by Robert White
“Finbarr.”
“I’m starting to see a picture.”
“Indeed, Fuller. There is no doubt that Finbarr O’Rourke was a thief and a tad eccentric, but I still don’t see him as a traitor. The Balkan chaps passed on the information to him, and I believe he passed it to us in good faith. It was they who set the Yunfakh trap, and we fell for it. Now, I agree that there has to be another leak somewhere, someone who knew that you had travelled to Ireland. Someone who could confirm that their ruse had worked.”
“Another mole? There are two?”
“Yes but, this particular mole is closer to you than you think. Look, Fuller, on board this very boat, is a large amount of cocaine, so large, that the Americans were prepared to kill you to ensure it never made its final destination. Then, there is your good self, a precious prisoner that Yunfakh has gone to a great deal of trouble to capture, not forgetting an IRA arms cache and three hundred thousand Euros in cash.”
“Like Des said… Too many eggs in the basket.”
“I concur with Mr Cogan and here is my lateral thinking. Our Taliban chap, you, and the weapons were bound for one location, and the narcotics, were destined for elsewhere, on a different vessel.”
“You think the coke is payment for my head? It would make sense. If your mole is a Whitehall big hitter with underworld contacts.”
Cartwright blew air down his nose and rubbed tiredness from his face.
“I’d be more inclined to suggest that the Euros were meant for that particular loose lipped traitor, possibly to be handed over once you were on dry land and in the hands of Al-Mufti. No, I have a mind that the cocaine was destined to pay for political influence. American political influence. Hence Varese’s desperation to drop you, and it, in the drink, old boy.”
He was losing me altogether.
“Okay. So where is this other vessel?”
“Again an enigma. Maybe the Barracuda scared them off? Possibly they heard your gunfire as they approached. Any of the above.”
I shook my head. “So what now?”
“I start by finding out exactly what your good doctor knows. As for your good self, here is my suggestion…”
Lauren North’s Story:
Rick finally emerged from his meeting. He looked suddenly tired and a little confused. The still unconscious Doctor was carried aboard the Barracuda, Cartwright gingerly followed him, and the craft turned north. Sellers set our boat in behind and we followed the impressive vessel at a steady pace. Rick had remained tight lipped about his lengthy conversation with the old spy and sat deep in thought throughout the whole journey.
I, like the rest of the team, let him be.
We made land at Rosslare, County Wexford. It’s a large port with all the trappings of an international passenger terminus. Ferry operators run regular trips to Fishguard, Cherbourg, Roscoff and Pembroke Dock. Cartwright had pulled out all the stops and men in suits ushered us away to a small portacabin where we were given clean civilian clothes and a chance to freshen up. Our prisoner, however, was not so fortunate and I’d seen him being led unsteadily away in the distance. He’d been hooded and shackled by another far more churlish looking squad and bundled into the back of a black transit.
As we stood on the dockside, a smart, silent man gave Rick, Des, Sellers and me, tickets for the next ferry to Fishguard.
He turned and looked up to Mitch. “Mr Collins,” he said. “Your people have requested that you make separate travel arrangements, come with me please.”
The big American turned to the group. “Looks like it’s really the end of the road this time, folks. I’m of a mind, I’m going home,” he said with a smile.
I walked to him and wrapped my arms around his huge frame. “It’s been a pleasure, Mitch,” I said.
He gave me a playful squeeze, “It was all mine, Ma’am.” Then, looking over my shoulder, “Mr Fuller, Mr Cogan, Ms Sellers. God bless y’all, now.”
He released me, the suit gave him a nod and they walked away.
We all watched him go until he was out of sight. It was like losing a good friend, but at least, unlike our great ally and colleague, JJ Yakim, Mitch Collins was still breathing.
Rick stepped over and stood alongside me, “See that?”
I watched as a long line of vehicles began to board our ferry, “What?”
“The hearse.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Oh, I didn’t mention? The cocaine was hidden inside a coffin?”
