The Fire

by Robert White

  At exactly three p.m. J.J. Yakim walked into the coffee shop, quickly scanned the tables and nodded in my direction.

  He was a short man, no more than five foot eight and had the wiry build of an athlete or boxer. His jet black hair was gelled back within an inch of its life. A handsome man, but his cheeks were acne-scarred. He wore faded Levi jeans and a battered pair of Timberland boots. His plain black T-shirt was partially covered with an equally worn brown leather jacket of indeterminate history. He sat without being asked and I could smell cigarette smoke on his jacket as he removed it. He draped it carefully over the back of his chair, offered his hand and gave a firm handshake.

  I was immediately aware of his eyes. They matched his hair but had the coldest look I had ever seen on a man. If he was feeling anything at all, it didn't show. Beneath his left eye was a teardrop tattoo. On his wrists and arms was an array of scars that were obvious defence injuries. I'd seen these kinds of cuts before on knife fighters.

  "J.J." I said.

  "Richard," was his one word response.

  I considered his short shrift was just part of his character and ploughed on. "You know who I am...So tell me about your background, J.J."

  He shrugged dismissively; his manner instantly irritated me further. Lauren had mentioned his temperament and I was starting to understand her concern. He didn't look like a soldier, he looked like an ageing street thug.

  He lolled in his chair.

  "I am nine years in the Army. I join when I am nineteen. I am Maroon Beret five years, then I buy nightclub in Bodrum, Mugla Province of Turkey, meet English girl and move here to Manchester."

  The Maroon Berets are no mean outfit. They are also known as The Special Forces Command. The training that an MB undergoes is formidable. It sits into three categories; domestic, international and specialty.

  Within the three categories, there are forty-seven different subjects. The domestic training alone takes seventy-two weeks of basic training; International training takes another year spent in different countries. It takes three and a half years to become a MB.

  J.J. was no mug.

  I knew the answer to my next question but I asked anyway.

  "What's the tattoo about?"

  He touched the teardrop absently with his finger. "This was when I was a boy in Istanbul, a long time ago, when I was bad."

  The unfilled teardrop tattoo signifies a friend or a fellow gang-member has been murdered either in or out of prison. Once it is filled in, like J.J.'s it means the death has been avenged.

  "You were part of a gang?"

  He waited for the waiter to place two double espressos on the table and leave.

  He sat up, and for the first time seemed to take the whole interview seriously.

  "Where I grew up, Richard, everyone was in gang."

  "Fair enough," I said. "What weapons are you familiar with? This job requires people with good skills."

  J.J. displayed pure white teeth that had obviously been replaced by a dentist. I thought of Des for a moment. He may have attempted a smile, but those eyes didn't falter.

  "Sig 226 and 229 are my pistols. I like Minimi for belt feed weapon, is old but good; HK 416 for assault rifle, better than M16... and M24 for sniper." He sat back in his chair again and assumed his 'fuck you' pose.

  "I am good shot, especially from distance, but better with knife."

  I couldn't work the guy out, but there was no doubting his confidence.

  "So your wife is here in Manchester?"

  J.J. couldn't hide the smile this time. "Yes, she is here and my boy Kaya, he is four years old now."

  "You are a lucky man," I said and meant it. For the first time in months, I felt the twinge of loss. Would I have had a child by now? Would he or she be going to high school?

  I leaned forward and rested my elbows on the table. Ninety-nine per cent of all Turks are Muslim and over seventy-five per cent of those are Sunni.

  "This job...it may be that your religion could be a problem; the men we are after are Muslim."

  I thought I sensed a glint of anger in his eyes, but they were so black it was almost impossible to gauge. "Not all Turks are Muslim, Richard. Christianity was born in Turkey, in Constantinople, 4th Century... As for me...my God deserted me long ago. When I die, I go to hell."

