by Robert White
I drained my glass. “In that case, I think we should adjourn to the Prince O’ Wales Tavern, get a proper drink and, you can explain why your boys didn’t tell us you had already spoken to the very delightful Henrietta Duvall.”
* * *
We sat at a corner table. Maggie acknowledged me, but no more than you would expect as a returning customer. I got the impression that she was a lady who didn’t like to advertise her private life.
That suited me fine.
Old George was in his usual spot and I sent him a half over. He waved his gratitude and went back to his Racing Post.
Mitch refused all alcohol, so I dropped a bottle of Budweiser in front of him just to loosen him up a tad…
“Never trust a man who disnea drink,” I said.
He shook his head and eventually took a sip.
“You guys don’t care for rules, do you?”
“Some rules are there to be broken,” I said.
“You don’t care much for me, either, do you Mr Cogan?”
I sat back in my seat and took in Mitch Collins. He was indeed a big man, not classically handsome, but you could see why the girls would favour him.
It was obvious to me he’d been there and done it. He didn’t need to talk about it and didn’t need to brag. I liked that, but he had issues, and I needed to know which side of the fence he would fall when the shit hit the fan.
“Does JE Blackman pay you money?” I asked, eyes locked on the boy.
“He does not.”
“Do the FBI pay you money?”
“Not directly, Sir, no.”
“So, who does pick up your cheque?”
He shrugged.
“Okay…so why are you here, why did you get drafted in for this one?”
Mitch took a long drink from his bottle. Considered keeping up his pretence, and decided against it.
“I was working on another matter in Germany, Hamburg to be precise. The boys in Quantico had received information about an Al Qaeda cell working in the city. They believed the group may have been planning to attack US interests still present on German soil. When the news of Todd’s murder broke, the guys in DC figured that as I’d mostly completed my task and as I was already in close proximity, they may as well utilise my talents.”
“And what exactly are your talents, Mitch?”
He put down his Bud. “Basically, I’m here in case you guys fuck up.”
“Meaning?”
He shrugged those big shoulders again. “Meaning, if your team ID the culprits, but you don’t… don’t finish the job. Well, I do the rest.”
“You slot the killers?”
“It’s what I do, Sir.”
I nodded, turned to Maggie and waved us in another round.
“I could grow to like you, pal,” I said.
Rick Fuller’s Story:
Cartwright was on the 1245pm British Airways flight from London City. It was late. I stood in the arrivals hall along with the plethora of unwashed taxi drivers and gushing relatives.
I swear, if any of them had spilled their fucking Mac Shakes or whatever fast food they were consuming, on my new suit, I would joyfully have slotted them.
I hate waiting rooms.
No… I hate waiting.
Finally, Cartwright appeared carrying his solitary briefcase. He shuffled more than strode, but it would be a foolish man to think him weak.
As always he wore a hand-made suit, Saville Row. A tailored shirt, and superb shoes that I suspected were Italian but never had the opportunity or nerve to ask.
He walked by me as if I didn’t exist.
“Get me out of this hell hole,” he said from the corner of his mouth.
The Crown Plaza provided a shuttle service to and from the terminal, but it consisted of three Ford Transit mini buses. Therefore, even though it was barely five minutes away, I’d booked us a limo.
A Jaguar.
Cartwright sat and rubbed the leather seats with his palm.
“Owned by foreigners these days, you know?”
“Aren’t we all?”
The old spy turned to me. His eyes as sharp as knives.
“Don’t believe all you hear, Fuller.”
“Heaven forbid,” I offered.
“Heaven indeed,” he countered.
The Plaza was a typical airport hotel. Modern, big and close to all the terminals. It was popular with the travelling business person, offering convenience and relative comfort at a sensible price.
It was one of the better establishments scattered around Manchester’s Ringway, either way, Cartwright was instantly unimpressed.
As we stepped through the revolving glass doors into reception, he pulled his face.
“Hardly the Ritz is it, Richard?” he said.
“You picked it.”
“Only because I couldn’t bear the thought of travelling to The Midland in this heat.”
He gestured towards the queuing would be residents waiting to be booked into their accommodation. The usual mixture of holidaymakers, business travellers and cabin crew on stopovers stood patiently in line as the reception staff took their details and allocated their rooms. “However, I’m beginning to think I’ve made a grave error of judgement, Richard.”
I suspected he had other reasons for not booking his preferred hotel in town, but kept my counsel.
Surprisingly, we turned left, and I followed him along a corridor and through a heavy door, which led us into a sprawling Irish theme pub. Rough sawn timber tables and chairs and a wooden floor greeted us.
“I didn’t have you down as a Guinness drinker, Cartwright,” I said, as we made the bar.
The old spy dropped his briefcase at his immaculately clad feet and rubbed the back of his neck with a liver spotted hand.
“Richard,” he said, his voice full of weariness. “One of the things you learn when you travel extensively, particularly on the meagre budget that Her Majesty provides, is that all these…” he waved an arm, “… places, are the same. Your food comes out of a bag and the so-called chef that empties it out onto your plate is fucking Romanian. However,” he gestured towards a tall thin guy with a bald head behind the bar. “Joseph here, is a genuine Dubliner. He’s held the reigns of this establishment since the place opened, and behind this façade of a bar, is the only decent working kitchen in the hotel.”
