The Fellowship, page 23
part #5 of Rick Fuller Series
It wasn’t to be, of course.
He opened his eyes and gave me a long look.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Probably as good as you.”
He sat up, stretched and checked his Rolex.
“Let’s go find Des,” he said.
We dropped down from the back of the wagon into bright sunshine. Des and Victoria were not hard to locate, they were sitting on part of one of the old battlements. They’d both changed their clothes and looked, to all intents and purposes, like a pair of holidaymakers.
Rick limped over.
“Any sign of the Yanks?” he asked.
Des shook his head. “Not so far.”
“Maybe they’ve gone fishing,” offered Sellers.
Rick gave her a look, rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a battered old Nokia.
“What’s that?” asked Des.
“Finbarr’s old phone,” he said. “It has the numbers of our alleged buyers in it, Hamza and Imran.”
He fired up the old brick.
“Don’t know about you, but I reckon it’s about time we made our presence felt.”
He dialled the number and whoever was at the other end answered immediately.
“No, it’s Devlin,” said Rick in what I could only presume was his best attempt at a Belfast accent.
“O’Rourke is dead, murdered.”
There was a silence, then he said. “They’re all here… and the ammo. Where’s the handover?”
Rick scribbled a name on a paper. “Okay, midnight as agreed.”
He closed the call.
“Well?” asked Des.
“Ardkilly Ridge,” said Rick.
“Sounds like a place for a last stand.”
It was Varèse. He stood alongside Mitch and wiped his bald head with a tissue.
“You got a boat yet?” asked Sellers.
“Sure have, Ma’am,” offered Mitch. “She’s a real beauty too. All modern conveniences.”
“You can sail?” asked Des warily.
“Of course,” smiled Marvin. “I have my own boat down in the Glades.”
“Aye,” said Des. “That’s all well and good, but this trip is going to be a wee bit different than a river cruise. This is the Celtic Sea we’re talking about here, son.”
Marvin waved a dismissive hand. “Aww, don’t stress, man. These things virtually sail themselves.”
Rick walked back to the truck, found a map, then returned to the group.
“Okay, here’s the exchange point. Where’s our boat right now, Varèse?”
Marvin took a quick glance at the map. “Here, the marina.”
“Good,” nodded Rick. “You pick her up, sail her and drop anchor… here, Lower Cove. From there you should be able to spot any decent sized craft entering the sound at Ardkilly. More importantly, you’ll see them coming out again. Once the deal is completed, we will RV with you, here… at Sandy Cove beach. You and Mitch go pick up the boat. Stay in touch and try not to get fucking lost.”
Varèse gave Rick a hard stare “Why do you guys always choose to use that dysphemism?”
“A what?” said Des.
“Dysphemism, repeated Varèse. “An expression with connotations that are offensive either about the subject matter or to the listener.”
“Load o’ shite,” said Des.
Rick allowed himself a grin. “Sellers…”
“Aye aye, sir,” she said, throwing up a mock salute.
“Are you still determined to fit these mines?”
“That’s what Cartwright said, Fuller. Who am I to argue?”
“Okay. So, the rest of us will drive up to the spot now, check out the lay of the land and where Sellers can get in and out of the water, undetected.”
Des turned to me and lowered his voice. “Mines? What the fuck is going on here, hen?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But I don’t like the sound of it.”
Rick Fuller’s Story:
We all stood at the front of the truck. I held the keys in my hand and squinted in the bright sunshine.
“It’s going to be a long night,” I said. “We okay for food? Water?”
“We could do with a few bits,” said Lauren.
I nodded. “There’s a service station come mini market on the main drag, we need diesel, anyway. I’ll stop there.”
Des and Sellers clambered in the back of the truck, leaving Lauren and me to sit rather awkwardly in the front.
As I pulled the wagon out of the car park, I could sense her eyes on me.
“Don’t say anything,” I said. “Not now. Wait until this is over.”
“There’s that fence again,” she said.
“What?”
“It doesn’t matter, Rick. Just drive.”
I pulled into the garage.
Des stepped straight to the pump and began to fuel the truck, whilst the girls went into the mini market for supplies.
“I’m bursting,” I said to the Scot. “You seen the bog?”
He gestured towards a hand written sign on the wall by the pay booth. I nodded and wandered around the back of the services.
I’d done what my body needed me to do and began to wash my hands at the sink. Again, I found myself examining my face in the mirror, only this time, the mirror wasn’t glass at all. It was made of polished metal which distorted my features.
Even so, I looked tired.
What fence was she on about?
I splashed cold water on my face and reached for a paper towel. As I opened my eyes again, I heard the door of the toilet open.
I had company.
It was none other than Sean Patrick McMullen and he didn’t look happy.
He was very pale and unsteady.
In his right hand he held a SIG Sauer P226. He clutched his stomach with his left, and I could see blood seeping through his fingers. His pure white hair brushed back over his forehead was streaked with claret.
“Richard Edward Fuller,” he said quietly, stepping carefully behind me. “I have waited so long for this.”
“I hope you’re not disappointed,” I said.