“No?”
“Oh yeah, and there it goes.”
“Cartwright is no fool, eh?”
“No, but I’m beginning to wonder if I am.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning he wants me to go back to my old life. Back to the mean streets. He wants me to find out just who that coffin was destined for. He believes those drugs belong to Yunfakh and whoever the buyer was, will know where to find Al-Mufti.”
“You think we can do it?”
“I think so. But we need more information. All we can do right now is try and rattle some cages in and around Manchester’s drug scene. Who’s buying what from who? It’s a dangerous game to play, but nothing I haven’t done before. That said, I’ve been out of it for too long to know who the big players are. The boys at the top of the tree are hard to find. The drug scene is like a mobile phone, within two years you are out of date, out of touch. It’s ever changing. One thing I do know though is that we’ll be on our own. Cartwright will be working hard to make sure we are in the right place at the right time, but with at least one informant still out there, this job will be as dark as it gets.”
I turned to him and looked up into his handsome face. There were more flecks of grey in his hair. He needed a shave. His tired eyes lacked their usual sparkle, they demanded sleep, but he made my stomach flip all the same. I desperately wanted to hold him, yet I was terrified he would rebuke me for what I’d done, for my stupidity, my infidelity.
Yet for all my trepidation, I felt my arms lifting until they draped around his neck. He let his head fall and I lifted mine to meet him. I felt his strong arms wrap around me as he drew me ever closer.
Lifting my palms, I held his cheeks. “I’m so sorry,” I whispered.
He raised a hand and rested a single finger to my lips.
“Listen to me, Lauren,” he said. “This is the last one. I know, I’ve said it before, but this time it’s the truth. I don’t know if Al-Mufti knows about Siddique yet, but he will soon and that will drive him on. He will never stop looking for us. Even if I’d turned this one down, we would always be at risk from a man like him. We would never be free. So this is it. The final mission. Find the buyer, slot Al-Mufti and walk away.”
What Rick was saying was music to my ears. I knew that Des was thinking the same way. He desperately wanted to go back to Scotland and take Grace and Kaya with him.
I mustered all my courage. “And me?” I asked. “Me… and you?”
Rick swallowed hard.
“Over in Ireland, I killed a man by the name of Tommy Brannigan. It was him and his sons that were holding the AK47s at their farm. By pure chance, I’d found out, that he was the second of three shooters that murdered Cathy back in Hereford. Before I shot him, I told him that he’d killed me that day too, killed me as sure as any bullet could ever do. I told him that when Cathy took her last breath, mine went along with it, that I didn’t live, didn’t feel anymore, and that my tolerance, understanding, forgiveness… they’d all left me.”
He gripped my arms and looked deep into my eyes.
“I told him the truth, Lauren. Told him how it felt to grieve, to lose. I’ve always asked myself, how could any woman love someone like me? Someone who can’t give everything he has. Someone who is always holding something in reserve because he just can’t bear to lose again?”
“But
Rick… we can make it work. I’m sure we can. I love you. What I did was crazy and…”
He stopped me in my tracks.
“Lauren, for all my misgivings, for all my self-doubt, I love you too. Back there on the road, in the firefight, when I thought I’d lost you, my heart was breaking all over again. I held my breath so long I thought I may go with you.”
He smiled and I thought I may burst.
“So, Ms North, it would appear that you are stuck with me.”
* * *
Cartwright may have seemed generous when it came to our welcome on the dockside, however, our travel tickets were sail and rail, meaning a long and laborious trip back north.
Our team sat around a circular table in the Stena Lines comfy bar. Sellers and I opted for a bottle of white to share, Rick sleepily nursed an Evian.
Des eyed his ticket suspiciously whilst holding his second pint of Guinness.
“They’re having a laugh here, pal, eh?” he said holding up the offending travel document. “Nine hours from Fishguard to Liverpool?”
That woke Rick up. He peered at his own docket. “Two train changes... fuckin’ hell.”
