The Killer (12 page)

‘We have two cars that are road worthy,’ Rosa offered.
‘This one belongs to Valentino,’ she indicated an old Citroen, ‘and that little Honda Civic is mine.
Make use of either one.’

The battered Citroen looked as though it would be lucky to make it to the training camp, so the Honda was the only choice.
‘Is the Civic fully legal?’ he asked.
‘I don’t want to get pulled over by the police because of something stupid like faulty brake lights.’

‘With the exception of a broken heater, that Honda is in perfect shape,’ Rosa assured him.

‘Good, I’ll take that one, and a road map if you have one - I need to leave at first light,’ he informed the old lady.

Message in hand Darren strolled over to the little Honda.
Once alone he slowly re-read his instructions, decoded them fully and consulted the map he found in the glove box. 13X99KLC was the authentication code direct from the boss in Belfast.
The rest informed him that he had to meet a known contact at Barcelona airport the following evening.

‘Shit - Barcelona.
That’s over two hundred and fifty miles from here.
I hope that Honda makes it,’ he mumbled whilst lighting a cigarette.
He used the same match to burn the message then he tossed the ashes, grinding them into the dirt with his boot.

Catalunya: The Road Trip

Darren was up at dawn the following morning but Rosa was already in the kitchen to supply a hearty breakfast.
He exaggerated a yawn to cover the tears he felt coming to his eyes as he was reminded of his mother.
He hadn’t time for such sentimentality today.
He ate quickly and then went to check out the car.
The road map occupied the passenger seat,
T
he Killer,
his pocket, and the .45 automatic pistol sat under the map.
He was ready to leave.
Rosa gave him a few basic directions, a packed lunch that would feed a family of four, a flask of coffee, then waved him on his way.

As he left the farm-track and pulled onto the main road he shivered.
The early morning chill in northern Spain was vicious.
Glancing down at the heater he tried each of its three settings, patiently waiting for a much-needed blast of hot air that never came.
‘Shit.
Cold, very cold and fucking freezing,’ he grumbled.
Still, everything else was working fine.
‘The sun’ll be up soon.
I won’t need a heater then,’ he comforted himself.

He pulled onto the main road and overtook a farmer who was repairing his old tractor.
Shivering in the cold plastic seat he wiped the condensation from the windscreen.
His eyes fixed straight ahead, he paid no attention to the farmer who, as Darren passed, reached down for the handset of his military radio.

The drive was long and uncomfortable, taking around ten hours.
Darren was used to the winding roads of Ireland but the Spanish system seemed even worse and the little Honda, valiant though it was, struggled with the never-ending bends and ever-changing gradient.
Thankfully, from the outskirts of Barcelona, the airport was well signed and he finally drew into the rough, pot-holed, parking area.
He rushed into the terminal building to check on the arrival of Dublin flights.
His coded message had been brief, meaning he’d have to figure out some of the details for himself, but the information board greeted him with the good news that there was only one Dublin flight due that evening.
Great, that was helpful.
The not so helpful news was that it had been cancelled.
Fuck.
Now what?

The airport already seemed to be closing for the night and he was unable to find any information for the following day, so he just had to assume that his contact would arrive on the next available flight.
Should he try to find a hotel or stay where he was?
Much as he hated the idea, a night spent in the car seemed to be the sensible option so that he was already in position for the following day.
He walked stiffly back to the Honda and silently thanked Rosa for her forethought when she had over-provisioned him for the journey.
The coffee was gone, but he still had food.
What he needed most, though, was sleep.
The long drive had taken its toll.
He pulled up his collar and reclined the driver’s seat, settling down for the night.

He slept sporadically in bursts of half an hour or so and felt anything but rested when the airport came to life the following morning.
He climbed out of the car and stood yawning and stretching before collecting his overnight bag and heading towards the terminal and the men’s toilet.
A long wash in ice-cold water brought him round and he went in search of flight information.
Finding that the next arrival from Ireland would be in four hours he still had time to kill.
It was a beautiful morning and the sun here had more strength than he had become used to.
A grassy area in front of the terminal looked a welcoming place to rest and ease out his aching limbs, and it seemed he wasn’t the only one with that idea as he joined six others already stretched out in various stages of relaxation.
Using his overnight bag for a pillow Darren lay back and yawned.
In just a few hours he’d have to be alert, but for now he could afford a little more sleep.

Alpha-Six-One watched the Irishman approaching, recognising his target through slitted eyes.
‘McCann for sure.’
Rolling into the foetal position, he feigned sleep and gave a long, low snore.
A few minutes later his target was snoring too.
Alpha-Six-One stood, stretched and yawned then, after wiping the freshly mown grass from his jeans, he walked lazily to the terminal.
Halting at the door he glanced behind and, seeing no movement from his target, dived into the passenger seat of the old Ford waiting for him.
‘It’s McCann all right,’ he told his partner.
Their orders were simply to watch, wait and report.

Awake again following a more restful sleep, Darren strolled back towards the car park.
After fishing around in his pocket for a moment he found the ignition key and started the little Honda, taking it to the small waiting area for arrivals.
Around thirty minutes later a familiar figure slowly emerged from the building.
‘Thomas, you bog Irish git, what the fuck have you got there?’ he laughed to himself at the sight of his friend, red-faced and sweating, with one small bag hanging from his shoulder and a huge suitcase trailing behind.
He pulled the car alongside him, wound down the window and offered, ‘Taxi?’

