It was much less dramatic this time in terms of its scale, as three dead smugglers lay at the water’s edge, twitching and bleeding in the surf.
‘And anyway,’ Fazil sneered at Donaldson, ‘you still haven’t told me why you Americans are so interested in feuding Italians.’ Then, suddenly, he had a thought, churning the question through his brain again. ‘Unless…?’ He shook his head and grinned, and he realized he might just have the answer.
Donaldson was relieved to get out of the miserable heat of the dungeons and into the equally hot, but breezy streets of the Maltese capital, Valletta. He slung his light jacket over his shoulder and sauntered through the high, narrow thoroughfares, jam-packed with people and cars. He mulled over what Fazil had quite correctly surmised, although Donaldson had not let on that the prisoner was right, had kept his face as impassive as a professional poker player.
‘One of them was an undercover cop, wasn’t he?’ Fazil had gushed. ‘One of yours.’
Donaldson had sighed and shook his head, then quickly taken his leave, saying he would return later. He left Fazil with his cellphone number just in case.
Outside, he wended across to Upper Barracca Gardens for the splendid view over Grand Harbour, where he thought about Malta’s strategic position in the Mediterranean. That, coupled with the superb harbour, meant this barren little rock had had a torrid history over the centuries, No doubt, he thought, the same would apply for centuries to come.
He sat on a bench savouring the late afternoon sun on his face, his mind once more turning to Fazil, the man who had delivered the weapon used to murder three Italian Mafia men.
Except… one of the men, codenamed Shark, whilst being of Italian origin, had actually been a deep cover FBI agent. And that was why the Americans wanted to catch the killer, because he was one of theirs. A brave, resourceful man who had spent five years undercover, gaining trust, gathering information secretly, before ultimately betraying them. At least that had been the plan.
And Shark was one of the best. Real name Giuseppe Cardini, an FBI agent to the core, who had found himself actually advising members of the Marini Camorra clan on matters of business. And they had met a man who had promised them an entry into the vast US clothing and footwear markets, but he had turned out to be a killer.
An elaborate set up. Lured to Majorca, then murdered.
Donaldson scrunched up his fists in frustration, cursing silently. He was annoyed he hadn’t been able to devote as much time as he would have liked to Shark’s death, but that was often the nature of FBI work. Nor did it help that Akbar’s bullet had shredded his insides, the kind of setback that tends to mess up any plans. When he did return to full duty, there had then been distracting personal issues, like a wife who wanted out, and other sidetracks, so that when he eventually managed to devote some quality time to it, the trail was well and truly chilly. The ‘American’ was still at large and no one had been punished for the crime.
Punished legally, that is.
Donaldson knew that the three killings in Majorca had kicked off a spate of tit for tat murders in Naples and surrounding districts, as several Camorra clans went head to head in a brutal struggle for dominance. More than twelve people had been killed in reprisal and counter reprisal, probably more. It was a very ugly, prolonged war that seemed to have no end.
He fished out his cellphone and speed-dialled a number.
‘Don — it’s me, Karl Donaldson.’
‘Hey, pal,’ Don Barber answered. ‘How’s it going?’ Barber, who was now Donaldson’s line manager at the London embassy following a promotion from the Madrid office, knew exactly where Donaldson was and what he was doing.
‘I’ve spoken to the guy — and so far it’s a no-no. At the moment he’s stewing, literally and metaphorically, in a cell.’
‘What’s your gut feeling on the outcome?’
‘In the air at present. He’s too frightened to talk just yet.’
‘But he is the right man, yeah?’ Barber probed. ‘The man who delivered?’
‘I’m sure he is.’
‘Keep me posted.’
Barber hung up and Donaldson slid his phone away. He watched a pretty girl walk past. She glanced sideways and smiled seductively. Then she was gone with a swish of her hips. He forced himself up from the bench and sauntered back into the city. He stopped for an iced coffee at the Bridge Bar on St Ursula Street before making his way back to his hotel, the Excelsior on Grand Siege Road. He let himself into his air-conditioned room, stripped down to his Uncle Sam boxers and splayed out on the bed, revelling in the cool wafts of chilled air.
An hour later he awoke, shivering. He rose stiffly from the bed and, as was often the case when he came upright from a prone position, a searing pain creased though his abdomen following the exact trail of the bullet he’d taken from Akbar. A line that corkscrewed up through his chest like a cord of steel cable had been inserted into him.
He sat back on the edge of the bed allowing the agony to subside before padding to the bathroom. On returning, he checked his phone — no messages or missed calls — then sat down at the tiny desk, opened his laptop and logged on to check his messages. The process seemed to take forever, so whilst the little egg timer showed, Donaldson went on to the balcony to enjoy the view of Marsamxett harbour and Manoel Island. Some of the heat had gone out of the day, but it was still warm, a sultry breeze listlessly touching him.
He placed his hands on his hips and inhaled the lemony scented air, expanding his chest. Then he turned back into his room, catching a glimpse of the lady on the adjoining balcony. He hadn’t noticed her initially, but she had certainly spotted him from the comfort of her lounger. She had lowered her sunglasses to get a view of the extremely fit-looking man clad only in tight fitting boxers that left hardly anything to her imagination.
Embarrassed, Donaldson scuttled back inside and settled at the laptop, now successfully logged on.
The number of new emails he had received appalled him. Most, he guessed, were rubbish. He went to the inbox and scanned the unopened messages to see if any caught his eye. He didn’t want to make the mistake of opening any that might require any sort of action or response, unless it suited him. If he opened one that needed him to do something, there was no way he could say he hadn’t opened it because of the way emails were tracked. Senders always knew if they’d been opened or not.
‘Ugh,’ he moaned, wishing for the pre-Internet days. He easily understood why spies — and terrorists — had reverted to more basic ways of communicating with each other, such as clandestine meetings, landline phone calls and dead letter drops. With every electronic contact leaving a trace, it was the sensible thing to do. On the minus side, it meant that people who hunted down baddies were finding it harder to track the more intelligent ones.
But one email did make him sit up, only because he recognized the organization that had sent it to him: Lancashire Constabulary. It was entitled, ‘MURDER OF UNIDENTIFIED MALE’. It was the only message he bothered opening.
He read it quickly, noting that it began by saying that the message had been sent to him at the request of one Detective Superintendent Christie. It told the story of the old man being hit by a car, then getting his brains blown out. A very nasty killing. He read the description of the man, including a mention of an old bullet wound in the dead man’s side. A further shooting was then outlined, that of a young boy. Neither meant anything to Donaldson at that stage because his mind was still mulling over Fazil and the way forward with him. Part of the problem could have been that no one outside the FBI knew they were searching for a hit man called the American. Nor did anyone know that one of the three men killed by this man was an FBI undercover agent. It had been decided to keep both facts from general circulation, hopefully so that the investigation would be easier.
So far that theory hadn’t got anywhere, a thought that gave Donaldson an idea. If the FBI came clean, admitted one of their operatives had been murdered, declared they were launching a full scale manhunt and went completely public about the whole thing, it might put the cat amongst the pigeons and cause a bit of panic in some quarters. Panic often led to mistakes; mistakes usually led to arrests.
Maybe something to discuss with Don Barber as it was his show.
Donaldson read through the message from Lancashire police again, then clicked on the attached file accompanying it, hoping to hell it wasn’t carrying a virus.
Millimetre by painful millimetre, photographs unfolded on screen, Donaldson watching impatiently. A series of post-mortem shots of the dead man. Horrific and gruesome.
‘Thanks for this, Henry,’ Donaldson mumbled.