Sellers sipped what had turned out to be a remarkably decent Chablis.
“I take it we’re babysitting the ‘body’ all the way to Manchester.”
Rick shook his head and gestured towards a band of very serious looking suits several tables away. “No, the spooks have taken charge of the coffin, the AK’s and the cash.”
“How do you feel about that, Fuller?” she asked.
Rick shrugged and threw his bottle of water aside. “I feel the need for a beer or two… fuck it, we’ll get a taxi home.”
“That’ll be a few quid,” said Des frowning. “I’ll bet it’s a four hour drive at least.”
Rick stood. “You can afford it, Desmond. I just negotiated us ten grand a day for this next job, so… what are you having?”
Des turned down the corners of his mouth. “Ten grand each?”
“Each,” said Rick.
That made the Scot smile. “Well, if yer buying like, I’ll have a Guinness and a wee Jameson’s chaser.”
I sat and watched Rick walk to the bar, shaking his head at his best friend. For the first time in ages, I felt comfortable and happy. One last job. One last push and we could think about the rest of our lives.
For the next three hours, we drank, laughed and took the piss. Rick kept catching my eye, and I figured I must have looked like the cat that had got the cream.
As the ferry docked, I switched on my personal mobile and it instantly began to vibrate. I checked the screen. Dozens of messages began to come through. The first read:
Where have you been? I miss you. Larry x
Des Cogan’s Story:
I got back to my wee flat in Manchester just after nine in the morning, feeling a little worse for wear, I might tell ye. Pushing open my door, I was met by a carpet full of mail and the good news that my water had been disconnected due to a leak in the flat above. The life of a jet setting mercenary, eh?
I flopped on my bed and fell asleep in an instant. However, it was not to prove a blissful rest. Just before eleven, I was awakened by a fervent knock on my door.
This was most unusual, as I had no friends in Manchester, and other than a young lady who I’d had a brief and rather tiring alliance with, I didn’t think anyone knew my address.
Peering through the spyhole I saw that my visitor was indeed Estelle, from our office. She looked rather flustered too.
I opened the door and she stepped inside without being asked.
“Finally,” she said with more than a hint of annoyance. “I can’t keep on like this y’know. Nobody answers their phone, no one is ever in. I mean, this is the third time I’ve been here, it’s cost me a bomb in cabs, Mr Cogan.”
She flopped in the single chair I possessed and took in her surroundings. Estelle Ryan was in her late twenties. She was a born and bred Mancunian, and despite trying to hide it during her duties as our much maligned receptionist, she possessed one of the broadest Manchester accents I’d ever heard.
She sounded like Noel Gallagher on acid.
“Where’s all yer stuff?” she asked, noticing the distinct lack of furniture.
“This place was meant to be temporary, hen,” I said. “But ye know how things have been lately. I’ve never got around to looking for something else.”
She sniffed the air and pulled her pretty face. “Smells of damp, you need to get onto your landlord and get him to look at it.”
I shrugged.
“There’s been a leak, fe upstairs like. The water’s off, I can’t even offer ye a brew.” I sniffed my armpits. “I cannea get a shower either.”
She rummaged in a cavernous bag, pulled out a bottle of water and held it up. “I take it you have coffee?”
I nodded. “It’ll have to be black I’m afraid.”
She smiled to reveal perfect teeth. Estelle had fine cheekbones and beautiful almond eyes, but there was a hardness in them. Just before our last mission, she’d told me how she lived with her disabled mother and that she had a brother with a bad coke habit that got him in regular trouble with the cops. I didn’t know for certain, but I figured that she was probably the only breadwinner in the household.
Taking the water bottle from her, we wandered to my small kitchen. Estelle instantly began to delve in my empty fridge and cupboards.
“You need a home help,” she said.
“I’m not geriatric,” I complained. “It’s just that I’m never here, and I’ll be honest, I’ve never learned to cook.”
She found the kettle, plugged it in.
