by Nick Oldham
‘Yeah, no probs.’ Her eyes shone brightly at him.
Donaldson waited for her to go before using his mobile phone to call Karen. He didn’t call the home number, but her mobile instead (even though he still insisted on calling them cellphones). She did not answer. He left a faltering, apologetic message on the answering service and felt utterly guilty about going out for some late night nosh with the stunning Jo.
He rose reluctantly, resolving to enjoy the food and the company, and nothing else. He was, after all, starving. He jerked his jacket off the back of his chair and shrugged himself into it, checked the desk — computer closed down properly, drawers locked — and was about to head for the door when the desk phone rang shrilly.
Had he been less conscientious he would have ignored it.
He scooped it up. ‘Karl Donaldson, Homeland Security.’ He squinted at the display but did not recognize the caller number.
Nor did he get to bed that night.
‘Karl, this is Don Barber from the Madrid office.’ From the tone of those few words he knew the news was bad, but he didn’t have any idea what it would be. He knew Barber well. He was ex-special forces who had left the army after distinguished service in the Kuwait theatre, got himself a law degree and joined the FBI. They’d actually worked together for a short spell in the mid-nineties before their paths diverged. Barber had made a good career for himself and at that time headed up the FBI Madrid office. Instinctively, Donaldson checked the wall clock — midnight plus ten — one ten Spanish time.
‘Don — wassup?’
‘It’s Shark,’ he said, his voice jittering, spreading a horrible feeling of iciness through Donaldson.
‘What about him?’
‘I’m really sorry to have to tell you this, but he was shot to death a little earlier this evening in a place just outside Palma, Majorca.’
Donaldson sat down numbly. ‘Tell me everything,’ he said…
‘Anyway, FBI man, why you so interested in three dead Italians?’ Fazil wanted to know.
‘I’m a law enforcement officer, that’s all you need to know. This is simply an information-gathering interview.’
‘I don’t have to speak to you, then.’ Fazil blew out several lazy rings of smoke, now completely relaxed since being allowed the cigarettes.
‘That depends, my friend…’
‘On what?’
Donaldson wiped a hand across his brow. It came away damp with sweat. ‘The days of rules are well past. On the face of it I will obey the rules — of interview, of Human Rights, of fairness — but underneath I will be operating on a different level, like the feet of a duck.’ Donaldson wiggled the first two fingers on his right hand to imitate a duck’s feet. ‘I will throw you to the wolves if you don’t cooperate with me.’
Fazil eyed him cynically.
‘I can be your friend or your enemy. Your choice.’
‘Mr Donaldson.’ Fazil smashed out the stub of his cigarette in the ashtray. ‘I have killed a Maltese police officer in a firefight. I will be found guilty of that and I will be incarcerated on this stinking island for many, many years. Even that thought will not make me talk to you.’ His dark eyes looked down and his wide nostrils flared.
Donaldson caught the first BA flight from London Gatwick to Palma later that morning, three years before. Don Barber met him at the airport, hustled him through customs into a waiting car, which was driven for less than ten minutes to the beach front restaurant in Can Pastilla where the shooting had taken place the evening before.
The bodies had all been removed but otherwise the scene was as it had been, and the road in front of the hotel was cordoned off to through traffic. The local police scientific team was working the scene as professionally as anything Donaldson had ever witnessed.
He and Don Barber were allowed under the tape and Barber walked him through what had happened with the permission of the senior police officer present, who could only speculate as to why two FBI agents were here.
‘Hell,’ Donaldson said afterwards. ‘Where are the bodies now?’
‘Palma mortuary.’
‘And do we have anything?’
‘Only the names of all three victims.’
‘What about evidence from the scene itself?’
‘We could have something,’ Barber said, consulting a flip over notepad he had with him. ‘From the waiter, who despite being in shock, has given us a pretty good description of the shooter — which I’ll come to later — it seems that another customer went to the restroom, which was then visited by the shooter. He then returned to the table, then opened fire. Bam!’ Barber said bitterly. ‘Paella everywhere. But don’t get excited, we don’t know if the shooter left any traces in the john or at the table. I reckon it’s doubtful, but I’ve got our own crime scene guys on the way from Madrid and I’ve asked the locals to hold back a bit — not that I’m saying they aren’t doing a good job. But obviously they are very interested as to why the FBI is sniffin’ around, though.’
