Once a Pilgrim

by James Deegan

  ‘Oleg says you are better man than him,’ said Avilov. ‘I don’t know. You both great men for me. You don’t want to drink, I respect that, John.’

  ‘You can show it by paying me properly, then,’ said Carr, grinning.

  The two Russians erupted in laughter, and beckoned over more whisky.

  ‘So, tell me about Afghanistan,’ said Avilov.

  Monday it might have been, but for the super-rich every day is a Friday.

  It had all the makings of a long night.

  33.

  THEY MOVED ON from the Mayfair restaurant at 11pm and climbed into the Range Rover to travel to a private members’ club in Dean Street, Soho.

  It was only a mile or so, but at Carr’s request Terry made it five miles by taking a very circuitous route, and they arrived just after 11.30pm.

  Soho was rammed, and buzzing with people and cars and bikes and cabs.

  A second Range Rover – the second Range Rover John Carr had wanted – might have noticed the motorcycle which pulled up further down the road.

  But good as they were, Carr and Terry Cooper alone stood no realistic chance of spotting it.

  34.

  TWO HUNDRED MILES NORTH, in the saloon bar of the Wheatsheaf in Westfield Street in St Helens, a fifty-three-year-old man was finishing off the last dregs of a pint of Carlsberg.

  It had been a long day for Mick Parry, driving round his hundred square mile beat, dropping off tat from Amazon to lonely housewives, eBay obsessives and small businesses, but he’d enjoyed his game of darts and a chinwag with a few of the lads, and now it was time for bed.

  ‘That’s me, fellas,’ he said. ‘Better get back before I get a bollocking.’

  He nodded his goodnight amid a chorus of good-natured jibes and chuckles, and stepped out into the orange glare of another Merseyside night.

  He shivered at the cold, blowing a cloud of steamy breath as he did so, and smiled to himself.

  ‘Christ, you’re going soft, Michael,’ he said to no-one.

  Soft he’d never be, but it was true that he wasn’t the man he’d once been. The only mark of that man from the past was the Parachute Regiment cap badge which had been inked onto his right shoulder in Aldershot thirty-five years earlier, and which was currently hidden under a T-shirt, a fleece and a thick black donkey jacket.

  He pulled on a beanie hat and started walking.

  35.

  PATRICK BEARNÁRD CASEY finished off his fifth or sixth Bushmills chaser and jerked his head in the direction of the door.

  ‘Let’s you and me go for a wee dander, Freckles,’ he said.

  Outside, on the Falls Road, the night air was every bit as cold and damp as it was in St Helens, and both men pulled their coats tight around them.

  They strolled in slow silence down the empty street for a minute or two.

  Then Casey said, ‘Let me ask you a question, Freck. If two of your brothers had been murdered in cold blood, and one day someone knocks on your door and says, Here they are… What would you do about it?’

  ‘Sure, I’d kill the fuckers. No, wait. I’d torture the fuckers, then kill them.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Pat Casey, reflectively. ‘I think you would.’ He kicked an empty Coke can along the pavement, and it skittered and bobbled into the gutter. ‘What would you think of me if I did nothing about it?’

  ‘Truthfully?’

  ‘Truthfully.’

  ‘I’d think you’d gone soft. I mean, I’m sure you’d have your reasons, but...’

  ‘Nah. You’d be right, big man. You’d be right.’

  They walked on in silence, until they reached the Falls Park.

  ‘Jesus, it’s cold,’ said Casey.

  They turned into the park, found a bench, and sat down on the damp wood.

  After a few moments staring into the inky black, Casey said, ‘I’m not putting this to the Army Council. This isn’t official, it’s personal.’

  ‘Are you sure that’s wise?’ said Freckles. ‘If it gets out that you’ve done something like this off your own bat…’

  ‘Fuck them,’ said Casey, dismissively.

  Freckled nodded.

  ‘It’s a big job, mind,’ said Casey. ‘Over the water, as well. We need someone we can trust. Someone proven. Someone reliable. Most important of all, someone who can keep his gub shut if it all goes tits up.’

