by Robert White
I shot Rick a look. Every time I’d ever heard that man’s name, it meant trouble.
Carver looked to Mitch Collins.
The big guy stepped forward, slipped off his jacket, removed his holster and weapon and dropped everything on a nearby chair. He too, rolled his sleeves two turns.
I was right. They wanted something.
“We,” he began. “Have an issue.”
“No,” spat Rick. “You, have an issue. We have homes to go to and a business to run.”
Mitch seemed to have a long fuse.
“Mr Fuller, Sir. As you have already correctly intimated. You are here with the blessing of Her Majesty’s Government. Now, I understand that you may be upset at last night’s operation, but I assure you, it was a necessary evil. We had to move extremely quickly. We needed you on board and briefed by the end of today.
Time, as they say, is of the essence.”
I caught the big fella’s eye. “What do you mean by, ‘with the blessing of Her Majesty’s Government’ Mitch?”
Carver slipped in. For the first time his tone had a trace of discomfort in there. “You’ve been, erm…loaned to us for a while.”
Des shook his head, the Scots ever shortening fuse there for all to see. “I’m no a fuckin’ lawn mower. Ye can’t lend me on a Saturday morning and give me back all bonny on a Sunday. Last I looked, I was flesh and blood. I know what you Deep South boys are like, next you’ll want us picking cotton and singin’ Ole Man River.”
Mitch stifled a smile at that.
He held up his large hands. “Look guys, I know this is weird, and I assure you we left the shackles back home. It ain’t exactly what we are accustomed to either. We would love to use our own boys on this job, but it ain’t possible, pure and simple.”
“And, more to the point, you guys,” pointed Carver. “Have all the necessary qualifications and experience to compete this task, quietly and quickly. And that is what DC requires.”
“DC?” said Rick.
Mitch pulled up a chair. “People in high places guys. The usual suspects. They pull the strings, we dance the dance.”
I eyed the big fella. He was handsome in a boyish way with sharp grey eyes. “What if we say no, Mitch?”
He shrugged. “Then we walk away… today. Now, before we tell you any more. After all, we are supposed to be on the same side, aren’t we? We needed you here fast, but you ain’t our prisoners…or slaves for that matter, Mr Cogan.”
Carver was in again. He was here to sell the job, no doubt.
“That said, you would be turning down a very rewarding opportunity. Very lucrative indeed.”
“That’s what they all say,” said Rick. “For lucrative, see ‘dead’ in the dictionary.”
“I agree,” nodded Carver. “Dangerous, yes. But worth one million dollars cash.”
We all sat up at that one.
Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Des leaned forward. “And just how long do ye figure this wee job is going to take then, pal?”
“We would hope,” replied Carver. “That everything is brought to a successful conclusion within a week. But this is a murder enquiry, so that ball, is essentially in your court.”
“A murder?” said Rick. “So, call the cops.”
“They are investigating, Sir,” answered Mitch. “But the British Police have constraints, rules, regulations, things that slow down the… process.”
“Who is the victim?” asked Rick.
The FBI man remained tight lipped. “An American student studying in Manchester.”
Rick smiled at that one. “Okay. Mitch, what about the perpetrator?”
Carver interjected again. “We believe perpetrators. At least two at the scene. GMP have intimated that the murder scene was very unusual and have not ruled out a religious or sexually motivated attack. However, DC strenuously believe, that should this be the case, then mistaken identity could be the only possible explanation. The victim has no priors, no connections with any criminal gang and has nothing to hide on a personal level. That is their official stance on the matter and will remain so.”
Rick’s gaze drifted between the two men.
“And what about you guys? What is your… stance?”
Mitch and Carver remained silent.
Okay,” said Rick. “I take it this is a dead or alive kind of mission.”
Carver shrugged. “Let’s just say, the folks in DC would prefer the former.”
Rick interlocked his fingers and placed both hands behind his head, a broad smile on his face.
“Call me old fashioned, but I just want to be clear here. You guys, let’s just call you the CIA for the hell of it, on the orders of ‘people in high places’ in Washington, let’s just call them politicians, have permission to offer one million US dollars to us three tired old mercenaries, to slot a few religious, sexually motivated fanatics from Manchester, rather than let justice take its usual course?”
“I think you have grasped that particular nettle, Mr Fuller,” said Carver.
Rick looked across at Des who gave the merest nod. I followed his lead. I mean, we all knew that Mitch and his pal were lying through their very white teeth.
But come on, things always come out in the wash, and a million dollars is a lot of money in anyone’s book.
Rick nodded back. “Looks like you have a deal, Carver.”
Des Cogan’s Story:
Beware the man bearing gifts, I say. Even fucking blueberry pancakes.
Look, it was obvious that the Yanks were telling half a tale. But when did The Firm last come up with all the good stuff?
And to be fair, the reason for Mitch and Mason’s very tight lips, would soon become apparent. Mitch seemed a decent enough bloke, but Carver? Well, let’s just say, I’d met a few of his kind in my time. Deskbound weekend warriors, who did the politicians bidding and to hell with the consequences.
