The Fellowship, page 4
part #5 of Rick Fuller Series
“Always there with the one liners, eh, Des,” said Lauren, with a relieved, fleeting smile. “Now hold still, this may hurt.”
Des winced as she began to remove his boot and inspect the damage to his foot.
“Steady there, lassie. Where’s yer bedside manner when a man needs it?”
Mitch had already sprinted over to the Audi to recover a basic first aid kit and some meds. As he made it back, I hunkered down next to my old pal.
“We’ll get you a Guinness before you can say ‘Jack Robinson’ mate. No problem.”
The Scot managed a brief grin at that.
Lauren and Mitch applied pressure and began to stem the flow of claret from his bullet wound.
He screwed his face up in pain under their touch.
“What happened,” I asked him.
He took a deep breath. “After the bastard threw Maggie from the van, I lost my rag and I kind of shot mysel’ in the foot, eh, pal?”
I shook my head at the Scot’s attempt at humour under such tragic circumstances and marvelled at his pain threshold.
“You’re a nutter,” I said, and turned my attentions to the body of Siddique Al-Mufti.
He was obviously as dead as his men in the van. He’d suffered a compound fracture to his right femur and his blood had soaked through his trousers and into the ground beneath.
It shone black in the moonlight.
At first, I considered that he had simply bled out after the accident. Then I noticed a purple bag next to his body.
It looked like some kind of religious item. The kind of thing a priest might carry to an altar. I lifted it up and found it contained a number of crudely fashioned nails. A dim light came on in my head and I remembered that purple fibres had been found at the scene of Todd Blackman’s murder.
Kneeling to take a closer look at the boy, I saw that someone had driven a six inch nail smack bang in the centre of his forehead.
I looked over to Des who was barely conscious. “I thought you were no good at DIY?”
The Scot snorted. “That was for Frankie Green,” he said wincing in pain. “…And for Maggie too. We… we need to find her, mate. She’s out there somewhere. She may still be…”
I cut him off. No point in prolonging the matter.
“No, mate. Sorry, she’s gone. But we’ve got her in the car. We’ll sort it, don’t worry.”
Des turned his face away. “Fair one,” he said.
I stood, found my mobile, walked out of earshot of the team and dialled the number I needed. Cartwright answered on the second ring.
He was silent as I briefed him, then offered, “That’s good work, Fuller. Very good work. Can you get Cogan to Sheffield… to the infirmary?”
“I think we’ll make it there, yes.”
“Good. I’ll make a few calls to clear your way… keep the local Constabulary out of your hair. But listen, Fuller. Put Al-Mufti and the woman in the rear of the van, clear any weapons and spent cartridges and fire the whole scene. You understand me?”
“Jesus, Cartwright. The woman deserves better than that. Des and her were…”
“That’s not a request, Fuller,” snapped the old spy. “This was never a fucking democracy. It ties up some loose ends in your neck of the woods and keeps the Americans happy.”
“You mean it removes a connection to Todd Blackman’s murder.”
“Just do it, Fuller. Enjoy your million dollars… I’ll be in touch… sooner than you think.”
The million dollars was the fee the CIA had agreed with The Firm and us to solve Todd Blackman’s murder without there ever being the need for a trial. Young Todd was outwardly gay and his father, Senator J.E. Blackman, a front running Presidential candidate, couldn’t risk that little snippet becoming public knowledge. We were quickly becoming MI6’s blunt instrument and I didn’t like it one bit.
“I think we need a break,” I said.
Cartwright snorted. “Idle hands don’t suit you, Fuller.”
With that, the old spy closed the call.
We lay Des across the back seats of the Audi and Lauren got a pipet of morphine into him. He muttered Maggie’s name under his breath, then within seconds, he was out like a light.
I gestured for Mitch and Lauren to come to me.
“Cartwright wants the whole scene cleaned and torched… Lauren, clear the van of any obvious weapons, ammunition, spent stuff, anything traceable. Mitch, get Al-Mufti’s body, pull that fucking nail from his head and drop him in the rear of the van.”