  ‘I’d say Johnny Kerrigan,’ said Freckles, ‘but he’s in jail. Next best thing is Dessie Callaghan.’

  Casey looked at him. ‘Persuade me.’

  ‘We need someone with balls, right? Dessie has balls to spare. The only thing he’s scared of is us.’

  ‘Okay. Go on’

  ‘He knows his way around a weapon. He done that gubby OIRA fucker from Limavady who was causing all that shite, and he done that tout over Whiterock way. There’s two just off the top of me nut.’

  ‘They was a few years ago now.’

  ‘Aye, but he did them. Never hesitated. Credit in the bank.’

  ‘True enough.’

  ‘And like you said, you need someone who can keep his trap shut. You can trust Dessie there. He done time for that peeler, didn’t he?’

  ‘Which peeler?’

  ‘The off-duty one the boys kicked to death in the city centre? They seen him out on the piss, Pat Mulcahy’s lad started on him, and it got out of hand. Mulcahy did most of it, and he got away scot free. Dessie done half a six for it, and he never said nothing to nobody.’

  Pat Casey pushed out his lower lip in thought. ‘Fair point, I suppose,’ he said.

  ‘I think Dessie might be your man,’ said Freckles.

  Pat Casey was silent for a while.

  Then he said, ‘Unless we contract it out? Some Eastern European. A Turk.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea. You want to keep this close.’

  ‘Aye, you’re right,’ said Casey. He stood up. ‘Alright. Dessie it is. Can you have him brought to one o’ the safe houses? And let’s do it tomorrow morning before I change my mind.’ He pulled his coat tighter around himself and shivered. ‘Right, that’s me away. Night, pal.’

  36.

  IT WAS JUST AFTER 3am when Avilov called it a night and left the club in Soho.

  He and Oleg Kovalev, slightly unsteady on their feet, walking either side of a leggy Czech girl, who was wearing an electric blue minidress and six-inch heels.

  The girl giggling and saying something in her own language which the two men seemed to understand, and to appreciate.

  Carr let them get a good few paces ahead, staying in the shadow of the door, the better to maintain situational awareness.

  It was that, and the fact that he was stone cold sober, that saved their lives.

  Except the girl’s.

  Even at that time of the morning Dean Street was still busy, and Carr’s eyes were everywhere.

  The first thing he noticed was three pretty young women, short dresses, low-cut, waiting for a cab or a lift home. Carr liked pretty women in short, low-cut dresses as much as the next man, maybe more, but he was disciplined in all matters: they passed in and out of his optic nerve in half a heartbeat.

  The second thing he noticed was a stationary motorcycle, engine running, rider watching him, fifty yards up the street.

  Courier?

  No, no couriers about at this time of night.

  Simultaneously with that thought, he noticed a third thing – a man in his early thirties breaking away from the wall a few metres the other side of the club door.

  Short, dark hair.

  Fit-looking.

  Jaw clenched.

  Dark, medium-length peewee jacket.

  Black leather gloves.

  Trying and failing to look casual.

  Eyes focused like lasers on Konstantin Avilov.

  Walking way too purposefully.

  John Carr had seen this man and men like him in many shapes and guises and in many places over the years: he had worked with them, against them, been one o
f them.

  And he knew exactly what this was, like he knew that the end of the day brought darkness.

  This was Death.

  How the fuck did he know we were here? he thought, before it left his consciousness and was filed in the box marked ‘Later’.

  The assassin drew level with Carr and passed him, eyes still locked on Avilov.

  As Carr peeled away from the door, the man came to a halt six feet from the boss and his party – the three of them still utterly oblivious.

  Oddly, they were lucky that he was a professional.

  Amateurs do strange and unpredictable things, but this guy was following a strict choreography, a series of dance steps drilled into him at some unknown academy by expert tutors, all designed to ensure that roughly 7.5 grammes of lead would leave the muzzle of his pistol at some 400 metres per second and bury itself in the back of Konstantin Avilov’s head.

