THE FIX: SAS hero turns Manchester hitman (A Rick Fuller Thriller Book 1) (30 page)

“Yes, we’ll have a look at the place, probably best if you and Des go and check it out this afternoon. It’s got to be worth a try before we do anything else.” I felt myself smile, an unusual sensation. “But first we need to eat, I’m ravenous.”

Lauren had the broadest grin too, the cat had her cream.

“You know, guys, suddenly I’m hungry too.”

Lauren North's Story:

I’d never ridden in a Porsche before. Come to that I’d never shopped in Karen Millen or worn Giorgio Armani shoes either.

Des looked very handsome in the outfit Rick had chosen for him although he didn’t look too happy about wearing a pink shirt, even if it was a Dolce and Gabbana original. I was amazed at Rick’s fashion sense and knowledge. After our meal we had walked along Deansgate and shopped in places I had only ever dreamed of. In less than an hour we had spent close on three thousand pounds, and by the time Rick sat me in the bright red sports car my head was swimming. I was beginning to realise the power of money and the kind of life he had been used to. I also realised that he was still terribly unhappy and that the old saying was probably right.

Rick was not being a spendthrift for its own sake, of course; if you were going to view a six hundred thousand pound penthouse then you had to look like you could afford it.

Des wore a lightweight navy two-piece suit from Hugo Boss and the infamous pink open-necked shirt. I was power-dressed to the max in my Karen Millen charcoal number and I had to admit that the clothes, the car and my new found fitness regime made me feel incredibly sexy for the first time in years.

The car was hard to get into and even harder to get out of, my skirt being pencil-tight with no room to hide my SIG which was stowed in an equally impressive Gucci clutch bag.

Des fired the car into life and we pulled out into the Manchester winter with Rick’s orders whizzing around my head.

We would be at Crowder and Madden Estates within thirty minutes and Mr. and Mrs Cogan were in the mood to buy.

After a few minutes in slow traffic the road opened up and the car hit the expressway with acceleration that took my breath away.

“You look nice,” said Des, in his short clipped Glasgow accent.

“And you are very handsome, Mr. Cogan,” I replied, watching the hard Scot blush.

“Ach,” he said awkwardly, brushing his hand down the lapels of his jacket, “this kinda thing is no good tae me, Lauren. I’m a simple kinda guy, you know. I’ll probably rip the bloody thing before we get to the poncing estate agents anyway.”

I patted his knee playfully. “Never mind that, you are a fine looking man, you should look after yourself a little more. Maybe when all this is done you can get yourself a nice woman to share that cottage up north.”

“Maybe I don’t want to find one,” he glanced over at me. “Maybe she’s already here.”

I couldn’t help but smile. “Maybe.”

We travelled the remaining miles in silence, both thinking our own thoughts. I have to be honest; romance was not on my agenda, finding Stern was. That may seem harsh to you but I wanted to see the whole thing through, then, well, then I could think of other things. Des was a nice handsome guy but I relished my freedom and my newfound confidence. I didn’t want to spoil what we had. In my experience, sex spoils any good friendship.

The estate agency was situated in a twenty-plus-storey building in the green quarter of Manchester.

New money.

Thrusting execs eating sushi and drinking smoothies by the bottle walked purposefully along pavements that a few short years ago they wouldn’t have been seen dead on.

Des parked the 911 on a ridiculously expensive meter and we strode into the lobby of the building hand in hand, every inch the successful couple in search of new lodgings.

According to the wall planner, Crowder and Madden were on the third floor so we took the lift with me holding the flyer for Rick’s flat in one hand and my Gucci bag complete with 9mm pistol in the other.

As the doors opened we stepped into a small, sparsely furnished waiting room with a receptionist’s desk. Several aerial photographs of monstrous properties in exotic locations adorned the walls. The perma-tanned receptionist who had obviously never eaten a potato in her life smiled sweetly enough to get our attention.

“Good afternoon, guys, and how are we? What can Crowder and Madden do for you today?”

I was nearly sick. Des seemed impressed by the girl’s obviously surgically enhanced assets and stepped into the breach.

“Well, err,” he leaned over to see the girl’s name badge that teetered on her mountainous cleavage, “Madeline, we’d like to enquire about a property you have for sale here in the city.”

