by Robert White
I pointed an accusing finger. “From where I’m sitting, I’d say, rather than just dispose of Goldsmith, you lot did the square root of fuck all.”
Cartwright screwed up his face to a scowl. “Don’t give me that shit, Fuller. The moment Goldsmith started to get bigger than his shoe size, the order was given to remove him. The trouble was, there was a one-time opportunity…and my man missed him…simple as.”
“What exactly do you mean by ‘one time opportunity’?”
“It’s political,” said Cartwright.
I gave an exasperated look. “Political?”
“Times are changing, Richard. You can’t just wander into someone else’s backyard these days and start shooting their residents.”
Cartwright laid his palms on the table. “Look, Goldsmith is in Albania…Albania is no longer a Communist state, it is a democracy, a member of NATO. It’s even on the list to become part of the EU, God help us.”
I wasn’t surprised by that news. Red George’s connections to Albania were well known, and those boys always had been keen on the odd knock-off motor, particularly the odd Mercedes. Even so, to have it confirmed sent a shiver through me.
“Listen, Cartwright, don’t give me that as an excuse, Albania has one of the highest murder rates in the Western world. One more would hardly make the papers.”
“Blood feuds, Richard, the silly buggers are still topping each other over things that happened two hundred years ago.”
“Sounds like Ireland,” I muttered.
Cartwright ignored me. “Look, Richard, Goldsmith has become somewhat of a celebrity in Tropojë. He’s ensconced himself firmly with the locals; lots of nice German cars provided to the Albanian Mafioso, either FOC or at knockdown prices did him no harm at all. Indeed, it ensured he got his foot firmly in the door. Then, of course, there was his wealth of drug smuggling contacts in the US …Have you ever heard of the Rudaj Organisation?”
He didn’t wait for my answer.
“It’s the New York arm of the Albanian Mafia, with links to the Gambino family.”
“Big hitters,” I said.
Cartwright demolished his second gin.
“The biggest. We knew Goldsmith was using his knowledge of the US Mafia to grow the profile of Rudaj in the States…to get them business. This only increased his popularity locally. In fact, he became a fucking hero.”
“No wonder he didn’t want to leave Tropojë,” I said. “They must have been slaughtering a goat for him on a daily basis.”
Cartwright looked down into his empty glass and rolled the ice around the bottom.
“We missed him once, Richard, and now the Albanians have closed ranks. Goldsmith is better protected than the fucking President of the United States of America. To hit him now, would cause far too much of a row. Politically, it’s a no-no.”
I sat back and shook my head in disbelief. “But, in giving me his location, you know that I will go and kill him, and once again solve your problem.”
The spy shrugged.
“The crab is here,” he said.
We ate the excellent food in silence. Finally, Francis appeared and cleared our dishes. Once we were alone again, Cartwright leaned forward.
“I take it that the mess in Manchester last night was your doing, Richard?”
I didn’t offer a reply. Cartwright didn’t need one.
“Come on, an ex-Para executed on a pub carpark by an attractive brunette. My man’s little jaunt into the estate finds James Stuart London sliced in half by automatic gunfire. The casings left at the scene were brass jacketed 4.6 x 30mm, bespoke to the MP7 I believe, and currently your weapon of choice.”
I cocked my head quizzically. “You had us under surveillance?”
I was ignored. He barely took breath.
“Three hours ago, James London’s cousin, Kevin, was discovered on a canal towpath with his testicles in his top pocket. Bit harsh, even for you, Richard.”
I shrugged, “Try telling that to the parents of the sixteen-year-old he raped. Maybe it was a revenge killing.”
He shook his head and ploughed on.
“I gather that was your rather bullish attempt at finding Gjergj Dushku, the ‘go-between’, the man who worked for the London crew and provided Goldsmith with the hot motors. You figured that if you followed your nose, Dushku would lead you to Goldsmith…correct?”
