by Robert White
Cartwright drained his gin. “They employ a similar system to the one our spies used during the Cold War. A new operative will be given a place to visit at a set time each day. It may be a week or a month, but one day his handler will be there and brief him face to face and he will be brought into the fold. They use dead letter boxes to move weapons, ammunition and cash around. The name each are known by, will have been given to them by the gang. As the gang’s name suggests they are as easy to identify and catch as the wind itself.”
“So… how do they move about without passports?”
“Richard, the chap who polishes my Bentley every Sunday, doesn’t have a genuine fucking passport.”
“Fair enough, how come our American chums didn’t come up with this information when they took us on our little jaunt to Yorkshire?”
Cartwright looked suddenly sheepish.
“The Americans rightly believe that Todd has been killed by an organised criminal gang and that gang that is opposed to JE Blackman becoming President.”
“Surely Blackman must suspect that Kulenović is behind this?”
“Most definitely.”
“But not Yunfakh?”
“No.”
I sat back and examined our MI5 handler.
“The Yanks don’t know anything about this crew, do they?”
The old spy shrugged his shoulders and waved for another gin.
I lay my hands on the table. “Okay, so why do we know, and they don’t?”
Cartwright locked eyes with me. Eyes that had seen spies come and go, wars won and lost, Presidents inaugurated and assassinated.
“Goldsmith,” he said, knocking the wind from my own sails.
I sat, speechless. I’d had the feeling that Goldsmith would rear his ugly head eventually.
Cartwright couldn’t hide his irritation.
“I told you he was important to us, didn’t I? I told you about big pictures, but you wouldn’t listen. Goldsmith informed us of the existence of the gang, its formation, its leader and rank structure. He even ‘gave’ us a Yunfakh operative to interrogate.”
Cartwright curled his lip in disdain. “That was about a month before you visited him in Albania and blew him to bits.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Because he was mine, Richard. I had him where I wanted him.”
“Until he started slotting innocent people and dropped you in the shit.”
“Until you stuck your nose in.”
“Well, he won’t be giving you anything else, will he?”
“Quite.”
We sat in silence for a moment, until both our tempers subsided.
“And just how did Goldsmith know of this Yunfakh then?” I asked.
Cartwright waited for the guy who’d delivered his drink to move out of earshot.
“As you know, Goldsmith was in bed with the Albanian Mafia, who were fast becoming the most powerful criminal enterprise in the United States. Goldsmith and his father had dozens of contacts across the Atlantic, and that information was gold dust to the Albanians. They not only trusted Goldsmith, but held him up as some kind of Godfather. It was the USA’s arm of the Albanian Mafia that first discovered the existence of Yunfakh. As direct competition in the drugs and arms business, this new Middle Eastern gang instantly became their enemy. They shared that information with Goldsmith.
Now, as you must have gleaned from your recent visit, the north of Albania is both poor and boasts a large Muslim population. A ripe breeding ground for Yunfakh. The operative in question had been selected by the gang’s recruiters, and taken to a training camp in the Ukraine. Alas, when he returned to his homeland, he fell foul of the human condition.”
“Meaning he opened his mouth.”
“Indeed, and as his destination was to join Yunfakh in the UK, Goldsmith tipped us the wink, so to speak. We picked the chap up ten days later right here in Manchester.”
“And where is he now?”
“He died during interrogation.”
“It happens.”
“It does… but not before he gave us precious information about an upcoming plan to kill an American student. Of course, he couldn’t give details, the who, the when, the where, the how. But when Todd Blackman was murdered in the manner he was… well, there was only ever one suspect. Of course, both the Americans and JE Blackman were convinced Kulenović had sent some kind of Muslim hit squad to the UK to do the job.”
“Not far off the mark.”
“True, but as we were never going to admit to the CIA that Goldsmith had risen from the grave and passed on the information about Yunfakh, we could hardly share the fact of their existence, could we? So, I suggested you chaps for the task.”
