Tight Lies

by Ted Denton

  Wise up son. Men like this do not go to these extremes just to let me skip off into the sunset when they get what they want. Right now that tablet and the video stored on it is probably the only thing keeping me alive.

  If they were determined to gain the information, however, he knew in himself it wouldn’t take long for them to extract it. He was weak. These guys knew what they were doing. It wouldn’t take much pressure for him to spill his guts and that could be game over.

  They’d said to wait for somebody to arrive. Some Russian or Eastern European sounding name. They certainly wanted the tablet. If they were Russian, then it had to link to Rublex and the dodgy agreement that he had raised concerns about. Things had started going bad right after that. The video he had recorded had proven that Sergei was involved in the tournament fixing. But surely he couldn’t be involved in his kidnapping too? The man who had been so kind to him, so generous in lending him the credit card. Giving him that amazing watch. Could it be so?

  He would reason with the man. Perhaps he could promise to keep quiet and this whole situation might disappear. But they’d murdered the driver of the meat truck. He’d heard the gunshots with his own ears and had a body dumped upon him in the car boot. That was probably to eliminate any link to his disappearance from the golf course. These men were ruthless. He didn’t know who was coming or if it was even Sergei at all, but Daniel figured he didn’t have much time. It was imperative that he now try to take matters into his own hands if he wanted to stay alive. His only option was to try and escape.

  Daniel braced himself and slapped his own face hard, sharpening his focus. He scanned the room through tear-streaked eyes. It was practically bare. No windows. Flaking paint. The child’s foam mattress. The cracked plastic bucket. The doors were locked and bolted from the outside, first a heavy studded wooden door which was secured by an outer gate of iron bars. Not a lot to work with then. Daniel smiled weakly to himself at the ridiculous situation. On closer examination of the plastic bucket he noted the crack had exposed a sharp edge. Daniel listened at the door for signs of movement, for any presence outside.

  Nothing.

  Appling pressure to the side of the bucket and working the crack further, he now twisted and cajoled the weakness in the plastic using an urgent ripping motion. The cheap bucket splintered at its base and Daniel kept forcing it until he was able to break off a single shard of sharp green plastic. He placed the bucket back in its corner with the broken side facing the wall. The shard slipped into a trouser pocket. Daniel’s heart soared.

  With no hatch in the door for interaction with prisoners, any bottles of water or what little food that Daniel had been provided with had been thrown at him round the corner of the opened door. This meant that if they wanted to see Daniel then they needed to unlock and open both doors, his only way out of there. Daniel rose to his feet and, for the first time since his ordeal, he started to stretch out his beleaguered body. His head was still sore and he had a fat lump of swelling across his right cheek with open lacerations inside his mouth from where he had been struck. His neck and the top of his shoulders ached from lying cramped on his side. He tried to shake it out a little. The movement made him wince. It felt like he was carrying a full set of cracked ribs. He checked and a smear of yellowish bruising, the colour of a rotting pear, covered the entire right hand side of his body under his shirt. Legs were weak and stiff from the forced inactivity and he lacked in energy from the poor nutrition of the previous few days. Besides this, he was functional and he was alive. And he was now also armed with a weapon, of sorts.

  Daniel called out for water. Fairly gently at first and then building to a wailing crescendo which left no possible room for doubt that the prisoner needed attention. The footsteps started down the hall. Daniel braced himself. Keys rattled in lock, the crash of metal grate flying against wall.

  ‘Shut fuck up, little bitch.’ Gruff, staccato words like machine parts working against each other. Daniel waited behind the door crouched and coiled. Heart pounding. Bad Breath Man bowled through the door with a black leather belt in his hand, buckle swinging menacingly. Daniel didn’t skip a beat. He pounced as soon as his captor was a step inside the door forcing the sharp plastic shard tight to his throat. He unwrapped the belt from the man’s wrist, forcing his face against the wall of the dingy cell.