‘As they would be.’ The two men looked at each other knowingly.
‘Anyway, pal, back to basics,’ Barber said. ‘Just before our shooter visited the john, another customer went in a few minutes before him, then afterwards immediately left the joint.’
Donaldson blinked.
‘I might be adding up to five here,’ Barber said, ‘but I’m guessing this could be the delivery man — and he was sitting right there.’ Barber pointed dramatically to a table in the back corner of the restaurant. ‘And his stuff hasn’t been cleared away, which could be useful, scientifically.’
‘That’s supposing he was involved in some way.’
‘If he isn’t, fair enough… but we’ll see what comes of it.’
Donaldson imagined the crime taking place, based on how it had been described to him. Suddenly he felt quite ill.
Shark wasn’t his man, not directly, but he knew him, knew what his task was, but above all knew what it felt like to lose an undercover agent. He patted Barber on the shoulder and said, ‘I’m real sorry, man.’
‘Yeah,’ Barber snorted, his eyes moist. Barber was Shark’s controller. ‘Fuck,’ he added. Then, ‘I want you to find the killer, Karl. I’ve cleared it with your boss. Hope you don’t mind.’
‘I can prove you were at the scene of a multiple homicide in a restaurant in Majorca three years ago — and I know you were the person who delivered the weapon to the man who carried out the murders.’
Fazil chuckled derisively.
Donaldson went on, ‘You were sitting at a table in the same restaurant. You went to the toilet a few minutes before the killer. You secreted a weapon underneath the lid of the toilet cistern.’
Fazil shook his head.
‘I can prove it,’ Donaldson said again.
The lone, mystery diner had not been as careful as he should have been. The glass of wine and glass carafe on his table revealed an array of partial fingerprints, as did an examination of the porcelain cistern lid. These were run through the automatic fingerprint recognition system and Fazil’s details were eventually thrown up. He was positively identified from the lifts, but there was not enough detail to support an ID at court.
Fazil shrugged.
Donaldson did not speak, but regarded the man who could be the key to cracking the case he’d been working on solidly for eighteen months — as well as the rest.
Following his appearance at the scene of the shooting in Majorca, Donaldson had been diverted to other tasks through no fault of his own. One of these was the protracted manhunt for the terrorist Akbar that culminated many months later in a tiny square in Barcelona, where Donaldson had come face to face with him and took a bullet that almost cost him his life — though Akbar fared much worse. Donaldson had endured a long period of recuperation and eventually returned to work, picking up the threads of the investigation into the Majorcan murders.
By that time, Fazil had been identified from the traces he’d left at the scene and a full profile ha
d been pulled together on him. He was a Turk involved in people smuggling and drug dealing across the eastern Med. At the time of the murders he was working freelance for a Camorra Mafia family from Naples and was suspected by the Italian police of being a man who collected, delivered and disposed of firearms used in the commission of crimes by that particular clan. Crimes that included murder — and in that part of the world he was kept constantly busy because murder was rife between warring factions.
But Fazil was an elusive man, always on the go, rarely in one place for any length of time. Although he was circulated by Interpol as wanted for questioning in connection with the Majorcan murders, he was never caught.
It was a frustrating time for Donaldson and the FBI, who had a vested interest in apprehending him because the man going by the codename Shark had been deep undercover for years and they wanted to nail the bastard who killed him, who it was believed had been hired by the head of a rival Mafia clan.
Other than occasional snippets of information about the assassin — a man who went by the moniker of ‘The American’ — Fazil was the best lead they had to the shootings, if only they could catch him.
‘We have your fingerprints and’ — here Donaldson stretched the truth a little — ‘your DNA from the scene.’
Fazil shook his head.