  I knew how he felt. I'd been brought up in the Methodist Church as a child. My mother had insisted we go twice each Sunday. It lasted until I was thirteen, the start of my demise as a good citizen. I'd never been frightened of dying. I'd always hoped that when it came, it would be quick. My only fear had been of being captured and tortured over a long period, like some Regiment guys had endured in Iraq. God didn't help them; he wouldn't come running for me either.

  "OK, J.J., but you should know that it will be very dangerous. I'm not sure I want a man with a family on the team. I've made the call to too many widows in my time."

  The Turk lifted his jacket from his chair back and stood. "I guess as we are talking in a coffee shop and not your nice new office in Piccadilly, and you ask me about weapons, this is not a bodyguarding job. If you don't want me, okay, but I do good job for you. I am still good soldier. When this is over, I go back to my family or I die. This is simple. I am man of honour."

  I held up my hand and looked into those eyes again. There was something about the guy that screamed reliability to me. We were going to fall out for sure, but he was a fighter, and we needed fighters.

  "The pay is twenty thousand pounds. A week's work, maybe two. Pack a bag and say your goodbyes. Leave me an address where to send the money if you can't collect."

  He nodded and displayed those teeth again.

  "It is a long time since I had fun, Richard."

  I left J.J. on the pavement outside Nero's. As soon as Des had finished car hunting he would collect him and we would all RV at the lock-up.

  My head felt like I'd stuffed it with cotton wool. I needed to blow away some cobwebs, clear my mind, I needed to think.

  Checking my Hublot I figured I'd have enough time to indulge myself in my relatively new passion.

  Up until returning to the UK from Abu Dhabi, I had never owned a motorcycle. I'd taken my test with the army, back in the day, but as soon as I could afford a car, biking had taken a back seat. As a young squaddie, a bike had too many drawbacks. It was cold, uncomfortable and you couldn't have sex in it.

  Now these days, as you are well aware, I have a love of shopping and the better things in life. Lauren had been in Helsinki and I'd been out looking for shoes to go with a new Jack and Jones suit I had found.

  I came back with a black Aston Martin and one of the most exclusive motorcycles ever made.

  The guy that found me the Aston had pre ordered an MV Augusta F4 CC back in 2004, before anyone in the UK even knew it was to be built. The bike was named after Claudio Castiglioni, the managing director of the company and the bike had only just been released for sale in Italy. The black, chrome and red beauty was number seven of the one hundred to be manufactured.

  He fired up the 1078 cc big bore motor in the showroom and blipped the accelerator. The exhaust note was heavenly. When he explained that the one hundred lucky owners received an exclusive Trussardi leather jacket and a Girard Perregaux watch to go with the bike, my hand was on my cheque book.

  By the time I made the lock-up, Lauren had left to collect some clothes from her flat and I had the place to myself.

  I pulled on my handmade Vanson leathers, fired up the MV and rode out into a sunny, cold city.

  Lauren North's story:

  I'd kept myself busy most of the day tying up as much of our legitimate business dealings as possible. Dressed in Levi's, a Karen Millen sweater and my new Belstaff jacket, I was well wrapped up. Although the sun shone, where the shadows fell frost formed patterns on the pavement and felt slippery under my Uggs.

  As my Audi was persona non grata and Rick still hadn't made it back from Nero's, I walked from the lock-up and caught a cab outside Oxfo
rd Road station. The driver was blissfully silent all the way to my place in Wilmslow.

  My home was a two-bed first floor flat just off Station Road. It's a semi-rural area close to Manchester Airport. I paid just under two hundred thousand and the place was in need of complete renovation, so despite my initial misgivings about the new job the Firm had dropped on us, I considered the cash would come in handy.

  I had wanted to redecorate the whole place in one go, but so far, I'd only managed the lounge and kitchen-diner. The painters had left various pots and brushes lying around in the hallway and I made a mental note to call them. There were three envelopes on the mat behind the door and I examined them...bill...junk...junk.

  After making coffee, I sat on my sofa in what had become half-light, feeling the need to enjoy some time in my own space. Things were about to become crazy again, I just knew it.

