Seven Minutes in Belfast
Although this short story is part of my Blackwell Ops series of novels, it is also a stand-alone short story.
Chapter 1
As he moved along the sidewalk, Henry Gordon clenched the collar of his coat tightly against the icy drizzle in the Belfast night. In his right hand, shoved deeply into his coat pocket, he gripped a 9mm Beretta pistol. The front of his fedora was pulled down grimly, the ice pellets tapping a rapid rhythm against it.
Only a few others were out this late at night, mostly men, all only shadows in the darkness between the rain-streaked cones of light at the streetlamps. All were moving in the opposite direction, their shoulders hunched against the freezing rain under hats or caps, mufflers around their necks, and their hands in the pockets of their coats.
Henry pressed on through his visible breath, his head down. He focused on the sidewalk a few steps ahead. It wouldn’t do to be surprised by a patch of ice, maybe turn an ankle or wrench his back. Besides, he knew his destination. He’d walked the route three times in as many days, always at night. Each time the walk took seven minutes. Each time his target exited the hotel restaurant, always right on time.
As Henry approached the first corner, a pedestrian, shoulders hunched and hurrying along his way, stepped up from the street into the cone of rain-streaked light and loomed in front of him. The man mumbled, “Hey, watch it.” The shoulders of their coats brushed against each other as the man blithely sidestepped and continued on his way.
Henry barely heard him and didn’t respond, his gaze still locked a few feet ahead. Ice was always more likely in the street.
Only a few minutes to go.
* * *
The assignment had surprised him.
He was supposed to be on a weeks’ R&R. But on the sixth day his VaporStream device signaled an incoming message with that ominous tone. He had just stepped out of a relaxing shower in his friend’s rented flat. The friend left the day before Henry flew in for a week in Cassis, France. But he’d left the key under the doormat.
Henry finished drying himself as he exited the bathroom, then draped the towel over the arm of the recliner and bent to pick up the device from the table alongside it. He pressed the On button and read the light green text that appeared on the dark background.
Antonio Carizzi, Fitzwilliam Hotel.
Exits the café nightly at 10:15 with
one other. Flying out on the 7th.
TWP.
He read over the message again, committing it to memory:
Line one—Antonio Carizzi. He would be easy enough to spot even at night. He was a hefty gentleman who dressed grandly, befitting his status as a major capo in the Belinni organization in Sicily. And the Fitzwilliam was only a few blocks up the street to the west.
Line two—exits the café at 10:15.
Every time?
Line three—flies out on the 7th.
Well, he wouldn’t. Not this time.
Today was only the 3rd, so Henry had time for due diligence. He would walk the route on three consecutive nights, albeit on the opposite side of the street. When the time came, it wouldn’t do to have Carizzi or the “one other” see him coming and recognize him from previous nights.
And line four—terminate with prejudice.
That would be easy enough. Usually Henry preferred using a .22 or a .25 for encounters like this, but those were back in New York. But his friend owned a 9mm Beretta. He wouldn’t mind if Henry borrowed it.
He pressed the Send button to accept the assignment and watched as the message disappeared. No trace of the message—no text and no metadata—would remain anywhere.
Still standing naked next to the recliner, he checked the clock on the opposite wall.
Almost 11 p.m. Too late for tonight.
He would make the first surveillance walk tomorrow night.
He carried the VaporStream device into the bedroom, placed it on the nightstand, and went to bed.
* * *
The following night and the next two nights, the “one other” mentioned in the message stepped out of the hotel restaurant right on time. Each time, he glanced both ways up the street. Each time, his gaze raked over Henry and dismissed him as part of the scenery.
But Carizzi didn’t give the bulldog of a bodyguard time to do his job. He didn’t have time to check for threats, much less identify and eliminate them. Each time, Carizzi stepped out immediately behind the bodyguard, before the door even had a chance to close.
Then the two started down the street to the east where they turned north at the first corner.
That was the key.
The bodyguard was only a barrier, but he was also a threat.
This would have to be a two-fer.
Chapter 2
Henry stepped up onto the next corner, noted another pedestrian in his right periphery.
The man stood in an alcove with his back against the door of a shop, probably taking a moment’s relief from the driving icy rain.
Odd. Better to continue on your way, get out of the weather.
Henry risked a glance.
The man nodded. The shined brim of his cap and something above it flashed a reflection of light from the street lamp.
PSNI. The police. He wasn’t in a hurry because he was on the street for the duration.