Joseph strode over and offered his hand. He’d obviously decided to make up for his lack of hair, by nurturing an unruly full set that was wider than the top of his narrow head. Birds could have nested in the fucking thing.
He managed a smile. Not that you could see his teeth. “Mr Cartwright, Sir, very good to see you again…will you be havin’ some lunch with us?”
“We will,” said Cartwright taking his hand and shaking vigorously.
“Ah that’s marvellous, Sir,” gushed the furry faced barman. “I’ll bring you a menu over.”
Minutes later we sat in a quiet corner sipping stout and waiting for two portions of Irish Stew and soda bread. As it was pushing twenty eight degrees outside, I questioned the old spy’s decision.
“Hardly summer fare,” I mused.
Cartwright placed his glass carefully on the table.
“Summer, Spring, Autumn or Winter, this is the best Irish Stew you will eat this side of the water, Richard. You see, the dish is made the night before serving. Joseph buys the ingredients from the local markets, early morning and brings them into work himself. The chef then prepares them and they are cooked very slowly, all day until the bar closes. Then, and this is the secret, it is left to cool overnight on the stove before being warmed again the next day for service.
Wonderful.”
I took a drink.
“Thanks for the cookery tip, but I’d rather know why you loaned us to the CIA.”
Cartwright pulled his face again. “Don’t be naive Richard. Why on earth would we do that?”
“So, you didn’t sanction us being lifted from outside the Thirsty Scholar, spoil JJ’s wake and have us imprisoned at Menwith Hill?”
I prodded the table to make my point.
“Where, I might add, we had to deal with John Wayne and his posse of Evangelical zealots.”
Even though Cartwright could hear the irritation in my voice, he ignored it. The old git almost smiled, but managed to hide his mirth.
“Well, of course, we did. I mean, we can’t have the Yanks running about the country kidnapping our operatives without permission, can we?”
“So, you did loan us?”
“No, Richard, you are most definitely working for us.”
“But the Americans are paying us.”
Cartwright actually broke into a beam. “Why spend our budget, when we can spend theirs? Anyway, you wouldn’t have taken the job otherwise, would you?”
“No.”
“I told them as much. I even suggested the fee. A cool million, isn’t it?”
“But we are working for you?”
“Of course.”
“And the Yanks know this.”
“You’re being naïve again.”
I threw myself back in my seat in frustration.
“You are infuriating, Cartwright!”
“Stew’s here,” he said.
I had to admit, the food was excellent. We ate in silence until both plates were clean and a second stout ordered.
Cartwright wiped his mouth with a napkin and sat back in his chair, a satisfied look on his face.
“This murder, a terrible business I know, is all about money and power Richard. I’ll try to keep things simple for you, then hopefully, you can leave here with a clear picture of what you need to do next.”
I waited.
Cartwright watched the waiter deliver the two dark pints, turn and leave us.
“We have recently become aware,” he began, “That a criminal gang has been working in the UK calling themselves ‘Yunfakh.’”
“Never heard of them.”
“And that is just how they, and their leader like it. Yunfakh, have worked almost exclusively in the Middle East for many years. More recently, they have kept their operations firmly across the Atlantic in the States,” he waved a dismissive hand. “With the odd venture into Eastern Europe…Anyway, now unfortunately, they are here.”
“Who is their leader?”
“We will come to that Richard. First let’s talk about Khalid Kulenović, as he employs the gang, almost exclusively.”
I sat up at that. “I’ve heard of him. He owns Lucas Estates.”
“Well done, Richard, I see you’ve been doing your homework. Kulenović was born in Croatia. He owns several large conglomerates. Last time I looked, he was number seventeen in the Forbes rich list.”
“So why does he need a criminal gang?”
“Why do we need you, Richard?”
“To do your dirty work.”
“So, you answer your own question.”
“But Todd Blackman was found in a flat owned by Lucas Estates, so this gang aren’t too clever, are they?”
“That was unsurprising, Richard. Yunfakh are as ruthless as any organised crime gang we have come across since the Sicilians. Both the venue and method of Todd’s death are simply intended to send JE Blackman a very stark message.”
“They want to scare him?”
“You don’t scare a man like JE Blackman, he’s a bully and a warmonger. No. Kulenović wants him ruined, personally, politically and financially and he is using Yunfakh to do it. The horrific murder scene, the sensationalist method are all designed to tell Blackman his days are numbered.”
“Why does he hate Blackman so much?”
“It’s the story of Kane and Abel, Richard. Rich man, poor man.
You see, Kulenović is a Muslim Croat. In 1997, at age nineteen, he was granted refugee status by the USA. His parents had been the victims of the ethnic cleansing in the former Yugoslavia. He had nothing and no one.”
“Rags to riches, the American dream, eh?”
