Mendoccini

by Laurence Todd

Now I was being told by a senior MI5 operative this same Michael Mendoccini was involved in terrorist activity and I was finding it hard to reconcile the two scenarios. I must have drifted away whilst thinking about the situation.

  “Are you still with us on earth, DS McGraw?” I heard Stimpson ask.

  “Oh, yeah, sorry. I was thinking. I just can’t picture the guy I knew with the one you’re describing.”

  “Well, believe it, because I’m afraid it’s all true. There is incontrovertible evidence.” He wasn’t sparing my feelings.

  I sighed. I was feeling very confused. I noticed Stimpson and Gosling sharing a look that seemed to suggest the other one should ask the next question.

  “Do you know much about Mendoccini’s family, DS McGraw?” Gosling asked.

  “I know they’re Italian, though Michael was born in England. He’s an only child, same as me, which was one of the things we had in common, though he has lots of family in the Milan area. I don’t think I ever met any of them.”

  “Indeed he has,” Stimpson said. “He has a cousin, Paulo Poletti. Are you familiar with the name?”

  I remembered the surname Poletti as, when I’d talked to Richard Clements about what Red Heaven was all about a while back, he’d said there was a Poletti as one of its guiding lights. I mentioned this to Stimpson but didn’t name Clements as my source. Definitely not in front of his father-in-law.

  “Paulo is the son of Antonio Poletti and the cousin of Michael Mendoccini, and he’s also active in operating inside Red Heaven alongside your long-lost school friend.” Stimpson looked as though he were reading from the Dead Sea scrolls. “And, yes, before you ask, both the fathers are also involved. It would appear terrorism is a family affair in Milan.”

  “What? Mr Mendoccini’s also involved?” I exclaimed. This was even more unreal.

  “We think he is,” Gosling replied. “In fact, we’re certain he is. He doesn’t plant bombs, nothing like that; more that he’s involved with his son’s financial dealings.”

  “And his mother?” I dreaded hearing the answer.

  “We rather think she’s like Mrs Corleone, the Godfather’s wife,” Stimpson said after a moment. “She knows what goes on but looks the other way. Goes to church regularly and says prayers for her menfolk, praying for their eternal souls.” Was that a note of sarcasm in his voice?

  I took another deep breath and exhaled. I’d always liked Michael’s parents. They were a pair of typically warm and friendly Italian parents, always plying me with Italian pastries for my family and the occasional pound or two of not-too-spicy Italian sausages for the McGraw breakfast table. I recalled having several breakfasts at their home, when I’d crashed on their couch as I’d been too drunk to make it back to my parents’ home, and listening to the family arguing in Italian, but always with smiles on their faces. They were a warm and kindly family and wore their hearts on their sleeves, and, if I could have chosen my relatives, they would have been the Mendoccini family.

  So the idea they could have anything to do with terrorism was as depressing a thought as I’d had for a long while. I had the intense feeling of delightful teenage memories dying inside and a wave of sadness sweeping through me. During my final year at King’s and for a few years after, I’d had my first serious relationship with a woman, which had ended when I’d found out she’d been seeing another guy simultaneously. I’d felt hurt and betrayed by her actions and was feeling something akin to that now. Smitherman raised his eyebrows and gave me a look asking if I was okay and I nodded my agreement.

  We were all silent for about six seconds.

  “Everything we’ve told you is true, DS McGraw,” Stimpson reiterated.

  “Are you supposed to be seeing Mendoccini again?” Gosling switched tack.

  “I gave him my number. He said he’ll be in touch.”

  “Well, he may not call you for some while yet,” Stimpson stated, almost apologetically. ”You see, he returned to Milan the day after he saw you and we don’t know when he’ll be back. His meeting Saturday seems to have concluded satisfactorily for all concerned.”

  “I saw him nod to the table where he was sitting. Who was he with?”

  “Several people of a similar frame of mind to himself, shall we say: people in a position to do him some service, and no doubt there’s some reciprocity involved on his side.”