Henry nodded and continued on his way, head down, watching the sidewalk for patches of ice. If it weren’t for the constant pattering on the brim of his hat and his shoulders, he might hear the cop move away.
Still, the hit would be a couple of blocks away. With any luck, the cop would have moved on by then.
“Hey.”
Henry took another step, another.
“Hey.”
The voice was closer.
Just beyond the glow of the street lamp, Henry stopped, turned around. He hunched his shoulders against the cold, his hands in his pockets, and arched his eyebrows.
The cop had left the safety of the doorway. “Where you headed?”
Henry smiled, tight lipped, gestured to the west with his head. “Fitzsimmons.” He laughed lightly. “A hot meal and a warm room.”
“Ah. I wondered. Most are going the other way.”
Henry nodded. “Lucky ones, going with the mess instead of into it.”
The cop shook his left hand free of his sleeve, glanced at his watch. “But you might be a bit late. The restaurant closed at ten.”
How had Henry not checked that? Sloppy. He shrugged, shivered for effect. “Well, bed then and breakfast in the morning.”
The cop looked at him, and finally said, “Well, I won’t keep you. It isn’t a fit night.”
“No.” Henry turned away.
Two steps later, from behind him came, “You know Carizzi’s in town, right? He stays at the Fitzsimmons too.”
Electricity raced down Henry’s back. Was the cop testing him?
He stopped again, turned around. Through the same shivering, tight-lipped smile, he said, “Who?”
The cop studied his face for a moment, then nodded slightly. “Ah, never mind then. My problem, not yours. Have a good night, sir.”
“And you.”
Henry turned away again, gripped the collar of his coat with his left hand, and moved away. He stepped carefully around what looked like a patch of ice on the sidewalk.
But the cop knows Carizzi’s just up the street? Is that why he’s here? Protection, maybe?
Henry hadn’t noticed any cops on the street on the previous three nights.
Something to take into account, but not a deal-breaker.
If the crowds were heavier, he would make the hit—two quick shots—and continue up the street, turn north at the next corner and circle back to his flat.
But the crowds weren’t heavier.
The Fitzsimmons was on the corner. Maybe he could drop the guy, then go north immediately.
Or maybe step over the bodies and duck into the Fitzsimmons, then exit through the back.
Something.
He’d do what was necessary when he got there. The one thing he couldn’t do was cancel. He’d accepted the job, and today was the 6th.
* * *
Henry had met TJ Blackwell only once, when he signed on almost ten years ago. But in that one meeting, everything was laid out clearly. Unspoken but most apparent was that you didn’t cross TJ. You could let a job pass by not answering the call—if you hit the On button again the message would disappear and continue on its way to another operative—but once you hit Send, all bets were off. You’d complete the job or hope your will was up to date.
The job was on, cop or no cop.
Chapter 3
Henry came to the end of the block, stepped from the glow of the street lamp down into the street, and moved across it.
The next block passed without incident, and he only met two other pedestrians, again moving east, their shoulders hunched against the thrumming drizzle.
Only two more streets to go, and one more block between them.
If it was possible, the night was growing colder. The mixed ice and driving rain had given way to a full onslaught of sleet. Even with his head bowed, the icy needles stung his jawline and chin.
He gripped the 9mm pistol in his right coat pocket more for warmth than anything.
No matter how many people were out, no matter how thick the crowd, he wouldn’t continue west up the street after the hit. Whether he ducked inside or went north, either way he’d be out of the weather for a while.
He wondered whether the cop was following him at a distance. But he couldn’t turn and look. If he did and the guy was there, he would immediately become suspicious and he would still be following.
And if he turned and looked and the guy wasn’t there, that wouldn’t necessarily be good news either. Even from his place in the doorway, the cop might see him look. And then he would follow him for sure. So looking at all would be an open invitation for the cop to follow him. Henry might as well commit suicide. In this rare case, not knowing was much the better option.
Besides, either way, he’d know immediately after the hit. He might risk a look back then.
Then again, it would be no use. If the cop was following and saw the hit he would probably yell. He probably wouldn’t fire. Not before yelling a warning.
Was he even carrying a gun? Or are the Northern Ireland police like the bobbies in England? He hadn’t noticed.
Anyway, if the guy was back there at all, the northern route of escape was definitely out. Henry would simply duck into the restaurant.
Well, if he could catch the door before it closed behind Carizzi. Or if the door closed but it had a glass front, he could shatter it and go through anyway.
How had he not noticed whether the door was glass during his reconnaissance?
Well, what’s done is done.
