Hidden Witness hc-15

by Nick Oldham

  So far that theory hadn’t got anywhere, a thought that gave Donaldson an idea. If the FBI came clean, admitted one of their operatives had been murdered, declared they were launching a full scale manhunt and went completely public about the whole thing, it might put the cat amongst the pigeons and cause a bit of panic in some quarters. Panic often led to mistakes; mistakes usually led to arrests.

  Maybe something to discuss with Don Barber as it was his show.

  Donaldson read through the message from Lancashire police again, then clicked on the attached file accompanying it, hoping to hell it wasn’t carrying a virus.

  Millimetre by painful millimetre, photographs unfolded on screen, Donaldson watching impatiently. A series of post-mortem shots of the dead man. Horrific and gruesome.

  ‘Thanks for this, Henry,’ Donaldson mumbled.

  At first Donaldson scanned them fleetingly, but then with growing interest.

  ‘Well, would ya-’ he began to say, but his exclamation was cut short by a knock on the hotel door. Annoyed, he rose, peering through the spyhole before opening, even though whoever was there had their back to the door. It was his next door neighbour, the lady on the adjoining balcony who had spotted him in his underwear admiring the view. She swirled around as the door opened, dressed in a flimsy, see-through wrap fastened at the neck, opening outwards in an inverted V-shape, over a skimpy bikini.

  In her left hand was a bottle of champagne, in her right two fluted glasses.

  ‘Uh, hi,’ Donaldson said, keeping most of himself out of sight behind the door, as he was still only dressed in his boxers.

  She was mid-thirties, tanned, beyond attractive with ample breasts and slim hips. ‘I hope you don’t mind my impudence,’ she said in a vaguely Scandinavian accent, ‘but I thought perhaps we could perhaps

  … you know.’ With a swish of gossamer she came through before he could mouth any protest.

  ‘I…’ he stammered feebly, but she was already in the main section of the room before he could stop her.

  She spun. ‘I’m Vanessa, and I’m all alone.’ Her eyes slithered across Donaldson’s broad chest, down across his stomach, then widened at his crotch. Her lips parted wetly.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry,’ he said, flustered.

  ‘We can have some fun — no strings,’ she promised wickedly.

  Donaldson made a chopping gesture with the side of his hand. ‘Look, sorry, I’m rather busy…’

  She spotted the laptop. ‘We can watch porn together, if you like? Is that what you’re doing now?’

  ‘No,’ he almost screamed.

  But he wasn’t quick enough to stop her stepping to one side and seeing the image on screen. Her face dropped in horror and slowly turned to Donaldson, the colour having drained from it. ‘My God, what are you into? You sick bastard.’

  Donaldson’s shoulders sagged. ‘Time to go,’ he said and wafted his hands towards the still open door.

  ‘It certainly is.’ She gathered her slip around her as best she could and flounced out of the door, champagne and glasses and all. Donaldson followed and closed it softly behind her, exhaling gratefully when she’d gone, but still reeling a little from the encounter.

  ‘Jeepers,’ he said.

  He had some urgent phone calls to make.

  SEVEN

  ‘ Henry Christie,’ came the tired voice.

  ‘Henry Christie, you old son of a… something.’

  ‘Well, well, well, Karl Donaldson, FBI agent extraordinaire, how the hell are you?’ Henry’s voice perked up.

  Donaldson was back out on the balcony, dressed this time in Chinos and a polo shirt. The next balcony along was noticeable for its emptiness. Obviously Donaldson’s fetish for post-mortem pornography had terrified his sexy, forward neighbour into locking herself behind closed doors. Donaldson had his mobile phone clamped to his ear. ‘I’m good, pal — and you?’

  The two men exchanged personal pleasantries for a while. Now old friends, they had first encountered each other over a dozen years earlier when Donaldson, then an FBI field agent, had been investigating American mob activity in the north-west of England. Since that meeting when their friendship had blossomed, their professional paths had also crossed on several occasions over the years. Also, Donaldson had met a Lancashire policewoman way back then, had wooed and married her, had two children with her, so his connections through her to Lancashire were very strong, even though the marriage was going through a rocky patch that had lasted way too long.

