The Fire

by Robert White

  I must have looked confused, so Des helped me, as he always did.

  "C4 is a US-made explosive, first used in Vietnam; The IRA used Semtex in the seventies, which was similar but more sensitive and was easier to detonate. That said...this stuff is evil and has a higher velocity of detonation than Semtex, nearly twenty-seven thousand feet per second...It's devastating, makes a real mess... it's fucking expensive."

  He held up a warning finger. "Only worth the money though, if you can set the fuckin' stuff off."

  He showed us the neat wiring job inside the clock.

  "See this here, I know this is a real old school, but someone took their time with it. This was not their first attempt with a soldering iron. Either one of our team of three is a dab hand at wiring or they have access to one of the old Provos; one of the proper bomb makers from back in the day."

  Des prodded the explosive with his knife.

  "C4 is a bastard to set off, but I reckon this battery and detonator would have done it. Whoever made this knew what they were doing, someone from the IRA, not these numpties."

  Des touched his mouth gingerly and winced.

  "Tell you what though, two hundred thousand in a Swiss account and a bag full of decent quality C4 is gonna buy someone a whole boatload of marching powder. Maybe there's more to the deal, girls maybe? You said Maxi is in the trade, eh, Rick?...People trafficking and that?"

  Rick nodded, deep in thought.

  Des was thinking out loud. He picked up the plastic explosive and squeezed it in his hand.

  "Tell you what though. Dougie and crew were going to blow up dozens of Mancunians today, just because they could. No cause, no religion...and that my friends, is fucking mental."

  Rick Fuller's Story:

  We stayed the night in the lock-up.

  I felt uncomfortable about the whole job. Something just didn't sit right in my gut and I had learned to listen to that nagging doubt over the years.

  Was Clarke telling the whole story?

  Well I could answer that straight away, no, he was a spy.

  The Irish needed drugs and the Somalian boys wanted explosives. I suppose that I shouldn't be too surprised by that. Both had the goods in plentiful supply, add a lump of cash and there you go.

  Even so, something wasn't right.

  Lauren was showering and Des had made himself porridge. He sat at the table with me as I played with my phone.

  I turned all the information over in my mind one last time, before I dialled the number.

  It rang twice before the educated voice answered.

  "Cartwright."

  "Hello, Cartwright," I said. "Glad to hear you sounding so well."

  There was a brief pause. I guessed the aging spook was either enabling or disabling a recording device.

  "Richard; I thought we had a gentleman's agreement, old boy. No contact after our little...job."

  "We did. But you contacted me."

  "I don't recall that, Richard."

  "Not you exactly you, a colleague of yours; I asked for you, but he gave me to understand you were being kept out of the loop these days."

  "The loop, you say? Do you have the name of this gentleman?"

  "I do. He's a slime ball called Clarke."

  There was a brief silence, before Cartwright coughed and asked.

  "And the task Mr. Clarke has set you?"

  "Three Irish; Kristy McDonald, Ewan Findley, Dougie McGinnis and a dealer we now know to be a Somalian called Maxi."

  Another, longer silence.

  "You are correct, Richard, I'm not in this loop...I can't help you."

  I wasn't going to give in.

  "Twelve hours ago, the Irish dropped a bomb in the middle of a Boxing Day football crowd, just to show they had the balls. If it wasn't for us there would be bits of Manchester United fans all over Sir Matt Busby Way...Cartwright, this crew isn't wired right. We need some help here."

  There was another brief silence, another clicking sound. "Watch your back, old chap," he said.

  And the phone went dead.

  Des had brewed up. He poured two cups, and looked at me quizzically.

  "So Cartwright can't help?"

  "He's particularly unhelpful."

  Des rubbed his head.

  "Fuckin' hell; I hope the money is still on the table, I've a big bill coming fer me teeth."

  I gave the Scot a sideways glance.

  "Sorry, pal, I was just thinkin' out loud."

  I waited for Lauren to join us.

  She sat at the table drying her hair with a towel, noticed the lack of tea for her and picked up the vibe instantly. "What's up?"

