The Fire (4 page)

Rick Fuller's Story:

I quite like the Emirates. It has its faults and downsides, but in the main I do like it. I figured it was a good place to debrief and have some R and R.

The Sheraton in Abu Dhabi is one of the older hotels in the city. It looks like a strange sandcastle, every building in the city seems taller than the eccentric structure, but it has a good beach, a top gym, six great restaurants, wonderful service, even a pub for Des.

In September the weather is predictably hot and dry, but without the murderous humidity of the summer months and I looked forward to the shopping in nearby Dubai.

The roads are fabulous and as Cartwright and his team had kindly managed to find some, if not all of my money stolen by Goldsmith and Co; and our fee for O'Donnell had already been processed, I was itching to rent some nice wheels.

After taking a cab from the airport I'd been shown to my executive suite, which would be my home for the next few weeks, by my personal bellboy, a very helpful Filipino guy by the name of George.

I immediately found the gym. I should have slept, but there was an itch that needed scratching. Maybe because of the way the job had gone down in Belfast or maybe it was just nervous energy, I don't know, but I beasted myself for over an hour. All the TV's in the gym replayed news footage of the Twin Towers from five years earlier. I had noticed a small anti-American demonstration on the Corniche as I arrived. I always have a wry smile for the Emirati men who take part in these events, wearing Nike baseball caps and drinking Coke.

The irony is not just lost; it vanished with the oil money.

The 'breaking news' covered an incinerated corpse found inside a burnt out Bentley Continental in Belfast, believed to be a senior politician.

By the time I'd finished my weights, Sky had named O'Donnell as the victim and 9/11 'remembered' had dropped to second spot. We were headline news.

La Mammas is a good Italian. I'd eaten there many times when I'd been out to an arms fair in the city in 2004. The tableware and presentation is excellent and the portions are large enough to satisfy a dour Scot.

At exactly one p.m. the three of us sat around our table, rubbing roasted garlic bulbs onto warm Ciabatta bread washed down with a very pleasant Giacomo Conterno Barolo Monfortino. I love a classic Barolo-style wine; and the Monfortino is one of the oldest, aged in casks for many years and made with native Italian Nebbiolo grapes. It has a deep, mineral flavour mixed with berry and spice; at eight hundred Dirham a bottle, not cheap.
It is best served with white truffle ravioli or grilled lamb, but I ordered Cacio e Pepe; a pasta dish with Pecorino Romano sheep cheese and black pepper. Lauren plumped for boneless oxtail with celeriac puree; Des ordered a pizza and to my horror demanded chips with it.

We ate in relative silence. Des rarely spoke when eating as he considered it a distraction from the process of devouring everything on his plate as quickly as possible. I'd complained about his table manners many times but he always explained that if he didn't eat quickly the 'big lads' would get it; a reference to his childhood days, when school dinners were sometimes the only hot meal of the day for poor Glaswegian kids, and the bigger you were, the more you got to eat.

I went to top up his glass, but he held his palm over it and shook his head. "I'm gonna have a beer, pal, I'm no keen on the wine."

"Philistine," I said.

I waved the bottle in Lauren's direction.

"I'll have another glass," she said.

Lauren looked pale and tired.

"How are you feeling?" I asked, the wine coating her glass as I poured.

"I'm fine. I'm okay."

Des finished the last of his chips and wiped his mouth with a linen napkin.

"It's normal to feel a bit shit after a job like that, hen."

Lauren pushed some more food around her plate, looked at us both in turn then snapped.

"I said I was okay, didn't I?"

I raised my hands. She would talk about it if and when she wanted to. I remember the first time I was involved in a close quarter kill. It changes you, believe me. Squaddies have counsellors now; but the macho image of the SAS would never allow a man to admit that he was fazed by a job, let alone visit a shrink.

I did my best to draw a line under the conversation.

"Fine; well I say, we have a walk down to the pool bar and get some sunshine on our faces."

Des accepted a bottle of Peroni from the waiter and took a long guzzle from the neck. "I say we get fuckin' pissed and celebrate. I've just taken delivery of two hundred and fifty thousand, pal."

Lauren raised a glass and a half-smile. "I'll drink to that."

So the drinks flowed and we were still sitting at our beachfront table when the sun dropped like a stone beneath the horizon. We talked about everything except Belfast. I think we raised a few eyebrows with the other guests by being loud. I considered it unlikely they would say anything.

Des had removed his shirt and was inspecting his midriff.

"I'll be needing to get in that gym tomorrow, guys," he slurred. "I'm gettin' a fat bastard."

Lauren leaned over and pinched slightly more than an inch of the Scot's belly, she was well on her way with the drink herself.

"You're a fine figure of a man, Cogan, I'd shag you."