  I didn’t mention there’d been someone at that table I’d thought I’d recognised but had only had a couple of seconds to look at before he had turned away. I wondered whether that individual had recognised me in return, which would explain his turning away from my gaze.

  “When he returns to this country, if he gets in touch with you, keep us in the loop,” Stimpson said. “We’ll want to know everything he says. Does he know you’re Special Branch?”

  “Told him I was a policeman, but not that I was in Special Branch. I don’t even think I told him I was a detective.” I shrugged.

  A few seconds’ silence.

  “You are not, of course, to let on in any way you know anything about what you’ve been told in this room,” Stimpson said with great emphasis. “He probably thinks you’re just a bobby on the beat. Let’s keep it that way for the moment, shall we?”

  I agreed that was what I’d do.

  “I’m sorry for casting a shadow across your day, DS McGraw, but you had to be told.”

  I wanted to tell Stimpson just being in the same room as him had already added an unwanted shadow to my day, but I wisely decided against it.

  “Depending on how things work out, we may well ask you to help us in our pursuit of Mr Mendoccini. I mean, you know him. He’s a friend of yours. He’ll be more receptive to you talking to him. You’ll be informed if and when we need you.”

  Nobody spoke for four seconds. Stimpson gathered up the papers in front of him. Gosling sat down next to Smitherman’s desk.

  “Alright, Rob,” Smitherman gestured towards the door, indicating the meeting was over. I left the room and he continued talking with his guests from MI5.

  Sitting back at my desk, I was pondering what I’d heard. My breath was coming in spurts, as if I’d just completed some vigorous exercising. I was thinking of the Michael Mendoccini I knew back in my teens. My thoughts were of a guy who was always cheerful and upbeat, always ready for a laugh and to go chase girls in the pub or, if we could get in, the nearest nightclub. I tried remembering if he’d ever made any kind of overt political statement about a contemporary issue but I couldn’t think of any. In fact I couldn’t think of anything remotely resembling a contentious political comment he’d ever made. He’d certainly held many of the same unformed and unsophisticated political opinions as the rest of our friends, and we’d certainly had plenty of juvenile arguments about current political issues when we’d been teenagers as the second Gulf War was raging and the World Trade Centre had been razed to the ground by Al-Qaeda not long before his eighteenth birthday, but I could think of nothing he’d ever said constituting a fundamental principle he’d live by.

  He’d never claimed to believe in any particular political principle or philosophy, other than that he liked the idea of making money. Most of us were beginning to espouse some views of the world around us and believing in what X or Y party stood for or against as we approached the first election we’d be able to vote in. Issues like the environment and halting nuclear weapon proliferation were popular inside our little circle, but he seemed to live for the moment and to do what felt right at the time. The complexity of the world beyond, with all its promises and inherent contradictions still in store for us impressionable seventeen-, eighteen-year-olds, seemed to pass him by.

  But I’d just been informed by a senior MI5 officer Michael Mendoccini was involved in Red Heaven, plotting and financing terrorist activity. I knew about the bombing in Barcelona a few weeks back which had taken two lives. Had he been part of this in any way? I was finding it hard to connect what I knew about my old friend with what I’d been told.

&nbs
p; I tried rationalising what I’d heard. Before last Saturday night I’d not seen or spoken to Michael Mendoccini for the best part of fourteen years and I had to admit I couldn’t claim to know him as well as I once did any longer. In that time I’d changed considerably; I was older, though whether I was any more mature would depend upon who was asked. But I was a King’s College graduate, had joined the biggest and best armed gang in town, the police force, had changed my views about several issues I’d once assumed had simple black-and-white solutions, had got involved with Karen and was now a Special Branch detective, routinely carrying firearms. What did Michael Mendoccini now believe? I had to admit I didn’t know. Did I ever?

  I phoned Richard Clements again. He was out but I left a question on his answerphone and asked him to get back to me as soon as he could.