  ‘Got your email,’ Donaldson said.

  ‘What email would that be?’ Henry asked. From his tone, Donaldson guessed he was harassed and irritable, as usual, and was only giving the time of day through politeness.

  ‘The dead guy email.’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ Henry said, remembering asking for a copy of the circulation to be sent to Donaldson, plus photos.

  ‘Have you identified the guy yet?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Anywhere near identifying him?’

  ‘Who can tell?’

  ‘Any suspects?’

  ‘Not as yet.’

  ‘Witnesses?’

  ‘I think we have one dead witness and maybe another who’s not over keen to show his face… still working on it.’

  ‘What the hell does that mean?’

  ‘There’s the possibility that someone saw the murder and was killed for it, and maybe another witness saw the same thing but is still out there… would you like me to spell it out for you?’

  ‘Ooh, mister touchy… but the dead guy is still unknown?’

  ‘At the moment, yes — why?’ he demanded.

  ‘Now don’t get shirty with me, but would it help you at all if I knew who the victim was?’

  Donaldson’s next call was to Don Barber, his boss. ‘Don — Karl. Can you speak?’

  ‘Go on, pal.’

  ‘I’m assuming you’ve got an email from Lancashire Constabulary?’

  Barber hesitated. ‘It’s one of many I haven’t opened — and at the moment I’m nowhere near a computer. Why, Karl?’

  Donaldson briefly outlined the nature of the message. Barber listened without comment.

  ‘Sounds horrific,’ Barber said when he’d finished talking. ‘What’s the issue?’

  ‘I’m pretty sure the dead guy is Rosario Petrone.’

  There was a gap of silence. ‘You are joking. Jesus.’

  ‘No, Rosario, Don, not the messiah, but the guy who ordered the hit in Majorca? The guy who went to ground when the bullets started flying afterwards. The guy you’ve been searching for, for the last three years, almost. The guy, who even though he didn’t pull the trigger, is ultimately responsible for Shark’s murder.’

  ‘Petrone?’ Barber said incredulously. ‘In freakin’ Blackpool, England — that Blackpool?’

  ‘Yep, I’m pretty sure it is. Get to a computer, check the circulation.’

  ‘It’ll be sometime before I can, but if you say it is, Karl, then I believe you. You’re great with faces.’

  ‘It might be worth my while getting up to Lancashire,’ Donaldson suggested. ‘I’m on good terms with the cops up there. I think we need someone on site to see what the score is… and they think they have a witness. What d’you think?’

  ‘A witness?’

  ‘Yep.’

  The line went silent. Then Barber said, ‘OK Karl, get up there as soon as you can, see what’s happening, see if we need to be involved.’

  ‘Something I need to do here first, though.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Check with Fazil. If he comes across, I think we need to deal with him. He could be the key to the American.’

  ‘You’re certain he’s the one who delivered the weapon?’

  ‘As I can be.’

  ‘But he doesn’t want to deal?’

  ‘Not at this stage.’

  ‘In that case, let him rot a while. You can come back to him later.’

  ‘I don’t want to miss th
e chance of a lead to the killer, Don.’

  ‘I’ll bet he’s a nothing guy. Let him rot.’

  Donaldson groaned and said OK. But he hadn’t come all the way to Malta not to get a result of some sort, and even though he promised Barber he would not revisit Fazil, he intended to give the guy one last opportunity.

  He clicked his phone shut, pondering. He needed Fazil to talk and maybe the brutal death of an old man on the streets of Blackpool, thousands of miles away, would be the lever he needed to do just that.

  Donaldson was unable to book a flight back to the UK until the following morning anyway, an Air Malta flight to Manchester, so he had time to kill. He decided firstly to get into one of the hotel’s restaurants for an early evening meal, then he would visit Fazil, who had been cooking so long in the heat of those cells that, surely, he was now all casseroled and ready to fall apart.

  He was in the restaurant at seven and out by seven thirty, passing his very available neighbour entering as he left. There was an expression of horror on her face at being in such close proximity to such a monster. He gave her a crooked leer and left the hotel, calling his wife on the mobile as he walked out into a Maltese evening that was hot and dry.