We were marched from the plush surroundings of Carver’s office, back to our ‘accommodation.’ Once there, we were handed our clothes and shoes back, nicely laundered and pressed. Then we were given the opportunity to ‘scrub up’ again and offered some ‘brunch.’ All very fucking civilised.
I passed on the food and opted for a large pot of tea.
Within the hour, we ended up sitting around a low table in what was obviously a classroom, minus Carver, who had some ‘pressing business,’ to attend to.
Despite being built like a brick wall, Mitch Collins had a nice easy way with him, and I took to the guy immediately. He dropped a pile of papers onto the table and stacked them neatly to his left. They all sported big red stamps across them announcing they were ‘Top Secret.’ The Yank checked his watch.
“Okay guys. It’s now just over twenty-four hours since the body of Todd Blackman was discovered in the ground floor apartment of a dwelling, in Ancoats, Greater Manchester.
Todd was twenty years old, born 11th July 1977 in Louisville, Kentucky. He was a keen musician and studied composition in college, before persuading his parents to allow him to come to here to England to continue his education.
He’d set his heart on completing the Music Production Degree course at Salford University. He was in his first year.
As for the details of the crime itself, we are having difficulty obtaining much information from GMP’s SOCU, (Serious and Organised Crime Unit.) We have found the city’s head of that department to be a very obstinate man, but I’ll come to that momentarily.
The Chief Inspector seems reluctant to share too much about Todd’s injuries or the scene, therefore, we are somewhat in the dark. However, we regard this as a double-edged sword, as there remains little press coverage about the killing.
One of DC’s prime objectives.
The folks in the White House are very keen for this to remain so, due to the possible political fallout back home shou
ld the press start to sensationalise the killing.”
I was getting tired of the smoke and mirrors already. “Well, what do you know, pal? And why would the press sensationalise anything?”
Mitch shuffled uncomfortably in his seat. “You know what the news guys are like Mr Cogan. They love blood and gore. And as one of the few facts we have been able to obtain, is that Todd was tortured before he died, and he bled to death, we would like to keep those facts under wraps for as long as possible. In fact, until you guys deal with the perps.”
“Did the kid use drugs?” asked Rick.
Mitch put his diplomatic hat back on.
“I’m not saying that Todd was an angel. Louisville, at least the area in which Todd lived, is a very conservative part of the United States and, once away from that influence, in a cosmopolitan city such as Manchester, Todd probably wanted to let his hair down a little. We believe he smoked the odd joint.”
Mitch looked around the table at our un-surprised faces.
Lauren seemed deep in thought for a moment, her eyes focused at a far away point. She turned to the American and locked on his gaze. “Not often folks get tortured for smoking a joint in Ancoats, Mitch.” She sat back in her seat. “So where did Todd live? Was he killed at home?”
Mitch shook his head. “No Ma’am, Todd rented a private apartment on the Quays.”
Lauren raised her brows. “Wow! Not like my university days Mitch, four girls in a grotty two bedroomed flat.”
Mitch allowed the merest smile. “No Ma’am, but I wouldn’t know, as I didn’t attend college.”
The big fella moved on. “Todd’s parents are in the air as we speak. His father, John E. Blackman, will be travelling to Salford General Hospital to formally identify his son the moment they land.”
Rick sat up at that, a quizzical look on his face. “What does the ‘E’ stand for Mitch?”
Collins did that wriggle in his seat again. “I think you’ll find that E is for Eisenhower, Mr Fuller.”
Rick snorted, a light exploding in his head. “So, now we’re getting to the nitty gritty here, aren’t we? The father of our dead boy is none other than Senator Johnathan Eisenhower Blackman, front running Presidential candidate?”
“That is correct, but…”
“But nothing, Mitch,” spat Rick. “That pile of papers to your left. What are they?”
Collins placed a palm on top of the pile and took a deep breath. “They are classified documents, Mr Fuller, documents regarding Todd Blackman’s movements during the first month of his stay here in the UK.”
I nearly spat out my tea.
“Dinnae tell me your lot were supposed to be babysitting the boy?”
Mitch nodded slowly.
“At first, yes. That would be correct Mr Cogan.”
Lauren cocked her head. “So, are you in the deep brown stuff then Mitch?”
Mitch again considered his words.
“The team who were initially responsible for the safety of young Todd, and their command, are currently in the States for de-brief, Ma’am.”
I poured another cup. “I’ll fuckin’ bet they are.”
Rick leaned over to get a closer look at the papers. Mitch kept his hand on top. “I’m sorry Mr Fuller, but presently these documents are classified for US eyes only.”
Rick flopped back in his seat.
“Let me get this straight here, Mitch. You’re paying us to find the people that murdered Todd Blackman. And there, under your hand, are reports from field agents who have been following him around Manchester for a month. Don’t you think that there may be a slim chance that your guys may have already seen and identified one or more of Todd’s killers?”
Mitch’s hand didn’t move from the pile.
“As Todd had been here in the UK for six months prior to his murder, and these reports are now five months out of date, I think that is unlikely, Sir, but I will have the reports cleaned later today and then you, and your team, will have full access.”