He put on his cheekiest smile, took the flyer from me and handed it over to the girl. She batted her eyes in Des’s direction and the pair of them flirted silently before she spoke.

“Ah, the penthouse on the Quays, yes a lovely property, but I’m afraid this one is now under offer.”

“Oh no!” I didn’t need to feign any upset as I was gutted we might fall at the first hurdle. Des walked over to me and put his arm around my shoulders.

“Don’t worry, darling, let’s see what we can do. Madeline will help, won’t you, dear?”

“I’ll try, we do have several other properties…”

“No,” Des cut the woman off in mid sentence. “We like this property, Madeline. Besides the owners may wish to take another bid if it is more financially rewarding than the one on the table. Why don’t you contact them for me and see if they are open to another offer?”

Madeline shook her head and lowered her voice as if telling a great secret.

“I’m sorry, folks, but this property is owned by a Crowder and Madden subsidiary offshore company. Mr. Crowder deals with all their sales directly and he is out of the office at the moment.”

Des pressed on as I eyed the stunning villas pictured on the walls and pretended to be comfortable.

“Can you ring Mr. Crowder and ask him when he might return? My wife has fallen in love with this property and we are very keen to buy.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but Mr. Crowder is in Spain viewing properties and won’t be disturbed. Besides we at Crowder and Madden have very strict rules when it comes to our transactions and it would be unprofessional to accept another offer on a property at this stage.”

I was thinking that the bullshit smelt worse with each syllable. This was the first estate agency I’d ever known that wasn’t into making more commission. I was looking at a picture of a large villa in the middle of refurbishment nestled at the foot of the Rock of Gibraltar.

Des was insistent. “Surely you have the details of whoever owns the property? Maybe I could…”

Melanie was not for turning either. “Sir, Mr. Crowder deals directly with that particular side of our business. Technically the property is owned by us. Our offshore investment arm purchase many repossessed properties and sell them on via our agencies. But as I said, that property is sold. Now, if I could interest you in another similar penthouse…”

Des turned on his heels and spoke into my ear.

“Nothing doing here at the moment, hen.”

I nodded toward the picture of the half completed villa with what was going to be two large swimming pools. “Nice if you have the money eh? Swimming at the foot of one of the Pillars of Hercules.”

I decided I would try my luck on Melanie myself and turned to the woman. Before I could speak, Des grabbed at my very expensive sleeve.

“What did you just say?”

“I said nice if you had the money but...”

“No not that, after that, about the pillars?”

“Oh the Pillars of Hercules, you know the myth, one pillar was the Rock of Gibraltar and the other was the Moroccan coastal mountains. Hercules is supposed to have used his super-strength to push the pillars apart, creating the Straits of Gibraltar which have been fought over ever since.

Des rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

“Let’s go,” he said.

“One minute.” I turned to our smiling if unhelpful receptionist. “Do you sell property for other individuals here or is it just this mysterious foreign snatch-back merchant?”

“I beg your pardon.” Melanie pushed out her huge bosom and gave me an incredulous stare. “We are a bona fide agency with very strict policies and procedures. There is nothing underhand in our dealings.”

“I take that as a ‘no’ then. This agency is just an outlet for the bigger guy who buys up all the repossessed houses for a cheap price and you sell them on at a pretty profit.”

“Since when was making a profit been illegal?” The voice came from a very smart-looking man in a three-piece suit. I placed him in his mid-sixties. He had pure white hair swept back in a style slightly too modern for his years. His eyes were bright blue and they darted between Des and me devouring information at a rate of knots. He walked from behind Melanie’s desk purposely toward me and extended a perfectly manicured hand. I didn’t see which door he’d emerged from. “Edward Madden,” he announced.

I managed a smile but the guy gave me the instant creeps. I made the expected introductions. “Lauren, and this is my husband Desmond.”

Madden looked Des up and down and offered his hand once again. “You are a very lucky man, Mr?”

“Cogan.”

“Ah, Mr. Cogan and what part of Scotland are you from?”

