The Newsmaker (Volume One Book 1)

by Tom Field

  Jealousy was one of the curses of the Western way of life.

  He finally consoled himself with the fact that he may have lost this particular battle but he had won the war.

  He had beaten the man on the phone.

  As he reached the end of East 63rd Street and crossed over York Avenue, he saw the grey wrought iron fence that ran all the way along the front of The Rockefeller University, with the two brick pillars directly ahead, with two grey iron gates hanging on either side.

  The man on the phone would never find him now.

  The man on the phone will tell stories in the future of how the only person to beat him, to evade him, was the great Asif Fulken.

  He would always be the nemesis of the man on the phone.

  He walked through the gates casually, looking like he was meant to be there, and as he stepped no more than three steps through them, he froze.

  The man on the phone was standing right in front of him. Holding a handgun, with a silencer attached, no more than twelve inches from his face.

  FORTY FOUR

  As Fulken stood rooted to the spot, Lawson moved in and took the rucksack that he was carrying off his shoulder. He then pulled out a cable tie from his jacket pocket, and pulled Fulken’s hands behind his back and yanked the cable tie tight around his wrists.

  Ward then took Fulken’s arm and led him to the Mercedes, and bundled him into the rear seat.

  Ward then climbed in the back and sat next to him.

  “You still there Nicole-Louise?” he said out loud.

  There was a look of total confusion on Fulken’s face.

  “We have him,” he said, “Ask McDermott to meet me and Lawson back at the warehouse.”

  “You want me to make arrangements for our new guest?” McDermott’s voice filled the car through the speaker.

  “He won’t be coming,” Ward replied, “I have something else in mind for him.”

  “You ready?” Lawson asked.

  Ward nodded and Lawson pulled the car away.

  “I told you I would find you,” Ward said, “Bummer eh?” he added with a smile.

  Fulken looked at Ward.

  He finally remembered, he knew where he had seen him before,

  “It’s you!” was all he could think of to say.

  “Not giving too much for me to confirm, are you?” Ward replied, before unleashing a short, sharp jab to Fulken’s throat. His head shot back and then rocked forward, and he struggled frantically to get his breath back.

  “Don’t talk to me again unless I ask you a question.”

  Fulken looked down at his lap.

  He knew that the end of his life was inevitable, and he felt more vulnerable, alone and scared than he had ever felt before. He was still struggling to regain his breath, and this was compounded by the fact that he could not use his hands to rub his throat.

  “Now, tell me where you have seen me before?” Ward asked calmly.

  “My handler had a photo of you on the wall in the apartment where we used to have our meetings,” Fulken replied.

  He thought back to the name of Fulken’s CIA handler. Gilligan or Centrepoint had mentioned it but Ward could not remember it.

  “What was his name?” he demanded.

  “Gill Whymark.”

  “Why would he have a picture of me on his wall?”

  “I don’t know,” Fulken replied, “But it wasn’t only you.”

  “How many pictures were there?”

  “There were ten in total; I used to see them every time I was there.”

  “Describe the people in the pictures to me?”

  Fulken was still struggling to breathe, he could see that clearly, but Ward could also see that he was trying to think of the best way to describe the people in the photos, but he couldn’t.

  “They were all like you,” Fulken eventually replied.

  “What do you mean?”

  “They were all people who had that look about them. The look that says danger and all but one of them were people you could remember but not recognise.”

  “What was different about the other one?”

  “She was a woman,” Fulken replied.

  Ward knew that the ten pictures were probably the team that Centrepoint had assembled, he thought he knew who they all were, but there was not a woman among them. He decided to warn Centrepoint of this at a later date.

  “You know that your four million dollars has gone I presume?” he asked.

  Fulken’s reaction told Ward that he didn’t, “So all of this was for nothing,” he quickly added.

  He then unleashed another sharp, quick jab, this time it caught Fulken on the left cheek, just below the eye.

  “I took it. I gave it to the wife of a friend of mine. A friend who is now dead because of you,” Ward continued, “And right now, your family are being tortured in a cell, on an isolated boat, all because of you,” Ward lied.

  “If you hurt my family, I will search for you in hell and burn you,” Fulken screamed.

  “Of course, one call from me and I can stop it,” he said.

  Fulken took a deep breath and visibly tried to control himself.

  “What can I do to get you to make that call?”

  “How many people contacted you and gave you instructions once the ball was rolling on this?” Ward asked.

  “Just the one, The British Lord.”

  “Ashurst-Stevens?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know it was him?”

  “Because after you had told me who he was, I searched the web for him and found videos, and listened to his voice and I am good enough at this to recognise the right voice.”

  “You don’t look so good at it now.”

  Fulken looked down at his lap again.

  “You understand that I am going to kill you, yes?” Ward asked.

  “Unless I can be of some use to you?”

  Ward looked at him.

  There wasn’t the fear in his eyes that people who were going to die normally had. It made him reflect for a moment how he would react if the day came when he was faced with imminent death. He assumed he would probably react exactly as Fulken was, more in resignation than fear.