“Indeed, Richard. He is infamous amongst the immigrant population in the States. Particularly the South Asians, Arabs, African Americans and Muslims in general. He’s a poster boy, a self-made multi-millionaire before his thirtieth birthday. A fortune that he has made in a variety of ways. Some legal, some not, and for the last three years or so, with the help of Yunfakh.”
Cartwright leaned in. “With their support, Kulenović is both powerful and extremely dangerous. I had an operative stationed in Kabul up until late last year. He believed that one of Kulenović’s subsidiaries were supplying the Taliban with weapons via Pakistan, in return for heroin to be shipped to the US. We lost contact with our chap in December. Even sent a team of your old pals out to find him, but they came back empty handed.”
“I see.”
“Now, JE Blackman, is the polar- opposite. Born into wealth, anti- Muslim, anti-immigration, commanded troops in Iraq and the Sudan. A racist bigot without question. A religious fanatic with the morals of a heathen and an annual income of six billion dollars. If Kulenović is popular with the immigrants, JE Blackman is equally admired by rich and poor whites alike. Add together the swathe of Evangelicals and the rest of the Bible Belt who believe that Johnny Foreigner has taken their jobs and their welfare cheques and his popularity makes him a Presidential favourite. For some ungodly reason, they believe that JE is their saviour.”
“Oh, I know, I’ve already had the speech from Mitch Collins, our friendly FBI guy.”
Cartwright smiled again and shook his head. “Collins isn’t FBI, Richard. He’s Ex- Marine Corps with twenty-seven kills to his name, nine of those in unarmed combat. The Americans dust him off every now and again, put him in a nice suit and give him a title. Very handy young chap to have around actually. What are they calling him this time?”
“Drugs and alcohol agency, I think.”
“He’s neither… he’s insurance.”
“You mean if we miss?”
“Exactly.”
I shrugged. I had bigger things to worry about that, Mitch.
“So, why is Todd Blackman dead?”
“The Louisville mosque project.”
“The one that Blackman campaigned to block?”
“One and the same Richard. JE fought his nomination campaign on the issue, and won. The mosque will not be built with him as Senator and if he becomes President...well”
“Alright, Kulenović is Muslim, but it seems a bit of a stretch to believe he’s had Todd Blackman crucified because one mosque didn’t get planning permission.”
Cartwright finished his stout.
“Time for a cheeky G and T,” he said, waving over the waiter.
“Not for me, Cartwright. The last time we started that game, I had to leave my car in London for a week.”
“As you wish… just for me then. Anyway, you are correct. Kulenović is a Muslim, but not fanatical. Even the weapons to the Taliban business had nothing to do with his politics or religion. He wanted the heroin and the money it brought him, simple as that. For him, this whole business is about being on top. Besting Blackman.”
Cartwright rested his elbows on the table and linked his fingers.
“You see, the Louisville mosque was no small affair. Just as here in the UK, Kentucky has seen many of its churches and religious buildings fall empty and some turned into mosques. This was becoming a political hot potato for Blackman. Demands from the Bible Belt faithful to halt the progress of Islam were growing louder by the day. The Louisville development was huge and would have dominated the skyline in the district. It was to be built by Lucas Estates at a cost of two hundred and fifty millio
n dollars. Had it been constructed, Kulenović would have been a hero amongst the minority groups in the state. But Blackman blocked that deal. And his success in hindering the project gave him the nomination and lost the Croatian all those dollars and the hero status.”
“Ah!”
“Oh yes, big bucks, but just as important to these folks with monopoly money, it was one-nil to Blackman.”
Cartwright sipped his gin and licked his lips approvingly.
“Since then, Kulenović has done everything in his power to thwart Blackman at every juncture. His biggest battle has been the Ancoats development. The regeneration of that area is going to be worth a billion dollars when completed, with an ongoing rental income of twenty million per annum. It was Blackman’s construction company, VineCo who first bid for the contract to build the two huge towers there, but for the last year or so, Lucas Estates have been buying every brick around the development site and fully intend to beat VineCo to the punch this time. As I understand it, the council will make a decision on the tenders within the month.”
The spy spun ice around in his near empty drink. “When Kulenović found out that Todd Blackman was to travel to Manchester, the opportunity to embarrass and hurt JE was too good to miss. So, he sent a number of Yunfakh operatives to the UK to find the boy and murder him. You can imagine what the US press will do to Blackman, once Todd’s sexual preferences come out. And JE won’t get any favours from Manchester’s rather left leaning council once he starts talking of having his son ‘cured’ of homosexuality either.”
I finished my stout.
“So why have we not heard of this Yunfakh crew before then?”
“Probably because they have avoided the UK until now, but also because of the way the organisation is run. You see their operatives are pulled from all corners of the disgruntled Muslim world. And each recruit must hail from an extremely poor background.”
“Why?”
“Because Yunfakh are what you would probably call ‘old school.’ Their operatives are forbidden from using computers or mobile phones. They’ve never had a bank account, passport or driving licence, never been fingerprinted, or had dental work. They are allowed just one tattoo, that of a single mast with a billowed sail. You see, Yunfakh is the Arabic word for ‘wind.’