He took a long drink and tipped his glass in my direction. “Besides Richard, you and I have other vested interests in the gang and it’s leader.”
Cartwright shuffled uncomfortably in his seat. “Now, a word of warning. Once you start sniffing around this lot. Once you rattle their cage. They won’t sit back or go to ground. They will come out fighting. So, you will need all your team, including Mitch Collins. Bring him into the fold, so to speak. He may be a little on the pious side, but out of all that lot, you can trust him, and as I said, he’s a useful chap.”
“Once Mitch finds out about Yunfakh, he’ll inform Carver.”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“Meaning?”
The old boy just shrugged and necked his gin.
I shook my head. “Nothing is ever straightforward with you, Cartwright. No wonder you told the Yanks this job would cost a million dollars?”
He smoothed down his tie.
“The fee merely tripped off the tongue, Richard.”
“It’s a nice round number, I admit, but what did you mean by … other vested interests?”
“Ah,” he said, somewhat wearily. “Now we come to the crux of the matter. The real reason we are both sitting here together again.”
The elderly spy rummaged in his briefcase and pulled out a thin file. It had a 10 x 8 black and white picture stapled to the front. Without taking his eyes from mine, he slid it across the table towards me.
I looked down at the image and thought my head would explode. It was a picture of three people. Abdallah Al-Mufti was standing next to his nine-year-old son. The boy our patrol had seen on his doorstep in Tiji all those years ago. Both held AK 47’s. They stood proudly next to a telegraph pole. Nailed to that pole by his wrists, crossed above his head, was Frankie Green, his guts slit open, his entrails grotesquely dangling from his torso.
Cartwright was matter of fact. “That picture came through on Reuters a few days after you returned from Tiji.”
My hands shook. “Why show me this, after all this time?”
“Would showing it to you back then have made you feel better?”
I shook my head, unable to take my eyes from Frankie’s disfigured body.
“I show it to you now because Al- Mufti is the leader of Yunfakh.”
He let that snippet sink in, then tapped the table with a manicured nail.
“After you destroyed his weapons dump and killed more than two thirds of his men, he left Libya and moved to the Lebanon, the birthplace of his wife. Over the next ten years, he re-grew his arms business, showing his lack of respect for any religion or boundary, and sold weapons to the highest bidder across the Middle East. In 1999, the Americans located him due to his daughter Aida sending pictures across the internet. The US ordered an air strike on his house, his wife and daughter were killed. Abdallah and his son Siddique, the boy in that picture survived. As a result of Goldsmith’s information, we now know that, two years later, Al-Mufti formed the bare bones of Yunfakh in the mountains of Afghanistan. He swore he and his men would never use digital devices of any kind ever again. Hence the way Yunfakh operate to
day.
Al-Mufti underwent reconstructive surgery and entered the USA via Mexico in 2003.
Yunfakh have been the weapon of choice for Khalid Kulenović and his business empire since 2004. They are his black market. Drugs, arms and murder are their business. When Kulenović discovered that Todd Blackman was destined for the UK, Al-Mufti sent his only son Siddique to form a cell of Yunfakh here, murder the boy and ensure that Lucas Estates got that contract in Ancoats. Of course, it would be too much to hope for, that when those tasks are completed, they would go home. But no, now Yunfakh have arrived, Al-Mufti will grow his criminal empire in the UK, starting right here in Manchester. I would suggest you have a chat with some of your old contacts and see if a new large scale supplier has reared his head.”
Cartwright took back the file, placed it in his case and handed me a memory stick.
“The transcripts of the interrogation, before the chap expired. They may be of some help. Oh, and a copy of that picture. I thought that Mr Cogan may want to see what Al-Mufti did to your colleague for himself. It seems the crucifixion ritual still runs in the family.”
Cartwright bared his teeth, unable to conceal his own anger.