‘We can protect you if you speak to us,’ Donaldson assured him, hoping his body language didn’t say anything different. ‘If you admit your part, tell us who you worked for and who pulled the trigger, who set up the hit — everything — we will protect you.’
‘I don’t speak to the law.’
It had taken almost three years for Fazil to surface and that had been only by pure chance and bad luck on his part. He had been involved in running a rigid inflatable boat, an RIB, full of contraband from the southern tip of Italy to Malta and back, and a low-level snitch blabbed to the police in Valletta. He told them that a night run was due to take place to drop off drugs on St Paul’s Bay on the island’s north coast.
Fazil was accompanied by three other men, all Turks.
The police were waiting in ambush. Unfortunately, what should have been a well-planned and executed reception turned into a bloodbath. Fazil and his heavily armed colleagues opened fire on the police in a desperate attempt to evade their clutches and get back out to sea. The only miracle was that Fazil was left standing after the broadside, as his three mates were riddled with bullets and one cop felled by Fazil’s MP5 and almost beheaded by the stream of bullets.
It was the second time in Maltese history that Turkish blood had been spilled in St Paul’s Bay, the last time being in 1565 when hundreds of Turkish soldiers were slaughtered as they lay siege to the island. Their blood made the waters run red.
It was much less dramatic this time in terms of its scale, as three dead smugglers lay at the water’s edge, twitching and bleeding in the surf.
‘And anyway,’ Fazil sneered at Donaldson, ‘you still haven’t told me why you Americans are so interested in feuding Italians.’ Then, suddenly, he had a thought, churning the question through his brain again. ‘Unless…?’ He shook his head and grinned, and he realized he might just have the answer.
Donaldson was relieved to get out of the miserable heat of the dungeons and into the equally hot, but breezy streets of the Maltese capital, Valletta. He slung his light jacket over his shoulder and sauntered through the high, narrow thoroughfares, jam-packed with people and cars. He mulled over what Fazil had quite correctly surmised, although Donaldson had not let on that the prisoner was right, had kept his face as impassive as a professional poker player.
‘One of them was an undercover cop, wasn’t he?’ Fazil had gushed. ‘One of yours.’
Donaldson had sighed and shook his head, then quickly taken his leave, saying he would return later. He left Fazil with his cellphone number just in case.
Outside, he wended across to Upper Barracca Gardens for the splendid view over Grand Harbour, where he thought about Malta’s strategic position in the Mediterranean. That, coupled with the superb harbour, meant this barren little rock had had a torrid history over the centuries, No doubt, he thought, the same would apply for centuries to come.
He sat on a bench savouring the late afternoon sun on his face, his mind once more turning to Fazil, the man who had delivered the weapon used to murder three Italian Mafia men.
Except… one of the men, codenamed Shark, whilst being of Italian origin, had actually been a deep cover FBI agent. And that was why the Americans wanted to catch the killer, because he was one of theirs. A brave, resourceful man who had spent five years undercover, gaining trust, gathering information secretly, before ultimately betraying them. At least that had been the plan.
And Shark was one of the best. Real name Giuseppe Cardini, an FBI agent to the core, who had found himself actually advising members of the Marini Camorra clan on matters of business. And they had met a man who had promised them an entry into the vast US clothing and footwear markets, but he had turned out to be a killer.
An elaborate set up. Lured to Majorca, then murdered.
Donaldson scrunched up his fists in frustration, cursing silently. He was annoyed he hadn’t been able to devote as much time as he would have liked to Shark’s death, but that was often the nature of FBI work. Nor did it help that Akbar’s bullet had shredded his insides, the kind of setback that tends to mess up any plans. When he did return to full duty, there had then been distracting personal issues, like a wife who wanted out, and other sidetracks, so that when he eventually managed to devote some quality time to it, the trail was well and truly chilly. The ‘American’ was still at large and no one had been punished for the crime.
Punished legally, that is.
Donaldson knew that the three killings in Majorca had kicked off a spate of tit for tat murders in Naples and surrounding districts, as several Camorra clans went head to head in a brutal struggle for dominance. More than twelve people had been killed in reprisal and counter reprisal, probably more. It was a very ugly, prolonged war that seemed to have no end.
