THE FALL: SAS hero turn Manchester hitman (A Rick Fuller Thriller Book 3)

by Robert White

  I stood. “Okay, pal, fair enough, but I think I should drive.”

  Rick shook his head. “Tomorrow, mate, not now, I’ll see him tomorrow.”

  He walked to the bathroom and opened the door. “I have to be somewhere else tonight.”

  Rick Fuller’s Story:

  I took the late Aer Lingus flight. It was full of people drunker than me.

  I think the hostess was grateful to have at least one passenger who was drinking coffee and not on a stag weekend.

  By the time we landed, it was dark and I was mentally exhausted.

  I asked the cabbie to take me to a hotel close to the Shankhill. He took me to an Ibis. After Claridge’s, you could say it was a come-down. I didn’t give a fuck. I lay on the bed, fully clothed and begged for sleep.

  Once it came, it tortured me in ways only nightmares can.

  The next morning, I walked to the Shankhill.

  Not knowing any better, my first port of call was the old graveyard. As I arrived, there was a fucking tourist bus dropping off a gaggle of Yanks, all searching for their long dead relatives. I quickly learned that the cemetery had stopped taking burials in the early Fifties, so I left Fat Brad and Fatter Marline to their dreams of being Irish rather than American.

  Some clumsy questioning of a local newsagent left me with a flea in my ear and on my way to Belfast City Cemetery.

  Run by the council, it has a sunken wall to separate the Catholics from the Protestants. This little gem of information didn’t sink in at first. Then I realised that the wall was sunken so it separated the dead, not the living. I mean, you wouldn’t want a pesky Catholic coming knocking on your coffin in the middle of the night eh? Insanity ruled back then; now, it just has a seat in Parliament.

  During World War One, they buried all the Commonwealth soldiers who had died in combat in the place. They had to move the graves of the British lads due to constant desecration of their headstones. Last year, 2006, they buried a former IRA player here. He was murdered shortly after being named as a British spy. His burial in the City Cemetery rather than in the Republican plot of Milltown was the Provos’ final punishment for his treachery.

  If Peter Black was buried in Belfast, I had the feeling he would be here.

  There was no doubt that Cartwright had chosen to reveal the truth about the child to ensure I would do his bidding. He already knew about our sortie into Jimmy London’s turf, and my commitment to the Makris family so it was a mystery why he thought airing the tale necessary, and the first flaw I’d ever found in his reasoning.

  I walked the grounds without any idea of a plan and chastised myself for my stupidity. Almost a quarter of a million had been buried in the council-run cemetery since 1869. I was nothing but a busy fool.

  The clock found eleven and I was forced to remove my jacket as the early summer heat pricked my skin. I trudged about, no nearer to finding who I sought.

  I knew I would have to get myself together, and begin to think like a soldier again.

  Finally my mind allowed me to think straight, and I mentally sliced the Protestant area into sections. This time, however, I noted and checked off each quadrant as I walked.

  Three hours later, I found him.

  There were no stone angels for Peter; no cherubs sitting above grand marble slabs.

  A small, once white, arched stone bore his name, his birth date… and the day I killed him.

  Grass grew long around the grave, almost covering the inscription from view. At some point, someone had added a black urn that should have contained flowers in front of the tiny headstone, but that too, was empty, rusted and overturned.

  I’d known the instant Cartwright revealed his secret what I had to do. I had to visit Peter. But to say what? To do what? To ask forgiveness? I haven’t a religious bone in my body. I don’t believe in God, ghosts or things that go bump in the night.

  Yet something deep inside me brought me to this place, to this unkempt patch of Irish earth that covered the bones of a small child.

  I pinched my nose to prevent it running, but there was no stopping my tears.

  Falling to my knees, I grabbed handfuls of grass, and began to tear at the overgrown foliage around the headstone. Sunshine warmed my back as I worked, yet the grass and soil were cold damp and clammy to the touch. Peter’s frozen soul chilled my fingers as my nails filled with dank earth, yet I couldn’t stop. Finally, I sat back, pouring with sweat.

