by Robert White
THE FIRE
by
Robert White
First published in the UK 24/12/15 by Robert White
Copyright @ Robert White 2014
Robert White has asserted his rights under the Copyright and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction and, except for the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
The opinions expressed in this work are fictional and do not represent the views of the author.
For my wife Nicola
"None of this happened, but it's all true."
Danny Boyle
Rick Fuller's Story:
It had been eight hours since we executed Patrick O'Donnell, the First Minister of Northern Ireland, the leader of the New Irish Republican Army and the man responsible for the murder of my wife.
I'd boarded the Ryan Air flight from Dublin to Schiphol, exhausted and unusually nervous. Lauren's escape route was by sea from Belfast to Liverpool; Des was an hour or so in front of me, flying EasyJet to Paris. Each of us planned to make the necessary connections to our RV in the Sheraton Hotel, Abu Dhabi.
Lunch in La Mammas Italian restaurant was to die for. We, however, intended to be very much alive.
September 11th loomed, the fifth anniversary of the biggest terrorist atrocity to be inflicted on western soil. If all went well, we would celebrate, no matter what the date.
I wouldn't be comfortable until we all sat at that table.
I'd craved vengeance for so long that the reality left me cold. O'Donnell had been the source of my demise. His actions had sent me on a downward spiral as tight and as deep as anyone could imagine. Yet he had also been my driving force, my energy, my alter ego. The fact that I had finally taken my revenge on Cathy's killer should have laid the ghosts of ten years past to rest, left me calm; but they hadn't allowed me peace.
The moment I reclined my seat and closed my eyes, my wife came to me as she always has. O'Donnell's blood on a Belfast backstreet offered little solace. The nightmare had evolved over ten years, but the result was the same.
I walk down the path to our house in Hereford. As usual, I've been shopping for paint to improve our happy home. In this particular re- run of the devil's own despicable flickering newsreel, I carry the orange plastic bags that, in reality, were left in the boot of my car. They flutter and flap in the brisk cold wind. The front door is still ajar and Cathy is lying there, her pale shattered body lolling out onto the stone flags of the porch that glisten with her bright red oxygenated blood.
My bags fall to the ground and I run. My legs burn with the effort, yet the harder I pump, the slower my progress. Even in my dream state I feel the physical pain of grief. I can't breathe. The stench of death fills my nostrils. I want to scream.
"Are you all right, sir?"
The stewardess was leaning over me, a concerned look on her face.
"I'm fine, thanks; bad dream."
She smiled.
"I was a little worried about you there."
Adjusting my seat into the upright position like any good passenger, I noticed the descent of the aircraft for the first time.
Due to the fact that I had been forced to use a budget airline, my knees were jammed up against my folding table and my toes barely touched the floor. For anyone around the six feet tall mark, and I'm well over, budget travel is not a pleasant experience.
Bad dreams, cramp and cheap instant coffee did nothing for my mood.
The last time I'd boarded such a dreadful plane, had been our trip to Puerto Banus where I had been sandwiched between two would-be contestants from The Jeremy Kyle Show.
Take my advice. If a plane is orange or plays a fuckin' bugle when you land on time, avoid it like the plague.
My knees were so high, I felt like an extra from Mr. fuckin' Bean and to add to my woes I had two Irish Goths to my right that hadn't recognised the benefit of a regular bathing regime.
Unlike my companions on the flight to sunny Spain, who couldn't take a breath unless it was to devour food that came in a bucket, these two cherubs hadn't attempted conversation. They simply peered at me with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion, obviously unnerved by my sleep antics.
I ignored them and concentrated on the pretty stewardess.
"Have I time to get a bottle of water before we land?"
I got another smile and a nod from the cabin crew before she was off to get me a ridiculously priced Evian.
Sipping my water, I watched the flat landscape of Holland pass underneath me, doing my best to block out the presence of the two buffoons I had for company. I found myself irritated by the taller Goth, who was reapplying his make-up.
I'd chosen to wear a very nice Vivienne Westwood classic cream cotton shirt, picked up in Belfast. Victoria Square has very good shopping these days and I'd bought it and several other items for a rather good price. I considered that if the freak now applying his black lipstick got it anywhere near my purchase, I would gleefully break his dirty fingers.
Forcing myself to look out of the window, my mind wandered and I picked over the bones of the last weeks.
The O'Donnell job had started with frustration, and some not inconsiderable sorrow.
Gibraltar had been rough, and Lauren was unused to so much violence and death. Her facial injuries, in particular the damage to her nose, ensured that, no matter how disappointed we may be by the delay, we would be unable to start work for a matter of weeks. The Regiment prided itself on being the 'grey men' of the military. It was something I had always believed to be a weapon in itself. The ability to go about your business unnoticed was not a given, but a gift.
A beautiful woman with a broken nose and matching black eyes was going to be a talking point wherever we went, and as much as I needed to see O'Donnell dead, we would have to wait until Lauren was back to her stunning self.
As irritating as the delay was, it couldn't hold a candle to the heart-breaking visit I had to make to Spiros Makris.
I'd first met the Greek whilst employed by Joel Davies and he'd become as close to a friend and ally as I'd had for many years.