Des laughed and furnished me with some information I didn't know.

"Well you had yer chance, hen, and you knocked me back."

Lauren shot me a look I couldn't quite read and changed the subject.

"So what's the plan, boys? We going to paint the town red or what?"

Des stood unsteadily. "I'm no painting anything; am away to my bed fer a couple of hours."

I looked at my friend swaying from side to side, his feet planted firmly on the floor.

"I think we all need some kip," I said.

What happened next surprised me. Even Des raised an inquisitive eyebrow despite the drink.

Lauren grabbed my hand. "No! I mean... not yet...eh?"

Sudden embarrassment took hold and she released her grip slightly. "I mean, stay and have another, just one more eh? I'll get a waiter."

Des raised a hand. "Not for me, hen;" he caught my eye and unlike Lauren's previous attempt, I understood his unspoken message perfectly. "Why don't you two carry on without me? I'll meet you in The Tavern later."

I looked at Lauren; she gave an almost imperceptible nod.

"Okay, I'll have one for the road," I said.

Lauren sat back in her chair and relaxed a little; Des made his way back to his room, bumping into guests and muttering apologies.

From the moment I met Lauren North, I knew she was different. A beautiful woman without question; I mean classically beautiful; not like some of the models you see now with exaggerated features. With Lauren, everything was in perfect balance; great hair, eyes, body; a man could do a lot worse, believe me.

That would be enough for most, but this girl had something very special; she just didn't know it.

If she'd been a soldier, rather than a nurse, she would have been a spook by now. You just don't find that natural talent; that analytical brain; that sheer courage.

But even with all the balls in the world, sometimes you just aren't prepared for a close quarter kill.

I'd tried to tell her about the O'Donnell job in that bar across from The Merchant. I tried to tell her what it might do to her head,

I studied her across the table as she played with ice in her glass.

"I think you did a great job," I said.

Lauren placed her drink on the table and stared at it, not meeting my gaze.

"I feel dirty, Rick, dirty like you wouldn't believe; and to make it fucking worse, you heard it all."

I reached over, it was a big step. I took her hand.

"Lauren, thanks to you, I've got what I've wanted after all this time. Of course, you know, I would've loved to have pulled the trigger myself, but you were right in The Nest that night, and you did the job. So, after all this time, all the searching, I got what I wanted. How do I feel now? I'm not sure to tell the truth. I lost Cathy, nothing will ever change that."

Finally she held my gaze. Her green eyes flashed in the candlelight. As she spoke they glistened with starting tears. She took a deep breath. Her words studied.

"It isn't the close quarter thing. O'Donnell was a bastard. He was a killer and he deserved what he got."

She grimaced. "I've seen as much blood and death as you, Rick. Difference was, mine were all lying on a bed or a slab, but they bled and most died, just the same. It's not the death. It's not blood. Can't you see what it is?"

I didn't want to, but of course I could.

She lowered her voice to a whisper.

"I smell him on me. I can taste him. Every time I close my bloody eyes I can see that leer, see him lick those lips. I can't wash that off, Rick; and you...you...heard everything."

I was dreading this. Back in the day my squad had been responsible for the training and support of a small Croatian team of fighters. There was a girl among them. She was called Ðenadija. She was used to 'distract' one of the Serb officers whilst we took a small village.

She spoke pretty good English, and the night after our very hollow triumph over lightly armed villagers she came to me with the same issue; the guilt trip. My talk didn't go too well. She killed herself a week later. She was nineteen.

I have never known what to say. I heard myself speaking, but it was Rick the soldier talking, not Rick the friend, not Rick the...

"You did what you needed to do, Lauren. We're a team. I know you think I give you a hard time, but that is because I know you can take it."

I leaned toward her.

"I was ten seconds from you at all times. When I heard you say the bag was on the back seat, I wanted to rip that car door off its hinges. You know why I didn't? Because I knew you would come through."

She shook her head. "But, Rick, you are missing the point, the thing..."

I stopped her. My guts churned.

"I know what the thing is,"

Her first full tears fell, streamed down her cheeks and dropped on the table.

Now I understood the look she'd given me earlier. I leaned back in my chair, knowing we were about to reach a point in our relationship that we could never go back on.

I took a breath and asked the question, even though I knew the answer.

"Why are you so concerned that I heard what happened? Des heard it all too."

Lauren wiped her eyes. A laugh came from her, but it was hollow.

"You really don't know, Rick?"

It had been many years since I had seen eyes look at me that way.

I felt my voice falter "I suppose I ... well, I didn't until now."

She held my gaze for the longest time.

"And now you do?"

My heart was beating hard. My lips were dry.

"Lauren, I don't think that..."