  A deep, controlled voice came from behind me. “That’s very kind of you, sir.”

  Startled, I wiped away what was left of my tears, streaking my face with mud. In that moment, I felt Peter’s age, a solitary child playing in the dirt. I must have looked a real picture.

  “What?” I croaked.

  The voice had emanated from an elderly man, well into his seventies. Despite the heat, he sported a thick tweed jacket and trousers, a well-worn trilby hat and Wellington boots. Bright yellow Marigold gloves protected his hands. Gripped in his right was a small trowel. Most noticeable of all however, was his black shirt and white clerical collar.

  “Are you a relative?” he asked, his pale, watery eyes searching my face.

  I shook my head whilst doing my best to wipe dirt from my face with my sleeve.

  The man tilted his head, obviously waiting for a rational explanation as to why a stranger would be tending the grave of a long dead child to whom he was no relation.

  I used the old trick of turning his question into my own.

  Clearing my throat, I asked, “Why is the boy’s grave in such poor condition, Father?”

  The man smiled kindly. “It’s Pastor actually. I’m from West Kirk Presbyterian, on the Shankhill Road. And to answer your question, the reason poor Peter’s grave is in such need of some love and care, is because he has no living family left in Ireland.

  We try, as a church, to keep on top of the graves as best we can, but I’m afraid our congregations are dwindling, and with them, our volunteer gardeners.”

  The pastor jutted his thin chin toward an even older guy who was struggling with a small wheelbarrow a dozen plots away.

  “Eric is eighty-two. He gives a couple of hours each day when the weather and his arthritis allow.”

  I stood, briefly towering over the pastor. He took a step away to regain his personal space.

  “We could do with a couple of chaps built like you, sir,” he managed.

  I held up my hands.

  “There are no green fingers here, Pastor.”

  The old man gestured at my crude handiwork. “However, not bad for a beginner… Mr?”

  I thought for a moment before my answer, after spending far too long hiding my identity this side of the water.

  “Fuller,” I said. “Richard Fuller.”

  “Well, Mr Fuller, as you are not a relation, and not a gardener, what is your connection to Peter Black?”

  I studied his eyes, found no malice but again remained silent, mainly as I didn’t know what to say.

  Finally, I managed, “You say Peter has no living family?”

  The pastor seemed happy to talk, even if he wasn’t getting the answers he wanted; I suppose, in his line of work, he’d found many of his parishioners were reluctant to admit their sins straight away. Patience was obviously one of his virtues.

  “His grandparents,” he began, “William and Maud are both long gone. They are laid to rest just a little way from where old Eric is working now, pushing that damned wooden barrow.”

  My mind played horrible tricks on me as my last memories of Peter flashed in front of my eyes. “What about his mother?” I asked.

  The pastor pursed his lips and chose his words. “After Peter was killed, his parents decided that they should emigrate. They had seen too much death, too much hatred. The Troubles had worn them down you see. They had two other wee ones…did you know?”

  I shook my head.

  “Emma and Joyce,” he said. “I seem to recall that there was an uncle who lived in Canada. I think h
e sponsored them to go, and well, in their situation, who would not? To lose one child to the violence, to the terrorists, is heart-breaking enough. I’m sure you’d agree?

  The pastor locked eyes with me, studying this strange man he’d discovered tearing lumps of grass from a near thirty-year-old grave.

  He knew…Of course he knew.

  “You were there, that day, weren’t you?” he said softly.

  My tears had betrayed me.

  “How old are you, Mr Fuller? Forty-six? Seven? You’ve been a soldier I’d say, yes, no doubt about it. Even an old man with cataracts can see that. So…back then…you would have been… what? Eighteen…nineteen that day?”

  “Something like that,” I said.

  He nodded and examined me again. “It was you, wasn’t it? You were the boy soldier they talked of. The boy that saved the day, the hero. The one who shot the Provos on the Shankhill Road and saved those people?”

  I felt a lump the size of a tennis ball in my throat.

  “Peter wasn’t saved though, eh?”

