.

  “Oh yes, I would,” I smiled.

  There was a moment or two of defiance, but he got the picture, and with his cruiser unleashed from our craft, he reluctantly stood behind the controls and began to edge away. I heard him fire the engines. The black water foamed white behind the boat, and moments later he was out of sight.

  Des stood alongside me. “Did you tell him about the charlie?”

  “Nope. But that doesn’t mean he didn’t know, eh?”

  “True, pal. Either way good riddance, I reckon.”

  I shrugged. “Fuck him. Let’s see what our good Doctor has to say, eh?”

  Lauren North’s Story:

  I watched Marvin guide the boat away from our craft and disappear into the night. Within minutes, silence had returned, and Rick rekindled his interest in our prisoner.

  “Gather round chaps,” he said. “Now, this is Doctor Weasel, a self-confessed Taliban member, who speaks the Queen’s English almost as good as Sellers here. His plan was to deliver me to his good pal Abdallah Al- Mufti. Someone on our side of the fence has been a naughty boy and sold us down the river and I’m sure we’d all like to know who that is, eh?”

  The guy stayed silent.

  Rick wasn’t done.

  “In addition to the spy in our camp and the location of the said, Al-Mufti, there is also the pressing little matter of some unusual cargo down below. I wonder what our friend here would be doing with a coffin full of cocaine? Say five million quid’s worth?”

  “That’s one hell of a party, darling” said Sellers, her face full of surprise.

  “Tell me about it,” said Des. “And I’m really interested to know if our friend Marvellous Marvin knew it was down there when he was about to pull the plug on this wee boat.”

  I felt my stomach turn.

  “Maybe Varese was right though guys. Maybe we should get back on dry land. I mean, what if someone is out there right now waiting for that shipment. They’d have to be pretty serious players, wouldn’t they?”

  Des racked his AK. “So are we hen. Bring it on, I say.”

  Rick checked the Afghan’s ties and dangled the bucket into the water. “Let’s have the cloth over, Sellers,” he said.

  As I looked out to sea, just a few hundred metres to the south of our position, I saw navigation lights and instantly felt that my worst fears were about to become a reality.

  “I don’t mean to worry you guys, but we have company,” I said.

  Rick looked up and threw the bucket to the floor. “Sellers, Des, Mitch… sort yourselves out. Lauren, stuff a rag in Weasel’s mouth and kill the lights. We may just have a customer for our coffin.”

  The Scot and the big American didn’t need any further encouragement, they began to tuck themselves in and check over their weapons. One thing was in our favour, with all those AK’s and ammo in the hold, we wouldn’t be short of firepower.

  Rick walked over to Sellers, it was obvious he respected her, and I couldn’t help but notice the way she looked at him. Despite our precarious position, my green eyed monster reared its head.

  “How do you want to play this?” he asked her.

  “There’s only one way, darling,” she replied. “Reel them in, then pop them off.”

  He nodded and smiled at her and I felt another twinge of jealousy.

  “That’s what I thought you’d say,” he said.

  I could hear the other boat’s engines burbling away in the distance. This was not some pleasure cruiser approaching, this was a big fast vessel, something to outrun the coast guard, or any other nice folks that may want to interfere in their business transactions.

  I knew that Rick had been part of a few of these dodgy deals in his time, providing security for both buyers and sellers. Not something he was proud of, but he couldn’t turn the clock back, and as things stood, his wealth of experience in that department wouldn’t do the team any harm.

  “You think it’s them?” I asked him.

  Rick shrugged and checked over his rifle. “What I do know, is even when a deal is worth thousands of pounds, everyone gets a little edgy until the transaction is completed. With somewhere in the region of five million at stake, these boys are going to be properly on top.”

  He reached out and held my chin between his thumb and fingers, looked deep into my eyes, and said. “So keep that pretty head down, okay?”

  He walked back to Sellers leaving me with a stupid grin on my face.

  “What do you know about boats?” he asked her.

  She smiled, not taking her eyes off the approaching vessel.

  “Your boyfriend punts you along the river in one, then buys you a nice lunch.”

  Rick pulled a face. “Can you start this one or not? Get us ready to move if we have to?”

  “Of course Fuller,” she said. “Just my idea of a little joke.”

  He shook his head. Sellers stepped to the controls and fired the twin diesels, revving them hard.

  Our boat had two large spotlights on the cabin roof, with controls that allowed you to manoeuvre them from inside. I found the power switches. “Shall we light them up?” I asked.

  “Go for it,” said Rick, then shouted to the team. “Standby… on me.”

  I hit the switch and the ocean turned from black to emerald green. The craft in question was cruising straight for us.

  “Fucking hell,” said Sellers. “Now that is what you call a toy.”