“From Glasgow, Mr. Madden.” Des gave me a look that told me we were leaving and smiled at the very suspicious-looking Madden. “I’m sorry we have no time to chat, Mr. Madden. I understand the property my wife and I were interested in has been sold. Lauren was just a little disappointed and got upset, that’s all. So, we’ll bid you good day and continue our hunt elsewhere.”

Madden smiled to reveal a Hollywood set of teeth. “That’s a shame, sir, we always try and accommodate our clients if we can, maybe if you leave your details with Melanie here we can put you on our mailing list.”

I grabbed Des by the hand and we made to leave. “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Madden, I prefer to know who I am buying from and it seems that is not the way in your business.”

And we were out, leaving Madden standing rooted to the spot, paranoia thrashing through us both. I checked for tails as Des drove us back to town. There were none but my heart rate told me we had taken a step closer to David Stern. Edward Madden did not strike me as an estate agent. The company was as straight as a nine-bob note.

As we parked, Des was already on the phone to Rick, something had clicked in his head and it involved Gibraltar and a file on Rick’s laptop. Des was very excited, and as it turned out, he had every right to be.

Rick Fuller's Story:

Hercules Pillar Gibraltar, that little file from ten years ago. I’d read and re-read it, even printed some sections. I sat and watched Des rigging Joel’s hard drive into a tower and then up to my laptop.

There was a crackling sound as the drive prepared itself, the screen loaded and demanded a password.

Lauren sat with me as we gazed at the empty box.

“I know the first eight digits, but not the last eight,” I said, matter-of-factly.

“What are they?” Lauren asked.

“11091962.”

She wrote the numbers down and mumbled something.

“What?” I said.

“It’s a date of birth. Eleventh of September 1962.”

“What?”

“The number sequence is a date of bloody birth.”

“Might be.”

“There’s no ‘might’ about it.”

At that, Lauren urgently rooted in her bag and produced a folded up piece of paper. She spread it over her knee and then tapped at the keyboard.

“I knew this was important,” she said as the screen came to life. “It’s the marriage certificate of Joel and Susan. It was on his wall for more than sentimental reasons.” It bore two dates of birth 11/09/1962 and 08/08/1974 and it opened Joel’s drive. I took the document from Lauren and stared at it. Then I looked at my printed notes and found another major clue to the identity of David Stern.

After several hours of searching Joel’s data, I somehow managed to control my trembling hands and made some tea. Lauren, who seemed upset from the visit to the so-called estate agents, played nervously with her hair and had watched the proceedings in solemn silence.

I handed out the cups of very poor Typhoo and motioned Des to sit down. This was my show. Des and Lauren were waiting to hear all about the Stern Empire.

They were about to be disappointed.

I stood with my back to the computer screen, like some sales guy about to deliver a seminar, except this was deadly serious.

Des and Lauren sat on the two single beds my room offered and looked tired. They needed to see the end of this and so did I. Without closure, we wouldn’t be able to live any kind of normal life; I mean, just being able to function without looking over your shoulder had become of major importance to all three of us. I knew my recent life hadn’t been ideal but neither had Des' or Lauren’s. We had gone up against a powerful organisation the authorities didn’t know existed. As a result we hadn’t any money and couldn’t return to our homes.

The word reprisal had taken on a whole new meaning to us all. As a result, the only thing that mattered to us all was closure, our spirit and friendship.

I heard myself start to speak.

“Until you guys told me about the picture on the wall in Crowder and Madden and explained the history and the myth of Gibraltar, I was never really quite certain who my real enemy had been all these years. Now I know who was responsible for Cathy’s murder, for Tanya’s death and for all those poor kids in Moston Cemetery. God only knows how many more they have killed.”

I sat heavily on the lone hotel room chair and rubbed my face with my palms. I forgot all about being professional and briefing my team, now it felt like a confessional and Lauren and Des were my priests.

I started slowly. Lauren drew her knees to herself and cupped her chin with her hands, as if sensing that something huge was about to happen.

“Ten years ago,” I began, “We stole several kilos of pure cocaine from the IRA. This was done under the direct orders of my Regiment Commander and therefore 10 Downing Street. I delivered those drugs to a secret location. A dead letter box.”