Somehow, in the days running up to Gibraltar, we had been compromised. Stephan Goldsmith had found the Makris home and Spiros had been beaten within an inch of his life.
The Goldsmith empire wanted our location and ID's, and would do anything to get it.
Despite taking a fearsome amount of punishment, Makris refused to play ball.
In a fit of rage, Stephan pulled Spiros's five-year-old daughter Maria from her bed and held a gun to her head.
The Greek had no choice. He told Stephan everything.
Goldsmith shot the child anyway.
I was determined to pay my respects. We met in Heaton Park, Manchester. Spiros was barely fifty, yet on this day, looked as frail as a man thirty years older. His bruises were yellowing and his stitches had been removed, but Goldsmith had taken something away from him. Pride? Spirit?
His younger brother Kostas was in charge of Spiros's wheelchair and stood solemnly on guard. I sat on a painted green bench. We overlooked the pavilion. The sun shone, children played.
Spiro's hands shook as he spoke.
"I don't want your money," he said. "Or that car you left with me."
I nodded.
There was a silence as a young mother pushed her baby by us.
Once she was out of earshot, Spiros turned and spat. "I want him dead, Richard...can you...will you see to that?"
I managed to put a hand on his shoulder. "Spiros...He's...Goldsmith...he's already dead...he hanged himself."
Spiros slumped forward and clasped his hands, but Kostas eyed me. He was a powerful bull of a man, full of hate and anguish
. I found it hard to hold his gaze. "Have you seen the bastard's body?"
I shook my head.
Kostas snorted.
Spiros waved a hand at his brother. "Richard only tells the truth. I trust him." He turned and met my gaze. "We are friends, are we not?"
"We are."
"Then there is no more to be said and I shall thank you for your condolences."
Spiro motioned to Kostas to push his chair.
"Take me home, my brother," he said. "We're done here."
Kostas ignored his sibling briefly and met my gaze.
He whispered out of earshot and I made him a promise.
I returned to London that afternoon to meet with our MI5 'handler'. He was a middle-aged man called Cartwright, who reminded me of the Prime Minister's aide in the sit-com Yes, Prime Minister. I can never remember actors' names, but he was funny, and our guy had the same sarcastic wit. For a spy, I quite liked him. He dressed impeccably, with a genuine fondness for Saville Row and Dolce & Gabbana.
That afternoon, he provided me with O'Donnell's personal file and whilst Des and Lauren enjoyed all that the capital had to offer, I buried my head in the massive document.
Within a week of me receiving the top secret folder, both my team had returned to the fold citing boredom. Des had consumed enough Guinness and Lauren had obviously learned from my shopping tips in Puerto Banus. Despite her facial bruising still being evident, she looked stunning in her new wardrobe. She seemed bright and refreshed, although I did sense an atmosphere between her and the Scot; nothing major, but if I'd been a betting man, I would have suggested a tiff.
The information provided by Cartwright was thorough enough. As anyone would expect, MI5 knew everything there was to know about O'Donnell's movements. After all, he was one of those anomalies you get in a peace process; a known terrorist turned successful politician. The old adage of 'know your enemies' was not lost on the British Secret Service.
That said, dozens of paragraphs had been censored, thick black lines rendering some passages unintelligible. This was due to the Firm's policy of 'need to know' and as Cartwright had so delicately explained, "You don't need to know, old boy."
O'Donnell had been a bad boy from a teen. He was convicted by the Republic of Ireland's Special Criminal Court in 1975, for possession of an illegal firearm and ammunition. Not any old ex war pistol and a couple of rounds...oh no...an AK47 and enough ammunition to start a small war. He got a mere six months imprisonment for his trouble. The kit was found under his younger brother's bedroom floor and there wasn't enough evidence to imply he'd actually used the gun. It was whilst in the dock as a seventeen-year-old that he started his chest-beating approach to politics. After being sentenced, he declared his membership of the Provisional IRA. He stated, 'I will fight and die to destroy the forces that murder our people... I am a member of Óglaigh na hÉireann and you will remember my name!'
He became increasingly prominent in Sinn Féin, the political wing of the PIRA and was never off the television during hunger strikes in the early 1980s. During the 1990s he became aware that his organisation needed massive funding to continue with their campaign and branched out into large-scale criminal activities including drugs and prostitution. We were well aware of that part, this whole scenario starting back in 1996 when Des and I stole his cocaine. Had we known of his connections with Williamson and Goldsmith, I would have slotted him that night.
By the winter of 1997 he was a political force to be reckoned with, but the rumours wouldn't go away and he again stood accused of continuing involvement in IRA activity. There was intelligence suggesting he was present at the interrogation and murder of an IRA informer and that he personally tortured the victim.
But by early 1998 he began the charm offensive, standing on the steps of the Parliament building and announcing, "I have never been a member of the IRA and don't have any connection with the organisation."
The Firm had continued to dig the dirt. Alarm bells really started to ring in 1999 when they found evidence of O'Donnell's involvement in the newly formed NIRA (New Irish Republican Army.)