Cartwright again waved his empty glass at our butler.
“You could, of course, have saved yourself a great deal of trouble. Had you answered my original telephone call, I could have given you all the information you needed.”
“We prefer to work alone,” I said flatly.
“Yes, of course you do,” said Cartwright, accepting two more G and T’s.
I took my fresh glass. “Tell me something. How come your man missed Goldsmith anyway?”
“A cock-up, old boy. I’m sure you’ve been party to the odd one in your time. Bad intel, wrong move at the wrong time, that sort of thing.”
I held a cube of ice in my mouth before crunching on it. “And what did the head-shed have to say about this ‘cock-up’?’”
Cartwright caught my gaze but didn’t speak. Over his many years, those eyes had told a million lies, and a thousand truths.
It took me a moment to work out, but I got there. Whatever had happened, it was bad news for him. “You’re in the shit, aren’t you?”
“You could put it that way, Richard.”
“Why?”
The old spy gave a shrug. For a moment, he looked all his sixty plus years.
“The rule book is a funny thing, Richard. Sometimes we go by it, then on other occasions, we consider that we know better.”
“Meaning?”
He let out a long sigh. “Meaning that maybe, I could have…should have moved earlier, nipped it all in the bud so to speak.”
I shook my head. “So, you could have stopped him earlier?”
Cartwright pursed his thin lips and nodded.
I felt my anger rise again. “You could have saved those poor people, those prison officers, maybe even Spiros… but you knew best eh?”
The spy’s eyes flashed. “Don’t fucking patronise me, Fuller. We’ve all broken the rules believing it to be for the greater good. Sometimes we pay the price, sometimes we don’t…just like you.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
Cartwright was as cold and calculating a man as I’d ever met.
“Remember the Shankhill Road, Richard? Of course, you do…twenty-seven years on, and I’d wager you recall that day as if it were yesterday?”
“And what about it?” I sneered.
“You were just a kid then, Richard, a kid, supposedly guided by a more experienced hand. Unfortunately, you were given that buffoon Wilson as a partner, who was more interested in brawling with the locals than doing his job…remember him?”
How could I forget? I was about to speak, but Cartwright held up a hand.
“You broke the guidelines that day, Richard. You disregarded the mantra of the rules of engagement believing that you needed to do so, in order to save further life, did you not?”
“Correct.”
The spy tapped the table as he spat out the words.
“Never fire at, or from, a moving vehicle…That is the rule, is it not? Yet you decided to shoot at the driver.”
“I did…yes I shot the driver…and the player with the Armalite, to stop...”
“…To stop them killing innocent people. Indeed, you did, and they gave you a medal, I believe, the first of many.”
Cartwright paused. “Do you recall the name of the child who died that day, Richard?”
My guts churned. “Yeah, I remember, he was called Peter…Peter Black, yeah…he was six, he…”
Cartwright stopped me dead in my tracks. “…He was killed by one of your bullets, Richard. You shot Peter Black.”
My head spun as the spy ploughed on.
“It was your stray round th
at was pulled from that child’s body, Fuller. Always a dangerous thing to do, isn’t it...fire a high velocity weapon in enclosed spaces? No doubt it was a vicious ricochet off the Provo’s vehicle, or maybe a nearby building, that turned your bullet around and sent it on its fateful course toward the innocent babe.”
He lowered his voice.
“We couldn’t hang you out to dry, Fuller, could we? Even though you had disobeyed your rules of engagement. The press would have had a field day. Imagine it. A British soldier shooting an innocent child. We needed heroes back then, Fuller, not villains. Jesus only knows we’d had enough bad publicity…easier to let the IRA take the blame eh? So, you got your medal, and no one was any the wiser.”
I felt sick, grabbing the table edge to steady myself. I’d watched that kid bleed to death in his mother’s arms, heard her wails of sorrow, felt her pain of loss.
“You’re a liar, Cartwright.” I hissed. “What is this? Why did you bring me here?”