  “It’s a Barracuda,” said Rick. “I’ve only ever seen one in pictures. Forty feet of bulletproof beast. Two six hundred horsepower engines. Designed right here in Cork…”

  “Are we getting a visit from James Bond?” shouted Des over the engine noise.

  “Maybe his evil twin,” said Rick pushing spare mags into his jacket. “But whoever it is, we’ve been easy to spot for some time. That thing has sonar, thermal imaging and night vision surveillance. If they’d been hostile, we’d have known about it by now.”

  He walked over to the Scot and lowered his voice. “You got any morphine on you?”

  Des pulled two field doses from his pocket.

  Rick nodded. “Put the good doctor to sleep for a bit, eh? I have a feeling our visitors will value their secrecy.”

  Des walked ov
er to the prostrate doctor and jabbed him twice. Within seconds he was away with the fairies.

  The Barracuda’s engine note fell, and the bow of the boat settled in the water. Seconds later it was the turn of the impressive craft to show us its lighting array and we found ourselves squinting against its many millions of lumens. There was the whirring of electric motors, and a pair of carbon fibre doors opened on the foredeck. More concerning for our little crew, was the evil looking gun that popped out from the hull below.

  “Fuck me, it’s Thunderbirds,” said Des.

  A cultured and instantly recognisable voice boomed out of an unseen PA system.

  “In case you are wondering, Fuller, this monstrosity you see before you is a Barracuda XSV 17, and the weapon currently pointing in your direction, is a remotely controlled, gyroscopically stabilised 12.7mm machine gun, fitted with a 40mm grenade launcher.”

  “Impressive,” shouted Rick to the, as yet unseen, Cartwright. He lowered his voice and turned to Des. “Told you it was Bond’s evil twin.”

  There were more whirring sounds and a rear hatch opened. The elderly spy stepped into open view; his white hair blown by the night breeze. He wore his trademark Saville Row number but rather comically had been forced to add a bright orange life preserver by whoever crewed the boat.

  He also looked very pale.

  “Sorry about the show of force, old chap,” he shouted. “But your old SBS pals wanted to play with their new toy. Besides, with that chap Varese aboard, it was a case of better safe than sorry.”

  “I can imagine,” said Rick, seemingly as relieved as the rest of us, that the craft contained friendly faces. “However, he’s just left with his toys and his pram.”

  Cartwright manoeuvred himself to the rail of the Barracuda. Sellers grabbed his arm and helped him aboard our creaking boat. Once on deck he immediately removed his orange vest, threw it petulantly onto the floor and gestured towards the state of the art machine alongside.

  “Fucking Nazis,” he said. “Don’t know what has happened to selection these days. Forcing an old man into such discomfort.”

  The Special Boat Service crew remained inside their craft unseen, and I considered that was the way it was going to stay.

  Cartwright hobbled towards a wooden chair fastened to the deck, totally ignoring our now unconscious prisoner, who was still strapped to his plank. He sat heavily and pointed at Rick.

  “Please tell me that you have tea and fresh milk, Fuller. That and a damned good brandy, preferably an Asbach 21. You have no idea what it was like to travel around the coast in that carbuncle of a vessel and with those children as a crew.”

  “I imagine the lads gave you the full tour,” said Rick, doing his best to hide his amusement.

  “I feel like I’ve done the full ten rounds, I’ll tell you.” Cartwright took in his surroundings. “Where’s Varese you say?”

  “Taken another boat to shore,” said Rick his conviviality dropping from his face.

  “I see,” offered Cartwright. “And the chap lying out cold on the plank at a jaunty angle?”

  “Doctor Weasel,” said Rick. “It’s a name I’ve chosen for him, obviously. He’s an Afghan, ex Taliban turned Yunfakh actually, was a medic or doctor at Bagram back in the day. That’s if you believe his story. Good mate of Al-Mufti too, so he says.” Rick cocked his head and eyed the old spy. “Funny how he was expecting me, eh?”

  Cartwright pulled a face and waved his hand like the queen in her carriage. “All will be revealed, Fuller… just get me that tea. My stomach is churning.”

  Rick Fuller’s Story:

  Sellers found tea and milk. Unsurprisingly, there was no alcohol on board. I mean, heaven forbid, the mere thought of having a bottle of Jack in the cupboard would see the Weasel slung out of paradise in an instant. The hundred kilograms of cocaine nestled in the stores were okay though, no problems at all with that.

  Cartwright sipped his tea, grimaced and set down his cup. “Close the door, Fuller,” he said.

  I did as he asked. We’d moved to the small room that I’d first been taken to and sat opposite each other. It afforded the old spy the privacy he desired. On the small polished table between us, lay the case containing the three hundred and twenty thousand euros that had been intended for Finbarr’s back pocket.

  Cartwright tapped it with a bony finger. “You chaps can’t keep this, I’m afraid. Destined for our forensics department.”