  Whilst the marriage might still be rocky, it was still afloat, and they had an amiable conversation that did go slightly chilly when he told her he would be flying back to Manchester not to London next day. She did cheer up considerably when he suggested that she might head north herself with the kids and meet up at her mother’s, who lived in Lancashire. A date was made.

  They finished the call on a loving note. And Donaldson heaved a sigh of relief, but wondered where the relationship was headed. He folded his phone away, but then had another thought and called Henry Christie to make arrangements to be picked up at Manchester airport.

  Then he strolled through Valletta, back to the police station.

  The heat had not left the dungeons. It was stifling and within minutes Donaldson was sweating heavily again, dark patches under his arms.

  Once more he was face to face with Fazil.

  ‘You know, the more I come to talk to you, the more it will look as though you are talking to me… word gets out about that sort of thing.’

  ‘You are trying to scare me, FBI man.’

  Donaldson nodded. ‘To be honest, you’ve been pretty lucky, haven’t you?’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Let’s see… what happened in the aftermath of that shooting in Majorca?’

  Fazil shrugged, a gesture he had honed to perfection.

  ‘I’ll answer that for you: many people died, many people.’

  ‘People die all the time.’

  ‘Not always in a hail of bullets.’

  ‘In this world, dying in a hail of bullets is commonplace.’

  ‘What would you prefer? Bullets or old age?’

  ‘You’re still trying to frighten me. It’s not working.’

  ‘Or how about old age after years of rotting in prison? That could very well be arranged,’ Donaldson said. ‘America and Malta are on excellent terms behind the scenes.’

  ‘Fuck you,’ Fazil sneered.

  Donaldson sighed and changed tack. ‘The killings in Majorca were the opening salvo of a gang war, as I’m sure you know. And I’ll tell you what I know. Rosario Petrone, the head of a Camorra Mafia clan in Naples, ordered the killings, and you were working for him. Three men were lured to their deaths and you provided the weapon that killed them. No, don’t deny it, because I can prove it, Fazil,’ Donaldson said harshly. ‘Those three murders opened up the floodgates. More killings, more reprisals, one clan against another… no winners. Somehow, you didn’t get your head blown off… yet.’

  Fazil moved uncomfortably. ‘I got out,’ he admitted.

  Donaldson noted the slight crack. ‘You may have got out, but you haven’t got away,’ he said cruelly. ‘No one gets away, not ever, especially people like you — you know that.’

  Fazil rubbed his sweaty unshaven face.

  ‘I have some news for you,’ Donaldson announced. Fazil’s eyes rose shiftily. ‘I won’t insult your intelligence, so I’ll tell it to you straight. I know you were working for Petrone. Don’t insult me by denying this.’ Fazil’s mouth clamped shut. ‘Petrone went to ground some time after the gang warfare started, didn’t he? Hasn’t been seen for, what, one, two years? The fighting has continued in his absence, though, with him still directing operations by all accounts. The general not on the field of battle… a real hero,’ Donaldson said sarcastically.

  ‘Wouldn’t know,’ Fazil said, reverting to his original standpoint. ‘Don’t even know who you’re talking about.’

  The FBI man shook his head sadly. ‘Let me just clarify here, Fazil. You can help yourself by helping me. All you have to do is tell me about the American.’

  The prisoner chuckled sardonically, said nothing else.

  ‘The way I see it is this: As it stands, you will either rot in a Maltese jail or somehow you will be murdered in it. Even if you get through your sentence here, as soon as you’re released you will be handed over to the Spanish authorities. Then you’ll be convicted of supplying a weapon used to kill three men, as well as murder, because even though you might not have pulled the trigger, you killed ’em just as much as the assassin, pal. You will then rot in a Spanish jail or you will be murdered in it. Speak to me and-’

  ‘I’ll be murdered anyway,’ Fazil interjected.

  ‘Not necessarily. Speak to me, Fazil,’ Donaldson continued patiently, ‘and I’ll ensure your safety, a new identity, money, a life in the US, protected by the authorities.’