“Take the Browning from your belt and drop it in the waste basket there, sonny.”
I eyeballed him through the mirror. He waved the SIG to make his point. I did as I was told.
“You have caused me a great deal of problems, Mr Fuller,” said McMullen, wincing in pain, yet keeping the SIG firmly pointed at my back.
“It’s what I do best,” I said. “I like to be a thorn in the side to the average terrorist.”
He smiled. Those fucking shiny teeth that always annoyed the life out of me smeared with his own blood. He was in a bad way, which didn’t bode well for yours truly. The boy had nothing to lose.
“The moment I saw you in the bar,” he coughed. “I knew it was you. You haven’t changed much in twenty years.” He staggered slightly but straightened and held the gun firm. “Her Majesty’s SAS Trooper, dishonourably discharged, and now what? Thief, gun runner. How the mighty have fallen, Fuller.”
“You seem to know a lot about me.”
He snorted, and blood trickled from his nose. He didn’t even appear to notice.
“People tend to tell the truth after the second kneecap,” he said.
So, Fin had kept to our back story, despite his agony. Brave boy… deserved a medal.
“We all have to make a living,” I said. “And I do enjoy ripping you Paddies off… Just like old times.”
“Aye,” said McMullen. “I hear you relish doing the dirty work for Manchester’s drug dealers and pimps these days. So, in a way, what I’m about to do, well, it’s almost a public service.”
I had to smile at that.
“Yeah, you always were a pillar of the community, McMullen. You’d kneecap your own mother if you thought she’d rob you of a euro.”
“But it’s you who’s robbing me, isn’t it, Fuller? I have to say, I’d had you down as a company man. More in the MI6 category, doing Whitehall’s bidding. But you fell off the perch, didn’t you? After Cathy, I mean. After Paddy and Tommy paid you a visit. That’s how I recognised you. Paddy O’Donnell had your picture you see?”
“I gathered.”
“He was given it by… “
“I know the story, McMullen. I made it my life’s work”
“Yes, of course you did… And now you have your vengeance. Tommy Brannigan died slowly, you know?”
“Every cloud,” I said.
His breathing was shallow and even through the grubby mirror, I could see his pupils were dilated. The bullet wound to his gut must have caused some serious damage. His body would be pumping epinephrine, into his bloodstream to try and fix the problem. His pulse banging in his head, his muscle strength waning, blood pressure dropping. He was dying.
McMullen gulped air.
“Y’know, I didn’t have you down as a gun runner, Fuller. Getting in bed with scum like O’Rourke. Just goes to show, ye can’t trust anyone these days.”
He stumbled slightly but recovered his composure.
“I’d hoped that Tommy’s sons would see to you, but sadly they failed me. Then, there was always the possibility of taking you out on the road, but, as you well know, it wasn’t to be.”
“Sorry to disappoint you… And it looks like you caught one of your own rounds. That’s brightened my day.”
“I’ll live long enough,” he said baring those teeth again. “Long enough to see you dead…”
I heard the safety click, and then the crack of a pistol hurt my ears, but nothing else.
I turned to see Sellers standing in the doorway, arm outstretched and that beautiful R9 smoking in her hand.
McMullen had slid down the wall, a line of his own blood etching his progress along the plaster.
“We can’t leave you alone for a minute, can we, darling?” she said.
I gave her a look. “Help me shove him in the cubicle, Sellers… He’s a dead weight.”
* * *
Ardkilly Ridge is actually a narrow road that runs alongside the banks of the river Bandon at a place called Sandy Cove. The thin stretch of water is shallow at low tide and is popular with small pleasure boats.
We got the truck as close to the water’s edge as possible and Lauren got a brew on whilst I sat alongside Des on the pebbled shoreline, looking down the inlet towards the open sea.
“Quiet spot this,” I said.
Des smoked his dreadful pipe as we watched Sellers wade into the river.
“It is, bet it makes for fine fishing, though.”
“Never could get my head around that.”
“Peace, mate,” said Des. “Peace and quiet.”
He changed the subject. “Hey, remember Si Garcia, pal?”
I nodded. “Course I do. He was part of our patrol when we went after McMullen first time around. We should have gone back to his house and slotted that fucker back then.”
Des tapped his pipe on the heel of his boot and refilled it. “Probably right, pal… anyway,” he made a show of nodding towards Sellers. “They were an item. Met in Basra. Si was working for some Yank security firm.”
“Jesus, small world, eh?”
“He was killed last year. Roadside bomb.”
I shook my head. “Oh dear.”
Des lit his pipe again and took a long drag. “Apparently, he talked about us a lot, and when she saw our names on the RDL website, well, that’s why she applied.”
“She’s good. No doubt about that.”
“Aye, but she’s fucked up, too. Lauren says that she was in the same Snatch Land Rover as Si when the bomb went off. Sat right next to him. She never had a scratch.”
“When it’s your time, eh?” I said.
Sellers walked over. “Fucking brass monkeys,” she shouted. “But I reckon I can get in and out without a problem.”
“Good,” I said. “Des was just telling me about Si Garcia.”