  Des was in. "Cartwright has closed ranks; won't play ball. There's no more help coming."

  Lauren dropped the towel. "And that means?"

  "We're on our own...as usual."

  "So what do we do now? How do we find the Irish?" she asked.

  I thought for a moment, but there was no alternative. I would have to go back to the world I knew before.

  "Maxi," I said. "I say we start with that fucker."

  Des nodded and I set about telling the team my thoughts.

  Lauren North's Story:

  With Maxi as our new prime target, we had a place to start.

  He would be the easiest to trace. After all, he was a Manchester drug dealer, and Rick had some previous in that department.

  Back in the day, Rick had worked for most of the big names in the city. Joel Davies was the biggest. Even the Yardies headed by the Richards family had used the services of Richard 'The Collector' Colletti.

  The Davies and Richards drug empires had been devastated by Stephan and Susan Goldsmith. Their complex organisation destroyed them with stealth and violence never seen before on British streets.

  Rick Fuller, Des Cogan, and my dear self, had ensured the Goldsmith's demise.

  That said, the drug trade does not stand still. When one supply route stops, another one starts. With the removal of two major Manchester players a vacuum appeared.

  There had been a move from a major Liverpool crew to replace Davies. The Pakistanis already had a big chunk of the heroin trade; both were looking to expand.

  Neither saw Maxi coming.

  Within three short months he and his men tore through the competition like a hurricane, and the once penniless Somali refugee was now the undisputed number one dealer of heroin and crack cocaine in Manchester.

  Maxi was big and brash. He liked to be visible in the city. The gangster's crew were the opposite of your standard terrorist. There was no sneaking around under a veil of secrecy. It was part and parcel of their so-called credibility to flaunt their wealth and status as the undisputed kings of the seediest hill in Manchester.

  I knew that under normal circumstances, Rick would have dropped the whole job like a stone. Even with veiled threats about the alleged Belfast footage from Clarke, he didn't care if another drug dealer was about to make a killing on his old turf. But Maxi was in the market for a large amount of PE and that was a different matter to the boys. We had no way of knowing if the explosive was for Maxi's own use, or if he had a buyer. One thing was for sure, two ex SAS soldiers were never going to sit by and watch anyone plant IEDs on British soil. If it was all about cash and power, so be it. If it was about killing innocent bystanders in Peckham or Preston, then heaven help them.

  One thing for certain, the Somali gang leader was not to be underestimated. He was fearless, and as dangerous as any adversary we had ever faced; a cold-blooded killer without a conscience.

  There was a substantial Somali population in the UK and some five thousand were resident in the city of Manchester, predominantly in the Moss Side and Levenshulme areas.

  Rick knew that Maxi's crew used an old social club building in Levenshulme as their base.

  It was his castle; the centre of his kingdom. The police knew it was there.

  But it was left well alone.

  We had to take Maxi when he was at his most vulnerab
le. If we made a mistake and it became a war, we would be badly out-gunned.

  Therefore we needed a guy who could wander the area unnoticed and feed back information on Maxi's movements.

  The next morning, I was given the job of finding one.

  Rick had showered and changed into a casual pale blue Duck and Cover shirt and chino trousers. Des had called a friendly dentist and was almost ready to leave to get himself fixed. I had my laptop open on the table.

  "We have four ex Regiment boys on our books who are either black, mixed race or of Arab nationality; all are away on jobs at the moment. Two in Iraq, one in the Czech Republic and one in..." I tapped some more, "...Chechnya."

  I could see Rick's patience start to leave him. "So who have we got?" he grumbled.

  I shot him a look.

  "Do you want my recommendations from the list or not?"

  Des smiled, displaying his missing teeth. "Go on, hen."

  I sat back in my chair. "I interviewed and trained all our employees. You might not like what I have to say, but the best guy isn't ex SAS."

  Rick couldn't hide his dismissive tone. "You have someone better than the Regiment guys?"

  I pressed on, ignoring him.

  "J.J. Yakim, ex Turkish Special Forces; a very scary guy, not too sure about his temperament but his sniper and close quarter work was remarkable."

