‘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 success. Fazil would be more afraid of Camorra repercussions than anything Donaldson could lob at him. But the FBI man was reluctant to let him go.
Fazil had been at the scene of the murders. He had seen the American, he was part of the set up, and that was more than anything Donaldson had so far. Fazil was also a useful source of intelligence about organized crime in Europe, so Donaldson wasn’t about to let that go either.
It was a very complex situation, and as Donaldson ambled back up the cell corridor to the prisoner reception area, his mind somersaulted with it all. He walked alongside a gaoler who had just put Fazil back in a new cell in the otherwise empty female wing of the complex. He was told that this was because murder charges were going to be put to Fazil and all suspected killers were kept isolated from other inmates if possible. Fazil would be put before a magistrate in the morning and then, once he was in the judicial system proper, there was little Donaldson could do, or promise, after that.
Once enmeshed therein, Donaldson had much less clout.
He nodded at the gaoler, then walked past the desk sergeant who watched him leave with shifty eyes. Donaldson stepped through a security door into the public foyer of the police station and paused in deep thought, trying to work out the angles. He had to offer something to Fazil that would tip him over the edge. But what?
His brain hurt. He was tired. He wanted to go home. He wanted a drink. He wanted to go to sleep. Not necessarily in that order. A devilish part of him also wanted to knock on the door of the next hotel room and get laid whilst watching porn and drinking champagne, but that was one thing that would not happen. Certainly not to the ultra conservative and very faithful hound dog that was Karl Donaldson, no matter what the state of his marriage was.
Maybe, he thought, bunching up his fists, maybe just one last stab at Fazil. Put his cards on the table. Admit that one of the dead men was an undercover FBI agent. Let Fazil gloat over that. Admit he was desperate to catch the killer. Then offer him a good package in return for good information. Promise him immunity from prosecution, both from the Maltese and Spanish authorities. Then offer good money and relocation. And then tell the Turkish bastard that if he didn’t come across, he would definitely see to it that word got out that Fazil was an informer, even if he wasn’t. Then see how long he lived.
Sounded like a plan. Or the last refuge of a scoundrel.
Donaldson looked across at the enquiry desk. It was choc-a-bloc with members of the public. Normally, the constable on duty behind it would have buzzed him back through, but he was harassed, so Donaldson turned back to the door and tapped in the entry code himself. Any self-respecting FBI agent always sneaked a look and remembered keypad codes if at all possible whilst being escorted through buildings. The officer who had first shown him into this police station hadn’t been particularly security conscious, and Donaldson had seen and easily digested the four digit entry code — just in case.
It opened, he stepped back in, made his way along the corridor and trotted down the steps leading to the underground cell complex, then through another secure door (keypad entry code remembered) into the prisoner reception area. There was a door leading to an outer yard off an underground car park that prisoners were brought in from. Then there was another door to the cells behind the charge office desk and two other doors, one into an office and another to a set of stairs leading to another part of the building.
Donaldson smelled cordite as soon as he entered the prisoner reception area. He came alert, because of all the odours in such areas, that was one that should not be present. There was no one at the custody desk. Donaldson approached it and peered over, also noting that the barred gate to the cells was open. Usually it was kept locked. Maybe the sergeant was making his rounds. Donaldson knew there were about four other prisoners in custody besides Fazil. They were listed on the big whiteboard on the wall behind the desk. None were in for anything as serious as Fazil. He also noticed that Fazil’s name had been transferred from his original cell into the one on the female wing, which consisted of only two cells separated from the rest of the otherwise male dominated complex. Putting a male into a female cell was usually only done as a last resort, generally when cells were full to overflowing, although a man and a woman never shared a cell under any circumstances. Looking at the board, Donaldson was a little confused, though. He understood that it may be policy to keep murderers apart from other prisoners, but there was actually plenty of room on the male side and Fazil could easily have been separated from the others without shoving him into a female cell.