I popped the boot and saw Lauren’s face change as she realised what I was about to do.
“You can’t,” she said incredulously. “For fuck’s sake, Rick. You promised Des… “
I grabbed Maggie’s right wrist and began to move her corpse.
“Orders, Lauren. From the top.”
She strode over, her face full of anger.
“And since when did you become Cartwright’s lapdog?”
I lifted Maggie from the boot, pulled her body over my shoulder and gave Lauren a sharp look.
“Just sort the weapons, Lauren.”
As we pulled away, the Transit burned brightly on the horizon. Mitch drove, Lauren sulked, Des slept.
I knew why Cartwright wanted the scene to look the way it did. Okay, the driver’s corpse had taken a single round buried deep in his back and there would be a strange hole in Al- Mufti’s skull, but after the ferocious blaze that would burn long into the night before the services arrived, on first sight it would look like a terrible accident. A little gentle persuasion from The Firm, when it came to the post-mortems, and the whole business would be brushed under the carpet, all nice and neat.
The Firm would let the local cops continue their dreary investigation into Todd Blackman’s murder, until it eventually petered out without a single arrest, just the way the Yanks wanted it.
With Yunfakh’s threat to the UK nullified in a single week’s work, and Senator Blackman firmly back in the running for the White House, Cartwright would consider the book closed.
However, our ‘friends’ across the Atlantic still had the small issue of Mason Carver, their double dealing senior operative to contend with. He was currently lying in a morgue somewhere in Manchester, with half his face missing. As far as I was concerned, Mitch had done us all a favour when he’d put that .44 in his cheek, but I had a sneaky feeling that we hadn’t heard the last of it. The boys from Langley, Virginia would have wanted Carver alive. They would have wanted to know what he knew, and just who else was involved in his treachery. I reckoned that any future jobs involving the hunt for Yunfakh, would also involve the CIA.
Of more concern to me, was Abdallah Al-Mufti himself.
We had slotted his son and his gang had been driven from British soil. With them had gone any chance of his boss, Khalid Kulenović winning the billion dollar construction contract in Ancoats. Put those two small events together and it spelled trouble for our team.
The rich and powerful rarely lay down after such setbacks. And I knew we would need to tread carefully until both major players were out of the game.
Twenty minutes later, the Audi’s satellite navigation unit announced we were at Sheffield Infirmary. The hospital’s surgical team had already been briefed by persons unknown, and, as we pulled up outside A&E, Des was instantly lifted from the back seat by medics who called out his blood pressure and other vital signs as they placed him on a gurney. Within minutes, he was prepped and on his way to theatre.
I stood in the starkly lit waiting room. Two drunken women sat arguing in one corner. Both sported the signs of a recent fist fight and constantly goaded each other. I was forced to step over and read them their horoscope before I lost my rag completely and threw them through the fucking window.
It had been a stressful day.
Mitch struggled bravely with an ageing coffee machine in the corridor.
Lauren stepped in the room, gave the two, now quiet, women a cursory glance and then glared at me. She was pale and drawn. More to the point, she obviously still hadn’t forgiven me.
“Is this what we do now, Rick?” she said coldly. “Play politics?”
I shrugged, not quite knowing what to say. Big picture speeches didn’t seem appropriate, so I kept my mouth shut.
Lauren had different ideas. “Des cared for Maggie you know?”
“I know.”
“But it didn’t enter your head that her family, or even Des, may want to see her buried? That they may have wanted to have a funeral, to be able to say their last goodbyes?”
Goodbyes were not on Cartwright’s list. The Firm would ensure that no one in the van would ever be identified. Maggie would be reported missing by the staff in her pub, and would join the thousands of adults every year, never to be found. It was a shame, but it was all part of the game we were in. Lauren was upset. Des would be angry with me. Both would just have to suck it up.