  ‘Where are the keys for the door?’ he demanded, and then rapidly, screaming in desperation, ‘Keys? Now motherfucker!’

  ‘In lock,’ came the stifled, begrudging response. Daniel checked over his shoulder quickly to verify. Kicked him swift and hard in the back of the knee. Pushed the guard face first into the wall and down onto his shins. Darted through the open door, slamming it hard. The euphoric sound of turning key signalled the reversal of fortune was complete. Jailor had become the jailed. Trapped inside the very cell which had served as Daniel’s own cage of despair. He couldn’t actually believe that his feeble plan had worked. Freedom surged, dizzying him.

  Pocketing the key, he spun around to face a long dark corridor expanding before him. He was alone, no sign yet of Black Leather Jacket Man. If the two of them had been summoned to his cell by his commotion there would have been no chance of getting through that door and the repercussions didn’t bear thinking about. It had been worth the risk.

  In one sweaty hand he gripped the plastic shard, the thick belt wound round the palm of the other with a foot or so of slack leather swinging pendulously from the weight of its heavy metal buckle. Edging gingerly forward in the dark, feeling like a primitively armed gladiator about to enter the arena and meet his fate. The hammering on the cell door and angry shouting from behind echoed along the corridor spurring Daniel forward with renewed intensity.

  Scuttling through the darkness towards a semicircle of faint white light, growing broader with every step, made him feel that he was entombed within a labyrinth. Fear abounded. Instead, however, of being pursued by the Minotaur as had Theseus, Ratchet’s paranoid imagination presented monstrous Russian guards at every turn. On reaching the end of the corridor, he arrived in a kitchen pantry area replete with large white porcelain sink, industrial-size washing machine, dryer, and other heavy utility units. Vast shelves heaving under the weight of food tins, bottles of oil, dense packets of flour and dried meats lined the walls. Industrial-sized bags of rice sat squat on the floor below. Out of one such sack, tell-tale grains spewed forth across the floor from a small hole chewed in its base: rats. Through the end of the pantry could be spied a large Spanish-style kitchen. Edging closer, Daniel peered cautiously through the saloon doors and found himself looking at the rear of a uniformed maid standing over a sink of steaming milky water, industriously scrubbing at a burnished pot. The kitchen was dominated by an old-fashioned and sturdy-looking range cooker. In front of this stood a beautiful, solid rectangular wooden table, the type perhaps sawn in a single piece from the heart of an aged Spanish fig tree. To the side of the kitchen, a patio door painted white with red trim led out towards extensive manicured grounds surrounding the hacienda.

  He tiptoed forward. The maid gently sang to herself in Spanish, swaying her ample backside in rhythm to her simple tune. Totally preoccupied with her chores, back facing the pantry. Now, sliding through the swinging wooden gates, fearful that the slightest squeak from their hinges might alert of his presence, he crept soundlessly across the stone floor. Daring to not even breathe for fear that she might summon help and he would be recaptured. Only on reaching for the patio door did a surge of electric panic grip him as the dreadful possibility occurred that it may be kept locked. This exit was the only viable option to escape as there was just no way to make it past the maid without being seen.

  She can’t know what these men have done to me. She is local household help, can’t be part of the gang. Perhaps I could reason with her? She might speak English. I wish I’d bloody bothered to take those community classes in conversational Spanish instead of sitting in the pub. No. Get real son, this woman is not going to hel
p you, she is going to scream blue murder when she finds a strange man she can’t understand creeping up on her armed with a plastic knife and a swinging leather belt.

  With no choice then for it but to work, Daniel delicately tried the handle of the door, easing it down fully, feeling like forever for the lever to engage and operate the mechanism of the door latch. He pushed on it gently and, to his total relief, it eased open. Daniel finally exhaled. Stepped forward, gleefully puffing out his cheeks, expelling hot breath. A hasty glance behind him found the reassuring sight of fleshy bottom cheeks wobbling gleefully, unmoved from the sink. He stepped out into the dazzling sunshine.