“No, Richard, I’m not a liar. I’ll tell you exactly who I am…I’m the man who got on a plane to Belfast, broke into the evidence room of one of the most secure police stations ever built and swapped your bullet for one fired by Donal Greenhalgh, the Provo who you shot on the Shankhill Road that day.
“Do you know what they would have done to me had I been caught? Do you think the Firm would have held up its metaphorical hand and admitted I was one of theirs?
“Of course, not. I would have been hung out to dry as a common criminal.
“Don’t you understand, Richard? We are the same animal me and you. We may have been born on different sides of the tracks, but we are the same.”
“No!”
“Yes, Richard. We’ve both spent our lives doing others’ bidding, doing our best, doing the ‘right thing’. Jumping when told, even when we knew, deep down, that what we were jumping into was evil. Yet, if we were to complain or show dissent, well, there was only one punishment. It was our turn for the bullet in the head or the freak car accident.”
He pointed.
“I’ve known about you since you were seventeen years old, Fuller, since you were a spotty youth with a bad attitude. The only difference is, today, you also know me.”
Cartwright finished his drink.
“You pride yourself on your loyalty, don’t you, Fuller? Well…because of me, you didn’t go on trial, didn’t go to jail and didn’t end up face down in the communal showers.
“I saved your skin, old boy, now…I need you to save mine.”
Des Cogan’s Story:
JJ had slept most of the day whereas I’d spent it in deep conversation with Lauren. We’d gone over the whole Larry business and as I’d suspected, it was all something and nothing. The fact that Rick now knew about it made me feel even better. Keeping a secret like that from your best mate is never easy.
We’d also got around to the subject of Anne and her decision to leave me Hillside Cottage. With Lauren’s guidance, I’d made up my mind that when all this was over, I was going to sell the place.
With the money from the sale, and what I’d got put aside, I would officially be a millionaire. They say that money doesn’t bring you happiness, and they are right, but it helps eh?
I’d also told Lauren about another big decision.
After this little job, I was done. I would retire for good.
For me, the city is okay for a visit. I’d been born and bred in the heart of Glasgow, seen all that the big smoking sprawls had to offer, and more, but my heart had a yearning for the old place on the Loch; peace, quiet, and a spot of fishing seemed a million miles away, and was where I needed to be.
I’d been happy there before Rick came calling.
It was great to see him doing okay again, and, of course, I would miss the cantankerous bastard, and the action. You can never replace that.
This past year or so had been like being twenty again…Gibraltar and Ireland had been just like the old times. The problem, was, I wasn’t twenty anymore, I was firmly the wrong side of forty. I’d recently had my head staved in by a half-stoned Mancunian carrying a brick the size of his fireplace. If I couldn’t see him coming…I reckoned it was time to call it a day.
When I’d first met Rick Fuller he, like myself, had completed three tours of Ireland and returned with a medal or two. We were some of the youngest recruits that had ever applied, and made it through the toughest physical and mental assessment, that is selection for the Special Air Service.
Rick’s visits over the water had turned him from a lanky youth into a fine physical specimen. Whilst the other lads were pouring Guinness down their necks like it was going out of fashion, Rick was getting the miles under his belt. He liked a pint or two, and he liked the ladies of Belfast, but he liked the idea of passing selection even more.
I was the same, it was an obsession. I’ve always been slight of frame, and standing a tad over five feet nine, you could hardly call me tall, but I had wire in my blood back then; nothing could touch me, I was invincible.
Selection was not about what you had to do, it was about what you wanted to do…needed to do.
The mind-numbing, foot-destroying runs every morning, increasing in difficulty as the days went on, were all part of the process of seeing what your body and mind could endure. Dozens failed on the first day, dozens more as the days passed.
As my legs burned and my feet faltered, I would see Rick tabbing in front of me. Taller and heavier than me, he had to work even harder on the marches, yet it never showed. To me he was, and still is, a machine.