“What, not even a breakfast? Bacon and eggs?”
“I’ll tell ye this, Estelle. No one got anywhere near my mother’s kitchen, unless it was to clean it or wash the pots. Then I joined the army and there was ne need to learn, eh?”
“Suppose,” she mused finding two cups, then changed the subject. “So is everyone back? Mr Fuller? Ms North? Mr Collins? And what happened to that nice lady, Victoria something?”
“Sellers,” I said. “Aye, but I think Mitch has gone back to the States for a while. Victoria will be helping us out in the short term… Can I ask you something, Estelle?”
She looked up from her task and cocked her head. “Course you can, Mr Cogan.”
“Why are ye here? In my house, I mean?”
She handed me my coffee. “Well, that’s simple enough. I needed to speak to one of you, and you live the nearest.”
“Okay, what is this about hen? What’s so important that you come knocking on my door?”
In that instant, Estelle’s confidence, that hard exterior seemed to fall away. She took a large gulp of her drink and then a deep breath.
“I need some money, Mr Cogan.”
“Okay,” I nodded. “I’m sure we can give you an advance on… “
“I need more than that,” she said sharply.
I put down my coffee cup and examined the girl again. She was smart. Her clothes were clean and tidy, but her shoes had seen better days, something that Rick had pointed out previously. She was naturally auburn but had dyed her hair blonde. However her roots showed through. We’d all been there, when there was too much month at the end of the money, but this was something different.
“You want to tell me what’s going on, hen?”
Tears pooled in her eyes and I got that same old feeling that I always got around a crying female. I felt totally fucking useless.
I put my arm around her and led her back to the lounge and my solitary chair.
“Come on, eh? We’ll sort it out, whatever it is.”
Estelle found a tissue and wiped her eyes. She looked up at me and for the first time I saw fear in them.
“It’s our Sean,” she sa
id, lips trembling.
“Yer wee brother?”
She nodded and did her best to compose herself. “He’s in bother.”
“With the cops?”
Estelle shook her head, “If it were the coppers that would be easy. He’d be locked up and it would be just me and me mam, simple. Easy life.”
“So who is it?”
I could tell that even though she was sitting in my flat begging for help, she was reluctant to name names.
Finally, she said, “It’s our Sean’s dealer. The little prick thought he were being clever. Fucking hell, he’s always thought he were clever, that one. Ye see Mr Cogan, a few weeks back, he had a win at the bookies, big for him, fifteen hundred quid.”
Estelle wiped her eyes again, cleared her throat. “But instead of helping us out, I mean, after all, we could do with the cash like, he had a brainwave and went and bought an ounce of coke from his regular guy.”
I nodded. “I’m with ye, hen. Go on.”
“Well, he was all full of himself, was our Sean. What he was going to do, how he was going to become some big time dealer.”
“Except he didn’t?”
Estelle snorted her derision. “He put most of it up his own fucking nose. Look, I mean, that in itself wasn’t surprising, but the silly bastard went back to his man, cap in hand with five hundred quid, and bought another ounce.”
“So he owed them a grand?”
“It’s the way they work, eh. Draw them in.”
“Go on.”
She ruefully shook her head and cleared more tears with a solitary finger. “Well, he did it all again, didn’t he? Sold one, snorted two. And what cash he did have he was throwing around like water.”
I sat on the arm of the chair. “How much does he owe them?”
“Five grand,” she said.” And not to his regular guy… to his supplier, Arti Jonas. Arti will kill him if he doesn’t pay, Mr Cogan. Kill him dead.”
Lauren North’s Story:
I’d hoped for an invite back to Rick’s apartment, but it wasn’t forthcoming. I was desperate to hold him in my arms, fall into bed and spend the day making love to him. But he’d muttered something about business and pleasure and keeping a clear head. I wasn’t surprised, I wasn’t even that disappointed. I told myself there would be time for that. I was however, determined to deal with the problem of Larry Simpson.