  Rick just couldn't stop himself from snorting. "J.J?"

  "Oh come on, Rick, I remember when you were called Colletti."

  "Ouch!" chirped Des.

  Rick held up a hand, he knew it was no time for bickering.

  "All right, it's on your head. I'm setting up a meeting with the Greek this afternoon to sort some extra weapons and get whatever intelligence I can on Maxi. I think it best we stay away from our office in Piccadilly for a while. Des, you get your mouth sorted and then pick up a new car. We can't use the RS6 again. Get something quick but disposable; pay cash. You know the script. Lauren, contact this J.J. and organise a meet for me at Caffè Nero on Oxford Road so I can give him the once over."

  I lifted my mobile. "Okay, shall I say three o'clock?"

  Rick nodded.

  I stood. "If it's any different, I'll let you know. I'm going to nip back to my flat and sort some clothes. This could take a while, eh?"

  I turned to Des and slapped him on the back.

  "Enjoy the dentist, mate."

  Rick Fuller's story:

  I had hoped that Spiros Makris would have recovered enough to do business, but it wasn't to be.

  I'd spoken to him briefly by telephone. "My heart is broken, Richard. My brother Kostas will meet with you... I am retired."

  Who was I to argue?

  Kostas insisted he didn't want to been seen in public with me.

  His family had suffered greatly at the hands of Stephan Goldsmith. As a direct result of assisting our team, Spiros had lost his only daughter. The family home had been invaded, and they had no intention of a repeat performance from Maxi.

  We met in his brother's ageing Ford Ka, a vehicle Spiros had reluctantly lent to me before we had travelled to Puerto Banus.

  It was just as messy as I'd remembered, and I had to remove several empty bottles of soft drinks and polystyrene containers that had once held some disgusting fast food, before I could sit down.

  Kostas was a big powerful guy. He bore little resemblance to his brother, other than his prematurely receding hair, which he attempted to disguise with a number one crew cut.

  He looked me up and down.

  "You have a nerve asking for our family's help again."

  I moved some crumpled tissues to one side with my foot so I could place my feet on the floor.

  "I understand your reluctance, Kostas. I'm sorry for your brother's loss, but this is business, and your family has always put business first."

  Kostas and his family were importers of olive oil, amongst other less salubrious items, and they were millionaires many times over. I was always unsure of what they spent it on. It certainly wasn't their mode of transport.

  Kostas hardened further and his eyes flashed the way his brother's did.

  "You have what I asked you for?"

  I removed a manila envelope from my jacket and handed it to the Greek. He nodded and secreted it in his pocket.

  "So," he began. "As you say, business is business...I can provide the hardware you ask for. Four MP7s will cost you eight thousand. The extended magazines, sighting systems and the silencers will be another two. I can get you ten boxes of cartridge; let us say five hundred a box. The pistol is a different matter. I don't have any Glock models at the moment, but I can provide a Sig that takes the same ammunition.

  I will throw this in for another, say, five hundred. Do you need any 9mm?"

  "I could do with something with good stopping power," I said.

  "Then I give you six boxes of American 9mm hollow point. They make a mess though."

  "I intend to make a mess, Kostas."

  The Greek pursed his lips and nodded again. He shrugged his shoulders so high I thought they'd touch his ears.

  "So the deal can be done for a very good price of seventeen thousand pounds."

  I wasn't going to barter with the man. Not only was he a man of integrity, but the price was fair.

  "Done," I said, "I'll move the money as soon as I have a secure line...Now what about our friend Maxi?"

  Kostas didn't produce a file. Nothing was written down.

  He turned down the sides of his mouth as he spoke, an indication that he didn't care for the subject matter.

  "Maxi is twenty-nine years old. Over the last few months, he has become the largest provider of heroin, crack and cocaine, in Manchester. He has many followers who will commit the crimes for him, this I tell you, Fuller; he is a very bad man."

  Kostas wagged a warning finger.