I didn't get to finish the sentence. She stood and forced a smile.

"Don't say another word, Rick, not another word. I know where I stand. Don't worry, I won't mention it again."

Des Cogan's Story:

Rick had called for a meeting of the team and we sat around a small table in his suite. We had spent the last weeks in the lap of luxury. Lazy days by the pool mixed with long training sessions in the Sheraton gym. Old habits die hard and the early days of fine food and drink had been replaced with healthy eating, lots of water and night-time tabs along the Corniche.

Lauren looked tanned and lithe. She had been to the hairdresser and her shoulder-length hair had been cut into a bob.

She had also taken to visiting a shooting club in Dubai three or four times a week, firing upwards of five hundred rounds a visit.

She had never mentioned that night in Belfast since our first day. I knew she would never forget it, but she seemed to have regained her confidence as well as her thirst for knowledge and skill. Some things are best left alone, so we all kept mum.

The news coverage of O'Donnell's murder had lasted two weeks. Allegations of a cover-up and Secret Service involvement had run riot. The NIRA had threatened reprisals against the British Government and two explosive devices had been planted close to Police Stations, one in Belfast and a second in London. Both had been discovered and made safe without casualties. O'Donnell's funeral had been a grand affair and all the big names had made sure that the airwaves were filled with the political rhetoric befitting the occasion. Despite O'Donnell's wife's public wishes, there had been a paramilitary show of arms at the graveside, reminiscent of the bad old days of the balaclava and the Armalite.

Her feelings were not to be spared by the press either. The 'red tops' had relished the storyline of a kerb-crawling politician. CCTV images of the Bentley cruising Linen Hall Street had been shown on television. Strangely enough, there was no footage available on the night of the murder; adding fuel to the conspiracy theories.

It had been a clean job.

The question was; what now?

Personally, I was quite happy with my lot. At the wrong side of forty, I was looking forward to returning home and putting my feet up. I hadn't seen the cottage or the Loch for months and had a hankering to get some fishing done.

Rick had other ideas.

He opened a webpage on his laptop and turned it in our direction.

The screen showed a very professional looking website offering personal bodyguards to the rich and infamous.

RDL Close Protection Service promised the best trained ex-services personnel, anytime anywhere. Everything was covered, from Iraq to Bolivia; whatever your business or threat, RDL would bring you home safe and well.

Rick sat back in his chair. "I'm thinking we can offer the CP training courses on top of this package. No one can work in the business without the civilian qualification these days. The average cost for that is three thousand. We train the guys and then take our cut whenever they work. It's a win-win situation."

Rick nodded in my direction.

"I suggest Des completes the instructor's course a.s.a.p. There is a ten-day course starting in two days' time in Helsinki. It's a joke, but then again, we can't work in civvy street without the certification.

"Of course, the best jobs with the most money can be taken by us personally. What do you think?"

There was an uncomfortable silence. I broke it. "I dunno, mate. I think I'm past babysitting jobs. I know lots of guys who went into this kind of work and ended up taking some rich arsehole's kids to McDonalds every day."

Rick wasn't easily deterred, he never had been. "I know that. What I'm saying is we can pick and choose our jobs. The rest we farm out and take the commission."

Lauren scrolled through the site.

"You kept this quiet, Rick."

"I know," he said, "but look, none of us are getting any younger. We can't live for the next twenty-five years on what we have now. We can run this business from anywhere in the world. Think about it. We have been very lucky these last few months. Any of us could be lying in the ground. This is a safe bet; equal shares; a legitimate business venture."

Lauren closed the computer.

"I want to ask you both something. It's been bugging me since we got here."

Rick looked defensive and folded his arms. "Go on; no secrets, Lauren."

She rested her palms on the table. "Was Belfast the last wet job for us? The Firm are off our backs, no issues, we are clean?"

She looked at us both in turn and we nodded. In truth, who ever knew how the Secret Service worked?

Lauren smiled. It was good to see. "In that case, I think this is a great idea, except for one thing."

We waited.

"I want to go to Helsinki. I want to take the training instructor's role."

Rick gave me a questioning look.

"Okay by me," I said.

Rick stood. "This is great. It's just what we need. Would anyone have any objections to setting up shop back in Manchester? I mean we still have some good gear there in my lock-up, a couple of vehicles, some weapons; some surveillance kit."

We both shook our heads.

I hadn't seen Rick look so excited in many years.

"Okay, so if Lauren is off first thing tomorrow, we need to get a shift on and book our flights, Des. I'll get on it; but first let's open this."

Rick pulled a bottle of Crystal champagne from his mini bar. The cork flew out of the neck with a satisfying 'pop.'

Rick poured three glasses and we toasted our new venture.