  Chapter 28

  ENGLAND. LONDON. RIVER THAMES. THE LONDON EYE. 14.00 HRS.

  Derek Hemmings shuffled towards his turn in the queue, fidgeting nervously. He was decidedly ambivalent about the coming meeting. On the one hand, he was certainly excited about the prospect of seeing what MI6 had discovered and learning more about Boris Golich. The long overdue favour he had exacted from Simon Prentice should produce results that his limited resources were just not capable of. On the other hand, he certainly did not possess a head for heights and the prospect of spending the next thirty minutes suspended high above the river Thames in a small glass capsule, buffeted by wind and rain, filled him with dread. Whomever he was meeting apparently had a flare for the dramatic, texting him a series of complex instructions for the meet, finally culminating in his arrival here for 14.00 precisely. The London Eye was a busy tourist attraction on the bank of the river Thames, resembling a fun fair big wheel, providing stunning panoramic views across the city of London. When it wasn’t overcast and tipping with rain, that was, grumbled Derek petulantly into the promotional pamphlet that had been thrust into his hand. Vertigo, meanwhile, didn’t seem to particularly mind, whatever the weather.

  The pod swung to a halt before him. Doors slid open grandly. The capsule had been allocated as private. Derek swallowed and clambered inside. A low block bench filled the centre of the space. A man in a smart military-style overcoat stood gripping the rail which traced around the centre of the big transparent egg, transfixed by something on the horizon. The doors swung shut and the pod rattled and shunted forward.

  ‘I gather we have a mutual friend,’ said Derek, opting to sit well away from the glass and keeping his eyes fixed squarely into the middle distance.

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ flashed the curt reply.

  ‘Pray tell, why I am here then?’ sniffed Derek beginning to lose his currently fragile patience. His stomach lurched and the pod began to climb the steep ascent on the wheel.

  ‘Simple. You need information about Boris Golich. I’m here to provide some enlightenment,’ answered Charles Hand dryly, spinning to face Derek for the first time and taking a single step towards the seats rooted in the middle of the bubble.

  ‘It’s a matter of utmost gravity. Have you been apprised of the context?’ The now distinctly unwell looking civil servant was turning somewhat green around the gills.

  ‘I appreciate that you are being inculcated to enter the British government into a business commitment with one Boris Golich and that you are rightly reticent so to do.’

  ‘Yes. That indeed would be an accurate appraisal. Do you have the information I need to put a stop to this madness then?’ Derek just wasn’t taking to this man.

  The Hand of God stared out over the steeple of St. Paul’s Cathedral and across the City of London. He paused before answering. ‘My organisation is currently engaged on a job that leads to the door of Boris Golich. There’s been a crime. Kidnapping or murder of a young British man and in the course of our investigation we’ve been led to believe that several agents of the Rublex Corporation are involved.’

  ‘I see,’ said Hemmings wringing his hands tightly as furrows of concentration battled for pre-eminence across his disturbed and furrowed brow. ‘A grave affair... What else have you discovered? I’m of the volition that the whole organisation is a front to launder substantial sums of dirty Russian Mafia money. If we can tie this to Golich and validate the origins of the money trail then the government just couldn’t get involved with this cursed gas exploration deal off the Falklands. I need to prove it before it is too late. I fear that if we enter into this agreement now then the repercussions of opening the gates of Europe to Golich’s stolen energy and the flood of black Vory money will be catastrophic.’

  Hand looked down impassively, the act inducing Derek to continue with pressing urgency to make his point.

  ‘Britain will be complicit, sir, in legitimising a corrupt Russian organisation which will contaminate both our fine reputation in the world order and damage relations beyond repair with our hard won international trading partners.’ For some reason he flung his hand out grandly, gesticulating over the city that they were now suspended above. Derek’s passion for his cause was even transcending into the theatrical.