  "But mark my words, there is religion in the men. They are criminals yes, but Islam is inside their heart; Somalian is Sunni Muslim. They're not headed for the mosque on Friday, or pray four times a day, but it ties them all together, understand?"

  I nodded.

  "Maxi was member of Al-Muhajiroun. But he soon find out, being a terrorist don't make the money, just get you dead, eh?"

  Kostas turned in his seat.

  "My brother has told me all about you, Fuller, all your history. I know the things you have done, both the good and the bad, but these people are different.

  When that animal Goldsmith took out Richards and Davies, they let in a monster. Maxi is just this...a monster."

  The Greek let his head fall forward, as if he was tired of the scum of the earth.

  "Maxi was born in Mogadishu; I don't need tell you what it is like there. He arrived in Manchester as a fearless teenage boy and fell straight back into gangs and violence. He started by robbing skunk dealers, setting up deals to buy a kilos of weed for six grand or so...top price All goes well with this dealer and Maxi keeps on buying and paying till he get the trust of the man, okay? Then he asks for five kilos. This time he doesn't pay, you know? He robs the dealer with knife! At first he would sell the drugs on to the bigger names in town. This gave him credibility, showed he had the big balls yes...the status?

  Now, he overtakes them all and he is the head honcho.

  His team are like the Woolwich Boys in London. Heard of them? They run whole swathes of the city. They are law to themselves, no? He is not so big as the Woolwich crew, but he's getting there. The word is that Maxi has a hundred and twenty guys he can use for his war. They all Somali, all Muslim, and all will die for him.

  They use the route from Afghanistan, via the Pakistani border to traffic his goods. He has several factories. They cut and package his drugs, but unlike some big dealers, he has a hand in everything, right down to street level. He even uses his first cousin Ismail's taxi company to move and sell the ten and twenty bags. He has guys working from flop houses who deal the crack cocaine. They work in shifts like a fucking factory. This I tell you,
Fuller; it is a twenty-four-hour operation, worth millions."

  Kostas rooted in the glove box and found a plastic bottle of water. He guzzled it noisily. When he'd finished he threw it over his shoulder to the back seat, adding to the menagerie of clutter festering there.

  He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  "Maxi takes a cut of every sale; every single bag. Cross him, even for ten pounds and you are dead."

  He pointed a finger. "The drugs are big business, but Maxi has a new toy...people...young girls. He bring them from Eastern Europe or worse still, he grooms them...you understand this word? You have seen on the television yes? Most are vulnerable white girls.

  He uses his legitimate business interests, restaurants, takeaways, many places to attract the girls. His workers gain the girls trust, buy them presents, and treat them nice. They have no love at home, they think these men are their boyfriend. Then it change, the gang buy them alcohol, feed them drugs and demand sex. Then they share them between themselves, loan them to other gangs or use them as 'entertainment' at parties, even sell them to other pimps. These girls are so young, thirteen maybe fourteen."

  Kostas opened his window and spat out of it.

  "It is disgusting; barbaric."

  It was barbaric, but I had other fish to fry. I had only one question.

  "What about weapons and explosives, is he into that?"

  The Greek gave a laugh, his shoulders rising and falling with each breath. "He's a Somali, Fuller. He was born with a gun in his hand."

  I nodded.

  "Okay, thanks, Kostas. Please give your brother my best, eh?"

  The Greek tapped the jacket pocket again where he had stowed the envelope.

  "This will help," he said.

  Leaving Spiros with my head full of information, but with more questions than answers, I walked from the car park until reaching Caffè Nero.

  I stirred my coffee and mulled over everything the Greek had said.

  I'd always liked Caffè Nero on the Oxford Road, as it had folding front windows that opened onto the street. In summer they were invaluable, and I would sit with my double espresso and people watch as the city passed me by. In winter they remained firmly closed and ran with condensation, but the warmth of the shop and the smell of the coffee still made the room a comfortable place to enjoy the vibrancy of city life. Today however, I was feeling irritated by the general public. The Caffè was busy with shoppers keen to grab a bargain in the sales and many took up tables for four with their shopping bags when a smaller one would have sufficed.