  Carr, now two yards behind the man, watched him begin to adopt a classical combat shooter’s stance, his feet going firm and slightly apart, left just ahead of the right. At the same moment, he swept the corner of his jacket away to expose the pistol in his waistband, bending slightly backwards to ensure that the weapon would be released unhindered.

  In half a second, the pistol was drawn, and the heel of his right hand was pushed straight forward into the waiting palm of his left, forming a perfect triangle.

  And the muzzle was rising.

  Quickly.

  Carr’s brain was now divided and running at two speeds.

  One side was yelling Fuck how the hell did I get into this shit I don’t get paid enough I don’t want to be here…

  The other side was utterly calm, and was firing off a lightning series of automated responses, instructing his limbs as to how to deal with this situation.

  A lifetime of experience, distilled into its essence; years of training boiled down into a second, a second-and-a-half tops.

  The two Russians and the Czech girl had reached the four-by-four, and Oleg was opening the rear door.

  The barrel was now at forty-five degrees and sweeping upwards… but then there was a moment’s pause – a slight break in the movement.

  When he performed his own microdetailed after-action review later on, Carr would realise that this fleeting delay was a ‘tell’ – trained as this guy clearly was, this was his first cold-blood hit. No-one finds it easy the first time, and there is often that momentary hesitation.

  Added to which, the killer had made a basic mistake.

  Target fixation.

  He hadn’t considered any threats to himself.

  Specifically, he had not considered the threat posed by John Carr, who was now on his right shoulder – the worst position, from the killer’s point of view, if he wanted to remain in control of his weapon, and of the situation.

  A multitude of things happened almost simultaneously.

  Carr grabbed the killer’s wrist with his left hand as his right closed around the barrel of the pistol, taking control of it and forcing it inward and downward.

  At the same time, he was shouting a warning to Oleg.

  Oleg Kovalev looked over his shoulder, saw the threat and reacted instantly, grabbing Avilov and protecting the boss with his own body. Later, in that after-action review, Carr would admit that he was impressed by this.

  A true bullet-catcher is hard to find. That is loyalty.

  Two panicked shots rang out, skipping off the pavement in front of them, the noise of the second dissipating as Carr’s hand closed firmly on the barrel.

  Using the leverage from his grasp of the wrist, he twisted the weapon violently. The man’s index finger, still trapped within the trigger guard, splintered under the pressure.

  His wrist was next to break.

  He released the pistol with a primeval scream.

  Carr had pivoted in front of him, and now he had the weapon in his own right hand. For half a moment, he thought about turning the fucker inside out with two rounds to the chest.

  Instead, he smashed the steel as hard as he could into the bridge of the guy’s nose.

  The cartilage broke, blood exploding from it, and the man instinctively put his hands up to protect his destroyed face.

  And now he was on his knees and vomiting. Carr brought the pistol down as hard as he could on the back of his skull and sent him into darkness.

  The whole incident had taken only three or four seconds.

  Somewhere up the street, a motorcycle engine was gunned, and the killer’s ride was away and gone.

  Carr turned around.

  The Czech girl was lying dead in the street, one of the rounds having ricocheted off the pavement and taken her at the top of the neck.

  The second had hit Oleg Kovalev in the centre of his lower back and knocked him and Avilov to the ground. The Aspetto Kevlar vest which Oleg was wearing underneath his pale blue Stefano Ricci blazer was state-of-the-art thin, but fortunately for him it had done its job. He’d be left with a bruise, and £5,000 out of pocket for a new Ricci jacket, but at least he’d walk into the shop to buy it, not be wheeled in.

  He and Avilov – now very sober indeed – were getting up off the floor. Carr sprinted over and bodily pushed both men into the rear of the Range Rover. Then he dived in through the open passenger seat door, and the vehicle was suddenly charging up the street – Carr yelling ‘Go go go Terry!’ and still holding the pistol – before he’d even shut the door.

  They were already halfway down Dean Street, and now the driver roared into Old Compton Street, and then down Frith Street, going against the one-way sign.

