‘Not at this stage.’
‘In that case, let him rot a while. You can come back to him later.’
‘I don’t want to miss the chance of a lead to the killer, Don.’
‘I’ll bet he’s a nothing guy. Let him rot.’
Donaldson groaned and said OK. But he hadn’t come all the way to Malta not to get a result of some sort, and even though he promised Barber he would not revisit Fazil, he intended to give the guy one last opportunity.
He clicked his phone shut, pondering. He needed Fazil to talk and maybe the brutal death of an old man on the streets of Blackpool, thousands of miles away, would be the lever he needed to do just that.
Donaldson was unable to book a flight back to the UK until the following morning anyway, an Air Malta flight to Manchester, so he had time to kill. He decided firstly to get into one of the hotel’s restaurants for an early evening meal, then he would visit Fazil, who had been cooking so long in the heat of those cells that, surely, he was now all casseroled and ready to fall apart.
He was in the restaurant at seven and out by seven thirty, passing his very available neighbour entering as he left. There was an expression of horror on her face at being in such close proximity to such a monster. He gave her a crooked leer and left the hotel, calling his wife on the mobile as he walked out into a Maltese evening that was hot and dry.
Whilst the marriage might still be rocky, it was still afloat, and they had an amiable conversation that did go slightly chilly when he told her he would be flying back to Manchester not to London next day. She did cheer up considerably when he suggested that she might head north herself with the kids and meet up at her mother’s, who lived in Lancashire. A date was made.
They finished the call on a loving note. And Donaldson heaved a sigh of relief, but wondered where the relationship was headed. He folded his phone away, but then had another thought and called Henry Christie to make arrangements to be picked up at Manchester airport.
Then he strolled through Valletta, back to the police station.
The heat had not left the dungeons. It was stifling and within minutes Donaldson was sweating heavily again, dark patches under his arms.
Once more he was face to face with Fazil.
‘You know, the more I come to talk to you, the more it will look as though you are talking to me… word gets out about that sort of thing.’
‘You are trying to scare me, FBI man.’
Donaldson nodded. ‘To be honest, you’ve been pretty lucky, haven’t you?’
‘How?’
‘Let’s see… what happened in the aftermath of that shooting in Majorca?’
Fazil shrugged, a gesture he had honed to perfection.
‘I’ll answer that for you: many people died, many people.’
‘People die all the time.’
‘Not always in a hail of bullets.’
‘In this world, dying in a hail of bullets is commonplace.’
‘What would you prefer? Bullets or old age?’
‘You’re still trying to frighten me. It’s not working.’
‘Or how about old age after years of rotting in prison? That could very well be arranged,’ Donaldson said. ‘America and Malta are on excellent terms behind the scenes.’
‘Fuck you,’ Fazil sneered.
Donaldson sighed and changed tack. ‘The killings in Majorca were the opening salvo of a gang war, as I’m sure you know. And I’ll tell you what I know. Rosario Petrone, the head of a Camorra Mafia clan in Naples, ordered the killings, and you were working for him. Three men were lured to their deaths and you provided the weapon that killed them. No, don’t deny it, because I can prove it, Fazil,’ Donaldson said harshly. ‘Those three murders opened up the floodgates. More killings, more reprisals, one clan against another… no winners. Somehow, you didn’t get your head blown off… yet.’
Fazil moved uncomfortably. ‘I got out,’ he admitted.
Donaldson noted the slight crack. ‘You may have got out, but you haven’t got away,’ he said cruelly. ‘No one gets away, not ever, especially people like you — you know that.’
Fazil rubbed his sweaty unshaven face.
‘I have some news for you,’ Donaldson announced. Fazil’s eyes rose shiftily. ‘I won’t insult your intelligence, so I’ll tell it to you straight. I know you were working for Petrone. Don’t insult me by denying this.’ Fazil’s mouth clamped shut. ‘Petrone went to ground some time after the gang warfare started, didn’t he? Hasn’t been seen for, what, one, two years? The fighting has continued in his absence, though, with him still directing operations by all accounts. The general not on the field of battle… a real hero,’ Donaldson said sarcastically.
‘Wouldn’t know,’ Fazil said, reverting to his original standpoint. ‘Don’t even know who you’re talking about.’
The FBI man shook his head sadly. ‘Let me just clarify here, Fazil. You can help yourself by helping me. All you have to do is tell me about the American.’
The prisoner chuckled sardonically, said nothing else.
‘The way I see it is this: As it stands, you will either rot in a Maltese jail or somehow you will be murdered in it. Even if you get through your sentence here, as soon as you’re released you will be handed over to the Spanish authorities. Then you’ll be convicted of supplying a weapon used to kill three men, as well as murder, because even though you might not have pulled the trigger, you killed ’em just as much as the assassin, pal. You will then rot in a Spanish jail or you will be murdered in it. Speak to me and-’
‘I’ll be murdered anyway,’ Fazil interjected.
‘Not necessarily. Speak to me, Fazil,’ Donaldson continued patiently, ‘and I’ll ensure your safety, a new identity, money, a life in the US, protected by the authorities.’
Fazil considered him. ‘You are full of shit, FBI man… you said you had some news for me… where is it? I haven’t heard it yet.’
‘Where is Petrone?’
‘Who?’ Fazil answered stubbornly. Donaldson had a flash to cop dramas and movie thrillers where the villains always seem to crack, even when faced with little or no evidence, just the authority and overwhelming aura of the hero and a load of hearsay. Real life sucked, he thought. No one ever admits a damn thing, even when faced with a cut and dry case.
‘I’ll tell you where he is,’ he said. ‘Dead — that’s where he is. He went to ground when the going got too tough, but they still caught up with him.’
‘Who are “they”?’ Fazil asked.
‘Doesn’t really matter, but the fact remains he could not hide forever and now he’s dead. The head of a major Camorra family — found and murdered.’
‘Like I said, you’re full of shit. A liar.’
Donaldson unfolded the sheet of A4 paper he’d been keeping under his hands, then revealed its contents to Fazil. ‘If you want, I can stop this happening to you.’ He showed him the photographs he’d printed off of a very dead Rosario Petrone.
Actually, Karl Donaldson did not know for certain if Fazil would be a serious target in the ongoing reprisals that were still happening in the world of the Camorra. Fazil was a bit player, nothing more than a gofer, and it would not have surprised Donaldson if he’d been forgotten in the grand scheme of tit-for-tat killings, especially as he’d seen sense and kept his head down after the shootings in Majorca.
But that didn’t stop Donaldson from scaring the living crap out of him and manipulating him to come across.
The other truth was that Fazil probably knew little about the assassin, known as ‘The American’. Fazil would have been employed solely to source and drop a weapon for the American’s use. But this had put him in a position in which he would have seen the killer, would have had chance to scrutinize him and therefore be able to give the most detailed description yet, something the FBI was woefully missing, despite what the nervous waiter had seen. Wringing Fazil dry would be very useful, if only Donaldson could get under his skin. He wasn’t completely hopeful of