  “When you did your research for the terrorism issue your magazine put out last year, you mentioned Red Heaven was largely run by Italians. Did you ever come across the names Michael Mendoccini or Paulo Poletti? If so, in what context?”

  I hung up. It was time to go see someone I’d called a friend until several months back. He worked for a private security organisation I was sure would be able to give me more information regarding what I’d just heard about my old friend. I was apprehensive as to the reception I’d encounter but, given who he worked for, I was certain I could learn something more about what I’d recently been told. I was put through to him and, to my amazement, he sounded like his old self on the phone and readily agreed to talk if I came to his office.

  Gavin Dennison had been my training officer after I’d left Hendon and been assigned to West End Central. He was only a couple of years older than me but tipped to be a high achiever in the not-too-distant future. He was a graduate from the LSE and ambitious but, within a few years of my joining, disillusionment with police work and, in his view, seeing too many of the guilty go free had soured his view of justice. He’d trained and qualified as a licensed private inquiry agent but now spent most of his time freelancing for a body named Prevental, a firm providing security guards and information about how to keep property safe.

  Looking at its literature and website, Prevental sounded as reputable as Group 4, but this was just a front. The firm was also a broking house for dogs of war, linking mercenary soldiers with wherever there was a need for their services, as well as providing bodyguards to visiting businessmen and others who required such services, not unlike American firms such as Blackwater. Prevental also brokered other services which I was certain violated any number of laws, but the close links it had with the security services were, I was convinced, what enabled it to offer the services it did and flourish.

  My inquiries into two murders committed by an American assassin named Phil Gant had been frustrated by running into the stone wall known as intelligence denial. Dennison had been providing information to Gant and I’d relieved my frustration by assaulting him. Since then I’d had no contact with him but, to my surprise, when I phoned his office, he greeted me as though nothing untoward had occurred between us and we were still friends.

  I was still a little wary of him as I remembered he’d been seen with Paul Farrier, a man I was convinced had been in some way part of a plan to kill several individuals involved with a high-powered Government committee. Farrier had wound up dead and the person I was sure was the killer had left the country, believed to be in Southern Ireland and yet to return to the mainland. I’d suspected Dennison of involvement but had no definite proof.

  Prevental had its offices in a Mayfair side road, a decent goal kick’s distance away from the United States embassy in Grosvenor Square. It was located on the two floors above an upmarket boutique and the rental for this location was probably the entire budget allocation for Special Branch. I pressed the intercom buzzer at the main front door and was admitted after whoever had been observing me through CCTV had verified my credentials.

  The reception area had several plush-looking chairs around the walls, deep maroon carpeting and a reception desk. It was brightly lit and there were several TV monitors showing various rooms and corridors in the building. There was a portrait of the Queen on the wall and also one of the current Prime Minister. I was met by a stern-looking woman who radiated as much warmth as a stalagmite. She handed me a visitor lanyard and insisted quite forcefully I wear it at all times.

  “Follow me,” she ordered rather than asked. Miss Personality.

  “Rob, how you doing? Good to see you.” Dennison sounded genuinely pleased to see me as he stood up from his desk when Miss Personality led me into his office, which was small and overlooked the backyard where deliveries were made. He was tanned, carried no spare weight and looked very fit. The receptionist turned to leave. I blew a kiss at her back. Had she seen it she’d probably have broken my arm.

  He extended his hand and we shook. He gestured to the seat in front of his desk. I sat. His desk was sparse, with just a laptop and an in-tray with a copy of the magazine Soldier of Fortune next to a copy of the Herald Tribune.

  “Look, Gavin, I want to apologise—” I began, but he immediately cut me off.

  “Nothing to apologise about, mate,” he said airily, waving his left hand in a dismissive gesture. “You were pissed off you couldn’t get your hands on Gant because of his connections to Christian Perkins. Gant was just clearing up a few loose ends. I don’t even know the full story, but for some reason the powers-that-be wanted it kept under wraps. I don’t blame you for being pissed off. I would have been.” He settled back into his chair. “I’d forgotten about it before you were even out of sight; don’t worry about it.”