  “How can you be of use to me?” he asked.

  “In my bag there is an external hard drive. On it are the names and contact details for the European network of FFW cells. I can give you that in return for my life, and the pledge that I will never return to these shores.”

  Lawson leant over to the front passenger seat and tossed the rucksack back to Ward. He opened it and pulled out a nearly new Smith & Wesson handgun. He dropped the magazine out and checked the chamber for a bullet, it was empty, and he tossed it back onto the front seat next to Lawson. He then pulled out a thick wad of dollar bills.

  “How much is here?”

  “Thirty-five thousand dollars,” Fulken replied.

  He tossed the money on the seat next to Lawson,

  “Here,” he said to Lawson, “Buy some humility and modesty with that.”

  Lawson laughed out loudly.

  Next he pulled out three different passports.

  “You won’t be needing these,” he said and tossed them onto the front seat.

  At the bottom of the bag was a black external hard drive, not much bigger than a cigarette packet, with a small lead attached to it, for connecting to a USB port.

  “Is this it?”

  Fulken nodded.

  “Password protected?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is the password?”

  “If I tell you that I am dead,” Fulken replied.

  “You are dead anyway.”

  “I think the CIA would rather that I was kept alive.”

  “I don’t work for the CIA.”

  He had no doubt that Nicole-Louise and Tackler could break into the hard drive, and so he tossed it onto the front seat too.

  “It seems your bag is all empty,” he said, “You have nothing left to give.
”

  “I have names, knowledge, whatever you need. I can tell you who is who in America, New York is not the only State. I can be the most valuable asset that you have ever had,” Fulken said, looking desperate for the first time.

  “That’s what you told the CIA when they caught you last time was it?” he asked, “And they took you up on your offer, and then they set you up over here, and you turned around and abused that.”

  “It wasn’t like that. No one got hurt in New York did they?”

  “But lots of people got hurt in Paris and London,” Ward said, “And worst of all, my friend died as a direct result of your actions, and for that, above all else, you are going to die.”

  Fulken smiled at Ward.

  “Your friend was doing his job I take it?”

  “There are only two people left to deal with. You and a guy I have trussed up waiting for me in a garage. You will both die tonight.”

  “You think that by killing me in revenge for your friend’s death that it will make you feel better about losing him?” Fulken asked.

  Ward thought about the two bomb makers, Lucas and the lawyer, and how it had felt when he killed them, and how he did it for Gilligan.

  “Yes, it will,” he replied.

  “Agreed on that,” Lawson said.

  Asif Fulken looked down at his lap. He knew that this was the end, and he knew that there was nothing left that he could do.

  He knew that the man with the phone had won.

  And he had won comprehensively.

  He stayed looking down towards his lap and his eyes filled with tears.

  Lawson drove for another ten minutes and then said,

  “Will here do?” as they passed a business park full of warehouses and office buildings.

  “Perfect,” Ward replied.

  Lawson drove into the business park and continued around the one-way system until he saw a side road that ran behind a warehouse and stopped in front of four big industrial sized open containers, full of metal. He pulled alongside the biggest and least full one at the end, and turned the engine off.

  He stepped out of the car and walked around to the side of the door where Fulken was sitting. He opened the door and said,

  “Out!”

  Fulken stepped out.

  Ward walked around to the front of the car.

  Fulken was trying to look defiant and strong but Ward could see the fear starting to rush through him with each passing second. He thought of Gilligan and how he wished that he was alive to see the conclusion of everything coming together. The bomb had been found, Ashurst-Stevens was the chief architect behind it, and he was going to meet his maker very soon, and Fulken was standing here, alone and scared.

  He missed Gilligan for the first time right then.

  But he would make Fulken’s last few minutes on earth miserable. Mentally miserable, just as he had with the lawyer, he told himself, as he shoved Fulken hard, forcing him to fall back against the car and then slide down onto his backside.

  “Now is probably the time to tell you something,” he said.

  Fulken did not speak but started muttering a prayer to himself.

  “You think that God will forgive you for your sins?” he asked.

  “He forgives everyone,” Fulken replied.

  “Do you think your family will forgive you?”

  “My family stand by me. That is what a family does.”

  “There is no family anymore. They were eliminated four hours ago under my instruction,” Ward lied.

  Fulken looked up at Ward and yanked at the cable tie behind his back and screamed. It was a long, high pitched scream, full of devastation.

  Lawson moved forward and kicked him hard in the ribs, stopping the scream immediately.

  “How does it feel to know that I have killed them and didn’t give it a second thought?” Ward asked.

  “You will burn in hell. You are an animal,” Fulken screamed. He was crying now and there was residue running from his nose down to his mouth. He looked a pathetic sight. He looked just how Ward wanted him to look.

  “That is exactly what the families of the people in Paris and London think of you,” Ward said.

  “That was different,” Fulken said, “They were strangers, you deliberately took everything away from me,” he sobbed,” You will burn in hell.”