Mitch saved me any further awkward questions by walking over balancing three small plastic cups in his hands.
The perfect gentleman, he handed Lauren her cup first. “Ma’am.”
“Thanks Mitch,” she said quietly.
“Mr Fuller.”
“Thanks,” I said, taking a sip of the shockingly bad, but welcome brew.
Mitch sniffed his cup, considered it palatable enough and took a drink. “What now, Sir?”
I raised my eyebrows and blew out my cheeks. “Well, believe it or not, Mitch, once we have our Desmond on the mend, we still have a business to run over in Manchester. What about you, pal? We always have room for a good CP guy.””
The American shrugged his massive shoulders. “Well Sir, now that is the question, ain’t it? I’d say I’ll be answering a few questions about Mason Carver for a piece. But once they get that out of the way, who knows?”
Lauren managed a smile.
“It’s been good working with you, Mitch.” She turned to me and gave me the evils. “Nice to have a man around who knows how to treat a lady.”
If Mitch had been wearing a cowboy hat, I swear he’d have tipped the fucking thing. “Delighted, Ma’am,” he said, grinning like a Cheshire cat. “I may even stay a while with the scenery being so pretty an’ all.”
I swear Lauren fucking blushed.
I checked my Rolex.
“Well, we may as well get some rest until Des is out of theatre,” I said. “I say we find a hotel. I know a really nice boutique place not far from here.”
Lauren shook her head. “We passed a Travelodge on the way in, didn’t we? That will do us for a few hours.”
I returned the look she’d been giving me.
“Lauren, in the last forty minutes, one million US Dollars, has been transferred into our business account, and I will not be staying in a hotel that’s made from concrete slabs and serves a fucking buffet breakfast.”
Des Cogan’s Story:
Maggie sat at the end of my bed, looking wonderful. She smiled at me, her eyes full of affection. To her left was my ex-wife, Anne. She was dressed in a pale pink blouse, one that I’d bought her when we’d been on a rare holiday down south. She had all her hair back, the cancer that had racked her body, seemingly gone… pretty as a picture. As usual though, she looked concerned about me.
To Maggie’s right was Frankie Green. He looked fit as a flea and there were no holes in his wrists.
“How you feelin’, Jock?” asked Frankie, his voice hoarse.
“This is a dream, ain’t it?” I asked.
Frankie shrugged.
“You look pale,” said Maggie.
“I’m doin’ alright,” I said. “Nice of yer all to drop in like. But it’s only a flesh wound. I’ll be up and about in no time.”
“That’s not what the surgeon said when he took the bullet out,” said Anne, her voice as equally as dry as Frank’s.
“Oh aye?” I said. “What did he say, like?”
“Bone damage,” said Maggie. “Those little ones that footballers are always breaking just before a World Cup.”
“Metatarsals?”
“Aye that’s them,” said Frankie. That and some ligaments. You’ve been on the table a while. You’ll be on crutches for a good few weeks they reckon.”
“And you need to pack that pipe in, too,” added Anne. “You ain’t getting any younger you know. I mean. Look what happened to me, eh?”
I felt a sudden pang of guilt.
“Don’t be like that,” scolded Anne. “You were the only one with the guts to help me, and for that, I’ll always be grateful.”
I didn’t know what to say. Finally I asked, “Is it, well… is it nice where you all are?”
“Food’s not too good,” said Frankie. “And I miss the wife and kids.”
“I’m going to miss you,” said Maggie quietly. “We didn’t have enough time.”
“There’s never enough time,” I said.
As if to prove my point a sharp insistent voice began calling me.
“Mr Cogan! Mr Cogan!”
I opened my eyes and turned my head to see a tall man in a surgical mask.
“Aye, that’s me.”
“Good, you’re awake. Are you in any pain?”
I had a think. Strangely, I wasn’t.
“No, I’m fine, Doc.”
The guy was Irish, from the south. “You sure? I can give you something if you are. I mean, I’ve fused some small bones in your foot there.”