  “Thanks.” I nodded. I was relieved.

  “No problem. So, what was all that about with the Addleys recently? I heard on the grapevine you were involved in bringing them in. You should have shot the bastards. I would have done. Save the cost of keeping them in prison, wouldn’t it?”

  I gave him the sanitised version of the case without going into too much detail, omitting names and any mention of hydroxilyn.

  “And David Kader got taken out as well,” he stated somewhat casually.

  “You knew about Kader?” I was surprised.

  “Yeah, heartbreaking, eh? And you got the hydroxilyn back before someone could use it. A good result all round, I’d say.”

  My eyes opened wide. “You know about that?” I was now very surprised. This was all supposed to be buried deep.

  “What do you think?” He laughed at my discomfort. “C’mon, Rob, you really think something like an MI5 man getting shot by one of his own side and something as dangerous as hydroxilyn going missing could be kept under wraps? I probably knew about it before you went to bed that night. We have close links with MI5 as they occasionally outsource to us. We did some of the initial investigating into which groups might have a use for the hydroxilyn, specifically if they had anyone skilled enough to use it properly. You know how dangerous that stuff is?”

  “Yeah, I do. I saw the pictures of the French guy who was too close when the car bomb exploded. Not a pretty sight.”

  “I’ll bet. So, what do you need?”

  “You’ve a file on Red Heaven?”

  “Do bears shit in the woods? What specifically?” He fired up his laptop.

  “You have the names Mendoccini and Paulo Poletti on file?”

  He scrolled down on the opened file and pressed a few keys on his touchpad.

  “Certainly do. Paulo Poletti, son of Antonio, one of the big chiefs behind Red Heaven,” he announced. “Can’t prove anything definite but MI6 believes Antonio was the mastermind behind the Milan car bomb earlier last year, killing that important American tourist. They think he might even have planted the explosives himself as he hates Americans.”

  The tourist had been a New York City councilman on holiday with his family, taking them to see the part of Italy his great-grandparents had migrated to the USA from. He’d been buying ice cream for his family when the explosion had occurred. He’d been close
by and was killed instantly and, a few days later, his wife and son had died from their injuries. He’d been in the news as he was a very prominent attorney and attracting publicity because he was considering running for the governorship of New York State. He’d not been the target, just hideously unlucky to be where he was at that time. There’d been diplomatic controversy surrounding his brutal killing, with the US embassy all over the Italian police to find those responsible for the atrocity. No one had ever been arrested for it.

  “Paulo works for his dad in the family import–export business and he’s also up to his neck in it himself. He was here in England, supposedly visiting family, when that synagogue in Golders Green was bombed earlier this year. He was taken into custody but he had a cast-iron alibi for where he was at the time.”

  “What about Mendoccini?”

  “Mendoccini, Michael. Son of Giuseppe,” he said. “He’s mainly the finance man for the group, suspected of doing it through an Italian firm, Chrenora’s. The belief is this firm’s just a conduit to other firms.”

  Hemsley’d mentioned this firm to Clements when they’d spoken.

  “Does it really cleverly; never places or integrates too much at any one time. You investigating these guys for any particular reason?”

  “Michael Mendoccini’s name came up in something I was looking at recently and it didn’t make sense, so I was just curious about him. There’s nothing much on our files about him and I’m just making some enquiries. MI5 wouldn’t tell me anything as it’s not our case.” I had raised a query about it with Christine Simmons, though.

  At one time I’d have told Gavin of my past connection to Mendoccini and having a personal reason for wanting this information but, though he’d apparently forgiven me for my transgressions against him, I still didn’t fully trust him. I held back from saying I knew Mendoccini, or at least at one time I could say I did.

  “Any suspicion Mendoccini’s killed anyone or planted explosives?” I continued.