He fished out his cellphone and speed-dialled a number.
‘Don — it’s me, Karl Donaldson.’
‘Hey, pal,’ Don Barber answered. ‘How’s it going?’ Barber, who was now Donaldson’s line manager at the London embassy following a promotion from the Madrid office, knew exactly where Donaldson was and what he was doing.
‘I’ve spoken to the guy — and so far it’s a no-no. At the moment he’s stewing, literally and metaphorically, in a cell.’
‘What’s your gut feeling on the outcome?’
‘In the air at present. He’s too frightened to talk just yet.’
‘But he is the right man, yeah?’ Barber probed. ‘The man who delivered?’
‘I’m sure he is.’
‘Keep me posted.’
Barber hung up and Donaldson slid his phone away. He watched a pretty girl walk past. She glanced sideways and smiled seductively. Then she was gone with a swish of her hips. He forced himself up from the bench and sauntered back into the city. He stopped for an iced coffee at the Bridge Bar on St Ursula Street before making his way back to his hotel, the Excelsior on Grand Siege Road. He let himself into his air-conditioned room, stripped down to his Uncle Sam boxers and splayed out on the bed, revelling in the cool wafts of chilled air.
An hour later he awoke, shivering. He rose stiffly from the bed and, as was often the case when he came upright from a prone position, a searing pain creased though his abdomen following the exact trail of the bullet he’d taken from Akbar. A line that corkscrewed up through his chest like a cord of steel cable had been inserted into him.
He sat back on the edge of the bed allowing the agony to subside before padding to the bathroom. On returning, he checked his phone — no messages or missed calls — then sat down at the tiny desk, opened his laptop and logged on to check his messages. The process seemed to take forever, so whilst the little egg timer showed, Donaldson went on
to the balcony to enjoy the view of Marsamxett harbour and Manoel Island. Some of the heat had gone out of the day, but it was still warm, a sultry breeze listlessly touching him.
He placed his hands on his hips and inhaled the lemony scented air, expanding his chest. Then he turned back into his room, catching a glimpse of the lady on the adjoining balcony. He hadn’t noticed her initially, but she had certainly spotted him from the comfort of her lounger. She had lowered her sunglasses to get a view of the extremely fit-looking man clad only in tight fitting boxers that left hardly anything to her imagination.
Embarrassed, Donaldson scuttled back inside and settled at the laptop, now successfully logged on.
The number of new emails he had received appalled him. Most, he guessed, were rubbish. He went to the inbox and scanned the unopened messages to see if any caught his eye. He didn’t want to make the mistake of opening any that might require any sort of action or response, unless it suited him. If he opened one that needed him to do something, there was no way he could say he hadn’t opened it because of the way emails were tracked. Senders always knew if they’d been opened or not.
‘Ugh,’ he moaned, wishing for the pre-Internet days. He easily understood why spies — and terrorists — had reverted to more basic ways of communicating with each other, such as clandestine meetings, landline phone calls and dead letter drops. With every electronic contact leaving a trace, it was the sensible thing to do. On the minus side, it meant that people who hunted down baddies were finding it harder to track the more intelligent ones.
But one email did make him sit up, only because he recognized the organization that had sent it to him: Lancashire Constabulary. It was entitled, ‘MURDER OF UNIDENTIFIED MALE’. It was the only message he bothered opening.
He read it quickly, noting that it began by saying that the message had been sent to him at the request of one Detective Superintendent Christie. It told the story of the old man being hit by a car, then getting his brains blown out. A very nasty killing. He read the description of the man, including a mention of an old bullet wound in the dead man’s side. A further shooting was then outlined, that of a young boy. Neither meant anything to Donaldson at that stage because his mind was still mulling over Fazil and the way forward with him. Part of the problem could have been that no one outside the FBI knew they were searching for a hit man called the American. Nor did anyone know that one of the three men killed by this man was an FBI undercover agent. It had been decided to keep both facts from general circulation, hopefully so that the investigation would be easier.