She looked at the Scot and then to me. “Some people have a big mouth,” she said, and walked off.
* * *
With the tracking devices safely in place and the mines stowed in the long grass a safe distance from our position, all we had to do was wait.
Night fell, and with no ambient light to spoil their show, the stars came out in abundance. Yet again, I was left feeling that had things been different, I would have loved to spend more time on this beautiful island.
At 2320hrs, my comms crackled into life. It was Varèse. A vessel big enough to transport our cargo was making its way up towards our position.
Ten minutes later we saw the navigation lights on the boat in the distance.
I turned on the headlights of the wagon to guide them in. Des and Lauren sorted their weapons out and took up their positions.
Game on.
Just before midnight, the boat dropped anchor and killed its engines. Once again, the night was silent apart from the lapping water.
I stepped forward. Lauren and Des flanking me. All of us armed, ready, tense.
Two men appeared on deck. Both were tall, slender and sported full beards. They wore dark coveralls and gloves. Both carried rifles.
“Devlin?” one shouted.
“Aye, that’s me,” I said, doing my best with the accent. “Will you be Hamza?”
“I am… but we need to check the cargo,” he said. “To be sure it’s all there.”
“And I need to see the colour of your money.”
A third and fourth man appeared on deck. Both carried M16’s. I heard Des rack his AK. Violence filled the air. Hamza held up a hand towards his men.
“We all need to feel secure, Mr Devlin,” he shouted. “With O’Rourke gone, we feel nervous. He vouched for you, but we are most anxious.”
Hamza lay down his weapon on the deck and showed his empty hands.
“Can I come ashore and take a look at the merchandise?” he shouted.
“You may,” I said, removing my Browning from my belt and handing it to Des.
The boy stepped forward and pushed a gangplank onto the pebbles. In my peripheral vision, I could just make out the dark shape of Sellers as she waded silently into the water, fifty metres away.
Hamza strode confidently down the plank and held out a hand.
I took it.
“What happened to O’Rourke?” he asked.
“There was an argument about the price,” I said. “The old guard got greedy.”
“Money is a terrible curse, Mr Devlin.”
“Only when you don’t have any,” I said.
I opened the rear doors of the truck and Hamza climbed up onto the tail. He prised open the first crate and pulled a rifle from it.
“Nice,” he said. “Very nice indeed. You are a man of your word, Mr Devlin.”
“I am,” I said.
Hamza jumped down from the truck and shouted to his men. “Imran, Ivan, Josip. Come now, move the goods aboard.”
It was my turn to halt the proceedings.
“Steady there, my friend. Let’s you and I go to your boat, there. You can show me the money. Then you can load the goods, and we’ll all relax a wee bit.”
Hamza thought for a moment, then smiled.
“This makes me happy,” he said and beckoned me aboard.
We climbed the plank and Hamza stepped below deck. I followed, finding myself standing in a small cabin that had a square table fastened to the centre of the polished wood floor. Hamza disappeared into a second room for a moment and returned with a briefcase. He dropped it in front of me.
“Three hundred and twenty thousand euro,” he said dramatically.
I pulled some random bundles from the case, checked that they were as they should be and closed it again.
“All there,” I said. “Let’s crack on, eh?”
“Of course,” said Hamza.
We made our way onto the deck again and watched as Hamza’s boys got on with it. They worked methodically, opening each crate in turn, then re-securing the lid before carrying it onto the boat. Twenty minutes later, the crates were aboard, and I made to leave with the cash.
As I picked up the case, Hamza stood in my way. “Please, Mr Devlin. The tide is in our favour for at least an hour. Will you have a small drink of tea with me to celebrate our business venture?”
I instantly smelled a very large rat. “I’m a coffee drinker myself, son,” I said.
“Yes, yes, of course you are, how impolite of me. Coffee then.”
He turned and shouted behind him. “Imran! Coffee for our friend.”
It was a play for time, we all knew it was. Off to my left I could see Des moving himself into cover. Lauren was in the kneel, tucked into the trucks front wheel arch. AK in the aim. I couldn’t see Sellers, but I knew she was there. If this went off, there would be no winners.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the boy, Imran, appear from below. He carried a circular metal tray, balancing it, one handed. Behind him was a big brute of a man. Shaved head, black t-shirt, shoulder holster.
“Ha,” offered Hamza. “The very best Columbian.”
Black t-shirt stood behind Imran, hands clasped in front of him, eyeing me closely.
It was then I saw it. There, on his hand, sat between thumb and forefinger, picked out in the moonlight. That simple tattoo of the sail in the wind. This guy was indeed Yunfakh.
Imran held the tray under my nose. Sitting there were two small cups of coffee. Next to those were the two tiny grey transmitters Sellers had concealed in the crates.
Hamza’s smile receded, his dark eyes turning black as the night.
“You try to betray me, Mr Devlin,” he whispered. “Although, that is not your true name, I’m sure. This, of course is not my issue. We will concern ourselves with such trivialities at a later date. But for now,” he picked up the transmitters and tossed them onto the shore. “For now, you will be our guest.”