I knew what Mitch meant. Before we went over to Belfast to slot Paddy O’Donnell, our MI5 handler, an old spy by the name of Cartwright, supplied us with various field reports from the agents who had been watching the Irish Minister’s movements. In every statement some text had been edited. Thick black markers had been used to erase code names and other details the Firm thought too sensitive for our eyes. Some of the intelligence had so much text removed, it was unreadable and useless. I wondered just how many of the reports sitting under Mitch’s hand would end up the same way before we got our grubby mitts on them.
I pointed to the pile of papers.
“So, how come you had him under protective surveillance and then dropped it after a month?”
Mitch pulled a face that told the whole room he wasn’t a happy camper. Obviously, Carver had not wanted to be the source of all the good news, and had left all the awkward questions to be fielded by the big man.
“I believe the team were stood down under orders from DC ,Sir.”
Lauren gave the American a puzzled look. “What? You removed surveillance altogether.”
Mitch nipped the bridge of his nose between thumb and finger.
“You must understand, Ma’am. If your subject doesn’t want to be protected. Doesn’t want his movements reported. Then it makes the job of such a small team almost impossible. I believe the agent running the brief reported as much to Todd’s father. I also understand, that it was Mr Blackman himself who stood the team down.”
I let out a low whistle. “That’s a fuckin’ serious guilt trip.”
Mitch nodded. “I do believe you are right, Mr Cogan.”
Lauren drained her cup. “The plot thickens eh? Despite your diplomatic language, Mitch, I’m beginning to form a picture here. The deceased is a rich kid from some shit-kicking bible belt town. He has an over-protective father who is not only running for President, but is one of the richest men in the world. Daddy is powerful enough to pull the CIA’s strings and you guys get the job of keeping an eye on little Todd. You are tasked with ensuring the kid doesn’t get into the kind of mischief that may embarrass his father and hurt his Presidential ambitions whilst here in Old Blighty. Am I warm?”
Mitch nodded.
“Okay, but Todd has different ideas and gives your boys the run around, making their job impossible. Your words, not mine. The lead agent reports this fact to Daddy. Now, I reckon that Mr Blackman Snr. would be very pissed at the news that little Todd was misbehaving, correct?
“Correct, Ma’am”.
“I thought so. And would I be wrong to suggest that Daddy wanted his son back in Kentucky, away from the bright lights and temptations of Manchester, where he could keep an eye on him?”
“I believe that he had that conversation with his son, Ma’am, yes.”
“And Todd told Daddy to go fuck himself?”
Mitch almost smiled at Lauren’s use of language. “Maybe not in so many…”
“But he did, yes?”
“Yes.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Almost five months ago, Ma’am.”
“And Daddy then pulled the plug on the surveillance?”
“He did, Ma’am.”
“So, you and your buddies, haven’t seen Todd in those five months?”
“No, Ma’am.”
“No surveillance at all?”
Mitch shook his head.
Lauren jutted her chin towards the pile of field reports.
“And you say there is nothing in those that might shed any light on what happened in the following days or weeks, or what may have got our little rich kid tortured and killed?”
Mitch rubbed his face with his palms.
“To sum up, Ma’am, during our operation, on most days Todd went to school and came home as expected. It was his night time activ
ities that proved difficult to assess. You see, soon after our assignment started, it became apparent that he had discovered that he was the subject of protective surveillance. Being the son of J. E. Blackman meant that Todd had been used to bodyguards all his life. He hated the lack of privacy this gave and it was one of the reasons he’d been so determined to come to England to study. He considered he would be both anonymous and safe here in the UK. Finding out his father had surreptitiously informed both the FBI and CIA of his plans did not go well between them.”
Mitch raised his eyebrows. “The boy began to use anti-surveillance techniques as a matter of course. He’d been forced to learn these as a child. Growing up as the only son of the ninth richest man in the world, it came with the territory. We did our best with the resources we had, but when Todd went out into the city at night, more often than not, we would lose him.”
Lauren met the American’s gaze. “And definitely no evidence of hard drugs?”
Mitch shook his head. “If there was any drug use going on, Ma’am, we had no way of assessing the extent of it. However, to our knowledge, Todd had always been a clean living boy.”
“And all this was reported to Daddy?” asked Lauren.
“Of course.”
“And Daddy wasn’t happy.”
“An understatement. J.E. ordered Todd home and, as you so delicately put it Ms North, Todd of course, refused.”
“Would you say that Senator Blackman was a vindictive man, Mitch?”
“I don’t think the Senator would do anything to endanger his own son, Ma’am, if that’s what you mean.”
“But he ordered the plug pulled and just accepted that his son was a spoiled brat who wouldn’t do as he was told?”
“Are you a parent, Ma’am?”
Lauren darkened. “I think, that as Sgt Willis was party to my bra size, you already know the answer to that one.”
“My apologies, Ma’am, I was merely trying to point out that even if you are rich and powerful, you can’t always control your kids.”
Lauren recovered her mood.
“So, what got young Todd killed, Mitch? And why do you believe the cops are being so tight lipped?”