So it came somewhat as a surprise when, a little after five o’clock, the fucker staggered into the lock-up, looking more than jaded and smelling like he’d bathed in Gordons.
We all stopped what we were doing. Seeing Rick drunk was a total shock.
He still had enough of his shit together to function, and gestured for us to join him at the table.
“Come ’ere,” he said quietly.
He dropped into his chair and rubbed the top of his head with his palm, an action I’d seen him do on many occasions, mostly when he’d been bolloxed.
“Tell me you didn’t just drive here from London?” I asked.
Rick shook his head. “Train,” he muttered. “Got the train…left the motor at the hotel.”
Lauren leaned in. “Are you okay, Rick? You look…well you look drunk.”
He laid both hands on the table, and took a deep breath. There was the merest hint of a slur. “Never mind that, listen up...Goldsmith is very much alive. He’s in Tropojë, with Red George and half the Albanian Mafia for company.”
I shook my head. “And, let me guess, the Firm knew all the time?”
Rick gave a half smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “This is a fucking beauty, pal. After the Gibraltar job, MI6 took a keen interest in Goldsmith…they believed he knew where a few CIA bodies were buried, and managed to get their claws into him before the Yanks could whisk him away. Apparently, they struck the jackpot in spy currency. The bastard turned out to be the font of all knowledge when it came to our special friend’s misdemeanours, both home and abroad, especially over the water during the troubles.”
He took another deep breath.
“So, no sooner had Stephan spilled his guts, than a deal was cut. He was transferred to Strangeways. As you are all aware, once there he ‘died’ before rolling away the proverbial stone and coming back to life as a used car salesman in Tropojë Province.
Cartwright had the balls to call it, smoke and mirrors.
Bottom line is, they got him away, gave him a new identity and set him up in Albania.”
“Bastards,” spat JJ.
Rick sneered.
“Ah, there’s more…the best bit is, according to Cartwright, all this shit is my fault. All, was apparently well, until I accessed Goldsmith’s death certificate.”
“And why did you do that?” asked Lauren.
There was more head rubbing.
“Because I promised
Spiros proof that Goldsmith was dead. It was what he wanted, his price for helping us out. After Stephan had killed his girl, it was all he could think about. He needed closure…I gave it to him. Trouble was, the moment the document was accessed, it was flagged up at Canary Wharf.”
“And?” pressed Lauren.
Rick gave her a look. “And…that, and the fact Spiros had decided to undertake his own investigation, pushed MI6 into action. Once he started snooping into Goldsmith’s death, the Firm’s SOP was to instantly warn their ‘asset’ of an impending threat.”
I couldn’t hold my tongue.
“So, move the fucker, come on, Rick, how many people have we ‘moved’ whether they liked it or not?”
Rick pointed. “Exactly, and that is what was supposed to happen, but for some reason, only known to Cartwright, it didn’t. Goldsmith basically told the Firm to go fuck themselves, and he would sort out the problem himself.”
I was straight back in. “So, slot the fucker.”
Rick hunched his shoulders, and slurred. “They tried…allegedly.”
I felt the need for a drink myself and strolled to the fridge, cracking a can of Guinness. “Sounds like a fucking cop-out to me, pal.”
Rick squeezed his eyes shut. “It was…I mean… is…Cartwright thought he had the measure of Goldsmith, but he didn’t. By the time the old fucker realised that Stephan was slotting witnesses back in the UK, he was too late. Goldsmith was well protected.”
“Sounds like the old spy is in the shit,” I said.
Rick stood. “He is…and he expects us to get him out of it.”
I took another mouthful of beer.
“So…we’re going to hit Goldsmith in Albania? You do realise how hard that will be?”
He caught my eye. “You know, I know and most probably, Goldsmith knows. Look, I need to see Kostas before we do anything…tell him what we’ve found out. I owe him that.”