Des looked up from his cup, caught my gaze, and I knew he remembered the job. I knew he remembered lying in that stinking field for hours on end whilst we stole our booty. And now he would know the whole truth.

Lauren looked shell-shocked.

I cleared my throat.

“Two Regiment colleagues, Butch and Jimmy Two-Times, knew I went back to the drop-off point; they knew I went back because something wasn’t right. What they didn’t know was I identified the collector.”

Des looked at me in disbelief. He had no idea.

I felt suddenly drained. I locked my fingers together, rested my palms on my head and closed my eyes. I took a deep breath, exhaled through my nose and told the tale I had kept secret for ten years.

“Colonel Charles Williamson collected that package. At the time he was the most powerful soldier in Northern Ireland. I didn’t divulge that information to anyone. There was a man with him that night, a tall thin blond American called Goldsmith. Did they see me? Was I compromised? I will never know for sure but I have to presume I was."

I now believe Williamson or Goldsmith ordered the slaughter of my wife as a simple reminder that to deviate from orders meant severe punishment.”

I did my best not to think of Cathy but how could I tell the tale without bringing back her memory?

“I had only been home from that operation a day or so. Her God, not mine, only granted me one day before Cathy was murdered. No doubt, the gunmen were meant to take me out too. They missed me and now, ten years on, the people who ordered that hit, have found me again and are trying to finish the job. They want me dead, no question.”

I looked toward Lauren and saw she had tears in her eyes.

“We are all in extreme danger.”

There was a silence as we considered our situation.

I felt the muscles in my neck tighten. A burst of acid threatened to reach my throat and I swallowed hard. Images, memories, flashed across my eyes like newsreel. Cathy’s naked corpse, Tanya’s bucking body and Stephan’s sick smile.

The same old pain and hate engulfed me, the pain that I have tried to explain to you before, the pain no one can understand.

In the name of my agony, I have done terrible things. I have shown people what real pain felt like, what true hurt does to you, but they still didn’t understand, they just screamed.

Des broke the spell and my ghosts were driven from the room.

“Go on, big man, get on with it but.”

I studied Des’s face. The last months had ensured it had grown even more ravaged by life, but in his eyes was a man I hadn’t seen in years; a man who felt suddenly alive again.

We both needed this job for different reasons. I felt my edge return with each second I looked at him. For ten years I’d been alone; a leper at first, then later, a ghost of my former self. I knew what I was, what I had become, but Des didn’t judge me.

I saw the glimmer of a smile before I spoke.

“The file, codenamed Hercules Pillar, consisted of several lengthy confidential files the largest of which was a consultation document between the USA and Britain. There were details of some trial actions in Belfast in the late nineties together with results. Also some personal correspondence between Williamson, and the man who he became increasingly involved with, Gerry Goldsmith Jnr: The tall blond American I mentioned earlier.”

I found pictures of the two men in a folder and dragged them onto the screen of the laptop.

“Goldsmith was an ex-Navy Seal turned CIA officer who had a special investigations brief directly from the Pentagon. His orders were to drastically reduce the amount of drugs on the streets of the United States. He had control of a huge budget by British standards, millions of dollars. But Goldsmith had a plan to win the war and not spend the Government’s money. He was the all American hero. He was John Wayne and Will Smith all in one package. All sides of the US Congress were behind this face.

Goldsmith realised that the biggest drug dealers were also terrorists and dictators, so he developed a plan so ancient in its formula and so simple in its execution that he couldn’t fail.

“His idea?

“Divide and conquer.

“He codenamed the action ‘Hercules Pillars’.

“He needed a theatre to trial his theory and he selected Belfast as his ideal testing ground. Lots of poverty, lots of guns, lots of drugs and most importantly to Goldsmith, not in his own backyard.

“The first operation listed in the file was to destabilise two factions of a notorious Republican family. This was actually sanctioned by both the US and UK governments; in fact, the first operation was so successful that several others were executed after it, including the one Des and I were involved in.

“In one operation documented in the file, just as in our action, drugs were stolen from a very well-known IRA sympathiser, Thomas McEwen, and dropped in a DLB. What wasn’t known was in both cases, a second Regiment team were handed that same stolen package.