He’d crossed the next to the last street, listening for footfalls behind him.
Nothing.
Soon he was over halfway along the final block.
His internal clock told him he was on pace. About a minute to go, give or take a few seconds.
In this weather, the maximum range for two accurate head shots from the 9mm was about forty feet. No more.
The end of the block and the far street, illuminated dimly by the street lamp on the corner, was about forty yards away.
He renewed his grip on the pistol. His hand was warm enough, but not overly so. He wouldn’t tremble. No sweat on his palm. The pistol wouldn’t slip. The grip was textured and felt good in his hand. He lifted the pistol slightly inside his pocket, just enough to make the weight part of him. It calmed him.
He would make the hit, then disappear into the restaurant one way or the other.
Unless the door was solid and therefore unlike the door of any other hotel restaurant in town. Or thick, modern, heavy glass. But there was little chance of either of those.
He didn’t know the layout of the restaurant either. He’d actually thought about checking it out last night, but he didn’t want to risk Carizzi seeing him and recognizing him later.
But the layout would take only a second to discern, and they were all laid out about the same. There would be an obvious entrance to the kitchen, and beyond that the standard tables and grills and a steel-door exit to the alley. He’d get into the alley, then continue west to the next corner before turning north and circling back to his flat. That would work.
He dismissed the cop as a current concern and continued along the sidewalk. He raised his chin slightly. As the sleet stung his throat and jawline and chin, and now his nose and cheekbones, he locked his gaze on the curb at the end of the block: the street and the doorway beyond.
He glanced down only occasionally—hitting a patch of ice now would not be good—then flicked his gaze back to the curb, the street, the doorway.
A pedestrian passed him, as always going the other way, wrapped up in himself, bending away from the driving sleet.
Henry focused on the curb, the street, the doorway.
And the sidewalk in front of the hotel, just past the opposite corner. There was literally nobody on the sidewalk. Going into the restaurant afterward would be the best bet. That’s what he’d do.
The curb and the street were thirty yards away. The door, maybe thirty-five.
The door. That’s what mattered. It was almost time.
Thirty yards.
Twenty-five.
Twenty.
Fifteen.
The door hadn’t opened.
Henry had walked more slowly tonight because of the weather. How is it not yet 10:15?
Or perhaps Carizzi wouldn’t exit the restaurant tonight for an after-dinner constitutional. Maybe he’d simply gone up to his room. TJ would understand that. Maybe.
Then again, Henry had received the message three days ago. He’d had three opportunities before tonight to do what he’d agreed to do. That’s how TJ would see it. If Henry could even contact him. Which of course he couldn’t. All communication was one-way.
He approached the curb, feeling naked and exposed in the cone of light from the street lamp. Stepped off into the street, looked for ice.
Watched the door. Ten yards away, give or take.
It opened.
A woman came out in an evening gown beneath a fur. She was laughing. A tall, thin man in a tuxedo was right behind her.
She stopped and glanced back as the man turned and said something to someone behind him. Then he took the woman’s arm and guided her across the sidewalk to a car at the curb. He opened the door for her, closed it. As he reached the rear fender of the car, he nodded affably in Henry’s direction, then turned, walked past the back of the car and headed for the driver’s side door.
Henry was almost halfway across the street when the car pulled away from the curb.
His left foot slipped on a patch of ice, but he caught himself. He stopped for a moment to regain his footing.
He expected to hear the cop behind him saying to be careful, but there was nothing.
His internal clock said it was time.
He looked up at the restaurant door. It was glass, but it was also still closed.
He gripped the pistol in his pocket, hard, clenched his coat collar closed at the throat and took a step, carefully. Another. Another.
He was almost to the curb when the door opened again.
A massive man, half a head shorter than Carizzi but broader, stepped through into the pool of light. He glanced at Henry, but then looked to his right.
He’d looked to his right first after exiting the restaurant on all three previous nights. A foolish force of habit.
As Henry stepped up from the street to the curb, his pistol came out of his pocket.
A shadow filled the open doorway just as Henry raised the pistol and squeezed the trigger.
The pistol bucked, the explosion oddly muted in the driving sleet.
The bullet took the bodyguard in the left temple. The man crumpled just as Carizzi stepped into the pool of light.
Carizzi’s mouth gaped as he looked down at his bodyguard, then lifted his chin and turned his head to look at Henry. His eyebrows arched as he understood. He took a half-step back, his hands almost to his shoulders and palms out, his mouth forming, “No!” when the pistol bucked again.