  Luckily, it was empty of other cars, a minicab or two apart, and the driver nudged 80mph as he approached the junction with Bateman Street.

  At which point he jammed on the brakes, and screamed left.

  ‘Stop please, Terry,’ said Carr, and the SUV slid to a halt.

  Carr got out.

  Stood, head cocked on one side.

  Listened. Looked.

  Nothing.

  No-one was following them.

  No sign of the motorcycle.

  No follow-up hit.

  A few late night drinkers staring at him, open-mouthed.

  Nothing else.

  ‘Wankers,’ he spat.

  He got back into the vehicle and looked into the rear.

  ‘You okay?’ he said to Oleg.

  ‘I love Kevlar,’ said the Russian, with a fierce smile.

  Carr showed him the pistol. ‘MP-443 Grach,’ he said. ‘They must be stupid to use something this exotic.’ Then he looked at the boss. ‘Two choices, Konstantin,’ he said. ‘I get out and go back to wait for the police and Terry gets you out of here, or we all go back and get to the shooter before the police, or before anyone comes back for him. Choose.’

  ‘What you think, John?’ said Avilov.

  Whisky, champagne, vodka, sake, more vodka, and he was as level and sober as a confirmed teetotaller: amazing what that sort of adrenalin jolt can do for you, especially when combined with a Russian liver.

  ‘I think we should go back and get anything we can out of him before the cops show up,’ said Carr. ‘We can’t obstruct the cops, we can’t take anything away, but I’d like to know who the fuck he is right now.’

  Avilov leaned forward. ‘Go back,’ he said to the driver.

  Terry gunned the motor, turned left illegally back into Dean Street and swerved to miss a black cab coming the other way.

  They arrived back outside the club exactly one-and-a-half minutes after they had left it.

  The three young women in party dresses stood there, open-mouthed, at the sight of the two bodies on the pavement.

  A couple of doormen had put the Czech girl into the recovery position, and were on the verge of realising the futility of that act – they were kneeling in at least two pints of her blood.

  A man whom Carr recognised as the club sommelier was bent over the shooter, feeling his neck for a pulse.

  This time, both
Carr and Oleg Kovalev got out of the Range Rover.

  They listened.

  A distant police siren.

  They looked.

  The street was deserted. Another black cab drove slowly past, the driver gawping. No other traffic.

  ‘Sixty seconds,’ Carr said to Kovalev. ‘Then the police will be here. Remember, there are cameras all up and down the street.’

  Kovalev nodded.

  ‘Make way please,’ said Carr, his voice full of authority. ‘This man’s a doctor.’ He grabbed the sommelier by the arm, hoisted him up and sent him spinning back towards the club. ‘Get in there and call the police!’

  The man scurried back inside.

  That was the first part of the job done.

  The second part was to draw attention away from Oleg.

  ‘Oh my God!’ he yelled, pushing the two doormen aside and kneeling down by the dead Czech girl. ‘Sarah! She’s fucking dead!’

  He picked her up bodily, her blood and spinal fluid spilling over his shirt.

  Her mouth lolled open, eyes stared sightlessly into his.

  ‘Have you called the police?’ he screamed at the doormen and the three young women who were watching, horrified. ‘She’s been shot in the head! Call the police! Call the fucking police!’

  His estimate of the police response time was almost perfect: two cars, one of them a red Trojan armed response vehicle, raced into the street just over one minute later.

  Three armed officers carrying MP5s were straight out and quickly covering the scene, and the uniforms from the panda were ordering everyone to ‘STAY WHERE YOU ARE!’

  Five minutes later, the scene was swarming with hi-vis jackets and blue-and-white tape.

  37.

  THE SHOOTER, GROGGY and groaning, was taken off to hospital under armed guard in an ambulance, and Carr waited his turn to be interviewed.

  Despite the mess he’d made of the guy, he was absolutely confident that he’d used reasonable force, but it looked a lot better to stick around and co-operate than to make the Old Bill come and find him.

  Some time around 4am, a detective constable identified himself, took Carr’s details and said, ‘So you’re the security guy for the Russian chap?’