Thomas faced him with one of his famous “looks”.
‘Just give me a hand with this fucker instead of acting the cunt will yer Butch,’ he snapped.

‘Jesus, what you got in the bag, a fucking piano?’ asked Darren, as he struggled to get it into the back seat.

Thomas said nothing; instead he climbed into the passenger’s side and tutted irritably.
Darren thought it best to allow him to regain his breath as he headed the car to the exit.

Eventually, the flush fading from his face, Thomas looked at his friend’s suntanned features.
‘Fuck me, you’ve gone native.
You look just like a Fuzzy Wuzzy.
All you need is one of those fez hats they all wear over here.’

‘Spaniards don’t wear fezzes Thomas - that’s the Morroc...
Oh fuck it, man, what’s in the fucking bag?’

‘My gear, but mostly cash,’ Thomas informed him.
‘Head for a town called Sitges; it’s just south of us.’

‘What’s in Sitges?’ asked Darren.
‘Why are we going there?’

‘Want the long story - or the short one?’ sighed a disgruntled Thomas who obviously was not very keen on the Spanish heat.

‘Short one’ll do.’

‘To kill someone.’

‘Ah.’

Driving along Darren lit a cigarette and waited.
Silence.
He finished the cigarette, stubbed it out and waited some more.
Still silence.
Eventually he could take it no longer.
‘OK then, fuck it - give me the long story.’

Thomas wound down his window and fanned his face with his hat.
‘Did you hear about that bloke from Madrid who took one of our bags a few months back?’
Darren shook his head.
‘Well,
the boys
sent a bag over here to pay for a couple of containers of fags.
This feller was to take the bag and change it up.
But instead he fucked off, scarpered with the lot.’
Thomas tutted and spat out of the window before continuing.
‘Not hide nor hair’s been seen of this fucker ever since - until last week that is.
Belfast got a report that he’s been seen drinking in a bar down in Sitges.’

‘And the big ba…’

Thomas cut his friend off.
‘The bag I’ve brought is a cash bag for another container of fags.’

The not so very much longer long story now finished, they drove on in silence, Darren lighting another cigarette as they headed south - carefully following the Sitges road signs.
A few hundred yards back the two soldiers followed.

Darren was admiring the sea view as they entered the small, seaside town of Sitges when Thomas called out to him, ‘There, pull into that parking spot Butch.’
Doing as he was told, Darren slowed then reversed the Honda into one of the available spaces.
As he applied the handbrake he noticed they were facing a small, sea front hotel with the name “Hotel Solana” in neon above the door.

‘There’s where we’re off, Butch.
Got to meet a bloke called Lupo,’ said Thomas as he jumped out of the car, quickly grabbing the two small overnight bags.
‘You bring the big un,’ he laughed, as he made his way towards the hotel.
Two soldiers watched patiently from their car.

Struggling with the weight of the cash bag, Darren eventually caught up with his friend and they entered the hotel together.
A bored-looking desk clerk glanced up from his newspaper.
‘Si?’ he asked lazily.

‘Tengo una cita con Lupo
,
’ (I have an appointment with Lupo) Darren answered.

‘Nombre?
,
’ questioned the clerk.

‘Butch.’

Thomas was impressed with his mate’s apparent fluency in another language.
‘See, told you you’ve gone Fuzzy.
You do need one of them fez things.’

‘Ah, yes sir, I’ll tell Lupo you have arrived, please take a seat,’ said the clerk, smoothly switching to English.
Once again Thomas took the small bags, leaving Darren to lug the heavy one, as they crossed the lobby to take their seats and wait.

It wasn’t long before Lupo arrived, clicking his fingers at the clerk and pointing to the suitcase.
The man leaned and whispered something in Lupo’s ear, then took the cash bag and disappeared with it.
‘The money will be convert to Peseta, you have in two day time,’ Lupo explained in halting English.
‘The Honda Civic in front, yours no?’

‘Aye, it is that,’ replied Darren.

‘To use car such as this, in Sitges, for work is bad,’ Lupo told the Irishmen.
‘Need good car with local registration, something that, er, how you say, blends in - no?
I have different car, good for you.’
With that he walked towards the rear of the hotel beckoning them to follow.
Outside in the staff park Lupo pointed to a sleek new Rover saloon.
‘This my car.
I use every day here in town.
It good car for you work,’ he explained before giving them directions to “Bar Pascal”, the waterfront restaurant their target had been seen frequenting for the last few days.
A handshake, followed by a short wave goodbye, and Lupo returned inside his hotel.
The Rover left from the rear of the Solana as two soldiers kept watch over the stationary Honda at the front.

On the short drive to Bar Pascal, Darren asked Thomas if he knew the man they were looking for.
‘Never laid eyes on him, but I have his name, Ernesto Manuel Ruiz, his description, and a photo.’

They found the bar easily and pulled into a car park on the front, which gave them a good view of the entrance from the road.
A few palm trees slightly obscured their line of sight to the terrace, which stood out into the sea, but overall this was a good vantage point.
Darren silently blessed Lupo for providing them with a decent car.
That old Honda would have stuck out like a sore thumb here as the whole place exuded wealth and a certain cultural feeling or, as Thomas succinctly put it, ‘Bit arty-farty here, ain’t it?’
Expensive cars came and went, people sat under the umbrellas drinking cold beers and eating tapas, and this seemed like a very popular bar.
‘Must be the sea view, because it doesn’t look cheap,’ thought Darren as he lit another cigarette.