  After a second cup, I found the fridge and emptied it of perishables before wandering to my bedroom. It was just about habitable. The wallpaper had been stripped and the bare plaster prepared for painting. Stopping briefly, I examined the four shades of tester paint that I had applied to one wall. The eggshell blue had won the contest and full tins of it were stacked in one corner awaiting my errant decorators.

  I stretched an arm under my bed, grabbed a holdall, unzipped it and sat it on the duvet. Selecting a few clothes and toiletries that I was not going to find in the lock-up was easy enough. I stuffed them into the bag, shouldered it and made for the door.

  My hand was on the door handle when I realised I hadn't turned off the utilities. As I no idea how long I would be away or indeed if I would ever return, I figured it would be a good idea not to flood my downstairs neighbour.

  Muttering to myself, I trotted to the kitchen to turn off the stop-cock. As I was about to turn on the kitchen light to help me find it, something caught my notice outside in the street.

  What I saw stopped me dead in my tracks.

  Lawrence, or Larry, was standing by his blue Nissan, talking into his phone and scanning my front door at the same time.

  This in itself would not have been a problem, if during our brief time dating I'd ever invited him to my home, or even told him where I lived.

  I had not.

  Nonetheless he was there. Bold as brass.

  I stepped back away from the window and watched.

  Thirty seconds passed and Larry, if indeed that was his name, was joined by another car. This time three guys got out of a Grand Cherokee. All were dressed in suits and sported in-ear comms. As the third guy stepped from the Jeep, his jacket flew open to reveal a shoulder holster, complete with a police issue Glock.

  I stayed out of sight, pulled my own SLP from the waistband of my jeans, checked it was ready to go, and pushed it back in place.

  Next, I found my iPhone.

  "Rick...how soon can you get to Wilmslow?"

  Rick Fuller's Story:

  The MV rode like a dream.

  I'd had my adrenaline fix for the day circling the city using the M60 as my private racetrack. It was time to head for home and I simply breezed through the traffic along Princess Road; did a right past Manchester Academy and headed toward Whitworth park. The bike burbled along at a steady thirty. Lifting my visor, I let the cold winter air into my helmet. At that moment, despite everything, I felt good. The bike had been one of my better ideas. It gave me a shot in the arm when I needed one. Unlike the rush of taking exercise, you simply couldn't let your mind wander when riding the MV. When this beast of a machine was doing its level best to unseat you at over a hundred and fifty miles per hour, there was only one thing in your head.

  Of course, when you are feeling good, and attracting admiring looks sitting astride such a beautiful machine, it's just like the old joke about being the pubic hair on a toilet seat. Eventually, someone is bound to piss you off.

  I heard my mobile ringtone in my helmet, touched a sensor on the bikes fairing and answered a very unhappy Lauren North.

  I knew she had been seeing a guy, but that was all. I didn't know, or want to know, any more details; it was her private life and none of my business. After all, she and I were so different. I had so many issues, and it would be unfair on any woman to start a relationship with someone like me, wouldn't it?

  From the brief phone call, I gathered that this guy Lawrence had turned out to be an undercover cop and he and three others were about to pay our Lauren a visit at her flat.

  Although our team worked covertly for MI6, this did not mean that this fact would ever be admitted by the Firm, or indeed ever shared with the plod. As far as the cops were concerned, I was no more than a criminal, a professional killer who would work for anyone if the price was right.

  I suppose I couldn't complain on that score. After the whole Joel Davies saga, the fire-fight at his house, the Moston bomb, I would be big news down the local nick. All of it was loosely connected to me, and now of course, Des and Lauren.

  The cops had no solid evidence, hence our ability to open our legitimate business in the heart of Manchester. They'd definitely been tailing us a few months back, but since Lauren and I had made abject fools of their very expensive surveillance unit, they must have changed tack. And that tack was the very immoral, if not illegal practice of pretending to be someone you are most definitely not, i.e. a boyfriend.