  “You stepped over a line. You came into my country and made a choice to kill innocent people. You should have accounted for the fact that we have got wise to you and your way of thinking,” Ward said.

  Fulken looked up at Ward slightly confused. So Ward continued.

  “We decided to fight back. Like for like. So they got people like me to lead the fight. No rules, a level playing field and no accountability,” he said, “And you know what?” he asked.

  Fulken said nothing.

  He just sat on the dirty gravel, leaning against the car, crying like a child who had just endured his first beating at school.

  “You know what?” Ward asked again.

  Lawson moved in and kicked him on the arm.

  “What?” Fulken reluctantly asked.

  “We are much, much better at this than you are,” he said.

  “You will burn in hell, you will burn to a cinder,” he replied, “You have already won so why not use me to help you keep winning?” Fulken begged.

  Ward looked down at the pathetic figure on the floor below him.

  A figure he had chased across the Atlantic and around New York and he felt anything but victorious.

  He felt duty.

  He felt duty to the people of Britain and America every day of his life and now, at this moment, he felt a duty to the people of France too.

  He felt that he was the one who was allowed to stand up for them in any way that he saw fit and that sat very, very well with him.

  “No one has won,” Ward said, “All that happens here is that I live to chase down the next bad guy.”

  He looked at Lawson and Lawson nodded at him.

  He slowly and calmly pulled out his Glock and pointed it at Fulken.

  Fulken started sobbing louder.

  He looked up at Ward and all he could see was a seven foot giant peering down at him.

  He could see the calm in Ward’s eyes.

  A calm that unsettled him even more.

  He saw no hatred, no anger or any sense of victory.

  He didn’t see good and he didn’t see evil.

  He saw the end.

  He saw all of the people that his bombs had destroyed over the years, swimming in Ward’s deep dark eyes, staring at him. He felt as scared, vulnerable, weak, insignificant and frightened as it was possible for a human being to feel.

  “Please, don’t,” he begged.

  Ward ignored him and raised the Glock,

  “You will burn in hell!” he screamed and Ward pulled the trigger four times. One second apart.

  The first bullet hit Fulken in the centre of the chest and his body slammed back against the car.

  That was for Mrs Gilligan.

  The second bullet hit Fulken in the heart.

  That was for the youngest Gilligan.

  The third bullet went straight into his heart too.

  That was for the eldest of Gilligan son’s.

  The last bullet hit Fulken in the centre of his face and literally blew it apart.

  That was for Gilligan.

  Lawson stood over the dead body and pulled out his own gun. He pointed it down at Fulken’s limp, lifeless body and pulled the trigger.

  The force of the bullet made the body jump slightly and Ward noticed the satisfaction spread across Lawson’s face.

  “That one was for you,” he said.

  Ward nodded back his appreciation.

  “I have a feeling he wants you to burn in hell,” Lawson said, trying to lighten the mood.

  Ward laughed softly.

  “So now back to his Lordship?” Lawson asked.

  “Yes, the last man standing. Or tied
up and sitting, to be more precise,” Ward replied.

  “You want me to call the clean-up crew?” Lawson asked, reaching for his phone to make the call.

  “No.”

  Lawson frowned.

  “Why not?”

  “I want him left there. Like a dead animal. That’s all he is. It can be smoothed over with the NYPD when he is found. He doesn’t deserve the dignity of being removed,” Ward replied.

  Lawson understood.

  He started the car, put it in reverse and moved back down the driveway slowly. The beam of the lights focussed on Fulken’s crumpled body, and they both watched as it became smaller and smaller, until Lawson turned the car out of the driveway.

  Ward took one last look at the body as Lawson put the car in drive and moved forward. And then the view of Fulken was gone forever, replaced by warehouses and office blocks.

  Ward looked at his watch.

  It was 00:15.

  By the time he had finished with Ashurst-Stevens and laid down the appropriate punishment, it would be 01:00am.An hour earlier than he had originally projected.

  For the first time over the past few days he offered himself some self-congratulation. Perhaps I am better than I think I am, he thought to himself.

  FORTY FIVE

  They drove back to the warehouse in complete silence.

  Ward was thinking about Gilligan all of the way. He had considered going to see Gilligan’s wife, but thought that would do more harm than good. His last words were to make him promise to look after his boys, but he figured that they already knew how much they were loved by him, and he concluded that giving them the vision of their giant of a father dying by the side of the road, begging for someone else to protect his children, would not be something they needed to know. He knew the four million dollars that Nicole-Louise had put into Mrs Gilligan’s account would help in the future, but it would not dull the pain she was feeling right now.

  He took his phone out of his pocket and saw that there were seven missed calls from Centrepoint.

  He decided not to call him back until Ashurst-Stevens was dead, and he would deal with the fallout then.

  Instead, he called Nicole-Louise.

  “Hello,” she answered.

  “It’s over,” he said, “Tell Walker and his son they are free to go.”