  “No,” said the pastor. “Sadly, not the boy. But you must take heart, Mr Fuller, indeed you must. God helped you that day, he put his hand on yours and helped you shoot straight and true.”

  I turned to leave, but the old man grabbed my arm.

  “Don’t turn your back on the Lord, Mr Fuller. Maybe you should visit the church before you go…It’s good for the soul, you know.”

  I pulled away my arm. “It wasn’t your God, or anyone else’s, that steered my hand that day Pastor, it was the Devil himself…and my soul is long past saving.”

  I pulled notes from my pocket and pushed them into the old man’s jacket. “Sort the kid’s grave, Pastor…and buy Eric a new barrow eh?”

  An uneventful flight back to Ringway, followed by a tedious, traffic-filled cab ride, found me outside the home of Kostas Makris.

  He was in his considerable gardens mowing the grass. The man obviously loved his work. The lawns were immaculate, and the flowerbeds were bursting with colour. Of course, unlike the pastor, he could easily afford a guy or two to tend to his plot, indeed they would probably cost half what he was paying the brute of a minder that sat a discreet distance away in the shade, watching his boss sweat. Kostas obviously enjoyed his labour, and the fruits of it.

  Birds sang overhead and the oaks and chestnuts they perched on shaded the Greek from the late sunshine. Their ancient boughs painting shimmering pictures on the pathways below. Had I not been in such a sorrowful mood, I would have described the scene as idyllic.

  Makris saw me before his bodyguard did, which was a worry.

  The Greek gave his paid muscle the hard stare and walked over to his electric gates. He hit the ‘open’ button, wiping the sweat from his head with a rag.

  “You missed my brother’s funeral,” he said flatly.

  Mildly irritated, I countered, “As I recall, you are paying me to find his killer, not to spend time mourning him.”

  He jutted his chin. “You are one hard-faced bastard, Fuller.”

  I was in no mood for tantrums. “He was my friend, Makris. If I could have been there, I would, but things have moved quickly.”

  Kostas looked about him, turned and walked toward his imposing house.

  “You like lemonade?” he said, pulling out his mobile and dialling. “It’s home-made.”

  A short walk saw us sitting on a beautiful stone patio overlooking the garden. A cast iron table with a thick glass top sat front and centre. Moments after we settled into our chairs, an attractive blonde woman in her thirties delivered a pitcher of ice cold lemonade and two glasses without acknowledging my presence.

  Kostas took a long drink of his juice and licked his lips appreciatively.

  “My sister-in-law,” he said, nodding toward the retreating woman. “Spiros’s wife.”

  I took a sip myself, finding the drink delicious. “I never got the chance to meet her.”

  Kostas shrugged. “I know this.”

  The Greeks hate the English for stating the obvious. We do it more than you think. He changed the subject.

  “You enjoy my lemonade? I import the lemons from Kavadades, a small village on the island of Corfu, the place I was born.”

  “It’s very nice,” I said, before gulping down half the glass.

  “The best,” he said proudly, before changing his tone. “Now…I presume you are here because you have found Spiros killer, no?”

  I nodded. “We know his identity.”

  “And?”

  “His name is Gjergj Dushku, a Kosovan of Albanian descent. He killed Spiros on the orders of Stephan Goldsmith.”

  Kostas turned down the corners of his mouth. “So, the bastard is alive after all.”

  “He is.”

  “How can this be?”

  “It’s complicated, Kostas…political.”

  The Greek poured himself more lemonade.

  “You mean he paid some rotten politician for his freedom?”

  “You could say that. Goldsmith turned out to be valuable to the Secret Service. He turned informer to buy his new life.”

  “A new life…you mean a new identity, he is in the programme eh? Witness protection?”

  “He was.”

  “So how come he was able to send this Albanian pig to kill my brother? How can this happen when he is under the gaze of MI6?”

  I shrugged. “Well it did, and it was not just your brother, there were other innocent victims…it’s a mess. And now Goldsmith has got himself ensconced with the Albanian Mafia, and he’s well protected.”