Carizzi crumpled in the doorway, the street lamp reflecting off his bright black right shoe, the toe of which was holding the door open.
The night was silent.
No yells from behind Henry, no screams from inside the restaurant. Only the pattering of sleet on the brim of Henry’s fedora and the shoulders of his coat.
He dropped the pistol into his coat pocket, glanced at the bodyguard, then at Carizzi as he stepped over the man.
A rush of warm air filtered out through the opening and beckoned him.
He pulled the door open, stepped through, released it.
Yes. Warmth enveloped him like a blanket.
Behind him, the door closed on Carizzi’s foot, hanging open by a couple of inches.
The dining room was heavily carpeted in plush red with a pattern of black diamonds scattered about. The walls were paneled in heavy, dark wood. The recessed lighting in the high ceiling was dim, probably so it wouldn’t overwhelm the candles, one of which resided on every table. Though at the moment all of them had been extinguished.
The kitchen door, which was actually two doors on swinging hinges, was set diagonally across the room to the left of a well-appointed, heavy bar of more dark wood.
To the left of that in the far wall was an arched entrance. The sign above it, in gilt letters, read Fitzwilliam on top and Lobby on the bottom.
From somewhere in the distance came the faint sound of a whistle. Like the kind the bobbies use in London.
Henry thought vaguely of the cop he’d seen before. The one who apparently hadn’t followed him after all. Could he have heard the shots? But they were so muffled even Henry had barely heard them. The sleet had slapped the sound down and the wind had borne it away.
He angled toward the kitchen door, adjusting his path only slightly as he negotiated the tables and chairs.
One waiter who appeared to be in his 80s was clearing a table in the far end of the room. He raised one wrinkled hand and said something in a gravelly, guttural voice that Henry took to mean the dining room was closed.
Henry nodded, smiled and pointed toward the kitchen door, as if that would settle the matter.
A moment later, he pushed through the right side of the door.
He thought he heard the whistle repeated. But it might have been a squeaking hinge. No matter. He was as good as out.
Three men were in the kitchen, two in various stages of cleaning different stoves or grills and one working the heavy chrome latch on a large freezer door. None of them paid Henry the slightest attention.
He made his way past the freezer and down a short hallway to the steel door and freedom.
Red letters on a heavy white plastic placard read Gan Scoir in large letters. Below that, No Exit.
Harry hit the brushed chrome bar with both hands anyway.
The door moved only a fraction of an inch, and the rattling of heavy chains caused him to look up.
The door was literally chained shut.
He looked around, but he saw no other exits. No doors, no windows.
All right. Back to Plan B. He would exit through the front and head north.
Or better yet he could go through into the lobby and find his way out from there. Probably there would be a back door on the place. Surely it wouldn’t be chained shut too. A hotel had to have more than one exit, right?
He exited the kitchen and angled toward the lobby door.
Two men in uniform—two men with guns in holsters on their hips—awaited him, one to either side of the lobby entrance.
He frowned. Were they there when I came in?
He didn’t think so.
He smiled at them as if he had just taken care of some business in the kitchen, then turned away and headed toward the front exit. He noted the door was gaped open, then remembered Carizzi. He must’ve forgotten to move Carizzi’s foot.
He could as easily step over the man again, then dodge around the corner to the left and disappear. Piece of cake. And from what his ears told him, the officers behind him hadn’t moved yet. They weren’t coming after him.
Should he have gone ahead, passed between them?
After all, they hadn’t seen him until he’d come out of the kitchen. And they probably hadn’t heard the shots outside. Not if they were in the lobby.
Probably he should have passed between them.
He was in the midst of the tables when the front door swung open and another figure stepped through.
The cop. The first cop. He had a gun too. And it was in his hand.
Henry stopped. The look on the man’s face told him there was no reason to smile.
He raised his hands, slowly, and got them above his shoulders just before the two cops behind him grabbed them, twisted them down behind his back.
He was caught.
Well, TJ would know what to do.
They couldn’t prove anything. TJ had tons of high-priced lawyers on the payroll, and they were probably as versed in Irish law as in American.
He smiled, broadly. “Hey, officer. Finally out of the cold, eh?”
But the officer said nothing. He was leveling his weapon.
The other two officers had released Henry and stepped aside.
Henry jerked his gaze to the right.
The old waiter had disappeared.
He looked at the cop again.
The man wore no emotion on his face.
Henry’s eyebrows arched. “Hey, what’s going—”
“This is for Mr. Carizzi.”
* * * * * * *