  I shrugged. “It’s hardly the pressing issue, is it? Not when there’s five mil’s worth of charlie in the hold and we’ve just lost any hope of finding Al-Mufti.”

  The old spy took another sip of tea and raised his brows.

  “There is always more than one way to skin a cat, old boy. We’re not done yet, although I have to say, the intelligence that the Benzoyl methyl ecgonine you refer to was aboard, came to us very late. Indeed. Far too late to inform your good self. Strange how it’s become so popular, isn’t it? The Incas chewed coca leaves to increase breathing in order to survive in the thin mountain air, you know?

  “Fascinating,” I said.

  “May I see the booty,” said Cartwright placing his cup delicately on the table.

  I blew out my cheeks. “It’s in a coffin with the lid nailed shut.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “Most ingenious… Sigmund Freud was a big advocate of the drug, you know? And John Pemberton used coca leaves as an ingredient in Coca-Cola, not that it is present these days.”

  “Your lesson of cocaine history is riveting, Cartwright. However, what I want to know is, how did that little Taliban guy out there know that I would be meeting this boat, in this cove, on this day?”

  The old spy sniffed. “There is a mole somewhere.”

  “You’ve always got a fucking mole somewhere.”

  Cartwright lay his hands on the table.

  “It’s a constant battle, Fuller. Unfortunately it goes with the territory, we turn one of theirs, and they turn one of ours. It’s been going on since time immemorial. The informants identity is currently a mystery, but I’d wager it was someone above my pay scale.”

  “Mmm… Talking of traitors, do you realise that Varese tried to slot me?”

  “Ah,” breathed Cartwright, reaching for his cup. “So hard to get the right people these days. I would wager, his actions had more to do with the coffin full of fun, than the AK47’s down below. You see, our good friends the Americans came up with the remotely controlled explosives idea during their final briefing. I did wonder why an organisation as corrupt in their thinking as the CIA were so concerned about a few boxes of old AK’s. After all, they’ve sold millions of dollars’ worth of arms to just about every terrorist organisation on the planet. No, I’d wager Varese would have been under pressure to ensure that casket didn’t get delivered. Those old Russian rifles would have taken the back seat in his thinking. The folks above him wield significant power, you see, and blowing one of my operatives sky high wouldn’t have concerned them one iota”

  “And just who are these folks?”

  “The powers that be, Fuller. You’ve been on operations before where the command is made up from two or more countries. It’s always problematic. Damned Yanks have always been trigger happy.”

  “And you’re not concerned that he’s still out there and those mines are fastened to the bottom of this boat?”

  Cartwright shook his head.

  “Not at all, Richard. It’s been dealt with. The capability to remotely detonate those devices has been disabled… hence the reason I’m sitting here drinking tea.”

  “Of course, so riddle me this, how did you know where we were and that things had gone pear shaped?”

  Cartwright finished his brew and took a deep breath.

  “Well, for a start, the trackers Sellers fitted to the IRA’s Kalashnikovs are
very clever little bugs. Once they are fixed to their target, they begin to transmit a traceable GPS signal. Nevertheless, the moment they are removed, they stop transmitting GPS and switch to audio mode. Actual live broadcast. The boys in GCHQ heard every word. Therefore we knew you’d suffered a … setback.”

  “That’s one way of putting it. So why were the Yanks so desperate for the coke not to reach land?”

  Cartwright rubbed his chin. “Hmm… that’s politics for you. I haven’t quite got the answer to that one yet. As soon as I know, so will you.”

  “So you’re saying, Varese knew about the additional cargo?”

  “It’s possible… no probable… have you ever heard of lateral thinking, Richard?”

  I had an idea, but as I knew the old git was going to tell me anyway, I stayed quiet.

  “It’s a manner of solving problems using an indirect and creative approach via reasoning that is not immediately obvious. It involves ideas that may not be obtainable using only traditional step-by-step logic… Something, I’ve noticed that you apply to almost everything.”

  “I’m all ears Einstein.”

  “Look, Fuller, Finbarr O’Rourke is the catalyst here, not Marvellous Marvin Varese. Finbarr had been working undercover for far too long. I knew that, and when you met him, I’m sure that you’d agree.”

  I nodded.

  “Anyway, Finbarr came to us with the story that he’d made contact with these Balkan chaps and had brokered a deal to sell them the very weapons sitting in the hold right now. He was to buy them from his old PIRA contacts, turn a profit and that was that. Our initial interest was twofold. One, get rid of hundreds of automatic weapons from the island of Ireland, and two, track the passage of the cache to its final destination and pass on the intelligence to the relevant parties. Everyone’s a winner. However, as you know, further information surfaced that these Balkan arms dealers were to sell their goods to Yunfakh, indeed directly to Al-Mufti himself.”

  “And where did that intel come from?”