  ‘We may create some jobs in the short term but frankly I am of the mind that British-sanctioned gas exploration in the waters surrounding the Falkland Islands, to which Rublex have acquired pre-emptive rights, would place us at risk of inciting a new war with Argentina and their South American partners who contend territorial ownership. Only they would be better funded this time by their wealthy and insatiable Chinese paymasters who are avaricious for new natural energy assets.’

  The Hand of God well understood the implications of war and he didn’t appreciate being lectured upon the subject. He probed in response. ‘Have you considered what will happen if the deal gets derailed? It may be wise to be careful what you wish for.’

  ‘Well, yes, I have actually,’ Derek sniffed. He considered himself somewhat of a political intellect and this was an opportunity to demonstrate that he understood both sides of the equation with a fair and balanced rationale.

  ‘The counter argument, and a real danger that I think concerns the PM, is that if the British don’t work with Rublex, then they may just approach the Chinese themselves direct, build an offshore platform as base for the workers and cut us out altogether. They wouldn’t get a free ride for gas distribution into Europe, but I suppose the Chinese would open those doors themselves by leaning on the governments of the impoverished European nations like Italy, Spain, and Greece, whom they have been propping up financially since the great recession, through the purchase of government bonds as a backdoor policy veto.’

  Hand had heard enough and was tiring of the meeting. Perhaps it was not such a good idea to have arranged it in a moving capsule that couldn’t be left until it had docked. ‘It’s a complex situation indeed. But one that can only be handled with true integrity, Mr Hemmings. If you have searched your heart, studied the facts, and made your decision for the right reasons and in the best interests of Great Britain, then you will have done the right thing.’ Derek’s cheeks flushed pink.

  ‘I will turn the use of our gifted researcher Ella Philips over to you. She has already started to uncover trails of laundered money through a network of accounts feeding into Rublex. Vast totals paid in primarily small denominations appear to be filtered through a series of legitimate subsidiaries and recycled back into the corporation.’ As he spoke, Hand splayed his fingers to depict an ever-expanding web.

  He continued. ‘We believe that the kidnapping was instigated at a professional golf tournament in Spain and we have men on the ground at the scene right now. You may know that Rublex is the main sponsor of the European Tour and supports many of the leading players also, on an individual basis. When we were called in on this job, we looked into potential suspects and the murky past of their wealthy owner came to bear.’ He stole a glance out over the Houses of Parliament unfolding beneath them. ‘Seems he is keeping some pretty interesting company these days. Then MI6 got in touch and availed us of our support for the Foreign Office. We have joined the dots, so to speak.’

  ‘Can any of this illegal financial activity be documented and proven beyond reasonable doubt?’ Hemmings pressed for some proof.
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  The glass pod slowly continued its inexorable decent to the boarding platform on the bank of the river. Charles Hand turned to his companion and spoke quietly but firmly, his face expressionless.

  ‘Our job at this moment, Mr Hemmings, is to find and to hopefully rescue a missing Briton. To bring him back safely. We are running out of time. Meetings such as these serve only as a distraction from this vital work. We are not tasked with investigating international organised crime, financial or otherwise. Not unless it helps to resolve our work faster and save the lives of those we are paid to rescue.’

  ‘Sir, I implore you. I cannot do this on my own. I need to be able to demonstrate the veracity of these unfounded claims, to prove to the world that Golich is not who he says he is. I need documentation to show the Prime Minister. This is about doing the right thing. This is about serving the best interests of our country.’

  Hand considered this for a good full minute before answering. He stood stiffly staring through the rain splattered glass over the city, lost in thought. ‘As I have already said, we’ll help you how we can, Mr Hemmings. Ella will pass over all that we have found to date. She can alert you to the trail of accounts. I’m confident that you will be able to follow it at your end to find the evidence you require to make your Boris Golich a persona non grata to the British government.’

  ‘I understand. I’m indebted to you, sir. Thank you for your help. I have nowhere else to turn now.’ He felt flat.