“Look, Fuller, I didn’t want the Americans to have Al-Mufti, and I certainly didn’t think you would either. Knowing you as I do, I considered you might like to finish the job you started back in 1987. Starting with the boy, Siddique.”
I couldn’t disguise my venom.
“Oh, you are right there, Cartwright.”
The spy regained his composure and stood. “Now Fuller, can you call me a limo that is made in England? If I spend too much time north of Watford, I get dizzy.”
He tapped my arm. “Be a good chap, get on with the job… but don’t forget, our people in Whitehall need JE Blackman nominated… he’s our man, so keep the publicity to a minimum.”
I was flabbergasted. “But he’s a buffoon. You said as much yourself, he’s a bigot, a racist a…”
“Exactly, Richard… and no one will vote for him north of Texas. He hasn’t a hope…”
Something suddenly dawned on me.
“Meaning our real man is actually a woman… the Democrat?”
Cartwright nodded and smiled again. “I’ll make a spy of you yet,” he said.
Des Cogan’s Story:
I’d spent a good hour talking with Mitch Collins. About his life, his upbringing, his family, the Corps.
He seemed a good bloke to me. You see, I understood what it was like to be brought up in a religious household. Being dragged along to chapel every weekend, living in a street where everyone was the same faith and supported the same football team.
Eventually, it forms part of you, and even though you may become disillusioned with it. You will never completely let it go.
My dad’s views on homosexuality, abortion and the like were no different from big Mitch’s. I would have loved to have seen his, or any of my brother’s faces if I’d turned up wearing a Shirley Bassey frock, I’ll tell yer.
Mitch had refused a second Bud and sat with a Coke. I met his eyes. “So pal, cards on the table. How come you lot didn’t tell us about Henrietta Duvall? Why not tell us you’d already spoken to her? You could have saved us some time. We’re really on the clock on this wee job ye know?”
Mitch looked down into his glass.
“I realise that all too well, Mr Cogan, but Henrietta believed Todd to be gay. Our instructions were to secrete any testimony that suggested Todd still suffered that… condition.”
“Who says?”
“DC.”
“You mean JE Blackman?”
Mitch shrugged.
I made an executive decision.
“Todd was crucified because of his… condition,” I said flatly.
Mitch’s eyes widened.
I nodded. “Oh aye, nailed to a makeshift cross in that flat we passed earlier. All the hallmarks of a historical ritual, slit to the groin, staff pushed inside the wound. They used his blood to paint the cross on the wall and write other messages.”
“My Lord in heaven.”
“Aye… they wrote the word ‘Homosexual,’ across his chest in Arabic and quoted the Quran. I reckon those boys thought Todd may be a wee bit on the gay side too, eh?”
Mitch was incredulous. I could see the venom rise inside him. I had no idea what had happened to the young Marine during his tours of the Middle East, but it was obvious there was no love lost between the American and the Muslims.
He had the same look about him that my eldest brother had every time he saw a fella wearing a Rangers top.
“We’d figured it may be a God damned Muslim group involved,” he spat. “And as we are laying cards on tables, Mr Cogan, we also considered it may have something to do with a guy called Kulenović. He owns Lucas Estates.”
I turned down the corners of my mouth. “Aye, and that wee snippet would have been good to know yesterday too, pal… Anyway, whoever killed Todd, intends to ruin JE Blackman politically, and as I heard the rumour about Todd’s crucifixion yesterday in this very boozer, it won’t be long before the press get hold of it.”
Mitch shook his head. “That can’t happen.”
I pointed.
“What can’t happen, is you guys keeping any more information back from our team. If you want us to slot these fuckers, we’re going to need all the help we can get.”
Mitch nodded sheepishly. “I think we are on the same page there, Sir.”
“Aye well, we’ll see about that eh?... Right, as we finally seem to be telling each other the truth, I’m going to take you to our wee lock-up. You got a carry-on?”
“In my car.”