“They delivered it to a rival dealer, chosen by Goldsmith, at a fraction of the street value. In McEwen’s case it was his cousin, Patrick O’Hara. Then the Chinese whisper boys got the word on the street that it was one and the same gear. Finally to top things off McEwen’s eldest boy was found shot in the head at the back of the local bookies courtesy of the SAS.

“The blue touch-paper was lit, all Goldsmith and Williamson did was sit back and watch the two families kill each other.

“Less than a month later, when both were weak enough, the RUC moved in and finished the business end by busting the remaining runners and riders.”

Lauren drained her tea and looked for a place to put her cup.

“Sounds like a good plan to me.”

I was feeling better.

“It was, and it worked well until Number 10 got cold feet around the old ‘topping Paddies on purpose is not cricket’ thing. Williamson and his chum tried a few more jobs that winter but when questions were raised in Parliament about the shootings in Belfast of eight teenage men inside a week, the hatches were well and truly battened.

The Yanks were far less squeamish about blood on the streets, especially when it was not their sidewalk it was spilled on. Not only that, Goldsmith and Williamson were getting more and more gung-ho in their approach, and were starting to become something of a pair of very loose cannons to our intelligence service. There were also murmurings about what was happening to all the cash that had been ‘recovered’ as a result of the listed ops. Our ‘touchy feely’ New Labour government needed scandal about as much as a dose of the clap. Two months after our op, and Cathy’s murder, the Goldsmith plan was shelved completely and he and his family returned to the States.”

I needed a drink but there was nothing to hand. I licked my lips and went on.

“Williamson was not a man to be put off easily. His relationship with Goldsmith was beyond the stage of mere comrades. Both had seen great results and enormous profits. Fortunes could be made. The operation more than paid for itself. Any monies and property recovered would far outstrip the cost of the manpower and equipment. I suspected, as did Whitehall, that it did far more than that.

“Goldsmith and Williamson knew it did far more than that.

“It created an empire.”

I finally found a bottle of water and took a deep drink.

“Our pair were royalty in the making. Both men ‘retired’ within months of Cathy’s death and virtually disappeared off the map. Rumours that they were running deep cover ops for one of the major agencies were rife for a while. Goldsmith was reportedly seen at a Basque Separatist Movement meeting in ’97 where two major players were shot to death. There were no official sightings of Williamson after August 6th 1996 when he buried his mother. He had no other living relatives. Goldsmith, however, had a son and a daughter. Both were born to a Dutch wife, Helena van der Zoort.”

Lauren nearly jumped out of her skin but I motioned for her to sit.

“I know! The name on the marriage certificate and Goldsmith’s Dutch wife! I fuckin’ know now, don’t I? And it’s no coincidence.”

Lauren gave me a stern look, stuck out her bottom lip and nodded furiously.

I drained the cold Buxton Spring water. It loosened my throat and I felt it drain all the way to my stomach. Then I let go my bombshell.

“I believe Williamson and Goldsmith created the myth. David Edgar Stern, the un-photographed spectre we seek is just that. A spectre, a figment of two very powerful men’s imaginations.”

Des raised both eyebrows but stayed silent. Lauren looked unimpressed by my theory.

“Hell of an assumption there, Rick.”

I ignored her scepticism and pressed on.

“I became untouchable to all my ex-army colleagues within a month of me leaving the service. They helped with my intel at first but I was too drunk to do much of anything after week three.

“It was the personal stuff on the Hercules file that I’d ignored. I was so convinced the answers lay in the business end of the deal. Death drugs, money etc, that family pictures, that sort of thing, didn’t register.”

I turned to the laptop. “That is until now. The old ’96 file had some shots of two kids. The pictures were mailed from Goldsmith to Williamson at Christmas that year.” I pointed to the screen and the miniature images of two ten-year-old kids made no impact on my diminutive audience.

“Then we got access to Joel’s computer and with it Susan’s email and documents. Susan’s mother, Helena Van Der Zoort, was a socialite and femme fatale. Her son, Stephan bore an uncanny resemblance to his father with white blond hair whilst the daughter took her almost gothic appearance from her mother. Helena died ‘tragically’ and alone in an LA apartment; the children had long since disappeared with their father.”