He pulled down his mask to reveal a handsome smiling face. “It’s not every day I get to pull a bullet from someone. A shooting accident they say, uh?”
“Aye,” I said, thinking how swiftly The Firm worked when they needed to. “I must remember the safety catch next time. To make matters worse, I banged me shoulder too.”
“Ah, yes,” said the Doc. “You got away with some severe bruising there. Luckily nothing broken or dislocated. However, there are some small rib fractures from another recent injury. Are you accident prone, Mr Cogan?”
“Riding accident,” I said.
“Really?”
I nodded and moved on. “I believe you’ve fixed some metatarsals in the foot… and a wee bit of ligament damage, too.”
The Doc looked at me like I was mad.
“Quite a lot, yes. But I have to say it’s the first time I’ve had a patient tell me what I’ve just done to them on the table.”
He turned to leave the room, his visit at an end.
“But, just press the buzzer if you change your mind about the pain relief, Mr Cogan. A surgery like that causes the body quite some trauma.”
“Thanks, Doc,” I said. “I will.”
He smiled at me again. “And, if you want my advice, Sir. Maybe you should leave this shooting lark to the professionals.”
I shook my head.
“Aye, maybe you’re right there, eh?”
Lauren North’s Story:
We’d been forced into the Travelodge after all. Rick’s posh boutique thingy was booked up, apart from the Honeymoon suite and he’d been as grumpy as I’d ever seen him.
He’d risen at death o’clock and found somewhere to buy a change of underwear for us, but we all still sported the signs of battle, with speckles of Des’ and Maggie’s blood on our outer clothing.
It drew the odd sideways glance from the various reps and commercial travellers enjoying the unlimited full English.
Rick and Mitch both seemed to follow the same diet regime of masses of grilled protein, fresh fruit and gallons of water.
I opted for porridge, honey and a banana, washed down with three cups of black coffee.
Just before nine o’clock, we all stood in the hotel car park, whilst the nice people from Audi dragged my broken RS6 onto a transporter and a guy in a very shiny suit delivered my replacement car.
Much to Rick’s annoyance, it was only the S-line model.
I mentioned the availability of taxis to him, received a glare that would seriously injure most at a thousand yards, and the three of us piled into the jet black rental, with only two of us smiling.
Ten minutes’ drive saw us paying the extortionate fee to park the car in the visitor’s bays at Sheffield Infirmary. Then, it was a short walk to the reception area where we were directed to Ward 11.
Des occupied a private room.
He was propped up, his left leg raised and heavily bandaged.
As we filed in, he managed a smile.
“Ye took ye time,” he said. “Dinnea tell me, the big man’s been shopping.”
“We needed skids,” said Rick sitting next to his only friend. “How you feeling, pal?”
“Aww, I’m okay. Problem is, ma foot’s a wee bit of a mess, eh? At least the shoulder isn’t dislocated. But I’m turning all the colours of the rainbow from the neck down. I had to tell the Doc that I’d fallen off me horse the week before. I wouldn’t mind but my ribs are still killing me from Albania.”
“You’ve been in the wars alright,” I said.
Rick grabbed Des’ good arm. His eyes dark. He lowered his voice and gave him the bad news.
“We had to torch everything, pal… clean the scene. I mean, everything, including Maggie. I’m sorry mate, Cartwright was insistent.”
Des seemed distant for a moment, as if recalling a time he’d tasted something unpleasant.
“No worries,” he said. “Ye did what ye had to.”
The Scot turned his attention to Mitch, changing what was obviously a painful subject.
“And how are you, big fella?”
Mitch raised his brows. “I had a small issue, Mr Cogan. You remember Mason Carver?”
“Oh yeah,” nodded Des. “Slimy fucker if you ask me.”
“Well,” said Mitch. “Seems y’all were on the perceptive side there. Mr Carver was on Yunfakh’s payroll from the beginning.”
“And?” questioned the Scot, flinching as he lifted himself against his pillows.