  Kostas’s eyes grew wide. “They are in Albania? My God, this is very bad. These people are crazy, they will kill a man for one Euro.”

  “I know all about Albania, Makris, and I want Goldsmith dead just as much as you do. I don’t care where he is. I’m going to find the fucker and kill him. Simple.”

  Kostas shook his head.

  “My brother said you were crazy, and I think he was right, but this I tell you, a man could go to this place with an army and not come back alive. The Albanian will fight you with their bare hands until the last is dead. Do you understand this?”

  “You want me to give in? Let sleeping dogs lie?”

  Kostas closed his eyes for a moment, before holding my gaze. “I will pay any fee you ask. I want this bastard’s head on a plate, Richard.”

  “I’ll send you a picture,” I said.

  Des Cogan’s Story:

  Rick’s return to the lock-up was all business as usual. There were no signs of his alcohol-induced weakness, although he did baulk at the £700 fee Claridge’s charged to bring back his motor.

  I’d no idea what had been the matter with him, and there was no point in asking. If he wanted me to know, he’d tell me in good time.

  Our intel wasn’t exactly comprehensive, but it appeared that after a bungled attempt by the Firm to slot Goldsmith for his misdemeanours, the gangster had left his safe house in Tirana and gone to ground in a fortified location, to the north in Tropojë. This province of Albania, close to the Kosovan border, had a long reputation as one of the wildest and most lawless regions of the country, virtually out of control of every government Tirana had ever produced, Communist or republican.

  Tropojë was also the home of Red George’s biological family, and the base he’d used to move weapons and fighters over the border to Kosovo during the crisis of 1997.

  Like many others of his ilk, George had taken advantage of the humanitarian disaster in the Balkans and sought asylum in the UK. As Britain and its NATO partners did its usual impression of the whole world’s policeman, and went to war with Serbia to save Kosovan Albanians from alleged repression and atrocity, thousands of Red George types poured into Britain.

  In truth, most had nothing to fear from the regime across the Yugoslav border, but the Albanian Mafia were never one to miss a golden handshake. They saw a lucrative opportunity, and the cities of the UK were a cracking place to build their empires
. People trafficking, prostitution and in George’s case, murder, mayhem and knock-off motors were all part of their little business plan.

  Now it appeared he was back home where it all started, in the closest place to the Wild West he could find.

  We couldn’t just rock up and start snooping about in Tropojë province. The Albanians are a notoriously violent people, and still kill each other over family arguments that have been rolling on for centuries. If we were to try wandering in any town heavy-handed, we’d be dead before the day was out.

  Our options included flying into Tirana, or taking a ferry to Sarande posing as holiday makers. These were relatively safe. Tourism was slowly taking off in Albania and was welcomed by the locals. The problem with this choice was, as soon as we made any move north away from the main tourist track, the jungle drums would start and we’d be visible.

  As with all countries that are in flux politically, and Albania was most definitely in that category, the governing body and their associate parts are all subject to the odd issue. The main one being, they are all as bent as a nine-bob note.

  The bottom line was that anyone could be connected with the Mafia in Albania, from a waiter in Sarande to a cop in Tirana. They wouldn’t drop the dime on a British tourist for money, they would do it out of loyalty…making it a very dangerous place to go if you had our kind of intentions. No, we needed to enter and leave the country without leaving a trace, and that is never easy.

  Kostas Makris was a Corfiot, and the island of Corfu was less than one nautical mile from Albania. Our plan was to fly to his birthplace and travel to the north-west coast.

  Once there, we would meet with Kostas’s cousins who ran a bar in the holiday resort of Arillas.

  We were reliably informed that they could supply us with weapons and a small boat to complete the short hop across the water. With transport and weapons, we had a place to start.

  What could possibly go wrong?

  Lauren had been given the task of booking our flights. Rick flatly refused to fly with either of the big two budget airlines, which meant flying business class with a foreign carrier. I wasn’t going to complain, the ticket included grub and complimentary drinks, and anything that is free-gratis is a plus in my book, pal.