“Okay. Jump in with me and we’ll go get it… just one thing though, Mitch.”
“I’m listening.”
“If Carver’s boys ever rock up at the front door of this place I’m about to take you. I’ll know where it came from and I’ll slot you myself.”
Mitch just gave me a look and followed me to the door. I acknowledged Maggie with a nod as I left and wondered when I may see her next.
This was going to get very messy very quickly.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
“Where are you?” asked Rick curtly. “Please don’t say the fucking pub.”
I stood on the footpath outside the Prince, next to Mitch and told the truth.
“No, I’m not.”
“Good, well get hold of our American bible basher and fetch him to the lock-up. We’ve orders to bring him into the fold. We’re going to need all the hired hands we can get.”
I didnea care for the sound of that, but was pleased that great minds thought alike.
We jumped in the Beamer and drove around to the Quays where Mitch had left his motor. He picked up a daysack from the boot, rummaged around a little more and then pulled out a long heavy looking case.
He strode back to my car and dropped both on the back seat. I looked at him questioningly.
“What’s in there?”
“My Buddy.”
“Buddy?”
“Well that’s what the Jap’s called it. A Howa type 89.”
“I don’t know it.”
“Japanese assault rifle, used by the J.G.S.D.F. Mine has a targeting laser fitted. It’s pretty cool, really light.”
“So, why’s the case so heavy.”
“That will be the grenades, Sir.”
I checked my rear mirror and we were away.
“I’m no sure what bothers me more, Mitch. The fact that you call me fucking Sir all the time, or that you have grenades in your case.”
He turned in his seat.
“Mr Cogan, I’ve fought in some pretty shitty places and I’ve done some pretty shitty jobs. Now, I know I’m younger than you an’ all, but in my limited experience, it’s al
ways better to be safe than sorry. So, the Type 89 there launches oh sixes, and I happen to have a number with me… just in case.”
“The type 06 is a heat seeking anti-tank weapon, Mitch.”
“That is correct, Sir.”
“I don’t see any tanks around Mitch.”
The American checked his door mirror. “But I do see a big black sedan on our tail.”
“That will be a saloon, Mitch.”
“Isn’t that a place to buy a drink?”
I floored the Beamer. “We’ll discuss this later, pal, eh? Let’s see how serious this boy is.”
* * *
We passed the Travel Lodge and did a hard right into Oldfield Road. The BMW sticking to the road like shite to a blanket.
Mitch pulled on his seatbelt. “Did the army teach you to drive, Mr Cogan?”
I shook my head and threw the car left into Ordsall Lane, a wee road that would lead us towards the A57 and open roads.
“No son, the cops. They teach all the Regiment boys.”
“Well the guys behind are struggling to keep up, so they did a good job.”
I checked the mirror and the big black Merc was a little further back, but by the time we reached the slip road, he’d got his shit together and was right up my arse.
We got caught on the nearside of two HGV’s as we entered the A57 and I had to anchor on, the ABS on the Beamer rattling away under my foot, tyre smoke pouring from all four wheels. The Merc driver behind either didn’t quite react quickly enough or he intentionally slammed into our rear, slewing us sideways. Mitch seemed to have had enough, undid his belt, drew his .44 and swivelled in his seat.
Whilst we were obscured from the rest of the traffic by the two forty tonners and I fought to straighten the car, Mitch took his opportunity and put a couple of rounds into the screen of our tail.
“You hit them?” I shouted over the roar of the two wagons.
“No, Sir, still two up.”
The American just got his last word out, when our rear screen shattered and we began to take small calibre automatic fire. We both ducked instinctively and I swung the BMW out in front of the lead HGV, finding cover, but chopping the wagon up badly. The driver leaned on his horn in protest and I saw plumes of blue pour from his trailer wheels as he locked up. At least we had some clear road ahead and once again I floored our car. The Beamer responding as it should, howling like a cat on heat as the rev counter hit the red line. I looked behind again.