Having a gangster/terrorist rise to prominence as a political figure was one thing, but in February 2001 O'Donnell's mobile phone was tapped and he was heard sanctioning the planting of a bomb in London. The device was disguised as a torch and left outside a Tottenham Territorial Army base. It blinded a fourteen-year-old boy and blew his hand off.
After this event the file became almost unreadable due to Cartwright's enthusiastic editing. Once again, if I were a regular visitor to the bookies, I would suggest that the illegal phone tapping of a major politician had something to do with it. The final entry of note was from 2005. O'Donnell had been the victim of a very well publicised assassination attempt. The job had the Firm's sticky mitts all over it. They'd cocked it up good style, missed their target and slotted his driver, a sixty-two-year-old grandfather with no criminal record.
Fuckin' amateurs.
Our 'need to know' status ensured there were more black lines than type. One thing was very clear, however. MI5 needed rid of the guy badly and now they had a team in place that could do the job and was totally deniable.
Us.
O'Donnell was protected by his own handpicked guards. He didn't trust the RUC or any other organisation with his personal safety. He wore covert body armour at all times. MI5 suggested he even slept in it.
He lived in a grand house, with his wife Mary and twin boys Seamus and Declan. The place was a fortress and was a complete nonstarter for a hit.
The thing with powerful men is that they always reach a point where they become a prisoner of their own success. O'Donnell was little different.
As the three of us sat in our London Hotel, searching the file for the kind of opportunity we would need if we were to get to our target; it was Lauren who noticed the anomaly.
"He has three cars, right?"
I pulled the sheet I was looking for. "Yes, a Bentley, a Jeep and a Toyota. That doesn't include his ministerial car."
Lauren shuffled the papers in front of her until she found what she was looking for. "The Bentley is BDZ7459, yes?"
"Go on."
"Well according to this RUC report, that vehicle has been checked on Linen Hall Street, Belfast four times in the last month."
Des opened a bottle of water and took a long drink, his tone overly dismissive. "Aye, but that area is close to the City Hall, so that isn't unusual."
Lauren shot Des a look, handed the sheet to the Scot and then tapped furiously at the keys of her laptop. "It could be. Check out the times; 21:07 hours, 21:47 hours and twice after midnight. What would his private car be doing there at that time?"
Des was still unimpressed. I was right about the tiff. "Politicians work late sometimes," he said flatly.
Lauren turned her computer to face Des and gave a sarcastic smile. "Yeah, and play late too."
On the screen was an article from The Belfast Telegraph. It read:
Street prostitution in Belfast is out of control and making life a misery for city centre residents, it has been claimed.
"Dozens of prostitutes - some in their mid-teens - are selling themselves nightly just yards from the City Hall," said SDLP councillor Henry McCluskey.
He said he has received complaints from residents at a number of central apartment complexes in the area who claim they are being pestered.
Mr McCluskey said there is a continual nightly "rat run" of men of all ages driving through Alfred Street, Adelaide Street and Linen Hall Street in search of sex.
"If you drive around any night you will see the prostitutes. There are about 20 or 30 on any given night and they are getting younger," he said.
"You can also see cars with pimps in them. They (the prostitutes) are being controlled - it's not freelance.
I would be surprised if there wasn't paramilitary involvement."
Des let out a low whistle. Lauren had his attention. Whatever had gone on between them was forgotten. "
Linen Hall Street is a kerb crawler's paradise then. Well done, hen. This could be just what we are looking for."
Lauren shrugged. "Could be, but just because it's his car, doesn't mean our target is inside it."
I didn't agree and felt the tell-tale signs of excitement in my gut.
"No, Lauren, I think you've hit the nail on the head here. If it was one of his bodyguards or staff, would they take his Bentley? Even if it were one of his twin sons, would they take the old man's pride and joy over the Toyota or Jeep? Not a chance. O'Donnell would have their balls for breakfast. This is him alright. This is fucking him."
Des Cogan's Story:
I flew into Paris Charles De Gaulle on EasyJet which drops you into Terminal 3. It's a terminal just for budget airlines, so all the poor people can feel at home together. It also means that your upper-class French passengers don't have to rub shoulders with the likes of me.
The manifest of each arriving aircraft reinforced my thoughts as I seemed to be surrounded by Moroccans, Africans and Eastern Europeans.
I pushed my way toward the CDGVAL (Charles de Gaulle Véhicule Automatique Léger) which is French for tram, and within four minutes I'd stepped off outside Terminal 2A. You had to hand it to the Frogs, they knew how to run a train and tram service. Still, they always were better at running than fighting.
After checking the board for Etihad EY032 and finding it was on time, I fumbled in my Levis for my wee pipe and stepped out into the warm Paris morning to indulge in my nicotine habit.
I inhaled deeply and let the drug do its work. I thought about Lauren and how she had taken the longest escape route of us all. By my reckoning, she would be in a taxi heading to John Lennon; then a flight to Milan. The Italians, like the French, have a separate terminal for us low-life budget travellers; Milano Malpensa 2. Then she would have a short hop to Terminal 1 and catch Emirates EK00094 to Dubai just a hundred kilometres or so from Abu Dhabi and our RV.