  I wondered briefly what Lauren may have given him, before shoving any thoughts of pillow talk to the back of my mind.

  Maybe this was nothing more than a fishing exercise. Maybe they didn't expect her to be in and they were just going to turn the flat over. Had the RS6 turned up on some CCTV footage? It was registered to Lauren; Boxing Day car chases and gunfights with big daft Irishmen don't go down well with the cops, even around Whalley Range.

  I spun the MV around in the park entrance and wound up the throttle. The bike responded by lifting its front wheel from the tarmac and producing an exhaust note that would kill a cat at a thousand yards. The sheer acceleration wrenched my shoulders from their sockets as a hundred grand of pure unadulterated muscle flew into action. I forced my body forward and pushed my chin to my chest like an old prize fighter. The Augusta's front end dipped and the bike stabilised just as the rev counter hit 12,000 rpm.

  I banked hard left onto the A5103 and headed toward the M56. There were twenty-three miles to cover, but I knew that once I negotiated Whalley Range and Northenden I would have a clear run. It would take an average car driver thirty minutes to make the journey.

  As I fought to keep the MV stable, I knew I had to complete the journey in ten minutes or less.

  The cops wanted to get at Lauren, and that was not going to happen. Larry could swivel.

  Four minutes later I was on the motorway and the MV was heading toward a hundred and forty miles per hour. I hit a button on the handlebars to activate my iPhone and used the voice recognition to call Lauren.

  "How's things?" I asked.

  Despite the howling engine noise, the signal and reception were crystal clear. I could hear that Lauren was either stretching or crawling as she spoke. She was also very pissed off.

  "Oh I'm just peachy here, Rick. Where the fuck are you?"

  "Now, now, don't get all tetchy 'cos lover boy has turned out to be a member of Manchester's finest."

  Lauren's voice was hushed, "This is not the time to start analysing my love life, Rick. I think that this is the time for you to come up with a plan to get me out of this shit."

  "Okay...okay, don't stress. Where are they?"

  "Larry and one have gone around the back, I can't see them, but I've heard noise from the fire escape. Two more are at the front door. They've been buzzing my neighbour's intercom, but they're out. I don't suppose they are too keen to kick the door in."

  Approaching the exit sign for Wilmslow and travelling at two hundred and fifty feet per second, I chopped across three lanes of traffic and the odd irritated motorist blared horns as I hit the deceleration lane.

  "Call the cops," I said a
nd braced myself for the negative G force that happens when braking from one seventy to thirty.

  "These are the fuckin' cops," hissed Lauren.

  I was banking on Larry and his pals being serious and organised crime squad or some such hush-hush department. The one thing they wouldn't have done was tell the local uniforms what their plans were. Doing that in any large organisation is not recommended. Loose lips sink ships and all that.

  "Dial 999 and tell them that there is a man in your garden with a gun; then cut the call; do it now and I'll be with you in five."

  "Okay, but, Rick...please be quick."

  As I turned into Station Road, I let the bike idle quietly along until I cut the engine, fifty meters or so from Lauren's flat. I pushed the MV into next door's drive and pulled off my helmet, leaving the Gortex balaclava I wore under it firmly in place.

  I did not want Larry and his mates clocking me so easily. Dropping the side stand, I allowed the Italian monster a well-earned rest. The engine pinged and clinked as it cooled in the winter air.

  It was time to give Des the good news.

  After a brief call to the mumbling Scot, I clicked open the MV's side pannier and removed my Sig. It made a satisfying solid click as I slid back the action and checked the safety.

  I'd managed to obtain the Sig Sauer 1911 Fastback on our return from Abu Dhabi. It was the very latest model. The arms company had redesigned the frame and mainspring housing of the older model. This meant that the back-strap, the part of the weapon that sits between your thumb and trigger finger, was rounded as opposed to squared off. It gave the Fastback the distinctive look I liked, and the advantage of easy concealment. The shorter four-inch barrel that I personally preferred didn't protrude against outer garments or push into your ribs when carried concealed.