  Fazil considered him. ‘You are full of shit, FBI man… you said you had some news for me… where is it? I haven’t heard it yet.’

  ‘Where is Petrone?’

  ‘Who?’ Fazil answered stubbornly. Donaldson had a flash to cop dramas and movie thrillers where the villains always seem to crack, even when faced with little or no evidence, just the authority and overwhelming aura of the hero and a load of hearsay. Real life sucked, he thought. No one ever admits a damn thing, even when faced with a cut and dry case.

  ‘I’ll tell you where he is,’ he said. ‘Dead — that’s where he is. He went to ground when the going got too tough, but they still caught up with him.’

  ‘Who are “they”?’ Fazil asked.

  ‘Doesn’t really matter, but the fact remains he could not hide forever and now he’s dead. The head of a major Camorra family — found and murdered.’

  ‘Like I said, you’re full of shit. A liar.’

  Donaldson unfolded the sheet of A4 paper he’d been keeping under his hands, then revealed its contents to Fazil. ‘If you want, I can stop this happening to you.’ He showed him the photographs he’d printed off of a very dead Rosario Petrone.

  Actually, Karl Donaldson did not know for certain if Fazil would be a serious target in the ongoing reprisals that were still happening in the world of the Camorra. Fazil was a bit player, nothing more than a gofer, and it would not have surprised Donaldson if he’d been forgotten in the grand scheme of tit-for-tat killings, especially as he’d seen sense and kept his head down after the shootings in Majorca.

  But that didn’t stop Donaldson from scaring the living crap out of him and manipulating him to come across.

  The other truth was that Fazil probably knew little about the assassin, known as ‘The American’. Fazil would have been employed solely to source and drop a weapon for the American’s use. But this had put him in a position in which he would have seen the killer, would have had chance to scrutinize him and therefore be able to give the most detailed description yet, something the FBI was woefully missing, despite what the nervous waiter had seen. Wringing Fazil dry would be very useful, if only Donaldson could get under his skin. He wasn’t completely hopeful of success. Fazil would be more afraid of Camorra repercussions than anything Donaldson could lob at him. But the FBI man was reluctant to let him go.

  Fazil had been a
t the scene of the murders. He had seen the American, he was part of the set up, and that was more than anything Donaldson had so far. Fazil was also a useful source of intelligence about organized crime in Europe, so Donaldson wasn’t about to let that go either.

  It was a very complex situation, and as Donaldson ambled back up the cell corridor to the prisoner reception area, his mind somersaulted with it all. He walked alongside a gaoler who had just put Fazil back in a new cell in the otherwise empty female wing of the complex. He was told that this was because murder charges were going to be put to Fazil and all suspected killers were kept isolated from other inmates if possible. Fazil would be put before a magistrate in the morning and then, once he was in the judicial system proper, there was little Donaldson could do, or promise, after that.

  Once enmeshed therein, Donaldson had much less clout.

  He nodded at the gaoler, then walked past the desk sergeant who watched him leave with shifty eyes. Donaldson stepped through a security door into the public foyer of the police station and paused in deep thought, trying to work out the angles. He had to offer something to Fazil that would tip him over the edge. But what?

  His brain hurt. He was tired. He wanted to go home. He wanted a drink. He wanted to go to sleep. Not necessarily in that order. A devilish part of him also wanted to knock on the door of the next hotel room and get laid whilst watching porn and drinking champagne, but that was one thing that would not happen. Certainly not to the ultra conservative and very faithful hound dog that was Karl Donaldson, no matter what the state of his marriage was.

  Maybe, he thought, bunching up his fists, maybe just one last stab at Fazil. Put his cards on the table. Admit that one of the dead men was an undercover FBI agent. Let Fazil gloat over that. Admit he was desperate to catch the killer. Then offer him a good package in return for good information. Promise him immunity from prosecution, both from the Maltese and Spanish authorities. Then offer good money and relocation. And then tell the Turkish bastard that if he didn’t come across, he would definitely see to it that word got out that Fazil was an informer, even if he wasn’t. Then see how long he lived.